by Lisa Bigelow
Mae slid off the bed and opened Harry’s side of the wardrobe, pressing his shirts to her face to find one that smelled of him. She tried shirt after shirt but all she smelled was the waxy soap flakes she’d used to wash them. She opened the chest of drawers and plunged her hands into a stack of his jumpers; all freshly laundered. The same with his singlets and socks. Returning to the wardrobe she grabbed his woollen dressing-gown from the hook behind the door. It had been washed too, but there was a faint smell of his hair oil on the collar. Clutching the robe, stiff from the clothesline, she rolled it lengthwise and lay on the bed beside it so it stretched from her face to her feet, her knee bent across the middle as though Harry were inside it. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly and deeply. I’m right here, darling. I’m staying right here till I know you’re coming home.
CHAPTER 16
* * *
30 November 1941
GRACE WATCHED SAM AND Mr Gordon as they hunched over the subs desk, reviewing the stories about the Sydney, which were all ready for layout and printing. They checked and measured photographs marked up with chinagraph pencil to show the compositors where they should be cropped to fit between the columns of text on the page; pictures of the Sydney arriving home from the Mediterranean, her decks and masts brimming with deeply tanned crew, all waving and smiling to crowds lining the harbour of the city that shared her name. Grace had been surprised to see how young they all looked; many of them were younger than her, just boys. Photos of individual crew would go with local profiles, a smiling picture of the captain sat beside the crew list, which on its own seemed long enough to fill several pages.
‘We’ll have to run a special edition,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve got everything for a four-page wraparound. We can have a hundred thousand copies across Melbourne in a few hours.’
‘Sam, the news is embargoed until midnight. It’s Sunday. The morning papers will cover it. We’ll follow up tomorrow afternoon with anything they’ve missed.’
‘I can’t believe the damn morning papers got it again,’ Sam shouted, picking up a clippings file and slamming it against the desk. ‘The story’s already been broadcast in New Zealand and Britain. There’ll be nothing left for us to say.’
‘I agree; it’s not on. I’m already drafting another letter to the government. But the main thing now is to make sure we cover this story properly. It won’t help anyone if you get us into strife.’
Sam turned and strode to the window, placing his palms flat along the polished ledge and hanging his head. Across the road, a train moved slowly along tracks in the shunting yard towards an engine. A clang, a slight shudder and a whistle from the engineer signalled it was ready to move forward. ‘We have to find a different angle from the mornings’.’
Mr Gordon scanned the prime minister’s statement, issued two hours earlier, then he looked again at the crew list.
‘Will you write something about your friend?’ Gordon asked.
‘His wife isn’t ready. She doesn’t believe that he’s gone.’
‘You never know, she could be right. They might be adrift somewhere.’
‘Pretty unlikely now.’ Sam still stared out the window.
‘You could write something about him from your perspective,’ Gordon said.
‘I’ve said everything in the leader—about them all, not just Harry. God, I hope you’re right about us being premature.’
Grace tidied the letters and clippings on her desk and placed them in a cardboard file beside Sam’s blotter. Gordon peered over his glasses and smiled at Grace.
‘It’s late. Why don’t you both come to my office for a drink? There’s nothing more to be done here.’
Grace followed the two men up to the editor-in-chief’s office on the next floor. The ceiling soared fifteen feet high and thick carpet and timber panelling absorbed any noise. Sam motioned for Grace to sit at one end of a long chesterfield while he sat at the other end. Gordon opened a cupboard near his desk and took out a bottle and three glasses. ‘Grace, would you like Scotch or dry ginger, or both?’
‘Both, thank you, sir.’ She’d only tried straight Scotch once before and it had burned her throat. She hoped Mr Gordon wouldn’t make it too strong.
‘Hell of a day,’ he said, pouring the drinks and handing them around.
Sam took a large gulp of his. ‘Mrs Parker, my neighbour, will have received another telegram today, just like all the other hundreds of wives and mothers. I hope they’ve all got a drink or two to get them through the night.’
Grace had been following the story as closely as anyone, but she couldn’t understand why the navy made the situation seem so hopeless. ‘There’s still a possibility they’ll find survivors, isn’t there?’
‘Of course there is, Miss Fowler,’ Mr Gordon said. ‘They’re just being cautious.’
Sam drained his drink. ‘They gave up hope days ago. There should have been some sign of wreckage by now, an oil slick, a lifeboat. They’ve searched every inch of coast but nothing’s turned up.’
Grace protested: ‘It’s such a vast area.’
‘That’s right, Sam,’ Gordon agreed. ‘It will take months before they can say definitively that no one survived.’
‘I hope that’s true, for everyone’s sakes.’
Gordon refilled their glasses. ‘Let’s drink a toast: to the Sydney and her brave, brave crew.’
The long days and the sadness had left Grace feeling miserable and scared, and she didn’t even know anyone on the ship. She felt like she had no right to sadness, but this was bigger than the Sydney and her crew. For the first time, it felt like the war had arrived on their shores. It seemed that while the rest of the world was looking the other way, the Germans had started waging war right here, off the Australian coast. The thought of what might happen next was terrifying.
