It wasn’t.
Sam was quicker. Sam picked it up and threw it just as it exploded.
No more Sam. Blood, and strange sticky bits, and coils that looked like rubber snakes. But they were no longer Sam.
Nicholas hit the ground, fired at the person who had thrown the grenade, feeling an unearthly coldness across his lower body, trying to ignore it because he had to act, not think about himself. It was so cold it was hard to breathe. No pain in his legs but in his chest. It was the cold that wouldn’t let him breathe. But he had to breathe because he had to act, had to kill the person who had destroyed Sam . . .
The person in the doorway moved again. Nicholas couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t roll over, but he could still aim and fire. Once, twice, hitting the kid in the chest and then the face, so he knew he was dead.
Ten years old, perhaps. A kid, like those at River View, not much older than Scarlett. Every time he wiped a kid’s nose or read one of them a bedtime story he thought of the child back in Vietnam.
Viet Cong. An enemy. A kid.
He had lost his legs and killed a kid and didn’t know which one was worse. Hadn’t even had the guts to tell Sam’s parents, because what could he say? Your son was killed by a ten-year-old boy throwing a ball from a doorway. But don’t worry: I killed him back.
Of course, he could tell them that Sam died saving his life instead, which was true. But what if he broke down and told them the rest?
Not much of a story. Less than a minute to live it. A few minutes to tell. But it was the heart of what was left of his life. A life he wasn’t sure he even wanted; he lived only because Sam had died trying to save him, and it would be a betrayal of that sacrifice to die too. Sam, who hadn’t even recieved a medal because there was no officer to see it happen and put it in a report.
Why hadn’t it been Sam who lived, and he who had died?
Or perhaps he had died, the part of him that most mattered. Perhaps this was all that he would ever be.
Chapter 78
JED
He still looked at the river, not at her. Jed was glad. It was impossible to keep the horror from her face. Horror at what had been done to him. The horror of the child’s death . . .
He looked back. Saw the horror. Accepted it as his due. ‘So now you know. That’s what’s linked us, really, all these months. Guilt. We both killed a child. Or rather, I really did, and you felt you did.’
She tried to find the words, to find what was important in his story. Because this man was not a murderer. She had met a murderer, and he had not been like this, tormented and destroyed. ‘You . . . you had to do it.’
‘Did I? Sam had already died. I had already lost my legs. That kid dying made no difference to any of that. It was done and dusted. I killed him because in that second I hated him.’
‘He might have killed other people.’
‘Yeah. He probably would have. But Vietnam was his country. If Gordon or Scarlett tried to fight an army that invaded Australia, would you forgive the person who shot them?’
And Scarlett would fight for her country if it was invaded, Jed thought, wheelchair and all. She thought of Nancy and Matron Clancy. Had they forgiven whoever had killed Moira’s son, Nancy’s nephew? She had never asked, but she knew the answer.
They would not forget, but they had forgiven. Those were not women who held hatred in their hearts. All at once she thought of Mr Sullivan, the men at Honeysuckle Creek. Perhaps they were part of the Cold War being acted out in the space race. But for them the Russian cosmonauts were colleagues, fellow humans, not enemies. They mourned their tragedies, celebrated their achievements, as fellow humans, beyond the prison of false borders. The people she had worked with had not been inspired by hate.
She remembered Matilda’s words, praising her for not being bitter. Had she forgiven Merv? Debbie?
No. Not yet. But even that man who had tried to kill her must have been empty of something other people had. She could pity him. Could even pity Merv and Debbie. And one day . . .
‘I think I could forgive,’ she said quietly. ‘It will take a long time. I’d need to understand how they became the kind of people who could do what they did. But yes, I’d forgive.’
‘Ah,’ he said slightly. ‘That’s where we’re different. I can’t forgive myself. Or forget. Jed, please understand. Everything you’re offering me is wonderful — would be wonderful, for the person you thought I was. But even I don’t know who I am, or what I want.’
