We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  Mae watched his expression shift from concern to disappointment. He stepped back and straightened his stance. Mae noticed the naval insignia on his jumper.

  She was doing it again; forgetting to make a fuss when he was only trying to be helpful. Men hated that. Smile with your eyes, girl, Et had advised. You must learn to flirt a little, flutter your lashes. Mae had always imagined fluttering her lashes would make her look simple, but she suddenly felt compelled to try. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said, forcing herself to flutter as she met his eyes. ‘Thank you for your concern.’

  She looked towards the net and saw the three older women watching with interest, conducting a whispered conversation behind their hands.

  ‘Well, if there’s nothing further I can do, perhaps I’ll see you at tea,’ the man said.

  ‘I’ll save you a cup,’ she said, then immediately regretted her inane response. The teapot was so large it would cater for an entire crew, though he didn’t necessarily know that, she supposed.

  He followed the other men, who were heading for the grass courts near the grandstand. Mae rubbed her aching wrist. Her knee was throbbing too.

  ‘All in one piece?’ Beryl asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks. We should probably get on with the game before I get too stiff.’

  ‘Sure you don’t need to forfeit?’ Edna said.

  ‘She’s still young enough to bounce,’ Beryl teased. ‘Besides, we don’t want to finish too early or someone will miss the chance to see those handsome sailors again.’

  Edna laughed. ‘They’re too young for an old bat like you.’

  ‘Too old, you mean. I’m only twenty-five on the inside.’

  Mae hobbled through the remainder of the set as her opponents lobbed balls over her head and past her limp forehand and backhand. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her mind on the game. She kept picturing the man’s face, his perfect blue eyes, his wide smile. She wondered whether he was laughing at the spectacle she’d made of herself. Had her skirt ridden up? Had he seen her bloomers? She blushed at the thought. Maybe she should just leave after the match, slink home on the train, but she was rostered to help with tea and she’d left Et’s good plate on the table with the scones. She didn’t dare go home without it.

  After managing to lose every game in the two sets, Mae tidied her face and hair while the kettle boiled. Powder tamed the shiny patches on her face but fluffing her hair raised puffs of dust. Close inspection of her scalp showed red lines of dirt. She’d only had her hair washed and set the night before. Now she’d have to wear her hair like this for another week.

  After an hour of keeping the kettle on the boil and serving tea to the other tennis groups, Mae could barely concentrate. She’d given milk to people who wanted their tea black and poured boiling water into a teapot with no leaves. Her wrist throbbed as she tried to lift the pot to pour fresh cups for two teams of elderly gents from the local Rotary Club. Then she heard voices approaching from the main path. She nearly missed a cup as she turned towards the sound of their chatter. She couldn’t believe it; they were looking at her and laughing. Unable to look at them, she arranged spoons on cups and saucers, topping up the pot, tapping out the tea strainer.

  The man who’d rushed to her aid was watching when she finally looked up. He smiled. ‘Still upright, I see.’

  Mae raised her teapot as if she proposed to clobber him. ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to laugh at other people’s misfortune?’

  He scratched his jaw then slowly ran his hand through his dark, silky hair. ‘My mother’s never told me off for anything, but I apologise for being a clod. Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m quite well, thank you. Black or white?’

  ‘I have a thing for white—and blonde; anything that reminds me of sunshine,’ he said. ‘Harry Parker, leading seaman and navy tennis team captain. And this is Lieutenant Detmers, sports officer from the German cruiser Köln. His ship is here for training exercises.’

  ‘Yes, I read about your visit in the paper,’ Mae said, hoping she didn’t look uncomfortable. Her day was taking her into all sorts of uncharted territory, but she’d never imagined she’d be consorting with the enemy—well, former enemy.

  ‘Your fall was quite spectacular,’ Detmers said, his English perfect.

  ‘I’m glad to have provided such memorable entertainment.’

  The other men laughed as Detmers translated.

  ‘They’ll be talking about your acrobatics in the mess for weeks,’ Harry said.

