A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  Dolly ordered a pot of tea and a couple of rounds of sandwiches and began to prattle on about what she had planned for her birthday next week. I smiled and nodded – Dolly never needed too much encouragement. As her light voice fluttered around me, I tried to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than think of what I’d just overheard, but my mind wouldn’t let it go.

  ‘I’ve invited around fifty to the party, although not many from work, because, let’s face it, most of them are dead bores. I mean . . .’

  My thoughts wandered. The men had been speaking in Malay, and that was a clue as to who they might be. In fact there were a few clues in what I’d heard. Perhaps these men, like Dolly and me, worked for a section of the Allied Intelligence Bureau and they’d been trained in the language in order to undertake a field mission. We worked for the Australian Pacific Liaison Office, known as APLO, which operated out of Goodwood, an old South Yarra mansion. The title of our section was intentionally boring. Most people thought that APLO was simply involved in writing and distributing propaganda. That was one of APLO’s roles, but the Melbourne office where we worked was the ‘dirty tricks’ section and we also organised missions to send men deep into enemy-held territory in order to obtain intelligence, promote local resistance and to engage in sabotage. The men had mentioned the Laleia River. It was in Portuguese East Timor, which was occupied by the Japanese. I knew APLO had sent operatives on missions there because one of my jobs was to arrange transport and equipment for them and to liaise with the Dutch or the Americans for that purpose.

  My senior officer, Captain Deacon, had asked me to train some tough, competent men in the Malay language a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps I’d trained those soldiers I’d overheard.

  ‘Dreamy Lieutenant Ross has accepted my invitation,’ said Dolly, still talking about her party.

  My attention was caught by that name. ‘Dreamy’ Lieutenant Nick Ross had been posted to Goodwood a week or so ago. Although he was always impeccably polite to me, I found him cold and intimidating. Good-looking – tall, dark and handsome – but in an unapproachable, movie-star sort of way. I’d heard he was a psychologist in civilian life, and that he was an expert in interrogation. More importantly, there was a rumour that a field operation he’d commanded had ended in disaster. Also that he’d been brought before a court martial, but he’d been exonerated. I was fairly sure that the operation had been in Timor, near the Laleia River. Could the men I’d overheard been talking about Lieutenant Ross?

  How seriously should I take what I’d overheard? People said they were going to kill someone all the time. If I had sixpence for every time I’d heard Dolly say, ‘I’ll throttle Captain Gabriel,’ or, ‘I could murder Enid Evans,’ I’d be a rich woman. Despite that, I couldn’t help thinking that the man who’d spoken of murder had sounded very serious.

  ‘Stanford’s arranged it all,’ said Dolly, with a laugh. For a moment I was shocked into thinking she meant the murder. Then I realised she was still talking about her party.

  ‘The food, the grog, decorations. And all done from the US. He’s such a darling. I don’t know how he managed it. He wrote to me, and . . .’

  Stanford had been sent to the US a month ago and wouldn’t be back in Melbourne until late August. Arranging the party was his way of saying sorry for not being here for Dolly’s birthday.

  My mind drifted back to the men in the laneway. I had to face facts. There was nothing I could do. Even if the soldiers had been serious, I hadn’t seen anyone’s face and the men would now be long gone. I turned to Dolly and put on an interested, half-smiling expression.

  ‘. . . said he’d send me something very special for my present. I hope it’s jewellery.’ She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Do you think it’s jewellery?’

  ‘What else?’

  The door to the cafe opened and two Australian soldiers, an AIF staff sergeant and a corporal, walked in on a gust of cold air, brushing water from their khaki greatcoats. The staff sergeant was a sun-tanned Viking, tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed and fair-haired. The corporal was also very tanned, but heavy-set and muscular. They both seemed tough and it was clear that they’d seen service. I was used to seeing men like these appear at Goodwood for mission briefings and depart a few days later.

  When they came closer to our table I could smell the damp wool of their uniforms. It was as if my heart had jumped a beat and suddenly I was back in 1940, on a wet February morning at the Sydney wharf, watching Frank board the troop ship that would take him to the Middle East.

