Reaching out to feel the dress lying within the paper, Merryn exclaimed ecstatically, ‘I’m the luckiest girl alive.’
When the sun had moved and they were no longer in the shade of an overhanging willow branch, Jake stood up, stretched his long arms in the air, and gazed languidly across the lake.
‘You can try it on later by yourself—when it’s cooler. Now it’s too hot. A swim would be good. We could go to the island ... and ...’ his blue eyes danced, ‘you never know what may follow.’
Merryn looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are you propositioning me, Jake Hawkins?’
Leaning down he took hold of her hand and dragged her to her feet. ‘Well, my gorgeous girl, you’ll have to come to the island to find out.’
He led her through the long grass to where there was a small jetty with a wooden rowboat tied to the end. Merryn slipped her cotton sundress over her shoulders and dropped it on the timber slats. Together they dived into the lake. For some time, they trod water with Merryn’s arms around Jake’s neck, their bodies touching below the ripples on the surface. Afterward, they swam out to the thickly wooded island, where a small deserted beach bathed in late afternoon sunshine. Here they lay on the soft sand and made love.
Later, with the heat dissipating and the remains of the day now disappearing on the far horizon, they lit the barbeque and cooked the succulent blue swimmer crab Jake had caught that morning from the tranquil waters of the lake. Afterward, with the last embers of the barbeque glowing crimson in the darkness, Jake fell asleep in the deck chair.
Standing up, Merryn kissed him gently on the forehead. She then crept inside and tried on her wedding dress. When she looked at herself in the walnut oval mirror in the bedroom, she thought that for the first time in her life she truly did look beautiful.
When she awoke from a restless sleep, it took Merryn a few moments to remember that she was on a Trans Australian Airliner flying high above the Coral Sea and heading towards Jackson Airport at Port Moresby. Below, the shadow of the plane rippled across the vast expanse of warm tropical ocean. Around her passengers dozed—one with his mouth open wide as though in the throes of death. A small child rested his curly head on his mother’s knee, a contented smile on his cherub face. A lie of course, for on waking, he would turn into the monster he was before sleep had mercifully claimed him.
The impossibly well-groomed hostess threw Merryn an airy smile before handing the burly man in the seat opposite a half bottle of Scotch. Knocking out a Camel, he struck a match, holding the flame to the end. Before too long a plume of smoke wafted over to where Merryn sat.
From her handbag, she pulled out a small leather trave lling clock, an early birthday gift from her mother. She saw it was nearly seven o’clock. How could anyone want a Scotch at this hour of the morning? she wondered. Let alone a cigarette for that matter?
Whilst placing the clock back in her handbag, she felt the flimsy paper of an aerogram rub against her skin. She lifted it out and read the words on the page once more.
My dear Merryn:
Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear from you again.
However, what you have asked me to do isn’t possible. It was an agonizing choice you made those years ago, but having made that decision, it is in your best interest to put what happened out of your mind.
Even if I were authorized to tell you what you asked, my conscience would not allow me to do so. I wish you all the best with your new job in New Guinea and pray each day you may find peace in your life. In the meantime, I must ask that you do not contact me again.
Yours sincerely in the Lord,
Sister Bernadette
In slow motion, in case the words suddenly and miraculously changed in front of her eyes, Merryn closed the letter and placed it back in her handbag. It was a refusal she knew well—very well. Why had she expected anything different, just because she’d told the nun she and Jake were getting married? Not that that mattered anymore.
Across the aisle, Ernie Morris rested his forehead against the window. Christ! Was it only three months since he’d gone to Brisbane for the operation? Pouring another shot of Scotch into his glass, he shook the final cigarette from the pack and lit up.
‘Only one lung left now, old fellow, so make sure you look after it,’ the young white coat had said, leaning over Ernie’s hospital bed. ‘And what’s more, go easy on the whisky, then with any luck you should live to see independence back home.’
‘Reckon we’ll all be dead and buried before that happens,’ Ernie said with a chuckle. ‘You included, mate.’
‘You think so?’ said the surgeon with surprise. ‘I thought things were progressing well. Five years at the most.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Ernie assured him.’ In any case, I’m not certain I’d want to be around to see it happen.’
Ernie smiled as he recalled the doctor’s face. He’d pissed him off with all that ‘old fellow’ talk and such. If he’d lived in New Guinea as long as Ernie had, he’d realise there was a hell of a long way to go yet before the locals were up to running the place on their own.
He gazed across the aisle to where a young woman sat in the window seat. Something was not right about her—that was for sure. He’d tried grinning to gain her attention but had trouble making eye contact. Then, when he finally did, the smile she tried didn’t get off the ground. And either Somerset Maugham was dead boring or she had problems, for he hadn’t noticed her turn a page in hours.
He’d seen them like that before. The endless heat and boredom would drive them mad, sometimes insane, yet they’d always come back for more. In the twenty odd years since the war, he’d seen heaps. But she looked young to be one of those. Early twenties he’d guess. She had a look about her, though, not beautiful, yet sort of compelling. Almond shaped eyes, the colour of a good Napoleon Brandy, abundance of lashes. And crikey, wouldn’t he give a quid to run his hands through that hair. Was it the gold flecks glinting in the sunlight? Or was it the dress that got to him? The cut of the armhole? Or the way it sat well above her knees? He lifted the bottle of whisky and poured the final shot.
Unexpectedly the plane dropped down and then rose again, jarring the passengers. Merryn, oblivious to the analysis she was receiving from across the aisle, grabbed hold of the armrest to steady herself. Instinctively, she brought the other hand to her stomach, where anxiety and dread knotted together. It had come in gulps, unexpectedly assaulting her and then leaving her empty.
Yet it wasn’t just the jolting of the plane that was causing the turmoil inside her. She’d encountered worse turbulence than this since gaining her pilot’s licence. She wished with all her heart the plane would keep on flying. To Singapore perhaps. Lae even. Anywhere other than Moresby, where she dreaded landing.
Would Jake be at the airport to meet her? Or would he be too much of a coward to come and face up to what he had done? She had no way of knowing.
Looking around, she noticed none of the other passengers seemed to have felt the plane jolt, or if they did, it was not obvious. Even the fellow opposite seemed unmoved, swigging the last of his whisky—no doubt the end of a long line of many over the years, the bulging eyes and florid skin a dead giveaway.
She pulled a wrinkled newspaper from the seat pocket in front of her. More Vietnam Casualties screamed the headlines. When is it ever going to end? she asked herself. How many more young men need to be slaughtered in the jungles of that godforsaken place