Women and War (13 page)

‘I'll take the steaks – you bring the rest,' he said as she put the platters side by side on the table. ‘Ah! But they are so small!'

‘That's because I had them cut in half to make enough,' Tara told him. ‘You're lucky to have any at all with the food situation as it is.'

‘I'm lucky!' He thrust his face across the table so that it sweated and glared just a few inches from hers. ‘
You
are the lucky one. When I can't feed my customers any more and I have to shut up the place you will have to go like all the other women. That is the only reason you have been allowed to stay, because we are providing a service here.'

Tara's chin came up and her eyes blazed back at him. ‘And what makes you think I want to stay in a dump like this?'

Dimitri's lip curled unpleasantly. ‘You think I don't know, huh? You think I don't know you are running away? Darwin is a good place to hide. The back of beyond. So! You stay as long as you can. Ah, I know … I know!'

She snapped upright as a finger of fear touched her spinal cord. Then common sense and reason came rushing in. He didn't know. He couldn't. Maybe he had worked it out that she had come to Darwin to hide. But he did not know who it was she was hiding from and why. If he had done he would never have taken her on to work for him, never allowed her to become friendly with his wife, never have kept her on here when Tina was evacuated. No, not even if it had meant a choice between closing down altogether or running the place by himself. Some of her usual confidence returned.

‘Are we going to take this food into the dining room or not?' she enquired acidly.

‘Yes, yes – we take …' He held the door open with his foot while she went through with the laden dishes.

The dining room was on the front of the house as far from the kitchen as it could be, a big square room furnished with scrubbed wood tables and chairs, one large enough to seat six or eight, the rest for fours or twos. Once, in an attempt to bring the look of the Greek islands to Darwin, Tina had covered the tables with bright checked cloths, but Tara had abandoned that idea. The scrubbed wood was more functional and it saved washing. And the men didn't seem to mind. As long as the food was good and they were still able to shout a beer, that was all that seemed to matter to them.

She set down the dishes and looked around. Three men in naval uniform were occupying one end of the long table, chatting and smoking while they waited to be served – the three officers from the
Fortuna
Tara guessed. Another group she knew to be the bosses from the ice works were laughing loudly over some joke, and sitting alone at a corner table, a copy of last week's
Northern Standard
spread out across his sprawled legs, was a dark-haired, rakishly good-looking young man. As she noticed him, Tara's lips tightened. Sean Devlin, typically wild Territory born and bred, who had set himself up in Darwin as an electrical contractor. He came to eat regularly at Savalis' and that fact, coupled with his Irish immigrant ancestry seemed to give him the idea that he had the right to be familiar with her. What was worse was that when she put him in his place he retaliated with the kind of mocking manner which made her feel he was laughing at her.

Of course the trouble was he had no respect for anything or anyone, Tara thought. Take the way he dressed now. Not that there was anything unusual about wearing shorts – the men from the ice works were also wearing them. But they had the decency to team them with knee-high socks and smartly polished sandals, while Sean Devlin – or Dev as she had heard him called – displayed bare legs covered only by an indecent amount of black hair – like a monkey! And the shirt, open at the neck to reveal more dark curling hair. It was about time Dimitri set standards of dress for his establishment and if it wasn't wartime she would tell him so. He would never lift the place above the hoi polloi this way.

But then that was Darwin all over, the frontier town. Rough tough men perhaps running as she had run, misfits and vagrants, gamblers whose stakes were their lives, men for whom civilization was a straight jacket, jokers wild, all of them. And all the time this damned weather setting them at one another's throats, provoking arguments and irritation, making them go troppo if they were not used to it, driving them to fight and sometimes to kill. And Dev … who looked as if he could kill quite easily …

As if sensing her eyes on him he looked up from his newspaper.

‘Evening, Tara. Not left Darwin then? You should do while you have the chance.'

She shrugged. ‘I'm not interested in running away.'

The men from the ice works had stopped joking to listen.

‘Everybody else seems to be going,' one said. ‘The typists from the Government Administration Offices went today. They flew them out. Things are looking bad if you ask me.' He looked over his shoulder at Tara. ‘You must be pretty well the last woman left in Darwin.'

