Luke took Claudia to show her the fun she’d missed by living in Paris. Local matinees were not for students of serious cinema; they were disorderly events with acid comments at corny dialogue, and crude advice to the actors if the film was overly romantic. But not on this Saturday. There was utter silence as they sat watching a newsreel of Japanese troops crossing the causeway between Malay and Singapore, on their way to force yet another surrender. It appeared this was easy, as the vaunted British guns pointed the wrong way.
In history lessons Australians were taught Singapore was a bastion of the Empire; defeat was impossible while imperial guns covered the Straits against a frontal attack, never dreaming the enemy would unsportingly arrive by the back door. Little wonder it was eerily quiet in the flea pit, at the sight of troops strolling across the causeway into the city-state.
The Allies lost 130,000 men. The Japanese less than 10,000. They dominated the entire South Pacific, attacked the Solomon Islands and New Guinea, and were now poised for their logical next step — which, as everyone knew, was the invasion of Australia.
Luke and Claudia tried to behave as if none of this was happening. She rediscovered childhood memories with him as they explored the seaside village. On the ocean front was the Arlington Amusement Hall that had once showed silent films and had been turned into an indoor golf range. Luke now had a part-time job there, while trying to get a start in newspapers.
“Is it difficult to get into journalism?” she asked.
“Almost impossible.”
“Why, Luke?”
“Because you can’t get a job unless you have experience, and you can’t get experience as no-one will give you a job.”
“Frustrating,” said Claudia.
“Worse than that. I also write short stories,” he told her, “and have a seriously large collection of rejection slips. It infuriates my father who thinks I’m wasting my time.”
“But it’s your time, Luke.”
“You’re right. Just try telling him that.”
“I hardly remember him. Is he difficult?”
“Occasionally,” Luke said, and changed the subject. He was an only child, living with his parents in one of the cottages along the beach; a modest home but a much-admired position, for each house had a picket fence that adjoined the sand. His father had bought it when he came back from the war in France — the Great War to end all wars, it had been called. He returned with a young English ballet dancer who had become his wife and Luke’s mother.
At quite an early age Luke had begun to realise it was not a happy marriage. His father remained in the army as a civilian administrator, and also trained with the ‘People’s Army’, a volunteer defence force formed to resist civil disobedience. It was an organisation many considered had fascist overtones. Richard Elliott was tall and well built, with cropped dark hair and sharp brown eyes, a stern and rather aloof man, a strange mixture who liked theatre and read assiduously, but could be abrupt and quite often unbending.
His mother found this combination difficult. She was five years younger, still only thirty-six, slim with blonde hair and soft green eyes that brought frequent glances from other men. She had few women friends, the closest being Claudia’s mother before the Marsden family moved overseas.
As he grew up Luke had felt the lack of harmony, watched how the marriage progressed from frequent bickering to aversion. He could not understand the cause of it, and knew his father would imply it was imagination. A few disagreements, he’d say — such things happen in most marriages. Luke had a much closer affinity with his mother, but, aware she was vulnerable because of the discord, he hesitated to take sides that could aggravate the situation.
Break-ups were less prevalent in those days; divorce was a social stigma in the circles his parents inhabited, but he thought the strain of living together without affection was unfair on his mother. She was often lonely, and the career she’d dreamed of as a dancer was lost without the opportunities afforded in London or the ballet companies of Europe. She had no aptitude for any other kind work, not that she would have been allowed to take a job. Her husband did not believe in working wives, and in their family his word was paramount.
On the ocean side of their house was her favourite spot: a wide verandah from where at night it was possible to hear the waves wash on the beach and see moonlight transform the sea to silver. She liked to sit alone playing records, mostly ballet music like Swan Lake or The Nutcracker Suite, and even when Luke was too young to understand how unhappy and homesick she was, she would regale him with stories of growing up in London and studying ballet under Marie Rambert.
He could vividly remember those nights, struggling to stay awake — for even at that age he knew she needed an audience — listening to the way her mentor had not welcomed Louisa Sherman’s romance with a soldier from the colonies. Mme Rambert wanted Louisa to remain, because if one had talent it was a crime not to use it, and some of her best students had gone on to dance at Sadler’s Wells or the Bolshoi. It was how his mother sometimes spoke of herself in this strange manner, using her maiden name, as if she was discussing a different dancer in another life.
On one of their walks along the beach they were close to Luke’s home, which Claudia instantly recognised. “Will we call in?” she asked.
It was a Saturday; he knew his father would be there, and instinct told him a row from the previous night would still be festering. The bleakness of their relationship was pervasive and quarrels rarely healed. Luke had been woken by their voices arguing over a recurring point of contention: his future.
“Just leave him alone,” he’d heard her raised voice.
“What the hell do you know about it?” His father had sounded more furious than usual. “He’s old enough and fit enough! He’s wasting his bloody life taking these stupid dead-end jobs. And writing bloody rubbish.”
“I’ve read his stories. They’re not rubbish.”
“Editors reject them. They know a sight better than you.”
“He’s too young for the army. Until he’s twenty-one, he needs parental permission.”
