The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘Lucy doesn’t have to like it,’ he’d said as he gave Ro a hug. ‘She won’t be living here. All that matters is that you like the place, that we both like living here.’

  Keith was right, of course. He usually was and Ro hoped fervently, hoped desperately, actually, that their new life together worked out. Keith was a good man, a widower with two grown daughters. When they’d pooled their resources to buy this unit, Ro felt as if she’d finally got her act together. She wanted like crazy to be able to trust in the future. She couldn’t bear to have another failure.

  It had been important for her to be an equal partner in the purchase of the unit, so she hadn’t felt guilty about selling the old place without telling Lucy.

  At the time of the sale, she’d assured herself that Lucy wouldn’t want to be burdened with the news, not when she was already under pressure in Afghanistan. But Ro had to admit that her daughter was always surprisingly sentimental about her childhood home. Ro got that, actually – she’d once felt deeply emotional about Kalkadoon Station, way in the outback, where she’d spent most of her childhood.

  Okay. Ro still felt deeply emotional about Kalkadoon. Some nights she dreamed that she was still Rosie Kemp, back out there, racing on horseback beside her good mate Dougie over silvery grassed paddocks, or sitting by a campfire on the riverbank with her dad, drinking hot chocolate from a chipped enamel mug and looking up at the huge ceiling of the night sky with its dazzle of stars.

  Unfortunately, Ro’s emotions about Kalkadoon were also fraught and confused and dark, whereas Lucy’s feelings for Mango Avenue had always been surprisingly rosy and warm, as if please God her daughter had glossed over their troubled times.

  Ro gave a little shake in a deliberate effort to cast off memories she needed to put behind her, once and for all. And she reassured herself that she needn’t feel guilty about Lucy. Despite her daughter’s rebellious streak, she’d turned out just fine and she had her own life to lead now with Sam.

  It was more than likely that the two of them would settle on their wedding date this evening or at some point over the weekend. Ro hoped they didn’t want to be married too quickly. These days, weddings seemed to require a fearful lot of planning. Modern brides wanted every tiny detail nailed down and made absolutely perfect. Perfect dress, perfect reception venue, perfect flowers and menu selections . . .

  On the other hand, Ro quite liked contemplating the frock she might wear as mother-of-the-bride. She’d decided that jacaranda would suit her quite well, although her hairdresser would probably need to take her hair to a darker shade of auburn. She was pondering this pleasant prospect and giving a final polishing flick to the kitchen bench, when she heard the sound of a key in the lock. Then the front door opened.

  Goodness. Could this be Lucy and Sam rushing back to share their happy news? Hastily, Ro wrung out the dishcloth and placed it, neatly folded, beside the sink. It was only as she stepped back and admired her gleaming benches that she realised there was only one set of footsteps coming down the hall.

  ‘Lucy!’ Despite her daughter’s pale face, Ro managed to stop herself from blurting, ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’ Instead, she said a little too nervously, ‘You’re . . . home early.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m tired.’

  It was nonsense, of course. They both knew Lucy usually stayed at Sam’s all night. Ro had half-expected her to be gone for the entire weekend. Now she stared at her daughter with a sinking heart. There could be no doubt that something had gone wrong, almost certainly with Sam. Ro wasn’t sure she could bear it.

  She knew how besotted Lucy was and she had hoped, with a kind of churning desperation, that her daughter might escape the romantic bad luck that had marred her own life.

  Now, as Lucy stood there, just beyond the kitchen, her hands resting lightly on her hips and her long silky dark hair framing her too-pale, oval face, a thousand questions raced through Ro’s head. Her daughter looked so much younger and more feminine out of her army uniform, but more fragile, too. Tonight there were shadows beneath her grey eyes. Actually, Ro thought Lucy’s eyes were a bit pink, as if she’d been crying.

  The evidence was damning, and Ro was gripped by a strong urge to rush to Lucy, to give her a lovely big motherly hug. But she was quelled by a forbidding tightness about her daughter’s mouth. She’d always been a strong, self-sufficient little thing. And Ro had never been a confident mum.

