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A fresh surge of gratitude welled within Meg for the continuing kindness of Gerry and her aunt. She had so much love to give, and Meg began to understand that Vera’s offer was as much about her need to fill the void left by her lost son as to help Meg. ‘Thank you, Vera. I’d love that.’
***
Vera hung up a pairof rompers on the line in the backyard. ‘There, that’s the last of the baby clothes washed. I think we deserve a break. Do you feel up to a walk in the park, or would you prefer to stay in the shade on the veranda?’
‘How about I shout you an ice-cream if the cart is in the park?’
‘Yes please. I’ll get my hat and be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
‘That long?’ Meg grinned. The day was fine and hot and she had all the time in the world to enjoy it. What better way than with a friend, for that was what Vera had become in the weeks Meg had boarded with her.
Soon, they were strolling through the park towards the new Powerhouse where the red and beige ice-cream cart was parked beneath a broad, shady tree. Red wheel trims gave it a happy air and a small blackboard proclaiming the ice creams to be the creamiest and sweetest of all was set at an angle near the rear fender. Pasted on a side window was a faded list of flavours next to the open servery window.
‘Which flavour do you fancy?’ Meg stood to one side allowing Vera to make her selection. ‘Let me guess—chocolate?’
Meg had discovered Vera’s sweet tooth the first time they came across the ice-cream cart. Now, she ordered and paid for two cones. Her vanilla ice cream arrived first. Swirling her tongue around the cold confection, Meg almost groaned with pleasure. ‘This is the life. How can anything be bad when there’s ice cream?’
The vendor leaned through the window and presented Vera’s chocolate cone with a flourish. ‘Mind if I use that line, love?’
‘Be my guest.’ Meg grinned and licked the ice cream mound into a peak. The tip rose high, curled over and slowly sank back into the already softening mass.
They set off in search of an empty seat in the shade and found one looking out over the river. Meg held her cone to one side over the end of the seat in an attempt to avoid drips on her dress or down her front. ‘This is so good.’
‘Thanks for the treat.’ Vera smiled then glanced past Meg’s shoulder and frowned.
‘What’s the matter, Vera?’
‘The telegram delivery boy is coming down the street. I haven’t seen him down this way since Johnny Oliver’s mother got news of—’ She left the sentence unfinished and took a big bite of her cone.
‘News of his death on the front lines?’
Vera nodded. ‘Sorry. The sight of him just now sent a shiver down my spine, but telegrams can contain good news too. I shouldn’t expect the worst just because— Oh, no.’
Meg struggled to turn around and when she did, she wished she hadn’t. He’s going into your gate.’ Blindly she reached for Vera’s hand. She whispered, more to herself than to Vera, ‘Please don’t let there have been another bombing of Townsville. Please be safe, Gerry.’ And Doc and everyone she’d known and worked with.
Vera dropped the remains of her cone and ran, Meg following as fast as she could, one arm cradling her belly. The telegram boy was just closing Vera’s front gate when she reached him. From a distance, Meg imagined the conversation and the dread coursing through her friend.
By the time she reached them, the boy had clambered onto his bicycle and headed back down Brunswick Street. Vera was standing as still as stone and staring at the window of the telegram. Meg couldn’t bear the thought of the news contained within. She reached Vera and set an arm around her waist. They would need to support each other if they were to bear bad news about Gerry.
‘Do you want me to open it for you, Vera?’
Slowly, Vera met her gaze and held out the telegram. Her voice whispered, softer than a summer breeze, sadder than winter snow. ‘I’m so sorry, Margaret. It’s for you.’
Not Gerry, thank God, not Gerry.
Meg’s fingers closed on the envelope while her mind tried to catch up.
If not Gerry then . . .
Vera drew her along the path and up the stairs, sat her down on the swing then sat beside her as Meg read her name on the envelope.
Lt Margaret Dorset RAAFNS c/- . . .
The telegram had come for her, the one every woman feared. Swallowing the lump of fear, she slipped a finger under the flap and drew out the yellow paper.
Deeply regret to inform you of death of your fiancé Sgt Michael Seamus Flanagan occurred 18 November.
The Minister for War joins with Australian Army in expressing profound sympathy.
