“I’ll look into it,” the major said.
But pleasant as it was to have the stiff and somewhat unsure American officer there—he brought immense stores of presents from the PX—it was also trying at times. He often spoke of his Chicago experiences but inevitably wound up with his impressions of New Zealand. “At first I couldn’t see this country. ‘What in hell,’ I asked myself, ‘are these people doing in Europe when they can’t even protect their own country from the Japs?’ ”
“How did you answer yourself?” Barbara asked, leaning wearily on her elbows.
“Well, Anne explained about how you feel toward the British Empire, and although it seems pretty stupid, I have to respect you. This country has guts.”
At other times the major would dandle the baby on his knee and coo, “You’re an American kid, you are. You’re as good as any American baby born this year.”
Anne laughed at this when the major was gone and said she was sure he thought exactly like a Nazi: “This Polish baby had a German father, so it’s sacred to the Fuehrer!”
“I’m too tired to be amused by the supermen,” Barbara replied, but she was pleased when Major Harding insisted that she go to the movies with him. At the door, as Anne and Evelyn were admiring her before she left to join the major in the staff car, she suddenly held out her ugly red hands. The nails were broken from scrubbing floors, the cuticle had disappeared in lye and harsh soaps. “I’d almost forgotten I was a woman,” she said.
Evelyn cried, “Wait a minute!” and brought her a pair of gloves, but in the cinema Major Harding slowly pulled the gloves off and took her hands. His fingers felt the roughness and there was a moment of agonizing suspense, after which he drew the hand to his lips in the darkness and whispered, “You New Zealand girls fight right with your men.”
But the cinema was a dreadful bust, because it showed Errol Flynn winning the war in Burma and murmurs of protest rose to sharp cries of derision. Many New Zealanders walked out, and next evening Major Harding waited on the doorstep, poking his head around the corner of the door, asking, “Can an American come in?” He had the papers, which were filled with angry complaint against the stupidity of the American film.
“So help me,” he said. “I never knew there were any British troops in Burma.”
“We don’t want praise,” Barbara explained wearily. “Really we don’t. But we’ve fought on all the fronts in the world. It’s humiliating to see Enrol Flynn …”
“Thank heavens he wasn’t an American born!” Major Harding said. Then, awkwardly, he took a parcel from his pocket and handed it to Barbara. Eagerly she opened it and took out two bottles of an American hand lotion. At first she was outraged, and then her curiosity triumphed and she poured a little on her palm.
“I was outside the door last night when you were showing your hands,” he said. “It’s very hard for a stranger to understand a new country.”
Barbara laughed and said she hated girls who accepted presents from the American PX but there just wasn’t … She would have cried, but instead she ran into the bedroom and placed the bottles on her dresser. Then she said to the major that she forgave the Americans their PX’s and even their films.
There was one American, however, whom she could never forgive. Night after night brash young Max Murphy came to Ferrymead and sat with his feet on the ottoman, delivering his opinions of New Zealand. “Until I rode on a New Zealand train I didn’t know what murder was. When the train stops everybody piles out for tea and sandwiches”—he pronounced it sangriches—“and if you get caught in the middle you’re a dead duck.”
“We happen to like tea,” Barbara explained wearily.
“But why don’t you have diners on your trains? In America we do.”
“Custom, Max. You have diners. We don’t.”
“But it’s not diners I’m worried about,” he said sagaciously, gormandizing the sugar cookies that Evelyn dutifully brought him. “It’s the disrespect New Zealand men show their women.”
“Oh, dear!” Barbara sighed inwardly. “Here we go again! The puritanical American!”
“What I mean is,” Max explained, “like when the train stops. Men knock women over to get their tea first. Now in America …”
Barbara fled the kitchen and went in to attend her mother, but even in the darkened room she could hear Max belaboring the point that in America men respected women. Barbara had noticed this strange obsession before, the frontier-like worship of women coupled with totally confused attitudes toward sex: women were to be idolized, but they must jump into bed if a man whistled, and if they did they were pigs. Barbara tucked in her mother’s blankets and laughed nervously. “I’m glad I’m not an American girl. Imagine trying to please Max Murphy.”
