Zanana 1916
It was spring and Zanana’s gardens were lush; green shoots, fat rosebuds, new tendrils of growth and burgeoning weeds fought happily in the warm sunshine and rich soil.
Mrs Butterworth, a cotton hat shading her perspiring face, straightened up and surveyed the small inroad she’d made amongst the weeds.
‘This is slow work. Look at the mountain I’ve pulled up, yet only a fraction of the bed is clear. It’s like a jungle.’
‘It’s spring, things are supposed to grow,’ said Kate who was busily pruning shrubs nearby.
‘I wonder what an English spring is like . . . gentle rain and soft colours where things grow slowly. Here we go crash bang from winter to summer and back again without any of those lingering in-between seasons you read about.’
‘Yes, when the leaves change colours in autumn and bare trees blossom in spring . . . well, this is as close as we get to spring. At least it’s not ninety degrees in the shade, Mum,’ laughed Kate.
Gladys Butterworth turned and smiled at the girl working beside her. Kate was fifteen and breathtakingly pretty. Mrs Butterworth never tired at looking at her golden-haired beauty. She had the fragile fairness of her mother’s hair and skin, but was far more robust than Catherine MacIntyre had been. Kate’s cheeks were pink, her sapphire eyes sparkled and her slim build radiated vitality.
‘Dad will have quite a bonfire when we finish all this.’
‘I don’t think we’re going to keep ahead of it, Kate. You can hear things growing! I wish we had more help about the place, but all the fit men have enlisted in the war, and that’s more important.’
‘Don’t overdo it, Mum. We can’t do everything. The gardens can wait till the war is over.’
‘Never. As long as I’m around, Zanana will not go to rack and ruin. I promised your parents that, and your dear mother loved this rose garden. I’m looking after you and I’m looking after her roses. They’ll be here long after I’m gone.’
Kate put down the shears and hugged her guardian mother. ‘You’re going to be around for a long time yet. But take it a bit easy. When I come of age you can sit back and just give the orders. I’m going to have masses of people to help run Zanana and we’ll give lots of parties and all the rooms will be opened up and used. You’ll see.’
Mrs Butterworth smiled at the girl she’d raised who had brought so much joy to her and Harold. Kate had been a happy and contented child who’d rarely challenged them. But she had a strong will of her own. They knew when Kate bit her bottom lip and stuck out her chin, she would gently fight to get her way.
‘You remind me of your father. You have that MacIntyre determination and dream big dreams.’
‘I thought I was more like the only mother I’ve ever known.’ Kate noticed suddenly how grey Mrs Butterworth’s hair had become. ‘How lucky I’ve been to have you both care for me and Zanana.’
Mr Butterworth clattered down the path pushing a wheelbarrow with a hoe and spade balanced across it. ‘You girls taking a rest? How about a cuppa?’
Sitting in the kitchen Harold and Gladys talked, as they did so often these days, about the war. Kate ate a lamington, licking the chocolate and coconut off the sponge cake, deep in thought.
‘Damned shame about Wheeler’s son. Been no news about his brother either. Not right that a man should send both sons off to war,’ said Harold.
‘Why are we in this war, Harold? It seems so far away from us.’
‘I’m blowed if I know, but we’re at war because we’re part of the Empire — you know that.’
‘Mother England seems a long way away,’ sniffed Mrs Butterworth. ‘I just hope it’s over soon.’
‘Let’s hope so. Well, I’d better get back to work seeing as we’re short of men about the place.’ He went back outside, a troubled man. He didn’t like to worry his wife, but he felt the war in Europe was far from over and its tentacles were reaching further afield, plucking more and more men from the towns and cities of Australia.
Kate was still deep in thought. She was staring at a shaft of sunlight where particles of dust glittered like tiny insects.
‘What are you thinking about, Kate? Don’t let Dad worry you with talk of the war.’
