by Judy Nunn
The tub was heavy. Kathleen tipped the water over the side of the porch and into the drain.
‘I have to find a husband, Kathleen.’
Kathleen turned to face her. ‘You’d give up your little girl?’
‘It’s all right for you,’ Aggie whined. How dare Kathleen act so self-righteous and judgemental; she hadn’t been brought up by a slut of a mother and dumped in a charity school for the destitute. ‘You’ve had it easy all your life, you’ve got a husband and a house, it’s all right for you.’
Kathleen filled the tub with fresh water from the tap by the porch. There was no need to comment. And why bother to judge the girl when Aggie was bestowing upon her the greatest gift possible? The gift of her own son’s child.
Aggie took Kathleen’s silence as censure. ‘My mother wasn’t a widow,’ she said. She’d tell Kathleen at least part of the truth. ‘My mother was a whore.’
Kathleen stopped rinsing the clothes and gave the girl her full attention.
‘I swore I’d never end up like her,’ Aggiesaid. ‘I swore I’d never sell myself, all I wanted was a kind man who’d make a good husband. Then I met Robbie.’ She sniffed tearfully. ‘We would have been happy. It’s not fair.’ It wasn’t fair either, Aggie thought. All her well-laid plans had come to naught.
RobbieO’Shea had not been the first man Aggie had seduced, nor had he been the first man to whom she had surrendered her ‘virginity’. She’d had the deception down to a fine art by the time she’d met Robbie. Her mother had taught her the tricks when she was fifteen years old.
A young woman allowed a man to seduce her at the very end of her menstrual period, resulting in a small amount of blood left on the bedlinen. Men liked virgins, they paid more for virgins. And men were simple; they did not know that menstrual blood was a different colour. Aggie learned to angle her body slightly and feign pain as the man thrust into her. It was very easy, and Aggie was well remunerated with gifts. She never asked for money, she never considered herself a professional girl.
The refined manner which Aggie had assiduously acquired under the tutelage of the Christian workers at the Jubilee School had given her such an air of credibility that Robbie O’Shea, like the others before him, had been only too eager to accept the gift of her unquestioned virginity. But Robbie, unlike the others, had been eager, also, to accept the responsibility of such a gift. And the responsibility was marriage.
Aggie had told Kathleen the truth in one respect. Well tutored as she had been, she had never wished to follow her mother’s path. When she had used the tricks her mother had taught her, it had always been with the prospect of gaining a husband. Once she had surrendered her ‘virginity’, however, the men had soon lost interest. Not Robbie though, her plan had paid off with Robbie. They were to have been married. And then he’d been killed and she’d been left with a baby. It wasn’t fair.
‘I would have been a good wife to him.’ Aggie was weeping tears of self-pity by now. It was unfair of Kathleen not to sympathise with her. ‘You don’t understand, it’s not easy for someone like me. No man wants another man’s baby.’
‘I understand, Aggie, of course you must find yourself a husband. I’ll look after Caroline, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you in your new life.’
‘Thank you, Kathleen.’ Aggie sniffed back her tears gratefully. ‘You’ve been good to me, I’ll never forget you.’
‘But that’s exactly what I want you to do, my dear.’ The girl had been about to embrace her, but stopped, puzzled, as Kathleen continued. ‘My granddaughter will be raised as an orphan. In time she will be told that her mother is dead. You are never to see her again.’
Aggie was confused. Kathleen’s words were so cruel, but her tone was not. In fact she sounded kind, even sympathetic.
‘But I do—’ she started to protest.
‘No you don’t, Aggie,’ Kathleen gently interrupted. ‘You don’t love your little girl. Those are my conditions. Do you accept them?’
Aggie knew it was a test. And she knew, just as Kathleen did, that it was a test she could not pass. She looked down at the toes of her shoes as she whispered, ‘Yes.’
The day after Caroline’s third birthday there was a knock at the front door and Otto answered it.
‘Tim! Tim Kendall!’ Kathleen heard her husband exclaim, ‘Come quick, mijn duif, Tim Kendall is back,’ and she ran in from the kitchen, little Caroline at her side.
As she embraced him, tears in her eyes, all she could think was thank God one of them had come home.
