Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

During his stay at Harefield Park, Clarence had learned the fate of the men in his section on that most horrific and senseless of nights. After being ordered to link up with their right flank, only David Smith had made it back from the men Atkins and he had left. Tom Baker had been taken prisoner, and Corporal Alfred Conner had scouted to the left of that precarious position and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

  Tench and Cook, Birdie; Clarence had pictured their faces—so young, so ill-equipped for war. Tortured by feelings he could not interpret, Clarence sat in his chair while a gentle breeze brushed by. It carried cheerful and melodic songs from varying birds and was so at odds with the sounds that replayed inside his head. He slumped and thought about war, the war that for him barely lasted twenty-four hours. A day, which in his civilian life, could be the product of practically nothing. Yet it was enough, in a foreign land, to unleash man’s most brutal and heinous traits upon inexperienced but brave men.

  At night, Clarence would turn his head to see Sticks by his bedside. He would smile, pleased no doubt, that he had obtained some vitally important news pertaining to the brigade. Clarence would feel warm and comforted; he could sense his body move towards his mate, and then suddenly and violently he would gasp for air, as Jack’s face melted into clay. The distortion of his face would bring Clarence to consciousness; covered in sweat, he would begin to cry. Confused and disorientated, Clarence would be tended to by a nurse, her bedside manner calm and reassuring.

  The nurses were the same with all the wounded soldiers who woke from a nightmare or instinctively took cover after a loud noise. The nurse’s concerns, when raised with Doctors were often brushed to one side. One doctor, a major who had never seen active service, was overheard remarking to a nurse: ‘that it was often the ones with less intestinal fortitude that reacted that way.’

  Clarence had done his best to relieve any anguish Ruth or his parents may have felt on the other side of the world. They had no doubt received a telegram that he had been wounded in action, and he had heard they were blunt and without detail. By the kind-heartedness of a young Australian nurse from St Kilda—who had casually enquired if he had been on Lemnos Island—he was able to let his family know he was alive and well in England; they seemed the appropriate words. The telegram sent and a letter penned, Clarence was confronted with further doubts about his manhood; things that he had never had cause to examine. They unlocked apprehensions about returning home to the one he cherished.

  During all of Clarence’s days in recuperation, bearing the pain of his wound and the endeavours of the medical staff to get him mobile again, Clarence had not addressed what had happened to his brother. Conveniently for his state of mind, whether through hope or a sub-conscious act to relieve him of responsibility and therefore guilt, he had not been asked, nor had he spoken of his brave and dutiful sibling. Archie’s decision to stay behind with the wounded Louth and provide cover while the remainder of men withdrew was, in Clarence’s eyes, typical of his brother’s protective qualities. The outcome for a man who tried to fight his way to safety in such a predicament could only result in death, but Clarrie would only allow the consideration of the more improbable. The likely scenario was destined to unhinge the man seated in a wheelchair. Clarence was aware that he was alive, not by his own gallantry, but by the selflessness of someone much like his brother.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sydney, Central Station, September 1916

  Without acknowledging him, Frank took a seat next to Cliff on the timber bench in the covered concourse of Central train station. He stared straight ahead and waited. Without greeting or preamble Cliff spoke from behind a newspaper.

  ‘At ten o’clock, take your empty crates to the side alley, as normal.’ Cliff paused to cough; he rustled his paper before he continued. ‘You will see another crate covered with blue canvas. Carefully, and I mean carefully, take the crate back into the pub. Inside is a leather satchel. Take the crate with satchel in it and place it on the trolley you use when doing the rounds.’ Cliff ceased talking as a mother stopped in front of them to tie her young boy’s shoelace. Finished with the task, the mother clasped the child’s hand and hurried away for her train.

  ‘Like usual, you will clean the dining room, as you do before each of their meetings, but this time you will leave the satchel under the table that sits against the far wall.’

  Frank nodded to acknowledge his understanding of the instructions so far. He inclined his head a little as he did, indicating that he was impressed by Cliff’s detailed knowledge of the dining room.

  Like a good card player, Cliff picked up on Frank’s body language, and smiled before he spoke.

