The Forgotten Pearl

by Belinda Murrell

  Cecilia looked around at the filthy room and ticked the list off on her fingers. ‘Well, first we need a nice cup of hot tea – so we need water, a fire, some timber and a spade.’

  ‘Why a spade?’ asked Edward, intrigued.

  ‘Because I buried a box full of my best china and silver under the house, and we’ll need some teacups.’

  Everyone laughed, suddenly feeling much better, and set off to scrounge whatever they could find that might be useful. Honey accompanied Poppy, exploring all the old, familiar scents with her nose.

  While Poppy was on her way to fetch a bucket of water from the remaining tank at the back of the shed, she paused beside the filled-in trench where Daisy and Charlie were buried. She gathered a big pile of hot-pink bougainvillea and laid it on the mound, saying a silent prayer for them. Honey pawed at the ground and whined.

  ‘I know, Honey,’ Poppy whispered. ‘I miss them too.’

  When Phoebe arrived home a week later, the house had been scrubbed from end to end. Edward and Mark had made furniture from wooden crates, flour sacks, recycled building materials and iron camp beds from the abandoned army barracks. The cooking was done over an open fire in a cut-down fuel drum, while the house water tank had been righted and repaired to catch the first of the early rains.

  Cecilia and Bryony had scoured the stores in Darwin for basic supplies. Mark bought a bolt of unbleached calico that the girls sewed into curtains. When the house was in order, they had started on the vegetable garden – weeding, hoeing, digging and planting.

  It wasn’t their gracious home from before the war, but it was a start.

  On a warm morning in early December, Poppy was scything the overgrown grass in the garden. She was wearing a pair of Edward’s army shorts pulled in tightly with a belt and an old, ragged shirt belonging to her father. Her hair was tied up with a scrap of calico. On her forearm shone the thin, silvery-pink scar of the shrapnel wound from the day the first bombs fell.

  The scything was hot, heavy work, but it was rewarding as the garden was gradually transformed.

  Honey snoozed in the freshly cut grass, occasionally cocking an eyebrow to check on Poppy’s progress. Poppy was sweeping the scythe in large semicircles under the frangipani tree when she sensed someone behind her. Honey jumped to her feet, tail wagging furiously.

  ‘Hello, Midget.’

  Poppy dropped her scythe and swung around. ‘Jack!’

  She rushed forward to hug him, then checked herself, feeling self-conscious. She hadn’t seen Jack for three and a half years, not since he went off to war, and now here she was – sweaty, dirty and dressed in rags. She swept the piece of calico off her head, wiped it over her face, then quickly fluffed out her hair.

  ‘Jack, how are you? When did you get back? Are you all right?’

  She quickly scanned him, checking for missing limbs or injuries. Jack looked just the same as ever – tall and fit, tanned and healthy, fair hair swept back off his forehead, blue eyes dancing with laughter.

  ‘Glad to see you’re still a hoyden, Miss Midget,’ joked Jack. ‘I thought all those years in Sydney might have turned you into a glamour puss.’

  Poppy swiped at him with her calico rag. ‘Don’t be mean,’ she protested. ‘I’m not a hoyden. I’m just working hard, unlike some.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me to take a seat?’ asked Jack, motioning to the freshly mown grass under the frangipani tree. ‘Is that any way to welcome home a poor, exhausted Aussie digger, who’s spent his youth fighting for his country?’

  ‘Excuse me, poor exhausted Aussie digger, would you care to take a seat?’ Poppy plopped down under the tree, glad for the chance to take a break. Jack moved the scythe and sat down beside her.

  Jack looked at her, now serious. ‘I’m glad to see a flash of the old Poppy. It’s been a long time. I thought you might have forgotten me.’

  ‘Forgotten you?’ demanded Poppy. ‘You’re the one who stopped writing.’

  Jack had the grace to look discomfited. ‘Your letters seemed so full of your schoolwork and friends – it was such a distant world from the one I was fighting in up in New Guinea,’ confessed Jack. ‘Then my brother died, and that was terrible. I was just too sick and tired of it all to write. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.’

  Poppy touched his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. Honey pawed Jack’s arm, begging for a pat. Jack obliged and scratched her between the eyes. Honey woofed with pleasure.

