Sweet Wattle Creek, 1986
I didn’t usually go in to work on Saturday but I did today. This morning I’d barely opened my eyes before I was already thinking about the Herald archives and what tantalising treasures they might hold. Because I couldn’t write about the wedding dress, not yet, it seemed sensible to begin planning another piece, and ever since The Grand had been mentioned I’d been chewing it over. Yes, it was now an old burnt-out ruin on the edge of town, but once it had been an important building, and there must be a great deal of history attached to it.
Ian McKinnon was doing a display on The Grand in the RSL Hall and he might be able to help me to …
Hang on! I stopped dead with my key in the lock. Where had that thought come from? Why should I need Ian to help me? Was I only doing this because he’d mentioned The Grand and I wanted to spend more time with him?
I searched my conscience, but finally concluded that wasn’t it. I was genuinely caught up in the history of The Grand and the dress and the whole Centenary thing. I was good at detecting and now I had the chance to put my skills to use. I missed my job in Brisbane. I missed being me. I was still coming to terms with Sophie Matheson and this was a way of merging the two me-s together, the new and the old.
Satisfied with the results of my soul searching, I opened the door and turned on some lights. Tim had said he was taking the family into Riverton today for shopping, Brad was playing footy and Ellie was up at the river with her boyfriend. Anyway, they didn’t work weekends unless asked. I didn’t expect to be interrupted. As for Ian, I hadn’t seen him since he left Smithy with me. He hadn’t dropped in as he’d said he would and the border collie was still in our backyard, much to Dillon’s delight. My son had promised he’d take the dog for a walk this morning and maybe throw a ball around for him.
Smithy and Dillon seemed to have become best friends in a very short space of time. Much to Black Cat’s displeasure. The cat had spent the night on my bed instead of Dillon’s, and out of the blue I was getting lots of purring and loving looks from those usually baleful yellow eyes.
Before I started my search I wanted to make some phone calls about the dress. I’d asked Ellie to think of the names of elderly people who might remember something about Charlie and Belle.
‘The CWA,’ she’d said instantly. ‘If you want to know anything about anything, Soph, they’re the first place you go to. My gran belongs to the association, and you should hear the gossip she brings home!’
That made me smile now as I unfolded her list of names and numbers. The Country Women’s Association started in Victoria in 1928, so surely someone must remember Belle if she lived here. I picked up the telephone. On the off-chance, I tried Nola’s Mr Scott first, hoping to escape the Thursday poetry reading, but he wasn’t answering. Most of the others were less helpful than I’d expected, but maybe they genuinely didn’t remember and I just had a suspicious mind. It was a long time ago, after all, and people had their own concerns.
‘Sophie!’ Mrs Green, Ellie’s gran, seemed happy to chat. ‘My granddaughter is a clever girl, isn’t she? Working for a newspaper.’
Eventually I got around to my question.
‘Belle? The only Belle I knew was … no. I’m sure I don’t remember her. Or Charlie. There was Charlie Sutcliffe, but he was a boy when he joined up in the Second World War so it can’t be him. Oh dear, it’s all so long ago. Best forgotten.’
‘What do you mean “best forgotten”? What is best forgotten, Mrs Green?’
‘Goodness me, Sophie, how you do pick one up. I didn’t mean anything. Now tell me, is Tim going to charge extra for his Centenary edition of the Herald?’
No doubt he was, but I wasn’t getting into an argument. I made some vague answer and ended the call. So much for the elephantine memories of the elders of the town.
The Herald archives were stored downstairs in the basement. It was actually an old cellar. Bill Shaw had kept his treasures upstairs, wherever he could find space for them, and by the time Tim took over it looked like a hoarder’s paradise. There was barely room to move. Tim had paid for work to be done on the cellar, to make sure it was waterproof and damp-proof, and now all the old issues were down there in numerical order.
I opened the cellar door and flicked on the rows of fluorescent lights. The air always felt chilly down here and today I didn’t mind. Compared to the heat already gathering outside it was pure heaven.