  ‘Don’t worry, the long tablecloth will hide the satchel from view, and yes, you’re not the only person that provides me with information. The meeting is at eleven o’clock. Finish the room as close to eleven as possible, but no later.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘And Farnsworth is definitely going to be there?’

  Frank nodded again. ‘Charlie Watt will be on the door,’ whispered Frank from the side of his mouth, ‘and Tiger Black will be inside the room, just to the left of the door, so he can relay any messages to Farnsworth.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They will have a man out front,’ replied Frank.

  ‘Won’t be a problem.’

  ‘The rest of his crew will be around the table,’ added Frank.

  ‘A bonus, but it’s Farnsworth, Watt, and Black we want,’ said Cliff bluntly. ‘As soon as you finish that room, make an excuse and go.’

  ‘Done; meeting the grandmother off the train.’

  ‘All right. Keep your nerve and go about your business as usual. Red bar towel on the empty kegs in the lane if anything is wrong.’

  Frank nodded once more, stood, and walked away towards the Lions Gate Hotel.

  ***

  The sweet but bitter aroma of spilled beer, hours old and stuck to the tiled floor of the old pub, filled Frank’s nostrils as he mopped the public bar area. He had started work after he had greeted the silver-haired manager Bob Bailey, who lived upstairs with his ageing wife. They maintained the pub during its dormant hours and looked after the occasional guest in the run-down rooms upstairs. Their constant presence also helped deter anyone stupid enough to rob Ned Farnsworth.

  Was old Bobby Cliff’s other informant? Nah, maybe, who-cares, Frank began to chide himself. Keep your mind on what you’re doing Frankie-boy. The satchel’s interesting though, he added, while he danced silently with his mop.

  The preceding weeks had taken a certain amount of discipline from Frank. Tired after a long week on Cockatoo Island, Frank would reluctantly wake at seven a.m. to be at The Lion’s Gate by nine o’clock. Plenty of time, his mother would say as she cooked him breakfast. Grace was happy her son was trying to make extra money, and relieved he had put his troubles behind him. ‘Don’t want to be late because of a delayed tram,’ he would say, to hide his real reason for the early departures—his meetings with Cliff Ryan.

  Cliff had not let on much at each of their meetings. He had quietly listened to Frank’s reports on the comings and goings of people, and put together the pieces of information from the young man before he asked a question, blunt and direct. The reluctant groomsman had been frustrated at times by the seemingly never-ending Sundays, but Frank’s intuitive mind had been roused by the introduction of Cliff and the whiff of criminality that floated through every room and darkened corridor of the brick building that was the Lions Gate. To his immense satisfaction, his intuition had once again proven to be on-song. Cliff had revealed the Sunday before, that Charlie Watt and Tiger Black were the foot-soldiers who planted the bomb that killed his brother Don. Ned Farnsworth was the Sydney crime boss who had ordered it.

  He stored his mop and bucket in the shed at the rear of the pub, and made his way into the cellar. The anticipation of revenge against those who had almost killed him had aroused his senses. His lust for vengeance grew as the h
our drew near and flowed through his veins like a torrent. Almost sexual in its possessiveness, it augmented his feeling of strength and standing as a man.

  Frank carried two at a time, and stacked the last of the empty timber beer crates neatly in the alley against the moss-streaked wall of the pub. He looked to his right and saw the crate with the blue tarpaulin on top of it, well hidden in plain view.

  A quick glance down the alley towards Pitt Street told him there were no pedestrians, normal for a Sunday morning. He stepped back into the pub and was pleased to see that neither Bob, nor his wife, or anyone else was nearby, and the trolley that he used to carry cleaning equipment was unmoved from where he had left it. Frank moved calmly but with purpose and stepped back into the shaded, damp lane. He picked up the tarp-covered crate carefully, with his elbows splayed outward as shock absorbers.

  Frank Miller placed the crate with its leather satchel on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He remembered Cliff’s warning and wheeled the rickety vehicle steadily. He had deduced what the satchel was likely to contain, so he lifted the rear wheels when he crossed a threshold or change in flooring, to avoid any concussion.

