We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  Dazed, Mae let Sam lead her through the crowd and back onto the sand.

  Nicholas bounded over and took her hand. ‘We had fish and chips on the beach. The seagulls ate Mummy’s chips.’

  Claire stood rigid and pale, gripping Katie’s pram with white knuckles. ‘It was rolling into the street,’ she said. ‘People were running to catch it before it ran onto the road. I saw your handbag on the handle…’

  Mae stood blinking in the light, watching Claire jiggle Katie’s pram. She’d been so certain that she’d heard Harry’s voice. Disappointment replaced the elation of just a few minutes earlier.

  ‘We should get the children home,’ Sam said.

  They crossed the road and walked in silence. Claire and Sam lifted Katie’s pram up the steps while Mae opened the door. She barely had the energy to raise the key to the lock. Her skirt smelled of wet wool and her stockings slid about in her shoes.

  Claire left the babies in their prams in the hallway then took Nicholas out the back to the toilet. Mae looked around the gloomy sitting room then her gaze settled on Sam, her mind returning to Pearl Atkinson’s comments.

  ‘You know more, don’t you?’ Mae demanded.

  ‘Mae, I don’t—’

  ‘You hear things from the government. Things they won’t let you publish.’

  ‘Stop it, Mae. There’s nothing else to tell you.’

  ‘We haven’t heard a thing in months. Nothing! It’s like it never happened. What about the Japanese? Why don’t you write anything about them?’

  He ran his hand across the back of his neck, rubbing the tight muscles as he chose his words. ‘Mae, we only hear rumours. Nothing we can confirm.’

  ‘What sort of rumours? What have you heard?’

  ‘It’s all too wild to believe.’

  ‘They’re still alive, aren’t they?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. The German prisoners, they all say the same thing—that the Sydney was still afloat after the battle, heading for the horizon.’

  ‘And?’

  Sam hesitated. ‘I’m only telling you this because you’ll probably hear it eventually. But I have to stress, nothing’s come through official channels.’

  Mae felt her face trying to smile. He did know something. There was more. Her vision focused, her hearing sharpened. She felt more alert than she had in months.

  ‘There’s talk of a radio broadcast last week by Tokyo Rose…’ He hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apparently she broadcast that they’d captured the Sydney and towed it to Singapore.’

  Mae squealed and clasped her hands in front of her chest. ‘It’s true. I know it. They’re safe.’

  ‘Mae, I’ve had two reporters digging around for days now. We don’t believe the broadcast is true and neither does the government.’ Sam spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Listen to me, Mae. They were getting ready for Pearl Harbor when the Sydney was attacked. They weren’t even in the war yet. It makes no sense.’

  As Claire entered the room, Mae turned to her, ecstatic. ‘He’s alive!’ she said. ‘Harry’s alive! Did you know?’

  Claire’s face froze. ‘Sam, what have you told her?’

  ‘I—I said it was just a rumour. None of it’s confirmed.’

  Mae hadn’t felt such glee since the morning Harry appeared in her doorway after Katie was born.

  ‘And even if it is true,’ Sam cautioned, ‘it’s a dire fate. One of my reporters is in Singapore. He didn’t get out in time. Now he’s a prisoner.’

  ‘But Harry’s alive,’ Mae insisted. ‘All he needs is a chance. He’s strong enough to endure anything as long as he’s alive.’

  ‘Ella’s asleep and Nicholas is tired,’ Claire said to Sam, her measured tone the opposite of Mae’s excitement. ‘Please take the children home. I’ll stay with Mae for a while.’ She touched Sam’s hand as he passed. ‘I think you should telephone Mae’s family.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sam, please do. I want them to hear the wonderful news.’ Mae hurried to the kitchen to fetch Katie’s bottle. ‘I’ll just organise Katie, then we can have something to eat. I’m starving.’

  While Mae fed Katie, Claire heated a lamb stew. She stayed silent as Mae speculated about how Harry might get home. ‘I suppose he’ll have to wait for rescue, but at least they have hospitals, doctors. If he’s hurt, they’ll fix him up.’

