‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘That was the news I’ve been sitting on all day. I thought I must tell Tisha. I didn’t mean to shock you.’
‘He’s my brother, too.’
‘I know. Sometimes I almost forget.’
‘I don’t,’ she declared, looking straight into her father’s eyes. ‘I never have.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
Aware that this was dangerous ground, she answered him with a certain amount of challenge. ‘But I do care about him – very deeply. Tisha doesn’t. Robin perhaps – but not Liam.’
Robert sighed and looked away. ‘Jealousy. Louisa made too much of him. Liam was her firstborn.’ After a long moment, he said: ‘She never wanted Tisha.’
His honesty shocked her a little. ‘Why not?’
‘Tisha was the end of our relationship,’ he answered painfully, ‘the result of conflict, not love. I’ve always blamed myself for that...
‘Oh, I know you think I don’t see how she really is, that I indulge her because she’s pretty and amusing and knows how to flatter a man. You think I’m an old fool, Georgie,’ he went on, pouring himself another drink. ‘But I’m not in my dotage yet – and I’ve known enough women of that ilk to be able to spot another one. But she’s young, and she’s had a difficult time of it in recent years. I feel sorry for her – and I’m fond of her. She may change.’
For some minutes, digesting those unexpected revelations, Georgina said nothing. She wondered at the nature of the conflict, but dared not ask. Instead she questioned him obliquely.
‘Are you sure it’s pity you feel? Or is it guilt?’
The question angered him. ‘She’s my daughter, for heaven’s sake – just as you are. Yes, I’m sorry for what I see in her – and yes, I do feel guilty. I can’t help it.’
‘But she knows that, Daddy – and because of it, she’s using you!’
He faced her squarely. ‘I know.’
‘And you’ll let her carry on?’
‘Yes. For as long as it’s necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t think Louisa ever understood her. I do, in a peculiar sort of way. She needs fussing and spoiling for a while – and then, perhaps, a steady, level-headed man to love her. She could do a lot worse than young Fearnley – and if he stays put and keeps his mouth shut, he could see this war through. Which is more than can be said for most of the others out there.’
Wincing, thinking of Liam – and Robin, she must not forget Robin — Georgina shook her head. ‘Oh, Daddy – I think you’re wrong. She’ll break Edwin Fearnley’s heart – yours too if you’re not careful.’
He smiled and tapped his chest. ‘This old heart of mine’s tougher than you think – but thank you for thinking of it.’
They dined together at home, then spent a quiet evening, Robert studying papers at his desk, Georgina writing letters and thinking. Although she had long ago ceased in her attempts to communicate with Liam, she always mentioned him in her letters to Louisa. Detached, careful phrases, but they ensured a good response. And knowing that Tisha rarely sent anything more comprehensive than a postcard, Georgina included her father’s news.
‘No doubt you will soon be bearing from Liam. Indeed you may have done so already, from Egypt. The post is so peculiar these days. I’ve already written to Robin – you never know, they may meet up.’
It was a feeble attempt to be cheerful, a single straw of hope in what she saw as a sea of despair. Addressing the envelopes, she laid them on her father’s desk, ready for posting.
‘Try not to worry,’ he said softly, squeezing her hand. As she turned away he rose to stand beside her. ‘Tisha’s a born survivor, you know – and so, it seems, are your brothers. Perhaps it’s something they inherited from me!’ He smiled; then suddenly, impulsively, hugged her close.
‘Oh, darling girl,’ he whispered against her hair, ‘you’re the one I worry about. Do take care of yourself – I couldn’t bear to lose you.’
Tears welled for a moment and she clung to the unfamiliarity of her father’s arms. He felt strong and safe and she wished she could have been a child again, just to have him go on holding her.
Eventually he let her go. Tucking back a stray lock of long blonde hair, he said: ‘You’ll be gone in the morning, I expect. If you have a free afternoon at any time, telephone the office. I’ll send a car and we’ll go out.’
