Gallipoli Street (39 page)

These people around him, in the cheering crowds, in the restaurants, the streets, the church; if they'd seen what he had done, what these hands were capable of…no, he could not face it. The memories of what he had wrought and the realisation of what it made him were too much to bear. He couldn't sit through the images in his mind and try to accept them. There was no acceptance, no relief to be had. He was a killer. And worse, he had wanted to kill in the end. After what they did to Tom.

He didn't deserve to live this life.

And when his youngest child watched him it was as if this most innocent of all beings knew the truth. They say babies know someone's true nature. Little James knew what was held only in that room and in his dreams, and the truth reflected in his son's dark-blue eyes made him wish he was lying under a cross in the desert.

Why had God spared him only to suffer this unbearable paradox? To live a life that was perfect in every way with the most imperfect of souls. He floated in and out of it, finding himself in places without knowing how he'd arrived. The office, the apartment, home, the car. People had conversations around him and it was all he could do not to scream at them to shut their mouths and end the pointless words that poured from them. The price of an apple, the length of a skirt. Life was about living or dying, not about these inane details. How was it that the world had moved on? Only the other diggers understood, walking ghost lives too. He saw them in the streets, many of them drifting now, unable to work or relate to this strange, irrelevant existence, and he would stop and buy them a meal or, more often than not, a drink. The Anzacs. Such a noble word. But the lives they led now, for all the glorious rhetoric, were empty. Many of those who'd survived were barely alive, fighting their last and greatest battle every day, suicide beckoning them to surrender.

And so he swung the axe and split the wood and tried not to think too much about the other blades he had swung and the marks they had left. He especially tried not to think about the woman standing at the window, whom he loved so much yet couldn't seem to stop destroying, nor the sons, one whose resentment was growing each day, the other whose eyes saw straight through him. And he tried not to think of his little daughter, who still believed in her daddy, yet whose faith in him would soon turn to disappointment, just like her mother.

30 October 1929

Veronica watched the car approach that Wednesday morning and, to her surprise, saw it was Jack. What on earth was he doing back at eleven-thirty? Up until yesterday he'd been coming home every night these past few weeks, admittedly very late, but as yet choosing not to stay in town since the night of Mick's birthday. Things were the same between them but she knew he was wrestling with himself on a different level now, trying to confront something within but unable to find a way through. He'd apologised that morning when he'd split the wood in the rain, only a few words, but heartfelt, and she knew he was sorry; but sorry didn't change things. Neither did coming home to sleep, really. What she wanted was for him to let her in to help him fight, but he still chose to struggle alone while she waited on the fringes, loyal, frustrated and ineffectual.

She checked on the sleeping James before walking out to greet him, guessing he wanted to explain why he hadn't come home the previous night but becoming worried when he didn't get out of the car.

‘What's wrong?' She found his eyes, emptier than she'd ever seen them, and her heart went out to him as he stared at the windscreen, which was spotting with rain.

‘There's been…a problem.' His voice cracked and she ran around to the other side, sitting herself next to him, holding his hands.

‘I know, my darling, but I am here for you, and whatever it takes–'

‘No, love.' He squeezed her palm, a flicker of gratitude there, but then it was gone as the words were uttered that he seemed hardly able to bear. ‘Wall Street…the stock market, it's crashed. All of our stock is…worthless. I've been up all night. It's just…it's gone.' He shrugged in a helpless, disbelieving way and she stared at him in shock.

‘But what about…? But we still have the factories…'

‘It will all need to be sold. We've been through the books again and again. All the workers are being told in Queensland today and I…I suppose I'll tell our staff this afternoon. We're closing down, love. There's nothing else I can do.' He sat looking at the fields, at the blossom trees in late bloom, as it began to rain in earnest.

‘What about Mum and Dad's stock?'

He shook his head, fighting tears. ‘It's all gone. Everyone's stock. It's not worth anything. We'll have to sell off most of the cattle too. And let go of the help.'

‘Can we keep the land?'

‘Yes,' he said and she breathed a sigh of relief, ‘but not much else. The cars will have to go. I'm…I'm so sorry…if I'd only known…my mind hasn't been on the job, I know…'

‘No. We're not doing this.' She gripped his hand tighter. ‘Stop blaming yourself. You said the New York market? It appears to me that it was a much bigger problem than anything you could have controlled.'

‘Yes, well, everyone is in the same boat. Those poor buggers out there won't know what hit them. It's going to be a huge mess,' he admitted.

‘So, the way I see it, you did exactly what everyone else would have done and it was certainly not your fault.'

He looked across at her, her chin jutting out, loyalty in every word, and he shook his head. ‘How can you stand by me, Vera?'

‘Because I love you, remember? And you know I mean it. I'm a terrible liar.' She managed a smile.

‘But I'm a failure, on top of everything else…both of our families stand to lose the lot. Because of me.' His head fell into his hand as he rubbed at his drawn face, the lines stark against his skin. For a man in his thirties he looked far beyond his years. But all she saw was suffering.

‘No. Because the stock market crashed. You are not to blame so stop this nonsense right now, Jack Murphy. It is not your fault, do you hear me?' She turned his face towards her and stroked back his still thick dark hair, now flecked with grey. ‘You can do this. We can do this. We'll…we'll eat rabbit and wild honey, pick the apples and milk the cow. I'll be right beside you all the way. I'm not afraid to work hard, Jack, and I can live without servants and fancy cars…but I can't live without you, do you understand?'

