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“Letters!” Freddie sang out as he swung off his horse. He had no time to unsaddle, however, for suddenly a dozen men were rushing towards him from all quarters.
Swiftly, he distributed the envelopes, and threw one with Norah’s handwriting on it deftly to Wally, who caught it and turned away towards his tent in the same movement. It had been some time since he had had a letter from his wife, as visits home were infrequent during the initial blasting of the mine.
Once he was safely ensconced in his small tent, his boots shucked off in the corner, sitting cross-legged on his sleeping mat, he all but ripped open the envelope. The handwriting on the other side had made him smile: simply his name, Wally, written in Norah’s neat handwriting. It was a running joke between the two of them that while he was the one who had spent six years at the Grammar School, his handwriting was the worst.
Dear Wally, she opened,
It is awfully quiet and solemn around here, to the point that Davie has realised that with not as many adults supervising him, he can attempt to win some leeway from those who are here. More than once, he has slipped away when my eye was not on him, and done something of which I would not approve. (You would say that I was not watching him as closely as I should, I know, but I will pre-empt that statement simply by replying that it is harder to keep track of him with one set of eyes rather than two).
Each time Billy returns from the ranges with an empty pack-horse, Brownie once again engages in an orgy of cooking, which goes out with Billy, whereupon the cycle begins again. Tommy and I have been assisting her, to which point that I am often found with flour in my hair and on my apron—you will laugh at me, I know. Wally, I’d rather hear you laugh at me than imagine it.
Eliza, one of the maids who recently came before you and the others left for the ranges, swears she can hear the blasting. It’s nonsense, of course, because I can’t hear it, but I do wonder if she may have a point. I remember those years when the sound of the guns was never far from me, despite the fact that the Channel lay between myself and Flanders. Possibly the same situation applies. In any case, audible or not, I’ll be happier when the blasting is finished and you are out of danger.
Back to Davie. He is growing faster by the minute, and becoming more like you. He has adopted your manner of finding a cushion to make me comfortable, each time I sit down. Of course, Brownie has caught on and now leaves cushions within easy reach of a fellow his height all around the house, and he is incredibly proud of himself for having followed through on the act. When I take it and settle it behind my back, he smiles at me in such a way that brings me to mind of you: his brown eyes dance, and I can see the twitch of mischief that has characterised you since you were fourteen.
Eighteen months ago, when he was born, you rued somewhat the fact that he did not bear a likeness to me. That, I find now, is a blessing, for he serves as a reminder during the weeks you are away. I could not be prouder of him, especially as he asks me daily when Dad is coming home. “Soon,” I tell him. “Dad loves you, and he will be home just as soon as ever he can.” Great Scott, Wally, he is your son through and through. I wish you could be here to see him grow.
Anyway, that is enough of my rambling. It’s almost time for dinner, and I promised Tommy a play with Davie after dinner. Therefore, dinner must be on time, so that Davie’s sleep schedule is not pushed back too far.
Stay safe, Wally, and know that I think of you every waking hour.
Yours, Norah.
He sat for a moment, contemplating the neat cursive words written on the sheet of paper in his hands. In his mind, he could imagine Norah sitting at a desk in the drawing-room, swiftly covering the paper with writing as Davie played on the floor behind her. A swift pang of longing struck him suddenly, and he knew what his course of action must be.
Folding up the letter and slipping it back into its envelope, he thrust it into his pocket before putting on his boots and finding his whip. Outside the tent, he encountered Jim, who had a quizzical expression on his face. “Where are you off to, old chap?”
“Home,” Wally answered. “I got a letter from Norah—no, everything’s fine, don’t worry—only I have a need to see her and the boy. I’ll be back on Monday.”
Jim’s expression relaxed: he understood Wally’s commitment as a family man to Norah and Davie, and realised just how much of a toll the long separation was taking on them. “Take as long as you need,” he commented. “It’s highly doubtful the blasting will be done by Monday, whether you’re here or not.”
They shook hands, parting ways so that Wally could catch Bronzewing and saddle him.
Two hours later, he was out of the ranges themselves and into the foothills when he glanced behind him. In the sky, over where the camp was, a dark cloud seemed to threaten, and he could feel the wind moving toward him. “I believe I’ll have to race it home,” he muttered. “Up for it, old man?” to Bronzewing.
He was galloping past the lagoon, towards the home paddock, when the first large spots of rain began to fall. “One more fence,” he told the big brown, who pricked up his ears, seeming to understand, before flattening them and heeding Wally’s unspoken command, going straight at the fence. Up and over, and a large roll of thunder boomed as Wally swept into the yard. He unsaddled and washed down Bronzewing in record time, putting the saddle and bridle into the tack-room.
Before him, the large house of Big Billabong loomed as he ran across the gravel drive, covering his head with his coat to no avail. He only hoped that Norah’s letter, still in his pocket, remained dry.
No-one was in the hall when he entered, and the house was dark. It was nine o’clock by the grandfather clock in the hall that had belonged to David Linton’s father, and Wally took the stairs two by two. Impatient to see Norah and let her know just what his letter had meant to him, he darted into Davie’s room and dropped a light kiss on his sleeping son’s head, and then turned for Norah’s old bedroom, which they now shared.
Still soaking wet, he stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his wife sleep. Her brown hair was strewn around her face, and her face was as peaceful as he had seen it for a long time. With a wry smile, he realised that in place of her pyjamas, she wore one of his old shirts.
Wally moved further into the room, doffing his coat and starting to unbutton his shirt as he went. He would throw his wet clothes into their bathroom and deal with them in the morning: for now, all that was on his mind was Norah, and having her in his arms again.
“Who’s there?”
He started at the sound of her voice, whipping around to see her sitting up in bed. As she took in his figure, her mouth opened in a wide O of realisation. “I’m here, asthore,” he said hurriedly. “Let me just get these clothes off and then I’ll explain.”
“But you—the storm—I can hear the wind howling outside!”
“Raced it home,” he answered briefly. “Had to see you.”
Finally, he was finished with his wet clothes; it was the work of seconds for him to put on his pyjamas and slide into bed beside Norah. She curled into him gratefully, unspoken words passing between them.
After a time Norah spoke. “Did you get my letter?”
“Oh, by Jove, it’s in my pocket yet!” He made to get out of bed, but Norah tugged him back.
“It can wait until the morning, Wally. I don’t want to let go of you just yet.” With a laugh, Wally sank back into the soft mattress, feeling Norah wrap herself around him. “It still feels like a dream, having you here—I feel somehow like the thunder-storm is affecting my sanity.”
Wally wrapped his arm around her shoulders, on the edge of sleep. “Would you like me to pinch you, asthore?” he asked sleepily. “So you can be sure that it is not a dream and that I am, in fact, real, not simply an artifact of the making of your own mind.”
“There’ll be no pinching, thank you,” returned she, also descending into the world of dreams. “Just as long as you’re here in the morning.”
“That I can promise you faithfully to be,” were his last words before he knew nothing.