Tammy paused, took a deep sip of her wine.
‘Was – is – Ben involved with the community at all?’ Chloe asked.
‘Well, he coaches the under-8 soccer team and he’s also a sponsor.’ As Tammy said this, a smile that was almost cheeky brightened her face. ‘Each week, the kids in the winning teams get a voucher for a free sausage roll.’
‘That’s clever. I bet it’s good marketing, too.’
‘It certainly helps.’ Tammy took another drink of wine and sat for a bit, staring solemnly at her glass as she held it in her lap. ‘Ben came here to make a fresh start.’ She looked up, her mascara-rimmed eyes wary now. ‘I suppose you know he hit a bad patch before he came here. When he was at the Gold Coast?’
‘I did hear something, yes.’ Chloe was aware that Ben had been involved in the drug scene on the Gold Coast and had ended up doing time. ‘Sergeant Locke tells me Ben was very upfront about it. Apparently, he called in to the police station almost as soon as he arrived in Burralea. He knew his past would show up on his records, but he was determined to make a clean start here.’
‘Too right.’ Tammy said this with surprising vehemence. ‘And that’s exactly what he’s done. A clean start. Squeaky clean.’ She clenched a fist. ‘That’s why it bugs me so much that his disappearance seems to be connected to bloody drugs.’ Her lips trembled now. ‘There was gear for making ice in the hut near where I found his cap.’
If Chloe had known Tammy better, she would have hugged her. She put down her pen, leaned forward. ‘I know that’s terribly worrying, Tammy, but it doesn’t mean Ben was actually involved in making drugs. The police certainly haven’t drawn that conclusion.’
Tammy shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s something, I guess.’
They sat for a bit in gloomy silence, sipping their wine, and Chloe wished she could produce a word of wisdom, some comforting advice. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m not sure. You mean about Ben?’
‘Yes. Maybe some little idiosyncrasy that people can relate to.’
‘Like how he hates microwave ovens and refuses to use one?’
‘Yes. That’s interesting, given his profession.’
‘Or the way he sings in the shower?’
As Chloe jotted this down, she found herself remembering how Jason used to sing along to the radio when he was driving. Unfortunately, he was always annoyingly off-key. ‘What kind of singing?’
Tammy gave a small, giggling laugh. ‘Would you believe reggae? He’s actually quite good.’ The laughter died and she let out a heavy sigh. ‘The other thing … we’d started looking at houses around here. We were seriously thinking about buying a place together.’
‘In Burralea?’
‘Probably, or maybe just a bit out of town. We were also talking about starting a family.’ As soon as she said this she threw up her hand, palm out, in a stopping gesture. ‘Don’t put that in the paper though.’
‘No, no, don’t worry,’ promised Chloe, even though she could instantly imagine a host of attention-grabbing headlines.
Tammy drained her glass, then rose and went back to the little alcove, returning with a full glass and bringing the bottle to refresh Chloe’s drink. She sat again with her legs crossed.
‘This is off the record,’ she said, dropping her voice as if someone might overhear. ‘But for a while there, just after Ben went missing, I actually thought I might have been pregnant.’ Now, her attempt to smile was a little crooked and sad. ‘And you know, the crazy thing was, I was hoping I was pregnant.’
I totally get that, Chloe wanted to tell her.
Tammy sat a little straighter and added, defensively, ‘Well, it would have been Ben’s baby and – I don’t know – maybe it could somehow have lured him back?’
Chloe’s heart went out to the poor woman, but before she could answer, Tammy groaned and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t believe I just said that. I know it’s crazy. Really, really dumb.’
‘Not dumb,’ said Chloe gently. ‘I think most women’s imaginations are a bit out of control when it comes to boyfriends and babies.’
Tammy opened her eyes again and stared at Chloe for the longest moment. ‘You sound like you’re talking from experience.’
I am, Chloe thought. And then … maybe it was the wine, or perhaps it was something about Tammy’s cosy salon and her friendly, open manner that welcomed confidences – she was a hairdresser, after all. Or maybe Chloe just wanted to distract Tammy from her worries. Whatever the reason, she found herself telling Tammy about Jason.
