by Lisa Bigelow
Mae pulled the pram backwards up the steps and onto the tessellated tiles. Resting in a wicker chair, she tried to summon the energy she’d need to talk to her family when she went inside. The street was quiet. Many of the Victorian and Edwardian houses and cottages were occupied by older people who’d spent their lives in the area, working in foundries and workshops—the glassworks, the rope makers, the quarry down the road. Albert and William owned numerous commercial properties and shops in the area. Mae had grown up wondering whether her family was wealthy, but Et said it was rude to ask. ‘We’re comfortable, nothing more,’ she’d say. ‘We’ve worked hard for everything we own and we accept our good fortune with grace.’
Mae wondered about the nature of fortune, of fate; how some people seemed to have more luck than others. Until the last few weeks she would have said she’d been mostly lucky, and she didn’t know whether she had the fortitude to accept bad luck. She’d had an unlucky start to life, but it could have been much worse. Her mother’s death left her practically an orphan, but at least her aunt and uncles had come to her rescue. They’d kept her safe, protected her, but she’d always sensed something was missing. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
She’d read books by the dozen, by the hundred, as she was growing up, searching for clues as to why she felt there was a gap, a hole inside her chest. Her reading didn’t reveal many mothers to admire—especially not Mrs Bennet in Pride and Prejudice—but some of the father figures gave her pause for thought. What would it be like to have a father devoted to your happiness? Offering firm but wise counsel, never abandoning his child, never leaving her to feel that she’d done something wrong, wondering what she could have done to make him stay.
And now Harry had also decided she wasn’t worth—no, she couldn’t let her mind stray down that road. Since the day they’d met at tennis, she’d imagined their life together, a lovely home with a yard lit by sunshine and full of friends. Now the only future that came to mind was more days like this, her limbs feeling tired and heavy, her eyes brimming. She longed just to fade into the cushions, but Katie had other plans. Deciding that it was dinner time, she began to bellow. Well, that was every bit as effective as a doorbell, Mae supposed.
With a weak ‘yoohoo’, Mae held the screen door open with her hip and manoeuvred the pram inside.
Outstretched arms appeared along the hallway, whisking Katie out of the pram and into another room. Another set of hands steered Mae to her old bedroom and put her suitcase on the chair. That’s right, she didn’t have to talk after all. Her family knew that just getting herself here was all she could manage. She sat on her bed and watched as Et silently unpacked her case, placing the picture of Harry on the mantelpiece across from the bed.
‘See? It’s not so bad, dear,’ Et said, parking the pram beside Mae’s bed.
Mae tried to form words, to smile, but her mouth wouldn’t move. ‘I—It’s…’
Et’s pitying gaze settled on Mae.
‘Come and sit in the kitchen. You can shell the peas. You always liked that job as a child.’
Mae followed her aunt and sat in a chair at the table beside a basket of freshly picked peapods. Without thinking she lifted the first pod, squeezed it gently between her fingers then, when it split, she slipped her thumb inside and ran it under the peas, flipping them into the dented metal colander for rinsing. She heard Albert and William out in the garden reading to Katie from the racing guide as if it were a children’s story. A tap dripped in the bathroom. Several children ran along the front footpath, calling to one who must have fallen behind, Hurry up, slow coach, you’re gonna make us late for lunch. Mae was acutely aware of every sound, but the one she most wanted to hear was absent.
‘Can I switch the radio on? It’s nearly time for the news.’
‘Why don’t we listen to some music today? There won’t be much news.’
Mae looked at her aunt to make certain she was serious. ‘How can you say that? I told you I’d only come if I could hear the news. Now you’ve got me here, you have to let me listen or I’ll turn around and go home.’
‘All right, all right,’ Et grumbled as she strode to the radio and turned the dial. ‘I just thought we could use some time off.’
‘What do you mean? There’s no time off for Harry, trying to come home. And there’s no time off for me from worrying about him. Surely we owe it to them not to give up yet,’ she pleaded.
‘All right, Mae, settle down. I’ll get you a sherry.’
