by Lisa Bigelow
‘I couldn’t believe it. He just stood there talking to us as though nothing had happened. And his son is a dead ringer!’
Mae checked the pie in the oven. ‘Does Et know? Is that why she’s so upset?’
‘Er, it hasn’t come up,’ Albert said.
‘I don’t think we should say anything. It will just drag it all up again, don’t you think?’ William added.
‘So what was he like? I’ve always wondered about him.’
‘Looking at his son was quite eerie,’ William said. ‘It was as though no time had passed at all.’
‘Et showed me his picture once,’ Mae said, ‘when she thought I needed to learn that love didn’t always end happily.’
Albert and William’s gazes met again then they both quickly looked away, like guilty children.
‘I wouldn’t want to be around when Et finds out you met Tom and didn’t tell her,’ Mae joked. ‘She’ll have your guts for garters. But it’s probably best you leave it be. If I were Et, I wouldn’t want to be hearing about his handsome, grown children. And his name is hardly likely to come up again, is it?’
Albert took a hanky from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. He folded it carefully, concentrating on each crease, then replaced it in his pocket. Clearing his throat and straightening his back, he placed his hands flat on the table.
‘Perhaps. But something else happened at the races, and he was part of it.’
Mae looked from one man to the other. Normally easy around her, tonight they were so solemn.
‘What? What happened?’
Albert looked away from her face as he spoke, as if he were addressing another person standing just behind her left shoulder. ‘Tom was talking twelve to the dozen as always,’ he said, selecting his words carefully. ‘His son barely said anything until Tom started talking about a conversation the younger fellow had overheard. He said—and I’m sure it’s not true—he said he’d heard that the Sydney was overdue by a few days and might be missing. A young bloke at the bar was telling his mates about it. The lad was a wharfie apparently; he’d heard it around the docks this morning.’
For a moment Mae expected them to laugh, to tell her it was one of their jokes. But they didn’t.
‘We don’t believe it for a moment,’ William said hastily.
The Sydney overdue—maybe missing. Mae tried to tell them that it wasn’t funny, but sounds refused to come out of her mouth.
William fanned Mae with a magazine and Albert rubbed her hands to keep the blood circulating. ‘Do you need to lie down, my dear?’ he said. ‘Shall I carry you to the couch?’
‘Just give me a moment,’ she gasped.
‘I’m sorry, Mae. Shall I fetch Et? She’ll know what to do.’
‘I need a glass of water.’
‘It’s pretty common for a ship to be overdue by a few days,’ William said. ‘She could have had engine problems. Maybe her orders changed. They’re probably on their way to Singapore or Fiji as we speak.’
Reassured, Mae agreed, ‘I’m sure that’s all it is.’
‘Sorry to give you such a start,’ Albert said as he handed her the water. ‘There was nothing in the papers. Surely there would have been if there was an ounce of truth to the rumours.’
Mae took a sip then reached over and switched on the wireless. Sunlight dappled the sink and sideboard through the vine overhanging the back porch. The room was dim but not so dark that they needed the light on yet. A few moments later the news theme filled the room.
‘Good evening. This is the ABC news.
‘German armoured forces remain trapped south of Tobruk. Allied forces are consolidating their position in Libya after trapping the Germans three days ago…’
William loosened his tie.
‘Moscow radio says German pressure from the north-west and western fronts is increasing. Russian troops are receiving fresh reinforcements and are doing their utmost to hold the enemy, but the danger to Moscow is great.’
Don’t let them say anything, Mae chanted silently. If they don’t say anything then it can’t be true.
‘Reports from Washington say the US secretary of state, Mr Hull, and the Japanese envoy, Mr Kurusu, have begun a series of talks regarding Pacific issues. It is understood that the negotiations include the possibility of the withdrawal of Japanese troops from Indochina. Talks will continue…’
Mae watched the brown box intently, its valves glowing softly against the wall. She felt that if she looked away from the wireless, even for a moment, she might miss an important clue, a word, a coded hint.
