‘Yes, Ruth, I agree.’
A pause in conversation was interrupted by the sound of Norman standing abruptly. Ruth laughed silently at her husband’s inability to see the real motivation for Norman’s visit on a Saturday afternoon. Ruth looked to her right; she could see Alice in one of her best dresses at the end of the hall. Her intuition proven correct, Ruth watched the captivated young gentleman, flushed red in the cheeks.
‘Ah, here she is,’ began Clarrie. ‘Norman, this is my sis...’
‘Hello, Alice,’ said the young man, as if no one else was in the room.
‘Oh, you know each other,’ said Clarence, still oblivious to the chemistry in the room.
‘Yes, Mr Miller,’ replied Norman. He sounded formal and slightly nervous. ‘I met Alice at the bakery, several weeks ago.’
‘Oh, very well then.’
‘Hello, Norman,’ said Alice, as entranced as her male friend. ‘How are you?’
‘How ironic,’ whispered Ruth.
Norman turned quickly towards Mrs Miller, thinking he had heard something, but quickly turned his gaze back to Alice.
‘Clarence, I almost forgot!’ exclaimed Ruth. ‘Will you come and have a look at my pony? He has the most terrible rash behind its fetlock.’
‘It’s probably just greasy heel, I’ll look at it later.’
‘It’s much worse than that!’ exclaimed Ruth, further fabricating her story, while she moved around to Clarrie’s chair to assist him out of it. ‘I need you to look at it now.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll do it now. Sorry about this, Norm. Alice, would you keep Mr Clark company for a moment? I’ll be back as soon as I tend to my wife’s request.’ Before he got a reply, Clarence suddenly remembered his youth, and realised that his little sister had grown from a young girl into a woman. He turned sheepish and hurriedly exited the kitchen door for the now fatally ill pony.
***
The brakes shuddered as Clarence parked his truck outside Peades’ Stock and Station Agency. Norman had taken up residence in a one-room flat above the store in which he worked. The two men stood beside the truck and discussed farm related topics for a while. Clarrie thanked the young man for his time and then shook his hand. Clarrie turned to step into his vehicle and stopped. The large sign, which read Royal Hotel, had caught his eye.
‘Tell Thomas I will call in during the week,’ said Clarence in an effort to shake of the call of his nemesis. He tried hard not to look in the pub’s direction. ‘And thanks again for your advice, Norm.’
Clarrie moved behind the wheel of the truck and gripped the steering wheel hard when a nervous voice broke his private struggle against temptation.
‘Mr Miller.’
‘Yes, Norm,’ replied Clarrie as he leaned out the window, grateful for the distraction.
Norm looked at the ground and twisted his hat in his hands. He chided himself because he realised that if he was going to say what he was going to say, he needed to do it as a man. Norm stood to his full six feet and one inch, straightened his broad shoulders and began again.
‘Mr Miller, I would like—with your permission—to ask Alice to the Autumn Ball in two weeks time.’
Clarence had never given a thought to the likelihood of having to deal with such matters on behalf of his sister. He wasn’t even used to the idea of his little sister being romantically interested in someone. Clarrie took a moment, one that did no favours for a nervous Norm, smiled, and then gave his approval. He thought of the day—all those years ago—on the doorstep of Ruth’s parent’s house.
Relieved and pleased, Norm stepped forward and shook Clarrie’s hand enthusiastically. Abruptly, but with a smile, he turned to walk away, with the intent of someone who had urgent news to deliver. Clarrie felt at peace after the manly exchange with Norm. He looked towards the Royal Hotel, and decided he no longer required the comfort of the amber fluid; he thought of his sister instead.
Tragically, for reasons he couldn’t hope to try and explain, he opened the truck door and began to walk. A soft voice urged him back to the truck; a louder one propelled him forward. His hand rose to push on the timber doors, each fitted with glass panels and emblazoned with bold gold letters. With his shoulders rounded slightly, a physical sign that he had succumbed, Clarrie stepped into the pub.