  In the end Ro simply stood, twisting her hands nervously, not brave enough to follow her instincts.

  ‘Where’s Keith?’ Lucy asked, looking about her.

  ‘He’s already in bed. Reading.’

  Lucy’s eyes widened, as if she found this hard to believe, and Ro couldn’t really blame her. None of her previous boyfriends had been readers and they would never have tackled the great, thick novels that Keith enjoyed. But if Lucy wanted to talk, Keith’s absence was probably opportune now.

  Problem was, Ro had no idea how to invite her daughter’s confidence. She’d coped so poorly with her own failed relationships, coming close to a nervous breakdown on a couple of occasions, and she felt terribly inadequate at this moment.

  ‘Would – would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked lamely.

  ‘Tea?’ Lucy shook her head and sent Ro a rather cynical smile. ‘No, thanks.’

  Helpless, Ro pointed to the fridge. ‘There’s always wine.’

  Lucy waved this aside, too, then headed for the hallway that led to her bedroom. ‘No need to fuss, Mum. I’m fine. Just tired.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ro called after her, reaching for the kettle anyway. ‘But if you change your mind, feel free to help yourself to anything from the kitchen.’

  Perhaps it was the right thing to say, for Lucy stopped and turned back. For a moment she stood in the hallway, frowning. ‘Are you making tea for yourself?’

  ‘Yes, dear. And for Keith. And it’s dead easy to throw another teabag in a mug.’

  ‘Then I would like one, actually,’ her daughter said, and this time her tired smile held a hint of apology.

  ‘I could bring it to you in bed, if you like.’

  ‘That would be awesome, Mum. Thanks. You’re a champion.’

  At the unexpected praise, Ro’s cheeks heated with pleasure.

  __________

  Lucy felt no better after she’d scrubbed her face and changed into light summer pyjamas. She checked her phone, fearing it was pointless, but needing to know if Sam had tried to make contact.

  She didn’t expect him to beg her to come back, but she’d thought there might have been an apology. An opening, something to build on.

  But there was nothing from Sam, which in itself was actually a pretty clear message, and Lucy felt as if she was drowning in her wretched disappointment. A heavy weight pressed against her chest as she sunk onto the bed, making it hard to breathe, and her entire body felt leaden and aching as if she’d just finished a twenty-kilo­metre march with weapons and webbing.

  Her mum appeared in the doorway. ‘Here’s your cuppa, love.’ Coming almost shyly into the room, her mother set a delicate mug patterned with violets on the bedside table. ‘And I made a little snack, just in case you were hungry.’

  The plate her mum offered held two slices of toast covered with grilled cheese, all melting and browned and smelling divine. It had been Lucy’s favourite comfort food, when she was little.

  ‘No worries if you don’t feel like it,’ her mum said gently.

  But Lucy had barely eaten a mouthful of Thai and she now realised she was starving. ‘Oh, that’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Exactly what I need.’ She felt a rush of gratitude. Her mother was trying so hard. ‘Thanks so much, Mum.’

  Looking bashfully pleased, Ro set the plate beside the mug. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy it, then.’

  Straightening, she stood looking down at Lucy and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something else, but then she looked worried, almost scared, and she shut it again with an uncertain smile.

&n
bsp; Of course, her mother must be wondering what had happened, but Lucy was very grateful for the silence. She couldn’t possibly talk about Sam now – her mum would be so upset she’d only make things worse – so she gave her best attempt at a smile. ‘Night, Mum.’

  ‘Night-night, love. You know how to adjust the aircon, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep, I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Night, then. Hope you sleep well.’

  Not much chance of that, Lucy thought as her mother disappeared and she took her first appreciative sip of the hot, slightly too sweet tea.

  7

  Lucy was wrong about not sleeping. By the time she finished her tea and toast, she felt distinctly drowsy and was too mentally and emotionally exhausted to drag herself through the miserable muddle of thoughts that had plagued her since she left Sam’s place. She fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, only to wake early, her body clock still not adjusted to the shift in time zones.

