Aurelia glanced across at the others. The priest sat alongside Ellie, his back straight, his head erect. Wilf slumped beside him, a shrivelled man who’d seen too much in his lifetime and must wonder at the justice of so many young ones dying while he still shambled into old age.
She turned her attention to the young man riding in the back of the wagon, trying to equate this haggard, war-weary veteran with the rather charming rogue she remembered. There was no cheeky grin or gleam of excitement in his eyes now despite the medals he’d earned, she realised sadly. War had taken the shine from him, killed the lust for life and adventure as surely as if it had killed the man himself. And as for Seamus… Aurelia looked sadly at the coffin. She’d had such plans for him and Ellie, and as they’d grown close she’d really thought it might have come to something. Yet her memories were of a boy, a young larrikin who rode his horses with skill and speed and who could round up a mob of cleanskins as well as any man twice his age. His blarney had charmed them and made them laugh, and she could still see the twinkle in his blue eyes as he laughed at one of his own jokes.
She sniffed back a tear. They would all remember him differently. Ellie would remember the boy she’d come to love as a brother. Charlie’s memory of him would be of the man he fought beside. The man who’d joined up at the same time. The man who’d not been so lucky in that battle for El Alamein.
Charlie winced as the wagon shuddered over a stone and Aurelia watched as he put out a hand and rested it protectively on the coffin. Noticed how his fingers trembled over the flag, drifting across the cockade as his lips shaped words only he could hear. His fair hair was dark with sweat, his uniform stained by the patches that spread beneath his arms and down his chest, but he seemed oblivious. He was a pitiful sight and although she had strong misgivings about his return, her heart went out to him.
The cemetery was fenced off from the pastures by a white picket fence and hedged with fledgling shrubs and shady trees. Most of the headstones had been dulled by the elements, with lichen and moss obliterating the epitaphs of the older ones, the table stones coming adrift from their moorings. Willows drifted fronds, the grass rustled in the light breeze and the hum of insects made it seem a drowsy place – a peaceful place – a place were the weary soul could surely find eternal rest. Now you’re getting maudlin as well as fanciful, she thought crossly as she hastily blew her nose. All this death and war was having a strange effect on her and she had realised quite early on that she was no longer the same women she’d once been. Her bluff, hearty manner had been replaced by a calmer, less domineering way of doing things – and she no longer spoke before she thought – aware of what harm it could do in the tense atmosphere they all lived in. She was getting soft in her old age, she thought furiously. Lost her back-bone.
She dismounted as they drew up at the cemetery gate. Wilf and the priest struggled to lift the coffin as Charlie dragged himself from the wagon. Aurelia stepped up to help, but as she reached for the coffin was gently pushed aside. ‘I need to do this for him,’ Charlie rasped as he took the weight on his frail shoulder. ‘Can’t leave Seamus to make this last journey on ‘is own. Not after what we’ve been through.’
‘So do I, said Alicia, coming to stand beside him. ‘I promised his father.’
The coffin was grasped in Alicia’s strong hands, the corner placed on her narrow shoulder. Aurelia and Ellie followed them, the solemnity of the moment not quite disguising the fact that one upright priest, one shambling old man, a sick boy and a slender woman made an incongruous cortege.
Jacky Jack and the stock boys had dug the grave the night before, and they now stood, wide-eyed, hats in hand watching the strange little procession approach. What on earth they made of all this, Aurelia didn’t know. Their way was more simple. A last walkabout as the earth sang them to their final sleep. A return to the dust, out in the open where nature took its toll on the human shell – not buried in a wooden box, the spirit forever tied to darkness.
Aurelia thought fleetingly of Snowy and his imprisonment, then pulled her thoughts together and concentrated on the priest. It had been years since she’d been to church, and not having ever attended a catholic burial she was bemused by the stream of Latin and unable to follow the ceremony. Yet it was right Seamus hadn’t been buried in a foreign field. This was a fitting place for Mickey’s son. He’d come home to lie in the earth beside his mother and brother, at one with those who’d cleared this land and made it worth fighting for. Here, his spirit was free at last of war and the trials of life.
