The Light Horseman's Daughter

by David Crookes

  The door opened and the room fell silent. Molly wheeled in a trolley with fresh tea then, sensing the atmosphere turned to leave. ‘Christopher will be home from next door any minute,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ll just go and fix him a snack.’

  Bruce followed Molly toward the door, grateful for the opportunity to absent himself from the women and the maudlin conversation.

  ‘Bruce, please come back,’ Laura called out. ‘There’s something I have to say that you must hear.’

  Bruce reluctantly returned to his chair and sat down.

  ‘Before you and Emma came home, your mother and I had a long talk.’ Laura paused and glanced at Kathleen. When Kathleen gently nodded her head Laura continued, ‘Your mother asked me earlier, if I knew why your uncle has caused the McKennas so much pain. Well, I do know why and I told her’

  ‘And,’ Kathleen interjected, ‘I’ve asked your Aunt Laura to tell you both exactly what she told me.’

  ‘When my brother married your mother,’ Laura said softly, ‘he knew things about her background which she had never known, things which he chose to say nothing of to your mother or me.’ Laura drew a deep breath. ‘Apparently, around the time of federation, a number of Aboriginal children were taken from Essex Downs by the Aboriginal Protector. All of them were just babies and most were light skinned enough to pass for white.’

  ‘Yes, I know the story,’ Emma said. ‘Old Mary told me about the Aboriginal girls penned up for the white station hands on Essex Downs in the old days. But what’s that got to do with the McKenna family?’

  ‘Well, the Protector placed most of them, the light skinned ones anyway, in the Mary Wells Home in Brisbane…’

  ‘The Mary Wells Home?’ Emma was surprised. She and Bruce quickly turned their eyes to their mother.

  Kathleen’s eyes moistened. ‘Yes my darlings. It seems I was one of those Aboriginal babies.’

  *

  A week after Laura’s visit, Emma collapsed on the floor of the factory.

  ‘This is what happens when people ignore all the little signals the body sends them after they’ve been overdoing things for far too long, Mrs Gallimore.’

  Emma heard Dr Longbothom’s words. She opened her eyes slowly and saw the kindly doctor smiling down at her. Molly was standing beside him at the side of the bed.

  ‘What happened?’ Emma asked. ‘I feel so tired.’

  ‘You collapsed at work, young lady,’ Dr Longbothom said. ‘You’ve pushed yourself just too hard. You’re utterly exhausted physically and mentally. You gave us all a nasty scare.’ The doctor produced a thermometer and shook it. ‘Now… open wide.’

  Emma opened her mouth. She felt her eyes closing again.

  Dr Longbothom took the thermometer from Emma’s mouth and read it, then held her wrist and took her pulse. Emma yielded to the weight of her eyelids. As she drifted away she heard the doctor say:

  ‘Emma must remain in bed, Mrs Gallimore. Under no circumstances must she leave this room until I give her permission. What Emma needs now, is rest, rest, and more rest. I’ll call again tomorrow.’

  *

  Ironically, Bill’s journey to Spain began at the same Pyrmont dock where the Dilwara had berthed bringing Jo Wojek to Australia. Bill and six other volunteers boarded the French freighter Avignon as paying passengers, their low-cost fares paid by an official of the Communist Party who put Bill in charge of the small group.

  The Avignon was bound for the English Channel port of Le Havre carrying Australian wool destined for the mills and fashion houses of Paris. When the old ship cast off, her decks were covered with a blanket of red dust, residue from her outward cargo of European terracotta, a favorite roofing material in the suburbs of Sydney for decades.

  Heavy seas and howling winds in the Great Australian Bight removed the last traces of terracotta dust from the Avignon but kept her seasick passengers confined to their cabins. The weather improved after the vessel rounded Cape Leeuwin and entered the Indian Ocean, and for Bill the remainder of the long voyage was the most peaceful period in his entire life.

