Beneath the Willow Read online

  ‘Clarrie!’ barked his father, as he stood in the open doorway of his house, at a loss as to why his son was staring into oblivion. ‘If you want a job at the Exchange, I can arrange it. Come inside mate. We got a letter from Arch.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Clarence sedately, brought back to reality. ‘I have Mother’s bread.’

  ‘Come in. Mum’s made a pot of tea, we’ll read it together.’

  Clarence followed his father into the house and allowed the sun to set on his thoughts. He ambled down the short hall, past a small sitting area, and into the kitchen. His brother Frank sat at the table and still wore the dust and grime from a hard day’s work. Their nine-year-old sister Alice sat opposite Frank; she gave Clarrie a warm smile as he entered the small room.

  Grace Miller turned from the cupboard fixed to the kitchen wall and gratefully accepted the loaf of bread from her second eldest. She forced a smile and then motioned for him to sit. Grace placed a tea-cup in front of Clarence and poured, as Albert Miller thumbed the envelope, as if considering his options. He stopped, picked up a knife and opened the letter while Grace took up her seat.

  1st Australian General Hospital

  Heliopolis Palace Hotel

  Cairo, Egypt

  10 April, 1915

  Dear Mum, Dad, Clarrie, Frank and Ally,

  Mum, I hope the return address didn’t give you a fright. I am writing to you, having had the worst of luck. Sorry it has been so long in between letters but we have been very busy with exercises and other types of training, in preparation for the front.

  I am laying up in a hospital cot, twiddling my thumbs, after breaking my ankle during drills a fortnight ago. Fell over some half-buried ruins, and snap.

  Grace, emotions strained to breaking point, covered her mouth as she sobbed with relief at the reprieve, confusing Frank and Alice. Albert paused to give his wife a moment. She nodded imperceptibly, and he continued.

  I cannot believe how unlucky one man could be, especially after our battalion received news that we will be heading to the front soon. By the time you receive this, all outgoing mail is being held until further notice, my mates will have covered themselves in glory, while I’m lying on my back or hobbling on crutches. The Doc said I will be out of action from eight to ten weeks and there was even talk of sending me home, but I wouldn’t hear of it and kicked up a big old fuss. Well as much as you can in the army. Anyway, Lieutenant Davidson, a real top bloke, played seconds for South Sydney, can’t hold that against him, he spoke to the commanding officer of our battalion and convinced him to let me recuperate in Heliopolis. As long as they haven’t belted the Turks already, I will be joining up with the rest of the boys as soon as the leg’s right.

  How is the footy going? Say g’day to everyone on Cockatoo Island. How’s little Frank shaping up? Give Ally a hug and make sure Clarrie’s not knocking off my good clobber. Miss your cooking, Mother.

  Your Loving Son & Brother

  Archie

  The Millers sat in silence for a moment, as each member of the family deciphered the text in their own way.

  ‘Well,’ said Albert, ‘he sounds in fine fettle, despite the broken leg.’

  ‘Yes, very good, probably driving the doctors mad,’ added Clarence, in an attempt to add weight to his father’s optimism.

  Grace sat silently at the table. Casually she reached out and drew the letter towards her. She gently ran her hand over the script as if it were her Archie’s face. She knew these were the strangest of times, but how could a mother find relief when she had learnt that her son had broken his leg? Easily, she told herself. Those old ruins may have saved his life.

  ***

  Saturdays were every working man’s second-favourite day after Sunday, maybe third if you included pay day, and Clarence was no different, even though boilermakers, labourers and the like wouldn’t consider a journalist as a working man. Clarence couldn’t see the logic in their beliefs. Working your mind could be just as exhausting as physical work, but Clarence had given up on trying to win those arguments around the dinner table—mocking laughter always triumphed.

  It was getting close to midday and knock-off time. Clarence hurried through the jobs his boss had left him. His sole purpose for that day was to get to Reynolds’s Bakery before closing. He imagined his mother’s questions over his sudden love of high loaves, and then reasoned that you can never have enough bread.

