by Janet Tanner
Tara stretched out luxuriously in the warm scented water and felt a clutch of bubbles tickle up her back.
‘You can come in if you want to. The door is not locked.’
He pushed it open and she slid down deeper so that the bubbles reached her chin.
‘Tara Allingham, I am beginning to think you married that bath, not me,’ he teased. ‘The number of times you’ve used it since we have been here you’ll be getting through my father’s ten years’ supply of water in a week!’
‘I know. But it is such heaven!’ Tara said happily. ‘ I’d almost forgotten just what heaven a bath can be.’
He removed her underclothing from the wicker chair, laid it down on the carpeted floor, and sat down.
‘I know. Return to – civilization. You’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes, I have. It’s been marvellous. The best week of my life.’
And that at least, she thought, was no exaggeration. From the somewhat unpromising start things had just got better and better, the closest thing to heaven on earth that she had ever experienced.
To begin with there was the house. After the spartan conditions of 138 AGH the luxurious Allingham home was like paradise itself – the large, light living rooms, furnished for elegance as well as comfort, the veranda where they sat each evening to enjoy the sunsets, the fresh flowers everywhere bringing the scent of the garden into the house. Richard’s room, which was now hers also, offered the kind of comfort and privacy she thought had gone forever, with its big feather bed, mirrored furniture – and this en suite bathroom which was theirs alone. At first glance it had appeared luxurious but impersonal, a room kept tidy for its occupant who had not lived in it for almost two years, but then she had seen the mementoes – the trophies, team photographs and the cricketing cap on a shelf above the dressing table, the small plastic battleship tucked away behind the bottles in the bathroom cabinet – and had felt close to the boy and young man Richard had once been.
Then there was the food. Months of stew and meat puddings in the mess had dulled Tara’s palate – she had almost forgotten the near sensual pleasure which good food imaginatively prepared could be. The Allinghams’ cook-housekeeper was a genius, meeting the problems of shortages as a challenge; the smells that wafted from her kitchen made the mouth water and her sweets were enough to tempt even the most figure-conscious to indulge in an orgy of eating – feather-light sponge cakes with passion fruit icing, chocolate-soaked lamingtons rolled in coconut, pavlova crisp on the outside yet melt-in-the-mouth inside and dripping with raspberries and cream. Tara asked no questions as to where it had come from, she simply enjoyed every mouthful and in doing so made a friend of the woman who, after years of working for the Allinghams and watching Richard grow up, had been determined to disapprove of his choice of wife.
Even Richard’s parents Tara had found less daunting than she had expected. Mrs Allingham was hard to adjust to, it was true, with her reserved manner and practised niceties, and after almost a week Tara felt no closer to her. But she had formed an instant rapport with Richard’s father even though, with a full work load at his Melbourne hospital, he was able to spend little time at home. A big bluff man with gentle hands he made her feel instantly welcome – there were no awkward questions, no attempts to impress, and she thought fondly that perhaps as he grew older Richard would come to resemble him more closely. His sister, Eve, she quite liked too; though she embodied some of her mother’s reserve, there was also her father’s warmth. She had come one day to visit and they had all spent a pleasant afternoon lazing by the pool, drinking iced lemonade and swimming – thank heavens Red had taught her to do a passable crawl.
But, best of all had been the luxury of time to spare with Richard, to be alone together and enjoy the closeness which had come with a wedding ring upon her finger. To have him there beside her holding her hand as they watched the sunset, to see his eyes smiling at her across the table at dinner, to lie beside him in the big feather bed and watch him sleep. And to close the door behind them and know that the expression of their love could be private and legal, passionate as well as warm, absolutely, perfectly, marvellously, right.
She smiled at him now as she lay there in the bubbles in the bath tub and held out her hand. ‘Why not come on in – the water is lovely!’
‘An invitation like that might be difficult to refuse.’
‘Why refuse it then? I’ll make room for you.’ She sat up. Her body was rosy, from the water; bubbles still clung to her nipples and across the line of her shoulders.
‘Tara Allingham you are a minx. I have no intention of taking another bath tonight.’ But she could see the way he was looking at her and she stood up, reaching for the towel and stepping out onto the soft carpet.
‘Come here,’ he said.
She wrapped the towel around her, teasing him.
‘Oh no, you had your chance.’
‘Come here, I said.’
He reached for her; she sidestepped. ‘ No!’
He stood up and came towards her; she danced away, laughing. ‘You’ll have to catch me.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right!’
She skipped into the bedroom and he followed, cornering her by the door.’
‘Now where are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her face was flushed, her curls clustered around it damply. He tugged at the towel; she held on to it. He scooped her up in his arms then, carrying her bodily to the bed and dumping her there unceremoniously. She was still laughing. Then, as she watched him shed his clothes, the laughter died and the surge of familiar desire began. She reached up for him pulling him down on top of her. Her fingers clawed his back and she arched towards him sobbing deep in her throat as he entered her.
When it was over she still held him tight between her thighs, reluctant to relinquish the closeness.
‘Are you glad you married me?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘And you do love me?’
‘Why do you keep asking that?’
