A Time of Secrets (25 page)

‘What?’ I clutched at the dish flannel, my heart racing so fast that I felt faint. ‘What have you heard?’

‘The bastards sent him up there again on another bloody dangerous mission.’ Ross was still addressing the ceiling. ‘And now he’s probably dead.’

My heart was thumping against my chest so hard that it was painful. There was a thud as he sat up straight and the chair legs hit the floor. I flinched. His gaze was fixed on his shoes.

‘Before he left Melbourne he told me to keep away from you.’ He swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp and looked up. It was then that I saw the empty misery in his face.

‘When did you find out about him?’

‘This evening. Rob was told this afternoon.’ He pulled hard on the cigarette and blew out the smoke forcefully. ‘I think I’ll leave now.’ Standing in one graceful movement he turned and left the kitchen.

*

I hauled myself out of bed, moaning as the chilly air hit me, and stumbled to the bathroom. Dolly was just coming out and her face was pale and drawn through lack of sleep. I suspected I looked just as bad.

Dolly was sitting at the tiny kitchen table sipping a cup of tea when I came into the kitchen for breakfast. Our teapot, covered with a knitted cosy in cheerful colours, was in front of her. An empty cup and the milk jug were beside it. She lifted the pot to pour me a cup of tea.

‘Porridge is on the stove,’ she said in a listless voice. ‘It needs stirring.’

I gulped down hot, strong tea as I crossed to the stove to stir the porridge and started to wake up properly. I took another sip of tea as I stirred the porridge, watching the spoon move, trying to lose my thoughts in the repetitive action but only managing to feel ill at the thought of actually eating it.

There was a lump at the back of my throat that caused me pain when I swallowed. My muscles were sore, as if I’d spent the night in hard physical labour, not tossing around in sleepless misery. We all knew what ‘missing, presumed dead’ meant. It meant dead.
Eric was dead
.

I’d only met him three times; how could knowing that I’d never see him again make me feel like this? Perhaps he wasn’t dead.
Dear Lord, please don’t let him be dead
. When I’d found out that Frank was dead, I’d felt numb, like this, only slightly relieved as well.

This was my punishment for feeling relieved that Frank had died.

I sucked in a shaky breath. I was being stupid.
Please don’t let him really be dead
. I hardly knew Eric. It was stupid to feel anything. Men died in war. Field operatives died. They were volunteers. They died.

Eric’s death was my punishment for being a bad wife.

The porridge was sticking, and I went to the sink to get some water. Our kitchen faced the backyard and the sink was under the wide window, next to the back door. That led onto a wooden landing and the rickety back stairs we shared with Violet’s flat.

The back door to Violet’s flat opened and she came out onto the landing. She said something to whoever was standing in the doorway. Ross followed her out and kissed her. It was perfunctory, an obvious goodbye kiss. She frowned at him and said something, tossing her hair as she did so. He smiled, and was turning to descend the stairs when he caught me watching. He moved back to Violet and wrapped her in a theatrical hug, bending her backwards, making her laugh. Her laughter stopped as he moved in for the kiss.

It went on for a while and when he released her he looked straight at me. I stared at him without expression, filled a glass with water and returned to the stove to pour it into the porridge.

‘Looks like Violet had company last night,’ I said.

My hand was shaking. I hated Nick Ross. I wished that Ross had died, and not Eric. Then I thought that maybe Eric had died to punish me for being a nasty, vengeful woman.

No, I was being stupid. How I felt had nothing to do with Eric’s death.

I regretted saying anything when Dolly’s face crumpled. She stared at me.

‘Oh,’ she said, in a quivery, little-girl voice. ‘Nick?’

‘Mmm,’ I said.

‘I’m too old for him,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘He wants the pretty young things.’

I was saddened to see her obvious despair and so I tried to make it better. ‘You’re much prettier than Violet. But you work with Ross. It’s against regulations. Perhaps he doesn’t want to get you into trouble.’

