Deranged and beyond appeasing, Clarence lunged for the throat of his enemy after the fall had broken them apart. He held his captive submerged, locked in a murderous stare, screams of wounded men and futile charges against unrelenting guns rang in his ears, as the goading of Lieutenant Sharp thumped like a drum behind his feverish eyes. Desperate, the German clawed at his face; his trapped legs lifted and straightened violently to unseat the weight that held them.
Emboldened, Private Miller’s underlying cowardice was replaced by uncommon bravado in the face of victory. He thrust harder and downward with his contracted hands, as bubbles of escaped air rose through the muddied pool of water that lay at the trench floor. The weakened fight from below him told his corrupted mind that all would be healed. Everything that had pained him would be at an end, and he would live in peace, the way Ruth and he had planned.
Ruth’s face flashed into Clarence’s conscience as the soldier went limp against the trench floor. He was relieved to have seen off his attacker but startled by the sudden feeling of cold water and the intrusion of bright sunlight.
***
With a forearm over his eyes to block out the sun, Clarence staggered through water that varied from knee to waist deep. He coughed and spluttered with exhaustion, and then stepped into a larger hole that caused him to fall headlong into the cold water. The icy stream stung his face as if it had been raked with a hot iron. The water entered the gouges dug by sharp nails and made him flinch.
Clarence wrestled with body and mind and brought himself to his knees. He was still in the creek, up to his waist in water, but with his back to the corpse. A breeze gusted and extended the reach of the willow tree; leaves from a low branch flicked Clarence across the face. He swung violently at the foliage. The sudden recognition of where he was brought the world around him to a standstill. He turned his head slowly, and acknowledged that day had turned to night and back to sparkling sunlight. Silence had replaced the concussion of noise. Lieutenant Sharp and other ghastly visions had vanished, replaced by the dejected self-pity that he always felt after his demons had surfaced.
Confused, he lifted a hand to touch his wounded face, and remembered the soldier he had fought. The reality of the struggle alarmed him. He had felt the body beneath him and felt the struggle, and then the submission that came with the life being taken.
‘How could I feel that?’ he asked. A foreboding made him turn his body.
Clarence froze at the sight. His wife floated in the cool waters only yards away. Her dark hair flowed, drawn by the current, like the olive-green reeds that surrounded her. It exposed her face, which was now white as snow and devoid of life. Her eyelids were closed and expressed peace, a falsehood to her violent and unforeseen end.
Clarence dropped to the water beside Ruth, and lifted her limp body out of the creek. Streams of water rushed from her clothes and hair; a shower of unrevealed traumas and mind-altering pain that Clarence had turned from. It had built up to wash over his life, killing—in the end—the one person that could have freed him.
He staggered out of the gully with the body of his wife and coughed at the taste of his own bile. A tiny part of his mind hoped he was irrevocably mad, and this was a nightmare. But wasn’t he already there? Already finished, long ago? Why hadn’t he killed himself like he wanted to when he lay prone beside the house on that rainy night? Why hadn’t he stayed in Archie’s place with Louth, and all would have been well. Why?
Clarence lifted his head skyward and let out a scream. It tore at his lungs and caused birds to fly from the crowns of trees. He put his lips to the ear of the only person he could love, and he spoke quietly. With guilt beyond redemption, he cursed the fate that he had once rejoiced in and felt without hope—at an end.
From the corner of his eye, Clarence saw Ruth’s much-loved gelding, the horse staying near—waiting. In slow and even movements Clarence stood, and quietly approached the horse. He patted him on the neck and asked for forgiveness, and then removed the leather bridle and long reins attached to it.
TWENTY SIX
Gilmurra, September 1924
The small gathering broke away from the twin grave site, leaving Harry and Mary Reynolds standing side by side. They stared motionless, as if they too were made of marble or granite. Their inscriptions, not of gold lettering, but of immeasurable pain, were permanently etched on their features. They looked towards a single headstone that read:
In Loving Memory of
Clarence Miller 1-3-1896 – 3-9-1924
Ruth Miller 14-4-1897 – 3-9-1924
Accidentally killed
The block of granite stood between mounds of earth, scrutinised without tear or cry by a small, slender figure. Arthur Atkins stood to the side and watched Reginald.
