‘I don’t like the look of things in Singapore. They’ve underestimated things over there.’
Marlon had to agree. The Japanese would be going hell for leather to take the northern strong-hold and the Americans had just seen what that meant first-hand. ‘They have the numbers.’
‘But not the air power.’
‘Exactly.’
They stood together, considering what that could mean here.
‘Seems logical they’ll strike the Northern Territory first.’
Hamlin nodded. ‘Makes sense. I’m thinking I might send you up to Darwin soon – you’d be valuable to me up there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hamlin threw his cigarette on the ground. ‘Good man. Anyway, enough war talk for today. Coming to the party tomorrow?’
Marlon shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir.’ Officers’ affairs still weren’t really his style but the booze would help him sleep, he supposed.
‘Do you good, Stone. You can’t look back in war, son,’ Major Hamlin said, understanding underscoring his words. ‘Come and have a drink and forget about things for a few hours. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Getting merry might be the easiest order I ever give you,’ the major called over his shoulder as he walked away.
‘I’m sure it will be, sir,’ Marlon said. He looked back at the fading blue and apricot of Sydney’s skies and scanned for dots that turned into sharks.
I’m sure it will be.
Below Georges Head the Elite were in training. If that’s what you could call it, Michael thought grimly as he felt his way along the walls. Every sense was on high alert and he wished he could locate himself in the dark like the fruit bats that were hanging in the trees outside. Endless hours with no sleep were beginning to sit hard upon his nerves and it took everything not to call into the black ink that he gave up, that he didn’t care any more; that he just wanted to get out of here and breathe the fresh air again, in the light.
‘We know you’re in there, Aussie. We’re going to find you and then we are going to hurt you.’
The Asian voice echoed around him and he focused on what Rory had taught them: They’re only words. They’ve got nothing until they’ve actually got you. Until then you are free men. Fight for it, lads.
Michael crept closer to what he was still hoping was the east and fresher air. The tunnels twisted beneath the headland seemingly forever and he wondered if anyone actually got lost here permanently. But that was ridiculous – the army wasn’t trying to kill him, especially not his own father. He wondered how long it had been. It seemed like weeks, and exhaustion was starting to make him lose his usual level-headed composure. Michael struggled not to panic and breathed long, quiet breaths instead.
‘I’ve got a knife, Aussie. A big knife just for you.’
He moved away from the voice, figuring about twenty feet separated them, wondering who the man was they’d been using to psyche them out. Where he was from. He was hardly likely to be Japanese.
There wasn’t any real objective to this exercise, save not getting caught, which meant you could never really rest. The voice taunted and the footsteps and mysterious clangs and crashes came at sporadic intervals, jarring at his fraying nerves. He and Mayflower were the only ones left, with poor Smitty giving up quite early in the piece, a shrieking mess until Michael heard someone find him. Everyone knew Smitty suffered badly from claustrophobia. After that, Michael had counted each capture: Jake, Cliffy and the twin brothers from Parkes, Jack and Des Richards (nicknamed ‘Liquorice’ and ‘Allsorts’ by Cliffy due to their startlingly thick black hair) and, one by one, the rest of the Elite. Michael knew Mayflower was determined to live down his nickname and prove himself tough. For his part, Michael never gave up easily and knew the day might come when he would remember this training and need it.
Because the only thing that really mattered was surviving this war and making it back home to Junie.
He closed his eyes and leant against the wall, envisaging her face. It floated there, lifting him out of the dark, calming him. The Asian voice called again but he rejected whatever it said now. Stay with me, my love. And she did.
Minutes slid past but he surrendered to the wait. Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion, but he had moved past fear now and into this dream. He supposed he was hallucinating. Crimson feathers above blue eyes; eyes that read deep into his soul. Junie.
‘We are going to kill you, Aussie.’
The voice was close but he stayed very still as Junie melted into him and he held her light within.
‘Captured!’
Michael’s eyes flew open, but it wasn’t to see a captor. He saw a faint light around the bend instead and heard Mayflower’s voice giving his name and rank in defeat.
