‘I’ve been a father for twenty-odd years, Detective,’ remarked Albert, quietly and somewhat despondently. ‘I’ve worked hard, saved what I could and looked after my family. My two eldest are serving...’
‘You’re a good man, Albert,’ interjected the detective. He motioned to the sergeant to leave the room. The detective sensed a pivotal moment, of sorts. ‘I could tell the first time I met you and your lovely wife.’
Albert shrugged in response to the detective’s comment and stared at the ground near his feet. He wanted to relieve himself of what he held inside. ‘I think I knew all along. I think I knew but didn’t want to. I’d ask a question, he would answer it—calm as you like. “Where did you get that son?” “Did some labouring,” he would say. “That’s a nice cap.” “Got a job walking horses at the race track.”
‘Mr Miller, I have been a police officer for sixteen years, worked my way up to detective, heard and seen most things. Time and patience, Mr...’
A knock on the door interrupted the detective; a young constable entered the office.
‘Sorry sir, but Mrs Miller has entered the room—thought you would like to know.’
***
‘Ruth?’ said Frank. He was confused, and had a guarded look on his face. ‘Why are you here?’
‘How are you, Frank?’ replied Ruth in a raised voice to allow for his injury. She deliberately avoided his question. ‘Can you hear me alright?’
Frank made a sign with his hand to inform Ruth that his hearing, while not the best, was not hopeless either. Ruth took it as, ‘I will hear you if it suits me.’
‘I made you a sandwich,’ continued Ruth, as she produced a brown paper bag from a small basket. Her cheerfulness was not dented by Frank’s lack of enthusiasm for conversation.
Frank reached over the table that separated them. He accepted the sandwich with a nod, still sceptical, while he gazed at Ruth’s protruding belly.
‘It’s due next month,’ said Ruth in response to Frank’s unspoken question. ‘I can’t believe it myself.’ Ruth paused to rub her stomach. ‘It all seems so surreal in a way. Just think Frank, you’re going to be an uncle.’
Frank sat silently. He tried to recalibrate his thoughts, after been caught off-guard when Ruth had entered the room. He chewed on the sandwich his sister-in-law had prepared for him, and shifted his gaze to the surrounding walls. He never looked at Ruth for more than a second or two, while she chatted merrily.
Frank wasn’t sure what it was, but Ruth made him feel a little nervous. Not nervous as in being afraid of what might happen. He had executed dealings with tough, burly men, confidently and professionally. It was more like being conscious of not having the right thing to say, or being made to feel silly. In fact, he found making eye contact with Ruth almost impossible. To him, she was as mysterious as anyone he had come across. Part of him wanted her to reach over the table and hug him, wrapping him in that faint and intoxicating floral scent that would catch him unawares at the dinner table. The other side of him wished she would get up and leave, so he could resume what he was most comfortable with.
Ruth looked around the room. She stared at the pale green walls and allowed the silence to linger for a moment. She contemplated her next move. Frank is an enigma, she thought; tough on the outside, but still a kid in many ways. His eyes, from what she had seen, never gave much away. They were dark like the ocean. His wariness made her cautious, fearful that the wrong enquiry could see him withdraw further. She also could sense something else in those deep eyes, something that flowed slowly, like molten rock in the depths of a volcano, ever present, the essence of the being, but rarely shown in its fullness. It was kept in check for the most part, only allowed the occasional vent for someone with a watchful eye—like Ronnie and now Ruth—to identify it’s presence. Is it good? Ruth pondered. That depends. After all, how did he come to be here? Was it bad luck, or just fate catching up with him? Her husband was also a mysterious person, but not in the same way Frank was. Clarence was a thousand thoughts being processed at once, open and spontaneous. His eyes, though also dark, glistened, and radiated what was at his core. If Frank’s inner being flowed like lava, then Clarence’s danced like a butterfly atop the tips of spring grass.
‘Did you read the letter from Clarrie?’ asked Ruth suddenly. She had decided on her approach.
Frank squinted and turned his head towards Ruth.
‘Clarrie’s letter, did you read it?’ she repeated, louder and slower.’
‘No!’ barked Frank.
