by Judy Nunn
‘Why the hell should the press find out?’ Charles growled.
‘It is not worth the risk,’ Godfrey insisted. ‘And besides, it is the honourable thing to do.’
Pompous and unprepossessing as he was, Godfrey Streatham could be a formidable force when set upon a course of action. Implacably he stood his ground, refusing to compromise in any way whatsoever, and eventually there was little Charles could do but look for a way to turn Godfrey’s plan to his own advantage.
A fortnight after the meeting, a small item appeared in the Financial Times. It was rumoured, the journalist reported, that Kendle and Streatham had been anonymously donating considerable sums to the war effort. Several days later a full page article appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald, accompanied by a very flattering picture of Charles.
It is with reluctance that Mr Kendle agreed to this interview, the article said, and he has done so only because news of the philanthropic activities of Kendle and Streatham has already been leaked to the press. He would otherwise have preferred to maintain his silence.
The reluctant Mr Kendle not only admitted to his company’s contributions to the war effort, but was apparently willing to announce to the journalist Kendle and Streatham’s plans for returned soldiers.
‘All men will be guaranteed re-employment upon their return from the front,’ Mr Kendle told this reporter. ‘And should a longstanding employee of Kendle and Streatham make the ultimate sacrifice for his King and his country, then his widow and children shall be provided for from the special funds allocated for such a tragic event.
‘Kendle and Streatham is a family,’ Mr Kendle said, ‘and as a family we look after our own.’
It had taken Godfrey a solid week of argument to convince Charles that they must set up a protection scheme for soldiers and their families. ‘On a sliding scale,’ he had suggested, ‘for men who have been in our employ for upward of five years.’
‘Why, in God’s name?’ Charles had actually laughed at the suggestion. ‘If a man is fool enough to go off and get himself shot, why should it be any concern of ours?’
‘Tell him about the Wunderlichs,’ Howard had suggested to his son, ‘that’ll do it.’
‘The Wunderlichs are leading the way in industrial and personal relations,’ Godfrey told Charles, ‘which is proving not only harmonious to the company, but also profitable. They have even set up a staff partnership and profit-sharing scheme which guarantees loyalty and productivity.’
‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’ Charles’s tone was belligerent, but Godfrey knew that he had the old man’s undivided attention.
‘The scheme has not been made known to the general public,’ Godfrey explained, ‘but you need only ask any one of their employees. And they most certainly intend to look after their returned soldiers. Alfred Wunderlich is most insistent upon it.’
It was the mention of Alfred Wunderlich that clinched Godfrey’s argument. The man had never liked him, Charles knew it. He had never invited him to join his prestigious social set. Alfred Wunderlich was a thorn in Charles’s side.
Mr Charles Kendle, the Sydney Morning Herald journalist concluded, is to be congratulated as a man ahead of histime, one leading the way in industrial and personal relations. A true hero of the people.
‘Poppycock,’ Charles said when Godfrey accused him of giving the story to the press. ‘If an ethical journalist from an ethical publication approaches me for an interview—an interview which can only be for the good of the firm I might add—am I to refuse? Where are your wits man? We have press relations to maintain.’
Charles didn’t care one bit about Godfrey’s outrage and Howard’s disapproval, he had far more important things on his mind.
‘What do you mean Mark’s joined the army!’ Charles growled. ‘No grandson of mine is going to war. I forbid it!’
‘He enlisted last week, Father, he’s already left for training camp.’ Stephen remained frozen in the doorway of his father’s study, and he found himself flinching as the old man slowly rose from the chair behind his desk. He couldn’t help it, the ferocity of his father’s rage had always terrified him.
‘And you let him go! Without trying to stop him!’ Charles’s voice was shrill with anger, bordering on hysterical, as he approached his son. ‘Without telling me!’
‘Yes.’
Charles struck Stephen’s face with all the force his age could muster, the gaunt flat of his right hand leaving a pink imprint upon his son’s cheek.
