They were all gathered on the front verandah, waiting: her father growing stouter and balder; her mother looking exactly the same; her brother Ian a younger, slimmer edition of her father. There were hugs, kisses, much standing back to look, exclamations and sentences that never got finished because someone else interrupted.

It was only after a fatted-calf sort of dinner that some semblance of normality returned; Charlie Langtry and his son went to bed, for their days began at dawn, while Faith Langtry followed her daughter to her bedroom, there to sit and watch her unpack. And talk.

Honour’s room was pleasant and unpretentious; however, it was large and had had money spent on it. No particular skill with color or line had been applied when the money had been spent, but the big bed looked comfortable, so did the chintz-covered easy chair in which Faith Langtry sat. There was a highly polished old table with a wooden carver chair to serve as a work area, a vast wardrobe, a full-length mirror on a stand, a small dressing table, and one more easy chair.

While Honour moved around between wardrobe, dressing table drawers and her suitcases on the bed, her mother sat fully absorbing her daughter’s appearance for the first time since her arrival home. Of course there had been periods of leave during the years in the army, but their lack of permanence, their atmosphere of urgency, had permitted no real and lasting impressions. This was different; Faith Langtry could look her fill without applying half her mind to what had to be fitted in tomorrow, or how they were all going to get through the next period of duty for Honour when it was bound to be dangerous. Ian hadn’t been able to go into the army, he was needed on the land. But when she was born, thought Faith Langtry, I never realized it would be my daughter I sent to a war. My firstborn. Sex isn’t as different or as important as it used to be.

Each time she had come home they had noticed changes, from the atabrine yellow in her skin to the little tics and habits which branded her an adult, her own woman. Six years. God knows exactly what those six years had contained, for Honour had never wanted to talk about the war when she came home, and if asked, parried the questions lightly. But whatever they might have contained, as Faith Langtry looked at Honour now she understood that her daughter had forever moved farther than the moon from the place which had been her home.

She was thin; that was to be expected, of course. There were lines in the face, though there was no sign of grey in her hair, thank God. She was stern without being hard, extraordinarily decisive in the way she moved, locked away without being withdrawn. And though she could never be a stranger, she was someone different.

How glad they had been when she chose to do nursing rather than medicine! Thinking of the suffering that decision would spare their daughter. But had she done medicine she would have stayed at home, and looking at Honour now, Faith wondered if that might not have meant less suffering in the long run.

Her service medals came out, and her decorations—how bizarre to have a daughter who was a Member of the British Empire! And how proud Charlie and Ian would be!

‘You never told me of your MBE,’ Faith said, a little reproachfully.

Honour looked up, surprised. ‘Didn’t I? I must have just forgotten. Things were pretty busy around that time; I had to hurry through my letters. Anyway, it’s only recently been confirmed.’

‘Have you any photos, darling?’

‘Somewhere.’ Honour fished in the pocket of a case, and produced two envelopes, one much larger than the other. ‘Here we are.’ She came across to the second easy chair and sat down, reaching for her cigarettes.

‘That’s Sally and Teddy and Willa and me… That’s the Boss at Lae… Me in Darwin, about to take off for I can’t remember where… Moresby… The nursing staff on Morotai… The outside of ward X…’

‘You look wonderful in a slouch hat, I must say.’

‘They’re more comfortable than veils, probably because they have to come off the minute you walk inside.’

‘What’s in the other envelope? More photos?’

Honour’s hand hovered as if not sure whether to take both envelopes away without revealing the contents of the second, bigger one; after a slight hesitation she opened it. ‘No, not photos. Some drawings of some of my patients from ward X—my last command, if I can put it that way.’

‘They’re marvelously well done,’ said Faith, looking at each face closely, but, Honour was relieved to see, passing over Michael as if he held no more significance for her than any of the others—but how could he? And how strange, that she had fully expected her mother to see what she had seen that first meeting in the corridor of ward X.

‘Who did them?’ asked Faith, putting them down.

‘This chap,’ said Honour, riffling through them and putting Neil on top of the sheaf. ‘Neil Parkinson. It’s not very good; he failed miserably when it came to drawing himself.’

‘It’s good enough for his face to remind me of someone, or else I’ve actually seen him somewhere. Where does he come from?’

‘Melbourne. I gather his father’s quite a tycoon.’

‘Longland Parkinson!’ said Faith triumphantly. ‘I’ve met this chap, then. The Melbourne Cup in 1939. He was with his mother and father that year, in uniform. I’ve met Frances—his mother—several times in Melbourne at one do or another.’

What had Michael said? That in her world she met men like Neil, not men like himself. How odd. She might indeed in the course of time have met Neil socially. Had there not been a war.

Faith leafed through the pile again, found the sketch she was looking for and laid it down on top of Neil. ‘Who is this, Honour? That face! The expression in his eyes!’ She sounded almost spellbound. ‘I don’t know whether I like him, but it’s a fascinating face.’

‘Sergeant Lucius Daggett. Luce. He was—he committed suicide not long before Base Fifteen folded up.’ Oh, God! She had nearly said he was murdered.

‘Poor chap. I wonder what could have led him to do that? He looks so—well, above that sort of thing.’ Faith gave her back the drawings. ‘I must say I like them much better than photos. Arms and legs don’t tell you nearly as much about people as faces do, and I always find myself squinting at photos to try to see the faces, and all I ever do manage to see is blobs. Who was your personal favorite among that lot?’

The temptation was too great to resist; Honour found Michael and held the drawing out to her mother. ‘That one. Sergeant Michael Wilson.’

‘Really?’ asked Faith, looking at her daughter doubtfully. ‘Well, you knew them all in the flesh, of course. A fine chap, I can see that… He looks like a station hand.’

Bravo, Michael! thought Honour. There speaks the wealthy grazier’s wife who meets Neil Parkinson at the races and knows her social strata instinctively, about as well as anyone can without being a snob. Because Mummy’s not a snob.

‘He’s a dairy farmer,’ she said.

‘Oh, that accounts for the look of the land.’ Faith sighed, stretched. ‘Are you tired, darling?’

‘No, Mummy, not a bit.’ Honour put the drawings on the floor beside her chair and lit a cigarette.

‘Still no sign of marriage?’ Faith asked.

‘No,’ said Honour, smiling.

‘Oh, well, it’s better to stay a spinster than to marry for the wrong reasons.’ This was said with a tongue-in-cheek demureness that made her daughter splutter into laughter.

‘I quite agree. Mummy.’

‘I suppose that means you’ll be going back to nursing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Prince Alfred again?’ Faith knew better than to ask if it was likely her daughter’s choice would fall on little Yass—Honour had always liked high-powered places of work.

‘No,’ said Honour, and paused, unwilling to go on.

‘Well, where then?’