A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  I shook my head and murmured something about how difficult it must be. His expression didn’t alter. My voice fell away and we just looked at each other. His ridiculously lush eyelashes shadowed his eyes and made it impossible to read his expression clearly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It seemed that he did that whenever he wanted to get his emotions back in order. I had the impression that Ross needed to appear to be always in control.

  ‘I want to find a traitor,’ he said. ‘Or a fool. If the failure of the mission I commanded wasn’t my fault – and the court martial didn’t think it was my fault – then I want to find out how it happened and stop it happening again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This is too important to risk anyone finding out about what we’re doing. A small office will be set up for you down the hall.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His voice became brisker. ‘We’ll see what you find.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I kept repeating that – but I had no idea how to respond to him. I needed time to sit down and think about it all.

  He swung his chair around so that he was looking out the window, just as he’d done on the Sunday I came to see him.

  ‘I’ve got you some watercolour paints, brushes, charcoal.’ He hadn’t turned around. ‘Also an easel and some paper.’

  ‘What? Thank you.’ I was at a loss for words. ‘I’m . . . Thank you.’

  ‘When you run out, or if you need anything else, let me know. I can get whatever you need.’

  ‘Th-thank you.’ I sounded like a stuttering idiot.

  ‘I’ll send Tuck around with some of it and bring the rest when I come to Dolly’s bridge party, if it doesn’t arrive before then.’

  ‘Bridge party?’

  ‘Didn’t Dolly tell you? She’s arranged a bridge party for the tenth.’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’ I was so shaken that I again spoke without thinking. ‘You don’t seem to take the regulations about non-fraternisation very seriously.’ I remembered just in time, and added, ‘Sir.’

  When he swung around to face me, he was smiling. ‘No one does. They seem to be more honoured in the breach.’ He paused. ‘Dolly’s boyfriend is an American major, after all. And he paid for that birthday party. How did she meet him?’

  ‘I have no idea. She’s always meeting people. She’s so pretty.’

  He looked at me for a long, unblinking minute and I felt heat in my cheeks.

  ‘You’re much more attractive than Dolly, you know.’

  My jaw tightened. I said nothing, but looked down. As I stared at my thick woollen stockings and sensible army-issue shoes, I remembered a pair of strappy red sandals that Frank had loved me to wear because they showed off my ankles. They’d hurt my feet badly, but he’d insist on me wearing them. ‘Makes the other chaps jealous of me,’ he’d say. ‘For having such a gorgeous wife.’

  I could feel that Ross was still staring at me. I hated being looked at, examined. Frank would stare at me for minute after long minute while I waited, head bowed, just like I was doing now. Waited for the sarcasm or the shouting or the blows.

  When he spoke, Ross’s voice was light and uninterested.

  ‘Anyway, last night Dolly invited Tuck and me to your flat for bridge next Saturday evening. Also that very pretty WAAAF neighbour of yours and Lieutenant Cole. There must be another couple, but I don’t know who they are.’

  I looked up at him and he seemed to be considering something. ‘Should I take that WAAAF away from the oafish Lieutenant Cole, do you think?’

  He seemed very sure of himself, but he was undoubtedly very good-looking and could be charming when he wanted. I yet again spoke without thinking. ‘You’d be an improvement on Lieutenant Cole,’ I said.

  Ross gave a shout of laughter and I thought that it was probably the first unguarded thing he’d done in front of me.

  ‘Then maybe I will.’

  He raised a hand in an obvious dismissal. I turned and left the room.

  Thirteen

  The following morning I walked along the corridor to the small room that had been set up for me to use as an office. Ross had told me to always keep the room locked, and he’d also told me that he had the spare key. Every evening I was to return the files to him, to be locked in the safe in his room.

  Once I’d unlocked the door and entered the room I could see that Ross had placed a pile of buff-coloured files on the desk. Top Secret was stamped on the front of each. I sat behind the desk and stared at those red letters. Top Secret. I thought how odd it was that Stella Aldridge should be involved in such important matters.

