‘It’s politicians and munitions firms who’ll start the war,’ Harry said, ‘not the cousins and uncles of the House of Saxe-Coburg.’
He sounds just like William, Edith thought. I hope to heaven he’s wrong.
‘War?’ William said. ‘Not if they’ve got any sense. But then I’ve come to the conclusion politicians are all cretins.’
‘Idiots, without an ounce of brains between them — certainly ever since last month,’ Harry agreed, and William chuckled and said he could not have phrased it better himself.
Edith knew he was making the best of the situation, but sensed he was hurt by the party’s rebuff. She imagined that Hannah Lockwood could tell her how deeply it had affected him, and stifled a smile at the thought of her telephoning the house in Paddington, and the two of them discussing William’s reaction. It was a measure of her contentment, she felt, that she could contemplate such an action and be quietly amused by it. How much her life had changed, and all because of one small boy who, long ago, had looked at her with large brown eyes, while her tears fell, and asked, ‘Are you sad, Grandma?’
‘No, Heinrich. I’m happy.’
‘If you cry then you’re happy, Grandma, what do you do when you’re sad?’
She remembered the moment so vividly. She had rarely been unhappy since that day. However brief the remainder of her life, Edith knew she had a lot to be thankful for these past years.
That summer Harry was expected in the Barossa for the holidays. Elizabeth wrote, reminding him, and said it was a kind of anniversary; it would be fifteen years since their first real harvest, and there was to be a larger than usual gathering of friends and neighbours to celebrate the event and make it a specially festive New Year’s Eve.
She asked him to use his influence, and persuade her mother and father to accompany him, so that they could all sit down to Christmas dinner together. They had never done this as a family. She would love her father to see the transformation in the place; he would hardly believe the changes — and most particularly, she wanted her mother to visit her home for the first time.
But by early November Edith had taken to her bed. She could no longer camouflage the pain. Although she had managed to live a normal life many months longer than Dr Sinclair had predicted, the struggle to conceal her condition had eventually become such a strain, it was almost with a sense of relief that she went upstairs to her private suite, knowing it was unlikely she would come down again.
Accepting that further pretence was impossible, she asked Dr Sinclair to inform William, and took it upon herself to tell Harry. She had only one request to them both — that Elizabeth not be forced to leave the rest of her family and come halfway across the continent, by which time Edith would be drugged and unable to communicate with her. She had not seen her daughter for almost thirteen years, and it would be pointless agony for Elizabeth to feel compelled to see her now, when she was dying. With her last act of strength she managed to make them both agree.
In a state of indecision and distress, Harry wrote to his mother.
He said he was unable to come for the Christmas holidays, and much as Gran would like to, she felt she could not manage the long journey at present. He gave no other reason for his own non-appearance, and thought it best to ignore his father’s reproachful reply, chiding him for a lack of family feeling. Stefan said they were bitterly disappointed, and it was obvious he preferred his friends in the east.
On New Year’s Eve, he was invited to several parties, but turned them all down and stayed with his grandmother. She was lucid and calm. She had been overjoyed when he was named dux of the school, and had passed his leaving certificate with Honours. They talked about his future, and he assured her he would study law, not from a sense of duty but because he wanted to, and would do his best.
They watched the display of fireworks in the park, and afterwards he read to her some of her favourite poetry. She tried to insist he go and dance the year in with his friends, but he said he was spending it the way he wished.
Soon after midnight, in the very early hours of 1914, Edith died almost as quietly as she had lived, and her grandson sat holding her hands and feeling desolate. The hours passed, his grief turning to anger as he waited for William to come home from celebrating the New Year with Hannah Lockwood.
TWENTY THREE
EDITH LOUISE PATTERSON
1858-1914
Aged 56 years
The headstone had been commissioned and completed within days of Edith’s funeral. William had acquired a spacious plot in the secluded cemetery, and arranged to have it enclosed with iron railings, and the ground paved with granite. Instructions were given for the work to be done immediately, and fresh flowers were to be placed on the grave each week. The flowers were delivered by a florist, but Harry picked his own and brought them.
