In Falling Snow (34 page)

I woke to the sound of a bird that at first I thought was the blackbird that sang in the winter evenings at Royaumont. But I knew that couldn't be right. I thought I heard a noise in the kitchen and just for a moment I was sure it was Tom, he'd soon call out for me to get up and come for coffee and after the bitter hot drink—he always made it too strong—we'd ride out together to join Daddy at whatever he was doing. We'd take cheese and rye bread from the German baker and we'd breakfast together on some rock Tom liked and we'd talk about nothing important—the lambs soon to come, the milker who was off again with the moon, which chicken I should kill for Sunday lunch—and we'd part and go about our separate days, as if there was no need to mark this day as anything special, as if the number of days just so was limitless and our lives would go on and on unchanging.

But of course it wasn't Tom in the kitchen. It could no more be Tom than the bird could be a blackbird. I sat up and turned towards the window behind the bed. I parted the curtains and flattened my palm on the glass. It was warm to the touch. I'd expected it to be cold. I should get up and check that Rose was warm enough. But of course Rose was dead too, had been dead for years. Where was I? Just then, the singer let out another long line of notes. I could see now it was a butcher-bird, a male, high in the gum tree in front of the neighbor's house. He dipped his head as if to acknowledge his audience, and then raised it again, up and out, pulling his tiny body to its full height, filling his chest cavity with enough air to bring morning to the world. He made a long sweet song that was answered by a mate in a neighbouring tree. They sang to one another, back and forth, and for no reason I understood, quiet tears filled my eyes.

I thought I heard the back door open and gently close. Was Al up already, going out for the firewood? Poor man had enough on his plate without having to worry about filling the stove. I wiped my eyes with the front of my nightgown and turned from the window to Al's side of the bed. His pyjamas weren't there. Normally they were neatly folded on top of the pillow. I put my hand under the blanket and on the sheet where he'd slept. It was cold, as if he hadn't slept there at all.

I was sure I heard the back door close again, and then the squeak of the old stove door, the chuff of a log hitting the fire, the other logs chuckling their way into the box like disobedient children, Al trying his best to keep them quiet. Then the kettle scraping across the trivet, the puff of the larder door. I turned back to the window. The world was softened by fog suddenly, heavy as a blanket in the low areas. The butcher-birds were quiet for now, contemplating the fog, perhaps their first. Above the line of fog, you should be able to see the iron lace on the top verandah of the Grand Hotel, the clock tower on the post office, the spire of St. Joseph's, but they weren't there. These three tall characters, which summarised perfectly the life of Stanthorpe, always seemed lonely in the first fog of the winter. But they weren't there.

I heard Al's feet in socks on the floor in the hall, the house moving under his weight. I lay back down on the bed and turned away from the door and closed my eyes. He'd stop at my door and then at Rose's door. He'd go in there, perhaps pull the covers over her, whisper a good-bye. I heard Rose's door gently close and a few moments later the squeak of the chair on the front porch, Al pulling on his boots with a sigh. As I heard the front door key turn in the lock, I had an urge to run out to him in my nightdress and kiss him good-bye, or pull him inside to bed to warm each other, but I held back.

I listened for the front gate closing. Again I had an urge to run out to Al, easier to resist this time. I looked at the clock on the wall but the clock was gone. It had been a wedding present from Al's mother. I hadn't wanted it in our room, but Mary had supervised Al putting up the hook when she visited and I would have looked ungrateful if I'd said no. Some nights, before we turned out the light, I would see the clock and understand why Mary had wanted it there in our bedroom. It was like a beacon to remind me, should I need reminding, that Al was not mine, not really, that he belonged to Mary and the hospital and the world, and that I would only have little snatches of time when we'd be together. But the clock was gone now.

I fell back into a deep sleep. When I woke again, I was in my bed in Paddington and someone was knocking on the door again. Why couldn't they just leave me alone?

It was David, come to mow. I went out to greet him and set him to work straightaway so I could give myself time to wake up properly. I didn't want to say anything unwise. When I went back inside, there was no one there, no Tom, no Al. Oh, just those minutes. I wish they'd gone on.

The sugar glider was much better, I thought, although still sulking in the box. When David had finished the front he came upstairs. I asked his advice. He looked inside the box and said anything that smelled so much ought to be living in the outdoors. “I really don't know what to do, Iris,” he said. “We didn't study much about marsupials in Cambridge where I did medicine.”

I always kept some apple juice for David so I poured him a big glass with plenty of ice. He'd brought some papers with him which he'd left on the table. We sat down.

“I made those inquiries we talked about,” he said. “We can organise a passport by post, but I need some documents, your birth certificate, a photo—we can get one next week—and a couple of other things.” He'd filled the form out as well as he could, he said. “I wasn't sure of some things. What was Al's full name?”