She swung around with a start. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the war. I was thinking about the past life of Zanana. I mean, I noticed the servants’ bells and I started thinking about how it must have been when my mother and father were alive. How you’ve told me about serving tea in the drawing room, the important people coming to visit.’
‘It was very grand . . . yes, they were special days. And how I’ve blessed the day your dear mother persuaded me and Harold to come and work here. But you know, Kate, those days are gone now. I don’t think they’ll come back in quite the same way. Even when you are mistress of Zanana, times — and people — change. You’ll bring life to this place in another way.’
‘It makes me sad to see it so closed up. The house seems . . . lonely. One day it will be full of laughter again.’
Kate’s reflections about the past disturbed Mrs Butterworth. Kate was becoming a young lady, but what was her future to be? If her parents were alive, plans would be made to launch her into society. Soon enough, suitors would be calling and what was Kate to do to fill in the time between her tutoring in academic and cultural pursuits and the day she married?
Thoughts of those past days when Zanana was filled with life and laughter when Catherine and Robert were alive, brought back memories of the energetic little Mary dashing about the place. How carefree that little girl had been before the birth of Kate and the death of Catherine and Robert.
Mrs Butterworth sighed. What a sad child Mary had turned out to be. Bitter more than sad, and not without reason, she supposed. It made her heart ache to think of the visits she and Harold had made to the school in Sydney to see her over the years, and how they had been rejected.
Dutifully, Mary had gone to Hock Lee’s home for holiday outings, but she’d been reserved and polite, keeping her distance. When Harold and Gladys had visited her at the school, Mary had been withdrawn and sullen. Civil but remote, she answered questions about school, but never asked about Zanana; in fact, she seemed to prefer that her former home never be mentioned. Her face closed and her mouth set if little Kate was mentioned and Mrs Butterworth never referred to her after realising how painful it must be for the girl who’d been sent away while the other stayed.
Finally the headmistress at the school had gently suggested that Harold and Gladys curtail their visits for the time being as it seemed to distress Mary more than help her. It appeared to bring back the pain of what she’d lost and the guilt at what she’d done. ‘Allow a few years to pass. Till she is more mature. Then maybe the fences can be mended. Mary wants to make her own way in the world and being independent isn’t such a bad idea for a young lady in these troubled times.’
Gladys continued to write her simple letters but it was difficult to fill a page without talking about Zanana or Kate. The letters went unanswered and gradually Mrs Butterworth wrote less often, sending an occasional pretty card or small knitted gift, and a special letter each Christmas. Instead, she poured out her sadness into the journal she kept. Although her education had not been extensive, Mrs Butterworth kept a diary and her entries were neatly written. Sometimes she added a small amateurish sketch of the garden or a bird and saved Kate’s little drawings and a lock of her hair.
And although Hock Lee had seen that Mary wanted for nothing, using the stipend from Robert’s estate, the visits to his home also grew less frequent, Mary preferring to write occasional formal notes to him reporting on her progress at school. She did not wish to see Hock Lee and seemed intent on putting Zanana behind her.
In contrast Kate’s schooling and life was sheltered, protected and loving. Tutored by governesses and private teachers, she was chaperoned on the rare occasions she went away from the estate. But this limited lifestyle did not bother her — Kate’s life revolved around Zanana. Unlike Mary, her favourite outings were visits to Hock Lee. Kate adored her godfather and she turned to him for counsel and advice. She loved his sense of humour and philosophical wisdom drawn from his heritage. He was also the closest link she had with her real father, Robert MacIntyre.
When she was ten, Kate had been told about Mary. Kate felt deeply sad about the orphaned girl and wanted to meet her and be her friend. ‘We are almost sisters,’ she exclaimed to Mrs Butterworth. ‘Why can’t we be friends? That was all a long time ago. I was a baby, I don’t remember any of it. I don’t care.’
