Women and War (48 page)

After a moment her sobs subsided, though she still trembled and her eyes were huge, wide and staring, above his hand. He kissed her forehead lightly and eased his hand away.

‘All right now? Take it easy, darlin' …'

She put her own hand protectively around her throat. It hurt from the pressure of his fingers and when she spoke her voice was slightly hoarse.

‘Don't ever do that again!'

‘I didn't mean to frighten you. God Knows, the last thing I want to do is …' He broke off then swore. ‘Oh hell, Tara, I'm sorry. I guess you're nervous after what happened to you.'

There was a small silence. Into it she said, puzzled: ‘What do you mean?'

‘The night of the show. When you were attacked. No wonder you're easily scared.'

The world seemed to be standing still. There was only the distant throb of the music, muffled by the moisture in the atmosphere, and the pounding of her own heart.

‘How did you know about that? You'd left, hadn't you? You left straight after the show. When I …'

‘When you were spirited away by the good doctor. Yes. But news travels. You can't keep a thing like that quiet.'

‘No, but …'

‘You see, is it any wonder I don't trust him to look after you? You were with him that night, yet someone managed to …'

She pulled away. ‘I don't want to talk about it.'

‘No, I guess you don't. And you don't want to stay out here any longer with me. Oh, don't protest that you do. There's no need to worry about my feelings. Come on, I'm supposed to be your escort. Let me escort you back inside.'

She went with him, still shaking. The band had moved on to some popular wartime numbers – the strains of ‘Yours' came floating out.

‘I'm surprised you haven't asked the band if you can sing with them,' Dev said.

‘What?' It was as if she was coming back from a long way off.

‘Sing. What you can do best.'

‘Oh yes.' For the first time in her life singing was almost unimportant. She could not forget the thought that had occurred to her out there in the dark with his hand around her throat.

Could it have been
Dev
who had raped her? He was strong enough. And he had wanted her. But had he wanted her enough to wait under the trees, crazy with jealousy because she had left with Richard? Could it be the reason no serviceman had ever been turned in by his mates was because it had not been a serviceman who had raped her, but a man everyone thought had left the camp hours before? Could it be …? There was a hollowness inside her now that was worse than the fear had been. Oh Holy Mary, not Dev. Please, please don't let it have been Dev. Don't let me even think it, not even for a moment. He has always been like a rock to me. I get annoyed with him, I know, but oh, if I can't trust him, who can I ever trust?

‘Come on, I'll have a word with the band leader,' Dev said and she nodded.

Singing might remind her of that other night, but it would also mean she had no time to think. Feel, yes, but not think. As Dev had said it was what she did best. So come on, Tara, entertain the troops, show 'em what you're made of …

She summoned her brightest smile, the one which switched on naturally now when the spotlight was on her, and followed him towards the stage.

A week later Dev was discharged from the hospital and put on a plane for Townsville. Tara went to see him before he left but there was an edge of strain between them now that had not been there before. Neither of them mentioned what had happened the night of the dance, but it was there between them all the same.

‘Goodbye then, Dev. Look after yourself,' she said.

He shrugged. ‘I'll be all right. But the same goes for you. You take care, right?'

He was still looking yellow and much too thin. His uniform, hanging on him, clearly showed the weight he had lost. Remembering how strong and muscular he had been, before she suffered a pang or two and was immediately struck once more by the terrible nagging suspicion. If he was still strong enough to overpower her how simple it would have been for him to take her that night … She pushed the thought away. She did not want to think it. In truth, she did not. So why did it keep rearing up like this, giving her this nasty uncomfortable feeling?

‘If you happen to see Richard make sure he's behaving himself,' she said, and saw the hard edge embitter his smile.

‘I'm sure you need have no worries on that score. The good doctor could never do anything else.'

She moved a trifle impatiently. ‘Why do you have to be so nasty, about him? What has he ever done to you?'

The hard line around his mouth cemented. ‘I won't answer that. Now, it's time I went. Keep smiling.'

‘Of course!'

