Blossom

By Margaret Kinton

Frederick Bennett, from an Irish Catholic family in Bendigo, travelled to Melbourne to seek his fortune. There he met Vida Bunting, eighth child of Samuel and Elleanora, at the beginning of the First World War. Their friendship blossomed but life didn't treat them kindly. Religious differences soon became apparent making for difficult situations. There was separation, a birth, death, kidnapping and turmoil impacting on little Nina's life. But Nina's beginnings gave her strength to face life with a cheerful outlook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669832874

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Bendigo, 1914

Mrs Bennett leaned against the kitchen sink and dried her eyes. Frederick was gone, and it was no good being silly about it, she told herself.

Two weeks ago, everything had been so predictable, so organised and controllable, but now with Frederick gone, life seemed all at sixes and sevens. Frederick was the first of her brood to leave the nest, and she was having great difficulty coming to grips with the situation. She tried to pull herself together. It was to be expected, she told herself, that grown-up children should want to leave home, but she had not thought that it would be the youngest. She put on her apron and got on with the dinner so that when her husband returned from the station, the meal was ready to be put on the table.

‘Frederick got away all right then?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Bennett bluntly.

Her husband was a man of very few words at the best of times, and she knew she would get nothing more from him. She took the roast out of the oven and put the vegetables into the serving dishes, ready for the dining room table.

Mrs Bennett was a short robust woman, always tightly corseted, which held her large bosom high and her back ramrod straight. You could tell she was a fastidious woman just by looking at her. She never left the house unless she was properly turned out – hat, gloves, and well-polished shoes. She was of the old school that believed that cleanliness was next to godliness, and her whole life revolved around this tenet. She was always ready to pounce on a speck of dirt or an object out of place. Her only aid to beauty was soap and water, with which she scrubbed herself daily, followed by a good rubdown with a rough towel. This regime left her cheeks with a rosy glow and her whole face the appearance of polished leather. Her sparse hair was held firmly in place by a tight bun.

Her whole life revolved around her family, her home, and the church – but not always in that order. Every morning she rose early to attend Mass at St Killen’s Roman Catholic Church, which was situated conveniently a few steps from her front door. She tried to encourage her adult children to accompany her to morning Mass, but her daughter, Lucy, a teacher at the school attached to the church, was the only one to attend regularly. Lucy did not have a deep religious conviction but felt it was her duty to set a good example to her pupils.

After Mass, Mrs Bennett rushed home to prepare a substantial breakfast for her family before they left the house. Then she watched with pride as they set off for work with their hair brushed and shoes freshly polished – all except Fred, that is. Fred was always the black sheep – always was and always would be, she suspected. He had become a fitter and turner when he left school, against her better advice. She would have liked him to follow her other sons into retailing or the grocery business like her husband or even into school teaching like Lucy, but he would have none of it.

‘None of that women’s work for me,’ he liked to say. ‘There is nothing wrong with a bit of good, honest dirt.’

This always sent a shiver down Mrs Bennett’s spine as she imagined him standing on the dirty factory floor in the mess and grime amongst uncouth, rough men with their coarse talk. She had never actually had any contact with any of Frederick’s work friends and had no desire to do so, but it was how she imagined them.

No amount of arguing could persuade him to seek a cleaner occupation. She had pointed out many times that his father and his brothers still performed useful work without getting their hands dirty, but her advice fell on deaf ears. She tried to send him off looking spic and span, but by the time he came home in the evening, he was black from head to toe and his thick wavy hair a matted mass under his cap. Still, she thought he was the only one who was willing to cut wood and do the dirty jobs around the house, and for that, she was grateful.

After the family left the house in the morning, Mrs Bennett set about her chores to her strict timetable – washing on Mondays, ironing on Tuesdays, day after day until it was time to start again the next week. Her housekeeping was much admired by her neighbours, although most knew they could never attain her high standards. The house always stood out from the others in the street. The windows glistened like crystal, and the brass front doorstep sometimes caught the sunlight with such intensity that people shaded their eyes when they passed by.

