Ship of Brides Page 4

  ‘I was going to wait until you’d all finished eating,’ Letty said, and was ignored.

  ‘Go on, then, Mags. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, apparently now in an agony of indecision.

  ‘Go on, we’re all here.’ Her father reached out a comforting hand and laid it on her back.

  She looked at him, then down at the letter, which she now held. Her brothers were on their feet, standing tightly around her. Letty, watching from the sink, felt superfluous, as if she were an outsider. To hide her own discomfort she busied herself scrubbing a pan, her broad fingers reddening in the scalding water.

  Margaret ripped open the letter, and began to read it, murmuring the words under her breath, a habit she had held since childhood. Then she gave a little moan, and Letty whirled round to see her sit down heavily on a chair that one of her brothers had pushed out for her. She looked at her father, apparently grief-stricken.

  ‘You all right, girl?’ His face was creased with anxiety.

  ‘I’m going, Dad,’ she croaked.

  ‘What? To Ireland?’ said Daniel, snatching the letter.

  ‘No. To England. They’ve got me aboard a ship. Oh, my God, Dad.’

  ‘Margaret!’ Letty admonished her, but no one heard.

  ‘Mags is going to England!’ Her older brother read the letter. ‘She’s really going! They’ve actually managed to squeeze her on!’

  ‘Less of your cheek,’ said Margaret, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘“Due to the change in status of another war bride, we can offer you a passage on the—” What does that spell? “Will leave from Sydney” blah-blah-blah.’

  ‘Change in status? What do you suppose happened to that poor soul, then?’ Niall scoffed.

  ‘It’s possible the husband might have been married already. It happens, you know.’

  ‘Letty!’ Murray protested.

  ‘Well, it’s true, Murray. All sorts has happened. You only have to read the papers. I’ve heard of girls who’ve gone all the way to America to be told they’re not wanted. Some with . . .’ She tailed off.

  ‘Joe’s not like that,’ said Murray. ‘We all know he’s not like that.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Colm cheerfully, ‘when he married Mags I told him if he ever let her down I’d hunt him down and kill him.’

  ‘You did that too?’ said Niall, surprised.

  ‘God,’ said Margaret, ignoring her aunt but crossing herself in mute apology. ‘With you lot looking after me it’s a wonder he stuck around at all.’

  A hush descended as the import of the letter settled on the occupants of the room. Margaret took her father’s hand and held it tightly, while the others affected not to notice.

  ‘Does anyone want tea?’ said Letty. A lump had risen in her throat: she had been picturing the kitchen without Margaret in it. There were several subdued murmurs of assent.

  ‘There’s no guarantee you’re getting a cabin, mind,’ said Niall, still reading.

  ‘They could store her with the luggage,’ said Liam. ‘She’s tough as old hide.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Daniel, who, Letty saw, looked profoundly shocked. ‘I mean, do you go to England and that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Margaret, quietly.

  ‘But what about us?’ said Daniel, his voice breaking, as if he had not yet taken seriously his sister’s marriage or its possible ramifications. ‘We can’t lose Mum and Mags. I mean, what are we supposed to do?’

  Letty made to speak and found she had no words.

  Across the table, Murray had been sitting in silence, his hand entwined with his daughter’s. ‘We, son, are to be glad.’

  ‘What?’

  Murray smiled reassuringly at his daughter – a smile that Letty could not believe he truly felt. ‘We are going to be glad, because Margaret is going to be with a good man. A man who’s fought for his country and ours. A man who deserves to be with our Margaret just as much as she deserves him.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Margaret dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘And more importantly,’ here his voice rose, as if to stave off interruption, ‘we should be glad as anything because Joe’s grandfather was an Irishman. And that means . . .’ he laid a roughened hand gently on his daughter’s expanded belly ‘. . . this little fellow here is going to set foot, God willing, in God’s own country.’

  ‘Oh, Murray,’ whispered Letty, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  ‘Brace yourself, lads,’ muttered Colm to his brothers, and began to pull on his boots, ‘we’re in for an evening of “Oh Danny Boy”.’

