Under the Midnight Sky Read online

  ‘I dozed off at the desk,’ he said, squinting at me in the dimness. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair, furthering its disarray. ‘There’s custard in the freezer.’

  I hurried past him. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  We perched on barstools on opposite sides of the counter. With the double doors to the verandah wide open, our only light was the frail glow of the moon. Maybe it was the darkness, or the crisp night air flowing in – or our mutual state of dishevelment – but the stilted feeling was gone. In its place was a kind of wary acknowledgement that the balance between us had shifted yet again.

  ‘I want to see the room,’ he told me.

  I scooped up the last of my custard. ‘You’ll never make it up the stairs.’

  ‘Which is why I need your help.’

  ‘Absolutely not. It’s too risky.’

  ‘Doc Worland said I need to walk more on my ankle. Moderate exercise encourages the bones to knit faster. You’d be helping me heal.’

  I scraped my bowl clean, then tapped the sticky spoon against my lips. ‘That’s possibly the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Even if we do manage to get you upstairs, getting back down will be even trickier. Plus you’ll be in a world of pain. You realise that, don’t you?’

  Tom grimaced. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?’

  ‘Why, Tom? I’ve described the room, and you’ve pored over the photos I took. What if I slipped? What if you broke something that’s just mending? Why risk getting injured again?’

  A shadow flickered across his face. ‘I need to see that room for myself. Breathe the air, get a sense of being in there. Try to feel what the girls were feeling. It’s the only way I’ll really understand what they went through.’

  ‘They went through hell, Tom. Is that so hard to imagine?’

  ‘It’s not hard to imagine,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But, Abby, I’ve spent a lifetime imagining how things could be. For once, I want to know for sure.’

  17

  At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, Lil gazed about the kitchen. She had made jam tarts, and the sticky-sweet scent of strawberries lingered in the air, mingling with the buttery aroma of pastry. She arranged the tarts on a floral platter and then filled the kettle for tea.

  Joe had picked a rainbow of dahlias and roses from the garden and centred the vase in pride of place on the sunroom coffee table. They were standing in the doorway, admiring their handiwork, when they heard Abby’s car.

  Lil had been looking forward to the girl’s visit since Sunday – but dreading it, too. Abby had a brightness about her that Lil admired. It was just a pity she was so bent on knowing the truth about the past.

  Abby climbed the steps onto the verandah and surprised Lil with a peck on the cheek. Then she shook hands with Joe.

  ‘How are you feeling, Joe? Recovered from your ordeal?’

  ‘Good as gold, thanks, Abby. Can I get you a cup of something?’

  They sat around the coffee table, eating jam tarts and washing them down with milky tea. When Abby asked about the costumes Lil was making for the musical, Lil retreated to the sewing room and returned sporting Madame Valjean’s tatty prison frock. She gave them a twirl, then disappeared again and came back wearing a beautiful satin ball gown she’d refashioned from an op-shop wedding dress and dyed gold.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Abby said, clapping her hands. ‘You’re a woman of many talents, Lil. Will you sing in the musical, too?’

  Lil shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wish she would,’ Joe said. ‘She’s got a bloody marvellous voice!’

  ‘Oh, Lil,’ Abby said. ‘Sing us a snippet now. I’d love to hear you. And what about the libretto, did you rewrite it yourself?’

  Lil huffed, gathering the rustling satin skirt around her and walking to the doorway. ‘Hardly a rewrite, I just made a few adjustments. And if you want to hear it, you’ll have to be there on opening night. I’ll get you some tickets, if you like. Do you think your Tom Gabriel would like to come too?’

  ‘I can probably twist his arm.’

  Lil snorted and disappeared again. When she returned a few minutes later wearing her own skirt and blouse, she sat on the edge of her chair and looked at Abby expectantly. Dress-ups and strawberry tarts were all very well, but the morning was escaping and they needed to get down to business.

  Her stomach was a hard knot. Her nerves fizzed. Her fingers grew damp in anticipation of holding that diary page, and of reading her sister’s lost words. Perhaps, if the story went quickly, Abby might offer it today.

