Gallipoli Street (51 page)

As she sat by his bedside later she couldn't help feeling that maybe some of her sins weren't quite forgiven yet, especially the one that remained unconfessed. God seemed to have a few more points to make before he was done with her, but surely striking down her fiancé with malaria was being a bit blunt.

Sydney

She watched the pattern of his breathing, the stuttering fall and the rise that was blessedly less shallow than a few days earlier, but still laboured. Theresa patted his chest gently as he slept, glancing over towards the window. They were approaching Sydney at last and she stood and stretched, deciding to see it in all its glory. The bunks in the plane were close together and she checked patients as she went, glad of the comfortable pants nurses were allowed to wear during aerial transit. She hoped she could get transferred to this role after the wedding. It was more rewarding, happier work, bringing the men home, despite their injuries. Helping them to feel warm and comforted even before they hit Australian soil was a great privilege. Assuming Pete would still let her work.

What am I thinking? Since when does a man tell me what to do? She shook her head. It was hardly a normal engagement. She didn't know his opinion on having a working wife any more than he knew she was coming to him minus her virginity. She sighed. There was plenty of time to sort all that out later. Focusing on his survival was all that really mattered after all. She'd been doing the right thing, she told herself.

Gazing at the Harbour Bridge lit by the glorious dawn, Theresa felt the relief catch in her throat. She wished she were bringing every soldier home from war, feeling for all the families whose sons would never come flying in over her shores, safe once again in this glittering, wonderful place.

‘Want to watch?' she asked one very young soldier who was nursing a badly injured arm.

She helped him over to the window and they drank in the sight together. The dotted grey-green of the bush among the sandstone and city, the sapphire blue of her waters, where boats bobbed about like little corks in their happy harbour; all were watched over by the great bridge, a reminder to those who visited that Sydney was a place of hope. The graceful arch, built during the desperate years of the Depression, had pulled them all forward to her completion, a metaphor for their collective, ultimate triumph over adversity as the city was united and better times arrived. And so it was, ten years later, that Sydney's arching heart watched over them still, the symbol of hope standing strong during these days of war. A promise that dark days have endings and that good times come once more.

She felt safe and welcomed home as a renewal of strength flowed into her. Here there was an abundance of nurses and doctors, workers and families. Here there was a country to take them and hold them again, a place where the guns were silent and the invisible enemy absent. Here, in this country, she could marry the man she loved, and, when the war was over, have a family with him and live in a real home together.

How extraordinary it seemed that she could ever have felt trapped here when this place had given her every opportunity she could ever desire. Here she was limited only by her own strength – she knew that now, because in Australia they were free. It had taken a great deal for her to realise that and she would never forget it now. No orphanage, no church, no nightclub owner and no war ever really held her fate. The choices were hers to make. Free. With one goal in mind: to get Pete well, for without him even freedom meant nothing at all.

She looked over at her young patient, grateful that this soldier at least was spared from battle for now.

‘Got someone waiting for you?' she asked the youth.

‘My mum,' he said, trying to hide the tears that had welled in his eyes.

She smiled at him gently. ‘I'll bet you're looking forward to her cooking.'

‘Sure am. She's promised me some of her banana cake as soon as I get there. And Dad said I can have a beer with him down at the pub. First time,' he said looking excited.

‘I'm sure he'll be bursting with pride,' she assured him.

He looked at her shyly. ‘Want to come too? I reckon they'll let a good sort like you in the main bar. You look like a pin-up girl.'

She laughed. ‘And here I was thinking you were a little innocent. You just save those cheeky comments for girls your own age.'

She helped him back to his bunk then looked over towards Pete. He had woken up and was sending her a look of such tenderness it made her stop for a moment to hold it, soaking it in before she made her way over to him.

‘Thought you'd jumped off and left me.' He smiled, holding her hand.

‘I can't swim.' She smiled back, smoothing his hair.

‘We'll have to do something about that then. I bet you'll look ravishing in a swimsuit,' he whispered hoarsely. He craned his neck to see the view from the window as she gave him some water then lay back weakly. ‘Beautiful sight,' he said.

‘Funny to think last time I came into this harbour I was just a toddler on a ship, all alone. Not that I remember.'

‘Not this time. This time you're coming home to be my wife,' he said proudly and she felt his love engulf her, warm and safe. ‘Can't wait to show you off at the big Christmas party at Greenshades. Hope I'm well enough.'

‘Greenshades?' Theresa echoed, something tugging at her memory.

‘My great-uncle's estate in Wahroonga. Massive joint with a nice pool and tennis courts. They have a Christmas do every year and the nuns bring over the orphans from the parish up that way. It's a big affair, marquee, dancing. You'll enjoy it: lots of singing and carrying on…what's the matter?'

‘I…I remember.' She stared at him, stunned.

‘Remember what?'

‘Greenshades. I…I went there once. As a little girl. Sister Carmel took me because her cousin worked at that orphanage and she decided to take me along.'

He stared at her in surprise. ‘Seriously? But that means we would have met once upon a time…and you've met my family too.' He chuckled, shaking his head and kissing her fingers. ‘I knew we were meant to be.'

‘It was…magical there,' she whispered, still incredulous.

‘Yes, it's good fun.' He yawned as he drifted back off. ‘Good fun…can't believe you were there. Told you I thought you were familiar when we met.' He squeezed her hand. ‘Destiny.'