He came alone. He thought the site too large, the iron rails forbidding, and in consequence her grave seemed insignificant and lonely. It was not, he felt sure, the kind of resting place she would have chosen. He was deeply troubled; it was both a confusion of sorrow at his loss, and bewilderment that he could feel such a rage towards a man he had loved since childhood.
William wondered what to do about his grandson, and how to repair their former relationship. Harry was like a distant stranger, and had been ever since the early hours of New Year’s Day. William had arrived home to find the boy sitting beside Edith’s body. It seemed he had not moved from there since the moment of her death, even to advise the servants, and had to be induced to leave her and come downstairs while they waited for the doctor and ambulance. Though he had not said so, William privately thought such behaviour was unhealthy.
The house was hushed and semi-dark. From some of the neighbouring homes came the end of late parties, the shouts of departing guests, the raucous barking of dogs as motor engines coughed into life, as well as the occasional clatter of horses’ hooves and the roll of carriage wheels. There were still some who resisted the automobile, and believed the horse and buggy was the safest and most reliable way to travel.
The library was cold for mid-summer.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea it would be so sudden.’
He waited for a reply, but there was none. William poured himself a drink, and looked at his grandson. ‘Small brandy, old chap?’
‘No, thank you.’
It was abrupt. Almost curt. He thought he was mistaken, so he tried again.
‘I hope — it was peaceful.’
‘She just fell asleep. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. Especially not today — and not to you, Grandfather.’ William felt shock at the chill, detached voice.
‘How could I have guessed it would happen tonight?’
‘Would you have bothered to stay, even if you knew?’ William could hardly believe this savage, unforgiving youth was his grandson. They had never quarrelled like this before.
‘That’s a stupid and unfair thing to say.’
‘I expect it is. Before I say anything else, I’d better get some sleep, if you don’t mind.’
‘You listen to me first. You think she would have wanted me to stay? She’d have seen it for what it was — a token gesture. And she would rather have spent the time with you.’
‘While you preferred to spend it with Hannah Lockwood.’ The anger and contempt with which he said Hannah’s name was almost as much a shock as the fact of him knowing it.
‘Who told you about her?’
‘No one in particular.’
‘Someone must have. Surely, you understand I had no wish to embarrass your grandmother, so I tried to be discreet.’
‘Discreet? You? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that remark?’
‘You took her to the theatre. To the ballet. You met in public.
She went to Melbourne with you when the Senate sat. I used to meet her sometimes when I was a child, didn’t I? The nice lady in the park — when we took our walks to
gether. Discreet, Grandfather? Even some of my school friends had heard the gossip. I’d have had to be deaf and blind not to know.’
William studied him, his own anger rising. He felt sorrow for Edith’s life, and her death, but he resented being judged like this. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Harry. It’s none of your damn business.’
‘No, it’s not. You’re right. I’m sorry I even mentioned it.’ There was no contrition in his voice. It was frigidly polite.
In that moment, William Patterson felt as if his grandson hated him.
‘I understand you made my parents a promise once. That I’d go back there, if Gran died.’
‘It was long ago. I doubt if they’d hold us to it.’
‘You think promises are made to be broken?’
When William did not reply, Harry said, ‘I’ll write to my mother, and tell her to expect me.’
Only Hannah knew the extent of William’s remorse and depression. He had been deeply hurt in this past year. The end of his parliamentary career had been an unkind blow. Edith’s death had brought sadness, for he had grown to appreciate her many qualities, and regret their loveless years. An intimate relationship between them had never been a real possibility, but he had accepted for some time he had misjudged her, and had not treated her well. In recent years he had done his best to make amends, and was left with a sense of loss when she was no longer there.
