Beneath the Southern Cross (37 page)

‘I don't usually these days,' Kathleen replied, ‘not to the Domain, the walk's abit much for him.'

Ernie was nearly fourteen, and he looked every bit of his age. He was mangy in summer and arthritic in winter; his eyes were rheumy and he was partially deaf, but still Kathleen refused to have him put down. It would break Robbie's heart, she said to Otto every time he suggested it. Besides, the dog didn't seem to be in much pain, except for the particularly cold days when his arthritis played up. Even then, he never complained, just sat on his rug in the kitchen, looking tired. Kathleen loved the old dog.

‘Let's give it a go, Mum,' Robbie said. ‘I'll bring him home if he gets crook.'

Otto didn't come with them; he wanted to put in some new shelving at the shop, he said, and Kathleen thought it was just as well. Otto was best left alone when he was in one of his moods.
He'd work off his ill-humour with hard physical labour as he always did.

Kathleen, Robbie and Aggie set off through the streets of Woolloomooloo, Robbie resplendent in his military uniform, old Ernie plodding behind. When they reached the steep hill which led to the Domain, they slowed down so the dog could catch up.

‘You're a good old boy, aren't you,' Robbiesaid, squatting beside the dog and scratching his ears when Ernie came wheezing up to them.

‘I don't know how you can do that,' Aggie screwed up her nose in distaste, ‘he's so dirty.' Aggie never patted Ernie.

It had been the girl's repugnance towards Ernie which had first alienated Kathleen. A silly and shallow reaction, she knew, but she hadn't been able to help herself. Now, as they continued up the hill, Aggie refusing to hold Robbie's hand because he'd been scratching the dog—‘He's got mange,' she complained—Kathleen felt irritated.

She was annoyed with herself for feeling so, but something about the girl rubbed her up the wrong way. Try as she might, Kathleen simply could not warm to Aggie, and she wished that Robbie had not settled upon his first love affair. But then that was typical of Robbie. Always deeply affected by the events in his life, his first sexual experience was bound to have had a profound impact.

She was certainly a pretty girl, Kathleen thought as she watched them up ahead, Robbiewith his arm around Aggie's tiny waist. A little on the slim side in Kathleen's opinion, but a beautiful body, long slender back and well-shaped arms, and beneath her straw boater, her hair was the colour of corn, thick and curly, framing a pretty, pert face.

Kathleen had felt sorry for Aggie when she'd applied for the job at the shop. Just turned seventeen, the girl had had a hard life. Brought up by her widowed and destitute mother, the main influence in Aggie's young life had been the Christian workers at the Jubilee School, a charitable institution run by the Sydney Ragged School Movement. The Jubilee School was dedicated to the ‘rescue and salvation' of children who would otherwise have been destined to a life on the streets, and Aggie had obviously been a model student. She was a well-mannered girl with an air of refinement
about her. Kathleen had insisted that they give her the job, even though Otto had thought she was too young.

What a pity Aggie annoyed her, Kathleen thought, she would have so liked to feel affection for her future daughter-in-law. But then perhaps there was no girl good enough for her only son, she reprimanded herself. She really must try harder.

The Domain was more crowded than ever this sunny Sunday afternoon. Hundreds upon hundreds of people mingled in the vast public parkland, some wandering down the rocky peninsula to picnic at Mrs Macquarie's Chair, or to throw a fishing line off the wharf at Bennelong Point which was no longer a military area, old Fort Macquarie having been demolished to make way for tram-sheds. Others explored the Botanic Gardens, or visited the recently built Mitchell Library, or wandered through the Palace Garden where once had stood the magnificent but short-lived exhibition building with its famous giant dome. Most of those who came to the Domain on a Sunday, however, gathered to listen to the speakers.

In the early days the Governor's Domain had consisted of all the land from the Tank Stream east to Walla Mulla Bay—which shortly became known as Woolloomooloo—and south to an area later known as the Inner Domain. Some of the land was set aside for government buildings, but predominantly the Domain belonged to the people and, over the years it had become the centre of free speech for the citizens of Sydney, the more vocal of whom loudly expressed their views to the crowds, who agreed or disagreed, heckled or simply stood listening.

From their boxes and platforms and ladders—some even sat in Moreton Bay fig trees—the speakers ranted and raved about every imaginable topic from the Gospel and the salvation of the human race, to the damnation of mankind and the end of the world. There were those against capitalism, those against communism, and those against the current government. There were those for world peace, those for the rights of the working man, and those for women's liberation.

