by Judy Nunn
Caitie couldn’t help but experience a sense of relief when Hugh’s letter finally arrived. The family had by now received two letters from Oscar, and she had started to feel just a little insecure. Could Hugh’s feelings for her possibly have waned? She chastised herself now for such girlish self-doubt, which was indeed out of character. The poor boy had been ill, and who knew, perhaps more severely than he was leading her to believe.
The following Saturday morning, she called around to Stanford House. She had after all promised to visit Rupert, and perhaps, without alarming the family, she might make some discreet enquiries about Hugh’s state of health.
The housekeeper showed her into the smaller front drawing room where Evelyn was sitting with her petit point and Rupert was kneeling on the floor, his eyes riveted upon the coffee table where a half-completed jigsaw puzzle was laid out.
The moment she was announced, he jumped to his feet, bobbing up and down on the spot, waiting until he was allowed to say hello.
‘Ah, Miss O’Callaghan . . .’ Evelyn stood. She was not yet fifty, but looked older, her body frail, her once-rich black hair now quite grey. She put down her petit point and extended her hand. ‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said.
Caitie crossed and shook the woman’s hand, surprised by the warmth of her reception. She had presumed Hugh’s mother would not know who she was. ‘How do you do, Mrs Stanford? I’m a friend of Hugh’s –’
‘Of course you are, my dear. I saw you at the ball, and Hugh has told me all about you.’ Evelyn turned to the housekeeper, who was awaiting instruction. ‘We’ll have some tea, thank you, Iris.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Iris departed, leaving the door ajar.
‘Hugh told me that you might be calling in to see Rupert. How very kind of you.’ At the mention of his name, Rupert’s bobbing became fiercer. ‘Yes, dear,’ Evelyn said, ‘you may say hello now.’
‘Hello.’ Rupert dived forward to grab Caitie’s hand and pump it up and down enthusiastically.
‘Hello, Rupert. You remember me, don’t you? I’m Caitie.’
‘Caitie, yes. Caitie with the beautiful hair.’ He stopped pumping her hand and studied the fiery tresses that framed her face beneath the small straw hat she wore. ‘It’s shorter,’ he said.
‘Yes, I had it trimmed recently.’
‘Oh.’ Rupert appeared critical.
‘Sit down, my dear, please.’ Evelyn gestured to an armchair and Caitie sat. ‘You too, Rupert,’ she said, and Rupert pulled a hardback chair up close to Caitie’s and plonked himself on it. ‘Have you heard from Hugh?’
‘Yes, I have, Mrs Stanford. I received a letter just several days ago. He said in it that he had suffered some illness . . .’ She left the query gently dangling.
‘That’s right. A nasty bout of the measles, followed by influenza, most unpleasant I should think. He’s over it now, I’m glad to report.’
‘That is good to hear indeed.’
Rupert interrupted, even though he knew he shouldn’t have. ‘Hugh sent me a photograph,’ he said and he looked pleadingly at his mother. ‘May I show her?’
‘Yes, you may, dear.’
Rupert took the photograph from his top pocket. It had become his prize possession and was transferred on a regular basis to the pocket of whatever shirt he was wearing. He presented it to Caitie.
‘The camel is called Mahmood,’ he explained, ‘and that’s the Sphinx there.’ He leant in close and pointed out the Sphinx just in case she should miss it.
‘So it is,’ she said. ‘What a lovely photograph.’ Caitie felt rather envious and she resolved there and then that she would demand Hugh send her a photograph of her own. ‘You’re a very lucky young man, Rupert.’
‘Yes.’ Rupert smiled happily and returned the photograph to his top pocket.
The women talked about the surprising news that the battalion’s destination had proved to be Egypt and, after a brief interruption caused by the arrival of the tea, they went on to discuss the mystery of where the troops might be sent after their desert training.
‘The location will no doubt be kept a secret until the very last minute,’ Evelyn said. ‘In fact we probably shan’t learn where they are until they’re actually doing battle.’
‘Yes, I daresay you’re right.’
It was a sobering thought and there was silence but for the tinkle of spoons as the two of them stirred their tea. Rupert, having by now lost interest in the conversation, had taken his biscuit and glass of milk and returned to his jigsaw.
