Eumeralla - Secrets, Tragedy and Love

by Joanna Stephen-Ward

  Apart from making sure she was clean and tidy, she did not bother with her appearance and rarely wore make-up. Expensive perfume and soap were her only indulgences. Her golden hair was streaked with grey. Because it was easy to pull back and twist into a bun, she wore the same classic but severe style she had adopted when she had been a trainee nurse. Her clothes were sensible and good quality. Today she wore a sage-green skirt with a matching cardigan over a cream silk blouse. Her loafers were brown leather and her winter tights were the same colour as her skirt. She wore the only pieces of jewellery she owned. Both had been bridesmaid’s presents. The gold watch had been from Alex when he married Virginia. When she had been Francesca’s bridesmaid, Laurence had given her the strand of cultured pearls.

  “Poor Sister Lancaster,” she said mockingly to her reflection. “All she’s got is a career. Is that what they say at the hospital? I bet it is. They’re right.”

  Life to Ruth was, and always had been, a disappointment. She had resented the privileges her brothers had been granted because of their sex. Margot, Francesca and Ruth had been educated at local state schools, but David and Alex had been boarders at CaulfieldGrammar School in Melbourne. From her earliest school-days Ruth had consistently come top of her class. Teachers had spoken about her cleverness, followed by the statement, “What a shame she’s a girl.” Her desire to be a doctor had been squashed by both her teachers and parents. At first her father had told her that only men could be doctors. When she discovered this was not true she begged him to let her study medicine.

  “You’ll probably get married before you graduate and the whole thing will be a waste of time and money,” he had said. “You’ll have to be a nurse.”

  All five children matriculated and could have gone to university, but that prerogative went to Alex. David, as the oldest son, would inherit Kingower. Margot, who would have been an economist or a lawyer if she had been a boy, went to teachers college. Francesca and Ruth became nurses.

  As soon as war was declared in 1939, Laurence, David and Alex had joined the army. The Nursing Corps accepted Ruth and Virginia, but turned down Francesca because of her asthma. Laurence wanted Francesca to stay on Acacia but, disappointed by her inability to do something for the war effort, she went to Melbourne and moved into Ruth’s rented flat in Carlton. With nurses joining the forces it had been easy for her to find a job as a ward sister at the Queen Victoria. But Laurence was worried about her living alone. He had been joined by Alex, David and Margot in persuading Ruth to stay behind with Francesca.

  Ruth resented having to stay in Melbourne. Jealousy complicated her feelings. Francesca was adored by her husband. Although she had been overwrought about him during the war, she had something to look forward to when he came home. She was constantly talking about the future. “We’ll go back to Acacia and have lots of children.” Ruth, trapped in Melbourne and denied the excitement of serving overseas, had mixed in a narrow circle that consisted exclusively of women. The only men she met were too old, married or wounded.

  The day Francesca had died, the war was over and Laurence was on his way home. Ruth was in the middle of studying for her midwifery exam. To her irritation, Francesca had spent the whole day talking about their plans and how many babies they were going to have. “And of course, you must be a godmother, Ruth.”

  To her lasting misery she had turned on Francesca. “Must be! Why must I be? I’m sick of hearing those words – Ruth must. Ruth must do this. Ruth must do that. Why has no one ever cared about what I wanted? I wanted to be a doctor, but I wasn’t allowed to be because I was a girl. I wanted to join the army, but I was told I must stay home and look after you. Now I’ll probably never get married because lots of eligible men have been killed. I’ve wasted five years of my life.”

  Francesca had been upset, but her reply was spirited. “If you’d gone overseas you might have been killed. I suspected you resented me, but I didn’t know how much. I didn’t ask you to stay with me. If you’d told me how you felt I would have stayed on Acacia till you and Virginia had left, then I would have gone back to nursing. You should have told me, Ruth.”