When she entered the kitchen, Max was saying, “Thing that gets me is the immorality of New Zealand women. They have babies …”
He looked up and saw Barbara’s unmasked glare. Quickly he changed the subject and said, “You hear the story about the New Zealand waitress who was bragging about her new boy friend? ‘He comes to me table and orders tea, which I serves very hot. Do you think he pours it in his saucer to blow on it like an uneducated lout? No bloody fear! Not him! He leaves it in the cup and fans it real polite, wiv’ his hat.’ ” Max doubled up with laughter and Evelyn, delighted to have him with her in the kitchen, cried, “Max! Where do you get all your stories?”
That was enough for Barbara. “You shouldn’t use that word, Max.”
“What word? Bloody?” He roared with laughter and said, “In America there’s nothing wrong with bloody.”
“In New Zealand there is.”
“That’s what’s wrong with New Zealand …”
“I think it would be better if you didn’t come here any more, Max.”
Evelyn jumped up and cried, “Oh Barbara!”
“No need to get sore,” Max said pettishly. “Just because I said bloody.”
“It’s not that,” Barbara explained patiently. “It’s just that … Well, Evelyn has to study harder.”
“I don’t need to be hit by a ton of bricks,” Max said in bravado. “I get a hint. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“That’s right,” Barbara said firmly. She scooped up the rest of the cookies and stuffed them in a bag. “You take these, Max. You’ve been very sweet to Evelyn. Let us know …” She stopped short. She had been about to say, “Let us know if you ever get into any real fighting,” but she knew that in wartime one never goads that wound, not even in fun. “Let us know when you get safely home.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me,” Max said sheepishly. Then he shook Evelyn’s hand and said, “You’re a very good kid. For a New Zealander.”
When he was gone Evelyn burst into tears and cried, “That was dirty rotten! I’m going to see him whenever I want to.”
“Of course you will, darling!” Barbara assured her.
“Then why did you send him away?”
Barbara finished washing up the tea things and then sat with her sister. “Surely you and I know that Max was a dreadful person. You know he’s dull. Foolish. A braggart.”
Evelyn looked down at the floor for a moment and then admitted softly, “I know all that, Babs. But he’s the only boy I’ve ever met. They’re all away.”
Nothing Evelyn might have said could have moved Barbara so deeply. She wanted to console her sister, for Evelyn had spoken this day’s truth. Max Murphy was the best boy available. In the happy years when a girl should be knocking about with boys, listening to their boasts, surveying their natures, there had been none in the land; and now though she was old enough to fall in love, even the first-rate Americans had moved north to the terrible islands. Barbara said quietly, “The war’s got to end soon. Didn’t I used to see you walking with a very nice boy? Tommy somebody?”
Evelyn looked up quickly. “Did you think Tommy was nicer?”
“Yes, I did rather.”
“Oh, I did, too!”
“Where
is Tommy?”
“He’s in Italy.”
There was an awkward pause and Evelyn started to cry. “Tell you what!” Barbara said. “The minute Tommy gets home we’ll have him over here. Imagine! Hell be able to tell us all about Africa and Italy.”
Evelyn wiped her eyes and confessed, “I kissed Max. Several times.”
“Was it fun?”
“Yes … But I have to admit, he was a terrible drip.”
“I thought so.”
“He used to tell me every day, ‘If we hadn’ta moved in, this country woulda been sitting ducks for the Japs. Where were your men?’ Where in hell did he think they were?”
“Take it easy!” Barbara laughed.
“Oh ho!” Evelyn chuckled. “Look who’s telling me about Americans! Look who was kissing one half to death last night!”
Barbara blushed and said, “Major Harding is different.”
“I’ll say he is. Tell me the truth! Are you going to marry him?”
“We’ve not discussed it. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“I shouldn’t like to live in America.”
