A Time of Secrets

by Deborah Burrows

  Even in the gloom I could see the triumph in his eyes. ‘I think you do like me, after all.’

  I was shaking with fury. ‘Practising,’ I said, almost spitting out the word. ‘I was practising for when Eric gets back.’ I pulled my arm free. ‘And you were right. I really don’t like you. Sir.’

  Head high and face burning, I went back into the warmth of our lounge room. The phonograph was playing ‘Swinging on a Star’ and the others were singing along. I joined in with gusto. I didn’t see Ross leave.

  Twenty-seven

  The following week had a nightmarish quality, although I tried my best to concentrate on finding the traitor before the Indigo team left for Timor. The problem was that Lieutenant Ross appeared to think that something had changed between us with the ridiculous kiss on the balcony, but it was unclear what he thought that change was. His moods were entirely unpredictable. One day he’d be charming, slip into my office with a cup of tea and settle in for a chat. The next day he’d be surly, brusque and almost rude. I was unsure how to handle him, as I felt as if I was walking on eggshells.

  I wished I hadn’t responded to Ross’s kiss, but I knew myself well enough to know why I hadn’t pushed him away like an outraged virgin in a melodrama. I’d enjoyed kissing him. For a brief moment I’d reverted to Stella-before-Frank, the young woman who’d loved romance, excitement and easy charm. Young Stella had enjoyed kissing attractive men like Nick Ross; Stella-after-Frank was entirely different. So I maintained an air of distant politeness whenever Ross appeared that week, and hoped he’d take the hint.

  Anyway, my mind was taken up with wondering about Eric: when would he return to Melbourne, when would he contact me? But as the days slipped by with no word from him, I couldn’t help but remember Ross’s question in the kitchen after Dolly’s bridge party: Just how serious is it between you two?

  How could it be serious? I’d only met Eric Lund three times, and although I’d written to him twice a week since he’d left, I’d never had a reply. By Saturday afternoon I was firmly convinced that for Eric at least, I had been merely a flirtation, a distraction in the short time before he departed for another dangerous mission.

  So much for romance, I thought, as I walked home that evening.

  Leroy telephoned early on Sunday morning to say that he’d just returned from a two-week posting to Townsville. He asked if I was free that night and I was glad to accept his invitation to dinner followed by dancing. I spent the day sketching by the river, returning just in time to get ready for my night out.

  *

  Leroy had a firm hold of my arm as we walked along Nicholson Street. We were on our way to the Palais Royale in the eastern annexe of the Exhibition Building, which was one of three ballrooms that had recently begun opening on Sunday nights for the troops’ entertainment. The ornate and rather lovely Royal Exhibition Building itself was being used for temporary RAAF troop accommodation and training. Huts had been erected on the oval behind the ballroom and the troops used the Great Hall as a mess hall.

  I got some cold glances from people who passed us, which surprised me, because I was older than most of the girls who dated Yanks, and Leroy was an officer. The Americans had been given a riotously ecstatic welcome when they first arrived in early 1942 – two hundred thousand gathered in Melbourne to greet them – but now things were changing. Dolly had shrieked with laughter when she told me the latest joke that was doing the rounds.

  ‘Oh, Stella,’ she’d said, ‘it goes like this. In China the custom is to throw baby girls to the sharks, but in Australia we raise them to the age of seventeen or eighteen and throw them to the Yanks.’

  We passed the young men in light blue RAAF uniforms who were hanging around outside the ballroom’s arched entrance and went through into the lobby.

  ‘I can’t get past the child labour you have in this country,’ said Leroy, when the very young girl in the cloakroom had taken our coats and hats.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘All of those kids you’ve got working when they’re only fourteen or fifteen, even thirteen, some of them. They’d still be at high school in the States.’ Leroy shook his head. ‘Maybe that’s why your Aussie males are so hopeless when it comes to the girls.’

  He laughed as he led me into the ballroom, where the band was in fine form, playing the latest hits with verve. I waved to Cathy and Joe, who’d already found a table, and we pushed through the crowds to join them.

