by Peter Watt
Within a week, Tom received a letter from Jack Kelly saying that his Swiss bank passbook had been posted to Kate Tracy in Townsville. He was also given the number of his account and a statement that the bank book had been sealed with instructions that it was only to be opened upon notification of Lance Corporal Tom Duffy’s death.
In time, Kate Tracy received the thick envelope addressed to her and opened it. She did not recognise the handwriting but the instructions on the outside of a second, sealed envelope were clear enough. She placed the mysterious packet in her sideboard and when a week later a letter arrived from Tom she read of his further instructions on what she should do with the contents of the account should he be killed in action.
Kate sat back on her verandah, a cup of tea at hand, and frowned. Tom’s instructions would be near to impossible to satisfy, she mused, considering her past efforts in the same field of endeavour. The amount of money required to do as Tom wished was unimaginable. It was not likely that a soldier would be able to save even a fraction of the amount.
Kate sipped her tea and sighed. Tom had been consistent in sending her letters, unlike her only son, Matthew, who she only knew was somewhere in Palestine flying missions over the Holy Land. He had always been a poor correspondent in his travels before the war so Kate was delighted to open the second letter that she had received that day. It was from her old leading hand, Randolph Gates, to say that he was in contact with Matthew and that he was well. Kate’s eyes dimmed as she read that they were advancing towards Jerusalem with Matthew’s squadron in support. That Randolph was riding with the Australian Light Horse brigade did not surprise Kate, who knew he was both a superb horseman and a crack shot.
‘Mrs, you want a fresh pot of tea?’ Angela, her young Aboriginal housemaid, asked from the door.
‘No thank you, Angela.’ Kate carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope marked with sweat and gun grease.
The damned war just seemed to drag on and from the news in the daily papers there was no end in sight, despite the appearance of fresh American troops on the European battlefields. Kate placed her reading spectacles on a small table and leaned back in her chair to rest, soon falling into a deep sleep in the balmy afternoon sun.
A voice was calling to her gently and Kate opened her eyes. The sun was softening the day on the horizon and her attention was suddenly drawn to her sweeping lawn below. ‘Wallarie,’ she gasped in her shock. He was standing, staring up at her, but he was very young and carried his array of spears and war clubs. Their eyes met and he gave the slightest of nods to acknowledge that he had seen her. She heard no words, except in her head, and Wallarie’s face broke into a wide smile, as he relayed his message to her.
‘Mrs, Mrs,’ the voice called to her from somewhere close.
She could feel a gentle nudge at her shoulder. Kate came out of her trancelike state, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Angela was shaking her. Kate glanced back to the lawn to see that Wallarie was gone.
‘Did you see him?’ Kate asked, still scanning the lawn.
‘Who, Mrs Tracy?’ Angela asked, clearing away the long-cold pot of tea from the table.
‘Wallarie. He was just here speaking to me.’
Angela paused, looked out to the lawn with its long shadows. Wallarie was the name of the debil debil man whose name was invoked to keep children out of the dark when she was much younger. It was said that he could not be killed because he turned into a great eagle and flew from his enemies.
Angela shuddered. ‘I not see the old blackfella,’ she replied but felt a superstitious awe. She had come to learn that her kindly mistress had spiritual powers and could see beyond the world of the living. If she was sure that the old man had been here she must be right.
‘What did he say?’ Angela asked, noticing the radiant look on Kate’s face.
‘He told me that I was about to become a grandmother,’ she replied, still puzzled by the message, as her son had not mentioned any woman in his life. As far as she knew, Matthew was constantly at the front flying his missions and would have had little chance to meet a woman. But if Wallarie had brought the message then it must be so. She would write to Randolph and try to ascertain if he knew of any romantic interests in Matthew’s life.
Kate rose stiffly from her chair and followed Angela inside. She paused for a moment at the door of her sprawling house and looked back to the lawn.
‘Thank you, old friend,’ she whispered, closing the screen door behind her.