She nodded, clearing her throat. ‘When do you go back to Ireland?’
‘I don’t know. I dare say I could be there and back several times before they allow you another couple of days off. However, I’ll keep you informed.’
Reaching up, Georgina kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’ Unable to risk another word, she hurried off to bed.
Eighteen
The next morning, about the time Georgina was setting out in wind and heavy rain for her hospital in Lewisham, Liam was sheltering from the weather on the afterdeck of a Union Castle Line transport in the Gulf of Lyons. He had been on submarine watch since four and was cold and tired and wet through. Every now and then he would cease his scanning of the seas on the starboard quarter and glance forward, to where he could see land looming on the horizon. It was probably the French coast: he knew Marseilles could not be far away.
The thought of it was strange after all this time, not quite believable after all the promises and diversions, after two stretches of the purgatory that was Egypt, and stoking the fires of hell in between. Getting on for two years since joining up, and there was a dreadful irony when he remembered the names and faces of all those who had been so desperate then to get to France, and would now never see Australia again. The greater part of them gone, and he could hardly believe that he was still alive. For long enough after Gallipoli his hands would indulge in a moment’s automatic exploration each time he awoke, checking all the vital parts of his body before silently praising God for safe deliverance into another day; then praying for the guts to see this one through.
He had abandoned the physical checks, but not the prayers; the prayers would always be important. When he thought of what he had survived, the narrow squeaks of every day on the Peninsula, shells, bullets, shrapnel which always seemed to strike the next man, never himself, and the massive miracle of coming unscathed through battles which went on for days and in which thousands died, he could not take that survival for granted.
He should have died that August. He should have, everybody said so. From the dysentery which had racked his body for weeks, and from a bout of influenza that had turned to pneumonia within a couple of days. Everyone said how lucky he was to be alive, including the doctors in charge at Helouan and Heliopolis, and the nurses who had brought him through. For a while he had enjoyed a certain fame, with even the oldest, toughest sisters beaming at him like head teachers with a particularly bright and well-mannered child.
But Liam had not needed to be told. There was a moment when he thought he had died, and the strange thing was that he was able to remember it as clearly as when it actually occurred. Memory had dimmed nothing of that grey mist and his sense of floating detachment, nor of the path which appeared between shrubs and trees of an unearthly, indescribable beauty. He had come to a meadow of brilliant flowers, and beyond that was a stream with a small bridge. Liam’s sense of exaltation seemed complete when he saw Ned coming towards him with hands outstretched in welcome. A Ned no longer in uniform, but as he used to be, in boots and old moleskin trousers, with his shirt open and sleeves pushed back. No words were exchanged, but they embraced; then Liam knew, looking at his old friend, that he must not cross the bridge. Ned took his arm, and gently urged him back the way he had come.
And for a second, when he awoke from that dream which was not a dream, he was looking down at himself in a narrow hospital bed, surrounded by a sort of tent with two nurses standing by. His next awareness was of being in that bed, fighting for breath and to open his eyes. He saw the nurses, very hazily, above him; then slipped b
ack into unconsciousness.
Meeting Mary Maddox when he was convalescent, talking of Ned’s death on the beach at Anzac Cove, he had been aware of a need to comfort her, to give her something to hold on to in her loneliness and grief. During her third visit he tried to explain what struck him as being a glimpse of life beyond the physical present, but either she could not, or would not, understand.
Until that moment, Liam recalled, there had been something between them, sympathy and a shared love for Ned which might have drawn them closer still. Sadly, afterwards, she became a nurse again, assuring him with professional detachment that what he had experienced were no more than feverish hallucinations. She even told him that such hallucinations were quite common, which, far from denting Liam’s convictions, merely reinforced them. He wished he could have explained to her that Ned, who in life had always been so brusque and prosaic, was almost radiant with love. It was not, however, something Liam could put into words; it would have embarrassed him, and she would not have believed him anyway.
