Fireshadow (17 page)

3 September 1946

It's a perfect day. Sunlight trickles between the branches of the weeping willow beside the playground. A magpie perches on a telegraph pole at the edge of the park and warbles at the sun. The air is warm, filled with the beginning of spring. Harry and Elizabeth and two other children chase each other around the playground while their mothers stand and gossip nearby.

Alice sits on the bench.

In her journal on her lap she is making a list.

Things she doesn't know about Erich.

His mother's name. His sister's date of birth. His shoe size. The names of his grandparents.

The children are playing some kind of tag game. Elizabeth is ‘it' but the other three children are too big and fast for her and she can't catch any of them. She is starting to get frustrated when her older brother, Harry, pretends to trip and fall and his sister is on him in seconds, the two of them giggling.

The size of his home. The names of his friends from school. His favourite subjects. His favourite book.

Harry and Elizabeth. Harry and Lizzie. In a few minutes, as usual, their mother will gather them up, wrap their coats around them again, and walk them home. What is their house like? Alice wonders. Is it a lovely little semi-detached cottage, where their father will be home from work and waiting for them? Their father . . .

What he looks like out of uniform. What sort of music he listens to. Whether or not he has had any other sweethearts.

Their father. These two lovely children would have a father, of course. He'd be young and handsome, and would probably read to them or play with them every night. And whenever they needed him, for a hug or a story, he'd be right there for them. Right there always.

Tears escape as she watches the children playing. Her list, abandoned now, sits on her lap.

Are you all right?

The children's mother is standing beside her, concern written across her face.

Oh. Yes . . . I'm sorry, I . . .

Alice fishes in a pocket for a hanky, can't find one, rubs ineffectually at her eyes.

Here, use mine.
A fresh, crisp square of linen is pressed into her hand. The young mother sits beside her.

Thank you. I'm okay, really. I don't usually . . .
Alice stops. Breathes. Tries to get herself back under control.
You have a lovely family.

Thank you
. The woman offers a brief smile and glances quickly at her two children, who are tickling one another on the grass.
They keep my hands full.

I can imagine.

The magpie sings into the silence.

I'm Anne.

Alice. Alice Andrews.

The two women shake hands.

Are you sure you're all right?

Yes. I am now. It is good to talk to someone. Someone new. Someone outside her family.
It's just that
. . . Alice stops.

That's fine. You don't have to talk about it.

Alice says nothing for a few moments. Then,
I'm pregnant
.
And I was making a list . . .

She stops again and the other woman says nothing. After a moment or two, though, she places a hand on the girl's arm. It feels warm and slightly rough, but the moment of human contact, of reassurance, is enough.

The father?

In Europe somewhere. I don't know. I miss him.

I know. I miss my husband, too.

He's gone?

Killed. In Africa.

Oh.

The little girl disengages herself from her brother and runs, still giggling, across to the bench.
Mummy, can we stay longer? Please?

Just a little while. Elizabeth, this is Miss Andrews.

Hello.

Hello, Elizabeth.

For a long time the two women sit, arm in arm, watching the children.

25 September 1946

In her parent's bedroom there is a full-length mirror, the only one in the house. Alice stands before it, naked.

It is afternoon. Her father is job-hunting and her mother at the shops. The house is silent. Alice turns this way and that, studying her reflection closely, looking at her body.

It is changing.

Her breasts seem a little fuller already. They feel oddly heavy and pendulous even though they look much the same as always. She stands side-on and runs her hands over her stomach. It might be her imagination, but she thinks there might be a lump, or at least the beginnings of one.

She still throws up in the mornings, but not so much any more.

Alice slips back into her clothes and studies her face closely. It seems more lined than it used to. There are dark bags beneath her eyes – she hasn't been sleeping well. She looks older, she thinks.

In the front room she sits and opens her journal. She hasn't written in it since that day in the park. The last entry is her list. She reads it again and is half embarrassed by it.

She thinks about Anne.

Most afternoons now they meet at the park and talk while her children are playing. Alice sometimes feels that she knows more about Anne's husband than she does about Erich. She knows his name was Jim. She knows they were married only three years before he went off to war. She knows he never laid eyes on his daughter, and that his son was too young to remember him properly. She has seen his photograph. She knows he had light hair and a strong chin. In his army uniform he reminded her a little of Erich. She knows he liked roast potatoes.

All she has told Anne about Erich is his name. Nothing else, and Anne hasn't asked for any more. Alice is scared that she will.

She is scared she'll have to lie to her friend.

29 September 1946

Alice? The voice behind her is unfamiliar. Alice stops and turns.

I thought it was you. It's me . . . Victoria.

Victoria. Vicki. Alice remembers her from primary school. They sat beside each other for a year. The boys used to dip her blonde pigtails in the ink wells.
Victoria
. . . Alice's voice sounds strange, even to her.
How are you?

I haven't seen you in years
. Victoria is one of those people who don't seem to hear anything anyone else says.
How have you been? What are you doing now?

Nothing really.

I'm working in the city, in a dress shop. It's wonderful work. Mr Williams, who owns the shop, says that I have a real eye for it. And of course it's nice to have a little bit of spending money for dances and things like that
. . .

Alice just nods.

Victoria is engaged. She shows Alice the ring proudly. It has a tiny diamond, little more than a chip of glimmering rock, set between two small rubies.

Of course it's not very big, but it was all that Allen could afford on his Army pension and everything. He's got a job now, though, driving timber trucks, so we're planning a lovely wedding. But I'm talking all about myself. What about you? Is there a young man in your life?

