Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Australia!’ I sound like a dummy, she thought. But her mind was still refusing to function.

  ‘Of course.’ He put down his pen and for the first time during the entire consultation a grin spread across his slightly raddled features. ‘I am afraid you will have to tell your CO she is going to have to find somebody else to clean the latrines!’

  The wheels were set in motion quickly now; the last thing the CO wanted was a pregnant AAMWS who would be, in her judgement, not only a liability but also an embarrassment. When Tara’s waist began to spread the bulge beneath her uniform would be far more readily noticeable than the rings on her fingers and charges against the morals of the service girls, unfair as they were for the most part, were a thorn in the flesh of authority.

  Tara wrote to tell Richard the news but even before he had time to reply she had received her discharge papers and she took them with a mixture of relief and regret – a summing up, really, of her feelings about her condition. I’ll never make a mother! Tara thought in panic. I’m not sure that I want a baby at all – I just won’t know what to do with it!

  But it was too late now to wish she had given some thought to such an eventuality. The baby was a reality growing inside her.

  At least it will get me out of New Guinea, Tara thought, trying to look on the bright side. And it will be a bond between me and Richard. He’ll think twice about dumping me if there is a baby to consider.

  This time when she arrived back in Queensland Richard was there to meet her. And it was plain from the outset that while she had her private doubts about the prospect of becoming a mother, Richard was delighted.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, fussing around her with all the solicitude of the father to be. ‘The journey didn’t upset you?’

  ‘No – no, I’m fine. I just feel a bit sick in the mornings, that’s all,’ she said, enjoying his concern.

  He nodded. ‘I could give you something for that but I’d rather not. The less medication you take now the better for the baby. We don’t want to do anything that might put it at risk, do we?’

  Tara said nothing. She hated the constant nausea and felt that she might have been prepared to take a slight risk in order to get rid of it. But she did not want to invite Richard’s disapproval. It was so lovely having him fussing over her.

  ‘Anyway, once you get to Melbourne Mother will take care of you,’ he went on.

  She looked at him sharply. ‘Melbourne?’

  ‘Where else? You can’t stay here, Tara. This is still a battle zone. And besides …’ His face softened into a smile. ‘The Allinghams have been born in Melbourne for generations. I’d like my son – our son – to follow that tradition.’

  ‘You would?’ Why don’t I come right out and tell him I don’t want to go to Melbourne? Tara wondered. It was so unlike her to give in so easily. But then where Richard was concerned she wanted nothing more than to please.

  ‘I have telephoned Mother and she is delighted,’ he continued. ‘It’s just what she needs to take her mind off my father’s poor health. I know she isn’t an outgoing person, Tara, but she is very fond of you and she has promised me to make sure you are well looked after.’

  ‘Good,’ Tara said in a small voice.

  ‘If you ask me your biggest problem will be preventing her from spoiling the baby when it arrives,’ he said. ‘She is delighted at the prospect of a grandchild. And so am I. You have made me very happy, Tara.’

  He held her close and with her face buried in his chest Tara, for the first time, felt truly happy herself about the coming event.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  At last it seemed the end of the war was in sight. In May 1945, Prime Minister Churchill and President Truman proclaimed Victory in Europe and there only remained the final Japanese resistance to overcome.

  In June, Alys Peterson was granted two weeks’ leave and her first thought was to go home to Melbourne to see John.

  Since she had last seen him they had corresponded regularly and his letters had given no hint of his personal heartache. But there had been one piece of sombre news – Anne, his wife, had died suddenly – and knowing him as she did Alys guessed that coming on top of the death of his son, John would be more deeply affected than he would ever show, and she was anxious to see him and offer what comfort she could.

  A day or two before she was due to leave for Victoria she was in the vicinity of 138 and she sought out Richard.

  ‘I am going home the day after tomorrow. I wondered if you might want me to act as carrier pigeon.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Alys!’ He was looking extremely cheerful, she thought. A moment later she discovered the reason. ‘One thing you will be able to do that I haven’t yet been able to do – see my new daughter.’

