by Judy Nunn
‘You’re a wealthy man, Father, you have servants. You can employ others to take on the burden of care.’
Realising he was running out of options, Reginald decided after all to humble himself. ‘I do recognise now that I was wrong, Hugh. I was so distressed at the time that I wasn’t thinking like a sane person, but I acknowledge now that I made a terrible mistake.’ Dear God, he thought, why is the boy looking at me in that way. Am I supposed to beg? Very well then, he would if he must. ‘I am sorry, Hugh, believe me. I am deeply, deeply sorry. What can I possibly do to make amends?’
‘You can’t.’
Hugh walked off into the drawing room and Reginald was left in a state of emotional turmoil. He was angry. What right did the boy have to stand in judgement upon him? He was also frightened. Had he alienated his son forever?
Rupert was curled up ball-like in the armchair where Evelyn had always sat doing her petit point. Tears were running down his cheeks, but strangely enough he did not appear distressed.
Hugh knelt beside him. ‘Are you all right, Rupert?’
He nodded. ‘Mummy’s in Heaven with the angels.’
‘Yes, I know she is.’
‘God’s looking after her, isn’t He, Hugh?’
There had been some whose faith had helped them through the horrors of war. Hugh’s hadn’t. Hugh’s faith had died on the battlefield. He didn’t have time for God any more.
‘That’s right, God’s looking after her.’ He lied for Rupert’s sake.
They picked Caitie up on the dot of nine o’clock. She was waiting on the corner as she’d promised.
‘My, my,’ she said, looking him up and down as he opened the passenger door for her, ‘very handsome.’ Hugh was out of uniform and in a light sweater and blazer. She climbed into the car. ‘Hello, Rupert,’ she said, ‘you’re looking very handsome too.’
Rupert gave a happy guffaw. ‘Hello, Caitie,’ he said.
The day was clear and sunny and they drove with the rear window down after all; it kept Rupert happy.
‘I presume this means you’re not in the army any more,’ she said indicating the blazer.
‘That’s right. I am now officially a civilian,’ he announced. ‘As of today the army no longer owns me.’
‘I bet they wish they did.’ He looked a query. ‘Captain Hugh Stanford, recipient of the Victoria Cross?’ Caitie smiled. ‘I should imagine they were most reluctant to let you go.’
‘Yes, you’re right. In fact they did everything humanly possible to persuade me I was destined for a brilliant military career.’
He sounds cynical, she thought, which is unlike him. ‘And I take it you weren’t tempted?’
‘Not for one minute. I’m not a natural soldier, Caitie.’ His eyes remained fixed on the road. ‘There are others far braver than I could ever be. There are those born to lead. I am not one of them.’
She could have disagreed. She could have said that the army didn’t award VCs for nothing. But she didn’t. She didn’t say a word, because she knew that although he appeared to be speaking to her his mind was somewhere else entirely.
The road to the Huon was hilly and treacherous, winding its way along the side of Mount Wellington, but the countryside was dramatic and the native forest with its giant timber majestic. Then once in the valley and on the flat, the scenery changed radically. They were now in the lush orchard area where gentle slopes were lined with rows upon rows of trees, the majority of which were laden with fruit: apples for the most part, and pears, here and there cherries and plums.
They reached Huonville, situated on the eastern bank of the Huon River and, crossing the bridge there, they continued southwards along the main road that now ran beside the mighty Huon. Here in the heart of the valley and its townships, they were surrounded by colour. The early settlers had planted deciduous trees as reminders of home, so the landscape was a kaleidoscope of rich reds, deep purples and flashy yellows. Caitie was entranced. She’d never been to the Huon before.
‘Autumn is the best time of the year to be here,’ Hugh said, ‘at least in my opinion.’ He’d accompanied his father on a number of business trips to the Huon. ‘I find it even more impressive than the spring, when the fruit trees are in blossom. That too is a sight. I must bring you back in the spring.’
They’d enjoyed the drive, all three of them, although Caitie had sensed from time to time that Hugh was preoccupied. He seems a little worried, she thought, somehow distracted, or perhaps I’m imagining things.
