Chapter Fourteen

 

Jim told me last night that of all his three sons, he would rather

have lost Bartholomew. ‘The wrong boys died at Gallipoli,’ he said,

‘why couldn’t it have been him?’ Shocking words, unforgiveable

words, but at least he does not say them in Bartholomew’s presence –

for that I am thankful.

It is grief speaking of course: Jim remains inconsolable. As indeed

am I. Every day that passes is empty without my two beautiful boys.

But I must continue to be strong as I have these past months, for it is

my strength alone that will save Jim from the blackest of despair that

threatens to destroy us all. And there is my darling Bartholomew,

whom I must protect at all cost, and his dear wife, Mary, and their

baby son. We still have a family, if only I can convince Jim of this.

There is a reason to go on.

Big Jim Durham had been inordinately proud of his sons when they’d

volunteered. And they’d done so without his bidding – they’d surprised him

with the news. ‘We’re off to war, Dad,’ they’d announced, and Big Jim had

been fit to burst. In his opinion every able-bodied man in the land should

enlist.

‘I envy you lads,’ he’d said, ‘off to fight for King and Country as you

are. What an honour, what an adventure, dear God, if they’d take a man in

his fifties, I’d be going with you I swear.’

Bartholomew had also volunteered. All three brothers had ridden their

horses into town and presented themselves at the recruitment centre that had

been set up in Bundaberg. Recruitment centres had sprung into being in every country town throughout the land, and young men were queuing by

the thousands. But as things had turned out, when it came to the physical

Bartholomew had been found wanting. A weak heart, the army doctor had

told him. He’d been a nice enough man in his brusque way. ‘Nothing to

worry about unduly, son,’ he’d said, ‘but enough to make you ineligible,

I’m afraid. Can’t have hearts that are going to conk out on us under the

strain of battle now, can we.’

‘What a rotten thing to happen.’ Young George had been most

sympathetic. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

‘It was probably that bout of glandular fever you had when you were

little, Bartholomew,’ big brother Edward had said; he too was sympathetic.

‘Not to worry,’ he’d added in an attempt to make amends for the injustice

that had been served upon his brother, ‘someone has to stay here and protect

the home front.’

The brothers had always been close, although sibling rivalry repeatedly

raised its head between Edward, the eldest of the three, and George the

youngest, both of whom were assertive by nature and fiercely competitive.

Given the four-year age difference, Edward had been the uncontested leader

during their childhood, George frustratingly mounting challenge after

challenge only to lose, while Bartholomew, in the middle, had taken the

position of peacemaker.

Things had not changed as they’d progressed to manhood – indeed the

rivalry had become more intense. George had grown stronger and bigger

and as the playing field had evened out Bartholomew’s peacemaking skills

were regularly called upon. The balance had always been a good one and

continued to be so.

Big Jim was not in the least surprised to learn that Bartholomew had

failed to pass the army’s medical examination. He made his views evident

that very same night as he and his wife prepared themselves for bed.

‘Well, it’s to be expected, isn’t it.’ he said when Ellie voiced her worries

about the discovery of Bartholomew’s weakened heart condition. ‘He might

not be the youngest, but he’s always been the runt of the litter.’

Ellie detested the way Jim was so disparaging of Bartholomew, even

speaking at times with contempt. Throughout the boy’s childhood he had

considered Bartholomew’s peaceful nature a character flaw. He was proud

of the aggression his other sons displayed and openly encouraged their competitiveness, pitting one against the other. The fact that Bartholomew

chose not to compete he saw as the epitome of weakness. Ellie didn’t. Ellie

saw it as a show of strength, a silent rebellion from a boy who had no desire

to conform. She admired her son’s resilience, and did her best to protect

him whenever possible from his father’s bullying.

‘I take it you’re not at all concerned about the doctor’s report,’ she said

icily, staring at him in the dressing-room mirror as she sat brushing her hair.

‘Why should I be? The doctor told him it was nothing to worry about.’

Jim could see from the cold green glint of her eyes that his glibness

annoyed her. He didn’t like it when Ellie was annoyed. ‘I’m not being

heartless, my dear,’ he assured her. ‘They have to select only the very

fittest, you must understand that. They can’t afford to accept men who

might let others down under pressure. It’s a safety measure only, believe

me. Now come to bed.’