  Only the thinnest pre-dawn light trickled through the tiny slits in the vertical blinds, and Lucy knew her mother never roused before seven-thirty, but from force of habit she sat up, ready to meet the day. Then she remembered Sam and the way they’d parted last night.

  Oh God.

  A fresh slug of despair caught her mid chest and she reached quickly for her phone to check for new messages.

  Still nothing from Sam. Just a message from her friend Kaz.

  Hope your first night home was fabulous. Catch up soon? K xx

  Lucy flinched. Just as well she hadn’t already asked Kaz to be her bridesmaid.

  With a groan, she sank back into the bed and drew the covers over her head as she tried to shut off a new tidal wave of misery.

  Once again her mind reeled with questions, with arguments, with rationalisations.

  It’s not me, it’s him. He has the problem.

  I did the right thing when I walked out. If I’d stayed, we would have had a huge fight.

  Why should I get a discharge just to please his ego?

  Round and round Lucy’s thoughts chased each other. Somewhere in the middle of her angst over Sam, she realised that she had another problem. If Sam made no attempt at a reconciliation, she had no idea where she would live now. And what the hell was she going to do with the lovely long weeks of leave that she’d earned?

  She certainly couldn’t moon around this apartment for a month with her mother and Keith, and no way was she going to move into Lavarack Barracks. Would she have to start hunting for a flat?

  In a burst of frustration, she threw back the sheets again, then stared morosely at the wardrobe containing the boxes that held all her worldly possessions. When she tried to imagine setting up a place of her own, her brain refused to come to the party. She didn’t want to set up house on her own. That wasn’t the way she’d planned it, and it certainly wasn’t what she’d been looking forward to all the time she’d been away. She simply couldn’t imagine it.

  To her dismay, tears filled her eyes and then spilled. Damn Sam. She couldn’t lie in bed weeping. Summoning new reserves of willpower, she jumped up and slid the wardrobe door open.

  The first thing that caught her eye was the tin with her grandfather’s things.

  If only I could talk to you, Harry.

  But it was too early to charge over to his place and anyway, his failed kidneys were enough for him to deal with. He didn’t need a lovesick granddaughter spilling her guts.

  Lucy might have given in to a tear or two, but she was afraid the tears might turn into sobs that reached the other bedroom and bring her mum rushing to her aid in her pyjamas.

  With a shuddering sigh, she forced herself to focus on the tin holding Harry’s cherished bits and pieces. Yesterday afternoon she’d been so sidetracked by the photo of the beautiful woman called George that she hadn’t paid much attention to the old letters and military medals that were also in there. It would probably be ages till the others got up and she needed something that would take her mind off Sam.

  Settling on the bed again, she opened the tin and set the photo aside. There was a swag of Harry’s medals. Clearly he’d had a big war. There were letters, too.

  It was puzzling that she knew so very little about her grandfather as a soldier. Sure, he’d admitted to serving in the Middle East and New Guinea but when she’d tried several times to quiz him, she’d gleaned very few details.

  She could only suppose his reluctance to talk meant he’d had a grim time of it. He certainly hadn’t been thrilled when she’d wanted to join the army, and she might have listened to his reasoning if her mum hadn’t thrown such a tantrum. Ro’s frenzied yelling that Lucy was crazy and that the army was a man’s world had roused Lucy’s stubborn rebellious streak.

  It was an echo of an earlier stubbornness that had begun in her childhood when the boys next door had refused to let her join in their backyard war games. They’d even put up a sign on the fence that bordered her place. Gerls not aloud.

  Lucy had heckled. ‘Drop-kicks, you can’t even spell.’ Then she’d swallowed her pride and pleaded with them and when that hadn’t worked, she’d pelted the boys with fallen rotting mangoes.