  Frank had thought I was pretty, but stupid. He’d often tell me I was stupid when we were alone. The first time he did so in public was at a party, not long after we’d been married. I was not quite twenty years old and, if truth be told, I was a little overwhelmed by the sophisticated crowd around me, who were chic and brittle and knowing, and treated me like a child. ‘Frank’s child bride’ someone had dubbed me, and the name had stuck.

  ‘But really, it’s such a shame.’ The woman had been around sixty, as thin as Coco Chanel, with a long face framed by a sleek silver bob. She looked like a greyhound, overbred, disdainful and arrogant. ‘Almeria was such a pretty town and the Germans flattened it. They say up to a thousand civilians died.’

  ‘It’s absolutely terrible,’ I’d interrupted, with the strident fervency of youth. ‘And that horrid Von Robbintrop was trying to justify it to the British. I read it in the Herald.’

  ‘What did you call him?’ The greyhound woman’s voice was high and amused.

  When I realised my mistake I became flustered. Von Ribbentrop was the Nazi ambassador to Britain. I’d pushed on, regardless. ‘Ribbentrop, Robbintrop, he’s a nasty brute, whatever he’s called.’

  The laughter around me was indulgent, but I’d caught Frank’s expression just before he joined in. I’d seen the slight twitch in his cheek. I knew what that meant, and my face had started to tingle painfully, as if it had been slapped.

  ‘She’s pretty, my wife, don’t you agree?’ His smile was for the people around us, not for me. ‘But pretty stupid about world affairs.’ That had brought more laughter. He’d turned to me then, and his voice was suavely amused. ‘Darling, do keep quiet if you haven’t anything sensible to say.’

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the group. The next day there were bruises, five little spots to indicate the pressure of his fingers, the extent of his anger. ‘Stop trying to show off, you little fool,’ he hissed. ‘You’re just making an idiot of yourself. An idiot of me.’

  I soon realised that speaking out wasn’t worth the belittling remarks and the sly digs he threw at me when we were with other people, and the icy fury and hurtful remarks when we were alone. I learned not to try to join in conversations when we were out together. Instead I’d smile and watch Frank with an adoring look that I’d gradually perfected.

  I shook my head to bring myself back to the present day. Frank was dead. Poor Frank, always so worried about how those he thought were important had viewed him.

  And he’d been wrong about me being stupid. The files on my desk now were concrete evidence that Captain Molloy, Captain Deacon and Lieutenant Ross thought my views were worth considering, that I had a role to play in this war. That I was not ‘pretty stupid’.

  I sat down to open the first folder. It contained about twenty closely typewritten pages that were the record of an interrogation of a man referred to as Prisoner 456. I put it aside and flicked through the other folders. Each had one or more records of interrogation of prisoners, one folder to each prisoner, but some contained the transcriptions of several interrogation sessions. Four were in Malay with English translations. Ten were in Japanese with English translations. One was in Dutch with an English translation. One was in English.

  �
�I’m looking for connections.’ Ross’s voice caused me to look up suddenly. He was lounging in the doorway, watching me. When he closed the door he seemed to fill the small room; it was somehow intimidating and not in the least charming. I was annoyed that he could intimidate me, so my chin came up and I looked him straight in the eye. He seemed amused by this, although he didn’t smile. Instead he sat in the chair facing my desk and nodded at the folders I’d opened.

  ‘Connections. And patterns.’

  ‘Who are these people? Spies?’

  ‘Some are soldiers captured in engagements. Some are spies. You’ll get records of interview from our own side, from the men who returned from the missions, including Eric’s record of interview.’

  ‘Did you interrogate them – the enemy soldiers and the spies, I mean? You’re good at interrogation, aren’t you?’

  He almost smiled at that. ‘Word gets around, as the Americans say.’ His gaze fell for an instant as he took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘Yes. I’m good at interrogation.’ He looked up, met my gaze. ‘They give me carte blanche. Don’t care what I do, so long as I get results.’

  ‘And you get results?’ I asked, slightly revolted.

  ‘I always get results.’ His gaze was steady.

