The long column drove south-westward all night. No one in Bill’s vehicle slept a wink and after the first hour there was little conversation. When the convoy approached the Spanish capital just before dawn they heard the drone of aircraft overhead and the roar of exploding bombs on the ground. The night sky was ablaze with searchlights and tracer fire from anti-aircraft guns.
At daybreak the convoy entered the city and the canvas tops of the trucks were drawn back. The volunteers all rose to their feet. It was plain to see Madrid was a city under siege. As the vehicles of the International Brigade rumbled by, men, women and children lined the streets outside bullet-scarred and bombed-out buildings to wave and cheer on the volunteers. Many of the Spaniards raised their arms in the clenched fist salute of the defiant and beleaguered defenders of the capital. When the volunteers raised their arms and returned the salute, the crowd roared. Bill took the Light Horseman’s slouch hat from his bag and put it on his head.
The convoy ended up at what looked to be a large abandoned factory. At the gate a banner read: BRITISH BATTALION-15TH INTERNATIONAL BRIGADE. Later, after they had been shown to their quarters and fed, Bill’s group was called before a sergeant who told them they had been assigned to his machine-gun company. The sergeant’s name was Evans. He was a short, wiry man with a Welsh accent and he spoke so fast that the Australians found him hard to understand.
‘New volunteers are usually sent to a place called Albacete. They are trained there for several weeks. Then they’re sent into action against the enemy.’ The sergeant spoke in short rapid bursts. ‘But Madrid is under constant bombardment. We need more gunners now. So your anti-aircraft training will be on the real thing. If your lucky you’ll be firing on easy targets, squadrons of the Spanish Nationalist Air Force and the Italian Air Force. If you’re unlucky, you’ll be up against the German Condor Legion. In that case you’ll be the easy targets. Now try and get some sleep. Your training starts tonight.’
Bill spoke with Sergeant Evans after the men were dismissed. He learned that the Welshman had also been a coal miner. Evans told him that he too had fought pitched battles against the police during the Depression, at demonstrations at collieries in the Rhondda Valley. The sergeant asked Bill how he came by his limp. When Bill told him, Evans said:
‘If a man waits long enough, he usually gets a chance to get even with the bastards in this life. For the likes of you and me, Bill, our chance is here in Spain.’
*
At first, Bruce was reluctant to go to England. He told Emma if he went anywhere, he wanted to go back to Queensland. He said Sydney suffocated him with its crowded streets, dirty air and indifferent people. He said he belonged in the bush. But when Emma told him that Kathleen couldn’t make the long trip without his strong arms to help her, he agreed to go on the understanding he’d head for Goondiwindi as soon as they all arrived back in Australia.
The Orient Line’s SS Orontes left Darling Harbor on a hot sultry day in early December. Molly and Neale the Nib waved from the dock until they could no longer see the passengers standing at the rail.
Emma had arranged for two adjoining cabins. She and Kathleen shared one, Bruce and Christopher the other. From the moment the family boarded the Orontes Emma knew she had done the right thing. Everyone was happy and eagerly looking forward to a long holiday together, especially Christopher who’s enthusiasm for the great adventure knew no bounds.
By the time the vessel reached Melbourne, Bruce had already worked out a simple routine for moving Kathleen about the ship. Whenever it was necessary to change decks to go to the dining room, the lounges, or the sun deck he would take the wheelchair first, then come back and carry his mother in his arms. By the time the ship left Fremantle, the McKennas had put all their cares aside and were having the time of their lives. The Christmas they spent at sea, somewhere out in the Indian Ocean was their happiest since the old days at Yallambee.
The Orontes docked at Southampton just after dawn on a grey late January morning. Emma was grateful that Dr Longbothom’s arrangements for the McKenna’s in England went beyond normal professional responsibilities. In addition to organizing Kathleen’s consultation schedule with his old associate Dr Pettering, the Harley Street specialist, Dr Longbothom had also enquired about accommodation for the family in London.
