Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  No, no, it’s not true! her heart cried. He loves me! But the uncertainty was eating into her, and the knowledge that by now Richard was probably too far away to offer her any reassurance was the final acrimonious truth.

  The eight people around the dinner table had almost reached the end of their meal. Another of Mrs Allingham’s perfect dinner parties. Lobster bisque had been followed by a crown roast of lamb, decorated with cutlet frills and garnished with petit pois and glazed carrots; then liqueured peaches had been served with mountains of whipped cream and toasted almonds. The cheeseboard had been passed and the Allinghams’ maid had served coffee in the tiny bone china cups which had been in the family for generations.

  Tara sipped the sweet dark liquid gratefully, glad that she did not have to force another single mouthful of food down her resisting throat. Throughout the meal she had spoken hardly a word but it had not mattered. The Allinghams steered the conversation with the fluid social grace which was typical of them, and their guests had all been carefully chosen to complement one another – an eminent lawyer and his wife, a high-ranking local government officer and his wife, and the obligatory solo male to make up numbers. Tonight it was Andrew Sperring, owner of a chain of highly profitable hardware stores, who occupied his spare time by playing at politics and fancied himself as a small time philanthropist. His main qualification for being invited to make up the party, however, was that whilst he had been widowed for a dozen years he was, in Mrs Allingham’s opinion, much too old to cause tongues to wag with the suggestion that he was being paired off with Tara.

  Of all the guests Tara thought she liked him the best. The lawyer was too fond of the sound of his own voice, the local government officer was pompous and stuffy and their wives were mere shadows, reduced over the years to little more than appendages of their husbands. Any personality they might have once possessed had long since been suffocated by effusive politeness. But Andrew Sperring was cast in a different mould. Big, bluff and cheerful, he had built his business empire by taking risks and now he enjoyed his reputation for generosity with both his time and the profits of his success. He could be by turns funny, entertaining and kind and Tara was glad that tonight of all nights it was his rather florid but definitely good-humoured face which was facing her across the oval dining table.

  He was speaking now, punctuating his words with short encouraging puffs on a Churchillian cigar; the pleasant scent of Havana leaf floated across the table mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  ‘Good thing this war is over, that’s what I say.’

  ‘It’s not over though, is it?’ Mrs Allingham interjected. There was a slight edge to her voice and Tara glanced at her in surprise. Usually her mother-in-law’s prime objective was total harmony at her dinner parties; that she should inject a sour note, no matter how slight, was proof that she had been more upset by the news of Richard than she would admit.

  ‘Surely it is only a matter of days before Japan signs the surrender.’ That was the lawyer. He was sitting well back in his chair, surveying the company over the top of a pair of half-spectacles which were perched on the very tip of his nose.

  The women murmured their agreement. Did they have a single opinion of their own? Tara wondered.

  ‘I am sure you’re right,’ Mrs Allingham said. ‘But in my opinion the war won’t be over until every one of our boys is home again.’

  A small respectful silence followed her words and into it she said: ‘ I heard today that my son is going to Singapore.’

  ‘Oh Ria, you mean he won’t be coming home yet?’

  ‘Oh how disappointed you must be! What it is to be a mother!’

  The sympathy flowed towards her and Tara began to feel annoyed. He’s my husband she wanted to say – how do you think I feel?

  ‘Why is he going to Singapore, Ria?’ the lawyer’s wife enquired.

  ‘To help the POWs, of course!’ Mrs Allingham touched the corners of her mouth delicately with her napkin. ‘I keep telling myself that, disappointed as I am, I simply must not be selfish. At least my boy has come through all this unscathed – well, physically, anyway. And if he can do anything to help those less fortunate than himself then he must do it. Not that Richard needs me to tell him that, of course …’

  ‘They will be in a bad way,’ Charles Allingham said. (Trying to stop her effusive flow, Tara thought wryly.) The tropics can play hell with a man’s health and strength even when he’s properly looked after. The devil alone knows the sort of conditions our lads have been kept under. They’ll be malnourished, that much is certain, and they may have been put to work on some wild Jap scheme like the Burma railroad, or marched from place to place. Even the natives would go down in a set-up like that. Those who have survived will bear the scars for the rest of their lives, just as so many men from the First War never got over being gassed and shelled in the trenches in France or mowed down at Gallipoli.’

  They were silent, remembering the scandalous way those who had returned had been treated twenty years earlier. They had given their health and strength for freedom and liberty and had died, many of them, forgotten men, trying to piece together lives which had been shattered forever by their sacrifice.

  ‘I think we should start a fund,’ Andrew Sperring said. ‘I would be more than willing to organize it. We could at least make some money available to help with the rehabilitation of local men.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘Could you draw up some kind of framework, Hubert, to take care of the legal side?’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. I see no reason why not.’

  ‘Good.’ Andrew Sperring was in full flow now, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Now, we shall need some sort of spectacular social event to launch the scheme. A charity ball, perhaps, or a concert. Yes a concert. That’s it. I’ll hire the Town Hall. We may be able to persuade them to let us have it for free. If not, I’ll foot the bill for it myself. And we shall have to put out feelers in the entertainment world for anyone who will give their services to a worthy cause. Any suggestions?’

