The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘I can see why you’re so mad with me,’ she admitted. ‘I know honesty’s important in any relationship, but after something like that you’d be . . .’

  She let the sentence trail off. Couldn’t think how to finish without shooting herself in the foot, and when Nick didn’t respond, they both sat in uncomfortable silence, sipping at their coffee.

  Far off in the distance, gunfire sounded.

  ‘I wonder if they got a pheasant.’ She needed to say something – anything.

  ‘They’ll have dozens already.’ Nick made no attempt to elab­orate.

  Lucy drained her coffee mug and set it down, and wondered, sadly, if this was the end of their conversation. ‘That was lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Would you like any toast?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He nodded grimly.

  Feeling tenser than ever, Lucy sat forward on the very edge of the sofa.

  Nick squared his shoulders and looked as miserable as she felt. ‘Lucy, I’m sure you understand that I’d rather say goodbye now. There’s really not much point. I – I mean, I can’t go on seeing you.’

  ‘That —’ She had to swallow a sudden and extremely painful lump in her throat. ‘That sounds very final.’

  ‘I’m afraid it needs to be.’

  ‘Even —’ She didn’t want to sound pathetic, but she couldn’t help it. She liked this guy so much, too much, and he was ripping out her heart with his bare hands. ‘Even though I work in logistics?’

  ‘It’s still the army.’ The flat finality of his tone chilled her to the bone. ‘Simon wasn’t in combat either. He was a medical officer, and I’ve been told that non-combat soldiers are actually more susceptible to PTSD than the men in the frontline.’

  Lucy knew this was true. It was to do with the initial screening. On the whole, soldiers who were recruited and trained for combat were more emotionally resilient and better equipped to handle the inevitable trauma of the battlefield.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ Nick went on grimly. ‘It wouldn’t really matter if you were deployed, or based at home. I just don’t know that I could support you in the way that I’d want to. And whenever I thought about you and your job, I’d be thinking about Simon, too. Reliving it all. The fact that you’ve kept silent —’ He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘The whole issue is too big. Too dark.’

  Funny how she could sit there, calm on the outside, while her insides imploded.

  ‘Well then,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ There was no point in trying to argue her case any further and she certainly wouldn’t plead. ‘I – I guess I’d better clear off and leave you to it.’

  It was only when she tried to stand that she ran into trouble. Her knees were so weak that she stumbled. Luckily, she managed to right herself without sending her mug or the coffee pot flying.

  Nick was also on his feet, reminding her of how tall he was. Tall and dark and heartbreaking . . .

  Oh God, she had to stop thinking like that.

  Just get out of here, Lucy.

  ‘Well, thanks anyway,’ she said glumly. ‘You’ve been an amazing host and, even though this hasn’t turned out for us —’ She had to stop to take a steadying breath, which resulted in an embarrassingly noisy hiccup. ‘It’s been truly fabulous. And – and thanks for fixing me up with Primrose and – and everything.’

  She couldn’t talk about the important things that had passed between them. She needed to get out of there fast.

  ‘I’ll just get my bag and my jacket.’

  Nick cast a bleak glance around the flat. ‘Is there anything else?’

  Lucy shook her head. She hadn’t brought pyjamas or a tooth­-brush.

  ‘You’ve got Primrose’s photograph?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He walked her down the hallway and she silently prayed that he didn’t say anything crass like wishing her a good flight.

  To her relief, he didn’t, but what he did was probably worse. At the door, he kissed her cheek, and then he lifted his thumb and gently, sadly, rubbed the place on her cheek where his lips had been. ‘I can’t pretend that I don’t have regrets about this.’

  ‘That doesn’t help,’ she said tightly, fighting a welling tsunami of tears, and then she turned and hurried quickly away, down the side of Penwall Hall, around the corner to the front of the house. There, she ran the full length of the drive, only slowing as she reached the doorway to the B&B.

  Somehow, she managed to walk sedately through the reception area and to manufacture a smile as she greeted Jane Nancarrow, who was watching her with undisguised curiosity. Then she fled up the carpeted stairs, fumbled with the key to her room and, at last, had the door shut behind her.

