‘An argument?’
‘Yes,’ replied Alice, ‘he made quite a raucous… I asked him to think of the children. He swore at me, told me to go inside, and that’s when I heard the second noise.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Clark,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Mrs Miller, what happened from there?’
Judith hesitated before she replied; the visions of her crazed husband—manic like a wild boar—revisited her once more. Her stomach tightened as she recalled how her David had stood defiant and brave in front of the cowardly thug that she was bound by law to call her husband. ‘He began to scream for my son… ’
‘David?’ interrupted the sergeant.
‘No, William, he blamed William for his accident. He screamed and roared little Will’s name,’ cried Judith, ‘I prayed that he would climb out a window and run, run anywhere. I was so scared Sergeant,’ added Judith, and began to cry.
Take your time, Mrs Miller,’ said Smyth. ‘Constable, go to the kitchen and fix Mrs Miller and Mrs Clark a cup of tea.’ The constable stood immediately and followed his superior’s orders; the Sergeant’s reputation, along with his six foot, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame, was enough to engage the respect of his men.
Sergeant Smyth watched the constable leave the room before he leaned in closer to Judith. ‘Mrs Miller,’ began the policeman… ‘Mrs Clark. I believe, well I think I know what sort of a man your husband is. I keep a good eye on the town and its goings on. Whatever happened, he wasn’t in good shape when we sent him off to the hospital, and he probably…’ The Sergeant paused, in search for the right words as Judith and Alice stared at him, unsure of what to make of the sudden change in atmosphere. ‘I have sons myself, Mrs Miller… I …’
‘Sergeant,’ shouted a voice from down the hall followed by heavy footsteps. ‘Sir,’ said the young constable as he entered the room, ‘they found the lad, he’s a bit knocked about, but Cummings and Ryan found the boy, sir.’
The sergeant stood and politely made way for Judith, who rushed down the hall, followed closely by Alice. Judith burst into the kitchen and threw her arms around her son. The teenager was wrapped in one of the constable’s coats. His hair and body were soaked, and he shuddered from the cold and the shock of his ordeal.
‘Oh, my David,’ said Judith softly, ‘I am so sorry… so sorry, darling.’
David said nothing but leaned into his mother as she cried. Alice moved around behind him, relieved to see him safe, but concerned for his immediate health.’
‘We found him over the ridge sergeant, beneath the willow beside the creek; he was soaking wet.’
‘Well done, boys,’ replied the sergeant, ‘it couldn’t have been easy.’
‘Blind luck really, sir… ’
‘Sergeant,’ snapped Alice, breaking into the exchange. ‘We need to get David to a hospital immediately.’ Alice didn’t wait for the sergeant to reply, but moved to remove David’s clothing while she issued instructions. ‘Judith, dry clothing, dear, lots of layers and blankets; young man, under the sink there is a hot water bottle, maybe two,’ she said with authority. ‘Fill them with hot but not boiling water—as quick as you can.’
Alice clasped the boy to her own body for warmth as his mother arrived with dry clothing and blankets. The two of them wrestled with David’s increasingly lethargic body, as the effects of the icy water coupled with frigid air started to take hold. Alice gasped, and Judith felt hatred when they saw the open wounds and raised reddened welts across the boy’s back from the beating at the hands of his father.
‘Sergeant,’ said Alice firmly, ‘have one of your men bring a car up to the side gate. We must get David to hospital.’ She placed the hot water bottles in between layers of David’s clothing as she spoke.
Smyth could see the urgency of the situation, but he desperately wanted Judith Miller to be able to give a good account of what had happened; for more than one reason, he hated the likes of Reg Miller. A weak man. Smythe had watched him spend more time in the pub than a family man should, a spruiker who babbled when drunk, but was nowhere to be seen when his country needed him. He sat back and allowed people like Norman Clark and Sergeant Smyth’s son Peter—killed within months of each other—to plug the gap for him. He wanted Miller to do time for what he had done to David; he didn’t want a fancy lawyer to exploit holes in their police work.
‘Cummings,’ barked Smyth, ‘bring the car up. Mrs Miller, make your way to the car please, we will take care of your son.’
