A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  I unlocked the door and let her into the room. I’d locked the files away before I left for lunch and the room was bare and uninteresting. Mary managed to get inside before she collapsed into a chair and began to sob.

  ‘I really love Jim. Why doesn’t he love me?’

  The unanswerable question. I think of him all the time, how can he not know that? How can he not share my feelings? How can I feel so much if he feels nothing?

  ‘All the nuns at school told us was how to keep boys away, not how to attract them,’ she said. ‘Girls are sleeping with soldiers all the time now. There’s no time to think about it.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your mother about any of this?’

  Now even her ears were red. She seemed to shrink away from me. ‘I couldn’t talk to Mum. She never even thinks about things like that.’

  My voice was dry. ‘How many children in your family?’

  ‘Nine. I’m the second youngest.’ The face that was gazing at me had not a trace of irony in its expression.

  I tried my best. ‘It’s a big decision, to sleep with someone. What if it doesn’t work out with Jim? You’ll have to explain to the man you do want to marry that you’ve already been to bed with someone. That might really affect your marriage, or he might cry off entirely when he finds out you’re not a virgin.’

  She winced at the word. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘No. But it’s the way it is with a lot of men.’

  Frank had said that he didn’t mind me not being ‘untouched’, as he put it. He’d said that I was perfect just as I was, and my experiences before I’d met him had helped to make me that way.

  He’d lied. Not long after we married, the relentless questioning began. I had no weapons to use against the barrage. Eventually I capitulated.

  ‘Oh, Frank, his name was Jacques Bloch. He was a painter.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Yes. Well, his parents were Polish.’

  ‘He was Jewish?’

  ‘Yes. Well, he didn’t practise.’

  ‘Your lover was a dirty Polish Jew?’

  I’d wanted to respond that my first lover was a Polish Jew, a wonderful artist and a generous, gentle lover. My second lover had been entirely French, and it was from him that I’d learned about passion and technique. I’d stayed silent.

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘You were only eighteen. The sodding bastard seduced you.’

  I wanted to respond that Jacques had never promised me anything, and I’d taken what he’d given me with joy and gratitude. I’d stayed silent.

  ‘It’s a good thing I’m so forgiving. Not many men would accept a wife with a past like yours, you know.’

  He’d lied again; Frank wasn’t in the least forgiving.

  Mary was staring at me, red-eyed and puffy-faced.

  I sighed. She needed to know all the pitfalls. ‘Do you remember what happened to Alice Doyle?’

  Mary squirmed in her chair. ‘She got into trouble, didn’t she? She was there at camp one day and gone the next. Without any word. Just gone.’

  ‘They throw you out of AWAS immediately with a dishonourable discharge if you get pregnant.’

  She winced at that word, too. ‘Poor Alice,’ she whispered.

  I still wrote to Alice. She’d had the baby – a little girl – at an unmarried mother’s home, and had put it up for adoption. Now she was working in a munitions factory in Sydney and hating every minute of it.

  ‘You and Faye have been friends since camp. Good friends. Remember how happy you were when she was posted here? It’d be a shame to lose a friendship like that over a man.’

  She bared her teeth in a wry grimace. ‘I don’t really hate Faye. I just wish Jim liked me instead. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong –’

  There was a knock at the door and Ross entered the room, carrying a folder. When he saw Mary, saw her reddened eyes and puffy face, he gave a visible start, but recovered quickly.

  Mary shot out of her chair to stand to attention.

  He laughed. ‘No. Please sit, keep on eating. I thought Sergeant Aldridge was alone.’ He looked at me. ‘I’ll see you after lunch, Sergeant.’

  Mary stood absolutely still for a moment after he’d gone, staring at the closed door. When she turned to me, her face had softened. She raised a hand to her cheek, and gently stroked along her jawline.

  ‘Gosh, he’s so handsome,’ she said. ‘Even more handsome than Lieutenant Cole. We don’t see him much downstairs. How do you manage to work with him? I’d just want to stare at him all the time.’ The tip of a pink tongue emerged to lick her lips. ‘What’s he like to work with?’

