White Feathers (28 page)

She walked along the wharves until she found the dock at which the
Marama
was berthed, ignoring the wolf whistles of the sailors as pointedly as she could. She climbed the gangway, then wandered along the deck until she encountered an orderly, who directed her down a series of corridors and a flight of stairs to the matron’s office. She knocked on the closed door and waited expectantly until it was opened by a tall thin woman.

‘Hello?’ she asked, looking Keely discreetly up and down. ‘Can I be of assistance? I’m Matron O’Connor.’

‘Um, yes, I think so. I’m Keely Murdoch. I was nursing at Brockenhurst until recently but I’m on my way home now. I understand my passage on the
Marama
has been arranged?’

Matron looked at Keely blankly, then her eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. ‘Ah. You’re the one going home unexpectedly, is that right?’

‘Yes. I have a letter for you from Matron Carmichael.’

Matron held out her hand for it, then said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Please, come in and have a seat.’

She waved Keely into her office and pointed at one of the chairs in front of a rather imposing desk. Keely wondered as she sat down whether having a big desk was a prerequisite for being a matron, or a result of being one.

Matron scanned the letter quickly, then refolded the single sheet, slipped it back into its envelope and placed it on the desk in front of her. She put her hands together, the index fingers touching the tip of her nose, and looked at Keely over them.

‘And how is Bea these days?’ she asked.

‘Bea?’

‘Beatrice Carmichael. Matron.’

This wasn’t the question Keely had been expecting at all. ‘Oh. Well, ah, fine, I think. Although she wasn’t very happy the last time I was speaking to her.’

‘No,’ agreed Matron, sitting back in her chair, ‘I imagine she wasn’t. She says you’ve managed to get yourself into a spot of trouble.’

‘Yes. I, ah … Yes, I have.’ Keely lifted her chin and said with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘I made a regrettable error of judgment.’

‘Indeed,’ said Matron. ‘Well, we won’t go into that now. It’s not as uncommon as you might think, and from my experience Bea Carmichael would be more likely to send you home for your own good, rather than just for propriety’s sake. She wouldn’t have made the decision lightly.’

Keely raised her own eyebrows.

‘I see you’re surprised, Nurse Murdoch?’

Keely nodded.

Matron continued. ‘Bea Carmichael is a personal friend of mine — we trained together, years ago now, of course — and you might be even more surprised to hear she’s quite a liberal-minded woman, and a real hoot after a couple of sherries. Yes, I know, her demeanour can be a little daunting but she’s a good woman, and she has always put the welfare of her staff above anything else. If she’d had her way I expect the man at the centre of all this would have been sent home, not you, but she has no jurisdiction over NZMC staff, only her nurses. In any event, not all has been lost,’ she added kindly. ‘You can still nurse when you get home.’

‘No, I can’t,’ Keely responded. ‘I’ve been dismissed from the NZANS.’

‘No, I don’t think you have, my dear. It says in the letter you’ve been stood down from active service due to fatigue, not dismissed.’

Keely stared. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. And you wouldn’t be expected to work on the way home if you’d been dishonourably discharged. And you are, working I mean, there’s no doubt about that, so I suggest we get a berth organised for you so you can get your head down and have an early night. You’ll be busy learning the ropes tomorrow, and we’re leaving on the late afternoon tide.’

Keely sat in stunned silence for a moment, then said, ‘I thought I’d been dismissed. Matron implied, well, she never told me I hadn’t.’

Matron tapped the letter in its envelope. ‘No, she probably wanted you to reflect on the seriousness of your, ah, indiscretion.’

‘What? You mean she wanted to teach me a lesson?’

Keely was incredulous now. What an interfering old cow! In the heat of her anger, she forgot how much worse it could have all been, how much worse she had thought it was.

‘Now that I can’t answer, and it isn’t my place to. You’re under my authority now, on my ship, so we’ll put the past behind us and start afresh, shall we?’

By the time the
Marama
had passed through the Panama Canal, Keely had made up her mind: she would retire from nursing, even if did mean having to listen to her father telling her he’d known all along she wasn’t really cut out for a profession, and stay on at Kenmore. She would have to find herself something to do, however. She couldn’t sit in the parlour all day arranging flowers and waiting for her friends and family to introduce her to a succession of young men deemed suitable as prospective husbands.

To her surprise she was enjoying life on the hospital ship. Some had considered nursing at sea ‘cushy’ — three to four months of changing bandages and giving sick and wounded soldiers cups
of tea. In fact it was extremely hard work. The surgeons in the two fully equipped theatres worked almost constantly, removing infected flesh, beginning the long process of reconstructive surgery, performing exploratory operations to find out why a soldier might not be recovering when he should be. There were also the ‘sick’ wards, as opposed to those accommodating the wounded. God knew what diseases some of these men had: many had to be kept in isolation to prevent possible epidemics that might devastate the entire ship.

Keely worked shifts, as she always had, and found herself flopping, exhausted, into her bunk at the end of each eight-hour stint, her mind almost numb with fatigue. This was the way she wanted it, though — anything to keep her mind off Ross McManus, what he was doing and who he might be doing it with now. She still didn’t quite know what she was going to tell Tamar and Andrew. No doubt her mother would understand — she always did — but her father never would.

She was looking forward to getting home now. She would see Joseph for the first time in ages, James should be home soon too, if he wasn’t already, and Thomas and Erin, well, they would be back when they could be. Ian, of course, would never come home, and the thought of that still made her heart freeze.

Part Three

Keely

1917–1919

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Kenmore, September 1917

J
ames, followed at a wary distance by Lucy, went straight upstairs, while Tamar and Andrew collapsed on the sofa in the parlour and poured themselves generous brandies. Joseph found them still there when he came in half an hour later.

