Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  Every day, in my cabin, I studied sign language. I understood that Charlie would be able to hear and understand my spoken word, but if I was to understand him I had to read his signing.

  I suffered greatly anticipating that Charlie would refuse to see me. He had always been a stickler for the rules. He might find my behaviour abhorrent. What if he says he no longer loves me? What if he won’t see me?

  I planned to arrive unannounced, tell him the true circumstances of my marriage and endeavour to make him understand how impossible it was, knowing he was alive, for me to continue in a loveless union. I was certain he would insist I return to my husband. I practised my reply: ‘If I stayed with Tom our lives would have become untenable. Any children we had would grow up in an atmosphere in which their parents despised one another. They would suffer severe emotional stress. That would have been the future, Charles. Staying together and creating a family in Australia is not an option. With you alive I would have resented every day Tom lived and kept me away from you. I am convinced that Tom already bitterly regrets having married me.’

  I disembarked at Tilbury, travelled by train, changing in London, and by mid-afternoon I had booked into a hotel in Guildford. I took a cab to the home that I’d visited so often both before and after the notification that Charlie was missing, presumed killed, in action. What if he wasn’t in? I was taking a big risk by not informing them of my arrival, but I wasn’t prepared to take the bigger risk that he would refuse to see me.

  I pushed open the front gate; my fears multiplying. I clenched my teeth, took deep breaths to still my disturbed state. I saw rhododendrons flanking the gate. I looked around the once-familiar, large rather messy garden of shady trees and shrubs. It was spring of course, spring 1921, almost two years since I sailed for Australia. Bulbs popped up in a hundred golden clumps. Tall hollyhocks, pink, mauve and white, waved gently in the soft breeze. Spectacular lilacs were in full bloom. I followed the path, either side of which were rose bushes covered in buds. At this time of the year the scent was intoxicating. To take my mind off my fear of being rejected, I concentrated on taking in every detail of this so typical English country garden. How much I’d missed our English country gardens! Several casement windows were wide open. I was certain our meeting was imminent.

  I pressed the bell by the side of the large oak door. Charles’s mother came to the door. As always, she was a fashionably dressed and elegant woman. She had aged since we last met, and looked tired and careworn. I thrust out my hand without saying a word. She took it, with reluctance.

  ‘We thought you were in Australia, Madeleine. We thought you were married.’

  ‘I was. It is over. I would like to see Charles, if I may.’ I was in fear and trembling. She might answer, ‘No, Madeleine, I don’t think that would be wise.’ She didn’t say that; simply stood there and waited for me to continue.

  ‘How is he? Is he still living here? Is he at home now? I am sorry I neglected to tell you I was coming. I feared if he knew he might have refused to see me. I hope I am not interrupting anything.’

  ‘Charles is slightly improved. He is at home, and you are not interrupting us. He is in the sitting room. Please come in, Madeleine. I will take you to him.’

  ‘Would you mind, Mrs Phillips, if I go in alone? I know the way.’

  She looked momentarily anxious. ‘Charles has had rather a bad time. His appearance, his voice …’ Her words trailed away.

  ‘I know about that. I promise I will not upset him.’

  ‘Very well, then.’

  I crossed the wide entrance hall with gleaming timber floor and stood at the door leading into the sitting room. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed hold of the door knob. I hesitated. It had been five years. I was terrified that he would reject me. He might have changed beyond recognition, not only in appearance; the quintessential man could be utterly different. War could do that; sometimes the men who died were more fortunate than those who were left behind.

  CHAPTER 34

  CHARLES

  It was almost a year since that never-to-be-forgotten morning when I regained my memory. I was still a member of the British Army – on extended sick leave, like thousands of others.

  Specialist doctors conferred about my future. The problem of my inability to communicate clearly inclined some to think that I should be discharged. Others believed I could contribute to the service by working in the War Office in virtual isolation, updating training manuals. Then there was the matter, which was still being considered, of the shell fragments in my brain. I was fairly sure that I would soon be pensioned off. Oh, well, there were plenty of fellows a hundred times worse off than me, fellows still shell-shocked, no mouths, noses shot away, tube fed and legless.

