The Year It All Ended (21 page)

The first night out, as they sailed across the Bight, Tiney was horribly seasick; but by the time they left Fremantle she had found her sea legs. In the early morning, she crept out of the cabin she shared with Ida and made her way up on deck to watch the last sliver of Australian coastline disappear into a blue haze.

Some days, as they sailed north and heat washed over the deck, Tiney felt as though she was floating between her old life and the next, only half alive, as if part of her spirit had slipped away when her sisters had vanished from sight on the docks of Port Adelaide. The ship called at Durban and Capetown and then sailed up the coast of Africa. Then they went along the Suez Canal, past Port Said, gold and amber in the evening light, and finally across the Mediterranean Sea.

Marseilles was Tiney’s first sight of Europe. She stood on the
deck, leaning over the rails in the cool morning. Swarthy men drenched in sunlight milled upon the dock, and beyond them, cobbled streets stretched into the township. Marseilles smelt of ships and oil, of men and fish and a dozen other scents she couldn’t name. Somewhere, hundreds of miles to the north, Louis lay buried beneath the soil of this country. She wanted to run down the gangplank to touch the earth, as if that would magically connect her to her brother.

When the ship finally landed at Plymouth, Mrs Alston let out a sigh of relief. ‘Home at last,’ she said, as the gangplanks were lowered.

The train from Plymouth to London sped through green fields beneath a soft blue sky. Everything was muted and somehow both more and less than Tiney had expected of England. It didn’t feel like ‘home’ to her. She thought of the rocky Burren in Ireland that her father’s family had come from, she imagined the banks of the Rhine in Germany from where her great-grandparents had left to come to Australia, but neither tugged at her heartstrings. Only Larksrest would ever be home. Yet stepping from the railway carriage onto the platform at Paddington Station was like walking into the pages of every British storybook Tiney had ever read. The bustling crowds in dark clothing, the light filtering through the cavernous glass ceiling, the white steam from the engines in the chill air – every image conjured a hundred possibilities of adventure.

Mrs Alston had taken rooms near Hyde Park and Ida organised a taxicab. Self-consciously, Tiney added her single cardboard suitcase to the Alstons’ huge pile of trunks.

Ida and Tiney’s room was a small second-floor bedroom overlooking the street. Tiney stood by the window and looked
out at the streetscape. It was only four o’clock but already the sky was growing dark. Ida began unpacking her trunk but she couldn’t reach the wardrobe without dancing awkwardly around Tiney.

‘This is worse than our cabin!’ she exclaimed. ‘What was Mummy thinking, to book such teeny-weeny digs? You sit on the bed while I unpack and then you can have your turn.’

Tiney tucked her feet underneath the covers to keep warm. ‘I think we’ll be going for a lot of walks in the next month, if only to be out of this cubby,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry, old chum,’ Ida laughed. ‘We’re going to the South Downs at the weekend. Mummy’s cousin, Mrs Bertha Bloomfield, has a gorgeous house down there. White cliffs and all that. We’d smother each other if we had to be locked up here for more than a few days.’

Tiney’s heart sank a little at the thought of more travel. This was what she’d prayed for, but now, in this small, cold room in London, she could only think of the sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window at Larksrest.

Mrs Alston fussed all through dinner. ‘Florence Finton recommended Mrs Greenleigh’s very highly and I thought it would be nice for us to be somewhere homey,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But perhaps we should move to a hotel.’

‘I only just unpacked, Mummy,’ said Ida. ‘And besides, Tiney and I have so much sightseeing to do, we can’t possibly move tomorrow.’

Ida was up first the next morning, bathed and ready for the day before Tiney had even woken. ‘Mummy says she wants to spend the whole day resting,’ said Ida. ‘But you and I are going to take London by storm.’

She handed Tiney a cup of steaming, milky tea. Tiney sat up, pushed aside the curtain and peeped out at the street again as she cradled the fine china cup in her hands. Everything outside was still grey despite the thin morning light.

