A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  I murmured something noncommittal, still worried that Mrs Campbell had such valuable items in her flat. Only a couple of weeks before, a man with a revolver had pushed his way into St Anne’s Flats nearby and robbed the owner of a valuable diamond ring and around thirty shillings.

  Mrs Campbell looked at me closely and made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘The robbery at St Anne’s was what they call a set-up.’

  I laughed, and then felt mean when I saw Mrs Campbell’s hurt expression.

  ‘That’s the right term, isn’t it?’ she said. Her Scottish accent was more pronounced now. ‘I’d say that Mr Lawrence owed money for a gambling debt and the man with the gun who came to the door was an enforcer – isn’t that what they call the men who are used to call in debts by nasty means? Of course, the diamond ring was fully insured.’ She nodded sagely.

  I stared at her. ‘Why do you think it was a set-up?’

  ‘Oh, well. Mr Lawrence always carries a newspaper folded to the racing pages, which is the sign of a betting man. It was reported that the ring was insured. And Mrs Lawrence hasn’t worn her fur coat at all, despite the cold weather. Don’t you see?’

  I didn’t, but I decided to ‘let it go through to the wicket-keeper’, as my father would say, when he thought it best to keep his own counsel.

  ‘Did you hear?’ She lowered her voice and leaned towards me. ‘They think it might be a soldier.’

  ‘Who? The man who stole the ring?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head in annoyance. ‘The axe attacker.’

  ‘How horrible,’ I said, remembering Leonski. Other memories came unbidden and it was as if the room was suddenly darker, colder. ‘Why do they think it’s a soldier?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. The girl’s been moved from the critical list to the danger list, so she must be improving. I prayed for her at church this morning. We all did.’

  Mrs Campbell soft-boiled two eggs and we ate them with ‘soldiers’ of toast, cut into thin strips, exactly the way my mother had done when I was ill as a child. Then we shared a very good chicken soup. It was surprisingly comforting to eat the food I remembered from childhood.

  I refused to think about the girl who’d been attacked, pushing away dark thoughts of it as they came to mind. I couldn’t avoid thinking about what I’d overheard in the laneway, though. I wondered if I should go to APLO headquarters and speak to the officer on duty; there was always an APLO officer on duty there, even on a Sunday.

  Terrible things did happen – axe attacks in Melbourne, three women strangled by a deranged American serviceman. Who was I to say that some Australian soldiers wouldn’t try to kill an officer they blamed for a mate’s death? Was Eric one of them? Would he be in terrible trouble if I reported what I’d heard? I steeled myself. Eric was willing to leave me injured on the dance floor; who was I to say that he wouldn’t commit murder? I started to rub at my arm, up and down, in an anxious gesture. At least once I’d reported what I’d heard, I could stop worrying about it all.

  As I vacillated, Mrs Campbell made coffee in a saucepan on the stove. We drank it out of frighteningly delicate Wedgwood cups and I ran over in my head exactly what I’d heard, and how it had sounded to me at the time. I remembered how abruptly Eric had dashed out of Leggett’s last night. They’d threatened to kill a lieutenant. I decided to go to Goodwood and tell an officer about it all.

  Six

  The wind was fresh and cold as I walked along Toorak Road that afternoon; it stung my cheeks and caught in my throat and made me cough. Goodwood, an elegant nineteenth-century mansion, was about a ten-minute walk from Avoca. It had been requisitioned by the government for the duration of the war and was APLO headquarters. I worked there as a clerk from eight to five, six days a week, and earned two-thirds of the equivalent male wage for the privilege.

  In a fit of patriotism in the dark days of 1942 I’d resigned from my job as assistant to the director of a large Sydney art gallery and joined the Australian Women’s Army Service. After a six-week ‘rookie’ course, in which I’d learned to march and to peel potatoes to regulation standard while living far too closely to far too many other women, I was assigned to work in the Army Records Office in Sydney. I’d quite enjoyed the work. It was similar to my civilian job, only I received less pay and I had to wear a uniform. Eventually someone must have reread my enlistment papers and realised I was fluent in Malay, because two months earlier I had been posted to Melbourne to work at APLO. I had to sign all sorts of papers to say that I’d keep secret what I did there, keep it secret for the rest of my life.

