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“My God!” gasped Betty, shocked. The note was so simple, brutally so. She tried to keep the horror out of her face.

“Now don’t you fret, ma’am,” said Molly, sniffing. “It ain’t gont’be like that. I ain’t a going t’ die. Not till my Tom comes ’ome, I ain’t. Not till he comes ’ome and that’s not gont’be long, now is it?”

“No — no, not long now, Mrs. Masters,” Betty said compassionately.

“I can’t die yet, not with my Tom out there somewheres. Why if I did, what’d become of my little Tommy? Why there ain’t nobody to take care of him. Nobody.”

“I’ll call up the doctor tomorrow — ”

“Oh no, I don’t want to be in one of them places. I want’e be at ’ome. With my Tommy. I got a business now, an’ I got to keep it going.”

“Business?”

“Yes,” said Molly proudly. “It’s like this. I work at the factory from six until six. Then I gets my supper. And then I’ve got the washing. You see, ma’am,”—Molly sat down and her eyes were lighted with the inner fire — “me neighbor looks after Tommy while I’m out. He’s three and an’ arf, now, you know. Well, she takes in all the washing for me and I does it at night and she hangs it out in the yard during the day. We split fifty-fifty. Why, you know, ma’am, I make near thirty bob extra every week. ’Course, it’s not good on me back, but I can manage.” Her face lit up in a huge smile, and for a moment she was almost pretty. “My, won’t my Tom be proud of me when ’e gets out. I got near a hundred and ninety pounds saved up. It’s for my Tom, to start himself up in his own business, like a toff. So as when my little Tommy’s ready, why well, it’ll be Tom Masters and son over the grocery store.”

“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Masters.” Betty was suddenly ashamed of herself for disliking the woman all these years. She remembered that Tom Masters had been a clerk in Grant’s accounting office. A nice boy really, and she had never been able to understand what it was that Tom had seen in this flat-chested, dirty little woman. Never. “I’m sorry, about the — illness. I’ll make an appointment with the doctor for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. ’Course, I’d like the army to look after me, if it will, ’cause then I won’t have to spend any of my Tom’s money. ’E wanted a shop of ’is own, bad. A’ we almost got enough, if we’re lucky.”

Betty Larkin pondered for a moment, then changed her mind about asking Molly “if anything should happen what would you like … do you have any relations … what about the body…”

Oh God, she said to herself, sick with pity and misery, how awful. Say that was me, and Molly was me. Would I be able to say, so firmly, so believably, “I ain’t a going to die, not till my Grant gets home”?

So, Betty made the note and then Molly Masters was swallowed up by the night on Bligh Street and Betty made her way to the car that waited for her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said hurriedly as she slipped into the front seat.

“That’s okay, Betty. Gee, you smell pretty. I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re a tonic for me. You always make me feel so good.”

“All part of the service, Mrs. Colonel. How’d it go tonight?”

“Oh, all right. Just like every time, I suppose.” Sadly, Betty told him about Molly Masters as the little Hillman weaved thru the dark streets, passed trams, and buses, and then was on the outskirts of the city, heading up the hill where her home was. When she had finished they were silent and Betty was happy to be with him. Comfortable.

Mike Wallis was a Colonel in the USAF. He had been stationed in Australia for eight months. He was tall, boyish, exuberant. Betty had met him four months ago at a Regimental party, one of those dull, usual do’s the Regiment arranged from time to time for the women of the Regiment. They had been out together half a dozen times and they enjoyed each other’s company. He was married, happily so. His wife and two children lived in Seattle and before the war he was in real estate. Now he had a staff job. He was charming and good company.

“Here,” he said. “Present!”

He handed it to her. She unwrapped the gift. It was two pairs of nylons.

“Oh Mike, how kind you are! I haven’t a decent pair to my name.”

“Any time, lady, any time. How about a bite to eat?”

“There’s nowhere open at this time of night.”

“Wrong again.” He jerked a thumb at the back of the car. “Got a lot of canned goods, and a bottle of scotch. You in a cooking mood?”

“Oh yes. We’ll have a cookup. What a wonderful idea!”

Betty liked Mike very much. He was very kind and not on the make. It was nice to flirt just a little with him, for he was safe and happily married. It was good to have a man to talk to now and then. With just Mother and little Jean in the house, well, everyone has to have a little laughter from time to time. Oh how I wish, she said to herself, that Grant was back and this awful war was over and then the three of us — perhaps Mike’s wife Gill would be here then — then the four of us could have picnics and bathing parties and play bridge and live, live, live.

Betty Larkin’s house was on a quiet street. It was a medium-sized house, three bedrooms. Her mother lived with them now that Grant was away. Mother was all right really, and it was good to have someone in the house that you could trust. Someone to look after Jean when Betty took turns at the hospital war work. Five shifts a week, nursing. Days and nights alternate weeks. Then there were the Regimental committees. It was good to have something to do and it took your mind off — well, Grant.

Betty unlocked the door. “Is that you, dear?” she heard her mother call out.

“Yes, Mother. Mike’s with me. Are you in bed?”

“Yes, dear. I’ve just tucked up Jeannie and she’s all right. Don’t forget to lock up.”

“Yes, Mother.” She turned to Mike and said softly, “I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve been told to lock up!”

She led the way to the kitchen. Mike put down the tins and looked around. This was the first time in the kitchen, the second time in the house, but a quick look around told him where everything was. In no time at all, the tin of ham was open and he was slicing it.

Betty laughed. “I don’t understand how it is you Americans are so well trained.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re all so adept in the kitchen.”

“Nothing to it. Where’s the ice?”

“That’s at least something I’ve got.” She opened the small freezer and emptied the tray. “How would you like the ham? Grilled?”

“Great. How about some hot cakes?”

“What’re they?”

“You got any flour?”

“Oh yes.” She opened a cupboard. He nodded when he saw it was self-rising flour. “How about an egg?” He didn’t want to ask, for eggs were short.

Betty smiled. “Lots. We’ve six beautiful hens in the back of the house.”

“Then you just sit and watch. I’ll have us a meal before you’ve had two scotches.”

Happily Mike turned toward the stove. He mixed the batter deftly, had two pans going, one for the hot cakes and one for the ham. And all the time he kept a running patter of what was new in the States, how he liked Australia, what was new with his kids, three new teeth yet! How Gill wanted to come over and how this stinking war wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. “The Japs have had it,” he said with finality, sliding the cakes and ham onto plates. “Now all we need is a little maple syrup.”