Beneath the Southern Cross (41 page)

Kathleen started to cut up some thick slices of damper and cheese. ‘It's early in the day for beer,' she said. ‘You'll need to put something in your stomachs.'

‘Is your beer,' Otto said, dumping a bottle and a glass on the table in front of Tim.

‘I see your English hasn't got much better, Otto.' Tim had always enjoyed giving cheek to Otto; he'd always got away with it too.

‘Ja. It get me into trouble. Some people, they think I am German.' He gave a guttural growl of anger. ‘It make me so mad. I say to them, “My son, he die for this country, what right you have to call me Hun?”' He clenched his huge fist. ‘I tell you, Tim, I come close to hit someone.'

Kathleen watched the men as they talked. That Otto could admit so freely to his anger was a merciful relief. There had been times when he had come home in the blackest of rages. Like the time someone had scrawled ‘Hun' in white paint over his shopfront. Never had she seen her gentle Otto so incensed.

As the men talked, Kathleen studied Tim. He'd changed. He was as lean and lithe and handsome as ever, but the boyish young face was finally that of a man, and a tough man, she could tell.

‘How is Billy, Tim?' she asked as she brought the damper and cheese to the table. ‘We've only seen him the once since he's been home and that's a long time ago now.'

‘Pretty crook.' Tim didn't beat about the bush. ‘A bit jumbled up.' He tapped his forehead with his forefinger. ‘A lot of the blokes went like that. Maybe he'll come good,' he shrugged, ‘and maybe he won't. It's tough on his wife.'

There was a moment's silence, then, ‘You drink your beer, Tim,' Otto said, and the men clinked glasses and drank.

‘Do you want to see Millicent?' Caroline asked, pulling at Tim's shirt.

‘Yes, I'd love to,' he said. The little girl scrambled off his knee and ran upstairs.

‘Millicent's the new doll,' Kathleen explained when Tim raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. ‘It was Caroline's birthday yesterday.'

The doll was presented to Tim and duly admired. ‘So how old are you, Caroline?' he asked the raven-haired little girl with the big brown eyes. She thought for a moment before holding up three fingers.

‘Darling, why don't you take Millicent out onto the porch?' Kathleen suggested. ‘She's looking a bit pale, she needs some sun.'

‘Three years old,' Tim said as he watched her go. ‘It's been that long?'

‘Yes, it's been that long.'

‘She looks like him.'

Kathleen nodded, and the three of them sat watching the little girl through the open back door as she sat on the porch and chatted to her doll.

Tim momentarily let his guard down, something he rarely did these days. ‘He was the best mate a bloke could have,' he murmured. ‘I miss him.'

Neither Kathleen nor Otto said a word, but Kathleen could have wept for the vulnerability she saw in Tim's eyes.

Then, aware of their sympathy, Tim retreated behind his facade. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kathleen and Otto, but a bloke couldn't afford to let down his guard or he'd go under, just like Billy.

‘I was with him when he copped it.'

‘Yes,' Kathleen nodded, ‘Billy told me.'

‘He didn't feel a thing. No pain. He never knew what hit him.'

Kathleen nodded her thanks and Tim changed the subject. They talked about the good old days, and Otto fetched more beer and got slightly drunk. They talked about Johann and Robbie as if they were still alive and, every now and then, Otto wiped a tear from his eye or laughed out loud, and Kathleen could have hugged Tim Kendall. It was as if he'd brought her Otto back to life.

She did hug him, an hour later when he left. So did Otto, and Caroline too.

‘It's so good to have you home, Tim,' Kathleen said. ‘You'll come and see us often?'

‘Of course I will. Have to keep an eye on the little princess here, don't I?' Caroline gave him a big wet kiss as he put her down. And then he had to kiss Millicent. And then he was out in the street walking home to Surry Hills.

His leg ached a little as he walked, but he needed to keep exercising it, so he didn't end up with a permanent limp. He tried to concentrate on each step, to think of nothing but his leg. He marched, ignoring the pain. Left, right, left, right. He must concentrate on marching. Left, right, left, right. But it wasn't working, his mind kept wandering. He turned the corner and doubled back through Woolloomooloo to the docks. He'd sit and look at the harbour for a while. He didn't want to go home to his mum and dad. Not just yet. He didn't feel like talking.

