Searching for Sofia, page 37
Reaching out, Jack tried to rescue the letter, but it escaped his grasp and fluttered to the floor, just as Sofia had escaped him. It settled, thankfully out of reach of the pond now forming on the floor, a safe distance from the waterfall trickling over the table’s edge. It was safe, just as Sofia evidently was.
Alerted to reality, Jack gasped. What was he doing? He released Nora from his arms and stepped back. No. Not now. This was too fast. Barely an hour ago, he’d been thinking of Sofia with longing, ecstatic to have received news of her. Now, he was preparing to carry Nora up the stairs, to the very bed that belonged to him and his wife.
Nora looked at him, uncertainty in her eyes. ‘Jack?’
‘Nora, I’m sorry. I can’t... not now.’
‘It’s alright, Jack. Of course. You’ve had a shock. I will leave you in peace.’
She paused expectantly, but Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away from her and bent to retrieve the letter from the floor.
Wordlessly, Nora picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. He felt her eyes upon him again, before she retreated through the house. Listening to the quiet click of the front door closing, Jack felt stabs of guilt. He knew his reckless behaviour had hurt Nora deeply.
Chapter 39
Over a week passed before Jack saw Nora again, and he felt the change in their friendship, as one feels an icy breeze at the turn of autumn to winter.
It was Friday afternoon. After a long week of feeling sorry for himself, Jack decided to call in to the barracks to see John and, hopefully, to see Nora, too. Perhaps she’d agree to have afternoon tea with him. He hated knowing that he’d upset her so badly and wanted a chance to explain.
When he arrived at Treloar’s rooms, he discovered Nora there, speaking with him. They were arguing and Jack hovered in the background, preferring not to intrude. He was used to Nora’s ongoing disputes with Treloar; and while he accepted that some of her issues were valid, he did not share her belief that Treloar was controlling. Indeed, Jack felt that Treloar offered both himself and Nora a fair degree of freedom in the work they produced within the scope of his needs for the Memorial, and he often told her so. Jack suspected that many of Nora’s irritations were borne of her years of independence, her battle to be taken seriously in a man’s world and her life experiences travelling the globe. To adopt the subservient stance of military respect for senior officers, was near impossible for her; but then, Jack was sure that if she were speaking to the King of England, Nora would assert herself in the same argumentative manner.
Notwithstanding, today she seemed to have a valid complaint.
‘If forty-three male war artists can be sent to the front, then surely so can I,’ he heard her cry. ‘War isn’t only about men, John! It is about women and children, too. Old people and young people. What right do you men have keeping us women away?’
‘Well, Captain—’ Treloar’s words were cut off.
‘And in keeping me away from it, you are destroying my career! Look at this!’
Nora waved the newspaper that she was holding in front of Treloar before slamming it onto the bench.
Moving closer, Jack looked at her questioningly, but she didn’t appear to see him, nor did Treloar reach for the paper, so he picked it up himself.
‘War Artists Show Their Work,’ the headline read.
Scanning the contents, Jack saw that an exhibition of war art was opening at the National Gallery that week. While the article was not totally flattering of the paintings, what was overwhelmingly obvious was that the artists being exhibited were all men, and all had served overseas.
‘How can my role as a war artist ever be taken seriously if you are going to shield me from the front, locking me in a studio here in Melbourne? I want to paint the action. The grit and determination of the troops that you said you wanted! That is what the critics are asking for, and if you don’t let me step forward, I will forever be seen as the flower painter who was too delicate for war.’
‘Okay, okay, I will see what I can do,’ Treloar said, gruffly. ‘Jack, what do you think? Will we send Nora to New Guinea?’
At his words, she emitted a deep growl of utter frustration, threw up her hands and stomped from the room.
‘I really don’t know what to make of her, Jack. She has no discipline at all. Speaking with her is like handling a wild kitten. I am sure that she’d have the soldiers running scared! Probably send the Japanese flurrying back across the ocean.’
