‘We became friends. Really. She was a grand girl.’
My mouth was dry. I ran my tongue over my lips and said, ‘So Doreen and Betty were selling drugs. Selling heroin and morphine they stole from the hospital?’
‘No!’ Tom shook his head and punched at the grass with his good hand. ‘Before she met me Doreen never stole drugs.’
He held my gaze again. The muscles on his face were tight and there was a look in his eyes that was awful to see. Again, I read it as self-loathing.
‘The truth is that after I was discharged from hospital, Doreen got me drugs. I take morphine pills for the pain in my hand. I get them legally from the hospital on prescription. But you always seem to need more of the stuff once you’re addicted. Doreen got me morphine syrettes. She also got me jacks – heroin pills. I try to make do with the morphine pills, or the syrettes, but it’s injection or inhalation of heroin that I crave. I make a solution out of the crushed jacks and inject it into a vein, or I crush the pills and breathe in the powder, or I mix the powder with tobacco and smoke it.’
He sighed again and finally looked away.
‘I suppose, deep down, I knew that Doreen was doing it because she thought she was in love with me. I told myself that it wasn’t so, that I wasn’t desirable any more. I told myself Doreen was a kind woman who just wanted to help me. I told myself it was all right to use her like that. You’ll tell yourself anything when you need something that badly. On that Friday night I begged Doreen for more heroin.’
Tom was watching me closely again. His eyes were dark and beautiful and terrible. This time I looked away first.
‘Poor Doreen.’ My voice trembled. ‘She must have loved you so much.’
‘And she died because of it, didn’t she?’ His voice was harsh. ‘After that argument in the laneway – the last time I saw her alive – she went all out to get heroin for me. She threatened Nobbie, and she died. All for me.’
Tom’s expression was bleak. He felt responsible for her death. He felt responsible for so many deaths. But he wasn’t. The Japanese had killed his men, and Nobbie had killed Doreen.
He plucked at a loose thread on the rug. ‘I thought the drugs Doreen gave me came from the military hospital and she got them for me herself. I now realise that she also got stuff from Betty and Nobbie. Doreen didn’t tell me that.’
Now he was staring into my eyes.
‘You want the whole truth, Meg? That’s why I was so worried when she didn’t turn up on the Sunday morning. Not about her, but about whether she had managed to get me any heroin.’
The world seemed to shift around me. ‘So Doreen was nothing to you other than a means to get drugs,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ I said, in a voice I hardly recognised. ‘How could you let her do that? She might have gone to gaol, lost everything because of you. And you didn’t really care about her at all.’
‘I did care about her. We were friends. She knew I needed heroin and she offered to get it for me.’
‘It was wrong to let her do it, Tom. You know it was.’
He didn’t look away, but he seemed to retreat. ‘Yes,’ he said, in a flat voice. ‘It was wrong to let her do it. I wish –’
‘Why did you see me so often?’ I blurted out the words.
‘I don’t understand what you wanted from me. I couldn’t get you drugs. Chad said you need adoration from women. Is that all you wanted from me? Someone to unthinkingly adore you?’
I could no longer bear to see what was in his eyes, so I turned my head to watch the river instead. I wished I could walk down into the water and never surface again.
‘Please, Meg. Look at me.’
I turned towards him again and met his dark, unflinching gaze.
‘Why did I see you so often? The truth? When I saw you on that Sunday we found Doreen I thought that you were very young, very sweet and very unhappy. I felt guilty about not seeing you before. We met for the drink and it was clear that you hadn’t got over Pete. That made me sad. I thought I owed it to Pete to try to get you to go out more, to enjoy yourself. To help you get over him.’ There was a quizzical expression on his face, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened. ‘Anyway, after that first lunch, I just wanted to keep seeing you. Then I needed to keep seeing you. It was as simple as that.’
I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.
‘I enjoyed seeing you,’ he said. ‘Spending time with you made me feel happy, something I hadn’t felt for a long time. So I kept meeting you. Perhaps it was another addiction. Perhaps I was addicted to seeing you.’
