The spur of the moment decision to steal some money led me to a foreign country, and a future I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams.

Prologue

The last of the mourners have finally gone, and the house is quiet now. My refrigerator is stocked with more casseroles than I can eat in a month, and I'll have to distribute them around the men in the morning. Kind friends have offered to stay and keep me company and I've had to gently refuse them with a smile. They mean well, but can't they see I just want to be alone tonight — alone with my memories?

I sit down in the old armchair — John's chair. Over the years it moulded itself to his shape, and now sitting in it, it's almost as if.....but I'm being silly. Tommy, the old black cat jumps on my lap, makes himself comfortable, and sits there purring contentedly as I stroke his glossy black coat — black on my black mourning dress. I stare into the fire and listen. Silence, apart from Tommy and the steady tick of the hall clock. Outside the window a board creaks on the verandah, as though a foot had pressed down on it and released. John always said he'd get around to fixing that board sometime. Now it will never get fixed, and I would prefer it that way, because it will remind me of him every time I hear the sound. I cannot bear to go to bed alone — not tonight - maybe tomorrow. The shadows seem to grow closer, like listeners waiting for the tale to begin, and why not? What else can I do to fill in the hours?

It all started so long ago......back in the sixties.........

Part One  Chapter One    Beginnings

I was born Leslie Robin Cobb in 1950 in the moderately affluent suburb of London called Finchley. My parents were Mary and Joseph Cobb. Yes, I know, but it's true. Perhaps fortunately for me, by the time I'd was born, thoroughly sick of the 'witty' remarks which grow tiresome at the thousandth hearing, my mother had abandoned her second name as the preferred one and reverted to her first name of Agnes. This at least spared me some rather obvious schoolboy jokes. You could easily guess my parents were Catholic, which makes it all the more puzzling that I was an only child. I don't know the reason for this, and even when they were alive, they were not the sort of people to whom one could put such possibly intimate questions. Perhaps they played 'Roman roulette' so successfully and for so long that Mum's body had forgotten how to have another baby.

As for my school days, I was a bright child — everyone said so, including my teachers. What they also wrote in my school reports was 'Could try harder'. With minimum effort I kept in the top one-third of the class, and progressed through each year. My course was set out — pass my final exams and then go on to university. What I would study there I didn't really know — university seemed an end in itself. I was good at Maths, English and Biology, and could muster a pass in other subjects. It all seemed plain sailing.

The final results when they came were a shock. Of course I should have studied more, but it was too late now — the dream of university had evaporated. I left school and mooched around the house, driving my parents mad, until finally, my father in desperation called in a favour from an old army pal who ran an accountancy firm. I was good at maths, surely I could make a career for myself there? I was reluctant, but lack of money is a great motivator, and I started in Smithwick, Jenner and Jones as a junior. I rapidly learned basic accountancy skills, and the work was too easy so the days dragged. The pay was not much, but then I was on the bottom rung. I started spending far too much time with other young workers in the local bars after work, and so my fortnight's pay barely lasted into the second week. I was often forced to borrow from other workers and of course this only compounded my financial problems.

I was usually out of the office door on the stroke of five, but one day I was presented with some extra work just as I was about to leave. The sweetener of some overtime was too much to resist. It didn't take me long anyway. I was now alone in the office. The cleaners would be in later, but for now, all I had to do was lock the door behind me. I packed away my things and headed for the door, and it was then I saw it. Stacked neatly on another desk was a pile of bank notes. The desk belonged to Redmond, to whom I had taken an instant dislike as he tried to boss me around from his superior status as a second year junior. If I had stopped to think for a moment of course - but I didn't, and in an instant the money was burning a hole in my pocket, and I was off to the bar. As I walked down the street, I saw Redmond on the other side of the road hurrying in the opposite direction. He didn't see me — he seemed to have something on his mind, and I grinned to myself. He was in for a shock when the cleaners finally let him in. My 'friends' in the bar greeted me enthusiastically, especially when I started generously buying rounds of drinks. I didn't see one of the firm's partners quietly enjoying a pre-dinner drink in the corner, but he saw me.

The next morning I barely had time to take off my coat before a clerk told me that I was summoned to Mr Jenner's office. There I found several senior staff, and also Redmond, sitting very pale-faced on a chair.

“Sit down Leslie”, said Mr Jenner. “Redmond here has told us about the cash he left by accident on his desk and how it was gone when he returned to the office.”

“Really sir?” I tried to look mildly interested, while still implying it was no concern of mine. “Has anyone spoken to the cleaners about it?”

Mr Jenner sighed. “Alright Redmond, you can go.”

When the door closed behind him, Mr Jenner fixed his eyes on me.

“It will save a lot of time if you admit that you took the money. Mr Jones here was in the bar last night and saw you spreading cash around very freely for a junior. He obtained several of the notes from the barman and we checked the serial numbers. There is no doubt they came from this office. Have you anything to say before I call the police?”

The police? I was in total shock. One stupid thoughtless action and now I had brought ruin on myself and disgrace to my family. Prison loomed. How could I have been so stupid? I opened my mouth but no words came. What could I possibly say? Then something strange happened. Mr Jenner spoke to his colleagues.

“Would you leave us gentlemen? I'd like to speak to Leslie alone.”

They all looked as puzzled as I was, but they did as he asked. When we were alone, he spoke again.

“Leslie, I may come to regret this, but it's the least I can do, not for you but for your father. He's a fine man, and he saved my life once. This news will break his heart — your mother's too.”

“I know sir,” I mumbled. “Is there anything I can do, anything at all to stop them finding out?”

“As a matter of fact you can. I'm going to put a proposal to you. Another old army friend, John Brodie now runs a cattle station in Queensland Australia. He's an excellent cattleman, but he's no accountant. His wife died about six months ago, and she handled the books for him. Now he's at his wit's end and people with accountancy skills are rare as hen's teeth out there. I've seen your work, and you easily know enough to manage a task like that, so here is what I propose. You 'volunteer' to go out there for two years and help him out. The official story will be that I asked for names and you responded in the spirit of adventure. When you return, the slate is wiped clean and you can start again. If you refuse, then I lift up the phone and call the police; it's a simple choice, and indeed it might make a man of you.”

“Can I think about it sir?”

“No Leslie, you can't. You have to make a decision right now.”

I was tempted to say that I thought transportation to Australia had stopped over a century ago, but for once I was sensible enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Then I accept sir,” and I added “and I won't let you down — again.”

“You've made a sensible choice Leslie, but there's just one more thing. It's a very different life out there, a vast empty country where people can be easily lost. Any repeat of last night could have serious consequences. Do you understand me?”

I gulped. “Yes sir.”

My parents were quite shocked when I went home that night and told them of my new job. My mother wept of course at the thought of her baby so far away, but my father muttered something about 'making a man of him' ( the second time I'd heard that in one day) and seemed pleased. If they suspected there was more to the story than I was telling, they made no mention of it. Things happened very fast after that. There were medicals and a passport to be obtained, a passage booked and a small suitcase packed. It seemed no time at all before I was standing on the upper deck of the 'Fairstar', looking down at my parents, two tiny figures among the crowd on the wharf below, clutching one end of the paper streamers that made a last connection between ship and shore. Then, as the ship moved slowly, the streamers tightened and broke. Soon mine was one of only a few left, and then it too broke and fluttered down into the water. My eyes were stinging and I felt truly alone. Ahead lay a month's voyage to a foreign country on the other side of the world, and an unknown future.

The voyage was my first overseas trip. We headed south past France and Spain in blustery weather which rocked the ship and left not a few feeling queasy, myself included. Then we were into the heat of the Mediterranean and I became sunburnt and realised that I should get in the habit of wearing a hat, because Australia was going to be hot too. We sailed on through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea and out into the Indian Ocean. Two weeks without sight of land lay ahead, and when finally a distant darker blue on the horizon indicated the shores of Western Australia, we were almost delirious with joy at seeing it. I had made a few friends on board and the time passed pleasantly enough, eating, sleeping, reading, deck games in the day and card games at night, but all the while the thought of what I was going to hung over me. From Fremantle we sailed for a few more days further east to Adelaide and Melbourne, and then more days north via Sydney to Brisbane where I would leave the ship. Brisbane seemed like a large country town, so different from London.

For someone used to living in a relatively small country like England, the distances I was forced to travel were beyond imagination. I was fortunate to have made friends with Josh, a young Australian returning to his home town of Brisbane after two years in Europe, and now ready to settle down and marry his childhood sweetheart. He and his family were so kind to me, putting me up for a night and then seeing me safely onto a train to travel 400 miles further north along the coast to Rockhampton where I changed to another train which took me hundreds of miles into the interior of this vast continent. Gazing out of the window of the train, I saw mile after mile of flat dusty land with occasional stunted trees and shrubs. Several times I was thrilled to see mobs of kangaroos racing the train, just like I'd seen in a film once. This truly seemed to be 'Back of Beyond', but I wasn't there yet. I changed trains once more, informing the guard that I needed to alight at Crane's Halt, on my way to Mackenzie Station. After travelling for several more hours, and rocked to sleep by the train, I was woken by a hand on my shoulder and offloaded onto a tiny platform, baking in the midday sun.

I stood there with my suitcase and looked around. I had been promised that someone would be there to meet me, but there was no-one to be seen. The train jerked into motion and I turned in panic to jump aboard, but it was too late. I watched as it dwindled in size and finally disappeared into the haze.

Silence. There was a small tin shed at one end of the platform and I took shelter from the searing rays of the sun. Once I touched the metal side and jumped back, my hand reddening with the burn. A black bird alighted on a nearby tree stump and viewed me with beady speculative eyes. I had a sudden vision of my dehydrated body being picked over by crows, and despite the heat I shivered. Taking a cautious sip from my water bottle I sat on my suitcase to consider my position. There was another train due in three days. Could I last that long? I dare not leave my present position as I had no idea where to head and how far it was to the nearest settlement. A tear rolled down my cheek and instantly evaporated. I had never felt so lonely and afraid in my life.

Then I blinked. There was a small cloud of dust in the distance. Surely it hadn't been there before? I watched it intently, and yes, it was growing in size. Soon I could make out a dark spot at its centre, and then a faint humming sound. The black bird squawked in disgust and flew off. Now I could see it was a truck of some sort, growing larger and larger, until it finally skidded to a halt a few yards away. A tall lean man dressed in jeans, boots, a checked shirt and a broad-brimmed hat swung easily out of the driver's door.

“G'day mate,” he greeted me, and then looked around. “Sorry I'm running a bit late. Where's the sheila?”

I stared at him. “There's no-one called Sheila here, just me. I'm Leslie Cobb and I'm expecting a lift to Mackenzie Station.”

It was his turn to stare. “Strewth! You're Leslie Cobb? We were expecting a sheila — a female.”

“It's spelt differently for a girl,” I pointed out.

“Too right,” he responded, then muttered to himself “Jeez — what's John going to say?”

Then he grinned. “Can't leave you here — you'll fry when it heats up. Better get in the truck.”

'Heat's up?' I was already almost melting. He grabbed my nice new shiny suitcase and hurled it into the back of the truck, then motioned for me to climb in the passenger's seat. The engine started, he threw it into gear and we lurched off back the way he had come.

As we travelled along, he told me his name was Tom and he was the local postman, courier and whatever else was required, including picking up and dropping off at the rail line. We travelled in silence for a while and then he said. “Cobb's your name, you said?” I nodded.

“Any relation to Cobb and Co?”

“I don't think so,” I replied, “I don't know who they are.”

“Jeez,” he muttered, “Only the most famous coach and transporting company out here.”

I felt more alien than ever in this land where they spoke English — of a sort any way, but otherwise it couldn't have been more different to the England I had left. I started to explain why I was there — an edited version anyway, but he cut me off.

“We know why you've come. John's the best cattleman around here, but Mary his wife did the books, and he's hopeless at anything like that. Ever since she died....” his voice trailed off.

“I'm sorry about that,” I ventured.

“It's a hard country. When we heard a 'Leslie' was coming out we assumed you were a female. Otherwise you would have been 'Les'.” I didn't know how to reply to that.

Eventually we came to a metal gate across the track, attached to a wire fence that seemed to stretch for miles in either direction.

“Make yourself useful and open the gate.” said Tom, so I hopped down and opened the gate after cautiously wrapping my handkerchief around my hand. Tom drove the truck through and I ran back and started to climb aboard, but he stopped me.

“Rule number one in the bush - always leave a gate the way you found it,” he said. I felt myself blushing though I'm sure it was not visible as my face was brick-red already. After I secured the gate, we drove on in silence.

We had been travelling for a long distance with no sign of more fences when I asked “When do we reach Mackenzie Station?”

Tom laughed. “Remember that fence and gate? We've been on it for half an hour at least.”

This was farming on a scale I'd never heard of before. Once in a while we saw some cattle in the distance, but that was the only sign of life. The earth looked dry and the grass, such as it was, was stunted tussocks. I wondered how the cattle found enough to feed on. We drove for another half hour before we topped a slight rise, and there in a shallow circular depression below us was a cluster of small buildings around a larger one. Here at least was some greenery and trees. A ring of low hills surrounded the valley, and the track we were on went through one of the few gaps between them.

“Mackenzie Station. They say a meteorite caused the ring of hills,” said Tom. “Now we'll find out what John's got to say. Maybe he'll send you straight back?”

I gasped, but looking at Tom he was grinning, so it was a joke. Well at least I hoped so. Even this was better than life behind bars in England.

As we rolled down the slope towards the homestead, Tom slowed down, and I realised it was to reduce the cloud of dust behind us. We rolled to a halt beside wide steps leading up to a deep shady verandah surrounding the homestead. Like everything here, it was built on a vast scale. Out of the shadows of the verandah a man appeared. He was tall and lean and dressed in a similar fashion to Tom.

“Wait here,” ordered Tom as he slipped out of the cabin and then climbed the steps. I watched him talking to the other man. The both looked at the truck and I knew they were talking about me but with the windows closed against the dust I could not tell what they were saying. I wondered if I would boil with the heat or choke on the dust first. Finally Tom returned and opened the door.

“Out you get. John wants to meet you.”

I suddenly felt nervous. What with the confusion about who I was, suppose he took an instant dislike to me and sent me back? I walked slowly up the steps. Up close I saw a handsome man, probably in his mid-forties, but with hair that seemed to be prematurely grey. But it was his eyes that I noticed most of all — a piercing blue, they seemed to reach deep into my soul and stirred me in a way I couldn't explain or understand. They seemed to hold all the sadness of the world within them, but there was something more too. Then he thrust out a hand and the spell was broken.

“G'day. How are you going? I'm John Brodie.”

“How do you do, sir?” I replied. “I'm Leslie Cobb. I'm sorry there was a misunderstanding about who I am.”

The English greeting suddenly seemed out of place in this alien land, and I knew I was blushing deeply. His large work-hardened hand closed over my smaller city-soft one, and again I felt that sudden rush of — something.

He gave a brief smile and his face lit up. “Call me John. We don't stand on ceremony here. How was your trip?”

“Long.” I replied and both he and Tom laughed.

“She's a big country alright. OK Tom, better get Les's suitcase, and I'll see you in a couple of days.”

Relief! At least he wasn't sending me straight back.

John lead the way into the house. After the glare of the sun, it seemed almost gloomy, until my eyes adjusted. It was certainly a lot cooler. A long corridor led through the middle of the house, and as I glanced into rooms on either side, I caught glimpses of heavy old-fashioned furniture. The house seemed caught in a time-warp. John stopped at a door and opened it. The room contained a single bed, a desk and chair, a set of drawers and a wardrobe.

“This is your room,” he said. “leave your case and I'll show you the rest of the house.”

We reached another room, obviously an office. There was a desk with an ancient manual typewriter and piles of files and ledgers. Shoe boxes overflowed with papers, invoices and receipts.

“This is where you'll work,” he said. He opened a ledger at a page where figures were scrawled haphazardly. “I need you to sort this out.”

I flipped back through pages of his writing, and then suddenly it changed to a smaller hand, neater but uneven. Further back still, the writing and figures gradually improved in quality until they were neat and concise. I suddenly realised what I was seeing. His late wife had done her best to keep the books until she could no longer hold a pen. It was a labour of love. I looked up at John's face, but he was staring down at his wife's writing, his eyes glistening. I closed the ledger quietly. “I'll do my very best to sort it out for you si...John,” I said quietly.

“Come. I'll show you the rest of the house.”

The homestead was large, but many of the rooms seemed unused and I wondered who had occupied it in the past. Then a gong sounded somewhere.

“Time to eat,” said John. He led me to the large dining room, and as we entered, a Chinese cook appeared bearing two large plates which he set down at the two places laid. On each was the largest steak I had ever seen. Dishes of tinned vegetables followed. John helped himself and saw me looking at the piece of steak.

“Something we're never short of on a cattle station.” he remarked.

I barely managed half of the steak, and found my head nodding. It had been another long day.

“I suggest you get your beauty sleep,” John said. “We can do the rest of the property in the morning.”

I found my way back to my room, undressed, washed my hands and face and fell into bed. I was asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow.

The following morning after breakfast — two eggs and more steak! - John showed me around the rest of the house, and then the outbuildings. There was a number of other people present, jackaroos and roustabouts, and each greeted me with a “G'day.” as John introduced me. Realising the absurdity of an English 'How do you do?', I quickly adopted a 'G'day' back, realising that as with the English greeting, a reply wasn't expected.

John told me he had to go out with some of the stockmen, and suggested I make a start on the accounts. Determined to make a good impression, I readily agreed. I settled down with the ledgers and boxes of paperwork. Once I got into it, it wasn't too hard to sort out. I started back where his wife Mary had been in good health judging by her writing, and checked her figures, which were fine. As her health had deteriorated, occasional errors crept in and not all were corrected. The real work started where John had taken over, and to be blunt, it was a shambles. After an hour or so, I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, but didn't bother with lunch after the enormous breakfast. The water had a faintly metallic taste and I assumed it had come from a bore.

John returned in the evening, in time for dinner, and I was able to report some good progress. The meal was accompanied by a red wine which I judged to be good, and I sipped it sparingly, since alcohol had always gone to my head. John finished off the bottle, and afterwards we sat down in armchairs opposite the fireplace. I had an uncomfortable feeling I was occupying his dead wife's chair, although nothing was said. I was surprised to see John reach for a whisky decanter and pour himself a large glass. I pretended not to notice, and read some week-old newspapers from Brisbane. I was surprised to see that they contained some news from England and I suddenly felt very homesick. Eventually John lurched to his feet and bade me 'goodnight'. I sat in my room and pondered on events. Was he drinking to drown his sorrows? It certainly looked like it.

The days slipped into a pattern. After breakfast, where he appeared none the worse for the drink, John headed out with the stockmen, and I worked on the books. Within a week I had it all sorted out. Some of the amounts coming in and going out were quite staggering, and there was cash too, but bearing in mind the advice of Mr Jenner back in London, I was scrupulous in accounting for it all. Besides, I didn't want to add to John's woes. I had a growing deep feeling of respect for him. 'Yes, that was it,' I told myself 'respect.' In the evening, John returned for dinner, and then we sat and read, either newspapers or books from the small library, while he drank whisky. Catching me looking at him one evening, he half-smiled, raised the glass and said “Medicinal.”

With the accounting up to date, I began to find myself at a loose end. The house showed all the signs of a bachelor, or in this case widower lifestyle, so I set about tidying, washing and dusting. I actually rather liked it. I wasn't totally alone in the house. A young aboriginal girl did the clothes washing, but not any ironing, and she also occasionally ran a broom over the floor. I gradually worked my way through more and more rooms, eventually finding myself in John's bedroom. I wasn't sure how he would feel about me being there, so I did some minor dusting, enough for him to notice, and waited for the reaction. When there was none, I took that as tacit approval and went further with the dusting and polishing.

During the day, the blinds were nearly closed to keep the house cool, which made it dark, and so it was a week before I noticed a door which I'd missed before and I slowly opened it. The blinds were fully closed, and when I groped my way to open them and light flooded in, I looked around in surprise. It was obviously a woman's room. There was a dressing table with a large mirror and sitting on it were various jars and bottles. I lifted one up, and its place was marked by a clear circle in the layer of fine dust. There was a faint smell in the air — was it perfume? I had the strangest feeling of a presence watching me, but it was not an unfriendly feeling. Next to the dressing table was a chest of drawers and I slid one open. Expensive lingerie lay neatly folded in sets. I closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe, and gasped when I opened the doors. Inside was forty or fifty skirts and dresses on hangers. Again, they looked expensive. Poor John. He couldn't bring himself to let go of anything belonging to his wife. I reached out a tentative hand and touched the soft fabric of one gorgeous gown.

“What are you doing?” the voice rang out like a pistol shot and I jumped back. John stood in the doorway, his face working.

“I, I'm sorry,” I gasped. “I've been doing some cleaning. I didn't realise.....” I must have looked so frightened. John's expression softened.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you,” he said in a more moderate tone. He walked slowly, almost reluctantly into the room and looked around.

“I know you've been cleaning and tidying, and I appreciate it, but please, not this room. You see I couldn't bear....”

I stood there looking at him. Every fibre in my body screamed at me to rush up and throw my arms around this devastated man, but equally I knew that I must not. Everything was becoming very plain to me.

“I understand,” I said softly. “and it won't happen again.” I walked slowly out of the room, and he followed me, pausing only to draw the blinds and then closing the door gently behind him.

Life carried on as before — John's daily rides out with the stockman, my cleaning and polishing plus whatever accountancy was required, and in the evenings, sitting in the big armchair reading, while John drank himself into oblivion. I was worried about him, but what could I do? I couldn't discuss my worries with any of the other staff.

One day, Tom the mailman arrived while John was out. I wanted to talk with him and offered him tea, sitting on the verandah.

He must have seen from the expression on my face that there was something I needed to talk about.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Tom, I don't know how to put this. Please don't think I'm interfering or betraying John. I'm growing to love this place, but I'm worried about him.” I explained to him about our routine and how John was drinking every night. “You're his friend. You're the only one I can talk to about it.”

Tom pursed his lips. “It's as bad as that, eh?”

“What happened to his wife, Tom?”

“It was cancer — a really bad cancer. By the time she saw a doctor, nothing could be done, so she returned here. She told me John needed her, and of course he did. She kept doing the books right to the end, and tried to pretend everything was normal, but it wasn't of course.”

“I know,” I replied “When I first started doing the books, I could see it in her writing.” A thought struck me.

“Is that why he was disappointed I wasn't a girl? He wanted female companionship?”

“I don't really know,” said Tom, ”but I know he's pleased with the work you've been doing here, because he told me.” I felt myself blushing with pleasure. I've always blushed easily, and compliments were guaranteed to have me looking the colour of a fire truck.

"Leave it with me," said Tom, and I had to be content with that.

Everything seemed fine, so the blow when it fell was all the more shocking for being unexpected.

To be continued.

I had been in Australia for just over a year and had grown to love the wild untamed land where man seemed to exist under sufferance. I kept the books up to date, and spent much of the rest of my time housekeeping. The stock-men seemed to like me and even taught me to ride a horse, an old grey, past his working days but gentle and easy to ride. He didn't seem to have a name, so I called him Dobbin, and by judicious use of sugar lumps, he seemed to learn his name very quickly and came to me when I called him. On my time off, I took him for long slow rides through the bush surrounding the homestead. I had learned that the great bowl of land in which the homestead was situated was formed from a huge meteorite crater, many millions of years old. Surrounded by a ring of low hills, the great advantage was that it was impossible to lose one's way, and after hearing tales of people lost in the bush, this was not something to be taken lightly. Dobbin and I spent many a pleasant afternoon riding through the scrub. He was a good listener, and I told him things I'd never tell anyone else. I felt truly content now, my only concern being John's drinking which seemed to be getting worse.

One evening when John arrived home after a day riding out with the stock-men, we dined on steak as usual, and having now grown accustomed to his moods, I felt that he seemed unusually on edge, and drinking more than usual. However nothing was said until afterwards when we settled into the armchairs for the evening. I had a book open on my lap but was paying little attention to it since I was concerned about John's mood. Finally the silence was broken.

“Les, there's something I have to say to you.”

I looked up, alarmed at the tone of his voice. Whatever was coming was serious.

“You've been here a year now, and you've done everything I've asked of you. The accounts have been sorted out, and they always balance to the penny, plus you've done a lot of work around the house, which is more than I expected of you. The fact is, I've made a decision — I've decided to terminate your contract.”

I was shocked into speechlessness as he hurried on, “I'll pay out the rest of your contract of course, and I'll help you get another job, at another cattle station if you wish, or you can return home to England.”

“But I don't want another job,” I wailed, “I love it here and I want to stay here. I can't go back to England or they'll think I've messed up again.” I stopped suddenly, my face aflame, aware of what I'd said. John stared at me.

“Messed up - again?” I suddenly realised that he didn't know the real reason I had come to Australia. Slowly, haltingly, I told him the story of my stupidity in England, and how Mr Jenner had given me the ultimatum — jail or Australia. For a brief moment a slight smile passed over his face.

“Sooo,” he said, “They're still using transportation from Mother England, after all this time.”

I couldn't smile too since I was on the point of tears. “Please John, don't send me away, I love it here. I love the place, the people. John, you need me!”

“Need you?” he shouted, and his sudden anger frightened me. “How do you know what I need? This is my property and I say what I need. Tom is calling by the day after tomorrow, and he'll take you to the train, and that's the end of the matter.”

I stood up slowly, trying to hang on to some shreds of dignity. “In that case I'd better start packing.”

I walked slowly out of the room. I held it together until I reached my room and shut the door. Then I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. I cried until I had no more tears to cry, and then I lay there quietly in the dark. Much later there was a quiet tap on the door, but I didn't answer it. I just couldn't face John again.

It was daylight when I awoke. I was still lying fully dressed on my bed, but there was a blanket half over me, and I couldn't remember putting it there. I slowly showered and dressed, going over the events of the previous evening in my mind. It still seemed like a hideous nightmare. I walked down to the kitchen. It was obvious John had already breakfasted and left. There was a note by my place. 'Gone to check on reports of cattle duffing, back for dinner. J.' I made some toast and coffee, eating it slowly, desperate to hold back the tears until at last, they overwhelmed me, and I buried my face in my hand and wept.

“Missus!” The voice was quiet but urgent. I slowly looked up. An elderly aboriginal woman was standing in the kitchen. Her feet were bare, and I had not heard her come in. With my long hair and my face covered, she must have mistaken me for a woman.

“Jingara” I said, greeting her in her language “Can I help you Aunty?” I used the word 'Aunty' out of respect, assuming she was a tribal elder.

“It is I come to help you.” she replied. How did she know I needed help? I did not recall ever seeing her before, and surely John had said nothing to anyone about last night.

“I knew the old Missus,” she continued. “I helped her too. She kept Mr John on the right track so he was never thirsty.” I realised what she said might have two meanings. For thousands of years her people had wandered the vast outback, travelling from one waterhole to another, following well-known tracks. To lose the track was to risk death in the fierce sun. She might also be referring to John drinking too much alcohol.

“When she left, Mr John lost the track, but you came, and he found it again for a while. If you go, he'll lose the track and never find it again.”

I shuddered. She was surely foretelling John's death and saying it was my task to save him, but how?

“Mr John is sending me away.” I said “How can I stay and save him?”

“In your heart you know the way.” she replied, and her eyes seemed to bore deep into my soul. “Mr John is like a tribal warrior, tall and strong, a leader. This man a woman would desire.” I felt myself blushing hotly, how did she know so much?

She went on. "But he is a man and men must be made to see what they know in their heart is true.”

She suddenly changed the subject and said “I would have a share of your water.”

I felt embarrassed I had not offered her hospitality, so murmuring 'Of course', I stood up and turned to the kitchen cupboard, taking down two glasses and filling them with cool water. When I turned around, she was gone. I know that it was useless to run after her, so I sat down and pondered on all she had said, especially that final remark. It was curious that she hadn't talked to me as a man at all. I thought back to my school days, the skinny kid with the long hair and delicate fingers; the sensitive one, the one never picked for sports teams; the one who preferred to hang out with the girls until the crude jibes of the other boys made it impossible. Suddenly it was as if the blinds of a darkened room had opened and the light flooded in. Of course! I had been so blind, deliberately so. I had one last chance.

I got up and left the kitchen. I had things to do and a meal to prepare. Once I had done all that I could, I went to the stables and saddled up old Dobbin to ride out into the bush and the clean fresh air. If I failed despite everything, then I wanted to cram as many memories into my brain as possible; the sights, sounds and smells of the Australian bush. As I rode, I told Dobbin all that had happened, and what I planned to do. Dobbin kept his own counsel, nodding his head wisely as he walked through the scrub.

“So that's it, Dobbin," I said, and it seemed totally reasonable to be talking to a horse this way. “What do I have to lose if it doesn't work out? I might leave totally humiliated, but what does it matter? I will never see any of these people again, and they won't see me, and if they laugh as they tell the story around the camp fire, well, I won't be around to hear it.” Then I checked myself, “But it will work out Dobbin, it has to. Not for my sake, but for John's.”

With that I turned his head for home. Whatever was to happen would change my life forever, one way or another.

It was getting dark when John and the stock-men rode back to the homestead. He looked at me warily as he entered the house, afraid perhaps that I was going to make a scene. I greeted him pleasantly enough and he started to relax. Men like John hate it when someone makes a scene, and I had done exactly the wrong thing the previous night, but that wouldn't happen tonight. When he sat at the dining room table, I surprised him with a meal of roast chicken. This was normally reserved for birthdays and Christmas, and when he looked askance, I said.

“It's my last night here, and I want it to be special.”

I asked him about the cattle duffers, but it seemed there was no foundation to the rumour. We chatted about various topics. We had the usual bottle of wine, and I drank a little more than usual myself. My heart was pounding but I tried to look as calm as possible.

“Thank you for a great dinner,” he said at the end, “That was truly memorable.”

I thanked him, and we followed our normal routine of going into the sitting room to sit in the big armchairs and read, and in John's case drink whisky. I could not for the life of me remember what book I picked up, although I think my eyes scanned the same page over and over again. I was waiting for something to happen, and finally it did. John fell into a deep sleep, a combination of the hard day's riding, the wine and the whisky. I waited another five minutes to be absolutely certain, and then I rose silently and left the room.

I tiptoed up the corridor, through his bedroom and into Mary's dressing room. I stood there for a moment and then I stripped off all my clothes and bundled them into my suitcase that I'd left in the wardrobe. My hair had grown long since I wouldn't let the camp barber butcher it, and I'd been wearing it tied in a ponytail. Now I unfastened it and let it hang down. My heart was pounding as I looked at myself for a moment in the mirror, and then, taking a deep breathe I walked to the chest of drawers where Mary had kept her lingerie, and opened it. In addition to having a bath that afternoon, washing my hair and carefully shaving my body, I had checked through all of Mary's clothes and found what I was looking for — a set of lingerie with the purchase tags still attached that she had never worn. She had been a woman of discernment and taste, and John had obviously given her a generous budget to buy clothes. The lingerie set I took out was made of pure silk and the palest of pink. I stepped into the garter-belt and panties, and then fastened the bra which was trimmed with French lace. Fortunately, Mary had not been a big-breasted woman. Then I sat down and drew a pair of sheerest stockings up my legs and fastened them in place. Next came a matching full slip with more French lace at the bust and hem. I walked to the wardrobe and opened it.

That morning I had selected a dress to wear. There had been two prerequisites for my choice. It had to be pretty, and it had to be a dress that Mary had never worn, and I had found it. Made of Shantung silk in a gorgeous russet colour, it was calf-length with a full skirt, maybe slightly old-fashioned but that didn't matter. Then I sat down at the dressing table, brushed my hair and started to do my make-up. As I did so, I breathed a silent prayer of thanks to my cousin Marie. I thought back to the time when I had stayed with my aunt and uncle, and she had come home early and caught me wearing her clothes. Most girls would have laughed at me or gone racing to tell my parents, but Marie was not like that. Instead, she had looked at me, standing there red-faced and said. “Why Leslie, you make a very pretty girl indeed.”

On several occasions after that, when I visited them and her parents were out, we had girl time together. She taught me how to dress and walk in heels and she taught me how to do make-up. I looked forward to my visits so much because it was like the real me being let out of hiding.

One time she said to me. “I wish you had been born a girl, Leslie. We would have had so much fun, two girls on the town.”

Then one evening when her parents were out late for the night, we actually did it. Such an adrenalin rush, walking down the street together, hearing our heels tap on the pavement, feeling the cool breeze against my stocking-clad legs, the swish of my skirt. We'd called into a milk bar and had a milkshake and looked at the boys eyeing us. Nothing else happened, but I'd never forgotten it. My voice was quite high anyway and passed easily for that of a girl. No-one suspected a thing!

It was years since I last wore women's clothes, but even when I was young, I knew that it was more than the feeling of the clothes, it was an expression of the real me. I had suppressed it for so long, but was it possible that John had sensed it despite my best efforts? Was that the reason he finally made the decision he had made? Was it because he had feelings for the real me and couldn't understand them, so the only solution was to send me away? There was only one way to find out.

To be continued.

Finally, I was finished with my preparations, and I stood up and slipped on the shoes I had selected - a deep red that matched the dress and had 5-inch heels. I looked at myself in the mirror. Les the young man had gone, and in his place was Lesley, a young woman in a pretty dress. I did a little twirl before the mirror and drew a deep breath. It was now or never. I took off the shoes again, walked through John's bedroom and tip-toed down the hallway in my stockinged feet. I peered into the lounge room. John was still asleep in the chair, the empty whisky glass on the table beside him, and the newspaper had slipped off his lap. I slipped my shoes on again and walked quietly over to him. As I gazed down on this strong yet vulnerable man my heart went out to him. I stepped back slightly in case he jumped up and called out his name softly. I felt my heart was pounding loud enough to wake him. He did not move, and I said his name again more loudly. He half-opened his eyes, closed them again, and then his eyes were wide open staring at me.

“Mary?” he croaked. I realised that I was in the shadows, and he couldn't see me properly. I moved forward to where the light shone on my face.

“No John, it's Lesley, the real Lesley.” I said. His eyes widened.

'It can't be! But of course it is! How could I have been so blind all this time?”

Then he stretched out his arms to me as I walked forward, and his big work-worn hands closed gently over mine. He looked down at our clasped hands. “You're trembling. Why is that?”

“I'm afraid,” I said in a small voice.

Concern showed on his face. “Afraid of me?”

“No, not of you, you're the gentlest man I've ever known. No, I'm afraid of how you might feel about seeing me now, about all this. I'm afraid of my feelings for you and how you might react. I know now how I've felt about you from the first time I saw you. I told myself it was respect at first, and then it grew to friendship, but now I know it's far more than that.” I took a deep breath. “I love you John Brodie. I've loved you from the day I arrived here, and no matter what you say or do, even if you send me away, I will love you until the day I die.”

There! I had said it. There was no going back now. I stood there looking at him, my heart pounding.

Then he smiled — oh that wonderful smile! “Here, come at sit on my lap.”

He drew me gently to him, and I sat carefully on his lap, smoothing my dress as I did so. He gazed at me.

“I can hardly believe it. You are so beautiful, and you hid it so well, but not quite well enough. Can you understand now why I was going to send you away? I couldn't understand my feelings for you, and I dared not tell you — an older man and a young person, how would it look? Oh, you must think that men are very stupid creatures.” I smiled and shook my head.

“What you just did, what you just said, that was the bravest thing I ever heard. Such bravery deserves something in return. I love you too Lesley Cobb. I know now that I've loved you for a long time, and I'll never stop loving you.” Our faces were very close now, and as I knew he would, he leaned forward and kissed me for the first time.

When our lips finally parted I smiled at him, but my throat was tight. The most important question had yet to be asked. “Is it possible for us to be together?” I said, and suddenly I began to tremble again. His answer was so important to me.

He smiled gently at me. “I love you, Lesley. Is it possible for us not to be together?” he asked in return.

I threw my arms around him, and we kissed once more. Later I helped him to his feet, and we walked arm in arm to his bedroom.

I slowly opened my eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. I suddenly realised it was John's room and I was in John's bed. Memories of the previous evening flooded back slowly. I vaguely remember us walking into the bedroom, but nothing afterwards. I reached down and discovered I was still wearing the lingerie from the night before, and the dress was lying over a chair next to the bed. I turned my head to the right with a smile and then froze. The pillow next to me was empty. I began to tremble. Nothing had happened after we went to bed, I was sure of that. We were both too exhausted from emotion, and in John's case it was combined with alcohol, so we had just fallen into a deep sleep.

I shivered. It was obvious what had happened this morning. He had woken up, totally embarrassed to find me beside him and he had left the room to give me time to slip quietly back to my bedroom, and we would both pretend last night never happened. My heart sank as I remembered — today was the day I was supposed to be leaving. Then I realised the sound I was hearing was Tom's truck idling outside and I started up, but even as I did so, the engine revved up and the truck slowly pulled away, the sound fading into the distance. I sank back on the pillows. I didn't know what was happening, but there wasn't another train for three days, so at least I had some sort of reprieve.

The bedroom door swung open, and there was John in his dressing gown and carrying a tray.

“You're awake at last, sleepy-head.” he smiled. Then his look changed to concern at my expression. “What is it?”

“Oh nothing,” I replied, “Just me being silly. I woke and you were gone, and I thought, I thought....” My voice trailed away.

“You were sleeping like a baby, and I didn't want to disturb you. I had to tell Tom you weren't leaving — that is right, isn't it?”

“Oh yes!” I gasped emphatically. “I never want to leave you.”

He smiled and walked over to the bed. “Good! I've brought you some breakfast.”

It was boiled eggs for two, toast and coffee. On the tray was a small glass with a red rose he had picked from my little garden.

“I'm sorry about the rose,” he said, “I'm really giving you back the flower you grew.”