But what of Joe? She glanced across at Ellie. Was his spirit at peace? How could it be when he was so far from home? How could he be free when he was lying in some anonymous grave beneath an alien soil? Aurelia was dragged from her gloomy thoughts by the muttered ‘amen’, signalling the end of the service.
Charlie stood beside the grave, unsteady on his feet, the colour drained from his face as he saluted his dead friend. ‘So long, mate,’ he muttered. ‘You can rest easy now.’ He put his hat on and stepped back.
Aurelia grabbed him just before he fell. ‘Better get him indoors,’ she said gruffly. ‘Otherwise this won’t be the only funeral today.’ She turned to the stock boys. ‘One of you ride and get Wang Lee,’ she ordered. ‘And make it quick.’
They carried him up the steps and into the house, gently depositing him on the sagging couch in the lounge. Ellie stoked the fire to life whilst Aurelia began to ease off the jacket and sodden shirt. She turned to Ellie who was hovering. ‘Make some tea, and bring me hot water and clean cloths. He’s been bleeding.’
Aurelia clucked as she heard the soft moan come from the boy. ‘It’s all right, son,’ she murmured. ‘I just want to clean you up.’ She gently removed the jacket, noticing the medals he’d won. Charlie had been a hero – but at what price, she thought sadly. She carefully unwound the bloody dressings and felt the onslaught of angry tears when she saw the terrible scar that started high under his arm and swept down over his ribs almost to his navel. He was just a boy, she thought furiously. Just a young man trying to do his bit for his country. God knows what he’d been through, or how permanent the damage would be – not only to his body, but to his mind.
She battled to keep her rage under control, and her hands steady. It would serve no earthly purpose to rant and rave, for who was there to blame? God? Hitler, Churchill, Stalin? As far as she could see one of them had given up on the human race, and the others were too busy war-mongering to see the price being paid by ordinary country boys. ‘Hurry up with that hot water,’ she snapped. ‘The boy’s running a fever and I need to clean him up.’
It was dark by the time the blood was staunched and fresh bandages tightly bound the wound. Wilf had already taken the priest on to his next call and the silence of night had fallen over Jarrah as Aurelia checked Charlie’s shattered arm. It was still heavily plastered, but hopefully it would mend. She took off his boots and trousers and cocooned him in blankets. He was terribly thin, she noticed, the ribs standing out, hip bones sharp beneath the army issue underwear. But the fire was roaring up the chimney now and there was a little more colour in his face as he opened his eyes and stared around him in bewilderment. ‘Ellie?’ he said weakly.
Aurelia moved away as her niece came to kneel by the couch. ‘I’m here, Charlie,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t talk. Get some rest.’
He shook his head, wincing as the pain shot through him. ‘Where’s Joe?’ he mumbled. ‘I gotta see Joe.’
Ellie bit her lip, glanced up at Aurelia then took his hand. ‘He’s in Singapore,’ she said gruffly.
Charlie closed his eyes, he was obviously fretting. ‘Did he get my letters?’ he whispered.
Aurelia held her breath as Ellie hesitated. Perhaps this was the moment her niece would finally accept the truth.
‘I don’t know,’ Ellie replied. ‘I sent them with mine, but I’ve had no reply.’
Aurelia watched this little scene with growing unease. It was going to prove tough for
Ellie now Joe’s twin had turned up – perhaps it would be wiser to get the girl away for a while so she could let things take on a clearer perspective? ‘I suggest Alicia stays here to look after Charlie, and you and I get back to Warratah for tomorrow’s branding,’ she said with authority. ‘We’ll be back in a couple of weeks and by then this young man should be up and about.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘I’ll stay with Charlie. It’s what Joe would have wanted.’ She looked up at her aunt, the agony clear in her brown eyes. ‘It’s as if part of Joe’s come home – I can’t leave him,’ she said firmly. ‘Not when he’s just buried darling Seamus.’
Aurelia didn’t like what she heard. She could understand why Ellie should want to look after Joe’s brother, but she didn’t want the girl letting her emotions carry her off track and into something she might regret later on. ‘I think it’d be better if Alicia looked after him, dear,’ she said hastily. ‘There will be things that need doing for him that aren’t seemly for a young girl, and even Joe wouldn’t expect that of you.’