All the shops were closed when Mae and her family walked home from the Christmas service. Normally crowded with cars and delivery vans, the only movement in the street was a dog poking through an overturned rubbish bin outside the butcher’s shop. Albert shooed it away, but it returned as soon as they passed. Mae pushed the pram as Et counted on her fingers how many chairs were needed at the table that evening.
‘We’ll use the Royal Doulton setting; there’s enough for all of us, including Harry’s family.’
‘I think they’d be more comfortable with the kitchen crockery,’ Mae said.
‘That’s not very charitable, Mae. Besides, it’s our Christmas too, and I’d like to use the good china.’
‘It’s up to you, Et. I just don’t think they’re used to expensive things. It might put them on edge.’
Albert and William raised eyebrows at each other then continued discussing war news. Mae’s thoughts drifted to the previous Christmas, when Harry had walked her home from church along this exact same route, carefully holding her arm as though she were an invalid. He’d spent the entire walk anticipating every moment of today, which would have been their first Christmas together as a family. We’ll spend Christmas Eve with your family then go to church with them in the morning, he’d said. Then we’ll have lunch with my family and spend the evening alone, walking on the beach if it’s warm or snuggled on the couch if it’s cool. It’s important that we establish a family routine from the outset, don’t you think? he’d asked earnestly. Let them all know we want to have some of the day for ourselves, never give over the entire Christmas to other people.
Et stooped over the pram and tickled Katie through her rug. The little girl’s laugh was unusually deep for a child so young. ‘I could listen to that sound all day, couldn’t I, sweetie? Couldn’t I? Ah, there’s that smile. We should bottle those. Lovely service, don’t you think, dear?’
It took Mae a moment to realise the question was addressed to her. ‘Yes, lovely.’
Actually, it hadn’t been lovely at all. The minister instructed everyone to rejoice that the Lord had sent his son to cleanse their sins. Well it didn’t seem to be doing much good, did it? There were plenty of sinners out there killing, bombing. With the war on, Mae thought he might have offered comfort instead of celebration, hope instead of the same tired old sermons. The children’s choir sang ‘Silent Night’. It had always been her favourite, but it had been played so often on the radio over recent weeks that she’d come to hate it. All is calm, all is bright—no, it wasn’t; there might never be a calm or bright night again. Reminding herself that Christmas was a time to pray harder, to keep her faith, she’d tuned out of the service, closed her eyes and prayed for Harry’s safe return. There was no reason to give up yet, no reason at all.
Back at home, Et set the suet pudding boiling on the stove. She’d bought a goose and a chicken. Both were roasting and the air smelled of clove, onion and bacon stuffing.
‘What time did you tell Elizabeth to be here?’
Mae sat quietly in the corner peeling potatoes. ‘One o’clock. She’ll have Mim, Richard and Eric with her.’
‘And she’s bringing a Christmas cake?’
‘Yes, she made one a few months ago when she made Harry’s.’ Mae hoped she wouldn’t bring the one from the birthday parcel. That would be just like her. She’d wait until everyone was eating then announce its provenance. Waste not, want not, she’d say, insisting on leaving it behind then going home to another without the
awful memories attached.
Mae’s stomach churned at the prospect of seeing her mother-in-law. Elizabeth was playing the part of bereaved mother to the hilt, sobbing into her hanky at every mention of Harry, or her children, or the war, or—well, anything, really. The violence of her grief scared Mae. It was as though she were intent on winning a contest. But Mae had begun to wonder if, by comparison, she herself wasn’t showing enough sadness. Of course she’d never said it, but Mae could tell Elizabeth thought Harry deserved better, especially now; he deserved a wife torn apart by grief.
‘You’re off with the pixies again, Mae. Why don’t you lie down before lunch? William can finish that.’
‘Katie needs a feed soon.’
‘We’ll give her a bottle. Off you go.’
