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The heat grew as September rolled into October and then November, although Meg wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t her rapidly growing belly attracting the sun’s rays whenever she poked her nose into the garden or took a leisurely stroll around the park or down to the river to watch the boats go by.
On a day of high humidity and thunderheads promising an afternoon storm, three letters arrived together from Seamus. Meg opened all three to find the right order then settled on the swing seat to read them as Vera came in from the garden. She waved the first one at Vera. ‘Finally, news from the front.’
‘You look happy. I’ll leave you to read in peace while I get clean. Would you like a cool drink when I come out?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ Meg turned her attention back to Seamus’s letter, the one she had been waiting for since she wrote with the news of her pregnancy.
My darling Meg,
What wonderful news! We’re having a baby, although I had hoped we would be enjoying some months of wedded bliss before the arrival of a little one. I still hope to get leave and return to you in time to walk you down the aisle before we two become three, but I don’t think the captain can do without me. I am sorry.
I’ve been promoted – I’m Sergeant Flanagan now, with a little extra in pay. That will come in handy since we’re to have our first child by Christmas. I wish I could be with you, but the army seems to value my presence more than my absence. A nuisance when all I want is to be with you, but there it is. Also, you should know I’ve listed you as my next of kin. The captain said I could, even though we haven’t quite managed to say our vows. But he knows when I say I’ll do a thing, it happens. Not sure if he expects an invitation to our wedding!
The fighting here is (blacked out lines) . . .
I fall asleep each night thinking of you, and before I open my eyes each morning, I imagine I’ll wake to see your sweet smile beside me. I cannot wait to make you mine.
All my love to you and our little one.
Seamus
Meg ran her fingers over the writing. Seamus had a way with words; these were so poetic she could almost hear his lilting Irish voice speaking to her beneath the moon at Adelaide River.
‘By that look on your face I’m guessing your man has written something special.’ Vera set the wooden tray down. Two glasses of cold water beaded and puddled on the tray beside a plate of Vera’s latest batch of biscuits. A small but precious blob of jam had set like a jewel in the centre of each.
‘I’ve been so worried not hearing from him, but this one—’ She waggled the letter she’d just read— ‘this reminds me why I fell in love with him. He’s happy about the baby, and said he’ll try to get leave so we can marry before he or she is born.’
‘That’s wonderful, Margaret. But he’d better get a wriggle on or you’ll pop before he sees you in all your beautiful glow.’
‘Glow? I feel fat and frumpy, not beautiful. Any glow is from the heat.’ Just saying that made her aware of how hot she felt and she fanned her face with Seamus’s letter.
‘No, you are beautiful. Impending motherhood suits you, especially now you’ve heard from your man. You’ve a look in your eyes like you hold Heaven within.’
‘Vera, you know how to make me feel good, even when I’m melting into a puddle of sweat.’
‘Did you see the parcel on the table in the hallway? From Gerry.’
‘No, I came out through my bedroom doors onto the veranda. I’ll go and get it now.’
Vera touched her arm. ‘I’ll get it. Stay where you’re comfortable.’ Moments later she returned with a brown paper-wrapped parcel tied with so much string Meg laughed.
‘By the amount of string she used, she must have sent me the Crown Jewels!’
Vera offered a pair of scissors and sat beside Meg. The arrival of a parcel was an occasion to be savoured, especially in these lean times. ‘Can you cut it carefully so I can re-use the string please?’
Examining the knots, Meg found one tiny end of string poking out. She cut it as close to the knot as she could, and the ties fell into her lap. Reaching forward to lay the scissors on the table set the swing seat moving and Meg grabbed the parcel before it fell from her lap.
What lap, she thought. ‘I’m all belly when I sit these days.’ Not wanting to lose the contents she moved the parcel to the space between them, opened the flaps of brown paper and sighed with delight. She brushed a hand over the finely smocked top, enjoying the feel of the raised stitches. ‘Gerry’s made a layette for the baby. Look at the baby bunnies in the smocking. They’re gorgeous!’
‘That girl should open a shop when this war is over.’
‘If she wasn’t such a great nurse, I’d agree. She’s one of those special people who’s good at everything she does.’ Meg took each tiny item from the parcel, marvelled at the delicate stitching and thrilled to imagine her baby dressed for a walk in the park. She would push the pram and— ‘Oh my, I need to find a pram. Vera, where in Brisbane should I go to find one? I’ve been lying about like a seal on a beach when I should have been out looking for all sorts of things for my baby.’
‘I still have Phillip’s pram in the nursery. And all of his little outfits are packed in the trunk in there. We’ll have a washing day and you can decide what you’d like to use for your baby—if you like.’ That brief pause and the hesitance in the final phrase tugged Meg’s heartstrings. Vera had taken her lost son—Phillip—for rides in the pram and dressed him in the little outfits she now offered to Meg. Would they retain a hint of his smell? How would Vera bear to see another woman’s child using his things?
