Nancy began to pile the cooked beef and onions on to the pastry circles. Then she dipped her brush into the pot of water which stood ready, swiftly damped the edges of each circle, doubled them over and pinched them closed. After that, she stabbed each patty twice to let the steam emerge as they cooked, slid them on to a baking tray and was putting them into the oven when Aggie came into the room, flourishing a bundle of letters and newspapers. ‘Mail’s come, missus,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘And the
Sydney Herald
, as well as that English paper you gets from time to time.’ She jerked her head at the remaining pastry. ‘Want me to finish these here patties whilst you read your mail and that? I know I ain’t no good with pastry, but you’ve done all the work so I don’t see as how I
could
mess things up, no matter what.’
Nancy smiled but shook her head. Past bitter experience had taught her that Aggie could, indeed, ruin the beef patties simply by over or underfilling the pastry, or by handling it too much. ‘Thanks, Aggie, but I’ve made enough patties to feed a fighting army, so the rest of the pastry can be rolled into a ball for making apple pies later. What you could do is peel all the apples in that big brown paper bag, and if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the oven, I’ll nip across to the house and deal with the mail there. I take it Bullwhip is waiting.’
Aggie nodded and, picking up the paper bag, selected a sharp knife from the cutlery drawer and began to peel the first of the apples. ‘I put him on the veranda and gave him a pint of beer,’ she informed her mistress. ‘How long before I take a look at the patties, missus?’
Nancy, heading for the doorway, having already scooped up the mail, said airily: ‘The first lot should be done any time. Thanks, Aggie. And when you’ve taken the last batch of beef patties out, you’d best bring the apples on to the veranda; it’ll be cooler out there. But do keep an eye on the patties. Remember, there’s a war on and we mustn’t waste food.’
Aggie tutted. ‘No one don’t need to be reminded of that there war,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Mind, we ain’t affected like our poor fellers what are doin’ the actual fighting. Mr Paul and Mr Jerome from the Four Cross station, they’re in Burma with them bloody Japs treatin’ ’em worse than cattle. An’ then there’s Mr Pete, flying planes from England, and everyone knows the English have next to nothing to fill their bellies. Did you send Mr Pete another parcel, missus?’
‘I send one whenever I’m allowed,’ Nancy said, pausing in the doorway and feeling great relief at leaving the fierce heat of the kitchen, ‘only you can’t just send them whenever you want, you know. Still, in Pete’s last letter he said the food was dull but there was plenty of it. And he’s not as badly off as my poor Jamie. He gets Red Cross parcels and of course I write and he writes back. Well, I gather there isn’t a lot to do except write letters, once you’re a prisoner of war.’
Nancy headed for the veranda, reflecting as she did so how odd it was that one felt less concern for the son who was a prisoner of war than for the two others who were still actively fighting for their country. She supposed it was because Jamie had, so to speak, been taken off the board, whereas the other two were still very much in play. They were both in the air force but Jacko was in North Africa whilst Pete, of course, was in Britain. He wrote whenever he could but his letters were brief and she knew she only received about half of those he sent. However, she understood that as the war progressed and the allies probed deeper into Germany, his time for letter writing grew more limited.
‘Mornin’, missus!’
‘Morning, Bullwhip,’ Nancy said, smiling at the mailman. He had changed very little over the years though the hair which had once been brown was now streaked with grey and his stomach, never small, had reached gigantic proportions. She sank into the long cane chair opposite the mailman’s. ‘If you fancy a cheese sandwich, you can nip over to the kitchen and get Aggie to make one for you. She’s watching the beef patties so she’ll be there a while yet.’
Bullwhip grinned but patted his huge stomach reflectively. ‘I had the best part of half a fruit cake at the Four Cross, to say nothin’ of enough bacon and eggs to feed every mailman in Queensland,’ he said expansively. ‘They’d killed a pig.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘I reckon Four Cross bacon is just about the best. Still an’ all, thanks for the offer.’ He took a long pull at his beer. ‘You got any mail to go?’
‘Yes, I’ve several airmail letters,’ Nancy said, beginning to slit open the envelopes. ‘If you don’t mind waiting I’ll just make sure there’s nothing urgent in any of these which needs a reply. I’ve not sealed any of mine yet, just in case.’
