Hate (a story of fiction)

Daniel felt happy as he walked with his young wife and two small children. 

Strolling ahead of his family, along the cliff top, he gazed out over the ocean and marveled at its beauty: a vast expanse of sapphire blue sparkling in the sunlight.

The path he followed provided an equally glorious view of rolling hills and verdant farmland.  It was late spring and flowers splashed colour across the grassy fields:  reds and oranges and yellows. Majestic eucalypts dotted the landscape and, between their branches, birds swooped and darted and chirped.  Overhead, the sky was clear and blue and endless. 

The day was warm, but not hot.  A soft breeze blew at intervals, tussling Daniel's hair and caressing his face.  

Daniel drank in the charms of the world around him.  He soaked in the beauty and the happiness of his family and his life.  As he walked, he closed his eyes, for a moment, so that he might feel nature about him even more acutely:  the sounds, the warmth, the golden-pinkness of light as it filtered through his lids.  

Walking, in this way, he suddenly felt his right foot slide on the gravel of the path.  His foot slipped down the edge of the cliff, gliding without resistance across the loose stones and rocks.  He felt his body begin to fall. 

Instinctively, he swung his arms about.  He was desperate to grab anything which might save his life.  Unfortunately, there was nothing.  His arms found nothing …   

As he continued to stumble and slide, he soon realised that he had passed the point where he might hope to recover his footing and his position up on the path.  He knew, then, that he would fall to his death.  There was nothing left for him to do.

Sharp rocks cut into his knees and stabbed at his arms and  hands as he fell. His vision was a blur of blue and grey.  Sky, water and rocks flashed before him as he tumbled downward.  He could make no sound.  It all happened so fast … and yet so slowly.  

When he had fallen a few meters,  he felt a jolt as his  legs struck a solid piece of earth  jutting from the face of the cliff.  Branches and dirt and rock - broke his fall. It was only a tiny ledge with a straggly bush growing from it.   But Daniel grabbed and clutched desperately at the branches and leaves. He held on with all the strength he could muster.  His knuckles were white with his grip.  His body was tense. He was almost too scared to breath.  He kept as still as he could.  Only his mind was racing.    

He had been given a short reprieve from death.  He knew that the ledge and the bush  wouldn't hold him for long.  A few minutes, maybe.  But long enough for him to think about what he could do next.    

As he stood flat up against the rock-wall of the cliff, his feet clinging, within his sandals, to the tiny ledge, his heart pounding in his chest, he became aware that his wife was calling to him from the top of the cliff - a few meters above his head.

'Daniel!' she screamed.  'Daniel, hold on!  Someone's coming! There's someone coming!  He's running up the hill, Daniel!  I think he's come to help.  Hold on!'

Daniel could feel his feet begin to slip from the ledge.  He heard cracking sounds as  the thin branches of the bush began to give way under his weight.  Perspiration dripped from his forehead and into his eyes.  He looked down beyond his sandals. He watched the waves  crashing and foaming on the rocks far below him.  He knew that he was looking down towards his death.  He could imagine his body breaking like a fragile egg when he hit the rocks.

His wife called out again, 'Daniel!'

He looked up, grateful for the distraction from the terror waiting for him below.  He could see someone standing next to his wife.  It was a man. He was young and tall and solidly built.  He carried a thick yellow rope looped around and over his shoulder. 

The man called down to Daniel.  'I can help you!' he said.  'This rope is strong enough for me to pull you up!  I've tied a loop in the end.  You can put your foot into the loop!  I'll pull you up!'

Daniel felt overwhelmed with relief.  He might be saved.  He might live to see his children grow up.  He might live to finish his life with his dear wife.  He couldn't believe his luck.  He knew that without this stranger he would die. His wife and children would never have been able to pull him up from below the edge of the cliff.  Even if they were in possession of a rope.  Which they weren't.   He was enormously grateful to this man for helping him. 

The young man threw the rope down to Daniel.  Daniel tied the rope around his waist and then he put his foot into the loop made in the end of it.  As he did so the last piece of tiny ledge gave way.  Daniel's life was now entirely dependent on the rope… and the kind young man who was saving him.

Looking up at the cliff top, Daniel  smiled to his wife and his young children who were watching as he was being pulled to safety.  They cheered him on and encouraging him to keep going.  

