by Di Morrissey
Mrs Butterworth felt a spasm of fear clutch her heart as she looked at her husband’s expression of envy and admiration.
‘By George, Wally,’ Harold exclaimed. ‘We’ll put on a spread all right. We’ve got plenty of farm food, we’ll kill a few sheep and billet everyone in the buildings about the place.’
Kate exchanged a look with Mrs Butterworth. It sounded exciting. At last they could do something tangible to help the boys going to the front.
The Bush Brigade was still a day’s walk away, and Harold and Wally set out in one of Zanana’s sulkies to meet them. Kate had begged to be allowed to go, but was told it would not be seemly. Sighing, she wished she’d thought to disguise herself as a stablehand like a heroine in one of Henry Wood’s novels.
They heard the singing before they saw the men. ‘It’s a Long Way To Tipperary’ rang through the trees. Harold and Wally joined in lustily, but Harold stopped as they rounded a bend and saw the ragtag army.
The men were formed into a column three abreast, dressed in every kind of garb. Some in their Sunday best suit and hat, others looking as if they had dropped their hoes in the field and joined the ranks as they passed. Through the ranks men carried cloth banners stitched with patriotic fervour by the Red Cross Ladies of Bangalow and Lismore some three hundred miles to the north. Two men at the front — a boy of seventeen and his forty-five-year-old father — marched proudly, bearing between them a dusty Union Jack attached to two rough poles.
‘That’s what we’re fightin’ for, Harold,’ said Wally, and he recited softly,
‘It’s only an old bit of buntin’
It’s only an old coloured rag,
But thousands have died for our freedom,
And fought ’neath the fold of this flag.’
Wally was hailed by the bugle boy on his bicycle. ‘You lined up something, Wal? Or is that a new recruit?’
‘It’s me mate Harry. He’ll do us proud tomorrow, wait and see.’
Bringing up the rear was a T-model Ford driven by an elderly farmer who had volunteered his vehicle and services as driver. He acted as advance man with Wally, ambulance if needed, and message courier. Several wagonettes and two sulkies transported the rest of their gear which had been donated along the way. Each man carried his own haversack and blanket on his back.
A halt was called for a smoko and as cool water and tinned cake were passed around, Harold heard the story of the Bush Brigade — a handful of men that had swelled to these impressive ranks. Some had joined at recruiting rallies in towns along the way and others had walked from farms and shearing sheds to fall in beside these strangers who would become their lifelong mates. In the months ahead, they would give their lives for each other and their country, and become part of the Anzac legend.
Harold heard of the extraordinary welcome they had been given by grateful townspeople along the way. Meals and billeting and small necessities were freely given; women gave them hand-knitted socks, small cakes and sweets. A publican had donated new boots to every footsore man, and a kindly lady had quietly given each man a one-pound note, using up her life’s savings — she was a widow and had lost her two sons at Gallipoli; this was her bit for the war effort and the brave boys following. And everywhere there were children. They sang for them at rallies, young boys marched distances alongside the Bush Brigade, and sweet girls pushed roses into the men’s buttonholes.
A rally to send the Bush Brigade on its way to Sydney was being planned in Kincaid. The Brigade would spend the coming evening under the stars, but they needed somewhere to spend the following night. Knowing Kate would be only too pleased to help this brave band of men, Harold readily offered to feed and billet them at Zanana.
Wally and Harold returned in haste to alert Mrs Butterworth. Sid and Nettie Johnson helped with preparations and Ben was dispatched to the village to round up extra hands. Hock Lee was called and promised to help out with food and extra chairs, tables and utensils from the Tea Rooms.
Zanana hadn’t seen so much activity in years. Mrs Butterworth and several of the local ladies brought out salted hams, fresh vegetables, home-baked breads, cakes and puddings. Several sheep had been slaughtered ready to roast on the open fire. Local townsfolk streamed into Zanana bringing what they could — from blankets and ‘travelling tucker’ to tobacco and tarpaulins — to donate to the marchers. Kate organised a group of children into helping her paint bright posters and banners. With Ben Johnson’s help, she strung bunting and flags across the drive and entrance gates.