“I loved him, David.”

David nodded. “I'm sure you did. Do you remember his full name?”

“He was Alastair Joseph, the Joseph after the patron saint of a peaceful death. I'm Iris Josephine. I wonder does it mean I'll have a peaceful death.”

“I hope so,” David said. “But let's get back to the task at hand.”

I gave him my birth certificate, the old passport, and our marriage certificate. He looked at the certificates, marking things off on the form. “You were married just after the war,” he said. I nodded. “And when was Rose born?” He was smiling.

“After that,” I said without returning the smile.

“Of course,” he said. “I'll do the backyard now,” he said, putting his hat back on.

Dear Al,

I received your letter this week and I'm glad things are going well. All is well here too but very busy.

Do you remember when you said to Tom that if everyone refused to fight there would be no war? I think they were close to achieving that in the early days. It was the first Christmas, so long ago now, and they stopped fighting, just for that day. Imagine if they'd stayed that way. For if they'd stayed that way the terrible wounds would stop. Oh Al, if you could see these boys, for some of them are younger even than Tom, if you could see what they've been through, what they endure, you'd ask how it can be allowed to go on. The worst are the Africans who don't even know why they're here. It's terrible to see the fear in their eyes.

Among the women, there are a few who still see the war as justified, who say the Germans started it and we must fight them, although most now see the war as wrong and even those who don't would agree the authorities are failing the soldiers. Miss Ivens has been to The Hague where there's talk of an international women's association for peace. We won't join at this stage but Miss Ivens now says it's women who will stop the war. She's been awarded the Legion of Honour, we've just found out. We've had a job talking her into going to Paris for the ceremony. She's so very humble and has only agreed so as not to snub the French.

We are all of us, to a woman, committed to helping these poor men and boys who have been injured through no fault of their own. While I agree with you that without soldiers there would be no war, the Germans are the aggressors here and we must remember that. We hear stories about what they do in the villages. We had a boy in from Senlis, a little town to the north, and he says his parents and brothers haven't enough food. They have German soldiers living in their house and while the Germans eat their bread and potatoes, they are left with a stew made from the potato skins. The Germans have imposed a tax on the townspeople, he said, and if they don't pay up when required the men are imprisoned.

I have been working double shifts—we all have—to cope with the wounded, and still they pour in.

You ask me how long I think I'll be here. I can't give you an answer. I feel I must stay while I'm of use. I have seen quite a bit of Tom these last months. He is happy to be here too, although he wants to see some fighting. He is still with the postal service and looks set to remain with them.

I know you feel strongly that the war is wrong and that by doing anything we are supporting it but on this I cannot agree with you. I am doing something, some little thing, to ameliorate suffering.

Yours,

Iris

My dearest Iris,

I think about you daily, and wonder what you're doing.

I am not trying to pressure you to come home. I just want to know where we stand. When you left Australia, you were returning by Christmas with Tom. Now almost three years have passed and the one thing you don't mention in your letters is coming home.

It's almost as if the war can't go on long enough for you. I cannot understand it.

You know my thoughts on the matter of war. I am sorry if that makes me a coward in your eyes. Perhaps you can join the dozens of people who feel moved enough by my cowardice to send me white feathers in the post. I have a rather large collection I can show you when you do come home.

I know I sound petty, Iris, but I miss you. I miss you terribly.

Come home safe.

Your loving fiancé,

Alastair

Dear Al,

I have never thought you cowardly and believe I have respected your right to hold your own views about the war.

As for disagreement, as far as I can tell, the only difference between us is that I have come here and have found myself useful. In the end it doesn't really matter how that has come to be. It just is. Miss Ivens needs me and while ever she needs me I intend to stay here.

I will understand if you are not willing to wait. I don't know the situation with the girl you left in Sydney but perhaps if she is still free she would entertain a proposal from you. If that is the case, you are free to do so, as far as I'm concerned.

Please stop asking me to come home. Between you and Daddy, I feel I have no friends in the world except the ones I've made here at Royaumont.

Iris

My dearest Iris,

I have written this letter fifteen times over and have decided, instead of relying on the usual niceties, to speak as plainly as I can.

That you would suggest I might want to break off our engagement makes me sick to my heart. You are the woman I love. But if what you are really saying is that you no longer want me, then please make your views plain. I have a life and while it will be less of a life if it is not with you, I would rather know than deal with these shadows that plague my nights right now.

Your loving fiancé,

Alastair

My dear Iris,

I have not heard from you in such a long time and when I saw your father—he came down to town for the show last month—I asked after you. He's had letters every month, he said. Hadn't I? I said nothing, of course, or told a lie, actually, that we'd been writing. But we haven't. Or you haven't.

I would never try to pressure you to do something you don't want to do. But I need to know, Iris. I need to know where my life is heading.

Al