Stars Over the Southern Ocean

by J. H. Fletcher

  She wasn’t sure what Clarence Gadd, the sour-as-sick minister at the Mole Creek Methodist church, would have made of her prayers.

  ‘But I’m not talking to you, so I don’t suppose it matters,’ she told Clarence Gadd, who had never been a friend. And who might, had he been aware, have attributed her distress to the fact that she was living with a man to whom she was not married.

  Living in sin was how the minister, always eager to disapprove, would have described it. The thing was, it didn’t seem like sin. It never had. It seemed what it was: love pure and absolute, worthy to be glorified and not a source of shame.

  She did not think God would tick her off for that.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait; at least the Germans, and the German navy, were a long way off.

  Nobody had said when the Scimitar would sail, or indeed whether she would be sailing at all, but for reasons she could not explain Marina had the feeling that she was already at sea. Doing what, she had no idea.

  On 7 December the Japanese air force attacked the American fleet based at Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii, and two days after that units of the Japanese army invaded the British crown colony of Hong Kong.

  Marina had taken comfort from the fact that Japan was not in the war and therefore no threat. Now it was, with the Scimitar at sea, while the Japanese fleet might be anywhere.

  There was nothing to be done. There was only endurance and prayer and the drawing down of shutters between herself and thoughts that might otherwise have destroyed her. Day by day. She and Marrek. They barely spoke yet their silence united them as words would never have done. She went to work, as always. Up the track to the top of the Wombat Ridge, then down the other side into the town. Repeating every day the familiar routine that now she used as a shield, protecting her from terror.

  Customers came into the shop. Some had lost sons, brothers, fathers. Only a handful, but enough. Killed or wounded, mourned by the broken-hearted and the fearful, with the war no longer remote but a daily presence.

  Every day, nerves screaming and heart pounding, she waited for a telegram, knowing if it came it would be sent to Marrek, the father, rather than to her, who had no status. Every day she walked to the post office to pick up the mail, finding it hard even to walk into the shop but forcing herself to do so. Every day finding no telegram but no letter, either, telling herself that if the Scimitar were at sea the sending of letters would obviously be impossible. A thought that was true but never stopped her hoping.

  Six weeks after Jory’s departure, Marina knew she was pregnant.

  1942

  CHAPTER 37

  Things had happened during the voyage that Jory would have given all he possessed to forget, but that was impossible; the memories were burnt too deeply into his brain for that. Yet they had also left his mind focused on the one thing that mattered now in his life, the symbol of everything that had been good in those pre-war days when hope and laughter had still been possible. Now nothing mattered but Marina.

  ‘I shall marry her,’ he said. ‘If she’ll have me.’

  One of his shipmates had had a bust-up with his fiancée and had a ring he was keen to sell. Jory gave him five quid for it.

  ‘That’s a real diamond,’ the shipmate said.

  Well, yeah. Maybe; maybe not. It didn’t matter, either way. A ring was a ring, right? He tucked it into his kitbag and, full of purpose, took it on leave with him.

  It was April and he’d been away four months.

  * * *

  Marina had no warning; he just turned up.

  It had rained for a week but on that Sunday the skies had cleared. Marina was home. She heard the door, looked up from the magazine she’d been reading and there he was. Shock, disbelief and joy, one after the other. Her body was heavier now but she still leapt up and ran to him, arms outstretched. She clutched him furiously, holding him with all her strength. Her strong man, the strong body she’d been scared she might never hold again, the miracle she’d prayed for that had come true at last.

  Jory laughed, hugging her in return so hard she felt her ribs creak. Now it was her turn to laugh.

  ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Don’t squash the baby.’ She pulled back in his arms, staring up at him, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘I can’t tell you how I’ve longed for this moment.’

  ‘Baby?’ he said.

  ‘I told you. Didn’t you get my letters?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  Being at sea had made it impossible, but it didn’t matter. He hugged her even tighter as he danced her around the room. ‘That’s the best news yet!’

  He looked the same, except about the eyes. They looked older, as though they’d seen things no man should see, but he was still here, her man as strong as ever, the strong bulwark and protector to whom she now clung.

  ‘How long you here for?’

  ‘Couple of weeks while the Scimitar has a refit.’

  So short a time. A miracle he was here at all but she was greedy for more. ‘I wish you were home for good. I wish this whole dratted business was over and done with.’

  ‘So do I, mate. So do I.’

  She reminded herself that she must be thankful. Jory was here. He was safe. They all were safe: Jory, Marrek, herself and the baby, her body diffused with the warmth of true joy. Joy that only five minutes before she’d been afraid she might never feel again.

  Oh, thank you God, thank you God, thank you God.

  Then it was Marrek’s turn.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ his father said. ‘Been on holiday, have you? Some kinda pleasure cruise?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  A slap on the back, a look that apparently said all that needed to be said. Then it was back to Marina and the baby.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Nothing to tell. The doc says he’s doing fine.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Never better.’

  It was true. She had never felt better. Because at last Jory was restored to her.

