Shanahan wrote regularly to Paterson and his mates Mulherin and Legg and received news from them about the progress of the Light Horse through Palestine as they pushed the Turks back. He always asked for news about Bill and was delighted to learn he had survived Beersheba and was again with a group of packhorses picked out for senior officers.
Shanahan had made his own progress. He completed hospital rehabilitation and gained a job in an office in London’s Victoria sorting out allocations of Australian Soldier Settlement Blocks of property for servicemen when they returned home. It was a job not without importance, although it was largely clerical. His debility limited his options and he decided it was futile trying to re-establish himself as a carpenter or builder.
A perky, auburn-haired cockney woman, Charlotte Lampkin, joined the office as a typist/clerk. More vivacious than beautiful, the 26-year-old was of medium height and full-bosomed. Charlotte had the odd experience of being introduced to five men without the full complement of limbs, three who were missing legs and two with amputated arms. They had also been set up in administrative work after being injured in battle and forced out of the Australian army.
The fifth man she met was Shanahan. He was the only male to stand for her when they shook hands.
‘No need to get to your feet,’ Charlotte said.
‘I didn’t,’ Shanahan said, ‘I’ve only got one.’
Charlotte giggled. ‘Cheeky!’ she said, creating an immediate rapport. ‘And weird,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Never met an amputee before,’ she whispered.
‘Bit disarming?’
She began to agree and then saw the joke. ‘You are so naughty, Major!’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to like you.’
Later on her first morning she walked past Shanahan, smiled, and then looked back to find him ogling her shapely calves.
‘I saw that,’ she said, ‘you’re only jealous.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got two,’ she said.
Shanahan gave a hint of a smile. Humorous exchanges had been few and far between for him in the last year. He had become despondent waiting for the war to end so he could take a boat home. He was grateful for every letter but each one put him in a maudlin mood. He hated not being involved with his cobbers and the men in his former command in the desert. Each report indicated the Light Horse was headed for glory sooner or later. They were beating the Turks at every encounter. It was a slow, painstaking business held up by lack of supplies, bad weather and the superior numbers of the enemy. There were grumbles from Mulherin and Legg, but they also conveyed a certain satisfaction in the Light Horse’s achievements. They were gaining their revenge after Gallipoli. There had been several charges after Beersheba, which had already (only six months after the event) lodged itself into Australian folklore.
‘But our charges are always against fixed positions and trenches,’ Mulherin wrote to him, ‘and you may be amused to learn that the Turkish cavalry has hardly been seen in fighting against us. We reckon they are scared. We have learned from captured German cables that they believe we are truly madmen, and I quote, “who will go where no man or horse should go”. Reckon they might be right too. But we think the Turkish cavalry has taken the German appraisal to heart. They won’t come out and play.’
A friendship began between Shanahan and Charlotte. They both had flats at Marble Arch, north London. Shanahan lived alone and Charlotte stayed with her two older sisters.
In conversations during the morning tea break, she peppered her comments with references to a ‘Stanley’. Shanahan asked about him and was told that they were ‘nearly engaged’. ‘He just hasn’t popped the question yet,’ she told Shanahan, ‘but he will.’
‘What’s his name?’ he asked.
‘Stanley Butler.’
‘I should have guessed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All butlers in England are called “Stanley”, aren’t they?’
‘Oh, you!’
‘Don’t tell me he’s a manservant?’
‘No, he’s a stockbroker’s … er … clerk.’
‘Hmm. Didn’t serve?’
‘Failed the medical. Lung problems.’
‘Does he smoke?’
‘Too much.’
Shanahan bought a motorbike with a sidecar and rigged up a pulley system connected to the steering to allow him to drive it with one foot. He asked Charlotte to ride with him to Hove on the south coast one weekend. She said she would like to but that she had to be true to ‘Stanley’ even though he was ‘in Scotland grouse-hunting with friends’.
After knowing each other for two weeks, one mild winter’s afternoon they walked from Victoria to Marble Arch, and then decided on a further stroll to Bayswater Road, nearly as far as the farm at Notting Hill Gate. A pretty young girl was walking with a milk pail, selling milk. Charlotte bought a bottle. When they returned to Marble Arch, she asked Shanahan if he would like to come in for tea and meet her ‘spinster’ sisters, Ruth and Rebecca. Both the corpulent, dour women seemed taken aback at meeting Shanahan. He stayed at the flat for an awkward half-hour during which the sisters grilled him about his intentions. Would he return to Australia after the war? What trade would he take up? Wouldn’t he be restricted because of his disability?
‘Have you ever been married?’ Ruth asked as Shanahan took out his fob watch, looked at it absent-mindedly and seemed not to hear. Ruth was about to repeat the question when he stood up.
‘Sorry, ladies, must be going,’ he said, and shook hands. Charlotte accompanied him outside.
‘I apologise for them, Michael,’ she said.
‘The tea was okay,’ he said brightly, ‘and that milk was so lovely and fresh.’ He touched her on the shoulder. ‘I understand their concerns. They wouldn’t want their beautiful little sister disappearing halfway round the world with a one-legged stranger! Their home would be much less attractive.’ He kissed her warmly on the cheek, held her close and added, ‘Even quite plain, really.’
She looked up. ‘Bit previous, aren’t we?’ she said with a coy look. ‘Who said anything about me going halfway round the world?’
‘Why not? Australia is a fine country.’
‘I’ve known you just a few weeks!’
‘So? It’s time to know what you want.’
‘What you want, perhaps.’ Her hand went to her mouth as she tried to repress a smile. ‘You are quite wicked, really!’
Charlotte returned to her flat. The three women sat in their living room discussing him. Ruth asked her why she was friends with him.
‘The major is a lovely man,’ she said, realising that they had not approved of him.
‘You’re not dumping Stanley?’ Rebecca asked.
‘No, Michael is just a work friend.’
‘That’s where he should stay, then,’ Ruth remarked tartly.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘C’mon, Charlotte! You’re not blind!’
‘Spill it out then,’ Charlotte challenged them, ‘why do you object to the major?’
‘For one thing,’ Ruth said, ‘he has to be twenty years older than you.’
‘Didn’t know there was an age barrier to friendship!’ Charlotte snapped back.
‘He is also an Australian,’ Rebecca said.
‘He has manners, he is charming …’
‘He hardly opened his mouth. Talk about a man of few words!’
‘He’s shy.’
‘Weak, if you ask me,’ Ruth said.
‘Michael is a war hero! He has the DSO.’
‘They give them out to staff officers,’ Ruth sneered. ‘Harry Baker was—’
‘Not anymore. Michael got his for bravery in the field.’
‘So he may have told you,’ Rebecca mumbled.
‘I’ve seen the citation!’ Charlotte took out a handkerchief. ‘You two are really horrible!’ she sobbed.
‘We just don’t want you to give up Stanley Butler,’ Rebecca said.
‘I think you are both jealous!’
‘Let’s be frank, Charlotte,’ Ruth interjected, ‘he is an old Australian cripple with few prospects.’
‘We are just friends!’
The sisters glanced at each other.
‘Come, Charlotte, we saw the way you were together,’ Ruth said. ‘Very cosy. Mark my words, that man has designs on you.’