She watched him fall asleep, processing this new information. So that was the family she would be marrying into. It hardly seemed possible. The one family she'd had a glimpse of: a privileged, wealthy family. A family she had envied from afar and fantasised about, this family would be hers now. She felt slightly sick as the prospect of meeting them loomed closer. All they knew of her so far was whatever Pete had told them in his letters from Port Moresby and a few lines she'd sent in a telegram before the transport journey. She could be anyone on the street to them.

What would they make of her? A girl with no family, little money and no concept of their way of life? And she was two years older than Pete. The list of possible grievances seemed endless. How was she supposed to slot into their world? What if she picked up the wrong fork or said the wrong thing? No, the nuns had been very strict in that regard. She knew she wouldn't disgrace him in manners or etiquette. But there was still the issue of not understanding how to be one of them. She had no idea of how to be in a family or how to handle life as a one of the wealthy. She enjoyed her work and had no intention of becoming a member of the idle rich, chit-chatting about fashion and knitting for the poor orphans.
She was the poor orphan
. For the first time in her life she was actually worried about what people would think of her, seeing herself as falling very short of what they would consider a suitable match for their eldest, marvellous son.

Most of all she dreaded meeting his mother, a woman he seemed to worship. Would she see through her to the frightened little fraud that she was? And what of the issue of her virginity? This Catholic family would be expecting a virginal lady in white and here she was, a soiled dove. She only hoped his mother was as kind and understanding as Pete said she was.

She didn't have long to wait. That night they had just settled into the ward at St Vincent's Hospital, and Theresa sat, pen in hand, writing another telegram for his parents, when there was a knock at the door and a lovely woman in a stylish blue suit and hat entered. Her face broke into a stunning smile that matched her son's as she rushed forward and gathered him in her arms, tears falling.

‘I won't ask how you knew.' He laughed as she drew back to study his face and feel his forehead.

Just then a good-looking man arrived and strode across the room to clasp his son close; he was openly crying, pushing at the tears roughly and apologising. ‘Sorry, mate. Oh God, it's good to see you.' He laughed at himself.

The three of them sat for a moment and Theresa wondered if she should leave when Pete looked over at her. ‘Mum, Dad, this is Theresa,' he said simply, his voice filled with pride.

‘How wonderful to meet you,' Veronica said, walking over and taking her into her gentle embrace, much to Theresa's surprise, ‘and how beautiful you are. Like a swan, isn't she, Jack? Pete raved on for pages about you but now I see words can't do you justice.' She smiled warmly, from the heart, and Theresa realised her fears over her future mother-in-law were unfounded. This woman was all goodness, just like her son.

‘You've cared for our Pete and now here you are, ready to become part of our family. I can't tell you how grateful we were to get your telegram,' Jack said, kissing her cheek and placing his arm around his wife as she nodded tearfully. ‘Made such a difference to know you were bringing him home.'

‘Yes, so very grateful, dear. What a blessing that you found him again,' she said, studying her face. ‘You know it's the strangest thing–'

Just then there was another knock at the door and Simon's face appeared, gaunt but far healthier than the last time Theresa and Pete had seen him.

‘Hear there's a thirsty man come back from war.' He grinned and Pete let out a laugh as Simon entered, holding an older lady's hand. ‘Nana wouldn't stay away. Wanted to see the survivor of the perishable heat. Here he is, Nana, I told you I wasn't the only one.' Simon shook Pete's hand as Nana Dwyer kissed him and clucked at Simon.

‘Now, now, 'tis a sin to make fun of an old lady. For shame.' She shook her finger at them, giggling. ‘I was only wanting to see ye for meself, lad. Are ye still feelin' poorly?'

‘Far better than I was, although I still have the fevers,' he told her.

Simon let out a low whistle.

‘Hush now!' his grandmother admonished, turning as Simon walked over and kissed Theresa.

‘Nana, may I introduce Pete's fiancée, Theresa? Theresa, this is my grandmother, Mildred Dwyer–'

But his grandmother had turned white and he leapt forward to catch at her as she pointed at Theresa in shock.

‘Saints in heaven…
it's my Rose
…' They all stared at Theresa and Veronica stepped closer, scrutinising her face again.

‘Rose…my baby…' Mildred began to cry, her hand over her mouth, her head shaking from side to side. ‘You've come back. But how…?'

Theresa didn't know what to do or say. She didn't know what she had expected, certainly not this, but the poor lady looked so distressed she took her hands gently and spoke as she would to a soldier in shock. ‘Madam, my name is Theresa, after St Therese. You see? I wear her medal, here, about my neck…I've had it since I was a little girl. I…I think it was from my mother.'

‘Your mother?'

‘Yes, my mother.' Mildred searched her face and she felt obliged to explain further.

‘She…she and my father died when I was a baby. I came here with my grandmother in 1916, only she died too and I was raised an orphan. I have…no family.' She felt herself blush as she announced it to the room. ‘My name is Theresa. Theresa Jones.'

Mildred shook her head, taking the medal in her trembling hand and turning it over.

‘I gave this…I gave this t' her. Two medals. One for her and one for the baby. I sent it t' ye mother when she…she stayed in France. Before she passed on. We waited for you. We searched.
You…you are Elizab
eth
.'

‘My…my name is Theresa,' she stammered.

‘No, my dear.' Veronica came forward and placed a hand gently on their joined ones. ‘Your name is Elizabeth Chambers, née Dwyer, and this…this is your real grandmother.'

She raised her gaze to this woman who clutched at her desperately, her eyes shifting to Simon who stood behind. His eyes. They were the same as hers. He was her cousin. The truth came all at once and hit her with force.
Fr
ance.

‘EC,' she breathed. ‘
Elizabeth Chamb
ers
.'