But it was not always easy. With Dev gone she felt oddly bereft though she honestly could not understand why – when he was there he was such a constant irritant.

She was missing Richard badly, too. With all the movement out to the islands she had lived in hopes that 138 might be posted there, but it seemed that was not to be. Heaven knows when I'll see him again, she thought, and the loneliness and the wanting grew in her until it was a physical ache.

The Wet began early and working conditions were worse than ever. Tara ploughed her way through thick mud to clean the latrines and gulped and shuddered at the multitudes of frogs who lived and bred there. Drips and leaks developed, the neat flower gardens which the sisters had planted were threatened with suffocation by jungle vegetation which sprang up between the blooms as fast as they could be weeded out. Drying the washing was a problem – it was bad enough coping with army-style bloomers, but often Tara had hospital linen and bandages to deal with as well and it was a question of pegging it out between storms and then keeping a sharp eye on the sky to get it in again before it received another, unscheduled, rinse.

The hospital was overflowing with casualties who were flown in from the fighting on the other side of the Owen Stanley Range, but Tara got to see few of them. Her tasks were so mundane, so utterly frustrating, that she thought she would go mad.

There was one bright spot, however. Plans were underway to build a special club for the AAMWS and the nursing sisters. The girls talked about it over their meals in the mess tent and it was good to have something to take their minds off the appetite-depressing ‘iron rations' which appeared on the table with monotonous regularity – corned beef and biscuits, dried apricots and custard made from powdered milk.

‘They say it's going to be just for us,' Edna Royston said. ‘Not even a General will be able to go there without an invitation.'

‘Well, let's hope to goodness somebody invites one!' Jill Witton remarked, spearing a piece of corned beef without much enthusiasm. ‘A General or two would liven things up!'

Edna glowered. ‘I honestly believe some of you never think of anything but men. It's no wonder we have such a bad name with the folks back home. Personally, I think it will be a treat to have somewhere we can go and be comfortable without soldiers leering at us.'

‘It's not you they're leering at, Edna,' Jill said spitefully. ‘It's that needlepoint you do that turns them on.'

‘Come on, girls, no quarrelling!' Doreen Callis, always the peacemaker urged. ‘If the club is as good as they say it's going to be, there will be plenty of room for everybody to do their own thing.'

It was certainly true that the club looked like being a splendid asset. It was taking shape fast as gangs of natives worked under the supervision of an HQ team and, in addition to the handsome new building, an area had been designated as an outdoor picnic area and tennis courts were being laid out and a swimming pool sunk.

One afternoon late in November, Tara had just completed her laundry duties when a young AAMWS runner came puffing in out of the rain.

‘There you are, Tara! Thank goodness I've found you.'

Tara rolled a bandage irritably. It had been a bad drying day and the bandages were still slightly damp; she hoped they would be used again fairly quickly before mildew formed on them and she was hauled in for yet another roasting from matron.

‘You shouldn't have had too much trouble. Look for me in the lats – if I'm not there then I'm bound to be in this damned wash house. What do you want me for, anyway?'

‘It's not me that wants you. It's top brass.'

‘Oh Lord, what have I done now?' Faced with the probability of immediate discipline, Tara thought better of trying to get away with the still-damp bandage, unrolled it again and festooned it along a makeshift indoor line. It probably would not dry there but at least it wouldn't go mildewed either – at least not today. ‘Who is it that wants me?'

‘Major Rice.'

‘Oh Lord!'

Major Rice was an AAMWS officer known for her sharp, tongue and iron discipline where ‘her girls' were concerned. Tara dried her hands, tidied her hair and took her mackintosh down from its hook. Then she ran out into the rain, squelching across to the office block.

‘Ah, come in. Tara Allingham, is it?' Major Rice was sitting sideways on a corner of her desk flicking through a pile of papers and she straightened as Tara entered. ‘Close the door, will you?'

‘You wanted to see me, ma'am,' Tara said with less trepidation. She felt that if this was to be a wigging Major Rice would be seated more formerly.