‘Is he upstairs?’ he asked, sitting down in his socks and shirtsleeves.

‘Yes, he seems rather tired,’ replied Tamar as she eyed the brandy decanter thoughtfully. ‘No, perhaps not,’ she murmured.

‘Sorry?’ said Joseph.

‘I was going to have another drink, but it could be a long night, so perhaps I won’t,’ Tamar explained. ‘He seems in rather a strange mood.’

James had arrived at Napier station that afternoon, to be met by his parents and Lucy.

Andrew looked pale and worried. Slouched dispiritedly on the sofa, he sat up abruptly and frowned. ‘He just doesn’t seem at all to be the same lad who went away. He’s, I don’t know … he’s grown
old
, I think, Joseph.’

Joseph nodded. He’d seen this many times, of course.

‘He barely said a word all the way home. He doesn’t even want
to see young Duncan yet, which has upset Lucy terribly. Mind you, I think he’s probably still asleep. Duncan, I mean.’ He looked at Tamar for confirmation. She nodded. ‘They’ve gone upstairs, the pair of them,’ he added, and sighed. ‘I think poor wee Lucy will have a lot on her plate over the next few months.’

Months? It could be a damn sight longer than that before James gets back on his feet, Joseph reflected bleakly.

James and Lucy came down an hour later, then Lucy disappeared again to fetch Duncan from the nursery. She came back with him in her arms, a sleepy, grumpy, bronze-haired bundle of chubby two-and-a-half-year-old.

‘Duncan?’ she crooned as the little boy looked around through rapidly blinking eyes. ‘Look who’s here. Daddy’s home.’

When his mother held him out towards the strange man in uniform Duncan began to wriggle and shriek, wrapping his plump arms around her neck and using his bare feet to climb up her chest. James, who had risen to take his son, sat down again, his lips pressed whitely together, and turned to stare silently out through the French doors.

Tamar thought her heart might break. ‘Oh, James, you’ll have to give him time. He’s confused, he hasn’t a clue who you are.’

James grunted, then sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ he said. ‘I’m very tired, and it’s extremely odd being home again after, well, everything. I’m bloody well confused, too.’

Tamar glanced at Lucy, who was rhythmically patting Duncan’s back in an effort to placate him. The younger woman looked back, then quickly away again. Oh dear, thought Tamar, they’ve already had some sort of quarrel.

Fortunately, at that moment Mrs Heath appeared at the parlour door to take Duncan and announce dinner.

They filed into the dining room and sat down — Andrew
and Tamar, Jeannie and Lachie, James and Lucy, and Joseph and Keely.

‘Was Liam awake when you went up?’ asked Tamar.

Lucy nodded as she unfolded her napkin and spread it over her lap.

‘You should see him, James,’ said Tamar, ‘he’s the absolute image of his father. Mrs Heath will bring him down after dinner. He and Duncan will be in the bath by now.’

This was the first time anyone had mentioned Ian in James’s presence. Tamar desperately wanted to ask what his brother had said the last time they had been together. Had he been happy? Had he looked well? Had he made friends? Did he die alone? But her questions could wait a little longer. After all, Ian was never coming back, but James, thank God, had.

James put his soup spoon down with exaggerated care. ‘Are you sure he’s Ian’s?’

‘Oh yes, we’re absolutely certain, aren’t we, dear?’ Tamar replied, looking across the table at Andrew.

He nodded. ‘We had our doubts at first. Well,
I
had my doubts, but I think it’s safe to say that Liam is Ian’s. They look exactly alike, two peas in a pod. Even have the same mannerisms.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked James. ‘The child’s only … how old?’

‘Just over a year,’ Tamar replied. ‘You’ll have to wait until you see him, James. You’ll know at once. He even has the same facial expressions Ian had when he was tiny. You might not remember, though — you weren’t that old yourself at the time.’

‘I remember, Mam. I remember every single thing about Ian.’

There was a heavy silence. Tamar blinked back tears and Andrew cleared his throat with an odd, high-pitched sort of whinny.

Lachie, always uncomfortable in emotional situations, lifted his glass and said, ‘I propose a toast to you, James. Welcome back, laddie, you’re a real sight for sore eyes.’

Everyone raised their glasses, clinked them together over the table, then drank briefly.

James lifted his drink a second time. ‘And I propose a toast to the end of this fucking war.’

Tamar blinked again, this time in surprise. James had rarely sworn before he had gone over seas, and there was a tacit understanding that strong language was not to be used at the dinner table at Kenmore. In the paddocks, yes, but not while they were all gathered together to share a meal. She ignored it, however, assuming that James was either nervous, tired, or taking time to slough off his army habits. And any way he was twenty-eight now, and she could hardly tell him off for swearing after all he had been through.

‘Yes, to the end of the war,’ echoed Andrew, ‘and to Thomas and Erin coming home safe and sound.’

Joseph looked over at James’s sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones — his brother must have lost stones in weight. And he might be safe now, but he certainly didn’t seem sound.

He asked, ‘Have you decided yet what you’ll do? About the army, I mean?’

‘It’s been decided for me. I’m to receive an honourable discharge. I was informed on the troopship on the way home.’

‘Oh,’ said Andrew. ‘That’s all right, then. Isn’t it?’ he added hesitantly.

‘It’s the best I could have hoped for,’ James replied flatly, ‘considering I murdered one of my fellow officers. It’s not really the done thing, you know.’

There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Tamar said, ‘Yes, but you were acquitted, darling, declared not guilty. Surely that will have cleared your name?’

She knew, though, that James had been responsible for Ron Tarrant’s death — even though she couldn’t bring herself to accept that her son had shot someone in cold blood — because Thomas
had written to describe what had happened. No matter what the details of the whole nasty business had been, she knew, in her heart, that her boy was not a murderer.