by JB Rowley
“Thanks.”
He began to apply the damp tea towel to the chocolate stain on his mate’s trousers.
“Your bloke in the forces is he?” he asked Myrtle in a friendly tone as he worked.
Myrtle nodded. “He’s in Heidelberg at the moment… for a skin graft.”
“Reckon he’s the lucky one,” said Bob turning around slightly. “He’ll be able to get out soon if he’s got an injury.”
Myrtle smiled.
“I hope so,” she said.
The soldier handed back the tea towel satisfied his friend’s trousers would now pass inspection.
“You’ll be right now, Bob,” he said, slapping his mate’s buttock. “That’ll be dry in no time and no one the wiser.”
After the two soldiers left the compartment Myrtle removed sandwiches and thermos from her bag. She poured herself a cup of tea from the thermos and managed to eat her lunch before the shrill blaring of the guard’s whistle announced the train’s intention to resume its journey.
“Mummy.”
The little girl in the compartment tugged her mother’s dress. The mother sighed.
“What is it, Margaret?”
“I have to go the toilet.”
The woman took the girl’s hand and led her out of the compartment smiling tiredly at Myrtle as she brushed past. The pretty woman in the blue hat was still engrossed in her magazine. Myrtle closed her eyes after the pair had left. A picture of herself standing outside the Children’s Home in Albury reluctant to leave appeared unbidden in her mind’s eye. She had stood there for several hours that day. With an effort she fought back the urge to remember her last parting with the children. She couldn’t cling to that. That part of her life was over. They were better off without her. She replaced the image with one of Lily.
“I’ll write you every week about the kids, Myrtle. I’ll keep you up to date with their little lives.” Myrtle had hugged her cousin gratefully.
“And what about you, Lily? Will you keep me up to date about your life too?”
Lily grinned with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“You’ll come back and be matron of honour for me won’t you Myrtle?”
Myrtle gasped in astonishment.
“What? When? What do you mean, Lily?”
Lily laughed.
“It’s all right, Turtle. It’ll be a year or two. I’ve met this lovely boy.”
Myrtle raised her eyebrows.
“A soldier?”
“Yes, a handsome soldier, Myrtle. He doesn’t know he’s going to marry me yet. I’m not quite ready to settle down.”
Myrtle smiled. Lily was smart, taking her time. So many girls had rushed into marriage before their men went off to fight the war. Now they were widows, or sad and distraught women who waited and hoped, not knowing what had happened to their men. Everyone was so mixed up because of the war, but not Lily. She had her head screwed on as her father would have said.
Myrtle drifted into sleep and dreamed that Lily was standing on a platform as the train passed, holding Noel in her arms, with Bertie and Audrey hanging on to her skirts. Lily waved at her and urged Audrey and Bertie to wave too. “There’s Mummy. Wave to Mummy!” But Audrey and Bertie pouted their lips and refused to wave. Lily lifted one of Noel’s little pink hands and waved it as the train passed the platform.
The dream ended when the rhythm of the train changed, waking her as it slowed down to stop, hissing its arrival at Spencer Street. She would have to change trains here for the last leg of her journey to Orbost. The passengers stood up and began pulling down their bags from the luggage racks. They struggled with their burdens along the train’s narrow corridor and scrambled onto the platform. Myrtle stayed in her seat. She needed time to erase the images stirred by her dream. She waited until the others in her compartment had left and the bustle had died down a little before disembarking.
People crowded the platform, men and women in uniform, old couples, women with children and guards carrying luggage and pushing trolleys. Myrtle made her way with her bags into the waiting room to freshen up. She splashed her face with cold water. Pushing her hair back into place she sat quietly on a seat thinking of George. It felt strange to be in the same city that he was in and not be able to visit him. She wished she could have seen him before continuing on to Orbost. More than anything she wished that they were travelling together but the army was not in a hurry to let him out. He had no choice but to continue to try to get a discharge. They both knew it would not be easy and might take some time.
“But you needn’t worry,” he had said teasingly, “The Man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat. And that’s the way I am about you. I’ll never shift. You’ll always be the only one for me.”
They had decided it would be best if she moved to Orbost to stay with his parents, making it easier for them to keep in touch and George would worry about her less. The sound of whistles blowing urged her out of the waiting room and she made her way through the throngs of people to the next platform. The country train was not as crowded as The Spirit of Progress had been and Myrtle settled in her compartment by the window. It would be another four hours at least before she reached her destination, plenty of time to indulge herself with her memories before she would have to put them aside, lock them away in a secret place in her mind so she could start a new life without looking back. She smiled politely but paid little attention as the other occupants of the compartment entered and hoisted their bags up onto the luggage rack and took their seats.
The guard’s whistle sounded several times and the train pulled out of Spencer Street Station. Myrtle gazed at the passing scenery with unseeing eyes, her mind distracted by thoughts of her children, thinking of their happy times together. She didn’t want to think of any unhappy times but Henry somehow made his way into her thoughts. A few days before she left she had seen him in Dean Street in his army uniform but he crossed to the other side to avoid meeting her. Holding her head high she walked on. I don’t need to cross the street. I can face you Henry Bishop because I haven’t done anything wrong. You have to live with your conscience.
