Soldier's Biscuits.

Sweat beaded on Kylie’s forehead, her lower back groaning under the weight of the heavy cardboard box clutched tightly to her chest, left ear sandwiched against it as her feet extending blindly reaching for the next step. When she reached the bottom— again grateful not to have fallen— she dropped the box heavily on top of another, surrounded by many more just like them. The growing pile of Pop’s belongings to be taken away. All out bvy boxing day. Not their first choice, but availability was tight around Christmas, Kylie’s mother said. Henrietta was a determined woman, and if she wanted Pop moved in before January, then it would be so. Pop sat in the loungeroom unaware— or unconcerned— with the straining, thudding and scraping noises of his belongings being moved around his empty house. He was reclined in his red armchair thin legs splayed out on the footrest, white coils of steam spiralling from his Earl Grey. Listening to an obscure AM radio show. Kylie could barely distinguish the voices from the static.

The sound of her dad taking the bed apart upstairs— punctuated by loud swearing— made her smile. Ron was every bit as determined as his wife, but not as patient. His life was a never-ending war with inanimate objects. The plan was to spend Christmas at Pop’s house, using the time to get him ready for the move. Two birds, one stone, Henrietta said. And so, for several days Kylie, her parents, her uncle James and her three cousins had been lugging a lifetime of stuff out of the two-storey bungalow on Pita Street. Like stoic worker ants following the scent of their leader— up, down, up down.  Starting to lift with their backs, not their knees. As Kylie straightened up she heard noise behind her. Bulky Uncle James manoeuvring a large, wooden desk down the stairs, followed by his kin carrying lamps and paintings and vases. It was exhausting work, but they were towards the end.

Kylie walked to the living room and plopped herself down on the floor next to Pop, watching his calm face, his eyes closed, a mask of concentration. He was a kind man, but a quiet one. Her mother said it had always been that way. Decades had passed since he had waved goodbye to Nan— his fiancé at the time—, from the balcony of the towering war ship; a happy teenager off to see the world and protect his home. But that teenager never returned. Years went by, letters came, and then they stopped for a while. He was captured somewhere in Singapore, and that was where the silent man was born. When he came back, he didn’t want to talk about the war. He didn’t want to talk about much at all. Pop stirred slightly. His skinny, wrinkled face was still, thin white hair, always so neatly combed. It is a strange sensation, Kylie thought, to know a stranger so intimately. Pop’s eyes opened slowly, as though sensing his voyeur. While he never said much, his eyes sang. They were ocean blue, like shallow rock pools struck by midday sun.

“Hi, darlin’,” he croaked, face cracking into his lopsided grin. “Got somethin’ on my face, do I?”

“Sorry, Pop, just taking a break.”

“Working hard.”

“Nearly done. Must be nearly time for biccies? I’m gonna nail it this time, I can feel it.”

“Figured out what’s missing?”

“Not yet, but I’m implementing a process of elimination. But in reverse.”

Kylie pushed herself up, lower back hissing in disagreement. On her way to the kitchen, she gave Pop a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

“Just like Vera’s,” he said in a distant voice, leaning the chair back slightly. 

“Don’t worry, Pop.  They’ll be just like Nan’s. Wait and see.”

She heard his throaty chuckle as she entered the kitchen. It hadn’t been renovated since the 50s— besides the white goods, which looked completely out of place. Clashed with the blue floral wallpaper with daisies and garish yellow cupboards. Those canary-coloured cupboards would clash with anything. Kylie twisted the oven dial to 180C and pulled the recipe out of her back pocket, not that she really needed it anymore. Her mother’s handwriting scrawled and messy. 

NAN’S ANZAC BISCUITS

I CUP ROLLED OATS

1 CUP PLAIN FLOUR 

⅔ CUP CASTER SUGAR

¾ CUP DESICCATED COCONUT

⅓ CUP GOLDEN SYRUP

1 TEASPOON BICARBONATE OF SODA

2 TABLESPOONS HOT WATER

STICK OF BUTTER

Smell has a suggestive power. It is the sensation that travels the shortest path to the brain, particularly those parts associated with memory and emotion. For Kylie, Christmas smelled like golden syrup and coconut; the sweet smell of slowly baking Anzac Biscuits. The aroma had infused her grandmother’s house since she was a child chasing her cousins through the halls. The smell stuck to the walls, stuck to your nostrils. Kylie remembered the crunch of the biscuit under her molars. Nan had baked them three times a year: Anzac Day, Easter and Christmas. Tradition. April was a good month for biscuits, but the wait until Christmas was dreadful.