  I looked down at my cup of tea as memories that came with the scent began to overwhelm me.

  My chair juddered and I looked up in surprise. The corporal had knocked against me as he made his way past us in the crowded cafe. He murmured an apology. I smiled to indicate that I didn’t care. But it was the staff sergeant – the Viking – who held my gaze for a beat or two. My heart began thumping hard and fast, and I was surprised to realise that it was because, in a strange way, he reminded me of Frank. He gave me a half-smile before sitting with his companion at the table behind us.

  Dolly, who tended to notice only officers, paid them no attention. She picked up her leather satchel – standard army issue – and fished around in it. Out came her powder compact. She flipped it open. After inspecting her face carefully, she pressed powder onto her small, slightly upturned nose. Next she refreshed her lipstick, pouting at her reflection and rubbing her lips together to smooth the colour.

  ‘I’m so glad we managed to get refills for our lipsticks,’ she said, licking a finger and reaching up to smooth her eyebrows. She blinked a few times. ‘And I’m glad I stockpiled mascara at the start of the war. There’s no mascara to be had for love or money now. Pale eyelashes are the curse of the true blonde.’

  Snapping shut her compact, Dolly replaced the top on her lipstick and put them both away in the satchel. She seemed very pleased with herself, but her smile faded as she looked across at me. I grimaced at her intent expression.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stella.’ Dolly’s tone was disapproving. ‘Your face needs attention. Chop chop.’

  I rolled my eyes, but bent obediently to open my own satchel and find my compact and lipstick. I was too careless about my appearance for Dolly’s peace of mind and she’d taken on my rejuvenation as a personal mission. I’d never been particularly troubled about whether my nose was shiny or my lips were pale. My insouciance horrified Dolly.

  The compact’s small mirror showed a heart-shaped face surrounded by thick, wavy ash-blonde hair that I wore at shoulder length and parted at the side. It was a couple of shades darker than Dolly’s hair. We were often asked if we were sisters, but if anyone took the trouble to look beyond the hair colour, we didn’t really resemble each other at all. For one thing, I was a good four inches taller and my eyes were brown, not blue. Dolly’s face was a smooth oval; my chin had a decided point to it. She had a pretty, pouty little mouth. Mine was often described as ‘generous’, although when we first met Frank had said it was ‘voluptuous’. I patted on powder and applied lipstick. In the little mirror I saw that the soldiers sitting at the table behind us were engaged in an intense low-voiced conversation. I snapped the compact shut and put it away.

  ‘What shade of lipstick is that?’ she asked. ‘It’s very pretty.’

  ‘Passion. I thought it was suited to my budget, colouring and temperament.’

  ‘I’ve seen little evidence of that from you in the past six weeks,’ whispered Dolly, leaning across the table. ‘Sweetie, you’re only twenty-five and you’ve been a widow for more than two years now. You need to start kicking up your heels.’

  I smiled and said nothing.

  ‘Is Captain Johnson taking you dancing tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t get any silly notions about Leroy,’ I said. ‘He’s married. She’s his gal in Kalamazoo. Just like the song. But yes, he said something abou
t going to dinner and then dancing at Leggett’s Ballroom tonight. He’ll telephone between five and six.’

  ‘Then we’ll be sure to be back by five. You go dancing with your handsome Yankee captain tonight. That’ll chase away the cobwebs.’ She threw me a shrewd look. ‘He’s absolutely besotted with you.’

  I felt my face closing up into a frown. ‘No he’s not. I’ve been out with him – what? – four times? We enjoy each other’s company. That’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Dolly. ‘If you gave him any encouragement, well, he’d be in like Flynn. Married or not.’ She paused, nibbling nervously at her upper lip and flushing slightly. ‘Feel free to use the signal. For those occasions when you’re, ah, busy with Leroy or someone gorgeous.’