‘Because I like to hear you say so. You do, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He rolled away. ‘I hope you didn’t pull the plug out of the bath because now you need another before dinner – and so do I. Come on, Mother will wonder what we’ve been up to if we’re late.’
‘She’ll guess, surely,’ she said mischievously. ‘ We are newly-weds.’
‘There’s no need to advertise the fact.’ He moved to the connecting door to the bathroom. She lay for a moment watching him, loving the long clean lines of his body, then she rose herself and followed him into the bathroom. The water was still warm though most of the bubbles had dispersed. They took opposite ends of the tub, washing quickly this time.
Back in the bedroom Tara slipped into clean dimity underwear and one of the dresses Richard had bought her on a trip into Melbourne – oh, what luxury it was after her uniform and regulation issue bloomers!
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Richard was buttoning his shirt as he spoke. ‘There’s something we really should do while we are here.’
‘What’s that?’ she leaned towards the dressing table mirror, applying lipstick.
‘Look up Alys Peterson. She lives in Melbourne, doesn’t she?’
Tara froze. In the mirror she could see Richard reflected; he was tucking his shirt into linen slacks, seemingly unaware of the turmoil he had begun in her.
‘You think so?’ Her voice was breathy and uneven.
‘It would be nice to know how she is getting on. She had a pretty rough deal, that girl, what with one thing and another. And while we’re so close, why not?’
Tara could not answer. A dozen reasons why not were flapping around inside her but they were all nebulous and she could not put them into words. I don’t like the way you look at her, would sound childish. You must have hundreds of friends here – you haven’t suggested looking any of them up so why her? would sound churlish. And the other objections were all allied, all more connec
ted with gut feeling than with reason.
‘I’ll give her a call, shall I?’ Richard asked. ‘Perhaps we could meet her for dinner or something.’
‘Wouldn’t that offend your mother?’ Tara ventured. ‘ We only have a few days left after all.’
He reached past her for the tortoiseshell-backed brush which lay on the dressing table and smoothed his hair into place.
‘Mother isn’t the possessive type – that’s one thing she is not. Now, are you nearly ready? It’s past seven …’
Tara screwed the top back onto her lipstick, dashed it down onto the dressing table and stood up, lifting her chin with a characteristic movement.
‘Yes,’ she said and had he noticed it the defiance was there in her voice as well. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’
She could not follow him when he went to telephone – she wanted to but could not. His mother was regaling her with the story of an old friend who, in spite of living in the city, was having problems having groceries delivered.
‘The poor dear lives alone with no servants and no car and she is having to carry her shopping home herself in a string bag. A string bag, imagine it! But at least the bag is light and no weight to carry on the way to the store. And she says with all the shortages it’s quite often light coming home as well! What is the world coming to?’
The door clicked open and Tara glanced up quickly.
‘That’s it then,’ Richard said.
She experienced profound relief. ‘You couldn’t get her.’
‘Couldn’t get who?’ Mrs Allingham enquired.
‘A young Melbourne woman we knew in Darwin,’ Richard explained. ‘And yes, I did get her. She was delighted to hear from us. Mother, you won’t mind if we eat out tomorrow evening, will you?’
‘Of course not, dear. You and Tara should be having some fun. Goodness knows you’ll be back to grim reality soon enough.’
‘That’s all right, then. I expect you’ll be pleased to see her again, Tara. She sounded thrilled at the prospect of seeing you.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tara said falsely. ‘It really does sound like the most incredible evening.’
And that, she thought, was the most accurate way she could think of to describe it.
Chapter Eighteen
Alys Peterson put down the telephone and stood looking at it for a moment as if she still could not believe she was not dreaming.
Richard Allingham here in Melbourne. And Tara Kelly. No – not Tara Kelly any more, Tara Allingham. They were married. One of those facts alone would have been surprising enough. Taken together, Alys found them almost stupefying.
When Norma had called her to the telephone saying a Mr Allingham wanted her, she could not at first think who she had meant. Then when she heard his voice, low and cultured, she had known. Richard Allingham. It had been a shock but a pleasant one.
‘Richard! What on earth …?’
And then he had told her. And suggested they should all meet.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Can I bring someone? I have a friend … we could make it a foursome.’
There had been just a fractional pause and Richard had agreed. A foursome would be splendid.
Alys reached for the phone again thinking, Thank heavens for John! It would be lovely to see Richard and Tara again but she would have felt very much the odd one out with them on their honeymoon. In fact, thank heavens for John full stop. Having him around had made all the difference these past weeks between feeling lonely and frustrated and enjoying life again in a way she had thought impossible while she was still trapped here in Toorak. As she dialled his number Alys remembered the moment when things had begun to brighten.
It had been two days after the altercation with her mother when Frances had tried, yet again, to tighten the screw of emotional blackmail. Alys had spent them in an abyss of depression, unusual for her, but after the glimpse of sunshine when she had spent a few enjoyable hours with John, the prospect of being returned to the prison of loneliness had been almost too much to bear. How long did she have to go on paying Alys had wondered bitterly. Yet she had not dared to risk upsetting Frances, ridiculous as her objection to Alys’ friendship was.
