Just with him … Remote. Uncomfortable.
Etranger, he recalled from French lessons. Foreigner. That’s how it was between them. And he would have to give up a holiday at the surf, and walks and kisses on the beach with Kate, to waste the summer in an atmosphere so often tense or even hostile — ‘Did you hear me?’ David said.
‘Sorry. I was thinking about having to go to the Barossa.’
‘Princess Katherine will be disappointed.’
‘So am I,’ Harry muttered.
‘I expect she’ll find some other boys to cheer her up.’
‘You’re a prick, Brahm. You know that? You’re a bastard.’
In the park, they threw their straw boaters, and tried to make them glide like aeroplanes. Ever since the Wright brothers had made their flight at Kittyhawk, and now a Frenchman, Bleriot, had flown across the English Channel, Harry and David and their friends talked incessantly about flying. It was even said that there would soon be airships that would carry dozens of people, and perhaps cross the Atlantic. It was almost possible to imagine that some day they might fly as far as Australia.
David made his boater soar out into the centre of the lake, and a nursemaid minding a child in a pram watched while they tried to retrieve it, and smiled as they threw stones so that the straw hat floated slowly to the far side, where they managed to recover it. David bowed with gallantry to the nursemaid, who waved.
‘Not bad, eh.’
‘You’re too young for her,’ Harry said.
David vehemently disagreed, then eyed him carefully. ‘So you’re not coming to spend Christmas with us?’
‘I can’t.’
‘What’s it like in the Barossa?’
‘It’s all right. There’s lots of vineyards.’
‘I don’t mean that. I heard the people there are Germans.’
‘Not all of them.’
‘Some are, then?’
‘Yes, some.’
‘Most?’
‘No — about half.’
‘Is your mother German?’
‘Don’t be stupid. She grew up over here — in the house with my grandparents. She’s their daughter.’
Too late, he saw the trap into which he had fallen.
‘Well, if that’s true, then why is your name Patterson? That would have been her name. Isn’t she married?’
‘My grandfather adopted me.’ It was all he could think of so quickly. ‘You do ask a lot of silly questions, Brahm.’
‘It’s just that — you’re different.’
‘I’m not different.’
‘Yes, you are.’
Harry was anxious. He considered walking off, to show his annoyance and displeasure, and put an end to this conversation. Different was the one thing no boy at school wanted to be.
‘Don’t talk bloody rubbish,’ he said.
‘It’s not rubbish. You are different,’ he repeated. ‘Most kids always live with their parents. But you live here — and your parents live there, with all those Germans. So if it’s not your mother, is it your father?’
‘What do you mean — is it my father?’ Though he knew quite well what the question meant.
‘Is he a German?’
‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous,’ Harry Patterson said.
The words were strange and guttural, although the music of the hymn was familiar. On one side of him in the Lutheran church his brother Carl sang lustily, so Harry, unwilling to stand inept and silent, sang his own version in unison.
‘O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.’
On the other side of him, his sister Maria heard the English words and looked up and smiled. She began to sing with him. Carl’s robust voice took up the challenge as he sang with more vigour, and the congregation seemed enthused by the strength of these young voices, singing with such energy and enthusiasm, the village church resounding to the hymn.
The Pastor beamed. It was not only a packed Christmas Eve congregation, but they were in splendid voice.
The sermon seemed interminable to Harry. It was in German.
He thought he saw his mother stifle a yawn, and wondered how much of it she understood. Maria sensed his boredom and smiled in sympathy. He looked down at his sister, and realised how alike she was to Mama. She had the same vivid eyes and blonde hair. The local boys would soon start to take notice. It was difficult for him to believe she was now eleven years old. Or was it twelve?
He nudged her and whispered, ‘How old are you?’ She mouthed a reply, and he lip-read it.
Thirteen.
Of course. There were so few years between the three of them.
How strange to have a sister, whom he only saw a few weeks at a time, and who grew up so quickly between his visits. But then so had Carl, who was now fifteen. At least he liked Maria — which was more than he could say about Carl, often surly and choosing to speak deliberately to hirri in their brand of German which was called Barossa Deutsch. Carl was already equal to him in height, but sturdier. Built — as his friend Brahm would say -like a brick shithouse.
The thought of David Brahm made him think of Kate, and how last year they had kissed for the first time, and how, having kissed once, they could scarcely bear to stop. He thought about how much he was going to miss her. He thought of their talks, always so much to say, never running out of conversation — and how much they made each other laugh.
He felt a deep longing for her, and a great sadness. He knew, once her studies were complete, she would stay in Europe. She would become a soloist, a celebrity; he had been certain of that since the night he saw her play in Melbourne, the way she accepted the applause that turned into a standing ovation, acknowledging it with grace and humility, yet without surprise, as if it was her due, as if she knew her worth and had no doubts of her success. It would be good to know where you were going in your life, like Kate did.
He felt Maria nudge him, and realised the sermon was over, and their heads were bowed in prayer, although he had not the least idea what they were saying.
‘It’s another good year,’ Elizabeth said, ‘More than makes up for the bad one when we lost the harvest to the hailstorm.’ She was walking with her eldest son along the paths between the rows of grapes.