Daniel's gaze then shifted to the young man who was rescuing him.  The stranger groaned, intermittently, as he pulled with all of his strength, in his efforts to bring Daniel back to his family. He was a large and muscular young man.  Daniel thought that he either lifted weights at the gym frequently, or he was engaged in work which kept him very fit and strong.  He wore jeans and a green woollen jumper.  His hair was blond and cut short.  His skin was tanned.  He had a kind and determined face.

As Daniel neared the top of the cliff, on the cusp of safety, he became aware that the young man rescuing him had blue eyes.  

Daniel gasped.  He felt a tight band clamp around his head - like a vice. He felt the muscles within his limbs and in his face stiffen.  He felt physically sick.  He thought that he might even vomit.  He began to hyperventilate and he felt his heart racing again.  Rage filled every fibre of his being. 

This man who was rescuing him ... had blue eyes!  Daniel had one hate in the world.  He was generally a reasonable person. Yet, there was one thing that he hated beyond reason itself.  One thing that he detested and had done so for as long as he could remember.  And that one thing - which filled him with such hate and fury that he found it hard to control himself - was blue-eyed people. 'Blue-scum' - he called them.  The scourge of humanity.  Disgusting, vile, filthy rodents!   

His whole family, as he grew up, hated any person with  blue eyes.  It was a well-know fact, known to Daniel and all of his friends and family and school class-mates and work colleagues:  blue-eyed people were sub-human.  Blue-eyed people were stupid, untrustworthy, filthy, thieving maggots.  Worse than rats.  Daniel often said that he could live with rats - but never could he live anywhere near 'blue-scum'.

If Daniel ever found himself near to anyone with blue eyes he would punch them.  Just like that.  He'd grab a bat or a rock or anything that might do the most damage - and he'd hit them as hard as he could.  Everyone he knew did that.  They were doing the world a favour;  running the disgusting and sub-human 'blue-scum'  out of town.  The world would be better if they were all dead! Fact!

His favourite joke was:  'What do you call a thousand blue-eyed people at the bottom of the ocean?  A good start! '

Now a blue eyed person, a piece of 'blue-scum,' was saving his life!

Daniel felt revulsed …and  confused.  

He wasn't sure that he could live a life which had been saved by a blue-eyed person.  He didn't think that he could ever be happy again - knowing that his life was indebted to a piece of dirty scum with blue eyes.  

He looked again at his wife and children.  Their brown and green eyes were filled with love for him.  They were smiling and laughing and encouraging him - as he came near to the top of the cliff - and safety.

He looked again at the young man with blue eyes. He wondered if he could live with the cognitive dissonance created by hating his saviour? Alternatively, he wondered if he  might ever relinquish his hatred of people with blue eyes? 

Disappointment and sadness swept through him. Daniel was in no doubt about the answer. He inched his foot from the loop in the rope as he watched the faces of his wife and children - still hopeful and happy. 

His hands shook and tears filled his eyes as he untied the rope from around his waist.  He loosened his grip on the rope.  

It pained him to see the expressions on the faces of his family change to anguish and horror. He heard his wife scream.  He heard his children's voices desperately calling out to him: 'Daddy! Daddy...' 

He let go of the rope.

As he plummeted to his death … he screamed out his last words before he hit the rocks: 'Filthy blue-scum!'

Daniel had managed to preserve his most valued possession: his hatred.  

Everything else he had lost...

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Firstly - I have blue eyes!  Clearly that's not the point of the story.  If you don't believe me - I have my photo on my blog site now.  My eyes are as blue as the sky.

People can hate anything and anybody. 

They can hate and teach their children to hate.  They can teach hatred in schools and act it out through violence and intolerance and death: their own and their community's and their country's and the death of other people. 

The hate can extend to people they don't even know personally.  It is not personal.  It is irrational and blinding hate. 

The 'eye-colour' scenario is derived from the famous exercise by the American school teacher, Jane Elliot, which she performed on third-grade school children - following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr.  (You might like to Google it)

As I have said many times, it is my belief that we are souls with bodies - rather than bodies with souls.  A kind and loving soul is where true beauty lies. Regardless of all the other stuff  about us physically or in our politics or in our religions.

My topic is hate.  A strong negative emotion which often results in behaviour which is destructive and cruel.