***
The vehicle repeatedly surged forward and then jolted. Clarence overcompensated with the brake, as his drunken condition allowed his foot to apply too much, then not enough, throttle. The headlamps swayed from side to side on the winding road and illuminated the wet green grass of Denman Hills’ front paddock. The rain had made a difficult job even more difficult for a boozed driver.
Clarence stopped the vehicle outside the shed. He realised—as drunk as he was—that the narrow opening of the corrugated iron out-building was too big a challenge for him. Pleased to be home, hungry and worn out, Clarence opened the door to the truck and stumbled into the rain. His trailing leg caught on the bench seat of the vehicle and sent him crashing, face first, to the muddied driveway.
The alcohol prevented the feeling of any real pain. Clarence’s only source of anger stemmed from the mud and grit he had to remove from his mouth and eyes. He struggled to his knees and cursed his misfortune, when a sudden and intrusive voice sent him back against his vehicle.
‘Miller!’ barked Lieutenant Sharp. ‘A deserter as well are we?’
Clarence spun his head to the left to see Lieutenant Sharp, who stood over him. His face was a contorted with rage and his tunic was covered in blood. Startled, Clarence cowered as the rain drops increased in their intensity; they cracked like rifle fire as they hit his sodden head. Clarence looked to his right and recoiled at the sight of a German soldier that scampered through the darkness. He overbalanced from shock and landed on his backside, which brought another tirade from his tormentor.
‘Shoot, for Christ’s sake, Private,’ screamed Sharp, his unholstered revolver pointed outwards into the darkness. ‘Shoot before they reach Corporal Conner’s position.’
Clarence looked left at a maddened lieutenant and then right as the Germans approached. Engulfed by adrenalin, he stood up and sprinted. From the window of his bedroom, eight-year-old Reginald Miller stood on his mattress and looked out into the darkness. He watched his father act in a terrified and possessed way, and was unable to make sense of his dad’s actions. The little boy became scared by the crazed look on his father’s face; the frenzied figure ran towards the side of the house as though something chased him. Anxious, Reginald clutched his toy bear, dropped to his bed and pulled the covers over his head in an attempt to disappear. Reggie heard a dull thud as Clarence crashed over the waist-high fence that separated the driveway from the house yard.
Clarence rolled onto his back and his head spun with intoxication and phantasm. Rain pelted his face as he struggled with images he couldn’t reconcile. ‘Corporal Conner,’ he mumbled. He spat water from his lips. ‘Alf,’ he cried, as the side of his house, huge in size from his position on the ground, added to his confusion. Clarence strained to sit upright. He looked right and recognised his vehicle, its door still open. It seemed to extend like a dark hand of recollection. He jerked his head in violent movements and saw the silhouettes of gumtrees instead of soldiers—and silence instead of Lieutenant Sharp. Clarence felt utterly helpless, but that emotion turned quickly into frustrated anger. The former soldier, now husband and father, fell to the ground and grunted cries of resentment.
TWENTY TWO
Ruth sat straight-backed in a cushioned chair. Her hands were clasped across her lap, while she stared with detachment at an oil painting on the opposite wall. To one side a young lady sat behind a desk and sorted through documents that needed to be filed. She had paid no further attention to Mrs Miller after she had politely told her that Mr Atkins would be with her as soon as possible.
While feeling out-of-place and somewhat vulnerable, Ruth had decided to take a step that she considered to be absolutely ne
cessary, but would no doubt be construed by others, in a conservative society, as inappropriate.
After the pleasant day with Norman Clark, Clarrie had been in high spirits. The discovery of Alice and Norman’s feelings towards each other gave Ruth and Clarrie much to talk about while they went about their mock treatment of the perfectly healthy gelding. When Clarence had left the farm to drive Norman back into town, Ruth had playfully admonished Alice for keeping her blossoming romance from her and began to probe her for more details. She enjoyed the added dimension to their household.
As things seemed to now happen, more regularly than ever, joy was countered by despair. Clarence returned home later that evening drunk and obnoxious, and strangely splattered with mud. He seemed eager to engage in one form of confrontation or another. Maybe he hoped that a verbal tirade, or possibly more, would help purge the conflict that had taken control of his life.