  Mae forced her gaze to meet his and stay there. ‘I’m sure they’ll see much more interesting sights on their visit.’

  Harry’s smile didn’t falter. ‘I don’t think I will. It’s not every day that a beautiful girl flings herself at my feet.’

  Mae’s mind froze. She had no witty retort, no smart comeback. She wanted to keep the conversation going, but instead her mouth flapped open then closed while she silently debated whether to acknowledge the compliment or bat it away. Maybe she should say something nice about his appearance? What nice tanned calves you have. Or, My goodness, your wrists look strong. She rested the teapot on the table and straightened the cups and saucers, glancing at him quickly. His eyes really were the prettiest shade of blue she’d ever seen.

  ‘Did you know the Germans have a lion on board their ship, and a kangaroo?’ Harry said a moment later.

  ‘They do not!’

  ‘It’s true, I swear. Gifts from different places they’ve visited. They live in cages on the deck.’

  Mae leaned back slightly, relaxed her shoulders and tilted her head towards him in the way Et had said men liked. Behind Harry, she could see the Germans clearing the platters of sandwiches and scones. They’d be ready to leave soon, but she already knew she didn’t want him to go. There was a fluttering in her stomach and her pulse was racing. She took a breath and tried to calm her tumbling, churning thoughts. He’d never be interested in a scrawny little bookworm like me, she thought. Besides, he’s just being polite after my fall. He’s stopped speaking. Quick, mention the weather, ask if he plays lots of tennis. Oh, of course he must—he’s the team captain. She saw his expression turn serious.

  ‘I—I could show you around the German ship tomorrow, if you like,’ Harry said, his tone tentative now. ‘It’s only open to the public today, but I’m sure Detmers could arrange for us to have a tour tomorrow. You could bring your family if you like…or your fellow.’

  Mae tried to glean his thoughts. The offer of a tour was friendly, but it meant nothing. He probably had a wife and children tucked away somewhere and he was feeling lonely. And her aunt and uncles would never set foot on a German ship. The war felt like yesterday to them, her uncles’ wounds still giving them grief. Insensitive, Albert had branded the visit by the German ship. Far too soon, William had agreed. Perhaps Et would come along and sit on the pier while Mae toured the ship with Harry. He looked nervous but keen. Then again, maybe she didn’t need a chaperone. After all, she was seventeen and Harry seemed nice—very nice indeed.

  She smiled. ‘That sounds wonderful. I’d love to.’

  When Mae finally made it to Elizabeth’s house for lunch, Richard and Eric were sitting at the dining table with the papers laid out in front of them, discussing the day’s news.

  ‘Can you believe it? Those poor buggers were stuck on the Kormoran for five months, just sailing up and down the coast. Prisoners in their own backyard.’

  Mim and one of the neighbours were in the kitchen, fussing over pots of tea and sandwiches. In the front room Elizabeth slowly rocked Katie, holding her close as if somehow the sleeping baby could absorb some of her grief. Mae sat across from Elizabeth with her back to the piano. She couldn’t bear to look at Harry’s photograph sitting atop the piano beside his violin, nestled in the leather case which looked like a tiny coffin lined with red crushed velvet.

  ‘It says here that the Krauts reckon they sunk the Mareeba in June. The Aussie survivors were on the Kormoran till Octo
ber. Then they got transferred to POW camps in Germany.’

  ‘Utter bloody torture, to be so close to home for so long. They’d have been watching the coastline most of that time. How’d you be, not being able to yell for help or swim for the shore. At least they didn’t have to see them sink the Sydney.’

  ‘Well, if they had, we might have known what really happened. It makes no sense, the Sydney being outgunned like that. The Jerries must’ve been in cahoots with another German boat, or a sub maybe.’

  ‘Maybe it was the Japs. A bloke outside the church yesterday said Jap subs have been hanging round up north.’

  ‘Well, anyway, a bunch of rotten Jerry POWs won’t tell us the truth.’