  She glanced at Joe. ‘Abby and I might have our little chat now, love.’

  ‘Righto,’ he said good-naturedly, getting to his feet. He hovered a moment, nodding at Lil, then he reached over and patted her arm. ‘You know where I am if you need me, old girl.’ He rinsed his teacup in the sink, then went outside and across the yard to his shed.

  ‘So,’ Lil said brightly, hoping Abby didn’t notice the strain in her voice. ‘Where would you like to start?’

  ‘I guess I’d love to know about Frankie’s diary. I’ve searched the house but never found it. I don’t suppose you . . .’

  ‘Oh no, dear. My sister’s diary is long gone.’

  ‘Did you ever read it?’

  Lil stared at the milky brew in her teacup, and shook her head.

  Abby made a regretful noise. ‘Then how about we start with your life in Sydney?’

  Lil drained her tea dregs, rattling the cup back onto the saucer with shaky fingers. Taking a deep breath, she allowed a slow trickle of memories to enter her mind.

  ‘Our mother worked in the laundry at Concord General, Sydney’s biggest repat hospital. She hated it, of course. It was endless sweaty work, boiling all the sheets and bed linen, burning blood-soaked dressings. The shifts were long and Mum had always struggled with her health. But the war had taken our father and she had us girls to feed. She never wanted kids. Her big dream was to be a movie actress, and she had the looks. But then she met Dad and got pregnant, and—’

  Lil caught herself rambling and stopped. Knotting her fingers, she forced herself to go on more slowly. ‘My sister and I used to wait for Mum after school in the hospital grounds. Mum liked a tipple, and it was our way of making sure she stayed sober. At least until we got her home and fed. One summer day we were playing behind the hospital woodshed and saw a young soldier sitting alone on a bench smoking. His head was bandaged and he wore a hospital robe, but he wasn’t like the patients we’d seen before. There was something intriguing about him. His dark hair poked at odd angles from under his bandages, and his face was gaunt and pale. And so terribly sad. That was, until he saw us. Frankie gave him a wave, and he smiled and beckoned us over—’

  Lil paused as the memories engulfed her. Resting her hand on her chest, she willed her pulse to slow, but the story was bubbling from her depths like a long-suppressed volcano. She found she couldn’t hold it in, and – strangest of all – she no longer wanted to.

  • • •

  When the young serviceman called them over, Lilly was overcome with shyness. She wanted to hang back, but Frankie was already marching towards him, straight-backed and beaming.

  They started chatting and he wanted to know all about them. Frankie, never shy, tossed her hair and answered all his questions. Even accepted a cigarette and blew rings into the air like an old pro even though she was only eleven. She told him about their mother’s new boyfriend and the terrible rows they’d started having. She bragged about how many days they skipped school, as if that were something to be proud of. And all the while she spoke, the young soldier roamed his eyes over them. Taking in, Lilly felt certain, their worn-out shoes and hand-me-down clothes. Frankie’s long, unfashionable hair and Lilly’s bowl-cut bob and crooked fringe. Their chafed, dishwater hands and grubby, split fingernails.

  In exchange for their stories, the serviceman told them
about his life before the war. Living large in his grandfather’s mansion, surrounded by parklands and bush.

  ‘There’s an aviary in the garden, you know what that is?’

  The girls shook their heads.

  ‘It’s a huge birdcage,’ the soldier told them. ‘My grandfather designed it and had it made to look like one he’d had as a kid in Norway. It’s like a Chinese palace, with many levels and turned-up eaves. Wide doors where you can slip in and sit among the birds. Before the war I had finches of every colour living in it. Green and yellow, and scarlet parrots too, even a family of blue wrens.’

  Frankie pretended to swoon. ‘Divine!’

  ‘Your grandfather must be really rich,’ Lilly blurted.

  That made him laugh. He took her hand and winked. ‘Stupendously so.’

  ‘The birdcage sounds dreamy.’ Frankie sighed.

  ‘It is quite spectacular,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s a long way from here.’

  Lilly exchanged a glance with her sister. The idea of visiting a grand house with its own little emperor’s palace full of colourful birds was very tempting.