  ‘Annoying.’

  Her face fell. ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’

  She smiled. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘He’s got lots. And he’s an officer. So forget about him.’

  Mary made a sound like a soft snort. ‘A girl can dream.’

  I smiled. ‘What about Private Pope?’

  She grinned. ‘Actually, Jim’s really freckly, isn’t he? He thinks he’s the bee’s knees, but compared with Lieutenant Ross . . .’ There was a quick glance at me to gauge my reaction. ‘Only joking.’

  I said nothing. There was no way that Nick Ross would seduce Mary Massey, and I’d rather she wasted her time on a fruitless crush on him than offer herself to Jim Pope or Sam de Groot.

  *

  Ross came into my office half an hour later. ‘Why was that little corporal crying?’

  ‘Jim Pope’s going out with Faye Thompson. No one seems to follow the rules against fraternisation. Mary wanted a shoulder and I offered mine.’

  He pressed his lips together to hide a smile and sat in the chair Mary had vacated. ‘You’re a regular Aunt Jenny, aren’t you?’

  ‘Aunt Jenny?’

  ‘She has an advice column in the Marvel, or she did in the twenties, when I was a lad. Advice to the lovelorn. “Dear Aunt Jenny: What can I do with my marriage? It’s dull, boring and not at all as I expected it to be. Signed, Bored Wife.” “Dear Bored Wife: Get a lover, quick.” ’

  ‘Ha ha.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘The Marvel?’

  ‘It’s a rather salacious journal from Perth. We used to read it cover to cover at school, by torchlight, after lights-out. It printed the divorce court scandals and it formed the basis for our sex education.’

  ‘You and Eric?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  Ross put the folder he was carrying on my desk. ‘I’d like you to look at this. I warn you, it’s heavy going. He has some interesting things to say about the Hollandia mission from last year. I’ve been comparing it to the information from prisoner 543.’

  He left me alone to read it, and he was right. It was heavy going, full of diatribes and hatred for the Allies, especially the Americans. Worse, it was clear where the inducement to talk had been physical and not mental. There were gaps, after which the prisoner said just a little more than he’d been willing to divulge before. I didn’t like to think what had been done to him in the meantime. No record had been made as to who had conducted the interview or even how many were present. I wondered if this was one of Ross’s interviews. I hoped not. I liked to think his interrogation methods were purely psychological.

  They give me carte blanche. Don’t care what I do, so long as I get results.

  I was jolted out of my reverie by a tentative knock at the door and I glanced at my watch. Just after four o’clock. We had afternoon tea at four o’clock each day.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Faye. It’s teatime. Can I see you about something?

  ‘Just a mo.’ I put the files into my top drawer and locked it. ‘Come in.’

  Faye opened the door and sl
ouched into the room.

  ‘I’ve got the blooming pip,’ she said, dropping her long body into the chair in front of me and tilting her head back to scowl at the ceiling. ‘Mary hates me and I was put on report for getting into lodgings after hours last night.’ Her shoulders lifted then fell as she sighed loudly. ‘I wish you were still with us in the drawing room. Sergeant Ayers is a miserable bloody sod.’

  I risked a smile. ‘You have got the pip, haven’t you? Cheer up. I hear you’ve won a heart.’

  She was still regarding the ceiling but I saw the corner of her mouth curl up. ‘Yeah. There is that.’

  The chair thumped as she straightened up to look at me. Her smile widened. ‘He’s beaut. We’re having a grand time. You know, Stella, the Yanks are all lovey-dovey and shower you with all these flowers and presents and say stupid things like, “I’ll call you Bubbles because your eyes are always bubbling with excitement,” or, “Heaven must be missing an angel, honey, ’cos here you are with me.” Ugh.’ She screwed up her face into an expression of distaste. ‘I’m a dinky-di Australian patriot. I only want to go out with Aussie men.’ Her expression softened. ‘Actually, I only want to go out with Jim.’

  ‘Good show, Faye. I like Jim, too.’

