Women and War (41 page)

Richard paid the driver and they got out, walking down between the white picket that edged the paddocks and the flower beds, bright with roses and geraniums, to the broad expanse of green which fronted the house. Closer, and Tara thought she saw a shadow on the veranda; a nerve tightened in her throat. Closer still, and the shadow materialized – a tall slender figure in a floral silk dress of blues and mauves.

‘Mother,' Richard said. There was pleasure in his voice but no excitement. Tara had half expected him to run to her, swinging her up in his arms. But that was not his way – nor apparently hers. She came down the steps quickly but not urgently, smiling and holding out her hands to them. The sun glinted on hair as fair as Richard's, though now faded slightly and streaked with silver, and Tara's first thought was how like his mother he was – the clear clean lines of his face were obviously inherited from her.

‘Richard, darling. And this must be Tara.'

Cool hands took Tara's hot ones and she bent forward, kissing her once on each cheek. ‘How lovely to meet you.'

‘And you,' Tara said. She felt awkward.

‘You must be exhausted. We didn't know when to expect you.' Mrs Allingham extended her cheek to Richard also and Tara recognized her feeling of discomfort.
This
was what she couldn't get used to in Richard – this restraint. Clearly inherited from his mother along with his looks. Momentarily, Tara found herself comparing it with the welcome Maggie would have given them – all hugs and happy tears.

‘Oh Mother, it's good to be here. You don't know!' Richard said.

‘How long has it taken you? Two days? Three?' she glanced at the kit bag Richard was carrying. ‘ Is that all the luggage you have?'

‘Yes, we travelled light. The army marches on its stomach,' Richard joked.

‘Let's go into the house.' Mrs Allingham took Tara's arm, linking it through hers. They walked towards the veranda, the kelpies at their heels. ‘We'll have a lovely cool drink. Unless you want a bath first. I expect you can't wait to change.'

‘You still have enough water for baths, have you?' Richard asked.

‘Yes – thanks to the tanks. Your father always said they would last us ten years. Let's just hope we don't have to put that to the test.'

It was cool in the house, cool and gracious. A maid served lemonade poured into tall glasses over chunks of ice. Richard and his mother chatted, the kind of slightly stilted conversation which comes from having so much ground to cover that it is impossible to know where to begin, and Tara sat quietly on the green velvet chaise, taking in the opulence of her surroundings. This was what she had married into, this genteel world of plenty, so different to her own. It was wonderful, better than she had imagined it even, and yet … Oh, for just a little of the spontaneity that had abounded with Maggie …

You can't have everything, Tara scolded herself silently.

She drained her glass and set it down on a leather-topped octagonal table.

‘Well, Richard – are you going to show Tara to your room?' Mrs Allingham asked.

Richard rose, Tara followed suit.

‘Yes, we'll have that bath, I think, and then perhaps Tara would like a rest before dinner. We've had to sit and stand the entire way.'

‘Of course.' Mrs Allingham rose too, crossing and taking Tara by the hands once more.

‘We'll have a lovely long talk later and get to know one another properly, won't we?' she said. ‘I am sure we are going to be great friends. Welcome, my dear daugher.'

But the smile did not quite reach her eyes and Tara knew that what Richard had said was true.

It would be a long time before his mother felt truly able to accept her.

‘Tara – are you going to stay in that bath all night?' Richard's voice from the other side of the door was amused and just a little impatient.

Tara stretched out luxuriously in the warm scented water and felt a clutch of bubbles tickle up her back.

‘You can come in if you want to. The door is not locked.'

He pushed it open and she slid down deeper so that the bubbles reached her chin.

‘Tara Allingham, I am beginning to think you married that bath, not me,' he teased. ‘The number of times you've used it since we have been here you'll be getting through my father's ten years' supply of water in a week!'

‘I know. But it is such heaven!' Tara said happily. ‘ I'd almost forgotten just what heaven a bath can be.'

He removed her underclothing from the wicker chair, laid it down on the carpeted floor, and sat down.