  I gestured towards the folders. ‘So, what you want is for me to review the information in these and see if there’s something you’ve missed?’

  He nodded. ‘Or confirm something I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Then I’ll get to work, shall I?’

  I looked pointedly at the door behind him. He smiled at that, an unaffected smile, a charming smile. There were now no bruises on his face, no evidence that anyone had ever hurt him.

  Fourteen

  ‘But Dolly, we’re not supposed to fraternise with the officers. You know that.’

  ‘Nobody follows the regulations.’ She put a plate of stew in front of me. ‘Here. I cut the meat into small pieces so you won’t need to use your left hand at all.’

  I smiled my thanks and forked a piece of meat into my mouth. ‘Delicious.’ I chewed thoughtfully. ‘Captain Molloy won’t like it.’

  Her reply was a delicate shrug. ‘How will he know? It’s just a bridge evening. We’ll play for small change. Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stella.’

  I looked at Dolly. She seemed stretched tight, nervy, and it showed in her face. ‘Is everything all right, Doll? Generally, I mean?’

  ‘It’s apples,’ she said. ‘Just peachy.’

  ‘Not many of them around nowadays,’ I said. ‘Unless you know an American.’

  ‘Well, I do, as it so happens. So it’s all apples and peaches and fur coats and nylons and orchids, with the moon and the stars thrown in for luck.’ She smiled brightly but her bottom lip trembled. ‘I suppose you think I’m terrible. Running around with American servicemen when I’ve got Stanford ready and waiting.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you’re terrible, but I sometimes wonder if you really do want Stanford. And what will happen if he finds out what you’ve been up to.’

  Dolly sighed. ‘Stanford treats me as if I’m breakable, a fragile little ornament he’ll put in his china cabinet with a label reading Made in Australia, handle with care. You know, Stella, we’ve never . . .’ She looked down at her plate and moved her fork around in the stew. ‘He’s never made so much as a pass at me.’

  That was a surprise, and I had to work hard not to show it. ‘It sounds as if he sees what’s between you as true love,’ I said.

  ‘I really think he does.’ She stared moodily at her plate. ‘But, Stella, he thinks I’m so modest. He kisses me as though I’m made of glass. I’m not like that. I’ve never been like that. Love – sex, I mean – I’ve always thought it’s just a part of life, just two people enjoying being with each other. That’s how I am.’

  She turned her face away to look at the balcony. ‘I’m not the town bike. I don’t sleep with just anybody. Most of the men who come here only want the company. We have a kiss and a cuddle, that’s all.’

  ‘I know that, Doll.’

  ‘I – I do believe in marriage. I was faithful to my husband.’

  ‘And you’ll be faithful to Stanford.’

  ‘I’ll be faithful to Stanford,’ she repeated, in a dull voice. Then she laughed. ‘What was it that St Augustine said? “Lord make me good, but not yet.” That’s how I feel when I meet a man like Nick Ross.’ She gave me a mischievous smile. ‘Stanford is due back at the end of the month. By then I’ll have had my fun times, and then I’ll be good.’

  ‘Dolly –’ I was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door.

  She jumped up. ‘I’ll get it.’

  When Dolly reappeared, Allan Tuck was with her, almost hidden behind a large cardboard box. He brought it into the kitchen and deposited it on the floor.

  ‘For you, Stella Aldridge,’ he said, grinning. ‘From Nick Ross. Now you can paint me and make my gorgeous visage famous around Australia.’

  ‘Whatever is in there?’ Dolly seemed bemused, but there was an undercurrent of pique. Her mouth tightened as she glanced across at me. ‘You can talk. Accepting gifts from officers. Didn’t you tell me that you’d be working with Lieutenant Ross from now on?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him for anything.’ I sounded defensive, so I softened my voice. ‘It’s painting equipment. He’s being kind, because he knows I want to paint again.’

  I was tempted to ask her where she got the beef in the stew – ask her which US officer had provided it – but I kept quiet. Instead, I pulled open the box to find tubes of watercolour paint, brushes, pencils, charcoal and sketchbooks. My mouth became dry and I felt a fluttering in my chest.

