A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘I’m just down from Brisbane,’ he said, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve with a carelessly elegant gesture. ‘Spent the last two months in hospital. During the Buna–Gona campaign I had the misfortune to contract scrub typhus, pneumonia and then yet another bout of malaria.’

  I swallowed, trying not to imagine what he’d been through during that bloody and hard-fought New Guinea campaign. It seemed that I’d misjudged Lieutenant Tuck. He looked up, into my eyes.

  ‘Now they won’t let me go back to the fighting, so I’ve been given a desk job here in Melbourne. The perfect bludge, as the men might say. It’s safer, of course, but, well, somehow you miss it. Being a part of it all, I mean – not so much the dirt, disease and death.’

  ‘Are you well now?’ I inclined my head, sending a wordless apology for doubting his capacity as a soldier. He met this with a smile.

  ‘Well enough to sit behind a desk,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Can’t dance for long, though. Now, let me fill you in, as the Americans say, about the people around us. Dolly has such eclectic taste in friends.’

  He glanced around the room. ‘See Molly over there in the pink taffeta gown?’

  I looked where he was pointing. A stocky young woman with a head of fluffy brown curls was laughing with a couple of American officers.

  ‘Mollie Dix. She was in the Australian women’s cricket team before the war. Now, Mollie loves the young American marines. The ones who’re camped at the Melbourne Cricket Ground take their bottles of beer into the neighbouring park. Rumour has it that one young blood was there with Mollie and some Melbourne Bitter, but didn’t have an opener. “Don’t fret, Yank,” said Mollie. “Here’s a go.” And she pulled off the cap with her teeth.’

  ‘Good show, Mollie,’ I said, laughing. ‘Our girl’s tougher than a marine.’

  His gaze darted around the room and alighted over to our left. I followed it and saw Lieutenant Cole, looking sleekly handsome and smiling at a slim, dark-haired WAAAF. Her hair was parted at the side and fell in loose waves to frame a striking face with lively dark eyes. It was our neighbour, Violet Smith.

  ‘Who’s that with Cole?’ asked Tuck.

  ‘Violet Smith. She’s a singer and lives in the flat across the hall from us.’

  As she chatted to Lieutenant Cole, Violet’s attention was drawn to someone or something across the room. I tried to see what she was looking at, but failed. Without warning Cole grabbed her arm and squeezed. She winced and looked up at him, obviously confused. He threw her a brilliant smile and reached down to touch her cheek gently. They exchanged a few words, and he released her arm. Her smile and her attention were now firmly on him.

  My heart had started to race. I knew that trick. Look at me, only at me, or you’ll pay for it later.

  ‘He’s a handsome brute,’ said Tuck. ‘Can be an utter bastard, though. She’s a pretty girl; you’d think she could do better than him.’

  Violet’s eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Cole and her smile was bright; she appeared to be listening to his every word as if it was holy gospel, but she was rubbing her arm where Cole had grabbed it. I wondered if I should try to talk to her, but I had no idea how seriously she saw their love affair. I turned my attention back to Tuck.

  He nodded over to our right. ‘See that captain? The one with the face like a horse? You’ll find him at the bar in the Menzies Hotel on any Friday night, but he’s remarkably indiscreet. Stupidly so.’ He frowned at the slim, awkward-looking man in AIF uniform, who was chatting to a middle-aged woman in a royal blue gown.

  I’d heard that the bars at the Menzies and the Australia hotels were meeting places for men who were looking for male company. Tuck leaned in closer. ‘Got picked up by the police at a party in a house in St Kilda in April.’

  ‘At a party?’ I was surprised. ‘In a private home, you mean?’ I knew that the police patrolled public toilets, parks and gardens looking for what they called ‘deviant’ behaviour, but a private party?

  ‘They act on tip-offs, my dear. And then they burst in on us with their moral outrage blazing.’

  ‘Was he actually arrested?’ I would have thought he faced a severe reprimand or even court martial if he was charged with an offence against public morals.

  ‘Sinclair helped him out. Helped us both out, actually. Had a few words where it counted before it got out of hand.’

  I followed his gaze to a tall lieutenant with a thin face and sandy-coloured hair. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses and was dancing with a palely pretty redhead in a light blue dress.

