The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  After a beat, he said quietly, ‘And why is that?’

  Lucy swallowed. ‘I believe we’re related.’

  A flicker of shock flared, but Nick recovered in a heartbeat. ‘You do?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘Distantly related,’ Lucy amended.

  He didn’t reply to this and his face was now as stony as the walls that lined his fields.

  To Lucy’s annoyance, she began to feel as flustered as she had last night. It was so galling. She was used to holding her own with intimidating army officers. A snooty English gentleman should be a breeze. ‘Look, I’m not here to steal the family silver, Nick. I won’t be putting in a claim for the place or demanding a key to the castle.’

  This brought a very slight lessening of the suspicious glint in his eyes.

  Taking advantage of this brief reprieve, Lucy added, ‘I believe my grandmother used to live here.’

  He was clearly so surprised he forgot to frown. ‘What was her name?’

  Lucy’s confidence faltered as she came face to face with the yawning gaps in her knowledge of her family. Before she’d left Australia, the atmosphere at home had been so fractious, she hadn’t liked to pester her mother with too many questions.

  ‘I’m afraid this is going to sound really dodgy,’ she admitted. ‘But I only know her married name. It was Georgina Kemp. She was my mother’s mother, and I believe my grandfather used to call her George.’

  13

  Harry’s letter from Tobruk arrived on a Friday evening, at the end of a long and difficult week.

  Georgina and her two closest friends from the RASC were too weary to go out on the town, but after the huge push to get provisions to British troops in Egypt, which had involved working long hours with inevitable frayed tempers, the girls felt a need to let their hair down.

  When Georgina suggested going back to her house for a light supper and a drink, her friends had accepted with flattering enthusiasm.

  Dodie and Enid had been to the house in Belgravia a couple of times now, so they no longer oohed and ahhed at the size of the place, or begged for peeks at the upstairs bedrooms.

  They were more than happy to gather in the warm kitchen downstairs. In fact, they even declared it was their turn to cook the supper.

  Already this evening, on the tube ride home, they’d sorted out recipes and ingredients and had made their plans. Dodie’s respon­sibility would be Potato Jane, a recipe from a Ministry of Food leaflet involving potatoes and carrots baked with layers of breadcrumbs and grated cheese, while Enid planned to make a marmalade pudding. Georgina’s contribution would be the venue and a nice bottle or two from her father’s cellar.

  With the night in hand, their spirits were riding high by the time they reached Victoria station and they were laughing at one of Dodie’s terrible jokes as they turned the corner to Wilton Street. It was a clear moonlit night, but there hadn’t been any bombing raids in the past few weeks and Londoners were almost daring to believe that they’d seen the end of the Blitz.

  As Georgina pushed the front door open, she saw the letter on the hall table almost immediately. She supposed James must have left it there for her and she was only mildly curious. The envelope was very thin and grey and a bit creased and dirty and, although it was addressed to her and not her father, she didn’t recognise the spiky handwriting.

  Picking it up, she saw that the postmark was faded and foreign and hard to read. She wondered if it had come from her Aunt Cora in New Guinea, but when she turned the envelope over, she saw the sender’s name.

  Lt H J Kemp.

  Her heart took a frantic leap. And then the envelope fluttered in her shaking hands as she stood, staring at it.

  Harry.

  After months of wondering and waiting and worrying, of losing sleep, of never daring to hope . . .

  ‘Are you all right, George?’

  ‘Oh dear, you’ve gone all pale.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ Georgina forced a shaky smile as she slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket.

  Enid, a pretty, fragile blonde, was watching her closely. ‘Why don’t Dodie and I leave you to read your letter in peace? Go on, don’t mind us.’ Her finely arched eyebrows lifted as she sent a significant glance to Dodie. ‘We can get started on the supper. Can’t we, Dodes?’

  Georgina shook her head. ‘It’s all right, I can read this later.’

  Harry’s letter was too important for a quick, furtive skim. She wanted to savour it in complete privacy, to be able to linger over it for as long as she liked. Besides, no one in the RASC office knew about Harry, apart from Captain McNicoll, and she wanted to keep it that way. She couldn’t bear to be the focus of gossip, and a romance with an Australian would most definitely set tongues wagging. As it was, there’d been enough whispering about her father and his title and the fact that she didn’t go out much. The general assumption was that she had a serious boyfriend, almost certainly titled, who was away fighting.

  Georgina was happy to leave it at that. There was always a danger that gossip about Harry could filter through the army loops until it reached her parents, and the last thing she needed was her mother on her doorstep demanding an explanation. But this evening, as she went down to the kitchen, she could feel Harry’s letter burning a hole in her pocket.

  ‘Smashing night, George.’

  ‘Yes, smashing.’ Dodie giggled. ‘Does us good to have a quiet night in now and again.’

  It was late when the girls finally left, and they were both a little tipsy as they headed off for the tube station, arm in arm, singing, ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye’, slightly off-key.

  Watching from her front doorway, by the light of an almost full moon that sailed blithely above the rooftops, Georgina waited until they turned the corner. The street was empty and, as ever, all the lights were out. A chill wind whisked out of nowhere, gathering fallen leaves into a spinning dance. With a shiver, Georgina tugged her cardigan tighter over her chest and closed the door, then she went back down to the kitchen where a half-full ashtray, empty glasses and a wine bottle still littered the table.

