Forgiven

by Geoff Lawson - BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

  headquarters. It was from Rachel, so I tore it open and checked

  the postal date – five weeks ago.

  Dearest, dearest Richard,

  I miss you terribly. Mother and father are deeply interested in

  your circumstances and are quite proud of you I suspect. The

  ladies at the law office ask after you and everyone is

  concerned for your welfare. The reports we read in the papers

  do not make good reading and everywhere there is disquiet

  over the fortunes of the war and the want of progress of it.

  Each month a fresh disaster seems to make the headlines and

  now there is gloom as to the point of it all. We pray for your

  deliverance and look forward to the day you arrive back home.

  Your ever-loving Rachel.

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  I lowered the letter and drifted into thought. I was glad she

  couldn’t see me now. I looked at the writing on the page – it

  was the only material thing I had of her and I kissed the text

  and held the letter against my cheek. It served me right for

  leaving her under a cloud. I never had the chance to acquire

  her picture or any other memento before leaving Whanganui.

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  Chapter Thirty

  Cape Town South Africa, June, 1900

  Six long and wearisome weeks later I received two more

  letters from home. I recognized Rachel’s handwriting on one

  of them and eagerly tore it open.

  My dearest, dearest Richard,

  Nurse Brown’s letter has saved me from utter misery. One

  week ago, Mary received a letter from the army stating that

  you were missing in action. As the Red Cross on the Boer side

  confirmed that you were not listed as a prisoner of war, you

  were presumed to be dead. The news shattered both our

  families. Mother and Father were deeply affected, my brothers

  too. I had been too distraught to go to work and everyone

  there was deeply saddened. A day later, Miss Brown’s letter

  arrived and my faith in God was restored. The sun has come

  back into our lives. I do not care that you are injured because I

  know I will surely see you again. Give my heartfelt thanks to

  Nurse Brown for all she has done.

  Love you. Rachel

  I put the letter down and lay back brooding.

  Molly appeared. “You have a long face.”

  I gave her the letter. She read it, then slowly sat down

  beside me. “That’s terrible isn’t it? I can imagine how they

  felt.” A hanky appeared from the pocket of her apron. She

  sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Never mind, the war is over for

  you. As soon as you are fit to travel you will be on your way

  home. If Rachel is smart she will marry you and never let you

  out of her sight.”

  Good ol’ Molly, she should be allowed to go home too.

  “You have a good heart Molly. When we get shot up it is

  you and all the others who endure our misery and put us back

  together. You are the ones who should be getting a V.C.”

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  Molly sniffed. “You are a devil Richard Wilson, but thank

  you for saying that. Now I can’t spend all day sniffing because

  you feel sad; I’ll see you later.”

  I watched her walk away and thought of Mother’s letter, so

  I opened it.

  My dearest son,

  I have bad news. Father is ill and no one seems to know what

  is wrong with him. For weeks he has been getting weaker and

  is confined to bed. He is now in Wellington. The doctors are

  not confident that he will recover so he is in God’s hands. We

  received a letter from Nurse Brown detailing your

  circumstances. We have prayed for your deliverance and our

  prayers have been answered. The news that you were missing

  shocked us all. Emily Ellen wrote her condolences and said

  that Rachel had taken things badly. They were all in shock too,

  for it seems they hold you in high regard, perhaps more than

  you may realise. Rachel loves you and you must write to her

  and reassure her that you will be all right. We are coping well

  and William is running the farm. We are concerned that you

  are suffering undue hardships and hope that things will be

  better soon. If only this war would end and you could come

  back home.

  Love, Mother.

  Dear ol’ Mother, still playing cupid it seemed. The news

  about father alarmed me. He could conceivably die before I

  return home, a particularly sobering thought. Father had

  always been there and had taught me practically everything I

  knew, had made me who I am. The thought that he may not be

  around much longer would take some getting used to.

  That afternoon I wrote to Rachel. I wrote one page for her

  alone and another more general letter that she could share with

  her family. I explained what had happened to me but left out

  the precise details of my injuries. I explained that I was still a

  whole man and could love her in the way she deserved and

  soon, I would be on my way home. A few days later, as if to

  confirm Molly’s words, I had a visit from the doctor.

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  “Well, son, your wounds have healed well. Your leg is in

  good shape and in a year or two your hip and shoulder will

  lose their stiffness, so you will ride and work again. There is

  no reason for you to remain at this hospital and as soon as we

  can arrange a bed for you, we will shift you to a villa in Cape

  Town, which is a rehab for cases like you. The hospital will

  recommend you be classed unfit for further military service

  and that you be allowed to return home as soon as a ship is

  available. Good luck and have a good trip.”

