Carl progresses through various stages of mystical enlightenment. He learns about the secret Sign of Horror and the Sign of Sympathy, the Sign of Joy and Exultation, the Sign of Grief and of Distress. He seems content with that.
FIFTY-ONE
In his correspondence with my father, Very Worshipful Brother McGregor sets out Carl’s steady elevation; the passing to Second degree, Fellow Craft, and Third degree, Master Mason (Certificate No. 41612). Then he makes a note of Brother Norman’s death, and his request for a masonic funeral. It is all there, written in McGregor’s careful hand, on two single sheets of plain, lined paper.
Two notices are published in The Sydney Morning Herald on 31 August 1938. The first, placed by the undertaker W. Carter, advises relatives and friends that the interment of William Norman will occur at Botany Cemetery at 3.00 pm. The second, paid for by the Paddington Ionic Lodge No. 181, invites all Worshipful Brothers to attend. It refers to the late Brother Norman as ‘esteemed’ and advises ‘Regalia at graveside’.
Carl has passed away just two days previously. According to Brother McGregor, he ‘Died suddenly from Heart Attack’. It is not, then, a particularly dramatic end. As these things go, it is prosaic.
But what passed through Carl’s mind during those final, painful moments? Despite all he had done to soothe his troubled soul, did he still see the blood-soaked trenches that used to torment him so, the young men lying cold and still, the mutilation? Was he there, with them?
It may be that Carl’s end was more benign. Surrounded by that (much-reported) tunnel of transcendent white light, perhaps instead he glimpsed Princess Charlotte, ready to embrace him on the other side. If so, many other old friends and admirers were waiting, too: that fine physicist, Sir Oliver Lodge, was surely among this heavenly troop, delighted to be sharing the celestial ether with his old colleague Signor Marconi and the Honour able Beatrice, his first wife. It is likely that, to pass the time, the Empress Eugenie was quizzing Banjo Paterson on the subject of the Boers and that the Duchess of Rutland was discussing literature with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Although among the actresses and artists, duchesses and dukes, it is possible there were also a few who spent their lives engaged in vaguely criminal pursuits, in all it would have been a celebrated pantheon of the great and the good.
Dead then, and at only sixty-two: not very old. But, as Rosetta and Lilian agree, the man they knew lived more than one life during his allotted span. A tinsmith, fortune teller and seer, magician, Professor of Medicine, concocter of both medicines and spells, an illusionist and, finally, Artist and Master Mason. The women agree, it is a rare achievement.
That he has also been a husband, lover, companion and dear friend is not overlooked by them, nor in all honesty is the fact that, as Rosetta observes with a wry chuckle, ‘He was, of course, a supreme charlatan.’
She and Lilian share a knowing look and laughter, the kind of strained merriment that turns into tears soon afterwards.
Grief assails the two women with a sharp intensity. Though Carl has not been well for some time, they find that anticipation of death is quite different to the fact of it. The official paperwork cites ‘mitral regurgitation’ and ‘myocardial degeneration’ as the cause; it is too brief, too clinical a description for the months of laboured breathing, the stabbing chest pains and fatigue. It does not capture the draining worry of the women who ministered to him throughout his illness, or what it was like to know that, no matter what they said or did, Carl was slipping away from them.
The graveside funeral is ‘attended by [a] number of Brethren’, reports Brother McGregor. Dressed in dark suits and black hats, white shirts and sober ties, the men also wear masonic aprons, black crepe bands above their left elbows and sprigs of acacia in their lapels. They remain huddled together in silent communion, a little apart from my great-grandmother’s family and friends.
Beneath her flattering black-veiled hat, Rosetta is unusually composed; she does not weep. ‘It is because I can’t believe it, can’t believe he’s lying in that casket,’ she confides in her sister Florence. ‘I feel at any moment someone will tell me it is one of his illusions, that I will go home and there he’ll be.’
It seems all too real to Lilian: she sheds silent, steady tears.