‘When do you pick them, Mama?’
‘In February,’ she said, and seemed surprised that he did not know. ‘But, of course, you’ve always been back at school by then. Some day you really must see a harvest.’
I hope not, he thought silently, and then felt disloyal.
She smiled as if she read his thoughts. ‘I mean just once. It’s fun. Neighbours and the villagers all come to help. At nights we roast a side of beef or a sucking-pig; we drink wine and dance, Sigrid’s husband plays the fiddle, and Gerhardt has too much to drink and sings.’ She laughed. ‘But he sings so beautifully. And some of the village girls are very pretty. Carl can never make up his mind which one to invite to the harvest festival.’
When he nodded and was silent, she changed the subject. ‘I had a letter from Father. He says your gran has not been well.’
‘She’s had some pains. Dr Sinclair says it’s rheumatics. He came twice to visit.’
‘What happened to Dr Fairfax?’
‘I think he and grandfather had a row.’
‘That’s more than possible.’
They both smiled.
‘Grandfather announced one day that Fairfax was an old fogey, a terrible snob and a pompous ass. And he charged too much.’
‘That sounds like Grandfather. Also not a bad description of Dr Fairfax,’ she laughed. ‘And what do you think of Dr Sinclair? More importantly, what does Gran think of him?’
‘She likes him. She says he’s very handsome, and just the sight of him makes her feel better.’
‘Goodness,’ Elizabeth said, glad her son and her mother had this remarkable rapport, but sorry she had not known this new Edith, instead of the timid figure of her childhood.
&
nbsp; ‘She’s much better. Write more often, Mama. She loves to get letters from you. When Mrs Forbes brings in the mail, and says “there’s one from Miss Lizzie”, you ought to see the way her face lights up. She enjoys hearing about the vineyard, and how everything is going so well at last. That makes her happy.’
Elizabeth was touched, not only by news of her mother’s interest, but by her son’s concern.
‘Why not send a new photograph of Maria? She has the last one framed beside her bed. She said the pair of you are like twins — when you were Maria’s age.’
‘Did she? All right, when I take Maria back to school, we’ll have a portrait done in Tanunda.’
‘Good. I won’t mention it. It’ll be a surprise.’
‘And what about your news?’
‘My news?’
‘You haven’t mentioned your cellist friend. Is she taking the scholarship in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll miss her.’
‘Don’t make fun of me, Mother.’
‘But I’m not.’
‘Some people think it’s a big joke. That I’m just seventeen.’
‘My dear, I was seventeen when I fell in love and ran away and married your father. Didn’t you know that?’
He was astounded — he had never really thought about it. ‘I knew you were young. I didn’t realise — how young.’
‘So I most certainly would not think it a joke. I’d be the last to consider it so. But I want to ask you — will she ever come back to this country? Is there a career for her in music here, as a cellist?’
‘I doubt it. Oh, there’d be work. But only in an orchestra, or even worse, a theatre pit. It would be such a waste. She’s better than that.’
‘Poor Heinrich,’ she said.
He wanted to tell her that his name was Harry, but he loved his mother and didn’t want to spoil the day.
TWENTY TWO
The liner Monarch Star released a last farewell hoot, a long mournful sound, as it moved slowly from the quay. All the streamers stretched and broke, and a mass of people on the wharf and those aboard lining the ship’s rail all began to sing: ‘Now is the hour, when we must say goodbye …’
Harry was standing with David Brahm and his family. They were in the midst of the waving and singing crowds, and Kate’s mother was crying. He knew for certain Kate was crying too, as the ship moved slowly out into midstream.
He could no longer see her. In an hour she would have passed out of the harbour, and begun the long journey south, via Melbourne and the Great Australian Bight, then north to Colombo, and through the Suez Canal to Europe. In six weeks’ time, she would be in London, registered at the Guildhall of Music, where she would spend the next four years.
Harry turned and pushed his way through the crowd. He knew it was abrupt, but he had to leave. There was no choice. If you were seventeen, in your final year of school, after which you were to attend university and study law, there was no way you could remain on a wharf in public view — and in full view of your best friend — waving to a skinny girl you would never see again, and bawling your eyes out.
In the late summer of 1913, William Patterson was invited to a private meeting of his party hierarchy at the Melbourne Club, and told he would not be on their Senate ticket in the forthcoming general election. When he asked why, they reluctantly gave their reasons. Divergent opinions, they told him; his strident nationalism, his call for a new flag and a new anthem and more independence in trade policies, all of which conflicted with the accepted view of Australia’s place in the world as a dominion of the British Empire. They praised him for his past work, extolling him as a vigorous force in his time — but felt the time was now over.
William called them a bunch of geldings, whose balls had not been surgically removed, because they had never had any in the first place. They were a collection of humbugs, a cabal of meek white mice, and he regretted he could not stand Andrew Fisher or Billy Hughes, or else he would join the Labor Party. One of his former colleagues shouted that the bloody Labor Party wouldn’t bloody well have him, which was a pity, because he could go and be a pain in their arse for a change.
