Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘On a cargo ship doing the Brisbane to Sydney run? I think the risk level has retreated in the past few months.’

  ‘Talking to an aristocrat whose family owns half of Australia.’

  She laughed. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘Your brother’s an earl.’

  ‘And I’m just a girl. I mean a woman.’

  He returned the grin again, his eyes slowly travelling from her toes to her eyes. ‘Very much so.’

  She was used to flattery: at every school dance, from the brothers of friends at birthday parties, on picnics, from young men who thought marriage to the Higgs heir was a shortcut to becoming a managing director or a lounge lizard for life. But this was flirtation.

  She liked it.

  ‘You don’t live in Sydney, do you?’

  The Sydney mansion had been rented out for the duration to help with the housing shortage. ‘What would you say if I told you I’m taking the train back to the family property as soon as we reach Sydney?’

  He put his hand on his heart. ‘I’d call it tragic.’

  Should she give him Aunt Lily’s long sideways and totally irresistible glance? Definitely, Rose decided. ‘Maybe I’ll stay a few nights at the Wentworth.’ She’d already had a secretary send a telegram to book a suite.

  ‘To put on your dancing slippers? Or for business meetings?’

  ‘Shhh.’ Rose pretended to check in all directions. ‘I am actually planning to get my hair done, shop for a new dress with six months’ worth of coupons, and just possibly new shoes, too.’ Access to her mother’s business wardrobe meant she had had no shortage of suitable garments, but she was in desperate need of some more unsuitable ones. The hotel would also give her the luxury of reading in bed as late as she liked and sleeping in then ordering room service breakfast.

  ‘But you do have dancing slippers?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Or at least, in the shops to which the hotel concierge would undoubtedly guide her that afternoon.

  ‘A night’s dancing in Sydney then? I’ve got a twenty-four-hour leave pass,’ he added. ‘The old girl has to go to Cockatoo Island to get her hull scraped.’ He met her eyes and there was something there beyond flirtation. ‘I reckon you must still be under twenty-one, despite the work you’re doing.’

  ‘A few years under,’ she admitted.

  ‘So we’ll find a place with an orchestra and no alcohol. Sometimes they have a dance at the Anzac Buffet after their concerts.’

  He was serious. And suddenly so was she. She had known enough sycophants and fortune hunters to suspect this man was asking her out despite her brother the earl and the Higgs factories and not because of them; nor was he challenged by her business reputation, the slightly terrifying Higgs-Vaile girl with good legs, a sweet smile and a mind like a samurai sword.

  This man had faced danger these past three years as great as any soldier in New Guinea, but without even a glamorous uniform to compensate him. He deserved — they both deserved — an evening of frivolity. She also wanted to know more about him, much more. She liked his eyes, his hands, his smell of soap and salt and something on his hair . . .

  ‘The Anzac Buffet sounds good,’ she said slowly. Some of her school friends’ mothers volunteered there.

  ‘Your parents won’t object if you stay in Sydney?’

  She could not tell him that her mother was doing something top secret in England, and that her father was living in a tree back at Thuringa. She changed the subject quickly. ‘What will you do after the war?’

  ‘Build boats, not sail them.’ The answer came immediately. ‘Racing yachts — not for me, for others. I’m interested in the engineering side. Some of the local craft I’ve seen up north have given me ideas for new hull designs. There are new materials to try, too.’

  ‘Like aluminium? But aluminium corrodes in seawater, though it’s light and useful in superstructures.’ Rose shook her head. ‘And aluminium–magnesium alloys are expensive.’

  He looked at her with even more interest. ‘It might be possible to reduce the amount of magnesium — maybe even have an alloy with something like silica. How do you know so much about aluminium and ships?’

  ‘Corned beef gets shipped in cans.’ Rose grinned. ‘If you can design an aluminium ship it won’t need as much fuel and wouldn’t attract magnetic detonators on sea mines. An aluminium can would not just be lighter but cheaper than steel and the coating needed so it doesn’t spill the contents. And imagine the market if we could sell soft drinks in cans — soft drinks are far too corrosive for steel, except if they have very heavy coatings.’