  They had run out of places to put wet washing. The indoor dryer was loaded to the point where it threatened to pull down the ceiling; damp linen hung from every indoor hook and cable, pegged to hangers hooked over the tops of doors or laid flat on towels on work surfaces. Margaret hauled another wet undershirt from the bucket and handed it to her aunt, who fed the hem into the mangle and began to turn the handle.

  ‘It’s because nothing dried yesterday,’ Margaret said. ‘I didn’t get the stuff off the line in time so it was soaked again, and I still had lots more to do.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Maggie?’ Letty said, eyeing her legs. ‘Take the weight off your feet for a minute or two.’

  Margaret sank gratefully into the chair in the laundry room, and reached down to stroke the terrier that sat by her side. ‘I could put some in the bathroom, but Dad hates that.’

  ‘You know you should rest. Most women have their feet up by now.’

  ‘Ah, there’s ages yet,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Less than twelve weeks, by my reckoning.’

  ‘African women just drop them behind a bush and carry on working.’

  ‘You’re not African. And I doubt anyone “drops” a baby like they’re . . .’ Letty was conscious of her inability to talk of childbirth with any authority. She continued wringing in silence, the rain drumming noisily on the tin roof of the outhouse, the sweet smell of newly drenched earth rising up through the open windows. The mangle squeaked, a geriatric creature forced unwillingly into effort.

  ‘Daniel’s taken it worse than I thought,’ Margaret said eventually.

  Letty continued to work the handle, grunting as she hauled it towards her. ‘He’s still young. He’s had a lot to deal with this past couple of years.’

  ‘But he’s really angry. I didn’t expect him to be angry.’

  Letty paused. ‘He feels let down, I suppose. What with losing his mum and you . . .’

  ‘It’s not like I did it on purpose.’ Margaret thought of her brother’s outburst, of the words ‘selfish’ and ‘hateful’ hurled at her in temper until the flat of her father’s hand brought the diatribe to an abrupt halt.

  ‘I know,’ said Letty, stopping and straightening. ‘They know it too. Even Daniel.’

  ‘But when Joe and I got married, you know, I didn’t think about leaving Dad and the boys. I didn’t think anyone would mind too much.’

  ‘Of course they mind. They love you.’

  ‘I didn’t mind when Niall went.’

  ‘That was war. You knew he had to go.’

  ‘But who’s going to look after them all? Dad can just about press a shirt or wash the dishes, if he has to, but there’s not one of them can put together a meal. And they’d leave the sheets on their beds until they walked themselves to the linen basket.’

  As she spoke, Margaret began almost to believe in this picture of herself as a domestic lynchpin, which position she had held with quiet resentment for the past two years. She had never anticipated having to cook and clean for anyone. Even Joe had understood when she told him she was hopeless at it and, more importantly, had no intention of remedying the situation. Now, forced to spend hours of every day tending the brothers she had once treated as equals, grief, guilt and mute fury fought within her. ‘It’s a huge worry, Letty. I really think they won’t be able to cope without . . . well, a woman around the place.’


  There was a lengthy silence. The dog whined in her sleep, her legs paddling in some unseen chase.

  ‘I suppose they could get someone in, like a housekeeper,’ said Letty eventually, her voice deceptively light.

  ‘Dad wouldn’t want to pay for that. You know how he goes on about saving money. And, besides, I don’t think any of them would like a stranger in the kitchen. You know what they’re like.’ She sneaked a glance at her aunt. ‘Niall hasn’t liked anyone new being around since he came back from the camps. Oh, I don’t know . . .’

  Outside, the rain was easing off. The drumming on the roof had lightened, and small patches of blue could be seen amid the grey clouds towards the east. The two women were silent for a few minutes, each apparently absorbed in the view from the screened window.

  When no answer was forthcoming, Margaret spoke again: ‘Actually, I’m wondering whether I should leave at all. I mean, there’s no point in going if I’m going to spend my whole time worrying about the family, is there?’