  When he reached the long table in the dining room, he transferred the crate as it was, not willing to risk contact with its contents. Frank sank to his hands and knees and gently pushed the package against the wall, safe from discovery by a polished leather shoe. He rose to his feet, wiped a bead of sweat on his forehead, and went about cleaning the dining room as normal for the congregation of shifty businessmen. He continued about his work and kept one eye on the clock that rested on the mantle of the fireplace. Frank felt everything was on track, but he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of Bob’s wife Agnes with a large tray of sandwiches.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ said Agnes. She was dressed in a long navy-blue dress and walked briskly with her platter of food and cutlery. ‘Mr Farnsworth has requested some food for his meeting today.’

  For reasons mostly to do with chance detection, Frank casually closed the distance between him and the elderly lady. He used a small brush and pan to pick up phantom pieces of dirt from the thick carpet.

  ‘Now, Frank,’ Agnes continued, as she placed the tray of sandwiches on the long table that hid his secret, ‘I understand you have to leave early today.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bailey.’

  ‘Before you go, could you carry the large urn from the kitchen and place it on the table next to the sandwiches? Thank you.’

  Agnes turned to leave and brushed against a knife that protruded from the tray upon the table. Caught in the fabric of her dress, the utensil spun from the tray to hit the carpet on its point. It was propelled under the table and lay hidden from view by the white cloth.

  ‘Oh my,’ exclaimed Mrs Agnes, ‘how clumsy of me.’

  Frank reacted quickly, and in a way expected of an employee or a young man in the presence of a lady. He bent on one knee and gently probed for the offending knife. Frank smiled and maintained eye contact with Agnes while he searched with an outstretched hand. Only marginally did he lift the hem of the linen, afraid his secret may be discovered.

  ‘There you go, Mrs Bailey,’ said Frank, as he produced the silver knife. ‘Should I replace it with one from the kitchen?’

  ‘No need, Frank, what they don’t know won’t hurt them,’ she said with a smile and a pat on the hand; the irony of her comment was not missed by the masquerading groom.

  Frank breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs Bailey left the room, and for a moment he allowed himself to consider her innocence or entanglement.

  ***

  Men in groups of twos and threes filed down the hallway and into the dining room, while Frank, rag in-hand, leaned against the main bar. His hands were clammy with sweat as he wiped the dust from bottles of spirits that were displayed on shelving for customers.

  Placing a bottle of Irish whiskey back on the shelf, Frank noted the time as 10.57 a.m. He removed his apron and placed it under the timber counter. He saw a pencil alongside a notebook and impulsively tore a page from it. He wrote down three words and folded the page twice, before he placed it in his pocket. Frank left the bar area and turned left down the hallway for the main doors.

  ‘Hey, kid!’ barked a voice from his right.

  Frank stopped, his shoulders hunched.

  ‘Yeh you, leaving eh?’ asked Charlie Watt, already on guard at the closed dining room door, their meeting underway.

  Frank turned slowly and swallowed in an attempt to contain his nerves. He tried to hide any visible eagerness, while his inner voice reminded him of Cliff’s instructions.

  ‘Knocking off,’ said Frank quietly.

  ‘And Bobby knows about this?’ replied Watt. The hired muscle attempted to sound important. He was a bully and enjoyed the opportunity to assert some authority.

  Eager to avoid any sort of confrontation that may delay his departure, Frank nodded meekly in the affirmative and allowed the moronic thug his moment. Frank was content with the knowledge of his imminent demise.

  Happy with his little show of force, Watt returned to his position by the door without speaking to Frank. With indifference, he instructed the boy that he was free to go by a jerk of his head to one side. Frank turned on his heel to walk towards the front door and then against all reasonable judgement, he stopped. His ego took hold of him and unleashed his recklessness.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ said Frank as he strode towards the thug. ‘Charlie, isn’t it?’

  ‘What… yeah, what’s it to you, you little prick?’ snarled Watt, his insecurities confronted and stroked at the same time. Pleased to be recognised, he thought the kid obviously admired him, but he was slightly alarmed at the boy’s manner. It was completely at odds with the timid character who had nodded his head a few moments before.

