We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  Gasping for air, her gaze landed on Sam Barton. He was leaning over to speak to a young woman beside him. Raising his head, his eyes met Mae’s.

  ‘Mae, are you all right? You look terrified!’

  ‘I’m, I—I don’t know why—’

  Sam called across the crowd to Albert. ‘I think Mae needs some help. Mae, Albert’s right behind you. You’ll be fine.’

  Mae felt Albert’s arm slip around her waist. Still holding Alice’s hand, she let them both lead her to the reserved pews at the front of the church. Walking slowly down the aisle, she couldn’t help recalling walking towards Harry on their wedding day. She clutched Alice’s hand tighter. The pews were full and hundreds of people lined the walls. There were so many; how could so many people care so much about the missing crew? Still, it was nice of them all to come out on a day like this to pray for the men’s safe return.

  As the service got underway, Mae tried to block it out, reasoning that the pastor wasn’t really talking to her; that he was just trying to prepare people for the worst in case something did happen, sometime in the future. She had to stop herself from clapping when he said the government hadn’t done enough to inform the families, that the censorship had added pain on top of suffering for the next of kin. She realised her face was wet with tears.

  Harry’s not dead, she assured herself. It’s still too soon. He’d never leave. But no matter what she told herself, the tears wouldn’t stop.

  Then the Last Post played; the service was over. Before she had a chance to decide whether to stand, to sit, to speak, a warm hand clasped her arm. Mae looked up into the round, red face of Pastor Symonds.

  ‘Mrs Parker, Mrs Gower, I recognised you both from your pictures,’ he said, sitting beside them. ‘I’d hoped to meet you.’ He had the calm and sympathetic voice of a man used to dealing with a stranger’s grief. ‘I knew Jim and Harry. I wanted to meet you in particular, Mrs Parker, knowing what you’ve been through this year. Do you know the entire ship followed your progress when you were ill? Not knowing your condition was so hard on Harry. But it warmed my heart to see the way all the men, even the young ones with no wives or children of their own, rallied to keep his spirits up. And Jim too. He was a tower of strength and such a great leader to his gunnery crew in the Mediterranean. Two wonderful men and terrific friends. I’m sure they would have been an inspiration to the men during their final battle.’

  Alice pressed her hanky to her mouth again.

  Mae leaned forward. ‘Pastor, do you think they could be somewhere waiting for rescue?’

  ‘It would be a miracle indeed, Mrs Parker,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘But of course, I’m not averse to praying for miracles.’

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  5 December 1941

  GRACE SURVEYED THE NEARLY empty newsroom. Phones rang non-stop but no one answered them. Sam was in an editorial conference with the subeditors. Everyone else was out covering the memorial services for the crew from the Sydney. Even the copyboys were out at the churches, standing by to rush back stories and films for the first edition. The newsroom hadn’t been this deserted since Melbourne Cup day, when all the reporters had scattered across the city to cover the races, society lunches, charity functions and even community picnics. Today had that same feeling of a big event, but of course it was so much sadder.

  She watched as Sam walked towards his desk, shoulders slumped, face pale.

  ‘Another problem, I’m afraid, sir,’ Grace said. ‘Nolan’s off sick. Tonsillitis. His housemate rang a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Damn it!’

  Grace flinched then looked towards the ringing phone on the desk.

  ‘He’s supposed to be covering Scots’. There’s no one else to do it.’

  ‘What about one of the subs?’

  ‘They’re all needed here to get the first edition out.’

  Grace waited for the next outburst but Sam was quiet. She looked up and realised he was watching her. ‘Grab your coat and your notebook, Miss Fowler—you’ll have to cover the service instead.’

  ‘What? Me?’ Grace fought her face as it tried to split wide in a smile. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t get too excited. Just take notes then bring them back so one of the subs can write it up. Nothing fancy. Just whatever the pastor says during the service. We’ll add a few pars to the bigger story, a wrap from across the memorials.’