As they stepped out into the street, Tiney wrapped her woollen scarf tightly around her neck and tucked it into the collar of her plain brown jacket. Ida pulled on her pea-green coat with the rabbit fur collar and together, like a sparrow and a bird of paradise, they headed out into the chill London morning. Clusters of snowdrops pushed up in tiny front gardens, the first hint that spring was not far away.

When they finally reached Whitehall, the day had grown brighter. The Cenotaph stood in the middle of the road on its own small concrete island between the Foreign Office and Richmond House. It was a tall pylon that looked as though it was made of stone, looming grey against a pale grey sky. Tiney knew it was only constructed of wood and plaster, hurriedly built for last year’s Peace Day celebrations, but it was still impressive. Carved laurel wreaths decorated both sides and a third laurel wreath rested on top. Dozens of floral tributes, some faded, some fresh, lay piled on the steps around the base. Women were milling around the memorial, most of them middle-aged or elderly, dressed in dark coats. One woman had a little boy with her, clutching a small bouquet of violets exactly the same as the one Tiney had bought from a roadside flower-seller. Tiney knelt down and laid her violets beside a simple posy of asters that someone had tucked between the more sombre offerings.

Beside her, an old woman was struggling to raise herself from her knees. Tiney helped her to her feet.

‘Thank you,’ the woman said, straightening herself. ‘I come
here every Tuesday but I’m not getting any younger. I want to keep coming until I see them set it right. Sir Edwin Luytens, the architect, he’s got them making a permanent Cenotaph of real stone so it will be with us forever.’

‘We’ve come all the way from Australia to see it,’ said Tiney.

‘Oh, the Australians! The Australians were marching here on Peace Day in July last year, when they unveiled the Cenotaph,’ said the old woman. ‘People stayed up all night – thousands of us, camping out anywhere so we wouldn’t miss the parade. Everyone was showering your diggers with gifts – fruit, cigarettes, flowers. There was so much gratitude, so much heartfelt gratitude.’ She patted Tiney’s hand and tottered across the road towards the bus stop.

‘So many women feeling grateful to our boys,’ said Ida, scanning the crowd. ‘You know, there’s not a single man among them. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Think what?’ asked Tiney.

‘That we’re all doomed to spinsterhood. They say there are two million “excess women” here in Britain, and they’re encouraging young ones to migrate to the Dominions to find husbands. As if we need any more competition!’

‘Oh, Ida!’ said Tiney. ‘We’re meant to be thinking about grief, not boyfriends. I think it’s all terribly poignant but awfully depressing.’

Ida looked at her in surprise. ‘If the Cenotaph upsets you, how much worse will it be when we visit the boys’ graves? How will you cope?’

‘I’m not upset,’ said Tiney, trying to think how to explain herself. ‘That old lady comes here every day to this empty tomb. Every day! I want to see where Louis is buried but I don’t want
to spend the rest of my life dwelling on his death. He wrote so many letters from London. He wrote about walking in Hyde Park and Trafalgar Square and visiting St Paul’s Cathedral and Piccadilly Circus at night. There were so many places that he visited when he came to “Blighty”. While we’re in England, I’d like to open a little window onto his life. He died in France, not here. We’ll see the graves soon enough. Before then, I want to see how he lived. All those things he wrote about will feel more real if I can see them too.’

Ida suddenly laughed. ‘I like the way you think, Tiney Flynn. Charlie came to London twice and loved it, and Daddy was born here, so I have a lot to explore too. Let’s live a little.’ She hooked one arm through Tiney’s and they made their way out into the London traffic.

On Beachy Head

The Alstons’ elderly cousin Mrs Bloomfield lived in a Tudor house with a perfectly kept garden a few miles from Newhaven in Sussex. She’d lost both her sons and her husband in the war, so was glad to have the company of Australian relatives. Their first week in Sussex was grey and cold, but one morning they woke to a perfect spring day. Ida announced they should attempt a picnic somewhere on the South Downs and volunteered to drive the big black Bentley.

‘Take care, Ida!’ said Mrs Alston, as the car bounced down a tiny country road.

In some places, hedgerows rose up high on either side of the road, blocking the view. Tiney leaned out the window, taking in lungfuls of fresh air. Ida turned the Bentley onto a cart road and bumped through a field to reach a hilltop overlooking the sea.

