Thornwood House (44 page)

Lulu is lively, but she’d be no burden on Poppa – quite the opposite, I expect. Poppa always rambles happily about her in his letters, excited at the prospect of playing the doting Opa and spoiling her rotten. I’m sure her sparkle will cheer him rather than send him to an early grave as Ellen seems to think.

Later that night, when Ellen had retired to her room and the lights were out and the house creaking, I thought I heard her crying. My own heart sank, my joy over Poppa’s letter dried up. Why is joy always so short-lived? Why is it always overshadowed by guilt or fearfulness? For a long time after Ellen’s weeping got lost in the noises of the night and was replaced by Klaus’s soft snores, I lay awake.

I understood why Ellen was sad. It had nothing to do with worrying about Poppa’s welfare – it was that she’d miss Lulu.

At midnight I wandered downstairs to fetch myself a cup of Horlick’s. Who should I find slumped at the table in the dark, but young Cleve. He startled when I pulled the cord and flooded the kitchen with light, and swiped at his face, but not before I saw that it was shiny with tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and sprang out of his chair, filling the kettle with water and setting it to boil on the hob. He reclaimed his chair, slumped again and avoided my eyes.

‘Cleve, are you sick?’

He shook his head.

‘Why were you sitting here alone in the dark? You have school tomorrow, it’s very late.’

Still he said nothing, and I grew worried. He’s turned into a large, lumpish boy, thirteen this year and somehow cumbersome in his own skin. Compared to other children I know, he seems already an old man, his bristly fair hair cropped close to his large head, a crease between his pale brows, and wide blue eyes where anxiety and worry swim continuously around and around like goldfish in a bowl.

‘Cleve?’

Again he swiped at his face. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

Only then did I twig. A dozen memories poured in – Cleve and his mother at the breakfast table, the way they were always cosseting Lulu, the three of them the very picture of a happy family; countless cosy evenings around the wireless, Cleve playing with Lulu at his mother’s feet; Cleve and his mother taking turns to read in funny voices from one of Lulu’s story books before bedtime.

Cleve and his mother.

‘We can’t stay here forever, you know,’ I told him.

Cleve nodded, but then he lifted his eyes and looked at me. A chill took hold. Stupid, I must have been very tired – but I thought I saw something else in those blue fishbowl eyes, something that troubled me. Resentment, maybe. Even hatred. Samuel, I know it sounds strange, but what I felt at that moment was very much akin to fear.

The moment passed. Cleve hung his head, and I doubted what I’d seen. Brushing off my misgivings, I hauled the spluttering kettle from the stovetop and made two cups of Horlick’s. Any other time I might have sat by the boy, patted his podgy shoulder, offered words of comfort. Not last night. As soon as I’d set his cup before him, I muttered a hasty ‘Goodnight’ and made a beeline for my room.

16 March, 1945

Oh Samuel, I’ve fallen into such a dark mood.

An hour after tea tonight, as we were settling around the wireless for the seven o’clock broadcast, Lulu, who I’d just kissed goodnight and tucked into bed, started shrieking. I flew out to our room and snatched her up, sickened to discover that blood was streaming from her poor tiny arm. Ellen discovered a piece of brown glass in the cot. She glared at me as if I was the worst mother in the world, which I now fear to be true.

The wound wasn’t deep, but nevertheless we flapped around in a panic, spilling iodine and Solyptol ointment all over ourselves and scattering bandages and cottonwool and rolls of gauze until the room resembled a camp hospital – but Lulu soon settled, quite the brave little trouper.

I swear, Samuel, I’ve no idea how glass could have found its way into my baby’s crib – I’ve got hawk-eyes when it comes to her safety. Cleve was lurking in the doorway, watching the goings-on with a sullen smirk on his face. I remember thinking unkindly, Where’s your blasted bottle of mercurochrome now?

24 March, 1945

Samuel, I’m about to burden you again with my woes, forgive me darling, I have no one else to turn to and I know you’ll understand.

Late last night I overheard Ellen talking on the telephone . . . she didn’t mention any names, but several times I heard her say ‘the child’, and ‘the little girl’, and then, ‘the whole situation is most unsatisfactory’.

I lay awake after that, listening to the house creak and groan, my tears turning cold on my cheeks. This morning I waited until breakfast was out of the way before approaching Ellen. I told her that I was taking Lulu back to Stump Hill Road earlier than planned, so we could get the house ready for Poppa.

