by Max Howell
As I said, my dear and wonderful Mark, I am going to the country for at least a year. A year of regeneration, to watch crops grow and cattle and sheep walk aimlessly by, and somehow get back to the reality of life. No one except my parents knows where I have gone, and they are sworn to secrecy.
You, Mark, are strong and purposeful, and you make friends so easily. You will survive all this, because of the strength of your character. You know how determined I am when I set my mind to something, and I know that this is for the best.
Think only good thoughts of me, Mark. Remember the moments, the emotion, the love, the wonder of it all. I will only think beautiful thoughts of you. The memories I will treasure forever.
Farewell, Mark, farewell. May the Lord bless you and look after you.
Faith.
She sealed the letter and placed an airmail stamp on it, and addressed it to Mark Jamieson, c/o George Schroth, at Berkeley. Heavy of heart, she walked out of her flat, looked along Church Street, saw the corner where they would meet, then wended her way to the Post Office near Peter’s Corner. Shaking, she opened the letter box, and slid the letter in. She felt faint, and held on to the nearby wall to steady herself. Pale and drained, she walked back home, tears clouding her eyes.
She walked in to the house and when she saw her mother she cried out plaintively, “I did it, Mum, I did it, I sent the letter to Mark telling him I would not see him again!” The room whirled around, and she fell to the floor, unconscious.
When she did come to, the tears did not come, she felt cold and distant, as if the life had gone out of her, and she was silent and wan as she departed for Casino with her parents. She just stared out the window as the scenery rolled by. The towns blurred into one another, one passing landscape becoming another. All she could think of was, I love you Mark, love you, love you, I will always love you, ours is eternal love. I did this for you, out of love, please, please understand.
Her parents said little, realizing her need for solitude. Their hearts went out to her, their little girl determined to sacrifice herself for her first love. They realised her fragility, that they were holding her life in the balance, and that their support was vital for her welfare.
Her mother however was more emotive in her support. When Faith refused to eat, she would say, “It is not for you, Faith, it is for our grandchild. He has to grow up strong if he is going to be a swimmer like his father. So eat something, for the little one!”
She brightened up with such repartee. “Wouldn’t it be something, Mum, if he finished up a swimmer. I would like that. Maybe Terry could coach him, just like Mark.”
“Coogee is a long way from Casino, Faith, but who knows? One thing I do know, and that is Casino, which is only ten miles away for your uncle’s property, has an Olympic swimming pool. So let us have our grandson begin his swimming soon after his birth. But just a minute. Maybe it will be a she. We keep saying grandson. Maybe it will be a granddaughter.”
“Maybe, Mum, but I somehow feel it will be a grandson too. Though all I want is a lovely, healthy baby.”
“So do we, Faith.”
When the train pulled into Casino, Uncle Harry and Auntie Joan were there. They were both thin and angular, their skin hardened from years of working in a relentless northern sun. Their faces were lined, and yet there was a kindly aspect that was frozen in their visages.
“Well, it is about bloody time you paid us a visit,” said Harry, almost drawling his words. There was an evident shyness about him, and he shuffled his feet as he spoke and occasionally looked to the ground. There was a niceness about him that came out immediately. He was a country boy, innocent in his own way, and yet well versed in the vagaries of life, subjected to the cruelty of nature and the difficulty of survival in a land with little reliable water and an over-supply of sun.
He kissed Faith’s mother, and then looked towards Faith: “So this is Faith. It has been bloody years. You probably do not even remember me. It is all your father’s fault. I nursed him as a baby and then he would not even bring you up here to see us. You are a beauty, Faith, thank God you did not take after your father but look like your mother when she was young. She was a beauty, too, you know, not that she has changed much.”
Faith’s mother burst out laughing. “Do not try your country antics on me, Harry, I am a wake up to you.”