  Captain Leroy Johnson of the US Engineering Corps had made it clear when he asked me out that he was married and he wasn’t interested in anything but friendship. So far it had been working well. He was very likeable: slim, dark-haired, well-mannered, pleasant company and a good dancer. Nevertheless, Dolly was perceptive. The last couple of times we’d been out together I’d had the strong feeling that if I gave him any encouragement at all, he’d be willing to overlook his wife waiting at home. I stifled a sigh. I didn’t want that complication.

  ‘No signal needed,’ I said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

  When I’d first moved in to Dolly’s flat, she had explained ‘the rules’. We would pool our food coupons and share any donations of food or other such goods from generous Americans. The ‘signal’ was a scarf tied to the front door handle.

  ‘If the scarf is on the door,’ she’d said, ‘then I’d really appreciate it if you could be . . . discreet when you come in to the flat, because I’ll be entertaining a friend. Perhaps it would be best if you kept to your bedroom in that case.’

  I tried never to be judgmental about such things, particularly in wartime, when people had become accustomed to taking their pleasure where they found it, especially someone as cheerfully amoral as Dolly. She seemed to thrive on male attention and she attracted a lot of it. I’d find the ‘signal’ on the door two or three times a week and I’d dutifully keep to my room as she entertained a soldier. To be fair, the night was usually spent sharing a few drinks, listening to music and chatting, and her visitor left at midnight. On a couple of occasions, however, the ‘friend’ hadn’t left until dawn. I wondered at her stamina – although she was working the same long hours that I was, she seemed to be as fresh as a daisy every morning.

  ‘Oh, Stella,’ she said, when I asked her how she managed it. ‘Male attention doesn’t tire one out – it invigorates.’

  I knew that Dolly was upset and annoyed that Stanford would not be in Melbourne for her birthday. I suspected that she had embarked on a few weeks of fooling around in his absence to pay him back, because she’d told me it was her ‘last hurrah’ before she settled down. It was a lucrative ‘hurrah’. Dolly had received a staggering number of gifts from her admirers: food, alcohol, nylons, chocolates, flowers and jewellery. True to her word, she shared it all with me. Except for the jewellery, of course.

  I felt sorry for Stanford. Dolly saw things differently. As she’d explained to me a week after I moved in, ‘He knows I love him, but he also knows that it’s not in my nature to be a stay-at-home girl. Do you seriously think he’s keeping out of mischief in San Francisco? I don’t! What we don’t know won’t hurt either of us. Once we’re married I’ll be as good as gold.’

  I’d met Stanford only once, because he’d been sent back to America a few days after I’d moved into Dolly’s flat. He was aged in his late forties, with a pleasant face that was lifted out of the ordinary by stone-grey eyes, flecked with sharp intelligence. He smiled a lot, but the smile rarely reached those eyes, and he watched more than he smiled. I’d liked him well enough, because there was no nonsense about him and he really seemed to care about Dolly. His first marriage had ended with his wife’s death five years ago and I suspected that he had surprised himself by falling so deeply in love with a bubbly little Australian divorcee. But surely no man, no matter how besotted, would be willing to put up with infidelity. I suspected that Dolly would never be Mrs Stanford Randall if he found out that any of her liaisons in his absence weren’t entirely innocent.

  When I’d asked Leroy about Major Randall, he’d whistled.

  ‘He’s loaded. Stanford Randall has a finger in every pie. He arranges the movement of supplies from the US to Australia, and he’s using this war to make contacts for peacetime. He’s a mighty fine supply officer, but he’ll end up getting more out of this war than he gives to it.’

  Dolly was living in a fool’s paradise if she thought that no word of her activities would filter back to Stanford. The situation had caused me real concern over the past weeks. The strange thing was that I thought Dolly really did love Stanford – she just didn’t want to be faithful to him yet. She had a few months of freedom when he was away from Australia, and she was determined to enjoy it.

  Dolly finished her tea, rose and glanced towards the rear of the cafe. ‘I’ll just visit the little girls’ room before we leave,’ she said, and ducked off.

  As I waited for her to return I found myself thinking of Frank, and I tried to work out why seeing the blond staff sergeant had affected me so much.

