by L E Pembroke
I was indignant and said that I knew the difference.
His facial expression was serious; every one of his words burned into my soul. ‘I suppose that’s possible, but I believe it’s too early to say. The sensible and only thing for us to do is to wait and get to know one another thoroughly through letters.’
He went on to say that being apart for a year would be a good test of the genuineness of our feelings and, that when we met again, if nothing had changed, we would consider the future in a mature way. He concluded by saying, that if I met someone else not to feel badly. These things happen and I was to just write him a note saying something such as, ‘Sorry, old boy, but it was just physical after all, and now I’ve met someone who will make me happy for the rest of my life.’
I was horrified that he could even suggest such a thing. As if I could ever look at another man after having loved Charlie.
Then Charlie asked me to go to Guildford with him next weekend to meet his parents. With a glint of amusement in his eyes and his voice, he said, ‘I believe you’ll find them quite socially acceptable. I plan to go home on Saturday to say goodbye, because I doubt if there will be another opportunity.’
‘Oh yes, Charlie, I’d love to come if you’re sure I won’t be intruding.’ Brimming over with joy at being asked, I was certain that the invitation indicated that he would soon say he loved me.
We were still standing on the front porch, and he lifted my hands to his mouth and kissed each of my palms. That was an erotic thing for him to do, and an action that made me want to tear with him off to the nearest bedroom and make mad, passionate love. But of course he wouldn’t have done that; he was far more moral than I was.
*
War was declared the following day. London changed that day – never, in my opinion, to be the same again. People scurried into food shops in case food supplies ran out tomorrow. Others packed and went off to the country. Butlers and boot boys gave in their notice so they could enlist. The world had become topsy-turvy. It turned out that when we went to meet his parents Charlie was on forty-eight hours pre-embarkation leave.
The parents lived in a thatched-roof cottage just out of town. I wore my most fashionable outfit, a peacock-blue suit that set off my blue eyes, and a hat to match.
I suppose the first meeting with one’s future in-laws is often a time of stress and strain. It wasn’t like that for me. His parents and older sister made me feel at home immediately. They weren’t in the least what I expected. I had thought that an ex-regimental sergeant major would be of commanding height and build with a loud, authoritative voice. Instead Charlie’s father was of average height, and his voice was melodious – he was Welsh. His mother was still a pretty lady and rather elegant. She made me feel warm and welcome. She was the sort I would like to have had for a mother. I said as much to Charlie when we were journeying back to London the following day.
‘I thought you’d like her; you have similar personalities.’ He explained how his mother always says what she thinks, and when she makes up her mind to do something she doesn’t easily change it.
I was amazed and secretly pleased (because, it was true, I was a bit snobby like my grandmother) when he told me that his mother had been the 25-year-old unmarried daughter of the regimental commanding officer when she met his father and that it wasn’t done in those days – and even in these days – for the daughter of the CO to marry an NCO – even the senior NCO.
Charlie told me how his parents ended up eloping and that a scandal had ensued. His father was obliged to leave the regiment and the British Army in India and become a member of the Indian Army, most of whose officers and NCOs were British. That’s why his father stayed in India until his retirement.
‘So you see, darling, I know how difficult it was for my parents when they decided to ignore the conventions of the day, and I am familiar with the attitude of your grandmother, although I still get angry if people look down their noses because my father wasn’t an officer. But the world is changing; all those class differences will soon disappear. Ours will be a very different world after the war, I’m sure of it.’
‘I hope you are right, Charlie.’ The thing was that my mind was on the present and not the future. I knew my grandmother was spending the weekend in Wiltshire, and I rather hoped I could persuade Charlie to stay for a few hours when he dropped me at Eaton Square. I didn’t really see any harm in it. Anyway, I had heard of many girls who had taken advantage of the situation when their parents were away. I suggested that he might like to come in for supper and mentioned that my grandmother was away for the weekend.