Mrs Bennett’s family were well schooled in her household rules, dutifully removing their shoes at the back door, where they donned slippers before they entered the house. After years of nagging, the children automatically straightened the towel after they washed their hands and made sure there was no soap scum around the hand basin. They had learnt early in life that it was much easier to obey the rules of the household than incur their mother’s wrath. Over the years, vigorous cleaning with White Lily had worn away the surfaces of the bathroom fittings, making it necessary to replace the bath and basin twice during her marriage.

Friday was Mrs Bennett’s day to clean the church. She basked in the peace, solitude, and holiness of the building and felt that God was looking down on her as she polished the brass fittings and arranged fresh flowers around the altar. Often she would pause during her cleaning to pray and review her life. Father Maloney often appeared during the morning to pass the time of day, commenting on the weather or some other inconsequential trivia. Later, she would go over the conversation, wishing she had said this or that or thinking about how he must have thought her silly for saying certain things.

This usually led her into her favourite daydream, where she had become a nun instead of a housewife and which, at times, she still thought was her true vocation. She had asked her mother to agree to let her become a nun but was told that she was needed at home to help look after her many brothers and sisters. It seemed to her as if life was one long daily grind of cleaning, washing, and cooking. And to what end? she often asked herself. A life of quiet contemplation seemed like heaven itself.

Mrs Bennett had married William Bennett when she was barely 17, and nine and a half months later, Lucy had been born, followed at two-yearly intervals by Alexander, Thomas, and Joseph. Later, there was a second girl who had only lived a few days, causing her great sadness, but then a year later, Frederick was born.

When Frederick was born, his mother was still grieving for the lost little soul whose life had slipped away so easily. She was convinced that Fred was going to be a girl to replace the dead baby, but instead, she was handed a large screaming boy. She was very disappointed but tried not to show it.

It took her a long time to get over the birth, during which time she did a lot of thinking. She decided that she did not want and, in fact, could not cope with any more children, so she took charge of the situation and banished her husband, William, from the marital bed. William was devastated by the decision and pleaded with his wife to reconsider, but she wouldn’t change her mind.

‘Surely, God didn’t intend married people to be parted in such a way,’ he begged, but his wife would not be moved as she knew this was the only way that there would be no more children.

In the end, William resigned himself to the situation, but in doing so, he became a quiet, morose man. Every evening, after he had finished his meal, he retired to his chair in the lounge room with the newspaper or a book, never offering anything to the conversation unless pressed. In fact, he assumed the role of a lodger in his own house, retreating from family life and apart from work, from the world in general. Previously a keen churchgoer, he could only be persuaded to enter the church for Christmas and Easter Masses. His face was pale and drawn, and his grey hair almost disappeared from the top of his head. He became stooped, and his clothes suddenly seemed too large for his body.

Once Mary Bennett had made up her mind about banishing her husband from the marital bed, she promptly took charge of the sleeping arrangements. A sleep-out was built in the backyard for the three older boys, while Lucy moved into the main bedroom with her mother. Mr Bennett shared the other bedroom with Frederick. All in all, it seemed a satisfactory solution to the problem, at least on the surface.

Over the years, Mrs Bennett had often worried about the situation, but after such a long time, she did not see that things could change. In the early days, she imagined that they would resume their marital life when the children left home, but as the children were all adults and seemingly content to remain in their childhood home, she doubted that things would change.

Secretly, Mrs Bennett was pleased that none of the children had found a husband or wife as it meant that they were happy with the care and attention she lavished on them. She liked things to remain as they were and was not comfortable with change as it upset her routine and made her out of sorts. However, Mrs Bennett regretted her decision many times, especially when she saw her husband’s sad face. She prayed to God for guidance, but as none came, she assumed that she had done the right thing.

