The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Of course she knew. Nobody had talked of anything else for the past three months.

  ‘But it’s so far away,’ she said, putting down her sketch pad and pencil.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we won’t be called upon by Britain.’ Jack leant forward. ‘Gracie, I’m not waiting around. As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m going to sign up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She was shocked. ‘You can’t do that — your dad will expect you to stay on the farm.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve seen in the newspaper that there’s plenty of blokes from around the Empire who are heading for England and joining the RAF. Seeing as the government has built an air base just a few miles out of Parkes, it’s a perfect opportunity for me. I can start there, then ship out to Britain to finish my training. In no time at all, I’ll be shooting down German planes over the English Channel.’

  ‘You seem to have everything worked out.’ She twisted a stray curl around her finger. ‘Only, you waited long enough to tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gracie.’ Jack rose to his feet. ‘I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. As for Mum and Dad, I reckon they’ll come round. The worst bit is that I’ll be leaving you behind.’

  Grace was still grappling with Jack’s sudden announcement when he took a few paces towards her. He hesitated for only a moment, before abruptly dropping down onto one knee.

  ‘There’s something else I have to say, Gracie,’ he declared. ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Jack!’ This proposal had always been a distant prospect, a vague possibility, never quite real. She delighted in the easy familiarity of her and Jack’s relationship. But did she love him? She wasn’t sure she knew what that felt like. Though he could never get enough of kissing and caressing her, somehow she never felt swept away. Was liking Jack and having fun together really enough for her to want to spend a lifetime with him?

  Sitting on the riverbank that day, she knew with a sense of claustrophobic certainty that if she said ‘yes’ her future would be a duplicate of her mother’s life: she would live on a great country property, spending her spare time on bridge games, flower shows, gardening and charity committees, interspersed with the occasional visit to the dressmaker or the races in the city. Grace wanted more than that.

  But she said none of this, merely protesting, ‘Jack, we’re still only kids . . .’

  ‘Gracie, that’s where you’re wrong,’ he retorted. He sprang to his feet, then reached down and pulled Grace up so she was facing him. ‘This is what “real life” looks like,’ he said. ‘If I’m old enough to fight, I’m old enough to ask you to marry me.’

  Grace had no idea what to say.

  ‘We don’t have to tie the knot anytime soon,’ Jack added, hugging her to him. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t be right, with me about to sign up and take off for the wild blue yonder. But will you wait? Wait until after I’ve done my bit for king and country?’

  Grace escaped from his arms. Stumbling towards the tree, she scooped up her sketch from the ground. The pencil marks no longer had any coherence about them; she saw only a disconnected jumble of charcoal lines.

  ‘Gracie,’ she heard Jack say, ‘I thought this was what you wanted, what you’d been, you know, waiting for . . .’

  She tried to think. The boy she cared for so much, who’d been such an important part of her life, was going away to fight. Darling Jack was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Ignoring her misgivings, she nodded. ‘I’ll wait.’

  As soon as the words were out of Grace’s mouth she experienced a wave of dizzying nausea. The ground seemed to shift beneath her feet.

  Jack put out a hand to steady her. ‘Hey! What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s just that it’s all very sudden, and now you’re going away.’

  ‘If you ask me, I think it’s this damn heat,’ Jack said, swatting away another fly. ‘Come on, Gracie, I’ll take you home. You need a bit of shade.’

  He put his arm around her, but again she broke free. ‘Let’s not tell anyone until after the war, when you come home,’ she said. ‘It will be our secret.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ Jack agreed.

  Finally alone, Grace retired to her favourite retreat — her father’s book-lined study, where he not only worked but, on occasion, still read her the Australian bush poems of Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson as well as works by his favourite English Romantics, Wordsworth and Keats. She loved the smell of this special room; it was a mixture of leather bindings and old paper, with the faintest hint of whisky — her father kept a decanter of single-malt Glenfiddich together with some crystal glasses on a side table.

