Debbie took the papers and the envelope out with a trembling hand, and sat down heavily on the bed. She could see at a glance that the loose sheets – and there were more of them than she had at first supposed – were letters from her Aunt Nancy. She glanced quickly at the address in the top right-hand corner of the first page of the letter and saw the address, neatly printed. The Walleroo! How could she have forgotten such a strange and interesting name? Yet she had done so totally. She was tempted to begin reading the letters, saving the one from her mother until later, but realised that this was sheer cowardice. It was easy to talk about a voice from beyond the grave, but she found she was frightened of what the envelope might contain. If her mother had written the letter at the beginning of the war, she would have been addressing a thirteen-year-old child, and what she said might in no way be what her nineteen-year-old daughter wanted to hear. Hesitantly, she opened the white envelope, drew out the pages within, and began to read.
My darling Debbie,
If you are reading this, it means that I’m no longer with you, but even so, I want the best for you. Poor old Debbie, I’m afraid I haven’t managed to amass very much for you to inherit, but there is some money in my Post Office savings account, and also some war bonds, though you won’t be able to change them until the war is over. I’ve talked to Uncle Max and he will give you all the help he can, because, having thought the matter over, I think the wisest thing you can do is to go to your Aunt Nancy in Australia. As you know, queen, she’s been the best of good friends. We would have done anything for one another and I’m sure Nancy will see that you are well and happy. I know you won’t be able to go until the war is over, and all sorts of things may happen which I can’t possibly guess at, but please write to her immediately and tell her I’m gone and explain that I have left you, so to speak, in her charge.
It seems to me that this isn’t going to be a short war and when it ends, whatever the outcome, Britain will be weary and beaten down by it. I don’t mean beaten because I know, already, that we shall triumph – who could believe anything else with Winnie in charge – but I do think Britain will run out of money and be in a pretty poor state. Australia is a young country, for young people. I had my chance of going out there years ago, when Nancy did, in fact, and I turned it down. I was afraid, Debbie, scared of the challenge, but not wanting to admit it. Of course, I’m glad now that I didn’t go, because if I had I’d never have met and married your father, and you would not have been born. No, I wouldn’t swap my memories of Ken and the pleasures of having a daughter, darling Debbie, for all Nancy’s mansion, if she has a mansion, that is.
But just because I couldn’t face leaving the only life I knew, that doesn’t mean that you should do the same. You are much braver than I ever was, and I hope with all my heart that you’ll give your Aunt Nancy the chance to help you to a new life. If you show Uncle Max this letter, and I’m assuming that he is still alive and well, then he’s promised to see you right until you are able to take care of yourself and I’m sure that he will pay your passage to Australia. Though of course if it’s not what you want . . .
Debbie, my love, this has been a horribly hard letter to write because it is peering through a glass darkly, as it says in the Bible. I long to be able to give you some security, but if I am killed – and I am writing this whilst sheltering in the hospital basement during a very heavy raid – then your going to Nancy seems the only possible solution.
Take care of yourself, darling Debbie; I know you’ll never forget me as I shall never forget you. Remember I love you,
Mam
By the time Debbie had finished reading, she could scarcely see the writing through the tears welling up in her eyes. Poor Mam! As she said, it must have been a dreadfully difficult letter to write, because she had no idea when – or even if – it would be read; no idea whether she was addressing a thirteen-year-old child or a grown woman. And, Debbie realised, her mother could not have known which way the war would go; not in 1941, when the raids were at their height.
Carefully, she laid the letter upon the others in the pile, and began to dry her eyes. Then she read it again and knew that she would do just as her mother had suggested. She had sufficient money in her own savings account to pay for a passage to Australia, or so she imagined, but if she had not she would sell the bureau, her bed and anything else she owned in order to get to Australia and Aunt Nancy. This time, however, she did not intend to keep her plans a secret from anyone. She would tell the girls where she was going, give in her notice at the factory, and tell her boss and all her friends whither she was bound. And last, but not least, she would tell Uncle Max. He had not lied when he had said that Jess had left Debbie in his charge, for the letter had more or less said the same. Furthermore, she would give Uncle Max the Sullivans’ address, would promise to write both on the journey to the Walleroo cattle station and on her arrival there. She thought, guiltily, that it might easily have been she who had contributed to his ageing, because she admitted to herself now that he really had loved her mother, and would have felt miserably responsible when he had lost touch with Debbie herself.
