‘I don’t know, mate. Perhaps the Victorians liked their churches plain,’ Peter replied. ‘We have wooden ones in the outback. They’re easy to rebuild if a bush fire shoots through.’

He paid off the taxi but didn’t offer to help Stan out of the taxi because his friend loathed being treated like a cripple and always refused. Peter waited and watched nervously while Stan struggled out, swearing under his breath as he dug the two walking sticks firmly on the ground and heaved himself to his feet. Peter knew he hated those walking sticks with a vengeance, but they were a necessary evil, for without them Stan would fall over, and suffer the indignity of having to ask for help to get back up again.

Peter felt quite amazingly calm as he smoothed the hem of his blue-grey RAAF jacket and tugged the sleeves until they were aligned with his shirt cuffs. He’d been to the barber’s earlier for a haircut and close shave, and had pressed the trousers until the creases were knife-sharp before spending over half an hour polishing his shoes, belt buckle and medals.

Stan had made an effort too, for he’d had a haircut and shave, and his thick black moustache had been carefully trimmed and waxed at the ends so he could twirl them to his heart’s content. He was also in his dress uniform, the Polish eagle insignia on his cap and jacket lapels; his medals in perfect alignment across his broad chest.

As it was still early and there didn’t seem to be anyone about yet, they found a bench in the garden of remembrance and sat down. The memorial to the fallen of both wars stood sentinel in the middle of the garden, and through an archway, they could see the graveyard.

‘We have plenty time. Perhaps we go for a drink?’ asked Stan hopefully.

‘No flaming way, mate. We both need to stay sober.’ Peter lit cigarettes for them both and leaned back. ‘I hope your speech isn’t too long or too rude. There’ll be ladies there today and they might take objection to your dubious sense of humour.’

Stan waved away this comment. ‘My speech will be beautiful,’ he said. ‘All the ladies will love it.’

Peter sincerely hoped that would be the case, but Stan could be unpredictable, and if he took it into his head to go off at a tangent, then there was no telling what he’d say.

‘I will not spoil this special day, Peter,’ murmured Stan. ‘You have honoured me by asking me to stand with you, and I will repay that with the finest speech you’ve ever heard.’

He was distracted by something beyond Peter’s shoulder and his brown eyes lit up. ‘Who is that goddess with the hair of fire?’ he breathed.

Peter turned and grinned. ‘That’s Fran, and she’s well and truly spoken for, so keep those great Polish paws to yourself.’

‘There will be other girls like that today?’ Stan asked, his gaze following Fran until she disappeared into the church.