‘I was in a relationship for seven and a half years and everything was pretty close to perfect until I pinned my boyfriend down about starting a family.’
Tammy groaned. ‘I know that type.’
‘I guess a guy has a right to say he doesn’t want kids,’ Chloe went on. ‘But he should have come straight with me years ago, instead of leading me on, letting me think – assume …’ She took a breath to steady herself before she added the worst. ‘The thing was, he didn’t just tell me no, or give me a proper reason for saying no, apart from how expensive kids are. He asked me why I thought I’d be such a great mother.’
‘Bloody hell!’ It was gratifying to see the appalled look on Tammy’s face. ‘God, Chloe. After seven and a half years? That’s such a low blow. What a prick!’
‘Yeah.’ But I loved him for all of those seven and a half years.
‘I hope you sent him packing?’
Chloe nodded. ‘Except I was the one who did the packing.’
‘Good for you.’ Tammy selected an olive from the little dish. ‘It must have been a kick in the guts, though.’
‘It hurt,’ Chloe admitted. ‘I was shattered, to be honest. But I think I’m finally “moving on”.’ She used her fingers to make air quotes around the phrase.
‘That’s great. Well done.’ After a bit, Tammy asked, ‘Would you consider IVF now? Becoming a single mother?’
‘I’ve certainly thought about it.’
Chloe had, in fact, started her research, learning the necessary steps involved. Hormone injections, egg retrieval, clinical fertilisation and re-implantation. It was all a bit daunting, but it might be her only option.
‘I’m thirty-seven and I do feel like I’m running out of time,’ she said and then she closed her notebook. ‘But I’m sorry. I got right off track. The last thing you need is my sob story.’
‘But it’s good to talk, isn’t it?’ Tammy said earnestly. ‘And I appreciate you asking me about Ben. I think it’s helped. I do feel a bit better. Most people avoid mentioning him. It – it’s like he’s already de—’
Tammy checked herself. ‘Like he won’t be coming back,’ she said instead. With a tight, brave little smile, she added, ‘And I refuse to believe that. I mean, it ain’t over till it’s over, is it?’
Chloe wondered if she could remain so optimistic under similar circumstances. But she wasn’t about to question Tammy’s faith.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ she said and she stood and collected her things. ‘Thanks for the wine and thanks for seeing me, Tammy. I should be able to show you a copy of the story tomorrow.’
‘Let’s hope it helps Ben somehow,’ Tammy said.
She walked with Chloe to the door and they hugged as they said goodbye.
‘It was great to meet you.’ Tammy sounded as if she really meant it.
‘You, too.’ Chloe fingered her hair. ‘I’ll no doubt be back for a cut before long.’
‘You have pretty hair. I’d love to cut it.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside in the summer night, insects buzzed and as Chloe walked home, Tammy’s words echoed in her head. It ain’t over till it’s over. She felt as if she’d made a new friend, but she was also more concerned than ever about Ben.
Chloe’s meeting with Izzie Galbraith on the following day was an entirely different experience. She had been surprised when Emily had told her that her mother wanted a meeting. Now, as Chl
oe entered a nursing home for the very first time, she discovered that rooms filled with the frail and helpless elderly could be unexpectedly confronting.
This is a facet of life I really should face, though, Chloe told herself as she hurried past, conscious that she took her own youthfulness and fitness for granted. She vowed to come back again and write a story about the home. She knew that these folk, who were nearing the end of their lives and were often so easily dismissed, had lived busy and interesting lives, perhaps not as remarkable as Izzie’s, but worth hearing about, surely?
She was directed to Izzie’s room, and found the elderly woman out of bed and sitting in a chair. Izzie was as small and frail as any other resident in the home, but despite her stooped shoulders and age-spotted, knobbly hands, her bearing was surprisingly regal and she looked very alert, her dark eyes flashing behind pink-framed glasses. She was wearing a blue cotton dress, sensibly buttoned down the front, and her short white hair was neatly styled. Quite clearly, she had been waiting for Chloe.
