Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  We made arrangements to go to Sydney a few days before Barbara’s wedding. Andrew’s younger sister Imelda had stayed at boarding school, then remained in Sydney for the final wedding preparations after term ended. She was to be a bridesmaid. Following the wedding we planned to drive to Orange with Imelda, and to stay for Christmas at Bellara with Tom. Rose McCann was Tom’s full-time housekeeper, although she went back to her home in town each night to avoid gossip.

  ‘I don’t know why she bothers. If they were going to get up to anything, what’s the difference between night and day?’ I asked. ‘Anyway, Tom would never think of Rose that way. As I said before, Tom is a one-woman man, and he’ll never get over Madeleine.’

  ‘And, as I said before darling, I wouldn’t bet on it,’ replied Andrew.

  We decided to travel to Sydney by train and once there to buy a bigger car. ‘Because,’ Andrew said, ‘now that the family has more than doubled with the twins and Imelda, we’ll need extra car space. And, after we leave Bellara, we can take a leisurely drive home. It will be just like our honeymoon.’

  ‘Not quite, with two babies and a schoolgirl.’

  ‘Oh, well, can’t have everything. By the way, the other day Bill was talking about buying a small car, Jen. How about letting him try out yours?’

  The Sunbeam that I had driven on the fateful day of the twins’ birth had survived. It looked worn and dilapidated, but mechanically it was in pretty good condition despite its near-extinction on the bridge at Twenty Mile Creek. It had reverted to its job as workhorse around the property.

  *

  Barbara’s wedding came at exactly the right time for Imelda, I thought. The headmistress wrote that Imelda had not settled into boarding and was fretting for her family. Fortunately, when the end of year term was over, Imelda, who was staying with an aunt when school finished, didn’t have much time to think or brood about the loss of her mother because she became so involved with fittings for her wedding outfit, kitchen teas and all the other pre-wedding activities.

  The day after the wedding Imelda climbed into Andrew’s new car, on the first leg of her journey to her new home. ‘Thank you, Andrew and Genevieve, I am really looking forward to becoming a country girl.’ The car’s boot was crammed with her belongings.

  ‘Thank heavens for the Nash,’ said a beaming Andrew. The 1922 black square tourer seated seven, had six cylinders and had cost almost a thousand pounds. Andrew was beside himself with glee.

  Eagerly Imelda took both babies into the rear seat with her. She said that already she felt like their big sister. Andrew not being prepared to put his foot down, we drove for most of the day. ‘You have to take it carefully for the first thousand miles, Jen – new cars have to be run in.’

  ‘As long as we get there before dark. The twins need to settle down for the next few days before we begin driving all over the countryside. I wonder if Tom would like to come with us to Cooinda for a few days. He’s never even seen it.’

  We drove into Bellara at six that night. ‘A kaleidoscope of memories,’ I murmured to Andrew. ‘Not all good, though. Poor Tom. How has he really been coping? Has he accepted that he will never see Madeleine again? Has he begun divorce proceedings?’ Tom wrote very few letters and revealed nothing about his state of mind. What had happened to Madeleine? Not a word from her.

  Rose was staying at Bellara that night, as she did whenever there were guests at Bellara. She stood on the veranda waiting to welcome us

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, fussing about something down in the machine shed. He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Typical Tom. How is he?’

  ‘Could be worse, doesn’t say much, never mentions his wife, spends a lot of his time with my Freddy. I think he thinks of Fred as a sort of substitute for his own lost child.’

  ‘How is Freddy? He must be seven by now.’

  ‘Very well. He loves life at Bellara, and I think he loves Tom.’

  ‘Does Tom ever have any friends over?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he has become a bit of a hermit.’

  ‘He’ll buck up now Andrew’s here. They were always good mates.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. What are we doing standing at the door, Genevieve? Come on in and let me see your babies.’

  I looked around the sitting room and felt choked by my memories. ‘I’d quite forgotten how delightful the house looked after Madeleine got stuck into redecorating it.’

