A Little Fortitude

A little Fortitude

CHAPTER 1

1939

Daphne Cowper loved her home town. Perhaps physically small, it was large in homeliness, an embracing community of farmers and business people in the fertile hinterland of New South Wales. The residents’ co-operativeness and dogged work ethic over many years had made it successful. Situated in a picturesque valley, surrounded by rolling hills, its air was clear, fresh and wafting with the faint scent of eucalypt blossoms and the odour of warm-blooded large and small grazing cattle. It was not quite as idyllic when there were raging storms or plagues of locusts, but those were mercifully infrequent.

Broken Valley, South of Warrell Creek and North-north-west of Newcastle, mostly referred to by its inhabitants as The Valley, comprised various stores and businesses including an ironmonger, blacksmith’s, farrier’s, saddler’s, chemist’s shop, general store and hotel down its wide main street. At one end there was a tiny weatherboard schoolhouse, with its bell at the front. At the other end the immodestly titled Police Station, too, was an unimposing timber building. The town had its few drunkards, its disputes and family feuds as had any other country town, and so justified the presence of the constable, but generally it was a peaceful neighbourhood.

It had been a great place in which to grow up and as a child, she had been happy there.

Over the years of her girlhood, Daphne had come to know almost every member of the community, every store and storeholder, every lane and dusty road leading in and out. The thought of roads leading out was the problem; they envisaged a wider world that seemed to be calling her. Much as she loved the people, she had become disenchanted with the only work she could get locally. Being farm assistant, domestic-help or nanny for local farmers and their families, although highly valued by those employing her, was menial and unrewarding. It felt confining. She longed for something bigger, broader, and more outward-looking to the modern world.

It was now 1939 and she was twenty-three years of age. She was certain she had outgrown the farm and this kind of work so she should not dally; she must do something about it.

One of a large family, Daphne did not see herself at all as bold or adventurous–her image of herself was much more demure than that–but in reality, she was an independent and determined young woman, audacious and impatient for change. It was time, she decided; she would make the change.

Unbeknownst to her family, she self-confidently but discreetly made enquiries, applied for and secured a job in the city of Newcastle. The position was with a clothing company, in their office, where she would be trained. It was a long way from home, so to get there on a daily basis it was necessary to accommodate herself in the city. Amazingly and fortuitously she managed to arrange to board with a widow in Broadmeadow for a small rent. It had taken numerous telephone calls from the post office and letters back and forth, so she was thrilled that, surreptitiously, she had been able to organise all of this on her own. She knew it would have been stopped if at home her plans had been known. Getting such a position in Newcastle City, and her own lodgings as well, was a real achievement for a country girl, and, thankfully, her family had simply assumed that her correspondence had been only with a friend or pen-pal.

The company she would work for had received very large orders from the defence forces and needed extra staff to cope with the additional work. The Australian Government had declared war on Germany and was preparing to send troops over to support mother Britain; they therefore needed clothing and equipment for the brave young men who had volunteered-teenagers beguiled out of patriotism into believing it would be a fantastic adventure-especially for when the European winter set in.

The job and her accommodation had just been confirmed, so she was anxious to get started in this new chapter of her life. The time had arrived for her to leave home and The Valley. It was gratifying and exciting, but the next and most difficult step was to tell her family. She shivered at the thought of their reaction.

A small town nestled in rolling countryside forty or so miles inland from the Pacific coast, Broken Valley epitomised the dogged commitment of the nineteenth-century Australian farmer to wrest a living out of this rugged land and build a community around him.

The Valley had been so named because of the water that tumbled down from a break in the surrounding hills and had, through erosion over thousands of years, created a deep, constantly flowing creek that divided the undulating lowland and, when viewed from a high point, made it look like a damper loaf broken in half. A timber bridge at one end and a causeway at the other joined the two halves. Settled quite early it now comprised numerous farms, orchards and a couple of depleted gold mines. It had become a centre for milk, small cattle and vegetable produce, a supply source for neighbouring centres.

Early in the twentieth century David Cowper, as a young man, migrated from England after a family tragedy. Having initially purchased a run-down farm from an older, retiring farmer, over ensuing years, through canny purchases of additional fertile land, and careful husbandry he had managed to build a substantial holding, ranging cattle, goats, pigs, ducks, geese and chickens, and maintained a large vegetable plot and orchard. A confident, stoic and determined man, he had undeniably been successful, and Cowper’s Corner had made no small contribution to The Valley’s prosperity.

David’s beloved first wife, Eliza, had died after she had borne him nine children, and her loss was grievous. It was a second tragedy-a son had died when a log from a felled tree had rolled upon and crushed him-and took all of the personal mettle of this otherwise strong man to go on.

However painful the grief, the grind of daily farm life, the eventual acceptance of the reality and finality of death, and the passage of time had led him to lift his head again and take hope. Perhaps all was not lost; perhaps there was a future to be had, he mused. He had grieved but determined he must not despair; there were responsibilities and he alone must address them.

As nature would have it, after a couple of years he took up with their live-in housekeeper, Margaret Macintosh, a woman who had served them faithfully for many years and soon she, too, was pregnant. Margaret bore him twins, girls whom they called May and Flora.

Townspeople of The Valley dealt daily with the harshness of the bush, husbanding stock and cultivating the land. They raised their families, schooled them and prepared them, as best they could, for life. They had to be tough, rugged; that kind of life demanded it. Mostly church-going, regardless of their toughness and the brutal requirements of rural life, they were generally conservative people and had expectations of propriety from their neighbours. There was one notable exception in the town. The widow, Mrs Fouloire, a woman thought to be French, made a meagre living by leaving her front door unlatched at night. She was known fondly in some circles as “Madame Fouloire de la Boudoir“, a comforter of lonely men, but the general populace pretended she was just not there, and frowned upon any major breaches of what was deemed proper and polite behaviour.