Kylie had taken up the mantle when Nan passed. Three batches of soldier’s biscuits a year. Nan had Henrietta write out the recipe not long before she passed, as though she knew the tumour was winning. She got her affairs in order. Well, almost. The recipe she had handed to her daughter had just as quickly been palmed off to Kylie. Henrietta wasn’t much of a cook, nor was she as fond of the biscuits as the rest of her family. Didn’t like coconut, she said. But each time Pop would say the same thing after his first bite of Kylie’s freshly baked Anzac Biscuits.

“They’re great, darlin’…”

“…buuut?” Kylie would press.

“They’re not the same,” he’d say, still chewing her subpar biscuits. “Something missing.” Always poopooed her protestations about following Nan’s recipe To a T. 

“That’s not the whole recipe. She wouldn’t write it down,” he would say.

“Write what down?”

“The secret ingredient.”

“Well? What is it?”

“Never told me.”

Fourteen batches of Anzac Biscuits and every single one a failure according to the old man. Kylie sifted the flour into a big glass bowl, shook in the sugar, and dumped in rolled oats and slivers of coconut. Pinch of salt. Stirred in the bicarbonate of soda and added the dry stuff to the wet. It felt like she had done it a million times. As she stirred her mind churned. What could the missing ingredient be? She’d tried extra sugar, salt, maple syrup, more golden syrup, less golden syrup, she’d experimented with the consistency, making them chewy and delicious and melt-in-your-mouth, but each time it was the same reaction from Pop. Not like Nan’s. Why hadn’t she included it in her recipe? Kylie stuck her hands into the mix, grabbing fistfuls of dough and rolling them into little balls, about the size of an ice cream scoop. Slid the tray in the oven and set the timer for 15 minutes. Heard dad’s muffled call her from the attic and stomped upstairs, annoyed at being summoned from another room, a sore point from teenaged years.

“Hey love, can you take these few boxes downstairs,” Ron said, pushing yet another cardboard box into Kylie’s arms. “I’ve got to do a tip run with James. They’re not too big. Mostly Nan’s stuff, it looks like.”         

Ron bustled out of the room, spurred on by Uncle James’ impatient honks from the driveway. The box was partially open and filled with papers, letters and browning photographs with splotchy watermarks. Kylie put the box down and opened it, hands working quickly through the contents like the flour through the sifter. Pulled out a black and white picture of a young man in a soldier’s uniform; an unsmiling, almost petulant face. Pop. No older than 17. Put the picture to the side and kept leafing through Nan’s stuff.  Letters dated decades ago. Most appeared to be from someone named Tabitha, living in Sydney, day to day things, what the kids were up to, what Pop was doing at work, what they were planning for the holidays. But one letter was unopened. Addressed to Tabitha Morningside, name written in black pen. Her grandmother’s handwriting. Large red stamped letters: “return to sender”. Dated 15^TH December 1952. Kylie slide her fingers under the seal and opened it.

Dearest Tabby,

How terribly I miss you. Western Australia just is not the same without you. I think it best for everyone if you come home to Balingup immediately. Sydney is not so special. A dirty, messy place by all accounts. You know, of course, that I don’t mean what I say. I am so very proud of you and your studies. You must tell me everything that has happened since we last you wrote. There is nothing very newsworthy to tell about life here in Balingup, I assure you. I’m well. I am still taking my daily walks with Maureen and have started painting watercolours again. Christmas is nearly upon us and we are busy preparing the children’s’ presents, the decorations and the tree, of course. James and Henrietta are growing bigger every day and fighting like cats and dogs most of the time. Henrietta starts school next year and loves riding her bicycle and playing with her dolls. James is usually found tussling with our dog Bud (you remember Bud, surely?) or hiding Henrietta’s toys. She screams bloody murder when she realises. I hope their teasing lessens as they grow.  Henry has promised to be put the lights up this year (he didn’t last year, you remember), but so far, he has gotten as far as leaning the ladder against the awning. Bless that delightfully silly man. He still crows about my Anzac Biscuits, and every time he does, I cannot help but think of you and our last Christmas together. I must one day summon the courage to tell him the truth, as you and I know it. I still thank God above that we didn’t burn the house to the ground. Those things were all but black at the bottom and yet he and the kids chomped down every last one. He said they were the best he had ever eaten. Perhaps he was just being kind, but I have decided to replicate them this year. About seven to ten minutes too long should do the trick.  I will let you know how they are received.

