A Time of Secrets (26 page)

Sam almost smiled. ‘I have no designs on little Mary’s virtue. She . . . reminds me of someone I used to know. A harmless flirtation, that’s all this is. It takes her mind off those two.’

He gestured to where Faye and Jim Pope were performing the contorted steps of the jitterbug in the centre of the room. Faye was flushed and smiling, and Jim was gazing at her with an unfocused expression that my father would have described as gormless. I thought he looked like a man in love.

I raised the corner of my mouth in a wry smile. ‘Sorry, Sam. I’m rather protective about the girls I went through basic training with.’

‘Very laudable,’ he said. ‘But in this case, unnecessary.’ He became very sombre. ‘Lieutenant Cole tells me that Eric Lund has been killed. I am so sorry, Stella.’

The room was suddenly darker and when I tried to swallow, my throat seemed to close up painfully. I turned away from him, as if to watch the dancing, and said nothing. So it was true: he was dead. All the dreams and hopes and fears that had been Eric Lund, all that was good and bad, all that made him human, were gone. I remembered his smile, his voice, his habit of sketching, the feel of his body when he held me, the sweet tentativeness of his kiss.

‘I hate this war,’ I said.

*

I went to church with Mrs Campbell on Sunday morning. It wasn’t something I did often. I wasn’t Presbyterian, but I wanted to pray for Eric’s soul and I didn’t want to go to church alone.

At first, as the service began, I was filled with rage at the unfairness of war, almost consumed by bitterness that was close to hatred when I looked at the congregation. All the churches were full now; they had been since the start of the war. I hated the smug faces of the people I saw, hated a god that had taken a man like Eric away from me just when I had found him. But my anger dissipated as I looked around me. Everyone in that church knew someone who faced the sort of dangers that Eric had faced. Everyone knew someone who would not be coming home. By the time the service ended I was calm.

I had planned to spend Sunday afternoon painting, but it was rainy and I wasn’t in the mood anyway. I stayed home, trying to sketch Eric’s face. My sketches were not well drawn, because it was difficult to remember what he looked like with any clarity.

Eventually I gave up, and by five o’clock I was lying on our sofa, trying to read a novel my father had sent me:
The Moon is Down
, by John Steinbeck. It was compelling, but the futility of the deaths of the people in that small Norwegian town – German
and
Norwegian – as the Norwegians carried out their slow, silent, waiting revenge only made me want to cry. I’d liked the German artists I’d met in Paris, whose main aim in life had seemed to be to drink as much beer as possible and to sing ribald songs. I’d liked Knut Grimdalen, a young Norwegian sculptor who lived near me in Montparnasse. His hair was the colour of corn silk, his cheekbones were sharp and high and beautiful and his eyes were glacial blue. I hated to think that Knut might be part of Hitler’s slave labour force, or (more likely) risking his life in the resistance movement. I laid the book down.

Violet’s sultry contralto slid under the door, floated into the lounge room and slipped into something more comfortable. ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ was a beautiful song, and she was singing it well.

‘I wish she’d just shut up.’ Dolly’s voice was shrill as she entered the lounge room and sat in an armchair. ‘I hate her stupid voice.’

‘Is she practising?’

Dolly’s hands were clenched, her face red. ‘Nick’s over there. I saw him go in an hour ago. I hate her.’

In a quick movement she stood and went over to the table by the window where she kept her cigarette box. She extracted a cigarette with shaky hands and lit it with a match. For a few seconds she stood there, seemingly transfixed as she watched the slow creep of the flame along the wood. When it reached her fingers, she shook out the match quickly, as if surprised it had caused her pain.

Violet began to sing ‘Green Eyes’. I wondered if she was serenading Ross, whose eyes could be distinctly green on occasion. Dolly was still by the window, looking out as she took slow drags at her cigarette. She stubbed out the butt and lit another.

‘I wish I could wreck her pretty little face.’