‘You . . . you might find out if you tried it. Stayed at the house for a while. Separate bedrooms if you want. I . . . I wouldn’t expect anything.’
‘No,’ he said softly.
She couldn’t plead any more. ‘What will you do?’
‘I’m going to stay with Dr McAlpine’s sister, up in the mountains. It will be good to be away from everyone.’
‘Including me.’
‘Jed. Darling Jed.’
She only had to cry now. It would be so easy to cry. To say, ‘I’m scared of going to Sydney by myself, to uni not knowing anyone there. I need you. Don’t leave me.’
If she said those things, if she cried, she could make him stay, make him go to Sydney with her, hold her hand while she found her bearings.
It took all her strength to say it: ‘Can I write to you, up in the mountains?’
She saw relief flow across his face, knew that the hardest choice she’d made in her whole life had been the right one.
‘Please do. I’d like to know what happens next in your life. It’s going to be a wonderful one, Jed.’
And it would be. But how could she tell him that no wonderfulness would ever make her life whole if he wasn’t in it too?
‘Bend down, so I can kiss you goodbye.’
It was a soft kiss, lingering just long enough that she almost began to hope.
And then he moved his lips away. She straightened. ‘I’ll stay here for a while.’ She tried to smile. ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye.’
He didn’t ask whether she meant today, or when he left for the mountains. She was pretty sure he meant both when he said, ‘I won’t.’
She watched his chair roll back along the path, and vanish behind the shrubbery. Only then could she sink onto the grass, and cover her face, and cry the tears that had been waiting all day — for the loss of Tommy, and now the loss of her future, the one she had been so sure she had seen, her future with Nicholas.
Chapter 79
NANCY
She felt the first big pain stab her like a bayonet as she lifted another plate of sandwiches in the kitchen, then the liquid, running down her legs, pooling as stains on the floorboards. There’d been vague cramps, pushings and pullings, and nausea too, since the day before, but she’d pushed it away. No time for anything but Tommy now. And no way was her baby coming yet. It was too soon. It simply was too soon!
Her first instinct was to get a mop, clean it up. Then the terror spread, mixing with despair.
The pain stabbed again. This time she cried out. Five weeks early. Couldn’t she have kept her baby safe for five more weeks?
‘Nancy?’ Jed, running up the back steps.
‘The baby is coming. Get Michael. Moira. Don’t tell anyone else. Please.’
‘But —’
‘I don’t want Matilda to worry! Let her have this afternoon. Let her say goodbye to Tommy. Ah!’ She caught her breath. ‘Please. Hurry.’
She bent, trying to ease the pain. It clutched her, grabbed her back and hips in one long fierce fire. How could she have done this to her baby, to Michael? Could a five-weeks-premature baby survive?
‘Come on, darling.’ Michael, quiet, capable, his arms, his wonderful arms, always there when she most needed them. ‘Moira has the car down by the McAlpines’. Anita is calling the hospital. Can you walk there?’
‘Yes. Michael, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have gone to Sydney —’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
She glanced at him, surprised, then
gasped in pain again.
‘Don’t push,’ said Jed. ‘Think of the river, flowing along. Try to let your body relax. Just don’t push.’
What did this girl know about unpanicked childbirth, who had somehow survived her own with no help? But she was evidently coming with them. Michael was supporting her under one shoulder, Jed the other.
Moira, darling Moira, the car engine running. ‘Moira, I’m sorry —’
‘Michael, you drive,’ Moira interrupted decisively.
‘But I want —’
‘If this baby is coming fast, I know what to do, and you don’t. Drive!’
Nancy sprawled, half lying on the back seat with her head in Jed’s lap. Jed stroked her forehead, almost soothing, except everything hurt. Moira, on the other side, lifted her skirt and pulled off the wet undies.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sshh. This is how it always happens.’ Moira smiled at her over the lifted skirt. ‘Wet pants and blood and pain and then a baby.’
‘But it’s too early.’
‘Maybe not. You’ve been as big as a hot-air balloon. And your periods weren’t regular, so it was always going to be difficult to calculate a due date.’