  ‘Just a word of advice, Genevieve – please don’t mention Madeleine in Tom’s presence. If you do, he’ll go into one of his black moods. As far as Tom is concerned she’s dead. Once or twice I’ve noticed how upset he gets if anyone is silly enough to ask how she is getting on. She wrote, you know, last Christmas, to ask whether he had started divorce proceedings. Said she would appreciate it if he would sue her for adultery and desertion, and that she would send an affidavit stating she had no intention of ever returning. He just threw the letter into the waste basket, so I read it. He went straight out into the paddocks and didn’t return until the following afternoon. I doubt he bothered to reply.’

  ‘But that was a year ago. Do you think he’s still desperately unhappy?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Madeleine hasn’t stayed in touch with us. She might think we don’t want to know her. She must be impatient to marry her former fiancé. I wonder whether Tom has done anything about the divorce.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Papers would have arrived in the mail and I would have seen them. Anyway, Tom is so bitter that I don’t think he will ever do anything about divorcing her so she can remarry.’

  ‘How awful! I thought by now he would have been over the worst.’

  We had arrived two days before Christmas. I did all my Christmas shopping in Sydney – jumpers for Andrew and Tom, a book for Freddie, a handbag for Rose and riding breeches for Imelda. For my own babies, a bear and a rag doll.

  I had made plans for Christmas and suggested to Rose that a picnic would be a nice change. ‘I think it’s time we forget about the convention of having a formal meal. Who wants to sit in a hot house forcing down thick slices of pork or ham laden with gravy? And, even worse, a lump of heavy pudding lit up with brandy sitting like an erupting volcano in a lake of hot custard. Not me. We’ll go and have a picnic on Mount Canobolas next to the lake. That’s where Andrew and I often went when we were first married, and it will be good for Tom to get away from the place for a few hours.’

  *

  ‘How are you finding Tom?’ I asked Andrew as we were preparing for bed that night.

  ‘I have to say morose and apathetic – hasn’t shown any interest in Cooinda and has hardly glanced at the Nash – unbelievable. The Nash is one of the best cars on the market. I thought Tom would want to try it out, go for a spin – at least say something nice about it.’

  ‘We’ll all go for a spin on Christmas Day. He’ll show some interest then.’

  ‘I have to say, Genevieve, the atmosphere at Bellara is not exactly warm and welcoming. Let’s go home straight after Christmas.’

  ‘Suits me. I have mixed memories of this place. Actually, the only good thing I can remember about it is meeting you here.’

  *

  The extinct volcano Mount Canobolas and its crater lake was only about five miles from Bellara. Cherry orchards covered the slopes and, on the way to the picnic, we stopped to buy a case of dark-red luscious fruit. Much nicer than Christmas pudding, I thought, especially following liberal serves of cold ham, pork and chicken, a variety of fresh salads and Rose’s wonderful home-made breads.

  The men found a small rowing boat tied to a log and inspected it for seaworthiness. They then went rowing on the lake.

  Andrew told me that when Tom asked how things were going at Cooinda, he replied enthusiastically, saying that life couldn’t be better. He asked Tom to visit us, but Tom said that he didn’t want to. He said he was in a rut – didn’t feel like getting out and about; rarely went into tow
n these days.

  Andrew replied that he should make an effort, that it was important to do so. ‘You owe it to yourself; you’re still a young man. Put Madeleine out of your mind, and try to create a new life.’

  Tom replied that it was easy for him to say that and that anyone could see we had made the right choice. Evidently sunk in depression, Tom recalled that he and Madeleine once went for a picnic at Mount Canobolas, which he said had been one of the happiest days of his life. At that time he was confident that things would work out for them. His actual words were: ‘I thought she was beginning to love me – bloody naive fool.’

  ‘I thought I was saying the right thing,’ Andrew revealed to me. ‘I tried to comfort him and said he’d eventually get over his marriage breakdown. I told him it was hard enough for any returned soldier to establish a new life after the war, let alone cope with what he’d had to put up with. I finished up by telling him that things would get better.’

