Gallipoli Street

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  Clarkson held up the picture of little May wearing Buggles and grinned, wishing he could see the exact colour of her eyes beneath the fur. He guessed they were the same blue as Pattie’s. Re-reading the rest of the letter with amusement, Clarkson paused, savouring the last few lines. Tracing over the ink, he ached to kiss Pattie goodbye for real as he counted her little Xs across the bottom. Eleven. He grinned again. God he missed her.

  A man waved at him from the front steps of HQ and Clarkson recognised him as Major Hitchcock’s secretary. He ran over and the man ushered him in.

  ‘The major said he’ll see you now.’ Clarkson had forgotten all about Rose and her request and quickly composed himself for the interview, wondering why he was bothering.

  Even in London, that woman was nothing but trouble.

  She stared at the back of the door, dreading the sound of his footsteps but knowing they would come. Just one more night, she reminded herself. One more night until she could hold Elizabeth again. One more night and she would never have to feel his fists upon her, his hands, his heavy form as it crushed her beneath him and ripped away whatever was left of her sensuality. What had been a beautiful part of Rose’s life had become a painful, violent assault of body and mind and soul. Gone was any desire to be touched because touch now meant hate and blood and tearing. Touch had destroyed her life.

  Standing up she walked over to the mirror and stared at the sorry soul who lived there. Pale, hollow and thin; a ravaged face, a battered body. Her once rounded curves had faded to the bone, her creamy complexion was now mottled in purple and green bruises. She looked about the room for something to cover herself in but found only silks and satins, lace and delicate cottons. Like a slave in a whorehouse to be dressed up for the show, she mused vaguely, shrouding herself in a blanket instead and huddling against the window.

  She stared out at the world, registering that it moved on without her in bemusing normality; a world where sunshine met the skin and a woman could hold her child’s hand, eat ice cream and laugh. A world she would fight to rejoin tomorrow, regardless of the enormous risk, because Rose knew that despite everything Gregory had done to her over the past weeks, locking her in her room, banning her from her own child, the violent abuse, the raping of her fragile body, he had not broken her. She was stronger than all of it because she had a secret weapon he could not destroy: her determination to be with Elizabeth. She knew that to her dying day she would fight and scheme, manipulate and claw her way back to her child and away from him, even if it truly meant that dying day came far sooner than it should.

  The footsteps sounded and she braced herself as the door swung open and his shadow crossed her. She didn’t speak as he ripped into her flesh, his hands cold, his body an enormous force ripping at her breasts, her thighs, inflicting as much pain as he could in between her legs as he thrust inside her in a sudden assault. Weeks earlier she would have begged, cried, reasoned, attempted to oblige him, but all of her efforts had only furthered his anger. She knew it was best to lie still and silent until it was over, squeezing her eyes shut against the blinding agony he inflicted, telling herself it would eventually end. Swallowing her cries of pain.

  He finished with a grunt and rolled off her, spent. Rose vaguely registered the sound of Elizabeth’s baby talk down the hall and focused on it, blocking out his heavy breathing.

  ‘Put something on that hides those bones tonight. I have guests for dinner,’ he ordered as he sat up and began to dress. She shrugged her way into her robe, hands shaking, and nodded. ‘Answer me when I talk to you, slut,’ he spat. ‘You look like a threepenny whore. Put some makeup on and hide your shame.’ He stared at the swollen eye and cut lip he had given her two days earlier. ‘On second thoughts, forget it. I don’t think anyone could eat looking at that.’ He shoved her back and she felt her head collide with the bedhead before he strode out of the room, bolting the door.

  Rose sat unsteadily, rubbing the back of her head and wondering if she would pass out. It didn’t matter as long as she was able to stand and walk out of here in the morning. There was a soft knock at the door and she told Mary to enter, struggling to stand.

