by Judy Nunn
Hugh’s photograph, taken at Buckingham Palace on the day of his investiture and wearing his VC, made the front pages of newspapers throughout Australia, Hobart’s Mercury in particular. HOBART’S HERO, the headline screamed.
Reginald Stanford was bursting with pride, but he cursed the army. Why the devil hadn’t they given Hugh more notice? Come hell or high water he would have found a way to be at his son’s investiture. In fact when he’d received Hugh’s letter telling him the award would not be presented for a whole six months, he’d contemplated bringing his considerable clout to bear in order to rectify the situation. He’d resisted the urge, however, knowing that his son would be utterly appalled if he interfered. And now the army had changed its mind. They’d sprung the investiture on Hugh with virtually no notice. The fickleness of the military, he thought, damn their hide.
It did not for one moment occur to Reginald that his son may have lied. Hugh never lied. He toyed with the idea of lodging a complaint with his connections in military high places, and he most certainly had connections, but again for Hugh’s sake he decided against it.
Reginald Stanford had lent his full support to the war effort. Or rather, he’d been seen to do so. Patriotic duty, like philanthropy, was essential for a man in his position. He’d even donated an aeroplane – that is, the two thousand pounds necessary for the purchase of an aeroplane. During the early days of the war several barons of Australian industry had led the way in donating aircraft to Britain’s Royal Flying Corps. The Cattle King, Sidney Kidman, had even donated two, which Reginald had found unnecessarily excessive, but he’d quickly followed the trend himself. He would not be left behind in the patriotic stakes, particularly as Henry Jones had donated an aeroplane.
Poor dear Henry had rather cruelled his own pitch though, Reginald thought. Henry’s aeroplane had been delivered to the Royal Flying Corps with the IXL brand painted on both sides. So crude. They’d refused to accept it, of course, until the symbols had been removed. Henry had been quite miffed at the time. Reginald had pretended sympathy, but he’d found the episode amusingly typical. Henry was such a vulgar little man.
And now, in the patriotic stakes, no-one can touch me, Reginald thought as he gazed at Hugh’s picture on the front page of The Mercury. His son had been awarded the highest military honour a soldier could receive. No donation in the world could compare to that. The benefits to be reaped from the VC, for Hugh and also for the family name, were inestimable. All that was needed now was his safe return.
Reginald prayed daily for Hugh’s safety. Hugh was his bloodline, his one and only precious son, who would inherit his life’s work. If Hugh were to die Reginald’s own life would be meaningless.
Upon his return to France, Hugh found that due to the depletion of its numbers at Mouquet Farm the 52nd Battalion had been split up and the troops sent to other battalions as reinforcements. Gordie, Oscar and Harry – and now Hugh himself – had finally been forced to go their separate ways.
The war ground relentlessly on for a further eighteen months. The slaughter continued, fresh recruits were needed, and there was another bid by Australian Prime Minister ‘Billy’ Hughes to bring in conscription. Again a referendum divided the country, and again the NO vote prevailed, but this time with a slightly larger margin.
Then, finally in November 1918, ‘the war to end all wars’ was over. The British claimed victory, but the cost to both sides was staggering. A generation of young men had been wiped out.
Per capita, the Australians had suffered the highest casualty rate of any allied country participating in the conflict. With a male population of less than three million, Australia had lost close to sixty thousand men, and tens of thousands more had been wounded.
Gordie, Oscar, Harry and Hugh were among those who survived, but Harry’s older brother Norm was not. Norman Balfour had been wounded in action on the twenty-eighth of March 1918 during the German spring offensive at Morlancourt. He’d been taken to a casualty clearing station with gunshot wounds to the hip and stomach and had died the following day. Sergeant Norman Donald Balfour was buried at the Doullens Communal Cemetery, France, one month before his thirtieth birthday. He left behind a wife, and their three-year-old son and one-year-old daughter.
Some of the troops were sent home to Australia in October on what was amusingly called ‘1914 leave’. ‘1914 leave’ was granted to those surviving members of the AIF who had enlisted at the outbreak of war. The lads found it a bit of a joke that after fighting non-stop for nearly four years without leave, they should get a few weeks off when it was virtually all over. Word had got around that the war would end the next month anyway.
