Women and War (24 page)

‘Get away with you!' But she was smiling and the smile lasted on her lips until Kate returned, grumbling about that hypochondriac Col Dempsey, and deep inside her for much longer than that.

Colonel Adamson, CO of 138 AGH, stretched his large frame carefully against the canvas back of his chair hoping as he always did that it would not collapse beneath his weight and deposit him ignominiously on the ground. The folding chair was the only concession to the fact that his office was now a tent – desk and filing cabinets were all solid enough, even his aide had a real chair, even if it was of the compact straight-backed variety. Colonel Adamson made a mental note to get on to Stores again about it, but he knew already what the answer would be and the thought of being denied such a basic need made his voice brusque when he addressed the young woman in VA uniform who was facing him across the desk.

‘Yes?'

Tara hesitated briefly. Now that she had got as far as the CO himself she wanted to be sure she was presenting her plan to him in the best possible way.

From the moment Dev had suggested a concert to her she had thought of little else. Even her obsession with Richard Allingham had been dwarfed by it. To sing again – oh, the longing it had started in her! At once, Tara had begun putting out feelers and already she had mustered more support than she had dared hope for – an orderly, a carpenter in civilian life, who had offered to construct a stage and some scenery; a junior MO whose friends vouched for him having the best voice ever heard in the showers and a surgical officer who was known for the clever conjuring tricks he could work with a pack of cards and a length of string.

Matron Swift had proved the greatest barrier so far. A big bustling no-nonsense woman she had viewed the idea with some scepticism but eventually Tara had persuaded her to allow her to put the scheme before the CO.

‘You must realize his decision will be final,' Matron said. ‘If he raises any objection then that will be the end of the matter. This is a hospital, not a variety theatre, and Colonel Adamson may very well feel as I do that we have quite enough on our hands without playing at concerts.'

‘Thank you, Matron,' Tara had said demurely, all the time thinking, If I can get it past a grumpy old woman like Matron I can certainly get it past the CO!

Now, as she confronted him, she consciously gathered all her charms and smiled at him, the wide sparkling smile which lit her eyes to blue pools and made the dimples play in her cheeks.

Well?' Colonel Adamson said again but this time his tone was noticeably softer. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Kelly?'

‘If you won't have me court-martialled for saying so it's what I can do for you, sir, and all the others here in the camp,' Tara said pertly.

The Colonel raised his eyebrows, great sandy thatches which seemed to meet across the bridge of his rather thin nose.

‘I'm an entertainer you see – or I was before I came to Darwin,' she went on quickly. ‘ I'd like your permission to put on a show for the hospital. I could sing myself and I'm sure there is far more talent right here than you would ever dream. It would be so good for morale to have a concert, don't you think?'

‘A concert, eh?' The CO boasted a fine sandy moustache to match his eyebrows; now he fingerd it softly, smoothing it outwards from the fleshy curve of his lips.

‘I could do it – I'm sure I could!' Tara pressed on enthusiastically. ‘I would need help with setting up a stage of course but that would be no problem …' she broke off, biting her tongue as she realized it would not be very tactful to let the Colonel know she had already sounded out one or two people before seeking his approval. ‘ I could arrange the programme myself and rehearse the acts, and I am sure if I could count on you for backing, sir, everything else would fall into place too.'

‘Hmm.' The subtle compliment had gone home; Colonel Adamson began to forget his collapsible chair. ‘A show is certainly good for morale – and we don't get any concert parties up here. Too far from civilization for them, I dare say.'

‘Oh yes, that's so,' Tara agreed. ‘To most people the Top End hardly exists.'

Colonel Adamson leaned back, still playing with his moustache and eyeing her appraisingly.

He had not been keen to take her on board. When Sylvia Crawford had asked him to, he had been on the point of refusing. An eminent surgeon who had cut his military teeth in the Army Medical Service during the Great War and kept his hand in by remaining with the militia afterwards, he had little time for women aids on active service. The sisters of the AANS and the masseuses were an asset, he knew, but when it came to orderly work there were so many jobs a man could do which a woman could not – lifting and carrying, chopping wood, a hundred and one heavy jobs. But Sylvia was both an old adversary and a valued friend and he had given in to her request. Now he looked at Tara and felt his earlier misgivings about her stir again.

