The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Emma peeked out through her window, trying to remain out of sight, for Harry had worked out where her window was. Somehow he spotted her through the misty rain, and started singing That Old Black Magic at the top of his voice.

  ‘Stop it,’ she called. ‘I’m coming down.’

  Harry waved and fell silent. Thank God for that, thought Emma, as she slipped on sensible shoes and hurried downstairs before he started up again.

  * * *

  ‘Hello Constance,’ he said with a grin as she emerged from the front door.

  ‘What are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘I just want to talk.’ Harry attempted to hold the umbrella over her head, but she slapped him away. He looked ridiculous, standing there in his wet clothes, sodden shoes and pink parasol. Emma suddenly saw the funny side.

  ‘Come on.’ She took hold of his hand and led him down the street away from Hampton Hall. ‘We can’t stay here.’

  The rain increased its intensity. She headed for her car that was parked around the corner – a big, blue Chevrolet of which she was inordinately proud. Emma unlocked it, snatched the umbrella away from him and opened the passenger side door. ‘Get in.’ She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car so the heater would work.

  ‘Nice wheels,’ said Harry, as he dripped water all over the floor.

  Emma’s teeth were chattering, whether from cold or nerves she didn’t know. She leaned over, pulled the blanket off the back seat and wrapped herself in it. ‘All right, you wanted to talk – so talk.’

  ‘What happened, Em? Why are you working in that place?’

  ‘Stop coming to Hampton Hall, Harry. You’ll get me fired.’

  ‘Would that be so bad?’

  ‘Yes, it would be bad. My mother’s had a stroke. I have to look after her, pay for therapists and a nurse. Exactly how do you expect me to do that without a job?’

  ‘You could get another job.’

  ‘Not one that pays enough.’

  ‘I could help. Things are great for me, Em. I’m part owner of the shipyard now.’ His voice rang with pride. ‘I helped build those three harbour defence motor launches for the navy. Designed them myself, I did. That’s why I was at Hampton Hall that night. Captain Scott took me along as a kind of thank you. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there.’

  Emma changed the subject. ‘If you love boats so much, why aren’t you in the navy?’

  ‘Lord knows I tried. I wanted nothing more than to join up and fight for Australia, especially with Tom off in England being a hero. But I couldn’t, Em. Boatbuilders are a reserved occupation. We’re not allowed to enlist.’

  The bitterness in his voice was genuine, and she felt a strong and unexpected surge of compassion for her old friend, in spite of all the trouble he’d caused. For that’s what Harry was, an old friend. One of a very few people who’d known her before everything changed. Sitting there, talking with him – it stirred up ghosts of her former life. Uncomfortable ghosts, certainly, but powerful ones too. Shadows of old ambitions, of wanting to go to university and become a doctor and save lives. She snatched at the memories, trying to hold on – but they vanished like half-remembered dreams.

  ‘I want to see you,’ said Harry. In the soft glow of the street lamp, his face bore a sudden resemblance to Tom.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What does your heart say?’

  ‘I don’t listen to it any more,’ said Emma, but the truth was, quite unexpectedly, that she wanted to see him too. Harry was a link to who she used to be, and though there was no sense in it, she didn’t want to lose that feeling.

  ‘We could go to the movies,’ he said. ‘Next Monday night. What do you say?’

  She had Mondays off. He probably already knew that. ‘I won’t stop working.’

  ‘Didn’t ask you to, did I?’

  ‘Honestly, Harry, you’re not the first man who’s wanted to rescue me.’

  ‘Musical versus comedy. The Desert Song versus Mr Lucky. You choose.’

  And before she had time to properly think it through, her mouth was saying Desert Song like it had a mind of its own.

  ‘Great. Should I pick you up at work?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Never go there again.’

  ‘Where then?’

  She found a notepad in the glove box and scribbled down her address. ‘My mother can’t know what I do, obviously.’

