One Step at a Time

By Ruth Reynolds

 

BACK COVER BLURB: Emma leaves England to marry Frank the Australian she met in WW1 London arriving in Sydney to find things are not as expected.

Adjusting to country life, jealousy and tragedy, Emma finds help from an unexpected source, which brings unplanned complications into her life.

Having learned to take things one day at a time, a letter out of the blue changes everything around.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092255

Book preview

Prologue

London 1900

She sat at the piano , so engrossed in what she was doing she was unaware he had come into the room. A small child, barely four, Emma had borrowed a cushion from one of the sofas to reach the keys properly, for the piano stool was not tall enough even at its highest point.

What are you doing? he asked. She jumped as if she had been struck, then turning around to see her beloved big brother, her shoulders relaxed perceptibly. When she made no reply, he continued, Who taught you that? She looked puzzled...taught?

Nobody, I just did it myself.

You did it yourself. Does Mother know about this?

No, I only do it when she is out.

And what do you do when I am out? the woman had entered the room unseen by either of them. The child stiffened and flinched at the tone of voice and David answered before she had a chance to speak, replying with another question, Did you know Emma can play the piano? Completely by ear...it’s remarkable in a child her age.

Remarkable? I knew she tinkered around when she thought I was out of hearing. I would hardly call that remarkable, was the reply.

She should have proper tuition; it was quite a complicated piece she was playing...she really is a gifted child, he said. I couldn’t play like that at her age, even with the lessons.

One fledgling concert pianist in the family is enough. I see no reason for the child to be taught just because she can perform a few parlour tricks. Sarah Rogers gave her daughter a deprecating glance as she swept from the room and started up the stairs to the floor above.

Would you like to learn how to play properly? said David to his small sister.

Oh yes, I really would but Mother would never allow it, I know, she whispered.

Don’t worry, I will talk to her...she will give in I’m sure, David replied as he followed their mother up the stairs.

Alone in the room, the child repeated to herself in a resigned tone, Mother would never allow it.

One

London 1916

Clutching her coat across her chest, Emma hurried through the throngs of people hunched up against the cold and wind, intent on where they were going and what the day ahead held for them. London streets in mid-winter are not appealing places at the best of times and even less so in wartime. Having been kept awake at night by Zeppelin attacks, the effects of the war were all too apparent on the strained faces of all the passersby. Many of the men were in uniform, back from the trenches on leave, their faces etched with the effects of what they had encountered and what they knew they would return to all too soon.

As Emma walked through the doors of the War Office to begin another day at work, a young Australian soldier raised his slouch hat. Excuse me, Miss, could you please tell me where I would find Mr. Johnson? Emma was about to direct him towards the receptionist, then on an impulse said, Come with me. It’s easier to show you than to tell you and won’t take me more than a minute.

Together they walked down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, each in turn covertly eyeing their companion. He saw a small slim girl, barely five feet tall, with a mass of deep auburn hair, a nose a trifle too large for her face and huge dark eyes.

The Australian could have come from a recruitment poster, with rugged build, blue eyes, blond hair and that outdoors look so many country boys from the colonies had and seemed to retain, even after the rigours of war in France. Each liking what they saw, they exchanged smiles, as, stopping before a closed door, Emma said, Here we are. I told you it wouldn’t take long. Good luck with whatever you want him for; Mr Johnson can be a bit grumpy, but he really is a very nice man. Now I had best get back to work, or I might bring out some of that ogre in him.

Grinning, the soldier placed his hat back on his head and then raised it to her in a salute. Thanks for your trouble. I’ll put in a kind word for you with my uncle, and his grin becoming even wider, I promise not to tell him the staff think he just might eat them up.

Oh dear, now what have I done? Distressed, she raised her eyes to his face, I didn’t dream he was your uncle...you really won’t say anything, will you? I would simply die of embarrassment if I thought he knew.

Your secret is safe with me, he said, as long as you promise to meet me for a cup of tea after you finish work.

I don’t think that would be appropriate, Emma replied, still regretting her unfortunate remark, and I really must go, or I will be in trouble. Her face scarlet, she fled back down the stairs, hastily removing her hat and gloves as she entered the typists’ pool where she spent her days as assistant secretary to the commissioner.

Emma had been employed at the War Office for a year, a compromise after she had been turned down flat when she volunteered for the forces. We want grownups, not schoolchildren, the recruitment officer had said, looking at her tiny frame. Even though she had stressed to him that she was twenty years old, much stronger than she looked and that she really would like to do something worthwhile in this time of war; the answer was still no. Go out and get yourself some qualifications...there are businesses crying out for workers now that so many of the men are overseas, he had said.