The following day, William invited a group of journalists and made a formal statement that the Australian Parliament had been shackled; it was a mere caricature of real democracy, a creature of British foreign policy, and that Federation did not mean nationhood after all- it meant curtsying to Their Lordships in London, and he was therefore resigning from the pathetic petty paradigm of politics. His alliteration was deliberate, and he spoke with some emotion about the loss of impetus in recent years, following the initial flush of national pride.
The newspapers reported him in full. William Foster Patterson had always been good copy.
Dr Sinclair’s visits to the house became more frequent. He prescribed tablets, but Edith grew thin and weak. She spent more time upstairs, but she arranged with Mrs Forbes each afternoon to be taken down to the drawing room, or else to the garden if the weather was warm, so that she would be there when her grandson came home from school.
She was concerned about Harry’s future. Edith had only loved two people in her life. Her daughter and Heinrich. In her thoughts she often used his given name, because she knew a time would come when he would have to choose between that name and the one William had bestowed on him as a child. Some day he must decide whether he was Heinrich Muller, or Harry Patterson. And now she would not be there to know his choice.
Dr Sinclair had tried to avoid discussing it, but she had insisted.
It was ironic, Edith thought, how strong she had become in the years since she was crippled. The doctor had first prevaricated. He had then tried being charming, and when that failed, mumbled about having a chat to William.
‘You won’t,’ she insisted, ‘discuss it with my husband. It happens to be my life — so you’ll have a chat with me.’
In the end she prevailed on him to be concise and clinical — which was all she required. He said his diagnosis of rheumatics had been a way of sparing her and the family concern, and the tablets he prescribed were only a pain relief. The cancer was now widespread and rampant.
‘How long?’ she asked.
‘It’s not easy to estimate,’ Dr Sinclair said. ‘How long?’ she repeated more forcefully. ‘About three months,’ he told her.
‘Too short,’ Edith said. ‘I want to see my grandson pass his leaving certificate. Finish his schooling. The end of the year.’
‘I’m sorry. You want me to be honest?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The end of the year is not remotely possible.’
For the first time, she felt sorrow that her time had come; she would not see Harry grow up, start law school. She would never know the rest of his life.
‘Well, do your best, Doctor,’ she said quietly. ‘How about October?’
‘It’s unlikely.’
‘You’re a hard man.’
‘And you’re a brave woman.’
‘Not particularly.’ Edith managed a smile. ‘Just showing off. Any advance on three months? I’ll take what I can get.’
‘If you’re very careful it could be a while longer. But you may have to go to hospital.’
‘No. Let’s get that settled now. No hospital.’
‘You’ll be in pain.’
‘I’m used to pain,’ she said, and realised that he thought she meant her shattered spine.
‘I can give you pills. But soon they won’t control the suffering. You’ll need a nurse, day and night.’
‘Not yet,’ Edith told him. ‘When we come to that stage, you arrange it. In the meantime, I’m anaemic, rheumatic — whatever medical fiction you choose. But I’m not dying.’
‘They’re going to realise eventually,’ Dr Sinclair said.
‘Not until I’m ready.’
Harry brought David Brahm home for tea with Edith, and even though it was the last week in May it was still warm and sunny, and they sat in the ga
rden wolfing sandwiches and scones. David kept apologising and telling her how starving he was, because school lunch had been more disgusting than usual, a stew with turnips straight from Paddy’s market, which had arrived too late to be cooked, so they were like lumps of wood in thin gravy, and almost tougher than the meat. His stories invariably made Edith laugh — she had become fond of Harry’s closest friend.
The liking was mutual. David had discovered you could tell her things; critical things not discussed with parents — such as girlfriends, and whether he really wanted to be a doctor like his father hoped, or not. He had doubts, but felt unable to voice them at home.
‘They’d be disappointed,’ Edith said, ‘but on the other hand, it’s your life. You have the rest of the year to decide.’
‘What if I decide no?’
‘Then you must be gentle with them, David. Tell them how you feel, but remember they’re missing Kate, and are bound to have lots of plans for you. So be very sure, before you say anything.’
David nodded. Mrs Patterson was different to most old people. She made you feel grown up. He thought she was looking a bit tired, but perhaps it was just her age, or not being able to walk and do exercise.
‘What if I decide not to do law?’ Harry said.
‘Then you and I would have a most interesting evening, breaking the news to your grandfather.’ Edith smiled.
‘But would you be on my side?’
‘Yes. But only if you found something more important, and believed in it.’
‘I probably will do law. I think I will. It’s just — difficult.’
‘It is. You both have to make a huge decision, and you’re only seventeen. You each wonder what the future holds, and don’t want to make the wrong choice. I don’t blame you in the least for being uncertain.’
David thought that summed it up. He wished he could talk to his parents like this. He now understood why Harry felt so close to her, and regarded her opinion so highly.
‘There might even be a war,’ he said.
‘God forbid,’ Edith replied.
‘The Kaiser’s very jingoistic.’ David had read the word in the Bulletin that week, where they printed a cartoon that made the German Emperor look like Genghis Khan. ‘But Kate writes that nobody in England takes him very seriously. After all, he and King George are cousins.’
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