The Last Rose of Summer

by Di Morrissey

  She was as patient and friendly as ever. The men all adored her, telling her she was an angel of mercy and better than the lady with the lamp. Her generosity in making Zanana an adjunct to the hospital was appreciated, as was her generosity of spirit. The young woman would sit and talk and listen to stories of their loved ones, their homes, or some humorous anecdote of the war. For despite the horrors they went through, many men confessed it had been the best time of their lives.

  Kate didn’t share her own feelings or speak about herself to anyone. Gladys Butterworth was totally involved in the day-to-day organisation of meals, staff rosters and supervision of the volunteer workers. Wally worked with Sid Johnson, running the farm and helping around the estate. Their busy workload kept both Gladys and Wally from thinking of their lost loved ones too much, and from feeling too alone in the world. Privately at night, each dealt with their loss and grief, but with the coming of a new day they felt needed, appreciated and glad to be helping others.

  Hock Lee, ever sensitive to the moods of his goddaughter, noticed Kate’s bouts of depression and restlessness. One day he suggested they walk to the sunken garden and there they settled themselves on Catherine’s rustic garden seat in the shade of a tree.

  Kate kicked off her shoes, wiggling her toes in her pale silk stockings.

  Hock Lee lifted her hand and studied her palm.

  ‘What do you see?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘Questions,’ replied Hock Lee in a more serious tone.

  ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Kate in surprise.

  ‘Tell me what you’re feeling, Kate, or what your wishes are — if indeed you know. I sense a need in you.’

  She thought for a short while, then sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know what it is exactly. It’s like I wake up in the morning and fragments of a dream fade away and I can’t grasp them before they disappear. I just feel there is something I should know, or something should happen, or I should be doing something, but I just don’t know what.’

  ‘You are like a little bird in a bamboo cage, fluttering against the bars, trying to escape. You long for the door to open and to be free, to spread your wings and soar far away.’

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s the sort of feeling I have. You are a wise old owl, Hock Lee.’

  ‘Kate, my little dove. It might seem cruel but some birds are meant to be in a cage. They sing and sing in their safe small world, but set them free and you send them to their death. They cannot fend for themselves, they are at the mercy of the wild birds.’

  ‘You are telling me Zanana is my cage?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking it is, for it’s your heritage and your future that lies here. Kate, dear girl, what you are longing for, is love. You are dearly loved, and you love us, but there comes a time when the love between a man and a woman is paramount in life.’

  Kate removed her hand from his and shyly twisted both her hands together in her lap. ‘I hadn’t thought about it so . . . frankly. But yes, I suppose you’re right. As you always are, Hock Lee. So what am I to do?’

  ‘Don’t fret about what is to be. Our destiny is already set, so we cannot change it. He will come along when the time is right.’

  ‘I think he already has,’ she said softly, a faint pink glow sweeping over her cheeks.

  Hock Lee smiled. He had some idea to whom his goddaughter was referring, but he said nothing. Instead he stood, brushing a fallen leaf from his dark grey woollen suit, its sedate style relieved by the flamboyant Chinese silk waistcoat.

  Helping Kate to her feet he said, ‘There is another matter for you to consider too, Kate. You will come of age soon and will be formally entitled to your inheritance. You will be the mistress of Zanana and as such will be a very important lady in the community. It could be a burden for you and you must weigh carefully the motives of those who may seek to court you or become part of your life in some way.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘Have no fears, Hock Lee. Mum has been warning me about fortune hunters for months. Besides, I have you and that stuffy board of trustees at my shoulder.’

  He laughed with her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me looking over your shoulder, but the crusty old board and Mr Dashford certainly are watchful. Though I believe you are able to manage them quite well.’

  Their chat relaxed Kate, the restive mood dissipated and she began planning a new project. ‘We need some new and better wheelchairs than the ones we have, so I’m going to organise another fund-raising scheme,’ she announced to Mrs Butterworth.

  ‘What are you planning this time? You’re certainly taking after your mother,’ Gladys chuckled.

