Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  They wanted her to be a carbon copy of Beverley, she knew – Beverley who was content to amuse herself with flower arranging classes and helping her mother with her endless charity fund raising functions and who had now made a suitable match by announcing her engagement to Louis Reilly, youngest son of a prominent Melbourne family. That had been very much to Frances and Daniel’s liking – Louis was a worthy and earnest young man who had already gained himself a foothold on the ladder of success in his family’s bank. But privately Alys thought him a bore and a drip and the prospect of settling down to spend the rest of her life with a clone of Louis terrified her. She could not – would not – do it. There had to be more to life, surely, than learning and then using the social graces; there must be room for something between being a daughter and then a wife.

  Just what it was she wanted to do Alys was not sure. She only knew that deep inside her was a restless unfulfilled yearning and the same aching dissatisfaction which had filled her that Christmas long ago when she had begged for a toy garage and been given a beautiful china doll. She had tasted freedom briefly in Switzerland and now, back in the claustrophobic atmosphere of her parents’ world, she wished with her whole heart that she had made more of the chance to explore her own avenues and develop her own personality.

  Perhaps Beverley was happy to be the daughter Frances wanted – a genteel young lady without a thought in her head beyond making a ‘good’ marriage – but Alys knew she could not bear to follow in her footsteps. She glanced at her now as she hung onto Louis’s arm, a pale insipid girl whose light brown hair frizzed unflatteringly around a face turned a delicate shade of salmon by the heat and excitement, and felt the claustrophobia stir again. They would force her into the same mould if she stayed here, she was sure of it, but what was the alternative?

  ‘Alys, what are you doing hiding away here?’ Alys turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, her heart sinking. Frances’ mouth was set in a social smile but there was no mistaking the gimlet anger in her eyes. ‘ For heaven’s sake can’t you make the effort just for once to behave as we would wish you to? This is your sister’s engagement party. You must circulate.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Alys said.

  ‘Well do it then!’ She glanced around. ‘Look – there is Clarence Davenport all by himself. He was asking after you a moment ago. Go and speak to him – make him feel welcome. You know how shy he is.’

  Alys smiled wryly. She could have told her mother that when she had found herself alone with Clarence Davenport at a family gathering last Christmas he had been anything but shy. Spotty and unattractive he might be but it had not prevented him from trying to force himself upon her in a way she had found quite revolting. But to say as much would be little short of heresy. Like Louis, Clarence was, in her mother’s eyes, a ‘suitable’ young man.

  ‘Please, Alys!’ Frances commanded sharply.

  Obediently Alys moved away from the shelter of the potted palm. On her way across the floor she was accosted by a friend of her mother’s who commented on how grown up Alys was looking this evening and wanted to know what she would be doing now she had returned from Switzerland and when she, like Beverley, would be announcing her engagement. By the time Alys escaped Clarence was no longer alone – he and another young man were engaged in conversation. Alys was about to return gratefully to her corner when the stranger turned and she stopped, arrested by the look of him.

  He was not a tall man but the athletic proportions of his body made him appear so and the stark black of his dinner jacket was flattering to his springy fair hair and tanned skin. His features were good – a strong nose and jaw line and a well-shaped mouth – but there was something unusual about his face as if perhaps he had Jewish blood in his veins in spite of the fair hair. Alys felt a stirring of interest and crossed to where the two men were standing.

  ‘Hello, Clarence.’

  ‘Alys!’ Clarence’s voice was high pitched, competing with the music. ‘I was just saying I wondered where you were. Thought you couldn’t be missing from your sister’s engagement do – wouldn’t be quite the thing, would it? People might think you were jealous!’ He laughed, carried away by the daring of this remark.

  ‘I should hate anyone to think that,’ Alys returned smartly. ‘For one thing I’m not the jealous type, for another …’ Her voice tailed away meaningfully and she swivelled her eyes as if becoming aware of Clarence’s companion for the first time. ‘Hello. I don’t think we have met.’