  He pulled a small box of chocolates from his great coat pocket. ‘These are for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry.’ Emma took the rather squashed box from his hand. Back in the rarefied atmosphere of Hampton Hall there were always chocolates and sweets available for the women and their clients. Martha had connections everywhere, including at the Cadbury Factory in Claremont, which was the official supplier of chocolate to the Australian Armed Forces. She could usually find her way around any restrictions.

  Yet Harry lived in the real world, a world of hard work and austerity and rationing. A world Emma no longer knew much about. He couldn’t get luxuries whenever he wanted, so his humble offering meant a lot. As did the fact that she felt no judgement from him, no judgement at all. Only friendship. It was as sweet as it was surprising.

  ‘Pick me up at six.’ She whispered the words as if someone else might hear. ‘Will you come in and meet my mother first? She’d like that.’

  ‘Righto.’ Harry flashed her his most winning smile. There it was again, that resemblance to Tom, tugging at her heartstrings. When he kissed her and took her in his arms, she didn’t pull away.

  Chapter 23

  Hitler had surrendered and Britain was celebrating. The people had endured years of privation. Years of five inches of water in the bath, no bananas and the motto make do and mend. Half a million homes destroyed, hundreds of thousands dead, millions of lives disrupted – and now the horror was finally over.

  When Tom and the rest of his squadron arrived from Biggin Hill for the victory party at London’s fashionable Cable Club, they were greeted like rock stars – played in by the band and escorted to the exclusive VIP area beyond the red velvet cord.

  Nobody had forgotten Prime Minister Churchill’s stirring speech after the crucial air war during the Battle of Britain. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. Everybody knew the D-Day invasion of Normandy had relied on thousands of allied aircraft flying daring armed reconnaissance in the battlefield, firing rockets, dropping bombs and unleashing their machine guns against the might of the Luftwaffe. To the people of war-weary Britain, these brave young pilots were a symbol of the nation’s courage and hope for the future. All wanted to share and celebrate their heroism.

  Stu’s new wife, Dolly, clutched his arm tighter as a bevy of beautiful women gathered around, however she was no match for his enthusiastic fans. They whisked him away, along with the rest of the squadron, to cheers, applause and countless requests for autographs.

  Tom tried to excuse himself, daunted by a barrage of questions about the war and his part in it. That hell was the last thing he wanted to talk about. More than seventy thousand RAF personnel had died. Tonight’s glorious moment of victory was bittersweet.

  Tom had led a charmed life these past few years. It seemed the enemy couldn’t touch him, but such good fortune did not extend to his comrades. A particular photo haunted him: his first day at the RAF base in 1937. Twenty-eight naive boy pilots, grinning for the camera, excited to be embarking on a new adventure – him and Stu among them. Of those, only eight lived to see this day. And although the war was over in Europe, it still raged in the Pacific, where Australian forces were fighting a desperate battle against Japan. Maybe he’d join that fight, he didn’t know. But tonight he wanted to forget all that. He wanted to join in the celebrations of a joyful nation, and focus on a hard-won victory.

  In spite of his resolve, the pressing crowd was becoming too much for Tom. The eagle-eyed maître de rescued him. ‘Would you like to sit down, sir, and perhaps a d
rink?’ He escorted Tom to a table at the side of the room, away from the throng, where a jug of ice water stood next to a bottle of French champagne in a silver bucket. ‘If sir pleases, there’s a young lady who would like to join you. May I show her to your table?’

  Tom lit a cigarette. ‘Be my guest.’ One star-struck, grateful girl he could handle. It might even be fun.

  Then he saw her. White-gold curls framed her face and rubies encircled her slender neck – a glittering beauty with skin the colour of warm honey. Magnetic eyes of cornflower blue, and that dress. A drift of simple, silver satin skimming her body, rippling with the rise and fall of her breasts.

  Mesmerising. She half-smiled, lifted one perfect tanned shoulder, and when she did a little twirl, he knew it was just for him.

  ‘Kitty Munro,’ she said, extending an arm.