Ellie looked down at the youth on the couch, her thoughts in obvious turmoil. Then, as if she’d come to a decision she straightened and shook her head. ‘It’s better I stay,’ she said firmly. ‘Mum’s useless around sick-beds and if I get into trouble there’s always Wang Lee to help me.’
As if on cue the little Chinaman came into the room with a tray of bottles. ‘Wang Lee make boy betta,’ he said pompously. ‘Women go look after cow.’
‘I’m staying here,’ repeated Ellie stubbornly.
Aurelia folded her arms as she glared down at her niece. ‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ she said sharply. ‘Wang Lee can manage perfectly well on his own, and I need you to help with the branding.’
‘You’ve got Jacky Jack and the stock boys,’ she retorted. ‘You don’t need me at all.’
Aurelia looked at Alicia who merely shrugged her shoulders and turned away. ‘Leave her,’ she said. ‘Ellie’s as stubborn as you when she puts her mind to it. Besides,’ she added as she picked up the bags she’d packed the night before. ‘All this argument is wasting time, and we need to get back to Warratah before the next lot of rain makes it impossible to finish the branding.’
Aurelia sighed. She knew Ellie well enough to realise she wouldn’t budge her. Not with that expression on her face. ‘Very well,’ she said wearily. ‘But you leave the more intimate side of the nursing to Wang Lee.’ She was aware of Charlie watching her as she approached the girl and put her hand on her shoulder. ‘And remember, Ellie,’ she warned softly. ‘This isn’t Joe.’
Something sparked in Charlie’s eyes, but it was fleeting and as the moment passed Aurelia wasn’t even certain she’d seen it – yet the effect remained with her and she shivered. It was as if she’d had a glimpse of impending darkness – a darkness none of them would emerge from unscathed.
*
Ellie could still hear the rain. Could still feel the chill cast by those long shadows. She opened her eyes and saw only the flames leaping up the chimney. It had been the same that night, she remembered as she drifted once more into the welcoming darkness. The rain had hammered for a week on the roof in a never-ending torrent that rushed down the gutters and flooded the yard. She had been missing home despite her exhaustion – yet it was impossible to make the journey back to Warratah until Charlie was well enough to travel.
In the face of Wang Lee’s objections she’d had Charlie transferred to the comfort of the biggest bed at Jarrah and set up a blanket roll and pillow on the floor so she could tend to him in the night. He was plagued by night-mares and often woke two or three times drenched in cold sweat, eyes staring with horror at things she could only imagine.
That was when she’d sit on the bed and hold him. Rocking him like a baby she tried to comfort him, to still his fears and calm him before Wang Lee’s sleeping potion took effect. Once it had, she lay sleepless in her bed-roll as the images of war thundered through her mind and tears for Joe soaked her pillow.
The restless nights were over too soon and she rose early each day to check on the few animals still left on Jarrah before she set about digging up the remains of Mickey’s vegetable garden. The potatoes were rotting, the carrots mildewed, but some of it was still edible and with rationing in full force this was no time to get fussy. The rain flooded the yard and the water rose to meet the verandah steps. Day followed weary day, interspersed with sleepless nights. Yet despite her depleted energy she was aware of a strange feeling of elation. She might not have Joe, but Charlie was the nearest thing, and in a way it was as if Joe had come home – if not in body, then in spirit. And as he began to get stronger they got to know one another again and she found comfort in hearing stories about the two boys growing up together. Of their home back in the little town in the south, and of their struggle to make ends meet that had set them on the tramp.
Joe had told her some of it, but it was interesting to hear Charlie’s side of things, and as she listened to him she found she could forgive this raw-boned young man for what he’d done to Joe. For as he talked she began to understand that Charlie mistakenly saw himself as inferior to his twin. He suspected Joe’s quiet ways hid a deeper intelligence that would take him far. Charlie’s own lust for adventure had been his way of counteracting that stillness in his twin – but it had left him searching for something that was as ethereal as smoke – left him empty and unfulfilled. The jealousy had begun long ago, and with it had come the need to prove himself better than his twin – now the guilt over what he’d done was eating away at him.
