Eternal Love

by Max Howell

  Occasionally Mark would go to the pre-game rallies, which would be held in Hearst Theatre, near the Stadium. A fire would be lit, and around the blaze thousands of supporters would sit singing ‘Hail to California’, ‘All Hail Blue and Gold’, ‘Fight for California’ and many other ‘varsity’ songs. The clear skies, the fire blazing, the introduction of players and the coaching staff, were all very stirring. One person wrote once that it was a demonstration of delayed adolescence, but if so Mark was happy to have his delayed. He considered the game build-up, and the game itself, as a great American experience, like the hamburger and the hot dog, the Statue of Liberty, and a baseball game at Yankee Stadium.

  There was only one thing that jolted Mark that first year. It was another letter from Frank, who was his only regular Australian correspondent.

  My old mate,

  Here I have been scratching letters out to you once or twice a week, but the bloody postman has not been by the old Flash’s place since Geronimo was routed. There is a rumour you are so bankrupt in Yankee-land that you cannot afford a stamp. We all thought that the streets of America were paved with gold, but you always were colour blind. Listen, mate, if you need a loan I will send you a quid or two, and a pen and paper.

  That Noreen has her hooks into me good and proper. My roaming days are over, mate. I thought I would give up on sheilahs after what happened to you and Faith, but I always was weak, as you know only too well, and she is definitely too strong for me. Talking about Faith, I ran into her mother downtown. I asked her how Faith was, and she said she was living in the country, was happily married and now had a baby. I never will figure that one out, but I knew that I should pass the bad news on to you. So there we are, mate, sorry.

  Word has got back here, though not through you, you bludger, that you are knocking the Yanks over like nine-pins in your studies. They always were a stupid bloody lot. And if you can beat them it just shows you how bad they are. The only good thing they did for Australia in wartime was bring coca-cola and basketball into the country. They knocked off half our sheilahs. They all had sex on the brain, not like you and me, mate.

  St. George is still running away with the premiership in Rugby League, and Randwick keep winning in the Rugby Union. Wally Meagher died at Randwick. He was the old Waratah who coached them, remember him? The players worshipped him. He made more internationals out of that one club than all the rest in Sydney put together: Arthur Buchan, Brian Piper, Col and Keith Windon, Roy Cawsey, Nick Shehadie, Max Howell, Mick Cremin, the list goes on and on. They owed him a thing or two, those players. He was a legend.

  Well, mate, got to go. Must shake hands with a friend of the missus. Look after yourself.

  Your old china plate.

  Flash.

  Happily married! A mother! He shuddered. I only wish it had been me, he thought. We would have been wonderful together. How I would have loved to have shared those experiences with her.

  CHAPTER 9.

  FAITH HAS A BABY, MURRAY

  Toch had more than kept up to his word. He treated Faith with warmth and courtesy, and never at any time tried to take advantage of her. Because of his duties at the farm, he would be up early, and would knock on her door, wait for her to answer, and then take her a cup of tea for her to drink in bed. He always smiled at her and asked her how she felt, and then would leave.

  She always enjoyed seeing him, he was like a brother to her, and she liked his modest and unassuming ways. She also felt safe with him. In appearance and manner, she thought, he is a cross between Randolph Scott, James Stewart and Gary Cooper. Mark would like him, she would often think.

  Mark was never far from her thoughts, and every night at 9 pm she would think of him, recall the love they had for each other, and visualise his face. In the morning, when Toch gave her tea, she would lie in bed and enjoy the warming effect of the drink, and afterwards pull the covers up and think of Mark again. It was a daily ritual.

  She would then take her bath, and dress and go to the kitchen, where Toch would be getting the breakfast. He liked a big breakfast because of the amount of manual labour that he did, and invariably made himself steak and eggs and fried tomatoes with toast, and a big mug of tea. Faith would settle for some more tea, and toast.

  They enjoyed this half-hour together, and would listen to the ABC news, and comment about some of the national and international events. They were perfectly suited to one another, and never once raised their voices in anger or disagreement.

  Toch would then saddle up his horse and with his favourite sheep-dog would canter out to the fields. He rode as if he were born to the saddle, and the horse, ‘Rocket’, responded quickly to any pressure from his hands. Toch’s lean frame looked majestic as he rode away, and as he reached the house gates before the outside paddocks he would always turn and wave to her. She would always wait on the verandah until he had gone, and would wave back to him.

  Faith would clean the house, write a letter or two and read a book, and then get Toch’s lunch. He would come riding in, unsaddle his horse and give it some feed, wash and then would sit down to lunch. Often they would have it on their wide verandah, and Toch would sit on his squatter’s chair with his legs extended, and they would eat and talk for an hour.

  In the afternoon she would do some work around the house, have a rest, and then prepare dinner. Toch would have a few beers on the verandah, and then they would sit down and eat together, and afterwards would retire to their separate rooms. Their friendship ripened as the months went on. They obviously enjoyed one another’s company.

  When her labour pains began her mother, who came up from Sydney to help in the final weeks, rang the doctor, and Faith had the baby in the house. It was a beautiful, healthy boy, 8 lb 1 oz. At the height of her pain, with perspiration covering her body, she cried out, “Mark! Mark! I love you!” Her mother held her hand, re-assuring her, while the baby was delivered.

