Layla wriggled her fingers and jammed her hands into her pockets. An arctic wind roared off the ocean, buffeting the small crowd gathered around the Gibbs Bay Anzac memorial.
Her father was right.
Not dressing warmly for the Dawn Service was guaranteed to give you a better appreciation of what the soldiers went through that fateful day at Anzac Cove. Another family tradition she hadn’t been able to shake.
A shiver coursed down her spine.
‘Hi.’ Carise slipped into the chair next to hers. ‘Thought I might find you here.’
‘Hi,’ Layla whispered back, as the president of the RSL blew into the microphone. ‘With everything that’s going on, I had to.’
Carise nodded then tucked her hand through Layla’s arm. ‘I know.’
A mournful bugle call signalled the start of the service. Throughout the two minute silence to remember the fallen, the hymns and the address that focused on the Australian experience overseas, the warmth from Carise’s arm was her lifeline. All too soon, it was time to lay the wreath she’d brought with her.
As the junior school choir sang, Layla rose on shaky legs and joined the short queue in front of the towering monument. At her turn, she took a moment to reflect at the main face of the monument, then stepped around to the northern side where Ben’s name was immortalised forever by a tiny brass plaque. He hadn’t died at war, but he was lost in service to his country. She laid her handcrafted wreath on the step below the plaque and reached out to touch his name.
The metal chilled her to the bone.
She bent her head and sent up a silent prayer that everyone serving their country would be returned home safely. ‘Stay safe, Tate,’ she whispered. ‘I need you to stay safe.’ She walked back to her seat.
Immediately Carise took her hand, holding it between hers. The now familiar words washed over her.
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.
Her eyes filled with tears and she scrabbled in her pocket for a tissue.
After a few seconds she pulled the grainy colour print of Tate’s photo from her purse. He’d scanned her a photo from a few years ago, long before she knew him. Warm brown eyes stared back at her. He was smiling, revealing a seriously cute dimple. His mahogany hair was short-cropped and thick and he looked years younger than the shadow of a man who’d visited her a few weeks ago.
Since he’d sent it, she hadn’t gone anywhere without it.
Could she do this? Be with a military man, live with the risk he might be killed at any time, cope with the realities of life in the service? Could she deal with the fear every time he was deployed overseas, or even back home where accidents did happen?
Layla shivered again.
She looked down into Tate’s smiling face, remembering the rich timbre of his voice, the touch of his hand on hers.
How could she not?
Tate,
Hope you are well and had a good Anzac Day. I attend the Gibbs Bay RSL service every year and the men and women serving in Afghanistan were in the forefront at this year’s service. We said a prayer for Russell Kitchener and your unit was mentioned by name. Our RSL president also laid a special floral tribute.
I made my wreath this year—woven greenery from our garden with tiny pink rosebuds. A bit different to last year’s red poppies (Dad’s choice) but this year I wanted it to reflect Ben and what he meant to me. When we were kids we had this rambling pink rose bush next to the letterbox. The buds were pink, fading to white by the time the flowers opened. I couldn’t find the exact same one, but the buds were pretty close. Next year, if you tell me what your favourite flowers are (if you have a favourite), I’ll add some of those as well.
I can’t believe how quickly the year’s going. I’ve put the gnomes aside and I’m working on the Mother’s Day garden ornaments—our deadline is May first, so I’ll have them available to sell. Busy times.
I thought of you and your unit all day today. I’m always drained at the end of Anzac Day—for me it’s personal. You guys must be a thousand times worse—you’re living it. Anyway, hope you had the chance to remember and reflect. I think about you all the time and I’m really proud of your service. You guys rock.
Stay safe.
Layla.
* * *
Tate stared at the inky sapphires laid out on the bench in front of him, pondering the mysterious ways nature found to display beauty. Some precious stones were transparent and sparkly, but these sapphires had real depth. Most of the time they were a deep navy ink, but sometimes a flash of green split the muddiness.
