A small section of the hall seemed to fade away in shock. The Overhills were the Bald Hill electorate; the Bald Hill electorate belonged to the Overhills. The only question should have been: When would Malcolm take over from his father? Hands reached up to shake Mr Upton’s hand, and Sophie’s. But I haven’t won, she thought. Why do they shake mine?
Women were hugging her. Midge, Georgina, Maria, Green, a dozen others.
‘Wonderful, darling! You did it!’
‘You showed them!’
‘Old Overhill is spitting chips!’
‘Votes for women!’
‘But I lost,’ said Sophie helplessly into the delighted congratulations swirling around her.
Midge stepped back. ‘Darling, you didn’t really expect to win?’
Of course I did, thought Sophie numbly. I always win. They cheered me, so I thought I’d win.
‘It’s the most incredible result for a woman in any federal election!’ said Maria enthusiastically. ‘Another two elections, or perhaps three, and there really will be a woman in federal parliament.’
But not me, now, thought Sophie. I didn’t win! Even Maria didn’t think I would win . . . why did I even bother?
A strong hand grabbed hers. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Miss Higgs,’ said Mr Upton. ‘There was no way we’d have won a stronghold like this without you.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’
‘Preferences, girl! I got in on the strength of your preferences! You took away enough Nationalist Party voters to get my primary vote up, and your preferences got me over the line. All of the Labor voters who went your way gave me their preferences. You won this election for me, and I won’t forget it.’
‘I . . . I’m glad. Congratulations,’ she said belatedly.
‘You’ve got it right at Higgs too. Workers and management sitting down and discussing things. That’s what we need nationally, eh? Have to have a chin-wag about it some day . . .’ Mr Upton was borne away on the shoulders of supporters.
The Overhills and their cars had vanished.
‘Champagne,’ said Georgina firmly.
‘Tea,’ said Midge equally firmly.
‘I . . . I think I need to go home,’ said Sophie desperately. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night.’
‘Of course! I’ll drive —’ began Georgina.
‘No, stay. Please.’ Celebrate with all these women toasting each other, with teacups or fruit punch or, daringly, tasting champagne, because for some reason they all did seem to think this was a major victory. Which possibly it was. A victory for women, a seat won on women’s preferences, the establishment of a major female voting block.
But she had lost, had lost, had lost . . .
‘Sophie, are you sure?’ asked Maria, worried. ‘You don’t look well. Mrs Harrison, your home is closer. Perhaps Sophie and I . . .’
Midge met Sophie’s eyes. For a moment Midge looked unsure, and then she nodded. ‘Use the shortcut,’ she said, and turned to reassure Maria.
Chapter 43
There is so much comfort in the warmth of another person next to you.
Miss Lily, 1902
The fire still glowed by the hut at John’s gate. Of course he must know that Midge would pass on her way back, and be ready to open and shut the gate for her. The stones with their carved crosses shone pale red in the firelight — whiter in the headlights. She turned off the car’s engine as he stood. He knew I was going to stop, she thought vaguely as he walked towards the car, not the gate.
She sat, still in shock.
‘Sophie?’ It was the first time he had used her first name.
‘I lost the election.’
‘I thought you would,’ he said gently.
‘Did you vote for me?’
‘I didn’t vote. Don’t vote. Not yet.’
‘I thought I’d win. I really did. They cheered me. Cheered and cheered. Everyone was so polite and encouraging when we visited them. But they didn’t vote for me. Or not enough of them.’
‘But you almost made it.’
‘How do you know that?’
He shrugged. ‘Blokes talking. People move like a tide, sometimes. You can tell which way the water’s flowing just by talking to a few. People around here wanted to say they liked you, admired you, so some of them voted for you, just as soon as they were sure there wouldn’t be enough votes for you to win. They’re not ready for a female MP yet.’ He made no move to open the gate, nor to nudge the billy onto the coals. ‘Sophie, why have you come?’
And she knew. Had been calculating, even as she told herself she should not do this, that this man’s body was the only one that she could safely join; a man who had no ‘honourable intentions’ or designs on her fortune, who had no wish for a woman’s life to join with his. No one would ever know of this, except for Midge and maybe Harry, who had already drunk quite a bit of beer with his army mates before she had even left. Maria and Georgina would assume she had stayed at Midge’s place.
Had Midge guessed that she intended this, or thought that she simply needed an outsider’s wisdom, a quiet place to reassess the world, and talk? She could trust Midge not to gossip. And even if she did, just now she didn’t care.
She took a deep breath, and tried to keep the pleading from her eyes. ‘I want to spend the night with you.’
‘Why?’ He might have been asking why she preferred brown bread to white.
‘Because . . . because four men have asked me to marry them, and only one of them ever kissed me properly, and only once, and I am twenty-nine years old and have never been with a man and tonight I need to be.’
‘Sophie, don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not! Make love to me. Please.’
‘I am convenient?’
He sees too much, she thought, but not enough. ‘Yes. But that’s not why I am here. You are sunlight after too many years of shadow. You are the scent of gum trees after the suffocation of offices and drawing rooms. I want to make love to you . . .’
