Work Text:
“You’d think we’d be used to getting up early,” Wally commented as he shrugged on his navy dress coat. Epaulets adorned his shoulders, the gold bars proclaiming his rank as a Captain of the British Army. It had been years since he had last worn his ceremonial dress uniform, and the material of his shirt and coat stirred memories of that dark time long ago, when he had fought for King and Country.
“Not at such a god-forsaken hour as this,” groaned Norah, straining to reach a particular spot at the back of her head to slide in a bobby pin. “We don’t get up at three o’clock for stock work.”
His uniform forgotten for a moment, Wally twisted away from the cupboard to watch his wife, sitting in front of the dressing-table, using the mirror to see what she was doing. “In case you had forgotten, we have a son whom you repeatedly accuse of keeping uncivilized hours and depriving us of our normal sleep pattern.”
“That’s right, he models himself after you,” answered his wife cruelly. “He’s too restless to sleep for more than a few hours; I’m just too tired at three o’clock to look at the clock.” The last bobby pin slid home, and she lowered her arms with a relieved sigh. “There. No-one should have to make themselves look pretty two hours before dawn. What do you think?”
Wally crossed the room, now fully decked out in his uniform, and put his hands on her shoulders, standing behind her. “I think that you don’t need to make yourself look pretty. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world as you are.”
Wordlessly, Norah smiled into the mirror, her grey eyes twinkling, and a hand came up to cover one of his own. They remained so for several moments, not speaking, until she turned in her chair to look up at him, a quiet sorrow in her eyes. “Wally—you must not berate yourself, for not being with your fellows ten years ago. The main body of ANZACs may have landed at Gallipoli, but you were one of the many others who held the torch high in other parts of the world.”
“I just wish that this Dawn Service wasn’t necessary.” His voice was hoarse, and over his tanned face was a shadow: that of Death, who had stalked his footsteps for four years, a decade ago, and whisked away some of his friends with him. “If I had been able to be there, I would have been. I would have died for Elijah Wanamaker, for Harold Hardinger, for all the fellows who lost their lives.”
A steady hand came out to rest on his chest, fingering the medals he had won in those long-ago days—the Military Cross and Distinguished Service Cross that were his for valour in the field and courage under fire—and gave him comfort. “They would be glad that you did not,” Norah replied. “Perhaps now they are smiling down on us, and blessing little Davie. They died so that he would live in a world of peace, and now it is left to us to carry out their dying wish.”
Wally squeezed her shoulders gently. “I knew you would say the right thing,” he said, “you always do. And now, it is almost three-thirty, and the service begins at four.” He held out a hand to her and helped her to her feet, leaving her briefly to fetch her heavy winter coat before returning to hold it up, and she slid her arms into it. Underneath the coat, she wore a black frock and heels, a simple black hat atop her brown curls, and she appeared elegant. “Shall we, asthore?”
She took the arm he offered and allowed him to lead her from the brightly lit hotel room out into the corridor, stopping briefly to throw the switch on the lights, and then to the elevator. As they waited, she commented, “If we get up once at three o’clock and complain about it, just think what hours the elevator-man must work.”
“They probably do shifts,” Wally said. “Now, if we could recruit people to do our shifts regarding Davie…”
“Shut up,” she giggled, elbowing him just as a loud ring of the bell signified the arrival of the elevator.
~*~*~*~
The Botanical Gardens were silent as Wally and Norah entered through the main gate. The only lights visible were small torches stuck in the ground, lighting the path towards the location of the service. To Norah, it felt eerie, and she looked around briefly, pressing herself closer against Wally’s side and clutching his arm tighter. No harm would come to her as long as he stood between, she knew, but it didn’t stop her being afraid…
“Hey.” He nudged her, pointing with his free hand towards the lawn next to the small lake. “Our destination.”
Several soldiers stood around already, with spouses and families; a small bugler and drummer boy stood apart, closer to the water, deep in conversation. They could not have been more than fifteen, and Norah’s heart caught as she remembered Wally at that age: two years away from being snatched up by the War.
One soldier approached them, and she recognised the epaulets on his shoulders as being those of the Australian Army, declaring him as a Captain, and he shook hands heartily with Wally. “Meadows, I never thought I’d see you again!”
“The last time I saw you was on the river, Johnston,” returned Wally, grinning. “How did they make you a Captain? I’m surprised at you—never thought you would rise to such great heights.”
Johnston turned his laughing gaze to Norah: he was of a height with Wally, broad-shouldered like Jim and sporting close-cropped blonde hair. His eyes, she noted, were a startling blue, rather like the lagoon at Billabong. “This old reprobate has seeked to discredit me since the first time we rowed against each other at the mere age of fourteen. I therefore beg you, madam, to plead my case.”
