Dearest Tilly,
I wish I had a goddamn typewriter but this will have to do.
This is our story.
The who is you.
The what is my love for you that for so long felt like a punishment for something I might have done in a past life, if I believed in that idea and I think you know me well enough to believe that I don’t.
The why is you. The where is everywhere you are.
The when is slowly, then with a wham, and then every goddam waking minute of every goddam day since we first shared cheese and pickle sandwiches at Circular Quay. And every day since, more and more.
I don’t yet know the how of our story. I hope that’s because we haven’t written the end.
I’ll always be, yours truly,
George
Tilly read it twice. Three times.
‘Since Circular Quay?’ she whispered to herself. Who had she been all those years ago and what had he seen in her that she hadn’t even seen in herself? Newly married, a husband away in the army, a Millers Point girl, a secretary trying to make a life for herself. He had fallen in love with the young woman she had been and no longer was, and he still loved her? A woman broken with grief and clinging to hope?
He’d loved her when she’d been married, widowed, bereaved, broken, unloved, silent, dark and angry. He’d loved her when she was a secretary, when she was a war correspondent and when she was writing about flowers and frocks and frippery. He’d loved every part of her and her life, all this time and she hadn’t known. She hadn’t let herself know.
She hadn’t been blind. She just hadn’t been looking.
She was never going to let go of his letter. It would join Archie’s in the camphorwood box of her most treasured things, all of which marked some turning point of her life. For this was indeed a turning point.
It was 1946. She was ready to lift her eyes to the horizon now, to imagine a new life for herself. She was determined to live for all those who couldn’t.
ACT THREE
The future we promised ourselves is here, but—
The woman’s view—by one of them
The Sydney Morning Herald, 12 January 1946
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘How on earth is it right that the first child of a living soldier is allowed twenty-one shillings living allowance weekly but if their poor old dad is dead, has given his life for our country and the king, that fatherless child only gets seventeen and six? I mean, where’s the fairness in that, I ask you?’
Tilly sat at the table in her mother’s kitchen, a place for sharing injustices for as long as she could remember.
‘Mrs McCartney, how do you know this is the case?’
The grandmother leant forward, her face reddening, her large bosom resting on the table. ‘Because it’s happened to my poor daughter, Geraldine. Her Barnie was killed in Timor—wherever that is, I don’t know—and she has four mouths to feed. Do those little ones eat less now their father is dead?’
Elsie comforted her neighbour. ‘It’s just dreadful. How is Geraldine getting on then?’
‘She’s taking in washing and mending, and her father and I and all her brothers are doing as much as we can for the poor lass. But it’s not like we all have much to spare. Not with the strikes. You know how it is, Tilly.’
Tilly nodded. ‘Do you think the government thinks that war widows are embarrassing? A reminder that blokes were killed and it was sometimes the fault of those bloody generals like Blamey? They want to sweep them all under the carpet and pretend everything’s the way it used to be. They don’t seem to care a toss about Geraldine and others like her reduced to penury. And Geraldine’s not the only one. There’re thousands and thousands of them and I—’ Mrs McCartney covered her mouth. ‘Of course you know that, Tilly.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs McCartney. Archie and I had no children. I’m in a very different spot to poor Geraldine.’
‘You all have your burdens to bear,’ Elsie said, passing a plate of fruit cake to Tilly, who passed it straight on to Mrs McCartney.
‘The other thing to hit poor Geraldine? All Barnie’s pay that had been saved up, what do they call it …’
‘Accrued leave pay?’ Tilly offered.
‘Yes, that’s it. It’s all gone! The widows don’t get a penny of it. Barnie and all those boys earnt every pound ten times over. It’s shocking, it is. And you ask about the pension, too, Tilly. It’s pitiful.’
‘I will. Thank you, Mrs McCartney. And please send on my condolences to Geraldine.’
‘I will, love. And I’m sure she’d want me to send them right back to you.’
Tilly stomped across the women’s newsroom to her office and tossed her handbag and notebook on her desk.
‘You all right, boss?’ Vera Maxwell popped her head in, a look of concern in her knitted eyebrows.
Vera and Dear Agatha and the newest reporter for the women’s pages, Denise Stapleton, had given her the moniker and she had embraced it with good humour. She liked being reminded that she was the boss because as soon as she left the floor she was still treated by the other men at the paper as the ex-secretary. Funnily enough, no one called Cooper the ex-copyboy.
Denise had been tickled pink at being offered the job, lured by an upgrade, which meant more pay and something else worth far more than money.
‘You came along at just the right time, Tilly. I’ve been looking for a way out of that newsroom for twelve months.’
When Tilly had asked why, Denise had rolled her eyes and frowned. ‘Let’s just call him the octopus. The married octopus.’
Denise stood at the doorway to Tilly’s office. ‘What’s got your goat?’
Tilly told Denise what she’d learnt from Mrs McCartney and Denise’s appalled expression revealed she was in total agreement with Tilly.
‘I’m going to dig a little deeper.’
‘Boss, there’s something I’m interested in taking a look at. Can I run it by you?’
