by Lisa Bigelow
‘Have a wonderful evening, signorina, signor,’ the tenor said, bowing then disappearing into the kitchen.
Grace grinned. ‘Did you arrange that?’
‘I told them it was a special night when I booked.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.’
‘And you look beautiful,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘The smartest, most glamorous woman in the room.’
Grace felt herself relax. He seemed so sincere it was hard not to believe him. He was speaking so openly, here in front of all these people who could listen in if they wanted.
‘This week has been the happiest of my life,’ he said, his expression turning serious, ‘but I’ve got something important to tell you.’
Grace felt her smile wobble then collapse. She’d been walking on clouds, barely able to concentrate at work or sleep at night. She should have known that she was being silly. Of course he wasn’t interested. He could see how smitten she was and now he’d try to dampen her expectations; that’s what tonight was about: letting her know that he liked her but he’d changed his mind. She couldn’t possibly make a scene in a place like this, where she was at such a disadvantage.
‘I don’t think I can take too many more surprises,’ Grace said, trying but failing to keep the disappointment from her voice as she pulled her hand away and put it in her lap.
‘I’m taking a correspondent slot, covering the Pacific,’ Phil said.
‘You’re going away?’
‘I’ve been talking to Sam about this for months. It’s the only thing that’s stopped me joining up—the thought that I might be able to do this with the paper. I just heard yesterday that my posting’s been approved.’
‘Really? But the Japanese are already in Malaya.’
‘Yes, but they’re nowhere near Singapore. That’s where I’m going, to write about our boys on the ground. Stop relying on the overseas agencies for our news.’
‘And Sam thinks this is a good idea?’
‘He suggested it. Most of the sport here is being cancelled. I’ve got little to report on, so it makes sense that I cover the build-up of the Australian forces in the region. We can get around the government censors that way.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘The end of next week.’
‘Gosh. I’ve heard of some great excuses for not going on a second date, but this kind of takes the cake.’
‘This is our second date.’
‘Oh, yes, well if you count that night at the pub, but I’d like to think of this as our first night together.’
‘You’re my only regret, Grace. I hate to leave now. I can’t believe that you agreed to go out with me.’
‘I can’t believe it took you so long to ask.’ Grace reached over and stroked his face. ‘I’ll miss you, Phil Taylor.’
They’d walked all the way back to Richmond that night, pausing to kiss under every tree along the way. The next day she packed a bag and moved into his East Melbourne apartment, staying with him until he left, making love to him and sleeping more soundly than she’d ever thought possible, except for their final evening, when she’d cried all night, missing him already.
‘Good morning, Miss Fowler,’ Sam said, placing his hat on the coat rack and tossing his briefcase beside his desk. ‘Has he called yet?’
‘It’s still a bit early.’
‘Claire asked whether you’d like to come to lunch on Sunday. I said you looked like you needed one of her apricot pies to keep you going.’
‘I’d love to. Thanks, Mr Barton.’
‘Goodo. Is that my news list?’
‘Nearly finished.’
Grace finished typing the list, and when Sam went to the editorial conference at nine, she still hadn’t heard from Phil. They’d agreed he would always ring before eight-thirty Melbourne time if he wasn’t out on assignment. If he didn’t call by then she wasn’t to wait. Time to tear herself away from the desk and walk upstairs to the cafeteria. The place was nearly deserted but the tea lady was stocking the trolley for the morning rounds.
‘Goodness, love, this is a surprise. Is something wrong?’
‘I just couldn’t wait for the tea trolley. Is that all right?’
‘Take a seat and I’ll fix you up in a jiffy. Here’s a scone, just out of the oven. I need a taste tester, just to make sure they’re up to scratch.’
Grace smiled, glad to feel fussed over. As well as missing Phil, she’d worked through Christmas, unable to face her father, who was still furious that she’d disobeyed him and was working at the paper. Well, he’d wanted her to be a secretary and she’d finished her course; she was doing everything he wanted. But the real reason she hadn’t gone was because she doubted she’d be able to hide her unease from her mother. There was a chance—well, she and Phil hadn’t been quite as careful as they should have been and a rubber had split. He’d laughed, saying he wouldn’t mind a baby, but she’d been worried and stayed in town rather than facing her family. Two weeks later she’d discovered she had no reason for fear, so there was nothing stopping her going home, except that she didn’t want to miss Phil’s phone calls. Maybe she’d go at Easter, in a couple of months.
As she walked back into the newsroom, one of the phones on her desk rang. There were a couple of reporters nearby at the subs table but they seemed not to hear. She ran over and grabbed it, expecting to hear the operator saying it was Singapore.
‘Miss Fowler, it’s Don Porter here. Is Sam around?’
‘He’s in conference.’
‘I see. Well, you’ll need to hear this too, I’m told. It’s about young Phil Taylor—he’s had an accident. The embassy phoned this morning. Apparently he slipped on a step last night in the rain. Fell and broke his leg.’
‘No! How bad is it? Can we speak to him?’
‘They took him to the army hospital and they’ll be operating this morning. I’ll get a number for the doctor so Sam can call later today.’
‘Operating?’
