Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  After going through a preliminary medical examination, he was passed fit for active service. His form was stamped and then handed back to the recruiting officer to be signed off. With all the paperwork out of the way, the majority of men, in their excitement or naivety, moved straight on to enlist that day. Clarence had made the decision to fight for his country, but he had a promise to fulfil before he embarked. He took note of the clause at the top of the form, which read, I hereby offer myself for Enlistment in the Australian Imperial Force for active service abroad and undertake to enlist in the manner prescribed, if I am accepted by the Military Authorities, within one month of date hereof. Clarence decided he would report to Victoria Barracks for enlistment on the 28th of July. It kept him inside the month by one day. He had a lot to do in just over three weeks.

  Clarrie’s private theatrette was interrupted by another train that passed on the track parallel to theirs. He turned his gaze towards his wife, who was engrossed in a book she had retrieved from her handbag. As the train rattled on, he pondered if he would ever fully comprehend what this woman meant to him. He smiled and turned to look back out the window; the intrusive locomotive had now passed, and he drifted into sleep.

  ***

  The façade of the hotel was richly decorated with elegant columns that supported a large balcony. It stood guard over elegant stained-glass windows; the whole scene gave the impression of luxury, something to which Clarence wasn’t accustomed. Ruth smiled and held Clarence by the arm. She nestled her cheek into her husband’s shoulder as they ascended the main staircase against the chilled, Blue Mountains air. They entered a warm foyer, its pleasant climate enhanced by the thick woollen carpet and dark timbers that outlined the plastered walls, painted in soft tones.

  A middle-aged man, dressed in the formal attire of the hotel staff, smiled warmly from behind a mahogany desk. He welcomed the young couple while he gestured to a porter to assist with their modest luggage.

  ‘Welcome to the Hotel Carrington, sir. My name is George and I am the hotel’s concierge; how may I be of assistance?’

  ‘We have a room booked under Mr and Mrs Miller,’ said Clarence nervously, almost like he was being interviewed.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the concierge. The man scanned something obscured from the Miller’s view. ‘Room 16 on the first floor.’ He placed a printed card on the desk top for Clarence to sign. ‘Your key, sir. One of our porters will bring your luggage up shortly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Clarence. He accepted the key, pleased with being able to tick off another husbandly duty. The concierge now a distant memory, he looked at his wife, grinned and offered his arm. ‘Shall we Mrs Miller?’

  ***

  Sydney, 8 October 1915

  The dark steel hull of the HMAT Warilda towered above the crowd. Ruth clung to her husband; her cheek was marked with tears and the woollen tunic of his AIF uniform felt harsh against her skin. With his head covered by a slouch hat, Clarence rested his cheek on Ruth’s hair, while his arms were locked around her shoulders. Neither of them spoke. Both were deep in thought. Almost everything had been said over the previous weeks, while they walked among the Carrington Hotel gardens, or at their home they shared with Clarence’s parents.

  An army band played, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’, as hundreds of husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, and the occasional scurrying child, lined the Quay. Each said their farewells, some sombre, others more jubilant, wrapped up in the atmosphere created by the band and the countless flags and streamers that hung from every possible post or rail.

  Clarence placed his hands on Ruth’s wet cheeks and gently raised her chin so her eyes would meet his. The harsh voice of a middle-aged sergeant boomed above the music. He ordered soldiers to board their transport.

  ‘Everything will be fine, my darling,’ whispered Clarence. He removed one hand to gently wipe a tear that had rolled down her faultless face. ‘Nothing will prevent me from being with you, nothing.’

  ‘Please be careful, please...’ Ruth’s voice trailed off into muffled sobs. Her heart had experienced the exhilaration of love, now it was tortured by separation.

  ‘Everything will be fine, I promise.’

  ‘Clarence, I have wanted to tell you something.’

  ‘I know how you feel Ruth and I am the luckiest man alive.’

  ‘No, no Clarrie, I mean yes, we both love each other,’ replied Ruth. She appeared confused. ‘It’s not that.’ She paused and felt slightly ashamed that she had not shared this at a more appropriate time, but in these times of upheaval, she was uncertain when the right time was. Her thoughts were always concerned with Clarrie. ‘Forgive me for not telling you sooner, I didn’t want to add weight to the decisions you have made.’

