by Lisa Bigelow
‘Well do try to get it finished this week so we can send everything together. That way we’ll save on postage.’
Mim looked towards the door. ‘Is that Katie? Can I get her up for a cuddle?’
Mae rubbed her forehead, relieved that their attention had shifted from Harry’s birthday but reluctant to have Katie’s routine upset. ‘Please don’t disturb her sleep, Mim. She’ll be crying for a bottle soon enough.’
‘Mim’s getting broody, aren’t you, dear?’ Elizabeth said. ‘She can’t walk past a pram these days without asking for a hold.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Mim said. ‘Maybe I could come over and look after Katie on Saturdays, so you can get out and about, do a few chores.’
Mae looked from Mim to Elizabeth and back again. Both women were nodding as though they expected her to jump at the chance. Another idea they must have cooked up together. It would be lovely to have some free time, but what Mim was proposing was too much. Spending her day off with Katie every week?
‘Mim, that’s a lovely offer, but I’m not sure every week is a good idea while Katie’s so young. Maybe when she’s a little older. You’re welcome to visit though—maybe fortnightly?’ As soon as the words left her mouth Mae was regretting them; she didn’t want to see Harry’s family that frequently. ‘Or monthly perhaps?’
CHAPTER 11
* * *
24 November 1941
THE FLOOR SHOOK AS the presses thundered into action below. Midday already. Grace glanced over the diminishing collection of reporters and subeditors but no one seemed to notice the vibrations. She returned her attention to typing the news list for the later editions. Grace had been at her desk since seven that morning and the day had passed much like the day before and the week before that. Most of The Tribune’s news was now coming over the wire from overseas. There was almost no local news, apart from police and fire stories, and anything from the state and federal governments was going straight to the morning papers. Plans for a new eye and ear hospital in Melbourne had been released that morning: important but hardly riveting. Still, it was something for the remaining general reporters to cover. Something that would get a run, anyway. Many local stories now went to the specialist pages—the women’s page, the social page, the sports pages and council news—to make more space for war news. Sam’s main task was deciding which of the overnight war stories would get a run in the afternoon. Everyone wanted news of the campaigns being fought by their boys: their sons, fathers, husbands and brothers.
And with so little space for local news, it was getting harder to keep the reporters interested. The younger lads were joining up, their heads full of travel and adventure despite the rising death toll. Sam had said that if they continued to lose their youngsters, he’d have to bring some of the older newsmen out of retirement, or put on some women. Grace had skipped a breath when he said that but seeing her expression Sam laughed: ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Miss Fowler, the subs have threatened to quit if they see any more skirt in the newsroom.’ Grace followed that conversation with another request for a cadetship, but he dismissed her, saying she was the best secretary he’d ever had; it would be too hard to let her go.
‘Nearly done, Miss Fowler?’
‘Yes, Mr Barton. Anything I need to add?’
‘Barring catastrophe, we should be set. We’ll lead with the Allied victory in Libya. More than one hundred and eighty German and Italian tanks destroyed. That’ll show the Kaiser!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Grace said, trying to match his enthusiasm as the phone on her desk rang. ‘Editorial, Grace Fowler speaking.’
‘Good morning, Miss Fowler, it’s Don Porter. Is Sam nearby?’
‘Yes, Mr Porter, I’ll put you through.’
Sam nodded and returned to his desk, retrieving the handset from under a clump of copy chits. Beside the phone, a sandwich curled out of its paper wrapping, the lettuce brown, the ham grey. Sam’s ashtray was full and threatening to overflow. Grace hated the mess, but she’d clean up when he went to his editorial conference. REPORTER WORKS UNDERCOVER AS CLEANER.
‘How’s it going up there, Stretch?’ she heard Sam say. ‘Yep, all good here. We’re leading with the news on Libya and following with Roosevelt sending in the troops to end the American coal strike. Apparently all his talk of support in the Pacific’s been a complete bloody farce. They can’t help us here if they’re all tied up with domestic crap…Too right! So, what’s the news from our illustrious leader today? More taxes? Another trip to the mother country?’
