by Judy Nunn
‘No.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t noticed that.’
Reginald refused to lose his temper. Nothing was to be gained from snapping at the boy, who was clearly in need of guidance. ‘Sit down, Hugh.’
Hugh sat, and Reginald embarked upon his lecture. He was rather grateful to the Powell boys now for having triggered advice that appeared so timely.
‘School can breed a general sense of camaraderie, which is admirable,’ he said, ‘particularly on the football field and such, but one must never lose one’s abilities of discernment, Hugh. You have been born into a life of privilege and, as you get older, you will realise that you have a position in society that must be upheld . . .’
Hugh didn’t say a word, but he was shocked as he realised what he was hearing. His father was telling him he was better than others.
‘The Hutchins School attracts the finest families seeking the best education for their sons,’ Reginald continued, ‘and as such it presents the perfect opportunity for you to form bonds with those of similarly privileged background, bonds which will be of great advantage in the future. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Father, I believe I do.’
‘Excellent.’ Reginald smiled fondly; he was so proud of his son. ‘All I’m saying, Hugh, is that you will cultivate a better class of friend if you’re a little more selective.’
‘Yes, Father, I know exactly what you’re saying.’
‘Good lad. Now go and get dressed for dinner. That is, if you can fit anything in after all those pasties and cake.’
Hugh left his father’s office a different boy from the one who had entered it. For the whole of his life he had been brought up to have the utmost respect for his father. Reginald Stanford was known as a man of immense integrity, a pillar of the community, a committed philanthropist. Never once had it crossed Hugh’s mind to question the judgement of such a man.
Now, on this day barely two months before his fourteenth birthday, he found himself not only questioning his father’s judgement but vehemently disagreeing with it. This was the day Hugh’s father fell from his pedestal, the day Hugh realised that the man whom he’d so respected and admired was a snob and a hypocrite. The realisation came as a shock, but it bred in Hugh a quiet rebellion. No-one would dictate to him his choice of friends: no-one.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘A TIGER’S TALE’,
A WORK IN PROGRESS BY HENRY FOTHERGILL
NEW YORK CITY, 1909
As young James Flood accompanied his host, Mr Haskel Slabodsky Junior, on a tour of his Fifth Avenue mansion on New York’s Upper East Side, he could only stare in awestruck amazement at the ‘trophies’ Mr Slabodsky Senior had collected throughout the last three psychotically violent decades of his life.
The stuffed animals were everywhere. Mostly they were heads, together with endless sets of horns and antlers, but dotted about in corners and alcoves the occasional complete stuffed beast looked forlornly out at the world from its own glass case. The trophies covered every spare foot of wall space in the absurdly large house where Haskel Slabodsky Junior solemnly stated he lived, ‘alone and haunted’.
‘My father killed every single one of them himself,’ Haskel said, peering about through thick horn-rimmed glasses and stroking the crown of his bald head in what James correctly assumed was a nervous mannerism. ‘All fifty-six rooms full, plus every hall, corridor and stairway. Thirty-five thousand dead animals in thirty years, Mr Flood. That’s roughly three creatures per day.’
‘But your father was a stockbroker, wasn’t he?’ James hurried to keep up with the little man. ‘Didn’t he found Slabodsky, Loewe and Partners?’
‘He did indeed found the company, Mr Flood, but I proved to be the financial wizard. It was I who bought and sold and traded and bartered, becoming in the process the eighth-richest person in the world, whilst my father at the age of forty-five suddenly and inexplicably pronounced himself a big-game hunter and took off around the globe killing defenceless animals for sport. He never even had the good grace to offer me, or more importantly my mother, an explanation.’ Haskel Slabodsky finally halted in his march through the labyrinthine halls of his house. ‘What do you say to that, sir?’
‘It does seem a little uncaring.’