  ‘Look lively, Private, can’t wait all day,’ screamed the sergeant.

  ‘Ruth, what is it?’

  ‘We’re going to have a baby Clarrie.’

  For a fraction of a second Clarence was frozen. His mind danced with joy, but his body was unable to react. He stared blankly at Ruth.

  ‘I am sorry to tell you like this but...’

  ‘Oh, Ruth,’ he cried. Clarence embraced the woman he loved like it was his last moment on Earth. He buried his head in her shoulder to hide the tears that streamed down his face. He took a minute to compose himself from his sudden outburst of emotion. It could be deciphered as fear by the other men, not as the unrivalled joy of one who is to become a father. Clarence lifted his head slightly and kissed his wife passionately on the mouth. It surprised Ruth and summoned a few whistles and cheers from his fellow infantrymen.

  ‘Get a room, Miller,’ taunted ‘Sticks’, Clarence’s mate from the Liverpool training camp, as he passed to board the Warilda.

  ‘Clarrie, I am so sorry. I should have told you days ago, please forgive me.’

  ‘Ruth, don’t be sorry, you couldn’t have given me better news. We’ll be a real family.’

  Ruth’s face let up like a beacon, overjoyed at her husband’s happiness. How foolish I was to think Clarrie would be anything but delighted.

  ‘We are going to be a family, Ruth.’

  ‘Yes, my darling, a beautiful family.’

  They embraced one more time, and then the two reluctantly parted. Ruth placed a white laced handkerchief, damp with tears, in Clarrie’s hand as he paced backwards. He held her amulet to his face and breathed in its scent. He suddenly held it aloft, a sign to his wife that it would unite them over thousands of miles of ocean and foreign shores, till they met again. With one last nod of his head, he said goodbye and turned for the gangway.

  FIVE

  Ruth opened the door to 96 Beattie Street, physically and emotionally exhausted. After she had left Circular Quay, she had made her way towards the tram, impatient to get home and be with family, Grace and Alice in particular. From flags and banners to uniformed men the city was a living and breathing reminder of the war.

  She placed her handbag on the table and walked out the back door, where she was certain she heard Alice.

  ‘Hello, Grace, I’m back,’ said Ruth. She saw a tiny figure dart behind a sheet Grace had hung.

  ‘Oh, hello, dear,’ said Grace, half startled. She placed a sheet she held back in the basket, and moved towards her. ‘How was everything?’

  ‘As good as I could hope,’ sighed Ruth. ‘Alice Miller, I can see your shoes young lady,’ she added, with a bit more zest in her voice.

  Alice giggled and then leaped from behind the white sheet.

  ‘Why are you home from school?’

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘Yes,’ mocked Ruth, ‘you look it.’

  ‘Go inside now, Alice,’ said Grace, ‘Mum would like to speak to Ruth in private.’

  ‘Oh, do I have to?’ complained Alice.

  ‘Yes, you do, now hurry along.’

  Grace gestured for Ruth to take a seat on the bench next to the lemon tree. She followed closely behind but placed one hand on her back as she ea
sed herself down onto the bench.

  ‘Are you alright, Grace?’

  ‘Yes, dear, just age.’ Grace looked down and fiddled with her apron. ‘Was Clarence angry I didn’t come to see him off?’

  ‘No! Not at all,’ replied Ruth. ‘He understood that it was difficult.’

  ‘How was he? I was worried for him, I just couldn’t...’ Grace stopped. She tried to hold back her emotions, but the tears fought their way out. Ruth moved quickly to put an arm around the distressed mother.

  ‘He was fine Grace, truly he was.’ Ruth’s own anxieties were pushed to the side as she comforted her mother-in-law and friend. ‘I decided to tell him our secret.’

  Grace looked up at Ruth and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, and then waited for Ruth to continue.

  ‘You were right Grace,’ said Ruth. ‘He was overcome with joy, I felt foolish for keeping it from him.’

  ‘You were only thinking of him, dear.’