She brightened at my compliment, and seemed to consider what I’d said.

‘Maybe you’re right. He told me he doesn’t sleep with women at APLO. I didn’t believe him, but maybe he really meant it.’

I was shocked that Dolly had been so brazen as to ask him, and surprised that Ross had any qualms at all about whom he slept with. Then I realised he’d told her a lie, because he’d wanted to sleep with me.

‘Well, there you are,’ I said, turning off the gas under the saucepan. ‘If you didn’t work with him, he’d probably be in like Flynn, as they say.’

Dolly frowned down at her cup. ‘Well, I can’t ask for a transfer just to sleep with Nick,’ she said. ‘No matter how dreamy he is.’

Relieved, I spooned porridge into two bowls and brought them to the table.

‘I still hate Violet Smith,’ she said, giving me a quick, incisive look as she picked up the milk jug. She paused, jug in hand. ‘If you ever sleep with Nick, I’ll hate you, too. I can’t help it, Stella. I’ll hate you and you won’t be able to live here any more.’

I was stunned to realise that she was absolutely serious. I shook my head and attempted a smile. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ I said.

She quirked her lips into an expression that was half pout and half resignation. ‘If he wants you, he’ll charm you and you’ll sleep with him.’ She poured the milk over her porridge and passed the jug to me. ‘And then I’ll hate you and want you to die. Just like I do Violet.’

I said nothing. If I allowed Nick Ross to charm me into bed, I thought, I’d hate myself.

Dolly sprinkled sugar on her porridge and pushed the sugar bowl and the milk towards me. But when I tried to eat, the porridge stuck in my throat.
Dear Lord, please don’t let Eric be dead
.

Twenty-two

R
oss didn’t mention Eric in the following days. We worked together in a fog of chilly politeness, neither of us mentioning his behaviour on Saturday night. Eric was all I could think about. Wondering if he was dead, or captured by the Japanese, or dying. I had no one else to ask, but I didn’t want to go begging Ross for information.

Cole passed me in the corridor without a word, his face frozen into a handsome wooden mask. When I saw him at lunch on Thursday, Sam de Groot seemed out of sorts, too. I wondered if he’d heard about Eric, but I didn’t mention it. Instead we sat with the others around the big table, ate tasteless army sandwiches and discussed the American landings in Sicily and the capture of Syracuse. Also the ferocious fighting by the Red Army in Orel, Kursk and Byelgorod.

‘The tide of war has turned,’ said Sergeant Ayers. ‘Those Ruskies have Hitler on the run in the east. And now that the Allies are in Italy, it won’t be long before we’ve got Europe back.’

‘Never underestimate the Germans,’ said Sam. There was a pinched, bitter expression on his face. ‘We Dutch know that well enough.’

‘And what about the Japanese?’ said Faye. ‘They’re ferocious fighters and they never surrender.’

I had a sudden, vivid image of Eric as I’d last seen him, waving before he disappeared into the night. I well knew what his fate would be if he were captured, not killed. It would be better if he’d died quickly. Hot tears were in my eyes, and I tried to dash them away surreptitiously. When I looked up Sam was watching me closely.

He caught up to me as I was unlocking the door to my office after lunch.

‘Have you heard something? About Eric?’

I shook my head. It was all top secret. I couldn’t tell even him. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You are not a girl to cry over nothing.’

I fell back on my excuse, my lie; the one I used to explain any odd moods or strange decisions about my life – such as refusing to go out with eligible men – that infuriated well-meaning friends. ‘I was thinking about my late husband. He died in Syria in 1941.’

Sam ducked his head, eyes not meeting mine. ‘I’m so sorry, Stella.’

*

Ross was at Avoca that evening as I came home late from work. He had Violet in tow and they were descending the stairs, obviously heading off to dinner, dancing or a show. Violet’s smile was smug as she brushed past me with an air of suppressed excitement. Ross nodded, but I thought I saw mischievous malice in his eyes.

‘Good evening,’ I said, smiling. Hating him.

