Beneath the Willow Page 3

‘Mr Miller,’ said Mrs Reynolds, with a smile that was warm, but portrayed some wariness.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely home, and please, call me Clarence.’

  ‘Thank you, Clarence. Some of the furniture you see was passed down from my late mother, may she rest in peace.’ Ruth’s eyes rolled at her mother’s theatrics. ‘When my brother inherited our family property near Denman, I was—either through generosity or his lack of taste—able to acquire some pieces. They hold a special place in my heart.’

  ‘They are lovely,’ replied Clarence. He marvelled how women could tear strips off a person—in this case her brother—in such a pleasant way. Mr Reynolds stood motionless to the side while his wife spoke, and Clarence realised where the real authority lay. Clarence noticed Mrs Reynolds’s eyes shift downwards and was reminded of the bouquet he held.

  ‘Ruth, these are for you,’ announced Clarence, as he held the modest arrangement of flowers in Ruth’s direction. She was dressed elegantly in a white blouse and long black skirt, and her dark lustrous hair, which was pulled up in a bun, highlighted her striking features. Clarence thought she was the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen.

  ‘Thank you, Clarence,’ replied Ruth. Her eyes sparkled as she stepped forward to receive the thoughtful gift. She was eager to leave the house and stroll with her new friend, but was resigned to the fact of having to continue with formalities.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ offered Mrs Reynolds, while she gestured towards the table.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ said Mr Reynolds. Harry bounded forward to offer his wife Mary a seat.

  ***

  After she had watched Clarence answer polite but well-directed questions for close to an hour, Ruth felt it time to draw the party to a close. She discreetly tapped her own foot against her mother’s shin, and waited for the message to be received.

  ‘Well,’ declared Mrs Reynolds, her daughter’s Morse code acknowledged. ‘Maybe Ruth and Clarence would care to take a stroll through the park.’

  ‘If it is fine with Mr Reynolds and yourself… that would be lovely.’

  ‘Excellent, I will fetch Thomas,’ said Mrs Reynolds, adding the disclaimer. ‘He would love to join you.’

  Ruth’s mother stood from the table and glanced at her daughter, as if to say, What did you expect, and disappeared to find her teenage son. Clarence rose and shook hands with Mr Reynolds, who was somewhat warmer in his demeanour, probably aware that his earlier performance had been exposed by the presence of his wife.

  ***

  Thomas Reynolds trailed along like a government agent as Ruth and Clarence entered Elkington Park in between two large Moreton Bay Fig trees. The winter sun was determined but struggled to emit the last of the day’s warmth.

  ‘You did very well in there, Clarence.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘At tea, with my parents—you survived.’

  Clarence laughed. ‘It wasn’t that bad, only a couple of bumps and bruises. I must admit, I was nervous when I met your father.’

  It was Ruth’s turn to laugh. ‘Father, oh he’s just a big softy. It was all an act. I think he was more nervous than you. It was the first time he’s had to meet a young man at the door of his house, asking after his daughter.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ruth spun to face her admirer. Her eyes glared and her hands were on her hips. ‘Really! And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr Miller?’

  Clarence recoiled. Caught off guard by Ruth’s combustible response, he reacted quickly. The fire in her blood had somehow ignited his ardour.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all, Ruth,’ pleaded Clarence, with a smirk.

  ‘Do you think I have a little black book of gentleman callers?’ she continued, clearly offended.

  Thomas stood alerted in the distance. When his mother had ordered him to chaperone his sister, he obeyed; he had never thought he would be required to act.

  ‘Ruth, I am sorry.’ A broad cheeky smile formed on Clarrie’s face. ‘That came out wrong. It’s just that… it’s just that you’re very beautiful and what you said surprised me a little, but what I said was silly. I’m sorry.’

  Ruth took her hands off her hips and looked at Clarence through narrowed eyes. Somewhat placated, she turned to continue their walk, albeit silently for a minute or so. Her temper cooled and she suddenly felt embarrassed by her outburst. Although she was aware she possessed a fiery temperament, she was confused that it showed itself so readily in front of Clarence. Boys didn’t normally get under her skin—that was her mother’s job.