  Collapsing onto the bed, she buried her face into a pillow and gave way to a storm of sobbing. Her heart was breaking and she was angry, too. Angry with herself, with Nick, with the Fates that had dealt such a horrible, bitter blow.

  Now she knew she was as unfortunate in love as her mother had been, when she had desperately hoped that she would be lucky, like George.

  26

  Kalkadoon. At last.

  Georgina knew Harry was nervous when they finally pulled up in front of the homestead. He had no need to be worried, though. She was as fascinated and excited about arriving here at his outback home as she’d been when they sailed into Sydney Harbour and when they’d docked at the stunningly beautiful Hayman Island during their voyage up the Queensland coast, stopping off for a luxurious honeymoon on a white beach with palm trees and exotic, cool drinks served in coconut shells.

  Today, throughout the long and often rough car journey inland, she’d been spellbound by the new landscape opening up all around them. This was Harry’s country. Her husband had been born and raised here and this red earth and wide blue sky had shaped him into the man she loved.

  And now, here she was at Kalkadoon. Georgina saw the tall timber house, one of many scattered buildings, and the enormous trees along the creek, casting long shadowy fingers over pale paddocks. It was almost dusk and the buildings and the land were tinged with the bronze glow of the sinking sun. As she drew in a eucalypt-scented breath of outback air, she felt the quiet grandeur of the landscape seep into her spirit, almost as if this ancient land were welcoming her into its timeless embrace.

  ‘So, here you are,’ Harry said, taking her hand and linking his fingers with hers. His mouth tilted into the lazy, charming smile she so adored. ‘Welcome to Kalkadoon, Mrs Kemp.’

  ‘Your home is beautiful, Harry.’ She might have said more, but her emotions were running high and she didn’t want to cry, so she kissed him, because she was so very happy and, because these days, she grabbed any chance she could to kiss her husband.

  ‘I warned you it’s nothing like Penwall Hall,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t cross hemispheres to see Penwall Hall.’

  She looked more closely at the house. Standing high on wooden stumps, it had walls of timber planks, painted white and the roof was unpainted corrugated iron. It wasn’t a big house and it was quite simple in design, but it looked roomy enough, with deep, invitingly shady verandahs. ‘Okay, I’ll bite,’ she said. ‘Why is your house up on stilts?’

  ‘To make it cooler,’ Harry told her. ‘Air circulates under the floorboards.’ He swallowed. ‘The high stumps also keep it out of the floods.’

  Floods? This was something Georgina had never considered. It was hard to believe the small creek they’d crossed on several occasions could swell and rise to spread all the way to here. ‘Does it often flood?’

  Harry gave a careful shrug. ‘Maybe twice in a decade.’

  ‘Then a house on stilts is very sensible.’ To Georgina’s surprise, the thought of floodwaters swirling beneath her floorboards was more fascinating than scary.

  She looked about her again at the enormous sky, now streaked with deep orange and pink, at the wide paddocks of champagne-toned grass topped by feathery pink seed heads, at the creamy trun
ked trees that lined the creek and at the distant purple hills. ‘I can’t wait to explore this country properly on horseback.’

  Harry’s tense shoulders relaxed. ‘Have I told you lately how much I love you?’

  ‘Not in the last half hour.’

  Their smiling lips met in another kiss that might have lasted quite a long and lovely time if a strange cackling burst of laughter hadn’t sounded in the distance. Georgina pulled away in delighted astonishment. ‘Is that a kookaburra?’

  ‘Sure is.’ Her husband’s grey eyes sparkled, just as they had on the night they’d met when he’d imitated this amazing bird. ‘Perhaps he’s singing you a welcome.’

  A young Aboriginal woman appeared at the top of the homestead steps. She had a mass of dark curls and was wearing a blue cotton dress with bare feet. Her teeth flashed white as she smiled a welcome. ‘Hello, Boss. Welcome home.’