  In the coolness of this quiet refuge, Grace drifted over to the brass-mounted globe that stood next to her father’s desk. Rotating it slowly, she found Rome, Madrid, Vienna, London and, best of all, Paris; the mere thought of this legendary city never failed to ignite her imagination. ‘One day,’ she murmured dreamily, ‘one day . . .’

  At least she hadn’t said yes to Jack’s proposal; surely a promise to wait was an entirely different matter. The war might take ages, and even if it lasted just six months or so, it gave her time to sort out her feelings. Grace admitted to herself, a little guiltily, that she was envious of Jack. If only it was as easy for her to pursue adventure on the other side of the world. Instead, she was sentenced to be left behind, in the isolation of vast inland Australia, with no apparent means of escape.

  She recalled the map of Europe pinned on the schoolroom wall by Mademoiselle Elise, the fizz of excitement she had felt as she’d gazed at the way the countries fitted together, their borders marked by rivers and mountain ranges or by hand-drawn lines. For the longest time, she’d had the feeling that her destiny lay far away. But if she married Jack, it was unlikely to turn out that way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sydney, March 1940

  Clutching a red umbrella, Grace huddled amid the sodden crowd that stood on the Sydney dock. She’d come to say goodbye to Jack. Any minute now, he’d board the ship that would take him to a war being waged far away. Waiting around in the pouring rain was a miserable experience.

  The night before, she and Olive had met with Jack and his mother, Betty, in the Hotel Australia’s plush dining room. During their meal, Grace had felt false and unnatural; this morning’s breakfast had been even more stressful. Jack had eaten a huge helping of bacon, sausages, eggs and toast, while maintaining a near-febrile animation. He’d chattered away to the three of them about the fascinating ports he would visit during his voyage, what he imagined London was like and whether he would fly a Spitfire or a Hurricane.

  Grace’d had no appetite and could think of little to say. ‘There, there,’ her mother had clucked sympathetically, while exchanging knowing glances with Betty.

  Now, here she was, standing beneath leaden skies in the shadow of the great grey ship, surrounded by keen young men and their more subdued mothers and fathers. There was also a plethora of girls milling about, clad in their best dresses and coats, their mouths carefully coloured with lipstick, and a variety of damp berets or bonnets crammed onto their heads. Many of the soldiers’ sweethearts were pale-faced, most wore strained smiles. There was the occasional sound of a sob, sometimes a peal of forced laughter.

  Grace was certain that Olive and Betty interpreted her own silence as a sign that parting from Jack was weighing on her equally heavily. In fact, she was struggling to contain both her envy of him as well as an even more disturbing sense of shame. The truth was, although she’d hate for anything awful to happen to Jack, rather than longing for him to stay by her side she felt relieved — perhaps even a touch elated — he was going away.

  A deafening hoot from the ship’s mighty stack sounded three times.

  ‘Time to be off, Gracie,’ Jack said.

  He wrapped his arms around her, then kissed her passionately in front of everyone, although she saw from the corner of her eye that both mothers had turned discreetly away.

  ‘Just you remember that
I’m coming back to marry you, Grace Woods,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Then we’ll be together until the end of time.’

  She watched, dry-eyed, as the country boy she had promised to wait for hitched his kit bag onto a broad, muscled shoulder. He pecked Betty and Olive on their respective cheeks, turned around and, with the rain beating down, bound up the gangplank.

  Having declined Olive’s offer to cheer her up by trying on hats at Henriette Lamotte’s exclusive Rowe Street shop, Grace was instead sitting at a corner table of the Winter Garden. She fiddled distractedly with the bunch of artificial violets she had pinned to her jacket’s lapel, while darting occasional glances at the entrance to the room.

  At last she spotted Reuben over by the door, handing his shapeless hat and long overcoat — both appeared to be soaking — to a disgruntled attendant. After smoothing back his damp unruly hair, he strode across the room.

  ‘Princess, my goodness, you do look grand!’ Reuben said, greeting her with a wink. ‘All the other blokes here will be jealous.’