I was planning to search for mention of The Grand, but as I set down my bag, it occurred to me that Belle and Charlie might be waiting to be found in the First World War issues. It was a long shot, but the dress was from that era, according to Ian. So what if they were married? Here in Sweet Wattle Creek? Just maybe there’d be a long paragraph about Charlie and Belle tying the knot. Surely it was worth a try? I told myself I’d go through each newspaper, each wedding column, and it shouldn’t take me too long. I wouldn’t be distracted by anything else, no way. I was on a mission to find Belle and Charlie.
I’d heard that some of the city newspapers were transferring their older issues to microfilm, which saved space and made it much easier to look up items of interest. The Sweet Wattle Creek Herald wasn’t quite that modern. I was going to be heaving around piles of musty paper, and turning pages of faded and sometimes smudged copy to find the item I was looking for.
There was a long table and a wooden chair, so I loaded the newspapers I thought might be relevant onto a trolley—Tim had bought it second-hand from the Riverton hospital—and trundled them over.
It wasn’t long before I realised this was going to take a lot more time than I’d optimistically imagined. Nor was it as simple. Wedding columns were all very well, but I soon noticed that sometimes a wedding was mentioned elsewhere in the text. Especially if the couple was of importance in the town hierarchy, or there was a story to tell. And Bill Shaw certainly loved to tell a story.
By lunchtime I was deep into 1917, I had a headache, and I hadn’t found either Belle or Charlie. I had discovered, however, that The Grand was owned by a Mrs Ambrose, who had given up the licence about the same time her husband had died—not in the war but here at home, in Sweet Wattle Creek.
Mr Nathan Ambrose of The Grand Hotel, after a lingering illness, who leaves his widow, Martha, to mourn his passing.
I also found lists of the men in the district who had gone off to war and been killed in action, or were missing or sick. Bill Shaw liked to include names of relatives and friends, even if they didn’t live here. I suppose people came to him with their distressing news and expected him to publish it. There were one or two men called Charles but nothing about a wife or fiancée with the first name Belle, and, well, they just didn’t seem right for my Charlie.
My progress through the war years got slower and slower. Story after story caught my attention and I couldn’t seem to skip anything. For instance, I found a request from the Red Cross for items urgently needed—hand-knitted scarves, hand-knitted bedsocks, hand-knitted mittens, and something called ‘hussifs’, which for the life of me I couldn’t fathom. And there was a concert held for the returned servicemen, which was—in Bill Shaw’s words—much appreciated by our brave boys.
In October 1917 he wrote a piece on one of the many fundraising events, with the money going to the war effort. This was at Morwenstow, the home of Mr and Mrs Stanley Davies:
As most readers would know, Mr Stanley Davies has joined up to fight the Hun with his elder son, Edmond (Ted). The two are currently somewhere on the Western Front, no doubt displaying the sort of courage for which men of this district are renowned. Here at home, and not to be outdone, Mrs Violet Davies is hosting a Salvation Army dance at Morwenstow, where she will be raising funds for our Australian Army hospitals. A donation will be gratefully accepted from those who wish to attend. Sweet Wattle Creek has fond memories of Mrs Davies’s previous efforts and no doubt she will find herself once more having the pleasure of the company of most of the town.
This Mrs Davies of Morwenstow wasn’t the same Mrs Davies who Ian and I had found unconscious. It couldn’t be. It must be Violet’s daughter-in-law, or perhaps even some other relative. A niece?
I set aside Mrs Davies of Morwenstow and picked up the next newspaper. One more, I thought, and then I’d go back upstairs for some coffee and a bite to eat. Just then my gaze slid down the Killed in Action, Missing and Injured section, and stopped with a jolt.
Killed in Action—Lieutenant Alister Thomas, AIF, husband of Mrs Lyn Thomas, brother of Aneas Thomas, of Sweet Wattle Creek.
Killed in Action—Private Edmond (Ted) Davies, AIF, son of Mr and Mrs Stanley Davies of Morwenstow, Sweet Wattle Creek.
Missing—Private Michael Maxwell, Australian Flying Corps, son of the late Mr and Mrs Cyrus Maxwell of Sweet Wattle Creek.
