A Stranger in my Street

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Hullo, Meg,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you came. I was worried you were going to stand me up.’

  ‘I almost did,’ I admitted. ‘I was about to turn around when you saw me.’

  He was still holding my hand and he pulled me towards the hotel entrance.

  ‘I’ll buy you some courage. We should talk.’

  He led me past the two conquistador statues that guarded the stairway, through the mirrored lobby and into the red leather and chrome elegance of the cocktail lounge, where he found us a table in a corner. The room was filled with US naval officers, many of them drinking with local girls, and there was a hubbub of laughter, conversation and clinking glasses. The six o’clock swill was in full swing with people drinking hard before the bar closed. A haze of cigarette smoke added to the impression of boozy decadence. Tom held my chair out for me as I sat down.

  ‘What would you like?’ There was a slight smile on his face now and the shuttered, almost haunted expression was gone.

  ‘I’m not much of a drinker,’ I admitted. ‘What do girls usually ask you to get them?’

  He really smiled then and I marvelled at how it changed his face.

  ‘It depends on the girl,’ he replied. ‘It’s a warm evening. What about a Singapore sling?’

  It sounded tempting, sophisticated. Tom grinned at my expression and didn’t wait for my reply.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. He pushed through the crowds, heading towards the bar, and I lost sight of him.

  It wasn’t the sort of place I would normally come to and I wondered why I had suggested it. Was it possible I had been trying to impress Tom? If so, it hadn’t worked because he seemed far more at ease than I felt. I sat up straighter. I’d just have to wing it and ‘box clever’, as Peter would say.

  Tom returned with a schooner of beer for himself and a pretty pink drink in a tall glass for me. The drink was deliciously sweet and refreshing. My face must have given me away again, because he laughed.

  ‘Only one, Miss Meg. Or you’ll be on your ear.’

  I felt irritated to be treated like a child, but I didn’t want to show him that. I took another sip. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, in what I hoped was a tone of cool sophistication. I sat back and looked at him, raising my eyebrow. He looked at me just as coolly, still smiling. Then he gave a short sigh and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He shook one out, put it in his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Your hair. Was it always that colour?’ he asked. ‘I remember it being darker, and it was shorter, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ I was confused. So he really had noticed me in 1939. ‘Yes, it was shorter and curlier, it curls more when it’s short. I don’t dye it. It just goes lighter in the summer.’ I was babbling. I took another sip of my drink to steady myself.

  ‘You were very young then. Wide eyes and curls, like Shirley Temple.’

  ‘I was seventeen,’ I said, annoyed again.

  ‘And now you’re twenty-one. Do you chew your bottom lip like that whenever you’re uncomfortable?’

  And do you always make such personal comments? I said nothing, lifted my chin, and wondered again why Tom had wanted to meet me.

  ‘So, Meg, what do you do for fun in Megalong Street, Hollywood?’

  I gave a small shrug. What sort of conversation was this?

  ‘I don’t do much,’ I answered, my tone flat. ‘I go out sometimes with Annie, a friend from work, or with my sister Joan. Sometimes with Joyce, the girl from university. Although Joyce is in the WAAAF now, and it looks like she’ll soon be posted away. I play bridge with my mother and her friends. Attend Red Cross meetings. Listen to the wireless. Go to the pictures. Read.’

  It sounded pathetically dull. I was twenty-one and living the life of a middle-aged old maid. With some horror, I realised I was in danger of living Miss Filmer’s life. All I needed was the cat.

  ‘No boyfriend?’

  That’s none of your business.

  ‘No, not really. Not since Peter . . . Well, I did go out a few times with a fellow last year. But it wasn’t serious at all. Really.’ I didn’t want him to misunderstand. ‘He’s in New Guinea now. In Buna, where all that terrible fighting has been going on, and somehow he’s got it into his head that it was serious. His name’s Harvey and he’s coming home on leave in a few weeks. I’m not sure what to do.’

  Why was I telling him this? Because I had no idea how to handle being in a fancy cocktail lounge with him? Because he was obviously an experienced man of the world? Because he asked? He seemed to have a way of making me talk.