‘My father was a monster, Mr Flood! A fiendish individual who killed unthinkingly, like a rabid dog!’ Haskel, aware of his escalating blood pressure, took a deep breath and held himself in check. ‘It is my avowed intention,’ he continued calmly, ‘to ensure that this monument to death serve some purpose, which is why I have summoned you here today.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘You are a zoologist. You are assistant to Mr William Temple Hornaday, director of the New York Zoological Park in the Bronx, correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I intend to donate this entire building and its sad ghosts to the City of New York as a museum. All profits will go to the American Bison Protection Society, which I recently founded with your Mr Hornaday and President Roosevelt. I intend also to fund other wildlife foundations upon request. As you can see, Mr Flood, I am determined my father’s monstrous legacy be put to good use.’
‘Most admirable, sir,’ James wondered where exactly he fitted into the scheme of things. ‘But I’m afraid I still don’t quite –’
’Mr Hornaday has strongly recommended that you be appointed the museum’s first director.’
‘Good heavens above.’ Young James Flood was overwhelmed. ‘I would be only too delighted to accept such an appointment, Mr Slabodsky,’ he said eagerly.
‘There is however, one proviso.’
‘A proviso?’
‘A Thylacinus cynocephalus.’
‘You mean an Australian marsupial wolf?’
‘Exactly, the so-called Tasmanian tiger. My informants tell me it could very well be on its way to extinction.’
‘They are very rare, Mr Slabodsky. We actually have two at the Zoological Park.’
‘I know.’ Haskel waved an imperious finger. ‘I want one.’
‘But . . . er . . .’ James looked about at the sea of dead animals’ eyes. ‘They’re still alive, sir.’
‘I’m fully aware of that. I want one, or better still both, when they die. I shall have them stuffed and put on show in the museum’s foyer. They shall be the shining light of the entire display. Who knows, perhaps we may generate enough interest and funds to save the poor creature from its imminent fate.’
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea to me.’
‘This venture must succeed, Mr Flood. I cannot bear the thought of dying without having attempted to redress, at least in some measure, my father’s wrongs.’ Haskel Slabodsky Junior’s shoulders suddenly slumped and he looked all of his fifty years and more. ‘I ask you, what makes human beings capable of such cruelty? Why are we the only species of life on this planet that is capable of killing purely for sport?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot answer that question, Mr Slabodsky.’
‘No, of course you can’t, my friend. Who can?’ Haskel looked up at his young guest and smiled wearily. ‘Would you care to join me for lunch while we discuss the project in more detail?’
James Flood returned the smile. He felt a sudden fondness for the strange little man. ‘I would be honoured, sir.’
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the European summer of 1914, the assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand resulted in untold chaos. A series of inexplicable political decisions, ineffectual diplomacy and the sabre-rattling of powerful royal houses quickly escalated into war and, within just two months, the deadly dance of empires had begun.
On the fourth of August, Britain declared war on Germany. When she called upon her dominions to take up arms against a common foe, she did not find Australia wanting. Indeed Australia was only too eager to heed the summons.
For the second time in its short history, the nation was to fight under its own flag, as it had in South Af
rica, but this time the fight was not for the preservation of a remote colonial outpost. This time Australians would be fighting in direct defence of the motherland. Patriotism ran rife throughout the nation and recruitment stations were overrun by adventurous young men eager to sign up and defend Britannia against the scourge of the Hun.
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m going to enlist, Father.’
Reginald leant back in his chair and glared at his son, outraged by the boy’s temerity. How dare Hugh stand there and make such a ludicrous announcement.
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ he snapped, ‘you’re not even eighteen.’
‘But I will be in less than a month.’
‘What difference does that make? You’re still too young.’
‘Exactly. That’s why I need your signature.’ Hugh placed the registration papers on the desk in front of his father. ‘They told me at Anglesea Barracks that as I’m under twenty-one I have to have parental permission.’