Mrs Bennett’s only relaxation came at the end of the day, when the dishes were done and the kitchen tidied. She then joined the rest of the family in the lounge room and promptly went to sleep, only to wake with a start when everyone else got up to prepare for bed. Once she was in bed, sleep eluded Mrs Bennett for what seemed like hours. Her mind kept darting from one thing to another until exhaustion finally took over her tired body. All too soon, the alarm called her to Mass and another day of rigid routine would begin.

Chapter 2

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Fred had never been keen on going to Mass and from an early age, had to be cajoled into accompanying his mother, even on Sundays. Once, when he was younger, he had missed Sunday Mass for several weeks without anyone noticing. He had enjoyed the absolute bliss of the stolen freedom, not only in body but also in mind, as he roamed along the creek, enjoying the solitude and peace of the bush. Eventually, his mother had found out and had given him a tongue lashing that lasted on and off for several days.

When Fred could stand it no longer, he had to promise he would go to church every Sunday without fail as long as he was not expected to go to Mass during the week. He came to regard Mass as his thinking time. He daydreamed his way through the whole service, often mentally writing his school essays in his head and then coming home to put them on paper. The family marvelled at the apparent speed with which he could get his thoughts down and came to regard him as ‘the clever one’.

Fred, however, was very aware of his position as the youngest in the family. He knew he was the odd one out and was treated as such, especially by his brothers. They were always so clean, serious, and unsmiling that, at times, he felt like doing things to annoy them. They could never see the humour in any of the jokes he told them, especially the off-coloured jokes that came from the factory floor, yet Fred kept telling them as he liked to see his brothers squirm.

His sister, Lucy, treated him as if he were one of her beloved pupils. It was always ‘Fred, do this’ or ‘don’t do that’, much to his annoyance. Lucy had looked after him a lot when he was little because, as he had been told many times, his mother had not been well after his birth. He felt it was his fault somehow but didn’t know how. He sensed that his mother did not like him as much as his brothers, and in this, he was probably right. Fred felt closest to his father, not only because he shared a bedroom with him but also because he could feel how sad and alienated his father was sometimes, although nobody else seemed to notice.

Fred wasn’t comfortable in his own home. The rooms were small and cramped with dark brown Holland blinds that were always pulled halfway down, making the rooms almost claustrophobic. The lounge room was furnished with heavy solid furniture and small tables that were cluttered with little ornaments which were just waiting to be knocked over. There were many religious pictures on the walls throughout the house and large plaster statues on all the mantelpieces. Mostly, the statues were of Mary and Jesus, with their sad faces, showing their bleeding hearts, images which Fred never understood but was afraid to ask about.

The statues’ staring eyes seemed to follow him around the room no matter where he sat, their benign smiles seeming to say, ‘I know all your sins.’

Fred looked for every opportunity to escape from the oppressive atmosphere at home. As he grew older, he took more interest in going to Mass, which was more to do with the young ladies in the congregation than awakening religious fervour. He always sat behind an attractive girl, often having to press past many people to get to his preferred seat. His daydreaming took on an entirely new dimension. He marvelled at the smell of their hair as it brushed against his face when he got up from his prayers. He had never seen any part of female anatomy except for hands and faces and an occasional ankle, but he had seen some blurry photographs of half-dressed females that were frequently passed around at work. They fired his imagination as he began to look forward to each Sunday with anticipation.

Gradually, his thoughts matured, and he began to think that perhaps he would like to get married, especially to Mary O’Hagan, with whom he had walked home from Mass a few times. She had beautiful long black wavy hair and blue eyes that sparkled when she spoke in her soft Irish brogue. He was completely smitten, often just staring into space thinking about her.

At Mass, one Sunday he was shaken from his meditations by an announcement from the pulpit that certain young ladies would be entering the convent to begin their studies for the novitiate. This was followed by a list of names, including that of Mary O’Hagan, who was sitting right in front of him. Fred was absolutely stunned, his dreams shattered.

