CHAPTER 3

GENEVIEVE

My eighteenth birthday – 15 January 1911. Freedom beckoned; freedom to make my own decisions and freedom from carping criticism. I was due to leave my home the following week.

Some people, especially my mother, believe there’s nothing special about turning eighteen. They believe that turning twenty-one is the only rite of passage in a young person’s life. I didn’t think that made sense. At eighteen boys were considered old enough to go away to a war and to drink in a hotel and girls were considered old enough to marry. In the country, almost all the girls at my school were married well before turning twenty-one, and by then half of them looked worn-out and stressed, dragging two or three babies around all day and every day. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to make something of myself before meeting and marrying Mr Right.

Always a quiet and polite girl who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, deep down I wanted more than just to be a housewife, which might have surprised many people. Trying to imagine what it would be like to be a natural leader, a respected person, a leader of women, a doctor, a lawyer, a woman with the highest principles, I yearned for the courage and conviction of the suffragettes and wanted to be an Australian Florence Nightingale. That was why I was so anxious to leave the Central West of New South Wales and begin my career in Sydney.

On 15 January I began my journey – not only the one into adulthood but also the actual rail journey that would take me from the bush to the city. Obviously, Mum viewed the business of my leaving home with ambivalence. On the one hand, she worried about what I would get up to away from her eagle eye, and on the other she wanted me away from my father’s influence. My parents had a very bad marriage; however, for them and their class, marriage was for keeps. One simply had to stick it out, however bad it was. Probably both my parents hoped the other would die prematurely.

Tom, the good-looking Howard child, was two years older than me. He was my only sibling and beloved by my mother. On the day I left home, Tom took us into town in the sulky to catch the Western Mail. Dad didn’t come. He said goodbye to me at home and, what’s more, slipped me a five-pound note. Astounded to receive such a huge sum of money, I immediately decided to spend it in Sydney on smart, shop-bought clothes (having only ever had home-made dresses and skirts). I threw my arms around my father and kissed him because, unlike my mother and my brother, I really loved my gentle father, who led a dog’s life at Bellara, our sheep property situated a few miles out of a small town called Orange.

Dad had a lady friend, and I didn’t blame him one bit. She was a gentle and kind soul, and more than once I wished she was my mother. I don’t think he saw much of her because he hardly ever left Bellara. He visited her when he went to town to collect the produce, probably no more than once a fortnight. I had known about that for years because Mrs Ruby Walsh was a widow and the mother of Rose, my best friend in primary school. I suspect my mother also knew about Dad and Mrs Walsh. It’s very difficult to keep secrets in a small country town. I found out about Dad and Mrs Walsh’s affair because sometimes after school, instead of riding straight home, I went with Rose to her place to play and have afternoon tea. All of us bush children rode into town to primary school, and we left our horses in the paddock next door during school hours.

Rose loved riding with me on Star. She envied me living on a farm and having a father; hers died when she was a baby, and she always said how fond she was of my dad. Mrs Walsh always kissed and hugged me when we arrived at her place. It was very disconcerting as I wasn’t used to expressions of affection and wasn’t sure how to respond. Should I just smile, or should I kiss her back? What always happened was that I blushed and stood rigid until I could politely go outside and play hop-scotch with Rose.

Once or twice Dad was there when we arrived. ‘Just popped in to say hello to Ruby,’ he said.

I couldn’t help noticing how contented he looked at Ruby’s place. He even smoked a pipe in the kitchen.

*

Tom carried Mum’s small suitcase along the platform; he found our compartment and slung her case on to the luggage rack above the seat. I carried a much larger and heavier leather case in which I’d managed to pack all my personal possessions. That wasn’t too difficult because I wore overalls every day at Bellara and had few other clothes. I owned one ‘good’ dress and one skirt and blouse. Apart from underclothes, stockings, gloves, spare shoes, my overcoat, hairbrush, toilet bag and handkerchiefs, I carried a book to read on the train and my diary.