Bullwhip intimated that he had no objection to waiting, would quite enjoy a bit of a break, in fact, so Nancy read all the letters, spreading the thin, crackly airmail paper on to her lap and taking her time. All three of the boys had written. Jamie thanked her for her latest letter and talked of a sporting event which was to take place the following week. He was in an old castle which had been converted to house prisoners of war and from what he said, though always in a veiled manner, the occupants were chiefly prisoners who had tried to escape from other camps.
She opened Jacko’s letter next. He appeared to be having a grand time but she knew her sons too well to think that they would worry her by relating the unpleasant face of war.
She had saved Pete’s letter till last because in his previous letter he had told her that he and his crew would soon have completed sufficient sorties to allow them a long break from active service, and she knew that he intended to revisit Liverpool in order to try to trace Jess’s daughter.
Nancy had been devastated by the news of Jess’s death and delighted that her son had helped to rescue Debbie. She was glad, too, that Pete had actually met Jess and had promised to keep an eye on Debbie, even though it very soon transpired that he had not been able to do so. When he had written to explain that he had lodged Debbie in a respectable household, had paid the landlady two weeks in advance and meant to continue to pay for the girl until he was sure she could manage alone, Nancy had immediately driven to their bank and sent Pete a money order, reminding him that since the Walleroo would belong to the boys one day, they were perfectly entitled to money from the station whenever they needed it. But then Pete had written to say that, having received no reply from Debbie to his letters, he had spent a four-day leave returning to Liverpool. He had gone to her lodgings, where he had been informed by the landlady that Debbie had left after spending only one night in the room he had hired for her. ‘She met a cousin who offered her a room,’ she had explained. ‘She didn’t leave no forwarding address but, of course, I put all her mail aside for her, and after a few weeks she called round and fetched it.’ She had looked anxiously at her visitor. ‘I couldn’t return the money you’d paid me ’cos I didn’t have no address but I kept the room vacant for the whole two weeks, honest to God I did, though folk was queuin’ up to move in.’
Pete had told her she had done right and had gone back to his station, expecting to receive a letter from Debbie telling him her new address. But there had been nothing. And though Pete tried to make light of the whole business, it was clear to both Andy and Nancy that he worried a good deal over what had happened to Debbie and intended to do his utmost to trace her when he had the opportunity to return to the city.
So Nancy opened Pete’s letter and read it eagerly, but was disappointed. He had not yet visited Liverpool and talked airily about members of his crew, of a dance at which he had met a pretty WAAF called Linda and of a trip to take a look at Sandringham, where the royal family spent a good deal of their time. Then Nancy glanced at the date at the top of the page and realised that this letter had been en route for a considerable while – was, in fact, old news. Sighing, she put the mail down on a cane table between herself and Bullwhip, and went to fetch the letters which she had written.
When Andy came home later in the morning, she handed him the letters to read, then poured him a cool beer, thinking how very little he had changed, despite the extra work and responsibility that the war had brought. Because he was so blond, any white hairs which he might have had did not show, and though he was deeply tanned his skin did not have the seamed, leathery look which made many cattle owners seem older than their years. Nancy smiled to herself at the thought that not all her good cooking had given Andy a pot belly like Bullwhip’s, for he still had the whipcord leanness of a man who spent most of his time doing hard physical work, and when he looked at her and grinned, his teeth white against the tan, she felt her heart give a little lurch of pure pleasure. She loved him so much, respected and admired him, could think of no one with whom she would rather spend her time. Because of the nature of his work, she saw very much less of him than an English housewife would expect to see of her man, though of course the war had wrenched people apart even more conclusively than cattle droving. Sometimes, she thought of the little Devonshire village she had left, thought about the life she might have lived had she stayed at home and married one of the local farmers, but she soon found that Devon, and her life there, no longer had any reality. When she discussed it with Anne, she found that her sister felt exactly the same. The Devon vicarage was part of a different world which no longer had any meaning for either of them; Australia, and their lives with the Sullivan brothers, occupied them completely.
Nancy was still thinking about Jess’s daughter when Andy finished Pete’s letter – he had saved it till last as she had – and placed it on top of the others on the table. Then he turned to her, his blue eyes kind. ‘It’s an old letter, as you say,’ he commented. ‘But things are looking up, darling. I glanced at the papers just now and there was a report saying that the North African campaign is over – that’s official – and the English government have lifted the ban on church bells, which must mean that the fear of invasion has retreated. But you are worrying about your Jess’s daughter, aren’t you? Well, don’t. If she needs help, she’ll find Pete somehow, and besides, there’s that cousin of hers who’s taken her in. Blood’s thicker than water; a relative won’t let her down.’