  ‘Clarence,’ started Ruth, as she turned to face him again. ‘I apologise for my outburst, it was unacceptable.’

  ‘Apology accepted, think nothing of it.’ With a smile, Clarence held out his right arm, bent at the elbow. It was an olive branch for Ruth to take.

  She returned his smile and looked into his eyes for a moment, feeling with her sight as much as seeing. How do I love thee, let me count the ways, Ruth said silently, every nerve in her body tingling as she took his arm.

  As they walked sedately through the trees, a cool, salty breeze caressed the young couple. Warmed by emotions that exceeded his comprehension, Clarence glowed in the recognition of what was now understood; his soul entwined with another forever.

  ***

  The following weekend, when Ruth met Clarence’s mother for morning tea, it was like a reunion of sisters parted. They came together with an ease of understanding, an intuition that they had something in common; something that went far deeper than making tea. When Ruth presented a wide-eyed Alice with the gift of a small doll, she threatened to shift the natural balance in the male-dominated household of 96 Beattie Street—forever.

  Ruth and Clarence spent most of their spare time with each other in the month that followed. They took walks or found a place to sit along the foreshore. They would chat or read and bask in the sun, content in their own company. A casual observation on these outings would turn into a spirited debate. The young lovers would probe each other for the answers to their newly formed universe; the events of the day often found themselves in the pages of Ruth’s secret journal. Unlike the majority of girls her age, Ruth had an opinion on most matters. From politics and business to education and international relations, she would engage Clarence for thought-provoking responses. Clarence, confronted by her zeal, marvelled at her intelligence; he realised that the beauty of her features was but a clever mask for her true self. A trap for an unworthy suitor with ideas only skin deep.

  On one such Saturday afternoon in early June, they sat with their backs to a tree near Birchgrove Oval. Ruth commended the state of Queensland for having followed the lead of South Australia in allowing women to stand for Parliament. She had not got the debate she had hoped for, as Clarence was in total agreement, so she suddenly changed topics.

  ‘Clarrie, tell me about Archie. You don’t say much about him and I am reluctant to ask questions in front of your mother and father. What’s he like?’

  ‘Not as handsome as me, for starters.’

  ‘Yes, yes, how could he be,’ mocking laughter interrupted Clarence’s vanity. ‘No, really Clarrie, I’d like to know.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Clarence, drawing a breath, ‘he is bigger than me, taller.’

  ‘No, I mean his personality, what is he like?’

  ‘I suppose he’s more confident than me… more outgoing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call you shy, Mr ”How do I love thee”,’ said Ruth with a cheeky grin on her face. ‘You are very gregarious.’

  ‘Cut it out,’ replied Clarence. Embarrassed, a soft pink came to his cheeks. ‘More boisterous in a way, he is. If Arch is in the room you know he is there. He loves rugby league, quite a handy player too, would have pushed for First Grade with Balmain if he didn’t join up.’

  ‘So, he’s not interested in Keats?’

  ‘No,’ replied Clarence, ‘wouldn’t know who he was.’

  ‘Are you close?’

/>   ‘Too right, we’re great mates… different, but as close as brothers can be.’

  Ruth studied Clarrie. His eyes dropped to the ground, so she gave him time to think, his thoughts no doubt with his brother.

  ‘Do you miss him, Clarrie?’

  ‘Of course,’ blurted Clarence. He rose to his feet and dusted the dirt and bark from his trousers. ‘Mother frets; she’s aged years in weeks, I reckon.’

  ‘Your mum is a lovely woman, I see a lot of her in you,’ Ruth said with tenderness. She stood, but gave Clarence the room she felt he needed.

  ‘I didn’t know what to think when he left. They all seemed so excited, Archie and his mates; thought they were sailing off on an adventure.’ Clarence paused and stared towards the small vessels moored in the bay that lined the north-eastern boundary of the park. ‘The strange thing was, and I have never said this to anyone, I wasn’t so convinced.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Ruth. She moved towards Clarence and took his hand. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. He appreciated her gesture.