  ‘So you write to this Harvey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you written and told him that it wasn’t as serious as he thought and he shouldn’t have got his hopes up?’

  ‘Because he’s in New Guinea. Because he might be killed. He says my letters are all that keep him going.’

  I picked up my glass and took another sip. Maybe the drink was stronger than it seemed. I felt as if I were floating and I couldn’t believe I had told him about Harvey. What the hell, I could forget all about Tom Lagrange after tonight.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and lounged back in the red leather chair. ‘He’s manipulating you. Don’t allow yourself to be manipulated into a situation that is intolerable to you. What will this Harvey expect when he comes home? How far are you prepared to go to keep him from being miserable?’

  ‘Not that far!’

  ‘Then let him down now. Don’t wait until he comes home.’

  I took a gulp of the cocktail. He was regarding me intently, his eyes so dark that they didn’t seem to reflect light. Had Doreen fallen into those eyes? I bit my lip, wondering if it was the cocktail that made me feel this way.

  Tom grimaced self-consciously. ‘I knew Pete had a girlfriend in Perth. I should have made time to see you when I got back after he died. I’m sorry I didn’t do that, Meg.’

  So that was what this was about. He felt responsible for me.

  ‘Tom’s the responsible one,’ Peter had told me. ‘Eldest son and all that. He was expected to look after me. I used to follow him around all the time and wanted to be in everything he did. Poor Tom.’ He had grinned self-deprecatingly, the boyish grin that always seemed to stop my heart beating for a second or two.

  I blinked away tears and took another sip of my drink. When I looked up I saw something softer in Tom’s eyes.

  ‘Tell me about him. Where did he take you when you first went out?’ His voice was light, conversational, but I flinched all the same. I still found it hard to talk about Peter. Even after eighteen months, it still felt raw.

  ‘The Oyster Beds,’ I said, staring at the three captain’s pips on the shoulder of his jacket. ‘He took me to dinner there. I’d never been anywhere so posh. It was lovely. I was worried we’d have nothing to talk about, but that was never a problem. We just clicked, right from the start.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at the memory. After dinner we had driven to the Palais de Danse on the beachfront at Cottesloe, where we sat in the car and listened to the music compete with the sound of the waves. It was there Peter first kissed me.

  I stopped smiling and stared at Tom, mute.

  ‘I was in the Middle East when Pete died,’ he said. ‘I got the news by cable. The last time I saw him was August 1939 when I left for Oxford. Just before he started seeing you. I have a photograph of him in his RAAF uniform, looking shockingly young and too grown up all at once.’

  That was the photograph beside my bed.

  ‘When it happened,’ I said, ‘in July 1941, the air force sent his things home to your parents. They didn’t tell me. I read about his death in the newspaper. That was terrible. I suppose I just didn’t believe it at first. A week later I wrote to your parents, asking if it were really true. If he really was gone. A few days later I received a parcel containing all of the letters I had written to Peter. Just my letters, and the three photographs he had of me. There was also a request for me not to c
ontact your parents again and to return all the letters Peter had written to me.’

  Tom’s expression was unreadable. ‘They said they were not obligated to me emotionally or financially,’ I continued. ‘It was very strange. Did they think I was going to ask them for money?’

  ‘Meg, I didn’t know anything about this.’

  ‘I wrote back to say I couldn’t return the letters he’d written to me, but I’d be happy to meet them if they liked. They didn’t like. I received a reply asking me not to contact them again or they would “engage solicitors”.’

  Tom’s face was drawn in a deep frown.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘They’re your parents, I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I did –’

  ‘Who wrote to you?’

  His voice was steady, but there was a glint in his eyes and I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  ‘Actually, it was Phyllis Gregory. She said she was writing on behalf of your parents. My impression was that they were worried I’d ask them for money or something, but perhaps I was too upset to think straight.’

