The Grazier's Wife Read online

  As soon as the men were safely across, the Causeway was blown up.

  Word quickly spread. The Japanese were already in Johore on the other side of the strait and they’d opened artillery fire on Singapore Island. Now it was only a matter of time.

  Freddy Cornick arrived at work looking pale and drawn.

  ‘Our house was hit last night,’ she told Stella. ‘A blast blew the front door off its hinges and I dived under the dining table. Then there was a second bomb that landed on the verandah. Oh, God, I was sure I was going to die. It sliced the top clear off the sideboard and there’s a great gaping hole in the ceiling now.’ Freddy swiped away tears. ‘Our phone’s gone and the water system’s had it.’

  Stella slipped her arms around her friend. ‘Will a hug help?’

  For perhaps a full minute, the ever-strong Freddy clung to her, trembling, but then she straightened, wiped at her tears and pinned on a brave smile.

  ‘I’m okay, really,’ she said. ‘It’s poor Guy I feel sorry for. He’s started destroying his precious stocks of wine.’

  ‘So he knows there’s no hope?’ Stella was aghast. Guy, like many Singaporeans, had been certain that the moat around their fortress would keep them safe.

  Freddy shrugged. ‘I guess. He hasn’t admitted to giving up hope, but it’s taken him years and years to collect that wine, and last night he stayed up for hours smashing bottles of his best French claret. Today he’s burning bank notes and destroying confidential papers.’ Her mouth turned square as she struggled with tears. ‘It’s just so damn awful.’ Then, with a touch of hysteria, she laughed. ‘I had silk pyjamas hanging on a line on the verandah. And now they’re in ribbons.’

  ‘You should leave,’ Stella told her. ‘Go now while there’s still a chance. You’re a civilian. You don’t have to stay here.’

  Freddy wrung her hands. ‘I’d feel such a deserter.’

  ‘But think of the alternative,’ Stella said gently.

  ‘Oh, Stella.’

  Neither woman dared to actually speak about the alternative, or the potential fate of the military nursing staff after the enemy arrived. Stella tried not to think about it. It was just too sickening to contemplate.

  The hectic pace in the wards was a godsend, really. While she was on duty, doing twelve-hour shifts, she didn’t have time to think about anything but the task at hand. Off duty, she was so weary she fell into bed. But before sleep claimed her, she did send up a prayer for Tom each night. And the bottle of champagne was safely stowed under her bed.

  It was almost a week later that Freddy left. In true Freddy style, she gave all her nursing friends a parting gift – a piece of jewellery, or an item from her wardrobe. For Stella, there was a pair of exquisitely carved white jade earrings and the black and white gown she’d worn to Raffles.

  The girls wept buckets when Freddy said goodbye. The whole world was unsafe now. No one knew their fate. Many ships weren’t making it home.

  Then, out of the blue, Matron called a meeting in her office. Standing stern and square-shouldered, she didn’t beat about the bush. ‘We have orders to evacuate,’ she told them.

  A collective gasp rose from the nurses.

  ‘But we can’t evacuate,’ someone cried.

  ‘What about our patients?’ called another.

  ‘I’m not leaving. They can’t make me,’ a tall, dark-haired sister announced stoutly.

  Stella felt like weeping. She was so very confused – relieved at the thought of escaping from here, but fearful about the journey and, like the others, guilty about leaving patients behind. Only a handful of the men were well enough to face the ordeal of evacuation.

  What would happen to the rest of them? How could they possibly abandon them to the enemy?

  And Tom? What about Tom?

  Conflicting emotions played in the matron’s face. Clearly, she was as upset as anyone. ‘I’m sorry, but you cannot disobey orders.’ She spoke in the no-nonsense voice that always won the nurses’ silence. ‘The first contingent will leave on Tuesday the tenth, on a Chinese ship, the Wah Sui. I’ll compile a list of names for the first group. It will be posted on the noticeboard and there’ll be more lists and dates to follow.’

  This news brought another cocktail of emotions, another cycle of relief, despair, fear and guilt. It was too much to digest. In the end, Stella simply felt numb.