Intellectual ideas - cause people to think and discuss.

Emotional ideas lead people to act.  Negatively or positively - depending on the nature of the emotion.  Love or hate or fear and so on …

My short story was inspired by the horrible image of hatred demonstrated in a photograph on the front page of my newspaper - The Australian - yesterday. The image has shocked and repulsed the civilised world - as was evidenced by the extensive discussions it generated on social media and the call to action (typical of emotional topics and ideas) it generated amongst politicians and media identities and many civilised people who were so appalled by it. And rightly so!

The image was of an Australian little boy - aged about seven years - holding the severed and blackened head of a decapitated young man.  The little boy was so small that he required two hands to hold the head.  He stood smiling at the camera while his father took the photo and then uploaded the image onto his twitter account.

The details of why and who and how of such an event could never justify it.  Like any form of abuse (and this is atrocious abuse on many levels - not just of the murdered young man but of the small young boy forced to hold the severed head) - there is never any excuse or explanations which could vindicate it.  None. Not in any way.

I have been a doctor for over 25 years and it is my experience that most people are good and kind.  I have found, after treating tens of thousands of people from many different demographics and races - love is overwhelmingly more prevalent than hate. I am constantly inspired by the kindness and goodness of people.

There are endless examples of bravery and noble acts of love and kindness.  One example was when the  bomb exploded at the Boston marathon.  Video footage was shown to the world, on social media, of an act of hatred followed by love and kindness - as many people ran toward the danger - to help.  These brave and loving people risked their own lives in order to help other people - regardless of whether or not they knew any of the people they ran to help.  

Hate is a choice.  Hate is a waste of one's life.  Hate is misery, darkness, anger, ugliness, disrespect, destructive.

Love is also a choice.  Love is hope, peace, happiness, joy, warmth, respectful, giving.  

If a metaphor for hate is fire: destructive and ruthless and deadly; then a metaphor for love is water:  reparative and soothing and vital to life.  

Fire might be loud and intimidating and violent - while water is more often quiet and gentle and unobtrusive.  Yet when one meets the other - water will always overcome fire - just as love will eventually overcome and extinguish hate.  

The brave and loving people in the world, now and through history, have made it so.

Love is quietly stronger.  I think an understanding of this brings hope and  inspiration to all of us reeling from the terrible and hateful events which have unfolded in the world in recent times.

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If you found this story helpful or interesting - please share it with others.  I hope they may find it interesting and a topic worth thinking about.

Windows of Time: Part two ( a short story of fiction in 3 parts)

The cursive on the page was beautiful:  black ink on aged and yellowed paper.  It read:   Hilda Miller  Journal  1945

Kelly was sitting at her kitchen table.  A cup of hot tea rested on the white laminate before her.  Next to the tea sat the three notebooks.  Two weeks had passed since she had found the books under floorboards in the house. Two weeks had passed since she had read from the first book.  However, renovations and family commitments had kept her busy. Until now.  

All was quiet on the Monday afternoon that Kelly finally came to sit down to read from the second journal. It was the start of the third week into her six weeks leave from the hospital.  Her son, Edward, six, was in school; her husband, David, was at work; and Liam, three, was watching cartoons on the television in the lounge room.  

She took a sip of her tea and a deep breath and she turned the page.  

Tuesday  January 9th 1945

I haven't  written in my journal for some years. Not since the worst years of the depression - specifically 1931 - when my dear friend and neighbour Mrs Judith Winter was evicted from her home.  I watched her and her husband and children sit out on the footpath, across the road.  They sat there for hours with their few meagre possessions.  They  had nowhere to go.  Judith and I had been friends for years.  The bailiff and  two policemen came with their batons and their sledgehammers.  They were thrown into the street. Into the cold. I couldn't help her.  I couldn't stop any of it.  I  never saw her or her family again after that night.  I missed her so much. I still do. I didn't want to write about such misery anymore.  So, I stopped writing my journal.

But things are truly awful now.  I fear that I will go mad if I don't talk about what has happened.  John is beside himself with worry and I can't talk to him right now.  I have no-one else in whom to confide. So I will write my thoughts here in my journal again.  I will try to make sense out of all that has happened since yesterday.

My boys are missing!   

I am losing my mind with worry!