  Tom gave a bitter laugh. ‘Phyllis and my family must be no favourites of yours. It was a terrible time. I don’t think anyone was thinking straight.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s all over now. I really don’t think about it all that often.’ But now I’d mentioned her name, I wondered what else he might have to say about Phyllis Gregory.

  ‘Meg, I don’t think my parents ever saw your letters. They never mentioned them to me. Knowing Phyll, I expect she opened all their correspondence and only showed them what she thought they needed to see. After Pete died and I was away they relied upon her completely. We’re engaged, you know. I don’t think she meant to be hurtful. She’s a good person really.’

  There was a despondent note in his voice, and he appeared to be genuinely upset. I murmured something about it being fine, looked away and took another sip of my drink. I was glad Tom hadn’t known about the letters, because I liked him. I was glad I liked him because Peter had wanted me to like him. All of a sudden I felt very weary and wished I was at home with my mother and Joan.

  There was a light touch on my arm. Tom was leaning towards me.

  ‘Meg,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t know you, and I suppose you’ll think it’s none of my business, but I do know Pete would not have wanted you to shut yourself away like you’ve been doing. You’re young and attractive. You should be going out. You can’t spend your life mourning Peter, or being scared of making mistakes like Harvey. It’s been eighteen months. You’ve got to let him go.’

  I felt my face grow hot and lowered my eyes to the glass in front of me. Rivulets of condensation were running down the side. Tom had no right to say that to me, though Peter himself had told me not to mope.

  It was a few days before Peter was due to ship out to Canada for training, at the close of a day I remembered as being made up almost entirely of laughter. We ended up by Shenton Park Lake. A grove of weeping willows spread their fronds out over the water’s edge, in a scene that might have come from a Constable painting. It was warm and dry among the willow roots and as night fell around us we spread a rug on the ground. I was worried we would be seen, but Peter said it would be fine, that it was almost completely dark in the blackout.

  The wind blew the branches around us, but never exposed us and the rustle of the leaves covered our laughter, our muffled breaths and, eventually, our soft cries. Peter’s body was hard and muscled and he smelled of sweat and hair oil and Lifebuoy soap. Afterwards, as we lay together, still half-dressed for warmth, he became serious.

  ‘Meg, if I buy it over there – if I don’t come back – don’t mope. Just get on with your life. Promise me that.’

  I had cried and held on to him tightly, told him not to say that, not even to think it. He was insistent, though, and I did promise. Only I hadn’t been able to keep that promise.

  I sat very still, refusing to cry. Finally I looked at Tom and gave a little laugh. ‘You’re not in cahoots with my mother, are you? She says the same sort of thing.’

  Now there was a slyness about his smile. ‘Maybe her friends have been complaining about your bridge playing.’

  I frowned and his smile broadened. But when it faded I could see that his eyes looked tired. Tom had old, tired eyes in a young man’s face. I was unwilling to look at him too closely because I was a bit wary of those eyes, especially when the room was spinning.

  ‘I know I should get out more. But it seems so pointless, now he’s gone,’ I said.

  Tom didn’t respond.

  ‘All right,’ I said carefully, talking to the room and not to him. ‘I will make an effort, I promise. No more staying at home, moping about Peter.’

  As soon as I said it a feeling of resentment washed through me. Tom Lagrange was not responsible for me. He had no obligation towards me, moral or otherwise, just because it was his brother I couldn’t get over, and his family and fiancée who had treated me so shabbily. I flicked him a glance. I knew I was flushed and suspected that the drink was giving me false courage.

  ‘Anyway, it’s easy for you,’ I heard myself say. ‘You tell me to get out more, but I can’t just whip up good cheer, or the sort of dresses the women here are wearing for that matter. Could you get me the clothing coupons for evening dresses?’ I threw it out as a challenge, not a request.

  He shook his head, obviously surprised.

  ‘I thought not. So don’t push me,’ I said, trying not to sound too sullen.

  Tom’s expression was thoughtful, but not unkind. Eventually he nodded. ‘All right, I’ll back off.’

