The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  And then the hoped-for miracle. A red-headed coast watcher with a thick Irish accent appeared out of the bush and introduced himself as Lieutenant Keith McCarthy.

  ‘Part of a relief unit sent to extract stragglers after the fall of Rabaul,’ he explained. ‘I have an old pearling lugger hidden in a mangrove creek a mile or so away. We’ll have you lot off here and on the way to Moresby tonight.’

  It sounded unbelievable, too good to be true, but apparently, McCarthy had already rescued hundreds of Australian escapees from this side of the island.

  ‘They were in worse shape than you lot,’ he told them. ‘You’re damn lucky to have a commando in charge.’

  Harry now produced quinine for the malaria victim, and they made the wounded soldier, Private John Cook, as comfortable as they could.

  ‘The only thing that kept him going was the need to get the message out about the Toll massacre,’ Lieutenant McCarthy told them grimly.

  ‘A massacre at Toll?’ Harry frowned. ‘We were headed for there, but we saw Jap shipping in the bay and skirted it.’

  ‘Just as bloody well.’ McCarthy gave a sombre shake of his head. ‘A couple of hundred of our boys surrendered at Toll and the bastards killed the lot. Jap marines took them into the jungle in groups and used them for bayonet practice.’ His mouth skewered into a down-curling grimace. ‘Burned some of them alive. And worse.’

  Georgina flinched in horror, her imagination throwing up ghastly images of torture and the harrowing sound of men’s screams.

  McCarthy dropped his gaze to the wounded man in front of them, whose face was deathly pale. ‘Johnny Cook feigned dead, but they still bayoneted him three times for good measure. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘How did he make it this far?’ Harry asked.

  ‘These other men from Lark Force found him on the track. Carried him.’

  The news of the massacre at Toll was sobering. Again Georgina thought of her aunt and uncle and found herself fighting off images of dreadful possibilities. She had to believe that nothing so dreadful had happened to them.

  Her own safe arrival here at the coast and the promise of rescue felt somehow fragile now. They were so close to being rescued and yet she felt at her weakest, more nervous than ever. On a knife edge. How could she bear it if anything went wrong now, at the last minute?

  Perhaps Lieutenant McCarthy noticed her tension. He smiled at her. ‘So you’ve come all the way from Rabaul with this ugly lot?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. ‘I’m so grateful to them.’

  ‘She’s been amazing,’ said Joe, surprising her.

  ‘There ought to be a better word than amazing,’ chimed in Busker. ‘She saved me on that bloody track. Me and the boys are planning to write to the postmaster-general. See if we can get this woman on our postage stamps.’

  The circle of men chuckled, but their smiles were genuine.

  Harry, squatting beside the fire, sent her a slow smile.

  Just remember I love you. Right?

  Once again, she felt reassured, and a great deal calmer. The afternoon would fly by and then it would be night-time. They would be gone from here. It was going to happen.

  Clouds covered the moon. The boat pushed away from the shore and the sea and the sky merged into one vast inky blackness. On deck beside Harry, Georgina felt the salty breeze on her face, heard the slap of the sail and the splash of waves thumping against the bow. Within minutes the boat was through the breakers, then chugging smoothly out to sea.

  The sick and wounded were tucked into bunks in the cabin below, an unbelievable luxury for these men.

  On deck, a bottle of rum and tumblers were passed around. Georgina had never tasted rum before, but what the heck? She drank the spirit neat, feeling it spread like fire inside her, warming her, adding a pleasant wooziness to her state of exhaustion. She swayed a little on her feet and bumped against Harry.

  Oh, the sweet temptation to stay there, leaning into his strength. Surely here in the darkness, no one would mind. Quite possibly none of the men would even notice.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts?’ she asked softly, close to Harry’s ear.

  ‘Only one thought.’ She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Can’t you guess?’

  She was smiling now, too. ‘I’m hoping it’s the same thought as mine.’

