Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  ‘Don’t stay away for too long,’ Madeleine said, as we drove away from the wedding reception. ‘You have to be home, Genevieve, in case it’s early.’

  ‘We’ll be back in plenty of time, and we’ll stay for a few months to give Tom time to find a replacement for Andrew.’

  *

  While we were on our honeymoon, Madeleine worked tirelessly to give us a surprise – a small but charming first home. She didn’t like the idea of us leaving in a few months time. She told me that the thought of being alone with Tom and her baby didn’t thrill her at all. All the bachelor-style furniture, purchased for the McCann home only a few months before, had to go. Madeleine insisted we had to have a ‘civilised’ bathroom, a wider veranda, longer curtains, deeper rugs and a bigger bed.

  On our return, it soon became apparent to us that Tom had barely tolerated her frenzied efforts and objected strongly to her reckless spending. Madeleine had ignored him.

  We had a cup of tea with her before unpacking and settling into our delightfully renovated home. Madeleine was on the settee with her feet up when we arrived. She asked me if I’d mind pouring the tea because she had a rather severe headache and her legs were slightly swollen. If I hadn’t been so taken up with Andrew and our happiness, I would have been more observant.

  The following morning, Andrew went off early to meet Tom. I spent most of the morning in our home, then called in to the homestead. Almost immediately, Madeleine said, ‘Tom’s such a grouch. Preparing your house helped to pass the time. I can’t be expected to lie here with my feet up every hour of every day.’

  It seemed Madeleine genuinely believed she would be unable to cope without me being on hand. It wasn’t only the fear of coping with a baby that worried her. The prospect of being left alone with Tom troubled her. She revealed to me that her marriage still wasn’t living up to the least of her expectations. Once again ensconced on a settee, Madeleine said that these days Tom liked to keep very much to himself; he never confided in her. I tried to brighten her up, pointed out that Tom had always been inclined to be introverted.

  ‘Already, Tom is regretting his decision to marry me, just as I regret my rash decision to come to Australia and get tied up with him. I was fond of him, Genevieve, but even that’s changing. At times when I wake up in the morning I’m almost glad he rose early and has gone for the day. I’m sick of pretending interest in him and his sheep.’

  It didn’t augur well for their future. I did my best to comfort her by pointing out that things looked bleak because she was tired, not tired of Tom, but tired from the tremendous load she was carrying around. I assured her that I was confident things would change when the baby was born.

  Despite my predictions, Madeleine kept up her criticism of Tom. She complained that he rarely laughed or even smiled. She pondered aloud, what had happened to the man who pursued her so relentlessly? She revealed that night after night he buried his head in a book or newspaper. She suspected he was willing, even eager, to suspend their sexual relations as her pregnancy progressed.

  ‘You know what I now think, Genevieve? I have stripped him of his manhood – that must be the answer. He has given up hoping. He believes that, for me, he will always be only second best. And of course he is right, but he shouldn’t be jealous of a dead man. He should talk to me. Why won’t he talk to me? Why won’t he reveal his sense of despair – if that is what he feels?’

  It was dreadful to see the deterioration in their relationship. I begged her to talk to him, to assure him that she no longer thinks of Charles.

  ‘But that’s a lie. I can’t say that because I never stop thinking about him. Even when Tom and I are making love I close my eyes and try to imagine it’s Charles I am with. Maybe he suspects that is what I am doing, although how could he know?’

  She must have been lonely and very unhappy because she confided intimate details of their life to me, something she had never done in the past.

  ‘I have been desperate for his total love, Genevieve. But Tom only thinks of his own feelings these days. He feels rejected, so he draws away from me. I know he thinks that because we are married, I put up with loving him only because it is my duty. That’s what he thinks; how can one talk about love and duty in the same sentence? And he is not prepared to express his need for me because then I will consider him weak. He is like a piece of stone. When I ask him to love me, when I accuse him of wishing we’d never married, he replies that I am being childish. He says, “I am simply tired and don’t want to risk danger to the baby by making love to you.”

  ‘But you see, Genevieve, it’s not only a matter of making love. I miss those intimate signals that should occur between couples that tell of love and regard. A look, a touch, words spoken with overt affection.’

  As Madeleine often did these days, she burst into tears. Said she was desperately homesick, disliked life in country New South Wales and missed the soft green colour of England. She wondered whether it would be different if they moved to the city away from the thousands of flies that swarmed all over this place.

  ‘Farming is Tom’s life. You can’t expect him to move to the city.’

  She went on and on about moving to the city because there was so much to put up with on the land. The intense summer heat, snakes and spiders; not just harmless spiders similar to those back home, but ugly, hairy, deadly creatures that could kill you within fifteen minutes of biting you. ‘I hate every minute of it, Genevieve.’

  I suggested she might take regular breaks in the city. It was such a sad situation. Madeleine’s way of thinking was foreign to me. I loved the country and never wanted to leave it.

  ‘And I can’t get any relief from these cursed headaches.’

  ‘What headaches?’

  ‘They never stop. Piercing damn headaches from morning to night.’

  I looked closely at her. Her face and body were swollen – unnaturally so. I thought, this is not merely over-eating. ‘Move that rug aside. Stand up, Madeleine.’

