The Last Rose of Summer

by Di Morrissey

  From the top garden she could see the open paddocks of the farm and the low red brick buildings of the dairy. It all looked lifeless, but suddenly a figure came through the dairy doorway and walked to the rear of the milking shed. Odette hurried down the rise.

  She found a middle-aged man in overalls and gum boots. He was carrying an old fashioned scythe into the overgrown yard. ‘Hello there,’ called Odette.

  The man jumped, turning around in astonishment, shading his eyes, squinting as she came towards him. ‘Who’re you? How’d you get in? You gave me a turn,’ he complained in a querulous voice.

  ‘I’m just visiting . . . I was actually looking for a friend . . . the caretaker and his son . . .’

  ‘They left a couple of years back.’

  ‘Oh. Where did they go? Do you work here now?’

  ‘Dunno anything about them. I’m just paid to come in every couple of weeks and keep some of the grass and weeds down. Bloody losing battle it is too.’

  He fiddled with the scythe and a sharpening stone.

  ‘What’s happening to this place? Who owns it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a clue.’

  ‘Who hired you to work here?’

  ‘Came through some solicitor’s office in town. You’re a bit nosey, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry. I used to come here when I was a little girl. I was friends with the caretaker’s son and I moved away and now I’m back, so I just wondered . . .’

  ‘This place’ll just fall down eventually. Too big for a family these days. Should pull it all down and put up houses that ordinary people could afford.’

  Odette knew it would be pointless disagreeing. Pointless too, trying to explain that Zanana was a part of history and that what remained of its lost beauty and grandeur should be preserved.

  ‘You don’t mind if I have a look around?’

  ‘Nope. But take care.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’ She walked away and wandered through the grounds until she came to the Indian House.

  Leaves blew across the marble steps, the intricate windows were smudged with dust and dried rain splatters. It looked forlorn and empty. Odette tried the door. It was unlatched but momentarily resisted her efforts to open it. Then, with a groan, it gave way and creaked open. She stepped into the gloom. Today there was no happy play of light and shadows in cool dimness. Instead, a mood of melancholy and a musty odour seemed to engulf the little room. There were cobwebs everywhere. Odette stood quietly taking it all in and soon became aware of the faint drift of sandalwood perfume in the air. It stirred memories and emotions. She went to the old four-poster bed and sat on the wooden platform and looked up. The jewelled inlay of the canopy was still intact but filmed by cobwebs.

  She felt immensely sad that the caretaker and his son were no longer here at Zanana. She didn’t quite understand her sense of loss. She and the boy had shared such a brief interlude, yet she felt he had become a special part of her life.

  The sense of tranquillity that she had experienced so long ago in this strange and exotic miniature Indian palace was missing. Now there was something about it that was deeply disturbing.

  Odette was sitting on the edge of the throne-like bed swinging her legs and staring at the patterned marble floor, when she stiffened as a sudden surge of fear swept through her. Without moving, without turning, without actually hearing a definite sound, she knew she was not alone in the room. Her legs swung slowly to a stop, her fingers gripped the edge of the wooden frame of the bed, and she felt the tension make her back rigid. There was a faint noise, but she knew it was not the scraping of a rat or the rustle of a trapped bird. She could simply feel a presence but she could not turn to face the dark corner of the room where she knew it to be.

  With an enormous effort she slid from the bed and took deliberate slow steps towards the door, her body defensive, waiting for some blow or touch from behind her. She reached the carved door and through it could see sunlight and the shrubbery of the garden, but before she reached that world, from behind her came a soft sigh, a moan.

  Odette hesitated in the doorway, her feet feeling like they were glued to the floor. The sound had almost hypnotised her. It was the voice of a woman, so sad, so lost, so pleading. In that soft expulsion of breath was a call for help.

  ‘No!’ Odette broke into a run, bursting through the doorway, stumbling down the steps and across the thick blanket of daisy speckled grass.

