I used to stand at the back during the service so I could weep unnoticed. Now I go to the front and watch the young soldiers who make up the catafalque party. They’re the ones to watch. You see yourself in them. You see your brothers. You’d see your children if you had children, I imagine. Their uniforms change, their guns, but their fresh faces are as fresh as they were in all the wars we’ve sent fresh faces to fight.
Today, the students from Bardon State School came along to sing a version of the poem “In Flanders Fields.” The larks, still bravely singing. The crows, who mark death for all of us, still sadly rarking this morning.
I stare at his name, engraved in the stone, E. T. Bright, my brother Edward, whom I once thought I could not possibly do without, and yet I did, and below the line, on the new plaque they pasted there after a new war was over, the twins G. M. Bright and H. L. Bright, killed in training when a bus went off a cliff in Victoria, before they’d even been to war.
I always think those two boys, the twins, killed so senselessly, would never have thought to go to war if not for Edward going, and Edward wouldn’t have gone but for Daddy. And perhaps Daddy, who had no fealty to the Crown himself, would never have gone to war except for Mummy, whose life was not the life she’d been born to because of him. War became part of our family by accident and then destroyed us altogether. They may as well put T. G. Bright up there with Edward, for the war, the empire, the prince and his family, surely killed my father too.
People would often say to me when I was teaching that I seemed to have a special understanding of children. Some would venture to say it was rare in someone who didn’t themselves have children. When you’re a teacher, people feel they can comment on your personal life in any way they want, particularly if you are teaching their child. It’s like being a member of the family they don’t necessarily understand or approve of but have to accommodate.
I tell them I had four younger brothers I helped raise, so there wasn’t much I hadn’t dealt with.
I retired from Ithaca school in 1970. I was past the retirement age but, still, I wouldn’t have retired if they hadn’t made me. There was a new principal who had an approach I couldn’t abide. He cloaked it in educational reform but it was plain cruelty and anyone with a heart knew it.
He took my class one day when I was sick and when I returned it was a little girl of five who told me he had made Jack Stanley stand in the corner while he lectured the rest of a class on the kind of person Jack was—a liar, he said. He had then left Jack there for an hour while Jack cried silently, the girl said. She offered to give me an explanation of the boy’s lie but I told her I didn’t need it.
Jack was from the kind of poverty that meant helping children learn not to lie was low on priorities. Not starving was about all his poor mother could focus on.
I told Jack I was sorry for what had happened and I’d do my best to ensure it didn’t happen again.
I went to the new principal and said if he ever did that again I would find a way to hurt him and I would use shame as my tool like he did. I would find something to shame him with.
The end of that year came and he moved me out. Of course he did. I have never been a good strategist, for what use was I to Jack then?
I should have shot the new principal instead.
When I was teaching, I liked the little ones like Jack Stanley best. They are so unformed and yet so much their own little selves becoming. How could you make them ashamed for being those selves? It eludes me still.
* * *
It was after I returned from the Anzac Day service that I knew what to do about the letter. It came to me and it was entirely the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t yet the truth for me. It would become true. I would make it so, for it described the feelings of the person I wanted to be and, by writing them, I would go some way to becoming that person.
Dear Helen,
You were kind to reach out to me after all these years. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to write the letter you did.
I was sorry to hear Mr. Waters has passed. He was a great teacher and a good man, I still believe, in spite of everything.
I am glad Autumn Leaves found its most important reader. While my way of understanding the world has been to write about it, I am no longer that seventeen-year-old girl on the train. I am older and, I believe, wiser.
I know I should thank you for what you did, but I can’t quite bring myself to that point. Perhaps I could say we are both old now, and I for one would let bygones be bygones. I’ve been to the Anzac service this morning. My brother Edward’s name is there. His father’s should be too. There are two other brothers on the lower part of the cenotaph. They died in the next war.
I lost everyone, Helen, including you, but I’m old and the fact is I’m afraid of what might happen if I know any more of the truth.
I’m sure you of all people would understand.
Your letter has spurred me on to revise the sequel to Autumn Leaves I started many years ago. I’ve called it Winter Skies. You are not the main character although you are one of the most interesting, which won’t come as a surprise to anyone except perhaps yourself. I am hoping if I can write down the events as I recall them, they will have less power to do harm, especially to others.
The thing is, it’s such a sad story I don’t quite know if I can tell it. But I thought that about Autumn Leaves, and if I were to rewrite it now, I’d give it a happy ending.
In writing this letter, Helen, I am releasing whatever debt you feel you owe me.
With love and friendship,
Maddie Bright
When I told Frank at the post office the next day I needed to post a letter to England he said, “Is it that novel of yours again?”
“No,” I said. “This one’s a true story.”
Twenty-three
SYDNEY, 1920
The next morning, Helen and I walked from Government House to the barge that would take us to H.M.S. Renown. Our bags and the boxes from the office in Sydney had been taken on by staff.
