A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ Miss Bain said, now also sympathetic. Elizabeth took no notice.

  ‘It is a dreadful war, Mr Boothby. My eldest son is one of those Aussie boys in France. So you ask who can blame people for their blind and ignorant prejudice. Well, I can — and I do.’

  ‘Mrs Muller, please …’ The secretary tried to take her arm. Boothby gestured at her to stop. He gazed at Elizabeth. ‘What did you say? Your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your son’s in the army? In Flanders?’

  ‘Wherever the war is now, that’s where he is.’

  ‘And your husband’s imprisoned as an enemy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your father was an original Senator? One of the founders of Federation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good God.’

  She decided she might as well use the truth to make a further impact, since he was at last listening to her.

  ‘The real founder of Federation, Sir Henry Parkes, came to my tenth birthday party.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. I do beg your pardon — but — good heavens, Mrs Muller, why didn’t you tell me all this?’ Boothby shook his head. He seemed to realise Elizabeth was still standing. He jumped to his feet and brought a chair for her.

  ‘Please sit down.’ He turned to his secretary. ‘Miss Bain?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Boothby?’

  ‘Bring us a pot of tea — and — and biscuits. Cakes. Whatever you can manage. And ask one of the photographers to step in here, and bring his camera and flashbulb apparatus.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Boothby.’

  She went out. Boothby sat down again.

  ‘Parkes,’ he said, looking at Elizabeth with what seemed like awe. ‘Sir Henry.’

  ‘Enery. Couldn’t pronounce his aitches.’

  ‘So I heard. Was it true?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said, smiling, ‘although sometimes I think he exaggerated it. By then it was legend.’

  ‘He was my hero,’ Mr Boorhby said. ‘When I was starting out, just a young reporter. Perhaps we could manage to use a picture of him in this story?’

  ‘You mean you’re going to help me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare mislead you, Mrs Muller. Would you object if I call you Elizabeth?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s just that — you seem so awfully young. If you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I don’t mind in the least. But I’m thirty-nine.’

  He shook his head, as if this surprised him, too. He wrote it down. She supposed he thought her young to have a son at the front.

  ‘I was eighteen when he was born,’ she explained, ‘and he joined up under age.’

  ‘It gets better,’ Mr Boothby said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. People will read this, and shed tears. That’s what I meant about not misleading you, Elizabeth. We’re an afternoon paper, in the business of selling stories. We’re not quite as grand as some of the morning newspapers. Not as conservative. We use large type and your name will be in headlines. It’s a very good story, and it will sell lots of our newspapers. But I’m not sure how you’ll feel, about being exposed to public view like this.’

  ‘I have no choice,’ she said, and made a decision. She took Harry’s letter from her handbag.

  ‘I can’t read you all of this, but my son wrote these words to his father: I am appalled, Father — I am sad beyond any words of mine, that the country you sought as a refuge and loved, the country that should be proud of your achievements, has done this to you. I have long been convinced — and we have these crazy thoughts in this hellish place — that I would die here. That I could not survive. Well, now I must. I must come home, first to make my peace with you, and after that to find out who is to blame for this outrage — and try to make them accountable. ’

  ‘Can I use that part of it?’ Boothby asked quietly. She nodded.

  ‘We’ll need the front and both centre pages,’ he said. ‘Box the letter. A photograph of you, one of your son, perhaps your father, certainly Sir Henry. But you do realise, people are going to take sides. No one will be neutral. You’ll be both famous and notorious.’

  ‘Famous and notorious?’ They felt like strange words.

  ‘I’m afraid so. I hope that doesn’t frighten you.’

  That afternoon she took Maria to afternoon tea, by special permission of the headmistress, and told her what to expect. ‘When’s it being published, Mama?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘A bit. I’m more concerned for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’ll be all over Adelaide. So everyone at school will know.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘It won’t be easy, Maria. People take sides. Even your friends might do so.’