Lilian’s estranged husband, Hercules Arthur Pakenham, CMG, Retired Colonel of Langford Lodge, Crumlin, County Antrim, Ireland, has died only a year earlier. Other than the fact that in 1895 he married a Miss Ashley in the Guard’s Chapel, Hanover Square, his lengthy obituary in the Belfast Telegraph of 30 March 1937 has made no mention of her. The newspaper focused on Colonel Pakenham’s political career, his stellar war record and illustrious relations. As far as his married life was concerned, the paper chose, discreetly, not to comment.
Lilian’s reaction to the news of her husband’s demise had been one of slight sentiment. She felt only a nebulous sadness, as if she had been informed of the death of someone who had once been married to a friend.
It is very different now that Carl has passed away. Sometimes she thinks that without Rosetta’s force of will she will go mad with grief. Lilian is not well. She fears her life, too, may be coming to an end.
The Worshipful Master initiates proceedings by stepping forward and announcing, ‘We have assembled in the character of Masons to offer a tribute of affection to the memory of our Brother; thereby demonstrating the sincerity of our esteem for him and our steady attachment to the principles of our Order.’
He then deposits Carl’s white lambskin apron, ‘an emblem of innocence’, into his grave. ‘This reminds us of the universal dominion of death,’ the Master explains.
‘The arm of friendship cannot interpose to prevent its coming; the wealth of the world cannot purchase our release; nor will the innocence of youth, or the charms of beauty propitiate its purpose.’
Next he takes the acacia sprig from his coat and holds it in his hand. He says it is ‘the emblem of our faith in the immortality of the soul’.
‘This plant is evergreen,’ he declaims with quiet dignity. ‘It symbolises dear Brother Norman’s spiritual essence which, through our belief in the mercy of God, we confidently hope will continue to bloom in eternal spring.’
Rosetta thinks that perhaps it is the words, the theatre of it all, that make it so difficult to take in. ‘This talk of spiritual essence and blooming in eternal spring,’ she turns once more to Florence, ‘it sounds so much like one of dear Carl’s tricks.’
There is a brief pause before the Master carefully places his sprig of golden wattle into the grave. As he does, he solemnly intones, ‘Alas, my Brother!’
The brethren follow in the footsteps of their Master. One by one every mason steps forward, deposits his own small stem of evergreen and utters the same refrain.
Only then does her beloved husband’s death become real to Rosetta. Only when these three poignant words are spoken does she feel a wave of desolation.
‘Alas, my Brother!’ each man says, before he turns away.
Carl’s grave is not difficult to find. Headed ‘William Louis Norman’, constructed of red granite and flanked by decorative crosses, it is in the Anglican division, Section CC of Botany Cemetery. ‘In loving memory’ has been carved on the tombstone and, beneath that, ‘Never forgotten’. More interesting is the placement given to an engraving of the masonic square and compasses; it surmounts everything.
Seeking illumination, I consult Mackey’s Revised Encyclopedia of Freemasonry, Volume 2. There I learn that the square was used by medieval builders to verify that each building block of stone possessed a right angle that was straight and true. Integrity, balance and stability, firmness and resolve; these are the elements that masons say are essential to the formation of both sound structures and honest lives.
Compasses are used to create perfect circles, symbols of heaven and the immortal soul. Hence, this device invokes the boundaries that must be imposed in order that man’s base desires are circumscribed and his carnal appetites curbe
d.
This restraint does not sound like something that Zeno the Magnificent would have been likely to adopt. It is a different question as to whether Brother Norman did, or not.
In his will William (Carl) Norman is described as ‘Artist’. The statement is accurate, even if it leaves the impression that his talents were confined to the production of drawings and paintings. In fact, his artistry encompassed so much more than this; a master of invention, in truth it was his own life that was his greatest, most singular creation.
Carl left everything he had, ‘all my property both real and personal whatsoever and wheresoever situate’, to Rosetta. There is no mention of Lilian. He must have known that Rosetta would care for her until the end.
FIFTY-TWO
SEPTEMBER 1939
The women wait for news. They talk, though in a desultory fashion. At seven o’clock the two eat toast and boiled eggs. They are not hungry; the small tasks associated with the meal’s preparation are a way to fill the time.