I knew it wasn’t his fault that he’d been the one to tell me about Eric, but it was the manner in which he’d told me that upset me so much.

During my final year at boarding school in England, the headmistress, Miss Samson, would invite the senior girls to take tea with her, while she attempted to prepare us for life in the world.

‘Never show it if you dislike or are contemptuous of someone,’ she’d said once. ‘Never let them know how you feel. Always smile; always treat such persons with the utmost courtesy. Then the power is with you.’

‘Enjoy your evening,’ I said in a bright, cheery voice.

*

‘Honestly, Stella. I can’t think of anything more boring. An AWAS party at Sally Bourke’s house in Kew. It’ll be nothing but juvenile conversation and attempts to jitterbug.’

Dolly was sitting on the couch peering at her face in her compact, pouting ferociously as she reapplied her lipstick. She rubbed the top lip over the bottom and smiled at her reflection.

‘I like Sally,’ I said. ‘And Sam will be there, as well as others from AWAS.’

‘The non-commissioned officers and the privates.’ She made a face at the mirror. ‘No thank you. Anyway, I’m meeting Stanford at the Oriental.’

‘Doesn’t Nick Ross often go to the Oriental?’

Dolly looked up. ‘There’s no need for that face, Stella. I’m not going there to moon over Nick Ross.’ She tucked her compact into her satchel and busied herself looking for something in its depths. ‘I’m over the man. I don’t care who he sees. Lance Cole is right – Ross is vain, arrogant and irrelevant.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Glad to hear you say it.’

Dolly screwed up her mouth in a grimace and I ducked as she threw a cushion at me. ‘It’s all lies, of course. I’m still crazy about him. I wish I knew why.’

*

Sally’s parents lived in a grand old house in Kew. It took me a couple of tram changes to get there. I walked up the avenue, peering at the numbers on letterboxes until I found her house, which had curved bay windows and a curved front porch and was set in a manicured garden. The entrance hall was wide, wood panelled and welcoming, and led to a lounge room that was full of servicemen and AWAS girls. An older couple, whom I assumed were Sally’s parents, were flitting around with trays of beer and food. The strains of ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’ wafted from a phonograph, and couples were dancing on a section of bare boards where furniture had been moved away and the rug had been rolled up.

I was nudged, and turned to see a glass of beer being handed to me by an AIF private. I thanked him, took the beer and looked around for someone I knew. Sam de Groot was sitting in a chair at the side of the room, watching the dancers, so I wove through the crowd to join him. When I got closer I saw he was sitting with Mary, who was chattering away as usual.

‘. . . but then he said, “We’ll have to have references and we’ll have to check your background for security.” So when that was all done I went to rookie school – where I met Faye and Stella.’

Sam was gazing at her, seemingly transfixed. In my experience, taciturn men such as Sam often were attracted to bubbly little women like Mary. I greeted them and sat beside them on the floor as Mary finished her tale.

‘. . . to Captain Molloy at Goodwood, and he told me, “This is a bigger oath that you are to swear now and if you break it and tell anything to anybody about what you do here, then you can be shot under national security regulations.” My word, but that scared me. Even Mum and Dad don’t know where I work.’

‘Then stop talking about it now,’ I said.

She flushed. ‘It’s
Sam
. I was just saying how I was picked to be in –’ she lowered her voice at last ‘– in APLO.’

‘Loose lips sink ships, Mary,’ I said. ‘Be like Dad and keep Mum. You know all that.’

‘No one was listening.’ Mary looked as if she was about to cry.

‘
Anyone
could have been listening,’ I said.

‘It was entirely my fault,’ said Sam. ‘We were chatting and we began to swap stories of our lives. Please do not berate Mary.’

I let the matter slide and we began to talk about the war, the weather and the party. When Mary left us a little while later on the beer run, I turned to Sam.

‘She’s only nineteen, and she’s an innocent girl,’ I said, looking at him with a frown. ‘You’re a lot older than her, and much more worldly.’