Ellie allowed herself to be mollified. ‘I’m very glad he’s been turned

down,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure dear Mary is too. Bartholomew should be by

her side when the baby comes.’

Jim laughed. ‘By her side? I don’t think so. Hardly a place for a man –

childbirth is women’s business.’

‘I didn’t mean literally of course,’ she said crossing to the bed where he

was propped against the pillows waiting for her. ‘But what if Bartholomew

had passed the medical test? What if he went off to war and didn’t come

back?’ The thought sent a chill down Ellie’s spine. ‘His child would be

deprived of a father.’

‘I would be the child’s father, Ellie,’ Jim said heartily as she climbed in

beside him, ‘we’d have another Durham and I’d raise it as my own.’

This time his glibness bewildered rather than annoyed, she found his

cavalier attitude to the war mystifying.

‘Do you not fear for our sons, Jim?’ she said resisting just a little as he

drew her to him, looking into his eyes, trying to fathom his reasoning. ‘Do

you not worry for their safety?’

‘You worry enough for both of us, my love.’ He buried his face into the

curve of her neck, breathing in the smell of her, running his hands over her

body, feeling the flesh beneath the nightgown. ‘Let the boys have their

adventure. The war will be over in no time and they’ll be home with such

stories to tell.’

Now, four months after the deaths of Edward and George, Big Jim

continued to despise Bartholomew for surviving his brothers. He didn’t say

so out loud in his son’s presence – not through any concern for

Bartholomew’s feelings, but rather in order to avoid incurring Ellie’s

displeasure. He had no wish to further upset the wife whom he adored and

who, like he, was grieving deeply. It was true, however, that he had always

disapproved of the way Ellie had mollycoddled their middle son. The boy

was spineless and should have been whipped into shape years earlier. Now,

Big Jim couldn’t stand being in his presence, couldn’t stand the very sight

of him. Bartholomew was a constant reminder of all he had lost.

Bartholomew was fully aware of his father’s feelings. Big Jim’s

contempt was nothing new to him: he’d suffered it for years. He’d long ago

acknowledged he was a disappointment to his father and had refused to feel

guilt, but he did now. Bartholomew felt guilty that he should be alive when

his brothers were dead, and Big Jim’s silent, ever-present condemnation

compounded his guilt tenfold.

Big Jim’s escape was the Burnett Club, where he had the sympathy of

all and where he drowned his sorrows in imported Scotch or rum produced

by the Bundaberg distillery, dependent upon his mood at the time. Huge

man that he was and with a high tolerance for alcohol, he rarely displayed

overt signs of drunkenness, but the liquor proved a welcome distraction and

the club kept him away from the son he couldn’t bear to look at.

Bartholomew’s escape was work. Work and family – baby Stanley was

now nearly one year old, having been born while Edward and George were

still in training camp. But above even family, it was work that took

precedence. While his father wallowed in self-pity and liquor at the Burnett

Club, Bartholomew threw himself into the running of the mill, shouldering

the burden of management in the absence of Big Jim and personally taking

on the tasks of skilled workers, all the while pushing himself tirelessly, day

after day after day.

His wife and his mother worried for his health. ‘You mustn’t overtax

yourself, my darling,’ Mary said time and again.

Ellie echoed her: ‘You must slow down, Bartholomew.’ But all their

protests were to no avail. Bartholomew was insistent that with a wartime

shortage of skilled labour it was imperative he take on whatever job he

could, and he was right. Without his intervention on all levels, and most particularly his inspiration to his workers, Elianne’s production would have

been drastically diminished. Indeed the mill may well have ceased to

function at all during that crushing of 1915.

Necessity, it was true, had dictated Bartholomew’s devotion to duty, but

he was also without doubt assuaging his guilt. Here was a way of proving

his worth, to himself and perhaps also to his father. It was an ethic that was

to remain with him throughout the whole of his life.

During the slack season that followed, Ellie continued to tolerate Big

Jim’s maudlin moods and his lengthy bouts at the Burnett Club, but as the

months passed and the crushing once again drew near she decided it was

time to rectify the situation. Bartholomew could not be expected to work a

second time at such a pace and under such pressure.

