by Janet Tanner
‘Tara – are you awake?’
She squinted, trying to cut out as much light as possible. Sister Kate Harris was bending over her, her freckled face anxious.
‘Yes,’ Tara said. The effort made her mouth hurt – lips, gums, teeth, chin.
‘How are you feeling?’
For a moment Tara did not answer. She lay still, assessing. There was not a square inch of her body which did not hurt. It had been like this every waking moment for the last three days, but without doubt it was the constant headache which was the worst.
‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘And that fan – it makes such a racket. It’s making my head throb. Can’t you turn it off?’
‘If I do you won’t be able to stand the heat in here,’ Kate said.
Tara moistened her lips. They were dry, so dry, but the spittle made them sting again. ‘I can’t win, can I?’
‘No,’ Kate said cheerfully. ‘ Now you know what it’s like to be a patient.’
Tara rolled her head on the pillow. There was nothing to see but a wall of canvas. She was in a corner of the tent ward reserved for maternity cases but they had partitioned it off to give her a modicum of privacy.
‘How long have I been asleep?’ she asked.
‘Hours. Captain Allingham has looked in at least three times to see you. And – not so pleasant – the officer investigating came again hoping to find you awake.’
‘Oh.’ Tara shuddered. She knew what that meant. More questions. And she knew none of the answers. They were all lost in that terrifying blackness between the struggle in the bushes and waking up for the first time to find herself in the tent ward. Somewhere between she had been raped and beaten. But she could remember nothing – only the vaguest of impressions. In some ways it was more disturbing than clear and painful memories would have been. To know she had been used and abused and to be able to recall nothing about it. ‘ Who was it? Who did this to you?’ they had asked her when she first emerged from the blackness and she had only been able to whisper: ‘I don’t know. I don’t know!’
At first they had not believed her. ‘Don’t shield him!’ they had said. And later, when her denials became distracted, they had tried new avenues. What impressions had she gained? How tall was he? Did he speak? Had she smelled anything identifiable? Felt his hair, his face? Did he have a moustache or was he clean shaven.
‘I don’t know! Why won’t you believe I don’t remember anything?’ she cried. But she knew they would not give up easily and in the half world where she drifted between sleeping and waking she tried to answer the questions.
In vain. Trying to remember simply made her head hurt and she could recall nothing. Again and again she returned to the moment when she had heard the bushes rustle, trying to fill in some other detail – a smell or sound – but there was nothing. And the moment when the coat had gone over her head was a jumble of impressions so confused as to be useless. How did she know it was a coat? they had asked her. She had not even been able to answer that with any certainty. Because it was heavy material, perhaps, or because she had felt the buttons or smelled the rubberized fabric. Did she remember feeling the buttons? No. Then how did she know it was not a groundsheet, such as many of the audience had brought to sit on for the concert? That was more likely, surely; in the Dry no one would be wearing a rubberized ovecoat.
Wearily she agreed. But it did nothing to help identify her attacker and that was one of the nastiest aspects of the whole grim business. It could have been anyone.
Anyone, she thought, and there was a sick hollow sound even to the word itself. Anyone. It could have been a vagrant, of course, but most of those had been rounded up by the provosts. It could have been someone from one of the other camps in the area, someone who had been at the concert, perhaps, and been incited by her performance and their own sexual frustration. But why should anyone hang around in the clearing? Wasn’t it more likely he was from 138 – someone who had been in the officers’ mess, perhaps, and who had followed her back to her quarters? It was a sickening thought. Alibis would be checked out, she guessed, uniforms examined. But unless the culprit could be found Tara would spend the rest of her service looking at this man and that, wondering – Was it you? Could it have been you?
Tara moistened her lips again and Kate noticed.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Mm. Yes. Oh – I feel so thick …’
Kate bent over her, then straightened, a smile playing about her mouth. ‘ Oh-oh – here he is again!’
‘Who? Not the provost …?’ Tara turned her head on the pillow, following Kate’s line of vision. ‘Oh – Richard!’
He came around the tent flap, bending his tall frame, and suddenly she was overcome with self-consciousness.
‘She’s awake now,’ Kate said, and to Tara: ‘ I’ll leave you for a while. But I won’t be far away if you want anything.’
Richard sat down beside her bed leaning over to examine her face.
‘I must look a fright,’ she said.
One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘A bit. But nothing that won’t mend.’ Then a shadow darkened his eyes. ‘ You still haven’t remembered anything?’
‘No! I keep telling them … have they asked you to ask me now?’
‘Oh no. I’m the one who got most of the questions thrown at me.’
‘You?’
‘I was the last person to see you before …’
‘But that is ridiculous!’ she tried to lift herself but a sharp pain in her ribs made her fall back again. ‘Surely they don’t think …’
‘I hope I have convinced them that I am not that sort of animal. It doesn’t alter the fact that I feel responsible.’
‘Responsible? Why?’
‘I should have made sure you were safe. I can say I’m sorry, Tara, but it doesn’t help now, does it?’