  Peg and Vera were to leave on the first day, and Stella’s name appeared on the next list. She was to leave on the Empire Star on Wednesday, 11 February.

  She tried to get a message by telephone to Tom. The young solider she spoke to sounded hopeful, but there was no response from Tom. She had no idea where he was. In bed she hugged her pillow, remembering his kiss. His arms about her, and sinking into the bliss of his lips on hers.

  I’ll buy you perfume when all this is over. And we’ll go to a tropical beach.

  On the night before Peg and Vera left, Stella opened the champagne. She’d managed to cool it by smuggling it into an ice box.

  The cork popped loudly and the champagne fizzed. The girls drank it out of toothbrush tumblers and tried to be cheerful. They talked about home and the things they were looking forward to back in Australia. They drank a toast to Freddy. And to Guy’s friend who’d supplied the champagne. And for Stella’s sake they also toasted Tom.

  They did their best to keep smiling, but perhaps, like Stella, they were thinking of all the civilian women now being recruited to fill their shoes. Despite their bubbling drink, the party fell a bit flat.

  Back on the ward for the last time, Stella dressed Alan’s arm. ‘I don’t want to leave here,’ she told him.

  Alan frowned. ‘You have to.’

  ‘But what can the army do if I refuse? They’re too busy to arrest me.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. You have to go.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you why.’ Alan looked away for a moment and his Adam’s apple rippled in his throat as he swallowed. ‘Word’s out about what the Japs did to the nurses in Hong Kong,’ he said tightly.

  ‘What?’

  He kept his gaze averted.

  ‘Tell me, Alan.’

  ‘Gang rape. Murder.’

  Stella flinched, went cold all over.

  Alan turned to her. He looked so young and handsome and English with his fair hair and blue eyes. ‘Don’t stay here.’ His eyes were suddenly glittering with tears. ‘Please, don’t stay.’

  Stella, fighting her own battle with tears, pressed her lips together tightly. Her throat was too choked for words, but she nodded and gripped Alan’s good hand.

  He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Goodbye,’ he whispered. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘You too,’ she managed, and somehow, despite the tears, she squee­zed out a smile.

  At dusk, a brief, violent thunderstorm drenched the city. Stella knew she wouldn’t sleep and she stayed on duty all night. To her dismay, throughout the night there was muffled hammering from guns to the north. She had no idea where Tom was. No idea what the gunfire signalled.

  No one seemed to know. Apparently, communication lines were down.

  In the morning, Stella said goodbye to her friends, including Jean, who were due to leave the following day on the Vyner Brooke. Carrying a small bag stuffed with Freddy’s dress and her few possessions, she joined the other assigned nurses from Australia, Britain and India and climbed into the waiting ambulance.

  Each nurse was given a backpack with rations of iron tablets, field dressings, morphine and other medical supplies. They were also given white armbands with red crosses.

  ‘In case you’re caught by the Japanese,’ they were told.

  It was a chilling reminder as they set off for the port, while enemy planes zoomed overhead.

  Such a harrowing journey. The streets were littered with the hulks of burned-out cars. Bodies lay on footpaths, waiting to be collected, and buildings in the Chinese quarters were burning all around them. Driving past, Ste
lla could hear the crackling flames and falling timbers.

  Thick black smoke poured from the oil terminal, and the port and dockland were in chaos, littered with cars abandoned by panicking civilians hunting for a ship.

  The Empire Star had originally been a cargo ship designed to carry twenty-four passengers. Today, two thousand people were crammed into its holds and berths and onto its crowded decks. Embarkation was a lengthy process, but despite the press of people, the mood was calm. Stella supposed they were all stunned as she was.

  ‘In case of bombing, go below decks and take instructions from the officers,’ they were told.

  Stella helped mothers with fractious children and then, as the hot, suffocating day drew to a steaming close, she found a space at the railing on the deck. The sky over the Singapore waterfront glowed bright tangerine. The once-busy port was now almost deserted. She could see the tall rickety buildings of Chinatown, occasional clumps of trees or rows of palms, the more ornate buildings of the business district. Columns of smoke and the glow of fires.