He shook his head. ‘You're all better off without me… I wish I'd ended up dead and buried…'

Veronica slammed her hand against the dashboard. ‘Don't you dare! Don't you even say it! To think of all my prayers! And all those men who didn't make it and would have given anything to have what you have now. What is it you can't bear? Is it me? The children? What is so terrible about this life we've given you? Is there someone else? Don't you…don't you love us? For God's sake, Jack, just tell me. There's nothing else to lose now.'

‘Of course there's no one else. It isn't because of you and the kids, how could it be…?' He stopped and she waited, unwilling to let it go. Not this time.

‘Just tell me what it is then!' she said again.

‘But I…'

‘Just bloody talk, Jack!'

He stared at her in surprise. ‘I…I wanted to tell you…there were things that happened, things that if you knew I'm afraid you couldn't possibly love me anymore,' he said falteringly.

‘It's impossible for me not to love you, you bloody idiot of a man. Go on.'

The words were coming reluctantly, but he was actually forcing himself onwards. Veronica felt like she was pulling in a prize fish that was only just on the hook.

‘I was there a long time, you know. I…I killed a lot of men and their faces became nothing to me somehow. I stopped caring. But now I can't stop seeing them…especially their eyes as the life…left them…and…and I can't understand how I did those things. Some of the stuff I saw. Tom…when I saw what they did,' he choked, forcing himself on, ‘…it…it made me so angry. After that I…I wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill, do you hear me? Do you love that man?'

His eyes were red and his face twisted in agony, but she blessed his bravery as he fought his way out against the greatest enemy he had ever faced: his own guilt.

‘More than ever.' The tears began to fall and she smiled through them as he reached up and touched one.

‘I'm damned, Vera. A condemned man before God. Thou shalt not kill, remember? I'm not fit to walk along the street and pretend to be anything else. I'm…unworthy to live with good people, especially you. I love you so much…and the children. How can I be a husband and father to innocents when I am a monster
? A murderer
?'
He forced the last.

‘You're not the monster.' She shook her head. ‘War is the monster. Do you think I didn't hate when they killed our Tom,' she held back a sob at the thought of him in torment, ‘and I saw Mick and Iggy maimed and…and Clarkson? They shot my cousin dead, leaving my best friend a widow! Do you think I didn't want to pick up a sword when I saw what they did to all of those young bodies in the hospitals?
I hated them too. I wanted to kill too.
' She said it slowly, emphasising every word. ‘We are human,' she said, taking his hand. ‘God knows that. What, did you think I didn't know what you had to do and what you must have felt? For pity's sake, what do you think I was doing over there? Dabbing at paper cuts? I'll wager I saw more death than you! And just because I didn't wield the swords or shoot the guns doesn't mean I was any the less responsible. Your country sent you to war to kill. It sent me to war to stitch them back up. Let's face it, I probably killed more men than you by helping save them then sending them back!'

He shook his head. ‘But it was at my hands. I killed. Me.'

She thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, you might have been the hands but the government was the brain…and the people…well, they were probably the heart and everyone else…I don't know, parts of the whole body. We all killed. The war made anything else impossible. Kill or be killed. War forces us to commit murder, to stop it coming here. War makes us hate and enjoy revenge. But don't give war this. Don't give them us.'

‘But I still did it…'

‘Yes. You did. But your only other choice was to die.'

‘But I wanted to kill them…'

‘How could you not, after what you went through?'

Jack was silent for a moment, staring at the windshield as the rain blurred the outside world. ‘So what does that make me?'

She searched for the right word, finding it suddenly. ‘A survivor.'

‘I don't deserve to have survived…'

Veronica kissed his fingers, shaking her head. ‘Remember when you asked me to marry you? When you said I deserved to have children and grandchildren and be loved?' She moved into his arms, holding her ear close to his chest. ‘That's how I feel about you.
You do deserve survival.
You do,' she squeezed him as close to her as she could. ‘Just because you had to kill doesn't mean you don't deserve to live. Please, Jack. Please. Come back to me.'

His heart beat strongly against her and she heard the words reverberate as he finally spoke. ‘But we'll have nothing.'

She raised her face to his. ‘Do you really believe that?'

He stared into her eyes and she saw the answer dawn. Jack stroked back her hair, shaking his head. ‘No.'

‘No,' she confirmed, loving him. She smiled and finally, beautifully, he smiled back and leant forward, kissing her tenderly.

The weather pelted against the soon-to-be-sold car as they made love in it for the first and last time, and afterwards, as Veronica ran back up to the house to check on James, Jack opened the car door and stood, stretching his arms out to the rain. They had lost everything, and in doing so he had found himself forced to the cliff's very edge. No more pretending. Time to fall or jump. So he'd jumped, and somehow he was free. Not perfect, not without scars, but the truth had been released and the most beautiful soul in the world accepted it. And if she could, maybe he could too.

Jack went into his mind and visited the room. The door was wide open and for the first time, he let it be.

St Reuben's Convent, country New South Wales, March 1937

They ran across the gardens, their long uniforms flapping awkwardly as they crunched through the leaves of the liquid amber trees outside the convent.

‘Come on,' Theresa panted, taking the stairs two at a time, urging Missy onwards. Mother Superior didn't tolerate tardiness.

They arrived outside her office and straightened their uniforms and hair, composing themselves before knocking. Theresa was nervous. Nothing good ever came from being summoned by Mother Superior.