Although Norman had a background in agriculture, Thomas had played a big role in his development. The Millers, through their new partnership, were benefiting from that tutelage. Thomas had never mentioned it, nor had anyone else, but Clarrie had eventually learned that Thomas had lost his only son, Lachlan, at Passchendaele. Clarrie understood the Peades’ desire to forget, and he never raised the subject.
‘Daddy,’ yelled Emily, as she spotted her father coming out of the Royal Hotel.
He held a package of assorted items bound with twine and waved towards his family as if surprised to see them. It was like the double timber doors with glass panels and the word Bar written on them had somehow transported him to another place, far away from families, acquaintances and horse-drawn carts. The few ales that he had consumed, had allowed him—for a moment—to forget.
‘Ruth… baby M,’ said Clarrie with a soft glow to his cheeks. ‘G’day, Reggie,’ he continued, as he rustled his son’s hair. Reggie looked up at his father strangely. The enthusiastic greeting was welcomed, but at odds with the sharp order he had received when he climbed out of the truck too slowly for his father’s liking upon arrival in town. ‘Ducked in to the Royal for a minute, Tom was busy with customers.’
‘Oh… seems like you accomplished a bit in that minute, Clarence.’
‘Don’t be like that, Ruth,’ replied Clarrie, while he placed his arm on her shoulder, ‘it’s not often I have a quiet beer.’ The absurdity of the statement—even in his intoxicated state—made him cringe a little.
‘It’s eleven in the morning,’ she said quietly, turned on an angle to shield Reg from the conversation.
Clarence looked dazed, as his mind processed her statement. Ruth decided to change the subject, while Arthur Atkins’s casual query over Clarence’s wellbeing rang in her ears.
‘Alice will be finished work soon,’ Ruth said. ‘Let’s walk up to the truck and wait for her. I will invite her over for lunch. Norm won’t be home until later; he has a meeting with a man about some machinery.’
Suddenly conscious of his inebriated condition among an alert public, Clarence straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin in an attempt to look sober; it only made his condition more obvious.
‘What is that under your arm, Clarrie?’ asked Ruth, while she walked.
Clarence stopped and reverted to a more relaxed pose. He held the bundle in front of him and studied it intently. ‘Looks like a heap of your letters you must have sent,’ he said. The beer had dulled his senses. There was no adverse reaction to the letters that represented his time in France. ‘Don’t know what this other thing is,’ he continued. Clarrie looked at what appeared to be some sort of box, neatly wrapped and about six by six inches and an inch deep.
‘Oh, my goodness, Clarrie,’ said Ruth, shocked and excited by the unexpected find. ‘There is a whole pile of them. Who gave them to you?’
‘The pub,’ said Clarrie. ‘Joseph Tunks from the Post Office left ’em there. Had them for a while, said I was more likely to get...’ Clarence stopped before he incriminated himself any further.
‘May I?’ said Ruth. She held out her free hand and ignored Clarrie’s accidental admission.
Clarence took one last look at the package that emitted ill-will, and handed it to Ruth.
‘There’s so many here, darling, one from Christmas,’ said Ruth. She was excited by the letters, but then felt sadness. Ruth remembered the anguish and the distance that separated them at that time. Clarence was swept from his previous thoughts and stared blankly at the pavement while he watched his mate Sticks sing Come Oh Ye Faithful during Christmas eve on board the Warilda. The performance had ended after howls of protests, and Clarence smiled for a split second as he remembered with fondness his mate’s idiocy. The smile was replaced by clenched teeth and narrowed eyes.
Ruth watched Clarrie’s facial contortions and placed her arm through his and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I will go and get Alice and we’ll head home; Mr Duncan won’t mind.’
***
Alice helped unpack the last of things purchased in town and then, without fuss, after she had caught a subtle gesture from Ruth, quietly escorted the children outside. She promised them a special reward if they helped her with grooming their mum’s pony.
Ruth placed the kettle on the stove top and then moved back to the sink. She took a deep breath to steady herself while she watched Reggie sprint ahead of Alice towards the horse stables, with Emily close behind.
