Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  Emily was startled back to reality by the sight of William at the stable doorway. He held her daughter Ruth as best he could; Elizabeth stood partially hidden to one side of her brother.

  ‘Oh my, what time is it?’

  ‘Ruthy is hungry, Aunty M,’ said William quietly He appeared repentant for having disturbed his Aunt.

  ‘I am so sorry, William,’ cried Emily, ‘I lost track of time.’

  ‘I gave Lizbeth some milk,’ replied William, getting his tongue around his sister’s name, ‘but I don’t know what Ruth has besides vegetables.’

  ‘You did very well William, I am so sorry,’ repeated Emily. She scurried back to the chest to replace the albums, but she kept hold of the journal; her nephew’s eyes followed her movements.

  ‘Father said we couldn’t touch that,’ said William dryly. It left Emily a little lost for words while she replaced the rugs.

  ‘Well… ’ started Emily

  ‘So, I’m glad you did,’ stated the lad, his tone still dry.

  ***

  The Ford powered steadily along the Tully Road towards town. Its driver—with the window down—used the cool crisp air to clear her mind of the many thoughts she had had since reading her mother’s entire journal. She had stayed up after the rest of the house had gone to bed, and read the diary by the fire in the lounge room.

  Emily had risen early after an interrupted sleep. She had been restless throughout the night, and had made the decision to drive into Gilmurra. The pages in the diary that Emily had devoured increased in their potency as they moved from Balmain and onto Denman Hill. The words hit her hard; the happenings that she read about, the challenges that her mother had faced in the post-war years, had largely taken place within the walls that surrounded her that night.

  Parts of her mother’s writings were hard to read, and Emily had found it difficult to understand how her mother had endured. How had she dealt with what was left of her father Clarrie when he returned home from overseas. It was love, that she knew. Love and devotion; but the doubt that was allowed to express itself—briefly, occasionally—on the lined pages of her diary must not have been allowed to reveal itself in her daily life. Emily gained a sense of her mother’s strength from the pages as she turned them. The paradoxical feelings of joy and heartache intertwined, always allowing the idea of hope without being able to dispel gloom.

  She thought of her father; the man he was and the man he became; what war had done to a beautiful soul. She wondered—feeling guilt and unworthiness—if her uncle Archie, killed in a faraway land, mourned and revered as a hero, his image forever cast in sparkling youth, had been handed the more humane ending. Her father Clarence had returned home to loved ones alive, with his heart beating and limbs moving, but with a soul that had perished; extinguished not by bullet or shell, a bayonet or bomb, but by horror—unrelenting horror.

  Emily cried as she steered the farm vehicle along the undulating road. The release of emotion weakened her resolve, and she began to sob uncontrollably as the thought of a particular entry in the diary came back to her. At first she had turned away from it, but the need for truth within her family history had forced her to read on. What made it hard for Emily was that it was the first time that she had cause to reproach her mother’s actions. It gave her mother’s memory a human frailty, when she had always thought of her as a saint.

  It read: Today is the first time I can honestly say that I felt ashamed of myself. I fool myself by thinking that writing it down will absolve me but I am sincere in my sorrow, my little boy being the only one, besides God himself, who can ultimately forgive me.

  Emily cried harder as she remembered the blurred ink that marked the page, the pain that lay in those tears—hard to imagine.

  I stood and did nothing while Clarence, smelling of alcohol, hit Reggie continually because he had mud on his boots inside the house. I screamed but he wouldn’t stop. He screamed that men need discipline, which made no sense. I will never forget the look on my little boy’s

  face, so frightened, confused, and I fear—I know—it has happened before. I will never forgive myself. I worry endlessly for Clarence, but not today.

  Emily gripped the steering wheel with white knuckled hands, and let out a painful moan. The image of her own daughter danced behind her eyes. She forced the gear stick into position and pulled back on to the road. She no longer thought, she was just intent to arrive at her destination.

  ***

  She dabbed and wiped around her eyes with a tissue to hide the signs of tears, and applied some makeup. There was little movement around the hospital, as it was so early, but Emily was not concerned. She knew where her brother was. She would not pause and ask for directions. The guard placed on her brother was no longer an obstacle, as Sergeant Smyth had removed the constable, embarrassed; a replacement seemed, in the circumstances, ridiculous.

  Emily made her way through the corridors, and entered the ward, where she saw Reginald in bed motionless. His eyes were open, but his face had no expression. Without delay, she moved to his bedside and drew up a chair to sit directly in the view that he held.

  ‘Good morning, Reginald.’

  Only his eyes moved towards her: she noticed his bandaged head, sullen look, and pale complexion, which made him appear many years older. Maybe the strain of guilt has taken its toll as well, she thought.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ stated Emily. ‘How are you? She asked begrudgingly.

  Her brother looked at her with his greyish eyes but did not respond. He held her gaze for a moment, before he shifted his stare to one side of her.

  ‘I brought you something to read,’ she eased her tone slightly. Emily wanted above all else to get her message across. ‘And I strongly urge you to read it. Maybe you have already; I’m not sure.’

  Emily held the journal up for her brother to see, and then placed it on the movable table that lay across his torso. Reginald gave it a quick glance through eye-lids that flickered, something Emily was not able to interpret; was it recognition of something known?

