What she had not imagined was this: the traffic jams all the way to Sydney Harbour, cars snaking in bad-tempered queues, bumper to bumper under the grey city skies, the crowds of people thronging the entrance to the docks, yelling and waving greetings to people too far away or just too deafened by the noise to answer. The brass band, ice-cream sellers, lost children. The jostling of a million elbows and stumbling feet, all trying to force their way to the quayside. The hysteria of innumerable young women, clutching parents, bawling grief-stricken or giddy with excitement as they attempted to haul baggage and food parcels through the thick crowd towards the huge grey vessel. The air of nervous anticipation, hanging like sea mist over the docks.
‘Bloody hell! We’ll never make it at this rate.’ Murray Donleavy sat behind the wheel of the pickup truck, smoking yet another cigarette, his freckled face set.
‘Be fine, Dad.’ Margaret laid a hand on his arm.
‘Man’s driving like an idiot. Look, he’s so busy chinwagging he hasn’t even noticed they’re moving. Get up there.’ He slammed his hand on the horn, causing the car in front to judder and stall.
‘Dad, he’s not one of your cows, for God’s sake. Look, it’s fine. We’ll be fine. If it gets any worse I can always get out and walk.’
‘She can bat them out the way with her bloody stomach.’ Daniel, behind her, had been increasingly rude about her ‘lump’, as he called it.
‘I’ll bat you out of the way, if you don’t mind your language. With the back of my hand.’ Margaret leant forward to stroke the terrier that sat in the footwell between her feet. Every so often, Maude Gonne’s nose would twitch at the unfamiliar scents that came in through the window: sea salt, traffic fumes, popcorn and diesel. She was an old dog, half-blind, her nose speckled with salt-and-pepper flecks of grey, and had been Margaret’s tenth birthday gift from her mother because, unlike her brothers, she wasn’t going to get a gun.
She leant down and pulled her hand basket on to her knee, then checked for the fourteenth time that her papers were in order.
Her father glanced over. ‘Looks like you’ve got bugger all in that basket. I thought Letty put a few sandwiches in for you.’
‘I must have taken them out when I was fussing with it at home. Sorry – too much on my mind this morning.’
‘Let’s hope they feed you on board.’
‘Course they’ll feed us, Dad. Especially me.’
‘They’ll need another ship just to carry the food she needs.’
‘Daniel!’
‘Dad, it’s okay.’ Her brother’s fierce features were half hidden behind his overgrown fringe. He seemed to find it increasingly difficult to look at her. She thought about reaching out a hand to say she understood, that she wouldn’t hold this uncharacteristic meanness against him, but she suspected he would repel that too – and now that they were near to saying goodbye, she wasn’t sure that she was robust enough to take it.
Letty hadn’t wanted him to come, had seen the boy’s sullenness as a bad omen for the voyage. ‘You don’t want a face like that to be the last thing you see of your family,’ she said, as Daniel slammed the door for the umpteenth time.
‘He’s all right,’ Margaret had replied.
Letty had shaken her head and redoubled her efforts on the food parcel. Twenty-five pounds they were allowed; and Letty, afraid that Joe’s mother might not think her new Australian family hospitable enough, had weighed and reweighed until she had utilised every last bit of the allowance.
Margaret’s dowry thus contained, among other things, Letty’s best tinned fruitcake, a bottle of sherry, tinned salmon, beef and asparagus, and a box of jellied fancies that she’d put by with the coupons on a visit to Hordern Brothers. She had wanted to pack a dozen eggs, but Margaret had pointed out that even if they survived the car journey to Sydney, after six weeks on board ship they would be less a gift than a health hazard. ‘It’s not like the Poms are the only ones who’ve got rationing,’ Colm had complained. He was rather partial to Letty’s fruitcake.
‘The nicer we treat them, the better they’re likely to treat Maggie,’ Letty had said crossly. Then after staring into the middle distance, she had fled the kitchen, dabbing her eyes with a tea-towel.
She no longer bothered to set her hair.
‘Got your papers?’ They had reached the gates of Woolloomooloo wharf. In his new uniform the officer was stiff with the importance of the day. He leant through the window of the truck, and Margaret pulled her well-thumbed documents out of her basket and handed them to him.
His finger traced the line of names until, apparently satisfied, he waved them on. ‘All brides, Victoria. Number six berth. You’ll probably have to drop her by the post. There’s no space to stop.’
‘Can’t do that, mate. Look at her.’
The officer ducked down to her father’s window then glanced away, scanning the crowds. ‘You might be lucky and find a space over on the left. Follow the signs to the quayside, then head left by the blue pillar.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
The man banged twice on the roof of the truck. ‘Try not to run anyone over. It’s madness in there.’
‘Do me best.’ Murray shoved his hat further down on his head, and negotiated his way towards the quayside. ‘Can’t promise anything, mind.’
The truck growled and whined as Murray steered through the crowd, braking now and then as some stray person fell off the kerb into the road, or swerving round a weeping mother and daughter, clutching each other, oblivious to their surroundings. ‘Too right they’re not like cows,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Cows have more sense.’