  ‘I believe I might be able to get Robert Holroyd, the tenor. I advised him once over some nasty domestic problems,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘And the ballet would help us out I’m sure,’ Mrs Allingham suggested.

  ‘We’ll need more, of course. Now, who else …’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Tara said.

  They all looked at her and she felt a quick flush of amusement at their startled expressions.

  ‘You, Tara?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a singer I am.’ She was trembling with excitement. She had been from the moment a concert was mentioned. ‘ I’m very good,’ she added immodestly.

  ‘I didn’t know that!’ The lawyer’s wife was torn between shock and admiration; she had never before met anyone who admitted to theatrical experience, in spite of her husband’s professional association with the tenor.

  ‘Well, well!’ the administrator’s wife murmured.

  ‘I don’t think it would be in keeping, Tara,’ Mrs Allingham said sharply.

  The silence this time was tinged with awkwardness. Tara felt her cheeks begin to burn with dull anger.

  ‘I would have thought you’d have been pleased I can do something to help our gallent returned servicemen, Mother,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘I don’t see why she shouldn’t do it!’ Richard’s father said. ‘It’s a very sweet thought, Tara.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Andrew Sperring beamed at her across the table. He felt rather sorry for Richard’s wife who was so clearly out of her depth in gatherings of this sort. She was a pretty little thing and looked as if she might be fun under different circumstances. ‘If you can sing why shouldn’t you take part? I shall put you down as my first artiste!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tara said demurely – and cast a quick triumphant look at Mrs Allingham.

  I’ll teach her, she thought. Since she already thinks I’m a trollop I mi
ght as well behave like one. I’ll show her she can’t insinuate Richard doesn’t want to come home to me and get away with it.

  And oh, I shall enjoy myself doing it!

  The Town Hall was ablaze with light. The war was finally over. ‘Brown out’ was a thing of the past and the organizing committee of the Grand Charity Concert were determined to make the most of it. Outside the glitter of a thousand celebratory bulbs studded the night, turning the façade of the hall into a fairyland palace; inside the corridors and reception rooms were illuminated by the huge crystal chandeliers, in full use for the first time since the outbreak of war had plunged Australia into darkness. Here in the main hall, however, the light was dim. Only the rosy glow of a few obligatory safety lamps lit the auditorium and the stage too was in pitch blackness apart from the one central pool of bright white light where the three strategically placed spots mixed and merged.

  In the wings Tara stood taut with nerves. A comic was on stage now – Russell Bennett had become a household name with his radio broadcasts during the war and the organizing committee had been lucky to get him. He was linking the acts and doing it well – Tara could hear the ripple of laughter at each cleverly worded punchline – and she wondered for a brief terrified moment how she would fare. Suppose she couldn’t do it? Suppose she forgot her words or muffed the intro? They had rehearsed it often enough, but still …

  Two and a half bars and in … She counted them in her head, drowning out the comic’s droll voice. Of course, you can do it. Of course you can! But it had been so long since she was on a proper stage. This was no AAMWS club where any kind of entertainment provided welcome relief. This was Melbourne Town Hall and the well-heeled audience had paid small fortunes for their tickets. She had to be good. She had to be. Oh Holy Mary, please let me get it right. Let me get it right and I’ll never do anything wicked again. I’ll say a rosary every single day and I’ll go to Mass regularly and …

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat for you this evening.’ The comic’s word hit her like small bullets of ice. ‘A young lady all the way from the Emerald Isle with a voice that I promise will go on haunting you long after you get home tonight. I give you – Tara Kelly!’

  She took one last steadying gulp of air, feeling the oxygen run a trickle of tingling calm to her tense muscles, and stepped onto the stage. The spotlight blinded her, the warm murmuring expectancy swept up from the auditorium to envelop her. She could hear the organ, positioned just below her in the centre of the orchestra pit, see the white moonface of the organist looking up at her expectantly. And then she was singing, her voice rising sweet yet full-bodied, passing through the microphone and coming back at her from the amplifiers and she had forgotten everything but the thrill of performing, of giving herself over to the music and channelling her talent at that warm living mass of humanity beyond the footlights.

  She finished her first number and the roar of applause rose louder than she could ever remember it, louder even than the stamping cheering servicemen when she had performed at the camp concert, for here it was in an enclosed space and the roof and walls caught the sound and ricocheted it back into the swelling whole. Time for another song.

  ‘Yours – till the stars lose their glory … Yours till the birds fail to sing …’ She was loving it and they were loving her. She was singing and it was all she had ever wanted to do. Richard, little Margaret, stiff-faced Mrs Allingham, beautiful sweetly threatening Alys Peterson, all belonged to another life. They had nothing to do with Tara Kelly, singer, performer, star. Her spirits soared with her voice and she was giving, giving – and getting back.