  With a hard cover volume of Keats in his hand, a birthday present from a discerning mother (Archie would receive footballs and cricket bats—as would Frank), Clarence glided along Darling Street with a smile. Does she work on Saturdays? he asked himself. Surely she does.

  Clarrie entered the cramped, but neat, shop and his heart sank. A teenage boy and an older lady with dark hair, marked with flecks of grey, shuffled around each other behind the waist-high counter. Clarence went to turn and exit the bakery, but a mother accompanied by two children entered through the door. The bell announced their arrival and foiled his inconspicuous exit.

  Clarence turned to take his place in the queue. He knew he was about to waste threepence on a loaf of bread he didn’t really need. Slowly he made his way to the counter as the customers made small talk with the older shop assistant, while the teenager fumbled with change, bread, and anything else he laid his hands on. Clarence appeared next to be served by the young lad, when a white-aproned figure appeared at the edge of his vision. The voice was heavenly, and instantly recognisable.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’

  Clarence stood speechless. He revelled in his change of fortune.

  ‘Sir, may I help you?’ The young lady repeated.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ replied Clarence, flustered. She must think me a fool, he thought. ‘Yes, thank you. I will have some bread.’

  The child sniggered behind him. The beautiful shop assistant smiled.

  ‘Any particular type?’

  ‘Oh, just a loaf, I mean… a white loaf… yes, a white loaf will be fine. Thank you.’ Clarence wanted to find a deep dark pit, like the one at the Colliery, and fling himself into it.

  ‘Will the same one as yesterday be fine?’ replied the young lady, having fun with her bamboozled customer.

  Clarence just nodded, not game to speak.

  Feeling compassion for her awkward but handsome prey, she decided to allow him some respite from his discomfort.

  ‘May I ask what that is in your hand?’

  Grateful for the distraction, Clarence looked down, then his eyes met hers, his head was giddy. ‘Keats… the poet.’

  ‘That is interesting.’

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Clarence. Did I say something wrong?

  ‘It is interesting, in that I don’t see many young men around here who read the Romantics. They would probably prefer to wrestle each other or something. I like Elizabeth Browning myself.’

  ‘A very gifted poetess,’ said Clarence. Then without thinking how it would sound or be perceived, as a compliment to the young lady’s poetic taste, Clarence recited the first line of one of Browning’s most famous poems.

  ‘How do I love thee?’

  The mother behind him gasped and the older shop assistant shot her daughter a glare that would make the fires of Hell seem soothing. Clarence, mortified at his spontaneity, placed threepence on the counter, turned and fled.

  Ruth, the beautiful bakery assistant, smiled deep from within her soul. She knew she had just met the most intriguing man. Don’t be silly, she admonished herself, you couldn’t; you don’t even know his name.

  ***

  Under the shade of a large tree—itself under the screen of the Court House—Clarence sat on a bench. He still panted from his unplanned dash. Relieved to have escaped the glares and whispers at his flash of insanity, he was abashed yet exhilarated. Clarence chuckled softly as he recalled what had taken place in the small suburban bakery. What were you thinking, Miller? the young Romeo quizzed himself. How Do I Love Thee! More like, how does the constabulary arrest thee. I sh
ould be locked up, he continued, in his light-hearted but biting tirade; committed or whatever they do with bumbling idiots, but I would do it again and probably more.

  He smiled, and with his eyes closed, he tilted his head back to take in the late Autumn sun that strained its way through the trees’ foliage. He relaxed and released himself from self-admonishment; conjured images of his poetess entered his mind.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The familiar voice found him as if it had arrived on those autumn rays.

  Startled into reality, Clarence sat bolt upright. All at once he saw the beautiful young bakery assistant and the busy Balmain traffic.

  Clarence shifted in his seat and fossicked for words. ‘Oh, Miss. You’re here.’ He stood and placed a conciliatory hand in front of his body. ‘Miss, let me assure you, that there was nothing inappropriate or untoward in what I said. I was meaning...’