Ruth had manoeuvred around her love like she was housed with a creature of unpredictable qualities. She attempted by instinct and increased experience to control the environment with passive and non-confronting actions—the correct actions had become harder to discern. With a bowl of soup and a towel to dry, Ruth chose wisely. She had kept her family detached—on this occasion—from their father’s alternative personality, an illness as Ruth saw it. As each episode became more difficult, she wondered, despite all her concessions and encouragements, if it would ever heal.
An opened door broke Ruth from her thoughts and pretended appraisal of the oil painting. Her attention was seized by the voice of Arthur Atkins.
‘Do come in, Mrs Miller,’ said Arthur, with his arm outstretched to guide the way.
Ruth stood quickly and moved towards Arthur. She nodded to the clerical worker out of politeness as she passed, but the young lady remained focused on her work.
‘How can I help you today?’ asked Arthur as he closed the office door behind him. He noted the conspicuous absence of Clarrie.
‘Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Mr Atkins.’
‘Please, call me Arthur, and it is no problem, honestly.’
‘Well,’ said Ruth as she looked into her lap. ‘I hope you don’t see this as being inappropriate,’ she paused under emotional strain. ‘Well I know it probably is, but I didn’t know what else to do. I told your secretary that I would like to alter my will… but that is not why I am here.’
‘Take your time, Ruth,’ said Arthur quietly. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Ruth shook her head to say no. She wanted to move on now that she had put her toe in the water. ‘I don’t know how else to say this and please forgive me, but what happened to Clarence while he was in France?’
Arthur was slightly stunned, but not offended at the directness of the question. He took a moment to answer. He admired the courage of the women who sat across from him. Her beauty was obvious to any man; the depths of her strength shown through her eyes that simmered with emotion.
‘That is a hard question to answer, Ruth,’ replied Arthur. He stood to pace slowly away from his desk; thoughts that he would rather forget had suddenly replayed in his mind.
‘I am sorry, Arthur, I should leave,’ said Ruth. She rose quickly from the leather chair she sat in.
‘No, Ruth, please, sit… please. I didn’t mean it that way.’ Arthur poured himself a whiskey, he thought to offer Ruth a glass but realised the absurdity and took a sip from the crystal tumbler instead. ‘You know that Clarence and I were in the same section overseas?’
‘No… well I knew you were in the same battalion. I’m sorry I really don’t understand how the army is structured. He mentioned you in a letter and I gathered you must have been close.’
‘We were in many ways, but that was over there and... I can still remember the first day I saw him,’ said Arthur while he looked towards the window of his office to hold himself together.
Ruth cleared her throat, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry at the vision Arthur’s statement conjured. The noise snatched Arthur away from his own dream.
‘I can appreciate what it took for you to come here today, Ruth,’ continued Arthur. ‘I understand how difficult it must have been, I really do. Margaret has never asked me about my experiences abroad, she would... Sorry, that was appallingly ill-mannered of me, Margaret is wonderful. Please forgive me.’
Ruth smiled to pardon Arthur as he resumed his seat behind the large mahogany desk. She felt sympathy for Arthur. She had met his well-maintained, but cold and conceited wife.
‘I know the war is long over,’ said Ruth, ‘and we are supposed to forget and move on, but it has become impossible, and with Clarence’s...’ Ruth stopped herself from discussing his alcohol dependence. ‘I just want to help him, Arthur, to talk to him,’ she said. A tear rolled down her beautifully formed cheek.
Arthur reached for his breast pocket and produced a clean handkerchief for Ruth to take.
‘I boarded the troopship, Ruth,’ said Arthur, in a calm and contained voice, ‘like most men, enthusiastic about defending the Empire. I returned to Australia glad that I had survived. I knew, however, that while I had no doubt changed as a person, I had done what I had to do in order to get myself, and the men around me from one point to the next.’ Arthur sipped from his tumbler while Ruth sat quietly. She felt relief as the world she knew nothing of partially opened. It was somewhat overwhelming after years of speculation and assumption.