‘Hello.’ Chloe smiled, thankful that she wasn’t late. ‘How are you, Izzie? I’m Chloe Brown from the Bugle.’
‘Chloe, I’m very pleased to meet you.’ Izzie spoke with a rather posh English accent. ‘Come and sit down,’ she ordered, gesturing to the only other chair in the room. ‘Pull that a little closer, so we don’t have to shout. That’s right,’ she added, as Chloe obeyed. ‘Someone might bring us some tea soon, if we’re lucky.’
‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you,’ Chloe said with another of her warmest smiles. ‘I’ve heard so much about you and, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve done a little research, too. I was fascinated to learn that you were a pilot during the war and then you ran the Bugle virtually on your own.’
To Chloe’s surprise, Izzie gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Yes, yes, but that feels like another lifetime ago. I suppose it was, really.’ Leaning forward, Izzie said, ‘I’m afraid I’m more interested in you, Chloe, and why you’re here in Burralea. What you plan to do.’
Chloe hoped her shoulders hadn’t sagged too visibly. No way could she admit to this heroic woman that she’d come to Burralea to recover from a sad romance. ‘I felt like a change,’ she said. ‘Sydney can be rather —’ She groped for a suitable word. ‘Well, after you’ve lived there a while, Sydney can seem rather predictable. I was looking for a totally different experience.’
Izzie nodded, apparently accepting this. ‘Did you always want to be a journalist?’
Oh, dear. Chloe had already been through one job interview with Emily, but now this felt like a second round. Again, she was uncomfortable about being totally honest. Truth was, she hadn’t grown up wanting to be a journalist. Even when she’d started uni, she hadn’t had any real plans for the future.
‘I studied for an Arts degree at Sydney University and discovered I was good at English and Marketing,’ she said. ‘And after graduation, I managed to get a job in marketing with Hunter and Bromley, an engineering firm.’
‘That’s interesting.’ Izzie gave a nod of approval. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, I quite liked it. My main task was to write ROI documents when the company was tendering for contracts and commissions. I had to present Hunter and Bromley in a positive and professional light, outlining their successes with previous projects, how they’d finished on time and under budget.’
‘So the company could win or lose the job depending on how well you addressed their clients’ criteria?’ Izzie asked.
‘Yes, that’s right. I had to grow up rather quickly.’
The old lady smiled. ‘And you enjoyed working there?’
‘The engineers were brilliant, but they put all their focus into figures and formulas, so it was good for my ego to know I could help them to hit the right balance between honest information and marketing spin.’
‘But I understand you also worked on a magazine for women.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was that a difficult transition?’
Gosh, this really was quite a grilling, but this queenly nonagenarian wasn’t one to be argued with. Chloe drew a quick breath and ploughed on with her story. ‘The move felt like a natural progression, actually. There was a young woman on the Hunter and Bromley staff, Tracey Bright, who was selected for the long jump in the Commonwealth Games. I wrote a story about her for the firm’s in-house magazine. Then I also interviewed people in a small town near Broken Hill who were thrilled to finally get a stable water supply, thanks to our firm.’
‘Let me guess,’ responded Izzie with a smile. ‘You realised you preferred to write about people rather than engineering projects?’
‘In a nutshell.’ Chloe smiled too. ‘When Tina Jenkins from Girl Talk magazine contacted me, inviting me to develop the Tracey Bright story into a full-size feature for their magazine, I jumped at the chance. And it wasn’t long afterwards that I heard about a job being offered at Girl Talk. I was thrilled when I got that position. I loved it.’
Chloe hoped Izzie wasn’t about to quiz her about why she’d left Girl Talk. She was on the brink of directing a question to Izzie when they were distracted by a rattling sound outside. A plump, smiling woman with a tea trolley appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Pam.’ Izzie introduced Chloe, and Pam was instantly eager to tell her that a photo of her soccer-star nephew had been published in the previous week’s Bugle.
‘We were all so excited,’ Pam said as she served tea and biscuits. ‘And, Izzie, it’s ginger nuts today. Your favourites.’
