by Anna Romer
Darling, what am I to believe?
I will address this letter to the Records Office at the Showgrounds in Sydney, and hope, by some miracle, that if you are alive it will somehow reach you.
Samuel, please be alive. Please come home to me. Whatever you have suffered we will face together. We’ll build a happy life just as we planned, you and me and Lulu. We’ll forget the war, and let the greater world carry on without us for a while . . . What do you say, love?
The next letter from Samuel was barely legible. The handwriting wobbly and uneven as a child’s scrawl, veering all over the page, the paper freckled with ink spots and torn in places where the pen had broken through. At the top was written ‘Greenslopes, Brisbane’ – which I understood to be the repatriation hospital built early in the war for returning soldiers.
3 December, 1945
Aylish Sweetheart,
I got home a fortnight ago, relieved beyond belief to be back on familiar soil. My first thought was to see you, my dear – but I’m confined to a bed at least ’til Christmas. Please don’t worry about me, I’m well enough – just somewhat underfed and malarial, though the staff at Greenslopes fuss over me like a newborn.
It’s palatial, this hospital. Freshly painted walls and beds (the colour of buttermilk), crisp sheets so clean they crackle, ceilings the very same hue as that curly moss that used to grow at the gully, a delicate green I could happily stare at all day (and oftentimes do). There are wide verandahs where a bloke can sit and watch the world drift by . . . or daydream about his beautiful girl, and how much he longs to see her (hint hint).
I’ve heard there are even machines to wash the dishes, as well as electric-heated food trolleys. Sometimes it feels as though I’ve stepped through time into a very different world to the one I waved farewell four years ago. The food is top-notch – though the nursing staff are somewhat stingy with my portions, half-cupfuls at a time due to my dodgy digestion. But oh, Aylish, it’s good . . . so very good. Stew with real meat, bread rolls and butter, sago pudding and poached rhubarb. Surely I’ve died and gone to heaven? Only there’s an angel missing, an angel with a sweet smile and eyes that twinkle like black diamonds – how soon can you visit me, sweet Aylish?
Being home feels unreal – as though I’m not home at all, but in some halfway place, a limbo of sorts, a pleasant dream . . . a dream I’m terrified of waking from.
I crave to be back at Magpie Creek. I crave company and laughter and lightness. Yet I fear it, too. What if I return only to find that I’ve forgotten how to banter, how to relate? How to fit in? I have to keep reminding myself that with my marvellous Aylish by my side I can do anything . . . and I do still have you, don’t I, love?
I don’t know what you’ve heard about my escapades – probably bugger-all . . . there are so many rumours whizzing around, so many contradictions, no one’s sure of anything.
After being separated from my battalion in ’42, I was taken off to Borneo and had no way of sending word home. I expect all the lads thought me a goner, and there’ll be those in town surprised to learn I’m still around. In October last year when I reached Singapore – months behind the rest of the boys – I ran into a familiar face, do you remember Davo Legget from the timber mill? He broke the sad news about my father. It was a shock to think Dad’s been gone all this time and me not knowing. You can imagine my grief – Dad was a hard sort of a bloke, we were never close . . . and yet there was great respect between us, and I suppose you could say we loved each other in our way. I miss him terribly.
Which only makes me all the more impatient to see you, Aylish. I think of you constantly. Since we kissed for the last time and said goodbye on the platform at Roma Street, an image has remained imprinted on my soul: My beautiful girl standing there in the dusty September heat, tears swimming in her eyes and a smile trembling on her luscious lips – don’t laugh, Aylish, that picture of you in my head was more vivid than any photograph – even though the snap you pressed into my hand that day has travelled with me, become as necessary to my survival as food or drink or oxygen. It grew tattered, but your memory never did. Heck, you’re thinking, the damn fool’s turned into a sentimental sap . . . and I guess I have. How could I not? My love for you is every bit as strong, if not a thousandfold stronger, than it was the last time I saw you that day at the station.
Aylish, please visit. Or at least drop me a line?
