wheel. ‘I certainly haven’t heard anything.’
‘That’s a pity. A wartime romance would have been a nice touch for my story.’
He frowned. ‘The magazine story you wanted to write – about the homestead?’
‘Yes . . .’ she said, feeling uncertain.
‘So you’re still planning to write it?’
‘Well, yes, if you’re keen. I’d love to record your progress with the renovations.’
‘You’d come out here . . . we’d see each other on a regular basis and we’d just pretend last night never happened?’
‘Well . . . I . . .’
Luke was shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I think you’d better scrap that plan.’
7
Moonlight Plains, 1942
Kitty had just lugged the late-afternoon milk pail up the stairs and into the kitchen when she heard the low drone of aeroplanes.
She was used to the sound of Allied planes flying high up, but these were coming her way, and they were so low and menacing she was sure they
had
to be Japs. She froze, her heart thrashing like the pistons on a locomotive. The war wasn’t supposed to reach her all the way out here.
For six weeks now, she’d been at Moonlight Plains, her recently widowed great-uncle’s property west of Charters Towers. She’d been keeping his house, cooking his meals, weeding his vegetables and milking his two dairy cows, such very different work from her old job on the haberdashery counter at Carroll’s in Townsville.
Her grandfather had supposedly sent her here to keep her out of harm’s way, but they both knew it was her punishment. Admittedly her ruddy-faced, stout and elderly great-uncle needed Kitty’s help. He’d let everything go since his wife died last year.
Aunt Lil’s beautiful garden had quickly deteriorated over the long hot summer and the lovely old house had all but disappeared beneath layers of dust. The only thing her great-uncle seemed to care about was his cattle. But although there was plenty to keep Kitty busy, and she knew Uncle Jim valued her help, she still felt like a prisoner, banished into the never-never.
If she was still in Townsville, she could be helping the war effort. Women were needed for all sorts of work, now that the men were away.
She threw a frantic glance to the timber-framed casement windows, but they were covered in brown paper, her great-uncle’s version of blackout curtains, so she couldn’t see a thing outside – not a hint of sky, or gum trees, or paddocks.
Shaking, she put the milk pail down. It spilled, but that hardly mattered if these were Jap planes and she was about to die.
A loud snarl of engines almost overhead sent her diving beneath the kitchen table. She was sure her world was going to end. The very last sound she would hear was the deafening explosion of a Japanese bomb as it plunged through the homestead’s iron roof.
She tried to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . . Gentle Jesus . . . Thy rod and staff shall comfort me . . .
It was no good; her mind kept slipping from the task. Despite her grandfather’s best efforts, she’d never been very good at prayers and now she was going to die like all those poor people in Darwin. At least those people had been together.
Kitty felt very alone as she cowered beneath the table. Uncle Jim had left two days earlier, after an official order came through to de-stock. For once, he’d agreed with the government. He’d be damned if he’d let the Japs get their stinking hands on his prime Hereford beef, so he was driving his cattle to the saleyards.
Now the noisy thumping of Kitty’s heart was almost as loud as the roar of the aircraft. She cringed, tense as a shotgun trigger, chin tucked, eyes closed, arms tightly locked around her knees.
The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . .
Above her, a droning engine hiccupped, and she heard a sickening whine. A hair-raising screech of ripping metal. And –
Crrrump!
The shocking, thudding crash was so close that
‘That’s a pity. A wartime romance would have been a nice touch for my story.’
He frowned. ‘The magazine story you wanted to write – about the homestead?’
‘Yes . . .’ she said, feeling uncertain.
‘So you’re still planning to write it?’
‘Well, yes, if you’re keen. I’d love to record your progress with the renovations.’
‘You’d come out here . . . we’d see each other on a regular basis and we’d just pretend last night never happened?’
‘Well . . . I . . .’
Luke was shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I think you’d better scrap that plan.’
7
Moonlight Plains, 1942
Kitty had just lugged the late-afternoon milk pail up the stairs and into the kitchen when she heard the low drone of aeroplanes.
She was used to the sound of Allied planes flying high up, but these were coming her way, and they were so low and menacing she was sure they
had
to be Japs. She froze, her heart thrashing like the pistons on a locomotive. The war wasn’t supposed to reach her all the way out here.
For six weeks now, she’d been at Moonlight Plains, her recently widowed great-uncle’s property west of Charters Towers. She’d been keeping his house, cooking his meals, weeding his vegetables and milking his two dairy cows, such very different work from her old job on the haberdashery counter at Carroll’s in Townsville.
Her grandfather had supposedly sent her here to keep her out of harm’s way, but they both knew it was her punishment. Admittedly her ruddy-faced, stout and elderly great-uncle needed Kitty’s help. He’d let everything go since his wife died last year.
Aunt Lil’s beautiful garden had quickly deteriorated over the long hot summer and the lovely old house had all but disappeared beneath layers of dust. The only thing her great-uncle seemed to care about was his cattle. But although there was plenty to keep Kitty busy, and she knew Uncle Jim valued her help, she still felt like a prisoner, banished into the never-never.
If she was still in Townsville, she could be helping the war effort. Women were needed for all sorts of work, now that the men were away.
She threw a frantic glance to the timber-framed casement windows, but they were covered in brown paper, her great-uncle’s version of blackout curtains, so she couldn’t see a thing outside – not a hint of sky, or gum trees, or paddocks.
Shaking, she put the milk pail down. It spilled, but that hardly mattered if these were Jap planes and she was about to die.
A loud snarl of engines almost overhead sent her diving beneath the kitchen table. She was sure her world was going to end. The very last sound she would hear was the deafening explosion of a Japanese bomb as it plunged through the homestead’s iron roof.
She tried to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . . Gentle Jesus . . . Thy rod and staff shall comfort me . . .
It was no good; her mind kept slipping from the task. Despite her grandfather’s best efforts, she’d never been very good at prayers and now she was going to die like all those poor people in Darwin. At least those people had been together.
Kitty felt very alone as she cowered beneath the table. Uncle Jim had left two days earlier, after an official order came through to de-stock. For once, he’d agreed with the government. He’d be damned if he’d let the Japs get their stinking hands on his prime Hereford beef, so he was driving his cattle to the saleyards.
Now the noisy thumping of Kitty’s heart was almost as loud as the roar of the aircraft. She cringed, tense as a shotgun trigger, chin tucked, eyes closed, arms tightly locked around her knees.
The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . .
Above her, a droning engine hiccupped, and she heard a sickening whine. A hair-raising screech of ripping metal. And –
Crrrump!
The shocking, thudding crash was so close that
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