‘Yes, it sounds like a bad break; but he’s fit, he’ll recover.’
‘Of—of course. I’ll get Sam to call you,’ she said, imagining Phil in hospital, writhing in pain. An operation. How awful. At least he had Australian doctors. But he’d hate being stuck in bed for weeks. Still, it meant he wouldn’t be tearing off into the jungle chasing stories, she consoled herself. Maybe they’d ship him home. She could visit him in hospital then nurse him when he was discharged. She went to the filing cabinet to retrieve his next of kin card. Sam would need to call Phil’s parents. She hadn’t met them yet and had no desire to start with that call. Best to let Sam speak for the paper, keep it all professional. Her hand rested against the gold signet ring she wore on a chain beneath her blouse. Phil had given her his ring the night before he left. ‘Just till I get back,’ he’d said, ‘then I’ll get you a real ring, if you’ll have me.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered to herself, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER 25
* * *
GRACE SLUMPED DOWN INTO her seat, scratchy pieces of cracked leather pricking her thighs through her skirt. At least she had thighs and legs and feet that let her run as fast as she could to the dark comfort of the cinema. She watched the opening credits of the Movietone news through a fug of cigarette smoke. The audience sat completely still, their sweets untouched in bags on their laps as the screen showed vision of Australian army troops digging trenches in the jungle around Singapore, getting ready to defend the city against invasion. Grace scanned every scene intently, looking for the hospital among Singapore’s cars and buildings. She was desperate to see how closely defended the building was, how close it was to the jungle. The camera panned across giant leaves and muddy tracks. Malaya, just above Australia; the Japanese were so close…
That morning Grace had been filing photos from the third edition ready for the picture library when Sam phoned from the editor-in-chief’s office and asked her to join them. When she arrived, Mr Gordon’s secretary nodded but didn’t sp
eak; she barely even looked at her, just opened the door and waved her in.
‘Sit down, Grace. I’m afraid we have some more news about Phil,’ Mr Gordon said.
Grace dropped into the seat nearest Sam, her heart pounding, her mind racing. No, no. Not dead. Please not that.
‘He’s still alive, dear,’ Mr Gordon said kindly.
‘We don’t know much,’ Sam added, ‘but they had to amputate his leg below the knee.’
Grace felt her stomach sink.
Mr Gordon continued: ‘He’s too sick for evacuation, but as soon as he’s well enough to be moved, we’ll try to get him home.’
The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. He’d be devastated; never able to run again, unable to compete at the Olympics after all those years of training.
Mr Gordon’s secretary appeared with a cup of hot, sweet tea.
‘He’s still alive,’ Grace repeated, ‘and he’s coming home to recover?’
‘That’s right, dear,’ Mr Gordon said. ‘He’ll be fine. He’s a reporter, smart, resourceful.’
‘He’s probably already persuaded a general to set him up with a typewriter so he can keep reporting from his hospital bed,’ Sam joked. ‘After they’ve beaten the Japs back from the city, then he’ll come home.’
Grace lifted her teacup to her lips but lowered it again without taking a sip. Both men were trying so hard to smile, to sound cheerful, but the effort only reached their mouths; their eyes remained sad.
‘He’ll be fine, I know he will. It’s a blow, but he’ll get over losing his leg.’ Grace didn’t believe the words as she said them, but it seemed to be what they wanted to hear.
‘That’s the way, Miss Fowler,’ Mr Gordon said, nodding.
‘I should get back to my desk. I’d like to keep busy.’
Sam stayed seated as she stood. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. Keep your chin up, Grace.’
As the day wore on, Grace’s mind filled with searing images of Phil lying in bed, crying out in pain. They’d give him painkillers, she told herself. It wasn’t like the old days, when doctors would fill a soldier with brandy, give him a stick to bite down on then hack off a limb. He was in a proper hospital with surgeons and anaesthetic. They’d take good care of him. She returned her attention to the soldiers on the screen. They looked cheerful enough, but they were getting ready to fight. God, what if the Japanese soldiers reached the city? Phil had said the port was a fortress, that they’d try to invade from the sea. So why were the men digging trenches?
The newsreel ended and the main feature began: His Girl Friday. She’d seen this film three times since Phil left, but instead of laughing, this time she wept, barely able to see the screen. She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes as Rosalind Russell bustled into the newsroom and began to spar with Cary Grant. But instead of being caught up in the story, Grace focused on Cary Grant and the way he walked; tall, strong, easy, just like Phil. She couldn’t look away from his glorious, healthy legs. Her tears started again. Phil had beautiful, muscular legs that he’d wrapped around hers in bed during their lovely nights together. She ached to lay beside him now, to feel his skin against hers from head to toe. It would still be the same. Once they were lying down, she wouldn’t even notice his missing leg.
She tried to picture what his leg might look like. She’d seen old men from the last war, the empty leg of their trousers folded and held in place with a nappy pin. But she’d never tried to imagine what the stump inside the fabric might look like. Would it be mangled and ugly? What if she couldn’t bear to look at him when he took his trousers off? What if she was so repulsed she turned away? Don’t be so shallow! It’s only one leg. He’ll be himself in every other way. And he’s so lucky it won’t affect his work. He’ll be just fine, we both will.