But it was the third setback — the quarrel and rift with his grandson — which distressed him most. Since Harry left for the Barossa, there had been no communication from him. No decision had been made about whether he would return to begin his law studies when the university year commenced in March. There had been just one letter, from Elizabeth, in which she said he had arrived and how he seemed quiet and despondent, but since he had been closest of them all to Mama, this was understandable. She said in a few weeks they would begin their harvest, and it was always a happy and festive time, so hopefully he would cheer up and enjoy it.
The letter, while not openly stating it, also contained an underlying concern. Hannah knew how deeply William had treasured the boy. She recalled the walks, the tall figure and the tiny one, spending so many hours together, finding so much shared interest to bridge their age gap. William had pleaded for him to be brought up in Sydney, as much for himself as for his wife. Gradually, over the years he had spent less time with him, deferring to Edith whose daily life revolved around her grandson, but his affection for Harry remained. He was able to provide him with the kind of boyhood WiIliam himself had wanted; a good school, friends, a home they were encouraged to visit and in which they were made to feel welcome. He had invested so many hopes for the future in him, and Harry, popular with his contemporaries, a prefect and eventually dux of the school, with a law career mapped out, seemed the embodiment of all William’s aspirations.
Until now.
He had never felt so disoriented, or so tired. While they bent and stripped the vines, working continuously, filling the wooden buckets with grapes and hauling them to one of the carts that would take them to be crushed, most of the girls and men conversed in Barossa Deutsch, the harsh unfamiliar sound alien to his ears. At night, when they cooked a pig or side of beef, drank beer or wine, then played music and danced, he was too exhausted to take part. His limbs throbbed and his back ached, and the first few nights he crawled into his bed and slept, until Carl shook him awake at dawn, and it was time to begin another day.
‘Take a day’s rest,’ his mother said. ‘You don’t have to do this.’ He was sorely tempted, until Carl said, ‘Yeah. Go and lie down in the shade. We can manage without you. We always have.’
Harry said nothing and simply began work again. Elizabeth and Maria, as if in support, picked alongside him. Maria had been granted a week’s leave from her school to help with the harvest. Fourteen now, Harry realised, and so like their mother it was uncanny. But though she was thirty-five, Elizabeth Muller looked ten years younger. She wore her oldest clothes and a shabby straw hat, but nothing could disguise her beauty. He wondered if it was strange for a son to think of his mother as beautiful, but it was clearly a view shared by many of the male pickers, who glanced at her with conspicuous admiration whenever they had the opportunity.
That night he made the effort to join the others around the fire, and sipped a local ale. Sigrid called for him to join her. ‘Heinrich, you remember my husband, Oscar Schmidt?’
‘Of course.’
He shook hands with Oscar, who had driven his motorbike and sidecar from town, and later would drive Sigrid back to their quarters above the chemist shop. He was a mild-mannered man in his forties, who wore pince-nez glasses, a tie and waistcoat. Harry sat down beside them, wincing as he did so.
Sigrid smiled sympathetically. ‘You don’t do hard work like this before, Heinrich.’
‘No, Sigrid. It’s — Harry, by the way.’
‘Not to us, liebchen. Here you’re still Heinrich.’
She meant well, and so it was pointless to persist. It was the same with his parents’ closest friends. Gerhardt was as ebullient as ever, his wife Eva-Maria as warm and friendly as he remembered her.
‘It’s wonderful to see you, Heinrich.’
‘Harry.’
‘You grew up so fast.’ Eva-Maria hugged him. ‘And good looking. I think there are lots of girls?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Only one.’
‘She must be nice.’
‘Yes. But she’s in London.’
She sensed his dejection, and tucked her arm consolingly in his.
Gerhardt noticed nothing amiss. ‘One girl. Not like your brother.’ He chuckled. ‘That Carl -lots of village girls. So much dancing, and some cuddling and kissing when they think nobody looks. But nothing much serious goes on, not with so many. Is yours serious, Heinrich?’
‘I suppose it is,’ he replied, wondering how to tell them that the name upset him.
‘Ach … Elisabet. Guten Tag.’
‘Frau Pabst. Do you know my son? My eldest son?’
