by Lisa Bigelow
Graham winked at her and Phil pretended to look scared.
‘Dorothy Dix, eat your heart out.’
‘At the very least!’ Grace smiled.
‘Good girl,’ Graham said. ‘It’s about time these lads had a shake-up.’
‘Nice talking to you both, but I’d better be off. Hold the front page, and all that!’
‘Grace, we’re all going for drinks later. Maybe you’d like to come too, now that you’re a red-hot reporter?’
Phil’s grin was as warm as it had been when she first started at the paper. She hadn’t expected to see it directed her way again. Oh no: prickles of heat starting in her cheeks and running down her neck.
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I’ll see what time I finish.’
Grace felt close to airborne as she raced back to the Tribune building. Her feet complained about running in heels, but she ignored the forming blisters and ran all the way through the city and straight to Sam’s desk.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Sam said, looking up from the pages he was correcting. He peered at her over the top of his glasses. ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’
‘It’s in my blood.’
Sam smiled. ‘Tell the darkroom boys we need something in fifteen minutes.’
Grace dashed to the pictorial department to deliver the film, but no one was at the desk. The processing area was empty too, so she called out and parted the first set of blackout curtains, closed them behind her, then walked through a second set of curtains into the orange gloom of the darkroom. Letting her eyes adjust, she saw a row of enlargers set high on benches along opposite sides of the humid space. A trough in the middle of the room held trays of chemicals and water baths. The smell of acid and ammonia caught in the back of her throat. Over the trickle of running water, she heard three or four voices.
‘Hello,’ she called hesitantly. ‘I’ve got films from the Exhibition Building.’
The conversations stopped and everyone looked her way. A man in a dark duster called out, ‘Be with you in a tick, love.’
She recognised Frank, the darkroom technician, from his voice and then his shape: small and gaunt with a rough mop of wiry hair. Phil had told her that Frank used to be a jockey but a bad fall had crushed his back twenty years earlier. No one ever saw him sitting down. The closest he ever got was leaning against the racing desk with a cigarette wedged between stained fingers, swapping tips and gossip with the writers. The rest of the time he scurried around the darkroom mixing chemicals, processing films and cleaning the cameras.
Frank motioned for Grace to follow him out through the curtains. As they emerged into the light, Grace saw the walls for the first time; they were covered in photographs and cartoons of scantily clad women.
‘We don’t get too many visitors in here, love,’ the technician said with an apologetic grin. ‘Most people go to the office instead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘There was no one around and these are urgent.’
‘That’s all right, love. I’ll take care of it from here. Have you got the caption details?’
Grace handed over the films. ‘The captions are attached. Mr Barton said he needs them in fifteen minutes.’
‘Twenty or thirty minutes should do it,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring ’em round when the boss has chosen the shot.’
‘We’ll make a copy kid out of you yet,’ Sam said as Grace returned to her desk.
‘I’d rather be a cadet.’
He laughed.
An hour later Phil was perched on the edge of her desk, chatting easily, as though the distance that had grown between them over the last few weeks had never happened. ‘You ready for that drink?’
‘I’m not sure I can get away,’ Grace said, thrilled but confused by his sudden attention. He was practically married. What was he doing here? Was he flirting? Surely not; he was just charming her, like he charmed all his other reporting buddies, nothing more than that. And it was exciting that he thought of her as a reporter. Maybe the others would follow his lead—maybe even Sam!
‘Taking Fowler somewhere important, Taylor?’ Sam said without looking up from his proofs.
‘Just over to the pub for a quick drink.’
‘Well, I think we all need a drink today. Make sure no one gives her any trouble.’
‘I’ll look after her.’
Grace wondered at the changes one week had wrought. Was this really the result of a single story? It felt like she’d crossed some sort of invisible line and now she had…respect. Calm down, she scolded herself. It was just a drink with a workmate on a day that had everyone feeling petrified. It meant nothing.
As they entered the pub, Phil placed his hand in the small of Grace’s back and guided her to the upstairs bar, packed wall to wall with Tribune staff and several Gazette journalists who were having a drink before their news conference. Phil and Grace found a space against a wall.
‘What would you like?’
‘A glass of beer, thanks.’
‘With lemonade?’
‘No thanks, just beer.’
‘Pot and a glass, thanks, Joe,’ Phil called to the barman. He turned back to Grace. ‘I didn’t take you for a beer drinker. Thought you’d be more into sherry, or port wine and lemonade.’
‘A girl’s drink?’
Phil smiled. ‘Got me there!’
‘My dad used to let me have a sip or two of his beer, then I graduated to my own glass. Reminds me of home.’
‘Homesick?’
‘A little, especially with so much going on. But working at the paper is so exciting. I think I’m just missing having people to talk to about work and everything, especially today.’
‘You can talk to me anytime,’ Phil said, catching her gaze and holding it until he was slapped on the back by two young reporters. Grace had seen them in the lift but didn’t know their names.
‘You guys are a bit early, aren’t you?’ Phil said. ‘Gaz, Jacko, this is Grace, our editorial secretary. These fellows work on The Gazette, Grace. We all started the same day as copyboys, but they’re still on general—haven’t got rounds yet,’ he teased.