‘Of course.’ Tilly had given Denise a wide brief when she’d enticed her over. She trusted her judgement in knowing what a good story was.
‘A number of women’s organisations are holding a meeting to talk about their role in the new peace and reconstruction movement. I’d like to go along to the meeting tonight. I spoke to one of them just now and she said that men are intimidated by women en masse and women should make a good deal more use of that power. I liked her right away.’
‘Sounds like I would, too. I look forward to reading your story.’
Denise left and Tilly worked her phone. Mrs McCartney had been correct. The more she investigated the story, the more certain Tilly was that Australia was failing its ten thousand war widows and its 11,240 fatherless children. Not only did they have to cope with the loss of their family breadwinner and loved one, but they were at dire risk of falling into poverty. A war widow without children received two pounds and fifteen shillings a week. How was a woman who had given her husband to the nation expected to live on half the basic wage? And a widow with two children was only entitled to four pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence, which was still less than the basic male wage of over five pounds.
Tilly sat back in her chair and thought about women in Martha’s position. Martha wasn’t a widow but she faced the same threat of poverty and homelessness. She hadn’t seen a penny from Colin in the months since he’d told her he wanted a divorce. She was going to strike first, but the process was convoluted and infuriating. Martha had gone to a sympathetic lawyer the Waterside Workers’ Federation had recommended, who had advised her she would first have to file a decree of restitution of conjugal rights. In other words, she would have to convince a judge that she wanted the lying, cheating sod back. Then, when he refused, she would be able to get a petition for dissolution right away.
Tilly slipped empty copy paper into her typewriter, cranked the platen knob and began.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cooper tilted back the cap of Tilly’s uniform
and pressed his lips to hers.
Their kiss was long and gentle. It would have to last them a while and they both knew it. They’d prepared themselves for their separation by spending every minute of the past four weeks together.
His charming eyes sparkled at her. ‘You’ll have to marry me when you come back, you know.’
She laughed at his presumption. ‘You call that a proposal?’
‘I’m being practical. Think about it, Tilly. It’s 1946. The war changed a whole lot about this country but a man and a woman still can’t live together without being married.’
‘We’re not living together,’ she clarified. ‘You’re taking care of the flat while I’m in Japan for three months. And also because your bedsit was a cesspit.’
Tilly stood in her living room in her freshly dry-cleaned war correspondent’s uniform, a suitcase and Cooper’s portable typewriter in its case at her feet. He held her in his arms, touched his forehead to hers.
‘You’ve rescued me from squalor, I can’t deny it. And a whole lot more.’
‘And as to what people think of me? You may have noticed that I don’t tend to care, George Cooper. I am a commie’s daughter, after all.’
He chuckled and straightened her cap. ‘But you’re also the editor of the Daily Herald’s women’s pages. Sydney’s matrons will black ban you if they think you’re a woman of low morals.’
‘Funny you should say that. I want more of those women with supposedly low morals to be reading the paper, so perhaps I’m on to something. And anyway, they’ll still have society favourite, their very own Kitty Darling, to cover what interests them. They’ve always loved her.’ And Tilly knew they would continue to, even after she returned to Sydney having born her child out of wedlock in a secret place in the country. Once it was delivered into the arms of an adopting couple, she would return to work, like thousands of women all over the country, as if nothing had ever happened.
‘Are you sure you have everything?’
‘I’m sure.’
Tilly was sailing that day on the hospital ship Manunda with members of the Australian Army Medical Women’s Service and the Australian Army Nursing Service, the first contingent of Australian women being sent to occupied Japan. They were heading there to care for the ten thousand Australians serving as part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force, part of the Allied occupation of Japan.
Tilly had held Mrs Freeman to her promise that she would have free rein to run the women’s pages however she chose and had informed Mr Sinclair that she believed they should report on the post-war reconstruction of Japan and what it meant for the women of the mysterious country to the north.
‘Japan?’ he’d muttered, chewing on the end of a pencil as he’d considered her request. ‘I don’t know which man I can spare to sail away to Tokyo.’
Tilly had planted her hands on his desk, stared him down, and replied, ‘I don’t need a man for this assignment, Rex. I’ll be going.’
Since the war was over, and Japan still occupied, Tilly had discovered she would be free to move around without a military escort. The city she would be living in, Kure, was near Hiroshima. How could she be so close and not want to try to understand the devastation wrought on that city and its people?
And most particularly, she wanted answers to the question that had haunted her: whose suffering was more worthy or more honourable in war? Wasn’t everyone a victim in one way or another? Was her grief at the loss of Archie somehow sadder than the grief of a Japanese war widow?
Her father’s words on the day he died would never leave her. Our losses can only make us more aware of the losses of others in this war. When she closed her eyes she heard him singing, loud and proud, ‘The Internationale’, ‘On tyrants only we’ll make war’.
She would carry his principles and his commitment with her in her heart. Always. They would be her north star during the next three months on assignment.
Tilly checked the time on the carriage clock on the mantel. Archie’s photo wasn’t there any longer, and it wasn’t because Cooper had been spending so much time with her. She had packed it away with her letters and telegrams in the growing archive of her life. Each artefact another chapter. Another piece of her story. And an excitement coursed through her at all the possibilities that the next chapters would bring.
