He could mean anything, and change his meaning when it suited him. The one undeniable thing he’d clearly demonstrated was arrogant condescension. Tears threatened; pride mastered them.
The cleaning woman stood up, pulled the cord, waited until the tram stopped, and alighted. As the tram re-gathered speed she watched the woman’s white face, lit by the shaded street lamp, fade into the night. A woman her mother’s age. Had she been this late because she was in some way doing war work? She shouldn’t be out alone this late, or look so tired. She should be at home with her family or at least, if she had to work, be in a day job. The night streets weren’t safe any more. Nothing was safe any more. The war was dramatically changing lives, even the lives of people like her mother.
In which suburb were they? It was difficult to tell. There was very little traffic. Her accustomed late night, Friday, was always busy with cars whose hooded headlights palely illuminated familiar buildings. Tonight she felt disoriented; she’d have to stop day dreaming and stay alert.
Since the woman had left, she was the only passenger in this section. In the open middle section, the uniforms and the blue collars having already alighted, was a fat and balding man who was compulsively twirling a narrow-brimmed hat in his large red hands. In the far section was a family; mother, two children, and father in air force uniform. Holding the tram strap to steady himself, the uniformed conductor was bent in conversation with the father.
Peering out, she could make out nothing familiar. She couldn’t have missed her stop! Not again! Not like last time in the rain. Panicked, she started to run through the tram to alert the conductor, stumbled, and managed to catch on to the strap above the bald man’s bare head.
Reaching out, he steadied her, and smiled through yellow teeth. He stank of stale tobacco and sweat. Recoiling, she made it to the far door.
“What’s up?” The conductor left his post.
“Where are we?” She begged. “I can’t see.”
“Where do you want to be?”
“Cook Road. I get off at Cook Road.”
“Next stop.” He pulled the cord to alert the driver. “Don’t worry.”
Releasing the long-held tears, relief momentarily blinded her.
“You all right, miss?”
“Yes - yes, thank you.”
The tram shuddered to a halt, the clacking of its idling motor thunderous in the still night.
“You got far to go?” The conductor helped her down the steep steps.
“Not far.”
She waited until the tram started its labourious climb towards St Margaret’s before crossing the empty roadway. Thank goodness habit had warned her of the tram’s location. She didn’t want another night retracing her way back down from the terminus. As it was, the block and a half ahead was fearsome enough.
The full orange circle of the ascending moon, enormous in the low sky, threw monstrous shadows across her path. She rounded the corner into Wilson Avenue. Her father and June were away again, her mother would be waiting.
Already anticipating the solace of her room, she removed her hat and released the pins holding her hair. Starting across the road, she heard the sound of heavy shoes hurrying behind her. She turned.
His bald head covered by the narrow-brimmed hat, she recognised the odorous man from the tram. He must have slipped off its blind side while she waited for the tram to move on! Clearly outlined by the rising moon, he was lumbering towards her.
“Help! Help!!!” She raced across the road.
The stranger gathered speed.
The watchdog terrier was barking hysterically.
She reached the gutter, tripped, tried to recover.
The terrier was frantic, the racing feet upon her.
“Help! Hel....”
His hands closed on her throat. She smelled tobacco, stale sweat......
From a great distance, she heard her mother’s voice: “Anne? Is that you, Anne?”
Chapter Fourteen
April 1st:
Australian Prime Minister, John Curtain leaves for America and Britain.
April 15th:
Queensland Communist, Fred Patterson, wins the seat of Bowen in the State elections. He is the first communist to be elected to Parliament in Australia.
She was in bed, Doctor Matthews at her side.
“That’s the ticket.” The doctor straightened. “No harm done. Nasty bruising of the neck. We can expect speech to be painful, eh Anne?”
She shook her head; her throat was on fire.
“We’ll give you a syrup.” He patted her arm. “Bed rest for a week. That’s the ticket, Mrs Preston.”
“You’ve had an injection, Anne.” Her mother consoled. “You’ll feel better next time you wake.”
When she woke the fire was still in her throat and a thousand drums were beating a tattoo in her head. She managed only a few sips of the warm milk her mother served for breakfast.
“I heard the dog.” May explained last night’s quick response to her cry for help. “I worry about you out late alone. I frightened the man off.”
As her mother straightened the rumpled sheets, she silently endured the pain. Every smallest sound and every minute movement aggravated the thumping in her head.
“We’ve reported it to the police, dear. The streets aren’t safe any more. Not since the Americans came. I worry about you coming home late. What happened, Anne?”
She tried to speak. It was impossible. Using signs, she requested paper and pencil. Resting on stacked pillows, ignoring as best she could the distressing drums and the burning throat, she wrote what she remembered. The man must have followed her. She’d seen him earlier on the tram, he’d worn a hat and a heavy coat even though it was a hot night, and he’d smelled of very strong tobacco.