  ‘Siddy, please sit down. You mustn’t say such ridiculous things. I’m not a twelve-year-old any longer,’ Grace protested, laughing for the first time in days as she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, I know that right enough,’ Reuben replied. ‘In fact, a little bird’s told me it won’t be long before a certain fellow proposes.’

  Grace remained silent.

  ‘Hmm . . . Now, let me guess. It’s the young Osbourne boy, isn’t it? Although I did hear from your father that he was due to ship out today. I’m guessing you went down to the wharf to say goodbye?’

  Grace said it had been so depressing she didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘That’s fine by me. Actually, I have something pretty important to say to you.’

  This was unnerving. She wasn’t used to Siddy addressing her so seriously.

  He ordered a pot of tea and some shortbread biscuits, then said with a sad smile, ‘Your old mate has enlisted too. In fact, I’m leaving for England myself pretty soon.’

  ‘Siddy, no!’

  ‘There’s nothing else for it, Princess,’ he added despondently. ‘Look, you didn’t know my darling wife, Rae, though I wish to God you had.’

  ‘You never talk about her,’ Grace said.

  ‘Ah, she was a real sweetheart. She had lovely red curls and she sang like a bird.’ Reuben sighed. ‘Anyway, she’s been gone a long time now and I’m still a single man.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; it looked far too small to accommodate a man his size.

  ‘At one stage I thought my life would be, oh I don’t know, let’s just say very different to the way it turned out. I wish I could explain it all, really I do, but the last thing I’d want is to take off knowing I’d messed everything up for you.’

  ‘Siddy, you’re not making a lot of sense,’ Grace said anxiously.

  ‘Well, I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye.’ Reuben ran a hand through his shock of black hair. ‘Princess, all I really want you to know before I go is that you’ve always been the apple of my eye. I couldn’t be more fond of you than . . .’ He paused, clearing his throat before continuing, ‘. . . than if you were my own. The fact is, I’m not doing anything important here. I’ve heard Great Britain needs men to help keep the Germans out of France. Christ knows why they might be interested in a horseman like me, but it seems the Frenchies have a plan. Anyway, I’ve signed up. Let’s face it, I won’t be leaving anyone behind.’

  ‘How can you say that!’ Grace said. ‘What about me?’

  Vivid images flashed into her mind of the special people who had already vanished from her life. First Pearl had disappeared, then Charlotte had gone off to school. Recently, Mademoiselle Elise had departed, amid mutual tears, for the safety of neutral Switzerland. Now Jack had left and soon it would be Siddy’s turn.

  With a pang, she thought about just how much Siddy meant to her. Ever since she could remember, he’d never failed to make the effort to come and see her when she was in Sydney. He was always keen to hear what she’d been up to, and though he loved to joke and tease, he couldn’t be kinder. The outbreak of war meant that so much was changing, but she’d never imagined that one day she would visit the city and find Siddy missing.

  ‘Princess, I tell you what,’ he said. ‘I hate to see you looking so down in the dumps. How about we both take a stroll over to the piano and do that new Vera Lynn tune, “We’ll Meet Again”. You know it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Grace wished Reuben hadn’t put her on the spot.

  ‘Come on, then. It’s just the thing to raise your spirits.’

  Siddy caught the eye of the silver-haired maître d’, then pointed at the piano. After the man gave a regal nod of assent, Grace reluctantly allowed herself to be steered towards the gleaming instrument.

  ‘I’d better play and you do the warbling, Princess,’ Reuben said. ‘You’ve developed a lovely tone.’

  Almost as soon as Grace began to sing in her clear soprano, a hush fell over the busy room. A moment later she was surprised to hear the first voice join in — it belonged to a young woman she recognised from the dock that morning. Next, from across the crowded salon, a confident baritone was added to the girl’s hesitant quaver, and then there was another voice, and still another, until it seemed that not only every guest, but every waiter and waitress in the Winter Garden was on their feet singing in spellbinding, heartfelt unison.

  Rousing applause rang through the room when the last bittersweet note died away. Then a gentleman in a pin-striped suit raised his glass high in the air and cried out loudly, ‘A toast to our brave boys who have gone to fight for the Motherland.’