Sam sat forward in his chair, lighting a cigarette as he focused on Don’s reply.
‘Did he say which ship?’
Grace saw Sam frown as he scanned the newsroom.
‘Well, stay on it and call me at home if you hear more. I’ll ring the navy bods here, see if I can get anything out of them. What else have you got?…Okay, we can probably run a brief on three. What else?…See if you can get some details and reaction from the usuals. I’ll hold space on five if you can get it to me in the next hour. But, mate, like I said, call me anytime about the other story.’
Sam hung up and scribbled a note then gave it to Grace.
Possible loss of Australian warship, it said.
‘Can you please add this to today’s list?’
Grace drew a sharp breath. ‘Which ship, sir?’
‘The government’s not saying yet. Doubtless they won’t release details until deadline for the mornings. Too late for us, as usual.’
Two hours later, Sam and the chief subeditor stood at the high layout table, finalising the book for the third edition. Grace took notes as they talked. She looked up as Sam called across the news desks to Nolan, a cadet police rounds reporter, and beckoned him over. Tall and plump with a perpetually red face, he had none of the swagger second-year cadets usually assumed from hanging out with the coppers, covering death and destruction. As Nolan sloped towards them, Grace noticed his eyes were puffy and his nose was red.
‘Nolan, how’s that young fellow from the lift well coming along?’ Sam asked.
‘Didn’t make it, sir. The lift shifted and crushed him flat against the wall. Took the ambos half an hour to get him out. Said he must have suffocated.’
‘All right. Have it on my desk in fifteen. We’ll run it on two.’
When Nolan had first arrived Sam told Grace that he wasn’t convinced the lad had the makings of a hard news man, but his uncle had been a war correspondent and a wonderful teacher when Sam was starting out. Everyone deserved a chance, Sam said of Nolan. Grace tried not to feel disheartened when he said they’d move Nolan around the newsroom over the next couple of years and see if he took to any of the sections. Features, perhaps. She could see he didn’t have the hunger that some of the other cadets had—like she’d have, if given half a chance, or like Curtis, one of the fourth years. Everyone said Curtis was a brilliant writer with a keen news sense, that he’d shone from the beginning. But like so many of the best over recent months, he’d signed up and today was his last with the paper. His send-off had started just after breakfast and now he was standing on his desk, loudly relating details of the entertainment at the Waterside Hotel down near the river.
‘So there’s this redheaded sheila,’ he yelled, swaying and nearly toppling, ‘and she lifted her blouse…’
Grace ran to answer the phone ringing on her desk, but she could barely hear what the caller was saying.
‘And she had the biggest tits…’
Grace covered the mouthpiece and looked to Sam for help.
‘Shut up, Curtis, people are trying to work,’ Sam shouted.
‘Miss Fowler, it’s Lieutenant Hill from the Naval Information Office. Is Mr Barton there? It’s quite urgent.’
Grace put the call from the navy’s chief publicity censor through to the layout table.
Sam straightened at the sound of Hill’s voice. Hill was a regular contact but it was usually Sam doing the calling. ‘Sorry, Hill,’ he said. ‘One of the young blok
es is leaving today and it’s a bit rowdy here…No, I haven’t seen anything. Did you send it on the wire?…Well, what does it say? We’ve just heard from Canberra that an Australian ship’s been lost.’
Grace watched as Sam banged his fist on the desk. ‘The Sydney?’ Sam said, his voice getting louder. ‘Good God! Are you sure?’
The newsroom fell silent.
‘What do you mean we can’t mention it? Come on, man, what’s happening?’
There was a pause as Sam listened.
‘What about survivors?’ he broke in. ‘How many have been rescued? How many ships and planes do you have out searching?…Well, when will you have news that we can print?’ He was silent for a few moments then said heavily, ‘Yes, we’ll be waiting to go to print as soon as you confirm.’
Sam looked up from the notebook in which he’d been jotting details, his face grey and drawn, the lines on his forehead deeper than they’d been five minutes earlier.
Grace watched and waited, barely able to think. Could it be true? The pride of the Australian fleet lost at sea?