‘Nothing glamorous about covering a war, is there, Miss Fowler?’ Sam said glumly.
‘No, sir. But it’s important to tell the full story, to let people know what’s happening—and, of course, to honour the lost.’
Sam rubbed his temples and leaned back in his seat. ‘It’s all cold comfort for the families. We just record their names, print a picture, give the mothers a news clipping to cut out and paste in a scrapbook, so they can tell themselves that people noticed their child had passed through the world. Of course, we can’t help with a search, we can’t contribute anything useful to fighting the enemy. Our work is nothing more than a race to the printing presses in the hope of selling more papers. Hardly edifying.’
‘We keep people informed; that’s got to be worth something,’ Grace said, wondering whether she still believed that. She knew the only way to beat the other papers on this story was to get interviews with the families. They were all striving for exclusives. Sam told the reporters to let him know immediately if anyone came forward to speak, but he refused to pressure grieving relatives. She admired his empathy and decency. She knew most editors—her father included—wouldn’t step back from a story even if it meant intruding.
Sam took a sip of his drink. ‘Believe me, nothing we do will give the families any real comfort. It’s the women who own the grief; the mothers and the wives. The rest of us have to swallow it, keep going as best we can.’
‘I’m sorry, son, about your friend,’ Gordon said as Sam drained his glass and set it on the table. ‘You should head home to Claire; she’ll be worried about you. Grace, we’ll get you a taxi.’
Grace walked back to her desk, her head fuzzy from the drinks. On the other side of the newsroom, The Gazette’s subeditors were drinking beer and chattering loudly, unable to mask the satisfaction of having just put a huge story to bed. A couple of reporters and the editors stood at the chief-of-staff’s desk reading fresh copies of the paper, straight off the press. She was glad Sam was still in Gordon’s office, not here to see them. The way stories were being released was pathetic. The government seemed to have no regard for how demoralising their decisions were to newspaper men and women wor
king around the clock to fill the papers day after day.
Of course, most people never gave the effort behind their papers a second thought, just like they never thought about the bottles of milk and loaves of bread delivered fresh each morning. It all happened as if by magic—in fact, that was what Grace loved most about it: the way that a huge roll of blank newsprint was transformed into printed pages trumpeting the very best and the very worst of life. It was miraculous, and why shouldn’t she love it? Why shouldn’t a woman be as passionate about the news as a man?
The more she saw of this game, the less she understood why men thought women couldn’t do the work. Somehow she had to find a way to make it impossible for them to block her progress. Working at The Tribune, she was learning from the most experienced writers and editors. She was in the right place to grab any opportunity that came her way, and that included looking for work on other papers if she needed to. But days like today were a perfect demonstration of the fact that no one knew how much time they might have. If she was going to achieve any of her dreams, she needed to make every day count.
CHAPTER 17
* * *
1 December 1941
WHITE-HOT SUN BEAT DOWN on the sand as Mae sat fanning herself under a casuarina, its needles spiking light and shade across her arms and legs. She unpacked the picnic lunch; ham and pickle sandwiches, asparagus rolls and ginger beer wrapped in paper and a damp tea towel to keep them cool.
Harry raised his eyes from the newspaper and peered across the top of the page.
‘Hungry?’ she asked. Silly question; he was always hungry.
He pushed the paper aside, leaned forward and walked his fingers across the blanket to touch her hand.
‘Yes.’
She registered his nakedness as he moved, catlike, stretching and curling until he lay on his side with his legs against hers. His hand slowly travelled up her wrist, rested briefly inside her elbow and grazed her shoulder before moving across her neck and down to her breast.
Mae closed her eyes and lay back on the blanket as he lifted his fingers just far enough away from her body to allow the heat shadow to trace shapes across her stomach and thighs. Still not touching her, he moved his body over hers, supporting his weight with his hands and knees. She lifted her head to kiss him, her tongue teasing his salty lips. He increased the pressure of their kiss, tentatively then firmly exploring her mouth. She dropped her head back onto the towel, pulling him down with a hand behind his neck. His body followed, pressing against hers, sandy skin rubbing and burning her; hot breath on her neck. His wet hair lightly brushed her face. He pulled back and looked at her again, seeking permission with his eyes. She smiled and pressed her hips into his.
She gasped as he peeled aside the gusset of her swimming costume and entered her smoothly, without haste. Delicious moments passed as her senses focused on feeling every inch of him inside her, his rhythm slowly increasing. Her fingers scraped his lower back and grasped his buttocks as her muscles clenched him tighter and tighter. The sky and the air around them glowed golden as they melted into one another in the sun. With each thrust his hips became her own, his chest merged with her ribs. She felt her spine lift as her breath caught and pleasure prickled her toes, sweeping along her legs and body. He cried out then, his breath suspended for a delicious second or two before his mouth found hers again.
With their lips still touching, he rolled slightly to the side, leaving her torso weightless, floating.
‘Swim?’ Harry whispered.
‘I can’t.’
‘Let me teach you.’
‘You’ve worn me out.’
