by Geoff Lawson
the postal date – five weeks ago.
Dearest, dearest Richard,
I miss you terribly. Mother and father are deeply interested in
your circumstances and are quite proud of you I suspect. The
ladies at the law office ask after you and everyone is
concerned for your welfare. The reports we read in the papers
do not make good reading and everywhere there is disquiet
over the fortunes of the war and the want of progress of it.
Each month a fresh disaster seems to make the headlines and
now there is gloom as to the point of it all. We pray for your
deliverance and look forward to the day you arrive back home.
Your ever-loving Rachel.
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I lowered the letter and drifted into thought. I was glad she
couldn’t see me now. I looked at the writing on the page – it
was the only material thing I had of her and I kissed the text
and held the letter against my cheek. It served me right for
leaving her under a cloud. I never had the chance to acquire
her picture or any other memento before leaving Whanganui.
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Chapter Thirty
Cape Town South Africa, June, 1900
Six long and wearisome weeks later I received two more
letters from home. I recognized Rachel’s handwriting on one
of them and eagerly tore it open.
My dearest, dearest Richard,
Nurse Brown’s letter has saved me from utter misery. One
week ago, Mary received a letter from the army stating that
you were missing in action. As the Red Cross on the Boer side
confirmed that you were not listed as a prisoner of war, you
were presumed to be dead. The news shattered both our
families. Mother and Father were deeply affected, my brothers
too. I had been too distraught to go to work and everyone
there was deeply saddened. A day later, Miss Brown’s letter
arrived and my faith in God was restored. The sun has come
back into our lives. I do not care that you are injured because I
know I will surely see you again. Give my heartfelt thanks to
Nurse Brown for all she has done.
Love you. Rachel
I put the letter down and lay back brooding.
Molly appeared. “You have a long face.”
I gave her the letter. She read it, then slowly sat down
beside me. “That’s terrible isn’t it? I can imagine how they
felt.” A hanky appeared from the pocket of her apron. She
sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Never mind, the war is over for
you. As soon as you are fit to travel you will be on your way
home. If Rachel is smart she will marry you and never let you
out of her sight.”
Good ol’ Molly, she should be allowed to go home too.
“You have a good heart Molly. When we get shot up it is
you and all the others who endure our misery and put us back
together. You are the ones who should be getting a V.C.”
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Molly sniffed. “You are a devil Richard Wilson, but thank
you for saying that. Now I can’t spend all day sniffing because
you feel sad; I’ll see you later.”
I watched her walk away and thought of Mother’s letter, so
I opened it.
My dearest son,
I have bad news. Father is ill and no one seems to know what
is wrong with him. For weeks he has been getting weaker and
is confined to bed. He is now in Wellington. The doctors are
not confident that he will recover so he is in God’s hands. We
received a letter from Nurse Brown detailing your
circumstances. We have prayed for your deliverance and our
prayers have been answered. The news that you were missing
shocked us all. Emily Ellen wrote her condolences and said
that Rachel had taken things badly. They were all in shock too,
for it seems they hold you in high regard, perhaps more than
you may realise. Rachel loves you and you must write to her
and reassure her that you will be all right. We are coping well
and William is running the farm. We are concerned that you
are suffering undue hardships and hope that things will be
better soon. If only this war would end and you could come
back home.
Love, Mother.
Dear ol’ Mother, still playing cupid it seemed. The news
about father alarmed me. He could conceivably die before I
return home, a particularly sobering thought. Father had
always been there and had taught me practically everything I
knew, had made me who I am. The thought that he may not be
around much longer would take some getting used to.
That afternoon I wrote to Rachel. I wrote one page for her
alone and another more general letter that she could share with
her family. I explained what had happened to me but left out
the precise details of my injuries. I explained that I was still a
whole man and could love her in the way she deserved and
soon, I would be on my way home. A few days later, as if to
confirm Molly’s words, I had a visit from the doctor.
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“Well, son, your wounds have healed well. Your leg is in
good shape and in a year or two your hip and shoulder will
lose their stiffness, so you will ride and work again. There is
no reason for you to remain at this hospital and as soon as we
can arrange a bed for you, we will shift you to a villa in Cape
Town, which is a rehab for cases like you. The hospital will
recommend you be classed unfit for further military service
and that you be allowed to return home as soon as a ship is
available. Good luck and have a good trip.”
