Elsie came in. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’
‘Japan has surrendered. Jacky will be coming home. Listen. They’re about to replay the Prime Minister’s speech.’
A lively military march sounded from the speaker, and then came Ben Chifley’s voice. Fellow citizens, the war is over.
Emma and Elsie joined hands and danced around the room. Even Mum managed a fine cheer. The news wasn’t unexpected. Newspapers had been filled lately with articles about Allied success. Reports of American atom bombs flattening Hiroshima and Nagasaki had increased speculation about an imminent surrender. Troops in Darwin and New Guinea were apparently already celebrating, but Chifley’s announcement made it official. Peace was at hand.
‘Let’s go into town,’ said Elsie. ‘Join in the celebrations.’
‘Do you want to, Mum?’ asked Emma. ‘I can bring the car round the front, right by the door. Are you up for it?’
Her mother smiled, as widely as her wonky mouth would allow. ‘Try to stop me.’
By ten-thirty they were in the car and ready to go. Emma was tucking a tartan rug around her mother’s knee when she heard a knock on the window. Harry, wearing a silly party hat and waving a Union Jack flag.
She laughed and wound down the window. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘The best,’ he said, kissing her. ‘And I have some marvellous news of my own. Let me in.’
‘Yes, let him in,’ said Mum. She was a big fan of Harry. He was exactly the type of man she had in mind for her daughter. Charming, hard-working and from a good family. The Abbott name was a well-known one.
Harry opened the back door, sat beside Elsie, and the four of them were off into town. It soon became clear that everyone had the same idea; men, women and children waving streamers, flags and noisemakers. The streets were packed with revellers all the way down Macquarie Street, to the Town Hall and beyond. Girls with linked arms danced around the rammed earth air-raid shelters in Franklin Square and painted the word Peace on walls and sandbags. Small boys climbed statues and lamp posts to see above the crowds.
‘Drop Eileen and me off opposite the post office,’ said Elsie. ‘We’ll go to that little tea room. Your mother can sit down, and we can watch all the fun from the window.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Emma, who was dying to join in the collective celebrations. ‘What about you, Mum?’
‘Go on,’ her mother said. ‘You two enjoy yourselves.’
* * *
Emma parked the car and took Harry’s hand. ‘What about your news?’
‘That can wait.’
They melted into the laughing, cheering throng, buoyed by an immense shared joy that Emma had never felt before. The centre of Hobart was transformed into one, enormous street party. She lost track of the number of spontaneous kisses from strangers. There were no grumpy constables on corners, directing traffic. They’d all joined in the revelry, blowing their whistles and throwing their hats in the air. There were no harried clerks hurrying to the office, or impatient deliverymen backing vans into laneways. The city was at a standstill, except for the trams, with standing room only and smiling people spilling from the running boards.
A huge papier mâché figure, with the name Hirohito splashed across its chest, appeared from a third floor window. A man leaned out, wrapped the dummy in a Japanese flag, tightened a noose around its neck and let it fall. The crowd cheered as it swung three feet above the ground. Somebody set it alight, and people danced and sang while it burned.
The flaming effigy sent an uncomfortable prickle up Emma’s spine. ‘Let’s find somewhere for a drink.’
They strolled down Elizabeth Street, past a man doing the highland fling. Past a woman whose little dogs were doing tricks to the applause of a gathering audience. Past thirty or forty people singing and dancing the hokey pokey. Harry joined in. ‘Come on Em. Put your left foot in, and shake it all about.’ He took hold of her hand and twirled her. ‘Then you turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about.’
They ran off laughing, hand in hand, until Harry ducked into a laneway. ‘There’s a little place down here. Wait a minute.’ He ran back to the paperboy on the corner.
‘There won’t be anything about the war being over in there,’ said Emma. ‘You’ll have to wait for tomorrow’s edition.’
Harry folded the newspaper and followed her into the crowded cafe. He slipped something to the man behind the bar, who found them a table upstairs. ‘Two beers, mate.’
