And now it was almost too late.
Lucy’s emotions were unravelling again as she set the photo on her pillow, next to the other picture of the glamorous and mysterious George. She opened the top sheet of creased and yellowed paper.
Box Street
Ashgrove
Brisbane
20 November 1939
Dear Harry,
Well, mate, it’s all happening down here now. The 2/9th Battalion was formed a week ago at Redbank and I’m now wearing the King’s uniform, with my slouch hat at such a rakish angle the girls reckon I look pretty swish.
Mum is less impressed, of course, but I think my old man (despite all his usual forebodings) is quietly chuffed that I’ll be part of the 18th Brigade, which was his unit in the last war.
With Poland gone and Jerry threatening France, there’s a good chance that I’ll be off to merry England before Christmas. Someone has to give this jumped-up former German corporal a bloody nose and it needs to be done quickly.
So, the reason for this letter is twofold. First, to give you the good news that I’m no longer in the ranks of the unemployed. I can now shout a round of beers or place more than two bob on a sure thing at Eagle Farm. Second is to entreat you to also come and join your old mates.
Naturally, it’s up to you, Harry, but I wouldn’t have written this letter if I didn’t think you’d be up for it. If you are thinking about joining up, for God’s sake don’t enlist in some unit with total strangers. Where’s the fun in that?
Rollo and Ted have also signed up and we’re in the barracks, trying our best to make life miserable for the sergeant major. ‘Snotty’ Williams, who put in a couple of years playing soldiers in the militia, has scored a commission, would you believe? Naturally, we’re already giving him a hard time.
I know you couldn’t wait to get back to the bush after you finished at boarding school, but it doesn’t seem right for Rollo, Ted and me to be part of all this without Harry the Hard Man. Just to spur you on, Rollo is under the delusion that he’s actually a better shot than you were and he reckons he’ll be the first one of us to get his crossed rifles.
Hope to see you soon.
Your mate,
Stu
‘Good morning, love.’
Lucy was deeply engrossed in yet another letter – her third or fourth, she’d lost count – when she heard her mum’s voice at the doorway.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, somewhat startled. ‘You’re up early.’
Her mother was looking surprisingly elegant in a long, white cotton summer dressing-gown with deep pockets delicately embroidered in white on white. She’d left the gown open over a soft, floral cotton nightie and Lucy thought she looked so pretty, she could almost pose for a Mother’s Day photo shoot.
‘Early?’ her mum said, surprised. ‘It’s a quarter past seven.’
‘Is it really? Already?’ Lucy gave a dazed shake of her head. She’d been so absorbed she’d completely lost track of time.
Cautiously curious, her mother folded her arms and propped a shoulder against the doorframe. ‘What are you doing?’ She frowned at the scattering of medals and letters on the bed. ‘Are you going through Dad’s things?’
‘Yes. I hope he won’t mind. It’s all pretty amazing, Mum. Did you know he was a Rat of Tobruk?’
‘Um . . .’ Her mum looked a little flustered now and perhaps a little guilty as she gave a shrug. ‘I don’t think he ever mentioned it.’
‘That’s what I thought. He never said anything to me, either, and yet he wasn’t just any old Rat.’ Lucy picked up the rat medal. ‘He was awarded a special badge. I checked it on Google and this is quite something – one of the unofficial badges that the men actually made while they were there in the desert.’
‘Oh?’
Lucy held the badge out for her mother’s inspection. ‘Apparently, there were only about twenty of these given out, and the men who received them were highly valued by their fellow soldiers.’
‘Oh,’ her mother said again, rather flatly, and she didn’t look happy as she turned the triangle of metal over in her palm.
Her reaction troubled Lucy. She’d never understood the tension between her mother and her grandfather. Harry was such a dear old thing. It had never made sense. ‘They made these medals right there on the battlefield,’ she said again, hoping her mum would grasp the significance. ‘From shell casings and parts of a downed German plane.’
‘Who’s Lord Haw-Haw?’ her mother asked, squinting at the inscription.