‘Mary is a bitter and sad girl,’ explained Mrs Butterworth. ‘She blames us all for her happiness being taken away and the change in her life. She has had a good education, and has some money from your parents’ estate. I just pray that she is finding her own way in the world and will make a new life of her own, have a family and find the happiness she deserves.’
Kate was still curious and sensed she hadn’t been told the full story. However, she stored this piece of family history away with the other information about her parents and Zanana.
The Butterworths, as her guardians, had talked to her about Robert and Catherine MacIntyre since she was a baby, so she was familiar with her real parents. But having only seen stiff and formal photographs of them, she couldn’t conjure up their personalities, their touch, their smell, the sound of their voices or laughter. They were part of Zanana, like the beautiful furniture, the exquisite grounds or little-used mansion. Kate felt estranged from her links with her immediate past.
The Butterworths lived downstairs in simple quarters, and Kate had only recently moved to one of the upstairs bedrooms. They ate their meals in the small sunroom off the kitchen or, in summer, on the rear terrace. The formal dining room where the Butterworths had waited upon the MacIntyres was never used. A parlour maid helped Mrs Butterworth to keep the house immaculate, dusting and airing the empty rooms each week. Harold, assisted by Sid Johnson, supervised the care of the grounds, the maintenance of the dairy, market garden, stables and the workers’ cottages.
The Johnsons’ son Ben, now seventeen, was also doing the work of a man around the estate. When the war had broken out and the able-bodied workers signed up, Ben had left school to help at Zanana. Sid and Nettie’s only child, he had curling brown hair, dark brown eyes and thick dark lashes mothers sighed over. He was tall and, while he still had the lankiness of youth, his shoulders and chest were broad and he radiated health and country strength. He had been born in Bangalow but his parents moved to Zanana to work for the MacIntyres when he was a toddler, and this estate was the only home he knew or remembered.
Ben, lopping off the overhanging branches of a tree, watched Kate from his shady eyrie. Walking past the rose arbour, her muslin dress sashed with a blue silk bow, her fair hair cascading down her back and shaded by a blue silk parasol, she could have been the inspiration for a French Impressionist painter. But to Ben she looked sweeter than the marble angel guarding the graves of her parents. He took particular care in trimming the grass and shrubs and rose bushes around the twin graves of Robert and Catherine and sometimes felt sad for Kate when he saw her walking alone through the gardens.
Kate turned towards the sunken garden, pausing to look at the sundial, then, closing her parasol, walked up the marble steps to the Indian House.
She didn’t come here often, though it was her favourite part of the estate. She pushed the door open, breathing deeply, inhaling the faint scent of sandalwood. The sunlight filtered through the intricate windows, sparkling and ricocheting off the myriad tiny mirrors.
She had only heard vague stories of how her father had built this miniature Indian palace for her mother after their honeymoon in India. She wished she knew more about them both, for she sensed there was something special about this place. This was no folly, no mere monument. It held secrets and she knew from what Mrs Butterworth had said, it had held a special place in her mother’s affections.
She sat in a carved ebony chair and felt the magic of this place take hold of her as it always did. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. Soon her body seemed to rise and float. She felt transparent, nothing more than a fragment of light, and a feeling of incredible joy suffused her being. She was aware of haunting distant music, weird and eerie, but warming and caressing. The soft laughter of a woman blended with the music and the fragrance of roses overwhelmed her senses like a drug.
How long she floated, she didn’t know. But as the music and perfume faded, she opened her eyes, feeling at great peace. Kate always knew that if she had doubts or questions, the time of stillness spent in the Indian House would bring her a feeling of tranquillity, clear her head and solutions would come to her.
Kate was standing in the small tower room atop Zanana when she heard a horse cantering along the main drive. Curious, she went out onto the widow’s walk.
The rider was wearing a strange mixture of civilian and army clothes — army boots, thick khaki jacket and a soldier’s slouch hat. He dismounted but before he reached the front steps Harold Butterworth came around the corner, shouted and hurried forward to effusively shake the other man’s hand. Grinning, they slapped each other on the back and went indoors. As Kate hurried downstairs she heard him calling out, ‘Glad, Glad . . . look who’s here!’
