Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Oscar says this will probably be his last trip into town.’ Caitie decided it was foolish to waste their limited time on small talk. ‘He says you’ll all be leaving soon.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what they’re telling us. I shall be saying my farewells to my family tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll write to you while you’re gone, Hugh. That is if you want me to.’

  ‘I do, very much.’

  ‘To your safe return.’ She raised her glass.

  ‘To the safe return of us all.’ They clinked and drank.

  ‘Rupert will miss you.’

  ‘Yes, he will. He’s missed me hugely these past six weeks. He can’t understand why he’s not allowed to come to training camp with me.’ Hugh smiled. ‘He thinks the camp’s something to do with footie training.’

  ‘I’ll call around and visit him while you’re away, if you like.’

  ‘Would you really do that?’ He was taken aback by the offer. He didn’t quite know why, but it seemed to him extraordinarily caring. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’

  ‘Of course I don’t have to,’ Caitie gave a careless shrug that to Hugh was very reminiscent of her brother, ‘I’d do it because I want to. I like Rupert.’

  The band was back on stage and as the musicians struck up a lively rendition of ‘Give My Regards to Broadway’ several of the younger set took to the floor.

  ‘Oh my gosh,’ Caitie said, ‘they’re doing the turkey trot. Come on.’ Dumping their punch glasses on a nearby side table they headed hand in hand for the dance floor.

  The turkey trot was followed by the other ridiculous ‘animal dances’ that constituted the latest craze, and the older members present stood on the sidelines bemused as the young ones took over the dance floor.

  ‘Where’s Oscar?’ During a brief hiatus following the kangaroo hop, Caitie looked around for her brother. He usually took centre stage when it came to the modern dances.

  Oscar was indeed nowhere to be seen. Hugh gazed about the ballroom and could see no sign of the woman in the canary-yellow dress either. Her husband was still in evidence though, enjoying a glass of ale with his friends at the refreshment table.

  ‘He’s probably popped out for a bit of fresh air,’ he said. Then the band segued into ‘Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?’ and as the duck waddle took precedence Oscar was forgotten.

  He reappeared only several minutes later, dancing the grizzly bear right beside them with a young fair-haired girl of around sixteen, the daughter of one of the Auxiliary Committee ladies.

  Hugh glanced over at the refreshment table. The woman in the canary-yellow dress was chatting with her husband and his friends. He had surely been imagining any link – it was better not to think about it.

  All too soon the evening was over. For Hugh and Caitie, who had not left each other’s side, it seemed to have passed in an instant, and yet that instant somehow signified a lifetime. This was a night that had changed everything. And now the band was nearing the end of its very last waltz. ‘After the Ball Is Over’ had been the bandmaster’s highly appropriate choice.

  He held her close as they danced. ‘May I escort you home?’ he asked: he couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said regretfully. ‘Oscar would be in dire trouble if you did. I’ve been entrusted to his care for the evening, and my grandmother can be a positive virago when it comes to anything she perceives as a threat to my virtue.’

  ‘Of course.’ He couldn’t disguise his disappointment.

  The waltz was over and, as the last strains of the melody hung in the air, the bandmaster turned and bowed, then stretched out his arms in recognition of his musicians. Those on the dance floor clapped and cried ‘bravo’ and within seconds the entire ballroom had erupted into applause. The evening had been an unqualified success.

  ‘Oscar says you’re catching the midday train back to camp tomorrow,’ Caitie said as the applause finally died down and the crowd started drifting off the dance floor.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I shall be at the station at a half-past eleven.’ She offered her hand and they shook. ‘Good night, Hugh, it’s been a wonderful evening.’ The handshake didn’t seem quite enough, so she leant up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Truly wonderful,’ she said, and then she was gone, leaving him standing in the middle of the semi-deserted dance floor.

  He joined his parents, who were once again chatting to the Lyttletons.

  ‘Ah, there you are, dear.’ Evelyn smiled. She was looking very fragile these days. ‘We’ve barely seen you all night. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘I had a splendid time, thank you, Mother.’

