The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About the Author

  A former English teacher, Barbara Hannay is a city-bred girl with a yen for country life. Many of her forty-plus books are set in rural and outback Australia and have been enjoyed by readers around the world. She has won the RITA, awarded by Romance Writers of America, and has twice won the Romantic Book of the Year award in Australia. In her own version of life imitating art, Barbara and her husband currently live on a misty hillside in beautiful Far North Queensland where they keep heritage pigs and chickens and an untidy but productive garden.

  barbarahannay.com

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PENGUIN BOOKS

  Zoe’s Muster

  Home Before Sundown

  Moonlight Plains

  For my special writing friends,

  thanks for your wisdom and your cheerfulness

  and for always understanding

  PROLOGUE

  North Queensland, 1963

  The Englishwoman arrived at Kalkadoon on a hot and sultry summer’s afternoon when even the crows were silent and the creaky old windmill was deathly still.

  Rosie was hanging upside down from her favourite branch in a shady bottlebrush tree, but it was Dougie, beside her, who first saw the cloud of dust on the horizon.

  ‘Car comin’,’ he remarked with a resigned lack of interest.

  They both knew that visitors who ventured out to Kalkadoon Station only ever came to see Rosie’s father, the Boss.

  Hanging there together, their skinny knees gripping the tree branch, the children stared through the thin fringe of leaves, out across the shimmering stretch of flat dry paddocks, watching with idle curiosity as the dust cloud grew gradually bigger.

  ‘Wonder who it is?’ Rosie mused, although she knew it had to be a neighbour or someone bringing supplies from Cloncurry.

  Then Shirleen’s voice cut the lazy afternoon stillness. ‘Rosieee!’ she yelled from the homestead. ‘Come here, quick!’

  ‘You better go,’ Dougie said.

  Rosie pouted. Why did she have to go? Visitors never came to see her.

  ‘Come on. Hurry up,’ called Shirleen. ‘You got a visitor and your dad’ll skin me alive if I don’t get you ready.’

  Rosie might not have moved if she hadn’t also heard horses’ hooves drumming across the hard ground. That would be her father riding back to the homestead. Maybe he’d seen the dust, too. Maybe these visitors were important after all.

  ‘Don’t make me come out there and get you, Missy.’

  Reluctantly, Rosie wriggled her knees free from the branch and swung down. It had taken her ages to learn how to do this as easily as Dougie could, but she was quite the little acrobat now. Letting go with her hands, she dropped the last bit to the ground, her bare feet landing in dust softened by many similar landings.

  Dougie was still hanging like a fruit bat, his white teeth grinning in his dark face. Even though Shirleen was his mum, not Rosie’s, he didn’t have to stop playing because of visitors. As far as Rosie knew, he never had to bother about getting tidy.

  ‘See ya,’ he said sympathetically.

  Rosie shrugged. ‘See ya.’

  Shirleen met her at the foot of the homestead steps and grabbed her arm. ‘Come on.’ Her tone was urgent, but not unkind. ‘No dragging your feet today.’

  A glance beyond the homestead showed Rosie’s father, riding his horse hard.

  ‘Who’s coming?’ Rosie wanted to know.

  Shirleen bustled her inside and dragged her T-shirt over her head. ‘Don’t pester me with questions. Just get here.’ Already she was yanking Rosie’s shorts down. ‘I shoulda called you in earlier. Come on, quick, get these off. Then we got to get your shoes on.’

  ‘But my feet are dirty.’

  ‘Too bad. There’s no time for gettin’ clean.’ Shirleen was already kneeling beside Rosie, pushing her dusty feet into clean white socks and then into her best black patent leather shoes. The shoes were newish but Rosie hadn’t worn them for a while, and when Shirleen did up the buckles, they already felt too tight.

  Shirleen sprang to her feet again and reached for Rosie’s best dress, hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.

  ‘I can’t wear that!’ the little girl cried. ‘Not without having a bath.’

  The dress had come all the way from a store in Townsville and was a lovely pale-lemon voile with white daisies on the collar and a full skirt that was held out by a stiff net petticoat. She hadn’t worn it since Christmas.

  Now, without comment, Shirleen lowered the dress over Rosie’s head. It felt uncomfortably clean and crisp against her hot, sticky skin.

  ‘Now, hold still. I gotta do up your sash, then brush your hair.’

  Rosie winced. ‘Can you wet my hair first?’ It was long and curly and she hated having it brushed.

  ‘I told you. We don’t have time.’

  ‘Ouch,’ the child wailed as the brush was dragged mercilessly through the knots.

  ‘Sorry, darlin’.’ Shirleen sounded sympathetic, but she didn’t slow down.

  Rosie might have yelped louder, but she heard her father’s voice outside.

  ‘Shirleen,’ he called. ‘That damn woman’s come early. She’s bloody well almost here. Where’s Rosie?’

  ‘Up here, Boss. Almost ready.’

  ‘Who’s coming?’ Rosie demanded again. Then she heard her father’s boots on the steps. ‘Who’s the visitor?’

  ‘Someone from England,’ Shirleen muttered between dragging strokes of the brush.

