by JH Fletcher
On and on, crooning, soothing. He never responded or spoke but eventually fell asleep in her arms. Ruth lay, cramped and uncomfortable, not daring to move, while the first glimmer of a merciless dawn stole through the bedroom window.
Later that morning Ruth stood in a wedge of shadow cast by the overhanging eaves of the farmhouse and watched as Dougie crossed the paddock towards the house. He lurched crabwise on his poor legs, arms flailing, wasted trunk breasting the air like a clumsy swimmer. She remembered him on the beach in Malacca, running so lightly that he had seemed barely to touch the ground. Thirty years old. If that. He was an old man, warped and broken. As for his mind … That was another story, indeed.
Ruth remembered how she had felt when she had received the letter refusing the Hirschmanns entry to Australia. In Burma she had spent terrifying weeks trying to escape from the advancing Japanese army, had seen in the body of the crucified priest the atrocities of which its soldiers had been capable. Now, as she watched Dougie’s struggles, her mind seared by memories of the previous night, she renewed her acquaintance with evil. Saw its face, felt its stinking breath upon her skin, tasted it upon her lips.
She could have come to terms with wounds, even with the prolonged atrophy of hope and life that they must inevitably represent. The accidents of war, even those deliberately inflicted in battle, were tolerable, as the aftermath of an earthquake or cyclone was tolerable. This was different. The systematic, malignant infliction of pain, the malevolent maiming, was something she could not accept.
The sun beat down from a heat-white sky. Calmly and deliberately she cursed the Emperor of Japan and his bestial battalions that had brought this evil into her life.
Ruth knew now what she had to do.
‘It’s madness.’
‘He’ll be a millstone around your neck forever.’
‘He’s halfway round the bend. More’n halfway, you ask me.’
‘See him fitting in round here? Do you?’
‘We always wanted you to have kids. But with this bloke, I dunno …’
‘Going to support him all your life, that it?’
Even Patty was doubtful.
‘Whatever you want to do’s all right by me. You know that. But are you sure? You’re young, you’ve got a life to lead, things you want to do. Your writing, all that. You know what you’re taking on?’
Dorrie said, ‘Bring him to see me.’
Ruth did. They stayed a week, Dougie on his best behaviour.
At the end of that time Ruth and Dorrie walked together around her garden. Above them the forest trees watched.
‘Don’t do it,’ Dorrie said.
Ruth stared at her. Dorrie’s approval meant so much, the thought that she might withhold it unbearable. ‘I thought you at least would understand.’
‘I do. You want to cure him.’
Skin paper-thin, Ruth resented what might be criticism. ‘Is that bad?’
‘Far from it. But it’s got nothing to do with love.’
Love will come. Ruth willed it but could not bring herself to say it.
Dorrie said, ‘You’re afraid if you turn him down you’ll add another wound to everything he’s suffered already.’
The truth pierced Ruth. ‘I can’t say no to him, Dorrie. Not after everything that’s happened.’
Dorrie was implacable. ‘You must. Pity’s no basis for a marriage.’ She took Ruth’s face in her hands, looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Do you love him?’
Eyes captive, Ruth nevertheless summoned the will to lie. ‘Yes.’
Dorrie watched her a little longer then laughed dismissively and released her. ‘Marry him, then.’
It was not enough. ‘With your blessing?’
‘You already have that. You will have it all your life.’
Not on me. On my marriage. But could not bring herself to say it.
They walked slowly but the air was not peaceful between them.
‘There’s a saying,’ Dorrie said. ‘Be careful what you ask for in life, because you will surely get it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Have you thought,’ Dorrie asked, ‘that you might damage him more by saying yes than by rejecting him?’
Ruth would not admit it even to herself. ‘I have not thought it. It isn’t true.’
‘He’s badly damaged.’
‘That’s not his fault.’
‘I never said it was. The way he is, I’m afraid you’ll be taking on more than you can handle.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Without love no one can handle it. Love can grow, of course,’ she added doubtfully.
‘But not with Dougie?’ Ruth did not attempt to hide her resentment.
‘Never. Neither you nor anyone else can love nothing. And underneath all Dougie’s pain that’s what there is. Nothing.’
‘You don’t know him,’ Ruth protested.
‘Because there’s nothing there to know.’
Ruth remembered everything that had happened between them. The meal at the Chinese stall under flaring lanterns, the walk through frangipani-scented darkness, the embraces beneath the ancient walls of the Portuguese fort.
Nothing to know?
It was true she didn’t know much. He had told her nothing of his past, his plans for the future. But that was because in the beginning there had been no time, she told herself. No point planning for a future that might not exist. And now he was too sick. She would not press him about anything at this time.
‘You should not offer up your whole life on trust,’ Dorrie said.
‘Was that why you wouldn’t marry Ted?’ Ruth was hurt, the question spiteful.
Dorrie laughed. ‘The exact opposite. Marriage needs excitement to get it off the ground. Surprises. I knew Ted too well. There were no surprises left.’
‘Perhaps I find Dougie exciting. Have you thought of that?’
Dorrie shook her head. ‘You’ll have to nurse him. Nursing’s an arduous profession. I’d never have said it was exciting.’
