‘He’s alive!’

The following morning, Chuck Wilson burst into Mamma Tack’s unannounced. When he’d arrived at the clinic, he’d seen Ronnie being bounced around on the shoulders of a serviceman who was standing by the open window chatting to Mary. Jane, however, had been nowhere in sight and, before Mary could stop him, he’d thrown wide the door and simply barged in.

The curtains of the treatment area were open, and Jane was tending the ulcerated leg of a twelve-year-old boy. They were both startled by the American’s sudden appearance.

‘Evri samting oraet,’ she said, patting the boy’s shoulder as she rose from her bedside chair.

Reassured, young Thomas sat back and watched the exchange between Mamma Tack and the ‘man blong Merika’ with avid interest.

‘Wolf’s alive!’ Chuck announced, and he swept her off her feet in a bear-like embrace which she returned, both of them laughing as he whirled her about.

‘Is he well?’ Jane asked when he’d finally released her and she’d regained her breath. ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’

‘Nope. He’s fine. Hell, he’s more than fine. He shot down three planes, he saved a guy’s life, he’s a goddamn hero!’

Jane laughed again. Pure elation surged through her. ‘Is he back? Why hasn’t he come to see me?’

‘He’s on Espiritu Santo, they’re keeping him there for a few days until they repatriate the guy he saved. Gee, he’ll probably win a medal, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I should have done the trip myself after all.’ He grinned happily. Chuck Wilson was in a state of euphoria. ‘But then I’m not Wolf, I wouldn’t have pulled it off.’

‘I’m so glad, Chuck,’ she said. ‘I’m so very, very glad.’

His excitement finally died down, and his grin slowly faded. ‘My best buddy’s alive,’ he said, ‘and that’s the main thing …’ Given his previous meeting with Jane, Chuck felt the need to make an admission. ‘But there’s something else …’

‘Yes, I know there is.’

She did know, he could tell, but he had to say it anyway. Just to her. ‘I’m not sure how I could have lived with it, Jane. And now …’ He shrugged, unable to find the right words. ‘Well, I’m off the hook now.’

‘You were never on it, Chuck.’

‘Yeah, maybe …’ He gave a gauche shrug.

‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘Easier to say.’ Then she hugged him again. ‘I’m happy for you, and I’m happy for Wolf. I’m happy for us all,’ she said, breaking the embrace and pushing him towards the door. ‘Now go away. I have a patient to tend to.’

She was happy for Marty too, she thought as she returned her attention to young Thomas who was sitting on the bed, enthralled by the incomprehensible drama that had unfolded before him. Just like Chuck, Marty no longer had grounds for self-recrimination.

 

‘It seems you were right, Dr Thackeray.’ Commander Dickey had the broadest grin on his face, and why not? During wartime one was rarely in a position to impart good news.

They were once again on the hangar deck, Martin about to conduct the early morning Sunday service in the chapel area.

‘Wolf Baker. He’s alive, isn’t he?’

‘He most certainly is.’ The Commander noted that Thackeray was relieved but not really surprised, and he marvelled once again at the man’s faith. ‘John Stubbs too. They’re on Espiritu Santo. Baker’s remaining there until Stubbs can be directly repatriated to the States; it appears your friend Wolf has a stabilising effect on Stubbs’s mental condition. Don’t ask me how.’

‘Nothing about Wolf would surprise me,’ Martin smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing me the news.’ He shook the Executive Officer’s hand and, as the troops gathered about the chapel for morning prayers, he walked over to the table by the bulkhead.

Despite his conviction that Wolf had survived, Martin felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders and, whilst he led the men in prayer that morning, he gave personal thanks to God.

Aboard the USS Wasp, Martin Thackeray felt a greater sense of purpose than he’d ever known. His faith, badly shaken following Dunkirk, had been restored during his time in the New Hebrides. Martin believed implicitly that it was the love he and Jane shared, above all else, that had strengthened him, and he greatly missed her, as he always did when they were apart. But to serve God’s purpose, here amongst these men so sorely in need, was a mission for which he had been chosen. Indeed, he had been trained for just such a task. The very experience of Dunkirk, which had threatened his downfall, had prepared him for this. He knew what these men faced. He knew their inner fears and the doubts that beset even those with the strongest of faith, and he felt imbued with a God-given strength to help.

Wolf Baker had been right. In his few days aboard the Wasp, it was already obvious that Martin Thackeray was the best man for the job. The troops had instantly embraced him as one of their own. They knew he’d seen active service – it was even rumoured that he’d been at Dunkirk – and they knew that he’d volunteered to join the Wasp. They deeply admired him for that. Even the non-devout amongst them, and those of other denominations, not in need of Martin’s services as a chaplain, admired him. Hell, the guy could have stayed safely in Vila, they all agreed.