He said nothing. Did nothing.
‘You don’t want to,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Of course you don’t want to.’
‘Of course I want to. Too much. No, not too much, I just . . . didn’t expect this. Not yet. Not like this either. I’m trying to work out what to do.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘You are champagne and feather beds and all I have is a sacking mattress.’
‘That’s what I need. Exactly what I need.’ She tried to read his expression. Yes, he did want her. But she had known that ever since she met him. And the refuge he had chosen was one where the only women he was likely to meet were Midge and Mrs Morrison, both happily married. Was celibacy part of his vow to himself too — a necessary part of healing? Was that why he hesitated now?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said abruptly. ‘I should never have intruded like this. I should go.’
‘No. I just . . . need to readjust my world a bit.’ But he smiled tentatively as he said it.
‘You’re sure?’
‘No, of course not.’ But the smile was still there, and more certain now. She thought she saw joy, then — unexpectedly — amusement. ‘You know, I think I’ve worked out what we need to do first.’
‘What?’ she asked, still dazed.
‘I think, to begin with, you need to come out of the car.’
Chapter 44
Yes, I remember the first time I made love, which was not the first time I had sexual relations, but four years after. And there was nothing — nothing — similar about the two.
Miss Lily, 1914
Firelight, shining through chinks in the bark wall. A mattress that was literally covered in sacking and smelled like it was filled with fresh gum leaves — and crackled like gum leaves too when she moved on it. The hut floor was dirt, but swept clean and hard. Cans were arranged on rough plank shelves, some with labels, others well washed and holding what looked like seeds, or dried berries, or rusty nails.
His hands were not rough at all, just calloused from
the chiselling.
She stood, shivering despite the warmth of the night, as he undressed her, slowly, almost as if he were Green, giving her a chance to protest and move away. He threw back a sacking sheet, smelling of leaves and sunlight, and she lay down. He covered her with the sheet to her waist while he undressed himself, once more, slowly, so she might still have time to object.
She didn’t.
‘You look like a woodcut,’ she said softly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A book someone gave me, years ago, to teach me how men and women . . . come together.’
He smiled, but still looked solemn, almost as if this were a rite he must do well. ‘So you know what comes next?’
‘Only theoretically. And in fifty-six positions.’ His skin was so white where his clothes had covered it.
‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘we will try only one first. Sophie, are you sure?’
‘Yes. Are you?’ She leaned on one elbow, looking anxious as he lay down beside her. He wanted her physically — Miss Lily’s lessons had taught her that much and she had watched men in hospitals for almost five years too. But physicality was not enough, tonight.
‘I’m sure. I think . . . I think perhaps I have carved my twelve thousand. I think it is time to do this too. I think . . . I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and this is the rightest thing I have ever done.’ He stopped and kissed her.
This kiss went on. Hands joined and bodies too, legs twining. It was all as if it was that one long kiss, the first kiss, but there were hands as well as lips, and in unexpected places . . .
Pleasure, like a burning flame. She heard herself cry out, felt pain burn too, a tiny one, lost in the happiness. Then he cried out as well. She found the kiss had ended and she was wrapped in his body, his arms about her. Their breathing slowed. At last he said, ‘Fifty-six, you said?’
‘I’m not sure I remember them all.’
‘Shall we try?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Sophie.
Later, much later, she heard a car. Midge, she thought. Then — she will see my car. See that we are not sitting around the fire, drinking billy tea.
She did not care.
He left her then, throwing on shorts and shirt; the car left, and he came back to her. She didn’t ask if Midge had commented, if Harry had been awake. He looked down at her, uncertain for a moment, then smiled, and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘I feel like a car that needs new brakes and four new tyres and will never be the same.’
She leaned up on one elbow. ‘You make me sound like a car wrecker.’
‘Cars can be put back together, maybe better than they were before. I’m just going to have to work out how to do it. I just . . . thought I knew how my life would be for the next few months, or years. And now suddenly I know nothing. How many of your fifty-six are we up to?’
‘I’ve lost count.’
‘Then we must begin again.’
Chapter 45
Love does not last forever. Nor do we. But love lasts longer, than a person.
Miss Lily, 1914
She woke to a kookaburra call.
And he was gone. The fire was warm, the coals still glowing under the ash, but no fresh logs had been added to it.
‘John?’ and then more loudly, ‘John!’ Perhaps he was relieving himself behind a tree, or wherever else he did it. Speaking of which . . .
There was a creek in the gully, but he wasn’t there. She washed her face, between her legs. She turned and saw a black snake watching her, as if to say, I am a stick, ignore me and go on with life.
She stood and walked back to the hut. ‘John!’ she called. ‘John!’
Still no answer.
He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there. He had finished the twelve thousandth cross, and he was free to live again. Sophie Higgs was part of the life of John. And he was not John now. Or perhaps when he woke this morning he had realised he still was John, had to be John, but could not be in her presence.
He could not have gone far, not unless he had walked out to the road to get a lift. He had either fled, or must be near enough to hear her, but did not answer. She did not know which she dreaded more.