Leather cases are always heavy, and I had a bit of difficulty slinging mine up onto the luggage rack. Tom ignored my problems, obviously figuring I was big and strong enough to cope. He just stood on the platform arranging with Mum what time he would pick her up the day after next. After that, he didn’t hang about. He kissed Mum on the cheek and told me to look after myself and that he’d see me next year. Then he went. Tom was not an affectionate person. In that respect, he was very like our mother.

There were six other people in our compartment. The last one arrived just a minute before the train pulled out. He was young. He threw his Gladstone bag effortlessly up on to the luggage rack and plonked into the seat next to me. He grinned.

The prospect of having a young man to talk to throughout the journey was exciting; I could see he was a man who worked outdoors, being very sun-tanned; probably a farmhand or a shearer. I rarely had the opportunity to speak to young men and often thought about them, but had never had a boyfriend – had never even been to the local Saturday night dance in the church hall.

My mother might have been aware that I often thought about young men, although she probably wasn’t aware that I day-dreamed about what it must feel like to be properly loved. At school, when we talked about what happens in marriage, some of the girls rolled their eyes and said things like: ‘Can you imagine anything worse? I wouldn’t want a boy to do that to me.’ I didn’t feel like that, although I think I should have.

*

The young man on the train asked me if we were going to Sydney. I said yes, and asked him if he was, too. He said no, he had a job in Bathurst.

Bathurst was only fifty miles away; so much for my chances of talking with a nice-looking stranger throughout the night. In any case, Mum soon put a stop to any further conversation. She stood up and told me to change places with her because she didn’t want me to spend the following hours disturbing the other passengers with my prattle. She pushed me further down the bench seat and wriggled her way into the space I’d left.

Even though this was mid-summer, I was wearing the suit my mother made for me for travelling. She said it would also be very handy if I was invited to the home of one of my nurse friends. I wasn’t so sure. Certain the plain, ankle-length, nigger-brown skirt and jacket worn with a high-necked cream blouse made me look like a country bumpkin, I silently sat in my seat for the remainder of the journey. My mother had very strong views on acceptable dress for young girls. ‘Ladies should always dress inconspicuously,’ she often said; hence, I suppose, her predilection for browns and fawns. She couldn’t abide girls who wore bright clothing with short sleeves, low necklines and ankles revealed. ‘That’s the type of clothing harlots wear.’ I couldn’t argue with that because my mother knew, more than most, about harlots, being a foundation member of our local League of Decency and President of our branch of the Christian Women’s Temperance Union and a member of its Social Purity Subcommittee.

I was a tall, fleshy girl with fairish, reddish hair and freckles. My mother gave me to understand that I was also incompetent. I guess that was why I grew into a stubborn, silent and unlovable adolescent. It wasn’t all bad when I lived at Bellara, especially when I turned fifteen and left my small school. Dad had very bad arthritis so I became his workmate on the property. It was a joy to be alone with him on those long, cold winter days and under the heat of the summer sun. During the busier times, we often didn’t come in for the usual hot dinner at lunchtime. Instead, we boiled the billy and sat back to back chewing a lump of damper and thick slices of cheddar cheese.

By the time we reached Bathurst we all began to think about food. People were pouring tea from their Thermoses and unpacking hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches that smelt of corned mutton. They began to talk. One lady asked me if we were going on holiday. Mum then enthusiastically revealed that I was on my way to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, Sydney’s newest and biggest hospital, renowned for many things including the excellence of its nurses’ training school. While I burned with embarrassment – I hate being the centre of attention – Mum went on to say that Royal Prince Alfred girls were the best trained in the whole country because they used the Florence Nightingale methods.