The visit to Kathleen and Otto had shaken Tim more than he'd cared to admit. The little girl, so like Robbie he could have been looking into Robbie's eyes, had brought it all back to him, the images he'd been so careful to shut out.

He hadn't lied to Kathleen. Or to Billy. Robbie had known no pain in death.

Tim could see him now, running up ahead, screaming as he ran, like he always did. Tim screamed too. Sometimes. He didn't quite know why, but sometimes it seemed to help. The noise of his own voice ringing in his ears sometimes helped block out, just a little, the distant roar from the batteries and the whistle of shells through the air and the hideous explosions which showered them with mud as they ran, clumsily, sometimes sinking up to their calves in the bog of the battlefield, sometimes tripping over the men who had fallen in front.

Tim didn't see Robbie fall; he was thrown to the ground himself by the peripheral force of the blast. He struggled groggily to his knees, amazed at the fact that he was still alive, and crawled over the bodies of the men in front to where Robbie lay.

His chest was ripped open and, through the coat of grey mud, Tim could see the white shards of shattered ribs and the mangled mess of entrails which lay shockingly exposed within. Robbie was dead. Just like that. A carcass. The same as dozens of others he'd seen. And Tim lay beside him, his mind a blank, nothing in his head but the vague hope that when he too copped it, he'd go quick like Robbie.

He lay in the mud, too weary to run, too drained to care, just wishing it all was over. Then Robbie groaned. Oh sweet Jesus no, Tim thought, don't let him gain consciousness, don't let him lie here in agony, not even for a minute.

Behind closed lids, Robbie's eyes were flickering. A rasping noise sounded from his throat. Tim clicked the bayonet free from his rifle and held the muzzle to Robbie's temple. It took no more than a second or so. A single shot and it was over. Then, shocked to his senses, he got up and ran. Through the mud and the blood and the gore of the battlefield he ran for his very life.

Tim looked out at the harbour. The blue waters were dotted with white. It was Saturday, a fine late September afternoon, and the rich people were sailing. Dozens of eighteen footers were racing under full canvas. The Sydney Flying Squadron's Saturday regatta. Other yachts, under light rig, and with ladies aboard, were enjoying a leisurely social outing. For some, it seemed, the war didn't exist.

Tim turned for home. He'd visited his ghosts. He could face Ben and Norah now. ‘Saw Kathleen and Otto,' he'd be able to say, ‘we talked about old times. Robbie's little girl's a real beauty.'

 

Maria Nina
skimmed effortlessly across the water. With only a light rig hoisted, she was still a graceful boat, but under full sail she drew great admiration and was an impressive contender on race days. Custom designed and made in Tasmania, the eighteen footer was built of huon pine and was Stephen Kendle's pride and joy.

It had taken his father years to accept the eighteen footers. They were cheaper to build and to run, and Charles Kendle swore they'd belittle the sport. ‘The eighteen footers are putting the ownership of sailing craft within the purse strings of the common herd,' was what he said. But once he'd realised they were the fastest yachts on the harbour, he'd changed his tune.

Today
Maria Nina
was not racing, however; Stephen was sailing single-handed. His sister Susan was with him, but Susan could hardly be counted as crew, she knew nothing about sailing and refused to learn.

‘Why should I?' she'd insisted. ‘You're the expert. In fact you'd never get me out in this thing if I didn't know you were one of the best.' In her strident way, Susan was always good for her brother's ego, and she intended to be.

‘Don't put up too much sail, Stephen, please,' she'd asked when they'd set sail, ‘not today. You know I don't like it when the boat
leans too far.' There was a stiff breeze up and, with the regatta in full swing, Susan was, as usual, anxious. ‘For God's sake don't bump into anybody,' she begged. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be yachts.

Stephen laughed. ‘The fearless and ferocious Susan Kendle, nearly tarred and feathered by angry hordes, arrested for inciting a riot, afraid of a bit of a breeze.'

‘Just sail the thing, Stephen, and get away from these boats,' Susan growled.