He did not see her again. That she thought him foolish, even slightly mad, was a shame. He felt he had lost yet another link with Dandenong, and as each link parted, it seemed less and less likely that he would ever return.
Lewis was still in Egypt with the Light Horse, constantly on the move, but he did manage to see Liam a couple of times, and then again before the battalions left for France. He was much thinner, much harder, and sad at the loss of so many old friends. It was obvious, too, that he carried a sense of guilt at having missed Gallipoli. Egypt had been no picnic in the last year, but still, it had been relatively safe.
‘I should have joined up with you lot,’ he said as they were parting.
‘Oh no,’ Liam had softly replied. ‘Somebody’s got to go back to the farm, Lew, and you belong there. So take good care of yourself.’
And in watching him mount one of the sturdy Australian walers, Liam had felt the pull of another parting, could not help feeling that they would never meet again, and that was upsetting. He liked Lewis. However briefly, they had been friends.
Almost anywhere was better than the desert, and when it came to fighting, France could not be worse than Gallipoli. In Egypt, with two stripes at his shoulder, Liam had tried hard to be worthy of the responsibility. There had been little opportunity for foolishness, anyway. Reorganization, retraining, new recruits from Australia, new units with new tasks to perform, all required time and thought and care under a regime which was harsher than ever.
Liam was now in charge of a machine-gun team, under an older and less experienced sergeant, a man who very much resented the hero-worship afforded to his twenty-one-year-old corporal. Keenan referred to him sardonically, in accents which still betrayed his Belfast childhood, as the golden boy, or, my blue-eyed Billy. Liam hated the sarcasm, and in the man himself found little to respect, even though he could understand what it was that so irritated Keenan, whose experience of Gallipoli was restricted to the last few weeks. Liam was one of the originals, a man who had survived the landings and illness and eight long months of fighting on the Peninsula. He was a lucky man, a man to touch and stay close to, a man protected and revered by his companions. Keenan could lay claim to none of that.
The ancient port of Marseilles with its docks and factories and forts was a source of great fascination during the hours which elapsed between their arrival and disembarkation. Liam would have liked to explore, but shore leave was not allowed. Guards patrolled both gates and gangways, keeping the ship’s volatile cargo well confined and under constant surveillance. It was as though higher powers, remembering Cairo, were terrified of sudden outbreaks, drunkenness on a massive scale, and complaints of rape and pillage from the local population.
The Australian troops, however, had been well lectured before leaving Egypt, their finer feelings appealed to. Most of them, Liam knew, would try to live up to those expectations, but the girls, lining the streets next morning as the troops marched through, were so appealing. Smiling, waving, pressing flowers into the men’s hands, shouting encouragements in a musical but incomprehensible language, they were temptation personified. Laughing, his hand kissed by warm lips, Liam pushed a twig of cherry blossom into his rifle, and thought it just as well that none of them had been let loose in this hospitable city, or few would have reached their destination.
The train journey north from Marseilles took four days. Not in cattle trucks this time, but third-class compartments with seats and windows. It was an unaccustomed luxury and the men were lively as holidaymakers, waving and cheering to people on stations and in fields beside the track. Word seemed to have gone ahead and all along the line people were waiting to cheer, or press gifts upon them at wayside halts. French soldiers were everywhere, some of them in red trousers and kepis, most of them wounded. Those Australians who had a smattering of French tried conversation, returning with an impression of fiery encouragement for what lay ahead.
From the rocky coastline they meandered slowly up to Avignon, halting in a siding for the night; then slowly up the Rhone valley, with pauses in other sidings while express trains rattled past. They crossed the winding river on a series of girder bridges, the dramatic scenery of such delight that Liam exploited his rank to hug the open window. He felt like a child travelling for the very first time, wanting to ask questions, longing to stop the train, explore that tiny, sun-baked village suspended, it seemed, between cliffs and riverbank.