Always the Domain reflected the people's voice, and today, as Kathleen, her son and his fiancée mingled with the crowd, the people's voice spoke of war. Today the Domain was taken over by the zealous call for volunteers. ‘Join the army, boys!' the
speakers screamed. ‘Fight for your King and your Country!'

‘Come on lads! Britain needs you!'

‘Be a man! Sign up today!'

The frenzy of this call to arms depressed Kathleen. Her son's military uniform was reminder enough that he would soon be going off to war. Now, as people gave Robbie's shoulder a hearty slap and pumped his hand effusively, saying, ‘Good on you, son, we need lads like you,' or ‘Kill one of those dirty Huns for me, boy', she found it offensive and disturbing.

The other soldiers amongst the crowd were receiving the same treatment, and the speakers used their presence to humiliate young men incivilian attire. ‘Shame on you, lad, look at this fine young soldier. Get yourself into a uniform!'

‘I might take Ernie home,' Kathleen said after an hour or so. ‘He's very tired.'

During the slow walk home, the old dog bone-weary limping behind, Kathleen gave in to her feelings of melancholy. Please God let him come home, she prayed. Please God don't let them kill my son. For the first time Kathleen wished she had Otto's faith. In the early days she had accompanied him and Johann to the Catholic church on Sundays, taking Robbie with them, but the Mass had been foreign to her and she'd felt like a hypocrite amongst such devotion. Gradually she'd stopped going and, to his credit, Otto had never tried to foist his religious beliefs upon her.

It wasn't so much that she didn't believe in God. More that she hadn't given Him much thought. Despite the hardships in her life, and there had certainly been many, it had never occurred to Kathleen to seek God's help, she had always relied upon her own resourcefulness. That was not enough now. Now Kathleen wished that she'd persevered with the church services. Perhaps God listened more to those who prayed in churches.

 

Johann's letter arrived two days before the troops embarked for overseas.

Kathleen watched as Otto read the letter. When he'd finished, he stood up from the kitchen table and nodded. ‘Johann has grown up,' he said, passing the letter to her.

He took his mug of tea out onto the back porch. Kathleen didn't follow, she'd seen the tears in his eyes. But ten minutes later, when he came back inside, she smiled thankfully as he embraced her.

 

All over Australia the units of the first contingent of the Australian Expeditionary Force were marching through the city streets to the harbours and the transport ships which awaited to take them off to war.

The Australian government had chartered the largest suitable ships in ports. Passenger liners, great wool-carriers and meat-carriers, all had been fitted with mess tables and hammocks; the horse transports had been furnished with endless stalls, spread with coconut matting and secured against heavy weather.

A large fleet of troopships, numbering A1 to A28, had been lying in various ports throughout the country for many weeks now, awaiting embarkation.

Thousands lined the streets of Sydney to farewell their sons, their fathers, their lovers, their friends, or simply to wish the lads godspeed.

Onlookers stood on tram-stop benches or on boxes they'd brought themselves; others sat in the branches of trees or perched
on the pedestals of statues, clutching at the bronze and stone limbs of bygone heroes in order to get a better view of the boys going off to the war. Along the route to the harbour, every office building window was crowded with well-wishers showering streamers and yellow wattle blossom upon the troops marching proudly below.

And march proudly they did, in their own special way. A jaunty way. Rifles over shoulder, slouch hats at an angle, chin straps drawn tight, their chests thrust out and their well-muscled arms swinging, theirs was an unconventional march. Neither ragged nor precise, but boyish and enthusiastic.

Every man kept a keen eye out for his loved ones, some even marched with their sweethearts by their side, and there were smiles and winks and waves and hurrahs exchanged as names were called from the crowds, children were raised onto shoulders to wave goodbye to their fathers, and wives and mothers blew frantic kisses.

Robbie O'Shea grinned and waved to Kathleen and Otto. He gave a special wink to Aggie who was crying, but she missed it as she buried her head in her handkerchief.

Tim Kendall and his uncle Billy had no trouble picking their family out from the crowd as they marched. Little Emily, now twelve years old, was perched on Benjamin's shoulders; Norah was waving wildly, and beside them stood Billy's wife Marge and their two little boys. If only his mother, Beth, could have been there to watch him march, Billy thought, she would have been so proud, but Beth Kendall had died two years ago.