Ruth smiled to the view outside her window and looked to the tree-lined ridge for strength, as she heard Clarence’s footsteps approach from along the hallway. With her eyes closed briefly, Ruth held the vision of a brilliant blue sky that dominated the corrugated hills and the greyish green foliage of the native trees. Determined to take advantage of the situation that presented itself, she turned and retrieved two cups and saucers from the cupboard.
‘Cup of tea, Clarrie?’ she said to her husband as he entered the kitchen. He looked more sober, but was tired from his quick-fire session at the Royal.
‘Thanks, Ruth, nice and strong please,’ he replied. Clarence took a seat at the far end of the kitchen table; the pile of letters atop the wrapped box grabbed his attention. ‘Any chance of a sandwich?’ he added. He turned his gaze quickly from the bundle to look at the wall when Ruth placed teacups on the table. His clumsy effort drew more attention towards the box.
‘Cold lamb and chutney?’ replied Ruth.
‘Lovely.’
‘Why don’t we take a look at a couple of my letters?’ said Ruth, as she removed the bread from the keeper. ‘I probably wrote some silly things, it might be fun.’
‘If you like, dear,’ replied Clarence. He swallowed as he forced out the words.
‘Just one or two,’ said Ruth casually. She talked and moved fluently between bench and table, as if the letters were insignificant and not her main focus. Ruth filled their cups with tea and handed him the sandwich.
Ruth allowed her tea to cool a little and slid the package towards her from her seat at the side of the table. She loosened the twine and slid the top letter out with an efficiency that left no time for protest.
‘Oh,’ she said with a slight giggle. ‘It’s dated the 30th of November, Clarence, you would have been in the middle of the ocean.’ Ruth looked sideways to see Clarrie give a forced smile as he chewed mechanically on the lamb sandwich. She turned her eyes back to the letter, ignoring her husband’s mood, and ploughed on.
Ruth covered her mouth with embarrassment while she scanned the script. ‘Clarrie, you must hear this, I can’t believe I wrote it.’ After a pause she began to read aloud, the smile on her face reached Clarrie, and slackened the shackles of apprehension that gripped him.
“Our love is like spring,
When the birds sing,
‘Oh, how awful,’ she remarked. Ruth allowed a brief but warm smile that contradicted her statement.
Our love is pure,
Too bright to stare
‘I’ll never make a poet.’ Ruth was embarrassed at her emotional verse. ‘It’s really bad, isn’t it?’ she continued with a look of horror on her face, ‘I mean adorable. Oh, I don’t know, Clarrie.’ She breathed out to compose herself. ‘I’ll try to continue.’ Ruth sipped her tea and looked up to see her husband’s outstretched hand.
Ruth placed the cup awkwardly back on its saucer. The scrape of the cup against the saucer gained an unusual prominence amongst the other homely noises. The sound was enhanced by the once familiar look that would project from Clarrie’s dark eyes. It held Ruth in suspension as she remembered moments long ago in Birchgrove Park.
She handed over the letter to Clarence and wiped the trace of tears that lined her eyes. Brought on by self-mocking and bashfulness, they were now replaced by fuller drops summoned by happiness.
Clarence smiled as he read in silence, his grin emphasised the creases that had developed in his skin over the years; the ‘crow’s feet’ around his eyes tha
t had extended their reach—aided by his time overseas and the hot Gilmurra sun. Ruth took the time to study Clarence and enjoy the lightness that had found its way to the surface.
‘Okay,’ said Clarence, ‘here I go.’ He held a semi-clenched fist to his mouth while he cleared his throat. His veined and bony hand, tanned by the sun, was unable to hide an ever-widening smirk.
A star, bright with fire
Clouded and greyed when placed
Alongside my des_r_
‘Stop, Clarrie,’ screamed Ruth. She squirmed with embarrassment; her delicate hands covered her mouth and nose. ‘Please stop.’
‘Not on your life, this is incredible, you can really write!’
Ruth leapt from her chair and darted around the corner of the table; she attempted to snatch the letter from Clarrie’s grasp.