  ‘If they side against me, then they’re not my friends.’

  ‘I nearly backed out of it — because of you. I think it’s too late now, but you’re the one who’ll be hurt most.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Maria said. ‘Papa’s the one who’s hurt most. He didn’t commit any crime, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he’s imprisoned. So what else could you do, but this?’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘And, anyway, it’s not going to be easy for you.’

  ‘But I have to stay. You don’t.’

  ‘Where could I go?’

  ‘I spoke to Hannah by telephone. She and your grandfather would love to have you — either until this dies down, or you could finish school there, and try for Sydney University medical school.’

  ‘That’s nice of them.’

  ‘They mean it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you want to stay here?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘That may not be easy. The school could end up being bothered by reporters. Miss Shillington wouldn’t like that.’

  Maria shrugged and smiled. ‘Then we’ll see how progressive and tolerant the old Shilling really is.’

  ‘I think you’re as stubborn as I was at your age.’

  ‘That sounds almost like a compliment, Mama.’

  ‘It’s meant to be,’ Elizabeth said, taking her daughter’s hand.

  It was far bigger than she expected. Worse in some ways. Her name on street placards. Her photograph on the front page, with a banner headline: SENATOR’S DAUGHTER PLEADS FOR JUSTICE, it said, ignoring her father’s retirement. HUSBAND IMPRISONED WITHOUT TRIAL. SON WITH THE AIF ON THE WESTERN FRONT.

  In the centre of the paper, the story of her life extended over both pages. This was headlined: THE AGONY OF A WIFE AND MOTHER.

  There were prominent photographs of William Patterson and Sir Henry Parkes, with the caption: He attended her birthday parties.

  There was an artist’s sketch of Harry done from snapshots, resplendent in his uniform as a captain. Boothby had also sent a photographer to the vineyard, so there was a picture of that. He seemed to have overlooked nothing. There was even mention of January the 1st, 1901, when Federation had been proclaimed, and Elizabeth Patterson Muller had been the youngest guest of honour on the official dais in Centennial Park. A guest, the story said, of Prime Minister Edward Barton himself.

  By the following day, other newspapers had tried to follow up the story, but Boothby had anticipated this and taken precautions. Did she have friends, he asked Elizabeth, here in Adelaide where she could stay in obscurity? Elizabeth at once telephoned Mr Harpur, and received the first intimation of what her future might be like.

  ‘I’m most desperately sorry, Mrs Muller. I don’t know quite how to put this.’

  ‘If the invitation to stay is withdrawn, Mr Harpur, all you have to do is say so.’

  ‘It’s my wife. I feel mortified, but I must think of her first.’

  ‘Of course you must.’

  ‘She now accepts both the boys were killed. Unfortunately, it’s
brought about an almost pathological feeling towards Germans. She read your story in the paper — and feels unable to ask you here.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have caused you embarrassment, Mr Harpur,’ she said sadly, and hung up at once, before he could reply.

  If this was the first reaction, she felt a sense of foreboding. Famous and notorious, James Boothby had warned her. He hadn’t mentioned losing friendships, or having to find a new lawyer. But that could wait. First, she had to find somewhere to spend the night.

  Evelyn Shillington had always prided herself on a reputation for being strict, but fair. She had been headmistress for sixteen years now. She had only distant family, she was single, and had no partner or lover to share her life. The school, where she had come as a novice teacher, then graduated to house mistress, deputy head, and finally headmistress, was in fact her life. ‘The Shilling’, as she knew her girls called her, was straightforward and scrupulously ethical, and because of it was well liked. Now she had a problem to solve, unlike any she had previously encountered. Since the publication of the story on Maria Muller’s family, the office had received almost fifty letters from parents, requesting the girl leave, or they would withdraw their daughters.