Tim was leaning heavily on a cane. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he said when Kathleen started fussing. ‘If it’d happened earlier, they probably would have fixed me up and sent me back to the front. I wouldn’t have put it past them. But the war’ll be over soon so they sent me home instead. Soon all the boys’ll be home. Well, all that’s left, that is.’ Tim didn’t believe insmall talk any more. ‘I’m sorry about Johann and Robbie.’
‘We’ll talk about Johann and Robbie as soon as you’re sitting down and I’ve made you some tea,’ Kathleen insisted, ushering him towards the sofa.
‘Go easy, Kathleen, not the front room,’ Tim said. ‘A bloke who’s a member of the family sits at the kitchen table.’
‘And a bloke who comes home from the war, he has a beer,’ Otto said as they walked through to the kitchen, Caroline skipping along beside them.
Kathleen smiled. It had been years since she had seen Otto so animated.
‘So you’re Caroline,’ Tim said, sitting at the table while Otto fetched the beer from the icebox. ‘I knew your dad, we were best mates.’
‘What’s the matter with your leg?’
‘It’s just busted,’ he said. ‘Be as good as new soon. The other one’s all right though.’ He lifted the little girl up onto his good knee and she sat there happily rocking backwards and forwards.
Kathleen started to cut up some thick slices of damper and cheese. ‘It’s early in the day for beer,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to put something in your stomachs.’
‘Is your beer,’ Otto said, dumping a bottle and a glass on the table in front of Tim.
‘I see your English hasn’t got much better, Otto.’ Tim had always enjoyed giving cheek to Otto; he’d always got away with it too.
‘Ja. It get me into trouble. Some people, they think I am German.’ He gave a guttural growl of anger. ‘It make me so mad. I say to them, “My son, he die for this country, what right you have to call me Hun?”’ He clenched his huge fist. ‘I tell you, Tim, I come close to hit someone.’
Kathleen watched the men as they talked. That Otto could admit so freely to his anger was a merciful relief. There had been times when he had come home in the blackest of rages. Like the time someone had scrawled ‘Hun’ in white paint over his shopfront. Never had she seen her gentle Otto so incensed.
As the men talked, Kathleen studied Tim. He’d changed. He was as lean and lithe and handsome as ever, but the boyish young face was finally that of a man, and a tough man, she could tell.
‘How is Billy, Tim?’ she asked as she brought the damper and cheese to the table. ‘We’ve only seen him the once since he’s been home and that’s a long time ago now.’
‘Pretty crook.’ Tim didn’t beat about the bush. ‘A bit jumbled up.’ He tapped his forehead with his forefinger. ‘A lot of the blokes went like that. Maybe he’ll come good,’ he shrugged, ‘and maybe he won’t. It’s tough on his wife.’
There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘You drink your beer, Tim,’ Otto said, and the men clinked glasses and drank.
‘Do you want to see Millicent?’ Caroline asked, pulling at Tim’s shirt.
‘Yes, I’d love to,’ he said. The little girl scrambled off his knee and ran upstairs.
‘Millicent’s the new doll,’ Kathleen explained when Tim raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. ‘It was Caroline’s birthday yesterday.’
The doll was presented to Tim and duly admired. ‘So how old are you, Caroline?�
� he asked the raven-haired little girl with the big brown eyes. She thought for a moment before holding up three fingers.
‘Darling, why don’t you take Millicent out onto the porch?’ Kathleen suggested. ‘She’s looking a bit pale, she needs some sun.’
‘Three years old,’ Tim said as he watched her go. ‘It’s been that long?’
‘Yes, it’s been that long.’
‘She looks like him.’
Kathleen nodded, and the three of them sat watching the little girl through the open back door as she sat on the porch and chatted to her doll.
Tim momentarily let his guard down, something he rarely did these days. ‘He was the best mate a bloke could have,’ he murmured. ‘I miss him.’
Neither Kathleen nor Otto said a word, but Kathleen could have wept for the vulnerability she saw in Tim’s eyes.
Then, aware of their sympathy, Tim retreated behind his facade. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Kathleen and Otto, but a bloke couldn’t afford to let down his guard or he’d go under, just like Billy.
‘I was with him when he copped it.’