Every day he paddled away in muddy waters and it took real effort to stay afloat. Then an email from Layla would pop up and cut through the murk. Make him realise there was more to life than working in a base carved out of barren, frozen earth in a foreign land. He’d never really contemplated the future, there hadn’t been any point, but now he thought about it daily.
The newsletter from Lavarack was still sitting in his inbox, with its link to the information on leaving the army. Since the attack, he’d gone to delete that newsletter at least forty times, but he couldn’t. Should he stay in the army? And if he did, would he put his hand up for another overseas tour?
It was decision time but he wanted to sit on his imaginary fence a little while longer. Another few months on and he’d know if what he and Layla had was real.
Or if the attack had affected him.
P.T.S.D.
Post traumatic stress disorder. They’d all heard of it, even been warned to watch out for it in their mates. But how did you know what was normal?
Who knew?
He shook his head. He put that thought aside and went back to the problem at hand. How he was going to prise Layla’s birthday out of her without making it obvious. The sapphires, intended for Valentine’s Day, had never been sent. He tucked them back into their pouch and pulled the keyboard towards him.
Hi Layla,
We’re all a bit down today. We commemorated Anzac Day and had a special remembrance service for Kitch—lots of photos and things to remember the good times. Earlier in the month we all signed a card for his wife that the CO was sending on. Dinner tonight—they took all the Anzac letters from school kids across Australia and made a table mural out of them—they stuck them to the table in the mess and covered the whole lot with plastic. I sat near a letter from a kid called Ken who was practising with his toy gun so he could come and join the army when he was bigger. He even drew us a picture. Classic.
I realised when I read your email, there’s so much I don’t know about you. And vice versa. Here goes—my life in a nutshell:
Siblings: None (I’ve never met my father either.)
Birthday: 2nd July
Star Sign: Cancer—not that I believe.
Favourite Band: Too hard—Muse, Good Charlotte, AC/DC.
Favourite Sport: Cricket, anything with wheels.
Favourite Meal: A steak at the Breakky Creek Hotel in Brisbane. Or home caught and cooked crab.
Least Favourite Meal: Army trifle. A mash-up of the previous seven days of desserts, smothered in custard made from some long-life powder. Technicolour nightmare. Yuk.
Bucket List #1: Visit the Lost City of the Incas in South America.
Ok, now it’s your turn. Can’t wait for your answers. You have to give me some more questions too.
Tate.
Hi Tate,
Ken is the future of Australia! It’s great they do this sort of thing now. We never did stuff like that at school. Hope you are having a better day today—I can only imagine how much Anzac Day takes out of you, where the pain from Russell Kitchener’s loss would still be raw.
All right, here’s some trivia about me, and some more questions for you.
Siblings: Ben—deceased. Honorary sister—Carise, my cousin.
Birthday: 4th June
Star Sign: Gemini. How can you not believe? According to Astrology websites we are going to have to learn to communicate as a key to our relationship—you are quiet and I’m quite the conversationalist and sometimes I need reining in so you can talk (like now!)
Favourite Band: Rogue Traders. They broke up
Favourite Sport: To play—tennis. To watch—tennis. To listen to on radio—cricket.
Favourite Meal: Mexican anything.
Least Favourite Meal: Lamb’s fry and bacon. Anything offal. (Shudders)
Bucket List #1: A trip around the outback in a campervan. Dog included.
Okay, your turn:
I can’t live without my …? (like that old TV ad, do you remember?)
Exercise: Gym or outdoors? Favourite fitness activity?
Favourite Sunday morning bakery item?
Those two things go together for me—I go for a run most Sundays then I call in at the waterfront for a chicken pie. Damn, now I want to go down to the bakery. Some days I’ll be out in the workroom and that wickedly enticing pastry aroma wafts straight off the waterfront and up the hill and before I know it, my mouth is watering worse than Whisky with a rawhide.
Looking forward to your answers. Stay safe,
Layla.
Tate read Layla’s latest email and air-punched. June 4th. He checked the calendar. There was plenty of time to pack the sapphires and send them. He wrote the date on the Bonsai Christmas business card, shut down the computer and with a spring in his step, headed over to the barracks.