  ‘Well, to answer your questions, I was demobbed in October, so I came straight back to Alexandra Downs,’ Jack said. ‘We fared better down there than you did here because we were a long way from the bombing, plus we had a manager to keep an eye on the place. Mum and Dad moved back a few months ago, so the house was still intact. I had to come to Darwin to deliver a mob of cattle to the meatworks, and I heard in town that you were back, so I thought I’d just pop by to see how you all were.’

  Poppy asked Jack about his family, and he said his dad had recovered from his operation and was back running the station. His mum was devastated after the loss of her son, but was thrilled to have her other two home safely.

  ‘But what about your family?’ asked Jack. ‘I heard your brother had a rough time?’

  Poppy nodded, her eyes growing misty. ‘He’s up and down but getting better,’ Poppy explained. ‘Working on the house has really given him a project to throw himself into, and he’s good with tools. He lost his leg in the last weeks of the war, so he had to have a lot of rehabilitation in Sydney. He was emaciated when he first came back – they’d all been starved and terribly mistreated. He told me he had several bones broken from beatings, not that he likes to talk about it much.’

  Jack winced. ‘I’ve heard it was absolutely dreadful – he’s lucky to be alive. And your sister Phoebe? She’s just arrived back in Darwin?’

  ‘Phoebe went overseas as a nurse, firstly to New Guinea, but then she got really sick,’ Poppy explained. ‘She caught malaria and dengue fever and had to come home for a few months to recover. Mum nursed her – she was desperately ill and terribly sad. She had fallen in love with an American soldier who was killed up in New Guinea.’

  Poppy paused and picked up a frangipani blossom, which she spun between her fingers.

  ‘Then, when the Japanese surrendered, they needed nurses experienced in tropical medicine to go up and look after the rescued prisoners of war at the medical camps in Singapore,’ Poppy continued. ‘Phoebe went in a flash – she says it was heartbreaking, seeing all these British, American, New Zealand and Australian soldiers reduced to shuffling skeletons. Many of them couldn’t walk up the gangway to get on the ships home.’

  ‘I saw some of them when the ships came into Darwin a few weeks ago,’ Jack said. ‘It’ll take the poor blokes a long time to get over the horror of it all. But you should have seen the joy on their faces when they set foot on Aussie soil for the first time in years. It was indescribable.’

  The two lapsed into silence, lost in thought.

  ‘Do you still see Maude?’ asked Jack. ‘Last time you wrote, you were still living at the Tibbets’s place in Manly.’

  Poppy’s face lit up. ‘Maude is great. She’s studying art at university and having a marvellous time. All the boys think she’s gorgeous.’

  Jack pulled a battered piece of paper out of his wallet. ‘I have this photo of you and Maude that I took in Manly that day I first came to Sydney,’ Jack confessed. ‘I carried it with me all through the jungles of New Guinea. It used to remind me why I was up there fighting.’

  The photo was dog-eared and soiled from so much handling. It showed Maude and Poppy as fourteen-year-old girls, their hair salty and windblown, arms around each other, laughing into the camera.

  Poppy felt a wrench in her stomach. Jack had carried
a photo of Maude in his wallet all through the war. He had obviously looked at it often. Was Jack sweet on Maude?

  ‘We look so young and carefree then,’ said Poppy wistfully. ‘That was a wonderful day – at least until you were nearly beaten up by the American.’

  Jack laughed, stroking the photo with his finger. ‘Well, if you weren’t such a flirt, we would never have got into such a fix.’

  ‘Flirt?’ exclaimed Poppy indignantly. ‘I was not a flirt!’

  Jack tucked the photo back into his wallet. ‘No, but that Yank was certainly determined to buy you an ice cream! So I know Bryony was with the AWAS, but what about you? What have you been doing for the last three years?’

  Poppy shrugged and smiled. ‘I did my Leaving Certificate last year and scored pretty well, especially in English,’ said Poppy. ‘My headmistress wanted me to go on to university and get my degree. She said I would regret it my whole life if I didn’t take the opportunity to go to uni.’