  When she finished the wave of adulation was so potent it made her dizzy. Somehow she remained upright, smiling, blowing kisses, moving to the side of the stage until the spotlight no longer held her. Then, in the dark, she crumpled, physically exhausted yet so elated she was close to tears. She felt something trickle down her neck, raised her hand to wipe it away and discovered it was perspiration.

  ‘Wonderful! Well done!’ the stage crew congratulated her.

  She made her way back to the dressing-room, not wanting to go and leave the atmosphere up here close to the audience but enough of a professional to know there was no excuse for cluttering up the wings. There were three other girls in the dressing-room; the large mirror surrounded by light bulbs caught their reflection and doubled the number. They looked up expectantly, two dancers and a soubrette, one wearing nothing but bra and tights, one with a cardigan pulled on over her stage costume.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Fine … fine …’

  She collapsed against the counter, ran her hands through her hair, straightened again, paced, the adrenalin still flowing too fast to allow her to rest. The mirror threw back her image now, glowing face, shining mop of curls, skin gleaming with the film of perspiration. Oh wonderful – it was wonderful! And over so soon! But think about that tomorrow. Tonight just revel in how wonderful it was!

  There was a tap at the dressing-room door. The dancer wearing the cardigan answered it, keeping the door pulled almost closed behind her to protect her half-naked friend. Then she came back in.

  ‘Someone to see you, Tara. A man.’

  ‘A man? To see me? Who …? She crossed to the door and opened it. A man was leaning against the wall opposite. As she appeared in the doorway he straightened and came towards her.

  ‘Dev!’ Surprise almost robbed her of her voice.

  ‘Hello, Tara.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same.’

  From inside the dressing-room one of the girls shouted to her to close the door. She did so and in the half light his bulk seemed to fill the corridor.

  ‘Dev, I don’t believe it!’ But her brain was beginning to function again. ‘I can’t take you into the dressing-room. I have to share. But there’s another little room just along here …’

  She led the way. In keeping with the rest of the building the lights were on in the small room next door. It was empty except for a table and an overflowing ashtray and the air was heavy with the aroma of perfume – someone connected with the show must have been using it. She went in and perched herself on the edge of the table.

  ‘How are you, Dev? Last time I saw you you were … Oh, you’re looking fine. Back to normal!’

  He laughed, his teeth showing white in his swarthy face.

  ‘I’m glad you think I look fine when I’m normal.’

  ‘You do. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here because of you, of course. I saw the show advertised, starring Tara Kelly.’

  ‘Hardly starring!’

  ‘Tell your audience that! Radio comics might top the bill but they have no doubt who the star is! Anyway, when I saw the poster, I thought – Tara Kelly! There can’t be more than one of them. So here I am.’

  ‘Oh Dev!’ she scolded. ‘But that doesn’t explain what you are doing in Melbourne.’

  ‘I’ll fill you in on that later. It’s you I’m interested in. What have you been doing? I left you in New Guinea, remember.’

  ‘Oh, there’s so much to tell …’ she did not know where to begin.

  ‘How is Richard?’ he asked conversationally.

  ‘Fine – I think. I haven’t seen him for ages. He’s in Singapore.’

  ‘Still married to him are you?’

  ‘Of course …’ she broke off. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I saw you were using your maiden name – I wondered.’

  ‘It seemed more tactful. Richard’s mother didn’t approve of me disgracing the family by flaunting myself on the boards – and besides Tara Allingham is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It certainly is hard to swallow,’ he said dryly.

  ‘So I thought – Tara Kelly. I’ve always been Tara Kelly and I suppose I always will be. Now, tell me about you.’

  He thrust his hands into his pockets looking sheepish. ‘Oh, I’ve diversif
ied.’

  ‘Don’t throw the dictionary at me, Sean Devlin. Just tell me what you mean in plain English.’

  ‘All right. I have an interest in the theatre.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me. Doing that show with you whetted my appetite.’ He threw her a wicked look and when she did not react he went on, ‘As you know I was pretty groggy in New Guinea, groggy enough for the powers that be to decide I wouldn’t be any further use to them as a fighting man. When I recovered sufficiently they dumped me. So there I was, no business left in Darwin, no army paycheck. – meagre as it was it kept the wolf from the door – just my few little talents and that was it. Then, quite by chance, I met up with someone else from the theatre world. Stephen Craigie.’

  ‘Craigie?’ Her eyes went big. ‘Not one of the Craigies?’

  ‘The very same. Duke Craigie is his father.’

  ‘Phew!’ Tara’s lips pursed into a soft whistle of surprise. Duke Craigie was probably the biggest impresario in Australia – even people not even remotely connected with the theatre knew his name. A larger-than-life figure with all the trappings of success and some of the scandal that accompanied it too. But throughout it all Duke Craigie had ensured that Craigie Enterprises remained very much a family concern. He had held the reins, supported by his three sons, until …

  ‘Wasn’t one of them killed in an air crash?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Yep. That was Marcus. His plane went missing over the Pacific two years ago – he’d been off arranging concert parties for the troops. That left Phillip and Stephen. Phillip is more concerned with a new project – a string of hotels. But Stephen works closely with his father.’

  ‘How on earth did you meet him?’ Tara asked.