‘I know. Return to – civilization. You've enjoyed it, haven't you?'

‘Oh yes, I have. It's been marvellous. The best week of my life.'

And that at least, she thought, was no exaggeration. From the somewhat unpromising start things had just got better and better, the closest thing to heaven on earth that she had ever experienced.

To begin with there was the house. After the spartan conditions of 138 AGH the luxurious Allingham home was like paradise itself – the large, light living rooms, furnished for elegance as well as comfort, the veranda where they sat each evening to enjoy the sunsets, the fresh flowers everywhere bringing the scent of the garden into the house. Richard's room, which was now hers also, offered the kind of comfort and privacy she thought had gone forever, with its big feather bed, mirrored furniture – and this en suite bathroom which was theirs alone. At first glance it had appeared luxurious but impersonal, a room kept tidy for its occupant who had not lived in it for almost two years, but then she had seen the mementoes – the trophies, team photographs and the cricketing cap on a shelf above the dressing table, the small plastic battleship tucked away behind the bottles in the bathroom cabinet – and had felt close to the boy and young man Richard had once been.

Then there was the food. Months of stew and meat puddings in the mess had dulled Tara's palate – she had almost forgotten the near sensual pleasure which good food imaginatively prepared could be. The Allinghams' cook-housekeeper was a genius, meeting the problems of shortages as a challenge; the smells that wafted from her kitchen made the mouth water and her sweets were enough to tempt even the most figure-conscious to indulge in an orgy of eating – feather-light sponge cakes with passion fruit icing, chocolate-soaked lamingtons rolled in coconut, pavlova crisp on the outside yet melt-in-the-mouth inside and dripping with raspberries and cream. Tara asked no questions as to where it had come from, she simply enjoyed every mouthful and in doing so made a friend of the woman who, after years of working for the Allinghams and watching Richard grow up, had been determined to disapprove of his choice of wife.

Even Richard's parents Tara had found less daunting than she had expected. Mrs Allingham was hard to adjust to, it was true, with her reserved manner and practised niceties, and after almost a week Tara felt no closer to her. But she had formed an instant rapport with Richard's father even though, with a full work load at his Melbourne hospital, he was able to spend little time at home. A big bluff man with gentle hands he made her feel instantly welcome – there were no awkward questions, no attempts to impress, and she thought fondly that perhaps as he grew older Richard would come to resemble him more closely. His sister, Eve, she quite liked too; though she embodied some of her mother's reserve, there was also her father's warmth. She had come one day to visit and they had all spent a pleasant afternoon lazing by the pool, drinking iced lemonade and swimming – thank heavens Red had taught her to do a passable crawl.

But, best of all had been the luxury of time to spare with Richard, to be alone together and enjoy the closeness which had come with a wedding ring upon her finger. To have him there beside her holding her hand as they watched the sunset, to see his eyes smiling at her across the table at dinner, to lie beside him in the big feather bed and watch him sleep. And to close the door behind them and know that the expression of their love could be private and legal, passionate as well as warm, absolutely, perfectly, marvellously, right.

She smiled at him now as she lay there in the bubbles in the bath tub and held out her hand. ‘Why not come on in – the water is lovely!'

‘An invitation like that might be difficult to refuse.'

‘Why refuse it then? I'll make room for you.' She sat up. Her body was rosy, from the water; bubbles still clung to her nipples and across the line of her shoulders.

‘Tara Allingham you are a minx. I have no intention of taking another bath tonight.' But she could see the way he was looking at her and she stood up, reaching for the towel and stepping out onto the soft carpet.

‘Come here,' he said.

She wrapped the towel around her, teasing him.

‘Oh no, you had your chance.'

‘Come here, I said.'

He reached for her; she sidestepped. ‘ No!'

He stood up and came towards her; she danced away, laughing. ‘You'll have to catch me.'

‘Oh, I'll do that all right!'

She skipped into the bedroom and he followed, cornering her by the door.'

‘Now where are you going?'