I received  the telegram yesterday morning.  A young man - in a soldier's uniform - knocked on the front door.  I was in the kitchen making jam.  It had been a normal Monday.  I was thinking about my boys - as I have done during  every hour of every day since they enlisted  five years ago. I was imagining them both in their smart air-force uniforms over there in England.  I imagined them looking after each other - as they have always done since they were children.

Tom has always followed Edward.  Everything Edward did - Tom followed. Ever since he could walk - Tom has followed his older brother.  And Edward never minded him tagging along. They have always been so close.  Edward always took care of Tom.  And, as Tom got older, he looked out for Edward as well.  

Even when Edward studied Medicine, at the Adelaide University, Tom followed him there - and studied Medicine as well. Tom hoped that he and Edward could practice medicine together, eventually,  in their own rooms.   

Then, when Edward talked about enlisting - Tom wanted to go too.  Tom wanted to look out for Edward over there.  'Keep him out of trouble,' he said.  Tom was only 18 years old and in his first year of Medicine when the boys both enlisted.  It was  May 1940 . Five years ago.

John and I didn't want them to go.  We wanted to keep our boys safe.  They were both so young. Tom was only 18 and Edward was just 20.  John and I  told them  they could help people by becoming doctors.  We told them they didn't have to go to war.  Maybe they could enlist after graduation.

But they argued that John had fought in the Great War at a similar age.  They said their dad had deferred university  to go and fight for his country. So, why shouldn't they?  Although I told them that John had never gone back to finish his degree after he came home.  He was older, after the war; he married me, and then there were the children and bills to be paid.  We needed an income.  He joined the Tramways and became a driver.  I told the boys they should try and get their degrees first.   

But  we couldn't stop them.  Many of their friends had already enlisted.  They told us they would join up no matter what we said.  I knew that they would too.  They are so stubborn and determined.  Both of them.  They promised me that they would write to me every week.  They mostly did, too.  I often waited for the postman at the gate.  I would do a bit of gardening around the front fence, while I waited.  If he didn't have a letter from them on any given day, then I would ask him to please check his mail-bag again.  Just to make sure he hadn't missed one - right at the bottom of the bag.  

I read their letters over and over - until the paper would fall apart.  The boys always  told me that they were watching out for each other.  They were in the same squadron - so that was possible to some extent.

Now, both boys are lost .  God forbid they are both dead.  I don't think I could cope if my boys were both dead. 

The awful news came yesterday.  I  heard a knock at the front door.  I didn't know who it could be.  I wasn't expecting any visitors.  I opened the door - and standing there was a young man in uniform.   He took  his hat off .  He stood looking at me.  Just standing there.   He was holding an envelope in his hand.  A telegram. I looked into his face; into his eyes.  I wondered if he knew what was in the letter he held?  Was it bad news?  Weren't they always bad news?

I couldn't breath. I thought that my heart had stopped beating.  I felt weak - like I was sinking into the ground.  I wanted to yell:  'No!  Take your telegram away from me!  I don't want it!  I don't want your bad news.  Not about my sons!

But he held the paper out to me. He pushed me to take it from him.  It was like he was pushing a live grenade at me.  A grenade that would destroy my world.  Destroy my life. Take from me all that I  live for ... 

I took his letter.  It was so hard to open.  My hands were shaking.  I couldn't see; my tears blinded me.   I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my house-dress.  I had to read the words. In my head - I begged God: Please!  Not my boys!  Please, let me keep my sons!  Let me die - but not my sons!

I read the telegram:  ' … regret to inform you … Tom and Edward … missing in action … presumed dead.'  

Both Edward and Tom! Their planes shot down over France.  A battle.  Many casualties.  Both boys …  Both ...

 I dropped to the ground.  My face in my hands.  Tears.  Shock.  My voice.  I heard my voice.  Howling.  A single word I heard myself scream: No!  The soldier tried to help me up.  He tried to be kind.   But what could he say?  What could anyone say?  What would his mother do if she received this news about him?

My world has stopped now.  I can't write to my sons anymore.  Where would I send a letter? They are missing. I can't send them my knitted scarves and gloves and socks. I can't sit in the front room with John, in the evenings, while I knit for them and we talk about when they might come home.  

