The Year It All Ended

by Kirsty Murray

  ‘Aren’t you going to wear a coat?’ asked Tiney.

  ‘I’ve a shawl,’ said Minna. ‘Let’s not fuss. It’s only the pictures. No one can see us in the dark anyway.’

  ‘Papa says we shouldn’t be going at all. He’s worried we’ll catch the Spanish Influenza.’

  ‘Papa loves to worry. There are no cases in Adelaide yet and the Health Department says they won’t close the picture palaces as long as they’re disinfected every morning, so it must be safe. I think Papa’s more worried about the McCaffrey brothers than the flu epidemic. He’d refuse permission if it weren’t for the fact they’ve just come back from the war. You have to admit, George is a little frightening.’

  ‘The epidemic frightens me a lot more than George McCaffrey. This morning’s paper says millions of people are dying from it all around the world.’

  ‘Stop it, Tiney!’ said Minna. ‘After all these years of worrying about the war do we have to talk about more death and destruction?’

  At that moment, Nette and Ida burst into the room and flung themselves on the bed, laughing.

  ‘Are you chaperoning us too?’ asked Tiney.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ida. ‘Keeping an eye on you lot is too much responsibility for poor little Nette.’

  ‘I can’t imagine George will like us so thoroughly outnumbering him,’ said Minna.

  ‘He should be grateful to have five gorgeous women in his company,’ said Ida. ‘And doesn’t Minna look exquisite! I’m so glad to see you’ve given up on black. The prices being charged for it are ridiculous and besides, Adelaide has been awash with women in mourning for far too long.’

  Then Ida caught Tiney’s look of disappointment, as she pulled the collar of her coat higher to disguise her black dress. ‘I didn’t mean you, Tiney. You look like a lovely French schoolgirl, not a drab widow.’

  When the doorbell rang, the girls hurried into the hall. It felt odd outnumbering the boys. But then that was how it was going to be from now on, thought Tiney, two girls for every boy. Nette and Ida each held Tiney’s hands and hung back so that George offered his arm to Minna while Frank escorted Thea.

  ‘Why are we bringing up the rear?’ asked Tiney, wishing the men could have a girl on each arm.

  ‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ said Nette. ‘Ray will be home soon. I don’t need to be on any boy’s arm. And you’re still too young to even be thinking about having a beau.’

  Tiney thought briefly of the soldier on Armistice Day who had tried to kiss her, and smiled to herself. Then a terrible thought gripped her. What if that was as close to a kiss as she’d ever get? What if the man who was destined to love her was lying dead beneath the cold mud of France or Belgium or beneath the cliffs at Gallipoli?

  ‘As for me,’ said Ida, interrupting Tiney’s thoughts, ‘I’m holding out for a dashing European or a charming member of the English gentry.’

  ‘When are you going over to France?’ asked Tiney.

  ‘We’ve had to put our plans on hold until the flu epidemic eases,’ said Ida. ‘People are dying like flies in England and there are so many ships in quarantine that we can’t leave. It seems we’ll be waiting forever.’

  ‘Not forever,’ said Tiney. ‘Who knows? Maybe by the time the flu epidemic has passed, we’ll be going too.’

  Ida glanced at her, bemused, and Tiney realised Nette must have told her of Tiney’s impossible dream.

  They climbed off the tram at the corner of North Terrace and then sauntered along Peel Street and into Hindley Street. The Wondergraph was lit up with a thousand electric lights. Frank said it was the most opulent picture palace in the whole country, and Tiney could believe it. George and Frank bought tickets while the girls stood together in the bright foyer.

  It was strangely empty inside the theatre. It smelt so strongly of disinfectant that Tiney’s eyes stung. Hundreds of seats were vacant. Some people were wearing cloth masks over their mouths and when a man sitting in the front row coughed into his handkerchief, the people next to him stood up and changed seats. Then the orchestra struck up the overture and the lights dimmed.

  There were two short films before the opening credits of the main feature. A line of beautiful young women danced across the screen and then threw off their gowns to reveal close-fitting bathing suits and bare arms and legs.

  Tiney leaned over and whispered into Nette’s ear. ‘I thought we were going to see Charlie Chaplin!’