  For the next two weeks I was allowed to dress each day

  and spend some time walking around the grounds with a

  walking stick. My bed was more or less in the middle of the

  marquee, so I had to walk along the rows of beds to reach the

  doorways at either end.

  One day as I approached one of the doors I was more than

  a little surprised to see someone eminently familiar to me. He

  was the gorilla we had fought with in the hotel in Duntroon.

  His ashen face told the story. He was lying on his back, his

  eyes closed, and his breathing was laboured. He had coughed

  up blood upon his bedclothes, a sure sign that he was lung shot

  and close to death.

  When I returned, his breathing had ceased and his face had

  been covered, so none could see his twisted features; he would

  never see his native England again. I hobbled to the side of his

  bed and gazed down on his inert form. It is hard to explain

  how I felt. It was probably pity, more than anything else. It was

  also likely that it was a mercy that he had not survived, for he

  was one of the losers of this world. He probably hadn’t any

  relatives who would freely admit to being related and now he

  was dead; alone and unloved, to be buried in a land where he

  was unknown by any who lived here, where there was no one

  to cherish his memory or put flowers on his grave. Had he

  been born a monster, or was he the product of a pitiless

  childhood? I w
ondered – had I grown up with him, would I

  have been the same? I like to think not.

  I felt enormously privileged that my life hadn’t turned out

  like his. Looking at his dead, inert form made me realise just

  how fortunate I actually was, for unlike him I had family that

  cared for me. It suddenly hit home just how important that had

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  been, how they had made me a better human being. I could see

  that I had lived a good life and it was mostly due to those who

  were close to me.

  Rachel had also changed me. Unlike that lifeless, unloved

  thing lying under that blanket, I had been privileged to

  experience such empathy and emotion. No matter what else I

  became in this world, it would be Rachel’s love and the love of

  the children she’d bear me that would define the worth of my

  life.

  I was not the naive lad who’d left New Zealand seven

  months ago. I had been provoked to think about things I would

  never have been conscious of had I stayed home. I had seen

  death in all its forms, heroic death, pitiful death, and had

  nearly experienced death myself. That tended to sharpen one’s

  judgment considerably. I had been pushed to the brink of my

  physical and emotional limits – not once or twice, but dozens

  of times. I had shot people and been shot myself. If nothing

  else, this war had taught me that I could handle anything that

  life can throw at me except death, and that had just taught me

  what the true meaning of life is. Aside from the memories and

  the physical scars to remind me, this was the legacy this war

  had left me with.

  .

  Two months later I was home. Both Mother and Rachel

  were at the Wellington waterfront to greet me. When they saw

  me, they rushed over and hugged me simultaneously.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” they blurted.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’d won a V.C., silly!”

  “How did you know about that? It is supposed to be a

  surprise.”

  “Silly boy,” said Mother, “your name has been in every

  newspaper in the country!”

  “Yes,” said Rachel. “We are so proud of you!” Then they

  noticed my limp and my walking stick.

  “Oh, look at you. You’re so thin. Didn’t they ever feed

  you?”

  “You should have seen me a couple of months ago. How is

  Father?”

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  Instantly, Mother’s expression froze. Rachel’s smile also

  disappeared and an awkward look came over her.

  “I’m sorry son. Father passed away two weeks ago.”

  Silence. Sadness appeared in Mother’s eyes.

  “Come on,” I put my arm around her, “let’s find

  somewhere to sit and get a cup of tea.”

  On the afternoon of the following day we arrived at

  Aramoho station, where the Purdues were waiting to receive

  us. We crammed into a coach and headed for the Purdue house,

  where Mother and I were lavished hospitality like royalty.

  That evening, Rachel grabbed my hand and led me towards

  the front door.

  “Mother has suggested we go outside, where we can be

  alone.” We stepped out onto the front verandah and I closed

  the door behind us. I wasted no time in drawing her close to

  me.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

  She smiled and we kissed. For the last twenty-four hours,

  the nearness of each other had been intoxicating, and every

  time Mother looked away we would gaze wistfully at each

  other. Now we kissed with all the pent-up emotion our tortured

  souls could manage. We locked on each other, hungry for the

  taste of the other.

  Then we sat. I leaned against the weatherboards while

  Rachel leaned against me. I folded my hands across her belly

  and hers were folded on top of mine, as if to keep them there. I

  buried my face in her hair; I had been dreaming of this for

  what seemed an eternity. I looked up at the moon. It was

  beginning to rise and we were bathed in its gentle, mellow

  glow.