  Jack nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  ‘But by that stage I was seventeen; I wanted to get out there and do something useful for the war.’ Poppy smiled at Jack. ‘I was sick of knitting socks and hearing about everyone else being heroes. All the men, like you, were off fighting, and so the girls were encouraged to take over male jobs. I worked in an aeroplane factory out in the western suburbs of Sydney where we built components for Beaufort bombers – fuselages, undercarriages and stern frames. I was a riveter.’

  Poppy pulled a wry face and laughed at herself. Jack grinned at Poppy in her sweaty men’s clothes and tried to imagine her scrambling over a bomber fuselage with a riveting gun.

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t heroic at all,’ Poppy confessed. ‘It was deadly dull and repetitious shiftwork, day and night, twelve hours a day. I thought I’d go mad, my brain was so dead. The noise and heat were incredible and the work was tough and exhausting.’

  ‘Poor Poppy,’ sympathised Jack. ‘I don’t like to think of you working in some horrible factory.’

  ‘Of course, being females, we were being paid a lot less than the men doing the same job,’ Poppy complained. ‘That really annoyed me, and it was made quite clear that as soon as the real workers came back from the war we women would no longer be required.’

  Jack laughed at her contradictory emotions. ‘I thought you’d be glad to get out of there, Midget,’ joked Jack. ‘It doesn’t sound much fun.’

  Poppy pursed her lips in thought and then laughed as well. ‘Well, some of it was enjoyable. I shared a flat with a couple of the other girls who worked there. While the work was ghastly, we did make up for it socialising and going out with some of the boys who worked there.’

  ‘Oh?’ commented Jack, glancing away, his voice flat. ‘That does sound more amusing . . .’

  Poppy gazed at his profile, his clenched jaw. What was wrong with Jack? Had she said something to upset him?

  A glint of gold caught her eye, glimmering in the gnarled roots of the frangipani tree, half-buried in the soil. She stared at the object curiously, leaning over to examine it more closely.

  ‘Jack, look!’ she shrieked with excitement and picked up the object with shaking hands. ‘It’s my pearl! It’s the pearl Mrs Murata gave me, the one I lost on the day Darwin was attacked.’

  Poppy polished most of the dirt off with her fingers and held out the perfect silvery-golden teardrop hanging from a fine gold chain for Jack to admire.

  ‘An angel’s forgotten tear,’ Poppy explained softly. ‘Mrs Murata told me it was a magic jewel of good fortune that would keep me safe. A jewel of wisdom, wealth and healing. I thought it was lost forever.’

  Jack leant in closer and stroked the shimmering pearl nestled in the palm of Poppy’s hand. ‘Well, they are definitely good powers to have,’ he agreed. ‘Would you like me to put it on you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Poppy, handing it over. Jack took the pearl and carefully polished it on the hem of his shirt, removing the remaining dirt. He untangled the chain, letting the pearl dangle in the sunlight.

  Poppy turned around and pulled her hair off her neck. Gently, Jack placed the chain around her neck and fastened the clasp. Poppy could feel his fingertips on the back of her neck and shivered.

  Jack stood up. ‘Well, I suppose you should get back to massacring the grass. Would you like me to help?’

  Jack offered his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘That would be great, but come and say hello to the rest of the family first,’ Poppy said. ‘Mum is making preparations for an amazing Christmas feast. She wants it to be the best Christmas ever.’

  23

  Christmas Feast

  Christmas Day dawned, fair and bright. Edward and Mark set up a long trestle table that had been used at the barracks by the army, under the spreading branches of the mango tree. Seats were made from crates and petrol drums cut in half and padded with fabric, enough for all the family, friends and neighbours that Cecilia had invited.

  Phoebe had made a tablecloth from a white sheet. Bryony and Poppy set the table with the best silver and crockery, dug up from under the house, and decorated it with frangipani blossoms. Edward set up Phoebe’s record-player on the verandah with a stack of records that she had brought from Sydney.

  ‘It’s sweltering in here,’ complained Bryony, mopping the perspiration from her forehead. Cecilia opened the new oven to check on the roasting meat – a leg of pork with crackling and two chickens provided from the Shanahans’ farm.