I sat back, rubbing the cramp out of my neck. Spread around me were dozens of letters, but not one of them had reached its intended recipient. It made sense that the wartime postal service had been unreliable, but surely some of their letters would have made it through? Shuffling through the pile, I noticed that although Aylish’s envelopes all bore postage stamps, none had been franked. Mystified, I picked up the next letter. It was from Samuel, again from Greenslopes, barely half a page.
6 January, 1946
Aylish, did you get my letter?
As yet I’ve had no reply. I telephoned the post office and Klaus’s boy answered, he agreed to pass on my message. That was over two weeks ago. Am I to understand by your silence that you don’t wish to see me?
If you’ve met someone else, if your love for me has cooled, then please, my dear, write and kindly end our association. If my correspondence is inappropriate, then ask Jacob to write to me if you can’t bear to write yourself.
5 March, 1946
Dear Aylish,
Just a note to advise that I’m returning to Magpie Creek next week. No doubt you’ll want to avoid embarrassment. Never fear, I’ll try to be civil, but if you are engaged or are otherwise spoken for, please consider my feelings if we do happen to meet.
Sincerely, Samuel Riordan.
P.S. I’m returning the photo you gave me at Roma Street, I can no longer bear to look at it.
The afternoon was fading. Pink clouds streaked the sky and the trees were gathering their shadows. I sat on Samuel’s bed with my aching leg propped on a pillow, staring at the letters he and Aylish had written to each other.
In the 1940s the small post office at Magpie Creek would have been hectic because of the war – letters and cards pouring in from all over the globe, parcels going out. I could imagine a young Cleve Jarman arriving early before school, then returning again in the afternoon, always making sure he was first at the sorting table. In the midst of all that chaos it would have been easy for him to palm a letter into his pocket. In the beginning, he might have been curious, pocketing the letters to read in private, with every intention of later returning them. But instead, in the end, he’d kept them.
Why? To punish Aylish? To hurt her for the perceived hurt she’d inflicted on him? Or to spy on the private love she shared with Samuel, a love that Cleve, as an awkward and lonely teenager, felt denied?
A dark mood of my own was uncurling. How different would Aylish’s life have been if Cleve had not stolen the letters? Fate might have led her and Samuel along a happier path. She might have lived, married Samuel, had the joyful life she’d dreamed about. And what about Luella? Given the advantage of a loving mother and father, would she have grown into a woman with the strength and foresight to somehow prevent the tragic destiny of her own family?
I slumped.
Fate. Destiny. All very well in retrospect. But as I collected the strewn letters and began to file them back into their envelopes, I had to admit that there was no way ever to know. Any tiny, seemingly random or insignificant decision you made had the potential to change your life for the better . . . or for the worse. The problem was, how did you know which decisions would lead to havoc, and which would prove benign?
I was about to close the lid of the box when I spied a letter I hadn’t yet read. It had been tucked into the lining at the back, nearly out of sight. There was no envelope, but I saw from the slanting copperplate that it was from Aylish. Penned in early 1946, and written so hastily that splashes of ink dotted the paper like small blue freckles.
27 January, 1946
Dear
Samuel,
I write in haste while my courage lasts. I have returned the revolver you gave me in 1941. I used the washhouse key and let myself into the homestead, I do hope you won’t be cross. The weapon is now locked somewhere you’re certain to find it. Forgive me, darling, but I didn’t dare keep it any longer.
I will try to explain, but I suppose my dilemma will seem trifling to you. In my defence, remember I was raised a Lutheran and despite my sins I have always tried to tread carefully in the world and bring harm to no one. But I’m no longer the carefree soul you left behind, Samuel. No longer the girl who skipped beside you at the gully’s edge, or giggled at the butterflies you captured. I feel hard and small, hemmed in by disappointment and a growing sense of dread that I can’t explain. I still have the same body and face, the same legs you once said you admired . . . but in the mirror lately I’ve noticed a darkness in my eyes that was never there before.