It was late morning when they arrived in Franklin, and Hugh suggested they stop for tea at the Lady Franklin Hotel, a very popular and very grand two-storey hotel with balconies that looked out over the river. The licensed premises were closed, it being Sunday, but the tea rooms were open.
The streets of Franklin, like the streets of the other towns they’d passed through, were busy even though it was the sabbath. This was the fruit-picking season, and the valley was teeming with itinerant labourers.
They sat on the balcony, and Hugh ordered a pot of tea and scones with jam and cream. It was only when the morning tea had been delivered to their table that he sprang his surprise.
‘Caitie, I have a favour to ask,’ he said quietly, casting a glance at Rupert. His brother was paying no attention anyway, focusing instead on the scone that he was smothering with a thick layer of jam. ‘Would you mind if I left you both here for a while? There’s something I have to do.’
‘Of course I don’t mind, my darling. I shall look after Rupert.’ This was why he’d been distracted during the drive. This was the mysterious duty he’d alluded to on the telephone when he’d asked her not to tell anyone of his arrival. ‘Not even Oscar,’ he’d said, ‘not yet. There’s something I must do before I catch up with the old gang.’ She wondered what it could be.
‘I shouldn’t be too long,’ he said apologetically, ‘a half an hour, perhaps three quarters at the very most . . .’
‘We’ll be perfectly happy here, Hugh.’ She smiled and indicated Rupert, whose face was covered with jam. ‘Take your time.’
‘Thank you, my darling.’ He kissed her on the cheek. Then he stood. ‘I’m leaving you with Caitie for a little while, Rupert. You behave yourself, won’t you?’ Rupert nodded vigorously. ‘And don’t forget to use your napkin.’
*
Hugh’s destination lay less than two miles south.
Charlotte Grove Estate was difficult to miss with its huge packing shed and outbuildings near the main road and its elegant two-storey timber house perched on the hill overlooking the orchard. Hugh turned into the driveway and drove directly up to the main house.
He knocked on the front door. There was no answer and he was about to knock again when it opened. A man whom he judged to be in his early sixties stood there, a man who looked vaguely familiar.
‘Mr Powell?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘My name is Hugh Stanford, sir. I fought in France with your son.’
‘Oh yes, I know who you are, Mr Stanford. I read the newspapers.’
‘I wanted to tell you, sir, that I was with David at the end. I wanted to let you know that he died instantly. He would have felt no pain.’
‘Thank you, my boy, thank you. It will be a great relief for the family to know –’
The man seemed about to go on, but Hugh had more to say. He’d rehearsed his speech over and over in his head. ‘I also wanted to tell you that –’
Surprisingly enough, he was interrupted.
‘However, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.’
Quincy Powell was glad that Hugh Stanford had come to the wrong place, he wouldn’t have missed this moment for quids. ‘It’s not me you’re after, it’s my son Thomas,’ he said and, stepping out onto the verandah, he pointed to the house that was clearly visible in the valley a mile or so away. ‘That’s Thomas’s place,’ he said, ‘the road there leads around past the cherry orchard.’ He offered his hand and they shoo
k. ‘I thank you for coming, Mr Stanford. Your visit will mean the world to my son.’
Quincy stood on the verandah and watched the car as it drove down the road by the cherry orchard.
This time a young girl answered the door. She was dressed in her Sunday best. The family had recently returned from church.
‘Dad’s around the back chopping wood,’ she said when Hugh asked after Thomas Powell. ‘Shall I fetch him or do you want to come through?’ She opened the door wide.
‘No, no, please don’t bother. I’ll find him myself.’
Hugh walked along the side path that led to the rear of the house. A pig was snuffling about under the nearby apple trees. He wondered at first whether it might be Delilah, but no, he thought, it’s too small. Perhaps it was one of Delilah’s offspring.
Beside a trellis of vines, a man was wielding an axe at a chopping block: a wiry, fit man. Hugh waited until he’d split the log before speaking.
‘Mr Powell?’ he said.