Further down the line were the Putman boys, Mick and his older brother Geoff. Geoff was nearly forty now but, fit as a mallee bull, he hadn't even bothered to lie about his age. The army needed men like him. Their mother Nellie, in pride of place on the kerbside corner, having shoved her way through to the front, was giving her boys a grand old send-off. Shrieking at the top of her lungs, her husband on one side—Jack had been out of gaol for a whole two years on the trot—and her eldest son, Spotty, on the other, holding his little sister Lizzie's hand and not looking too happy. Spotty had wanted desperately to go to the war. He'd volunteered all right, but he hadn't passed the medical.

‘It's just a cough,' he'd said, ‘I've always had it, it doesn't make mesick.'

But they'd told him he had bad lungs—weakened by the smallpox which had nearly killed him as a child, they said. Just his luck. Spotty watched his brothers enviously. They were going to have all the fun, and he had to stay home just because of a bleeding cough.

Otto's eyes were searching frantically amongst the troops as they passed, he couldn't see Johann.

‘Can you see him?' he asked Kathleen.

‘Not yet. I'm looking. Not yet.' She prayed that they'd not missed him. He couldn't have passed them by. He couldn't. Then suddenly, ‘There he is! Look, Otto. There he is!'

Johann has changed, she thought the instant she saw him. Robbie had been right. The skinny young boy was a man now, his body filled out and well formed. And, although his face was the same, deep-furrowed bridge to the nose, square-jawed, thin-lipped—the traits which had always set him apart and labelled him a foreigner—his expression was entirely different. There was a pride in his eyes now, and a joy in the curve of his mouth, there was an openness which had never been there. It was the pride of comradeship. Little Johann, the Dutchie's kid, had finally become one of the boys.

‘Johann!' Otto raised his giant hand and bellowed as he waved. ‘Johann!'

Johann heard his father's voice and their eyes met across the sea of faces.

‘God go with you, my son!' Otto yelled.

Johann grinned, and as he marched past his father, he saluted.

As soon as Godfrey Streatham found out about Kendle and Streatham's government contract, he knew immediately it had not been secured by any ethical means. He was astounded that Charles had managed to keep the secret for so long, but then the factories had remained principally his and Stephen's concern, Godfrey concentrating upon the emporiums and the retail side of the business.

Godfrey was outraged. He called a private meeting in the boardroom of the George Street store. Just Charles, Stephen, himself and Howard.

‘We must even up the numbers, Father,' Godfrey insisted, although Howard required little persuasion, he was as appalled as his son by the news.

‘Kendle and Streatham has enjoyed an unsullied reputation since your grandfather's time,' he said, his bony knuckles clenched upon the ivory handle of his walking stick as he and Godfrey stood in the store's grand foyer waiting for the lift.

He jabbed his walking stick into the air. ‘Look,' he said as he pointed up at the emblem emblazoned in pressed metal above the main foyer doors. “‘Kendle and Streatham, Trading on the Wings of Honour”, we have lived by that motto and now he has made a mockery of it.'

Howard was becoming seriously agitated. ‘Calm down, Father,' Godfrey said as they stepped into the lift. ‘You must not upset yourself, it is not good for your health.' An emotional outburst from his father would also not serve their purpose. The old man
was there simply to back up Godfrey's plan of action. ‘Calm down and leave it to me.'

The meeting in the giant oak-panelled boardroom of Kendle and Streatham went exactly as Godfrey had predicted it would. Charles ranted and raved; Stephen nodded a little from time to time, obviously agreeing with Godfrey but not daring to say so out loud; and Howard, in whom Godfrey had not confided, wildly applauded his son's suggestion.

The plan was simple enough. All goods supplied to the army were to be sold at cost price, and all profits made from any previous sales were to be donated to the war effort. ‘As of now,' Godfrey said, ‘before the press finds out and labels us profiteers.'

‘Why the hell should the press find out?' Charles growled.

‘It is not worth the risk,' Godfrey insisted. ‘And besides, it is the honourable thing to do.'

Pompous and unprepossessing as he was, Godfrey Streatham could be a formidable force when set upon a course of action. Implacably he stood his ground, refusing to compromise in any way whatsoever, and eventually there was little Charles could do but look for a way to turn Godfrey's plan to his own advantage.