I had read in the paper that morning that there had been five thousand people lining the street the day before, completely unexpectedly. There was no mention of the car stopping, and yet I knew we had been moments from real danger. It wasn’t a joyful crowd, despite what the newspaper report said. It was a mob, and while they adored him, they might just as easily have torn him limb from limb.
Even if you were bitter and upset after the war, even if, like Daddy, you didn’t care for the monarchy, I feel certain you would still be taken in by the spectacle of the two gunships, H.M.S. Renown and H.M.S. Repulse, at the ready. On the Renown, the sailors were lined up in their shiny black shoes and white caps, all perfectly turned out and standing at attention. Behind the men, standing next to a large ship gun, were the officers in their suits and hats, also standing to attention. On the Repulse, the scene was similar.
“I’m guessing that, given all this fuss, H.R.H. is on his way to ship,” Helen said. “We better make ourselves scarce or we’ll get caught in the pomp and be unable to escape.”
Helen had told me earlier that there was a to-do about the prince’s spider letters. “I heard the tail end of something Rupert was saying to Ned. I don’t know quite what’s happened, but we’ll just lie low and hope for the best.”
We went down to the staff offices on the lower deck. Helen had told me that Mr. Waters and I were in one office, and we went there first. It was spacious and simply furnished, desks along one wall and along the opposite wall a bench seat with cushions in blue. On the floor was a woven mat and a low table. At the far end of the room were two armchairs, leather, with a blue throw rug over the back of one of them.
“That’s you,” Helen said, pointing to the desk at one end. I had my own desk, and it was already set up with a typewriter, inkwell, and paper. I felt a swell of pride.
Helen and Colonel Grigg were in an adjoining office, I soon learned. I was glad Helen would be nearby.
We could hear the band playing above us, so we knew the prince had boarded. Soon I felt the ship’s engines beneath us.
“That was fast!” Helen said. “I imagine he’s in a mood.” We rushed up onto the main deck and saw crowds up the hill and around the point, waving, throwing streamers.
We left Sydney and it was grand to be on the harbor and watch the boats that came out to see the prince away. There were two navy ships to escort us through the heads, as well as private boats from which people cheered and blew their horns. The sky was cloudless once again. I made a mental note of everything to include in my notebook that night.
I was surprised the farewell hadn’t lasted longer. “He just wants to be away,” Mr. Waters said when I found him on the main deck. “Someone’s brought the mail from the house, Maddie,” he added. “More letters.” He was shaking his head. “And I need to get you to draft some other things for me today, if possible.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Waters,” I said. “I’m ready.” I smiled my most confident smile.
“Also, I need to talk to you about something.” He held his finger up in the air as if weighing up what to say, but he said nothing.
“Rupert,” Helen said then, “Mr. Murdoch telephoned me at the house this morning. I can’t find Ned and there’s a story about the dancing last night, a different story from the other one, and it would be lovely for David to speak to Mr. Murdoch, I think. I can ask Godfrey, if you want.”
I had spent the final night in Sydney in Balmain with my family. Daddy was resigned to my going now, and Bea thought it was a brilliant opportunity. Mummy was over the moon. It was only the little boys who cried and said they’d miss me. I assured them I’d be back before they knew it.
“Miss Little again?” Mr. Waters said.
Helen nodded.
“No,” Mr. Waters said. “Godfrey already said no. The story isn’t a nice one, in case you haven’t heard it. He and the admiral are of the view it’s better to let Mr. Murdoch be Mr. Murdoch and give him no access.”
“Can I talk to him then?” Helen said.
“Not today, Helen. There’s more from the palace regards F.D.W., and it’s going to cause a ruckus.”
On the prince’s instruction, we docked at Jervis Bay to wait for the day’s mail. Our escort left us there. Helen said we needed to hope for a spider seal and there were three. “Relief!” she said. “I’m sure these will make H.R.H. very, very happy. Hopefully, we’ll have an uneventful trip.”
I’d never been on a ship before and while I found it all very exciting, I knew I must focus on my job and do the very best I could. I began to work my way through the new letters that had arrived as well as finish off the ones I hadn’t got done in Sydney over the preceding days. For the prince, six days at sea would mean a break from official functions and meeting people, but for the staff, it was a time to catch up on the work that underpinned the tour. I already knew from Mr. Waters that the prince himself read every single letter we wrote for him, and changed them too. There were times he told Mr. Waters to send a check to this person or that, to make sure this one got a handwritten letter that he penned himself. It meant I often had to retype the letters I’d already written. I couldn’t have been more happy that he took so much interest in what we did.
Mr. Waters came down after lunch on the first day. He put his briefcase on his own desk before coming over to me. “All right, Maddie. The time has come to explain one or two things.” He had an envelope in his hand. “H.R.H. has a special friend back in England.”
“The spider letters.”
“Ah, so you know.”
“I know the spider letters must go straight to the prince and I am not to open them or say anything about them to anyone.”
“Quite,” he said.