‘But Joseph and the obstetrician said —’
‘Doctors can be wrong.’ Her voice implied that men, at least, very often were.
Nancy tried to suppress a scream. The car lurched, skidded, righted. ‘Sorry,’ said Michael.
‘Just get us there in one piece.’ Moira still stared under the billow of Nancy’s skirt. ‘No sign of crowning yet. Contractions about three minutes apart. We’ll get you there in time.’
Michael pressed his foot on the accelerator again.
She was lost in waves of pain, and the even stranger times when pain retreated for a while, by the time they jerked to a stop at the hospital. Guilt took over then, and terror, mixed with the warmth of love about her — Michael, Moira, Jed — love so strong she would have cried except there was no time for tears between the pains and all the fluid in her body was coming out as sweat, or the waters still pulsing out of her with each wave of pain.
A metal trolley, Joseph, two orderlies wheeling her in. Michael, holding her hand, and then a nurse. ‘Sorry, the family must wait here.’
‘I want Michael.’
‘No, you don’t, dear. This isn’t the place for men, now.’
But doctors were men.
She kept her hands on the swell of her belly, as if hands could protect the small person within her, the person she already loved, would always love . . .
Moira, still with her. Matron Moira, darling Moira. Moira, who had lost her own child, who must feel agony at this, reminding her of what she had been through, all she had lost and could never have again . . .
‘Moira, you don’t need to stay.’
‘I’m staying.’
Where was Jed? Sweet Jed. Jed would keep Michael safe. Talk to him. Be with him.
The trolley that was a bed was wheeled into another room. Nancy managed, ‘Need to be by the window.’
‘Now, love, don’t worry about that,’ soothed the nurse.
‘Move her bed near the window.’ The Matron Clancy voice. Moira did not understand why Nancy must see the land outside at the moment of her child’s birth. But she knew Nancy, and trusted her.
It wasn’t far. The bed creaked . . . Moira opened the curtains further.
‘Okay now?’
‘Yes.’ A pant, and then a cry.
She heaved herself upright to see better out the window, and watched the sky without seeing it for minutes or hours, while her body did incredible things. Deep, grunting, squeezing, twisting things she’d had no idea it was capable of. She was exhausted, she was shaking with exhaustion, but it didn’t stop. It hurt, but not in a way she recognised. Even though she was desperate for it to be over, she was astonished to see the window was dark.
It stayed dark as her body convulsed unproductively. How could there be this much pain, for so long, and no baby? Sheep did it so much better. And horses. And birds.
Pain again. She had tried not to scream before. Had no strength to stop herself now. Maybe screaming would let her body free the baby inside her.
Still dark outside. Stars. Why hadn’t her baby come? ‘Joseph, something’s wrong, isn’t it? Please, you can tell me.’
‘I would tell you.’ She heard truth too. ‘It usually takes this long. Nothing to worry about.’
She heard the word he didn’t say: yet.
A flapping of wings outside. A powerful owl, by the sound of them. He’d be flying down to the river. Suddenly she knew that was where she needed to be, with the swans, their heads tucked under their wings, asleep among the reeds, the river flowing, always flowing . . .
She looked at the dark square of window again. But it was grey sky now. She let her mind fly to the river again, to float with the swans across the water. What was that lullaby Gran sang? ‘Guide my soul across the darkness, night-time’s river soft and deep, guide my soul into the daylight . . .’
‘She’s fully dilated, doctor.’
‘All right.’ Joseph’s voice, reassuring, but she knew him too well to miss the anxiety. ‘I want you to push, with the next pain. Gently, slowly. Not too hard. Can you do that?’
Back from the river now. Back to pain. But her body felt different. Stronger. Like it finally had worked out what to do. ‘Yes. Joseph, I’m sorry . . . aah . . .’
‘The humidicrib is ready. This bit is up to you. Don’t push till the contraction.’
More pain. Pain and pain, panting to stop the contraction pushing her baby out too fast.
