A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘No. I usually work with Captain Deacon.’

  There was a brief, unsmiling nod from Eric in reply. Was Eric the jealous type? I had to stop myself from clutching at my arm again. I disliked and feared jealous types.

  But I let the thought slide away when I looked at him again, this time as an artist would view a subject. His eyes were a deep teal blue, a really beautiful colour. There was humour and irony etched in the lines and planes of his face. Also reticence; this was a man who would guard his emotions, hold his thoughts close. And I saw integrity, together with an underlying toughness. You’d have to earn Eric Lund’s regard.

  His blue eyes were fixed on me and I wondered what he saw. A similar wariness and reserve? Perhaps a touch of fear? I could not imagine Eric Lund ever being afraid, but they said only fools were never afraid. I knew I was too often scared. Did Eric see self-loathing in my face? Did he see desire?

  ‘You’re going to be briefed for a mission, aren’t you?’ I clutched at his arm, staring at him stupidly, my mind now empty of coherent thoughts. Beneath the rough wool of his jacket I felt hard muscles contract under my touch and something flickered in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, summer girl,’ he said. I wondered why he’d call me that, until I recalled what I’d said at the dance. It touched me that he’d remembered. ‘Concentrate on getting that hand better, and decide if you want to risk another dance when I come back.’

  He reached up to brush my right hand as it gripped his arm. The feeling of skin on skin brought other feelings, just as intense. He let his hand fall away.

  ‘I might not have made it clear,’ he went on, ‘but I can’t forgive myself for hurting you like that, running out on you like that.’

  ‘Please do,’ I said. ‘I have.’

  He seemed to flinch. ‘I had to help a mate. A stupid idiot who should’ve known better.’

  I let go of his arm and looked down at the hall carpet. Its complicated Persian design was dizzyingly beautiful and I had a sudden wish to point it out to Eric, to see if we shared a common delight in such intricately elegant objects. I wanted to spend more time with Eric Lund, find out if the attraction I felt for him could be the basis of something real, or if it was simply the sort of hot and hollow passion that I’d felt for Frank, a fervent and ultimately empty ardour that would end in wretchedness for us both.

  ‘You serious about that American captain?’ He laughed slightly, without any humour in the sound. ‘Captain America.’

  I tried not to smile at the thought of Leroy in the garish uniform worn by the hero of the comic books that the young US marines so enjoyed reading.

  ‘Leroy and I – we’re friends,’ I said.

  ‘Just friends?’

  I nodded briefly, my eyes still on the rug. ‘Do you like the rug design?’ I asked, finally looking up.

  There was an odd look on his face. Bemusement? ‘I think it’s gorgeous. I haven’t seen one this fine for a while. I’d like to paint it.’

  ‘You paint?’

  ‘Pen and ink, mainly. I like to concentrate on the detail. That’s probably why I turned to architecture.’

  My voice was hesitant. ‘Um, before the war I trained for a while at the National Art School in Sydney, as a watercolourist mainly. And in Paris before that.’ I laughed at his obvious surprise. ‘You should see me when I don’t have to wear this horrid uniform. I’m quite the bohemian artist – scarves, slacks, peasant blouses, brightly coloured outfits – the whole thing. I’m a walking cliché.’

  I had the full force of his eyes again, together with that smile, the one that seemed to light up the room. If I was painting him I’d use a deep teal blue for his eyes, and I’d add a fleck of gold, just to show how very alive he was.

  ‘Look, Stella, can I see you again? Tonight? I’ll probably be leaving tomorrow and I don’t know when I’ll get back to Melbourne.’

  ‘If you like. I mean . . . I’d like that.’

  He pulled a little sketchpad from his trouser pocket, together with a soft pencil, the sort used for sketching.

  ‘Would you write down your telephone number for me?’ When I took the sketchpad from him, it was still warm from his body. ‘Feel free to look through it,’ he said. ‘I sketch whenever I’ve got a free moment; it’s a nervous habit. I’ve done it since I was a boy.’