I imagined my boys keeping warm in the socks and gloves I sent  them.  With each stitch I gave them my love and my wish that they would stay safe and come home again. How can I tell them how much I love them now?  How can I send them my love anymore?   Where are they ?  I can't let myself believe that my boys are dead.  I can't give up hope.  I can't abandon my boys ... Tom and Edward.   

Their planes fell from the sky.  How could they survive that?  They would have had parachutes.  Maybe they've been injured and someone in France will help them.  Maybe, another mother like me, with her sons away fighting in the war - is helping my boys now.  She might be tending to their wounds, and keeping them warm, and cooking for them … 

I will go mad if I lose hope that my boys are still alive - somewhere -

Kelly was startled by Liam calling out to her from the lounge-room.  He wanted a drink.  She got up from the table, opened the fridge door and pulled out a carton of orange juice. 

As she poured the drink for her son, she imagined Hilda writing in her journal 60 years earlier.  In this very kitchen. World War II was then still raging and her sons were lost and possibly dead.  Kelly could see her now - alone in this house.  So very alone in her world. A clock ticking on her mantle. The chooks out in the yard.  Sitting at a wooden table - right here in this room.  

Kelly also imagined  Edward and Tommy - in earlier years, before the war, when they were both little boys, like her sons now, running and playing in these rooms.  Getting under Hilda's feet as she cooked, or cleaned the house, or washed and ironed the clothes. So much emotion and life - played out within these walls.

Kelly brought Liam his drink.  She picked him up off the couch and hugged him. 'I love you, darling,' she said and she kissed his forehead.  Liam cuddled into his mother.  He was enjoying this new, happier and more relaxed version of his mother.  So different to the frazzled mother that he rarely saw - when she was working in the hospital every day.  He wrapped his arms around her waist and he snuggled into her warm chest.

At that moment Kelly's  phone rang.  She pulled the compact gadget from her pocket and looked at its screen.  It was David.  He'd left early in the morning, before she got up, and he'd hardly spoken the night before, other than to say that he was going to bed.  

Kelly had noticed, especially in the last few weeks, that he seemed particularly withdrawn and distant.  Something about his manner had definitely changed.  It was as if he was keeping something from her, she thought.  A secret of some kind.  She knew that he had been deliberately avoiding her, as well, and he often came home after midnight, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes. And she knew that he didn't smoke.  So, where was he going that he would smell so strongly of cigarettes? 

Working late at the office didn't make sense, she thought.   David worked a medical-roster in his practice. Like all the other doctors.  Eight hour shifts.  Sure, there would be some paperwork to finish after seeing patients all day.  But nothing at work could explain how late he was getting home.  Kelly, as a doctor herself, knew what general practice hours were.  They weren't the hours that David now kept.

She had been vaguely cognisant of all of these things before this time.  But she'd been so tired and busy, working long hours at the hospital, she hadn't had the energy or the time to question her husband about what he was doing, or to think too deeply about any of it.  Now, after two weeks off work, she could give the situation some proper thought. 

Kelly answered her phone: 'Hello.'

'David here.' His voice seemed cold and annoyed, as usual.   'I'm calling to say I'll be home very late tonight.  I might even sleep over in the office.  I have a lot of work to finish.  I'm not sure when I'll be home tomorrow, either. Bye.'  

Kelly couldn't respond.  He'd hung up.  

The phone call was ridiculous. Like everything else about David's behaviour recently, she thought.  Why on earth would anyone sleep over in a little office at work? David's office consisted of only a desk and a chair and a hard lino floor.  It didn't make any sense.  Also, the drive home was no more than 20 minutes.  He'd have to think she was to be a complete fool to believe that he was staying in his office for the night.  

The stakes had been raised.  Kelly couldn't ignore the changes in David any longer.  She needed to find out  what it was that  he was doing after work most nights of the week.  Maybe, she thought, during the afternoon, she could start to fish around and find out what was going on.

Although, looking at the clock, she realised that she had to go and pick Edward up from school.  It was 3.30pm. She decided that she would start to sort things out when she got home again.  She grabbed her keys, picked Liam up off the couch, and ran out the front door.

Arriving home an hour later, Kelly decided that she would allow herself half an hour to have a hot cup of tea and a short rest before she started to work out the David-issues.  She would check his drawers and his receipts and his bins and make a few phone calls.  She would work things out after a little rest and another short read of Hilda's journal.   

