Moonlight Plains (13 page)

Townsville, 2013

Kitty was in a low mood on the day she learned about the letter from America. It was one of those days when she longed to be free of the constraints of her ageing body, to be done with over-friendly jolly nurses and the dour fragile inmates of the nursing home, one of those days when she couldn’t forget the gloomy fact that she and the other old folk were all here waiting to die.

She knew she should be grateful that she’d lived a long life and that she wasn’t like poor Dulcie White, Sally’s grandmother, who had no real idea of where she was now or why. She knew that she should remember with gratitude the busy, laughter-filled days of the past when she and Andy had raised their large and lively brood at Moonlight Plains.

Today, however, she felt frustrated by her feebleness and annoyed that she was unable to walk without hanging onto someone or something, and that she had to eat what was put in front of her, like a helpless child.

When Luke telephoned her with the news about the American letter, she was thinking about how nice it would be to just pop off in her sleep as Andy had. It took her a good couple of minutes to understand.

‘It’s been sent to Kitty Martin, not Mathieson,’ Luke said, somewhat bemused. ‘And the address is care of Moonlight Plains,’

‘Martin was my maiden name,’ Kitty managed to tell him. She spoke calmly enough, but her heart was instantly quaking.

‘Would you like me to forward it to you via Mum?’ Luke asked. ‘Or will I post it straight to the nursing home?’

‘Oh, send it here.’ Kitty spoke too brusquely, but if her daughter Virginia got wind of this letter she would only ask awkward questions.

The questions rushing about in Kitty’s head were bad enough.

After Luke’s call, she was a mass of nerves. She knew in her bones that the letter was either from Ed, or about Ed.

Deep down, despite the long seventy years of silence, she had always known that something like this letter would come one day.

Perhaps the feeling had been born of a foolish longing, but she’d secretly hoped that someday her unvoiced questions would finally be answered, that at last, she would know what Ed Langley had done with the rest of his life.

There’d been so many times, despite her surprisingly happy marriage – probably happier than she’d deserved – when she’d wondered whether Ed had stayed in Boston, whether he’d married and fulfilled his family’s expectations . . . whether he’d occasionally remembered her . . . or mentioned her to anyone.

Perhaps it was just as well that she hadn’t died yet.

But along with her questions, she’d also harboured fears that Ed might try to track her down, when she’d decided that their lives after the war should remain quite separate. Now, it seemed, the day she’d both longed for and feared had arrived. A letter from America was about to be delivered. Luke had said the sender’s name was Laura Langley Fox, so there
was
definitely a Langley connection.

Was she Ed’s daughter, perhaps?

Did this mean that Ed had died? Or had he died years ago?

So many questions. So many possibilities and memories danced ceaselessly in Kitty’s head, and for twenty-four hours she’d waited for the letter’s arrival with a mixture of trepidation, curiosity and nervous exhaustion.

Eventually, mid-morning, Marcie, a plump young nurse with mousey hair and a round, freckled face, appeared at Kitty’s door waving an envelope.

‘Look what’s come for you.’

Kitty was out of bed and sitting in a chair by the window. Marcie was all smiles as she bounced into the room.

‘Would you like me to slit the envelope open for you, Kitty?’

‘Yes, thank you, dear.’

Kitty knew her own arthritic hands weren’t up to the task, and her heart had developed an alarming flutter. She tried to take steady, calming breaths as she watched Marcie take a nail file from her hip pocket and slit the fine paper crease. She was grateful that her hands weren’t shaking too badly as she accepted the thin blue rectangle.

She saw that the original handwritten address had been crossed out and readdressed in Luke’s scrawl.

‘So, can you read it okay?’ Marcie asked. ‘Or would you like me to read it for you?’

Kitty did very little reading these days, mainly because her hands were so painful that she found holding a book difficult. However, she certainly didn’t want to share the contents of this letter. ‘I’ll manage, thank you, dear.’

