Moonlight Plains

by Barbara Hannay

  Eating out at a cafe was an unheard-of extravagance. Kitty chose not to catch Elsie’s eye. ‘Yes, I’m free. I’d love to come.’ Again, she managed to sound calm, but her mind was racing, tumbling over itself in her excitement. Ed was here. He’d tracked her down and asked her out. What did this mean? What should she wear? Oh, Lord, the dressmaking! She would have to bundle it up and worry about it tomorrow.

  ‘Can you give me five minutes to get changed?’

  They walked over the hill and into town, where the footpaths were crowded with men in American uniforms strolling arm in arm with local girls. Kitty felt slightly superior walking beside Ed. He wasn’t just a fellow who’d picked her up at a dance. Their acquaintance went deeper. They’d been through an ordeal together – exciting, terrifying and desperately sad. And yet it was fun to be as carefree and smiling as everyone else this evening.

  As they squeezed into the only spare booth, the Bluebird Cafe rang with American voices and with phrases that were strange to Kitty’s ears.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Yeah, coming right along.’

  ‘Hotsy totsy!’

  Someone ordered a lime spider.

  ‘What’s a lime spider?’ she asked Ed.

  He laughed. ‘It’s just a scoop of vanilla ice-cream in a lime soda. They’re great. You want to try one?’

  ‘It sounds like a dessert.’

  ‘Life’s short.’ Ed grinned at her. ‘Give it a whirl.’

  ‘Why not?’ Kitty laughed at her recklessness.

  She could see why the girls loved being out with the Americans. These men not only looked extra-attractive in their beautiful, smartly ironed uniforms, but they were also generous with their money, unbelievably courteous, and they carried with them an exciting aura: of coming from another world, a world that local girls had only ever glimpsed on the cinema screen.

  For Kitty, Ed was in a class of his own, of course. She had never dared to dream that he might come looking for her. It was too good to be true and their evening out had a magical quality, as if her world had burst from muted sepia into glorious colour.

  She and Ed talked nonstop – not about the war, but about the music they liked and the films they’d enjoyed; Ed called them ‘flicks’.

  Kitty wanted to know more about his family, so he told her about his mother’s interest in gardening and music, her passion for growing lilacs, and the classical concerts she’d taken him to.

  When Ed asked Kitty what it had been like growing up in Townsville, she gave him the edited highlights: picnics at Black River, day trips to Magnetic Island, the backyard cricket and Guy Fawkes Night.

  ‘Guy Fawkes?’

  ‘Don’t you have that in America? Bonfire night? Remember, remember the fifth of November . . .’

  Ed shook his head.

  ‘I think the original Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the British Houses of Parliament, but these days it’s just all about children and crackers,’ she said. ‘The children buy every kind of cracker they can afford – sparklers, little cheap tom thumbs, skyrockets if they’re lucky. The really rich kids have Catherine wheels and, of course, the boys are always desperate for double bungers. We used to let them off out in the street. There were hardly any cars.’

  ‘Sounds a bit like our fourth of July.’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘What about Magnetic Island?’ Ed asked. ‘Do you still go over there for day trips?’

  ‘Now and again. It’s beautiful. There are all these lovely little bays fringed by enormous boulders, and the water’s so blue and clear. Have you been over?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m hoping to.’ Ed’s dark eyes held an intense light as he smiled. ‘Maybe you could come with me, show me all the best places?’

  ‘I – I’d love to.’

  Kitty was practically floating as they finished their meal – an expensive, luxuriously juicy steak and fresh salad. Dusk was closing in as they walked down Flinders Street, past the sandbagged doorways and the window displays of air-raid equipment, and the rather grand Town Hall building with its huge V for Victory flag.

  They continued on to the Strand on the seafront, skirting the Anzac monument and continuing beneath massive banyan fig trees till they reached the shore.

  Despite the ugly network of barbed wire on the beach, the silver sea looked as serene and beautiful as ever. In the darkening sky above Cape Pallarenda, the evening star was already shining and a light breeze blew off the water. And Ed was walking by Kitty’s side.