But Ruth was committed with her head if not, altogether, with her body.
‘With this ring I thee wed …’
She stood, white veil, anxious parents, in the little church built almost a century before. She waited for the awe, the sanctity, of marriage to uplift her. Felt nothing.
They turned. Together. Dorrie’s hair flared its orange fire in the shadowed church. The aisle, the blur of faces, seemed endless. A symbol of what lay ahead.
They walked out into a drizzle of rain. Above them pine trees leaked dampness.
They were all there, smiling, laughing, wishing the bride and her husband well. Her parents. His aunt, with whom he had told Ruth he had never got on, here out of duty and showing it. Dorrie, Aunt Laura and Uncle Fred. Patty Clark and Johnno. A mob of old mates. Mrs Hillier, razor tongue and spiteful eyes. Her son, Andrew, who six years before had started the stoush in the Institute, who’d been running the family farm ever since his old man kicked the bucket back in 1943. The chairman of the Council who later, in the hall, proposed a series of toasts.
To the bridegroom. Who has suffered so much in the cause of freedom. To which all of us are wedded.
To the bride. A beautiful girl we have seen grow from childhood to maturity. A prize for which her new husband is no doubt duly grateful.
To the parents. Who have gained a son.
Of whom nothing, nothing, could be said.
Her father embraced her, awkwardly, patted her shoulder. He smelt of tobacco, hay, his seldom-worn suit. He did what he could to hide his doubts about this cripple she had chosen to marry, his concern for who would run the farm in the years ahead. ‘All the best, girl.’
In a beer-strong aside that Ruth was not supposed to hear Andrew Hillier said, ‘Just look at that cove. Ole Ruthie crosses her legs at the wrong minute, she’ll snap him off like a carrot.’
Dorrie said, ‘Love can grow. You’ll make it work.’
Patty said, ‘Go
for it, mate. With a bit o’ luck he’ll surprise you. I know Johnno did me.’ And elbowed her husband, winking lasciviously.
Ruth would not allow herself to think of Richard. Who might be dead. Who now, for all practical purposes, was dead.
SIXTEEN
He was not.
By the middle of 1946 Ruth, convinced that her writing was going nowhere, was in despair. The book she had started with such confidence had become a morass of conflicting characters, muddled motives, indecisive and ambiguous dialogue. Descriptions lacked clarity and were in any case too long. The storyline was incomprehensible.
She despaired, put it aside, took it up again. The story nagged her until she hated it yet would not let her alone. It was a birth without hope and without end.
She walked far into the Ranges. It was pouring with rain. Lakes of standing water reflected the slate sky. Gum trees, shoulders hunched, leaked rain. Ruth walked and walked, despairing of her life and where it was taking her. If anywhere.
If her writing was in trouble, her relationship with her husband was worse.
Have you thought that you might damage him more by saying yes than by rejecting him?
Dorrie’s words had come true. Because of love, Ruth thought. Not hers; his. Dougie’s love was destructive in its intensity. It set her higher than she could hope to be, demanded as much in return. Dougie loved her, idolised her, sought to possess her utterly, expected the same from her. She could not give it.
‘We are one,’ Dougie insisted. ‘Now and forever. Through eternity.’
They were not. Nor did Ruth wish them to be.
‘I am not you or anyone. I am me.’
Dougie would have none of it.
‘One flesh, one mind, one spirit.’
His eyes glowed. The intensity of his feelings pierced the cloak of security she had woven about herself since the war’s end. There were times when he frightened her, when she believed the force of his obsession might stifle her.
‘I can’t bear being shut up in a box. I’ll die.’
He did not understand her. Or refused to do so.
She was no longer free.
‘Is it so much to ask?’ she wept aloud to the dark and saturated trees. ‘I would give him love, if I could. All the love in the world.’ But could not. Knew, too, that however much she gave him he would always demand more.
He was so sensitive, his awareness honed to needle sharpness; he became jealous, not of another man but of Ruth herself for not having within her the capacity to love him as he demanded. He became sullen, resentful. There were times when she thought he hated her.
If Dorrie had been nearer she might have gone to her yet was glad it was impossible. The marriage had been her decision, taken in defiance of Dorrie, of all of them. Of her own instincts, too, perhaps. She must resolve her problems for herself. If they could be resolved.
She went to see Patty who, with Johnno, had scratched together enough money to put down a deposit on a farm of their own on the western side of the Kapunda Range.
‘Grazing country and rock, most of it,’ Patty said cheerfully, ‘but it’s a start.’
From the first Ruth and Patty had found a friendship that both knew would be lifelong. She will help me, Ruth thought. I will say nothing but she will sense it anyway, will at least be there. She will provide me with comfort and understanding. But was too proud to say anything and Patty, newly pregnant, glowing and contented in her marriage, picked up no vibes.
She thinks everyone’s as fulfilled as she is, Ruth thought as she drove home again. She wished it were so but it was not. Would never be so, she believed. She did not know what would become of either Dougie or herself.
The screams, the drenching sweat and thrashing, tormented body. The nightmares. Not only when sleeping.
