by JH Fletcher
We’re bedding her, she wanted to shout, not burying her, and shocked herself at the idea that there might be a connection between weddings and beds. But Arch, she consoled herself, would try the patience of the saints — of whom, in that part of the country at least, there was little evidence.
The barbie was the highlight, as always. The families were splitting the cost, but the Warrens, because of Max’s problems with the pastor, were the hosts and Benjamin did his firstborn proud. It was for his daughter-in-law, too, of course. She must be warmly welcomed — although, or because, she would never be a true member of the family.
Then came the speeches, around which an attentive-seeming audience skated, unaware. Incongruously-suited men clutched schooners of beer in heavy hands and discussed the prospects for the harvest and the mongrel war that would settle the Huns once and for all.
‘Reckon the Japs’ll come in?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Due for a bashing, they try anything like that.’
In a corner, largely disregarded, the Reverend Arch wore a face like strychnine as he sipped tentatively at a warm beer.
Younger males, not yet admitted to the counsels of the wise, talked rooty, stripped the bride with lascivious eyes, wondering how she would take to married life.
‘They send Hedley overseas, that’ll be the time to go calling,’ believed one, who claimed both experience and sophistication.
‘How d’you reckon that?’
‘Get a taste for it, see? Old Hedley away, how’s she going to manage, eh?’ And nodded his worldly-wise head.
For different reasons, Kath was wondering the same. Barmy, she told herself, that’s what you are. A wife, with all the pain and none of the fun. Yet, given the choice, would not have chosen to undo what in any case could not be undone.
They’d agreed on a two-day honeymoon. Then Hedley would go to the army and Kath would go home to rellies who would look and look, the married women who might be willing to admit her to the fringes of their sisterhood, the uncles and cousins who would eye her for quite another reason, thinking hot thoughts. A prospect that thrilled her not at all.
Hedley, hiding impatience behind an endless and unconvincing smile, was anxious to seal his claim upon the body of his bride, to get out into the paddocks and inspect the land that would one day be his.
Eight hundred acres, he exulted secretly. A bloody miracle.
After all the hoo-ha, Hedley and Kath drove down the Yorke Peninsula on scrounged petrol and put up at a pub. Beer was harder to come by than it had been, but the pub must have had a supply in. Shouts and laughter, seemingly endless, echoed from the bar as, at last, they lay together in the one bed and turned to each other with eyes and bodies grown suddenly shy.
Kath was wearing a diaphanous nightdress bought especially. She had shared a laugh with friends at spending so much on something whose basic function was not to be worn. That had been before; now she was appalled by the idea of taking it off in the presence of this man suddenly become stranger — or, worse, having it ripped off by him. It was not the prospect of nakedness, that was nothing, but the realisation that the next hour, or perhaps less, would decide what she had become, what, for the rest of her life, she would remain.
Depending on what happened now, she could be a friend, a true lover, an ally against the coming separation — a separation not of bodies, which would not matter, but of spirit, which might not survive so early a parting. Given the chance, she would be strong, would strengthen her husband, unite with him to become a new entity greater and stronger than either of them. Or she would be a chattel, opened and used and discarded.
She could not bear the thought of being a chattel and the vision both of that and its glorious alternative filled her with terror.
She saw the heat in his face, the dark eyes intent with the desires of the flesh. She would welcome these, too, would warm them and herself in the fires of her own ardour, but not as flesh only.
Now was the moment of reckoning, the future that would be, or would not.
She put out a tentative hand, caressed the side of her husband’s face, beseeching him to understand the shrinking sense of withdrawal that had overwhelmed her. He, only he, could overcome it. Or reinforce it.
Watching him, Kath saw that Hedley sensed the existence of the question. He could not comprehend what it might be but for the moment was prepared to be patient, to soothe away fears whose presence he thought he understood.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said.
She closed her eyes in instinctive rebuttal. She was eager to be open with him and to him. Open in the flesh, the spirit, in every particle of her being. Pain was not something to frighten her; it had the potential to become glory, if it meant the true bonding of herself and the man who would, God willing, become hers. As she would be his. But first he had to be aware, and of this there was no sign. She could not explain it to him, was unable to put it into words even to herself, but knew, and hoped, and trembled, imploring him silently to please, please understand.
It was a hot night. The boozy yelling from the bar came clearly, yet now was unobtrusive. All their attention was focused on each other. A sheet covered them; now Hedley pulled it away. He stared appreciatively at this woman who by the rigmarole of a few mumbled words had become his.
There was more to her than he’d thought. The nightie she was wearing was so thin he could see her almost as well with it on as he would without it. All the same, it was in the way. He felt a sudden urgency for the sight and contact of naked flesh.
‘Take it off,’ he said.
His voice was hot and congested. Kath cringed, most secretly, but managed a smile.
‘You do it.’
‘Right.’
No point messing about; he grabbed it by the neck, tried to haul it down.
‘Not like that.’
She showed him. He grabbed the hem. She lifted her bottom as he yanked it up. At the last minute it caught around her neck; she put her hands to it and lifted it clear. Again she smiled, trying to bring allure into her eyes, to still the insidious stirrings of panic.