  After supper, Dodie and Enid had lingered and, with the lights low and the wireless playing Glenn Miller softly in the background, they’d been content to regale her with hilarious stories of their many and varied romantic adventures. And they had done this without pressing her to share similarly intimate details of her private life, for which she was deeply grateful.

  But now . . .

  At last. Georgina turned on a lamp by the ancient brown leather armchair in the corner, where their cook had been in the habit of resting her bunions at the end of a long day. She took out Harry’s letter and made herself comfortable with her stockinged feet tucked beneath her while she read.

  Tobruk

  10 September 1941

  Dear George,

  Here’s hoping this letter reaches you and finds you safe and well. I wanted to let you know that I’m still in one piece here in the desert. The conditions are pretty tough, but that’s what you get in a war, isn’t it? No one’s having it easy.

  At least we’ve had news that the bombing raids on London have been easing off, so that’s a big relief, I can tell you.

  There are a lot of other things I’d like to tell you, my dearest George, like the way I lie awake at night remembering every sweet detail of our twenty-four hours together, and how I think about you all the time. But I know I mustn’t pile it on too thick. It would be presuming too much after such a brief time together. Although I do need to tell you that our night meant a great deal to me, George, perhaps more than you can possibly imagine.

  This letter is mainly to let you know I’m alive and kicking and we’ve given old Rommel a bloody nose. Also, I could be moving on to a new role soon. Can’t say too much about it, but I’ll try to keep you posted.

  Your mob, the RASC, are here delivering fuel and supplies and I cornered one of the young officers and made him promise to get this letter to you. It will still have to
go past the unit censor, of course.

  In the meantime, stay safe.

  I smile whenever I think of you, and I would love to hear from you.

  Harry

  By the time Georgina went to bed, having first cleared away the glasses and ashtray, she’d read Harry’s precious letter so many times she almost knew it by heart.

  I lie awake at night remembering every sweet detail of our twenty-four hours together . . . I think about you all the time . . .

  In the little bedroom where they’d spent that one precious night, she turned out the light and opened the curtains so she could look up at the small corner of sky that wasn’t blocked by their neighbours’ roofs. A cluster of shiny stars hung in the black sky, and she thought how distant and pure they looked – so innocent and removed from this terrible war.

  She wondered if Harry was lying in some ghastly desert trench, or if he’d already moved on to his new posting. She wondered what stars he could see.

  ‘I think about you, too,’ she whispered. ‘All the time. Stay safe, Harry. Please, stay safe.’

  It took several attempts the following morning before she was satisfied with her answering letter to Harry. It was so hard to hold back from telling him everything that lay in her heart, but she took his lead and stopped short of revealing the true depth of her emotions. After all, he was in the thick of an exhausting and gruelling battle, and telling him how much she worried about him and longed to see him couldn’t possibly be helpful. He had more than enough to deal with.

  In the end she kept it as short and to the point as he had.

  3 Wilton St.

  Belgravia

  London, England

  5 October 1941

  Dear Harry,

  Thank you very much for your letter. You have no idea how pleased I was to hear from you. I’ve been following the news of the war in North Africa very closely and I know you Aussies have done a magnificent job in defending Tobruk.

  Ever since you left here, whenever I’ve felt inclined to be sorry for myself about the Blitz, or to complain about how little we can buy here in London with our ration cards, I’ve thought of you with tins of bully beef in those hot desert trenches and I’ve given myself a mental slap.

  If you’ve been moved to a new posting by now, I hope it isn’t too grim, and I hope this letter finds you. You’ll send me another letter with an address, won’t you?

  Thank you for telling me that you smile when you think of me. If I thought it would make you smile I’d tap dance or sing a song, even cook another omelette. But as I can’t do any of these things, I’m enclosing a photograph. A small memento. I hope you like it, Harry. It was taken just before the war, before I had my hair cut short and when I was still looking rather glamorous.

  I hope that it might make you smile.

  Oh, and I nearly forgot to congratulate you on being promoted to lieutenant. Well done, but stay safe, Harry.

  Love,

  George

  She dithered for ages before she finally added:

  PS I sleep with your letter under my pillow.

  Captain McNicoll didn’t look up from the pile of paperwork on his desk as he beckoned Georgina into his office.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, there are two rather urgent letters here for you to sign.’

  She set them with their carbon copies in front of him and, with only the briefest survey of the contents, he scrawled his signature – a simple task for most, but one that was still difficult for him and involved a grim downward curve of his mouth as he curled his left hand awkwardly over the pen.

  ‘Thank you, Lenton.’ He gave a brief nod when he was done, and Georgina was about to retrieve the letters and leave when he looked up. His normally mild blue eyes narrowed and seemed to pierce her. ‘Tell me, are you still in touch with your Australian chap?’

  The question was so unexpected, Georgina felt her face burst into flames. ‘I – we – we’ve exchanged letters, sir.’