This was exactly what she loved about being with Harry. This gritty place, with a fly buzzing at the window and a wonky-legged chair to sit on. The floor a little sticky, the beer a little warm, but filled with people living real lives. People putting aside their problems and differences to celebrate a shared hope for the future.
What a blessing that she hadn’t slept at Hampton Hall last night. Martha would undoubtedly have arranged a hurried early opening. A party, with champagne cocktails and salmon appetisers. With wealthy businessmen and politicians who could buy whatever and whoever they wanted. Who’d never had to deal with rationing or risking their lives in battle, or being rejected by their lovely paid companions. She guessed some might even be sorry to see the end of the war, especially those invested in shipyards or munitions.
In the twelve months since she’d reconnected with Harry, her work at Hampton Hall had become more and more intolerable. She mightily resented having to hide him from Martha. She hated that Harry had to share her. He’d never thrown it in her face, and Emma suspected he was seeing other girls, but she hadn’t asked. She wasn’t that much of a hypocrite. Even so, Emma was finding it harder and harder to sleep with strangers.
Harry had opened her eyes to what a real relationship felt like, one based on friendship and mutual attraction instead of money. She’d turned her back on Tony Angelo, who once upon a time had seemed like her best friend. Now she knew better. She’d spotted him once in Macquarie Street, promenading with his family. It had shocked her to see how young and lovely his wife really was. He’d slipped an affectionate arm around her waist and they’d laughed at some joke or other, in the same way he might have done with her. Except it wasn’t the same. It was more intimate and loving, she could see the difference now. And when he plucked their smiling baby from the pram, Emma had turned and fled, vowing to never see him again.
‘A penny for them?’ asked Harry.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘How about something to eat? I’m starved, and after that we’d better get back to Mum.’
Harry sculled his beer. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Emma unfolded the newspaper, searching as always for war news relevant to Jack or Tom. On page three a photo stood out – it was Tom, pictured with a glamourous woman in a bridal gown. The caption read, Actress Kitty Munro makes a charming study as she joins her husband, Wing Commander Thomas Abbott, in cutting their wedding cake.
Emma didn’t at first understand, so she read the article several times for clarification.
The marriage of RAF Wing Commander Thomas Abbott and Miss Kitty Munro took place yesterday in London. The Australian flying ace and his Hollywood film star wife have been inseparable since they met at a party on Victory in Europe day.
The wedding was attended by members of the RAF and many cinema notables. All admired the bride’s elaborate gown of cream shot-silk over white taffeta. Wild excitement erupted outside the church, with police powerless to control the eager crowds intent on cheering the happy couple and their guests.
Could Tom really be married? And to an actress of all people, at a big celebrity wedding? It didn’t sound like him at all. Emma thought back to the shy boy she’d met at Campbell College; so shy that he’d let Harry do all the talking, at least to begin with. The boy who loved to trek into the wilderness, with just his dogs and the mountains for company. Had he really changed so much?
Emma gazed at the photograph and let it burn itself into her brain. Tom’s classically chiselled features, the warmth of his ey
es, that chin dimple. He in turn was gazing at his bride. She’d turned to pose for the camera, wide eyes framed by long lashes, a rose-bud smile and perfect teeth. Kitty was a rare beauty, of that there was no doubt, and Tom was a man after all. A man who’d risked his life almost every day of the war and distinguished himself as a hero. A man who’d forgotten all about the red-haired girl he’d met years ago in Hobart. Why shouldn’t he have changed? Lord knows she had.
Harry arrived, balancing a tray with two more beers and a plate of toasted sandwiches. She pushed the paper over to him. It was a long time before he spoke. ‘Looks like my little brother’s done all right for himself.’
She studied his face, a face that was trying too hard to look surprised. ‘You knew.’
He rolled the paper up in his hand. ‘Yeah, Tom sent me a telegram, though I never got back to him.’
‘Your twin brother gets married and you didn’t even send congratulations?’
‘Something happened with me and Tom, Em. Years ago. It got between us.’ She asked the question with her eyes and he shook his head.
Emma shrugged and sipped her beer. ‘Let’s forget about Tom.’ She was still more shaken than she cared to admit.