‘I don't know.' Her face was flushed, her curls clustered around it damply. He tugged at the towel; she held on to it. He scooped her up in his arms then, carrying her bodily to the bed and dumping her there unceremoniously. She was still laughing. Then, as she watched him shed his clothes, the laughter died and the surge of familiar desire began. She reached up for him pulling him down on top of her. Her fingers clawed his back and she arched towards him sobbing deep in her throat as he entered her.

When it was over she still held him tight between her thighs, reluctant to relinquish the closeness.

‘Are you glad you married me?'

‘Of course I am.'

‘And you do love me?'

‘Why do you keep asking that?'

‘Because I like to hear you say so. You do, don't you?'

‘Yes.' He rolled away. ‘I hope you didn't pull the plug out of the bath because now you need another before dinner – and so do I. Come on, Mother will wonder what we've been up to if we're late.'

‘She'll guess, surely,' she said mischievously. ‘ We are newly-weds.'

‘There's no need to advertise the fact.' He moved to the connecting door to the bathroom. She lay for a moment watching him, loving the long clean lines of his body, then she rose herself and followed him into the bathroom. The water was still warm though most of the bubbles had dispersed. They took opposite ends of the tub, washing quickly this time.

Back in the bedroom Tara slipped into clean dimity underwear and one of the dresses Richard had bought her on a trip into Melbourne – oh, what luxury it was after her uniform and regulation issue bloomers!

‘I've been thinking.' Richard was buttoning his shirt as he spoke. ‘There's something we really should do while we are here.'

‘What's that?' she leaned towards the dressing table mirror, applying lipstick.

‘Look up Alys Peterson. She lives in Melbourne, doesn't she?'

Tara froze. In the mirror she could see Richard reflected; he was tucking his shirt into linen slacks, seemingly unaware of the turmoil he had begun in her.

‘You think so?' Her voice was breathy and uneven.

‘It would be nice to know how she is getting on. She had a pretty rough deal, that girl, what with one thing and another. And while we're so close, why not?'

Tara could not answer. A dozen reasons why not were flapping around inside her but they were all nebulous and she could not put them into words. I don't like the way you look at her, would sound childish. You must have hundreds of friends here – you haven't suggested looking any of them up so why her? would sound churlish. And the other objections were all allied, all more connected with gut feeling than with reason.

‘I'll give her a call, shall I?' Richard asked. ‘Perhaps we could meet her for dinner or something.'

‘Wouldn't that offend your mother?' Tara ventured. ‘ We only have a few days left after all.'

He reached past her for the tortoiseshell-backed brush which lay on the dressing table and smoothed his hair into place.

‘Mother isn't the possessive type – that's one thing she is not. Now, are you nearly ready? It's past seven …'

Tara screwed the top back onto her lipstick, dashed it down onto the dressing table and stood up, lifting her chin with a characteristic movement.

‘Yes,' she said and had he noticed it the defiance was there in her voice as well. ‘Yes, I'm ready.'

She could not follow him when he went to telephone – she wanted to but could not. His mother was regaling her with the story of an old friend who, in spite of living in the city, was having problems having groceries delivered.

‘The poor dear lives alone with no servants and no car and she is having to carry her shopping home herself in a string bag. A string bag, imagine it! But at least the bag is light and no weight to carry on the way to the store. And she says with all the shortages it's quite often light coming home as well! What is the world coming to?'

The door clicked open and Tara glanced up quickly.

‘That's it then,' Richard said.

She experienced profound relief. ‘You couldn't get her.'

‘Couldn't get who?' Mrs Allingham enquired.

‘A young Melbourne woman we knew in Darwin,' Richard explained. ‘And yes, I did get her. She was delighted to hear from us. Mother, you won't mind if we eat out tomorrow evening, will you?'

‘Of course not, dear. You and Tara should be having some fun. Goodness knows you'll be back to grim reality soon enough.'

‘That's all right, then. I expect you'll be pleased to see her again, Tara. She sounded thrilled at the prospect of seeing you.'