Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  ‘Coming out to visit the Australian side of the family, is she?’

  ‘No, says she is thinking of marrying a chap she met during the war.’

  For the cocktail party Madeleine wore a shimmering, slinky emerald gown with a deeply cut V-neck and no sleeves. I thought she really did look ravishing, and soon joined the group of sycophants surrounding her. Deprived of all social contact for almost two years, especially female, I decided I didn’t mind hubris, and would rather enjoy a harmless fling. I invited her to join me for a drink after dinner. She accepted.

  Later, in answer to my questions regarding her future plans, Madeleine was unusually frank. She said she wasn’t sure whether she would stay in Australia for the long term. She was actually half-engaged to an Australian; but the trouble was she wasn’t sure of her feelings. She told me her English fiancé was killed in 1917, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being left an old maid. She also told me what I already knew. Most of her set – the young, wealthy scions of the landed gentry – were dead, so she’d probably end up settling for this chap.

  ‘Be a bit of a challenge, don’t you think? He’s a farmer. Quite well off, of course.’

  I didn’t comment; thought her attitude was, to say the least, unusual. And I wondered whether many women who had lost their fiancés were as pragmatic as Madeleine. It seemed she had plenty of money, but for those who didn’t, would they marry without love, for security only? It was a subject to which I’d never given much thought; although I imagined that with so many dead, many women would never find someone to love. If they didn’t find a second best their destiny would possibly be a position – a live-in one – as maid, cook, housekeeper, governess or nurse. Others might just stay in their childhood home caring for elderly parents. What a frightful future they had to look forward to because of the war; so many people not only dealing with the tragic loss of loved ones but also coping with living alone. Lives would be changed irrevocably, for this generation and the next.

  I was fortunate. I had relatively few health problems from my experiences in Germany. I was repatriated to England in June 1919, quickly debriefed and freed. Like so many others, I travelled around the country filling in time sightseeing until my embarkation. I was able to put my worst experiences well down into my subconscious, although I couldn’t face the thought of travelling to Wales. I had no wish to meet Gareth’s fiancée, who would have no doubt questioned me about the way he died.

  It was during those weeks touring the British Isles and walking through the hills and dales of Yorkshire that I seriously considered an alternative way of life. The idea of farming appealed greatly.

  I changed my mind about flirting with Madeleine while we were on board; that poor bastard back home deserved some consideration. It sounded as though he was heading for a rather shaky marriage.

  *

  On a wonderful warm summer’s day with a cloudless sky even more intensely blue than I remembered, the ship sailed through the discreet entrance to Sydney’s marvellous harbour. As excited as a child, I looked in every direction at the vast waterway ringed by its incredible variety of bays, each with its own unique beauty and charm. It looked exactly as I had envisaged during those long months in that cold, damp prison cell. Within minutes I recognised my childhood home set on the heights above Watson’s Bay; from its front rooms one could look across the harbour towards and beyond the city. I had an almost irrepressible urge to wave and call out ‘coo-ee’ but knew that nobody would be at home; they’d all be down at the wharf waiting to greet the ship. I felt a warm glow of anticipation, imagined my mother and two sisters delirious with excitement, and couldn’t wait to hug them all before going home at last.

  The pier was packed with noisy, exhilarated people, not least of whom was my twelve-year-old sister, Imelda. At first, I didn’t recognise the child jumping up and down with excitement and waving vigorously to all and sundry on board until I saw my mother and other sister, eighteen-year-old Barbara, standing together, trying to calm her. Standing next to Barbara another girl, vaguely familiar, one I had almost forgotten, my girlfriend way back in 1914 – hadn’t thought of her for years.