Ruth looked quickly through a small bag that was in her basket and produced a well-worn envelope. She held it up triumphantly, before she reached across the table to hand it to Frank. Her face beamed with a smile, brought on by the thought of her husband.
Trapped between his two worlds, Frank was confused as to how he should act. The mention of his brother Clarence brought an instant spark of interest, but the pale green walls he was surrounded by reminded him where he was and what had got him here. He stood to accept the envelope from Ruth and eased himself back into his wooden chair. With little emotion, which he realised would seem strange, but necessary in the current climate, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Ruth sat and watched Frank with interest while she placed the basket on the table. She tried to make herself more comfortable on the hard chair, but it was not an easy task at this stage of her pregnancy. Ruth knew the letter by heart, so she studied Frank’s face to note the small changes in his expression: the raised eyebrow, the upturned corner of his mouth that hinted a smile, or the reflective pause. All of them suggested to Ruth that the letter might prove to be quite the interrogator.
Frank’s face split like a peach. It formed a smile that warmed Ruth’s heart, and she knew he must have read about his brother’s lack of coordination. The release of happiness in Frank, while pleasant for Ruth, also gave her a small insight as to what it was to be a parent. To see the innocence in a person you have nurtured and loved while you guide him through childhood. To teach him—as far as you know—how to function in society, before being silently grasped and overcome by influences outside of your control. Those influences taking its victim in a direction you can’t—or don’t want to—see.
‘It’s good to finally hear from Clarence, isn’t it?’ said Ruth. She remained cheerful, determined to have an impact on Frank.
‘Yes,’ replied Frank. ‘Where’s Egypt?’
Ruth’s skin tingled, as she witnessed the boy as he attempted to emerge through the recently formed crust of his adopted persona. ‘At the top of the African continent, although a little to the right,’ replied Ruth enthusiastically. ‘Could you imagine Clarrie; all of his army mates bored to death from his stories about the pyramids and pharaohs?’
Frank laughed at the thought; the laughter caused his ear to ache, and he instinctively put a hand to it.
‘Sorry Frank, I forgot about your ear.’
Frank shook his head and waved his hand to indicate that it wasn’t a problem, and sat for a second before he spoke.
‘Have you got one from Arch?’
Ruth could have cried as she watched the expression on the young man’s face. The preceding nine months had seen great turmoil and upheaval in everyone’s lives, all of it taking its toll. The adults had done their best, Ruth and Grace in particular; they had been there for each other. Albert, as you would expect, was strong and stoic, but a little quieter than normal. In all the hustle of daily life, Ruth now realised that while Frank sat around the table and listened to letters from Archie, she, and as far as she knew, Albert or Grace, never talked to him about his brothers. She knew Albert and Grace had concerns for Frank in general; she had seen Albert doing his best to strike up conversations. And it would have been difficult for Albert to agree to the detective’s suggestion about a female family member meeting with Frank. But there it was. It glared at her. His inner torment, barefaced and exposed, as obvious as anything she could choose to look at.
&nbs
p; Frank, the youngest of three boys, had lived life secure in his siblings’ shadows. He emulated Archie in any way he could. His dream was to be like his eldest, football-playing brother; the sight of Archie in his military uniform was amongst his most memorable days. When Clarence had enlisted, Frank had been surprised by his own reaction. Although not really interested in the same things as Clarence, he had always felt reassured—without really knowing it—by his calm and confident manner. Shocked like everyone, when Clarence had announced his intentions, Frank had felt let down, and while he didn’t intentionally rebel, circumstances, such as his fractured family unit and new acquaintances, drew him gradually and unknowingly towards different mentors.
‘I’m sorry, Frank, I...’
‘Doesn’t matter!’
‘You must be very proud of Archie,’ said Ruth.
Frank shrugged. He was aware he had let his guard down, but was enticed to go further by Ruth’s disarming ways. ‘None of my mates had a brother at Lone Pine.’
Ruth forced a smile, and nodded, and allowed Frank to bask while she pondered. The thought of Archie being in battle immediately drew her to think of the perils Clarence would encounter.