“You weren’t listening to me, Louisa. I’ll give permission.”
“But I won’t, Richard. I’ll go to court and lodge an objection.”
“You keep out of it,” he shouted. “I survived three years on the Somme. It was my duty then; it’s his now! It’s bloody embarrassing at the club — how do you think I feel, having to admit my son’s a shirker and possible candidate for a bloody white feather!”
“That’s what it’s all about, of course. You and your wretched club. Your status! You make me sick.” Luke could hear the contempt in her voice.
There was a loud noise. And a gasp from his mother. Luke was half out of bed, concerned as he heard their bedroom door open.
“Where the hell are you going?” his father demanded.
There was no reply. The door slammed. Then another bedroom door opened and slammed shut.
“Sleep where you bloody well like,” his father yelled. There had been no reply so Luke went back to bed. It was a pattern he’d heard before. So much anger. So many fights. He’d tried to go back to sleep, but it was difficult.
“Luke,” he became aware Claudia was looking puzzled and repeating her question, “are we calling in?”
The quarrel would probably be still raging. It was not an ambience he wanted to reveal to Claudia, or her family. So he lied.
“It’s Saturday morning. They’ll almost certainly be out shopping.”
It was the only thing he could think of, although the idea of his father helping with any shopping was beyond belief. He steered her towards the main road instead. Claudia seemed puzzled, and it prompted Luke to glance back at the house. There was a window open; if she’d noticed she made no mention, simply suggested that he come and say hello to her parents. It was a chance to spend more time with her, and Luke needed no persuasion for that.
THREE
The Marsden’s new house was on The H
eights in Suffolk Avenue, with a view of Long Reef and the crescent beach. In the far distance was Manly headland, and the sturdy profile of St Patrick’s College that Luke always thought looked more like a cathedral.
He’d been asked to call Claudia’s parents Gordon and Sue, after a warm welcome. There were expressions of surprise at how tall he’d grown, and eager questions about his parents and friends. Sue, wearing shorts and a sun top, an attractive woman with dark hair and blue eyes like her daughter, was anxious for news of his mother.
“Louisa and I kept in touch for ages, but during the war it became difficult. Just Christmas cards,” she said. “I did write when we were stuck in Canberra, to give her news we were moving back here. And sent our love to you. Did she tell you?”
“I don’t think she got the letter,” Luke replied, then, aware of a glance exchanged between her and Gordon, wished he hadn’t. Trying to make amends he improvised, “Perhaps she wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Sue murmured.
“Or else the letter may have gone astray,” Gordon suggested.
“I’m told it happens a lot in wartime,” Sue added.
It seemed as if all three of them were trying to find an alibi for the errant letter, until Gordon deftly changed the subject.
“So what about you, Luke? Journalism, Claudia tells us.”
“If I can. It’s a hard nut to crack.”
“And young Helen, the policeman’s daughter. I remember her. Claudia tells us she’s doing well at university.”
“Brilliantly. The star of first-, second- and now third-year law.”
“That’s tremendous. Going to be a solicitor?”
“I think she’s aiming higher. A barrister.”
“Isn’t that difficult?” Sue asked. “I’m told law is still a male domain.”
“Helen’s ambitious. She might surprise the legal eagles.”
“I remember her dad as a young copper,” Gordon smiled and confided, “In fact, I think I was his first scalp — he got me for speeding.”
Gordon Marsden was easy to talk to. In shorts and beach shirt, trimly built with tidy grey hair, he looked nothing like Luke’s conception of a secret agent. The family atmosphere was agreeable, so unlike his own home.
Sue suggested it might be past time for a drink. “The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere in the world,” she said. Her husband went inside to collect glasses and bottles. Luke knew it was a request to which his own father would never accede. He’d sit there, expecting it be brought to him.
When Claudia left them for a moment to change into her new swimsuit, he and Sue were briefly alone. “I want to see Louisa,” she said, “but not when your father’s at home. Does he still play golf on Sundays?”
“Without fail,” Luke answered, guessing what was expected of him. “They hit off at midday but he’s not home until late, after the 19th hole.”
“Then I’ll come in the early afternoon.”
“She’ll look forward to that, Sue. Shall I tell her?”
“Please.” For a moment she was silent, then said, “She should leave him. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, Luke, but she and I used to talk of it. You were too young for her to consider separation back then.”
There was no time to respond as Claudia ran past them in the tiniest two-piece costume, and dived into the pool. Luke felt a splash as he saw the cheeks of her barely concealed bottom vanish underwater.
“Darling, must you drown us?” her mother protested, and turned to ask, “Luke, what’s your opinion of that cossie she’s almost wearing?”
It made him laugh. “Well, it’s … er …”
“It is, isn’t it? On the Riviera you can wear a couple of scarves if they’re tied in the right places. What’ll happen if she wears this thing here?”
“There’d be a rush of male admirers, and a beach inspector with his tape measure.” Claudia was now at the pool side, grinning as she listened to this. “One inch shorter than the approved regulation and the wearer gets marched off the beach. And gets her photo in the newspapers,” he added, thinking how great Claudia looked, and from this angle she would be a page three special.