  My mother didn’t appear to have changed, still beautiful, still youthful looking, slim, hair still blonde, although faded in colour – and not yet fifty years old. She married in 1890 when only eighteen and had been a widow since 1915. Alternately she waved her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  I leant over the railing and waved back enthusiastically. How strange it must be for them to be here waiting to greet me having been told, two years before, that I had been killed in action. And how strange for me, only four months since being released from prison and now safely home. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

  Before the ship tied up, I found Madeleine and wished her, regardless of her decision for her future, the best of good fortune. Later, I watched as she disembarked. She looked stunning as usual, this time wearing a white summer linen suit and emerald-green linen cloche with white trim. At the bottom of the gangway I saw a man hurrying towards her. ‘Good God,’ I muttered. It was Tom Howard, my old friend and comrade.

  In a moment Tom had Madeleine in his arms and was kissing her apparently oblivious to the crowd around them. It was clear that Tom was the man to whom Madeleine was betrothed but didn’t love. Poor Tom! I wondered what chance of success a marriage without love would have. Wasn’t it too big a risk to take? Certainly not the sort of risk I would ever consider taking.

  I turned away. All thoughts of Tom and Madeleine vanished as I made my way to the gangway to be reunited with my family.

  CHAPTER 23

  MADELEINE

  The day before we arrived in Sydney, I thought, ‘I’ll stay on board; I won’t even meet him.’ I wanted to back off, sail home, instal myself in some pretty village and forget all about Tom Howard. I was feeling guilty and disloyal to the memory of Charlie. I asked myself over and over how could I have considered, for one moment, marriage to Tom?

  What should have been a pleasurable journey to Australia turned out to be, in many ways, a wretched one. There were few men on board; most having left England months before, as Tom did. Instead, the ship was full of war brides, both English and French. How I envied the stars in their eyes when they spoke of their Australian soldier husbands and their anticipation of a romantic reunion and the marvellous life they expected to lead in a land of sunshine. Australia, they said, was a land with so much space that everybody owned a home with a substantial plot of ground around it; homes nothing like the cramped terraces from which many of the brides had come.

  I envied their eager expectation and was certain my decision to come to Australia was wrong. As the ship steamed along the east coast of Australia I was in a panic. What would I do? It turned out that all the passengers wanted to celebrate the last night on board. Not me. I stayed in my cabin and deliberated about the future.

  It was exactly a year since the Armistice and more than three years since our last meeting yet, alone in my cabin, thoughts of Charlie tortured me, and tears rained down my face. That night was a sort of epiphany for me. Finally I accepted that I had to break from the past and look to a future with Tom. That night, I swore to put Charlie out of my mind forever and do what Genevieve asked: ‘Give Tom a chance.’ No one would ever know that throughout that voyage my thoughts had been consumed by Charlie. But, I vowed silently, not any more. I will marry Tom and grow to love him.

  A few hours later, I walked off the ship, certain that I would spend the rest of my life with Tom in Australia. I saw him pushing through the crowd as I walked down the gangway. He waved his arm and called to me. I took a deep breath, smiled and waved. I’d forgotten what a fine-looking man he was, so much more so now he was back in his own home doing the work he loved. He was tall and lean and his body deeply sun-tanned. His looks were appealing; his body excited me.

  Perhaps he had been right when he said it didn’t matter that I didn’t love him yet, because he had enough love
for both of us. I hoped he’d been right because I was aching for physical love and wanted very much to be shielded and protected for the rest of my days by a loving husband. ‘I’m so happy to be here, Tom.’ I smiled into his animated face. ‘I have really missed you.’ I was engulfed in the charged emotion that emanated from the hundreds of loving couples standing together on the wharf oblivious to everyone except the one with whom they wanted to spend the rest of their lives. I sincerely meant what I said.

  We lunched at a hotel in town, after which he drove me to the home of my cousins, relatives of my mother. He said,’They asked me to stay for dinner, and of course I accepted.’ We pulled up outside a brick home with a red-tiled roof set behind a stone fence and spacious lawn.

  ‘However, after tonight, darling, I want you to myself, night and day. I do not intend letting you out of my sight until you agree to marry me.’

  Tom turned up at the family home each morning with plans for diverse outings. I questioned him continuously. ‘If I marry you, Tom, what sort of social life will we have? What do squatters do to amuse themselves?’

