Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  Any advice Caroline might have been contemplating went out the window. She hugged her friend. ‘I’m happy for you,’ she said.

  It was obvious to Caroline that Pete loved Ada. Every leave he could get he raced to Sydney to see his Ladybird.

  ‘Where’s my Ladybird?’ he’d say, standing at the front door of the Bird house, his arms laden with chocolates and flowers, and little Betsy would run squealing inside.

  ‘He’s here Ada, he’s here!’

  Eleven-year-old Betsy adored Pete, and Pete adored Betsy, so it was a fair exchange. But then Pete seemed genuinely fond of the whole Bird family, even Norm who, having fallen captive to the American’s charm, seemed to remain sober longer when Pete was around. Most people ignored Norm. Pete didn’t. Norm liked that.

  Caroline, too, couldn’t help but like Pete. He was attractive in his own way. A little on the short side and not handsome in the conventional sense, but he had dimples which danced, rather like Ada’s, she thought, and a cheeky appeal which was irresistible. Furthermore, he treated Ada like a princess.

  ‘We’re going to be married, Caroline,’ Ada announced proudly. ‘We’ll be having a ceremony here before we leave for America, will you be my matron of honour?’

  ‘Of course, I’d be dead snaky if you asked anyone else.’

  The Allies had invaded northern France. On 8 June, 1944 the Australian press screamed the news and, all over the country, millions listened to the long-awaited announcement by General Eisenhower, broadcast by the BBC. Surely it was only a matter of time till the war ended. But it dragged on.

  Gene was home for Christmas. It had been a whole seven months and Caroline was shocked when she saw him, drawn and haggard. She had read the newspaper reports of the battles in the Pacific, and she had worried continuously, but in his letters he had mentioned nothing of the hardship and she’d hoped that he might have escaped the worst of it. She asked no questions but clung to him tightly, telling him over and over that she loved him, wishing that she could do something to ease his mind.

  He didn’t speak of his ordeal, but the announcement he made said it all. ‘When the war’s over I’m leaving the army,’ he told her.

  ‘Good,’ she whispered, holding him close.

  They celebrated Christmas as if there were no war. Pete was on leave too, and he and Ada joined Caroline and Gene for the midday feast which Kathleen prepared, the luxuries having been provided by the men. Tinned ham from Gene and, surprisingly, a fresh turkey from Pete.

  ‘Where the hell did you get that?’ Kathleen asked when he’d arrived on Christmas Eve with the bird, wrapped in brown paper, tucked under his arm.

  ‘Ask me no questions …’ and he tapped his nose. So Kathleen didn’t. Pete was a resourceful young man and she was only too happy to accept his illicit gift.

  Kathleen had slaved all morning over the old wood stove and, as it was a sweltering day, they ate gathered around the small table on the back porch to get away from the heat of the kitchen and take advantage of what little breeze they could.

  They toasted each other with the champagne Gene had brought and they scoffed back Kathleen’s plum pudding with brandy sauce, and nobody mentioned the war.

  Kathleen insisted upon getting the coffee. ‘No, no,’ she said refusing Caroline’s and Ada’s help, ‘you young ones sit and chat.’ God knows, they needed to grab every moment they could. ‘The four of you can do the washing up later.’

  So they sat and chatted, Pete lighting up one of his cigars and regaling them with plans for the wedding. ‘A big white wedding at the ranch,’ he said, ‘all the family’ll be there. Ma’ll be so proud of my Ladybird.’

  Ada sat on his lap, her arm draped around his shoulder. ‘Pete’s parents own a ranch in North Carolina,’ she explained proudly to Gene. ‘Is that anywhere near Maine?’

  The men laughed. ‘Not exactly,’ Gene said. Ada was a bit giddy maybe, but he couldn’t help liking her. Gene felt a contentment he’d not known in months. Caroline was happily cuddled up against him, and the steaming jungles of Saipan and Palau seemed very far away.

  Less than five months later the war in Europe was over. On 8 May, 1945, VE day was celebrated throughout Australia, but there was a dampener to the enthusiasm. The war in the Pacific continued. ‘Wait until all the fellows are home and the men of the 8th division swing down Martin Place,’ one Sydney digger was quoted as saying. ‘That will be the day!’

