A Time of Secrets (2 page)

‘Have a go?’ Dolly’s voice was mocking. ‘You’re becoming more Australian than the Aussies.’

I laughed. Australians often teased me about my ‘posh’ English accent. I put on an Australian accent: ‘The Yanks hold hands with their girls and even kiss them in public. Stone the crows, it’s flamin’ ridiculous!’

‘Well, I think the Americans are lovely. Tailored uniforms, handsome faces, and they look at a girl like she’s a tasty treat.’ She giggled.

I raised an eyebrow. Dolly assumed a virtuous look.

‘Of course I like them. I’m practically engaged to one, remember,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s very pleasant simply to be noticed at my age.’

In four days time Dolly was turning thirty and I knew it was weighing on her mind. I knew it because she mentioned it in almost every conversation we had. And her remark about not encouraging attention was disingenuous at best. Dolly’s blue eyes, expertly and expensively curled blonde hair and petite build ensured that Americans and other soldiers gave her the glad eye. Nor was it surprising that a rich American, Major Stanford Randall, had fallen hard for her.

The footpath still teemed with people who jostled past us as they hurried on their way. Most would have been going home, as the city effectively shut down at twelve thirty with the shops. We scurried across the road in the rain to reach the shelter of the Manchester Unity building. The Gothic skyscraper with its ornamental tower and spire resembled a medieval Spanish cathedral and I thought how my late husband, Frank, would have hated the building. He’d adored the clean modern lines of the Bauhaus group and had detested what he called unnecessary embellishment. I liked modern art and architecture, but I also liked ornamentation on buildings and whimsy in art. Frank and I had argued about it when we first met. I’d lost the argument. It should have served as a warning that I’d just keep on losing where Frank was concerned.

The temperature had dipped further and the afternoon air had the scent of wood fires in it. It caught in my throat and I began to cough. Once I started coughing it was always hard to stop. Dolly watched me anxiously until I was able to suck in a slow breath. I let it out just as slowly, repeating the process until I was breathing normally.

‘All right now?’

Dolly knew that cold air often brought on my asthma; it was one reason I preferred Sydney’s warmer climate. I nodded, but my chest still felt tight and I knew my face was bright red. I took another careful breath, let it out and tried to smile.

‘Let’s go home,’ I said.

‘One more errand. Please, Stella. There’s something I need to do.’

She put her arm through mine and we walked up Swanston Street. The town hall, gravely elegant after its recent shower, stood on the corner across from us. Water shone on the road and footpath. Droplets glimmered on the edge of shop awnings and fell onto the umbrellas that passed beneath. There was gold in the light. It was a Parisian sort of scene and I felt inexplicably happy to see it. If I were still painting, it would have been a pretty one to capture, this rainy afternoon on Swanston Street. But I hadn’t painted in nearly six years and I wondered if I still had the skill, or the courage, to try.

At Little Collins Street, Dolly turned left. The footpath was narrower, but there were fewer people, as most of the shops had closed. Dolly stopped midway down the block, outside a sign that read:
Paul Breck Jewellers, Highest Cash Prices
. She rang the bell outside. A man’s head popped up to check who it was, and he unlocked the door for her.

She turned to me and lifted her wrist to display a filigree bracelet, set with pearls and rubies. ‘The catch is loose. Would you mind waiting for me?’

Before I could answer, she’d ducked inside and closed the door. I hoped that she wasn’t selling her jewellery – she lived very well for a woman on an AWAS salary, but I’d always assumed her ex-husband was paying her alimony and I knew that Stanford Randall, her American major, was a generous man. I moved away from the window to wait for her next to one of those narrow laneways that run through the centre of Melbourne like a disconnected maze. This one was dark and dirty. Pieces of wrapping paper, broken glass, empty cigarette boxes and worse had collected on the pavement at the entrance. I pulled my army greatcoat close against my body like armour against the wet afternoon, and waited for Dolly.

A voice came out of the gloom beside me in a surge of hate and bitterness.