  When the Avignon passed through the Strait of Gibraltar, Bill caught his first glimpse of Spain. The coast was so close he could almost swim ashore and it seemed a waste of time to spend several more days at sea sailing to northern France just to journey southward again overland. But the next day, off Lisbon, when a crewman pointed out HMS Resolution entering the Tagus River on her regular patrol, hunting illegal civil war volunteers attempting to enter Spain, he realized just how seriously the Non-intervention Pact countries took the explosive situation in Spain.

  The weather deteriorated in the Bay of Biscay and it was cold and rainy when the ship finally reached Le Havre. Bill and his group had been told in Sydney that all customs and immigration officials in France were under orders to watch out for civil war volunteers arriving from all over the world. They were also told that in the event of being interrogated, they must keep their nerve and insist they were tourists. Providing they could prove themselves solvent, it was unlikely they would be denied entry to France.

  By the time the Avignon arrived in Le Havre the French government had closed the border with Spain and scrutiny of all able-bodied men entering the country had been stepped up. Bill divided the money he had been given in Sydney for the volunteers’ food and transportation expenses in France between everyone and hoped it would be enough to show they were financial tourists.

  But the shabbily dressed group of young Australians carrying small battered suitcases immediately drew the attention of the custom officials. When questioned, they all stated they were tourists but the inspectors held onto their passports and baggage and told them they were to await further questioning by their supervisor.

  After almost two hours Bill was called into the supervisor’s office. He was a short stout man of about fifty. When Bill entered the room he was holding Bill’s passport in his hands.

  ‘Ah, Mr Travis. I see you are the eldest of this group of volunteers for the Spanish war,’ he said solemnly and in fluent English. ‘So I assume you are in charge.’

  ‘We are all individual tourists to your country, sir ’ Bill tried to sound convincing, ‘ As far as I know, no one is travelling on to Spain.’

  The Frenchman sighed. ‘Do not take me or my inspectors for fools, Mr Travis. It is perfectly clear that you are volunteers and as such I must tell you that the British have advised us that they will pay return passages, no questions asked, for any of their nationals who are intercepted going to Spain to fight. As all Australians have British passports, I think you should take advantage of the offer.’ The supervisor shrugged. ‘There is just no point in wasting your lives in Spain.’

  ‘But I have told you, sir,’ Bill insisted. ‘We are tourists, not volunteers.’

  The supervisor looked Bill directly in the eye for several moments then picked up Bill’s suitcase from the floor. He lifted it onto his desk and opened it. It contained only a few clothes and an extra pair of shoes. The Frenchman rummaged through the clothes and took out Emma’s father’s hat.

  ‘When I looked through your case earlier, Mr Travis, I saw this hat. And I noticed the name Captain McKenna, Yallambee Station, Queensland, stamped on the band inside. It is perhaps where you are from in Australia, Mr Travis?’

  ‘No, it’s where a girl I know once lived. Captain McKenna was her father.’

  ‘The supervisor gently straightened the bent brim and the crushed emu plume. ‘When I saw this hat it brought back many memories. In the Great War I was a member of one of two French Chasseurs d’Afrique squadrons which General Allenby assigned to the Australian 5th Light Horse Brigade. The Australians we served with were the best horse soldiers we had ever seen. We were proud to fight by their side.’

  To Bill’s surprise the Frenchman gently laid the hat back in the case, closed the lid and marked it with white chalk. Then he said, ‘The many thousands of Frenchmen fighting in Spain at this very minute in the International Brigade would not thank
me if I stood in the way of Australians who, this time, have come to fight at their side.’ The supervisor reached out and shook Bill’s hand. ‘Mr Travis, you and your group of tourists are free to go. Good luck.’

  From Le Havre, Bill’s instructions were to take the train to Paris, then go by taxi to a building in Rue Natherin Moreau, the headquarters of the International Committee of Volunteers. After presenting themselves and having their papers checked the group was sent to a nearby hotel and told to wait. After three days they were all issued brown paper carrier bags containing food and other essentials, given fresh instructions and put aboard a train for Marseilles.

