Eleven

With no specific plan or destination, Liam worked odd days here and there, listening as he went, following suggestions, weighed down by nothing heavier than the pack on his back and the need to eat at reasonable intervals.

Taken up as he was with each day’s survival, the journey was too full of interest and incident for him to dwell much upon what had been left behind, and that meandering, six-month voyage across the oceans of the world had set mental as well as physical distance between the unhappy boy and the rapidly maturing young man. Work he did in exchange for a few shillings or a meal, finding the food another pleasure, wholesome and plentiful, unlike the weevil-infested victuals aboard ship, or the strange dishes he had encountered in Greece and Lebanon and the Far East. At the height of the Australian summer it was hot and dry, but the outdoor life was clean and stars made a canopy for his bed. Preferable by far to the cramped and stinking quarters allocated to him in the ship’s fo’c’sle.

In the tropics water had been rationed, while in foul weather everything was wet. The bosun had been a tyrant, the old hands adept at passing all the worst jobs to the least-experienced deckie, while his peers had found him uncongenial and subsequently left him alone. Liam found himself thankful for quick wits and fingers which had learned to be deft in Edward’s workshop. Ignorant to begin with, he had quickly learned the right ways of coiling a rope, holy-stoning a wooden deck and chipping at rust. Physically, the most difficult task had been learning to handle the ship’s wheel in heavy seas, to keep her on the right course; but he had managed that too, and had a steering certificate to prove it.

There were no certificates to illustrate the rest of his education. Lessons which taught him to obey orders instantly, without question or complaint and in the worst of conditions; and most important of all, how to stand his ground with men older and more experienced than himself. It was a hard school and there was no escape: a man was confined between ports like a prisoner, forced to tolerate his companions and even form some kind of relationship with them. On occasion, lives might depend on it.

He had been tempted to jump ship many times between Hull and Hong Kong, and only the whisper of Australia, like a ripple of excitement throughout the ship, stayed him. Even then, Liam did not leave at the first opportunity. Having learned the wisdom of consideration, he ignored Fremantle and Adelaide in favour of Melbourne. Escaping into a well-established city would make him less noticeable as a newcomer, and the State of Victoria was apparently richer, the climate more congenial.

He spent more than a month on the road, travelling first towards the north-west and Bendigo. In the thickly-forested hills, however, work other than timber-clearing was scarce. He moved east after that, labouring at the odd logging camp as he went, picking his way along tracks through magnificent forests of tall, straight eucalypts, their peculiar fragrance a source of constant pleasure. Shady glens full of tall tree ferns, small, whispering streams, and here and there a log cabin or weather-boarded bungalow with wide verandahs would occasionally surprise him. The inhabitants were usually friendly and unafraid, finding small jobs for him to do or offering food and drink as a gesture of kindness. Although the people considered themselves British and spoke a rough approximation of his mother tongue, Liam was pleased to discover few other parallels. Like the untamed continent they inhabited, there seemed nothing small about the people he encountered. They had open faces and a relaxed way of moving, a confidence which was almost tangible. And in a land of immigrants strangers were accepted and questions not asked beyond casual enquiries as to where he was headed. Who he was, where he came from, what he had done before, seemed unimportant. No one asked and he never said. In all his time on the road, only the present and immediate future had any importance. The past was irrelevant.

Out near Yarra Glen, he discovered that he had come in a wide circle around Melbourne, and that if he wanted work of any permanent nature it would have to be on the plains. Unwilling to move closer to the city, he headed south, found work for a few days on a large farm near Lilydale, then crossed a smaller range of hills, where the forests were just as beautiful but surprisingly more populated.

Before, he had often walked for a full day without seeing another living soul; in these hills and gullies there were cabins and clearings every few miles. There was even a village with a railway station, a pretty little place hemmed in by flowering trees and giant ferns, but after the solitude of the forests, even Fern Tree Gully was too busy. He soon discovered why. From there it was almost possible to see Melbourne, some twenty miles away, and the Dandenong Ranges were the coolest place within easy reach of the city. In a broad arc between, well-watered by creeks which rose in those hills, lay some of the richest farmland in Australia. He heard it was as good for garden produce as it was for grazing; and the railway link between Melbourne and the market town of Dandenong, some ten miles to the south, meant a quick and easy transfer of goods. Everyone he spoke to mentioned Dandenong, and although he was uncertain, a desire to settle for a while, plus a pressing need for money to replace boots and worn-out clothing, made Liam decide to try his luck there. It was big enough to ensure work for a while, and if what he wanted proved elusive, he could always move on.

The town was well-established, formed mainly around the crossing of the routes between Melbourne and the south-east, and from the hills in the north to the coast. The former became a broad main street, shaded from the intense heat of mid-afternoon by immense red-barked gums. At the crossroads stood a grand town hall, faced by shops and hotels clearly designed to impress by their size and two-storied grandeur. To one who knew the age and permanence of cities back home, Dandenong was no more than a small, brash child; but it was confident despite its rawness, and in his weary, shabby state, Liam was not sure he was equal to its demands.

It had been a dry, ten-mile hike from the hills, and he was in need of a drink and a wash. Resting on his haunches with his back against a tree trunk, Liam spent a good while watching the comings and goings from various hostelries, and eventually chose not the smallest, but the one whose customers were least concerned with their attire.

