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Chapter 25
Brisbane, December1945
Roses freshly cut from Vera’s garden in the early morning scented the air. Gerry had fashioned them into the most beautiful wedding bouquet Meg had ever seen. Trimmed with white ribbon and scraps of lace, it seemed far too elaborate against her white sheath dress.
But Geoffrey smiled and his eyes looked warmly on her as she came down the aisle of Vera’s, and now Gerry’s local church. The late morning was already nudging ninety degrees, and a nativity scene set up opposite the pulpit highlighted that Christmas was almost upon them. Desperate to reclaim Jennifer and share their first Christmas together, Meg struggled to focus on the ceremony. She glanced at Gerry who stood by her side, fashionable in a slim black dress and white bolero jacket. Her new dress was simple, but without her friend’s sewing skill, Meg would have become Geoffrey’s wife dressed in her RAAF uniform.
Roger had kept his promise to stand as Geoffrey’s best man. As witnesses, they were also the only guests. Neither she nor Geoffrey had family in Brisbane, and Meg still hadn’t spoken to him about her family, other than to say they lived in Sydney.
‘It’s too far for them to come at such short notice,’ she’d said, and left it at that. Geoffrey’s family lived in the northwest of the state on a large cattle station.
‘Same here. We can visit them later – after we’ve found Jennifer.’ His quiet certainty had reassured her, and his presence calmed her anxiety as they had filled in form after government form to make that happen.
Meg was grateful for his help, and grateful too that Geoffrey belonged to the Church of England, like her, as the minister read from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians. But each exhortation about what love should be cut like a knife. She’d left the choice of reading and order of service to Geoffrey. Was the reading from Saint Paul deliberate, chosen to remind her what she had agreed to? They hadn’t spoken of love at all; not since his first declaration in the hotel before Jennifer was born when he’d admitted he had feelings for her. Since then, neither had offered a word about love. If only she loved her soon-to-be husband. When the lesson ended, they would make their vows. How could she say them and be true to her promise?
Dear Lord, please see into my heart. When I promise to love, honour, and obey, I’m promising to be the best wife I can be to Geoffrey. You know Seamus has my heart, but I pray I will learn to love my husband.
That was the only way she could plight her troth and mean it. She stumbled through her vows, and marvelled at Geoffrey’s clear, firm promise, spoken directly to her. Did he mean the words, or had he made a similar promise to God?
‘For as much as this man and this woman . . .’
The ceremony slipped past, and suddenly, it was over.
The minister closed his Bible. ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.’
Three sets of eyes turned to watch them.
Meg gripped her bouquet, willing it not to shake as Geoffrey leaned towards her.
After she had accepted his proposal, Geoffrey had kissed her cheek, respectful of her emotional state given the loss of her daughter. She hadn’t considered their first proper kiss would be in front of witnesses.
She looked into her husband’s eyes. Husband. Applied to Geoffrey, the word felt strange, and it gradually dawned on her what lay ahead. She hadn’t thought beyond the fact they were getting married to help reclaim Jennifer, but marriage carried obligations. Responsibilities. Rights.
Meg closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the moment. Geoffrey held her shoulders and the clean scent of his aftershave blended with the scent of roses as he pressed his lips to hers. He was gentle and brief.
Our first kiss.
One day, she would look back and feel good about the choice she had made; what she had done. One day – if she worked at it, she hoped to love the man who took her arm and led her to the registry to sign her maiden name for the last time. She picked up the pen and wrote “Margaret Olivia Dorset”.
When all four of them had signed the register and their marriage certificate, Geoffrey held out his hand. ‘Allow me to escort you to our wedding breakfast, Mrs Ransom.’
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Gerry had spent thelast couple of days cooking while Geoffrey and Meg completed application forms and crafted a petition to the archbishop, requesting his help in securing information about Jennifer’s whereabouts. But now, the forms were set to one side as the four of them ate a roast beef lunch with vegetables from their own vegie patch.
When the main course was finished, Gerry lifted a small, round fruit cake from the sideboard. It sat in the centre of a fine bone china cake plate. ‘Time to cut the wedding cake.’ She handed a beribboned knife to Meg.
Rationing meant the cake lacked the customary icing, and Gerry had probably used a couple of months’ worth of ration coupons to make it, but it looked pretty with its floral centrepiece held together by a ‘wedding’ ring made of twisted tinfoil. Throughout the war Vera had collected and reused pieces of foil, and the sight of the tinfoil ring brought a lump to Meg’s throat.
‘If only Vera was here to share today with us.’
Geoffrey’s hand covered hers. ‘I’m sure she’s here in spirit.’
Meg nodded, and together they plunged the knife into the cake. Gerry and Roger clapped as the first wedge was cut then Gerry took over the task of cutting slices and setting them on more of Vera’s best china.
Roger gestured to Gerry. ‘I think now is a good time, don’t you?’
Grinning, Gerry slipped out of the dining room.