  ‘Sinclair? Is that Rob Sinclair? From Perth?’ Eric had mentioned a school friend called Rob Sinclair. I watched him with interest, and thought he had strong features and an interesting face, vivid with intelligence.

  ‘That’s the man,’ said Tuck. ‘He’s a lawyer.’ For once Tuck seemed utterly serious. ‘One of the smartest men you could meet. He’s become the go-to man if any of us are in trouble.’

  With mercurial swiftness, his face changed and all semblance of seriousness disappeared; now he resembled one of the satyrs in a Norman Lindsay painting, puckish and slightly evil.

  ‘I’ve tried ever so hard, but Sinclair’s completely unshockable.’

  ‘I wish I could paint you, Tuck,’ I said, laughing. ‘As a satyr.’

  His smile broadened. ‘With goat’s legs and little horns and an enormous . . .’

  ‘Quite.’

  He laughed. ‘I suspect you’re rather unshockable, too, Stella Aldridge.’

  ‘Things like that don’t bother me – hearing about sexual matters, I mean – so don’t even try. I’m an artist, after all, and we can be a licentious bunch.’

  ‘But not, I think, Stella Aldridge. I just can’t see you as licentious, my dear.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m the boring one – every group seems to need a boring one. I clean up the mess and wash the glasses at the end of the evening.’

  There was a small smile. ‘Dolly says you collect lost souls, who cry on your shoulder and expect tea and sympathy.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Dolly exaggerates.’

  Tuck wasn’t listening; his attention was fixed on the other side of the room. ‘Well, well. I heard he was back from Brisbane. He’s such a handsome devil, isn’t he?’ Tuck sounded wistful. ‘Though someone’s done their best to mar his beauty, I see.’

  He gave a quick nod in the direction of the buffet table, where Lieutenant Ross was laughing with Dolly.

  ‘You know him?’

  Tuck put his head on the side in an affected, rather birdlike fashion. ‘Well, now. He’s got a response. Mind you, Ross always gets a response from the girls.’ He breathed a laugh. ‘Now he’d be a good subject for a portrait.’

  ‘I disagree. He’s too obviously handsome to make a good subject,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I suspected that I’d failed, because Tuck gave a soft peal of laughter. His eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Ross.

  ‘Wartime is certainly a time for secrets,’ he said musingly. ‘We’re all such a secret crew. If it’s not Military Intelligence, like me and Rob Sinclair, it’s APLO or Sigint or one of the others.’ He turned to me again. ‘You’re in APLO with Dolly, aren’t you?’

  I stared back at him, and said nothing.

  ‘Very good, Stella,’ he said. ‘I see steadfast disapproval at my even asking the question and grim determination not to give anything away. Don’t worry, my dear. I don’t pry about war work. Only about extremely personal social, sexual and psychological matters. And I usually find out what I want to know. In my situation I need insurance.’

  He looked over towards Lieutenant Ross again; I thought that his expression showed mingled longing and apprehension. ‘I don’t know why he’s so compelling,’ he said. ‘But he is. I’ve met other men who’re just as handsome, but Nick Ross’s got a way of convincing you that you’re the only person
in the room who interests him.’ Tuck’s short laugh was derisive, but I could see the misery in his eyes. ‘Come on, let’s join Dolly and young Lochinvar.’

  Ten

  As we walked over to Lieutenant Ross and Dolly I reflected that I’d never had any experience of the lieutenant’s charm. Obviously he didn’t think I was worth wasting it on.

  ‘Stella,’ said Ross, smiling as we came up to him. I was surprised at the informality of the greeting. I’d only ever had ‘Sergeant Aldridge’ from him before. Still smiling, he took my hand. ‘How lovely to see you,’ he murmured, staring into my eyes.

  I gave the correct response and extracted my hand, which he’d been stroking gently. I suspected he was drunk. The bruises on his face were fading, but the black eye was still clearly visible. A picture of Eric’s grazed knuckles flashed into my head.

  ‘Who attacked you?’ I blurted out the words.

  His smile disappeared. ‘Someone with a grudge.’

  ‘But why?’