  Our cottage, nestled among small fields on the Farnham Road, was in an ideal location for an army family. Former comrades visited and kept me in touch with news of old friends. We were close to the garrison town of Aldershot where my father’s career had commenced and to the military academy at which I’d learnt my basic skills. I was content enough with my constant companion, Jasper, our black Labrador, my books and the cheerful companionship of my wise and forbearing mother.

  I was asleep; nodded off while sitting in an armchair by the window that faced the back garden. I was reading. The book had slipped to the floor. Jasper’s paws rested on my feet. He growled. I woke. I bent forward, placed my hand on his muzzle. Again, he growled. I opened my eyes, glanced in the direction he was looking. I thought I was seeing an apparition.

  Ten years on, she looked the same. I immediately recalled the terrified fourteen-year-old girl being led from the cells into the reception area fearing an angry rebuke from her grandfather. This time there was no joyous relief on her face. She didn’t smile. She looked like a penitent child.

  ‘Hello, Charlie, it’s me.’ Her voice was strained, unnatural, tense.

  I wanted to speak but of course I couldn’t (not comprehensibly). I was always reluctant to speak, hating the rough monotone that I emitted. I felt around for my walking stick, slowly rose to my feet. She took a few steps towards me.

  ‘Speak to me with your hands, Charlie, slowly please. But first let me say this; my marriage is over. Nothing you say will change that. It was a mistake. You are the only man I ever loved. I have come back to you. Please don’t turn me away.’

  Looking into her eyes, I signed slowly, ‘You cannot leave your child, Madeleine.’

  ‘I lost my child, four months ago. He was dead before he was born. My marriage is over. I told my husband I didn’t love him and never had. He knew that anyway, from the beginning. My marriage was a tragic mistake.’

  I signed briefly. ‘How can you leave your husband at this time? You have both suffered. Are you blaming him for the loss of the child?’

  ‘No, I am not blaming him for that or for anything else. I am the one at fault. I never loved him. I should never have married him.’

  I signed again. ‘Why did you marry him, Madeleine?’

  ‘I was selfish, unhappy, lonely. With you dead, there was nothing for me. I grabbed the offer of a new and secure life. I thought I could live without love. I was wrong, Charlie. I know that it’s difficult for you to make your feelings clear to me, but please let me know that one day you will forgive me. Tell me that you love me still. I waited, Charlie, I waited for two years – officially you were dead. We had a memorial service.’

  I couldn’t answer her questions. I signed: ‘What sort of a man encourages a woman to abandon her husband for a man who will be an invalid for life? I can’t do that, Madeleine.’

  ‘It’s done – it’s too late for your high-mindedness and outdated scruples. Whatever you say, I will never go back.’

  My mind flashed back to 1915, to the eighteen-year-old girl who had broken the rules of convention and asked me to marry her. Again, she had broken the rules. Both of us and her husband had suffered because of who she was. Madeleine was a chameleon, fickle and at times selfish, yet she was the
only woman I ever loved.

  I saw she had reached the nadir of her despair. She covered her face with her hands. Her body shook with her strangled sobs. Unable to bear the sight of her pain and unable any longer to resist the woman I loved so deeply, I limped slowly towards her. She threw her arms around me. I held her tightly. A warm glow of love and warmth encompassed us.

  CHAPTER 35

  GENEVIEVE

  Every day I was at the homestead. Every evening Andrew came in with Tom. We had our meal together, not wanting him brooding alone. Tom never spoke of Madeleine and never spoke of his wrecked marriage. If only he had sought comfort from us. Months passed.

  ‘We have to start our own life, darling – it’s about time we moved on.’

