Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Not at all,’ he said as airily as he could. ‘Eight o’clock OK?’

  ‘Yep. Eight o’clock’s fine.’

  Gene pulled out an unopened packet of Camel cigarettes from his pocket and placed them in her hand. ‘Just a little present,’ he said, ‘Iwish I had some flowers, but …’

  ‘No, please,’ she protested, trying to give them back. ‘I don’t smoke, really I don’t.’

  ‘I know that.’ He took her hand in both of his and folded her fingers over the packet. ‘Looked to me like that kick Ada gave you under the table packed quite a punch.’ She frowned. ‘Hey, no offence taken,’ he hastily added, ‘Ada’s quite right, cigarettes are a valuable commodity. But you don’t have to pretend to smoke.’

  ‘I didn’t have a cigarette so that you’d give me a whole packet,’ she said, annoyed that Ada’s hidden agenda had been so readable to everyone but herself.

  ‘I know that too,’ he insisted, charmed again by her candour. ‘Come on now, it’s only a gift, if you don’t want to sell them, then give them to a friend.’ He squeezed her hand gently. ‘Goodnight Caroline. I’ll see you next Friday.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She stood, holding the packet of Camels, and watched for a moment as he strode briskly up the hill towards William Street. Fair enough, she thought, she’d share the cigarettes around at work on Monday. Many of her workmates smoked, and she’d seen them preserve the tobacco from their used butts to roll up in airmail paper when they’d saved enough for a fag.

  ‘You most certainly will not give them away,’ Kathleen said over breakfast the following morning. ‘We can swap them for coffee and sugar.’

  ‘Oh. All right,’ Caroline agreed.

  ‘He might give you two packets next week, and maybe some nylons and flowers, who knows?’ Kathleen’s eyes gleamed mischievously, but Caroline knew that her grandmother wasn’t altogether joking. Kathleen De Haan was an eminently practical woman and her household wanted for nothing. Various commodities were already in short supply as the war progressed, and Kathleen unashamedly bartered this for that.

  Although there was little ready cash, Kathleen refusing to accept any more than two pounds of Caroline’s meagre weekly salary, and the rent from Stefan Brandt being half that amount, Kathleen’s supply of items for barter seemed endless. Mostly household goods, they camedirectly from Caroline’s godfather, Tim Kendall.

  Caroline adored Tim. She’d adored him for as long as she could remember. Tim Kendall was the father she’d never had, and, although he now had children of his own, the eldest only four years younger than she herself, Caroline had remained his ‘princess’, and he remained her hero.

  Wealthy and successful as Tim Kendall now was, he still called in regularly, at least once a fortnight, to check on his ‘princess’, and these days, more than ever, he brought presents.

  At first, Kathleen had been suspicious. It had been shortly after Otto had died that Tim, attentive and solicitous of both Kathleen and Caroline, had arrived with a brand new wireless set.

  ‘I appreciate the thought, Tim,’ she’d said, ‘but I can’t possibly accept that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s brand new and it’s worth a fortune.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And it’s stolen, it has to be, that’s why not.’

  He laughed out loud. ‘Do you read the newspapers?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I do.’ She’d been quite defensive. She might be getting old, but she kept herself abreast of the times.

  ‘But not the business pages I’ll bet.’

  ‘No,’ she admitted.

  ‘Kendall Markets,’ he said, bursting with pride. ‘I’ve announced the opening of three more stores, and one day there’ll be a whole chain of them, just like Coles and Woolies, you wait and see.’

  ‘Oh Tim, that’s wonderful.’

  She’d known that he’d gone into the retail business. ‘Specialist shops and variety stores,’ he’d said at the time, ‘in the suburbs. The days of the big city family stores are coming to an end, you mark my words.’ But she’d thought it was just youthful boasting.

  ‘You see I was right, Kathleen,’ he said as he handed her the wireless set. ‘This is just the beginning.’

  And it had been. Tim Kendall now owned fifteen stores throughout suburban Sydney, the depressed property market having worked to the advantage of a quick-thinking battler like Tim. And, despite the war, business was thriving. He’d been right about the big city stores too. Still recovering from their losses during the Depression, they were now suffering from the effects of the war. Staff shortages and blackouts were crippling the big stores and it was predicted that rationing might see the end of many. The Foy family was struggling and rumour had it that Kendle and Streatham’s was on the brink of closure.