  ‘Oh Grace, being on that wharf was the strangest experience I have had,’ sighed Ruth, ‘I can’t tell you how I felt, it was like I was being ripped apart. I...’ Ruth paused; she had noticed Grace withdraw to a distant place. Her eyes were transfixed to a spot somewhere on her apron, while one hand wrung the other. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, I am being insensitive.’

  ‘Nonsense, Clarence is your husband, you should be able to tell me how you feel. Sometimes, Ruth,’ said Grace, her eyes bloodshot and teary, ‘sometimes I feel it is just too much. Too much worry. But then I thank God that my boys are alive and I thank God that Clarence brought you into our lives.’

  ‘Grace, I feel blessed to be a part of your family. We will get through this together, I know it. Ruth rested her hands across her stomach and rubbed them gently in a circle. ‘It’s going to be a boy,’ she stated calmly. Ruth thought of Clarence and then looked up and smiled at her mother-in-law.

  ***

  Albert returned his timecard to its slot and walked along a narrow passage towards the exit. One side of the passage was lined with timber doors spaced evenly apart, each with a pane of frosted glass that bore the name of its department in gold letters. The other side of the corridor consisted of a blank wall, with paint that peeled off in places. As he passed the last of the timber doors, Albert was stopped in his tracks by a loud voice.

  ‘Miller! Miller, hold up a second,’ exclaimed the man. A softened sound of typewriters that clattered escaped past the clerk, who held the door-knob in his right hand and clasped the door jamb with his left. He kept his feet inside the office and only allowed the top half of his skinny body to lean out into the passageway; possibly from trepidation about mixing with the workers.

  ‘Yes, Mr Craig,’ said Albert, slightly surprised. What does he want?

  ‘Got something for you, Miller; a letter.’

  ‘A letter, what sort of letter?’

  ‘Not sure actually,’ said Mr Craig, with indifference. ‘Possibly personal, came addressed to you, care of this office.’ He flicked the envelope with the fingers of his right hand without releasing his grip on the door knob. It was an invitation to come forward, and sooner rather than later.

  Albert stepped forward and took the envelope from Mr Craig. He thanked him with a nod and a hesitant smile, before he studied the front and back of the small parcel.

  ‘Been here for a couple of days, sorry Miller,’ said the pompous clerk, ‘haven’t been able to catch you.’ Before Albert could answer, Craig had pulled the door shut and disappeared.

  Albert remembered he had a ferry to catch, so he turned on his heel and walked briskly for the wharf. Why would Archie send a letter to his place of work? He broke into a jog when he saw his workmates had boarded the small vessel that would transport him to Balmain. Can’t be good, he sighed. Albert tucked the letter into his breast pocket and then leapt onto the gangway.

  A quick glance around the crowded ferry told Albert that all the seats were taken, so he took up a position against the gunwale, only a few paces from where he boarded. He stared out across the water and gently patted the envelope that lay against his chest. He decided that he would make a detour to the Exchange Hotel, where he could read whatever news Archie had for him at a secluded corner table. He was confident that fellow patrons would acknowledge this out-of-the-ordinary behaviour for what it was—a wish to be left alone.

  Albert breathed in the salt air as it whipped across the harbour, and his thoughts drifted towards Clarence. Somewhere beyond Sydney Heads on a crowded troop ship, the salt air would be in his lungs as well. How is he feeling? he wondered. The thought churned his own stomach, and then he chuckled lightly, as out of nowhere he pictured his son on the deck of the ship with one of those bloody poetry books, while the other men played cards or stood in a circle trying to disguise a game of two-up. He is different, he thought, but prouder of him I couldn’t be.

  With his mind miles away on Clarence’s troop ship, Albert was snapped back to reality by a tug on his elbow. He turned slowly and recognised Tom Wright, one of the leading hands in Frank’s section.

  ‘G’day, Tom.’

  ‘Albert,’ replied Tom, his tone was too serious for a Friday afternoon. ‘Could I have a word, mate?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, what can I do for you?’

  Tom jerked his head to suggest that they move somewhere else. He motioned towards a fire hose that was coiled neatly beneath a hydrant. The brass fixture was situated in a small recess of the boat’s main structure and provided them with a buffer from enquiring ears.