‘Yes,’ Kathleen nodded, ‘Billy told me.’
‘He didn’t feel a thing. No pain. He never knew what hit him.’
Kathleen nodded her thanks and Tim changed the subject. They talked about the good old days, and Otto fetched more beer and got slightly drunk. They talked about Johann and Robbie as if they were still alive and, every now and then, Otto wiped a tear from his eye or laughed out loud, and Kathleen could have hugged Tim Kendall. It was as if he’d brought her Otto back to life.
She did hug him, an hour later when he left. So did Otto, and Caroline too.
‘It’s so good to have you home, Tim,’ Kathleen said. ‘You’ll come and see us often?’
‘Of course I will. Have to keep an eye on the little princess here, don’t I?’ Caroline gave him a big wet kiss as he put her down. And then he had to kiss Millicent. And then he was out in the street walking home to Surry Hills.
His leg ached a little as he walked, but he needed to keep exercising it, so he didn’t end up with a permanent limp. He tried to concentrate on each step, to think of nothing but his leg. He marched, ignoring the pain. Left, right, left, right. He must concentrate on marching. Left, right, left, right. But it wasn’t working, his mind kept wandering. He turned the corner and doubled back through Woolloomooloo to the docks. He’d sit and look at the harbour for a while. He didn’t want to go home to his mum and dad. Not just yet. He didn’t feel like talking.
The visit to Kathleen and Otto had shaken Tim more than he’d cared to admit. The little girl, so like Robbie he could have been looking into Robbie’s eyes, had brought it all back to him, the images he’d been so careful to shut out.
He hadn’t lied to Kathleen. Or to Billy. Robbie had known no pain in death.
Tim could see him now, running up ahead, screaming as he ran, like he always did. Tim screamed too. Sometimes. He didn’t quite know why, but sometimes it seemed to help. The noise of his own voice ringing in his ears sometimes helped block out, just a little, the distant roar from the batteries and the whistle of shells through the air and the hideous explosions which showered them with mud as they ran, clumsily, sometimes sinking up to their calves in the bog of the battlefield, sometimes tripping over the men who had fallen in front.
Tim didn’t see Robbie fall; he was thrown to the ground himself by the peripheral force of the blast. He struggled groggily to his knees, amazed at the fact that he was still alive, and crawled over the bodies of the men in front to where Robbie lay.
His chest was ripped open and, through the coat of grey mud, Tim could see the white shards of shattered ribs and the mangled mess of entrails which lay shockingly exposed within. Robbie was dead. Just like that. A carcass. The same as dozens of others he’d seen. And Tim lay beside him, his mind a blank, nothing in his head but the vague hope that when he too copped it, he’d go quick like Robbie.
He lay in the mud, too weary to run, too drained to care, just wishing it all was over. Then Robbie groaned. Oh sweet Jesus no, Tim thought, don’t let him gain consciousness, don’t let him lie here in agony, not even for a minute.
Behind closed lids, Robbie’s eyes were flickering. A rasping noise sounded from his throat. Tim clicked the bayonet free from his rifle and held the muzzle to Robbie’s temple. It took no more than a second or so. A single shot and it was over. Then, shocked to his senses, he got up and ran. Through the mud and the blood and the gore of the battlefield he ran for his very life.
Tim looked out at the harbour. The blue waters were dotted with white. It was Saturday, a fine late September afternoon, and the rich people were sailing. Dozens of eighteen footers were racing under full canvas. The Sydney Flying Squadron’s Saturday regatta. Other yachts, under light rig, and with ladies aboard, were enjoying a leisurely social outing. For some, it seemed, the war didn’t exist.
Tim turned for home. He’d visited his ghosts. He could face Ben and Norah now. ‘Saw Kathleen and Otto,’ he’d be able to say, ‘we talked about old times. Robbie’s little girl’s a real beauty.’
Maria Nina skimmed effortlessly across the water. With only a light rig hoisted, she was still a graceful boat, but under full sail she drew great admiration and was an impressive contender on race days. Custom designed and made in Tasmania, the eighteen footer was built of huon pine and was Stephen Kendle’s pride and joy.