For the next two weeks I was allowed to dress each day
and spend some time walking around the grounds with a
walking stick. My bed was more or less in the middle of the
marquee, so I had to walk along the rows of beds to reach the
doorways at either end.
One day as I approached one of the doors I was more than
a little surprised to see someone eminently familiar to me. He
was the gorilla we had fought with in the hotel in Duntroon.
His ashen face told the story. He was lying on his back, his
eyes closed, and his breathing was laboured. He had coughed
up blood upon his bedclothes, a sure sign that he was lung shot
and close to death.
When I returned, his breathing had ceased and his face had
been covered, so none could see his twisted features; he would
never see his native England again. I hobbled to the side of his
bed and gazed down on his inert form. It is hard to explain
how I felt. It was probably pity, more than anything else. It was
also likely that it was a mercy that he had not survived, for he
was one of the losers of this world. He probably hadn’t any
relatives who would freely admit to being related and now he
was dead; alone and unloved, to be buried in a land where he
was unknown by any who lived here, where there was no one
to cherish his memory or put flowers on his grave. Had he
been born a monster, or was he the product of a pitiless
childhood? I wondered – had I grown up with him, would I
have been the same?
I like to think not.
I felt enormously privileged that my life hadn’t turned out
like his. Looking at his dead, inert form made me realise just
how fortunate I actually was, for unlike him I had family that
cared for me. It suddenly hit home just how important that had
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been, how they had made me a better human being. I could see
that I had lived a good life and it was mostly due to those who
were close to me.
Rachel had also changed me. Unlike that lifeless, unloved
thing lying under that blanket, I had been privileged to
experience such empathy and emotion. No matter what else I
became in this world, it would be Rachel’s love and the love of
the children she’d bear me that would define the worth of my
life.
I was not the naive lad who’d left New Zealand seven
months ago. I had been provoked to think about things I would
never have been conscious of had I stayed home. I had seen
death in all its forms, heroic death, pitiful death, and had
nearly experienced death myself. That tended to sharpen one’s
judgment considerably. I had been pushed to the brink of my
physical and emotional limits – not once or twice, but dozens
of times. I had shot people and been shot myself. If nothing
else, this war had taught me that I could handle anything that
life can throw at me except death, and that had just taught me
what the true meaning of life is. Aside from the memories and
the physical scars to remind me, this was the legacy this war
had left me with.
.
Two months later I was home. Both Mother and Rachel
were at the Wellington waterfront to greet me. When they saw
me, they rushed over and hugged me simultaneously.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” they blurted.
“Tell you what?”
“That you’d won a V.C., silly!”
“How did you know about that? It is supposed to be a
surprise.”
“Silly boy,” said Mother, “your name has been in every
newspaper in the country!”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “We are so proud of you!” Then they
noticed my limp and my walking stick.
“Oh, look at you. You’re so thin. Didn’t they ever feed
you?”
“You should have seen me a couple of months ago. How is
Father?”
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Instantly, Mother’s expression froze. Rachel’s smile also
disappeared and an awkward look came over her.
“I’m sorry son. Father passed away two weeks ago.”
Silence. Sadness appeared in Mother’s eyes.
“Come on,” I put my arm around her, “let’s find
somewhere to sit and get a cup of tea.”
On the afternoon of the following day we arrived at
Aramoho station, where the Purdues were waiting to receive
us. We crammed into a coach and headed for the Purdue house,
where Mother and I were lavished hospitality like royalty.
That evening, Rachel grabbed my hand and led me towards
the front door.
“Mother has suggested we go outside, where we can be
alone.” We stepped out onto the front verandah and I closed
the door behind us. I wasted no time in drawing her close to
me.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
She smiled and we kissed. For the last twenty-four hours,
the nearness of each other had been intoxicating, and every
time Mother looked away we would gaze wistfully at each
other. Now we kissed with all the pent-up emotion our tortured
souls could manage. We locked on each other, hungry for the
taste of the other.
Then we sat. I leaned against the weatherboards while
Rachel leaned against me. I folded my hands across her belly
and hers were folded on top of mine, as if to keep them there. I
buried my face in her hair; I had been dreaming of this for
what seemed an eternity. I looked up at the moon. It was
beginning to rise and we were bathed in its gentle, mellow
glow.
“Richard, will you go away again?”