Ellie was in a quandary. She knew Charlie had to be told of Joe’s disappearance. Yet the belief he would see his twin again was keeping him going. It would be cruel to tell him the truth – cruel to have to voice her own deepest fears. Yet how much more cruel would it be to keep lying to him – and to herself? The days drifted on and the right opportunity never seemed to arise – yet Ellie knew her courage had failed her. She just couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t acknowledge Joe was never coming home.
It was night almost two weeks after the funeral. The rain was still falling, but lighter now. The fire roared in the hearth and Charlie was propped against pillows on the couch, a blanket around his shoulders. He stared into the flames, the dark shadows around his eyes proof of sleepless nights and continuing pain, yet there was more flesh on the bones and his colour was better. ‘You were just a skinny kid the last time I saw you,’ he murmured. ‘It feels as if it was a life time ago,’ he sighed.
Ellie was knitting socks, but she was so tired she kept dropping stitches. ‘It was,’ she said with a yawn. ‘We were kids then, but we’ve had to grow up fast.’ She gave up on the knitting and stuffed the needles into the ball of wool. ‘I’m for bed. ‘It’s another long day tomorrow and mum and Aurelia will be here by lunch-time.’
He turned to her then, his blue eyes gleaming in the fire-light, the fair hair flopping over his brow just the way Joe’s did. ‘Stay and talk to me, Ellie,’ he begged.
Ellie gently brushed the straying lock of hair back into place, the lurch of longing for Joe almost a physical pain. How alike the two men were – and yet how different. One dark, one fair. One calm and gentle, the other battling an inner turmoil that might one day break him.
Charlie caught her hand, trapping it against his cheek as he’d done the first day. ‘Hold me, Ellie,’ he said softly. ‘Just for a moment. It’s been so long since anyone cared.’
His actions mirrored Joe’s on their last day together. The words making her tremble with pity. Yet she curbed her natural instinct to comfort him. For she was unsure of what he really wanted from her. Reluctant to make any move that could be misconstrued. For this was not Joe, however much she wished it.
She looked deep into his eyes and saw the loneliness there, and the dread of the dreams that would come in the night to haunt him. This damaged man was all she had of Joe she realised – he’d been sent to her so he could be healed both in body and in spirit – how could she
refuse him? The fire crackled and a log shifted as she put her arms around him. The awkwardness left her as they sat there in the flickering fire-light – for it was as if Joe had returned. She could smell the manliness of him, feel the rasp of his chin against her cheek and the strong hand at her waist. Burying her face in the crook of his neck she closed her eyes and let the fantasy take over. Sleep soon began to claim her and as she drifted thankfully toward it, she thought she felt the butterfly touch of Joe’s kiss on her mouth.
13
Matt Derwent had been up since dawn. The rain had stopped and the sun was struggling to climb above the horizon as magpies warbled and gallahs and parakeets squabbled in the trees. With growing anticipation for the day ahead, he hurried to the stables with the dogs in full flight around him, and let the horses into the paddocks. Returning to the homestead he slammed through the screen door and brewed some strong coffee. It was too early to begin his journey to Warratah, but he wanted to be sure everything was right before he set out.
He padded barefoot into his bedroom and eyed the usual chaos. Clothes were strewn over the bed and chair, drawers were leaking sweaters and socks and his shoes lay where he’d left them. His gaze drifted to the neatly folded moleskins and shirt and the clean underwear he’d laid out the night before. His boots had been polished to a gleam, the dangling button fixed more securely on his jacket. With a rueful grin he remembered how he’d stabbed himself with the needle. Fine vet he was, when he couldn’t sew a button on without harming himself. Yet he knew the ham-fisted attempt was more to do with his excitement over the coming day, than his lack of prowess with a needle. ‘I hope she thinks it was worth it,’ he muttered as he finished his coffee. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the dresser and pulled a face. ‘Matt Derwent, you’re a fool.’
He walked out of his bedroom and into the tiny office he’d built on at the side of the house. The familiar clutter had given way to order, with files and records neatly lined on shelves and in cabinets, the medicines and tools of his trade carefully locked away. He pulled out the chair and sat down. There were bills to be made out and today’s list of visits to be sorted. He had plenty of time. He wasn’t expected at Warratah until eleven.
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