  Ross’s face seemed to close up and he shook his head slowly. ‘No names, no pack drill.’

  I looked away from him, towards the couples dancing. It was a saying used by soldiers, and it meant that there would be no repercussions if you kept quiet. It had been silly of me to ask, because of course he’d say nothing.

  ‘Well, I’m very upset about it all,’ said Dolly, slurring her words in slightly drunken high dudgeon. ‘Poor Nick. Just look at his face.’

  Nick? I stared at Dolly, who was gazing at the lieutenant as if he’d hung the moon.

  He turned to her, smile firmly in place again. ‘Easy on, birthday girl. It was a personal matter. I’m fine.’ He leaned down and planted a soft, quick kiss on her lips.

  My gasp went unnoticed as someone banged on the keys of the piano in the corner with a disharmonious thump and we all looked up in surprise.

  ‘A song,’ someone else called out. ‘Give us a song, Tuck. Where’s Friar Tuck?’

  ‘He’s over here.’

  ‘Sing a song or two.’

  ‘Go on, Tuck.’ There was a cacophony of calls for a song.

  Tuck had been watching Ross and Dolly with a malicious little smile, and he leaned towards me, whispering, ‘Try to keep Dolly out of trouble, darling – and I’ll tell you now, Nick Ross is trouble.’

  He raised an arm to the room in a gesture of affected weariness. ‘If I must,’ he said, and grinned at the three of us. ‘My public awaits.’

  We followed him to the piano. Tuck stared at the keys for a moment as the phonograph was turned off and a crowd gathered around him.

  I looked across at Ross, who was standing beside Dolly, resting his hand on her neck and gently massaging it. She was playing with fire, flirting so blatantly with an officer in front of all these people. People who knew Stanford. My mouth tightened and I looked away, towards Tuck.

  Gently, delicately, Tuck ran his fingers along the keys in a cheerful trill of notes. Then he settled into the melody.

  He began to sing ‘If Love Were All’. It was my favourite Noël Coward song, and its bittersweet melody and words changed the mood of the room to one of introspection and melancholy. Tuck had a light tenor, similar to Coward, and his self-accompaniment was polished. And, of course, it was a lovely song. It made me think of Eric, whose smile had touched me in a way that no one’s had done for a long while. Tuck finished the song with a few twirls and began to play ‘I’ll See You Again’, which also made me think of Eric.

  I looked again at Ross, who had put his arm around Dolly. She was resting her head on his shoulder and seemed happy.

  After that Tuck sang ‘Mrs Worthington’ and the mood lightened.

  Tuck kept on singing until his voice was hoarse, and then Violet came over to sing some old favourites. We sang along with her to ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’, ‘Be Like the Kettle and Sing’, ‘Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer’ and ‘Someday I’ll Find You’.

  I looked around at the flushed faces and eager expressions, as we sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’. Its sentimental words told of longing for love, and hope despite fear of what might happen in the future. Every person in that room – whether they were in uniform or in evening dress – had fought in the war or had a loved one who had fought or was still fighting. We all sang together, to show our determination to carry on fighting despite the cost, to show our resolve to win this war. And once victory was ours? We’d be in a world that had been changed utterly, and we’d learn to live in it.

  Eventually, at Ross’s urging, Tuck sang ‘The Party’s Over Now’. The guests took the hint, shrugged on coats and made their way out into the cold gloom of a Melbourne winter in the brownout. Ross insisted on accompanying Dolly and me home in a taxi, and I was close behind when he carried a very intoxicated Dolly up the stairs, into our flat and into her bedroom. He put her carefully on the bed, then waited in the lounge room while I undressed her as best I could with only one working hand. I decided she could sleep in her slip, and I pulled up the blankets.

  Dolly looked very young, lying in bed with her hair fallen across her face, her mouth open and snoring softly. She looked like a little girl who’d got into her mother’s make-up; her lipstick was smudged and there were streaks of mascara around her eyes and on her cheeks. As I gently brushed her hair away from her eyes I thought I’d bring in a damp flannel and wipe her face once Ross had left.

