A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  I spooned consommé into my mouth and didn’t answer. The last thing I wanted was for him to realise how much it affected me, just sitting so close to him.

  ‘Your husband . . .’ His query faded away as I didn’t respond.

  I knew my expression was wooden and my jaw was stiff. I looked down at my soup and thought that this was exactly why I didn’t like going out with men I didn’t know. Explanations.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me anything, Stella.’

  I swallowed, took a breath and said the minimum. ‘We weren’t . . . suited.’

  The bread that accompanied my soup was warm and crusty and I busied myself tearing it to pieces. Eric ate his spaghetti. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘So, tell me about Perth,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Not much to say. It’s a good place to live. Nice climate, great beaches, not too big.’

  ‘I work with a girl from WA. Sometimes I think you, er, sandgropers consider your state an entirely separate country.’

  He seemed to be considering seriously what I’d said. ‘We feel very isolated sometimes. We’re a long way from the rest of Australia, and this talk about the Brisbane Line caused a lot of alarm.’

  ‘I doubt they’d have left Western Australia in the lurch, or North Queensland or the Northern Territory,’ I said.

  Eric’s smile was mocking. ‘West Australians don’t really trust t’othersiders to look after them.’

  ‘If they had brought in the Brisbane plan, what would you have done?’

  ‘Gone back to Perth. Fought the Japanese.’

  ‘Deserted from the army?’ I was shocked.

  His look chilled me. ‘My parents are there. My friends. It’s my home.’

  I wondered if he had a girl waiting for him there.

  His face softened and he shrugged. ‘Anyway, they’ve abandoned the idea – if it ever existed. Perth’s safe. And MacArthur’s island-hopping strategy seems to be doing the trick.’

  ‘Prime Minister Curtin is from Western Australia.’

  ‘My house is just around the corner from John Curtin’s place,’ he said, as the waiter removed our plates.

  ‘Your house?’

  ‘It’s just up from Cottesloe Beach. That’s such a beautiful beach. White sand, pine trees, clear water. You’d love it.’

  I squirmed a little in my seat. ‘I love the beaches here in Australia, but I can’t swim.’

  ‘I’ll have to teach you.’ He smiled at me again and my whole body seemed to tingle as I imagined the scene. I looked down at the table, hoping none of this showed in my eyes.

  The waiter put our steaks in front of us, and spooned French beans and potatoes onto our plates. He made a show of opening the bottle of ruby-coloured wine and giving it to Eric to taste. Eric pronounced it good, and it was poured into fresh glasses. The waiter left us to our meal.

  ‘What’s your house like?’

  ‘I built it four years ago to my own design. It’s got some nice features. My parents are living there now, to look after it, and we’ve rented out their house to some American airmen.’

  I laughed. ‘So you’re willing to take money from the Americans.’

  ‘I bought the block in 1938, when I got engaged.’ There was no expression at all in his voice; he sounded as if he was talking about the weather. The meal had been delicious until then. Now it tasted like cardboard in my mouth.

  ‘Oh?’ I said.

  ‘She chucked me over.’ He paused only for a second. ‘It was a beaut block, so I built on it anyway.’

  I busied myself cutting my steak, before tackling the subject again.

  ‘Um, it must have been difficult. Building your dream home just for yourself.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d joined an architectural firm by then and it was a good way to show off my design skills.’

  ‘Oh,’ I repeated, shoving meat into my mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing. ‘Did she ever see the house – your former fiancée?’

  ‘No. We haven’t spoken since she returned the ring. Building the house was a sensible move, actually, because I got a few commissions out of it.’

  ‘Oh? That’s good,’ I said. I took a breath and marched in. ‘Why did she . . .’

  ‘She chucked me over for my best friend.’ Once again, his voice was entirely expressionless. He played with his steak. ‘When Japan entered the war I didn’t wait to be conscripted, I joined up with a couple of friends in early ’42.’ There was a slight smile. ‘They were both commissioned, but I didn’t want to be an officer.’ His smile widened. ‘It’d be nice to have a batman, though. They really mollycoddle their officers.’