Marcie decided to refill her water jug and Kitty had to watch her with churning impatience, waiting until she’d left before she took the thin pages from the envelope.

Skipping the address and date, her eyes flew straight to the message.

Dear Ms Martin,

I’m writing on the slim chance that this might find you, because I wanted to let you know that my father, Edward Langley, died in March this year.

Oh.

Kitty had almost expected this, but it was still a shock. A shock, too, to know that Ed had been alive all this time. All these years.

Her shaking hands made the letter hard to read and she had to steady them in her lap, leaning forward to read on . . .

My father’s death was unexpected but quick, for which we were grateful, and the funeral was held in the church where he and my mother were married and where my brothers and I were christened. The service was very well attended.

I believe that you met my father in 1942 when his plane crashed at Moonlight Plains during the war in the Pacific, and I understand that the two of you became quite close for a time, which is why I thought you should know of his passing.

I hope that you have lived a long and fulfilling life, just as my father has, and that this letter finds you and your family in good health.

I’m enclosing another letter that I found among my father’s papers. For some reason it was never posted, but I believe it was written to you.

With my best wishes,

Laura Langley Fox

Another letter?

Kitty was struggling to take in so much news all at once. She found it hard to believe there was a letter to her from Ed.

She needed several deep breaths before she dared to turn the page. Her mind had already flashed back to the past, bringing memories of being nineteen again, at Moonlight Plains . . . making her fearful way across a rain-drenched paddock towards a crashed plane . . . and then, in the gathering dusk, a dark-haired man as handsome as a film star . . .

Oh, dear.

She had to take off her glasses and reach for a tissue to dab at her streaming eyes. She was trembling with both fear and hope as she finally set the sodden tissue aside and began to read Ed’s letter.

Boston, 1969

Dearest Kitty,

We had a family photograph taken last week to mark our twentieth wedding anniversary. Today several copies arrived for our inspection, and looking at them I think Rose and I are weathering pretty well. Of course our three children, two sons and a daughter, look vibrant and are bouncing with good health.

Actually, I don’t suppose Ed Junior thinks of himself as a child any more. He’s eighteen – old enough to go to war.

He has no idea what that might mean, does he, Kitty?

If I’d retained the faith of my forefathers, I would pray each night that my son isn’t caught up in the new war in Vietnam. But I fear I lost my faith during our war. I can no longer believe in the power of prayer or divine intervention. I’ve turned to philosophy and existentialism instead.

Your grandfather would roll in his grave, wouldn’t he, Kitty?

See how much about you I remember?

Now, looking at this family photo, I can’t help wondering how you look now. Have the decades been kind to you? Have you been happy? Do you have a son or sons? Do you fear for them?

Regrettably, I have moments, now and then, when I can’t recall your face. I panic then, Kitty, but the harder I try, the more your loveliness eludes me. I hate those moments.

Usually, to my intense relief, an image of you eventually slides back into focus and once again you’re with me.

In my memory, you are still nineteen and your hair is long and wavy, the colour of rich, dark honey. Your skin is fair and finely textured, with a soft delicate bloom unmarred by make-up. There’s a little bump on the bridge of your nose that stops you from being too perfectly pretty. Instead you are my Kitty, which is so much better. And then there’s that rather determined set to your chin, my dear, and your eyes so very bright and sparkling grey.

I’ve got you right, haven’t I, Kitty?

Ah, well . . .

I hope you’re happy. In fact I hope you’re at least as happy as I am. It’s a huge relief to be able to tell you that I am, in all honesty, happy.

I send you my love, Kitty, and every good wish.

Ed

For the longest time Kitty simply sat, staring at the letter.

It was incredible to receive words from Ed after all this time. Wonderful words. Words written by his hand. Words that brought inevitable sorrow and longing, but also, thank heavens, brought peace to her heart.