  ‘I don’t think I need ask what you intend doing after the war then.’

  Rose grinned again. ‘I might be taking a couple of days hookey but I love the business. I’m like my grandfather — he saw canning as a way of getting good food to ordinary people before it spoiled. Higgs cans other foods too, though most of our production now is for the armed forces. But there are going to be so many opportunities after the war.’ She was making a speech, she realised, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact he seemed fascinated.

  ‘Imagine a whole grocery shop filled with cans,’ she continued. ‘Housewives could just take the cans they wanted off the shelf, without asking for them over the counter. No more cutting and weighing, no spoilage in the heat, or far less anyway. All a working woman need do to get her family’s dinner would be open a can of Irish stew and then a can of peaches and a can of cream.’ She laughed, glancing at the spray, the deep blue sea and sky. ‘The one good thing about this war is that it’s spared me all the years I might have spent studying Latin and piano lessons at school, and given me the work I love, instead.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Which makes you . . .?’

  She flushed. ‘Seventeen.’ She put up her chin. ‘But if I can run a board meeting I can go dancing with you.’

  ‘At seventeen? Better make it only with me. You’re safe with me.’ He was joking but he was also serious.

  ‘You could take me to the zoo, pat me on the head and buy me an ice cream if you’d rather.’

  ‘Dancing, definitely. Can you jitterbug?’

  ‘No.’

  He grinned. ‘You’ll be able to after a night out with me. But after that you’d better introduce me to your parents, in case they worry.’

  How could she tell him that neither parent was able to inspect him? Though Aunt Midge had a keen eye for men, as well as sheep.

  ‘Come to Thuringa then next time you have leave — it only takes a day or so from Sydney. I’ll take you to meet Aunt Midge. She was one of the first women judges at the Royal Easter Show. There’s not much gets past Aunt Midge.’

  ‘Not your parents then?’

  He didn’t miss much. ‘My mother’s doing war work. My father’s had a breakdown. Shell shock from the last war. Pa lives in a hollow tree on the property,’ she added baldly.

  He didn’t laugh, or even look incredulous. ‘You poor kid,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m fine. I manage Higgs Industries, and Danny — he’s my twin — manages Thuringa.’

  ‘The earl?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him that when you first meet him,’ she said drily. ‘He had a bit too much teasing at school.’ Danny was also worried about what would be expected of him after the war at Shillings, though, hopefully, Aunt Lily would stay in command there.

  ‘What do your parents do?’ Rose decided to move the conversation along.

  ‘Dad died when I was five years old — gassed in the last war. Mum taught sewing at various tech colleges to keep the wolf from the door, but she’s managing a woollens factory now.’

  ‘She sounds admirable.’

  ‘She is.’ He met her eyes. ‘I learned very young not to underestimate a woman, Miss Higgs-Vaile.’

  ‘My name is Rose.’

  He smiled. ‘If I told you why I thought that was the perfect name for you I’d be
guilty of Sentimental Twaddle Aboard a Merchant Navy Vessel. It can wait till Sydney.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go. I’ll see you at dinner at the captain’s table, Lady Rose Vaile. Ask him about the time —’

  She did not hear the noise, but remembered it. The next sound she heard was his voice again. ‘Rose? Rose! Breathe, damn it!’

  She breathed, spluttered, wondered why she was flying, sleeping, drowning, realised she was doing none of those, but being pulled expertly through waves and debris, held under the chin with an expertise of which Miss Morrison, the games mistress, would have thoroughly approved.

  ‘I’m breathing,’ she managed. She tried to turn, to swim herself, but one arm would not work and the light faded into pain when she tried to move it.

  A man yelled nearby, ‘Get the girly! Have you got her yet? Have you got her?’

  ‘She’s safe here. Hold on, we’ve nearly reached you.’

  Of course I’m safe, she thought vaguely. He said he wanted to meet her parents. He’d always look after her. But why were they in the ocean?

  Something bumped against them. It looked like part of the deck they’d been standing on.