‘Dolly, stop it,’ I said sharply. ‘Saying such things doesn’t help.’

She dashed away tears with her free hand. ‘Do you know what that little witch said to me yesterday? She said I was too old and obvious for someone like Nick Ross, and I should stick to my elderly American.’ A white handkerchief, edged in lace, was pulled out of her sleeve and applied to her eyes. She blew her nose and walked across to sit beside me on the couch. ‘Stanford’s only forty-eight.’

‘I can’t see Ross ending up with someone like Violet,’ I said, moving my legs to give her more space. ‘He’s easily bored, and she’s not the most scintillating of conversationalists. The other day she referred to people who collect stamps as philanderists.’

That made Dolly laugh. ‘She’s always coming out with howlers like that. Stupid girl.’ She regarded me darkly. ‘It’s not her brain he’s interested in.’

I hesitated, thought about whether I should say anything, then barged in anyway. ‘Dolly, you can’t do the running with someone like Ross. Let him do the chasing.’

‘But he isn’t going to, is he? Chase, I mean.’ She moved her head so that the smoke she was exhaling wouldn’t blow into my face. When she turned back to me her upper lip curled. ‘Look at me. Dolly Harper, crazy over a man I can’t have. It’s . . . ridiculous. God, I hate Violet Smith.’

She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray on the table by the couch. ‘It’s so easy to arrange for someone to be hurt,’ she said in a low voice, as if she was talking to herself. ‘I know people who’d murder their mother for five pounds.’

‘What? Dolly . . .’

She seemed to freeze, then a slight shudder moved through her body. When she turned her head towards me, her face was bland. She smiled. ‘Only joking. As if I’d ever hurt anyone. She’s just a silly little girl and she’s annoyed me.’ Her shoulders lifted in a pretty shrug, like a Frenchwoman would give to show unconcern when her mind was in turmoil. ‘Damn them both to hell. They deserve each other.’ She got up and went to get another cigarette. ‘Why don’t we have a drink?’

I put her to bed at ten. By then she felt no pain and all was silent in Violet’s flat.

Twenty-three

L
ieutenant Cole caught me in the corridor early the following morning.

‘Please come into my office, Sergeant.’

He held open the door and waited. I followed him into the office but stood close to the door as he walked to his desk and sat down behind it. He gestured towards a seat in front of his desk.

‘I’d like to apologise for my behaviour the other night.’

‘That’s quite all right, sir.’

‘Please sit down. No need for formality when we’re alone, Stella.’

‘No, sir. I mean, I feel uncomfortable with informality at work.’

Again he gestured to the chair. I sat down.

‘I’m sure you don’t “sir” Nick Ross all the time.’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘What about outside of work? He’s got quite a reputation with the ladies.’

I wanted to wince at the clichéd euphemism.

‘I don’t see him much outside of work.’

‘I think that’s not true. I think you see him regularly. When he visits Violet Smith, for example.’

‘Just in passing, sir.’

‘Is she well?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘She’s still seeing a lot of Lieutenant Ross?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘He’s a busy man, Ross. I keep up my intelligence on him.’

I wondered what it was that he wanted to tell me, find out from me.

‘Found anything interesting in those reports you’ve been reading?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘We’re all waiting with bated breath to hear what you and Ross discover.’ He got up from his chair and moved to perch on the front of his desk about a yard away from my chair. ‘I think there’s more to this assignment than Ross has been letting on.’

He looked at me, expecting an answer. I fell back on the usual.

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘I think he’s trying to undermine the brilliant work being done by Destro . . . Did you say something, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Is that what he’s trying to do?’

‘It’s not my place to say anything. Sir.’

‘Has Violet told him anything interesting?’

‘Violet?’ The surprise in my voice was obviously not false. His face seemed to relax slightly.

‘You know what’s really odd?’ he said. ‘Captain Molloy’s not too sure just what it is that you and Ross are doing either. And he’s come up against a brick wall with Blamey’s office when he’s asked for more information.’

