Reflections: A Story of Friendship

By Jeff Hopkins

It is the 25th April 1919 and Captain Christopher Murphy has been invited back to his old school, Guildale College, to deliver an address in the first year of peace after The Great War. When he arrives at East Guildale railway station, which is adjacent to the school, a flood of memories come rushing back.

Captain Murphy’s reflections go back to 1908; his final year at Guildale College Preparatory School and Stephen Lamont appears for the first time. Life during that year at the ‘Prep.’ is retraced and a tragedy, from which a great friendship grows, is recalled. 1909 – 1913 in the Guildale College Senior School is a series of vignettes. Each one is based on a year in the school life of the five main characters.

During 1917, some of the boys from Guildale College reappear as young men facing the horrors of trench warfare at Fleurbaix on the Western Front. Captain Murphy faces a personal crisis, but an old association helps him.

Captain Murphy’s reverie on East Guildale railway station is interrupted, as it is time for the commemoration service. His reflections have helped him crystallise his thoughts on duty, dreams and friendship, but most importantly on the significance of this Service of Remembrance. He now knows what he must say and with renewed confidence, he walks up to the school to deliver his address.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925447705

Jeff Hopkins

Jeff Hopkins (1950) is a retired schoolteacher. He lives in Walyalup, Western Australia. Walyalup which means 'lungs' is the Whadjuk name for Fremantle, and is part of the Noongar Nation. As the drama master at Hale School in Perth, he wrote ten original musical plays and produced and directed them at the school.In 1992, he researched and wrote a family history, 'Life's Race Well Run', and after retiring in 2006 he has written twenty novels, a memoir, and three 'faction' biographies.

Book preview

Part One:

At Guildale College Preparatory School

1908 and 1919 – April

Prologue:

Easter 1919

Where vague stories from the past come alive for David and Captain Christopher Murphy re-enters his life.

For David Lamont, Easter had always been ‘just Easter’, but this time it was different. The atmosphere in the Guildale College Preparatory School Chapel was charged. The hymns and prayers seemed a little more moving. The Chaplain was emotional, like he had never been before. Sometimes, it must be said, he was tired and emotional during services, but not today. That is what 1919 had done to everything; the first year of peace after such a long and destructive Great War.

For a Preparatory Schoolboy, who had heard about all this from his older brother, the general picture was what he had imagined. However, the event, when you were actually there, was so much more than the vague stories he remembered from early childhood. David knew from congregational practice (the boys called it ‘Congo’) that when this special Easter hymn was sung, it was traditional at Guildale to kneel and he had done that with the other hundred boys in the school. Kneeling in the choir stalls of School House meant that you faced three other houses across the aisle, but there was no temptation to make eye contact with a friend in another group and risk a smile with this atmosphere of solemnity. The cushion kneelers were still hard and being a Grade seven boy meant you could barely peer above the stalls anyway. The black and white pattern of the tiles covering the floor of the main aisle, the towering image of the vaulted ceiling, and the soaring descant of the choir high above and to the left, were fleeting images. To the right was the imposing rose window and reredos, and the Chaplain standing, hymn book in hand, singing with genuine feeling.

For a boy of his age David Lamont was quite tall. He was also thin. Some might have described him as wiry. David had silver blonde hair that was parted on the left. His eyes were blue. Matching his thin profile were the sharp features of his face and yet there was a kindness there. David looked softly on the world and held many of his deepest thoughts within himself. It was not surprising really given his personal history. David Lamont had been an orphan since he was a two-year-old and had been brought up by foster parents in his home town in the Great Southern of Western Australia. His elder brother, Stephen had been his only close blood relation and also his hero. David had come to Guildale College Preparatory School at a very young age. Indeed he had been given a special dispensation to do so after consideration of his personal circumstances. Now he was in his final year at the ‘Prep.’ and he was enjoying the spiritual experience of this Easter, 1919.

David sang well; Sunday School at home had made him familiar with the rhythms and cadences of hymns. He particularly liked this one, which the Chaplain had introduced two weeks ago as an Easter tradition. It was called ‘The Story of the Cross’ and as it changed from a minor to a major key and soared in the last section called ‘The Resolve’, David was mesmerised.

At the end of the hymn the boys and staff remained kneeling and a student, who David knew was the Chapel Prefect, walked slowly to the Chapel lectern. The imposing sculpture of an eagle preparing to take flight adorned the front of the lectern stand and it was difficult to see the Chapel Prefect behind the menacing image of the predatory bird. The Prefect’s name was Andrew, but that was all David knew. Andrew began to read the final Easter lesson. He had one of those beautiful boy’s voices and from what David could see he looked up from the Bible and seemed to be speaking a passage he had learned by heart.

Mary Magdalene sees the risen Lord.

It was the passage that described Mary Magdalene going to the tomb of Jesus on that first Easter morning and seeing the stone rolled away and despairing that her Lord’s body had been stolen. David was there. In his mind’s eye he saw Mary mistake the risen Lord for the gardener and he imagined the soft and gentle voice of the risen Christ reassuring the woman in the garden.

