Blueholm Bay—July 1942
‘Emma!’
‘Coming, Mum!’ Pulling a cotton headscarf from the pocket of her shorts, Emma Hatton twisted it, wound the band around her head and knotted it at the top. She liked to think its bright yellow complemented her thick chestnut hair without overwhelming the paleness of her skin—an oddity, because her eyes were as brown as a nut too. But at least she didn’t have freckles. Dad said she looked just like his mother and he told everyone she’d been a bonza-looking woman.
A horse neighing and women’s chatter out on the street caught her attention. She threw open the frayed lace curtains of her bedroom window and studied her small town with a sigh. How she had got to fifteen without understanding that what she’d been waiting for all her life was the chance to use every scrap of her youthful energy and hope was a mystery. One day, she’d get out of Blueholm Bay and never come back. She’d see the world. She’d ride on trains, sail in ships and fly in aeroplanes all the way to Europe, or even America. She’d be free as a bird, not tethered to anything. Not the washing, nor the cooking. Not the cream and butter making. Not her brothers, nor her mother. Although she’d miss Dad.
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