  ‘That’s showing at the Pavilion,’ said Nette. ‘George insisted we see this instead. He’s mad about Mack Sennet’s movies.’

  Tiney knew Papa wouldn’t be happy about George’s choice. The movie was called Ladies First but there was nothing polite about the way the actors behaved. Bathing beauties danced on beaches, handsome men in tailored suits lounged in bars admiring bare-shouldered women in satin gowns in a world far removed from the quiet of Larksrest.

  Suddenly, Minna laughed aloud and Tiney saw her lean forward in her seat. A curl of hair lay dark against her white neck and her face looked so beautiful in profile, so much lovelier than any of the women on the silver screen, that Tiney smiled. In the same instant, she felt a flicker of unease. She wasn’t the only one admiring Minna in the half-light. George was gazing at her too, his pale eyes strangely empty in the flickering light from the screen. He slipped one arm around the back of Minna’s seat but then caught sight of Tiney watching him, scowled and withdrew it.

  Tiney was glad when the film was over and they could escape the theatre and breathe the warm evening air outside. Soldiers wandered the city streets, some with laughing women on their arms, some alone. One stood on the corner of Rundle and King William Street, singing ‘On the Road to Gundagai’ with his slouch hat held out in front of him. Tiney felt embarrassed when she realised he was supporting himself with a crutch. It was less than three months since the war had ended. How could a war hero have to sing for his supper? Frank stopped and took a shilling out of his pocket and put it in the busker’s hat. Then he took his hat off, as if in solidarity.

  ‘Thanks, cobber,’ said the soldier.

  The five girls walked slowly to the tramstop while George strode ahead. Tiney glanced back. Frank and the singing soldier had their heads inclined towards each other, their faces sombre. In the gold and orange glow of the streetlight Frank’s hair shone like copper. Tiney had never noticed how handsome he was before.

  When Frank caught up with them he began to apologise.

  ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ said Minna, resting her hand lightly on his arm.

  ‘He was a good bloke, that soldier. He fought at Bullecourt but spent the last year in Blighty, in an English hospital. Poor fellow lost his leg but now he’s having trouble getting a pension. They reckon he’s able-bodied and should be working.’

  George laughed, that dry, angry bark that Tiney had noticed when he’d come to visit them at Larkspur. ‘There are plenty of stronger men who can’t find employment. He’s better off on the street.’

  ‘George,’ said Nette, ‘my Ray has taken up land at Cobdolga with the soldier settlement scheme. You should look into it.’

  George looked at Nette darkly. ‘Your Ray is a mug. Percy would never have signed up for that rort.’

  Nette blanched. She had wept every night for months after Percy died at Gallipoli, and no one spoke his name in front of her any more. Frank stepped between his brother and Nette, and Tiney looked for the lights of the tram, as if for a ray of hope in the darkness.

  Keeping promises

  Mama was on the telephone, chatting in German to Tante Bea, when Nette and Tiney came into the hall to hang their coats and hats after a morning shift at the Cheer-Up Hut. Tiney was pleased. It had taken their mother a very long time to become accustomed to using the daunting black box. But Nette was furious.

  ‘Ma! Don’t you read the papers!’

  Mama stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked up in surprise. Nette took the receiver from her mother and spoke directly into the pho
ne. ‘Auntie Bea – you can’t speak German on the telephone to Ma. And she can’t speak it to you. They’ve banned it. War precautions – it was in the paper last month. No one is to speak German on the phone. The operators at the exchange will report you!’ Then Nette hung up.

  Ma sighed. ‘But the war is over.’

  ‘Not until the Germans sign a treaty. It’s only an armistice until then.’

  Mama gave Nette one of her faraway looks, an expression that they saw all too often now.

  ‘Why don’t you come out with us to the station to meet the train this afternoon?’ asked Tiney, gently.

  Mama shook her head. ‘I have to finish my embroidery,’ she said. She gathered up her sewing basket and went to sit in the parlour. More and more of Mama’s days were consumed with embroidering small sayings onto offcuts of black cloth left over after Minna had made everyone’s mourning dresses. Since the news, Mama had changed. New lines had appeared around her mouth and eyes, like hairline fractures. It was as if, on that day when she fell to the kitchen floor, something deep inside her had torn apart and no matter how many embroidery samplers she made, nothing could stitch shut the wounds.