He stumbled towards both as the whistle announced the end of the exercise and arms reached out for him among the flashlights.
‘Here now, mate, it’s all over,’ Jake said in his ear, taking his arm over his shoulder and helping him from the labyrinth, out, at last, into the air. ‘Stand tall.’
Michael couldn’t see a thing save a warm glow that he assumed was the sunset. He was blinded by the glare after so much darkness but he could hear the cheers from his mates and Captain Marren’s voice as he made the announcement.
‘Gentlemen, you are looking at the winner of this exercise and, as the overall most outstanding recruit of this training period, your new leader: Corporal Michael Riley.’
The glare began to recede, giving Michael just enough time to see the pride on his father’s face before he passed out in Jake’s arms.
Fifteen
February 1942
Government House, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia
The water cascaded down the fountain, making sweet, tinkling music as it patterned into the pond where the lilies floated, their delicate faces pale in the sunshine. Junie had thought Government House impressive enough in the black and white photo in her book but now, in the full splendour of a summer’s day, she could only gaze in wonder. It was magnificent, more like a castle from a fairy tale than a government building, and, with the bridge and the harbour’s sparkling blue waters serving as a backdrop, the overall effect was quite breath-taking.
And then there were the people, milling about on lawns that looked like they’d been tended with nail scissors and stopping to converse under shadowed archways. The soft strains of a string quartet flowed towards her and Junie had to swallow unexpected nerves. She’d never been intimidated by affluence before but this party was filled with the top echelon of the upper crust, resplendent in crisp uniforms and starched summer frocks, and she felt quite self-conscious. Fortunately her pale blue linen was holding its own, as it would want to, considering what it had cost. Even though Constance disapproved of the marriage, Junie had to hand it to her – she’d spared no expense in making her look the part of Ernest’s fiancée. The new wardrobe, the house furnishings, even her up-to-the-minute, sleeker hairstyle looked straight out of the pages of Vogue magazine. Which was probably where most of the inspiration came from – Constance didn’t really have a creative bone in her body.
For all the fear over the war, Sydney’s aristocracy wasn’t about to let the Japanese deprive them of welcoming the American officers in style. Heavy silver trays were circulating, filled with chilled champagne and fancy seafood wrapped in elaborate little pastries or mounted on miniature breaded platforms like trophies. Junie didn’t even know what half of the food was, still trying to hide her distaste for the tiny black balls that Constance had loftily informed her was caviar.
‘Shoulders back and watch your manners,’ her future mother-in-law hissed. The much revered Eliza Chamberlain and her mother Jane were approaching, and Junie would have been insulted if it wasn’t actually quite amusing to watch Constance perform one of her unwitting pigeon impersonations.
Junie smoothed her dress down as the ladies arrived. Just get through this. Tomorrow you’re seeing Michael, she reminded herself, and f
elt a wave of excitement wash through her.
‘Jane, how marvellous to see you,’ crooned Constance, bobbing forwards to kiss the air on each side of the socialite’s coiffed hair in a theatrical imitation of the French way. She missed slightly, her lipstick landing on the woman’s ear, and Junie felt compelled to laugh but swallowed it.
‘Constance, so glad you could make it,’ said Jane, and Junie immediately heard the false sincerity of the welcome.
‘How are you, Eliza? The girls send their regrets but sadly they’ve both succumbed to a cold this week.’
‘Such a shame,’ Eliza said, masking her relief rather poorly, in Junie’s opinion.
Junie studied her, struck by the young woman’s beauty. Eliza Chamberlain was every bit as glamorous as her reputation would have it with her fine golden waves and slender frame. She was dressed in white, her long arms ending in lace gloves and a sparkle of diamond bracelet, and the word ‘elegant’ occurred to Junie in perfect summary.
‘Ernest is here somewhere, making himself available to the general, of course. Poor darling is always working.’ Constance craned her neck, trying to find him.
‘Yes, I saw him earlier. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?’ Eliza said, turning to Junie.