‘Nora is a strong, capable woman, John. In honesty, I understand her frustration. How can she be taken seriously as a war artist if she is stuck here, painting portraits? I have no doubts that Nora would cope with anything that the war throws at her, don’t you worry. You are thinking you’ll post her to New Guinea?’
‘Yes, I think that I might,’ said John. ‘There is a nursing unit there. She can pitch in with them, and the mud and leeches and humidity. We’ll see how happy that makes her! I’ll have to get special permission, though. These things are not altogether straightforward.’
Jack hoped it would work out, pleased that Nora might finally get the opportunity she so desperately desired—a posting where she could finally be recognised as a real war artist.
* * *
When Jack found Nora waiting out in front of the barracks, pacing the foyer, he was surprised. The usual smile that she offered him was replaced by a glare, and he could see that she was still angry with him.
‘Nora. I just want to say... about the other day....’
‘Don’t, Jack. Don’t say anything. I couldn’t bear it.’
They walked out onto the road and turned left, with no destination in mind.
‘But Nora, I need to explain. I just didn’t want to use you... It was the wrong moment...’
‘Jack! Just be quiet.’ She turned on him. ‘But know this. I am no feminist, whatever you may think. I am no feminist,’ she repeated the phrase again.
‘Why, of course not. But why? Who cares if you are a feminist?’
‘Lesbian, Jack. Lesbian. I have been getting it for years. Ever since I met Evie.’
By now, Nora’s face was awash with tears.
‘Evie?’
‘You know. My flatmate. The one I met in London. Together we travelled through Europe and then we returned to Australia and eventually we shared the apartment in Sydney. Goddamn it, she is married. She has a child, even. As if that is not enough evidence.’
Jack stopped walking and put his hand out to Nora, holding her still.
‘Nora, I have no idea what you are talking about. Where is this coming from? Never, for a second, did I think of you as a... lesbian, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Oh! When you rejected me the other day, I just thought...’ Nora inhaled deeply and started again. ‘It’s my mother. She’s been on about it for years. She’s convinced that my friendship with Evie is “unnatural.” Gosh, she even has my father believing it. You should see the rubbish that they write—letter after letter making wild accusations, and ascribing my mother’s failing health to my friendship with Evie. It’s ridiculous. And then, the other day, when you pushed me away, I didn’t know what to think!’
‘Nora, you are a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman. And sexy,’ Jack added, boldly. ‘Don’t think for a second that I didn’t feel desire for you. I could have thrown you over my shoulder and carried you up those stairs in a moment, if you’d like to know. But—it would have been wrong. My head is too mixed up. I have been... I am... so attached to Sofia—to the idea of my marriage—that to make love to anyone else feels like a betrayal to her. And the other day I was too angry. Too lost.’
Nora nodded, seeming to accept his explanation.
‘Now, tell me again, what is this about your being a lesbian? I never knew that a lesbian would kiss a man with such sweetness.’
They laughed, their friendship once again restored, and Jack listened as Nora revealed the pain that she’d endured, caused by her mother’s refusal to accept her friendship with Evie; and the relentless barrage of poisonous comments she’d received about the only person who truly understood her in the whole world.
* * *
True to his word, Treloar gained special permission for Nora to serve overseas as a commissioned officer, and then organised for her to go to New Guinea, where she would be stationed at Finschhafen, on the Huon Peninsula. He’d had her assigned to work with the medical teams there, and Nora was ecstatic.
First, she needed to return to Canberra to sort out her belongings and tidy a few loose ends before embarking on her tour overseas. Jack was pleased to see her so excited about the opportunity she’d been given. Together they spent Nora’s last evening walking along the Yarra before sharing a meal in the Mural Room at Grossi Florentino, a lovely Italian restaurant in Bourke Street. Afterwards, he took her arm and they wandered around the city streets, peering into the store windows. Eventually they returned to the Menzies, where they purchased sherries at the main bar just before it closed.