May phoned the laboratory, reporting she’d been assaulted and would be off work for a week. Surprisingly, Julian arrived in the afternoon while she was still heavily sedated and only hazily conscious of the buzz of conversation between him and her mother. In the late afternoon her father came home and spent most of his time sitting quietly reading by the bed-side. June, who’d been contacted, sent a get-well telegram.
Julian came again Wednesday evening. Her father snapped his book shut, excused himself, and left them alone.
“Anne?” Julian hovered uncertainly in the doorway. “Do you feel up to me coming in?”
She nodded, and winced.
“Don’t try to talk.” He ventured a single step into the room.
She couldn’t talk anyway, didn’t he know that?
“Can you concentrate if I ask a few questions?”
She gestured to the vacant chair.
Pulling the chair to the bedside, he suggested. “It’s okay if you just nod the answers. Don’t try to talk.”
Instinctively obedient, she nodded. As before, the slight movement set the drums thumping. Grimacing, she closed her eyes. If only he’d leave.
“I’m sorry, Anne.”
He wasn’t sorry at all. If he was, he’d have left by now.
“I’m so sorry to have to do this, Anne. I’ve explained to your parents. This is very important.”
Not moving her head, she looked at him. If only he would leave.
“It’s not that easy, Anne,” he read her mind. “Please try.”
Again she closed her eyes.
“Your heads hurts when you move. Is that it?”
Was he blind as well as insensitive?
“I have a suggestion,” he leaned closer. “Shut your eyes for yes, blink for no. If it’s too complicated, try to write it down. Can you do that?”
He smelled of leather and wool and after-shave; the genuinely caring Julian she’d so desperately missed. He was really here and she was praying for him to leave!
She met his eyes, warm with anxiety and concern.
She lowered her eyelids slowly, signifying ‘yes’.
“Good girl.” He smoothed the damp hair back from her face, held his hand aga
inst her cheek. “Good girl, Anne.”
From the next-door living room her father coughed. He was there if she needed him.
“It’s okay, Mr Preston,” Julian called. “If you want to sit in…?”
“Not necessary. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Julian withdrew a paper from his pocket, the note she’d initially scribbled for her mother. “I’ll read this to you first.”
Slowly, watchful that he was holding her attention, he read the brief description of the incident and of the man who had attacked her. “Is that as you still remember it?”
She indicated ‘yes.’
“Good. We’ve questioned the tram conductor. He remembers the man you describe. He must have slipped off after you alighted. The conductor can’t swear to it. Would you know this man if you saw him again?”
She thought about it and finally blinked ‘no.’
“You are certain it was the man on the tram?”
She blinked ‘no’, then shut her eyes to indicate ‘yes’.
He laughed. “Not sure?”
With the use of pen, paper, and eye language, occasionally waiting when she drifted off before tackling the next issue, he gradually built a picture.
The man was a bald, middle-aged, labourer-type. She had not heard him speak. Though she’d not actually seen anyone, she thought that he was probably the same man who’d followed her on a previous occasion. Certainly, someone had. As then, the dog had alerted everyone. But, as Julian’s prompting discovered, this time the man had been quicker to attack. Possibly because he knew the dog would sound the alarm? If it hadn’t been for her mother’s constant watchfulness she might have been more seriously injured.
So why had she been she attacked? There was no reason she knew of why anyone would wish her harm. Probing gently, searching for answers, Julian painstakingly elicited the fact that she thought the man was a suburban prowler, one of a growing number. For some reason, maybe because she’d dressed with extra care that day, she must have attracted unwanted attention. It had happened before; Julian knew about that. This man, she shakily wrote, had merely gone too far.
“He was trying to kill you!” Julian exclaimed.
She blinked ‘no’.
“You don’t believe he was? Why?”
Why would anyone want to kill her?
“Write it down, Anne.”
She obeyed.
“You don’t believe it, because you don’t want to believe it. You never want to face facts, Anne.”
It had gone on too long. She closed her eyes. The oppressive haze of throbbing pain totally excluded him.
“Time for your syrup, love.” Her father’s voice penetrated the haze. “No more, Julian.”
“Thank you, Anne.” Julian’s soft lips brushed her forehead. “I’ll be back Saturday.”
Saturday. Would she be well by Saturday?
“With your permission, Mr Preston?”
“I’m not sure another visit so soon would be wise, Julian.”
She tried to protest and whimpered.
“It’s all right, Anne.” Her father comforted her. “He can come if you want. If you’re well enough. If you are well, there is the wedding. You haven’t forgotten?”
Distantly, she heard her father’s explanation to Julian that she was expected to play for a wedding at Margaret’s.
Saturday was a long way off.
The Choir Master had ordered the full ritualistic performance. His only daughter’s wedding was to be as it had been in the pre-war days, before the tightening of fiscal belts and the juggling of ration coupons. Her fiancee, a sailor, had arranged leave well in advance. Nothing had been left to chance. Anne wouldn’t dare to be sick.
Besides, except for her bruised throat, she was well again. The doctor had given her the all clear, her father had gone back to his duties and her mother was telling her there were people much worse off than she was and to get on with her life. This was an opportunity to try her legs, to assess whether she would be strong enough for work by next Monday.