  ‘Um, how long were you engaged?’

  ‘We’d been keeping company for a while, but we’d only been engaged for a couple of months. My mate had spent a few years studying in Melbourne; he came over for a visit and she fell hard. She said it wasn’t fair on me to stay engaged when she –’

  ‘So she destroyed a friendship, too.’ I was incensed.

  ‘No.’ He made a small sound; it was like a laugh, but his eyes had no humour in them. ‘He and I, we’re still friends – on and off.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of your friend.’

  ‘It’s Nick. Lieutenant Ross.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, dumbfounded. Nick Ross?

  ‘We were at school together, along with a fellow called Rob Sinclair. He’s a lieutenant, like Nick. He’s over here in Melbourne too.’

  ‘So Nick Ross and she didn’t . . .’

  ‘Marry? No. He dropped her soon after and she left Perth with a broken heart.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘I pity any woman Nick marries.’

  ‘Are you sure you two are friends?’

  He smiled, but didn’t answer.

  The conversation turned to less contentious subjects and the longer I spent with Eric Lund, the more I liked him. When we’d finished dinner and the waiter had removed the plates, Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook.

  ‘Will you write to me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Eric turned to a blank page to scribble something, tore out the page and handed it to me. When I glanced down I saw that he’d written his name, battalion and army identification number. Enough information to properly address an envelope so that it would reach him.

  He made a small, resigned sound. ‘I might find it hard to reply.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  How do you say goodbye to a man you hardly know, but who has, so quickly, made your heart beat faster, your breath catch and your body thrill? What do you say when you know he’s going into danger that you can scarcely comprehend? As we turned into Swanston Street and walked towards my tram stop, I wondered what I’d do if he asked if he could come back to my flat for the night. So many girls nowadays were heading straight to bed with men they barely knew, because they were well aware that those men might never return.

  The past seven years had changed me from the reckless girl who’d so enjoyed herself in Paris. That girl would have raced headlong into a whirlwind affair. She would have said that love was life and in times of peril all one could do was to live life to the utmost. I was no shrinking virgin, but I was wary, now. What I feared was coming to care deeply for a violent man, and Eric was a soldier who’d been trained to use violence. Lieutenant Ross had said Eric could be brutal. I wanted to take things slowly, really get to know the man beside me – but what if he never came back? What if this was the last time I saw him? Would missed opportunities haunt me forever?

  We rode the tram together, sitting close. I felt the heat of his shoulder, his arm, his hip as each jolt of the car pushed us together. If he was American he would have held my hand, put an arm around me, marked his territory. But Eric was Australian, and displays of public affection were frowned upon in this count
ry. So the tram ride home thrummed with unexpressed desires and fears. I wondered if his heart was beating a tattoo as mine was, if his mouth was as dry and his mind as muddled.

  And all the time a little voice in my mind was telling me it was unwise to feel too much for a soldier, it was wrong to feel too happy when the world was at war. That in a time of such uncertainty it was a short journey from joy to despair. And the nastiest little voice of all was a mosquito whine in my brain: Remember how you felt about Frank at the start, and remember how that turned out.

  As we made our way along Toorak Road in the darkness, he reached for my gloved hand and I let him hold it tightly. We got to the front door into Avoca, and he pulled me close. I tilted up my head for a kiss. Some men kiss as if they’re claiming a right, but not Eric. He was tentative, accepting what I wanted to offer, not asking for more. His lips were soft, and I was trembling when we broke apart.

  ‘I’d always thought that I didn’t want a girl waiting for me back in Australia,’ he said, his voice low and slightly rough. ‘Because then I’d spend my time worrying, rather than concentrating on the job at hand. Will she want me when I get back? Has she run off with a Yank or a bludger who’s stayed safe at home? Will she cry if –’

  ‘It’s hard for the women, too,’ I said. ‘Waiting. Worrying.’

