Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  ***

  96 Beattie St

  Balmain, NSW

  Australia

  24 October, 1915

  Dearest Clarrie,

  I think this will be my sixth letter since you left, none of them of course able to find you until you reach your destination. There will be plenty for you to read when you do arrive, as I intend to keep writing. It makes me feel closer to you, and relieves some, but nowhere near enough of the anguish of not having you by my side.

  I often lie awake wondering what life is like on an ocean-going vessel. I hope you are not seasick, I’ve heard it’s terrible. I have been a little ill during the mornings with the pregnancy, but I am fine, and your mother, God bless her, says it’s perfectly normal.

  It is quiet sometimes in the house, with your father and Frank at work, but little Ally keeps us on our toes. Your father has been quiet of late, but he does have a lot on his mind, and we seem to see less of Frank each week. The bakery is quite busy, and I am doing as much work as I can, while I can. It also fills in the days. Can you believe that I have not seen one single person walk into the bakery with a volume of Keats in their hand since that infamous day? But come to think of it, I haven’t seen another person like you before or since. When I think of how you were on that day, I smile and then miss you even more. Keep safe.

  Your loving wife

  Ruth

  ***

  The awning that stood over the pavement outside the Dry Dock Hotel shielded Frank from the teeming rain that fell without a hint of respite. The downpipes choked and gutters overflowed, as the water fell in a sheet from the roof of the crowded pub. Inside, the public bar was clouded with tobacco smoke, and reeked of stale beer, but it was dry, and the only place to be for a working man on a Sunday afternoon such as this.

  Frank stood patiently, but shivered. The cold damp air stiffened his joints, so he pulled his new flat cap down over his brow and began to pace on the spot. He was alerted by a rhythmic tap, and turned to see a well-dressed but frustrated man at the window of the busy pub. Eventually, the cold released Frank, and he recognised ‘Hammer’, Ronnie’s right-hand man. Hammer was a bit annoyed at Frank’s slow response, and looked set to lose his temper, when Frank suddenly deciphered his message and signalled the thumbs up.

  Frank took a few paces to his right and entered through double glass doors framed in dark timber. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his damp hair. Frank looked up to see a cheerful Ron Symonds and a not so happy Don Hammer Ryan.

  ‘You sure about this kid, Ronnie?’ snarled Hammer.

  ‘Don’t worry about Frank, he’s a natural. Aren’t you, Frankie?’

  Frank didn’t reply; he had determined that some of Ronnie’s questions were in fact statements, and he had learnt that saying as little as possible was often a good bet. He had witnessed tough grown men converted into blabbering fools after they said something stupid to Ronnie.

  ‘Well, he took long enough to get my message, he might be a bit dim-witted,’ sneered Hammer.

  Ronnie didn’t answer Hammer; he winked at Frank instead. It was a hint that everything was okay, and that Hammer posed no threat to him. At least while Ronnie was happy. Ron placed his arm around Frank’s shoulder and steered him towards a large timber door on the far side of the hallway, which Hammer opened for them both. They walked into the spacious dining room, where Frank was released from his boss’s friendly but commanding grip. Frank turned and glanced around the room, more to give him time to consider what all this was about, rather than with any real interest in the furnishings. Two ladies, dressed in black with white aprons, were busy setting tables in preparation for meals, which began at six o’clock. Hammer gained their attention, and without a word, the two ladies bowed their heads and exited through a side door.

  Frank noticed the brief interaction, and although impressed, he didn’t make a fuss. He turned towards the fireplace instead, and allowed the warmth of the flames to thaw his face.

  ‘Have a seat, lad,’ said Ronnie. He gestured to a chair that Hammer had pulled out for him alongside a neatly set table. Hammer then moved to the door to guard against intrusion. Ronnie paced steadily back and forth. He looked several times out the window and then back towards Hammer; he ignored Frank for the moment.

