Moonlight Plains

by Barbara Hannay

  She thought about what he’d said about Ed. A Boston blueblood. It fitted with his handsome, film-star looks. She thought about the strange turn her life had taken, bringing her out here to Moonlight Plains, which was such a different world from the suburbs of Townsville. Arriving here, she’d found the house a mess and her Aunt Lil’s beautiful garden flattened by the February rains, even heavier than the rain falling now. Vegetables had been rotten on their stems, their leaves yellowed and blotched with mould.

  She thought about Andy Mathieson and their fumbling farewell on the verandah. Back in Townsville, giving in to Andy on that final night had felt so grown up. But now, just a matter of weeks later, she felt years older.

  This evening, she felt as if she’d had to mature by decades in just a matter of hours. And when she looked at Bobby’s almost colourless face, she feared her most difficult challenge lay ahead.

  She hoped Andy was okay. She imagined he was probably embarrassed about his rushed and unromantic farwell and she knew he’d be worried about her. Now, with six weeks’ distance from that alarming night, she could think about Andy more calmly.

  She found herself remembering snippets of their past, like the time Andy first invited her over to his house to see the bantam chicks he’d raised. Such tiny, fluffy little balls they’d been, and he’d handled them so gently as he’d offered her one to hold. She’d been entranced, just as her grandmother had been a few years later when Andy had volunteered to mend the heirloom rocking chair.

  ‘It’s English oak,’ Andy had said. ‘That’s hard to come by, Mrs M, but I think I know where I can get hold of a piece.’

  He’d fixed the chair as good as new and her grandmother had been overjoyed. Recalling those happier times now, Kitty hated to think he might be somewhere in Malaya . . . dangerously wounded like Bobby . . . lying among strangers.

  ‘Angel?’

  Bobby’s soft voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘You ever go to church?’ he asked without opening his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ Kitty told him. ‘Before I came to live here, I went to church all the time with my grandparents.’

  ‘You like to sing?’

  ‘Um . . . I do, yes.’

  ‘I knew it. You got such a sweet voice. I bet you sing like Deanna Durbin.’

  Bobby seemed to fall asleep again then, and after a bit Kitty got up and tiptoed across the bare floorboards. Carefully, she opened the wardrobe and took out clean clothes, went to the kitchen and bathed in a dish at the sink and changed her clothes. She felt much better once she was clean and had changed into a dress. She thought about making a sandwich, but she would check on Bobby first.

  As she entered the bedroom, a floorboard creaked.

  Bobby stirred. ‘Angel,’ he murmured.

  ‘How are you?’

  Instead of answering, he asked a question. ‘You know any nice hymns?’

  Kitty gulped. ‘I – I guess.’ She came up beside the bed again.

  ‘Can you sing something now?’

  Although Kitty loved to sing – in fact, she was actually a little vain about her voice – she didn’t like the track of Bobby’s thoughts. First angels and now hymns. Had he decided he was dying?

  ‘You’re going to be all right, Bobby. Are you sure you want a hymn?’

  There was no response at first, but then he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Just something . . . nice . . . reminds me of home.’

  Home. Where was his home? Kitty didn’t want to ask him. He’d been talking too much already.

  ‘What about “Summertime”?’ She hummed the opening bars of the popular song from Porgy and Bess. ‘It’s not a hymn. I suppose it’s more of a lullaby, but I’ve always thought it was very soothing.’

  Eyes closed, Bobby smiled. ‘Yeah, sing that. That’s real nice.’

  So Kitty sang. She was sure Bobby slept through most of it, but if her songs worked like lullabies, all the better. She sang ‘Summertime’ and ‘Spring in My Heart’ and ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

  She was holding Bobby’s hand and singing ‘Danny Boy’, crooning the words as softly and sweetly as she could, when she heard a noise that sounded very much like the squeak of the back door. And then footsteps.

  A moment later, Ed appeared in the doorway. He’d taken off his boots, but he was still wearing the army greatcoat, which was dark with rain. His hair was plastered to his skull. He stood for a moment staring at Kitty, his expression a disturbing mix of delight and sorrow.