Of course we argued. I hadn’t been expecting her to be quite so upset. She left the room crying, and I felt wrenched apart. With every fibre of my soul I wished I hadn’t said anything to her. But Samuel, after overhearing her telephone call last night, how could I not?

I slumped at the table. Cleve hovered in the doorway, watching me.

‘What?’ I said, more harshly than I’d intended. ‘What are you staring at?’

He didn’t reply at first. Again I had the sense that he was older – far older – than his thirteen years. In the past twelve months Cleve has grown quite tall, nearly as tall as his father and certainly as thickly built. I hadn’t noticed until now . . . I suppose I’ve picked up his mother’s habitual tendency to ignore him.

‘
You
can go,’ he said heatedly. ‘No one will miss
you
. But Lulu belongs with us now.’

‘How can you say that, Cleve? She’s my daughter. The only person she belongs with is me.’

‘Mum says you’re not fit to be a mother.’

I stared, speechless. It took a few moments to find my voice, and when I did it was barely more than a whisper.

‘Then she’s wrong.’

But Cleve had gone, I could hear him clomping down the hall to his room, whistling in that tuneless way he did, a sign that he was well pleased.

I sat at the table for a long time. Shaking. Holding onto my tears. Lulu started to cry and Ellen went to her, but I couldn’t move. I just sat there thinking about the men in the grey suits with their clipboards full of forms and their black motorcar with its windows wound up . . . and for the first time since the war began, I felt afraid. Not for myself, but for our little girl. She’s my life, Samuel – her sweet smile, her chirpy little voice, her sunny presence – she is more vital to me than food or water or air. If she was taken, how would I go on?

25 May, 1945

My Dearest, as you can see by the address, I’m still at the Jarmans’. Ellen made me promise to stay on until she finds another housekeeper – as if that’s all I was to them, hired help!

Anyway, a while ago I mentioned how busy we’ve been bottling fruit and chutney for the upcoming Red Cross stall, another benefit for the Comforts Fund. Ellen still hasn’t found a housekeeper to replace me, so I had resigned myself to staying longer, trapped in this awkward sort of purgatory, biding my time until some other poor victim arrived to take my place.

Oh but Samuel, that’s all changed. After this afternoon’s debacle, I can’t stay.

Ellen had taken Lulu to her Red Cross meeting (where, no doubt, the lot of them would make a right old fuss over the little imp) and so I’d taken the opportunity to bottle up the last of the tomatoes.

Cleve came into the kitchen and began skulking around, fiddling with the chopping knife, accidentally (on purpose) knocking tomato skins onto the floor, dithering back and forth between the sink and the table.

A huge pot of tomato lava was bubbling away on the stove, and as I started ladling the brew into sterilised bottles, Cleve shuffled past and jogged my elbow.

Scalding sauce splashed my arm. I jerked back in shock and pain, and my foot came down on the trodden-in tomato skins that Cleve had neglected, despite my nagging, to pick off the floor. I skidded, almost losing my balance but somehow catching myself on the table edge. The ladle flew from my grasp and crashed onto the floor.

Cleve screamed.

I spun around. The first thing I saw was a blood-red splatter on his school shirt. In my jostled state I thought he must have cut himself with the chopping knife. He was buckled over clutching his face, bellowing like a wounded bullock. Then
I understood. The blistering hot contents of my ladle had splashed him.

I tried to drag him over to the sink to douse him in water and see how bad his scalds were, but he fought me off and ran.

The matron at the hospital said he’ll be all right, though the burns are quite nasty and his poor face may be scarred.

Samuel, I can’t quite describe how low I feel about this. It must seem to you a trivial injury in light of the horrors you are no doubt treating in Malaya – or wherever it is you are. But Cleve is a child, and because of me he will now be marked for life.

I thought it best to return to Stump Hill Road. Despite my promise to Ellen, I can’t bear to stay here a minute longer. I’m a terrible coward to run away, but what else can I do? Events here seem to be conspiring to prove me a wretch of a mother. I’m scared to be alone and at the mercy of the inspectors . . . but I’m more scared of staying here.

3 September, 1945

Samuel, our repatriated troops from Singapore have been trickling home for some weeks now, and I’m getting worried. Where are you, love?