  ‘I got your letter,’ Tim said. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t come around earlier, but …’ He gave a weary shrug, leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the knuckles of his clasped hands.

  ‘I knew you’d come when you were ready.’

  Tim and Kathleen were sitting on the back porch, Caroline having discreetly made her departure shortly after his arrival.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tim,’ Caroline had said.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He hadn’t hugged her as he always did, and he hadn’t called her hisprincess. He hadn’t even noticed she was pregnant and, at five months now, she was showing. Caroline knew he needed to be alone with Kathleen.

  ‘I’m going to the shops, Gran, do you want anything?’

  Kathleen had shaken her head and smiled her thanks as she took Tim out onto the porch.

  ‘Oh Tim,’ she now said. ‘Oh Tim.’

  She rose from her chair and he felt the coolness of her hands against his cheeks as she gently lifted his head so that their eyes could meet.

  In the fleshy folds of her aged face, Kathleen’s eyes remained magnificent, and in them was a wealth of love and compassion. Tim felt a tide of emotion rising in him. his wife hadn’t looked at him like this. Which wasn’t her fault, he knew. He hadn’t been able to share his pain with her, and she had the burden of her own sorrow to bear. His remoteness was driving a wedge between them which was destroying their marriage. But Tim knew that he could share his pain with Kathleen. Kathleen understood.

  He put his arms around her waist and sobbed like a baby, his face nestled against her ample bosom as she stroked his hair and said ‘there, there’, over and over.

  He hadn’t been able to cry for the whole four months. His wife had. And he’d felt guilty for not crying with her. He’d said all the right words, or he’d thought he had.

  ‘It’s the risk he ran,’ he’d said. ‘He was a soldier, a professional, he died for his country.’ But he’d known the words sounded empty.

  They’d sounded empty because they were. The endless enquiries Tim had made, without Ruth’s knowledge, had been to no avail. It appeared there had been no witnesses to Robert’s death, and all Tim could think of was the fear, the sheer terror his son might have known. Did he die in agony? Was he crying like a baby when he died? Had his body been blown to shreds the way Robbie’s had been? Had young Robert awakened from the brief and nasty dream of war to see his intestines ripped from his body and his blood spilled in a pool about him? If he had, Tim prayed that there might have been some friend nearby, some friend who might have blown his son’s brains out. If he’d been there himself he would have done it. Tim had never regretted sparing Robbie O’Shea the hideousness of his death, and he would not have hesitated to do the same for his son.

  It had all come back. The images, vivid and remorseless, would not leave him alone. But they were no longer images of Robbie, they were images of his son. History repeating itself. Not his boy, he prayed. Not Robert. Please God, don’t let it have been that way.

  And now there was Kathleen, and he could cry. Without words. He could just cry.

  ‘I’ll get us a cup of tea, shall I?’ Kathleen asked when his sobs had subsided.

  ‘Yes.’ He felt no embarrassment, and when she brought the tea, he said, ‘So this is what it’s like to lose your son in a war.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They held hands for a moment and Tim felt a deep sense of gratitude. The wall he’d built around himself had crumbled, and he knew now that he would be able to give his wife the support she so sorely neede
d.

  ‘Kitty’s come home,’ he said.

  ‘Good, that’ll help.’

  ‘She’s going back to university. Reckons she wants to be a writer and change the world.’

  ‘She’s the sort who could,’ Kathleen agreed. She’d not seen Tim’s daughter since childhood, but even as a little girl Kitty Kendall had had guts.

  They were comfortable in their silence, and then Tim added, ‘I’m going to see Billy tomorrow, he’s in Kendle Lodge.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him last week.’

  ‘You knew?’ He looked at her, surprised; he’d presumed that she received all the news directly from him.

  ‘Of course, I read the casualty lists every day. I spoke to Marge and she told me.’

  Billy Kendall’s son, Tom, had been reported dead only days after the death of young Robert. And, ironically, both had died barely two months before the war had ended in Europe.

