Who Is Mary Smith?, page 23
Now old Otto is falling out of his tree. Besides, she has Ben now, and he is a music lover!
Ben still hasn’t grasped the whole picture yet, of course. After the Sunday night at Lorraine’s place in Gawler, they never had time much to talk and he goes about his duties wondering why Mary needs a pilot’s licence for her work. He feels a bit miffed, and understandably, because she didn’t mention it to him after he told her about his plans to learn to fly.
“I want to fly simply for the pleasure of it,” he tells the stainless steel vats in his father’s grape mill. “She wants to incorporate flying into her vocation. What does she expect to do? Fly all around South Australia and the Northern Territory fixing up cows and horses?”
“Of course, she wouldn’t,” he answers himself. “So there must be some wider plan or special need to have the licence.”
At home, in the privacy of his room, he views her photograph taken on the night when he proposed to her. Mary is dressed in a long overcoat but it doesn’t conceal her figure completely, nor does it detract from her good looks; it only makes her seem more mysterious and Ben would like to be able to remove the coat and touch her once more. He has other photos of her, taken that night, including some of them arm in arm. But it is the single photo he has chosen to display that he likes most. It shows her holding the coat tight around herself and she has a cheeky smile that seems to make the image real. He picks it up and holds it to the light and examines her closely. How could he be so fortunate as to have won her heart, he wonders? Why is it or what is it that makes her so attractive to him? The green eyes penetrate his and the smile seems to be communicating thoughts to him. He puts it down but has difficulty taking his eyes off it. Then he lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling.
Ben neither wants nor needs a complicated life. There were no problems when his brother and sisters became engaged and got married. Why should his mother object to Mary Smith? Because she is a McCliver? And because she is a Roman Catholic? But what has that to do with love? She is, in fact, no longer a McCliver, and Mary said that the problem of religion was surmountable. That is something else he will have to discuss with her. He wants to finish learning his trade and get married and live with her happily ever after. Simple enough? Mary can pursue her vocation in concert with him earning his keep – there will be no problems on that front; this is not happening in the days when women were expected to remain at home and raise a family and attend to the housekeeping. Ben should approach his mother and discuss the matter in an adult manner but he shudders at the thought: Mum cannot discuss it objectively; she goes over the top at the mention of the subject. So communication with her is not really an option. And what if they get married against his mother’s best wishes? Will that mean a lifetime of maternal estrangement? That would be unbearable and impractical. What to do?
The only option, if it may be called that, is to pressure his father, and get him to bring his mother round to a sensible solution to the matter. Surely Dad can influence her sufficiently to gain her approval in the end. Ben closes his eyes and relaxes after his hard day’s work and suddenly he is startled by his mother at the door calling him to the dinner table.
“You mustn’t lie on your bed in your work clothes, Benjamin. Now come to dinner.”
That is the basic problem, he acknowledges to himself as he washes his hands. She still treats me like a school boy!
Another firm stand is required. A very firm stand.
Chapter 30
Old Doctor Schmidt is dining alone, which is normal. Privacy is an enormous blessing in old age, it allows for relaxation and complete independence of actions, even of thoughts, which might bring on a flush of private embarrassment in company. Tonight it is cottage pie lubricated with thin, fund-raiser, tomato sauce; simple and easy. But his mind is not on his food. Some months ago, old Doctor admits, he was something of a grump and a tired old man. That was in the old days, in BMS, as he privately assigns it: Before Mary Smith. He thought he was dying – well, he probably was hastening into the abyss – but now things are different; matters have changed, he has something to live for, something to hold on to, something to exercise his mind and provide him with an ounce of expectancy and anticipation. Such an attitude, he knows, can delay the dire onset. Hopeful prospects are a wonderful thing. He has no great expectations, merely gratitude, and the hope of having the pleasure of her company on some occasions. And the prospect of delightful company and intelligent conversation several tiers above the mundane is an exciting prospect compared with mere solitary thoughts.
