by Di Morrissey
‘It’s about Clem, isn’t it,’ said Elizabeth sitting beside her father. Her mind was whirling. What had Clem and Thommo got up to with the money? She started praying the money hadn’t been spent.
‘It is about Clem. I’m awfully sorry, really I am.’
There was a catch in his voice that made Elizabeth stare at the old sergeant. ‘Sorry? What do you mean? He’s all right, isn’t he? Is he in some sort of trouble?’
Harold gripped his daughter’s hand as the sergeant looked at his feet. ‘There’s been an accident. Last night. A taxi and a truck . . .’
‘Oh no! What happened? Is Clem all right?’
Miserably the man shook his head and looked at Harold.
‘How bad is it?’ asked Harold in an even tone.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Gone, I’m afraid. Terrible, terrible thing. I am so very sorry.’
Elizabeth looked wildly from the policeman to her father. ‘Gone? What do you mean? The money is gone? You don’t mean Clem . . . You don’t mean . . . dead . . . it’s impossible.’ She jumped to her feet.
‘He died at the scene, Elizabeth. He was in a taxi, a truck sideswiped it, killed Clem. The taxi driver is in a bad way, the truck driver seems all right.’
‘I don’t care about them. What about Clem? Where is he? He can’t be dead. Dad, Dad . . .’ She spun around to her father and fell into his arms, crying wildly.
Harold patted her shoulder, his heart aching for her. How could this be? After coming back from the hell of war to be struck down in a traffic accident.
Elizabeth suddenly pulled away but hung on to her father’s arm. ‘Oh my God . . . the money! Dad!’
Mollie came racing down the hall and stood in the doorway her face white as she heard Elizabeth. ‘Clem? He’s dead?’
Elizabeth grabbed the sergeant’s hand. ‘Clem had money on him, a lot of it. Where is that? Did they take it off him? Where is he? I have to get there. Oh please, find out . . .’
‘He’s in the morgue, Harold. His personal effects will be there. I can get them to check.’ The sergeant was anxious to leave. He hated this part of the job. ‘I’m afraid I have to go out to break the news to the Richards family at the farm. Dreadful, dreadful business.’
The Sergeant closed the front door behind him, leaving Harold to comfort Elizabeth.
‘I feel so terrible, Dad. About him taking the money, I kept on at him about buying into the business . . . and now this.’ She broke down and Harold gave Emily a helpless look as she came towards her daughter.
It was a long walk to the stock and station agency. Harold took off his hat as he opened the door to be greeted by Donald.
‘Hello, Harold. I had to open up this morning. Is Elizabeth sick or something?’ He stopped as he saw Harold’s face.
‘Young Clem’s been killed in Sydney. I need to speak to George.’
‘Bloody hell. Course, of course. He’s just in. Tell Elizabeth we’re so sorry. She should take off as long as she likes. That’s up to George though. My, the poor kid.’
Harold closed the door and stood before the man he’d known for years and haltingly told him of Clem’s death and the missing money. George Forde slumped in his chair.
‘Dear lord, what a mess. Poor Elizabeth. Are you sure they’ve been through his wallet and effects? I can’t imagine Clem doing such a thing. He had the money on him?’
‘Apparently he must have been drinking with Thommo and his mates. I don’t know where Thommo was, the two of them must’ve been together and Clem caught a taxi to the barracks on his own.’
‘I bet the money was spent,’ said George. ‘That’s a big hole, Harold. I was counting on that. I feel damned bad about Clem – and Elizabeth – but I’ve got bills to pay. People to reimburse.’
‘I understand that, George. Please don’t get the police involved and make a scene about this. In the newspaper and so on. The disgrace of this will kill Emily, and poor Elizabeth has enough to deal with without her late husband being known as a thief.’
‘That’s all very well, Harold. But it must have been over five hundred quid!’
‘George, add it up and let me know. Somehow we’ll pay you back. Emily and I have some savings, I’ll mortgage the house, whatever it takes.’
George shifted uncomfortably at the pleading note in Harold’s voice. ‘Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that Harold. But if you can see your way clear, then there won’t be any need for anyone to know about this.’