I do miss you awfully and hope you are finding happiness there. If I do not hear from you before the day, Merry Christmas. It will not be the same without you. 

Love always,

Your dearest friend,

Vera x

As she read the last part of the letter, laughter began to grow inside Kylie, like there was a smoking fire in her gut spewing smoke into her lungs. it was starting to catch, like a chainsaw, vibrating her body, chest heaving as tears started to well up in her eyes. She burned them! Nan had been gasbagging with Tabitha in the kitchen and forgot the Anzac Biscuits were in the oven. All but bloody black at the bottom, she had written. For five years Pop had been critiquing her culinary efforts, telling her something was missing, and all along it could all be boiled down to his wife leaving them in the oven too long. She had always thought they were slightly too hard.

Kylie snatched the note and the picture of Pop in his uniform and pattered downstairs, leaving the box on the dusty attic floor, opened and forgotten. When she got to the living room she entered casually, a wolf circling her prey. His eyes were closed again, not sleeping, just listening intently. Mug empty now. The AM radio was playing Parliament’s question time now. Ministers’ pompous voices rang out through the crackling.

“Pop?”

“Mm?” His eyes opened and searched for her.

“I found some of nan’s things in the attic.”

Pop leaned back slightly in his chair, tilting his left ear towards Kylie. His good ear, he always said. Kylie sat on the floor beside him and leaned on his armrest.

“I found Nan’s stuff,” she said louder. “Who was Tabitha?”

“Tabitha… Tabby. She was Vera’s friend from high school. Passed as a young woman. Car accident,” Pop said it heavily, remembering Vera’s grief vividly.

“That’s awful. Poor Nan,” Kylie said “I only ask because I found this letter from her. It says it couldn’t be delivered. There's something else interesting in there too.” 

Kylie handed the crinkled letter to her grandfather, which he took with one hand, his other reaching for his reading glasses on the coffee table beside him. His lips moved slightly as he read through the message, ocean eyes scanning line by line, crinkling at his wife’s words. When Pop finished reading, he nodded, folding the letter up and placing it gently on the coffee table.

“Well, I guess you’ve cracked the case, darlin’,” he said. Chuckle, grin.

“How did you not know?” Pop’s smile cracked wider now, shaking his head at his dear granddaughter.

“I’ve always known, I’m not bloody stupid, darlin’. Those things were as hard as rocks. You could crack your bloody teeth on them if you weren’t careful.”

“So you didn’t even like them?”

“Loved ‘em. The crunch was the best part! best cookies I ever ate.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me you wanted them crunchier? That would have been an easy fix.” 

The lopsided grin again. “Where’s the fun in that? I told you I wanted them just like Vera’s, didn’t I?

Kylie nodded slowly, thinking. Whenever she’d had other Anzac Biscuits, they were always moist, chewier. But not Nan’s. Kylie had never thought about making them harder. She thought he wouldn't mind it a little softer, especially as he got older. But she was wrong. The memory of the crunch of Nan's warm soldier's biscuits swam into her memory. Pop was right, that was the best part.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. The grandfather and granddaughter looked at each other and began to laugh. Quiet at first, and then louder until their ribs hurt. It was like Nan was in the room with them, forgetting her soldier’s biccies for the very first time. The biscuits would be perfectly moist and chewy by now, baked to perfection by any good baker’s standard. But Kylie stayed folded at Pop’s feet, the two of them smiling at the memory of Nan’s crunchy biscuits. She’d take them out soon enough. Once they’d cooked a little longer.

Even once the old man was settled in at the estate, Kylie would visit whenever she could. He had friends, would play cards with some of the other people, and even had a veteran friend. He probably still wound''t talk about the war, or much at all, but at least he had some friends to pass the time with. No matter what, Kylie made sure she never missed those three days— Anzac Day, Easter and Christmas. Tradition is tradition, after all. And whenever she arrived, she did so armed with all of the ingredients she needed to make the old soldier his favourite biscuits. And she always remembered to forget them in the oven for ten minutes. Just like Nan.