‘Oh, yes, this is June Wallace, Ernest’s fiancée,’ said Constance, not entirely hiding her disapproval but probably thinking she had, Junie guessed. None of these women were very good actresses.
‘Junie,’ she corrected automatically. ‘How lovely to meet you both at last. I’ve heard so many nice things about you.’ Junie spoke in her best society voice. Braidwood girls could be charming too.
‘My goodness, how did Ernest manage to snag a doll like you?’ Eliza said, looking her up and down in surprise. That straightened Constance’s spine from her craning quick smart.
‘They grew up together,’ Constance said with a forced smile.
‘So, a country girl?’ Jane asked, pencilled eyebrows raised, and a more superior expression Junie couldn’t remember witnessing. She focused on the lipstick on Jane’s ear to bring the woman down a peg or two in her mind. ‘How quaint. You mustn’t feel too overwhelmed about mixing in proper society, my dear.’
‘As opposed to living in a bark hut, I’m sure.’ Eliza laughed, winking at Junie.
‘Yes, I’m pleased I remembered to wear shoes,’ Junie said, smiling back and forgetting her nerves. She was rather liking this Eliza Chamberlain.
Jane’s eyebrows rose further up into her pale forehead. ‘Quite.’
‘Come with me and we’ll see what I can shock you with,’ Eliza said, linking arms with Junie and leading her away, whispering in her ear as they went, ‘although I can’t imagine anything more shocking than having Constance Farthington as a mother-in-law.’
‘Quite,’ said Junie and they both giggled. Despite her earlier misgivings, Junie had to admit this party was starting to look up.
The view was undeniably stunning from the end of the verandah, but Marlon was bored. This society do felt more upper-class English than Australian, and he was missing the easy-going culture he’d admired so far. It reminded him of the time he’d gone with his father to London on a business trip, back before he’d decided to become a pilot. He’d loved the backstreet pubs where the ‘common’ Londoners entertained him with their colourful banter and he’d been touched by the generosity they’d shown when most didn’t have much to give. Not unlike the Aussies he’d met so far in Sydney. But the aristocracy over there had left him cold with their small talk and affectation and it seemed Sydney had a similar scene at play.
‘I’ve heard some of these Japanese actually eat fish raw. Can you imagine?’ drawled Miles Harrington, an officer whose family connections had landed him a nice, safe, desk job. Marlon decided he had the most affected English accent he had ever heard outside of England.
‘Primitive race,’ scoffed George Fellowes, Miles’s equally ridiculous companion.
How were they supposed to win the war with inbred politicians and officers like these at the helm?
‘I say,’ said Miles. ‘Who’s that with Eliza?’
Marlon turned and saw two women cross the lawn, a blonde and a brunette. No-one seemed to be able to answer Miles and Marlon was grateful that something had silenced these bores at last as they all stood and watched. They were a pretty sight, that’s for sure. The blonde was very beautiful, shaking her head at something the other girl was saying, her fair hair catching the sun, but it seemed a rather practised gesture to Marlon’s eye. He’d met many a debutante and she was a prize exhibit, top shelf but on show at all times.
The brunette, however, was something else altogether. There was an untamed air about her, despite the modern dress and styled hair. She looked as if she would be more comfortable riding a horse along the beach, wild and barefoot, than at a garden party in heels. He stopped, wondering where on earth that thought came from as Miles called out to them. The blonde waved, and the women approached. So the mystery woman was the brunette. Marlon’s interest was piqued, even more so as he got a closer look.
Her cheekbones were high and covered in skin that obviously soaked up the sun easily. It ran in a light tan across her face and down her throat and her arms, coating every other delicious bit of flesh he could glimpse. Like a perfect cup of coffee with a generous dash of cream. The colour made her blue eyes striking, the contrast further enhanced by frames of thick black lashes that lowered shyly then lifted defiantly as she fought to appear poised. Society girl she may be, but Marlon suspected this level was all new to her.
‘And who is this beautiful young lady you’ve graced us with?’ Miles asked, after greeting Eliza.
‘Gentlemen, may I present Miss Junie Wallace,’ Eliza said, looking slightly amused at their stares.