She left, with a smile and a wave.
Chloe, with her cup and saucer and ginger nut carefully balanced, tried to steer their conversation in a new direction. ‘Izzie, I read that you were one of the Air Transport Auxiliary during World War II,’ she said. ‘I’d love to hear more about that.’
‘Well yes, it was an interesting time,’ Izzie admitted.
‘You were like proper pilots, weren’t you? Flying bombers and everything?’
Izzie nodded. ‘But only to transport the planes from the factories to the military airfields. Once we delivered the planes, the men took over the real war work.’ With a wry smile, she added, ‘Even so, people were shocked that girls were allowed to fly those enormous planes.’
‘You were trailblazers,’ Chloe suggested.
‘I suppose we were, yes. I think all the air forces have female pilots these days. But back then, people – especially men – found the idea of women flying ludicrous. Even the editor of an aviation magazine had a dig at us, complaining about the menacing women who thought they should be flying bombers when they didn’t have the intelligence to scrub hospital floors.’
‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Chloe. ‘Just as well there was no social media back then. Imagine the slanging matches on Facebook.’
‘Yes, that’s one mercy, I suppose,’ Izzie said with a smile. ‘And we proved them wrong, of course. Luckily, Churchill was on our side. He wanted an air force as strong as Germany’s, and he was prepared to get it by any means.’
‘It must have been incredibly exciting,’ Chloe said. ‘Scary, though.’
Izzie sat for a moment before she responded, as if she was thinking back through seventy-five long years.
Eventually, she said, ‘It was a responsibility, being tasked with transporting very expensive, brand-new machines, but mostly we didn’t have time to be scared. The flying required so much concentration, you see. But yes, it was exciting, no doubt about that. Flying Spitfires, oh, my goodness. They were wonderful machines. Incomparable. So streamlined, a cockpit barely wider than your shoulders, and the thrust equivalent of six super-charged racing Bentleys under its nose.’
Chloe, who had pretty much drifted rather aimlessly through her twenties, was entranced. She was itching to write a story about Izzie’s experiences. Surely young people today would find it as fascinating as she did. But she was conscious of Emily’s puzzling reluctance to print such a story.
W
hy? Wouldn’t any daughter be proud of such a mother?
To Chloe’s delight, Izzie reminisced a little more about her ATA days, about the comradeship of the girls, about the bombings and the shock of sighting a Luftwaffe Messerschmitt at close range. She was about to tell Chloe how she met her Australian husband when a nurse bustled in, wanting to take Izzie’s blood pressure.
Chloe realised that she should probably leave.
‘I hope you’ll come again,’ Izzie told her, as the nurse matter-of-factly tightened the cuff around her arm.
‘I will, for sure,’ Chloe promised. Her head was buzzing as she walked out, past those rooms of pale, sick elderly folk. She was trying to picture Izzie when she was young, in her smart navy uniform with gold braid, climbing into the cockpits of those enormous planes and facing danger on a daily basis.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Great Britain, November, 1944
Izzie would never have taken off from South Wales if she had known the visibility would deteriorate so quickly. The weather closed in early, far earlier than the forecasts had predicted. But Izzie was not inclined to turn back.
She wasn’t especially worried. She loved everything about flying, so of course she adored her job with Britain’s Air Transport Auxiliary, especially knowing she was a vital part of the war effort. And this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d flown through drizzling, cloudy conditions.
As she scanned the Welsh landscape below, valleys beckoned invitingly like tunnels in the clouds, and she recalled her orders for flying in bad weather. The rules were simple and straightforward: fly beneath the clouds whenever possible and stay on course, try not to fly above eight hundred feet, and don’t try anything fancy. After all, she was transporting a Lancaster bomber, a hugely expensive, brand-new aeroplane, and she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
Normally, she didn’t mind that she and the other female ATA pilots hadn’t been given the more sophisticated navigational training that was reserved for the men in the RAF. The women had only been shown how to use a plane’s gyro compass, but this was next to no use to Izzie now, as the clouds hunkered closer, all around her, as thick as concrete.
The Summer of Secrets Page 13