Lilian, now sixty-three, lives in Tara, a private hotel in Dudley Street near Coogee Beach. Her sitting room has pale-blue wallpaper and long windows that overlook the ocean. Lilian’s health continues to deteriorate; she is too fragile to venture out. Alarmed, Rosetta sees the mauve-coloured shadows beneath her dear friend’s eyes, hears the way that something in her throat seems to catch each time she inhales.
From time to time both women glance in the direction of the mantelpiece at the ticking clock. They wait, nervous and on edge, for an ultimatum to expire.
Far away in Europe and Great Britain events are taking place of awful consequence. Germany has annexed Austria. The Czechoslovakian territory of Sudeten has been seized. Yet, last October, the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain had been so confident of the German Chancellor’s probity that when Hitler promised there would be no more incursions he gleefully announced that ‘peace in our time’ had been achieved. In Australia, Prime Minister Joe Lyons was of the same mind. ‘War has been averted,’ he informed the nation, advising churches that a day of thanksgiving should be set aside.
Chamberlain and Lyons have been proven overly sanguine. Hitler’s armies invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia in March. Tensions rose further when Germany and Italy signed a Pact of Steel. Then, two days ago, the final line was crossed. On 1 September (a year and a day after Rosetta buried her husband), Germany invaded Poland. Finally, Britain’s hand was forced. Her government had no choice but to acknowledge that it must act.
Now, just two days later, it is Sunday, 3 September 1939. Time will soon run out. In Australia, though it happens to be Father’s Day, few are in a festive mood. Many more congregants frequent church services than is usual, while attendances at football matches are noticeably poor. At 8.00 pm, Australian Eastern Standard Time, the country will know if it will once again be at war.
Lilian realises that if hostilities break out Dermot, her only son and an officer in the Grenadier Guards as was his father, will be thrust into the fighting. Though contact with her eldest child has been at best sporadic, as she looks out over the Pacific, so blue, so tranquil, she feels a cold, tight band of fear constrain her chest. She is afraid for him.
At such a time of crisis, Australia’s vast distance from the Motherland imposes a special burden. International telephone calls are impossible. Nobody knows what is happening. Rosetta and Lilian share this equality of deficiency with their countrymen, including even the man who has, since Lyon’s death in April, been the nation’s new Prime Minister. Robert Menzies remains unaware that the United Kingdom has declared war on Germany until he, like everyone else, hears it on the radio. Only then does he receive a telegram from the British admiralty, formally requesting the dominion’s assistance.
‘Don’t leave, Rose,’ Lilian says. She feels frail and very tired. ‘Stay here with me until we hear what Mr Menzies has to say.’ Lilian turns and closes the window, shuts out a sudden wind. The ocean is no longer still. She sees rows of white-capped waves begin to surge and swell.
At 9.00 pm the Prime Minister makes a statement that is broadcast on every station. Menzies, grave and measured, speaks of his ‘melancholy duty’. He announces that, as a result of Great Britain’s declaration of war upon Germany, ‘Australia is also at war.’
The Prime Minister continues, proclaiming, ‘There can be no doubt that where Britain stands, there stand the people of the British world.’ ‘British’: that is still the way not just Robert Menzies but most of Australia’s seven million citizens regard themselves.
In a stirring conclusion, the Prime Minister affirms, ‘I know that in spite of the emotions that we are feeling, Australia is ready to see it through. May God, in his mercy and compassion, grant that the world may soon be delivered from this agony.’
Rosetta and Lilian look at each other and wonder what this new calamity will bring.
My mother and grandmother are staying for a few days in the Blue Mountains in a clifftop hotel with panoramic bushland views, but any pleasure they may have taken in this brief holiday has fled. When Australia’s participation in the Great War was announced there were widespread celebrations. But this time the atmosphere is sombre; there is no singing or dancing now. Billie, thirty-nine, remembers what it was like to be young and in the convent when one of her school friends, shocked and disbelieving, found the name of a father or a brother in the newspaper’s black-bordered lists of casualties. That night she insists that they leave immediately and return home to their Sydney flat; she wants safety, some sense of security.
On 15 September, less than two weeks after war has been declared, Lilian dies in her bedroom at Tara. Rosetta must certify the death. Its cause is noted as ‘chronic myocardial degeneration’: like Carl, her heart has failed. Lilian has lived for just one year since he passed away. Perhaps, despite Rosetta’s best efforts, the truth is she didn’t wish to continue in a world without him.