“Helen said they’re from the prince’s mistress.”
“Helen should hold her tongue. The prince has a dear friend, Mrs. Freda Dudley Ward, who is married with two children, so she’s hardly likely to be a mistress to anyone. It’s that kind of talk that makes my blood boil. I will speak to Helen.”
“She didn’t actually say that,” I said. “She hinted. I don’t want to get Helen into trouble, Mr. Waters. But the prince writes a lot of letters to F.D.W. I’m very glad he’s not . . . doing the wrong thing.”
“Yes, he does write a lot of letters,” Mr. Waters said. “She is a dear friend, as I’ve said. But now the Queen has written to H.R.H. and suggested that his friendship with Mrs. Dudley Ward is . . . that as people are talking—people like Miss Burns, who should know better—they should perhaps not be friends anymore.”
“And that’s made the prince unhappy?”
“Yes, along with other things. The King is very keen for H.R.H. to travel to India soon after he arrives home and some of us, certainly Sir Godfrey and I, think it’s premature, that H.R.H. needs some time off between this tour and another. But it gets complicated because now, I believe, Mrs. Dudley Ward has written and she has taken the Queen’s view too with respect to her friendship with Prince Edward. She’s more or less cut him off as far as I can glean.
“H.R.H. is already under enormous pressure, as you are well aware.” Mr. Waters looked as if his head were being squeezed gently in a vise that was getting tighter by the minute. “I think Mrs. Dudley Ward has been encouraged to agree with the Queen on this issue, that Prince Edward’s brother Prince Albert has been involved in some way I don’t yet understand, and now Mrs. Dudley Ward wants to end her friendship with Prince Edward.
“Prince Albert also had a friend, an Australian as it happens, Sheila Chisholm, who is a friend of Mollee Little, the Sydney girl that the prince has been so pleased to see. Prince Albert ended that friendship and has been made Duke of York for doing so.”
“They made him Duke of York for ending a friendship?”
Mr. Waters shrugged. “They are not free to live their lives as ordinary folk are.
“And now the prince, Prince Edward, is worried about all the correspondence back to England in relation to the tour,” he went on. “Admiral Halsey has written to the King, and Colonel Grigg has written to Mr. George. So poor H.R.H. has all of England worried about him. And he feels, I think . . .”
“Ganged up on?” I suggested.
“Just so, and we all need to be aware of that and do what we can to help.”
“I will write the best letters yet, Mr. Waters.”
“Oh, Maddie, that’s exactly the kind of care I am talking about. I will let H.R.H. know. I am sure it will come as comfort to him.”
“Mr. Waters, can I ask you a personal question?”
“I don’t know. I don’t much like your personal questions.” He was still smiling though. “What would the question be?”
“Helen. You seem to like Helen very much, and she seems to like you, and I don’t understand why you don’t just . . .”
“Don’t just . . . ?”
“Tell each other!”
He looked at me. “That is not just a personal question. It’s highly personal.” He was blushing, I realized. “But it has a very simple answer. Because you are wrong, as I’ve explained before. All right?”
“I’m absolutely not, Mr. Waters. I’ve seen Helen’s face when you are stern with her. I told you I have a finely tuned sense for these things.”
He gave me a look.
“Just listen to me!” I implored. “Helen loves you, Mr. Waters, I’m sure she does. You couldn’t be as nice a person as Helen is, and yet as mean to someone as she is to you, if you didn’t love them.”
He looked hopelessly confused then.
“It’s in all the novels,” I explained, uselessly, as his confusion only increased. “I can guarantee it . . . I’m fairly certain she loves you.”
/> He looked more upset than confused then and I wished I hadn’t said anything.
“No, Maddie, she does not love me,” he said, “unless she tells you more about her feelings for me than she tells me, and that is unlikely. I am not without a sense of these things either.”
“But how can you be sure?” I asked.
He sighed heavily. “Because when Helen started on the tour, I asked her to marry me and she refused, so on this occasion your finely tuned sense of these things has failed you.”
He looked as if saying those words had shocked even him.
“Oh, Mr. Waters, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I don’t know why it is that she would refuse you, and I know it’s none of my business, but it seems to me that she thinks you don’t care for her, not the other way around.”
He smiled sadly. “Well, she has refused me four times now, and I have accepted the umpire’s decision, so to speak. I thought if she came on the tour, I might . . . Anyway.” He looked up toward the window. “You can lead a horse to water . . .”
“Yes, sir, you can,” I said. “And mostly, it will drink.”
“No more personal questions, Maddie.” He was looking annoyed now.
“Of course not, Mr. Waters.”
I felt terrible, vowed never to bother him about the matter again and also to stop meddling in other people’s affairs. I would focus on the job at hand, to write the very best letters for Mr. Waters and the prince.
An hour later, Mr. Waters came back to the office and asked could he trouble me for some assistance.
“Of course.”
He looked around, closed the door between our office and the press office. “I’ve been thinking about our discussion earlier.”
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