  ‘I mean, I wasn’t convinced it was going to be the safari they all imagined. I know we had to go, had to help Britain, but to think that the powers of Europe—after all their chest-beating—were just going to turn tail and head home without a serious fight—ludicrous. Over before Christmas,’ sighed Clarence.

  Ruth had her own views on the European war, by no means subversive, but more sceptical of the political leaders who stoked the Continental furnace, so she was careful with what she said. She did not want to seem insensitive towards Clarrie’s family and the young Australians risking their lives on foreign shores.

  ‘Let’s hope they all come home very soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Clarence. He nodded quickly to mask the conflict that played out within him.

  The young couple left the park and made their way along the terrace-­lined streets. They spoke occasionally, but were mostly content with absorbing the sounds of suburban life. Alongside a wrought-iron fence, a young girl jumped rope with a rhythmic intensity that, judging by her expression, had transported her to a faraway place, somewhere with frilly dresses and painted horses, not black tar and crooked gutters. Two boys, possibly the skipping girl’s siblings, made the finishing touches to a dubious looking billy-cart. A dangerous test run imminent, for barefooted lads with skinned knees and the courage for a challenge.

  ‘I have an idea, Clarence Miller,’ exclaimed Ruth. She knew it would be tough, but she did her best to bring some light back into the afternoon.

  ‘And what might that be?’ replied Clarence, with a genuine smile.

  ‘Well… we should make our way to Father’s shop and see if there is something tempting we can take back and share with your mother.’

  ‘Sounds great, but won’t it be closed?’

  ‘The shop will be closed, but he often goes in to make everything right for Monday. Work, work, and more work for father.’

  ‘It’s settled then,’ said Clarence, ‘the bakery it is.’

  ***

  Clarence waited patiently for Ruth to emerge from her father’s bakery. He filled the time by peering through the glass shopfronts of the adjoining stores. He had admired some fine leather shoes in the window of Mills and Sons Boot Emporium, but turned to make his way back to Reynolds’ bakery. Suddenly, a young girl—maybe fifteen—was standing directly in Clarence’s path.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss,’ said Clarence, ‘I didn’t see you; my apologies.’

  He touched the brim of his hat and stepped to one side to make his way forward, but oddly, the girl moved to be in front of him again.

  ‘This is for you,’ the young lass blurted out. She held what appeared to be a small tobacco tin in her outstretched hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clarence, puzzled, ‘but I’m not sure...’

  Before he could finish the girl let out a suppressed giggle; she then turned and fled across Darling Street, where an older, but still young, lady waited. Totally confused by what had transpired, Clarence did the most logical thing, and prised the lid from the tin of Town Talk Tobacco. I don’t even smoke, he thought.

  Clarence pulled the lid away. He was first amused and then repulsed, as a trickle of bile rose to the back of his throat. He glanced around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. He stared back at the tin’s contents, and instinctively snapped the lid back on. Clarrie had hoped that the force of his act would somehow—by magic—make it disappear. Tears welled in his eyes. He saw Ruth approach from the bakery and shoved the item in his coat pocket. His head spun, but he was able remove a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pretend to blow his nose while he wiped his damp eyes.

  ‘Clarence, I got a passionfruit sponge to take to your parents,’ announced Ruth, pleased with her efforts. ‘They like sponge cake, don’t they?’

  ‘They will love it,’ replied Clarence sincerely, but with an air of detachment.

  ‘Are you all right, Clarrie?’

  Clarence was confused by what had taken place but didn’t know what to say to Ruth. He tried to process his emotions. He wasn’t all right, he knew that; how do you react to being labelled a coward, and by a young girl. The white feather, the symbol chosen to label a man considered not to be a man in time of war, eroded his self-belief from its tin case nestled inside his coat. It was a capsule of scorn delivered by self-indulgent imbeciles, and with no charge to answer themselves, they acted with the impunity of ignorance.

  ‘Clarrie, what’s wrong, you look pale?’

  ‘I’m fine, Ruth, sorry—just thinking about something.’

  ‘Archie?’