  ‘Any news on the wedding?’ I asked Cathy. She and Joe had recently become engaged.

  She grimaced. ‘Mum and Dad are fretting at the idea of me going to live in America. They want us to wait until after the war to get married.’

  ‘The trouble is that when the war ends they may send me straight home to the States,’ said Joe. ‘That’ll mean a lot of time and trouble to get Cathy over there. It’ll be a heck of a lot easier for her to join me if we’re already hitched.’

  Cathy rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘Mum cries and says, “It’s your whole future. If you marry Joe, the vows you take are for all time and not just a few years” – as if I didn’t know that! And then she says, “I just want you to be happy.” I tell her that I’ll only be happy if I marry Joe.’

  ‘They’ll come around,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, they love Joe. It’s just that I’ll be living so far away.’

  The music swelled into ‘Ole Buttermilk Sky’ and Leroy asked me to dance. We swung into the crush of people on the floor. A laughing couple pushed into us, and made me lose my steps. I straightened up, thinking that Leroy was a good dancer, but he was not in Eric’s league. When the dance finished we returned to our seats, where we enjoyed rum and Coca-Cola, courtesy of Joe, who had a bottle of rum secreted under the table.

  ‘What did you mean about Australians being hopeless with girls?’ I asked.

  ‘Face it, honey, the average Aussie male doesn’t go out with a girl unless he has an ulterior motive – good or bad. He doesn’t ask a girl out just to spend a pleasant evening in nice company. For that, he’s got male friends.’

  I couldn’t help smiling, because I knew exactly what he meant. ‘His mates, as the Australians say. His cobbers.’

  ‘Yep. American boys stay on at high school and they start dating there, learn to flirt and kid around with girls and just enjoy their company, without assuming it’ll necessarily lead to bed. If it does, then good, but if it doesn’t they don’t see it as a wasted evening just because they’ve only flirted.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I admitted. ‘But I’ve got male friends who are Australian.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re older and smarter than most of the girls. The men you’d choose to hang around with would be older and smarter too.’

  I smiled. ‘Like you?’

  ‘And you’re English,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘The mateship tradition is not all bad,’ I said. ‘And it’s especially important in a war, surely. To always watch out for your mates, I mean. To be able to rely on them absolutely. What Australians call the Anzac spirit.’ I remembered my time in AWAS camp. ‘Women here have it, too, you know.’

  ‘You’re becoming a true blue Aussie,’ he said, smiling.

  I missed whatever else Leroy had to say because it was then that I saw him – Eric Lund – dancing with a tall, slim girl on the other side of the dance floor. She had long dark hair and was wearing a yellow chiffon dance frock that floated like thistledown around her slim legs. A spray of orchids was pinned to the front of the dress. I’d spent five weeks thinking and dreaming and worrying about Eric Lund. And here he was, in Melbourne, dancing with a pretty girl as if he didn’t have any worries in the world.

  ‘Let’s dance again,’ I said to Leroy. ‘Please.’

  He put down his drink and smiled. ‘Sure thing, honey,’ he said, and took my hand. I moved in close and we danced like lovers. Although I spent the
whole time looking for him, I didn’t catch sight of Eric at all.

  The dance finished and, as we began to drift back towards our table, I heard someone say my name.

  ‘Stella Aldridge.’ It was an Australian voice, low and pleasant. I stopped walking and turned around. Eric was standing next to me. ‘Care to dance, summer girl?’ he said.

  He hadn’t changed much in five weeks. He was thinner, but he had the same air of self-contained competence, and was just as attractive as I remembered. I wondered where his pretty partner had gone.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, trying for nonchalance although my heart was thudding.

  Beside me, I felt Leroy tense. ‘You can get out of here, right now,’ he said to Eric. Leroy’s eyes were narrowed in a scowl and his hand had tightened on mine.

  ‘It’s fine, Leroy,’ I said. ‘Really.’ I was now determined to find out when Eric had arrived back in Melbourne, and why he’d not contacted me.