Mae shuffled to her childhood room and settled on the side of the bed where she normally slept, then rolled over to where Harry had slept during his last visit. Pulling the blanket over her legs she hugged a feather pillow, curling around its softness. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but being alone was better than trying to make conversation. They meant well, and they missed him too, but the effort of trying not to talk about him took every ounce of her strength. And dealing with Elizabeth today…well, she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get through that. And Mim would probably be just as bad. Mae knew she was expected to listen to their endless stories about Harry as a boy, before she’d known him. They weren’t interested in any stories that included her. But that was fine; there were pieces of his life that she didn’t have to share with them either. Still, the whole day would be exhausting. Maybe if she just closed her tired eyes for a moment…
‘Good morning,’ Et said, rousing Mae with a cup of tea.
Mae blinked as Et opened the curtains. Her eyes no longer scratched. Her body felt relaxed. She stretched in the light and realised she was…hungry?
‘Is lunch ready?’ Mae asked, sipping the warm, sweet tea.
Et laughed and grabbed Mae’s skirt, which was hanging over the chair. She shook it out. ‘I took this off you last night but I think it could use a press. I’ll lend you a fresh blouse. You were sleeping so soundly we hated to wake you.’
‘I missed lunch?’
‘And dinner.’
‘What did Elizabeth say? She must have been furious.’
‘Don’t worry about them. Mim brought Katie the most darling little dress. She made it from a tartan remnant she found at Coles and cut up two white linen serviettes for cuffs and collar. I think she’s going to make a reasonable seamstress.’
‘I slept through the whole thing?’ Mae smiled for the first time in a month, then she sank into the feather pillows and mattress and stared at the door. Her smile faded as she pictured Harry the last time she’d seen him. She’d vowed to be the perfect wife, but she’d broken her own rules and let him leave in anger. And now she might never have the chance to put things right.
She felt a stab of pain below her ribs. Rolling onto her back, she tried to take a deep breath, but the pain intensified and now a heaviness weighed on her chest. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Was this how it felt to die? Did Harry feel this way? In the water? When he— She gasped as the thought broke like a wave, pulling her under. As she felt herself sinking, a new question slowly took shape. That morning, the day you walked out the door…was that the last time?
CHAPTER 24
* * *
January 1942
GRACE GAZED AT THE picture strip of herself and Phil from the photo booth in St Kilda. In the first one they sat chastely side by side; in the second he had one arm around her shoulders, the other hand clasping hers. In the next photo he was kissing her cheek, and in the last he was cross-eyed with his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as she kissed him just in front of his ear. Goofy, she knew, but a precious memory of a summer night when the sunset had burned red and the wind blew hot dry desert air across the water—their last night before he left for the tropical heat of Singapore.
She kept the picture in her desk drawer, hidden from the newsroom. Not that there was anyone to see it yet; it was still early, only six-thirty in the morning. Sam would be in by seven. Phil would phone around eight. In the meantime, she had a pile of cables to sort. For the first time since she’d started at the paper she was content being Sam’s secretary. It meant she got to speak to Phil when he phoned through his stories, his voice crackly but bright, thrilled to be reporting on the Allied troop build-up and preparations to repel the Japanese.
‘It sounds dangerous,’ she’d said the day before, trying to keep him talking as long as possible, not wanting to pass him on to Sam. ‘Are you certain you’re safe?’
‘Churchill says there’s nothing to worry about. The city’s completely protected if they try to land from the sea. Apparently there’s a few bods on bicycles trying to cross the mountains and swamps. They’ll never get through.’
‘Has it stopped raining yet?’
‘It’s so bloody hot up here, and wet! The monsoon’s drowning us.’
‘Careful, you’ll get mouldy.’
‘That’s what the cocktails are for.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Plenty of that sort of thing. Drinks every night. There’s something on at the British embassy tonight. Chance to meet the bigwigs.’
Grace immediately pictured palm trees and glamorous women in gowns and jewels swishing around a ballroom. It’s a war zone, she reminded herself, changing her mental image to a steamy room full of sweaty men in heavy uniforms, smoking cigars.
‘I miss you so much,’ she whispered.
‘Me too.’
