A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘I’m not in the market for anything serious,’ I said firmly, looking up and holding his gaze.

  He leaned forward and took the brandy glass out of my hand. He placed the glass on the low table in front of us and took my hand in both of his. His hands were hot and rough with calluses, just as Eric’s had been, but the effect on me was quite different. It was all I could do not to snatch my hand back. Instead, I gently pulled it away and smiled.

  ‘I’m not in the market for anything at all,’ I said.

  Ross’s face was difficult to read, but I thought I saw amusement, and perhaps determination in his face. That was a worry, because I did not want to be seen as a challenge.

  ‘You must get lonely, Stella,’ he said. ‘Everyone needs human comfort now and again.’ He made a sweeping movement with his hand that took in the door leading to the central lobby and my bedroom. ‘We don’t need to be serious.’

  He was very good at this, I thought. Nonetheless, there was something – an emptiness perhaps – deep inside that made me wary of him, and even a little scared.

  ‘I’m so tired at the moment that I don’t need anything at all except sleep,’ I said, smiling again and rising to my feet. ‘And I really think it’s a bad idea to get involved with colleagues, even leaving aside what the regulations say about fraternisation between officers and other ranks. I don’t want to be rude, but if you’ve finished your drink . . .’

  ‘Nuts to you, Stella Aldridge,’ he said, smiling still. ‘You know that no one’s following the regulations about non-fraternisation.’

  ‘I follow them,’ I said.

  ‘So we’re both going to be lonely tonight?’ His smile didn’t touch his eyes. I had the strong impression that he didn’t get many refusals.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ I said, also smiling. ‘And please don’t make a play for Dolly. She’s really quite serious about Stanford Randall and I’d hate for her to lose him.’

  He laughed. ‘So I’m not to play with Dolly. Lots of men do, from what I hear.’

  I’d had enough. I picked up his cap from the sofa and held it out to him. He took one look at my face, stood, took the cap from me and let me see him to the door. It was all I could do not to slam it behind him.

  As I was falling asleep that night I tried to imagine how I’d paint Nick Ross. I’d find it almost impossible, I thought, because his face was so changeable. I did decide, however, that I’d need to place just a touch – a hint only – of Venetian red in each eye, to represent the cynicism that I thought lay deep at the heart of him, almost hidden by his undoubted charm.

  I thought about it for a while, and then I drifted into sleep. I dreamed of a fight in heaven. Michael, the archangel warrior, was fair and austere and terrible. His opponent was a dark-haired angel with a face as beautiful as sin. The sound of weeping and wailing came from those of us who watched them grapple together. I awakened to realise that the muted sounds of sobbing and wailing were real. I sat upright and listened, worried for Dolly. There was a sharp cry, the sort of sound a woman made if she was being hit. I heard the surprise and horror in that sound; I heard the misery. It had come from the flat next door.

  Now there were voices, a man’s voice low and compelling, Violet’s voice, high and miserable. I couldn’t make out any words. Then there was silence.

  Eleven

  I had a headache when I woke the following morning, but it was nothing compared to what Dolly was suffering.

  ‘I can’t go in to work. You’ll have to give my excuses. I can’t move without agony.’ There was a little moan. ‘Are you sure I can’t have more morphine tablets?’

  ‘No. You’ve had two. You can have two more at lunchtime if you really need them, but only if you really need them. It’s dangerous to have too many, Dolly. You know that.’

  I’d gone to her room to see how she was doing before I headed off for work. She was a pale, wan figure huddled in the bedclothes. My father would have said that she was ‘green around the gills’. Apart from one fevered trip to the bathroom at six o’clock, her morning had consisted of ordering me to bring her the heater from the lounge room, water, morphine pills and a cup of tea. There was a lot of moaning, too.

  ‘I can’t tell Captain Gabriel that you’ve got a hangover. She’ll have a fit.’

  ‘Tell her I’m dying. It’s the truth.’