  But Ruth felt too frustrated to apologize. She left for night duty and when she returned to the flat in the morning Francesca was dead. The doctor who came said she had been dead for at least seven hours. It still haunted her that the last words Francesca had heard her speak were angry ones. She had been persuaded to look after her sister, but she often asked herself if her anger had caused Francesca’s death.

  Now, twenty-seven years later, guilt still lacerated Ruth’s conscience. She turned away from the mirror. Her brief period of contentment was over. Fiona was leaving. Most of her colleagues at The Alfred Hospital were either much younger or had husbands and children. When Fiona had moved to Melbourne Ruth’s life had been transformed. While other women talked about their children she could talk about Fiona. They met for lunch when Ruth had days off and they had dinner together at least once a week.

  She grimaced. “I can’t mean much to her. She’s moving to Queensland without a thought for me. She didn’t even talk to me about Johnny. She could have confided in me when she thought he was a coward, but she didn’t. The whole structure of deceit is about to collapse on Alex and Virginia and Eleanor and Greg. Will any of us survive the falling wreckage?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I can’t believe it’s mine,” Keith said, standing on the verandah holding a copy of the deeds to the house.

  Gabriella opened the front door. “There’s a lot of work to do. Where will we start?”

  He noted her use of the word ‘we’ and was grateful, not just for her help, but because she was showing an interest. Although she showered every day, made their meals and spent a great deal of time gardening, he still worried she would lapse back into apathy.

  “The surveyor said it’s structurally good,” he said as he followed her down the hall. “The outside has to be repainted, but it’s not urgent.”

  He was looking forward to decorating, but his anticipation was muted by sadness that he owned what his parents had struggled to rent. The house was full of cheap furniture and worn linoleum, but in a haphazard way his mother had imprinted it with her warmth. He was determined not to eradicate the atmosphere. The only furniture he intended replacing were the kitchen chairs that she had bought in a jumble sale before he and Gabriella had been born. The cushions she had made for them eased their hardness, but not the awkward angle of the backs. The lounge suite, although hideous, could be covered with cotton throws.

  “I’ll pull up the lino and have bare floorboards,” he said. “And wax or seal them. I’m not going to have curtains, except in the bedroom.”

  The flypapers that hung from the ceiling in every room were thick with flies. Keith took them down and replaced them with new ones. “Too many for you to catch?” he said to the huntsman spider on the wall in the kitchen.

  Gabriella poked her finger through the hole in the fly-screen over the window. “They all need replacing and everywhere needs painting.”

  He nodded. “But we must get the garden done first. If we leave it much longer I’ll need a machete to get to the front door.”

  “When are you moving in?”

  “The gas and electricity are being connected next week ... so sometime after that.” Wanting her to feel that he trusted her strength of character, he didn’t ask if she would be all right living by herself.

  She went into the bedroom that had been hers. “Erk! Candy pink walls. How did I ever have such bad taste?” She laughed.

  His anxiety diminished. “You were only eight when you chose the paint.”

  For a moving-in present Gabriella bought him a washing machine. Although she lived twenty miles away in Dalby, she drove to CecilPlains every morning and had breakfast with him. When he left for work she tackled the garden. First she mowed the grass and pulled up the weeds. Then she relaid the winding paths. In the evenings and weekends he helped.

  One Saturday whil
e they were pruning, Keith climbed up into the fig tree to saw off a limb that was growing inward. “Pass me the saw.”

  She was staring into space. “Gabby, wake up and pass me the saw.”

  “Sorry.”

  Her manner was distant all morning.

  Although concerned, Keith didn’t mention it until they were having lunch. “Gabby, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She pushed the plate of sandwiches over to his side of the table. “I just realized something.”

  “What?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “She smiled. “I’ve just decided what I can do. I owe it to Francesca and Dad to make something of my life. I’m going back to teaching.”