  ‘Good evening, m’lady. Oh, sweet saints, don’t get up. There now.’ Mary bustled in, rushing to her side as she noticed the blood on the sheets. ‘What’s happened now? Oh me poor love…’ Mary looked to the back of Rose’s head but found more blood running down her mistress’s leg. She tended to her gently, changing the bedclothes and helping her into a warm bath, laying out towels, all the while talking in hushed tones of the plans they had laid.

  ‘I’ll come at dawn. The master won’t be up after I’ve slipped a little something in his nightcap, and Collins is off to see his brother tonight. I’ve packed all the things and they’re stored down at the port, so not to worry there. There’s more than enough money from the sale of your fur so I’ve set it up that you’ll have cash in the valise and the tickets are all paid. Ah no, pet, let me,’ she interrupted herself, helping Rose from the bath as delicately as she tended the baby, wincing at the state of Rose’s body and cursing the master under her breath.

  Rose held onto every word, knowing the plan already of course but comforted by Mary’s calm tone that made the end of the nightmare seem more possible. Mary reminded her of her mother Mildred, with her soft comforts in Irish and gentle fussing. A kindness she’d never really appreciated. How she longed for her now.

  ‘I’ll bring yer dinner up and please try to eat, m’lady. Ye need yer strength.’

  Rose thanked her and lay against the fresh linen, physically depleted but determination renewed. No matter what else happened, this would be the last time she lay in the aftermath of his assault. Whether her escape was successful or not one thing was true: if there was a next time she probably wouldn’t survive.

  Twenty

  Cairo, November 1915

  The rooms were filled with contrasting shadows and brilliant light, the glare of bandages and bed linen burning in apricot hue as the last of the sunset sank below the edge of the windowsills. Jack picked his way through, offering greetings and shaking hands with those whose faces were familiar, nodding to other poor blighters whose gruesome injuries were reflected in their haunted eyes. He was glad to be leaving this nightmare, although discharge from rehabilitation unfortunately meant rejoining the war and his battalion, or what was left of it, at the Mena camp. Jack definitely wasn’t complaining though. At least he would still be in Egypt for a little longer and he would gladly take any more days that he could to be near Veronica.

  His recent promotion to lieutenant had enabled him to swing a few advantages his way for his date with her tonight and he had the evening planned like a general before battle: dinner at a private little restaurant on the river, champagne courtesy of the resourceful Simmo followed by a walk in the gardens. There he would show her the contents of the tin that saved his life, ending with the little velvet pouch.

  Jack paused at the gate and lit a cigarette, surprised at how nervous he was. Surely she would say yes. She was still in love with him, wasn’t she? These past weeks it had been difficult to tell, busy as she was with nursing the steady stream of wounded, and army hospitals were hardly romantic places. But there was something else amiss as well. Something in the way she avoided his eyes and the sadness around her mouth when she smiled. Perhaps she had been in love with Dan after all. This thought plagued him until she finally arrived half an hour later, draping a scarf over her hair and out of breath.

  ‘Sorry, I had a patient who wanted to get a letter home to his mother and I’d promised him all week to help him write it, then Matron had me change dressings at the last minute and anyway…I’m sorry I didn’t have time to dress up a bit more. I know you want to celebrate tonight before you go.’

  She sounded nervous but Jack was too struck by her appearance to care. The aqua green of her dress made her seem otherworldly, fresh and clean in a dirty, sweaty dustbowl. He wanted to undress her on silk sheets and revel in the li
fe exuding from every perfect pore of her skin. It was intoxicating after so much death and destruction to be around something so beautiful. So whole. She was staring at him expectantly and he shook himself back to the plan.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asked, offering his arm. She tucked her hand in and, as they walked to dinner, he congratulated himself that he was the luckiest man in Cairo.

  About an hour later he was wishing he were back at that point and starting over. ‘Don’t you like the lamb?’

  Veronica had been toying with her food for a while and Jack was running out of conversation starters. For God’s sake, it never used to be this hard to talk to her.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s fine.’