  He was still holding me, keeping me warm in the loose circle of his arms. It felt good. Too good. I gathered my strength.

  ‘I’m not looking for . . .’ I paused, wondering what to tell him.

  He laughed, very softly. ‘I’ve discovered that, sometimes, what you’re not looking for is exactly what you really need.’

  Hesitantly, I said, ‘Would you like to come up?’

  He became very still and I tensed.

  ‘I won’t come up,’ he said. ‘But, if I come back, I’d like to see you again, Stella.’

  I moved quickly, without thinking, wrapping my good arm around him under his greatcoat, and ignoring the pain in my left wrist to hold him in a fierce hug. I pressed my cheek against the scratchy wool of his jacket, and felt the hard warmth of his chest beneath. The scent of wet wool was almost overpowering and I knew that never again would I associate it with Frank. From then on the scent of wet wool would always remind me of the night I held Eric Lund close in the darkness, wishing I never had to let him go.

  ‘When you come back,’ I said, ‘I’d like to see you, too.’

  His grip tightened, and then he released me. I stepped away from him so that we weren’t touching any longer.

  ‘So, I’ll give you a call when I get back to town,’ he said, in that light voice that I knew now was one of his shields against the world.

  ‘Keep safe,’ I said, and felt like an idiot for saying it when I saw his grimace.

  Rain began to fall, spotting the wool of his greatcoat. He pushed me towards the front door, waited while I unlocked it, and only then did he turn away. I stood in the doorway and watched him walk the short distance to the footpath. At the gate he turned and waved, before heading back towards Park Street and the trams.

  I climbed the stairs to the flat trying not to think, trying to keep myself numb, safe from the wash of emotion that threatened to engulf me.

  Dolly was in the lounge room with an American officer. She waved at me as I walked in, and quickly turned back to her guest.

  I went straight to bed. As I lay there, shivering, waiting for the sheets to become warmer, I began to cry. Stop that now, Stella, I told myself. There’s no point in getting maudlin. He’ll come back or not and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

  Nine

  Dolly’s thirtieth-birthday cocktail party was at the Oriental Hotel in Collins Street, two days later. She’d invited around fifty ‘close friends’ – Australian and American officers, school friends, society friends and a few workmates from APLO. Stanford had arranged to meet all the expenses. He’d also sent her an emerald bracelet. Every so often she’d lift her hand and shake the bracelet so that it caught the light and sparkled with green fire as she greeted guests, danced, raised her champagne glass or brushed the cloud of pale hair out of her eyes.

  Against regulations, Dolly was out of uniform, wearing the evening gown in sea-green silk that she’d bought at La Petite, and it clung to her curves. By ten thirty, she was in a state of tipsy abandonment, and obviously enjoying her party enormously. It had got to the stage where people were starting to lose their inhibitions and I was glad that Captain Deacon and his wife had already left. I hadn’t seen Lieutenant Ross at supper and wondered if he’d come.

  I wasn’t enjoying the party. As I’d only known Dolly for six weeks, most of the people there were virtual strangers to me. I felt edgy and restless; I was thinking about Eric. Every so often I’d become angry at myself for caring about him at all after such a short acquaintance and then I’d fall into a morose sort of daydream where I imagined how I’d feel when I found out that he’d been killed in action.

  I’d already written him a letter, but I hadn’t sent it yet. Despite my promise at the door two nights before, I hesitated to post it, wondering if it was wise to start corresponding with him, get in deeper with the man. Once we started writing, telling each other about our lives, our hopes and fears and dreams for the future, then there would be some substance to whatever it was between us. Once we started writing, expectations would be raised.

  I couldn’t help remembering that Irene Hicks had been writing to Mike. A couple of months ago the letters stopped coming. I imagined how, at first, she’d told herself that the mail was irregular, that one of his letters had been lost. Only, when more weeks went by without a word, doubts would come. He’d met another girl; he hadn’t been as serious about her as his letters had made out. But deep down, she’d have known the truth. Eric’s visit would have only confirmed what she’d known all along: that Mike was dead.