  She was sure she’d never felt happier.

  At the water’s edge Ed picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the shimmering surface. Then he turned to Kitty, and for the first time he took her hand in his. His hand was warm, his fingers long and strong.

  ‘So I’m thinking that a lovely girl like you must have a sweetheart or two,’ he said casually.

  Kitty’s instinct was to deny this flatly, but then she thought guiltily of Andy, who’d claimed that he was planning to marry her. Even his parents seemed to concede an ‘understanding’ between her and their son.

  She suppressed an urge to sigh. ‘There’s a boy from here. I’ve been – been out with him. But now he’s missing up in the islands.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kitty.’ Ed’s sympathy was sincere.

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible.’

  He let her hand go. ‘I apologise if I’ve been presumptuous.’

  ‘You haven’t, Ed.’ She wanted, desperately, for him to hold her hand again. Even if Andy was still alive, he was so far away he hardly seemed real. And she’d never promised him . . . ‘You haven’t . . . ’ She couldn’t find the right word. ‘Truly.’

  As she said this, Ed was looking clear into her eyes and she willed him to read her silent message: I want to be your girl.

  His smile was difficult to read, but then he leaned in and kissed her cheek, just the softest touch of his lips to her skin.

  And he didn’t immediately step away.

  Along the beach small waves lapped. In the distance a lone seagull gave a high-pitched crazy cry. Kitty could feel the tension thrumming between them. She wanted him to kiss her. Properly. On the lips.

  She lifted her face. Tilted her chin. Just a little closer . . . Moth to the flame. Ed, please . . .

  She heard the rasp of his indrawn breath.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said and then he took her hand and walked her home.

  Ed called again, much to Kitty’s joy and relief. Over the weeks that followed, he became a regular visitor at Mitchell Street.

  This was a somewhat different Ed from the serious pilot on Moonlight Plains who’d been so focused on trying to save his fellow airman. In Townsville Ed carried a special air of American glamour, with his dark glasses and aftershave – Kitty had eventually learned why he smelled so good. His manners were delightful and he always came with gifts, so he easily charmed Elsie and young Geoff.

  The boy was agog to have a real fighter pilot in his home and he would corner the ever-patient Ed with endless questions. Ed couldn’t talk about his missions, of course; they were top-secret. But he was happy to tell Geoff all about the US Airacobras and Mitchell bombers and how they compared with the Kittyhawks.

  Sometimes he shared a home-cooked meal with them, having invariably supplied the ingredients. He claimed that meals cooked in a military canteen were never as good. He occasionally joined them in a game of cards.

  Other times, he and Kitty wandered over the hill to the movies. If it was a matinee they would take young Geoff to the Winter Garden, with its tightly stretched canvas seats. Both Kitty and Geoff were hugely impressed when lower-ranked airmen saluted Ed.

  Ed took Kitty to dances and told her that her new pink dress with its smart black trim was beautiful.

  ‘The colour really suits you. It makes you look like a rose.’

  But he only ever kissed her on the cheek, or occasionally on her brow, or her chin, or her ear. In every way, he charmed and beguiled Kitty,
while living up to the image she had painted of him for her grandfather. To her huge disappointment, he remained a perfect gentleman.

  26

  Boston, 2013

  The invitation from Australia sat on Laura’s desk, unanswered.

  When it became too annoying she filed it at the back of the bills waiting to be paid. But then she would come home from school, feeling tired and jaded, or she would finish a phone call with one of her daughters that left her feeling old and unnecessary, and she would find herself taking out the letter again.

  Dear Laura,

  Thank you for your letter, which I passed on to my grandmother, Kitty Mathieson. Kitty’s in a nursing home now and not really up to corresponding, but I know she was pleased to hear from you.

  The families of Americans who were in this area during the war often come back to visit, so please let us know if you’re ever planning a trip Down Under and we’ll make sure you’re welcomed.

