We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  ‘Like your husband?’

  ‘Of course! Well, colourful, anyway.’

  ‘Any more cheek and there’ll be no ice-cream sandwiches for you.’

  ‘You’ve been practising Daddy talk in the mirror, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have, and I think I’m getting the hang of it. Don’t make faces or the wind might change and you’ll look like that forever. Wash your ears or you’ll get potatoes in there. Sticks and stones…’

  ‘That’s very good,’ said Mae, laughing. ‘You’re a natural.’

  Harry looked stern. ‘Any more cheek and there could very well be a spanking.’

  ‘Do you talk to your crew like this?’

  ‘Only the more junior men. I don’t think it would go over too well with the officers.’

  Mae relaxed into their cosy banter, trying to forget that he was leaving the day after next. It might be months before they had another night like this and probably no more on their own. Everything was about to change.

  ‘Sunny, darling, you look upset.’

  ‘Just missing you a little bit already.’

  The next morning they walked slowly along the shaded cobbles of Degraves Street. After leaving school the day she turned fourteen, Mae had trained as a tailor in a nearby workshop. The rag trade was centred around Flinders Lane and the best fashion and furniture in the city was still to be found there. Sometimes, as a girl, she’d imagined she was walking through an arcade in Paris or London or some other exotic city where you could window-shop all day, looking at antiques that were hundreds of years old, the finest embroidered linens, the most expensive silks from the Orient. But Melbourne was much younger than those other cities. There were lovely things here but there was little chance you’d stumble upon candlesticks from a castle or a cruet set once owned by a lord of the realm. That morning they’d chosen a thoroughly modern pram and cot, arranged delivery, and now they were on their way to the theatre.

  ‘From behind, you’d never believe you were expecting,’ Harry said, patting her lightly on the bottom.

  Mae caught a side-on reflection of herself in a shop window. She was perfectly round with no sign remaining of her waist.

  ‘I look like a hippopotamus.’

  ‘A very pretty hippo in that get-up, I must say.’

  ‘How will I get through doors in two months’ time? I might have to get Et to wheel me to the shops in the pram.’

  Harry laughed and kissed her cheek. ‘I don’t doubt for a moment that your aunt would be up to the task. When my mother was expecting Mim, she could only get out of her chair if one of us was around to haul her up.’

  Mae gasped. ‘What if I get stuck? I could be there for days.’

  ‘You know the answer to that. Go and stay with your family. Set my mind at ease.’

  She stopped in front of a furniture shop. The window display featured just one item: a buffet made of the most lustrous wood, shimmering with copper and ivory and ebony hues. ‘Darling, look at this.’ Mae looked across and saw that Harry was already admiring the buffet.

  An elderly gentleman stepped into the window and arranged a pair of silver picture frames on top. He looked around and smiled then walked outside to greet them. ‘Walnut,’ he said.

  ‘It’s got such beautiful lines—and the wood tones…’ Mae said, barely able to tear her eyes away.

  ‘Come inside,’ the man suggested. ‘Costs nothing to look.’

  They entered the cool darkness of the shop. Mae immediately went to the buffet and ran her hand over its silky, curved doors. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said.

  The man sighed. ‘Such a shame,’ he said. ‘The couple who originally commissioned it have had to move to a smaller house. There’s no room, so now I’m stuck with it. It’s too big to fit in the shop so I had to put it in the window.’

  Mae, whose feet had swollen in the heat, sank into a chair. ‘We’re saving to build a house. I’m afraid we can’t afford furniture yet, Mr…’

  ‘Jeremiah Johansson, madam.’ Mr Johansson pulled a polishing cloth out of his pocket and wiped his hands, then bowed slightly towards her. ‘I think it’s the best I’ve ever done.’

  Harry was carefully opening and closing every door and drawer in the buffet. ‘As my wife said, we’re saving, but just so we know for the future, how much are you asking?’