Vera squeezed her hand as though she were answering Meg. ‘It will be good to see another baby enjoying an outing in Phillip’s pram. I look forward to taking him to the park.’
A fresh surge of gratitude welled within Meg for the continuing kindness of Gerry and her aunt. She had so much love to give, and Meg began to understand that Vera’s offer was as much about her need to fill the void left by her lost son as to help Meg. ‘Thank you, Vera. I’d love that.’
***
Vera hung up a pair of rompers on the line in the backyard. ‘There, that’s the last of the baby clothes washed. I think we deserve a break. Do you feel up to a walk in the park, or would you prefer to stay in the shade on the veranda?’
‘How about I shout you an ice-cream if the cart is in the park?’
‘Yes please. I’ll get my hat and be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
‘That long?’ Meg grinned. The day was fine and hot and she had all the time in the world to enjoy it. What better way than with a friend, for that was what Vera had become in the weeks Meg had boarded with her.
Soon, they were strolling through the park towards the new Powerhouse where the red and beige ice-cream cart was parked beneath a broad, shady tree. Red wheel trims gave it a happy air and a small blackboard proclaiming the ice creams to be the creamiest and sweetest of all was set at an angle near the rear fender. Pasted on a side window was a faded list of flavours next to the open servery window.
‘Which flavour do you fancy?’ Meg stood to one side allowing Vera to make her selection. ‘Let me guess—chocolate?’
Meg had discovered Vera’s sweet tooth the first time they came across the ice-cream cart. Now, she ordered and paid for two cones. Her vanilla ice cream arrived first. Swirling her tongue around the cold confection, Meg almost groaned with pleasure. ‘This is the life. How can anything be bad when there’s ice cream?’
The vendor leaned through the window and presented Vera’s chocolate cone with a flourish. ‘Mind if I use that line, love?’
‘Be my guest.’ Meg grinned and licked the ice cream mound into a peak. The tip rose high, curled over and slowly sank back into the already softening mass.
They set off in search of an empty seat in the shade and found one looking out over the river. Meg held her cone to one side over the end of the seat in an attempt to avoid drips on her dress or down her front. ‘This is so good.’
‘Thanks for the treat.’ Vera smiled then glanced past Meg’s shoulder and frowned.
‘What’s the matter, Vera?’
‘The telegram delivery boy is coming down the street. I haven’t seen him down this way since Johnny Oliver’s mother got news of—’ She left the sentence unfinished and took a big bite of her cone.
‘News of his death on the front lines?’
Vera nodded. ‘Sorry. The sight of him just now sent a shiver down my spine, but telegrams can contain good news too. I shouldn’t expect the worst just because— Oh, no.’
Meg struggled to turn around and when she did, she wished she hadn’t. He’s going into your gate.’ Blindly she reached for Vera’s hand. She whispered, more to herself than to Vera, ‘Please don’t let there have been another bombing of Townsville. Please be safe, Gerry.’ And Doc and everyone she’d known and worked with.
Vera dropped the remains of her cone and ran, Meg following as fast as she could, one arm cradling her belly. The telegram boy was just closing Vera’s front gate when she reached him. From a distance, Meg imagined the conversation and the dread coursing through her friend.
By the time she reached them, the boy had clambered onto his bicycle and headed back down Brunswick Street. Vera was standing as still as stone and staring at the window of the telegram. Meg couldn’t bear the thought of the news contained within. She reached Vera and set an arm around her waist. They would need to support each other if they were to bear bad news about Gerry.
‘Do you want me to open it for you, Vera?’
Slowly, Vera met her gaze and held out the telegram. Her voice whispered, softer than a summer breeze, sadder than winter snow. ‘I’m so sorry, Margaret. It’s for you.’
Not Gerry, thank God, not Gerry.
Meg’s fingers closed on the envelope while her mind tried to catch up.
If not Gerry then . . .
Vera drew her along the path and up the stairs, sat her down on the swing then sat beside her as Meg read her name on the envelope.
Lt Margaret Dorset RAAFNS c/- . . .
The telegram had come for her, the one every woman feared. Swallowing the lump of fear, she slipped a finger under the flap and drew out the yellow paper.
Deeply regret to inform you of death of your fiancé Sgt Michael Seamus Flanagan occurred 18 November.
The Minister for War joins with Australian Army in expressing profound sympathy.
Her vision blurred and the telegram fluttered to the floor.
***
Days passed, and Meg had no memory of what happened over their course. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, or rocked in the veranda seat, or found herself sitting on the bench in the park with no memory of walking there. The only constant was reliving each precious hour she’d spent with Seamus at the River. Try as she may, she wasn’t certain of the exact shade of blue in his eyes, or the precise inflection in his voice as he told her he loved her. Loss stalked her dreams, and sadness filled her days. Seamus was slipping from her mind as surely as he’d slipped away from life and nothing—nothing could hold him to her.
