by Janet Tanner
She pulled a face. ‘You would be surprised. Anyway, the point I’m making is, hopefully you and Tara will have the rest of your lives, while if your father dies and you haven’t been to see him …’
He nodded. ‘I must confess I think I’d almost decided that way. For one thing, it’s not even certain I could get to New Guinea, for another – yes, you are right, I’d never forgive myself if the old man died and I hadn’t got to see him one last time. It’s strange, isn’t it? You take your parents so much for granted, don’t even realize they are getting older, and then suddenly one day you turn around and …’
‘I know. I haven’t been home since it happened. I’m due for some leave too, but I’ve been putting off taking it.’ Alys gave a small nervous laugh. She did not want him to know about the compulsion which drove her constantly towards going home to try to mend fences with the family she had left so acrimoniously, or the tightening of her stomach which she experienced every time the possibility looked even remotely like becoming reality.
‘I’ll tell you what.’ Richard stretched again, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his white coat, pulled hastily on over pyjamas. ‘You take your leave and I’ll take mine. We could travel down together.’
‘Oh! She felt the small surprised tightening deep inside once again. Was it the prospect of going home that caused it this time – or something else?’
‘It’s a long journey to do alone,’ he went on, seemingly oblivious to her hesitation. ‘We could keep one another company.’
‘Yes, I suppose we could.’
He smiled, half-teasing. ‘Never mind your family. I’ll bet that farmer friend of yours – John – would be pleased to see you.’
She experienced a moment’s poignancy that he could mention John so easily. But there was no reason why he should not be able to. Then, as she thought about what he had said, warmth came flooding in. Yes, John would be pleased to see her – and she would be pleased to see him.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘If the General will let me go I’ll take you up on that offer.’
Richard stopped the car beside the white house shaped mailbox bearing the legend Buchlyvie but left the engine running.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you down to the house, Alys? It’s one hell of a way to walk.’
‘No, I want to surprise John and if he hears the car it will spoil it.’ Alys opened the passenger door and swung her legs out.
‘Well, if you are sure. I’ll pick you up again in what – say two hours? Unless, of course, you want to drive your own car back to Melbourne.’
‘Better not – not today. I asked John to look after it for me while I was away but I want him to know I came to see him today, not my car.’
‘As you like. Give John my regards, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She waved as the car pulled away, then turned and began walking up the drive, smiling a little as she imagined John’s surprise when he saw her.
She should have let him know she was coming, she supposed. But the dates of her leave had not been confirmed until the last moment and when she had arrived in Melbourne she had not liked to phone immediately. To have done so would have been hurtful to her father.
It was ironic, Alys thought, that having persuaded Richard to come home because of his father’s health, she should have found such a change in her own. She had always thought of him as a giant of a man, a little unapproachable perhaps, more concerned with his business interests than his family, but a powerhouse it was impossible not to admire nonetheless. Now, he seemed to have grown old overnight. Could her mother’s death have had something to do with that? she wondered. They had never struck her as a particularly close couple, but even after her stroke Frances had still been there, a part of the old regime – and a magnet for the loyal Beverley. Now she came to visit less often and there was an air of desolation about the house which had once seemed to be the hub of the family. It was still cared for by the staff, of course, but it no longer felt like a home, just an elegant, half-empty shell.
Her father shared a little of her own guilt, too, Alys believed. Over dinner on her first night he had said as much.
‘I should have spent more time with her, I suppose,’ he had said, picking at the food which once he would have wolfed down. ‘But there you are, I was always too busy making money. Now, I look at myself and wonder what it was all for.’
‘Oh Daddy, you couldn’t have done anything else. The business has been your life. You’d never have been happy in some nine to five job or working for someone else,’ Alys had tried to soothe.
He had hardly seemed to hear her.
‘I won’t be able to keep it up forever though, will I? And what else is there left to me? No family life, nothing but an empty house to come home to. I don’t even seem to know my own children. Beverley was her mother’s girl – she hardly comes here any more. Not that we’d have anything to talk about if she did. She hasn’t a brain in her head – never had. Can’t understand it. You – you are the sharp one. But you aren’t here either.’
Alys had felt the familiar tightening in her chest. Oh no, she thought. Not Daddy too …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m a member of the AIF now.’
‘I should have taken you into the business.’ He was staring straight ahead, his dinner going cold on the plate in front of him. ‘I think you would have done well. Your mother would never have heard of it, of course. Not the life for a girl, she would have said. But look at the jobs you girls are doing now! The world is changing. When this war is over nothing will be the same again. They’re out in the market place now, doing all the jobs a man used to do – and doing them well. They’ll never be satisfied with just being wives and mothers again.’
‘Beverley will be.’
‘Beverley!’ Alys was shocked by the underlying scorn in his voice. ‘Beverley hasn’t the wit to want anything different. But you …’ He looked at her directly, his eyes very sharp in his unhealthily blotched face. ‘You could have been the son I never had.’