‘Miles Harrington at your service.’
‘George Fellowes, but please, call me anything your heart desires, my dear.’
‘A-Angus Peabody.’ The third officer had no wit or charm to embellish his introduction but, considering the preceding greetings on offer, Marlon supposed him at the advantage so far.
‘Marlon Stone,’ he said, bowing his head slightly to each woman in turn. The blonde smiled at him, a brief message in her eyes, but the brunette only glanced at Marlon before looking away. He felt a little disappointed, and decided to try harder. ‘I don’t think we have anything quite this beautiful back in the States.’ He glanced at the view, letting the women wonder if it was a compliment to them or to the city.
‘And whereabouts in the States are you from?’ Eliza asked.
‘San Francisco, well, Sausalito actually. Across the bay.’
‘A man from the other side of the Pacific. You’ve swum a long way.’
‘Well, I am part fish.’
‘Ah yes, the marlin. Quite an impressive fish too,’ Eliza said in easy flirtation.
‘I went to San Francisco once, with Father. You’ll pardon me for saying so, but a few too many Mexicans and half-breeds for me. Not really my thing,’ Miles said dismissively as he sipped on his champagne. He reminded Marlon of a nasty little lap dog, jealous over a biscuit.
‘Come now, Miles, you’ll have our American friend think us dreadful snobs at this rate,’ Eliza said, laughing. ‘I’ve always longed to go to California. It seems terribly glamorous in the movies.’
Marlon shrugged. ‘Depends which part you visit, although I imagine wherever you go the glamour would surely arrive with you.’
Eliza gave a pleased little gasp. ‘My goodness, how charming you Americans are.’
Miles frowned at him, lighting a cigar.
‘How about you, Junie,’ asked George, entering the fray. ‘Have you travelled terribly much?’
‘No, I’m afraid my travelling days are ahead of me.’ Deftly manoeuvred, Marlon thought.
‘You must come to England when the war ends. Our family holds an annual hunt and I’m sure you would look quite ravishing in riding attire,’ Miles said with what he probably thoug
ht was an admiring look, but it appeared to Marlon as a rather revolting leer. There was also a bit of champagne spittle on his chin and his cheeks were beginning to flush, neither fact likely to improve his chances.
‘Look out there, Junie,’ Eliza drawled, ‘he’ll hold you to it and give you a devilish time if you go. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the hounds or the hunters.’
‘What do you hunt?’ Junie asked, smiling.
‘Women, usually,’ Eliza said, and they all laughed.
‘Foxes, my dear,’ Miles answered.
Junie frowned. ‘Goodness, what point is there in that?’
‘To provide me with a lovely fur stole,’ Eliza whispered loudly, linking her arm in Junie’s.
Miles looked at Junie almost pityingly. ‘The point is to win, my dear. Have you never been on a hunt before?’
‘Well, back home, my brothers shot the crows but that was mostly because they attacked the new-born lambs. It was necessary.’
Marlon was curious. ‘And home is?’
‘Braidwood, not too far from Canberra.’
Miles gave a snort of derision. ‘Ah, well that explains it. My dear girl, that is not hunting, that is farming. There is a very wide world of difference between an Australian farm and an English estate.’
Junie’s eyes were beginning to flash at the tone in Miles’s voice and Marlon wondered how she would respond.
‘Yes, it seems we kill predatory animals to protect our stock and you kill defenceless animals for sport,’ she said almost nonchalantly.
Bravo, thought Marlon as Eliza disengaged herself from Junie’s side and took another champagne from a passing tray. Miles opened his mouth to retaliate but Angus Peabody finally spoke up.
‘S-so long as those f-farmers keep joining up, we all stand a chance anyway.’
Marlon realised it was a stutter, not nerves, that kept the man mostly quiet.
‘B-b-best shots I’ve seen so far are the country lads. Keep shooting those crows, I-I say.’
Marlon decided there was one less fool standing with them today. ‘I’ve heard that,’ he agreed. ‘God knows we’ll need them against these Japs.’
Worth Fighting For Page 11