  England? But that was where the Queen lived, far away on the other side of the world. At Christmas, Rosie had received a parcel from England, a lovely storybook about Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh, and her father had read it to her so many times she almost knew every word by heart.

  Someone in England – Rosie couldn’t remember her name – had also sent a jigsaw puzzle with a picture of a girl and boy riding ponies. The first time Rosie had done the puzzle, Shirleen had helped her to find the bits that fitted together, but now she could do it on her own, sitting at the kitchen table with all the pieces spread out. She never tired of seeing the images emerge of the rosy-cheeked pair on their beautiful, shiny horses. Shirleen had told her their names were Prince Charles and Princess Anne.

  But Rosie was just fascinated by the grass where the children played. So lush and green, not the colour of pale biscuits like Kalkadoon’s grass – and it was soft looking, like the velvet inside the jewellery box that had once belonged to Rosie’s mother.

  The intricately woven metal box was precious, the only thing of her mother’s that she owned, and she loved it fiercely.

  Now the growl of a motor in the distance signalled that the car was almost here. A shadow fell as Rosie’s father stepped into the kitchen. Without a word, he
flipped his broadbrimmed hat onto a hook by the door, took one sharp glance in Rosie’s direction, gave a curt nod of approval, then strode straight to the sink to wash his hands and face.

  That done, he flicked his damp dark hair out of his eyes, then crossed the room to Rosie. He was tall and big and the kitchen always felt smaller when he came inside. Smaller but somehow safer.

  Shirleen retreated to the stove to check on a pot of simmering corned beef. ‘I’ll go now, Boss?’ Her dark eyes were big and round, as if she was worried.

  Rosie’s father nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Rosie didn’t understand the sudden tension that had descended, but now that she and her father were alone, she could feel it growing stronger, filling the kitchen in the same way the room had once filled with smoke when Shirleen burned their dinner. The rumble of the car’s engine drew closer and her father took her hand.

  She loved the feel of his strong hand wrapped warmly around hers and she wanted to ask questions, but the stern look on his handsome face silenced her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his hand tightening around hers. ‘I’ll deal with this. Everything will be all right.’

  Completely bewildered, Rosie stood very still beside him, trying to ignore the way her dress itched against her sweaty skin. Through the open front doorway, she could see the car that had come all the way from England and was now bumping up the track to the homestead.

  Her father’s grip was so tight now, he was almost hurting her. When the car came to a stop at the bottom of the front steps, Rosie saw the stern profile of a man at the wheel. Two ladies sat in the back and the man got out and opened a back door for them.

  Still sensing her father’s tension, Rosie held her breath as the first lady emerged. She was wearing a black hat, a silly hat that didn’t shade her face and would be of no use to her at all here at Kalkadoon. It was more like an upside-down flowerpot, but it did look smart. The lady’s jacket and skirt were smart, too – pink and tight-fitting with a black trim and buttons – so different from the faded, loose cotton shifts that Shirleen wore.

  Their visitor stood very stiffly with no hint of a smile on her painted lips. She was wearing dark sunglasses that didn’t quite hide the pale prettiness of her face and she wore gloves, too, black gloves that reached up to her elbows. Her shoes had very high heels. Rosie had never seen anyone quite like her.

  ‘It’s okay, Rosie,’ her father said now in the gentle, soothing way she’d heard him use with a frightened horse. But even though his voice was soft and calm, he was watching the Englishwoman with a face as hard as stone and he gripped Rosie so fiercely that she almost cried out.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said again. ‘You’re not going anywhere. She can’t have you. I won’t let her. You’re staying here, safe with me.’

  1

  The plane dipped to the right, offering a view of Magnetic Island, dark green and hilly as it floated in an unwrinkled silver sea. Then Townsville came into view and Lucy felt a familiar pang when she saw Castle Hill’s craggy profile and the ever-growing cluster of city buildings at its base.

  Home. A crosshatching of sun-bleached streets splashed with the brilliant red and green of poincianas, heralds of summer and Christmas time in the north.

  And yet this time, coming home was different.

  To begin with, there would be no return to Afghanistan and Lucy still hadn’t totally wrapped her head around the fact that her deployment was finally over. The monotony of her old desk job in Townsville loomed.

  Worse, her beloved grandfather was seriously ill. Harry-pa she’d called him when she first learned to talk, although as an adult she’d shortened it to Harry – and now he’d been diagnosed with kidney failure. At ninety plus, he’d been told he was too old for transplants or dialysis and after several weeks in hospital, he’d been sent home to his little worker’s cottage, half-hidden behind ancient frangipani trees in Railway Estate, where the Blue Care nurses would call daily.

  Lucy was disappointed that her mother hadn’t taken Harry home to Mango Avenue, although there’d always been tensions between her mother and her grandfather – maddening tensions that she’d never properly understood – and she had to admit Harry loved his independence.

  She wondered how much time he had, but it was a question that brought her close to tears as the plane touched down and went into rapid deceleration. This was no time to be maudlin, not when seatbelts were snapping and her fellow soldiers were scrambling to their feet and exchanging happy grins. An air of excitement filled the cabin now. Just a few metres away, inside the terminal, their loved ones were waiting to welcome them.