  The high point of her childhood had been the day they’d eventually given in and had grudgingly agreed she could join them. She hadn’t minded that her rifle was only a long stick and not one of the realistic plastic rifles the boys had received for their birthdays. She’d adored stalking with them through tall patches of heliconias, and painting her face with dirt before wriggling on her stomach through the dangling roots of a huge banyan tree.

  That had been the start of her interest in soldiering but, growing up in Townsville, it was impossible to miss seeing real soldiers as part of everyday life. In their exciting camouflage-print uniforms and boots, soldiers were everywhere – in shopping centres, at the airport, in convoy on the roads, or turning out in force to help with clean-ups after cyclones.

  To Lucy they had always looked impressively fit and ready for action, so perhaps it was inevitable that she’d viewed an army career as an exciting and adventurous challenge.

  Of course, when she’d joined up, she’d soon learned that the army had its downside. Suddenly, there were countless decisions imposed on her by others in which she had absolutely no say. Given her headstrong and independent spirit, she’d found this hard to stomach at first.

  She smiled now, as she sorted through Harry’s tin, remembering how those early months had rankled, but her musings came to an abrupt halt when she turned over a medal that was totally different from all the others.

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’

  The medal was roughly made, with none of the traditional ribbons attached, and the metal badge itself was triangular rather than round. In the centre of the triangle, a rat had been cut from brass.

  A rat?

  Surely that could only mean one thing. This medal was from Tobruk. Harry had been a Rat of Tobruk.

  A sharp little thrill ran through Lucy. The Rats of Tobruk were so famous . . . part of the Australian legend . . . in the tradition of the Anzacs . . .

  She read the inscription: Presented by Lord Haw-Haw to the Tobruk Rats 1941.

  Wow.

  Minutes earlier she’d been sunk in despair and heartache, but now, as she rubbed the thin metal between her thumb and two fingers, excitement rushed over her skin. She tried to picture her grandfather as a young soldier at Tobruk and wondered who Lord Haw-Haw was. She wondered also about the story behind this medal. It definitely wasn’t regular army issue.

  She looked again at the tin and the folded sheets of letter paper, wondering if they held a clue. Setting the medals to one side, she carefully lifted the letters and, as she did so, another photo fell out – a small black-and-white snapshot of two young soldiers, clearly in the desert, on the peak of a bare, gritty ridge.

  They were dressed for the heat in baggy shorts and khaki shirts with their sleeves rolled back. One man was sitting beside a pile of tent poles, his face shaded by the b
rim of his round metal helmet. The other was squatting nearby and his head was bare, so Lucy could see his face more clearly.

  Surely he looked familiar? She held the photo into the morning light now streaming through the blinds and studied this fellow more closely. His eyes were squinted against the desert glare, but with that thick, slightly curly dark hair and that longish, handsome face, he had to be Harry. Yes, there was no mistaking that long firm jaw, with a cleft in the chin. It was definitely her grandfather, but my God, he looked so young.

  Glancing up, Lucy caught her own reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors. She’d never realised how much she looked like Harry – same dark hair with a tendency to curl, same longish face and cleft chin.

  A painful lump filled her throat as the bonds that had always tied her to her grandfather tightened another notch. The photo had quite possibly been taken near Tobruk. She didn’t have extensive knowledge of that famous siege set between the sands of the Sahara and the waters of the Mediterranean, but she knew the Aussie forces had hunkered down in trenches and caves – hence their nickname of Rats – and, under appalling conditions, they’d held their position for months and months.

  But I never realised you were there, Harry.

  What else didn’t she know about her dear old grandfather? Harry had moved from his outback cattle property to Townsville before Lucy was born, and during the unsettling procession of her mum’s boyfriends, he had become Lucy’s father figure, her rock. She’d spent most of her weekends at his place and it was Harry who’d taken her to swimming lessons and to junior soccer, cheering her on with embarrassingly noisy enthusiasm from the sidelines.

  He’d told her wonderful stories about growing up on Kalkadoon with his older brother, Jack, who’d been killed during the Second World War. But now, looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d spent so much time with him without asking more of the really important questions.