  ‘You’re not dying. You’ll be fine in a few hours.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I have to go or I’ll be late.’ She moaned. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll tell her it’s women’s trouble.’

  Dolly murmured something incoherent, but I thought I heard the name Nick Ross. ‘What about him?’ I asked.

  She gingerly raised her head, wincing as she did so. ‘How much of a fool was I last night?’

  ‘You were very familiar with him – too familiar. He insisted on accompanying us home. You passed out in the taxi and he had to carry you up the stairs.’

  ‘He must think I’m dreadful.’

  ‘Probably.’

  I hoped she’d be too embarrassed to face him again. If I was honest with myself, Nick Ross unsettled me, and I’d prefer not to have too much to do with him. As I left the room I thought about it: Lieutenant Ross unsettled me, Lieutenant Cole now disgusted me and I found Captain Molloy intimidating. The only officers I liked were Captain Deacon and Captain Gabriel, and I was very grateful that they were the ones I worked with.

  In my bedroom I buckled my belt, set my hat firmly on my head and picked up my satchel ready for work. I held out my left hand, which was still bandaged, and twisted it around. Over the past days it had gradually improved. This morning it hardly hurt at all.

  I picked up the letter I’d written to Eric and put it in my satchel. I’d been careful in what I wrote, as I well knew that all my letters would be opened and read. If the censor thought I’d said something that could jeopardise the national interest then those words would be cut out of the letter with a razor. I’d tried to write in a light-hearted way and I’d put little drawings in the margin, the way I did in the letters to my father.

  ‘I’m off,’ I called out, settling the strap of my satchel on my shoulder as I walked through the lounge room, and out of our front door on to the landing.

  Violet’s door opened and Lieutenant Cole emerged. Violet followed him out, wearing her dressing gown and carrying his cap. She called out a greeting and I responded.

  Violet’s singing voice was a contralto, but when she spoke it was in a high, girlish voice. ‘Stella, you know Lance Cole?’

  Her voice sounded rough this morning, as if she’d been crying, although her smile was as bright as always. Lieutenant Cole was all smirking roguish charm.

  ‘Of course I know Sergeant Stella,’ he said.

  He seemed so ordinary, so harmless. Just a handsome, sleek-haired man with a winning smile. I wondered how they did it, how such men could appear to be so nice whenever they weren’t alone with the women they abused. How they could turn in an instant from charming to enraged.

  Cole leaned in for a goodbye kiss and Violet responded. When he released her she was flushed and seemed excited and happy. I knew that she’d already be making excuses for what had happened last night. I could almost hear her thoughts: It was the drink. He said it would never happen again. Anyway, he was right, I flirted too much at the party. It’s a compliment, really, that he’s so jealous. And he’s so handsome, so charming. An officer! I’d be mad to let him go, when he’s so obviously smitten with me. Besides, he said it’d never happen again . . .

  ‘You all right, Violet?’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘You look a bit under the weather.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ replied Cole, hugging her closely, tenderly. She beamed up at him, threw me a bright, empty smile.

  ‘Gosh, there was a lot of booze at Dolly’s party,’ she said. ‘I think we’re all a bit under the weather this morning.’

 
‘Shall we walk to Goodwood together?’ asked Cole.

  The awful thing was that he did seem to be so very nice, did seem to be so smitten with Violet. Maybe he was. Frank had always said how much he loved me, afterwards.

  I lied. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for Dolly. She’s slow getting up this morning. You go on without me.’

  ‘See you there, then.’ As he leaned in towards Violet for another kiss, I turned and walked back into the flat.