As Mass finished, he pushed past people in a rush to get outside for some fresh air. He knew that people were staring at him, but he didn’t care. He just ran and ran until he found himself at the football pavilion, where some of his friends were so intent on their card game that they barely gave Fred a second glance.

‘Some more girls are going into the convent,’ he blurted out.

Jimmy Smith threw down his cards. ‘Bastards. Who have they got this time?’

Fred reeled off the names he could remember.

‘They don’t want any of us to get married, do they?’

‘How come God always gets the pretty ones?’ someone else said.

‘You will go to hell for saying that.’

‘Listen, mate, if I go to hell, it will be for something worthwhile.’

Loud, raucous laughter followed.

‘Mary Brown is going, and she not pretty,’ said Fred.

More laughter followed.

‘She doesn’t count. She would have been an old maid anyway.’

Finally, the subject was exhausted, and they all drifted home for their Sunday lunch.

By the time Fred arrived home, he was feeling extremely out of sorts. As he changed into his slippers at the back door, he caught a whiff of cigar smoke, which meant that Father Maloney was visiting and would no doubt stay for lunch. He had no liking for the pompous, high-and-mighty parish priest. Fred went into the bathroom and briefly turned on and off the taps and smoothed down his unruly hair with his damp hands. He had long since given up washing his hands, unless absolutely necessary, as he knew that if his mother thought he had washed his hands, that was all that mattered, and it saved all the trouble of making sure the bathroom was tidy.

His mother called sweetly from the kitchen, ‘Come and take the roast into the dining room, please, Frederick!’ and then as he appeared at the kitchen door, she said in a hissing whisper, ‘Where have you been? You knew Father Maloney was coming to us for lunch today.’

Fred had forgotten but didn’t admit it. He knew he was in trouble, but the lads at the footy ground had made him a bit cocky and more than a bit cross, so without answering his mother, he picked up the roast and headed towards the dining room.

His father was waiting at the head of the table, busily sharpening the carving knife against the steel. Fred greeted Father Maloney loudly but made no apologies and placed the roast in front of his father. Everyone else around the table looked at him with distain and Lucy drew her breath in to show her disapproval, but he didn’t care. He felt like kicking something, anything, to escape, but instead dutifully found his place at the table, under the watching gaze of his brothers.

The priest was seated at his usual place, with Joseph on one side and Thomas on the other. He was ready for his dinner, with his napkin tucked firmly in his clerical collar and spread over his enormous abdomen. His great bulk was the result of numerous dinners provided by the ladies of the parish who competed with one another to provide the most scrumptious meals for their parish priest.

Father Maloney was so portly that he had great difficulty in getting his chair close to the table and invariably spilt gravy down the snowy-white serviette that Fred’s mother always supplied. Fred always marvelled at his mother’s patience with such disgusting behaviour. Because of his bulk, the priest’s jacket was unable to breach his paunch and gathered untidily by his side, while the sleeves puckered at the top of his large fleshy arms. His face was red and bloated, attesting to his love of food and more than the odd glass of whiskey.

William, at the head of the table, began to ritually carve the meat, examining it in great detail so that he cut it on the right grain and thus avoided his wife’s criticism. Mary Bennett arrived with the vegetable dishes and then sat in her usual place at the other end of the table. Fred sat at the corner of the table, between his mother and Lucy, the least desirable position at the table as far as he was concerned. Patrick sat on the other side of Lucy, near his father.

When everyone was seated, Father Maloney took in a few deep breaths before he said Grace with a flourish and a spattering of flowery words. Soon, everyone had been served meat from the roast by William and had helped themselves to the vegetables.

After a silence of some minutes, Lucy began telling Father Maloney an amusing story about one of her pupils. It was her one and only topic of conversation. Fred had heard the tale several times before and felt like screaming. He hated the way everyone fawned upon the priest as if he was the most wonderful person on earth and almost God himself. Fred had heard a few stories which, if true, would cast serious doubts on his reputation.