Captain Matthew Duffy lined up the hard-packed earthen runway and prayed that his aircraft would take the landing. He had been so badly shot up on his mission to track the retreating Turks that he wondered if his undercarriage would sustain the impact of setting down. He waved to the ground crew observing his return with binoculars and guessed they had anxious expressions on their faces since seeing the damage he had taken from ground fire. But Matthew brought his aircraft down safely and to a halt in front of the operations tent to the cheers of his fellow pilots.
When the engine spluttered to a stop he was aware that the ever-present drone was gone, leaving the ringing in his ears he had come to live with. His ground crew were on his aircraft immediately and one of his fellow pilots strolled over with a mug of tea for him.
‘Bad one, old chap?’ he asked, examining the myriad of bullet holes that had punctured the flimsy fabric of the fuselage. He passed the mug up to Matthew, who had trouble holding it, his hands shook so badly.
‘I got caught between two ridges,’ Matthew said, attempting to sip the hot tea before realising that it was coffee with a strong lashing of rum.
‘Thought you wouldn’t mind,’ the pilot said. ‘We raided your supply while you were gone. The mess seems to have r u n out.’
Matthew swallowed the contents of his mug before easing himself out of the cockpit and jumping to the ground. His ground crew were already working out the repairs required to keep his aircraft in the air as Matthew walked away with his fellow aviator, a young chemist from Queensland who was around the same age.
‘Any word on Allenby’s advance?’ Matthew asked.
‘Not much to report,’ the pilot answered. ‘I have heard a rumour that you may have a lady waiting for you in Jerusalem.’
Matthew glanced at his companion as they approached the gaggle of pilots lounging about and enjoying the last of the day’s sun. ‘I hope so,’ Matthew replied, falling into a silence that his comrade sensed meant no more references were to be made to Matthew’s hopes of finding Joanne. Many of the men still remembered the visit of the pretty, American archaeologist months earlier and envied Matthew.
The sun was long down as Matthew returned to his tent after supper. He was in no mood to share the evening drinking with the other pilots in the mess and sat down on his cot to write a letter home. The months had passed without word of Joanne’s fate and the year was drawing closer to Christmas. The light from his lamp flickered and, startled, Matthew glanced up to see the familiar face of Saul Rosenblum outfitted like a desert bandit. The Jewish settler had contacts with the intelligence section of the squadron and thus as a trusted ally was able to move freely among them.
‘Saul!’ Matthew exclaimed, jumping to his feet to greet his old friend. ‘How the devil are you?’
Saul stepped inside the small tent and embraced Matthew with a great bear hug. ‘It is good to see you, Matt. But I bring both good and bad news. Do you have any whisky or rum?’
Matthew had a half bottle of whisky among his few personal supplies and retrieved it. He poured some into an enamel mug and kept the bottle for himself. Saul took a long swig, draining the shot while Matthew took a short sip from the bottle.
‘Miss Barrington is safe,’ Saul said at last. ‘But she has been sent to Berlin. The Germans are civilised, however, and will treat her with respect given her father’s position in the USA.’
‘ Your son?’
‘Benjamin is well,’ Saul replied. ‘The Syrian doctor was
able to treat him and have him smuggled back to us. Our spies in Jerusalem passed on the news of Miss Barrington.’
‘Why would the Turks send Joanne to Berlin?’ Matthew frowned.
‘I don’t know,’ Saul shrugged. ‘But, at least she is alive.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Matthew asked.
‘We are working with your Light Horse, assisting them in intelligence gathering, but we do not advertise the fact in case the Ottomans find out and take reprisals against my settlement,’ Saul explained. ‘Besides, I have enough German supporters in the moshava to make me nervous.’
Matthew poured another half mug of whisky for the Jewish guerrilla who again swallowed the contents, before wiping his mouth and passing the empty mug back to Matthew.
‘Well, old cobber,’ Saul said. ‘Time to go and find the Light Horse HQ and report in. They need the information we have on Ottoman dispositions forward of your base.’