‘Could I?’ she was embarrassed now by the way he was talking to her – the dose of frankness coming after all the years of non-communication was disconcerting.
‘I wanted a son when you were born. Still hoped for one afterwards. But your mother didn’t want any more children. Said two was enough. I could never understand that. Dammit, she had nothing else to do, did she?’
‘Oh I don’t know, she was always busy with her committees,’ Alys said.
He snorted. ‘ Committees! They were all she ever cared about. Still, I miss her. Yes, I do. After thirty years, you get to take someone for granted.’
Alys said nothing. She was thinking of John, who had never had the chance to take his wife for granted.
She had wanted to phone him then, wanted desperately to hear his soft drawl and feel the easy understanding that was so real it was almost tangible and worlds removed from the awkward confidences being thrust upon her by her father. But she had known this was not the moment.
That night, lying sleepless in her old room she had thought of him again, longing to talk to him. Everything seemed so simple when she was with John. It was a knack he had, taking one problem at a time so that it dissolved in common sense, dispelling depression with his easy going attitude.
Now, walking up the drive, she quickened her step, anxious to be with him without any more delay. Unless he was still burdened down by farm work he would be at home.
The front door of the house was closed against the cold August wind. Alys rang the bell and heard it jangle somewhere within. Silence. She rang again, then tried the door. It opened.
‘Anyone at home?’ she called.
A shadow materialized – Flora, the old aborigine housekeeper. Alys beamed at her.
‘Hello, I’ve come to see John. Is he in?’
The dark weathered face was set in the same uncompromising give-nothing-away expression Alys remembered s
o well.
‘Boss man in sitting room.’
‘Oh good. May I come in?’ Alys closed the door behind her, glad to shut out the biting edge of wind. ‘Don’t tell him I’m here, I want to surprise him.’
‘But Miss Alys …’ Flora was following her across the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘It’s all right, Flora.’ Alys had always found the woman’s presence slightly oppressive; she did not want her behind her shoulder when she greeted John.
She crossed quickly to the sitting room, slightly surprised John had not heard her voice and come to meet her. Perhaps he had had an early morning and was asleep. She pushed open the door. ‘Hello! Surprise!’
He was sitting at the big old bureau in the corner with his back towards her. Papers and books were spread out before him but Alys had the odd impression he had not been looking at them even before the interruption. At the sound of her voice he turned, then rose quickly.
‘Alys!’
She froze, the smile of greeting fading to shock as she took in the look of him, hair turned from iron-grey to white standing straight up from his forehead where he had been pushing his fingers through it, lines etched more deeply around his eyes and mouth, the flesh falling into small pouches between. He seemed to have aged ten years since she had last seen him.
‘Hello, John,’ she faltered. ‘I got some leave – I thought I would …’
‘Good. It’s good to see you.’ His voice was heavy like his face and no welcoming smile lifted the weight of those lines. ‘Come in – sit down. Would you like some tea?’
‘Well – yes …’
Flora was still hovering. He spoke to her. ‘Make us a pot of tea, would you, Flora?’
Tentatively, Alys crossed to the chair and sat down. She could not tear her eyes away from John’s haggard face, couldn’t get over the change in him. As if reading her thoughts he smiled, but it was a parody of his old quirky smile.
‘I’m sorry. This isn’t much of a welcome for you after all this time.’
‘Don’t be silly. I …’
‘I might as well tell you right away. I had some very bad news yesterday.’
She felt the falling away inside; knew what he was going to say before he said it.
‘Oh John. Not …?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Stuart. He has been killed.’
‘Oh no!’ Impulsively, she jumped up and ran to him, taking hold of his arm. ‘When? How?’
‘I don’t know any details yet, except that he was in the islands. Killed in action, they said. Whatever that may mean. I suppose I shall get to hear more eventually. Not that it will change anything.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I had no idea …’
‘Well, of course you wouldn’t have.’ He was matter-of-fact now. Only that flatness of tone revealed his emotions – and from time to time his eyes strayed to the framed photograph of the handsome young man.
Flora brought the tea. The kettle must be permanently on the boil for her to be able to do it so quickly, Alys thought irrelevantly. John acknowledged it but made no move; he looked oddly drained of energy, like a man in a dream. Alys dropped to her knees beside the low table, milking the cups and adding two large spoonfuls of sugar to John’s.
‘Here.’ She pushed it into his hand. ‘Drink this. You look as though you could do with it.’
He gulped at the scalding liquid then set the cup down.
‘God, it tastes awful.’
She sipped her own tea. Nothing wrong with it.
‘Drink it. It will do you good.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Drink it!’ She pushed him down in to the chair and put the cup in his hands. He sat holding the cup but not drinking and after a moment the tears began to run down his cheeks. She dropped to her knees, taking his hands, and he laid his head against her, his body shaking with silent sobs.
‘Oh John …’ She held him, knowing that nothing she could say would ease his agony, helpless in the face of his grief.