  Apparently satisfied, Captain McNicoll nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve heard that the Australian Prime Minister has withdrawn his troops from the Middle East.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Australian withdrawal had been ordered as a result of the increasing threat from the Japanese. Georgina had been following the news reports closely, but so far she’d heard nothing from Harry and she had no idea where he’d been sent. And now the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and had invaded Malaya.

  But none of this involved their RASC office directly. She wondered why her boss had chosen this moment to talk about it.

  He dropped his frowning gaze to his desk and appeared to be deep in contemplation.

  Confused, Georgina picked up the signed letters and began to back out of the office. ‘I’ll get these into the post straight away, sir.’

  ‘Before you go,’ he said, still frowning. ‘I had a drink with Gerald Duffy last night – he’s a major with Army Intelligence.’

  ‘Should I know him, sir?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The thing is, he told me that he’s being posted to Australia. He’ll be attached to the British Embassy in Canberra and answerable to the British military attaché, Colonel Pinter. Pinter reports, via the embassy, directly to the War Office here in London.’

  Georgina swallowed. Her boss had never been one for idle chatter and she had no idea why he was telling her this.

  ‘Major Duffy’s new role in Australia will include making an independent assessment of the situation in the south-west Pacific,’ Captain McNicoll said next. ‘As you know, the Japanese have been moving at a cracking pace ever since Pearl Harbor and it’s not in Britain’s interests to rely exclusively on Australian or American reports.’

  ‘I – I see,’ Georgina said, although she felt more puzzled than ever.

  ‘The situation’s tricky,’ her boss went on. ‘You might not have heard about the friction over Churchill’s “Beat Hitler First” doctrine, but the Australian Prime Minister, John Curtin, is very concerned about the growing threat to his own region.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She had no idea what else to say. She was quite sure that her boss wasn’t asking for her opinion, although, if she had been asked, she found it perfectly reasonable that Australia’s focus should not remain in Europe, but rather on what Churchill regarded as the ‘lesser war’ in Asia and the Pacific.

  ‘Duffy will be taking a subaltern with him,’ Captain McNicoll continued. ‘And he was asking me if I knew of any good secretaries who might be prepared to go to Australia.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now the penny dropped and Georgina’s heart took off like a runaway horse. ‘Were – were you thinking of me, sir?’

  ‘Well.’ Her boss’s smile was complicated, a mix of regret and sincerity. ‘I certainly wouldn’t be happy to lose you, Lenton, quite the opposite in fact, but your name did spring to mind. You’re very competent and have the confidence that this particular job requires. Of course, I wouldn’t say anything to Duffy without speaking to you first.’

  He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small folder. ‘I’ve investigated the details of the position, though, in case you are interested. But I’m afraid you’d need to make a quick decision. Time is of the essence.’

  There was another letter waiting on the hall table when Georgina arrived home, her mind still whirling with all the questions and possibilities raised by Captain McNicoll’s surprising suggestion. She pounced on the envelope as soon as she saw it, but this letter had not come from Harry.

  Kokopo Ridge Road,

  New Britain

  22 December 1941

  Dearest Georgina,

  I’ve already written to your parents but I know you’re living in London these days, so I wanted to write to you as well. By now you’ve probably heard about the rapid advances the Japanese are making through Malaya and the Dutch East Indies, which sets us here in New Guinea rather squarely in their path.

  My dear, to think I tried to persuade you to join us down here! In my naivety, I thought you’d be safe. Who co
uld have imagined that this dreadful war would spread all the way to our little island paradise?

  As I write this, the women and children are being evacuated from New Britain – the European women and children, that is – but I’ve chosen to stay here with Teddy. Darling, please don’t worry. I know I’ve made the right decision. If I had children to consider, it might have been a different matter but, as you know, our Gus is busy flying over Europe with the RAF, so it’s just Teddy and I and our dear Tolai people who work for us on our plantation. They are almost like family to us now, after all this time, and I would feel terrible about deserting them.

  As you know, poor Teddy was badly shaken by the last war, which is why we came down here on our honeymoon, seeking refuge and peace. In Darwin we joined a Burns Philp cruise to the islands that brought us to New Britain and, after one night in beautiful Rabaul, we fell in love with the place. I’m so sorry that you have never been able to visit us here. I know that you, of all the family, would have understood why we love our island home on the edge of the Coral Sea.

  Forgive me for rambling, Georgina, but I am feeling very nostalgic about New Britain right now and it seems important to tell you about it. Despite the volcanoes that ring Rabaul – which is why we chose to live a little distance away at Kokopo – it has always been such a pretty town, with streets lined with mango trees and frangipani, a bustling waterfront, and dark, rugged mountains as a backdrop.

  There’s the beautiful harbour with wharves and copra sheds and, out on the water, all manner of merchant vessels and sailing skiffs. So many adventurers wander in here and there are outrigger canoes, paddled by natives, loaded with fruit for sale.

  If you were to saunter down Rabaul’s streets you would see quite a cosmopolitan mix of people, with the local Tolai natives mingling with Chinese and Malay, as well as suntanned businessmen, mostly but not exclusively from Australia, dressed in white cotton, tropical suits, and women, almost always wearing bright floral cotton frocks, which seem so right in this setting.