  It was only when they had restored the garden to how it had been when their father was alive that they felt capable of sorting out their mother’s possessions. Her wardrobes were not only crammed with her own clothes, but those that had belonged to their father. Cardboard boxes were piled in corners and there were more under the bed.

  “Let’s get the clothes sorted out first,” said Gabriella. “You do the wardrobes and I’ll do the chests of drawers.”

  The painful task of deciding what to throw away took all morning. The only things worth keeping were the blouses and silk scarves that Virginia had given her. Their mother had worn these to church, and the social events organized by the Country Woman’s Association. Keith decided to keep most of his father’s clothes and wear them when he was gardening.

  “I’ll make lunch. You start on the stuff under the bed,” said Gabriella. “Are cheese and tomato sandwiches okay?”

  He nodded and took the lid off a box that was full of old photographs and snapshots. Most he was able to identify by the writing on the back, but confusingly they were in no order. Snapshots of him and Gabriella as children were muddled up with photos of Virginia, Jonathan and Laurence at Acacia. At the bottom he found a photograph album. He opened it and saw a photo of three young men standing in front of a church. They were dressed in tails and had carnations in their buttonholes. The one in the middle was his father and the one on his right was Jonathan. The other man was much shorter and Keith recalled having seen him in other snapshots. He looked familiar and he was sure he had seen him recently.

  On the next page was a bride with two bridesmaids. One was Virginia. In the background was a Rolls Royce festooned with white ribbons. On the opposite page he saw his father and the bride outside the church. “Francesca,” he murmured. He was staring at the photo, gripped by his father’s loss, when Gabriella came in with the sandwiches and tea.

  “What have you got there?” she asked, putting the tray on the floor.

  “Dad and Francesca’s wedding photos.”

  She knelt beside him. “Gosh, she was lovely, wasn’t she?”

  Keith looked at the delicate face. “Yes.”

  “Dad looks so happy – they both do,” she said huskily. She turned the page. “I wonder who the other bridesmaid is?”

  “Probably Ruth.”

  Gabriella looked thoughtful. “One day all we’ll be are images in old photos,” she said. “What will people say about us when they’re going through our things? Dad always seemed sad, even when he smiled.”

  “A bit like Fiona really,” said Keith.

  Gabriella tutted. “No comparison. Dad lost so much. Fiona hasn’t lost anything.”

  He tried to remember what she had said when he had found her crying after a dream. ‘Something about having lost someone,’ he thought.

  Before he could tell Gabriella, she had turned her attention back to the album. “That’s Uncle Alex, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Peculiar how three Clarksons married three Lancasters, isn’t it?” she said turning to the last page.

  “Geography had a lot to do with it, I reckon. Acacia was remote. I don’t suppose there was much chance to get to meet lots of people,” he said, putting the album back in the box. “It makes sense if you think about it. Margot was the oldest in her family. Our grandfather was fifteen years older than she was, so her young brothers and sisters were the right ages to pair up with her stepchildren. They married in the thirties; people didn’t zoom round in cars and planes like they do now.”

  Gabriella picked up a sandwich. “But Dad loved Francesca. He didn’t marry her because there was no one else.”

  “We’d better get a move on or we’ll be here till next year.”

  They worked in silence until Keith found a wedding photo in a silver frame so tarnished it was almost black. “This must be our grandfather’s and Margot’s wedding.”

  Gabriella shook her head. “It can’t be. Dad would have chucked it on a bonfire.”

  Keith removed the photo from its frame and looked at the back. “Cheska, All my love, Margot,” he read. “That’s why he kept it. It was Francesca’s and he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. The evil stepmother.” He studied Margot’s plain face with its heavy jaw. Her teeth looked perfect. “How can someone as attractive as Francesca have such a plain sister? What shall we do with it?”

  She snatched the photo. “Tear it up, polish the frame and put another photo in it. One of Dad and Mum.”

  “But it’s our grandfather.”

  “He destroyed his sons. They grew up believing they’d inherit Acacia.” She held the photo up. “So ... ?”