  They ascended the wide wooden steps and Harry introduced the girl as Shirleen. ‘Shirleen looks after the house,’ he told Georgina. ‘Especially the kitchen and the laundry.’

  Georgina held out her hand. ‘How lovely to meet you, Shirleen.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Missus.’

  The girl’s eyes were deep chocolate and shy, but there was also pride in her expression.

  Later, though, after Shirleen had served tea and biscuits on the verandah and then left them to enjoy the last of the daylight alone, Georgina said to Harry, ‘You know I’m expecting to cook for us.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘But I’d like to. I’ve been looking forward to it. Why do you think I’ve brought a big, fat recipe book with me?’

  They both laughed. She knew he was still worried about how she’d take to his lifestyle but she was also quite confident they’d sort something out.

  ‘Time to bring the suitcases in,’ Harry said when they’d finished their tea.

  He fetched the bags, plus the precious rose plant in a pot that Georgina had carefully nurtured throughout the long voyage from England. He set the pot on a small cane table and carried the luggage through to the bedroom. ‘Let’s hope they’ve set it up properly,’ he said as Georgina followed him along a central passage.

  In the doorway to the bedroom he paused and waited for her to join him. She knew he was as excited and curious as she was. In Sydney, soon after they’d disembarked, he’d taken her to a big city department store called David Jones.

  ‘We’re going to buy everything new for our bedroom,’ he’d said. ‘Furniture, mattress, sheets, curtains. Whatever takes your fancy.’

  They’d had a wonderful time shopping and Harry had everything shipped and delivered all the way up to north Queensland.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked Georgina now.

  And there it was, everything they’d chosen together, looking even prettier than it had in the Sydney display room. The bed with its carved walnut ends and new thick mattress, the bright chintz spread. The pair of matching walnut wardrobes against the far wall and, between the windows, the lovely glass-topped dressing table with a big round mirror and a little matching stool with a padded cushion.

  Floral curtains matched the bedspread and, through the windows, Georgina could see a moon-swept view of the paddocks beneath the evening sky. She even heard the distant lowing of cattle.

  Beaming, she turned to Harry. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’

  He smiled again, making the skin around his eyes crinkle as he pushed the bedroom door closed with a booted toe, slipped his hands around her waist and drew her to him. ‘You’re perfect.’

  Her insides danced as she saw their reflection, across the room, in the dressing table’s mirror. ‘Look at us. The Boss and the Missus. That’s who we are now.’

  But she lost her fascination with this image as Harry’s hands moved to undo the buttons at the back of her dress.

  Pushing the fabric aside, he pressed a sweet string of kisses along her bared shoulder.

  Shivering with delicious anticipation, she said, ‘I have a premonition that I’m going to be very happy here.’

  Harry kissed the back of her neck. ‘Are you prone to having premonitions?’

  Her thoughts flashed to the day they’d met. ‘Absolutely.’

  27

  Ro waited anxiously near the baggage carousel as she watched the passengers from Lucy’s flight ride down the escalators. Unlike the last time she’d been here, there were no troops today, just a typical collection of travellers arriving in Townsville. Retired couples in elegantly casual resort wear, businessmen madly checking their phones, Scandinavian tourists with deep suntans, young mothers with fractious infants. Several travellers, coming from Sydney or Melbourne, were dressed too warmly for the tropical heat.

  An elderly woman, on reaching the ground floor, spied her family and hurried forward, to be embraced around the knees by an excited little girl in a glittery pink tutu over a purple T-shirt and shorts.

  Watching their joyful reunion, Ro felt a stab of envy. Other people seemed to have such normal, happy lives, while for her, true happiness seemed always to float temptingly, just out of reach. Today she was nervous, too, so anxious about her daughter’s return that she almost hadn’t come to the airport at all.

  She’d heard very little news from Lucy while she was away, just the occasional bland text or email from her mobile phone, enquiring after Harry, hoping that all was well and sending her love to everyone, while reporting that she was fine and having a great time. No details. But Ro knew that her daughter had spent an entire week in Cornwall at Penwall Hall and she shuddered to think of the stories Lucy must have heard.