Evelyn changed the subject. “If you knew all along that Max was a drip, why didn’t you say so?”
“Because girls have got to discover some things for themselves.”
And next morning the Neville sisters discovered how long their emotions had been imprisoned. For Major Holland appeared at Ferrymead with the news that Max Murphy had insisted upon transfer north. “I guess he had a fight with Evelyn because he told me confidentially that all New Zealand girls were pigs.”
“We appreciate your telling us,” Anne said.
“But that isn’t what I came out for! Listen!”
They stood quietly in the kitchen and caught the sound of whistles blowing in the distance. Then car horns began to whine and Barbara saw women dashing out into the street.
“It’s over!” Major Harding said.
“What?” Anne asked desperately, afraid to form the words.
“The war! The war in Europe!”
Barbara sat down and put her hands over her face. England, their Home, had been saved. The crusade that had seemed so quixotic had ended as her father and husband had said it must end. This was radiant news, and in a moment she joined her sisters in their hectic celebration.
Twice Major Harding tried to remind the girls that the was in the Pacific was still critical, but Barbara and Anne would not consider this. That was America’s affair. Their war—the real war, as New Zealanders called it—was over! A great national sigh accompanied by prayers, riots, broken heads and raided saloons went up. The war was over!
Major Harding drove the girls down into the square, where a frenzy developed. After watching what seemed to him an irrational and premature celebration he excused himself. “I feel as out of place as an Englishman at a Fourth-of-July picnic.” Late that night the Neville girls went home, tired and hoarse. Their war was over.
Then the first contingent of soldiers arrived from the Italian front. Their transport docked at Wellington and there was some talk of flying the South Island troops down to Christchurch, but there was national protest, for it was recognized that a plane disaster, after five years absence overseas, would be intolerable. So the ferry was crammed with Enzedders, and in the morning it arrived at Littleton. The heroes of South Island marched onto a special train that hauled under the mountain and into Christchurch, where in the distance they heard a fine skirling sound: the bagpipes of home.
Slowly the train chugged to a halt, and the pipes played a lament for the missing dead, then a piercing march, and the men of Tobruk, Benghazi, Crete, Cassino swung into the square. They were neither cocky nor victorious nor afraid nor tearful. They were just men who had been away at their jobs for five years. There were not even any cheers, only the click of metaled heels upon the stones and the whispers of women. The Lord Mayor looked straight ahead, and Major Harding, the American representative, saluted stiffly. Then Barbara became aware that Evelyn was crying. The younger girl whispered, “Look, Babs. That’s Tommy. How tall he’s grown.”
The next days were like the radiant sun of autumn, when the harvest is in. Tommy appeared at the cottage and sat with his feet on the ottoman, eating all the sugar cookies the girls could bake. Major Harding was wonderful, drawing Tommy out about the war and admitting candidly, “You could never call me a hero, Tom. I sat right here in New Zealand, better fed than I’d have been at home.”
“I could of done with some of that food!” Tommy said.
“What was it like in Italy?” Evelyn asked.
“Ah, that was a tough one! Even the Yanks were stopped, and they had all the equipment.”
“Did you like Italy?” Barbara asked.
Tommy stuffed the last cookie into his mouth and said seriously, “I tell you, Mrs. Forbes, those Italian sheilas were disgraceful. They were so immoral you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I can believe it,” Barbara said, pouring some more tea.
Evelyn proudly produced a pair of socks she had knitted, but Tommy raised his hand imperiously and announced, “I’ll never wear another knitted thing in me life!”
“I’d like them,” Major Harding said, so Evelyn gave them to Barbara who gave them to the major.
Then Tommy made a startling proposal. “The Enzed Government is offering all returned men month passes on trains and planes. They want us to see the land we were fighting for. Wives can go along. So I saw the bloke and he said it would be all right if Evelyn went up to Auckland with me, and we’d be married at my uncle’s.”
“Of course she can go,” Barbara said promptly.