The Reverend Dr Thackeray became known as Marty. The immediate adoption of the nickname, although pleasing to Martin, puzzled him at first, as did the knowledge of his background the men appeared to possess. Then he realised it was Wolf’s doing. Wolf, in his inimitable fashion, had decided to pave the way, leaking information that had spread about the ship like wildfire, as anything of any interest always did.

After his early Sunday service, Martin breakfasted in the officers’ mess, then before the midday service he held several private consultations in his small cabin. He always made himself available for men who sought personal counsel, and already he had found there were many.

The rest of his Sunday was uneventful. He took his daily constitutional during lunchtime. It had become his routine to skip lunch, enjoying a solitary wander about the ship instead, and he always finished up on the flight observation deck to admire the view.

The vast aircraft carrier, over 740 feet long, the extreme width of her flight deck 109 feet, dwarfed her protective destroyers, always in sight a mile or so away. Intermittently over the past few days, Martin had seen the line of troopships far in the distance, and on occasions the battleships and destroyers of Task Force 16, escorting the 7th Marine Regiment to Guadalcanal.

The sight always impressed him. But, for all the might of the American forces, Martin thought, they remained mere dots on the Pacific Ocean. Even the 14,700 tons of the Wasp, a vessel massive and powerful beyond belief, appeared a toy in God’s scheme of things.

Martin felt very close to God on the observation deck, but he also felt very close to man. He wasn’t sure whether he admired man most for his presumption, or for his ingenuity. Probably both, he decided. And as man was also a product of God’s creation, surely He must admire him too? Martin always stopped his musings at that point. He was not here to question why God allowed men to war against each other; such thoughts had been his undoing in the past. He was here to offer his own faith as an example to others who might be doubting theirs. Man, admirable though he was, was his own enemy, not God’s.

He returned to his cabin and wrote a lengthy letter to Jane for the following day’s mail dispatch. It was the first time he’d written to her since he’d been aboard, and he expressed himself freely, as he always could to Jane. He wrote about Wolf Baker and the strange knowledge he’d had of his survival, and he told her of the strength of purpose he felt aboard the Wasp. It was as if they were chatting.

He held two more private consultations during the late afternoon, and in the evening, following dinner, he played a lengthy game of chess in the officers’ wardroom with Commander Dickey and then retired.

The next day he followed a similar routine, again admiring the view from the observation deck as the Wasp inched her way inexorably towards Guadalcanal. He could see a distant battleship with her destroyer escorts and, upon enquiry, he was told it was the USS North Carolina.

By Tuesday, they were some 150 miles south-east of San Cristobal Island, Torpedo Junction, dangerous territory, and the carrier was in a state of alert, planes constantly refuelling and rearming for anti-submarine patrol. There was no contact with the enemy during the morning, but shortly after noon a Japanese four-engine flying boat was downed by a Wasp Wildcat.

Martin remained on the observation deck much longer than usual that day, enthralled by the action. The sight of planes taking off and landing on the carrier’s runway never ceased to intrigue him, and this afternoon they were busier than ever. He could still see the USS North Carolina and her escorts. She was a little closer now, barely five miles away.

At 14:20 hours, the carrier turned into the wind to launch eight fighters and eighteen SBD-3s, and to recover another eleven planes that had been airborne since noon. Having completed the recoveries, the ship turned easily to starboard, heeling a little upon the change of course, the air department continuing to work coolly and efficiently, refuelling and re-spotting the carrier’s planes for the afternoon mission.

At 14:44 hours, aboard Japanese submarine I-19, Commander Kinashi, his eyes trained through his periscope, gave the order to fire. The command was carried out, and Torpedoman Ohtani heard the hiss of air that signalled the launch of the tin fish. All six Type 95 torpedoes were fired in a spread, the USS Wasp their principal target.

‘Torpedoes!’ The lookout’s call from the Wasp’s conning-tower rang out loud and clear to the bridge. ‘Three points forward of the starboard beam!’

From his position on the observation deck, Martin could see them with shocking clarity. Three torpedoes were headed directly for the Wasp. He watched in horrified fascination as one of them broached, jumping above the water like a flying fish.

Captain Sherman ordered the Wasp’s rudder hard-a-starboard, but it was too late. In quick succession, the torpedoes hit the carrier amidships, gasoline tanks and magazines igniting, fiery blasts ripping through the forward part of the ship. On the flight deck, planes were thrown about like a child’s toys, and on the hangar deck, aircraft triced up in the overheads fell upon those below.