The newsroom was silent as Sam picked up the phone again and dialled.
‘Jamieson, mate, we’ve just heard there might be something happening with the Sydney. She’s based in Perth, right?’
He frowned as he listened to the other man’s response. ‘Jesus Christ! Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?’ he shouted. Sam ripped his tie loose and unbuttoned his collar. ‘It’s the biggest bloody ship we have and it’s bloody missing. You’re the bureau chief, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing over there? Sun fried your brain?…Well, if you heard the rumours last night then you should have called me immediately. Tell me everything you’ve heard…All right, put a reporter and photographer at the docks and keep digging. Call me the minute you have anything—anything at all.’
Sam ended the call, then immediately picked up the phone and made another.
‘Gordon, we have a bit of a problem. You might need to come down. Thanks.’
The news editor rose from his desk, buttoned his collar and yanked his tie back into place. The chief subeditor was already spreading clean grid paper on the high table, ready for a new layout.
The editor-in-chief joined the men at the table a few minutes later. Their voices were low and serious as Sam related his conversations with Hill and Jamieson.
‘All we know is that Sydney was due into Fremantle several days ago but she hasn’t been heard from since the nineteenth, when she was sighted off Geraldton. Jamieson says there’s talk of a massive sea battle off Carnarvon that evening. Hill said a search began yesterday.’
‘What do you think of Jamieson, Sam?’ Gordon asked. ‘Is he up to the job?’
‘He says he started hearing about it on the weekend but he didn’t say anything about it till I called him. I think we need someone else over there to back him up.’
Grace took notes as Sam and Gordon assigned tasks: crew list; photos; ship’s history; timeline of recent engagements; biographies of the commander and senior crew; details of the search.
‘We can run extra editions tonight, but we need to have stories ready in the next hour so we can start mocking up the pages,’ Sam said grimly. ‘Of course, we can’t run a thing until the navy gives the go-ahead.’
‘We’ll worry about that later,’ the editor-in-chief told him.
The telex machine behind Grace’s desk rattled as a message arrived. She walked over and read the paper as it printed out.
NO REFERENCE WHATEVER PRESS OR BROADCASTING ANY STATEMENTS OR RUMOURS REGARDING ALLEGED NAVAL ACTIVITY AUSTRALIAN WATERS.
Grace handed it to Sam, who read it then passed it to Mr Gordon.
The editor-in-chief’s expression didn’t change. ‘Proceed with your preparations, Sam.’
CHAPTER 12
* * *
25 November 1941
KATIE GURGLED AND SPLASHED in the sink as Mae sponged her pale skin and her soft, jet-black hair. At six months, Katie was already so much like her father, with the same enormous, sea-blue eyes. And like Harry, Katie loved the water, but most of it ended up on the kitchen floor at bathtime, meaning more mess to clean.
In the past, Mae had never really understood when women complained about how much cleaning children added to the day. Now with a child of her own, she had plenty of complaints. No time to bathe because the baby wouldn’t sleep. No time to clean the house properly. Too tired to read in the evening. Mae missed reading terribly. It had always been her escape but these days whenever she tried, she was asleep within moments. She wondered how women managed with six or seven small children. It must get better when they went to school, but that was years away.
At least when Harry was home, he could mind Katie while she got on with the chores. Mae knew it was unlikely Harry would be home for Christmas, but he’d written in his last letter that he was desperate to be home in early January. He was counting the days, he’d said. What would Elizabeth know, the interfering old cow? Mae would make sure they celebrated their first Christmas as a family then. She wouldn’t invite anyone else, it would just be their little tradition, maybe on the twenty-fifth of January every year. If she put aside a few shillings each week, she could afford a chicken to roast with all the trimmings. She’d make him some new grey wool trousers, maybe a bit bigger than last time. He always gained weight when he was at sea for so long, unable to run around on the tennis court or do his gymnastics. He could wear the trousers with the shirt she’d sent for his birthday, if it arrived in time. There was always the possibility that Elizabeth had accidentally forgotten to include Mae’s gift—
A knock at the door shifted Mae’s annoyance to the charity collectors always calling at dinnertime. Katie kicked and spluttered as Mae pulled her out of the water and swaddled her in a towel, her cries growing louder as the pair hurried towards the front door. Mae’s scarred stomach still hurt when she lifted Katie, who was growing heavier by the day. Katie was roaring now, wailing like a police siren. Mae wrenched open the door, prepared to give the collectors an earful of baby, but her mood lifted immediately when she saw Et, Albert and William standing on her doorstep.