  He kissed her hand, lips lingering a little longer than was customary. ‘I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are, Wing Commander Thomas Abbott. The more interesting question is, do you know who I am?’

  She spoke with an American accent. Could he have met this ravishing vision before and forgotten? Tom racked his brain. Embarrassed by his failure to remember, perplexed as to why the most beautiful woman in the world was sitting at his table.

  ‘It seems you have me at a disadvantage, Miss Munro.’

  A middle-aged lady approached them, dripping in diamonds. Tom turned away, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. But it wasn’t him she was interested in.

  ‘Dear Kitty. I loved you in The Moving Finger. An absolutely stunning performance.’ She held up an autograph book. ‘Could I trouble you?’ Kitty graciously inclined her head, and took up the pen. Several more people made the same request, and stood in line.

  So she was an actress, a star of the stage perhaps, appearing in the West End. He’d never been to a swanky theatrical production before, but if Kitty was appearing in one, that would change, and quickly.

  ‘Tell me about your latest play,’ he said when the autograph hounds had gone. ‘I’ll get myself a ticket.’

  She threw back her head and laughed; a charming, musical sound. ‘You have no idea who I am, do you?’

  Tom felt himself go red. ‘They keep me pretty busy on the base,’ he said, by way of apology. ‘I don’t often get up to London.’

  The maître de returned to their table to pour the champagne, just as Kitty shuffled her chair a little closer, and put a hand on Tom’s knee. A jolt of electricity shot through him, as more fans arrived to distract her.

  The maître de raised his eyebrows and whispered in his ear. ‘Miss Munro is a Hollywood star, sir. A box office sensation. She’s in Britain filming her new movie, Murder At The Ritz.’

  Tom murmured his thanks.

  Kitty wrote a few autographs and shooed the other hopefuls away. ‘I believe you’re the first person I’ve met so far in London who hasn’t seen my last movie, or at least pretended to have seen it.’

  ‘My apologies, Miss Munro. As I said before—’

  ‘No, No. Don’t apologise. I find it quite charming.’ She took a cigarette from a silver case and put it to her lips. He groped in his pocket for matches, all fumble fingers. She waited coolly for him to light it, cupping his hand in hers as he did.

  Tom broke into a sweat and took a swig of champagne. Flying headlong into a squadron of Messerschmitts wasn’t as daunting as this one, beautiful girl. Right through the war he’d kept his distance from women. He told himself that getting close to someone in wartime was irresponsible, but it was more than that. He’d lost too many people already, so he built a protective wall around his heart, one that he thought nobody could breach.

  Many girls had tried, drawn to the dashing D-Day hero who’d become the toast of a nation. He’d been tempted a few times, especially by freckle-faced redheads who reminded him of Emma Starr. It must be true what they say about first love. Not only was Emma hard to forget, but she symbolised a time in his life before loss defined him. A time when his grandmother and brother were still in his life.

  But Kitty Munro had broken through the wall in an instant, leaving him defenceless, at her mercy. Maybe it was because the strain of war was gone, and he wanted to smile and joke and laugh with this dazzling young woman. He wanted to tell her his secrets, and hear all of hers. He wanted to swing her into his arms, smell her fragrant hair and never let her go. It was as if she was already his lover. ‘Care for this dance?’

  She nodded. He led her to the dance floor and the other couples gave way. They were the centre of attention – the splendid airman and the glamourous Hollywood star. Someone snapped a flash snap of the pair, and security quickly bundled the photographer from the room. The band struck off in an especially romantic version of As Time Goes By, and Tom held her close. She felt so soft, so fragile, he was frightened she might break.

  Stu and Dolly waltzed past, offering smiles, but he barely noticed them. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered. Kitty seemed to be filled with the same breathless anticipation that had struck him down. The need to be alone with this woman was overwhelming.

  They almost ran from the club, stopping to say goodbye to no one. They dodged cameras and well-wishers before hailing a taxi and collapsing into the blessed privacy of its back seat. ‘The Savoy,’ managed Kitty.