‘
Dia mesti mati
.’ He must die.

The language was Malay, spoken softly, but I had very good hearing and the configuration of the laneway might have amplified the sound.

At first, I froze. Then, tentatively, I turned to peer into the semi-darkness. I could make out a small group of soldiers huddled together about ten yards away. Australian soldiers, dressed in woollen khaki uniforms and slouch hats. Surely I’d misheard.

The next words were startling.

‘
Diam. Dia adalah seorang pegawai, anda bodoh.
’ Be quiet. He’s an officer, you fool.

‘
Saya akan mencari jalan
.’ I’ll find a way.

‘
Mike adalah mati kerana
–’ Mike’s dead because –

The final words were mumbled, and I couldn’t make them out. Worried that they’d see me, I swung around and moved closer to the shop window, out of sight of the soldiers. I stood, shivering in the cold wind as people walked past chattering about the weather, the war and the weekend. Rain drummed in syncopation on the awning above, and trams rumbled nearby with the occasional metallic shriek. A phonograph from a nearby cafe bawled out Bing Crosby, who was dreaming of a white Christmas.

It didn’t mean anything, surely. People said silly things all the time. But why were they talking in Malay? None of them were native speakers.

I tentatively poked my head around the corner of the shop and again peered into the lane. Three men huddled together, speaking too softly for me to make out their words. Apart from the tiny red glow of cigarettes, all was featureless in the gloom. I screwed up my eyes, tried to see more clearly. Was there a fourth person? Close to the wall, just behind them?

Then I heard clearly, in English, words that electrified me: ‘In the neck, quick and fast from behind. Just as we were trained to do. And as I do it I’ll whisper,
Laleia, Lieutenant
.’

Two

‘S
tella.’ Someone grabbed my arm and I couldn’t help letting out a small shriek.

I stared at Dolly, my heart thumping, my breathing fast and shallow.

All was silent, now, in the laneway.

Dolly peered at my face. ‘Gosh, Stella. You look terrible. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting in the cold. Let’s get a hot drink inside you before we go home. And some food. We missed lunch and I’m famished. Come along. Otherwise you’ll have an asthma attack and I’ll blame myself.’

I let her drag me along with her to a nearby cafe, and once we were inside I almost collapsed into the nearest chair. There was no wheeze in my breath, so I wasn’t having an asthma attack, but I did feel rather shaky and it was utter heaven to be somewhere warm.

Dolly ordered a pot of tea and a couple of rounds of sandwiches and began to prattle on about what she had planned for her birthday next week. I smiled and nodded – Dolly never needed too much encouragement. As her light voice fluttered around me, I tried to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than think of what I’d just overheard, but my mind wouldn’t let it go.

‘I’ve invited around fifty to the party, although not many from work, because, let’s face it, most of them are dead bores. I mean . . .’

My thoughts wandered. The men had been speaking in Malay, and that was a clue as to who they might be. In fact there were a few clues in what I’d heard. Perhaps these men, like Dolly and me, worked for a section of the Allied Intelligence Bureau and they’d been trained in the language in order to undertake a field mission. We worked for the Australian Pacific Liaison Office, known as APLO, which operated out of Goodwood, an old South Yarra mansion. The title of our section was intentionally boring. Most people thought that APLO was simply involved in writing and distributing propaganda. That was one of APLO’s roles, but the Melbourne office where we worked was the ‘dirty tricks’ section and we also organised missions to send men deep into enemy-held territory in order to obtain intelligence, promote local resistance and to engage in sabotage. The men had mentioned the Laleia River. It was in Portuguese East Timor, which was occupied by the Japanese. I knew APLO had sent operatives on missions there because one of my jobs was to arrange transport and equipment for them and to liaise with the Dutch or the Americans for that purpose.

My senior officer, Captain Deacon, had asked me to train some tough, competent men in the Malay language a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps I’d trained those soldiers I’d overheard.