So, in spite of her mother’s protests that nicely brought up young ladies don’t work for a living, she had enrolled at secretarial school, emerging three months later as a fully qualified shorthand typist. The employment of young ladies as secretaries was a relatively recent innovation, those posts having been always filled by men. However, the combination of a scarcity of men for the workforce and the fact that women were in many cases better typists than the more clumsy-fingered opposite sex, had quickly overcome any opposition on the part of prospective employers. Emma was only one of the hundreds of young women who daily made the trip to the City and felt that in some small way they were helping the Empire and the war effort.

She had started in the typing pool, in no time being promoted to the position of personal secretary, where her quick wit, intelligence and proficiency had made her shine among her less talented co-workers. Emma hurried to her desk, glancing at the clock, which told her she was several minutes late for work due to the time she had spent with the young soldier. Stowing her hat, bag and gloves away in a drawer, she set to typing up the pages of shorthand notes dictated to her the evening before.

Engrossed in her work, she jumped when the speaking tube beside her desk blared out, Miss Rogers, you are wanted in Mr Johnson’s office immediately. Her heart sank. The Australian had said something to his uncle—now what was she going to do? She quickly looked in the small mirror in her handbag, straightened a few unruly wisps of hair that had escaped from the hairpins and with her heart pounding, retraced the path she had taken with the young digger only a few hours before. Taking several deep breaths to steady her heart, she knocked at Mr Johnson’s door, entering at his Come in, feeling as if she had to face the ogre she had wrongly described to his nephew.

She was surprised to be greeted by a smile and took the offered seat, feeling that just maybe the visit was in no way connected with her unfortunate comments earlier in the day. It quickly became obvious this was so, as Johnson made passing comments on her work and how pleased they were with her progress in the position so far. Strangely enough, the man seemed a bit uncomfortable, as he hedged around, trying noticeably to find a way to come to the point. Finally he said, Would you say that you are a fairly tough individual, Miss Rogers? You strike me as a very strong young lady. Is that so?

I suppose I am, if strong-minded is what you mean, she said.

That is just what I mean, but also, for the task I have in mind, I am afraid that a strong stomach is also a necessity. There is a job that has to be done, a very important one—but I feel that only a very special person could do it properly, and that person must be willing to face and deal with unpleasant and quite distressing circumstances.

More puzzled than ever, Emma replied, I think I could handle most things, if I know that what I am doing is serving a worthwhile purpose. But, could you please tell me just what is it that you want me to do?

I suppose there is no use in beating about the bush, said Johnson. "I am really sorry to ask this of you, but I honestly think that only a woman, and a special one at that, could handle this properly. As you know, we are the contact point for all Australians serving in the battlefields. As part of that contact, we have a very sad, and I repeat an unpleasant task to carry out.

When a soldier is killed in battle, his personal effects are removed before he is buried. They are packaged and sent back to London, so that records can be kept and to ensure that anything that should be sent back home to his family is properly handled. It’s a horrible job...most of the packages are soaked with blood and the smell can be overpowering, but it is one that must be done. It’s the least we can do for these young men who have laid down their lives so far from home. I am not ordering you to do this and if you refuse I will understand—there will certainly be no recriminations if you choose not to do it. I have racked my brain trying to think of who on the staff has both the backbone and the organisational ability to do the job properly. I don’t expect an immediate answer. Go home, think it over and discuss it with your family. There will be no pressure, but I would personally appreciate more than I can say if you feel you are prepared to do this for us.

Fighting hard in these serious circumstances to avoid smiling, Emma had a mental picture of her parents’ comments if she should "discuss it with her family." Her mother, who already disapproved of her job and who in fact had always disapproved of almost everything her oldest daughter did, would be scathing in her comments and would demand that she resign from the job immediately.

Her kind, gentle father would be worried about his little Emma undertaking such an unpleasant task, but would undoubtedly tell her to go with her heart. What was certain was the fact that she would never mention a word to either of them, for different reasons...lifelong self-protection where her mother was concerned and to save her father from the inevitable distress he would feel. Although she wondered just what she was letting herself in for, she knew that this was something she must do and that it was at last the chance to do something really worthwhile in these dreadful times.

I don’t have to think about it, or ask anyone. I would be happy to do it, she said. When do you want me to start?

SO, FOR MANY MONTHS afterwards, this became a part of her duties. Everything Johnson had said was true; it was an awful job, for the stench in the special room where the packages were stored defied imagination.

On the first day, Johnson asked Do you smoke? Surprised, Emma replied in the negative. It was not considered suitable for women to smoke cigarettes, although many did so at parties and in private, but it was something she had never been tempted to do.