Much to my surprise, he said he had made other plans and had booked a table for dinner at a small restaurant in Sloane Street for our farewell dinner. ‘I think that would be a better idea,’ he said.
I was of course disappointed, but sensible enough not to make a fuss.
*
After that night, I didn’t see Charlie again until Easter 1915. We were separated for nine months, which I found almost impossible to bear. The highlight of each day was when I came home from training with the FANYs and spent an hour or two writing to him. He didn’t have the time to write so often, but when he did, his words were so warm and loving that I wept with wanting him. Then he wrote that he was coming home on leave and expected to arrive in England on or about 10 April 1915.
I had to be there to greet him. Despite knowing he would contact me as soon as he arrived, I wanted to surprise him, wanted to be at the wharf when the ship docked. My cousin Margaret was at that time a senior FANY officer; if anyone could arrange for me to be there when Charlie arrived, she could. It meant she had to pull a few strings to find out which ship he was travelling on and whether he was coming to Folkestone from Calais or to Dover from Dunkerque. One of our jobs was to welcome the troops as they landed and to supply them with mugs of tea and rock cakes.
Good old reliable Margaret found out that Charlie would be arriving at Folkestone at eight in the morning of the 10th. The evening before, two of us, loaded with our goodies, drove down from London in a truck. I was almost out of my mind with excitement and anticipation. On the wharf, we erected the trestle tables and turned the urn on, and I waited with bated breath as ropes were thrown over the bollards pulling the cruiser alongside.
My heart leapt. He was unmistakable; his features were etched in my mind: his slim nose, square chin, manly lips (which I longed to kiss again) and his bearing, slim and straight like a young tree. I watched his progress down the gangway. How could one merely stand there pouring tea? I let go of the teapot, I sprinted across that wharf like greased lightning and leapt into his arms, and all the fellows on the wharf cheered. We didn’t give a hoot, and Charlie held me tight and whispered in my ear. ‘Madeleine, darling, I love you with all my heart.’
Part 2
Australia, 1911–15
CHAPTER 3
GENEVIEVE
My eighteenth birthday – 15 January 1911. Freedom beckoned; freedom to make my own decisions and freedom from carping criticism. I was due to leave my home the following week.
Some people, especially my mother, believe there’s nothing special about turning eighteen. They believe that turning twenty-one is the only rite of passage in a young person’s life. I didn’t think that made sense. At eighteen boys were considered old enough to go away to a war and to drink in a hotel and girls were considered old enough to marry. In the country, almost all the girls at my school were married well before turning twenty-one, and by then half of them looked worn-out and stressed, dragging two or three babies around all day and every day. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to make something of myself before meeting and marrying Mr Right.
Always a quiet and polite girl who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, deep down I wanted more than just to be a housewife, which might have surprised many people. Trying to imagine what it would be like to be a natural leader, a respected person, a leader of women, a doctor, a lawyer, a woman with the highest principles, I
yearned for the courage and conviction of the suffragettes and wanted to be an Australian Florence Nightingale. That was why I was so anxious to leave the Central West of New South Wales and begin my career in Sydney.
On 15 January I began my journey – not only the one into adulthood but also the actual rail journey that would take me from the bush to the city. Obviously, Mum viewed the business of my leaving home with ambivalence. On the one hand, she worried about what I would get up to away from her eagle eye, and on the other she wanted me away from my father’s influence. My parents had a very bad marriage; however, for them and their class, marriage was for keeps. One simply had to stick it out, however bad it was. Probably both my parents hoped the other would die prematurely.
Tom, the good-looking Howard child, was two years older than me. He was my only sibling and beloved by my mother. On the day I left home, Tom took us into town in the sulky to catch the Western Mail. Dad didn’t come. He said goodbye to me at home and, what’s more, slipped me a five-pound note. Astounded to receive such a huge sum of money, I immediately decided to spend it in Sydney on smart, shop-bought clothes (having only ever had home-made dresses and skirts). I threw my arms around my father and kissed him because, unlike my mother and my brother, I really loved my gentle father, who led a dog’s life at Bellara, our sheep property situated a few miles out of a small town called Orange.