The train rattled along. Brief pictures flashed before her eyes; country houses, gum trees, wattles already in flower, grazing cows and sheep and rolling green hills. Here in this fertile region of Victoria the scenery was different from the dry vegetation she was accustomed to in New South Wales. Light rain washed the countryside and streaked the window, blurring her vision. Myrtle pulled her coat tighter around herself until she felt snug.
No, she thought resolutely, I don’t want to think of Henry Bishop. I want to think of George Rowley. He had brought her happy memories. One of those brought a smile to her lips. The day she told him her news. Even the reports of the allied troops’ successful invasion of Normandy putting an end to Hitler’s march on Europe had not excited George as much as the news Myrtle brought him at around the same time.
“I’m expecting your child,” she told him.
George took his hat off and threw it into the air with whoops of delight. He grasped her hands, spun her around and danced a little jig with her. She was buoyed by his response. Her own initial reaction had been one of excited anticipation yet she also felt apprehensive. Did she really deserve another child? What if she couldn’t love the baby? Perhaps she really wasn’t the right sort of person to be a mother. And what about George? Would he really stay with her? One day he might wake up and realise he was much too good for her.
Her fears increased when he was sent to Heidelberg with a wrist injury. Without his constant attention and support she began to doubt herself, as well as his love, despite the consistent stream of passionate letters he wrote her. In the dark of the night when her fears threatened to overwhelm her Myrtle yearned for her mother’s reassurance and comforting words. She wanted to run to her, to hear her say ‘everything will be all right, love’.
One sleepless night she left her bed and walked along the hall to her mother’s room. She lifted her
hand to knock, then hesitated and turned away. She scolded herself. Whatever is the matter with me, she thought. I am a mother myself. I have given birth to three beautiful children with another one on the way. I have been through hell. Surely I can cope without running to my mother? She padded out to the kitchen in her bare feet and made herself a pot of tea, covering the tea cosy with her hands as she waited for the brew to draw. When her cup of tea was hot and steaming in front of her she remembered her first born; how happy she had been when she gave birth to Bertie and how easily she learnt to be a mother, the happy times she and her son had had together. She remembered Audrey, that sweet little girl she had felt an immediate motherly bond with. She recalled how well she had taken care of them before her troubles started. How lovely they both looked when she took them on outings. Holding the cup in both hands she drew it to her lips, sipping the warm tea gratefully. In the quiet of the night she finally reconciled herself. She knew she could be what she had always dreamed of being—a good mother and wife.
It seemed like so long ago now yet only a few short weeks had elapsed and since that night the path to her new life had seemed to open up before her. Placing a hand over her slightly swollen stomach Myrtle smiled at the memory of her fears and self doubt.
Her new mother-in-law, with whom she had corresponded briefly, had welcomed her with open arms in a letter inviting her to spend her confinement in George’s family home but tactfully offering to find her other suitable accommodation should she prefer it. Myrtle, however, had decided to accept her offer, at least for the time being. George had promised her anything she wanted—anything he could afford anyway. If she experienced any problems she was to tell him immediately… ‘Just let me know, darl, and I’ll try and fix things up for you…’ he had written in one of his letters.
“As far as my parents are concerned,” he had said, “they will not expect you to be anything but yourself. That’s just the way they are.”
Myrtle felt sure things would work out just fine in Orbost. From George’s description and his mother’s letters she knew Olive Rowley was a completely different type of person to Agnes Bishop.
I am so looking forward to meeting you in person dearest Myrtle, she had written. George has talked of nothing else but you in all his letters. You have made him very happy. Mr Rowley and I want to do everything we can to look after you until George is able to return home and take care of you himself. (That he is impatient to do.) We already think of you as our daughter.
Olive sounded warm and welcoming; nevertheless Myrtle was grateful George had agreed to keep her past a secret. He told his parents the army chaplain had married them in Albury. As far as they or anyone else in Orbost was concerned she was Mrs George Rowley—a new bride about to start a family.
The rain had ceased and the train was almost at its destination when she caught a glimpse of the river through the window; the famous Snowy River George had spoken about. They were almost there. The train slowed as it pulled into Orbost Station and rattled to a halt. Behind the railway station sunshine cloaked the green hills and leaves, still shiny and wet from their recent rain bath, with an ethereal glow. Through the carriage window Myrtle glimpsed a rainbow in the sky, its bewitching arc of colours filling her with childlike wonder. ‘God’s promise’, her mother always said. God’s promise there will be no more rain. Despite her lack of belief in a god of any kind Myrtle smiled inwardly. She wanted very much to believe in God’s promise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Dearest Myrtle,
Hello darl, how are you today? It’s the old man again. Gosh that makes me feel old as hell. Ah well, I guess we are getting old aren’t we? Well, love, there’s blokes here getting out every day all around me. There’s two went yesterday and three more today and there’s two more next week. I know, all except me. Guess my turn will come, eh love?