  ‘You may do whatever you like, my darling. I don’t socialise very much; don’t have the time. But you’ll find plenty to keep you interested. The garden needs attention. And there’s a tennis court, a bit run-down I have to admit, and you can always drive into town. We’re about eight miles out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Not quite what I meant. ‘I heard on the ship that polo is quite popular.’

  ‘Yes, it is with some. I haven’t time for that sort of thing. Some of the graziers do quite a lot of socialising. They hunt, attend country balls and play polo. If that’s what you want, Madeleine, I’ll not stop you.’

  ‘Describe Bellara to me, Tom.’

  I was having difficulty envisaging a colonial homestead. I knew the country homes in Australia were nothing like Morton in style. It was difficult to imagine not going up to bed and having the servants’ quarters adjacent to ours. I’d heard the homes were surrounded by wide verandas and imagined naively that was the Australian form of entertaining, alfresco style. I imagined all rooms would be spacious and airy as they were at Morton; although I couldn’t quite imagine what architectural device would be used to separate the kitchen and servants’ quarters from the more formal entertaining areas and the bedroom wing.

  Tom appeared less than enthusiastic about describing his home. ‘The place probably needs a woman’s touch. I asked Genevieve to do it up a bit before you arrived, but she said you would want to plan your own renovations.’

  ‘Well, of course I would.’

  I wasn’t going to keep Tom waiting for my decision. The cousins with whom I stayed were a lot older and had little in common with me. They knew very little about their flighty aunt (my mother) who left her marriage and her infant daughter, and they were probably too embarrassed by her reprehensible behaviour to talk about it.

  Tom drove me from one end of the city to another and through many suburbs. I have to say I was disappointed by Sydney, despite its harbour. ‘There’s an awful sameness about the place, isn’t there, Tom? Apart from the homes near the harbour, the houses seem very cramped, and the actual city is small, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not so small, Madeleine,’ Tom said huffily, ‘and they do say Sydney is one of the world’s most attractive cities.’

  I didn’t agree. I thought the place bore no resemblance to what I had grown up with in Knightsbridge – and that was a pity – but as Tom seemed very sensitive about the subject I refrained from further comment. Tom was a fine man; I was extremely fond of him. There was no point upsetting him by criticising his country. Anyway, there was a lot to be said for staying in Australia, such as sunshine for much of the year, and wouldn’t that be a pleasant change? And life in the country, judging from what I’d heard on the ship, sounded not unlike county life at home, with polo to watch, hunting to hounds, country picnic races and balls to attend.

  Four days after my arrival I decided to put Tom out of his misery. I said, quite pragmatically, ‘I’ve made up my mind to marry you, Tom, if you’ll have me knowing I’m not yet in love with you. I’ll do my best to make you happy, and I’m looking forward to country life.’

  ‘Maddy darling, I can’t express to you how happy you have made me.’

  As soon as he uttered that name my feelings for Charlie flooded back. Instantly, I regretted my decision. I would never forget Charlie. What on earth was I thinking about? Marriage to Tom wasn’t going to work. How dare he use Charlie’s special name for me. Tears filled my eyes. ‘Don’t ever call me “Maddy”, Tom; it’s not your right.’

  ‘OK with me, if you don’t like it, Madeleine.’

  I was ashamed. He was so amenable and full of good spirits. Having no idea of what or who I had been thinking of, Tom was overflowing with the joy of life. I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Anyway, it was too late to change my mind. I had to live with my decision and hope that, in time, I would get over my misgivings about our future.

  We drove home to Bellara within a week of my arrival. I can’t say I was exactly taken with my first sight of my future home. It was a lot smaller than I thought, and I didn’t fancy the iron roof, which, I soon discovered, made conversation virtually impossible during heavy rain. Genevieve, busy with preparations for a welcome-home feast, rushed out of the house as soon as she heard the car coming up the drive, and we fell into one another’s arms.

  I’d never before felt so hot. I said so as I looked around at the brown, parched paddocks, wilting lawn and heat haze that shimmered over the land as far as one could see. ‘I suppose we have ceiling fans, do we?’

