A Distant Dream

by Vivienne Dockerty

  He had loved those early years near Ballina, where they had lived in one of the fine row of cottages, which stood across from the farm where sometimes his mother had gone to work. Their cottage had lattice windows and a grey, slate roof. The walls inside were whitewashed and there had been a black range for cooking on. He had loved the sounds of the country as he lay in the warmth of his bed, waiting for his mother to call him from his slumber in readiness for the delights of his day. He would run down the track past the Giant’s Tub, a pool full of clear cool water, where in the summer, he and the other small boys from the area would jump in naked as the day they were born, or they would sit as a dare in the eerie Round Tower that overlooked the River Moy.

  He brushed back a tear as he remembered when the priest had come. He had been a fierce, authoritarian man, not like the gentle Father who had the living in Killala before. Patrick had been walking along the headland from the little school that he attended in Ballina that day and had wondered, as he cut along by the side of the farm yard, why the dog cart that Father Cronin drove around the parish in, was outside his parents’ home? He saw his mother had been crying after she had spotted him when he came bounding through the cottage gate and she had ordered him, white faced, to his bedroom up the stairs. There’d been angry words between the priest and his Dada and the sound of his mother arguing tearfully with both of them, whilst Patrick shook with terror as he listened from his little bed. Then a few days later his parents had started packing, with the three of them making the long journey overland to the port at Dunleary, where they had sailed on a boat which was bound for Liverpool, where a bomb dropped by the Luftwaffe, had ended the lives of his beloved parents.Then had come the time he had spent in the hated children’s home, where he found to his dismay that his accent was a source of amusement, causing him, to his distress, to wet the bed. The boys there had called him Paddy. They knew his name was Patrick Mayo, but seemed to find it funny to call him “Paddy Pee the Bed.”

  *

  There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean, causing the gum trees above to rustle as Patrick pulled his boots back on after resting his tired feet. He sniffed the air in appreciation of the roast chicken dinner that was about to come. Kathleen was the finest of cooks and he would love the woman forever for choosing to take him in. Others, he knew, were treated far worse at their billets. One or two had run away and never been heard of again and it was rumoured that one poor girl had been sent to a mother and baby home in the city, though Patrick didn’t know what she could have done.

  The little girl who still hadn’t gone into the spirit world, still hadn’t laid her troubled thoughts to rest and had hung around the homestead for a century, watched from her place behind the trunk of an overhanging gum tree. Was this the boy that she had been waiting for? Was this the boy who had sailed across the oceans just to find her, his own kin, his own family, come across from Ireland to take her back again? Was he the one who would take her back to her homeland, back to the green fields of her hamlet, the sparkling river that ran down the side of the hill and the little church which overlooked the crashing waves of the sea below? Would she meet her beloved sister either there in her native Killala, or in the spirit world of the dead?

  One winter’s evening, Kathleen and Patrick sat together on the sofa in front of a cosy log fire, curtains drawn against the chilly air, feeling full from an excellent hog roast dinner and all being well in their little world. Kathleen, curious about the lad’s sad past, especially because his surname was Mayo, which she had learnt from the family Bible was the county in Ireland where Great Grandma Hannah had come from, hoped that her words wouldn’t cause too much unhappiness as she asked him to tell her about his life in his homeland.

  Patrick was seventeen now and a young man – a handsome, dark, curly haired young man with eyes the colour of cornflowers and muscles that rippled under his collarless shirt, the result of the heavy work that he did. He was happy to confide in her. From frightened child to a confident man, Kathleen felt she had made a good job of his upbringing.

  He was hesitant when he spoke of his parents, though bitter that religion had caused the parting of himself from them. No matter how Kathleen had tried to coerce him to join her at the Wesleyan church, he had refused her, blaming all churches for their inflexibility. After all, it was the same God that all were supposed to be worshipping, so he didn’t think that his parents had committed any sin.