Later, after the smells of food had dissipated and passengers were beginning to doze, Mum seized the opportunity to pass on some last-minute instructions. She was concerned about the problems of bathing bed-bound male patients. Ears pricked up as she explained how no gentleman would expect me to wash his private parts, and any nurse who was also a lady would hand the patient a soapy flannel and look the other way. Other passengers were listening with great interest. Some reacted with an eruption of stifled coughing. I wondered if they were embarrassed by my mother’s frank advice – as I was. Soon after, Mum settled back. She spread a lawn handkerchief across her face in a futile attempt to filter out the fine coal dust that penetrated the atmosphere of all coal-fired steam trains.

I was of course far too excited to sleep, with so much to look forward to, so much to worry about. What would the other nurses be like? Would they consider me to be a country hick? I feared they would be sophisticated city girls who wouldn’t even bother to talk to me. Was it true that trainee nurses worked twelve-hour shifts and had only one day off each week and sometimes only one day a fortnight? I had heard that the Nurses’ Home doors were locked by nine each night. No chance of getting out. It would be like living in a nunnery.

I thought about poor Dad. Life would be unbearable for him without me. Dad didn’t own Bellara; my mother purchased it with money inherited from her widowed father, a country school teacher. My father was not well educated; in fact almost illiterate. Nevertheless, unlike Tom, I wasn’t ashamed of him. I had learnt from the many books I read when I was still quite young that men who are educated and wear fine clothing are not always gentlemen. This was often the theme of the romance novels that, in those days, I loved.

Walter Howard, my father, was a drover on a big property far out west when Mum met him. She was the governess. He was one of nature’s gentlemen; a kind, thoughtful, strapping, carrot-topped and pleasant-looking young man, five years younger than my mother.

Even as a small child I was aware that my mother despised my father. She barely spoke a civil word to him. As the years passed I often wondered why they married in the first place. Then, the night he spilt the milk – a night emblazoned on my memory – I became aware that my mother must have slept with my father before they were married. She would have had to marry him or lose her reputation as a virtuous woman. Dad spilt the milk seven years ago, when I was eleven years old; yet I can remember that night as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember what happened, and I remember every word my mother shouted.

We were in the kitchen having tea, just the three of us. Tom was away at school. I recall my father leaning across the table to take hold of the teapot. He always liked a second or third cup of tea. He knocked the tall milk jug. Milk everywhere! It surged across the tablecloth to be lapped up eagerly by slices of stale home-made bread on the bread board and splashed against plates and bowls and spilled over the table edge. Who’d have thought a pint of milk could cause such havoc? My mother jumped to her feet, shrieking, ‘You clumsy oaf!’

‘Sorry,’ Dad muttered.

Mum must have been having a bad day. She yelled: ‘Not nearly as sorry as I am, stuck here for the rest of my life with an ignorant, snuffling pig who can’t even drink a cup of tea without causing trouble!’

Mum began clearing the table in a frenzy of activity. She flung everything onto the draining board, tossed the saturated tablecloth into a heap and threw tea towels onto the floor in an attempt to mop up the mess. She screamed, ‘Get out of the way, both of you!’

I remember backing towards the outer door. Mum seemed to me to be out of control. I was scared stiff.

‘Why I married you I’ll never know. I wish to God I’d got rid of it.’

‘Shut up, will yer? The kid’s here.’

I saw my mother pick up the carving knife; she whirled around, breathing noisily, her face puce. She shouted, ‘Go to bed, Genevieve!’

What happened after that I wasn’t sure because I rushed outside, down the veranda steps and down to the tool shed. I heard furniture being overturned, the sound of scuffling, gruff shouts and high-pitched screams; I clamped my hands over my ears. I sobbed and hid in the corner of the shed curled up next to the dogs. Sometime later my father arrived; he lifted me into his arms and carried me back to my own bed.

What made life worse for Dad was Tom’s attitude. It must have been terrible for our father to know that his only son couldn’t bear to have anything to do with him. When Tom came home for good after finishing school in Sydney I was fifteen and had just finished three years at a tiny little private school in town, which was run by the doctor’s sister. Mum would never have considered sending me away to school. She believed it was utter waste to spend money on further education for girls.

