Frank walked at an increased tempo since the sound of the explosion had reached his ears. He gasped when he looked over his shoulder to view the enormity of the blast, and a tingle ran down the back of his legs with the realisation of his proximity to catastrophe. The reality of the situation was driven home by the distant screams of innocent pedestrians, injured and maimed, caught up in the horrendous blast that he had helped facilitate. Frank crossed Elizabeth Street, and with no set destination—a detail he had overlooked—he rubbed the back of his hand where Mrs Bailey had touched him. But the cold and methodical voice that sometimes spoke to him from deep inside his mind quelled any misgivings that may have entered his mind.
Outside the hotel’s burnt remains, a horse lay trapped by its harness. It was on its side and in agony. The poor animal kicked and thrashed against the leather straps of its harness. The carriage trace—shattered by the explosion—had pierced its flank and tore a gaping hole in its lung. It was allowed one last tortured whinny before it lay still. Detective Tyrell saw to the health of his wife and child before he moved closer to the blast site. His progress was halted by the intense flames that burnt what was left of the old pub and its neighbouring buildings.
William Tyrell’s detective’s instincts kicked in. He scanned the scene; his thought process continued to be interrupted by the vision of the young Miller boy in the park. Was that a coincidence? Good detectives never ruled anything out. He moved to the left, and was forced to wheel in a widening arc, as the heat intensified. Tyrell heard the bell of the horse-drawn fire brigade as it approached. It took on a more ominous sound as a dismembered arm caught his eye, scorched with tatted pieces of fine blue material fused to the burnt flesh. The question of how many bodies lay amongst the burning rubble sprang to the detective’s mind. Small explosions that led to fires occurred in inner-city businesses regularly, especially those with kitchens. But Detective William Tyrell, as he stood amongst falling ash and thick smoke that burnt his eyes, was willing to stake his badge and occupation on the carnage spread before him being planned and calculated.
NINETEEN
Sydney, April 1917
With the assistance of a cane, Clarence limped down the gangway towards the same wharf he had departed from eighteen months ago, only now, he was laden with the guilt of returning home. The memories of his mates and their tortured ends carried on in his imprisoned thoughts.
He paused before he stepped onto the wharf. The temperate Sydney autumn sun provided a pleasant change from what he had been used to in England; it made the water appear to dance as he looked at familiar surroundings.
There wasn’t a large crowd of people on the dock; the ship had transported mostly cargo. Any people on board were sailors, or like Clarence, unfit for active service. He spotted his wife before she saw him. Ruth stood by an empty pram and looked towards the stern of the ship. She pointed to the big steel object and explained what it was to the beautiful little boy she held in her arms. Mopped with dark wavy hair, his health shone through plump cheeks and eyes that sparkled; his grin revealed a solitary tooth.
Clarence stood for a moment to take in the most beautiful of scenes, a mother and her child, their interactions so in sync as to display nature in balance. The horrific events on the other side of the world so conflicted with the view before him as to make him question his own sense of reality. Clarence took a few steps towards her; he stopped as she turned. Their eyes met, there was a pause, and a moment’s silence to give thanks for his return home before Ruth shuffled in her long skirt and closed the distance between them. She embraced Clarence and then pressed her face to his chest. Baby Reginald burst into tears at the sight of the stranger with the unfamiliar face shaded by a slouch hat.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Clarence warmly. He placed his hands on either side of Ruth’s face and studied every feature. ‘I’ve scared the poor little fella.’
‘No, you didn’t, that was my fault,’ replied Ruth. She had rehearsed their reunion over and over while she lay awake at night. She had wanted Clarence’s introduction to his son to be perfect. ‘Reggie darling, this is your Daddy.’ Ruth held the precious little boy out for Clarence to hold. The returned father was a little apprehensive at first but caved in after a little encouragement from Ruth.
