an
excerpt from...
Forsaking All Others
by William Stewart
CHAPTER ONE - A NEW BEGINNING
There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship,
communion or company than a good marriage. (Martin Luther)
Melbourne, Australia 1929
While the last minutes ticked away, Father Finlayson pressed a handful of money into John’s hand. ‘Here, son, take this. We all put together for ye. It’s no’ much. But we’ve got more than you.’
John’s mother took hold of John’s hands and, looking into his face, with tears wetting her cheeks, said, ‘Good-bye my son, I doubt we’ll see each other again. This time we’ll not follow you. We’ve found our resting place and here we’ll be laid to rest. But give my love to dear auld Scotland.’
Turning to me, she said, ‘Catherine, Lassie, I once said you’d not be right for my John, but I was wrong. Ye have been. Nobody could cast anything at ye at all. The way you’ve stood up to everything shows the stuff ye’re made of. We would hae liked ye to bide here wi’ us, but we ken that it’s a’ been too much for ye. Look after my boy, please.’
I embraced her. ‘Thank you, mother, that was a lovely thing to say. You’ve no idea how much I’ve longed to hear that.’
Turning again to John, and hugging him as if she would strangle him, his mother said, ‘You’ve got a good wife son, look after her.’
‘Aye, mother, I ken that.’ John buried his face in his mother’s coat, as she patted his back.
To Alex she said, ‘Now promise me you’ll write. If you don’t...’ She shook her fist. ‘Now give me a great big hug.’
‘Aye, all right, granny. I promise.’ Alex struggled not to cry. Any further conversation was broken up by the loud hailer, ‘All aboard.’
With Alex between us, John and I stood at the rail of the Jervis Bay as she steamed out of Melbourne harbour; our hearts aching with the pain of parting. We waved to John’s family until their waving handkerchiefs were no more than wispy blurs on the quayside. The boat gave several long blasts on its horn as it passed into open sea.
Melbourne became blurred and indistinct. John wiped his eyes. ‘They’ve gone, Cathy.’
Alex nudged him. ‘You’re not greetin’ are you, dad?’
‘No, Alex. Just the wind.’ John tried to laugh.
If only I could cry, it would be a relief. I felt as if the huge ice ball in my throat would choke me. Tears had been banished three years ago by a tragedy so severe that nothing could ever again make me cry.
A chill wind blowing in from the Arctic South made us shiver. John put one arm around me and the other around Alex, and we sought the warmth of below deck.
* * *
We had arrived in Australia in December 1922 buoyant and expectant. Seven years later, a few days before John’s twenty-eighth birthday, we were leaving, almost completely broken in spirit. Yet somewhere within us, we were to find the strength to rise out of the slough of despair into which we had been plunged.
Aunt Lucy’s legacy, plus the sale of our land paid for our passage and one year’s rent on a promising smallholding in Scotland. Had we suspected the heartache and hardship that lay ahead, we might have struggled to stay and brave out the terrible Slump that had hit Australia.
Two days out, while we were relaxing on deck, a middle-aged couple approached. ‘Hello!’ the man said, ‘we’ve met before, I think?’ John and I looked up, puzzled. John jumped up and exclaimed, ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Robertson!’
I was now on my feet, shaking hands.
‘George and Margaret, please. And, don’t tell me,’ George paused for a minute. ‘John and Catherine. Can’t remember your surname, though. They pulled the deck chairs into a circle.
‘Finlayson.’ John informed them.
‘This is not little Alex we saw at six months, is it?’ Margaret grinned,’ solemnly shaking hands with Alex. ‘You’ll not remember us, of course, but we made friends with your mum and dad on the way out to Melbourne.’
‘I’m no’ little now, Mrs Robertson. Am I?’
‘No, lad. You certainly are not. Here, stand up against me. My, you are a big lad.’
I thought that she was going to add, ‘and good looking’ with it, but she didn’t. Alex, at just seven, was handsome, no doubt about that. He got his height from me and his black wavy hair and his build from John. Though not as tall as me, John was broad, and his muscular arms and big hands showed the practical man he was. A man not afraid of hard work.
‘How has it gone for you, then?’ George inquired. ‘We’re going back on holiday. You were planning to start your own bakery business, if I remember rightly.’
John spoke. ‘Aye we were. But it didn’t work out. People didn’t want to know.’
With some bitterness I added, ‘They didn’t want stuff made by us Pommies. That was the truth of it. They’d rather buy from the big stores. John worked really hard, and it broke our hearts, day after day to throw out lovely cakes and bread for the pigs.’
‘In the end,’ John continued, sadness clouding his normally laughing eyes, ‘we lost everything.’
George and Margaret looked sad. Margaret laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, really sorry. How did you manage?’
George broke in, ‘I wish you’d taken that job I offered you in Perth, John.’
‘Aye, but... Anyway, we managed. I got work with McMaster, the construction company, and we managed to buy our own place, in Footscray...’ His voice trembled. I again felt the grip of that terrible pain, a pain so cramping that it threatened to suffocate me.
Alex. on the verge of tears, blurted out, ‘My wee brother died in the fire.’ His tears flowed, as he buried his face in John’s chest.
My tears froze on the day William died. I remember saying to John, as we waited in the hospital corridor, ‘Nothing before this or in the future will come anywhere near to this.’
I gave our friends the facts. ‘We had only just paid for the house. That was three years ago now. John was at work, I’d taken Alex across the paddock to have a nasty foot dressed at the clinic. William was asleep in his pram. We’ve no idea how the house caught fire. He was only ten months.’ I stopped, not wishing to burden this couple with our tragedy.