  Tim had done well for himself and Kathleen was inordinately proud. For, just as he was a father to Caroline, Tim Kendall was a son to Kathleen De Haan.

  The following Saturday morning, Kathleen discovered a shoulder spray of orchids and two packets of Camels sitting on the kitchen table. She pottered about getting breakfast, careful not to wake Caroline, who had been out until three in the morning. Kathleen knew exactly the time of her return. She’d lain awake, just as she had the preceding week, waiting to hear the click of the front door and her granddaughter’s feet on the stairs. She didn’t mean to spy, and she wasn’t particularly worried, but old habits died hard.

  Kathleen neither approved nor disapproved of Caroline going out with a Yank, appearances had always been of little importance to her, if people wanted to point and make judgements, let them. Kathleen was only too relieved to see her granddaughter being a young woman again, dancing and enjoying the attentions of a young man, albeit a Yank; it was healthy.

  ‘No nylons?’ she asked when Caroline emerged at ten o’clock, tousled and still a little sleepy.

  Caroline gave a throaty chortle, she’d always chortled, even as a child, Kathleen found it most infectious. ‘I tried, Gran,’ she said, ‘Idid my best. I told him that my grandmother wanted flowers, two packets of cigarettes and some nylons.’

  ‘You did not!’ Kathleen grinned delightedly, it was exactly what Caroline would do.

  ‘Oh yes I did, I told him all about you. And he said to tell you that, in his opinion, nylon stockings were a little too personal for a second date, but if I’d go out with him next week, he’d promise to bring along a pair just for my grandmother.’

  Kathleen guffawed. ‘I hope you accepted the offer.’

  ‘I did.’ Caroline sat at the table. ‘I asked him to tea on Friday, is that all right?’

  Oh dear. A sudden, sobering thought occurred to Kathleen. She placed a mug of tea in front of Caroline and busied herself with the pot of porridge on the stove. ‘Does this mean it’s serious?’ she asked, trying to sound unconcerned. Surely Caroline wasn’t about to fall in love with a Yank, she thought. Oh dear, oh dear.

  ‘No,’ Caroline scoffed, ‘of course it’s not serious.’ She sipped her tea and said solemnly, after a moment or so, ‘He’s leaving soon.’ Kathleen turned, a bowl of porridge in each hand, and gave Caroline her full attention. ‘He hasn’t told me exactly what day, or where they’re going of course, but I thought a meal insomeone’s home before he left. You know …’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea.’ Kathleen set the bowls in front of them and sat at the head of the table.

  ‘Besides,’ Caroline changed the subject and chatted on in a lighter vein, ‘I get so guilty at the way he spends money. I don’t mind the presents,’ she said, ‘because you don’t see him buying them, but the way he chucks money around like there’s no tomorrow. Honestly Gran, they all do,’ she said through a mouthful of porridge, ‘it’s embarrassing in front of the Aussie blokes.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs De Haan.’ He stood at the front door and formally saluted her. ‘Lieutenant Gene Hamilton, United States Marines.’ She was taken aback. Was he serious? ‘And I believe these are
for you.’ He held out the three slim packets of nylon stockings which he’d been hiding behind his back.

  Kathleen laughed, and ushered him into the front room just as Caroline bounded down the stairs. ‘Hello, Gene,’ she said, ‘are these the nylons?’ She took them from her grandmother. ‘Heavens above, three pairs!’

  ‘Sit down, Gene, please. Would you like a beer?’ Kathleen offered. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anything stronger.’

  Gene was halfway into an armchair when Caroline grabbed him by the hand. ‘Don’t try and be formal, Gran,’ she said, dragging the American into the kitchen where Stefan Brandt was seated at the far end of the table having his pre-dinner beer. ‘Gene, this is Stefan. Stefan, Gene.’

  The Dutchman rose and shook Gene’s hand. ‘How do you do,’ he said in his thick guttural accent, and Kathleen noticed Gene’s slight reaction. Possibly he thought the man was German, as many others did, well she’d clear up that misconception right from the start, she thought.

  ‘Stefan’s Dutch,’ she said briskly, ‘he’s from Holland.’