  ‘What happened?’ she called softly. ‘Was the creek up?’

  ‘Yeah, practically breaking its banks.’ Ed ruffled his hand through his damp hair as if trying to dry it. ‘I didn’t have a hope of getting across. Nearly drowned myself trying. Just as you predicted.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, so am I.’ He cocked his head, gesturing for Kitty to come out into the hallway. He was obviously agitated, so she quickly joined him. ‘How long will this damn rain last?’

  ‘I – I’m not sure.’

  Ed grimaced. ‘I’ve got to get help for Bobby. I’ve got to get a message to the base at Townsville or the Breddan airstrip at Charters Towers.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any answers, Ed.’

  He stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes tense and troubled, and then he seemed to accept the situation and he cracked a rueful smile. ‘That was very pretty singing, Kitty.’

  She couldn’t believe she was blushing. Quickly, she lifted her shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. ‘Bobby asked me to sing.’

  ‘Good for him.’ Moving into the bedroom now, with Kitty close behind, Ed looked down at Bobby’s sleeping face. ‘How’s my buddy?’

  ‘Much the same.’ She gave a sad shake of her head. ‘Although I’m scared he might be a bit worse.’

  There was a frightening bluish tinge to Bobby’s lips now and when she slipped her hand in his, he gave no sign that he noticed.

  Carefully, Ed lifted the sheet back and then Bobby’s shirt. The bruise was darker and meaner looking than before, and Bobby’s breathing was shallow and rapid.

  Ed sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Next moment, he grasped at the iron bed-end and swung dizzily as if he was overcome by exhaustion or despair, or both.

  ‘I think you’d better come through to the kitchen, Ed.’ Kitty was on her feet, watching him with concern. ‘You need to get something in your stomach. I don’t want two crocks on my hands.’

  In the kitchen, she went to the stove where the large black kettle was heating.

  ‘You’ll probably want to wash first.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ed. ‘That’d be great. After the dip in the creek I’m disgustingly muddy.’

  ‘The bathroom’s off the back landing. I got it ready in case you came back.’

  He cracked a wry grin. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. You knew I’d be back, didn’t you?’

  ‘I hoped you’d get through.’

  ‘I wonder if I could prevail on you for some spare clothes,’ Ed asked. ‘My uniform’s saturated. I left it hanging out on the verandah.’

  ‘Oh, so that means –’

  ‘I’m naked under this greatcoat, yes.’

  His smile was handsome, almost devilish, and of course Kitty blushed.

  ‘I’ll get you some of Uncle Jim’s things,’ she said, already hurrying away, flustered by the thought of his naked body. ‘They’ll be big around the waist, but your belt should pull them in.’

  She returned quickly with a flannelette shirt and an old pair of trousers. ‘Will these do? Or – or would you like underwear?’

  ‘These are fine, thanks, Kitty. Fabulous.’

  ‘And take this lantern to the bathroom with you,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to fill the basin with warm water from this kettle. I’m afraid there’s no actual bath or shower.’ The only shower was an outdoor affair under the tank stand.

  Ed gave a polite dip of his head as he accepted the clothes and the kettle, but weariness seeme
d to cling to him as he went through to the primitive bathroom. Kitty wondered if he minded the shabbiness of the chipped enamel basin, or the spotty old mirror. If he was as rich as Bobby had said, he must be used to much finer things.

  At least the basin had a pretty trim of green leaves and rosebuds, and she’d set a fresh rectangle of bright-yellow soap in the white porcelain dish. And she’d given Ed the biggest and fluffiest bath towel. No way was she giving one of Uncle Jim’s threadbare, holey towels to an American pilot who looked like a film star and was the next best thing to a prince.

  Supper was the reheated remains of the last of the corned beef with a few boiled potatoes and beans on the side. Thanks to her great-uncle’s dairy cows, there was enough milk and butter to make an onion sauce to add a bit of flavour.