‘He was part of the German propaganda. He used to broadcast on the radio and he was the first person to call the Diggers rats. It was supposed to demoralise them.’ Lucy couldn’t help smiling. ‘But the Aussies soon turned that around. The rat nickname became a badge of honour.’
Her mum nodded as if she found this vaguely interesting and then she handed the medal back to Lucy. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Disappointed by this clear dismissal of Harry’s achievements, Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, sure.’
But her mother didn’t leave for the kitchen immediately. She hovered uncertainly in the doorway, her long cotton dressing-gown floating about her ankles as she rubbed one bare foot nervously against the other. Lucy noticed that her toenails were painted deep claret and looked rather glamorous. She thought, irrelevantly, that her mum must have had a pedicure. Seemed her lifestyle had improved since she’d taken up with Keith.
‘So, how’s Sam?’ her mum asked.
Oh God. Whoosh. Talk about having the rug pulled from under her. Now it was Lucy’s turn to say, ‘Oh.’ But although her mum had asked the question carefully, there was a baleful look in her eyes that suggested she wouldn’t be fobbed off.
‘I – I’m not sure,’ Lucy admitted. ‘I mean, Sam’s okay. He’s perfectly fine, but —’ She swallowed and avoided her mother’s gaze. ‘Actually, no, he’s not. He’s a dickhead and there might not be a wedding after all. In fact, I’m pretty sure there won’t be.’
‘Oh, darling.’
Lucy half-expected to be wrapped in a huge hug, but when this didn’t happen, she shot her mum a forced smile that felt horribly out of shape. ‘Don’t quiz me about it just now, okay? I’m still pretty fragile.’
‘But are you —?’
‘Mum,’ Lucy interjected, a warning note in her voice.
‘Okay, okay, sorry. So what else did you find in that old tin?’
Grateful to return her attention to the assortment of Harry’s belongings, Lucy touched the jumble on her bed. ‘There are all sorts of medals. Some from New Guinea that I want to check out. And letters.’ She looked up. ‘Nearly all this stuff is from around the wartime, which is intriguing. There are a couple of letters from Harry’s mates and one from his parents when he was in Tobruk —’
Lucy hesitated. ‘But there’s another letter here that was written quite a while after the war – in the early sixties, I think. It’s about you.’
To Lucy’s surprise her mum went bright red. ‘A letter from England?’ This was asked with a surly curl of her lip.
‘Yes. It’s pretty weird. It was sent to Harry, practically demanding that he send you to live in England.’
Actually, it was an incredibly emotional outpouring from some Englishwoman from Cornwall. Judging by her comments, she was Harry’s sister-in-law, but the corner where she’d signed the letter was gone, the edges brown and nibbled looking, as if someone had once started to burn the letter and then changed their mind.
Looking up, she saw that her mother’s face was still florid and her lips were trembling. Had she made a terrible gaffe by mentioning this?
‘Give it here,’ her mother said tightly, lunging forward and almost snatching the pages from Lucy’s hand. Her lips were compressed and her eyes fierce as she scanned the first page.
‘Bitch!’ She spat the word out before she’d even finished, then her fist closed around the paper, scrunching the letter into a tightly crumpled ball.
‘Mum!�
� Lucy couldn’t hold back her cry.
‘I’m throwing it out,’ her mother snapped. ‘I won’t have it in my house.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Lucy used her most appeasing tone, although she wasn’t sure her mother had the right to dispose of the letter. She began to feel guilty about opening the tin.
Her mum shoved the paper into the pocket of her dressing-gown and scowled at the rest of the letters and medals scattered on the bed. ‘So, what else have you got there?’ She sounded angry and suspicious now, as if she was almost accusing Lucy of assembling these things just to upset her.
‘Well, there are a couple of photos.’ Surely photos were safe? Lucy handed over the snap of the soldiers in the desert. ‘I reckon the guy on the left must be Harry.’
Eyes still fierce, her mother accepted the photo, and, as she studied it, her expression gentled a tad. ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ she said softly, and her mouth tilted in a sad little smile. ‘He looks so young, doesn’t he?’