  ‘I see, right.’ Grace got her arm tangled in her coat as she tried to fill her handbag with pencils and two spare notepads at the same time. She tidied her hair then pinned on her hat and tied a scarf around her neck. It might be early summer but today felt wintery.

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Collins Street. I’ll walk with you and show you where to stand.’

  Grace struggled to keep pace with Sam as he strode up the hill.

  ‘We need to be there early. Get your notebook and pencil out and stand with the other reporters. That way, people know where you are and they can choose to stand near you or not.’

  ‘Are we allowed inside?’

  ‘Yes, you’re allowed to stand just inside the door, so the copy kids can get in and out without interrupting people listening to the service.’

  ‘I’m sending copy back?’

  She’d dreamed of her first assignment in so many different settings, but she hadn’t thought it would happen this way. TORCHY HOLDS THE FRONT PAGE. It was just like in the movies, she thought. All the men had gone to war and a small town girl got her big break. She just had to make sure she covered everything they’d need, but what if she forgot something critical?

  ‘Get yourself an order of service,’ Sam said, as though he was reading her thoughts. ‘Write down exactly what each speaker says and make a few notes about the number of people, the hymns they sing, any psalms. The subs will take it from there.’

  The crowd was so huge the church couldn’t hold them. Despite the rain, they’d gathered in their hundreds, huddled beneath hats and umbrellas. Standing beside the door, Grace saw women being led through the crowds in twos and threes, clinging to each other for support and comfort. Most of them were weeping. Some women were older—the mothers or the aunts, she supposed—but the vast majority were young women: the wives and sweethearts.

  Sadness stole her breath as the feeling of responsibility dawned on her. This was so much more than just a chance to write her first story for the paper. For many people, this was one of the most important days of their lives. She was witnessing history and she had to record every moment, every detail.

  Two women walked towards the door, holding tightly to each other’s hands. The woman wearing a black woollen suit was as thin as a stick. She stared straight ahead as she made her way along the path, as rigid as a wind-up doll. The other woman scanned the sea of faces surrounding them, bewildered, as though she didn’t know where she was or how she’d got there.

  ‘My neighbour, Mae Parker,’ Sam said quietly in Grace’s ear. ‘Her husband was on the ship.’

  ‘It’s tragic,’ Grace said.

  ‘She looks pretty frail; I won’t try to introduce you.’

  Grace saw Mrs Parker lock eyes with Sam, who removed his hat and bowed his head towards her. Then he was gesturing to an older man walking behind, calling to him to help her.

  ‘The poor woman,’ Grace said, feeling a lump of sadness in her throat as she watched the women move slowly towards the front pews. ‘I’ll be fine if you want to head off,’ she said, determined not to let Sam see her cry. She’d never be taken seriously as a reporter if she choked up on her first assignment.

  Sam nodded. ‘Okay then. Remember to look out for the copyboy at one-thirty, then head straight back as soon as the service is over. We’ll take care of the rest.’

  Grace settled against the wall just inside the doors, opened her notebook and began taking notes, describing the crowd, the rich sounds of the organ music, the beauty of the stained-glass windows. Although the church was warm, Grace s
aw people still huddled in their coats. At one o’clock precisely, Pastor Symonds addressed the congregation.

  He led them in prayer and hymns, then spoke about the tragedy. ‘A strange poignancy is added to the grief of those who have been bereaved by the fact that the sinking of the Sydney is attended by so much mystery. It would be some comfort to them to have known a little more; to many hearts it would have brought an added thrill of pride to have heard of particular instances of bravery in which their loved ones played a part. They only know that hundreds of brave men had given themselves for their country.’

  People nodded agreement and sniffled into hankies. Grace flipped to a new page in her notebook, holding her breath as she wrote furiously, determined to capture the exact order of his words. She was amazed that he was being so critical, so controversial. Surely the paper couldn’t print this? But, she reasoned, he’d said it in front of the entire congregation, so there was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t report it. She wondered whether the other priests and pastors around the country were also being so blunt.