For a second or two, the men stood staring at each other in silence, the blow having shocked them both. Stephen was taken aback by his father’s sheer audacity more than anything. Charles Kendle was nearly eighty, white haired and wizened. Stephen was twice his size, he could have beaten the old man to a pulp. Yet, as he looked into the steel-grey eyes, he was helpless. He knew that he should turn his back on his father and simply walk away, but he couldn’t. He knew that he should leave his father’s house and never return, but he knew that he would never do that.
Stephen Kendle could do nothing but wonder, yet again, at his father’s power, and at his own sickening weakness.
‘Let me tell him, Dad,’ Mark had said, ‘at least then you won’t have to bear the brunt of his insanity. Because he’ll go mad, you know he will.’
‘Yes, I know it.’ Dear God, he had thought, what sort of a man am I, my own son feels the need to protect me. ‘You are to leave your grandfather to me, I insist upon it, Mark,’ he’d said. ‘If you must go to the war, then you go with my blessing and the knowledge that your family is proud of you.’ He’d felt proud himself, proud and strong as he’d embraced his son.
Charles gripped the handle of the open door for support, his strength suddenly waning. As he had struck his son, he had wanted to kill him, if there’d been a weapon in his hand he would probably have done so. Now all he felt was loathing and disgust.
‘What sort of a father are you?’ he demanded. ‘You willingly send your own son off to his possible death.’ When Stephen remained silent, Charles felt his anger grow once more. ‘Why didn’t you go yourself? You’re expendable, we could well do without you …’
‘The army doesn’t want men in their forties.’
But Charles wasn’t listening. ‘… why did you have to send my grandson. The only grandson who bears my name.’
‘I didn’t send him, Father …’
‘You’re a traitor to this family,’ the edge of hysteria was once again creeping into the old man’s voice. ‘A traitor d’you hear?’
Stephen watched while, exhausted by his tirade, his father returned to collapse in the chair behind his desk. Charles Kendle looked old. Tired and defeated. Stephen knew of the old man’s plans for Mark. The future of the Kendle dynasty rested upon the strong young shoulders of the only grandson who bore his name. Mark was to take on the mantle of Kendle and Streatham, the fourth generation to do so. But Stephen wanted to tell his father that such plans were pointless.
‘I will never work for the family firm,’ Mark had said, ‘and if Grandfather wishes to disinherit me, then let him, he will not take over my life, as he has done everyone else’s.’
The remark had not been intended to hurt, but the underlying inference had. Stephen had almost winced at its truth. ‘I promise I’ll stand by you, son,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll not let you down. Please. Don’t go to war in order to escape your grandfather.’
That was when Mark had made his desperate plea, appalled that he’d hurt his father, and appalled that his father had so misinterpreted his intentions. ‘But that’s not why I’m going, Dad, that’s not why I’m going at all.’
He’d jumped up from the old garden bench in the arbour at the bottom of the garden, where they so often sat in solitude, and looked out over Woolloomooloo at the panoramic view of the city beyond. At the skyline which was forever changing, growing and expanding.
‘You saw themmarch,’ he said. ‘You saw them march through those very streets. You can see the ro
ute from here. I have to be one of them, Dad. I have to march through the streets too. I have to know that my country’s proud of me.’
‘What would you have me do?’ he begged, turning to his father, ‘wait for the white feathers to arrive in the mail? That’s what’s happening, did you know? It’s women mostly. Women whose sons and husbands have gone to war, they’re sending white feathers to able-bodied men who haven’t signed up. I won’t be labelled a coward.’
‘Sending white feathers is a cowardly act in itself,’ Stephen protested, ‘a man should not be so pressured into going to war.’
‘That’s not why I’m going either. Oh Dad, you must understand me! You must!’ Mark insisted. ‘I’m going because I want to go, because I’m proud to go. And I want you to be proud of me too.’
‘I am,’ he said, and it was true. He had always been proud of Mark. In fact Stephen had wished many times over the years that he had a strength of his own to match that of his son.
