Searching for Sofia, page 39
The story did not go away and, day after day, the newspapers provided various angles on the hoax that made for captivating reading; and some reports extended into the lives of the Reeds themselves, questioning their decision to support Angry Penguins as well as their continued patronage for modern artists.
While Jack didn’t have any opinion on the merits of the critics’ views or of the value of Angry Penguins, he worried for the Reeds, knowing they’d find the media’s attack deeply hurtful. He decided to visit them again the following Saturday. Not surprisingly, he found both very upset. The reputation of Angry Penguins had been destroyed, and John had taken it very personally.
‘How on earth could this happen?’ Jack asked.
‘Oh, two rascals from Adelaide––university students––James McAuley and Harold Stewart. A pair of traditionalists who fear progress and therefore insist on attacking any steps towards modernism.’
‘Yes, but how can their opinion matter?’
‘It’s not their opinion that’s the issue. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. What these scoundrels did was create a bunch of poems and, using the name Ethel, submitted them to us, claiming they’d been written by her deceased brother "Ernest Malley". We thought they were interesting. Quite surreal. Very unusual, if not a little racy. Anyway, we did the right thing and gave them a good write-up in the spring edition of Angry Penguins, praising Malley’s work for its originality and sharing a couple of verses with the public. Certainly, nobody could claim that they weren’t original, could they? The poems were actually very well received! However, McCauley and Stewart have since come out, claiming themselves to be the true authors and declaring the poems to be a lot of rubbish that they’d written in an afternoon. They’ve made total fools of us. It’s in all the papers, as you know, and now Max, because he’s the publisher, has been charged for publishing obscene content!’
‘Why do these people do this, Jack?’ Sunday lamented. 'What is wrong with them?’
Jack had no answers, and later over dinner with Margaret, he discussed the story.
‘It’s typical, Jack,' she said. 'Just another example of Australia’s dinosaur attitude towards the arts. For centuries, Europe has embraced the modernists, but here we criticise anything that is new, tear it down without a thought. Honestly, it’s as though Australians are clinging to some British, elitist, high-brow version of art that was valued a century ago, but even the British have moved on. Mind you, I must say, some poetry that I hear these days does go way over my head.’
* * *
Over the next two weeks, articles about the hoax receded, and Jack returned to Heide, hoping to find John and Sunday’s spirits lifted. However, he discovered that a new drama had entered their lives in the shape of Sidney Nolan, who, along with Joy and Albert, was sitting at the Reeds’ dining table, looking totally unfamiliar with his neatly cut hair and the khaki uniform of a private.
‘They want him to go to New Guinea.’ John told Jack soberly. ‘Really. You wonder at their judgement! Sid’s no soldier.’
‘He can’t go, can he, Jack?’ Sunday insisted, appealing to his judgement, based on his own service—the wavering in her voice revealing that tears were imminent.
‘The problem is that if you don’t go, Sid, you’ll be jailed,’ Jack offered, as unhelpful as the advice seemed.
‘No! Going to jail is not an option either,’ Sunday cried, and this time her tears spilled over.
‘It’s ridiculous!’ Albert said. ‘This war has killed thousands of our men, tens of thousands even, and yet they keep wanting to send more! Where is it all going to end? After they’ve killed off every last one of us?’
‘I’ll be okay,’ said Nolan, but his tone lacked conviction. ‘What do you say, Jack? It must be all but over now. Just a bit of tidying up to do?’
Jack didn’t know how to answer. Having been to the fronts of North Africa, Greece and Crete, where he’d observed battles at close range, followed by experiencing the military might of the German forces, and then on returning seen the broken minds and bodies of the young soldiers in Heidelberg Military Hospital, he felt conflicted. Certainly, in New Guinea, the battle would not be against the Germans but rather the Japanese. Yet recent stories of the atrocities that accompanied Japan’s military successes in the Pacific meant Jack already held fears for Nora, sorry for encouraging Treloar to give in to her hankering for an overseas posting. He would not forgive himself if anything should happen to her and only consoled himself with the knowledge that Treloar’s arrangements kept her well clear from the battlefields.