  “Richard, will you go away again?”

  “No; being away has made me realise just how important

  you are.”

  She swivelled her head to look at me. “Cross your heart

  and point to God?”

  I kissed her cheek. “Yes, cross my heart and point to God.”

  Then I told her about the pitiful giant who had died in the

  hospital. “I just didn’t comprehend how much you mattered

  until I stood and looked down on that lifeless blob – dead and

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  unloved; without even a single friend who cared. It was then

  that I fully understood just how much you are to me.”

  That night she came to my room. She lifted the covers and

  slid in beside me; we didn’t speak, there wasn’t any need. I

  made room for her and we entwined ourselves together, her

  softness and warmth pressed against me; the moistness of her

  lips on my face, the soapy smell of her nightdress – I had a real

  feather mattress and Rachel in my arms. After enduring an

  eternity of deprivation, this was like dying and going to

  heaven. We blended as one, even our breathing was

  synchronized. We were so warm and happy we soon drifted off

  to sleep. In the early hours, she stirred.

  “I don’t want to leave,” she whispered, “this is where I

  belong.”

  “Soon sweetheart, soon,” I mumbled dreamily, only half

  awake. She got out of bed and crept back to her room.

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  Postscript: Two Months Later

  We were married in the spring. Winter had passed and the trees

  were heavy with blossoms. The daffodils had returned from

  their seasonal sleep and the afternoons were once more balmy

  and warm. Come the day of the wedding, I stared out the

  windows of my second floor room where below, I could see

  the intersection of the Avenue and Taupo Quay, the masts of

  ships, the Central Railway Station and the wrought iron arches

  of the Town Bridge.

  I was feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation, for

  today, Miss Rachel Purdue would become Mrs. Rachel Wilson.

  I also realised that today would alter the course of my life; a

  completely different world now lay ahead. A world of new

  challenges such as I had never encountered before. Tomorrow,

  when I woke, I’d find Rachel lying beside me.

  From that time on, her happiness and wellness would be

  entirely my responsibility and I must provide for her in the best

  way I could. Until now, my home had been where I hung my

  hat, but from here on I must expand that horizon considerably.

  An hour before we were due to leave for the church,

  Mother bade me follow her to her suite, where she locked the

  door and turned to me.

  “Son, I know you will be a good husband and father.”

  “Thank you Mother.” I idly wondered why she’d locked

  the door.

  “There is something important I need to talk to you about.

  Before today is over, Rachel will be your wife. She is not like

>   the wild horses you are accustomed to riding; do you

  understand?”

  “No Mother, I’m not sure I do.”

  “Well, she is a lovely, sensitive, young woman and how

  you love her is important, isn’t it?”

  “Well… yes,” I said, unsure where this was leading.

  “Then you need to love her gently, don’t you. You need to

  stroke her lovingly. Hug her and kiss her with tenderness and

  compassion, don’t you agree?”

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  My face reddened, but after years of watching animals

  mate, I could divine what she was getting at.

  “Yes Mother, I think I do.”

  “Good, and remember, she is your wife. You can touch and

  kiss her anywhere you like, even her most womanly parts, as

  long as she doesn’t object. Understand?”

  “Yes Mother.” Embarrassment rose over my face like a

  rampant spring tide.

  “You are allowed to stroke and touch her, as long as you do

  it lovingly and gently, do you follow that?”

  All I could do was blush and say ‘yes’.

  “Oh, and one more thing; when you have finished, make

  her feel that she has just given you something wonderful and

  you adore her. Understand?”

  I looked her in the eyes. “Yes Mother, I do”

  She hugged me. “Rachel is lovely and I won’t ask you to

  look after her because I know you will.” She embraced me

  again and kissed me. Then she left the room. I sat down slowly

  on the edge of the bed and began to dwell on the implications

  of what she had said.

  Once inside our suite I hung out the ‘do not disturb’ sign

  and closed and locked the door. The room was large and airy,

  and natural light streamed through double hung windows down

  its sides. Beautiful silvery green drapes hung from ornate

  pelmets and a large Persian rug lay on the polished hardwood

  floor. Above our heads the ceiling was profusely patterned and

  a large French dresser with an equally impressive mirror sat

  near the bed. Around the room were strategically placed

  bouquets of lily of the valley, wrapped in layers with

  maidenhead.

  Rachel leaned against me and I whispered in her hair.

  “That’s the most romantic dress I have ever seen.”

  “Thought you’d like it. Perhaps you’d like to take it

  off?”…

  With mounting excitement I unbuttoned her dress and

  helped her step out of it. Then I unhooked her corset and