  ‘No, Andrew, things will not get better,’ said Tom. Andrew said that Tom’s voice was thick with emotion and that he saw my brother’s eyes fill with tears. ‘What’s the matter with me? I’ll be blubbing like a girl next,’ Tom said.

  Andrew, disturbed by Tom’s state, said,’You are allowed to show emotion, Tom. If you need to, just let go; nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what the medical officers were advising the blokes in France by the end of the war.’

  ‘Were they? Whatever they say, I doubt if many of our blokes would allow themselves to break down and weep – something to do with the way we were brought up.’

  After that, Andrew said, he fully realised how terribly unhappy Tom was. He passed his oar to Andrew and turned his back on his friend. Tom’s shoulders shook as he tried, without success, to stifle his deep, choking and heart-rending sobs. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said a few moments later. ‘I must be bloody weak – just needed someone to talk to.’

  ‘You’re not weak, you’re normal. Come on, let’s go in and have a beer.’

  *

  We planned to begin a three-day journey home the following day. ‘We’ll leave straight after breakfast.’ Thirty minutes later Andrew said, ‘Trouble is I can’t find Tom. It looks like he hasn’t been near the stables, and his car’s gone.’

  ‘He must have gone over to see Bob.’ Bob and his wife moved in to the old McCann house when he took over from Andrew fifteen months previously.

  We waited an hour before driving over to the house in which we had spent the first few months of our married life. ‘No, not a sign of him,’ said Bob’s wife.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Andrew, who was more than a little annoyed. ‘It’s too late now. We can’t go today; wouldn’t even make it to Dubbo before nightfall. Where the hell could he be?’

  Soon after midday, his irritation changed to anxiety. ‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but I want to take a look at the lake.’

  ‘Why, Andrew? Surely it’s more likely he went to town for something and the car broke down.’

  ‘In that case he’d have gone for help. No, Jen, somebody would have given him a lift home, and they do have a phone at Bellara these days.’

  ‘What if he hit a tree, broke his leg and couldn’t go for help? I want to drive to town first, then if you insist we can go back to the lake, although I can’t think why he would go there.’

  With no sign of Tom on the road to town, we turned towards the lake. There, Andrew’s prescient fears were justified. Tom’s Ford was parked at the edge of the water. The rowing boat was no longer tied to its log. It bobbed upside down about fifty yards from the shore. ‘Oh no! How, why?’ I was frantic as I ran back and forth along the water’s edge.

  Andrew went to the unlocked car. He looked for a sign, a note. Nothing. ‘I should have realised. He was utterly depressed yesterday. Christmas time can be a distressing time for lonely people.’

  Tears were running down my face. I could barely comprehend the implication of Andrew’s words ‘Are you saying you think Tom committed suicide? He’s out there, drowned.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I think it’s probable. Perhaps he stood up in the boat and lost his footing, although why anyone would stand in a boat beats me. The thing is, if Tom drowned by his own hand, it won’t be entirely due to Madeleine. The war would have a lot to do with it. Post-war depression – common enough – although most won’t admit it, not on their lives. Sorry, Jen, no good trying to conjecture. We have to get in touch with the police.’

  The police found Tom’s body a few hours later. I cabled Madeleine, who responded immediately. Her cable, with instructions and requests, arrived the following morning:

  … I want nothing to do with the proceeds from the sale of Bellara. The property is rightfully yours, Genevieve.

  I should tell you, my dear friends, that I have a son, born late September last year. Yes, he is Tom’s boy. Needless to say, I had no idea when I left Australia. I expect he was conceived during those few days two years ago before I became aware that Charles had survived.

  Charles and I will now marry. He is extremely fond of my young son. Charles will adopt Will and I know he will care for him as his own son.

  Charles has not fully recovered his health since his war-time experiences. The doctors say he never will.

  I am utterly shattered by the apparent depth of Tom’s despair. Please both of you forgive me.

  ‘Well, that’s taken the wind out of my sails,’ said Andrew. ‘What a turn of events.’

  ‘Yes, and can you imagine Madeleine’s shock when she was back with her beloved Charles, then found that she was having Tom’s child?’ I replied.