  She remembered the excitement of her arrival in this exotic port. The night at Raffles and the magic of meeting Tom. The next morning in Chinatown. Their spectacular kisses.

  Tom’s promise.

  Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or at the end of this bloody war, I’ll find you.

  Watching the colour fade from the sky, Stella knew she had to believe this. It was the only way she could possibly keep going. She had to believe it would happen. This war would end.

  And Tom would find her.

  13

  To: Jackie Drummond

  From: Flora Drummond

  Subject: Another opera season

  Hi Mum,

  Our rehearsals are about to finish and soon we’ll be moving into the performance venue, so it’s getting pretty exciting here. I always love the first dress rehearsal in the theatre. It’s so different after seeing the singers in their everyday clothes. Something magical happens, even down in the orchestra pit.

  To be honest, I’m in my element. Did I tell you we’re doing Turandot this year? It’s still my favourite opera, even though it’s so grisly with beheadings and stabbings. The music is sublime. Mum, do you remember that summer we discovered ‘Nessun Dorma’ on ABC FM? The first time we heard it we just fell in love, and so we checked the program to see when it might be on again, and we got up at five-thirty just to hear it. Well, I’m finally playing it now, and the tenor is superb – no, not Oliver, but a guy called Jim Bones. Yes, that really is his name. He sounds like a pirate, doesn’t he?

  The soprano who’s playing the princess is a total diva. Everyone’s talking about her. She doesn’t like anyone looking at her while she’s singing – anyone from the cast, that is. She loves the audience, of course. According to Oliver she sweats something terrible under the lights.

  Anyway, that’s enough from me.

  Love to you and Dad,

  Flora xx

  P.S. Oh, and by the way, the lease on my flat is coming to an end, and I’m moving in with Oliver. Colour me happy.

  To: Jackie Drummond

  From: Flora Drummond

  Subject: Temporary promotion!

  Hi Mum,

  Glad you’re okay about Oliver and thanks for giving your blessing. I do understand that you’d feel better if you’d met him before I moved in, but I hope it won’t be too long before we can organise that. Don’t worry, Mum, I know you’re going to really like Oliver. In the meantime, I’ve attached a photo of us (as requested) at Captain Baxter in St Kilda. We look pretty happy together, huh?

  In other news . . . I’m filling in as leader of the second violinists. It’s my friend Amy Fischer’s position, but she’s having physiotherapy on her shoulder and can’t play for a couple of weeks, poor thing.

  I don’t suppose this is really my ‘big break’, but it feels pretty damn important. I sat up all night marking the bowing on my music. Now I just have to make sure I follow it.

  I’m waiting on my good bow to come back from being re-haired. I hope it’ll be ready for opening night.

  Can you tell me more news from home? How’s Dad? How about Seth and Charlie? Seth doesn’t write. I know he’s busy, but it would be great if he could Skype now and then. What about another photo or two? I’m Charlie-deprived.

  Better dash.

  Xx

  To: Seth Drummond

  From: Flora Drummond

  Subject: Thanks for the pics

  Hi Seth,

  Thanks so much for sending those pics on your phone! Charlie is gorrrrgeous!!!! My goodness, he’s growing up fast. I feel like he’ll be at school before I get to see him again. How are things with you, anyway? Are you getting out at all? Having a bit of a social life?

  I know you’re super-busy, so I don’t expect lengthy emails. Just the occasional text would do. As one of my gay friends says, let’s stay in textual intercourse :)

  Lotsa love,

  Floss xx

  On a Friday afternoon at Ruthven Downs, four women sat around a white cane table in a corner of the verandah, shaded by lattice and lavender bougainvillea. They’d all brought notepads and pens. This was a party-planning meeting and the women meant business.

  Jackie had called the meeting after three of her friends had telephoned, all asking how they could help with the party preparations. It seemed foolish to refuse these kind offers, so she had returned their calls and here her friends were.

  Bless them.

  The business of the party had gained such a head of steam that Jackie hadn’t reopened the drawer in her desk with Stella’s envelope. She told herself it had sat behind that mirror for all those years, so it could stay locked away until after the party.