  She ran till she reached the path to the boathouse, then stopped to catch her breath. What had frightened her? Had it been her imagination? No. She knew it wasn’t her mind playing tricks. There had been a sound . . . a presence — that of a woman.

  She knew now there was a ghost in the Indian House. Odette was no longer afraid. She knew a woman had reached out to her for help for some reason. But who was she and what did she want?

  Her mind spun in circles as she pulled firmly on the oars of the little boat. But from the confusion came one clear conviction — somehow she must solve the mystery of Zanana, a house filled with memories and surrounded by forgotten roses.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Zanana 1918

  Wally Simpson opened his eyes and saw an angel. Her beautiful face framed in a white halo, smiled serenely at him.

  The blurred image became clearer, and he saw she had flecked blue eyes and slightly uneven white teeth. At the same time he became painfully aware of his own body. It ached and burned with pain. He grimaced and tried to raise his arm, wondering where he was. What was the last thing he remembered? Oh yes, mud and noise and screams and shouts.

  A cool hand touched his face and a calm voice with a familiar accent said softly, ‘Keep still, you’ve been hit rather badly. But you’re going to be all right.’

  He looked again at his angel. Wisps of soft brown hair sprang from beneath the crisp white veil that fell to her back from a small cap. Her starched white uniform went to her ankles over a blue, long sleeved, cuffed blouse buttoned high under the chin. A short red cape was about her shoulders and on a white arm band around her sleeves was emblazoned her badge of honour, care and courage — a simple red cross.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘The field hospital at Almantiers. When you are strong enough you’ll be evacuated back home.’

  ‘You’re Australian? What are you doing so far from home?’

  She gave a small smile. ‘We go where we’re needed. Here, take a sip of water and rest. We’ll talk more later. I’m glad to see you’re awake.’ She lifted a glass to his lips and Wally sipped and fell back on the small bed aware of rough whitewashed walls, a sickly smell of antiseptic and the groans of men in pain. Exhausted, he nodded and lifted his hand towards the young nurse in gratitude. Silently she squeezed his hand and moved away with a starched rustle and squeak of solid shoes.

  The Great War, now won, dwindled to a sad finale. The verve, excitement and optimism with which men had faced that challenge had become pain, sadness, horror and a tired awareness of the ultimate futility of war. But they had beaten an enemy against tough odds, and there was pride in that.

  Gladys Butterworth tried not to feel bitter as she read in the Daily Telegraph of mopping-up operations. Her Harold was lost to her, fallen in an unknown field, but life had to go on.

  The dreary sadness of each day changed when a letter from Wally Simpson arrived at Zanana for Gladys. It was written by a nurse who explained Wally had been wounded.

  . . . bad shrapnel lacerations down the right side of his body make movement difficult and he is still suffering the effects of mustard gas, so I am writing on his behalf as he dictates.

  The letter continued.

  I’m writing, Glad, to ask if I could stay at Zanana —to rest up a bit. I have to keep seeing the Doc for awhile and I must say I’m in no rush to go back to Bangalow. I’m sorry to say Enid passed away several months ago. My missus was never a strong woman as you might recall, and a flu epidemic got the better of her. Coming on the loss of Harold, it dragged me right down a
nd for the first time in my life I didn’t care if I lived or died, to be honest with you. Glad. I don’t want to be a burden in any way, but I just reckon I’ll get on my feet quicker at Zanana than being shoved in some hospital with a bunch of real crook blokes . . .

  Gladys showed the letter to Kate.

  ‘How sad about Mrs Simpson. Of course he must stay with us,’ Kate agreed.

  Watching the spark of energy and interest return to Gladys Butterworth as she began preparations for Wally Simpson’s arrival, Kate began to consider a plan for Zanana.

  Two days later, Gladys hurried to the verandah door where Sid Johnson was wildly banging and calling out.

  ‘Sid, what is it?’

  ‘It’s done with, Gladys. They’ve signed the Armistice. It’s all over. Ben will be coming home.’ His eyes glistened and his face, which had aged considerably in the past eighteen months, was split by a broad smile.