It was sunset when the Bush Brigade swung off the dusty road and through the grand gates of Zanana. They’d slept in town halls, railway yards and woolsheds, on farms, by a river and once in a near empty hospital. But Zanana was the place they would all remember best.
The men had marched on determinedly since daybreak, but weariness was taking its toll on some. Feet were beginning to get heavy and, apart from the sheer distance travelled since they left Bangalow, the men had had to deal with heat, smoke and drifting ash from bushfires, swarms of bush flies which settled in the corners of their eyes and mouths, and a constant cloud of dust.
Everyone helping out at Zanana lined the driveway to cheer and clap the volunteers as they proudly marched past. The men were well drilled and organised, and soon settled into groups. They took it in turn to refresh themselves in the huge swimming pool, while those who couldn’t wait simply jumped stark naked into the river from Zanana’s jetty.
Spruced up and in jolly spirits, they settled themselves at the tables about the lamplit lawns to tuck into the welcome feast.
Sid Johnson threw piles of lamb chops and good-sized steaks onto the men’s plates.
‘Ah, good red meat!’ one young recruit commented. ‘Kind as the ladyfolk are along the way, cakes are not good marching tucker!’
After the meal, the group’s captain rose and briefly thanked everyone for their hospitality and the men broke into lusty song. Soon everyone was singing along.
Kate mingled amongst the merry groups carrying a tray of sweets. Many of the young men, some only two or three years older than her, made her promise to write to them at the front. Later, in her room, she stood in her long white cotton and lace nightgown staring down into the moonlit gardens. The men were in beds in the cottages, in rows of camp stretchers along the verandah, and in tents and under tarpaulin shelters in the grounds. It was a balmy bright night, and she wondered what terrors and dangers these men would face in the coming months. For the moment it all seemed a noble adventure and she envied the boys amongst them. She knew many women and girls were serving as nurses and aides, but at fifteen and in her position, she knew such adventuring was not for her. She said a brief prayer for the safety of the men resting peacefully this night at Zanana, and slid into bed.
The next morning Kate was up at dawn and while the men of the Bush Brigade were only just beginning to stir, she dressed quickly in a long skirt and demure sailor blouse and went for an early morning walk through the far gardens. Kate was surprised to find Ben Johnson in her mother’s rose garden, cutting all the rosebuds and carefully laying them in the wheelbarrow.
‘What are you doing with the roses, Ben?’
‘Taking them into town for the big parade and rally today. I’ve been roped into helping with the decorations for the parade.’
Kate laughed. ‘It won’t be only tying ribbons and flowers about the place. You can work with me putting up some banners. We’ll need a small ladder, and hammer and nails. Oh, and string probably.’
Ben looked pleased. ‘I’ll bring everything. You just tell me what has to be done and I’ll do it.’
But when Mrs Butterworth found them in town, both were atop small ladders each holding one end of a large satin streamer. They had spent two hours tacking patriotic banners and posters on poles and shops along the main street. They’d worked out a good system and were enjoying each other’s company. Kate waved to Mrs Butterworth, pointing to the nails in her mouth.
‘Don�
�t you swallow any of those, Kate. And be careful. We’ll meet you in the park by the pond for a cool drink and a sandwich. You, too, Ben.’
‘Right-o, Mrs B. Don’t worry, we’ll be right.’
She smiled at the pair of them and knew Kate would be safe in Ben’s company. Mrs Butterworth hurried away to meet the ladies of the Red Cross who had set up tables and chairs in the town hall to serve tea and biscuits.
By late morning crowds were lining the main street. They’d come from all over the district and there was a feeling of great excitement and festivity in the air. Kate, along with Mrs Butterworth and Nettie Johnson, squeezed into a spot in the shade of the awning outside the bakery in the main street.
‘This will give us a good view. See, there’s the platform they’ve put up for all the speeches,’ said Mrs Butterworth.
