Highview
Veronica stared out her bedroom window. After almost two weeks back she was still trying to accustom herself to the green and gold landscape outside. Spending a year surrounded by desert or endless, deep ocean, made the fields and bushland along Cowpasture Lane seem surreal to her now, with their constant abundance of wildlife. She watched as the king parrots picked their gentle way along the branches of the wattle tree, the vivid red chest of the male almost glowing amongst the leaves. She counted the family this year: three females, one young male and this fellow, the magnificent patriarch.
How she wished she and Jack could be building their family here, in their home, together.
‘Vera! Vera!’ Pattie ran into Veronica’s room, waving a letter happily. ‘I’ve got the latest from Mr C!’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Veronica smiled, stretching out her back. ‘I don’t know how many more times I can hear you re-reading the other chapters.’
‘I never believed it when people said expectant mothers are crotchety old things but you’re starting to prove their point,’ she sniffed, pretending to be offended. ‘Now listen up! All comfy?’ she asked as she jumped onto the bed and fluffed up their pillows, lying next to her to begin reading. Veronica loved Clarkson’s ‘Chapter’ letters almost as much as Pattie did, laughing at the funny stories and humorous drawings that filled every page. He had taken to sending one every now and then between his usual letters, claiming they would one day be his famous ‘memoirs’, which he would name The Heroic Misadventures of Mr C. It was just what Veronica needed this afternoon to distract her from her thoughts.
‘Chapter Eight: A Fly in the Appointment.’ Both girls giggled before Pattie continued.
I had the unfortunate duty of having to report to Major several days ago and searched my mind as to its reason. Had he found my secret stash of chickens in the plane? Did he know about my nightly riding sessions on Daisy the milking cow next door? Or, worst of all, had he discovered the master tunnel diggings to Australia under my floorboards?
They laughed at the drawings he had provided for these three scenarios. One was of a man flying a plane with chickens in the back seat, an extra chicken on the top wing, waving with her little goggles in place. The next of a man riding a plump cow across a paddock, saddle and stirrups flapping and a rather crazed look on the cow’s face. The third showed a half-dug tunnel through the sphere of the earth, an arrow pointing to Mr C’s quarters in London on one side, another arrow pointing to his home in Australia at the bottom of the globe. Mr C was sitting in the centre of the earth, cooking what appeared to be a sausage on a fire at its core.
The dreaded day arrived and I scrubbed myself up, making sure there were no chicken feathers to be seen, and I made my way to his office. It seemed my fears were unfounded. He knew nothing of my secret activities at all! He wished to speak to me regarding a totally different matter: French trousers. It seems the greedy man has outgrown all of his pants due to the amount of milk and eggs he’s been served since his arrival at the base. (Daisy and the chickens have a lot of explaining to do!) As a consequence, he has ordered me to fly over to France and stay there awhile until I have found French trousers large enough to accommodate him. I opened my mouth to object to this outrageous waste of my precious digging time when a daring fly flew in and did the tango with my tonsils.
Pattie and Veronica fell about as they looked at the comical drawing of Mr C clutching at his throat as a fly actually seemed to dance with his tonsils, a very fat man standing behind him, frowning.
So, my dear wife, I will now be stationed in France in search of large pantaloons. Tell my little chick her father is a courageous, gallant hero to take on such a quest and give her a thousand kisses from me. Then give yourself about ten thousand more.
Try using a mirror. I do.
Yours in constant, heroic misadventure,
Your loving husband,
Mr C
PS Please send me a little spade. The others are becoming suspicious about all the missing forks.
Veronica made Pattie read it twice and they sat, wiping at tears as they pored over the clever little drawings.
‘He’s really very good, you know. He should send something in to the newspapers,’ Veronica said, pointing at the man on the cow. ‘Look at that cow’s expression,’ she giggled.
‘I wish he was working for a newspaper and not flying about Europe,’ Pattie sighed, lying back and staring at the ceiling. ‘Do you think he is really off to France? Maybe Mr C is trying to break it to me gently.’
‘Wait for the next letter. He’ll let you know if he is,’ Veronica assured her, yawning. ‘Lord, is it normal to be this tired all the time? I can’t seem to stop sleeping.’
‘Make the most of it,’ Pattie said, patting Veronica’s rounded stomach. ‘It’ll keep you up soon enough.’
‘Oh,’ Veronica gasped. She held Pattie’s hand still at a spot under her ribs where the baby liked to push its little feet, and Pattie smiled as she felt it kick about.
‘He’s awake at any rate,’ Veronica said.
Pattie grinned. ‘You said “he”…’
‘I told you I don’t know at all; I just have a feeling…’
‘I know you know, you witchy thing!’
‘Hmm,’ said Veronica. Truth was she did feel that she knew. From the moment she suspected it was true, and had started hiding it lest they send her home, she’d believed her baby was a boy.
They lay for a while and the baby settled back down, content beneath Pattie’s hand.
‘I wish I could have hidden it for longer,’ Veronica sighed.
‘Jack is far from Cairo now anyway. You may as well be home with us,’ Pattie reminded her and Veronica knew she was right.
‘I just wish I could snap my fingers and have him suddenly here, just for an hour or so.’
Pattie sat up and crossed her legs, holding the letter in both hands. ‘Sometimes I sleep with all of Clarkson’s letters under my pillow, hoping I will dream of him and spend some time with him that way. Silly, I know.’ She shrugged.
‘Does it help? Do you dream about him?’
‘That’s the silliest part. I can never remember my dreams.’
Veronica rubbed her stomach absently. ‘I remember mine clear as daylight,’ she admitted.
‘I wish I could,’ Pattie said turning to look at her. ‘Any dreams about Clarkson? Is he going to turn up in our garden at the end of his tunnel any time soon?’
Veronica laughed. ‘Well if he does I’ll be waddling back down it to go and fetch Jack, fat stomach and all – and just you try to stop me.’
Pattie jumped off the bed and saluted her. ‘Yes, ma’am! I’d best be off. May will be waking up and hungry for her goo.’
‘What’s goo?’ Veronica laughed.
‘All things food. I’m sure she means “good”: at least I hope that’s what she means. I’m not the world’s best cook, after all.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sure that child is already teasing me. I don’t know where she gets it from!’ Pattie left with a wink and Veronica lay back, leaning over on an impulse to her nightstand to pick up the pile of Jack’s letters and stuff them under her pillow. She rested her head and almost instantly fell asleep.
But she didn’t dream of Jack. There were giant mosquitoes again, only this time it was Clarkson who was in trouble as he rode on top of one, trying to hold it with reins as crazed chickens flew alongside. The mosquito pointed its long nose towards the earth and they hurtled down. A large bed of red flowers loomed and she knew he thought they would save his fall as he jumped off, not seeing the thorns beneath them.
Veronica called out but once again she was in her cage.