Tara spooned cabbage onto a plate. ‘I should hardly think I'm that.'

‘She wouldn't mind anyway would you, Tara?' Dev drawled from the corner.

Tara did not answer but she was thinking: No, I wouldn't mind. She had always preferred the company of men to that of women. Unless of course it was Tina – or Maggie. But Tina had gone south and Maggie was dead. Tara's heart fell with the familiar sick jolt as she thought of the woman who had meant more to her than any other. Strange, sometimes it was almost as if she had forgotten Maggie was dead and then it would hit her all over again, the grief and the aching sense of loss, as vivid and agonizing as ever.

With a conscious effort now she put her memories aside and set about serving the vegetables. Leaving the men to eat their meal she went back to the kitchen where several pints of custard had to be made and a stack of dirty pans were waiting for her attention. As she stirred the custard the heat from the range made her burned thumb throb and she thought for the umpteenth time since Tina had gone how she hated domestic work.

When I make my fortune, vowed Tara, I'll never cook another potato or wash another dish as long as I live. I'll have someone to do it for me just as I did when I was with Red. Only next time I won't be beholden to any man. The servants will be there because of
me
.

The men in the dining room worked their way through the menu to the coffee and still she was washing up, drying one lot of clean dishes to make room for the next on the draining board. Dimitri had long since disappeared – stopping to yarn with the men, she supposed. She was scouring a pot, attacking the gluey residue in its cracks with a last spurt of desperate energy, when he put his head around the door to drawl: ‘ More coffee, Tara!'

More coffee. Do it yourself! she thought. But she was too tired now to argue any more. All she wanted to do was go to bed, to sleep, and it was barely ten o' clock. Weary dimples tucked suddenly in her cheeks as she thought of how late her bedtime had used to be – never before one or two in the morning, sometimes not until dawn unless of course there had been a good reason to go to bed! How things had changed!

But I had no choice, she thought. No choice but to do what I did. It won't always be like this. Holy Mother, if I thought it would be I believe I'd go clean round the bend!

She carried the coffee through to the dining room. The men from the ice works had left now but Dev had joined the naval oficers at the big table and one of Dimitri's bottles, already half-empty, was occupying pride of place. Tara smiled to herself wondering how much profit Dimitri had managed to make on it. A hundred per cent? She would not be surprised. Dimitri took some persuading to unlock his cellar door and with Darwin as dry as it was at present the sky would be the limit regarding prices.

She poured the coffee and was about to leave when Dev stopped her.

‘Would you like a drink, Tara?'

She shook her head.

‘No thank you.'

‘You look tired.'

‘I am.'

He pulled a chair out. ‘Sit down for a minute.'

‘No, I can't stay.'

‘Yes, you can. I want to talk to you. And there's no need to look like that. I'm not about to attack your virtue.' He grinned ruefully. ‘You'll probably tell me it's none of my business anyway. But with our shared Irish ancestry I can't help feeling responsible for you.'

She snorted impatiently. ‘ Your ancestors were convicts, no doubt. Still, I have to hand it to you, you've done very well for yourself. I've seen the ute with your name on it running about Darwin.'

‘Correction. I
was
doing all right. The war is putting paid to that. There's no petrol now for running a ute about even when I'm on government business. Darwin is a dead city. And that's what I want to talk to you about.'

‘Don't think I can get you any petrol!' she scoffed.

He tipped his chair onto its two back legs.

‘What we were saying just now, Tara – you really ought to get out while you can. This is no place for a woman now. This war is hotting up and Darwin is right in the firing line.'

Tara tossed her head so that the dark curls bounced.

‘Why should anyone want to attack Darwin?'