‘Go, Jude,’ said Alice. She moved to hand Judith a coat from the stand in the corner, while Smythe ushered her towards the door, ‘I will stay with William and Elizabeth.’
‘Ryan, help me get the lad to the car,’ ordered Smyth, ‘when we get to the hospital you are to stand guard beside Reg Miller’s bed.’
‘Worried his missus might try and finish him off, Sarge,’ said the young constable who felt cocky after being the one to find the young Miller boy.’
‘I’ll finish you off if you open your trap again, you useless little prick.’
‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir.’
***
Judith Miller walked slowly down the half-lit hall of the Gilmurra Hospital towards the white double doors of Ward B, where her husband lay. She placed both hands on the doors and stood motionless. Deliberately, Judith rested her face to against the painted timber rectangles. From afar, she appeared like a woman who paid homage to a shrine, not a mentally and physically exhausted mother whose world had been turned upside down in a moment. But that was a lie. If she was honest with herself, the events of that evening had hinted at their coming on many occasions. Those hints had been too hastily disregarded.
Judith pushed on the timber doors, where the paint had been worn away in two rough circles by the countless comings and goings during the hospital’s existence. She slid quietly through the small opening and into the ward without any emotion, and stared at the only patient in the room; a dim light came from a small lamp that sat beside Reginald’s bed. The soft glow gave Reginald a look of virtue, and his blood-stained and bandaged head the appearance of a victim. The constable, seated beside him, had drifted to sleep while on duty. His presence suggested the man may have endured persecution and needed protection; the falsity of the scene made Judith sick to the stomach.
‘Why did I put up with you for so long,’ Judith whispered. Her husband stirred in his bed. Maybe he felt the pure hatred that emanated from his wife’s pores. ‘You never loved me. Never. But I could have lived with that, if only you loved my children—but you wouldn’t.’ Judith paused; her hands were interlocked in front, with her handbag slung midway up her left forearm. ‘Your son David fights for his life down the hall, and I blame myself. I blame myself for not protecting him, but I always thought that the father… the husband, did the protecting; not the beating or the threatening.’ Judith moved to the side of the bed that was opposite to the lamp. The shaded light only just touched her and it gave her a ghostly appearance. ‘I remember, many years ago, when you would yell and scream at me. Stand over me. Bully me. Leave me without breath while I waited for the blow. I would cry, when you lost your nerve, and you would smash something else instead.’ Judith glanced at the sleeping constable and then back at her husband. ‘But that all changed didn’t it, and I didn’t have to wait or wonder after that.’ Judith placed her free hand to her face in remembrance of the injuries, and then into her handbag. She clasped at something inside, and the sound roused the derelict policeman. His thoughts were groggy until he saw a figure beside his charge’s bed.
‘I loathe you, Reginald Miller,’ said Judith quietly, while Constable Ryan sat frozen to his seat, all his self-assuredness from Denman Hill gone. ‘Not for what you did to me, but what you did to David… and what you would do to William and Elizabeth.’
‘Mrs Miller,’ said the constable in a whisper. The intentions of the woman who stood before him were calm and composed, but her eyes showed a steely resolve. It aroused his worst fears; there was al
ready an acceptance that his career may be over because of his ineptitude. ‘Mrs Miller,’ he said again. Ryan noticed her hand hidden inside her handbag. ‘Please step away from the bed and your husband. You… no one is supposed to be here.’
Judith looked at the young constable and stared like a lord would at a servant, and then, as if he weren’t there, she resumed her hateful gaze at the helpless, soul-less figure in the bed. ‘My only blessing,’ she said, ‘is the knowledge that you will never harm my children again.’