His decision was confirmed by the approach of a labourer from the blacksmith’s shop. In dusty moleskins and an open-necked shirt, the man had overseen the shoeing of two sturdy horses before casually taking his leave and crossing the road to the hotel. As he passed, he glanced at the figure beneath the tree and gave him a nod in greeting. A few minutes later, Liam slowly gathered his things together and followed. The man was at the bar, ordering a beer. Liam went through to the washroom, so thankful for the sight of water running from a tap that he dipped his head to drink even before sluicing hands and face. In the cracked, fly-blown mirror his reflection was something of a surprise, the face much leaner and harder than he remembered, cheekbones pared of the flesh, jaw revealed as having a grim, determined set to it. His skin, now that it was free of dust, was a rich, golden brown, hardly the look of a recent arrival. The image pleased him; even the dark gold stubble glinting along his jaw marked him out as a man, not a boy.

Feeling suddenly more confident, he raked the remains of a comb through thick, dusty hair, tucked in his shirt and slapped a hand over corduroys that were tattered and frayed; his boots were beyond hope. A moment later he was in the bar, ordering a large beer with what remained of his last day’s pay. With luck, he reflected as the cool, bitter liquid slaked his throat, there would be enough to order a meal; if not, he must go hungry. Thirst, however, was not something he could ignore.

The man he had followed into the hotel was still leaning against the counter, having little to do, apparently, but take account of the small company gathered in the dark, bare room. Without bothering to disguise his curiosity, he watched Liam drink, smiling as he set the glass down.

‘Looks as though you needed that.’

‘Been on the road,’ Liam admitted ruefully. ‘It’s a dry walk from the hills.’

‘Thought I hadn’t seen you around.’ He fished a squashed packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered it to Liam. ‘Smoke?’

Trying to disguise the depth of his gratitude, Liam accepted; he had been without tobacco for days, and the beer had released afresh all his longings for a cigarette. Less openly than his companion, he indulged in a little observation himself. Close to, the man was younger than he had thought, late twenties, perhaps, shorter and stockier than Liam, with the walnut tan that goes with near-black hair and dark brown eyes. There was intelligence and good humour in the lines of his face, although Liam noted that the nose had been broken at some time and a deep scar bisected one eyebrow, lending his companion an eternally quizzical look. His expression seemed to be asking questions even when nothing was said, so that Liam found himself talking, about his situation, his most recent travels, and the need for work.

For a moment the other man narrowed his eyes, and the glance that ran over Liam was surprisingly hard and shrewd.

‘Well,’ he announced, ‘I won’t pretend you’re in clover here, no matter what they told you up north. There’s been a bit of a drought, as you must’ve noticed, and bosses are laying men off, not setting ‘em on.’ He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Still, it’s not bothered us too much where we are, and we’re a bit short-handed with the harvest coming on. The boss might be willing to set you on, but there again, he might not. Depends. Can’t promise anything, but if you want to come out with me, it’s worth a try.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘All right, if you’re straight. He’s a Welshman, came out here about thirty years back, with not much more than the clothes he stood up in. He’s done pretty good though. His name’s Maddox.’ The young man grinned. ‘And mine’s Hanley. Ned Hanley. The old folks – my Dad’s folks, that is – came out from Tyneside, way back. Where’re you from?’

‘Yorkshire.’

‘Good cricket team, that. You’ll be right,’ he said with an encouraging grin. As though the matter had been decided, he ordered two more beers.

He assumed Liam could ride, but Liam had no experience with horses. In the end they both walked, leading the freshly-shod mares along the dusty road, the distance a little over five miles.

It was beautiful country, gently rolling grassland interspersed with woody pockets, the meandering lines of eucalypts following various watercourses down from the northern hills. On horizon they curved away, deep blue in the falling light.

Every so often there were stands of ghost gums, trunks and branches white against dark foliage, bent and twisted shapes reaching out like wraiths across the fields. There was something beseeching about them, a strange, other-worldly beauty that Liam felt he would have painted, if only he knew how. And then he thought of Georgina, how well she could have portrayed them, and how she would have exclaimed over this strange land. A family of kangaroos, disturbed by their approach, went leaping and bounding away. As Liam stopped to admire them, Ned cursed his lack of a gun; they were pests, he said, breaking fences, ruining crops, a nightmare for every farmer in these parts.

Their presence underlined the difference of this landscape, and yet with its lines of trees and well-defined fields, cattle grazing here and there and crops ripening into late-summer gold, it was not entirely strange. It was a land being tamed by Europeans, and to Liam’s eyes it bore a familiar stamp. This was a place where he could settle, where he could learn to love the land; he was suddenly anxious to be accepted by Ned Hanley’s boss.

A broad, five-barred gate bearing the name MADDOX, marked the entrance to the Welshman’s land. It was a spread of almost a thousand acres, Ned said, with various crops and a few acres of vegetables, but the main interest was beef cattle. Behind good fences which lined the red dirt drive, Liam saw some of the herd munching contentedly beneath the trees. In a paddock close to the house horses grazed, no thoroughbreds to be sure, but good, sturdy cobs suitable for hard work.

Behind a colourful, fenced-off garden sat the house itself, long and low with deep verandahs and a corrugated roof. It was hardly a colonial mansion but it spoke of permanence and solid assets. Maddox was not a man struggling in the wilderness, he was well-organized and here to stay. Liam admired that, knowing, as he weighed all before him, that he wanted the same for himself. One day.

But every man has to start somewhere. Waiting for Ned to find the farmer and explain his presence, Liam sensed this was the first rung on his particular ladder. Anxiety gnawed at him. He wanted, with an urgency which astonished him, to be accepted here.