“Do they really do that?” Sue laughed.
“Sounds fun,” Claudia said, then she duck dived, revealing the twin cheeks of her bottom again. Sue shook her head at the sight, as Gordon arrived with a tray of glasses, pretzels, a carafe of white wine and beer. They asked Luke to stay for an early dinner, and had a barbecue by the pool.
He helped cook chops and sausages, and left after an enjoyable evening, disturbed only by the puzzle of a letter that his hosts clearly realised had not gone astray in the mail.
Claudia walked a short way with him, then watched as Luke reached the bend of the street and turned once again to wave at her. It had been another chaste kiss on the cheek, but she had the feeling he wanted to run back and wrap his arms tightly around her. She smiled at the pleasure the thought gave her, then returned slowly to the house where the lights were still on around the pool. Her parents must be sitting out there finishing the wine. She felt certain they liked Luke, but it would be nice to get confirmation, because they’d always been politely approving of her friends whether liking them or not.
She remembered a boy she’d brought home when they were living in London during the blitz. She was seventeen. The boy, Benedict, was shy and polite until he’d been asked to stay for dinner, and then under the influence of one of her dad’s good bottles of Vosne Romanee had started to argue about the Australian contribution to the war, and how the brigades in the Middle East, the so-called Rats of Tobruk, should be brought back to Britain. It was Benedict’s opinion that the ‘colonials’ should make a proper contribution to the empire war effort. Her parents, who had strong views about being called colonials, politely endured this tirade, but after he’d gone her father had asked her for a special favour.
“Don’t ever inflict him on us again, darling,” he requested. She knew it would not be like that with Luke, and felt it was a good moment to test their feelings, and even explain her own. But, as she came around the side of the house to join them, she heard her mother speak. It made her stop out of sight, because to intrude at that moment might be awkward.
“Our daughter seems smitten.”
“Do you mind?” she heard her father ask.
“Not a bit.” It was time to cough and make it apparent she was there, but, before she could, her mother spoke again: “He’s more like Louisa, and thank God not at all like that bastard of a father.”
“Luke doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” her mother said. “I daresay he realises letters don’t go astray, but he doesn’t know about the other sordid history.”
Oh God, Claudia thought, I wish I hadn’t heard this. She took a step back, intending to use her key and enter by the front door, but what her mother said next made her pause.
“I’m scared of what might happen. Louisa must leave that man. If Luke knew the whole wretched story, he’d want her to leave.”
“My pet, you can’t interfere. Only she can make that choice.”
“I know. But I’ll talk to her on Sunday.”
“Tread gently, Susan.”
“I’ll try. But it feels wrong, being kept from him all these years. I’m sure it still goes on, and I don’t know how she puts up with it.”
Claudia heard the clink of bottles and the scrape of chairs, realising they were about to move inside. She almost ran to the front door, put her key in the lock then shut it loudly enough to announce her return.
“Darling,” her mother said, bringing in some of the plates, “we thought you must’ve helped him find his way home.”
“Not quite,” Claudia managed to respond with a smile. “It just took a long time to say goodnight.”
“It was lovely to see him.” Claudia felt astonished her mother could be so collusive. But then so was she, and her dad, as he entered with a tray of glasses and the empty wine bot
tle.
“Grown up well,” he said. “I take it we’ll be seeing more of him.”
“I think so, Dad.” She felt it was too late to discuss what she’d heard. If only she hadn’t stayed to listen; it left her feeling culpable and perplexed about these secrets in his family.
“Well, I’m for bed.” She kissed them both goodnight and went upstairs, drawing her bedroom curtains as the pool and patio lights were switched off below. It was still a hot night; she turned on the ceiling fan in her room, undressed and got into bed.
What a strange ending, she thought, to such a lovely day. A whole week of lovely days, since she’d met him again. When they stopped to say goodnight in the street she’d felt he was on the verge of kissing her passionately, and had been ready to respond. She was certain it would happen soon. Or would she have to make the first move? She smiled, feeling sure that would not be necessary.
She thought of his friends: Helen, whom she had liked instantly. It was obvious she and Luke had been — what was the term — ‘a couple’ or ‘an item’, she’d heard English people call it, until Barry Silvester had ignored the parameters of friendship and taken over.
She didn’t like Barry, too egotistical, and his eyes had tried to undress her, but at least he’d done her a considerable favour. Luke’s former girlfriend hijacked by one of his best friends. It made her smile even thinking of it. She wondered how long Helen and Bazza, as Luke called him, would last. According to Rachel, Bazza was a bit fond of himself, an opinion Claudia had already formed, and Rachel said he was what she called ‘a pants man’.
She liked both girls, and particularly liked Steven with his quiet manner, his grey eyes and friendly smile. It seemed a pity his life was so regulated: a degree at university, then the family timber firm, and one day to take over the running of it. He’d told her it was why they’d nicknamed him ‘Chip’ Pascoe at school. He was nice. It was comforting to belong to a circle of friends so soon after arriving home. Even better to find herself so strongly drawn to Luke; but, whatever did her mother mean about the secrets his family kept from him?
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