  Jeremiah moved over to his desk and opened a leather-bound ledger. He ran his pencil down a column then tapped it on the page. ‘They paid a non-refundable deposit of fifty percent.’ He paused a moment as if deep in thought. ‘People are scared about the war so no one’s spending,’ he said. ‘It could be taking up space in my window for months. I really need to display the smaller pieces that bring in the customers.’

  Mae held her breath as he wrote a figure on the page then subtracted the deposit and added ten percent. She knew he was being extremely generous.

  ‘Not many people appreciate handcrafted furniture. It would make me happy to think it was the centrepiece in a room rather than tucked away behind a door.’

  ‘Harry, there’ll be no space after the cot and pram arrive.’

  ‘How about the bedroom? You could put the baby’s clothes inside it for the moment.’

  Mae smiled tightly at Jeremiah then turned to Harry. ‘It’s a wonderful offer, but maybe we should think about it a little more, darling. Over the weekend, perhaps.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Might have to give it a miss for the moment.’ Harry shook Jeremiah’s hand then he and Mae left the shop.

  ‘We don’t need to furnish our home right away,’ she said, trying to sound bright as they walked away down the lane. ‘We’ll have years to make it perfect.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘He’ll have something else in the shop when we’re ready. It doesn’t have to be this one. Just think of the fun we’ll have, finding the right pieces for every room. Meanwhile, we can camp like gypsies.’

  ‘I could cook over an open fire in the middle of the hallway,’ said Mae.

  ‘Perfect, I can see it now,’ Harry enthused. ‘Our children running naked and laughing through the canvas tent flap we’ll have in place of a back wall.’

  ‘And I’ll be washing and cleaning from daybreak to dark, because we won’t have doors to keep the dust out.’

  ‘Details, dear Sunny, details. You’ll get Sundays off to enjoy the rustic vista of our own back garden.’

  ‘Which I’ll also be tending while you’re gallivanting from port to port.’

  ‘Steady on. I always make sure everything’s in order before I leave. And before I leave this time, I need to make sure you’re both in order.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it softly. ‘It won’t be long now until you’re the best little mother in the world.’

  ‘And there’s no question about who’ll be the best father,’ Mae said, certain that Harry would be wonderful but not at all convinced of her own abilities. As she said the words, she sensed something large crushing her chest, a feeling that had gnawed at the edges of her mind for as long as she could recall. She’d tried to push it away, yet the bigger the baby grew, the closer the feeling came to forming, to taking on colour; reds and oranges and yellows, like fire, like danger. As though rocked by a rush of wind, she felt her legs wobble beneath her. Her thoughts swam and swirled then arranged themselves into recognisable words: What if I hate being a mother? What if Harry thinks I’m a failure? What if he goes away too?

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  HALF AN HOUR AFTER leaving Mr Johansson’s shop Mae sat squashed between Harry and the train window. She was already regretting being talked into the second sandwich. Sitting directly opposite, with his knees almost touching hers, an older man scratched his belly and yawned. Reeking of stale beer and clothes that hadn’t recently seen the inside of a copper, he balanced a tobacco pouch on his leg then slowly rolled a cigarette and lit up. Her stomach lurched as the smoke hit her nostrils.

  She glanced at Harry, but he was oblivious, reading the af
ternoon paper and chortling over the funnies.

  Mae’s dress was plastered to her skin as perspiration crawled down her back. The temperature outside must have been well over ninety degrees, she thought, but inside the crowded carriage it was at least ten degrees hotter, with hundreds of bodies crammed together in a fetid fug of body odour, cheap cologne and smelly feet. Diesel fumes poured in through the open windows as the train left North Melbourne station, pitching from side to side as it changed tracks and gathered speed. The swaying motion continued as they passed the abattoir, the smell of rancid animal fat from rendering vats hanging thickly in the air. She fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief and held it to her nose and mouth.

  Harry lowered his paper. ‘Are you all right?’

  Breathing deeply again, Mae was thankful she’d used lavender water to press her linen. ‘Just regretting the egg sandwich for lunch,’ she said glumly.

  ‘Your face is rather a green sort of hue, like the ratings on their first outings at sea.’

  ‘Just wait till we reach the tar works.’

