Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  ‘He was here and the army didn’t tell me.’ Tears welled in Bess’ eyes. ‘Can the army do that, not tell me?’

  ‘The army can do whatever it likes. And it does.’

  The two women sat in silence. Magpies warbled and a slight breeze caused pine needles to float to the ground around them.

  ‘Jock’s been unwell for a time. That’s why he was discharged.’

  Bess slumped on the seat, head bent, twisting one of the sodden handkerchiefs between her fingers. She looked up at Joan. ‘I received a letter telling me he was coming back to the Repat, but I wasn’t allowed to meet the hospital ship at Port Melbourne. The letter said I wasn’t authorised to see him until I received another letter. That arrived yesterday. I came as soon as I could.’ Bess turned to face her friend. ‘Joanie, he didn’t recognise me.’ She dabbed her eyes.

  ‘He will, Bess, he will. He’ll get well again, just you wait and see.’

  ‘His ribs and shoulders stick out.’

  Joan watched her friend struggle with the news of her husband’s prolonged illness. She didn’t have the heart to tell her what she’d read in his records:

  … this man appears too debilitated and rather too old for further service … Involved in an accident in NG … Upset by this. Married, one child … Court Martial charge still pending.

  * * *

  2 Jackson, R 1997, The Broken Eighth, A History of the 2/14th Australian Field Regiment, Darwin – New Guinea – New Britain, Clipper Press.

  3 Fuzzie-wuzzie was the term Australian soldiers called the New Guineans.

  AFTER THE WAR

  5 November 1945

  THE KIDS IN THE street had been building it for days. Old fence posts, split palings, blown bike tyres, broken wooden boxes, couch cushions with stuffing and springs spewing out the sides, had been thrown in a heap on the spare block next to the dairy.

  The first one in six years and everyone in the street was excited – adults as well as children. Life had been austere for too long. Grown-ups were looking forward to a reason to come together to laugh and share something other than sadness, grief and fear. Another signpost the war was over and everyday celebrations could be part of the regular rhythm of life.

  Bess spent tuppence on a box of sparklers when she picked up her milk, bread and dripping from Mrs Mac’s on the corner. As she left the grocer’s, she bumped into Dorothy. ‘Will I see you at the bonnie tonight, love?’

  Bess nodded and smiled. ‘The young bloke’s looking forward to it – his first. So am I, I have to say.’

  ‘Will your Jock be coming along?’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘I’m pleased; I look forward to meeting him.’ Dorothy smiled and made her way up the street.

  Jock had not long returned from the hospital when he, Bess and Cleary moved back into a cottage in Anne Street. It was similar to the one they had lived in after they married. He had been welcomed home by the neighbourhood. Before he enlisted, he always had time for people and was interested in their lives. His witty one-liners and strong Lancashire accent and strange pronunciation of words intrigued them.

  Not so now. He became irritated and offhand when people wanted to chat. Since his return, he kept indoors, sat in the lounge room smoking and staring. He knew he had to make a living for his family. The mill said his job was waiting for him, but he found it difficult to move back into the swing of life. Money saved from his earnings while he served was dwindling. Bess’ part-time job housekeeping brought in a few shillings a week – rent money.

  On cracker night, the three of them ate their tea together in the usual silence – corned beef, mashed potatoes and peas. Bess cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, bathed Cleary and dressed him in his pyjamas, dressing-gown and slippers. She changed her clothes, brushed her hair, freshened up her lipstick and flicked lavender water over her face and clothes. There weren’t many opportunities to dress up and she looked forward to the three of them going out together – the first since Jock’s return. She stuffed the sparklers into her handbag and called out, ‘I’m ready, love.’

  Smoke wafted through the open flywire door. Chatter from families walking towards the spare block floated along the hall. Reg, Harry and Ed stopped at the front gate and yelled out for Cleary.

  ‘He’ll see you there,’ Bess called back through the screen door.

  Jock met her in the hallway wearing his singlet, trousers and slippers. A burned-down cigarette hung on his bottom lip.

  ‘You and the boy go without me. I’ll stay inside.’

  ‘I thought we could do this as a family.’

  ‘I said, not tonight, Bess,’ he snapped, walked back to the lounge room and turned up the wireless.