Most of the children who went to our primary school began work after they had done the Qualifying Certificate after six years of schooling. My friend Rose left then and began work in a local bakery. Mum never liked me associating with what she called the hoi polloi of town. She couldn’t bear Rose and never even smiled at her if they met at church. I suppose that was because she knew about Dad and Mrs Walsh. Mum also believed that twelve was far too young to finish school – apart from the fact that fourteen years was the legal school-leaving age. So when Miss Carpenter started her little school with only ten pupils it was, in Mum’s opinion, the ideal solution for me. At that school for three years I learnt English (mainly poetry), history (always British), music, art and manners.

All that finished when Tom, aged seventeen, came home for good. After the affair of the spilt milk my parents never again addressed each other directly and, as Tom and Mum were always good mates, he hardly ever spoke to Dad, either. Mum and Tom would talk to one another at mealtimes but never once include Dad. I remember how after tea, I used get out the draughts or cards and have a game with him so he wouldn’t feel so out of place.

At other times, when Dad suggested to Tom that they had better get on with the drenching or ploughing or some other farming task, Tom made excuses, any excuse to get away from Dad. They turned him into a snob at that school in Sydney, and Mother encouraged him. I could tell that Tom had never understood why his educated and relatively well-born mother saddled herself with a drover.

*

Eighteen years old and my first time in Sydney – what a gauche lump I was! I felt as insignificant as an ant when I looked around the big and cavernous Central Station and watched all the other travellers moving swiftly and with purpose to other trains or cabs or trams.

Mother steered me into the ladies washroom, and we cleaned up. Spending hours on a steam train meant that coal dust seeped into everything, hair, skin and clothing. My fairish hair with very distinctive red streaks was flattened out, greasy and dirty-looking. My face was shadowed by the dust and my hands streaked with it – not a very pretty picture for my first meeting with Matron.

We had a cup of tea and toast in the railway cafeteria, then Mum led me out into Railway Square. Lugging my heavy leather suitcase, I trailed along behind her, stopping frequently to rest and look in every direction. The city street was an amazing sight. Hundreds of people pushed past me with not so much as an ‘excuse me’ or a ‘good morning’. How rude city people are. Many more were leaping on and off trams – the first I’d ever seen. The rush and bustle was astonishing and also rather frightening.

‘Where are they all going in such a hurry?’

‘They’re factory workers.’ Mum explained how if they were even a minute late for work their pay would be docked. So much to see while we waited for our tram: people, horses and carts, drays, and even one or two motor cars. Small children, carrying buckets and trowels, cleaned up the manure left by the horses. Mum said that they’d get a few farthings for a bucket of that.

On one side of the square I saw a department store at least ten times bigger than the one in Summer Street, our main street. Off to the right a long street curved away from us as far as the eye could see. It was lined with shops and, according to Mum, led to the main part of the city.

Then we caught the tram. It was cramped and uncomfortable. I had to stand in the narrow compartment squashed between the knees of seated passengers facing each other. And my case was in the way when people stood up and tried to alight – so embarrassing. We weren’t able to talk in the tram because of being separated by the crowds. That was a blessing. But when the conductor put us off at the hospital stop at the bottom of a steep hill Mother began to issue her final orders about me not gallivanting around the city when I was off duty and how I was never to speak to strangers.

If I wasn’t permitted to leave the hospital when I was off duty, how would I ever become familiar with the city and see all the big shops and the harbour about which I’d heard so much? I protested, saying that I’d like to see the city. I asked why I couldn’t go into town with some of the nurses when we were off duty.

My mother was adamant. I was too young and inexperienced. She went on to say that two or three girls alone in the city would be fair game to gangs of lecherous types and the world was full of them. Innocent girls were always being kidnapped, raped and murdered. She would have no peace of mind if she thought I was wandering around the city. Mum also warned me of the dire circumstances for a girl who was stupid enough to go out with a young man to whom she had never been properly introduced. What if I became pregnant? She finished by saying that she had no intention of facing up to her friends and admitting that her only daughter had gone off the rails.

