One

Idavale, western plains, Queensland, Australia, 1924

Bill Carter, impatient, stomach churning, sat in the battered cab of Old Dave Maundrel’s mail truck, waiting for it to roll to a halt in front of the Idavale Hotel.

“Here you go, Idavale. End of my run.” The grey-haired driver put the vehicle into neutral, pulled on the brake, cut the engine and slid out of the cabin.

Bill followed him, his leg stiff from the long ride. A cloud of red dust, kicked up from the road, sauntered down to earth behind them.

“Where’re you off to now?” Dave asked.

“I’m staying with Jack Edgarson out at Paradise Lagoon. You don’t go that way, do you?”

“Nah. Paradise Lagoon folk usually come in for their mail, but someone’s sure to be heading out there. Just ask around in the pub.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

“In the meantime, come and have a drink with me,” Dave said. “I owe you one for helping fix the old girl’s motor when she conked out. Didn’t know you were a handy mechanic. Glad you were with me.”

Bill shook his head. “Thanks, Dave, but I’ve got something to do first.” He gestured up the road.

Dave nodded and shook Bill’s hand.

Bill watched the bandy-legged mailman walk into the public bar, then picked up his bag and walked into the hotel’s foyer. It had been a long journey from Wattle Creek Station and he was mighty thirsty, but first things first. Five years was far too long already. He’d promised himself he would do this and there could be no more excuses.

Once in the cool dark hotel, he pushed his hat back off his forehead. The proprietress, plump and chatty, greeted him with enthusiasm. Bill asked after someone bound for Paradise Lagoon.

“Don’t go out there yet,” she said. “Someone’s sure to come in to the dance tonight. I’ll ask around for you.”

“Never mind,” said Bill, not wanting to be delayed. “I can find Jack if he comes in.” He asked for details about the dance, so he knew when to go over to the hall to search for his friend. If he wasn’t there, he’d take a room in the hotel and go out to Paradise Lagoon tomorrow.

In the meantime, he had that long overdue appointment. Bill hitched his duffle bag over his shoulder and strode out of the hotel, along the main street in the direction he had pointed out to Dave.

Idavale. It looked much the same—a ribbon of timber shops flanking a wide dusty road. The single-storey buildings cast long shadows across the main street in the late afternoon sun. He hadn’t been here for almost nine years. Back then, he’d ridden down from the family property, Isa Downs, two hundred miles to the north, to catch a train to the coast to join the army.

The war had seemed a reason to leave home and an opportunity to see something of the world, of places in England and Scotland his mother had spoken about with fondness. How else could he have got there?

Bill trudged past Idavale’s new memorial hall, its railway station and across the timber bridge spanning the brown river, to the high ground beyond.

Weeping acacia trees marked the entrance to his destination, but he barely noticed their pungent odour. Bill let himself into the cemetery. The hinges of the iron gate broke the silence with their screech.

Before him, graves marched in straight lines across the brown grass. He walked along the rows, scanning each headstone. It took a few minutes to find the one he wanted.

His mother.

Pain gripped his chest with two massive hands and squeezed. He’d caused this. They’d been such a close family and his decision had destroyed that forever.

Images of her flickered through his memory like celluloid film, each intensifying his remorse. He fell to his knees before the weathered headstone that proclaimed her early death in 1918. His mother—gentle and strong. Petite in life, Isabel Carter seemed insignificant in death. Tears tracked down his weathered cheeks. He dashed them off with the back of his calloused hand.

Someone hereabouts had nursed her almost to recovery before she suddenly had another heart attack and died. Only Bill’s brother, Robert, who had brought her down to catch the train before her first heart attack, had been present for her burial.

A tidal wave of regret crashed over Bill. A ragged sob burst from him, followed by another and another, hunching his aching body over the grave, leaving only emptiness.

How long he knelt there he didn’t know.

As he got up from his knees, he stumbled. He snatched his battered hat from the ground, wiped the tears from his face hand and slapped on the hat.