  ‘You said that before when I asked you if you like the view.’

  ‘Did I?’ she said surprised, staring out across the Nile. ‘It’s lovely. Really.’

  Jack watched the boats glide along with their yellow lights and sighed. ‘All right, Vera, spill it.’

  ‘Spill what?’

  ‘What’s going on in that little blonde head of yours?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said again, staring down.

  ‘Blast it!’ Jack tossed his napkin on the table and pointed across at her. ‘You’re not going to do this. Not this time.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sabotage us!’

  ‘Me sabotage?’ Veronica glared at him. ‘You’re the one who…who–’

  ‘Who what? Made a fool of himself over the wrong girl? Rejected you? Left you waiting?’

  Veronica stared back, unable to disagree.

  ‘But I grew up, Vera, and came to my senses…’

  ‘You were too late,’ she blurted out.

  ‘You didn’t wait for me.’

  ‘You gave me no indication I should!’

  ‘And you said yes to Dan–’

  Veronica stood up, pushing back her chair. ‘Don’t mention his name.’

  ‘Why? Because you can’t bear to hear it or you can’t bear to hear it from me?’

  She walked towards the door, pushing chairs out of the way in her hurry, and he followed her out onto the street, tossing money to the waiter as they left.

  They walked in silence as Jack searched for the right words, noting the strain in Veronica’s face and the tears she brushed aside.

  ‘We can’t just pretend he never existed.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, walking swiftly.

  ‘Well we’re going to, damn it,’ Jack replied, stopping. ‘Because right now it’s like he is standing right here, between us.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Veronica said, her steps slowing and she bent forward, hugging herself.

  ‘Because you were so in love with him?’ The words cut him.

  ‘No. It’s just…it’s wrong…it’s all wrong.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Us!’ she cried, the tears falling as she turned towards him. ‘We are wrong. How can we be together now after…after Dan died and I was…’

  Jack held his breath. ‘Heartbroken?’

  ‘Relieved. I was relieved because…because it wasn’t you.’

  Jack felt his heart constrict and reached out his arms, pulling her close against it. ‘I know, darling, I know.’ He rocked her close, loving her with a fierce intensity. ‘But don’t you see? You weren’t glad he died: you were happy that I lived. Don’t you think I felt guilty too? Asking myself if part of me was glad he was out of the way? But I’m not. How could I be? He was a good man and a good mate.’ His voice broke, memories of Dan flooding him – his laugh, his trusting nature, his lifeless body. ‘A good mate.’

  They stood together, letting the pain flow, until a group of soldiers wandered near, singing loudly.

  Jack took her hand and steered her away to the nearby gardens, sitting her down next to him on a bench beneath a massive fig tree.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out the tin. ‘Every night in the trenches Dan took out his photo and I took out mine.’ She held the photo and stared. ‘We both loved you, Vera. Do you really think he would have wanted you to be unhappy for the rest of your life?’

  Veronica shook her head slowly.

  ‘I kept this too. A jacaranda flower to remind me of home, the letters you all sent which I re-read a hundred times…and this.’ Jack upended the little pouch and the ring landed in his palm. ‘Even though I never thought I could give it to you, it was still yours in my heart. Vera, you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be a bride and a mother and a grandmother and a great-grandmother.’ Jack slipped the ring on her finger and it glittered in the moonlight. ‘Veronica O’Shay, will you marry me?’

  Veronica stared at the beautiful stone then back at Jack’s face, the face of the man who she had always loved, and suddenly she knew it wasn’t wrong to do so at all. In fact it was so very, very right.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed onto his lips as he kissed her at last, because for all that had been lost, they both knew now that whatever was left had to be taken in this moment. Such was love in war.

