by JB Rowley
When I looked at a little boy walking on the footpath I saw Bertie. I ran toward the child but when I was very close I could see it wasn’t Bertie. When I saw a little girl with her mother I saw Audrey. I hurried to her, to pick her up, to play our little game together once more, but as I got closer I could see it wasn’t Audrey. When I saw a little baby in its mother’s arms I saw Noel, my baby, my lost little baby and I ran. I ran to that child with my arms raised but when I got closer I could see the child was not Noel. I saw the look of fear in the mother’s eyes as she clutched the baby tightly and backed away from me. And the tears welled in my eyes. I know that fear. I’ve felt that fear.
Mum tried to help. I wonder I didn’t take her path. You know she took to the drink after you died but it hasn’t helped her so what was the point?
I could not talk about it. No one could understand. Mum? She cannot feel my pain, can’t even feel her own pain. Cousin Lily, whose life revolves around dancing and flirting with handsome soldiers. Her greatest pain is not having the right dress to wear. All I could say to her was, “I miss my kids” and cry. And dear Lily put her arms around me and held me tight. Dear Lily. But crying isn’t enough.
The pen fell from her hand and she slumped over the desk. After a few moments she sat up, realising that despite her exhaustion she also felt a lot better, the way a weary camel might feel with its load removed from its back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To my wife, Myrtle Bishop nee Webb. I hereby declare our marriage officially over. You have clearly deserted me, your husband, by shamelessly betraying me. On my return to Australia I will seek a divorce and make arrangements for the upbringing of the children.
Henry’s letter, written on AIF stationery, had taken months to reach her. Myrtle crumpled it in her hand and pulled off her gold wedding band. She flung them both into the bin. She turned to Lily who sat beside her.
“I will never be such a fool again, Lily. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. I never thought Henry would do the wrong thing. I thought he and Shirley were company for each other when I couldn’t go out. It never occurred to me that people would be so nasty and deceitful. I’m in this mess because I was a stupid fool. My kids have suffered because of me. That will never happen again.”
“You can say what you like Myrtle, but you are not a fool. You are a very nice person. Henry Bishop is not! And neither is that mother of his, I’ll tell you that!”
She stood up.
“Come on Myrtle, you need some fresh air.”
She took Myrtle’s arm and steered her out of the house. They walked arm in arm along the street. When they reached the park Lily pointed to an empty bench and they sat together soaking up the spring sunshine. Speckled brown butterflies fluttered over the flowers. After a long and comfortable silence Lily turned an eager face toward Myrtle.
“Myrtle, you must come and meet George,” she said. “He’s such a lovely boy—different somehow. He’s from a little town in Victoria.”
Myrtle smiled. She was happy her cousin had found someone she liked but she did not feel like meeting new people or making conversation with strangers. Handsome soldiers, dances, parties and picnics did not interest her. Lily was trying to cheer her up, she knew, but she just didn’t care. What did these things matter when she couldn’t have her kids with her?
“All the girls swoon over him, Myrtle. You must meet him.”
Myrtle smiled and shook her head but Lily, fired with enthusiasm by her attraction to the young soldier from down south, was persistent. In the end Myrtle allowed herself to fall victim to Lily’s persuasive charm.
“You need to get away for a bit, Myrtle. A change of scenery will do you good. George usually comes over on Friday evenings. You’ll meet him then.”
And so Myrtle found herself once again on the farm she had often visited as a child, where she and Lily had shared so many happy times; chasing the poddy calves, looking for tadpoles in the creeks, climbing trees and scaring magpies and cockatoos. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Dorothy Anderson welcomed her sister’s daughter warmly. When Myrtle saw her aunt, her short fair hair curling back from her face and those familiar twinkling blue eyes that revealed her kindness and motherly attitude to all God’s creatures, Myrtle was suddenly struck by the physical contrast between the two sisters, her mother and her aunt. Auntie Dot was as tall and stout as her mother was tiny and thin. And yet there was a family resemblance. Something in the way they moved, the turn of the head and the way they smiled.