  My husband had also been fair-haired, but his face had been finer featured and he’d been objectively better-looking than the man who was sitting behind me. It was the eyes, I thought. Frank’s eyes had drooped slightly at the corners – ‘bedroom eyes’ people called them – and that soldier had similarly shaped eyes. Attractive, but they implied a dreamy sensuality. That hadn’t been the case with my husband, and I doubted it was the case with the staff sergeant, who seemed the strong, silent type.

  I swallowed the dregs of my tea and stared out the window. The rain was easing, but as it was June, the light was fading quickly. I checked my watch: three o’clock. It would be dark soon, and because of the brownout there would be no lights to help people make their way along the city streets. I did want to be home by five for Leroy’s call, because I did want to go out dancing. When I was dancing I forgot the past, forgot everything.

  ‘He’s a bastard. You know it, we all know it.’ I’d not been paying any attention to the men behind me, but those words were said in a louder, annoyed voice. There was a brief laugh and I heard something about ‘stupid bints who fall for his charms’. I knew that a bint was a woman; I was starting to become familiar with Aussie slang.

  A deeper voice answered; I thought it was the Viking. ‘We all knew what might happen. We all volunteered.’

  ‘Stop sticking up for him, or I’ll think it’s not just the silly bints he’s charmed.’

  The reply was good-natured in tone. ‘Shut up, you’re talking bull.’

  When the other man replied in Malay, I froze.

  ‘Lambat laun, seseorang akan membunuh dia.’ Sooner or later, someone will kill him.

  The blond man gave a short laugh and said in English, ‘Maybe you’re right; sometimes I’d like to kill him myself.’ There was a short silence, then he said, ‘Let’s go.’

  My heart was like a small fist pounding inside my chest and I’d soon be wheezing if I didn’t calm down. I tried to think. Had the soldiers sitting behind me been in the laneway? Who were they talking about? Could it be Lieutenant Ross? Should I tell someone in authority?

  I heard the noise of chairs being pushed back. A second or so later one of them brushed against my chair as they made their way out of the cafe, and I flinched nervously. When they reached the door, the staff sergeant glanced back at me. And then they disappeared into the crowd outside.

  Three

  ‘You seem pensive.’ Dolly had returned and was standing at my shoulder.

  I didn’t know what to tell her. That I’d heard some soldiers talking of murder in a laneway and it was possible that two of them had been
sitting behind us? What if it was all nothing but bravado, just silly talk? But a little voice in my head kept repeating: what if there was going to be a murder attempt, here in Melbourne?

  ‘They were speaking Malay,’ I said.

  ‘Who were?’ She sat down beside me.

  ‘Those two soldiers sitting behind us. Um, this afternoon I heard something, when you were in the shop . . .’

  I tried briefly to explain what had happened. The problem was, when I said it, whispering to her across the small table, the story sounded so melodramatic and bizarre that I was embarrassed. I finished my tale, looked down at my hands and grimaced.

  ‘But I don’t understand how you could have heard the conversation so clearly.’ Dolly’s voice was uncertain.

  ‘I don’t know how I heard it, Dolly. I just did. I’ve got very good hearing.’ I shook my head and frowned. ‘I know it sounds completely insane, but it’s what I heard.’

  ‘Murder? You’re sure it was Malay they were speaking?’

  ‘I grew up in Malaya,’ I replied, irritated that she should doubt me. ‘They were speaking Malay.’

  ‘Well, it must have been horrible to hear such a thing, but I don’t see what you can do about it. Maybe it was a joke you misheard. Or a play they were rehearsing.’

  I stared at her. ‘A play?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Stella.’ She frowned at me. ‘The whole story is so odd.’

  ‘You don’t think I should tell someone at work?’ I said slowly. ‘I was thinking that if they spoke Malay they might have been Special Forces operatives.’

  ‘Mmmm?’ she sounded uninterested, but her hands were moving in a restless wringing motion. ‘They shouldn’t be speaking in a foreign language in public; they’ll get reported if they’re not careful. I think you probably misheard them.’