  Leroy’s grip on my hand tightened further. ‘You must be kidding me, Stella. You’re not going to dance with this creep?’

  With some difficulty I pulled my hand out of his. ‘It’ll be fine. Honestly. It was an accident last time.’

  Eric put out his hand, and I slipped my hand into his. The band was playing ‘The Anniversary Waltz’, which was one of the most romantic tunes there was. He pulled me close and we began to dance.

  As before, dancing with Eric was different from dancing with anyone else, and not just because he was able to steer me out of the way of clumsy dancers and he had a real sense of rhythm. It was the feel of his body close to mine, the scent of his skin. I wondered if he felt the same way, but his face gave nothing away. Then I remembered that brunette and suddenly I was so angry that I could scarcely trust myself to speak.

  How dare he turn up at a dance hall with a beautiful girl and act as if he hadn’t a care in the world? How dare he ask me to dance as if I were someone he barely knew? I felt like a fool. I’d sent him letters, told him all about myself, and I’d never received one letter in reply. Now I knew why. A lovely brunette was the reason. Or, more likely, she was just one of many girls. My anger turned to misery as I finally accepted that I’d imagined the connection between us. He’d never been serious about me at all.

  The silence was drawing out. I had to say something. I’d make polite conversation, finish the dance and never, ever speak to him again.

  ‘When did you get back?’ I asked, looking over his shoulder, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Are you here alone?’

  ‘I came with some friends.’

  He steered me closer to the band. The singer was asking if it was true romance. I wondered if I believed in true romance any more. I tried to concentrate on the steps, and not on the feel of Eric’s hand resting lightly on the small of my back. I wished I could slink into a corner and howl like a wounded dog.

  ‘One of my mates just got engaged,’ Eric went on. ‘Today. They’re celebrating.’

  He nodded to his left. The tall brunette was dancing with a burly corporal, who was swinging her around with abandon, obviously trying to make her laugh. It looked like the corporal from the cafe.

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ I said, suddenly unable to stop smiling.

  ‘I arrived in Melbourne last night,’ he said. ‘They didn’t discharge me from hospital until this afternoon. I went straight to Goodwood but they told me you weren’t working today. I telephoned the number you gave me, but no one answered.’ He swung me around some slower couples, and when he looked down he gave me his sudden, brilliant smile. ‘Then I find you here. Must be fate.’

  Perhaps, with a bit of encouragement, I could believe in true romance again.

  As we danced, I thought that Eric seemed weary, in more than a physical sense. There was a fresh scar on his forehead.

  ‘Are you all right? Lieutenant Ross told me . . .’

  He seemed to stiffen. ‘I’m fine. Never believe much of what Nick Ross says. He couldn’t lie straight in bed.’

  When the dance finished, instead of releasing me Eric kept his arms around me, holding me loosely.

  ‘Come meet my friends.’

  I shook my head. ‘I came with Leroy. It would be rude to leave him alone.’

  ‘Five minutes? Please. I’d really like you to meet them.’

  He was watching me with an intense, focused gaze. I felt a curious little thrill wash through me, felt myself shiver.

  ‘Please,’ he repeated.

  ‘All right, if it’s that important.’

  His hold on me tightened briefly; my heart raced. When he let go of me, it was as if I was suddenly chilled.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Dinner tomorrow?’

  ‘If you like.’ I was still trying for nonchalance, but I had a feeling that things were moving too fast for that.

  He steered me towards the right side of the dance floor. ‘Thanks for the letters. I got them all together when I arrived back in Brisbane. I should have replied right away, but I was a bit under the weather for a while.’

  ‘Are you well now?’

  ‘I’m all better.’

  Two servicemen and two young women were sitting together at a table by the wall. Eric made the introductions. He gestured towards a slightly built girl with a waif-like charm, accentuated by large dark eyes shadowed by thick dark lashes.

  ‘Lois Meyers.’ She smiled warmly at me.