Ewan Maddox was short and heavily built, with thick, iron-grey hair and black eyes which missed nothing. He was also a man of few words, his questions limited to essentials. In return, Liam was as honest as he needed to be, saying he knew little of farming but was keen to learn; and without false modesty claimed to be a good worker. That much he was sure of. He gave his name, as he had done since leaving home, as Bill Elliott. The short, hard, masculine name appealed to him in his new persona, far preferable to the soft diminutive which he had accepted but never understood until that last day. Liam was the name by which his family knew him; Liam represented the Irishness which came from Robert Duncannon, a man he would never acknowledge as his father. No one else, he swore, would ever use that name again.

Knowing nothing of the young man’s background, Ewan Maddox weighed him with shrewd eyes, assessing height and bones and the whipcord slenderness produced by too little of the right food. Gauging what he might become, the older man asked him to give a hand at shifting some sacks of grain in the barn. Liam performed the task with ease. Maddox told him he was hired, on trial, for a month.

Delighted, Liam stammered his thanks, but Maddox had turned away, while Ned simply winked his approval and told him to come across to the bunk house and settle in.

The men’s quarters faced the back of the house, opposite kitchens and storehouses and the quarters where the female servants lived. Usually, Ned said, there were two, but one had recently run off with one of the hands, so if Liam wanted to stay, he advised him not to make eyes at the other girl.

‘Mrs Maddox has had enough of it,’ he grinned, ‘so we’re all on a promise to keep ourselves to ourselves!’ He went on to give a potted history of the family, explaining that the eldest son and daughter were both married and living elsewhere, the son managing his in-law’s farm for them. Another daughter, Mary, was a nurse at the big hospital in Melbourne, so they didn’t see her too often, but she was a decent sort, not stand-offish at all. Then there was a son at university, supposed to be studying agriculture, Ned said dryly, although when he was at home he spent most of his time out in the bush, looking at trees and collecting flowers.

‘Never make a farmer, won’t Lewis, no matter how hard the old man pushes him. He’d rather be a whatchamacallit – he did tell me, but I forget – somebody who studies plants, he said.’

Liam grinned. ‘Botanist — was that it?’

‘Yeah, that’s the word.’ There was a spark of mockery in the other man’s sudden amusement. ‘Don’t tell me you had an education?’

‘Not really – I just read a lot.’

‘Well, you won’t find many books here, mate – the most we get to see is the weekly paper.’

‘Never mind – I’ll get by.’ Liam dumped his pack by the wooden bunk indicated. Like the walls it was constructed of solid baulks of timber, roughly planed and pegged together. Unlike most of the others it had no bedding, but Ned Hanley explained that Mrs Maddox kept that sort of thing in the house. In a lean-to outside was a pump with an overhead shower, a stone sink with a tap, and a couple of cubicles. Mrs Maddox saw to the laundry, but she expected the men to wash and shave regularly.

‘If you pass muster, you eat in the kitchen, like family – if you don’t, you eat on your own, out here!’

It sounded fair enough to Liam. After weeks of living rough, he could hardly wait to get under that shower.

It was good to be rid of dust and grime which had accumulated despite his frequent resort to mountain creeks; better still to don the clean if ill-fitting clothes Mrs Maddox lent him while his own were laundered. Refreshed, Liam’s only problem after that was an empty, grumbling stomach. Shortly after seven, that too was taken care of. In the cool of evening the farmer’s wife doled out massive plates of stew and dumplings, followed by hearty portions of fruit pie and cream. Liam ate till he thought he would burst, grateful for every delicious mouthful.

Mrs Maddox, he decided, was sharp but kind, as voluble as her husband was silent, and still with the sing-song accents of her native Wales. With her prematurely white hair and long pointed nose, she reminded him of a little Jack Russell, lots of bark and a few nips to the ankles, but basically affectionate. He thought he would like her.

Until they had the measure of him, the other hands treated the newcomer warily, but in his months at sea Liam had learned something of diplomacy and the value of a smile. He said little, kept his past to himself and worked hard.

Arriving just as the harvest was about to begin, Liam was plunged immediately into an exhausting regime, up at dawn to follow the reaping machine, stacking the stooks into neat pyramids, while the stubble stabbed at every exposed bit of skin. It was hot, dusty, back-breaking work, yet he enjoyed it, falling into bed just after dark to sleep the sleep of the just.

Mrs Maddox and Ella, the general help, milked the handful of dairy cows and worked the kitchen garden, releasing Mr Maddox and all six hands to what was essential in the fields. After the reaping came threshing and winnowing, gathering oats and barley into sacks and the straw into barns for winter bedding. Hay, gathered well before Christmas, already stood in stacks beyond the yard.

For weeks there was little time for anything but work and sleep, but as soon as it began to slacken off, Ned grabbed Liam one morning and ushered him into one of the nearby paddocks for his first riding lesson. Daunted though he was, Liam was secretly elated. It had crossed his mind more than once that Ewan Maddox might have taken him on purely for the harvest, and be thinking of some reason to dismiss him. But if Ned had been told to teach him to ride, the farmer must be thinking of keeping him on.

Smiling as he hitched himself up onto the rails of the fence, Liam watched Ned saddle up. Having tightened the girths, he casually ran his hands down from withers to fetlocks, examining legs and hooves with an expert eye. Memory jerked then, like a sickening physical jolt, and Liam was suddenly a child again, small and suspicious and confused, watching another dark-haired man in boots and breeches perform a similar action.

Words rose from the past: ‘You don’t know what to call me, do you, Liam?’ and his mind clamped shut on the question, leaving him white-faced and trembling.