I kissed him gently. “No, it's your rose that you gave to me, and I will treasure it always.” I said, and I have. It's still there, pressed in one of my books.

We sat together in bed and ate breakfast. Afterwards we kissed again, and things were starting to get quite heated when he gently drew back and said, “I'm so sorry, but the men are expecting me to go out with them again this morning. A new lead on the cattle duffers.”

“Of course, you must go.” I said “We can make up for it tonight, if you like?” and I knew I was blushing.

John laughed “Oh I'd like alright!” he said.

“Before you go John, how would you like me to dress today?” I enquired, meaning should I go back to being Leslie for the daytime, but he misunderstood me.

“There's so many clothes in the dressing room,” he said, pointing to Mary's room “I'm sure you'll find something suitable there. I will take you to town to buy things for yourself as soon as we have some time.” he added.

He slipped out of bed and went for a shower. When he walked back into the room, a towel was wrapped around his waist, but I caught a glimpse of his naked body when he slipped it off to get dressed. I only just managed to stop myself gasping out loud - he had the most magnificent body. He quickly dressed and kissed me gently before he left. So that was it, I was to be Lesley from now on. But what would the other people at the Station think about it?

I got out of bed and went for a shower. When I looked in the mirror I thought 'John must love me because with last night's make-up all smeared from tears, I look terrible'. I finished showering and with a towel wrapped around me walked slowly into the dressing room. I pulled back the blinds enough to let the light flood in and stood there looking around me. I don't believe in ghosts, but as I stood there, I knew I wasn't alone. There was a definite presence — the one I had felt the first time I'd entered the room. I heard nothing and saw nothing, but I just knew. It was an effort of will not turn around, even though I knew I would see nothing, and instead I started to talk.

“I'm here with John's permission,” I said. “I won't ever try to take your place. I couldn't even if I wanted to. I want you to know that I truly love him. You know I've made a start already and I make a solemn promise to you and him that I will do my best to care for him for the rest of my life and his."

I heard nothing and saw nothing, but I knew that my words were accepted and believed, and that I was now alone again.

To becontinued.

I looked through the drawers in the dressing room, and found some simple cotton underwear and a cool white cotton dress to wear with some sandals, truly more practical in the heat than the clothes I had worn the previous night. I brushed my hair and put on some powder and a little lipstick, then drawing a deep breath, I walked out of the room and down to the kitchen.

Maisie, the aboriginal girl was busy washing up when I entered the kitchen. I had no idea how she would respond to seeing me in a dress and make-up, and hoped she wouldn't scream and run out of the room. Instead, she looked up and gave me a bright smile.

“Morning Missus,” she said.

I was slightly startled. She was so matter of fact, as though it's every day that someone you've only seen in male clothes should appear dressed as a woman. Not only that, but by addressing me as 'Missus', she obviously took it for granted that my status was now enhanced as the partner of John, who was invariable addressed as 'Boss'.

“Err, good morning Maisie,” I replied, and desperate for something else to say, went on “Thank you for the lovely breakfast this morning.”

She laughed. “Don't thank me, thank the Boss. He insisted he do it all himself, with a little help of course,” she chuckled.

“Well, there's hope for him yet.” I replied. I'd never seen John do so much as boil an egg, although he must have cooked when he and the men were camping out. We both laughed together, like two women affectionately commenting on the lack of skills in a man of whom they're both very fond. It felt good.

“Well, I have to do some work in my office. I'll see you later. Oh, and I'll cook tea for John tonight, so you can go early if you like.” She smiled her thanks and actually seemed a little less shy than usual. Was this a bonus of me joining the sisterhood? I walked into my office and did a few small tasks rather slowly while I pondered my next move. John had obviously explained something to Maisie as she didn't seem in the least surprised at the sight of me. The men outside though, that could be a different matter. Should I wait for John to return? They wouldn't dare whistle or catcall in his presence. 'No' I said to myself, 'You've come this far, and you can't chicken out now.'

Taking an even deeper breath, I walked outside and stood in the shade of the verandah. There were only a few of the men still around, as most had gone on horseback with John, but those who were there looked up, tipped their broad-brimmed hats and greeted me with “Morning Missus” and a cheery smile, as though my appearance in a dress was the most natural thing in the world. This was feeling a bit eerie. I was fairly sure that John hadn't spoken to all these men, but Maisie might have. I had a very light tenor voice anyway, and with my long hair, and now the dress, the thought suddenly struck me that perhaps in their eyes I had been a woman all along, who had for reasons of her own decided to dress and present as a young man. Now the natural order was restored, and I was dressing the way I was meant to. I certainly couldn't think of any other explanation. I only thought of that afterwards, I was so relieved at that moment that they had accepted me without question, raised eyebrows or a snigger.

After hanging around for a few minutes more and exchanging a few pleasantries, I retreated into the cool interior of the homestead. It was on my mind what to cook John for tea. I had used a chicken the previous night for my supposedly 'farewell' dinner, and it didn't seem appropriate to serve up the left-overs for what I hoped was a 'Welcome to our New Life' dinner. Then I had an inspiration. John had fairly simple tastes in food, and some months back I had introduced him to shepherd's pie which he absolutely loved. That was it then — and perhaps apple pie for dessert, and for 'after' desert — me! Stupid, but I found myself blushing, even though I had only said it to myself!

I had little to do that day, so it was easy to devote most of the day to preparing the dinner, and also preparing myself. Last night it had been quite dark when John first saw me, and to be frank he had had more than a little to drink. Today he'd be seeing me when he was cold sober and in daylight, so I wanted to make sure he was not disappointed. I walked into what I must now get to think of as 'my' dressing room to select what I would wear. Some people might think it a little strange for me to wear the clothes of John's dead wife, but in my view, they were just clothes, and anyway I had permission, both his and I was sure, hers. John had already promised me some new clothes of my own, but for now, what was here was more than adequate for my needs.

I selected another pretty lingerie set in pure palest yellow silk, with a French lace trim on the bodice and hem of the full-length slip. When I say French, I mean it as I checked the label — Simone Perele, with an address in Paris! Mary must have bought the set in Brisbane or even Sydney. I selected some genuine silk stockings, some matching shoes, and then of course there was the dress. There were so many, and I chose a pretty cocktail dress in lemon chiffon, which my lingerie perfectly complimented. I dare not risk dirtying these lovely clothes until my dinner preparations were completed, so I returned to the kitchen and set about cooking.

Once I was happy that the meal was as good as I could make it, I returned to the bedroom and had a luxurious bath, shaving my legs again, although they probably didn't need it. I had found a set of heated rollers still In their box, complete with instructions. I was taking a bit of a risk, not having used rollers before, but I carefully read what to do and set about applying them to my long hair, and in due course I was thrilled with the result. My hair looked wonderfully feminine with its gentle curls. Then I settled down to do my make-up and get dressed. In my eyes this is where the evening begins. I will never lose the thrill of dressing in pretty lingerie; the sensuous feel of drawing silk stockings up freshly shaved legs, the feel of silk around my thighs and breasts, the gentle tug of the suspenders attached to my stockings, and finally lifting the silk slip over my head and letting the material flow down over my body. Finally I stepped into the dress and the heels, and critically examined how I looked in the mirror. I did a little twirl and was so pleased with the result. What would John think? I prayed that he would love what he saw.

I was waiting on the verandah as the sun started to dip behind the surrounding hills and was enjoying the cool of the evening when John rode up on his horse. He caught sight of me, and leaping out of the saddle, he took the homestead steps two at a time and gathered me in his arms. He was so strong I could hardly breathe, but I didn't care.

Finally he eased back, smiled down at me and said, “You look so beautiful.”

Then a stricken look came over his face and he gasped “What was I thinking? You look like you stepped out of a fashion magazine, and I'm covered in dust.”

I smiled happily. “It really doesn't matter. All that matters to me is that you like how I look.”

“Oh I do!” he replied. “Just give me half an hour to stable my horse and have a shower and you'll see a different man.”

“I don't want a different man!” I laughed, “Just the same man in a clean shirt.”

True to his word, John entered the dining room thirty minutes later, just as I was bringing the shepherd's pie out of the kitchen and onto the dining table. He wore a fresh shirt and jeans and he looked wonderful. We sat close to each other, and every so often I couldn't resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand — just to make sure he was real! I had opened the usual bottle of wine, but I noticed that John drank very little, and indeed was drinking mostly water. The shepherd's pie was pronounced a great success, as was the apple pie and cream that followed. Once we had finished, we followed our usual routine of going to the sitting room, but this time John sat on his chair and then beckoned me to him.

“Here, come and sit on my lap.” I smiled and obeyed with alacrity. “Now, how was your day?”

So I sat there happily, my arm around his neck, and interspersed with kisses, I told him all that had happened, including me now being called 'Missus'. “You asked them to do that didn't you?”

John looked puzzled but smiled “I didn't say a word. But it shows they like and respect you.”

“I hope they like me, but I think it's more you they respect,” I said “And I'm sure I benefit from that.”

“Don't sell yourself short.” he replied “You've done so much for this place, and for me. The men have seen that, and they appreciate it. I wasn't always the easiest person to work for before you arrived.”

So we left it at that, but secretly, what he told me made me feel very pleased. I noticed that John had made no move towards the whisky bottle, and I was so glad of that. Instead, we chatted, and he told me how they had ridden many miles that day and found definite traces of cattle duffers in the area, so there would probably be need of hard riding on the morrow.

“Perhaps we should have an early night then?” I asked tentatively, trying to quell the sudden anxiety I was feeling. Things had gone so well up to now and I prayed that I would not be a disappointment to him.

“Why not?” he replied with a smile, and taking my hand we walked to the bedroom, my heels clicking on the old wooden floors. It's funny how details like that come back to me all these years later. When we closed the bedroom door — not really necessary as we were alone in the old house, I asked if he would unzip my dress. Isn't it funny how a man never questions how it is that a woman is perfectly capable of zipping her dress up, but needs help to unzip it? As I had hoped, I felt his lips follow the zip as it slowly opened. I carefully stepped out of the dress and thanked him, enjoying how his eyes now seemed to caress my body in that gorgeous lingerie. He drew me to him and kissed me once more, as his hands moved slowly over the silk of my slip, and I felt my body quiver in excitement and anticipation.

“I'll be with you shortly.” I said as I walked into the dressing room. I stripped down to my panties, still feeling a little awkward at what betrayed my body sex. I had found the most gorgeous full length silk nightie in rose pink and quickly slipped it on. Then I sat at the dressing table and brushed my hair. When I returned to the bedroom, John was already sitting in bed, wearing his pyjamas. He stared at me, open-mouthed — a bigger compliment than any words he could utter, and he wordlessly pulled down the sheet beside him. I got into bed and snuggled up to him.

Now comes the difficult part to tell you the listeners, there beyond the lamp light. Do you silently laugh and say, 'do you expect us to believe that this strong masculine heterosexual man, made love to you?' Scoff all you want, but it's perfectly true. I'm not a religious person as I keep telling you, but I do love great literature, and the King James Bible has some of the finest writing ever committed to paper. In Proverbs 30 there are some verses that have always intrigued me:

'There be three things which are too wonderful for me,
yea, four which I know not:
The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock;
the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.'

What did it mean 'the way of a man with a maid'? That night I learned what it meant. True, it is hard to say if I was strictly a maid at that time, but I was a virgin in all respects. John of course was not, but for him this was uncharted territory too. There is a line in the marriage vows, now often omitted which says 'with my body I thee worship'. That night we truly worshipped each other, and when our bodies finally became one, our hearts and minds were joined too. I can tell you without a shadow of doubt that there was only one man in John's bed that night, and a woman who adored him.

One might imagine that after such a night we would both wake up exhausted, but nothing could be further from the truth. The night had totally invigorated us, and we greeted the dawn with kisses and hugs. I felt a little bashful, but so pleased and happy that despite my inexperience, some sixth sense had shown me what to do. John was more exuberant than I could remember.

“That was the best night since ...” he stopped abashed.

“I know,” I said and gave him another hug and kiss, and the moment was passed.

“I'm tempted to stay all day in bed with you.” he laughed, but I told him he had riders already getting ready for him to lead them out into the bush and he had better not be late or 'people will talk' I said with a giggle.

“Don't worry about breakfast for me today,” I said “And as for bed, well there's always tonight.”

I found myself blushing, even as I said the words. We both laughed at that, and John hurried to the shower. There were indeed many more nights like that night, though perhaps none exceeded it in its intensity. For over a year we had been two people afraid to show our feelings and instead had bottled them up inside us. Once the flood gates were opened, we almost drowned in the intensity of what we released.

I've just remembered something else about that time. Years later, John and I were looking through an old photograph album when I suddenly stopped and stared. It was a picture of his first wife Mary and standing next to her was an aboriginal woman. She was younger then of course, but there was no mistaking her face.

“Who is that?” I asked. John looked hard at the small black and white print.

“Oh, that's Coorah,” he replied. "She was a great friend of Mary's, but I haven't seen her in years. Why do you ask?”

“I met her once too,” I said “years ago.”

“Many of her tribe go walkabout from time to time.” he said “So what did you two talk about?”

I smiled “I guess you could call it 'secret women's business' " I replied. "So I can't tell you.”

John smiled too, but he did not pursue the matter. Like me he had great respect for the first Australians.

To be continued.

The next few weeks passed in happiness for both of us. In some ways life did not change for me, but in others of course it did. After I had seen John off to work, I set about my usual housekeeping duties and any financial work that needed to be done. This was exactly what I had done previously, but I must say that wearing a thin cotton dress was infinitely more comfortable in the hot summer weather than the pants or shorts I had worn previously. Sometimes, in the afternoon I set about preparing the evening meal, and sometimes it was cooked by Maisie, who under my tutelage was proving quite adept. One difference was that I made sure that all my work was complete by late afternoon so that I could prepare for John coming home.

I can smile now, remembering an extract I recently found on the internet, taken from a 1950's home economics book, where girls are taught how to behave when they become wives, preparing the man's meal to be served on time, and touching up their make-up to be fresh and pretty for his arrival. 'How to be a Good Wife' I think it was called, and it was all about the man. I almost feel that I was the inspiration for that piece, but it was what I wanted to do for the man I loved. As evening approached, I would have a shower, and then select some lingerie and a pretty dress, brush my hair and apply my make-up so that I was the picture of a perfect wife when he arrived. I wasn't pretending — it was what I wanted to do. After that first day, John was always careful not to spread dust all over me when he greeted me after a hard day in the saddle!

Then of course there were the evenings after dinner. Sometimes we sat for a while in our chairs, reading in companionable silence, or otherwise we discussed the events of the day. Other evenings, John invited me to sit on his lap, and we kissed and cuddled, and more than once this led to a very early night in bed! Oh yes! Our nights in bed. That was the best time of all. I could never tire of or get enough of this wonderful man's body, for no matter how late into the night we made love, we awoke refreshed in the morning.

Although John and I were very happy with our lives, I could not help feeling that I wanted to be more of a woman for him, and for myself too. I can't even remember if the term 'transgender' was widely used in those days. I had read of a few brave pioneers such as Christine Jorgensen, April Ashley and Roberta Cowell who had undergone hormone therapy and surgery to live their lives as women. One thing these women also shared was the fact that their names were known, either by choice, or by being 'outed', to the general population. In my own circumstances this was the last thing I wanted, for John's sake as much as mine..

As a young person, I had little interest in politics, but even I was aware that I was living in the most conservative state in Australia. What's more, by organising the state into electoral zones where country areas which tend to be conservative by nature, had a fraction of the number of electors of the big towns and cities, the two conservative parties were able to have a comfortable majority over the Labor party despite polling a much smaller proportion of the vote. This I learned was called a 'gerrymander'. This persisted for many years and entrenched a very conservative ethos in the state — not a good atmosphere for transgendered people.

My problem was to make initial contact with someone who could put me in touch with the right people who could help me become a woman to the fullest degree possible. We had a doctor visit our local township Heyward's Crossing every week. The present doctor was a young female, and I felt she would most likely be sympathetic to my problem. When I rang to make an appointment, the reception asked what it was for, and of course I wasn't going to tell her, so she immediately assumed it was not important and gave me a time in three weeks. I did not feel like making a fuss, so accepted the time, but it was a long and frustrating delay.

Dr Jenkins was young, pretty and blonde, but she was also bright and very intelligent. Naturally, I had had to go down to Hey in 'Leslie' mode, much though I would have preferred not to. As I started to talk to her, she said she would check my pulse and blood pressure to save time, but after a minute she stopped.

“They're almost off the scale,” she smiled, “Perhaps you'd better tell me your story first, and I can check them later.”

“First doctor, please don't be insulted, but this is highly confidential, and I would prefer that it is not recorded anywhere where the receptionist or practise nurse can see it.” I went on to explain my feelings from an early age, and what had happened recently at the Station. I then explained how I wanted to progress towards living as a woman to the fullest extent possible, and knew that not only did I need a medical referral, but I needed to see the right person who could help me, and I had no idea how to go about doing that.

Dr Jenkins was very sympathetic. She had heard of such cases, although I was the first she had encountered. She promised to make enquiries and said if she could find the name of someone, she would write to me at the Station. She also promised that my history would go in with a few select others for whom the highest confidentiality was needed, and which she kept with her; whilst a card with only contact details was kept at the surgery. I thanked her very much for her understanding, and by the end of our interview I was so pleased when she reported that my pulse and blood pressure had quite returned to normal!

Two weeks later, a letter arrived for me, addressed to Miss L Cobb at McKenzie Station, the first letter I ever received addressed this way.

Dear Miss Cobb,
I have made enquiries on your behalf and have found a psychiatrist, a Dr David Brentwell. He has many years experience as a GP, but more recently has qualified as a psychiatrist and consults at rooms in South Brisbane in a large medical centre. He is specialising in gender dysphoria. I suggest you make an appointment to see him as your first step. Initially, you may prefer not to travel to Brisbane in female mode, but it is important that you present as a female when you see Dr Brentwell, so it might be wise to book into a local hotel where you can change.
Good luck,
Carolyn Jenkins.

I immediately rang Dr Brentwell's rooms and made an appointment for ten days later.

The only person we saw regularly from outside the property was Tom the mail-man, and the first day that I knew he was due, I felt extremely shy at appearing as a woman, so I prevailed upon John who was at home at the time to explain a little about my 'new life', so that he wouldn't get too much of a shock. Assured that he had been forewarned, when next he arrived, and John was out somewhere rounding up cattle with the men, I appeared on the balcony to welcome him. Tom swung out of the truck's cabin with his usual cheery grin which broadened even further when he saw me.

“Jeez Les....ley, (a distinct pause between the two syllables!) you look great!” he called out, and then bounded up the steps and gave me a peck on the cheek. Well, that was a first! I knew I was blushing, but now I was a woman it didn't matter.

I sketched a mock curtsey and said “Thank you kind sir.” and of course he had to bow deeply and say “You are most welcome ma'am.” Dear old Tom. Apart from John he has always been my best male friend.

I needed to talk with him, so I told him the kettle was on and invited him to have some tea. I know what you are thinking, you listeners in the shadows. 'A hard-drinking Aussie bloke and you offered him tea?' Of course he enjoyed a beer, we all did, but when Tom was working it was the same for him as the other men, strictly tea until the evening. We sat on the cane chairs in the shade of the verandah with the pot of tea and some Anzac biscuits and I began.

“Well Tom, you know there have been some changes around here.” he grinned at that, but I had something on my mind that I needed to know.

“You are John's oldest friend. How do you think he has taken to it all? He's too much of a gentleman to tell me if he was unhappy in any way.”

“Unhappy?” he laughed out loud, “Why I haven't seen him so happy since ...” and he stopped abruptly, confused and embarrassed.

“It's alright to say Mary's name, Tom,” I said and I leaned forward and gently touched his hand. It still amazed me how I had slipped so naturally into feminine gestures. “If you are saying you haven't seen him so happy since before Mary was sick, then you are making me very happy indeed. One thing I can tell you for sure is that all that excess drinking has stopped.”

He gasped, “Well that's a relief. You've worked wonders on him.”

“That's not true!” I said, springing to John's defence, “he did that himself.”

“Wow, Mother Lioness!” laughed Tom “Well let's just say you had some influence.”

I smiled, realising that I had rather over-reacted. “Well whatever the reason, I am so happy about it. But there's something else I need to talk to you about. We are quite remote here and could easily carry on as we are, but there are times when we need to go to other places. I would love to go with John, but I will absolutely not take the risk of him being humiliated because of me. I know I look more feminine now, but I'm not good enough to pass in social situations. John and I have been talking a lot about it, and we've made some decisions.”

I could see he was starting to look a little uncomfortable with the way the conversation, or rather my monologue was going, so I tried to lighten the mood a little.

“Do you remember the day you first picked me up from the train halt, and you looked around and said 'Where's the sheila?', and I didn't know what you meant?”

He laughed “Of course I do.”

“Well Tom, the 'sheila' was there all the time, right in front of you, only I didn't really know it, or perhaps I did and I was denying it even to myself. I've been doing some reading about it, although information is so hard to find. Oh, if only there was a great big encyclopaedia in the sky when I could pull down all the knowledge of the world whenever I wanted it! Anyway, it seems that I am not alone in this. It has all sorts of technical names, but basically it means that my brain is female while my body is not. I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, although believe me, it's worse for me. Anyway,” I smiled “I'm still really the same person you've known for over a year, and that will never change.”

Tom seemed to be relaxing a bit more now, so I went on “The great thing is that there are treatments now for people like me, to make our bodies match our brains. The extra hard part for me is that I will need to go to Brisbane, maybe even Sydney to have that treatment. Now I have a favour to ask you. Would you be willing to take me to the train halt when I have to make these trips? John has offered of course, but he is busy here, and anyway I think it's better if other people don't see us together right now.”

Tom actually let out an audible sigh of relief “Is that all? Of course I'll do it. For a moment there I thought you were going to ask me to take you all the way to Brisbane, and that would be difficult with all my mail runs.”

I smiled at him, “A companion would be lovely of course. I'm going to feel a bit lonely going all that way on my own, but don't worry, I'm not asking you to do that.”

A thoughtful look came over Tom's face. “Well I couldn't do it, but perhaps Jenny my wife would.”

My heart leapt at that. “Do you think she might?” I was almost pleading. “We'd pay all her expenses of course. I'm sure John wouldn't mind.”

I had met Jenny a couple of times before, while I was still in Leslie mode and we had got on very well. At the annual Christmas barbecue for all the Station staff, she was the only woman not from the station and she had helped me and John serve everyone with food and drink. She was a vibrant and pretty woman and Tom obviously adored her. If ever there were two soul-mates, it was Jenny and Tom.

“Well the kids are off at boarding school and she's rattling around the house on her own most days. She has a little part-time job at the library, but she has plenty of spare time, so she might be glad of something to do. Tell you what, I'll tell her this evening and if she's interested I'll get her to ring you.”

That evening John noticed I was on edge and asked what was wrong, but I just muttered that I was trying to arrange something and I preferred to hold off telling him in case it didn't work out. When the phone finally rang, I fairly leapt across the room to answer it.

“Hi Lesley, it's Jenny. Tom told me about your request, and I'd be happy to come and talk to you about it. Would tomorrow afternoon be alright?”

“Oh yes, that's great news Jenny, but don't you want to know a bit more about it?”

“Well, I'm a bit busy right now. How about two o'clock tomorrow. Is that alright?”

“Errr, yes. Sure.”

I felt a bit deflated as I put the phone down, and then I realised how smart Jenny had been. Those were the days of operator-connected calls, and although it was strictly against the rules, it was not unknown for them to listen in. Jenny might just have saved me from blurting out my secret.

Now I could tell John what I had arranged with Jenny, provided he was alright about spending the extra money. He confessed it was a huge relief to him that I was not going to Brisbane on my own. I knew I had to present there as a female, even if not a totally convincing one yet, and people can be cruel.

The next morning I fussed around wondering what to wear. I thought something a little more dressy than what I normally wore to do the housework, and settled on a pretty cotton dress which I wore without stockings and flat shoes. I brushed my hair and put on a little powder and lipstick, and was ready well before Jenny was due to arrive.

Jenny was as good as her word, arriving bang on time in the old dual-cab ute that served as the family car. She flashed me that marvellous smile as she walked up the steps of the homestead.

“Hi Lesley, so you've decided to join the sisterhood at last.”

It was those last two words that struck me. “You mean you knew?” I gasped.

She had a delicious laugh and she was laughing now.

“You forget I saw you at the Christmas barbecue, and you were well and truly in girl mode then, even if you didn't know it. Plus I saw the way you looked at John and he looked at you. Now I know he's not gay - not that there's anything wrong with that of course — so what else was I supposed to think? The next time I saw you it was much the same, so it only confirmed my suspicions.”

I was blushing furiously. “Well so much for us trying to keep it quiet.” I said a little despairingly.

“Oh don't worry,” she laughed “I'm sure no-one else noticed. Men don't tend to notice those sort of things, especially when they've got a can of beer in their hand, but women do.”

“I can see I have a lot to learn about being a woman,” I said, with a tinge of sadness creeping into my voice at the size of the mountain I had to climb.

“Yes you do,” she replied “and if you want me to, I'll be there to assist you every step of the way.”

“You will?” I was overjoyed. “Oh Jenny, I can't thank you enough.”

“I'm so glad it's working out well for you,” she said. “At the time I thought 'This could turn out very well or very badly', and I didn't know which it was going to be.”

“You are right,” I replied. “It very nearly did turn out badly, but thank goodness it didn't.”

I made a pot of tea and we sat down for a chat. It was nice to have another woman to talk to about all that had been happening — well — most of it anyway, and I imagine she guessed what I held back on. In all the times that were to follow, and some of them were hard times indeed, she never wavered. She hugged me and comforted me and even wiped away my tears when I was in despair, and together we came through it. But I am getting ahead of myself.

"By the way, I hope you didn't think I was rude to you last night, but I knew old Mrs Hargreaves was on the switchboard, and she's notorious for listening in. I really didn't want you to say something you'd regret."

"Yes, I was a bit deflated at first, but then I realised that you were saving me from myself."

Jenny suggested that we sort through the clothes I had, to pick out something suitable to wear in Brisbane. I was still relying on Mary's clothes, and she obviously favoured dresses rather than skirts and tops, and had virtually no pants, and certainly no jeans.

“How do you feel about wearing pants and jeans?” asked Jenny.

“Alright, so long as I still look feminine,” I replied. “After all, I've worn them all my life. I suspect many people in my situation want to abandon pants altogether because they want to look more feminine.”

“I suppose they do,” said Jenny thoughtfully “After all, women can wear anything they like and no-one thinks a woman in pants is a cross-dresser. It's not really fair is it?”

Together we sorted through the available clothes and finally settled on two sets that would just pass muster in Brisbane. Now that Jenny was coming with me, I really wanted to make the trip in woman mode if she honestly thought I would get away with it. I paraded before her in the two skirts and tops, and she decided which one looked best for the trip down.

“You'd better tell John you desperately need some clothes for going to Brisbane and that you'll need to spend some serious money this trip, but future trips will cost him a lot less. Can you do that?”

“Oh yes. I'm sure he'll understand,” and bless him, he did.

Jenny had more words of advice for me before we started our big trip.

“The big thing is to blend in. That makes you virtually invisible. We can't do much about the clothes, they still scream 'country woman', but we're going to fix that.”

I put myself in Jenny's hands entirely, and revelled in her expert tuition on my hair and make-up where she taught me many new things. After all, I was relying on vague memories of those times with my cousin years ago. We carefully packed my suitcase with my reserve outfit, underwear and a couple of pairs of shoes, plus toiletries and make-up, and with each step of the way my confidence grew. I never really had any doubt that I could do it, but without Jenny the journey would have been so much harder.

The morning of the trip, Jenny arrived sitting beside Tom in his truck, and then I squeezed in and we bounced our way down the track to Crane's Halt, where he left us to wait for the train. The train was fairly empty and we had a whole compartment to ourselves, so we chatted merrily away, the miles flew by and soon we reached Rockhampton. There we had to change to another train for Brisbane, and this was much fuller. I confess my heart was pounding when we left one train and crossed the platforms to board the other one, but Jenny was right, no-one looked at me, except that passing glance you give a stranger to make sure you will not collide with them, and gradually my heart rate settled to a much more comfortable level.

Now we had to be circumspect in our conversation, and confined it to generalities. The hours passed and at one stage I even dozed off, so that proves how relaxed I had become. Finally we pulled into Brisbane and alighted from the train. I was amazed and frightened by the crowds of people. Bear in mind that I had been a youth in busy London, and in those days Brisbane was more like a large country town, but a year in the bush had made me used to space around me, and the jostling crowds alarmed me. I clung to Jenny as we weaved through the people. Some may have 'read' me, but they were gone in an instant, and eventually we found a taxi and went to our hotel.

In all my journey to full womanhood, I was so fortunate that I did not have financial concerns. In those days the station owners truly were 'kings in grass castles', and John was very generous in his support. Thus I was able to take care of all Jenny's expenses and more besides, but I could never truly repay her for all she did for me, not then anyway, although I did have the opportunity later.

We settled into our hotel room. It was on the fifth floor with a view out to the east, so it caught the morning sun. Bright and spacious it had two single beds and plenty of wardrobe space to hang our clothes. I did not feel like facing the dining room in case someone, probably a woman, realised I wasn't a genetic woman, so we had a meal delivered to the room. Despite dozing on the train trips, we were both soon yawning, so I went into the ensuite, took off my clothes and had a refreshing shower to wash away the grime of the journey. When I appeared again in a full-length pink silk nightie, Jenny sketched a wolf whistle. I knew my cheeks were matching my nightie, but I was pleased none the less. Jenny then had her shower, and soon we were in bed and sound asleep.

To be continued

My appointment with Dr Brentwell was at 11 o'clock the next morning, and his rooms were a ten minute walk from the hotel. Jenny sensed my nervousness and said it wasn't worth exacerbating it by walking down the street, so we rang for a taxi.

The modern medical centre was a 'one stop shop' of medical services, with doctors covering many specialities, and most of the ancillary services such as radiology, physiotherapy, pathology, etc. We arrived there twenty minutes early, and as is the way with specialists, Dr Brentwell was thirty minutes late in starting my consultation, so we had plenty of time to go through the pile of magazines in the waiting room. I was interested to see that in addition to Vogue and Vanity Fair, there were some car and sports magazines, which struck me as unusual in a clinic specialising in gender reassignment, which I'd already discovered is overwhelmingly male to female. I even wondered if there was a secret camera to see what magazines patients picked up, and was this part of the test, but then decided I was being paranoid.

Eventually a pretty young woman emerged from a door off the waiting room. I guessed she was a patient and decided if I could get to look half as good as her I would be very happy indeed. Then a tall handsome man in a white coat emerged from the room. His hair was greying at the temples, and that only served to make him look distinguished. Why is that so when grey hair on a woman makes her look old? It hardly seems fair.

He picked up a folder and looked over to where Jenny and I were sitting and said “Miss Cobb?” I stood up and followed him into the room, the butterflies in my stomach now dancing a lively fandango. There was a large desk in the room, but also two comfortable armchairs and he sat in one and motioned me to the other.

“Welcome, Miss Cobb. I see you've been referred to me by Dr Carolyn Jenkins, your local GP at (he peered at his notes) Heyward's Crossing which I confess I've never heard of, as a case of gender dysphoria. As this is your first visit I will explain briefly how things work. I will do a comprehensive interview with you first, and if I am satisfied that you are a suitable candidate for reassignment, then we go on to a physical examination, and from there to prescribing hormonal therapy. The final stage is gender reassignment surgery. Essentially, up to the final stage the process is reversible if you should decide after all that this path is not for you.”

“I'm quite convinced in my mind that this is the path I wish to take.” I said.

He smiled “I've never heard anyone say otherwise, but I should tell you there have been a few instances of people who have gone through the entire process and afterwards decided that after all they wished to live as their birth gender. Now whereas we can provide you with a perfectly serviceable vagina, restoring a functioning penis is beyond us, so you can see that we do all we can to avoid such a situation.” I found myself blushing at his words. He saw this and smiled.

“You may think my speech unnecessarily forthright, but I have to tell you that before you achieve your goal you will have to strip naked both physically and mentally, holding nothing back. It's in your interest to do so.”

“I am in your hands, doctor,” I said in a small voice.

“Quite so,” he replied with a smile. “One more thing. I was in general practice for many years before deciding to specialise in Psychiatry, and I have kept up my certificate of general practice. This means that unlike many psychiatrists, I am able to give you a physical examination, take blood tests, check your blood pressure etc. However, if you prefer me to refer you to another GP for these things, I am quite happy to do so. If, or when we reach the stage of hormone therapy, then I will of course refer you to an endocrinologist to assess you and provide the necessary medication. There are two in this building that I work with, but if you prefer to see someone else, then again, that is quite acceptable to me. Some patients find it convenient to deal with various specialists whose rooms are so close together.

He then proceeded to take a really detailed history, starting from when I was very young, including the dress-ups with my cousin Marie; then going on to my arrival in Australia, meeting John, and of course the more recent events which had led me to seeking his help. At each stage he asked me how I felt, and sometimes he nodded and sometimes he seemed to frown, which worried me quite a bit.

“John, your partner, he fully supports you?”

“Oh yes!” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically, at which he smiled.

“And you've had intercourse with him since you started dressing as a woman full-time?”

I hesitated at this question, and he lowered the paper on which he was taking notes and stared earnestly at me.

“Miss Cobb, I know these are intimate questions, but it is essential that you answer them fully and truthfully. You have my word that nothing you say goes beyond the walls of this clinic. The only exception would be to medical colleagues involved with your treatment, but only with your express permission.”

I slowly let out my breath, “Yes, we have had intercourse, but I prefer to think of it as love-making.”

He smiled gently, “And that's exactly what it is. So if things are good, why not leave them the way they are?”

“I suppose it's because I do not feel fully a woman at this point in my life, and this I want above all else, both for myself and John. I know physical intimacy is only part of a relationship, but John is a widower, and I want there to come a time when we make love in the traditional way between a man and woman. There are other things too. We live on an isolated cattle station, which I suppose is an argument of keeping things as they are, but I want us to be able to go places together as man and wife, in fact, even if it cannot be legally. If we did that, I could not bear the thought of him being humiliated if someone realised that I was not all I claimed to be.”

“And what about your humiliation?” he said.

“That I could cope with, but not John's. I love him far too much to risk that.”

The consultation continued for some time more until eventually Dr Brentwell put his notepad down and leaned back in his chair looking at me.

“You've come a long way, and not just in the literal sense travelling from the outback. The path you wish to take is long and arduous, and at times you may feel discouraged, but I believe you can achieve your goal. Normally at this stage I would conclude the consultation and arrange to see you again in a month, but since you have come so far, and will need to do so many times in the future, if you are willing, I will give you a medical examination today and take blood for tests, so that we are that far ahead when I next see you. One thing I must stress is that this is not a guarantee that you will progress to hormone therapy any sooner. Is that understood?”

“Of course, doctor,” I said “And yes, please go ahead with the examination and the blood tests.”

“I see you have a companion waiting for you?”

“Yes, she's a dear friend who has agreed to come to Brisbane with me when I have appointments.”

“I'm very pleased to hear that.” he said “I'm sure she will be a great support.”

He led me into an adjoining room which contained a narrow examination bed, a couple of chairs and a portable screen.

“Please get undressed, put on a gown and lie on the bed,” he said as he left me to prepare.

The examination which followed was thorough, and while it involved close examination of my more intimate areas, I found that I was already more relaxed and less embarrassed. 'There'll be a lot more of this sort of thing, so you'd better get used to it.' I said to myself. It occurred to me that if I had been a genetic female, he would have asked a female member of staff to be present while he examined me, but since I wasn't, apparently this was not necessary.

Dr Brentwell then wheeled a small trolley to the bedside and proceeded to extract a large syringe of blood from my arm and put the contents into a number of plastic tubes with brightly coloured caps.

“So many tubes.” I murmured.

“So many tests,” he replied “The initial treatment involves powerful hormones, and we have to be sure that your body is in a fit state to deal with them. You are young and there's little chance of a problem, but we must be sure. The results of these tests will go to an endocrinologist, as well as to me. Are you happy for me to select one that I already work with?”

“Yes, please do, doctor,” I replied. “It will certainly be more convenient than running all over Brisbane, and in any case, I don't know any medical specialists here.”

After that I was told to get dressed, and when I came back into the consulting room and sat down, Dr Brentwell spoke again.

“There's one further thing I suggest you address right away. At present you are filling your bra cups with material as a temporary measure, but I think it would be good for you to acquire some silicone breast forms to use until such time as your own breasts begin to grow — that's assuming all is well and we can start you on hormones. The breast forms can be left in place for weeks at a time and they will not only look much better and make you feel better psychologically, but they apparently feel and react much like the real thing to the wearer. In this building there is a company that sells breast forms, primarily to women who have undergone mastectomy for breast cancer, but I have referred my patients there too, and without exception they have found them to be an ideal temporary solution. Would you like me to write you a note so that you can go there today to get fitted?

“Yes please, doctor,” I said enthusiastically. This was something I hadn't thought of and I embraced the idea at once.

He concluded the session by telling me to arrange with his secretary for another appointment in about a month. I walked out of the consulting room feeling like I was walking on air. As I walked towards the secretary's desk, I saw Dr Brentwell's next patient waiting there. She had a terrified 'rabbit in the headlights' look about her. It was obviously her first appointment too, but she was on her own, and without thinking I paused and said quietly.

“Don't worry. He's such a nice man, and so understanding.”

From somewhere she managed the ghost of a smile.

In consultation with Jenny, I arranged a mutually suitable time for my next appointment, and then paid the account, the size of which rather shocked me. Thank goodness I didn't have financial concerns.

As we left the consulting rooms, Jenny said “That was a really nice thing you did, speaking to that poor girl.”

