But last week, a miracle had happened. Her mother had started to talk. Emma liked to think the change had been triggered by moving into this beautiful house. Mum was managing two-word sentences, speaking out of the side of her mouth, which made it hard for strangers, but Emma could understand her. Every word Mum uttered was like music to her ears, and proved beyond doubt that her mother’s mind was still sharp.
Mum pointed to the wall calendar. ‘Your birthday.’
Emma beamed. That’s right, next week was her birthday. She looked around with satisfaction at the sunny room filled with light. At the adjoining bathroom, the elegant furniture and the French doors opening onto a private garden. The rest of the house was equally as impressive. A big, modern kitchen that Elsie loved. A study that could double as a guest room, and a garage for her new car. Even a small conservatory, where Mum could grow flowers. And since last week, this house was Emma’s, the title in her name, and her name alone. Not bad for a single woman who hadn’t yet turned twenty-four.
Maybe she’d get a kitten for Mum, to sit on her lap and keep her company. Emma had desperately missed that animal connection over the last few years. The Beaumaris Zoo had closed shortly after Karma died, and she’d scarcely patted so much as a puppy since. It had been too painful.
‘Tomorrow I’ll help you bake me a cake.’ Emma kissed her mother. ‘Right now, I have to go to work.’
Mum frowned. ‘Work?’
‘You know. I’m a nurse, at the hospital.’
Mum opened her mouth to speak, but only managed a grunt, tongue exploring her lips, like it hadn’t felt them before. She looked slowly around the elegant room, and tried again. ‘All this?’
A shiver of shame passed through Emma. Pretending to be a nurse had seemed like the perfect foil; a respectable profession, loosely linked to her long ago ambition of being a doctor, and it explained why she was away at night. Jack and Tim had never questioned her story. It hadn’t occurred to Emma that her mother was not so gullible. Once Mum was finally well enough to ask questions, the lie might not be convincing. After all, how on earth could anyone afford this Battery Point sandstone terrace house on a nurse’s wage?
Emma forced a smile and kissed her mother again. ‘I won’t be back tonight. See you tomorrow.’
She didn’t have time to worry about it now. Tonight’s fashion show at Hampton Hall was an important one. A contingent of high-ranking navy personnel was in town to oversee delivery of three naval vessels, built on commission at Hobart’s shipyards, and Martha had pulled out all the stops. She always did where the military was concerned. ‘Those boys put their lives on the line for us every day. The least we can do is show them a little gratitude.’
Tasmania was a long way from the main war in the Pacific, and even farther from Europe, yet people still felt vulnerable to attack, especially after an enemy minefield was discovered near the Derwent River entrance, thirty miles south of the Fort Direction gun batteries. And once a submarine-launched Japanese spy plane was spotted by hundreds of people flying south along the east coast.
The sighting sent a quiver of fear through Tasmania. The plane was too high to fire upon, and no fighters were available to intercept it. After that, anti-aircraft guns were positioned on nearby hills, and the papers were full of the threat. They warned that the Japanese had their eye on Hobart’s harbour, one of the finest in the Pacific, and also on the Risdon Zinc Works. The plant produced half of the British Empire’s zinc, vital for the production of munitions.
Hampton Hall was an enthusiastic supporter of the war effort. Martha knitted warm socks and scarves for the troops, and encouraged the others to do the same. She donated to the Red Cross. Whenever the call went out for useful materials, Martha would hold scrap drives. Patrons would often arrive with contributions of aluminium, rubber, paper and iron. Martha devised an evacuation plan and insisted on regular drills, interrupting everyone’s business and prompting outrage from both the women and their clients.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Diana, as she shivered on the street one freezing Hobart night, wearing nothing but a negligee and high heels. ‘Can’t we go back inside? This is Hobart, not London.’
‘You’ll thank me when the bombers come,’ said Martha.
So it was little wonder that Martha showed a great deal of generosity to military men, offering discounts, splendid dinners and extra time with the women. Lieutenant or General, it didn’t matter. All officers were treated with the same degree of kindness and respect, although she drew the line at enlisted men, arguing they wouldn’t be able to afford the ladies of Hampton Hall anyway.