  Her smile faded. ‘Only, Mary is really upset about it. He doesn’t fancy her at all, you know. He likes her, but doesn’t fancy her.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a flamin’ cow.’

  ‘I know. She’ll get over it.’

  Faye’s face was wistful. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘You’re AWAS girls. You never ever quarrel and never disagree, remember? Not over a man, anyway!’

  Faye laughed. ‘Too right. Wise words, my friend. Wanna come for a drink with us tonight? A friend’s just been posted over from the west and she’s great fun.’

  ‘I can’t, not tonight.’

  ‘Next Saturday? Sally Bourke is throwing a party at her parents’ house in Kew.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it!’

  Lieutenant Ross came in as Faye was leaving. I thought that at this rate I’d need a revolving door put in.

  ‘Another lonely heart?’ He gestured towards my empty desk. ‘Where are those files I left earlier? I’d like your impressions of them. That is, if you’ve had time to consider them in between impersonating Aunt Jenny.’

  I unlocked the drawer, pulled them out and laid them on the desk.

  ‘Perhaps I should come to you for advice myself,’ he said. ‘My luck in love has been woeful lately.’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ I replied tartly. ‘And I doubt you’d listen to anything I’d have to say on the subject.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘It might be about to change.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My luck in love.’

  I opened the folders. ‘You said you wanted to discuss these?’

  To my relief he settled into a discussion of the files and there was no further mention of personal matters.

  As I walked home that afternoon, I wondered if Ross had been referring to Violet Smith when he talked about his luck in love changing. Although I would be pleased to see Violet extricate herself from Lieutenant Cole, I felt a little guilty about pushing her towards Ross. Cole was undoubtedly a brutal man, but I suspected that Nick Ross was a cold one. I didn’t think Ross was lacking in passion and I felt sure that he’d never be violent, but I thought he was a man who’d see a love affair as a game, one to be played strictly by his rules. I hoped that Violet wasn’t heading from the frying pan into the fire.

  Ross wanted to be lucky in love. Didn’t we all? He’d told me once that Eric never had any luck with women. Well, I thought, maybe when Eric returned he’d find his luck had changed. I’d written three letters to Eric already, which was slightly embarrassing, but I had so much I wanted to tell him. It was surprising just how much I wanted to share my feelings with Eric, surprising how easy it was to write to him. When I wrote I imagined his face, that brilliant smile as he laughed at one of my little sketches, or at the stories I’d recounted. I’d had no reply from him yet, of course. If it took a day to fly to wherever he was going, and a further day to be dropped into enemy territory, he’d been in danger now for nine days. I wondered how long his mission was supposed to last, when he’d be back.

  Like the rest of Australia, I checked the casualty lists regularly. So far the name Eric Lund had not appeared, but I well knew that a name never made it into the official lists until weeks, or even months, after the man had been injured or killed. I was conscious of a vague worry that never really left me and I found myself thinking about him at odd times – when I was drifting off to sleep, or dancing, or when I looked up at the lovely mansion when I arrived at work each morning.

  Dodging a tram, I crossed Park Street, and it was then I remembered that Dolly’s bridge party was tonight. My mood plummeted. The last thing I wanted was to spend my free time watching Dolly flirt with Ross. Would Cole be nasty to Violet? Would Ross make a play for Violet tonight? Cole would not take kindly to Ross flirting with her. I moaned softly. I took a breath of chill air and rubbed my gloved hands together. The night was a recipe for disaster.

  Twenty

  Mrs Campbell greeted me in the lobby as I opened the door.

  ‘Oh, Stella, they’ve been waiting for you. Just listen to him. How lovely.’

  My smile was bemused.

  ‘Listen.’

  Sure enough, I heard piano music. And a light tenor voice singing Noël Coward. It sounded like Allan Tuck. I laughed.

  ‘Not much noonday sun in Melbourne at this time of year. Or mad dogs. But at least one English woman.’ I pointed at my chest.