“I really felt for her,” I replied. “She's a trainee girl too, and she was on her own. I am so lucky to have you with me.”

“Well now,” Jenny said, determined to brighten my mood. “How about some lunch, and then some retail therapy?”

“Oh yes,” I said, “but first I'm going to see about getting a pair of breasts!”

The building we were in was a medical specialists centre, so it made sense that all the ancillary services should also be located there. We travelled two floors down to the company that supplied prostheses of various types. I presented the note from Dr Brentwell to a woman in a white uniform seated behind a desk. She in turn summoned another young woman, also clad in white who took me into a room for fitting. I asked Jenny to come in too to provide advice and moral support. I was asked to strip to the waist, so that I could be assessed for a suitable size which looked natural for my height and build. A number of samples were brought out and held against my chest and the nurse and Jenny looked at them critically to see the effect. They varied in size, shape and colour, I must say they looked rather strange on their own, but I was assured that once in place they would look very natural.

Eventually a pair was decided upon, and I left the decision in the hands of the two women who had far more experience in that area than I did! I lay down on one of those narrow examination couches which always induce in me a fear of falling off. First the nurse cleansed my skin with alcoholic wipes to remove any perspiration or skin grease, and then she drew a fine line on my skin around the edge of each breast form in turn to ensure correct placement. Next, she attached several strips of double-sided tape to my skin. She applied some special adhesive just inside where the edges of the forms would sit, and also on the forms themselves. The outer cover of the adhesive tape was removed and she carefully placed the breast form in position with some steady and gentle pressure. The whole process was repeated for the second breast form.

I was then asked to sit up, and told to hold both forms in place for a minute or two to allow the adhesive set. The nurse carefully removed all traces of the guidelines and then disguised where the forms met my skin with some flesh coloured foundation. I was still holding my new 'breasts' in my hands as she did this, and they felt remarkably heavy. It was when she told me to let go of them, which I did very gingerly, that I saw their effect as they pulled my own skin into a cleavage. I finally got to see myself in a mirror and was almost speechless at the result. Now they were attached to me they looked so real, and matched my own skin so well it was hard to see where my skin ended and the breast form began.

The final act was to put on my bra once more, which I did with the help of Jenny and the nurse. Fortunately it was the right cup size for my new 'additions', and once they were safely ensconced, I felt more comfortable. Well, to be honest I felt wonderful. One thing I had not anticipated, since they were heavier than the material I previously used to fill the cups was that they shifted my centre of gravity which took a little getting use to. Once I settled the account and we left the building, I felt so elated I almost wanted to shout from the rooftops 'Look everyone, I've got breasts!'

We found a nice little café nearby and even a secluded table despite the lunchtime crush. There were too many people in earshot for me to tell Jenny all about my interview, so I confined my remarks to saying it went very well and I'd tell her about it later. Lunch over, we started down the street and visited a number of clothing stores, trying on skirts, dresses and tops amongst many giggles. I ended up buying quite a few of them, glad to have some modern clothes of my own. I also bought a couple of pairs of pants, but they were pants like I'd never worn before, and also two pairs of jeans. I probably spent too much, buying items that caught my eye, although John had given me a generous allowance and said before the trip “Have fun.” I could see that Jenny had fallen in love with a gorgeous dress, but when I said to her 'Buy it.” she demurred, saying it cost at least twice as much as she could afford. I was acutely aware that thanks to John I had access to far more money than she did. I was tempted to offer to buy it for her, but feared this would only emphasise the disparity, but I saw her looking longingly at it, and decided to take a risk.

“Why don't we go halves on that dress, and then I can borrow it sometimes?” I said “or isn't that the sort of thing girls do?”

Jenny laughed “I can see you weren't a teenage girl growing up with a sister! We borrowed each other's clothes all the time.”

“So it's a deal then?”

She wavered and then said “It's a deal.”

We left the store carrying numerous bags and giggling like schoolgirls. The next port of call was a lingerie store. Thanks to Mary, I had enough luxury lingerie to last me a lifetime, but I did need some basic cotton bras and pants, and I was nervous about going into such a shop on my own, especially to try on items in case they 'read' me and thought I was some sort of pervert. With Jenny by my side I felt much more secure. She came into the change rooms with me as I tried on several bras, confirming that they were suitable for my new breasts. You may wonder at my caution, but Brisbane in those days was a very conservative town in a very conservative State, and I wasn't prepared to take risks.

The train back to Rockhampton didn't leave for another five hours. Jenny's two teenage children were at boarding school there, so I had suggested we stop overnight, if she could arrange to see them during term time. The last train journey could be completed the following afternoon. She leapt at this chance of course, and in a couple of phone calls had arranged everything.

“You know, by the time the holidays finish I tell myself I'm glad to get some peace from them, but when they're gone and Tom's at work, the house is so quiet and empty,” she said with a quaver in her voice.

We were almost staggering along the footpath under the weight of our bags, and soon hailed a taxi to take us back to the hotel where our suitcases were stored. I had brought quite a large suitcase which was half empty, and proceeded to fill it up with all our purchases, gaining praise from Jenny for such forward thinking. We then set out again much more comfortably with the wheeled suitcases. I was feeling more confident as each hour passed without incident, and when Jenny stopped, and asked me with that amazing female intuition if there was anything else I wanted to do? I had something on my mind but was a little frightened to suggest it, but finally I did.

“Well, I would really like to get my eyebrows shaped and nails done, but I don't think it's possible this trip.”

“Why ever not?” said Jenny “We've still got four hours to fill in, and in fact we passed a beauty parlour a couple of minutes ago.” Did she think I hadn't noticed?

“Yes, but would they be willing for me to go in there?” I demurred.

“We can only ask. Come on,” she said, and suddenly it seemed a wish was turning into reality before I had a chance to change my mind. Jenny entered the shop while I waited nervously outside. I could see her talking to a young girl assistant, and once they both turned at looked at me. Then she came out again.

“They'd be happy to do your eyebrows and nails, and any other thing you want,” she said. “There's just one thing. You can either have them done in the salon, or they have a curtained off area which is more discreet if you wish.”

I promised myself I would remember things as they happened 'warts and all' as they say, for if I lie to myself, what hope is there for me? I blush to this day at my response, and I can't imagine why I said it. Perhaps I was just so hyped up with all that had happened that day.

“Is that so I don't embarrass them and their customers?” I snapped. I had never seen Jenny angry before, but she was angry now.

“Lesley!” she said “They were only thinking of you, as indeed you obviously are yourself.”

I was instantly contrite. In fact, I felt thoroughly humiliated. Blushing hotly, I said in a small voice “I'm so sorry Jenny. What must you think of me? I was only thinking of myself. I think I've been doing far too much of that lately. Please forgive me for being a boor.”

She softened immediately. “I think you've just proved you are human, and you have had a stressful day, so I'll forgive you. Come on, let's see what they can do for you.” She walked back into the salon, with me trailing behind feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who has just been scolded by her mother.

In the Australian Aboriginal culture there are certain ceremonies restricted to participation by one sex only. The female ones are often referred to as 'secret women's business'. I can't help thinking that a hair and beauty salon is the 'whitefella's' equivalent. I was entering a world of all things feminine. The staff couldn't have been kinder or more helpful. When Jenny asked them to do whatever they could for me in the three hours we now had to spare, they immediately took up the challenge with happy smiles, after acceding to my mumbled request for the curtained off area 'this time'.

In that time, they washed and trimmed my hair, shaped my eyebrows, waxed away those pesky beard hairs I didn't like to think about, and performed magic on my nails. They offered me nail extensions too but I felt these might be difficult to manage with the sort of work I was doing. When they finally showed me the result in the mirror, tears sprang into my eyes, I was so happy. I had never looked so feminine before. Jenny looked pleased too, as I had persuaded her that she should get her nails and eyebrows done at the same time.

“That's one small step for Lesley,” she said.

“One giant leap for womankind!” I finished. I paid the bill and added a generous tip, saying that as I had to come to Brisbane many more times, they would certainly be seeing me again. By now the events of the day were catching up with me so we took a taxi to the station, and I slept all the way to Rockhampton in the train.

To be continued

We took a taxi straight to our hotel and were soon fast asleep. Next morning, Jenny was up early, excited to see her children. She politely invited me to come along, but I declined, saying that it was her time with her children,and I would be quite happy resting in our room and trying on my new purchases. When she finally returned around one o'clock, I detected a slight smearing of her mascara which suggested she'd shed a tear or two on parting from them.

Our final train journey started at three o'clock, heading westwards toward the sun. As the old train rattled and rolled along the tracks I said to Jenny that I was so glad to have 'proper', albeit artificial breasts, at least for the time being, and I told her a story. Like most people in my position, I filled my bra cups with rolled up stockings or other material, but I never felt the effect was totally satisfactory. Then I had the idea of putting rice in the stockings to give weight to my bra and that felt far more realistic, but there was always the risk of an embarrassing spill., and now that the event was long past, this is a story I shared with Jenny.

I had always prided myself on having tea ready to put on the table when John came home after a hard day's work. After all that's what a wife should do for her husband, old-fashioned though it may seem to today's generation. On this particular day, John had just stabled his horse and gone to freshen up, and I had gone briefly outdoors for some reason when I was caught by an unexpected short sharp shower of rain which drenched me before I had a chance to run in under the verandah. My dress was soaked, so I hurried into my dressing room to remove it, quickly towel myself and run a brush through my hair before putting on a fresh dress, and hurrying back to the kitchen.

I appeared in the dining room with the main course just as John sat down, and we started to eat and discuss the day's events. It was a few minutes before I noticed something odd. My chest area was pushing against the edge of the table, something I was sure wasn't the case a few minutes earlier. I eased my chair back slightly and carried on chatting with John. A few minutes later, there it was again, my chest hard up against the table. I glanced down and it seemed to me my breasts were growing before my eyes. John appeared not to notice anything was amiss. I stuck it out for a couple more minutes, before, with a scarlet face I stood up abruptly and gasped.

“I'm sorry John, you'll have to excuse me.” and dashed out of the room to the safety of my dressing room. What I hadn't anticipated with the shower was that water had seeped through my bra, and we all know what effect water has on rice! By the time I removed the offending articles my 'breasts' were well on the way to Double D or bigger. I dried myself thoroughly, put on another bra, filled the cups with rolled up stockings and after checking that my face was approaching its normal colour, I demurely returned to the dining room and sat down.

“Everything alright, dear?” inquired John, and I assured him that everything was fine.

We carried on eating for a few more minutes, and then he looked up and with a perfectly straight face said, “So, are we having rice pudding for desert?”

I was glad we had the compartment to ourselves as Jenny rolled around with shrieks of laughter, and I couldn't help but join her.

The sun was getting low on the horizon when we arrived at Crane's Halt where Tom was waiting for us with his truck.

“Crikey, you two girls look like you had a good time,” he drawled, as he saw us alight with our suitcases and a couple of extra carry bags. Jenny leapt into his arms for a kiss, and then turning to me he said “And who's this glamorous girl you've brought back with you?”

“Oh Tom, you old smoothie,” I retorted as I kissed him on the cheek, but I was secretly pleased he'd seen the change in my appearance.

As he went to pick up my suitcase he pretended it was too heavy for him.

“Jeez, what have you two girls being buying, a load of bricks?”

“Just a few things so we look nice for our men,” I retorted, and he laughed as he effortlessly lifted it into his truck. We piled into the cabin and set off for the station, arriving there just as the last sliver of sun set behind the hills.

Such a contrast to my first arrival in Tom's truck. This time instead of standing aloofly at the top of the steps, John was immediately beside the truck and opening the door to help me down. He retrieved my case and bags, and we stood arm in arm as we waved Jenny and Tom goodbye. They still had an hour's drive to their home.

Then he held me at arms length and said, “I don't know what they did to you in Brisbane but you look absolutely amazing.“

I blushed of course, but I was so pleased that my man could see the difference in me, even if he couldn't exactly put his finger on how I had changed. Then he picked up my case, and like Tom, pretended to stagger under the weight.

“My, you have been having a good time.”

I felt bad and said “Oh John, I'm so sorry, I went a bit mad. I'll take most of it back on my next trip.”

“Well at least let me see the fashion show first,” he said.

Over supper, I gave him a detailed account of our trip, what the doctor had said, and how encouraged I felt, and of course my new breasts and beauty treatment. Well my account wasn't totally detailed as I omitted the 'dummy spit' outside the beauty salon, as I still felt so ashamed.

Later still, John sat in his chair and watched me do an impromptu fashion parade of my purchases.

“I'll take some back next time, I promise,” I said, feeling so guilty at spending all that money, but it was so typical of John that he replied. ”And deprive me of seeing how pretty you look wearing your new clothes?”

“You are such a sweet man,” I said “and I've taken advantage of your generosity, so I promise that on future trips I will be much more restrained.” I'm glad to say I kept that promise.

Later still, cuddled up in bed, surrounded by his strong arms, and after hearing his compliments about my new 'assets', I made up my mind and said in a small voice, “I have to honest with you. Something happened in Brisbane, John.” He looked at me with something approaching alarm or was it fear?

“It's not about us John,” I said hurriedly, and then I went on to tell him about my little tantrum outside the parlour.

“He started to laugh, which for some reason made me feel cross, since I'd been steeling myself to tell him about this 'big incident' and he didn't seem to take it seriously at all.

“What you did only proves that you are human like the rest of us. I thought for a moment you were going to tell me you'd met someone else, someone closer to your own age instead of an old man like me, and that you didn't want to live out here any more.

“Oh no, I never want to live anywhere else but here — with you!” I cried, flinging my arms around him. “This is my world and I love it. I love you.” Then stupidly I started to cry. He held me in his arms, rocking me like a child until I stopped. Later, I began to see the whole episode from his point of view. I really had blown it up out of all proportion in my mind.

“Darling,” I said “I've been thinking. Do you very much mind living with a drama queen?”

“Only so long as she's my drama queen.”he replied.

Later still, he showed me once more why he was and always will be the centre of my world.

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During my first two years in Australia, and indeed for many years thereafter, I kept up a regular correspondence with my parents back in England. These were the days before email of course, and even 'air letters' as we called them, took close to two weeks to travel between the two countries. Allowing time for writing back, none of us expected a reply within four or five weeks of writing. Years later I was to read my letters again when they were presented to me, carefully stored by my mother in chronological order in cardboard boxes. Rereading them was like a trip back into my past, and I feel for people today now that email has largely replaced the written word. How many of them are deleted, and insights to the past lost? Reading those letters, I could see how rapidly my early bouts of loneliness were replaced by love of my new country. Buried deep within the text I can also see my growing love for John, but did my mother see that too, or did she put my glowing reports of him down to youthful hero-worship?

My parents expected me to complete my two years in Australia and return to England, and with nine months to go, my mother was already enquiring when I would start booking my ticket on the ship. Not knowing how to reply, since by now I was quite sure that I would not live in England again, I chose not to reply to that part of her letter. Three months passed and now Mum was starting to get insistent, and I knew I could not put off a reply much longer. It was going to be difficult enough to tell her I intended to stay in Australia, but how could I approach telling her that the son she had waved off to Australian was rapidly changing into her daughter?

I spend nights lying awake trying to think of a solution that would convince my parents that I wanted this for myself and wasn't under the influence of John as an 'evil Svengali'. Then I had a brain-wave. My cousin Marie! If anyone could understand, she could. Surely she remembered our 'dress-ups' when I was a teenager, and the fun we had together? But could she explain to two very conservative parents the concept of transgender, which would seem totally alien to them? Perhaps they would think that I wanted to become some sort of Danny La Rue, probably the most famous drag artist and comedian of that era. I shuddered at the thought.

I had sent Marie a couple of postcards — the usual ones with pictures of koalas or kangaroos, and a brief note to say I was enjoying my time 'down-under', but now I would have to send her one of the most important letters of my life. So the following morning I sat down to write, frankly describing almost everything that had happened, but omitting the fact that John and I now shared a bed. She could probably work that out for herself anyway. John had asked to take a few pictures of me after I had returned from my first appointment in Brisbane, and I had had the film developed and some prints made at a shop which promised quick service. John wanted me to 'dress up' for the photos, but I was anxious that anyone who saw the photos in our album in the future would not mistake me for a 'drag queen', so instead I wore a simple cotton dress and minimal make-up, although I did curl my hair which had now grown quite long. It occurred to me that these pictures would serve to convince my parents if anything could, that I was quite serious about the path I was taking.

I asked Marie in the letter if she would be willing to visit my parents, explain my situation and show them the photos? Photographs were very different in those days, being black and white and usually quite small in size, but I hoped they would be sufficient to show my present appearance and that I was definitely not a southern 'Danny La Rue'! I knew it was asking a lot of Marie, since I also suggested she tell them of our 'dress-ups' as a way of convincing them that I had had feminine inclinations from an early age. I knew that they might blame her for allowing it to happen, and also for not telling them, so I suggested that she should say she didn't want to worry them at that time and allowed me to do it as a way of 'getting it out of my system'. I concluded by saying that I would give her four weeks, time to make up her mind what to do, and I would not hold it against her if she didn't want to get involved. Then I would telephone her to find out what had happened.

I re-wrote the letter several times, each time fine-tuning it and was about to start on my fifth version which I realised that I was now only doing so to put off the action of actually posting it. I put the letter in the envelope, together with the photos, and gave it to Tom when he called the following day. Then of course I had to wait. Because I couldn't count on the security of the telephone line and the possibility of someone listening in, I waited until my next visit to Brisbane to telephone Marie. It was early in the morning when I rang because it would be evening in England and I would most likely catch Marie at home. The operator took the number, and there were various clicks and noises on the line as I waited. Calling overseas in those days was a big deal and very expensive, so it was reserved for important occasions, and to me this was one of the most important I could imagine. Finally I heard the operator say 'Putting you through' and then I heard Marie's voice.

“Lesley, is that you? I can't believe we are actually talking, how are you?”

“I'm fine Marie, how are you?” I had to resist the temptation to say 'enough of the small-talk, we've only got five minutes' but perhaps she realised that because she did get straight to the point.

“Your timing is perfect because I spoke to your mother only two days ago.”

“Was Dad there too?”

“No he wasn't, but perhaps that's just as well. I get the impression he's even more conservative that your mother!”

I laughed. “You could say that. But how did Mum take it?”

“Well, she was shocked of course. First that you are thinking of staying in Australia, and of course by your news and the pictures. I must say you look very nice though, and of course I remember those fun times we had dressing up.”

“Do you think she will totally reject me?” I said urgently, her reply so important to me.

“I'm sure she won't, in fact they won't I'm sure. You are their only child no matter how you chose to live your life.”

“The difference now, though, is that while back then I was a boy dressing up as a girl, now, however I dress, I know I am a woman.”

“I understand that, Lesley, but it will be a tall order to convince your parents.”

“Well thank you for paving the way Marie. At this point I need to write them a letter and follow it up with a phone call to them. I can tell you though that I've never been more sure of something in my whole life, so even if they disowned me, although I'd be devastated, this is something I must do.”

“Will I ever see you again?” said Maire, and she sounded a bit disconsolate.

“I'm sure you will,” I replied. ”John really wants to see England. He still calls it the 'Mother Country', and I'm sure that at a suitable point in my treatment, together with the work on the Station here, we'll get over there.”

“It sounds an amazing place where you live,” Marie said wistfully.

“It is, and if you can ever get yourself over here for a visit, you know there's a bed waiting for you.”

At that point the operator interrupted to say we had thirty seconds left, so we said our 'goodbyes' and hung up, but before we did so I cautioned Marie to never mention my transitioning should she ever have cause to ring me at the Station. She sounded a bit shocked to think that people might listen in, but I assured her it did happen.

I sat looking at the phone for some time. Now it was time to write to my parents, and afterwards make that difficult phone call. I started on my letter the next day, and this one went through even more drafts before I was satisfied. In it I set out as clearly as I could what I now felt, both about how I wished to live my life and the fact I knew my future lay in Australia. I did not go into details about the surgery I hoped to undertake, nor about the domestic arrangements between John and I. I did not want to give them too much information to deal with that this stage. I included one more picture — in my opinion the one that brought out my femininity the best. I also told them that I would love to see them again as soon as it was possible, and that I would ring them once they had time to digest the contents of my letter. I was still shaking as I watched Tom's truck disappear in a cloud of dust, carrying my letter.

It was another month before I could make that phone call from Brisbane in the late evening. I confess I was calculating in that I timed it so that it was morning in England and my father would be at work, but my mother, a creature of habit, would almost certainly be in the middle of her housework. It wasn't that I was avoiding Daddy, but he was a dominant character, and if they were fighting over who should talk to me that would waste much of my precious five minutes. I also felt I might get a more sympathetic response from my mother and that would stand me in good stead. I went through the usual operator connecting procedure, my heart racing, and then suddenly, there she was.

“Lesley, is that you?” her voice quavered and then steadied as she continued,”Of course it is, who else would ring me from Australia?”

“Yes Mum, it's me,” I replied, and felt the tears well up, but I had to stay in control.

“Oh darling, it's so good to hear your voice, and I promise I won't cry this time.” This was in reference to my phone call last Christmas where I barely heard a word from her in between sobs, and then of course Dad had to say a few words, so it seemed like a wasted exercise.

“You've had my letter and seem my photos, Mummy (Mummy? Where did that come from?). I know it must be almost impossible for you to understand, but believe me, this is the real me now, and I could never go back to living the way I was.”

“You're right darling, it is hard for us to understand, but we will try.”

“I've changed in so many ways. I've grown up now. I actually manage the running of the homestead for John as well as doing the books and he says I do a really good job.”

“I know that dear,” Mum replied. “About a year ago, your father went to see Mr Jenner. We never really believed you went to Australia of your own accord, and finally, Joseph got the truth out of him about your 'indiscretion'.” I could feel myself blushing hotly. This was something I was never going to be allowed to forget.

“But that was me then, not the 'me' now.” I protested.

“We know that now, darling,” Mum went on, “Mr Brodie wrote a letter to Mr Jenner about a year ago, thanking him for sending you out there. He said you were efficient, organised, and totally honest, and he could not have asked for a better person to help him. He also said that you had voluntarily extended your duties well beyond what was required of you, and even managed the running of the homestead. Dad saw the letter.”

I was still blushing, but it was from pleasure now, not shame. I hadn't known about that letter John wrote, and I knew it dated from before our crisis when everything changed, so that had had no bearing on his thoughts at the time.

“You say you are going to live in Australia,” Mum went on “Does that mean we'll never see you again?”

“Oh, I hope not,” I cried. “John desperately wants to see Britain, so I'm sure we'll pay a visit. But it would mean nothing to me unless we can visit you.”

“I'm so glad,” she replied. “Just give me time to get used to the idea that the next time I see my child she will be my daughter.”

“What about Daddy?” I asked.

“You leave him to me darling, and by the way, it was clever of you to ring now while he's at work.”

My mother was no fool, and she was a determined woman. I had no doubt she would work on my father to convince him to accept me as his daughter.

I was blushing again. “I wasn't really to avoid him,” I said, “but we have so little time on this call and couldn't have said half the things we've said if two people were trying to talk to me. I promise I'll ring again one evening your time and talk to him too. Just tell me in a letter when he starts to come to terms with my news.”

We had our thirty second warning and made our 'goodbyes'. I told her I loved her, and she said she loved me. When I put the phone down, then there was time for tears, and I had no doubt at all that they were being shed twelve thousand miles away too.

After a few minutes I composed myself and returned to our hotel room where Jenny was reading a book. My tears were gone but there was no hiding the redness of my eyes.

"How did it go?" she asked, her face full of concern.

“As well as can be expected I suppose,” I replied “But I have hope it will turn out alright, I have to.”

To be continued.

The morning after I telephoned my mother from Brisbane, I went for my next appointment with Dr Brentwell. This was my third appointment with him, and I still felt nervous. I was hoping against hope that he might give me the longed for news that I could start on hormones. At the back of my mind though was a little voice whispering that he might never say that, and instead would tell me that in his opinion I would never achieve the degree of womanhood that I sought, and it might be better to stop now. I would rather he said nothing than say that. Once more I felt myself shaking as I stood up and followed him into his consulting room. I had dressed carefully for the occasion. It was warm, and I was wearing a yellow cotton dress with a flower pattern. I wore small gold earrings (Jenny had kindly pierced my ears previously), and a small gold pendant around my neck. The set was a gift from John, and I loved wearing it, especially at times like this, as it made me feel closer to him. I was anxious to look feminine, but had a fear of going 'over the top' and looking like a drag queen. Jenny assured me I had nothing to worry about. I sat in the big armchair, carefully spreading and smoothing my skirt. Dr Brentwell, glanced down at his notes, and then looked up and smiled.

“So, it's been a month since our first meeting. How have things been going?”

“Very well, I think,” I replied. “As you know, after my first appointment with you I went to obtain the breast forms as you suggested, and while I don't know how real breasts would feel of course, I think they are a good substitute, certainly better than stuffing my bra with stockings. I found that the extra weight of them made me adjust my posture and I'm told that I walk in a more feminine way now. I also went to a beauty parlour where they did some work on me, and I was very pleased with the results. All in all, these changes have given me a huge confidence boost.”

“You should be very happy with your progress,” he said. “You had already made a good start in presenting as a female when I first saw you, but I see significant progress month by month.”

Our conversation continued for about thirty minutes, and I was soon relaxed and speaking to him openly and freely of all that was happening in my life.

“Is there anything bothering you?” he said.

“Only one thing, and perhaps it's stupid, but since I'm undergoing such a profound change in my life, I'm concerned that I might become too self-absorbed and neglect the people around me.”

“That's a very perceptive and mature thing to say,” he said. “It's an easy thing to do, but the fact you are aware of it means that you can guard against it.”

We carried on chatting for a few more minutes and I sensed that he wasn't going to bring up the subject of hormone therapy this time. Perhaps I had been to impatient, after all, it was only my third visit. Finally he asked me if there was anything more I would like to say. I hesitated, and then blurted out

“I'm probably out of line in mentioning this, but at the first visit to see you I was very frightened.”

“It's natural to fear the unknown,” he replied.

“Yes, but I saw the girl who had the appointment after me and she looked absolutely terrified. I can't get the look on her face out of my mind.”

“Miss Cobb, you've heard of patient confidentiality. I can no more discuss another patient with you, than I could you with another patient.”

He wasn't admitting to anything, but I knew that out of all the patients he must have seen, he knew exactly who I was talking about.

“I tried to offer her some words of reassurance, but I doubt if she even heard me,” I went on and stopped, feeling that at any moment he would order me out of his office.

“Miss Cobb, let me assure you that we treat everyone equally here, and always do our very best for them as I'm sure you are aware.”

He half smiled then and said “I am in danger of breaking my own rules now, but your gesture did you credit, and yes, she did hear you. And now, if you'd like to see my secretary, I'll see you again in another month.”

I stood up and smoothed out my skirt. “Thank you doctor. I'll try not to be so indiscreet again.”

I never did see that young woman in Dr Brentwell's rooms again. By chance or design? I'll never know. I paid my account and said to Jenny, “Lunch, beauty parlour and shopping?” and Jenny nodded her head in vigorous agreement.

We returned to the beauty parlour outside which I'd had my mini-meltdown. I felt the best way was to face it and get over it. The girls there were lovely, welcoming us both with open arms, and they escorted me to a chair in the main salon without even mentioning the 'discreet area'. I was secretly pleased that they had no qualms that I would 'frighten the horses'. Jenny was ushered into the next chair, and after an hour of pampering, we let feeling marvellous and headed for the shops.

We both tried on a number of outfits of course. I had taken to clothes shopping like the proverbial 'duck to water'. I finally settled on a lovely skirt, keeping my promise to John that I would be much more restrained in my shopping this time. Jenny chose a beautiful green cotton dress that contrasted wonderfully with her red hair. I knew she had agonised over the price, and when she finally made up her mind and moved to the counter, I pulled out my purse.

“No, Lesley, you've been too generous. This is getting embarrassing.” she protested. I feared this might happen, but I had a trump card.

“It's not me paying this time Jenny, it's John. When I left yesterday I was under strict instructions to pay for something on John's behalf as his personal 'thank you' gift for all that you've done for me. If you don't let me pay, then I will be in terrible trouble when I get back. He might even put me over his knee and spank me!”

“And you'd hate that of course,” said Jenny, and we both giggled like schoolgirls.

“I'm sure I can think of something else to make him do it,” I said between gasps of laughter.

“You know we are both very lucky women,” said Jenny, suddenly serious “We have two of the most wonderful men in the world.”

“I know, and we'll never take them for granted,” I replied.

Another month flew by. There is always plenty to do on a cattle station, so I certainly wasn't sitting around counting down the days to my trips to Brisbane, although as the day grew closer, a certain amount of excitement inevitably built up inside me. Would this be the month Dr Brentwell finally gave me the news I longed to hear, or had he already sensed what an impatient person I was, so was testing me to see if I could control myself. I did my very best to stay calm, since there was nothing I could do about it, and made up my mind whatever happened, I would not be the one to bring up the subject of hormones.

For this trip I wore a very pretty pink skirt with a white cotton blouse, and my 'lucky charm' ear-rings and pendant from John. I wore stockings, and shoes with three inch heels now that I was thoroughly adjusted to my 'breasts' and the change they had made to my 'centre of gravity'. I took special care with my make-up and hair as usual. At least after that first marathon clothes buying session I knew that my attire did not scream 'country' and that I blended in very nicely with all the other Brisbane women. This was the object of the exercise of course — to be 'invisible'. When I look back at all the trouble I took for my visits to Dr Brentwell, was I subconsciously flirting with him and trying to use 'womanly wiles' to get him to do what I wanted? If so, I'm sure he was well aware of it, and it might have even counted in my favour as a further step on my road to womanhood.

Once more he complimented me on the way my appearance as a woman was improving at each session, and we discussed how I was finding living as a woman, which of course for me was exactly as I wanted to live. We carried on chatting for a few more minutes, until he finally put down his notes and looked straight at me.

“I know you are desperately awaiting my decision concerning hormone therapy, and I will not keep you on tenterhooks. In view of our discussions, the way you now present, and the results of your blood tests, I'm happy to tell you that I am recommending that you commence on hormone therapy immediately.” He wrote a note on a piece of paper and said, “You can take this to Dr Hall now if you like. He is expecting you in about thirty minutes."

Whatever my inclinations might be, I knew it would not be appropriate to throw my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, no matter how much I felt like it. Instead I managed to gasp, with tears in my eyes

“Thank you so much doctor, you know I've been longing to hear you say that.”

“I notice that your friend Mrs Green has come with you again. Would you like to invite her come in here and learn your news?”

“Oh yes, doctor.” I walked out to the waiting room and asked Jenny to come with me. She told me later that seeing the tears in my eyes, she feared for a moment that I had bad news, and that she was required for moral support. Dr Brentwell was 'old school', and stood as Jenny entered the room.

He waited until she had taken a chair beside me facing his desk and said “Good morning Mrs Green, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Now would you like to tell Mrs Green your news Lesley?”

I looked at Jenny and said,. “It's wonderful news, Jenny, I'm going on hormones.”

Jenny beamed “I so pleased for you, Lesley." and then looking at Dr Brentwell “I'm sure you know how much she was counting on hearing that.”

“I have no doubt in my mind that Lesley will complete her transition, should she choose to do so. In my experience, my clients who have support from their family and friends transition more quickly and more successfully than those who do not. I'm sure that as her principal female friend, you are playing a significant role in her progress.”

Now it was Jenny's turn to blush as she said, “I feel privileged to help in any way I can.”

“Lesley,” said Dr Brentwell, “Would you mind if I spoke to Mrs Green privately for a few minutes?”

I was puzzled but said “Not at all. I'll wait for you outside, Jenny”, and I went to the receptionist to pay the account.

“What was all that about?” I quizzed Jenny when she appeared a few minutes later.

“There's no secret,” she replied. “He wanted to get a non-family perspective of how you were going, and I reassured him on that account. He also warned me that when you start the hormones, you will be going through a phase like puberty, and I should be prepared for possible tantrums and emotional outbursts at times.”

I now had an appointment with Dr Hall, the endocrinologist, and didn't want to be late in case he was busy. A man in his sixties, he was also 'old school', and I could see why he and Dr Brentwell worked so well together. He ran through the results of my blood tests, which of course meant little to me, although I was pleased to hear my haemoglobin was good.

“In summary, all these results are good, so I am ready to start you on hormone therapy. You will be taking Oestradiol, a female hormone of course, and the result of this should be to gradually drop your testosterone level to a normal level for females. It may surprise you to learn that females have a measurable amount of testosterone in their system, just as men have some oestrogen in their bodies too. I will have to monitor your levels with blood tests, initially once a month, and then at less frequent intervals if all is going well. You have already been warned that you may encounter mood swings as a result of this medication changing your blood hormone levels. This is quite usual, but if you have any serious concerns, you are welcome to ring me at any time. You will encounter a number of physical changes over time, including natural growth of your breasts, softening of your skin, and a redistribution of body fat. One bonus is that it protects you from heart and blood vessel disease which is why women on average live five years longer than men.” He handed me a card with his name and phone numbers on it.

“I know you've already had blood tests taken, but I would like another baseline testosterone level to be taken before you start the oestrogen. There is a pathology collection centre just down the hall. The results will go to me as well as Dr Brentwell. He can monitor you and refer you to me if there is anything unusual happening.”

Finally, he wrote out a prescription in that indecipherable scribble all doctors must learn at medical school, and my appointment was over. I had noticed that there was a pharmacy strategically located in a building with so many medical specialists, and in no time, I was leaving with the precious box of medication.

I paid my account and said to Jenny, “Beauty parlour, lunch and shopping?”

We walked down the street and entered the parlour chatting to each other only to be met with looks of dismay from the staff.

“Mrs Green, Miss Cobb, I'm so sorry. There has been a mix-up with our bookings, and we only have one vacancy at this time. Is it possible for one of you to come back in an hour?”

Jenny wanted her hair cut, whereas I was only going to have my eyebrows and nails done, so I insisted that she go first, and I would do a little window shopping and come back later. I walked down the street, gazing in the shop windows, especially the clothes shops of course, and carefully avoiding the temptation to go inside them. I reached a point where a narrow road, more of an alley I suppose, led off the busy main street, and a sign high on the wall pointed to a jewellers. What girl can resist jewellery?

It was unusually quiet in the alley as I gazed into the brightly lit window and the baubles it contained. The voice behind, startled me. It was loud and ugly.

“Girly likes pretty things, does she?”

I slowly lifted my head and saw the reflection in the glass. Three coarse-looking youths were standing behind me. This did not feel good.

The ringleader tried again. “Show us yer tits and I might buy yer something.”

I slowly turned around with the idea of running into the shop but now I realised there were four of them, and one had strategically placed himself in front of the door. I tried to stay calm and think. Surely someone in the shop would come out and help me or at least call the police? The alley was still empty. I did not speak. My voice was quite feminine, but if I gave them the slightest hint that I was transgender, that would only make a bad situation infinitely worse. Where were the police? Surely they should be here by now? The boys were inching closer, and I didn't like the look in their eyes as they started to chant “Show us yer tits. Show us yer tits.” Their eyes bulged, and they were sweating badly, perhaps they weren't as brave as they were making out.

Salvation came in the form of a distant siren. I have no idea if it was police, ambulance of fire brigade, but I looked over their heads down the empty alley and gasped “Thank God! The police at last!”

They all spun around and in that instant, I slipped off my shoes and ran for my life.

To be continued.

Adrenaline is surely one of the most amazing hormones. It's a major component of the 'fight or flight response' and there was not doubt which one was the right one for me. I was young, slim and fit and I had the advantage of a few precious seconds of surprise. I heard roars of frustration and oaths behind me, and the sound of heavy boots running. One of my shoes clattered on the tarmac beside me, but I didn't turn my head. I heard a crash as one of them slipped and fell sprawling with a string of obscenities, but I didn't look back. Safety was twenty yards, ten yards, and then I was back on the main street, and I ran on, oblivious to the curious stares of the passers-by. I gradually slowed up and checked behind me. There was no sign of them. I carried on walking in my torn stockings until I reached the beauty parlour.

“Goodness miss, whatever happened to you?” said one of the staff with great concern.

“I had a bit of trouble,” I said, my heart still pounding.

Jenny spun around, concern all over her face, and I had to sit down beside her and tell her the story, while someone brought me a cup of hot tea. Amazing the restorative powers of tea. Once I felt I had recovered, Jenny insisted that I take the time to have my eyebrows and nails done as I had intended, and it's true the pampering I received really did me good in making me relax. One of the girls found me a pair of stockings and some slip-on flat shoes. I confess I had tears in my eyes at their kindness.

When all was completed, Jenny said “Right. I think we should go back to the scene of the crime.”

“Must we?“ I said, suddenly nervous again “Supposing they're still there?”

“They won't be,” said Jenny “Look, it's like falling off a horse, you have to get straight back on again, and anyway I want to speak to that shop-keeper.”

There were people in the alley now, so it felt quite safe. We found my shoes without difficulty where the boys had thrown them after me, and apart from a few scuff marks they were undamaged. Jenny sailed into the jewellery store like a cruiser going into battle. A man in his fifties, balding with a small moustache stood behind the counter.

“Good afternoon, madam.” I was standing behind Jenny and he did not immediately see me.

“Good afternoon Mr....?”

“Cyril Watkins at your service.”

“I see Mr Watkins, but you were not at the service of my friend when she was bailed up in front of your window about an hour ago.”

She stepped aside so Mr Watkins could see me. He visibly turned pale.

“I'm not sure that I did see her.”

“Come, come, Mr Watkins,” Jenny spoke as to a dimwitted child, “Unless you are in the habit of leaving your counter unattended, which I doubt very much, then I don't see how you could have missed her?”

“Err, I thought they were her friends.”

“Her friends?” Jenny sounded outraged. “Does she look the sort of young woman who would have friends like that?”