How providential it seems, that she should arrive in his late life and stir him from complacency and self-pity. Youth and manhood had abandoned him. His profession no longer required his expertise. His wife is dead fifteen years and his children scattered, except for Hugo. And Hugo is the typical, busy practitioner, who briefly pops in and out and never stops very long to chin-wag. I had to take him by the beard to tell him about Mary; at least he stopped and listened. And his wife and daughter!
Mary.
How she spurs me to recall my less wearied days when love was in my heart and the sky always seemed blue! How is it that an old man can feel those illusive impulses again? As ridiculous as they are! Why is it that the soul does not age with the body? What a wonder, that is!
Old Doctor is having trouble swallowing, and it has no physical bottom. He understands that it is emotion exercising his throat and it gives him cause for more wonder. That’s one of the blessings of privacy in old age: you can let it all hang out. But why am I affected like this?
He knows why, old Willi, but he still won’t admit it. Something has taken hold of his heartstrings and exercised them. He pushes his plate away, leaving a handful to toss on the lawn tomorrow for the sparrows. But even that reason is a self-deception because he realises that he is making excuses for not finishing his dinner; time for a glass of Pedro.
The sherry warms and immediately settles him. Self-diagnosis; self-treatment. Ha-ha. He can almost hear her exclaiming it to him! She has the uncanny knack of seeing into him that is most disconcerting. That is probably why he loves her. She is a real person who understands real people whom other people disregard. And she takes the time and the trouble to do so.
He pours himself another. Now is the time for honest reflection. I could dispense with the quotation marks and let the word love stand alone, by itself. Let it be a reality instead of a word. Let’s face it and see if it’s true!
Yes. It is.
But in my condition and time of life, love is an anachronism. But then again, Mary would understand. In fact, I think she does already! Cruel world, cruel, fated conditions of solitary old age and existence. I do not repel the fact, merely the voguish associations that adhere to it these days. Okay, so I love her, but not as Ben does. Nor would I want to. That would be too painful.
In Hugo’s household there is no opportunity for introspection. Alexis has the dinner on the table, Hugo is settling himself down to eat, and his daughter, Melanie, has already begun.
“How was your day, Dad?”
“Very good – and yours?”
“Terrific. Guess what guys…”
“Melanie, I do wish you would not refer to us as ‘guys’”.
“Sorry, Mum. There is a relatively new young man at the corporation whose name is Gerry Barkhorn, and he’s asked me out to dinner next Saturday night.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he’s quite handsome, and a rising star, apparently. He comes from Lyndoch.”
“Oh?”
“I know the Barkhorns of Lyndoch,” Hugo puts in. “John is a winemaker over there.”
“That’s his father,” Melanie says.
Hugo takes a sip of wine: “I ordered tickets today for the Brass Band Night. I thought we might take Grandpa with us, he always enjoys it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Alexis says brightly. “We can share a table with Peter and Anna Schultz; it is always a great night out.”
“And I’ll ask Gerry to come,” Melanie puts in quickly.
So it is arranged.
Every year, all the cool cats of the Valley attend the Brass Band Night. The concert is held in an enormous, industrial shed in Tanunda with seating for hundreds of people on bench seats at trestle tables. The Weingarten Brass Band is handsomely attired, their instruments gleaming under lights, and the MC in black suit and bow tie. He welcomes everyone, manages to reel off quite a few puns and topical quips, and by the time the brass is pumping out its first jazzy number, everyone is in high spirits. It’s a BYO function, like an evening picnic with baskets of meats and chicken and salads, and cold-boxes of beer and wine. It’s an occasion to wave to acquaintances and shout to people over the din of the music. Ben and Mary attend, and are sitting with some young people away from their relatives.