Matthew was always surprised at how Saul Rosenblum could sound so Jewish, and yet in Matthew’s presence use Australianisms so readily. ‘Yes, well, take it easy, and next year – Jerusalem.’
Saul’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘Ah, you know of our prayer. But I think the way you and the British are going, it will be this year.’
With a handshake, Saul disappeared into the night. Matthew sat down on his cot and picked up his pencil and pad. But he was no longer in the mood to write to his mother. He downed what was left in the bottle before collapsing on his cot and falling into a troubled sleep, haunted by the image of Joanne being raped by German soldiers.
19
George Macintosh waited like a hunter in his hide as he sat behind his great wooden desk listening to the monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. When it chimed the first stroke for the morning he heard his wife’s car pull into the driveway outside his window. He knew the sound well. She was met by a very sleepy manservant who took over driving it to the stables converted to a garage.
George let the curtain fall back and left his office to greet his wife in the foyer. When door opened, Louise was startled to see her husband standing before her, wearing his smoking jacket.
‘Have you been with him?’ he demanded.
Louise stepped inside, wearing the chic dress she normally wore to the theatre. ‘With whom, George?’ she asked, confronting her husband.
‘That cripple.’
‘If you mean Major Sean Duffy, yes, I have.’
‘How could you shame me?’ George spat. ‘Every one of our friends must know of your infidelity and you don’t give a damn.’
‘I give a damn when I know that you visit my son’s nanny in her room even as I am lying a bedroom away,’ Louise flared. ‘But that does not seem to cause any problem with your conscience. I care that you have the power to separate me from my son and I care that you are a craven coward.’ Louise paled when she saw the riding crop dangling from her husband’s hand. He took a step towards her with the crop raised. Louise cowered, her hands above her head as it came down with a vicious thwack on her arms.
‘Whore!’ George screamed. ‘You have no idea of the risks I take to maintain the family companies and provide for this family.’
He raised the riding crop again and slashed down on Louise’s face, drawing a thin stream of blood and raising a welt. Louise was initially stunned by the attack but she was also the daughter of a tough father who had risen in business to establish an empire in his own right. She fought back, striking at her husband’s face with her fingernails. But he was now in a blind rage, thrashing his wife until she was forced to her knees, curled into a foetal position to protect her body. The attack seemed to go on forever until George found himself physically spent but sexually aroused by the punishment he had meted out to his wife.
He stepped back, sweat rolling from his face, and stared down at the woman he thrashed before turning to walk away, leaving her huddled on the floor and moaning in pain and frustration.
‘I will call the police and show them my injuries,’ she cried after him as he began the ascent up the stairs to the nanny’s room.
‘Call the police,’ George retorted. ‘See what they will do about interfering in a husband’s right to chastise a disloyal wife. If you like, I will give you the name of a friend I have in the force who might listen to you.’
Louise forced herself to her feet and clung to the foyer wall. She could feel her face swelling from the strike to the cheek and painful throbbing throughout her body. She felt shame and fury at the same time. ‘I swear I will kill you if you ever do that again,’ she screamed at the back of her husband.
George paused at the top of the stairs and looked down on his wife with a smirk of satisfaction. ‘Who? You and that cripple?’ he jeered. ‘A man with half a body?’
Louise glared up at him. ‘Sean Duffy is a real hero who has killed many times, so I would not be so complacent if I were you,’ she answered bitterly, sneering at George’s taunt. But he simply turned his back and disappeared from sight.
Louise thought about her son in his nursery. She could go to him and take him from the house, but knew that George would prevent that. She also knew that he kept the room locked when she was out at night to stop her from going to her son.
Wiping the streak of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, Louise was already contemplating revenge. She would not remain under the roof where her husband kept her son from her, and lay with the nanny in her room.
Louise stepped back into the night where she saw the manservant hovering in the darkness, no doubt afraid to enter the house when he heard the violent attack inside.
‘Herbert, I wish to be driven to Master George’s brother’s house,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
Herbert, still in his dressing gown, did not question her order. At least with her out of the house he would not be a witness to any further violence.