They’d only had ten days together before he left for Singapore. The weeks when he was travelling were miserable, because she couldn’t talk to him, but now at least she had his daily calls to Sam. Still, it seemed unfair that he’d gone away so soon into their romance. Some days she wondered whether it had seemed more serious than it was because he was going away. Could it really last in real life? After all, she was a country girl, and he was a society boy, privileged, well-educated, wealthy. Their first real dinner date had shown her exactly how far apart they were. She shuddered remembering what a bumpkin she must have seemed.
He’d taken her to dinner at Florentino in the city, upstairs in the dining room. She’d never been inside but knew its reputation. It often featured in the society pages, the scene of glittering dinner parties for visiting theatre stars. Walking up the stairs, the place looked like fairyland. Everything shone, from the candles to the beading on the women’s dresses, the glassware and cutlery. Lacquered hair glinted as men and women bobbed their heads, talking and laughing. And everyone seemed to know Phil. He nodded at several people as they followed the waiter to a vacant table near the window.
Surrounded by silks and velvets, Grace felt incredibly self-conscious about her dark green jersey frock. She wore a matching silk hat with a small veil and her grandmother’s pearls, but compared to the other women she felt dowdy. The one thing that did make her feel special though was the touch of Phil’s hand on her back, protective and possessive in the nicest way, signalling to the entire room that she was the focus of his attention, at least for that night. He looked elegant and entirely at home in his dinner suit, his athlete’s body relaxed, fluid in its movements. He was one of those rare people who seemed comfortable in every situation. One minute he’d be joking with the police, then he’d be drinking a beer in a dirty pub or chatting with the social elite. She supposed it was necessary for a reporter to be something of a chameleon; you never knew what the day would bring.
The waiter pulled out her chair and expertly slid it beneath her as she sat. Then he whisked the white damask napkin from her plate, snapped it to remove the folds and placed it across her lap, all before she realised what he was doing. Phil sat back as the napkin process was repeated for him, then he ordered a bottle of burgundy.
‘So what do you think, Grace? Do you like it here?’
‘It’s magical. I’ve ne
ver been anywhere like this before.’
‘Just wait till you try the food. I’m starving.’
‘I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine how you run so many heats then turn around and run the finals, all in the one day.’
‘I’m used to it. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.’
‘Well, congratulations! Third in the state championships and your picture on the back page.’
‘It’s pretty funny to be the news rather than reporting on it.’ He grinned, his face shining red from the day’s sun.
‘Olympic trials next?’
‘That’s the plan.’
Their wine arrived and then they ordered their meals. Spaghetti to start for both of them, then cannelloni for Grace and veal scallopini for Phil.
Grace had never eaten spaghetti before, so Phil showed her how to twirl the strands around her fork into a neat mouthful. Within minutes her napkin was covered in smudges. Phil smiled, pretending not to notice, but no matter how Grace wound the pasta, she covered her chin in sauce each time she tried to take a mouthful. Eventually she gave up and sat back, happy to watch him eat and talk and eat some more.
She sipped the soft, smooth wine. At least she could pretend she was a bit sophisticated drinking from her crystal glass, nodding, smiling, making sure she didn’t spill anything. She’d never doubted her table manners before, thinking her mother had taught her everything she needed to know, but apparently not. There’d been nothing about eating in front of a handsome, kind man who apparently liked her as much as she liked him. That required a new level of coordination: eating strange food, drinking wine and making conversation, all at the same time. She lifted her glass and took another sip. Before she was able to swallow, Phil took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes.
‘I’m so happy you’re here with me tonight,’ he said, glancing over her shoulder and nodding to someone. Then she heard a man behind her start to sing in a rich tenor voice. ‘O sole mio…’ Everyone in the restaurant stopped talking to listen as the voice grew louder. Then Grace saw another man emerge from behind a curtain playing a violin. He stood behind Phil. Grace felt chills as the music lifted and lilted, the power of the man’s voice raising the hairs on the back of her neck. They sang three songs, each more beautiful than the last.