She stroked her swollen belly. Tucked safe inside her body, her baby was quiet. Did he already sense he would be born fatherless?
Bats swooped on the mango fruit in the backyard, screeching as the almost-summer heat lay thick and heavy in the early evening. Meg knew it was hot because the mercury had been sitting in the high nineties all afternoon, but she couldn’t get warm. She hitched the blanket up around her shoulders and shivered. The swing creaked, a soft little squeak each time it began its forward journey. Seamus’s book of poems slid from her lap onto the seat. She left it where it fell, the book, with its pencilled poem from Seamus tucked between the back pages. His promise that he would be, so long as she was.
Well, she was here, and Seamus was—nowhere. He was gone, never to return.
Emptiness swelled inside her, taking over the space where her heart should have beaten with love for him. He’d promised to come back to her. To them.
Such sweet promises.
He’d broken them all.
Illogical though she knew it to be, she was angry with Seamus. Her head tipped, resting against the chain holding the swing seat. Logic told her that, by choice, he wouldn’t have left them. Still, she couldn’t help feeling he’d deserted her when she needed him most.
She was angry. Empty. Alone.
Her gaze fell on the abandoned sewing on the table.
Vera had kept her busy sewing lightweight swaddling cloths from an old bed sheet, soft from many washings. She’d hemmed the edges in tiny slip stitches that sat straight as lines of little soldiers.
‘It’s good to give your hands something to do, my dear. Think of your little one and try to find comfort that soon he’ll bring joy to your world again.’
‘Will he, Vera? Will he be enough?’
‘He will. Because he has to be. You can choose to mourn Seamus for the rest of your life or you can, after time dulls the worst of your pain, choose to live again. There is a choice, my dear. Not an easy one, I grant you, but a choice nonetheless.’ Vera patted her shoulder, her gaze compassionate and determined in equal measure. ‘I hope one day in the months or years to come you will choose life.’
Meg tipped her head back and half closed her eyes. Seeing the park through a blurry fringe of wet eyelashes, she swung gently and cradled her baby through her belly that connected yet separated them. She stroked her belly and whispered to the tiny being, ‘Together, we will be enough, my darling.’
Her baby kicked, hard enough that her upper hand felt the shape of a tiny foot. Hard enough and in perfect answer to the question she had asked of Vera a lifetime ago.
No. She wasn’t alone. Not with Vera looking out for her.
##
Hours later, Meg lay wide awake in bed. While she listened as the wind picked up and waves slapped against the riverbank, brief niggling pains started, reminding her she was alive and distracting her from the fog of grief she’d been wallowing in. Rolling onto her side, she sought a more comfortable position.
False labour, she told herself. It’s too early for my baby to be born.
The pains grew more insistent, more like—contractions? Struggling to get out of bed, she stood. Water gushed down her legs and she gasped.
‘Vera.’ Meg lurched forward and planted a hand on the doorframe. She pulled the door open and called before the next contraction hit. ‘Vera!’
The hallway light flicked on, and Vera hurried from her bedroom, pulling on her dressing gown.
‘What’s the matter? I thought—’ He gaze caught on Meg’s saturated nightclothes. ‘Ah, he’s decided you need company now, not in a couple of weeks. How much time between contractions?’
Panic fizzed through her veins like electricity. ‘I don’t know, but he’s too early.’
‘Maybe by a couple of weeks. Perfectly normal, Meg. Babies decide when they are ready to join us, and yours clearly knows you need to hold him in your arms.’ She guided Meg back to her bed and helped her to change out of her wet clothes. The practicality of Vera’s actions and her calm voice eased Meg’s worry enough that she did as she was told, half-reclining against the two pillows at her back.
‘Now, you stay there while I set a pot of water to boil. I’ll call the midwife and ask her advice then I’ll be back soon. You know you’re not alone. I’m here for you.’
Meg rolled her lips together and nodded. ‘Thanks, Vera.’ Slowing her breathing, she concentrated on counting the time between contractions.
##
Her baby was born late the following morning, a sweet-faced bundle of joy. Meg held her daughter close and stroked her downy head and soft cheeks. Big blue eyes looked at Meg as though she was her baby’s entire world.
Vera sat carefully on the edge of the bed, leaned over and peered at the baby’s face. ‘You did well, both of you. She’s a bonny baby.’
‘And not the boy I thought she was going to be.’
‘Have you decided on her name?’
‘Jennifer Mary Dorset. Mary is after Seamus’s mother.’ Lost for hours in the fog of delivering her baby, Meg noticed Vera was no longer wearing her dressing gown, but properly dressed in street clothes. ‘Are you going out?’
