Page 43 of Sisters Under The Rising Sun

‘I think we should start a newspaper,’ Margaret announces. ‘Something we can put together and distribute to everyone. One of the houses has a typewriter and some paper. As well as sharing news, we can highlight birthdays.’

‘There’s enough of us, can’t we do the newspaper and a concert?’ Norah suggests.

‘We can,’ Margaret says. ‘And Norah and Ena, you must be on the music committee. Your knowledge and your lovely voices have to be heard.’

‘What about me, can I sing too?’ June asks, glancing between Ena and Margaret.

‘Of course you can, little one; we will find a special role just for you,’ Margaret tells her.

On their way home, June runs ahead to play with her friends.

‘I’m worried about June,’ Ena says.

‘Really? She seems fine to me.’ Norah is watching June with her friends as they play tag.

‘She hasn’t mentioned her mother for several weeks,’ Ena continues. ‘She used to ask me about ten times a day if I thought her mother would come soon, but earlier today she called memummy.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing.’ Ena looks stricken. ‘I didn’t know what to say. I just gave her a hug.’

Norah’s heart goes out to both Ena and to little June. Their bond has become so strong, but her mother could be out there somewhere, missing her daughter and desperate to know what has become of her. A picture of Sally leaps into Norah’s mind, and a lump forms in her throat. But she pushes it down – her sister needs her advice. ‘Do you want me to say something to her?’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, perhaps something like, Aunty Ena and I are so happy you are going to be part of the concert. If you tell us a favourite song of your mummy and daddy’s, we could all sing it for them.’

Ena nods her head. ‘So, you think if you mention me as aunty and her parents in the same sentence, she will get the message?’

‘Can’t hurt, and every chance I get, I’ll refer to you as Aunty Ena.’ Norah squeezes Ena’s arm.

Ena wraps her arms around her sister. ‘I knew you’d have an answer.’

A week later, the first edition of theCamp Chronicleis released. It is agreed only two copies will be produced; there is not enough paper for more, especially if they want to carry on. The paper will be passed from house to house, with a request for content and ideas placed on the first of the eighteen pages. One of the women has put her drawing skills to use and produced a masthead. Barbed wire circles the name of the paper.

In their house, Margaret holds up one of the two inaugural copies, flicking through the pages. She reads aloud several of the headlines.

‘Making Soup out of Fish Heads – A Recipe. Mmm, sounds yummy. All we need are fish heads. The Dutch System of Childcare. Oh, I see this is part one of a three-part series. Now, who came up with the idea of a gossip column, I wonder?’

Margaret looks at the women on the newspaper committee. They are smiling and slowly turning to look at Betty.

‘I might have known,’ Margaret says. ‘The title has given you away,Miss Know-All’s Diary.I can see this column only getting longer.’

‘You haven’t mentioned the headline on the front page,’ Norah says.

Margaret reads aloud.

‘“At the Sunday Service the Choir Will Be Performing a Special Hymn”.’ Margaret beams at the women. ‘Thank you for the mention. It will be a momentous day when we sing the hymn for the first time. I may have written the words, but it will take on new meaning, thanks to the beautiful music written by Norah. Thank you, dear friend.’

‘It was a privilege to score your words – words that will rise to the heavens on Sunday, words that will give us all strength and hope. And I know what we should call it.’ Norah is grinning broadly. ‘“The Captives’ Hymn”!’

And, as one, the women chant, ‘“The Captives’ Hymn”!’

‘Have you seen how many people are here?’ a nervous Norah asks the choir as she watches the women and children making their way to The Shed long before the service is due to start. Very soon, the small space is filled, and people spill out across the modest front lawn onto the street.

‘I have. I had to push my way past everyone to get inside,’ Betty says.

‘It’s going to be like singing at St Paul’s,’ another quips, reducing all of them to howls of laughter.