Читать книгу The Secret Love Letters - Dolores San Miguel - Страница 7

I stood looking out of the lounge room window. The rain had finally stopped and small droplets trickled down the glass panes, in rhythm with my tears. Mum and Sister Hill, the kind, elderly nurse who had helped Mum look after my father for the last year or so, waited in the bedroom with Dad. She had been with Mum last Monday when he took another stroke around five-thirty in the afternoon. Dr Wilson was called and recommended Dad be moved to a private nursing home. Mum and Sister Hill tried all night to find one with a vacancy, all to no avail. Finally, a friend of my mother’s with a few connections arranged a bed at Heatherleigh Private Hospital nearby in Hawthorn, for today, Wednesday.

The ambulance pulled into the gravel drive, and I watched the two officers emerge. I knew Dad would never return home and I was overwhelmed with sadness. I had no idea how sick he was while I was away in England for the last two years. Mum had kept it quiet, so as not to ruin my trip. I had arrived back late December of 1973, and Dad was totally blind by then. Today was 6 March 1974, so we’d really only had two months together.

I remembered how excited he was when I rang from Barcelona last year on his birthday, 23 July. I had just arrived back from meeting his relatives in Alella, a little village in the hills on the north coast of Barcelona. It had taken some detective work on my part to find them, as Dad’s memory and recollections of his family had faded after his first stroke. Mum said he had cried with happiness after the call, and had carried the letter I had sent of the events in the pocket of his pyjamas.

From December of 1971 to December of 1973, I lived in London with my boyfriend, Paul Thompson. In the summer of 1973 we bought an old Bedford van and set off for Europe. During our time in Morocco we met an American girl from California who wanted to share petrol expenses and get a lift to Spain. She spoke and wrote fluent Spanish, so I gave her the details about my father and the San Miguels and she wrote it all down in Spanish. When Paul and I arrived in Barcelona, my main aim was to find my Spanish relatives, and as I had no address or name other than San Miguel (the Spanish equivalent of ‘Smith’), it would take a combination of luck and a miracle!

We were staying at a campsite just out of Barcelona. On Monday 23 July, we found our way to the foothills of Alella just as the Bedford van conked out. Paul found a garage nearby but had to wait for the mechanic to arrive, so I set foot along the road to the village of Alella. Two women came out of a house, so I showed them what the American girl had written, gesturing my lack of the language. They read it, spoke to each other, and ushered me into their car where we drove to the village.

We knocked on one door of a family with the name San Miguel, but they were not home. Their neighbours indicated that they would be coming back soon, however, so they gave me a chair to sit on for my wait. I thanked the two women and the neighbours and sat in the sun, admiring the cobbled streets and beautiful old buildings. Very soon the San Miguels returned, but unfortunately they were no relation. The husband had an idea, however, and drove me to another house close by. I was taken up a large, winding staircase where an elderly woman sat, dressed in almost Victoriana attire. She was eighty-eight years old and spoke perfect English, as she had lived in Melbourne fifty years prior. She told me that she had relatives by the name of Carlotta Sands who lived in the Melbourne suburb of Surrey Hills, and who knew the San Miguels. She spoke in Spanish to my driver and explained that he would be taking me to the home of the Ferrans, a family closely related to the San Miguels and one of the original San Miguel homes.

When we arrived, once again I waited while my story was explained. The family consisted of Agapito Ferran’s 86-year-old widow, Josefa (Agapito was my father’s first cousin), her three unmarried daughters, Merce, Carolina and Carmen; another daughter, Rosa, her husband, Pere, their teenage daughter, Montserrat and son, Salvador. They asked to see my passport, and then lo and behold brought out a portrait of my father’s family, including a photo of Dad’s youngest sister, Patricia, on her wedding day. Well, then there was great excitement! They were all babbling away in Spanish, so the teenage son went next door and brought back two young men who spoke English. I explained that my boyfriend was at the garage, so one of them drove me to pick Paul up. We then returned to the two-story white stucco homestead, where the family had laid out home-brewed wine, pineapple brandy, crusty bread drizzled in olive oil, homegrown tomatoes, olives and ham off the bone. They asked us back for lunch on the Wednesday and although I presented ‘Mama’ with chocolates and flowers, the delicious smorgasbord and tapas delights they had prepared for me outdid my small gifts. It was an extraordinary meeting — almost surreal. Was it luck or a miracle? I pondered over these thoughts as Dad was lifted into the ambulance.

I was allowed to accompany my father and Mum would follow in her car. We said our goodbyes to Sister Hill, knowing her services would no longer be needed. I gently squeezed Dad’s hand as the ambulance turned into Princess Street. He was conscious but his speech was very slurred. He seemed frightened and confused, like a small child.

I held back tears as I whispered, ‘Everything will be alright, we are just getting you to a lovely hospital.’

