A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  Leroy left the table and faded into the crowd near the bar. I knew he’d pick up a bottle of gin or scotch from somewhere out the back and he’d smuggle it to our table under his jacket. It would sit under the table all night and we’d mix it into soft drinks he’d order legally from the bar.

  ‘Mind if we leave you alone, Stella? Kath wants to cut a rug.’ Joe was standing, holding Kathy’s hand.

  I smiled and shook my head and watched as Joe led Kathy onto the crowded dance floor. The band’s singer was up on stage in front of the large microphone, dressed in a black velvet cocktail frock with a diamante clip in her hair, and belting out ‘Taking a Chance on Love’, which was one of my favourites. I let my foot tap and my mind wander as I watched the couples whirling around the floor in a haze of cigarette smoke and music, and I concentrated on the issue that had been bothering me all night. I didn’t know what to do about the conversation in the laneway. As the singer finished the last verse of the song I still hadn’t made up my mind.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ It was an Australian voice, low- pitched and pleasant.

  I looked up, startled. An Australian sergeant – no, a staff sergeant – was standing in front of me. It was the staff sergeant from the cafe, the one who’d reminded me of Frank.

  My first thought was that he looked nothing like Frank. My second thought was more sinister.

  ‘Did you follow me here?’ My voice was sharp; his expression was amused and perplexed.

  ‘What? I saw you sitting alone and I remembered your face from the cafe this afternoon.’ He shrugged. ‘If you don’t care to dance, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll dance,’ I said, almost blurting out the words. I wanted to know more about him, and this was a safe way to find out. His lips twitched and he put out his hand. I slipped my hand into his and got to my feet, and he led me out onto the dance floor.

  The band had begun playing ‘Reaching for the Moon’, which was in waltz time. I placed my left hand on his shoulder and felt the scratchy wool of the Australian uniform – as scratchy as Frank’s uniform had been. The sergeant was also around Frank’s height, slightly over six feet, or maybe he was a little taller. He took my right hand in his, put his other hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer than was strictly acceptable.

  I felt the usual excitement that came from dancing with a new partner. I’d read somewhere that dancing was actually a courtship ritual. I could believe it when I danced with a man for the first time. It was almost overwhelming, the sensation of a stranger’s body close to mine, learning to synchronise my movements with his as we followed the music, making conversation, becoming familiar with his scent. Just about every American wore scented hair oil, and some Americans even seemed to wear cologne. But this staff sergeant was Australian, and all I picked up was Lifebuoy soap and the wool of his uniform and something that was his alone. At least there was no tobacco on his breath, which was a pleasant surprise. It was also a pleasant surprise to find that he danced well, despite the crush of couples on the floor. I relaxed into the steps and looked up at him.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ I said.

  He should have introduced himself when he asked me to dance. An unreadable look flashed over his face and was gone. I suspected that was as close as he ever got to being embarrassed, because he soon reverted to an expression of wary indifference. I also suspected that he wasn’t the talkative type.

  ‘I’m Eric Lund,’ he said coolly, pushing me to the left to avoid a collision and then swinging me quickly to the right, where a space had opened up. I enjoyed the sense of being pushed and pulled at his direction and again I wished I’d been able to wear a pretty evening frock like Kathy’s, one that would swirl against my calves as I moved. The singer was warbling rhymes about the moon and June and being near yet far from the one she loved. I hummed along, forgetting the reason I’d accepted his invitation to dance, just enjoying the moment.

  ‘It’s Stella, isn’t it?’

  ‘How did you –?’

  ‘I heard your friend call you Stella in the cafe.’

  He whirled me around quickly, which was disorienting for a few seconds, until I saw he’d just avoided colliding with a clumsy American marine who was lurching rather than leading his partner. I was surprised at the skill with which he anticipated and avoided obstacles. Dancing with him was exhilarating.

  ‘Stella Aldridge,’ I replied, raising my voice because we’d moved nearer to the band.