Edward and Liam were watching television and playing together in the lounge. Kelly could hear them laughing. She carefully placed her tea on the kitchen table, sank into a wooden kitchen-chair, and opened the second of the notebooks.  It was the journal from 1945 again.  She opened the book to where she had left off reading earlier in the day.

Tuesday 2cnd November 1945

It's Edward's birthday today.  He's 26 years old.  A happy day - for the first time in so long. I thought  that I would write again in my journal - on a happy day like this. 

I'm  cooking a lovely tea for Edward tonight.  I've been saving my ration tickets, in the last few weeks, so that I would have enough butter and sugar to bake him a birthday cake - with icing and some candles.  The cake is cooking right now - in my new electric oven.  It smells very nice. I also managed to save enough ration tickets to buy a whole leg of lamb from the butcher, Mr Mc Donnell.  I told him all about Edward's birthday, yesterday.  He said to wish Edward a Happy Birthday from him.  He said that he remembers Tommy and Edward in his shop when they were still wearing short-pants.  How fast time passes. 

I've  bought Edward a present  which I've wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.  I'll give it to him after tea.   It's a record for the gramophone.  Edward likes music.  We all do.  After tea, we often sit in the front room and, when we're not listening to the wireless radio, we wind up the gramophone and put on some records.  John likes to play his violin along with the orchestra music: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin -   He plays so beautifully too.  

Edward likes the more modern music - swing and big bands and popular music - Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald. So I've bought Edward a record with Glen Miller and his big band.  We can listen to it after tea. 

I feel some happiness returning to my life now, after what has been one of the saddest years of my life.  Maybe that is why this is only my second entry in this journal for the entire year of 1945.  But today is a happy day.  It is my boy's birthday.  And he is home and he is safe now. The war ended more than two months ago.  We are all safe from it now.

I've had my hair done yesterday, at the hair-dresser's, for the special occasion of Edwards birthday tea.  It is styled in a Queue curl:  my hair is curled underneath at the back and pulled up on the top of my head on both sides.  Very modern and a little bit glamorous - like Rita Hayworth or Katherine Hepburn in the films. Although, I'm now almost 50 years old.  I can't be very glamorous at my age.  I'll leave that to the young girls. 

I last wrote in this journal after the first telegram came in January.  Both Edward and Tom were missing then - when their planes were shot down over France.  They were missing  … and  presumed dead.  John and I were beside ourselves with worry and grief.

The weeks that followed the  telegram were awful.  Waiting.  Uncertain.  It was hard to grieve because my boys were missing and only 'presumed' dead.  I couldn't give up hope that they were still alive. I wouldn't let myself grieve for them.  I had to stay hopeful that they were  still alive.

Then three weeks after the first telegram - a second telegram arrived.  Edward was alive!  He had been injured and he had been retrieved to London.  His right leg was broken and infected. He was being  treated in a hospital with a new medicine discovered during the war - called 'Penicillin'.  It is a new 'antibiotic'  and it has only become available in the last year or two.  But it meant that Edward's infected leg didn't need to be amputated and it meant that Edward would be less likely to die from his infection.  Edward recovered from his injuries, although he now requires a walking stick and he has an obvious limp.  He came home to us in June.  

The neighbours pooled their ration-tickets, when he came home, so we could give him a welcome home party. We made paper decorations from newspapers - which we hung in the dining-room and the front sitting-room, and we made a 'Welcome Home' banner for the hallway, which we hung from the fret-work, and we put colourful balloons in all of the rooms and on the front-verandah for his return. 

Many of my neigbours brought cakes and sausage-rolls and lemonade and sandwiches.  They spent days cooking for his party. John went with Mr Symonds, his supervisor at work, in his automobile, to pick Edward up from the Adelaide railway-station.   

While it was lovely to have Edward home - it was sad when he walked in through the door without Tom.  It was sad to think that our Tom would never again follow his brother.  I could see that Edward felt it too. He tried to be brave and hide his sadness from us. But I could see it in his face and in his eyes - when he thought that no-one was watching him. He would, for a moment, let his 'brave' mask fall.  But, we all knew that without Tom it could never be a completely happy home-coming. 