  ‘To our brave boys!’ As one, the crowded room’s occupants — old and young, men and women, city dwellers and countysiders — replied.

  The sight of so many proud, smiling faces induced a fierce mixture of emotions in Grace. All Europe was under Germany’s vicious heel; countless souls would surely succumb to the carnage. If only she, too, could help combat the Nazi terror. If only there was a way to make sure Jack and Siddy would be safe.

  She shivered violently.

  ‘You haven’t caught a chill, have you?’ Reuben said, looking concerned. ‘It must have been awful weather down at the wharf.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’m not ill. Siddy, I’m afraid, afraid this might be the last time I ever see you.’

  Reuben put a large comforting arm around Grace’s shoulders. ‘Where, I’m not sure, and I can’t tell you when,’ he said with a catch in his voice, ‘but I know that one day we’ll meet again.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brookfield, November 1942

  On a fine spring morning, Grace’s mother was demonstrating the proper technique required for the application of royal icing onto a rich fruitcake, when she said, ‘I do hope all this baking helps cheer up those poor boys who keep arriving at the air base. Most of them are miles from home, and who knows where they’ll end up?’ Olive stirred a small bowl of the thick, snowy paste with an uneasy expression. ‘Probably somewhere dreadful like North Africa or the Middle East, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I’m sure the airmen love the treats you send, Mum.’ Grace smiled. ‘Especially when they’re accompanied by your famous pineapple rum punch — a glass of that would put a smile on anyone’s face.’ She looked down. ‘But I wish I could do more — to help the war effort, I mean.’

  ‘What sort of thing are you thinking about?’

  ‘Well, like Lottie,’ Grace said. ‘You know how she’s found herself a job working in Sydney for a colonel in Victoria Barracks.’

  Olive shifted her gaze to her daughter. ‘Gracie, Charlotte might be employed by the army, but it’s as a secretary — she’s not exactly on the front line. Anyway, you’re needed here.’

  Using the flat side of a knife, she returned to her task, expertly spreading more icing onto the side of the cake. ‘Aside from old Bill Gleason and a couple of the youngest lads,
all Brookfield’s farmhands are away at the war. Your father has been doing the work of three.’

  Grace sighed. ‘Poor Daddy.’

  ‘He simply couldn’t manage without you,’ her mother continued. ‘Honestly, Gracie, I think you’re amazing. I don’t know any other girl of barely twenty who spends her days either up on a tractor harvesting wheat or out on a horse mustering sheep,’ she said, ‘especially one as beautiful as you.’

  ‘Mummy, don’t be silly!’

  ‘Well, you are — beautiful, I mean, despite those ghastly farm clothes you get around in these days. And then, after all that, you coop yourself up in the study at night and help Dad with the books. If that’s not putting in an effort, I don’t know what is.’

  Grace frowned. ‘It’s just that it doesn’t feel like I’m doing something that matters.’

  ‘Of course you are!’ Olive protested.

  ‘Well, not anything that compares with what Jack or Siddy are going through.’

  ‘Oh, darling, once the men are home you won’t need to worry about any of that — or farming, for that matter. You can put it all behind you.’ She pointed in the direction of the half-iced cake. ‘You will be doing proper women’s work instead.’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ Grace said with exasperation.

  She picked up a spatula and dipped it in the bowl of sticky icing, yet when she tried to copy her mother’s example, she found that instead of a faultlessly smooth surface she had created only a ragged white trail.

  The sheep woke her the next morning. Not just their gentle baaing, but the shuffling noise their little cloven hoofs made on the hard-packed ground. Grace opened her eyes and saw that light was already streaming across her bedroom’s blue and white striped wallpaper. Yawning, she pushed back a tumble of dark curls from her forehead.

  Grace ambled over to the window and looked out. As usual, the sun was shining brightly in an endless blue sky, the crops were the colour of spun gold, and the animals had gathered, as they always did, around a shallow trough of water, stuttering softly as they jostled and nudged each other out of the way. Nothing ever seemed to change.