Would she marry Cooper? Possibly. He would be waiting for her when she returned home and that was enough for now.
She had some life to live first.
‘Tilly!’ Mary burst into the flat with wide arms and a smiling laugh the size of which Tilly hadn’t seen in a long while. It gladdened her heart. By her side, Bert, a flush of colour in his cheeks, which were healthy and filled out now. He looked a lot closer to the man he had been in his photograph.
‘We couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye. And to give you this.’
‘What is it?’ Tilly exclaimed. ‘A farewell gift?’ Mary handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper. She tore off the wrapping to reveal a box brownie camera, three rolls of film and a knitted scarf and hat.
‘You’ve been knitting?’ Tilly laughed. In that very room, they’d passed night after night creating garments for Bert and Archie and for donating to the Red Cross. Their friendship had grown and strengthened over knit one purl one, had helped them endure and survive. Mary’s love was in every stitch and Tilly held the scratchy wool to her face.
‘I hear it snows this time of year in Japan. You’ll be absolutely freezing.’
And they held each other’s attention for just long enough for Tilly to see hope in Mary’s expression, a reassurance from a dear friend that life with Bert might be on an upward swing. That was better than any gift.
‘Bert,’ Tilly said, turning to him, reaching a hand out, and he placed his in hers and she gripped it firmly. ‘I hope you understand why I’m going. Why I need to go. I thought you, perhaps better than anyone else, would understand.’
Bert’s smile died on his lips. ‘Safe travels.’
Tilly nodded. She understood. She didn’t need to hear apologies from the Japanese—that wouldn’t bring Archie back—but she needed answers. She needed to figure out the why of it. Why it had all happened in the first place. What had driven men to commit such horrendous acts in the name of their leader and their honour?
From the street, a car horn sounded. Mary kissed Tilly’s cheek one more time and then reached for Bert’s arm. ‘We’ll go. See you when you get back.’
Mary and Bert left with another wave and Tilly knelt down to open her case, finding room for the gifts. She clipped it closed and Cooper lifted it.
They stared at each other, barely hearing the car horn beep again from the street.
‘Without fear or favour,’ Cooper told her, his eyes soft, his voice low and rough. ‘You’ll be able to do that now the war’s over. Find the truth and write it well, Tilly.’
They went down the stairs and out to the street. Cooper packed her bag and his typewriter into the boot and Tilly slipped in the back seat.
‘Number six wharf, Darling Harbour, please.’
Cooper closed the car door. ‘Say hello to your mother and Martha and the boys for me,’ he said, leaning down to talk to her through the open window.
They kissed one more time.
‘I will.’ She leant out, her hand on her cap as the cab waited for a break in the traffic. ‘Just in case you’re wondering what I’ll say about your offer …’
‘My offer?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember, George Cooper. I’ve never known you to waste a word.’
His eyes held hers and he smiled. Damn him, he already knew the answer.
As the cab moved off she shouted back to him, ‘I’ll think about it.’
He grinned and saluted her and she watched him until the cab veered into Darlinghurst Road and he was out of sight.
The cab drove Tilly through the city towards the place her story had begun. The Manunda was berthed along
the Hungry Mile, the place her father had tramped every day when he was alive, looking for work.
Now, his daughter was to tramp that same wharf, a suitcase and a typewriter in her hand, on her way to the other side of the world. Elsie and Martha and the boys were waiting there, a few streets from home, to say their goodbyes to their daughter and sister and aunt.
Tilly looked out into the clear blue Sydney summer sky. It no longer threatened her. It was the horizon, her future, which, for the first time in a very long time, seemed bright and filled with possibilities.
And stories.
She had so many stories to tell.
Author’s Note
Tilly Galloway is purely a creation of my imagination, but she wouldn’t exist on the page if it weren’t for the trailblazing careers of the real-life Australian women war correspondents of World War II, as described so thoroughly in Jeannine Baker’s Australian Women War Reporters: Boer War to Vietnam (NewSouth, Sydney, 2015).
In 1941, the Australian Women’s Weekly’s wartime editor, Alice Jackson, became the first Australian woman officially accredited as a war correspondent by the Australian Army, and in 1946, one of its journalists, Dorothy Drain, reported from occupied Japan.
Anne Howard’s You’ll Be Sorry: How World War II changed women’s lives (Big Sky Publishing, Newport, 2016) is a fascinating insight into the real lives of women of the era, and The Girls They Left Behind by Betty Goldsmith and Beryl Sandford (Penguin, Ringwood, 1990) is full of poignant stories of women who lived through it, of wartime Australia and the burdens they bore.
For stories of the history of Sydney’s waterfront and the appalling conditions those workers endured before and during the war, I turned to Margo Beasley’s informative and comprehensive Wharfies: The History of the Waterside Workers’ Federation of Australia (Halstead Press in association with the Australian National Maritime Museum, Rushcutters Bay, 2011) and Rowan Cahill’s article in the Queensland Journal of Labour History, Home front WW2: myths and realities (19 September 2014).
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