The bulletin finished with news of the Sunbury Cup winner and the following day’s weather, but no mention of the Sydney. Albert switched off the wireless, sat down and poured them each a cup of tea from the pot in the middle of the table.
William packed his pipe with a match.
The woman next door screamed at her boys to get out of the ash pile in their backyard. Wash yourselves off in the gully trap or you’ll get nothing for dinner, ya hear me? Shrill birds rummaged in the tree outside the kitchen window, its branches scratching and scraping the roof’s tin gutter. The tap dripped in the sink—Mae had forgotten to give it the extra quarter-turn when she finished Katie’s bath.
She stood and scrubbed the sink then filled it with fresh water to wash the teacups before dinner. Grabbing the soap in its little wire holder she shook it violently under the water to make suds. Numbness crept along her bones, but she reminded herself they’d heard nothing but a rumour. People spread stories all the time. Gossips like Pearl Atkinson—who spent half her life spreading stories about everyone at church—revelled in that sort of thing; it made them feel important. But there was usually little or nothing to their tittle-tattle.
‘Thank you for telling me. But until we have some proof, I won’t be giving it another thought.’
William smiled. ‘That’s the way. Nice and brave.’
Mae scrubbed at every tannin mark inside the cups. ‘I think the pie’s nearly ready. Albert, would you tell Et? And not a word about Tom. She’s had enough starts for one day.’
Desperate to be alone after a very quiet dinner, Mae persuaded Et to leave with the uncles.
‘No, really, you don’t need to stay on the couch. Yes, come and spend the day with us tomorrow. No I don’t think we need to telephone Harry’s family yet.’
After they left, she tidied the kitchen then lit a large candle, placing it beside the picture of Harry on the buffet in their bedroom. Dusting the picture frame, she thought about the day she’d introduced Harry to her family over a Sunday lunch of roast lamb. Harry had brought beer for the men and cider for the women, and when the greetings were over Mae had taken Harry into the garden to pick mint for the sauce. That’s where they had their first real kiss. Until then, there’d been only pecks on the cheek at the train station and the front door after an evening out. Albert laughed when he saw the flush on Mae’s cheeks as they walked inside.
‘Rather strenuous picking that mint, isn’t it, Harry?’
‘Yes, sir. All that bending down and standing up. It’s quite taxing.’
‘Not often that you see a snowflake that colour, is it?’ William chimed in.
‘Snowflake?’ Harry said, looking at Mae, whose face had gone an even deeper shade. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They call me that because of my white hair and pale skin,’ Mae explained. ‘And they’ve always said that because of my size I should keep my arms down in strong winds or I might drift away like a snowflake.’
‘I’ve always seen you as the brightest ray of sunshine,’ he said. ‘From now on, I’ll call you Sunny.’
And he did. If it was possible for an entire family to fall in love, it happened then. Et was smitten. Even the uncles had fallen for Harry.
She picked up his letter from the previous week and lay down on the bed to read it again.
Dearest Sunny,
We had a rather nasty trip to where we are now, but I survived the ord
eal all right. Two young seamen from my Melbourne group have been horribly sick all the way. I suspect they were wishing the ship would sink! I must be getting accustomed to the sea again as the motion just makes me very sleepy.
Doesn’t it seem ages since I was there to see you? I hope you are getting along all right, dear. It is a great relief to know that Sam and Claire are nearby in case you need them. And you should write to Alice, have her up to stay for a while. Please let everyone take care of you the way I would if I was there.
We are off any day now and it may be some weeks before I can write again. Sweetheart, remember that you have grown right into my heart. I will only cease to feel you there when my heart stops beating. Look after yourself, please.
Au revoir, darling, with lots of kisses for you and the bub.