Dad had a lady friend, and I didn’t blame him one bit. She was a gentle and kind soul, and more than once I wished she was my mother. I don’t think he saw much of her because he hardly ever left Bellara. He visited her when he went to town to collect the produce, probably no more than once a fortnight. I had known about that for years because Mrs Ruby Walsh was a widow and the mother of Rose, my best friend in primary school. I suspect my mother also knew about Dad and Mrs Walsh. It’s very difficult to keep secrets in a small country town. I found out about Dad and Mrs Walsh’s affair because sometimes after school, instead of riding straight home, I went with Rose to her place to play and have afternoon tea. All of us bush children rode into town to primary school, and we left our horses in the paddock next door during school hours.
Rose loved riding with me on Star. She envied me living on a farm and having a father; hers died when she was a baby, and she always said how fond she was of my dad. Mrs Walsh always kissed and hugged me when we arrived at her place. It was very disconcerting as I wasn’t used to expressions of affection and wasn’t sure how to respond. Should I just smile, or should I kiss her back? What always happened was that I blushed and stood rigid until I could politely go outside and play hop-scotch with Rose.
Once or twice Dad was there when we arrived. ‘Just popped in to say hello to Ruby,’ he said.
I couldn’t help noticing how contented he looked at Ruby’s place. He even smoked a pipe in the kitchen.
*
Tom carried Mum’s small suitcase along the platform; he found our compartment and slung her case on to the luggage rack above the seat. I carried a much larger and heavier leather case in which I’d managed to pack all my personal possessions. That wasn’t too difficult because I wore overalls every day at Bellara and had few other clothes. I owned one ‘good’ dress and one skirt and blouse. Apart from underclothes, stockings, gloves, spare shoes, my overcoat, hairbrush, toilet bag and handkerchiefs, I carried a book to read on the train and my diary.
Leather cases are always heavy, and I had a bit of difficulty slinging mine up onto the luggage rack. Tom ignored my problems, obviously figuring I was big and strong enough to cope. He just stood on the platform arranging with Mum what time he would pick her up the day after next. After that, he didn’t hang about. He kissed Mum on the cheek and told me to look after myself and that he’d see me next year. Then he went. Tom was not an affectionate person. In that respect, he was very like our mother.
There were six other people in our compartment. The last one arrived just a minute before the train pulled out. He was young. He threw his Gladstone bag effortlessly up on to the luggage rack and plonked into the seat next to me. He grinned.
The prospect of having a young man to talk to throughout the journey was exciting; I could see he was a man who worked outdoors, being very sun-tanned; probably a farmhand or a shearer. I rarely had the opportunity to speak to young men and often thought about them, but had never had a boyfriend – had never even been to the local Saturday night dance in the church hall.
My mother might have been aware that I often thought about young men, although she probably wasn’t aware that I day-dreamed about what it must feel like to be properly loved. At school, when we talked about what happens in marriage, some of the girls rolled their eyes and said things like: ‘Can you imagine anything worse? I wouldn’t want a boy to do that to me.’ I didn’t feel like that, although I think I should have.
*
The young man on the train asked me if we were going to Sydney. I said yes, and asked him if he was, too. He said no, he had a job in Bathurst.
Bathurst was only fifty miles away; so much for my chances of talking with a nice-looking stranger throughout the night. In any case, Mum soon put a stop to any further conversation. She stood up and told me to change places with her because she didn’t want me to spend the following hours disturbing the other passengers with my prattle. She pushed me further down the bench seat and wriggled her way into the space I’d left.