  She waited for her aunt to speak. When nothing came, she continued, ‘Because I—’

  ‘I suppose,’ Letty ventured, ‘that I could help out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t say “what”, dear. If you’re that worried about them all,’ Letty’s voice was measured, ‘I might be able to come most days. Just to help out a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Letty, would you?’ Margaret had ensured that her voice held just the right amount of surprise, just the right level of gratitude.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be treading on anyone’s toes.’

  ‘No . . . no . . . of course not.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you or the boys thinking . . . that I was trying to take your mother’s place.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think anyone would think that.’

  Both women digested what had finally been said aloud.

  ‘There might be people who will . . . interpret things the wrong way. People in town and suchlike.’ Letty smoothed her hair unconsciously.

  ‘Yes, there might,’ said Margaret, still looking deadly serious.

  ‘But, then, it’s not like I’ve got a job or anything. Not now they’ve shut the munitions factory. And family should come first.’

  ‘It certainly should.’

  ‘I mean, those boys need a feminine influence. Daniel especially. He’s at that age . . . And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. Anything . . . you know . . .’

  If Margaret noticed the faint blush of pleasure creeping across her aunt’s face she said nothing. If there was something else in her aunt’s face, in the new lipstick, that made Margaret feel a little more complicated about the arrangement, she made a game attempt to push it away. If the price of her own guiltless freedom was for her mother’s place to be usurped, she would be careful only to see the benefits.

  Letty’s angular face was lit now by a smile. ‘In that case, dear, if it will help you, I’ll take good care of them all,’ she said. ‘And Maudie there. I’ll take good care of her. You won’t need to worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about her.’ Margaret raised herself with an effort. ‘I’m going to—’

  ‘Yes, I’ll make sure they’re all all right,’ Letty continued. Anticipation had apparently made her garrulous. ‘If it will really make you feel a little easier in yourself, Maggie dear, I’ll do what I can. Yes, you won’t need to worry about a thing.’ Suddenly galvanised, she wrung out the last shirt by hand and dumped it in the washing basket, ready for the next drying session.

  She wiped her large, bony hands on her apron. ‘Right. Now. Why don’t I go and make us both a cup of tea? You write your letter to the Navy, telling them you’ll accept, and then we’ll know you’re all set. You don’t want to miss your place, do you? Not like that other poor soul.’

  Margaret made her smile seem readier than it felt. The Glamor article had said she might never see any of them again. You had to be ready for that.

  ‘Tell you what, Maggie, I’ll go through your drawers upstairs. See if there’s anything I can darn for you. I know you’re not the best with a needle, and we’ll want you to look as nice as pie when you see Joe again.’

  You were not to resent them, the magazine had said. You had to make sure you never blamed your husband for separating you from your family. Her aunt was now hauling the basket across the room with the same proprietorial familiarity as her mother once had.

  Margaret shut her eyes and breathed deeply as Letty’s voice echoed across the laundry room: ‘I might fix up a few of your father’s shirts, while I’m at it. I couldn’t help noticing, dear, that they’re looking a bit tired, and I wouldn’t want anyone saying I don’t . . .’ She shot a sideways look at Margaret. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s shipshape here. Oh, yes. You won’t need to worry about a thing.’

  Margaret didn’t want to think of them on their own. Better this way than with someone she didn’t know.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Do you think . . . do you think your father will mind about it? I mean, about me?’ Letty’s face was suddenly anxious, her forty-five-year-old features as open as those of a young bride.

  Afterwards, on the many nights when she thought back, Margaret wasn’t sure what had made her say it. She wasn’t a mean person. She didn’t want either Letty or her father to be lonely, after all.

  ‘I think he’ll be delighted,’ she said, reaching down to her little dog. ‘He’s very fond of you, Letty, as are the boys.’ She looked down and coughed, examining the splinter on her hand. ‘He’s often said he looks on you like . . . a kind of sister. Someone who can talk to him about Mum, who remembers what she was like . . . And, of course, if you’re washing their shirts for them you’ll have their undying gratitude.’ For some reason it was impossible to look up but she was aware of the acute stillness of Letty’s skirts, of her thin, strong legs, as she stood a few feet away. Her hands, habitually active, hung motionless against her apron.