  ‘That is where I was born,’ Stefan corrected her, ‘but most recent I am from Java,’ he smiled at Gene, ‘where I work for the Dutch East IndiaCompany.’

  Kathleen and Caroline exchanged a look. It was more information than Stefan had ever imparted, he was obviously impressed by an officer in the US Marines.

  ‘Sit down, everyone. Gene, you’re here.’ Kathleen patted the chair at the head of the table which was normally reserved for her. He was certainly handsome, she thought as she fetched him a beer. Rather like Douglas Fairbanks only taller.

  ‘The lace tablecloth,’ Caroline remarked as she sat, ‘Gran’s showing off.’ A present from Tim Kendall which Kathleen was loath to barter, the lace tablecloth rarely saw the light of day.

  ‘For three pairs of nylons why not?’ Kathleen placed Gene’s beer in front of him and started to serve the stew.

  ‘She was going to cook you something fancy,’ Caroline said, ‘but I made her promise to do a stew, Gran’s famous for her stews, isn’t that right, Stefan?’

  ‘Ja. They are very good.’ He beamed uncharacteristically at Gene. ‘Kathleen cook a stew every Friday. Always good.’

  Gene gave a polite smile by way of return, he wasn’t accustomed to socialising with foreigners. Not foreigners like Stefan anyway. But he tried his hardest to be polite.

  ‘You’re right, Stefan,’ he said when he tasted the stew, ‘it’s excellent.’

  The Dutchman beamed back at him as he piled potatoes and silver beet onto his plate. ‘Ja. The vegetable too is good,’ he pushed the bowl in Gene’s direction, ‘You try. Kathleen is very good cook.’

  Kathleen and Caroline exchanged amused glances, never had they seen Stefan so animated. He seemed fascinated by the American.

  ‘Where you are from, Gene?’ Stefan asked.

  Gene hesitated for a second, automatically baulking at the foreigner’s interrogation.

  ‘Casco, by Sabbathday Lake,’ Caroline chimed in, aware that Gene’s reluctance to answer may have appeared rude to Stefan, who was obviously trying his best to be friendly.

  Kathleen, too, had noted the hesitation. But then she’d also observed that Gene had remained wary of Stefan even after being informed that he was Dutch. Having been married to a man who had suffered persecution, Kathleen was particularly protective of Stefan. She said nothing, but she was starting to view the American through different eyes. For all of his charm and good looks, it seemed to Kathleen that Lieutenant Gene Hamilton was somewhat of a bigot.

  ‘Yes,’ Gene said, aware that his hesitation had seemed rude. ‘Casco, it’s a little town in Maine.’

  ‘Peaceful and pretty, but nothing much happens,’ Caroline said.

  Gene relaxed and smiled at her. ‘I guess that about sums it up,’ he said.

  ‘You like Sydney?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘Yes, very much,’ Gene politely replied. He wished the man would stop questioning him.

  ‘American soldier have been here two months now, they all like Sydney I think.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they do.’

  They finished their stew and Kathleen served tinned peaches in little glass bowls for dessert.

  ‘I’m crazy about tinned peaches,’ Gene said with his Douglas Fairbanks smile, but Kathleen, sensing the American’s dislike of Stefan, was no longer so easy to charm.

  ‘That’s good, I’m glad,’ she said, pleasantly enough.

  Caroline cleared the table and served the coffee. ‘Full cream milk,’ she said proudly, placing the jug on the table. Then she raised her cup. ‘To your safe return, Gene,’ she said.

  Kathleen raised her cup also, ‘Godspeed,’ she said.

  Gene nodded his thanks and the three of them sipped their coffee, but Stefan seemed unaware of the solemnity of the toast.

  ‘Ah, you go away,’ he said, intrigued. ‘When you go?’

  ‘In several days,’ Gene answered evasively, trying hard not to let his irritation show.

  ‘Where you go?’

  Gene felt his hackles rise. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information,’ he said coldly, thistime not bothering to disguise his annoyance.

  Even Kathleen had to admit that Stefan’s questioning was a little insensitive. She was about to offer more coffee, but the Dutchman continued, apparently oblivious to the American’s anger.

  ‘You leave on the USS Chicago?’ he asked.

  ‘What the hell business is it of yours?’ Gene was more than angry now, he was deeply suspicious, this could well be the enemy seated opposite him, he thought. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’ he demanded.