Even though this was mid-summer, I was wearing the suit my mother made for me for travelling. She said it would also be very handy if I was invited to the home of one of my nurse friends. I wasn’t so sure. Certain the plain, ankle-length, nigger-brown skirt and jacket worn with a high-necked cream blouse made me look like a country bumpkin, I silently sat in my seat for the remainder of the journey. My mother had very strong views on acceptable dress for young girls. ‘Ladies should always dress inconspicuously,’ she often said; hence, I suppose, her predilection for browns and fawns. She couldn’t abide girls who wore bright clothing with short sleeves, low necklines and ankles revealed. ‘That’s the type of clothing harlots wear.’ I couldn’t argue with that because my mother knew, more than most, about harlots, being a foundation member of our local League of Decency and President of our branch of the Christian Women’s Temperance Union and a member of its Social Purity Subcommittee.
I was a tall, fleshy girl with fairish, reddish hair and freckles. My mother gave me to understand that I was also incompetent. I guess that was why I grew into a stubborn, silent and unlovable adolescent. It wasn’t all bad when I lived at Bellara, especially when I turned fifteen and left my small school. Dad had very bad arthritis so I became his workmate on the property. It was a joy to be alone with him on those long, cold winter days and under the heat of the summer sun. During the busier times, we often didn’t come in for the usual hot dinner at lunchtime. Instead, we boiled the billy and sat back to back chewing a lump of damper and thick slices of cheddar cheese.
By the time we reached Bathurst we all began to think about food. People were pouring tea from their Thermoses and unpacking hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches that smelt of corned mutton. They began to talk. One lady asked me if we were going on holiday. Mum then enthusiastically revealed that I was on my way to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, Sydney’s newest and biggest hospital, renowned for many things including the excellence of its nurses’ training school. While I burned with embarrassment – I hate being the centre of attention – Mum went on to say that Royal Prince Alfred girls were the best trained in the whole country because they used the Florence Nightingale methods.
Later, after the smells of food had dissipated and passengers were beginning to doze, Mum seized the opportunity to pass on some last-minute instructions. She was concerned about the problems of bathing bed-bound male patients. Ears pricked up as she explained how no gentleman would expect me to wash his private parts, and any nurse who was also a lady would hand the patient a soapy flannel and look the other way. Other passengers were listening with great interest. Some
reacted with an eruption of stifled coughing. I wondered if they were embarrassed by my mother’s frank advice – as I was. Soon after, Mum settled back. She spread a lawn handkerchief across her face in a futile attempt to filter out the fine coal dust that penetrated the atmosphere of all coal-fired steam trains.
I was of course far too excited to sleep, with so much to look forward to, so much to worry about. What would the other nurses be like? Would they consider me to be a country hick? I feared they would be sophisticated city girls who wouldn’t even bother to talk to me. Was it true that trainee nurses worked twelve-hour shifts and had only one day off each week and sometimes only one day a fortnight? I had heard that the Nurses’ Home doors were locked by nine each night. No chance of getting out. It would be like living in a nunnery.
I thought about poor Dad. Life would be unbearable for him without me. Dad didn’t own Bellara; my mother purchased it with money inherited from her widowed father, a country school teacher. My father was not well educated; in fact almost illiterate. Nevertheless, unlike Tom, I wasn’t ashamed of him. I had learnt from the many books I read when I was still quite young that men who are educated and wear fine clothing are not always gentlemen. This was often the theme of the romance novels that, in those days, I loved.
Walter Howard, my father, was a drover on a big property far out west when Mum met him. She was the governess. He was one of nature’s gentlemen; a kind, thoughtful, strapping, carrot-topped and pleasant-looking young man, five years younger than my mother.
Even as a small child I was aware that my mother despised my father. She barely spoke a civil word to him. As the years passed I often wondered why they married in the first place. Then, the night he spilt the milk – a night emblazoned on my memory – I became aware that my mother must have slept with my father before they were married. She would have had to marry him or lose her reputation as a virtuous woman. Dad spilt the milk seven years ago, when I was eleven years old; yet I can remember that night as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember what happened, and I remember every word my mother shouted.