I was only twenty-three years old and my father was dying — he was seventy-five.

Mum and I kept vigils at the hospital and on the weekend Mum only returned home late in the evenings. On Monday 11 March, Leon, Dad’s 43-year-old son (my half-brother) and his mother spent the afternoon with him. Ten years later, Leon, would also be dying — of prostrate cancer.

When Mum returned from her visit on Tuesday, she was tearful — Dad was getting weaker. When we visited him on Wednesday, he was unconscious. On Thursday I spent an hour with him and Mum wouldn’t leave his side. Later that night I was at home with Paul. The telephone rang — it was 8.15pm. Mum’s voice came on the line and my heart sank.

‘My darling Jaime, your wonderful father passed away at 8pm tonight. He is at last in peace. I’ll be home soon.’

I walked back into the sun lounge and burst into tears. I was glad Paul had stayed with me.

After Paul left and Mum had made the necessary immediate phone calls, she made a pot of tea and said she had something very important to tell me. Although she was exhausted, I could tell by the look in her eyes that whatever it was she had to say, it was extremely significant to us both. I sat close to her on the couch as she poured the tea and began her story.

Florence Annie Johnston was born at home on 6 October 1909 at 46 Birkenhead Street, North Fitzroy, Melbourne. She was the second daughter of William Patterson Johnston who came from a staunch, Protestant Irish background and Annie Johnston (née O’Halloran) from a Catholic Irish one. Annie’s mother, Brigid O’Halloran (née Hession) was born in Galway, Ireland in 1845. In June 1862, aged seventeen, she left Southampton on board the Boanerges bound for Melbourne, although she took residence in the country area of Wangaratta. She married Thomas O’Halloran on 5 September 1873, and they moved to Beechworth in the north-east of Victoria. Thomas was born in Kilkenny, Ireland in 1839, and at age twenty-five he left Liverpool on board the Royal Dane, heading for Melbourne. Brigid and Thomas had seven children between 1874 and 1881: Mary, Thomas Jr, Michael, Catherine (Kate), Nell, Annie, and Brigid.

Annie and William Johnston’s family began with the birth of Henry, also known as Harry (1906), followed by Dorothy (1908), then Florence, Arthur (1913), and Lillian (1914). They soon moved to a larger home at 215 Holden Street, Fitzroy.

The family managed to get by on William’s mediocre salary as an insurance clerk; however, he had an eye for a pretty face, drank far too much, and loved to gamble. William’s father, George Johnston, was born in the County of Fermanagh, (Northern) Ireland, in 1831, and after meeting an English girl, Annie Hill, they migrated to Australia in 1862. George then worked as a warden at Pentridge Gaol; it was here he gained a reputation as a cruel and vicious man. Many a prisoner was beaten during his violent outbursts. A crack shot with a rifle, George won trophies for his expertise and was present at the execution of Ned Kelly. The family had lodgings at Pentridge and it was here that all the children (apart from Margaret Matilda, born in Ireland in 1859) were born. George Johnston died at just forty-seven years old on 19 February 1885, five years after the death of Ned Kelly. It was a relief for 17-year-old William, who also received beatings from his father, the memory of which would lead to him finding solace in whisky.

William’s drinking and gambling increased after two major tragedies. On 3 January 1911, little three-year-old Dorothy died of pneumonia after a nasty bout of whooping cough. Then, on 3 December 1915, William’s two-year-old son Arthur died after contracting diphtheria. During this time diphtheria killed more Australians than any other disease. Although Florence was only six when her baby brother died, she had vivid memories of visiting him in the hospital. He was under quarantine, so she could only wave to him through the large glass doors. When she learnt that Arthur was not coming home, she cried in her bed every night for a month. Her parents were devastated, and not long afterwards their arguing escalated. The two deaths caused a rift between Annie and William that only increased as the years rolled by.

Regardless of their problems, William became a top salesman with AMP Insurance; however, he eventually blotted his copybook with an unethical transaction and lost his permanency. After this he had to rely on commissions, and it was around this time that he became an illegal S.P. Bookie. Very early on, Annie began to take wads of cash out of his winnings when he was too drunk to realise. She opened a new bank account and watched as the balance rose, along with the interest. She had to plan for the future, especially when she learnt that William had a mistress. She turned a blind eye to the affair — at least she didn’t have to succumb to her marital duties as often — so, in a way, it was a relief, and she kept the secret to herself for twenty odd years. She confronted the woman when she turned up at William’s funeral, the first week of January 1938. He had died on New Year’s Day, and no one in the family enjoyed New Year’s Eve after that, especially Florence, who had adored her father.