‘It’s well over a year now since the boys died,’ she said meaningfully as

the two of them lingered over the breakfast table. Mary was upstairs feeding

the baby and Bartholomew had gone into town to purchase fresh hardware

supplies from Wyper Brothers.

‘So?’

‘So I think it’s time you returned to work,’ she said crisply. ‘The mill

needs you.’

He gave an uninterested shrug. ‘The mill appears to be managing quite

adequately without me.’

‘Only because of Bartholomew,’ she said, curbing her irritation.

‘Without Bartholomew it might well have ceased functioning at all last

season – he kept Elianne alive for you, Jim.’

‘And so he should,’ Big Jim sneered. ‘He owes me that much.’

Ellie felt an uncontrollable surge of rage. She could no longer bear her

husband’s self-pity, nor his contempt and the way he spoke as if

Bartholomew was personally responsible for the deaths of his brothers.

‘What, would you have all three of them dead?’ she demanded loudly,

almost to the point of yelling, her eyes gleaming angrily. ‘You have a son,

for God’s sake! You have a son and a grandson – can you not see that? You

have a family! You have a reason for living!’

Big Jim stared back at her. He was shocked, stirred from his apathy.

Ellie never raised her voice, Ellie never displayed anger.

Ellie was thankful that she appeared finally to have broken through his

wall of self-pity. ‘You must resume the mantle of responsibility, Jim,’ she said. ‘You must do your duty by your family. If you cannot love your son,

then love your grandson, but do your duty by your family or you will lose

us all.’

Lose us all? Was that what she’d said? Lose us all? But he dared not

lose Ellie. He could cope with the loss of his sons, he could live without

them, but Ellie, never; he could not live without Ellie. He would kill anyone

who threatened to take her. Why, he would kill Ellie herself if she were ever

to leave him. Ellie was his life.

Big Jim had been shaken back to reality and from that moment on his

attitude changed. He even admitted his gratitude to Bartholomew, albeit

begrudgingly.

‘I appreciate all you have done over the past year,’ he said stiffly when

his son had returned from town. ‘Your mother has impressed upon me how

hard you have worked to keep the mill going in these difficult times.’

‘I was doing no more than my duty, Father, my duty to both the family

and the nation.’

Bartholomew’s surprise at the change in his father’s attitude was

evident, and he glanced at his mother, wondering what had brought it about,

but Ellie’s face betrayed nothing. ‘Sugar is vital to our men at the front,’ he

continued. ‘The government has urged the mills to keep up production,

despite the shortage of labour and fuel.’

‘Quite, quite,’ Big Jim said, ‘and your dedication to duty has been most

appreciated. We shall work as a team from now on, you and I.’

They did work as a team, father and son, but work was the only true

connection they shared. Big Jim could not warm to Bartholomew, who

remained in his eyes ‘the runt of the litter’ and a constant reminder of his

loss.

He did, however, warm to Bartholomew’s son. Heeding Ellie’s advice

he took an interest in his grandson and, as the years passed, young Stan

filled the void in Big Jim’s life. Here indeed was a worthy heir to the

Durham throne. And little Julia too, pretty and beguiling. Ellie had been

right, Jim realised. He had a family and a reason for living. But most of all

he had Stan. Stan was Edward and George reborn.

Ellie watched with trepidation as Big Jim took over Bartholomew’s son.

She watched as Stan grew to idolise his grandfather – what boy wouldn’t? A figure so much larger than life. Bartholomew could not have competed

even had he wanted to, but then true to his nature Bartholomew did not try.

She felt somewhat to blame for her husband’s preoccupation with his

grandson, remembering the advice she’d so sternly given that morning

years ago. ‘If you cannot love your son, then love your grandson,’ those had

been her very words. But Big Jim would never have grown to love his son.

As things were now, with his affection focused upon the boy, perhaps his

son would be spared his contempt.

Ellie knew only too well that Big Jim could destroy Bartholomew, and

she had no doubt that if he wished to do so, he would. It remained her

mission in life, as always, to protect her family from her husband.

 

OceanofPDF.com