  She felt a bit guilty about it, but Hugh was really looking forward to the party now and she didn’t want anything to spoil his special day. In fact, Hugh was so pleased she’d agreed to this meeting with her friends that he’d volunteered to collect Charlie from day care, while Seth carried on working on a recalcitrant bore pump and several fences that needed mending.

  Now, the women were chattering and laughing as Jackie set down a tray with a coffee pot and mugs, milk and sugar, promising to be back in a moment with something to eat.

  ‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble,’ her neighbour Prue Hargreaves remarked. ‘No home baking.’

  Jackie’s smile was sheepish. ‘Just a slice and scones.’

  Prue rolled her eyes behind her rather dramatic red-framed glasses. ‘Jackie, for heaven’s sake, bought bikkies would have been fine. We’re here to save you work, not to make it for you.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Jackie laughed. ‘I suppose the CWA has a lot to answer for.’ And she sent a wink to Maria Versace, a fellow Country Women’s member.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to complain,’ said Kate Woods, who’d driven over from Burralea. ‘I was busy with a client and I skipped lunch, so if it’s your date slice, I’ll be having double helpings, thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re in luck. The date one’s so easy. It was done in a flash.’

  Jackie hurried off to the kitchen and was back promptly with two platters. The women set to pouring coffee, to eating, and most importantly, to planning. Jackie had already organised the hiring of extra seating, glasses, cutlery and crockery, so they turned their attention to the food to be served.

  As usual, it was Prue who spoke up first. The same confidence that prompted her to wear letterbox red spectacle frames carried into all areas of her life. ‘My golden rule is simple,’ she said as she scooped a dollop of cream onto a scone. ‘Loads of food, loads of drinks, and loads of ice.’

  ‘And not too many nibbles to start with,’ suggested Kate. ‘You want people to still have room for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, keep the hors d’oeuvres simple,’ agreed Prue. ‘For my money, you can’t go past chunks of parmesan cheese wrapped in prosciutto. It’s so easy and the saltiness goes really well with champagne.’

  ‘I like
the sound of that.’ Jackie quickly added this to her food list. Mareeba had a large Italian population and the local deli sold wonderful prosciutto. ‘Maybe we could get away with the cheese and prosciutto and then bowls of nuts for the beer drinkers?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  There were nods all round and they happily moved on to discuss the mains. ‘I was thinking I’d do roast chickens,’ said Jackie. ‘You know, with rosemary and garlic and lemon. I can cook them, plus roast veg, in the oven. And then my Greek Cypriot lamb in the crock pot. I’ll do that ahead of time. It’s easy to reheat.’

  ‘Yum, that Cypriot lamb of yours is divine,’ said Kate. ‘I was wondering about my sticky pork ribs?’

  ‘Absolutely, yes, please.’ Jackie beamed at her. ‘They’d be fabulous. We could keep them warm in the Weber.’

  ‘And I could bring a couple of my big lasagnes,’ offered Maria.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ cried a chorus. Maria was Italian and used to cooking for her huge extended family. Her baking-dish-sized lasagnes were mouth-watering.

  Everyone agreed. This selection would be perfect. They talked quantities and then moved on to discussing salads.

  Prue was famous for her mustard potato salad, so that was a definite.

  ‘And Christy makes a wonderful Moroccan salad,’ Prue said. ‘It’s sensational, with carrots and chickpeas and then lovely spices and almonds. I think there’s orange, too. I know Christy would be happy to make up a couple of big bowls.’

  ‘Oh, heavens, no,’ Jackie protested. ‘Christy must be far too busy with three little ones. She won’t have time to cook for Hugh.’

  The Hargreaves’ eldest daughter had married a local school teacher and had produced three babies, including twins, in an astonishingly short space of time.

  Prue waved Jackie’s concern aside. ‘Christy’s incredibly efficient. She puts me to shame and you know how much she adores Hugh. The whole family does, of course.’

  Jackie knew Prue was also remembering the occasion, many years ago, when the two families had been picnicking on the bank of the Barron River. Christy had been five at the time and she’d fallen into the water. The hole was deep and Christy couldn’t really swim, but Hugh had promptly dived in and rescued her.