It is their first evening together for weeks. They sit close together holding hands and such is the infectious mood of the music that they wear permanent smiles, and Mary occasionally rests her head on his shoulder. It is impossible to entertain any quiet thoughts. Whatever their previous mood everyone is caught up in the spirit of the occasion. The band’s program reflects the Barossa’s heritage, with an Australian content to meld the generations of locals and identify their status. Occasionally the globe is spun and you might experience Strauss or Gershwin, or a guest violinist might entertain with Butterworth or Elgar, and the talking subsides and the patrons get misty-eyed or begin tapping their fingers on the table. Music is what the night is about, and music is the be-all and end-all of the five or so hours which people devote to its compelling mastery.
If you are seated close to the stage you get to feel the music as well as to hear it. This is not like being seated in a huge auditorium where everyone is deathly still and quiet, and the music filters to your ears. This is living the music and feeling it enter your head and bones. This is brass at its loudest and percussions to dent the eardrums. It is not at its purest always, but it is at its loudest and best. It is a night of music that is never forgotten.
Old Doctor is enjoying himself. His fingers tap to the beat and he helps himself to chicken and red wine and is constantly acknowledging acquaintances as they pass by the table at interval. He catches sight of Ben and Mary and waves to them and his smile grows bigger. He addresses a few words to Anna.
“Ben is a lucky young man, Anna. If I was his age he would have some stiff competition that’s for sure.”
Anna is not sure how to reply and flushes slightly. “Ben is still a child, he is simply infatuated. He’ll get over it.”
“I’m not so sure, Anna. Ben is in love and so is Mary. Nothing in the world is going to change that.” And he puts himself out on a limb: “If you acknowledge nothing else in life, Anna, you must acknowledge that those two young people are in love and you should respect and admire them for it. Don’t fight it my dear, it’s bigger than life!”
Anna chooses that moment to powder her nose, and leaves the table, while the men discuss the young lovers. By the time she has returned, Old Doctor has them convinced that they should help them, and Alexis and Melanie listen attentively.
“We cannot make life conform to what we expect, but we can adjust and accept it, and make it better for others,” is his final word.
The remainder of the night for Mary and Ben is starlight and togetherness. After the concert they park the car beside the honeysuckle hedge and melt into each other’s arms. A residual melody is haunting Ben’s mind, time-posting their evening together, a melody which will remind him of love beside the honeysuckle hedge. His passions are more urgent than ever and her restraint is stretched to the limit as they embrace and search out each other’s lips. An owl somewhere hoots and the hedge whispers in the night air while the warm lovers clasp and hold each other tight.
“I must go in now, Ben, it is almost two o’clock and I have to travel to Adelaide tomorrow.”
“I wish we could stay like this forever. The time goes so quickly when we are alone.”
“It won’t be long, Ben, and we will be together always. Soon I will graduate and then we can plan our future. I’m sorry, darling, but I must go now.”
Fleeting time now drags its chain for him. He finds little solace in letters and photographs – they are not flesh and blood! They talk on the telephone and it only increases his ache and makes him more despondent and wanting to hold her close. They discuss buying an engagement ring and a date and time is set to visit a jeweller. This lifts his spirit and gives him something to look forward to. The time of year is at hand again when birds begin nesting and the days noticeably lengthen and his ache increases with it. But for every low there is a corresponding high and he takes time off to commence his flying training. Ben undergoes a month of intense flight theory and then travels to Adelaide’s light aircraft airport, Parafield, four times weekly and very soon he is up near the clouds flying his first solo. After two months he is gaining in confidence and by the end of spring he is qualified. Passion on passion – flying has improved his frame of mind and lifts his spirits more with every take-off. All he can talk about is flying and more flying and sometimes he even forgets that he is engaged to be married. Anna is delighted with Ben’s mood change and encourages him by making a significant contribution towards advancing his skills. Perhaps he will forget all about her, she surmises. But his enthusiasm for flying doesn’t dampen his love for Mary, it only camouflages it, for almost every moment he is aloft he imagines that she is with him, sitting beside him, knowing what is happening and admiring his increasing expertise. It is a double-barrelled love affair.
Today, Ben is doing a cross-country navigation training exercise. His flying instructor is there to assist and advise:
“Adjust thrust and trim for eighty knots on the climb and level at four thousand feet.”
“Roger.”
