by Janet Tanner
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So am I.’
On the drive back to Melbourne she felt curiously light-headed, and she knew it was partly because of sharing with John a part of her life which she had kept so very much to herself. But only partly. In a strange way it seemed suddenly that life had opened up again. Nothing had changed. There was still no one to fill the gap Race had left behind in her heart – no one she had any right even to think about in that way. Yet she could see the truth in what John had said. The wound was healing. One day there would be someone else.
She swung the Alfa Romeo through the gates of her home and realized with a slight shock that the drive was crowded. Beverley’s car was there – no great surprise. Beverley often drove over in the afternoons. But what was Daddy’s car doing home? And that grey Austin – Dr Whitehorn’s car …
Alys manoeuvred between them quickly and skilfully. Then she braked to a halt and leaped out. Her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. In spite of the wintry weather the front door was not properly closed. Alys pushed it open and ran in.
The first sound she heard was Beverley’s weeping and the jelly-like sensation spread from her legs to the whole of her body. The awful sound was coming from the drawing room. She ran towards it, then froze in the doorway at the tableau within – Donald Whitehorn standing as he always seemed to, back to the fireplace; Beverley hunched in a chair; her father in front of the window, staring unseeingly into space.
And on the chaise, Frances. A Frances who lay motionless without any of the twitches and jerks that had characterized her last months. A Frances whose face was waxy already, yellowish white apart from a livid discolouration around the forehead and eyes.
Alys stood, holding on to the doorpost for support. She tried to form the words to ask what had happened but her lips refused to obey. Donald Whitehorn looked around as if giving the family the chance to speak first and in the silence Beverley appeared to become aware of Alys’ presence.
Her head came up with a jerk, her eyes, washed out with tears, blazed at Alys. Then, the lower half of her face contorted with grief and anger, making her uglier than Alys would ever have believed possible.
‘Oh – so you’ve come home then.’ She spat the words out of her wobbling lips. ‘You’ve deigned to come back. But you’re too late, aren’t you? Too late!’
Again, Alys tried to speak and this time her voice obeyed her. But it was such a tiny voice it seemed scarcely to belong to her.
‘What happened?’
‘Alys …’ her father began but Beverley broke in hysterically.
‘You may well ask what happened! After you abandoned her, Mummy must have got herself to the lift to go upstairs. And it must have got stuck halfway – it’s there now. There was no one to help her, no one. Norma was out and so were you. Poor Mummy must have tried to climb out of the lift and get back downstairs. But she couldn’t manage it. She fell. Fell, Alys. All the way down the stairs. I came over to visit. I found her …’ she disintegrated once more into noisy sobs.
Alys’ horrified eyes moved from one to another. When they reached her father he nodded slowly.
‘It’s true, Alys. Beverley phoned for Dr Whitehorn and for me but there was nothing we could do. By the time we got here …’ He spread his hands expressively.
‘Oh no!’ Alys pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. ‘But where was Norma?’
‘This is Wednesday, isn’t it? Her afternoon off.’
‘Wednesday?’ Alys repeated vaguely. The shock seemed to have removed her ability to think coherently. ‘ Yes, but her afternoon was changed to a Thursday several weeks ago. No, she should have been here.’
‘When she does turn up she will be given a moment’s notice!’ snapped Daniel.
‘Oh Daddy, you can’t do that!’ Alys protested. ‘Norma has been wonderful all through Mummy’s illness. I’m sure she must have a very good reason …’
‘Such as you told her she could go!’ Beverley’s voice was harsh with tears and they all turned to look at her. ‘You probably set the whole thing up, Alys!’
Shocked and horrified, Alys could do nothing but stare at her sister.
‘What the hell are you saying, Beverley?’ Daniel demanded.
‘She’s been waiting for something like this to happen!’ Beverley cried. ‘She’s never cared about Mummy. I’ve been here. I’ve seen. She knew if Mummy died she would be free to go off with her sugar daddy.’
‘Beverley!’ Daniel thundered.