  When the baby was put into her arms, she cried, because she could immediately see the resemblance of the baby to Mark, and knew how proud he would be. She had lost Mark, but this beautiful, moving, delicate creature would always remind her of him and their love. She knew that she could now face the future. The product of their wonderful love was healthy, and beautiful, and she was overjoyed.

  After she was cleaned up and the doctor left, Toch came into her room. He moved slowly to her bed, looked at her and the baby, and smiled. “Congratulations, Faith, are you all right?” He gently touched her hand and stroked the baby’s forehead.

  “Yes, Toch, I am tired, but I got through it all right.”

  “You did, Faith, and you will pardon me, but I have never seen you so beautiful, and the baby looks better looking than any I have ever seen.”

  “And how many is that, Toch?”

  “Not many, but he is a real dandy. What are you going to call him?”

  “I want to call him Mark, Toch, but I do not think that would be very wise. I have thought about it long and hard, and I think I will call him Murray, after Mark’s very good friend Murray Rose, he admired him so much.”

  “Then Murray it is. It sounds just fine. So now you are a mother.”

  “And Toch, I suppose you are a father.”

  “I guess I am, Faith, and I am very proud, of you and the youngster. I promise I will be the best father in history.”

  “I am certain you will, Toch, I am certain you will. Mum, please take the baby. I feel very, very tired. It has been a bigger strain than I realised.”

  Her mother took the baby from her arms, and said, “You have been very brave, Faith, have a rest and listen, you two, do not forget I am the grandmother.”

  “No I won’t, Mum and thanks for all your help.” She turned her head to Toch: “And Toch, I want to thank you. I, I could not have done it without you. You are a very wonderful man.”

  “Heh, enough of this,” laughed Toch, “being a father is enough for one day. Like grandma says, get a little rest. By the way, I think you are a pretty wond
erful woman.”

  Faith closed her eyes, and fell to sleep, dreaming of Mark. He would be so pleased with the baby he and I made and - yes, he does look like Mark … I can see Mark in his face, and his body … I have Mark with me again, and now it is forever … my beautiful, wonderful baby … our beautiful, wonderful baby … I always said Mark and I will be together forever … we are now … together … together … our baby, our baby …

  CHAPTER 10.

  MARK AND DR HENRY

  Mark continued to bury himself in his work and his swimming. Sometimes he would drop in to see Mrs Stumpf and Dr Cozens in the Physical Education building, and they always stopped what they were doing to talk to him. Whenever he needed advice, their opinions were invaluable.

  Slowly but surely he got to know the entire physical education department: Ralfe Miller, a kindly, soft-spoken man with a bald pate who was always smiling; Ed Nemir, ex-Olympic wrestler, who taught the boxing classes; Henry Stone, who had written books on chemistry, and taught wrestling; Jack Hewitt, who taught the swimming classes; and Lance Flanagan, who taught the tennis. He particularly liked Lance, who was more his own age. Lance would often come down and have coffee with him as he handed out towels as part of his scholarship duties. Lance loved his teaching and was respected by all his students.

  As he watched these men teaching, his eyes were opened up as to how courses could be taught in an interesting way, and he marvelled at their professionalism, and their interest in students. He would participate in their classes when he could, and was surprised at the quality of their work. Mark had taken physical education at school, but now it took on new meaning, as he realized what could be accomplished. He had the experience of an old army type, who gave them old-fashioned drills or threw out a ball and let them play. Those in the Department at Berkeley had systematic progressions in their classes, based on the latest research, and they were all imbued with the zeal of teaching. Mark could see that the generally bored and disinterested kind of teaching he had been subjected to at school could be replaced by a highly motivated, pupil-oriented style. Education began to take on new meaning to him, and Prof Rappaport, in the Department of History, remained a role model in the academic field. Mark became even more an advocate of American education, revelling in its openness, its freshness, and the exchange of ideas that was encouraged. He matured rapidly as he became enthralled in the arts, literature, humanities, the social and natural sciences. A new world opened up for him, a world in which he was continually expanding his own knowledge. What surprised him, however, was how so many of the Americans took it all for granted, and did not appreciate the opportunities with which they were presented. Few worked as fervently as he did, and few could see the wonder of it all. With no coercion, but by observation of the changes that could be wrought by the educational process if approached with enthusiasm and expertise, he found himself inexorably moving towards a career in teaching. The example of George Schroth, Ralfe Miller, Henry Stone, Ed Nemir, Jack Hewitt and Lance Flanagan drew him more and more towards physical education. Mark could see that he could combine his abiding interest in sport with a search for knowledge.

  One book that influenced him greatly was Peter V. Karpovich’s Physiology of Muscular Activity. There were other books on physiology that contained more factual information, but what intrigued Mark were the questions that Karpovich posed, and Mark could see clearly that much of the present knowledge was hypothetical, and there were thousands of unanswered questions. He began to see that continuing research to answer such questions was the key to the educational process.