  Frank looked Charlie Watt straight in the eye. ‘Mrs Bailey said this needed to be passed onto Mr Farnsworth.’

  ‘Mr Farnsworth doesn’t like to be interrupted early in his meetings,’ replied Charlie, confused.

  ‘That’s what Mrs Bailey said.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Bailey then?’

  ‘How should I know, I’m just the groom.’

  ‘That’s right,’ snapped Watt, ‘a useless groom, I’ll give it to Tiger in a minute.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ said Frank with a smile.

  Frank turned and headed for the double doors that opened onto Pitt Street. He passed a cabinet on his left, full of sporting trophies and decorated with an oval shaped mirror. Frank saw Charlie Watt casually unfold the piece of paper to take a sly look, his forehead turned to rows of creased skin as the words—Don Hammer Ryan—created the tiniest of sparks in his inert mind.

  ***

  Frank Miller left the pub without acknowledging the man on the front door and walked directly across Pitt Street and towards Belmore Park. He passed a man and woman with a suitcase atop a pram. The former Lions Gate Hotel groom failed to notice Detective William Tyrell as he strode by. The policeman stopped mid-stride and turned to watch the young man he once questioned.

  Men mingled around the long table, adorned with sandwiches and fine china cups that waited to be filled with tea. They stood and made small talk and manoeuvred for their opportunity to impress their boss Farnsworth after his opening speech. Under the tablecloth and beneath a cloak of blue canvas, a metal frame sat snugly inside a brown leather satchel. Attached to the purposely built frame were two separate bundles of dynamite, five sticks in each, with fuses that protruded from each stack. Attached to the fuses was a cylindrical piece of lead pipe, its ends were sealed with thick wax plugs. Inside the lead tube cavity was a soldered piece of copper, it separated two substances from each other.

  Tiger Black entered the room and handed a note to Ned Farnsworth. The crime boss excused himself from his associate and stepped to one side to ask Tiger where the note had come from. As he spoke, the sulphuric acid on one side of the copper disc continued its role and eroded the soft, thin metal barrier. Its de
mise would see the sulphuric acid meet and mix with the picric acid in the other chamber.

  ‘Charlie just handed it to me, Mr Farnsworth,’ said Tiger. ‘I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘Well go and get Charlie and bring him to me, you dim-witted fool,’ barked Farnsworth. His outburst turned a few heads, but they quickly returned to their original positions after they realised where the bellowing came from.

  Ned Farnsworth unfolded the small piece of paper. The sulphuric acid had finished its work, and violated the copper’s integrity. The sulphuric acid began to mix with picric acid and the reaction caused a silent but intense flame to develop that melted the wax ends of the lead tube. The flame escaped from its chamber and ignited the lacquer covered fuse connected to the dynamite.

  Don Hammer Ryan. The sound passed Farnsworth’s lips as a whisper; the name lingered in the forefront of his mind while its significance was considered. Black and Watts approached Farnsworth, but stopped abruptly as their boss’s eyes turned bloodshot with rage. His mouth was a yawning cavity, with saliva that spray from his lips. A long and tortured sound emanated from his lungs that sounded like ‘Symonds’. Confused, each man in the room focused his attention on an irate Farnsworth. The flame had now devoured the last of the water-proofed fuse and kissed the caked nitro-glycerine. The dining room was suddenly enveloped in a heat so intense that all Farnsworth saw was a white flash.

  ***

  The roar of the explosion arrived at the head of a gusting breeze. Detective Tyrell instinctively clutched for his wife and baby boy, as pieces of brick and timber landed on the grass that surrounded them. Tyrell threw his wife to the ground and lay over her with their baby pressed between them. He tried to form a barrier between his family and the falling debris, almost one hundred and fifty yards from the brown leather satchel.

  From the second floor of a terrace house on the opposite side of Belmore Park, Cliff Ryan smiled while he watched a dark grey cloud of smoke climb into the air. Underneath the dark column, flames leapt from the shattered remains of the Lions Gate Hotel. He picked up his coat and hat and exited the terrace building to turn north along Elizabeth Street and blend with the crowd.