‘That’s stupid. That’s a stupid thing to say. You are cruel, Tom. I’m not an addiction, like heroin. That’s a terrible thing to say.’
My voice was ugly, belligerent. He flinched. Then we were staring at each other.
‘What wouldn’t be a stupid thing to say?’ he said. ‘Is it stupid to say that I love you? I do. I didn’t mean to fall in love – God knows I didn’t expect that! Meg, you’re Pete’s girl. Falling in love with you was the last thing I expected to happen.’
When I shook my head tears spilled onto my cheeks. ‘It isn’t true.’
‘It is true that I love you. You are –’ He broke off, wiped a hand across his face, and said, ‘I’m no good for you, though, so I’ll have to get over that addiction, too.’
‘I am not an addiction. Stop saying that.’ I was nearly shouting. ‘What about Phyllis? Where does she stand in all this?’
He punched the grass again, and now his voice was angry.
‘Phyll knows about everything. She knew about Doreen. She hated the drugs, hated all of it, but she stood by me. Not that I was much use to her. There’s not much passion left in me now and I can be very bad company. It’s no wonder she went with Chad.’
‘Do you love her?’
‘No. Not any more. You’re not to blame for that. I’ve known it for a while now. I thought I could be satisfied with what we had, that there was enough liking to make a reasonable fist at a marriage . . .’
‘Face it, Tom,’ I said sharply. ‘It was easier just to stay with her. Let Phyllis manage your life while you used anyone you could to keep this addiction going. She thinks you love her. You should stop lying to her.’
‘I did. Last night. I told her we couldn’t be married, that it wouldn’t work. That we’d end up hating each other.’
Poor Phyllis. I could imagine how completely humiliated she’d be feeling. Then I couldn’t believe that I was feeling sorry for Phyllis Gregory.
‘We didn’t discuss how it would be made public,’ he said. ‘At the moment she does hate me. I told her I’d put around the story that it was her idea to break off the engagement. She told me she was going to Melbourne and if she never saw me again it would be too soon. Maybe one day she’ll forgive me.’
His dark eyes were watching me closely. He wrapped his right hand – his perfect right hand – around mine and my entire body thrilled to his touch. He put the left hand on top of our joined hands.
‘Meg, this pain in my left hand is caused by nerve damage. Something called traumatic neuroma. I’ve had several operations, but they haven’t helped. The last one made things worse. They want me to try another procedure.’
He took his hands away from me and gently stroked his maimed hand with the other. ‘I’m scared to try it. Sometimes the pain is almost intolerable – I do need big doses of pain relief. If it gets any worse I’ll never be free. I’ll never beat this.’ There was fear in his eyes now and also desperation. ‘Meg, I want to beat this. I need to be free of it.’
‘See another doctor. Get a second and third opinion. You can’t live this way, Tom. Deal with the pain in your left hand and then deal with the addiction. Let me help you.’
He shook his head. ‘You deserve better than me. I’m no good for anyone. You deserve the chance to find someone better.’ His face had become a mask. He was shutting me out. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’
In a quick movement I stood up and brushed the grass off my skirt. Tom was very still, sitting on the rug by my feet. He was just as handsome and ravaged as always, but I could see him clearly now.
‘I’m sorry that you are such a mess, Tom. I thought you knew everything, were always right, and I had everything to learn. I wish you had told me how things really were with you, how you felt about me, so that we could have tried to work it out together. Now I just hope it’s not too late.’
‘It is too late. I’m no good for anyone, least of all you.’ There were tears in his eyes. I had never seen him cry before.
He bowed his head. His black hair was shaved at the nape of his neck, just like a schoolboy’s, and for some reason that made me want to cry. Or perhaps it was the way he sat, with head and shoulders bent like an old man weighed down by doubt and fear and uncertainty. His mutilated hand was lying loosely on his lap, partly covered by the other.
