by L E Pembroke
The thought of Andrew having been aware of my feelings embarrassed me still, three years after the event and even knowing he had died. ‘Never disclose one’s private thoughts and feelings. It’s not good manners. People don’t want to know.’ That’s what we were taught. Of course, I know now that attitude is damaging to relationships. Twenty years after the close of the Victorian era, many of us were still straitlaced, hidebound, provincial and lacking in forbearance, especially those who were children during the 1880s and ‘90s. The ladies at the Chelsea were a good example.
Alistair and I had a marvellous meal with lots of laughter and reminiscing. The waiter was standing by our table lighting the brandy for our crêpe Suzette when Alistair took my hand. ‘I can’t pretend I’m not anxious. Have you given any serious thought to my proposal, dearest?’
Selfishly, I suppose, I had hoped he wouldn’t speak of that at this time. I hastened to reassure him as best as I honestly could. ‘Yes, I have, of course I have, Alistair. The truth is I’m still not certain. I’m so sorry, dear Alistair. Perhaps it would be best if I say no.’ When I looked at his crestfallen expression I felt terrible. I apologised again, saying I knew it was selfish waiting so long to give him an answer. I told him I sometimes wondered whether I had been more traumatised by the war than I realised, whether my normal feelings had been deadened.
Always empathic, Alistair said he understood the way I was feeling. He added that the psychological impact of the war on individuals isn’t well understood and that it varies immensely. ‘Some fellows will take years to get over the worst experiences; others might never completely recover.’ Alistair said that knowing your mates understand what combat is really like was the main reason for the strong bonds that exist between the survivors.
I wished he was less understanding; he made me feel even more selfish. I promised I would not keep him waiting much longer. He was, without a doubt, the nicest man I’d ever met.
‘I can wait, Genevieve. What are your immediate plans?’
I told him I’d stay at the hotel for a few weeks and look for ‘specialling’ work. I didn’t want to go back to hospital life, and the idea of being a sister working privately with one patient appealed for the moment. What a far cry it would be from army nursing, where one had to contend with one crisis after another. I was sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to find someone looking for professional care in the home.
He suggested we treat the next few weeks as a sort of unofficial engagement period. ‘Let’s do all the things that couples do – meals, picnics, walks, family occasions, the theatre. I imagine a few weeks of that sort of affinity will assist you in your decision.’
Humbled by his patience, I made some comment about how he made me feel like a calculating and selfish woman.
‘Don’t make me laugh, Genevieve. You are the least calculating and most unselfish woman I know. You can have no idea how many women marry a well-off chap purely for material gain.’
He was so forbearing that I almost said, then and there, ‘We will get married. I think I love you, and I’ll be proud to be your wife.’ But I held back.
We saw each other three or four times a week for nearly two months. Then my world turned upside down when I received Madeleine’s letter.
CHAPTER 25
ANDREW
I spent the first two weeks back home doing what, in prison, I dreamed of so often.
December 1919. Day after day the temperature well into the nineties, and not a cloud in the sky. I surfed at nearby beaches and sailed on the harbour in the small family boat that had been in storage since summer 1914. Most evenings I cooked steak and onions on the barbecue in our garden and drank cold beer while I gazed at the harbour waters below me and mused about the incredible difference this was from December 1918, that most depressing time in my life when, in stark winter, shivering with cold in my bleak grey cell, I wondered whether I would ever be released.
At weekends, I went with my sisters to various beaches. Barbara was thirteen years old when I left Australia – we’d been good mates. With Imelda, I became a sort of father figure, being seventeen years older than her, Dad having died four years ago. I soon found I had outgrown Alicia, the girlfriend who had to come to the ship to welcome me home. We had little in common, and my former interest in her had gone with the wind.
To be perfectly honest, those first few weeks at home were not all ‘wine and roses’ because I had to make up my mind about my future, whether to stay in the army or begin a new life on the land. Not an easy decision, to forgo everything I had been trained to do. I worried about loyalty and duty, the values by which I’d lived for ten years. Would I fit into a civilian world? Was I being fanciful? Did I really want to be a farmer?
My mother said, ‘Come to a decision and you’ll feel much better, darling, even if it’s the wrong decision.’ She was right. I tendered my resignation and felt an overwhelming relief. Six weeks later I was travelling through western New South Wales doing various mustering jobs while figuring out what sort of farming I wanted to take up.
I wrote to Tom Howard, not only because I wanted to meet up with him again but also because I was thinking about Genevieve. What had happened to her? Was she fully recovered from that night in Calais? Was she married?
Tom replied promptly, saying how delighted he was to find that, against the odds, I had survived the war. ‘To tell you the truth, Andrew,’ he wrote, ‘I’d really appreciate it if you stayed here for a while, give me a hand and gain farming experience at the same time.’ That offer suited me down to the ground; a mutually beneficial arrangement, especially for me because I knew almost nothing about raising sheep.
In his letter Tom mentioned that he had recently married; I wasn’t in the least surprised to hear it after observing his meeting with Madeleine when the ship docked. I looked forward to meeting Madeleine again and wondered how she’d taken to country life in Australia. I wondered about Genevieve again. Would she be living nearby, perhaps working in the town?