When he finished the reading the Chapel Prefect closed the Bible and looked up over the lectern once more. Then with real commitment he said:

Thanks be to God.

Unconsciously David mouthed the words after him and this involuntary action drew him back from the garden and into the moment. The boys in the Chapel had been kneeling, with their hymn books in their hands, so there was a shuffle of books and feet as they sought to regain their seats. Then silence. There was no sound until the Preparatory School Headmaster rose from his seat at the western end of the Chapel and proceeded to make the long walk to the raised area in front of the altar. His highly polished leather shoes clicked their way down the black and white tiles. The geometric pattern of the tiles seemed to point in black sections towards the altar and appeared to direct the Headmaster’s steps.

The Headmaster, Mr. Walter Wilkins, M.A. marched so upright. He had been a soldier before he turned his hand to teaching; there were rumours he had fought in the Boer War, but nothing was ever said about that. Mr. Wilkins had been far too old to fight in the Great War. He had been Headmaster at Guildale College Preparatory School since the year Queen Victoria had died, and although he was greying, he was ramrod straight and when he reached the raised platform at the eastern end of the Chapel, he turned on his heel with military precision and faced the assembled school.

He did not wear glasses and the gaze of his steely blue eyes was at times hypnotic. From the School House stalls, David felt he was close enough to touch, but he would never dare to do so. Had he ever touched Mr. Walter Wilkins, M.A., he wondered? He quickly ran through his years at Guildale in his mind. Had he shaken the Headmaster’s hand? No! The Housemaster had looked after all aspects of his entry into the school. How strange being in such awe of someone, who you had never touched? David didn’t realise it at the time, but ‘touching someone’ did not mean you had to physically engage them. Mr. Walter Wilkins had been ‘touched’ by David Lamont and quite profoundly, when David was just a little boy. That little boy never knew what a powerful effect he had had on the man. Without clearing his throat, the Headmaster spoke. He had a powerful and mellifluous voice that filled the Chapel with sound, but did not boom or reverberate:

The Chaplain, Members of Staff, boys of Guildale College Preparatory School. Once again at this Eastertide you have provided a moving ceremony of Easter carols and readings, to celebrate the passion and resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I thank you for your preparation and participation in this service and the way in which the hymns and readings were sincerely delivered today. Very shortly there will be a unique occasion in the history of our school. In this year 1919; the first one of peace after a long and costly Great War, we have the opportunity to reflect on the contribution made to that war by boys of this school. Boys who sat, where you are sitting now …

The Headmaster cast his eyes across the parallel rows of stalls that stretched out in front of him and for a moment the faces were different, and reminiscent of an earlier time. His voice began to echo the emotion he felt:

… or stood where you are standing. They were boys who came through the school so full of hope and who promised so much for the future.

Now Mr. Wilkins might as well have been speaking to the boys from a previous era, each of whom he saw so clearly before him at that moment. The timbre in his voice wavered a little:

… and many of whom have made the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their country. Some of them you knew well. They were your fathers, uncles, cousins and in some cases your brothers. So, in accordance with a strong movement across our nation we too, at Guildale, will dedicate the 25th day of April 1919 to the memory of those, not only from this school, but also from all walks of life, who fell so that you and I could preserve our freedoms and our way of life. We will hold a service of commemoration on that day and it is my happy duty to tell you now that, at that service, a most distinguished young old boy of our school, Captain Christopher Murphy, who served on the Western Front in the Great War will be coming to address you.

Again the Headmaster paused. He had the characteristics of a Shakespearean actor and the gaps and silences were equally effective in touching his young audience. The pause and the silence sparked an excited sense of recognition in David Lamont. That name, ‘Christopher Murphy’, it had been ever present in his younger days as his brother, Stephen, spoke of his best friend at school. Now Captain Christopher Murphy was about to materialise in the flesh and the vague stories from the past would take on a reality they had never really had previously. In David’s imagination he knew the boy with that name, now he was going to see and perhaps meet the man. The Headmaster, who continued, interrupted David’s thoughts:

I have already congratulated you on the sincerity and solemnity of our Easter Service and I trust you will prepare and participate in this forthcoming service of remembrance in a similar way. Boys, our Easter Service is over, and our Easter Break; holidays, holy days if you like, are upon us, but when we return we shall have another service of thanksgiving and commemoration with our guest speaker Captain Christopher Murphy, one who not so many years ago was one of you. We will look forward to that occasion.

Again the Headmaster paused, but this time it was a pause learned through long years of routine. He signed to the Chaplain and Staff, and then nodded to the Captain of the Preparatory School, who sat in the front stalls closest to the Chaplain. The Head Boy stood and without hesitation exclaimed:

Boys of College, stand!

Automatically the whole school rose to its collective feet and stood still and silent. The Headmaster led the Chaplain down the long black and white tiled aisle to the west. As he passed each house group in the stalls, the staff from that house fell into line behind him. The organist in the choir loft struck up a much-loved voluntary and the procession took on the quality of a military parade.