  I’d rarely seen ankles so swollen. I didn’t know a lot about midwifery unfortunately, but I had heard of eclampsia. ‘Madeleine, when did you last see your doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know. About a month ago.’

  ‘Well, it’s time you saw him again. There’s tons of excess fluid in your body, which is not only dangerous to you but also to your baby. And I think your blood pressure is too high, which would be the cause of the headaches. Do you have any other symptoms or signs that may indicate a problem?’

  She sat down again. I quickly put her feet up on a pile of cushions.

  ‘Well, I’ve begun vomiting again – that’s normal, isn’t it? – and I might need glasses because sometimes I have flashing lights in front of my eyes.’

  Within minutes, I had her tucked into the passenger seat of my little car. We left Rose to look after Tom. I drove into town and the doctor.

  *

  Tom brought Madeleine home a month later. She’d had an emergency Caesarean section. It was a well-developed boy, born dead, suffocated with insufficient oxygen. It was a common enough story. The tragedy brought them closer together. Both Tom and Madeleine tried hard, during those last weeks of 1920, to care for one another. Tension in the house lessened. They were beginning again. Andrew and I began making firm plans to move up north to our new home.

  Then, out of the blue, a change for the worse occurred for no apparent reason. Madeleine became listless. She paid scant attention to Tom, to us, to the home and to her friends in town. I, having only once before seen Madeleine in a similar state (on learning that Charles was missing, presumed killed), wondered what on earth was the matter. Was she suffering from a form of post-natal depression? I had heard that occasionally this occurred after the birth of a child and may well be worse after the death of a new-born. Madeleine seemed hugely depressed. She wasn’t eating; she was losing weight and often stayed in bed both day and night. Andrew thought she needed psychological help.

  He said that was one good thing to
come out of the war: a far greater understanding of psychological needs. He told me that in 1914 soldiers were shot for cowardice if they were unable to cope with life in the trenches. By the end of the war, the authorities understood that their behaviour had nothing to do with cowardice. Tom and I agreed. We thought Madeleine should see a specialist in Sydney and have a quiet holiday in the city at the same time.

  Madeleine was more than willing. ‘Thank you, Genevieve, I do believe I will go to Sydney for a few days. I’m sorry to be such a bother.’

  Madeleine was pulling out of her catatonic state; behaving in almost her former brisk and confident manner. It was as if a great burden had lifted from her.

  CHAPTER 32

  MADELEINE

  I stayed away for a week and did all that I planned to do. Genevieve drove into town to meet the train on my return. Soon after we began the drive home, she said that I was looking much brighter and asked me what the doctor said.

  I had already decided that the only way to deal with her inevitable questions was to be perfectly honest. ‘I didn’t see a doctor; it wasn’t necessary. I had a problem, and I wasn’t sure of the solution. Once I made up my mind the worst was over. I have done what I had to do.’

  Genevieve didn’t have the slightest idea about what had been troubling me.

  ‘Well, whatever was worrying you, I’m glad to see you have been able to put it behind you. Andrew and I will leave Bellara soon, and I am sure the problems you and Tom had are now all in the past.’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t be like that.’ I suspected that in the next few moments my friendship with Genevieve would come to an abrupt end.

  We were only a short distance out of town. Genevieve pulled the car over to the side of the dirt road and turned off the engine. She turned towards me. ‘What do you mean?’

  I opened my handbag and took out an envelope. It was a letter I had received from my cousin Margaret a month before. I said, ‘Read this, please, Genevieve.’

  The letter was dated 10 December 1920. Genevieve read:

  Madeleine my dear,

  Everyone here hopes all is well with you and that your baby, who may well be born as I write, is healthy.

  My dear, the main reason for this letter is that I am frantic to tell you the most amazing piece of news. Guess who turned up last night? No, you could never guess. It was Charles Phillips, Charles Phillips – back from the dead, you could say, and not looking too bad considering what he’s been through.

  Well, you can imagine our shock! (I thought I was seeing a ghost when I first saw him enter the room.) Charles is staying at Malcolm Cameron’s place (you remember him). Malcolm said that Charles has had some complex brain injury. There’s a piece of metal in his head. The doctors say it would be too dangerous to try and remove it. Apparently brain surgery is rarely successful. The thing is, darling, he can’t speak – well, not properly. Some medical person is teaching him to say the odd word, but it doesn’t sound exactly natural, rather sort of toneless and guttural. He has learned sign language and converses fluently with people who understand that – but I don’t know anyone in our set who knows the first thing about that form of communication. The other thing is that his memory was completely erased for about three years and has only recently returned.

  Now that Charles’s memory has been so miraculously restored, he has forgotten completely about the time between his accident and his return to normality earlier this year. Apparently that often happens. Strange how the mind works, isn’t it?

  He was told by army officials that when he turned up in Calais soon after the Armistice he was able to indicate to the doctors his approximate whereabouts during the previous eighteen months. I understand some Belgian farmer looked after him. He has now forgotten all the details of his time in Belgium.