I arrived at Bellara in March and stayed in the homestead for two or three weeks while Tom showed me around and discussed future arrangements. When it was done up, I was to live in the small house on what had apparently been the McCann property until recently.
On the first night at dinner there was a lot of light-hearted talk about coincidence and fate. Tom, amazed that I had been on the same ship as Madeleine, said that he found it surprising that over a period of two months I didn’t discover that Madeleine was coming to Australia to marry him. Obviously, I wasn’t going to let on that Madeleine hadn’t made up her mind while on the ship and had been unusually frank about her feelings for her intended husband. I hastened to say that we only met once or twice on the voyage.
If Madeleine remembered her remarks to me about considering marrying a man she didn’t love, she gave no indication of it. Madeleine struck me as being quite a shrewd woman who knew when to keep her mouth shut.
They seemed happy enough. While I was staying in the homestead, I heard the occasional raised voice, usually Madeleine’s. I supposed that was normal with newly married couples early in a marriage.
At dinner that first night, Madeleine was full of plans to extend the house and have a croquet lawn put in adjacent to the tennis court. Tom was eager to know the truth about what had happened at the Bavarian POW camp and what had caused me to be held in prison until 1919.
Not keen to talk about that time in my life, I told him that I’d never really spoken about it, except at my debriefing. I merely said that I was in a bad situation with a brute of a guard and that I believed that experience, more than anything else, persuaded me to give up my profession and, if given the opportunity, to create something permanent on the land. ‘By the way, what’s Genevieve up to these days?
Madeleine sat up and appeared amazed. ‘I had no idea you knew Genevieve, Andrew. I don’t think she ever mentioned you.’
‘Probably because I told her Andrew had been killed,’ Tom said.
&n
bsp; ‘Are you saying Genevieve knew Andrew during the war, thinks he is dead and you haven’t bothered to tell her otherwise?’
‘She will find out soon enough. It isn’t as though he was her bloke. Anyway, I only found out when Andrew wrote to me a couple of weeks ago.’
‘I met Genevieve when she was a child, and I was a schoolboy up here on holiday and then again during the war. We were fond of one another.’
Succinctly, Madeleine filled me in on the latest doings of Genevieve. She told me of her life in Sydney and of the doctor who wanted to marry her. I experienced a slight feeling of disappointment, which was unrealistic, of course; we hardly knew one another. Madeleine went on to say that this doctor was years too old for Genevieve and that she strongly disapproved of a possible marriage between them.
‘Does she love him?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I think she is lonely, and he is a likeable chap. I met him in London. Nevertheless, in my opinion, she should be looking for a chap her own age.’
Tom looked at me and rolled his eyes indicating disdain. ‘Not all women marry, Madeleine. Some women have a fulfilling life without a husband. The trouble with many women since the war is that they are prepared to grab any opportunity to have a meal ticket for life or they use a man because they don’t want to be left on the shelf while all their friends are settled with husband and children.’
‘I trust you are not referring to me.’
‘Of course I’m not. I’m merely saying not everybody wants to get married.’
I was uncomfortable with the barbed exchange between Tom and Madeleine. I stood up and said, ‘I think it’s time I turned in. Thanks again for a delightful meal, Madeleine.’ I didn’t especially want to hear any more of Genevieve’s affair with an older man.
CHAPTER 26
MADELEINE
Andrew was no sooner out of the door than I snapped at Tom. ‘If you had an ounce of sensitivity or thought for others you’d have realised Genevieve should have been told first thing that Andrew was still alive. Personally, I think they would make a perfect match.’
‘Why don’t you write and tell her yourself?’
*
I enjoyed entertaining and was very much taken up with improving the house in preparation for my first social season in the Central West. Of course, I was aware that my disinterest in sheep-raising was a disappointment for Tom. Sheep were grubby-looking animals that smelt. They were grey in colour, unlike the snowy white animals seen in children’s picture books. I stayed well away from them. That stuff clinging to their rear ends revolted me. And, try as I might, it was impossible for me to show enthusiasm for the rams so proudly purchased by Tom to improve Bellara’s wool quality.
The working dogs on the property were too aggressive for my taste. I told Tom, ‘I like dogs as companions, Tom. Why can’t we have a nice little dog to keep me company in the house?’
‘Because the sheep dogs wouldn’t tolerate it,’ he said. ‘No dogs in the house, Madeleine.’
It was apparent to me how delighted Tom was when Andrew agreed to stay at Bellara. Tom was fortunate to have a man he related to and trusted implicitly, not only to help him re-establish the old McCann place as a viable grazing property but also to share his enthusiasm for the stock. I also was happy to have Andrew’s company and willingly agreed to refurbish the old McCann house for him. Tom arranged to have the place painted and newly furnished and, with Rose’s help, I made cushions and curtains. Tom told me he hoped that Andrew would stay at Bellara permanently. I didn’t think that was likely; in my opinion Andrew wasn’t the type to work on someone else’s property. He’d want his own as soon as he was confident enough to run it.