Kate waited in the hall, listening to Mrs Butterworth’s delighted cries of surprise. Smiling shyly, Kate stepped into the kitchen. The man was taken aback at the sight of the elegant young girl, and leapt to his feet, smoothing his hair.
‘This is Katherine MacIntyre, our daughter,’ said Harold. ‘And this is Wally Simpson — from Bangalow up the north coast. We all grew up together.’
Wally laughed. ‘They were the days, eh, Harry? We were a pair of larrikins in the old days,’ he told Kate.
‘Steady on, Wal — they weren’t so long ago, y’know.’
‘That’s true — I’m still young enough to sign up,’ he chuckled. ‘Mind you, no one really quibbles provided you’ve got two straight feet, a reasonable ticker and decent eyesight. Enid my old lady thinks I’m mad, of course. Sends you her best, by the way.’
Mrs Butterworth put the teapot down on the table. ‘You’ve enlisted, Wal? To go . . . over there . . . and fight?’
‘That’s the general idea, Glad — give them Huns what for.’ He grew serious. ‘In fact, that’s why I’m here. It’s not just me, there’s a whole mob of us. I’m sort of the advance man and before we hit Sydney we need a bit of a rest up, a bit of tucker and whatnot. We’ve walked down, y’see.’
‘From Bangalow!’
‘Some blokes have come from even further north. And we picked up a lot along the way. We call ourselves the Bush Brigade.’
‘How many of you are there?’ asked Mrs Butterworth.
‘About two hundred at the last count, Gladys.’
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ exclaimed Mr Butterworth.
Wally reached for one of the scones Kate was passing. ‘Yeah, well, a couple of us in town didn’t like the look of the way things were going over there. We were talking and finally some of the women from the Red Cross got us moving to do something. Told us to stop yakking about it and do it. They made a banner and hung it up — If you don’t go, we will! So ’struth, we decided to go to Sydney and sign up.’ Wally paused, biting into the light scone covered in home-made mulberry jam. ‘It’s been quite a trip. People are turning out along the way as the word goes from town to town. We march in the day and spend the night in a hall or church, sometimes in the open. The townspeople give us food and warm clothes, boots — whatever they can spare.’ Wally had become quite excited. ‘There’s a good spirit pulling for us out there. Least we can do is answer the call, eh, Harry?’
Mrs Butterworth felt a spasm of fear clutch her heart as she looked at her husband’s expression of envy and admiration.
‘By George, Wally,’ Harold exclaimed. ‘We’ll put on a spread all right. We’ve got plenty of farm food, we’ll kill a few sheep and billet everyone in the buildings about the place.’
Kate exchanged a look with Mrs Butterworth. It sounded exciting. At last they could do something tangible to help the boys going to the front.
The Bush Brigade was still a day’s walk away, and Harold and Wally set out in one of Zanana’s sulkies to meet them. Kate had begged to be allowed to go, but was told it would not be seemly. Sighing, she wished she’d thought to disguise herself as a stablehand like a heroine in one of Henry Wood’s novels.
They heard the singing before they saw the men. ‘It’s a Long Way To Tipperary’ rang through the trees. Harold and Wally joined in lustily, but Harold stopped as they rounded a bend and saw the ragtag army.
The men were formed into a column three abreast, dressed in every kind of garb. Some in their Sunday best suit and hat, others looking as if they had dropped their hoes in the field and joined the ranks as they passed. Through the ranks men carried cloth banners stitched with patriotic fervour by the Red Cross Ladies of Bangalow and Lismore some three hundred miles to the north. Two men at the front — a boy of seventeen and his forty-five-year-old father — marched proudly, bearing between them a dusty Union Jack attached to two rough poles.