“I, err, well, err.” Mr Watkins was floundering and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.

“There were four of them and one of you, so I wouldn't necessarily expect you to go out and confront them, but you would have called the police of course?” Jenny had a steely glint in her eye now. “You did call the police didn't you?”

Mr Watkins face had changed from white to red and was now a curious mottled colour. “Well, the fact is I didn't really feel...”

Jenny cut him off. “So you didn't call the police and as a result you could have been partially responsible for a serious assault taking place. It was all down to the quick thinking of my friend that she escaped relatively unscathed.” She glanced down at his left hand which bore a wedding ring. “I can only hope that if any female members of your family find themselves in a similar position, that they can rely of receiving better assistance than you gave my friend today. Someone once said “All that is necessarily for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” I hope you remember that Mr Watkins. Come along Lesley.” And with that we left the shop.

As Jenny sailed up the alley, the battle won, I looked at her in genuine awe. “Jenny, you were magnificent!”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far, but I think I got my message through. Now you, young lady, what did you learn today?”

“A lesson you taught me before to 'be aware of my surroundings' I don't think I'll ever forget that one again. It seems unfair that women cannot walk the streets as safely as men.”

“Yes it does,” said Jenny, “but we have to deal with the world as it is, not as we would like it to be.”

Back at the Station, I had warned John about the possible effects of the hormones on my emotions, and promised to do my best to be aware and keep them under control. He promised to be understanding if I seemed unreasonable at times. Of course I never was unreasonable — in my eyes that is, but then that's part of the problem, we don't always see ourselves as others see us. Later, when I quizzed John, he reluctantly said that there were occasions when he was sorely tempted to put me over his knee and spank me, and I said “Well why didn't you? I would have enjoyed that!” And we both laughed.

The following month and the one after, Jenny and I went to Brisbane again. Dr Brentwell expressed satisfaction that my testosterone level had dropped considerably after the first month of hormone therapy. The following month it rose slightly, which concerned me, but he wasn't worried.

“That often happens,” he explained “It will almost certainly drop next time, and if it doesn't, I'll send you back to Dr Hall, who will probably increase your dose slightly."

Jenny and I had fallen into a routine with my Brisbane visits, and I was busy packing my suitcase the night before our next trip when the telephone rang. It was Jenny, and she sounded quite distressed.

“It's Tom,” she said, “The silly man had gone and broken his arm.”

“Oh Jenny, I'm so sorry to hear that,” I replied “Where is he now?”

“The local nurse has called the Flying Doctor Service and they're going to take him to the hospital in Townsville.”

“And you're going with him of course?”

“Well that's the problem,” she replied, sounding very upset. “I know you rely on me to go to Brisbane with you....”

Mindful of possible listeners to our call, I chose my words carefully. “Jenny, please slow down and take a deep breath. I'm sure I am quite capable of making the trip on my own. You know how much I enjoy our shopping trips together to Brisbane, but right now, Tom must be your priority.”

Jenny obviously got my coded message because she replied. “You are right of course. I'll pack a small case and go with Tom to Townsville.” She hesitated for a moment and then said, “If you enjoy doing this trip on your own, then maybe you won't need me to come with you anymore?”

“Nonsense,” I replied “I probably wouldn't bother to go tomorrow but I've got some things to pick up. It won't be nearly so much fun without you. Now you concentrate on Tom and make sure he gets well soon so that we can go to Brisbane together next month.”

She laughed softly now, and it was good to hear.

“You are so right of course. It's funny how someone outside a problem can see a solution much more clearly than someone in the middle of it. As for Brisbane next month — it's a date.”

To be honest, I didn't feel nearly as confident as I made out to Jenny, but it was true that sooner or later I had to take the plunge and go out solo into the world. It had now been forced upon me, earlier than I really wanted, but I wasn't going to cancel my psychiatrist’s appointment or he might think I was having a change of heart.

The train to Rockhampton was unusually empty, and I had a compartment to myself for most of the way, but of course things were different for the train trip on to Brisbane. I had dressed in a conservative skirt and blouse, and looked just what I was, a country woman coming down to the 'Big Smoke' as we called it. As a result, everyone ignored me and went about their own business, with the single exception of a shy-looking young lad who ventured a tentative smile in my direction which I studiously ignored. It did my confidence a power of good though to realise that someone thought I was attractive enough to make the beginnings of an approach to me.

My appointment with Dr Brentwell went very well, and he seemed impressed that I had carried on with my trip to Brisbane alone. He laughed when I explained about our insecure telephone lines and how we sometimes had to talk in code to avoid giving the local busybodies some gossip to relay.

“I can see you are gaining in confidence,” he said, “And why not? You are very passable as a woman now, and providing you conduct yourself as other women do, you should have no problems. In that regard, I should stress again that women need to be more vigilant than men regarding their personal safety. No wandering down dark alleys late at night!” That struck a chord with me and I told him about the incident with the four youths outside the jewellery store and how it had made me much more cautious now.

This time I also saw Dr Hall and he had good news too, in that my testosterone level had fallen again and was now within the normal range for a female. That made me feel very good indeed. I had been seeing subtle changes in my body over the last three months as the hormones started to take effect — softer skin, and a definite slight increase in my own breast tissue, although it probably wouldn't be visible to anyone else.

I stayed in the usual hotel, and visited the girls at the salon before returning home the following day. They all asked after Jenny. She had such a lovely personality, that she left an indelible impression wherever she went.

Later I heard the story of how Tom came to break his arm. He'd had a particularly heavy crate on board his truck, and no-one to help him lift it off, so of course he tried it himself, it slipped and he tried to catch it. Fortunately his cries of pain did attract attention or he might have been lying there for some time.

“I still think I'm eighteen and bullet proof,” he said with a sigh when I called over to see him. “Jenny threatens to divorce me if I do anything so stupid again. They've had to bring someone in to do the run while I'm a cot case. Some six foot strapping bloke hardly dry behind the ears.”

Tom was never happy cooped up inside a house, and I could see he was fretting, both to get out again, and because he was worried about his job. Jenny came in with tea, scones, cream and jam. She had taught me to make scones tolerably well, but hers were the best in the business.

“Devonshire Tea — my favourite!” I cried as Jenny sat down and started to pour the tea.

“Tom's really worried that they'll ask this chap to stay on and he'll be pensioned off,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Now Jen, it's not Lesley's problem, and I'm sure we'll manage,” said Tom, upset that she had mentioned it.

“I'm sorry to contradict you Tom,” I said “But I think it is my problem, and everyone else's who relies on you for their deliveries. I've met this young guy, and to him it's just a job, take it or leave it. No, we want you back, as soon as you are fully fit of course.”

The conversation turned to other matters, but I knew what was uppermost in both their minds. When I left, promising to return soon, Jenny came with me down to my car.

“I'm sorry talking about the job business,” she said “But Tom's worried sick. He tries to pretend he doesn't care, but I've been married to him for a long time, and he doesn't fool me one bit.”

“There must be something we can all do, even if it's to take up a petition,” I said.

“The trouble is not knowing. We might just get a letter in the post and that's it,” Jenny replied, and I've never seen her look so worried.

“I'll talk to John tonight,” I said “We've got to get Tom back in that truck for his sanity and yours.”

We hugged, and I drove back to the Station. That evening, I told John about my visit, and how worried Jenny and Tom were.

“Isn't there something we can do?” I asked.

“Well of course interfering in the affairs of the Postal Department, would be strictly forbidden. Just leave it with me will you?” I went to bed happier. John knew people in Brisbane, despite the remoteness of MacKenzie Station.

Four days later, Tom was on the phone, and he seemed very excited.

“Is John around?” he said

“Errr, no. Can I take a message?”

“Sure Lesley, I can tell you and you can pass it on to John. I just had the most extraordinary phone call. It was from someone very senior in the Postal Department. He said he was sorry to hear of my accident and hoped I was recovering well and would be back on the road with them soon, but only when I was fully healed of course.”

“Why that's great news, Tom. It just shows you should never give up.”

He spoke more quietly now.

“I'm just ringing to say 'thank you' to both of you.”

“That's very kind of you Tom, but I didn't do anything other than tell John, and he was very emphatic that there was nothing he could do. He really stressed that.”

There was a silence, and then Tom chuckled. “Sorry, I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but I get there in the end. Perhaps you'd better thank John from me for doing 'nothing' then.

“I'll be sure to give him the message, but really no-one should be thanked when they are doing things out of purely selfish motives, don't you think? That is..errr, if in fact they'd done something in the first place.”

I relayed the message to John, and he just gave that slow smile of his.

“It's amazing what a word in the right ear can achieve.”

To be continued.

It had been on my mind for some time to make a trip back to England. My parents were coming around to the idea of having a daughter instead of a son, and John was very keen to see the 'Mother Country' as he and some Australians still referred to it. The work of a cattle station ebbs and flows, and there are times when it's just not practical to be away for weeks at a time. I didn't like to bring the subject up with John, but in the end, it was he who broached it one evening while we were sitting together on his old armchair, me on his lap.

“You know that trip to England we've been promising ourselves?” he said, and my heart skipped a beat. “Why don't we do it soon? In a few weeks we hit the quietest time of the year, and next year will be a full one for you.”

In his gentlemanly was he was referring to my upcoming reassignment surgery and breast enhancement. I might well not feel like travelling for a time after that. So the wheels were set in motion and plane tickets were booked for a month after our conversation. We'd stay over there for four weeks, spending some time with my parents, assuming that all went well, and then a couple of weeks doing a brief tour of the country. I was due to see the specialists in Brisbane a week or so before we flew out, and this was good timing. I had a slight problem in that my passport gave my name as 'Leslie' and identified me as male. Walking into the airport with make-up and wearing a dress could cause problems and possible delays, which we didn't want. It was decided that I would go for an androgynous look, a neat shirt and pants, no breast forms, flat shoes, no make-up or jewellery, and my long hair tied back in a pony tail. Even looking this way, I suspected I would look more female than male.

Tom was now recovered enough to fend for himself for two days while Jenny accompanied me to Brisbane. Dr Brentwell expressed himself well pleased with my progress, and listened while I described the forthcoming trip and the possible problems I might encounter.

“I will write you a letter, explaining your current situation, and you can produce it should the need arise. I suggest you have several copies made of it.”

This was excellent. Not only would it cover me taking hormone tablets abroad, but also explain why my suitcase was filled with female clothes. Then it was on to Dr Hall, who told me that my testosterone levels had now stabilised at a very low level, so all was well. I explained about the trip, and he said he would write me an extra prescription to have filled before we left, so I would have adequate amounts of hormones for my trip. He would also write a covering letter explaining why I was taking Oestrogen.

“Fortunately you are going to England and there should be no problems, but nowadays, Customs looks upon all carried medications the same way, even when they are perfectly legal. You must certainly not stop taking them.”

We spent the rest of the time in Brisbane in our usual manner, but this time our shopping concentrated on what I might take to England, while still leaving plenty of room in my case to allow for shopping over there!

The next week John and I took the train to Brisbane early one morning. I had one other thing on my mind. What if we should bump into someone John knew in Brisbane? Sometimes the strangest coincidences do occur. The best story I could come up with was that I was the rather effeminate son of a friend of John, who, upon hearing of him travelling to England, asked if I could travel with him as far as London since it was my first time abroad. Fortunately this rather weak cover story was not needed.

The customs officers were all male which was good. They were hardly likely to notice my shaped eyebrows and carefully manicured hands, something a woman would have picked up instantly. Without make-up and styled hair, I still looked sufficiently like the picture in my passport to pass without question, and soon we were in the departure lounge waiting to board our plane. I have touched upon the privileges money brings before now. I hasten to add that while John was more than comfortably off, he never made a show of it, feeling that such displays are vulgar. He did support a number of charities, but always anonymously.

We boarded the aircraft and were shown up towards the front to Business Class. Here were bigger seats, less people and more choice of service. This was the early days of jet passenger aircraft, and with more stops for refuelling, the flight took much longer than it does today. Our entertainment consisted of reading books and magazines or watching a film projected on a screen at the front of the cabin. The stewards kept us well supplied with food and drink, but both John and I restricted ourselves to a glass of wine with our meals, and drank plenty of water to ward off dehydration, One thing I do regret in those years was the unrestricted smoking that went on. As non-smokers, both John and I found the atmosphere unpleasant, despite the high turnover of air in the cabin. We were even invited to the flight deck to meet the captain and flight crew, and I felt a touch of alarm upon seeing that the crew were sitting back while the aeroplane flew itself on autopilot! So many things have changed in these security-conscious times.

Dawn was breaking and the plane gradually losing height as we approached our final destination, Heathrow airport. There was the English Channel shimmering below us with tiny ships plying their trade. Seeing the white cliffs of Dover caused a pang in my breast as it does to anyone who has spent time in another country and now returns to the land of their birth. The Welsh have a word for it 'hiraeth' — the longing of someone for their homeland. The slight jolt and the rumble of the plane's wheels on the tarmac signalled my homecoming after three tumultuous years, full of events which I could never have imagined that day I waved farewell to my parents from the ship's deck. My heart beat a little faster when I thought of the next few days. It was so important to me that my parents accept me as I was now, but could they do it? Would they accept John too? Thoughts whirled around in my head.

After my father retired, they had fulfilled a dream, and sold their London home to buy a cottage in a country village just outside Oxford. We intended to travel around Britain in a hire car, but after an exhausting flight, and the prospect of navigating London's traffic, the obvious course was to take a train to Oxford, where we had already booked a hotel room for a few days, and pick up the car there. The rocking of the train made it hard to fight off sleep, but eventually we arrived and took a taxi to our hotel. While John had a shower, I rang my parent's house. Dad answered

“Hello Dad, it's Lesley.”

“Lesley!” he replied “I'm glad to hear you arrived safely. Where are you? Oh, here's Mum.”

“Lesley!” my mother's voice this time. It shook with emotion. “Where are you?”

“In a hotel in Oxford, Mum; we just arrived.” A silence while this was digested, and then “When will we see you?”

“Mum, we've been more or less awake for about thirty hours and we're both totally exhausted from the journey. We'd most likely fall asleep if we come over now. Can we make it tomorrow for afternoon tea? We'll feel so much fresher then.”

“Oh.” It's amazing how much can be packed into such a short word. “Well, we've waited three years, I suppose another day won't do any harm."

I felt she was acutely disappointed, and this wasn't a good start, but I was equally sure that I had made the right decision. We were grubby and exhausted, and I didn't fancy meeting my parents without all my wits about me. Fortunately, Mum seemed to see the sense of what I was saying. They had never travelled on an aeroplane in their lives, let alone half-way around the world.

"I'm sorry Mum. Please understand it's not because I don't want to see you."

“I suppose you are right dear, it has been a very long journey, and your body must be telling you it's the middle of the night right now?”

“Thanks Mum,” I said. “I knew you'd understand. See you at three o'clock tomorrow then.”

I had planned our first visit to my parents very carefully. Afternoon tea meant mid afternoon, giving us the option of staying on if things went well, and gracefully bowing out if things went badly. Part of my strategy was that we pick up the hire car in the morning, so that again, we weren't left waiting for a taxi if the worst happened. I still worried that perhaps there was some eventuality I hadn't planned for, but I was too tired to think any more. When it was my turn in the shower, I stood there and let the water flow over my body, washing away the grime of the journey. It's always recommend that travellers into a time zone as different as England is from Australia, try to stay up as long as they can. We stuck it out until nine o'clock, then went to bed and were asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the pillows.

The next morning, the weather was fine. We were awakened by a knock on the door, indicating that breakfast had arrived. John put on his dressing gown and went to fetch it from outside the door. I had ordered the 'full English breakfast', and when we removed the plate covers, we were met with the sight of bacon, eggs, sausages, tomato, and mushrooms. There was plenty of toast and also a steaming pot of coffee. If there's a meal the English do well, it's breakfast. We both felt ravenous, fell on it, and didn't stop until our plates were empty, and we were having our second cup of coffee.

John let me have the first shower since it would take me longer to get ready. I re-affixed my breast forms, something I'd been too tired to do the previous night. I felt strangely unbalanced without them now. Then I attended to my make-up and hair.

The next thing I had devoted time to was deciding what to wear for the forthcoming visit. It was essential that I avoid the 'androgynous' look, since that would suggest lack of confidence or commitment to my chosen path. On the other hand 'girly girl' would suggest someone to whom the clothes were the most important aspect of being a woman. Finally I decided on a red linen skirt, a white silk blouse, stockings and black court shoes with three inch heels. My jewellery was restrained — a gold locked on a thin gold chain around my neck, a gift from John, and something I always looked upon as my 'good luck charm'. Gold studs in my ears matched the pendant. There was one more thing — my wedding ring.

How sad it is that our elected representatives are not prepared to accept what most of the population does accept — that a registered union between two people who love each other should be possible, no matter what their birth sexes were. I decided that I wasn't taking off that ring, no matter what. John had asked me if I would like to chose a ring the last time I was in Brisbane, and if I wished, to have it engraved. I had the words — 'John and Lesley — forever' engraved on the inside, and I've not seen them since the day John put the ring on my finger in a ceremony we had invented ourselves. I know those words are there, but I will never see them again because I will never take the ring off as long as I live. I applied my make-up carefully, again taking care not to go 'over the top', but not wishing to give the impression that I wasn't wearing any. With my preparations complete, I stood up and gave John a little 'fashion parade' to test his reaction. He assured me that I had struck exactly the right note. I only hoped my parents thought so too. John looked smart in grey pants, a check shirt and slip-on brown shoes.

Once we were ready, we left the hotel and walked the couple of blocks to the hire car depot. I've often wondered if booking a specific hire car is worth the effort. Almost inevitably, the chosen car is not available, and a substitute in the same size range is offered. That's exactly what happened at Oxford. We ended up with a Rover 'saloon', which is what they call a sedan there. I must say that car did us proud. We drove ridiculously long distances by British standards, and it never let us down — not once.

We drove out to the little village where my parents lived. John drove and I navigated. It's often said that women can't read maps and men won't ask directions. My special circumstance was such that I was able to read maps and had no hesitation in asking directions if the need arose, but in this case it didn't. Reaching the village was easy, and my parents had sent detailed directions to find their house within the village. Almost too soon we drew up outside a pretty cottage with a mass of flowers in the front garden. My heart was pounding as I had no doubt at all that our arrival had been observed. For a second I was tempted to tell John to drive away as fast as he could, but the moment passed. I opened the car door, swivelling around with the legs together in a proper ladylike fashion and stood up. This would be their first real sight of me. I had sent descriptions, and also the small black and white prints which were the standard family photos of that era, but now they were seeing me as I now was, and I wondered if the shock would be too much for them. John came around from the driver's side, and as he opened the gate and I stepped through, I murmured to him “Here goes. Wish us luck!”

The door opened just as we reached it.

“Hello Mum, Dad.” I said, and leaned forward to kiss Mum on the cheek. Then, because it would seem odd not to do so, I kissed Dad's cheek too. To give him credit, he didn't flinch, but neither did he show any positive emotional response.

“This is John,” I said, turning to John who said “Please to meet you Mr and Mrs Cobb.” He shook Dad's hand.

We were invited into the house through a tiny hallway and into the sitting room, where chairs were indicated for us. We started the 'How was your trip?' sort of conversation people have when they don't know each other very well. I suppose we covered every topic except the 'elephant in the room' one of my transitioning. Eventually Mum got up and went into the kitchen, emerging shortly with a 'Devonshire Tea' of scones, jam and cream, as well as a pot of tea, cups and saucers. This at least gave us something to do with our hands, but I was feeling more and more depressed at the way things were going. After three years apart, my parents and I were strangers. John commented how much he loved Devonshire teas, and asked if Mum had made the scones, which she had, so he complimented her on them. Yet another topic of conversation finished and everyone desperately trying to think of something to say. When Mum got up to clear away the afternoon tea, in desperation I got up and said “I'll help you.” It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but then she saw the look on my face, and instead said.

“Thank you Lesley, that will be a help.”

I picked up the scone plate and followed her out into the kitchen. As soon as we were out of earshot of the men, my face crumpled, and I was close to tears.

“Oh Mum!” I cried, “I hoped for so much and it's going so badly. It's like we are two couples who are strangers and forced to share a table at a restaurant.”

Mum looked at me. “Oh my darling Lesley, you have to give it time. Try to see things from our point of view. There's so much for us to come to grips with. You know, when you were a little.....child, you were always impatient. Some things take a while to happen.”

She could see I wasn't convinced, and then she said quietly.

“Come here.” So I came, and she held me in her arms, and suddenly I realised how much I had missed that special bond between a child and its mother. We were standing there quietly, tears trickling down my cheeks, when suddenly to our surprise there was a roar of laughter from the sitting room. We both turned, startled. Mum put a finger to her lips and tip-toed over to the door and listened for a moment. Then she came back to where I was standing.

“They're talking cricket!” she said in amazement. I'm not a religious person, but at that moment I said “Thank God” and meant it. We had needed a miracle and we were given one. It was obvious from the various guffaws coming from the other room, that a very lively conversation had started. John loved cricket as much as my Dad did, and was quite knowledgeable, so suddenly they had found something they could talk about, and talk they did!

Mum and I finished drying up and putting away the crockery. It was obvious the men were having a great time, so she said. “Come on. I'll show you the rest of the house.”

We walked through to the bright and airy main bedroom with its cream counterpane decorated with flowers. I was genuinely impressed and said so. I had noticed that very little of their original furniture was left.

“It was much too dark and heavy for here,” said Mum “but it turned out most of it was close to being antique, so we got enough money from the sale to refurnish in a modern style.

"Perhaps you'd like to use the ensuite to 'freshen up'?" she said kindly.

I realised what she meant and went to repair damage to my make-up caused by my tears in the kitchen. Then, we walked into the second bedroom which had twin beds, and Mum seemed to hesitate.

“When we moved up here, I put all your clothes and other things into cardboard boxes and they are in the closet. When you have time perhaps you'd like to sort through them?” She smiled slightly “I'm guessing you won't have any use for the clothes. By the way, that's a lovely outfit you are wearing. You've developed a wonderful sense of style.”

“Thank you Mum,” I replied, blushing, determined to gently lead into what was on both my parents' minds but not yet mentioned. “I have a wonderful girlfriend in Australia. She's the wife of the mail man. She's provided me with so much support, and she is teaching me all the things I need to know about becoming a woman. She's also accompanied me to Brisbane to see the specialists, and that has been a wonderful confidence boost for me”

Mum looked a little uncomfortable, but she bravely faced the question of who I was.

“When Marie and you first told us about your change in err lifestyle, we went to get a few books from the library. Frankly there wasn't very much we could find.”

“It's not a common subject I guess, but the truth is there are far more transgendered women around than there used to be.”

Then, because she wanted to know, I went through a summary of the whole transitioning process, assuring her that it was all done under strict medical supervision and took many years to complete so that mistakes were not made.

We walked through to the kitchen garden at the back of the cottage. I admired the vegetables and told Mum of our difficulties in growing plants, especially vegetables in our harsh climate and sandy soil. It was wonderful to feel at last that we were two women chatting together. We discussed clothes and how I was buying most of mine in Brisbane when I went there to see the various doctors, but how I had left room in my suitcase so that I could buy some clothes while I was in Britain.

We finally made our way back to the sitting room, and I'm fairly sure the men hadn't even noticed we'd been missing for about an hour.

Dad looked up and smiled, “Oh there you are. You'll stay for tea I hope.” It wasn't a question or a command, more like an assumed fact.

I glanced at John “We'd love to.”

Our second meal together was such a contrast to the awkward afternoon tea. Now we were laughing and chatting together just as a family should. It was after nine o'clock that we finally and reluctantly said goodbye, promising to return the following day.

Curled up in bed that night, I asked John what had happened when I left him alone with Dad.

“We were both taken aback a bit, and I was desperately searching for something to talk about when I saw this little trophy on the mantelpiece. It showed the figure of a cricketer and was obviously something your father had won, so I asked about it and when he had played. He leapt on the topic at once, and he started by checking me out a bit. It was when he referred to Don Bradman's test average as 99.96 that I knew for sure he was testing me. I smiled and said I couldn't believe he would get that wrong, and we both laughed.”

“We heard you in the kitchen,” I said. “I was in total despair that things weren't going to work out, and hearing that laugh it was like a miracle, and that's something for a non-religious person to say.”

To be continued.

The following day we picked up Mum and Dad at 9.30 am. I sat in the back with Mum, while Dad sat next to John. We drove into Oxford, around the city areas and surrounding countryside. We could see why Oxford is often called the 'city of dreaming spires' — a term coined by the poet Matthew Arnold. The university colleges cover a large portion of the centre of the city, and their architecture is wonderful. John and I were entranced by it all.

To thank Mum and Dad for their efforts as tourist guides, we took them into a really nice restaurant for lunch, and when Dad started to bring out his wallet, John said this one was 'our shout', and then of course we had to explain what that meant.

More wonderful than anything we had seen was the way we were all getting on now. All that awkwardness of the previous afternoon had gone, and we were a family. We went back to my parents' house for tea and discussed our plans with them. We intended to spend a bit of time touring around and seeing some parts of the country, but we also wanted to spend more time with them, so it was agreed we would spend one more day in Oxford with them, and then do a quick tour of Britain before returning to Oxford once more.

Mum said. “When you return, would you like to stay in our spare bedroom?”

I took this as being final proof of their acceptance, and we both agreed instantly and thanked them for their kindness.

John said “We want to spend some days in London before we fly out. Why don't you come down with us, then we can spend more time together?” So it was agreed.

We were blessed with fine weather the next day when we all took a ninety minute guided walking tour of the centre of Oxford. We learned that so many Prime Ministers, Nobel Prize Winners and other famous people had studied there. Lewis Carroll, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis were just a few of the famous names. Best of all, our guide was one of the students, making some extra money, and we were able to enter the quadrangle of a couple of the colleges. Surprisingly Mum and Dad had not done this tour, or perhaps it wasn't so surprising. We often tend to think we can go to local places of interest any time, and hence don't go at all! There's a Northern England saying “There's nowt so funny as folk”, and it's so true!

The following morning we packed our cases and leaving Oxford headed north. We quickly found that whereas the countryside was wonderful, the same couldn't be said for the cities which were crowded with traffic and pedestrians, and with their narrow winding streets, it was so easy to get lost. Both John and I had a great interest in historic buildings, so bypassing the larger towns, we headed up to York, and visited its wonderful Minster and ancient city walls.

John was almost as keen on golf as cricket, so after a brief visit to Edinburgh with its truly amazing castle, we crossed the Firth of Forth and head towards the game's spiritual home — St Andrews. We had timed our arrival for Sunday, since play is not allowed on the Old Course, but it is open for visitors to wander its fabled fairways and greens. I still have a picture of John standing on the old stone bridge that crosses the Swilcan burn. So many famous Open champions have stood there, holding the Old Claret Jug aloft. In another photo John is standing in front of the fearsome Road Hole bunker. John promised himself that one day he would return and play the Old Course.

Our tour was of the sort that a coach company would call 'A Taste of Britain', but it was enough to whet our appetites to return and spend more time. We reluctantly decided against visiting the Highlands, and instead headed south-west back into England and the Lake District which was to become one of our favourite areas. The combination of lakes and mountains is magical, and we could easily have stayed there a month. We found ourselves drawn to an ancient stone circle called Castlerigg, near Keswick. Not as dramatic in construction as the famous Stonehenge, it more than makes up for it in location, sited on a low hill surrounded by mountains with magical names like Skiddaw, Blencathra, and Helvellyn. John and I stood there hand in hand, the soft summer breeze rustling my skirt, and I felt something, a connection with its ancient builders. Is it foolish to think they might have been my ancestors speaking to me down the ages? What can I say? All I know I felt something. I have only ever felt that way about two places — Castlerigg and MacKenzie Station. Two places. worlds apart in location and age, but for me my heart is there.

Further south we headed, for the days seemed to be flying by. One person I had to see of course was my cousin Marie. She had married about nine months previously, and by happy chance had moved to the ancient Roman city of Bath, which would have been a place to visit even if Marie was not there. When I called her on the telephone to confirm the day of our arrival, she said how much she was looking forward to seeing us and added mysteriously “I've got news for you.”

We arrived in Bath in the late afternoon and after checking into our hotel, made our way to the apartment Marie and her husband Michael were living in while they looked for an affordable house. We had been invited to an evening meal with them, so we quickly showered and changed. It was a warm evening, so I wore a pretty summer dress in palest yellow, with a floral pattern that I had bought in Oxford. John settled for slacks and an open-neck shirt.

When Marie opened the door, she frankly stared at me.

“Lesley, you look wonderful!” she gasped, and I blushed of course but felt so pleased. We hugged, and then I introduced her to John, and I could see she was impressed with his rugged good looks.

“Come in and sit yourself down,” she said, “I'm in the middle of cooking tea.”

Her husband Michael arrived home from work a few minutes later, and he and John hit it off immediately. Michael was another amateur cricketer, so here was an instant topic of conversation. Marie and I were able to leave them to it, while I went to help her in the kitchen and have a chat.

“Lesley, the pictures you sent don't do you justice,” she said “I expected you to look good, but not this good. You are totally gorgeous!”

“Marie!” I laughingly protested “I swear you are only saying these things to make me blush, and you are succeeding.”

Marie laughed. “Do you remember those times we used to play 'dress-ups'? I thought then that you should have been born a girl, and now I see that you really were a girl all the time.”

“What I remember was how you caught me wearing some of your clothes and didn't dob me in to your parents. I will always be grateful to you for that, and eternally grateful for how you paved the way for me by explaining the change in my life to my parents.”

“Speaking of which — how did it go with them?” she asked. I explained about the first visit and how badly it was going until John and Dad connected over cricket.

“Now they seem well on the way to total acceptance that I am their daughter, and I'm so glad because nothing will sway me from the path I'm on. But I'm talking all about me. What's the news that you have?”

“I'm pregnant,” she said simply.

“Oh Marie, that's wonderful news!” and I gave her a big hug. “When is the baby due?”

“About six months.” she replied, “I'm not starting to show yet, but Michael wants me to stop work soon, and I'm rather in favour of that since I've had the most terrible morning sickness.”

“Well, I will have something in common with your baby,” I said “Because around that time I will be 'reborn' in a way myself, after I have my surgery.”

“Oh Lesley, you are so brave.”

“I don't know about that Marie, “I said “I've never had surgery, not even my appendix out, and frankly the thought of it really scares me. However, it's something I have to do, for my sake and for John's.”

“It seems to be happening so quickly.” she said.

“Not really. It will be over two years since I started on hormones. Believe me, all the medical staff I've seen are very careful not to rush things. They want to be absolutely sure I am making the right choice.”

Our meal was ready to be served, and I helped Marie, by carrying the heavier dishes.

“Everyone's treating me like I'm made of cut glass,” Marie giggled “I can't say I really object to it.”

For a moment I had a feeling of sadness. Medical science might be able to make my body look very like that of a genetic woman, but the one thing it couldn't do was give me the internal organs to have a baby. If anything, I felt sadder for John than me. He had not had a child with his first wife, and it was a shame that he didn't have an heir or heiress to leave the station to, although he did have some distant relatives. However, he knew that when we got together, so I had to believe that he accepted it.

We had a wonderful convivial meal. Marie hadn't told Michael about my background, saying she preferred to tell him privately later.

“If I tell him now, he won't be able to stop himself staring at you, searching for any tell-tale sign of your previous life,” she said. “It's a natural human reaction I suppose.”

The next morning, Marie accompanied us on a brief tour of Bath, which of course included a visit to the Roman baths themselves, with the famous underground springs which have been delivering hot water for thousands of years. We also saw some of the magnificent architecture of the Georgian period, including the Circus and Royal Crescent. Finally, we had lunch together, and bade each other farewell, with promises to keep in touch more regularly, and on Marie's part, to let us know how things went with her baby.

In due course she was to be delivered of a fine nine-pound baby boy who was named Michael John Morton, We were delighted when we received some pictures of him, and sent over a beautiful christening mug, saying we looked forward to seeing them all on our next visit to England.

To be continued

We drove back to Oxford that afternoon, and this time we brought our suitcases into Mum and Dad's house. I could see that Mum had tidied up the room and even pushed the two single beds together, yet another sign that they accepted our relationship. John and I enjoyed an active intimate relationship, so when he suggested that night in bed that we had better show restraint in case my parents heard anything, I whispered back that that was nonsense and all we had to do was be very quiet. I think we succeeded very well.

There was something I wanted to ask my father, but I judged it better to broach the subject when we had some time alone together. That day when Mr Jenner gave me the option of going to Australia, he said that Dad had saved his life while they were in the army together. I had never heard this story, and wanted to know more, so I grabbed the opportunity when it came.

Dad chuckled “So 'Pox' told you about that did he?”

“'Pox?'” I queried.

He laughed. “Why yes. Everyone had a nickname in the Army, and since his name was Edward, and Edward Jenner was the man who developed smallpox vaccinations, he was called 'Smallpox' at first, but that very quickly became just 'Pox'".

I felt that Dad was sidestepping the question, so I pursued it, asking what actually happened.

“Well, it was like this. There was a range instructor, assigned to training us in the use of firearms, hand grenades, etc. We didn't like him very much, always yelling at us and finding fault. He had a little black moustache and we called him 'Hitler' — not to his face you understand? We had had a lot of practice throwing dummy grenades from a bunker with a wall of sandbags in front of us. This particular day he decided to spice things up by giving us some live grenades to throw. Eddie was going to throw, and I was the next in line. So, he pulls the pin, leans back and throws the grenade. I don't know if he was nervous and his hands sweaty, but the grenade bounced on the sandbags and dropped back inside the bunker. I was pretty fit in those days, with good reaction times from my cricket playing, so I reached down, grabbed the grenade and hurled it over the parapet and pulled us both down onto the ground. It went off with an almighty bang. 'Hitler' wasn't so quick to react, so he was absolutely covered in dust, and it was all we could do not to laugh. He actually said, 'Good show, Cobb.', the only compliment he ever paid me."

“So, you really did save Mr Jenner's life. You should have got a medal,” I said.

"I saved mine too, don't forget. I don't think that makes me a hero."

"Well you are in my eyes Dad, and not just for that - for many other things as well," and I gave him a hug. He didn't seem to mind.

We had a few more days in Oxford before going down to London and from there we would take the flight home. We had suggested to my parents that they might like to come to London too, as that way we could spend more days together, and this they agreed to do. We took the train as it was pointless having a car in London.

Our hotel was in Covent Garden, close to the centre of everything, including many of the theatres, and such famous sites as Trafalgar Square, The Mall, Buckingham Palace; the Houses of Parliament were an easy walk away, or a swift ride in the famous red buses or the ubiquitous London taxis. We enjoyed seeing all these famous places. One evening, we all went out to see the famous play “The Mousetrap” by Agatha Christie, which had already been running in London since the early nineteen fifties. It's still running there, breaking all records for any type of show.

There was one day that was particularly special. London is home to Lord's Cricket Ground, the world centre of cricket, and John of course wanted to see it. He had with him a letter of introduction from somebody very senior in the ranks of Australian cricket, and that letter was a key that opened many doors. When he took my hands in his, looked at me seriously and asked if I minded if he took Dad with him instead of me, it was all I could do not to laugh.

“Of course you must take him!” I cried “I couldn't live with myself if I deprived him of something as special as that.”

The following morning the 'boys' headed off to Lord's, while Mum and I had a wonderful time shopping in the centre of London in Oxford Street. There are so many fabulous shops there, we could easily have spent a fortune, but we restricted ourselves to window-shopping, well, most of the time. We rewarded ourselves with 'afternoon tea' at Claridges, a British institution if ever there was one. We were both wearing pretty dresses and heels (and we certainly needed to rest our feet!) so we looked right at home there. We felt like royalty! I took my camera out of my bag and asked a waiter if he would mind taking our picture and he readily complied. I'm sure it wasn't the first time he had been asked that. Now Mum and I have proof of our visit to Claridges!

We were only back at the hotel a short while when Dad and John arrived back from their day out. I have never seen Dad look as happy as he did on that day. He was so proud he looked as if he would burst.

“Guess what?” he cried “We were shown around by the Secretary of the M.C.C himself!” We looked suitably impressed.

“He took us everywhere, even the Long Room.” This was obviously holy ground. “I have a picture of John and I standing on either side of the Secretary in the Long Room to prove it. Just wait till I show that to the chaps at the cricket club!”

“So, you had a good day then.” I murmured

“Good? It's the happiest day of my life!” he exclaimed, and then suddenly looked at my mother and became decidedly sheepish “Er, that is apart from the day I married your mother.”

Mum couldn't help but laugh. “I forgive you,” she said “After all you bought me some clothes today.”

But Dad hadn't finished yet. “The Secretary has invited me to sit in the Members' Stand as his special guest when the Ashes test is played here next year. Imagine that!”

I walked up to him and hugged him.

“Daddy, I'm so pleased for you. I know it's something you always dreamed of doing and now you've done it.”

“Yes, thanks to John and to.....”

“Sssssh” said John “We agreed not to mention his name.”

The last couple of days passed in a flash, and suddenly it was the morning when we had to pack our suitcases for the last time before flying out. I was so glad that I had left plenty of room when we flew over, because now my suitcase was full to bursting. How fortunate it is that women’s clothing is generally lighter than men's, or I would have been straying into 'excess baggage' territory even though our allowance was greater as we were flying first class. Dad insisted on carrying my suitcase which was very sweet of him, and I felt it confirmed that in his eyes I was now a woman. In those days, men did carry heavy things for women, opened doors for them and other little courtesies. I can't help feeling that in the insistence on equality, we have lost as much as we have gained. Perhaps that's me being old-fashioned.