Then take it up, he said. You will find it deadens your sense of smell and will help you handle the whole situation much better.

Emma took his advice and found it did in fact help a little. She had a naturally strong stomach and found that the way to handle the work was to employ mind over matter. This applied not only to the stench, but to the harrowing job of sifting through the packages, documenting and setting aside letters, photographs and mementoes, although some were so soaked with blood there was no alternative other than to discard them. She packed up what could be returned to the families in Australia, enclosing with each sad package a small note, expressing condolences and saying she was sure they would want these last memories of a husband, father, loved one, and to know that on the other side of the world someone cared. In the future, looking back on many setbacks and joys, she would always remember those days and think of them as among the saddest and most rewarding of her long life.

HER OWN LIFE WAS NOT without sadness, for like so many women in those dreadful years of the Great War, she too had lost a loved one. She had grown up with a close friend, the son of the family doctor. Con had been a playmate in their young years, the friendship with time growing into a deep affection. Planning to follow his father into the medical profession, Con had made no firm commitment to Emma; wishing to wait until his studies were finished. Then came the war, that disaster which was to all but wipe out a generation of young men. Full of excitement, anxious to fight for their country, as so many had in the past and would in the future, they rushed to enlist and forfeited their young lives in the horror of the trenches.

Wait for me, Con had said to her. The wait was not long, for he was dead six months later, another nameless corpse in No Man’s Land. Emma grieved, spoke of him frequently, but life goes on and youth is resilient. She never forgot, but realised she must keep going and that Con would never have expected her to become a hermit. Part of the reason she had taken the job in the War Office was the hope that somewhere, someone else would be doing something to help young soldiers similar to her Con.

She did other things to help the war effort. As well as knitting socks, gloves and balaclavas for the troops, Emma joined a concert party in her spare time, which travelled around the country playing at the training camps. Her skills at the piano were in great demand, for she had only to hear a piece of music to be able to play it. As she had predicted as a four year old, her mother refused to have her taught, so she had never learned to read music. She greatly enjoyed the fun and camaraderie of the concert party, made up of people from all walks of life, some professional, others gifted amateurs like herself.

Several of the young men were more than interested in the bright breezy young woman who cared not at all about their backgrounds, which were in many instances totally different from her rich, sheltered upbringing. So, with her job and her outside interests, Emma’s life was very full. She loved London and all that it had to offer, for in wartime, in spite of the air raids, the city was booming. Restaurants, night clubs and theatres were packed by crowds; uncertain of what tomorrow would bring and determined to live life to the full today.

Emma’s home life was not particularly happy, for her mother was constantly critical of virtually everything she did. She wanted for nothing in material things, but was shown none of the affection a mother would normally give, a fact of which her father was all too aware of and for which he often over-compensated.

Once, upset by her mother’s unfair behaviour, Emma asked her father, Why does Mother hate me, Papa?

Uncomfortable, he thought for a while...then said, Your mother doesn’t hate you, my dear, it is just very hard for her, you must understand.

Understand what? I have never done anything to hurt her. If she doesn’t hate me, then why does she behave the way she does? She never treats any of the others this way!

Alexander Rogers held his head in his hands for a moment, sighed deeply and replied, It is because of Joseph.

Even more puzzled, Emma cried, Joseph! Why, he was dead before I was born. How could it be because of him?

Your brother died while your mother was expecting you. Because of her condition, the doctors would not allow her to nurse him, because diphtheria is so contagious. After he died, your mother suffered a breakdown. She was sure that if she’d been allowed to look after her son, he would have survived. She was so distraught that she blamed her unborn child—you—for everything that had happened. She has never really recovered and I know it’s hard for you. I would give anything for it to be otherwise. I had hoped that with time she would feel differently, but maybe it is best that you know. Hard as it is, you must try to understand.

Shocked at her father’s words, Emma ran from the room and shut herself in her bedroom. In some ways glad to at last know why her mother behaved as she did, she was deeply distressed at being blamed for something beyond her control. Neither she nor her father mentioned the conversation again, but it was always at the back of their minds; he wishing he had not answered so frankly and she even more aware of how her mother behaved towards her, and try as she may, finding it very hard to accept the unfairness of it all.

Two

Introductions

Kept busy outside, Emma had little time to fret over the situation at home, particularly when her life took a new turn that unbeknown to her would influence her near future and in fact, the rest of her life. Leaving the office one day, she found her way blocked by a soldier, who at first she failed to recognise. It was only when he raised his hat and smiled, that she realised he was the young Australian she had taken to her boss’s office some weeks before. Blushing when she recalled her faux pas , she could not help but return the smile when she thought of the humour of the situation.

"How do you do, Miss Rogers? I have come to ask you once