  Actually, just as a long shot: our family is throwing a party in two months’ time to celebrate the renovation of Moonlight Plains homestead, and as you have a family connection to this place, I wanted to extend an invitation.

  I know you haven’t met any of us, but your father played a famous part in the homestead’s history and we’d love you to join us, if that’s at all possible. I’m sure we could arrange help with transport or accommodation once you’re in Australia, so don’t hesitate to ask. It would be great to meet you.

  September’s usually a pleasant time of year in North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef is right on our doorstep.

  Yours sincerely,

  Luke Fairburn

  It had been so very unexpected. And unsettling. What did the Australians know about her family connection? What ‘famous’ part had her father played in the homestead’s history? Why had he never talked about it?

  Laura wouldn’t go, of course, but whenever she reread the handwritten message from Kitty’s grandson, her thoughts began to spin.

  It was puzzling, even annoying, that she’d never heard anything about her father’s war. She and her brothers only knew vaguely that he’d been stationed in Australia, but as far as she could remember, he’d never once told any of them what he’d actually done while he was overseas.

  Even in his letters to Kitty, he’d only briefly mentioned the war. His thoughts had mostly been centred on the woman he met. But now that Laura had heard from Luke about other Americans revisiting North Queensland she felt as if she needed the bigger picture.

  She dug through the remnants of her father’s library again and eventually found a couple of black and white photos slipped carelessly into the back of an album. Her father was standing beside a plane, looking very young and handsome.

  By contrast, the plane looked quite threatening, painted khaki with a large white star on its side. It had a most terrifying, tiny and claustrophobic cockpit perched high on its nose. She was shocked to think that her father had actually been up there, locked inside that tiny bubble, flying alone in mortal combat with a foreign enemy, high above the Pacific.

  It was hard to reconcile that image with the gentlemanly and thoughtful academic she’d known and loved all her life.

  After a little internet research, Laura learned that the plane was an Airacobra and the main task of its pilots in Australia had been to escort the big Mitchell bombers when they attacked their Japanese targets. Apparently, the lighter, more manoeuvrable Airacobras had protected the bigger, heavier bombers from attack by Jap fighter planes called Zeroes.

  Airacobras had been involved in regular dogfights with Zeroes, especially in the dangerous cloud-shrouded mountains of Papua New Guinea, the dragon-shaped island that almost touched Australia’s northern tip. And there’d been some serious battles in New Guinea, Laura soon discovered – an assault on Rabaul, the Kokoda Trail campaign, the Battle of Buna-Gona.

  ‘Oh, my God, Dad.’

  When her brother Charlie came to Boston for an overnight stay before dashing off to cover something incredibly important in Washington, she seized the chance to talk about it.

  ‘I can’t believe Dad never told us about his time as a pilot in the war, flying those tiny little planes.’

  Along with the brandy she served after dinner, she showed Charlie the photos.

  ‘He would have hated to be a war bore,’ Charlie said.

  ‘I know. I guess we should be grateful for that, but still, I wish I’d talked to him, asked a few questions.’

  Laura eyed Charlie over her brandy glass. Her baby brother’s hairline was receding, much like that of their mother’s father, but it suited him, gave him a high-brow air.

  ‘Now that I think about it, I can’t believe you didn’t plague Dad to tell you all about the war,’ she said. ‘You’re a war correspondent, after all.’

  ‘I did try. He told me a few things.’

  ‘Really?’ She sat straighter, suddenly alert. ‘About being a fighter pilot?’

  ‘Not about any heroics. I remember he told me that at the start of the war, the Japanese Zero pilots were a lot better trained than the Americans. They’d had more combat experience, and it took our guys a while to get the hang of it.’

  ‘God, Charlie, how scary would that have been?’

  Charlie shrugged and looked down at his glass. ‘Every war’s scary.’

  ‘I guess. I try not to think about it.’

  ‘You’re an artist,’ her brother said fondly. ‘Perhaps it’s your task in life to seek beauty.’