Clarence dropped his kit bag to the ground and rested his cane against his waist before he took his son in his arms. Ruth’s eyes looked down to settle on his walking aide, a pointed reminder of that day beside the rose bushes and all the emotions that had come, gone, and revisited since. She watched Clarence hold their child, and felt a happiness that had eluded her from the time he had boarded the transport for Egypt.
As Clarence smiled and played with their son, she noticed he had aged more than the time that had separated them. There was a more defined look to his features; maybe it was just loss of weight, but she thought not. It was more than that. His eyes, although happy, seemed to bear a heavy weight, but she pushed that from her mind and refocused on what was before her. She kissed her husband on the cheek. She was pleased they were together again. She had never been so naive as to think it would be the same as before—how could it? They were a family now, and that’s all that mattered to Ruth.
‘Clarence,’ said Ruth, reluctant to interrupt the male bonding.
‘Ruth! Sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly, I am so happy to see you with Reggie. I thought, seeing as it is still mid-morning, maybe we could sit in the park and take a moment before we head home.’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘I know you would love to see your parents, but I thought it would be nice to spend some time as a family, I’ve waited for this day for so long.’
‘So have I,’ replied Clarence. He passed his boy back to Ruth and his hip stiffened as he picked up his bag from the ground, it caused him to shuffle slightly.
The young family moved off to reclaim the baby’s pram, which looked out of place by itself beneath the shadow of a large vessel. Her attention with Clarence, Ruth stopped suddenly as she bumped into another returned serviceman. She noticed the folded sleeve of his tunic and made a hurried apology.
For reasons he found hard to understand, Clarence would, without warning, experience a debilitating lapse of consciousness, when he would be momentarily transported back to the horrors of Fleurbaix. There was no structure to how it arrived; it was random and unforseen, but when it did strike—as it had in hospital and now on the wharf—it stiffened his body and left his thoughts in a whirlpool of darkness. Clarence had also seen the armless sleeve of a fellow Digger, and it took all his strength to rid his mind of the tormented images that flooded into his mind.
‘Clarence, are you okay?’ asked Ruth, confused at first and then concerned. ‘Clarence darling.’
‘Fine,’ said Clarence startled, ‘yes absolutely. Shall we?’
***
The Millers sat on a park bench and enjoyed the gentle sun. Baby Reginald tried his best to stand while he held his mother’s knee, but he faltered and fell to the grassy earth with a thud. A quartet of seagulls, who spied a possible picnic, hovered above; they seemed to enjoy the entertainment provided by the young boy, while they waited to swoop.
On advice from Albert, Ruth did her best not to ask too many questions that related to Clarence’s time overseas. Instead, she used the time to fill Clarence in on her own life: the pregnancy, her family, their baby’s first twelve months, all of which Clarence was eager to hear. Clarence had not mentioned Archie, so she skirted the subject. Ruth admitted to herself silently that she wouldn’t know what to say if Clarence was to mention his elder brother.
Alone with her husband and child, she took pleasure from the setting that had been present only in dreams. But Ruth knew—however uncomfortable it would be—that she must prepare Clarence for the house he would return to. For just as she had been mature enough to realise that her husband would be affected by his experiences, 96 Beattie Street had mutated with the forces applied by the world aroun
d them.
Ruth watched her husband and son play, and her mind drifted back to some of things she must now confront.
The impact of the telegram that informed the Millers that Archie was missing in action had been devastating. Grace had withdrawn somewhat; still the kind and loving mother, but mechanical in ways. Her eyes conveyed the realisation that she had lost her son. Her body language suggested that she would never come to terms with her loss. Albert had held on to hope as tight as his own nerves would allow. He wrote a letter a week to the Red Cross to search for information; a suppressed part of him dreaded a reply.
In October 1916, Albert Miller had answered a determined knock to the front door of his home. Confronted by the presence of Detective William Tyrell, Albert was asked to step to one side while two uniformed constables entered the house. A commotion followed, and Grace was left pleading, as Frank made a run for the backyard. The scene ended in restrained convulsions from the youngest of the Miller men, under arrest for the planning and execution of the Lions Gate Bombing. Frank’s face was crimson. Pinned to the ground by an unforgiving knee, it revealed panicked eyes that stared helplessly at a beaten figure—a mother collapsed under the weight of suffering.
