We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  January 1944

  ‘DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT doing another country trip while I’m on leave,’ Avril said before she left for her summer holiday to Sydney. ‘I won’t have you swanning off again as though you’re some big-deal reporter. You’re a cadet for the next few years if you are very lucky, but that can change in a moment.’

  Grace chugged the remaining half glass of moselle while she waited for the barmaid to serve her. Shivering at the sickly sweetness, she ordered a pint of beer for herself and more wine for her two friends from advertising, Del and Jo. If only they drank beer too, she could order a jug.

  Between the grief she was getting from Avril and the hard time her father was giving her, she was tempted to drink a whole damn jug by herself. Her capacity for drinking beer had risen substantially during her Christmas visit to her parents. A whole week of Nev huffing and yelling and breaking anything in sight. She would have returned to the city early, but she didn’t want to desert her mother, who spent the entire week trying to keep the peace.

  Her first night at home, two days before Christmas, had been the worst, but things barely improved afterwards. The reporters and subeditors from her dad’s paper had invited her to join them for Christmas drinks after they put the latest edition to bed. They’d dragged several chairs to the loading bay, cranked up the barbecue and put half a dozen crates of beer on ice. The local firies and coppers had joined the fun, and most of the local councillors. There were a few women there too—secretaries and sales reps—but mostly it was blokes, who kept toasting her success on The Tribune. Grace tried to keep up with the men, all seasoned drinkers, but by the time Nev arrived Grace was pretty tipsy.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he’d roared when he saw her surrounded by her old friends and supporters. ‘I’m not paying for my own daughter to get pissed like a trollop. Get home to your mother now.’

  Scoop, the photographer, stepped forward to stand beside Grace. A similar height to his boss but twice his girth, Scoop was never afraid to speak up. ‘She’s just having a quiet drink, Nev, so we can tell her how proud we are.’

  ‘A coupla bloody picture spreads doesn’t make you a journo. She’s only a bloody cadet on the women’s page. It’s not even real reporting.’

  The rest of the crowd stood silently looking down at their boots, out the doors towards the empty railway station, anywhere but at the bloke wound as tight as the rolls of newsprint in the corner, or his poor daughter.

  Determined to keep her voice from trembling, Grace gulped another mouthful of beer. ‘Thank you for your warm wishes, but I’d better get going,’ she said evenly. ‘Have a merry Christmas, everyone.’

  Murmured greetings and pinched smiles followed her progress towards fresh air and the footpath leading home. Grace heard their voices swell in conversation as she walked away, large, round tears rolling down her face. The thought of her father bringing his whisky- and beer-stoked rage home later that night made her hurry back to her mother. She’d have to warn her, but short of disappearing to her grandparents’ house for the night, there was little that forewarning would do except prolong the fear.

  Grace arrived home to find her mother washing a stack of serving platters and bowls and all the good china in preparation for Christmas Day. Wordlessly, Grace grabbed the tea towel and dried the dishes.

  ‘How was the barbecue, dear?’

  ‘Oh, just the usual assortment of movers and shakers and hangers-on drinking Dad’s beer. I don’t think the pub will be doing much business tonight—at least not till the drinks run out.’

  ‘I see.’

  Grace heard her mother take a shallow breath and her body tilted towards the sink as if seeking support.

  ‘Well, we’ve got lots to keep us busy tonight. I need to wrap a few things for your cousins, and I need your help to finish decorating the Christmas cakes. The icing’s all cured.’

  ‘You know I’m not artistic.’

  ‘These are all skills you need to learn while I’m still around to teach you. Your husband will expect it.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mum, you’ll be decorating my cakes for decades.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, dear; I’m sure you’re right.’

  The good crockery never made it to the Christmas table, that year or any of the following. Nor did three of the Wedgwood platters. Nev flung them all on the floor when he got home, yelling that Rosie and Grace should have waited up for him in case he needed dinner. At least he’d passed out on the couch without hurting anyone.