He was looking, not at her but at her flesh. He put out his hand cautiously, then more boldly. He grabbed her breast, squeezed it. Like fruit.
Still she smiled. ‘Gently …’
She could feel the gathering tension in his trembling body. He was no longer interested in gently, was not thinking at all. His mind as much as his body had become a weapon, stallion-tall, to thrust, careless of the resistant flesh, of sensitivities other than his own. His function had become maleness, to find release through the penetration and impregnation of the female.
Again he squeezed her white breasts, briefly, discarding them almost at once to stretch down a hard hand, to grope, to open the way.
Kath no longer hoped. She had become what she had feared most: a thing.
She felt the pressure of his knees, shoving outwards. Passively, her body accepted his weight. The sharp pain of her secret rending was quickly over although the soreness of the spirit would remain.
Her fingers held his shoulders, her eyes watched the pressed steel ceiling as, briefly, he worked upon her. She was aware of a stiffening of muscle, a convulsion that she did not share. His body half-collapsed upon her before, drawing breath in shuddering gasps, he rolled away.
A few minutes, no more. She thought perhaps it was her own fault that she had felt nothing but a lingering tenderness of bruised flesh. She put out a timid hand to caress his sweating back.
He mumbled, already half asleep, moving impatiently beneath her touch that sought, even now, to establish the communion that had escaped her.
‘Gimme a break, can’t you? A bloke can’t go on and on, you know.’
And was at once asleep.
Moving softly so as not to disturb him, Kath got off the bed, turned off the light, came back. She found her crumpled nightie, put it on, lay down again and pulled up the sheet to cover them. Hedley mumbled and gr
oaned in his sleep. The light from the street lamps reflected from the ceiling. She lay on her back and watched it while, from the bar, the raucous voices of the drinkers serenaded the night.
Very early the next morning, as soon as Hedley awoke, they made love again. It hurt more this time, friction abrading already-sore flesh, but she accepted it as she did the pale and tranquil light streaming through the thin curtains, a reality of life to which, inexplicably, she had fallen prey.
Hedley got up and yanked the curtains open, staring out at the sky, the dawn-grey waters of the gulf. ‘Going to be a great day!’
He was full of appetite: for the day, for life itself, as though the sexual act had heightened rather than exhausted his energy.
‘Let’s grab some breakfast, get out of here …’ He padded down the corridor to the bathroom. She heard his diminishing whistle; in a minute or two came the clank and burp of the plumbing. He came back. Kath, too, was out of bed. He found her staring in horror at the sheet.
‘What’s the problem?’
Blood was the problem. The sheet was stained, unmistakably.
‘We should have used a towel …’
She felt soiled by the behaviour of her body, wanted to scrub away the evidence, but Hedley dismissed it. ‘Why should we care? What we’re paying for, isn’t it?’
They ate breakfast in the breakfast-smelling dining room, walked through the darkened bar with its lingering memory of last night’s beer, came out blinking into the morning’s brightness.
They walked along the cliff, found a track plunging steeply to the boulder-strewn beach, followed it down. Docile waves foamed towards them, quietly. To Kath the day felt limp, yet Hedley ran with the exuberance of inexhaustible energy. He skated flat stones across the sea, he laughed, he talked of how, when he came back from the war, he would build up the farm, buy more acres, use new techniques and crops to maximise returns.
‘Fuddy-duddy bunch we got round us,’ he said. ‘All the better. Make it easier to buy ’em out, when the time comes.’
She read in his eyes the belief that nothing could stop him, that five thousand acres, ten, would be his for the asking. She saw the expanse of the land, green with young crops, brown and rich before reaping, the paddocks of wheat and barley, the ewes tawny as rock, young lambs the colour of cream. All this, and the land.
‘Next Sidney Kidman,’ he exulted. ‘That’s me.’
She found herself softening towards this man, the visionary who believed in himself so much. She was concerned, not so much with the vision itself as with his ability to possess it. She wanted so much that he should be more than the creature of flesh and instinct that he had been last night and again this morning. She might still be able to love a man with the spirit of his own visions upon him. As long as he continued to share them with her.
She caught his hand. ‘You’ll do it,’ she said.
He looked at her. His face was full of strength. In that moment she found him beautiful.
‘Damn right I’ll do it.’
His expression changed. His bright eyes sidled, offering her the lasciviousness that until now she had not shared.
‘Pretty quiet around here.’
She knew very well what he meant. Now she did not mind, hoped that this time things might be different.
‘Like a crowd, would you?’
‘Reckon we could show them a thing or two.’
He took her by the arm, propelling her with quiet purpose towards a patch of harsh sand at the base of the cliff. Above them the bulging rock provided shelter from those who might look down.
She took the initiative, directing his hand to her moistening flesh. As he penetrated her she writhed purposefully against him, instructing herself, Now … Now …
She felt his shoulders, loins, gather convulsively. She hung there, waiting. And waiting.
Afterwards told herself she had indeed felt something, a flicker giving hope for future fulfilment. She lay upon the coarse sand, feeling her flesh weep her husband’s semen, sadly. She cradled his head against her breast. If they were to have any chance of attaining the fulfilment of spirit and body that she desired so ardently, she knew it would be up to her to do whatever was necessary. Her mind did not know what that might be but her instinct, she told herself with passionate conviction, would know, and would prevail.