  ‘Mmmm. You won’t mind the heat when we get to eat real roast pork and chicken,’ Poppy reminded her. ‘I can’t remember the last time I ate roast pork!’

  Poppy and Bryony were chopping baby cucumbers and avocados for the salad. Honey was asleep under the table, her nose twitching at the wafting scents. Phoebe leant against the doorjamb, observing the action.

  ‘You could help, Phoebe,’ complained Bryony, scraping the sliced greenery into a bowl.

  ‘I haven’t cooked a meal in years,’ Phoebe admitted. ‘The nurses always ate in the canteen, or went out for dinner. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘You can start by peeling those potatoes,’ Cecilia suggested, handing Phoebe a sharp knife. ‘It’s nearly time for them to go into the oven.’

  Soon the preparations were all completed and the girls disappeared to freshen up for lunch, touching up powder and lipstick, and tidying their hair. The Shanahans arrived along with the other friends and neighbours Cecilia had invited.

  Everyone mingled in the garden under the shade trees, sipping on icy-cold lemonade or beer. Cecilia’s Christmas present had been a new gas oven and refrigerator, bought at the army disposal auction, along with many other practical items to replace those stolen during the army occupation.

  The girls fluttered like butterflies, wearing colourful floral sundresses, their hair soft and curled. The men sipped on beer, trading stories from their experiences during the war. Cecilia sat on a deckchair, chatting with old friends she hadn’t seen for years. Phoebe and Edward kept a continuous stream of records playing.

  ‘The Red Cross was wonderful,’ Edward explained. ‘They regularly sent in parcels of food, medicines and mail, but the Japanese would rarely let us have them. Well, one day the parcels included these massive seven-pound tins of Vegemite. The Japanese had no idea what it was, so they asked us. One of the fellows had the brilliant idea of telling them it was paint, because if they’d known it was food they would have kept it for themselves.

  ‘So the Japs set us to work painting the barracks with Vegemite,’ continued Edward. ‘Little did they know we were licking it straight off the brush and making sure all the sick blokes in the hospital had plenty, too. I’m sure that Vegemite paint saved a few lives and kept us going for weeks. The guards were furious when they realised the trick we’d played on them – but by th
at stage the Vegemite had gone.’

  Everyone laughed, then Jack’s brother told a light-hearted tale of mateship, laughing in the face of danger and endless mud on the Kokoda Trail – and being looked after by the ‘fuzzy-wuzzy angels’ – the New Guinean villagers who saved the lives of countless injured Australian soldiers by nursing them and carrying them to safety.

  Cecilia called everyone to sit down at the table, with Mark at the head and Edward at the place of honour at the other end. The older generation sat at one end, gossiping together, while the younger generation gathered at Edward’s end. Honey stayed under the table, hoping to catch some fallen scraps.

  Bryony and Poppy laid multiple dishes down on the table – green salad with avocados and baby cucumbers from the garden, baked potatoes and pumpkin, a jug of gravy, tiny truss tomatoes with chopped spring onions and basil, a huge tureen of apple sauce, mustards, sliced cold ham and minted green peas with butter. Mark carved the huge leg of pork with crackling, while Edward carved the chicken and stuffing.

  Everyone helped themselves to whatever took their fancy, passing the plates from hand to hand, then Mark said grace.

  Everyone filled their glasses and Mark made a toast. ‘Here’s to a wonderful celebration of family and friends, returned safely home again.’ Everyone clinked their glasses, smiling.

  ‘And to those who won’t be coming home again,’ Cecilia suggested.

  ‘To my brother Harry,’ said Jack, exchanging glances with his parents and Danny.

  ‘To Daisy and Charlie,’ said Poppy, her voice choked.

  ‘To Iris,’ said Edward.

  ‘To Henry,’ said Phoebe with a muffled sob.

  ‘To all our friends and family who sacrificed their lives so we could enjoy this day,’ said Mark.

  There was a moment’s silence, and a few tears as everyone thought of those who had died.

  ‘Now let’s enjoy the afternoon,’ suggested Mark, picking up his cutlery.

  Then everyone shared in the best meal that any of them had eaten for many years, smiling and talking and laughing and joking and sharing stories.