  I dodged a tram and crossed Park Street. In front of me was St Margaret’s Flats, a new salmon-brick monstrosity that dominated the corner. For some reason, a large round tower, similar to ones found in the Loire Valley chateaux, had been built into the centre of the structure. It always made me smile, because I knew that Frank would have hated it.

  As I reached the footpath a couple emerged from the flats: a blonde in a full-length fur coat and an American colonel. They stayed on the doorstep for a while, oblivious to the pedestrians and traffic. From the fervour of their embrace it was clear that they were more than just friends, and I wondered if the fur coat she was wearing was a gift, because it must have cost a fortune. I murmured under my breath, ‘My goodness, what a lovely coat,’ and hid a smile. Like Mae West’s diamonds, I suspected that goodness had nothing to do with it. I walked on, studiously examining the cracks in the footpath and not staring.

  This part of Toorak Road was lined with modern flats, all facing Fawkner Park. I’d heard that they’d been built on the site of a mansion similar to Goodwood, that had been demolished in the late 1930s. At the next corner I crossed the road to the sentry box at the gate of Goodwood.

  I showed my identity card to the sentry at the gate, who winked, and to the sentry at the door, who scowled. I pushed open the big front door. A wide hallway with a floor of elaborate inlaid stone tiles led to the reception desk, beyond which lay a broad staircase. The hallway itself was full of light from the coloured glass surrounding the doorway. Joyce Carter was sitting at the desk, patting what must have been a recent permanent, because her hair lay like a helmet of dark rigid curls on her scalp.

  Normally I would walk straight through to my office in the old drawing room, which was off the corridor on the ground floor. Today I stood in front of the desk. Joyce looked up.

  ‘Yes, Stella?’

  If I were lucky, Captain Molloy or Captain Deacon would be the duty officer. If not, Lieutenant Ross or Lieutenant Cole would be there. I didn’t know either of them well. As far as I could, I ignored them both.

  ‘Is Captain Molloy in?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ Her hand was at her hair again, fingering each curl.

  ‘Captain Deacon?’

  ‘No, again.’ Her smile was knowing, and more than a little sly. ‘Your luck’s in, though. Lieutenant Ross’s in his office. Will he do?’

  She was almost salivating, I thought, with a twinge of irritation. Lieutenant Ross was undoubtedly good-looking, but the only features of his face that interested me were his hazel eyes. Painting them might be a challenge, because the colour appeared to change with the light or with his emotions. Green-brown flecked with gold, and perhaps a hint of red. Dolly had called him ‘devilishly handsome’ once. Perhaps she was right. In my limited experience, men like Ross were too good-looking to be good news for any woman. Joyce was still smiling at me, as if she was offering me a tasty treat. I didn’t return her smile.

  ‘Could you ask if he is able to see me, please? It’s a work matter.’

  When she put the call through I heard the surprise in his voice as he said to send me up. I slowly climbed the stairs to his office, repeating what I’d rehearsed on the way over. I knocked at the door.

  ‘Come.’ He seemed to bark the word. Obviously Lieutenant Ross was not in a good mood. My own mood was rather lo
w as well, and I hesitated for a moment, before pushing the door open and entering his office. It was one of the former bedrooms of the house, beautifully proportioned, with a very high ornate ceiling and a couple of long sash windows overlooking the back garden. He’d stuck maps of the various war zones on the walls and, surprisingly, an out-of-date calendar with a print of a Degas painting on it.

  Lieutenant Ross was sitting behind his desk, and I had to choke back a cry of surprise when I saw his face. Someone had done their best to mar his good looks. One of his eyes was blackened, his bottom lip was split and swollen and his cheek was a blotchy mess of yellow, purple and red bruises. I stood to attention and saluted, trying not to stare.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’ His tone was definitely brusque. I put it down to pain and embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’m –’ I paused, wondering how to begin. His appearance had caused me to reconsider what I was going to say. Perhaps the attempt on the unnamed lieutenant’s life had been made already.