  It had been like this since he returned. Her husband was a ghost of the man she had known before he signed up. He was quick to anger and a different man from the happy, witty, loving person she had married.

  He’ll get over it, she told herself. Just takes time to adjust.

  But he was different. When rats nested in the back shed, he waited in a dark corner with a piece of wood. Blocked all holes but one, and when the rodents scurried out he took to them with the four-by-two, bashing and swinging until they were more than dead. They were splattered against the walls, tools and stacked wooden crates. Night after night, he visited the shed until there was none left.

  It’s sport to him, Bess thought.

  He’d go to bed late and wake a few hours later crying out and sweating, his chest heaving as if he were taking his last breath.

  During the day, he was preoccupied and sat on the couch with a vacant look on his face. Bess thought he didn’t want to be home and was reminded of stories she heard of other women’s husbands who had cleared off weeks after their return to civilian life. And Margie, from the church, said her husband sat at the kitchen table and drank beer, from breakfast to bedtime. He had been in New Guinea too.

  Bess closed the front door behind her and took Cleary’s hand. They walked along the path and through the small front gate. The latch clunked. The aroma of burning wood and rubber became stronger the closer they got. The fire roared and crackled. Bits of debris flicked into the sky. The heat forced people to keep their distance. Bess’ face flushed. When penny-bungers or double-bungers exploded or Katherine wheels lit up the sky, turning it pink, red and blue, people screamed and cheered. Cleary held her hand even tighter and sometimes wrapped his arms around her thighs. Dogs howled somewhere in the distance. Bess lit Cleary’s sparkler then her own and stood with Dorothy and the children. She slipped her arm through Dotty’s and whispered in her ear, ‘He just didn’t want to come. He’s not the same, Dot, since he’s returned. He’s a stranger.’

  Dorothy squeezed her friend’s hand and said, ‘It looks as if we’ve both lost our husbands in this blasted war.’

  The children held their sparklers, mesmerised by the dancing flames in front of them. Before too long, the bonfire began to subside, and Cleary tried his hardest to stay awake. Bess could tell by his leaning on her and his constant yawning it was time for bed. He was nearly asleep on his feet. After bidding their farewells, mother and son walked back to the house.

  Bess could hear the wireless as they came up the front path. She opened the flywire door, walked along the hall and took her son to the outside toilet. Back in Cleary’s bedroom, she undid his dressing-gown and slipped it over his arms, pulled back the sheets and blanket and helped him climb into bed. His forehead was still warm when she kissed him and his hair smelled of smoke.

  Crackers exploded up and down the street. A faint odour of gunpowder drifted through the open window. She turned out the light except for the child’s rabbit night-light and pulled the door to, though left it ajar as was now the custom since Jock’s return. Bess knew Cleary wasn’t used to sleeping on his own.

  She walked along the hall and opened the doors to the lounge room. The sound of an American big band blared on the radio. She walked to the sideboard and reduced the volume.
Jock’s feet and legs poked out from behind the couch. She pulled back the settee and found him on the floor, sobbing, rocking and holding a cushion over each ear. Bess sat on the floor next to him and waited until the noise of exploding crackers stopped before she removed the pillows. She lifted his head onto her lap and stroked his damp hair. They stayed on the floor in silence for what Bess thought an eternity.

  In time, they sat silently on the couch together holding hands. She turned and looked at him. ‘It’s time you told me what’s happened.’ She paused, waiting for a response. ‘I’m not leaving here until you do.’

  They sat looking at one another. Neither of them spoke.

  The familiar dreaded fear stuck in his gut, his chest tightened and tears formed behind his eyes. His breathing became deeper and he began to rock back and forth.

  Through sobs, long silences and tears he told his wife the most painful and shameful of secrets …

  Return from deployment – Lae 1943

  Broom walked past lines of soldiers and inspected each man’s gun. He stopped in front of Jock and ordered him to remove the magazine from his Owen. Broom checked to see no rounds of ammunition were left in the barrel. He continued the inspection until every man’s gun had been checked. When finished, he walked to the front of the line-up and shouted, ‘Weapons cleared. Dismissed.’