  On the train there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of young men among the passengers and almost all of them carried the same tell-tale brown carrier bags. The young men attracted the attention of members of the Sûreté, who were also travelling on the train, and who pleaded with them to abandon going to Spain to fight for a lost cause. But every volunteer doggedly maintained he was just a foreign tourist, intent on seeing France.

  In Marseilles, overnight accommodation was arranged for them and the next day they travelled by bus to Perpignan at the base of the Pyrenees. Perpignan seemed to be full of young men, speaking dozens of different languages, all waiting for guides to take them on the dangerous overnight journey on foot over the mountains into Spain.

  The night Bill’s group was assigned a guide it was blowing a blizzard. When the guide saw Bill walk he was reluctant to take him, in case his limp prevented the party from making it through the mountains before dawn. As it turned out, after trudging all night in freezing temperatures over the slippery mountain goat trails, Bill was the first man to set foot in Spain.

  *

  A month passed before Dr Longbothom allowed Emma out of bed. And she spent two more weeks confined to the house and garden before she was allowed to go back to work. During that time the only contact Emma had with business matters was during a brief once-a-week visit the doctor allowed Neale the Nib to make.

  The morning Emma returned to work she looked radiant and rejuvenated. She found everything shipshape and even seemed a little disappointed at how well everyone had coped in her absence. All production and deliveries were on schedule and the order book was bulging with new business.

  ‘I thought I would come back to a mountain of work and you would be ready for a nervous breakdown,’ Emma said to Neale the Nib as they shared a pot of tea at mid-morning. ‘But it seems the more you work, the better you seem to cope.’

  ‘That’s because getting this job took me off the scrap head and let me put all my worries behind me. You’re the one who’s had all the worry and stress, Emma. It’s a wonder you didn’t drop on your feet a long time ago.’

  ‘That what Dr Longbothom said.’ Emma took a sip of tea. ‘ He said I should take a holiday or it could happen again.’

  ‘That’s sounds like good medicine to me, Emma.’

  ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Christopher is growing up so fast, I’m afraid I’ll miss his childhood altogether. And I’m sure Bruce will go back to Queensland soon. A long holiday away together may be just what we all need and the only chance we’ll ever get.’

  ‘Then do it, Emma. Do it.’

  ‘Can you and the girls manage for a few months.’

  ‘Of course we can.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  Dr Longbothom says it’s the perfect opportunity to take my mother to England and have a Harley Street specialist he knows see if he can do anything for her.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Emma. When would you go?’

  ‘If you’re sure you can handle things here, Neale, I think we’ll leave as soon as we can make all the necessary arrangements, probably in early December.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Grey November skies warned of the approach of a cold wet Hampshire winter. It was late afternoon and a chilly crosswind was blowing hard across the Basingstoke airfield as Stephen’s student pilot sideslipped the Tiger Moth down to a copybook landing.

  Half an hour later Stephen was behind the wheel of his MG on a winding country road heading for Garden Cottage, his small rented property in the sleepy village of Rake. Freezing cold air whistled in through tiny gaps between the car body and the soft canvass top. Stephen pulled his thick woolen scarf around his neck tighter and pondered on how his life had changed in just eight short months.

  When he’d arrived in London, he’d had no idea of what he would do or where he would live. At first, he stayed in a small hotel in the West End. He wrote to Enrico Conti, care of the mysterious Max Winkler post office box in Berlin. Stephen told him of the collapse of his marriage and without being too specific, the reasons why he had been forced to leave Australia. But the real reason for writing was to enquire about the chances of joining Enrico’s hush-hush squadron of adventurers.

  After a month there had been no reply from Enrico and, homesick and bored beyond belief, Stephen answered an advertisement in a newspaper for an experienced light aircraft pilot to be trained as an instructor at a flying school in Hampshire. A week later he got the job, bought an MG and moved into the cottage in Rake. Soon after moving to Hampshire, he wrote a second letter to Enrico, but once again he received no reply.

  Because it was so cold, Stephen drove straight home from the airfield to light a fire before going to the local pub, as he always did, for his evening meal. When he opened the cottage door there was a letter lying on the floor inside. It was from Enrico and postmarked Salamanca in northern Spain. In the letter Enrico said he had leave coming and that he would be spending two days of it in London, staying at the Dorchester Hotel.