  When I entered the lounge room it was clear that Ross had made himself at home. He was sitting on the couch leafing through the newspaper and nursing a glass of scotch that he must have poured from the bottle on the sideboard. The bruises and the black eye were almost shocking on such a handsome face.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, raising the glass. ‘I felt I’d earned a snifter after hauling Dolly up that flight of stairs.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, wondering how much he’d had to drink already. ‘I’ll join you.’

  I crossed to the sideboard, poured myself a measure of brandy and sat in the big armchair facing Ross. I wanted to talk to him about Dolly, to warn him off, but I wondered how to introduce the subject. He was regarding me steadily with a look in his eyes that was a mixture of curiosity and expectation.

  ‘I hear you paint,’ he said.

  ‘I used to. A hundred years ago. Before the war.’

  ‘Too busy?’

  I leaned over my brandy, looking down at the amber liquid as I breathed into the glass to warm it.

  ‘There were a number of reasons. I’m still interested in art, though. Before I joined up I was working as assistant to the manager of the Manly Art Gallery.’

  ‘Dolly mentioned that you’d lost your husband in North Africa.’

  ‘In the Syrian campaign. February 1941.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Stella.’ His voice was gentle and when I looked up, his face showed nothing but sympathy.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said, flushing. I took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m thinking of starting to paint again. If I can find any materials. Everything’s in such short supply nowadays.’

  ‘I can probably help you there.’

  I was surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘Leave it to me. If you make a list of what you need, I can get hold of it.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly –’

  ‘I said, leave it to me. I’ll get what you need.’ He took another sip of whisky and looked at me, eyes half closed. I thought I saw a calculating gleam, deep inside those eyes.

  ‘You must be a very special woman,’ said Ross, now looking down at his scotch with a wry smile.

  I tried to keep my voice light. ‘Why?’

  ‘Eric Lund’s interested in you.’ He laughed. ‘He doesn’t speak much at the best of times, but closes up like a clam when he’s around the girls. The men were always having a go at him about it.’

  ‘So you were his s
enior officer as well as his school friend?’

  The bruises on his face and the black eye gave him an air of unreality, as if he’d been made up for a part. He didn’t reply.

  I took a tentative breath, wondering what to say about Dolly. ‘Tonight, you were very –’

  ‘They’ve offered him a commission time and again, but he’s always refused,’ he said, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Says he doesn’t want to be in command, then he second-guesses me in the field. Trouble is, he’s good at it.’ He touched his bruised face, as if unconsciously. ‘He’s a ferocious fighter, but it’s more than that. He’s a thinker, too.’

  Ross was now looking down at his drink. His mouth was slightly twisted, as if he had a bad taste in it.

  ‘It’s bloody difficult when you’re up there, you know. I was commissioned because I went to the right school, had a degree. How the hell does university prepare you for commanding a field mission?’ He took a gulp of whisky and his cheeks reddened as he stared at the glass. ‘I – Eric shouldn’t –’

  He was silent for a while. I decided to try again.

  ‘You know that Dolly is –’

  His gaze caught mine and held it. ‘You have this way of looking at a chap, as if you can see right through him,’ he said.

  I looked down at my brandy again, unsure if that was a line. Hoping it wasn’t. After a minute or so of silence, I looked up. He was staring at me.

  I said, ‘Um, Dolly was rather –’

  ‘I’ve had a bit too much of this tonight,’ he said, rolling the whisky around, just as I’d done earlier with my brandy. ‘Makes me maudlin.’

  ‘It must be so difficult to be in command,’ I said. I knew it was a trite comment, but I had no idea how to respond to what he was saying.

  ‘It’s hell,’ he replied, glaring at me. ‘Eric thinks I made a mistake up there. The court martial disagreed, but it’s been eating away at me.’

  ‘It’s easy with hindsight, I suppose,’ I murmured. ‘To see what might have been the better course. Um, Dolly –’

  ‘You’re a very easy person to be with,’ he said. I came in for an appraising stare. ‘And you’re very attractive. Is it serious with that Yank? With Eric?’ There was a look now in his eyes that I knew well. I stared hard at the carpet, trying to think. I really didn’t want to deal with amorous intentions. Not from him, and not now, when I was so tired and would probably say the wrong thing.