‘Where are the men? I haven’t seen Sid or Ben for hours,’ said Nettie Johnson. ‘Or your Harold either, Gladys.’
‘I was helping Ben with the banners earlier, Mrs Johnson. Then we had morning tea and he went to find his father. They’re about somewhere,’ replied Kate, craning her neck to peer down the street. ‘I’ve never seen so many people. Everyone has certainly got into the spirit of it.’
Suddenly the shout came down through the crowd lining the street. ‘They’re coming!’
The Kincaid Pipe Band proudly led the Bush Brigade and, at the stirring sound of the bagpipes, the throngs of well-wishers began cheering.
Refreshed and moved by the hearty welcome, the men jauntily stepped out, acknowledging the cheers from children freed from school for the occasion, who waved a forest of red, white and blue flags. What these men were about to face, whether or not they would return, did not concern them now. This was to be the adventure of a lifetime in the cause of loyalty and duty.
Near the centre of the main street they passed under a huge arch, smothered in Zanana’s roses, held aloft by returned soldiers wounded in Gallipoli and the Dardanelles campaign. By now the cheering was deafening, and the men raised their voices and sang as they marched. Reaching the stage, they halted smartly.
The mayor, the captain of the Bush Brigade, and ‘the fighting parson’ who’d joined up and become spokesman for the men, mounted the little stage.
There, the mayor wished the men well, a safe journey home again, and said that they took with them the heartfelt thanks and wishes of the town and all the country. The captain, who disliked public speaking, thanked everyone at Zanana and the town for their kindness and hospitality and said these were the times they would all recall when ‘over there and under attack’.
Then it was the turn of the fighting parson. A stocky ruddy-faced man, a farmer who had turned to God, he was not above using his fists to settle a debate or quell an argument in his parish. He’d earned his nickname when a troublemaker had started a brawl; when the parson tried to settle matters peacefully, he was called an ‘interfering Bible-basher’, whereupon the parson had remarked he was a bit of a basher and promptly floored the man with a left hook.
As well as being handy with his fists, he was a fine orator and he now gave a ringing speech in the hope of recruiting more men to fight for King and country. He spoke of the dastardly deeds of the Huns and the threat to the Empire, calling upon the sons of the Empire to heed the call and ‘Come, come, come!’ Dramatically he pulled off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, crying, ‘It’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to work, I’m willing, are you?’ Here he pointed at the crowd who all burst into applause and cheers. He then gently appealed to the womenfolk to stand aside and let their men go, ‘For the sake of our children, our country, our freedom’.
He lowered his arms and signalled to the assembled Bush Brigade volunteers who began singing, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. A hush fell over the crowd, then they too joined in, tears unashamedly shining on many a cheek.
At the conclusion of the hymn, several men in the crowd stepped forward and fell in beside the ranks of the Bush Brigade. They were slapped heartily on the back, and others called out, ‘There’s room for more!’ To the cheers of the crowd the men moved down the street to the Oddfellows Hall, where recruits would be signed up after passing a cursory medical examination.
The men and boys filed past where Kate, Gladys and Nettie stood applauding. Gladys suddenly gasped. Marching firmly, chins up, shoulders back, arms swinging and in perfect step, came Harold Butterworth and Sid Johnson.
Kate cheered and waved, ‘Don’t they look splendid!’ Then the realisation of why they were there hit her. She turned to their two wives. Both were standing stock-still, their faces shocked and sad. Mrs Butterworth was biting her lip and Nettie Johnson was shaking her head.
‘The darn old fools,’ sighed Mrs Butterworth.
The two women linked arms and, trailed by a worried Kate, pushed their way through the dispersing crowd.
By the time the Bush Brigade had marched on from Kincaid, Harold had been accepted and told to join the marchers in Sydney in two weeks. Sid Johnson had been rejected on medical grounds, despite, like Harold, knocking five years off his age. Charles Dashford’s son, Hector, had also signed up and left straight away with the marchers. By the time they reached Sydney the diverse group of strangers would be a brotherhood, united by a patriotic and emotional bond that would never be broken or forgotten.