‘Give me a day or so. And Elizabeth will need a bit of a break, the funeral and so on.’
George waved a hand. ‘Whenever she’s ready.’
Harold reached out and shook his hand. ‘I appreciate this, George.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry to put you through this, but I wouldn’t stay in business if I didn’t settle my accounts, meet my obligations.’
*
Clem’s body came home on the train. The simple casket was unloaded well down the platform, unnoticed by the passengers. Harold and Mollie stood solemnly with Keith Richards. Emily and Elizabeth, like the rest of the Richards family, stayed at home, making plans for the funeral. Walter and Nola had swiftly relinquished control of the funeral to Elizabeth and the army. Elizabeth wanted a military funeral with a guard of honour and asked the Church of England minister to have the choir sing. Emily’s friends in the Red Cross volunteered to decorate the church and organise a wake in the church hall after the service.
Cynthia took time off work to support Elizabeth and loaned her a black dress and hat.
‘I don’t want to wear black, it’s so depressing and ugly,’ she complained.
‘Elizabeth! You must,’ admonished Emily, looking to Cynthia for support.
‘Wear a nice flower as well, that will help,’ suggested Cynthia.
Emily sighed deeply, reached for a handkerchief and patted her eyes. She now knew about the theft of the money and was terrified some gossip about it would leak out. She just wanted the funeral to go smoothly and, after a modest mourning period, for Elizabeth to go back to work. She couldn’t bear to think about the money still outstanding. Harold said he’d handle it.
It was a cruelly hot December day as the mourners gathered around the grave. Clem’s funeral attracted a huge turnout. The Returned Soldiers’ League stepped in to arrange the service and veterans had formed an honour guard outside the church. Mourners drove, crammed into cars, some in sulkies or on horses, others walked behind the hearse to the cemetery at the edge of town.
Men perspired in their jackets and hats, the women dabbed at their faces with hankies as much from heat as emotion. Cicadas in the surrounding gum trees thrummed loudly over the minister’s words and Phyllis’s hiccupping sobs.
Elizabeth was led forward to throw a flower and clod of rock-like earth into the grave. On cue the bugler played ‘The Last Post’, and after a minute of silence sounded ‘Reveille’.
The Richards stood on the other side from Emily, Harold and Mollie, while Thommo, pale faced and looking ill, moved between both families, friends and neighbours, wandering in a state of utter distress.
Once or twice Thommo caught the undertone of talk that petered out as he drew near, and was conscious of certain looks and the faint ripple of whispered speculation directed at Elizabeth, her family and the Richards. He tried hard to keep a stiff upper lip as instructed but he couldn’t keep from shaking. He felt sick and tears filled his eyes.
‘Thommo seems so dreadfully upset,’ commented Emily.
‘They were brothers in arms. They survived hell and now he’s lost his mate just when things were looking up. It’s hard on him. Very hard,’ said Harold.
The Richards family did not attend the wake, but returned with their own friends and distant relatives to the farm in time for the afternoon milking.
Elizabeth hadn’t had any time alone with Thommo but that night, with Cynthia, the three of them sat in darkness on the front verandah of Cricklewood.
Elizabeth had told Cynthia
about the loss of the money so she now asked Thommo, ‘So what were you and Clem doing that last night?’
Thommo lit a smoke with a shaking hand. ‘We slept on the train and when we got into Central I ran into a mate who knew of a two-up game. Normally Clem wouldn’t go gambling but he insisted we go. He had money on him, and he won a bit and we went on from there.’ He took a drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. ‘We were at this private club at the back of the Cross, he came over and said he had to go, he was in strife, he’d blown the lot. I didn’t know how much, I figured he’d dipped into his pay.’ He stopped and looked at Elizabeth who was biting her lip.
‘What’s going to happen?’ Cynthia asked Elizabeth softly.
‘Dad’s seeing Mr Forde tomorrow.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Take one of those pills the doctor gave you,’ said Cynthia.
‘No, I don’t need it. I’m exhausted enough. G’night, Thommo, thanks for . . . everything.’
Thommo stood up and nodded, looking drained and tired. ‘I’m taking my dad down to see a specialist in Sydney. Be in touch, eh?’