  Don Hammer Ryan was Ron Symonds’s most trusted associate. Wherever Ron was, Hammer wasn’t far behind, and from what Frank could gather, it had always been that way. The two men had grown up together in Balmain. They had been brought up tough by going without, and had learnt that the only way uneducated sons of unemployed drunks got ahead was to use their instincts. They did whatever they could to survive. As young boys, the two mates had vowed to look out for each other, and had grown to form the classic pairing. Ron had shrewd street instincts and was the brains in the partnership, while Donald, who was solid in build and stood at six feet three inches, was the brawn.

  Over time they had started to make a meagre living anyway they could. They would pounce on drunks who staggered home at night, but this proved limited, as most drunks, by nature, drank any money they had. Gradually they moved up the chain; they used their gifts to complement each other, and over time, built up a nice income on black market goods, along with a bit of loan-sharking.

  With the outbreak of war, the need for black market goods escalated rapidly, and with the added income, Ronnie used his nous and Hammer’s muscle to set up their own illegal gambling ring, run out of a small room in the Dry Dock pub. Their latest venture had proven very fruitful, and had allowed them to make inroads with union officials, which gave them access to the dock workers and Cockatoo Island, where Frank’s story began. Now in their thirties, they had reaped the rewards of their efforts. Ron Symonds and Hammer Ryan dressed in the finest suits, and ate and drank the best of everything.

  Ron took a deep breath and turned to look at Frank; his thoughts had drifted ahead to new ventures, and how his young apprentice would fit in. In some ways Frank reminded Ron of himself. He obviously hadn’t grown up rough like he had; you could tell by the look of the lad. But there was something in his eyes, a quiet confidence that betrayed his shyness, a cold flicker in his gaze that hinted at ruthlessness, and it was this that interested Ron Symonds.

  ‘This rain is enough to give you the shits,’ said Ronnie with his customary smile; a nice opening to a casual business meeting.

  ‘Too right, Ronnie,’ replied Frank.

  ‘I wanted to have a chat, lad… about your future.’

  Frank raised his eyebrows slightly. He quickly glanced at the statue-like Hammer, who was still guarding the door. He was intrigued by what his boss had just said.

  ‘Hammer and I have discussed the way in which you have handled things down at the Island. We’ve had good reports son, and I think it’s time we had a talk about where you’re headed.’

  Frank shuffled in his seat a little; he felt he needed to respond to this endorsement, and with his chest puffed out slightly, he cleared his throat. ‘I have tried hard to do a good job, keep my head down like you said, Mr Symonds,’ said Frank. He nodded at Hammer to acknowledge his rank in the organisation.

  When he felt a bit nervous, Frank would often revert to “Mr Symonds” instead of “Ronnie”, a trait not lost on his boss. It actually made Frank appeal more to Symonds. It showed Ron that, even though he possessed inner strength and self-belief, he wasn’t just some ratbag who lacked the necessary respect or common sense to know where he stood in the scheme of things.

  ‘I know, Frankie, you have learnt fast. How would you like to get into something a bit bigger?’

  ‘For sure, Ronnie, I’d be in it,’ replied Frank quickly, before he adjusted his spirit to be more subdued. He had remembered Ronnie’s advice about keeping your head down and not being a mug lair. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing right now, we just want to know where you stand, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I have enjoyed the work, Ronnie.’

  ‘And
the extra money,’ Symonds said with a smirk. That’s not bad either, is it?’

  Frank grinned and then looked at the carpeted floor. He admitted to himself that the extra money was indeed very appealing, a virtual fortune compared to his apprentice wage. While Ronnie turned to engage Hammer in conversation, young Miller glanced up at the smoke-stained walls, his attention grabbed—for no particular reason—by an old warship, complete with masts and sails and cannons blasting. He pondered, most unlike a fourteen-year-old, what Ronnie’s enquiries would mean to the rest of his life. How it would change him? How would it affect his family?