‘Jack, do you think that it’s possible that Sofia is in New Guinea, somewhere?’
‘I don’t know. I understand that US troops are there, alongside the AIF, but I haven’t heard of any British troops there. The truth is, Sofia could be anywhere. And, secondly, she isn’t worried about me. She would have written by now, if she’d wanted to: she knows where I live.’
‘But you did say she’d been asking after you, in Alexandria?’ Nora persisted.
‘Yes. Because she thought that I was there. She must have seen one of my drawings or something.’ It hurt Jack to think about Sofia. He was still shocked by the fact that she’d managed to move on. That she’d replaced him when, all of this time, he’d been so worried about her.
‘In any case, I will keep my eye out for her. If I find her, I’ll be telling her that she needs to contact you. That you’ve been worrying about her for years, and that she has a responsibility to let you know she is safe.’
Jack nodded. It was strange to be speaking of Sofia like this. Until he’d received the letter, she’d felt so close to him. A part of him. Now, it was like she was a total stranger, somebody that he could barely recognise.
‘So, are you all packed?’ He wanted to change the subject.
‘Yes. Two suitcases filled with khaki.’ Nora grimaced.
‘How about I meet you back here in the morning and help you across to the station?’ he offered. It was the least he could do. He’d enjoyed his friendship with Nora these last few months and knew that he’d miss her. Could the companionable ease he felt when he was with her have grown to something more? Jack wasn’t sure. Regardless of Sofia’s circumstances, in his mind and heart, he was still a married man and the only woman for him was Sofia.
* * *
A week later, Jack drove across to the Victoria Barracks with his latest painting, a scene of the last barge that had carried evacuees off the beach at Sphakia, leaving thousands of soldiers behind to fend for themselves on Crete. Whilst painting the scene, the haunting melody of the Maori voices drifting across the waters came back to him, evoking the feelings of that terrible moment when he’d learned that the vessel was departing, its decks filled to capacity, and no more ships were expected. Again Jack ached at the thought of how close he’d come to finding Sofia.
Had he joined the men evacuated on that day, perhaps he would have caught up with her in Alexandria. She’d wanted to see him then. She’d been asking after him. She’d asked everybody about an artist called Jack, the young soldier with the scarred face had told him. How different his life might now be if he’d been one of the lucky ones evacuated that day!
When he arrived at Victorian Barracks, it felt strange to know that Nora was no longer here, working in her studio. Jack missed their companionable outings together. He made his way to the wing where Treloar worked, and the older man’s greeting was effusive.
‘Jack, good to see you. I've been waiting for you to pop in. I have a question for you.’
Jack wondered what was coming. Clearly, Treloar had something in mind. ‘Nice to see you, John. What would you like to know?’
‘I was wondering if you would consider working here with me. I could sure use a hand. As you can see, the job is enormous, and really, I should spend far more time in Canberra than I have been.’
The offer caught Jack by surprise, although he'd known how stretched Treloar was, constantly travelling between Melbourne and Canberra, fulfilling his role as the Director of the War Memorial as well as maintaining the Military History Section here at the barracks.
‘Well... I don’t know... I’ve done nothing like that before. I’m not really a historian...’
‘You’d be fine, Jack. Come, let me show you around, and then you can decide.’
Jack followed Treloar into the room, glancing around at the walls lined with overflowing shelves, the large map cabinet, the piles upon piles of boxes set in the side storerooms, and the benches groaning under the weight of with still more boxes of all shapes and sizes. Although he’d been here a few times before, he’d never taken much notice of the crowded interior. Usually, he’d just passed his paintings across to Treloar and they’d had a quick chat. Today, Treloar led Jack through the room and then into each of the three storerooms to show their contents.