I kept imagining that Tom would bolt through the door, at any moment, and tell us all, in his usual happy style, that there had been some mistake and he was actually fine and he had come home.  I imagined Edward and Tom embracing …

The telegram confirming Tom's death came a month after the telegram about Edward.  Tom's body had been identified.  He was buried in France. He was only 23 years old.  His few possessions were sent home.  There wasn't much.  But, he did have a letter, for his father and me, half written and sitting in his locker at the air-base.  Typical of Tom - always the comedian - he had some funny stories about his adventures on leave - out on his push-bike in the English country-side or with his many friends … and of course with his brother, Edward.  

His last letter remained unfinished but he had already addressed the envelope and he had attached a stamp.  As I always did - I steamed  the stamp off the envelope - and I read the private message that Tom had written in tiny letters on its back  - where the censor's eyes would not find it.  Tom and Edward always sent us private little messages on the backs of the stamps.  Tom's last message on the stamp read:  'love you both - forever in my heart.'   

In the months that followed the news of Tom's death, I was so wrapped up in my own grief that  I never stopped to notice how John was suffering.  It's obvious now - but I was so sad then. I pushed him away from me. I would pull my blinds down and lie in my bedroom in the dark for most of the day - whenever I could.   

It was my neighbour, Edith Stewart, who alerted me to John's depression.  I am so grateful to her for talking to me about him.  She brought me a cake, as she so often did in those early weeks, and she got me out of bed and sitting with her in the kitchen.  She made me a hot cup of tea and she hugged me.  Then she told me of her concerns about John.   

She told me that her husband, Fred, had seen John drinking heavily in the local pub until closing, at 6pm, most nights of the week.  Fred had told her that John would cry and sit alone at a corner table almost every night.  He seemed to be  drinking just to get drunk… and forget.   He'd even been missing work, at that time.  He'd go to the pub or just wander about in the parks around the city.  

Fred worked as a driver on the trams with John and, at that point, Fred and some of John's other friends at work had been able to cover for him when he didn't come in to work.  They had made up excuses to explain his absences to the management staff, or they'd done some of his shifts, if he didn't come in to work. They'd even sent him home again - if he came to work drunk.

Edith then had some even more concerning news about John.  She said that her Fred had recently talked to John, in the pub, and John had talked about wanting to end his life.  He'd even made plans for how he could make his death look like an accident - so that his life insurance policy would be valid and that money from it would support me when he was no longer around.  He'd been quite drunk when he'd told Fred about his plans - otherwise I don't think that he would have told anyone.  He was talking about jumping in front of a tram late at night.  He said he was so lonely and sad since Tom died.  He said that he had no-one to talk to about it; no-one could understand the pain he felt.

It all became clear to me then.  John had been so distant and irritable with me in recent weeks.  He was so often late home and often drunk.  None of that was like him.  He rarely drank alcohol before that time. 

I realised how selfish I'd been.  I was suffering - but so was John.  I had my women-friends to comfort me;  but who did John have?  No-one.  Not even me.     

When John came in from work that night, after Edith's visit,  I hugged him. As soon as he walked in through the door - I just hugged him and I told him how much I loved him.  And I do love him.  Over the years he has been such a good man and a wonderful friend to me.  He's also been a great father to our boys.  We share so many memories together.  Lovely memories . I never thought that I could love someone after Edward died so long ago in 1916.  But I do love John.  My love for John came slowly.  But it is a love that is very deep.  The thought of losing John …

I hugged him and I stroked his hair.  He cried.  He dropped his work-bag and he cried.  We talked and talked that night.  I promised him that I would never lock him our from my life again.  I would always be a friend to him - as well as his wife. I made us a light supper and we walked to the beach and we talked well past midnight.  I held him close all night.  

The next day I took a train from the Brighton station into the Tramway headquarters in Hackney.   I spoke to John's supervisor , Mr Symonds, about John having some time off  work.   I told him that John needed some time to grieve his lost son. 

Mr Symonds was  lovely about it.  He said that John had worked for the tramways for 30 years and he was a respected and valued employee. He said that John had long-service leave due - which amounted to 10 weeks of paid leave.  He could take that leave immediately and, after that time, if John needed more time off, then he could just come back to work when he felt ready. His job would always be waiting for him. 