As for Nolan, his posting to New Guinea would not save him from the frontline, and Jack instinctively knew that the lad, with his penchant for art and poetry, did not belong on the front; worse, he would surely be a liability to those around him. However, such thoughts were not what Sidney needed to hear at this moment.
‘Yeah, mate. The Americans have brought in their submarines, so that should slow the Japanese down.’ Jack tried not to think about the Centaur, the hospital ship that had taken a hit from the Japanese the previous year, killing almost three hundred, or the stories that were coming out of the prisoner-of-war camps in Changi and Wake Island. Instead, he said, ‘The Allies are pushing back now. We’ve nearly got them. It’ll all be over soon.’
‘Sidney.’ Sunday had taken control of her wayward emotions, and now she showed the calculating demeanour of a strategist at the table of a council of war. ‘What we must do is hide you!’
John sighed loudly, and his response was cutting. ‘Sunday, that is bloody ridiculous. How on earth are we ever going to hide Sidney? Everybody knows that he lives here! If he goes missing, this is the first place they’ll come looking for him. He’s just going to have to man up and last the war out.’
‘No, John. He can’t.’ The decisiveness that Sunday had mustered seconds earlier was abandoned, and she sobbed as she spoke. ‘I don’t mean that we hide Sidney here. I am thinking that he goes to one of the regional towns. Takes on a new identity. At least we can think about it.’
‘Actually, a friend of mine, Doug, has offered me a place to hide out, if I want it,’ Nolan said quietly.
Jack listened, fascinated, as pictures came to his mind of Sidney bearing a fake moustache and glasses, lurking around the towns of country Victoria. Perhaps he could adopt a limp, hinting at a past injury. Make people think he’d already served his time and hope they’d leave him alone. Jack knew the public could be savage towards those who had not played their part for the war effort. The newspapers were full of stories about men—whose applications to join the services were declined for health reasons—being subjected to the most appalling of insults, even having white feathers thrust into their hands, branding them as shirkers–cowards–who refused to step up and do their bit for the nation. Jack occasionally felt the sting of judgement from strangers who did not know his service history and was very thankful that these days he wasn’t dependent on public transport, where derogatory confrontations abounded.
John continued, ‘For heaven’s sake, Sunday, they could lock Sidney up for years if he goes into hiding. The army takes a very serious view of soldiers who go absent without leave. There’s got to be another way!’ He was every bit as upset as his wife over the predicament that Nolan found himself in, and Jack could see that the closeness the three shared had only deepened.
Over the next few hours, the discussion evolved, assisted by the opinions of Joy and Albert, and a plan was formulated. Sidney would adopt a false name, ‘Robin Murray.’ Jack knew that Robin had always been Sunday’s nickname for Nolan but guessed none of them could ever have imagined the name would be used in this way.
They agreed that after his leave, Nolan should catch the train as usual, as though returning to his post, but instead he would go to his friend Doug’s house. That way, if army officials arrived at Heide, John and Sunday could honestly insist that Nolan had caught the morning train to the barracks, and they hadn’t heard from him since. They would insinuate that foul play must have beset the young artist.
Returning to Copelen Street later that day, Jack felt guilty for his role in encouraging Nolan to shirk his duty. He marvelled how Heide was like Montsalvat, each its own little universe, where it was easy to ignore the rules that everyone else followed. Had he done the right thing in supporting the plan for Nolan to escape his posting to New Guinea? Yes. He was sure he had—both for Nolan’s sake and also for the poor buggers over there who would have had him at their sides as they fought the Japanese. With a bit of luck, the war would be over soon; Nora and the soldiers in the Pacific and his old mates Snowy, Macka, Leo and Danny would be home again. And Nolan could happily continue to do what he was born to do: paint.