Fires broke out simultaneously in the hangar and below decks, the intensity of their heat detonating the ammunition of the anti-aircraft guns on the starboard side, fragments showering the crew. The number two 1.1-inch gun mount was blown overboard and the corpse of the gun captain was flung onto the bridge to land beside Captain Sherman.

Five miles away, two other torpedoes found their marks. The USS North Carolina and one of her accompanying destroyers, the USS O’Brien, were both hit.

Within only six minutes of their launching, five of the Japanese torpedoes had struck, and three US warships had fallen victim to the onslaught. But aboard the Wasp, the damage that had been inflicted was fatal.

Martin raced down to the flight deck to help a wounded crew member. The man had been struck by one of the aircraft as it had skated across the runway. A glancing blow only, but his right leg was useless, and he was trying to drag himself to safety, away from the planes careering about him.

Grasping the man under the armpits, Martin dragged him to the conning-tower and, beneath the protection of the observation deck, he examined the leg. There was no loss of blood, it was a simple break, and he told the man so.

‘You’ll have to hold up here for the moment, I’m afraid,’ he said. The man was in no immediate danger, and Martin knew that he must get to the medical station where there would be badly wounded men in urgent need of attention. ‘I’ll send a stretcher for you as soon as I can.’

The man called out his thanks through teeth gritted in pain, but Martin, having dived for the ladder to the deck below, didn’t hear him.

As he made his way through the hangar deck, all was bedlam. Fires had broken out, men were attempting to control them, others were shouting ‘keep clear’. But he kept barging forward through the smoke towards the hatch and the ladder that led below decks. He had to get to the medical station. Then he tripped over something. A body. And the body sat up and spoke.

‘Marty, is that you?’

Martin peered at the face of the young officer. ‘Huck?’ It was Charlie Finn, known as Huckleberry. Huck was a regular at the church services, a devout young Baptist from Ohio. ‘Are you all right, Huck?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t walk, though, my left foot’s gone numb.’

Martin bent over the man’s leg. Part of Huck’s boot appeared to have been blown away. Possibly part of the foot as well, he thought; through the smoke and the blood it was difficult to tell the extent of the injury.

‘Not surprising,’ he said, taking off his belt, ‘you’ve sustained a rather nasty wound, we need to stem the bleeding.’ He pulled the belt tight below the knee. ‘Right, now let’s get you to the medical station. Can you stand on your right foot?’ He helped the young man up, then, levering his shoulder under Huck’s armpit, he half carried and half dragged him, feeling his own bad leg buckle under the strain; his old injury still caused him trouble on occasion and he was not accustomed to carrying weights.

The men who had been unsuccessfully attempting to fight the fires were backing away now, scrambling for safety. Then one of them saw the chaplain through the smoke.

‘Hey, Marty,’ he yelled. ‘Get away! Keep clear!’ He was waving frantically. ‘Over here! This way!’

Martin recognised Ted Foreman, one of the men who had sought private consultation with him. A frightened man, a man who doubted himself.

At that moment, Ted Foreman had neither fears nor doubts. When he realised that Martin was struggling with the wounded young officer, he started instinctively to race to their aid. But the others held him back.

‘It’s too late, Ted!’ Martin heard a man scream. ‘It’s too late!’

Huck’s arm firmly linked over his shoulder, Martin saw the other men drag Ted Foreman to safety before, seconds later, a wall of flame blocked them from view.

The ship was listing to starboard, and oil and gasoline released from the tanks were spewing out to ignite and burn on the water’s surface. Martin realised that they were trapped, the fires had encircled them. Flames and smoke belched from the open bulkheads on the starboard side. He dragged Huck as far away from the intensity of the heat as he could, and sat him down with his back against the portside bulkhead. Then he sat beside him. And they waited.

Both men could smell the aviation fuel. All about them gasoline tanks were leaking, and the flames were out of control. They were in a tinder box.

‘This is it, isn’t it?’ Huck said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m scared, Marty.’

‘Don’t be.’ Martin was amazed at his own sense of calm. It would be quick, he thought, the whole place would ignite any second, well before they could be burned to death. There would be no pain. He was so glad he’d written that letter to Jane. What a pity he wouldn’t be around to watch Ronnie growing up …

He took the young man’s hand in his. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …’ And Huck joined in. ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul …’

A moment later, the explosion. It was only one of many aboard the USS Wasp as she lay dying, a mere dot on the surface of the boundless South Pacific.