  A lone bugler sounded the Last Post then the congregation bowed their heads while Beethoven’s ‘Funeral March on the Death of a Hero’ rumbled through the transepts. When Dyson, the freckly copyboy, appeared in front of Grace, silently waiting for her notebook, she felt a rush of fear. I’ve got something extraordinary here, she thought. What if he loses the book? He might drop it somewhere or the rain might soak the pages. AWARD-WINNING STORY DOWN THE DRAIN!

  ‘I’m heading back now,’ she said, sure that she had enough for the story. ‘I’ll take it myself.’

  Grace was the first back in the office. Sam might be annoyed that she hadn’t stayed longer, but the service was over and, other than eavesdropping on the families, she wouldn’t get anything more. She wanted to type up her notes, maybe even craft a few paragraphs, just to make sure her thoughts were clear. She found herself transcribing the sermon then describing the atmosphere. By the time Sam arrived back at his desk, she’d written enough copy to fill ten column inches. She handed him her pile of typed chits and carbon copies then, when he said he didn’t need anything else, she went in search of a strong cup of tea.

  The staff cafeteria was deserted. Grace waited at the cash register with her tray, her ears buzzing, her breathing so tight she was almost giddy. As sad as the day was, it was thrilling to cover a story like this, rushing to get it written for a deadline. It was just like she’d imagined all those times sitting alone in the dark watching Torchy Blane movies. Of course, her real job was answering the phones and filing edited stories and photos—for the moment, anyway. Today was just a one-off, but it was a taste, a lovely big bite of what she wanted, being a real reporter, covering real stories. Nothing mattered more than that.

  The sound of china smashing on the floor came from behind the kitchen door. ‘Those teacups are coming out of your pay, you klutz!’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be in their shoes,’ Grace heard a voice behind her say. But not just any voice; as soon as she heard him every part of her brain fizzed; excitement fluttered in her chest. She hesitated before turning to look at him, not trusting her complexion to behave. Taking a small breath, she set her smile and met his lovely gaze.

  ‘I hope no one was hurt,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t hear screams of pain; that’s always a good sign,’ Phil replied.

  Grace glanced at the corned beef sandwich on her plate. ‘This might not be the best time to order a cup of tea, if everything’s broken.’

  ‘Allow me.’ Phil stepped behind the counter and found a small teapot, a cup and saucer and a milk jug. ‘Bushells, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur. Merci beaucoup.’

  Phil used the urn to fill the pot, then placed the pot on Grace’s tray and found a strainer in a basket under the bench.

  ‘How do you know where to find everything?’ Grace asked.

  ‘We have free range at night when the kitchen closes—just for pots of tea, but they’re a lifesaver at three in the morning during a bushfire. Let’s sit down and wait for the cashier. Meanwhile, you can tell me all about your first big assignment.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘No secrets in the newsroom, Miss Fowler. Besides, there’s a couple of noses out of joint. Some of the cadets are annoyed that they weren’t called in.’

  Grace’s smile slipped. ‘People are upset with me? It was just a spur of the moment thing, when there was no one else to send.’

  Phil smiled. ‘They’ll get over it. The cadets just get a bit competitive, trying to outdo each other for stories.’

  ‘But I don’t want anyone hating me,’ Grace said, ‘especially today.’

  ‘So how was your first foray into the heady world of the fourth estate?’

  ‘I can’t believe how much I loved it; it was better than I’d imagined,’ she blurted, then blushed, realising she sounded like a silly child.

  Phil laughed. ‘Uh-oh! Sounds like you’ve been bitten by the news bug.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do this, ever since I could read and write,’ Grace said shyly. ‘Maybe if Mr Barton likes what I’ve done today, he’ll give me a chance. I wrote a full story, all the details, not just notes and quotes.’

  Phil looked at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Don’t get your hopes too high, Grace. He just wanted the pastor’s words. He won’t run any of your colour, probably won’t even have time to read it.’