  Throughout the long arduous weeks on New Britain, they had been so very professional and discreet, never once behaving like lovers. Yet during that time, each day had found Georgina falling more deeply in love with Harry. She loved his strength of character and his skills in the jungle, his calm courage and steadying leadership. All of this wrapped in a lean, suntanned and handsome man whose smile made her weak at the knees.

  Now they had so little time left together. When they reached Port Moresby, they would have no choice but to go their separate ways. Harry would rejoin his unit and Georgina would be transported back to Canberra.

  But here on this boat they were alone in the dark and standing close. So close now – almost touching – and Georgina was filled with an overwhelming yearning. If only they could steal a moment, just a moment from this bloody war.

  Her hopes were dashed when Busker’s voice came out of the darkness. Relaxed by rum, Busker was sitting in the bow with Dave and he probably had no idea that his words were blown towards Georgina and Harry.

  ‘You reckon the Skipper and the Duchess are keen on each other?’

  ‘Reckon?’ Dave snorted. ‘Well, of course they’re flamin’ keen. Blind Freddy can see that.’

  Damn. Georgina almost groaned aloud. She’d had no idea that the men had noticed. The chemistry must have been far more obvious than she’d realised. To make matters worse, Harry was an officer, a commando with a position of status to uphold and now he would feel obliged to move away from her.

  She closed her eyes, drenched in disappointment, waiting for Harry’s polite excuse. He needed to check on Joe Brownlie below decks, needed to consult with Keith McCarthy about their arrival in Port Moresby.

  And yet, perhaps this night wasn’t destined to let her down on any level, for in the next breath, Harry slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her in to him, till she was exactly where she needed to be. In his arms, with her head on his shoulder, his warm lips brushing her forehead.

  ‘Remember I love you, George. Always.’

  From below came the reassuring steady chug of the diesel motor – thump-bang, thump-bang, thump-bang – and the warm night closed around them. All else receded and it was just the two of them, holding each other close, whispering promises, while the boat rolled gently over a black and silver sea.

  It was the most perfect night of her life.

  22

  Lucy, carrying a tin of shortbread and rugged up against the cold in a thick winter coat and gloves, sturdy boots and a woollen scarf, was in high spirits as she climbed a winding, muddy track to the home of Primrose Cavendish. At the top of the hill she found a wooden gate and a path of well-worn paving stones that led to an unpretentious whitewashed cottage with a front door painted in deep royal blue.

  She felt a little breathless, not from the hill climb, but from eager anticipation. At last. She had finally discovered someone who was happy to talk to her about her mother and her grandparents. The elderly Miss Primrose Cavendish had once been Georgina’s best friend.

  It was Nick who’d suggested that the old lady could help Lucy. The idea had been hatched in his bed.

  Instead of stealing back to the B&B after their truly amazing tryst, Lucy had found herself reclining against a luxurious mountain of black-and-cinnamon striped pillows in a gorgeous Englishman’s bed and drinking his very fine single malt from a Scottish island with a name that was hard to pronounce. And to her further surprise, she and Nick had enjoyed rather a cosy chat.

  Avoiding subjects like the off-the-planet chemistry they’d just discovered – it was too new and unexpected to be spoiled by comments – and unwilling to d
issect their past relationships, they’d found it easiest to talk about their families. After all, it was the big thing they had in common.

  Nick talked about his brother, Simon, and how especially close they’d been when they were young. Apparently, they’d shared a passion for a host of different outdoor activities – horse riding and hiking on the moors, sailing and swimming in the bay, playing cricket and rugby, shooting.

  ‘It sounds like an idyllic childhood,’ Lucy had told him.

  ‘Yes. We were lucky. We were given plenty of freedom.’

  ‘Did you have to go to boarding school though?’ She knew this had been her mother’s fate when she’d been sent to Cornwall.

  ‘We did. We were sent to our father’s old school. It wasn’t too bad. Simon and I saw plenty of each other. We were close in age, and Simon was brilliant at sport so he often ended up in the same team as me, even though he was younger.’

  ‘Did you mind?’