  Caroline was appalled. ‘Please, Gene,’ she said, ‘I’m sure Stefan didn’t mean …’

  ‘The USS Chicago is in the harbour,’ Stefan shrugged and looked about the table, seemingly unaware how he could have offended. ‘Ilike to look at the big ships in the harbour.’

  ‘I’m sorry Mrs De Haan, I’m afraid I must leave.’ Gene rose from the table.

  ‘Very well.’ Kathleen rose too. She didn’t try to stop him, or to mollify the situation. Tasteless as the Dutchman’s questions might have been, they were innocent enough. The American owed Stefan an apology, she thought, indeed he owed them all an apology.

  ‘Thank you for an excellent meal.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Gran, please …’ Caroline jumped up from the table, dismayed. Why was her grandmother being so cold? Why wasn’t Gene apologising? ‘Gene …’

  ‘Caroline, see the Lieutenant to the door,’ Kathleen instructed. ‘Thank you very much for the stockings,’ she added, she certainly wasn’t giving the bigot back his nylons, she wasn’t that proud.

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

  Caroline was confused and distressed. ‘What happened, Gene?’ she said at the front door. ‘What went wrong? Why …’

  But he stopped her, kissing her very gently on the lips. It was the first time he’d done so. The previous Friday he’d given her a chaste peck on the cheek when he’d said goodnight.

  ‘Goodbye Caroline,’ he said. ‘I hope to see you when I return to Sydney.’ He looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘I hope nothing is wrong,’ he said, ‘for your sake, I very much hope so.’ And abruptly he left, before Caroline could ask him what he meant.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Stefan seemed as confused as she was. ‘What I do wrong?’ he asked. ‘I talk, I ask questions, what I do wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, Stefan,’ Kathleen said brusquely, ‘you did nothing wrong. But I think it’s time we all said goodnight.’

  ‘I am sorry, Caroline,’ Stefan turned apologetically at the back door. ‘I do not wish to anger your American.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ But it did matter, she thought. Of all the nights Stefan had to get talkative, he had to choose tonight. Inwardly, she cursed the Dutchman, but she tried to sound pleasant. ‘Goodnight.’

  When he’d
gone, she said to her grandmother, ‘Why didn’t you ask him to stay? Why did you …?’

  ‘Why didn’t he apologise?’ Kathleen demanded.

  Caroline had no answer for that. ‘He would have, I’ll bet,’ she said sulkily, ‘if you’d been a bit nicer.’

  ‘Why should I be nice to a bigot?’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Yes he is, he’s a bigot. I could tell from the moment he walked in, and I’m not going to discuss it any further.’

  Kathleen turned her back and started stacking the dishes in the sink, and Caroline slouched off upstairs without offering to help with the washing up. On the odd occasion when she and her grandmother had a genuine disagreement, neither one would give in to the other.

  Tim Kendall was seated on his Elizabeth Bay balcony, sipping a cup of Milo and listening to Glenn Miller’s rendition of ‘Night and Day’ playing softly on the gramophone in the lounge room behind him. It was half past eleven on a Sunday evening and his wife, Ruth, had retired, leaving him alone on the balcony with his nightcap and his music.

  He’d reread the letter he’d received that morning from his daughter who had recently left university to join the land army. She was stationed at Bathurst and was picking asparagus at Edgell, she wrote. The work was hard, she was up at three every morning, six days a week, and every bone in her body was aching. But the countryside was beautiful, the very light itself distinctively different from that in the city. ‘Just like the Banjo says, Dad, “… the air, so dry and so clear and bright, refracts the sun with a wondrous light”.’ Tim smiled to himself; ‘In the Droving Days’ had always been their favourite of Banjo Paterson’s poems.

  In the whole of her tender nineteen years, Kitty Kendall had never been outside the city of Sydney, and she’d always wanted to see the countryside. Well, she was sure as hell seeing it now, Tim thought. He never worried about Kitty, she’d always land on her feet. It was young Robert he worried about. Robert was off at the war. He’d volunteered, the stupid bugger, and Tim worried about him constantly. It didn’t make sense. He thought he’d fought the war to end all wars. He looked out at the harbour and silently prayed that his son would survive.