‘Yes.' The Major rose and crossed to her chair. She was a short stout woman, her dark hair already necked with grey, tied back into a sensible bun. ‘ Sit down, will you? Now, I'll come straight to the point. You have no doubt heard that a club is being built for use by the AAMWS and AANS.'

‘Yes.' Tara perched herself on the edge of the chair, her wet mackintosh dripping water down her legs. ‘We are all looking forward to it.'

‘I am sure. It will be very good for morale.' Major Rice reached for a pencil, twirling it between her fingers. ‘Now the thing is, we want someone to run it and your name has been put forward, Tara.'

‘Oh!'

Major Rice's eyes narrowed. ‘You sound surprised, Tara.'

‘Yes, well, I am surprised!' It was an understatement; whatever she had expected it was not this. ‘Why me?'

‘I asked the same question. I was told you are not inexperienced in the world of entertainment.'

‘Yes, but – I don't know anything about organizing things. I'm a singer.'

‘I was told you made an excellent job of running a concert back in Adelaide River.'

‘Yes, but that was just one thing. This would be …' She broke off, her mind boggling at what running a club might entail.

Major Rice sat back in her chair, the pencil balanced between her index fingers.

‘So you don't want to take it on.'

‘Oh I didn't say that.' The shock was wearing off a little and Tara realized she was on the point of talking herself out of a job that would mean an end to cleaning latrines and washing bandages. ‘It's just that I never expected …'

‘No, I don't suppose you did.' Major Rice sounded amused. ‘Well, what do you think? Will you have a go at running it for us?

Tara took a deep breath.

‘Yes. Yes, I think I'd like to.'

‘Good. We shall promote you, of course. You will become a corporal with immediate effect, and if you make a success of things you should be a sergeant before long.' She snapped the pen back down on the desk. ‘That is all for the moment then, Tara. I'll arrange for you to liaise with Captain Greenaway regarding the details. And may I take this opportunity of wishing you every success in your new post.'

‘Thank you, ma'am.'

Still in a daze, Tara left the office. She had gone in expecting a rocket and emerged a corporal. With a job that would be as fascinating as it was demanding. Already the enthusiasm was beginning to bubble in her, a return of her old effervescent spirit.

If this works out I shall be quite satisfied to remain here until the end of the war, Tara thought.

And for the first time since she had met him there was no shadow of Richard in her plans.

The letter came with a bunch of mail which was delivered just after Christmas.

The intervening weeks had sped by for Tara. Relieved of her menial duties she had been able to throw herself headlong into the plans for the club, which was scheduled for opening somewhere in the middle of January, and she had enjoyed every minute of it. She had experienced a certain coolness from the other girls, it was true – Jill in particular had been a little spiteful about her appointment – but Tara was determined not to let that spoil her pleasure.

Jill would get over it. When she got used to the idea that it was Tara, not she, who had been promoted; when she was able to come to the club and enjoy the various activities Tara had planned, then perhaps she would mellow. If not … It will be her loss, Tara thought. Why should I care?

For the most part the new job revitalized her life. There was no longer time for fretting, no time even for missing Richard. At Christmas, it was true, she had experienced a terrible longing for him, especially when her present had arrived – a lovely little coral brooch and matching earrings – with a loving note promising her, more, much more when eventually they were together once again. But Tara had organized a carol concert and directed a nativity play and they had occupied her so fully both physically and mentally that she had soon put the momentary ache and loneliness behind her.

A letter from Richard was always something to be excited over, however, and when the mail was delivered that December day she took the letter into her tent, sitting down comfortably on the bed before tearing open the envelope and taking out the sheets of paper closely covered with Richard's neatly artistic writing.

He was working hard; the hospital was busier than ever. There had been some staff changes, some promotions, a new operating theatre. Tara read every word, trying to absorb the essence of Richard from the unadorned items of news. Then, as she came to a new paragraph, she felt her stomach falling away in a kind of dreadful anticipation even before she had had the time to read beyond the first bald statement.