It was true that several of those who'd advocated peace in the early days of the war had been tarred and feathered. And the day of the rally in 1916 she'd been escorted to Darlinghurst Police Station and accused of inciting a riot, but she hadn't been charged. They'd let her go with a warning because old Charles Kendle was her father. She'd demanded they charge her but, much to her chagrin, they'd steadfastly refused.

Once they were away from the melee of boats, Susan relaxed. The prospect of collision genuinely made her nervous, and the possibility of capsizing terrified her. She was not a good swimmer, and if Stephen only knew the effort it had cost her the first time she'd accepted his invitation, perhaps he would not be so cavalier in his attitude. But she trusted him now, and as they sailed past Shark Island and away from the others, she breathed a sigh of relief and gave herself up to the beauty that was Sydney Harbour.

At first she'd agreed to go sailing as an offer of solidarity, aware that her brother desperately needed a friend. But as their relationship grew stronger, Susan found that she needed Stephen as much as he needed her. In fact Stephen was the only true family she had. She didn't see her children any more. Lionel and Prudence chose not to visit her these days and her father could hardly be considered a comfort. She and Stephen were an odd pair, she thought. The insecure boy in the man's body and the ‘ferocious' Susan Kendle. But she loved her brother.

They turned about at Vaucluse Point and, with the wind behind them, it was a leisurely cruise home.

Susan leaned back in the cockpit and pulled her jacket about her. There was a chill in the spring breeze now. She watched the yachts as Stephen skilfully manoeuvred
Maria Nina
amongst them. It seemed obscene, somehow, that people could be so apparently
oblivious to the war. ‘Thank God it'll all be over soon,' she said.

‘Yes.' Stephen had been thinking about his son. ‘When Mark comes home,' he said, ‘I'm going to buy him his own eighteen footer. Tasmanian huon pine, the very best.'

Back at the yacht club, with
Maria Nina
safely penned, Stephen insisted he and Susan share a bottle of champagne in the lounge as usual and, as usual, she agreed. She never drank more than a glass, whilst Stephen demolished the rest of the bottle. She didn't enjoy drinking and she didn't enjoy the yacht club. The frivolity of the mood and conversation was meaningless, the hearty masculinity of the men and the flirtatiousness of the women irritating. But Stephen liked the place and she was loath to spoil his afternoon ritual by declining.

When Stephen had drained the last of the champagne, he suggested another bottle, but Susan as always declined.

‘I might have one quick drink with the boys in the bar then,' he said.

He drank far more than was good for him, Susan thought as she said goodbye, but then he was probably just buying time before going home to Kendle Lodge and the awful presence of their father. Susan could hardly blame him for that. Why on earth didn't he get out of the place, she wondered time and again, but she knew that he never would.

It was nearly dusk when Stephen arrived home. The three Scotches he'd had with Teddy and the boys were sitting quite happily on top of the champagne and he was feeling mellow. Plenty of time to change for dinner without annoying his father. It was only when he got home more than a little drunk and well after dark that he risked one of his father's moods.

‘The cook waited dinner,' Charles would archly remind him.

‘You don't need to wait for me, Father, you should go ahead and—'

‘I do not like dining alone, Stephen. As you very well know.'

It had taken Stephen years to realise that his father deliberately waited dinner in order to be disagreeable. The old man enjoyed disagreeable scenes. At eighty years of age, physically frail and confined mostly to his home, disagreeable scenes added spice to Charles Kendle's otherwise tedious day.

The house was gloomy, the lights of the main hall had not been
switched on. And where was the maid, Stephen wondered as he hung his coat and scarf on the brass pegs of the hall stand. Betty was normally there to take them from him.

Stephen crossed into the main lounge. To the left, his father's study door was ajar and a light shone from within, but the lounge, too, was dimly lit, only the wall brackets from the upper level illuminating the main stairs and casting shafts of light into the shadows below.

He wondered briefly whether he should pop his head into his father's study and let the old man know he was home. No, he decided, he'd go upstairs and dress for dinner first.

It was only when he was about to mount the stairs that he saw his father seated in the bay alcove, one of Charles's favourite spots, silhouetted by the dusk light which shone through the windows behind him.

‘You're home,' Charles growled, ‘drunk I suppose.' He'd dismissed the servants hours ago and, throughout the afternoon, had sat watching the hall door, waiting for Stephen.