Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  Although he had returned to shocking news, Clarence was glad to be home. The tale of Frank and his transformation was told in full by his father over several bottles of beer in the backyard of the Miller’s home the night after he had returned. Clarence had sat in silence while his Dad relayed what he knew, right back to Frank’s fight with Jimmy Taylor, which Albert surmised must have been the start of things. His father made a soft enquiry about his time overseas. He asked his second eldest son if they looked after him. The broadness of the question allowed Clarrie to give a quick nod, while he suppressed a vision of Joseph Finch, his face torn apart by a German bullet; the effect of the ale had helped the image fade away into the ground at Clarrie’s feet. Albert poured another glass of beer for his son and changed the subject. He told tales of his little grandson and his temper tantrums, which brought smiles to both of their faces.

  Clarrie realised he had been staring through the same window for some time now, so he turned to move. A motor vehicle passed and then suddenly backfired. Clarrie’s expression turned from a dazed smile to one of complete shock, as he drew himself quickly against the wall of the toyshop; its brick and mortared face felt a lot like mud-encrusted hessian. As the echo of the bang subsided, Clarrie regained his thoughts. He limped away hurriedly with his head down and teeth clenched, amongst sly stares and whispers. A knot that tasted like Flanders’ clay seemed wedged in his throat. From the window of his bakery, Harry Reynolds watched the sorry scene unfold, and wondered what the future held for his daughter and her husband.

  Part Two

  TWENTY

  Denman Hill, Gilmurra, February 1922

  Ruth wiped the last of the plates dry. She stopped to scratch a small piece of egg yolk that she had missed with her fingernail, before she placed the plate in the cupboard. She looked out the kitchen window, and her spirits were raised as a dark bank of cloud, thick like a puffed-out chest, formed in the west. It rolled east, towards the tree-lined ridge that rose above the paddocks to the rear of their home, and the property they had named Denman Hill, after Ruth’s mother’s hometown. The rain will be welcomed, she thought. The paddocks, although there was some feed, were scorched yellow-brown by the intense January and February sun. A gentle fall of life-giving water would bring that invigorating smell of moisture on dry grass that gave Ruth comfort.

  She watched the hens scratch for whatever they could in the dusty yard, and she felt happy. Ruth had begun to feel at home on the three-hundred-acre farm, with all its trials and hardships, entwined with reward and satisfaction. Maybe it was her mother’s country roots, but the fresh air and its contrasts of brisk winter mornings and hot summer evenings, painted with breathtaking sunsets of rich and ever-­changing colours, appealed to her nature.

  Ruth heard the baby stir, so she moved quietly to poke her head around the bedroom door. Summer days were not conducive for baby’s naps, but little Emily had a pleasant nature and could handle the irritation. She was mellower than her abrasive older brother Reggie, who, at five years of age, had started school, much to his annoyance. Clarence worked hard to make the best of things, and he dealt the best he could with his family’s tragedies. He was embarrassed by being forced to receive help from Ruth’s parents during the drought. The small block and their lack of capital brought them to the brink of ruin during that time, but some fortunate decisions he had made in the purchase and sale of stock when the drought had finally broken in 1921 had seen them keep their heads above water.

  Determined to repay every penny he had borrowed from the in-laws, Clarence devoted his energies to the farm. There were moments where he would be lost from Ruth and his surrounds and stare into oblivion, entranced and immobilised by the horrors of war. There was even the odd occasion when a whiskey bottle would be found drained of its comfort, but they were becoming less of an issue, or less noticeable. Ruth had hoped the addition to the family of a little girl would re-ignite some of the spontaneous and dreamy moments that Clarence had once enjoyed.

  Change and uncertainty were not things that had ever scared Ruth. But she could admit it had not been easy to move from suburban Sydney to rural New South Wales, leaving friends and family and the security of what she knew. It was a move that was forced upon them. The familiarities that one may think would help repatriate a returned serviceman: job, family, acquaintances, had all conspired to work against Clarence and his efforts to put the war behind him.