  Malcolm said Charles knew you had married because almost the first thing he asked about, on the return of his memory, was your whereabouts. When they told him that you had married and gone to live in Australia, he didn’t speak of you again.

  When I met him I decided, rightly or wrongly, to tell him about the imminent arrival of your baby. Because he can’t communicate in the normal way, it was most difficult to judge his reaction. We’re all waiting impatiently to hear of the birth of your baby; get Tom to send us a cable at once.

  No more news at present, dear – but isn’t life incredible?

  We hope you all have a happy Christmas.

  Your loving cousin

  Margaret

  Genevieve refolded the short letter. I steeled myself for what was to come.

  ‘Yes, life is incredible. I should think you’d be delighted, Madeleine, delighted that Charles is alive and comparatively well.’

  I knew I was in for the fight of my life and I’d prepared for it. ‘Genevieve, I don’t think you understand. Charles is the only man I ever loved and ever will love. I’ve been nearly out of my mind for the last month while I was finally making up my mind. Oh God! How I wish I never married Tom.’

  I took a deep breath and told her of the decision I had come to in Sydney; the only decision that I believed was possible, which was that I simply had to be with Charlie. I rushed on the way one does when one is excited and can’t bear to be interrupted. I said that I had booked a berth on a ship that would be sailing next week.

  She was gazing at me as if I had lost my head. So I said that I was sorry. I knew she was going to try to dissuade me, but anything else was unthinkable.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? I can’t believe I’m hearing this, Madeleine. You are a married woman, and you are sitting here calmly discussing how you intend leaving your husband to return to England to live with another man. What are you thinking about?’

  I was fighting for my future, the only future I wanted. I said that I was thinking about poor Charlie, thinking about what he’d been through and thinking about how much I loved him and wanted to care for him.

  ‘What about giving a thought to Tom? What about your marriage vows?’

  ‘What about you try and put yourself into my place, Genevieve?’ I was shouting. ‘What if Andrew had come back from the dead after you married someone else just because you were so lonely – that doctor, for instance?’

  I took several deep breaths and began again more quietly. I told her that Tom knew I didn’t love him; I had made no secret of the fact. I had been fond of him, never more than that. And I said that, despite outward appearances, I was not a secure person, and Charlie understood that. He understood my weaknesses and my strengths. I continued by saying that I had never really had one completely happy day since I lost Charlie. I was alone – adrift – and then Tom loomed on the scene. I grabbed him because I was drowning in sorrow.

  Genevieve was silent for ages. She obviously hadn’t entirely given up. ‘Madeleine, have you given any thought to what this will do to Tom?’

  ‘I am thinking about what will be best for everybody. We all have different needs. I wonder how those who will criticise me would behave in the same circumstances. Charlie needs me; I need him. Tom will soon find he is better off without me.’

  I could see that Genevieve felt at a complete loss. I was distressed about that. I began to sob; it wasn’t as though my decision had been an easy one. Genevieve put her arms around me. ‘I just don’t know what else to say, Madeleine, except that, if you leave, I don’t think Tom will ever get over it.’

  ‘He will. He’ll have to; my father survived when my mother ran off.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should have told Tom before you booked your passage?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I should have. Why don’t you turn the car around and take me back to the station? I’ll return to Sydney and write him a letter.’

  ‘Sorry, Madeleine, out of the question. That’s a coward’s way out. We’re going home. You have to tell Tom the truth.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Andrew drove me to the station. Tom, who was now sleeping in another room and eating at odd times –
certainly not with me – left the house early that day. Hardly a word passed between us after the terrible night when I told him I was leaving, that I had to go. He simply walked out of the room, his face expressionless, while I was trying to make him understand. He said nothing, showed no emotion. I could have been saying I was going to a luncheon in town.

  Genevieve came over with Andrew; they stowed my cases in his car. They both tried to act as normal, although the strain between us was patently obvious. I couldn’t wait to be away, and I’m sure they felt exactly the same.

  I was thinking that Tom might remarry; I hope he does. I hope he realises we would never have had a successful marriage. Andrew shook my hand, and after putting the cases on the train, he said, ‘Good luck, Madeleine.’ We said little else of consequence. What could I say? What could he say? The time for recriminations and apologies was over. I didn’t look back as the train drew out of the station.

  *

  In fact, I tried hard not to look back at all on my voyage home. I tried to think only of the future. In Australia, I learnt about disillusionment. Soon after making my marriage vows I realised that I was in a prison of my own making. I was released by the miracle of Charlie’s survival and determined to make up to him for the terrible period of loneliness he had suffered knowing I had abandoned him. What must life be like for him now? A sick and lonely man who eventually came home from the war to find his fiancée gone, married and, as far as he knew, even with a child. Oh Charlie, please forgive me for not waiting. But was my behaviour so abnormal in these out-of-the-ordinary times? Even his mother had given up hope and suggested I try to make a new life. We’d had a memorial service. Was it such a bad thing I did?

  On the voyage home I kept very much to myself. When passengers invited me to join them for this and that on board, I refused. ‘I am recovering from a loss,’ I always said. I didn’t write to Margaret or anyone in the family. I hadn’t told them about losing the baby, and I wasn’t going to tell them that I was returning to England. Not yet.