On the Veranda

(During Son of Billabong, winter 1925)

This is a missing moment from the time after little Davie Meadows has gone missing (presumed dead). The book does not follow Norah and Wally at all after the loss of their small son and I felt that there had to be a scene focusing on them rather than the Wallaces or Mrs. Benton. They are, after all, the parents.

Little Billabong was very quiet. The oddly-shaped house, screened from the main station dwellings by a belt of trees, was perfectly silent—in spite of the winter sun which had already risen halfway to its zenith. Had one ventured a little closer to the cozy dwelling, one might have realized that its inhabitants were, indeed, awake; one merely needed to progress to the north-facing veranda to discover the mistress of the house. Both Norah and Wally had become so accustomed to practically living outdoors in childhood days at Billabong that, upon transplanting themselves to their new nest, the habit was perpetuated. Thus, despite the brisk morning air, the deck chairs upon the veranda were occupied by two long forms. One – the taller of the two – had ensconced his form upon a long seat, whilst the other sat straight and upright in a wicker chair. Her fingers moved with deft sureness, wielding a pair of slender knitting needles wrapped in green wool.

Wally stared at the ceiling, his hands beneath his head. The ordinarily merry face was lined, etched into something which almost resembled a frown. Grief had come to disrupt Wally's cheery youthfulness, affecting a hurt which ran deeper than any previously inflicted through pain and war, with the loss of his son.

As if realizing the pensive mood which lingered within the quiet corner of the veranda, Wally shook himself and sat up. His brown eyes fell upon Norah, who met his gaze squarely as she continued to knit. His lips tilted in an attempted smile, which she returned with quiet gentleness. Just as pain had imprinted itself upon Wally, the weeks since Davie's disappearance had wrought a great deal of change in Norah Meadows. There was a grim resolve in the set of her chin, and if her eyes were more hollow or her face become gaunt with passing days, none had dared mention it to her. The image of bravery which she clung to with all of her quiet strength was written upon her face; the sight of her struggle caused Wally's throat to catch peculiarly.

"Norah, asthore," he began hurriedly, rising with due regard for the length of his frame and attempting to dispel the odd lump with mixed success, "What do you propose to do today?"

The lady addressed paused in the making of the green garment and placed it upon her lap. Wally crossed the veranda in two strides to perch on the arm of his wife's chair, gritting his teeth and hoping Norah did not notice his flicker of weakness. If she did, she gave no sign.

"I don't believe there is anything of consequence we must attend to," she said, slowly. "We might go and visit Dad and Jim and Tommy?"

Wally hesitated a moment, and the brief silence told Norah all she needed to know.

"There's no need to go over; we visit so often it's a wonder they haven't turned us out before now!"

When Wally's ready laughter was not forthcoming at her playful comment, Norah glanced up enquiringly. Caught with his thoughts elsewhere, he swiftly adopted an expression of cheerfulness which he knew was decidedly unconvincing. Norah moved to one side of the basket chair and touched her husband's hand. He slid instinctively from the arm onto the seat, and Norah settled on his knee. After a moment's stillness, Wally's arm encircled her waist, pulling her close until her shoulder rested against him. He breathed deep, taking in the scent of her hair which curled against his cheek.

Several minutes later, Wally sighed.

"You'd think on a station this big there would be some bullocks to muster, or—or some form of ready work, Nor," he muttered, low, voice catching. "Work—work helps. I think I could stand it better, if I could work."

Norah sat upright, her eyes brimming with pity and love. One slim brown hand reached out to smooth the lines upon her husband's tanned face.

"Wally, dear—I know it is hard—"

He could not stand it. Pulling her close again with both arms, his resolve broke. Shame mingled with grief as sobs shook his strong shoulders. Norah's cheek pressed against his hair, and her hand sought his in the gesture of love which succeeded where words could not. She could not speak—but she understood.

It was some time before Wally regathered himself, unspeakably thankful for the firm pressure upon his fingers.

"He's—he's gone, Nor," he whispered, after a time. "I know he's not alone, I know God must make a special effort to look after kiddies like Davie, and we shall see him someday—but oh, it's beastly!" His breaths quickened, and he swallowed hard. "And I know you simply can't—won't—believe he's gone, Nor, but I can't help but think it. He was such a dear little chap, so very alive and cheerful and entirely ours—"

Norah laughed. It was a pitiful sound, echoing a mother's grief. To those outside, Norah was a tower of implacable strength, never wavering save for those moments of overwhelming pain in which only Wally could truly share.

"Sometimes I think I am foolish to believe in some form of miracle. Yet I can't help but think that in all those moments we have most needed a miracle, there has never failed to be one," she said, simply.

Wally sighed. "You are so certain."

"I find it is best to be so."

"Would—would you like to go over and visit Dad, Nor?"

"I don't think so," she whispered. "As much—well, it can be rather a laborious job, can't it darling?"

He nodded wordlessly against her soft cheek.

For some time they remained thus, drawing comfort from the nearness of the other. There are some moments which are poorly expressed in words. Being sensible people, Norah and Wally were well aware of this and refrained from speaking until the former took up her knitting once more.

"Tell me what you are making with your clever hands, woman," he said, pressing his clean-shaven chin against her shoulder.

Norah held up the garment for his perusal; it was a small knitted sweater, about the size a small boy of 2 or 3 might wear.

If you're reading this and wondering what I have written, feel free to pm me. As mentioned in the fic description, these are a series of missing moments from a book series called the "Billabong Books" by Mary Grant Bruce (MGB), written in the early 20th century about Australia and station life in Victoria. The books are old and dated in a lot of ways (at the time MGB wrote them, casual racism was very acceptable). However, the books are beautiful stories, newer editions have edited out some racist terminology, and the main characters are merely a product of their environment. They are kind, generous, well-rounded people and the books are absolutely worth a read. As I said, pm me if you have more questions as they are an excellent read!