The survivors of the original 12th Battalion came home in dribs and drabs.
Gordie Powell and Harry Balfour arrived together, stepping off the ship from Sydney onto the docks of Hobart. God, but it was good to be back on home soil.
Gordie had quite a pronounced limp. He’d been wounded several times, although never badly enough to earn a respite in England. Considered a fine soldier by his commanding officer, Gordon Powell had been mentioned in despatches three times and had ended the war as a company sergeant major.
Harold Balfour, considered risky as leadership material even for one so experienced, had not achieved rank, but had been awarded the Military Medal for his action at Mouquet Farm in risking his life to rescue a comrade-in-arms while under heavy enemy fire.
The two were met at the docks by Max Müller, who’d driven up from the Huon to collect Gordie. Max had been home for well over a year now, and he’d insisted upon being delegated the job of chauffeur. He wanted to show off the prosthetic leg he’d been fitted with at the Fort Pitt Military Hospital in Chatham.
The boys’ reunion was hearty and boisterous as hugs were shared all round.
‘Look at that,’ Max said, ‘you wouldn’t even know, would you.’ He strutted about like a stocky bantam rooster. ‘Your limp’s worse than mine, Gordie,’ he said, and he was right.
Harry’s reunion with his father, Edwin, who’d driven down from Pontville to collect him, was a lot less boisterous, but even more fervent.
‘Welcome home, Harry.’ Edwin embraced his youngest son, holding him close, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘It’s good to have you back.’ Edwin Balfour had aged. No longer the ruddy-faced farmer, he was now gaunt and in his eyes was the sorrow of a man who’d lost two sons.
‘It’s good to be back, Dad.’ Neither man needed to say any more.
Oscar was the next to arrive. Oscar O’Callaghan had been awarded the Military Medal for bravery under fire at the Battle of Villers-Bretonneux, and over time had reluctantly accepted the ranks of corporal and then sergeant upon the insistence of his commanding officer. That worthy had indeed been so impressed with Oscar’s skills that he’d suggested he remain in the army after the war and take up a military career. Oscar had given the matter no consideration at all. The army was far too much hard work. And anyway, he had plans.
‘I won’t be staying long,’ he announced to the family shortly after his arrival. ‘I’ll give it six months or so for things to calm down and then I’ll be heading back to France.’
‘Why the devil would you want to do that?’ his father, Col, asked.
‘I met a girl over there.’ Oscar ignored the look shared between his sister and his grandmother. ‘Her father’s rich, landed gentry, you should just see his farm. I’m told he’s a member of the French nobility.’
Eileen gave a contemptuous harrumph. ‘And you think French nobility’s going to be interested in the grandson of a convict, do you?’
She’d successfully halted him mid-stride. ‘Really?’ Oscar was surprised. ‘I didn’t know Grandpa was a convict.’
‘He wasn’t,’ Eileen said shortly, ‘I was.’
‘Oh.’ He appeared to give the matter a moment’s thought. ‘How colourful,’ he said.
‘That’s rather cruelled things for you, hasn’t it?’ Eileen replied with grim satisfact
ion. She was well into her eighties now, and crotchety; she’d decided it was time to leave this world.
‘Not at all, Gran.’ Oscar remained supremely confident. ‘In fact if I chose to tell Yvette, I’m sure she’d find it most interesting.’
‘As would her father, I’ve no doubt.’ In her ill-humour, Eileen found her grandson’s arrogance insufferable. ‘French nobility indeed,’ she scoffed, determined to puncture his ego, ‘you don’t stand a chance, boy.’
‘You never know until you try, Eileen.’ Oscar winked and gave her a roguish grin. ‘You just never know until you try, now, do you.’
She couldn’t help but return a flicker of a smile. He always knew how to win her around. The smile, the way he called her Eileen – dear God, he was Mick all over.
‘You’re a cheeky bugger, Oscar O’Callaghan,’ she said.
