Kirsty ignored the imminent arrival of the curator. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I was just wondering if it was time to give you some tough love, pet.’
She braced herself and tried not to wonder how much diesel she had in her fuel tank; how bad it would be to abandon an eightyyear-old woman outside a military donger on the outskirts of Brisbane if she truly was her mother’s daughter and decided to run instead of listen.
‘Go on then.’
‘We’re about to go inside a museum which is dedicated to a war. Terrible things happen in war, Kirsty, but we don’t shut them away and not think about it … instead we find the moments of bravery. We honour the people. If we concentrated on just the terrible things, we’d all want to run away, but we don’t. Maybe this is really what Mary Alice Bluett bequeathed you, Kirsty. This is your time to learn that the past should be remembered, no matter how difficult.’
A man with wispy hair and a face damaged by the sun was making his way towards them. He was younger than Carol but still a fair age, and his old-fashioned trousers bore the creases of a ruthlessly applied iron.
Maybe Old Bill had looked like this in his later years. Neat, upright, as though the uniform he’d once worn was still part of him. Proud.
How wonderful would it be ifshecould feel proud one day.
If Carol was right, she’d taken the first step: she was looking into her past, and she was going to keep looking even though she knew it was going to be difficult.
As to the rest … as for Farmer Joe … Well. She didn’t have to solve every drama going on in her life right this second, did she?
‘Welcome to the Wacol Military Museum,’ said the man, a smile on his face and a large bunch of keys jangling in one hand. ‘Come inside and let me show you what Bill Bluett’s life would have been like in New Guinea in 1942.’