Now Stephen stood in his father’s study wishing that he could tell the old man the truth. He summoned up every last ounce of his courage. ‘Father,’ he began, ‘Mark told me before he left …’
‘Get out.’
‘… he told me that he would never work for the family …’
‘Get out!’ the old man screamed. He knew what his son was about to say and he refused to listen to such blasphemy. ‘Get out of my sight, you disgust me!’
Like a craven dog, Stephen slunk from the room, hating himself and his inadequacy.
‘Mothers are supporting fatherless families on a wage barely adequate to sustain themselves, let alone their babies,’ Susan Kendle proclaimed from her platform in the centre of the Domain. Like many involved in the Women’s Movement, Susan was passionate about the injustice displayed towards women who were doing men’s work. ‘Industry is either denying them work altogether or paying them less than half a man’s wage.’ Susan’s voice was, as always, so strong and commanding that passers-by found themselves compelled to stop and listen.
‘And educated women,’ she continued emphatically, ‘women with business college degrees. They are employed readily enough as clerks and secretaries. They are granted positions as bookkeepers and accountants. But they are paid a trifle in comparison to their male counterparts. Is this justice?’
Whilst strongly advocating a woman’s right to work, and her right to ‘an equal day’s pay for an equal day’s labour’, Susan was sensible and balanced in presenting her case. She knew when to bow to the sensitive issues at hand.
‘We do not wish to steal our men’s jobs,’ she insisted. ‘When they come home, we will stand by them and help to rebuild their lives in the work force. Then, and then only, can we work together towards unity and equality.’
When Susan confined her argument to equal pay, the opposition she encountered was minimal. It was when she spoke out against the war that she ran into trouble. And speak out she did. Brazenly and, to many, shockingly. Along with other members of the Women’s Political Association, she had joined the recently formed Women’s Peace Army and, like her fellow members, was vociferous in her opinions.
She ran a risk in speaking out publicly against the war, for under the War Precautions Act, it was illegal to do so, a six-month sentence the penalty. But Susan felt that her letters to the major newspapers, and her articles which were published in The Woman Voter, the major agent for antiwar opinion, were not enough. She needed to speak directly to the people.
Amongst those who listened to Susan regularly was Kathleen O’Shea. Even before the war Kathleen had been impressed by the forceful advocate for women’s rights who spoke regularly from her platform near the old Garden Palace grounds. A bulky woman, a little ill-kempt in her dress, her hair unruly, she had, however, a fine voice and a handsome face, and Kathleen could tell she was a woman of breeding.
Her arguments were well informed and intelligent and Kathleen had learned a lot as she’d listened, often thinking that she could have done with a little such knowledge in her youth. These days as she listened, however, Kathleen found herself confused. How was she to reconcile herself to the notion that her son had gone off to fight a war that was ‘senseless’, a war that ‘should never have been fought by Australians’?
‘Never should we have been called upon to make such a sacrifice!’
The woman’s voice rang out across the crowd, clearly audible above the heckling and the booing of the many dissenters gathered about her.
‘Never should our women have been called upon to give up their husbands and their sons! Never should our fine Australian men have been called upon to give up their very lives!’ There was a frenzied reaction from the crowd.
‘She should be locked up,’ Aggie said loudly, which was exactly what the majority of the crowd was saying. Here and there a member of the Women’s Peace Army, wearing the symbolic purple peace button with the white dove insignia, voiced approval but was quickly howled down.
‘There’ll be a riot any minute, let’s gohome,’ Aggiesaid. And when Kathleen took no notice, she whinged, ‘I’m not feeling well, I want to go home.’
‘I told you not to come in the first place,’ Kathleen replied a little snappily. Aggie invariably found something to complain about. Now more than ever, her pregnancy being the perfect excuse.
‘Well, I thought the walk would do me good, didn’t I?’ Aggie looked sulky. ‘I didn’t know you were going to stand around for so long. It’s not good for me, getting jostled about in a crowd like this, not in my condition.’