Little was said over dinner at Zanana that evening. When Kate carried the dishes from the table to where Mrs Butterworth was washing up with fierce energy, she saw the tears running down her face. She put the dishes on the draining board and dropped an arm about her shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. Maybe Hock Lee can talk him out of it.’
Too late for that, Kate. No, it’s done now.’
Later that night Harold reached for his wife in the sagging depths of their marital bed, holding onto her comforting folds of plump flesh swathed in a voluminous and modest nightgown.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Harold?’ Gladys sighed.
‘I have to do it, luv. Couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go and do me bit. I’m worried about leaving you and Kate to manage here, though poor old Sid will be about. He was pretty broken up they didn’t take him. But Hock Lee has promised to keep an eye on you and send over some workers when you need them.’
Mrs Butterworth laid her cheek on her husband’s shoulder. ‘We’ll manage, pet. But I’m going to worry about you the whole time.’
‘I’ll be right, luv. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Mrs Butterworth didn’t answer and a shiver ran through her. Shyly Harold Butterworth began pulling up the folds of the ample nightgown to comfort his wife in the only way he knew how.
There were no more words to be said.
CHAPTER TEN
Amberville 1959
St Johns church hall was overflowing with people. When the local branch of the Red Cross held any event it seemed the whole town felt obliged to turn out.
Trestle tables were set around the hall, smothered in a variety of goods from homemade cakes, jams and chutneys, to boxes filled with seedlings, potted plants and just-picked vegetables. There were mounds of knitted baby layettes, blankets and booties, covered coat hangers, patchwork quilts, tea cosies in the shape of koalas and chickens — all evidence of the craft skills of the ladies of the parish.
From barns, garages, attics, cellars, backyard sheds and the back of kitchen cupboards came a mass of bric-a-brac. Some items were prominently displayed if considered highly saleable, others simply thrown in boxes to be picked over by dedicated bargain hunters.
At the far end of the hall cups of tea, and biscuits, scones and cakes were being sold, providing an assembly point for everyone to exchange news on the fete and each other. The hierarchy of the ladies’ committee were about the hall, supervising, making price adjustments and cajoling friends to buy or donate to their worthy cause.
Odette and Horrie were there to cover this giant fund raiser for the Clari
on. Since her spread on the gypsies, Odette was now given stories to do on a regular basis, though Mr Fitz went through them with a busy blue pencil and commented with a tart tongue.
Odette was jotting down the snippets of conversation between the ladies, which ranged from complimentary to derisive gossip of an alarming acerbity. Odette knew she could weave it into an amusing story. She spotted Aunt Harriet bearing down on her once more, probably to insist that she take a photograph of yet another group of ladies. For a change she was revelling in Odette being with the paper.
Odette slipped to one side, avoiding Harriet’s beady eyes. She had begun looking through items stacked in boxes on the floor, when one small carton marked sundries caught her eye. There were the ballerina figurine of her mother’s . . . the glass powder bowl . . . doilies, and tea cosies. All Odette’s most treasured mementoes of her parents! She snatched the box up in shock and anger.
A lady standing beside her, smiled. ‘You taking the lot are you, love? I was going to have another delve.’
Odette could scarcely speak for the fury welling inside her. ‘These are mine! They are not for sale!’
‘Why, Odette, those old things, surely you don’t want them,’ tinkled Aunt Harriet coming up behind them.
‘These are mine. My private, personal, special things. How dare you take them. Without even asking me!’ gasped Odette.
Aunt Harriet smiled uncomfortably, glancing with raised eyebrows at the lady standing beside them watching and listening with frank interest.
Odette ignored her. ‘You had no right, Aunt Harriet. These were my mother’s.’
‘Goodness me, Odette, there’s no need to go on so. It was a mistake.’ She took Odette’s elbow, moving her away from the lady.
‘How could it be a mistake, Aunt Harriet, they were in a closed box under my bed.’
Aunt Harriet dropped the smile. ‘I was cleaning up. I was looking for things for this fete, how was I to know? It looked like old junk to me.’