  ‘Was he always like this?’ Grace asked.

  ‘It’s the war, dear. A lot of them come back broken. You just have to pray for a good day every now and then to get you through.’

  Grace couldn’t imagine Phil ever yelling at her the way her father did, nor was he capable of belittling her in that awful way her father had. He’d been gone a whole year now, but her body still ached for him, her mind tricking her into reaching for him as she woke each morning only to force her to face his absence anew.

  ‘Hey, Grace!’

  Grace was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of Phil’s mate Jacko shouting her name from the other end of the bar.

  ‘You’ll be wearing trousers any day now!’ he called. ‘Phil’d better be careful or he’ll come home to find you’ve moved to lezzy land.’

  Ignoring him, Grace picked up the tray of drinks and carried them back to her friends. ‘What’s he talking about?’ she asked Del.

  ‘Don’t mind him; he just can’t stand the idea of women doing anything other than cooking his dinner and washing his clothes.’

  ‘And playing with his tiny little doodle,’ Jo laughed.

  ‘But do they all think I’m getting too manly?’

  ‘Who cares what they think? Here, have a ciggie with your beer, that’ll really rattle them.’

  Grace had never smoked, but aware that Jacko and his reporter friends were watching, she smiled and took a cigarette from the packet. Jo leaned over and lit it.

  ‘Don’t take too much. Just hold the smoke in your mouth for a second before you gently blow it out. It’ll look like you’ve done the drawback.’

  Grace took a sip of beer and swallowed then drew a small puff of the sour smoke into her mouth. Surprised by the tarry taste, she remembered she was putting on a show and stopped herself from wrinkling her nose in disgust. Pursing her lips, she released the smoke in a steady stream then smiled at her friends, leaned back and did it again.

  ‘They’ve turned away. You can put it down now.’

  Grace laughed. ‘It’s horrible. Why do you do this?’

  ‘You get used to it, and it’s great for beating food cravings. Keeps you lovely and slim.’

  ‘I can see why. The last thing I feel like now is food.’

  ‘Job done. Sing out if you want to try properly, although we should do that outside, just in case you chunder.’

  ‘Eeew!’

  CHAPTER 32

  * * *

  May 1944

  KATIE TOOK A HUGE breath and blew out the three small candles burning on her passionfruit sponge. Hugging a musical doll almost as tall as the child, Et wound the small bronze key in its back for an encore of ‘Happy Birthday’ and handed it to Katie, who attempted to sway in time with the tinkling tune. As the last notes spluttered away, Et, Elizabeth and Mim clapped and Katie curtseyed, her dark blue, brushed cotton dress calming her pink complexion and mop of dark hair.

  ‘She takes my breath away!’ Harry’s mother said, as she usually did several times each visit. ‘The same dark curls; the eyes; that stocky little frame. She looks more like him than his brothers and sisters did.’

  Keeping her smile fixed, Mae met Et’s eyes and noted her aunt’s tiny nod, reminding Mae to indulge her mother-in-law, to remember that she was grieving Harry’s disappearance too. They all were. The war was already winding down in England, the Germans were being pushed back in parts of Europe,
and it was only a matter of time before the Japanese were defeated in the Pacific. He just needed to hold on a bit longer, Mae told herself each day. Then he’d prove them all wrong and come home.

  ‘She’s a credit to you, Mae,’ Elizabeth said as Katie held Mim’s hand and dragged her outside into Et’s garden in the weak sunshine. Et followed with a bucket. ‘Harry would have been so proud of her.’

  Harry will be proud, Mae said firmly in her mind. ‘Thank you, Mrs Parker. My family is a great help too.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have them so close.’ Elizabeth dabbed her eyes and nose with a hanky. ‘I feel so far away sometimes from you and Katie. I know she’s still very young, but I’d love to have her stay for a few days now and then. Mim and the boys would love it too.’