Mum and Dad wanted to come to Heathrow to bid us farewell and spent a couple more hours with us. Heathrow was a much smaller place in those days. I think it had only two terminals, one of which was devoted to overseas airways including Qantas. After we had checked in and no longer had to worry about our suitcases, we still had a couple of hours before we had to pass through Customs. We found a coffee shop and passed the time pleasantly. John had a surprise for Mum and Dad, which he had discussed with me the previous night.

“Agnes and Joseph,” he began, “We've greatly enjoyed your hospitality and both feel that it has been the highlight of our visit, despite all the wonderful places we have seen. As you know we have a busy time coming up early next year (this was an oblique reference to my upcoming surgery), but we would like to invite you to come and visit us towards the end of the year, all expenses paid, so that you can see where we live. As you know Joseph, the Ashes won't be played in Australia next year, but if you come towards the end of the year, there will be plenty of cricket, including the Sheffield Shield matches. We could attend a match or two at the 'Gabba' in Brisbane.”

My parents sat stunned for a moment, until Dad finally found his voice. “That's a very generous offer John but....”

“Please, no 'buts'” said John “Think about it if you wish, but we would really love to see you there, and you know it would mean so much to Lesley as well as myself.”

Dad looked at Mum, who nodded, so he said, “In that case the answer is 'Yes', and 'Thank you very much'.”

Soon after that our flight was called. John shook hands with Dad and was embraced by Mum. At the same time, I was being embraced by Dad.

“You may not remember this,” he said quietly in my ear “But when you went to Australia, I said something about it making a man of you.” He chuckled quietly “I couldn't have been more wrong, but I do want you to know that I am so glad you are my daughter, and I'm very proud of you.”

“Dad!” I felt my eyes starting to sting “I love you so much, and I'm so glad I've made you proud. I promise I'll never let you down.”

Then it was my turn to be embraced by Mum.

“Darling,” she said, her voice quavering, “It's been wonderful to spend time with you again, and to hear how well things have worked out for you. John is a fine man. You couldn't hope for a better partner in life. We will look forward so much to seeing you over there. I love you darling.”

“Oh Mum, I love you too. I'm so glad we came over and became a family again. I'll keep writing regularly and let you know how everything turns out.”

As we passed through the swing doors into the Customs area, I looked back. Mum and Dad were standing there, hand in hand. I smiled and waved and then the closing doors blocked my view.

End of Part 1

Back home; the next big thing in my life would be the surgery which would complete my transitioning process. Not having had even an appendix operation, I viewed my first experience of an operating theatre with some trepidation. John had even tried to talk me out of it, insisting that he was quite content with the 'status quo',and 'didn't want me to put myself through so much.' I knew that I would never feel content, leaving things as they were. For a start, I wanted to be a woman in every way I could be for John. I would love to say that was the only reason, but that would be to make out I was totally unselfish, something sadly, I am not. Every day after I had my morning shower, I was faced with seeing a body in the mirror which did not match the person I knew myself to be, and I could not face going through my whole life feeling this way. If changing the person I saw involved some discomfort, so be it.

At my most recent consultation with Dr Brentwell he had expressed complete satisfaction and confidence that I was ready to take the final step of surgery and had offered to refer me to a couple of specialist surgeons if I wished to make my own choice. By now I had heard of many people going to other countries such as Thailand where the surgery could be done at a much lower price, but John preferred that I stay in Australia, provided that an experienced surgeon could be found. I was more than happy to do this, so that I would not be on my own among strangers, no matter how friendly they might be. Since I was staying in Australia, I was a little concerned about the possibility that news about my surgery might somehow become public knowledge. Sadly, there are tabloid newspapers who don't care how much personal damage they do to people so long as they can print a sensational headline. I therefore decided that I would like the surgery to take place in Sydney, in a private hospital, where there was even less likelihood of it becoming public knowledge. Dr Brentwell was totally sympathetic and came up with a couple of Sydney surgeons that he was happy to recommend.

“Dr Brentwell, I have trusted your judgement all through my treatment, and you are far better placed than I to decide which surgeon might be the most appropriate one. I would appreciate your guidance, then make an appointment to see him, and unless I feel some compelling reason not to go along with your recommendation, I will make the necessary arrangements for the surgery.”

Four weeks later I travelled to Sydney to see Mr Harry Langman, the surgeon Dr Brentwell recommended. Jenny came with me as usual. He examined me thoroughly and went through the procedures in detail, again pointing out like all the other doctors I had seen, the irreversible nature of the surgery, and how, while they could give me a vagina, should I ever have a change of heart, returning a functioning penis was beyond their capabilities. I reassured him that I had no intention of returning to a male body, especially since I had a loving and supportive partner who like me, only wanted me to achieve my desired outcome of having a body that matched my brain gender. I felt totally comfortable with Mr Langman and had every confidence in him, so it seemed logical to request that he perform my surgery.

Mr Langman explained that in order to minimise the time I would spend under anaesthetic, he would perform the gender reassignment surgery, while his assistant, who already had many years' experience, would perform the breast enhancement surgery. We made a final decision on the silicone breast implants and how these would be inserted via an incision in each armpit, rather than an incision under the breast area which leaves noticeable scars. He was happy to show me pictures of previous surgery he had performed (fortunately I am not squeamish), plus several letters from satisfied patients.

"It would not be ethical for me to put you in touch with former patients to hear their opinion of the surgery, so this is the best I can do." he said.

A date was finally set for my surgery in a couple of months' time. I was concerned about asking Jenny to accompany me for this, much though I wanted her to be there. It would mean being away from Tom for about a fortnight, and I felt it was too much to ask. Fortunately, both she and Tom said that she had been with me thus far and wouldn't be bailing out at this late stage. I was so relieved that a few tears flowed as I hugged her.

“I'll pay you back one of these days”, I promised her, and indeed the opportunity to do that did come, but only many years later.

The time waiting for the surgery seemed to drag, although I confessed to Jenny when we boarded the train for Brisbane that I was more nervous than I had been in years. In Brisbane we changed trains and took another one to Sydney. I did start to wonder how I would feel on the way home, having such a long journey after surgery.

The surgery was to be performed in a private hospital, and I was using my original surname of Cobb, even though I had been referring to myself as Lesley Brodie for some time. I did not want anyone to make a link between me and John if possible. That was another reason for the private and smaller hospital where I felt I could rely on a higher standard of discretion. This particular hospital apparently performed procedures (mainly plastic surgery) on 'celebrities' who were anxious that they halt the passage of time, and of course the utmost discretion was necessary for them too. I don't wish to denigrate the big public hospitals, many of whom treat private patients, but with their huge numbers of staff and visitors, the chances of being recognised are obviously higher and I wanted to avoid this at all costs.

Jenny and I were shown to my private room, which looked very like a five-star hotel room. Sadly, I felt that I would be in no state to appreciate its features for some days after surgery. I was given a light tea and told that there would be no more food until after the operation. When Jenny left to go to the nearby hotel, I felt like asking her to take me away with her! Then I steeled myself for what lay ahead, and even managed a reasonable night's sleep.

I was awoken early the next morning. It was not yet light outside. For some unknown reason, surgeons start their work at what seems a ridiculously early hour, and I was first on the list. I changed into a hospital gown, covered up with a blanket to keep me warm, and lay on my bed to await developments. My first visit was from the anaesthetist who checked my blood pressure and wrist band and confirmed the operations I was to have — something that happened several more times before I went into the theatre. Sensing my nervousness as it was my first ever operation, he gave me an injection which had the effect of making me feel quite drowsy and also a bit 'high', as though I was drunk. At least it made me feel that I didn't have a care in the world.

Then some orderlies arrived, alien-looking in their green uniforms and caps, and they started to wheel me to the lifts. It was a strange experience, lying flat on my back, looking up at the passing ceiling lights. We turned several corners, went through some heavy plastic swing doors and were then into the theatre suite itself. Mr Langman appeared, almost unrecognisable in his green scrubs and cap. He offered me a few reassuring words, checked yet again the procedures I was going to have, and then disappeared. I was then wheeled into the theatre and helped to shuffle my way across from the bed to a very narrow operating table. Now I was staring up at the enormous operating lights suspended above me. The anaesthetist stretched out my arm and located a suitable vein on the back of my hand and put in a cannula, really the only slightly painful experience. I saw him pick up a syringe filled with fluid, attach it to the cannula, and then.....nothing.

“Miss Cobb?” A face floated into view and gradually came into focus. I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry.

“Ah, you're with us now. Miss Cobb, the operations are over and they went very well.” I managed to nod in acknowledgement and croak a “Thank you.” I realised I was back in my own bed and in the recovery room.

“We'll be taking you into Intensive Care overnight, but it's just a precaution. I'll get you some ice to suck as you can't have a drink yet.”

I was grateful for the ice slowly melting in my mouth and relieving the dryness. I think I drifted off to sleep for a while, and then some orderlies came, and I was wheeled into the Intensive Care ward. It seemed only a few minutes later, but it might have been hours, and Jenny was sitting by my bedside patiently waiting for me to wake up. I managed a smile on seeing her.

“Jenny. It's so lovely to see you." I half whispered, half croaked. "I must look a real mess with all these bandages.”

“Spoken like a true woman,” said Jenny.”I've rung John to let him know that all is well. He hopes to come down in a couple of days to see you.”

“Please Jenny, tell him I'm fine. I know he needs to be there at present, and I have you to keep me company, and believe me, I'm so grateful for that.”

“Alright, I'll tell him,” said Jenny “But I don't know if he'll take any notice.”

I think I must have drifted off to sleep after that. The next few days are ones I'd rather forget about. No surgery is a 'walk-in-the-park', and this certainly wasn't. I had a massive bandage between my legs, and a catheter in place which wasn't very comfortable. Even after all these years the word 'dilator' still sends a shiver through me, necessary though it was. My breasts were well bandaged too, but at least I could see that they were greatly enlarged from what they had been. The doctors were very good with their pain management. I can't remember now if it was my breasts or the catheter which caused me the most discomfort, and for a while I tried to stick it out rather than keep asking for pain relief. Finally, one of the nursing staff told me that putting up with excess pain would only hinder my recovery, so not to be a heroine and ask for relief when I needed it.

On day three, I finally got out of bed for a while, and went for a short walk, or should I say 'shuffle'? My intravenous drip was still attached, and suspended from a metal pole on wheels when I went walking. The next day, I managed a little further, and didn't need so much pain relief, so there was definite improvement. On the fifth day, after another visit from the surgeon, my catheter was removed on condition that I could urinate, which thankfully I was able to do. The thought of having a catheter re-inserted is a great motivator!

John phoned every evening, and I gave him an update on my progress, and told him how much I was looking forward to returning home. Jenny was marvellous, visiting me every day and telling me of her adventures around Sydney. Lovely though the staff and hospital room were, it all seemed like living in an artificial bubble, while the real world was going on outside, and I couldn't wait to rejoin it.

On the seventh day came the news I was waiting for. I was now walking quite well, and when Mr Langman called in, he said that I could leave hospital, provided that I stay in Sydney for another week, close to the hospital, and didn't exert myself too much.

An appointment had been made for me to see him at the consulting suite in a week to check on my progress. Jenny offered to play 'nurse' and make sure that I was doing everything I should to assist my recovery. I suppose modesty is the first thing you lose on entering hospital, so it did not bother me in the slightest that she would be viewing my more intimate areas, and that they wouldn't be looking their best. It didn't seem to bother her either, so my suitcase was packed and for the first time in what seemed forever, I stepped out into the sunshine and breathed some fresh air.

Jenny and I did take a few excursions, including viewing the new Opera House which was well on the way to being completed, and we had a boat cruise on the harbour. I did find that I became tired very quickly, so we never ventured too far, and when necessary, took a taxi back to the hotel. John kept in touch every day, but said nothing more about coming to Sydney, which in a way was a little disappointing, although I understood that he was very busy. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the long train trip back home, but it had to be faced. I even thought about flying to Brisbane to reduce the length of the trip and was a little surprised when Jenny did not seem particularly enthusiastic about it.

I made a final visit to Mr Langman in his rooms and he said he was well satisfied with my progress, and all I needed to do was not exert myself too much, which I promised not to do. The next morning after breakfast Jenny and I started packing all our things for the journey back. I was busy packing my suitcase in the bedroom when there was a knock on the door and Jenny went to answer it.

When she returned she said “I've got a surprise for you.”

I turned and it was John! I flew into his arms and he hugged me tightly, in fact a little too tightly because I winced with discomfort, and he release me at once looking contrite.

“It's alright,” I said, “I just forgot in the excitement of seeing you. It's such a wonderful surprise."

To be continued

In the excitement of seeing John it took me a couple of minutes to ask the obvious question.

“John, I spoke to you at home last night, and yet here you are in Sydney. How did you get here so fast?”

John grinned “I've got a surprise for you. You know our neighbour Steve Renshaw flies a light plane, a Piper Aztec?” I had some vague recollection of this so I nodded.

“I ran into him at a cattle sale last week. He enquired after you and when I told him you were in Sydney and had an operation, he said he had to fly down here on business this week, so why didn't he try to make it coincide with the day you were due to return and then we could all fly back. Six or seven hours in a plane sounded a lot better to me than two days on a train so I said 'Yes'”.

“John, that's wonderful news. How kind of him. I confess I wasn't really looking forward to that long trip back.”

Then I turned to Jenny, “You knew about it didn't you? I wondered why you weren't very enthusiastic about taking a commercial flight to Brisbane!”

Jenny blushed “I was sworn to silence in case the arrangement didn't come off. I hope you'll forgive me.”

“Of course I will,” I replied.

John said that Steve had meetings all that day and the following morning, so we could fly home in the afternoon. He suggested that Jenny and I stay in our hotel room for one more night, he would get a single room, and tomorrow we could set out just after lunch for Bankstown Airport where Steve's plane had landed. We went out for lunch at Circular Quay and watched the ferries load and unload their passengers and generally had a very pleasant day. I was still getting tired by early evening, so we spent it at the hotel, dining in the restaurant and watching some television which was quite a novelty for us.

Around lunchtime the following day, we took a taxi to Bankstown Airport and waited in the terminal building until Steve arrived back from his meeting. I had met him briefly once before as I now remembered, and I thanked him sincerely for his kindness in offering to fly us back. He, of course, did not know what surgery I had had, but any major surgery takes time to recover from, and cutting the long trip home was going to be such a bonus for me.

The Piper Aztec was a six-seater with twin engines and looked very small and neat. Steve suggested that since it was my first time in a light plane that I might like to sit up the front in the co-pilot's seat, and after urging from John, this is what I did. I watched fascinated as Steve went through all the pre-flight checks and was given permission from the tower to take off. Soon we were rolling down the runway and were airborne. Light planes don't fly at the height of commercial airliners, so we had a wonderful view of the countryside below us. Steve told me we would be cruising at about 150 knots or 170 mph and could go as high as 10,000 feet, but today he had asked permission to fly lower so that I could enjoy the view of the countryside from the air, and what a magnificent sight it was too.

After a while, Steve asked if I would like to fly the aircraft for a while. I had been watching him closely and of course was thrilled at the idea. I rested my hands and feet on the controls just as he said and for a while just 'felt' the aircraft through the faint vibrations. I wasn't really aware of it at the time, but Steve could see me making minute adjustments to keep the craft level and on course. Then Steve suggested I try a few manoeuvres, so I gently banked to port and then starboard, climbed a little and levelled out again. At one point Steve asked me to make a ten degree turn to starboard and level out on a new course. He didn't bombard me with information as he might have done, just let me and the aircraft 'get to know each other'.

Because of the distance we had to travel, it was necessary to stop to refuel at Charleville, so naturally Steve took over at this point. After we landed it was good to get out and stretch our legs. It took the best part of an hour before we were in the air again, and much to my delight, Steve again asked if I would like to take the controls. What did surprise me was that each day since my surgery I had been overcome by a sense of fatigue by late afternoon, but it didn't happen on this day. The time passed so quickly I could hardly believe it when Steve pointed out our homestead in its ring of hills in the distance and said he had better take over again because we would soon be landing.

Again, I closely followed all his moves as the aircraft descended and he lined up on the dirt runway. Then I felt the wheels touch the ground and strangely it felt as though we were going faster as we headed down the runway towards the large metal hanger built off to one side. When the aircraft rolled to a halt and Steve shut of the engines, he turned to John and Jenny and asked if they realised that his co-pilot Lesley had flown the plane almost the entire distance back from Sydney. They probably knew, but their expressions of surprise and compliments on the smoothness of the flight were music to my ears. Steve then said that I was a 'natural', and why didn't he train me to qualify as a pilot since he, Steve, was a qualified instructor?

“John, you should think about getting a plane of your own,” he said “Just think of all the time you'd save in train trips.”

I was thinking the same myself, but I was too smart to put John on the spot. We got into the Landrover and drove Jenny home to Heyward's Crossing first where I thanked her yet again for the tremendous support she had given me throughout the whole transitioning process. Then we drove back to the homestead, and to my surprise there was quite a reception committee of the stockmen and other staff who raised a cheer and said, “Welcome back Missus.” I felt quite overwhelmed, but it did feel so good to be home again.

It was a few weeks later when John said “I've been thinking about what Steve said. Most of the properties around here have their own aircraft, and there's no doubt it would save a lot of time when going to Brisbane or further afield. How would you feel about taking flying lessons?”

I hugged him. “You know I'd love to, but it costs money to run a plane.”

“Well time is money too. Why not take flying lessons and see how you go? We can think further about a plane then.”

Steve wasn't in the least surprised when I phoned him and asked about taking lessons.

“That day we flew back from Sydney, I asked if you'd like to try flying the plane mainly as a courtesy and to take your mind off your operation. When most people take the controls for the first time, the plane is soon bouncing all over the sky and I have to take back control pretty quickly, but that didn't happen with you. You're a natural. I didn't tell you at the time in case you started thinking too much instead of just reacting the way you were doing.”

Of course, there was a lot to learn even if I was a 'natural' as Steve put it, but when you really love doing something, you want to learn, and it comes much more easily. Besides the practical lessons with Steve there was the bookwork too. When I commit to something I want to do it well, and so I really applied myself. Finally, I did what was effectively a solo flight, since although Steve sat beside me, he didn't touch the controls from take-off to landing. Steve pointed out a few minor things, and a couple of weeks later I took my first 'real' solo flight, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, but all went well. After a few more solo flights, I now had my private pilot's license.

Steve was a great help to us in selecting a suitable aircraft to buy, and we settled on a Cessna 310, a twin-engine six-seater. For safely, John insisted on a twin-engine plane. The land around the homestead was quite flat, and it did not take a lot of work to clear a runway, and also to erect a hanger. As the first and only female pilot in that part of the country, I became quite well known, and even featured in an article in the local paper. While I had deliberately kept a very low profile until now, following my operations, I felt quite confident and was not concerned at getting some publicity.

One thing I carried with me at all times was my hand-written copy of that wonderful poem by nineteen-year-old Pilot Officer John Magee in 1941, written not long before he died in a mid-air collision during training. In only fourteen lines he draws together the very essence of how it feels to fly:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air ....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

I kept up all my post-surgery procedures, and after two months or more had elapsed, I felt that physically at least with my wounds totally healed I should be exploring using my new female organs in the way they were intended. Physically I was ready, but mentally, I was not so sure. John was marvellous. He did not urge me in any way, although he must have wondered just how long it would take me. Finally, I took myself over to Jenny's house and had a girl-to-girl talk with her about my fears.

“What is really troubling you?” she asked.

“I know this sounds silly, but John is not a virgin. Suppose I disappoint him physically?”

Jenny smiled gently. “Humans are all built to a basic template, but we are all slightly different you know? To John, I'm sure you will feel exactly like a woman, and don't forget he's been a widower now for about three years. If you are afraid that he will hurt you, then tell him your fears, and I'm sure he will be gentle.”

When put like that it did seem that I was being much too anxious. I took Jenny's advice and a couple of evenings later, with a very flushed face, I explained to John how I felt, and he in turn assured me that he wanted nothing but a pleasurable experience for us both. That evening, I wore a pale pink satin nightdress, and snuggled up to John in bed, letting him know with my hands and lips that I was ready to explore the next stage in our relationship. He responded as I had hoped, and I felt my increasing desire to join my body to his, so that when he finally entered me, I gasped with pleasure as I arched my body under his.

True to his word, John was very gentle at first, but I realised that in fact I wanted him to take command, and urged him on to greater efforts. How can I describe the feelings I had in giving my body to him? It was like riding a great wave which carried us higher and higher, until eventually it crashed over us, leaving us gasping and drowning in feelings of acute pleasure impossible to describe. Afterwards, when we lay side by side on the bed, and our breathing and heart rates gradually returned to normal, I told him how sorry I as that I had been so silly and wasted time when we might have already been exploring those special delights we had just experienced. At that moment I decided that we should make up for lost time, and this we certainly did.

To be continued

Prior to my surgery, I had been reluctant to go to any social occasions. It was difficult to explain to John, but it was mainly on his account. Perhaps I was paranoid since I've always had a rather over-active imagination, but there was always a feeling in my mind that some incident or accident might happen which would cause me to end up in hospital where my gender status would be revealed and somehow become public. I could not bear to think of the resultant scandal and its effect on John. Strangely enough, its effect on me didn't really register. Now that I had recovered from my surgery, this concern had evaporated, and indeed it did occur to me that some people might wonder why John and his wife were so reclusive. Strangely enough, it was my decision to suggest to John that we become more sociable that nearly led to just the sort of story that I was anxious to avoid.

Despite the fact that the population was spread quite thinly around the countryside, and a 'neighbour' often meant someone living about 50 miles away, this seemed to result in the social occasions that were organised being very well patronised. Every year, the local township of Heyward's Crossing had a country race meeting, and as part of the weekend's festivities, there was a ball held in the local hall. I suggested to John that perhaps this was a good 'coming out' opportunity for us both, and he agreed, so I rang up and purchased tickets, and we were left in no doubt that we would be warmly welcomed. I think the general feeling was that John had shut himself away after his wife died, and it would be good to see him socially out and about again. No doubt they were curious to see his new wife too.

My next decision of course was what to wear. It's so easy for men — the standard dinner suit is perfect for almost every occasion, but a woman must look her best, and if possible, appear in a suitably glamorous gown which she has not been seen to wear before. I went through the large wardrobe of what I now considered as 'my' dressing room, and finally decided on a gorgeous silk gown in purple with an overlay studied with designs in silver. Importantly, the presence of purchase tags proved that Mary had never worn it out, which was obviously an essential prerequisite. John persuaded me to model it for him and declared it a 'knock-out' even without my hair done and make-up applied, and in bare feet. I took out John's dinner suit and checked it over, and since it had been stored in a plastic cover, it looked in good condition, but I still took it into 'Hey' to be dry cleaned a service which had only recently been set up but seemed to be attracting quite a bit of custom with the ball coming up.

On the day of the ball, I commandeered the bathroom for most of the afternoon, with John grumbling good naturedly that he 'couldn't understand why women took so long to get ready'. My answer was the same as women the world over 'Because we want to look glamorous for you darling'. I finally handed over the bathroom to him in plenty of time while I did my make-up and dressed. John of course took only a fraction of the time to shower and put on his suit. I have to say that his reaction when I finally appeared wearing the dress again, but this time with my make-up and hair done and wearing stockings and five-inch heels was most gratifying.

“You will be the most beautiful woman at the ball.” he declared proudly, causing me to blush as usual.

“How do you know? You haven't seen any of the other women yet.” I protested.

“I don't need to see them. I just know you'll be.” he replied, which was of course exactly the right thing to say.

“Well, that 'most beautiful woman' will be on the arm of the handsomest man there” I smiled, and indeed even though I knew him so well now, John still had the power to make me go weak at the knees. I had a sneaking suspicion I might not be very popular with a bunch of jealous women there.

We arrived at the ball and were greeted by many of the people there, very few known to me, but John knew more people than I realised, which made me all the more pleased that I had suggested attending. They all expressed great pleasure in seeing us at the ball and complimented me on my gown. I was on Cloud Nine. Jenny and Tom were there too, Jenny looking glamorous, and Tom slightly uncomfortable in a dinner suit which obviously only saw the light of day a few times a year. So at least I had two close friends to chat with if John was spirited away.

It seems to be a convention at these events for women to go the 'ladies' in pairs, presumably to chat about the men while they repair their make-up, so I can't remember now how I happened to go on my own. I was in one of the cubicles when I heard two women come in chatting with each other. There was also a strange squeaking sound which I realised was a wheelchair which needed a wheel oiling, and I remembered that I had seen one of the women was using one. I believe she had broken an ankle. They obviously didn't notice the closed door of my cubicle because one was saying to the other as they each entered their cubicles:

“Did you see the new Mrs Brodie? She must be half his age.” A rather catty remark I thought to myself.

“The pretty woman in the purple gown? I think they look very well together.” was her companion's mild response. I warmed to her without even knowing her and I blushed with pleasure, even though I felt a little uncomfortable about eavesdropping, however unintentionally.

“Pretty? Well, I suppose so, but I must tell you a most extraordinary story I heard only yesterday. It was suggested to me that she isn't a 'she' at all but a man.”

“What rubbish!” was the response of the other woman.

“What I heard was that soon after Brodie's wife died, a young man came over from England to manage the accounts for him, and his name was Leslie. Now Brodie's married to a Lesley. That's a bit too much of a coincidence don't you think? Anyway, it's too delicious a story not to spread around.”

“But Elsie, haven't you thought you might get yourself in a great deal of trouble spreading a story like that?”

“Oh you worry too much Sue. Anyway, suppose it really is true?”

I didn't need a mirror to tell me that I had turned white and my hands were shaking. Where had this woman got such a story? She was obviously someone who enjoyed a good gossip, and this was the sort of story that would be lapped up and passed around the community very quickly, no matter how absurd it sounded. How could I stop it? Just then another woman entered the room, and that put a stop to the conversation.

Elsie said “Well I must be off back to the festivities. Are you ready yet?”

“You go ahead, I'll just be a minute,” replied Sue and I heard Elsie's heels click on the floor as she went to wash her hands and then left the room. I waited until the latest arrival left, and then I flushed the toilet and walked to the hand-basin, fully realising as I did that, that I had signalled to Sue in the wheelchair that someone else had heard the conversation. She kept very quiet, so in a conversational voice I faced the door of the disabled cubicle and said quietly, “Would you like to come out now?”

The door opened slowly, and a young woman stared up at me, her face bright red. “I knew it must be you. You heard everything didn't you.” she said it as a statement rather than a question. I had decided on my course of action.

“Yes I did,” I replied. “First, tell me — do I look like a man in drag?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “I don't know where on earth Elsie got that story from, it's obviously rubbish.”

“But rubbish which could cause John and I a great deal of embarrassment if it gets spread around.”

“I know,” she replied, “I wish there was a way of stopping her.”

“Well Sue, perhaps if she knew the facts, she would realise how they have been distorted into this ridiculous story she's heard. You see after Mary, John's wife died, there was a young man called Leslie who came out from England for a while to handle the accounts. However, he didn't stay. I heard about the position being vacant from a mutual friend, and decided I'd like a change of scenery, so I applied and got the job. I arrived just as he left. I had no intention of romance when I arrived, but, well, you've seen John and what a gorgeous person he is, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising that a relationship developed between us. The fact that my name happens to be Lesley and that young man was a Leslie has obviously led to the confusion, although I wouldn't in my wildest dreams have come up with a story like the one Elsie is telling.”

“You're right of course," said Sue, “Now that I understand the facts, I'll be sure to tell her.”

“I'd appreciate you doing that,” I said. “Please don't misunderstand me, but if John gets to hear about it, he might even be inclined to sue for slander, and frankly the last thing I want is unpleasantness. I want to participate in and be a welcome part of this community, so if you can get her to stop right now, you'd be doing everyone a favour.”

The suggestion of suing was a bluff of course, but Sue wasn't to know that, and I was fairly sure she'd know that John had deep pockets.

“Thank you for being so understanding,” said Sue “I'll make sure I speak to her right away before this goes any further.”

When I had arrived back at the table, John had looked at me a bit curiously, perhaps wondering why I had been away so long. “Are you alright?” he inquired.

“I'm fine, just making friends,” I replied, “But I think it's just a little hot in here.”

John immediately took me outside for some fresh air, and I did feel a bit better for it, standing out in the cool night air, gazing up at the stars blazing, and I felt even better when he took me in his arms and kissed me deeply.

“I'm so glad we came to this ball,” he said “And I was right, you are the most beautiful woman here.”

“Oh John, I'm so lucky to have you,” I murmured as I nestled in his arms.

When we went back inside the hall I saw Elsie and Sue away from the supper table and in earnest conversation. At one point Elsie looked over in my direction, and I met her gaze and held it. It was hard to tell from a distance, but I thought she looked decidedly nervous. In any case, I heard no more of that story, but I confess it really shook me up at the time. When I thought back about all I had said to Sue, really, I hadn't told any lies at all, since Leslie had left when Lesley arrived, just not in the way I knew Sue would understand it to mean.

To be continued

Life went on in many ways as it had before, but now I felt truly John's wife even if the law would not allow us that privilege. Time passed and soon we were looking forward to Mum and Dad visiting us from England. I had kept them informed of what had been happening, including my operations, but not in any great detail of course; and also how I had been taking flying lessons, although when I told them I'd be collecting them in Brisbane and flying them to our home, I don't think they quite believed me.

They were due to arrive towards the end of November, so I was surprised when Mum rang in September to tell me that Dad hadn't been too well, and as a result they thought it best to delay their trip for a while. I was quite shocked as I had no idea anything was wrong.

“What's wrong with Daddy, Mum? Please tell me straight. I know I'm a long way away, but I'd feel much happier if I knew, and then I can decide what to do.”

“I'm sorry Darling, we should have told you, but we didn't want you to worry,” said Mum. "About four months ago, Dad started getting very tired. I finally persuaded him to go to the doctor and it turned out that one of his cardiac arteries was nearly blocked. He had to undergo a procedure, I forget what they call it now - an 'angio' something, and they managed to open up the blockage and put a little metal tube into the artery to keep it open. He's on some medication now and seems a lot better, but we still feel that he should take it easy for a while. It's very disappointing, but we hope we can come out to see you next year.

It's times like that that makes you face your own parents' mortality, and it's a strange feeling. They have been there all your life, and to suddenly face the possibility that a time is approaching when that will no longer be the case, is rather frightening. There is a book by Australian author Geoffrey Blainey called “The Tyranny of Distance” which describes how the distance and isolation of Australia from the northern hemisphere have shaped our history and national identity. It's moments like the sickness of my father that brought that home to me in a very personal way.

In due course a letter arrived from Dad, trying to reassure us that he was feeling much better. A great deal of the letter was devoted to his much anticipated attendance at the Ashes test match at Lords in late June when he was the guest of the Secretary of the M.C.C. He thoroughly enjoyed it of course, even though Australia won. The tone of the letter was reassuring and I had every hope that we would see both Mum and Dad in Australia the following year.

In the end, my parents left their trip until late the following year. They had decided they would like to spend Christmas with us, and there was the added incentive of avoiding much of a cold English winter. In the meantime, I kept up my correspondence with them and was pleased to hear that there were no more worrying health issues.

The day they were arriving, I flew down and landed at Archerfield, the smaller Brisbane airfield now used for small commercial and private aircraft. It was only a short taxi ride to Brisbane Airport, and I was there in good time. My first sight of my parents surprised me a little. It had only been two years since we'd seen them in England, but they looked older, especially my father. I was surprised at how much effect his heart problem had had on his general appearance. I put my feelings to one side as I greeted them and gave them both a big hug. They told me I was looking wonderful and obviously the life here agreed with me. Once they collected their suitcases, I explained that we had to go to another airfield where I had left our plane.

“So you really did mean what you said about flying us out to where you live?” Mum asked.

“Of course.” I replied. “I'm sure you'll find it a lot more pleasant than taking a train trip for about twelve hours. The first thing any English visitor has to get used to is the distances here. We live about six hundred miles from Brisbane, that's about the length of Britain, north to south. Travelling by train it would be an even longer trip. This way we'll be there in a bit over three hours.”

When we arrived at Archerfield, they looked a little dubious when they saw the Cessna, but I reassured them that even though it was a fraction the size of the Boeing 747 they had just flown half-way around the world in, it was just as safe. Safety has always been my number one priority in flying and maybe that's why I'm here today. I know there are occasional circumstances which even the best and most experienced pilot can't handle, but there are also cases where the pilot takes a chance, or worse, the customer persuades the pilot to do so. I have never flown unless I was one hundred percent sure that the plane and the weather were perfectly suited to a safe flight. 'Better a day late in this life than thirty years early in the next' has always been my motto.

I offered Mum or Dad the chance to sit beside me in the co-pilot's seat, but they declined and I did not push it. Perhaps they were concerned about distracting me. I think they started to relax when they saw me go through my pre-flight checks and communicate with the tower to get clearance for take-off. Soon we were in the air, and I made a broad sweep out over the ocean and then turned inland. After a while I could see that they had relaxed and were looking at the countryside far below. I pointed out a few of the local landmarks for them, and in no time the three hours had passed and I was indicating the ring of hills surrounding our homestead, as I gradually lost height and prepared to land. I taxied up to the hanger, and John was there to meet us with the Land-rover. He greeted Mum and Dad with a hug and a handshake and asked how the flight was.

“Err — very good. Both of them.” said Dad, and he winked at me.

John drove us back to the homestead, Mum and Dad looking around them with great curiosity.

“How much of this valley is your land, John?” asked Dad.

“All of it and more,” replied John. “MacKenzie Station is just over one thousand square miles or two thousand five hundred square kilometres.”

I think my parents were stunned, unable to imagine farming on this scale.

“We looked it up once, out of curiosity. It's about one and a quarter times the area of the county of Oxfordshire where you live. But we're not the biggest station by any means. Some are about four thousand square miles in area.”

Arriving at the homestead, I showed Mum and Dad their room, which I'd spent quite a bit of time making ready for them, including painting the walls and ceiling, and I was pleased when they commented how nice it was. Evening was approaching, so I gave them a light supper, and then they went to bed, very tired after such a long journey and their new experiences. The next few days we let them get used to the new time zone, and also the temperature which was quite a contrast to the chilly November in England that they had just left. I showed them around the property, making sure they wore hats and had plenty of water to drink, remembering how I had felt when I first arrived in Australia.

“You manage all this?” asked Mum quite dumbfounded.

I laughed. “Oh no. John manages the property. I manage the homestead and handle the finances. We're a good team if I say so myself.”

I took them to Heyward's Crossing on the fourth day, so they could see our local township.

“If you've ever read Neville Shute's book 'A Town Like Alice', that's the sort of thing we're trying to do here — help develop the town and provide the sort of facilities people enjoy in the big cities. All the local property owners are chipping in and I think we're making good progress.”

Mum stopped at a new-looking building.

“That's our own baby,” I said, “The new library. Would you like to see inside?”

Mum loved reading so she replied enthusiastically “Oh yes!”

“Hi Lesley” said the girl on the desk as we walked in.

“Hi Jean. These are my parents, out visiting from England. I'm showing them around.”

Jean said “It's nice to meet you. Enjoy our new library. We're so proud of it.”

Mum stopped at a plaque on the wall which read.

“Mary Brodie?” asked Mum.

“John's first wife. When I first arrived here, her big collection of books at the homestead was really the only source of entertainment and information that I had apart from the radio. It seemed appropriate to name the library after her. It's not just a place to borrow books. We're organising study groups and talks in conjunction with the local school. It's still growing.”

'John's first wife' I thought to myself. In reality his only wife, although I thought of myself as his wife now, and had done for some time. So did John.

We walked down the main street and inevitably called in at the hotel. We entered the lounge bar where Dad and I enjoyed a cold beer and Mum had a mineral water. I had a feeling she thought it wasn't really ladylike to drink beer in public, and probably it wasn't back in England. It hadn't been so many years since women in a public bar were frowned upon in Australia, but gradually things were changing. The lounge bar was more 'upmarket' though, so that's where we sat.

The Australian test team was in England playing for the Ashes in 1972. Dad had attended the Lord's test match as the guest of the Secretary, and of course John couldn't wait to hear all about it. Meanwhile the Sheffield Shield competition was taking place in Australia, and Dad and John were keen to attend a match between Queensland and South Australia starting on 17th November, so I flew us all down there the day before and we booked into our hotel. John and Dad intended to spend the whole time at the cricket of course, sitting in the members' stand, but I knew that Mum wasn't particularly interested, so we spend a wonderful four days of 'mother and daughter' time together, visiting the shops, parks and cafés, and generally having a great time. I took the opportunity to ask Mum how Dad really was.

“I've remembered now what he had done,” she said.”It's called an angioplasty, and they inserted a stent in the blocked artery. He really has been feeling a lot better since, but obviously you can see a difference in him.”

“Well yes I can, but I hope it's just the effect of the heart problem. Is he getting regular check-ups now?”

Mum laughed “Your Dad comes from that generation of men who had to be at death's door before they would see a doctor, but yes, now he does see the error of his ways and gets a regular check-up.”

I laughed.”Well some good came out of it them, and please, in future if anything happens I would much prefer to know about it than not know. And you, how are you feeling yourself?”

“Oh I'm fine. Just the odd aches and pains that come with age, but nothing to worry about, and yes, I do see our local doctor from time to time.”

John and Dad certainly enjoyed the match, even though South Australia won. After it was over, we had a boat trip on the Brisbane River and a pleasant lunch at one of the riverside cafés.

We had persuaded Mum and Dad to stay long enough to experience a typical Australian Christmas, so different from back in England, especially as far as the temperature was concerned, for this was now high summer in Australia, and getting hotter all the time. They were somewhat amused to see that we had Christmas cards with snow on the pictures, as well as the ones with bush scenes.

A few days before Christmas Day, we attended a 'Carols by Candelight' service at Hey's sports oval. Started years before in Melbourne, these concerts had spread all over the country, from the big televised occasions to events held in tiny towns like ours. It certainly helped bring the spirit of Christmas to the outback. The sight of the flickering candles in the cool night air with the stars blazing above us is something one can never forget.