Grace resolved to talk to Phil as soon as he was awake, to tell him how much she loved him. She was sure of it now. Although it had seemed understood, they’d never actually said the words. But she would, the very first chance she got. She’d keep telling him until they put him on the ship and sent him home to recuperate, and then she’d tell him every day after that. GRACE LOVES PHIL, the most powerful headline of all.
CHAPTER 26
* * *
February 1942
THE SHORELINE SHIMMERED AS Mae pushed Katie’s pram along the Esplanade, desperate for a hint of cool breeze. Here among the young couples holding hands and children shrieking and laughing, life was continuing as usual, but the war was edging closer. Et and the uncles talked of little else. Albert’s wardens were helping people to prepare for the possibility of Melbourne being bombed like Darwin or overrun like Singapore. They were attaching shutters to shop windows and filling sandbags that sat beside doorways. There was talk of digging trenches and public shelters in parklands from Footscray to the Botanic Gardens. Albert had drawn up plans for an air-raid shelter in their back garden beside the vegetable patch. William was frustrated because all the race meetings had been cancelled and Et couldn’t get butter. Mae felt scared and miserable about her future, but most days she found it easier to stay at home rather than risk running into anyone who’d ask if she had any news of Harry. She hadn’t heard anything more from the navy and she was struggling to remain hopeful.
That morning she’d been at the butcher’s with Katie wailing on her hip when Pearl Atkinson appeared beside her at the counter.
‘Surely you must have heard something more about the ship,’ Pearl insisted.
‘I assure you there’s no news.’
‘Well, everyone says the Japs helped the Germans shoot them all in the water. It’s pathetic, absolutely pathetic. The government’s afraid we’ll panic if they say anything, but the Japs are already here, ready to slaughter the lot of us.’
Mae fled the shop without ordering and rushed home, where she sat in the dark, her mind seeing the scene Pearl had described. Men bobbing in the water like ducks. Japanese sailors standing over them with guns, picking them off one by one. Sharks, drawn by the blood, tearing the men apart.
When the house grew too hot in the late afternoon she’d hoped a walk to the beach might soothe her, but being near the water, smelling the salt and hearing people shout as they splashed about was only making things worse.
She made herself imagine walking along the Esplanade with Harry. It was one of her ways of keeping him close: telling herself what to remember, rather than relying on random memories to assert themselves. This one was easy as they’d often done this walk together, usually after supper. On hot nights Harry always tore off his shirt and ran in for a swim, laughing as his wet trousers squelched and slapped on the way home.
As Mae trudged on, Katie slept peacefully in her pram. Mae hadn’t walked much lately and blisters were forming on her heels and toes. She sat on the bluestone wall that separated the footpath from the sand and slipped off her shoes. Her feet were burning. The water looked so cool and inviting. She stepped onto the sand and walked toward the water.
Standing in the shallows, tiny waves lapping at her ankles, she imagined how nice it might feel to lie flat in the water and float on a current that would carry her past the swimmers and out to sea. She’d drift through the water with the fish, gliding through the seagrasses, floating over ancient shipwrecks. She’d ride the current that looped out of the bay and around to the west towards Harry, who’d be sailing east in a life raft to meet her. Surely he could still be drifting, waiting for help. He was being pushed slowly by the wind, edging along the coast, closer and closer each day.
Mae opened her eyes. It had been long enough now for the tides to have pushed his lifeboat all the way to this spot. Harry could be in the bay right now. She shaded her eyes and scanned the horizon. But there were too many people blocking her view; she needed to get past them. She took several steps deeper into the water. It was warmer than she expected. Soft ripples swallowed her shins then rose to her knees and tugged at the hem of her skirt. For the first time in months she felt calm. It was getting harder to stay uprigh
t; the need to lie down and drift was almost overwhelming. She was waist deep in water when she heard someone calling her name. It was so faint she could hardly hear it.
‘Mae…Mae…’
She held her breath, straining to hear.
‘Mae!’ The voice was louder now. ‘Mae!’
‘Harry!’
‘Mae!’
He sounded frightened. She searched the crowd of swimmers, looking for his face. ‘Harry!’ she called again more loudly.
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder. She knew that hand; she’d recognise its size, its pressure anywhere. As she spun around, her chest filled with pure, exultant joy. Her face split into a smile, anticipating his sea blue eyes, his tanned face.
‘Harry,’ she sobbed, reaching out to him.
‘Mae, what on earth are you doing?’
She blinked a few times. Sam Barton’s face came into focus. What was he doing here? ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘Where’s Harry?’
Sam turned away from Mae and looked over his shoulder towards the beach.
Mae followed his gaze and saw Claire standing on the footpath, Nicholas tucked behind her legs sucking his thumb. Her friend was holding onto two prams, one with Katie inside.
‘Are you all right?’ Sam asked, tightening his grip on her shoulder.
‘I heard him,’ Mae said, feeling like a stone sinking to the bottom of the sea.
‘I was calling out to you. You left the baby.’