Beneath the Willow Page 4

  Clarence barely responded, and the reaction was not lost on his father. Although he thought it unusual, like Ruth, he reasoned it wise to wait before he enquired.

  ‘So where have you two been today?’ enquired Albert, as Ruth took a seat next to Clarence. Ruth gave Clarence a gentle tap on the leg to encourage him to respond.

  ‘Oh,’ said Clarence with a start. ‘Just down to Birchgrove Oval.’ He paused to accept a piece of sponge from his mother. ‘Looking out at the water… not much really.’

  Ruth compensated for Clarrie and interjected. ‘Sometimes we will set out for a walk with no real destination in mind, Mr Miller, and talk away till we find a nice spot to relax… and then talk some more.’

  ‘You sound like a bit of a dreamer, Ruth, just like Clarence,’ said Albert with affection.

  ‘Albert! Don’t be rude,’ snapped Grace. ‘It’s lovely that the two of them can be so at ease with each other.’

  ‘I wasn’t being rude, I was just saying...’

  ‘It’s fine, Mrs Miller. My father calls me a dreamer all the time, a romantic, as he puts it. Did Clarence tell you how we met?’ Ruth smirked and showed the Millers her mischievous side.

  ‘No, he hasn’t, actually,’ replied Mr Miller, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘Now now, I am not sure we want to hear,’ said Mrs Miller, taking on the role of arbiter.

  ‘I am thinking of joining up.’

  The light and pleasant mood that existed at the table up until that moment ended abruptly. Grace reacted quickly, aware of what might unfold in the coming moments, and ushered Alice into the backyard before she had time to complain. She re-joined the table and placed one hand over her brow as if to shade herself from an intense light.

  ‘What’s brought this on so suddenly?’ barked Albert Miller.

  Ruth sat stunned by the news. She stared straight ahead and fought a lump that had formed in her throat.

  ‘A lot of things,’ said Clarence without conviction. He knew exactly what brought it on, but shame would not allow him to reveal it. ‘I should be doing my bit,’ he continued hurriedly. Clarrie glared up at his father, but he felt more confused than the anger in his eyes showed.

  ‘Doing your bit, you sound like one of those bloody posters,’ his father yelled. Albert referred to the countless propaganda posters stuck to buildings all over Sydney, which encouraged young men to enlist. ‘We are doing our bit!’ Albert rose from his seat. The fear of watching another son sail away to war had set his blood to a boil ‘Your brother’s already over there, for Christ sake.’ The decorum of tea and passionfruit sponge cake had gone, and Ruth’s heart wept. She witnessed the desperation of a father trying to protect an adult son.

  ‘Clarence, your father is right. When Archie boarded that ship… it was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.’ The anxious mother sat straight-backed in her chair with her hands clasped on her lap in an effort to compose herself. ‘One son is enough for any family. Please, Clarence you have a good job.’

  ‘An excellent job,’ blurted Mr Miller. ‘You’re doing enough for the country by being a journalist.’

  ‘Writing about it: while men my age risk their lives protecting our way of life.’

  ‘Protecting our way of life!’ said Mr Miller, exasperated. Frank suddenly entered the kitchen, but was dismissed with the same swiftness, by a jerk of the head from his father.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Clarence, with no confidence.

  ‘Protecting those fat little men in Europe, in three-piece suits, top hats and gold watches dangling from their pockets,’ blazed Albert Miller. His words revealed thoughts that couldn’t be shared with an imperialistic public, but maybe by the bar of The Exchange Hotel, where a socialist ear might be listening. ‘Aristocrats and industrialists, who don’t give a second thought to young working men leaping from a trench into a shower of lead, protect them!’

  Grace, horrified by the images that her husband conjured, sat silently. She hoped Clarence would listen, sadly aware the dye had probably already been cast.

  ‘I’m talking about fighting for our countrymen, fellow Australians and Englishmen that live as we do!’ said Clarence more firmly. He rose from the table and removed his coat to place it on the back of his chair, as if it would relieve some of the tension that filled the small room. ‘What do you expect me to do, Father, stay at home like a coward while the rest fight in my place?’