  Tiney leaned over her shoulder and read the newest quote. ‘In the far graves the voices break: He is asleep; he will not wake.’

  ‘Oh, that’s from Mary Gilmore’s poem, isn’t it?’

  Mama nodded and handed a copy of the poem to Tiney. It had been carefully cut from a newspaper.

  ‘This was is in the book of poetry that I gave to Paul,’ said Tiney, scanning the lines of ‘These Fellowing Men’, a poem about young soldiers buried in European graves. Emboldened, she knelt down beside her mother. ‘Mama, I have an idea. It’s something for Louis. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. We should all go to France together, to find his grave.’

  Unexpectedly, Mama laughed. She put one hand on Tiney’s head and stroked her fair hair. ‘Liebchen, this is an impossible dream.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be impossible. The Alstons are going. We could go too!’

  Mama frowned and picked up her embroidery. ‘No, Martina. We must hope they send him home to us.’

  ‘But they won’t send him home! That’s impossible. Tens of thousands of men died, Mama. They won’t send any of them home. Please, Mama. We could draw on your trust fund. We could all go before Nette gets married.’

  ‘Martina! Das reicht jetzt!’

  Mama only called Tiney by her full name when she was angry, and only spoke to her daughters in German when she was distressed. Tiney had never heard her speak with such rage to anyone.

  Tiney ran to her room and flung herself onto her bed, sobbing. Minna came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her back.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tiney? What’s happened?’

  Tiney sat up and rubbed her tear-stained face. ‘Mama shouted at me.’

  Minna laughed. ‘Mama never shouts. What did you say to make her so cross?’

  ‘I told her we should go to Europe for Louis’ sake. All of us, to find his grave. The Alstons are going to find Charlie. We should go too.’

  Minna cupped her hand around Tiney’s chin and tilted her head upwards. ‘Darling, that’s a mad idea. It would cost a fortune.’

  ‘We could write to Onkel Ludwig and ask him to give us Ma’s trust funds.’

  ‘What would we live on when we got back?’ asked Minna. ‘Mama’s trust fund isn’t so big, you know. We couldn’t manage without it. We certainly can’t live on the little bits of money I make teaching, and as much as I love your poems, I’ve never heard of a rich poet.’

  ‘Perhaps I could be like Jane Eyre and find a position as a governess.’

  ‘Jane Eyre only had to take care of herself. And who would support Ma and Pa when they are old if there is no trust fund? Thea and I can take care of ourselves and Ray will take care of Nette. I’m sure you’d make a very good teacher or governess, Tiney, but you wouldn’t earn enough to support anyone except yourself. And if you marry, then you’ll have to quit your job. That’s the law. And will your husband want to support his new in-laws?’

  ‘No one’s ever going to want to marry me,’ said Tiney. ‘I’m too small and plain and dowdy. You and Thea and Netta and Mama and Papa, you’re the only ones that matter to me. If we could go to Europe together it would fix us, it would fix everything.’

  ‘We’re not broken,’ said Minna. ‘And someone will fall in love with you, Tiney. Seventeen is too young to give up on love.’

  ‘You sound just like Nette. But she wouldn’t be marrying Ray Staunton so quickly if she wasn’t heartbroken about Percy,’ said Tiney, sitting down on the end of the bed and folding her arms across her chest.

  ‘I’m not like Nette. I’m not getting married just for the sake of it. If George McCaffrey thinks I’ll have him, he’s crazier than he looks. I may never get married. And maybe you and Thea won’t either. But that doesn’t mean we’re broken.’

  ‘But without Louis, it’s as if there’s a big hole in the middle of our family, in the middle of me. My chest hurts all the time, as if my heart’s been torn out.’

  ‘Don’t, Tiney! If I think too much of Louis, a great black cloud swallows me up.’ Minna suddenly looked much older, her whole body limp with grief.

  From the back of the house, they heard Nette calling for Tiney. It was time to go and meet the train that was bringing Nette’s fiancé, Ray Staunton, home to Adelaide.