‘Dreamy Lieutenant Ross has accepted my invitation,’ said Dolly, still talking about her party.

My attention was caught by that name. ‘Dreamy’ Lieutenant Nick Ross had been posted to Goodwood a week or so ago. Although he was always impeccably polite to me, I found him cold and intimidating. Good-looking – tall, dark and handsome – but in an unapproachable, movie-star sort of way. I’d heard he was a psychologist in civilian life, and that he was an expert in interrogation. More importantly, there was a rumour that a field operation he’d commanded had ended in disaster. Also that he’d been brought before a court martial, but he’d been exonerated. I was fairly sure that the operation had been in Timor, near the Laleia River. Could the men I’d overheard been talking about Lieutenant Ross?

How seriously should I take what I’d overheard? People said they were going to kill someone all the time. If I had sixpence for every time I’d heard Dolly say, ‘I’ll throttle Captain Gabriel,’ or, ‘I could murder Enid Evans,’ I’d be a rich woman. Despite that, I couldn’t help thinking that the man who’d spoken of murder had sounded very serious.

‘Stanford’s arranged it all,’ said Dolly, with a laugh. For a moment I was shocked into thinking she meant the murder. Then I realised she was still talking about her party.

‘The food, the grog, decorations. And all done from the US. He’s such a darling. I don’t know how he managed it. He wrote to me, and . . .’

Stanford had been sent to the US a month ago and wouldn’t be back in Melbourne until late August. Arranging the party was his way of saying sorry for not being here for Dolly’s birthday.

My mind drifted back to the men in the laneway. I had to face facts. There was nothing I could do. Even if the soldiers had been serious, I hadn’t seen anyone’s face and the men would now be long gone. I turned to Dolly and put on an interested, half-smiling expression.

‘. . . said he’d send me something very special for my present. I hope it’s jewellery.’ She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Do you think it’s jewellery?’

‘What else?’

The door to the cafe opened and two Australian soldiers, an AIF staff sergeant and a corporal, walked in on a gust of cold air, brushing water from their khaki greatcoats. The staff sergeant was a sun-tanned Viking, tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed and fair-haired. The corporal was also very tanned, but heavy-set and muscular. They both seemed tough and it was clear that they’d seen service. I was used to seeing men like these appear at Goodwood for mission briefings and depart a few days later.

When they came closer to our table I could smell the damp wool of their uniforms. It was as if my heart had jumped a beat and suddenly I was back in 1940, on a wet February morning at the Sydney wharf, watching Frank board the troop ship that would take him to the Middle East.

I looked down at my cup of tea as memories that came with the scent began to overwhelm me.

My chair juddered and I looked up in surprise. The corporal had knocked against me as he made his way past us in the crowded cafe. He murmured an apology. I smiled to indicate that I didn’t care. But it was the staff sergeant – the Viking – who held my gaze for a beat or two. My heart began thumping hard and fast, and I was surprised to realise that it was because, in a strange way, he reminded me of Frank. He gave me a half-smile before sitting with his companion at the table behind us.

Dolly, who tended to notice only officers, paid them no attention. She picked up her leather satchel – standard army issue – and fished around in it. Out came her powder compact. She flipped it open. After inspecting her face carefully, she pressed powder onto her small, slightly upturned nose. Next she refreshed her lipstick, pouting at her reflection and rubbing her lips together to smooth the colour.

‘I’m so glad we managed to get refills for our lipsticks,’ she said, licking a finger and reaching up to smooth her eyebrows. She blinked a few times. ‘And I’m glad I stockpiled mascara at the start of the war. There’s no mascara to be had for love or money now. Pale eyelashes are the curse of the true blonde.’

Snapping shut her compact, Dolly replaced the top on her lipstick and put them both away in the satchel. She seemed very pleased with herself, but her smile faded as she looked across at me. I grimaced at her intent expression.

‘What?’

‘Stella.’ Dolly’s tone was disapproving. ‘Your face needs attention. Chop chop.’