  Had they told her everything?

  However, when Ro spied Lucy at last at the top of the escalator, it wasn’t fear or envy, but a pang of pure motherly love that speared her chest. Her daughter looked so tall and slim and beautiful. Dressed in blue jeans and long boots and a soft fluttery blouse of blue and cream, with her dark hair rippling to her shoulders and framing her pale oval face, she might have been a model or a TV star. Ro noted with quiet maternal pride that several masculine gazes swung in her daughter’s direction.

  As Lucy reached the glass sliding doors, she saw Ro waiting on the other side and they both waved and smiled. In a matter of moments they were hugging and greeting each other.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to be home. You look well, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘And Keith?’

  There was a slight hesitation, which Ro tried to cover. ‘He’s well, too.’

  ‘And, most importantly, how’s Harry?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. Harry’s okay. As well as can be expected.’

  Briefly, this almost felt to Ro like a perfectly normal, trouble-free family reunion. It was only as she released her daughter that her nervousness returned. She hoped it didn’t show.

  ‘How was the flight?’ she asked.

  Lucy groaned. ‘Long.’ She gave a little shake. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t complain, really. There were a couple of decent movies, but I was so glad to finally land in Cairns this morning.’

  ‘At least you weren’t coming home from a war zone this time.’

  Her daughter’s mouth curved in a faint, almost bitter smile. ‘No.’

  ‘And you had a wonderful holiday?’

  ‘Yes, it was fine.’

  This flat response brought Ro a fresh spurt of concern. Some­thing wasn’t right. Now that she looked more closely, she could see that Lucy was too pale, with none of her usual sparkle, and she had called her holiday fine, when her vocabulary was normally peppered with words like fantastic or fabulous or awesome.

  The uneasiness stayed with Ro as they turned to the empty baggage carousel to wait for the first signs of luggage.

  ‘The country’s looking a lot greener,’ Lucy said. ‘Has it been raining?’

  ‘It’s been bucketing down. The usual story for January. The highway was c
ut at Ingham for nearly a week.’ Ro added a cautious question. ‘What was the weather like in Cornwall?’

  ‘Cold and overcast a lot of the time. A few wild storms and rare patches of sunshine.’

  Lucy said this while staring hard at the carousel where the first pieces of luggage had begun to appear. It was difficult to read her expression, but Ro still had the sense that her daughter was unusually subdued. Normally, Lucy wouldn’t talk about the weather unless there was a cyclone. Something was wrong.

  She quailed a little at this prospect, worrying about the possible causes.

  ‘There’s my bag!’ Lucy pointed, murmuring her excuses as she jostled her way to the front of the crowd and hefted free a smart, silver hard-shell suitcase. ‘Lucky we didn’t have to wait too long,’ she said as she returned to Ro.

  ‘Yes.’ Ro fished for her car keys in a pocket of her handbag. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Halfway across the car park, she said, ‘Would you like to stop for coffee on the way home? Maybe somewhere on the waterfront with a nice view?’

  ‘Oh?’ Lucy looked surprised. ‘Okay. I’m still feeling a bit spaced out, so coffee might help.’

  The idea of a detour had just occurred to Ro, but it would give her a little breathing space and a chance to ask the necessary questions in relative privacy. It would also give her an opportunity to explain the latest changes that had occurred in her life while Lucy was away.

  ‘I used to miss this view when I was in Afghanistan,’ Lucy said, as they found seats at a table right on the water’s edge.

  From here they could see the entire sweep of Cleveland Bay. Sand and palm trees fringed the still, blue waters that dazzled in the sunlight and Magnetic Island, looking lush and very tropical, sat just offshore.

  ‘I guess it’s easy to take the view for granted,’ Ro agreed, as soon as they’d given a waiter their orders. And then, a small nudge, ‘But did you like Cornwall?’

  ‘I did,’ Lucy said perhaps a little too carefully. ‘It’s very atmospheric with all those coves and cliffs and quaint little cottages. So easy to imagine the smuggling days.’