“No; being away has made me realise just how important
you are.”
She swivelled her head to look at me. “Cross your heart
and point to God?”
I kissed her cheek. “Yes, cross my heart and point to God.”
Then I told her about the pitiful giant who had died in the
hospital. “I just didn’t comprehend how much you mattered
until I stood and looked down on that lifeless blob – dead and
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unloved; without even a single friend who cared. It was then
that I fully understood just how much you are to me.”
That night she came to my room. She lifted the covers and
slid in beside me; we didn’t speak, there wasn’t any need. I
made room for her and we entwined ourselves together, her
softness and warmth pressed against me; the moistness of her
lips on my face, the soapy smell of her nightdress – I had a real
feather mattress and Rachel in my arms. After enduring an
eternity of deprivation, this was like dying and going to
heaven. We blended as one, even our breathing was
synchronized. We were so warm and happy we soon drifted off
to sleep. In the early hours, she stirred.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered, “this is where I
belong.”
“Soon sweetheart, soon,” I mumbled dreamily, only half
awake. She got out of bed and crept back to her room.
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Postscript: Two Months Later
We were married in the spring. Winter had passed and the trees
were heavy with blossoms. The daffodils had returned from
their seasonal sleep and the afternoons were once more balmy
and warm. Come the day of the wedding, I stared out the
windows of my second floor room where below, I could see
the intersection of the Avenue and Taupo Quay, the masts of
ships, the Central Railway Station and the wrought iron arches
of the Town Bridge.
I was feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation, for
today, Miss Rachel Purdue would become Mrs. Rachel Wilson.
I also realised that today would alter the course of my life; a
completely different world now lay ahead. A world of new
challenges such as I had never encountered before. Tomorrow,
when I woke, I’d find Rachel lying beside me.
From that time on, her happiness and wellness would be
entirely my responsibility and I must provide for her in the best
way I could. Until now, my home had been where I hung my
hat, but from here on I must expand that horizon considerably.
An hour before we were due to leave for the church,
Mother bade me follow her to her suite, where she locked the
door and turned to me.
“Son, I know you will be a good husband and father.”
“Thank you Mother.” I idly wondered why she’d locked
the door.
“There is something important I need to talk to you about.
Before today is over, Rachel will be your wife. She is not like
the wild horses you are accustomed to riding; do you
un
derstand?”
“No Mother, I’m not sure I do.”
“Well, she is a lovely, sensitive, young woman and how
you love her is important, isn’t it?”
“Well… yes,” I said, unsure where this was leading.
“Then you need to love her gently, don’t you. You need to
stroke her lovingly. Hug her and kiss her with tenderness and
compassion, don’t you agree?”
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My face reddened, but after years of watching animals
mate, I could divine what she was getting at.
“Yes Mother, I think I do.”
“Good, and remember, she is your wife. You can touch and
kiss her anywhere you like, even her most womanly parts, as
long as she doesn’t object. Understand?”
“Yes Mother.” Embarrassment rose over my face like a
rampant spring tide.
“You are allowed to stroke and touch her, as long as you do
it lovingly and gently, do you follow that?”
All I could do was blush and say ‘yes’.
“Oh, and one more thing; when you have finished, make
her feel that she has just given you something wonderful and
you adore her. Understand?”
I looked her in the eyes. “Yes Mother, I do”
She hugged me. “Rachel is lovely and I won’t ask you to
look after her because I know you will.” She embraced me
again and kissed me. Then she left the room. I sat down slowly
on the edge of the bed and began to dwell on the implications
of what she had said.
Once inside our suite I hung out the ‘do not disturb’ sign
and closed and locked the door. The room was large and airy,
and natural light streamed through double hung windows down
its sides. Beautiful silvery green drapes hung from ornate
pelmets and a large Persian rug lay on the polished hardwood
floor. Above our heads the ceiling was profusely patterned and
a large French dresser with an equally impressive mirror sat
near the bed. Around the room were strategically placed
bouquets of lily of the valley, wrapped in layers with
maidenhead.
Rachel leaned against me and I whispered in her hair.
“That’s the most romantic dress I have ever seen.”
“Thought you’d like it. Perhaps you’d like to take it
off?”…
With mounting excitement I unbuttoned her dress and
helped her step out of it. Then I unhooked her corset and
allowed it to drop on the floor. One by one I lifted her