  ‘You’re not a coward, son.’

  ‘That’s not what some think,’ blurted Clarence.

  ‘Your work here is more important than you know; I don’t say it, but… who says you’re a coward?’ Clarence’s last statement eventually registered with his father.

  Silence crept into the kitchen like a heavy fog into a valley; the cold damp air was intent on laying, seeping into the bones of anyone who dwelt under it, until expelled by a stronger force. Ruth sensed the time to be right and shifted in her seat.

  ‘May I speak, Mr Miller?’ Said Ruth softly, pushing the fog through the back door.

  ‘Of course, luv, go ahead.’ replied Albert, exhausted from his efforts and therefore calmer.

  ‘Clarence, what happened outside the bakery today?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Yes Ruth, nothing!’ Clarence looked at the women he loved, his eyes told all. He had something to say—she could see it—but the pain was too much. Ruth was mildly hurt by Clarence’s unwillingness to talk, but her ego was not so big as to let it get in the way of what she knew as love for the stricken man who stood before her.

  Clarence looked helplessly around the room, and then towards the floor. Without notice, he ran from the house through the front door. He broke out into the dull light and noticed Frank. He sat alone in the gutter with his football. The youngest of the Miller boy’s own feelings spun inside his head, much the same as Clarrie’s.

  ‘Are you off as well?’ asked Frank, with a bluntness to be expected from a working-class teenager. He peered at his older brother with dark eyes. Frank felt a hurt that came from his family’s blindness towards the void that had been left in his life by Archie’s absence.

  Clarence stared back at his little brother without answering. Instead he held out his hands out for the ball; Frank obliged and propelled the footy by a flick of his wrists, a connection that was desperately needed at that moment.

  Albert and Grace Miller, still seated at the kitchen table with Ruth, stared at each other while the fog slowly crept back in. Ruth wanted to act rather than sit, and she sprang to her feet to follow Clarence. Stiffly, she forced her way between the chair Clarrie had sat in and the kitchen wall. She dragged Clarence’s coat with her as she passed. The coat fell and gave off a sound that pinged as it met the timber floor. It awakened Mr and Mrs Miller from their weary state and caused Ruth to stop and then turn.

  On any other day, Grace Miller would have simply picked the coat up and draped it back over the chair, but the voice that speaks to people from the deepest recesses of their conscience begged her to investigate. She moved slowly but with focus and rose from her seat while Ruth and Albert looked on, both as intrigued as each other.

  The mother of four calmly bent down to lift the coat from the ground with her left hand, while she methodically patted and squeezed different parts of the coat with her right. Grace stopped suddenly as her hand clasped a small, but solid object. She felt slightly ashamed at going through her son’s coat, so she looked towards her husband. Grace realised what she wanted to do, but via a look, she sought permission.

  Albert gave his wife a hurried nod. His wife, in turn, glanced at Ruth before she proceeded to extract the item from the coat pocket. Grace looked at the tobacco tin in complete bewilderment.

  ‘Clarence doesn’t smoke,’ said Ruth, as she took a seat at the table. She announced what the three of them had all thought.

  ‘Did he buy it for someone, I wonder?’ said Grace. ‘There’s nothing in it though,’ she stated, as she moved t
he tin from side to side, ‘it’s too light.’

  Grace placed the item on the kitchen table. They all gawked at the tin canister until Mr Miller took the initiative, picked it up and removed the lid. Their view obscured from the lid itself, Grace and Ruth were at a loss to the look on Albert’s face. You don’t often see tears well in a boilermaker’s eyes, but Ruth was witness to such an occurrence that day. Her hands recoiled to cover her own mouth when Mr Miller pulled the lid completely away.

  ‘My poor boy,’ whispered Grace.

  ‘Who would do such a thing, Mr Miller?’ pleaded Ruth. There was anguish in her voice and tears on her cheeks.

  ‘Ignorant foolish people, dear,’ replied Albert. He stood to face the fireplace and hide his own emotions, while he gripped the mantle hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

  Grace stared blankly at the wall. ‘I’ve seen them… walking around in their frilly white dresses, encouraged by vindictive hags or soured spinsters. They make me sick.’