  Brown eyes met hers. The smile in them made her tummy tip.

  ‘Oh sorry, Alys – awfully rude of me. This is Race Gratton – Race, Alys Peterson, daughter of the house.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ She liked his voice as much as the rest of him. His accent was stronger than she was used to but he was making no effort to hide it and there was no awe in his tone as there so often was when strangers were first introduced to one of the Peterson family.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ she said.

  ‘Alys – your glass is empty. Can I get you another drink?’ Clarence wittered.

  Alys, who had swopped a full glass for an empty one on her way across the room, glanced down and affected total surprise.

  ‘Oh so it is! Thank you, Clarrie, that would be lovely …’

  Left alone they looked at one another again and Alys felt the colour rising in her cheeks. Then both spoke together.

  ‘Do you live in Melbourne …?’

  ‘Lovely place you have here …’

  They broke off, laughing.

  ‘Go on, you first,’ he said.

  ‘All right. I was just asking if you live in Melbourne. I thought I knew all Bev and Louis’ friends.’

  ‘My sponsor does business with Louis.’

  ‘Your sponsor? I’m intrigued.’

  He smiled. ‘If I told you what I do you wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Oh, go on – I would! I promise!’

  ‘All right. I drive racing cars.’

  ‘You don’t!’

  ‘You see – I knew you wouldn’t believe me!’

  ‘Oh how exciting! What did you say your name was – Race …?’

  ‘Gratton. But you won’t have heard of me – yet.’

  ‘I’ve never met a racing driver before! I know a couple of jockeys – Daddy has a racehorse – but a racing driver …’ she caught sight of Clarence picking his way across the room carefully carrying a champagne flute. ‘Oh gosh, here comes Clarrie. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not really.’ A corner of his mouth quirked and she felt as if he was reading her mind. ‘ Do you want to dance?’

  Their eyes met like conspirators and she felt a giggle beginning inside her. ‘Yes. Shall we?’

  They moved quickly onto the floor to be swallowed up by the twirling couples and in her delight Alys had to control the desire to giggle again as she spotted a bemused Clarrie looking around for her.

  Race danced well, moving like an athlete with lazy grace and she liked the way he held her, not too loosely, not too close, with no suggestion of the pumping action that amused her with so many of her partners. She longed to ask him more about his career but felt that to be too enthusiastic might make her appear childish.

  ‘Night and day … you are the one!’ the orchestra played and Alys hummed along with it. No one had ever made her feel this way before. There had been a young man in Switzerland – a student – but the reason she had gone out with him had had more to do with not wanting to be the only girl in the school without a boyfriend than it had with her feelings for him. But this – this was different; exciting and exhilarating, it bubbled inside her like the champagne. Yet only an hour or so ago she had been bored, restless, convinced that nothing wonderful could ever happen to her here!

  ‘This is quite a party, isn’t it?’ he said later. They were at the buffet table, helping themselves with all the vigour of their youthful appetites to smoked salmon canapés, chicken in aspic and deliciously decorative salads.

&
nbsp; ‘Hmm.’ Alys mumbled, her mouth full.

  ‘You don’t sound very thrilled by it,’ Race said.

  She swallowed the mouthful and dabbed her lips with a lace-edged napkin.

  ‘I’m not. Parties are colossal bores – especially the big ones.’

  ‘Familiarity breeds contempt!’ There was a strange expression in his eyes. ‘But actually I thought you were enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Yes, tonight I am!’ she popped a radish sculpted into the shape of a water lily into her mouth. ‘I have enjoyed myself tonight.’ Then, realizing what she had said, she held the napkin to her lips again in an effort to hide the flush of colour that was reddening her cheeks. ‘Oh, that radish was hot!’

  ‘Why don’t you like parties then?’ he pressed her.

  ‘Oh – having to be polite to a lot of boring people. See – there’s the Hon. Mrs Nancy Fielden looking now – she’ll be after me in a minute. ‘‘How you’ve grown, Alys!’’ ’ she mimicked. ‘ ‘‘And how was Switzerland?’’ They all say the same, like a gramophone record that’s stuck. The only way to escape from them is to dance. And I’m not really that keen on dancing.’

  ‘But you dance well.’

  ‘Liar!’ she giggled. ‘Anyway, it’s just that I can always think of so many things I’d rather be doing.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like driving. Oh, I do envy you!’

  ‘Yes, I guess I am lucky, but then …’ His eyes flickered around the room and to her surprise she thought she saw something like envy mirrored in them. Race had not seemed the type to be interested in material things. ‘ Do you want to see my car?’ he asked suddenly.

  Her own eyes widened. ‘You have it here?’

  ‘Not my racing car, though actually they did use to race in them. It’s a Morgan – a three-wheeler. You’d really like to see it?’

  ‘You bet!’

  They slipped out. The night air stung slightly with the last chill of winter and Alys wished she had brought a wrap. The cars of those who had driven themselves to the party had been parked in the broad drive behind the house and moonlight gleamed coldly on Bentleys, Mercedes, and a Lagonda. Race led the way to his Morgan, parked in the deep shadow of the outbuildings. Smart yellow, smoothly beautiful, it was in no way outclassed by the other vehicles. Alys touched the bonnet reverently.

  ‘Oh, it’s marvellous! Where did you get it?’

  ‘I inherited it.’ He paused, slightly awkward. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘It was your father’s?’ she pressed him.

  ‘No.’ Another pause. ‘I’d offer to take you for a spin but I’m not going to be able to get it out until the others move. There’s no reverse gear on the three-wheeler. But, perhaps some other time …?’

  She nodded excitedly. ‘Oh yes, I’d love that! Can I just sit in it though? Just for a minute?’

  ‘You have to climb over the side.’

  ‘Oh – I’ll never do it in this skirt!’

  ‘Come here, I’ll lift you.’

  He swung her up into his arms and she was amazed at how strong he was. So slim yet so strong! As she hung onto him she could feel the hard muscle in his shoulders through the immaculate cut of his dinner jacket and went weak inside again.

  When he had deposited her on the seat he climbed in beside her. Above the rooftops the moon was a perfect crescent and the stars were sharp and bright, a million pinpricks in the velvet dark. The music of the orchestra wafted down to them on the slight breeze. She shivered and, noticing, he took off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

  Happiness sang in her veins, as haunting and melodic as the music so that she felt somehow as if she was no longer real but living a romantic fairy tale. Race was talking, telling her about the car, about his ambitions, about what it was like to drive at breakneck speed with the wheel juddering in your hands and the metal straining and the huge wheels holding the track as you cornered, driving, not braking, through the bends, and she thought she could go on listening to his voice forever. But in spite of his jacket the cold night air was beginning to get to her and when she shivered again he noticed.

  ‘Come on, we’d better go back inside before you catch pneumonia.’ He climbed out and came around to help her out. She put her arms around his neck where the hair grew soft yet springy down to his collar line and jarred her cheek against his chin. It felt ever so faintly rough and a tiny corkscrew of excitement twisted inside her. It was as if there was something of the forbidden about that touch, innocent though it was, and it added a new dimension to the magic of the encounter.

  He put her down and she was almost surprised to find the ground solid beneath her feet. For just a moment his arms went around her beneath his jacket holding her so close that she thought she could feel the beat of his heart before she realized it was her own, thundering against the wall of her chest. Then his lips brushed hers, lingered for a brief caressing moment and were gone.

  ‘Come on, I don’t want to get into your father’s bad books for keeping you out here to catch your death of cold when you should be inside doing your duty. After all, it is your sister’s engagement party.’

  ‘Oh my goodness yes! Suppose they do the formal announcement and I’m not there! What’s the time? Is the music still playing? Come on!’

  Light spilled out of the house and onto the lawns in a golden flood. Hand in hand, laughing, they ran towards it.

  ‘Who is this young man you are going out with?’ Frances asked.

  Alys, fixing her ear-bobs in the dressing table mirror, looked up to see her mother standing behind her.

  ‘Race Gratton.’

  ‘I know that,’ Frances said sharply. ‘There’s no need to be impertinent.’

  ‘I wasn’t being. I was just telling you …’

  ‘I know his name. We would never have countenanced you going out with someone whose name we did not even know. In fact, if we were still in England he would have had to come to see Daddy and give a full account of himself before we allowed it. No – what Gratton is he, I’d like to know? I don’t think we have come across any Grattons.’

  ‘He comes from Yallourn.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Frances’ lips tightened a shade. ‘The thing is, Alys, I’m not at all sure he is the sort of boy we want you associating with. There are some very fine families in Melbourne. The Davenports to name but one. Clarrie is keen on you I know. And one knows where one is with one’s own sort of people.’

  Alys swivelled on her stool, looking up at her mother pleadingly.

  ‘Please give him a chance, Mummy! I’m sure you’d like him if you got to know him!’

  Frances lifted her chin, holding her shoulders very stiff and still.

  ‘I very much doubt if it will last long enough for that,’ she said.

  Race Gratton had been born twenty-two years earlier, the son of a miner who worked the huge brown coal deposits around Yallourn. His father, a hardworking but unambitious immigrant who had modified his almost unpronounceable surname to the more easily handled ‘ Gratton’, had expected nothing but that his son should follow him in his occupation. But, from the moment he had pushed his first toy car, carved for him by his father from a block of wood, across the scrubbed wood floor of their tiny but spotless kitchen, Race was set firmly on a very different course.

  He was just four when he went missing from home and after his frantic mother had alerted the neighbourhood he was eventually found in the town garage sitting on a pile of tyres and watching, fascinated, while Fred Holder, the proprietor, tinkered under the bonnet of a farmer’s ute.

  At twelve he paid his first visit to the Motodrome in Melbourne and there, excited to fever pitch as he watched the cars race crazily around the concrete bowl, he had recognized for the first time the ambition that was burning within him. This was what he wanted to do – drive a car with the skill and courage these drivers displayed, smell the oil, feel the surge of power that as a spectator he could only hear, see the dust spew up from the grav
el track. He had told his father that night what he wanted and had been hurt but not discouraged when he was laughed down.

  Someone else to whom he confessed his ambitions did not mock, however. Fred Holder had retired now, but his son Jeff who had taken the garage on had warmed to young Race’s interest in all things mechanical. He encouraged Race, gave him jobs to do and taught him everything he knew. At fifteen Race was driving anything on wheels – two, three or four. At sixteen he owned his first motorcycle, saved for from the money he earned working for Jeff. From there it was a short step to racing motorcycles at the Motodrome – mostly hybrids made up of parts Jeff was able to acquire and put together with his help.

  Race’s ambition was still to drive cars but they were becoming too fast for conditions in the death-defying Motodrome. After several drivers were killed car races there ceased, though the motorcycle races continued and Race was able to keep on riding. Then, when he was twenty years old, his big opportunity came. Midget car speedway was introduced at the Motodrome and Race was right in there in his fast and noisy little car built around a motorcycle engine.

  His daring and skill paid off; before long he was one of the heroes of the midget car racing. But still it was not enough for him. With the backing of Jeff Holder he acquired an Austin Nippy, working on it every spare minute, testing it, modifying it, fitting cannibalized parts, souping it up. Now at last it was almost ready – in time for the start of the spring and summer season. This year the Grand Prix was to be held at Bathurst, over the border in New South Wales, and Race was determined he would be there lined up with the others, the enthusiasts like himself in their hybrids, and the rich boys; backed by money that came from wool and farming, in their MGs.

  Nothing, he promised himself, would stand in his way now. And no one, especially beautiful and rich young ladies, would ever ask ‘Race who?’ again.

  Alys leaned back in the passenger seat of the Morgan lifting her chin and half closing her eyes as the wind whipped her hair across her face and blew breath back into her throat.