  ‘Your daughter! Oh Richard – Tara has had the baby then?’

  ‘Three weeks ago.’ He beamed, every inch the proud father. ‘We are calling her Margaret.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name. After Princess Margaret Rose?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. It was Tara’s choice.’

  ‘And they are well?’

  ‘Both doing fine. I spoke to Tara on the telephone yesterday. She says the baby has a lusty pair of lungs – but what else would you expect? She gets them from Tara, too, I expect.’ He smiled and she felt a stab of envy tinged with sadness. Once she might have given birth to a baby with a pair of lusty lungs. Once …

  ‘They are living with my parents at present,’ he went on, unaware of her moment’s grief for a baby conceived and lost again so swiftly. ‘As soon as this war is over and things get back to normal we shall be able to set up a home of our own, but for the moment they are better off under my mother’s wing. I wouldn’t want Tara on her own with a young baby to take care of.’

  ‘A new baby must be a tremendous responsibility,’ Alys said. ‘I expect your parents dote on her.’

  ‘I’m sure they do! Anyway, Alys, if you do have time to look them up, I know Tara would be delighted to see you. And you can pass on my love – and give me a full report when you get back.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised.

  This time, travelling alone, the journey seemed much longer and for the first time for months she had time to think. In Queensland, driving the General, every moment was occupied. Now, as the train surged endlessly along she gazed out at the rolling vista of New South Wales and gave free rein to her thoughts.

  The war seemed to have been going on forever. It was difficult almost to remember that there had been a life before it began. But it would soon be over now – the end was definitely in sight, everyone said so. Germany had collapsed and it was only a matter of time before Japan went the same way – thank God. The Allies had recaptured Rangoon, the USAF had devastated Tokyo in a night bombing raid. It could not be long now before the last defiant resistance crumbled and peace was declared in the Pacific, as it already had been in Europe.

  And when the war was over – what then? The POWs would be released – briefly, Alys thought of Kate Harris’ boyfriend and the thousands like him who had spent the last years in captivity under God-only-knew what conditions. The boys would come home. And gradually the armed forces would be demobilized. Men who had grown accustomed to service life and boys who had never known any other regime would return to a world where the women had taken over their traditional jobs. They would have to adjust, all of them.

  And she – Alys – what would she do? Terrible as it had been the war had given her a purpose in life, a niche where she could make use of her talents. What use would they be in the brave new world? She could never go back to living the life of a lady of leisure, that much she knew. But what was the alternative?

  The knowledge that she personally was dreading the inevitable limbo weighed heavily on her. How could any sane normal person actually wish that this hell would continue? But she did. She did.

  I’ll think of something, Alys promised herself. I’ll have to. But the question of what was blurred
into an impenetrable fog by the constant movement of the train and the racketing wheels threw back no answer.

  The nursery was decorated in lemon. Lemon curtains, paler lemon walls, a blanket and quilt edged with frilling to match the curtains on the clear varnished drop-sided wooden cot.

  The baby was not using the cot yet, though it was ready for her – she was still far too small. She lay in a wicker cradle, draped with a froth of lemon lace – a small pink scrap with perfect shell-like ears, a button nose and a mass of soft dark hair.

  As Alys bent over the cradle the baby looked up at her with unwinking blue eyes, eyes that at less than a month old were sharp and focussed. Alys touched her small fist and tiny perfectly formed fingers closed over hers. ‘ She is adorable,’ Alys said.

  ‘You wouldn’t think that if you heard her yelling in the wee small hours,’ Tara returned with grim humour.

  Somehow, she looked oddly out of place in this room – in the whole house, really. The thought had occurred to Alys the moment she had been shown into the cool luxury of Richard’s parents’ home and Tara had come downstairs to greet her – a Tara who was still a little plumper than she remembered her, wearing a green dress which had somehow been acquired to fit her new shape in spite of clothes rationing and shortages; a Tara who, for all the broken nights, looked rested and normal yet somehow, at the same time, slightly ill at ease.

