Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  The nights were the worst. Although he had never been one for spending much time in the officers’ bar, he found himself dropping in after dinner, ostensibly with the intention of getting to know them all, but really to postpone the moment when his cabin door was closed and he would be alone. Mac seemed to know what was on his mind, but sensibly, forbore to comment. Even if he had, Stephen knew he could not have discussed the heart of the problem, the tormenting fear that Zoe would meet someone else while he was away, someone younger and more interesting, someone who was around for 365 days of the year.

  During the day, he told himself not to be paranoid, that if she loved him she would be there, waiting, when he returned. And if she truly loved him she would always be there. He told himself that it was for her sake that he had refused to impose the burden of his feelings, steering her away from making a commitment to him in return.

  She was young and beautiful and extremely talented; and with such a solitary occupation, she needed a social life. He could not imagine her being alone for very long. He wished, however, that he could be more genuinely sanguine about that. She would never know how much it had cost him to pretend.

  But in the dark hours of the night, he knew it all went back to that old boyfriend of hers, a relationship that had ended only a matter of days before he and Zoe met, and had never really been explained. Off with the old, and on with the new – was that how she operated? While the sun was up, he did not think so, but shut in his cabin, with only books and music for company, he thought of his ex-wife, whom he had trusted completely, and he was no longer so sure of Zoe.

  It was hard to admit, but the progress of Zoe’s life had become more important to him than the questions which brought them together. Almost his only consolation was the fact that she was keen to go on with her research into those letters, and had promised to keep him up to date. On his side, Stephen had the diary, parts of which they had read together; but the writing was so tiny, and on such thin paper, it was hard to grasp the sense of it immediately. They both agreed that a transcript would make things easier.

  Not that he had managed more than a few pages since leaving Teesport. So far his communication with Zoe consisted of a postcard from Spain, which should have been a letter, except that he was hurting too much to pen more than a few innocuous lines. Since then he had wasted innumerable sheets of paper, on which he had expressed, far too eloquently, his love and need of her. He thought the trick might be to forget himself — and Zoe too – by concentrating instead upon that point of mutual interest, the Elliotts. Then he could be as eloquent as he wanted to be, without expressing personal feelings at all.

  But even that had its problems. Halfway through his letter, Stephen found himself thinking of their separate reactions to those cold, brief certificates. The truth, still unproved, seemed more and more obvious: that the father of Louisa’s children was Robert Duncannon, not Edward Elliott. Liam and Robin had been born in Dublin, and, like Tisha, both bore Duncannon as a middle name. At that time, Robert’s regiment had been stationed in Dublin after a two-year sojourn in York. Edward, meanwhile, according to fresh examination of the street directories, was still conducting his business in York. All the pointers were there, even to the fact of Tisha’s subsequent birth at the house on Gillygate. When she was born, Robert was serving in the Sudan; he had even been awarded a medal for bravery at the Battle of Omdurman in 1898. It was not until late the following year that Louisa had married Edward.

  Zoe’s sympathies were all with those two. She had Robert down for a careless seducer, ready to abandon his mistress for some convenient foreign war as soon as he grew tired of her. ‘After all,’ she had said pointedly, ‘they didn’t know much about birth control in those days, did they?’

  Rather guiltily, Stephen had felt obliged to leap to Robert Duncannon’s defence. It struck him that Zoe was making an oblique reference to their own relationship, its parallels deviating only in one respect. As Stephen said, the man was an army officer, and he had his job to do; to which Zoe had countered with the information gleaned from the Public Records Office: that Robert had gone to the Sudan on secondment to the Egyptian Cavalry. His own regiment had stayed in Dublin, and he had rejoined them with the rank of major just in time to earn more medals in South Africa. Presumably, after Louisa was safely married to Edward.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Stephen had said, and he had gone on to point out that Zoe was virtually accusing Louisa of using her cousin as a ticket to security and respectability.