  Harry’s mother never made it through a visit without tears, but it didn’t annoy Mae anymore. Mae felt sorry for Elizabeth, sad that she was still suffering needlessly. If only she shared Mae’s faith. Their meetings were less of an ordeal these days. Elizabeth’s old barbs had been replaced by a caring tone that seemed genuine. The shift occurred when Mae stopped visiting after the Sydney memorial service. When the next Easter arrived and Elizabeth hadn’t seen Katie since Christmas, she and Mim braved a late March heatwave, caught the train to Williamstown and insisted that Harry wouldn’t approve of Katie being kept away from his family. Katie had been too young to stay with Elizabeth before, but now she was three, surely a couple of nights away wouldn’t be a problem and Mae was desperate for a break.

  ‘Well, now that she’s talking and she can tell you what she needs, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.’

  ‘Exactly. And it’s not like we’re strangers—we’re family. You could get away for a night or two, maybe go on a short holiday with your aunt and uncles, just the grown-ups.’

  Mae watched Mim lifting Katie to help her pick ripe quinces for a jam-making session later that afternoon. The resemblance between Mim and Katie was growing more obvious. Despite her contribution, there was no question about the genes that produced particular jawlines, eye shape and hair colour across generations. Their kinship was deeper than marital choice; it was a physical bond. And Mim was becoming something more than an aunt to Katie—there was something almost sisterly about their bond. Mae knew it was right to let that kinship develop; she’d always wished for that relationship herself, not necessarily with Mim, but it would have been lovely to have cousins, sisters, people who knew everything about you and loved you anyway. Alice and Claire were the closest she’d had to sisters, but Alice was so far away, and now that Mae was working at the shop each day she had less time to spend with Claire.

  Two buckets laden with the yellow-skinned fruit sat on the lawn. When they’d picked everything they could reach, Et gathered half a dozen brilliant yellow lemons in her apron to add acid and pectin to the jam. Et showed Katie and Mim how to wash the fruit in a colander over the gully trap, squeals indicating that plenty of cold water was splashing shoes and stockings.

  ‘They get along like a house on fire, don’t they?’

  Mae turned and smiled at Elizabeth. ‘Yes, all three of them. Mim’s going to be a lovely mother.’

  ‘Not for a while yet, I hope. In fact, Mim was saying the other day just how much she admired you running the shop, how she’d love to follow in your footsteps.’

  ‘That’s very kind. She’s quite the little seamstress nowadays.’

  ‘Unfortunately, though, her manager is quite cruel to Mim and all of the other girls bar one. We think he might be leading that one on a bit; he favours her with overtime and extra time at lunch, but he pushes the others relentlessly and won’t let them visit the ladies’ room between breaks, no matter the urgency.’

  ‘I remember working for a man like that once. It was as if he’d stepped straight out of a Dickens novel.’

  ‘The thing is…’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘I was wondering if you would have the capacity to take Mim on for the last two years of her apprenticeship? She could help you with Katie too. We’d both be so grateful.’

  ‘But it’s such a long way for her to travel each day. How would she manage?’

  ‘I have an elderly cousin in Kensington who’d love some company. Mim would be just a few train stops from the shop.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly something to think about. I’ll talk to my aunt and see what she thinks, whether the business can support another employee.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure she’d be a great help to you both and she’d love to spend more time with Katie.’

  After Elizabeth and Mim left, Et shuffled into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of tea from the tepid pot.

  ‘I’ll boil the kettle just as soon as I finish the dishes,’ Mae said, as she separated the good china from the kitchen crockery and stacked it on the table.

  ‘No hurry. William and Albert will be home soon. I’ll make it then.’

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll put the dishes away,’ Mae offered.

  ‘That’s all right. You keep washing, I’ll put the good ones in the hallway cupboard.’

  Several moments later, Mae heard a gasp and saw Et near the kitchen door holding a card.

  ‘How could you not have said anything?’ Et asked, leaning against the wall, her face crumpling.