Like you did, I almost said. Instead I mumbled something about it would feel like being in prison if I couldn’t go anywhere.

We reported to the Nurses’ Home and were escorted to Matron’s office, where Mum was over-polite and ingratiating, just as she always was with our rector, again much to my embarrassment. She inspected my tiny bedroom, then prepared to leave. ‘Be a good girl, Genevieve.’ She kissed me on the cheek and began her walk back to the tram stop.

Naively, I thought – at last I am free to do what I want, whenever I want.

*

What a laugh that was; probationer nurses are rarely free. We were little more than overworked skivvies, sometimes beginning work at five in the morning and not finishing until teatime. I became very efficient at cleaning and shining the patients’ utensils with special emphasis on their revolting bedpans and disgusting spittoons that men seemed to need. ‘It gets better,’ said one of my friends. Her mother had been a nursing sister and told her, ‘If you can get through the first year, you’ll get through to graduation.’

I was determined not to give up and so were my particular friends. Plenty of others fell by the wayside. Despite my earlier fears, I made several close friends, quiet girls almost as shy as I was. Together we worked through the dreary probationary period knowing that by the time we reached second year we would be permitted to look after the patients, even taking their temperatures or bandaging a wound.

The fact that I had no social life didn’t worry me much during the hectic first year. Although I yearned for a boyfriend, I had few expectations, having been convinced during my childhood that I was just a clumsy lump. Anyway, I was far too tired to think much about going out, meeting new people and exploring the city.

In second and third years, occasionally a small group of us would go to town for our day off. There we’d have morning or afternoon tea, walk in Hyde Park or take a ferry ride, anything to get away from the poverty that surrounded our hospital. Tiny houses, with smelly lavatories in their small backyards, abounded, as well as ugly, blackened brick-walled factories with smoke belching out of their chimneys for twelve hours each day. When I was eighteen, I thought it would be marvellous to live in the city. By twenty-one, I had changed my mind. I couldn’t wait to graduate and go back to the bush; not to Bellara, somewhere in the far Outback where I could take charge of a small hospital, or perhaps even work on a mission station.

When I look back, I realise that most of the nurses had come from sheltered backgrounds; we had little knowledge of the world and no experience with young men. We were earnest, naive, idealistic and emotional, fired with enthusiasm to give comfort to the less fortunate in our community.

*

Almost three years on and approaching my twenty-first birthday, my idealism was wearing thin. I would have accepted an invitation to go almost anywhere with almost anyone. Unfortunately, my particular friends were either country girls or city girls with no brothers. Young doctors never looked our way, and I didn’t fancy any of the patients. Apart from those few outings in town, the only break in my routine was our annual week’s holiday at the end of each year for which I always went home.

I looked forward to letters from home. My friend Rose was the most regular correspondent, and her letters contained news of my father. Dad never wrote because he was ashamed of his writing. Through Rose, he sent the sort of news I longed to hear; details of what was happening on the land and anecdotes about the dogs and the horses.

Rose’s personal news was of less interest. Nothing had changed with my old school friend. Poor Rose, still working in the bakery in Orange’s main street; her one social outing each week to the local dance on a Saturday night. She was just twenty-one and unmarried, which was unusual. She explained that was because the man she would have liked to marry wasn’t the marrying type.

How dull her life sounded. How dull my life was, all work and no play. I hadn’t expected it would be like this. The only thrills I experienced in those days occurred in bed during the few minutes I was able to stay awake after a long day on duty; a few precious minutes when I read a page or two of a romantic novel and wished I too had a young man who escorted me to dances or strolled hand in hand with me through parkland or by a river, all the time gazing at me, his eyes full of love and admiration.