by Toni Jordan
‘He’s a lucky soldier.’ The man gestures to Jack, who is by now leaning so far out of the window I fear he’ll fall on his head on the platform. ‘Need a hand, miss?’
And I can hardly believe it, but the man squats nearly to the ground and wraps an arm around my waist and as he stands—Lord!—I’m hoisted in the air like a small child, sitting on the shoulder of some stranger. I must be more than eight foot off the ground. I grasp a handle on the train door to steady myself but the man is strong all right. He has a big grin on his face and he gives my rump a squeeze.
‘Go on then,’ he says.
I do go on. Jack doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Everything that can be said’s already said. I reach up, and Jack reaches down, and I kiss him. I’m the one kissing him. I’ve come this far, I’ve fought through the crowd. I feel his lips and the touch of it lasts and lasts and just when I think I’ll drop off my perch with dizziness, I hear the whistle and the stranger kneels and I’m standing and the train is pulling out. There’s nothing but a blur except for Jack’s eyes, Jack’s face. I don’t stop looking until the train is gone.
I blink. The stranger is gone, the people are gone, the train is long gone. I’m hit with a sudden fear: what if I forget his exact expression? The look in his eyes, the line of his jaw? It might be months before I see him again. What happens if I forget that a kiss can last forever? Somehow I keep my head upright, then I feel a tug on my sleeve. Kip is standing beside me.
‘I did exactly what you told me,’ he says, camera still around his neck. ‘I didn’t touch a thing.’
The Lord only knows what will happen. Every night I lie here, in my own bed, in the room I share with my mother. Kip and Francis are asleep next door; if I listen close I’ll hear Francis’s snoring. I know every squeak of every bedspring, I know the wardrobe is heavy timber with a bevelled mirror in the centre and you need to lift the door a little when you open it because it’s sunk on its hinges.
The secret to happiness is to be grateful. I think about Ma, widowed with three children, and Nan who was a slave all her life, first in domestic service, then to Pop, then back to the ironing factory when she was widowed. I have a wonderful job. I have my mother and Francis, and I have Kip, my darling Kip.
And here is the most wonderful thing of all. I have had one night with the man of my heart and, just this once, I have had something that I wanted. Whatever happens, I will keep this night stored away like the linen in my glory box, his breath on my skin, the small hollow at the base of his throat soft on my lips. I will have that night forever. I can hardly believe my good fortune. Everything will be all right.
Acknowledgments
Early readers have the worst job in publishing, trudging their way through lumpen, leaden first drafts. My sincere thanks to mine. I’ve also been blessed with the generous research helpers Margaret Klaassen, Lee Falvey, Judy Stanley-Turner, Nada Lane and Katherine Sheedy. Clare Renner kindly donated the name Kip, which set the ball rolling. Kevin Culliver took the time and trouble to gently correct my many errors about the early years of St Kevin’s College.
I’ve never met Kate Darian-Smith or Janet McCalman but I owe them both a drink or three; their respective books On the Home Front and Struggletown were heaven-sent and I recommend them for more information on Melbourne during the Second World War and on Richmond—and as great reads besides. All errors are, of course, my own.
At Text Publishing, the inimitable Mandy Brett was her usual patient, exacting self and was a joy to work with. The support of Jane Novak, Anne Beilby and Kirsty Wilson kept me going on dark days, so thanks.
I’m not one of those writers who have ideas banked up like circling planes awaiting their turn to land. My creative brain is more like a desert across which the odd ball of tumbleweed occasionally rolls. Michael Heyward understands this, and I just want to say thanks.