  They kissed, and he exploded in a blinding flash of desire. Neither of them wanted to let the connection go, and they were still locked together when they arrived at the hotel. Tom paid the cabbie and the pair teetered onto the footpath, drunk with desire for each other. Cameras flashed in their faces as they hurried through the doors, hand in hand, assisted by two firm doormen who kept the photographers at bay.

  Tom could barely get any air. ‘Do you … do you want a drink at the bar?’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it,’ breathed Kitty. ‘Come to my suite.’

  Tom didn’t need to be asked twice. In one giant leap of faith, he abandoned the rigid controls cultivated during long years of war. Let go the shields, the protections, the denials that had allowed him to function in the fearful hell of battle. All fled into the shadows, banished by Kitty’s blazing halo of light.

  When they were finally alone, Kitty unbuttoned his coat, running her fingers over the medals and the flying cross on his lapel. She unbuttoned his shirt and laid her head against the corded muscles of his chest. ‘I can hear your heart.’

  He slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders, with fingers that seemed too big and clumsy for the task. Kitty let down her hair, and gazed up at him with a flush on her cheek. He touched the soft swell of her breast. ‘You’re so very beautiful.’

  Her bright blue eyes danced with pleasure. ‘Take me to bed.’ Her words carried with them a fizzing vitality that was almost palpable. Kitty was a force of nature, the most intensely alive person he’d ever met. In a moment they were naked together, Tom’s hands exploring her perfect body. He grew so hard he feared he’d burst, but still he waited, eager for her to be ready too, for her to give him a sign. Finally she reached for him, pulling him close, guiding him home.

  * * *

  Hours later they lay spent and peaceful in each other’s arms. Nothing could have prepared Tom for such joy. Kitty asked for champagne, so he fetched a bottle and poured two glasses, letting the bubbles slide down his parched throat.

  She chattered away, telling him about her latest movie, and how much it meant and how cruel some critics could be. Tom wasn’t really listening, not to the words anyway. He was listening to the sweet sound of her voice, the exotic twang, the husky musicality – and he knew he never wanted to be without it again.

  He slid his arms around her. ‘Marry me, Kitty.’

  Her chatter ground to a halt. ‘You don’t mean that, Tom.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I know nothing about you,’ she said, as she fitted her smooth body to his. ‘Other than you’re a war hero, of course, and terribly attractive.’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Her lyrical
laughter made him mad with happiness. ‘All right then. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me anything.’

  ‘My parents died in an accident when I was ten.’

  ‘How awful!’ She kissed his cheek.

  ‘I have a twin brother.’

  ‘Is he as handsome as you?’

  ‘No.’

  She giggled. ‘Go on, tell me more. Impress me.’

  ‘I own an estate in Tasmania. My grandmother left it to me. A big house with thousands of acres of land.’

  ‘You do? An inheritance as well?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘How marvellous. I’ve always wanted to marry an heir.’

  He smiled and held her tighter. ‘Do you even know where Tasmania is?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her flawless forehead creased into a little frown. ‘It’s in Africa, isn’t it? Do you have monkeys. I’d love to cuddle a monkey.’

  Fantastic, she liked animals. ‘Tasmania is part of Australia, sweetheart; an island state in the south. And no, we don’t have monkeys. Will kangaroos do?’

  ‘Kangaroos? I’ll say they will. But Tom, are you sure?’

  ‘Maybe this will convince you.’ He kissed her, making such a thorough job of it that they were both dizzy. ‘Now, how about I try again.’ This time he knelt beside the bed and took hold of her hand. ‘Kitty Munro, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  ‘Yes.’ She flung her arms around him, pressing her bare breasts against him like soft white pillows. ‘Yes, I will. How the press will love us!’

  Chapter 24

  Emma hurried down the hallway to her mother’s room, still in her dressing gown. She knocked hard on Elsie’s door as she went in. ‘Mama, Mama. Japan has surrendered.’ Emma turned on the dressing table wireless and helped Mum to sit up in bed.