Last night, sometime before midnight, I heard the hens squawking in the chook yard. Recently we lost four of our best layers, and Poppa swore he saw a fox on Sunday, flitting through the fence palings with a fowl in its jaws. Poor Poppa was so distressed at the time, all red in the face and his eyes large and wet with worry. I thought he might be about to throw a turn, and became quite terrified for him. I only managed to calm him by promising that I’d find a way to trap and kill the fox.
Yes, dearest, you did hear right.
The Poppa who returned from two and a half years in Tatura is also a changed person. Do you remember how he used to say that killing tore at the human soul, and that it made us no better than animals? Well, Samuel, years of war have hardened his poor old heart. Especially when our meagre livelihood is under threat.
Since leaving my employment with the Jarmans in May last year, I’ve been able to bring in a small income by growing and selling vegies, as well as eggs and fresh-churned butter. There’s also the ironing and mending I’ve taken on for some of the church ladies – but our eggs are in steady demand, and we couldn’t afford to lose the small income they bring.
So Samuel, I dug out your revolver and loaded it the way you showed me. Outside, the yard was dark. There was no moon, but the starlight was glary enough to see by. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then trod barefoot along the path to the hen enclosure. I could hear the girls scratching their straw and nattering. The fox must be near. My blood galloped in my ears. I’d never killed a butterfly before, let alone a warm-blooded creature like a fox, but my heart was set. If I couldn’t kill it, I’d scare it off for good.
I held the revolver in both hands and cocked the hammer. Then I stood my ground and waited.
And waited.
The revolver grew heavy, my arms ached. The girls were still restive, clucking and scratching. I sensed the night rolling by, the stars shifting on their axis overhead. There was still no sign of the fox. After a while, I decided to find a more comfortable perch, to wait out the night if I had to. Lowering the gun, I went along the path. I was approaching the enclosure when I heard a scuffle from the woodshed.
Turning, I listened.
The woodshed was behind me, between where I stood near the chook enclosure and the house. It was little more than a corrugated iron manger with three walls and a roof, stacked with firewood and kindling. I heard a soft crunch, like small clawed feet on woodchips.
I made my way back along the path, gripping the revolver tight in both hands. Careful not to make a sound, I approached the woodshed. Pausing in the open entryway, I waited for my eyes to adjust. Then, there at the back, I saw it. A shadowy hump of darkness outlined against the blacker pitch of the shed. I raised the revolver and trained my sights on the hump, held my breath as I slid my finger onto the trigger and braced myself in readiness to fire . . .
The shadow unfolded. Grew in height. It turned around to face me, and I found myself staring at – not a fox, as I’d thought – but the vague outline of a man. For an agonising moment nothing happened. Shock, I expect, Samuel. The moment must only have lasted for an eye blink, but it seemed to me as if I was standing on the brink of a hellish eternity.
‘Oh dear God, Poppa!’ I nearly dropped the revolver as shock left me and understanding came. I lowered the weapon and pointed it at the ground, shaking all over now and feeling the sweat begin to pour out of me. ‘You might have been killed!’
The figure said nothing, and as it came towards me I realised it wasn’t Poppa. I backed out of the woodshed doorway and retreated several steps along the path. The man followed and, as the dim starlight gathered about him, I saw I’d again been mistaken.
It wasn’t a man, after all.
But a boy.
More than six months had passed since I’d seen him. He’d grown taller and filled out. I made a swift calculation. He’d be fourteen now, still a child, but nearly as tall and stocky as his father. With a stab of guilt, I noticed a whitish gleam to his face, as though it was streaked by skeins of moonlight. The last time I’d seen him his cheeks and brow had been puffy and weeping, blistered and pinkly inflamed.
‘Cleve?’ I said, my voice sharp with fright and horror at how close I’d just come to wounding – perhaps even killing – him. ‘What are you doing here, creeping about in the dark? Does Ellen know you’re here?’
He shuffled, but didn’t reply. I wondered if I’d caught him in the act of stealing, but then had to admit there was nothing in the woodshed worth a ha’penny.
‘Well?’ I said, my concern turning to annoyance. ‘What’s up with you? Why won’t you answer me . . . ? Has the cat got your tongue?’
Still he said nothing.