The subsequent trial, where Frank, Ron Symonds, and Cliff Ryan, had stood accused of the murder of sixteen people, had tipped Grace Miller over the edge.
Against the wishes of her husband, Grace had attended the first day of Frank’s trial in November of that year, and under immense stress, had taken a turn outside the courthouse. She had become disoriented and incoherent, and began to mutter at length; the only discernible sound was the name of her eldest son Archie.
Grace was admitted to the Sydney Sanitarium at Wahroonga and spent the best part of eight weeks as a patient in the private hospital. Ruth became little Alice’s de facto mother during that time and continued in that role for all sense and purposes after her return. Both Albert and Ruth recognised Grace as a shell of her former self.
Ruth forced herself from her recollections, as her little boy warmed to the strange man in uniform. He took his hand off Ruth’s leg and contemplated independence. ‘Clarrie,’ she said softly.
‘Hang on, luv,’ replied Clarrie enthusiastically. ‘He’s trying to walk.’
Ruth gasped, thrilled that her son might take his first steps in life in front of his father. Her joyous moment was interrupted by a pang of immature jealousy. Luv? I don’t recall being called luv before, she said to herself. Is that what the French women say or the English nurses?
‘Oh, almost mate,’ exclaimed Clarence, proud of his son, even though his nappy-padded backside dropped to the grass after a few short seconds with no steps taken.
‘Almost, little man,’ cheered Ruth. She smiled at her two boys and internally wrapped herself over the knuckles for her petty thoughts; she noticed that a vulnerability had crept into her life the more she loved.
‘Sorry, Ruth, you were about to ask me something?’
Ruth sat upright, her eyes widened while she regathered her train of thought. ‘Ah yes… letters. Did you get my letters?’
‘Yes, of course, well some I suppose, depends on how many you wrote,’ said Clarence with a smile.
‘Hundreds.’
‘Well, not all of them, but enough to keep me entertained. And you… did you receive mine?’
‘Yes, I could recite most of them,’ replied Ruth with a slight smile, Her recollections of Clarrie’s letters summoned a question, hastily and thankfully retrieved before uttered, an enquiry about his much written-about friend, Sticks. For a man she had never met, the news of his death had brought on a surprised reaction when she had read the terrible words in a letter from Clarence while he recuperated at Harefield.
‘That was one of the worst things you know… the mail,’ Clarence offered, unwittingly understating his experiences abroad.
Ruth smiled, and then breathed deeply in preparation for the question she would ask next. ‘Did you receive a letter from your father recently?’ She knew by his lack of enquiry in certain matters that he hadn’t, but she had to ask.
‘No,’ he replied. Clarence clapped his hands together in an effort to entice movement from Reginald, but the baby now played with dirt and had lost interest in the conquest of mobility. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll remind the lazy bugger when we get home.’
‘I don’t know how to say this Clarrie… it’s not easy. Your father tried to write, but obviously...’
‘What is it Ruth?’ said Clarence with sad calmness. ‘Have you had word from Archie?’
That single sentence itself, along with a look, the desperate combination of a voice that yearned and eyes that longed, was enough to overcome Ruth with emotion. But she bit her lip, composed herself and continued.
‘No, your father writes to the Red Cross weekly. It’s...’
‘So do I.’
‘It’s Frank, Clarence. Your brother Frank got mixed up with the wrong crowd,’ Ruth paused for breath, and to gather her courage. Her speech gathered speed in its urgency to be done with the matter. This had flustered her, and alarmed Clarence. Ruth moved closer to her husband and then looked nervously away. Her anxious state had arisen from her desire to withhold the information and spare her husband the shock that the news would bring after so long away.
