Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Newcastle
The morning sun was low in the sky, making the heavens golden.
The canoe wobbled beneath Mima as she raised her oar high.
She squealed with delight and shot a look over her shoulder at her flatmate, Tilda, whose canoe had just tipped her over into the brisk waters of the Newcastle Ocean Bath’s canoe pool.
Mima burst into a gales of laughter, which only made her canoe wobble more precariously.
She placed the oar back into the water and paddled backwards on the right side, hoping to spin the canoe back in the opposite direction.
She poked her tongue out of one side of her mouth, held her breath and heaved.
Finally, the canoe shifted around so she could see Tilda scrambling back into her own canoe.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she paddled closer.
Tilda collapsed in her canoe, breathing hard. “This thing won’t stay upright.”
“I don’t think it’s the canoe’s fault,” Mima replied. “Mine keeps threatening to upend as well.”
“Can we stop now, please?” Tilda asked. “I wanted to go swimming. We’ve got to work for the rest of the day, and this is our only chance to do some laps. I need to relax.”
“You’ve been a good sport. Thank you for canoeing with me. I think I’m improving, although it’s hard to say, given how much seawater I’ve swallowed. And anyway, our thirty-minute slot is almost finished. Let’s go back to the main pool.”
They returned the canoes they’d hired for a penny from the boy with the straw hat and picked their way over the sharp black rocks to the main swimming pool, which had been built into the stony shoreline as a rectangular concrete wall with a jagged, sandy ocean floor.
The Ocean Bath building was a 1920s Art Deco-style building with cream walls and blue-and-gold trim.
Squeals, shouts and a general cacophony of noise filled the air around them as they made their way through the families crowded into the children’s pool.
Children scurried in every direction with admonishments from parents not to run, or to leave their sandwich in the picnic basket, or pick up their model yacht before it got broken.
Mima slid into the main swimming pool with an inhale of air—the water was perfect.
Cold enough to make her breath catch in her throat, but not so cold that she couldn’t bear it.
This would likely be their last swim here for the year, given that Easter was fast approaching.
March was just about as late in the season as Mima could bring herself to swim in what would soon become frigid ocean waters, although she always took walks on the beach through the winter months and was frequently surprised by how many people still swam their laps or surfed on even the coldest days.
Edie and Paul had moved to Cabarita Beach up north five years earlier.
They’d be enjoying warmer temperatures for a while yet.
The thought of her best friend living in paradise up north brought a wave of emotion.
She hadn’t seen Edie Watson—now Edie Summer, she reminded herself—for five long years.
Far too much time had passed since she’d embraced her dear friend.
Mima had thrown herself into a new life after the war—she travelled a short distance to Newcastle to complete her training and become a fully registered nurse.
Now, she worked at the same hospital where she’d trained, the Mater Misericordiae Hospital, which just happened to be located in Waratah, a suburb of Newcastle.
She’d taken the name of the suburb as a sign that it was where she was supposed to be.
It seemed like more than a coincidence, and so far, she’d enjoyed her time there.
The Sisters of Mercy who ran the hospital had been good to her — if someone stern.
She’d learned so much during her time in the midwifery suites, and she’d loved helping young mothers bring their new babies into the world on a daily basis.
She’d always wanted to marry and have a family, but maybe this would be her calling instead. Ollie was gone, but these people needed her. She could care for others instead of her husband and children. It wasn’t the same, but it might be enough.
She threw herself into the work—double shifts, overtime.
She went above and beyond what was expected of her to care for those who needed it.
Some didn’t have family, so she sat with them, reading to them from the newspaper or listening to their stories.
She was a shoulder to cry on, a comfort to those who needed it.
It was more than a job. She was good at it, too.
Mima adjusted her one-piece woollen swimsuit with the halter neck. She’d bought it recently with the small income she earned from the hospital. Rent and food took most of her paycheck, but she’d managed to save a little extra to buy the things she wanted or the occasional trip to the cinema.