Emma arrived at work in plenty of time to pick up the Mercury on her way upstairs. After a shower, she lay on her bed with glue and a pair of scissors and went through the newspaper. Ever since Harry told her that Tom had joined the air force, she’d been keeping a scrap book. Stories about young Australian pilots serving in the RAF were popular, and she’d been able to roughly follow his progress.
After cutting his teeth at Dunkirk, Tom had received acclaim for becoming the first Aussie Ace in a Day, having downed five enemy aircraft on a single mission during the Battle of Britain. She scoured the papers for news, cutting out articles that mentioned Australian pilots and pasting them in her books. She had a whole stack of them tucked away in the top of her wardrobe. Most were filled with general news of the war, with one special book reserved only for news of Tom.
Giselle knocked on the door and came in without waiting for an invitation. ‘Pining after your handsome flyboy again?’ she said, as she noted the cut up bits of paper on the bed. ‘Don’t let Martha catch you. You know the rules.’
Emma jumped up in great excitement. ‘Listen to this, Gissy.’ She read, ‘Local RAF Pilot awarded DFC. Tasmanian born RAF fighter pilot Thomas Abbott has been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for leadership and outstanding courage during flying operations over Germany. He has been promoted to Wing Commander, one of the youngest officers to hold that position.’
A grainy black and white photograph accompanied the article. Tom posed in front of his Spitfire, half-smiling and sporting a moustache. He looked much older than his twenty-four years. He also looked extraordinarily dashing and handsome in his uniform, yet still recognisably the boy she’d known back at Campbell College.
‘Is that him? Let me see.’ Emma handed over the paper. Giselle whistled. ‘Now I know what all the fuss is about. No wonder you’re stuck on him.’
‘I’m not,’ said Emma, snatching back the paper. ‘He was a friend, that’s all. A long time ago.’
Giselle raised her perfectly plucked brows. ‘I’ll have him then. He’s a dish.’
‘You know the rules. None of us can have him,’ said Emma. ‘Gissy, does it ever bother you that we can’t, you know, have someone special, just for ourselves?’
‘Are you going soft? Don’t let Martha hear you talk like that. Anyway, what about Tony? He only has eyes for you, that one.’
It was true. When Tony was in town, he arrived like clockwork twice a week to whisk Emma away. He’d been doing it for years now, and they always went somewhere fabulous – Valentino’s Jazz Club, a play at the Theatre Royal or a fine restaurant – before heading back to his Sandy Bay apartment, specially purchased for such occasions. He never saw the other girls. Her relationship with Tony sometimes felt like being married, or at least what Emma imagined being married might feel like.
After five years she’d come to understand Tony, and in some ways he was her closest friend. They talked of art, politics and the meaning of life long into the night, and afterwards made love as passionately as on that first day. He kept her supplied with tea, sugar, butter and meat, so she and her mother never felt the bite of the ration card. He took her on fashion buying trips to Sydney and Melbourne, wonderful trips where he always found time to show her the galleries and zoos. He discussed his business problems, using her as a sounding board and valuing her advice.
Yes, Tony told her everythin
g – well nearly everything. He never talked about his personal life. Emma knew perfectly well that he had a wife and children living just around the corner from their apartment. The few times Emma asked about them, she’d been met with stony silence and a disapproving frown. Tony’s family was out of bounds. He had a whole other life, one that she was not privy to.
He often urged Emma to give up her work and become his full-time mistress. She had never been tempted. Tony might be special, but he wasn’t special enough. She wanted more than half a man, and anyway, she didn’t love him. In spite of everything, in spite of Martha and Hampton Hall and the number of men she’d known, deep down Emma still clung to a belief in romantic love. Still hoped for one person to share her life with, to love her the way her father had loved her mother. She still hoped for Tom.
