Page 8 of Under the Dark Moon
‘Brave and fierce. You know, Sister, in your own way, you’re a warrior too.’
Pinning him with her disbelieving gaze, Meg shook her head. ‘Aren’t you leading a rock hunting party?’
‘Sure I am, but when I heard you slip, I needed to see you were all right.’ He pushed her elbow gently and, turning her around, checked her backside. ‘A bit of dust and leaves. Do you want my help cleaning it off?’
Heat of a different sort raced through her at the thought of Corporal Flanagan’s hand skimming her backside. ‘Definitely not, thank you.’
He laughed. ‘If you’re sure. We can’t go on meeting like this without knowing each other’s names. Corporal and Sister are just plain wrong, especially after you slept on my shoulder. Michael Seamus Flanagan, at your service.’
‘Corporal Flanagan.’
‘My family call me Seamus though, ‘cos my da is Michael too.’
‘Margaret Olivia Dorset. Meg, to my friends.’ Hesitantly, she extended her hand and Seamus—she wasn’t sure about using his first name though—solemnly shook hers.
‘So, can I help you with anything?’
His offer brought back the task ahead. She held up the two sticks. ‘I was looking for some vine to tie these together.’
Seamus frowned then took her free hand and led her a little further on. ‘I saw some clumping grass. The fronds are long, and I reckon they’ll be easy to weave around the arms of your cross.’ They headed in the direction of the truck and the solemn work happening under the tree next to Private Jackson’s body.
A few injured soldiers were lugging stones between them and stacking them beside the driver digging in the shallow grave.
‘Here, Meg.’
The long grass rose high in the centre and fell in an elegant arc like the fuchsias beside the back door at home. How she wished she were there now, sitting with Mum and having a cuppa. Meg tamped down the memory. She’d shed enough tears today and what good had they done anyone? Sniffing and pressing her lips together, she set the sticks on the ground and grabbed a couple of the longest blades of grass. The plant resisted her efforts and she stood up.
‘Do you have a knife?’
Seamus pulled a penknife from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She cut two pieces, carefully wiped the blade on her dusty skirt, and closed it before handing it back to him. They returned to the truck and Meg sat on the step of the cabin where there was shade from the early morning sun. Her fingers were nimble. She’d crocheted often enough with Mum, even if she’d never woven grass. A few minutes later, she held the rough cross up to check the connection just as Seamus passed her. He clutched a bowling ball-sized stone to his stomach.
‘It’s a bit wonky. What do you think?’
‘Looks fine. Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ He grunted with the effort of lowering the stone onto the pile and brushed off his shirt. Something or someone out of Meg’s sight caught his eye. He raised a hand in a ‘back in a moment’ gesture.
Meg fiddled with the grass ties, but nothing she did made a difference. Her cross remained wonky.
‘Here.’ Seamus thrust a small bouquet of wildflowers towards her. ‘If you want to, you could tie these onto the cross.’
Pressing her lips together, Meg nodded. ‘That’s a lovely idea, thank you.’ With Seamus’s hand to hold the flowers in place, she made a decent job of attaching them. When she was done, the crude cross was still simple but more fitting to farewell a young man.
They laid the private’s body in the shallow grave, his face covered by Pat’s nurse’s veil, and filled the hole as best they could. The sound of rocks thudding as they were piled over him sounded sad and final amid the bright calls of birds. When the last rock was in place and Meg’s simple cross was wedged at the head of his grave, the sergeant stood behind it and bowed his head.
‘We’ve no minister with us, but I reckon God will hear our prayers.’ All heads bowed before the sergeant continued. ‘Our Father in Heaven, take up the soul of George Jackson to be with you in eternal life. May he live in your House in peace forever. We pray for him, and his family, and for a swift victory in this terrible war. Amen.’
Meg whispered ‘Amen’ and raised her head. Seamus murmured words she couldn’t make out then crossed himself before meeting her eyes. Of course, he was Irish, and a Catholic.
A muscle flickered in his cheek, and he sighed. ‘This bloody war.’ He looked at her. ‘Sorry, Meg, but it’s enough to make a saint swear.’
She nodded. ‘It is. Come on. We’d better not miss our ride.’
They were the last to climb aboard, and as the truck chugged and shuddered along the track, her gaze remained on Private Jackson’s last resting place until dust and distance hid it from sight. Only then did she close her eyes and tip her face to the sun. Despite their prayers, she recognised the attack on Darwin was only the beginning of the next stage of this bloody, bloody war.
A hand, rough and male and very warm, closed over hers and Seamus spoke softly, his warm breath brushing her ear. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Meg. Find something good in each day and focus on that.’
Seamus’s hand. That felt strong and solid and comforting. Today, Seamus was her something good. She nodded, and held tight to that thought, and his comforting presence by her side.