  ‘You could say that. Let’s head home. That cake looks delicious.’

  Not convinced, Ruth smiled and took Clarence’s arm as they crossed the road.

  ‘By the way, Clarrie, I wanted to get out of going to the church function this evening, so I told my father I had promised to help your mother with some things, so no blabbing,’ the mischievous side of her personality rose again, as she peered up at Clarence through squinted eyes.

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ said Clarence. He did his best to appear cheerful but failed.

  ‘I know, I know, I am a bad daughter.’ Ruth tried to manufacture a mood change. ‘But you can blame yourself and all your irresistible charm.’

  THREE

  Frank Miller stood in the middle of Beattie Street with his mate Jim. They passed Frank’s football back and forth as Clarence and Ruth approached. A missed timed pass saw the inflated pigskin roll towards Ruth’s feet. She picked the ball up and hurled it in an awkward fashion. Clarence sniggered, and Ruth replied with a slap to his arm, happy to see him in a more jovial mood.

  ‘Hello, Frank. How are you?’

  ‘Good,’ mumbled Frank, with a shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘Wouldn’t make a footballer, would I,’ continued Ruth in an attempt to make conversation.

  Frank stared back at her blankly. He didn’t mean to be rude; he just didn’t have anything to say. It was obvious she wouldn’t make much of a footballer, so if it was all the same to everyone he would just prefer to continue doing what he was doing. With a quick glance at his most prized possession, he did just that and fired off a pass to Jim.

  ‘He doesn’t like me, does he, Clarrie?’

  ‘He doesn’t dislike you at all,’ replied Clarence. ‘You have to understand, Frank. At fourteen, all he thinks about is sport and what’s for dinner. To him, you’re stranger than a mysterious creature from the deep.’

  ‘Thanks very much!’

  ‘A pretty one,’ said Clarence, as he opened the front gate to the small front yard of the Miller residence; ‘a very pretty one.’

  The young couple walked into the kitchen and found Mrs Miller at the stove. Albert was seated at the table with the newspaper. He smiled as Ruth entered, not immune to her natural charm and easy-going manner. Alice sat cross-legged on the floor. She played with the doll Ruth had given her, but stopped as soon as she heard Ruth’s voi
ce.

  ‘Ruthie,’ Alice screamed. She leapt to her feet and ran the short distance across the kitchen to hug—in her eyes—a real life princess.

  Clarence looked over at them and was warmed by the tender exchange. Without thought, he placed his hand in his coat pocket. He suddenly felt ill at the touch of his unwanted gift.

  ‘Have you named your doll yet, Alice?’ asked Ruth.

  Alice nodded her head, but remained silent. Her eyes glistened with the unburdened happiness that children enjoy; happy, oblivious to expectations, war, and white feathers.

  Alice leant towards Ruth and whispered. ‘Her name is Ruthie, Princess Ruthie.’

  Ruth hugged Alice and felt a joy which she knew was something beyond having a friend and companion in Clarence. It was an undeniable sense of belonging, so strong as to be preordained. Ruth had noticed Grace smile at her, and she had responded in kind. They spoke without speaking and deepened the bond that had grown between them.

  Ruth joined Grace at the stove while she prepared a pot of tea. She glanced over her shoulder at Clarence, who was now seated at the kitchen table, and saw that the look of gloom had resurfaced. The same look which had come over him outside the bakery. Ruth did not want to make a scene, so she continued on, knowing the right time to talk would reveal itself.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Miller,’ said Ruth, as she placed a cup and saucer in front of him. Albert arched backwards to make room and lifted his newspaper at the same time.

  ‘Thanks luv, a cuppa is just what I feel like.’

  ‘Do you like passionfruit sponge, Mr Miller?’

  ‘Do I! You haven’t?’

  Ruth placed the cake in the middle of the table, but slightly closer to the head of the Miller house. She saw that Mr Miller wasn’t too dissimilar to her own father; tough exteriors but soft at heart, responsive to being spoilt every now and then. Albert leant across the corner of the table to get closer to his son. ‘Clarrie,’ he whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘you should marry this girl. She’s a gem.’