After she and Tilda had swum several laps of the pool, she climbed up the stairs and wrapped herself in a towel, then shuffled to the change rooms with Tilda chatting her ear off about the men who’d moved in down the street.
Apparently, one of them was adorable, and Tilda wanted desperately to know his name.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Mima said.
“That’s too forward. Sometimes I wonder about you,” Tilda replied with a shake of her head. “If you’re not careful, you’ll get yourself in trouble with your flirting and loose behaviour. My mother always said…”
“Your mother… your mother. You talk about her a lot. Maybe you should let go of the apron strings,” Mima said crossly as she stepped into the shower.
Tilda was quiet. When Mima was finished changing into her midwife’s uniform, she found Tilda outside waiting for her, arms crossed.
Tilda adjusted the strap of her bag where it rested on her shoulder.
Her sensible white shoes were newly cleaned, and her still-wet brown hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath her midwife’s cap.
“I’m not a prude, you know,” she said with a cold tone, as she fell into step beside Mima.
“I know you’re not, but it would be nice if you’d stop judging me once in a while. I’m not doing anything untoward. I like to have fun. What’s wrong with that?”
Tilda shook her head but didn’t respond.
They stood at the bus stop for about five minutes before the bus arrived.
They found two seats near the midsection and squeezed in with their bags.
Mima’s tall white hat knocked against the window, and she manoeuvred herself with her head tipped to one side to fit in the small space beside her friend.
The last thing she needed was to get Sister Jones offside at the beginning of her shift with a squashed cap.
Tilda set her bag on her lap and pulled out a small wireless radio.
She turned the dial. Static buzzed quietly until she landed on a station.
Then she turned up the volume so she and Mima could hear.
It was part of their routine. After an early morning swim, they’d listen to the news and then some music on their way to work.
A symphony piece played for several seconds before coming to a close.
“This is the National Broadcasting Service Station, 2NC Newcastle.”
“I thought we’d missed it,” Tilda said.
“Shhh,” Mima admonished. She didn’t really care much about what was on the news, but sometimes Tilda irritated her.
The girl was virtually obsessive about her routines and couldn’t miss a morning news bulletin.
Mima would much rather find a jazz station and enjoy some tunes.
Better than showing up to work a full shift at the hospital stressed about the world collapsing on their heads.
Somber music played on the radio, followed by a steady drumming. Then the announcer spoke in a serious voice.
“Yesterday, at nine fifty pm Moscow time, on Friday, March 6th, the man of steel, Joseph Stalin, died. The seventy-four-year-old suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke on the first of March after years of high blood pressure. He passed away at his Kuntsevo Dacha after treatment by doctors for his illness. The tight grip he has held on over two hundred million citizens of the USSR is no more. However, concerns heightened across the world as many wonder who will fill the power vacuum left by this ruthless dictator.”
As Mima listened, her mind wandered. The repercussions of the war had brought ruin to much of the world.
The Soviet Union had expanded its borders, taking in countries like Poland as part of its spoils.
As a result, communism had managed to destroy the lives of millions.
The Korean War had been underway for almost three years and had cost the lives of more young men as the world panicked over the spread of communism. When would it stop?
The bus halted at Mater Hill on Annerley Road, and they both climbed out.
The wind had picked up and threatened to tousle Mima’s carefully slicked hair out of its bun.
Her skirts whipped around her legs as the two of them hustled up the street to the hospital.
Their leather oxfords padded against the concrete footpath in a steady rhythm, their pantyhose-covered legs pumping hard.
She kept one hand on her hat to prevent it from blowing away, even though she’d pinned it firmly in place.
They were late, and the sister would tell them off for it. Mima didn’t need another telling off. She’d had enough of them over the past year to last her until retirement, but the sister had it out for her. She was certain of it.
They hurried to their quarters and put away their swimming bags, then bustled into the corridor to stand in line, straight-backed and facing forward.
The rest of the line stood silently waiting.
A few women glanced at them with a frown.
Mima and Tilda were breathing hard. Mima tried to get her puffing under control with slow, steady breaths.