  She did not ask him about his experiences. She was afraid to do so. Anything he had to tell her could wait until he was ready.

  Later came the moment for the shared confidences that were as much a part of love as the physical homecoming that had preceded them.

  ‘How bad was it really?’ Whispering, as seemed the right way to approach what might be a forbidden subject.

  She turned her head on the pillow to watch the profile of his face as he lay on his back beside her. Sweat drying on her body, she had an urgent need to know. This, too, was something they must share; she would not let him shut her out from anything he had experienced, however horrible.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it before I go back,’ he said. ‘Not tonight. Tonight I just want to forget about it.’

  ‘But later?’

  ‘I promise. You understand? It’s not easy to talk about some things.’

  For the moment she saw she must be satisfied with that. He turned and took her once again in his arms. More physical love, then. Afterwards, body sated, she did not sleep but lay, watching the moon through the window, wishing with all her might that she could carry them both away to a magical place where there was neither war nor fear.

  Towards morning she slept.

  * * *

  As soon as it was light, Jory dug out his old rod and line, filled a tin with worms and headed off up the coast.

  He’d said nothing to Marina about getting married. The fact was he hadn’t a clue how to go about things. No use asking Dad; like most in that part of the world, Marrek and Ellen had never bothered with the formalities.

  So why was he so set on doing things differently, when he and Marina were already married in everything but name? Because he wanted to do the right thing, not only because he suspected that was what she’d like but for another reason.

  The horrors he’d seen during the voyage had made him realise there was a risk that one of these days he might not be coming back at all, and if there was an
y chance of Marina picking up a pension afterwards, he wanted her to have it.

  Of course, saying and doing were two different things. He’d give himself a day to think about things, then do whatever he decided must be done.

  He went to Bassett Pond, a stretch of water that wasn’t a pond at all but a lake half a mile long and surrounded by forested hills where he’d caught trout ever since he was a kid.

  It was quiet there, and gave him the peace of mind he needed to work things out. It also gave him a good chance of catching fish. Hence the worms; some blokes might favour flies and good luck to them but when you wanted fish a worm was hard to beat.

  So Jory fished, and thought, and fished some more, and after a while he landed a hefty rainbow and then another one. Things went quiet after that and the sun was slanting westwards, a slight breeze rippling the surface of the pond, when he got his hook into a third one. Gave him quite a fight, that one did, the rod bowing and reel screeching as the desperate fish stripped line in its frantic attempts to escape, but it tired eventually and he brought it in and knocked it on the head and that was that. Poor reward for its courage but that was how the world turned, wasn’t it?

  He packed up his gear, said hooroo to Bassett Pond and made his way home just as the sun’s rim touched the horizon, setting the western sea ablaze with golden light.

  * * *

  Marina had thought of going with him but in the end had not, telling herself he needed time and space to find himself again.

  They ate the three trout, plump and rose-speckled, for tea. She tried to interest him in the little nuggets of gossip that she’d saved to share with him but he seemed distracted and paid her little attention.

  The next day he went off again.

  * * *

  More than ever convinced he was doing the right thing, Jory walked up the track, over the Wombat Ridge and down the hill into Boulders.

  He went to see the rector and got a dusty answer for his pains. The rector was old and set in his ways and did not care one bit about the problems of anyone, like Jory, caught up in the war. If Jory wanted to get married in church, well and good, even though he wasn’t a regular member of the congregation, but the correct procedures must be observed. The banns must be read for three consecutive Sundays and that was the end of it.

  ‘But I’ve only got two weeks’ leave!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jory saw he was not sorry at all. Reverend Archer had always had tickets on himself and believed that man was made for the rules and not the rules for man. Protocol must at all costs be observed.

  To hell with it, then.

  Jory went back up the street and had a word with Marina’s mate, Alice Chan. Who, predictably, was thrilled out of her socks when he told her his plans.

  ‘Looks like it’s gotta be a registry office do,’ Jory said.

  Alice was having none of that. ‘Piece of paper in some office? What kind of wedding is that? Every woman wants something to remember, not a stupid office. Flowers and a clergyman, this is most important for her.’

  And Alice wasn’t even a Christian, what Jory had heard.

  ‘What do we do about it, then?’

  Alice was tickled pink that he’d asked; she liked nothing better than getting up to her elbows in helping a friend.

  ‘Must do things properly. You know Strahan?’

  Of course he knew Strahan.

  ‘Know the rector?’

  Well, no, he’d never had the pleasure.

  ‘I’ll fix it for you.’

  Bit between her teeth, that one. In no time she’d got the Strahan bloke on the blower.

  Of course he’d marry them. No banns? No worries. There was a war on, right? In the church or the pub garden? He’d be happy to officiate in either place.

  The sort who might make you think of coming to church. As for the Boulders bloke … Forget it.

  ‘Wedding dress? Reception for friends? Wedding cake?’ Alice was still on the warpath.

  ‘Steady on,’ Jory said. ‘I’m not made of money.’

  ‘Dress is important,’ Alice said. ‘Reception also.’