  Twenty-one

  December 1915

  The bride wore a dress she’d had made for the occasion by Tom’s friend Ammon, the shopkeeper who had sold Jack the little tin that had saved his life. Ammon was not only a seller of fortunate trinkets and precious rings, he was also a fine tailor, insisting on sewing the dress himself from the softest ivory silk. Veronica had shown him a picture from a magazine and he’d made a beautiful job if it, the soft tone a perfect match against her skin. In her hair she wore a single blue lotus flower instead of a veil – Ammon’s wife Nefi told them the bloom was the symbol for beauty and healing. Jack figured that summed her up perfectly.

  She had become a favourite among staff and patients alike, her kind ways making the men feel nurtured, something all of them were starved of after months of being away. Many envied Jack as he stood at the makeshift altar in the gardens. His eyes filled with love as she walked towards him – he doubted any woman had ever looked more breathtaking than his Vera, with her soft gold hair, and her blue eyes shining at him. Tom and Mick had managed to borrow Delilah the madam’s piano and had it sitting beneath the giant fig nearby; an almost fully recovered Iggy played his own interpretation of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, a lilting, romantic version that was his best man’s gift to them both.

  They spoke their vows before the priest and took communion, bowing their heads as he blessed them both before rising to hear the groomsmen, Tom and Mick, read the Irish Wedding Blessing.

  May God be with you and bless you.

  May you see your children’s children.

  May you be poor in misfortunes and rich in blessings.

  May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.

  Finally, they exchanged rings before heading down the tunnel of guests to cheers and whistles as Iggy played, and Ammon and his family threw green wheat into the air to bless them with fertility.

  The reception was also held in the gardens, with Veronica and Jack sitting on large cushions and drinking rose sherbet at Ammon’s insistence. They feasted on salads, meats and sweets, everyone enjoying the break from monotonous army food, with Simmo in particular relishing the opportunity to stuff himself full. It seemed he’d developed an appetite for foreign food at last, although Jack noticed he still sniffed everything with suspicion first as he limped along the tables. Simmo had also been able to swing some decent plonk via Delilah and the party was already becoming quite merry. The champagne flowed as the afternoon wore on and Tom and Mick tapped their glasses for silence so they could read the telegrams, their favourite from Pattie.

  To Mr and Mrs Jack Murphy, may your marriage be like a runaway horse and cart, always held in check by a woman at the reins. With love Pattie, Clarkson and May

  Iggy then played the opening chords to ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and the brothers stood to sing their own special rendition.

  Once a jolly horseman

  Rather f
ine at singalongs

  Jumped to the fray to fight for country

  And he sang as he stuffed a lucky box against his breast

  You’ll come a-waltzing my Vera with me

  Waltzing with Vera

  Waltzing with Vera

  You’ll come a-waltzing my Vera with me

  I’m that lucky blighter saved by a ciggie tin

  You’ll come a-waltzing my Vera with me!

  Everyone laughed and cheered, Jack finally asking for some quiet before they cut the cake. ‘I stand here today a man without words –’

  ‘Hear hear!’ Simmo raised his glass.

  ‘Well. Without many words.’ Jack grinned. ‘Suffice to say that today I have married my childhood friend, my true love and my wife till the day I die. I cannot do justice to what this means to me with speech, so I would like to give you this song along with my promise that I will love you, my Vera Maggie O’Shay – or should I say Murphy – always.’

  Few of the guests could hold back tears as Jack sang ‘Maggie’, his voice lifting through the trees, each touched by the gentleness of romance in a brief pause during these harsh, violent days.

  Later, as Veronica sat in front of the hotel mirror, she reflected that although she’d missed having many of her family and friends there, especially her parents and Pattie, it was a dream wedding from start to finish. It had been hard to accept that her father wouldn’t be there to give her away nor her mother to help her prepare, let alone give up Pattie as her matron of honour, but Veronica knew that she was one of the fortunate ones in this war, so she couldn’t truly complain. Her man was alive, whole and near her, even if only for a short time. Most of the women at home could wait years before they saw their sweethearts again, if indeed they ever made it back.