  Although surprised by the timbre of her voice, Ruth felt the loathing that poured from Grace’s lips. She was torn between deep pity for her beloved, and unquenchable anger towards his persecutors. She was aware of a so-called ‘order of the white feather’, but she had never contemplated its existence, let alone as an active front in suburban Balmain.

  ‘I must find Clarence,’ cried Ruth.

  ‘Ruth!’ said Albert sharply. He stepped forward from the mantle quickly, but with the calmness of a father. ‘I think it would be best if I spoke to him first.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Miller,’ replied Ruth, her cheeks flushed. ‘You are quite right.’

  ‘Give me a moment with him, dear, and then you can talk to him; a thing like this can shake a man.’ Albert paused for a moment. He imagined the feeling of inadequacy injected into his son and the anger took hold again. ‘So help me if I come across these wretched people, so help me.’

  ***

  Albert took deep breaths to calm himself. Once young and once a soldier, but now a father, he prepared for a long walk as he opened his front door, not knowing in which direction or where Clarence had headed. The walk will do him good, he thought, clear his head. Grace and Ruth watched Albert leave the kitchen, and assumed he would do his best to talk Clarence around. But how could he try to prevent his son from being or feeling like a man, whatever that was, in a world turned on its head. His gut had wrenched when he watched Archie board the ship at Circular Quay. The realisation that Clarence would be embarking on one of those transports filled him with a foreboding that weakened the hardy man’s legs.

  As he stepped into the half-light that makes for early evenings in winter, Albert’s mood was brightened to see his two sons together. It embodied what he already valued in his family.

  Clarence turned to face his father. He felt like the little boy who threatened to run away but couldn’t. In Clarrie’s mind, that legitimised the contents of the tobacco tin.

  ‘Son, can I have a word?’

  Clarence didn’t answer but moved towards his father. He knew that he would be told all the things he wanted to hear, but the words to be spoken, however logical and sincere, would make no difference to the outcome of things. He must go, he knew it. The act of a girl delivering a package in public—crude and abhorrent as it was—simply brought to light the torment that had scratched at his conscience these last weeks. Why should his brother, or any other man for that matter, fight, while he lived wrapped securely in freedom’s blanket? As he walked, his thoughts turned to Ruth. How ironic to be presented with a love that was certainly fated. Its continuation was challenged by an event that could, in an instant, take life and steal love, but by staying, dissolve the spirit that created love.

  ***

  Ruth stood in the doorway of the Miller’s house. Her mind had gone over the day’s events, and as she watched Clarence speak with his father, she silently began to ask questions. Why did I suggest going to the baker; he would never have seen that stupid girl? Why did I… Ruth stopped her mind from wandering. She was smart enough to know that these things had a way of happening, regardless of a person’s intervention. Whatever they did, that girl, or a poster, or the thought of his older brother, would leap from nowhere to invade their lives, just like it had in the park that day.

  The young man whom she loved with all her heart carried a burden that any man should not bear, let alone an eighteen-year-old cadet journalist, whose use of poetry wooed bakery assistants. Recent events had tested everyone, young and old, and as she watched Albert Miller shake Clarence’s hand firmly, holding the grip longer than one would do normally, she felt she had grown older in one afternoon. All her social and political views, strong and unwavering, ever present and ready for battle when alerted by a chauvinistic or conservative comment, were lulled by her current concerns.

  His talk with Clarence over, Albert Miller strode through his front gate towards the house, no more at ease with the situation than he had been before, but comforted that he was at least able to talk to his son. Ruth stepped from the protection of the doorway and onto the verandah. She didn’t try to make eye contact with the concerned father; instead, she let him pass into the hall and into the kitchen, where a knowing embrace awaited, without the awkwardness of an unnecessary exchange.