The sun was shining. St. Margaret’s austere interior was temporarily brightened by slim silver vases of roses, ribboned pews, freshly polished timber, and the myriad colours of the whispering congregation. The women, employing war-time ingenuity, had redecorated antiquated hats, renovated outdated frocks, resurrected outmoded footwear, painstakingly re-darned well-worn stockings or even exhumed hidden silk hosiery saved for this special day.
At the altar the groom, together with his two naval attendants, fidgeted with the ribbons of their skinny uniforms, and stole increasingly impatient glances along the aisle down which the bride was to walk.
In their pews the choir riffled through sheet music, and watched Anne’s measured preparations. The soprano tried a trill, the tenor hawked in anticipation.
All was ready.
Save the bride.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty.....
Restless feet shuffled, the choir muttered, she replayed and again replayed introductions. She was falling into a trance, herself and Bach keeping happy company, when the tenor hissed her to attention.
She looked up. At the entrance door, hand raised in his customary wave, the Vicar was signaling the commencement of ceremonies.
Pumping additional air into the organ, she adjusted the music sheet, and set her fingers to the complex task of a rousing rendition of the Bridal March. The sorely tried congregation, thus alerted, heaved to its feet and turned its heads to inspect the progress of the bride.
As her fingers dutifully performed their practiced function, her view was unimpeded. Brides came in all sizes, ages, appearances, attitudes; blondes and brunettes, fussy and dignified, extrovert and introvert, giggly and reverent. She’d seen them all, mostly silly girls tieing themselves down to some clod like the sailor who’d waited for this one with unconcealed impatience.
The choir-master’s daughter, a shy mouse in her early twenties, was chocolate-box pretty. A frilled blonde hiding under a coy veil, she was mincing down the aisle on her father’s Napoleonic arm. The little Napoleon was a surprise. The opposite of his usual arrogant self, the Choir Master was flustered, insecure, nervous and startlingly unkempt. As he anchored himself into place behind the bride and groom his wife, from her post in the front pew, leaned forward to straighten his wrinkled rear end. He turned, glared, and audibly whispered vociferous objection. It was most unusual, and ludicrous.
Unexpectedly the Vicar, after silencing the organ with an imperious gesture, explained the late arrival to his audience. There had been a minor automobile accident. Apologies to all from all. No one, thank the Dear Lord, had been injured.
Other than the intriguing incident, nothing was different from all the other weddings and all the other brides and grooms over all the other years. The tenor’s solo went without a hitch, the choir’s anthem and the soprano’s trill were delivered to perfection. The Wedding March and the exodus, the closing down of the organ, the envelope with her cheque, the disrobing in the back room - all were as usual.
Except, at the completion of the day’s business, the tenor was waiting for her. Why?
“The Vicar asked me to wait.” The tenor answered her unspoken question.
She hung cap and gown on their hook. “Why?”
“He told me about the assault. He’s worried about you.”
She faced him, the pale young man with the thin blonde hair and the serious face and the silver voice. Apart from matters related to music and the choir, she’d hardly ever spoken to him. Why wasn’t he at the war? “Tell the Vicar – thank you. I’m all right.”
“I promised to drive you home.”
“I didn’t know you had a car.”
“It’s new.” The pallid face beamed with the pride of ownership.
“No thanks.”
“He made me promise. He had to go to the Reception. Otherwise he’d have driven you himself.”
“I’m all right.”
“I promised. You know how h
e is, Anne.”
Shaking her head, she stepped out onto the soft lawn. Already the premonitary chill of evening was biting through her thin frock. She shivered.
“You’re still not well, Anne.” Masterfully gripping her arm, he propelled her to the small grey Willys sedan parked at the kerb.
Beside it the tram, its motor clacking in preparation for the down-hill run, waited.
“I’ll catch the tram,” she protested.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
She turned. His eyes, ordinarily grey and bland and humourless, were dancing with amusement.
For how long had she known him? Forever, it seemed. Certainly for the four years since he’d arrived, a pimply student teacher at the Primary School down the road. Most of the young male teachers had enlisted, so there remained the unimportant though vaguely unsettling mystery of why he wasn’t in uniform.
“You are!” He laughed, a throaty teasing chuckle she found offensive. “You are afraid of me.”
“I’m not.” She flushed.
“Of you’re course not,” he opened the car door. “So get in the car.”
She hesitated; it would be much easier to just do it.
The sedan was warm and comfortable and smelled of new leather and after-shave and purred down the hill ahead of the dawdling tram. Without directions from her, he turned into Wilson Avenue and pulled up in front of the house.
“You know where I live.”
“We’ve been together a long time, Anne.”
Silly to be frightened. Colin had been around much longer than Julian.
She opened the passenger door.
“In the last war you’d have sent me a white feather.” He was looking straight ahead, through the car’s front window. His voice was colourless and his eyes screened from her, but his hands gripping the steering wheel were white-knuckled.
Tools of War Page 22