Norman picked Emily up, while he put his other arm around Alice, overcome with grief. They stepped forward, one slow pace at a time. Alice had felt the finality that came with the lowering of the caskets into the ground. Each painful step away from the grave was a step away from her brother and sister-in-law. It closed a chapter, and confined them to memory.
The direction she had taken in life, the beliefs that she held, and freedom she had known as she grew up, could be attributed to her beloved Ruth. The memories of her own parents, while pleasant and warm, were more like the fond recollections of grandparents. Ruth had been the beacon that shone; she had stepped to the fore and guided her through her formative years.
Sent by a concerned Alice, Norman had not known why he acted the way he did after he had found Ruth on that terrible day. Naturally shocked and devastated when he found Ruth dead, he had come to the conclusion—with Chester nearby—that a fall from the usually even-tempered mount had been the cause. He had not noticed—in the confusion—her wet clothing or her bruised throat.
His thoughts had turned to Clarence; he made a quick search of the area and had found disturbed ground in the creek bed. Not long after, Norman made the horrendous discovery. Clarence, still and extinct, was suspended from a branch of a large tree by leather reins. The sight, which had kept Norman awake at nights, dropped him to his knees beneath the willow. He vomited on the ground, his senses overcome with tragedy and waste. A family—his family—whom he loved, shattered to the core.
For reasons of reputation, or to avoid shame for his wife and for Reggie, as well as out of concern for Emily’s sanity, Norman made a snap decision. After he composed himself, he released Clarence from the tree branch and brought him to rest near his wife. He looked at them both, brought to an end by circumstances too sinister in their truth. He remembered Alice’s stories about the two people who raised her. He decided, at that moment, to give his version of what was likely to the authorities. Their bodies found within yards of each other, a horse found with its saddle hanging due to a loose girth, a tragic and probably avoidable accident.
Norman squeezed the bridge of his nose as he tried to purge the terrible images in his mind. He stopped to look for Reggie, glad that the funeral was over. Oddly, through his wrong but necessary interference, there was one to have. A burden to carry, he realised, but one worth carrying, for the sake of what was left of his wife’s family.
Whether through reluctance to stir up trouble or promote scandal in a small country town, Ruth’s and Clarence’s deaths were never investigated by the authorities, beyond an interview with Norman. As he watched Arthur Atkins at the grave site, bending down to talk to a rigid Reginald, Norman waited, and wondered what the coming years would hold for the young lad, now robbed of his parents.
With an arm around the young boy’s shoulders, Arthur paused to speak with Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Harry broke from his static pose to tilt his head. His action acknowledged Arthur’s presence, but his eyes said something else. Arthur spoke again to Reginald, and convinced the young lad to walk away from the cold headstone and join his aunty and uncle, as Thomas Reynolds approached from a distance to assist his mother to a motor vehicle.
‘Mrs Clark,’ said Arthur, ‘pleas
e accept my sincere condolences. Clarence and Ruth will be missed by all in the community.’
Alice nodded a silent but genuine thank you, and turned her attention to Reggie.
‘Norman,’ said Arthur, ‘may I have a word?’
‘Of course, Mr Atkins,’ replied Norm. He placed Emily at Alice’s feet and moved several yards from his wife and the children.
‘I know you have things to attend to,’ said Arthur, ‘so I will be brief. I wanted to expand on what I said before to Alice and possibly make it more official.’
Norm looked at Arthur, not exactly sure what the solicitor and war veteran meant.
‘In the aftermath of this tragedy, Norman,’ said Arthur, ‘you will be faced with many obstacles. Some of them legal, in relation to your partnership with the Millers; others involve the children. We can talk on this later, but I would like to offer you my services at no charge for anything regarding the Miller’s estate.’
