so that they would have something to spend when he returned. Trying to keep him within the orbit of her life, she asked his advice, though he seldom replied to her questions. He was one of those correspondents who absorb without feeling the need to comment on what they are told. Sometimes she wrote, underlined:
Please answer:
[a] It is hard to find men for the harvesting. Shall I get sheep and graze them? It would be good for the land.
[b] Do you want maize on the river flat, or should I graze that too?
If he had replied, even disagreeing, she would have felt that he was
with
her. If he had said: “No, don’t get any sheep. You’ll have equal difficulty finding shearers. Buy bullocks. It would be wasteful to use the river flats forgrazing.” But he left the whole burden of management to her, when at least he could have shared the responsibility, if not the work. She tried not to blame him, as she knew that he could not express himself in letters, but she continued to feel that she was writing into a void. She did not know that her letters always created an hour or two of reverie and nostalgia in which he sent her all his love, though when the time came to reply he was back in the atmosphere of night-ops and rifle-ranges.
At last, towards the end of 1916, he was put on a draft for France, and given a week’s embarkation leave. English subalterns generally went home for this, but Dominic had now no close relatives in England, beyond Cousin Emma, and Josie Wyckham, a first cousin who had married an English soldier a week or so before war was declared. He had recently been killed. Josie was living with his parents in Dorset, and Dominic did not like to suggest himself for a visit. He went up to London, to the little hotel in Mayfair. He called on Cousin Emma, which was not very exhilarating. She criticized his relatives in Australia for their indifference to the “right thing” and told him discreditable tales about his grandfather. She said that at first she had thought that Dominic would be “Australian”, but now she nodded at his well-cut uniform with approval.
He then went to see Colonel Rodgers, who at last had been given a job at the War Office, but who had aged surprisingly in the last few months. He found himself quite unfitted for the office work of which it consisted. His memory was failing and a little later, after making innumerable blunders, he had to give up the job and returnto Waterpark. The war was still his obsession and only topic of conversation. He said: “If only they’d give me a battalion at the front I’d be all right.” If they had, he would doubtless have massacred it.
He asked Dominic to stay to dine at his club, and he moved the spoons and salt cellars about in battle formation. When they parted he said: “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Sylvia.”
“I saw her at Dilton with her husband,” said Dominic.
“You know he’s gone to the front? I shouldn’t go to see her.”
The white-haired angry old man turned and went off to the smoking room to find someone to fight the war with. Still with his wasp waist, his angular bony limbs, his eyes larger in his lean face, he was more like an insect than ever. As a boy Dominic had accepted his oddity, almost hero-worshipped him. Now for the first time in his life, looking at the colonel objectively, he thought that he was rather dreadful.
But with Colonel Rodgers and Cousin Emma he had exhausted his London friends, except Sylvia whom the colonel told him not to see. There were some more distant relatives, and that other colonel in the War Office, but he felt disinclined to look them up. For the first day he enjoyed the physical comfort of being on leave. It was nice to have his breakfast brought up by a pretty girl instead of being called by his soldier servant, and having to go across to the mess. He thought of asking the girl to go to the theatre with him; then he remembered Mrs Heseltine. He had lost her address but he remembered
Please answer:
[a] It is hard to find men for the harvesting. Shall I get sheep and graze them? It would be good for the land.
[b] Do you want maize on the river flat, or should I graze that too?
If he had replied, even disagreeing, she would have felt that he was
with
her. If he had said: “No, don’t get any sheep. You’ll have equal difficulty finding shearers. Buy bullocks. It would be wasteful to use the river flats forgrazing.” But he left the whole burden of management to her, when at least he could have shared the responsibility, if not the work. She tried not to blame him, as she knew that he could not express himself in letters, but she continued to feel that she was writing into a void. She did not know that her letters always created an hour or two of reverie and nostalgia in which he sent her all his love, though when the time came to reply he was back in the atmosphere of night-ops and rifle-ranges.
At last, towards the end of 1916, he was put on a draft for France, and given a week’s embarkation leave. English subalterns generally went home for this, but Dominic had now no close relatives in England, beyond Cousin Emma, and Josie Wyckham, a first cousin who had married an English soldier a week or so before war was declared. He had recently been killed. Josie was living with his parents in Dorset, and Dominic did not like to suggest himself for a visit. He went up to London, to the little hotel in Mayfair. He called on Cousin Emma, which was not very exhilarating. She criticized his relatives in Australia for their indifference to the “right thing” and told him discreditable tales about his grandfather. She said that at first she had thought that Dominic would be “Australian”, but now she nodded at his well-cut uniform with approval.
He then went to see Colonel Rodgers, who at last had been given a job at the War Office, but who had aged surprisingly in the last few months. He found himself quite unfitted for the office work of which it consisted. His memory was failing and a little later, after making innumerable blunders, he had to give up the job and returnto Waterpark. The war was still his obsession and only topic of conversation. He said: “If only they’d give me a battalion at the front I’d be all right.” If they had, he would doubtless have massacred it.
He asked Dominic to stay to dine at his club, and he moved the spoons and salt cellars about in battle formation. When they parted he said: “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Sylvia.”
“I saw her at Dilton with her husband,” said Dominic.
“You know he’s gone to the front? I shouldn’t go to see her.”
The white-haired angry old man turned and went off to the smoking room to find someone to fight the war with. Still with his wasp waist, his angular bony limbs, his eyes larger in his lean face, he was more like an insect than ever. As a boy Dominic had accepted his oddity, almost hero-worshipped him. Now for the first time in his life, looking at the colonel objectively, he thought that he was rather dreadful.
But with Colonel Rodgers and Cousin Emma he had exhausted his London friends, except Sylvia whom the colonel told him not to see. There were some more distant relatives, and that other colonel in the War Office, but he felt disinclined to look them up. For the first day he enjoyed the physical comfort of being on leave. It was nice to have his breakfast brought up by a pretty girl instead of being called by his soldier servant, and having to go across to the mess. He thought of asking the girl to go to the theatre with him; then he remembered Mrs Heseltine. He had lost her address but he remembered
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