Not in any realistic sense. Emma had long ago given up the idea of living a normal life, and in some ways she didn’t want to. She had plenty of money to care for her mother, a lavish lifestyle, and the kind of independence that was rare for a woman, especially one from a poor background. Her love for Tom was a fantasy, the way a little girl might think of becoming a princess and living in a fairy-tale castle with her very own Prince Charming. She didn’t really believe it would happen.
‘Can I borrow this rouge?’ asked Giselle, who was inspecting the makeup jars on Emma’s marble dressing table.
‘Go on,’ said Emma, packing away her scrap book of dreams. ‘And then clear out, will you? I have to get ready.’
* * *
At precisely six o’clock, Emma made her way to the dressing room on the ground floor. Vast open wardrobes held gowns and furs and shoes. Shelves groaned with hat boxes and jewellery cases. Martha was hovering as usual, choosing who would wear what, and helping the women into their clothes.
‘This is your first outfit.’ Martha draped a simple teal satin gown over Emma’s arm, bias-cut to accentuate her curves.
Emma groaned inwardly. The gown was gorgeous, and the colour suited her red hair and green eyes. Not much chance of being overlooked tonight.
* * *
A bunch of out-of-town naval officers would hardly be in the market for ladies’ couture, but Martha never skipped the fashion show. It lent a certain class to the evening, making clients feel their private arrangements were spontaneous dalliances with beautiful models, rather than paid sex.
The women were under no such illusions. Despite Martha’s lofty talk of courtesans and paramours, Emma had long ago stopped pretending she was anything other than a high-class prostitute. The only difference between her and the miserable creatures walking the red light district was that she made more money and lived a comfortable life.
Emma awaited her turn on the catwalk. She wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead, making small talk with strangers, and then letting one of them take her to bed. She hurried her first showing, refusing to smile or make eye contact with the men. If she was lucky, nobody would choose her and she’d be free to retreat upstairs alone and update her scrap book with the latest news about Tom.
Martha buttonholed her as soon as she was back in the dressing room, before she had a chance to change into her next gown. ‘A young gentleman noticed you immediately, Connie; wants you to meet him in the parlour for a drink. Handsome as the devil, he is too.’
A surge of irritation hit her. Why on earth did Martha think that would make any difference? Emma was sick of her pretending this place was something it wasn’t.
‘The fashion show isn’t finished—’
‘Never mind that.’ Martha patted her hand. ‘And leave the gown on, dear. It suits you so.’
Emma went to the parlour and glanced around. A man was sitting in the corner, smoking a cigarette. He wore a sharp suit, not a naval officer’s uniform. Emma stopped dead. Harry.
She turned and fled.
‘Wait.’ Harry chased after her, and ran into Kai at the base of the stairs.
Emma slipped past, chest heaving, heart hammering against her ribs. Half-way up the staircase she stopped and turned.
Six foot six Kai had Harry by the collar of his shirt. He tried to squirm free, but it was useless. Nobody got past Kai. ‘What you want me to do with him, Miss Connie?’
‘Show the gentleman out, please.’
‘I’ll come back,’ yelled Harry. ‘Every night until you see me. If they won’t let me in I’ll wait outside. Please Emma. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk.’
Music was playing in the ballroom, meaning the fashion show was still in full swing. She hoped the band had drowned out the shouting. Emma fled upstairs to her room and slammed the door behind her. She went to the window and looked down to the street. There was Harry, leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette, looking up at the house. Swiftly she pulled the curtain.
Emma poured herself a big glass of port from the cut-glass decanter on the table. She had to calm down, get some perspective on what had just happened. Why had she over-reacted like that? So Harry knew where she worked. That wasn’t the end of the world, was it?
But a clawing fear crept up her back and gripped her by the throat. Her old and new life had collided tonight, right there in the downstairs parlour. No good could come of that.
* * *
Harry was true to his word. Each night he was there outside Hampton Hall, always bearing some gift: a card, a book, flowers from somebody’s garden; even chocolates, although how he found them during rationing was a mystery. Kai was forever chasing him away from the door, and she had to be careful that he didn’t follow her home.
Martha was not happy. ‘It lowers the tone of Hampton Hall, having that young man hanging about like a lovesick schoolboy. You know the rules, Constance. Don’t fall in love.’