  Ten minutes later I left Avoca and began walking towards Goodwood. The air was fresh and there was a slight breeze, cold enough to make my cheeks sting. My pace was brisk, because I didn’t want to be late, but also to warm myself and to settle my feelings. The footpath was crowded with AWAS girls and soldiers and civilians on their way to work. Any one of them would probably see Lieutenant Cole as charming and heroic, a fine example of an Australian army officer. I realised my arms were wrapped around my chest in a tight hug. I dropped them to my side, forced myself to relax, to think about what I should do. Lieutenant Cole was unlikely ever to harm me, because men like him had a public face and a private face. I’d try hard to keep away from him, but I wondered how I could stop Violet from getting deeper into what was likely to be a disastrous relationship.

  I stood on the corner across from Goodwood and sucked in a shuddering breath. I had work to do. Important war work. I strode across the road, waved my pass at the sentry on duty and crossed the car park to the iron-lace verandah that had so impressed Eric.

  I pushed open the door to the reception area and smiled at Betty, who was sitting behind the desk. Sliding my hand into my satchel I pulled out the blue aerogram addressed to Eric and put it in the ‘Out’ basket in front of her. We’d been asked to put our letters into the post at work because Captain Molloy preferred it if the censoring of our letters was done at APLO headquarters, rather than by the government censor.

  ‘Staff Sergeant Lund?’ Betty peered at the aerogram. ‘Wasn’t he in here the other day to see Captain Molloy? Big, blond, tough.’

  ‘I hardly know him. He asked me to write to him.’

  She started a teasing reply when her gaze went to someone behind me. The colour rose in her cheeks. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  I turned to see Captain Deacon, and I stood up straight and saluted. He returned the salute and nodded towards the letter. ‘You’re a friend of Staff Sergeant Lund?’

  ‘I don’t know him very well.’

  I wondered if Captain Deacon would read my letter to Eric, censor my hesitantly written words of tentative friendship. Laugh at my jokes, ponder the little drawings in the margin, intrude into my personal life on the basis of national security. I felt the muscles in my shoulders tighten and I forced myself to relax them. Captain Deacon – whoever the censor would be – was only doing a job. There was a war on. We all had to put up with these inconveniences.

  He nodded absently towards the letter. ‘We ask Captain Gabriel to censor the AWAS letters.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I wasn’t sure if that news was a relief or not.

  He frowned and looked hard at me. ‘Captain Molloy and I would like to see you this morning, Sergeant.’ He glanced at Betty. ‘When’s a good time?’

  She ran her eye down the pages in front of her. ‘There’s a gap at eleven,’ she replied.

  Captain Deacon’s eyes were the colour of French ultramarine, but the whites were slightly yellowed and he seemed tired. It wasn’t a hangover from Dolly’s party, because he’d left early and not drunk much at all. I wondered how he felt about sending men on missions overseas, if it stopped him sleeping soundly.

  ‘We’ll see you in Captain Molloy’s office at eleven.’ He left us to walk upstairs.

  When I looked at Betty, she shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said.

  No point worrying yet, I thought, as I went past her desk into the wide corridor beyond. I took off my greatcoat and hung it on a coat hook in a row that had been set into the wall, and pushed open the heavy panelled door into the room where I worked with Mary and Faye. Temporary dividing walls about four feet high partitioned the former drawing room into four spaces. Three were fitted with a desk, telephone and filing cabinets. We used the space that incorporated the large bay window as a map room and library. It had a long table in it, on which could be spread the detailed charts of New Guinea and Timor and other regions of the South West Pacific theatre. Reference books were piled at one end of the desk and in a tall bookcase by the window.

  My office space was next to this, without the benefit of the window. I’d pinned maps to the walls, as well as a calendar and lists of useful numbers and addresses. It wasn’t the most luxurious working environment, but it was much better than that of the APLO secretaries, whose office was in the basement area, near the telephone operator. The male clerks had offices down the corridor.

  Private Pope had already lit the kerosene heater in the corner. It gave out more stink than heat, but it was better than nothing. There was a large, beautifully decorated fireplace in the room but wood was almost impossible to find and I had never seen a fire in it.