  ‘And if she did,’ came the sharp response, ‘who could blame her? In her circumstances, and with three children under five years old, I might have been tempted to do the same!’

  That heated exchange, in retrospect, was revealing of both their characters. Nevertheless, he sympathized with Robert Duncannon. Feeling as he did about Zoe, recalling the power of that initial attraction, Stephen could understand only too well what the man must have felt for Louisa Elliott. And then there was the other side of the coin, ambition. He knew a lot about that, too, about the love of the job and the drive to succeed. Perhaps Robert Duncannon had suffered a similar duality, unable to give up his army career no matter the depth of his love for Louisa.

  He shook his head, slightly bemused by the power of those long-dead forebears. It seemed incredible that they should have, from the distance of the grave, the ability to intrude to such an extent. As though, once thought of, they began to live again, using the cognizance of their descendants to settle old scores. Or, he thought with startling insight, to resolve problems which had been outstanding for more than seventy years.

  That idea, unwelcome and unnerving, sent a chill up his spine. ‘Come on, Elliott,’ he muttered to himself, ‘don’t be ridiculous.’

  Abandoning the letter, he went to have a beer with Mac.

  The ship’s rare, three-day pause was the chief topic of conversation over dinner in the saloon. In the hot, dry weather much maintenance had been done, to the imbalance of the overtime chart for the month. Hours of sleep and sunbathing had been indulged in; but it was unsettling not knowing where they were bound and for what cargo. It could, quite literally, have been anywhere in the world. Disliking idleness, Stephen was keen to get on with the job; keen also to arrive at a port where mail might be delivered. Already he was wondering whether Zoe would have written, and if so, what.

  An impromptu darts contest enlivened the evening, but with the approach of midnight Stephen left the bar to do his usual rounds before bed. In the dimly-lit chartroom the third Mate was writing up the log-book, while out on the bridge-wing, a watchman was looking for his relief at twelve. It was quiet and calm, the ship hardly moving at all. Satisfied that things were as they should be, Stephen left the darkened wheelhouse for the soft night outside.

  It was warmer in the open air, and with the main engine shut down, very quiet. On an impulse, he climbed a ladder to the topmost deck above the bridge, breathing deeply, looking up at that dazzling array of stars, like a gem-studded net surrounding the earth. In those latitudes, with no other lights to distract the eye, even the tiniest pin-pricks were visible, from the fine dust of the distant nebulas to the glittering beauty of the nearer stars, like diamonds on black velvet. He picked out the constellation of Orion, the hunter, with Sirius, the dog-star, close at his heels. Cassiopeia’s Chair, and the Plough, far to the north. In England it would be nine o’clock, on a clear night just dark enough to see the stars in open countryside; but with the lights of London to contend with...

  He sighed. Did city-dwellers ever notice what was above them?

  On thoughts of Zoe his mind drifted for a while, again, not happily. Below him the watch changed, and all became silent once more. He felt terribly alone, not a new sensation by any means, but it was suddenly acute. Not for the first time, he envied Mac and Irene their twenty years of married life, the trust which was palpable between them. He was aware that the failure of trust lay in himself, and he wished it could be otherwise. From this distan
ce it seemed a trivial thing, especially compared with his daily responsibilities at sea. If he were alone at home, here he was even more so, where the burden of all decisions lay ultimately with him. Master under God, was how one Old Man had signed himself in Stephen’s youth, and the ancient term, valid since the days of the first Elizabeth, had remained forever with him. Never more true than on a night like this, when a man could believe himself the only soul left alive on earth. The stars pressed closer, and it was like looking at the face of eternity.

  Once, he had named half a dozen for Zoe, straight off, and she had been impressed by the knowledge which enabled him to guide a ship across the faceless oceans of the world. But what were half a dozen stars amongst the thousands he could see, the innumerable millions beyond the reach of even the strongest telescope? Infinity, eternity: without some kind of faith a man could go mad just trying to comprehend it. Yet the stars formed their unchanging patterns, the planets moved on their appointed courses, all ordained by a maker whose purpose would always be the profoundest mystery. The only way to retain sanity was to believe in that purpose, even while the ultimate aim remained forever out of sight.

