Worth Fighting For

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  WORTH FIGHTING FOR

  MARY-ANNE O’CONNOR

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  About the Author

  Mary-Anne O’Connor has a combined arts education degree with specialities in environment, music and literature. She works in marketing and co-wrote/edited A Brush with Light and Secrets of the Brush with Kevin Best.

  Mary-Anne lives in a house overlooking her beloved bushland in northern Sydney with her husband Anthony, their two sons Jimmy and Jack, and their very spoilt dog Saxon. This is her second major novel; her first, Gallipoli Street, was published in 2015.

  Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor

  Gallipoli Street

  For Mum, Dad and my aunts and uncles.

  The golden generation.

  Sometimes, in order to find yourself,

  you must first become truly and utterly lost.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Part Three

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Part Four

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Part Five

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  One

  November 1941

  Braidwood, New South Wales, Australia

  Junie Wallace was a smart girl. Smart enough to know that taking her cardigan off that afternoon was out of the question, despite the heat. Ernest Farthington’s gaze bore down on her like a second sun and she pulled the buttons closer to the eyelets, hugging her arms tight; blocking every part of her person as best she could.

  She forced herself to focus on the countryside instead. The aspect from the long, dark-bricked verandah was lofty and expansive, taking in the many hundreds of acres that made up the Farthington estate, but Junie had never felt the peacefulness of it. On the contrary, it had always felt as if she were awaiting sentence on behalf of the rest of the town here as the Farthingtons sat in judgement upon their high throne.

  If the place itself lacked the serenity it deserved, the view was still unquestionably beautiful. Braidwood slept in a green and gold sea of soft-blanketed pastures, the cattle fat and lazy in the sun. The spring sky blazed with only distant tufts of clouds on its edges and a lone eagle glided against it in perfect, graceful arcs, rising to where the surrounding hills stood guard, shrouded in eucalypt haze. Junie breathed the hay-scented air deeply, envying the eagle, flying with it in her mind’s eye. Over the stately house, the barn, the stables, the nursing paddock and milking sheds, out above the blue hills and far to the right where Michael Riley rode on horseback, rounding up yearlings beneath his wide-brimmed hat. She wished for some excuse to bring him closer, wondering if Mrs Constance Farthington, the mistress of the homestead and Ernest’s mother, ever offered refreshments to their hardworking staff on hot Saturday afternoons. It was unlikely.

  Henry Wallace was talking about the war, as usual, and well into his cups, which was also usual. Junie wished her father would stop. It was all he ever spoke about of late, mostly in comparison to his own experiences during the Great War.

  ‘It’s a simple matter of following formula: lead from the front, protect your flanks and make sure every man knows his duty.’

  Generals can’t win wars without soldiers who follow orders, and soldiers can’t win wars without generals who know how to give them, Junie predicted.

  ‘Generals can’t win wars without soldiers who follow orders, and soldiers can’t win wars without generals who know how to give them,’ Henry declared.

  ‘Quite right, quite right,’ agreed Colonel Humphrey Farthington, who usually supported Henry’s views so long as they promoted the ideals of ‘the good old days’. He puffed on his pipe as he nodded and Junie wondered if his moustache would catch alight today. Watching the Colonel’s grey handlebar whiskers begin to smoke was always the highlight of any social event for Junie and her brothers. The sight of him stomping about, red-faced and goggle-eyed until someone found some water and doused him made for great amusement. It usually left him resembling a bedraggled, astonished-looking house cat, and it certainly ruffled the feathers of the queen pigeon that was his wife, Constance.

  The memories turned melancholy and Junie sighed, a familiar pain surfacing. How she missed her three older brothers. The youngest, Frankie, had been killed in Tobruk and the other two, Archie and Bill, were still away at war in Syria. Surely it would end soon. Surely that was enough for them to give.

  ‘If every man knows his duty, plans can be executed and followed. Not this blind-leading-the-blind nonsense we’re seeing now…and they can’t keep using inexperience as an excuse any more,’ Henry thundered on. Junie felt a pang of pity. Her father was far worse since Frankie was killed, blaming blundering leadership for the loss of his youngest son. She had stopped trying to ask him about the running of the farm or their finances – there was little point; it was as if he had retreated into a world of whisky, anger and grief and nothing else mattered, except the echoing pain in his wife, Lily’s, eyes.

  ‘Would the young lady care for a walk?’

  Junie jumped at Ernest’s request as he stood before her, lean and immaculate in his uniform. No desert warfare for him – Ernest’s military career had been carefully plotted right from the start, when he’d made himself indispensable to his university professors and networked his way into the higher echelons of the AIF. Somehow Ernest Farthington had managed to make the war a stepping stone in his political career, spending his time far away from actual conflict and deep in the battles of the boardrooms.