  ‘Mae, listen. You gave us a fright at the beach. It looked like you were about to do something really foolish.’

  ‘Nonsense. I thought he was calling to me. I was just looking for him.’

  ‘But letting go of Katie’s pram without setting the brake. And walking off like that. Someone could have taken her. She could have been hurt.’

  ‘I’ve been so tired. I just forgot where I was for a moment.’

  Claire leaned forward and patted Mae’s hand. ‘You’ve been under too much strain, spending too much time on your own. Let’s walk together every day.’

  ‘We can do our groceries as well. There’s so much I have to organise. I’ve let things slip around the house over the last few months.’

  After Claire left, Mae changed into her nightgown and sank exhausted onto the bed. Drifting towards sleep she felt a deep sense of calm. Sam’s news had erased her fear. Instead of curling up, she lay on her back with her arms stretched wide open, letting go of the pain and uncertainty of the last few months. Everyone had been so quick to give up on him, but she’d been right to hang on to hope. Harry would know that, he’d feel it for sure. One day soon they’d lie together and never part again. If he wanted to go back to sea, she’d put her foot down. His place was here with her and Katie. They might even think about taking in some war children, orphans maybe, build their family that way. Mae turned towards the buffet, the light flickering from Harry’s candle. In the distance, the town hall clock struck midnight.

  Mae was scrubbing scuff marks off the kitchen linoleum when Et arrived the next morning.

  ‘What’s this I hear about you trying to drown yourself?’ Et demanded from the hallway. ‘I don’t appreciate being told that you abandoned your child and had to be stopped from swimming for Tasmania like some modern-day Ophelia.’

  ‘Did you hear the wonderful news? Harry’s alive. He’s in a Japanese camp.’

  ‘Sam told me all about it, young lady. We’re very disappointed by your carry-on—spending all day in bed, barely leaving the house and now fixating on wild stories.’

  ‘It’s not a wild story. Sam said—’

  ‘Stop being so self-indulgent. Do you think all the other women who have lost husbands are behaving this way? I’m sure your friend Alice isn’t; she has children to raise and a farm to run. Imagine if she was off with fairies like you.’

  Mae threw the scrubbing brush on the floor. ‘What could you possibly know about it?’ she yelled. ‘What do you expect me to do? Forget him? Go out to tea dances? He could be on his way home right now.’

  ‘Imagine him coming home to see you in this state, behaving like you’re soft in the head. He’d be horrified!’

  ‘Don’t you dare—’ Mae’s hand whipped through the air and connected with the soft flesh of her aunt’s cheek. It wasn’t a hard slap, but it was enough to leave an angry red blotch. Mae sprang back as though she were the one who’d been struck, her hand burning.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she shrieked. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  Rubbing her face, Et walked to the pram parked in the doorway. ‘It takes a lot more than that to hurt me, Mae.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. How could you? You’ve never been married.’

  Et sighed. ‘You’re right. Of course. It’s not as though he meant anything to us. Oh no; we’re not grieving, we’re not sad, thinking of you both every minute of the day. No, the grief’s all yours to bear alone. Nothing to do with us.’

  Mae stared at her aunt a moment longer then lifted the scrubbing brush from its puddle of suds.

  ‘You need to buck up, for Katie’s sake,’ Et
said firmly. ‘Come and work with me in the shop. Katie can sleep out the back. It’ll keep your mind busy.’

  Mae scrubbed at a black mark, picking at it with her fingernail when the brush had no effect.

  ‘Sam should have known better,’ Et grumbled. ‘I credited him with more sense.’

  Mae was desperate to be left alone with her happy thoughts. Whatever anyone said now, she had hope, her own life raft. She’d cling to it for as long as she could. As long as she worked hard enough, believed strongly enough, built a beautiful home, Harry would return; no other end to their story was possible.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Mae told her aunt. ‘I will, really. You’re right, I have to think of the future now.’