No one has heard from you, no one remembers seeing you after Singapore’s capture in ’42. I’ve written to the Red Cross, but as yet have had no replies. I’ve even gone to Brisbane on the train and walked out to the wharf and watched the wounded pouring off the hospital ships. I’ve cadged lifts to Toowoomba, and back to Brisbane, even Enoggera – to haunt the wards of the repatriation hospitals there – all to no avail.

Darling, what am I to believe?

I will address this letter to the Records Office at the Showgrounds in Sydney, and hope, by some miracle, that if you are alive it will somehow reach you.

Samuel, please be alive. Please come home to me. Whatever you have suffered we will face together. We’ll build a happy life
just as we planned, you and me and Lulu. We’ll forget the war, and let the greater world carry on without us for a while . . . What do you say, love?

The next letter from Samuel was barely legible. The handwriting wobbly and uneven as a child’s scrawl, veering all over the page, the paper freckled with ink spots and torn in places where the pen had broken through. At the top was written ‘Greenslopes, Brisbane’ – which I understood to be the repatriation hospital built early in the war for returning soldiers.

3 December, 1945

Aylish Sweetheart,

I got home a fortnight ago, relieved beyond belief to be back on familiar soil. My first thought was to see you, my dear – but I’m confined to a bed at least ’til Christmas. Please don’t worry about me, I’m well enough – just somewhat underfed and malarial, though the staff at Greenslopes fuss over me like a newborn.

It’s palatial, this hospital. Freshly painted walls and beds (the colour of buttermilk), crisp sheets so clean they crackle, ceilings the very same hue as that curly moss that used to grow at the gully, a delicate green I could happily stare at all day (and oftentimes do). There are wide verandahs where a bloke can sit and watch the world drift by . . . or daydream about his beautiful girl, and how much he longs to see her (hint hint).

I’ve heard there are even machines to wash the dishes, as well as electric-heated food trolleys. Sometimes it feels as though I’ve stepped through time into a very different world to the one I waved farewell four years ago. The food is top-notch – though the nursing staff are somewhat stingy with my portions, half-cupfuls at a time due to my dodgy digestion. But oh, Aylish, it’s good . . . so very good. Stew with real meat, bread rolls and butter, sago pudding and poached rhubarb. Surely I’ve died and
gone to heaven? Only there’s an angel missing, an angel with a sweet smile and eyes that twinkle like black diamonds – how soon can you visit me, sweet Aylish?

Being home feels unreal – as though I’m not home at all, but in some halfway place, a limbo of sorts, a pleasant dream . . . a dream I’m terrified of waking from.

I crave to be back at Magpie Creek. I crave company and laughter and lightness. Yet I fear it, too. What if I return only to find that I’ve forgotten how to banter, how to relate? How to fit in? I have to keep reminding myself that with my marvellous Aylish by my side I can do anything . . . and I do still have you, don’t I, love?

I don’t know what you’ve heard about my escapades – probably bugger-all . . . there are so many rumours whizzing around, so many contradictions, no one’s sure of anything.

After being separated from my battalion in ’42, I was taken off to Borneo and had no way of sending word home. I expect all the lads thought me a goner, and there’ll be those in town surprised to learn I’m still around. In October last year when I reached Singapore – months behind the rest of the boys – I ran into a familiar face, do you remember Davo Legget from the timber mill? He broke the sad news about my father. It was a shock to think Dad’s been gone all this time and me not knowing. You can imagine my grief – Dad was a hard sort of a bloke, we were never close . . . and yet there was great respect between us, and I suppose you could say we loved each other in our way. I miss him terribly.

Which only makes me all the more impatient to see you, Aylish. I think of you constantly. Since we kissed for the last time and said goodbye on the platform at Roma Street, an image has remained imprinted on my soul: My beautiful girl standing there in the dusty September heat, tears swimming in her eyes and a smile trembling on her luscious lips – don’t laugh, Aylish, that picture of you in my head was more vivid than any
photograph – even though the snap you pressed into my hand that day has travelled with me, become as necessary to my survival as food or drink or oxygen. It grew tattered, but your memory never did. Heck, you’re thinking, the damn fool’s turned into a sentimental sap . . . and I guess I have. How could I not? My love for you is every bit as strong, if not a thousandfold stronger, than it was the last time I saw you that day at the station.