Sacrifice

We’ve lived at the farm ever since the menfolk were sent overseas and we moved out of this city, and we have become unused to noise and crowds. But how would we fare in New Zealand?

- Kathleen Conlon

We were a close family and, in the main, we were happy. And then the Great War came, followed by the Spanish flu, and everything changed.

Eric, my nephew, is so excited at the prospect of our impending journey that he’s awake before dawn. The night before, he’d insisted on helping me to pack our bags and I’d had to gently deter him from including a variety of his toys, reminding him that we are only spending one night away from home.

Ben, the farmer’s eldest son, takes us to the railway station in the pony and trap. As he lifts Eric down, he says, “Now, young fellow, you look after your Auntie Lily,” and then he takes my hand to help me to the ground. His hand is as rough as you’d expect of someone whose livelihood is earned by working the land and tending the beasts. But its clasp is firm and comforting. He looks at me. “Have a safe journey,” he says. He’s blushing and, aware of this, turns away abruptly.

At this hour of the morning, pearly mist is rising from the fields and there’s a chill in the air, so we sit huddled by the fire in the waiting-room but, every so often, I allow Eric to go out on to the platform and check the position of the signal. After a while, I hear him calling urgently, “It’s dropped, it’s dropped!” so I gather my bags and get to my feet. It’s hurting this morning, my foot, my hateful foot. I have one leg shorter than the other and am obliged to wear a built-up shoe, a great, clumping thing. “Auntie Lily’s big boot,” Eric calls it, amazed that a person should possess a pair of shoes, one of them differing in size so noticeably from the other.

As we board the train, he bombards me with questions: “Auntie Lily, will this train go faster than the horse?”; “Auntie Lily, how many miles is it to the place?”; “Auntie Lily, will we see the sea?”