The goods ordered for the total refurbishment of the homestead at Bellara began to arrive in April and continued to do so for most of the year. Often they arrived in unacceptable condition. Having minutely examined the contents of each crate upon its arrival, I frequently flew into a rage – and why not? It was incumbent on me to point out the deficiencies in workmanship and packaging to my husband. Upholstery didn’t always fit well, and occasionally timber was chipped. I wasn’t going to accept that and demanded Tom pack the lot up and return them.
I also had quite a lot to say about the carelessness and inefficiency of the ‘colonial bloody workforce’, and Tom seemed to take that as a personal criticism. Of course I knew I was behaving like a termagant but thought there was every excuse – and Tom was so relaxed about my problems. It really was infuriating.
Another problem was giving me much concern, and Tom too, I suppose. We were arguing most of the time, or rather I was arguing and he was silently listening. When we were having our rows, especially if my attacks became personal, Tom rarely responded. Admittedly, sometimes, I went too far. How angry he was when I once accused him of being ineffectual – not surprising, really. In my opinion, Australians had no idea how to deal with the lower classes because even the so-called higher classes were descended from lower classes. ‘Show them who’s the boss, Tom,’ I said more than once. ‘Tell them you won’t pay for shoddy goods. Don’t put up with mediocrity.’
I realise now that I never let up nagging, and I’m sorry for it. There was a time when I even blamed him for the weather, saying that the Australian winter was as bad as England’s or worse because over there they had some idea how to heat a home.
‘Give it a rest, Madeleine,’ Tom would say.
To be perfectly honest, because I was so taken up with my complaints, I rarely heeded the warning in his voice. Once or twice he responded in kind. I remember once when he took me roughly by the shoulders and shook me until my teeth nearly rattled. I’d never before been threatened like that. He yelled at me in a way I’ll never forget. ‘Don’t you ever stop complaining? You said how much you hated the heat when you first arrived – the mozzies, the flies, the bull ants as well as all the other bloody insects. Now you never stop whingeing about our winter. You’re nothing but an overgrown spoilt brat.’
I thought he was going to strike me, but he pulled himself together and stormed out of the house.
Tom developed the habit of riding over to Andrew’s place after work and coming in late for dinner. It seemed he found peace and companionship over there, and when he came home late for dinner, which I’d served and left to get cold on the table, his breath always smelt of whisky.
Well, I was pregnant at that time and going through the stage of vomiting most mornings – and evenings! So he should have shown me a little sympathy. Anyway, I wasn’t too thrilled about having a baby. I didn’t have any longing for a child, certainly not yet while I was trying to establish myself in a new country.
We were both aware that our relationship was quickly deteriorating, mostly, I suppose, because I did rather constantly speak my mind in a particularly forthright manner. Tom was, as I said, usually mute and stubborn in the face of my tirades.
Fortunately, my ante-natal illness subsided somewhat and, with the house improvements nearing completion, my humour was restored to a certain extent and our relationship improved. We received invitations from several families in town and on the land to dinners, luncheons and afternoon teas. Tom didn’t always accept, although I did – anything to get away.
During that autumn and early winter, I brooded quite a lot. I couldn’t understand why the romance seemed to have gone out of our marriage already. I didn’t love him, although I did have physical needs. I came to the conclusion that Tom didn’t love me and didn’t have physical needs. Maybe he had a bad experience at the war that he didn’t want to talk about. Oh, well, whatever the reason, he was totally insensitive to my needs. I was certain he thought more of those smelly animals than he did of me. It had just been lust with Tom, I was sure of it.
The house wasn’t ready for formal entertaining. We formed the habit of asking Andrew for dinner at least one evening a week, on a Friday or Saturday. I enjoyed his company, admired his looks, his wit and his good humour, and often wished Tom was more like his less s
erious and more sociable friend.
*
Rose McCann ‘did’ for me three days a week. She met Andrew frequently in the few weeks during which he stayed at the homestead and before he took over the McCann place. It became the custom for me to drive to town to pick up Rose for her day’s work and Andrew or Tom drove her home. Rose enjoyed working at Bellara, and I was quite convinced that this was mainly because she enjoyed the opportunity to see and talk to Andrew. She was after him, I could plainly see.
With the worst of my housing problems over, my morning sickness a thing of the past and my social life becoming satisfactorily established, I realised a month had passed since I determined to write to Genevieve. It was time I told her that she would be an aunt in December as well as the news about Andrew. Before doing so, I wanted to discuss with Tom the subject of Rose McCann. I wanted to know if, in his opinion, Andrew was encouraging Rose. No point writing to Genevieve if the man I was writing about had taken up with our housekeeper.
‘I’m a bit put out with Rose,’ I began.
It was after dinner and Tom’s face, as usual, was buried in The Land, his main source of reading material. ‘Why?’
‘She’s chasing after Andrew – always finding excuses to drop in over there.’
He appeared exasperated and spoke to me as if I was a fool. ‘Madeleine, isn’t it time you showed a little understanding? Rose is a young woman and a widow. I don’t think it’s too unnatural if she sets her cap at Andrew. She only lived with Matt for a matter of days and that was back in 1915. She is probably desperately lonely.’
I said that was all well and good, but I was worried and he should be also.