* * *
Jack enjoyed the days he spent at the barracks, sorting through hundreds of service unit diaries—more than he’d expected. As requested, he spent hours skimming through their contents, on the alert for interesting facts that could be cross-referenced to the other resources, helping Treloar in his bid to glean the fullness of the stories that they told.
Letters from Nora arrived regularly, reassuring Jack that she was indeed safe from imminent danger, though it did not stop him from writing back encouraging her to make her overseas service brief, a suggestion that she utterly ignored. Instead, she regaled him with stories of a lifestyle at total odds with the luxury of the Menzies, yet which she clearly loved.
Stationed at the army hospital in Finschhafen, she’d been delegated her own little tent and straw mattress, which she’d set up amid mud and creepy crawlies at a distance from the hut the nurses shared. She’d explained how, on arriving with her spotless uniform that had never seen so much as a scratch, and her captain pips and inflated wages, the nurses hadn’t accepted her; but thankfully, she’d found the surgeons more cooperative. They actually called her in when they had interesting operations for her to paint and invited her to join them when they were off duty, creating opportunities for her to sketch Medical Corps members relaxing.
Painting in the tropics was proving challenging, she’d added, and she had a constant battle with mildew forming on her canvases overnight because of the humidity. To Nora’s credit, she seemed to find humour in it all, and not for the first time, Jack admired her pluck. By her third letter, though, he could see that distance had not improved her relationship with Treloar, and she still itched to get closer to the frontline action.
* * *
‘That woman,' Treloar said, shaking his head. ‘Look at these paintings, Jack. Tea parties and a dance! What does that tell anyone about the war? I want to see the nurses at work! The ambulance drivers! Captain Heysen’s impossible. Anything I suggest to her, she misinterprets, and accuses me of controlling her! And look at these!’ John unrolled two canvases. ‘Men! I send her to paint women at work, and she paints men. And not satisfied that I have sent her overseas, now she’s demanding that I get her closer to the front––so she can access the men’s quarters and the battlefields. It’s unthinkable! How can I send a woman into men’s camps, with their open-air showers and male-only facilities? The AIF would have my head! It won’t be happening!’
Jack agreed with Treloar, not because he was worried about the notion of a woman in the man’s world of an army camp, but because he wanted her to be as far away from the Japanese soldiers as possible.
Nora’s letters to Jack expanded on the conflicts from her point of view.
Who the hell does Treloar think he is, telling me what I should paint? she demanded, before adding, You won’t believe it, but he’s told me off for giving away my work! How on earth does he know these things? Is someone here spying on me? Wouldn’t surprise me! I am sure that Treloar is hoping that I’ll slip up in some way, so he can bring me home! He wrote and told me that anything that I draw, no matter how slight, is the property of the Commonwealth. Truly, I detest the man! I don’t know how you can work with him!
Jack couldn’t help but feel sorry for Nora, and remembering the dozens of sketches that he’d so happily given away to his friends on Crete while he was being employed by the army, he also felt guilty. It was hard to be an artist and yet be told what you could and couldn’t paint, and even worse, be told that your paintings were no longer yours.
* * *
In late January, Jack received a phone call from the real estate agent. An offer had been made for his parents’ home which met their asking price. On behalf of his mother, Jack agreed that the offer should be accepted immediately. Hanging up the phone, he looked around the kitchen. He had eight weeks to empty the house of his belongings, tidy the shed and give everything a final clean in readiness for the new owners.
Suddenly, Jack’s life was busy with his work at the barracks, cleaning the house and searching for accommodation for himself. He considered buying a house. He had four years of wages from the army which he’d barely touched, and in addition, his mother wanted him to accept two thousand pounds from the sale of Copelen Street.
The real estate officer who’d managed the sale enthusiastically took Jack on a tour of available properties. However, each, with its floral wallpaper, family living rooms and children’s bedrooms, proved a poignant reminder of a life lost, and Jack’s desire to buy a house quickly waned.