Over the next twenty minutes, they avoided further discussion of the war. They talked about the ball instead, and Caitie helped Rupert with his jigsaw puzzle when he complained about a tricky bit.
‘The sky’s always hard,’ he said, ‘all the bits are blue.’
She knelt beside him. ‘Those two pieces look as if they might fit,’ she suggested, pointing them out – it was a child’s jigsaw puzzle and very simple. He tried them and they did. ‘Oh, and look, Rupert,’ she said, ‘there’s a bit of a cloud in that one.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he jiggled about, excited by the breakthrough, ‘it’s much, much better when you get to the clouds.’ He fitted the pieces together and grinned at her admiringly. Caitie wasn’t just pretty, Caitie was clever.
‘Thank you so much for the tea, Mrs Stanford.’ Ten minutes later, Caitie took her leave.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’ Evelyn stood and started towards the door, Rupert scrambling to his feet and joining her.
‘Oh please don’t see me out,’ Caitie insisted, ‘I can find my own way, really.’
‘Heavens above, no, we insist,’ Evelyn said, ‘don’t we, Rupert?’
‘Yes, we insist.’ Rupert skipped on ahead and opened the drawing-room door for the ladies as he’d been taught to do.
They stepped out into the main hall just as Reginald reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘Well, well,’ he said, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Caitlin O’Callaghan, ‘I was not aware we had a visitor.’
‘This is Miss O’Callaghan, dear,’ Evelyn made the introduction. ‘Miss O’Callaghan is a friend of Hugh’s.’
‘Of course, the young lady he met at the ball.’
‘How do you do, Mr Stanford?’ Hugh’s father seems rather stern, Caitie thought, and there was no offer of a handshake, but then many older men did not shake hands with young women, and those of the stature of Reginald Stanford would probably never dream of doing so. ‘I actually knew Hugh prior to the ball, sir.’ She made the correction politely and pleasantly. ‘Not well indeed, but we had bumped into each other on a number of occasions.’
‘Really? I was not aware of that. And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss O’Callaghan, Hugh as you would know being overseas?’
He doesn’t like me, Caitie thought. In fact he actively dislikes me. Why, she wondered, but she was saved from answering his question as Evelyn leapt in, aware of her husband’s displeasure although unsure of the reason for it.
‘Miss O’Callaghan came to visit Rupert, Reginald. She told Hugh that she would do so. Isn’t that kind?’
‘Most kind, most kind indeed.’ Reginald turned to Rupert. ‘Did you thank Miss O’Callaghan for coming to visit you, Rupert?’
Rupert felt nervous. Father was not happy. Rupert was always nervous when Father was not happy, and he wondered if it was because of something he’d done. He bobbed up and down to Caitie. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Caitie.’
‘The pleasure was mine, Rupert.’
‘Perhaps you would care to see your guest to the door, Rupert?’
‘Yes, Father, yes.’ He scampered ahead and opened the main door.
‘Thank you so much for coming, my dear –’ Evelyn said, and she was about to add ‘do call again’, but Reginald got in first.
‘Yes, thank you, Miss O’Callaghan, most kind.’
Caitie crossed to the door. ‘Goodbye, Rupert,’ she said and she kissed him
on the cheek. She could see he was upset by his father’s displeasure. I won’t call again, she decided.
As Rupert carefully closed the door behind her, Reginald turned to his wife.
‘Don’t encourage the girl,’ he snapped.
‘Why ever not?’ Evelyn was bewildered. ‘She seems most presentable and Hugh’s very fond of her.’
‘She’s from Irish scum. She’s not good enough for him.’ Reginald strode off to the garage where the chauffeur was waiting. He would be late picking up his colleague from the Orient Hotel now, and all because of that wretched girl.
The patriotic fervour that had swept Tasmania soon developed an element of paranoia. Any name that was Germanic in origin came under suspicion and intense scrutiny. The town of Bismarck was ridiculously rechristened Collinsvale, and across the island those of German descent were persecuted for no other reason than the sound and the spelling of their names.