  Ruth crossed the short pathway that led to the gate and paced purposely towards Clarence with shortened breath. The need to be alongside him had overwhelmed her. She saw his eyes, dark and lost, and ran to meet him. Her arms wrapped around his waist while her face, draped in dark curls, pressed against his chest. The warmth of her body locked against his, the scent of hair, the emotion that permeated through each beat of her heart, penetrated into Clarence’s pores. It intoxicated his senses and allayed his fears.

  Ruth looked up at her soulmate and gazed deep into his eyes, no longer lost, but perpetually at home. Quite naturally, and without pause for thought, Ruth placed her hand on Clarence’s cheek. She kissed him softly and tenderly on the lips. Ruth pulled away slowly but not entirely; she had awakened desires that surpassed what they had felt so far.

  ***

  The cool damp air of a June evening clung to Clarence and Ruth as they strolled, arm in arm, along Glassop Street. After all the tension and emotion of the previous few hours, Clarence had felt it was best if he allowed his parents some time to themselves, not denying that the disconnection would also serve him well.

  Clarence noticed the lack of light from Ruth’s house as they approached. He thought that maybe the Reynolds had retired for the evening. But it was early, even for bakers.

  ‘Looks very quiet inside, Ruthy,’ Clarence remarked, as he held the front gate open for her to pass through.

  ‘They are all out,’ declared Ruth, without fanfare. She bent down and lifted a small pot to reveal a key.

  ‘Out—you mean no one is here?’

  ‘Yes.’ She placed the key in the lock and turned it with the door knob to reveal a shadowy hallway.

  ‘Ruth, wait! We should have stayed at...’ Clarence stumbled with his speech as he was forced to follow Ruth into the house. He couldn’t remain stranded on the verandah and invite a curious eye from a concerned neighbour. He bumped into the hat stand and then fell into a wall, as he fumbled his way in the dark.

  ‘Ruth!’ he called out in a hushed voice.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Ruth. She stood directly in front of Clarrie and giggled Her voice brought him to an abrupt halt.

  ‘What are you up to. Your parents might be home any minute!’

  ‘They won’t be, and you would know that if you paid any attention to what I say.’ Ruth reprimanded Clarrie in a playful way. ‘Now stop talking, I have something to say to you.’

  Suddenly, the dark house seemed lighter. With his eyes adjusted, Clarrie could make out the beautiful lines of Ruth’s delicate face, veiled by spirals of dark hair. Her eyes were radiant in the dull surroundings, and made Clarence feel modest, but comforted at the same time.

  ‘Clarence,’ she s
aid leaning in closer to him.

  ‘Yes.’

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of being and ideal Grace.

  I love thee to the level of every day’s

  Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

  I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

  I love thee purely, as they turn from praise,

  I love thee with the passion put to use

  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

  With my lost saints— I love thee with the breath,

  Smiles, tears, of all my life! —and, if God choose,

  I shall but love thee better after death.

  ‘I love you, Clarence Miller and I always will.’ Without another word, Ruth kissed her true love. The kiss conveyed sensations and emotions so extraordinary to them both, as to fuel the flame that already existed. It ensured their love would burn resplendent through cloudless skies and darkened valleys.

  Ruth opened the door to her bedroom and the sanctuary of a white-laced quilt. There, they removed themselves from the concerns of the outside world.

  FOUR

  Island of Lemnos, June 1915

  Archibald Miller stood and overlooked the rows of white tents that made up the 3rd Australian General Hospital on the Greek Island of Lemnos. Behind the hospital lay Mudros harbour and the collection of vessels large and small. They were scattered all the way from the shoreline to the harbour entrance, which opened to the south and the Aegean Sea. He looked quizzically at the long line of sheets and other linen suspended along the foreshore to dry in the stiff breeze, and his thoughts drifted to his recent voyage and his delayed introduction to life as a fair dinkum soldier.

  After being passed fit for active service, Archie had gladly said goodbye to Heliopolis, appreciative of the care the doctors and nurses had provided, but bored senseless by the dreariness of being cooped up in a ward. He had reported to headquarters in Cairo and was pleased to be re-assigned to the 1st Battalion. The young private then boarded a train for the Port of Alexandria, where the troop ship Aquitania, once an ocean liner of the Cunard Line, waited.