  Harry removed his hat and placed it upside down on her knee like a bucket. ‘Just in case.’

  Mae breathed deeply. The trip from the centre of Melbourne to Williamstown normally took about thirty minutes but today it seemed to be taking much longer.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Harry whispered softly.

  Mae closed her eyes. Breathe the lavender, she told herself. Breathe.

  ‘How do you stop them being sick?’ she asked. ‘The ratings, I mean.’

  ‘Sometimes, if they’re really bad, we put them on the bridge and let them steer for a while. Have you noticed how drivers never get motion sickness? Nor do helmsmen. Something about concentrating on the horizon.’

  ‘Do you think they’d let me drive the train?’

  ‘We could ask.’ Harry leaned forward to speak into her ear. ‘I can’t bear going away and leaving you like this.’

  Mae took another breath through her hanky in answer.

  ‘What if something happens and you’re all alone? We don’t have a telephone. How will you manage to get to the hospital?’

  The train slowed and Mae opened her eyes. They were at Yarraville. Only Spotswood then Newport and North Williamstown to go. Mae moved the handkerchief from her nose and quickly dabbed her brow below her straw hat. She loved her family but hated the thought of going back to their house, back to her childhood room. She was a grown woman and wanted to stay in her own home, with her own bed and clothes and books around her.

  At last the train reached its final stop, Williamstown Beach. Harry retrieved his hat from Mae’s knee.

  ‘Let’s just wait a minute,’ Mae said, ‘till everyone’s gone.’

  Harry nodded, then, when the carriage was clear, he led her out onto the platform.

  Mae felt her dizziness grow, the bile rising in her throat. Pulling away from Harry, she dashed to a nearby flowerbed and threw up on the stationmaster’s geraniums.

  Harry stood beside her, whistling through his teeth. What shall we do with the drunken sailor…

  ‘Oh, you meanie,’ Mae gasped, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief.

  Harry whistled a few more notes. ‘I’ll see if I can find you some water,’ he said. There was no one at the ticket office, so he went into the men’s toilet, emerging a moment later with a wet handkerchief that he used to wipe her face and neck.

  ‘Are you well enough to walk?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so, but we’ll need to take it slowly.’

  They were nearly home when a little boy dashed out of a driveway and ran towards them, arms in the air, the braces from his rompers trailing behind.

  ‘Nicholas, careful, you’ll trip,’ their neighbour, Claire Barton, called out from her verandah.

  Harry lifted the toddler into the air. ‘My goodness, you get bigger every time I see you. What’s your mother feeding you?’

  Nicholas giggled as Harry flew him through the air like a plane.

  ‘Mae, Harry! My goodness, what a day to be out walking. It’s far too hot!’

  Mae smiled at her friend. ‘Hello, Claire. Nearly home. You’ve got the right idea staying here in the shade.’

  ‘Just letting lunch settle and hoping Nicholas eventually gets tired enough for an S-L-E-E-P.’

  Claire’s husband Sam appeared from the garage. He held his hand out to Harry. ‘It’s been too long, mate. How is everything? And Mae, how are you coping with the heat?’

  ‘All good thanks, Sam,’ Harry answered. He put the little boy down and Nicholas ran over to lean against his mother’s legs. ‘We’ve been ticking off our chores before I ship out.’ He lit a cigarette then leaned against the fence. ‘How’s the news business?’ he asked. ‘Interesting developments in Jugoslavia.’

  ‘None of us can quite believe the news coming out of Europe,’ Sam said. ‘The way they’re trying to stop the Axis forces getting to the Aegean—it might just halt the Kaiser’s march on Greece.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a turning point, hey?’ Harry said. ‘Get a few fellows back from Europe.’

  ‘We’ll need more than a few if the Japs don’t settle down, especially in China. Their alliance with the Germans is growing stronger by the day. Sharing ports and the like.’

  Harry glanced at Mae, trying to reassure her with his eyes. ‘The Krauts have their hands full at the moment. They won’t build up around Australia.’

  ‘But they’re smart trying to cut off our supplies to England. The Poms’ll have a terrible time if they can’t get our coal, not to mention our foods.’