Ted Davies, who had joined up with his father to fight the Hun, was dead. I felt as if I’d known him personally, and while I knew it was silly, I couldn’t help the sense of sadness. Violet’s son was dead and her husband was still fighting. I wondered whether she had enjoyed the Salvation Army dance and I hoped she had. I hoped she’d had a wonderful time, because I doubted she’d be enjoying herself much a week later when she received the news about her son.
‘Enough.’ I closed the newspaper and loaded it onto the trolley with the others, and then wheeled them back to the rows of steel shelving.
Upstairs it felt twice as hot after the frigid air of the basement. I made myself one of my tepid coffees, found a couple of Monte Carlo biscuits, and sat down to read over the notes I’d made.
No mention of the couple I was looking for, which was frustrating, and yet I did feel as if I had learned rather a lot about Sweet Wattle Creek during those years of devastating war. And I knew more about Morwenstow and the Davies and their loss, and that family was surely linked with the dress and my search. Belle must come into it somewhere, if I kept searching.
Restlessly, I got up and went over to the window, the one that faced the street and looked across to the library. Nola had closed up on the stroke of twelve, as she always did, but I recognised the car still sitting out the front.
Just for a moment I felt a little tremor inside, which was worrying, until I told myself it was because I wanted to talk to Ian about the dress and the Centenary and the Davies of Morwenstow. I had to tell someone, and he was the logical choice. Besides, he might have been in touch with Josh by now and know the whole story.
Really, I told myself, it would be remiss of me not to go over there right now and ask him.
* * *
He seemed pleased to see me, which did my ego a lot of good but at the same time made my stomach clench with anxiety. I reminded myself that I used to have male friends, men I was comfortable with and could share a joke with, and I needed to get myself back to that place. The before-Walter place.
‘I was over the road and saw your car,’ I explained, just in case he imagined I was stalking him. ‘Did you talk with Mrs Davies’s nephew? With Josh?’
‘Yes, I did.’ He led the way into his room, knocking against some books on top of a free-standing shelf. He tried to catch them but several slipped through his grasp and fell to the floor. ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Things have been hectic.’
While I waited for him to pick them up, I noticed that Belle’s wedding dress was gone from the table and there was other memorabilia in its place. Bundles of old letters and a box of old-fashioned preserving jars and a handmade patchwork quilt. There was also a large white board set up against the wall, with an enlarged photograph of a young man wearing a uniform on it.
‘So what did Josh say?’ I prompted, as he finished returning the books to their place.
‘No luck. He doesn’t know a Charlie or Belle. Honestly, I think he’s too worried about his aunt to give it much thought at the moment. Coffee?’
I nodded. My own effort had barely made a dent in my headache. I went over to the photograph and peered at the soldier’s face. Dark hair and eyes, and a bit of a smile. A nice face, I thought. He had a badge with wings sewn onto the front of his uniform. A pilot then, one of the early ones.
‘A bit of a mystery man,’ Ian said, with a nod at my friend. ‘Not exactly famous himself, but he had plenty of brushes with others who were. Charles Kingsford Smith for one.’
‘Smithy? He keeps popping up. This chap didn’t die like Kingsford Smith, did he?’ The aviator had gone down in 1935, while attempting a new record from Britain to Australia, his body never recovered.
‘No. Well, I don’t know. I’m still trying to find out.’
He handed me my coffee.
‘Miriam rang,’ he went on with a quick glance, as if the mention of her name might throw me into fits. I was still slightly embarrassed at my assumption they were a couple, but I told myself I needn’t be. It was an honest mistake. ‘I told her about the Eileen Nicholson dress. She was really thrilled. I thought she might jump on the next plane home.’ He chuckled.
‘So does she think it’s genuine?’
‘She’s being cautious, but when I gave her the details, and told her about the initials on the tag, I’m sure I heard her start to hyperventilate.’
Funny man.
‘She wants to see it when she gets back, so I said we’d bring it down to Melbourne.’
We?
He hurried on before I could speak. ‘Did you want to come? I had the impression you were keen to get the scoop. Scoop? That’s the right word, isn’t it?’
He looked nervous, as if he thought he’d said too much, or maybe it was just the way I was staring at him.