  As Jock turned to walk back to his tent, he heard a loud, sharp, crack, a sudden pain pierced his ears and something warm covered his face. The barrel of his gun stank of gunpowder. He caught a whiff of the rusty, salty odour of fresh blood, burned flesh and singed hair. He wiped his cheeks and mouth, looked at his hand. Flesh and bone splinters covered his muddied fingers, gore splattered his shirt. He saw Joe Forrester fall forward, face first in the mud. The side of his head blasted, shattered as if an eggshell. Blood oozed from the gaping wound. The back of his neck and upper shoulders were covered with blood and bone fragments. His once strong shoulders, used to hoisting railway sleepers onto trucks and slashing bamboo stalks in one swoop were now lifeless, a palette of red, pink, grey and black. Blood seeped into the mud.

  Everything slowed, as if Jock were in a slow-motion picture. What little strength he had, left his body, and he dropped to his knees; his thoughts ran into one another, jumbled words whirled around in his head. No. I’ve shot Joe. I’ve killed him. No, please God, please God, no. He opened his mouth to call Joe’s name, but no sound came. In his mind he called: Joe, Joe, Broom cleared my gun. His mouth was open, but still no sound. He wanted to say, I’m coming, I’ll help. He crawled on all fours to where his friend lay in the mud. Jock sat cross-legged and scooped him under his shoulders, pulled him against his chest, supported his head as if he were a newborn. Broom cleared my gun, Broom cleared my gun. Blood seeped through Jock’s fingers and onto his shirt. Joe’s eyes were closed, his breathing became deeper and faster, it decreased, stopped, started again. Breathe mate, breathe. Jock tried to say Joe’s name, but still no voice. Seconds like minutes, minutes like hours. No going back. Jock was dizzy, his head pounded, he wanted to vomit.

  Through the fog and noise, he heard men screaming and swearing, ‘Get the fucking medics.’

  Jock stared into Joe’s face, nursing and rocking him back and forth, back and forth, come on son, come on, don’t die, don’t die. A faint voice became louder.

  ‘Jock, Jock, can you hear me? It’s time to let him go. We’ll take him to the hospital.’

  He looked across at a red-haired soldier no more than twenty, crouched beside him in the mud. A piece of white fabric with a red cross was tied around the top of his arm. Jock looked at his friend and loosened his hold.

  ‘That’s it, mate. We’ll take him from here.’

  Jock watched as Joe was placed on a stretcher, someone took his pulse another splashed disinfectant onto a towel and held it to the back of his head. Two men lifted him into the ambulance jeep and it sped away. Tic and Stan helped Jock up out of the mud and walked him around to the front of another vehicle and sat him between the driver and a medic.

  ‘They’re taking you to the hospital for a while, mate. Just until you settle.’ said Tic. ‘We’ll come and see you soon, we’ll come.’

  Jock didn’t answer. He sat in the middle of the two medics, eyes open wide, his face drained of blood.

  Stan ran alongside the car as it accelerated, ‘Me and Tic will come and see you soon, mate.’

  Joe Forrester died on the way to the hospital.

  I didn’t take the opportunity or wasn’t brave enough to ask my mother how it was for her knowing her husband had killed one of his own. I couldn’t put her through such painful memories. My parents’ aim would be to protect their children and not burden them with history – not consciously. And I imagine, in loyalty to my father, she would’ve remained silent or said, ‘That was war; you’d either kill or be killed; you just got on with it; we didn’t have time to navel gaze in those days.’

  But this was different.

  This wasn’t the enemy. This was my father’s friend; a twenty-two-year-old with the world in front of him. I can only envisage the anguish of thoughts and feelings she lived with. My mother’s coping mechanism was to not dwell on things she couldn’t change. I can hear her say, ‘Just put it behind you, don’t think of it.’ On the recording with my brother, her pain was raw. She wept uncontrollably all these years after. I’m pleased my brother respected her heartache and did his best to help her through it.

  Bess kept Jock’s secret until she was an old woman in her nineties, but no doubt missed the man she fell in love with. There were a few brief moments, when he returned to his loving, funny, easy-to-be-with self – but perhaps those times were fleeting – before something triggered an angry outburst and then withdrawal. Bess could have consoled herself with the fact that he wasn’t a violent man and he didn’t drink or gamble – a good provider.