Was it better for the men's morale to see a girl as attractive as she was about the place, or did her presence merely cause tensions, frustrations and petty jealousies? Probably a little of each, but at least while the men were ogling her they were not getting up to more serious trouble. And if she really was capable of organizing a concert then it certainly would be a morale booster.

Once again his eyes ran over her, lingering a little too long on the trim flare of her hips and the curve of her breasts and by the time they had moved up to the full pout of her lower lip, pink and inviting and rucked slightly back by the grip of small even white teeth, his own mouth felt slightly dry and the palms of his hand moist.

‘Very well,' he said, arranging the papers on his desk into a neat pile to hide the faint tremble of his hands. ‘I approve the idea, in principle at any rate. See what you can do and if there is anything you need or if you encounter difficulties of any kind, be sure to report straight back to me.'

He was rewarded by seeing her face light up so that her eyes danced like blue pools.

‘Oh thank you, sir, that's very kind of you!'

‘Not at all!' Beneath the beetling sandy brows his own eyes narrowed slightly. There would be, he decided, just enough difficulties to make Tara a regular visitor to his tent.

Late summer sunlight filtered through the leaves of the big old plum tree in the walled garden at the rear of the Toorak mansion, making dappled patterns on the grass and on Alys' face as she sat in the lounging chair which had been carefully positioned for her within the patch of shade.

Oh, it was so good to be out of the confines of the house for a little while, good to smell the faintly cidery odour of the orchard, hear the buzz and whirr of insect life in the rioting end-of-season flowers, feel the sun warm on her skin. Her mother had not wanted her to come outside, of course. ‘I don't think you should attempt to walk, Alys. It's very foolish!' she had admonished, but Alys had persuaded Morrie, the chauffeur and her greatest friend amongst the servants, to carry the chair out for her and then give her a helping hand across the lawn so that she could sit in it. The effort had taken its toll on her far more than she had expected – the pain still made her grit her teeth as she hung onto Morrie's arm and crossed the lawn, step by careful step – but oh, it had been worth it! And nothing was going to spoil her pleasure in this longed for excursion back into the normal everyday world – not her mother's disapproval, which would replace her claustrophobic loving concern for the next twenty-four hours at least, not the prospect of the painful trek back across the lawn when the sun began to go down, and certainly not her sister Beverley who had brought out a sun-lounger to sit beside her.

Alys cast a sidelong glance at her sister, lying with the skirt of her cotton sundress draped delicately around pale freckled legs that had managed to survive yet another Australian summer without a trace of tan, and gave her head a small shake. She did not understand Beverley. She never would. It wasn't that she did not love her, she did, she supposed, and when they had been the breadth of a continent apart she had thought of her quite fondly. But when they were together they seemed to rub one another up the wrong way continually.

This afternoon for instance. Beverley visited regularly once or twice a week bringing Robyn, her little daughter, with her and when she did she always spent the entire time in the house talking to Frances. Not so today. She had joined Alys in the garden – at Frances'suggestion, Alys suspected. She had said as much to Beverley.

‘I suppose Mother has sent you out to make sure I behave myself and don't start jitterbugging all over the lawn!'

But Beverley had not seen the funny side.

‘Don't be silly, Alys. Although,' she had added slyly, ‘I wouldn't put it past you.'

Determined not to spoil her enjoyment of the afternoon Alys had bitten back the swell of irritation. Let it go. It did not matter.

A breeze stirred the leaves of the plum tree making the pattern of shade flicker on the girls' faces. As if touched by a sudden finger of doom, Beverley sat up abruptly looking around with obvious anxiety.

‘Robyn! Robyn – where are you?'

‘She can't be far away, Bev. There's no way she could get out,' Alys soothed.

