Margaret made her smile seem readier than it felt. The Glamor article had said she might never see any of them again. You had to be ready for that.

‘Tell you what, Maggie, I’ll go through your drawers upstairs. See if there’s anything I can darn for you. I know you’re not the best with a needle, and we’ll want you to look as nice as pie when you see Joe again.’

You were not to resent them, the magazine had said. You had to make sure you never blamed your husband for separating you from your family. Her aunt was now hauling the basket across the room with the same proprietorial familiarity as her mother once had.

Margaret shut her eyes and breathed deeply as Letty’s voice echoed across the laundry room: ‘I might fix up a few of your father’s shirts, while I’m at it. I couldn’t help noticing, dear, that they’re looking a bit tired, and I wouldn’t want anyone saying I don’t . . .’ She shot a sideways look at Margaret. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s shipshape here. Oh, yes. You won’t need to worry about a thing.’

Margaret didn’t want to think of them on their own. Better this way than with someone she didn’t know.

‘Maggie?’

‘Mm?’

‘Do you think . . . do you think your father will mind about it? I mean, about me?’ Letty’s face was suddenly anxious, her forty-five-year-old features as open as those of a young bride.

Afterwards, on the many nights when she thought back, Margaret wasn’t sure what had made her say it. She wasn’t a mean person. She didn’t want either Letty or her father to be lonely, after all.

‘I think he’ll be delighted,’ she said, reaching down to her little dog. ‘He’s very fond of you, Letty, as are the boys.’ She looked down and coughed, examining the splinter on her hand. ‘He’s often said he looks on you like . . . a kind of sister. Someone who can talk to him about Mum, who remembers what she was like . . . And, of course, if you’re washing their shirts for them you’ll have their undying gratitude.’ For some reason it was impossible to look up but she was aware of the acute stillness of Letty’s skirts, of her thin, strong legs, as she stood a few feet away. Her hands, habitually active, hung motionless against her apron.

‘Yes,’ Letty said at last. ‘Of course.’ There was a slight choke in her voice. ‘Well. As I said. I’ll – I’ll go and make us that tea.’

2

The two male kangaroos – both only 12 months out of the pouch – which will fly to London shortly . . . will eat 12 lb of hay en route. Qantas Empire Airways said yesterday the kangaroos would spend only 63 hours in the air.

Sydney Morning Herald, 4 July 1946

Three weeks to embarkation

Ian darling,

You’ll never guess what – I’m on! I know you won’t believe it, as I hardly can myself, but it’s true. Daddy had a word with one of his old friends at the Red Cross, who has some friends high up in the RN, and the next thing I had orders saying I’ve got a place on the next boat out, even though, strictly speaking, I should be low priority.

I had to tell the other brides back at home that I was going to Perth to see my grandmother, to prevent a riot, but now I’m here, holed up at the Wentworth Hotel in Sydney, waiting to nip on board before them.

Darling, I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you so terribly. Mummy says that when we’ve got our new home sorted she and Daddy will be over ASAP. They are planning to travel on the new Qantas ‘Kangaroo’ service – did you know you can get to London in only 63 hours flying on a Lancastrian? She has asked me to ask you for your mother’s address so she can send on the rest of my things once I’m in England. I’m sure they’ll be better about everything once they’ve met your parents. They seem to have visions of me ending up in some mud hut in the middle of an English field somewhere.

So, anyway, darling, here I am practising my signature, and remembering to answer to ‘Mrs’, and still getting used to the sight of a wedding band on my finger. It was so disappointing us not having a proper honeymoon, but I really don’t mind where it happens, as long as I’ll be with you. I’ll end now, as I’m spending the afternoon at the American Wives’ Club at Woolloomooloo, finding out what I’ll need for the trip. The American Wives get all sorts, unlike us poor British wives. (Isn’t it a gas, my saying that?) Mind you, if I have to listen to one more rendition of ‘When The Boy From Alabama Meets A Girl From Gundagi’ I think I shall sprout wings and fly to you myself. Take care my love, and write as soon as you have a moment.

Your Avice

In the four years since its inception the American Wives’ Club had met every two weeks at the elegant white stucco house on the edge of the Royal Botanic Gardens, initially to help girls who had travelled from Perth or Canberra to while away the endless weeks before they were allowed a passage to meet their American husbands. It taught them how to make American patchwork quilts, sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, and offered a little matronly support to those who were pregnant or nursing, and those who could not decide whether they were paralysed with fear at the thought of the journey or at the idea that they would never make it.

Latterly the club had ceased to be American in character: the previous year’s US War Brides Act had hastened the departure of its twelve thousand newly claimed Australian wives, so the quilts had been replaced by bridge afternoons and advice on how to cope with British food and rationing.

Many of the young brides who now attended were lodged with families in Leichhardt, Darlinghurst or the suburbs. They were in a strange hinterland, their lives in Australia not yet over and those elsewhere not begun, their focus on the minutiae of a future they knew little about and could not control. It was perhaps unsurprising that on the biweekly occasions that they met, there was only one topic of conversation.