Thoughts whirled through my mind. Tom was very close to being broken. He hated himself, hated the needs that ravaged his body. He loved me, but he thought he was no good for me. He thought I didn’t know him, that I wasn’t strong enough to cope with the complex, damaged man he really was. He was wrong, though. I remembered the times I’d spent with Tom over the past months. How he had made me feel, how he had been when he was with me. In the end, I thought, it was simple. I was better when I was with him and he was better when he was with me.
‘You are good for me,’ I said. ‘We’re good for each other.’ My voice became stronger. ‘I love you so much. I tried not to. I thought it would be a betrayal of Peter. But I don’t think that any more. We have a lot in common and we are good when we’re together. Love like that is not an addiction. It’s the best thing there is. You are worth loving, Tom Lagrange, no matter what your problems. If you love me, then let me help you. I’m stronger than you think.’
For a while he stared down at his hands. When he raised his head the pain in his eyes was almost unbearable.
‘I do love you,’ he said. ‘But, Meg, no matter how much I love you, I can’t promise you a happy ending. Not after a war. Long after this one is over, I’ll still be fighting the demons that haunt me.’ He lowered his head again, and said, so softly that it was almost inaudible, ‘I just don’t know if love is enough.’
I knew.
‘It is,’ I said.
So I sat down beside him again, and I took hold of his hands, both his hands. He shook his head slightly and he tried, not very hard, to pull them away from me. I held on tight.
Acknowledgments
My mother, Mona Williams (1920–2011), became a war widow in 1963 and raised four children alone. The debt my brothers and I owe her is incalculable.
This novel would not have been written without the support and assistance and research skills of my wonderful husband, Toby.
My thanks go to the following also: Ilse, Carolyn, Sue and Ali, who read early drafts and gave me invaluable feedback; the many other friends who listened patiently to my incessant gabbling about the novel; Rob, for putting me right about unarmed combat and showing me the best way to pluck a loaded pistol out of someone’s hand; Janet Blagg, who helped me so much in so many ways; my agent, Sheila Drummond, and the team at Pan Macmillan – Alexandra Nahlous, Cate Paterson and Catherine Day. Also Jeanmarie Morosin. Thank you all so much.
Further Reading
When writing this novel I tried to ensure that the history of Perth in wartime was as accurate as possible. I can’t possibly acknowledge all the books I read and internet sites I visited, but two books that deal specifically with Perth in the Second World War are: Fleeting Attraction: A Social History of American Servicemen in Western Australia by Anthony J. Barker and Lisa Jackson (University of Western Australia Press, 1996) and On the Homefront: Western Australia and World War II, Jenny Gregory (ed.) (University of Western Australia Press, 1996).
My father was a member of the 2/2 Independent Company, one of around 400 Australian commandos who tied up over 20,000 crack Japanese troops on Timor in the dark days of 1942. Their story is an inspirational example of determination, resourcefulness, courage and mateship. The latest, excellent book about that campaign is The Men Who Came Out of the Ground by Paul Cleary (Hachette Australia, 2010).
An entertaining book setting out the history of the notorious newspaper the Mirror is High Jinks at the Hot Pool by Ron Davidson (Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 1994).
One resource that no Australian social historian can afford to ignore is Trove, the marvellous National Library of Australia site, which includes an extensive collection of digitised Australian newspapers: http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper.
Another internet site I found to be a goldmine of interesting information about Australia during the Second World War is www.ozatwar.com.
Deborah Burrows is a lawyer and writer and lives in Perth. She specialises in the area of medical law. She also has several degrees in history, including a postgraduate degree in medical history from the University of Oxford, where her dissertation was ‘Science in the Witness Box: Expert Medical Testimony in Criminal Poisoning Trials in England 1800–1860’ (bringing together her interest in crime, history, medicine and the legal process). This is her first novel.
First published 2012 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
Copyright © Deborah Burrows 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Burrows, Deborah.
A stranger in my street / Deborah Burrows.
A823.4
Adobe eReader format: 9781743348093
EPUB format: 9781743348109
Online format: 9781743348086
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group
Cover design by Nada Backovic
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