Soon the patterned vineyards of the Barossa Valley are below them, reaching across to the horizon on each side, evidencing the mark of mankind on the earth’s surface. He looks quickly to locate Weingarten and his home but cockpit duties prevent him locating the two-story house where he has spent all his life.
“You’re drifting off heading, Ben.”
“Oh, okay.”
The drone of the motor, the skirl of the propellers and the rush of air are music to him. This is where he wants to be, and this is what he wants to do, and it is happening at last.
Even while he is concentrating on navigating the aircraft, Mary remains in the back of his mind. Somehow, the new, complex skills are managed while his brain allows foreign thoughts to come and go. He wonders about that for a moment and then puts all his concentration together to focus on what he is doing. He is soon over the escarpment and heading towards the township of Morgan, on the Murray, where the river bends sharply and heads south. He is over the mallee-tree country, now. Time check, twelve minutes to Morgan and then commence another leg of the navigation exercise.
There is the bend in the river. See the moored houseboats and the pleasure craft sitting like floating toys. Overhead Morgan, then a left turn, heading west-north-west to the northern vineyards and the valley township of Clare, founded in about 1840 by an Englishman who planted the first vines in the district. It is optimistically rumoured that there are only two types of South Australians: those who live at Clare and those who wish they did. It is the principle town in that northern valley; a town of handsome stone buildings, of bushland in harmony with viticulture, of hot summers that defoliate the vines prematurely and cold winters with a meagre rainfall. The Clare Valley caters to tourists all year, and in fair weather the entire district hosts flocks of tourists when the principle white, Rhine Riesling, is sought out and consumed. Ben knows these things, he read about them during a comparative study of the Barossa and Clare Valleys, as he sets course for the charming wine district of the north.
He needs to take a firm stance with his mother. Pete listened to him, but offered no practical solutions although he has noticed that the Schmidt family appear to be sympathetic to his situation.
“You are drifting again.”
“Okay.”
Maybe he should take the bull by the horns, and elope. But what would that do to his career? How would he live? Where would they live? The downside of a cushioned upbringing is lack of street-wise resources plus a debt of gratitude that compromises individuality. There is really only one solution: confrontation with his mother. And that is not something to look forward to.
From Clare he heads south to Port Wakefield and then down the coast via the light aircraft lane-of-entry to Parafield airport for a practice cross-wind landing and debriefing.
“You have to keep your mind on where you are going, Ben. Scan the instruments and the visual clues more frequently and make corrections. You are inclined to drift off course. Otherwise; fairly good. Get in as much navigation training as you can afford; it is money well spent.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Chapter 31
In November 1995, Colonel Graham Gregory retired after thirty-eight years’ meritorious service in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces of Great Britain. During his career, he spent several years in Australia; he visited the Barossa Valley and made a mental note to include it among his options for final residency. When decision time arrived, several factors influenced this choice. First, he was a bachelor. Secondly, his interests were almost wholly of a military nature, and thirdly, he was partial to the Antipodes’ sunny elixir. His unmarried estate and lifelong association with quality accommodation caused him to choose a gentleman’s residence in the township of Tanunda. This regional base gave Colonel Gregory the opportunity to stable horses, thus providing him opportunity to form the nucleus of an historic cavalry regiment to promote his interests, both equine and martial, and so provide him with continuity beyond all that is nominally egalitarian. Also, it provided him an on-going pseudo-military authority, without which, life would be intolerable. As for his discerning palate for fine wines, nothing need be added here by way of explanation. He was also a dresser; impeccable to the last snip of his greying moustache and during his career had reduced a succession of his batmen to tears of frustration and futility. It was this last, his interest in fine clothes, that helped settle his choice on the Barossa Valley, for his enquiries assured him that he could establish himself as a gentleman’s outfitter within the means at his disposal. So Colonel Gregory also purchased a bluestone, main-street premises, had it renovated and refurbished to his English tastes, and opened for business in 1997 under the discerning banner of Officers & Gentlemen. His world was now perfect.