‘It’s true!’ Beverley insisted. ‘You don’t know the half of it. Ask her where she’s been this afternoon. Ask her!’
‘Beverley, please! Have a little respect! That is your mother lying there.’
‘Because of her!’ Beverley rose, pointing with a melodramatic finger. ‘My sister – her own daughter. Well, you got what you wanted, Alys. I only hope it makes you happy.’
She rushed to the door, pushing past Alys in a paroxym of weeping.
Alys stood motionless, her eyes wide and staring. ‘ Take no notice of her, Alys. She’s upset. Naturally we all are …’ Daniel crossed the room, placing a hand on Alys’shoulder. ‘She doesn’t mean it. She’ll regret it tomorrow.’
Alys nodded without speaking although she knew better than her father ever could that Beverley, so ready to blame and accuse, meant every word.
And as she looked at her mother, lifeless now after suffering that could indeed have been avoided had she been here, Alys felt the weight of guilt constrict her heart like another notch turned in an instrument of medieval torture.
‘Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live …’ The Minister’s words rose clearly, reaching every corner of the packed church.
The funeral was to have been a quiet family affair, a Memorial Service for all the many friends and acquaintances of the Peterson family would follow later. But word had spread quickly and many had come along, impatient to pay their last respects.
Alys had seen the full pews as she came into church, the sea of faces, the frill of white lace handkerchiefs. And through the numbness which had seemed to blunt her every emotion these last days one thought penetrated: did they think as Beverley did that it was all her fault? Would their heads nod together as they watched her pass by, following the simple oak coffin? Would they whisper: ‘She left her mother alone you know. Imagine – leaving a woman in her condition!’
Alys bowed her head. She had experienced none of Beverley’s genuine grief – love for her mother had died too long ago and it was then that she had mourned her. Now there was nothing to buffer the torments of her guilt.
‘I should have known – I should have been there!’ she had wept over the phone to John when she rang, still shocked, to tell him what had happened.
‘Alys, stop torturing yourself. You couldn’t be there every minute of the day. Nobody expected it.’
‘Beverley expected it.’
‘Then why wasn’t Beverley there?’
‘She has her own family. Louis and Robyn.’
‘And because you haven’t she thinks you should dedicate the whole of your life to looking after your mother. That is neither fair nor reasonable. You have to have a life of your own – go out sometimes, have friends.’
‘But I should have made sure Norma knew I was going out. I shouldn’t have taken it for granted she would be there. I shouldn’t…’
‘Alys!’ he had interrupted her sharply. ‘You have done all you could possibly do. A great deal more than most girls would ever contemplate doing. If you don’t stop this foolish talk I shall have to come to Melbourne, put you across my knee and spank you!’
‘No, you mustn’t come here …’ she broke off. ‘ You could come to the funeral, though. That would mean a lot to me and I think Mummy would have liked it too. She was actually very fond of you.’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ he said.
She glanced at him now, immaculate in his dark suit, white shirt and blac
k tie, and found herself wishing briefly that there could be more than just friendship between them. But it was not possible and anything more intimate might even spoil the quality of their relationship. Maybe one day she would meet Stuart, his son, as John so clearly hoped she would. Perhaps she could find with him not only the warmth and companionship she had found with John, but something more – that indefinable something which would eclipse the shadow of a face which haunted her no matter how often she tried to put it out of her mind – a handsome face with a good strong bone structure, with fair hair that receded slightly and blue eyes which had met hers and said …
May God forgive you, you wicked girl! Thinking thoughts like that at your own mother’s funeral!
She folded her hands, listening to the words of the Minister and watching the pale winter sun slanting in through the windows and turning the pale arum lilies which decked the coffin to warm gold. If only her feelings could be transmuted in the same way. If only the regret could become real grief, not just for what might have been, but for her mother too; if only the self-recrimination could be tempered with some sort of understanding, not only from John, who loved her, but from the others, who had also loved her mother.