  CHAPTER 27

  * * *

  1 June 1942

  GRACE STRAIGHTENED HER DICTIONARY, thesaurus, notebooks and pencils on her desk in the corner of the Tribune office allocated to the women’s page. There were only two desks, hers and Avril Johnson’s, but a bank of filing cabinets separated them from the rest of the newsroom, creating a small island of calm beneath sooty windows that hinged open at street level at the back of the building.

  It had taken just over a year to get a job on the reporting staff, but she’d lobbied hard for Barbara’s position and Sam said he couldn’t find any more excuses to hold her back. He also said he couldn’t stand the look on her face whenever the phone rang and it wasn’t news about Phil. So she found a smart girl from secretarial college to fill her place and here she was, nearing the end of her first month as a cadet reporter. She had no intention of failing. Whatever Avril asked her to do, she happily complied. Grace threw herself into writing stories about the war effort, how to knit socks and balaclavas, the need for food rationing—tea was first to become scarce because it came from the islands occupied by the Japanese—and how new bread delivery schedules were helping to save petrol. She wrote stories explaining why butter and meat were rationed, non-essential goods like toys were outlawed and there was little fabric available for clothes. She wrote a daily tips and recipes column advising women how to bake their own bread, grow vegetables and recycle clothing. She’d never done any of those things herself but she was learning everything as she went along. She was also writing tips on how to make the American GIs flooding into the city feel welcome. SECOND HOME FOR US TROOPS, VICTORY ONE PIE AT A TIME.

  Avril arrived just after ten, removing her hat and patting her perfectly lacquered blonde wave into place. ‘Good morning, Grace. Any news?’

  ‘Not since the Red Cross letter last week.’

  ‘Well, hopefully the Americans can get the Japs out of the way and send the prisoners all back home. But we need to get the Americans out of the pubs first. The government wants people to entertain GIs in their homes, turn on a bit of local hospitality—but not too much, of course.’

  ‘How do they plan to do that?’

  ‘Home cooking. The Gas and Fuel have supplied recipes, we’ll run them over the coming weeks; succotash and pecan pie. Irresistible.’

  ‘Succotash? What’s that?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I have no idea and I don’t intend to find out. I can’t afford to grow out of my clothes, not when those hideous austerity suits are all you can buy. Brown gabardine is neither my colour nor my fabric. I’ll happily stick to tea during the day and a lovely piece of fish or lamb in the evenings.’

  Avril covered all the social events for the paper, which suited Grace just fine. She’d seen Phil’s parents in some of the photographs but still hadn’t met them. Probably not the best circumstances now, but surely he’d be home soon.

  ‘The cook’s making a devil’s food cake this morning,’ Avril said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I saw one at last week’s afternoon tea for General MacArthur and his wife. It’s a rich chocolate cake; the Americans love it. Anyway, the cook’s doing a rations version. I need you to write a how-to guide with pictures.’

  Grace wrote Avril’s instructions on her shorthand pad. Dev cake pic with how to’s. ‘I’ll get started right away,’ Grace promised.

  ‘Lovely. We’ll run it large above the fold with the recipe and instructions down the side. Although chocolate always looks so unappealing in black and white, just a dark blob.’

  ‘I’ll ask the cook to decorate it a bit, but nothing so fancy the women at home can’t follow.’

  ‘Good, and get Alan Swain to shoot it in the studio. You can be the hand model, wield a spatula. Make it look like a snap to bake.’

  An hour later, Grace walked downstairs to the studio. She knew Alan had a reputation for taking ‘artistic’ pictures, whatever that meant. Hopefully he could do something artistic with the cake.

  She opened the door expecting to find a room full of cameras and lights; instead she saw dull, grimy walls and high windows blacked out by patched curtains. A wide roll of crumpled paper covered in scuff marks hung from a rail and another pile of black paper lay heaped on the floor near the far wall. Two lights on rickety stands stood either side of a metal stool.

  Alan swaggered into the room. ‘Grace, my dear,’ he said, lifting her hand to his face and lightly brushing her knuckles with a pretend kiss. ‘So lovely to have you all to myself.’