Bill hefted his bag and set off back to town. The train from Lawsonvale was just pulling into the station when Bill walked past.

At the hotel, he didn’t bother booking a room but strode straight into the public bar. He didn’t recognise anyone. Dave had gone. The first beer went down without him noticing. The second quickly followed. By the fourth he started to feel better. How many would he need to numb the pain?

It took a few hours for him to remember to ask around for Jack. The publican told him his old comrade had been in the dining room but had gone to the dance. Bill cruised outside, on course for the hall. The cool night air hit hard, making him stagger. It took a concentrated effort, but he reached his goal and asked one of the overabundance of men in the foyer.

“He’s gone,” the young stockman said, sounding peeved. “He’s walking the new nurse back to her digs at Matron’s hospital. Lucky sod! You’ll probably catch up with him on the way. His truck’s parked in front of the hospital.”

Bill made his way slowly up the street. Hurrying wasn’t possible when he had to direct each foot in front of the other.

At least all his cares were gone. He was feeling pretty happy about the world in general and his life in particular. Not a problem on the horizon now.

Ahead he saw a movement in the mottled light thrown by lanterns flickering behind windows. Was that Jack under the gidgee tree?

Yep, and he wasn’t alone. He was leading a slim woman towards the hospital gate.

☼☼☼

Matron Marion Henderson had heard the distant cheery sounds of dance music all evening while she settled her patients for sleep. Those duties done, she moved to the enclosed front verandah of the small private hospital she owned and operated. Looking out the glass louvres towards the brightly lit hall further down the main street, she saw the usually star-filled evening sky doused by the reflected lights.

Along the street, Jack Edgarson and Fleur Armitage walked hand-in-hand towards the hospital, moving in and out of shadows. They halted beneath the gidgee tree outside the hospital gate.

Tall, burly and brown-haired, Jack was distinctive in a crowd, but quiet. It seemed to Marion that she knew about everyone in the district, except Jack. She’d cared for most people hereabouts through birth, illness and injury since she opened the Idavale Private Hospital after her husband’s death, before the war.

She could pass the time of day with Jack, because she’d met him while treating his employees. However, she didn’t know more than he was a local property owner, new to the district, country-bred, with family “down south”, and he was as strong as an ox and hadn’t been a patient yet.

What was he up to with her new nurse? Fresh from England, Fleur’s skin was unblemished by the sun but her eyes spoke of buried grief. He’d better not be messing with her, although at thirty she should be old enough to look after herself.

Only a dim glow from the lights within the hospital building flecked the ground. It was enough to show Jack bend his head to kiss Fleur, who stepped closer and cupped his face with her hands before she returned his kiss.

Jack’s arms slid around Fleur’s waist, and he took a step backwards, taking her with him into the shadow of the tree, where its trunk hid them from the view of anyone looking along the street, but not from Marion. She saw him lift Fleur against him until she stood on tiptoe, leaning against his chest, while they kissed in the shadow of the old tree, nuzzling and allowing their hands to roam freely over each other’s bodies.

Marion knew she shouldn’t have stayed watching them. It was voyeuristic. Had she ever kissed her husband, Charles, like that? She must have, but it was so long ago. He’d been dead ten years now and their courting days had been more than a decade before that. A stab of envy crashed through her. How she wished it was her kissing a good-looking man under the gidgee tree.

Loneliness wormed through her insides, undermining the self-sufficiency she had worked so hard to establish. Where had it come from? She had a busy, happy time caring for the community that had taken her in soon after her husband died. She had built a good life for herself here, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. As she watched the gentleness with which Jack kissed Fleur, the ache grew.

If only there was a man like that for me. A little voice in her mind said, ‘If you don’t go out when you’re asked, you’ll never know.’

She promised herself, Alright, I’ll go out with the next man who asks me. No matter what! As if anyone within a hundred mile radius would consider it.

If it wasn’t so tragic, she would have laughed at her flight of fancy.