Downstairs, she could hear the girls assembling in the kitchen and presently one of them erupted into the hall. ‘Supper! Come to the cookhouse door, boys, come to the cookhouse door!’ a voice trilled, and Debbie gathered up all the letters and left the bedroom. She would tell them the whole story as they ate their meal, from the time she and Pete Sullivan had stood on the pavement in Wykeham Street, thinking that the bureau had been blown to bits, until the marvellous moment when she had opened the secret drawer and found the documents within.
Smiling to herself, she began to descend the stairs. She would not tell them that her real reason for making the epic journey was because she now believed that Pete would be at the Walleroo before her. You can’t fall in love with someone after only two or three meetings, particularly when you are only fifteen and he is twenty-one, she told herself, but she did not believe a word of it. His face had remained absolutely clear in her mind for more than four years: the way his hair grew, the gentleness of his smile, the way his eyes could harden when he was cross and soften when he was pleased. And there was no accounting for the way her stomach turned over every time she heard an Australian accent, or allowed herself to relive the brief hours she had spent in his company.
As she entered the kitchen, she reminded herself that this love – which might, after all, be just imagination – was very unlikely to be reciprocated. They had not set eyes on one another for four years, and for all she knew it might have been, for him, out of sight, out of mind. For despite his apparent concern, he had never written.
Yet she was certain sure she would have known had he been killed, certain sure that he had really liked her. So it was with a smile on her face that she entered the kitchen and beamed round at the assembled company. ‘Guess what, girls? I’m off on the longest journey of my life. First of all, though, I’ve a story to tell you . . .’
In the end, unlikely though it seemed, it was Uncle Max who actually got Debbie moving. She had decided that since he had been the one to find the bureau, it was only right that she should share its secrets with him. She went round to his house in Gregson Street the very next evening and took both Jess’s letter and the ones from Nancy with her.
He had been delighted to see her, had invited her into a small but cosy kitchen, had plied her with homemade scones, richly buttered, some delicious ginger biscuits and a small dish of strawberries which, he told her proudly, he had grown himself on the allotment he had recently acquired. ‘And the scones were made for me by my old landlady,’ he confided. ‘To tell the truth, queen, her ’n’ me’s thinking of getting hitched. She reckons her house is too big for her now she’s gettin’ on a bit, so she’d sell up in Huskisson Street and move in here wi’ me.’
‘Congratulations. I’m sure it’s the best thing for you,’ Debbie said warmly. ‘But is this house big enough?’
Uncle Max grinned sheepishly. ‘That’s one of the advantages, chuck. The fact is, Sarah – that’s her name – has a rare nasty old mother what landed herself on her daughter, oh, it must be three years or more ago. You may think I’m prejudiced but I’m not and my Sarah is desperate to get the old girl off her back.’ He chuckled reminiscently. ‘She’s full of courage, my Sarah, but she’s kind ’n’ all, and couldn’t bring ’erself to turn the old woman out. But this house only has the one decent bedroom and the old girl knows I’d not have her under my roof so she’s goin’ to her other daughter what lives up in Scotland, and good riddance! I’m tellin’ you, Sarah lost more lodgers through her mam than you’d ever believe, so you can imagine how glad we are to see the back of the old harridan.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Debbie said eagerly; she remembered her own confrontation with Mrs Roberts’s mother. ‘I’ve met people like that, who really enjoy making trouble.’
Uncle Max nodded heavily. ‘That’s her all right! Have another scone,’ he urged. ‘And now tell me about yourself. Is everything all right? Happy with the bureau?’