Kathleen wanted to stay, but the more Aggie’s pregnancy had blossomed, the more she had demanded constant attention, forever blackmailing Kathleen with the precious burden of her grandson.
‘Otto’s at church, I’ll be all on my own,’ she’d said that morning when Kathleen had announced she was going to the Domain.
‘So?’
‘I don’t want to be on my own.’
‘You want to walk up the hill, do you? “In your condition”?’ Kathleen couldn’t resist the barb, but it didn’t register with Aggie.
‘Yes. The walk’ll do me good.’
Kathleen looked about the Domain. The crowds gathered around those speakers calling men to arms were loudly voicing their approval. Union Jacks were being waved, a mob was singing ‘Rule Britannia’. Patriotism, jubilation and a fervent belief in the war abounded. But here, gathered around the woman’s platform, men were shaking their fists and women were yelling, ‘Shame! Shame on you!’ Aggie was not wrong, she thought, there might well be a riot any minute.
‘All right,’ she said with reluctance. ‘All right, we’ll go.’ She glanced back at the woman as they walked away. Kathleen might not agree with her views, but she couldn’t help but admire her courage in voicing them.
They walked slowly. Although it was April, the day was warm, more like summer than autumn, and Aggie was seven months pregnant and feeling the heat. Her ankles hurt, she said, and her back was sore.
Kathleen paid little regard to the girl’s litany of complaint. There were certainly no grounds for concern, Aggie was as healthy as a horse. Kathleen kept Robbie well informed of the fact every time she wrote, never sure how much Aggie might have dramatised her condition in her letters to him.
Robbie O’Shea had been elated when he’d heard of his impending child. ‘Look after my girl, Mum,’ he’d written, ‘and look after my baby when it comes. The two of them couldn’t be in better hands, I know it, and that’s such a good, safe feeling.’
Kathleen’s initial reaction had not been as joyful as her son’s. ‘You’re pregnant?’ she’d queried abruptly when Aggie had told her the news in the privacy of the kitchen, Otto safely away at Mass. Aggie knew that he wouldn’t approve. ‘How far gone?’
‘Between three and four months the doctor says.’
‘Damn.’ The girl should have been more careful, Kathleen thought. A young man fighting a war did not need the added distraction of an unborn baby and the worry over the
safety of both mother and child. A young man fighting a war needed to concentrate on his own survival. Damn the girl.
Her face must have mirrored her thoughts, for Aggie looked suddenly distressed.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, Kathleen,’ she begged. ‘Truly I didn’t. Please don’t send me away.’
The severity of Kathleen’s expression frightened Aggie. Disapproval was the last thing she had expected. Kathleen so doted on her son that Aggie had been certain the prospect of a grandchild would delight her. In fact that had been Aggie’s guarantee, or so she’d thought.
Suspicious that her future mother-in-law did not particularly like her, Aggie had planned the conception. Should Robbie die in battle, it was quite possible that Kathleen would want nothing more to do with her. She’d be back on the streets in no time. But Kathleen O’Shea, Aggie was sure, would not abandon the mother of her grandchild. In the tragic event of her fiancé’s death, Aggie and her baby would be assured of a comfortable life within the O’Shea household.
But her plan had clearly backfired, Aggie thought with a sudden rush of anxiety. ‘Please, Kathleen, don’t send me away.’ Aggie could feel the advent of frightened tears, and she didn’t try to stem them, tears were useful. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’
‘Why on earth would I send you away?’ Kathleen said, sitting beside Aggie and putting her arm around the girl’s heaving shoulders whilst her whole body racked with sobs. ‘What could make you say such a thing?’
Kathleen dug into the pocket of her apron and produced a handkerchief which the girl took, her sobs subsiding a little. ‘Come along now, stop crying, you’re Robbie’s fiancée, you’re the mother of my future grandchild.’ Kathleen smiled comfortingly. ‘How could I ever send you away?’
Aggie smiled wanly as she gulped back the last sob.
‘You will move into the house,’ Kathleen continued, ‘into Robbie’s old room. He’d like that.’