  ‘Will you come with us to meet Ray?’ asked Tiney.

  ‘No,’ said Minna. ‘I have students this afternoon and besides, I couldn’t bear it. Every soldier that comes home reminds me that Louis never will. But it’s important that you go with Nette. She’ll need you. You may be our baby sister, but you know we all count on you, Tiney.’

  The station was crowded with people, mostly women: sad old ladies, plump mothers and glamorous flappers. Dozens of children darted excitedly up and down the platform. The stationmaster looked exasperated, as platform passes were supposed to be banned because of the flu quarantines. Everyone had been instructed to not throw confetti, in case the soldiers were still suffering shell-shock. Nette and Tiney pushed their way through the throng and stared along the tracks to see if the train was in sight.

  Ray’s ship had docked at Fremantle weeks before but all the men had been quarantined. When Ray finally got a clean bill of health, he and the other soldiers had to travel by train to reach Adelaide as the ports were closed.

  Some men had dozens of family members and they waved welcome banners high. Others, like Ray, had only one or two people waiting for them. Tiney was glad she was there. Ray had no family to celebrate his return.

  Three years ago, Ray had proposed to Nette in large scrawly handwriting looping across crumpled pages. He’d written from the trenches, just before he was about to go ‘over the top’.

  Minna had tried to stop Nette from accepting. ‘You can’t marry him!’ she’d said. ‘You barely know him.’

  Nette replied that she could hardly refuse a man when he might be about to die. Percy McCaffrey had been dead a year and Nette wrote her reply without knowing whether Ray had survived the charge.

  Tiney remembered the exact moment when Nette had opened Ray’s letter announcing that he’d survived the battle and was glad she was promised to him. Nette’s expression had been hard to read. She had neither smiled nor wept, but simply folded the pages neatly and tucked them into the pocket of her apron. Then she’d looked up at her parents defiantly and said, ‘Ray and I are engaged to be married.’

  Now, waiting on the railway platform for Ray, there was a wide-eyed anxiety in Nette’s face. ‘I don’t even know if I’ll recognise him,’ she whispered.

  Nette had dressed carefully in a pale green frock with white batiste at the collar and cuffs, and a new close-fitting cloche hat with a dark green bow on the side. Around her neck she wore a simple necklace with a brown chiastolite stone pendant set in silver. One of the other Cheer-Up girls had told T
iney that chiastolite was good luck. Nette proposed that each sister chip in to buy one of the stones and then they could take turns wearing the pendant, as they couldn’t afford to own one each. The sisters agreed it was only right that Nette should wear it for Ray’s return but Tiney thought the black cross at the centre of the stone looked onimous rather than lucky.

  ‘It feels like a party, doesn’t it?’ said Nette, anxiously smoothing down a strand of fair hair that had escaped from her cloche hat. ‘Perhaps we should have simply married on the railway platform!’

  ‘Maybe you should wait,’ said Tiney. ‘Ray can go ahead and build his house and then you can get married next year, after he’s sorted a home for you both.’

  ‘Ray wants to get married straight away. He wants us both to be in Cobdogla by the end of the month. He signed on to the scheme even before he left London.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ll leave us so soon,’ said Tiney.

  Nette put an arm around Tiney’s shoulders. ‘I know what the others think,’ said Nette, touching the chiastolite pendant. ‘But Ray is good and kind. I don’t care if he’s not the brilliant man Pa thinks I should marry. I will help make him whoever he wants to be.’

  ‘But you don’t have to do it straight away. You could tell him you’re still in mourning for Louis.’

  ‘Tiney, you don’t understand. Marrying Ray will bring me one step closer to Louis. Through Ray, I can make up for all that we lost when Louis died.’

  Tiney couldn’t quite see the logic in this line of thinking. She pressed her lips together to stop any contrary words escaping. It came again, that wilful, irrepressible thought, crowding in on her – the longing to drag Nette away, to take the whole family on a ship to Europe.

  A shout of welcome went up from the crowd, drowning out the screeching of the train’s brakes. Then men began pouring onto the platform, larger than life in their slouch hats and uniforms, their kitbags on their shoulders. Families surged forward to embrace their sons and wives their husbands.