‘You’d better go home,’ I told him. My body was trembling. I was feeling sicker by the minute. The near-catastrophe played out in my mind’s eye – the pistol blast shattering the night, and then me on my knees on the woodshed floor, trying in vain to revive Cleve’s bleeding body . . .
The weapon seemed to writhe in my palm, greasy and warm, like an animal vexed by the loss of an easy kill. I understood then that the revolver was an evil thing and I wanted nothing more to do with it.
Cleve stepped from the semi-darkness and moved along the path, brushing past me, still without a word, and vanishing along the side of the house. A while later I heard the creak of his bicycle, and then the swish of his tyres on the road.
I stood for a long time, Samuel. There on the path in the starlight, waiting for the trembling to leave me. When it did, I said a prayer of thanks, then turned to go back inside. I’d taken a few steps when I remembered Cleve brushing past me, and how I’d noticed an unpleasant odour.
He’d reeked of sweat, sour nervous sweat . . . which made me wonder if perhaps he had been stealing after all? But what? There was nothing of value in the shed. Wood, kindling; but that was plentiful, scattered around for anyone to collect for free.
Curious, I wandered into the shed and lit the kerosene lantern that hung near the entryway. I looked around, but saw nothing unusual. Neat piles of kindling, logs. A box of pinecones. Big timber rounds stacked ready for splitting.
And Poppa’s old axe head, forgotten on the floor.
I sighed and bent to retrieve it. The sharp edge gleamed silver in the lantern light, the steel surface flecked with rust spots. It had worked its way off the handle, and Poppa had been promising for weeks to mend it. I’d given up nagging him about it. It was only January, but Samuel, you know how fast winter sneaks up on us here, it can catch you unawares.
I cast about for the handle, intending to prop it beside the axe head as a reminder for Poppa. I searched among the stacked logs and even in the box of kindling, but couldn’t find it. In the end I had to conclude that it had been stolen . . . or at least secreted away in some improbable hiding place. Then an odd feeling came over me. I looked back at the open entryway, suddenly and inexplicably chilled.
What would Cleve want with an old axe handle?
Strange boy. Whatever he was up to, it had almost got him killed.
Placing the lett
er on the bed beside me, I let myself slide down the wall I’d been leaning on. Then somehow I was curled on my side, staring along the bumpy terrain of the quilt at the piece of notepaper with its blue-freckle splashes and dog-eared edges.
I couldn’t know for certain. Too much time had passed. Logic said there wasn’t any concrete evidence. Yet my bones ached with the terrible truth; my certainty was so strong that it seemed I’d always known it.
I recalled the news article I’d unearthed online.
A post-mortem examination confirmed that Miss Lutz had been battered by a wooden implement thought to be a wheel spoke or club –
I had another flash: the antique tallboy hiding in a shadowed corner of the settlers’ hut. Inside its dusty compartment I’d found the greasy tool handle with its wooden shaft blackened by years of usage. Which had struck me as odd at the time because an axe handle belonged in the woodshed or under the house – not in a wardrobe that was clearly a storehouse of mementoes . . .
Unless the axe handle was a memento too?
As I lay there I was only half-aware of the day slipping away. Shadows flitted beyond the frame of the window – birds winging past, or trees swaying, or the passage of a cloud across the face of the sun.
After much deliberation, I decided not to tell anyone what I’d found.
Cleve was dead. And Luella had lived for sixty years without knowing the identity of her mother’s killer. How would it serve her now, mere months after losing her son and when she was obviously still so fragile, to learn that she’d married and borne children to the man who had murdered her mother?
20
By Friday my leg was feeling better . . . though the same could not be said for my heart; it felt bruised and fragile after reading Aylish’s letters, unable to beat quite as it had done before.
Although I knew the letters weren’t conclusive evidence, there was no doubt in my mind that fourteen-year-old Cleve Jarman had killed Aylish. I longed to share the burden of that knowledge with someone, and to clear Samuel’s name – but how could I, knowing that my disclosure would inevitably find its way back to Luella? The last thing I wanted was to add to her already vast store of sorrows.