“She will not be pleading anyone’s case but mine,” Wally broke in. “This is my wife, Norah—and as I so often remind her, she promised four years ago to obey me.”
“I refuse to become involved in schoolboy squabbles,” said the lady in question, “and as for promising to obey you… well, that was gone to the wind long before I made that vow!”
A low mournful tone made them turn; the chatter around them ceased as they watched the bugler and drummer boy stand tall on either side of a middle-aged major with several stripes on his shoulders. He nodded to the bugler, who raised his instrument to his mouth and the first strains of the Last Post issued forth. On Norah’s right, she felt her husband stiffen slightly, his fingers itching to hold a gun again at the recognition of the old salute. Years ago, this mournful but also triumphant tune had signified the close of the day’s fighting, that nightfall had come once again to curtail the efforts of either side to launch an offensive.
Amid the sound of the bugle, the major began to speak.
“With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her son,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
“Solemn the drums thrill, Death august and royal,
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation,
and a glory that shines upon our tears.
“They went with songs to the battle, they were young
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
they fell with their faces to the foe.
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
we will remember them.”
All assembled repeated the last line, “we will remember them,” solemnly, as the Last Post died away. It was tradition now for the women of the company to sing the late Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae’s now famous In Flanders Fields: this song reminded Norah too much of the time when her husband and brother had been there. She knew that in Wally’s dreams, he still saw the white crosses upon which were painstakingly engraved the names of fellows who had fallen there, constructed by their mates with their knives and hands.
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
between the crosses row on row,
that mark our place, and in the sky,
the larks, still bravely singing, fly…”
Here the drummer boy beat out a sharp tattoo, and Norah’s heart felt as though it might constrict in her chest as she closed her eyes and let the music take her: her mother’s final gift to her.
“Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead: short days ago,
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow;
loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders fields, in Flanders fields.
And now we lie in Flanders fields.
“Take up your quarrel with the foe,
To you from failing hands we throw,
the torch: be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders fields, in Flanders fields.
“We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
in Flanders fields…”
When she opened her eyes, Wally was watching her, concern in his brown eyes. She brushed it off with a small smile, squeezing his hand quickly before they turned to face the major again. He spoke, his voice shaking with emotion, “For one the rose, for one the laurel, and glory for them all—for the gentlemen who fight and laugh and fall. Ten years on, we remember. Australia never forgets her sons. Rest easy, boys.”
The bugle wailed out again, this time performing a perfectly timed Reveille, as the first rays of the sun rose over the horizon. Ten years ago today, at sunrise, the boys had been landing at Gallipoli, engaging the Turks from below the cliff in what was the start of a fateful eight-month campaign. It had become synonymous the world over with perseverance, and the Allies admired the Australian fellows who took up their arms for love of home and peace.
As one, all of the soldiers present performed a salute in the direction of the rising sun, saluting their fallen comrades who would never come home again, and saluting the new tomorrow that had come out of the war. Moments later, as Reveille ended, they broke the salute and turned to talk amongst themselves.
In Wally’s eyes was pain, and the sorrow which had haunted him for eleven years since first he had settled in the trenches, and Norah threw herself into his arms, forgetting those around them. He embraced her tightly, and as she clutched at the back of his uniform she felt his head come down on her shoulder, and his body shook as he cried into her hair. She let him cry, holding him tightly and murmuring nonsense words.
Presently he released her and shook himself, dashing away the tears on his cheek with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, Nor.”
“Don’t ever be sorry,” she chastised him. “What do you think I’m here for, to be a wallflower?”
He smiled at that, a twinkle of mischief returning to his eyes at the familiar banter they had shared for many long years. “You’d have thought so, the way I didn’t talk to you but seized you as though you were a mere comfort.” He watched her, gauging her reaction. “You are a comfort, you know,” he added softly, “I don’t think I could have got through what I have without you. I think it’s appropriate right now to tell you that I love you, more than anything and anyone on this earth.”
Suddenly she was blinking back tears: it was not often that they descended into the more serious moments, being accustomed to light cheerfulness, but she knew that he meant every word. “I love you too,” she choked out, feeling him catch at her hand and lift it to his lips. His kiss, when it came, was soft on the back of her hand, and that one gesture encompassed his entire feeling for her.
“Shall we go?” he suggested. “I would like to get in some sleep before the march down Collins, and then our return home. Davie will be missing us.”
“That sounds like a first-rate idea, Captain Meadows,” she answered, taking his proffered arm, and together they strolled away from the lake and towards the rest of the city.