After a while he raised his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry – I just can’t – oh Christ!’
Again, she was overwhelmed by helplessness. It was terrible to see him this way – such a strong man, a rock of strength with his own foundations crumbled beneath him.
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I’m here, I wish there was something I could do or say. But there’s nothing, is there?’
‘He was a good boy. Young and headstrong, of course, but weren’t we all? I thought when this war was over and he came home he could start taking over the running of the farm. He’d find a girl, get married, there would even be children in the house again. I thought … you know, I even thought maybe he and you … Stupid, really. Told myself it was just wishful thinking, but you would have liked him, I know you would.’ He was talking now more than he ever talked, letting his innermost thoughts pour out. ‘It’s funny but it keeps you going, somehow, knowing there’s someone to hand things on to. You don’t think about it that much but it’s there all the same at the back of your mind. Then one telegram. One damned telegram, just a few short words, and there’s nothing left. I keep thinking of him when he was a boy, you know. The things he used to do – the things we did together. I taught him to shoot. He liked that. Used to take his guns out and bag a few bunnies. Then he’d come back, proud as you like, and say – ‘‘ There’s a few less to eat your grass, Dad.’’ Now he’s gone. No more life in him than in one of those bunnies.’ A shudder ran through him. ‘Why him, Alys? That’s what I keep asking myself. Damned stupid, really. He’s only one of thousands and yet I still keep asking – why him?’
‘I know.’ She had seen some of the dead and maimed, all some father’s sons, their pride and their hope for the future. Yet she too felt the unfairness. Why John’s son? He was all he had.
‘His mother – does she know?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘ I went out to see her this morning. I couldn’t face it yesterday when the telegram came, but today I thought – well, it’s got to be done. I’ve got to tell her. But when I got there, there was no way. She’s like a child. She wouldn’t understand. I think she has forgotten she ever had a son. She didn’t even know me. I had to come away and leave her. For the first time in all those years I just couldn’t take it.’
She nodded, understanding.
They sat for a while longer, silent sometimes, talking sometimes. There was nothing really to say, yet Alys hoped that just by being there she might be some small comfort to the man who had been such a comfort to her.
It was only when the mantle clock chimed the half-hour that she remembered Richard would be waiting for her.
‘John, I’m going to have to go.’ She got up reluctantly, not wanting to leave him.
He looked at her, half-puzzled, as if it had only just occurred to him to wonder how she had got out to Buchlyvie.
‘Richard Allingham ran me out,’ she explained. ‘You remember him? We had dinner with him and his wife.’
‘Oh – yes. Give him my regards.’ John was in full control of himself again; his ravaged face was now the only outward sign of his grief.
‘I will,’ Alys said, afraid suddenly that if she was late at the gates Richard might come up to the house looking for her. She did not want John to have the added strain of having to face Richard. ‘And I’ll be out to see you again. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
He stood up. She noticed the slight stoop now to his straight shoulders.
‘You don’t have to, Alys. I shall be all right. You don’t want to spend your precious leave like this. I’m not going to be much company, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re insulting me now,’ Alys said briskly. ‘ Suggesting I’m a fair weather friend. I shall come because I want to – if you’ll let me of course.’
He smiled wanly, his mouth moving but his eyes remaining darkly shadowed.
‘Woe betide anybody who tried to stop you doing what you want to do, Alys.’
He went with her to the door and she could feel his eyes following her as she started down the drive. She turned and waved but he did not wave back, just stood, immovable as an old-established gum, framed in the doorway.
There was a great weight round her heart and she knew it was because she was sharing his grief. God, but life could be cruel! The cold blustery wind whipped her hair and roared in her ears and she wished that she too could cry because tears would be the only relief to the pressure of sadness within her.
At the end of the drive beside the white-painted mailbox she saw a flash of gleaming black. Richard was waiting for her. She glanced over her shoulder, saw the indistinct figure of John still watching her, and checked the desire to run.
Richard was leaning against the bonnet of the car. He looked somehow young and strong and invincible. As she approached he turned and smiled at her. And she could no longer keep her feet from running.
‘All right?’ he greeted her.
At first, no words would come for she found her lips were trembling.
She saw his face change. ‘What’s wrong?’ And still she could find no coherent way to begin. ‘Oh Richard,’ she said, and began to cry.
When at last her sobs began to ease she realized his arms were around her. Somehow she had told him and the sharing was beginning to lessen the weight inside her. She hoped she had done the same for John, knew she had not, and began to cry again.
Why, why, why? There was no answer. But here was comfort in the broad strength of Richard’s shoulder beneath the smooth twill of his jacket. She clung to him while the words poured from her in an unthinking torrent
‘It’s not fair. It’s just not fair! He’s a good man – a really good man. For this to happen to him …’
‘Don’t, Alys. Come on, I’ll take you home.’
Home. Home to her father. Another oddly pitiful figure in this world which seemed suddenly to contain nothing but suffering and pain.