A boobook owl called from the tree above the couple, disturbing them. Jack took Fleur’s hand in his and stepped out from the shadow of the tree. Marion could see in the dim light that he was smiling. Yes, you have plenty to be smiling about. Fleur’s a lovely young woman.

Fleur followed Jack through the hospital gate.

“Oi! Jack Edgarson! Is that you?” A loud call came from down the road, in the direction of the Idavale hotel and the hall.

Startled, Jack stopped and turned. He looked tense. His hand still held Fleur’s.

“Who’s that?” he responded.

“Bill Carter—your old mate from Flanders. Surely you haven’t forgotten me? Not after all the time we spent in the mud together, mate?” The man’s loud voice carried across the distance to Marion.

She saw Jack pause before he turned fully to the interloper. “No, I haven’t forgotten you. Knew you were arriving soon. How have you been?” He put out his right hand to greet the man, who’d caught up with them.

“Jack!” The stranger pumped the proffered hand vigorously. “So long since I saw you. Not since we got off the ship from England in ‘19. Heard you were in town at the dance. Thought I’d catch a lift with you on my way through.” He paused and looked towards Fleur, where she stood slightly behind Jack in the dappled light.

Jack introduced Fleur and she shook the man’s hand. Although tall like Jack, he was wiry, with dark hair. Any more detail was impossible for Marion to see.

“You’re a looker, Miss Armitage. Nothing like you on the Western Front.” It was obvious to Marion that Jack’s friend had had a few drinks.

“On the contrary, Mr Carter. I was on the Western Front—as a nurse—at casualty clearing stations and general hospitals. I didn’t realise that Jack had been there though.” Fleur’s voice had adopted a professional frostiness.

“Jack? Not there? He was in the thick of things. Always. Best soldier in the battalion and that’s saying something! We were all pretty good. But Jack, he was an artist with a trench knife. Gave the Hun—”

“That’s enough talk, Bill. I’m pretty certain Fleur doesn’t want to hear talk about war.”

“I have to go, Jack,” Fleur didn’t look at him. She turned to his friend. “Nice to meet you, Mr Carter.”

“Yes, you too. We’ll all have to catch up about old times in France, hey sister?”

Fleur muttered something and hurried towards the rear of the hospital. Jack called her, but Fleur didn’t turn around. She ran up the rear stairs without pausing.

Marion, concerned by Fleur’s behaviour, walked through the central hallway of the small hospital, which was just a large house, to check on Fleur. She halted at the door to the rear verandah. Jack was knocking on Fleur’s door.

“Who is it?” Fleur called in a broken voice.

“Jack.”

Fleur didn’t answer.

“Talk to me, Fleur.”

“Go away, Jack. I can’t see you again.” It was a plea.

“What do you mean? Ever?”

“It’s just too much, Jack. Too much to remember. Every time I see you, I’ll remember how it was—the war, the chaos, Roland’s death, all those deaths. I can’t bear it.” She sobbed.

“Let me in, Fleur. I can try to explain.”

“No, Jack. It’s no good. Please go away.” Matron heard muffled crying.

From the front gate Jack’s friend called. “Jack. Jack! Come on, mate. Come on, Jack. She’s a nice looker, but is she worth all this grief?”

With a look of exasperation, Jack turned from Fleur’s door, then hesitated and turned back.

Now was the time to act. Marion strode from the hospital building onto the rear verandah. “Jack Edgarson! I really must ask you to leave. You and your drunken friend are disturbing my patients and my nurse. Please go now.”

Jack nodded and stepped down into the garden.

Marion stood at the verandah rail. “And Jack.” She felt compassion for him—Fleur’s reaction was a mystery. Hundreds of thousands of Australian men had fought in the Great War.

He looked back at her.

She softened her voice. “Give her time to get over whatever tiff you’ve had. She’ll come around given time, I’m sure. You’re a good man. God knows she needs one.”

He nodded in acquiescence and left. Marion watched him collect his mate, then turned back to Fleur’s door. She raised her hand to knock. Should she interfere? Yes, she must. Fleur wasn’t only her employee, living in an isolated outback town thousands of miles from her family, but also her friend now.