As the train passed through Lyons and chugged on north, he longed to walk and run along the dusty white road to where woods were veiled in their first flush of delicate green. Early next morning the air was frosty and clear, the open countryside so evocative of England in the spring that he was suddenly, desperately, homesick. He could even identify some of the trees beside the line, repeating their names like a litany from childhood.
Dozing as night fell, leaning into his hard window corner with feet propped on the opposite seat, Liam dreamed of home for the first time in months. He was in the kitchen with his mother, trying to make his peace; but she carried on baking, rolling out pastry with that familiar click, click of her wedding ring, and did not seem aware of his presence. He spoke to her gently at first, then became agitated; when she did not turn round he shouted out...
He woke with a start, to find the train stopped and in darkness, a man’s weight against his shoulder and a body beneath his legs, stretched full-length along the floor. Aching and cramped, Liam tried to move without waking them. He longed to move, to get away; to go home and leave all this behind. He wanted no more of these men, the weight of their lives, the press of their bodies. It was too much. He was no older than they were: too young to be responsible, telling them what to do, wiping their noses and writing their letters – what would he do when they got themselves killed?
For a moment he almost panicked.
Flexing arms, fingers, a leg, he took a deep breath and reached for the window sash. With difficulty he lowered the glass and struggled to his feet. Amidst moans and groans of protest, he dragged sweet, cold air into his lungs.
Someone demanded to know where they were: Liam had no idea. A town, the shapes of houses, dark against a less-dark sky. Another voice suggested, forcefully, that he shut the window; he ignored it. Gradually the shuffles and protests subsided again into whistles and whimpers and heavy, stertorous breathing. Liam lit a cigarette and began to feel better.
In the stillness he heard the swish of steam, a reedy whistle and the sudden grunt of power from their locomotive; the long line of carriages gave a convulsive jerk, waking everyone, and they were on their way again.
They passed through the dismal outskirts of Paris in the early hours, changing course again to head directly north. Again it was a beautiful morning, hazy with a hard frost. In the hedgerows were partridge and pheasant, and across a whitened field he saw a fox make a guilty dash for cover. The land was rolling, heavily wooded, more like home than ever. He thought of the Wolds and the Vale of York and knew it wa
s a lifetime past, that even if he went back now it would not be the same, because he was different.
All that – York, its surrounding countryside, the Wolds, the rugged sea coast beyond – was an extension of home, part of his childhood, part of his mother. To go back now would mean facing her, letting her claim him again, letting the past claim him, and he was still determined to stand apart from that. If he was honest, too, Liam knew that in one small corner of his secret being, he was still afraid of what had happened three summers ago. He had not forgotten those wrenching, tearing, gut-churning emotions; nothing since had approached that pain, not even Gallipoli. The horror of that had been an external thing, which after a while lost its impact. Friends died, and if you could, you buried them; if not, you used their bodies as sandbags, knowing that even in death they would be pleased to protect you. He had come to terms with that; what he could not come to terms with were the facts of his own existence.
Approaching Calais in the afternoon, they passed it by, turned south again, then stopped for several hours in a siding at St Omer, the old British headquarters. Eventually the train moved again, east to Hazebrouck, then northeast towards Ypres. Finally, just after midnight, when they were convinced they were heading straight for that battered medieval city, the train stopped at a village just short of the Belgian border. The boom and flash of the guns seemed horrifyingly close. In spite of himself, Liam was afraid.
Ypres, however, proved not to be their destination. As one hard-bitten British Tommy informed them, they were not fit for Wipers yet; the nursery at Armentieres was bound to be their destination.
Liam bristled at that, felt his fists clench as Gallipoli flashed through his mind, but he bit back a scathing reply. In a way the man was right: they were the new boys here, and needed to learn how things were done. Already he was aware of differences, vast areas behind the lines which were untouched by war. Here was room to manoeuvre, whereas on Gallipoli once you landed, you were in it, right up to your neck. No time to learn the basic facts of life: you acted instinctively, and if you made a mistake, it was very likely your last. Here, in Flanders, the British were more relaxed.
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