  The death of his younger son had driven Billy over the edge. He’d been unstable for years, and when both of his sons had enlisted, his wife had thought he would never recover.

  ‘They’re too old, for God’s sake,’ he’d ranted. ‘They’re in their thirties, they should have more sense, leave it to the younger ones.’

  The thought that his sons might go through what he had was driving Billy to madness. But Wally and Tom were determined. They were going off to war, just as their father had. And their cousin Tim Kendall. And Robbie O’Shea. And the Putmans, and all the others who’d known the glory of war. ‘You did it, why shouldn’t we?’ was their argument, and there was nothing Billy could say which could possibly change their minds.

  And now Tom was dead, and Billy had lost the last flimsy hold he had on reality. He needed constant medical care and, as Marge was no longer able to look after him, he had been admitted to Kendle Lodge.

  ‘You haven’t seen him yet?’ Kathleen asked. Billy had been at the hospice for two months.

  Tim shook his head. ‘I didn’t think I could face him.’ He rose and smiled at her gratefully. ‘I can now.’

  Tim Kendall was only eleven years younger than his uncle Billy. He could remember how he’d joked to Robbie O’Shea when they’d all enlisted at Victoria Barracks. ‘A bloke feels a bit of a dill signing up with his uncle,’ he’d said. But Billy had never really been an uncle to Tim, more like a big brother. The best big brother a man could have, and it broke Tim’s heart to see him now. At sixty-three years of age, Billy looked ninety. Frail and near death. But it was the fear in his eyes and the nervous tics which were most disturbing.

  ‘He likes to sit here,’ the nurse had said after she’d wheeled his chair down the specially designed path to the arbour at the bottom of Kendle Lodge gardens. ‘He enjoys the view, don’t you, dear?’ There’d been no answer from Billy and she hadn’t waited for one. ‘Give me a call if you need anything,’ and then she was gone, leaving Tim alone with Billy.

  Billy paid no heed to his visitor as he stared out at the view. There’d been a flicker of recognition when Tim had first arrived, but that was all. ‘He’s there when he wants to be,’ the nurse had said in answer to Tim’s querying look.

  Now Tim sat on the garden bench beside his uncle, who was rocking back and forth in his chair, and watched the fingers of Billy’s left hand, constantly weaving and twisting and entwining with each other, the stump of his right wrist moving restlessly upon his knee as if he wished he could twist the fingers of his missing hand too. And Tim watched the remorseless movement of Billy’s clenched jaw, and listened to the grinding of his teeth. Billy was a soul in torment.

  Tim forced himself to look away. ‘It’s a big place now all right,’ he said, staring out over Woolloomooloo to the tangle of the city beyond and the giant span of the Harbour Bridge. ‘Acity on any world map, I reckon.’

  Billy said nothing, but remained rocking back and forth.

  ‘It must be good to have Wally home.’ Wally had visited his father immediately upon his return; it had really broken him up, Marge had said, seeing his dad that way.

  ‘Wally,’ Billy stopped rocking. His fingers remained in incessant motion but he stopped clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. He started to rapidly nod his head instead. ‘Wally, Wally, Wally, Wally,’ he said very quickly, over and over. Nod, nod, nod, nod. ‘Wally, Wally, Wally, Wally.’

  Tenuous as it was, Tim was glad of the breakthrough. ‘I’m going to offer him a job, what do you reckon?’ For the first time Billy turned his head to look at him. ‘We’ll find a top place for him in the company, a junior partner he’ll be.’ The head had stopped nodding, the jaw remained unclenched and the movement of the fingers had visibly slowed. ‘It’s a family company, Billy,’ Tim said enthusiastically, ‘and that’s what we are. We’re family, and the Kendalls look after their own.’

  ‘Tim.’ The eyes, fearful as they were, were alert, intelligent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bloody silly, war you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nobody ever wins.’

  Tim once more nodded his agreement. He’d heard these words before. A poem, written by a veteran of the Great War at the outbreak of World War II. He didn’t know the poet, but he and Billy had admired the verses. He finished the brief quote:

  “‘Men fight and die, and twenty years on their sons repeat their sins.”’