She knew she would read this page again, but for now she just wanted to sit here in the sunlight, while she waited for her clamouring heartbeat to steady, and while she thought about the letter and the ways her world had shifted in just a few short minutes.

It was amazing to know after so long that Ed had remembered her and thought about her often, just as she’d remembered him . . .

And it was reassuring to know that he’d been happily married with a family – his wife Rose and his sons and a daughter. At least, Ed had said he was happy at the time of writing, and Kitty was pleased and relieved to know that. She’d been happy, too . . . She wished she could tell Ed that.

Do you have a son or sons? Do you fear for them?

That question had given her pause, but he’d been referring to the Vietnam War, of course – Aussies and Yanks fighting alongside each other once more – and naturally, both Kitty and Andy had been fearful, especially when the birthday ballot for National Service had been introduced.

Miraculously, none of their boys had been drawn in the ballot, and after Andy’s own wartime experiences, he certainly hadn’t encouraged them to become professional soldiers . . .

So that was one fear Kitty had been spared.

If she could reply to Ed’s letter, she’d tell him about Andy and the simple pleasures that had enriched her life – about her family and the excited anticipation with which she’d approached her pregnancies, the joy she’d experienced in caring for her children when they were little, and then later, the fun of sharing the life on the land with them.

It hadn’t all been a bed of roses, of course. There’d been long days of horseriding and cattle work as well as housework, and worrying times with drought and floods, and her children’s inevitable illnesses and accidents. But there’d been wonderful times of relaxation and laughter, too: campfires on the riverbank, birthday parties on the verandah, the excitement of visitors or trips into town.

She would tell him proudly about her daughter Virginia’s happy marriage to Peter Fairburn from Mullinjim Station, and then she would surprise him with the list of her strapping sons.

Her eldest son, Jim, named after her great-uncle at Moonlight Plains, was a lawyer in Brisbane these days, although he still retained an interest in the family’s cattle business.

Her next two sons, Robert and Andrew, were running their respective cattle properties at Richmond and Julia Creek. Kitty hadn’t been too disappointed when her younger sons rejected life on the land, like their older brother Jim. And of course she would tell Ed about the twins, who’d come last, as a total surprise – an accident, a happy one, of course.

Kitty hadn’t been too disappointed when her youngest sons both rejected life on the land. She would have enjoyed telling Ed that Ian was now a very successful chef in Sydney, while Mitch was living in London of all places, an accomplished photographer with one of the city’s top newspapers.

Six children . . . who would have thought?

Again she looked down at Ed’s letter and let out a long, surprisingly satisfied sigh. She’d been worried that he might bring a long-held fear to the surface, but now she knew these pages held no threat.

Her hands were no longer shaking as she folded the thin sheets and slipped them back inside the envelope. She knew now that she would read Ed’s letter over and over, and each time it would bring her fresh peace and only the most tender of regrets . . .

Moonlight Plains, 1942

‘I don’t know how to lay out a body.’

If Kitty had felt inadequate when Bobby was injured, she was completely at a loss in the face of his death. She was stunned, left feeling empty and useless, and sad, so darned sad.

She’d never seen anyone die. She’d been ten when her parents had died of tuberculosis, and they’d both been in hospital for weeks beforehand, so she’d witnessed very little of their illness. In the nine years since then, she’d rarely attended a funeral.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ed told her. ‘This isn’t your responsibility. I’ll have to bury him here, Kitty. Later, people from my unit will come out and move him to our military cemetery in Townsville.’ His jaw tightened and pain crept into his eyes.

Kitty nodded, not wanting to speak for fear she’d start sobbing again.

‘When this damn war’s over, Uncle Sam will take him home,’ Ed said dully.

She tried to imagine how Bobby’s family would react when the news finally reached them. It was too sad to contemplate. She’d only known him for a day, and yet she felt as if she’d lost a good friend.

She insisted on washing his face, hands and feet and combing his short fair hair. These simple tasks were both terrifying and consoling. When they were over, she fetched one of her great-aunt’s mended sheets to wrap him in. Then they closed the bedroom door.