  Tuck was watching me closely. ‘He’s also got you an easel and paper, but I told him he could bloody well bring that up himself.’

  ‘However did he get all this so quickly?’ My voice was high and shocked.

  ‘Oh, Ross has ways.’

  ‘How can I accept all of this? I can’t accept it.’

  Behind me, Dolly laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. ‘You should have heard Stella being all self-righteous before you arrived. Telling me off for inviting you and Nick and Lance Cole for bridge. And then she accepts gifts from her CO.’

  ‘He’s not my CO. That’s Captain Deacon.’ I bit my lip nervously. ‘Should I ask him whether I’m able to accept this?’

  Tuck’s voice was cool. ‘Tell your CO if you think it’s the right thing to do.’

  Dolly shrugged. ‘Join us for dinner, Tuck. There’s plenty of stew. I’ll set another place.’

  ‘Who’s the babbler?’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t help a laugh.

  ‘Babbling brook, cook. Army slang.’

  ‘I am,’ said Dolly. ‘But I’m no army bab.’

  Tuck regarded the thick stew with appreciation. ‘American meat?’

  ‘An American friend brought it over.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tuck. ‘Very handy to know, those Americans.’ He sat at the table and Dolly put a plate of stew in front of him.

  ‘So, tell us about Nick Ross,’ said Dolly.

  Tuck put his fork down to look at her. ‘What do you want to know? He’s who he is. Gorgeous, enigmatic.’ He laughed softly. ‘Don’t get ideas about him. He’s a horror where women are concerned. Love them and leave them, that’s his motto.’

  ‘I heard he’d been court-martialled.’ Dolly’s voice was indifferent; her eyes told another story.

  Tuck stared at her, before applying himself to the stew again. ‘If he faced court martial, he wasn’t convicted, obviously. Nick has his secrets. We all do. Don’t pry, Dolly. That would be most unwise. There’s a war on, remember.’

  Dolly flushed and finished her stew in silence.

  After dinner we sat in the lounge room with our drinks. Never in my life had I drunk s
o much alcohol as in the past six weeks I’d spent at Avoca. Although spirits were rationed for ordinary Australians, Dolly’s American friends had access to as much alcohol as they wanted and they were very generous. But it meant that my nights were sometimes a haze and the day following was one of headaches and irritability. I sipped my brandy slowly and refused a refill. I’d need my wits about me now that I was to be working closely with Nick Ross.

  ‘What’s it like to work with him?’ asked Tuck, apparently reading my mind.

  I looked up to see his expression of sly amusement.

  ‘With whom?’ I asked.

  ‘Ross.’

  ‘I only found out yesterday that I’m going to be working with him. It’s . . . unlikely to be boring, although I suspect it’ll sometimes be tedious.’

  Dolly was sitting beside me on the sofa, legs tucked up beneath her, nursing a brandy and watching us with an intensity that surprised me.

  Tuck had a whisky and soda. He lifted his glass in a mock toast to me. ‘I hear you’ve caught the interest of his Viking bodyguard.’

  I kept my face expressionless, looked at him through half-closed eyes and raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug, a gesture I’d learned in Paris. It was one that said I know you’re mocking me and I simply don’t care.

  ‘Eric Lund,’ he went on, obviously pressing for information. ‘Ross’s big blond shadow. His amigo.’

  ‘He’s not so big,’ I said. ‘I doubt he’s much taller than Ross, or you.’

  Tuck thought about it. ‘He seems to fill any room he’s in,’ he said. One side of his mouth raised in a sort of smile. ‘Fills it with menace the way Ross fills it with charm. Lund’s a taciturn fellow. I’d keep clear of the brute if I were you, Stella Aldridge.’

  ‘I don’t find him taciturn,’ I said. ‘Or menacing.’

  Tuck’s smile widened, became real.

  In our short acquaintance, I’d not thought Eric to be menacing. But then, I had an appalling record at reading men’s characters.