Love always,
Your devoted Harry
CHAPTER 13
* * *
28 November 1941
GRACE WATCHED SAM JABBING his typewriter keys at lightning speed, using just his forefingers. Three days after the rumours broke, despite the maddening lack of details, Sam was still updating the Tribune editorial about the Sydney for when the embargo was lifted. Each paragraph was typed on a new three-layer chit, carbon-copied twice and stacked to the side of his blotter so they could be corrected and rearranged depending on the column space. Surely they’d have to release the news today, Grace thought. She’d kept careful watch over the telex machine all day, waiting for the details to appear on the wire. No sign. Two editions had already gone to bed, but the city editions would go at two-thirty and four. It was one-thirty now.
‘Do you want a fresh cup of tea?’ Grace asked.
Sam ignored the question and kept typing. The newsroom was a mass of clattering typewriters, ringing telephones and excited voices. As awful as the Sydney rumour was, it had injected sorely needed urgency and purpose into the editorial staff, each wanting to contribute stories that would get a decent run. When the phone beside her right hand rang, she could have sworn it sounded more urgent than usual.
It was the reception desk announcing the arrival of Lieutenant Hill from the naval office, here to see Mr Barton and Mr Gordon.
When Grace interrupted Sam with the news, he leaped to his feet and asked her to show Hill into the conference room and call Mr Gordon’s office.
Despite numerous phone exchanges over recent months, Grace had never met Lieutenant Hill in person. She’d expected a larger and older man to match the deep authoritative tone of his voice, so she nearly laughed out loud when she saw the short, slight man in a starched uniform waiting near the lift. He looked at least five years younger than Sam, but his demeanour was that of a man with great worries on his shoulders.
Showing him into the conference room, Grace cleared the table of papers and invited him to sit opposite the window while they waited.
Sam appeared in the doorway looking as though he’d washed his face and combed his hair.
‘Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I trust you’ve brought us some good news.’
‘Sam, Mr Gordon, thank you both for seeing me at such short notice. I’m here, of course, to brief you on the Sydney story, but only off the record, I’m afraid. What I’m about to tell you is still confidential.’
Grace stood, thinking she’d need to leave, but Sam waved her back to her seat. ‘Miss Fowler will stay to take notes, Lieutenant. I’m sure you understand we need to document the conversation in case any of the facts are disputed later.’
Hill nodded.
‘So, what’s the latest?’
‘Most of what you’ve heard is true as far as we know. The Sydney was expected to arrive in Perth on the twenty-first, but she was operating under radio silence. There were many reasons why she might have been detained, which is why we delayed contacting her. The RAN broadcast ordered her to break silence and make contact on the twenty-third. We heard nothing. Later that day we had the first reports of German survivors from the Kormoran being picked up by ships and search boats.’
Grace’s shorthand characters were getting looser by the moment as she tried to keep up with Hill’s words.
‘How many have you found?’ Sam asked.
‘Around three hundred. Many of them made it to shore. They’re already being interrogated.’
‘And nothing’s been found of the Australians. No oil slick, debris?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘What are the Germans saying?’
‘So far they’re all saying the same thing: there was a battle at dusk on the nineteenth about three hundred miles west of Carnarvon. Apparently, the Sydney was hit by torpedos and badly damaged but still managed to get off a couple of shots. Completely devastated the Kormoran. The Germans all say the Sydney was burning above the waterline and heading out to sea when they lost sight of her.’
‘And these prisoners, you believe them? They’ve had plenty of time to concoct their stories.’
‘We’ve nothing else to go on for the moment. They say there’s no reason why there shouldn’t be survivors. We’re searching, but no luck so far.’
Sam referred to his own scribbled notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Why did you wait so long to try to establish radio contact?’
‘Enemy ships have been active in our waters for some months now. We’re wary of broadcasting any information that might give Sydney’s position away if she’s still afloat. And we don’t want German intelligence knowing the Kormoran’s been sunk.’