When Lucy had finished her tale, his mother made an effort at light conversation, but underneath, Fred could tell she was still very cross with him for being late. Fred detested these meals with a passion because the conversation was so forced as everyone tried to be witty and cheerful, which was so unlike their normal family meals. His mother began with a subject close to the priest’s heart.

‘So nice to have such devout young ladies in the parish, Father,’ she said as she gazed into the priest’s eyes.

Father Maloney put down his knife and fork and clasped his hands over his ample stomach. He was a master of timing and always took his time to consider his answer, so that by the time he spoke, every eye was upon him. He was also the master of the handkerchief. During his sermons, he would take out his handkerchief and wave it about, mop his brow, and blow his nose with much gusto. He did this now and then reclasped his hands over his abdomen. He had large puffy lips which were seemingly too big for his mouth. He liked to move them around before he spoke, as if to get them warmed up.

‘Yes, Mrs Bennett. We are extremely fortunate to have such a wonderful lot of young ladies in the parish,’ said the priest as he eagerly took up his knife and fork.

Fred, still fired up by the morning’s events, felt more like screaming with every passing minute but somehow managed to say in a calm, casual voice, ‘Have you ever wondered, Father, that with all these girls going into the convent, there will be no one for us poor chaps to marry? Look at us.’ He swept his hand around the table. ‘Four young men and not a lady friend amongst us.’

Fred felt his mother’s foot bear down on his slipper. He moved his foot and continued.

‘There could be a shortage of children for Lucy to teach in the years to come.’

When his mother found his foot again, she stamped harder and glared at him. Fred let out an involuntary gasp but knew there was no going back now. Everyone looked uncomfortable and tried to cover the lull in the conversation that followed by making a few tut-tutting sounds.

Finally, his mother drew in a deep breath and sat upright in her chair. ‘Your brothers and sister have not felt the need to get married, Fred.’

‘Maybe there is nobody for them to marry,’ said Fred, knowing he was only enflaming the situation.

Mrs Bennett looked as if she was going to burst as her face reddened and her breath came out in short gasps. Fred knew he was in for the biggest dressing-down in his whole life once the priest left, but he did not care.

Father Maloney rescued the situation and smiled his benign smile, which he had perfected over the years, to deal with such situations. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, Frederick. I am sure he, in all his wisdom, has thought about all these things.’

He certainly does, thought Fred, but discretion stopped him from voicing his opinions. The priest returned to his meal, spilling the inevitable few drops of gravy on the starched serviette. The subject appeared to be closed, but Frederick still felt extremely cross and ready for a fight.

‘I am going to Melbourne to get a job,’ he said.

The idea had come to him in a flash before he had time to mull it over. He looked around the table. Everyone was too surprised to say anything at first. To be honest, Fred was a bit surprised himself, but later, he thought that perhaps God did work in mysterious ways.

‘I don’t know what has got into you today, Frederick,’ said his mother. ‘You’re not going to get caught up in this silly war, are you?’

Fred bristled. His mother treated him like a child even though he had just turned 20. ‘Mother, you know I wouldn’t fight for the British. This war has nothing to do with us Irish.’ Fred and all of his brothers and his sister considered themselves Irish despite the fact that their parents had been born in Australia, of Irish immigrants.

His mother crossed herself and said, ‘Thank God.’

Fred was soon bombarded with questions, for which he mostly had no answers. Surprisingly, it was Father Maloney who came to his rescue.

‘I have a brother priest in Melbourne to whom I will write, on your behalf, if you would like me to, Frederick. I will get him to arrange some lodgings for you and maybe see if there are any jobs in the area, although I don’t think you should have too much trouble finding work with all these young chaps running off to the war.’

Before Fred could answer, his mother had answered on his behalf in her most humble voice. ‘Thank you, Father.’ She then glared at Fred and got up to clear the table in preparation for the apple pie.

Mrs Bennett, who was usually in control of every situation, was at a loss as to