A fortnight after the meeting, a small item appeared in the
Financial Times
. It was rumoured, the journalist reported, that Kendle and Streatham had been anonymously donating considerable sums to the war effort. Several days later a full page article appeared in the
Sydney Morning Herald
, accompanied by a very flattering picture of Charles.

The reluctant Mr Kendle not only admitted to his company's contributions to the war effort, but was apparently willing to announce to the journalist Kendle and Streatham's plans for returned soldiers.

It had taken Godfrey a solid week of argument to convince Charles that they must set up a protection scheme for soldiers and their families. ‘On a sliding scale,' he had suggested, ‘for men who have been in our employ for upward of five years.'

‘Why, in God's name?' Charles had actually laughed at the suggestion. ‘If a man is fool enough to go off and get himself shot, why should it be any concern of ours?'

‘Tell him about the Wunderlichs,' Howard had suggested to his son, ‘that'll do it.'

‘The Wunderlichs are leading the way in industrial and personal relations,' Godfrey told Charles, ‘which is proving not only harmonious to the company, but also profitable. They have even set up a staff partnership and profit-sharing scheme which guarantees loyalty and productivity.'

‘It's the first I've heard of it.' Charles's tone was belligerent, but Godfrey knew that he had the old man's undivided attention.

‘The scheme has not been made known to the general public,' Godfrey explained, ‘but you need only ask any one of their employees. And they most certainly intend to look after their returned soldiers. Alfred Wunderlich is most insistent upon it.'

It was the mention of Alfred Wunderlich that clinched Godfrey's argument. The man had never liked him, Charles knew it. He had never invited him to join his prestigious social set. Alfred Wunderlich was a thorn in Charles's side.

‘Poppycock,' Charles said when Godfrey accused him of giving the
story to the press. ‘If an ethical journalist from an ethical publication approaches me for an interview—an interview which can only be for the good of the firm I might add—am I to refuse? Where are your wits man? We have press relations to maintain.'

Charles didn't care one bit about Godfrey's outrage and Howard's disapproval, he had far more important things on his mind.

 

‘What do you mean Mark's joined the army!' Charles growled. ‘No grandson of mine is going to war. I forbid it!'

‘He enlisted last week, Father, he's already left for training camp.' Stephen remained frozen in the doorway of his father's study, and he found himself flinching as the old man slowly rose from the chair behind his desk. He couldn't help it, the ferocity of his father's rage had always terrified him.

‘And you let him go! Without trying to stop him!' Charles's voice was shrill with anger, bordering on hysterical, as he approached his son. ‘Without telling me!'

‘Yes.'

Charles struck Stephen's face with all the force his age could muster, the gaunt flat of his right hand leaving a pink imprint upon his son's cheek.

For a second or two, the men stood staring at each other in silence, the blow having shocked them both. Stephen was taken aback by his father's sheer audacity more than anything. Charles Kendle was nearly eighty, white haired and wizened. Stephen was twice his size, he could have beaten the old man to a pulp. Yet, as he looked into the steel-grey eyes, he was helpless. He knew that he should turn his back on his father and simply walk away, but he couldn't. He knew that he should leave his father's house and never return, but he knew that he would never do that.

Stephen Kendle could do nothing but wonder, yet again, at his father's power, and at his own sickening weakness.

‘Let me tell him, Dad,' Mark had said, ‘at least then you won't have to bear the brunt of his insanity. Because he'll go mad, you know he will.'

‘Yes, I know it.' Dear God, he had thought, what sort of a man am I, my own son feels the need to protect me. ‘You are to leave your grandfather to me, I insist upon it, Mark,' he'd said. ‘If you must go to the war, then you go with my blessing and the
knowledge that your family is proud of you.' He'd felt proud himself, proud and strong as he'd embraced his son.

Charles gripped the handle of the open door for support, his strength suddenly waning. As he had struck his son, he had wanted to kill him, if there'd been a weapon in his hand he would probably have done so. Now all he felt was loathing and disgust.

‘What sort of a father are you?' he demanded. ‘You willingly send your own son off to his possible death.' When Stephen remained silent, Charles felt his anger grow once more. ‘Why didn't you go yourself? You're expendable, we could well do without you …'

‘The army doesn't want men in their forties.'

But Charles wasn't listening. ‘… why did you have to send my grandson. The only grandson who bears my name.'