  Of course you had a splendid time, Reginald thought, fuming. ‘The car will have arrived, Hugh; we’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so,’ he said pleasantly, guarding any show of irritation.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll walk home. I feel like a bit of a stroll.’ His father’s chauffeur had dropped them off in the Rolls Royce, and Hugh had felt shockingly self-conscious as they’d pulled up outside the town hall. The show of ostentation had seemed so wrong. He didn’t wish to hurt his father’s feelings, however. The vehicle was Reginald Stanford’s pride and joy, he’d worked hard to earn it and he had every right to enjoy it. Hugh did not stand in judgement of his father, but from his own point of view the silver Rolls Royce had lost its charm.

  ‘Of course, my boy,’ Reginald clapped an arm around his son’s shoulder, ‘we’ll see you at home then.’ The boy chose to walk, did that mean an assignation – was the slut perhaps waiting for him? If so, excellent, he thought. The lad was undoubtedly a virgin, a quick bout between the sheets would do him the world of good. But the situation had looked far more serious than that.

  He edged Hugh a little to one side. ‘Tell me,’ he said quietly, ‘the young lady whose company you were enjoying – very beautiful I might add, you show great taste –’ he smiled in man-to-man fashion, then added as if it were merely a matter of interest ‘– she’s an O’Callaghan, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right, Caitlin O’Callaghan.’

  ‘Ah yes, I thought so.’ Reginald nodded sagely. ‘They’re a handsome family, all right.’

  Hugh knew just what his father was thinking. The O’Callaghans weren’t good enough. Is it because they’re of the Roman Catholic faith or is it because they’re not filthy rich? he wondered. A mixture of both probably. Either way, Hugh was not in the least bothered. For several years now he’d accepted his father for what he was.

  ‘Mara Dimbleby is Caitie’s aunt,’ he said. That should surely keep the old man happy, he thought. ‘See you at home, Father.’

  Reginald watched, powerless, as his son walked away. Now was hardly the time to put his foot down, he realised, but he did hope the girl wouldn’t prove a problem in the future. Yet again, he cursed Archie Dimbleby for having married so far beneath him: it set such a bad example.

  The following morning, the family gathered in the front drawing room and Hugh made his farewells as he’d planned. He’d already said goodbye to each of the servants, who had now tastefully withdrawn to give the family their privacy.

  He embraced his mother, holding her close.

  ‘Take care, Hugh,’ Evelyn said. ‘I shall pray for your safe return. May God go with you.’ Evelyn had determined she would not shed a tear. Not until she was alone anyway.

  ‘We’re proud of you, my boy.’ Reginald shook his son’s hand. He still blamed the Balfour brothers for inciting in Hugh the desire to go to war, but he was proud of his son. Already the army had turned the boy into a man. ‘I know you’ll serve your country well.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  For Hugh the delicate part of the exercise was saying goodbye to Rupert. ‘I am going away to serve a very important duty, Rupert,’ he said to his brother.

  ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘No, you can’t, because you have a very important duty of your own to ser
ve right here.’

  ‘What? What?’ Rupert was only too eager to serve a duty like his brother.

  ‘You will look after Mother while I am gone.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Rupert gathered his mother in his arms. ‘I will look after Mother,’ he said, and he held her to him as if daring anyone to part them.

  Rupert’s newfound sense of responsibility was proving exactly the distraction Hugh had intended it should, but Reginald found the sight of the hulking nineteen-year-old cuddling his mother undignified and intrusive on the solemnity of the occasion. Surely they had gathered to farewell Hugh upon his imminent departure for the battlefields of Europe, not to cater to a simpleton.

  ‘Let me drive you to the station, son. Please, I insist.’

  ‘No, Father.’ Hugh had refused the same offer earlier. ‘As I’ve said, I wish our goodbyes to take place here.’