‘A girl I know from Melbourne got to travel over on the Queen Mary in a first-class cabin,’ a bespectacled girl was saying. The liner had been held up as the holy grail of transport. Letters were still arriving in Australia with tales of her glory. ‘She said she spent almost all her time toasting herself by the pool. She said there were dinner-dances, party games, everything. And they got the most heavenly dresses made in Ceylon. The only thing was she had to share with some woman and her children. Ugh. Sticky fingers all over her clothes, and up at five thirty in the morning when the baby started to wail.’

‘Children are a blessing,’ said Mrs Proffit, benignly, as she checked the stitching of a green hat on a brown woollen monkey. Today they were Gift-making for the Bombed-out Children of London. One of the girls had been sent a book called Useful Hints from Odds and Ends by her English mother-in-law, and Mrs Proffit had written out instructions on how to make a necklace from the metal rings for chickens’ legs, and a bed-jacket from old cami-knickers for next week’s meeting. ‘Yes,’ she said, glancing fondly at them all. ‘You’ll understand one day. Children are a blessing.’

‘No children is more of one,’ muttered the dark-eyed girl next to Avice, accompanying the remark with a rather vulgar nudge.

In other times, Avice would not have spent five minutes with this peculiar mixture of girls – some of whom seemed to have landed straight off some outback station with red dust on their shoes – or, indeed, have wasted so many hours enduring interminable lectures from middle-aged spinsters who had seized upon the war as a way to enliven what had probably been dismal lives. But she had been in Sydney for almost ten days now, with her father’s friend, Mr Burton, the only person she knew there, and the Wives’ Club had become her only point of social contact. (She still wasn’t sure how to explain Mr Burton’s behaviour to her father. She had had to tell the man no less than four times that she was a married woman, and she wasn’t entirely sure that as far as he was concerned that made any difference.)

There were twelve other young women at today’s gathering; few had spent more than a week at a time with their husbands, and more than half had not seen them for the best part of a year. The shipment home of troops was a priority; the ‘wallflower wives’, as they had become known, were not. Some had filed their papers over a year previously and heard little since. At least one, tiring of her dreary lodgings, had given up and gone home. The rest stayed on, fuelled by blind hope, desperation, love or, in most cases, a varying mix of all three.

Avice was the newest member. Listening to their tales of the families with whom they were billeted, she had silently thanked her parents for the opulence of her hotel accommodation. It would all have been so much less exciting if she had been forced to stay with some grumpy old couple. As it was, it became rather less exciting by the day.

‘If that Mrs Tidworth says to me one more time, “Oh dear, hasn’t he sent for you yet?” I swear I’ll swing for her.’

‘She loves it, the old bitch. She did the same to Mary Knight when she stayed there. I reckon she actually wants you to get the telegram saying, “Don’t come.”’

‘It’s the you’ll-be-sorrys I can’t stand.’

‘Not much longer, eh?’

‘When’s the next one due in?’

‘Around three weeks, according to my orders,’ said the dark-eyed girl. Avice thought she might have said her name was Jean, but she was hopeless with names and had forgotten them all immediately she’d been introduced. ‘She’d better be as nice as the Queen Mary. She even had a hair salon with heated dryers. I’m desperate to get my hair done properly before I see Stan again.’

‘She was a wonderful woman, Queen Mary,’ said Mrs Proffit, from the end of the table. ‘Such a lady.’

‘You’ve got your orders?’ A freckled girl on the other side of the table was frowning at Jean.

‘Last week.’

‘But you’re low priority. You said you didn’t even put in your papers until a month ago.’

There was a brief silence. Around the table, several girls exchanged glances, then fixed their eyes on their embroidery. Mrs Proffit looked up; she had apparently picked up on the subtle cooling in the atmosphere. ‘Anyone need more thread?’ she asked, peering over her spectacles.

‘Yes, well, sometimes you just get lucky,’ said Jean, and excused herself from the table.

‘How come she gets on?’ said the freckled girl, turning to the women on each side of her. ‘I’ve been waiting nearly fifteen months, and she’s getting on the next boat out. How can that be right?’ Her voice had sharpened with the injustice of it. Avice made a mental note not to mention her own orders.

‘She’s carrying, isn’t she?’ muttered another girl.

‘What?’

‘Jean. She’s in the family way. You know what? The Americans won’t let you over once you’re past four months.’

‘Who’s doing the penguin?’ said Mrs Proffit. ‘You’ll need to keep that black thread for whoever’s doing the penguin.’

‘Hang on,’ said a redhead threading a needle. ‘Her Stan left in November. She said he was on the same ship as my Ernie.’

‘So she can’t be in the family way.’

‘Or she is . . . and . . .’

Eyes widened and met, accompanied by the odd smirk.

‘Are you up for a little roo, Sarah dear?’ Mrs Proffit beamed at the girls and pulled some pieces of fawn felt out of her cloth bag. ‘I do think the little roos are rather sweet, don’t you?’

Several minutes later Jean returned to her chair, and folded her arms rather combatively. She seemed to realise that she was no longer the topic of conversation and visibly relaxed – although she might have wondered at the sudden industriousness of the toy-making around her.