  ‘I am? What did she do? I thought she and my father were philanthropists in an abstract sense. You mean my mother went out into the community?’ Kate was curious and looked at her guardian mother expectantly.

  Mrs Butterworth hesitated. The remark had slipped out so easily. She had never talked in detail to Kate about her mother’s involvement with the orphanage for fear of raising the ghost of Mary. ‘She didn’t go out of Zanana. She arranged picnics here for poor children.’

  ‘How lovely of her. Maybe in years to come I’ll do the same.’

  ‘At the moment our hands are full with these soldiers.’ Mrs Butterworth changed the subject briskly. ‘Now, Kate, Mr Dashford is coming over this morning on some business he said, and Ben popped in and says he wants you to see something he’s working on in the garden.’

  ‘What? You know, Ben is very artistic in his quiet way. He’s wonderful with plants and landscaping.’

  ‘He’s good with animals, too,’ added Mrs Butterworth. ‘Anyway, he’s down near the pool.’

  ‘Which Mr Dashford is coming out?’ asked Kate over her shoulder.

  ‘Hector — of course,’ replied Mrs Butterworth with a sly smile.

  ‘Umm. I might see if I can get his help in arranging this benefit concert. You wait and see, it’s going to be wonderful — a Summer Evening Symphony.’

  ‘A what?’

  Kate turned back and explained. ‘The musicians are going to be towed along the river on a floating pontoon to moor off our jetty. It will be all floodlit and the guests — who have paid pounds for the privilege! — will picnic on our lawns along the river bank. Everyone is coming by ferry boat from the city and for the cost of their ticket they get a picnic hamper of food.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs Butterworth. ‘Where do you get these ideas?’ Her astonishment changed to mundane matters. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,’ she said, obliquely indicating her approval.

  ‘Ever the practical one, aren’t you! Where’s your spirit of adventure? Anyway, Ben has promised it won’t rain. He says Sydney is always dry at this time of year.’

  ‘It all sounds very ambitious to me. I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘I know,’ laughed Kate. ‘That’s why it’s going to be fun. And everybody will want to come! All the patients will have special seats and I know they’ll enjoy it. The money we raise will help with more medical equipment and care, and hopefully there will be enough left over to start a fund to help out their families. Without their men working, it’s very difficult for them even with the repatriation pension.’

  ‘Don’t we just know it,’ sighed Mrs Butterworth.

  Kate walked from the house to the garden and saw Wally ahead pushing a squeaking wheelchair. She caught up to him.

  ‘Hello there!’ She leaned over and greeted the soldier whose eyes were swathed in bandages. He held up a hand in blind greeting; Kate took it and gave a friendly squeeze.

  ‘And what are you up to, young lady?’ asked Wally.

  ‘I’m just going to see Ben. How are things with you?’

  ‘Jolly good. Sergeant Hawkins managed a half a dozen steps today, he’ll soon be walking all over the place. And Tom here gets his bandages off tomorrow.’

  ‘Soon be as good as new, eh?’ said Kate.

  ‘I dunno about that, luv. Gas burned me eyes pretty good. But compared to some blokes I’m doin
g all right,’ replied Tom.

  ‘We’re going down to the rose garden. It smells nice there,’ said Wally.

  ‘Well, be good. Don’t you tease those nurses, Wally,’ smiled Kate.

  ‘I might be a good thirty years older than you, Kate, but I haven’t got one foot in the grave yet,’ grinned Wally with a wink.

  Kate wound her way through the gardens to the terraces that led to the lower level of the grounds which ran along the river bank. The huge sandstone swimming pool sparkled in the morning light. Its bathing houses had been freshly painted and a row of kentia palms threw lacy shadows across the freshly cut grass.

  ‘Ben? Are you there?’

  ‘In here, Kate,’ he called from the thicket of natural bush which screened the pool.

  She pushed her way into the tangle of growth. Ben was sitting on a boulder, a sheet of paper spread on the ground before him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Designing your twenty-first birthday present.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kate was quite flabbergasted. Ben had never given her a gift in her life and her birthday was still some time away.

  ‘I wanted to give you something special. I have to tell you as I had to get permission from Hock Lee and Mrs B. I’m building you a grotto.’