  ‘Well done, man! Pass her up here. Lads, we’ve got the girly!’

  Light returned as hands dragged her from the ocean, hurting her arm even more.

  ‘Here she is. Have you got hold of her?’

  ‘Aye, we have her!’ called someone else.

  ‘Thank God,’ said the familiar voice, somewhere in the water, and then was silent, though she listened, kept listening as she lay panting in the bottom of the dinghy.

  Men helped her to sit up. Seven of them shared the dinghy, one with half his face burned away, who sat hunched yet somehow conscious, not even screaming. Blood spread everywhere, but the wrong colour blood, mixed with oil and seawater. She found her arm was bleeding too, her face as well perhaps, though that might be water dropping from her hair.

  But she could breathe and sit. The bleeding wasn’t very much and stopped entirely when she pressed it. She glanced around, looking for her companion, but couldn’t see him. Yet he must be here, because she’d heard his voice as she was hoisted up to safety.

  Where was he?

  She gazed about her desperately. Bodies. Fragments of bodies. Two men alive, at least, one clutching a floating table. Cans of corned beef, ruptured. She suppressed a hysterical giggle, imagining ordering the men to pick them up.

  And then she saw him, clinging to the side of the dinghy, one of three men swimming, but using the boat to help them stay afloat. She managed to say, ‘Help him up and saw him shake his head.

  ‘No room. We’re only two miles off shore. We’ll make it, love.’

  And someone must have heard the explosion or perhaps there had been time to send an SOS. When she saw the shape emerge in front of them, the water parting as it rose, she thought it might have come to their rescue, then realised, dazedly, that no, this must be the submarine that had torpedoed their ship.

  The hatch opened. Even then she thought the sailors would offer help, till she saw the machine guns in their hands. This time she did hear the noise, was sure she could see the lash of bullets even before she felt the pain, felt the blackness take her once again, refused to let it, and looked down.

  His face gazed up at her from the water, his eyes meeting hers even as blood trickled from his mouth. All she could see was blood.

  She didn’t know his name.

  Chapter 40

  Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme Stuffing for a Shoulder of Lamb

  Combine:

  1 cup stale breadcrumbs

  1 tablespoon fresh thyme

  2 sage leaves, chopped

  1 chopped onion, sautéed till transparent in 3 tablespoons of butter or dripping

  1 egg

  1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

  1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, chopped

  Juice of a lemon

  Mix. Cut a long, deep slice next to the bone of a shoulder of lamb or mutton (mutton or ‘two tooth’ makes a better roast as it has more flavour). Insert the stuffing. Roast the lamb very, very slowly on low heat for at least four hours, with potatoes, pumpkin, parsnips and carrots around it for the last two hours.

  The pumpkin is necessary as its charred remnants will add sweetness and flavour to the gravy.

  Bald Hill Progress Association Cookbook, 1944 edition: a shilling a copy, all funds for the war effort

  DANNY

  He was helping old Carmichael choose the steers destined for the factory when the phone call came. Mrs Taylor trudged across the paddock, wiping dust and sweat from her forehead, as well as a small halo of flies. ‘Long distance, from Sydney, He wished Mrs Taylor would stop calling him Master Danny. Master Danny, a woman. Said they’d call back.’

  He wondered who it was. Mrs Taylor would have recognised Mum’s voice if by some miracle she’d returned, or Rose’s of course. It was probably something to do with Higgs Industries. Rose would take care of it. He was hopeless at all that stuff.

  ‘I can manage the rest of them, Danny boy.’ Carmichael had a son in the Middle East, another missing last heard of in Malaya. His youngest had embarked for New Guinea two months back.

  Danny nodded. He fell into step with Mrs Taylor, over tussocks, skirting cowpats. ‘Got a nice stuffed shoulder of mutton in the oven for your dinner,’ she said chattily. ‘You can take the rest of it over to your dad to eat tomorrow. A good stuffed shoulder is even better cold than hot. There’s a jar of green tomato pickle, too, and I made apple turnovers for him as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Taylor.’