  I couldn’t imagine Eric Lund ever being nervous, but I leafed through the book, examined his sketches. They were beautiful, drawn in a spare style, where what was left out somehow conveyed more than the lines actually drawn on the page. Jungle scenes, street scenes, birds, foliage, people, all vividly portrayed in a few skilled lines. He was good – very good.

  ‘Is that how you see me?’ I asked, staring at the sketch of a woman with fair hair, full lips and a wary expression.

  ‘That was my first impression. At Leggett’s, when I asked you to dance. When you didn’t trust me.’

  ‘Who says I trust you now?’ I wrote Dolly’s phone number under the sketch and handed the book back to him with a smile, to show it was a joke.

  We stared at each other, and the walls seemed to move in a dizzying arc around me as he leaned in closer.

  ‘I’ll telephone you at six thirty.’

  He abruptly turned away from me, knocked at the door and went in.

  I stood in the corridor, staring after him. I didn’t want this. I didn’t trust instant attraction. The little frisson of excitement that had rippled through me when I first saw Eric Lund, the trembling in my chest and my belly, such feelings were likely to lead only to misery. I’d learned that the hard way.

  I ran down the back stairs that led to the old drawing room I shared as an office with two young clerks. Mary Massey was humming the AWAS song to herself when I came in. I’d gone through basic training with eighteen-year-old Mary, who was a chubby little brunette with a habit of giggling. She had a thrill on Jim Pope, who teased her mercilessly and otherwise tended to ignore her. His lack of interest blighted her life and she would ask me for tips on how to engage him. It amused me that she thought I’d have anything useful to tell her.

  ‘Oh, the AWAS girls are happy,’ she sang. ‘The AWAS girls are free; the AWAS girls are happy when they are on the spree.’ She looked up at me and grinned. I smiled back.

  ‘They never, ever quarrel,’ I sang softly, ‘they never disagree.’

  Mary raised her voice to sing out, ‘But the motto of the AWAS girls is –’ She looked across at me and I joined in.

  ‘Come and have a drink with me!’

  Mary loved being an AWAS girl. She had a bubbly personality, and didn’t chafe at the restrictions put on the women in the service. Although the AWAS recruiting campaign had called for women with ‘general intelligence, a willingness to serve and general adaptability’, at the rookies’ training camp we’d never been allowed to move around alone and had been constantly under surveillance. I’d hated that aspect of our training, but not all of it.

  Basic training had been a real eye-opener for me. Living with dozens of women in unheated huts, no hot water, only palliasses of straw to sleep on, woken by a bugle call, every minute accounted for. I’d never have made it through without the other AWAS girls. In Australia they always talked about mateship. Well, we AWAS girls had mateship all right. We’d supported each other in tough times. I’d been amazed at the sense of camaraderie. I was older than most of the girls, many of whom were only eighteen or nineteen, and I’d taken on an unofficial role as older sister/confidante. I still wrote to many of the girls I’d gone through with, and I’d been delighted that Mary had been assigned to APLO with me, along with another young woman we’d trained with, Faye Thompson. A lanky nineteen-year-old blonde from Geraldton in Western Australia, Faye had a wicked sense of humour and the vocabulary of a stevedore. I’d never tell Mary, but I suspected that Jim Pope had his eye on Faye.

  ‘Jim says
that the staff sergeant you brought back with you is an expert in unarmed combat,’ said Mary. ‘Jim remembers seeing him at that big celebration they put on at the MCG in March.’

  ‘What celebration? I was in Sydney then.’

  ‘D’you know about the big battle between the Aussies and the Yanks in February, the one they call the Battle of Melbourne?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, after that the Yanks arranged a party at the MCG for the Aussies and Yanks to get to know each other. Gladys Moncrieff sang and the Tivoli girls put on a show.’ She smiled wryly. ‘They called it a get-together, but it was mainly a get-drunk-together. Well, there was this unarmed combat competition and that staff sergeant was in it.’

  ‘He did well?’