  ‘I, uh, have a slight headache I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘Might just sit and finish my book.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear – the walk will do you good. You’re spending too much time burying yourself in those damn books. Worst thing you ever did, letting her into our library,’ the Colonel chastised Ernest, but in a good-natured way.

  ‘Junie has a way of charming us with her clever mind, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should disallow it. She may leave us all for university at this rate,’ Ernest said, smiling, his mouth thin in his otherwise handsome face, his black hair oiled and sleek. He gave Junie the unnerving impression of a snake.

  ‘Bah! Women in universities. Absurd notion,’ puffed the Colonel.

  ‘Not so absurd for those who can afford it,’ Mrs Constance Farthington said, overhearing as she came through the parlour doors with her twin daughters, Isabel and Ursula. She
was followed by Junie’s mother, Lily, who blushed at the thinly veiled reference to the Wallaces’ currently precarious fiscal state. ‘Both the girls are considering furthering their studies.’

  ‘What would you study?’ Junie asked Isabel, surprised. Neither Isabel nor Ursula were remotely academic.

  ‘Books,’ Isabel replied, appearing quite sincere in her answer.

  ‘They have a very big library at the Sydney University,’ Ursula added.

  ‘Do they?’ Junie said, trying not to smile.

  ‘Perhaps we may even spend some length of time in the city,’ Constance said smoothly. ‘I do so miss Jane Chamberlain and the girls are simply dying to see Eliza.’

  Junie scoffed internally. Constance was the biggest name dropper who ever lived and she sincerely doubted the queen of the social aristocracy in Sydney, Jane Chamberlain, gave two hoots about this snobby country nobody and her dim-witted daughters. As for Eliza Chamberlain, the lady in question’s daughter, it was well known that she was the darling of the Sydney scene, witty and elegant, and surely far above socialising with the vapid Farthington twins from Braidwood.

  ‘Can’t see the point in educating females. Waste of money,’ the Colonel said, banging his pipe on the rail.

  ‘Humphrey, not on the white paint,’ Constance admonished, barely concealing her customary impatience with her husband.

  ‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ Henry agreed, ignoring Constance. ‘What’s the use in filling their heads with academic ambition when they’ll never use it?’

  ‘Some end up using it,’ Junie said, bristling.

  ‘Not many,’ Ernest said in a tone that suggested he found the concept amusing.

  Junie’s face warmed. ‘Well, we may not all be able to use it but that doesn’t mean we should be denied the right to enjoy it. Besides, more and more women are taking on professional roles with so many of our men off at war.’

  Henry muttered something about that being an unnatural state of affairs and Lily placed a hand on his arm. ‘You forget how well Junie did at school. Your daughter has a wonderful mind, dear,’ she said softly.

  ‘Pity she wasn’t born a boy then,’ Henry said with a sigh, glancing at his wife, who was slim and pale in her black mourning clothes. His expression softened. ‘Ah, she is a bright one, our Junie,’ he said, bestowing a brief smile on his daughter. ‘Her brothers could probably do with some of her nous but there it is. They’ll do well enough…if these blasted fools in Syria can get their act together.’

  ‘No university for either of them, then?’ Constance asked, already knowing the answer. Neither Archie nor Bill was likely to pursue further studies, detesting any activity that deprived them of the outdoors. Of the three of them, only Frankie had shown any interest and there had been some talk of him pursuing a writing career after the war. Sadly, all that was left now were his letters – still too painful for Junie to re-read.

  ‘My sons are farmers and fighters,’ Henry proclaimed, pride and grief shooting across his features at the thought of the three that were now two. ‘No shame in that.’

  ‘No, no shame in that, sir.’ The Colonel nodded. ‘And damn good with the football too. Looking forward to the end of this blasted war so we can have our rugby champions back.’

  What’s left of them, Junie thought sadly, missing those halcyon days herself.

  Constance arranged her skirt as she sat next to Lily, looking smug and unable to resist adding a few more boasts about Ernest’s academic achievements. The twins had positioned themselves on the stairs to whisper and giggle and Ernest stood near Junie, ignoring his mother. Junie could feel his eyes upon her and she pulled her cardigan close once more, wishing she could shroud herself in a blanket and deny him any view whatsoever.

  ‘Did I tell you Ernest has been persuaded to sit for parliament after the war? The general has great faith in him,’ Constance said.

  She had. About fourteen times in the past two weeks, by Junie’s count. She continued her game of prediction: I swear that boy was born to run the country.

  ‘I swear that boy was born to run the country,’ Constance said in conspiratorial tones. ‘Knew it from when he was a little fellow and he used to write his own declarations of independence and post them about the house. Little scamp!’ She laughed.

  Little troll more like, Junie thought. Ernest had spent a good part of their childhood ordering them all about, her brothers included. Not that he’d had any success there – the three Wallace boys had made short work of the scrawny, spoilt pest that was Ernest Farthington. Images of Ernest telling Frankie to fetch his horse and finding himself pushed straight into the manure pile caused her to smile.