  Grace stared at the man across from her, so sure of himself, of his place in the newsroom. He wouldn’t have ever had to beg for the chance to cover a story. She took several slow sips of her tea.

  ‘Don’t take it badly, Grace,’ Phil said. ‘I’m sure you did a great job. That’s just the way it is on deadline. Ah, here’s the cashier now. I’ll pay for lunch.’

  ‘Miss Fowler!’ Sam called as she returned to the newsroom. He was standing over the subs desk, rolling layouts for the vacuum tube that would transport them to the compositors’ room on the floor below. She steeled herself against the criticism for not staying longer at the church. She’d probably missed something critical by being so silly about her notebook and leaving early, probably wasted her chance by not trusting Dyson. She tried to read his face. He wasn’t frowning, which was good. The newsroom was full of clatter and ringing and shouting as usual, but today everything seemed more frantic. As she approached the desk, Sam’s expression changed to a tired grin.

  ‘Good job. We’re using it all in a separate story. That Symonds fellow—what a character, giving the navy a serve like that. I’d love to see Hill’s face when he reads your story.’

  Your story! Grace barely repressed a yelp of joy. ‘Do I get a by-line?’

  Sam laughed. ‘Don’t push it, Fowler,’ he said.

  Fowler! Last name only, just like the reporters…the other reporters.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  6 December 1941

  THE DAY AFTER THE service, Mae saw Alice and the boys off at the station, then she and Katie caught another train to Elizabeth’s house for lunch. Harry’s mother had planned to have the entire family over for afternoon tea after the service but Mae had begged off, saying she felt ill. But as bad as Mae felt, she’d been shocked by Elizabeth’s appearance outside the church. The older woman seemed to have aged decades with deep, deep lines around her eyes and nose.

  Mae stared at her own reflection in the train window, taking in the dark circles around her eyes, the hollows beneath her cheekbones, the heaviness of her cheeks that felt like they might never have the strength to form another smile. The train slowed and halted beside a row of tennis courts, full of women dressed in whites laughing and playing as though they hadn’t a care.

  Mae let her mind drift back to the first time she’d seen Harry, at the tennis club just near their cottage, eight years earlier. That day she’d been playing the formidable club champions, Edna and Beryl.

  Edna was rumoured to be in her sixties, b
ut no one knew for certain. Beryl was a bit younger, but she was still fearsome at the net. Mae, aged seventeen, was paired with Glenys, a friend of Et’s from church. Aunt Et had signed her up for the Saturday tennis competition, saying it was the perfect way to meet her future husband, but scampering around a tennis court, getting red dust through her blonde hair and under her nails, seemed to Mae like the least promising way to meet a man.

  Halfway through the third game, Edna lobbed Glenys’s serve over Mae’s head towards the baseline. Mae knew she’d never make it, but a rare streak of determination drove her to chase it anyway, right towards a group of young men who were watching the spectacle through the wire fence.

  Lunging for the ball, Mae overbalanced and lurched forward, hitting the ground with her arm first, followed by her ribs, her hip and her knees. She skidded towards the fence through the dust, just managing to keep her head and face from scraping along the gravel, and halted in front of the young men, some of whom seemed to be exclaiming in a foreign language—German, she thought.

  ‘My God, are you all right?’ One of the young men—with a broad Australian accent—rushed through the side gate and crouched by her side.

  ‘I—I’m not sure,’ Mae said, waiting for the pain of broken bones to sear through her embarrassment. Then she noticed his unusual eyes; sapphire blue, fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen. It was unfair to see lashes like that on a man, especially when hers were so white it looked like she had none. She rubbed at the grazes on her knee and her right palm.

  ‘Do you think anything’s broken?’ he asked.

  ‘Just my pride,’ Mae said, wobbling as she tried to stand.

  ‘Lean against me,’ the man said, cupping her elbow.

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

  She dusted her skirt then dabbed at her knee with a hanky. Sensing the man watching her, she forced her mouth into a grim smile. ‘Really, it’s nothing. I think your friends are waiting.’