George sniffed and blew his nose.
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m truly sorry. What else can we say?’
George repeated his question, ‘How did you manage after that?’
John gulped and spoke for us both. ‘Not well at all. I haven’t worked for the past two years, aside from odd jobs. Catherine’s been the one that’s kept us going. McMaster let us have one of their houses at a cheap rent...’
‘Yes, and John’s family were marvellous.’ Seeing the question on the faces of our companions, I explained. ‘John’s whole family came out to Melbourne as well, one by one. They were wonderful to us.’
‘Aye, lass, but so were you. Don’t forget that.’ John turned to George and Margaret. ‘You knew she was a singer? well she went skivvying at first, then got a job at the Harbour Restaurant, at nights, singing.’
I smiled. ‘We were glad of that money, I can tell you.’
What I didn’t tell them was the humiliating experience of singing to people who carried on talking and laughing, and barely had the good grace to applaud. But, the restaurant paid well.
I went on with the story. ‘Then one of my aunts died and left me a nice legacy. That made up our minds. We would go back to Scotland.
‘I didnae want to leave.’ Alex broke in, with tears in his voice.
‘Why was that, Alex?’ Margaret asked.
‘I like swimming, and it always snows in Scotland. And all my friends...’ He struggled in vain to hold back his tears.
‘Well,’ said George,’ putting his arm around him, ‘You might get a surprise. There are some fine swimming pools in England...’
‘We’re going to Scotland.’
‘Aye, so you are.’
Addressing John and me, Mr Robertson added. ‘Maybe you feel you haven’t much to enjoy, after all that’s happened.’ He stopped, as he looked at the horizon. ‘But one day you’ll be all right. You see. Now Margaret, we’d best be off and get something to eat. See you again.’
They went off, waving. We looked after them, waving and smiling. ‘What a nice couple, John. They’ve really cheered me up. What about you?’
‘Aye. Strange seeing them again. I could do wi’ something to eat, as well. What about you, Alex?’
‘Starvin’!’
‘Typical!’ We laughed as we went in search of the dining hall.
We met up with the Robertsons regularly, even though they were First Class, while we were anything but!
* * *
One day, soon after we set sail, when talking to our new friends, Peter Short, the Purser, approached and asked permission to join us. After normal pleasantries he addressed me. ‘Mrs Finlayson, I hope you don’t mind, but I know that you’re a singer?’
A knowing look passed between him and the Robertsons.
‘I am. Why?’
‘We’re planning a concert at the end of the week and wondered if you might sing for us?’
‘I’d be delighted. It would be mainly classical or ballads. What do you think?’
‘Fine. We’ll look forward to that. By the way, the pianist is Peggy Vail. I’ll send her to you. There will be a fee, naturally.’
When he had gone, I turned to the Robertsons, ‘You wouldn’t have had anything to do with this, would you? You naughty things!’
They grinned, ‘Of course! We remembered hearing you on the way out.’
* * *
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The MC clapped to draw attention to himself, ‘may I have your attention for the next guest. Last year, I think it was, while on shore leave in Melbourne, I visited the Harbour Restaurant, and was treated to a superb meal. But what I most remember about that evening is the delightful singing of our next guest. Put your hands together for Catherine Finlayson.’
While the audience clapped politely, I mounted the platform to stand beside the MC. He held up his hand, and the noise subsided. ‘I want to tell you just a little about Catherine, before she sings to us. Some of you may have enjoyed the London concerts of Blanche Marchesi, the celebrated Wagnerian singer and teacher. Catherine had the good fortune to train with Miss Marchesi. Over to you, Catherine.’
John looked at me and smiled. Afterwards he told me he was thinking how attractive I still was, even though I had lost weight in Australia. That, for John, was quite a speech! He approved of my simple blue frock, bought second-hand at a charity shop in Melbourne; and I was wearing my hair the way John liked it, swept up and held with a black ribbon. He said, ‘I always think your pince-nez give you a distinguished look.’ I’m not sure that I wanted to look distinguished!
I felt calm. I had never been afraid of platforms, nor of audiences. I waved aside the microphone. Blanche had insisted, ‘The properly produced voice can be heard in the largest hall without these newfangled aids’.
‘Thank you for your welcome, ladies and gentlemen.’ I smiled towards the back of the hall where John and Alex, and the Robertson’s were sitting. ‘I would like to start with the pieces I sang for my audition with Blanche, at the time in my final year at finishing school in Lyons, hoping to make singing my career. When I left there, although I’m not sure if I was finished or not...’ I paused for the laughter to subside. ‘The two pieces were Let the bright Seraphim from Samson, and Annie Laurie.’
* * *
Regularly, during the journey, after that, I was asked to sing. Sometimes I would ask for requests, and it was at the concert of the final night when George Robertson requested My Ain Folk. As the song went on, I felt a mounting emotion being transmitted between the audience and me. There was a very strong Scottish contingent present, and this song was getting at them, many who, unashamedly, wiped away tears. The blatantly sentimental song, touched their hearts and with a wave of my hand, I had the whole audience joining in the final chorus.
As we got into our bunks that night, I joked, ‘Well, John, I may not have had the training for a working wife, but something has come in useful.’
‘Aye, Lass, and it was that that kept us going. God’s given you a grand voice. He really has.’ As I lay in my bunk, I thought of the years of arduous training, but particularly of the first contact with Madame Marchesi.
Copyright © 2001 William Stewart