Dougie crouched in a corner of the darkened bedroom, making himself small. Drawn into himself, legs drawn in, arms wound tight as bandages about his body. He was an ant. A grain of dust. A nothing.
The images screamed, vivid as blood.
Lewis dragged out. By his feet. Head bump, bump, bump on the stone steps of the jail. Himself running, wild to kill, snatched from behind before the soldiers could see him.
‘No, you don’t,’ the voice growled in his ear. Tom Biddle, his mate. ‘They’ll shoot you too, you try anything.’
Dougie huddled, hands over his ears, eyes screwed tight, waiting.
The crash of gunfire.
He hammered the wall, crying. ‘Lewis …’
Who had been dead three years now.
Ruth held him, trembling, weeping, wondering frantically, What do I do?
The book was half finished, if a book half unwritten could be called finished at all.
Ruth prowled, wondering. She knew no one in the industry. There were publishers in Australia, she supposed, although every book she saw seemed to come from England.
It makes sense to use the one contact I have, surely? she asked herself.
But was reluctant. He would think it an imposition, presuming on a chance wartime acquaintance. He would think it was dreadful, appalling. She hated the possibility of that. If I am going to be eviscerated, let it at least be by a stranger. But knew of no strangers interested enough to read it.
She was frightened of writing to him. Of finding, too late, that he cared. Of finding he did not.
Made herself do it, despite everything.
Mr Richard Hudson …
How strange it looked. How terrifying in its conflicting portents of achievement and catastrophe.
She wrapped the typed manuscript, put the letter with it, sent it by airmail. It was vastly expensive but, having made the decision, she had to know as soon as possible.
She waited.
Weeks passed. Every day she waited for the post van, told herself not to get her hopes up, was helpless to prevent it.
Then, one day, a letter from London.
She shut her eyes as she held it, felt herself trembling. She thought, I have never seen his writing.
Dougie eyed the envelope with resentment. He had become utterly self-focused. Nothing could compete with his own problems. He expected all her attention to be directed at himself.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s from the London publisher.’ From Richard, she thought. She laughed unconvincingly. ‘He’s probably written to tell me how awful it is.’
‘He?’
‘The publisher.’
‘Aren’t you going to open it, then?’
She had hoped to do so in private but saw there was no hope of that.
She slit the envelope. Pulled out the letter. Read it.
We believe this has the potential to become one of the major works to come out of the war, Richard wrote. Even incomplete it is stunning in its power and insights, the redeeming quality of hope that shines through even the most traumatic of the episodes suffered by your characters, who themselves are sensitively drawn. We congratulate you on your remarkable achievement. If the remainder of the work lives up to the promise of what we have seen so far we shall be delighted to publish the book on your behalf.
Ruth stared, mesmerised, at the words. She tried to speak, could not.
Eventually managed to say, ‘I feel sick …’
‘What do they say?’ Dougie asked impatiently.
She felt the beam on her face as she turned to him. ‘They like it.’
Later, in the security of the bathroom, she read it again, gloating. And the note that Richard had pinned to the bottom of his official letter.
I could not believe it, hearing from you after so long. I’ve thought about you so often and everything that happened in the jungle and afterwards. I thought of writing to the Australian Nursing Service to see if I could get hold of you but was afraid you might think it a bit of a cheek. And now you write to me! It has given me such pleasure. The pleasure of catching up with you added to the joy of discovering a writer of such extraordinary talent. I look forward eagerly to hearing fro
m you again as soon as possible. And a personal note to tell me how you have been doing since last we met would be delightful, too.
I must be careful, Ruth thought. If Dougie sees this there’ll be trouble. She was reasonably sure that Dougie looked through her papers when her back was turned.
That night Ruth lay in bed, drifting in darkness. At her side Dougie whimpered, twisting in his sleep. Behind her closed eyelids she saw glory, golden lined. I have laboured in glory. Someone had said that. Steinbeck? For the first time she understood what he had meant.
Such extraordinary talent.
Richard’s words danced before her amazed and grateful eyes. Not only those words.
I’ve thought about you so often.
Richard who, at the end of that long march’s agony, when for the first time they had dared believe in the possibility of survival, had stroked her breasts, had eased her from her clothes and in so doing from fear and despair. In the fulfilment of physical union he had brought them both into the light.
Ruth. She heard his whisper. Ruth.
A memory that had gone and was suddenly alive once more.
Ruth settled into a routine that acquired a solidity of its own around which the rest of her day revolved. Up at five, shivering in the end-of-winter dark, going sweatered into the room barely larger than a cupboard where she worked. A table and chair, a scrap of rug for her feet. Otherwise nothing, neither picture nor ornament nor photograph. Each morning she sat alone, trying to wrench truth from a fabric of make-believe.
I have laboured in glory.
Dougie resented the ritual from which he was excluded. In the beginning he attempted to disrupt her work by making repeated demands on her attention. At first she humoured him but came at length to realise that she must stand up to him.
‘I need this time,’ she told him.
‘And I need you.’
He was willing to give her nothing. The realisation hardened her.
‘You must not come in here while I’m working.’
The red hair, powdered with grey now, bristled. ‘You are my wife.’
‘I cannot survive without space. My work is important to me.’