‘I’m not in love,’ she protested. ‘I can’t help it if someone has a crush on me, but I assure you, it’s completely one-sided.’
The other women, however, found Harry and his devotion charming. It annoyed Emma no end. They accepted his gifts on her behalf. They took him hot drinks and offerings from the table, like he was a pet or something.
‘Harry’s there again,’ said Giselle one evening as they were getting ready for the show. ‘Standing in the rain.’
They both looked out the window. As they watched, Diana took Harry a pink umbrella to protect him from the downpour. ‘Have pity on the poor boy,’ urged Giselle. ‘He’s not so bad. He just wants to talk.’
‘And you believe that?’ Emma shimmied into her strapless gown of burgundy taffeta and frowned. Martha should have known better. The colour washed out her face, and the dress was too tight. She struggled with the side zipper, and it broke. ‘Damn.’
‘You know what?’ said Giselle, still staring out the window. ‘He looks a bit like that flyboy of yours.’
‘Harry is Tom’s brother.’ Emma searched through the racks for another gown. ‘They’re twins.’
‘Twins?’ Giselle tutted loudly and shook her head. ‘Fooling round with brothers? Connie, darling, has anyone told you you’re playing with fire?’
Argh! It was maddening how everybody jumped to conclusions. ‘I keep telling you, there’s no fooling around. Tom’s been in England since before the war, and I haven’t seen Harry for years. Not until now.’
Giselle fixed her lipstick in the mirror. ‘I think Martha could kick you out twice for falling in love with twins.’
‘I’m not in love. You’re talking nonsense.’
‘So explain to me why one brother is waiting for you out in the pouring rain, and the top shelf of your wardrobe is a shrine to the other?’
‘Shut up, Gissy.’ Emma plucked a plain, blue velvet cocktail dress from its hanger and slipped it on.
The corners of Giselle’s mouth turned up in a mocking smile. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
Emma rounded on her, shouting. ‘I said shut up!’
Martha came into the room, looking suitably shocked. ‘Girls, please. Whatever’s going on here?’ Giselle
giggled and nodded towards the window. Martha peered out to the street below and scowled. ‘I see. Constance, come with me, and why ever are you wearing that dress?’
A sullen Emma followed Martha to a private dressing room. ‘Put a coat on, go out there, and speak to the boy. I don’t care what you say to him, or how long it takes, but he must never come hanging around Hampton Hall again. Do you understand me?’ There was a hard-steel edge to her voice that Emma had rarely heard before.
‘Yes, Martha.’
‘And if I discover you’ve been conducting some sort of illicit liaison behind my back—’ Martha looked as outraged as a vicar finding his virginal daughter kissing a boy behind the alter. ‘Well, in that case you’ll need to find yourself another position.’
‘That won’t happen.’
She patted Emma’s hand, and the old Martha was back. ‘I’m extremely fond of you, dear, and would hate to lose you. Now, go and sort out your young man, eh? Will I send Kai with you?’ Emma shook her head. ‘Very well. You’re excused from tonight’s festivities until this is sorted. Don’t let me down.’
Emma was getting a headache. What on earth was she going to say to Harry? She went upstairs to fetch her coat, thinking furiously. Harry was an unknown quantity, an undeniable threat, and Martha was right. She had to deal with him.
She’d had a couple of weeks now to come to terms with the fact that Harry knew what she did for a living. She’d been shell-shocked at first, sleepwalking through her days. Lying in bed at night, trying to imagine what Harry was thinking, and knowing that the truth would be far more salacious.
Embarrassing, certainly. Hurtful. Devastating even, but more devastating still if Harry decided to tell his brother. Emma’s skin goose-bumped. The idea of Tom knowing that she sold herself to men for a living filled her with shame and dread. It would be almost as bad as her mother knowing. Perhaps Giselle had done her a favour, forcing this matter, bringing it to a head. Tonight she’d resolve the problem of Harry, one way or another, although right now she had no idea how that might happen.
The Lost Valley Page 17