  It was at this time that Mark came under the influence of a remarkable scholar, Franklin M. Henry. He took a course from him in ‘Physiological Hygiene’, and Dr Henry’s teaching style, which probed and searched, made Mark realise that amidst all the knowledge that was expanding in his head how absymally ignorant he was. He exposed Mark’s limitations, by the Socratic method of questions.

  Dr Henry continually threw Mark off balance. He used cynicism and sarcasm to expose lack of knowledge, and was not backward in embarrassing a student who tried to cover up lack of knowledge by bluff. Dr Henry was different to the other educators he met at Berkeley, and Mark became increasingly attracted to him. Dr Henry, for all his hard-bitten and old-world approach to education, saw the enthusiasm for education that Mark possessed, that desire for learning, and soon befriended Mark.

  He would invite Mark to his office for lunch every now and then, and would pour him a cup of coffee from an old Folger’s coffee can in which he boiled the water over a bunsen burner. The cups were chipped and brown inside from countless pourings over the years. Often-times two others would turn up for lunch, a long and lean woman who did research in physiology with Dr Henry, Dr Janice de Moor, and Dr Rheem Jarrett, an old friend of Dr Henry’s, an expert in statistics, from the Psychology Department.

  Dr Henry was the epitome of scholarship. Even at lunch-time he could not be frivolous, and the hour would pass with the three of them discussing intricate and advanced statistical procedures. It rarely varied, and occasionally Dr Henry would turn to Mark and say: “What do you think, Mark?” Mark would look at Dr. Henry in horror, being unable to make anything intelligible about their conversation. Mark would invariably say he had nothing to add, and then would sit engrossed as the others lapsed into their former academic conversation. Mark felt that he was sitting near greatness, and enjoyed the atmosphere, and the smell of Dr Henry’s pipes, though he often wondered why he was invited, as he could not make any contribution at all.

  As he looked around Dr Henry’s office he would smile, as there was nothing but total disorder. Dr Henry’s desk was a complete shambles, with letters and scientific articles piled two feet high. Yet when Dr Henry was asked for something he invariably and amazingly quickly located it. Scientific equipment was stacked around the room from past and present experiments, and Dr Henry had his own work-shop in the back.

  Dr Henry was engaged at this time in a series of studies of reaction time and movement time, and the specificity of motor skills. It was this area that interested Mark, and also the subject of psychology of sport, which Dr Henry was also pioneering. Mark would observe Dr Henry as he made the research equipment for the use of himself and his graduate students.

  Slowly Dr Henry, a man of unusual modesty, unfolded his own life story. “I guess you might say I was a country boy, brought up in North Dakota. I was always big for my age as a kid, and I was very strong. Here, give me your hand and we will see who has the strongest grip.” He squeezed Mark’s hand. Mark retaliated, but soon gave up. Dr Henry did have, indeed, remarkable grip strength. “But I will not get carried away, Mark, because my own studies are clearly demonstrating the specificity of motor skills. So my hand strength may be superior, but my arm strength average or inferior. We have strengths, not a strength, and the intercorrelations of various strengths are low. The same with balance, flexibility, coordination, and so on. What we have are balances, flexibilities, coordinations, and so on. What you think of as the coordinated athlete, like yourself, for example, is one simply superior in a number of very specific skills.

  “Anyhow, I was big for my age, as I was saying, and the First World War was on. I wanted to do my bit for my country, so I lied about my age and joined up. Maybe they were smarter than me, because they did not send me into the front lines. I would probably have tripped all the land mines and killed a whole battalion, so they made an electrician out of me. That is why to-day I have no trouble constructing my own electrical equipment.

  “When I got out of the US Army I was a qualified electrician, so I started an electrical shop, and I was doing pretty well at it. Then the Depression came, and the business started to go down-hill. Someone offered me a fair price for the business. I talked it over with my wife, Ellen, I was now 35 years of age and with two children, and we decided we would pack up and go to University. Trouble was, I had never passed high school.

  “I had read about the high scholas
tic standards at the University of California at Berkeley, so I appeared here at the campus and went to see the Dean of Undergraduate Studies. I must have looked like a real hay-seed. Anyhow, he was an understanding man and he looked up the regulations of the University and found a loop-hole. There was a contingency clause whereby adults could be admitted to the University for studies who did not possess the normal high school credentials. He sort of compromised, and told me if I took certain high school courses at Berkeley High for a semester and passed them he would allow me in without high school graduation.

  “So I did what he said, and got straight A’s at the School. So here I am now, a Full Professor, third step I might add, which is hard to get in this University and is only given for outstanding scholarship. And I have to admit, I have never even passed high school. Anyhow I got my undergraduate degree at this University in Physiology, and my Master’s and PhD degrees in Psychology. But I can tell you, Mark, those were the Depression years and nothing came very easy. I can see the same sort of drive in you, Mark. You are an Olympic champion who left his country to better himself. Not many do that.”

  “I must say I wonder why you put up with me, Dr Henry,” said Mark honestly.

  “Well, it is a good question, but I can see some of the same qualities that I had, in you. You are here to learn, and that is more than can be said for most of the nincompoops in my classes. Can you believe it, when I start questioning them in class to find the extent of their knowledge they often burst into tears?”