He leaned forward, staring at me, still smiling. I thought of some Shakespeare that Ross hadn’t yet quoted:
That one may smile and smile and still be a villain
.

‘Captain Molloy and I just want to keep abreast of what’s happening at APLO. So, tell me, Sergeant, are you and Lieutenant Ross looking into Destro?’

‘You really need to speak to Lieutenant Ross, sir.’

‘But I’m asking you, Sergeant.’

‘May I be excused, sir? I’m expected in Captain Deacon’s office.’

‘He’ll have to wait. Answer my question.’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘It’s a simple question. I have top-security clearance. I’m asking you a question and I expect an answer. I’m ordering you to answer, Sergeant.’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

He got up from where he was half leaning against the desk and took a step closer to where I was sitting. Now he was standing directly in front of my chair, looming over me and no longer even pretending to smile. He bent forward and put his hands on the arms of my chair, so that his face was very close to mine. My heart started to race and my chest tightened. I couldn’t look at him, so I focused on the buttons of his jacket, counted them. One, two, three, four, five buttons.
He can’t hurt me here, not in APLO headquarters
.

His voice was soft, low and throbbed with anger. ‘Tell me, Sergeant: are you and Lieutenant Ross looking into Destro?’

He
could
hurt me, I realised. There were worse things than physical violence. If I screamed, he couldn’t physically harm me, but it would spell the end of my time at APLO. He’d say I’d overreacted, had become hysterical. I’d be moved out of APLO, away from the work I was doing with Ross.

‘Answer me, Sergeant.’

I wanted to stay in APLO. I wanted to keep working on this assignment. I wanted to try to protect men like Eric, who were being sent into danger. I wanted to find the traitor or the fool.

I needed to get Cole’s mind off Destro.

So I looked up at him, straight into his eyes. ‘I know you used to hit Violet. I heard you. It was me who told her to drop you. I told her Nick Ross would treat her better. And I was right.’

The blow was hard and very painful. He used the back of his hand but the knuckles smashed into my cheek, just below the right eye, so that my cheek seemed to explode into a stinging agony of sensation. I made no sound, but my eyes flooded with tears. That happened every time; there was nothing I could do about the tears, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of making me cry out. Frank had been left-handed, so when he used to do that I’d end up with a blackened left eye. This time it would be my right. At least the chair didn’t fall over.

Cole’s hand was pulled back for a second blow, but a sharp knock at the door caused his head to jerk up.

‘Lance, we need to talk about –’ It was Captain Deacon’s voice.

There was silence as Cole stepped back, took a breath, composed his face, straightened his shoulders. He looked over my shoulder to where Deacon must have been standing and his face softened into his easy smile.

‘The sergeant slipped over outside my office. Hit her head on the doorframe. I’ve been trying to help, but I think she’ll end up with a shiner. She’s rather distressed.’

‘Silly of me,’ I said, without turning around. Instead, I stared at Cole. He was now smiling at me, but the look in his eyes was a challenge.

I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket, wiped my face and blew my nose. Then I stood and turned to face Captain Deacon. The sympathy in his eyes almost undid me, but I couldn’t make accusations against an officer. They’d transfer me immediately.

‘Yes, I think I’ll end up with a black eye. I’m frightfully clumsy, unfortunately. The lieutenant has been very kind.’

‘Steak,’ said Cole. ‘You see if Sergeant Harper has any steak. That’ll help.’

Nothing would help. Not really. And I’d made an enemy.

I fled to the ladies’ cloakroom to wash my face and put a cold flannel on the bruising. In my years with Frank I’d found that a cold compress helped much more than steak. Cole’s blow wasn’t the sort that would cause bruising for two weeks. It would be bad today and tomorrow and then the purple would gradually fade. I’d need to ask Dolly for some of her foundation, though, because in my experience, powder never covered the bruising completely.