  Billy’s fragile face cracked into the vestige of a smile and, for just one moment, the old Billy Kendall was there. ‘Good poem. Simple. Says it all, doesn’t it?’ Then he looked out at the harbour and his fingers once more picked up their pace.

  Billy showed no other reaction for the rest of the visit, but Tim was glad of that one moment. As he left, he hoped that Billy would die soon.

  ‘Fellow citizens, the war is over.’ The announcement was made by Australia’s new Prime Minister, Joseph Benedict Chifley. The indefatigable John Curtin, the man General Douglas MacArthur described as ‘one of the Great of the Earth’, had succumbed to a heart attack barely six weeks before the unconditional surrender of Japan on 14 August, 1945.

  A two-day holiday was proclaimed, and victory in the Pacific was celebrated throughout the country with all the exuberance Australians could muster. An effigy of a Japanese soldier was burned in Martin Place, the hokey-pokey was danced in the city streets, and endless conga lines were formed by soldiers and sailors, nurses and airmen whilst loudspeakers blasted out ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. Girls exchanged kisses for servicemen’s hats, and kerbside pedlars quickly sold out of their supplies of streamers, flags, rattles and whistles.

  Her baby due in three weeks, Caroline did not risk the rowdiness of the streets and the jostling crowds, but she and Kathleen toasted the end of the war and Gene’s safe return.

  ‘He’ll cop a bit of a shock, won’t he?’ Caroline smiled at Kathleen, trying to sound braver than she felt. ‘He probably won’t get home until after the baby’s born.’ She hadn’t mentioned her pregnancy in her letters, not wishing to burden him with any added cause for anxiety.

  ‘It’ll be a surprise, all right,’ Kathleen agreed, smiling back at her granddaughter. She knew Caroline’s bravado was a front, that she was really sick with worry. There’d been no word from Gene for over a month.

  ‘No news is good news,’ Kathleen had said, and Caroline had brightly agreed, neither woman daring to voice her true concern.

  A week or so later, Tim Kendall called upon Kathleen and Caroline and asked them out to dinner. He knew Caroline worried for her husband’s safety, bravely as she disguised the fact, and his invitation was by way of distraction. ‘A family affair,’ he said, ‘it’s time you got to know Ruth and Kitty. And my cousin Wally’ll be there too. I’ve booked a balcony table at Henri’s this Friday and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  Kathleen was glad to see the old Tim Kendall was back. Confident, in charge, he was a different man from the haunted creature who’d sobbed against her bosom only a month or so ago.

  ‘Henri’s
. How posh,’ Caroline raised a mock eyebrow but she was impressed. Henri’s was a very chic and very expensive restaurant in Roslyn Gardens, ‘can Ada come too?’

  ‘Caroline,’ Kathleen gently rebuked, ‘Tim hardly knows Ada.’

  But Tim laughed, Caroline delighted him when she was brazen, which was often. ‘Of course Ada can come.’ He’d met Caroline’s friend briefly on several occasions, ‘the more the merrier.’

  ‘Thanks, Tim.’ Caroline was not being perverse in inviting Ada along, she wanted to cheer her friend up. Ada too needed distraction. She’d received word from Pete that he was safe, but she was missing him dreadfully.

  As Caroline threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, Tim could feel the fullness of her belly. ‘I hope you’ll be there yourself,’ he said, breaking from the embrace and looking her up and down.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a full two weeks to go yet,’ Caroline said. ‘Well nearly,’ she added, stroking her stomach. ‘Anyway, she wouldn’t dare get in the way of a night at Henri’s, she’s far too well mannered for that.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘We’re both convinced it’s a girl,’ Kathleen explained, ‘a boy would have kicked more.’

  ‘Well, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’ Caroline insisted. ‘I’m going around to Ada’s to tell her about Friday.’

  Tim watched as Caroline waddled off with none of her customary grace. The image of the little girl who used to sit on his knee and tell him about her day at great length and with great solemnity flashed through his mind. It was strange to see his princess about to becomea mother.