  ‘We all do our bit,’ said Mrs Taylor. ‘Do you mind if I serve dinner early? It’s CWA tonight and —’

  ‘Please, just leave it in the oven. I can dish it out.’ He smiled at her. ‘And do the washing up.’

  ‘You’re a love. I’ll make the gravy before I go and drop your dad’s off to him on the way into town.’ The car had been converted to a wood burner now, which meant less reliance on precious petrol coupons — even the farm’s generous allowance was strained these days.

  ‘Thank you.’ He never knew what to say to Pa. That calm smiling presence seemed to think it was his job to reassure Danny, not the other way around, despite Pa’s illness. He’d show him the shape of a sapling leaf, or urge him to hear the song of the stars in their vast traverse across the night. He’d never address the real problem, just smile and say, ‘Just a few more days, mate.’ It was even more disconcerting to find that sometimes, sitting with Pa, for a few seconds it was almost as if the universe was an orchestra, and he could hear its symphony, and that often he did walk back to the homestead calmer and more confident, even if still desperately worried about his parents.

  Today he’d walk over to Pa’s after dinner, and they’d sit together in the dusk, the gum leaves turning purple, the land growing new colours, as if the sun leached out all the subtleties by day. The shadow land, when the moon rose in an almost blue sky, the day birds were singing their final melodies and owls and crickets were just beginning theirs. They would talk of those, because Danny could not find the words that were truly needed, the ones that would bring Pa home.

  He opened the gate that led from the house paddock to the garden, finding himself smiling, glad once again that school, cadets and the spectre of the Militia were behind him. You could never talk of things like dusk to other young men, much less sit in the darkness and watch the moon and know the stars went on forever, undisturbed by battles here on earth. But he felt no guilt now, because he had shown that his presence here really had made a difference to Thuringa’s war effort.

  The house was blessedly cool, and even more blessedly fly free once he’d brushed off the hundred or so clinging to his shirt before entering the hall from the back verandah, leaving his boots by the door, too. He sat by the phone, waiting for the operator to call back. At last it jangled.

  ‘Yes, Danny Higgs-Vaile speaking. No, I’m sorry, neither of
my parents is available. No, I don’t have a contact phone number for either of them. They will be away for some time. Who is speaking, please? May I help you?’

  He listened to the tinny voice that seemed much further away than Sydney. Another reality entirely. He managed to ask a question, then another. At last he said, ‘Please say I’ll be there. Yes, I understand entirely. I won’t be able to reach Sydney till tomorrow morning, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Do you want another three minutes?’ asked the Sydney operator.

  The tin voice denied any such wish. But Danny held the receiver for minutes after the phone fell silent.

  He knew two things: his life had vanished. And he could not stand it.

  Could not cope with any of it: Mum vanished, Pa living in a tree and Rose . . .

  Rose dying, dead perhaps before he could get there, even if he drove all night. But he had to at least tell Pa before he left, for surely a man should see his dying daughter, if he could make Pa understand he had to leave the river and its long slow silence and come to Sydney.

  ‘Daughter’. Danny could not think of ‘Rose’. He dared not think of his sister’s body broken. What was she doing on a ship anyway? he thought angrily. She should never have been on a ship!

  It had always been the two of them. Perhaps it was the twin thing, but he thought it was more likely that their closeness was from being so different and each taking up a separate share of the world’s space, and their parents’ lives. Even at five years old, playing in the sandpit, Rose had been delivering freight cars to her sandcastles.

  He had to stand up. He had to pack a bag for himself, and one for Rose, and one for Pa, too, in case Pa somehow swam into the present and agreed to come. He must ask Mrs Taylor for a hamper and tell her that her trip into town must be curtailed and the news about Rose. Rose hurt, Rose in pain, Rose dying . . .

  He could not stand it.

  ‘Mr Higgs-Vaile?’

  He looked up. For a moment he could not see her face, just the gold light behind her, then it was Annie, moving quietly on socked feet towards him, her boots — and flies — left on the verandah, too. She never called him Lord Danny, either seriously or mockingly. Her face had nothing but quiet sympathy as she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear. I just came in for the bathroom . . .’