“I was only joking. It is great to see you all, and it is about bloody time you made it here. You two can only stay for a month, but Faith is not leaving, she is too good looking. Casino has not seen the like of her for many a year. That is, as long as she does her share of the milking and looking after the sheep.”
Faith immediately warmed to them. She knew they were aware she was pregnant and needed a retreat, and they were trying to make her feel at home in their own way, using understatement, which was the country way of making a point.
“I could not get the bloody Cadillac to work again,” he said with a straight face, “you cannot depend on those bloody cheap American cars. By the way love,” he said, gesturing to Faith, “excuse the bloody’s, but no bloody sentence is complete without a bloody bloody or two.”
Faith burst out laughing. He went on laconically, “Well, as I said, the bloody Cadillac would not go, for the tenth straight bloody year, so I had to bring the bloody truck. It is a bit long in the tooth, like me, but it works. It ain’t legal, but the female visitors travel in the front, the luggage, me missus and me brother in the back.”
They all jumped into the broken-down truck, and, laughing, they drove through Casino to his property, ten miles away. It was so different to Randwick, with its paved streets and apartments. The jacarandas and gum trees, the red soil, the properties with hedges and hidden houses, struck a chord in her heart. It was what she needed, solitude and isolation. It was as if she were on another planet, away from the millions that had invaded Sydney. Now there was sanity, niceness, the innocence that she felt in her heart and she craved.
She looked at her uncle and his weather-beaten face, an old hat slung irrelevantly on his head, and looked back through the mirror and saw her father being thrown around with the bumps of a northern country road. She smelled the fresh air, saw the cows and the sheep eating the grass, and knew she would be all right, knew she could survive the ordeal ahead.
When they drove into the property, Faith fell in love with it immediately. Uncle Harry stepped out to open the gate, a rickety old wooden structure, with a cattle guard on the ground to prevent any stray cattle from leaving. The drive into the house was winding, about forty metres, lined by jacaranda trees. Though they were no longer in bloom, Faith could imagine the colour of the entrance when it was in season. There was always a majesty about the jacaranda tree, whether in bloom or not.
The sight of the house warmed her heart. It was a rambling, well-worn house, that looked as if people enjoyed living in it. A large verandah ran round the house to minimize the heat on a summer’s day. Though it was in New South Wales the house was termed a Queenslander, and there were squatter’s chairs and a few comfortable lounges strewn casually around. It was a house to be enjoyed and allowed people to spread out, and it seemed like a veritable bush castle after apartment living in Sydney.
As they got out of the truck and walked around, she was amazed at the size and the height of the rooms. All of the furniture was old-fashioned, but it fitted perfectly into the house. There were six bedrooms and three bathrooms that were spread throughout the place, and an enormous kitchen with a wooden stove and pots and pans hanging in disorder from the ceiling. The living room was also immense, with a fire-place in the middle, and the dining room table and ten chairs were early Australian furniture.
“You can see why we have been trying to get you to come up and visit us,” laughed Uncle Harry, “we could house the entire Australian cricket team here. They built these places for big families in the old days. Now your room is over there, Faith, and should be enough for you to spread out.” She walked into the room, which had a bea
utiful canopied three-quarter bed with a settee at its foot, and a large old dresser and make-up table was nearby. She smiled.
“It is beautiful,” she said enthusiastically, “and I am in love with the whole house.”
“We sort of like it too”, replied Auntie Joan. “It’ll only take a day or so to get used to the place, and as you can see you will not be bumping into people all the time. It is great for Harry and I when we have an argument. You just retreat to the other end of the house and it takes a half an hour to find you!” They all laughed.
“And the visitors’ room is nearby,” said Auntie Joan, “where your Mum and Dad will be.” They walked into another enormous room, with handicrafts very tastefully placed throughout. It contained a grandiose old bed, and there was a large settee and two large chairs by the wall.
“I do not think I will make it home to our flat after all this,” said Faith’s father. “This room alone is almost as big as our place.”