  There was a nanny to look after little Margaret, of course. That was the reason Tara managed to look rested in spite of the nights when the baby cried. But perhaps it was also the reason for her air of discomfort. She was Margaret’s mother, yet there was always someone there, who apparently knew better than she did what the baby did, or did not, need.

  Now, as they peered over the edge of the crib, the nanny hovered, a middle-aged woman picked by Richard’s mother for her capability.

  ‘Would you like to hold her for a minute?’ Tara asked and the nanny stepped forward.

  ‘I wouldn’t pick her up, Mrs. Allingham.’ Her tone was intimidating. ‘ Babies need to get used to a routine.’

  ‘I am sure it won’t hurt her!’ Tara snapped, turning back the covers and lifting out little Margaret …

  ‘You’ll spoil her!’ the nanny clucked.

  Tara ignored her, placing Margaret in Alys’ arms, but the frost in the atmosphere was apparent.

  ‘Well, what do you think of her?’ Tara asked.

  Alys held the small round bundle with slight awkwardness. The baby’s hair was silky against her bare arm and the smell of oil and powder tickled in her nose. A sense of wonder suffused her and with it a sharp stab of sadness for her own lost baby – and for the babies she would never now have. When Dr Whitehorn had told her that the wounds she had sustained in the Darwin bombings would mean she would be unable to bear a child it had hardly seemed important. Becoming pregant again had been the last thing on her mind – all that had mattered was that she was alive.

  Now, however, holding Tara’s baby in her arms, she was aware of a rush of choking primeval emotion.

  ‘She is beautiful,’ she said and the words caught like small pebbles in her throat. ‘You must be very proud of her, Tara.’

  ‘Yes.’ Again there was an expression of uncertainty on Tara’s face but this time Alys did not notice it. Carefully, she handed the baby back, relinquishing her warm softness with reluctance.

  ‘I shall tell Richard he has the most gorgeous daughter imaginable,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame he can’t see her like this. They grow so quickly, don’t they? I hope you are taking plenty of photographs.’

  ‘Mrs Allingham has arranged for a professional to come in and take some studio style ones next week.’ There was a hard note in Tara’s voice. For the moment Alys wondered if it was directed at her, then as Tara went on: ‘Nanny doesn’t think it’s good for Margaret to have too many flashbulbs popping,’ she relaxed. No, it was probably the nanny arousing Tara’s venom. This suspicion was reinforced when Tara replaced the baby in the cradle and the nanny immediately swooped to rearrange her position and re-tuck the covers in her own fashion.

  Poor Tara! Alys thought, then smiled ruefully. Tara was more than capable of holding her own with an overbearing old woman. And what a small price it was to pay for all she had! Not only a man like Richard in love with her, but also his baby.

  Not poor Tara – lucky, lucky Tara!

  It was only as she left the house that the moment’s insight flashed briefly once more. She turned to wave and was struck by an impression of utter loneliness surrounding the girl in the doorway.

  Loneliness! Oh ridiculous! She dismissed the thought and instead repeated her earlier mental comment.

  Lucky, lucky Tara!

  ‘You are very quiet, Alys,’ John said.

  They were in the big rambling kitchen at Buchlyvie. It was Flora’s day off and Alys had cooked them a meal – steaks and fried potatoes, followed by tinned passion fruit. Haute cuisine was not one of Alys’ talents but she had wanted to do it and had managed well enough. The steak, from John’s own beef cattle, was too tender for even a novice cook to spoil and the potatoes, luckily, tasted better when burned a little around the edges. Now they were lingering over their coffee, hot, sweet and freshly brewed so that the kitchen was full of the aroma.

  She glanced up at him, smiling briefly. ‘ Sorry. Am I being dreadful company? I didn’t mean to be.’