Thomas Powell was unexpectedly confronted by the situation when he went into Franklin to pick up supplies and post a letter to his son David.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Millicent Lansbury who worked behind the counter at the post office. Millicent knew everything that went on in the entire district. ‘I just saw the Schmidts outside the police station,’ he said. ‘Karl was carrying a suitcase and his wife and daughter were crying, and then he farewelled them and went inside like a man under sentence.’
‘Yes, that’d be right,’ Millicent said with a knowing nod.
‘But why, what’s he done?’ Thomas was amazed: Karl Schmidt was the most peaceable man. ‘Is he under arrest or something?’ Impossible, he thought.
‘Sort of, yes.’
‘What for?’
‘The government’s rounding them up,’ Millicent explained patiently. ‘Lists have been sent out to all the townships. Their names are checked and they’re told to report to the local police station, then they’re collected and taken to the internment camp at Dennes Point on Bruny Island.’
‘Who are “they”?’ Thomas remained as confused as ever.
‘Enemy aliens.’
‘Enemy aliens?’ he queried as if she had to be mad.
‘That’s right: Germans. All Germans are enemy aliens.’ He obviously hasn’t heard the term, Millicent thought, but more importantly he didn’t seem to be grasping the general picture. ‘It’s essential they be locked up, Thomas,’ she said firmly, ‘you never know, any one of them could be a spy.’
‘A spy? Karl Schmidt’s an orchardist. He and his family have lived here for twenty years.’
‘Doesn’t make one bit of difference.’ Millicent shook her head decisively, she was a patriot through and through and her views were unshakeable. ‘It wouldn’t even matter if he was born here: he’s still a German. He still has ties with his own country, and you never know where such a man’s loyalties might lie, so it’s best to be on the safe side. The government’s doing the right thing rounding them up. They’re to be locked away for the duration of the war, and that’s just as it should be.’
Thomas didn’t stay to hear any more. He posted his letter, forgot about the supplies he’d intended to pick up, and drove his horse and dray at top speed the ten miles or so to Geeveston, hoping he’d reach the Müllers in time. He wasn’t sure of his intention. Perhaps he’d hide Gus away at the orchard, perhaps he’d hide the whole family away, he really didn’t know. He had no specific plan, just a desperate desire to get to his friend before the summons arrived, as it surely would.
But Thomas was already too late. Gus Müller had been sent home from the timber mill where he worked that very morning. He’d been told to report to the police station that same afternoon, and was currently packing the one suitcase he was allowed to take with him. Or rather his wife Heidi was. Gus was doing his best to buoy up her spirits, while his daughter Jeanie watched sullenly from the sidelines, angered by the injustice being perpetrated upon her father.
‘Don’t take things too hard, Heidi, love,’ Gus said cheerily, ‘it won’t be for that long. The war can’t last forever.’
‘Your heavy coat you will wear,’ Heidi said, ‘your wool sweater also and your scarf.’ She didn’t look at him, but focused upon the suitcase, as she tried desperately to stem the tears that threatened. ‘There is not such room here.’
‘Come on then,’ he enfolded her in his arms, ‘have a good old bawl if you want to, get it out of your system.’ She did, and he stroked her hair comfortingly. ‘Right,’ he said finally as she dried her eyes, ‘now let’s have a nice cup of tea – I don’t have to report in for a good two hours. Whack the kettle on, Jeanie, there’s a good girl, and we’ll have some of your mother’s cherry cake too.’
An hour or so later, there was a knock on the front door and Jeanie opened it to reveal Thomas Powell.
‘Is he still here?’ Thomas asked. ‘They told me at the timber mill that he’d been sent home to pack.’
‘He’s still here,’ Jeanie said, and she led the way through to the kitchen.
‘Thomas,’ Gus rose from the table and embraced his friend, ‘you’re just in time to say goodbye, mate. I’m about to be interned.’ He smiled to lighten the moment. ‘Apparently I’m a threat to the nation.’
‘Do you know what they’re calling him?’ Jeanie said, her blue eyes ablaze with anger. ‘An enemy alien,’ she spat.
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. Don’t go, Gus.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t go,’ Thomas urged. ‘Don’t report to the station, don’t let them take you. Come with me, you can hide out at the orchard, I’ll keep you safe.’