“Now how about a cup of tea and some scones?” said her auntie, “it will bring you back to life after the trip. Nothing like a good cup of Bushell’s to get everyone back on their feet.”
In no time they were sitting around the dining room table, the hot tea reviving them. It took almost no time for her auntie to fetch the scones, and they all piled the home-made cream and strawberry jam on them.
“It has been years,” said Faith’s father, gesturing towards his brother, “since we have had a good chin-wag.”
“Too bloody long, and the years are slipping away. It just seems bloody yesterday when I had to wipe your bloody nose and make sure you would take your weekly bath.”
“The Saturday bath,” laughed her father, “I had almost forgotten. How times have changed.”
“Yeah, times were bloody rough in those days. But you can all rest bloody easy. You can have a bath twice a week up here, and you do not have to use the same bloody water like we used to.”
It was the first time Faith had seen her father so animated. He was usually reserved and deliberate, but as the memories started coming back and the stories were exchanged he grew younger in her eyes, and she watched her mother listening, her eyes glistening with love for her husband. Faith could not remember her father ever saying much about his early life, and as she listened she realised how difficult life had been for him and yet how interesting it all was.
“To-morrow I will drive you around the bloody property. It ain’t bloody much by some of the standards round here, but we run a few bloody hundred cattle and a couple of bloody cows, and a few thousand bloody head of sheep. Keeps us bloody going, anyhow.”
That night, after a rest in their rooms, the women all came into the kitchen to help with the Sunday dinner: vegetable soup, roast lamb with baked potatoes, beans and squash, and home-made apple pie and cream.
While the women cut up the vegetables the men sat on the verandah drinking beer, their legs elevated on the so-called squatter’s chairs. There was a visitor who was there as well on that first Sunday, a tall, thin, blonde, good-looking man of about 35, who was introduced to all as he rode up on his horse.
“This is Toch, Toch Christensen. He is like one of the family and is always dropping in. He is a regular on Sunday, but it seems like whenever he is bloody short of food he comes over here cadging some off us and drinking our bloody beer. Lost his wife a few years back.”
Toch shook hands all round, but hardly said a word. Uncle Harry said he was the area’s best horse rider, and would go out every now and then and round up the brumbies, or wild horses. Visions of ‘The Man from Snowy River’ raced through Faith’s head as she looked at this stranger, who was shy with the company but had obviously been looking forward to meeting them.
“Pleased to meet you all,” he said quietly, with a slight Danish accent, drawing up his long frame and averting his eyes slightly. “We don’t get much company out here, have not seen a city slicker in years.”
It was the best meal Faith could ever remember having. All her worries were at last partially behind her. She felt safe and warm and comfortable and loved, and when she went to bed and drew her mosquito net around her, and listened to the chirping of the insects and the quietness of the country, she fell asleep dreaming of Mark.
Mark had stayed on the deck of the Lakemba as long as he could, endeavouring to catch the last glimpses of where Faith had been, and of Sydney Harbour. As the ship approached the Heads, the swell increased and Mark started to feel a little queasy. Fancy me getting sea-sick, he thought, I am in the water four hours a day. He waited until the ship cleared the Heads, so he could see the rugged cliffs and the water pounding against them, trying to cram the last memories of his home-land into his head, endeavouring to miss nothing.