Instead, thinking that it would be good to remain near to his parents, he accepted a lease on a nondescript apartment with two large bedrooms, barely fifteen minutes’ drive from them, on Acland Street in St Kilda.
A thought that constantly nagged Jack was that, once he left Copelen Street, Sofia would have no way of finding him again should she ever return to Australia. He knew he was being irrational, given the news he’d received from Genevieve Winters. Nonetheless, Jack had never shaken the hope that a second letter would arrive—a letter in Sofia’s own handwriting. A letter telling him that she’d never forgotten him and that leaving him had been a terrible mistake. Jack chided himself for such foolishness; it had been almost seven years since Sofia left, heaven forbid! Still, he decided he’d discuss the problem with the postmaster.
Explaining that his parents’ house had been sold, he asked, ‘What do I do about forwarding mail from Copelen Street to my new address?’
‘No worries, sir. Happens all the time. To which address are we redirecting your mail?’
‘Unit 6, 57 Acland Street, St Kilda.’
‘And how long would you like to have your mail redirected?’
‘Forever.’
‘No, no... We do three months, six months or a year.’
‘For as long as mail might be sent to Copelen Street for me, I want to ensure that I receive it, promptly.’ Jack could hear the growl in his voice as he spoke.
‘Well, how about we get you a post office box? Would that work?’
‘No, it won’t work. I don’t want to be driving here every day to check a post office box for the rest of my life, do I now?’
‘Okay, okay. Don’t get upset. I will see what I can do.’
A few minutes later, the clerk returned with a new suggestion, and Jack agreed that he would take a one-year subscription. In twelve months, the post office would send out a letter notifying him that the arrangement would expire. It was Jack’s responsibility to return there, complete a new annual redirect and pay the fee. It appeared to be the best solution available.
* * *
By late March, the house William and Marian had owned for almost three decades was all but empty. Over a four-week period, Jack had moved his bedroom furniture and belongings, taking up residence in his new apartment. Since then, in every spare minute he’d returned to Copelen Street to clean out the shed and wash the windows. When the real estate agent suggested he employ the services of a professional cleaner, a lady called Shirley whom they’d often used and who worked marvels to put the final polish on bathrooms, kitchens and floors for just a few pounds, Jack was quick to accept.
While cleaning the shed, he had selected a few tools that he thought worth keeping: an old axe for firewood, a hoe and mattock for the garden that he might create one day, and an ancient toolbox that his father once used. He transported these items to his parents’ shed in Beaumaris late one Sunday afternoon.
‘Jack, do you remember if you checked under the stairs at Copelen Street? I meant to have a look last time I was there, but forgot. I don’t think there would be much, but can you just have a look anyway?’ Marian asked.
Jack hadn’t even thought to look at the small space under the stairs. He agreed to make a last visit to the house that very afternoon, before slipping the keys into the real estate office’s letterbox in readiness for the official settlement on Tuesday, where Copelen St would be transferred to its new owners.
Two hours later, Jack opened the door, removed his shoes and tiptoed across the carpet. The aroma of eucalyptus filled the air, different from the delicate odour of lemon and lavender cleaning products his mother had used Jack’s entire life. It felt strange, as if already the house belonged to someone else, and he was trespassing.
Opening the small door under the stairs, Jack immediately saw his mother’s vacuum cleaner. Of course! He recalled how she’d left it for his use while he was living here, electing to purchase a newer, lighter model for her new home. Whilst Jack had regularly swept the kitchen and laundry floors, he had never once felt the need to vacuum the carpets of rooms that he barely entered.
Behind the vacuum cleaner, there was a large cardboard box labelled ‘curtains’. Jack dragged it out and opened it. It held the original curtains from the room he and Sofia had occupied. The ones that had been hanging for years until his mother redecorated the room with the blue floral print ready for his and Sofia’s return from Spain. The best place for these was the opportunity shop, perhaps even the garbage, Jack decided.
