We That Are Left
Page 31
‘Calm down, Mae, we’re fine. I just dropped a pot. See?’
Mae looked down at the shattered terracotta pot. Her heart still pounded madly in her chest, but she was able to take a breath. Katie leaned over and picked at the rubble.
‘Leave it, poppet,’ Et said. ‘I dropped it so I’ll clean it up.’
‘Well, that’s one way of making sure it’s not pot-bound.’ Mae laughed.
‘The fern will be fine, dear, but we’ll need to plant it today.’
‘It can be the first plant in the garden, then.’
‘Look, Mummy—there’s a fairy ring in the roots.’
Mae looked down to where Katie was pointing and saw something glint in the sunlight. Kneeling to take a closer look, she reached forward and teased the fine roots apart. There, nestled in the fibres, was her wedding ring: the ring she thought she’d lost while fishing in the Dandenongs.
Et put her hands to her mouth. ‘I don’t usually believe in signs, dear, but…’
‘Yes, I know. He’s absolutely here with us, isn’t he? Harry’s home.’
Later that afternoon, William took Katie for a walk to the milk bar and Et nodded off on the couch. Mae sat for the first time on a wooden slatted seat that they’d placed under the apple tree. Admiring the wedding ring safely back on her finger, she lifted her teacup to her mouth. The action reminded her that she’d used every muscle to its limit during the move. The early spring sun carried just enough heat to soothe her aches. She rubbed her knees then swung her legs onto the bench. It wouldn’t hurt to lie down for a few minutes. She let herself feel as though she were melting onto the hard wood beneath her back and legs. Looking up at clumps of fluffy clouds against the sky, she imagined she was flying. When she closed her eyes the sun shone orange through her lids.
‘It’s your turn for a dip,’ Harry said, standing between her and sun.
Mae smiled without opening her eyes. She loved this dream. She stood, removed her hat and dress, then walked with him to the water’s edge. Following him into the tepid water, she felt it rise against the fabric of her bathing costume. It wasn’t nearly as cold as she’d thought it would be.
‘This time we’re getting your hair wet. No arguments.’
Harry had always wanted to teach her to float and today she felt brave. She was certain she felt one of his hands supporting the small of her back, while the other rested between her shoulder blades as her feet and legs rose to the surface. As she leaned back a little further, the water crept higher around her neck and the sides of her face, lapping gently against her head as her arms floated by her side. It was like magic; she was weightless. She felt the pressure of his hands recede.
‘Don’t worry, I’m still here.’
‘I can’t feel your hands.’
‘You’re doing it on your own. Just breathe gently, in and out, in and out.’
She was aware of him floating beside her, holding her hand.
‘It’s all right darling. Just keep your eyes closed. You’re doing beautifully.’
She felt her body rise and fall with her breaths, her hair brushing the sides of her face. Sunlight softly prickled her skin as she relaxed into the warmth.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
* * *
THIS STORY IS INSPIRED by my grandfather who was one of the 645 crew lost on HMAS Sydney and my grandmother who died before the ship was found. The loss of the Sydney in 1941 and the subsequent mystery and controversy have affected thousands of Australians in the decades since. Thanks to the exhaustive research by Barbara Winter, Michael Montgomery, Dr Tom Frame and shipwreck hunter David Mearns among others, I’ve had the writings and resources to help bring this story and period in our history to life. I am incredibly grateful for the support of the teachers and my classmates in RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing course and my wonderful writing and book buddies: Michelle Deans, Kerry Munnery, Jennifer Hansen, Ann Bolch, Di McDonald and The Book Babes, Jacquie Byron and The Mrs Underhill Book Club, and Kathryn Heyman at Australian Writing Mentors. I’d also like to thank the team at Allen and Unwin, including publisher Jane Palfreyman and editors Siobhán Cantrill and Ali Lavau, who have patiently guided me through the publishing process. The title for this book comes from ‘For the Fallen’, a poem by the English poet Laurence Binyon, that was published in 1914:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
I hope that I have done this story justice for my family and the many other families touched by this dark chapter in our collective past.