  There was a fierce, well-controlled energy about Eric Lund, and I couldn’t help wondering what he’d be like if he became angry. I suspected that he didn’t give in to anger lightly, though. He was holding me close and his hand was firm on the small of my back. I was very conscious of the feel of his left hand, holding my right in a secure grip. I looked up, into his eyes. For a moment we just stared at each other, watching each other’s faces as our bodies moved together in time to the music.

  He was lean with broad shoulders and a sharply chiselled face that I thought was only just on the right side of good-looking. It was more Scandinavian than English. The slight droop at the corner of his eyes was similar to Frank’s, only now I had the chance to really examine his features, it was clear that the shape of the eyes and the blond hair was all they had in common. Frank’s eyes had been a pale blue; Eric Lund’s eyes were a dark blue-green – teal blue. His skin was tanned and slightly yellow from the Atebrin that the troops took to combat malaria. It was clear that he was a tougher man than Frank had been. Attractive? I thought so. Ruthless? Perhaps. But that might be why Eric Lund was still alive and Frank Aldridge lay in a grave in Syria.

  ‘Who do I remind you of?’ I jolted in surprise. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘You seemed to recognise me when you saw me at the cafe, just for a moment. And you’re doing it again, comparing me to someone.’ The tone was casual, but I had the impression of keen interest in my response.

  I swallowed nervously and my gaze fell away, down to his chest. I watched it moving as he breathed.

  ‘My husband,’ I said. His grip tightened. ‘He . . . was killed in Syria in February ’41.’

  ‘And I look like him?’

  ‘No, not really.’ My voice fell away. ‘Maybe the shape of your eyes.’ My voice strengthened. ‘No. You look nothing at all like Frank.’

  I thought I heard him murmur, ‘Good.’ But it was very noisy in that ballroom and I couldn’t be sure. We concentrated on the dance for a minute or so.

  ‘So, Staff Sergeant Lund, what do you do on civvy street?’

  I thought it was time to get the conversation on to normal ground. I’d start with banalities and move on to more specific questions. Although I really had no idea how to approach the conversation in the laneway without giving away the fact that I’d heard it.

  ‘Well, Sergeant Aldridge,’ he replied, in a faintly mocking voice, ‘in peacetime I’m an architect.’

  The room swayed. His grip was like iron, holding me up, stopping me from falling.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said to his suggestion that we sit down. ‘Please, let’s keep dancing. It’s awfully hot in here, that’s all.’

  ‘What is it? What did I say?’

  I ventured a look at his face. His expression was grim, worried.

  ‘My husband was an architect,’ I said. ‘In Sydney.’

  ‘I . . . see.’

  He didn’t, not really. We danced in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Were you married for a long time?’

  ‘Two and a half years, before he shipped out.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘No.’ I looked at his chest again and focused on the dance. He swung us to the right, and away from the stage.

  ‘Are you from Melbourne?’ I asked, trying for a light note of unconcern.

  When he looked at me, his eyes seemed darker than they had been before.

/>   ‘No. Lately I’ve been based in Brisbane.’ His reply was in the same tone. ‘But I’m really a “groper”.’

  My eyes went wide. ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

  Eric laughed. It transformed his face, swept away all his careful indifference and all at once he looked younger, pleasant. A girl could forgive a lot for that laugh, I thought.

  ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, smiling up at him. I put on a posher accent. ‘However did you guess?’ I reverted to my usual voice. ‘My parents are English and I was at boarding school in England, but otherwise I’ve lived most of my life in the Far East. My father was an engineer there.’ I saw his quick appraising look, and I was annoyed at myself, because I didn’t want him to know I understood Malay.

  ‘In Ceylon, for instance,’ I went on quickly. ‘But I’ve been living in Sydney since ’37. Why do you call yourself a groper?’

  ‘I was born in Western Australia.’

  I pulled my eyebrows together, perplexed.

  ‘West Australians are nicknamed sandgropers. Queenslanders are banana-benders; South Australians, crow-eaters.’