Jack was astonished by the collection—wooden clubs, muskets and grenades; ribbons and medals as well as the associated media articles reporting on their formal presentations; soldiers’ kits and clothing. Still more boxes of photographs, letters, film reels and war diaries. Despite the clutter of the room, each item was neatly labelled.
‘The thing is, Jack, it's not a matter of just throwing all of this into the back of a van and driving it to Canberra. Then we’d have the same mess there as I have here!’ Treloar laughed. ‘At least, whilst this may look chaotic, I do have some sense of order. What I have been doing... what we need to do, is to examine each item and record the details of its origins, of its relevance in the whole scheme of the war. You know... tell the story. That is what's important. That is the thing the public wants to know about.’
Jack smiled at Treloar’s words, wondering how many times he’d listened as Treloar insisted it was the stories about the war that were most important to the public.
Jack considered the space the Military History Section occupied; dimly lit, freezing cold and with poor ventilation. Simultaneously, he observed the passion in Treloar’s voice, the light in the older man’s eyes as he spoke of his collection. It was then Jack realised that for all of Treloar’s experiences—Staff Sergeant at Gallipoli, Equipment Officer in France, serving in London’s Department of Information; his successive rankings as Lieutenant, Captain and Major; and the honorary title he’d been given as a Member of the British Empire––foremost he was a historian, happiest when he was surrounded by his enormous collection of wartime memorabilia, and committed to realising the dream he and Charles Bean had concocted two decades earlier.
Treloar described the task he had in mind for Jack.
‘What I need you to do is to focus on the unit diaries. There’re hundreds of them. Many of them are incomplete, unfortunately. You know what some officers are like. We need them collated and categorised. It’s a slow process, because first I like to peruse them, noting any events of interest. These I can often cross-reference to other records. You wouldn’t believe the stories that unfold... the different versions of the same event, or the way critical orders can be misconstrued at the height of a battle.’
Jack could well imagine the mixed messages surrounding the events of war that might come to light in time. Perhaps the underlying stories of his own experiences––the lack of basic supplies sent to Crete, the failure of the promised air support, so desperately needed, in Greece––would be revealed.
Beyond the fact that the work would be interesting, Jack knew that leaving the house and coming here to the barracks a few times a week would be good for him. His spirits had taken a knock since he’d received the letter from London. And now, with Nora gone, it was as if his life had lost purpose beyond completing the list of paintings he was working through for Treloar, work he was finding increasingly tedious.
‘Yes, John, I imagine that the work could be interesting. I can put in a few days if that would help.’
And so it was agreed that Jack would spend Thursdays and Fridays working alongside Treloar at the Military History Section at the Army Barracks. In addition, he would spend Mondays to Wednesdays working on his paintings for the Memorial, paid at the same rate that he’d received as a war artist.
As if Treloar knew that Jack needed inspiration, he led him through a doorway. ‘Come in here, Jack. I have just dragged these from the back of the storeroom. I’m about to send them to Canberra. You’ll like them.’
Leaning against the wall were two enormous paintings. The first was breathtaking in its beauty and its horror: a stunning depiction of Australian and New Zealander soldiers––thousands of them––scrambling up a steep cliff face, their weapons poised even as they advanced. The images of bloodied bodies strewn among the climbers revealed that the soldiers were under enemy attack.
‘You’ve heard of the Gallipoli Landing, of course? Well, here it is. I was there, you know. With the administration unit, not with the gunners, but it was every bit as awful as you would have heard. George painted this. And he did an incredible job!’
Jack read the cardboard label that had been inserted into the frame. Anzac, the landing 1915; George Lambert.
‘And this is another of George’s, titled Charge of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade at Nek.’
Jack gazed, open-mouthed. Almost as large as the first, this painting was also astonishing. Its colour was vivid, the landscape expansive, the devastation of the battle unquestionable. Without doubt, Lambert had captured the truth of the battle—the ugly truth—in this work of panoramic proportions. Jack had never thought to create anything this large, and wondered if he could, even if he wanted to.