  ‘Look, it says here that the German captain’s been named in a communiqué from Berlin: Captain Theodor Anton Detmers, he’s called.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound all that German, does it?’

  An image of the German tennis player she’d met all those years ago came to mind; the one who’d spoken such perfect English. No; that would be too much of a coincidence. Detmers must be a common name, or maybe she hadn’t remembered it correctly.

  Katie stirred and Elizabeth rocked her a little faster. ‘Did Alice make it to the train on time?’

  ‘Yes, they had half an hour to spare,’ Mae said, slowly lifting her cup of tea from the saucer, trying to stop it from trembling.

  ‘And they had plenty of food for the trip?’

  ‘I packed some cakes people had dropped off. I’m sure the boys would have been happy.’

  ‘Such well-behaved children. You wouldn’t really think it, considering they normally run wild on a farm.’

  Mae pictured Katie covered head to toe in briquette dust and the boys chasing each other up and down the hallway when it was too wet to play outside. ‘They’re good company for each other, but they can be a bit of a handful.’

  ‘Alice looked very unwell at the church. How is she managing?’

  ‘Not well. Not sleeping or eating. She’s expecting, you know.’

  ‘Babies are made of hardy stuff; they adapt,’ Elizabeth said, looking at Katie.

  Mae strained to hear more of the boys’ conversation from the next room. She looked down at the carpet, hoping to avoid Elizabeth’s attention for a moment. Light blue cabbage roses, the size of dinner plates, seemed to lift like lily pads from the darker blue background. Blue cabbage roses—who ever heard of such a thing?

  ‘You don’t look well either, Mae. Have you eaten?’

  Mae was surprised at the concern in Elizabeth’s voice.

  ‘I’m managing, thank you. Everyone’s been very kind.’

  A knock at the front door interrupted the conversations.

  ‘Probably someone from church,’ Mim said, returning to the lounge room. She picked up the teapot and swirled it to check whether it needed refilling.

  They listened to Richard’s footsteps as he walked along the hallway to open the door.

  Muffled male voices, a brief discussion. Then the front door closed and a single set of footsteps paused in the hallway. Richard walked back into the lounge room with his eyes downcast, carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Who was that, dear?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Keeping his head bowed, Richard crossed to the piano, holding the parcel away from his body as though it might explode. As he placed it beside the violin, Mae took in the crumpled brown paper, the hole in one side where the string had pulled too tightly. She slowly registered what it was. Elizabeth gasped and Mim quietly crumpled into a chair. It was Harry’s unopened birthday package, stamped with large black letters: RETURN TO SENDER.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  8 December 1941

  GRACE GLANCED AT THE bank of clocks above the subeditors’ desk showing times for London, New York and Melbourne. It was one-thirty pm local time. Three editions of the paper had been put to bed. The fourth edition was normally the last, but today was different. The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii overnight and America had declared war. The Japanese were also reported to be heading south towards Malaya and Australia. Darwin’s naval, air force and army bases were on the highest alert. Stop News and City editions would run until six or seven.

  Grace’s stomach grumbled as the telephone rang. There’d been no time for lunch. She answered the phone but the voice on the other end interrupted before she could complete her greeting.

  ‘Grace, it’s Phil. I need the boss.’

  ‘He’s on the phone.’

  ‘It’s urgent. He’ll want to hear this.’

  ‘Just a moment, I’ll see if he wants to speak to you.’

  Grace put the receiver on the desk, stood and walked the few steps so that she was in front of Sam. He held up one finger as he finished his conversation.

  ‘Phil says he has something urgent; he’s on line two,’ she said, when he’d hung up.

  ‘What is it, Taylor?’ Grace heard him say.

  A few minutes later, Sam called Grace back to his desk. ‘Taylor’s up at the Exhibition Building with a snapper. The police are rounding up all the Japanese in Melbourne for interrogation. They’ll be locked up afterwards. I need you to get up there and pick up some films for the fourth edition.’