Dr Pettering’s staff had advised that there were flats available for rent near the surgery and arranged for a three-bedroom ground floor flat in Marylebone for the duration of the McKenna’s visit. When the family arrived exhausted at Paddington Station from Southampton after five hours on an icy-cold train, Emma was pleased to find their accommodation was clean, comfortable and best of all within walking distance of Harley Street.
Dr Paul Pettering was the exact opposite of what Emma expected. Instead of a little aloof specialist in a Savile Row suit, she found a friendly bearded giant wearing the largest white smock she had ever seen.
‘I’ve studied your mother’s case history which Dr Longbothom sent me from Sydney, Miss McKenna,’ Dr Pettering said, when he emerged from a private room after Kathleen’s initial examination. ‘And after examining her I must say everything looks encouraging.’
Emma and Bruce sat on a couch on the doctor’s private office. Outside, Christopher sat on a waiting room chair, swinging his legs.
‘It’s not generally known,’ the doctor continued, ‘that most people rendered paraplegics as a result of spinal chord damage do not live beyond the first few weeks following their accident. This is usually due to respiratory infection, urinary dysfunction or even bedsores. The fact that your mother has been able to resist these associated problems is a strong indication that she has a naturally high resistance to infection and proof positive that she has received the very best of care from those around her.’ Dr Pettering smiled at Emma and Bruce. ‘And that’s a credit to your both.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Emma said.
‘But in spite of the positive signs, I must impress upon you that there still is no known cure for spinal chord injury. At the present time there is no medical knowledge or techniques that can completely restore your mother’s use of her legs. But because your mother has had the will to fight so long and so hard against her disability, it may be possible for us to help her achieve a modest increase in mobility.’
‘How can you do that, Doctor?’ Emma asked.
‘We have achieved some success by stimulating the nerves of the spinal cord which carry nerve impulses to and from the brain and to the rest of the body. Our new therapy involves a great deal of repetitive spinal massage and a number of specific load bearing exercises. At the very least the treatment is helpful in preventing further deterioration in the patient, because even the slightest increase in nerve impulses sent to the brain signals pain and damage which otherwise would go undetected.’ The doctor rose to his feet. ‘But first of all we must run the usual tests, then see how your mother responds to therapy over the next few weeks.’
After Kathleen’s tests were completed, her therapy schedule at the surgery required Bruce to take her to Harley Street every second day. Usually, he would walk her there in her chair if the weather was fine, but if it was cold and wet they would go by taxi.
*
Emma and Bruce had said little to each other about the revelation of their Aboriginality since Laura’s visit, and Kathleen had not spoken of it at all. It was of little consequence to her, and she knew when Emma or Bruce had time to come to terms with their heritage they would voice their concerns, if they had any.
One night, about two weeks after they had arrived in London, Emma brought the subject up as they sat in the glow of the living room fire after Christopher had gone to bed.
‘When we first went to Essex Downs after we lost Yallambee, I could never understand why old Mary spent so much time with you, Mother. She’d sit with you for hours on the veranda of the cottage. Do you think she knew about us all along?’
Kathleen smiled wryly. ‘Oh, I’m certain of it. She to
ld you how the Aboriginal girls were treated on Essex Downs. She’s old enough to remember it all. And she’d have known where all those near-white babies went. Maybe not right away. But sometime, somewhere, an Aborigine would have heard a white man mention what happened to them. Next thing you know all the blacks would know. The thing is, Mary’s so old, everyone else who knew is probably dead by now.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,’ Bruce said, looking up from the flickering fire. ‘We really don’t know for certain it’s all true, do we?’
‘Would it really matter to you either way, Bruce?’ Kathleen asked.
‘Not really. But I wouldn’t bet my life on anything that Patrick Coltrane said. Anyone in the bush will tell you that if you’re born a half-caste you’ve got to be registered as a ward of the state. That’s the law, in Queensland anyway.’
‘Perhaps, I am.’ Kathleen said.
Bruce shrugged ‘You weren’t when Harmony made enquiries when we were looking for you after Crestview shut down, Mother.’