  Unfortunately, Ernest mistook her look of amusement and pressed again. ‘The pups are coming along, Junie. Seriously, you must come and see them.’ He offered his arm in anticipation.

  ‘Such a charmer. Don’t be too flattered, June,’ Constance said. ‘Half the girls on the Sydney scene have their cap set at him, including Miss Eliza Chamberlain.’

  Junie sincerely doubted that too. ‘Junie,’ she corrected. Constance was the only person who ignored her preferred nickname.

  ‘Of course, Junie,’ Constance conceded with an icy smile. Junie knew that Constance disapproved of Ernest’s interest in her. She would never consider Junie a suitable match for her wonderful son, the future Prime Minister of Australia. That would be a role for the Elizas of the world.

  Ernest waited and Junie really couldn’t think of a way to refuse him again, especially as everyone knew she adored animals, dogs in particular. They took off towards the barn as Henry’s commentary on the war recommenced and she was glad to at least be spared that.

  The feeling of reprieve didn’t last long.

  ‘You really should wear your hair up, Junie. It won’t do to have it wild like a country bumpkin when you go to Sydney.’ He flicked at a tangled brown curl and she shied away.

  ‘I don’t know for sure that I’m going –’

  ‘Of course you do. Once we’re married you will need to set up house in the city. It won’t be logical to have you all the way down here once the war is over.’

  ‘I thought you had changed your mind about State Parliament,’ she said, avoiding the dreaded subject of marriage.

  ‘No, as soon as the war ends, State is the logical first step, then maybe an overseas post before I pursue Federal in Canberra. I expect we’ll have children by then and the country respects a family man.’

  ‘Ernest, I haven’t said yes…’

  ‘You will.’

  His confidence irked her. ‘Your mother will object.’

  ‘Then she will have to get used to it.’

  ‘Ernest, I – I am not so sure I –’

  ‘I saw a house in Mosman this week that should suit. No water views but the street is home to several respectable families – and it’s near the ferry, which will be handy. The bathroom needs attention but it does have a decent-sized formal dining, which would seat a dozen or so quite comfortably…’

  As he prattled on, Junie had a vision of hosting dinner parties with Ernest at the head of the table: the men discussing politics and the ladies in obliging costume, afraid to comment lest they appear unwomanly; the husbands looking down the necklines of other men’s wives.

  Suddenly it was unfathomable.

  ‘Ernest, I can’t marry you,’ Junie blurted, shocked by her own admission, her heart racing.

  Ernest slowed his steps and studied the horizon. ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because…I don’t think I’m ready for marriage yet. Perhaps next year,’ she said lamely, knowing that was weak defence against his store of artillery.

  ‘Out of the question. I need to settle before the war ends and that’s bound to be soon. Besides, you’re eighteen now and I’ve waited long enough. We’ll set up house this summer – that should give you enough time to get the wedding organised.’ He slapped his hand against his thigh, killing a fly, and Junie felt her life as equally uni
mportant to this man. She fought an impulse to turn and run to the hills. To the man on horseback who offered the alternative she so craved.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it –’

  ‘You won’t be thinking about anything because there is nothing to consider.’ Ernest’s tone was still light but the set of his mouth betrayed his mounting temper. ‘You seem to be forgetting your father’s debt.’

  She hadn’t forgotten. Everyone in town knew the Farthingtons had bailed her father out in recent months – without them they would have lost the farm.

  ‘I didn’t do it to be neighbourly, Junie,’ he said, stopping altogether as they reached the barn. ‘I did it for you.’ He turned her towards him, his fingers pressing into her flesh.

  ‘Not for me. You did it to own me.’

  He half-smiled at her words, pulling her towards him in a sudden movement and forcing his mouth on hers. She twisted in revulsion but it only dug his hands deeper into her arms.

  ‘I do own you, Junie,’ he said in quiet fury, shoving her back. ‘Set the date for March. We’ll announce it next weekend.’ Then he turned and was gone.

  Next weekend: the parish dance. The event she’d long been looking forward to was now something to dread as the future rolled towards her, like a dark storm menacing a summer’s day. She rubbed absently at the imprints of Ernest’s fingers on her skin as she looked towards the barn – straight into the eyes of Michael Riley.

  A little black body dived into Michael’s lap, where two other silky pups rolled about, tumbling backwards, their tiny tails wagging. He gently picked one up and Junie watched his hands, tanned and work-callused, and so different to the ones that had bruised her moments ago. He hadn’t said anything about what he’d witnessed and she didn’t know what to say if he did.

  One of the pups bounded over to her, and began to tug on her hair, pulling the last of the curls from their pins. The others seemed to think this a brilliant idea and she tried to disentangle herself in giggly objection as three small sets of teeth wrestled for the right to swing about on her long waves.