The younger women lifted the picnic baskets out of the boot while Mrs Alston helped Mrs Bloomfield out of the car. Then Ida took charge and determinedly guided everyone along the track. They tramped up the hillside to the edge of the cliffs where they spread picnic rugs on the ground in a spot sheltered from the
wind. From the cliff tops of Beachy Head they could see right across the English Channel.

Ida unpacked their lunch – cold pork pies, a little jar of chutney, some bread and cheese, apples and a big bottle of ginger beer. It was almost too cold to enjoy the picnic, despite the spring sunshine. While the others drank hot tea from a thermos to warm up, Tiney wandered to the edge of the white, chalky cliffs and looked out to sea. A red and white lighthouse stood in the silvery-green water. On the other side of the lighthouse, across the English Channel, beyond the mists, lay France.

Further along the edge of the cliffs, Tiney noticed a man, standing no more than fifty yards from her, staring out over the water. There was something about the set of his body that reminded her of Sebastian Farr. Even at a distance, Tiney could see he was tall and lanky with strong, chiselled features. She turned and ran back to Ida. ‘Do you think that man, the one over there, do you think he’s all right?’

‘A lot of them come up here to finish themselves off, ‘ said Mrs Bloomfield. ‘The ones that can’t cope. Some of them make such a terrible mess when they hit the rocks below that no one can establish their identity.’

‘Bertha!’ admonished Mrs Alston. ‘What a ghastly thing to say.’

But Tiney didn’t hear Mrs Alston’s scolding. She had already jumped to her feet and was racing along the cliff top, towards the man. He hadn’t moved. As Tiney ran she imagined what must lie behind his eyes as he stared at the misty horizon. She called out to him, ‘Sir! Please, sir!’

The stranger turned to look at her and, instantly, Tiney realised her mistake. She stopped in her tracks, blushing.

‘I just thought . . . I mean, I imagined . . .’ She was too embarrassed to confess.

The man laughed. ‘It was very good of you,’ he said. ‘But I’m far too selfish to need saving.’

Tiney raised one hand to shade her eyes as she looked up at him. His thick black hair was cropped short and his eyes were deep-set in a gaunt, gypsy face. ‘I didn’t think I was that obvious. Are you a mind-reader?’ she asked.

‘Only of good-hearted souls,’ he replied. ‘Do you often go patrolling the white cliffs, hoping to save lonely men from themselves?’

‘No,’ said Tiney. ‘But I would. I mean, I wouldn’t like to see anyone lose hope. “
He who goes lonely comes not back again. . .
”’

‘That’s by the Australian poet Mary Gilmore, isn’t it?’

Tiney was speechless with embarrassment. Why had she thought to quote a poem at this man? ‘I didn’t think it was very well known, outside Australia,’ she said

‘“
But these, these fellowing men, shall know

Love’s memory though they go
,”’ said the stranger, quoting the last line of the stanza. Then he laughed. ‘I’m from Australia.’

‘You don’t sound very Australian,’ said Tiney.

‘I’m from Victor Harbor. I served with the Eleventh Field Ambulance, Australian Third Division. I was demobilised last year but I’ve stayed on to do other work.’

‘My sister was in the Eleventh Field Ambulance Ladies Sewing Circle.’

‘I presume you’re from Adelaide, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Tiney. ‘And so are my friends over there. I’m Martina Flynn.’

‘It seems we’re two of a kind. I’m Martin Woolf,’ he said.
‘You know our names – Martina and Martin – mean “warlike”.’

‘I’m not warlike at all. My friends call me Tiney.’

‘Then I hope you’ll allow me that privilege,’ he said. He offered his hand to Tiney, and she felt warmth radiate up her arm.

‘Your hands are icy cold,’ he said with surprise, and he placed his other hand over Tiney’s small one. ‘Let me walk you back to your companions. It’s easy to twist an ankle on this rough ground.’

‘I won’t fall, and even if I did I’m much closer to the ground than most people, so I never hurt myself,’ said Tiney as they walked back along the cliff.