  ‘Wow, this looks swell,’ Ed said when he came into the kitchen and saw the meal. His dark eyes seemed to shine with genuine appreciation. ‘You’re going to join me, aren’t you, Kitty?’

  ‘I’ll go back and sit with Bobby while you eat,’ she said.

  ‘But you need to eat too.’

  ‘I can have my dinner later.’

  Ed pointed to the chair opposite him. ‘Come on, keep me company.’ Once again, he sounded as if he was used to giving orders.

  ‘Let me just check on him quickly.’

  She was back a moment later. ‘No real change,’ she said sadly as she took her seat.

  Ed’s face was sombre. ‘If only there was something we could do for him.’

  ‘It’s awful to feel helpless,’ she agreed as she helped herself to a modest serving. She was too tense to feel very hungry.

  They ate in silence for a bit.

  ‘Thanks for this. Thanks for everything you’ve done, Kitty. You’ve been wonderful, you know. Coming out in the rain and finding us, putting us up here. Taking care of Bobby.’

  ‘It’s all part of the war effort, isn’t it?’ After all, if she’d still been in Townsville, she would have joined the VADs, or the Red Cross, or both for that matter.

  Ed’s smile didn’t quite reach his dark eyes as their gazes met across the table.

  ‘You’ve been brave and kind, Kitty. Don’t underestimate yourself.’

  The tenderness in his expression touched Kitty deeply, as if a small gong had been struck inside her, filling her with unexpected happiness.

  Good heavens. She couldn’t have a crush on this man. She couldn’t be so foolish. And yet . . .

  ‘I’m worried about Bobby,’ she said quickly, desperate to get her thoughts back on a safe track. ‘Do you think he’s getting worse?’

  Ed sighed. ‘I studied law at Harvard, not medicine, so I can only guess, but I’m pretty darn sure Bobby needs the expertise of a surgeon.’

  ‘I was afraid of that.’

  Ed let out another heavier sigh. ‘Damn rain.’

  ‘We’ll just have to try to keep him comfortable.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The weight of their inadequacy seemed to hover over them as they ate.

  ‘Do you know Bobby very well?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Reasonably well, I guess. I only met him a couple of months ago, but we’ve been pretty much in each other’s pockets since then.’

  ‘Is he from Boston like you?’

  Ed looked surprised.

  ‘Bobby told me you’re from Boston.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Bobby’s a farm boy from Minnesota. He’s an only child with older parents.’

  Imagining how distraught Bobby’s parents would be if they knew he’d been injured, Kitty felt her eyes fill with hot tears. She blinked furiously.

  ‘Hey,’ Ed said gently, offering her a cheering smile. ‘Bobby’s great talent has been making us laugh. I remember the first day I met him at Lawrence Field in Virginia. We were both lined up for a medical and the doc was a particularly nasty jerk with no sense of humour. It was a freezing cold morning and he enjoyed making us strip down to our shorts. Didn’t even bother to warm up his stethoscope. But Bobby was cracking jokes the whole time, making us all laugh when we were supposed to cough.’ Still smiling at the memory, Ed shook his head. ‘Cheesed the doc off no end.’

  Kitty managed to smile. ‘We call cheeky guys like that larrikins.’

  ‘Larrikins? That’s a great word. That’s what Bobby is. A larrikin.’

  Remembering Bobby’s talk of angels and hymns, Kitty was struggling not to cry again.

  12

  Boston, 2013

  Late on a Sunday afternoon, the inner Boston condo was bathed in shadows and only the softest dusky light filtered through the tall elegant windows that looked down to the Charles River.

  When Laura Langley Fox let herself in, she still half-expected to find her father sitting there in his favourite chair, reading or watching a Red Sox game on TV. But, of course, it was almost a month now since his funeral.

  Laura shivered. Sunday evenings were always depressing. There was nothing to look forward to but the start of another working week, and on this particular Sunday afternoon she felt especially tired. She’d spent the weekend grading her seniors’ art history papers and then telephoning both her daughters, and she’d travelled in via the subway from West Roxbury to continue clearing and sorting her father’s belongings. The unhappy task had been left solely to her. Neither of her brothers had lifted a finger.