Florence was a happy child with golden, corn-coloured hair, bright blue eyes and an inquisitive nature. She was born the year that her birth state, Victoria, had finally granted women’s suffrage. It was something that made her feel somewhat important, and led her to be always ahead of her time, and very independent. By her early teens, she had asked to be called Fay. Florence, she had stated, was far too old-fashioned and staid. She attended the local Catholic school, although Harry was back and forth between Protestant and Catholic schools. William wanted his eldest son to be bought up just like him, and yet Annie disagreed, hence the juggling of schools. In the end, Harry made the decision to be Protestant, so William won out after all.

Fay daydreamed all through school. She was excellent at English, loved to read, and she would write poetry and school compositions. Mathematics, however, remained her worst subject. Although Lillian was five years younger than Fay, they were always very close. Even though she didn’t remember her older sister Dorothy, as she was only two years old when Dorothy died, it did make Fay feel a sense of loyalty to Lillian, the remaining sister. Lillian was extremely shy in comparison to Fay and Harry. Their mother took advantage of this, persuading Lillian to remain at home with her after she left school. Fay, on the other hand, was extremely ambitious and started a course at a secretarial business college. She excelled in Pitmans shorthand and her typing skills were top-rate. Lillian, contrastingly, grew skilled in cookery, sewing, and domestic duties.

By 1926, 17-year-old Fay was anxious to become a Flapper. The Roaring Twenties were her teenage years and she embraced all things and styles modern. Lillian would watch in wonder as Fay experimented with rouge and lipstick, bought from her salary as an office secretary. She also began to make her own straight shift dresses using a Butterwick pattern. Her mother tried in vain to put a stop to Fay’s insistence of a short, sleek hairstyle, but managed to confiscate the long cigarette holder (although only used as a prop)! When the family purchased a wireless, Fay would practice the Charleston and Black Bottom to the sounds of Jan Garber singing ‘Baby Face’ , Gene Austin’s ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and ‘Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue’ . She yearned to epitomise the spirit of a reckless rebel who danced the night away at a smoky Jazz Club.

Just after the Great Depression, Annie pulled out her trump card and bought a generous home at 123 Tooronga Road, Malvern. It was paid with the money she had been taking from William all those years. The house was in her name and the family moved in, enjoying the luxury of a large back and front yard.

Every Sunday morning Fay and Lillian would attend Mass with their mother. Harry, of course, was never expected to attend. They became parishioners of St Joseph’s Catholic Church close by. Annie hoped her eldest daughter would meet a nice Catholic boy and settle down. After church one sunny, autumn day in 1932, Fay was introduced to an extremely handsome, dark-haired man with sapphire blue eyes. At thirty-three, Jaime San Miguel was eleven years older than 22-year-old Fay. It was a short but animated conversation, and on the walk back home with her mother and sister, Fay couldn’t stop thinking about him. Although Fay had many ardent admirers seeking her attention, she hadn’t really met anyone who had touched her heart. She was a born flirt with a dynamic personality, and enjoyed the attention she always gained.

The following Sunday, he was there again, and after the service came straight over to Fay. This time they chatted for a good hour, Lillian and their mother hadn’t attended due to both having a nasty cold, so Fay relaxed and listened intently to Jaime’s conversation. She learnt that he had attended Xavier College in Kew, and had been Captain of the school for two years running in 1916 and 1917. She also discovered he worked as a sales representative for the Dunlop Rubber company at 108 Flinders Street in the city centre. Meanwhile, Fay had recently landed a job as private secretary to Roy Rostron, of Rostron and Company Solicitors at Chancery House in Little Collins Street. Jaime suggested as they both worked in the city, they should meet for lunch.

‘Perhaps this Wednesday at 1pm?’ Jaime inquired.

When Fay heartily agreed, he asked if she knew the Teapot Inn, and they made plans to meet there. Jaime offered to drive Fay home, but knowing her mother’s sticky-beak nature, she declined. She did, however, skip all the way home!

Fay decided, for now, not to tell anyone about her invitation. She wanted to know more about this charming stranger before all the questions started from her somewhat interfering parents. At work that week she found it hard to concentrate, and by Wednesday morning she was a nervous wreck in anticipation of the looming lunch.

When she walked into the café a minute after one o’clock, she spotted Jaime at a window table, and made her way through the busy lunchtime crowd. He stood and greeted her warmly as he helped her into a chair. Mixed sandwiches and a large pot of tea were ordered from the plump, cheerful waitress. They talked incessantly for an hour — Fay was intrigued to hear that Jaime’s father was born in Spain and that his mother was English. He spoke of his time at boarding school in Spain as a little boy, and also his passion for sports, especially golf and tennis. The lunch break flew by, and Jaime wrote down Fay’s office phone number, promising to ring her the following morning.

‘Perhaps a drink on Friday evening?’ Jaime suggested.

Fay shook his warm, firm hand as she made a dash back to the office, grinning from ear to ear. Jaime was also smiling as he hurried up Flinders Street. Fay was such a cheerful and animated young woman, something he’d been missing for several years — the problem was, he would have to explain his situation to her very, very soon.