It was the tough Scot valet, Angus MacDonald, who answered the door in the early hours of the morning. ‘Mrs Macintosh,’ he said, blinking away the sleep. ‘Is something wrong?’
As Louise stepped into the light Angus blanched at the sight of her badly bruised and cut face. He helped her inside, nodding to her driver to leave. Very gently he led her to the kitchen, sitting her down at an old table used to prepare food. Louise was grateful for the kind attention and smiled weakly at the burly man fussing about in search of medical supplies. He retrieved a half bottle of Scotch he secretly shared with the cook.
‘Here, have a wee tot of this, Mrs Macintosh,’ he said, offering her a full shot of the fiery liquid. ‘It will cure anything that ails you.’
Louise gratefully accepted the drink and swallowed half of it before coughing at the cheap liquor burning her throat. ‘I doubt that it will cure what ails my life, Mr MacDonald,’ she gasped, getting her breath back. ‘I did not mean to disturb you this late at night, but this was the closest place I could think of to find sanctuary.’
‘I will fetch Mrs Macintosh,’ Angus said. He already had a good idea how her injuries had been sustained.
‘Please don’t disturb her,’ Louise said, waving her hand.
‘I am sure that Mrs Macintosh would be angry if I did not,’ Angus countered. ‘She has a good knowledge of medicine. I believe that she used to treat the natives on her father’s plantation.’
Louise wanted to laugh when she remembered how Giselle had always dreamed of becoming a doctor before the war, but motherhood had curtailed that dream for the moment and now with Alex away at the front she felt responsible to remain at the hearth to await his return before pursuing her dream of a career in medicine. Louise envied her sister-in-law for the love she knew existed between her and Alex.
In a short time, Louise was joined by Giselle who immediately went to her sister-in-law and examined the ugly cut and welt on her cheek. She did not ask what had happened as she had also guessed.
‘I will apply some antiseptic oil to the cut,’ Giselle said, bend
ing over, the worried expression still on her face. ‘It will sting, but will help with the healing.’
‘I did not want to disturb you, but I could not think of anyone else to go to tonight,’ Louise said as Giselle located a small bottle of antiseptic oil from a medical cabinet she kept in the kitchen.
‘I am glad that you came,’ Giselle said, applying the oil with a small, clean gauze. Louise winced at the stinging oil but was grateful for Giselle’s medical skills. ‘Was it George?’ Giselle finally asked.
Louise nodded. ‘He knows about my affair with Sean,’ she replied, knowing that Giselle frowned on her behaviour of having an affair while still married.
‘You are welcome to stay here with us,’ Giselle said, replacing the phial back in the cabinet. ‘I can arrange to have your things brought over. I am sure that George will not mind you visiting for a while.’
‘And my son?’ Louise said bitterly. ‘Can you arrange to have him join me?’ Giselle looked away and Louise realised that she was taking her anger out on the wrong person. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she hurried to say. ‘I did not mean it that way.’
‘I understand,’ Giselle said, placing a kettle on the stove and turning on the gas. ‘These terrible times make us tense.’
‘You have reason to be tense, with Alex on the front,’ Louise said gently, going to Giselle to assist her prepare the tea. ‘Sean sweats and screams in the night,’ she continued. ‘It is as if he is still back fighting in the trenches. I wake him but it takes a long time for him to recognise that I am beside him. The war changes men forever.’
‘I cannot imagine my Alex changing,’ Giselle said, staring at the wall. ‘He is a gentle, brave and intelligent man, and a wonderful and warm human being, whose love for me and David cannot be questioned.’
Louise put her arms around her sister-in-law. ‘He will return to you as that same gentle and loving man,’ she said gently as she hugged Giselle, not really sure she was telling the truth. She could only pray that she was right. But even as she held her friend in the embrace, she was seething with rage. How could she see her husband humiliated – or even dead? The thought frightened Louise because she had truly considered the possibility. If her husband was dead then she would have her son back and could be with Sean. The idea of seeing her husband gone permanently from her life was becoming an obsession.