by JB Rowley
“You like that brooch, Brigid?” he asked me.
I just shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t really my sort of thing.
“Do you think if you were older, you know, like a mother, you would like it then?” he asked.
I said yes, if I was that old I’d probably like it.
Then we went into the shop. Seeing all the watches on display under the counter I suddenly remembered my mother’s watch. It had stopped working a few days before and she hadn’t told my father because she knew it would be expensive to have repaired. So she kept on wearing it as if it was still working and I wasn’t supposed to tell him anything about it. But somehow the words just popped out of my mouth.
“Mum’s watch’s not workin’,” I said.
My father looked at me questioningly.
“Conked out the other day.”
My father looked thoughtful for a few moments, then he spoke to the jeweller. We left the shop without buying anything. On the way home my father gave me a special assignment. I was to try to seize my mother’s watch without her knowing. Not so difficult at that time of day because she always took her watch off while she was preparing the evening meal, and placed it carefully on the windowsill. My father waited outside. I was able to distract my mother, seize the watch and get it out to him. An hour or so later he returned with it and without her knowing, replaced it on the windowsill. When she finished her chores she put the watch back on without realising it was now working.
It wasn’t until the next morning when my father asked her the time that she noticed it was working. She couldn’t say anything in front of my father because she hadn’t told him it had been broken but I noticed the look of surprise and confusion in her face before she answered him. He looked across at me with a twinkle in his eye but he said nothing. Then my father automatically reached to the wireless and switched it on before he remembered that it was not working. I noticed the same look of surprise and confusion on his face when he heard the announcer’s familiar voice. My mother pretended not to notice but I saw the gleam in her eye.
I cannot remember which horse won the Melbourne Cup that year. But I can remember standing in the hallway, looking down into the kitchen, seeing my mother and father sitting at the kitchen table listening to the wireless, and seeing my father reach out and take her hand in his.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Looking back I think I must have been enchanted by the living love story unfolding before my eyes and took every opportunity to surreptitiously observe the lovers. Before we moved into town my parents often sat, on warm evenings, on the veranda using the light of the kerosene lantern to play cards. The window of the room I shared with my two brothers opened onto the veranda and I would crouch below the windowsill and listen to their conversations while my brothers slept.
One night I heard my father say, “They don’t know what it is. They’re just using me as a guinea pig. They can’t cure it.”
At the time I had no idea what he meant but because I liked the image of a guinea pig the sentence stayed in my mind.
It was not long after that that we moved from our bush cottage out on the Bonang Highway to live with my grandmother in the town. I realise now that they must have known my father was ill for several years before he started the frequent trips to the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne. His illness was eventually diagnosed as myeloid leukaemia. It brought about another forced separation for George and Myrtle some twenty years after his release from the army. The letters he wrote, in September 1964 from Ward 23, Alfred Hospital, Prahran, Victoria, were in the silver cash tin too.
Dear Myrtle,
I got your letter today. Well, Myrtle I don’t know when I will be home. It seems they are testing me still. I don’t know what they are up to; I suppose I will have to leave it to them. I had a blood transfusion a couple of days ago. How are you managing, Myrtle? I hope everything there is going all right for you. Yes, Myrtle, I miss you a lot too. But what can I do, it’s in the doctor’s hands and they don’t tell you much. No, look Myrtle you want to look after yourself and don’t sit up at night because I’m quite all right. As a matter of fact I feel pretty good, but I still sweat at night and I get a temp now and again. Now you get your sleep and don’t worry. They will probably get sick of me before long. I hope so anyway.
I better go now. Keep writing now; I look forward to your letters. Look after yourself.
Love from George. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
After George’s death Myrtle seemed like an empty shell but she struggled on as best she could supporting us kids, six of us still at home at that point, determined that we would receive a good education. None of us ever knew how difficult it must have been for her. She maintained our lives as normally as possible without complaint and never in any way indicated we were a burden to her. She kept her grief, her financial burdens and her personal struggles secret from us just as she had kept from us the secret of her first three children.
I tried to find out exactly what happened in Albury all those years ago. I found Lily and asked her how such a thing could happen.
She sighed sadly and said, “Well, it was wartime and all the men were away.”
I located Bertie, Audrey and Noel. Myrtle would be happy to know that they have lived full lives blessed with loving families.
Some people might judge Myrtle harshly. Why didn’t she fight harder to keep her kids? Some people might ask such a question yet Bertie, Audrey and Noel have only compassion for her. They were pleased to learn that their mother had found the pot of gold she dreamed of—a man who loved her passionately, faithfully with lifelong devotion and who provided protection and security for their children. Myrtle would be proud of their attitude. She was the same. She was not one to indulge in revenge nor did she harbour bitterness.
In the end she lived her life as best she could with the cards she had been dealt. I know everyone who ever knew my mother would remember her as a good person. She would not need more than that. May she now rest in peace.
Note from the author: Many readers wanted to know more about Myrtle and Bertie, Audrey and Allan so I have commenced work on a sequel to Whisper My Secret.
That project is taking longer than expected, partly because another story
(a children’s series called Trapped in Gondwana) interrupted me. I am currently working on both: Trapped in Gondwana and the sequel to Whisper My Secret.
JB’s Blog: http://jbthewriter.wordpress.com/
I would be deeply touched if you would visit me at my blog for a chat. JB
More about the story behind Whisper My Secret here:
http://tinyurl.com/6umvoje
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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