At 15:20 hours on Tuesday 15 September, Captain Forrest Sherman gave the order to abandon ship. He had no alternative. Water mains had proved useless, broken by the force of the explosions, and fire-fighting was ineffectual. The survivors needed to evacuate the vessel as quickly as possible.

Badly injured men were lowered into rubber boats, and most of the able had to abandon from aft, the forward fires were burning with such intensity. But the departure was orderly. There was no panic. And forty minutes later, at 16:00 hours, satisfied that no living crew member remained on board, Captain Sherman swung over the lifeline on the fantail and slid into the sea.

The crew of the Wasp had numbered 2,247. The destroyers, persistent in their rescue missions, despite the inherent danger, picked up all 2,054 survivors, whilst the abandoned ship drifted with her dead.

Further violent explosions erupted on the Wasp as night started to fall, and the USS Lansdowne, allotted the duty of destruction, fired five torpedoes into the carrier’s fire-gutted hull. Floating in a burning pool of gasoline and oil, the Wasp finally sank by the bow at 21:00 hours.

 

The shocking news was received on Espiritu Santo early the following morning. Word spread like wildfire about the base. The Wasp had gone down, and, it was rumoured, the dead and wounded were numbered in the hundreds. Wolf Baker went straight to command headquarters.

The official estimate and details were not yet being released, he was informed, operations were currently underway to identify all casualties. But Wolf was persistent. He appealed directly to the Commander who finally agreed to radio through an enquiry regarding Dr Martin Thackeray.

The Commander found it difficult to refuse Baker’s passionate request. The man had, after all, performed far beyond the call of duty – he’d no doubt receive a citation – and, hell, it seemed only fair to grant him a favour.

The facts were readily available: Martin Thackeray was already listed. He had been killed instantly whilst assisting a wounded officer. The deaths of both men had been witnessed. Details would not be officially released, however, until all casualties were accounted for, probably some time tomorrow, the Commander said.

Wolf immediately requested permission to return to his unit at Havannah Harbour. John Stubbs was to be repatriated that very afternoon, he told the Commander, and so his services on Espiritu Santo were no longer required.

Permission was granted, and it was mid-morning when Wolf’s Corsair touched down at Quoin Hill. But he didn’t report to the base at Havannah Harbour. He commandeered a jeep instead, and headed straight for Vila.

Jane was not at Mamma Tack’s. She was at the house, Mary told him.

‘The Missus worry, Masta Wolf,’ she said. Everyone in Vila had heard about the Wasp, and Mary too was worried for the Masta. ‘The Missus wait at home to hear what happen.’

The cottage door opened the moment he tapped on it.

‘Wolf!’

Her eyes met his, and for a split second he wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction. Then she flung her arms around him.

‘I was so happy to hear that you were alive. Chuck brought me the news. The poor man, he’d been sure you were dead. Everyone had thought you were dead. Everyone except Marty, that is.’

She seemed unnaturally bright, he thought as, clasping his hand, she led him through the lounge room.

‘I had a letter from him just yesterday,’ she said, leading the way out onto the verandah where Ronnie was sitting on a rug playing with his building blocks. ‘He said he had a premonition you were alive.’

‘Wolf kambak!’

Wolf knelt on the wooden decking as Ronnie charged at him. The collision jarred his bruised ribs a little, but he picked the child up and placed him on his lap as he sat in the wicker chair opposite Jane.

‘He said he was so sure!’ she continued. ‘He didn’t know why. He didn’t know whether it was his admiration for your resourcefulness or whether God was telling him something.’ Her laugh was brittle, strained. ‘But then, that’s Marty, such a wonderful mixture of practicality and faith.’

‘Wolf, where you bin? Where you bin, Wolf?’

Ronnie, more robust than ever, was playfully kicking and punching, and Jane noticed Wolf wince every now and then.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

‘Just bruising, it’s nothing.’

‘Come along, Ronnie.’ She took the child from his lap and put him back on the rug. ‘You play on your own for a while, darling.’ And Ronnie was soon absorbed once again with his building blocks.

‘You’ve heard the news of course.’ Jane returned to her chair. ‘About the Wasp?’

‘Yes.’

‘They won’t tell me anything. Not yet. They said “as soon as they know”. So here I am waiting. It’s been driving me insane.’

Now was the moment. He steeled himself. But she didn’t give him the chance. Before he could draw breath, she chatted on, as if she couldn’t bear a moment’s silence.

‘It’s so good to see you, Wolf. You know, until Chuck told me, I had no idea you’d flown Marty to the Wasp.’ She knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Chuck said you’d volunteered to replace him. The poor fellow, he felt so guilty when you were reported missing.’