He ran his finger along her stomach, as perfect and flat as it had been when they first married. ‘Nothing like water to revive you, my Sunny.’
He grinned as he stood then ran across the sand. Plunging into the surf, he climbed the face of a perfectly formed sapphire wave with ease. Up and over he swam, further and further from the shoreline. She waited for him to turn and catch a wave, ride it back to shore, effortlessly, smoothly, a fabulous sea creature completely at home in the water.
Standing on tiptoes to see him better, Mae watched him slip beneath an enormous wave that continued to build, its crest foaming. She waited for him to resurface but there was no sign of him. The wave seemed to freeze, not moving closer to the shore but instead just tumbling and turning in place. Its power kept Harry submerged. Running towards the water she called his name. Sunlight stung her eyes as she scanned the beach, left, right, left again, shouting for help. But no one came.
Mae screamed his name over and over, but she could no longer pinpoint where she’d last seen him. Seagulls screeched and flapped in the dunes behind her as the wave continued to tumble in place. The birds’ squawking grew louder, harsher, as though…her mind slowly registered the birds chirping in a nest they’d built in the gutter above her bedroom window. Keeping her eyelids closed, she fought to keep her mind at the beach.
He’s still there, in the waves. If I can just stay asleep a few more minutes, I’ll find him, I’m sure of it.
But no amount of bargaining would enable her to slide back to that dream, with its tantalising nearness to Harry. Her chest heaved as though she’d really been running along that beach.
Finally letting the morning fill her consciousness, she opened her eyes to a cold, wet and windy day. Mae got up, wrapped herself in Harry’s dressing-gown and wandered to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She felt she should have some sense by now of whether Harry was alive or dead, but all she felt was numb. The drowning dream had woken her every morning since she heard he was missing, each time a little different in the way it built but the outcome always the same, so vivid, so terrifying, leaving her helpless to save him.
What’s it about? What are you trying to tell me? Am I supposed to see something—a clue? Should I know that beach? Mae closed her eyes again as she took a sip of tea, and sent more silent prayers to help Harry find his way home. Show me how to help you. I don’t understand why this is happening. If you’re punishing me for that night, I understand; I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I promise to be perfect next time you come home, and all the times after that. I’ll never doubt you again.
Mae rested her head on her folded hands on the table and sobbed. She felt completely drained, wrung out like a wet cloth. But she reminded herself that there had still been nothing definite in the papers or on the wireless, that no news had to be good news; she just had to keep her faith, not let despair inch its way into her thoughts.
Wobbling, she forced her hand to reach up and switch on the radio. The dream hasn’t changed, she told herself, today will be like every other morning: the Sydney won’t be mentioned.
She twisted her wedding ring on her finger, its smooth surface as much a part of her hand now as her fingernails. Remember our wedding, my darling, when you slid the ring over my knuckle then kissed my hand, ‘to seal the deal’? Remember, Harry? And the way you made me giddy on the dance floor, twirling me so much I nearly took off and flew? Remember the soft lighting, the jazz quartet on the terrace? It was all so lovely. And our first kiss as husband and wife; I could hardly bear to stop. It felt like sunlight was streaming from every pore of our skin, enough to warm us forever.
Mae shivered and drew the lapels of the dressing-gown together at her throat. But I’m so cold now, my darling. How is it possible to go from that day to this? People are saying you might be gone. That I have to prepare myself for the worst. I’m trying not to listen. It can’t be right. They don’t know how strong you are, that when you set your mind to something, nothing can stop you. You promised you’d come home, that you’d never leave, and I believe you, no matter what other people say.
Noticing several specks of black mould in the grout behind the sink, Mae frowned. She tied an apron over the dressing-gown, donned rubber gloves and began scrubbing the tiles with bleach.
Once the tiles were clean she worked her way along the lino on the floor, using a knife to attack
the corners, then turned her attention to the skirting boards. After mopping everything clean with a wet tea towel, she emptied the cupboards and scrubbed every scuff mark from the shelves.
It’s a good thing you’re not home yet, Harry, she thought. Imagine if you’d seen this mess. You’d think me the most slovenly cow.
Mae realised she hadn’t cleaned like this since before she was pregnant. The last time they’d been in the cottage together she’d been too big to get down on her knees. What if he’d noticed the dirt? She scrubbed harder. She’d just need to keep working hard for the next few days, so the cottage was shipshape by the time he came home.
The gate latch clicked and Mae saw Albert walking towards the back door. Returning the saucepans to the cupboard, she smoothed her hair and removed her apron, opening the door before he reached the steps. His face looked so serious and drawn, his skin a tired grey.
‘This is early even for you. Come in, you’re soaked to the bone.’
‘Have you slept at all, dear?’ Albert said, wiping his shoes on the mat.
‘A little. Katie will be up soon. Have some tea.’
Mae tried to focus her mind on choosing a cup and saucer and pouring the tea. It was far too early for a social call even from close family. Maybe Et was sick, or William. Or perhaps there’d been a fire at the shop, a burglary? Or maybe Albert just needed company; he was worried about Harry too. Her mind flitted like a moth around a light, her thoughts never landing anywhere long enough to take the worst shape.