The man turned, the sun catching his face, and Hugh might have been looking at David twenty years down the track. Except that David would never grow to be a man in his forties.
‘That’s me,’ Thomas said, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. ‘What can I do for you, young man?’ He couldn’t see the lad properly, but from the cut of his clothes and the sound of his voice he certainly wasn’t a labourer. Thomas presumed he was after work nonetheless – a university student probably. All types turned up for the apple-picking season.
‘‘My name is Hugh Stanford, sir. I fought in France with your son.’ Hugh embarked upon his speech and this time he delivered it in its entirety. ‘I was with David at the end, and I wanted to tell you that he died instantly. He would have felt no pain. I also wanted to tell you that he was the bravest man I ever knew, and that I owe my life to him.’
Thomas, who had remained motionless throughout, put down the axe and stepped out of the glare into the shade of the house. He recognised the face that he’d seen in the newspapers, but Hugh Stanford’s name meant far more to him than that of the war hero they’d all read about.
‘David wrote of you often, Hugh. He told me you were his dearest friend. It’s good to meet you at long last.’ They shook hands. ‘Bless you for coming. My wife and I will be able to rest easier now. We all agonise over how our boys died,’ Thomas said. ‘It keeps us awake at night, every single one of us. You bring the news a grieving parent longs to hear and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
‘I’m glad to be able to offer some comfort, sir.’
‘You certainly have that. Will you come inside and meet my wife? I know Olivia would wish to offer her thanks.’
‘If you don’t mind, Mr Powell, I’d rather leave you to relay the news.’
‘Yes of course.’ Thomas could see that, having fulfilled his duty, the lad felt awkward and was keen to leave. He probably had no wish to talk further about his war experiences, which was understandable. ‘Thank you once again.’
But Hugh had a further task to perform.
‘I have something which I believe rightfully belongs to David, sir, and I urge you please to accept it on his behalf.’ He took a small container from his blazer pocket and handed it to Thomas.
Thomas opened the lid of the velvet-lined presentation case. Inside was the Victoria Cross. He looked at Hugh in dumbfounded amazement. The boy surely did not intend to give away his VC.
Hugh registered Thomas Powell’s disbelief, but he continued with the speech he’d prepared in his head during the drive down to the Huon. ‘David was a born leader, Mr Powell. His bravery was inspirational to all of us, particularly to me. I believe he saved the lives of many through his example, and I know for a certain fact that he saved mine. Please believe me that the medal would be going to its rightful owner.’
‘I’m overwhelmed by your offer, Hugh,’ Thomas said gently. He had no wish to be hurtful. ‘And I thank you for your recognition of my son. But under no circumstances could I possibly accept your VC.’ He closed the presentation case and handed it back, but Hugh refused to take it.
‘No, no, sir, you don’t understand.’ Hugh had not wished to spell out the truth, but he now found himself bound to. ‘In saving my life, David forfeited his own. You would not only be accepting the VC on his behalf, you would be relieving me of the burden it symbolises.’
Thomas’s heart went out to young Hugh Stanford. He could see that the lad was in anguish. ‘You were at war, Hugh,’ he said. ‘Men’s lives were sacrificed every minute of every day. You cannot feel guilty because you lived and David died.’
‘I know, sir, I know, I must learn to live with that and I shall. But please accept the medal. Please, I beg you.’
Thomas made a split-second decision. ‘I shall be honoured to accept the medal on David’s behalf,’ he said, ‘and I shall donate it to the Hobart Museum in both of your names. How would that suit?’
‘That would suit very well, sir. Thank you.’
Soon afterwards, Hugh was back at the Lady Franklin Hotel. He’d been gone exactly thirty-five minutes.
‘Let’s take a little drive along the river,’ he suggested as he joined Caitie and Rupert.
‘Shouldn’t we order some more tea and scones for you?’ Caitie asked. ‘You haven’t eaten anything.’
‘I’m not hungry. Come on.’ He paid the bill and they left.
He drove only a mile or so out of town to a quiet spot by the river away from prying eyes, where he parked the car and climbed out to open the passenger door for Caitie.