  I knew Andrew was right. Of course. I too wanted to move to the property up north, but I was worried about Tom. He had to accept the situation, break out of his lethargy, organise a replacement for Andrew and a full-time housekeeper. Rose would be perfect, and we knew young Freddie would love to live at Bellara and learn to be a farmer.

  Andrew thought that eventually Tom would think of Freddy as a son. ‘You never know, Jen, one day Tom and Rose … Men usually do remarry, you know.’

  ‘I promise you, Andrew, Tom will never get over Madeleine. He’s a one-woman man.’

  ‘Is there any such thing, I wonder? Anyway, Tom is not your responsibility, sweetheart.’

  Madeleine had been gone for six months. It was time for us to go.

  Part 6

  1922

  CHAPTER 36

  GENEVIEVE

  In our district of the north-west of New South Wales the rain hadn’t let up for five days. It was torrential rain, almost unheard of in late winter. All alone, I spent most of my time in the kitchen listening to the noisy ticking of our wall clock and the crackle and spitting of the fuel stove fire. They at least were some comfort. Otherwise the homestead was cold and eerily silent. We had a piano, although I didn’t play, and we didn’t own a wireless or gramophone. At that early time in our marriage, we didn’t need expensive luxuries. We had each other. Besides, we were using every penny of our savings to build up the run-down sheep station we purchased in 1921.

  Unable to concentrate on my book because my mind was so busily imagining the probable plight of the pregnant ewes, I gazed out of the window at the night sky, which was as black as pitch. For the ewes, it was the very worst time for such a continuous downpour. They were due to lamb any day and, as yet unshorn, could well be bogged down and in desperate need of help because of flooding in the low-lying paddocks. I remember similar situations occurring when I was a child living on a small sheep property in the Central West. I recall crying when my dad picked up a dead lamb. ‘Now, now, Genevieve, when you run livestock you gotta get used to dead stock.’

  Time for bed. I hoped against hope that the weather would clear over night, although the way the rain was still pelting down and the wind gusting, I somehow doubted it. After damping down the fuel stove, I picked up the lantern and walked along the corridor to our freezing cold bedroom. Feeling lonely, yet perfectly calm, my thoughts turned to the past; in particular to the time when I first left home. I was thinking of the war years by the time I reached our bedroom and finally, as I hopped into bed, my thoughts turned to the magic time when Andrew and I met again.

  At eighteen years old, I was a simple country girl with little knowledge of anything outside my own surroundings. Some years after my departure from home I learned that my life had been abnormal. In terms of love, ours was a poverty-stricken environment that had stunted my inner growth and my brother’s also. At Bellara, steaming resentment pervaded the atmosphere at all times. My mother didn’t like me. In fact, she might not have loved me. I was the living image of my father, and that must have been very difficult for her to cope with. These days I no longer resent my mother’s attitude. I just wish I had been able to understand the background that created the woman she was.

  Why was I beset with these maudlin thoughts that night? It may have had something to do with our present circumstances. Andrew was in Sydney for his mother’s funeral; me, confined to the house by the unusual weather, worry about the ewes and perhaps being seven months pregnant.

  After leaving home, it took the best part of ten years for me to grow into a self-assured woman. I discovered what it was to be loved and became confident in my ability to demonstrate my own love without fear of rejection. The war taught me about courage and suffering without complaint. My husband taught me how to give and receive love unstintingly.

  We left Bellara a few months after Madeleine’s departure and moved up north. We spent each day together establishing the property. Then I became pregnant and, at five months, decided it would be wise to stay near the homestead and establish a house garden.

  The highlight of my day, during the last trimester of my pregnancy, was when I looked out of the window and saw Andrew riding back to the sheds. That’s when I’d drop whatever I was doing and rush down the hill to meet him; always longing to have his arms around me, to feel his mouth on mine, to find out about his day and tell him how much I had missed him.