Dorothy Anderson’s organisational skills, developed from years of experience helping her husband run the farm, were now being put to good use for the war effort through her work with the Women’s Voluntary Service. She supervised and helped with the making of cups of tea, sandwiches and beds for soldiers on leave and ran a sewing group at Beehive Chamber making socks, slippers, handkerchiefs, balaclavas, scarves and various other items of clothing.
“You stay as long as you like, Myrtle pet. You’re always welcome here.”
It was typical of Auntie Dot’s thoughtfulness that she did not mention Myrtle’s troubles with her marriage or the children. Her aunt simply gave her a long hug to let her know she understood.
“I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of tea,” she said.
It almost felt as if the clock had turned back. Those few years of marriage with Henry might never have happened except for the ache she felt at missing her children. The familiar surroundings of the farm and the happy memories it stirred relaxed her. She walked with Lily in the mornings and watched the men milking in the afternoons.
To her surprise and the family’s delight she found her appetite starting to return. What a different experience it was sitting at the meal table with the Anderson family. They laughed and chatted with each other. Dorothy Anderson smiled indulgently when her husband, Jack, teased his daughter about having the boys buzzing around like flies.
He swung his tall body and pointed to the photos of his sons in their AIF uniforms, sitting on the dresser.
“Those two,” he said. “They’re doing a fine job, fighting for the country. I’m proud of my kids.”
He turned to Myrtle, kindness reflected in his blue eyes.
“And you little Myrtle. It’s a treat to have you with us again. We don’t see enough of you these days.”
Myrtle blushed, feeling a tingle of pleasure hearing him call her little Myrtle again, the family’s affectionate nickname for her. For the first time in years she felt safe and protected.
“You know Mr Singh still calls here, Myrtle,” said her aunt.
“Yes, you know—Singsong,” said Lily eagerly. “And he still asks me where my sister is!”
Myrtle laughed. She remembered Singsong, the Indian hawker who called by regularly in his horse and covered wagon. He saw Lily and Myrtle together so often he thought they were sisters. When they explained they were cousins he shrugged.
“Sister, cousin, it’s the same,” he said, showing his white teeth in a happy smile.
He hummed a little tune as his wagon rattled down the long driveway to the house and these familiar sounds alerted the household to his arrival. Auntie Dot’s eyes would light up. “Here comes Mr Singh,” she would say excitedly, anticipating the wonderful goods she might admire in his wagon, some of which she would purchase. Myrtle and Lily giggled at each other the first time they heard his name thinking it was a nickname he had earned because of his humming. After all Sing wouldn’t be a real name. When he had set up his wagon with all the wonderful wares displayed for Mrs Anderson’s perusal, he turned to her.
“N K Singh at your service, Madam,” he said bowing so low Myrtle thought his hat (which he later told her was called a turban) would fall off but it remained securely set on his head.
The flaps from the sides of the wagon had been pulled back to reveal all manner of beautiful fabrics, clothing, jewellery, pretty handkerchiefs, hat pins and a wonderful array of colourful bangles
on one side. On the other side pots and pans and other household goods were displayed in wild assortment. His visits to the farm were the cause of great excitement for Lily and Myrtle and they loved to clamber to the back of the wagon to investigate the drawers of lace, cotton, darning wool and best of all, the amazing assortment of ribbons. The first time she saw him Myrtle hid behind her aunt’s skirt, frightened by his dark skin and strange attire. After overcoming her initial shyness of him she became fascinated by this tall man with the dark skin and regal manner. Mrs Anderson always made him tea on the veranda and Myrtle and Lily would sit on the step and listen to his talk. He told them amazing stories about tigers and elephants. One day he told them he had been married at the age of seven. Lily and Myrtle, both of them still under the age of ten at the time, thought that was a huge joke. They shrieked with laughter at the prospect of being married so young. Mr Singh looked very serious and turned his head several times half shaking, half nodding.
“It is true,” he said. “This is true in my country.”
When Lily asked her mother about it later she smiled and brushed it aside.