  Could I bear it?

  I took another swig of my champagne and looked blearily around me. We were in a large private room, like a small ballroom. We had all the champagne, spirits and beer we could drink. The buffet table was laden with food that Stanford must have arranged to be delivered from the American PX, because it included luxury items in quantities that few Australians had seen in three years: roast beef, potatoes, ham, eggs, nuts, fruit, chocolates, even caviar on buttered toast points. Major Stanford Randall was well connected indeed.

  The room was filled with people, some in evening dress and others in uniform, like I was. A phonograph was playing popular numbers: I’d been tapping my feet to ‘Ole Buttermilk Sky’, ‘I Left My Heart at the Stage Door Canteen’, ‘Tumbling Tumbleweeds’ and ‘The Anniversary Waltz’. Couples danced in an area across from me and the music competed with the sound of laughter and conversation and clinking glasses. I couldn’t dance because my hand was still in a delicate state, so I stood by the windows, drank champagne, watched the merriment and thought about Eric. At my request a window had been opened, because most of the crowd were smokers and the heated atmosphere was heavy with a fog of cigarette and pipe smoke and perfume. Unfortunately, because of the brownout, the blinds were still drawn and not much fresh air managed to get in. The brownout was to be lifted the following Monday, but until then it was still strictly enforced.

  ‘May I join you?’

  I looked up to see an AIF lieutenant standing next to me. He was on the thin side with high cheekbones that were flushed a deep red, two blotches of vermillion, startling in such a pale face. Dark hair, carefully arranged, beautifully manicured hands, the subtle scent of cologne and keen grey eyes completed the picture. ‘I’m not in the mood for dancing,’ he went on, ‘and you look as if you’re out of action. Would you care for some company?’

  He seemed like he’d be good company, but I strongly suspected I wasn’t his type, that no woman would be his type.

  I smiled politely. ‘Please join me. I’m Stella Aldridge.’
>
  I also suspected that he’d never fought overseas, despite his uniform. He was too pale, and seemed too effete to have seen service. He was the antithesis of a man like Eric.

  ‘I’d guessed you were Stella Aldridge. I’m Allan Tuck, but I’m generally known just as Tuck.’

  I sat down and he sat next to me in a graceful movement.

  ‘I hear that you share a nest with darling Dolly. Isn’t she a love to put on a show like this?’

  ‘I think it’s all courtesy of her friend Major Randall,’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

  His eyebrows rose and his smile could only be described as innocently malicious. ‘Dear Stanford. Rich as Croesus, eighteen years her senior and utterly besotted with Dolly. She’s done very well for herself. Very well indeed.’ He leaned in a little. ‘So, Stella, tell me all. What’s it like to live with our girl? Exhausting, I should think.’

  My answering smile was brisk and no nonsense. ‘Delightful. She’s a wonderful flatmate.’

  ‘I hear she likes to party. Especially with Americans.’

  ‘Americans are such good fun, aren’t they?’ I said. ‘I’ve got an American friend – an army captain. I do hope that people haven’t seen Leroy coming to visit me and got the wrong idea about Dolly.’

  I wondered if he was gathering information for Stanford. I really needed to speak with Dolly about being more circumspect in her romances.

  Lieutenant Tuck looked at me for a long few seconds and then smiled. ‘Discreet. No wonder she chose you. They were on at her for months to find someone to share with, but she kept hanging out for the “right” person. I hear that you were a Sydney artist before . . . all this.’

  ‘Yes, I was for a while.’

  ‘I like artists. They’re so . . . artistic. Dolly’s a great friend of mine, you know.’

  I wondered why, if he was such a great friend of Dolly’s, I’d never met Lieutenant Tuck before. He must have seen something in my eyes, because there was a glimmer of chagrin in his expression as he met my gaze.