Gaz, the shorter and rounder of the two, shook his head. ‘Investigative, mate. We cover the big stories, not fun and games like cricket and the gee-gees—not that you could really call them sports; just pretty-boy pastimes, don’t you reckon, Jacko?’
‘Too right, mate; political corruption, gangsters, dodgy business—we get more exclusives than anyone else.’ With his narrow face and oversized suit, Jacko reminded her of a boy playing dress-ups. In fact, the pair of them looked like a junior version of Laurel and Hardy.
‘You guys need a new routine. You’ve been telling those lies for years now. No one listens anymore.’ Phil winked at Grace.
‘Grace looks like a smart girl. I’m sure she’s happy to be talking to real reporters, aren’t you?’
She laughed, suddenly aware of how close Phil was standing, heat from his arm radiating through her cardigan as the crowd gently pushed them together. She tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go. Jacko and Gaz were jostled back towards the bar.
‘Is everything all right?’ he said softly in her ear.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied.
‘It’s getting a bit rowdy. Maybe we should go somewhere else, get something to eat.’
This time she turned and looked at him. ‘Are you asking me out, Mr Taylor?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
Grace was amazed by the seriousness of his expression. There was no confident smirk, no chance that he was joking around. He was asking her an important question. She needed to ask one of her own.
‘Phil, I—I can’t. What about your girlfriend? I read…’
‘You know you can’t believe everything you read in the paper, Grace. They got it wrong.’
Grace waited, wanting him to say more but not sure she wanted to hear it. Was he saying that he wasn’t seeing Caroline any longer? Surely not. But if he was lyin
g, that would mean he was being a sleaze! How was she supposed to know what to think?
‘It said you were getting married,’ she probed.
‘We’re not. In fact, that story finally made us tell our parents the truth. They wanted us to get married. We weren’t interested.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘Yes, really. Come on, I’ll tell you all about it.’
He led her down the stairs and out onto the street. Grace stopped under a lamppost where the lane met the street.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on,’ Grace said, surprised to hear that her voice was steady. The beer must have calmed her nerves.
‘Let’s go and sit down somewhere quiet.’
‘No, I mean it. I don’t go out with cheaters.’
‘You are very determined, Miss Fowler. You’re going to make one heck of a reporter.’
‘Don’t try to butter me up. I refuse to be charmed.’
‘All right then, here goes. Caroline and I grew up together. Our parents paired us off when we were children. It was a bit of a joke at first, I think, but we got along so well we kind of grew into their story. We were best friends, but she felt more like a sister than a girlfriend. For a long time, I kind of went along with it, but then I met someone who made me want much, much more.’
Grace almost sobbed with disappointment. So he’d fallen in love with someone. Maybe it was Avril. She was glamorous enough to turn any man’s head. Or someone from his university days; a smart girl with good breeding whom his parents would adore. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral. In the most detached tone she could muster, she asked, ‘So what happened to her?’
‘Her? Who?’
‘The girl you met.’
‘You duffer. I mean you. From the moment I met you I could hardly concentrate on my work or my running, anything. I just wanted to sit on the edge of your desk all day and gaze into your beautiful eyes.’
‘Me?’
He smiled. ‘When I noticed you looking at me at work, I thought you might have been interested. But then you stopped looking. I figured I’d got it wrong.’
‘I—I thought you weren’t interested.’
‘I couldn’t be more interested,’ he responded.
Grace smiled so hard her cheeks ached.
‘Does that smile mean you’ll have dinner with me?’
Grace didn’t trust herself to speak so she just nodded.
He took her hand in his, sending the loveliest pins and needles dancing along her arm.
They walked slowly up the hill towards Bourke Street, where he led her into a bustling Chinese restaurant. Settling at a table in the back, they sat side by side rather than opposite each other.
‘I hope you like Chinese,’ said Phil. ‘I forgot to ask.’
‘We’ve got Chinese at home, at the pub. I love lemon chicken.’
A pot of jasmine tea arrived while Phil ordered lemon chicken, beef with black bean sauce and fried rice to share. After pouring the tea he rested the pot on the table and took a long look at her face.
‘What a day. Disaster this morning and now this—you. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. But I think we need to celebrate properly. Would you like to go out for a proper dinner on the weekend, somewhere special?’
Grace felt like she’d forgotten how to swallow. Her mouth still full of tea, she worked her throat, her tongue, then realised she needed to breathe, right now. Scared that she might breathe the tea into her lungs and drown, she pictured herself having to spit it into her cup, right in front of Phil. God, he’d run for the hills. He’d take that invitation back, tell her he’d forgotten another engagement. Her eyes bulged and she tried to breathe through her nose. Nothing worked. She looked down and concentrated on swallowing. Just in time, her throat opened and the tea slid down it. She gasped then managed a weak smile, feeling a burning pain in her chest, she hoped it was muscle strain, not a heart attack. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’
CHAPTER 23
* * *
Christmas 1941
MAE STARED AT THE lacy shadows dancing across the ceiling. As the curtains swayed to the left and then back to centre, she imagined she was underwater, looking up at clouds scudding across the sky. She let herself float beneath the ripples, listening to the sounds of children playing in the street, little girls squealing as they played hopscotch and boys shouting as a ball thudded off a wooden bat. While the neighbourhood buzzed with light and noise, Mae’s mind felt shrouded in a thick, dark fog.