‘Incredibly young,’ Lucy agreed, and now that her mum’s mood was a little calmer, she had to ask. ‘Mum, what happened when Harry got that letter from England? Did he send you over there to her? You did spend some time in England, didn’t you?’
‘He promised he wouldn’t send me.’ Her mother said this so quietly it was little more than a whisper. Her lips trembled again and she twisted the dangling sash of her dressing-gown with nervous fingers. ‘Leave it, Luce. All that’s best forgotten.’
Really? Seeing her mum’s obvious distress, Lucy felt compelled to protest. Had Harry broken a promise? ‘But you haven’t forgotten,’ she said. ‘It still upsets you.’
For all she knew, this demanding letter might have been the source of her mum’s ongoing tension with Harry. It might even have been at the root of some of her mother’s other issues, like her general lack of self-confidence. Perhaps it had something to do with why her mother at times seemed more like a troubled girlfriend or sister than a parent.
But Lucy knew next to nothing about psychology, so there was little to be gained by trying to press the matter then and there.
Ro turned her attention to the other photograph of the beautiful woman called George, who so perfectly epitomised the glamour and elegance of the forties. Her hazel eyes widened with sudden interest. ‘I – I wonder if this is . . .’ She swallowed, clearly overcome by a new emotion. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked.
‘Her name’s George,’ Lucy said. ‘At least that’s what she calls herself on the back of the photo. She’s written a message to Harry.’ She held the portrait out.
‘Of course,’ her mum whispered as she took it and her eyes visibly misted as she stared at the picture, not with bitterness this time, but with something close to reverence. ‘I haven’t seen this for years – not since I was a very little girl.’
It was quite a while before she turned the photo over and read the words on the back. ‘George,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘Her proper name was Georgina.’
‘Your mother?’ Lucy whispered, completely entranced by this sudden switch from hard anger to a gentle, almost childlike devotion. ‘She was English, wasn’t she?’
It seemed her mum didn’t hear her. Her thoughts were apparently miles away.
‘She’s so glamorous and beautiful,’ Lucy said.
‘Yes, she was,’ her mum said at last.
‘She looks posh, though. Well, no, maybe posh isn’t the right word.’
‘Well, her father was a baronet. Sir Richard Lenton.’
‘Wow. So we’re descended from aristocrats?’
‘Believe me, it’s not a big deal, Luce.’
‘I think it is.’ To Lucy it was a huge deal. For the first time she had a chance to discover more about her family’s past. ‘Have you any other photos of her?’
‘No. All I have is her little jewellery box.’
‘The one you keep on your dressing table for your rings?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Harry must have photos, surely?’
‘I guess,’ her mum said softly, still gazing at the picture in her hand, touching it with the tip of her finger with a kind of reverent awe.
A little thrill sang through Lucy. ‘I wonder how on earth she met Harry.’
8
Georgina woke with a start as the Underground train jerked to a standstill and the carriage doors rattled open. She’d been so exhausted she’d fallen asleep and now, to her embarrassed surprise, she found her head on the shoulder of a soldier, her nose burrowed against his warm neck. She sat up quickly, blushing at her forwardness.
‘Sorry,’ she told the soldier as she rubbed at the stiffness in her neck.
‘No worries, Miss.’ His voice was deep and drawling with an accent she couldn’t quite place. ‘My pleasure.’
He had thick dark hair, cut short at the back and sides to military regulations, and his light-grey eyes sparkled with intelligent humour. His face was longish, handsome and suntanned, with the kind of ingrained tan that came from a life in the outdoors rather than a few weeks holidaying in the south of France. Georgina wondered how she’d missed seeing him earlier. Perhaps he’d boarded the train after she’d fallen asleep.
She might have taken a longer look at him, if she hadn’t glanced through the carriage window and realised that they’d reached Victoria already. This was her station. She had no choice but to fight her weariness and launch to her feet. Automatically, she smoothed the khaki skirt of her Auxiliary Territorial Service uniform and she was about to hurry away, but on an impulse that was completely out of character she looked back at the handsome soldier and smiled again. ‘Thanks for letting me borrow your shoulder.’