‘Uh-uh,’ exclaimed Clarence, as he withdrew the note from his wife’s grasp. ‘What was that word, darling, what were the deleted letters, I couldn’t quite make it out? De-si-re, oh I couldn’t repeat such a word.’ Clarence acted as if shocked.
After she recovered her balance, Ruth stood with hands on hips, her cheeks flushed. .
‘Please, Clarrie, I feel foolish.’
Clarrie realised he had taken the torment far enough and handed over the letter, only to catch his wife’s wrist as she grasped it. He drew her gently in to sit on his lap. The impulsive action took Ruth completely by surprise.
As she eased herself into the comfort of her husband’s arms, she marvelled at what time meant. Countless hours of struggles erased, or maybe camouflaged, with a moment of emotional contact.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Came the scream. It increased in volume as it reached the side of the house; quickly and cruelly it broke the married couple’s affectionate embrace.
Ruth turned slowly at first, and then jumped off Clarrie’s lap when she saw young Reggie in the kitchen doorway, his face covered in blood.
‘Oh, my goodness Reggie, what happened?’ Ruth knelt down to inspect her son. Reggie was now overcome with the sight of the blood and was unable to speak. He took short sharp breaths, in between sobs that were interrupted by the need to remove the blood that filled his mouth and his smashed nose.
‘He fell off the fence,’ came the shout from Ally, ‘is he alright?’ She carried Emily and looked distraught when she reached the kitchen door. The tea towel that Clarence had thrown to his wife after he saw Reg was now soaked in blood; it answered Alice’s question.
Clarence knelt beside Ruth and looked closely at Reginald’s face. The young boy tried to pull away, as the shock of his own blood was replaced by the blinding pain. The anticipation of more pain from his father’s hands made Reggie even more upset.
‘Hold on son, let me have a look,’ said Clarence. The blood brought unwelcome flashes of soldiers in agony to Clarence.
Reggie wailed and tried to pull away again, but Clarrie stared at his boy and gripped him firmly by his shoulders. The young boy was caught between a desire to run and the fear of what would be delivered if he did; he had caught the all-too-familiar look in his father’s eyes.
‘Reggie darling, hold still for Daddy,’ pleaded Ruth. Clarence breathed deeply to regain control of his emotions and focused on his son.
‘He was on the top rail of the horse yard,’ explained Ally, still teary and upset, ‘and then he just fell, straight on the ground. He didn’t attempt to break his fall. I’m so sorry Ruth, he sits there all the time, I didn’t...’
‘It’s not your fault, Ally,’ interjected Ruth.
‘It’s broken, smashed in fact,’ stated Clarence calmly. He released his hold on Reggie and the boy turned towards his mother. ‘We’ll have to take him to Doctor Bainbridge’s.’
While concerned for her son, Ruth paused for a second to curse God, Father Time, or whoever was responsible for the interruption to her moment with Clarrie.
‘I’ll take him, Clarrie,’ said Ruth. ‘You stay here with Emily.’
Clarence began to speak, but stopped after a look from his wife. He realised it wouldn’t be a good idea if he drove Reg to Dr Bainbridge’s house; the doctor and his wife were strong supporters of the Temperance Movement. Clarence picked Reg up in his arms to carry him to their truck, while Ruth hurried towards the hallway cupboard for clean towels and handkerchiefs to stem the blood.
‘Alice,’ said Ruth, as she walked briskly through the kitchen, ‘come with me will you please? Reg will need to be comforted while I drive. Put M in her cot with her bear; she’s due for a sleep anyway.’
Alice nodded and did as she was asked; Ruth took one last glance around the kitchen before she snatched her bag.
Ruth arrived at the truck and saw Reg already propped up on the bench seat with a towel under his nose. His face, where not marked with blood, was pale from the loss of it.
‘Emily is in the cot, Clarrie,’ said Ruth. She tried to remain calm, but her anxiety came through in her voice. ‘She will be fine but stay close to the house to listen for her.’