‘He looks grown up — like he could be your brother, Elisabeth.
‘Welcome, Heinrich.’
‘Er — Harry. How do you do.’
‘It is good to be home, ja? Wiedersehen!’ She beamed and crossed the street to a milliner’s shop, with hats and gowns displayed beneath the sign. J.W. SCHUBERT’S MODEWAREN GESCHAFT.
‘My brother indeed.’ Elizabeth was plainly flattered.
He smiled and took her arm as they walked through the foreign town, past the Lutheran church and the strange and unfamiliar names: JOHANN GRAETZ’S DEUTSCHE SCHLACHTERIE, a butcher’s shop, the prices of the meat displayed in both English and German; then PASCHKE’S FEINKOST, a smallgoods business, and BRUNO HEUZENROADER, the village blacksmith.
Most people spoke with his mother, but kept their German to greetings and farewells, conversing otherwise in English. It was clear she was universally known and well liked. They passed the stone and shingled police station, where a fleshy man in a sergeant’s uniform stolidly surveyed the street, and seemed satisfied that law and order prevailed. Elizabeth waved. He lifted his hand in semblance of a salute.
‘My son Harry,’ she called, and paused to introduce them.
‘This is Sergeant Delaney.’
‘Ah yes,’ the policeman said. ‘Going to be a lawyer, I hear?’
‘I hope so, Sergeant. If I qualify.’
‘Good luck then. See you in court someday.’
They moved on, leaving him to scrutinise his domain from the verandah of the police station.
‘Thanks, Ma,’ he said casually.
‘For what?’
‘Calling me Harry.’
She glanced at him, and for a moment he thought she was going to avoid a direct reply. Then she nodded and said, ‘I know you prefer it. It’s difficult for people here. They mean no harm, but they think of you as Heinrich. Always have. And as for your father — it was his father’s name. I can’t promise to change him, but per
haps we’ll slowly convert the others to the idea of Harry.’
She smiled, and all at once he imagined how it might have been, had she been in Sydney while he was at school, able to attend speech days and events like the sports and school games. She would have made all the others there look so dowdy. He wished his friend David Brahm could have met her. The thought of it made him want to laugh. Brahm would have tried to flirt with her, then pronounced his belief it was ridiculous anyone’s mother should look like this.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking of a friend of mine.’
‘Darling, you and I have to talk,’ Elizabeth said, deciding that this would be a good time to raise something that had been on her mind. ‘I need to know if you’re visiting, or intending to stay — or what your plans are.’
‘Can I have more time to think about that?’
‘Of course. It’ll take time. I know how much you miss Gran.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t write to tell you how ill she was,’ he said as they walked together. ‘She wouldn’t let me. She didn’t want to force you to come all that way, not when she was dying.’
‘Force me? She always underestimated herself’ Elizabeth shook her head, and was silent for a moment. ‘I felt desperately sad, not only because she died, but because I wasn’t there — to say goodbye.’
‘I wish I’d told you the truth.’
‘No, darling. Don’t feel bad. It was what she wanted.’
They approached Oscar’s shop. The window was inscribed:
DEUTSCHE APOTHEKE. OSCAR SCHMIDT. DROGERIE. ENGLISCHE SPOKEN. Signs inside the shop amid an array of jars and coloured bottles were in both languages: DRUGS AND MEDICINES. TOILET ARTICLES. VETERINARY SUPPLIES. ENEMAS AND DOUCHES. HAVANA CIGARS.
Harry had never seen such an extraordinary place. Beyond the cluttered premises was a flight of stairs which led to Sigrid and Oscar’s home above the store. They went into a living room, where Gerhardt and Eva-Maria were also guests, and Oscar left his apprentice in charge, so he could join them. Sigrid served a huge afternoon tea. On the walls were framed photographs of children; he saw himself as a baby, and others of Carl and Maria. He felt a warmth towards Sigrid, who had been their nursemaid, and still cared enough to keep their pictures in the main room of her home.
A Bitter Harvest Page 23