She felt things were going well, so Ruth decided to widen the discussion. ‘The explosion must have been frightening; did you know the man that passed away very well?’
Frank froze; an odd look came to his face. Ruth interpreted his expression as confusion after not having heard the question. But in fact, it was his brain, which had kicked into gear. The dark voice from inside him said, Where it should have been in the first place. She’s like the rest. Frank was angry at himself. The warm and comforting thoughts of his brothers were flung violently from his mind. Stick to your plan, or she’ll do you in just as good as a copper would.
She repeated her question. ‘Did you know the poor man very well, Frank?’ Her voice trailed off as she witnessed a look of smug self-confidence transform Frank’s appearance.
‘No, not very well,’ replied Frank. ‘I mean, I had seen him around, said g’day, but that was about it,’ continued the young crook, so calmly that Ruth felt she was in the presence of another person.
Ruth sat quietly, unnerved by the young man she now faced. The Frank Miller she had known had disappeared without a trace, as if he had sifted like sand through a crack in the floor. The wrong line of discussion, the one she had feared to mistakenly take, had been taken, and she cursed herself for diving in too quickly. Had she and the detective hoped against hope? Was the boy’s path already chosen, the policeman’s unorthodox plan doomed to fail before it was enacted?
Frank could see the look of defeat in Ruth’s eyes, and it gave him a sense of satisfaction. The burgeoning part of his character, the one that relished the thrill of shady backroom deals, grabbed his softer emotions like a bouncer would grab a drunk, and beat them to a pulp. It eliminated them as a risk, and prevented the unreliable feelings from ever surfacing again to cloud his judgement and put him in harm’s way.
‘Thank you for the sandwich, Ruth,’ said Frank, as he rose from his seat, ‘it was very nice of you. If you see Dad on the way out, could you ask him to tell the detective that I would like to go home… if he has no further questions?’
TWELVE
A week and one day after the explosion, Frank Miller was back at work on Cockatoo Island. His hearing, while not perfect, had steadily improved. The doctor had completed a thorough examination on the Friday before, and stated he was confident of a full recovery.
Frank’s return to home life had not been easy, but he had expected that. His father had barely spoken to him, and only broke his silence to warn him of the consequences if he was seen associating with Ron Symonds. Consequences Frank couldn’t give a rat’s arse for. He had heard his mother and father arguing late at night in the kitchen, with his name coming up several times. It prompted the quietening of voices on occasion, no doubt at the behest of his mum. Ruth had been polite but distant, and Frank had found himself having thoughts about her that had never previously entered his mind. Alice’s affections remained the same. She too had heard the arguments and noticed the silence, but a couple of small gifts from her youngest brother had soon allayed any concerns.
Halfway through his first day back, Frank received a tap on the shoulder from the foreman, Bob Timmins. He asked him to clean the storeroom before lunch. Frank looked at the foreman, confused and slightly annoyed, but was persuaded to do as he had asked when Timmins gave him a sly wink.
Frank reached the storeroom and entered cautiously through the swinging timber door. He knew he had been sent there for a specific reason, but was not sure if it would be good or bad. Slowly, he poked his head over the counter that barricaded the rows of shelving from the entrance, and looked left and right before he reached over to unlatch the hip-height door to his left.
‘Took your time,’ said a voice directly behind Frank. It made him spring to an upright position before he could complete the task of opening the counter door. ‘A bit jumpy, Frankie, haven’t lost your nerve?’ continued Ronnie Symonds.
‘Ron, you scared the shit out of me,’ replied Frank, startled but pleased to see his boss.
‘I know.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, just come to say hello, catch up,’ said Ron, as he turned to shut and lock the entrance door before he moved around Frank to release the counter door from its latch. ‘Step inside Frankie.’
‘I didn’t let on to the police.’
‘I know,’ replied Symonds.
‘How?’
‘I just do,’ said Ronnie, calmly, before he lit a smoke. ‘You did well… but enough chit-chat. I found out the names of the bastards who killed Hammer.’
‘Who are they?’ Exclaimed Frank.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, but I need to know if I can rely on you to be there when the time comes to sort them out.’