  Frankie smoothed a hand over her wayward hair. ‘We’d love to see it.’

  The serviceman smiled. A long, admiring smile that lit up his face and, despite the bandages, gave him the air of a dashing Hollywood film star. Linking his fingers in theirs, he made them a promise. ‘And so you shall.’

  • • •

  ‘You wanted to go with him?’ Abby asked.

  Lil nodded. ‘Very much. You see, things at home were always fraught. We lived in a cramped little rental and Mum wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Mostly, she left Frankie and me to our own devices. Getting ourselves ready for school, making our own sandwiches for lunch on the days she remembered to buy bread. Doing our own laundry on washdays, that sort of thing. We were resourceful and independent girls. But we both missed the coddling and attention that children crave. The bedtime stories, the little pats on the back and nods of approval.’ She laughed. ‘It must sound as if we were very spoiled girls, to miss being coddled. We’d had a taste of affection when Dad was alive, I suppose. But after he went, Mum all but ignored us. She’d never been the touchy-feely sort. If it hadn’t been for Frankie, we’d have starved. She was more a mum to me in those days than my mother was. Without one another, Frankie and I would have been very lonely.’

  ‘Until Ravensong?’

  Lil rubbed her brow, overwhelmed as images from Good Friday of 1948 rushed back into her mind. Almost seventy years had passed since then, yet it seemed like yesterday. The excitement of their departure from Stanley Street. The long journey in the truck, Frankie’s chatter rising and falling around them in an endless stream. The rough roads they’d rattled along, getting jolted from side to side. Dozing intermittently, stopping for a roadside meal. Until finally, their arrival at the fairytale house – a house that seemed far gloomier and shabbier than they’d imagined. And then stumbling stiff-legged from the truck and out into the misty, tree-shadowed dawn, and inside the big old house that would become their home for the next five years.

  Abby sank back into the cushions. ‘Your mother must have been sick with worry.’

  ‘We thought we’d be gone a few days at most. It was Easter. Mum was always sloshed at Easter – it was the anniversary of our father’s death. We assumed we’d be back in time for school the following Tuesday, with Mum none the wiser.’

  ‘But you never saw her again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It must have been awful, Lil.’

  Lil sighed. ‘In many ways, it was unbearable. But there was so much that we loved about being there, too.’ She laughed softly. ‘It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? Living in a couple of upstairs rooms, no outside contact. Barefoot most of the time. Wearing our patched dresses until they were threadbare. Doing our chores, reading books, making our own fun. Yet, for a time, we’d never been happier.’

  She took off her glasses and massaged her temples. Her story had grown legs of its own, and was running far ahead of what she’d intended to tell Abby. She’d wanted to get it over with, and was shocked at how good it felt to unburden her heart.

  Abby got to her feet. ‘You’re tired, Lil. You’ve been very open with me, and it must be draining. Why don’t we continue another time?’

  ‘You might be right, dear. It’s been a relief to talk. But I feel a headache coming on.’

  ‘Can I get you something for it?’

  There was such concern in the younger woman’s voice, such kindness, that Lil had the sudden compulsion to grip Abby’s arm and cling to her. If today’s revelations had brought this much relief, then imagine how freeing it would be to spill the whole story? Instead, she smiled and got to her feet. ‘I’ll be right, pet. Why don’t you come back on Sunday?’

  Abby gave her a brief warm hug. ‘Will do. And thanks for the jam tarts, Lil. They were scrummy. Tom does a great shortbread. Why don’t I get him to whip some up for next time?’

  ‘Sounds lovely, dear.’

  Abby collected her bag and went to the door. Just as she was slipping outside, Lil called her back. The younger woman looked around, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, as though with tears.

  Lil stood very still. ‘You’ll bring the diary page?’

  ‘Of course, Lil. See you then.’

  From the window, Lil watched her hurry down the back steps and across the yard. When her car had gone, the shed door opened and Joe poked his head out, frowning along the driveway at the dust cloud.