  Occurrences, like the day when he had looked for cover after the motor vehicle had backfired in Darling Street, had left him mortified. He had become withdrawn; his reactions to mundane questions by co-workers at The Observer and family alike were abrupt and dismissive at times. So unlike the person his associates remembered and cared for. They would replace their look of shock with one of pity and turn to walk away, the question left for another time. Their benevolence after his release of frustration deepened his insecurities and his fragile state. The tentacles of his most dreadful experiences anchored themselves to become part of who he now was. Without a way of shifting the feelings that plagued his existence, Clarence was trapped between conflicted emotions.

  Ruth supported him by being there when she was needed. When she knew, by instinct, that words couldn’t remedy, only space, she would melt into the background to observe from a distance. She would follow with a gesture to comfort; her timing with such things was almost always perfect.

  Her devotion was never tested, but her understanding of her husband was sometimes blurred when she witnessed him turn from the son she knew he adored. The little boy would be crest-fallen. Innocent of his father’s troubles, he would grasp for the trouser leg he relied on for balance as it moved away.

  While they lived in Balmain, evenings at the Imperial had become more frequent for Clarence. More frequent because they had never happened prior to the war, more telling, not because he frequented the hotel nightly, but because his visits were more about expunging memory than socialising. The alcohol only proved to weaken resolve—not cure trauma.

  Ruth’s experience with drunken men was non-existent, and the obnoxious and mumbling mess that would present itself at the front door added to the pressures that had built around them. She did not want to burden her parents or Clarence’s, and often vented her frustrations by writing in her journal; the faintly lined sheets of paper provided a form of counsel without imparting judgement.

  Her love for Clarence was unshakeable. She thought constantly of a way to bring balance back to their life, and was open and willing to look at anything. Ruth remembered how a possible solution arose one Sunday morning, as the rare sound of large raindrops rang against the corrugated iron roof of Denman Hill, slowly at first and then with a nice constant rhythm. The hens scurried for cover and their frantic sprint brought a smile to Ruth’s face.

  Ruth’s father and mother had suggested it. They showed her a full-page advertisement in the newspaper that related to the Soldier Settlement Scheme. Ruth was at first against the idea, but as her father spoke over Sunday tea, she had warmed to it. The town of Gilmurra had sounded very familiar, as Mr Reynolds had read the notice from the Minister for Lands, Mr W.G. Ashford.

  Mr and Mrs Reynolds had discussed the opportunity and had no doubt planned how they would approach Ruth with the idea. They were desperate not to offend Clarence with the idea, and wanted to avoid any suggestion that he wasn’t assimilating to civilian life, but they were also aware that a continuation of things as they were would eventually erode what he and Ruth had.

  Ruth had been struck with the obvious hurdles of how they would afford the five percent deposit and subsequent instalments that attracted five percent interest per annum. There was also the fact that neither of them was skilled in farming. But Ruth was satisfied when her parents said they would back them financially while they got established. Ruth’s mother also added that on top of the scheme’s training program, she thought it would be wise if Clarrie spent time on a relative’s property at Merriwa, near her hometown of Denman.
r />   Roused by Emily’s cries, Ruth made her way to the baby’s bedroom and picked her up. She cradled the six-week-old baby against her chest and gently rocked her back and forth.

  ‘It is only rain, little one, said Ruth softly. It’s a strange sound but very welcome.’

  Sitting in the wooden rocking chair by the window, Ruth un-buttoned her blouse and removed her breast to feed and calm her beautiful little girl. She sang to her child softly when a thought occurred.

  ‘I just realised, Emily,’ she said while she gently stroked the baby’s forehead. ‘You’re a country girl, born and bred.’

  As the baby lay content in her arms, Ruth was hypnotised by the continuing sound of rain. She drifted back to Balmain; the excavation of memories gave her strength as they reminded her of how far they had come.

  Clarence had greeted Ruth’s proposal with little enthusiasm, and while he was dissatisfied, and hamstrung by meaningless assignments at the job he once loved, his response sounded like a man who would prefer to suffer what he knew rather than take a chance on fulfilment. It was unlike the Clarence that had ordered bread with Keats tucked under his arm.