  ‘Thank God, Sid! Quick, get Nettie and bring her up and we’ll have a celebration. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘Why not break out the good sherry and port?’ suggested Kate coming up behind them.

  As Sid hurried through the gardens to fetch his wife, Kate hugged her guardian mother. ‘I know how you must feel, Mum. But we have each other — that’s the main thing.’

  The arrival from Europe of the first men from the Kincaid district was cause for the whole town to celebrate. Hundreds turned out at the railway station to welcome the train that brought them from the wharf in Darling Harbour where the troopship had unloaded its precious cargo of war-torn soldiers. Even those whose sons, fathers, husbands and brothers would not be coming home, came to cheer their comrades. The station was bedecked with red, white and blue streamers and flags, and the Kincaid Municipal Brass Band, sweating in their navy woollen uniforms, played patriotic tunes. The platform and surrounding area was crowded and a great shout went up when a junior porter atop a signal pole a hundred yards down the track waved a flag to indicate that the train was coming.

  There was another great cheer and bursts of applause as, in a cloud of white smoke and with whistle shrieking, the train eased into the station.

  The windows were filled with khaki-clad men waving hats and shouting to friends and family or just for the sheer joy of returning to their home. The welcome-home banners along the platform were lifted high and the band broke into a vigorous rendition of, ‘Hail The Conquering Hero’.

  But the smiles and laughter became subdued as the doors were flung open and the able-bodied men helped their mates from the train. They emerged, bandaged, limping on crutches, leaning on each other, as they had relied on each other throughout a time that had changed them forever. Thin and older, the boys had become men, and all had seen too much. The experience of war had forged a bond between them; a barrier that excluded, now and for the rest of their lives, the men and women who had not shared it with them. So changed had many of these men become that they would not be able to fit into the previous pattern of their lives. Boys who had gone to war fresh-faced and able-bodied, found they now had little to offer the country they’d fought for — no skills, no training, no profession.

  But this moment was joyful. As the train emptied there were cries of delight, embraces, tears and laughter. Soon everyone was hugging and shaking hands with everyone else; young men could kiss strange girls and were willingly kissed in return.

  Kate found herself swept up in a firm embrace and turned to see Hector Dashford smiling at her.

  ‘You came to meet me! Your letters were splendid! Thank you, Kate.’

  She drew back in surprise. ‘I came to meet everyone, Hector. You do look fine in your uniform.’

  He stood back to be admired. ‘Glad to be back, I must say. You heard I got a special citation? Got moved to brigade HQ. Wish it had happened earlier, being at the front is no joke. Oh, I say, I was sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure your family are looking for you, Hector. Welcome home.’ Kate moved away before Hector could continue. She didn’t care for his rather boastful tone.

  She squeezed through the mass of people and spotted Sid and Nettie Johnson anxiously scanning the crowd now that train doors were slamming and the station master was blowing a whistle and shouting, ‘All aboard’.

  ‘No sign of Ben, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘No, Kate. Someone said there are still a lot more to be repatriated. Might be a few more days.’ The man looked crestfallen. Nettie was twisting a lace-edged handkerchief in her hand. She was dressed in her summer outfit, topped by her favourite hat with a dashing feather and wisp of veil. Kate’s heart ached for the kindly couple.

  ‘He’ll be home before you know it. I’m looking forward to seeing him too.’

  Kate rejoined Gladys and Hock Lee. Drawing her godfather to one side, Kate spoke softly to him. Hock Lee leaned forward, straining to hear above the happy noise about them.

  ‘What do you think, Hock Lee? I haven’t considered it all yet, but I thought I’d plant the seed and see what you thought and how I could do it.’

  ‘It is something that needs a great deal of thought, Kate. This isn’t the place to talk about it. I shall come to Zanana in a few days and we’ll discuss it then.’ He hugged her briefly and was swept away, pulled along by the crowd wishing to see the festivities and speeches.