“Mr Singh was just having a little joke with you,” she said.
Warmed by the happy memories of Old Singsong’s visits in days gone by, Myrtle smiled.
“He must be pretty old by now,” she said.
“Well, he looks just the same as always,” said Lily.
She moved her head the way Mr Singh used to; half nodding, half shaking. Myrtle suppressed a giggle and Lily lowered her head so that her mother would not see her mirth. Dorothy Anderson would not approve of them poking fun at Mr Singh or anyone else for that matter.
When Friday arrived Myrtle was feeling almost her old self again and to her surprise realised she was looking forward to meeting Lily’s young man. George arrived just after four in the afternoon. Myrtle had very little interest in men but she agreed with Lily that he looked very handsome in his uniform. He was tall with dark hair and sultry brown eyes. When Lily introduced him to Myrtle he gave her a dazzling smile.
Lily’s mother made tea and served generous slices of home-made fruitcake, which George ate with obvious enjoyment. While they talked, Myrtle studied George quietly. His relaxed, confident manner made him easy to like. He radiated an inner strength, as if he knew the life that had been mapped out for him was a long, safe and secure one. Not even Hitler’s bombs or enemy guns would harm him, thought Myrtle. With his good manners and thoughtfulness he was a stark contrast to Henry. He offered to help clear the table. Henry would never have even thought of that. Lily’s mother declined his offer.
“No need, thank you George. Lily, why don’t you take George down and show him the new little foal?”
“Oh yes,” said Lily. “You must see the little foal, George. Come on Myrtle.”
“I’ll catch you up in a minute,” Myrtle said. “You and George go.”
Myrtle remained in the kitchen with her aunt. They watched the pair walking away from the house toward the back paddock. Lily’s mother sighed.
“He’s a nice young man,” she said. “A bit serious though. I hope he’s not setting his cap at Lily.”
“She likes him.”
“Yes, but she’s not ready to settle down. She likes all the attention of course and with so many soldiers in the town she gets plenty of that.”
Myrtle smiled.
“Lily is so beautiful. I bet all the soldiers are chasing after her.”
Dorothy Anderson smiled proudly.
“She is beautiful and nice with it, that’s the important thing.”
Then she slipped her arm around Myrtle’s waist.
“And so are you, my dear,” she said softly.
After dinner, the sound of an army truck rattling down the road and the toot of its horn signalled it was time for George to leave, but not before Lily’s mother had laden him with a basket overflowing with scones and cakes and fruit from the orchard to share with his mates back at the camp.
That night Myrtle and Lily chatted in their shared room, their single beds close together separated only by a small dresser between them. They lay with the light out, the darkness of the room brightened by the soft white glow of the moon.
“Well, Turtle, what did you think of him?” asked Lily as soon as she had snuggled under the covers. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“Yes, Lily. He looks very handsome in his uniform. He seems like a nice boy.”
“Well he was quite taken with you; that much I can tell you.”
“With me? What are you talking about?”
“He was asking about you. I just told him you are my cousin and my very best friend. I think he likes you though.”
“Lily! What nonsense!”
“It’s true Myrtle. He said you reminded him of a bird with a broken wing. A lovely bird.”
“Lily! He’s your beau.”
“No he’s not Myrtle. I’ve told him he can’t get serious about me. I’m too young to settle down. I just want to have fun.”
Myrtle heard her giggle mischievously in the darkness.
“Having him as my friend makes all the other girls jealous!”
Myrtle was silent. She had no intentions of taking up with any young man, tall dark and handsome or otherwise. Besides she was still married even if it wasn’t a real marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A couple of weeks later she was riding her bicycle down to the shops when an army truck slowed down beside her. She looked across as it passed and saw George grinning at her from the passenger seat. The truck pulled to a halt a short distance ahead of her. By the time her bicycle was parallel with it George had opened the door and stepped out. He looked right into her eyes and smiled at her. She felt a tingling in her stomach. Surprised at her own reaction she blushed and smiled shyly.
“Hello, Myrtle.”
