The Heaven I Swallowed (19 page)

Fred returned and sat down to smoke opposite me. The weight of his presence hung on me, even as I tried to muster gratitude for his acts of kindness. I had been so long alone that the smallest gestures of care unsettled me. After my day, perhaps I would have been happier to come back to solitude, to the probable collapse into further weeping. Perhaps I would always hold myself back.

He stubbed out his cigarette into the ashtray he had created.

I had barely managed to swallow three pieces of the lamb, the cold strings catching in my throat. ‘Fred,' I began.

He lit another cigarette, striking the match on the side of the box with an experienced flick. I wanted to tell him everything.

‘Gracie?' he answered and the use of my old name sent me back again, to that shining pit of light. I began to cry then and, without knowing all the moments or movements, I was in Fred's arms, held fast against his chest. He locked me tight against him and I disappeared into his shoulder. If there were stars above us, I didn't know, only aware of his whispered reassurance.

‘I am here, I am here, I am here,' he murmured over and over and, finally, I forgot the time when he was not.

†

Fred's pale torso rose and fell under my arm. He had fallen asleep almost immediately afterwards and I was left in the quiet of the ongoing night, his snores the closest they had ever been. His mouth gaped open beneath the moustache that had tingled my lips an hour before.

I pulled at my nightdress as discreetly as I could, trying to untangle the bunching above my waist. Fred claimed I was as beautiful as ever but I suspected there were limits to such talk. He would not want to see my varicose veins in the morning. I rolled onto my side and felt dampness run down my thigh.

May Thy Body, O Lord, which I have received, and Thy Blood which I have drunk cleave to mine inmost parts: and do Thou grant that no stain of sin remain in me.

I did not want those words yet there they were, reminding me of all that did not remain inside me, of the lost chance of Mary, of everything I must regret.

Fred slept on. His dreams were not, as I had dreaded, of a paradise lost. His plea to me as he made his way to pleasure held no echo of her. He had gripped me as if his life depended on it and shouted only ‘Gracie, Gracie, Gracie!' reaching his height much sooner than I could. I had expected nothing more and wanted nothing more than his body beside me, flowing with the blood not spilt on the battlefield, nor drained in a prisoner-of-war camp, the flesh not worthy of medals of honour, nor glory. The rhythm of his breathing was enough.

†

Mary stood under the flame tree, her face in shadow, talking to another nurse. From the window I could only see the woman's back. In my arms I held a stack of closed files Mr Anderson had asked me to take down to the basement, but I found myself transfixed by the ease of Mary's hand gestures, the confidence in her shared laughter, the strength of her black skin against her uniform. There was no hint of a whisper around her, the other staff stood in their own engrossing conversations. Her head turned at one point to acknowledge a passing doctor. She was one of them, then, and, from behind the glass, I knew her thoughts were not on me. If I registered at all on her consciousness, I was a blurred figure, glimpsed from the corner of her eye.

I watched for a little longer, aware Mr Anderson would return any minute and catch me neglecting my duties, again lacking the focused diligence he had hired me for.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Smith?' It was Mr Anderson, reappearing at the moment I had predicted he would. I was about to turn to him when I saw Mary had seen me, her head lifted in my direction. She raised her hand in greeting. I left Mr Anderson waiting behind me. It was not a wave, the girl just raised her palm and spread her fingers as if making a print in the air.

I raised my own hand, letting the fingertips rest lightly on the pane. In the time it took for the glass to lose its chill, the girl's arm had dropped to her side. She spoke to her friend—words I could not interpret—and then spun away, walking the path to South Wing.

‘Mrs Smith?'

Mr Anderson still waited but I could not bring myself to address him. I had to follow her every move, to witness her disappearance into the converted ballroom where she would dance her life.

‘Mrs Smith!'

I lowered my hand, resting it on the top folder in the crook of my arm.

‘Yes, Mr Anderson?'

‘Do you need something?'

‘Need something, Mr Anderson?'

‘You seem … distracted, Mrs Smith.'

‘Not at all.'

I turned towards him. The coloured spots on my vision from looking at the light hung in front of his face for a moment before clearing away to reveal his forehead, so furrowed his brows were one long line of wiry hair. He was not concerned for me, simply for the work, the efficiency of every hour.

‘Do you know that girl?' He gestured to the courtyard below, the wave encompassing any one of the still milling nurses.

‘No,' I replied. ‘She's just like a girl I once knew.'

‘Off to the basement then.'

Rarely did Mr Anderson issue orders to me. To move from here, to abandon the spot on which the girl and I had joined hands, if only in the intangible firmament, was a harsh punishment for a few weeks of less-than-perfect work in his service.

I turned back to the window, ignoring Mr Anderson, closed my eyes and lowered my head. The branches of the flame tree silhouetted on the back of my eyelids, like an X-ray, and for the first time in—I did not know how long—I said a prayer for someone else.

Author's note

The content of Fred's wartime letters draws on material in
We Were There: Australian Soldiers of World War II Tell Their Stories
(ed. John Barrett, Victoria: Penguin, 1987). Fred's poem on page 42 is adapted from David Gascoyne's ‘De Profundis' in
Poetry of the World Wars
(ed. Michael Foss, London: Michael O'Mara, 1990). Father Benjamin's Bible quotes on page 134 are from Luke 6:43–45. The song lyrics on pages 159–161 are from Frankie Vaughan's ‘Garden of Eden', 1957 (copyright expired).

Thank you Nicholas Jose for convincing me to give Grace and Mary their very own novel; Jan Harrow for all her ongoing support and editorial advice; Chelsea Avard for, once again, reading one half of the manuscript and, with unflagging enthusiasm, convincing me the other half was worth it; Amy Matthews for too many discussions about the exegesis (sorry!); Rachel Hennick for introducing me to the work of Joyce Carol Oates; and to Stephanie Hester for mentioning the idea of the moonlight falling into the War Memorial, some time drinking Cibo coffee. Thank you to the ‘Wordsmitties': Katherine Doube, Carol Lefevre, Anna Solding, Heather Taylor Johnson and Bernadette Smith for their enormous generosity in reading the entire manuscript and convincing me to enter it in the Vogel. A special mention to Bern for her Gothic insights, not to mention introducing me to the Cap'n and to the subsequent wonderful outcomes from that meeting.

Thank you to the University of Adelaide for providing me with a postgraduate scholarship and to the Creative Writing program in the Department of English. Thank you to Wakefield Press for continuing to support my writing, particularly to Michael Bollen for being so approachable. Thank you to Julia Beaven for an inspired, and inspiring, edit.

On the family side, thanks to both my parents—Dr Gail Hennessy and Lance Hennessy—for reading the novel and picking up on historical errors, plus giving their blessing to use family stories. As always, my siblings have been there along the way—Gina, Ralph, Mark and Ruth—giving support in various forms, from visits to phone calls, from memories to jokes. A special mention to my sister-in-law, Lucy, for many fantastic meals during the Adelaide years.

This work owes a great deal to the memory of two women: my maternal grandmother, Jean Kearns, and my paternal great-aunt Noreen McAllister. I knew neither of them very well but I hope they might have been flattered by the ­attention.

Finally, this work is dedicated to my father: eternal optimist, pillar of strength and general bringer of joy. Never let the turkeys get you down.