Now the long day stretched in front of them.

Needing to keep busy, they went out into the hot, bright morning and Kitty showed Ed the toolshed, where the picks and shovels were stored. She stood nervously twisting her hands as he set to work digging a shallow grave.

It was almost a relief to remember that Dolly was waiting to be milked. Having spent six weeks at Moonlight Plains, Kitty had finally got the hang of milking, and today there was something almost soothing about the everyday task of brushing Dolly’s flanks and washing her teats to make sure that no sand or loose hair fell into the shiny clean pail.

She was putting the milk away in the kitchen when Ed returned from his digging. While he washed his hands and face, she made another pot of tea and set it on the table with a plate of sandwiches – homemade bread and cheese – plus the last bottle of her great-aunt’s pickled chokos from the pantry. She hoped her great-uncle wouldn’t mind about that.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ she said, wondering whether people from Boston ever ate such rustic meals. She was sure she’d read in a novel that Bostonians dined on creamed oysters and coffee.

‘I feel almost ashamed to admit to hunger today, but this looks wonderful, thanks.’ It was impossible to miss the sadness in Ed’s eyes and the slant of his mouth, but he showed no qualms about spreading thick dollops of the yellow pickle onto the cheese, and he wasted no time in tucking in.

Kitty agreed that it seemed wrong to be hungry, but she definitely felt better after some food . . . until a new worry loomed.

‘Ed, you’re not going to leave today, are you?’ she asked as she gathered up their plates. ‘Even if the creek’s gone down, you should stay for another night. I don’t think I could cope with being left alone here now . . . with Bobby.’

Ed looked up at her, his dark eyes gentle with sympathy.

Kitty strengthened her plea. ‘Could you possibly stay until my great-uncle gets back?’

‘When’s he due back?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Then that’s fine. I can certainly stay overnight.’ Ed rose, almost as if he was standing to attention, and then he gave the slightest hint of a bow as he smiled at Kitty. ‘It would be my very pleasant duty.’

In that moment, he looked every inch the tall, handsome prince that Bobby had claimed him to be.

They planned to bury Bobby in the cool of the afternoon, which meant there were still hours and hours to fill. While Ed went back across the paddocks to inspect his plane, Kitty cleaned the few dishes they’d used at lunch, then she washed Ed’s flight suit and hung it out to dry, before going to the chicken coop to collect the day’s eggs.

Ed was gone a good long while; he was frowning and looked angry when he returned.

‘How’s your plane?’ Kitty asked.

‘It’s fine. A couple of knocks but the undercarriage is okay.’

‘But you’re angry.’

‘Sure, I am. I could have taken off if only I’d had the damn fuel. There’s enough cleared ground.’

With surprising force, he slammed his fist into a verandah post. ‘I can’t believe we survived dogfights with the Nips in New Guinea and then flew back into this fiasco. It’s crazy.’

‘Bobby was worried you’d blame yourself.’

‘Of course I blame my–’ Ed turned to frown at her. ‘What did Bobby say?’

‘He said you’d blame yourself, but he insisted that the crash wasn’t your fault.’

Ed sighed. ‘Of course it was. I was responsible.’

‘You ran into a tropical storm and were driven inland, Ed. Then you ran out of fuel. How is that your fault?’

‘There were
six
Airacobras caught in that storm but we lost visual contact. I’m not sure what happened to all of them. Some probably landed on a beach up on Cape York. But I was pigheaded. I decided to push on. I thought I had just enough fuel to reach Townsville and Bobby –’ His face twisted in a grimace of pain. ‘And Bobby stuck with me. I failed my first real test of leadership,’ he said with a sad shake of his head.

If Kitty had been braver she might have given Ed a hug. He probably wasn’t accustomed to battling with feelings of guilt and failure.

‘I – I guess these things happen in war,’ she said gently.