On Christmas Day morning, Mum and I cooked a turkey for the traditional Christmas Dinner, which we ate in the cool of the evening. We exchanged some presents, ate too much and probably drank a little too much as well. It was wonderful to have a family get-together, and the thought crossed my mind that with them living so far away, I wondered if we would ever have another Christmas together. In January, they returned to England, although I tried to persuade them to stay longer until the weather started to warm up in England, but I suppose the truth was they were homesick. We promised to come and see them again, if not that year, then the next.

Six months passed and with our lives settled in a pleasant routine, it seemed that nothing would disturb them, but then we've all heard of 'the calm before the storm', and when the storm broke it caused a big upheaval in our lives. My first hint that something was wrong was when my mother's letter was late. We corresponded on a very regular basis, usually by aerogrammes, and allowing for the variation in the time for the letter to arrive and a week to write a reply, we would both expect a reply in about five weeks. We knew each other's style of writing so well (and it was usually Mum who wrote, with an occasional paragraph from Dad) that I had felt her latest letter was not as chatty as usual, but there was nothing I could put my finger on, so I replied as usual. Six weeks passed which was unusual, and I had made up my mind to phone to see if all was well, but that evening the telephone rang, and on picking it up I realised it was an overseas call. Dad's voice came on the line, but he sounded so strained that for a second I didn't recognise him.

“Lesley, is that you? I've got some bad news. Your Mum's not well, not well at all.”

“What's wrong Dad? Please, you have to tell me.”

“She's got cancer, a bad one, the ovaries.” I froze. I'd heard of ovarian cancer, and how the symptoms were so subtle that diagnosis was often too late for any effective treatment. I suddenly remembered things Mum had said when she'd been in Australia. How she'd had some back-ache and often felt tired; how she seemed to have lost her appetite and on more than one occasion had rushed to the toilet. Taken individually, each symptom could have had many causes, but now regarding them as a group, I started to think that perhaps these were the warning signs we didn't recognise.

“Is she in hospital, Dad?”

“Yes. A specialist has seen her. They say there are some treatments but I think they are trying to let us down gently. I don't really think there is much they can do. She'll be coming home in a few days. Your cousin Marie is very good. She's offered to come and help.” He sounded on the brink of tears.

“Daddy, I'll come over at once.” I said.

“Will John be alright about that?”

“I'm sure he'll understand, but I'll go and talk to him right away. I'll call you as soon as I know when I can be there. Tell Mum I love her, and I love you too Dad. We're in this together.”

As soon as John saw my face, he knew that something was badly wrong. He held out his arms and held me, and of course I started to cry then, so it was difficult for him to make put what I was telling him, but as soon as he understood, he said. “You'll go over right away of course.”

“Thank you darling. I hate to leave you in the lurch, but I suspect it may not be for a very long time if what I've heard about the disease is true.”

That night John held me until I fell asleep. We did not make love, but it was so comforting to be held in his arms. I managed to book a flight for three days later, and called Dad to let him know.

“I'll come to London to meet you.” he said. “Your cousin Marie has arrived to stay for a few days, so Mum will be fine for a few hours.”

I know he must have a reason for coming to Heathrow, presumably to bring me fully up to date with what the doctor had said, and Mum's likely prognosis. Seeing Marie again would be a very small silver lining in a very large black cloud. I decided to ring her too to get the latest news.

“Hi Lesley. It's such rotten luck, just when they were enjoying their retirement. They loved their trip to visit you so much. They've told me all about it.”

“I thought they both looked a bit under the weather, but then I heard about Dad's heart problems, and Mum couldn't put her finger on anything specifically wrong with her, so I thought perhaps the aches and pains were just her getting older. Now I think what we were seeing were the symptoms of the cancer. Tell me honestly Marie, how long do you think she's got?”

“It's hard to say,” replied Marie. “But I think we're talking a month or two at most, probably less.”

I gasped. As short a time as that. “Well, I'll be over there in about four to five days, and at least I've got seeing you to look forward to, but everything else seems pretty bleak.”

I packed some clothes, and decided to take the train down as I could be in England for several months and didn't want to leave the Cessna in Brisbane all that time.

I boarded the 747 which was usually something of a thrill, being the start of a trip to the other side of the world. I've always enjoyed flying, especially since all my long-haul flights have been business class, which when I've seen the cramped conditions of economy, made me very grateful indeed that we could afford more luxurious seating. This time, even the comfort of the seating and entertainment was lost on me as I could think of nothing else but what would face me when I arrived in England.

As the flight progressed, a few times I had felt someone's eyes on me, and looked up to see a handsome man in his forties, with slightly greying hair, and dressed in a business suit, sitting across the aisle. To be honest, there isn't a woman in the world who doesn't find a handsome man's attentions flattering, and so long as that's as far as it goes, then there is no harm done. Fate, however took a hand, and this is something which I still feel rather ashamed about all these years later. I'm even tempted to 'air-brush' it out of my memory, but if I cannot be honest with myself, what hope is there for me?

We had to change planes at Dubai, and we were all sitting in the business class lounge, when one of those stunning stewardesses in their chic uniforms came in and took the microphone down to make an announcement. It seemed that our next plane had developed a technical fault, and due to other flights being fully booked, there was no alternative but for us to be given first class hotel accommodation and put on a flight the next morning. I telephoned Dad to explain what had happened and gave him a new time for my arrival the next day.

When we got on the bus to take us to the hotel, I wasn't exactly surprised when the handsome man, who soon introduced himself as Sam, sat down beside me. He was a smooth talker alright. He said he was surprised to see such an attractive woman travelling on her own, and being reluctant to discuss my own business, I merely said that I had to make a trip to England and my husband was too busy to accompany me.

“His loss is my gain then.” he remarked, which I felt was rather cheeky, but to be honest I was starting to think about Mum again, and welcomed a distraction, any distraction, so when Sam invited me to dinner at the hotel that night, I agreed, against my better judgement. I had not really packed with any thought of fine dining in mind, although by chance I had packed one silk cocktail dress — why I have no idea, but it was now coming in very handy. I have always worn pretty lingerie, stockings and heels when going out to dinner. Perhaps I should have played down the glamour, but again I wasn't really thinking. When Sam knocked on my door, he expressed his appreciation with a quiet wolf whistle, and of course I blushed as I always did. I was still thinking that this was no more than a pleasant evening out with a charming older man.

Charming Sam certainly was. The meal was great, and there was a trio and a small dance floor, so we danced. He held me close, and in my present worried state, it felt nice and comforting. I noticed that he was becoming a little aroused by my closeness, but that was alright too. I probably drank a little more than usual, but when the evening turned from harmless flirting to something more, I really can't say. I can try and make excuses even now. I could say that I was desperate for distraction from what I was facing when I arrived in England. Another thing might have been that while John and my lovemaking was good, perhaps a little of the spark had gone out of it. It even crossed my mind to wonder if a man who had no idea about my past would even suspect that I was not a fully genetic female. These are all excuses of course, and not very satisfactory ones. It was all too obvious to me that Sam, who had already told me he made numerous overseas trips every year, saw finding an attractive woman with a view to taking them to bed as a fringe benefit of his occupation.

When Sam mentioned that the view of the city lights from his room on the twelfth floor were stunning, it was quite obvious that what he had in mind was far more than just looking at the view, but nevertheless, I allowed him to take my hand and lead me to the elevator. Once in his room, I crossed to the window and looked down at the city-scape of shimmering lights below me. Up to the point, apart from dancing, Sam had not touched me, but now he came up behind me, put his arms around me and nuzzled my ear, and I froze. What on earth was I doing? Had I lost my mind?

I turned to him. “I'm sorry Sam, this is all my fault leading you on, but I can't do this.”

He looked a little surprised, but to give him his due he did not try to force the issue, for which I was thankful. I knew what a vulnerable position I was in.

“Come and sit down and tell me the story, the whole story this time.” he said.

So I sat down and told him all about my mother and how worried I was and how I had used him as a distraction and felt very bad about it. “If you weren't such a nice man, I wouldn't even be in your room right now. I've never done anything like this before,” I went on “I'm happily married to a wonderful man who trusts me totally and I feel I've let him down as well as myself.”

Sam smiled and patted my hand “Don't be too hard on yourself. We all react differently to stressful situations, and the fact is that nothing really happened except we had a pleasant evening together. Whether you chose to tell your husband about it or not is your decision, but don't load yourself down with guilt.”

I knew that I would never tell John about that evening. There might forever be a tiny niggling element of doubt in his mind as to whether I had told him the whole truth. No, this was something to keep to myself forever.

“Well, I think the best thing you can do now is get yourself some sleep,” said Sam “You know what Shakespeare said 'Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care'? Old Will knew what he was talking about. It's absolutely the best thing for you right now.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Then I took the elevator down to my room. As I undressed I thought about the evening. It all seemed like a dream. I got into bed and was soon asleep, and only awoke when a knock on the door signalled the arrival of breakfast. Then I showered and dressed and got ready for the bus back to the airport. In the business lounge at the airport Sam caught my eye once and gave a slight smile. Obviously for him this was his way of saying 'goodbye and good luck'. He made no attempt to speak to me and I was grateful for that, as I had no idea what I could say to him. He wasn't a bad man. Obviously he had had plenty of conquests during his many international flights and I was one of the few that 'got away', but he didn't seem to bear a grudge.

One advantage of Business Class, is that you are close to the head of the queue in getting off the plane and out of the airport. As I pushed my trolley out into the public waiting area, there was Dad, looking somehow shrunken and even older than when I last saw him only six months previously. I walked quickly to him and we embraced silently.

“Thanks for coming to meet me,” I said. I knew that tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I didn't care. Arrival points are often areas of high emotion, and who had more good reason than us?

As we took the train out to Oxford, I asked how they had found out about Mum.

“It was very difficult, you know. It's one of the hardest things to diagnose. She kept going to her local GP, but he couldn't pin it down at all. Now you know Mum's always been the boss in our relationship, no good fooling myself about it, but for once I put my foot down and got her to go to a new lady GP who had just opened up a practise locally. Perhaps the fact she's a woman made her think outside the box a bit, because she suspected what it was on Mum's first visit, and a visit to a specialist confirmed it, but by then of course it was too late. To be fair to the other GP it was too late even when he was seeing her. Now all we can do is keep her comfortable.”

“And how is she in herself?”

“She has her good days and her bad ones. She was good today because Marie and young Michael are there, and boy, is he a bundle of mischief!”

We took a taxi out from Oxford to their cottage, and I couldn't help remembering our first visit and how nervous I had been. I was nervous again, but for a different reason this time. When we walked in, Mum was sitting in an armchair. She looked pale and thin, but her old smile was still there.

“Lesley darling! It's so good to see you again. I'm so sorry to drag you halfway around the world.”

“Nonsense Mum,” I walked over and kissed her cheek. It seemed redundant to ask how she was, I already knew that. Then I turned to Marie and got a surprise.

“Well, look at you! When's the next one due?”

“About four months,” said Marie as she came over to hug me.

“And look how this little man is growing!” I said looking down at Michael. Every time I see a small child, I can't help thinking how much I would love to have had children of my own, but then you can't have everything in life.

Michael was strictly speaking my second cousin, but it sounded more natural for Marie to introduce me as Aunty Lesley, so that's what we settled on. I stooped down and presented him with a toy kangaroo and koala, and he took them with solemn eyes, still a bit unsure of this stranger, but in the coming days we started to get on really well. They stayed on for another couple of days before returning to Bath, and we promised to stay in close touch.

The next day, Mum was not so well, perhaps she had been over-excited by my arrival and Marie and Michael's presence, so she stayed in bed. One thing did please me. She was obviously very happy to have me there. It is often said that people who are dying go through five stages, from denial to final acceptance. Mum had already reached the stage of acceptance, but for me it was hard to accept that the central female figure in my life would not be there much longer. Denial was hardly logical when I had just travelled half-way around the world, but I rapidly progressed to the second stage of 'Anger'. After all, why should this woman who had led quite a blameless life, have it cut short, when every day you could read in the newspapers of people whose passing would make the world a better place, and yet they seemed almost immortal?

I was in no condition to bargain for her life, the next stage, since all that could have been done had been done, and yet another medical opinion would have been pointless, so from there I went to depression, and spent most nights with my face buried in my pillow to muffle the sound of my sobs at the unfairness of it. Finally, I too reached the final stage of acceptance, and the realisation that unlike many children, I had been given the gift of time with Mum, and that I should cherish this time and use it wisely.

Within a couple of weeks of my arrival, Mum was rarely getting out of bed, and was visibly sinking. I spent many hours sitting at her bedside, just holding her hand in silent companionship, and this seemed to please her. One afternoon, when I thought she was asleep, she suddenly said “I'm not afraid of dying you know, Lesley. I believe that we will all see each other again some day. I'm so glad that I have that faith, but what about you Lesley, do you have faith?”

Did I have faith? It was true that from a total rejection of religion in my late teens, experiences had started to make me wonder if in fact there was more than just the physical world — 'the divinity that shapes our ends' as Shakespeare put it. For some reason, my meeting with the aboriginal elder Coorah came to mind and I told Mum about her and how her appearance came at a critical moment for me.

“To this day I don't know if she was a living person or a spirit” I said, "and perhaps it doesn't really matter either way.”

Another afternoon Mum said quietly. “It's Dad I'm worried about more than anything. Men usually die first, and it's better that way because we women can cope with being alone more easily. Marie has been wonderful, but she has a husband and child, plus another little one on the way. I know you will do your best for him, but your place is with your husband on the other side of the world, so you can't stay here for ever.”

“I promise I will do my best for Dad, you know that. He might come out and visit us too, but I suspect he'll want to live here where his friends are.“

“Thank you darling,” she murmured. “You truly have turned into the most wonderful daughter and I couldn't have asked for a better child.”

I felt myself blushing, but it didn't matter. “I have a wonderful teacher.” I replied.

Eventually Mum sank to the stage where the doctor on her frequent visits, suggested that she would be better off in a hospice. Mum seemed happy enough at the prospect, but nature took a hand as it so often does. The day before she was due to be moved, the doctor came again, and after checking her she took me aside and said, “I don't think the hospice is necessary as I think it will happen in the next twenty-four hours. I'm very sorry.”

I clasped her hand. “It's all right, doctor. Thank you for all that you have done for Mum. I know she really appreciates it. For me, the important thing was that she should not be in pain, and you've handled that brilliantly.”

That night, Dad and I took turns, or else sat on either side of Mum's bed, holding her hands. The hours slipped by, and occasionally I had to look hard at her as she was breathing so lightly. It was around three a.m. when she rallied a little, looking at us both and in a whisper said “I love you both, darlings. Joseph, thank you so much for being such a wonderful husband. Lesley, you've been the best daughter any mother could hope to have.”

She lay back on the pillows. For a moment I felt distinctly that her spirit was hovering over us, and then she was gone. I sat there for a while in silence, and then I got up and leaning over, kissed her gently on the cheek, and left the room to allow Dad some private time alone with his wife. I did not cry then, but I did later. At that time I think I had already cried all the tears that were in me.

Marie came back for the funeral of course, together with her husband Michael and little Michael junior. They were really the only people that I knew, although Mum and Dad were regular churchgoers, so the church was quite full. Dad sat there the whole time, looking at the flower-draped casket, his face like stone. He did not feel able to speak , so the priest gave the eulogy. I got a mention, and even in that solemn service, I felt a flicker of amusement as I couldn't help wondering what those good people would have felt if they knew that Mum and Dad's child had started off in life very differently to how she looked now.

After the service there was the usual sandwiches, cakes, tea and coffee in the church hall. The buildings were several hundred years old. They would be national monuments in Australia, but here they were still working buildings. People I didn't know came up and gave me their condolences and I appreciated that. There was just one tense moment when a stout old woman who apparently had known Mum and Dad in London came up, and after inspecting me rather searchingly, said. “Hmmm I always thought your parents had a son.”

I smiled sweetly and replied “Well they only had one child and that's me. Sometimes the mind plays tricks as we get older.” She still didn't look totally convinced, and let out a snort as she moved purposefully towards the refreshment tables.

I stayed on after the funeral, helping Dad sort out Mum's things, taking her clothes to a charity shop. He was grateful for that, saying he didn't know how to handle them without starting to cry again. We rearranged the furniture a bit too. I didn't push him as to what he intended to do. The house was not big and I was sure that he could keep it tidy on his own, or else get someone in weekly to keep it in order. He had been taking some basic cookery lessons from Mum when she was well enough and now from me, so I was sure that he would not starve. I didn't like to broach the subject of going back to Australia, but fortunately in the end he realised my dilemma and brought up the subject himself.

“Lesley, I don't know what I would have done without you these last weeks, but now it's time you returned to your husband in Australia. John needs you too. I'll be alright. I can always talk to Marie on the phone, and you too of course. I have my friends at the cricket club and bowling club. I won't be lonely. Well strictly speaking that's not true, but there are many people in the world more lonely then me. I can cope.”

“Oh Daddy,” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him, and he hugged me back. “When you feel like it, I hope you will come out and visit us again, and of course we will come over to see you too.”

Before I left England, Dad gave me Mum's engagement ring and also that of her mother. He told me it was her wish that I have them, and pass them on so they were kept in the family. Since I could not have children, it seemed the logical thing would be to pass them on to Marie's children. I really hoped she would have a little girl this time as I knew that was what she really wanted. My wish came true when some months later, she rang me very excitedly from her hospital bed to tell me that Evelyn Lesley Morton had been born two days before, at a very healthy seven pounds. I almost cried, when she told me her baby's names; Evelyn after her mother, and Lesley after me. Another christening mug was duly dispatched and there was even more reason to make another trip to England when it was convenient.

I forgot to mention that while I was in England I kept in regular touch with John via reverse-charge phone calls. I hated mentioning this to Dad, but I worried that he would be concerned about getting a large telephone bill when I departed, something that as a pensioner he could ill afford, and I knew that he would never have mentioned it himself. I remember that a few days after Mum died, John asked if he could speak to Dad. I was delighted and impressed. Men as a rule are not good at handling emotion-charged issues, and I had not expected him to get personally involved. So I said my goodbyes, then called Dad to the phone and left him alone to chat with John. When he appeared some time later his eyes were glistening and his voice was not steady. He took my hands in his and said “John is one of the finest men it has been my privilege to meet. You take care of him. You'll never find anyone as good again.”

“I know that Dad,” I said solemnly, thinking for a second of how I could so easily have thrown it all away. “Believe me I know how fortunate I am.”

My plane journey back to Australia was uneventful, and in stark contrast to the trip over, a journey I wanted to forget. I had told John that I could manage the train journey home on my own, since I knew how busy he was, so it was a total surprise to me when I came through the doors into the arrivals lounge to see him standing there. In fact I stopped dead in my tracks and the man behind nearly ran into me with his luggage trolley and just avoided me with a muttered curse and I had to send a hurried “Sorry” after him. Then I raced to the end of the barrier and straight into John's arms, and to my acute embarrassment started to cry.

“Oh dear, am I such a disappointment?” John joked.

“Oh no!” I cried “It's so wonderful to be home after all that's happened. I just want a peaceful life for a while with no dramas. But what are you doing here? I did say I'd take the train home.”

“Well, you have Steve to thank for that,” said John, “He rang a couple of weeks back wondering if his 'star pupil' was interested in a night flying course, and after I told him what had happened, he made me promise to tell him when you were coming home so he could fly me down to pick you up.”

“So where is he?” I said, looking round.

“I think he went to see a man about a dog,” replied John, and I immediately understood that Steve, suspecting there might be a bit of emotion on display had decided to give us some privacy for our initial meeting.

“Well, I think he's had enough time looking at that dog, so why don't we find him?” I said, and John pointed out the coffee shop on the far side of the hall. We walked over and I gave Steve a hug and told him I was the luckiest woman in the world to have two such wonderful men to look after me.

“ 'A friend in need is a friend indeed' " I said, “If you or your family ever need to be flown anywhere, you've got to promise me you'll give me the opportunity to repay your kindness.”

We made our way over to Archerfield and soon we were winging our way over the familiar territory, back to my beloved home. Steve landed at the Station and we alighted, together with my suitcase, and then he took off again to head home. John drove us down to the homestead and to my surprise and delight, everyone who was free was waiting there to greet me. I knew that the occasion called for some sort of speech, so we climbed the steps of the verandah and I turned and looked down at all the smiling faces looking up at me. I couldn't help it, my eyes started to sting with suppressed tears.

“First let me say how happy I am to be home again among all of you, my friends. As you know I went to say farewell to my mother, and she sent you all a message. She wanted you to know how much she enjoyed her visit here and meeting all of you, and she sends you all her greetings, love, and best wishes.”

I don't know why I said 'sends' rather than 'sent' but to the aboriginal stock-men especially, I think they understood, I know I did. John came up and put his arm around me.

“The Missus is very tired after her long journey, but in a few days we are going to have a big barbecue to welcome her home and to remember her mother, and I hope everyone can attend.”

With that he led me into the house. Nothing had changed, it was all there waiting for me just as I wanted. I was tired after the long flight, but not too tired for John. I wanted to make love to him so desperately, that I suggested we retire early for the night, and he was nothing loathe. Lying on the bed, our bodies entwined, I realised what a difference it was to be with the man you loved and how if I had given in to Sam, it would have been such a poor substitute for what I had with the man I adored.

The homestead continued to hold surprises. A couple of days after I arrived back, and the day before the barbecue, I was looking for something, I forget what, and opened a cupboard door only to be confronted with items I'd never seen before. At the bottom was a large grey box with a handle on top, much too heavy for me to move. On shelves above were some round cans and some film reels, and I realised that the box must be a film projector. Some of the cans were labelled Charlie Chaplin in 'Easy Street', Harold Lloyd in 'Safety Last', Buster Keaton in 'One Week', and there was a few others. There were also some smaller yellow square boxes with Kodak printed on them, and when I lifted them down, I recognised Mary's handwriting identifying them as 'Ayers Rock', 'Trip to Sydney' and some others. These were obviously home movies. I decided that while I would mention my find of the projector and commercial films to John, I would be discreet and not mention the home movies which he might find difficult to think about even after the years that had passed since Mary's death.

“Good Lord!” said John when I told him of my find, “I haven't had the projector out since....well you know. We used to have regular shows outside. There's a screen somewhere. Of course they show films at Hey but it's not practical for a lot of people to go there, so I used to hire films from Brisbane and they sent them out by train. We should do that again.” I realised, not for the first time how Mary's death had impacted on station life in so many ways.

By now we had reached the cupboard and he was inspecting the contents. He lifted out the projector as though it weighed almost nothing and set it up on a table to give it a dust and see if it still worked, which it did. Inspecting the small pile of comedy films, John said “Why don't we show some at the barbecue tomorrow?”

Then he saw the yellow Kodak boxes, and I watched his face keenly to see his reaction.

“Goodness me,” he said quietly “Our old home movies.”

“If you'd like to watch them on your own sometime John, please do so.”

“Yes I'd like to watch them again, but I'd like you to watch them with me, if you don't mind that is?”

“Of course not,” I replied.

“Look, the camera is up here. Why don't we take some more movies — they will be great to look back on in years to come. There's a couple of unexposed reels of film here. They're a bit old, but we could shoot them off and see how they turn out.”

The barbecue was a great success. Jenny and Tom and a few other friends came over, in addition to the Station hands. We watched some of the comedy films, and there's no doubt those comedians of the silent film era were geniuses. Without a word being said, they had us all roaring with laughter. At one point when Jenny and Tom were with John and I, John said “I've been thinking. We should think of a way of raising money for ovarian cancer research. There needs to be a way of diagnosing it before it's too late to do anything about it.” Now you can see why I loved this man so much. What we ended up doing was holding a cricket match at the Hey oval, and a dinner to raise funds. With John's connections, he managed to get a few well-known names to come along to play and quite a few thousand pounds were raised and passed on to a research institute in Brisbane. I didn't expect any magic bullet to be instantly produced. These things take time, but the answer is there somewhere and all it needs is the money to pay the researchers to look until they find it.

One evening John said to me “Would you like to see those old home movies?”

“Of course,” I replied.

So he brought out the projector and we sat there together and watched them. It's one thing to see someone in a black and white photograph, and quite another to see the same person in a colour movie. I could only guess at how old the films were by how John looked, perhaps in his late twenties. Mary was a very pretty woman and seemed even more so in the films. John reached for my hand as we sat there at watched the films which must have stirred up so many memories for him.

“This may sound an odd thing to say, but I wish I could have met Mary,” I said. John looked at me and squeezed my hand.

“I think you would have got on very well, because in some ways you are very alike, although in others very different.” he remarked. “I can't help thinking how fortunate I am to have had two such wonderful women in my life.”

Being so far from Heyward's Crossing, we relied on generators for our electricity. It must have been a great day when they were first installed as until then there would have been kerosene lamps at night and of course no refrigeration other than a Coolgardie Safe, a primitive device consisting of a wooden box frame with sides of iron mesh and covered with hessian which was dipped in a water trough to keep it damp. A breeze caused the water in the hessian to evaporate and this made the interior of the safe cooler, but it was nothing like as effective as an electric refrigerator. As with all things, onCe you have something, you wonder how you ever managed without it, so when our main generator stopped working, John could see at a glance that it looked bad, and called out Hey's electrician, 'Sparky' Neilson who was very versatile, handling mains power, generators and car electrics and so was a very busy man. When he looked at the generator and pursed his lips, we could tell the news was not good.

“We'll have to send to Brisbane for parts,” he announced. ”It could take weeks to send them out on the train.”

“What if Lesley flew down and picked them up?” asked John.

“I never thought of that. Let me give them a ring.”

After he got off the phone, it seemed the company was quite impressed that we would send a plane down to pick up parts, and promised to have them crated up in three days and at the airport.

I don't mind flying by myself, but I thought it had been a while since Jenny had been to Brisbane, so I rang and asked if she'd be interested in a brief shopping trip? Of course she would!

We removed the two rear seats, numbers five and six, from the plane, so that the crate could be secured at the midpoint of the aeroplane, and also where it could be attached so there was no chance of it moving around if we struck turbulence.

Three days later, Tom dropped Jenny off early in the morning and we took off for Brisbane. It seemed like old times again. While I had been transitioning, we had spent so much time travelling together, but once I'd had my surgery and post-operative checks the trips became much less frequent, something we both missed. We chatted away happily about where we would go shopping, and also decided to visit our regular beauty parlour which hadn't seen us in many months. Once we landed, I taxied to the correct area where men from the company would load the crate and secure it in position. I also asked for the fuel to be topped up. Then we took a taxi into Brisbane and spent a few glorious hours doing 'girly' things and generally having a great time.

When we returned to the Cessna, I did my usual checks and made sure that the crate of parts, which was larger than I anticipated, was properly secured. The final decision to fly always rests with the pilot who must be confident that everything is in order. Then we climbed aboard and I went through the the usual pre-flight routine. With permission granted to take off, I taxied to the allotted runway and soon we were in the air and climbing steadily to our cruising height of ten thousand feet as we headed north-west towards home.

We were about an hour from Mackenzie Station when the starboard engine coughed twice and cut out. Like all pilots, my eyes constantly flickered over the instrument panel, and only a few seconds before there had been no sign of trouble. I tried restarting the engine twice, but without success. I flicked switches to make sure that the port engine was running on a separate auxiliary fuel tank from the main tank as I suspected a fuel blockage in the starboard engine. Then I turned to Jenny who would obviously be worried and I had to gain her confidence.

“Well, it's a good thing I spent hours with Steve practising flying on one engine,” I said with a smile.

I observed her closely and she looked concerned but not panicky and I wanted her to stay that way.

“I'll tell you what I'm doing and going to do Jenny,” I said in a calm voice.”I think there's a fuel blockage in the engine that has stopped so I've switched the port engine to another tank with a different batch of fuel. We have plenty of height at the moment, so if the engine keeps running smoothly, I propose to keep going to Mackenzie Station and land there. If it shows signs of shutting down, then I will look for a clear area and land. Fortunately the land we're passing over is mostly scrub with few trees,so it won't be too hard to find a clear area where I can set her down. What I must do now is notify Air Traffic Control of exactly what has happened, my position, height, speed, flight direction and what I intend to do. I will also notify Emergency Services at Heyward's Crossing and they will probably send a fire engine out to the station. I don't want that to worry you. It's better that it's there and not needed than needed and not there, ok?”

Jenny nodded.”Ok.” she said and her voice had a slight quaver.

“Good,” I said. “Now the thing we have to do and the thing I really wish wasn't necessary, is to call Tom and John and tell them what is happening.”

Jenny's voice sounded a little stronger “I know what you mean, but they have to know.”

With the loss of the starboard engine, the natural inclination of the aircraft was to turn to the right as the port engine pushed it around and there was some drag from the starboard wing and stationary engine,so I had to compensate for this with the rudder and keep us heading in the right direction. I set about contacting Air Traffic Control and they were happy with my plan and gave me a radio channel to keep in constant touch in case circumstances changed. They would also make sure that any other aircraft kept out of my flight path so I didn't have to make any unnecessary course changes. I also contacted the Emergency Services at Hey and as I expected, they said they would turn out an emergency crew — 'just as a precaution'. I tried to reach Tom but couldn't, so I called John instead and explained what was happening. He was really calm, which helped me because for Jenny's sake I was acting a lot more calmly than I really felt. We said that we loved each other, and I promised to do my utmost to land unscathed. John said he would do his best to locate Tom and patch him through to us. He asked if there was anything else he could do, and I said that if he could reach Steve my instructor, perhaps he could offer some extra advice.

A few minutes later the radio crackled and it was Steve.

“I see those hours we spent practising flying on one engine are paying off,” he said.

“Yes Steve. I'm so glad I took those lessons. The port engine is going fine at present and we are losing height very gradually, so all being well, we should reach the Station in about 45 minutes.”

“I'll head over there,” he said “It might be some help to have someone on the ground to help guide you in.”

“All help gratefully received. Thanks Steve,” I replied.

My ears were acutely tuned to the sound of the port engine but for now it was purring along without a care in the world, and I hoped it would continue that way. There was still no word from Tom and I knew Jenny was fretting, but there was nothing I could do. I knew John would be doing his best to find him. Then I remembered when he dropped Jenny off, he said he would call John to find out our arrival time. Surely he must have rung by now?

One thing I hadn't told Jenny was that with only one engine and the extra weight of the crate on board, I would only have one chance at landing the aircraft on the runway. There was no hope of aborting the landing and going around again.

Soon I could make out the ring of hills that surrounded the station buildings in the distance and it was at that moment that Tom came on the radio. I concentrated on my flying and did my best to ignore what he and Jenny said to each other. It was the private words of a man and woman in a situation where the worst possible thing could happen, but I had to keep my headphones on in case anything important to me came through. I was relieved when Jenny told Tom of her total confidence in me, and I wished that I felt as confident myself.

Then the aircraft slipped over the ring of hills as Tom signed off, and Steve's voice came on the radio.

“I have a visual on you Lesley, you are lining up well with the runway. Keep losing height, over.”

“Thanks Steve,” I replied. I could see the start of the runway not too far ahead and I wanted to use as much of it as I could. I knew with the reduction in speed, the tendency of the plane to yaw was more pronounced and I concentrated on trying to keep her straight.

“Drifting to the right a bit,” came Steve's voice, and I made the necessary correction. Another thing I hadn't told Jenny was that while it was true I'd spent some hours practising flying on one engine, I hadn't actually practised landing on one. That was supposed to happen in a couple of weeks, but suddenly my 'practical exam' was here, ready or not.

“You're lined up well now,” came Steve's voice, “Just keep her like that."

The plane dropped lower and lower and then we were over the start of the runway, and a few seconds later I felt the wheels touch the ground. I immediately reduced the revolutions of the port engine and gently applied the brakes. With two engines I would normally have changed the propeller pitch to help slow the aircraft but with only one engine I didn't want to try anything fancy. If the brakes had to be serviced after this landing it was a small price to pay. We had significantly slowed by the time we were halfway down the runway, perhaps due to the extra weight of the crate and its contents, and I managed to come to a halt not far from the hanger. It was only then that I noticed my knuckles were white on the control column. I turned to Jenny and we hugged.

“Well Sis, we made it,” I said.

“Thank you,Lesley,” Jenny said in a low voice, “You were marvellous. I've never seen anyone so calm in an emergency.”

I felt somehow guilty, like it had all been an act, so I said “There's a couple of men outside who want to assure themselves we are ok.”

With that we got out of the plane and straight into the arms of our men. As we hugged, the emergency crew started to cheer, and they were joined by the station hands. Somehow I had become a heroine!

Then Steve came up to hug me in turn.

“That was a text-book single engine landing,” he said, and turning to John he went on “You've got a top-class pilot here John. If she ever has spare time, I'd love to use her as an assistant instructor.”

I could feel myself glowing red with embarrassment — I don't think I'll ever manage to stop myself blushing.

“Can I just borrow her for another five minutes?” said Steve. “We need to know if that engine problem was due to contaminated fuel. Other pilots' lives may be at risk.”

“Sure,” said John and I squeezed his hand.

“I'll only be a few minutes, why don't you come too?”

We walked back to the Cessna and Steve unscrewed the starboard engine cowling and we examined the fuel filter. Sure enough, it was badly blocked.

“Right,” said Steve quietly, “John needs you now, so leave this to me. I contacted Brisbane while you were still in the air to give them a 'heads up' about a potentially contaminated fuel batch, and now I'll contact them again to confirm it. I hope they managed to stop anyone else taking off with that batch of fuel in their tanks.”

Later I heard that the pilot of one single-engine plane had had to abort a take-off as the fuel line blocked, but fortunately he managed to handle it well. Other planes that had been filled with the contaminated batch had not yet taken off, so their fuel was drained and the tanks flushed. That was a big relief.

I ran back to where John was standing back a bit from the aircraft, and gave him another hug.

“That's enough aeroplanes for one day!” I said.

That night, I was woken by a sound. I turned to John and put my arm around him. His body was shaking and the sound I heard was him crying, something I'd never seen him do before. I held him tightly.

After a while the shaking stopped and he said quietly “What must you think of your big he-man crying? I can hardly believe it myself, but the thought came to me how I might have lost you today, and that's when the tears started, and I just couldn't stop them.”

“John, darling,” I said “It doesn't in the least diminish you in my estimation, in fact it makes me love and respect you more. You know one reason they reckon women live longer than men is that we don't bottle up our emotions like men tend to do. Don't ever feel you have to conceal your emotions from me, please. One of the things that helped me hold it together up there was the thought of you and how much I love you. I hope we have many more happy years together and I wasn't going to let an engine malfunction rob me of them.

“You are right of course,” said John. “While you were still up there, I thought that if you landed safely, we should sell the plane, but now I realise that is not the right decision at all. Driving a car is at least as dangerous, if not more so, and the way you handled that crisis, plus Steve's endorsement of your actions convinced me that you are one of the best pilots in Queensland, maybe even Australia.”

I was relieved when John said that. I love flying but if he had insisted, then I couldn't have put him through the worry every time I flew, and I would have to have given it up. Fortunately, I was not faced with that decision.

Inevitably, the story of the flight was written up in the local newspaper under the headline taken from that old World War Two song “On a wing and a prayer”. I did wonder if Jenny would ever be game to fly with me again, but she was surprisingly confident in my abilities.

“If you could get us out of that scrape you could get us out of anything!” she declared.

Towards the end of the year, Dad did come out to visit us, and thus escaped the worst of the English winter. At first I made efforts to entertain him, until he told me to stop wearing myself out, as he was perfectly content to sit in the shade of the verandah and read a book, or maybe sometimes borrow a car and drive into Hey. There were no Ashes test matches that year, but of course there was plenty of cricket in Brisbane, so I flew him down again, and he stayed for a week on his own, and I think he spent every day at the 'Gabba, and was perfectly content. John, as a member had arranged for Dad to use his seat, so he revelled in being in the 'Members' and close to all his cricketing heroes, and even getting an introduction to some of them. He had a schoolboy's enthusiasm for the game and the players responded accordingly, giving him autographed programs and occasional caps, later to be displayed back in England at his local club to the envy of the other members.

Dad returned to England in March, when the worst of the winter weather had gone. He looked older each time I saw him, and I started to wonder each time I fare-welled him if this would be for the last time. Even though he lived so far away, he was family, and as I grow older I feel that is important. I never seriously suggested that he live out here permanently with us, he was too English for that. The following winter, 1974-5 he came out again, and this time there were Ashes tests to enjoy. I flew John and Dad down to Brisbane to the Gabba to see the first test, and they had a great time, especially Dad since England won. When John returned he discussed an idea he had.

“Darling, your Dad isn't getting any younger, and he might not be able to make the trip out here again. How would you feel about taking him to see the other test matches?"

“That's a wonderful idea,” I replied, “If you are sure you can manage without me for all that time?”

“I'm sure we'll struggle along,” he smiled, “And anyway you will have time to come back here for a few days between some of the matches if there are things that need urgent attention. Let's discuss it with your Dad after dinner tonight.”

So we discussed the proposal with Dad and of course his initial reaction was that it was too much to ask of me. We finally persuaded him, although he did have one condition. The next test match was in Perth, and he felt it was much too far to go, even flying, but as for the other test matches, he would love to take up our kind offer. I confess that although I would have done it, I was not upset about his decision not to go to Perth for it was a long way, especially with the need to stop several times for refuelling.

The Australian team that year was captained by Ian Chappell, and England by Mike Denness and the series attracted a great deal of controversy, largely due to the hostile bowling of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, and the constant sledging which lead some people to refer to the team as the 'Ugly Australians'. Dad was not particularly happy at that aspect of the modern game and said he preferred the time when cricket was a sport played by gentlemen, but the chance to see almost an entire Ashes series was too good to miss.