‘That’s what we’re fightin’ for, Harold,’ said Wally, and he recited softly,
‘It’s only an old bit of buntin’
It’s only an old coloured rag,
But thousands have died for our freedom,
And fought ’neath the fold of this flag.’
Wally was hailed by the bugle boy on his bicycle. ‘You lined up something, Wal? Or is that a new recruit?’
‘It’s me mate Harry. He’ll do us proud tomorrow, wait and see.’
Bringing up the rear was a T-model Ford driven by an elderly farmer who had volunteered his vehicle and services as driver. He acted as advance man with Wally, ambulance if needed, and message courier. Several wagonettes and two sulkies transported the rest of their gear which had been donated along the way. Each man carried his own haversack and blanket on his back.
A halt was called for a smoko and as cool water and tinned cake were passed around, Harold heard the story of the Bush Brigade — a handful of men that had swelled to these impressive ranks. Some had joined at recruiting rallies in towns along the way and others had walked from farms and shearing sheds to fall in beside these strangers who would become their lifelong mates. In the months ahead, they would give their lives for each other and their country, and become part of the Anzac legend.
Harold heard of the extraordinary welcome they had been given by grateful townspeople along the way. Meals and billeting and small necessities were freely given; women gave them hand-knitted socks, small cakes and sweets. A publican had donated new boots to every footsore man, and a kindly lady had quietly given each man a one-pound note, using up her life’s savings — she was a widow and had lost her two sons at Gallipoli; this was her bit for the war effort and the brave boys following. And everywhere there were children. They sang for them at rallies, young boys marched distances alongside the Bush Brigade, and sweet girls pushed roses into the men’s buttonholes.
A rally to send the Bush Brigade on its way to Sydney was being planned in Kincaid. The Brigade would spend the coming evening under the stars, but they needed somewhere to spend the following night. Knowing Kate would be only too pleased to help this brave band of men, Harold readily offered to feed and billet them at Zanana.
Wally and Harold returned in haste to alert Mrs Butterworth. Sid and Nettie Johnson helped with preparations and Ben was dispatched to the village to round up extra hands. Hock Lee was called and promised to help out with food and extra chairs, tables and utensils from the Tea Rooms.
Zanana hadn’t seen so much activity in years. Mrs Butterworth and several of the local ladies brought out salted hams, fresh vegetables, home-baked breads, cakes and puddings. Several sheep had been slaughtered ready to roast on the open fire. Local townsfolk streamed into Zanana bringing what they could — from blankets and ‘travelling tucker’ to tobacco and tarpaulins — to donate to the marchers. Kate organised a group of children into helping her paint bright posters and banners. With Ben Johnson’s help, she strung bunting and flags across the drive and entrance gates.
It was sunset when the Bush Brigade swung off the dusty road and through the grand gates of Zanana. They’d slept in town halls, railway yards and woolsheds, on farms, by a river and once in a near empty hospital. But Zanana was the place they would all remember best.
The men had marched on determinedly since daybreak, but weariness was taking its toll on some. Feet were beginning to get heavy and, apart from the sheer distance travelled since they left Bangalow, the men had had to deal with heat, smoke and drifting ash from bushfires, swarms of bush flies which settled in the corners of their eyes and mouths, and a constant cloud of dust.
Everyone helping out at Zanana lined the driveway to cheer and clap the volunteers as they proudly marched past. The men were well drilled and organised, and soon settled into groups. They took it in turn to refresh themselves in the huge swimming pool, while those who couldn’t wait simply jumped stark naked into the river from Zanana’s jetty.
Spruced up and in jolly spirits, they settled themselves at the tables about the lamplit lawns to tuck into the welcome feast.
Sid Johnson threw piles of lamb chops and good-sized steaks onto the men’s plates.
‘Ah, good red meat!’ one young recruit commented. ‘Kind as the ladyfolk are along the way, cakes are not good marching tucker!’
After the meal, the group’s captain rose and briefly thanked everyone for their hospitality and the men broke into lusty song. Soon everyone was singing along.