‘You have to realise, Ruth, that some of things I will say, I would not care to relate to most men, let alone a respectable woman such as yourself.’
Ruth began to reassure Arthur but was stopped by a delicate movement of his hand.
‘But, I understand, or should I say, I can appreciate what you may have experienced, so I would like to respect the courage you have shown by being as frank and open with you, as you have with me.’
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ replied Ruth with sincerity.
‘Clarence was involved in a battle in the northeast of France, near a place held by the Germans, called Fromelles, near Fleubaix. Our battalion, the 53rd, one of four in the 14th Brigade, belonged to the newly formed 5th Division and was made up of Gallipoli veterans—such as myself—the other half being men like Clarence, who were reinforcements.’
‘We trained in Egypt, as you know, and were sent to the so-called quiet sector of Armientères.’ Arthur paused once again; this time he opened the top draw of his desk to remove an unopened letter. He placed it to his right and then ignored it, as if it had no relevance to the current topic.
Ruth looked towards the envelope and then returned her gaze to Arthur as he began to speak.
‘I do not profess to be an expert in military planning or tactics Ruth. But I will say, that while we were a division of committed soldiers, determined to display all the courageous and selfless qualities expected of us. I believed then, as I do now—with the added knowledge of hindsight—that we were hastily engaged into a poorly planned operation, that was under-equipped and doomed before it began.’
‘I spent months on the Gallipoli Peninsula; I saw and experienced things that, before my embarkation, were beyond my imagination. The action… ’ Arthur covered his mouth with a clenched fist to clear his throat and his head. ‘The action near Fromelles was... something entirely different.’
Arthur stood from his desk and walked over to the far side of his office. He removed a book from a heavily laden shelf, for no other reason than to compose his suddenly shaken emotions. Ruth had the commonsense or awareness not to follow his path with a curious look. She respected the exposed position this courageous and forward-thinking man had placed himself in.
‘I don’t think I would relay to you, even if I could with my limited means, what happened during that afternoon and night of senseless slaughter; the lack of regard for human life which saw more than seven thousand Australian and British casualties. I don’t know if it would help…’ said Arthur as he trailed off, a smile etched with pain and remembrance forced to his
lips. It revealed, through its sudden collapse, a battle of his own.
Arthur sat back at his desk, drained of colour. He placed a finger on the letter that rested to his right and dragged it towards him.
‘I have often wondered what I would say, having to admit to you, however it may appear, that I have envisaged this meeting taking place. After I returned home and resumed my pre-war life, I became increasingly aware that the war did not in fact end in 1918. It continued on through memories that lingered; too ghastly and horrific for many men’s minds to digest. Their illness remains untreated, because, to put it simply, it is not visible.
‘I noticed the change in Clarence almost immediately,’ said Ruth. She remembered the post-war years in Balmain, ‘but I expected it—to a certain extent. I just thought we would work through it. Maybe I was naive.’
‘May I ask,’ said Arthur cautiously, ‘does Clarence talk of his brother at all?’
Ruth shook her head quickly and allowed her face to drop so she could hide the newly formed tears. She dabbed her eyes with Arthur’s handkerchief and then lifted her face to make eye contact again. ‘No, Arthur, he never speaks of Archie, never,’ Ruth raised the white embroidered cotton to her cheek.
Arthur Atkins paused before he replied. He felt embarrassment at his arousal towards Ruth while she was visibly distressed. Her strength of character and freedom of emotion was displayed through her willingness to look him in the eye, while tears filled with devotion to her husband followed the lines of her captivating features. The delicate and feminine way in which she applied the square piece of cloth to her face made him long for something as potent in his life.
‘Ruth,’ said Arthur, ‘I have tentatively expressed my views in regard to the effects of mental strain caused by battle with government officials. My hope was to initiate a program of sorts to be used at our Returned Soldiers and Sailors meetings, but the responses I have received,’ sighed Arthur, ‘well, let me just say that they are not worth repeating.’
Beneath the Willow Page 24