Mistaking the reason, Ned Hanley suddenly laughed, assuring the green newcomer that old Daisy was the dullest, quietest mare ever bred, guaranteed not to shy or rear, even in a thunderstorm. With an effort, Liam thrust aside that picture from childhood and managed to concentrate on the lesson. Each day before work the lessons continued, and within a fortnight he was pronounced capable of riding out alone.

To his surprise, Liam found something immensely satisfying about being able to control an animal so much larger and stronger than himself. He discovered, after a while, that he had something of a way with horses and, as he graduated to more spirited mounts than Daisy, that he rode well. That his affinity may have been inherited from Robert Duncannon, the cavalry officer who had lived and worked with horses all his life, was something Liam refused to consider. Nevertheless, that early, unconnected memory returned to plague him at odd moments. He felt like an amnesiac in possession of one solitary clue to his identity, except it was an identity he did not want.

Several times he dreamed of a large house with long windows which dwarfed him, and an intricate fanlight above a massive front door. He had a strong feeling that the house was real, but he could not remember where it was. Sometimes a little girl with blonde ringlets appeared; at other times, his mother, weeping and wringing her hands. Each time he woke in distress, to find sleep impossible afterwards.

To smother the memories, he drove himself hard.

March was the season for ploughing, and while he was learning to handle horses in the shafts, he begged to be taught how to drive a plough. Little Nobby, who was the expert, tired of the game long before Liam; he wanted to lie on his bunk after a long day, he said, and teaching somebody was twice as hard as doing it yourself. So Liam practised on his own with old Daisy, learning to laugh back at the audience watching from the rails.

He ate well and mostly slept well, putting on weight and muscle despite the regime he set himself. When Mrs Maddox remonstrated with him, he said he liked to keep busy, whereas in reality he was afraid to relax. He needed something with which to divert his mind when he did stop for the day, but having read every newspaper and farming journal in the bunk room, what he really longed for was a book.

Ned was good company and Liam counted him a friend, but the other man’s weak point was a lack of education. His tendency to mock it made enquiries about books difficult. Liam had never seen Ewan Maddox with anything other than a newspaper or a treatise on cattle, and his wife had no time to read, merely listening to what her husband saw fit to relate. But at Easter, when their son Lewis returned for his vacation, Liam spied an opportunity.

A dark, heavily-built young man, Lewis might have been Ewan Maddox thirty years previously. He was far from the airy, bookish youth that Liam had been led to expect. A keen horseman, he rode out every day, and it was on a joint excursion that Liam found courage to speak up.

‘What sort of books?’

‘Well, anything, really – I just like to read.’

Lewis Maddox considered. ‘The Mechanics Institute has a library – it’s in the Town Hall. Open most evenings, if you can manage to get down. But I’ve got all sorts in my room at home — if you’re not particular, I’ll pass a few your way. And my sister has plenty of novels – a few classics among the romance, I’m sure,’ he added with a short laugh. ‘Mary won’t mind.’

Liam was uncertain about that, but meeting Mary Maddox a few days later, he thought her brother might be right. She was a plain, practical young woman, sure of herself but by no means overbearing. She talked as easily to her father’s hired hands as she did to the maid, Ella, seeming to regard all of them as a kind of extended family. Liam imagined that to her, that was what they were. Old Murphy had been with them since before she was born, while Arnie and Ella, who were brother and sister, had virtually been adopted by Mrs Maddox after being orphaned by a bush fire some ten years back. Bert and Ned were more recent, and Ned, although he had all the qualities of leadership required by a foreman, had only been at the Maddox place just over a year. Watching him keeping a covert eye on the daughter of the house, Liam wondered whether Ned’s ambitions to own his own land someday, did not centre upon the sturdy, capable figure of Mary Maddox. But nothing was said, and Liam did not ask.

Easter Day dawned bright and clear, and under Mrs Maddox’s persuasion, they all set off in the open wagon for morning service at the Methodist church in Dandenong. It was a long time since Liam had been in any church, and although the service was strange to him with its lengthy prayers and unfamiliar hymns, he thought he preferred it to the set ritual of the Prayer Book. It seemed more sincere. Sitting there with his head bowed, pretending to add his own silent petitions to the words of the preacher, he found himself thinking about God, and wondering about his own faith. He had believed, once upon a time; although since leaving home he had not spared the Almighty much more than a passing curse. Admittedly, that had been when things seemed at their lowest, but even so, he felt ashamed. Did he believe? He was not sure. If there was a God, why did He allow such things to happen? He had been happy, and then…

On the trembling edge of pain, his mind winced away. It was better not to think, and he was happy enough now, so why bother about the past? Nothing could change it. Live for today, he thought, and if you can, work towards a better future. But where God came into that philosophy was something of a mystery.

It was on the way back that Mary Maddox brought up the matter of the books. ‘Lew says you could do with something to read. I’ll sort out a few novels for you and let you have them before I go back to Melbourne.’

Her directness threw him a little, forcing a stammer to his thanks.

‘It’s all right,’ she smiled, ‘I’m a keen reader myself.’

He caught Ned’s louring glance and for a moment regretted mentioning the subject to anyone. If Mary noticed it, she pretended not to, and a moment later was talking about organizing a picnic in the hills for the following day. It was a public holiday and likely to be one of the last fine days of autumn, and she was determined they should all make the best of it. Her father shook his head; he did not want to go trailing miles into the hills, to be faced by crowds of city-dwellers. His wife nodded her agreement, but thought it a good idea for the younger ones.

‘I’ll fix some food, if you want to get yourselves off.’