‘Count me in, Ron, those pricks could of killed us all,’ said Frank through gritted teeth. ‘Just tell me when.’
Ronnie Symonds moved towards Frank and placed his right palm on the nape of Frank’s neck. He gripped Frank firmly, while he rested his forearm on Frank’s collarbone. Symonds looked him dead in the eye and spoke in a low growl that made the hair on Frank’s arms stand on end.
‘The slimy scum that killed Don Ryan, my mate, will get what is coming to them. What you have to do is not get excited and fuck this up.’
‘But… ’
‘No fucking buts. In case you have forgotten, you were in a police station last week. They will be watching. People here on the island… will be watching. Lay low and I mean low, and when the time’s right I will find you.’
‘Yeah, no worries Ronnie,’ said Frank. He nodded his head once and then took a step back as Symonds released his grip.
‘No coming to see me at the pub, nothing. Your rounds here will be taken on by someone else, got it. We don’t know each other.’
‘Whatever you say, Ron.’
Ron Symonds took a deep breath to calm down. With hands on hips, he looked towards the ceiling, and then back down at the floor. He stood motionless, except for a gentle tap of his right foot on the painted concrete.
‘This has to be done right, Frank,’ said Ronnie. Slowly he lifted his chin to look at his new right-hand man. ‘Patience… patience and silence, and the will to get it done, that’s all.’ Ron stepped forward and shook Frank firmly by the hand. It bound the contract as the siren for lunch sounded. ‘Get back to work, Frank.’
Thiennes, France, 30 June, 1916
The barn had a pungent but earthy odour, and bristled with activity as the last of A Company from the 53rd Battalion of the Australian Imperial Force settled into their new billet. They were in the rural community of Thiennes, part of the Armentières sector of the Western Front, also known as The Nursery. It was a place where inexperienced troops could get a gentle introduction to trench warfare.
The soldiers had marched from Blaringhem
and the railway junction of Hazebrouck, where they had endured light but constant rain. They were grateful for the chance to take shelter; the fact that their digs were normally inhabited by cattle, horses, and pigs, didn’t seem to bother them. They were one step closer to the front, and after four months of training as a battalion—longer for the new recruits—they were bored senseless with monotonous drills and instruction.
Clarence took up a spot against the barn wall, which was completely made of stone except for the timber fittings such as doors and shutters, and the gabled roof above; its thick beams and trusses were fashioned from ancient French oak. As always, he was alongside Sticks, and the Gallipoli veteran, Tom Baker, whom Clarence had become mates with while in Egypt.
A large and open space, the barn was a rare opportunity for the whole company to be quartered together. Tents and smaller billets usually required the men to be divided into their rifle sections, or at best, platoons. Clarence allowed his eyes to wander around the large expanse. He admired the massive dark timbers that supported the impressive roof, and allowed his eyes to linger on the soft, cloud-filtered light, which passed through the open timber doors and glassless but hatched windows. Their frames were painted blue, and they blended comfortably with the light ash colour of the stone. It gave the place a homely feel. The darkened oak provided a nice contrast.
How pleasant, Clarence thought, to be in such a beautiful country, after the harsh and unforgiving conditions of Egypt. It appealed to his nature; the rich but soft colours that seemed to blend and become one with the countryside. The vibrant and charismatic people, whose approach to life centred on family and enjoying the gifts that God had provided. He could see himself in such a place with his beautiful wife.
Clarence caught sight of his brother on the opposite wall. Archie barked orders at a private who dallied. Clarrie smiled as he watched the private jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, fearful of not living up to Corporal Archie Miller’s standards. Archie had the respect of all the men around him, which included those of higher rank. The rank of corporal meant he would lead a rifle section, which usually contained a lance corporal and eight privates. Some corporals liked to remain chummy with the rest of the section. They had been privates once themselves. They didn’t like to be seen as being hard on their mates. Archie was a mate in many ways to his men, and his ability to lighten a tense mood endeared him to those who knew him. But overall, he saw his role a little differently, as a protector of sorts, who looked after his men through hard work and discipline. Influenced by his experience at Gallipoli with Lieutenant Davidson, he knew this would give them their best chance of pulling through.
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