Cynthia touched Elizabeth’s arm. ‘See you tomorrow. Hope your mum feels better.’
Emily had collapsed after the wake and gone to bed without any dinner, making do with a headache powder, a cup of tea and a cigarette.
Thommo walked Cynthia to her house.
‘I can’t believe this has happened. Doesn’t seem so long ago we were at the Empire Day fireworks does it? When you dared Clem and Elizabeth to go into the brush,’ sighed Cynthia.
‘Clem put me up to it. He was always sweet on her.’
‘I hope your father will be all right, Thommo.’
‘They don’t hold out a lot of hope. They’re selling the picture theatre. Mum plans to move down to the central coast with him. Her sister is there.’
‘I thought the worst was over, just goes to show,’ sighed Cynthia. ‘Night, Thommo.’ She watched him trudge away, the boy she’d grown up with, a forlorn soldier who’d lost his childhood mate and soon would lose his father. ‘It’s not fair,’ she cried aloud and turned indoors.
Lara
There was no mistaking which unit belonged to Aunty Phyllis. Lara slowed the car and saw, across the expanse of neat lawn, a white-haired lady holding onto a walking frame by the open door. Pot plants and a chair stood on the tiny patio. The old lady waved as Lara parked the car wondering how long Aunty Phyllis had been standing there, looking out for her.
‘Come in, come in. Tea’s ready.’ She gave Lara a warm hug.
Phyllis was short, slightly built, with neatly set curly hair, her face framed by pearl earrings. She was dressed in a pleated skirt and flowered blouse, wore stockings and sensible lace-up broad-heeled shoes. Glasses hung on a chain around her neck. Lara followed her into a pretty little sitting room with a small kitchenette and alcove with a table for two.
The sliding door into the bedroom opened and an attractive woman of about thirty came out.
‘Hello, Lara, I’m Elaine, Barbara’s daughter, Phyllis’s granddaughter. I’ve made the tea for you two, and Gran made scones. I’m off to do her shopping so I’ll leave you to it.’ After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Elaine waved the shopping list and left.
‘She’s a good girl. Takes me to lunch at the club twice a week.’
‘Does Elaine play cards too?’ asked Lara as Phyllis settled herself at the table and pushed away the walking frame.
‘No, she works as a nurse and has her own family. I taught her euchre but the young people aren’t into cards like my lot. Now bring the teapot to the table.’
‘You seem well set up here, Aunty Phyllis.’ The tiny unit was very homey with cushions and photographs. A backdoor opened onto a small garden courtyard.
‘I do for myself very well. Only need that frame when I go out really. A lady comes and does the cleaning but I cook, make my bed and tidy up. Never mind I’m slow, I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere.’
‘Unless to cards, or the club, it seems. You’re a hard one to catch,’ smiled Lara. ‘Those scones look good.’
They settled to the tea and scones making small talk, Phyllis enquiring about Lara’s life, was she married, how many children and where she lived. Lara gave her a potted version, anxious to get the conversation back to her father.
Finally Phyllis pushed her cup to one side. ‘Pull that box over here, I found some pictures of the family I thought you might like to see.’ She put on her glasses and rifled for a moment and drew out a photo of a soldier posed in a studio. She smoothed it affectionately and handed it to Lara. ‘That’s my brother Clem. Your father. Oh, he was a lovely fellow.’
Lara stared at the picture, a small shiver of recognition running through her. ‘Yes, yes, I’ve seen pictures of him. I wasn’t sure who he was,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s so much about the past that I now want to know, rather, need to know.’
Phyllis ignored the remark. ‘Here’s all the family at the old farm. That’s me when I was ten, Kev, Clem and Keith. Mum and Dad. We don’t have many pictures of Dad, he didn’t like having his photo done. This is my wedding to Cyril, there’s all the family – and Dad. Last picture of him.’
Lara studied the photograph of the young Phyllis in a long lace dress, the men looking uncomfortable in suits, and Phyllis’s stout and cheerful looking mother, Nola. A flower girl with a grave expression stood beside Phyllis.