  He walked towards the house, but Lil didn’t feel like talking. Her head really was starting to ache a little. And shadows swarmed at the corners of her eyes; perhaps she should have a tablet and ask Joe to make her a pot of tea? She went into the lounge room, intending to lose herself in a couple of hours of mindless TV. But then she had a better idea. Hurrying into the hall, she strode to her sewing room and closed the door behind her.

  Friday, 11th May 1951

  After our lessons this morning in the bright room – Ennis reading from a dusty art book and showing us the pictures – Lilly flopped on the floor beneath the window. The colourful glass window panes trapped the sun and showered her in a rainbow of pink and green, pale blue and gold. She started dressing the paper dolls Ennis had bought her.

  A year ago I’d have escaped to my own corner of the bright room to read or sew or practise my handwriting. But lately I’ve been lingering at the table, sitting up tall, tugging the long ends of my hair. Talking to Ennis.

  I’m fourteen now. The same age as Juliet Capulet when she married Romeo.

  I’m not sure the exact moment everything changed. I was such a kid when we first met Ennis in the hospital grounds. His head was bandaged and his shoulders all hunched like an old man. But as we got to know him, he started getting brighter, smiling more. Telling jokes and funny stories, making us laugh. Growing younger right in front of our eyes.

  Somehow he’s transformed again. I can’t decide exactly how, it’s just that I like sitting near him. I like studying his face, discovering little freckles or scars I haven’t noticed before. The way his eyes widen when he looks at me, the way his pupils turn gold in the sun.

  He shut the art book. ‘Any questions, Frankie?’

  It was a game we’d begun way back in April last year after the concert when I’d set out to win his trust. It seems forever ago. Now our game was more for fun, and this morning I was eager to play.

  ‘I do have a question, but it’s not about art.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘How old are you, Ennis?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Oh, fancy that. Mum was twenty-four when she had me.’

  He didn’t like us mentioning our mother. He glanced at the window and began to work his mouth the way he did before one of his rants.

  ‘Ennis,’ I said to distract him, ‘tell me something.’

  He looked back, frowning. ‘What?’

  ‘A story. About your life. Befor
e the war, I mean.’

  ‘When I was a kid?’

  ‘No, older. My age, for instance. Did you have a sweetheart?’

  The poor thing blushed. He shook his head and studied his hands. ‘I wasn’t sophisticated, like you. My grandfather was very strict. The only girl I ever saw was my sister.’

  I gaped. In all the stories he’d told us over the last three years, he never mentioned a sister. Not only was it a shock, but it was one more thing we had in common.

  ‘You have a sister?’

  He went very still, transfixed by his hands. ‘It’s eight years since I saw her.’

  ‘Eight years?’ I looked across the room at Lilly, still playing with her cut-out dolls. My Lilly-bird, my Silly Lil. If I couldn’t see her sweet face every day, if eight years passed without talking to her or even seeing her, or hearing one of her funny songs, my soul would shrivel up and die. ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I used to. Very much. Until you and Lilly . . .’

  Without thinking, I reached for his upturned hand and tickled my fingertips on his palm. He closed his fingers over mine, gently at first, but then so hard my bones ground together. I tried to pull away, but he clung to my fingers as though to a lifeline.

  ‘Ennis, you’re hurting me.’

  He withdrew. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I’m an oaf sometimes.’

  I rubbed my hand. ‘Why haven’t you seen her for eight years?’

  ‘She died in 1943. Typhoid.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  He shrugged, shifting in his seat. ‘You remind me of her, you know. She was brunette like you, with the same brown eyes.’

  ‘They’re hazel.’

  He nodded, rushing on. ‘But it’s more than looks. You have her spirit. She never flinched when Grandfather gave her the strap. Wilful, he called her. A handful of trouble. Sharp-tongued and opinionated, unwilling to suffer fools. So different to quiet little Ennis who never set a foot wrong.’

  I glanced at Lilly. ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘But my sister had a secret.’

  I waited. Minutes passed. He was slipping away from me, I could tell. Retreating into that place where he sometimes went if he talked too long about the war. A place that turned him from a soft, gentle boy into a terrifying devil. But we hadn’t been talking about the war. We were talking about him. He had given me a glimpse behind the mask he wore, a glimpse of someone I was intrigued to know better.