  It had been a different story ten years ago, when her older brother Edward Langley Junior had been only too happy to help their father move out of his dignified, bow-fronted home on Mount Vernon Street. Now, Edward and his wife Sarah-Jane were firmly ensconced in the Beacon Hill house that had been in the Langley family since the mid-nineteenth century. Ed Junior, usually to be seen in a square-shouldered tweed jacket and plain Oxford shirt, was so caught up with charities, concerts and parties these days that he simply hadn’t time to help Laura.

  Her younger brother Charlie had a different excuse, but the result was the same. He’d raced back to his beloved war zones the very day after the funeral.

  If Laura was the family’s failure – and that was how she’d felt ever since her divorce – Charlie was the family’s escapee. She’d watched her brother’s almost nightly reports from Syria or Egypt or Afghanistan and decided he was hiding from his grief behind other people’s catastrophes.

  It was probably for the best. Charlie was softer than he liked to let on and if he’d been here, he would have hated the emotional knife twist of going through their father’s things, sifting through his life, a task their father had spared them when their mother died. Now it hurt to come face to face with the reality that a living, warm, vital and intelligent man had been reduced to rooms full of things.

  There was one heartening fact: Laura’s task at the condo was almost done. She’d already sent most of the furniture and kitchen items to charity shops and she’d sorted through her father’s clothing, weeping copious tears over his favourite old beige elbow-patch cardigan that he’d worn when he was relaxing at home, still with a roll of cool mints in the right-hand pocket.

  She’d taken it to her place, folding it carefully and wrapping it in tissue paper, then placing it with due reverence in the bottom of her chest of drawers, along with the family christening gown, her mother’s Bible and a folder of her own artwork from her college days.

  Of course, she’d taken the photo albums home as well, weeping again as she carefully turned the pages of black and white prints of her parents’ beautiful wedding in the Church of the Advent and their glamorous honeymoon in Paris.

  Predictably, these photos had been followed by pages devoted to Laura and her brothers. Ed Junior, with dark bangs flopping forward and the Langley sculpted cheekbones, looked serious and self-important at a surprisingly early age. Laura, the only daughter, had almost always been dressed in stiff frills and ruffles that she’d never found comfortable, invariably with a ribbon pinned into her wiry, mousey hair that was neither blonde like her mother’s nor dark like her father’s. Charlie had been cute and handsome fro
m birth.

  And there were photos of various family birthday parties and Christmases and of vacations in the snow or at the beach. For Laura, they woke countless memories . . .

  Skating on the smooth, perfect ice, making snowmen with her brothers, and her frustration when she couldn’t make them look perfect like the ones on Christmas cards. Standing with her toes digging into the damp sand at the edge of the sea, waiting impatiently for her turn to be taken out on her father’s strong shoulders into the huge, exciting waves. Being tucked into bed and listening to her father’s deep, expressive voice as he read her favourite stories aloud.

  But it was the photos of her parents that held her attention the longest and brought back the strongest memories. Through a mist of nostalgic tears, Laura had stared wistfully at their smiling faces and at the unmistakable evidence of their very deep and abiding love.

  She’d recalled how their father had cared for their mom with such amazing devotion during her final illness. And she remembered the many occasions in her childhood when she’d sat at the top of the stairs in the Beacon Hill house, watching her parents leave for a night at the theatre. Her mom in midnight-blue silk with diamonds at her throat and ears. Her father in tails, looking like Prince Charming as he helped his wife into her fur coat.

  Laura remembered the way he smiled at Mom as if she were his princess, how he drew her into his arms and kissed the graceful white curve of her neck instead of her mouth, because he wasn’t allowed to smudge her lipstick. Laughing, they would leave through the front door in a flurry of snowflakes . . . like beautiful creatures from a fairytale.

  She remembered the everyday moments too, when her parents’ eyes would meet across the dinner table, smiling with happy secrets, momentarily cut off from the children and in a world of their own. Their love had sustained them through fifty years of marriage and it had filtered through to their children, providing the adhesive that held the family together.