David watched the procession disappear out of the Chapel, but his mind was elsewhere. He fought to recall the fragments of memory that would connect his disjointed images of Christopher Murphy, the best friend his brother, Stephen, ever had.

Chapter 1:

April 25th 1919

Where Captain Christopher Murphy returns to Guildale College.

East Guildale railway station was one of those clever pieces of planning that had benefited Guildale College for decades. In the 1880’s when the railway line was extended from Perth to Midland, someone with foresight, that may have been inspired prescience, built a halt at East Guildale. It would be two more decades before the founders of Guildale College chose their location on the banks of the Swan River, but the existing railway station was a bonus. Generations of boys caught the steam train from Perth to East Guildale, lugging huge trunks, and stuffed suitcases, as they made their way ‘reluctantly to school’ at the start of each new term. The handful of dayboys and day boarders who attended the school knew the platforms north and south like the backs of their hands. A late train from Perth meant a dash to parade to avoid a late note and the inevitable detention, or worse! A merciful, or premature release, from the last lesson of the afternoon, would see a race for the platform to catch the ‘early’ train home.

Captain Christopher Murphy had caught the early morning train, more out of habit than sensible planning. The College service was to start at eleven o’clock in the morning and here he was standing on East Guildale railway station at eight a.m. Even the late train from Perth was still to arrive, sparking the dash for parade and morning roll call. The man standing alone on the station was twenty-two years of age and of medium height and build. Today he wore his officer’s uniform signifying his position in the Australian Imperial Force in the Great War. Along with his officer’s jacket, green tie, peaked cap, jodhpur-like trousers disappearing into knee length boots and leather ‘Sam Browns’. He carried an army great coat, although it would be superfluous in the pleasant autumnal weather and he had a small suitcase. Under the peaked cap was black hair cut formally in a soldier’s style. The eyes were soft and brown and the face was rather too weathered and lined for a young man of his years. Christopher Murphy had been to hell and back in the last few years and it showed.

Captain Murphy walked slowly across the platform. In the silence he stared around. Each sight evoked a poignant memory. Eventually he put his suitcase down beside a railway bench and sat, folding the overcoat across his knees as he did so. As he continued to look around him he could not stop the memories flooding his consciousness. When he finally spoke and broke the silence, the words surprised even him, firstly because he was speaking them aloud and then because they came very slowly and thoughtfully:

East Guildale railway station; how I have come to know you. You haven’t changed much.

Captain Murphy laughed at his own silliness for saying the words out loud to no one. The rest of his flood of thoughts he internalised:

I guess that is how it should be; how I wanted it to be. How I hated you on the first day of a new term and how we all loved you at the end of the year and here I am again neither at a beginning nor an end, but for a moment you are a safe place, because once I walk up to the school, it will all come back then.

The young Captain just sat and let the thoughts wash over him. He recalled the first time he had come to East Guildale railway station. The journey from his home farm in the southwest of Western Australia had been arduous. The buggy ride to the station, the tearful farewell from his mother and the solid handshake and pat on the back from his father, had been the prelude to the seemingly endless train journey to the City. Then alone at Perth Station and taking his own decisions for the first time as he negotiated the platform change to wait for and finally catch the Midland train. Then the comparative short trip to this little railway station nestled among the trees with the rich ochre gravel paths leading to and from it on all sides. He thought about his fears and his aspirations. They were all muddled up in something he had heard others call ‘a new adventure in his life.’

He laughed inwardly at his naivety. He was a country lad with country ways. He did not have the artifice or guile to see through those who were more worldly wise and sophisticated in their attitudes. Yet he had won them over with his unaffected charm and scrupulous honesty, not to mention his spectacular natural talent as a sportsman.

Then came that inexplicable phenomenon, when the past sneaks up on your thoughts and invades your consciousness with ideas and feelings that you had hoped to suppress. For Captain Christopher Murphy, alone on the station that morning, it manifested itself physically as a shudder of recollection. He recalled painfully that he was not a naïve country lad anymore. The Western Front had seen to that. He had developed traits that would have horrified the parents who farewelled him on his ‘new adventure’. He had developed guile, he could and had, manipulated situations and he had knowledge that was frightening. No, not just frightening, terrifying; he had seen and heard and smelt and tasted things that no man should have to sense.

The young Captain thought about the things this school had taught him. It had taught him the importance of duty. It had taught him to dream and hope and work for the progress not only of himself, but those he knew and loved. It had been his home. Now it was not home; it was a mirror to show him what he had become. In its reflections it had the power to mock those ideals of duty, dreams and progress. He knew what he had become and now he was returning to a place to be confronted with what he once was. This was not a simple journey to his old school for a speaking engagement. This was profound reflection, maybe even a revelation. Perhaps he shouldn’t even be here?

Chris Murphy turned his head towards the southern platform and thought how often he had waited there, sitting on his over-packed trunk, anticipating the journey to Perth and then the long wait for the six o’clock departure of the southern steam train that would take him home. He contemplated getting up and crossing the footbridge to the southern platform right now and leaving all this behind, while there was still time to do so. The hissing of the steam train from Perth pulling into East Guildale railway station awakened him from