Why wasn’t she asking him if he’d heard anything? he thought. It would make it a lot easier if she did. But then why should she presume he had inside information? She was simply pleased to see him, he was a distraction. How was he to tell her?

‘I was worried that Marty might be feeling guilty too. Well, not guilty, but in some way responsible. And then his letter arrived, saying that he’d always believed you were alive.’ She smiled. ‘It was such a wonderful letter, Wolf.’

Her eyes welled with tears, and there was a quiver in her voice. The woman was at breaking point. He had to tell her.

‘He was fulfilled aboard the Wasp. He said he felt honoured to have been chosen. That he was serving God’s purpose.’ She was no longer talking merely to fill in the silence, and she made no attempt to control the tears that now spilled down her cheeks. ‘He said he’d never felt closer to God. I was happy for him.’

Her eyes locked onto his. It was the first time she’d looked directly at him since she’d opened the cottage door, and the realisation suddenly hit Wolf: she knows.

And, as if she’d read his mind, she said, ‘He’s not coming back, Wolf. I don’t need them to tell me, I know it.’

‘How?’

‘Something in his letter. So beautiful, but so final, perhaps Marty knew it himself. Just like he knew you were alive. And then when I opened the door and you were standing there …’ She stared at him, hardly daring to ask. ‘You know it too, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

In the pause that followed, Jane mustered the last of her strength.

‘Officially?’ Her voice was breathless.

He nodded. ‘Officially.’

‘Oh.’ She froze, like a bird poised to take flight.

‘They’ll inform you tomorrow, when all casualties have been accounted for.’ The statement was harsh, brutal in its irrevocability, but Wolf wanted no confusion. Nothing that she could cling to with the last vestige of hope, when there was none.

Jane’s final defences crumbled and she sank her head into her hands. ‘Oh Marty. Oh Marty, Marty, Marty.’

Her anguish was painful, her body wracked with sobs, and Wolf wanted to hold her, to cradle and comfort her, but he knew it would be wrong to intrude upon her grief. What would Marty do? he wondered. Marty would be practical.

He didn’t have a handkerchief, so he went into the kitchen and fetched a clean tea towel from one of the drawers. Returning to the verandah, he squatted beside her chair as she fought to regain control, her sobs quickly becoming silent gulps for air. Then, when she’d taken the tea towel from him, he told her what she needed to hear.

‘He died instantly, Jane.’

She looked at him, the tea towel held tight against her mouth as if to stifle her anguish, her eyes desperate with the desire to believe him.

‘That’s official too. His death was witnessed. The report said that he was assisting a wounded officer, and that he died instantly. Both men did. Marty wouldn’t have felt any pain.’

Wolf hoped he was right. Was instant death painless? Who could tell? It was a presumption they all clung to. But the details of the report were factual, and he could see that she knew he was telling the truth.

‘Thank you.’ She mopped at her face, still gasping a little to regain her breath. Then she clasped his hand. ‘Thank you, Wolf, I’m so grateful.’

Ronnie was by their side. He was whimpering for attention, upset by his mother’s tears, and Wolf picked him up. He sat in the wicker chair, bouncing the child on his knee and Ronnie, always good-natured, was quickly pacified.

‘Would you like me to go?’ he asked.

‘Oh no. Stay. Please. Stay.’

‘Okay. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

‘You hate tea.’

‘Any of that bourbon left?’

‘Of course. You’re the only person who drinks it.’

‘Tea for you, bourbon for me.’

He returned Ronnie to his playing blocks, and when he came back with the drinks, Jane had recovered her composure. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she gave a wan smile and gestured at the tea towel.

‘Thank you for the handkerchief,’ she said.

‘Well, at least I picked a clean one.’ He put the drinks on the coffee table between them and sat.

‘So tell me about your adventures, Wolf. You’re a hero, Chuck tells me.’

‘Not really.’

‘He said you shot down three planes and you’ll probably get a medal.’

‘I was just protecting my back,’ he shrugged, ‘it was them or me.’ She was making conversation, bottling up her emotions and it was wrong, he thought. He remembered the night when Marty had encouraged him to get it out of his system. That’s what Jane needed to do. She needed to let it all pour out.

‘But you saved a man’s life, Chuck said.’ She sipped automatically at her tea, as if it was an afternoon on the verandah, just like any other. ‘That certainly sounds like a hero to me.’