Harry lit a cigarette. ‘Remember that marvellous news that I wanted to tell you?’ He paused for greater effect.
‘Go on, then.’
‘I’ve done it, Em. Bought back Abbott & Son, our family shipyard. My father lost it in the depression and I swore to myself that I’d get it back.’
‘But how?’
‘Working double and triple shifts. Saving every penny for eight years. Talking a few other blokes into investing. Then last month I sold my shares in Purton & Featherby, and with my grandmother’s inheritance ... well, the rest is history.’ His face shone with pride, and he looked unbelievably handsome.
‘That really is marvellous, Harry. What a magical day this is.’ Emma threw her arms around him and kissed him until they were both breathless.
‘There’s more.’ He knelt down, produced a small box from his pocket and offered it to her. ‘Miss Emma Starr, will you marry me?’
A hush gradually fell on the room, as people realised what was happening. Emma froze in her chair. She had not expected a proposal.
‘Go on, love,’ called someone. ‘Make him a happy man.’
But Emma was too stunned to speak.
Harry wet his lips and shuffled a little closer on his knees. ‘We’ll move into your place,’ he whispered. ‘Now I own the shipyard, I can support you and your Mum. You can stop working at that awful place.’
‘It’s not looking good, son.’ A fat man at the next table chuckled and shook his head. ‘Not if you’re having to talk her into it.’
The crowd burst out laughing.
‘Hush now,’ said a middle-aged lady in a stars and stripes hat. ‘Let the poor girl catch her breath.’ Harry was going red and beginning to sweat. The lady gave Emma an encouraging smile. ‘Now dear, put your young man out of his misery.’
The excitement in the room was infectious, bearing Emma along on a tide of enthusiasm and romance. ‘Yes,’ she said, at last. ‘Yes, Harry, I’ll marry you.’
A cheer raised the roof, and a flurry of hats flew through the air. Well-wishers helped Harry to his feet, shaking his hand.
‘Congratulations, son,’ said the fat man. ‘What a way to start the peace.’ He turned and yelled, ‘Drinks are on me.’
Harry pulled up a chair beside her. ‘We’ll have the best, life, Em. I guarantee it.’
Emma nodded, resting against him, basking in the warm affection of this room full of strangers, all inspired by the simple promise of a man to a woman. She liked the weight of Harry’s arm slung around her shoulder, and the happy lines on his face. She liked the prospect of leaving Hampton Hall, and the sound of her new name. Mrs Emma Abbott, a respectable married lady.
Harry began munching his way through the sandwiches. ‘Want one?’ But her stomach was too full of butterflies.
Emma finished her beer, and started on another, though she was already light-headed. Her mother would be thrilled. Mum loved Harry.
Yet a worm of doubt still squirmed somewhere inside. Mum might love Harry, but did she? She cared for him, certainly. Cared for him more than any other man she’d ever known, except for Tom, of course, and there was no future there. Idly she wondered if Harry had arranged for her to find out about his brother’s wedding.
She took another swig of beer. Yes, she did love Harry, as well as someone like her could. After all, she’d spent the last seven years building a wall around her heart. She hadn’t been allowed to love. She needed to give herself time, that was all. And as the umpteenth person stopped to congratulate her, the newspaper slipped from the table and the photo of Tom was trampled underfoot.
Chapter 25
‘Who the hell do they think they are?’ Kitty tore the newspaper in half and threw herself back on the bed.
Tom pulled her to him. ‘I told you not to read the reviews.’
She twisted in his arms, arching her body to get free in the most delicious way. He kissed the inside of her elbow and she dissolved into giggles. ‘Tom, you are awful.’
He smothered her laughter with a kiss, pulled the sheet over their heads, and let passion sweep them away.
* * *
Tom lay perfectly relaxed, as he always did after they made love. Kitty dozed beside him, her head on his shoulder. Tom trailed his finger along the curve of her breast, overcome once again by how beautiful she was.