‘I have some literature to read on contagious cattle diseases.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Norm gave it to me; I’ll try not to fall asleep.’
‘We will be back soon,’ said Ruth before she climbed into the well-used lorry.
Clarence stood to the side as Ruth reversed the vehicle from its garage. She stopped suddenly, took a few attempts to select first gear, and then made a wide arc in the gravelled yard, gathering speed to the front gate and Tully road.
Like Ruth, Clarence lamented over the interruption to their special moment. He consoled himself with the warm feeling that still lingered from the exchange. Clarrie stopped at the water tank to wash the blood from his hands and heard a faint cry that came from the house. He wiped his hands on his trousers and then entered the kitchen through the side door. His eyes were drawn to the neatly wrapped box as he stepped quietly around the blotches of blood that had already dried. He stopped and stared and hoped little Emily would calm of her own accord.
He paused in the centre of the kitchen, but the sound of Emily’s cries grew in intensity. Frozen to the spot, Clarrie continued to stare at the package. All the feelings of happiness—aroused by the banter with Ruth—were replaced with trepidation; the spirit of joy that had danced was scorched by the fires of a tortured soul.
Clarrie wrenched his mind free and walked towards Emily’s bedroom. He hoped his daughter, and then some reading, would occupy his thoughts enough to forget about the package.
Clarence rocked his daughter in rigid arms. He breathed deeply and began to relax; the tension that he had felt faded, drawn away as Emily softened in his embrace.
He quietly left Emily in her cot and turned towards the lounge room, where he would read the literature on cattle provided by Norman.
Relaxed in a leather armchair, Clarence gazed out through the windows of the large room that looked out towards the east. The flat stretch of ground that led to Tully Road became undulating, with small outcrops of rock. The sand-coloured grass was bleached from the searing sun; it swayed rhythmically, only interrupted by the occasional eucalypt, with trunk and branches twisted from biting winter winds. Beyond the rise, content in its own valley, weaved the Tilcan River; clear and cool, it was an oasis to the land that lay baked around it.
He thumbed the bound folder of documents to delay pulling on the twine that secured the weighty clump. His mind was engaged in a conflict that grew in strength the longer he remained inactive.
Get the package from the kitchen, Clarence, whispered a voice from inside his head. The murmur that had haunted him for so long grew in confidence. It filled the room and seemed to press at Clarence from all angles.
I’m going to read.
Cattle diseases! You can do that anytime and you know it.
It’s not often I get a chance to sit in peace and quiet, the more information I can learn the better.
You don’t like peace and quiet, Clarrie, who are you trying to fool? G
et the package and open it!
Clarence placed his right forefinger on his cheek and pressed as his cheek muscles tightened. His neck and shoulders tensed. With an effort that caused his hand to shake, Clarence Miller drew his hand away from his face and pulled on the neatly tied twine. The bundle of papers, now released from their shackles, grew in size slightly, as if they had exhaled.
Clarence peeled away the cover-sheet and studied the title. His eyes focused on the bold-type to make clear and precise shapes, but the process was being sabotaged; the passage of clear and articulate thought was blocked by noises that insisted on being heard.
Why force yourself to sit here, when you know exactly what you want to do.
‘Cattle and Infectious Disease’ by H.R. McMurray, read Clarence, slowly and purposefully.
You are pathetic, Miller, Lieutenant Sharp should have put a bullet in you.
‘Chapter One, the...’
Clarence scattered the educational sheets as he stood abruptly from the armchair and marched towards the hallway. He paused for a moment at the kitchen table, and then snatched at the package; he pulled it towards him.
He stared at the package with widened eyes. A grimace formed on his lips. Clarence dropped to the closest chair and tasted the bitterness of his own sweat as he struggled for breath. The beads formed on his forehead, releasing the heat from within his fear-stricken body.
Clarence worked slowly at the wrapping. A part of him suggested that a gentle hand might soothe what he felt to be a volatile force that lay trapped within the confines of the box he held. He pulled the paper away and then twitched. A letter, neatly folded, sat on top of a flat box, black and with no markings.
Beneath the Willow Page 26