Liam glanced at Ned, who was being unusually reticent. Lewis chided him, saying that all he ever did was go into town to drink in bars. A day in the hills would be good for him. Ned’s scowl deepened.

Lewis turned to the others. ‘Billy will come, I know – what about Arnie, and you, Bert?’

Arnie was keen, but Murphy and Bert and little Nobby all had things to do, apparently. As though he was bestowing a favour, instead of the other way around, Ned eventually allowed himself to be persuaded. Mary teased him unmercifully, and for a while Liam thought he would back out, but on Monday morning, he was ready and waiting in his smartest coat and breeches.

In boots and divided skirt, Mary looked good, Liam thought; and so it seemed did Ned, who contrived to keep his horse close to hers most of the way. Liam’s mount did not take kindly to being kept at the back, but he had no intention of spoiling Ned’s pitch: the matter of the books was bad enough.

As ever when he left the farm, Lewis was in his element, and with an interested listener was keen to identify the various species of shrubs and trees along the way. All along the gullies, edging every meandering creek, were the tree ferns, their delicate fronds filtering the sunlight, making dappled patterns across the tracks. It was green and fresh, alive with the fluttering of bright cockatoos and tinkling bell-birds, and the sudden sharp patter of rain-showers on shimmering leaves. And when the rain stopped, as it did within minutes, the aromatic scent of the gums permeated the air, delicate and invigorating, like new green wine.

Liam started to talk about his first weeks in Australia, the journey, the logging camps, how he had come to the Maddox farm. Lewis was keen to hear what Liam had seen and done, but it transpired that logging was an activity he deplored. The native Australian species, he declared with conviction, would soon be extinct unless it was stopped.

‘And all that will be left,’ he added derisively, ‘will be the precious exotics imported by gardeners for their wealthy and ignorant clients!’

Casting his eyes over the dense woodland which surrounded them, Liam doubted it. Knowing from experience how many thousands of acres there must be in this small part of Victoria, he guessed it would take an army a lifetime to clear the Dandenong ranges. But he kept the thought to himself.

Meanwhile, despite objections from Lewis, Mary set out their picnic in a clearing near Belgrave. The severed trunks, her brother declared, looked like amputated elephant’s feet, and he would not eat his food amongst such carnage. They all laughed, but he took his share back into the forest, joining them only as the little party pressed on towards the settlement.

Beside tracks and roads which ran off into the trees, Liam spied campers in tents, and slab-sided huts with bark roofs. By contrast, there were imposing mansions too, but the little town was constructed mainly of weatherboard and corrugated iron. To his amazement, there was also a narrow-gauge railway running to Emerald and Gembrook.

With the eagerness of a child, Arnie leapt at Mary’s suggestion of taking a trip on the train. The horses were tethered in the shade, their fares paid, and they clambered aboard. Tiny carriages, open to the elements, rattled behind a miniature locomotive which chugged and skidded up seemingly impossible gradients and around tight, snaking bends. City folk, out to enjoy a fine holiday weekend, exclaimed over unspoiled beauty, while Liam was intrigued by the feats of engineering necessary to drive the line through.

Conscious of the shortening afternoon, they travelled only as far as Emerald, returning by the next train. Even so, the sun was well down in the sky by the time they unhitched the horses. Abandoning the scenic route on Ned’s advice, they took the longer but safer road home, arriving just after dark. Mrs Maddox was anxious enough to give them a scolding, but her daughter was unrepentant. She had had a wonderful day, she said, and in that, Liam knew, she spoke for them all.

Liam got his books, Mary’s selection first, because she was returning to the hospital in Melbourne. With her departure and the evidence of her gift on his shelf, Ned’s comments became more than usually caustic. Liam ignored him, burying his head in a fat, well-read edition of Dickens’ Bleak House. Before he had finished that, Lewis came over to the bunkhouse with a dozen or so others, covering a wide range of subjects from the flora and fauna of Australia to biographies of eminent explorers and empire-builders.

In a few weeks Liam had gone through the life of Captain James Cook, a Yorkshireman like himself, and a fairly recent assessment of the wool trade, with its opposite pole in Bradford. He remembered that his mother’s father had been a wool merchant, and that set off a stream of unwelcome associations. After that, glancing at the novels, he skipped Wuthering Heights and its companion volume, Jane Eyre, and settled for something less emotional.

What he could not avoid, however, were his own memories. As the fine weather began to break, they became increasingly more insistent. Watching bronze and yellow beech leaves scatter across Mrs Maddox’s garden, it came to him that in England it would be spring, and instead of fading marigolds and fuschias, his mother’s garden would be dancing with daffodils. He thought of that mass of golden flowers along the ramparts, and the Minster’s towers gleaming against a bright blue sky, and felt an unexpected lump come to his throat. In that moment he would have given almost anything to see York again, to be able to walk beside its broad, slow-moving river and watch the barges unloading along the staiths. Not that he wanted to leave Australia, Liam told himself, simply that he would have liked to reassure himself that York was still there, unchanged. From where he stood, it might well have disappeared forever.

Moved by a sense of guilt, a few days later he sat down to write to his brother, fulfilling a promise made so long ago that it had been forgotten for months. The letter said little about his journey out, concentrating instead upon his present good fortune, and the excellence of his employers.

‘I seem to have been accepted here,’ he added in closing, ‘and intend to stay for as long as they’ll have me. I’m saving hard, though, because I want a place of my own one day.’

That was true. Except to the library, Liam did not often go into town, preferring to busy himself in the tack room, polishing saddles or repairing broken bits of harness. On one particularly cold, wet Saturday, however, when the others had gone off on their usual jaunt, he settled down on his bunk to read. Crossing the yard, Mrs Maddox looked in with some surprise. It was far too cold, she said, to be sitting there; if he wanted to, he could come inside.