  ‘Must have been a shock for Charles as well.’

  ‘I’ll say. Look, darling, why don’t you go back to Cooinda and take Imelda with you? I’ll finalise things down here. It will probably take a few weeks, and there’ll be an inquest.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. Have you thought about asking Rose to come to Cooinda? She might like that; you’ve always been friends. Rose can help in the kitchen and watch over the babies while you and I work together on the place.’

  ‘Of course, what a good idea, Andrew – sounds perfect, and Freddy would love life on a station. And don’t deny it – you have always preferred Rose’s cooking to mine.’

  The following day Genevieve put the suggestion to Rose.

  ‘I was hoping you would ask, Genevieve. Yes, thank you, we will come. There’s nothing to keep me in Orange anymore.’

  *

  At the inquest a few days later, the coroner brought in a verdict of accidental drowning, saying, ‘There is no reason to believe that this drowning was anything but a tragic accident. There was no suggestion of foul play. The deceased did not leave any material in written form which might suggest he was unhappy or emotionally unstable. Indeed his housekeeper, Mrs Rose McCann, told the inquest that her employer, although always a quiet gentleman, seemed to be in quite a happy frame of mind on Christmas Day. He seemed relaxed with members of his family who were paying him a short visit …’

  A month after Tom’s death with Rose, Fred and the babies I boarded the train to leave Orange for the final time. It was a poignant few moments for me when the train pulled out. I was beset with a thousand memories. The three most prominent were of leaving town eleven years before as an excited and naive eighteen-year-old girl, of leaving again in 1915 when my mother disowned me and of returning after the war to be reunited with my dearest Andrew.

  There were too many memories, too much emotion. I was glad to put the first part of my life behind me and begin again with Andrew and the children.

  EPILOGUE

  ANDREW

  The house has changed remarkably in the last eight years. In 1922 it was rectangular and consisted of two wings, one for sleeping and one for daily living, separated by the foyer behind which were the kitchen and utility rooms. Those wings now form the basis of a U-shaped house. In 1930 there are two forward wings. On one side of the original house there are three extra bedrooms; on the oth
er another bedroom and a school room. All additional rooms open onto extensions of the front veranda at right angles to the original.

  The homestead encloses the front garden on three sides – it’s almost a cloister, and the front veranda is the favourite place for the family to gather on special occasions such as today. Catherine and James are having their eighth birthday. Genevieve and I gave each of them a cricket bat, and after they finish their special birthday afternoon tea there will be a family game in the outer garden.

  Imelda, now twenty-two years old, has just arrived home for the Christmas holidays. She is an English teacher at a girls’ school in Sydney. I can tell that Catherine, most often called Cassie, can hardly wait to sample Rose’s cakes before pitting her cricketing skills against her twin brother – she is a sports fanatic and a tomboy. Cassie has a younger sister and three younger brothers, including the baby Genevieve is nursing.

  I bang the gong that calls the large brood to meals, and Rose arrives on the veranda laden with a tray of food. Imelda rushes over to help her. Genevieve can’t be of much assistance; she’s too occupied with Tom, our baby.

  Two figures arrive at the crest of the hill on which the house stands: a boy of fifteen – Rose’s Freddy. He is with his stepfather, the station manager and my friend Bill Bennett. After tea Rose, Freddy and Bill will return to their cottage built on the site of poor old Albert’s shack and just a couple of miles down the road.

  Jen makes certain that Rose always makes everyone’s favourite chocolate sponge for the main birthday cake. She always fills it with strawberry jam and lots of cream. There are other cakes as well and scones, sandwiches and lemonade. After the party there’s nothing left but a few crumbs so we all move off to the hastily assembled cricket pitch. Before I go to the game I lean towards my wife and baby. ‘Another successful day, darling. Congratulations.’

  ‘I can hardly believe how wonderful my life is here with you and all the children – how peaceful and how happy we all are. Honestly, Andrew, who’d have thought it? And only twelve years since we were in the midst of that terrible war.’