Marion rapped on the door. Voice soothing, she said, “Fleur, open up. I’d like to talk with you.” For a few moments Marion thought she wouldn’t respond, then the door opened with a mournful creak. She really must oil that hinge! Red-eyed, a handkerchief held to her nose, Fleur looked drained.

“Do you want to talk? May I come in?”

Fleur sighed and pushed the door fully open.

They sat together on Fleur’s neatly made narrow bed. Although she had heard and seen most of the conversation that had caused Fleur’s outburst, she didn’t understand why Fleur was so upset about Jack having served in the war. “What happened?” she asked.

“He didn’t tell me he’d been a soldier!”

“Why does that upset you? Because you were a nurse on the Western Front?”

“That’s not it.” Fleur waved the idea away with slash of her hand. She dragged a steadying breath into her lungs. “Just knowing he was there reminds me of the whole terrible time.”

Now Marion began to understand. “I know it must have been awful for you doing that work.”

“It wasn’t that. The work was gruelling, yes, but it was not knowing when someone you loved would be killed. There were so many friends lost.”

“It was a terrible place, I’m sure.” Marion tried placating her. “Who died, Fleur? Was it someone close to you?”

Fleur looked at her, transfixed, and Marion knew she had reached the centre of Fleur’s pain.

With head bent over her hands, Fleur nodded.

Marion feared the answer, but had to ask. “Who was it?”

Fleur gave a brittle, bitter laugh. “Not who was it? Who were they?”

Marion’s stomach lurched. Oh no, it was worse than she feared. She repeated the corrected question. “Who were they?”

Fleur’s lips moved but no sound came out. She swallowed and tried again. This time, her voice was a whispered monotone. “My fiancé, my sister and my sweet nieces. At the end of the war I went home to my mother to find her dying from influenza. She...” Her words faltered and died. Fleur sat with her arms around herself. A huge racking sob burst from her.

Tears welled in Marion’s eyes. All the losses she had ever endured seemed small, compared to the pain Fleur had experienced due to the war and its consequences. The type of loss so many families had suffered. Marion reached forward to hug her. She rubbed Fleur’s back as she would a fretful, ill child, and brushed her bobbed blonde hair from her face. There seemed nothing she could say to take Fleur’s pain away. All she could do to help was to hold her.

Fleur’s sobbing slowed, then ended.

“Thank you, Marion. You are very kind.”

“Don’t thank me, Fleur. I wish I could help you.”

“You already have.”

“Give Jack a chance. He’s a good man. He needs a good woman like you.”

“Maybe.”

☼☼☼

Bill watched Jack guide the truck over the dusty road back to the homestead. The moonlight was stifled by scudding clouds. They talked for a while, catching up on the last few years, but Jack seemed preoccupied by whatever had happened with Fleur. Sleep overwhelmed Bill as soon as he leant his head against the doorframe.

The next thing Bill realised, Jack was shifting gears. The truck was approaching a dry creek bed. With bleary eyes, he watched the shadowy scenery lit by the headlamps.

They turned off the dirt road. A sign on the gate Jack opened and closed read Paradise Lagoon.

The truck bumped along a track for a mile or more before the country opened up into a wide flat plain, with a large lagoon spread out before them. Then they turned towards a ridge to the east where a simple stone house stood, long and low, with outbuildings clustered behind.

As they pulled up, Bill woke completely—ready for whatever lay ahead—just like he’d learnt to do countless times during the war.

Jack switched off the engine. “Come on, Bill. We’re here. Get your kit and I’ll show you where you’re bedding down.”

Bill followed him across the verandah into the homestead. Glad though he was see his mate again after so many years, there was one image he couldn’t get out of his mind. Who was that dark-haired matron, backlit by the kerosene lamp on the verandah of the Idavale Hospital? She had an aura of authority and no-nonsense, for sure, but geez, even in the lamplight, she looked good.