  Miss Shillington had walked in the quadrangle, visited the classrooms, and seen not the slightest trace of prejudice towards Maria. It was not the girls who were the problem; it was their middle-class, affluent parents, who paid the fees that kept the school solvent in these uneasy times. She knew fifty letters was only the start. By the end of the week the number would double. And if fifty left, others would soon follow. In a school of three hundred girls, she might well lose over a third of them. The Board would have no option but to dismiss her, ask Maria to leave, and request the parents to reconsider.

  It would be reported in the newspapers, and would certainly be the end of her career. She could hardly expect another position, not at her age, and not in the present poisonous climate. She might be forced to earn a precarious living by private tuition, a prospect which she dreaded.

  It was disgracefully unfair. Maria was one of the school’s most promising pupils, and had an ambition far beyond her peers’. No pupil had ever aspired to be a doctor; it was more than aspiration, for the Shilling knew Maria had the intellect and determination to succeed. It would have been a tremendous cachet for the school, and for her as headmistress. Something of which to be proud.

  Miss Shillington liked the parents. She felt sympathy for their predicament, the appalling way events had treated them. And Elizabeth Muller — what a glittering background, that astonishingly had never been known until now. She would have been pleased to invite her to dinner, to ask about Sir Henry Parkes, and about her own father who had so strongly advocated votes for women, and helped to bring about Federation. In normal times, Mrs Muller was the kind of woman who might well have presented the prizes on speech day. No one else she knew in this city had been on the official platform with Edmund Barton and the Earl of Hopetoun, the day they proclaimed the Commonwealth.

  Instead, with a feeling of sick despair, Miss Shillington knew she would have to ask Elizabeth Muller to withdraw her daughter from the school. No matter how biased and unjust, it was the only way that she could avoid complete catastrophe.

  THIRTY FOUR

  The day was windless and hot on the island. A work party was erecting new fences of barbed wire. The roll of new wire was sprung tight, and ripped their skin as they tried to handle it. Stefan worked with Adolph Linke. Professors of philosophy are unused to fencing, and so the pair were constantly berated by a young warder, relishing his power.

  ‘Get on with it, you stupid, idle bastards, or I’ll wrap some of that barbed wire around your balls.’

  ‘At least it would prevent a population explosion,’ Linke said in an aside, and Stefan tried not to laugh. It was dangerous to laugh at these humourless bullies, but without the professor’s caustic asides and determined refusal to be coerced, life would have been intolerable.

  ‘You … Muller,’ another warder shouted, and Stefan turned towards the sound. ‘Yes, you. You’re wanted in the office.’

  He and the Professor looked at each other with concern. Being wanted in the office meant a confrontation with McVeigh. It was not a summons to be welcomed.

  ‘Take care,’ Linke murmured.

  Stefan was escorted to the administration hut, where another warder took charge of him, barked an order to smarten himself up, and marched him into the office where McVeigh was studying files. There was no attempt by the chief warder to acknowledge his presence for the next few minutes, while Stefan stood in front of his desk, sweating with apprehension and an impotent anger.

  When he knew he had achieved his objective of instilling fear, McVeigh looked up.

  ‘You’re in luck, laddie.’

  ‘Luck?’

  ‘Aye. It seems someone likes you.’

  For a delirious moment, he thought he was to be released.

  The warder, enjoying this deception, smiled humourlessly.

  ‘No, not quite that lucky. But you are being privileged. You’re being allowed another visit from your wife.’

  All Stefan could remember was the humiliation and pain of their last meeting. He was not certain he wanted to subject Elizabeth to that again.

  ‘No happy smile? No joy? That’s not very loving, Muller. Not very romantic, laddie. She’s been getting talked about, getting herself in the newspapers, your wife has.’

  McVeigh handed him several newspaper clippings. On the top was a front page, which contained a photo of Elizabeth with a headline: ‘INJUSTICE’ CRIES SENATOR’S DAUGHTER.

  ‘Stand over there and read them. Tomorrow, when she visits, you’ll know the kind of nonsense she’s talking, and you’ll be in a position to put things right, won’t you?’