  Inspired by the stories that his father used to tell as a small child as Patrick had lain tucked up in his bed, he told Kathleen the tale of his seafaring ancestor, Bernard Mayo, who had run away to join a ship in Sligo in 1843. This Great Uncle Bernie had also travelled across the world as Patrick had and had found a little gold on his way, coming back to settle in Killala and living comfortably. There was also an aunt, the seafarer’s sister, who had made a fortune across the sea in England, through buying land and property, but had given it all up for the love of her life, a man called Johnny. It was a romantic tale, one that Kathleen in her maiden state could only dream of and after that evening, she felt that she was closer to Patrick than she had ever been before.

  *

  It was in the late 50’s that Joseph decided that changes must be made. John and Hilda, his parents, were now buried in the yard of the Wesleyan church, his sons were of an age when they should have been married and the patter of little Aldridge feet should have been heard around the farm. His thoughts were on the future and the young man with his feet under his sister’s table would have to go. It was time that Patrick moved on.

  Joseph saw his chance of making big money for little effort, spurred on by the increasing amount of city dwellers who were buying up the local land. Places like the nearby coast were within easy reach from the city as a holiday destination and Sellicks Beach and Aldinga saw a number of holiday shacks springing up above the shore as weekend retreats. Willunga, with its history firmly rooted in the past; its annual show, its Almond Blossom Festival, its quaint old buildings, creeks and native scrubs and the nearby proximity of the McLaren Vale wineries, had begun to attract those who wished to enjoy a quieter life. With this in mind, Joseph planned to rent out the farm workers’ cottages, with their uninterrupted view of the Gulf of St.Vincent, that’s if you climbed up a tree. Kathleen could move back into the more modern homestead, to share with him and Maureen. His boys could take up residence in the original house that had belonged to Aubretia all those years ago.

  But first he had to tell his sister of his plans and Kathleen could be a formidable woman if challenged.

  “So what is going to happen to Patrick if you ask him to leave the homestead?” Kathleen had demanded, when Joseph had spotted her going into the dairy on her own one day. Her tone didn’t bode well as she asked him and her manner was like a protective mother hen who was shielding one of her chicks. “This is the only place he’s known since arriving in Australia. What has he done to deserve you saying he has to up and go?”

  “Needs must Kathleen” Joseph wheedled, wishing he had asked his wife to have a word with his sister, as Kathleen could always make him feel wrong footed if he ever argued with her. “I’ll give him a reference, say what a hard worker he is. After all we have to think of the future of our family. What if the boys were to find themselves wives and we’ve more mouths to feed at the homestead?”

  “Though you won’t take into account the needs of your sister. Patrick has been like a son to me and in my unmarried state, there is no possibility of me ever having children.”

  Joseph scoffed. “There are plenty men out here who would jump at the chance of marriage with you. Look at Frank Lucas, he’s had a crush on you for years. You’re too damn picky, Kathleen.”

  “One eyed Frankie, married twice already and I had a lucky escape the last time he asked me, before he married the poor woman who died.”

  “You’re only thirty seven, still time to have a family and I’ve my mind up anyway. Patrick is going, Kathleen, whether you like it o
r not. I’m determined to turn our cottages over to holiday homes, there’s a lot of money to be made from doing it too. You can move in with Maureen and me and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Then if he goes, so will I.” This was his sister’s parting shot as she strode out of the dairy, crashing the creaky old door behind her as she went.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Patrick strolled down the road from the village of Aldinga. He had spent the afternoon walking along the coastline, where the beach was thick with layers of washed up seaweed and lined with hilly dunes. He had wandered first through the nearby scrub, which had always been a source of attraction. There was a wildness about the scrub, this bush land, where dense thickets of native gums, colourful flowers and foliage, all grew in profusion amongst the grassy undergrowth. Reedy clumps invaded the swampland and the bracken. Some of it was as high as the height of a man and was home to all sorts of birds and wildlife. He would often sit there quietly, listening to the rustlings of the many little animals that called the scrubland home; the clicking sound of insects and the screeching and squawking of the green and red parakeets as they flew in and out of the trees. He imagined himself back in Killala, the place where he’d far rather be.