This is one of George’s letters to Myrtle written in 1944 on ACF lettergram from the army camp in Seymour, Victoria. By this time my mother was living with George’s parents in Orbost and had given birth to their first child (Billy). George had an injured wrist that he hoped would be his ticket out of the army and back to his family. The letter continued:
Well darl, is there anything you want or anything about the place you don’t like up there? If there is just let me know and I’ll try and fix things up for you, do my best anyway, Myrtle. Well Myrtle how is Billy? I hope he’s all right. Well, darl I’ll soon know now whether I can get out on my wrist in another 6 or 8 days or so I hope anyway. Well, darling there doesn’t seem much to tell you except this silly sergeant here is trying to make me work hard and I am just not going to do what he wants. I mean I am not going to ruin my wrist for him, hang him. He thinks I am just putting it on and reckons it isn’t really sore at all. Well I’ll give him something to think about. I’ve just been to see the medical sergeant and he’s going to fix it up for me. Well, darl, I hope to see you soon. All my love and kisses from your ever loving husband George. All my love, darl, and young Billy give him my love will you Myrtle.
Lines of kisses adorned the bottom of the letter and filled every available space around the lettergram.
When my father was finally discharged from the army he stayed by Myrtle’s side, doting on her and protecting her, for the rest of his life. He remained committed to her and to his family and did his best to provide for us. As a child I was never aware of our poverty. There was a richness in our household, a wealth of love and laughter and freedom. My parents’ love for each other was always evident. Electricity charged the air when they looked at each other or touched and they treasured shared moments with each other.
The change in Etti after she took up drinking must have had a profound impact on my mother. I can recall her aversion to alcohol. She had extracted a promise from my father that he would not touch the drink. He negotiated one exception—-two bottles of beer on Christmas Day. As far as I know he always kept his promise.
Swearing was also banned in our house yet it was not a home that was constrained by piety and prohibition. The flimsy walls of our bush cottage vibrated with laughter, chatter and family chaos dominated by my father’s vigorous personality. He whistled, hummed and sang and made us laugh. As children we played in the wake of his full enjoyment of life. His sense of mischief and fun delighted us but often took my mother unawares.
When I look back I realise how poor we were and how my parents must have struggled to make ends meet especially with a new baby every few years. Yet with each new arrival I observed my father’s exuberant enthusiasm. He would whistle and sing even more than usual.
He was a man who lived with passion and his deepest passion was his love for my mother. She, though not as transparent, was equally devoted to him.
As a child I was once privy to a secret my parents kept from each other. I noticed my mother was putting aside small change in a large jar. When I asked her about it she, in her usual tight-lipped way, would tell me nothing.
“It’s a secret,” she said. But I pestered her until finally she said, “If you must know. I’m saving to buy something for your father for our anniversary. And don’t you breathe a word, you hear?”
She would not tell me what she wanted to buy him but whenever we went down to the main street she stopped outside the electrical repair-cum gift shop and stared at a very expensive leather tobacco pouch. It was not usual for my parents to buy gifts for each other. They had stopped doing so as the years passed, feeling it more important to put aside any extra money for Christmas presents for the kids. One of my mother’s treasured gifts from my father was a beautiful wristwatch that she always wore. He had bought it for her, she once told me, just after the war.
One morning while my father was at work the wireless went kaput, just refused to speak. My father had a great love for playing the horses, or the gee gees as he called them. He was always searching for that one hundred to one winner and spent hours beside the wireless listening to the races. The day the wireless died was the day
before Melbourne Cup. This was probably my father’s favourite day in the year. He had the day off work and he put on lots of bets. My mother even allowed him to put a bet on for her.
Anyway, the wireless going on the blink at this time was an absolute disaster. My mother immediately took it down to the electrical repair-cum gift shop. But... bad news! A vital ingredient had died and would have to be replaced. My mother looked sad when the man in the shop told her how much it would cost. She took the wireless back home. When my father came home for lunch, he discovered the wireless wasn’t working but my mother told him not to worry, it was probably just some water splashed up from the sink and when it dried it would be fine.
When he had gone back to work I saw her go to the jar of silver and copper coins. She carefully stacked the money and counted it all. Then she took the money and the wireless back to the repair shop. Later she returned with the wireless and placed it carefully in its usual spot. The glass jar was empty.
My father finished work at three in the afternoon that day and I was allowed to walk home with him. One of my brothers had to walk to the top of the hill with me and watch until I was safely at the back yard of the hotel. My father had a twinkle in his eye and looked excited.
“Hello Brigid,” he said. My father always called me Brigid and I never found out why.
Then he said. “Want to come shopping with me?”
Well, I was excited. Going down the street with my father was fun. He knew so many people, all sorts of interesting characters. He often popped his head down little lanes where groups of men would be smoking and talking and throwing coins in the air.
On this particular day though he went straight down the main street to the jeweller’s shop. My father, going into jeweller’s shop! This was an occasion!
We stood in front of the window and he stared for a long time at a beautiful brooch. It was a mixture of amethyst and diamonds, at least what looked like diamonds, cast together like a bunch of violets, my mother’s favourite flower.