  Grace shuddered and pulled her hand back, feeling a mixture of shyness and revulsion. Looking past Alan, she saw several boxes in the corner of the room filled to bursting with empty beer bottles. He followed her gaze.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sometimes the other snappers come down for knock-off drinks. Cheaper than the pub and no chance of getting thrown out if you have one too many. Don’t tell the boss though.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I can get you a beer now, if you like. We could both have one.’

  ‘No thanks, I think we should just get on with it.’

  She watched Alan examine each part of her body. ‘You really do have the prettiest ankles, my dear. And your legs! I think I’ll have you modelling for us quite often.’

  ‘Let’s just see how these shots turn out first,’ Grace said, wishing she could have refused when Avril asked her to pose. But she was determined to prove her worth as a reporter; she could hardly say no to pretending she was icing—no, they called it frosting—a cake. The picture would be a close-up of her hands, the spatula and the finished cake. It would only take a few minutes, then she could leave.

  Alan placed a table in front of the backdrop, draped a piece of white cloth over the top then smoothed it with his hands.

  ‘This needs ironing. Do you mind?’

  As he loaded sheet film into holders in the next room, Grace did her best with a clumsy old iron that left spurts of rusty water on the cloth. He returned to the studio and stood behind the bellows camera propped on a sturdy tripod. Grace removed the cake from the tin and placed it on a plate, positioning it to cover the worst of the stains.

  ‘Okay, we’ll start you off standing on the right and leaning across so that your head and hand are directly over the cake.’

  Grace squinted as the bright lights flickered to life. ‘Like this?’ she asked, holding her hand with the spatula near the edge of the cake.

  ‘You need to bring your head down closer to the cake and press your chest forward.’

  ‘But the photo’s only supposed to show my hand.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, missy. I’ve been doing this for years.’

  Grace leaned in and lengthened her neck, dropping her shoulder and elbow. Maybe he was just getting a better angle on her hand.

  ‘That’s much better. Hold your breath. That’s it. Now, move around to the back of the cake and do the same thing. Head down nice and close. This time, touch the icing with your knife.’

  Grace changed position slowly. She’d looked straight ahead for the first shot so she didn’t have to watch Alan, but this time he’d be right in front. She tried looking to the side.

  ‘Grace, look at the camera. Come on, head and chest forward. That’s the way. Deep breat
h. Hold it…hold it. Now stay there while I reload.’

  She stood up, stretching her back and neck. As soon as she moved he barked at her to get back in position. Grace leaned down again. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could leave.

  ‘So how’s that fellow of yours going overseas? Must be hard with him away so long.’

  ‘He’s doing well, considering. Keeping his spirits up.’

  ‘Now, this time I need a smile. Look at the camera. Come on, you look like you’re going to a funeral. Let’s see some of that Grace sparkle you’re so famous for. Say “panties”.’

  Grace grimaced then smiled with her mouth only. Grace sparkle indeed! What did he mean by that? A few long moments later, he was done.

  ‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Alan said as he removed the film slide.

  Well, it didn’t matter what he’d shot, she thought. They’d just crop the photo. No one would ever see her face.

  He sat on a chair with his legs spread wide and lit a cigarette, watching as she packed the cake and plate. ‘Well, I’ve taken your photo, so what are you going to do for me?’

  Blood rushed to her ears and the hairs on her arms and neck prickled. Without looking at him she gathered her things. ‘I have to get back,’ she said, forcing herself to walk not run to the studio door.

  She heard his laughter behind her. ‘Little tease.’

  By the time she reached her desk, she felt ill. Dropping the cake and plate, she ran to the ladies’ room. Looking in the mirror, she saw that her pupils were huge, leaving just the barest rims of green in her eyes. Her neck was red and her hair smelled of smoke. She let cool water run over her hands. Had he really meant that about her leading him on? He wouldn’t really have tried something, would he? Maybe she should tell Avril how he’d behaved, that lascivious tone. But she didn’t want to be a whinger. And it wouldn’t do to get a reputation as a crybaby, she thought, willing away the gathering tears. He wouldn’t have been so awful if Phil was around. Alan Swine, that was a much more apt name for him. She walked slowly back to her desk, checking that Alan was nowhere around.