‘Only the Mary Wells Home in Brisbane would know for certain,’ Kathleen said. ‘And like Crestview it’s been closed down for years.’
Emma got up from her chair and went to the coalscuttle in the hearth. As she put more coal on the fire she said, ‘But the Mary Wells Society must still be in existence. It’s over a hundred years old. And it’s headquarters are here in London. Perhaps there are records.’
Emma made enquiries as to the whereabouts of the Mary Wells Society the next day. She discovered their headquarters were located in Golden Square, a short distance from Piccadilly Circus and less than three miles from the flat in Marylebone.
Emma asked Bruce to take Christopher with him the next morning when he took Kathleen to Harley Street while she went to Golden Square. A brass plaque on the three-story building stated that the Mary Wells Society had occupied the premises since being established in 1807.
Emma explained to a clerk inside that she was visiting from overseas and that her family had a long association with the Society in Australia. She asked if she could speak to someone regarding records of Australian homes which had closed down during the Depression. The clerk asked her to wait and went away. He returned a few minutes later minutes with an elderly matron.
‘I’m Mrs Hampton-Smith,’ the woman said in a cultured voice. She gave Emma a friendly smile. ‘I’m a trustee of the Mary Wells Society. Our clerk has told me you are enquiring about records from Australia, Miss McKenna.’
‘Yes,’ Emma replied. ‘My mother was taken in by your Brisbane Home in the 1890’s when she was just a baby. I was hoping you might have records here of admissions of orphans in Brisbane from that far back. You see, my family has had a long association with the Society as both financial contributors and also as recipients of services it provided in our country.’
‘The administrator of the Brisbane Home, like those of all our overseas institutions that closed during the Depression was required to send all non-financial records to us here in London,’ the trustee explained. ‘Over the years our cellars have become crammed with them.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘Unfortunately, we have neither the time nor the resources to even get the hundreds of boxes and crates in some kind of order let alone search for anything specific.’
‘I’ll be in London for some weeks yet, Mrs Hampton-Smith. Would you allow me to look for my mother’s records? It’s so important to our family.’
‘I would like to help, Miss McKenna. But it’s against all the rules. Only staff are allowed to inspect records.’ The trustee strummed her fingers thoughtfully against her cheek. After a few moments she said, ‘Look… we have an ex-administrator who worked in Australia for a long time. She’s retired now and lives out in Staines. But she comes in on the underground every Friday to do volunteer work. I could ask her if she’d be willing to come in a few extra days to help.’
Emma’s face lit up. ‘Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful. I’ll be happy to pay any expenses.’
‘Very well. I’ll ask her when she comes in on Friday.’
‘You say this lady lived in Australia, Mrs Hampton-Smith. Whereabouts?’
‘In New South Wales. She ran our home in Armidale before it was forced to close. Her name is Erin Potts.’
*
As the weeks passed, Dr Pettering became satisfied that Kathleen was responding to therapy. Although there were no dramatic signs of any increase in the mobility of her long-dormant limbs, he told Emma that he was confident of beneficial results in the long term. Accordingly, he increased the number of Kathleen’s therapeutic sessions and extended their duration. Emma was asked to be present at the sessions so she could become familiar with the massage techniques and the exercise procedures to enable her to continue the therapy after the family returned to Australia.
Erin Potts was delighted when she heard the McKenna’s were in London. She not only offered to come in an extra day each week to search the overseas records, but she also persuaded Mrs Hampton-Smith to allow Emma to help her. But all they accomplished during the first few weeks was to locate the crates from Brisbane from amongst hundreds of others from around the world.
Sifting through the thousands of documents contained in the crates was slow and painstaking work. And many of the journals and papers were so old they had to be handled with great care. When it became clear the search would be a long one, Erin Potts came in to the society’s headquarters more often. In late March, when there were just a few weeks remaining before the McKennas were to return to Australia, she started to come in every day.