‘I didn't
send
him, Father …'

‘You're a traitor to this family,' the edge of hysteria was once again creeping into the old man's voice. ‘A traitor d'you hear?'

Stephen watched while, exhausted by his tirade, his father returned to collapse in the chair behind his desk. Charles Kendle looked old. Tired and defeated. Stephen knew of the old man's plans for Mark. The future of the Kendle dynasty rested upon the strong young shoulders of the only grandson who bore his name. Mark was to take on the mantle of Kendle and Streatham, the fourth generation to do so. But Stephen wanted to tell his father that such plans were pointless.

‘I will never work for the family firm,' Mark had said, ‘and if Grandfather wishes to disinherit me, then let him, he will not take over my life, as he has done everyone else's.'

The remark had not been intended to hurt, but the underlying inference had. Stephen had almost winced at its truth. ‘I promise I'll stand by you, son,' he'd said. ‘I'll not let you down. Please. Don't go to war in order to escape your grandfather.'

That was when Mark had made his desperate plea, appalled that he'd hurt his father, and appalled that his father had so misinterpreted his intentions. ‘But that's not why I'm going, Dad, that's not why I'm going at all.'

He'd jumped up from the old garden bench in the arbour at the bottom of the garden, where they so often sat in solitude, and looked out over Woolloomooloo at the panoramic view of the city
beyond. At the skyline which was forever changing, growing and expanding.

‘You saw themmarch,' he said. ‘You saw them march through those very streets. You can see the route from here. I have to be one of them, Dad. I have to march through the streets too. I have to know that my country's proud of me.'

‘What would you have me do?' he begged, turning to his father, ‘wait for the white feathers to arrive in the mail? That's what's happening, did you know? It's women mostly. Women whose sons and husbands have gone to war, they're sending white feathers to able-bodied men who haven't signed up. I won't be labelled a coward.'

‘Sending white feathers is a cowardly act in itself,' Stephen protested, ‘a man should not be so pressured into going to war.'

‘That's not why I'm going either. Oh Dad, you must understand me! You must!' Mark insisted. ‘I'm going because I
want
to go, because I'm
proud
to go. And I want you to be proud of me too.'

‘I am,' he said, and it was true. He had always been proud of Mark. In fact Stephen had wished many times over the years that he had a strength of his own to match that of his son.

Now Stephen stood in his father's study wishing that he could tell the old man the truth. He summoned up every last ounce of his courage. ‘Father,' he began, ‘Mark told me before he left …'

‘Get out.'

‘… he told me that he would never work for the family …'

‘Get out!' the old man screamed. He knew what his son was about to say and he refused to listen to such blasphemy. ‘Get out of my sight, you disgust me!'

Like a craven dog, Stephen slunk from the room, hating himself and his inadequacy.

 

‘Mothers are supporting fatherless families on a wage barely adequate to sustain themselves, let alone their babies,' Susan Kendle proclaimed from her platform in the centre of the Domain. Like many involved in the Women's Movement, Susan was passionate about the injustice displayed towards women who were doing men's work. ‘Industry is either denying them work altogether or paying them less than half a man's wage.' Susan's voice was, as
always, so strong and commanding that passers-by found themselves compelled to stop and listen.

‘And educated women,' she continued emphatically, ‘women with business college degrees. They are employed readily enough as clerks and secretaries. They are granted positions as bookkeepers and accountants. But they are paid a trifle in comparison to their male counterparts. Is this justice?'

Whilst strongly advocating a woman's right to work, and her right to ‘an equal day's pay for an equal day's labour', Susan was sensible and balanced in presenting her case. She knew when to bow to the sensitive issues at hand.

‘We do not wish to steal our men's jobs,' she insisted. ‘When they come home, we will stand by them and help to rebuild their lives in the work force. Then, and then only, can we work together towards unity and equality.'

When Susan confined her argument to equal pay, the opposition she encountered was minimal. It was when she spoke out against the war that she ran into trouble. And speak out she did. Brazenly and, to many, shockingly. Along with other members of the Women's Political Association, she had joined the recently formed Women's Peace Army and, like her fellow members, was vociferous in her opinions.

She ran a risk in speaking out publicly against the war, for under the War Precautions Act, it was illegal to do so, a six-month sentence the penalty. But Susan felt that her letters to the major newspapers, and her articles which were published in
The Woman Voter
, the major agent for antiwar opinion, were not enough. She needed to speak directly to the people.