‘Yes, but …' Beverley swung her legs over the edge of the lounger. ‘Oh there she is! Robyn, come out of that sun, darling. You'll burn or get sunstroke. One or the other.' She got up, crossing the lawn to where a shiny golden head was just visible over a clump of purple dahlias, scooped up the child in one arm and the wooden horse on wheels she had been playing with in the other and carried them back to the shade of the plum tree.

Robyn, who had been enjoying herself in her secret world, yelled lustily as Beverley dumped her beside the lounger.

‘Here we are, Robyn, you can play with Dobbin here.'

‘Don't want to,' Robyn grizzled. She struggled to her feet, a small round pink bundle in sundress and floppy hat, and began to toddle back towards the dahlias.

‘Robyn, no!' Beverley jumped up again, brought Robyn back once more and stood over her threateningly. ‘Stay here or Mummy will be cross.'

Alys began to feel a little like an oyster when the speck of grit invades its shell.

‘For heaven's sake, Bev. You shouldn't namby-pamby her.'

‘I did not!'

‘You do. She wouldn't get sunstroke. She's got her hat on and the dahlias are much bigger than she is anyway. You just like her where you can keep an eye on everything she does.'

‘And what's wrong with that?' Beverley asked hotly. ‘She's my baby – I should think it would be strange if I didn't want to look after her. You're not a mother – you wouldn't understand.'

A sharp little pain that had nothing to do with her wound shot through Alys. Strange how it could still hurt – to have carried a child, even for such a short time, and to have lost it. Strange, too, that others should assume she had no feelings in the matter – as if being seventeen and unmarried had rendered her immune from normal maternal emotions.

‘When I have children of my own I shall make darned sure I don't wrap them up in cotton wool,' she said after a moment. ‘And when they are old enough to have lives of their own I shall let them fly the nest, too. You've got to let them go. There's nothing worse than imposing your will on grown-up children.'

‘You would think like that,' Beverley said crossly. ‘You've always been a rebel.'

‘Wrong,' Alys said, ‘ Oh, I admit I've never conformed and acted out Mummy's every whim the way you have, but I certainly wasn't a rebel. You have no idea how much I wanted their approval!'

‘You had a funny way of showing it. And you haven't changed much either. Take this business of insisting you are going back to Darwin the moment you are fit. It's worrying Mummy to death I know. Surely for her sake …'

Alys sighed. Oh yes, impossible to spend an afternoon with Beverley without disagreeing about something. And the bone of contention this time was to be her future plans. She should have known her mother would have told Beverley about the fuss that had ensued when she had mentioned her intention of returning to Northern Territory and her Red Cross work as soon as she was fit – and known too that Beverley would raise the subject at the first opportunity.

‘Why should I be made to feel guilty about wanting to do my bit for the war effort?' she demanded.

‘You could do your bit for the war effort from here.' Bev made a grab for Robyn who was on the point of toddling off once more. ‘Mummy does sterling work raising funds. She would be only too pleased for you to help her. So you have no excuse – none at all.'

‘Look, Bev, just because you are happy to stay here and fit in with Mother's idea of what her little girls should be doesn't mean I have to,' Alys said. She was beginning to lose her temper, since she had been ill it seemed to be on a very short fuse. ‘I don't want to raise funds. I want to work in the field, doing what I'm good at. In any case, all this is a bit premature, isn't it? It's all I can do to walk across the lawn, never mind driving an ambulance out of Katherine or Alice Springs or wherever the Northern Territory HQ is now that they have been evacuated from Darwin.'

‘Just as well to make up your mind now that it wouldn't be wise even to think about going back,' Beverley said sanctimoniously. ‘For heaven's sake be sensible, Alys, and think of someone other than yourself for once …' she broke off, turning to look across the lawn towards the house. ‘Oh, here is Mummy now, and Dr Whitehorn too. They're probably looking for you.'

Alys followed her line of vision and saw Frances crossing the lawn with Donald Whitehorn who had been both family physician and friend since the Petersons had come to Melbourne more than fifteen years ago. Frances appeared animated and she greet Alys almost gaily.