But it would not be. Her eyes slid from the coffin along the row of principal mourners. There was her father, his head bowed, but his shoulders straight. He had no time for her – nor for any of them. He would always plead the pressures of business as an excuse to keep his distance and pressures undoubtedly there were – but they were his life. He loved them. Then Beverley. Any pretence of closeness between the sisters had gone now, shattered by Beverley’s vindictive and shrewish attitude. We were always quarrelling, even as children, Alys thought – but one does not expect to quarrel in the same way in adult life. Yet why not? Personalities are there, already more than partially formed, it is only later we learn to conceal our feelings behind a veneer that is expected of us. Louis, Bev’s husband. He was nothing to Alys. She had never liked him. Perhaps even Bev had become disappointed in him and that was the reason she had become so exceptionally bitter and emotional. Robyn … Alys was fond of Robyn, but she would be just another battleground for fighting Beverley on if Alys saw much of her – she could not stand the way Bev mollycoddled the child and tried to take away her individuality and squash her spirit.
No, of all of them, the only one who would keep her here now was John, and he would not do so. Hadn’t he already told her she should do what she wanted to do – go off and do her bit to help the war effort.
She glanced at him again now and felt his quiet strength lift her. The Minister spoke the final words and the family fell into line to follow the coffin down the aisle between the pews.
For the first time Alys felt warm tears on her cheeks. This was the end, really the end. Not just for her mother, but for the family as well. They would go their own ways now that Frances had gone. Perhaps they would never come together again in quite the same way. Whatever her failings, she had been the lynch pin.
Through the door, onto the pavement, following those lilies turned golden by the sun. But there was no warmth in it. The chill made Alys shiver and the cold breeze dried the tears on her cheek.
Two weeks later she drove out to the farm to say goodbye to John.
‘You’re really going then,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘ Yep. They actually decided I might be of some use.’
‘What did I tell you?’
She smiled, ignoring the teasing remark. ‘I’m off to training camp first, to learn how to be a soldier. And they think they need to teach me a thing or two about engines before I become an AWAS driver.’
It was his turn to laugh. ‘ You’ll teach them a thing or two!’
Her face grew serious; she patted the bonnet of the Alfa Romeo. ‘Would you do something for me?’
‘What?’
‘Give my car a good home while I’m gone.’
‘Of course I will, if you want me to.’
‘I do. I can’t imagine anyone else bothering to take care of it.’ She smiled. ‘ You can even drive it if you can get hold of the petrol.’
‘I am honoured!’
They looked at one another for a moment, then she laid her head against his chest.
‘Oh John, I’ll miss you.’
‘No, you won’t. There won’t be time even to think of me. You’ll be too busy with all your new experiences.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Well I do. If anyone does any missing, it will be me. Left here all alone.’
‘Not all alone,’ she teased. ‘ You’ll have your Land Army girls.’
‘So I will! So off you go and enjoy yourself.’
‘You make it sound like a holiday.’
‘For you, Alys, after what you have put up with, that is just what it will be.’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘Don’t say that, please. I did what I had to do. But I was a terrible daughter. I was nothing but a disappointment to her. And what I did I did grudgingly. She must have known that.’
‘That was her choice, Alys. She could have chosen to keep your respect and love. Instead she chose to keep you.’
The shadow came fully into her eyes. ‘It’s so sad. When I was a little girl she was a good mother really.’
‘Because then she knew she could make you do what she wanted. There are people like that, Alys. Just as long as life – and everyone in their vicinity – conforms to their pattern they can be wonderful. Step outside their wishes and they become tyrants.’
She took his hands. ‘Oh John, I wish I could be as wise and calm about things as you are.’ He smiled his sideways smile. ‘When things can’t be changed there’s no point wasting energy worrying about them.’ He kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Goodbye, Alys. Take care of yourself.’
‘And you. I’ll write and let you know the news.’
‘You’d better. But you probably won’t have time. All your free moments will be spent cavorting with handsome young officers.’
‘I doubt it.’ She laughed and once more thought of one handsome young officer with whom she would very much have liked to ‘cavort’.
But he had married someone else.