  ‘Naturally. A dreadful blow to the ego.’ Nick gave a shrugging smile. ‘But I was a faster swimmer.’

  For a dangerous moment, his eyes shone too brightly and his mouth twisted as he struggled with the memories. Lucy wondered if she should try to change the subject, but then he said more evenly, ‘You know, I appreciate being able to talk about Simon. My parents won’t. Or can’t.’

  Lucy reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

  ‘After Simon died, my parents locked the door to his room,’ Nick said. ‘They left everything just as it was and now they never go in there. They’ve just tried to carry on as if – as if it never happened.’ His mouth pulled into another grimace. ‘I’m sure it’s not healthy.’

  ‘No, it can’t be.’ Lucy was remembering what Amelia had told her about Nick breaking up with his girlfriend soon after Simon’s death, and then living like a Trappist monk. ‘It must be hard for you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He took another sip of his scotch and looked out through the open doorway to his lovely living area. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I can stay here much longer. I came back three and a half years ago, to save the family farm, so to speak. But it’s up and running and paying for itself now. I could easily hand over to a good manager.’

  ‘Where did you work before this?’

  ‘London. In finance.’

  Of course. Lucy could so easily picture Nicholas Myatt in London, a man of the city, juggling a high-flying finance career with an even higher-flying social life. Although she had to admit, Nick also seemed perfectly right in this setting. Perhaps he was a man-for-all-seasons, the kind of fellow who would fit in and do well just about anywhere.

  Nick drained his glass and set it on the bedside table. ‘Enough about me.’ Beneath the sheet, he rubbed his foot playfully against Lucy’s. ‘I’d like to hear more about you.’

  ‘Oh, well. How much time do you have?’ She tried to match his playful tone, while hastily considering what she should tell him. She felt guilty that she still hadn’t told him about the army, but there never seemed to be an appropriate moment. Perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary to mention it at all, given the short time she would be here.

  It made sense to choose the topic that was most on her mind – the fact that she knew so very little about her family’s past.

  ‘For starters, I don’t have a brother or a sister. I’m an only child.’

  ‘Because your parents had already achieved perfection with you.’ He gave her a smiling wink.

  ‘Yeah, something like that. More like, because my father took off when I was a baby. Or to be more accurate, my mum kicked him out.’

  ‘Bad luck. But you’ve met him since, haven’t you?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I was curious about him, of course, and I would have liked to meet him – even once, just to look him in the eye and say g’day. But when I was fifteen we got word that he’d died.’

  She sent Nick a rueful smile. ‘So that’s one of the big black holes in my history. I’ve learned to live with that, but what bugs me is that both my mother and my grandfather do their level best to avoid talking about their past, too. I know practically zilch about my family.’

  ‘That’s rough.’

  ‘Yes it is. It’s weird. It’s like living in a vacuum. Actually, it’s really getting to me.’

  ‘Which is why you came here.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Nick leaned in and dropped a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘Poor Lucy.’

  It was nice to have his sympathy. Perhaps he understood. He might not know a great deal about his father's family, given he was adopted. ‘At least you know all about the Myatt family’s history, right back to when this Hall was built,’ she said. ‘I suppose you can probably trace their history back to the days of – oh, I don’t know – Robin Hood.’

  He smiled. ‘We do have records of an ancestor who went to the Crusades.’

  ‘My point, exactly.’

  ‘But all that history can also be a burden.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘It brings an added sense of responsibility.’

  ‘But it must also give you a strong sense of identity.’

  Now, for a long moment, Nick let his gaze rest on her and then his face broke into a slow, sexy smile. ‘I find it hard to believe you don’t have a strong sense of who you are, Lucy Hunter. I’d lay bets you’re a woman who knows her own worth.’

  Lucy considered this flattering remark as she drank the last of the delicious smoky scotch. She supposed she wouldn’t have been so angry with Sam if she hadn’t had reasonably high self-esteem. She needed a man who respected her achievements, not resented them.