Married a year now, and it had been a tumultuous time. Kitty wasn’t an easy person to live with – at times caring, charming, funny and a joy to be around. But she had darker moods when she was impulsive, erratic and critical. Prone to pique and violent fits of temper. But Tom looked for the best in people – the war hadn’t changed that – and this optimism applied doubly to his wife. So he took Kitty as he found her, day to day, and loved her either way.
He couldn’t really blame her for her moods, not at the moment. She’d had a stressful few weeks. Her latest movie – Murder At The Ritz – had been panned by the critics. Kitty played the daughter of a murdered financier. Her character was determined to track down those of her father's colleagues who’d plotted against him.
Her acting had been variously described as wooden, one-dimensional, clichéd and unconvincing. One review, that he’d thankfully managed to keep from Kitty, described the movie as ‘a hackneyed, derivative copy of the classic Hollywood detective genre, that relies on Miss Munro’s beauty to disguise her complete lack of talent.’
Tom tried to get up without waking her.
‘Baby?’ she said sleepily. ‘I hate London. I want to go home.’
‘California? I suppose we could. I’m due some leave.’
‘Not Los Angeles, silly. You know what my family’s like. You met them at the wedding.’
He had. It had cost him a fortune to fly them all out, and put them up at the Savoy.
‘My stepfather thinks all actresses are whores,’ said Kitty. ‘Mum nags me about having babies, and my sisters are so jealous, they flirt with you and can’t find one nice word to say to me.’
‘They’re not that bad.’
‘They damn well are, and anyway, I meant your home, baby. Tasmania. We’ve been married almost a year, and I still haven’t seen that big old estate of yours. Tell me about it.’
Kitty’s question took Tom by surprise. He’d spent years trying not to think about Binburra. His last memories of home were Nana’s funeral and that awful fight with Harry.
‘Binburra’s pretty remote,’ he said, as he dressed in his uniform. ‘Not really your style.’
Kitty hopped out of bed and brushed some lint from his shoulder. ‘Maybe that’s exactly what I need; rest and relaxation and mountain air before I start filming my next movie. There are mountains, aren’t there?’
‘Oh, there are mountains all right.’ Scenes of home flashed through his mind. ‘And forests
as far as you can see, and air so pure, it’s like breathing … champagne.’
‘And kangaroos?’
‘And kangaroos.’
‘Sounds wonderful. Please, baby, let’s go to Tasmania, just as soon as we can.’ Her voice had dropped an octave, and she reached for his belt.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said Tom, backing away but sorely tempted to stay. It was a long drive to Boscombe Down, a military aircraft testing site near Amesbury in Wiltshire. He wished Kitty would put some clothes on. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’ He reluctantly left for the garage.
Kitty had never expressed any interest in going to Tasmania before, and for some reason the prospect unsettled him. He tried to picture her drinking tea in Binburra’s kitchen while Mrs Mills took a batch of scones from the oven. Riding a horse up the waterfall track. Hiking into the grandeur of Tiger Pass. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t imagine her there at all. His life was divided into two parts – before and after his grandmother’s death, and Kitty belonged firmly to the second half.
He suspected the real reason for Kitty’s change of heart. Since Murder At The Ritz had bombed at the box office, the studio had dropped her. She hadn’t been given any official notice, nothing that would hit the papers. They simply hadn’t contracted her for a new movie. Kitty had been offered other parts but had refused them all, complaining they were B-grade with terrible scripts, and would destroy her reputation. He didn’t point out that Murder At The Ritz seemed to have effectively done that already.
Tom enjoyed the quiet life, flying planes by day and coming home to a wife who belonged just to him, instead of to the whole world. But Kitty loved to act. She loved the glamourous showbiz lifestyle and the adoration of her fans. He knew that when he met her, but they had to face facts. Right now they were living above their means. They couldn’t afford to rent their furnished Kensington terrace much longer. He’d already spent most of his modest inheritance so that Kitty could live the high life. Not that he minded. Money didn’t matter to Tom, and he wanted his wife to be happy. But with a month’s leave owing, it would be the perfect time to go home.
The Lost Valley Page 19