  ‘My name is Ruth… Ruth Reynolds,’ the young lady interrupted, ‘and what you said in the bakery was spontaneous and beautiful.’

  She smiled and rendered Clarence helpless. Her eyes glistened, and the would-be poet toppled over a waterfall of emotions. He fell willingly into the nameless state that was now sole occupant of his very existence.

  ‘Clarence Miller or Clarrie,’ he said, as he offered his hand to shake gently. ‘Would you care to sit, Miss Reynolds?’

  ‘I would love to, and please call me Ruth,’ she said in a voice that was confident yet delicate, ‘but I must get back to the bakery. My mother doesn’t fully comprehend impromptu acts.’ She laughed, and Clarence glimpsed an independence that he hadn’t seen in other girls.

  ‘But I was wondering… and I hope you don’t take this as being too forward, Clarence.’ Ruth paused. She reminded herself of society’s views on outspoken ladies. ‘I was wondering, would you care to maybe meet for a walk one afternoon?’ Ruth stopped suddenly and Clarence saw a hint of self-doubt in a woman who radiated self-belief.

  ‘I would enjoy that very much, Ruth.’ Clarence spoke her name like a groom would take his vows— maybe he was.

  ‘Excellent,’ chirped Ruth, the certainty restored in her voice. ‘Sunday at two o’clock?’

  ‘Very well, where should we meet?’

  ‘Mr Miller!’ exclaimed Ruth in jest, ‘what kind of a lady do you take me for?’

  ‘ I…’ choked Clarence.

  ‘I live with my family at 20 Glassop Street. My parents would insist on meeting you before we gallop off into the sunset; they will probably send my brother along to keep us company.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Clarence. ‘Two o’clock at Glassop Street.’ He smiled and then stiffened his body while he tilted forward in a mock bow.

  She nodded in acknowledgement of his clumsy act. It warmed her heart, and she felt compelled to hold his gaze for a moment before she turned for the bakery.

  TWO

  The Miller family had never been overly religious, but they had become a regular part of the congregation since Archie departed from Circular Quay. Clarence was neither enthusiastic nor put out by the Sunday morning service. He could see that it gave his mother some comfort, and he could even admit to himself that the cold timber pews had given him time to reflect on how much he missed his brother.

  Distracted by thoughts that related to how his walk with Ruth may unfold, what to say, gift, no gift, this morning’s service seemed to drag on a little longer than normal. His selfish preoccupation stung Clarence with guilt when he considered where his mother’s mind would be. The flock broke out into a beautiful May morning; they mingled with one another and exchanged pleasantries, and, since April 25th—concerns.

  The Millers strolled home to Beattie Street and chatted cheerfully. Albert and Frank still rejoiced in Balmain’s victory over Eastern Suburbs the afternoon before, which left them oblivious to Clarence’s news of his impending date. His mother was more receptive and seemed pleased that her second eldest had met a nice girl from a good family. She had met Mrs Reynolds several times over the years. Alice trailed casually behind her family. She was more interested in a mangy stray dog that lingered at a comfortable distance, than her family’s chatter. The dog hoped for pity, and therefore a meal or two.

  The dissection of Balmain’s victory continued around the kitchen table while Mrs Miller poured tea for everyone. Clarence joined in, but not having attended the game, was unable to match the others in passion. It wasn’t as if Clarence was averse to Rugby League or any sport, for that matter. He attended a handful of Balmain games at Birchgrove Oval and was quite handy at water polo, without much practice. He just didn’t seem to possess the primal instinct to bash into each other that most young men seemed to relish. He didn’t consider himself a coward and had fought his fair share of battles as a kid alongside his big brother, but he had avoided a lot more through discretion. A trait to be admired, he thought, but not in Balmain. Barefooted dockyard workers’ sons preferred knuckles. It was less complicated.

  Clarence flicked through the pages of Saturday’s paper. He tactfully turned the page, which contained the latest casualty lists from the Dardenelles, and settled on the advertisements. His father had pulled him aside before church and asked him to be discreet—for his mother’s sake—in regard to the war. Archie was out of harm’s way for now, but reading about young local boys lost, like young Perkins from Theodore Street, would do his mother’s nerves no good at all.