‘Yes, very happy,’ Debbie said, producing the letters from her bag. ‘I didn’t tell you before because I was afraid Mrs Bingham might have found it, but there’s a secret drawer in the bureau and these were still in it, quite intact and obviously unread. I brought them round to show you because I’m sure it’s what my mam would have wished me to do. Go on, read them. The first one was addressed to me and Mam meant it as a sort of last Will and Testament, I think. It – it made me cry, but it made me happy, too, and I guess you’ll feel the same when you’ve read it.’ Settling back in her chair, she sipped her tea, keeping her eyes tactfully fixed on the patterned rug at her feet.
Presently, Uncle Max handed back the letters, his eyes very bright and shiny, and his hands trembling a little. ‘Thank you, Debbie. You’re a kind girl, and I appreciate you bringin’ the stuff to me, ’cos it’s made me feel a good deal better,’ he said humbly. ‘I told you your man wanted me to look after you but I never guessed she’d purrit in writing, so to speak.’ He got to his feet and offered her another scone, and, when she refused, took another himself before sitting down again. ‘What’ll you do, queen? Australia’s a devil of a long way off but this here Nancy woman sounds a really grand person and there’s no doubt about it, things is going to be difficult in England for a long while yet. The Yanks will want their lease-lend money back, you can be sure of that, and there’ll be no end of rebuilding to be done and precious little money to do it with. Folk here is worn out from the struggle and sad from the losses we’ve suffered, and now that we’ve won, there ain’t much fight left in us. If you can get out of it, then I reckon your mam was right and you should do what she wants. After all, if you hate it, you can always come home again.’
‘Oh, Uncle Max, I hoped you’d say that,’ Debbie said eagerly. ‘Because I really want to go. Of course I’ll be leaving heaps of friends behind, but I hope to make friends there as well. And I’ll write to you, nice long letters, so you’ll know what’s happening to me.’
‘I’ll write back, I promise,’ Uncle Max assured her. ‘And I’ll pay your passage as your mother asked.’ Debbie began to protest but he cut her short. ‘I know, queen, you want to be independent, but remember it’s a long way and you’ll have to feed and clothe yourself for weeks – maybe months for all I know – so at least let me do something for you.’ He wagged an admonitory finger, then reached out and very gently chucked her under the chin. ‘There’s only you an’ me left now, old girl, so don’t deny me the pleasure of helping you,’ he said huskily. ‘After all, your mam asked me to take care of you and I couldn’t do it ’cos I didn’t know where you were, so now let me give what help I can.’
It would have been churlish to refuse, and anyway Debbie saw the force of his argument. So she said that she would be very grateful for his help and presently they parted, on the best of terms. Debbie left the house with a light step, happy on two counts, one that she had truly made friends with Uncle Max at last, and the second that he had never once suggested accompanying her to the other side of the world. Had he done so, she would have felt obliged to agree to it, but she had guessed as soon as he revealed his plan to marry that their new-found friendship would not be put to the test.
Naturally enough, actually leaving for Australia was not as simple as it had at first appeared. By the time Victory in Japan came round on 15 August, Debbie had resigned from the factory and was working out a month’s notice. She had also managed to get another tenant for her room, since the rent had increased steadily due to the shortage of accommodation caused by the enormous bomb damage the city had suffered, and the other girls would have been hard put to it to make up her share. The woman who took her place was a friend of Mrs Batley’s, a stout and cheerful person in her forties, who had been a cook in the ATS and needed accommodation in the city since she was now cooking at a British Restaurant and needed to be near her work.
Naturally, Debbie had meant to write to Nancy as soon as all her arrangements were made, but her passage itself was constantly under review, for the powers-that-be had decided to repatriate their allies before allowing emigration to start in earnest. Debbie began the letter several times, but the story was so involved that each time she wrote she decided to tear it up and start again, to make it simpler. Also, she found herself reluctant to write too soon in case Aunt Nancy advised her to stay where she was for the time being. The fact that she had given up her job and her place at No. 4 Lavender Court meant that she intended to go to Australia as soon as she could, even if Aunt Nancy considered it unwise. Best to write at the last moment, giving details of her voyage, her port of arrival, and the date and time at which she expected to dock. She was hopeful that someone would be able to meet her, but prolonged study of books and maps told her that this was unlikely. Australia was an unbelievably vast country; she doubted that anyone would be prepared to travel thousands of miles to meet an uninvited guest whom they had never met.