Ed stiffened. ‘Yes, of course.’

She wondered if he was thinking, as she was, that the war might get a lot worse before it was over.

But then her own feelings of guilt came back in a rush. ‘I lost Bobby’s lucky dollar.’

The very thought of the bright shiny coin made her cringe. One minute Bobby had been showing it to her, proud as punch and the next –

It was too awful to remember scrambling on the floor, desperately searching for the coin.

Don’t worry, sweetheart. I guess my luck ran out.

‘Kitty, you know you can’t blame yourself for that. It was a fluke. A freak.’

‘But if I’d looked under the house, I might have found it.’ Her face crumpled as she remembered the desperation of that search. ‘I was too scared of snakes.’

‘And so you should be,’ Ed said, watching her with the glimmer of a smile.

A shiver-sweet smile that arrowed straight to Kitty’s heart.

The afternoon dragged on. Kitty told Ed he should rest, but she wasn’t surprised when he turned this down. She knew they were both too tense and miserable to relax. Ed’s cotton-drill flight suit was almost dry and she brought it inside to iron.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Ed said when he found her setting up the ironing board, balanced between the backs of two kitchen chairs.

‘I want to,’ Kitty said.

‘But I might be wading through that creek again tomorrow morning.’

‘The creeks can go down very quickly once the rain stops. We may as well have you looking like an airman and not like a no-hoper.’

‘It seems like too much trouble.’

He looked slightly worried as he watched her use a thick pot holder to lift the iron from the wood stove where it was heating. Kitty wondered if he’d ever seen his mother do any ironing or laundry work.

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she said breezily. ‘But I’m afraid I didn’t use any starch.’

‘I’ll forgive you.’ With his arms folded across his chest, Ed leaned a bulky shoulder against one of the kitchen cupboards and stood, watching her, his mouth tilted in a wry smile, as she ironed.

Naturally, his attention made her self-conscious, but she could hardly tell him to go away, and she turned a simple task into something of an ordeal, ironing in creases and then having to sprinkle warm water and re-iron the creases out. And twice she almost burned her hand, despite the pot holder.

Eventually the sun began to sink towards the western treeline and it was time to bury Bobby.

As Kitty helped Ed to carry him in the carefully wrapped sheet, she was reminded of their journey the previous night when they’d carried Bobby from the plane. Had it really only been yesterday? She remembered the hours she had spent sitting alone with him, singing to him, hoping . . .

Just stay with me, Angel . . .

How vain she’d been, imagining that her singing might save him.

Now she was acutely aware that this Australian bush was foreign to Bobby. His home was in Minnesota and Ed had told her that it snowed there, so it seemed wrong that he should be laid to rest in this hot, red dirt surrounded by khaki gum trees. She wanted to shoo away the nonchalant, pink-breasted galahs that fed noisily nearby on grass seeds, and she wanted to frighten off the curious kangaroos that watched, ears twitching, from the shade of wattle clumps.

She was determined that she wouldn’t cry again, even though hot tears stung her eyes and burned her throat. She wanted to be strong, wanted to show Ed she was not a weakling.

She managed pretty well until she tried to sing the Twenty-Third Psalm, but from the first words –
The Lord is my shepherd –
her voice faltered, and when she got to
Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,
she couldn’t go on.

She simply couldn’t.

‘Hey, it’s okay.’ Ed slipped an arm around her shaking shoulders.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she whispered, struggling to hold back her tears. ‘I – I c-couldn’t even s-sing a psalm for him.’

‘You’ve been magnificent, Kitty. You sang for Bobby last night when he needed it most, and that was wonderful. Way more important.’

He said this so sincerely that she could almost believe him.

They sat on the verandah, watching the last of the sunlight. Kitty lit pieces of dried cow dung in a tin saucer to keep the mosquitoes away. Ed had changed into the freshly ironed flight suit for the burial, and now he lowered his long frame into a cane chair and smoked a cigarette.