  It had never gone away, this great desire to return to his homeland and if it hadn’t have been for the fact that he was penniless, he would have jumped on a ship and gone. He knew he should be courageous, take a chance and walk to Port Adelaide, where a skipper might take him on as a deck hand and he could work his passage back home, but deep down he had to admit he was a bit of a coward. Kathleen had made his life too comfortable and he didn’t want to give it up. He whistled “Danny Boy” as he loped along, hoping that the family were attending an evening service at church, so that he could end this peaceful day with more serenity. Joseph’s boys liked nothing better than to egg him on to spend an evening drinking, but he would only have to ask for money from Kathleen and that was something he didn’t like to do. Oh, she clothed and fed him from the pittance that Joseph paid her for her work in the dairy, but he hated to ask her for anything for himself, though he supposed that really Joseph should be paying him a bit of a wage as well. He worked the same as everyone else and was now a man of twenty two.

  The almond trees were awash with blossom and Patrick looked on appreciatively as he began to pass the Aldridge groves, with his thoughts going to the forthcoming Almond Blossom Festival, a big event in the Willunga calendar, along with the local agricultural show. He was a solitary young man, hadn’t really fitted in with the local boys, didn’t attend the youth groups, sporting events or the village dances and couldn’t be persuaded by Kathleen to attend the Wesleyan church, but he loved the carnival atmosphere of the festival, the crowds and the excitement in the air.

  He felt hungry. The sea air had given him an appetite and he liked nothing better than Kathleen’s Sunday roast. She would have left his dinner warming on top of a saucepan if she was attending an evening service, he could be sure of that. He heard the angry voices as he passed the homestead window. Not an unusual event, as Joseph liked to speak his mind to members of his family and Patrick felt sorry for whoever it was that was on the receiving end, but then he heard that it was Kathleen’s voice that was raised and sounding anxious and if there was one thing in life that Patrick had learnt to hate, it was the woman who had taken the role of his mother being badly treated or spoken to disrespectfully. He stopped in his tracks. This wasn’t the first time that this beloved woman, who worked her fingers to the bone for her brother, served on committees for the benefit of others and had taken him in and treated him like her son, had run foul of this dictatorial man.

  As the years had gone by, Joseph plagued with ill health and never really getting over the trauma of serving in the Second World War and coming back a cripple, had become something of a despot. His word was law, whether you liked it or not. Many a time Kathleen had been taken to task for not “cutting off the orphan’s apron strings”, but she’d been resolute; Patrick was her adopted son.

  “What do you want, bog dweller?” Joseph asked nastily, when an irate looking Patrick stood before him in the parlour, where Maureen sat like a statue listening to the ranting of her husband and Kathleen was standing over by the window, staring into space. She turned when her brother used the derogatory tone, seemingly ready to commence battle again judging by the clenching of her fists and her angry countenance, when she saw it was Patrick that her brother was speaking to.

  “I come to find out what all the shouting is about, Mr. Aldridge, Sir” Patrick said quietly. “I was on me way back to the cottage when I heard it.”

  “None of your business, lad, other than you can pack your things and get off back to where you come from. It’s time that you were gone. You’re a man now and it’s time you weren’t hanging on to my sister’s petticoats.”

  “Joseph, that’s enough. Just because you want to use our cottage for your holiday homes, doesn’t mean that Patrick has to leave the farm. He’s a good worker, I’ve heard you say so yourself. He can have a room in the homestead with me.” Kathleen’s tone sounded pleading, but it seemed that even belittling herself to him was of no use.

  “I’ve made my mind up. There won’t be any work for the lad once the harvest’s in, only enough for my boys as it is. Martin’s courting and will be bringing another mouth for us to feed once he’s married, along with any children they may have. Jimmy’s already having to work up at the Alma to bring some extra money in, now that he’s got himself that motorbike. Maureen and me could do with taking things a bit easy and she can have the job of cleaning the cottages after the people have gone.”

  “Which leaves me.” Kathleen had a note of sarcasm in her voice which didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Yes you, my spinster sister, who in the terms of me father’s Will I have to look after until I die – my spinster sister who could have found a man to marry her if she hadn’t been so picky, someone else to support her until her dying day.”