He didn’t like crowds at the best of times. Despite Woodside’s relative proximity to the city, Margaret thought he had probably been to Sydney no more than a handful of times since she was born. Noisy, stinking place, full of sharks. He couldn’t walk a straight line, he would complain. All the people had him dodging about just to get from A to B. She didn’t much like them herself, but today she felt curiously detached, as if she were an observer, unable to take in the magnitude of what she was about to do.
‘How we doing for time?’ he said, as they sat, engine idling, waiting for another crocodile of people to pass, dragging bulging suitcases or recalcitrant children.
‘Dad, we’re fine, I’ve told you. I could get out and walk from here if you like.’
‘As if I’d leave you alone with that lot!’
Suddenly she realised he felt a huge responsibility for getting her there; that, much as he hated to lose her, he was afraid he would not do right by her this last time. ‘It’s only a couple of hundred yards and I’m hardly an invalid.’
‘I promised I’d see you on to your ship, Maggie. You just sit tight.’ His jaw had tightened and she wondered absently to whom he had made the promise.
‘There! Look, Dad!’ Daniel was rapping on the back window, gesticulating wildly to where an official-looking car was just leaving a parking space.
‘Right.’ Her father’s chin jutted, and he revved the engine, causing the people in front of him to skip out of the way. ‘Get up there,’ he roared through his window and, within seconds, had wedged the truck into the little space, thwarting several other cars which had edged towards it. ‘There!’ He turned off the ignition, and as the engine ticked its way to sleep, he turned to his daughter. ‘There,’ he said again, not quite as firmly.
She reached across and took his hand. ‘I knew you’d get me here,’ she said.
The ship was huge; big enough to take up the entire length of the dockside, blocking out the sea and the sky so that only its flat grey surfaces met the crowds who now swarmed up to the barriers, trying frantically to communicate with those already on the water. Big enough to knock Maggie’s breath clean into the back of her throat.
On its side, gun turrets bulged like balconies, some with cannons still poised or bearing spindly gantries, bent like the necks of elegant birds. On the flight deck, just visible from this far back, aircraft were poised in three formations, their wings folded above them, Corsairs, Fireflies and, possibly, a Walrus. Margaret, imbued by osmosis with her brother’s passion for aircraft, could name them all. Hundreds of girls were aboard already, lining the flight deck or sitting astride gun barrels, waving from walkways, their gestures tiny and metronomic against the aircraft-carrier, coats and headscarves tied tight against the brisk sea breeze. A few peered from portholes, mouthing silent messages to those below. It was impossible to hear anything in the overall din, so many signalled in a kind of manic semaphore.
To one side a brass band was playing: she could just identify ‘The Maori’s Farewell’ and ‘Bell-bottomed Trousers’ as snatches carried over the noise of the crowd. As they stood, a girl was being helped down the gangplank, crying, brightly coloured paper streamers stuck to her coat. ‘Changed her mind,’ she heard one of the officers say. ‘Someone take her to the cargo sheds with the others.’
Margaret allowed herself to feel the slightest trepidation, and knew how easy it would be to let hysteria engulf her.
‘Nervous?’ said her father. He had seen the girl too.
‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I just want to see Joe again.’
Her answer seemed to satisfy him. ‘Your mum would be proud.’
‘Mum would say I should be wearing something smarter.’
‘That too.’ He nudged her and she nudged him back, then reached up to adjust her hat.
‘Any more brides?’ A Red Cross woman with a clipboard elbowed her way past. ‘Brides, you need to board now. Have your papers ready.’ As each girl made her way up the gangplank, she was showered with streamers, and cries of ‘You’ll be sorry,’ from the dockers in a tone that might or might not have been jovial.
Her father had taken her trunk to Customs. Now she peered round him to where her youngest brother was standing, eyes averted from her and the ship. ‘Look after that mare for me, Daniel,’ she said, now having to shout a little. ‘Don’t let any of those deadweights anywhere near her.’ He stared at the ground, refusing to look at her. ‘And keep her in a snaffle as long as you can. She’s not pulling at the moment, and she’ll go better in the long run if you can keep her mouth soft.’
‘Daniel. Answer your sister.’ Her father elbowed him.
‘All right.’
She stared at his thin shoulders, at the face resolutely turned from hers, overwhelmed by the urge to hug him, to tell him how much she loved him. But he had found her pregnant form increasingly repellent, had recoiled from contact with her since she had confirmed she was leaving. It was as if he blamed her bump, not Joe, for taking her away.
‘Shake my hand?’
There was a long pause, weighted by the prospect of their father’s opprobrium, then Daniel’s hand snaked out and took hers in a brief, firm clasp. Then he dropped it. Still he would not look at her.
‘I’ll write you,’ she said. ‘You’d better bloody reply.’
He said nothing.
Her father stepped forward and hugged her tightly. ‘Tell that man of yours he’s to look after you,’ he said, his voice strangled as he spoke into her hair.
‘Not you too, Dad.’ She breathed in the mothball smell of his good jacket, and the bovine scent that mingled with hay. ‘You’ll be all right, you lot. Letty will look after you better than I ever did.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t be hard.’
She could hear the effort in his joke, and held him tighter.
‘I wish – I wish . . .’
‘Dad . . .’ Her voice held a warning.
‘Right.’ He pulled away from her, took several swift glances around him, as if his mind was already elsewhere. He swallowed. ‘Well, we’d better let you get on board. Want me to carry your bags?’