  Grace dropped her notebook on the desk and grabbed her bag and hat. Okay, it wasn’t the chance to write a story, but this was a copyboy job, which was nearly as good. And Sam hadn’t even hesitated about sending her.

  ‘Let the picture desk know you’re going,’ Sam called as Grace buttoned her cardigan, ready to step outside. ‘I’ll get the press room and the compositors ready.’

  Moments later, she was in the street, running up the hill and along several city blocks to the gardens on the edge of the city, only slowing at intersections. Ever since the memorial service last week, Grace felt certain that her life had begun to change. She felt a sense of lightness, lifting her feet and helping her to run faster. Sam was definitely treating her differently. This morning he’d talked to her about the major stories as though she was part of the reporting team. He’d even sought her opinion on Pearl Harbor and Malaya.

  ‘Everyone’s wondering where the next Japanese air raid might happen,’ he said. ‘Melbourne’s unlikely, I’d say; they’d be more interested in Sydney. What do you think, Miss Fowler? What can we assume from the information we’ve received today?’

  ‘It seems to me we have nothing but speculation. No one predicted Hawaii so I doubt they have any idea about the next move either.’

  Sam had smiled and nodded then turned back to his typewriter.

  Each day she’d willed him to say something, anything, about another reporting assignment, but he hadn’t said a word and Grace was careful not to nag him. Maybe over January, when people were still away on their summer holidays, she’d put forward some more of her story ideas. It was only a few months now till Barbara’s wedding, so the timing could work well.

  Running through the parkland towards the exhibition hall, she was surprised to see the entryway almost empty. There were a few police vans on the forecourt outside the huge wooden doors. Four reporters and three photographers stood in the foyer smoking and reading the papers, like they were waiting for a train. She’d heard that at least half of a reporter’s life was spent waiting for the news to happen, especially on courts or police rounds, so you had to get along really well with the other press or your life was pretty lonely. Several of the group were gathered around Phil, who wasn’t saying anything, just nodding and listening. But he was clearly at the centre of the men; he stood a little taller and he was slightly better dressed. The men around him talked over each other, watching to make sure he laughed at their jokes or nodded at their comments.

  Grace stood back from the group but Phil noticed her and walked over, his smile more radiant than the agreeable face he’d worn with the men.

  ‘Well, well. Copyboy duties today! This is becoming quite the habit.’

  ‘Sam couldn’t spare anyo
ne else.’

  ‘Well, as you can see, there’s not much action at the moment.’

  Grace looked through a gap between the doors, expecting to see hundreds, perhaps thousands of Japanese people lined up waiting to be questioned. But she saw nothing. There was no sound either, just the reporters and photographers asking each other for smokes, comparing race tips.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘The police started rounding them up about ten this morning,’ Phil said. ‘My running coach called me. Said he was worried about being separated from his family. He’s Japanese, you know.’

  ‘Oh, really!’

  ‘Most of the Japs have already left the country. Fewer than twenty left in the state, they reckon.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ she said. ‘What about the rest of the country?’

  ‘Police reckon there’s about seven hundred left in Australia, mostly up north in the pearling areas.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘They’ll finish the questioning then send them to internment camps.’

  Graham Ross, the Tribune photographer, stood behind Phil reading a copy of Life magazine. An older man, in his fifties at least, Ross was also called Mr Front Page by the newsroom because he always managed to find the angle or the light that transformed an ordinary picture into a work of art. Grace sometimes wondered why he stuck with the paper, which used his pictures so small, when his work would look so much better in a magazine like the one he was reading.

  ‘Miss Fowler, wonderful story last week,’ he said as he slid captions beneath wide rubber bands on two film rolls and handed them over. ‘As good as anything Mr Taylor could write, I’m sure.’

  ‘Steady on, the reporters are already shaking in their boots that we’re about to be invaded by a bunch of Lois Lanes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ross. It’s very nice of you to say so. And Mr Taylor, you have more to fear than cartoon girl reporters.’