Sam rapped his pencil hard against his notepad. ‘What about the families? Don’t they have a right to know what’s happened?’
‘Next of kin are being informed today that the Sydney is missing. We’re not saying anything further until we have more information.’
Sam grimaced and tightened his lips as if to stop himself from saying anything further. Gordon nodded steadily.
‘I don’t need to remind you, we are at war,’ Hill said. ‘We won’t release any reports that could endanger lives. The censorship order still applies. Any contravention will result in swift action.’
Sam glared at Hill. ‘One of the crew is a friend of mine,’ he said, keeping his voice even. ‘His wife heard the rumours several days ago. She and all the other families deserve to know what’s going on.’
Hill gathered his papers and stood. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find them. While there’s a chance the ship is still afloat, no information will be published that could assist the enemy. In the meantime, my office will help you with background information. To avoid confusion, I must insist that only one reporter from your paper liaises with my office.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’ll see myself out. Good afternoon, Miss Fowler, Mr Gordon, Sam.’
‘Bloody navy arseholes!’
Grace started as Sam slammed his coffee down on the desk, the dregs slopping across the first edition of The Gazette. She slid down into her chair, trying to make herself smaller so that he didn’t turn his anger on her. She was surprised to see him this way, language getting worse, his hair rumpled and his shirt creased as he smoked cigarette after cigarette. But part of her had expected to meet this Sam too. Editor Sam, just like her father when a crisis kept him on edge in the newsroom for days on end. As far as she knew, anger went with the job; it was the only way to deal with the pressure. She needed to toughen up if she was going to survive as a reporter. Grace looked across the newsroom and saw Phil walking towards Sam’s desk. He smiled grimly as he passed.
‘Sam, what’s wrong?’ Phil asked.
‘Bloody Hill! The nerve of him, sitting here today, banging on about confidentiality. Keeping the public calm! Then he feeds the Parramatta story to the morning papers. The bloody tabloids.’
‘Bastards!’ Phil said as Sam ripped a sheaf of copy pages in half and threw them in the bin.
Another Australian ship, HMAS Parramatta, had been lost off the coast of Libya earlier in the week after being hit by two Ge
rman missiles. Grace and Phil watched as Sam scrawled the numbers of lost crew on his blotter. One hundred and thirty-eight sailors aboard the Parramatta and six hundred and forty-five on the Sydney; nearly eight hundred men lost in one week—and that was just at sea. More had been lost in the other services. Grace tried to picture what that many people looked like: a train full of passengers; the students from two high schools at the local sports carnival. That many people, all gone in one week—just one week! How many would die in a month, in a year? She’d know some of them for sure. They’d be the boys from the newsroom, her classmates, kids from church.
‘So why’s the navy buddying up to the morning papers?’ Phil asked.
‘No idea. Hill must have known damn well what was happening when he said the embargo applied to everyone, even the radio stations. Now, all of a sudden, the mornings can publish so that people get one last sleep before the bad news.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Phil said. ‘Reading about it over porridge will make the news much more palatable. And what about the Sydney? Can they publish that too?’
Sam stared across the darkened newsroom. Everyone else from The Tribune had gone to the pub hours ago. Grace didn’t normally work into the evening but in the five days since news broke about the Sydney going missing, she’d worked from six in the morning till after nine each night. She couldn’t leave and nor could most of the journos and subs, who all stayed across the road at the pub until close to hear the latest news. Mind you, even without clearance to publish, nothing stopped the spread of wild rumours; on trams and in trains and bars and shops right across the country, people talked of nothing else. And why wouldn’t they? The Sydney was supposed to be invincible. It was inconceivable that it could be lost. Everyone seemed to know someone on the ship. Everyone seemed to have heard a new snippet of information: that the search was being conducted in the wrong area; that clothing and effects with HMAS Sydney insignia were already washing up on Perth beaches, despite reports that the battle had occurred hundreds of miles to the north.