I walked with John on the beach every morning and every evening during the three months he took leave from the tramways.  We talked more than we had done in years.  I looked after John, just like I would look after our boys if they weren't well.  I brought John to the local doctor, Dr Tideman, as well.  He arranged further visits with John - mostly to talk. 

Gradually, John managed to smiled occasionally.  Gradually, he began to  play his violin again after tea.  Gradually, his depression lifted, and we found ourselves closer than we had ever been before.  

I now realise that while I have lost my first love, Edward, in the Great war, and now Tom in this most recent war - I must remember that I still have John and my son, Edward.  I realise that I must remember the living - as well as the dead.  

I am grateful for the things in my life that I still have  - and for the kindness of my friends and neighbours who have all helped John and me so much this year.

So, I'd best leave this journal and get ready again for Edward's birthday.  A happy day.  Edward works down on the trams now.  John arranged the job for him and he started only a few weeks ago.  John and Edward now ride their bikes in to work in the mornings and they ride home together after work.  Sometimes they  stop for a beer at the pub, on the way home, or they have a little swim at the beach, if it's hot.

It's nice to see Edward and his father becoming so close. I think together they remember Tom; and together they understand the horrors of war and the problems of coming home again: how hard it is to try to pick up what  pieces of their lives still remain after going to war for many years.  With that shared understanding - they are a support to each other now.  They are friends - as well as father and son.

Kelly stopped reading.  The words of Hilda discussing John's depression sounded vaguely familiar: drinking, home from work late, irritability, sadness …  She wondered if it could be that David was depressed? It was possible. Many explanations were possible.

Kelly closed the journal.  She would find out what was going on with David that very day!  Or at least she would get started sorting things out that afternoon.  

She walked up the passage.  The boys were still watching cartoons in the lounge.  She pushed open the door to David's study.  Papers littered his desk and covered the floor. His bin was full and overflowing with rubbish and more papers. That, in itself, was a bit of a shock.  David was usually fastidiously neat, and his study was usually so organised.  However, Kelly realised that she hadn't been in his study for a very long time.  Many months, at least.  It had probably been like this for some time.  

'Ok', she thought.  'So, David, you're not coming home tonight.  What are you up to?'

She walked into his study.  She would find out.

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I will write the third and last part to this story next week.

                                          *

I have spent a lovely afternoon today at Mount Osmond in the Adelaide hills - on our Sunday family-outing.  

I can feel spring in the air already.  The weather was less cold: 16 C (61 F).  The sky was a clear blue with only a few scattered clouds.  Blossom is beginning to cover the bare, wiry branches of the fruit trees in the foothills.  Butterflies danced across our walking trails.  Purple Salvation Jane  and yellow sour-sobs and some white and yellow tiny daisies splashed colour amongst the greenery of the grassy hillsides.  

We intended to do an easy walk on relatively flat trails.  But, shocked at the enthusiasm of five year old Ollie, who ran ahead of us, instead of the usual whining about how much he hates walking and demanding piggy-backs, we all followed him.   

He led the way across a hilltop and then started running down a steep incline into a deep valley.  Everyone followed, slightly concerned that descending to such a distance would mean that we would have a long, steep walk back up again at some stage.  However, Ollie was so keen - running ahead all the way.

Finally, I called out to Ollie, running at the front of our walking party of six: 'Ollie how much further do we have to walk down this hill?'

'Until we get to Mc Donalds,' he called back. 'I'm hungry!'

'What!' we all chorused.  Ollie had some mistaken idea that Mc Donalds was down in the valley - and that we were walking simply to go there and have lunch!  So, that's why he'd been running.  And, he still hates walking!

We all groaned and turned around.  We descended no further along this endless downward trail. We dragged ourselves back up the steep hillside of Mount Osmond.  Ollie whinged more than anyone on the climb back up.

Next time we'll check that he's running ahead because either:

a. he knows where he's going - and it's something wonderful and worth walking back up a mountain for, or

b.  he just loves the walking now - and we all want to encourage him with that - at least initially, or 

c. Mc Donalds really is down there!  I could do with a good coffee! 

Anyway, we had a lovely afternoon - and took the path more travelled - the flatter one.  Then we all went to Macca's later - and I got my coffee.

                                                                         

I hope everyone has a lovely week with a nice coffee (or cups of tea), sunshine and interesting conversations.

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