  ‘No, we don’t even have a punkah wallah.’ Tom, obviously sensitive to any criticism of his beloved Bellara, as well as his beloved country, replied with a slight edge to his voice.

  ‘Not yet, Madeleine,’ Genevieve responded quickly. ‘We thought you’d like to make the important decisions about furniture and fittings.’

  ‘Quite right.’ I walked up the steps on to the front veranda. ‘I always imagined the house surrounded by wide verandas, somewhere we can entertain. It’s not a very big house, is it?’

  ‘You can have a wider front veranda if you like, and we can put verandas at the sides of the house if that’s what you want.’ Tom was obviously disappointed at my reaction. ‘But people don’t usually entertain out of doors in the country; the mozzies would eat you alive.’

  I turned to Genevieve. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s talking about mosquitoes; they’re very bad in summer.’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought about mosquitoes.’ Just another thing I would have to learn to contend with. I entered the darkly furnished sitting room and thought it was awful. ‘Quite small, isn’t it, for an entertainment room?’ I looked at the furniture. ‘Would you mind, Tom, if we send these chairs and things off to the needy? I’m sure there’d be plenty of people who would appreciate them. We’ll order completely new furniture when we’re on our honeymoon in Sydney, won’t we, Tom?’

  *

  We married in Orange in late January 1920; not a very big wedding, just a few graziers and one or two people from the town. Genevieve agreed to stay on at Bellara until we returned in February from the honeymoon and shopping expedition.

  CHAPTER 24

  GENEVIEVE

  I drove my small car to Sydney soon after Tom and Madeleine returned. Rose and her son came along for a short holiday. They planned to take the train home after Rose had shown Freddy the beaches and the zoo.

  Alistair and I had written to one another regularly. His letters, despite my hopes, hadn’t made me fall in love with him, and I knew mine were bland.

  A small private hotel called the Chelsea was situated quite close to the city and almost adjacent to the harbour. At the Chelsea, there were eight lady permanent residents, all considerably older than me. Only two worked; they were teachers. The others were more elderly, widows or spinsters who spent their days taking short walks in the nearby ha
rbour side park or in convivial conversation over cups of tea or sherry before dinner.

  I thought private hotels were a marvellous idea for ladies who might otherwise lead lonely lives in the family home following the deaths of aged parents they had cared for throughout their adult life. The bedrooms were reasonably large; there were two guest bathrooms along the corridor and a stand for pitcher and basin in each room. The dining room was a perfect size for ten guests seated at small individual tables. The sitting room overlooking the park was more than adequate for genteel companionship. The trouble was I was too young to live like that.

  I contacted Alistair as soon as I settled in. He immediately suggested we have a reunion dinner that night. Of all places, he chose the Metropole Hotel. Such turbulent memories of five years before; it was almost impossible for me to believe what had happened to me in the following years. I had been such a parochial young woman then – and naive. Quickly, I dismissed from my mind thoughts of when I broke the rules with Gordon.

  The atmosphere in the Metropole was entirely different in 1920. No men in uniform, no sense of urgency, simply an elegant dining room with well-heeled Sydneyites indulging themselves at the city’s best hotel restaurant. And this time I was with a charming, intelligent and humorous man who I might one day come to love, who was twenty-two years older than me, almost the same age as my father would have been. Madeleine says the age difference is too great. ‘Don’t rush in, Genevieve. There are plenty more fish in the sea,’ she said more than once.

  But that was not so. There were not many men about. Half of those who went away were either killed or wounded. Sixty thousand of my countrymen were dead, and that meant many young Australian women were destined never to marry. It’s true I was considering marrying Alistair, but not simply for companionship or security. I admired him greatly, although confess I was worried about my lack of sexual desire for him. Was that compartment in my life closed forever? Did it come to an end on the night I was attacked, or when Tom told me that Andrew was dead? Did it begin to diminish after my experience with Gordon? No, that wasn’t so – my sexual longing was apparent to me that evening with Andrew in Calais. I hope he wasn’t aware of it.