  The invitation. Mae had put it on top of her basket on the hall table meaning to tell Et but then she’d forgotten. Et must have seen it when she was putting things in the cupboard.

  Et’s eyes drifted towards the card again, then she read it aloud.

  ‘Mrs Alice Gower and Mr John Wilkinson request the attendance of Mrs Mae Parker and Miss Katie Parker at their wedding ceremony on the twenty-second of September. It says here that John is the son of the late Tom Wilkinson! Mae, is it my Tom’s son?’

  Mae reached forward to stroke her aunt’s arm. ‘I’m sorry. I—I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘Last year.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me? He was family! You knew how much he once meant to me.’

  Mae leaned over and clasped Et’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe they’re still entangled in our lives. But Alice loves Johnny. They’re neighbours. I just didn’t know where to start.’

  Et bowed her head. ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid.’

  Mae stood still, hardly believing what she’d just heard. Her aunt never admitted fallibility, about anything. If she scorched a shirt she’d blame the iron. If a sponge collapsed it was because someone had let a draught into the kitchen.

  ‘I was silly, romantic. But not Tom! He got on with things and had the life we were supposed to have together—a home, children. It didn’t matter whether it was with me or someone else. I wasted my life pining for a man who never cared.’

  ‘Et, I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘I’m just an old fool. Still upset over someone who couldn’t be bothered fighting for me. And I’ve raised you to be the same, pining for what you can’t have.’

  ‘We’ve all been guilty of that, Et.’ Grace looked up to see that William was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Albert and I are just as bad. Mae, I spent my entire adult life looking for an impossible ideal. At least Albert has chased his dream and found a little happiness.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing, William,’ Et said as she wiped tears from her cheeks.

  Mae stood silent for a moment. She’d never known William to show any interest in women. She’d occasionally seen women speak to him at church but he only ever responded with cool politeness. They soon gave up.

  ‘Uncle William, are you saying you had a love affair?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was only twenty-two; it was after the war. The summer was terribly hot and my leg wasn’t healing, so Mother sent me down to Tasmania to recuperate.’

  Mae realised that she’d never asked much about his life. She’d always figured that when adults wanted you to know something, they’d tell you. She’d never stopped thinking of herself as the child wh
en it came to prying into her aunt and uncles’ lives.

  ‘Well, there was a woman at the convalescent hospital recovering from scarlet fever. We spent three months together, just talking at first, then walking and fishing as we grew stronger. She returned to Adelaide to her husband and three small children and I came back to Melbourne.’

  ‘He was a different man,’ Et added. ‘So quiet, listless. He’d spend days on end barely leaving his bedroom. It took us months to get the truth out of him.’

  ‘I was being childish. I think I even declared at one point: I’m guarding my story like tiny soap bubbles, keeping them safe inside my chest so they won’t burst.’

  Et laughed. ‘We used to tease him: William, how are your bubbles today? William, burst anything this week? And then, of course, he compared any woman he met to his Mrs Morris—her looks, her nature—and they were all found wanting.’

  ‘You never said anything,’ Mae exclaimed.

  ‘I was ashamed of having such ardent feelings for a married woman.’

  ‘Did she reciprocate?’

  ‘She never broke her marriage vows.’

  ‘But she certainly led you on,’ Et said. ‘All that talk of moving to Melbourne, even writing to you.’

  William’s face burned bright red. ‘There’s nothing else to tell. Years passed and here we are.’

  ‘What about Albert? Why didn’t he marry?’

  Et raised her eyebrows and William smiled behind his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Albert’s an entirely different story,’ Et said. ‘He’s never spelled it out but I think he’s much happier around horses and the men who rode them.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘That might be why he spends every Friday night at his club in town rather than catching the late train home,’ William added.

  Mae stared first at Et then at William, then clamped a hand across her mouth, which suddenly refused to close. She’d never suspected…Albert was…?