‘I’m not a hero, Jane. Marty was a hero. Marty saved men’s souls.’ Wolf was out of his depth when it came to religion, but Martin Thackeray had had a profound effect upon him, and he needed to tell her so. For her own sake. ‘Well, maybe he saved their sanity, like he saved mine. Or maybe their belief that there was still something decent left. I guess it all depends on your perspective.’

He’d hit home. He could see that she’d dropped the pretence of polite conversation and was hanging on his every word.

‘Marty was the true hero,’ Wolf said. ‘He was aware of the dangers out there, and he didn’t have to volunteer. Christ, if anyone had served his time, Marty had. He didn’t need to prove himself.’

‘I know he didn’t.’ The tears were welling again. ‘It was God’s will, he said.’

‘I don’t know much about God’s will, but I know Marty’s. And I know the effect he would have had on those men. Just like he had on me. Marty was the best man I ever knew.’

She was crying again now, but gently. It was healthy. She needed to cry. ‘He was the best man I ever knew too, Wolf.’

They sat for two hours talking about Marty, laughing and crying and telling anecdotes, until Wolf suddenly registered the time.

‘I came straight from Quoin Hill,’ he said, ‘I have to report to base for a debriefing. Will you be okay?’

‘Oh.’ She’d been immersed in their conversation and she was caught out, confused. ‘Yes. Yes of course. I’m sorry. I’ve kept you far too long. I’m terribly sorry. I completely lost track of …’

She looked so lost, so vulnerable.

‘I can come back if you like. If you don’t want to be alone.’

She didn’t want to be alone. Marty had been with them as they’d spoken of him. She couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.

‘Yes. Yes, I’d like that.’

After he left, she didn’t fall apart. She did things instead. There were rituals to be observed. It was Wednesday, and she always did the washing on Wednesdays, usually during a lunch break from the clinic. She preferred to address her domestic chores midweek, somehow managing to squeeze them into her busy schedule. It left her time with Marty on Saturdays when he was free from his hospital duties, and of course she always attended his Sunday church services. The weekends were very special to them both.

She washed the bed linen and hung it on the line. Far to the south, angry clouds were gathering, but it would be some time before the storm broke, and in the light breeze and without the severe humidity of the monsoon season, the bedding was dry within an hour. She ironed the sheets and pillowcases, remade the bed and Ronnie’s cot, and then she cleaned the house, which didn’t need cleaning, and tended the herb garden, which didn’t need tending. She did everything she could to keep herself mindlessly active. And it worked. Her brain seemed somehow mercifully blank. And then, in the late afternoon, Mary returned, having closed Mamma Tack’s. She wanted to cook dinner for the Missus, but Jane told her to go home.

‘You okay?’

‘I’m all right, Mary, yes. Thank you. You go home now.’

But Mary was worried. The Missus didn’t look well. And why should she? Not knowing whether the Masta was alive or dead. Mary didn’t want to go home. She wanted to look after the Missus.

‘I stay, Missus. I cook you dinner. I make sure you okay.’

‘Please, Mary, go home.’ Jane couldn’t bring herself to tell Mary the news. The good-hearted woman had loved the Masta and she would probably wail her grief. She would wish to share it with Jane. And Jane could share her grief with no-one. No-one but Wolf.

Mary reluctantly left, and Jane fed Ronnie. They played together for a while, hide and seek, dodging amongst the furniture. And then, when the child was tired and ready for bed, she tucked him into his cot in the main bedroom and sang him to sleep, as she always did. And then there was nothing left to do. The emptiness started to creep in around her.

By the time Wolf arrived in the early evening, she was agitated. Everywhere she looked Marty was there. And yet he wasn’t. And he never would be. How could she keep going? What would she do? The merciful veil of blankness that had enveloped her during the afternoon was disintegrating.

‘Wolf!’

She once again embraced him as soon as she opened the front door, but this time there was no pretence. No attempt at social discourse. By now she was approaching a state of panic.

‘Thank God you came back!’ She clung to him desperately, and he could feel her shaking. ‘I don’t know what to do, I think I’m going mad.’

‘No you’re not.’ His arms around her were comforting, but his tone was practical. ‘You’re suffering delayed shock. You know that.’

‘Yes.’ Commonsense prevailed. Of course, he was right. ‘Yes.’ She backed away. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled shakily and ushered him inside. ‘I didn’t mean to pounce on you like that.’

‘Pounce away, whenever you like, it’s what I’m here for. I think you could go a stiff drink. Do you have any brandy?’

‘No. There’s dry sherry.’

‘No good. It’ll have to be bourbon.’ He sat her down and poured them both a healthy slug from the bottle on the dresser. Then, joining her on the sofa, he clinked his glass against hers. ‘Marty always told me it was “filthy stuff”, but it’ll do the trick. Come on, drink up.’