Pain and pain and pain . . . didn’t Joseph see she needed to really push now?
‘Okay, push hard now on the next pain. Hard as you can!’
And at last she could do what her body ordered. She pushed.
Pain. And push. Pain, and push. Moira, holding her hand.
Joseph, sounding calmer. ‘I can see the head now. You’re doing well. One more big push. That’s it. And now gentle pushes again . . . and wait . . . and with the pain, just push easily, keep breathing now, and another.’
She felt her scream might tear down the walls, but the ceiling didn’t fall. She screamed again as the baby slithered out. And she felt the baby move and heard its cry.
Baby. Her baby. Alive. Breath to cry. Her baby must be all right. Please, please, let it be all right.
A boy? A girl? Why did they all say nothing?
‘Please?’ she gasped.
‘Doctor, there’s something wrong.’
Wrong? ‘Please,’ she cried, and found she’d made no noise. She tried again. ‘Please?’ But now even Moira had vanished from her side, was staring between her legs. She was the only person in this room who could not see what was happening there; who had to see, to know.
Her baby! She had to keep her baby safe! Anything, she prayed. I will give anything, my life if it must be. Just keep my baby safe.
The bayonet stabbed again. She screamed.
Chapter 80
MATILDA
She sat on the veranda in the dark, in the old cane chair, where she had sat for more than fifty years each evening with Tommy, watching the sunset, where she had stood that first time and seen his car crunching up the drive. She had dozed off in the sitting room, like the old woman she refused to be yet, while the guests drifted away. She wasn’t sorry to have missed so many farewells, so much sympathy. Even the family had left her to rest. It was all over, and she had wakened, in the night, alone.
She could not go to the bedroom they had shared. She came out here instead, grabbing a quilt from the linen cupboard to keep her warm, in the chair next to his.
But he was gone.
And yet . . . More than fifty years, she thought, fifty years of breakfasts, watching the moon rise, seeing the eagles soar. Reading out letters to him from their sons, or bits from the local paper. Listening to the wireless at night . . .
I have fifty years
of memories, she thought, like ornaments in a china cabinet, to take out and cherish and polish. If I remember each one only once, I will be . . . She smiled. Ancient. And, she thought, still happy. She didn’t need Tommy’s ghost to have him near either. She could shut her eyes now and feel him in the chair next to her. Or inside, working in his study. You don’t lose companionship like that, just because your beloved dies. You only lose the chance to make new memories. But surely she was rich enough in memories, without begrudging the loss of more.
Tommy was still there, every smile in the dining room, the warmth of him on the sofa. Had been in those rooms all the last year, even though he had been confined upstairs.
She brushed the tears from her cheeks and heard his voice behind her. ‘I don’t like to see you cry.’ A caress, as light as a breeze, which it might indeed have been, just as the voice might be her imagination. She’d had imagination deep enough to see Drinkwater and the empire she had carved for herself — carved deliberately; it was no accidental acquisition. She could dream up a ghost too.
It didn’t matter, she thought. Just as it didn’t matter if the voice she heard down at the billabong, whenever she went there for comfort, was her father’s or her own.
Had Tommy’s great-granddaughter really seen Jim O’Halloran? She suspected she had. A nice girl. No, not nice, just as no one, ever, could have called Matilda nice either. Nor Nancy. But a girl she could deeply like. She was glad she had Jed in her future. And Michael and Jim and grandchildren and all the horde . . .
The phone rang. She went cold. She looked at her watch, the gold one Tommy had given her forty years ago. Twenty past seven in the morning. A call so early could only mean . . .
Steps, behind her. Anita stared at the quilt, at yesterday’s funeral clothes, then said, ‘It’s Michael, Mrs Thompson.’
No, she thought. Not Nancy. Please, she prayed, let no harm have come to her or the baby. I can bear the loss of Tommy, but not two tragedies so close. Her cramped knees protested as she stood and walked down the hall, then she lifted the receiver, the far-too-heavy receiver. ‘Michael?’ Her voice was a cat’s scratch.
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