  ‘How?’ But he already knew.

  ‘Don’t be thick, Muller. You’re going to tell her there mustn’t be any more stories like this. Do you understand, laddie? That’s why the visit’s allowed. It’s orders, from higher up. You’re going to tell her — if she ever wants to see you again, she has to stop.’

  Like her mother many years before her, Maria Muller looked out the train window, and watched the shabby gateway to Sydney, as the express from Melbourne went slowly through the inner suburbs, past the squalid tenement backyards that led to Central Station. Unlike her mother, she did not know the surprises contained in the rest of this city. It was Hannah, perhaps sensing her disappointment, who suggested they might make a brief detour to see part of the town on the way home.

  Maria sat between them in the back of the large sedan, while Forbes drove past the emporiums of Grace Bros and Anthony Hordern’s, more like palatial pavilions than department stores, then towards Hyde Park and into Macquarie Street, passing the barracks built by the convict architect Francis Greenway a hundred years earlier. There seemed to be one grand building after another; Sydney Hospital, the Parliament where her grandfather had begun his political career, the Conservatorium of Music where Kate Brahm had studied before she went to England, and finally they parked above Bennelong Point, and stopped the car to look at the view.

  She felt her breath catch.

  Long ago, unknown to Maria, her father had felt the same emotion when he first saw this harbour, its rippling sunlit water, blue as a Vermeer painting. She looked out towards the small fort of Pinch gut, and beyond it to the foreshores of Cremorne, where Hannah told her they would take a trip one day soon, and visit the famous Cremorne Gardens, and afterwards go to Mosman to see the new Taronga Park Zoo. She watched the ferries, docking, the projecting fingers of wharves in Sydney Cove, the bulky shape of the warehouses and wool stores dominating Miller’s Point, not knowing that long ago her father had lived in the mean streets of that neighbourhood, penniless and alone.

  On the point below them were the sheds that housed the city trams, and across the water was Kirribilli. A crowded punt carried cars and their drivers to the Alfred Street jetty.r />
  ‘They’re going to build a bridge one day,’ her grandfather said, pointing to where it was supposed to span. ‘Mind you, we were debating it nearly twenty years ago. I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  They went back to the car. She was grateful to them both, not only for offering refuge, but for not smothering her with sympathy. She had had more than enough of that from her headmistress, teachers and school friends. After the long, unhappy journey, she had arrived prepared for further pity. Instead, they had hugged her, welcomed her, taken her to see the sights, and behaved as if she would make her home with them here in this city — at least until the war’s end. Their natural acceptance of this was strangely comforting.

  It had been an unpleasant shock, the news that her presence in the school was such an offence to so many parents. She had been prepared for divisions among some of the girls, but had never imagined their parents would force her removal. The poor old Shilling had been almost in tears, and tried to express her support, and her distaste for what had happened. The girls in the dormitory had watched in ashamed silence while she packed, though by now perceptive to the sentiments of others, she felt some of them were not altogether displeased. In the end she left the school where she had been so happy for so long with a distinct feeling of relief. Her mother had taken her to a small suburban house where she was a guest. It was owned by an aunt of Oscar Schmidt, and Sigrid had made the arrangements. Elizabeth had already explained the difficulty with Mr Harpur, and that she did not want to risk further humiliation by trying to take rooms in a boarding house or a hotel. She told Maria of the incident at the Gresham on the weekend which now seemed a distant unpleasant memory, and tried to apologise for the dislocation to her daughter’s life.

  ‘Mum, you’re not to blame. You had to do it.’

  ‘I thought so. Now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Well, you mustn’t feel like that. I’d have done it, too. I think Harry’s letter is wonderful, and Papa has to know about it.’

  ‘That’s why I’m staying in Adelaide. If we make enough fuss, and all the newspapers have taken this up now, they might let me see him. Just to shut me up.’