Ruth had watched Frank slowly change, and after what she had witnessed in the police station, she had received the revelation of the charges with dismay, but not complete surprise. His involvement was conceivable. She had glimpsed the sociopathic glare that he had worked so hard to conceal.
‘Ruth,’ said Clarence sharply. The tone of his voice drew her out of the silence that had grasped her. Her eyes were now watery and asked for forgiveness for the hurt she was about to impart.
‘Frank’s in prison,’ she said.
Ruth looked at Clarence and watched the tide of confusion wash over him. She gently placed a hand on his cheek before she spoke again.
‘This must come as a terrible shock and I dreaded telling you, but...’
‘Prison, I don’t understand Ruth,’ said Clarrie. He appeared frailer than he had prior to the news, and Ruth watched a greyish pallour come over the returned soldier. A bubble of hatred for her incarcerated brother-in-law and the bane he had placed upon his family rose to the back of her throat.
Ruth held Clarence by the hand and hoped that her compassion could help Clarrie take in what would be unbelievable to a man whose last contact with his younger sibling was passing a football.
‘Clarrie, this must seem like some sort of bad dream. I had hoped your father’s letter had reached you and prepared you in some way, but I knew, almost as soon as I saw you, that it hadn’t.’
‘How could little Frank be in jail?’ said Clarence in disbelief. ‘He’s a kid, what in God’s name did he do?’
Ruth didn’t answer the question directly; Clarence had dealt with enough loss of life, without hearing about his brother’s contribution at the inner-city hotel.
‘Frank,’ Ruth sighed in exasperation. ‘Frank got mixed-up… attracted to the wrong crowd. I don’t know how, but he hid it well.’
‘Hid it?’
‘We… your mum and dad… me. We didn’t know, or didn’t notice until...’
‘Until what?’ shouted Clarence. He caught himself and turned slightly away and placed his head in his hands. Reginald added to the shift in mood by crying, startled by the harsh masculine voice that shattered the tranquil surrounds. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ continued Clarence. ‘I just can’t believe what you have told me.’
‘How could you? I didn’t want this. I wanted our reunion to be for us—happy.’ Tears forced their way from Ruth’s eyes. ‘And it was, but Frank, oh God,’ Ruth held her own hands to her face. ‘Your poor mother,’ she said, and broke down. Clarence put his arm around her. He instantly felt hate for Frank, without learning of the depths to which his brother had sunk.
***
Re-adjustment to life as a civilian had come
with its surprises during the first week home. On board ship, Clarence had imagined things would be as he had left them. He was the one that had undergone trauma, suffered loss and experienced hardship. But as he limped slowly along Darling Street, after meeting with his old boss, Mr Blake, he realised the horrors in France had cast their shadow way beyond the battle field.
He was happy but saddened on the day of his return, when he had entered the kitchen and embraced his mother. Happy to be so blessed in being able to see her again, when so many he knew were deprived of the same joy, but saddened that he may have played some part in the tired and worn state in which she now appeared. Grace had become an old lady compared to the one he had left.
Albert had stood and shaken his hand when Clarence had released his mother. He was clearly grateful that he had made it home. Worry was etched across his forehead, and while he was the same Albert Miller, the fire that had shot from his eyes when Clarrie had announced he had enlisted was now extinguished.
He continued along the busy road and passed a middle-aged couple. The man noticed his cane and the returned from active service badge—issued by the Department of Defence—and nodded out of respect as they passed. Clarence had been advised to wear the badge, pinned to the lapel of his coat, after several returned Diggers had been accused of cowardice when they dressed in civilian clothes. Clarence stopped to admire some delicately crafted toys in a shop window just three doors down from the Reynolds bakery. He thought of Alice. He smiled and remembered how she had waited patiently in the corner of the kitchen to be greeted by her brother. She twisted back and forth to make her dress swirl, while she clutched the doll—held with love—which Ruth had given her almost two years ago. When Clarence had bent down, arms outstretched with a smile, Alice had hesitated a moment and then ran towards Clarrie to embrace him as children do, without restraint or embarrassment.
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