  ‘Jim says he beat the others hollow.’

  Eight

  I saw him as I walked along Bourke Street towards the cafe that evening. Eric was leaning against the wall, looking relaxed, but watchful. Australians seemed to lean against things a lot. I thought it matched their sense of informality, their ease with the world and with themselves. He wasn’t looking in my direction and I took the opportunity to study his features, to try to work out why he attracted me so intensely when I barely knew him. Lieutenants Ross and Cole might be objectively better-looking, but there was a quiet strength about Eric Lund that was compelling. I liked the shape of his long, lean body and his broad shoulders. His face was almost austere – until he smiled, and then it was almost luminous. I liked his thick blond hair and I loved the deep blue-green colour of his eyes.

  He turned towards me when I was about five paces away and I wondered if he’d known I was there all along, had been allowing me to watch him. Then he gave me his sudden, radiant smile and all thoughts were subsumed in a fierce joy at seeing him, still safe in Melbourne and here with me. In wartime, such moments were few, and I knew they should be savoured.

  When I came closer he held out his hand to me and I felt the heat in it as he pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the cheek. The world seemed to spin as he held me tightly against his body, as I felt his lips on my skin. I hadn’t expected him to do that. It assumed an intimacy that wasn’t really there, except in my mind. Did this mean it was in his mind, too? Did he, too, think that what we felt for each other was already more than was usual for strangers who’d met a couple of times, danced together and decided to proceed to the more formal step of dinner? His cheeks were flushed when he released me, as if he had surprised himself with his actions.

  He looked down at my arm and ran a gentle hand along the dressing. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not really,’ I lied.

  He smiled at that, and nodded towards the doorway of the cafe. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’

  ‘The food here is wonderful,’ he said, as he pushed open the door.

  ‘It’s not French, though.’

  Eric glanced down at me, to see if I was serious. I smiled, to show I wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll have to expand your horizon,’ he said in a low voice, and for some reason I blushed. Amusement sparked in his eyes. ‘D’you like wine?’

  I smiled and gave a Gallic shrug. ‘I lived in Paris for a year.’

  ‘So that’s a yes? Good. They’ve got a superb cellar, although it’s mainly Australian. Are you willing to give the locals a go?’

  ‘I’m expanding my horizon, remember.’

  We climbed the stairs to the first floor. The long, narrow dining room was panelled with wood to about six feet, and above this, scenes of Renaissance Italy had been painted on the walls. The tables under the murals were softly lit by wall lights of wrought iron in an intricate working of grapes and vines that ended in a bell-shaped glass shade. The ceiling had elaborately decorated plasterwork and chandeliers hung from three cupolas in the centre. White linen tablecloths covered every table.

  The restaurant was crowded, but there were a couple of tables free under the murals. Waiters, smartly dressed with black bow ties, flitted around with plates and bottles.

  At last a waiter came up to us, a man with a thin face, unruly eyebrows and jet black hair kept rigidly under control with some form of hair oil. His aquiline nose wouldn’t have been out of place on a statue of Tiberius. He looked us over in a manner that was just this side of insulting, and asked Eric if he had a reservation. His dark eyes glinted with something that could have been contempt. Eric met it with a closed, indifferent look.

  ‘I have a reservation,’ he said.

  The waiter checked in a large book, sighed loudly and asked us to follow him. When we were shown to a table near the entry to the kitchen, a deep crease appeared between Eric’s eyebrows.

  ‘We’d prefer a table under one of the murals.’

  The waiter responded with a flurry of hands and excited Italian-accented English. The gist was that this was the only available table. Eric stood quietly and stared at him.

  ‘I’d like a table under one of the murals,’ he repeated, and shifted his body to stand more squarely. He topped the waiter by a head, and the rough khaki wool of his uniform emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. The crease was still between his eyebrows and now his mouth was set in a firm, uncompromising line.