  ‘Victorians?’

  ‘Gumsuckers.’

  ‘What are people from New South Wales called?’

  I had travelled so much when I was young that I couldn’t really call anywhere home, but in the past few years Sydney had become as close to a home as anywhere I’d ever been.

  ‘Cockroaches.’

  ‘How horrible!’

  Eric laughed, and once again his face was transformed.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Are you from Perth?’

  ‘I was born in Wyalkatchem. It’s a little town in the Wheatbelt. But I was at boarding school in Perth and I call it home.’

  ‘Perth’s the most isolated capital city in the world, isn’t it?’ It was all I knew about the city.

  ‘Yes. It’s a pretty place, especially around the Swan River. Cleaner than Melbourne.’

  The music was winding down. Our dance was ending, and I’d found out only that his name was Eric Lund, in peacetime he was an architect from Perth, he wasn’t talkative, his eyes were a lovely colour and he had a nice smile. I wondered how old he was. He appeared to be around thirty, but the men who’d seen action often seemed older than they really were.

  The music faded and we slowed and then stopped our steps. He kept holding me, though. I looked up, surprised.

  ‘The band will start again soon. Care for another dance?’ His glance flicked behind me. ‘Or will your American beau be annoyed?’

  I twisted my head to see Leroy sitting alone at the table, frowning at us. I smiled at him, and mouthed, Ask a girl to dance. His frown increased. I felt a little guilty, but not enough not to refuse Eric. I turned back to Eric and said, ‘Another dance would be lovely.’

  As we stood among the couples waiting on the floor for the music to begin again Eric smiled and lifted his hand to wave at someone behind me. When I looked around a sweet-faced woman was smiling at him. Her thick coppery blonde hair had been swept back into a victory roll and she was expertly made up, but her pink organdie gown seemed to be a size too big, as if she’d lost weight since she bought it. I thought she seemed fragile; there was sadness in her smile.

  ‘Irene,’ said Eric, as she came closer. ‘Good to see you.’

  The jolt of irritation I felt to see him smile so sweetly at her was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. I’d just met the man; why should I care if he smiled at a pretty woman?

  ‘Stella Aldridge,’ said Eric, ‘meet Irene Hicks.’

  Irene threw me an apologetic look. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt. It’s nice to see you again, Eric. And nice to meet you, Stella.’ She slipped away.

  ‘Irene was seeing one of my men,’ Eric said quietly. ‘He died suddenly a month or so ago.’

  No wonder she’d seemed so fragile, I thought. That poor woman. Not even in the frantic gaiety of a Melbourne ballroom could we escape this terrible war. I murmured something appropriate as the band began to play ‘Moonlight Serenade’. Eric swung me around with a flourish, and we moved into the steps of a foxtrot.

  ‘So, is that US Captain your boyfriend?’ His voice was nonchalant, as if he really didn’t give a toss.

  I laughed, to show that I didn’t care whether he gave a toss. ‘Hardly a boyfriend, he’s thirty-eight.’

  ‘Bit old for you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m nearly twenty-six.’

  ‘You look about sixteen when you laugh,’ he said. ‘Older when you . . . When you’re sad.’

  I didn’t know what to reply to that, so I said nothing.

  Leroy swung by us with a brunette on his arm, carefully avoiding catching my eye. When I looked back at Eric, he seemed amused.

  He swung me to the left, out of the path of a clumsier couple, almost doubled over because they were laughing so much together and not watching where they were going. We settled into the steps again. The music swelled around us, and the trombone kept the tune.

  ‘Enjoying Melbourne?’ he asked.

  ‘Mmmm,’ I said. ‘It’s a lovely city – although I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this beastly rain. And the cold, brrrr. I’m a summer girl. The cold wind’s no friend of mine. What’s it like in Brisbane?’

  ‘Wet. Hot. Steamy. I haven’t spent that much time there.’