‘No!’ shouted the constable as he watched Judith withdraw her hand from the bag she carried. The constable slipped and fell onto the smooth vinyl floor as he attempted to restrain Mrs Miller. He scrambled and lifted himself to his knees, and then clasped Mrs Miller’s wrist as it moved towards the unconscious patient. The dumbfounded policeman gasped for breath and let out a childish but relieved giggle, as he noticed the shiny gold band held between Judith’s thumb and forefinger.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Miller,’ said Constable Ryan. He felt foolish and released his grip on Judith’s wrist. ‘I thought… ’
‘You thought?’ replied Judith coldly. ‘It would be interesting to hear what a young man who can’t keep his eyes open to carry out a task would think—wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Judith held her wedding band in the light and looked at it. She contemplated things that the constable, in his young and immature years, wouldn’t or couldn’t understand. She lowered the ring that had bound their marriage towards Reginald’s chest and paused. For no particular reason, Judith raised her hand and placed the gold band on his bandaged forehead. She held it in place for a moment like she had conducted a ritual and then let it—and him—go.
‘Tell Sergeant Smyth,’ said Judith, ‘that provided my son has improved during the night, I will be at the police station by nine in the morning to give a statement in regard to Reginald Miller’s assault on my son.’ Judith turned and left the ward to be by David’s side.
THIRTY SIX
Denman Hill, August 1953
Emily handed William a biscuit of hay over the door of Blackie’s stable. Her nephew received it in one hand and placed it in the feeder while he continued to brush the bay gelding’s coat. He worked furiously to impress his much-loved aunt. She had given the horse to William as a gift before she moved to Sydney.
‘He looks fantastic, Will,’ said Emily. She smiled at her nephew; the smile he returned gave her a wonderful feeling, but that joy was instantly challenged by sadness. Emily was unable to comprehend the circumstances that would allow a grown man to beat his son in the way her brother had beaten David; the thought ripped at her heart.
‘Thanks, Aunty M,’ replied William, engaged in his work, ‘he’s my best mate.’
‘And you’re his by the look of it,’ said Emily with sincerity.
While she watched the young lad, thoughts swirled inside her mind. One in particular forced its way to the front—not in defence of her brother—that was not possible. It was more like a clue as to who he was. It was her conversation with Reginald on the verandah during that eventful September evening in 1939 that she thought of. Reginald had revealed vague parts of his childhood; his memories and fears that he carried like wounds, which were never allowed to heal.
Snatched from her thoughts by a snort from Blackie, Emily sighted a large chest that showed only one studded edge underneath a pile of unfolded horse rugs.
She walked towards the wall that was the home to various pieces of tack, and shelter to a mysterious and intriguing case. Bending over, Emily stared at the object without touching the canvas that mostly hid it from view. She realised that in all the many times she had visited the stables, she couldn’t recall seeing it.’
‘Aunty M,’ said William quietly. He surprised Emily by appearing at her side. He had stopped his work, unsettled by emotions he had tried to ignore.
‘Oh! William,’ said Emily with a jump, ‘I was in another world What is it, dear?’
William stared at the compacted dirt floor of the stables; pieces of scattered straw gave him something to focus on while he steadied himself. ‘Is Davo going to be alright?’ he asked. William looked up, to reveal eyes washed with tears, and a face etched with concern. His lips were tightly pressed together and showed a hint of anger.
‘My darling boy,’ said Emily. She dropped to one knee to embrace her nephew and hold him close to her chest. ‘He will be home before you know it, Will,’ she continued. Emily gently withdrew from her hug to hold the boy with both hands; her arms were bent at the elbow to give her grasp softness. ‘He will want to ride with you all over the hills, I promise. He just needs to rest in hospital for a bit to regain his strength,’ finished Emily.
William nodded his head, pleased with the reassurance; his trust in his aunt was absolute. There was silence for a moment while Emily waited for the “and” to come from William’s mouth. The “and” that would lead to the enquiry of his father’s condition. But it never came; the young boy didn’t care and didn’t want to know, and sadly—or not—neither did she.
Emily poked William playfully in the stomach with her finger. Her love for her nephew undiminished after her move away from Gilmurra to Sydney, the birth of her daughter had enhanced, not lessened the bonds of affection. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’ replied William with a smirk.
‘Little Ruth will wake up soon and she is always hungry after a sleep.’
‘She eats more than me,’ remarked William of his little cousin.
‘If you mash up her vegetables once I have cooked them,’ said Emily, ‘nice and smooth so she can eat them… there may, or may not,’ she teased, ‘be a box of chocolates in my suitcase for a good little helper.’