  She heard other women talking of how different and difficult their husbands were on return from active duty. Many men had taken up drinking and lashed out verbally and physically at their wives and children. Violent arguments could be heard through thin walls, and wives sported black eyes and split swollen lips. Many men cleared off altogether, leaving families with no means of support.

  The birth of Galvin and Rose in quick succession added to the pressure. Jock was offered a job at Yarra Falls Cotton Mill in Abbotsford on the outskirts of Melbourne, with better prospects and more income. His promotion meant moving away from Geelong, from Mary, Honor, Tilly, and Dorothy – Bess’ support – to the outer suburbs of Melbourne.

  ‘Perfect for a growing family,’ he said as they walked through the front rooms of the house in Preston. They had taken out a mortgage. The house was sturdy enough, with sufficient bedrooms for a growing family. It needed a coat of paint and repair work.

  ‘It’s near schools, train, bus and tram, Catholic Church and there’s a library on High Street, too, pet,’ he said, smiling, searching Bess’ face for a sign of enthusiasm.

  He saw sadness.

  The weatherboard dwelling was on an unmade road with potholed footpaths making pushing a pram strenuous. Paddocks surrounded the house and from the front veranda Bess could see a tannery, railway station and a red-brick Church of England. Out the back door the ground was flat and barren with patches of weeds, a young lemon tree next to the outside toilet and a dilapidated building at the end of the block. She couldn’t help but compare life in this house to living in Anne Street where she could wheel the pram on paved footpaths to her mother and sisters’ house or to Dorothy’s for a cup of tea, where the children could play with their friends on soft buffalo grass and hide behind hydrangea and daisy bushes. Or she could walk along the foreshore to the beach and let the children run barefoot on the sand.

  Over a number of years, Jock’s mother, siblings and families immigrated to Australia. They were part of the Assisted Passage Migration Scheme where adults paid ten pounds and children travelled free of charge. As each group arrived, Jock and Bess took t
heir young family to Station Pier, Port Melbourne to welcome them.

  It had been over two decades since his mother rolled over to face the wall the day he left England. But for Jock, the memory was as fresh as if it were yesterday. When he first saw Ada, he noticed how she had aged and shrunk. She was being assisted along the gangplank and lifted her walking stick just a small way off the ground and waved it back and forth when she first saw Jock. When she reached firm ground, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Mother, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Yes, son and whose fault’s that?’ She looked up at him. ‘And you’ve a strange accent.’

  Bess kissed her on the cheek, welcoming her to Australia. ‘And you do too,’ she said to Bess, then busied herself with the luggage.

  Bess and Jock’s house was near where his clan had settled. He found comfort with his extended family close by, and Bess delighted in seeing him relax and joke.

  ‘War changes people,’ she said when asked about the change in Jock.

  My father had ten years with his mother before her heart gave way. I am not sure whether they made their peace. Both were damaged in their own way. For him, through the ravages of war; for her, I imagine, through living a tough life in England. During the last ten years of her life she lived in comfort with her children and grandchildren around her. Australia’s warm climate eased the constant ache in her bones brought on from living in draughty old houses during England’s bitter winters. This freedom from pain enabled her to move around more freely. She enjoyed going for short walks and playing cards with her grandchildren.

  While it was still dark, Jock caught the train to Yarra Falls, returning early evening. On the weekends he planted trees and grass; built a sandpit between the outside toilet and back door; collected bits of old bicycles; made a couple of three-wheelers for the children and repaired broken weatherboards. Then Joseph and I were born. Now aged forty-four, Bess had five children to look after – four under six. They couldn’t afford modern conveniences such as a washing machine or a vacuum cleaner and an automatic dishwasher seemed futuristic. The laundry was a lean-to outside, with two large concrete wash troughs. Attached to one was a metal clothes wringer with a side hand crank and two rollers for removing excess water from the wet laundry. Every morning she was first up. On hearing of Jock’s painful farewell to his mother the morning he left England, she made a vow to herself she’d always be up to make him a cup of tea and breakfast before he left for work. She did this for all of us; she was always first in the kitchen boiling the kettle and making breakfast. She saw it as a personal failure if any of her family rose to a dark and empty kitchen.