I pulled myself together. Did I want to go? I did. I wanted to be there when Miriam saw the dress and I wanted to record every word she said. Nothing could stop me solving this mystery, not even going to Melbourne with Ian.
‘I’ll have to sort something out with Dillon,’ I said coolly, after I’d accepted his invitation, ‘but it should be all right. He loves Smithy the dog by the way. He always wanted a dog but Wal … eh, we couldn’t have one.’
Oh God, I wasn’t cool after all. I was gabbling. I’d almost said Walter. What was wrong with me? But Ian didn’t appear to have noticed.
‘Don’t worry. Mrs Davies won’t be home for a while and Josh doesn’t seem to care about Smithy, so if your son wants to hold on to him for now I’m sure it’ll be okay.’
I turned to the bundle of letters so he wouldn’t see how rattled I was. ‘What do you have here?’
‘They’re from the First World War. Nola found them in storage. There’re all sorts in there, but the biggest bundle was written by one Lyn Thomas, who seemed to know everything that happened in Sweet Wattle Creek. The town sticky beak, in other words. A gem for historians.’
‘I’ll bet.’ I told him about the old newspapers I’d been looking through and what I’d found. He grew quite fervent.
‘I might need to take a visit to your archives myself,’ he murmured, and I swear he was hyperventilating, too.
‘Knock yourself out. I’m sure Tim won’t mind. He’s very proud of his grandfather and the Herald. It’s been owned and run by the Shaw family since it started, you know. He plans to pass it on to his own children.’
‘Another story to go up in the RSL Hall. Thank you. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have asked for bigger premises.’
There was something endearing about his enthusiasm. Hastily, I picked up the letter on top of the stack and began to read aloud.
‘Dear Alister, We are both well. I hope you received the socks I knitted. I have heard it is cold in France and thought they might be useful.’
I turned over the envelope. Lieutenant Alister Thomas. I had seen that name before. I scratched around in my bag for my notebook and opened it at the most recent page.
‘Lieutenant Alister Thomas was one of the soldiers named as killed in action in the Herald edition for the 20th of October 1917.’
The date on the letter was earlier than the death notice, but I couldn’t help but consider if, when the letter arrived, Alister was already dead.
‘Yes,’ Ian said, when I explained my thoughts. ‘The letters would have been sent back to his family with his personal possessions.’
‘So who was Lyn?’
‘Look at the bottom of the page.’
I read. ‘Your loving wife, Lyn.’ Gloomily I stared down at the faded ink. ‘Are there any letters from Alister to her?’
‘A couple. They’ll make a poignant addition to the exhibition. And there might be something in them about Charlie and Belle. If they were here at the time then you can be sure Lyn Thomas would’ve known about them.’
‘Do you think so?’ I stared longingly down at the letters, my fingers itching.
‘Here, you take them and have a read.’ He packed up the letters and put them into a shoebox and handed it to me.
‘Thanks.’ I was ridiculously touched.
‘My pleasure.’ His ears had gone just that little bit pink.
‘Oh, I meant to ask. I found a word in a list from the Red Cross, among the things that were needed by the soldiers in the trenches. Knitted socks and so on, but there was also something called “hussifs”. Do you know what they were?’
‘A hussif was a sewing kit. Needles and thread, spare buttons and things like that. The soldiers used them to repair their clothing.’
I couldn’t help my smile. ‘You really do know everything, don’t you?’
His ears got even pinker.
‘Not everything. Ah, Josh was going to drop in Smithy’s bed and bowls. I can bring them over, if you like.’
He was treading cautiously and I didn’t blame him. I must be giving off some very mixed signals. But I was convinced we could be friends, if we weren’t already. So I looked up with a friendly smile and said, ‘Sure.’
It was only when I got outside, the box clutched to my middle, that I acknowledged how scary this was for me. I had made some bad choices in my life. I was still living with them. And the last thing I wanted was to screw up again. When you’re someone who makes mistakes when it comes to men, then it’s hard to trust yourself with even the most innocent interactions. I liked Ian McKinnon, I really did, but history had taught me I was a bad judge of character. Not to be trusted.
I couldn’t allow myself to make a wrong turn. Not just for my own sake, but most of all for Dillon’s.