  ‘Isn’t Lieutenant Tuck a wonderful singer?’ Mrs Campbell’s eyes were bright. ‘Such nice young men, both of them. Lieutenant Tuck has been keeping me company, waiting for you and Dolly to come back from work. Lieutenant Ross arrived about ten minutes ago and has been admiring my silver.’ She looked around her. ‘I think he’s upstairs with Dolly at present.’

  Tuck was warbling on about effete British being impervious to heat. I shivered in my uniform and wished I had some heat to be impervious to. The door to Mrs Campbell’s flat was open and I followed her in to find Tuck sitting at the upright piano, surrounded by books and Mrs Campbell’s memorabilia. He finished with a flourish as I entered. Mrs Campbell and I clapped wildly and he turned around on the piano stool to grin at us.

  ‘Good evening, Stella Aldridge,’ he said. ‘Dolly invited Ross and me to dinner before the bridge party. More of that delicious stew.’ His eyes were bright with excitement and his grin was like a child’s. Twisting back to the keyboard, Tuck played a trill that went straight into ‘Tangerine’.

  I walked over to him. ‘Don’t you ever need to see the sheet music?’

  ‘No. If hear a tune once I can play it. Or at least I can get the gist enough to wing it. This one’s easy.’ He played a little flourish and turned to me with another grin. ‘Mrs C has been telling me I need to find a nice girl and settle down.’

  ‘You do,’ she replied with a look at him that was almost arch. ‘Some girls really don’t expect much at all, if they have pretty clothes. And babies are sweet.’ Tuck visibly flinched and at his look of horror I had to stifle a giggle by turning it into a cough. Mrs Campbell seemed not to have noticed. ‘Everything’s so very elastic during a war, isn’t it? But wars end.’

  ‘Now, Mrs C,’ said Tuck in mock seriousness, ‘that’s where you’re so wrong. There’s no more elastic coming into Australia for the duration. The Nips have control of Malaya, remember, and scanties are falling down with shocking regularity on Melbourne dance floors.’

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  ‘Stella knows I’m right,’ he said. ‘The girls are all wearing utility underwear now.’

  It was true. Underwear did fall down on the dance floors with shocking regularity as the rubber elastic de
cayed and couldn’t be replaced. We had to sew on buttons as fasteners. ‘Utility underwear’ was a joke: ‘one Yank and they’re off’.

  I frowned at him, and he assumed a look of contrition that was obviously false.

  ‘I was speaking figuratively, you silly boy,’ said Mrs Campbell. ‘Elastic morals. I suspect everything will become very straitlaced once the war is over. You’ll need to watch out then, my dear.’

  Mrs Campbell’s smile was guileless, but I had a feeling she was well aware of Tuck’s preferences and the dangers he faced because of them.

  ‘The world didn’t become straitlaced after the Great War,’ I said. ‘It was the roaring twenties when morals dived to new lows.’

  ‘And after the twenties?’ replied Mrs Campbell darkly. ‘We had the Great Depression.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Mrs C,’ said Tuck. ‘But, honestly, what girl would want me? I’m a very bad bet in the marriage stakes. The worst bet there is.’

  She smiled in reply. Tuck lowered the piano lid and stood to inspect the silver on the shelves of her cabinet.

  ‘You have some gorgeous silver,’ he said. ‘Should you leave it in plain view like that?’

  ‘Och, it’s perfectly safe.’

  A peculiar look flitted over Tuck’s face as he glanced at the silver, as if he’d had an interesting idea. He looked at Mrs Campbell. ‘Be sure to keep your flat locked up tight.’

  There was a noise behind me and I turned to see Ross lounging in the doorway. When he smiled I was reminded of Laurence Olivier, or perhaps Cary Grant – a movie star, anyway. You’re too good-looking for your own good, I thought. That may well be your major problem.

  ‘I’ve been asked to bring you two upstairs,’ he said.

  A quick, lukewarm shower improved my mood, and as I was applying my make-up I heard the sound of laughter. Ross and Tuck were obviously entertaining Dolly in our lounge room. She was on the sofa, doubled over laughing, when I emerged.