  ‘They’re not likely to invade, though.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Probably not. They might try to bomb our ports though. Menzies toured London this week. He was pretty rattled by the bomb damage. Said we have to increase our preparations, start building public shelters—’

  Claire interrupted. ‘Sam, we don’t want to give everyone nightmares. Sometimes I think you forget that little ears take everything in.’ She hugged Nicholas against her.

  ‘Harry’s heading back to sea next week,’ Mae said, trying to keep her voice light.

  ‘Yes, off to Perth on Monday,’ Harry said, stubbing out his cigarette and kicking it onto the nature strip.

  ‘Then out to sea?’

  ‘I imagine we’ll be spending a fair bit of time in port, at least until she’s repaired; then a bit of patrol and escort work. Hopefully nothing too taxing—unless the Jap situation changes.’

  ‘Which ship?’

  ‘The Sydney.’

  ‘Mate, that’s fantastic! Especially after their victory in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘It’s a dream come true, mate, an absolute dream come true. Mae’s a bit nervous about me being away, but I couldn’t pass it up.’

  ‘Don’t you worry—we’ll take care of Mae, won’t we, Claire? I’ll look forward to hearing all about your adventures when you return. I almost wish I was going too.’

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  May 1941

  GRACE SAT AS FAR as she could from other people in the movie theatre. She didn’t want to hear people chewing their crisps or slurping their lemonade. She didn’t want to hear the murmur of their conversation or hear them wriggling in their seats. Her Saturday night movie time was sacred, especially when it was a Torchy Blane movie. Torchy was everything Grace aspired to be: a sassy, blonde, fast-talking girl reporter working for a big city newspaper. Grace had dull brown hair and too many freckles, but her grandmother always said being clever lasted longer than looks, so Grace had focused on her studies.

  Growing up in a small town one hundred and twenty-five miles north of Melbourne, she’d spent her spare time working for her father’s newspaper, the Benalla Star. On weekends and during the school holidays, Nev let her report on the farming field days and regional agricultural shows, and when she turned fourteen he let her write movie reviews. That’s how she discovered Torchy Blane. Watching Torchy’s first film, Smart Blonde, Gra
ce could scarcely breathe. Torchy was sensational. Somehow she managed to look like a magazine model while she talked and reported and solved mysteries like a man, all the while knowing exactly what to say to her policeman boyfriend, Steve. And best of all, there was a whole series of Torchy movies: Torchy Blane in Panama, Torchy Gets Her Man, Torchy Blane in Chinatown—films that showed a woman could be just as good a reporter as any man, if not better. Of course, that was in American newspapers; things seemed to be different here in Australia, with women’s by-lines almost non-existent.

  Since she was twelve, Grace had spent her weekly allowance on America’s Life magazine, poring over the astonishing photo-essays of Margaret Bourke-White and Dorothea Lange. Seeing their work, she couldn’t understand why her father refused to let her work as a reporter on his paper when she finished school; why he insisted that reporting was no job for a woman. ‘There’s not enough soft stories to keep you busy,’ he’d said. ‘I need a reporter that can cover anything—a real reporter who eats, breathes and sleeps news; someone who sees headlines in everything around them.’

  ‘Send me to the cattle sales, the meatworks, I don’t care. Bushfires—I’m not scared. I’ll even do footy training.’

  ‘Yeah, the footballers’d love that. I’ll be chased out of the pub if you start swanning around the change rooms. Besides, you can’t take a job away from a feller, someone with a wife and kids to support. It’s just not right.’

  ‘But it’s all right for me to work as a teacher or a nurse. Men do those jobs too. How is that different?’

  At this point in the argument he’d always huff and turn his attention back to his work. ‘Anyway, work’s just till you’re married. Then you’ll make way for another girl.’

  As soon as she’d finished her leaving exams, Grace enrolled at secretarial college in Melbourne and set off for a new life. At college she learned reporting skills by stealth; growing particularly proficient in typing and shorthand, which she’d need when she applied for the next round of cadetships on The Tribune.