She took a tentative sip and winced at the taste.

‘Okay, you don’t like it. But then I can’t understand your passion for tea. Now take a proper swig, it’ll do you good.’

She downed half the glass in one gulp, then gasped as the raw liquor assaulted her system.

‘See?’ he grinned. ‘Very effective.’

Jane wasn’t at all sure whether it was the effect of the alcohol, or the presence of Wolf, but she could feel her panic recede.

‘Marty was right. It’s filthy stuff.’

‘I bet you haven’t eaten.’

She shook her head.

‘Right. I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

‘No.’ She took his hand as he rose from the sofa. She didn’t want to eat, and she didn’t want him to leave her. ‘I couldn’t. Really.’

‘Okay. At least let me get you some water. You’re not used to that stuff.’

He returned from the kitchen with a tumbler of water and she sipped it as they sat in companionable silence, until finally she said, ‘I don’t know what to do, Wolf.’

‘About what?’ he asked carefully.

‘Everything. Marty was my life. I don’t know what to do without him.’

She seemed quite calm now, and he remained silent. That’s what Marty would do, he thought. Marty would wait and listen before offering advice. Although Wolf was unsure about what advice he could possibly come up with.

‘I don’t know whether to go back to England.’ Her father would expect her to, she thought. She pictured Fareham. And the Royal Victoria Hospital. She had enjoyed working at the Royal Victoria. She pictured her life the way it used to be. And of course there would be Phoebe. They still corresponded regularly and she longed to see Phoebe. It all seemed so safe. And yet so foreign. ‘I don’t know whether I’d fit in there any more,’ she said.

She was speaking her thoughts aloud, Wolf realised, so he said nothing.

‘But without Marty, I’m not sure if I fit in here either.’ She finally turned to him. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

This time it appeared an answer was called for. A practical answer. ‘Why would you not fit in here without Marty?’ he asked. ‘You worked without him all the time. Marty was away from Vila more often than he was here, you told me that yourself.’

He was trying to be helpful, she knew, but his response was naive. She was in the New Hebrides as Marty’s wife, the wife of the missionary doctor, she had no official position. She didn’t point that out, though, and responded to his ingenuousness instead.

‘Oh yes,’ she smiled, ‘Marty was often away. But only in body, never in spirit.’ It was good to see her smile, he thought. ‘In spirit Marty was always right here with me.’

It seemed to Wolf that she had answered her own question. ‘And isn’t he still here? Isn’t that what Marty himself would say?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Wouldn’t he say he’s still here in spirit?’ Her smile had faded, and her face looked drained, but Wolf was sure he was on the right track and he didn’t let up. ‘He is, isn’t he, Jane? He’s still here.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, he’s here. He’ll always be here.’ In his innocence Wolf had answered all of the questions she had asked herself. She knew she must stay.

‘Then this is where you belong,’ he continued to urge, aware that he’d made some sort of breakthrough. ‘You belong here with Marty and everything you’ve worked for.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. You’re quite right.’ She raked a weary hand through her hair. ‘I suppose it’s the practicalities that are frightening me.’ She tried to sound constructive, but she felt so tired. ‘I mean I’ll have to leave the cottage, the Mission Committee will appoint another minister …’

‘Oh.’ He hadn’t thought of that. He’d simply wanted to inspire her. The situation was more complicated than he’d assumed. He felt rather stupid.

‘… and I can’t seem to picture the future … I can’t seem to …’ Her voice trailed off, she looked utterly exhausted.

‘Don’t think about it now,’ he said as he stood. ‘Come on, you need to sleep.’

‘Yes.’

She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the bedroom, but she halted at the door.

‘You’ll stay, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will. I’ll be right next door in the spare room. Now you get yourself ready for bed, and I’ll come back in ten minutes to tuck you in.’

For all of his rakish charm the paternal role suited Wolf, and Jane, childlike, did as she was told. She performed her nightly ritual without thought, washing her face, brushing her hair, cleaning her teeth. She checked on Ronnie, fast asleep in his cot; he rarely woke during the night. And then, in her light cotton nightdress, she slipped between the sheets.

Surely sleep would come easily; she had never felt so tired. Like dripping water sucked into parched sand, all energy and emotion seemed to have leaked from her body. But it had not leaked from her mind. Her mind was refusing to obey the dictates of exhaustion. It was telling her how empty the bed was, how empty it would always be. In the many months of Marty’s absence from home, the bed had never felt like this, there had always been the knowledge that he would come back. Now the realisation that he would never lie beside her again made the bed the loneliest place on earth. A crisp white desert of cotton.