Reginald stared down at the papers. His son had reported to the barracks without telling him? And if parental permission had not been required would his son have enlisted without telling him? What the devil was going on? Hugh had always been an obedient boy, obedient and respectful. Such an act of defiance was quite out of character. And his attitude, his composure: it’s thoroughly outrageous, Reginald thought. The boy’s manner was bordering on impertinent.
‘You surely don’t think I’ll sign that,’ he said contemptuously.
‘Yes, Father, I think you will.’ Hugh had known he would meet with opposition, and he was quite prepared to stand his ground. ‘I mean no disrespect, sir, but I will go to war, with or without your permission.’
‘Really?’ Reginald’s tone was frigid. ‘And how would you propose to go about that, pray?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Hugh appeared to give the matter some thought. ‘I could forge your signature, I suppose, but of course you’d find out and put a stop to it. I’d probably run away, sign up under a false name, lie about my age, I really don’t know. But I would find a way, of that I’m certain.’
Reginald felt a sudden stab of fear. The boy’s confidence was unsettling. He tried once again to assert his authority. ‘You would defy me, Hugh. This is what you are saying?’
‘I would prefer not to, Father. I would very much prefer you to sign the papers.’
The confrontation was becoming a clash of wills, and Reginald had the distinct feeling he was losing. I must buy time, he thought, I must reason with the boy.
‘Sit down, Hugh,’ he said.
Hugh sat, and Reginald took a moment to compose himself before he spoke.
‘You seem so very sure of your convictions, my boy,’ he said. ‘I trust you have given the matter serious thought.’
‘Oh I have, Father, I have, believe me.’
‘And yet you have come to such a speedy decision. War was declared only a matter of days ago, why the haste to sign up so soon?’
‘Everyone is signing up, Father,’ Hugh said eagerly, glad now that his father was prepared to be reasonable. ‘Have you not been out in the streets? Have you not been caught up in the fever? The call to arms is everywhere.’
It’s true, Reginald thought. Australia had gone into a patriotic frenzy the moment war had been declared. It seemed to have happened overnight. Everywhere you looked shopfronts and lamp-posts were strung with red, white and blue bunting. Children ran through the streets waving Australian flags, and young men gathered in parks and town squares where brass bands and bugles and pretty girls urged them to enlist. There were queues at post offices, and already recruitment centres were springing up like mushrooms all over the land.
Reginald supposed it was natural that Hugh should become infected by such hysteria. The whole country it appeared was urging its sons on to war. But not my son, he thought. Please, dear God, not my son!
‘You’re so young, Hugh,’ he said, trying to quell a rising sense of panic. ‘I’d rather you didn’t rush into things. Why not wait a while – at least until after Christmas?’ The war will be over by then, he thought.
‘What would be the point?’ Hugh replied. ‘The war will probably be over by then. Besides, nearly everyone signing up seems to be young. At least that’s what it looked like to Wes and Harry and me. The boys queued up at the barracks all seemed to be around our age.’
‘So I take it Wesley and Harold also intend to enlist,’ Reginald said coldly. Of course, he told himself, that’s it. Hugh would never think to sign up on his own. It wasn’t the general patriotic fever that had infected him at all: it was the Balfour brothers. Reginald’s anger started to build. Those boys have been guests under this very roof, he thought, and without a word to me they’ve taken my son up the street to the Anglesea Barracks to enlist, the traitorous young bastards.
‘Oh my word, yes. Wes and Harry can’t wait.’ In his enthusiasm, Hugh hadn’t noticed the steely edge that had once again crept into his father’s voice. ‘We went up to the barracks on Saturday morning before the footie match. We’ve made a pact. We’re going to enlist together so that we’ll be in the same unit.’
‘I see.’ Reginald cursed his own lack of prudence. He should never have allowed Hugh to remain so involved with his cousins following their schooldays. He’d only suffered the connection because of family ties – there was no value in the friendship – and now look at what had happened. It was unforgiveable.