  He stretched his legs. ‘You couldn’t be dreadful company if you tried. You’re just not yourself, that’s all.’

  ‘I know. I came to cheer you up and here I am behaving like the original wet blanket.’

  He smiled. He was looking better, she thought, much better than when she had last seen him, better than she had expected. Except, of course, that the underlying sadness was there, waiting to be uncovered in unsuspecting moments. ‘ You don’t have to make an effort to cheer me up, Alys. You do that just by being here. More coffee?’

  ‘Mm, yes please.’

  He stood up and crossed to fetch the coffee pot from the range.

  ‘This damned war has gone on for too long, that’s the trouble.’

  She was silent, remembering her thoughts on the journey.

  ‘Too long for most people. Certainly too long for you. But me …’

  He turned, coffee pot in hand, looking at her questioningly.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I shall be like a fish out of water.’

  ‘You’ll find something.’ He refilled her cup and handed it to her. ‘Something will turn up. It always does.’

  She nodded. ‘ I suppose so. The trouble is I don’t really fit in anywhere any more. I went to see Tara yesterday. You remember Tara – Richard’s wife. She has a baby now, a lovely little thing. For a bit I almost envied her, especially since having a baby of my own is something I’ll never be able to do. And then I thought … would I really want to be her anyway? All the things she has are the things I tried to escape from – luxury living, everything done for you so that you feel totally useless, even a nanny to take care of the baby. So what do I want? A challenge, I suppose so, but …’ she broke off, sipping her coffee. ‘It’s funny, last time I was home my father said something that made me think. He said he wished he had taken me into the business, treated me like the son he never had. And you know I think I would have liked that. But it’s too late now, of course. No, I’m not looking forward to the war ending, John. It’s a terrible thing to say, I know. I’m being utterly selfish. But I simply don’t know what I shall do.’

  For a moment he said nothing. The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the comfortable burping of the coffee pot and the regular tick of the mantle clock. He sat down, propping his feet on a low table and easing his back to the lines of his chair.

  ‘I could make a suggestion,’ he said. ‘But I don’t suppose it would appeal to you.’

  ‘I’m open to any suggestions. Try me.’


  ‘You could always marry me,’ he said.

  She froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. ‘ Marry you?’

  ‘You see, I told you the idea wouldn’t appeal to you.’

  ‘It’s not that. But you must admit it’s a bit sudden.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? And selfish of me too. I’m a selfish old man, Alys.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘You are not selfish and you are certainly not old. It’s just that – well, it had never occurred to me. I thought we were just friends.’

  ‘Just friends.’ He nodded. ‘That’s what makes me say I’m old, Alys. To me, at my age, it seems that is the best possible basis for marriage. To get on really well together. To enjoy one another’s company. And I’m selfish because to you, at your age, it’s quite plain you want – need – more than that.’

  ‘Oh John!’

  ‘It’s true. I know that. You want to be swept off your feet. I’ll never do that – we’ve gone past that, you and I. And I’m too damned old to play games, anyway.’

  ‘Will you stop saying you are old!’

  He ignored her. ‘Do you know that once I had this crazy idea that perhaps you and Stuart …? Don’t know where I got it from – I’d have been jealous as hell if it had happened! But that’s all in the past. Foolish dreams – all broken now. I’ve lost my son. I don’t want to lose you too, Alys.’

  ‘You’ll never lose me!’ she said vehemently. ‘ I enjoy being here with you too much for that.’

  ‘Of course I’ll lose you. It’s inevitable. When you make a new life for yourself you’ll have less and less time for me. There you are. Now you can see how selfish I am! But I do have a few things to offer you. If you married me you certainly would not have a life of luxury as you call it. This is a working house – a very busy one. You could help me run the farm; take over the business side of it, perhaps. We could work out the details. And, of course, there’s always my car …’

  ‘Your car!’ she laughed. ‘ Do you really think I would marry you for your car?’

  ‘Well, I have to be able to offer you some inducement.’