  Although Eric hadn’t raised his voice at all, the waiter seemed to flinch, almost cringing away from him. Relief washed over his face when he looked behind us. We turned, to be greeted by a thin man in a well-cut suit. His narrow moustache was carefully trimmed and dark hair was combed back from a widow’s peak.

  ‘A problem?’ he asked, his glance flicking between Eric and the waiter.

  ‘There’s no problem,’ said Eric. ‘I’d like a table under one of the murals.’

  The man in the suit looked him over, then looked at me. He smiled.

  ‘Bella signorina,’ he said.

  A short but heated conversation took place between the man in the suit and the waiter. I knew some Italian, but I couldn’t follow their exchange at all, so I thought it was probably in dialect. It finished with a nodding session between the two men.

  ‘Of course you must have the table you want, Staff Sergeant,’ said the man in the suit, and he led us to a table under a mural depicting a street scene in Florence.

  I settled into my seat. ‘The decorations are lovely,’ I said.

  Eric gestured towards the painting above us. ‘They must have guessed that you’re an artist, too.’

  I looked carefully at the scene and recognised Raphael, Michelangelo and Botticelli. Another gentleman was over to the right.

  ‘That’s da Vinci, isn’t it?’ I said.

  Eric craned back to look up at the artwork and nodded. ‘He’s helping them to work out where to put Michelangelo’s David.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous here,’ I said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’

  ‘Wait until you taste the food before you thank me.’ But he smiled.

  The menu was surprisingly un-Italian and I wondered if it was designed to appeal to the American customers. I ordered consommé to start, then grilled steak. Eric ordered spaghetti in sauce for a starter, also followed by grilled steak. Then he considered the wine list.

  ‘Houghton’s wines are West Australian, but they win lots of awards, even here in Melbourne.’ He looked up at the waiter. ‘We’ll have a bottle of the white Burgundy to start. Claret with the main course.’

  As I handed back the menu, I glanced around us. Many of the customers were servicemen, mainly American, and more than a few were high-ranking US officers. Their partners all seemed to be much younger women, some in the uniforms of the WAAAF, AWAS or WRANS.

  ‘How long have you known that American captain?’ Eric’s voice was light, uninflected. I matched his tone when I answered.

  ‘A couple of months. It’s not serious.’

  ‘He thinks it’s serious. He watches you jealously.’

  ‘Well, I don’t
think it’s serious. He’s married. We just go out dancing, go to dinner.’ I looked across at him. ‘Eric, why didn’t the waiter bring us straight to this table? He was very rude.’

  ‘Look around you. The waiters prefer American custom.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yanks tip; Australians don’t. And they can get away with overcharging Americans, which makes the tip even higher.’

  I shook my head. ‘They can’t overcharge them. The government has made it an offence to charge more than 4/- for an evening meal.’

  The corner of his mouth rose. ‘We’ve got the real menu. What bet they have another one for Americans, with higher prices?’

  I was shocked.

  Eric laughed at my expression. ‘My men hate the Yanks. They like it when they’re overcharged.’

  ‘Because the Americans are so popular with the Australian girls?’

  ‘That’s the main reason.’

  ‘They have accents like movie stars and money to burn,’ I said. ‘Why wouldn’t the girls want to go out with them?’

  A waiter came to the table with the bottle of white wine, pulled the cork and poured it into our glasses. It was crisp and delicious. I said as much to Eric, who seemed pleased.

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate it,’ he said. ‘Most Australians see wine as something to drink when they run out of beer. And there’s a headache in every sixpenny glass.’

  Shortly afterwards the waiter put a bowl of soup in front of me. I thanked him with a smile and turned back to Eric. A plate of spaghetti drowned in a rich tomato sauce had been placed in front of him.

  He dug his fork into the spaghetti, twirled it around like an expert, and managed to put it in his mouth without any mess or fuss.

  ‘You’re very good at that,’ I said.

  ‘I have Italian friends.’

  ‘I make it a rule never to eat anything difficult the first time I’m out to dinner with someone.’

  ‘The first time?’ His smile broadened. ‘So you’ll go out with me again?’