David had always been a respected member of that society but when a third child was on the way, vexed by the criticisms now directed at them, he and Margaret capitulated and arranged for the itinerant pastor to marry them. Thus, Margaret became the second Mrs Cowper and revelled in having achieved one of her life’s major goals, to have a good man of her own. She had always admired this man; instead of her watching him from the sidelines, now he was her husband. The Cowper household regained its respectability and they continued to live as they had always done, and to have more children.

Iris came and she was legitimate; May and Flora were not, and they hated to be reminded of that. Anyone bold enough to mention it was likely to experience their fury in very short time.

Daphne was Margaret’s fourth child, David’s thirteenth. There was subsequently one younger, Rosemary, who, like a wee, pink exclamation mark ending a long sentence, marked the conclusion to Scottish Margaret’s experience of bearing children.

Her mother was dumbfounded when Daphne confided what she had done. Margaret, dedicated to her family, knew her husband would object. He still saw Daphne as just a child. Margaret hated the thought of having to break this news to him, but there was no point in delaying it; tell him she must, and that meant right now.

‘What? You’re telling me she’s got herself a job in Newcastle and she’ll be moving there on her own? No, Margaret, no! And she did that without asking me, first? For God’s sake, you should’ve stopped her. What were you thinking, woman?’

‘She’s twenty-three now, David. She’s not a wee child, anymore.’

‘Aye, but on her own, Margaret? She’s still too young to be going off like that! Alone in the city? Ridiculous! It’s just unbelievable she’d do this,’ he retorted. ‘Bah! I forbid it’

‘Nay, David. She’s a woman now an’ must learn to make ‘er own life and ‘er own choices. There’s nothing for ‘er ‘ere, mon. Surely you can see that.’

David Cowper was a stern, sometimes distracted man, but still a loving father, and had always seen himself as protector of his household. For his second youngest daughter to be going from their rural life into the city on her own was an adventure beyond his imagination. He was horrified. Things were concerning at the best of times, but now? It was war time. When his wife reasoned with him, he admitted that Daphne needed to earn a living until she married, but going so far from home was unacceptable and simply dangerous for a young woman. Daphne, however, had made up her mind and made it very clear she was not to be deterred; her mother conveyed this to him.

After much discussion and reassurance from Margaret that this was something Daphne needed to do, he eventually relented and allowed her to go, but only on the condition that her mother have a long talk with her about men and about life in the big city.

‘It’s a different world now, Father,’ Daphne said when she was included in the conversation.

‘I’m twenty-three and have to learn to make my own way. Please don’t worry.’

Smiling confidently, she patted his arm. It was this gesture, more than anything else, that made him conscious that he and all of them were getting older.

‘Hmmph!’

He shook his head, still finding it hard to accept. Successful in the now sizeable business estate he had built, nowadays he was feeling the pressure of the creeping years. The thought of another one of his fourteen children leaving home was telling on him.

‘Be careful, my dear. I’ve asked your mother to have a talk with you. Do listen to her.’

His attitude had softened a little and he looked wistfully at this girl who had suddenly grown up. Always busy, he had not realised she had become a woman.

‘I will, father,’ she replied, respectfully.

‘Aye! I believe you will. May God protect you, girl.’

But that was the end of it.

He turned and made his way to one of the barns, calling out to the nearby farm-hands.

Margaret complied with her husband’s demand but was, in any case, herself concerned for her daughter’s welfare.

‘You must protect yourself, my dear. All men are driven, and not all are honourable, especially in the cities. The culture there’s different to what you’ve been used to ‘ere; they’ll want to seduce you fo’ their own pleasure. If you’re loose an’ succumb to their flirtations you’ll be seen as cheap and easy.’

Her Scottish accent was, as always, strong and emphatic. And the way she emphasised cheap and easy so derogatorily impressed Daphne; she certainly did not want to be that. It unmistakably meant something to be avoided at all costs. Her further comment Margaret almost whispered:

‘Good men still expect t’ marry a virgin, child.’

The old bus squealed to a halt; Daphne kissed her mother and father, took up her large suitcase with her personal things, and climbed aboard. She waved from the window and the bus pulled away. Trembling, she could not describe her feelings; she was leaving The Valley, her home, the place of her childhood protection and nurture. It was real!

The town soon vanished and broad spreading paddocks with grazing cattle and sheep replaced the buildings. A couple of kangaroos looked up at the rumble of the diesel engine and hopped away. She sighed. The road was unsealed and rutted; it would be a long trip.

Soon the town was long gone. She was already a world away. Daphne thought of her sisters: May and Flora, the non-identical twins; both had already married and had children. Iris also had gone to stay with her friend Madeline and had joined some church called “Brethren“. Only Rosemary of her immediate siblings was left at home and she already had a boyfriend, a young soldier. So, she could understand her parents’ feelings as their family was disappearing and they were getting older. With one half-brother dead and another broken by a failed male relationship and gone away, she knew of her father’s disappointment at not having a son to pass the farm on to. Not that he expressed it in so many words but his demeanour gave away how he felt. Neena, second of the first family was still living with them and it seemed, would have the responsibility of looking after them in their evanescent years. Restricted by gripping shyness, she had not met anyone to marry.

Daphne was satisfied that she could not be held by those circumstances; that was just how things were. At twenty-three her life was before her and she was now responsible for it.

This story continues in the book…

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