Vera nodded. ‘Only up to the corner store for milk. The midwife recommended you drink plenty of fluids over the next couple of days.’
The midwife stuck her head around the bedroom door and Meg looked at her properly for the first time. She was a kindly, competent woman around Vera’s age, and something about her reminded Meg of Gerry.
‘All good in here?’
‘We’re fine. Thanks, Sister.’
‘You’re welcome, Meg. Now take it easy for the next few days. I’ll pop in to see you both next Monday. Vera, a moment of your time please.’ The two women left Meg alone with her daughter.
As she held Jennifer’s tiny hand in hers, love—fierce and pure for her child—welled within and, at last, she understood what Vera meant about choices. Her little girl had arrived and they were at the beginning of a new life together, one she would shape by the decisions she made for both of them. Kissing her daughter’s head she whispered, ‘We will be more than enough for each other, my darling, and together, we’ll take on the world.’
***
Jennifer lay in her crib at Meg’s side, her rosebud mouth making little sucking motions. ‘You’re two weeks old today, my darling.’ Meg tucked the light sheet around her daughter and gazed her fill. Her hand lingered on Jennifer’s chest, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of each breath as she slept. This was what love felt like, the now-and-forever kind that bound her to her child. The kind of love that would hold them together like the Earth and Moon, although Meg wasn’t sure which role she filled. Wherever Jennifer was, Meg was drawn to her. Perhaps I’m the Moon?
Reluctantly, she turned to the desk. With her daughter settled and a cup of tea at hand, she picked up the letter that had arrived from Doc and read over it again.
My dear Margaret,
How do I offer both sympathy and congratulations in the same lines? I am joyful to hear of the birth of your daughter, but at the same time, words cannot convey my sorrow for your loss. My most sincere condolences. I know how much in love you were with your fiancé, and how much you were looking forward to his return before your baby was born. I am sorry things did not turn out the way you dreamed they might.
This is not the time to remind you of our conversation at the Queens Hotel but know that I meant every word. If I get the opportunity to take leave, I should like to visit you and your daughter in Brisbane. Would that be agreeable to you? I promise I will not press you for an answer, since I asked no direct question of you.
For now, I stand your friend. Should you need anything that is in my power to provide, do not hesitate to ask.
Know that you have my thoughts and prayers at this difficult time.
Warm regards,
Geoffrey
Dear, sweet, kind Geoffrey. Perhaps it was time to think of him by that name. For months, she’d kept him at a distance by thinking of him as Doc, but he had reminded her of the relationship offered months ago. An offer that, for all it was implied, had been repeated without any pressure on her to reply. If she accepted it, Jennifer would have a father. All she had to do . . .
Seamus. What do you think of me for considering another man’s offer when you’re barely cold in the ground?
But Geoffrey wasn’t pressuring her. There had been no formal declaration of intent or love. Just “feelings”. And a gentle reminder he was her friend. That was as much as she could cope with for now.
Shaking her head, she picked up her pen and wrote:
Dear Geoffrey,
Thank you for your kind letter offering your condolences on the death of Seamus ...
Black words on white paper, phrases she’d written after the death of her grandfather, when Grandma had been so distraught, she’d been unable to hold a pen. Although sad at his loss, Meg had scribed for Gran, but the words hadn’t laid her low. Not like now.
Meg stared at those same words. Polite, social words that buzzed in her brain, but were meaningless. Kind words and condolences wouldn’t fill the emptiness of Seamus’s absence. They wouldn’t give Jennifer the father she would never know.
What would Seamus think?
The worst has happened, but I’m still here, and now I have our child to care for. Lowering her head onto her clasped hands, Meg tried to think, but her mind was a fog of grief and loss and indecision.
She dropped the pen, pushed her chair away from the desk and strolled to the French doors. Pulling them open, she stepped onto the veranda and leaned on the railing, drawing in a deep breath. Air, heavy with sweet floral scents and summer heat lay thick around her.
Cumulo-nimbus clouds had built up in the east. Another afternoon storm was on its way, and she had no idea what to tell Geoffrey.
Practical Geoffrey. Kind and caring and there, giving her whatever time she needed.
He knew she wasn’t in love with him, but he had feelings for her.
Do I have feelings for him? What do I tell him?
She watched when the storm broke and breathed in the earthy smell of rain on Vera’s lush garden. She watched until the sky darkened, and still had no idea what to write. Where was the Southern Cross? She needed to find it and think of Seamus. Small snuffling sounds reached her, a prelude to Jennifer waking and hungry.
Later. When Jennifer had been fed and changed, Meg would bring her out and introduce her to the same stars Seamus had shown her but for now, her daughter needed her.
Geoffrey’s letter lay unanswered on the desk.