I do not even know his name, she thought. And then, a spurt of anger: he should not have left me without a word.
Another thought: he did not ask me here. Last night was my choice. Had she forced him, for charity, to lie with her? A vulnerable, war-damaged man? Once again physical willingness was not the point. Would he have chosen this if she had not been dazed and needy, after the first time she’d ever been denied something?
She was a child who had always got her own way, always. Had created her hospitals, dined with the Queen. Even her loss of Angus had been cut short by the possibility of a future with Dolphie . . . and the loss of Dolphie made small by the wonder of coming home, taking up what she had wanted most since she was three years old — her father’s empire. She’d been accepted as her father’s equal, then strode on to make that empire greater.
She had taken everything she wanted. She had taken him last night, because she was lost and he was beautiful. Perhaps she had even thought he might love her, one of those ‘underthoughts’ you pretended to yourself you never had.
She sat on the fruit box — the fruit box she had brought there — by the dying fire. Who was she now? What did she want? What was she to do now? More factories? Find another dozen products to put in cans, make another few million pounds?
There was one thing she must do. She must leave here, quickly, because this was John’s haven, and he could not return while she was there.
She stood and glanced at her watch. Ten past six. Maria would wait till eight, perhaps, then ring Midge to check she was there. If she wasn’t, Maria would send people out looking, unless Midge told her about seeing Sophie’s car. Please don’t, Midge, she thought. If John had been there when she woke — if his hand had been in hers now — she could have faced explanations. She could not face telling her friend that she had driven John from his hut.
She felt, vaguely, that she needed to pack before getting into the car. You always had luggage with you for a journey. But she had brought nothing but herself.
The car started at the first turn. She hoped John was not far away, would hear the engine and know that it was safe to come back home. She opened the gate herself, drove through it, shut it and drove on.
Trees. The morning light. Happiness glittered somewhere, because last night she had been loved, even if it was for a few hours only. And it had been love, even if this morning John had fled from it. Joy, because last night had been beautiful and so was this morning: each leaf looked like silver was tipping the green. The election heartache of last night seemed less relevant to her life than boa constrictors. And after a bath and breakfast she would feel . . .
Something. She didn’t know what yet. But feeling would come back. A life. Something, because this was morning, and ‘something’ always happened as the day went on. She did not even need to do anything for the day to continue, for the sun to climb higher, turn whiter, the wallabies retreat into the shade, the wombats to their holes. John could return to his hole now too. She would have to find some way to let him know she would never take the shortcut now. Maybe Midge could mention it, say she had decided to take the smoother, longer road . . .
She was blocking a thought, an important thought. John would have found a way to make her talk of what thought she was hiding from, but John was the one person she could not talk to. And she didn’t want to think. Why should she think if she didn’t want to? Just let the day take its course, and maybe by tonight she could bear to think again, let whatever was prowling around her mind out of its cage.
She turned into the Thuringa driveway. Maria ran down from the verandah, Green behind her. Green looked like she had been crying. Green never cried. ‘Sophie!’ Maria’s voice shook.
‘What’s happened? Has something happened to Georgina? Timothy?’ She stopped
, as Maria held out a telegram.
‘It was delivered last night while we were at the hall.’ Maria’s hand shook too. ‘I telephoned the Harrisons as soon as we got home, but Midge said you were staying with one of the other campaigners who isn’t on the telephone line. Midge was going to drive there as soon as it was light to tell you . . .’
So Midge had kept her secret. ‘I haven’t seen Midge yet. I left early.’ She must have just missed her. Thank goodness she had missed her. She looked again at the telegram in Maria’s hand, at Maria’s expression. Somehow her own hand would not reach out to take the piece of paper.
‘Sophie, I am sorry, I am so very, very sorry,’ said Maria helplessly, pressing the paper into her lifeless fingers. There was no choice. Just as she had comforted herself with the inevitability that the sun would continue to rise today, so it was inevitable that she confront that piece of paper.
She took the telegram, then blinked twice before the letters stopped dancing and she could make sense of it.
Nigel diagnosed tumour yesterday stop surgery delayed four weeks to organise affairs stop small chance of success stop I cannot bear this stop come if you can stop Jones stop
It was impossible, of course. Her mind would not accept it. The chill of her body told her it was true.
‘I’m going,’ said Green tightly. ‘He shouldn’t have to bear this alone.’ Sophie didn’t know if she meant Jones or Nigel.
The night before had vanished, as it should vanish, as it should never have happened. The news was too big for any other feeling. The sun could have danced and she would not have cared, would not even have noticed. Somehow, at the back of her mind, there was a shred of relief that this was so momentous that this was impossible that she could think of anything else, anyone else. Her world now must be Miss Lily and Nigel, all there had never been, all there should have been.
She could have sailed to England anytime in the last two years, and Higgs would have operated as securely without her. She could have asked Nigel to visit Sydney, but hadn’t, in case it implied that not even a feather brush of world affairs would quiver if he was away from England and the House of Lords. She, who knew that even peace was temporary, had somehow thought that Nigel, Shillings, Miss Lily, would be there forever.
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