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‘The peignoir was for our wedding, Margaret. Christmas is different and—’
‘I didn’t mean that. What you’ve given me is far beyond anything else. It’s the greatest gift of all right now. You’ve given me hope.’
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Geoffrey set the pottedplant on the corner of the table in the lounge room and stepped back to admire the effect. ‘You were right. That green tablecloth looks festive under the red leaves. Do you want me to bring in the presents and put them around the tree?’
Meg looked at their makeshift Christmas tree and shook her head. Geoffrey had carefully dug up the small poinsettia with its bright-red leaves and together, they had potted it. ‘No, I’ll make a few decorations for it first.’ Geoffrey was out the back chopping wood for the kitchen range and she was in the middle of adorning the tree when Gerry came home from her first shift back at the Herston Women’s Hospital.
She put her bag on the nearest chair and stood beside Meg, unbuttoning her nurse’s cape. ‘What on earth— I thought we weren’t celebrating this year?’
‘We weren’t, but then Geoffrey and I had a talk. Here – your turn. Put this on the tree.’ Meg handed her a star made of foil.
Gerry looked at the decoration lying on her palm before attaching it to the topmost branch of the poinsettia. She tipped her head to one side then the other. ‘It’s lopsided.’
True, it sat a little wonky, but light glinted off it like tiny slivers of hope. ‘That suits what this year has been – wonky.’ Meg took Gerry’s hand and squeezed. ‘This Christmas isn’t going to be what we had hoped, not for any of us. Vera is gone and there’s nothing we can do to change that. Jennifer is missing, but we’ve done all that’s humanly possible to find her. She will come home, soon, please God. But the war is over. We’re together and we’re safe. We have peace at last, and that is worth celebrating, don’t you think?’
Gerry nodded. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she smiled – a wonky smile that matched their wonky star. ‘You’re right. We have to look for the good things and celebrate them.’
‘Right. So say your prayers because I’m cooking dinner and you know what sort of cook I am.’
Gerry laughed. ‘I’ll pray it’s edible while I have a quick bath.’
Geoffrey joined them around the tree. His hair was damp and his cheeks flushed from his wood-chopping, but he smiled. ‘Are we looking at scrambled eggs and burnt toast then?’
‘As long as no one distracts me, it might not be burnt.’ She’d never be the best cook in the house, but Meg was determined to make a start on her vow to control her life. Starting with something simple – dinner.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Gerry left.
Moments later, Meg heard the bathroom door open and the sound of water splashing into the bathtub.
‘I need to make a couple of phone calls. Before I decide between the two positions I’ve been offered, I need more information.’
‘You’ve had two offers? I didn’t know.’ She had no idea how that had slipped past her, that Geoffrey had been actively pursuing a civilian job since his arrival.
Geoffrey met her gaze. ‘You have enough to worry about without me burdening you further. Unless—’
‘I’d like to hear about them.’
‘In that case, I’ll join you in the kitchen after I’ve made the calls. If I’m lucky, there might be a beer in the cool box.’ He smiled and walked out of the room.
Meg looked at their unusual Christmas tree. They could plant it in the garden later, but it would stay alive in the pot for as long as it took to bring Jennifer home. Then they would share Christmas with her.
Meg took a knife out to the vegie patch and cut lettuce and cherry tomatoes for a salad. She was rinsing the lettuce in a colander when Geoffrey returned. ‘You’re in luck. There’s a bottle of beer.’ She turned the tap off, grabbed a clean tea towel, and patted excess moisture from the lettuce leaves.
‘Thanks.’ Geoffrey sounded distracted as he collected a glass and the bottle of beer and sat at the table. He uncapped the beer then sat looking at the bottle.
‘Did you find out what you needed to make your decision?’
‘I got the information I needed, but now I’m less sure than ever about which to choose.’ He poured the beer, keeping the foamy head to less than half an inch, the way he liked it.
‘Are they both surgical positions?’ Meg ripped the lettuce leaves into smaller pieces and added them to a salad bowl.
‘Yes. One is working under Dr Hepworth.’
She turned and looked at him in surprise. ‘The surgeon who’s doing facial reconstructive work on soldiers?’
‘That’s the one. He was trained by Henry Pickerill, the New Zealander who trained under Gillies in England after the first world war.’