Kate mingled amongst the merry groups carrying a tray of sweets. Many of the young men, some only two or three years older than her, made her promise to write to them at the front. Later, in her room, she stood in her long white cotton and lace nightgown staring down into the moonlit gardens. The men were in beds in the cottages, in rows of camp stretchers along the verandah, and in tents and under tarpaulin shelters in the grounds. It was a balmy bright night, and she wondered what terrors and dangers these men would face in the coming months. For the moment it all seemed a noble adventure and she envied the boys amongst them. She knew many women and girls were serving as nurses and aides, but at fifteen and in her position, she knew such adventuring was not for her. She said a brief prayer for the safety of the men resting peacefully this night at Zanana, and slid into bed.
The next morning Kate was up at dawn and while the men of the Bush Brigade were only just beginning to stir, she dressed quickly in a long skirt and demure sailor blouse and went for an early morning walk through the far gardens. Kate was surprised to find Ben Johnson in her mother’s rose garden, cutting all the rosebuds and carefully laying them in the wheelbarrow.
‘What are you doing with the roses, Ben?’
‘Taking them into town for the big parade and rally today. I’ve been roped into helping with the decorations for the parade.’
Kate laughed. ‘It won’t be only tying ribbons and flowers about the place. You can work with me putting up some banners. We’ll need a small ladder, and hammer and nails. Oh, and string probably.’
Ben looked pleased. ‘I’ll bring everything. You just tell me what has to be done and I’ll do it.’
But when Mrs Butterworth found them in town, both were atop small ladders each holding one end of a large satin streamer. They had spent two hours tacking patriotic banners and posters on poles and shops along the main street. They’d worked out a good system and were enjoying each other’s company. Kate waved to Mrs Butterworth, pointing to the nails in her mouth.
‘Don’t you swallow any of those, Kate. And be careful. We’ll meet you in the park by the pond for a cool drink and a sandwich. You, too, Ben.’
‘Right-o, Mrs B. Don’t worry, we’ll be right.’
She smiled at the pair of them and knew Kate would be safe in Ben’s company. Mrs Butterworth hurried away to meet the ladies of the Red Cross who had set up tables and chairs in the town hall to serve tea and biscuits.
By late morning crowds were lining the main street. They’d come from all over the district and there was a feeling of great excitement and festivity in the air. Kate, along with Mrs Butterworth and Nettie Johnson, squeezed into a spot in the shade of the awning outside the bakery in the main street.
‘This will give us a good view. See, there’s the platform they’ve put up for all the speeches,’ said Mrs Butterworth.
‘Where are the men? I haven’t seen Sid or Ben for hours,’ said Nettie Johnson. ‘Or your Harold either, Gladys.’
‘I was helping Ben with the banners earlier, Mrs Johnson. Then we had morning tea and he went to find his father. They’re about somewhere,’ replied Kate, craning her neck to peer down the street. ‘I’ve never seen so many people. Everyone has certainly got into the spirit of it.’
Suddenly the shout came down through the crowd lining the street. ‘They’re coming!’
The Kincaid Pipe Band proudly led the Bush Brigade and, at the stirring sound of the bagpipes, the throngs of well-wishers began cheering.
Refreshed and moved by the hearty welcome, the men jauntily stepped out, acknowledging the cheers from children freed from school for the occasion, who waved a forest of red, white and blue flags. What these men were about to face, whether or not they would return, did not concern them now. This was to be the adventure of a lifetime in the cause of loyalty and duty.
Near the centre of the main street they passed under a huge arch, smothered in Zanana’s roses, held aloft by returned soldiers wounded in Gallipoli and the Dardanelles campaign. By now the cheering was deafening, and the men raised their voices and sang as they marched. Reaching the stage, they halted smartly.
The mayor, the captain of the Bush Brigade, and ‘the fighting parson’ who’d joined up and become spokesman for the men, mounted the little stage.