  Strangely for Frank, these thoughts or questions seemed almost irrelevant to the outcome of what lay before him. He somehow knew, without an explanation, that things had moved along with a life of their own. His destiny seemed pre-cast; the events of the preceding weeks and the responsibilities laid upon him felt like a natural extension of who he was. The confusion came from having feet planted in two paradoxical worlds. Home for Frank was safe, loving, and warm, but suddenly fractured. His other world, charged with energy, restrained by command and respect, was inherent with risk and its potential dangers. The exhilaration from this life was a fuel that overcame Frank’s hidden inadequacies.

  ‘I’m glad we had this little chat, Frankie,’ said Symonds smoothly. The statement snapped Frank from his reflections.

  ‘How’s home life, no troubles?’ While uneducated in the sense of not having attended school regularly, Ronnie Symonds was smart enough to know that he must keep tabs on all aspects of his business. Ronnie considered Frank as an asset, an asset that could be devalued by law-abiding parents, unhappy with their son’s extracurricular activities. A happy home was important to Ronnie.

  ‘Fine Ronnie… Dad had a little dig at me, but nothing to worry about.’

  ‘A bit of advice Frank, and I want you to think about this,’ said Ronnie sternly. ‘Always keep the home front in order, whether it be Mum and Dad or when you’re older… the missus.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Symonds.’

  ‘Your cap for instance, how would you explain that to the ‘Old Man’ or the foreman?’

  ‘No one’s asked,’ replied Frank uneasily.

  ‘No one’s asked,’ repeated Ronnie. He smiled, but with a hint of venom as he glanced over at Hammer, who still guarded the door. ‘You see mate… these are the little things; the little things that matter. If you want to succeed, you have to be on top of it.’

  Frank gazed back at Ronnie but didn’t speak. A wiser choice he felt.

  ‘Cover your tracks,’ Ronnie continued, ‘very important in this game son; can’t emphasise it enough.’ Ronnie wandered over to Hammer, said something inaudible, which resulted in Hammer producing a thick wad of five-pound notes. Ron returned to stand in front of Frank. He held the wad of cash inches from Frank’s face; the apprentice crim did not flinch one inch.

  ‘See this, lad?’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘Ask me where I got it,’ said Ronnie insistently.

  ‘Where did you get the ‘deep sea divers’ from Ronnie?’

  Symonds turned to Hammer and grinned. ‘See Don, that’s what I like about this kid, cool under pressure, “deep sea divers”,’ he says. Ron paused and chuckled for a moment. ‘The races, lad, that’s where I got it… the races. End of story, have a nice day. Not oh, um, no-one’s asked. Always be one step ahead, Frankie.

  ‘Yes, Ronnie,’ said Frank. The casual charm of his boss brought a smile to his face.

  Ronnie Symonds glanced over at Hammer, then returned his gaze to Frank, with palms open and spread outwards, relaying to his understudy that what he had just explained could not be simpler.

  ‘Same as usual this week, lad, Hammer will be in touch if I need you.’

  Frank took this as his signal to leave and stood up. He placed his wool cap back on his head and shook hands with Ronnie and then Hammer, to cement their vague but binding agreement.

  ‘That rain is a real a prick,’ remarked Ronnie. He basked in his role as boss. He knew now that Frank had taken the step to commit, and was his.

  SEVEN

  Port of Alexandria, Egypt, 21 January 1916

  Pressed amongst hundreds of their fellow soldiers, Privates Jack Sullivan and Clarence Miller stood shoulder to shoulder against Warilda’s starboard rail. All of the men clambered for a view of the exotic city that spread out before them, as the tug-boats eased the troopship against the dock in the Port of Alexandria. The new recruits had become frustrated after two monotonous days and nights anchored in Alexandria Harbour while the ship’s captain had waited for permission to dock. Tired of tedious drills and kit inspections, the Australians now bristled with excitement at the prospect of getting ashore.