It had taken his father years to accept the eighteen footers. They were cheaper to build and to run, and Charles Kendle swore they’d belittle the sport. ‘The eighteen footers are putting the ownership of sailing craft within the purse strings of the common herd,’ was what he said. But once he’d realised they were the fastest yachts on the harbour, he’d changed his tune.
Today Maria Nina was not racing, however; Stephen was sailing single-handed. His sister Susan was with him, but Susan could hardly be counted as crew, she knew nothing about sailing and refused to learn.
‘Why should I?’ she’d insisted. ‘You’re the expert. In fact you’d never get me out in this thing if I didn’t know you were one of the best.’ In her strident way, Susan was always good for her brother’s ego, and she intended to be.
‘Don’t put up too much sail, Stephen, please,’ she’d asked when they’d set sail, ‘not today. You know I don’t like it when the boat leans too far.’ There was a stiff breeze up and, with the regatta in full swing, Susan was, as usual, anxious. ‘For God’s sake don’t bump into anybody,’ she begged. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be yachts.
Stephen laughed. ‘The fearless and ferocious Susan Kendle, nearly tarred and feathered by angry hordes, arrested for inciting a riot, afraid of a bit of a breeze.’
‘Just sail the thing, Stephen, and get away from these boats,’ Susan growled.
It was true that several of those who’d advocated peace in the early days of the war had been tarred and feathered. And the day of the rally in 1916 she’d been escorted to Darlinghurst Police Station and accused of inciting a riot, but she hadn’t been charged. They’d let her go with a warning because old Charles Kendle was her father. She’d demanded they charge her but, much to her chagrin, they’d steadfastly refused.
Once they were away from the melee of boats, Susan relaxed. The prospect of collision genuinely made her nervous, and the possibility of capsizing terrified her. She was not a good swimmer, and if Stephen only knew the effort it had cost her the first time she’d accepted his invitation, perhaps he would not be so cavalier in his attitude. But she trusted him now, and as they sailed past Shark Island and away from the others, she breathed a sigh of relief and gave herself up to the beauty that was Sydney Harbour.
At first she’d agreed to go sailing as an offer of solidarity, aware that her brother desperately needed a friend. But as their relationship grew stronger, Susan found that she needed Stephen as much as he needed her. In fact Stephen was the only true family she had. She didn’t see her children any more. L
ionel and Prudence chose not to visit her these days and her father could hardly be considered a comfort. She and Stephen were an odd pair, she thought. The insecure boy in the man’s body and the ‘ferocious’ Susan Kendle. But she loved her brother.
They turned about at Vaucluse Point and, with the wind behind them, it was a leisurely cruise home.
Susan leaned back in the cockpit and pulled her jacket about her. There was a chill in the spring breeze now. She watched the yachts as Stephen skilfully manoeuvred Maria Nina amongst them. It seemed obscene, somehow, that people could be so apparently oblivious to the war. ‘Thank God it’ll all be over soon,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Stephen had been thinking about his son. ‘When Mark comes home,’ he said, ‘I’m going to buy him his own eighteen footer. Tasmanian huon pine, the very best.’
Back at the yacht club, with Maria Nina safely penned, Stephen insisted he and Susan share a bottle of champagne in the lounge as usual and, as usual, she agreed. She never drank more than a glass, whilst Stephen demolished the rest of the bottle. She didn’t enjoy drinking and she didn’t enjoy the yacht club. The frivolity of the mood and conversation was meaningless, the hearty masculinity of the men and the flirtatiousness of the women irritating. But Stephen liked the place and she was loath to spoil his afternoon ritual by declining.
When Stephen had drained the last of the champagne, he suggested another bottle, but Susan as always declined.
‘I might have one quick drink with the boys in the bar then,’ he said.
He drank far more than was good for him, Susan thought as she said goodbye, but then he was probably just buying time before going home to Kendle Lodge and the awful presence of their father. Susan could hardly blame him for that. Why on earth didn’t he get out of the place, she wondered time and again, but she knew that he never would.
It was nearly dusk when Stephen arrived home. The three Scotches he’d had with Teddy and the boys were sitting quite happily on top of the champagne and he was feeling mellow. Plenty of time to change for dinner without annoying his father. It was only when he got home more than a little drunk and well after dark that he risked one of his father’s moods.