  Ruth had tried to add weight to her idea but got the opposite result when she had mentioned that the properties in question were near the town of Gilmurra. She told Clarence that she remembered Gilmurra from mentions in his letters of the hometown of a man in his section. Ruth was disappointed and deflated when her husband sank into the ugly hole which left his body devoid of warmth when she mentioned the man’s name. When he returned from the Imperial Hotel incapable of speech, she remembered how she had cried into her pillow and felt almost as alone as those nights when Clarrie was overseas. With the flannel pillow case clenched inside her fist, she had vowed not to give up on her husband. She whispered How do I love thee, let me count the ways, and cried some more.

  Several weeks later, Clarence returned home from work as normal, and unexpectedly, while he made a pot of tea, announced that they should apply for the block of land she had mentioned. A change would do them good, he said. A short time after, Ruth had learnt of the real motivation behind Clarrie’s change of heart. He had been fired by his boss. Clarrie had struck a fellow journalist in full view of the office staff, something Mr Blake had said he couldn’t tolerate, not on top of Clarrie’s continual anti-social behaviour. Ruth began to ask Clarence why he hit the man, but stopped short. She told herself that it didn’t really matter. She had got the change she was looking for, and maybe it was meant to happen this way.

  Clarence was relieved Ruth hadn’t pushed the subject. She had accepted his brief statement of what had occurred in a calm manner. Clarrie didn’t want to lie to his wife; she had a broad and accepting mind and he held her on a pedestal. But no one, not even Ruth, would accept that Lieutenant Sharp, the man who had pushed Clarence into battle at gunpoint, had shouted and yelled at him until he obeyed his order to hit his fellow journalist.

  As Ruth placed Emily back in her cot, she heard the door to the side of the house bang shut. She walked out to investigate, and was greeted by Alice, her wet hair in tangled strands over her forehead. She stood in the centre of the kitchen and smiled cheekily before she produced two loaves of bread from under her coat that she had somehow kept dry all the way from her job at the Gilmurra Bakery.

  ‘Well done, Ally.’

  ‘Mr Duncan said I could bring them home.’

  ‘He’s a nice man, your boss,’ replied Ruth. ‘You’re early, even for a Saturday?’

  ‘Got a lift with Mr Adler in his lorry.’

  ‘I thought you liked riding your bike in the rain,’ teased Ruth.

  ‘Is M awake?’ said Alice. She referred to her niece, who she had tagged with ‘M’, short for Emily.

  ‘Just gone to sleep, but you’ll see her soon enough,’ said Ruth. She knew how much Alice looked on her baby as a little sister.

  ‘What about Reggie, is he with Clarence?’

  ‘Little Reginald is playing over at the Donagheys’.

  Ruth smiled, and suggested to Alice that she take a seat while she dried her hair with a towel produced from a stack in the walk-in closet that adjoined the kitchen. She stood behind her husband’s youngest sibling and gently massaged her hair; Ruth felt pride and admiration for the young lady who had lost so much, but remained so full of life. She had left school before Christmas and got a full-time job at the Gilmurra Bakery. She had told Ruth that she wanted to pay her way. Ruth felt she understood why.

  From the time Grace was admitted to the private hospital during Frank’s court-case, Ruth had been Ally’s mother in everything but name. When Clarrie and Ruth had announced they had been successful in securing a Soldier Settlers’ block, Albert had approached Ruth a day or so later, and asked if they would take Alice with them.

  Ruth remembered Albert looking at the ground, as he explained how he thought it would be in Alice’s best interest. ‘A chance,’ he had said, ‘with my wife not well, for my little girl to have the guidance of a strong and loving woman in her life.’ That compliment floated into Ruth’s mind every now and then, never more so than on the train to Sydney for Albert’s funeral in the summer of 1920. Tears streamed down her face as she rocked with the motion of the locomotive, her thoughts with her father-in-law, who had been through so much. His life had ended with a sudden and massive heart attack; his selfless request had reminded her of how complete the love of a parent for their child could be. Willing to forgo his own emotional needs, he sought a better life for his daughter. He knew that although he loved his children without question, he couldn’t, through the demands of his own work and caring for Grace, provide the attention a young child needed.