Then she dashed for the door, her heart thrashing madly, for she knew that she’d just experienced a moment.
Hardly more than a split second, an electrifying heartbeat in time, and yet she was sure it would stay with her for ages, possibly forever. The soldier was a complete stranger, but Georgina Lenton had found something in his face, in his eyes and his voice, that was astonishingly, frighteningly attractive.
Flushed and slightly breathless, she stepped onto the platform, which was already crowded with people who used the Underground as an air-raid shelter. The station smelled of train smoke and hot metal. From behind her came the sound of heavy wooden doors slamming shut. The guard blew his whistle. But her thoughts were still with the soldier and she felt quite deflated as the train wheezed and began to chug forward. With deliberate effort, she straightened her shoulders.
Buck up, George.
It was time to hurry home to a hasty supper and bed, but she couldn’t help turning back, just once, to watch the train pull away.
Her heart leaped when she saw the soldier right there on the platform.
‘Oh, hello.’ Her voice was high-pitched with surprise.
He smiled. ‘G’day.’
There it was again – that deep, sun-drenched, lazy voice – and now, looking more closely, Georgina could see that his uniform wasn’t British. Along with the kit bag slung over his shoulder, he carried a slouch hat.
‘You’re an Australian?’
‘I am, indeed.’
It was time to remember her upbringing. After all, she could tell by the crown on his epaulette that he was only a warrant officer. She should give him a curt nod and swiftly ignore him. Turn and leave immediately.
But Georgina was tired of being sensible. This darned war demanded so much – long hours at work, blackouts, rations, living with the nightly fear of the ongoing Blitz. She said, ‘I’ve never met an Australian before. I wondered about your accent.’
Another slow smile transformed his face. ‘Well, I’ve never met a girl with such a plummy Pommy accent.’
‘Plummy?’
‘A very pretty shade of plum. Musical and silvery.’
Good grief. Now he was flirting with her and she’d more or less invited it, hadn’t she? She was mad. And yet . . . Georgina found it so hard to ignore the compelling glow in
side her, the sparks that flared when she looked into this man’s light-grey eyes.
‘Are you in London on leave?’ She knew from her own job with the Royal Army Service Corps that Australian troops were based on the Salisbury Plain.
‘I was sent up here to liaise with your mob. I have a meeting in the morning.’
Georgina knew better than to press for details.
‘But I’ll be free in the afternoon,’ he added. ‘And this is my first time in London, so I thought I’d take a look around, catch a few of the famous sights.’
‘I’m afraid the city’s not looking her best at the moment.’
‘I dare say, but it’s too good a chance to miss.’ He smiled again, his eyes as sparkling as stars. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be free to act as a tour guide tomorrow?’
The cheek of him. Georgina opened her mouth to send him marching, just as her mother would have done, but the necessary words of dismissal refused to emerge. She was too aware of the delicious warmth spreading through her.
It was such an unexpected thing to happen in the middle of this beastly war. Every day, often including weekends, Georgina worked hard and for long hours in the Royal Army Service Corps office in Dulwich, and each night she dragged herself back to her lonely digs. For long, dreary months, she and her fellow Londoners had lived under a permanent cloud, first with the threat of invasion and now with the terror of air raids, only to wake each morning to toppled buildings, hideous bonfires and news of fresh heartbreak.
In the midst of so much grimness, meeting this attractive man from a distant shore felt no more bizarre or dangerous than anything else that was happening. Besides, there was a steadiness in his eyes, a quiet strength about his manner that invited her to trust her deeper instincts.
‘Actually,’ she found herself saying, ‘we had an emergency at work last weekend and I worked right through, so I do happen to have a day off tomorrow in lieu.’
The soldier covered his surprise with a charming grin. ‘How’s that for luck?’
It did feel surprisingly lucky.
He held out his hand. ‘The name’s Harry. Harry Kemp.’
The Secret Years Page 7