William turned and ran for the kitchen, before Emily could rise from her crouched position to follow him. Casually she looked back at the chest against the stable wall.
***
With her one-year-old daughter down for her afternoon sleep, Emily asked William—rewarded and satisfied after his assistance that morning—to play with Elizabeth and listen for baby Ruth while she attended to a job in the back-yard. She went out the kitchen door and moved steadily across the lawn, which was green but short in the winter months. Emily stopped suddenly as she breached the gap in between Alice’s cottage to the left and the chook pen on the right. The horse stables in front of her seemed to assume the venerable qualities of a church that guarded sacred relics.
Motivated by a need to satisfy her curiosity, she was at a loss to explain why a chest in a stable had affected her in such away. It had taken hold of her and occupied her thoughts to the point where she could not ignore its silent but incessant call.
Emily walked slowly towards the stable door and then hesitated at its entrance. She craned her neck to look down the length of the stable, and inspected the area as if it were foreign to her. Immediately she felt foolish and checked her actions. She admonished her childishness and walked with purpose towards the chest, and removed the horse rugs in one determined effort. The disturbance filled the air with dust that made her cough and squint.
Emily knelt down before the timber crate and its domed top. The dark panelled finish with pressed-tin strips, each bordered with evenly spaced nails, added to the mystique that had captured her at first sight.
Emily lifted the latch that lay against a lock, broken long ago. She raised the lid and allowed it to rest against the stable wall. A rectangular piece of canvas had been placed on top, probably to protect or shield the items that lay beneath. A faded piece of paper inscribed with neat handwriting rested on top of that.
Albums, books and souvenirs
Whose writing is that? questioned Emily.
She pocketed the note and removed the canvas. Emily smiled. Two photo albums were the first thing to catch her eye; their unfamiliarity had immediately increased her interest. Gently she removed the leather covered albums and moved back towards the stable entrance where there was mo
re light. Emily sat down on a bale of hay and breathed in deeply. She had already anticipated the contents of the albums that she held. On the first page she saw and recognised her parents. They stood on a flight of small stairs in front of a church; the handsome couple looked as happy and in love as any couple could be. As she brushed her hand over the photo, a tear fell to rest on her knuckles. Emily reacted and quickly lifted her arm to protect the preserved image. There was a group photo of the same day; the woman who raised her was just a little girl. Alice stood at the feet of the married couple; the smile and glint in her eyes, said everything. Emily recalled the stories Alice had told her. That single photo now revealed the past to her, like an affidavit to that history.
Emily closed the second album; she felt drained but exalted by her discovery. She was happy to have new memories, but sad that they were ever lost. Emily walked back to the opened chest and set aside the albums, while she inspected what lay beneath. Books on agricultural practices, a shoebox full of letters, and a satchel that held a rather large medallion were some of things Emily removed before she uncovered what looked like a journal. Maybe it’s a hand-written cookbook, like the one Alice keeps, she thought. There were some loose bits of paper that protruded from the side to give strength to that notion.
Black underneath a floral pattern, the diary or notebook was definitely feminine, and Emily knew without a doubt that it had once belonged to her mother. She turned away from the chest and sank to sit on the dusty floor with her back rested against the box. Emily closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She asked for permission, and then forgiveness; forgiveness for having opened something once and forever private.
Emily removed the journal and resumed her seat on the bale of hay. She opened the cover, and was struck by five words written boldly on a forty-five-degree angle: How Do I love thee. Emily recognised the poem from school, but wondered why it was penned so prominently in her mother’s book. She contemplated for a moment, and then began to read. She read of love, spontaneous and true; her pondering over the five words was answered almost immediately. She read of her mother’s joy in being accepted so easily into a family, whose parents, burdened with the worry of a serving son, continued to love and care for the siblings that remained. She cried with Ruth when her father enlisted, and felt her anger rise at the cowardly girl who delivered the shameful package. She thought of her own wedding day, and lifted her tear-filled eyes to the stable ceiling as she imagined her parent’s ceremony. She tried, but didn’t want to know, what it would be like to watch Robert leave for war, as her mother had watched her father; the strength of the woman lost to memory, but held within her heart, admired through the words on brownish paper.
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