  ‘Yes,’ Letty said at last. ‘Of course.’ There was a slight choke in her voice. ‘Well. As I said. I’ll – I’ll go and make us that tea.’

  2

  The two male kangaroos – both only 12 months out of the pouch – which will fly to London shortly . . . will eat 12 lb of hay en route. Qantas Empire Airways said yesterday the kangaroos would spend only 63 hours in the air.

  Sydney Morning Herald, 4 July 1946

  Three weeks to embarkation

  Ian darling,

  You’ll never guess what – I’m on! I know you won’t believe it, as I hardly can myself, but it’s true. Daddy had a word with one of his old friends at the Red Cross, who has some friends high up in the RN, and the next thing I had orders saying I’ve got a place on the next boat out, even though, strictly speaking, I should be low priority.

  I had to tell the other brides back at home that I was going to Perth to see my grandmother, to prevent a riot, but now I’m here, holed up at the Wentworth Hotel in Sydney, waiting to nip on board before them.

  Darling, I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you so terribly. Mummy says that when we’ve got our new home sorted she and Daddy will be over ASAP. They are planning to travel on the new Qantas ‘Kangaroo’ service – did you know you can get to London in only 63 hours flying on a Lancastrian? She has asked me to ask you for your mother’s address so she can send on the rest of my things once I’m in England. I’m sure they’ll be better about everything once they’ve met your parents. They seem to have visions of me ending up in some mud hut in the middle of an English field somewhere.

  So, anyway, darling, here I am practising my signature, and remembering to answer to ‘Mrs’, and still getting used to the sight of a wedding band on my finger. It was so disappointing us not having a proper honeymoon, but I really don’t mind where it happens, as long as I’ll be with you. I’ll end now, as I’m spending the afternoon at the American Wives’ Club at Woolloomooloo, finding out what I’ll need for the trip. The American Wi
ves get all sorts, unlike us poor British wives. (Isn’t it a gas, my saying that?) Mind you, if I have to listen to one more rendition of ‘When The Boy From Alabama Meets A Girl From Gundagi’ I think I shall sprout wings and fly to you myself. Take care my love, and write as soon as you have a moment.

  Your Avice

  In the four years since its inception the American Wives’ Club had met every two weeks at the elegant white stucco house on the edge of the Royal Botanic Gardens, initially to help girls who had travelled from Perth or Canberra to while away the endless weeks before they were allowed a passage to meet their American husbands. It taught them how to make American patchwork quilts, sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, and offered a little matronly support to those who were pregnant or nursing, and those who could not decide whether they were paralysed with fear at the thought of the journey or at the idea that they would never make it.

  Latterly the club had ceased to be American in character: the previous year’s US War Brides Act had hastened the departure of its twelve thousand newly claimed Australian wives, so the quilts had been replaced by bridge afternoons and advice on how to cope with British food and rationing.

  Many of the young brides who now attended were lodged with families in Leichhardt, Darlinghurst or the suburbs. They were in a strange hinterland, their lives in Australia not yet over and those elsewhere not begun, their focus on the minutiae of a future they knew little about and could not control. It was perhaps unsurprising that on the biweekly occasions that they met, there was only one topic of conversation.

  ‘A girl I know from Melbourne got to travel over on the Queen Mary in a first-class cabin,’ a bespectacled girl was saying. The liner had been held up as the holy grail of transport. Letters were still arriving in Australia with tales of her glory. ‘She said she spent almost all her time toasting herself by the pool. She said there were dinner-dances, party games, everything. And they got the most heavenly dresses made in Ceylon. The only thing was she had to share with some woman and her children. Ugh. Sticky fingers all over her clothes, and up at five thirty in the morning when the baby started to wail.’