Anne asked, “Do you think it would be …”
“When did you plan to leave?” Barbara asked.
She and Anne took what money they had and bought Evelyn all the things contained in a proper trousseau. They dressed her in a neat tweed traveling suit and had her stand in the kitchen while they admired her.
“She’s exquisite,” Anne said proudly.
Then Major Harding drove them to the airport, where the young couple climbed aboard the plane. As it rose into the air, Barbara felt as if part of her were flying off, and she thought how apoplectic her father would have been, in his Navy blues, if his baby Evelyn had proposed leaving on a honeymoon, the last day of which would see the wedding; but a curious event distracted her from further contemplation of changing times, for at the airport she had picked up a Wellington paper.
For some months past it had been her habit to read the tragic advertisements that were beginning to appear in New Zealand papers: “Hennessy, Harold. First Marine Division. Does any New Zealand girl living near Paekakariki have a portrait of my son killed on Guadalcanal? Family has none. Mrs. K. L. Hennessy, Trafalgar Road, Shaker Heights, Ohio.”
Barbara read these strange and shadowy messages with macabre fascination, as if she had written them: “Forbes, Mark. Third New Zealand Force. Does any wine seller in Cairo remember Mark Forbes? If so communicate his wife. Please, please communicate, for she has forgotten how he smiled.”
But on this day she read: “Bates, Richard Gaines. First Marine Division. Did any New Zealand family know my son killed at Tarawa? If so please communicate with his mother, Mrs. R. D. Bates, Clifton Terrace, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.”
Quickly she crumpled the newspaper so that Anne would not see the message and upon arriving home she hurried to her room and locked the door. Then she wrote a long airmail letter: “My sister would never have told you this, Mrs. Bates, but she has a baby girl. I can’t describe how lovely this child is, nor how elfin-like she resembles your son. Lest you surmise this is a trick, let me assure you that Anne’s father was a distinguished captain in the Royal Navy. If you find back copies of newspapers you can read about him and the Nestor in their fight with the Graf Spee. I wish I could send a photograph of your son, but we have none. His memory was so alive with us that we had no need of pictures.”
She tried to guess what
Mrs. Bates in Oklahoma City would want to know, and the letter ran to three careful pages, ending, “Normally I would not tell you these things in a first letter, but I too lost my husband and my father in the war, and I think you will want to know the truth without preliminary courtesies.”
She posted the letter and then reported to the Manpower Commission. She said that with the pressures relieved she hoped she might be excused from further work at the insane hospital. The secretary stared at her icily and asked why she sought this favor.
“Because I’m very tired, and I must stay at home for a while.”
To her surprise the secretary stopped scowling and said, “And you’re right! You girls have done yeoman service. Time you let up.” He whipped out a thermometer and jammed it under her tongue. “You look sick,” he said.
But her temperature was normal and he growled, “Nothing but exhaustion. Go home and sleep.” Then he scowled at her again.
She stayed about the cottage, hoping to intercept any letters that might come from Oklahoma City, but she was outsmarted, for one morning a dignified gentleman in a black suit arrived and asked for Miss Anne Neville. When she appeared he handed her six hundred pounds. “It’s from the bank,” he said solemnly. “We received this cable.” He bowed and Anne read aloud: BELOVED DAUGHTER, COME HOME AT ONCE, BRING CHILD. FUNDS WITH THIS CABLE. MOTHER.
When the frocked messenger had gone, Anne broke into tears and cried, “Forgive me, Babs, for not telling you.”
“Not telling me what?”
“About my letter to Mrs. Bates.”
“What letter?”
“I hate secrets, but shortly after Evelyn left a girl at the store brought me an advertisement in the Wellington papers … I’ve saved it.” She produced a worn clipping: Bates, Richard Gaines. Quietly she confessed, “I was afraid Mrs. Bates might be some horrible …” Suddenly she pressed her hand to her face and cried, “The baby! How did she know I had a baby!” She grabbed the cable and read again BRING CHILD. “Oh! She’s had the American consul snooping …”