  It was clear no negotiation was to be entered into, and Reginald had no option but to stand on the front porch with Evelyn, who was still locked in Rupert’s protective embrace, and watch as his son crossed the courtyard, turning to wave before walking through the main gates and disappearing from their lives, possibly forever.

  Hugh arrived at the station at a quarter-past eleven. The platform was not yet crowded with the troops who would be catching the midday train to Brighton and he positioned himself where he would see her the moment she appeared.

  Then, on the dot of half-past eleven, there she was. Her hair was pinned up beneath the toque that she wore, but the flash of red caught his eye in an instant. Oscar was by her side.

  He waved and they joined him, Oscar immediately voicing complaint. ‘I told the family they weren’t allowed to come to the station,’ he said, ‘but Caitie maintains she’s here to say goodbye to you, not me . . .’

  ‘Hello, Hugh.’

  ‘Hello, Caitie.’

  ‘. . . She even made me get here twenty minutes earlier than I’d planned.’

  ‘I’m glad she did.’ Hugh smiled, his eyes not leaving Caitie’s for a second.

  ‘Oh well,’ Oscar gave one of his insouciant shrugs, ‘I’ll just fill in some time over here, shall I?’ He didn’t bother waiting for a reply, but ambled off and lit up a smoke.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Hugh said.

  ‘I have something for you.’ She took an envelope from her purse and gave it to him.

  He opened it. Inside was a photograph.

  ‘It’s not a very good one,’ she said apologetically, ‘but it’s the pick of a rather pathetic collection. I don’t have many I’m afraid.’

  The small black and white picture was a full-length portrait of a pretty girl whose pose was most demure. She was seated very properly on a small hardback chair, her feet not visible beneath her long skirt, her hands placed delicately in her lap. But the girl’s expression defied the pose, telling a different story altogether. She seemed on the verge of laughter. The curve of her lip was mischievous and her eyes sparkled with a humour that she appeared barely able to contain. The photograph may not have done her beauty full justice, but it had captured the very essence of Caitie O’Callaghan.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Hugh said.

  ‘I wrote on the back.’

  He turned the photograph over. Come home safely, she’d written, with all my love, Caitie.

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything fancy,’ she said. ‘I tried, but it sounded wrong somehow.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have wanted anything fancy. This is exactly right.’ He returned the photograph to its envelope and carefully placed it in the breast pocket of his army jacket.

  Neither one of them initiated the kiss. It just seemed to happen. They just seemed to drift together in some inevitable fashion. Then, as their lips met, their arms rose to an embrace and they became oblivious to everything around them.

  When they finally parted, Caitie looked about at the platform, which was now quite crowded. ‘Just as well Oscar didn’t let the family come to the station,’ she said. She smiled and linked her arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s go and join him. I feel a bit guilty.’

  ‘Ah, the lovebirds,’ Oscar said upon their approach. He frowned. ‘I hope your intentions are honourable, Hugh – she is my sister you know.’

  Caitie cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Hugh. ‘Should we tell him we’re engaged?’ she asked, and when he stared back at a loss for words she added, ‘We are, aren’t we? Good heavens, a kiss like that is the act of a fiancé, surely.’

  Hugh grinned. She was thoroughly outrageous. ‘We’re engaged, Oscar,’ he said.

  ‘Goodo.’ Oscar ground the butt of his cigarette out with the heel of his army boot.

  Caitie took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to her brother. ‘I’ve been asked to give you this,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to do it in front of the family.’

  Oscar unfolded the note to discover a photograph of Mary Reilly.

  ‘I saw her at nine o’clock mass this morning,’ Caitie said. ‘She’d hoped you’d be there so that she could give it to you herself, but I told her you were visiting relatives in Sandy Bay and had to go straight back to camp afterwards. In other words I lied,’ she added accusingly, ‘and in church, what’s more.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m very grateful.’

  ‘I do think you might have called on her to say goodbye; she very much hoped that you would.’