‘You wait here, Rupert,’ he said, ‘I want to talk to Caitie.’
‘Can I sit in the driver’s seat?’
‘May I sit in the driver’s seat.’
‘May I sit in the driver’s seat?’
‘Yes, you may.’
They walked twenty yards or so from the car to a large golden ash tree, the brilliance of its leaves reflected in the river’s gently flowing waters.
He kissed her. ‘How soon can we be married?’ he asked.
‘As soon as you wish,’ she said, ‘but your father won’t like it.’
‘Who cares about Father?’ He kissed her again.
During the drive home, Caitie sensed a difference in Hugh. He was no longer preoccupied, the worry had left him; she was glad.
Hugh sensed the difference himself. Perhaps he had put some demons to rest – who could tell? The war would never leave him: it would be there always, a part of who he was. But he was ready now to get on with the rest of his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hugh let the boys know he was back in town and the following week they arranged a reunion in the bar of the Customs House Hotel. Harry drove down from Pontville, and Max and Gordie drove up from the Huon. Hugh and Oscar, of course, just walked down the hill to the dockside.
The boys got drunk that night. It was their intention, indeed – as Max declared – their bounden duty to do so and the Customs House Hotel was only the starting point. They went on a pub crawl after that, ending up in Salamanca Place at one of the illicit back-room bars that stayed open until all hours, singing raucous songs and, in Gordie’s hungover words the next day, making one hell of a night of it.
‘Mademoiselle from Armentières, parlez-vous,’ they yelled at the tops of their voices. They sang the parody version of course, the bawdy one. As the night wore on the songs grew even bawdier.
We’re trying to pretend we’re those same boys who got drunk in Cairo, Hugh thought, looking about at the old gang. But they weren’t and they all knew it: they’d never be the same. Harry in particular was damaged goods.
At the outset of the evening, when they’d raised their glasses in a toast to David and Wes and Norm, Hugh had seen the look in Harry’s eyes, a look that spoke more than sorrow over the loss of his brothers. Harry was still haunted by guilt. Hugh wanted to say ‘You saved my life, mate, surely that balances things out.’ But he didn’t, because it would make no difference. Hugh k
new exactly how Harry felt. His own guilt had been greatly relieved by the absolution he’d received from Thomas Powell, but it didn’t rid him of the image of David copping the bullet that was meant for him.
They were all haunted in their own way, he supposed. You could see it in them, even Oscar, who pretended to have come out of the war unscathed. Hugh looked at him now, flirting with the barmaid. Oscar carries his scars just like the rest of us, he thought, only Oscar’s better at hiding them.
In that very second, as if to prove him right, Oscar turned and their eyes met. He had been watching Hugh in the mirror behind the bar and he knew exactly what Hugh was thinking. They shared a moment of recognition. Then Oscar added an impudent wink by way of sheer bravado, and Hugh laughed out loud.
One thing’s certain, he thought. Scarred as they were, the bond between them was unbreakable and would remain so for the rest of their lives. They were more than mates: they were brothers. He stopped thinking at that point and threw himself into the raucousness of the evening.
Gordie, Max and Harry ended up spending the night at Stanford House. All three were far too drunk to drive. They parted company with Oscar in Salamanca Place, Oscar weaving his way up Kelly steps towards Hampden Road, the others staggering off in the direction of Davey Street.
They were noisy upon their arrival at Stanford House, and Clive Gillespie appeared in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He caught them raiding the larder.
‘Shall I rouse cook, sir?’ he asked. ‘She’d be happy to make you a late supper, I’m sure.’
‘Heavens no, Clive,’ Hugh said, ‘we can look after ourselves. You go back to bed.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Clive retired. He had been almost sure the racket was the arrival of the young master rather than a clumsy burglar, but he had nonetheless arrived on the scene with a revolver concealed beneath the folds of his dressing gown.
The boys devoured a loaf of home-baked bread, a large block of cheese and half a jar of cook’s tomato and onion chutney. Then they wended their way up to the bedrooms, where they passed out.