  ‘Yes?’ There was the glimmer of a smile. ‘At ease, Sergeant.’

  I stood easy, took a deep breath and told the story, just as I’d rehearsed it in my mind. Lieutenant Ross listened, unsmiling, watching me closely as I spoke. A deep crease formed between his eyebrows as I recounted what I’d heard said in the laneway and in the cafe. When I mentioned meeting Eric at Leggett’s – mentioned his name – the lieutenant’s eyes flickered, just for a second, and his body jolted, as if he’d had a shock. He looked down immediately and I thought how unfair it was that a man should have eyelashes like that, thick and dark and so long that they shadowed his cheeks. ‘Eyes put in with a sooty finger.’ I thought it described him well. Perhaps he would be interesting to paint after all.

  I skated over my conversation with Eric at the dance, just mentioning the warning he’d given me. I didn’t mention my fall, just that Eric had left quickly.

  ‘You think Staff Sergeant Lund was one of the men in the laneway?’

  After a small hesitation I replied, ‘I couldn’t say, sir. He may have been referring only to what I overheard in the cafe.’ I was looking at the floor, so I didn’t see Lieutenant Ross’s reaction, but there was a long silence. I thought about the bruises on his face and wondered again what had happened after Eric left me last night.

  ‘Have you hurt your hand?’ I looked up, surprised. He gestured towards me. ‘You’re cradling it as if it’s hurting you.’

  A laugh bubbled up, almost hysterically, but I managed to reply, ‘Staff Sergeant Lund did that.’

  ‘Eric hurt you?’

  ‘He didn’t mean to.’ I realised Lieutenant Ross had referred to him as Eric. ‘I say, do you know him, sir?’

  His face was expressionless. ‘Yes, I know him. Go on. How did he hurt you without meaning to?’

  As I explained, I was annoyed to see a slight smile play around the corner of his mouth. ‘Eric never had any luck with women,’ he murmured. ‘Is that why you’re here? To get him into trouble for hurting you?’

  ‘Of course not. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt me. Obviously, whatever he saw at the doorway was very important.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Obviously, it was more important than you.’ There was a soft exhalation of air that was almost a laugh, and he twisted around in his chair to look out the window into the garden.

  My voice was curt. ‘I don’t blame him for the injury to my hand. I came here because I was worried about what I’d overheard.’

  Still looking out the window, the lieutenant shook his head and made a gesture with his hand, as if dismissing both me and what I’d just told him.

  ‘Sergeant Aldridge, it’s very good of you to take the trouble to race over here to tell me all this, but I suspect it was empty threats.’ As he hadn’t turned around, I addressed his back.

  ‘Who attacked you last night?’ I asked, then quickly added, ‘Sir.’

  He swung the chair around and touched his face. ‘How this happened is none of your damn business.’

  I drew back a little, but held his gaze. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Were the men I overheard APLO operatives?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘I know a little bit more about it. I know that a man called Mike died on a mission that Staff Sergeant Lund was on.’

  ‘Did Eric tell you that?’ I thought he was surprised, but it was hard to read anything in his face, especially through the bruising.

  ‘No. I heard it last night from a woman at Leggett’s. She was a friend – a close friend – of the man, Mike, who died on the mission. She begged me not to report Staff Sergeant Lund for hurting me. He’d been to visit her, to tell her Mike was dead. He’d told her that Mike died a heroic death and he gave her Mike’s last letter.’

  Ross’s face had become flushed; when he spoke it was like a whiplash and this time I flinched.

  ‘She should have kept quiet about it. It’s all top secret. And Eric Lund should bloody well –’

  It was the first time I’d seen him display any emotion. I stood more to attention, shoulders back, arms stiffly at my side. I said nothing and waited for the fury in his eyes to subside. He drew in a breath and as he let it out slowly his face became expressionless again.