Every weekend for the past two football seasons, Reginald had extended his hospitality to the Balfour brothers. Wesley played for the North Hobart Football Club these days and each Saturday the brothers would come into town for the match, stay overnight and return to Pontville on the Sunday. Sometimes they even came in on a Friday, and Wesley more often than not stayed one night during the week, when he would travel to town for an afternoon’s training session. And this, Reginald thought, is how the young ingrates repay me; by inveigling my son to go to war.
‘So what does Edwin Balfour think of his sons’ plans to enlist?’ he enquired. ‘Or, like me, was he not told of their intention?’
This time Hugh recognised his father’s displeasure. ‘He was told, Father,’ he replied, looking rather shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to be hurtful in going behind your back. It’s just that I knew you would try and stop me, and I needed to convince you of the seriousness of my intent.’
‘Oh I am convinced, Hugh, rest assured I am. So tell me, please do, what was Edwin’s reaction to the news?’
‘He was proud. He gave Wes and Harry his blessing. Uncle Edwin said that whatever happened he was proud that sons of his should be prepared to offer their lives in the service of their King and country.’
The fool of a man had said that! Good God, the stupidity! But then of course Edwin had a third, older son whose wife, Reginald had recently heard, was pregnant. Perhaps the man feels secure in the knowledge that he can safely risk the loss of two sons without at the same time losing his family name, Reginald thought contemptuously. He could have strangled Edwin.
‘Leave the papers with me, Hugh.’ He stifled his anger. ‘You’ve rather taken me by surprise, I must say. Give me twenty-four hours. I shall let you know tomorrow morning whether or not I’ll sign them.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
The moment his son left, Reginald telephoned Amy in Pontville. He was thankful he’d insisted upon having the property connected. Amy herself hadn’t cared whether they had the telephone or not, but he’d told her it was imperative for business purposes.
‘Dear God, Amy,’ he ranted, ‘isn’t there anything you can do? You’re the matriarch; Edwin listens to you. Tell him that under no circumstances must he grant his permission. He must forbid his sons to sign up.’
‘They would enlist anyway,’ Amy replied. ‘They are determined, and nothing will stop them.’
The calmness of her voice down the line infuriated Reginald further. ‘But Edwin’s encouraging them, for God’s sake. The fool’s givin
g them his blessing! He said he’s proud of them, damn him. I mean what sort of idiocy is that?!’
Amy held the receiver an inch or so from her ear as her brother bellowed his rage. ‘He is proud of them, Reginald,’ she said when the tirade was over. ‘There are many who are proud that their sons wish to serve their country. But Edwin is not quite the fool you have always thought him to be,’ she added coolly. ‘He knows he is powerless to prevent his boys from enlisting. If he withheld his permission they would run off and join up anyway, and he will not have them go to war without his blessing. I suggest you follow his example.’
‘You approve?’ Reginald would have ranted on a great deal further, but he was halted in his amazement. ‘You actually approve?’
‘No, Reginald, I do not approve. But then I do not approve of the war. I do not approve of any war. It appears I am out of step with the whole country, for if I had my way there would be no enlistment at all, but as there is I believe that, like Edwin, you have no option but to grant Hugh the permission he seeks and give him your blessing.’
Reginald said nothing. He knew he was defeated. He’d lost the battle a good fifteen minutes earlier, he realised, when he’d seen the resolution in his son’s eyes.
Amy put his fear into words. ‘You might lose your son to this war, Reginald,’ she said. ‘Would you have him die without the comfort, at least, of your love and approval? Or would you risk alienating him and losing him forever regardless of what befalls him on the battlefield? The decision is yours.’
He hung up the receiver, and the following morning he signed the registration papers. He even falsified Hugh’s date of birth by three weeks.
On the fifteenth of August 1914, Hugh Stanford and Wesley and Harold Balfour, members of ‘A’ Company of the 12th Battalion, 3rd Brigade, 1st Australian Imperial Force, reported to Brighton Army Camp roughly fifteen miles north of Hobart, along with hordes of other new recruits, for a rigorous two months’ training.