  Laura smiled. ‘While you’re a journalist tasked with seeking the truth?’ She took a sip of her brandy. ‘So what else did Dad tell you?’

  ‘Very little.’ Charlie tapped the photo of the plane. ‘Our military soon realised that these Airacobras were really built for ground attacks and not for dogfights. These planes were no match for the Zeroes. They were in the process of upgrading pilots like Dad to Lightnings when Dad was shot down in New Guinea.’

  At least she’d known that their father was shot down and shipped home. He’d mentioned that briefly in his letters.

  Somewhat nervously, Laura asked, ‘Did he ever talk to you about any of the Australians he met?’

  Charlie gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Just that he was keen to listen to any advice they could offer. His squadron flew with the Australians in the early days. The Aussies were just back from Europe and North Africa and they’d had plenty of experience, so Dad quizzed them whenever he could. He was a bit starry-eyed about meeting one of their aces. Forget the guy’s name. I just remember that the main advice was to get plenty of altitude, and come down on the enemy at speed, rather than the other way round.’

  Laura shuddered.

  ‘See,’ Charlie said, noticing her reaction. ‘That’s why Dad didn’t talk about it.’

  ‘I suppose . . . What about a place called Moonlight Plains?’ she asked carefully. ‘Did he ever mention that?’

  Charlie frowned. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  She considered telling him about the letters, but it was already late. He would be up all night reading, and he’d be a mess the next day.

  On his next visit, she promised herself.

  ‘I wonder why he was so silent?’ she said instead. ‘Do – do you think he had something to hide?’

  ‘Seems to me there are two ways men react to their war experiences. They either can’t help talking about it all the time, or they clam up completely.’

  Or they write about it in letters that they never post, thought Laura.

  By the time she had coffee with her friend Amy on the following afternoon, Laura was edging towards a tipping point. ‘I think I’m going to have to go over there.’

  ‘To Australia?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She’d already told her friend about the letter she’d sent to Kitty. Now she shared the surprising invitation she’d received from Luke Fairburn.

  Amy blinked. ‘Get outta here!’ Then she grinned. ‘Of course, you’ve got to go, Laura. You’re sure to hav
e a fabulous time. Besides, you might get a few answers.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want answers.’

  Amy lifted her neatly shaped eyebrows as she studied her friend. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that your father might have wanted you to go?’

  ‘No. For heaven’s sake, what gives you that idea?’

  Amy’s eyes widened as if the answer was obvious. ‘The letters?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Laura, your dad was a clever and careful man, yet he left those incriminating letters lying around for you to find. I know he died suddenly, but he was in his nineties, after all – he knew he was taking a risk.’

  ‘I must admit, I have asked myself why he wasn’t more careful,’ Laura confessed. ‘Imagine if Mum had found them. It would have been . . .’ Disastrous, a family tragedy, unbearable . . .

  ‘Perhaps he kept them safely under lock and key while your mother was alive – in his office, at the bank, or with his lawyer . . .’

  ‘That’s quite likely, I guess.’

  ‘Listen.’ Amy’s silver bracelets jangled as she leaned forward and took Laura’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘If there are any answers in Australia, I think you want to find them, honey.’

  ‘But – but what if I don’t like them?’

  ‘You’re tough. You’ll adjust. You’ll deal with it and move on.’

  Amy made it sound so simple. Perhaps it was.

  ‘I wouldn’t know a soul over there,’ Laura hedged. ‘I’d be nervous.’

  ‘But Australians are supposed to be very casual and friendly.’

  She couldn’t deny that Luke Fairburn’s invitation had sounded both friendly and casual.

  ‘And you’re in the perfect position to go,’ Amy added.

  ‘You mean I’m divorced and an empty-nester? No ties?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘But I have my job.’

  ‘And you know you’re dying for a change.’

  This was certainly true. She’d been teaching in the same high school for more than twenty years. Part of the furniture . . .