Magnus sat on the verandah step, his back to the house. Kneeling behind him, I put my hand on his shoulder, unsure of what to say. Happy New Year? Empty words. How could it be happy. The world was at war. And he still felt it keenly, the army’s rejection. Tied to the homefront when he was itching to defend his old country, and new, both. Me, I could not pretend to be sorry the way it was. Such unspoken things kept him staring into the New Year’s sky with his back to me this night.

I sat on the verandah, leaning against the weatherboards, and Clementina flopped down beside me. It looked like the effort at joy had cost her everything. I put an arm around her, rested my head against hers.

The New Year promised bleak for her—I couldn’t say otherwise. Her husband away at war, the farm lost to drought and rabbits, a debt to Stivvy’s cousin unpaid and nothing to show for two hard years on the land.

Clementina would be needing more blessings than a bogus first-footer could bestow on her with half a pound of flour.

She folded a jeely griddle cake and tore it in two, handing me half. We chewed the sticky, doughy sweetness in silence.

A last swallow, a deep breath, a sigh. What am I goin’ to do, Meggie?

I took her face in my hands and told her straight: Well, for one, ye’re goin’ to stay with us, your family; for two, ye’re goin’ to pay off that Matty with the army pay, just like Stivvy wants ye to; an’ for three, ye’re goin’ to hug those bairns every time ye look at them, an’ is that enough to start the New Year with?

She buried her face in my damp, frizzy hair and cried, and I murmured over and over, We’ll manage, quinie, we’ll manage, we’ll just do what we can.

~

On an evening in May 1915, when our shift had had to work on to finish the factory’s army quota, it was nearly dark when I turned into Martha Street. Most of the cottages were lit already, some with electric lights, some lanterns and some, if times were bad, candles.

Why was our weatherboard cottage in darkness when Magnus must be home, and Clementina for sure? As I got closer, fear drew a finger up my spine. In the thin, uneven remains of daylight, Hal was playing some game with a broken picket for a sword, slashing at enemy sunflowers in Mrs Laskon’s garden. Jessie was on the front step, elbows on her knees.

As I pushed open the low gate, Hal dropped his sword among the lacerated flowers, and Jessie flung herself at my legs.

I untwined her gently and lifted her into my arms. Where’s your ma, bairnikie?