The next test match was the traditional Boxing Day test at the MCG, the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Dad said he didn't mind missing the first day, so that we could enjoy Christmas at home, so after enjoying roast turkey and all the trimmings, we exchanged gifts. He bought me a lovely pendant, and John a new wallet. I remember I had managed to find him a cricket book that he didn't have — an achievement in itself. We packed enough clothes and loaded up the plane so that we could take off early on Boxing Day morning. We set off at eight o'clock and headed south. We landed in Essendon Airport in Melbourne in mid afternoon, parked the Cessna and took a tram into the city. This was a novelty for both of us. Dad said he could remember a time when there were trams in London but they were taken out many years before. We found our hotel and checked into two adjoining rooms, and Dad was able to catch the last couple of hours of play on the television.

The next morning after breakfast, we took a taxi to the MCG. The size of this vast arena which can seat about one hundred thousand people took our breath away. We were early, but by the time play commenced it was well on the way to filling up, and the feeling of being part of that vast crowd was awe-inspiring. It was like a living breathing organism, reacting to the play with cheers, cries and groans, depending on what was happening. I remember Dad saying to me that he had listened to matches on the radio broadcast from this very arena, but he had never imagined what it was like, and in future he would be able to imagine the scene and feel part of it again.

After Australia won the first two test matches in Brisbane and Perth, Dad was given some hope when the Melbourne test was drawn. Then on the first of January, a One Day International match was played to replace the washed out Test of the 1970-1 series, and this time England won.

The next test was to be played in Sydney from 4th to 9th January, so we flew to Sydney on January second and the following day spent some time looking around the city and having a boat ride on the harbour. Australia won again and Dad was resigned to the fact that Australia had won the series. As the Adelaide test didn't start until 25th January, we had some time to return home so I could catch up with what was going on and do some paperwork. Dad filled in the time relaxing on the verandah. On the 23rd we flew down to Adelaide for the next test. I enjoyed the 'father and daughter' time with Dad. We spoke of many things besides cricket and I learned things that I might never have otherwise found out. We naturally spoke a lot about cricket and I learned a lot about field placements and tactics, knowledge which was very valuable since John was almost as great a cricket enthusiast as Dad.

Once again Australia won, and after the match was over, we flew back to Queensland. John had decided that he could spare the time to come back to Melbourne with us to watch the final test match which started on the eighth February. Of the three of us, no-one enjoyed the match more than Dad when England won by an innings and four runs, but Australia won the series 4-1 and with it the Ashes, for the first time sine 1964.

We returned to the Station and Dad stayed with us for another two weeks before returning home. I hugged him for a long time at the airport. Something told me that I probably wouldn't see him again.

I kept in regular contact with Marie — and she in turn kept in contact with Dad. He had decided in the end to continue living in the cottage he and Mum had bought outside of Oxford, and with a weekly visit from a council cleaner and a good midday meal at the local pub most days, he seemed to manage very well. John and I were talking about another trip to Britain, but hadn't finalised the date when the phone call came from Marie. Dad had a very good neighbour who always checked each morning that his curtains were drawn back, and that any milk delivered was taken inside. This particular morning when nothing had happened by ten o'clock, she took down the key he had entrusted to her, and went across to the cottage. Receiving no response to her knocking, she went inside. As she described the scene to me later, Dad was lying in bed, a slight smile on his face. There had been no sign of a struggle — he must have died very peacefully in his sleep.

I needed to go to the funeral. John knew that, and he wanted to go too, for he had great respect for Dad. We rang around the airlines and managed to get the last two seats on a flight the next day. I rang Marie to tell her what was happening and then hurriedly packed. My previous trip to England when Mum was so sick, I had done on my own, and I was so glad to be travelling with John this time. I had cried when I heard the news, of course, but I knew that Dad had lived a good and fulfilling life, and he always believed that one day he would be together with Mum again.

Marie met us at the Oxford Railway station. Her children were really growing up now, and were totally gorgeous. Michael junior was three and so lively, and Evelyn was just over a year old and on the point of taking her first tentative steps. I hugged Marie and thanked her so much for all that she had done for Dad. She has been truly the best cousin anyone could wish to have. She had even organised the funeral after consulting me on the phone, and it was to be held in the same church where Mum's was held, to take place two days later. John and I had booked into a hotel — somehow I didn't really feel like staying in the cottage, even in the spare bedroom — silly I know, but that's me.

The church was full once more, and again it was people that I did not know, but this time I decided that I would like to say a few words about my Dad. The Catholic Church is very traditional, and the priest seemed a little surprised at my request, but he didn't object. I actually wore a hat in deference to tradition although it seems few women wear them in church nowadays. With my various groups and clubs, public speaking no longer held any fears for me, so I was ready when the priest announced me.

I stood at the lectern on a lower step of the sanctuary. There before me sat Dad's coffin, draped in a huge floral tribute. We had brought a few gum leaves and gum-nuts over too as an acknowledgement of his visits to Australia.

“My name is Lesley and I am Joseph's daughter,” I began. “You may think from my accent that I'm not from around here, but I was born in England and emigrated to Australia when I was eighteen. The last time I was in this church it was to celebrate the life of my Mother. Now she and Dad are together once more.

“Dad was the quintessential English gentleman, totally trustworthy and honest. He was a hero too. Some of you may not know that he saved a man's life once by his quick reactions when he was in the army. Like so many men, he will not go down in the history books except as part of 'everyman', one of the millions who lived a good honest life, loved his wife and his daughter — loved his cricket too. If every man in the world was like Dad, it would be a much better place.

“My husband John and I have come half-way around the world to be here at this time, and this shows you the love and high regard in which we held him. You all held him in high regard too I'm sure, since you are here today. I think we can all take inspiration from his life when we leave to go about our daily tasks once more.” I found I could not tear my eyes away from Dad's coffin. I had drafted more to say, but suddenly I was afraid that I would break down after all. As happens so often, Shakespeare came to my rescue with a perfect ending to my eulogy.

“Farewell Daddy. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. I love you.” I quickly stepped down and walked over the the coffin, stooping to kiss the polished wood. Then I returned to my seat, and reached for John's comforting hand.

The priest resumed his position and said “Thank you Mrs Brodie for that touching tribute. And now we will sing Hymn 103.”

Afterwards in the church hall, we circulated among Dad's friends and fellow parishioners. One old chap was wearing the badge of the local cricket club on his blazer, so that was an instant source of conversation. He told me how Dad had come back from our mammoth 'Ashes Tour' bursting to tell everyone.

“And you actually flew him around to all those Test matches, did you?” I admitted it was true.

“Well, well, well, and he told me you were getting quite knowledgeable about the game.”

“Thanks to his tuition, and it certainly helps when you are married to a cricket tragic like I am,” and for the first time that day I laughed.

John and I had always planned to stay for a month in England on our next trip and since there were certain legal matters to attend to in winding up Dad's estate, it seemed the best idea to stay there where we could sign papers if need be.

At one of the test match lunch intervals, with empty seats all around us, Dad had talked to me about the estate. “Lesley, you are my daughter and of course when I do go, my estate passes to you. However when Mum was alive she was concerned that there might be legal difficulties from your changed gender, so we decided to go to the solicitors Brown, Smith and Weston, we've been using for many years to try and get things clarified. At Mum's suggestion, we asked for one of the young women on the staff, thinking that she might have more knowledge and sympathy for these cases, and I'm sure yours is not the only one. Miss Lester was very bright and efficient, so we laid all the cards on the table, and as a result she drew up a legally binding document which makes it absolutely clear that you are our child and we wish you to inherit our estate. The solicitor has kept the original document, and I have copy in my files, so when the time comes, you must go and see them and I'm sure everything will work out fine. They also have my will of course.”

“Daddy!” I touched his arm “You are so amazingly efficient — you think of everything. I just hope it's many years before I have to speak to that solicitor.” In the event, it was, alas, not so long before I did have to call the solicitor in question. I enquired if Miss Lester still worked for them, and was pleased to hear that she did. One less complication. John and I made an appointment to see her the next day.

“Well, Mrs Brodie, it's very nice to meet you at last, although I would have wished for happier circumstances. Your father was a truly lovely man. Please accept my sincerest condolences.”

She went on to explain how they were happy to act on my behalf in seeking probate, and would use the documentation drawn up. However, due to certain court decisions, and although she knew I would find it distasteful, it might be necessary for me to make application under my original name in order to comply with the law as it now stood. I told her I didn't have a problem with that, and hoped that one day the law would catch up with modern times.

“So do I Mrs Brodie, so do I!” she exclaimed.

We explained that we would only be in England for another three weeks and wondered if that was sufficient time to settle everything. She said that she would try, but with the law there is never any guarantees, especially when it comes up against something out of the ordinary. We parted on good terms and said we would stay in touch.

There was no reason to hold onto Mum and Dad's house any more. I had mentioned it to Marie, but she and Michael were well established in Bath and intended to stay there for the foreseeable future. In any case it might have been too small for them. I sorted out all of Dad's clothes and took them to a charity shop. I packed all his photos except a few Marie wanted, and invited her to chose some mementoes. The rest of Dad's cricket memorabilia went to his cricket club, together with a display cabinet. Then I invited a second-hand furniture dealer to come in and give me a price to clear the rest. The house was finally empty but I needed to wait for probate to be granted before it could be put on the market.

When arranging for delivery of Dad's cricket memorabilia, I organised an appointment with the club secretary, and in due course I found myself sitting in front of Mr Percy Edwards' desk. He was an 'old school' English gentleman, like so many of the club members, and I warmed to him immediately. He asked if I would like some tea, and of course I said 'Yes, thank you.'

“First Mrs Brodie, may I say how sorry we all were to hear of your father's passing. He joined us soon after moving from London and had already worked his way up to Assistant Secretary, which shows the respect the members had for him.”

“Assistant Secretary? I had no idea. Sometimes I think my father was a little too modest. I'm very proud of that, and I would like to have told him so. What you've told me is very pertinent to what I wanted to discuss with you. As you know, I've donated his cricketing memorabilia to the club, but I would like the club to consider something more by way of a memorial to my father if that is possible. Dad was very traditional about cricket and deplored what he saw as falling standards, particularly the sledging that goes on, so I wondered if something like a 'best and fairest' medallion named after him could be given at the end of each season — that is if you don't have one already? A sum of five hundred pounds could also be added to the award. This is only a suggestion and you and your committee might think of something better. Please don't think that I as an outsider am trying to dictate what you do.”

Mr Edwards leaned back in his chair. “That's a very interesting idea and very generous of you. It would certainly give the team members something to strive for, maybe with their names added to an Honour Board? We could ask the match umpires to award points in each match. Thank you very much Mrs Brodie. We will discuss it at the next meeting and be sure to let you know. I will write to you in Australia.”

In due course I received a beautifully handwritten letter from Mr Edwards, and what a nice surprise that was, saying that the Committee had decided that the Joseph Michael Cobb Medal, together with a cash prize of five hundred pounds would be awarded to the best and fairest young player under the age of twenty three. I approved of that. Catch them while they're young and instill good habits and behaviour. I wrote back immediately thanking them for their decision and said I would look forward to receiving news of the annual winners, and would transfer the prize money when required..

John and I still had a little over two weeks in Britain, and we filled them with another tour, taking in places we hadn't seen before. This time we ventured into the Scottish Highlands, a wild and beautiful place and I immediately fell in love with its grandeur. In an old book-store, I picked up a second-hand book by an author Nigel Tranter and I couldn't put it down. Sure it was an historical novel, but the depth of his knowledge meant that the fictional characters mingled seamlessly with the real people of the time and it was all set against historically accurate settings and events. Having devoured one book, I was now on the lookout for more, and John more than once sighed in exasperation as I scanned the dusty shelves of yet another book store in my search for more Tranters. In the end I found five more, and discovered when I returned to Australia that he was not totally unknown here, and I was gradually able to build up my collection.

We did the famous trip 'over the sea to Skye' on the ferry, and of course thought of 'Bonnie Prince Charlie' the failed Pretender to the thrones of England and Scotland. On the run from the British troops, I couldn't help remembering how Flora MacDonald took him to Skye in that small boat, disguised as her maid 'Betty Burke' — a famous incident in the annals of cross-dressing you might call it!

We worked our way down the west coast, calling in on the Lake District, another magical place that has drawn me on every visit. Eventually we reached Bath, and visited my cousin Marie. She and Michael kindly invited us to dinner, and after a pleasant meal, we sat down, as I had something I wanted to discuss with them. John and I had been talking about it during our travels and decided it was absolutely the right thing to do.

“Marie, Michael, we want to discuss something with you.”

“This sounds ominous,” said Michael, responding to my serious face.

“As you know, we are still waiting on probate for Dad's will, which means we can't sell their house yet. Once again we have to ask you to handle it on our behalf, since we'll be back in Australia before anything happens.”

“That's not a problem,” said Marie “I'm happy to help.”

“I know you are and that's why I want to discuss something further with you. Over the years, you have done so much, both for me and Mum and Dad because we are family. In many ways you've been like a daughter to them, and a sister to me. No amount of money could ever compensate you for all the time you have spent, and it would be insulting to think it would. Nevertheless, once the house is sold and all the disbursements made, we want you to accept half the proceeds of the sale.”

Marie turned white, and I was glad she was sitting down because I thought she might faint. I leapt up in alarm and ran to her side, taking hold of her hand.

“Oh I'm sorry Marie, I should have eased into it slowly, not shocked you like that.”

“Oh Lesley! This is too much. Far too much!” Marie managed to get out.

“Marie, I don't know your financial situation and nor do I want to. We are comfortably off and are quite content with a half share. There must be things you could do with the money. Maybe pay for the children's education or send them to a better school? Maybe you'd like to travel? Now there's an idea. We'd love you to visit us. You know it's harder to receive than give, so I'm asking you to please accept the money in the spirit in which we give it, and use it for whatever you want.”

Marie had gone from chalk white, to bright red, and now more her usual skin colour. She wiped her eyes. “In that case I will say 'Yes. And thank you very much' “ she replied.

Her husband Michael said “This is wonderfully generous of you both and I'm sure we can put the money to good use. A trip out to see you would be wonderful, and very educational for the children when they are older. If you think it's appropriate, I do have a bottle of 'bubbly' in the kitchen. What do you say?

I laughed. “I say it's a very good idea!”

There was quite a demand for cottages like the one my parents had owned, and once all the legal matters relating to granting probate were finally resolved three months after we returned to Australia it was finally put on the market. We had given Marie power of attorney to act on my behalf, and she consulted regularly with me by telephone. In view of the interest in the cottage we decided that an auction might realise the best return, and indeed the sale price was well in excess of our expectations. We again used Brown, Smith and Weston to handle the legal side of the sale which they did with great efficiency, and once all of the various charges were paid, they divided the proceeds and forwarded half to Marie and Michael and half to me.

John and I were totally confident in Marie and Michael's ability to spend the money in ways which would benefit their family. While I never asked her to account for how she spent the money, Marie seemed more comfortable telling me, so I didn't try to stop her, not wishing to cause any ill-feeling, and this can happen all too easily where money is concerned. Both Michael and Evelyn were bright children, so Marie and Michael decided on schools which would bring out their full potential, and I couldn't have been happier about that. A good education is a life-long gift for anyone, and so it proved for both of them. I suppose that, unable to have children myself, I threw myself wholeheartedly into the role of “Aunty', for that is what they call me to this day.

A few months after I first arrived at Mackenzie Station, I asked John if he knew about the family who had given their name to the property. It seemed they were a large family that had owned the property in the early years of the twentieth century. That would explain the seven bedrooms and the large dining room. It seemed by the early nineteen twenties they had left the property and that was as much as he knew. I made up my mind to learn more, but my life changed dramatically not long afterwards and I never followed it up.

Not long after we returned to Australia after my father's passing, something happened to rekindle my interest. I was cleaning out a large wooden wardrobe in one of the bedrooms to store some linen, when I noticed something I had missed before. It appeared to be a sheet of cardboard caught behind one of the shelves. Brown with age it had blended in with the wood of the wardrobe. I carefully eased it out and turned it over. It was a family portrait and I knew instantly which family without looking at the title in beautiful copperplate “The Mackenzie Family of Mackenzie Station, near Heyward's Crossing, Queensland” In the bottom right-hand corner of the mount was the company name "Evans Bros, Photographic Studios, Brisbane." This was a time when it was rare for a family to own a camera, so doubtless the studio sent photographers out into the bush to take photographs of individuals, groups and families.

A photograph in those days was an event, as could be seen by the clothing worn by the family. The photographer had posed them around the steps and verandah at the front of the homestead, which had hardly changed from that time to the present. Seated in the middle was Mr Mackenzie, a man in his fifties at a guess, wearing a dark suit and sporting a pointed beard similar to that favoured by King George the Fifth. Next to him was Mrs Mackenzie, in a long black dress, presumably in mourning for some member of the family. Standing above them on the verandah were four handsome young men wearing suits. Their ages appeared to range from late teens to mid twenties. Seated next to their father were two young women in their mid teens, wearing floor-length light coloured 'day dresses', and on the other side, next to Mrs Mackenzie, another young woman of similar age and a boy of about twelve years, looking uncomfortable in his first suit.

There was no date on the picture which was frustrating. I turned it over and scanned the cardboard mount closely, and then I found it in faded ink '3rd June 1912'. I examined the photo again. What were all their names? I would love to know. Then something strange happened. As I looked at the four young men on the verandah, the faces of three of them seemed to blur and fade. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes and their faces were clear again, and then it felt like a cold draft swept through the room, and I shivered. Of course! This photograph was taken only two years before the start of the 'War to end all Wars'. So many young men, filled with patriotic zeal to serve their country, and excited by the prospect of a great adventure would have enlisted, and surely the Mackenzie boys would be among them? What had happened to them? I had to find out.

I showed John the photograph and how much I wanted to find out what had happened to the family and especially the sons. John suggested a solution to the problem. The local newspaper, the 'Heyward Gazette' had been founded in 1895 and our librarian had started to copy all of the existing back copies onto microfiche, a time-consuming but very valuable way of storing irreplaceable information. Why not go to the library, and work my way through the 1914 to 1918 years in the hope of finding out what had happened to the Mackenzie men?

I was able to make a start the following week, and was soon reading about the Gallipoli campaign. I quickly found that there were young men from other local families who make the supreme sacrifice in that campaign. Then I found the first of the Mackenzies — William, who fell on the eighth of August 1915 at the Battle of Lone Pine and lies in the cemetery there along with so many of his countrymen. I was half expecting it, but it was a shock nevertheless and I could not help but shed a tear. Which one of the young men on the verandah was William?

I continued my search into 1916, and by now the Australians were fighting in France and Belgium and I found the two words which can still send a shiver through many a family “The Somme”. Many of the men who returned from the war refused to ever talk about it as the memories were too painful. Those who did described 'The Battle of the Somme' as the closed thing to Hell on earth that they had ever experienced. In those months between July and November 1916 so many men died and so many were wounded in that blasted landscape of ruined villages, waist deep mud and trees reduced to matchwood. There it was that I found another son George, who died on fifteenth August. By now, I had no doubt about the significance of the my strange experience when looking at the photo, and worse, I knew that I would find one more Mackenzie death recorded in the newspaper, and in due course I did.

His name was Henry and he was lost in the Battle of Passchendale in Flanders in November 1917. Can anyone hear the word Flanders and not be reminded of John McCrae's famous poem?

'In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.'

If I were to take issue with this wonderful poem which tugs at the heart strings, it is in the second verse which starts
'Take up our quarrel with the foe' Did these young men of either side really have a quarrel with each other? The answer perhaps lies in the spontaneous unofficial Christmas truces which took place up and down the trenches in 1914. From joining in singing 'Silent Night' together, both sides left their trenches, showed each other family photographs and exchanged small gifts. This infuriated the high command of both sides who from their comfortable billets far from the front line insisted that such fraternisation cease, afraid that it would lead to the troops deciding that they would refuse to continue that pointless killing and being killed because these old men said they should.

There was one son out of the four left on the verandah, and after a further search I found him. In mid 1918, Captain John Mackenzie MC returned to Mackenzie Station. There was a picture of him surrounded by his sisters and forcing a smile, as he stood upright with the aid of a crutch. Obviously he was not returning home unscathed. He had won the Military Cross too which is awarded for 'acts of exemplary gallantry'. I was so relieved to see that one of the older sons had survived that I couldn't help shedding a tear again, as indeed I had done for his three brothers who lie in foreign lands.

I was skimming through further pages of the paper, when to my surprise I saw a letter written by Alfred Mackenzie, their father. The sub-editor had titled it “Letter to a coward” and it read as follows:

'To the anonymous coward who sent my youngest son Edward a white feather. The Mackenzie family has sacrificed three sons for king and country, and another of our sons was badly wounded. It is for this reason that Mrs Mackenzie and I refused our youngest son permission to enlist, even though he begged to be allowed to do so. If you care to write to me, signing your name and showing that your family has made a similar sacrifice then I am prepared to discuss the matter further with you. If, as I suspect you have not sustained similar losses, and I would not wish it on anyone, then I suggest you think twice before causing even more pain to a family such as ours.'

“Good on you Alfred” I murmured. I could imagine why the Mackenzies left the property only a few years later. The memories and their losses probably broke their hearts and indeed I later discovered that Mrs Mackenzie died in 1921 and I couldn't help wondering if losing three sons had a bearing on that.

I found a further reference to the sale of the property in 1922, but there was no mention of what happened to the Mackenzies. Presumably there were descendants of the daughters and Edward, perhaps even John, depending on the extent of his injuries, but I had no way of tracking them down. At least I knew more about the Mackenzies, although I could have wished for a happier outcome to my search.

As a long shot, I decided to place an advertisement in the major Brisbane newspaper seeking any descendants of the Mackenzie family who lived at Mackenzie Station near Heyward's Crossing who might be willing to share some family history with the present owners, and to my surprise I had a reply in careful although slightly shaky handwriting. It was written by a Mrs Annie Southall who wrote that she was the daughter of Edward Mackenzie. She said she was too old to travel, but would be happy for me to visit her the next time I was in Brisbane, and she would share all she knew about the Mackenzies with me.

It was two months later after an exchange of letters, that I knocked on the door of a typical 'Queenslander' house and it was opened by an elderly lady who welcomed me inside and insisted on giving me a cup of tea and cake before we got down to business. She was Edward's only child, and she knew there were other relatives, children of his sisters, but she had no contact with them. I showed her the photograph I had found and had framed, and she was able to identify the three sons who had died. She also gave me the names of the three daughters - Viola, Mabel and Annabelle. I had had a couple of copies made of the portrait, so offered her the original, but she said a copy would be fine for her to keep, and she preferred that the original stay in the homestead.

Edward had told her about the deaths of his brothers but strangely had never mentioned the 'white feather' incident. Did it still affect him all those years later? Mrs Southall was very interested to see the letter his father had written and quite spontaneously said 'Good on him.' words similar to my own. John Mackenzie had never married. His injuries were probably more severe than had been reported, and presumably he did not feel it was appropriate to take a wife. He had died in his early forties. Edward had lived to be seventy five and his wife had died the previous year. Mrs Southall had more photographs of the family which she kindly allowed me to borrow to have copied, and I prepared a small folder where I put the results of my research and the photos, deciding that I would make sure it stayed with the house. I also sent a copy to Mrs Southall as a 'thank-you' for all her help, together with a framed copy of the family portrait. Thus ended my investigation into the Mackenzie family. I was glad to have done it, but I could not help thinking that they were only one family of so many whose lives were shattered by that war which we all know did not 'end all wars'.

'And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,'

From “Clancy of the Overflow” by A.B. “Banjo” Patterson

When I look back on my life, like most people, it is the big events which immediately come to mind — the events which appear in newspaper classifieds, the 'Hatched, Matched and Dispatched' as my Mum used to put it. Of course these 'big events' are only a small proportion of our lives, how could we cope if it were otherwise? John and I enjoyed our lives together — he was 'The Boss' and I was 'The Missus' and we were both content that it was so. I sometimes think that part of the reason that I loved being a woman was that I had a long and at times hard journey to make my body match my mind, and so I treasured my femininity. Perhaps I am old-fashioned but most of the time I wore skirts and dresses and even stockings except at the hottest times of the year. I always wore make-up and made sure my hair was brushed and neat. When John returned home from a hard day in the saddle, I was always there to greet him, his woman looking her best for him, and he appreciated that. I don't claim to be a 'domestic goddess', but there was always a nutritious, and as he always said, a delicious meal awaiting him. In bed, as the years passed by, we might no longer enjoy the fierce passion of our early days together, but our love-making was still a source of delight to both of us.

We were respected members of the local community, and on several occasions were guests of honour at local debutante balls. It was always enjoyable to see the young people — the girls in their white dresses and their partners, sometimes looking a little uncomfortable with their first experience of wearing a suit, and a dinner suit at that, as they paraded down the hall and were presented to us. Young people today are often unfairly criticised thanks to the actions of a few, but when I saw these youngsters, I felt nothing but optimism for the future of this country.

Five years passed by peacefully without any big events as the seasons came and went. I kept in regular touch with Marie in England. When we had last seen them we had suggested they might like to visit us in Australia, but they had not mentioned it and so we did not pursue it. Then one February evening I had a phone call from Marie, and immediately I suspected it might be something significant.

“Lesley! I thought I'd ring you. Michael and I have been discussing it for some time and we would like to make that trip to Australia you mentioned years ago.”

“Oh that's great news Marie,” I said “We will so look forward to seeing you. When are you thinking of coming out?”

“Well, the children are at school of course, so the best time would be their summer holidays, between the last week in July and the end of August.”

“That would be for about five weeks then. I would suggest you fly to Brisbane and I could pick you up in the Cessna, and after you've got over your jet-lag you would probably want to go and see places like Brisbane and Sydney, or anywhere else that takes your fancy. Whether you want to explore them on your own or have me along as a guide is up to you. At least by using the Cessna, I could take you to places more quickly."

“We feel quite excited about it already, especially the children.” Marie said. “They're pouring over maps, and I've had to explain how big Australia is and that they can't do day trips to places like Ayers Rock!”

I laughed at that. "Most people, even when they look at a map of Australia, have no real idea of the distances involved, I'm glad to hear you are being realistic”

I told John about it and he was equally enthusiastic about seeing them again. The months flew by and in what seemed no time at all, I was preparing to fly down to Brisbane to pick them up. To the children, the thought of flying in Aunty Lesley's aeroplane was more exciting than the long trip they had just completed in the 'Jumbo' jet. Unlike their parents, they were still very much wide awake and thrilled at being in a plane 'just for them'. Michael junior was allowed to sit in the co-pilot's seat and watched fascinated as I went through the pre-flight routine and got clearance for take-off. I was reminded so much of myself the first time I had flown in Steve's aeroplane after my surgery.

We took off and turned inland, climbing to ten thousand feet, and young Michael was full of questions. I explained how I was controlling the aircraft with the control column and rudder controls. Eventually I let him hold the control column for a while, although as I explained he couldn't really fly an aircraft until he grew tall enough to reach all of the controls. Nevertheless, I was impressed by how gently he handled the controls. It takes an experienced pilot to see potential in someone, and when Michael solemnly declared that he would learn to fly one day, I had no doubt that he would do just that. By now I was an assistant instructor at Steve's flying school, and there were plenty of adults who handled a plane much worse than he did.

We landed at the Station and John was waiting to greet them and take us to the homestead. They were quite fascinated by our lifestyle since it is usually the way Australia is portrayed in films and television. I had to point out that the vast majority of Australians live in the suburbs of the big towns and cities. They were also amazed when they realised just how big our property was, knowing that English farms are only a fraction of the size.

After five days, I flew them to Brisbane and we spent a couple of days looking around the city, which was still similar to a large country town in those days. Michael and Marie had decided they would take the train to Sydney to see some of the countryside from ground level and then have a good look around Sydney and from there go on to Canberra. I told them to ring me if they had any queries, but I felt they would be alright on their own. I did mention that like all big cities, Sydney had areas like Kings Cross which were not suitable to wander around after dark. The main thing was to keep in well-lit and well populated areas. After they had seen Canberra and anywhere else they fancied and were ready to come back, they should contact me and I would fly down to pick them up.

When they contacted me to come and get them, it was some days later than I expected, so obviously they were having a good time. Chatting in the plane on the way back they told me they had had a wonderful time, and their only regret was that time was running out and they had to return to England soon. John came down with me when I flew them back to Brisbane to take the Jumbo back to Britain, and we were sad to see them go. The thought crossed my mind that if they had had such a good time they might even consider emigrating, but it didn't happen. Michael had a very large and close-knit family, and Marie's parents were still alive, so I think they felt it was too much of a wrench to leave all the people they knew and loved, and come to a country where they only knew two people. I could understand that. When I first came to Australia, every face I saw was a new face, and it took a while for me to settle in. Other people who have emigrated have told me the same thing.

The years passed by. Both Michael and Evelyn did well at school. Michael had decided to follow in his father's footsteps and become an aeronautical engineer. Evelyn planned to become a physiotherapist. When he was nineteen, Michael started to train as a pilot, and he proudly sent me a picture taken after his first solo flight. He asked if I remembered the times I had let him hold the control column when they visited Australia? I wrote back offering my congratulations and saying that indeed I did remember, and even at that time I had no doubt he would become a pilot once he was old enough.

Marie wrote to me that her handsome son had gone through a string of girlfriends but presumably he would one day find the right girl for him.

A Wedding Invitation

It was 1995 when Michael was twenty three that Marie wrote excitedly to say that he was engaged. The girl's name was Sarah. She was smart and pretty, and Michael was head over heels in love. This was definitely 'the' girl. She had studied physiotherapy with Evelyn which was how he met her. Six months later came the wedding invitation. I was so excited and ran to show it to John. I was a little surprised by his muted response.

“Why that's wonderful!”, he said “I'm sure you'll want to go.”

“Well, I want us to go darling.” I replied.

“It's a long way,” he replied “I wonder if I'm really up to it again.”

It as at that moment that I had to face something I either hadn't noticed or had deliberately ignored. My wonderful man was starting to feel his age. He was now sixty-nine and I was forty-five. I took his hand in mine and pressed it to my lips.

“I don't have to go darling,” I said. “I'm sure they'll send us some photos, and we can send them a nice present.”

“I'll think about it,” John said “But you must go. I insist.”

A couple of days later John spoke about the wedding invitation again.

“I've been thinking about it,” he said “I think we should both go. After all 'We're a long time dead' as the saying goes.”

As is the way of women the world over, of course I now started thinking of reasons why we shouldn't go, but John would have none of it, so instead I worked out a compromise. We decided that we would make the trip easier by stopping over for a couple of days in Singapore and Dubai, and time our arrival for a week before the wedding, so we had time to get over jet-lag. We would travel first-class which would give us the most comfortable seating. We wouldn't go on any big tours of the countryside, maybe a few day trips around Bath, and we would return to Australia about a week after the wedding. This seemed like the best compromise.

This is what we did, and it did indeed give us both a much more restful trip. I admit that we were fortunate in being able to afford to travel Business, or in this case First Class. Having seen the relatively cramped conditions in Economy, I can well understand that on such a long trip as travelling to Europe it must be exhausting. The stopovers also gave us a chance to rest between legs of the journey, and we felt a definite advantage and less jet-lag when we arrived in Britain.

Marie had kindly offered to have us stay at their house which had a spare room since Michael had moved out into his own apartment some time ago. In view of all the wedding preparations we thought that was adding too much to her and Michael's already busy schedule, but we did say that if it suited them, we would stay with them after the wedding, thinking that they might well feel a bit flat once all the excitement was over.

The day after we arrived, we met Michael's fiancée Sarah and she really was a most charming girl. We had lunch with them and also Michael's sister Evelyn who was one of the bridesmaids. It turned out that Sarah had lived in Melbourne for three years when she was a child. Her parents had emigrated when her father was offered a job in an Australian branch his company had started up, but unfortunately it had not been a success and closed down. Although he had settled well, her mother had not, so they returned to England. Sarah still remembered her three years in Australia as a happy time.

Sarah said “Actually, Michael and I have discussed emigrating as a possibility, so don't be surprised if you hear from us!”

I was cautious in my reply “Well of course Australia can always do with more qualified professionals, but I cannot advise you on what you should do. It could be hard on your families to have you move to the other side of the world so there are a lot of things for you to weigh up.”

Michael smiled “Don't worry Aunty Lesley. If we do decide to emigrate we'll make sure our families know it is our decision and you played no part by encouraging us.”

I was grateful for that because I would hate my great relationship with Marie to be spoilt if she thought I had somehow lured her son away from England.

This was on the Monday, and the wedding was on the Saturday, so we didn't see them again until we were in the church in Bath for the ceremony. Dear John had insisted I buy a new dress for the wedding. I was reluctant after the extra expenses of our trip, but when a man insists on such things, what's a girl to do? The dress was of a deep blue satin and totally gorgeous.

When we were dressed and ready to be taken by taxi to the church, John took my hands in his and said “Darling, I don't know how you do it, but you are even more beautiful now than you were twenty years ago.”

I blushed of course, which might seem ridiculous for a woman of forty-five, but it's something I've never been able to overcome. I looked up at him and said “And you my darling are as handsome now as you were the day I first met you and fell in love with you.” And it was true of course. We both laughed and John said “And we still behave like a couple of teenagers!”

We took our allotted place in the church, just one row back from Marie and Michael. Michael junior stood at the front with his best man and grooms-men, looking resplendent in a dinner suit and also slightly nervous. When the 'Wedding March' began he couldn't help sneaking a peak as Sarah, a vision in white slowly walked up the aisle on her father's arm. Stupid though it is, I can never attend a wedding without a tiny pang of jealousy that such a ceremony was denied John and I, but it only lasted for a moment.

It was a lovely warm sunny day as we all gathered outside the church afterwards for the traditional photographs, and showering the happy couple in confetti. The whole event was recorded on video and a copy sent to us in due course. At the reception, during his speech, Michael made special mention of 'Aunty Lesley and Uncle John who had come half-way around the world to be present on this special occasion'. He also mentioned how he had first handled the controls of an aircraft when I had let him hold the control column of our Cessna.

After the cutting of the cake, the dancing started, and John and I took to the dance floor, something we hadn't done in quite a while. It was so lovely to be held in his arms and moving together in time with the music. I was pleased that the reception didn't go too late and after we waved off the happy couple in their car, tin cans tied to the rear bumper bar and rattling away, we took a taxi back to the hotel and were asleep in no time.

The next day, I phoned Marie to ask how things were there and she said “You will come and stay with us for a few days won't you? We're feeling a bit deflated now the excitement is all over.”

“Of course we will,” I replied, and we packed our things and checked out of the hotel. Michael came in his car to pick us up.

“Thanks so much for doing this,” he said “I confess that like most men I played only a minor part in the wedding, but for Marie it was 'full on' for months and now she's feeling really flat. It will do her the world of good to have you stay with us.”

It was indeed exactly the right thing to do and after a few days Marie herself thanked us for getting her over the 'post wedding blues'.

“You'll be seeing plenty of them I'm sure,” I said “And after a while who knows — maybe the patter of little feet?”

Marie laughed “I'll certainly enjoy baby-sitting,” she said.

Michael took us on a number of short one-day excursions to places of interest. One day we saw Stonehenge, Salisbury with its magnificent cathedral and Old Sarum, the Iron Age hill fort that preceded the later city. Another day we went to Lacock, a village frozen in the nineteen century where the cars look out of place, and visited the abbey — home of the photography pioneer William Fox Talbot. From there we went to Avebury to see its massive stone circle that dwarfs Stonehenge, and nearby Silbury Hill, that mysterious artificial mound, the largest in Europe, yet no-one knows its purpose. It was truly amazing that all these fascinating places were only a short distance from Bath. A longer drive was to Swansea, home of the poet Dylan Thomas, and then to Laugharne to see the boathouse where he wrote a number of works and which is now a museum.

In between each of these trips we had a day off, since I was determined not to tire John too much. Our return flight was booked for ten days after the wedding, and Michael very kindly drove us to Heathrow with Marie coming along to see us off. When we were alone she took the opportunity to ask me if we might be coming to England again.

“I honestly don't know, Marie. John is starting to feel his age and was originally in two minds if he would come to the wedding. No doubt you noticed that we didn't exert ourselves too much on this trip. We stopped over twice on the way over and we'll spend a couple of days in Hong Kong on the way back.”

Marie smiled “I suppose the truth of the matter is that we are all getting older.”

Our trip back was uneventful and within a few days of arriving back at the homestead we felt fully recovered from jet-lag.

Do not go gentle into that good night,...
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Dylan Thomas

It all happened so suddenly. I had called over to 'Hey' to visit Jenny. She was fifty eight now, but looked at least ten years younger with her youthful skin. After we had chatted about this and that she suddenly said “I don't feel right, Lesley.”

“You mean you feel sick?”

“I can't put my finger on it. I've lost my appetite, and that's not like me. I'm constantly tired and I have a bit of back pain. As I looked in the mirror to put on my make-up this morning I could swear the whites of my eyes looked yellow.”

I gazed at her eyes, and she was right.

“Right my girl, we've got to have you checked out right away.”

A doctor visited the town twice a week, and thank goodness, this was one of the days he visited. We hurried to the medical centre. It was a new building, opened only six months ago. Jenny sat on a chair while I approached the reception desk. There was a new girl whom I hadn't seen before and she looked doubtful.

“Can it wait until next week? He's very busy.”

“No, I'm sorry, it can't wait.”

“His list is full,” she tried again.

I did something I hate doing, but this was no time for niceties. I pointed to a small plaque on the wall.

“You've read that plaque? It says 'Heyward's Crossing Medical Centre, proudly sponsored by Lesley and John Brodie' (We had argued with the committee about even putting up a plaque, and then about the order of our names and I had lost on both counts).

“Well, I'm Lesley Brodie.”

I felt sorry for the girl as she flushed and picked up the intercom phone. When she put it down, she said.