She had been in the bathroom washing her hair when she heard the front doorbell jangle its musical chime. She wound a towel around her head and went to the top of the stairs as Norma opened the door. She could not see the caller but the voice was that of a man. She held onto the banister, craning forward and unwilling to believe what her ears were telling her – it sounded like John.
‘Just a moment,’ she heard Norma say.
She dived across the landing and into her room, looking out of the window, and her heart came into her mouth as she saw the Buick drawn up on the drive. It was John! She reached for her wrap and slipped it on, twisted the towel more tightly round her head and hurried down the stairs. She had to get him away from here before Frances became upset again!
As she ran down the stairs he came into view bit by bit. First his boots, then his well-tailored lightweight slacks, then …
He was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers. Roses, orchids, something fine and feathery which spread out like a mist behind the bright summer colours. She checked, startled, then ran on. Flowers or no she had to get rid of him. She had reached the hall before the thought struck her – where was Norma? Why had she left John standing there yet not come to call Alys?
‘John!’
‘Well, hullo there!’ He smiled, that twisting ‘S’ of a smile, but made no attempt to hand her the bouquet. From along the hall, Alys heard Norma say: ‘Yes, she will see you now, Mr Hicks.’
John touched Alys’ arm. ‘I thought perhaps I should make your mother’s acquaintance,’ he said easily. ‘Maybe I’ll see you afterwards.’
He followed Norma to the drawing room and Alys was left gaping. She heard Norma announce him and then the door closed and there was only the murmur of voices beyond. For a moment she hesitated, then ran back upstairs. No time to dry her hair but at least she could get dressed.
It was ten minutes later when the drawing room door opened again. John emerged and smiled at her.
‘Sorry, I can’t stay to be sociable now as I have an appointment with my accountant,’ he said. ‘That will take about an hour. Afterwards, I’d like to buy you lunch – if you’d like it, that is.’
‘Thank you, but …’
‘Don’t worry.’ His smile broadened and he nudged his head in the direction of the drawing room. ‘I’ve got your mother’s permission.’
‘Oh!’
‘About an hour then?’
She watched him go then hurried into the drawing room. In spite of what John had said she was still afraid of what she might find. But Frances was seated serenely in her chair, the bouquet lying across her knees. As Alys approached her diffidently she raised her eyes from her lap. They looked very bright and shrewd.
‘Charming man,’ she managed. ‘Lovely flowers.’
Alys felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at her own lips.
‘I’m glad you think so, Mummy. Shall I put them in water for you?’
Frances nodded and Alys experienced a pang of sympathy. Once Frances had been so talented at flower arranging.
‘Hope … we may see … something … of him.’ It was as long a speech as Frances had made since the stroke. She looked thoughtful but pleased, like a cat that has got the cream, Alys thought.
Whatever John had said he had worked a miracle.
She had asked him later over lunch in a small but exclusive restaurant, ‘What did you say to her? She’s absolutely charmed by you.’
He had smiled, crinkling the sun-dried skin at the corners of his eyes.
‘I haven’t reached the grand old age of fifty-two without learning a little diplomacy.’
‘Well, whatever it was, you have done her a world of good – and me! She is actually saying she hopes to see something of you. I hope you realize what you have let yourself in for!’
For answer he had merely refilled her glass from the bottle standing in the ice bucket on the table.
‘Maybe I’ve done for her what you have done for me, Alys. If so, it’s a fair exchange. Do you think if I pay her another visit she’ll approve of me taking you out sometimes?’
The bubbles tickled Alys’ nose and she laughed.
‘Oh, I do hope so!’
In the weeks that followed John and Alys had become companions. John was a busy man, under great pressure to run his farm with a reduced labour force, so Alys often drove out to Buchlyvie, riding the paddocks and turning her hand to whatever jobs she could. But, when he was able to come to Melbourne to take her out, he always stopped off to spend a little time with Frances.
‘He would make … a good husband,’ Frances said. Her speech, though stilted, had improved rapidly – suspiciously so, Alys sometimes thought. ‘He’s too old for you … but …’
Alys wondered if she should tell her mother that John already had a wife – and thought better of it.
‘We are just friends, Mummy,’ she assured her. ‘We just happen to like one another’s company.’
That was no more or less than the truth. Close though they were there was no hint of anything other than friendship between them. They discovered they shared the same sense of humour and they joked and laughed, enjoying the easy communication of humour both had been missing from their lives for too long. They talked about their mutual interests – cars and horses and, inevitably, the war. And sometimes they dropped their guard and revealed a little more of the deeper, secret side of themselves.
‘Have you ever been in love, Alys?’ John asked her one afternoon.
She was bending over the engine of the Buick, her hair hanging down across her face, and wearing her oldest shirt and shorts. The question was totally unexpected; it stopped something within her momentarily. Yet it did not occur to her that John might be asking because of his own romantic interest. The affinity between them was too warm and platonic for that.
‘I’m in love with motor cars, or hadn’t you noticed?’ she said lightly.
He stood wiping his hands on a rag and looking at her; she had no idea of the picture she made which had prompted the question.