  *

  I went to bed and slept well until four o’clock the next morning when a clap of thunder rocked the house on its timber foundations, jolting me into consciousness. I was hot and perspiring freely, glad to be awake after having had a vivid nightmare in which I was buried alive. No wonder. I was hopelessly entangled amid the sheets and almost suffocating from the weight of the blankets and eiderdown. At once apprehensive, my eyes snapped open. The strength of the atmospheric energy being unleashed in the sky directly above my home startled me, and I was deafened by the din of the drenching onslaught onto its galvanised-iron roof.

  A jagged fork of lightning hurtled across the bedroom window. I flinched, shut my eyes tightly and quickly ducked my head under the bedclothes. How far away was the storm’s centre? I began to count, but only for a second. Again the thunderous claps crashed across the sky and once again set the house juddering along with my heart. Our newly erected homestead, built on the only high feature of the twenty-thousand-acre property, bore the main force of the terrible storm. As if infuriated by the benign flat lands of the district, lightning struck spitefully and repeatedly. It incinerated many of the tall eucalypts that partially protected our sheep sheltering beneath their sparse canopies.

  In bed, I uneasily waited out the passing of the vicious storm. With only an hour or two until dawn surely it wouldn’t be long before Albert, our station hand, arrived, and together we would begin to assess the damage. He would know how worried I’d be. Expecting him to turn up by six, I got out of bed.

  How different it would have been if Andrew had been at home, his arms wrapped around me. Always loving, calm and reassuring, he’d have held me until the worst had passed, although, like me, he’d have been worrying about the stock, thinking about the day ahead and the devastation he was likely to find.

  I listened, appalled by the strength of the hostile wind and dreading the destruction I would find in its wake. I had to see the state of the garden and nearby paddocks. I pulled at the curtains, peered out into the early morning gloom and tried to make out the damage done to the newly planted land surrounding the homestead.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated small, black irregular shapes spinning through the air – helpless infant trees ripped out of their beds. Defenceless, they crashed against the house and fell to the ground. Without pity, the raging wind gathered them up again and flung them viciously until they died entangled in the wire fencing of the home paddock. Lemons, liquid amber, maple, a claret ash and others; I wondered whether anything had been left standing. Would all the foreigners have been ejected from our antipodean soil?

  I turned away from the distressing sight and made up my mind to sit out the early morning in the kitchen. When I walked along the wide hall of the bedroom wing I deliberately averted my face from the rattling, revealing windows. At the hall’s end, I pushed thro
ugh the door into the front vestibule, then through its rear door into the kitchen, still warm from the damped-down fire of the black iron range. I stoked up its embers and waited for the kettle to boil.

  While sipping my tea, I tried, without much success, to accept philosophically the disappointment of losing almost everything I had cared for in the previous few months. Naturally, having been brought up on a small property, I was aware that life in the bush was often precarious. Even so, when I remembered the hard work that went into creating the garden and the constant back pain caused by hours of bending, well, I was close to crying. Having been so determined to have the house garden established, even flourishing, before the baby came, it was bitterly disappointing to see the ravages of the storm. I have been told that mothers-to-be can become almost fixated on their preparations before the arrival of their babies. I was like that. It must be some sort of nesting or nurturing instinct.

  Apart from trees, I’d planted dozens of bushes: hibiscus, camellia, lavender and roses that flanked the front path. I trained wisteria and sweet peas to grow along wire fastened to veranda posts at both the front and back of the house. A passion fruit vine would soon disguise the outside toilet, and already small green pumpkins lay on the earth adjacent to what was to be the vegetable garden.

  While waiting for Albert to come and possibly save the ewes and their lambs, I decided to try to think about other things – nice things. Almost inevitably, my thoughts reverted to exactly one year ago when we moved up here from the Central West. What a time that was! Those were marvellous months when we worked together tirelessly. We purchased five thousand sheep to start with, but sometime in the near future we hoped we would have thirty thousand or more. The soil of the north-west plains is rich and black, and on it we believed we would be able to run two, even three animals to the acre.