  ‘I have my reasons for avoiding Mary,’ Oscar said, skimming the brief note. Dearest Oscar, carry this photograph into battle and know that my heart is yours. May the strength of my love protect you always, Mary. ‘I have my reasons, believe me.’ He shoved the note and the photograph into the pocket of his greatcoat. God, how he wished he hadn’t kissed her.

  The minutes ticked speedily by and suddenly the guard was sounding the boarding call. Fervent embraces were shared by a number of people on the platform. Who knew when they’d next hold their son or dearest love in their arms again?

  Oscar hugged his sister and climbed onto the train, leaving Hugh and Caitie to say their goodbyes.

  ‘All aboard,’ the guard called.

  They shared a last kiss.

  ‘I was only joking about being engaged,’ Caitie said as they parted.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ he replied.

  ‘All aboard,’ the guard called again, and the train started to move off.

  Hugh scrambled aboard and stood on the step waving as the train chugged its way out of the station. He kept waving until he could no longer see the fiery glimmer of red beneath her toque.

  The Powell cousins and Max Miller returned from the Huon the next day, and after dinner in the Other Ranks mess tent the talk was all about David’s engagement.

  ‘We haven’t got the ring yet,’ he said, ‘but there was a whopper of a farewell party at Dad’s place on Saturday arvo and we announced it to the whole family. It’s official all right.’

  Big Gordie laughed. ‘It’s been official since they were a year old,’ he said to the others, ‘David’s grandfather Quincy reckons he had them promised at their first birthday party.’

  ‘We’re talking about Jeanie, I take it,’ Wes Balfour said. David’s girl, Jeanie, had cropped up in conversation a number of times.

  ‘Yep,’ David couldn’t wipe the grin from his face, ‘it sounds a bit soppy I know, but Gordie’s quite right, we’ve been childhood sweethearts for as long as I can remember.’ He fished his wallet from his pocket and took out the photograph that he always carried. ‘That’s her,’ he said passing it around proudly. ‘Jeanie Müller, she’s Max’s sister. We all grew up together.’

  Oscar turned to Hugh. ‘Seems to be a trend,’ he commented dryly, ‘mates’ sisters becoming sweethearts.’

  ‘Just as well she copped the looks in the family,’ Harry said, studying the pretty fair-haired girl in the photograph, ‘it’d be a right bugger if she’d turned out like you, Max.’

  Then the ribbing started in earnest, Max taking it good-naturedly as he always did. Short and b
ull-like in build, he was not particularly prepossessing, it was true, but he was popular with the men and much respected for his sheer physical strength. Max, although a good eight inches shorter than his mate Gordie, was every bit as strong.

  The photograph was passed back to David who kissed it flamboyantly before returning it to his wallet, which was a direct cue for Gordie, who reached for his harmonica. Gordie was the musical one and his harmonica had led to many a sing-along over the past weeks.

  I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,

  Borne like a vapour on the summer air . . .

  The moment Gordie played the first note David burst into song, and of course he knew every word of the lyrics. He always maintained that Stephen Foster had written them just for him.

  I see her tripping where the bright streams play,

  Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.

  The others joined in with the bits they knew and la-la-ed along to the bits they didn’t. Then a bloke at another table produced his guitar and very soon everyone in the ORs mess tent was singing.

  The following weekend being the last rostered leave granted, it was the Balfour brothers’ turn to make their family farewells. Unlike the others, Wes and Harry didn’t need to catch the train home, they just walked the mile or so up to Pontville, then a further mile north and they were at the Stanford-Balfour property.

  Just like the Powells’ gathering in the Huon, the Balfour boys’ farewell party was a huge family affair conducted in true country fashion. They congregated at midday on Saturday, all four generations of them, and the chosen venue was the old farmhouse so that Donald wouldn’t need to travel. Donald Balfour, now eighty, suffered shockingly from arthritis and was confined to a wheelchair for much of the time. His wife Amy, however, the matriarch of the clan, remained seemingly indestructible. It was Amy herself who cooked the massive baked luncheon that would feed them all. Three legs of lamb just to be on the safe side, she’d decided: her grandsons alone would eat one leg between them.