Slightly taken aback by Arthur’s offer, Norman had to admit to himself that he hadn’t thought of such things.
‘That is very generous of you, Mr Atkins, but...’
‘I must insist, at the risk of seeming rude,’ interrupted Atkins. ‘It would bring some comfort to assist Clarence’s children, having served with him.’ Arthur offered his hand, and excused himself before Norman could argue.
***
Arthur Atkins stood in his office, his right arm rested against the mantle of the fireplace. His thoughts were far away as he swirled untouched whiskey in the bottom of a tumbler. When the news had reached him—through his father—that Clarence and Ruth Miller had been killed, he was blind-sided by emotion. His father saw his response as a sense of loss at another comrade taken from this world. In reality, Arthur had a suppressed need to release anger driven by admiration that was, in truth, love. Love for a soul that he saw as beautiful and inspiring, taken without warning.
Either through morbid curiosity to question what was stated, or a desire to somehow lay a portion of the blame on himself through inaction, Arthur pondered the circumstances that led to the Miller’s demise. But it was a fall from a horse, a married couple riding together, he said to himself.
Regardless, the tragedy inspired him to go further and do more for people like Clarence and their families. He felt a dull but corroding shame that he had missed such an opportunity, which had presented itself through a brave woman.
He decided that if his theories were not taken seriously by his local member, he would have to find a bigger voice. He would stand for the federal seat of Colston in the next election.
The door to his office was flung open, no less violently than if he was being raided by the police. It startled Arthur from his thoughts.
‘You went to the funeral, I see,’ said Margaret Atkins in a raised and strangely accusing voice.
Arthur turned from the mantle, surprised but also annoyed at the intrusion and the aggressiveness of it.
‘Of course, I attended the funeral,’ replied Arthur, bewildered by his wife’s statement. ‘In case it has slipped from your memory, I served with Mr Miller in France.’
‘Mr Miller,’ replied Mrs Atkins condescendingly, as she pretended to take interest in a vase filled with roses.’ ‘He was a drunk, propped up by his in-laws.’
Arthur stared at his wife, stunned for a moment into silence. He placed the tumbler, with whiskey still in it, on the mahogany desk. He withdrew both of his hands and clasped them behind his back to release the tension that he felt. He opened and closed one of his hands before he spoke. ‘I am fully aware, Margaret,’ said Arthur, emphasising her name, ‘that you have lived, with all your family’s wealth...’
‘I beg your pardon, I…’
‘... In somewhat of a cocoon, never really appreciating, or wanting to for that matter, what people have gone through in recent times.’
‘I won’t be lectured to like a child, Arthur,’ hissed Mrs Atkins, unused to having her thoughtless comments challenged.
Arthur stood as he had on many occasions, while serving King and Country, not speaking but looking, getting stronger people than Margaret Atkins to do as they were told.
‘Clarence Miller,’ said Arthur firmly, ‘however he may have appeared to you, experienced things overseas that you could not even begin to imagine. I know, because I saw them with him. When you are in my presence,’ continued Arthur, his voice raised, not in volume but in intensity, ‘you will speak of him and his family with respect.’
Margaret Atkins stared at her husband as he breathed a little heavier. She watched him drink the contents of the crystal tumbler on his desk in one mouthful. She stayed motionless, stung by the tirade, but she recovered quickly. It allowed her own issues to boil to the surface, not aggressively, but coldly and callously. Margaret was not deluded—regardless of what Arthur thought of her—that she could intimidate her husband. Arthur’s monogrammed handkerchief, clutched tightly in Mrs Miller’s hand, flashed before her eyes.
‘You loved her, didn’t you?’ said Margaret. She delivered the words like she had fired an arrow.
The words reached Arthur as they were intended; they pierced his heart. The flicker in Arthur’s eye told Margaret what she had suspected, and she was hurt. Her temples burned, but outwardly she remained composed—years of being trained in the discipline of polite society.