  Was there really such a thing as free will, he wondered; or was everything planned to the last detail? Was he destined to go on like this till death reached out and claimed him; or had he just been given his last remaining chance of happiness, and stupidly, ridiculously, turned it down?

  If so, it was too late for regrets. With one last, long look at that dazzling array of stars, Stephen told himself that the course was set, the voyage, wherever it led, must be made.

  Just before noon the next day a telex message arrived. The ship was to proceed with all speed to the Soviet port of Odessa, for fuel oils. Immediately, Stephen collared the Second Mate, who was just about to go on watch, to ask what charts they had for the Aegean Sea. Particularly for the Dardanelles, that narrow entrance into the Black Sea which had caused such problems for Churchill in the First World War.

  On the bridge they checked the charts together. All the necessary ones were present, but had not been corrected for some time. With a grin at the inches-high stack of Admiralty Notices to Mariners, Stephen remarked that the young man would have his work cut out over the next few days. Reaching for the first of them, the Second Mate agreed.

  ‘I wouldn’t care, sir,’ he added with a sigh, ‘but I’ve just corrected all the ones for North Africa. The Mate was laying me odds that we’d be heading there.’

  ‘Never can tell, in this business.’

  He left him to it, but once the ship was again under way, Stephen returned to discuss courses and distances. He needed to work out an estimated time of arrival for transmitting to the company’s London office and the charterers in Hong Kong. Poring over various charts, noting the position of several islands with familiar names, Stephen suddenly spotted the island of Lemnos. Way to the north, not far from the Dardanelles.

  And there it was, Gelibolu – Gallipoli – the peninsular where the Australians had fought such terrible battles in 1915, and where Liam Elliott had received his first baptism of fire. Stephen felt chill and grim looking at that long neck of land. Every one of those young men must have wondered what on earth they were doing there, when they had joined up to prevent the Kaiser’s forces from overrunning Europe, and ultimately, their own mother country.

  How the hell did you get involved, he silently asked of Liam, feeling with uncanny surety that soldiering was not that young man’s aim and never had been. Had he been caught up in a kind of war fever? Or simply swept along with the rest, a victim of the times in which he found himself? Robin, fully trained by August 1914, would no doubt, in his ignorance, have been excited by the thought of seeing some real action, as many were; while Robert Duncannon must have viewed it all with the caution of a seasoned campaigner. But Liam? Stephen shook his head.

  After dinner that evening he refused Mac’s offer of a drink in the bar, taking himself back to his cabin instead. With only a few days between here and Istanbul, where mail could be posted, it was time to add something to the transcript he had promised Zoe. But first, he thought, he would read a bit more of the diary. Although the year of writing was 1916, Liam had inserted details of important dates in the previous two years. Some were tersely revealing.

  January 13th, for instance. In that little black-bound book, Liam had recoded his arrival at Port Melbourne in 1914. Two days later he stated: ‘Left the ship, walked inland.’

  Eleven

  With no specific plan or destination, Liam worked odd days here and there, listening as he went, following suggestions, weighed down by nothing heavier than the pack on his back and the need to eat at reasonable intervals.

  Taken up as he was with each day’s survival, the journey was too full of interest and incident for him to dwell much upon what had been left behind, and that meandering, six-month voyage across the oceans of the world had set mental as well as physical distance between the unhappy boy and the rapidly maturing young man. Work he did in exchange for a few shillings or a meal, finding the food another pleasure, wholesome and plentiful, unlike the weevil-infested victuals aboard ship, or the strange dishes he had encountered in Greece and Lebanon and the Far East. At the height of the Australian summer it was hot and dry, but the outdoor life was clean and stars made a canopy for his bed. Preferable by far to the cramped and stinking quarters allocated to him in the ship’s fo’c’sle.