  Emily looked around the empty ward, and took in its sterile environment. She looked back towards her brother. The word that suggested a bond, stung her. She decided that she did not want to be there, and she knew—from his countenance—he was aware of her feelings.

  ‘Reg, you are my brother… but I will never forgive you for what you did to David… what you had already done; a boy, your son, who only ever aimed to please you.’

  Emily saw a tear roll down Reg’s cheek while he lay motionless. She paused for a moment, and then decided to press on. Emily realised that this moment was the only moment in which she could make some difference.

  ‘Our lives were not easy, yours was harder than mine. But we were loved by our aunt and uncle—our adopted mother and father. I am not sure what lies ahead for you, but if you do one thing, Reg,’ appealed Emily, ‘read what I gave you.’ She looked down at her lap and then at her brother, who met her stare. ‘It may help you.’

  Emily stood to leave; she turned, but stopped at the sound of a frail voice.

  ‘How is David?’

  Emily closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She fought back tears, the tragedy of everything, the nurturing of pain over years and generations, feeling as if it had become too much. She knew, as she stood with hunched shoulders, that she was in the presence of a man who placated his demons through violence. He had been the subject of such himself, and was now left with a ruined life—if he looked at it that way. She answered his question, but took liberties that she wasn’t sure were hers to take.

  ‘Physically he is seriously hurt, but in recovery; mentally, I don’t know. I feel he will grow into a fine young man, if allowed to… with his mother and those that love him.’

  Reg took Emily’s message as it was intended and sank into his pillows. He now knew the only course for him to take. Emily left the hospital quickly; she wanted the embrace of her husband and daughter.

  ***


  Arthur Atkins and his secretary made their way to Gilmurra Hospital. Arthur had received the strange request to visit Reginald Miller; strange because he represented his wife. That reason alone had caused him to refuse the request at first. Subsequent messages and sentiments of good will—if Reg’s character possessed that—had finally persuaded the ageing lawyer.

  Arthur and his secretary sat next to Reg’s bed on chairs provided by an orderly. They exchanged a curious glance with one another, and then both declined offers of tea from the matron on duty.

  ‘How may we help you, Mr Miller,’ asked Arthur, shocked by Reginald’s aged look. His eyes reminded him of Clarence’s, well after the war.

  Reg attempted to sit a little straighter. He winced at the pain he felt in his head, but neither Arthur nor his secretary moved to assist him.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Arthur,’ said Reg. His voice matched his appearance, ‘I know it was an unusual and unwanted request.’

  Arthur nodded in acceptance of the thanks.

  ‘I am uncertain as to my future…’

  ‘Mr Miller,’ interjected Arthur,’ you know I cannot speak of the allegations against you, I… ’

  Reginald raised his open palm to relieve Mr Atkins of the need to explain himself.

  ‘I would like your secretary to pen a letter for me, and for you to deliver it to David.’ Reg felt weak. He paused to take a breath before he continued. ‘If you could do me that service, I would then ask you to draw up the necessary documents that would enable me to transfer what I own, under Judith’s direction, to my son…’ Reg stopped, overcome by the word that represented what he had never seen himself as. He looked towards an open window. He could hear the cries of his first-born son all those years ago. David’s life had begun only a matter of yards from where he lay. He envisaged, his mother and father.

  ‘Equally,’ he continued quietly, ‘with William and Elizabeth.’

  Mr Atkins’s secretary looked towards her boss for direction; Arthur looked at Reg for a moment. His mind drifted and he pictured Archie Miller with a fresh-faced Clarence in the Egyptian desert. He clenched his teeth in remembrance of Ruth. The thought of Alice and all she had suffered caused Arthur to look towards the ceiling. It’s over now. All the recurring pain that tore this family apart will end. Arthur exhaled and felt some relief. He signalled his approval to his secretary. She removed a notepad and pencil from a leather satchel and waited for Reginald to speak.

  Epilogue

  The geldings walked calmly along the creek that glistened in the sunlight. The two brothers chatted freely; the younger boy pleased to be in the company of his big brother again. David reached out with his left hand and offered William a stick of gum from the packet he held, while he rolled with his mount’s gait. William took one, and then a second. He gave his sibling and friend a loving smile and then casually plucked the whole packet from his hand.

  They laughed together as they approached the large willow that spread its roots beside the creek, its branches devoid of leaves. Slowly the horses ambled past the gnarled and twisted tree; its wooded arms reached like they yearned to reveal a story. The horses snorted and David felt a tingle run down his spine, as he remembered where he hid on that cold and dark night. He was tempted to reach for the scars across his back, but he resisted. He pushed the thought of his father from his mind and stroked his mount’s neck instead.

  The horses calmed, and David gave a slight nod to William. With kindness, the Miller boys turned their mounts east for the ridge and home, where their mother, sister and Aunt Alice waited in peaceful surrounds.

  They rode side by side, and casually but purposefully glanced at each Hereford cow to score their condition. Winter rains had made the ground soft, and David was conscious of footrot within the herd. Patiently he spoke to his younger brother about the cattle that surrounded them. They were his future, and he was confident that he would step to the fore and shape the Miller family destiny.

  To find out more about this book, please visit:

  www.vividpublishing.com.au/beneaththewillow

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