As her two brothers joined her at their great-aunt’s side, Audra exclaimed to Frederick, ‘Perhaps I ought to make a list of these things, so that we can talk about them later, and decide what we’d each like to have. That’s only fair, isn’t it, Frederick?’
There was a startled silence.
Frederick gaped at her, aghast, and bit his lip worriedly, knowing full well what she next had in mind. William tried to hide his delight in her audacity without succeeding; his eyes danced mischievously.
And then, before anyone could make a comment, Audra ran to the desk, found a pencil and scrap paper, and returned to her great-aunt’s chair, where she pored over the box. At one moment, as she scribbled away, Audra looked up at the silver-haired old lady, and remarked in an off-hand manner, ‘Great-Aunt Frances, do you think I should also list Mother’s furniture and her possessions which Aunt Alicia is storing for us here? You know, so that my brothers and I can divide everything else properly.’
Great-Aunt Frances gave her a surprised look and then she smiled slightly. ‘Well, Audra, you are a practical child, it seems. I think that’s an excellent idea, especially since poor dear Edith did not think to make a will. This way the three of you can discuss the division of your mother’s property at leisure, and make your decisions. Why don’t you take an inventory next week, my dear.’
Audra nodded solemnly, camouflaging her triumph behind a bland expression. ‘Yes, I think I will, Great-Aunt. ’
In the days which followed this conversation, Frederick, quaking in his boots, had warned Audra that there were bound to be repercussions. He had noticed the calculating look in Aunt Alicia Drummond’s mean little black eyes when they had all been in the library, even if his brother and sister had not.
But nothing untoward had happened in the end, and the long, hot summer had slithered into a cool autumn; then winter had come finally, and life at The Grange had continued uneventfully. And as miserable as the Kentons were in the cold and unloving environment of their aunt’s home, even Audra felt bound to agree with William, her favourite, that they were fortunate in one respect: the three of them were together, they had each other to love, and for companionship and consolation.
It was the week before Christmas when Audra chanced to hear a strange remark, one that worried her briefly; its true meaning was to baffle her for some time thereafter.
Late one afternoon, knowing that Great-Aunt Frances had come to visit, Audra went looking for her.
She was about to push open the drawing-room door, which was already ajar, when she heard Aunt Alicia mention her mother’s name in the most scathing manner. She did not catch what her aunt said next because Alicia lowered her voice. But Audra stiffened as Great-Aunt Frances suddenly exclaimed in a horrified tone, ‘You cannot punish the children for the sins of the mother, Alicia!’
Instantly, Audra’s hand dropped from the knob and she quickly backed away, not wishing to hear any more, and knowing that it was wrong to eavesdrop anyway.
She crept down the dark passage to the back parlour, where she sat for a while, pondering her great-aunt’s odd remark. Audra knew that it had to do with them – that much was patently obvious. But she could not fathom its meaning. How had her mother sinned? At once she told herself that her mother had not committed a single sin in her entire life. As young as she was, Audra was perceptive and she had long known that Alicia Drummond had always been jealous of her mother’s classical beauty, her charm and her refinement. So much so, she had never lost a chance to demean Edith Kenton during her lifetime. Seemingly she could not resist doing the same thing after her death.
For the next few days Audra continued to wonder why Alicia wanted to punish them, but eventually she managed to curb her worry. She consoled herself with the knowledge that whatever punishment she had had in mind for them, their great-aunt had obviously found a way to put a stop to it.
But as it turned out, Frances Reynolds’s words had apparently meant little or nothing. Certainly they had not been a deterrent to her daughter.
For in the end they had been punished.
Two months later, in February of 1922, Frederick and William were dispatched to Australia as emigrants, and Audra was sent to work at the Fever Hospital for Children in Ripon.
Their fierce protestations and anguished pleadings to stay together had made no impression. They were helpless in the face of their aunt’s determination. And so, against their wishes, and those of their Great-Aunt Frances, they had been forced to do as Alicia Drummond said.
It was a wrenching moment for the three young Kentons when Frederick and William took leave of their sister on that bitter winter morning. Before setting out for London and the boat to Sydney, they had huddled together in the front hall, saying their goodbyes, fighting back their tears.
Audra clung to William. Emotion welled up in her, and her throat was so tight she could barely speak. Finally she managed, ‘You won’t forget about me, will you, William?’ And then she started to sob brokenly and her eyes streamed.
Swallowing his own tears, trying to be brave, William tightened his arms around his adored little sister. She looked so young and vulnerable at this moment. ‘No, I won’t. We won’t,’ he said reassuringly. ‘And we’ll send for you as soon as we can. I promise, Audra.’
Frederick, equally emotional, stroked the top of Audra’s head lovingly, and reiterated this promise. Then her brothers stepped away from her, picked up their suitcases and left the house without uttering another word.
Audra snatched her coat from the hall cupboard and ran out. She flew down the drive, calling their names, needing to prolong these last few minutes with them. They stopped, turned, waited for her, and the three of them linked arms and walked on in silence, too heartbroken to speak. When they arrived at the gates the two boys silently kissed Audra for the last time, and tore themselves from her clinging arms before they lost control completely.
Holding one hand to her trembling mouth, stifling her sobs, Audra watched them stride courageously along the main road to Ripon until they were just small specks in the distance. She wanted to run after them, to shout, ‘Wait for me! Don’t leave me behind! Take me with you!’ But Audra knew this would be useless. They could not take her with them. It was not her brothers’ fault they were being separated from each other. Alicia Drummond was to blame. She wanted to rid herself of Edith Kenton’s children and she did not care how she did it.
Only when her brothers had finally disappeared from sight did Audra drag her gaze away from the empty road at last. She turned back into the driveway and wondered, with a sinking heart and a sickening feeling of despair, if she would ever see her brothers again. Australia was at the other end of the world, as far away as any place could possibly be. They had promised faithfully to send for her, but how long would it take them to save up the money for her passage? A whole year, perhaps.
As this dismaying thought wedged itself into Audra’s mind she looked up at that bleak, grim house and shivered involuntarily. And at that precise moment her dislike for her mother’s cousin hardened into a terrible and bitter hatred that would remain with her for the rest of her life. Audra Kenton would not ever find it in her heart to forgive Alicia Drummond for her cold and deliberate cruelty to them. And the memory of the day her brothers had been sent away would stay with Audra always.
The following afternoon, white-faced and trembling, and fretting for her brothers, Audra had gone to live and work at the Fever Hospital. Since there were no vacancies that year for student nurses she had been taken on as a ward maid.
Audra Kenton’s life of drudgery had begun. She was still only fourteen years old.
She had been awakened at dawn the next morning. After a breakfast of porridge, dripping and bread, and tea, eaten with the other little ward maids, the daily routine had commenced. Audra was appalled at the hardship