‘What about Mary Reilly,’ Caitie demanded.
‘What about Mary Reilly?’
‘You’ll break her heart.’
‘There’s not much I can do about that, regretfully.’
‘She gave you her photograph, Oscar. She’s been writing to you the whole time.’ Caitie felt the need to show a degree of outrage on behalf of the female sex, although she could see she was making little impression. ‘You do at least owe her a visit. Mary’s been waiting for you.’
‘Yes, she has, and that’s sad.’ Oscar wondered briefly whether young Ben from Perth might have survived. And he wondered briefly whether, if he had, young Ben might come looking for Mary Reilly from Hobart. That could be a nice happy ending, he thought.
‘But I’m in love, Caitie,’ he said, putting a hand to his breast. ‘You of all people know what that means. I’m in love and I must go where my own heart leads me.’
The autumn of 1919 brought the last of the old gang home. Hugh Stanford, who had been promoted to the rank of captain, had been at the mercy of the army’s public relations department, which had arranged for as many recipients of the Victoria Cross as possible to attend a series of official functions and publicity events throughout Britain. Then, upon his arrival back in Australia, the rigmarole had repeated itself all over again. Australian VC winners, as many as possible, had been called together for publicity purposes, first in Sydney and then in Melbourne.
By the time he was free to go home, Hugh was so fed up with the frenzy of photographers and reporters that he determined to arrive in Hobart unannounced. He telephoned his father with the date and details of his arrival. He was taking the overnight boat from Melbourne to Launceston on Friday, he said, and would catch the nine o’clock train to Hobart Saturday morning.
‘I shall be at the station to meet you,’ Reginald announced.
‘You won’t bring the Rolls Royce, will you, Father?’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I don’t want the press alerted,’ Hugh said. ‘You will make sure not to tell anyone, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Hugh, mum’s the word. I quite understand.’ Reginald considered it a wasted opportunity. Surely Hugh should arrive home in a blaze of local publicity. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. The photographs from the mainland had been plastered all over the front pages of every newspaper throughout Tasmania, and there would be a wealth of local coverage when Hugh’s return was duly announced to the press.
He chastised himself. Of course it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. Hugh was coming home. Nothing else was of any consequence
‘Oh, my boy, it is so good to hear your voice at long last.’ Reginald could not remember when he had felt such a sense of pure joy.
Hugh rang Caitie at the offices of Kramer, Fox & Hutchinson and informed her also of his arrival, warning her not to tell anyone.
‘Not even Oscar,’ he said, ‘not yet. There’s something I must do before I catch up with the old gang.’
He sounds rather mysterious, she thought. She could understand his wish to avoid the press, but keeping his arrival a secret from his closest friends seemed strange.
‘I promise I shan’t tell a soul,’ she said. ‘As if I would wish to anyway,’ she added in that seductively teasing manner of hers, ‘I want you all to myself.’
Hugh rather wished he hadn’t called his father now, but of course filial respect had demanded that he should.
Reginald pulled up at the train station in his Prince Henry Vauxhall tourer ten minutes before the train was due to arrive. The Model T Ford he’d purchased in order not to appear overly ostentatious during the war years had been a short-lived affair. He’d detested being ‘one of the common herd’. Besides, people must surely realise that, given his position in society, a certain image needed to be maintained. After donating the proceeds of the Ford’s sale to the war effort, he’d purchased the Vauxhall, which, although the vehicle of a wealthy man, was less grandiose than the Rolls Royce that was kept mainly for show. He always employed the services of his chauffeur when driving around the city – he had no wish to be seen crank-starting a vehicle in public – but today was different. Today he did not want the chauffeur’s presence. I’ll have my son all to myself, he thought happily as he climbed out of the car. Besides, Hugh could crank the vehicle.
He took his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. Ten minutes to twelve. Excellent. And he walked through the station and out onto the platform.
She was the first thing he saw. How could one fail to notice the beacon of her hair? She wasn’t even wearing a hat. Damn the girl’s hide, he thought.