  The thought of the casualty list re-entered his mind as he stared blankly at an advert for the Sydney School of Arts. Names like Perkins and Lawson, Davis and Hayes, leapt out at him like sparks from a grindstone. Lads that had been workmates of his brother; never to be seen again, the chance to walk with a beautiful girl or belt someone on a football field—erased. Clarence had been seventeen when war broke, and his mother, aware of the countless young boys who attempted to enlist by fudging their ages, had forbidden Clarence to even consider the idea. Clarence, unlike his brother, was in no rush to join up. Archie and his mates regaled in promises of adventure, the likes never to present themselves again. Clarence’s imagination needed no such promises. A hint of a southerly breeze carried across the water or the clip-clop of a Clydesdale along Darling Street would be enough to transport him away.

  Now eighteen, he couldn’t ignore something that nagged his consciousness. Why hadn’t he enlisted? He hadn’t thought about it much, not until now; was that a reflection of his character, he wondered? Was it his job? No one had said anything, but would they? Or would they whisper something long after he’d passed. Not cut from the same cloth as his brother Archie, they would mutter, or something to that effect. Why hadn’t he joined up? The question lingered.

  ***

  The brass door-knocker made a low thud as Clarence rapped the front door to 20 Glassop Street. A small bouquet in his left hand, he waited patiently for his call to be answered. He straightened his shoulders and adjusted his hat that matched his only suit. Heavy footsteps approached and Clarence swallowed as the door opened. A short, thickset man blocked the entrance. Intentionally or not, he emanated a defensive disposition.

  ‘Mr Reynolds, I am Clarence Miller,’ said the young suitor, hand outstretched. ‘I have come to see Ruth.’

  Harry Reynolds stared at the young man before him. He assessed him like a judge jaded by years of unfulfilled service, guilty until proven innocent—innocence not likely.

  ‘Harold Reynolds,’ said the baker, in his deepest voice. He took Clarence’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘Mrs Reynolds has prepared tea, come through.’

  Mr Reynolds stepped to one side and Clarence entered. He took off his hat and placed it on the stand to his right, and waited for Ruth’s father to lead the way. Clarrie glanced at his surroundings as he followed. Everything about the house was feminine, from the lace cloth beneath ornate lamps, to the oak curio cabinet that glistened with crystal against a papered wall. It was a stark contrast to his own home, which made Clarence wonder how much a bakery shop made in a year.

  They passed t
hrough a narrow hall with doors on either side, and then stepped out into one end of a good-sized room bathed in sunlight. Large glass windows made up most of the opposite wall, with a mahogany bookshelf at the far end. It watched over a hand-carved coffee table, which intersected two finely upholstered armchairs. A large polished table made its presence felt in the centre of the room. It rested upon an exotic rug and could sit eight people.

  At his left hand was a doorway that appeared to open into a large kitchen, while directly to his right, another doorway barred the entrance to a small yard.

  ‘A lovely home, Mr Reynolds.’

  Harry grunted and nodded. He was eager to preserve the air of authority he had tried to manufacture.

  ‘A journalist, my daughter tells me.’

  ‘Yes, sir, well a cadet, still learning.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Mr Reynolds, detached, grateful for the opportunity to appear lordly.

  Clarence inhaled sharply and held his breath for a moment, while he contemplated his next move. Although not sure exactly what to expect when he arrived at the Reynolds’s house, he hadn’t anticipated a baker to be such hard work. Whenever he had caught a glimpse of one, which was rarely, they appeared to be like every other working man, dog-tired, but covered in flour instead of soot or grease.

  A moment of awkward silence passed before Clarence decided to test the conversational waters once again. To his relief, he was rescued by the sounds of clattering china and flustered female voices that approached from the kitchen. Miraculously, the frantic chatter converted into smiles as the two elegant women entered the sunroom and placed a tray on the table. One tray supported a pot of tea with matching cups and saucers; the other was filled with assorted cakes.