As he got further out the waves became more regular and uniform, and his queasiness disappeared. The wind and occasional spray revived him. He felt very much alone, and he knew Faith must be feeling the same way. Four years, he thought, four years! It is a long time to be away from her, as well as my family and friends. It is all up to me now, he thought. Nobody can study for me, as they could not swim for me. He suddenly felt frightened. I wonder whether I am good enough? I have got to be good enough, I have to be, I could not return to Australia as a failure. I must be successful. The significance of his decision to leave Australia was suddenly driven home to him, and the uncertainties started to cloud his mind. He knew he was undertaking an adventure more challenging than his swimming had ever been. There was still the thrill of swimming, but now there was university, and academic work. What did I want to do in life, he conjectured? I would like to do what Terry did, coach swimming, help young boys like myself, but there is no security to be gained in that. All the coaches seem broke to me, and they are up in the early hours of the morning and work all day. Teaching in the schools would not be bad, the hours are regular, and the work could be very rewarding if you were good at it. For every good teacher there seemed to be about three poor ones in his experience. He wondered why some ever chose teaching. So many seemed disinterested in their work, had no rapport with pupils, and did not keep up with modern ideas. But the good teacher could make a classroom sparkle, could infuse ideas and humour and concern and make the students want to work for him or her.
As for business, he thought, I just could not see myself in that. Business, insurance, law, public relations? None of these appealed to him, but he knew little about them. He would just wait and see. He liked the idea of two years of general education, during which time he could weigh things up and see how his interests changed.
After considering his future as the Lakemba slowly took him away from his country of birth, he went to his cabin and propped himself up in his single bed and wrote to Faith.
My dearest Faith,
I waited on deck until I could see you no longer. I just wanted to catch a last glimpse of you. Maybe it was my imagination, but I seemed to see you alone on the wharf. Perhaps it was how I wanted to remember you, waiting for me, alone and in love.
This trip is a great challenge for me, and I have to respond to that challenge with every ounce of my energy. It is my one chance to be somebody in the world, not just a swimmer. I have to do well. I am giving you up for four years, and surely that is enough of a sacrifice for any mortal. I do not know how I can stand being away from you that long, but I have to be realistic and face up to it. All I know is I feel honoured to have known you like I have the last few years. It is as if you were a beautiful and rare flower, and I was the only one in the world who could see you and appreciate you. I never thought love could be like what we have experienced. All I know is I dedicate myself to you. You are the only woman I shall ever know intimately. I simply would not tolerate being close to anyone else after the experiences we have had. I shall treasure every one of them.
I was completely taken aback by the telegrams and letters, and the people at the wharf. There was such an unbelievable response from people I did not know. I feel very humble about it all, it has certain
ly made the sacrifice and the effort all worthwhile. I love Australia, the “sunburned country”, in a very different way, of course, to how I love you. I feel very privileged to have represented the green and gold at the Olympic Games, and winning two golds was beyond my expectations.
Now I am sailing away, from the country and the woman I love. I am human enough to wonder if I have done the right thing, but I am also realistic enough to know the transiency of youth and athletic fame. So many athletes, greater than I will ever be, have come and gone, and very few are remembered with the passing of time. In my heart I know that, but I will miss you deeply, as well as Australia itself. The sun, the beaches, the fish and chips, the familiar faces, the trams, the Domain, the Circular Quay, Coogee, Bondi and Maroubra, the images of them all and so many more are dancing about in my head, but they are merged with visions of you, my loved one, my beauty.
So the boat wends its way away from you, for me to start a new life. But you are part of that new life - you are my lynch-pin, my driving force, my motivation, my hope, my constancy.
Remember me, my darling, as I remember you - beauty, purity, innocence. You are the cornerstone of my life - I love you, love you, love you.
Mark.
When Mark went down to dinner that night, all heads turned, and everyone introduced themselves in turn. They had come out to Australia from San Francisco, indeed he was the only new passenger. They were all very much older than he, and all quite wealthy. They had become tired of the large cruise ships, and were searching for cargo ships that took a few passengers, so as to have unique travelling experiences. There was Hymie and Jean Klein - “the pocket-knife king of San Francisco, son” - both over 70 years of age, who were very pleasant and played canasta by the hour. Two other Californians were a sun-tanned couple of about 65 years, Al and Marjorie Schmeiser, and Mark quickly became a good friend of theirs. Mark marvelled how the Americans dressed and looked younger, and he shook his head as he thought of his own grandparents and how they looked.