  ‘I heard your young bloke left for Egypt today,’ said Tom politely, before he broached what he wanted to say.

  ‘Yes, mate, boarded the Warilda a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Well, I wish him all the best, my eldest is over there.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom, I will pass it on to Grace,’ replied Albert, acutely aware that Tom had something else on his mind. ‘Samuel and Archie sailed on the same ship, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you’re right.’ Tom looked a little uncomfortable and paused for a moment. He studied two seagulls that hovered effortlessly alongside the ferry; maybe they hoped to be tossed someone’s half eaten lunch. ‘There was one other thing,’ said Tom, his eyes still fixed on the birds.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’

  ‘Your youngest boy, Frank,’ replied Tom. He turned his attention back to his co-worker to look him in the eye.

  ‘Frank, I hope he’s pulling his weight?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, he’s a good worker. Look, it’s probably nothing, but he got in a dust-up today, planted one on Jimmy Taylor’s chin.’

  ‘Silly little prick,’ hissed Albert. ‘He’ll get himself the sack.’

  ‘Well yes, if Bob Timmins was there he would’ve, but luckily for Frank, Timmins was up in the office.’

  ‘Mate, I appreciate you coming to me. I’ll sort it out as soon as I get home; you have my word on that.’

  Albert put out his hand to shake Tom’s. He felt indebted to the leading hand for his discretion, but as he stood and waited for his act of gratitude to be accepted, he sensed there was more to come.

  ‘Listen, Albert, this may be none of my business but in light of what happened today, I feel I should say something.’

  Albert gawked at Tom with a puzzled expression, his eyebrows narrowed to form creases of toughened skin above his nose. Was this the prelude to Albert’s long, but famously explosive fuse? Tom couldn’t tell, so he swallowed and pressed on.

  ‘What! Spill it out, Tom.’

  ‘When I spoke to Frank and Taylor after their fight, I couldn’t get anything out of either of them.’

  ‘Well, that’s normal. They’re not going to squeal on each other.’

  ‘Yes Albert, I realise that. I grew up on the same streets as you, but there was more to this.’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’ snapped Albert. He tried his best to stay calm as he noticed John Graham, a fellow boilermaker, cock his ear slightly.

  ‘Easy, mat
e.’

  ‘Sorry, Tom, go on.’

  ‘I didn’t expect them to say much, but I do know one thing, Jim Taylor looked very put out when he came at Frank, something had really set him off, but as soon as Frank planted one on him it was all over. Frank said something to him and he just copped it.’

  ‘So, what! Taylor probably just shit himself.’

  ‘Jim Taylor shit himself?’ Tom looked at Albert for a second and allowed him time to think.

  ‘You’re right,’ conceded Albert, ‘Jimmy wouldn’t cop that.’

  ‘I thought the same thing, and then I thought, well Frank’s a kid, maybe Jimmy’s mellowed, you know… with age. But then I remembered something and this is why I came to you.’

  Albert leaned in towards Tom, his head tilted slightly. He put his ear closer to Tom’s mouth, as if he knew he didn’t want to say it too loudly.

  Tom glanced calmly over his left shoulder and said quietly, ‘You’ve heard of Ron Symonds?’

  Albert nodded in the affirmative, ‘Scum.’

  ‘Well that’s one way of saying it. A few weeks ago,’ continued Tom, ‘I’m walking with the missus on the way back from the Telfords and I spot young Frank and his mate Jim outside the Dry Dock Hotel. Just passing the footy around they were.’

  ‘The pair of ’em are always out the front of my place doing the same thing.’

  ‘Yeh… yeh,’ replied Tom, ‘like most kids.’

  ‘What’s Symonds got to do with it?’

  ‘That’s the strange part. All looked normal and then Symonds appears from out the side of the pub and makes his way towards the boys. Frank jogs over to him and takes a scrap of paper from him.’

  ‘And.’

  ‘And that’s it. Took whatever it was and that was it. Then today, Taylor comes at Frank about something, Frank plants one on him and Jimmy does nothing. Don’t you think that is odd, Albert?’

  Albert said nothing in reply. He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He straightened from his slightly hunched position and gazed over Tom’s shoulder toward the stern, like he was searching for an answer.