  ‘And this is George Hayes, but we call him Spike, for obvious reasons. He’s from Texas, up near the New South Wales–Queensland border.’ Spike was a sergeant in his mid-twenties, around Eric’s height, or slightly taller, very thin, with a mobile, attractive face. He looked at me sharply, his light brown eyes intent. Then, to my surprise, he winked.

  ‘Wouldn’t it!’ he said to me, leaning back in his chair. I loved that ubiquitous Australian expression of surprise or frustration or wonderment or whatever you wanted it to mean, really. ‘He’s been chasing you all day. We had to force him to come out with us and then – whacko-the-diddle-oh! – here you are at the old Palais.’

  ‘Stow it, Spike.’ Eric’s tone was good-humoured. He gestured towards the corporal and the brunette. ‘Pauline Wallace and Neville Ritchie. If we weren’t in Melbourne we’d think Polly’d had too much sun, because she’s just agreed to marry this drongo. He’s from Tasmania, so we call him Tiger, of course.’

  Tiger was the corporal from the cafe, all those weeks ago. He was around five foot eight, all of it muscle, with a bullish head set on a powerful neck. Younger than Eric, in his early twenties. The sort of man you’d like beside you in a scrap, I thought. Polly was as lovely close up as she’d seemed across the floor. They could hardly keep their eyes off each other and kept sharing secret smiles. Tiger had a very sweet smile.

  ‘I’d like you all to meet Stella Aldridge.’ Had I imagined the note of pride in Eric’s voice? Again I felt that tiny electric thrill.

  Eric looked behind me and smiled. ‘So you made it.’

  I turned to see Sam de Groot.

  ‘I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting the charming sergeant,’ said Sam. ‘At HQ with Lieutenant Ross.’

  The men’s faces became tense and there were no smiles.

  ‘Let’s not bring that bastard’s name into a pleasant conversation,’ said Spike. His voice was cold and hard, and I realised who it was I’d heard that day, threatening to kill Ross.

  ‘You’re a broken bloody record, Spike.’ Tiger’s good-natured face was annoyed. ‘Court martial said it wasn’t his fault. Forget about him and have another drink.’ He looked at me. ‘Ignore him, Stella.’

  ‘Just look over there at those jitterbugs,’ said Lois. ‘Cripes, those Yanks sure can dance. Watch the glamour boys go.’

  The jitterbugs were flinging themselves and their partners around with contorted abando
n in a corner of the room.

  ‘Aren’t they just divine,’ said Tiger in a syrupy voice. He turned to Polly. ‘Say, honey,’ he said, now with a mock American accent, ‘what heaven did you drop down from? Heaven must be missing an angel, ’cos here you are with me.’

  ‘Go bag your head,’ said Polly affectionately.

  The atmosphere lightened. We chatted for a few moments, and then I excused myself to return to Leroy, after promising to meet up with them all in the next few days. Eric steered me through the crowd.

  ‘Like them?’ Eric’s voice was deceptively light. He really wanted me to like them, I thought.

  ‘Of course I did. I’m looking forward to seeing them again.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re painting. Not so glad you’re seeing a lot of Nick Ross.’

  I stopped walking to look at Eric. ‘Spike really seems to hate Lieutenant Ross. Would he . . .?’

  ‘He’s just mouthing off. Don’t worry about Nick. None of them’d do anything to hurt him. They’re not idiots; he’s an officer. And they know I’d never stand for it.’

  Leroy was now in view across the room, sitting at our table, scowling.

  ‘We need to talk about him,’ Eric said.

  ‘Leroy?’

  ‘Nick.’

  Twenty-eight

  The following morning my mind wasn’t on prisoners and interrogations; it was on Eric Lund. He’d telephoned before I left for work and we’d arranged that he’d come to Avoca that night to take me out to dinner and dancing. I really hoped that he was the man I thought he was. If he tried to push me, to control me, then I knew I’d run away as fast as I could. I had done so before, since Frank’s death, run away from men who were interested in me but who’d become overbearing. Eric didn’t seem to be pushy, though. He seemed to know that I needed time to work out where I wanted this – whatever it was – between us to go.

  ‘You’re in a good mood this morning.’