And that, thought, Alys, was very much that.
Chapter Twenty
Richard Allingham carried the two beers from the mess bar to the chairs in the corner of the veranda where Tara was sitting.
She took one from him with hands that shook slightly and drank. ‘Ah – I need that!’
Richard set his own drink down on the floor beside his chair, leaning forward urgently. ‘Right. Now tell me again what the CO said.’
‘I told you already. There’s nothing else to say. They are sending me to New Guinea.’
Richard swore softly. ‘But why for God’s sake? You’re doing fine here. You’re a good medical orderly and we need you. Why send you to New Guinea?’
Tara laughed nervously. ‘ Why does the army do anything? They are a law unto themselves. And I’m in the army now, remember.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense.’
‘To them it does. The whole unit I trained with is going. I should have thought of what might happen before I agreed to sign on. I did think of it. But I assumed that …’
‘That because we were married they would have more consideration,’ Richard finished for her. ‘ Yes, I’d have thought so too. Perhaps, if I have a word with the CO …’
‘It won’t do any good,’ Tara said. ‘He’s under orders like the rest of us.’
‘But maybe he could put in a word.’
‘No. It wouldn’t do any good,’ Tara repeated stubbornly.
She did not add that she had suspected she had seen a gleam of triumph in Colonel Adamson’s eyes when he had told her the news, nor that she was fairly certain he had never forgiven her for rebuffing him and then marrying Richard. Jealousy seemed too petty a motive to attribute to a senior officer – and there was a hint of conceit in suggesting it. S
he had never told Richard of the CO’s approaches to her; now did not seem the right time to bring it up.
‘It’s no good. I’ll just have to go and hope it won’t be for too long,’ she said.
‘Well, they had better look after you,’ he said vehemently. ‘ It does seem as though we have got the Nips on the run at last, but I don’t like it. New Guinea is no place for a woman. It’s a hell of a climate for one thing and too damn close to the action for another.’
‘I expect I’ll be all right,’ Tara retorted a shade indignantly. Having Richard anxious about her was very nice but she was irrationally proud of the toughness which was her only heritage. ‘They say they put atebrin tablets on the dinner table with the salt to stop us from getting malaria, and since Guadalcanal the Japs have really got their tails between their legs.’
‘A wounded dog can be dangerous,’ Richard said, sipping his beer. ‘Oh, I’ll be glad when this damned war is over and we can get back to normality. Go back to Melbourne, have a home of our own, and just get on with our lives. We’ve been married more than six months, Tara, and how much of that time have we been able to spend alone together? Precious little. But that will all be different when we get home and that’s a promise.’
Tara nodded but said nothing.
She did not want to go to New Guinea it was true. But the thought of returning to Melbourne with Richard was a daunting one, too. Remembering her evening of discomfort with Alys and her friend, John, she shuddered. Life back in Melbourne could be a series of such evenings, every one of them spent with people with whom she was totally out of her depth.
But she was in no immediate danger of that.
She sighed, raised her glass and smiled at Richard over the beer foam.
‘Papua New Guinea – watch out. Here I come!’
From the very outset Tara disliked New Guinea. She had not, she supposed, made a very auspicious beginning; for even the journey to Port Moresby had been fraught with discomforts. First there had been the ‘trooper’ – the train taking her and the other AAMWS from Brisbane to Townsville – hot, packed tight with perspiring bodies, and laid up so often in sidings for hours on end that the journey took three times as long as Tara had expected. Then there was Townsville, crowded to suffocation point with service personnel, and the long stumbling walk in the blackout to the waiting ship. Tara had staggered along under the load of her heavy kitbag, with all the items of equipment that would not fit into it draped around her neck. Fortunately, some of her issue of tropical kit had been stowed away in a tin trunk and was not her concern for the moment, for there was no way she could have managed such items as the beekeeper’s head net and the heavy boots, and the smart new khaki trousers and safari jacket which had been issued to her would have been rags if they had had to be stuffed into the kitbag along with her pyjamas.