‘You loved that little tart,’ she hissed with the venom of a serpent, ‘but you weren’t enough to drag her away from her pathetic husband.’
A white sheet blanketed Arthur’s vision. All the restraint and discipline that he displayed in times of life threatening peril dissolved. He reacted, and with his right hand, he hurled the drained tumbler at his wife. The crystal shattered in a hundred pieces against the panelled wall next to the double timber doors. Arthur stepped from behind his desk, his eyes splintered with rage. He strode towards his wife and then stopped a few feet short of her while he pointed a clenched fist.
‘Love,’ roared Arthur in a voice that carried resentment and loneliness. ‘Love... you wretched and disgusting woman. How does a person like you, who has never felt love, talk of it?’ Arthur paused to look at someone he didn’t recognise. ‘Get out of my office, Margaret… and get out of my life.’
She barely flinched from the tirade, but was internally scarred. Margaret Atkins—nee Hamilton—turned and exited Arthur’s office, while his rage and fire slowly faded. Arthur slumped where he stood.
A slight sound told him the door to the adjoining office had opened—the office of James Atkins.
‘Son,’ said Atkins senior, ‘come inside for a moment.’
Part Three
TWENTY SEVEN
Denman Hill, June 1938
Alice handed Reginald a fresh cup of tea, while her nephew, with newspaper in hand, kept his eyes concentrated on the opposite wall. A notice board covered with pamphlets from different charitable organisations gave a welcome distraction from what was happening down the sterile corridor.
‘Won’t be much longer, Reg,’ said Alice. She ignored the rebuff and then took a seat next to him with her own cup. She sipped the hot brew and allowed it to warm her as the rain, driven by a cold winter wind, splattered on the hospital windows.
‘Huh?’ grunted Reg, his eyes fixed on the notice board.
‘It won’t be long, dear,’ repeated Alice, ‘Judith will be fine.’
Reginald appeared not to have heard what Alice had said, and he looked down towards his newspaper. Alice wanted to attribute his behaviour to nerves at the impending birth of their first child, but she knew better.
‘That Chamberlain will lead us all to war if he hasn’t already,’ said Reg.
‘Sorry, dear?’ replied Alice.
‘Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister. He is as weak a politician as you could find; Hitler will have him jumping through hoops draped in a Nazi flag soon.’
‘I don’t like to think about it Reg, really.’
‘Well you must, Alice,’ said Reg
. He was suddenly animated, the most energised he had been all day. ‘They have walked into Austria, which wasn’t surprising, and now Hitler has beaten his chest about the Sudetenland in western Czechoslovakia. Meanwhile all Chamberlain does is try to pacify him. He has handed him treats like you would a spoilt child.’
‘No one wants war,’ said Alice quietly. Talk of violent conflict stirred memories that she would rather to keep to one side. Reg’s ardent views surprised Alice, for her nephew had never struck her as the courageous type.
‘Hitler wants it,’ replied Reginald. He placed his cup on a small table next to his chair and covered his mouth to suppress a cough that had lingered recently. ‘Mark my words, Alice; they will hand the Nazis the Sudetenland and then Hitler will take the whole of Czechoslovakia, and he won’t stop there.’
Alice didn’t answer for a moment; she had learnt to let Reginald’s opinionated beliefs—be they right or wrong—fizzle out of their own accord; it made life more harmonious. Reg stared at her and waited for a comment, but Alice was saved by the matron who was walking towards them.
‘Ah—looks like we have some news,’ smiled Alice.
Reginald turned, and seemed almost disappointed to be interrupted in the midst of airing his position on world events.
‘Mr Miller?’ asked the matron with a pleasant smile on her face.
‘Yes?’ said Reg as he slowly stood up. Alice looked on with a glow to her cheeks. She took a moment to wonder how her brave nephew would conduct himself in the presence of Herr Hitler. She then cautioned herself against such childish thoughts.
‘I am pleased to inform you that you are the proud father of a baby boy,’ said the matron, ‘seven pound, ten ounces.’
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