“Hello, George,” she responded gaily. She adopted a cheeky façade to hide her embarrassment. “Have they set you loose?”
He smiled. She felt the warmth and kindness in his eyes. Almost against her will she found herself willing him to stay and talk to her.
“No,” he replied, pointing to the driver.
Another young soldier sat behind the wheel. He lifted his hand in greeting and smiled at Myrtle.
“We have a delivery to make in town,” said George.
Her feet didn’t seem to want to move. Looking up at him she suddenly realised that he was indeed the sort of man women dreamed about. She lowered her eyes not knowing what to say next. He stood awkwardly for a moment. He gave the front tyre of her bike a light kick with his foot.
“Nice bike.”
She shrugged.
“It’s just a bike.”
“Well, I envy you. I used to ride my bike a lot back home.”
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“I don’t suppose you could find me a bike to ride could you?”
Myrtle blushed and lowered her eyes.
“Well,” his face became serious. “I just thought, I mean… it would be nice to go for a ride now and again, that’s all.”
Myrtle hesitated, thinking of the bicycle that had belonged to Mrs Mathews’ husband, now sitting unused in the shed at the house where she was staying with her mother. She felt a strong yearning to spend more time with this warm and kind young man. But was it right? Then she remembered the cold formal letter from Henry.
Conscious of George’s eyes on her Myrtle set her lips in determined rebellion. She lifted her head and tossed her hair flirtatiously as she looked into those sultry brown eyes that seemed to search her soul.
“I might be able to find a spare bicycle,” she said.
The smile that lit his face was irresistibly infectious. She found herself smiling back at him as though they had known each other for years.
“That’s better,” he said. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile properly. I reckon you need cheering up. I’m just the man to do it.”
Myrtle looked up quic
kly, the smile fading, fear in her eyes.
“It’s all right,” he said raising his hand slightly. “If you do have a deep dark secret that makes you sad no one’s told me what it is. I just get the feeling you need cheering up, that’s all.”
Myrtle’s fear subsided. She instinctively gripped her ring finger wondering if she should tell him she was married. Then she laughed up at him gaily as he climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door, leaning his elbow out the window.
“Are you good at cheering people up?” she asked.
He smiled slowly.
“Just wait and see,” he said.
“Lily did tell me one very important thing about you,” he called with a grin as the truck slowly pulled away. “Your telephone number.”
Myrtle smiled and settled herself back onto her bike. As she pushed the pedals and gathered speed she felt the wind caressing her hair. For the first time she noticed the bright yellow of the wattles growing by the side of the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Flattered by the attentions of the handsome soldier, Private George Rowley, Myrtle accepted his friendship. He insisted on spending all of his free time with her. She agreed to see him except for visiting days with the children telling him she had a sick aunt she had to visit. Truth had always been important to her and she marvelled at how easily the lie fell from her lips. For the new Myrtle, she decided, lying was acceptable in some circumstances. Being truthful certainly hadn’t done her any good and she knew that people often lied when they felt it necessary. Believing honesty was the best policy had been her stupid mistake. Well, she had learnt her lesson. Besides, if that was the Christian way... well, look at the Christians; preaching one thing on Sundays and doing something entirely different the rest of the time. There was no Christian love for fellow beings in the way people treated her when she fell pregnant, or any other girl who fell pregnant out of wedlock. And Henry, the biggest liar of all, swearing Noel was not his child, that they hadn’t slept together, hadn’t shared a bed so the baby couldn’t be his. What a clever deceit that was; a way of turning the truth into a lie. It was true they slept in separate rooms and he had used that truth to make it seem like they had never done it since Audrey was born. And look at how well that was working for him. His lies had won him the right to take her children away. With the help of his mother he would probably get custody of their children while she, who had believed in telling the truth, had to suffer the awful heartache of losing the three most precious things in her life. Despite her rationalisation that there was no harm in a white lie she remained troubled by pricks of guilt piercing her conscience but she pushed this aside resorting to the childhood trick of crossing her fingers behind her back to undo the lie.