“The doctor will see you. Please take a seat.”

I softened my tone. “Thank you, and I'm sorry I spoke to you like that, but this is an emergency. It's actually Mrs Green who's come to see him, if you could get out her notes please?” I sat down beside Jenny, mentally kicking myself. Why couldn't I have just said it was an emergency?

We sat there while three patients went ahead of us. When the doctor, Henry Newman, first came into the waiting room, he nodded to me and hesitated for a moment. Then he remembered that John and I had made it very clear we would always wait our turn. I have always hated the idea that money puts anyone at the head of the queue.

Then it was Jenny's turn, and she asked me to come in with her. Henry listened to Jenny's symptoms, and then asked her to get on the couch while he examined her. When he had finished and was sitting back on a chair, I could sense he was uneasy.

“I can't be sure without blood tests and possibly x-rays or scans which I obviously can't do here. I'll write you a referral letter and I suggest you go to see a specialist in Brisbane as soon as possible.”

“It's serious then?” said Jenny.

“Possibly, but please don't press me. There's a number of things it could be and without the proper tests I'd just be guessing.”

We respected his honest. I told him that I could fly Jenny to Brisbane as soon as he could make an appointment, and after he made a phone call and said Jenny could see the specialist at 3pm the following day, we left with his sealed letter of referral. He obviously didn't want us peaking before the specialist saw Jenny. The mere fact that he had been able to make a specialist's appointment so quickly emphasised to both of us that this was serious, but we didn't say anything to each other about it.

We flew to Brisbane the next day. Mr Bradshaw the surgeon was one of Australia's top specialists. He read Dr Newman's letter, examined Jenny himself, and then sent her for blood tests, x-rays and a CAT scan. All this took hours and it was late afternoon when we sat in his consulting room once more. Jenny looked totally wrung out, and I didn't feel too good either. We both braced ourselves for what was to come.

Mr Bradshaw looked at Jenny gravely.

“I'm sorry Mrs Green, but the news is not good. I could try to sugar-coat it, but I suspect you would rather hear it straight?”

“Yes please, doctor,” said Jenny in a small voice.

“Very well. I'm sorry to say you have cancer of the pancreas.”

Involuntarily I caught my breath, and he glanced at me.

“My grandmother had it,” I said simply.

“Can anything be done?” said Jenny, almost in a whisper.

“Unfortunately it's already far advanced. That's no fault of yours. Like ovarian cancer, the symptoms are so vague that it's often diagnosed at a very late stage.”

“Have I got long?” her question hung in the air.

“Without treatment, perhaps two months or a little more. There are a few things we could do that might buy you a little more time, but that would mean you staying in hospital.”

“I don't want that,” said Jenny, and her voice was firm now. “I want to spend the time I have with my family and friends.”

Dr Bradshaw permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “I thought you might make that decision. It's what I would do,” he said.

As we left the consulting room, I had a thought and said. “Can you wait for me Jenny? I just want to ask Dr Bradshaw something.”

He looked up as I walked back into the room. “Yes Mrs Brodie? You said your grandmother had the same cancer. Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

“I don't have much time doctor. I don't want to leave Jenny alone. There are palliative care nurses I believe? Would it be possible for one to come out and stay with her for....for as long as is necessary?”

“Yes there are,” he replied, and hesitated “I don't wish to offend you, Mrs Brodie, but it could turn out to be very expensive.”

“I'm not in the least offended, Mr Bradshaw,” I replied, “but perhaps I should explain. My husband John Brodie owns one of the largest cattle stations in Central Queensland. Jenny and Tom Green are our oldest friends, and if we can do nothing else for them, we could at least do this. Would you ask your secretary to make enquiries for me please?”

His eyebrows had risen a fraction at John's name. It seemed he recognised it, but perhaps he hadn't made the connection with me.

“Certainly,” he said “And may I say she is fortunate to have a friend like you?”

“I always thought of it the other way round,” I murmured as I left the consulting room.

Jenny was standing exactly where I left her. She seemed in shock and didn't even ask where I had been.

We went back to the hotel and ordered a meal in our room, although Jenny only picked at hers. Afterwards we sat staring at the television, but really lost in thought,

Eventually Jenny said “I think I'll go to bed.” I did too. We were both emotionally exhausted.

I tossed and turned for a long time, but eventually must have slept because I awoke to hear Jenny crying softly in the other bed. I got up and slipped into bed beside her, holding her body as she sobbed uncontrollably.

Later she said “I'm not afraid to die, but it's the children and Tom I'm worried about, especially Tom. How will he cope? Will you promise me to look out for him?”

“Never doubt it for a moment,” I replied.

“Good,” she said “Or I'll come back and haunt you.” A trace of her old humour had returned, and I knew she was smiling even though it was pitch black.

Dear sweet Jenny. How could she accept this news as calmly as she did and not rage about it? I was the one raging inside although I dare not show it in front of her. Why was life so unfair and why did bad things happen to the people I loved? Indeed was my rage as much about myself because I did not want to be parted from someone I loved, as it was about why it was happening to Jenny?

We could have flown home the next morning, but Jenny had obviously decided that to follow our usual routine worked best for her.

“I'd like to go to La Belle once more to say goodbye.”

Shelley the manager had been a junior when we first went there so many years ago, and she greeted us warmly, then stopped sensing something was wrong.

Jenny said simply “Shelley my dear, it's so good to be here. I'm afraid I've had some rather bad news and I don't think I'll be seeing you again, so this is a farewell visit.”

Shelley glanced at me, and the colour drained from her face, but she composed herself.

“It's always good to see you Mrs Green. What would you like us to do for you today?”

“Just the usual my dear, just the usual. Work your magic on us couple of old chooks eh?”

We sat down in adjacent chairs as always, and the girls fussed around us, and for a few precious minutes we didn't have to think of the world waiting for us outside the salon door. When we left, we were laden down with every cosmetic, spray and perfume they could lay their hands on, and they refused point blank to take a cent for any it. Shelley managed to get a few seconds alone with me on the pretext that I might have left something behind.

“It's bad isn't it?”

“I'm afraid so,” I replied “She has very little time.”

“You will let us know won't you?”

“Of course. You have my word.”

Jenny was waiting for me outside. “She wanted to know didn't she?” she said, and there was understanding in her voice.

“I didn't break any confidences,” I said, wondering if indeed I had, but Shelley was no fool, and would have seen through any attempt to dissemble.

“Such nice girls,” said Jenny “You will keep going there yourself won't you.” She said it as a fact, not a question.

Jenny even insisted that we go to our usual boutiques. Among the few clothes she selected was a beautiful silk nightgown with exquisite lace trim.

“I always wanted one like this,” she said, “And now I'll have it forever.”

We flew back to Mackenzie Station and then I drove her back to her house. The old ute was there, so Tom was home. I asked her if I should come inside, but she gently insisted that this was a time for her and Tom alone. I watched her walk to the door and inside the house and that was a mistake. I heard Tom cry out once in a voice I did not recognise — like the desperate cry of a wounded animal — it was gut-wrenching and left me physically shaking. I had no business there at that moment. I had to get away. Somehow I got the car into gear and drove down the street, but I had to stop, because I could see nothing through a wall of tears.

John knew something was badly wrong when I arrived back at the homestead. He opened his mouth and then shut it again as I rushed into his arms.

“Just hold me John. Hold me.”

Mr Bradshaw was as good as his word, and I was surprised when it was his voice, not his secretary's on the telephone the next day.

“I believe I've found someone suitable for Mrs Green. Ellen Forbes has over thirty years nursing experience, the last ten in palliative care. She was taking a break when I contacted her with your special request, but she would be free to travel in about four days.”

He gave me her phone number, I thanked him and hung up. Then I called Mrs Forbes and gave her some background on the situation with Jenny. She sounded a warm, motherly person, just what was needed.

“John and I will see Jenny and her husband tomorrow and speak to them. Theirs is the final say of course, but I am confident they will be in agreement.”

That was not strictly true. Jenny and Tom were proud people, and I had overstepped the mark before on matters involving finance. I hoped for both their sakes that they would let us give them this as a mark of our respect and friendship.

John and I drove to Jenny and Tom's house, and I had rehearsed my speech over and over in the car, but when it came to the crunch, of course it came out differently — it always does. The last thing I wanted was for it to come out like the 'lady of the manor' dispensing charity.

As we sat in their comfortable sitting room and Jenny produced some of her delicious scones with tea, I knew I was showing signs of nerves that even Tom, a man, could see.

“You've come to tell us something Lesley, so why don't you spit it out?” he said with a slight smile.

“Not tell you, ask you actually.” and then it all started to pour out. “Jenny, you are back home with your family and friends which is what you want, but you are far away from the medical facilities of a big city. We had an idea, John and I and made some enquiries. Oh this is coming out all wrong.” I wailed in despair. Jenny stood up and walked behind my chair, and started to massage my shoulders, feeling the tension in them.

“You want to give us something. Why don't you take your time and tell us what it is?”

I took a deep breath and started again. “We'd like to do something to bring the hospital to you. There are nurses who specialise in, in.... I've spoken to one, she's really nice. She could bring equipment with her. So we wondered in the spirit of our long friendship, if you would do us the honour,,,”

“Yes”, said Jenny.

I blundered on for a second “the great privilege of.....” and then I realised what she had said.

“You said 'yes'!”.

She smiled. “Why wouldn't I? It's the most generous gift I could imagine, and from anyone else I might have said no, but how could I refuse my dearest friends, especially when you put your case so eloquently?” That imp of mischief was still there.

“Oh Jenny!” I cried, and I hugged her. When we finally left that afternoon, Jenny hugged me and whispered in my ear 'You've taken such a load off my mind. I really didn't know how Tom might cope, later on.'

'Do you remember all those times you came to Brisbane and then Sydney with me? I said I would repay you one day. I just wish it wasn't like this.' I whispered.

As we left John shook hands with Tom in the conventional manner of country men — arms extended, not invading the personal space, and then, extraordinarily, they hugged each other. There's hope for men yet.

Ellen Forbes turned out to be exactly as she sounded on the phone, warm, practical, efficient, motherly. She brought all the equipment she needed to set up a mini-hospital, producing each item as it was needed. With each visit I could see Jenny was sinking.

One day when she was lying on her bed, and I was sitting with her to give Ellen a break for some shopping in town, I suddenly awoke, embarrassed to find I had nodded off, and she was stroking my hair like a mother does to a child. Their son Greg was there by then of course, travelling from interstate and all grown up. Their daughter Angela was in Brisbane and due to have her first baby in a couple of weeks, Jenny insisted that she stay there until the baby was born.

“I just hope I have time to see my first grandchild,” she said, and I knew her heart was set on it. I believe that is what kept her going — the sheer indomitable will in a failing body. A week later, Danielle Jennifer Corbett came into the world, a whole healthy nine pounds, and a week afterwards, they brought her to Heywards Crossing. I have a picture on my dressing table, Jenny, frail but smiling, holding her new granddaughter, and Tom the proud grandfather beaming with a delight that masked the pain in his eyes.

A couple of days later, I went to visit Jenny. She smiled at me.

“I did it. I got to hold my granddaughter.”

I sat with her for a long time and we chatted about old times and all the fun we had together. We even talked about the time when she was my rock right through my transition, something we hadn't talked about in years.

“You made the best decision of your life,” she said “You became a woman. Such a lovely woman.”

Then she laughed “And you still blush so easily.”

I didn't want to leave. We both knew it was the last time, but then Tom came in and the children, and I had to remember they were family and I was a friend. I leaned over and kissed her, and held her thin body.

As I left I said “I'll see you in a few days.” She smiled, that wonderful smile that she never lost. We both knew it wasn't going to happen.

It was early morning two days later when the telephone rang, and I just knew without picking it up. It was Ellen Forbes.

“When did it happen?” I said in a whisper.

“About two o'clock this morning,” she said. “Tom and her children were with her. It was very peaceful.”

“Thank you for telling me Ellen,” I said and put the telephone down softly.

They said later it was the biggest funeral they could remember. The town tripled in population that day. They came from near and far, some I recognised and some I didn't. How strange that it is only when a person has gone, you realise how many lives they touched. The tiny church could not cope of course, so loudspeakers were set up outside, and rows of chairs for the overflow. When John and I arrived, they were already starting to fill, and we were just about to slip into a seat down the back when a youth, uncomfortable in his first suit came up to us and said “Mr and Mrs Brodie?” We nodded and he led us into the church, up to seats reserved in the third row. The church was a sea of colour, looking more prepared for a wedding than a funeral. It was Jenny's wish.

“I hate black,” she said. “There's too much of it. Anyone who wears it must be sent home and told to change. I want the men to look smart, and if they don't have a suit it doesn't matter, and I want the women to wear their prettiest dresses.”

We had taken her at her word. She didn't want mourning, and planned it that way, down to the colour of her coffin — white for hope. I glanced at Tom. He was sitting there at the front row, looking like a stone, his gaze never wavering from the white coffin with the mass of flowers spilling over the sides. There lay the love of his life, and I knew she was wearing that exquisite nightgown she had bought on our last trip to Brisbane.

The minister entered and welcomed us all 'to the celebration of the life of Jennifer Green, or Jenny as she was always known'. Prayers followed and readings. The hymns were well-known even to me — 'Guide me oh thou Great Redeemer', and 'Abide with Me', and she had chosen them too.

Their son Greg spoke of his mother; how she was the rock of the family, her community involvement, her many friends, all the things she loved to do, her cooking (excellent), her golf (not so good), and all the while Tom sat like a stone.

At one moment Baby Danielle cried out for a second, and far from being annoyed, everyone smiled at this contribution and reminder of new life from Jenny's granddaughter.

There was a murmur of surprise when Father Peter, the Catholic priest who shared the church with James the minister, got to his feet. He turned to the assembled congregation and smiled.

“Some of you will be surprised to see me since Jenny wasn't a Catholic, but friendship crosses the artificial boundaries we make in this world, and at her request and with James's support, I would like to lead you all in the Lord's Prayer.”

And I said the old familiar words with the rest. Finally, it was over, and her coffin was carried out of the church to the strains of her favourite hymn 'All Things Bright and Beautiful.”

There is a little stream that meanders around two sides of the cemetery. The water gurgles and chuckles as it runs over the rounded pebbles and willow tree branches brush its surface. It's a very peaceful place, and there, beneath the spreading shade of an ancient Red River Gum, they laid Jenny to rest. Tom stood there surrounded by his family as they lowered her casket, and I held my breath, fearful that he would finally crack and fall, but my prayers were answered, and like the river gum he stood tall.

The hall beside the church holds many more people, but even there they had to open all the doors and the people spilled out into the grounds beyond. The ladies of the CWA, the Country Women's Association (their unofficial motto 'it's not all tea and scones'), were there to serve the refreshments, and of course there were scones, along with sandwiches, cakes, lamingtons and even pavlova, the quintessential Australian desert, and that was Jenny's idea too. I could imagine her looking down at us and smiling and saying 'Now that went very well!' How many people I talked to that day I'll never know, it must have been hundreds. At one point I even came across Shelley from the salon in Brisbane. I had phoned her as promised but I never expected her to make such a long journey. That showed the effect Jenny had on people. And of course I did that most difficult of things at a funeral and talked to the family. What can you say when there are no words? I just hugged Tom and whispered 'She's at peace now.' He nodded, his face a mask of pain. What I said to their children I have no idea.

One thing did surprise me. I called by their house several days later and found that Ellen Forbes was still there. I had assumed she would go back to Brisbane immediately after Jenny's funeral, but when she explained it, it all seemed perfectly logical. She said that she saw her duties as extending to the whole family , and so had decided to stay on for about a week.

“Sometimes the week after someone dies is almost harder for the family than while they were still alive. They have been so busy, and now, suddenly everything stops, and they feel they are drifting and lost. I'm staying at my own expense, Mrs Brodie. I would hate you to think I was extending my stay unnecessarily.”

Money rearing its ugly head once more.

“Call me Lesley please, and I hope I may call you Ellen? Please don't let's fight over this. When we sponsored you to come it was for the whole family, and as you rightly say, you are still helping them, so I see no reason at all to change our financial arrangements.”

“That's very kind of you,” she smiled. “Oh, and if you need to get in touch, I am now staying at the hotel. I always find that's best.” She was being discreet, but I've been involved with a small town long enough to understand what she was saying. She stayed another ten days, and we held a small tea party for her the day before she took the train. Tom had visibly improved by then, so I presume she thought her work was finally done.

From time to time I visited Jenny's grave to tidy it up, lay fresh flowers, and, if there was no-one around I would sit and talk to her. Yes, I know; it makes me sound like a dotty old lady, but after I told her how things were going with Tom, and any little problems I had or decisions I had to make, it was surprising how often the solution came into my mind within a day or two. Perhaps it just did me good to talk about these things out loud, or perhaps there was something more. Who knows, and does it really matter?

Nearly three years passed, and I heard on the grapevine that Ellen had visited Heywards Crossing a few times. It seemed she had grown to love the country, or was that all that she loved? (That 'small town thing' again — is anything ever a secret?)

One day Tom called with the mail, and our little routine was for me to make tea for him to dunk his biscuits in as we sat in the shade of the verandah. He seemed to be coping well enough with his new solo life. When I visited the house from time to time it was always clean and tidy, and that's always a good sign.

Today though he was fidgeting, and finally I said. “Ok, Tom. Why don't you spit it out? You've said that to me often enough!”

He looked like a man coming to a decision. “Do you remember Ellen Forbes, the nurse we had when....”

“Of course I remember her, a charming lady, so bright and efficient.”

“She's been up to Hey a few times, and I've been down to Brisbane a bit. The fact is she's sick of city life and feels some time in the country would do her good.” He took a deep breath “The fact is I've asked her to marry me and she said yes.”

I beamed at him. He looked curiously at me, perhaps even a bit miffed at my reaction.

“You don't seem very surprised.”

I laughed then. “Tom, I'm a woman, or had you forgotten? My only surprise was that it took you so long to get around to it.”

Then I got up and gave him a big hug. Was he actually blushing?

“I'm sorry Tom, you must forgive me for teasing you, but it's been obvious to me for quite a while.”

“You don't think it's sort of disrespectful to Jenny's memory?”

“No I don't and I'll tell you why. One day she told me that she wanted you to marry again, after, as she put it 'a decent interval', and even then it sounded like she was joking. She felt it was the best thing for you, and she said that, secure in the knowledge that you would always love her. 'Someone like Ellen' were her exact words. She even said 'Perhaps I'll be allowed to have a hand in finding someone for Tom'. Now that's prophetic don't you think?”

Tom stared at me. “She told me to marry again too, but for a long time there.... I couldn't even think of it, I just couldn't.”

“And that does you credit, Tom, but now is the right time, and you'll never find anyone as well suited to you as Ellen.”

They married in the little church about five months later. There was only a small gathering, and I was 'matron of honour'. As a young woman, I'd always wanted to be a bridesmaid, and perhaps this was the next best thing.

We were far away from the big cities of the east coast, but technology finally even filtered through to Hayward's Crossing. I had a computer now, and with some effort, because there was no-one local qualified to hold lessons, I taught myself some of the software programs which helped me with managing the running and finances of Mackenzie Station. Finally, we even became connected to the Internet. It was very slow, and not much use for anything but emails, but it did help me stay in touch with friends. In a way I was sorry about this as I still felt that a handwritten letter was so much nicer than typed characters on a screen or printed out on paper. I still treasure the letters, mainly from my Mother, which I kept stored in a cardboard box, and also the letters I sent to her and Dad which they kept too. They were some of the things I brought back after Dad died.

One day an email arrived from Marie's son Michael, and to my surprise it was to tell me that he and Sarah were coming out to Australia. Apparently he had been offered a great position in the Australian branch of the company for which he worked, and they would be living in Sydney. The contract was initially for three years and if all went well, then they might stay on, perhaps permanently.

“Oh dear,” I thought “I hope Marie doesn't think I encouraged them.”

Early the following morning I phoned Marie in England where it would be late evening.

“Hello Lesley, I thought I'd be hearing from you,” she said.

'Dear me,' I thought 'This sounds ominous.'

“Marie, I've had an email from Michael and I wanted to assure you I played no part in encouraging them to come to Australia.”

She laughed, and that was good to hear. “It's alright Lesley. They both told me how they had mentioned it as a possibility when you met them just before they got married, and how you were scrupulous about taking a neutral stance.”

“Perhaps I should have mentioned it to you,” I replied “But it was just days before the wedding and I felt it was the last thing you would want to be thinking about right then. Besides, it was just an idea at that stage.”

“I believe you,” she said. “I can't vouch for Sarah's family, but then you're unlikely to meet them again, so perhaps that doesn't matter.”

Five months later, when Michael and Sarah were settled in a rented apartment in Sydney, I flew down to see them. They were very happy with their decision to come out. Thanks to computers, they were able to keep in regular contact with their families back in England. I was quite envious with the speed of the connection they had compared to mine out in the bush.

“We have news for you too,” said Michael with a grin “Sarah is expecting a baby.”

“Congratulations!” I cried and gave her a hug, thinking to myself 'well that complicates things a bit.'

What did occur to me was that Marie and Michael would almost certainly come out to see the new baby, and perhaps Sarah's parents would too, although I wasn't sure if they would be keen to see me, that is if they harboured doubts about whether I had encouraged Michael and Sarah to come out to Australia.

I kept in regular touch with Marie and also Michael and Sarah and was pleased to hear six months later that they had a healthy baby boy they named Jason Edward. As I predicted, Marie and Michael flew out a couple of months later to see their grandson. They did not have time to come and stay at the Station, so John and I flew down to Sydney for a couple of days to see them, and also of course the new baby. It was wonderful to see them again.

I could see that Marie had something on her mind so when we were alone, I asked her what it was.

“Look, I probably shouldn't be saying anything, but I couldn't help noticing that whereas you have barely changed, John seems to have aged a lot since we last saw him.”

“Well he is over twenty years older than me of course,” I replied “And our age difference seems more apparent now. I am dedicated to taking good care of him, as much as I can.”

I knew my eyes were filling with tears, and Marie put her arm round me and said “I'm sorry Lesley, I shouldn't have said anything about it.”

Sadly, she was only expressing what I knew in my heart to be true. John was showing his age, and I was starting to think of the inevitability of a time when I would face the future without him.

“It's alright Marie. You are just saying what I think but never speak of because it's too hard to face.”

All I could do was take the best care I could of John and hope that we still had many years left to enjoy.

Michael and Sarah did decide to settle in Australia and subsequently had three more children — twin girls and another boy. I could understand how hard it was for their parents, them being so far away, although they did visit their families in England every two to three years, and their parents come out to visit from time to time. I did in the end meet Sarah's parents again, and thankfully they had accepted by then that I had not encouraged them to migrate. They even said it was nice to know that there was someone else from the family living here.

How quickly the years passed by. I celebrated my fifty-fifth birthday with a party. I did not feel older, but there was no denying the calendar, and I studied my face in the mirror, looking for the tell-tale signs of aging as all women do. John was now seventy nine His hair had turned from brown to white, and he tired easily, but refused to acknowledge the effects of the passing years. The life of a man running a large cattle station takes its toll, and I was becoming increasingly worried about him. One day, somewhat to my surprise he sat down with me to discuss the future.

“We have to be realistic.” he said “I am older than you and will probably go first, barring some accident. I have no close relative that I wish to leave the property to, so I wish to leave it all to you. You are quite capable of running it yourself, but if you wish to sell up, then I would prefer that after making provision for yourself, the remainder of the funds were divided among a number of charities. How does that sound to you?”

I was not going to insult him by protesting that he would live forever, and I agreed with him that his idea was the best.

“My only close relative is Marie and her family, and we already gave them funds from the sale of my parents' house, so I'm sure they do not expect any more. There are many worthwhile charities who could benefit, and I think we should draw up a list together.”

I was so glad that John had chosen to discuss the subject as it had crossed my mind, but I would have felt uncomfortable raising it myself. A list was duly drawn up and locked away in my desk against the time it might be needed.

John continued to ride out with the stock-men most days, and one afternoon he returned home early and his face looked grey. I stared at him in alarm.

“What's wrong darling? You look terrible.”

“I don't feel too great,” he admitted “I've had some chest pain and pain down my arm.”

“Oh you silly man!” I cried out in exasperation “That sounds exactly like heart trouble to me. I must get you to the doctor right away.”

Thank goodness, by now we had a full-time doctor in Hey. I rang ahead to let him know we were coming, then we jumped in the Land-rover and I did a grand prix driver impersonation driving him into town. Dr Cunningham examined him and did an ECG. His conclusion was that John had suffered a mild heart attack, and he recommended that he saw a specialist. We flew to Brisbane a couple of days later armed with a referral letter.

Dr Lee Ng was a pleasant man and very efficient. He examined John again and repeated the ECG. He said that John had coronary artery disease, describing it as similar to a water pipe with material building up around the interior and restricting the flow, in this case of blood to the heart. Apparently this had been building up for some time. When he questioned John closely, he admitted to occasions where he had had episodes of chest pain which he had put down to indigestion. I should have been angry with him since this was the first time I'd heard of this, but I was too worried to say anything.

Dr Ng said that he could prescribe medications that would reduce the symptoms of angina, but he could not provide any therapy which would prevent another and possibly more severe heart attack. Surgery at John's age was a possibility but could be risky to attempt. In the meantime, he arranged for John to have some blood tests, and asked him to return in a couple of weeks for a review. He had already discussed John's lifestyle and said that a reduction in strenuous activities while still doing some mild exercises might have a positive outcome as far as future attacks were concerned, together with a change in diet, especially reducing fats, and taking some medication to lower his blood pressure, for which he gave John a prescription on the spot.

We left the doctor's consulting rooms feeling rather shocked. We called into a cafe to have a drink and talk about what we had just heard.

“What would you have me do?” said John.

“It's your life and your choice, darling,” I replied, “But you are my man not a baby, and I can't see you wanting to wrap yourself in cotton-wool for the sake of a few months extra life.”

John took my hand and said “Thank you for that. Frankly, I don't fancy surgery and all that entails.”

And so we returned home and continued to live our lives much as before. We did go back to see Dr Ng and he prescribed medication to lower John's cholesterol and the 'bad fats', and John promised to do what he could to lessen his workload and eat more salads. Each day now became more precious than the one before. John still rode out with the stockmen most days, but occasionally if he felt tired he would give it a miss, and I was glad that he was being sensible.

In the evenings, after dinner, we sat in our armchairs and read mostly in companionable silence. We did have a television now, but apart from the news didn't find much to our taste apart from the occasional documentary. Once or twice John got out the heavy sixteen millimetre projector which worried me a bit, and we watched the movies we had made of our trips together. That started conversations where we remembered all the wonderful things we had done together. Although he said nothing, I felt John was telling me that this was a way of preserving my memories. I treasured each day we had together and hardly dared think that one day all this would come to an end. Sometimes John spoke to me about the running of the Station. Over the years I was quite conversant with how things were done, but there was always more to learn.

“I don't want you to be caught out by questions you can't answer when I'm not around,” he said, and then, trying to make a joke of it added “They might even start calling you 'Boss'.”

He stopped when he saw the tears in my eyes and was instantly contrite, taking me in his arms and saying “Oh I'm sorry darling, that was a dumb thing to say.”

I stifled my sobs and said “It's not your fault. I try to be brave, but then something happens and it all gets too much for me to bear. To me there will only ever be one Boss, and that is you.”

I remember that night we made love, because it was one of the last times. John was concerned that if the worst happened, I would be lying there with his body, but I assured him that if we took it gently I was sure we would be alright, and anyway, I was prepared to take the risk. It was so lovely to feel my body connected with his once more since we has been too scared to do anything involving exertion since hearing the news from the specialist. John lay back on the bed and I covered his body with mine, and when the moment came that he entered me, I felt such an outpouring of love, it was as if we were both young lovers once more.

One morning, the stock-men went out with John, and I kissed him goodbye as usual, and set about my daily work. They were late returning. I had tea ready and was worried it might spoil. I walked out onto the verandah and stared into the distance where the sun was low on the horizon. I saw a cloud of dust and it gradually resolved itself into a hatless man riding a horse at a mad gallop. It was in that moment that I knew. Jack pulled up his sweating horse and leapt from the saddle. I could see the tracks that tears had made through the dust on his cheeks, as I walked down the steps to him.

“Tell me what happened please Jack.” I said quietly.

He gulped. “We stopped to boil the billy for some tea and everything was fine. Then the boss stood up to throw the dregs into the fire and there was a strange look on his face. He said your name, Missus. That was all. I caught him before he fell and lowered him to the ground. He was gone Missus. There was nothing we could do. We radioed back here and they have sent a ute out. I'm sorry, that was all we had available. We thought it best that someone come to tell you in person.”

“It's alright Jack, really. It's all happened exactly as he wanted. Thank you for coming so quickly to tell me. Perhaps you should see to your horse now, and I'll wait for them here.”

I stood on the verandah and watched the sun disappear behind the rim of mountains, and this time there was no cloud of dust as they drove the ute slowly back to the homestead. Two men were in the back with John's body wrapped in a blanket, and the rest of the men rode behind, one of them leading John's horse. They looked like a guard of honour as they accompanied my prince home for the last time. I walked slowly down the steps to greet them, and they looked at me, fearful that I would start to cry or worse, for few things frighten a man more than a woman in tears.

“Please bring him into the house,” I said, and I led the way to a room near the front door where there was a large wooden table. Reverently they laid John's body on the table and then stood, awaiting orders it seemed.

“Could one of you please ring Arthur Jenkins at Hey and ask him to come out? He will know what to do.” Arthur Jenkins was the region's undertaker, and I knew it would take him about an hour to arrive — one last hour for me to spend with my beloved man.

“I'm sure you all need to eat now. Don't worry about me. I will be fine.”

They looked grateful as they trooped out of the room murmuring “Sorry Missus”, and left me alone with John. I unwrapped the top of the blanket to reveal his face. It bore no signs of pain, so the end must have been swift. I leaned forward and kissed his lips and they were not yet cold and I could almost believe he was not dead but asleep. Then I could not hold back my emotions any longer.

“Oh my darling,” I sobbed “We both knew this day would happen, but now it has, how can I go on without you?” I stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, and gradually my tears ceased to flow as I stood guard over the only man I had ever loved.

There was a discrete cough at the doorway, and I turned to see Arthur Jenkins there with one of his men. Had an hour passed so quickly?

“Thank you for being so prompt, Arthur,” I said. “I will wait on the verandah while you do what needs to be done.”

A short time later, Arthur and his assistant brought John's body out, discretely wrapped in a black cover and lying on a trolley. They carried him down the steps to the waiting van.

“I will come to see you tomorrow to make the arrangements,” I said.

With Arthur's assistance I chose a polished wood casket, arranged flowers, and put a notice in the paper, although thanks to the 'bush telegraph', news of John's passing quickly spread around the neighbourhood. I contacted the minister of the little church and between us we sorted out hymns for the service. I was glad to be so busy because it kept me from getting tearful, except of course at night-time and there was nothing anyone could do about that. Tom and Ellen were a great help. I did not expect Tom to get involved as I thought it would bring back too many painful memories, but I was wrong, and not for the first time I realised that true friendship overcomes so many other emotions and feelings.

The church was packed with the overflow sitting outside, much as it had been for Jenny's funeral. This time the dress was more conventional, most of the women including myself in black dresses, and the men in dark suits. I had decided to say something about John, and when I stood at the lectern, facing all those people, for a moment my courage almost deserted me.

“What can I say about John that you don't already know? He was the finest man I ever met, and I fell in love with him the moment I first met him, and the more I knew him the more that love grew. He was fair and honest, generous and kind. I treasured every day we spent together, and especially the last few months when we knew that time was running out. I know he would feel embarrassed having such things said about him but they are all true. How I shall manage without him I don't know, but as he said to me, life goes on and we must appreciate every day, as indeed we did as soon as we found out how ill he was. I wanted to try and describe the love I had for him, indeed still have for him, but I am no poet, although I love poetry. So I thought I would read you a poem written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her husband Robert Browning. It's quite well known and I can think of no better way of expressing how I feel.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,
I love thee to the breadth and depth and height
My soul can reach when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely as men strive for Right,
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise,
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath
Smiles, tears of all my life! - and if God chose
I shall but love thee better after death.”

I stood for a moment looking out over the congregation and it was not only the women who were wiping their eyes.

Turning to the casket I said “Farewell my darling, but only for a while until we meet again.” Then I walked over to it and pressed my lips against the polished wood.

At the cemetery, we laid John to rest not far from where Jenny sleeps. The hardest moment of all was when they slowly lowered his casket into the ground, but with Tom and Ellen on either side of me I somehow kept my composure. Now I would have two people to visit and talk to at the cemetery.

Then we returned to the hall where all the people had gathered for refreshments and I had to mingle and listen to their awkward expressions of sympathy. I do not mean that unkindly, because I know how hard it is to say something to a recently bereaved person, having done it myself more than once. Amongst the many people who came up to offer their condolences, some I knew well and some hardly at all, was a woman about ten years younger than me who looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place her.

“Please accept my condolences,” she said and then looked at me with a half smile. “You don't remember me do you?”

“I'm sorry,” I replied, noticing her piercing green eyes — where had I seen her?

“My name is Mandy Collins, and you only ever met me once, in a doctor's waiting room — a doctor who had a particular speciality. We have something in common, you and I, Mrs Brodie.” I suddenly remembered — she was the terrified girl I had tried to offer reassurance to in Dr Brentwell's waiting room.

I tried to stay calm. What did she want? “I'm sorry we can't talk further today,” I said “But do get in touch. You know where I live.”

“Yes Mrs Brodie, I'll certainly do that. And once again, I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” I said and she disappeared into the crowd. I looked for her later but she seemed to have gone.

So many people to speak to. Some offered to come and stay with me, and they meant well, but it was not something I could contemplate. Instead they gave me casseroles they had prepared so I wouldn't have to cook for a few days, but there were far more than I could possibly eat, so I made up my mind to distribute them amongst the Station staff rather than let them go to waste.

Some people asked me what I would do now. How could I possibly make decisions like that when I had just buried my darling man? What I did know was that even if I did decide to sell the Station I would stay at Heyward's Crossing. I could not imagine living anywhere else. This is my home, and this is where my memories are, all my friends and the people I love.

It's true what they say. The past is a foreign country, and we did do things differently then. Looking back, would I have had my life turn out any other way? Not for a moment.

It's morning! I must have fallen asleep after all, for the sun is streaming in through the window. Tommy has left my lap — perhaps he's gone to catch a mouse for breakfast? Something woke me. What was it? Oh, now I know. I hear the sound of Tom's old truck idling. It was pensioned off long ago, as was Tom of course, but he loved that old truck so much that when he retired he asked if he could buy it and they gave it to him. It would have cost them money to do it up to sell I suppose.

I jump to my feet and hurry down the hallway and out onto the verandah. Tom stands beside the truck looking expectantly up at the house. He's dressed normally again today, in his usual jeans and check shirt — so much more comfortable that the dark grey suit he wore yesterday as a mark of respect for John. I remember the only other time I saw him wear that suit. It was the day he buried Jenny.

I rush down the steps of the homestead and hug Tom. “It's so good to see you.” Then I gasp. “Oh Tom, look at me, standing here in a black crumpled dress, what must I look like? The fact is I fell asleep in John's chair last night. Why don't you go in the kitchen and make some tea and I'll go and slip into something more comfortable?”

I realise what I've said, and suddenly I burst out laughing — the first real laugh since John died. Tom is looking at me warily, he thinks I'm having hysterics, so I pull myself together.

“I'm sorry Tom, I haven't gone mad, but that was pure Mae West." He shares my love of the old nineteen thirties black and white movies which we still hire to view from time to time. Now the penny drops and he starts to grin.

“Sure,” he says, “See you in ten.”

I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes get in the shower and luxuriate under a stream of hot water. It seems to wash away all the cares and fatigue that had surrounded me. Drying myself, I sort out a yellow cotton dress from the closet. Yellow, Johns favourite colour.

I walk down the corridor to the kitchen, and suddenly, I'm picking up the most delicious smells. Tom's cooking breakfast! I enter the kitchen and see him there, dishing food from a large frying pan onto two plates.

“Sit yourself down and get your teeth around that.” he orders as he puts a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages and tomato in front of me. I'm suddenly ravenous.I haven't eaten a proper meal in days. I take a cautious sip from the steaming mug of coffee as he sits down with his plate. We start to eat slowly, savouring every mouthful. The healing process has begun.

This is not the end of my life, but from now on it will be a different life. How can I live without John? He was my rock — always there for support, and yet there are many widows who build a new life when they find themselves alone, and so I must do the same. John wanted that — I know he did.

If my life was a movie, at this point the camera would be focused on Tom and me in the kitchen, eating our breakfast and chatting contentedly as my life starts to return to normal. Slowly it tracks backwards down the dim corridor, over the verandah and into the bright sunlight of the new day. The sounds of a busy working cattle station filter in from both sides. Back the camera travels, down the dusty driveway, and now, slowly, it starts to rise, looking down on the homestead. Higher and higher it rises, and the homestead starts to dwindle to a small square and finally a dot as the surrounding ring of hills comes into view. Higher and higher yet and the timeless land spreads out before us in all its majesty as far as the eye can see to the curving horizon. My heart, my country.

Fade to white.

The End.

Acknowledgements: When I started this, my first novel, I never anticipated the amazing amount of support, advice and information which so many people provided either in response to my request or because they thought it might be useful. Mentioning names is always risky because of the danger of missing someone who really should have been acknowledged, so I'm taking a risk. I would like to mention Alison, Joanne and Roo, for all the information about Queensland in the sixties and seventies, a dear friend for her recollections of the surgeries described in Part 2 Chapter 1, and anyone else who supplied me with information.

To all who wrote comments on the story or sent me emails and encouraged me, I wish to thank you all. With love, Bronwen.