  ‘Eric Lund is an expert in unarmed combat,’ he said. ‘Did you know that?’ His voice was hard, almost bitter. ‘A brutal fighter.’

  I gave him a look I hoped was ironic. ‘He didn’t mention it when we were dancing.’

  Now I thought there was a little glimmer of laughter behind his eyes, but his voice when he spoke was cold.

  ‘Yes, Eric Lund’s a field operative. He’s one of the best we have. That means he’s tough and resourceful. And he can be ruthless. That information is secret. It’s all top bloody secret. I wish people would remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I stared at the pips on his shoulder. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  Ross rose from his chair to stand behind the desk. His expression was cool, but the effect was undermined by the bruising and the black eye.

  ‘For the record, I think coming here with this information was the right thing to do. I’ll raise the matter with Captain Deacon. We may want to speak to you more about it.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’ There was the hint of a whine in my voice. The last thing I wanted was to go through it all again, and I was worried that I’d caused real trouble for Eric.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Aldridge.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘That will be all.’

  Standing to attention, I saluted. He returned salute in a perfunctory manner, one that seemed to emphasise his boredom with me, the army and the world. I turned, but before I reached the door I heard his voice.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  I turned to face him. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor about that hand?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s only sprained, I think.’

  ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘Do I have to make it an order?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you going to see a doctor?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  We looked at each other for what seemed like an age, but must have been seconds, really. The fact that Lieutenant Ross’s face had been punched so brutally no longer surprised me. What surprised me was that it hadn’t happened sooner. I refused to let him stare me down, and eventually the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly and he dropped his gaze to the papers on the desk in front of him.

  ‘That will be all.’

  I turned and walked out of the room.

  Seven

  When I showed my injured hand to Captain Nancy Gabriel on Monday morning she took one look at it and ordered me to visit the infirmary in the Victoria Barracks. The hand did look most impressive, as overnight it had swollen to twice the
size of the other and was now coloured a deep purple across the knuckles and down almost to the wrist.

  ‘I tell you, Sergeant, you’ve got to stop with the bare-knuckle fighting,’ said Jim Pope, the private who’d been ordered to take me there. In a jeep, no less! He chuckled at his own wit.

  I laughed politely, but gripped the edge of my seat firmly with my right hand. Jim was a cheerful twenty-year-old with a very freckled face, who loved driving the natty American jeeps. He especially loved to drive them very fast. In fact, a jeep had definite possibilities as a lethal weapon in the hands of Private Jim Pope. If we’d let him loose in Crete I suspected that it would have been the Germans who’d have ended up in retreat, and not the Allies. When he tore out of the front gate of Goodwood onto Toorak Road, I wished I had two hands available to grip the seat.

  ‘Watch it,’ yelled Jim to three unwary AWAS girls who stepped out onto the road from Fawkner Park. ‘They should look where they’re going,’ he said indignantly as they scurried back to the safety of the footpath.

  At the corner he pulled hard at the wheel and we rounded into St Kilda Road at speed. I was almost thrown out entirely when a military truck appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and forced Jim into evasive action. Nothing daunted, he raced along the busy road, only to pull up hard behind a stationary tram.

  ‘What’s got his goat?’ asked Jim a minute or so later. He was nodding towards an elderly man who was shaking his fist at us.

  ‘You shouldn’t have pulled out so suddenly from behind that tram,’ I said.

  Jim made a snorting sound. ‘We didn’t touch him.’ He looked across at me. ‘Did we?’

  ‘Watch the road, Jim,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  I really thought my end had come when an American jeep darted out of Domain Road in front of us, missing our jeep by inches and almost forcing us into the South African Soldiers Memorial. Jim braked violently, swore, and stepped on the accelerator to pass the other jeep. The young GI who was driving the jeep in front picked up speed and made a very rude hand gesture. Jim accelerated hard and came alongside him. The two vehicles were now neck and neck, but Jim was in the tram lane and I nervously eyed the approaching traffic.