‘Oh, I know, but anything could have happened to her – it’s been two years almost to the day since Pete saw her last – and if only we had an address, I could send her a parcel. No matter how cheerfully Pete writes, it’s different for the armed forces. Ordinary civilians are having a lean time of it. Can you imagine, Andy, trying to get by on two ounces of butter each a week? And four of bacon? You eat three times that amount every morning, and several eggs. I know they have dried eggs – horrid stuff – but I gather from what I’ve read in the newspapers that real eggs are almost unobtainable unless you keep hens of your own and I doubt they can do that in the middle of Liverpool.’
Andy came round the table, put both arms round her and kissed her resoundingly, and as it always did, Nancy’s heart gave a joyous bound; she loved him so much!
‘I know what you’re saying,’ Andy said, giving her an extra squeeze. ‘But believe me, honey, the government won’t let its people starve, and they’re a resourceful lot, the British. You’ve read all about the special recipes the government are putting out, and how housewives are learning to use any food that comes to hand. Rabbit isn’t rationed and they put it into pies, fricassee it, curry it . . . for all I know, they might make rabbit trifle out of it.’ He sighed, pulling a comical face. ‘Wish they’d come over here and attack our rabbit population the way they’re attacking their own! And remember, Debbie isn’t a child any longer. She must be, oh, seventeen or eighteen, I suppose. Why, she’s probably in the forces herself by now and eating three good meals each day, at the government’s expense.’
Nancy sighed and leaned against his broad and comfortable chest. ‘You’re right, of course, and even if you weren’t there’d be no point in my worrying,’ she admitted. ‘Because Pete will find her one of these days, I just know he will, and when he does, he’ll see she’s all right. I know my boy. He won’t let anyone down.’
‘There you are, then,’ Andy said, releasing her and taking an apple from the bowl on the table. ‘And if you want to know what I think, if she’s anything like your friend Jess, she’ll be pretty capable. And now how about you trotting over to the kitchen and frying me some of that bacon you were talking about earlier?’
‘Hey, Bid, if you’ve finished with the
Echo
, pass it to me, will you?’ Debbie said. It was a warm September evening and she and Biddy were sitting on the doorstep whilst she darned stockings; a task she hated but which had to be done since she needed them for work the next day, having run out of leg paint. ‘Remember who bought the paper this evening, and I’ve scarcely glanced at it, since it was my turn to cook the supper.’
Biddy, knitting industriously away at what one day would be a jumper for her small daughter, picked up the newspaper which lay beside her and glanced at the headlines. ‘Looks like things are goin’ a bit better,’ she observed. ‘The Eyeties have surrendered.’ She handed the paper to Debbie as she spoke, then held up her knitting. ‘Oh, I’m never goin’ to have enough wool to finish this . . . unless I do the cuffs and the collar in blue or white instead of pink. Curse it, and I’ve followed the pattern like a bleedin’ slave, so I have.’
‘The trouble is, babies turn into toddlers and toddlers gobble their groats and guzzle their rusks and get bigger and bigger,’ Debbie pointed out. ‘Where is she, by the way?’
‘Who, Chloe? In bed, of course; where else should she be at past seven o’clock?’ Biddy said a trifle defensively, getting up and going into the kitchen. She knew that Debbie disapproved of the somewhat erratic hours the child kept, but Biddy, though she adored her little girl, did not intend to give up her social life entirely. She had left her job at the cinema the previous year and now worked in the munitions factory, earning a great deal more money than she had ever done as an usherette. However, it meant working shifts, so she and Debbie tried to arrange it so that one of them was always free to babysit. Biddy, with her lilting Irish accent, quick smile and neat figure, was popular with young men and enjoyed their company, and saw no reason why she should not have a social life just because of the child. So Debbie had discovered, with some dismay, that her friend was wrapping the baby in a shawl and taking her off to the cinema, or even to a dance hall. This had been fairly acceptable when Chloe was small, but now that she was almost three Debbie knew it was a bad idea, and had persuaded Biddy that a reliable babysitter might be paid a small sum to mind the child whilst Biddy went off to a dance or the cinema.