‘You don’t have to be sorry!’ she struggled to form the words with lips that refused to work properly. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry if they suspected you. I was the one who went wandering about in the middle of the night. If I’d gone straight in it would never have happened.’
‘Don’t!’ He took her hand, stroking the scratched skin with his thumb. ‘I know we have been trying to bring back the memory – we want to get the beast who did this to you. But the medical evidence is that you were probably unconscious from the moment your head struck the stone and it is my opinion that it’s only distressing to you trying to remember. I think now that what you should do is try to forget.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘That’s not going to be easy. Especially when I hurt all over.’
‘No, but it will get better – and quite quickly now. It’s superficial damage only. That is not what concerns me.’ He paused and Tara saw the anxious, faraway expression in his eyes as his mind raced over other, less tangible effects. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Tara, I promise,’ he said.
You don’t have to. She almost said it – the words were there; hovering on her lips. But the look in his eyes stopped her.
When had anyone ever looked at her like that before – with so much caring, so much compassion, so much love? Oh, she had seen desire often enough, and lust. But not tender concern – never that. Now his eyes were a fire at which she could warm herself, surrounding her with: a glow which took away all her pain, made her forget every moment of shadowy horror.
I would go through anything – anything – to have him look at me like that, she thought.
The drugs were beginning to take a hold again, dragging her back into muzziness. But sleep held no terrors for her and the last thing she was aware of before drifting back into unconsciousness was his thumb, still stroking the back of her hand.
When she was fit enough to sit out for a few hours Colonel Adamson came to see Tara.
‘Bad business, m’dear – shocked us all,’ he said, compressing his large frame onto the economy size ward chair. ‘And I’m afraid to say we are no closer to identifying the culprit. I’m of the opinion th
at we can safely lay the blame with one of the camps – so damned many around here – but every line of enquiry seems to draw a blank.’
Tara nodded. With her returning strength, she was beginning to be glad the enquiries had proved fruitless. It was disconcerting not to know who her attacker had been, of course, but an identification now would mean going over the whole ghastly episode again, more questioning – and worse. If there was a court martial she would be called to give evidence. Tara knew all about trials. The defendant was not the only one to find himself in the dock, the victim was on trial too. And there was plenty in Tara’s past which would not stand up to interrogation. Already there were those who, like Anastasia Bottomley, murmured that Tara Kelly had only got what she had asked for. Let a good defence counsel loose on her past life and she would be finished at 138 AGH.
‘I’m afraid, m’dear, this sort of thing is one of the scourges of war,’ the CO went on. ‘When men think they may be about to die it can have an unfortunate effect on them. But let us not talk about that any more – let’s talk about you. I expect you would like some leave when you are fit enough – go home and have a good rest.’
‘Home?’ Tara’s look was puzzled, causing the Colonel to wonder what effect the rape had had on her state of mind.
‘Yes, Sydney, isn’t it?’ he reminded her gently. ‘I’m sure we could arrange some leave for you …’
‘No!’ Tara said quickly. ‘I don’t want any leave.’
‘Oh.’ He looked at her narrowly. ‘You are not thinking of leaving us altogether, I hope. It would be a great pity. A tragedy. It won’t be easy for you, I know, but we shall all be doing our utmost to help you adjust. And you will be working for me. You won’t have to face hordes of people and you may depend on me to look after you.’
A knife edge of hatred for all men scythed through Tara. They were all the same when it came to the crunch, weren’t they? Maybe she did not know who the bastard was who had raped her but he did not really differ in any way that mattered from all the others – Red, Dimitri, the renegade wharfies, the CO … Only one man is indifferent, she thought. Richard. And if he knew the truth about me, he wouldn’t want me.
Weak tears choked in her throat and ran down her cheeks. The CO rose, well meaning but embarrassed. ‘Look, you’re still not strong, m’dear. A thing like this can affect you in many ways. It may be that I should get Captain Kylie to have a chat with you.’
‘No, thank you!’ Tara said, horrified. Captain Kylie was the psychology expert, the doctor called in when men went ‘troppo’ – or worse. The very thought that she might need his attentions was enough to make her want to cry all the harder, but she controlled herself with an effort. ‘No – I’ll be all right.’
‘Good. Good.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘We’re all behind you, Tara.’
She nodded and wished that she could take some comfort in the sentiment. At times like this it looked like being a long road back.
Chapter Twelve
Richard Allingham pulled the ute into a clearing beneath the gums and switched off the engine. Then he turned to Tara who was sitting beside him, sliding his arm along the back of the seat and around her shoulders.
‘Would you like to walk for a bit – or just sit?’
‘Oh …’ she hesitated, tossing it around in her mind. ‘I’m bone lazy, really. For choice I’d sit and sit, especially since you were lucky enough to get the keys to the ute today. But I suppose we ought to stretch our legs.’ She giggled and he thought it was one of the most heartening sounds he had ever heard.
Six weeks now had passed since the attack, six weeks when he had anxiously watched as the cuts and scratches healed on her face and body and wondered what would happen to the scars on her mind.