In the warm kitchen, surrounded by the comforting smell of cakes and new baked bread, the murmur of women’s voices lulled him into reverie. Staring into the fire, he was soon drifting pleasantly, at home in the cottage on a winter’s afternoon, his mother rolling out pastry, her wedding ring clicking rhythmically against a hollow earthenware rolling-pin.

Comfort and an awareness of affection enveloped him, he was warm and happy and there would be scones and home-made jam for tea. As his mother brushed past to check the oven, she ruffled his hair and told him to move, his long legs were in the way...

‘Billy, will you move – I want to get to the fire.’

Laughter brought him back with a start. Ella, the buxom girl who helped in the house, was nudging his feet; Mrs Maddox was chuckling as she rolled fresh pastry. Panic-stricken for a moment, Liam stared from one to the other, feeling like a child amongst strangers, whose mother has suddenly abandoned him. Like a child he wanted to cry, was horribly afraid that he might, and with his chest hard and tight with disappointment, left them abruptly.

He heard Ella’s sudden: ‘Well!’ followed by a nervous giggle, and footsteps which halted as he slammed the door. Drenched by rain as he crossed the yard, Liam gave vent to tears he could not control, all the more violent because they had been restrained for so long. But before he had reached the shelter of the bunkroom, grief had turned again to fury, to that same impotent rage which had so consumed him a year ago.

Regardless of wet clothes, he lay on his bed, staring at nothing, while the rain drummed with steady monotony on the corrugated roof. It grew dark, but no sense of urgency possessed him; Ned and the others would not be back much before midnight. He was startled when the door opened and a solitary figure entered, shrouded by a cape. A woman’s voice uttered a muffled exclamation, set something down with a clatter and proceeded to light a lamp.

‘Here,’ Mrs Maddox announced. ‘It’s some dinner I’ve brought you. Get it eaten now before Ewan catches me. I’ve tried to keep it warm, thinking you was coming in for it – ’

He took the tray, for a moment too astonished even to thank her. She stood at the foot of his bunk in the long room, regarding him with tense concern. Liam could not meet that gaze. Mumbling his thanks, he began to eat, amazed at his own hunger.

‘Homesick, are you? Only natural — I was myself for a long time. But it catches you unexpected...’ When he did not reply, she sighed with a touch of exasperation, just as his own mother did sometimes. With a sharp click of her tongue, Mrs Maddox added: ‘Don’t say much, do you? Might do some good if you did. Ah well, you know where I am if you want to talk – and it will go no further.’

Liam believed her, but did not know what to say. ‘Thank you,’ was all he could manage. Ridiculously moved by her kindness, nevertheless he wished she would leave him alone. As though sensing it, she turned to go.

‘Don’t forget now.’

He did not forget, but gratitude at that time seemed no more than an additional burden he could do without. A small part of him wanted to be mothered and comforted, but his own image of manhood mocked it. There was, too, the deeper fear of what he might say once he began to talk. Embarrassment made him gruff with Mrs Maddox for a while after that, but she did not seem to notice and treated him no differently. He was, however, glad of the drier weather which kept all of them busy.

The Dandenong Journal came to them once a week, and Melbourne newspapers were brought whenever Lewis or his sister Mary came home. Towards the end of July, the rumours of impending war in Europe grew stronger, setting the whole area agog with excitement. It was all anyone talked about, and the eagerness to get into town to find out more, was suddenly stronger than the allure of bars and female company. If Europe erupted, the consensus of opinion was that Britain would not stay out of it, and if Britain stepped in, then so would Australia. Older, and with two sons of fighting age, Ewan Maddox tried to quash the jingoism at his table. His wife was openly anxious, but the men were obsessed by the topic and would not leave it alone.

Liam was surprised by the evidence of conflicting passions amongst men he thought he knew well. Old Murphy, whom he had imagined to be as Australian as the outback, gave vent to such invective against England that Liam was almost convinced his list of injustices were personal instead of two generations old. Ned, on the other hand, who could claim a similar inheritance through his Tyneside Irish grandparents, thought Murphy was a silly old fool and said so. Nursing his own secret connections with both England and her other island, Liam simply listened while the argument threatened to come to blows. Enraged by the three who were against him, Murphy suddenly forgot his age and would have taken them all on. He danced like a wizened old gnome while Arnie, whose strength was greater than his intellect, held him back.

It seemed that only Arnie and Liam were neutral, the former because he did not understand what it was all about, and the latter because his own future was more important to him than somebody else’s past.

There were plenty like him, but on his trips into town it seemed there was always a fight going on somewhere, and it was not always a matter of national prejudice. The Irish, who were numerous and loved a good argument anyway, were the most noticeable; but there were also well-settled Englishmen who professed no love for the mother country which had either kicked them out or provided so little they’d felt obliged to leave. For them, Australia should stay out of the coming conflict. Their opinions were not popular with the overtly patriotic youngsters who had been brought up on a scholastic diet of Empire and militarism and absolute allegiance to the monarchy.

Liam tried very hard to stay out of it. If a direct opinion was demanded, all he would say was that it would never come to war, and they were all being premature. That did not endear him, and more often than not provoked a bit of sniping from Ned, who accused him of being ‘bloody clever’. When they were on their own, however, he pressed Liam for an answer.

‘So what if it does come to it, Billy, what will you do?’