He reached for the bottle, refilled his glass, and pushed the bottle towards the naval officers. ‘To begin with there's a harbour full of ships down there – thirty or forty of them. Then there's a convoy of transports that was on its way to reinforce Timor when it was attacked by Jap bombers. It ran for safety, back here to Darwin, and got in yesterday. Now ask yourself what sort of a tempting target that would make if the Japs decide to follow it in. Oh, it's all too easy to get complacent after a few false alarms. But one time when that siren goes it will be for real. One time, my beauty, when you run for the cliffs or the slit trench there will be a Jap bomb after you or a fighter drilling holes in the ground behind you … bang, bang, bang!' He drew an imaginary line in the air with his forefinger.

Tara snorted,' Oh, I haven't got time to listen to this!'

The naval captain reached for the bottle but his eyes were on Tara. ‘ Maybe you ought to make time.'

The seriousness of his tone stopped her.

‘How do you mean?'

‘I mean if you leave it much longer you could be too late. The Japs could cut Darwin off, no sweat, if they took over the seaward side. And it's no good thinking you can make a run over land. The Track is impassable half the time during the Wet.'

‘Sure don't I know it!' she said, thinking: That was why I chose Darwin, after all. Impassable. Cut off. The last place in Australia where Red would start looking for me …

The
Fortuna's
captain leaned forward on his elbows. ‘As soon as I've unloaded I'm sailing for Perth. There's a berth for you if you want one.'

She gathered up the empty glasses. ‘Sure thanks, that's very nice of you.'

‘I mean it.'

‘Think about it Tara,' Dev said. ‘ But don't think too long. You heard what he said. He's sailing as soon as he's unloaded.'

‘This sounds like a conspiracy. It's trying to get rid of me you are!'

‘That's true enough. But for your good, not mine. Dimitri will be gunning for me when he knows I've talked his home help into leaving!'

‘I am
not
his home help!'

‘Well – whatever you are. Take this offer up, Tara, or you may live to regret it.'

‘I'll sleep on it,' Tara said.

She could still hear the men's voices coming from the dining room as she passed the door on her way to bed and she shook her head with a twist of impatience that was half-rooted in jealousy. They were the ones who would have the thick heads in the morning!

The Savalis' house was one of the few two-storey buildings on the street and Tara's room, small and cupboard-like, was at the rear of the upper floor. A double bed too old and stained to be used now for the guests, took up almost the entire floor space and a tiny chest, topped with a cracked mirror, had been squeezed in alongside it.

On one wall a sampler worked in cross-stitch announced that ‘Home is where the heart is' ; from the opposite wall a pre-Raphaelite Christ, complete with lantern and crown of thorns, surveyed it with solemn dignity. The pictures had been hung to cover the state of the walls, Tara suspected, and she had added a touch of her own – a wooden crucifix – on a nail above the head of the bed. When she had first come an out-of-date calender, minus its book of dates, had hung there but she had quickly effected the change – ‘Sure wouldn't I hate to sleep with time gone hanging over my head!' she had joked to Tina.

The window was small and high up and no one had bothered to finish it with curtains. From its lofty position it looked out over the rear garden and sometimes Tara would clamber up onto the bed to view the tropical plants that rioted there, for even after almost a year in Darwin they were still a novelty to her. Tonight, however, the shutters were closed to enforce the blackout and the room was like an oven, singing with heat.

Tara hesitated for a moment then took the stick that stood in the corner beside the bed and reached up to unfasten the catch on the shutters. She would not be bothering to light the lamp tonight so there was no danger of the ARP warden thundering on the door to demand total darkness. And she had managed to repair the holes in the meshing well enough to keep out all but the most persistent mosquitos. As the shutter swung open the smallest hint of a breeze kissed her cheek and died again. The air outside was as humid and heavy as that inside. There was no way to escape it.

Wearily she unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off. The faint odour of cooking wafted up from the material and she wrinkled her nose. Tina had always smelled of cooking and Tara had thought it revolting. Now the thought that she smelled the same depressed her still further.

She tossed the dress into the corner of the room ready for washing and followed it with her underwear. Even forgetting the cooking smells clothes still had to be changed every day and sometimes not even that was often enough in this sweaty heat. Standing quite naked Tara could still feel the sticky patches between every fold of skin and the thought of lying down like this on that rough bed was more than she could bear.