  “That’s not fair. I do my share on this farm and if it wasn’t for a twist of fate, I could have been the owner of Aldridge Farm and run it better.”

  “Kathleen,” Patrick said, trying to rein in his own temper and keep the peace. He saw that Joseph was very red in the face after Kathleen had alluded to his return from the war, and noticed that Maureen had gone white as a sheet with the shock of all the discord. “Let’s go back to the cottage and talk things over. I can pack up me things and go, if that’s what Mr. Aldridge is wanting.”

  “Never,” said Kathleen. “If you go, so do I, so put that in your pipe, brother and smoke it!” She stalked to the door, leaving Patrick not much choice but to follow. “The cheek of the man” she muttered, as she hurried along to the cottage, with Patrick trailing her closely, not sure what he should do. Perhaps it was time he put his plan in action. He couldn’t stay at the farm forever, especially now that he wasn’t welcome. “We’ll have our tea, then we’ll start our packing” Kathleen said, as she opened the cottage door and strode firmly into the kitchen, leaving Patrick open mouthed on the doorstep after hearing her words. It appeared that she really meant it.

  “But Kathleen, you don’t have to leave just because Joseph wants to be rid of me. Where would we go, what would we do for money? I’d be better off making me way alone.”

  “You’re going nowhere on your own, Patrick. We’ll travel. I’ve a mind to see the world before I die and don’t you be worrying your head about money, I’ve got plenty.”

  “But I thought…”

  “You thought I was dependent on my brother for my living. So do lots of people, but my father put money in a Trust for me, in case I didn’t find a suitor. It wasn’t mentioned in his Will, but I was called to the office a few weeks after the funeral and the solicitor told me. If I didn’t marry by thirty five the money was mine. Of course if I’d married sooner I would have had to hand it over as a wedding settlement, but I’m thirty seven now Patrick. Yippee! This is my chance.
I can travel around the world if I want to and not be dependent on any man.”

  “Oh” was all Patrick could respond with, looking across at this stolid looking woman, dressed in a shabby, knitted cardigan and a loose, calf length dress, who was giggling now like a young girl as she rustled up a couple of plates to serve their meal on. It was only an hour ago that he was wishing he was back in Ireland and now it could be true, if Kathleen was willing to accompany him there. She might have other plans.

  “Eat up, dear Patrick, this could be our last good meal for a long while,” she chuckled, after she had put down a plate of roasted chicken, potatoes, lots of leafy vegetables and gravy in front of him at the table, then gone into the larder and brought out an apple pie. “What a shock he’ll get in the morning when he finds us gone and no one to work in the dairy. It’ll serve him right, though I can’t help feeling sorry for Maureen.”

  “Kathleen, are you sure this is what you want to do?” Patrick poised mid meal, suddenly thinking that this was all his fault and that Joseph was right to get rid of him. After all, he’d been an orphan not a member of the family and Kathleen, a Christian woman, may have only seen his upbringing as her duty.

  “You mean give up my boring life, a life of servitude to my brother and the community, when I’ve the chance to go places along with you? I’m going to think of myself as the Aldridge pioneer, an independent woman like Elizabeth Blackwell or Emily Pankhurst, a freedom fighter.”

  “Steady on, Kathleen” Patrick laughed, suddenly seeing this normally dour woman in a different light than he had seen in the past ten years. “You’ve only said you’ll leave the farm. You won’t be changing the world, you know.”

  “Ah but I’ll be changing my world, Patrick and hopefully we’ll be doing that together. Now what is it that you would like to do?”

  *

  He didn’t have to plead for a job with a sea captain, rather he was treated with the utmost respect as the nephew of a lady passenger who had booked two single berth cabins on the RMS Arcadia for their voyage across to Tilbury. There had been the option of travelling across to England in an aeroplane, as after the war the Commonwealth had set up the Trans-Australia Airlines, but early planes had to refuel on a regular basis and Kathleen, initially excited by the idea of being the only person in Willunga who had flown to the other side of the world, soon realised that the cost would be prohibitive. She would have to conserve her money, for the time being anyway.