She wished she hadn’t washed the linen this afternoon. Why had she done that? Just to keep busy. Just because it was Wednesday and Wednesday was washday. How stupid! She might still have been able to smell him on the sheets, or at least to feel the shape of his body in the crumpled linen. He had left last Thursday, early in the morning, and they had made love the night before. Wednesday night, washday night, Marty always commented on the feel of fresh bed linen. It was only a week ago, she thought. One short week since he’d left. Just one washday to the next, that was all. And now she lay in this sterile, meaningless bed with its meticulous hospital corners of which she was so proud. How stupid of her to have washed the linen. She buried her head in his pillow and smelt the fresh soap powder. It angered her, and anger lent her energy.

She threw back the covers and crossed to the wardrobe where his clothes hung in a neat row. There was his favourite jacket, the threadbare one with the houndstooth check, a little frayed at the cuffs. He’d refused to relinquish it, despite her regular requests. ‘It’s a good fabric, my love,’ he’d said, ‘and it doesn’t matter if a good fabric is a little shabby.’ She took the ‘good fabric’ in her hands, it wasn’t a good fabric at all, it was simply Marty’s excuse to hang on to the jacket, and she buried her face in it, breathing deeply. She could smell him, her Marty. He was there.

A tap at the bedroom door. She turned. It opened just a fraction.

‘Jane? You okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

He peered in. ‘Hey, you’re not in bed.’

‘I was. It’s just that …’

‘Come on now. There’s a good girl.’ He crossed and took her hand, leading her to the bed. ‘I’ll tuck you in.’

But she didn’t want to get into the bed, not that lonely place. Perhaps she’d take Marty’s jacket to bed with her. Perhaps that would help.

‘Come on, Jane,’ he sensed her baulking, ‘you have to sleep, you’re exhausted.’

His hand on her shoulder, he gently tried to coax her to lie down, but suddenly her arms were around his neck, her face reaching up to his and she was kissing him.

Jane didn’t know how it happened. She didn’t know what made her do it. But she couldn’t stop. She felt such longing. A longing to be held, to be loved, to be safe, to belong.

Wolf was shocked, but unable to resist. He returned the kiss, his arms around her slender body, feeling the ache of his own love. He remembered Marty’s shock question, not long after they’d met: ‘You’re in love with my wife, aren’t you, Wolf?’ Marty had said it light-heartedly, without accusation, a statement more than a question really, but his expression had been enigmatic as he’d awaited an answer, and Wolf had felt jarringly confronted. ‘Who isn’t?’ he’d said. But he hadn’t sounded glib, and his admission had been as much to himself as to Marty, he’d realised. Marty had smiled, respecting the honesty of the reply. It was apparent that Wolf had passed some sort of test, and they’d become good friends after that.

Wolf took her head in his hands, feeling the soft texture of her hair between his fingers and, even as her lips continued to urge him on, he eased her gently away.

‘Go to bed, Jane,’ he said quietly, but authoritatively, fighting to disguise the strength of his emotions. And this time she obeyed him.

Silent, breathless, she climbed between the awful crisp sheets. She knew she should apologise, she could tell he was shocked. She was shocked herself. But never had she felt so lost, so utterly deserted and, as she lay there, still and compliant, she wanted to scream, ‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!’

He pulled the coverlet up under her chin. ‘Good night,’ he said and kissed her on the forehead. Then he quietly closed the door behind him.

In the spare room he lay, elbows crooked, head resting on hands, staring up at the overhead light fitting, studying the glass bowl of its encasement. The shapes of the dead insects captured inside were clearly visible in the lamplight that spilled through from the lounge room. He’d left the door open and the lounge room table lamp on, in case she should call out during the night. Then he would go to her, and he’d comfort her as he’d comfort a child having nightmares.

Twenty minutes later, when the storm that had been threatening throughout the afternoon broke, he was still staring up at the light fitting. The first crack of thunder was swiftly followed by rain, a deluge smashing relentlessly upon the tin roof. Angry wind buffeted the cottage until it rattled, and jagged streaks of lightning flashed through its windows.

The storm was not of cyclonic proportions. The solid little house would withstand its force, and it would vanish as abruptly as it had appeared. But its anger was enough to provide a welcome distraction for Wolf as he stared sleeplessly up at the ceiling.

Then, in a flash of lightning that illuminated the room, he saw her standing there, silhouetted in the open door, a fragile figure in her light cotton nightdress. He rose and went to her.