Just three days before the Orient Line’s SS Orion sailed from Southampton, Emma hurried over to Golden Square after her final visit with Kathleen to Dr Pettering’s surgery. When she arrived at the Mary Wells Society the clerk took her directly to Mrs Hampton-Smith where the trustee and Erin Potts were taking afternoon tea at a table strewn with documents.
‘Miss Potts was rewarded a short time ago for her persistence, Emma,’ Mrs Hampton said when Emma entered the room ‘She has some news for you.’
Erin Potts waved a hand over the papers on the table. ‘I’d just about given up when I found all these, Emma. It’s all here. A full report of the seizure of indigenous children by the Aboriginal Protector in the 1890’s from a number of pastoral properties including Essex Downs. Most of the seizures were carried out at the insistence of church groups and concerned citizens. Your grandfather is named in these documents as one of those citizens.’
‘Do the documents detail what happened to the babies taken from Essex Downs?’ Emma asked quickly.
‘Oh yes. All the children were sent to Aboriginal missions except the light-skinned babies who were admitted to the Mary Wells Home in Brisbane. The society accepted them on condition they be deemed white by the colonial government and not registered as wards of the state which would restrict their freedom when they grew up. All the children admitted are listed here with details of where they came from. The report confirms what you already know about your heritage, but I should warn you it also contains information which you may well prefer left in our cellars.’ Erin Potts smiled apprehensively. ‘Sometimes, Emma, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
In spite of constant artillery and air bombardment, Madrid fought off every attack by General Franco’s Nationalist forces which now held most of the territory surrounding the Spanish capital. Casualties were high, particularly among the soldiers of the twenty three nations which made up the 15th International Brigade. But somehow the sheer determination of the defenders, supported by a constant supply of Russian munitions, tanks and aircraft, kept the city from falling.
Two weeks after Bill arrived in Madrid, Sergeant Evans told him he would make a good gunner. After three months the sergeant said he was as good as any he’d ever seen. In February, Bill was one of just a few hundred men of the 15th International Brigade who held the crucial position of Suicide Hill in the battle of Jarama just south of
the city which cost the lives of thousands of men on each side.
After being thwarted at Jarama and at Guadalajara, the fascist forces decided to concentrate on stemming the flow of food and weapons of war being supplied to the enemy through ports still held by the Republicans.
Apart from Barcelona on the east coast, where the majority of Russian supplies entered the country, one of the most strategic ports was Bilbao, situated on a strip on the mountainous north coast of Spain in the Basque Provinces. It was to the Port of Bilbao that a constant stream of British merchant freighters, brought in food and armaments to the Republicans, encouraged by high profits and widespread public support at home for the devoutly Catholic Basques.
While Franco’s forces prepared for a northern offensive, there was a lull in the siege of Madrid. It was during this period that Sergeant Evans came to Bill’s machine gun post shortly after dawn one morning. He sat down on the sandbag wall of the gun emplacement.
‘I’ve just come from the Captain, Bill. The brass is looking for volunteers for a bit of a risky job up north.’
Bill shrugged. ‘What could be more risky than being here in Madrid?’
‘They think the other side is about to mount an offensive in the Basque Provinces. If Franco can take Bilbao it will stop British supplies coming in to the Republicans.’
‘Why volunteers? Why not just send whatever troops are needed up there?’
‘Because southern Republican troops are communist atheists. They won’t fight alongside the Basques because they’re Catholics. And the Basques feel the same way. They’ve never sent their own troops outside the Basque Country. They just won’t fight with each other. Their differences go back a long way.’
‘Then why should we go?’
‘The Basques have got about thirty thousand troops and militiamen dug in in a defense chain in the mountains around Bilbao. They call it the Iron Ring. They could hold out forever against land forces. But they’ve got little air backup because the terrain is too rugged for more than a couple of airfields. So the brass think the main fascist offensive will come from the air and when it comes, it will be massive. So they want some of our best anti-aircraft gunners to join the Basques in the Iron Ring.’ Sergeant Evans pulled Bill’s slouch hat down around his ears. ‘And that means us, mate.’
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