‘I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time, my dear,’ said William as he opened the screen door for Et then entered without waiting for an invitation. Albert quickly followed, closing both doors behind him.
‘Being Harry’s birthday tomorrow, we had a sudden urge to see you both. We thought you might be lonely,’ William said.
Et bustled past with her basket and headed for the kitchen with barely a ‘hello’.
‘You’re all very sweet, but you needn’t worry about me.’ Mae jiggled Katie to quiet her. ‘Katie and I have been planning a special birthday and Christmas celebration for his homecoming.’
‘Well, now that we’re here, perhaps we’ll stay for a few minutes. Albert brought a bottle of beer and Et has a steak-and-kidney pie.’
Back in the kitchen, Mae placed Katie back in the water to stop her crying.
‘This is a surprise,’ Mae told her relatives. ‘You never just drop in at this time of night. Are you sure everything’s all right?’
‘I went to the races today, and while I was on the train I thought a visit might take your mind off things,’ Albert said quickly.
‘Katie seems happy now,’ William observed as the little girl splashed more water across the floor. ‘Will she cry again when you take her out?’
‘The trick is to have some food ready to distract her. See? I’ve mashed up some vegetables. Mmm, pumpkin, your favourite.’
Between spoonsful, Mae dried and powdered Katie, dressed her in her nightgown, tied a bib around her neck, then tried her best to keep the mashed pumpkin away from little hands and freshly washed hair. Washcloth at the ready, she mostly succeeded.
‘You’re getting much better at that,’ Et said as Albert poured the cold drinks. ‘She’s more fidgety than before.’
‘This is a good night. Sometimes I have to bathe her again after she ea
ts. Good sense would dictate feeding her first but I can’t stand her howling when I try it that way. There, all done. Why don’t you sit with Uncle William while I clean up?’
‘Come here, dear girl,’ William cooed. ‘You can play with my pocket watch.’
Albert smiled and tickled Katie’s feet as she sat in William’s lap.
Et blew her nose then offered to put Katie to bed.
‘Are you sure, Et? You don’t look very well. Perhaps you should sit down.’
‘I’m fine, dear. I could use a Katie cuddle. Come on, pet—let everyone kiss you goodnight. We might have to read two stories tonight, I think.’
Mae drained the sink and wiped up all the splashed water. ‘How were the races then? Did you rogues clean up on the Sunbury Cup?’
William shifted in his chair as Albert hesitated for a few moments.
‘Yes, very good, dear,’ Albert said. ‘We came out quite a few pounds ahead.’
‘It was looking a bit grim there for a moment, wasn’t it, Albert?’ William said. ‘Alibi was galloping towards the finish line, then Ellison’s jockey just managed to edge his nose in front. Won it by half a head. Rank outsider, but we had twenty pounds on him. Sixty to one shot.’
‘That means you won a hundred and twenty pounds,’ Mae cried.
‘Well, yes, I suppose we did,’ Albert agreed.
‘So, why do you both look so glum? You look like kids who lost their lollies. Bookie raid?’
The two men looked at each other then they both looked at the table. Albert was the first to look up.
‘Mae, you’ll never guess who we ran into at the races,’ Albert said.
‘Let me see,’ Mae said, pretending to think hard with her finger at the side of her chin. ‘Squizzy Taylor?’
‘Squizzy Taylor was shot dead years ago. No, we saw Tom Wilkinson. He was there with his son Johnny.’
‘That cad—we should have strung Tom up when we had the chance,’ William said, polishing Katie’s fingerprints off his watch.