  ‘We can fix up a few drinks at the pub, maybe. Dunno about a dress.’

  ‘I have a dress she can borrow. I will let it out, maybe, but it should fit.’

  ‘Do you need to? She’s not fat,’ Jory said.

  ‘Of course I need to. Chinese women are more delicate,’ decreed Alice Chan, as delicate as any hatchet. ‘Let out an inch here, an inch there, dress will fit her fine. Trust me.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jory said. What did he know, after all?

  * * *

  When he got home without any fish Marina queried him.

  ‘No luck this time?’

  ‘Never took my rod, did I?’

  ‘What you been up to, then?’

  ‘Things to do. I been thinking. How do you fancy a weekend in Strahan?’

  She stared at him, amazed. In all the time they’d known each other they’d never once gone away together.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Thought it might be nice. Get away from it all for a spell. You got a problem with that?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll tell Horace I won’t be in on Saturday.’

  ‘Will he mind?’

  ‘He’ll moan because he’s that sort of bloke but he can take a hike, far as I’m concerned. He’s had his money’s worth out of me ten times over.’

  ‘As long as it’s okay with you and young Jory.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve finally convinced you it’s a boy,’ Marina said. ‘We’ll be fine. And you’re right. A break will be good for all of us. I’m looking forward to it.’

  She’d visited Strahan once or twice but didn’t really know it. They stayed in a boarding house a little back from the water. From the bedroom window she could see the line of single-storey buildings along the wharf and the vessels moored alongside or anchored a little way offshore. Most of them were fishing boats but upstream were the grey shapes of two warships. Even here there was no escaping the war.

  The river was brown and fast-flowing after the rains and a streak of foam showed where the current ran across the harbour to the entrance that had been given the name of Hell’s Gates because of the tidal rips that had brought more than one vessel to grief over the years. Jory had told her a boom had been placed there to stop enemy submarines sneaking into the harbour but from where she was standing Marina could not see it.

  Jory had said he had something to do so Marina unpacked her suitcase and waited, passing the time by watching people walking along the road that skirted the wharf. At the back of the pub there was a garden. A small area of lawn sloped down to the water and there were beds of what she thought were chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies. Two maple trees wore their red and gold autumnal colours. Noamunga had geraniums in window boxes but, apart from daffodils in the spring, the gales permitted no other flowers, and Marina thought it would be nice to visit the garden, if that was permitted, and walk among the flowers for a change.

  Half an hour later Jory came back. He was carrying a paper-wrapped parcel and a mysterious air.

  ‘What you been up to?’

  ‘Went to see a couple of my mates, didn’t I?’

  There was something on the go; she could sense it but had no idea what it might be.

  ‘And the parcel?’

  ‘Just something I got hold of.’

  Enough to make a girl scream but there was no point nagging him. Jory would tell her when he was ready and not before.

  ‘I thought we might go for a stroll,’ he said. ‘If you’re game.’

  He might have read her mind. He took her down the narrow path to the garden at the back of the pub.

  ‘Is it okay for us to be here?’

  ‘No worries,’ Jory said.

  Marina was happy to take his word for it.

  It was pleasant to walk in the warm sunshine, smell the flowers and finally sit on the wooden bench facing the river.


  Jory pulled a small box from his pocket and opened it. Marina stared at the ring as, slowly, he took it out. The stone shone in the sunlight.

  She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Surely he couldn’t be …

  He was.

  Down on his knee he went, this man, her man, who she would have sworn had never bowed a knee to anyone in his life.

  ‘Marina Fairbrother …’

  Like a stunned mullet she was, but she still found the breath to answer. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes.’

  He put the ring on her finger. A bit loose but it would do.

  ‘Lucky,’ Jory said. ‘Might’ve been awkward if you’d said no.’

  She stared more than ever. ‘Why?’

  ‘We got a date with the rector.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Hour’s time.’

  ‘But I’ve not got a dress. Not got anything.’

  ‘All fixed up.’

  He explained as they went back to their room. Talk about being swept off her feet; it was the first time she’d ever realised what the expression meant.

  She unpacked the dress. She fingered the Chinese brocade material.

  ‘It’s lovely. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Alice Chan lent it to us.’

  ‘I’ll never get into it if it belongs to Alice.’

  Yet she managed. A bit of a wriggle and taking care not to breathe too deeply and it was on.

  ‘A bit tight,’ she said. ‘Squashing my tits.’

  ‘Better not. I got plans for them.’

  ‘Again,’ she said.

  ‘Again.’

  Marina walked to her wedding through the gentle autumnal sunlight. The flowers blossomed especially for her; the quiet river flowed especially for her. Magic as soft as swan’s down settled upon her when she’d expected none.

  She’d expected nothing but there she was. She’d assumed there would be no one to witness the ceremony. Wrong again; there was quite a mob. Alice and Marrek and a handful of friends, Jory’s fishermen mates, the rector and the rector’s wife. Even the publican showed his face.

  All come together to witness her wedding because that was how Jory, darling Jory, had planned it. Her knees were melting even before the service had begun.