  ‘A grotto . . . ? Ben, it sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Here, this is the layout for it. The big challenge isn’t the materials involved or the building of it, for it’s just a clay and limestone mixture which I’ll use to mould the caves. The fun part will be creating the magic in their shapes. Then there are the plants of course. They’ll have to come from the rainforest — ferns, bromeliads, orchids and mosses . . . Wally is arranging for a friend to send some down from up Bangalow way.’ He stopped and smiled at her. ‘What do you think? Here’s my rough sketch. You could paint it far nicer.’

  Kate kneeled in the grass to study the sheet of paper with its detailed drawing. ‘Why, Ben, it’s like a fairy-tale place. It’s lovely.’

  Kate sat back and hugged her knees under her cotton skirt. She looked at Ben in his rough tweed working trousers and collarless shirt, the sleeves rolled tightly above his biceps. His curling brown hair flopped over one eye and his open friendly face had a wholesome ruddy glow from the sunshine.

  ‘What a good person he is,’ thought Kate. Some people might have dismissed Ben as a simple working man, but she had come to realise how much he loved nature and beauty — he seemed to have a gift for creating harmony about him. In his simplicity lay a depth of feeling and caring. In his steady quiet way he was as solid as the rock on which he sat.

  Ben stood and folded the paper. ‘I’m glad you like the idea. It will be a very special place.’

  They laughed softly at their shared secret and he reached out and pulled her to her feet. For a moment their bodies were so close they almost touched and, still holding hands, they stared into each other’s eyes. For a second Ben’s head moved towards Kate’s face, then he let go of her hand and hastily fumbled with the grotto plans.

  Gently Kate took it from him. ‘Let me have that and I’ll do a watercolour of how it will look.’

  ‘An artist’s impression?’

  ‘In this instance, you’re the artist, Ben.’

  The gala summer symphony, planned down to the minutest detail by Kate, was talked about for many months. The event was blessed by a brilliant summer’s day. A seductive Sydney sunset lingered over the river, silver-plating the water then glazing it rose and gold.

  Gaily decorated boats ferried the guests to the jetty. Some were dressed in formal finery, some in the new outrageous flapper fashions, men in flannel slacks and striped blazers. Some women wore large-brimmed hats buried under silk flowers while others sported head-hugging cloches over their new bobbed hairdos. Many men wore jaunty boaters despite the twilight hour.

  Chinese lanterns swung from tree branches and, as the night crept in, electric lights along the river bank came on, casting yellow reflections on the water. Before the concert began, strolling musicians, jugglers and magicians wandered through the picnickers to entertain and amuse them.

  At the appointed moment, as the ball of the sun sank below the horizon, three blasts from a tugboat’s horn announced the start of the musical performance. Proudly, the little tug towed the large pontoon on which a small orchestra sat, its members dressed in black and white. Many grinned selfconsciously, others looked faintly nervous, but all were struck by the beauty of the setting and the size of the audience. The tug anchored quickly and efficiently and the crew settled on deck, their work over for the time being.

  The conductor rose and bowed to the crowd along the river bank, lifted his baton and the first notes of Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Song of India’ came clearly across the water.

  Not a breath of air ruffled the surface of the water, but as night fell, stars studded the velvet sky and the temperature cooled comfortably.

  Kate sat with Hock Lee, Mrs Butterworth, Wally Simpson, and the Dashfords.

  During an interval, Hector leaned towards Kate and whispered, ‘Are there any more of those delectable London buns left?’

  Kate passed him the sticky bun in its square of lacy paper. ‘Thanks for all your help, Hector. I appreciate you arranging the ferries and the advertisements. I think we’ve raised a lot of money.’

  ‘You’ve done all the work, Kate. Quite astounding really.’

  ‘Astounding as an event, or that I, as a mere female, should have arranged it?’ she demanded, arching an eyebrow.

  Hector looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I say, Kate, come for a walk with me, stretch your legs. We have time before the music starts again.’