‘You must be terribly tired by now,’ she said. ‘I slept last night, but I still feel exhausted.’

‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.’

‘But I haven’t, really. Not compared with those poor people in London who’ve had to deal with the Blitz.’

Ed shot her a questioning look. ‘Sure, the Londoners have been brave, but you’re a girl on your own in the middle of nowhere.’

It was true that a lot had happened. She thought about it now, remembering her fear when she first heard the approaching aeroplanes, then meeting Ed and Bobby, Bobby’s initial terror when he saw her with the potato sack over her head, the hours she’d sat with him . . .

Just stay with me, Angel . . .

‘I can’t stop thinking about him,’ she said softly.

‘Yeah, I’m the same.’

‘He was only nineteen, the same age as me.’

‘Yeah.’ After a small silence, Ed asked, ‘You’re nineteen?’

‘Yes. Why? How old did you think I was?’

‘I – I wasn’t sure. I’m no expert on women’s ages.’ The hint of a smile warmed his voice.

‘How old are you, Ed?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘An old man.’

‘One of the oldest in my unit.’

Gosh . . . 
So many young men, all of them putting their lives on the line. Kitty shivered and tears brimmed again. She sniffed, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall.

‘Do you believe in heaven?’ she asked after a bit.

‘Do you?’ Ed countered.

‘I don’t know.’ Kitty had been having trouble with the concepts of God and heaven even before the war began. Now, she found it really hard to understand how the Great War, the war to end all wars, had finished just five years before she was born and yet here they were, at war again. What kind of God allowed the people he loved to annihilate themselves like this, over and over?

‘My grandfather would have a fit if he heard me say this,’ she said, ‘but I can’t help thinking that death might be a bit like before we’re born, when we know nothing . . . when we have no consciousness.’

Ed’s eyebrows rose. ‘You could be right. But even before we were conceived, I guess we were still an idea, a prospect, a possible dream in our parents’ heads.’

‘Probably.’ She realised that Ed was smiling and she wondered if he was amused by her simplistic attempt to ponder one of life’s greatest mysteries, but she found herself smiling back at him. ‘And after we die, we go back to being an idea in people’s memories.’

Their smiles held for a moment, but then they sobered. Kitty thought again about Bobby.

‘You know . . . he only had seven hours of flying lessons before they packed him into that plane,’ Ed said.

‘Seven? Seven
hours
?’ It seemed impossible to Kitty. ‘What about you? Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve had too.’

Ed shook his head. ‘I joined up last year and so I had several months of training.’ He drew on his cigarette, then let out a heavy, smoky sigh. ‘Damn it. I don’t know if Bobby even kissed a girl.’

‘Oh, he has,’ Kitty said.

Ed shot her a look of sharp interest. ‘Did he kiss you?’

‘No. Don’t be silly.’

‘But he talked about girls?’

‘Not really,’ Kitty admitted. But she couldn’t help remembering how Bobby had cheekily offered to make room in the bed for her, despite his terrible injuries, and how easily the nickname Angel had come to him. She was quite sure that he would have flirted with her if he’d been well enough.

‘He didn’t need to tell me,’ she said rather brashly. ‘A girl knows these things.’

‘Does she, now?’

The mild amusement in Ed’s eyes made Kitty feel foolish, as if he’d caught her out pretending to have a vast knowledge of men and kissing. In reality, she’d only ever kissed Andy and that last time had been so rushed and furtive she could scarcely remember it.

And yet now, just
talking
to Ed about this subject felt dangerous and exciting, as if she was a moth fluttering too close to a flame.

‘I need another cigarette.’ Ed was frowning as he reached into his pocket.

Kitty watched his handsome profile, admiring the way his lips held the cigarette at a jaunty angle as he struck the match. She watched the dark wing of his hair shining in the last of the daylight as he dipped his head to hold the cigarette’s tip to the flame. He looked so sophisticated.