There, the mayor wished the men well, a safe journey home again, and said that they took with them the heartfelt thanks and wishes of the town and all the country. The captain, who disliked public speaking, thanked everyone at Zanana and the town for their kindness and hospitality and said these were the times they would all recall when ‘over there and under attack’.
Then it was the turn of the fighting parson. A stocky ruddy-faced man, a farmer who had turned to God, he was not above using his fists to settle a debate or quell an argument in his parish. He’d earned his nickname when a troublemaker had started a brawl; when the parson tried to settle matters peacefully, he was called an ‘interfering Bible-basher’, whereupon the parson had remarked he was a bit of a basher and promptly floored the man with a left hook.
As well as being handy with his fists, he was a fine orator and he now gave a ringing speech in the hope of recruiting more men to fight for King and country. He spoke of the dastardly deeds of the Huns and the threat to the Empire, calling upon the sons of the Empire to heed the call and ‘Come, come, come!’ Dramatically he pulled off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, crying, ‘It’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to work, I’m willing, are you?’ Here he pointed at the crowd who all burst into applause and cheers. He then gently appealed to the womenfolk to stand aside and let their men go, ‘For the sake of our children, our country, our freedom’.
He lowered his arms and signalled to the assembled Bush Brigade volunteers who began singing, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. A hush fell over the crowd, then they too joined in, tears unashamedly shining on many a cheek.
At the conclusion of the hymn, several men in the crowd stepped forward and fell in beside the ranks of the Bush Brigade. They were slapped heartily on the back, and others called out, ‘There’s room for more!’ To the cheers of the crowd the men moved down the street to the Oddfellows Hall, where recruits would be signed up after passing a cursory medical examination.
The men and boys filed past where Kate, Gladys and Nettie stood applauding. Gladys suddenly gasped. Marching firmly, chins up, shoulders back, arms swinging and in perfect step, came Harold Butterworth and Sid Johnson.
Kate cheered and waved, ‘Don’t they look splendid!’ Then the realisation of why they were there hit her. She turned to their two wives. Both were standing stock-still, their faces shocked and sad. Mrs Butterworth was biting her lip and Nettie Johnson was shaking her head.
‘The darn old fools,’ sighed Mrs Butterworth.
The two women linked arms and, trailed by a worried Kate, pushed their way through the dispersing crowd.
By the time the Bush Brigade had marched on from Kincaid, Harold had been accepted and told to join the marchers in Sydney in two weeks. Sid Johnson had been rejected on medical grounds, despite, like Harold, knocking five years off his age. Charles Dashford’s son, Hector, had also signed up and left straight away with the marchers. By the time they reached Sydney the diverse group of strangers would be a brotherhood, united by a patriotic and emotional bond that would never be broken or forgotten.
Little was said over dinner at Zanana that evening. When Kate carried the dishes from the table to where Mrs Butterworth was washing up with fierce energy, she saw the tears running down her face. She put the dishes on the draining board and dropped an arm about her shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. Maybe Hock Lee can talk him out of it.’
Too late for that, Kate. No, it’s done now.’
Later that night Harold reached for his wife in the sagging depths of their marital bed, holding onto her comforting folds of plump flesh swathed in a voluminous and modest nightgown.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Harold?’ Gladys sighed.
‘I have to do it, luv. Couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go and do me bit. I’m worried about leaving you and Kate to manage here, though poor old Sid will be about. He was pretty broken up they didn’t take him. But Hock Lee has promised to keep an eye on you and send over some workers when you need them.’
Mrs Butterworth laid her cheek on her husband’s shoulder. ‘We’ll manage, pet. But I’m going to worry about you the whole time.’
‘I’ll be right, luv. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Mrs Butterworth didn’t answer and a shiver ran through her. Shyly Harold Butterworth began pulling up the folds of the ample nightgown to comfort his wife in the only way he knew how.
There were no more words to be said.