  He nodded and she gave it back to him. “You do it. He deprived you of Acacia so you deprive him of his image.”

  “I can’t.”

  She took it back. “I can.”

  Keith, feeling that it was an empty gesture, watched her tear it to bits. “It doesn’t change anything.”

  “No, but we’ve got a valuable frame to put Mum and Dad’s wedding photo in. I’ll buy some silver polish next week.”

  “Right, let’s get on,” he said, opening another box. It contained bundles of letters tied with blue satin ribbon. He flicked through the envelopes. “They’re Dad’s and Francesca’s letters they wrote to each other during the war. We should burn them.”

  Gabriella looked horrified. “Keith!”

  “They might be private.”

  “He was our father. We’ve got to read them.”

  “Gabby, I don’t feel like it just yet.”

  “Promise you won’t burn them?”

  “We’ll read them together when we’ve sorted this out.” Feeling a sense of curiosity that made him ashamed, he put the letters on the bed. For the next hour they tried to make a semblance of order out of the muddle. Loose snapshots were mixed with bills, letters and dress patterns. Disciplining themselves not to ponder over photographs, they skimmed through official letters and put most of them on the pile of rubbish.

  “Why did Mum keep all these bills?” asked Gabriella as she screwed up another one. “That one was from nineteen sixty-five.”

  When all the boxes under the bed had been examined they began on the ones under the wardrobe.

  “I wish I knew how our grandfather met Margot,” said Gabriella. “It’s bugging me.”

  “Fiona might know,” said Keith. When she comes up we’ll ask her.”

  “I want to know now.”

  “You’ll have to wait till she moves here.”

  “That might be ages yet,” she protested, picking up an envelope.

  “Write and ask her.”

  “Blimey!” said Gabriella. “Look what I’ve found.” She held up a snapshot of two baby girls. “Aunty Virginia denied knowing Eumeralla.” She tossed it in his lap. “Read the back of that.”

  May and June, celebrating their 1st birthday.

  Eumeralla. 1st June 1947

  “And this,” she said, giving him a single sheet of paper.

  Dear Laurence,

  Hope the chocolate stains came out of your shirt! Thanks so much for their presents. The silver identity bracelets Virginia sent them are too big at the moment. I’ve just cut one of their fringes so I can tell them apart. The one with the fringe is May. I’m su
re that in a few years time they will swap bracelets and both appear with fringes giggling at my confusion.

  Love,

  Eleanor

  “What do you make of that?” she asked impatiently.

  “This proves that Dad and Aunty Virginia knew the family on Eumeralla.”

  “More than just knew them, Keith. They must have been friends. Casual acquaintances don’t give each other things like silver bracelets.”

  “Something about Eumeralla scares the hell out of Uncle Alex and Aunty Virginia. Let’s go through the rest of this stuff – we might find something.”

  He soon found a letter addressed to Lieutenant Laurence Clarkson in Palestine. Part of the postmark was smudged, but the year 1942 was clear. When he turned the envelope over he received a shock. The letter was from Jonathan Clarkson and the address was Eumeralla.

  “He must have worked there after he was disinherited,” said Gabriella.

  “Not during the war. Our grandfather didn’t die till 1947.” He opened the letter and read the events of one week of farming life. The letter was signed, Love, Johnny and Eleanor. “What’s going on, Gabby?”

  “Nothing’s going on now. It’s what went on all those years ago that interests me.”

  “No. Something’s still going on – something to do with Eumeralla. We’ll have to read every single letter in this room till we find out what it is.”

  Gabriella whacked his arm. “It’s just as well we didn’t burn them.”

  “Ouch! That hurt.” But he laughed, pleased they were sharing their family history and that she was so engrossed.

  It didn’t take them long to find a letter of startling significance. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs Jonathan Clarkson at Acacia.

  2 / 9 / 1938

  Dearest Johnny and Eleanor,