  ‘The difficulty,’ she said slowly, ‘when you don’t know much about where you come from, is that it’s hard to make decisions. About the future. I feel as if I need to know who I am before I can work out what I really want to do.’

  ‘Do? As in?’

  ‘With my life . . .’

  At this, Nick’s expression grew surprisingly serious.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She felt compelled to reassure him, adding a sweeping gesture that encompassed the bed and the king-size sheet that now covered them. ‘I’m not talking about this. About you – and – and me. I know this is only a holiday thing.’

  Nick was still frowning. ‘So you have that worked out already? After one night?’

  Now it was Lucy who tensed. ‘Well . . .’ She swallowed. Truth was, she didn’t have anything worked out. From the moment Nick had taken her in his arms, her logical thinking had gone into shut down. She’d had no choice but to follow her instincts. ‘I – I know I have to go home, Nick, and you have to stay here.’

  He smiled, and perhaps it was her imagination but his smile seemed a little forced, not quite reaching his eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ he said and then, very smoothly, he changed the subject. ‘Actually, if you want to know more about your grandmother, I think I might know someone who can help you. She’s old, mind you. As old as my granny, but she’s still in fine fettle. Her mind’s sharp.’

  ‘She’s not like the old Dowager Countess in Downton Abbey, is she?’

  ‘There’s nothing ferocious about Primrose. I’m sure you’ll like her. She’s probably quite lonely, actually. Her nephew runs their main estate and she lives on her own in a little cottage that was once the gamekeeper’s house. I’m sure she’d love a good chinwag about old times over a cup of tea.’

  ‘And she knew Georgina?’

  ‘I believe she was her best friend.’

  ‘Then I’d love to meet her.’

  Dipping his head, Nick gently nibbled at her shoulder. ‘And now, as we have limited time, I believe we should make the most of this holiday thing.’

  Lucy laughed and promptly rolled into his embrace. ‘Yes, please.’

  A man of his word, Nick had rung Primrose Cavendish the next day, and the visit was promptly arranged.

  Now, here Lucy was. On the old lady’s doorstep, waiting somewhat nervously for her to answer the knock.


  Before too long, the door opened to reveal a stooped old lady with a cloud of soft white curls, a sweet round, softly lined face and twinkling brown eyes behind rimless glasses.

  ‘Lucy!’ she cried with a delighted smile and open arms. ‘It is so good to meet you.’

  Lucy accepted a gentle hug and kissed her papery cheek. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish.’

  ‘Please, call me Primrose. I was so excited when I got the phone call from Nick.’ Primrose beamed at Lucy. ‘After all this time – Rose’s daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was strange to hear her mother referred to as Rose. Ro had scorned the pretty name of her childhood, and had shortened it years before Lucy was born.

  ‘You have her smile,’ Primrose said.

  ‘Have I really?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ The old lady narrowed her eyes as she studied Lucy. ‘You take after Harry, I can see that, but you definitely have Rose’s smile.’

  How interesting. Lucy hadn’t thought of her mum as a smiley sort of person. There’d been fun times, of course, but so much tension as well. Too often her mother had looked hassled and fretful with a distinct absence of smiles.

  ‘I brought shortbread,’ she said, holding out the tin.

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear. Come in, come in. You can hang your coat here on one of these hooks by the door and then come and sit by the fire.’

  Lucy found herself in a pleasant sitting room with faded Oriental rugs on an ancient stone floor, old wingback chairs upholstered in velvet, diamond-paned windows with a view of the garden and stone sills deep enough to sit in, a log fire crackling in the hearth. Through a doorway she caught a glimpse of a kitchen with pale custard-coloured walls, a heavy stone sink and pine cupboards.

  Primrose’s cottage had a charming, storybook quality, and it was, thought Lucy, the perfect setting for her.

  In a lavender cardigan over a neat white blouse trimmed with delicate lace, a grey-and-lavender tartan skirt and well-polished, ‘sensible’ tan shoes, Primrose Cavendish reminded Lucy of an elderly Miss Marple. All she needed was some knitting.