The funeral takes place the next day at 11.15 am. The grave, numbered 120, is in the Anglican Section CC. The service is conducted by John Francis Gilbert Huthnance, Rector of St Matthew’s, Botany.
The undertaker’s records show that a hearse and one car are ordered. They also reveal that their account, for twenty pounds ten shillings, is paid by Mrs R. Norman.
Four decades later, my father went to the cemetery and recorded his impressions.
The grave of Lilian Pakenham, daughter of English nobility, in the Botany Cemetery on the far southern outskirts of Sydney, overlooks the Bay in which Captain Cook first landed on the coast of Eastern Australia in 1770.
Now a bustling port feeding through a network of major roads a continuous stream of huge trucks and semi-trailers carrying containers from ports all around the world, it overlooks dozens of oil terminals. The winds from the south blow strongly …
On the plain sandstone slab covering the grave the words chiselled in Gothic relief read,
LILIAN
DAUGHTER OF
RIGHT HONOURABLE
EVELYN ASHLEY KG
AND GRANDDAUGHTER OF
ANTHONY ASHLEY
7TH EARL OF SHAFTESBURY KG
AND RUTH SAID ‘INTREAT ME NOT TO LEAVE THEE OR TO RETURN FROM FOLLOWING AFTER THEE: FOR WHITHER THOU GOEST I WILL GO: AND WHERE THOU LODGEST, I WILL LODGE. THY PEOPLE SHALL BE MY PEOPLE AND THY GOD MY GOD: WHERE THOU DIEST WILL I DIE: AND THERE WILL I BE BURIED. THE LORD DO SO TO ME, AND MORE ALSO, IF OUGHT BUT DEATH PART THEE AND ME.’
Lilian is buried directly opposite Carl, their graves separated by only a narrow path. Rosetta has honoured the unorthodox relationship the two shared in life not only by the selection of Lilian’s epitaph. She has ensured their proximity in death.
Life without Carl and Lilian is hard for Rosetta. This double blow strikes at her heart which, once the numbing anaesthesia of shock wears off, is filled with pain. Rosetta is distraught and, for the first time that she can remember, feels utterly alone. She wanders through her house, picks up an ornament, a book, a music box, puts the
m down again. Consumed with restlessness, she looks for something, some absent thing, but what?
It takes Rosetta many months to reconcile herself to the fact that both Carl and Lilian have gone forever, united in a place she cannot know, at least not yet. Over time, she learns to manage. Rosetta is accomplished at accommodating changing circumstances.
FIFTY-THREE
War continues for six more years. It will not be confined to Europe. When Japan becomes a combatant, the conflict spreads to the Hawaiian Islands and sweeps through Asia. Tropical Darwin, Australia’s most northerly city, is bombed on Thursday, 19 February 1942. More than two hundred lives are lost and many more are wounded. The city is wrecked, with stores, buildings, port facilities and a large contingent of aircraft and ships destroyed. Then the unthinkable occurs: on Monday, 1 June, three midget Japanese submarines penetrate Sydney Harbour. Twenty-one sailors will be killed.
On the day of this small invasion, my mother is just seventeen. The combination of her arresting smile, long, dark hair and cornflower eyes means that, already, men lose their hearts to her. She is with my grandmother in their flat with her latest boyfriend, a blond American soldier called Ralph. They hear the sirens, fill the bath with water and fly to safety beneath the stairs. Then Ralph dashes back. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my photos of you, honey,’ he says. ‘I’d rather risk my life than leave them behind.’
Ralph is flattering, if foolish. My mother declines his proposal of marriage and a life spent beside Lake Erie in Buffalo, USA.
Sydney is hosting an influx of these international servicemen. Mum enjoys the attention she receives, and her new position: secretary to Colonel Kennedy, a regular army officer based at historic Victoria Barracks near the Town Hall in Paddington. Her tone is matter-of-fact when she tells me how it came about. ‘The Colonel inspected a line of girls, then announced I had the job.’
Rosetta Page 23