Since the memorial service she’d hardly slept more than a few hours each night. Sleep would have been a relief, but closing her eyes brought nightmares of fire and blood-soaked waves. The nights crawled until dawn, when early birdsong and the clip-clop of horses pulling the milk cart announced the arrival of another day. Sounds that Mae had loved just weeks before were suddenly mournful. She wondered whether Harry would ever lie beside her listening to those sounds again. Would she spend the rest of her life alone in a bed with the other half ice-cold, undisturbed? She tried to wrench her mind back to hope, but exhaustion made it harder every day.
Every morning she wept until drained then dragged herself out of bed, dressed and fed Katie, then returned to bed fully clothed in case a knock at the door meant she needed to pretend she was managing. Once her chores were done, she spent the days lying on her side touching Harry’s last letter, the one she’d placed beneath his pillow. She didn’t need to read the words; she could recite them like a poem.
With any luck we won’t have to rely on letters much longer for our most important conversations. It is just over two months before I finish my time, but it seems like forever. Is it too soon to wish for a long happy summer together, my darling Sunny?
It had been waiting in her letterbox the same day the birthday package was returned to Elizabeth. Sam said the post was held back until after the services. Anyone with relatives or friends on board the ship received their post that day. She imagined hundreds of mothers and wives and sisters opening their post at the same time, the whole country awash with tears.
Elizabeth’s face had turned a ghostly grey when she realised what the package contained. Then she’d buried her face in her hands and run from the room. Mim ran after her. The boys, meanwhile, had disappeared to the backyard. Half an hour passed, and then an hour, but nobody returned to the lounge room, which was still strewn with half-drunk cups of tea and barely nibbled food. Mae carried a few plates to the kitchen then gathered her things. Choking out a tiny farewell to the empty room, she and the baby caught the train home. The letter was waiting when she arrived.
Since then, Mae had passed her time staring at the wall or the ceiling or out the window, doing just the bare minimum to keep Katie calm, fed and clean. Et arrived each evening—often with Albert and William in tow—to make sure Mae ate dinner. They’d watch her pick at a few vegetables and urge her to try a chop or some custard, then they’d beg her to go home with them, but the thought of leaving her cottage was inconceivable. She needed to be surrounded by Harry, his things, their life together. And she never wanted to be out of hearing of the radio, just in case there was news of the ship. She had it playing day and night, but that wouldn’t be possible if she was living with her family. Nor could she bear having to talk about things that had nothing to do with him. She didn’t want distraction; she wanted to focus her full attention on Harry and any mention of the ship, even if it was news repeated from days earlier.
But mentions were few and far between now that the world had shifted its attention so quickly to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the invasion of Malaya. That was it: just days after the memorials, the loss of the Sydney was no longer news. It might as well have never happened. Et said it was because everyone was scared; that they were only just realising the scale of the disaster looming on their doorstep. The Yellow Peril was coming for them; it was just a matter of time. But Mae couldn’t imagine anything worse than her h
usband and an entire ship’s crew missing without a trace. And what if the rumours were true that the Japanese were involved? Even more reason to find the Sydney. She’d asked Sam Barton about it a few days after the service, but he swore the navy hadn’t told them anything more. She didn’t believe that was possible; he had to know something. Every day since, she’d asked Claire for news. In the last week, Claire had gently urged Mae to spend Christmas with her family.
‘Leave a note on your door directing visitors to us,’ Claire said.
‘You’re not spending Christmas with your parents?’
‘We’ll be right here with a house full of newsroom orphans. We’ll ring you the moment we hear anything at all.’
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Mae placed a gift for Harry on the buffet beside his picture. She’d made grey trousers to match his blue silk shirt. She pinned the note to the front door then pushed Katie’s pram to the station and caught the train to Yarraville.
Walking down the ramp from the platform to the footpath, she kept her gaze low as she walked past the old Lyric Theatre, where she and Harry had seen dozens of films during their courtship. It was at the end of her family’s street. You’re a woman with the lot, Harry would tease. Easy access to entertainment and a fast getaway on the train if I say the wrong thing. Well, he couldn’t leave fast enough last time he’d visited, could he? She understood why he’d been upset, but he could have made more of an effort; perhaps they both could have.
A large painful lump rose in her throat. More tears. Stopping outside her family’s house, she blew her nose several times and wiped her face. Trying to still her thoughts, she examined the rose bushes stretching the full width of the fence. Most of the spring blooms were long gone, but new buds were forming that would produce huge blooms in autumn. Mae preferred bold reds, oranges and yellows, but Et always went for softer pinks and purples to complement the deep pink camellias towering either side of the four steps leading onto the verandah. The house needed repainting. The brickwork and columns were holding up well, but paint peeled from the cream-coloured fretwork.