Oh, what wouldn’t he like to do to the bastard responsible if ever he got his hands on him! But he had never been caught. For a time there had been the fear that the monster might strike again but so far at least that fear had proved unjustified. The nurses still walked from the wards to their quarters in twos – all except Anastasia Bottomley who boasted that any man who attacked her would soon wish he had never been born. But then Anastasia was not Tara. Anastasia was a formidable woman, more than capable of taking care of herself, whilst Tara …
Tara needed looking after. He was supposed to have been doing just that on the night of the concert and he had failed. He intended to make very certain he did not fail again.
The Dry had really taken hold now, the lush greenery becoming withered and yellow, and the dry earth spewed up in red clouds from the track. It was hot, but not so hot as to be unbearable, except sometimes between noon and two or three. When he took her out, Richard usually managed to split his duty so that they could get the benefit of the late afternoon. It was safer to drive on the Track during the day – in the dark there was always the danger of hitting a buffalo or kangaroo. But that was not his only reason for choosing to take her out during the hours of daylight – after what had happened he thought that perhaps Tara might be more comfortable in the company of a man whilst it was light. She was, after all, a young and innocent girl – heaven only knew how such a thing could affect her. He had seen for himself the way she shied away from the CO whenever he patted her hand or knee – and been surprised that Adamson had not noticed it himself. But then Adamson did seem to have a blind spot where Tara was concerned. Richard thought back to the night of the concert remembering how he had rescued Tara, and suffered another pang of guilt that he had not completed the duty.
‘Are we going to walk then, or have you decided you can’t be bothered?’ Tara asked.
She was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling blue behind the dark fringe of lashes, and he thought she looked like an enchanting child. Something not quite chivalrous stirred within him. He moved abruptly, opening the door of the ute.
‘We’ll walk.’
She waited for him to come around and help her down, putting her hands on his shoulders and jumping down onto the track. Again he felt that tiny imp of desire, again he turned away too sharply – and failed to see the little frown that puckered between her eyebrows.
For a while they walked in silence. The sun was still high and hot, the trees giving little shade and most of nature seemed to be sleeping.
‘I heard the girls say there’s a water hole out here somewhere,’ Tara said: ‘If we brought bathing costumes we could swim.’
Richard did not answer. He was wondering how he could bear not to touch Tara if she was wearing a bathing costume.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Perhaps we ought to be getting back.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ Her voice was flat. ‘ We only just got here.’
‘I know …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We came farther out today. It will take us longer to get back.’
Stilt she said nothing. He found her silence unnerving. Tara was always such a chatterbox. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she caught hold of his arm. He almost jumped at the touch of her fingers on his bare skin and turned to see her looking up at him, a challenge in her eyes.
For a long moment she held his gaze then she took her hand away and he saw the tears leap in her eyes. Tara, who had scarcely ever cried before that damned attack …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said abruptly. ‘You can’t bear to have me touch you, can you?’
He ran a hand through his thick fair hair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You blame me for what happened. And you can’t touch me because you keep remembering …’
‘No!’ he said sharply. ‘No, of course I don’t blame you. If I blame anyone I blame myself.’
‘Maybe that’s even worse. But whoever you blame, you don’t like to touch me. You think I’m not clean.’
‘That’s nonsense. But it is going to take a very long time for you to get over what happened. A girl like you, young, inexperienced …’ He saw the shadow flick across her face at his words and misread it. ‘If it had been one of the
older girls maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, but … No, I shouldn’t say that, of course. Something like that shouldn’t happen to any woman. But when it’s an innocent girl like you …’
She turned her head away but not before he had seen the shadow darken.
‘Tara …’ Involuntarily, he put his hand on her shoulder and instantly she turned back, chin lifted, eyes full of … what? Her movement sent his hand sliding along her shoulder towards the nape of her neck; his thumb brushed the skin where it was warm and damp above the collar of her cesarine dress and below the line of her curls.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He wondered what she meant, but only for a moment. His mind was too full of the nearness of her. Her upturned face, lips parted; the brush of her breast against him; the whisper of her breath on his chin.
‘Touch me. Please touch me,’ she said.
He brought up his other hand, laying his fingertips on her check. It felt soft and rounded, velvelty like a child’s though as he stroked upwards he felt the cheekbone coming closer and closer to the surface as he moved towards her ear. Up past her eyes he let his fingers run, touching the edge of silky brow, and across her forehead to the bridge of her nose. It was small and straight, that nose. His fingers moving like the fingers of a blind man he explored it, down to her upper lip, then circled her mouth before moving in to touch her lips.
All the while she stood motionless, but as his fingers reached the centre of her lips she pouted them into a kiss, taking in just the very tip so that he was reminded of a sea anemone opening slightly in the gently moving tide.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Emotion was thick in his throat, he thought he would choke with it. Gently, very gently, he drew her towards him, placing his lips where his fingers had been. He felt a shudder run through her, felt her breath coming out on a sigh and then he was kissing her, holding her, caressing her.
Oh Tara, Tara, all soft roundness. Oh Tara, perverse and funny, spirited and courageous, vulnerable yet resilient …