  Ruth cut Ally a slice of bread from one of the loaves she brought home and smeared it with butter and a generous amount of blackberry jam.

  ‘There you go, Ally,’ said Ruth, ‘eat that, while I get a brush to attack these knots in your hair.’

  Ally picked up the large slice of bread and watched Ruth as she disappeared down the hall. She savoured the sweet tasting jam but looked towards the hallway long after Ruth had disappeared. The image of the striking woman with dark-wavy hair had replaced that of her own mother a long time ago, even before they had boarded the train for Gilmurra when she was only twelve.

  ***

  The perfume of peaches, mixed with lemons and a hint of oranges, carried on the light breeze from the small orchard at Denman Hill. The scent relaxed Clarrie as he worked. He was mindful of keeping busy, and felt physical work provided him with the best defence against bad memories. They were mostly suppressed, but always capable of ambush.

  The sense of smell can be a powerful conjurer, and although he passed through the fragrant yard daily to enter the shed that sheltered his flat-bed truck, the scent of lemon—the fruit having its origins in grafts taken from the family home—had transported him back to Beattie Street on this particular day, suddenly and without warning.

  When his mother died, a week exactly after Albert passed, it seemed almost surreal for Clarence and Ruth. They had received the news via a constable who had knocked on the front door of the family’s Beattie Street home. Clarence hadn’t known this, but the constable was one of the men who had wrestled his younger brother to the ground in the back yard when he had attempted to evade arrest. The constable had looked even more contrite than a deliverer of bad news might, aware of the troubles this ordinary suburban family had been through. He solemnly passed on the news that a woman who bore his mother’s likeness had been found in Mort Bay, unconscious, and later to be pronounced dead. A photo of a man in uniform was found in her clothing.

  Clarence had scoffed at first and told the constable that his mother was sound asleep in her bedroom. But when the constable had produced a photo of Archie in front of a pyramid in Egypt, he had collapsed. At some time during the night, Grace Miller had quietly left a sleeping house. She walked the considerable distance to the water’s edge, and calmly stepped into Mort Bay as if she was strolling
into the arms of her husband.

  Clarence and Ruth had told Alice that her mother had drowned in an accident. She had slipped on the timbers of the wharf and struck her head. Then, through whatever money they could muster and the charity of St John’s, they buried Grace Miller next to Albert.

  Clarrie felt a deep sadness at the death and sad end of such a wonderful woman. He remembered how he had sat in the kitchen of 96 Beattie Street, feeling cold in a house that was once radiant with the love and happiness created by his deceased mother. In all his grief, Clarence realised that it was no longer the home it had been. His young sister ratified his feelings when she entered the kitchen from the backyard and said that she would like to go home now.

  Clarence had put his wife, son, and young sister on a train for Gilmurra the next day, while he stayed to meet with a solicitor and estate agent. He had decided to put the Beattie Street home up for sale, but before he left for Gilmurra himself, Clarence had one more thing he needed to do. With the assistance of Detective Tyrell, Clarence visited his brother Frank in jail.

  Owing to the severity of his crime, Frank had not been allowed to attend his father’s funeral, so when Clarence sat down on a wooden stool in front of a steel mesh grille, they were laying eyes on each other for the first time in five years. Clarence did not recognise the man that sat on the other side of the cage. Some people say that, regardless of physical change, the eyes usually give a clue to the person’s identity after long absences, a glint or a look, something to spark a forgotten memory, but for Clarence Miller—there was nothing.

  He looked at Frank, and dark emotionless eyes stared back at him. He realised he felt intimidated and uncomfortable in his presence. The dislike that he felt towards his brother was allowed to rise and form as anger, with the security of the steel screen between them. The animosity that passed from Clarence was reciprocated by Frank. His brother had not seen fit to contact him since his return from France.