Unconsciously, Alice's hand brushes lightly across her belly, as though trying to shield it from her words.

No. Nobody.

That's sad.
Victoria touches her arm.
I know, there's a dance this Friday night, at the Empire. Allen and I are going – why don't you come with us? It would be great fun, and I could introduce you to some of Allen's soldier friends. They're lovely blokes. What do you think?

Thank you, but no.
Alice shakes her head.
Not this week.

Oh.
The other woman seems taken aback by her refusal.
Well, perhaps another time, then?

Perhaps.
They both know Alice is lying.

Anyway, I must go. Have to get home. It's been good catching up with you, Alice. We must do this properly some time. Perhaps over a cup of tea?

That would be nice.

Alice watches Victoria walk away up the pavement towards the tram stop. Should that have been me? she wonders. Young, pretty, engaged, working in a dress shop and going to dances on the weekends? Perhaps if she'd never gone out to Marrinup . . .

Shaking her head, Alice continues on towards the park.

Anne and the kids are already there by the time she arrives.

Hi
. Alice plonks herself down on the bench. She feels bloated and heavy.

Hi. How are you feeling?

Not too good.
She pauses for a moment and then tells Anne about the meeting and conversation with Victoria. When she finishes, the other woman looks at her.

Why didn't you at least tell her about Erich?

In the silence that follows, the sounds of the afternoon, the children playing, the birds calling, all seem to become muted and distant. Alice knows she needs to tell her. Wants to tell her.

I haven't even told you about Erich. Not properly.

I know
. Anne nods. She isn't looking at Alice now, but is staring straight ahead, out to the park, watching her children.
I supposed that you would when you were ready.

Alice sneaks a quick glance at the woman sitting beside her. The lines on Anne's face seem to echo the ones etching themselves into her own skin.

He wasn't Australian. He was . . . German.
Now Alice turns, and watches the other woman's reaction closely.
He was a prisoner here. In the camp down in Marrinup. I lived there with my grandfather during the war.

Where was he captured?
Anne's face is blank. Unreadable. There have been stories in the newspaper about German immigrants being beaten by gangs of returned soldiers. Germans aren't popular in Perth at the moment.

Africa.
Alice pauses.
Annie . . . I wanted to tell you all about him. I really did. I just . . . didn't know how.

Anne sits perfectly still, says nothing, watches her children. Finally, she speaks.

So then
, she says,
tell me about him.

And Alice does. She talks about how they met. About life in the camp. About the hospital. She tells Anne the little she knows about Erich's family, how his father died, how Erich reacted. Then she talks about the other prisoners, about Günter and Stutt, and about the last afternoon she and Erich spent together. She describes how she felt that night, hiding in the shadows of the verandah in the rain, watching the trucks vanish into the darkness. She tells Anne how every day she rushes out to check the mail, even though she knows it is far too soon for him to have written. She tells Anne everything and for a long time Anne says nothing, her gaze still locked on her children.

Annie?
There is uncertainty in Alice's voice.
Is everything all right? Are we all right?

You know something, Alice?
Anne turns and looks at the girl properly and there is something in her eyes, not anger, not tears, something indescribable.
One day our kids are going to play together on those swings over there, and if I've got anything to do with it, then none of them, not yours or mine, or anyone else's for that matter, is going to give a bugger about where their fathers came from.
And she links her arm through that of the younger woman and leans her weight into Alice's shoulder.
Thanks for telling me.

28 October 1946

The doctor's hands are cool from the soaping he gave them just before the examination. For a few moments he presses on her belly.

And who is the father?
he asks.

Alice tells him. He doesn't react.

Everything here seems fine. Are you drinking plenty of water?

He concludes their appointment by asking Alice to pass on his regards to her grandfather and telling her to come back in four weeks' time for another check.

Walking to the train station, Alice feels large and unwieldy among the lunchtime crowds. The city is so busy and as she makes her way across Hay Street a tram rattles past, almost knocking her off balance. She wanders through Aherns, stopping a couple of times to look at things she can't afford. In Murray Street a group of schoolgirls walk past in twos, led by a nun. Their uniforms are crisp and starched and they giggle to one another. Alice feels as though they are giggling at her.

Since her belly started to show, even though it is still just a tiny bump, she feels self-conscious and ungainly and, apart from her afternoon walks down to the park to see Anne and the kids, she has stopped going out unless she absolutely has to. At the shops the other neighbourhood women raise eyebrows at one another whenever she enters and she can feel their speculation on her back as she does her shopping.

Now she has to come into town to see the specialist, and while part of her savours the anonymity of the crowds she still feels too big and obvious to be properly comfortable. In Forrest Street she rests for a moment on a bench in front of the GPO. She knows that her father is inside somewhere, sorting mail. His new job.

The early afternoon sun makes her hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. Her dresses are all becoming too tight and her mother is already making her a new, bigger, looser wardrobe.

Alice?

It's Victoria. She's wearing a pretty floral skirt and a crisp white blouse. She looks fresh and clean. There are two other women with her, both about the same age, both similarly dressed.

Victoria, hello.

Imagine meeting again so soon. I was telling Allen about you just the other week.
Her eyes drop to the small lump in Alice's lap.
Oh. You're pregnant. I thought
. . . Victoria turns red.
Anyway, we're on our break and we must keep moving, mustn't we, girls . . .

There are mumbled goodbyes and Alice watches the three women cross the road and disappear into the front doors of Boans. She feels so much older than all of them.