  I peered over the partitions. Mary and Faye hadn’t yet arrived, but Captain Gabriel was poring over a large map of New Guinea that had been stretched out on the map table, making notes. I coughed gently and she looked up.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  Captain Gabriel was a thin woman aged in her mid-thirties, whose main claim to beauty was a true peaches-and-cream English complexion. She emphasised it by pulling her brown hair into a tight roll at the back of her head, and she never wore any make-up. A pair of brown eyes under heavy brows, a small nose and a slight gap between her front teeth completed the picture. I liked Nancy Gabriel; although she was strict, she never held grudges, and I knew that she cared deeply about the ‘girls’ at APLO.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Sergeant Harper is feeling ill today and won’t be in, I’m afraid.’

  There was steel in the look she gave me. ‘Hung-over?’

  ‘I think it’s women’s problems.’

  ‘Don’t lie for the woman.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘You’ll keep on telling me it’s women’s problems, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I hesitated. ‘She really was very unwell this morning, ma’am.’

  I heard laughter in the corridor. Mary and Faye had arrived.

  ‘I’ll put her on report as a potential ack-willy. Tell her she’d better be able to convince me tomorrow that she was really ill, or it’ll go on her record and her pay will be docked.’

  Ack-willy meant Absent Without Leave, and it was a serious charge.

  I said hesitantly, ‘She did seem very ill, ma’am. I had to give her morphine tablets.’

  Captain Gabriel’s face softened. ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’ll speak to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘You’ll find the “B” Party information on your desk. The Dutch have a base up there already and we’ll need support from them. Could you start making the arrangements, please?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Of course.’

  ‘B’ Party was a field mission and it had been allocated to me. Five men were to be inserted near Yellow River Junction in the Sepik Valley in New Guinea on the fourteenth of August for a five-month intelligence-gathering mission. I was responsible for working out what supplies of food, medicine and equipment the men would need and how to get it to them, how to transport them to and from the drop zone, how to make sure that the information they sent back would be properly monitored and collated, and a myriad other matters that were crucial to the success of the mission. I’d then have to make the necessary arrangements to ensure that everything was in place before they left Australia. Faye and Mary would help me, but it all took time and a surprising amount of negotiation, as the various intelligence organisations tended to operate independently and they jeal
ously guarded their supplies and secrets.

  The girls pushed open the door, singing out good mornings and chattering about a film they’d seen. The chilly room seemed somehow warmer when they entered. I returned their greetings, sat at my desk and pulled off my damp gloves. My hat went under my chair. It was time to get to work.

  *

  I knocked at Captain Molloy’s door at exactly eleven o’clock, and entered at his summons. The crucifix was still on the wall behind the desk and the room still smelled of tobacco. Captain Deacon was standing to one side, and he nodded at me as I came in. I saluted. Captain Molloy gestured to a chair in front of the desk.

  ‘Sit down, Sergeant,’ he said.

  I perched on the chair he’d indicated. His grey-green eyes regarded me steadily and my unease increased. Was I in trouble?

  ‘Sergeant Aldridge, we’re not carpeting you.’ It was Captain Deacon and I turned my head to look at him.

  ‘I didn’t want you to become involved in this,’ said Captain Molloy. ‘I still think that Ayers is a better choice.’

  Sergeant Ayers worked with Dolly. Perplexed and worried, I glanced at Captain Deacon, as a voice I knew all too well came from behind me.

  ‘Ayers has no imagination.’

  I twisted around to see Lieutenant Ross leaning against the wall, looking suave and darkly handsome. He must have been hidden by the door when I came in.

  ‘Captain Deacon and I want you to transfer duties so that you’ll be working with me.’

  I turned back to Captain Molloy. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if it was hurting him. As if listening to Ross caused him pain.

  ‘Lieutenant Ross thinks that you can be of use to him in an important matter,’ he said. ‘Under sufferance, I’ve agreed. You must maintain absolute confidentiality on this.’