  I assumed that meant he’d been fighting or on missions in New Guinea or somewhere else on the Pacific Front. A place where one of his men could die suddenly. That reminded me of the conversation I’d overheard and I decided to cut to the chase.

  ‘Is your friend with you?’ At his raised eyebrow I elaborated. ‘The one from the cafe.’

  ‘No.’ He caught and held my eye. His look was slow and appraising, and utterly without expression. ‘You understand Malay, don’t you?’

  I stumbled; his hand, hard against my back, held me upright.

  Lying did not come easily to me, so I simply gave a quick nod, and watched his chest. ‘How did . . .?’

  ‘You tensed when we began speaking in Malay in the cafe.’

  I wondered why he’d been watching me so closely in the cafe that he’d notice, but operatives were trained to watch everything around them. I wondered if they’d spoken Malay in the cafe to trap me into giving away that I understood it.

  ‘Stella.’

  I glanced up at him.

  ‘Whatever you think you heard this afternoon, just forget it.’

  ‘How did you know . . .?’

  I’d given away that I’d overheard what they’d said in the laneway. We’d been warned about such interrogation tricks, where the interrogator stated something they weren’t sure about as if it were a fact already known, just to get you to confirm it. Anger at my stupidity made me reckless.

  I looked him straight in the eyes. ‘You said you were going to kill a man. An officer. How do I forget that?’

  His hold on me tightened, and my heart began to race. He swung us past a slower couple, and the tense grip loosened.

  ‘First,’ he said, ‘it’s really not your business. Second, I said nothing of the sort. Third . . . please trust me on this.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t kill anyone, then.’ I held his gaze, and made my expression as determined as I could.

  His face was smooth and blank and when he spoke his voice was curt. ‘I’m a soldier, Stella. How can I possibly give that promise?’

  I felt like a fool. The song was wrapping up. We danced in silence until the music faded and stopped.

  Without warning, his hand gripped mine tightly, convulsively. It was painful and I gasped. Around us people were leaving the dance floor, but Eric Lund was standing absolutely still, staring over my shoulder at something or someone across the room.

  ‘He’ll
never bloody learn,’ he muttered, in a flat, bitter voice. He let go of my hand.

  I twisted my head to see what he was looking at. In the crush of people by the door were men in the uniforms of America, Australia, Britain, New Zealand, the Netherlands and even a couple of Free French sailors. A few men in suits. Some women in uniform, others in floor-length evening gowns from before the war, or in knee-length ‘austerity’ frocks. I recognised no one.

  I turned back to Eric. His face had become tight and drawn, his eyes were narrowed in a glare and his mouth was a thin hard line. His anger was almost palpable. He made a low, animal noise and a quick movement towards the door. Instinctively I put my hand on his arm, although I had no idea why, other than that the fierceness of his stare terrified me. The muscles in his arm were tensed and it was like grabbing a steel bar. He pushed me aside roughly. My foot twisted and I fell, landing heavily on my outstretched left hand. Lying in an ungainly heap on the floor, I was painfully aware that I’d hurt my hand badly.

  Eric was looking down at me, obviously horrified. ‘I’m sorry – really, I’m so sorry,’ he said. His voice was sharp, angry; not at me, I suspected, but I glared at him anyway. He shook his head. ‘Please, Stella.’ His gaze had already returned to the doorway. He shrugged, grimaced an apology, turned away and disappeared into the crush near the door. People gathered around me, asking if I was all right. I pulled my injured hand close to my body and stroked it.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ Leroy pushed through the crowd to kneel beside me. He put a comforting arm around my shoulder and lifted my hurt hand gently to examine it. It was very tender in the area between the thumb and first finger.

  ‘I should horsewhip that sergeant,’ he said, in a soft voice edged with fury.

  His arm tightened around my shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go back to the table,’ I said. My hand was throbbing and I felt a little faint. Also very embarrassed, because people were staring.

  The band had started another song, and around us the dance floor was filling up again. Leroy led me away, but I couldn’t stop myself from turning my head to look for Eric Lund. He’d disappeared.