3
KATH AND HEDLEY
1940–1942
Two days after the wedding, Hedley and Kath drove home from the coast. Back to reality. They were cautious with each other, their silences not quite companionable. Kath thought it was because the next day, as they had agreed, Hedley was going to enlist; with the future so uncertain, they couldn’t help being on edge.
They spent the last night at his parents’ place, sharing the bed in the spare room. They made love cautiously, alive to the embarrassment of twangling springs, which twangled anyway. It seemed as though Hedley was never going to sleep, but he did so eventually, his nose stuck uncomfortably in her bosom.
I’ll be able to get a proper sleep tomorrow, she thought. When he awoke he burrowed deeper, inhaling as though he wanted to swallow her up.
She was half shocked, half amused. ‘What you doing?’
‘I want to remember what you smell like, when I’m away.’
‘You’re barmy.’ But was pleased. ‘You reckon they’ll send you overseas?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Will they let you come home first?’
‘Dunno.’
‘How much they paying you?’
‘Dunno.’
No end to the things he didn’t know.
After breakfast Kath ran him down the hill to the station. They didn’t say much. The train arrived. He kissed her briefly, eyes not quite meeting hers.
‘Tooroo.’
Hedley sat in the compartment, staring straight ahead, until the carriage jerked into motion. When it was safe, he looked out at the speeding, dun-brown paddocks, the occasional clumps of gums, thinking about what he’d left behind.
Wilf would give Dad a hand. No worries there. Wilf wasn’t one for hard work but would keep things ticking over until Hedley came home again. With any luck, Wilf and the old man would be so sick of each other by then that Wilf would do a runner and leave Hedley to carry on where he’d left off.
If that didn’t work out, well, Hedley would have to fix him, one way or the other. Shouldn’t be difficult; he’d done it plenty of times in the past.
As for Kath … No worries there, either. Wedded and bedded, like they say. Left her with a smile on her face. Her Dad’s land was safe enough, which was what mattered.
After repeated delays, unexplained, the train arrived in Adelaide. He left the station, caught a bus to the recruiting office, stared thoughtfully at the open door. Go in there and life as he knew it would be over. He didn’t have to; he could turn around, go straight back home again. He’d got what he wanted, after all.
Yet knew he couldn’t do that. Right mug he’d look if he backed out now, after all his talk. He walked purposefully forward.
Inside was a tiny office, a battered wooden desk, a sergeant who gave him the once-over with a sardonic eye.
‘Come to the wrong place, laddie.’ His voice was hoarse, the voice of a man who had smoked too much, too long. His chest was a glitter of campaign medals. Glossy boots clattered on the concrete floor as he stood, staring contemptuously at Hedley on the other side of the desk. ‘High school’s next door.’
‘I’m eighteen.’ And a married man. But that he did not say, afraid of ridicule.
‘And I’m the Queen of the May.’ The recruiting sergeant hauled out a form, shoved it across the desk. ‘Under age, lad. Get your Dad to sign it, bring it back here. Then we’ll see.’
Was that it? Hedley stared at him.
‘You deaf as well as stupid? I said go and get the form signed, bring it back here.’
Two inches high, Hedley slunk out. Behind his back the sergeant coughed raspingly, addressing th
e air. ‘These days a bloke’s got to be a nursemaid.’
His Mum was out, which was a blessing. He found his Dad in a half-reaped paddock. Benjamin stared as Hedley walked across to him.
‘Back already?’
‘Under age. The bloke said you got to sign a form first, to say I can go.’
Benjamin, who had never wanted him to go in the first place, eyed him thoughtfully. ‘And if I don’t?’
Hedley was sick of being mucked about. ‘I’ll go somewhere else, tell ’em I’m twenty-one.’
‘They’ll never believe that.’
‘They’re looking for volunteers. Don’ reckon they’ll be too picky.’
‘I could always dob you in.’
‘But you won’t.’
They both knew that was the truth. Benjamin decided on one last appeal. ‘I wish you’d have another think about it —’
Hedley cut him off. ‘Come back now, I’d look a right mug.’
Which was also true. Benjamin sighed.
‘Give it here.’
Put it against the side of the header. Hedley had a pen ready. Benjamin scrawled his signature, handed pen and paper back, silently.
The signed form in his pocket, Hedley said, ‘Where’s my wife?’
My wife … It gave him an odd feeling — part pride, part embarrassment — to hear himself say it.
‘Gone back to her own place.’
‘I’ll take the car.’
‘Aren’t you going back?’
‘They’re the ones jerking me around. They can wait till tomorrow.’
Kath saw the car, came running.
‘What you doing here?’
Again Hedley explained, not trying to hide his exasperation. ‘Made me feel a darn fool, I can tell you.’
‘What you going to do?’
‘Go back in the morning.’
‘And today?’
They walked side by side towards the house. They did not hold hands, had not touched each other at all. Like strangers, she thought. Even the air was a little awkward between them. This was unscheduled; she wasn’t sure how to handle it.