‘So you’ve never left the area, Aunty Phyllis?’
‘No, we didn’t have the money. Cyril worked hard, we both did. Our first farm was up on the mountain, my, that was tough. I rarely came down, but we had good neighbours, we all helped each other out. From delivering babies, to bringing in a crop, sharing the good times and the bad times. That’s how it was in a small, isolated community. Not like today where it’s every man, woman and child for themselves. We all used to go to the old farm for the odd family gathering.’
They sifted through the photos, Phyllis giving a monologue of the names, places, events that had filled her life in the valley.
Finally Lara broke in. ‘But what about my mother and Clem? What happened to them?’
Phyllis paused and lowered her glasses. ‘So what’s your mother told you? What do you know?’
‘Very little. He’s just been a name on my birth certificate. Was he a good man? Was he funny? What did he like? What happened after the war? Why did he and my mother split up? Did he remarry? Maybe I have half siblings out there,’ exclaimed Lara.
‘My dear girl.’ Phyllis patted her hand, her eyes brimming. ‘I don’t know where to begin . . . what I should say . . . Like I said, I don’t feel it’s my place. I was young . . .’
‘Please, Aunty Phyllis, you’re my only chance to fill in the gaps. Is he still alive?’
Phyllis recoiled in shock. ‘Goodness, no. Poor girl, you don’t know much at all, do you?’
‘Isn’t it time the secrets came out? What could be so bad that no one will talk about things?’ Lara felt close to tears, thinking, I’m a grown woman, yet I feel like a little kid that’s been left out of the grown-ups’ conversation.
‘He died, Lara, dear. Before you were born. An accident and a few weeks later your mum found out she was pregnant with you. There was a lot of gossip of course . . .’ Phyllis hesitated.
It seemed to Lara the scene before her froze as if it was a still frame of a film. He’s dead was all she could think. After all this time to come so close. Lara realised that deep down she wanted him to be alive. She wanted to meet him, know him. And then there was the second blow, that he’d never known her. Even known she existed. She wanted to cry for the father she’d never had. The woman before her was talking. Lara tried to refocus.
‘People talked about your mother’s pregnancy of course. A small town, you know . . . And sadly, people love to believe the worst about others rather than the good.’
‘It must have been dreadful for her,’ managed Lara.
‘It was, for
all of us. I adored Clem. It was still war time and there were lots of soldiers about and there’d been an . . . incident. Not that we were ever told directly. My parents didn’t speak to your mother’s side. But I got the impression your mother went a bit . . . wild. My father didn’t approve of her at all. It was the grief I suppose.’ Phyllis poured more tea. ‘My family always blamed her for him taking the money. People, you know, talked. Whispers. Seems a lot of money went missing and Clem was blamed because Elizabeth pushed him. Wanted them to move to Sydney. Farm life wasn’t for her.’
The knowledge Clem was dead had upset Lara more than she expected and she tried to concentrate on the story Phyllis was letting out in staccato-brief bursts. ‘What missing money, what happened?’ Lara now recalled her grandfather telling her about some debt her mother had struggled to pay back.
Haltingly Phyllis told her that her father had been killed in a taxi near Central Station just after the train came in at 11.30 pm. ‘We’ll never know what transpired between Elizabeth and Clem that last day in the office where she worked. Our family found it difficult to believe Clem took the money. Or that he’d gamble, but we know how war changes men.’ She paused and fiddled with the pictures then went on. ‘My folk were always upset Clem died under a cloud, even if it wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge. Your mother had to pay it back, I believe. Perhaps your grandfather helped. Your grandmother might have had airs and graces but she was an honourable woman. I remember my mother feeling a bit sorry for Elizabeth, working while she was expecting you and having to live at home. Can’t have been easy for a young widow.’
What a messy tangle. God, her poor mother, it must have been dreadful. ‘Did my mother Elizabeth ever visit your place?’ she asked finally.
‘Heavens, no. But your grandfather was a good man. When you were born he sent word to my mum. Your mother moved away with you when you were a little girl. By then Cyril was courting me and I didn’t take such an interest.’
‘Poor Clem. So he never even knew about me?’