‘Yes Pappa, do,’ Jeanie joined in excitedly. ‘Go with Thomas, that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘And what would happen to you and your mother? You’d be hounded day and night –’
‘Bring the girls with you, that’s even better,’ Thomas said, ‘everyone will think you’ve left town with your family. They might even think you’ve left Tasmania.’
‘And what would happen to you, Thomas?’ Gus shook his head at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. ‘Everyone knows we’re friends, you’d be investigated immediately. They’d find us and you’d be arrested for harbouring an enemy alien –’
‘I don’t care –’
‘I know, I know, you’re always the rebel, but I care, Thomas, I care! Now sit down and let’s talk calmly.’ Thomas sat. Gus sensed his daughter was about to argue further. ‘Fetch some more cake, Jeanie,’ he said, ‘and would you mind, Heidi love?’ He smiled at his wife. ‘Could we have another pot of tea?’
While Heidi made the tea and Jeanie cut fresh slices of cake, the two men talked, Thomas curbing his passion as best he could, but with little success.
‘Let me come with you to the police station, Gus,’ he implored. ‘I can vouch for you. I’ve known you all my life. You were born right here, you’re as Australian as I am –’
‘They’re aware of that, Thomas,’ Gus said patiently, ‘they know me too. We drink at the same bar on a Friday night, our wives shop at the same butchers and greengrocers. It’s going on like this throughout the entire district,’ he said with a shrug. ‘The police are simply doing their job. Some agree with it, some don’t, but it’s a job they’ve been ordered to do.’
‘Then I’ll appeal to the government. There’s no reason for your internment. You were born in this country, your daughter’s engaged to an Australian, your son’s in the Australian Army, what threat could you possibly represent?’
‘My name is Müller. That’s the threat. That’s all they can see.’
Gus’s resignation was getting on Thomas’s nerves. ‘Good God, man,’ he burst out, frustrated, ‘your son is fighting for this bloody country – surely that says something.’
‘It should, but apparently it doesn’t.’ Gus remained unruffled.
‘At least let me put your case to the authorities,’ Thomas insisted, ‘I’ll explain your circumstances, I’ll tell them your son’s in the army and –’
‘No, Thomas, I cannot allow you to do that,’ Gus interrupted with a force that successfully called a halt to his friend’s persistence. ‘It might pose a serious threat to Max. They could discover he enlisted under the name of Miller.’ His expression was whimsical as he leant back in his chair. ‘Ridiculous isn’t it,’ he mused, ‘the difference one little letter makes? Max knew when he filled out the registration form that it was illegal to give false information to the army, but he just thought he was making things easier. I discovered – only today, strangely enough – that it’s now against the law for anyone to anglicise a German name. Did you know that? Someone told me at work. I was quite taken aback, I must say.’
The women rejoined them at the table with the fresh tea and cake.
‘So there’s nothing I can do?’ Thomas asked helplessly.
‘Yes, there is something,’ Gus said. ‘You can drink your tea and eat your cake, and then you can drive me to the police station. I have forbidden the girls to come, and it’ll save me lugging the suitcase.’
Twenty minutes later, Gus made his farewells to his wife and daughter and climbed up into the passenger seat beside Thomas. The horse took off down the street and Heidi and Jeanie stood at the cottage gate waving until the dray had rounded the corner out of sight.
It was barely a five-minute drive to the police station. Thomas pulled up outside and was about to alight.
‘Don’t,’ Gus said, ‘I’ve had enough goodbyes for one day.’ He offered his hand and they shook. ‘Thanks for the lift, mate.’ He climbed down from the dray and took his suitcase from the back. ‘By the way, I don’t want Max to hear about this. It’d make him angry, and he doesn’t need the distraction.’
‘Fair enough, I’ll pass word around the family. Take care of yourself, Gus. I’ll look after your girls for you.’
‘I know you will.’
Thomas watched as Gus Müller, suitcase in hand, walked through the front doors of the police station. It was an image that would remain etched in his mind for years to come.
Mail from the troops continued to arrive home over the following two months, although in early March the men were no longer writing about Egypt. Wes Balfour wrote:
