Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  Chapter Nine

  Late summer sunlight filtered through the leaves of the big old plum tree in the walled garden at the rear of the Toorak mansion, making dappled patterns on the grass and on Alys’ face as she sat in the lounging chair which had been carefully positioned for her within the patch of shade.

  Oh, it was so good to be out of the confines of the house for a little while, good to smell the faintly cidery odour of the orchard, hear the buzz and whirr of insect life in the rioting end-of-season flowers, feel the sun warm on her skin. Her mother had not wanted her to come outside, of course. ‘I don’t think you should attempt to walk, Alys. It’s very foolish!’ she had admonished, but Alys had persuaded Morrie, the chauffeur and her greatest friend amongst the servants, to carry the chair out for her and then give her a helping hand across the lawn so that she could sit in it. The effort had taken its toll on her far more than she had expected – the pain still made her grit her teeth as she hung onto Morrie’s arm and crossed the lawn, step by careful step – but oh, it had been worth it! And nothing was going to spoil her pleasure in this longed for excursion back into the normal everyday world – not her mother’s disapproval, which would replace her claustrophobic loving concern for the next twenty-four hours at least, not the prospect of the painful trek back across the lawn when the sun began to go down, and certainly not her sister Beverley who had brought out a sun-lounger to sit beside her.

  Alys cast a sidelong glance at her sister, lying with the skirt of her cotton sundress draped delicately around pale freckled legs that had managed to survive yet another Australian summer without a trace of tan, and gave her head a small shake. She did not understand Beverley. She never would. It wasn’t that she did not love her, she did, she supposed, and when they had been the breadth of a continent apart she had thought of her quite fondly. But when they were together they seemed to rub one another up the wrong way continually.

  This afternoon for instance. Beverley visited regularly once or twice a week bringing Robyn, her little daughter, with her and when she did she always spent the entire time in the house talking to Frances. Not so today. She had joined Alys in the garden – at Frances’suggestion, Alys suspected. She had said as much to Beverley.

  ‘I suppose Mother has sent you out to make sure I behave myself and don’t start jitterbugging all over the lawn!’

  But Beverley had not seen the funny side.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Alys. Although,’ she had added slyly, ‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’

  Determined not to spoil her enjoyment of the afternoon Alys had bitten back the swell of irritation. Let it go. It did not matter.

  A breeze stirred the leaves of the plum tree making the pattern of shade flicker on the girls’ faces. As if touched by a sudden finger of doom, Beverley sat up abruptly looking around with obvious anxiety.

  ‘Robyn! Robyn – where are you?’

  ‘She can’t be far away, Bev. There’s no way she could get out,’ Alys soothed.

  ‘Yes, but …’ Beverley swung her legs over the edge of the lounger. ‘Oh there she is! Robyn, come out of that sun, darling. You’ll burn or get sunstroke. One or the other.’ She got up, crossing the lawn to where a shiny golden head was just visible over a clump of purple dahlias, scooped up the child in one arm and the wooden horse on wheels she had been playing with in the other and carried them back to the shade of the plum tree.

  Robyn, who had been enjoying herself in her secret world, yelled lustily as Beverley dumped her beside the lounger.

  ‘Here we are, Robyn, you can play with Dobbin here.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ Robyn grizzled. She struggled to her feet, a small round pink bundle in sundress and floppy hat, and began to toddle back towards the dahlias.

  ‘Robyn, no!’ Beverley jumped up again, brought Robyn back once more and stood over her threateningly. ‘Stay here or Mummy will be cross.’

  Alys began to feel a little like an oyster when the speck of grit invades its shell.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Bev. You shouldn’t namby-pamby her.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘You do. She wouldn’t get sunstroke. She’s got her hat on and the dahlias are much bigger than she is anyway. You just like her where you can keep an eye on everything she does.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Beverley asked hotly. ‘She’s my baby – I should think it would be strange if I didn’t want to look after her. You’re not a mother – you wouldn’t understand.’

  A sharp little pain that had nothing to do with her wound shot through Alys. Strange how it could still hurt – to have carried a child, even for such a short time, and to have lost it. Strange, too, that others should assume she had no feelings in the matter – as if being seventeen and unmarried had rendered her immune from normal maternal emotions.

  ‘When I have children of my own I shall make darned sure I don’t wrap them up in cotton wool,’ she said after a moment. ‘And when they are old enough to have lives of their own I shall let them fly the nest, too. You’ve got to let them go. There’s nothing worse than imposing your will on grown-up children.’

  ‘You would think like that,’ Beverley said crossly. ‘You’ve always been a rebel.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Alys said, ‘ Oh, I admit I’ve never conformed and acted out Mummy’s every whim the way you have, but I certainly wasn’t a rebel. You have no idea how much I wanted their approval!’

  ‘You had a funny way of showing it. And you haven’t changed much either. Take this business of insisting you are going back to Darwin the moment you are fit. It’s worrying Mummy to death I know. Surely for her sake …’

  Alys sighed. Oh yes, impossible to spend an afternoon with Beverley without disagreeing about something. And the bone of contention this time was to be her future plans. She should have known her mother would have told Beverley about the fuss that had ensued when she had mentioned her intention of returning to Northern Territory and her Red Cross work as soon as she was fit – and known too that Beverley would raise the subject at the first opportunity.

  ‘Why should I be made to feel guilty about wanting to do my bit for the war effort?’ she demanded.

  ‘You could do your bit for the war effort from here.’ Bev made a grab for Robyn who was on the point of toddling off once more. ‘Mummy does sterling work raising funds. She would be only too pleased for you to help her. So you have no excuse – none at all.’

  ‘Look, Bev, just because you are happy to stay here and fit in with Mother’s idea of what her little girls should be doesn’t mean I have to,’ Alys said. She was beginning to lose her temper, since she had been ill it seemed to be on a very short fuse. ‘I don’t want to raise funds. I want to work in the field, doing what I’m good at. In any case, all this is a bit premature, isn’t it? It’s all I can do to walk across the lawn, never mind driving an ambulance out of Katherine or Alice Springs or wherever the Northern Territory HQ is now that they have been evacuated from Darwin.’

  ‘Just as well to make up your mind now that it wouldn’t be wise even to think about going back,’ Beverley said sanctimoniously. ‘For heaven’s sake be sensible, Alys, and think of someone other than yourself for once …’ she broke off, turning to look across the lawn towards the house. ‘Oh, here is Mummy now, and Dr Whitehorn too. They’re probably looking for you.’

  Alys followed her line of vision and saw Frances crossing the lawn with Donald Whitehorn who had been both family physician and friend since the Petersons had come to Melbourne more than fifteen years ago. Frances appeared animated and she greet Alys almost gaily.

  ‘You see, Alys, you have been caught! I told you it was not advisable for you to leave the house and now here is Dr Whitehorn to see you.’

  ‘I can see her perfectly well out here, Frances,’ Donald Whitehorn said equably. He was a small compact man whose receding hairline gave a look of mature wisdom to his pleasantly ordinary face. ‘The fresh air will do you good, Alys.’

  ‘I suppo
se you will want us to leave you alone in that case.’ Beverley got up from the lounger, managing both to look and sound the perfect martyr. ‘Robyn – now where are you, darling? Auntie Alys wants some privacy.’

  Frances perched herself on the edge of the sunbed Bev had left vacant. ‘I don’t suppose that applies to the patient’s mother, does it, Donald?’ Her playful tone was more marked than ever. She was actually flirting, Alys realized with a shock.

  ‘It’s up to Alys.’ He smiled at her. ‘I have no objection.’

  Alys lifted her chin a fraction. ‘I’d rather see Dr Whitehorn alone, Mother.’

  A tiny frown puckered the bridge of Frances’ nose. ‘What on earth do you mean, Alys? I’m concerned, naturally, about your progress. I’d like to hear what Donald has to say.’

  ‘Mother, please …’

  ‘Just a few minutes, Frances, and then I’ll be happy to take up your kind offer of a cup of tea.’ He patted her hand, the soul of tact, but Frances was bristling.

  ‘I can’t think why you should want me out of the way, Alys. But since you do – I’ll be in the house.’ She rose. ‘Come along Beverley. Let’s leave your sister with the doctor.’

  Alys watched them go and sighed. Why couldn’t they let her be? Why should they make her feel awkward and uncooperative simply because she wanted the basic privacies which were her right?

  ‘How are you feeling, Alys?’ Donald Whitehorn asked. With Frances out of the way his manner had become more professional.

  ‘Oh, not too bad. Improving, I think. At least I made it out here – though I must confess it took more out of me than I would admit to Mother.’

  ‘Ah-hah!’ He smiled. ‘Was that what you didn’t want her to hear?’

  ‘Not especially. I just wanted to be able to talk to you …’ she took a quick breath. ‘How do you see the future for me, Doctor?’

  ‘You’re doing well. You’re a strong young woman and you should make steady progress now back to health. I wouldn’t like to say exactly how long it will be but it’s my guess that before the end of the year you will be good as new.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Alys asked quietly.

  ‘No, I just said I wouldn’t like to make a definite prediction as to how long …’

  ‘Not how long,’ she said. ‘How completely good as new?’

  She saw the muscle in his cheek tic and suddenly his eyes were avoiding hers. She saw it and felt her stomach fall away.

  ‘Well, Alys …’ His tone was hesitant.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said with a brightness she was far from feeling. ‘You don’t have to keep the truth from me. I think I have guessed it already.’

  His eyes met hers again but the cheeriness had gone from his face.

  ‘In that case I may as well be straight with you, Alys. Your injuries were such that although you will be able to resume a normal life in all other spheres, I am afraid it is almost certain you will never be able to be a mother.’

  She had known it yet somehow it still managed to come as a shock. The soft sounds of the afternoon went on around her – the crickets still chirping in the grass, the wasps humming in the pear tree; high in the sky an aeroplane drew a white vapour trail; out on the road a car honked its horn. And closer – somewhere between here and the house – Robyn’s voice, clear and childish, called: ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  She heard it all and felt far removed from it as if she was separated from that other world by a wall of crystal. Only Robyn’s voice had the power to touch her, make the bridge between the pool of dangerous stillness within her and reality. Harsh cruel reality. Once she had borne a child who would have been just a little older than Robyn. But that child had been lost to her. Now there would never be another.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Whitehorn,’ she said and was almost surprised to hear her own voice so cool and controlled. ‘ Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Alys,’ he said. ‘But you wanted to know. And I do believe that in every other respect you will be able to lead a perfectly normal life.’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I shall make certain of that.’ But there was a catch in her voice now.

  When Donald Whitehorn left her to go back to the house and drink tea with Frances she sat for a long while in silence. It was not fair. Oh God, it was not fair. Even now, before the rawness of the truth had fully come to her, she knew there would be times when the knowledge of her incompleteness would be almost too much to bear. But thinking like that was useless. She had suspected as much and tried to prepare herself for it with the cliché she knew deep in her heart to be no less than the truth. At least she was alive. At least she still had two arms and two legs, her sight and her hearing. And one day soon she would be strong enough to take up her life where it had left off. It was a great deal more than many thousands of poor souls caught up in this war had been left with. And as a price to pay for her freedom Alys knew she would do it all again.

  Chapter Ten

  Tara stood on the newly constructed stage gesticulating wildly with her arms to indicate to Dev just where she needed the spot to fall. ‘Here! No – here! That’s it. Now, is my face in shadow or can you see it clearly?’

  ‘I can see it – and very pretty it looks too!’ Dev’s voice called back from the darkness.

  Tara’s dimples tucked in annoyance. Couldn’t the wretched man take this seriously for even a minute? But she bit back the sharp retort that hovered on her lips. Dev and his lights were a necessity if the concert was to go on and really he had been a tower of strength. She couldn’t afford to upset him now.

  ‘Right. Block that one in then. And then give me another pool over here …’ she moved stage left, close to the steps up which her performers would make their entrances. ‘No, here – here! Not on the front row of the audience!’

  ‘She’s not only pretty, she’s bossy as well!’ Dev’s voice remarked.

  ‘It’s bossy I have to be if this show is ever to get off the ground!’ she retorted. ‘ We haven’t got this far with nothing but moonshine, I’d have you know!’

  He manoeuvred the lights to the position she wanted them, blocked them in on his chart and walked down to the stage.

  ‘No, credit where it’s due, Tara, and you’re making a fine job of it,’ he said, serious at last. ‘ Who would think a couple of weeks ago this was no more than a twinkle in my eye?’

  It was true. In the four weeks since Tara had gained the GO’s approval, arrangements for the concert had gone ahead by leaps and bounds. An orderly who had been a sign writer in civilian life had offered to paint the scenery as it was built by the carpenter and several tins of paint to do the job had mysteriously appeared one morning. Would-be performers, too, had offered their services and besides the tenor and the conjuring surgical officer, Tara had auditioned the camp dentist, who recited the poems of Banjo Patterson with the drollery that he maintained came from spending his life looking ‘down in the mouth’, and a masseuse who was a wonder when it came to playing the spoons. In an effort to provide variety Tara had persuaded two of the medicos to work up a comic drag routine.

  By far the most important member of the company, however, was a US airman who was a patient at the hospital. He was a talented pianist and ancient and worn-looking as the camp piano was, Joe the Yank was able to jangle it to tuneful life, playing by ear any melody required of him.

  There had been hitches, of course – Tara would have been surprised if there had not been – but the CO had been as good as his word in ironing them out. When white ants threatened to eat through the stage supports, it was Colonel Adamson who signed for the release of the corrugated iron that was needed to reinforce it; when Sister Bottomley refused to allow her to change duties so as to be able to rehearse with her cast, an appeal to Colonel Adamson quickly changed that. Even the paint had necessitated a visit to his tent office when Tara learned that he had been discreetly responsible for its appearance.

  ‘I must say the CO has been a great help,’ she said t
o Dev now.

  Dev replied with a non-committal grunt.

  ‘It’s true,’ Tara insisted. ‘Anything that goes wrong, I have only to see him and it is all worked out for me.’

  ‘I’ll bet it is,’ Dev said sarcastically.

  ‘Tara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now why are you putting the CO down? You wouldn’t have that nice scaffolding for your lighting box if it wasn’t for him. Sure didn’t he send for me and offer it himself?’

  Dev swung himself up onto the stage beside her.

  ‘Has it not occurred to you, darlin’, that he’s being a bit too helpful?’

  ‘Certainly not! What are you saying, Sean Devlin – that the CO …?’

  ‘He’s a man, Tara. And you are a very attractive woman.’

  ‘Oh fiddlesticks! It’s a prude that you are!’ Tara snapped, all the more tardy for the finger of guilt that prickled up her spine. Perhaps she had turned on the charm a little. She had thought of the Colonel as a staid senior officer, the very epitome of respectability, and she had played up to him a little without a thought as to the consequences. You are slipping, Tara Kelly, she told herself. You of all people should know the way it can be …

  ‘What is it to you, anyway?’ she asked tartly. ‘ If the show is a success that’s all that matters, surely? You’re always putting me down and pointing the finger at my morals – what’s the point of having a reputation if you don’t make use of it sometimes?’

  ‘I ought to put you across my knee and spank you,’ Dev chided but there was an undertone to his joking which suddenly made Tara uncomfortable.

  ‘Never mind the CO, let’s get back to what is really important – this concert!’ she said sharply. ‘Now, I am going to arrange for chairs for the walking wounded but everyone else is going to have to bring their own seats. And we’ll pray the weather stays good.’

  ‘Oh, it will,’ Dev assured her. ‘This is Northern Territory, remember, and there is nothing drier than the Dry here!’

  ‘Oh, Dev!’ Tara said, solemn suddenly. ‘I’m so scared something is going to go wrong! I never realized before just how many things could. None of my turns are pros – they could dry up with stage fright or anything. Then there’s the stage – I know it’s been reinforced but those white ants will eat anything they can get their teeth into – it could give way beneath the lot of us. Your lights could catch fire. And me …’ she broke off, pressing her hands across her mouth. ‘It’s so long since I sang maybe I can’t do it any more!’