  The wharf was a hive of activity. Military personnel darted in and out of countless natives, as they made the last preparations before the soldiers disembarked. Almost every one of the local Egyptians appeared to be carrying produce or some other item, which they would offer for sale. The Australians on board had been warned about the hawkers and beggars, but they were impossible to avoid while in Egypt. The raw recruits had been left in no doubt as to what would happen, should there be any incidents that even faintly resembled the disgraceful and infamous ‘Cairo riots’.

  That day and night during Easter 1915 had left Australian soldiers with a tarnished name, and it was vice, according to their commanding officer, such as alcohol and immoral women, coupled with weak-willed individuals, that led to the distasteful events. The soldiers involved had seen their actions as justified reprisal for overpriced goods and watered-down liquor. They also targeted brothels and blamed the women, not themselves, for the spread of venereal disease. Headquarters said it was every man’s duty to act as ambassadors, not only for Australia, but for the British Empire.

  By this time, after a long and sometimes miserable journey, marked with sea sickness, bland food, mind-numbing drills, and more sea-sickness, the men could have been forgiven if they had unleashed their own colourful address to the officer in charge. But as those with no previous military experience, like Privates Miller and Sullivan had quickly learnt, army life was one endless play, and the only lines you needed to remember were, ‘yes, sir!’

  Clarence nudged Sticks in the ribs. He drew his attention to a particular group of local men, who had suddenly and violently clambered for a position on the wharf edge. They were only fifty yards away towards the stern of the ship, and some of their comrades had laughed with delight after they had tossed pennies towards the locals in exchange for oranges. The Australians were more interested in the melee that ensued than in the oranges themselves.

  Too quickly, the fun was brought to a halt by a young and keen-to-please lieutenant. The jeers and moans from the infantrymen involved met with laughter and sarcastic applause from the rank and file.

  With lines secured, a group of military police cleared a passage on the dock. This allowed for several motorcars to come forward, each with an important looking individual perched on the rear seat.

  ‘Oh, look, Miller, our transport is here,’ said Sticks sarcastically.

  ‘Very good of HQ, I was prepared to march to wherever it is we are going,’ replied Clarrie, continuing the banter.

  As the gangway was fixed in position, the officers on board, or brass hats as they were known, filed past the enlisted men, deep in conversation. The officers appeared almost oblivious to their presence, and gave only the occasional glance at the team of porters that struggled with their personal luggage behind them. The regally dressed men paused in front of the vehicles and saluted each other, while the chauffeur of each car stood patiently with the door open. The crowd of natives surrounded them, but were restrained by the military police. The hawkers surged and subsided like the ocean surf, eager to have a chance to sell their goods to the khaki-clad soldiers that lined the ship rail.

  Either not knowing the difference between an officer and an enlisted man, or too in need of money to care, a skinny
man dressed in a dirty gallibaya—a traditional Egyptian garment—ducked under the outstretched arm of an MP and scurried for the party of officers. Another MP, positioned to the side of the vehicles, noticed the breach in security and stepped forward with his baton drawn. With one well-directed blow below the knees, he brought the half-starved peasant and all of his fruit to the ground. A tall thin officer in his late twenties, wearing a monocle and looking slightly more pompous than the rest, broke momentarily from his conversation to look at the native, writhing in agony. He looked at him in the way one may glance at a stray dog that lay in a public place. The officer gave a noticeable look of antipathy and then raised his eyebrows before he resumed his conversation. Two burly MPs dragged the would-be vendor away. The lesson on how to behave around officers was well and truly received by the hawkers and beggars who remained.

  Eventually, Clarence and the rest of his rifle company were ordered to disembark, and the men gave a hearty three cheers to the captain and crew for landing them safely in this bizarre land. Happy to have his feet on dry land, Private Miller made his way along the pier, where orderly columns of soldiers had started to form. Clarence absorbed the sights and sounds as he strode along the ancient and exotic Port of Alexandria. He could feel himself been taken in by the allure of adventure and the comfort of comradeship that had developed on the voyage. He was beginning to understand the boy-like enthusiasm that most of the men around him showed for this enterprise.