  Lucy was safely home at last – for good – and getting married to Sam.

  A sweet little diamond sparkled on her finger and her thoughts were all about Sam as she collected her slouch hat and small backpack from the overhead locker. Beside her, Kaz, her best friend, was reading a message on her phone and her face broke into a huge, blushing grin.

  ‘Idiot,’ Kaz told the phone with a laughing roll of her eyes, and Lucy knew she was grinning over a risqué message from her boyfriend.

  She totally understood how Kaz felt. She’d experienced that drunken state of besottedness herself.

  ‘You’ll have the best Christmas,’ she told Kaz as they impatiently filed down the plane’s narrow aisle.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Kaz shot Lucy a mock scowl. ‘But I still haven’t forgiven you for pulling out of our London trip.’

  The girls had been planning to spend Christmas in England, but that was before Sam had surprised Lucy by popping the question out of the blue.

  She hastily checked her phone, hoping to find a message from Sam. There wasn’t one, but it was silly to feel disappointed. She knew he was waiting inside the terminal. She could picture him standing in the expectant crowd or, perhaps, just a little to one side. He wasn’t especially tall or rugged, but he was totally gorgeous with his sparkling blue eyes and suntan, his light brown hair cut short and spiky. As soon as he saw her, his face would light up and he’d send her that special grin of his. He would hurry towards her, no doubt knocking her hat sideways when he swept her off her feet.

  In the arrivals lounge, the crowd was even bigger than usual and there were cameras flashing as, one by one, Lucy’s comrades were enveloped in welcoming arms. Laughter and excitement bubbled and echoed all around her. A television cameraman zoomed in as a couple hugged, and zoomed again as children squealed, ‘Hey, Dad! Daddy! Look, Mummy, there he is!’

  A battle-hardened sergeant, who’d been christened the Ice Man in Tarin Kowt, had glistening damp eyes when a round-faced woman presented him with a chubby, bouncing baby boy.

  Lucy kept her happy smile tightly in place as she scanned the crowd. Sam would be here somewhere. Any second now she would catch sight of him. She just had to be patient.

  ‘Lucy, darling!’

  Spinning towards the familiar voice, Lucy was astonished to see her mum, auburn-tinted curls damp from the heat, and wearing a rather youthful white, cinch-waisted cotton dress with an off-the-shoulder frill. Her mother looked plump and flushed and just a little self-conscious as she held out her bare arms.

  ‘Mum, what a lovely surprise.’ They kissed cheeks and hugged.

  ‘I’m so glad I made it on time.’ Her mother sounded a tad breathless and her smile was almost awkward. ‘You know me, always running late, but by some miracle the lights were on my side and I had a good run.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. It’s so good to see you.’ Lucy meant it. She was truly touched that her normally scatter-brained mum had not only remembered the date and the time of her arrival, but had got herself organised to be here. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, Luce.’ She fanned herself with her hand, making her silver bracelets rattle. ‘Apart from these damned hot flushes. How are you?’

  ‘Great. How’s Harry?’

  ‘Oh, he seems fine to me.’

  Lucy didn’t miss the slight tightening of her mother’s jaw
, a sure sign that her tensions with Harry hadn’t eased. Damn, surely those two could make up now, when the poor old guy was in danger of dying?

  She switched her focus to scan the sea of people. ‘Have you seen Sam?’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Her mum said this quickly, almost nervously. ‘But he phoned me. He was really sorry that he couldn’t be here, love.’

  Not here? Lucy’s insides plummeted the way they had the first time she’d gone down the fast-rope.

  ‘He said he had a terribly important commitment and he just couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lucy struggled to squash her disappointment. Of course, it was possible that Sam had a more important call on his time. His army PR job kept him busy: escorting VIPs, writing speeches for the brigadier and other senior officers, organising open days at the base, liaising with the council for welcome home parades. And those tasks came on top of his routine job of promoting or defending the army’s image in the press.

  Lucy loved that Sam’s work was very different and yet closely connected to hers. The combo was just about perfect as far as she was concerned, but she’d been dreaming of his welcome, of having his arms around her at last. His hungry lips on hers. Her beautiful charmer would look so damn hot in his dress uniform she would no doubt want to jump him then and there.

  ‘Did he say when he’ll be free?’

  Her mum frowned, looked guilty. ‘Sorry, love. I’m not sure if I asked him that.’

  Swallowing a need to sigh, Lucy lifted her shoulders in a deliberately casual shrug. ‘Oh, well.’ She checked her phone again, just to make sure she hadn’t missed a message. ‘I dare say he’ll ring soon.’

  Kaz and Callum had already disappeared and the others were now absorbed into happy family groups. Lucy collected her gear and went out into the blinding tropical sunshine where she crammed everything into the boot of her mum’s tiny, bright-purple Hyundai. To her surprise, when they left the airport they headed through Belgian Gardens, which was the wrong direction, surely.

  She might have said something but her phone pinged, making her heart leap. A message from Sam at last.