‘Look, leave me alone, will you?’ Liam snapped back, exasperated beyond endurance. ‘I’ve just bloody well got here, for heaven’s sake, I’ve no intentions of dashing back at the first trumpet-call!’

Ned was aghast, ‘Well, of all the…’ He broke off, letting whatever insult had sprung to mind die before it reached his lips. ‘You want to be careful who you say that to, mate – them as don’t know you might get the wrong idea.’

Liam dropped the harness he was working on and stood up, his fists clenched. ‘All right, spit it out! You think because I’m not waving a flag and backing you up, I’m some sort of coward!’

‘No! No, honest, I don’t. But you being English and that, I can’t figure you out. I’d’ve thought you’d be dead keen!’

‘Well, I’m not. For a start, I like it here. I came here to settle, to make something of myself by my own efforts. I’m not rushing to throw all that away. And another thing – I’ve got a lot of respect for Ewan Maddox. He didn’t have to take me on, but he did, and he kept his word. How’s he going to manage if everybody takes off together? Have you thought of that?’

‘Same as everybody else, I suppose.’

‘And what about your grand ideas?’

‘They’ll just have to wait,’ came the quick reply. ‘Do you think I could sit here, stashing my pay every week, while other blokes go off to do the fighting? Not me, mate! Not me.’

That stirred uncomfortable considerations. Lighting a cigarette, Liam went outside. He handed the packet to Ned, who lit up with a certain grim satisfaction.

‘I won’t pretend I don’t know what you mean,’ Liam said slowly. ‘I’ve got a young brother at home, who said he was going to join up...’

That night, remembering the last words they had exchanged on the towpath, he wondered where Robin was now, and what he was doing. He thought of Georgina, too, resurrecting the photograph his brother had taken before that precious world fell apart. She was happy and smiling then: did she smile like that now? He loved her still, knew with absolute certainty that he always would. With a whole year and thirteen thousand miles between them, his feelings for her had not altered one whit; he recalled little things she said, the times they had spent alone together. And it still hurt to look at her captured image.

Ned had no need to be jealous over Mary Maddox. Liam just wished he could tell him so.

A few days later, as he returned chilled and hungry from mending fences on the far border of the property, Mrs Maddox called out from the kitchen that he had a letter waiting. Having had Georgina on his mind for days, he hoped it might be from her, that she might have been given his address from Robin’s letter and written something, anything, to suggest that she understood what had driven him away, missed him, might once have loved him too...

But the letter was from his brother, written from a town with a French name on the island of Jersey. Robin had indeed done as he had threatened that day, and having joined the 2nd Battalion the Green Howards, was now quartered in the Channel Islands. And having a wonderful time, Liam thought as he read the first page, wondering also how much longer the holiday would last. According to Robin, army life was just the ticket; and he seemed as excited at the prospect of war as most of the youth in Dandenong. Liam shook his head.

But just as Liam had glossed over the agonies of his trip out to Australia, so did his brother skip the immediate aftermath of Liam’s departure, except to say that everyone had been upset, their mother especially. He went on to say that Edward had resisted the idea of Robin joining up, right to the moment he went, although his mother had reluctantly given her assent, and that was all he needed.

The next few paragraphs aroused fury. Robin had apparently had an interview with Robert Duncannon in York, and although he had proudly resisted the Colonel’s offer of help, it seemed he had in some way fallen under his spell. As he rapidly scanned the following pages, Liam cursed his brother for a trusting, gullible child. Incredulous at first, he read to the end, then read it again, slowly, anger mounting with every sentence.

‘… He’s not nearly so bad as you make him out, and was most concerned about you. We talked, man to man, which I thought very decent, considering his position. He told me quite frankly that he had wanted to marry Mother more than anything in the world, but he couldn’t, because he was married already. Georgina’s mother was ill when he married her, a sort of mental illness that was not so bad to start with but got worse, only nobody told him about it. Her family knew, but they just wanted to get rid of her. Then he came to York and met Mother, and later on she went to live with him and his sister in Dublin. Georgina was very little then, and Mother helped to look after her, which is why she thinks such a lot of Mother, and I must say she was very good to her after you went away. We were all so worried and nobody knew what to do for the best. It took her a few weeks to get over it, but I dare say she will be happy now that she knows where you are and that you are safe. Dad, too.

‘I expect the Colonel will be relieved as well, because he blames himself for everything. But he didn’t blame Dad for marrying her, and his main regret was that he couldn’t have married her himself. He said he was still very fond of her, and had never met a finer woman…’

I’ll bet! Liam thought with bitter derision. As simple as that. Nothing about the lies and the grief, the sheer destruction that ill-begotten affair had brought about. And in the next breath Robin was preaching forgiveness. Never, Liam thought. Never, if he lived to be ninety, would he forgive them for what they had done.

He lit a cigarette and smoked furiously for a minute. Slightly calmer, he read on to the end. There was a line or two about Tisha, who wrote to Robin sometimes, and then Georgina was mentioned again. Her name seemed to leap off the page, and he was so starved for news of her that he read the sentence several times, trying to extract every possible meaning from its casual brevity.

‘… her letter arrived by the same post as yours. She is still at the Retreat and working hard, so too busy to write often, but I know she will be as relieved as everyone else when she gets my letter to say you are safe and well...’

So, she had been worried about him. But so, it seemed, had everyone else. And he had managed to upset his mother for several weeks. He suffered unexpected pangs of guilt at that, guilt that he managed to smother in a fresh surge of anger against Robin. The ease with which he had been seduced into sympathy with their mother and Robert Duncannon infuriated him, and it was some time before he could consider that apparent defection with any degree of objectivity.