  In the tropics water had been rationed, while in foul weather everything was wet. The bosun had been a tyrant, the old hands adept at passing all the worst jobs to the least-experienced deckie, while his peers had found him uncongenial and subsequently left him alone. Liam found himself thankful for quick wits and fingers which had learned to be deft in Edward’s workshop. Ignorant to begin with, he had quickly learned the right ways of coiling a rope, holy-stoning a wooden deck and chipping at rust. Physically, the most difficult task had been learning to handle the ship’s wheel in heavy seas, to keep her on the right course; but he had managed that too, and had a steering certificate to prove it.

  There were no certificates to illustrate the rest of his education. Lessons which taught him to obey orders instantly, without question or complaint and in the worst of conditions; and most important of all, how to stand his ground with men older and more experienced than himself. It was a hard school and there was no escape: a man was confined between ports like a prisoner, forced to tolerate his companions and even form some kind of relationship with them. On occasion, lives might depend on it.

  He had been tempted to jump ship many times between Hull and Hong Kong, and only the whisper of Australia, like a ripple of excitement throughout the ship, stayed him. Even then, Liam did not leave at the first opportunity. Having learned the wisdom of consideration, he ignored Fremantle and Adelaide in favour of Melbourne. Escaping into a well-established city would make him less noticeable as a newcomer, and the State of Victoria was apparently richer, the climate more congenial.

  He spent more than a month on the road, travelling first towards the north-west and Bendigo. In the thickly-forested hills, however, work other than timber-clearing was scarce. He moved east after that, labouring at the odd logging camp as he went, picking his way along tracks through magnificent forests of tall, straight eucalypts, their peculiar fragrance a source of constant pleasure. Shady glens full of tall tree ferns, small, whispering streams, and here and there a log cabin or weather-boarded bungalow with wide verandahs would occasionally surprise him. The inhabitants were usually friendly and unafraid, finding small jobs for him to do or offering food and drink as a gesture of kindness. Although the people considered themselves British and spoke a rough approximation of his mother tongue, Liam was pleased to discover few other parallels. Like the untamed continent they inhabited, there seemed nothing small about the people he encountered. They had open faces and a relaxed way of moving, a confidence which was almost tangible. And in a land of immigrants strangers were accepted and questions
not asked beyond casual enquiries as to where he was headed. Who he was, where he came from, what he had done before, seemed unimportant. No one asked and he never said. In all his time on the road, only the present and immediate future had any importance. The past was irrelevant.

  Out near Yarra Glen, he discovered that he had come in a wide circle around Melbourne, and that if he wanted work of any permanent nature it would have to be on the plains. Unwilling to move closer to the city, he headed south, found work for a few days on a large farm near Lilydale, then crossed a smaller range of hills, where the forests were just as beautiful but surprisingly more populated.

  Before, he had often walked for a full day without seeing another living soul; in these hills and gullies there were cabins and clearings every few miles. There was even a village with a railway station, a pretty little place hemmed in by flowering trees and giant ferns, but after the solitude of the forests, even Fern Tree Gully was too busy. He soon discovered why. From there it was almost possible to see Melbourne, some twenty miles away, and the Dandenong Ranges were the coolest place within easy reach of the city. In a broad arc between, well-watered by creeks which rose in those hills, lay some of the richest farmland in Australia. He heard it was as good for garden produce as it was for grazing; and the railway link between Melbourne and the market town of Dandenong, some ten miles to the south, meant a quick and easy transfer of goods. Everyone he spoke to mentioned Dandenong, and although he was uncertain, a desire to settle for a while, plus a pressing need for money to replace boots and worn-out clothing, made Liam decide to try his luck there. It was big enough to ensure work for a while, and if what he wanted proved elusive, he could always move on.