  We sat in silence while around us the room became even more crowded as the six o’clock cut-off loomed. I was thinking about the promise I had just made. I didn’t want to fall in love again. I didn’t think I could fall in love again, but it would be nice just to go dancing with Annie and enjoy myself. I decided I’d ask her tomorrow.

  It was time I left. I turned to Tom, and caught him staring across the room.

  ‘Good Lord, what does he want?’ he murmured, just before a man in the uniform of an American Naval Air Force lieutenant sat down beside me.

  It was neatly done. There was no one near us one second and then there was a very large American sitting beside me the next. His hair was cropped and blond and his eyes were a clear blue. He looked healthy and clean and athletic, but I couldn’t help thinking of those Nazi propaganda posters extolling the virtues of the Aryan race. The scar on Tom’s face was livid. He was not smiling.

  The stranger grinned. ‘Battle alert. I’m sure this is all kosher, but I’m doing you a favour, buddy.’

  He glanced at the doorway. A tall woman with a long slender neck and a statuesque figure was standing there, elegantly adjusting her silver fox fur stole. Her fair hair was cut into short curls and her lips were dark red. The ice-blue frock was plain, but well cut and decidedly chic. That fur stole alone would have cost more than my entire wardrobe. It seemed to me that every man in the room, including Tom and the American officer, was watching her.

  She was undeniably lovely, but I thought she had a rather sulky face. Then she caught sight of Tom and smiled, and I could see she was an absolute stunner. I stifled a sigh. This had to be Phyllis Gregory.

  I glanced down at my pink dress. Joan had spent weeks knitting it from a pattern she ordered from the Women’s Weekly, and I had been thrilled with it. Suddenly it seemed frumpy and obviously home-made. My heart was racing and I felt faint. Would she remember my name? Peter had not liked Phyllis Gregory. He had called her Tom’s biggest mistake. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. I liked my dress. Miss Gregory, you’re Tom’s biggest mistake.

  The American officer turned to me with a grin. He had a pleasant enough face under sandy-coloured eyebrows and I smiled back.

  ‘I’m Chad,’ he whispered in a twangy American accent. ‘Chad Buchowski. It might be politic to let Phyll think that we’re together. She can be nasty if she gets jealous, an
d she gets very jealous of Tom.’

  My smile became fixed in place. Tom had got up from his seat and his expression was not one I had seen on him before. There was a touch of bewilderment in it, and he suddenly seemed younger. Glancing at me, he raised one eyebrow, but that gave me no hint as to what he wanted me to do. Meanwhile, Miss Phyllis Gregory progressed across the room, the dress swishing across her body as she moved. Will she remember writing to me? My palms were moist.

  She arrived at our table, adjusted her fur stole and presented her face to Tom for a kiss. Tom moved in obediently and when he leaned back there was a smudge of red on his cheek, like a wound to match the scar on the other side.

  ‘Darling,’ she said to Tom, wiping the lipstick off his face with her thumb.

  Chad was also on his feet. ‘Phyllis,’ he drawled, ‘great to see you.’

  Phyllis glanced over at him. ‘Lieutenant Buchowski.’

  She ignored me. It took effort to ignore someone as blatantly as Phyllis Gregory was ignoring me. The foxes were paying me more attention; at least they were looking in my direction, peeping out from the fur at her neck.

  Up close she was as lovely as she had seemed in the doorway, although I realised she must be several years older than I was. She might even be older than Tom, whose eyes had become as glassy as the little fox eyes. I sat still, feeling like a fool, unsure what to do.

  ‘How lucky to find you here,’ she said to Tom in an accent that spoke of a very good girls’ school. ‘I’m parched. Be a love and buy me a gin before they close the bar.’

  Her eyes were half closed. I had the image of a lioness lying in the sun, flicking her tail. She looked over and past me without any acknowledgment, and back to Chad. I realised Chad had no idea what my name was and I opened my mouth to introduce myself, when I saw Tom give a visible start. It was disconcerting to see him so unsettled. I preferred the Tom I had met on Sunday, the Tom of ten minutes ago, the man who was in control of any situation.