Caitie felt someone’s eyes on her and she turned. He was staring at her from barely twenty yards away and made no move to greet her. She crossed to him.
‘Good morning, Mr Stanford.’
‘Miss O’Callaghan.’ He gave a curt nod. ‘I take it we are here for the same purpose.’
‘Of course.’ Refusing to be intimidated, she smiled. ‘You must be so happy to have him home.’
‘I am,’ he said brusquely, ‘very happy indeed,’ and averting his eyes, he looked down the track.
Caitie saw no purpose in attempting to pursue further conversation and they stood side by side, watching for the train in pointed silence.
Once the train had pulled into the station, Hugh was the first person to alight. He’d seen them through the window from some distance away: his father, straight-backed and austere, but also dapper in his perfectly cut suit; and beside him, Caitie, more beautiful than ever. He wondered why Rupert wasn’t with them. Father must have left him at home, he thought, which was probably wise. Rupert would have become overexcited.
‘Father.’ Dumping his kit on the ground, Hugh embraced Reginald first.
‘Welcome home, Hugh.’ Reginald was not given to public demonstrations of affection and would normally have shaken hands by way of welcome, but he found himself returning his son’s embrace with fervour.
Then Hugh turned to Caitie, taking her by the hand, saying nothing, just drinking in the sight of her.
‘Hello,’ she said. He looks so much older, she thought. The boy in him had gone.
‘Hello, Caitie.’
They stood for a moment gazing into one another’s eyes, everything around them disappearing. Then they drifted into each other’s arms.
Reginald watched, appalled. They were kissing in public. It was positively obscene. He backed off several paces and turned away, disassociating himself from them.
A minute or so later Hugh and Caitie joined him.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Hugh said as they stood together hand in hand, ‘we didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘Yes, Mr Stanford, I do beg your pardon.’ Caitie also felt the need to apologise.
‘No matter,’ Reginald said as graciously as possible, determined not to mar his son’s homecoming. ‘War does alter the social code of conduct, does it not?’
‘Yes sir, I believe it does,’ Caitie replied, grateful for his apparent understanding.
‘Come along then.’ He turned and led the way out of the station. War is no e
xcuse for immoral behaviour, he thought. The girl is wanton. The fact might well prove a blessing, however. She’d be easily bedded. Hugh wouldn’t need to marry her: he could keep her as a mistress. Reginald had no objection to that.
‘May I give you a lift home, Miss O’Callaghan?’ he said as they arrived beside the Vauxhall. Loath though he was to make the offer, he was socially obligated to do so.
‘Oh, Caitie must come with us to Stanford House, Father.’ Hugh dived in immediately. ‘I’m not about to let her out of my sight just yet,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll drive her home later. Besides,’ he added, ‘Rupert will want to see her.’
Caitie and Reginald exchanged the flicker of a glance.
‘Very well then.’ Reginald climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition. ‘I shall need you to crank the vehicle, Hugh,’ he said as he adjusted the advance on the steering column.
Hugh opened the rear door for Caitie, who climbed in, and when he’d cranked the car he joined Reginald in the front. He was relieved the station was not busy; the Vauxhall was attracting nearly as much attention as the Rolls Royce. His father’s passion for luxury cars clearly had not deserted him, Hugh thought, amused.
Caitie felt nervous as they drove off, wondering what on earth would happen when Hugh discovered the truth about his brother. She was not only worried for Hugh, she was suddenly also nervous on her own behalf. Perhaps he would hate her for her duplicity.
‘I’m so proud of you, Hugh, so very, very proud.’ Reginald was surprisingly talkative during the drive to Stanford House, perhaps in order to allay any queries about Rupert. He too was feeling a degree of trepidation. Hugh must be informed about his brother in precisely the right manner. He must be told, calmly and quietly, that for Rupert’s own sake there had been no alternative but hospitalisation. In order to do that, Reginald needed complete privacy. The girl was an annoying intrusion.
‘I only wish with all my heart that I could have been at your investiture,’ he said. ‘What a damn shame, the army changing its mind and springing the ceremony on you like that.’