  Ten days later Stephen drove up to London. Once on Bayswater Road he had no trouble finding the Dorchester. He and Eleanor had stayed there for a few days on their honeymoon and had admired its opulent, old world charm. When Stephen knocked on Enrico’s door, the young Italian opened it almost immediately, greeted him with an embrace. Inside the spacious room overlooking Hyde Park, Enrico opened a bottle of ouzo to celebrate the occasion.

  ‘I must apologize for not writing sooner,’ he said as he poured the drinks. ‘But I have been in a war zone for many months. ‘And the Luftwaffe, which distributes the mail from the Max Winkler box in Berlin, is not always as reliable as the humble postman. I received both your letters at the same time and only just recently.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘I was so sorry to hear about you and Eleanor. What a great pity for such a woman to sleep alone.’

  Stephen had forgotten the Italian’s familiarity. But he smiled and said, ‘It’s unlikely she does often, Enrico.’

  Enrico shrugged. ‘And what of your private air force, Stephen—your New Guard?’

  ‘Faded away like an old soldier, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And condemned you to exile in cold rainy England in the process.’ Enrico handed Stephen a glass. ‘It is grossly unfair. It must be difficult to leave your homeland, knowing you can never return.’ Enrico raised his drink ‘Anyway, to us, and to our friendship.’

  They touched glasses and Stephen sipped the ouzo, then lowered his glass. ‘My life lacks any kind of purpose, Enrico,’ he said. ‘Access to my country and the people I care about is denied me. I don’t know how long I can go on living this way.’ Stephen decided to come straight to the point. ‘I was hoping there might be a place for me in your secret squadron of volunteers. As a fugitive it seems more appealing to me than the French Foreign Legion.’

  Enrico laughed. ‘I’m afraid the Condor Legion is not much of a secret anymore, my friend. It’s hard to hide the most powerful, best equipped, and best trained offensive air unit in the world. And it is no secret that the Legion is the brainchild of Colonel Von Richtoven, cousin of the famous "Red Baron." When we first went to Spain we wore uniforms without insignia and flew airplanes with no markings. But since air power has turned the tide of the war in favor of Franco, only an idiot could think that such a feat could be accomplished by anyone other than the
Luftwaffe. Soon our aircraft will openly display the swastika.’

  ‘But what about the Non-intervention Pact?’

  ‘Nothing but a sham, my friend. The French and the Russians are helping the Republicans and the Germans and the Italians are helping the Nationalists. The British and the Americans say they are staying out of it to protect their commercial interests, but German intelligence knows better. Without massive foreign aid the Republicans would have been beaten by now. I tell you, it really is a free-for-all over there. But if you’re a flyer it’s the only place to be.’ Enrico recharged their glasses. ‘We have the most advanced equipment in the world and Spain is the perfect place to test it in real combat conditions.’

  ‘How difficult is it to volunteer for the Condor Legion?’

  ‘Volunteering is easy. It’s getting accepted that is the hard part. Remember it is an offshoot of the German Air Force. They only take Germans.’

  ‘But you’re Italian. They took you.’

  ‘You forget my friend. My father is a personal friend of Benito Mussolini. There are always exceptions to any rule.’ Enrico swirled his ouzo around in his glass thoughtfully. ‘But perhaps I can to arrange for you to spend some time with us as an observer. After all, I can tell my commander you flew with the New Guard in Australia which supported the fascist movement.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Enrico.’

  ‘Very well. I will let you know.’ Enrico downed his drink. ‘But enough of that, Stephen. I came to London to see an old friend and to have some fun. Tell me, where are the best places in London to find pretty girls?’

  *

  Bill and his group spent their first two days in Spain hidden in a hay loft on a farm just inside the border. In the early afternoon on the second day a van arrived to take them to a nearby village. In the village square, a convoy of International Brigade trucks was assembled to transport almost two hundred new volunteers to Madrid.