Chapter Eleven #2
‘A common nickname. In the older generations, at least. Today it’s a cartoon dog. Let’s read the other names in the picture and see if anything stands out.’
Kirsty had come to stand behind them and leaned over their shoulders. ‘A pity the photo’s not in colour.’
‘Why’s that?’ said Jodie.
‘Bluey. It’s a nickname for people with red hair.’
Will reached his hand up to touch the lock of Jodie’s hair falling against her cheek, just as Jodie did. ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘You’d think I’d have remembered that. My brother Anthony is called Red Ant for the exact same reason.’
‘Let’s not jump the gun,’ Jodie said. But her breath had turned to fizz in her chest—she was totally jumping the gun. ‘Do we know what colour Carol’s hair used to be?’
‘It’s been grey as long as I’ve known her,’ said Will. ‘And she taught me history in school, so I’ve known her a long time. Maybe it wasn’t grey then? But … I can’t say I was paying much attention.’
‘Too many Penny Atwells in the room?’ Jodie said, raising her eyebrows at him.
He grinned and winked at her.
‘If you two are going to share private jokes and make eyes at each other, I’ll go boil the kettle.
My suggestion? Type the name “Bruce Bluey Wallace” into a search string on the internet and see what comes up.
We’re not the only town with a keen historical society.
If any other battalion members have shared their memories online, we may get a hit. ’
‘Good idea,’ said Will, pulling out his phone.
‘No need,’ said Jodie. She’d found another article in Carol’s box. An obituary. For Bruce ‘Bluey’ Wallace. Beloved son, husband and father.
It felt wrong to think beloved great grandfather when she’d not known him.
Not known of him, even—as a person with a name and a history at least—until just now.
But here in this room where finding threads to the past had not been difficult at all—the opposite, they were everywhere, and they were emotional threads—and with her worry about Carol’s advancing years ever present in her mind, and her own fears about grief, and mortality, and what life was…
it all felt so heavy and jumbled up in her head.
She found herself covering her face with her hands and indulging in a little weep. It felt nice.
‘Hey,’ Will said, putting his arm around her shoulders. (Also nice.) ‘What’s all this?’
‘I’m fine. Really. It’s just so sad, you know. People dying too soon. Other people—me, for instance—losing sight of the fact that every day alive is a gift.’
A kiss fell on her temple. (Very, very nice.) ‘You need a minute?’
‘No. It’s fine. I’m good,’ she said. What she meant was, I’m actually feeling quite vulnerable right now, but I’m okay with having you here to witness it.
She took a breath and rallied herself. ‘The big question now is how are we going to let Carol know that Joan didn’t steal her recipe? That the same one was passed down in two separate families?’
Kirsty had reappeared with a plate of biscuits.
‘Let me get this straight. Carol’s mother wrote the recipe out and posted it to her husband Bruce in New Guinea to give to Joan’s father, who wanted to pass it to his wife as a suggestion she might like to bake him a cake, too.
That’s how it ended up in Joan’s family: a gift.
Guys, you’re overthinking this. Just tell her. ’
‘She’s been so upset, Kirsty,’ said Jodie. ‘Quiet. Moody. Totally unlike her usual self. What if she’s already pieced it all together? What if she’s embarrassed at the commotion she caused at Clarence Gardens and doesn’t know how to make things right?’
‘I can’t imagine Carol being embarrassed,’ said Kirsty. ‘About anything.’
‘Ordinarily I’d agree with you, but she has been looking a little frailer of late,’ Will said.
‘It’s such a lovely story, really,’ said Jodie. ‘Two young men sitting around a soldier’s cake tin in the jungle, talking about their families back home. Imagine what their two little girls would have been wearing. Joan and Carol in homemade dresses. Ribbons in their hair.’
Will chuckled. ‘Aren’t they both from farming families?
I’m picturing mud pies and grubby feet, not ribbons and frills.
But you’re right, this would be a lovely story, if only there wasn’t a cake war involved.
A war which is going to be decided imminently.
You know we’re only two days out from the Christmas Twilight Markets? ’
Crap. If only she knew what was best.
‘What really upset Carol?’ Kirsty said. ‘Finding out Joan used her recipe? Or worry that her cake is going to come second place to Joan again this year? Losing? ’
They were all silent.
‘Okay,’ said Jodie. ‘How about this for a plan: we wait to see the outcome of the competition. If Carol wins, she’ll be feeling all magnanimous and happy, and when we tell her what we’ve discovered she’ll find it easy to be magnanimous to Joan about the whole whose-recipe-is-it business.’
‘And if she loses?’ said Will.
‘We still tell her. But we hide the sugar bowls. And we’ll all be there to help with the fallout.’