When he did, it came to him that Robin had always been the one to sympathize – with everybody. There was nothing treacherous about it, it was simply that he could generally be relied upon to see both sides of every problem. Generous, even-tempered and with affection to spare, Robin was usually the peacemaker, the one who would always look for the best in people. It was unfortunate, Liam decided, that because of his goodness he could also be manipulated, especially by those without scruples. Tisha was a past master at that; and so, it seemed, was Robert Duncannon.

Forgiving his brother, trying not to be unduly harsh in his reply, Liam was also consumed by concern. Several weeks had passed since that letter was written, and war seemed more inevitable by the day. With Robin on his mind, Liam was suddenly just as eager as his companions to know the latest news. And that need to know had become a passion which fired everyone he met.

During the last few days, with Austria declaring war on the Balkan state of Serbia, and Russia heaving itself into a threatening position on behalf of its tiny neighbour, it looked as though all the major powers in Europe were on the brink of mobilization. The news took time to arrive, however. On 3rd August they read that Germany had sided with Austria Hungary and declared war on Russia; and two days later, on France. The Germans’ unreasonable demand for free passage through Belgium, in order to attack an innocent neighbour, aroused British passions worldwide. The declaration of war upon Germany was a foregone conclusion.

That declaration, made on 4th August, did not reach Australia until the 6th. Liam had been detailed to go into town that day, and the atmosphere of tension and excitement struck him instantly. There was a great crowd outside the Post Office on Lonsdale Street, and another by the offices of the Journal, where single sheets were being pasted up before they were dry. Shortly after one, the news they were all waiting for came through from Sydney. Britain was at war, and Australia would back her to the hilt. ‘To the last man and the last shilling,’ as one politician declared.

Grabbing one of those single, printed sheets as they were handed out, Liam fought his way through the crowd and paused on a street corner to read it. Within seconds half a dozen people were at his elbow, almost tearing the paper from his hands. Their reactions varied from unbounded elation to grim disgust, but most agreed that it was right. Germany should not be allowed to run rough-shod over Europe. With her worldwide interests in conflict with those of the British Empire, where would the aggression stop?

There was a report of a German merchant ship scuttling out of Port Melbourne, shots – ‘the first of the War’ – fired across her bows, and a piece about two German warships, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, at large in the Pacific. Suddenly, that war in Europe was no longer half a world away. Seized by emotions both violent and unexpected, Liam did not wait for further news. Mounting his horse he rode some distance out along the Stud Road, then stopped to consider his feelings afresh. He would enlist, he could do no other. He could not stand by while others fought to defend his right to live in this earthly paradise; and if in defending Australia he was also helping to defend England, then so he should. It should not be left to boys like Robin. Besides, Liam reasoned, justifying that abrupt change of heart, his self-respect would shrivel to think that his young brother was in the thick of it, while he, Liam, was sitting safe out here.

He thought of Georgina, and wondered whether he would see her again; perhaps he would, if he returned to England.

Sighing, he carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Time to return: all at the Maddox farm would be waiting on the news he brought.

Despite their wholehearted eagerness to support the old country, when faced with the necessity of leaving the farm, most of them felt guilty. While Ewan Maddox stared out at the fallow fields of winter, pondering the difficulties of running his place virtually single-handed, the men finished their supper with unaccustomed speed and sloped off to their quarters to enjoy a freer discussion.

Less eager than the rest, Liam overheard Mrs Maddox’s attempt at reassurance. Murphy would stay, she said; and as for Bert, his teeth were so rotten, an army dentist would faint at the sight of his mouth, never mind sign him up. Let them trail down to Melbourne, she advised her husband, and wait and see who came back.

Hiding a smile, for he was sure she was right, Liam closed the door quietly behind him. In the bunkroom, argument and a certain amount of heart-searching was going on. Even Ned, who declared that he would enlist no matter what, seemed less thrilled by the prospect than he had been only a few days ago. Old Murphy had turned sentimental: with tears in his eyes he said he would miss them, but he would stay to keep the farm going with the boss. Arnie was torn between his eagerness for adventure and loyalty to the people who had given him a home, but being less articulate, could only find expression for his anguish in violent movement. When not pacing the floor or thumping the walls, he would fling himself into his bunk and pound the pillows. Liam felt sorry for him. Full of themselves, Bert and Nobby were going to join up and have a great time, doing a Cook’s tour of Europe while knocking off a few Germans on the way. Liam had a suspicion that it might not be quite as easy as that.

Then somebody mentioned the elder Maddox brother, managing the place out at Warragul; and Lewis, still at college. What would they do? And if both sons went, what would Ewan Maddox do? The consensus of opinion was that the older one would stay put, while the boss would probably insist his younger son cut short his studies and get himself home where he was needed. After all, somebody had to stay home and keep the country going, so why shouldn’t Lewis get his finger out and do something practical for a change?

‘What if he wants to enlist, like the rest of us?’ Liam asked.

They were nonplussed at that.

If Lewis communicated with his parents over the next few days, nobody heard about it; but they were all astonished when Mary arrived on the Sunday to tell them that she had decided, with half a dozen friends, to volunteer as an army nurse. Ned was overjoyed.

Despite the enthusiasm, for several days there were no facilities for dealing with the mass of men and women eager to do their bit for King and country. Newspapers appealed for patience. Mary had returned within hours to Melbourne, but said she would be home again soon. The men worked badly and found excuses for making frequent trips to town. Mrs Maddox was anxious about everything and her husband on edge. No one heard from Lewis.

Recruitment began on 11th August.