  Kate pondered over the idea that was blooming in her mind. For once she hadn’t discussed it with Gladys, and for the first time she longed to be able to communicate with her real mother. What dreams had Catherine MacIntyre held for Zanana? Kate knew she was no shrinking violet, and, unlike a lot of Victorian ladies, had definite ideas of her own.

  Gladys Butterworth had told her of Catherine’s work for the orphanage and how she had adopted a little girl before her own birth.

  More questions began to creep into Kate’s mind. What had happened to this girl? And why had her father sent her away? Suddenly she had a lot of questions for Hock Lee. Being her father’s closest friend, she felt he would know more than Mrs Butterworth. It was the first time Kate, now a young woman of eighteen, had begun to recognise her responsibility and the role she should play in the future of her family estate. The thought preyed on her mind for several days.

  Confused and saddened, she wandered along the violet walkway of the conservatory filled with African violets and bush orchids collected by Robert and Catherine MacIntyre. It felt like a tunnel, leading her back to the time of Zanana’s birth. She came out into the daylight and with firm steps went past the sunken garden and rose terraces till she was at the Indian House.

  She slowed and, with a feeling of anticipation, slipped her shoes from her feet, shivering at the coolness of the marble floor. Inside it was dim, soft light; the faint perfume of sandalwood floated in the air. She went to the pedestal bed and stretched out looking up at the jewelled stars and little studded mirrors through the lashes of her half-closed eyes.

  Like a coverlet falling over her, a peace settled within her, her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She began to sink slowly into the deep reaches of her inner self and a stillness enveloped her.

  When she opened her eyes, she realised she was smiling and felt content. Stretching, she slipped down from the bed. Not in any hurry now, she made her way back through the gardens. She had a clear plan and knew her mother Catherine would approve.

  When she returned to the house there was much excitement as Wally Simpson had arrived. Hock Lee had brought the wounded man in his Rover from the train station where each day soldiers were returning in twos and threes after being demobbed.

  Kate, like Gladys, was shocked at how frail and aged he looked. One arm was bandaged and in a sling and one leg and hip were still shattered and useless. He leant heavily on a crutch.

  ‘Kate . . . ? Is that you? You look so grown up.’

  Kate embraced him, barely able to speak.

  In a muffled, heartbroken voice Wal spoke to Kate and Gladys of Harold’s death. ‘I thought we’d both make it. I
really did. I was with him. It was quick.’

  ‘Take it easy, Wally. It’s all right.’ Gladys Butterworth patted his shoulder.

  Later that evening after dinner when Sid and Nettie Johnson had joined them, Wally handed Gladys the personal mementoes he’d taken from Harold’s jacket when he’d died. Silently Gladys spread Kate’s watercolour painting of the rose garden, their letters and photographs, and Harold’s unfinished letter on the kitchen table.

  As Kate picked up her watercolour of the rose garden, Wally cleared his throat. ‘It . . . um . . . got a bit messed up in . . . the mud. He really loved that picture. Said it took him home every time he looked at it.’

  Tears dropped from Kate’s eyes. Wally reached out and took her hand and stroked it. ‘Don’t cry, love. By God, I miss him too.’

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Wal. For everything.’

  Gladys slowly lifted Harold’s unfinished letter and read it through. Wiping a hand across her eyes, she gave the letter to Kate. The letter told of Ben’s unselfish dash to drag the wounded soldier from no-man’s-land and Hector’s cowardly behaviour.

  . . . I suppose it was shell shock. I’ve never seen anyone that scared before. He got to the trenches just as Ben got hit getting the other bloke over, and in the confusion, it looked like Hector had brought both of them over. Some officer who came on the scene read it all wrong and while poor young Ben and the fellow he brought in were taken down to the medicos, this officer started congratulating Hector, who didn’t say anything. I went to see that Ben was okay, but I will make sure word goes back just who was the hero . . .

  ‘Harold never did set the record straight,’ explained Wally gently. ‘And young Ben didn’t want any fuss. The bloke he brought in survived and Ben was okay. So that was the end of it as far as he was concerned.’