  Reluctantly, Kate joined Hector as they excused themselves for a brief time. They picked their way between the groups spread along the lawns and soon found a quiet area of the gardens.

  ‘I hope you didn’t take offence at what I said,’ began Hector. ‘I mean . . . I must say, I think you’re quite exceptional.’

  ‘Thank you, Hector.’

  ‘I mean, Kate, not just as an organiser. You are a very attractive woman and I . . . ’ Hector paused, flustered and unsure of what to say next, which was most unlike his usual overconfident manner.

  They were near the shadows of the stand of bamboo which filtered the moonlight into splinters of silver light. Hector took Kate’s hand and drew her closer to the whispering trees where they were unobserved by people close to the river.

  ‘Kate, what I really want to say is . . . I . . . would like you to marry me. Be my wife.’

  Kate jumped, pulling her hand from his, genuinely shocked. ‘Hector! This is such a . . . surprise.’

  ‘Why, Kate? We’ve known each other many years. Since we were small children in fact. It seems appropriate in many ways. You need a man to look after you and Zanana. Someone you can trust. I rather hope I can fill that role.’

  Kate stared at him in confusion, emotions whirling about inside her. She was silent for a few moments, wanting to shout at him, ‘I don’t need looking after. Zanana is my responsibility and I will look after it. But more importantly, what about love? Do you love me, Hector?’ But she remained silent, finally managing to say, ‘I’m sorry, Hector. I couldn’t.’

  Seeing the shock on his face she hastily added, ‘I’m not ready to get married. I am honoured you asked me, but no. Please, don’t consider me.’

  ‘Not consider you! Kate, you are beautiful and I would make you happy. Think of the life we could have together!’

  Kate was thinking just that. A sudden vision of an ageing Hector — like his father — came to mind, and she had to hold back the temptation to shudder or burst into giggles. Marry Hector — what a fate. Poor Hector, his male pride was wounded, so she tried to soften the blow, realising too late she was probably giving him false hope.

  ‘Hector. Don’t take this personally. It’s me . . . I’m not ready to settle down. I can’t explain how I feel, but I do know becoming enga
ged to you, at this moment, would not be the right thing for me to do.’

  ‘Do you . . . could you . . . love me, even a little?’

  ‘Hector, we hardly know each other . . . well, I mean.’

  ‘That’s what engagements are for, Kate.’

  ‘Please, Hector, let’s not talk about it anymore. The music is starting again, we must go back.’ She turned and headed back the way they had come, a disconsolate Hector trudging beside her.

  ‘Good evening, Hector.’

  A young woman stood before them. Kate stared blankly at her vaguely familiar face.

  ‘Oh, hello there. Enjoying the show? This is Miss Maclntyre; Kate, this is Miss O’Hara.’ Hector was polite but distant.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Maclntyre. Actually we have met before.’

  Kate stared intently at the woman, then it came to her. ‘Of course. We met in Mr Dashford’s office.’

  ‘That’s right, I’m Mr Dashford’s assistant — Mr Dashford Senior.’ The girl continued to stare at Kate with a fixed tight smile, sparks in her eyes.

  Hector looked uncomfortable. ‘We must be getting back to our places. Lovely setting, isn’t it?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh yes. Zanana is a lovely place. Very special. Goodbye.’ Miss O’Hara walked past them and Kate watched her curiously.

  ‘She’s attractive and obviously clever. Who is she, Hector?’ Kate was glad of the distraction.

  Hector was short. ‘I don’t know much about her, but my father thinks the world of her — in a professional sense.’

  Kate said nothing but it crossed her mind that there was the perfect girl for Hector. Why couldn’t he propose to her instead? Deep down Kate knew she had something Miss O’Hara did not which appealed very much to Hector. She had Zanana.

  In the following weeks Kate avoided Hector, who called and visited regularly. She explained to Mrs Butterworth why she didn’t want to see him and what had happened.

  ‘I don’t love him at all. In a way, I can see we would be considered a good match. The Dashfords are well-to-do, have the interests of Zanana at heart and have looked after my welfare. But he doesn’t make me happy. And haven’t you always said love is being happy with someone?’