Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  ‘You underestimate yourself. What makes you think I would need inducement?’ she hesitated. ‘You know I can’t have children?’

  ‘At my age I’m not at all certain I would want to start again anyway.’ He drained his cup. ‘If you had wanted children, I might have thought twice about what I’m suggesting. As it is … well, think about it anyway. You don’t have to give me an answer in a hurry. I shall still be here waiting when the war ends and you are demobilized. And don’t think I shall tell you never to darken my door again if the answer is no. I hope we can still be friends.’

  ‘Oh John, of course!’ she crossed to him, taking his hands. ‘ I’m very flattered that you should ask me. And I will think about it. But I can’t give an answer now. You’ve taken me too much by surprise.’

  ‘Take your time.’ He smiled at her. ‘But I can’t pretend you wouldn’t make me a very happy man if your answer was to be yes.’

  She thought about it all the way home, she thought about it while sharing a bedtime drink with her father, she thought about it most of the night, getting up when she finally accepted that sleep was impossible and sitting in her dressing gown at her bedroom window looking down over the sleeping city of Melbourne.

  Her mind had been set awhirl by the suddenness of it, yet at the same time she was aware of a soft glow of something very like peace suffusing the core of her.

  This was not the way she had imagined it would be when a man proposed marriage to her – there were no wild bells of joy, no heady currents of excitement coursing through her veins and setting up whirlpools of anticipation in the deepest parts of her. But then her relationship with John had never been like that.

  Briefly, she found herself remembering the way it had been with Race – dizzying desire, crazy all-consuming longing – and uncertainty and heartache, pain and despair. Maybe she would never reach the heights with John, but there was no danger of falling into the depths either. Did she really want to risk that kind of total misery ever again? For a while, foolishly, she had thought she might – that perhaps Richard Allingham could have tempted her to take that risk. But Richard had married Tara and she had glimpsed – just glimpsed, no more – the bitter truth that she could still be hurt.

  But John … John was different. John would never hurt her as Race had done. Partly because he was John – and partly because she would never give him the emotional weapons. She loved him, yes she did, but in a different way. This was a quiet love, enduring, a love born of friendship and respect, nourished by caring and sharing.

  But marriage. It had never occurred to her – now she wondered why not. They would be good for one another, that much was certain. The easy warmth of their relationship would extend far beyond the marriage bed. And she liked the idea of living at Buchlyvie, being mistress of the house and learning to deal with the business side of the farm. And, of course, giving John some of the comforts of home he had been missing all these years.

  As dawn began to lighten the sky behind the roofs and spires of Hawthorn, Alys knew she had decided.

  Buchlyvie’s paddocks were withered and yellow from the continuing drought and the hooves of the sleek bay kicked up a fine haze of dust as he cantered towards the ridge where a clump of gums stood in sharp relief against the deep blue of the sky.

  From the ridge John saw him coming and though he was still half a mile away knew who the rider would be. The bay had a wicked reputation so that none of the Land Army girls would go near him and the only other person to ride him with that reckless skill was dead in the islands. John untied his own horse from the wilga gum where he was tethered, mounted and rode down the slope towards the cantering bay.

  As he drew nearer he was able to make out the figure of the rider and knew he had been right. She was wearing well-tailored breeches and shirt, but her hat had slipped back down her head to rest against her shoulders and her hair had come loose to stream in the wind. She reined in the horse and he obeyed her, slowing to a trot and then a walk with a slight contemptuous toss of his head that seemed to say: I did what you wanted but only because I thought I would!

  ‘Alys! What are you doing here?’ he greeted her.

  She was straight in the saddle holding the reins firmly yet tranquilly with one hand while the other caught the loose strands of hair, tucking them behind her ear. ‘I thought I ought to find out if you have changed your mind about that brainstorm you had yesterday – when you asked me to marry you, remember?’

  He tipped his own hat further down to shade his face.

  ‘Yes, I remember – and no, of course I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘Just as well!’ she smiled, using both hands now to hold the restless horse steady. ‘You see, once this war is over – well, I’ve decided to take you up on your offer.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Alys sat back in the mess chair crossing her long legs and looking at Richard from beneath the sweep of her eyelashes.

  ‘Well, there you are. I did your visiting for you and I am glad to report you have a fine and healthy daughter, every bit as beautiful as I had been led to believe. She is a sweetie, Richard. No bald head, dry red patches or pressure marks on your Margaret. She would be a perfect advertisement for baby oil or shampoo – or anything!’

  Richard smiled broadly making no attempt to conceal his pride.

  ‘I wish I could get to see her. She’ll probably be toddling before I make it. Still, they are getting some photographs done of her, you say. That will be something. But it won’t help her to get to know me. She’ll scream her head off no doubt when I do finally put in an appearance, wondering who in the world is this strange man.

  ‘I’m sure your bedside manner will soon win her over,’ Alys said impishly.

  ‘You have to be joking. Any bedside manner I ever had got left behind in the Holy Land. Since then I have discovered bluntness is the best policy when dealing with servicemen. When I eventually get back to civilian life I am going to have to completely relearn my “bedside manner” as you call it. And find out how to deal with a daughter into the bargain!’

  ‘Deal with a daughter – don’t know that I care for the sound of that!’

  ‘I never imagined I’d have a little girl! A son and heir – that’s what I wanted. The funny thing is that now I’ve got her I can’t imagine anything nicer than having a daughter. A little girl in frilly petticoats holding onto my hand and looking up at me as if I was the greatest bloke in Australia.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Alys pulled a face. ‘ That sounds like a typical man’s view to me. Just don’t forget she is a person in her own right. She might not fit your image of what she should be at all.’

  Richard held up a placating hand. ‘All right. Point taken.’

  ‘I hope so. She might be like me and prefer motor cars to dolls.’

  His eyes met hers. ‘ If she was to turn out like you, Alys, I should be very pleased.’

  Colour flooded her cheeks at the unexpected compliment. Then she said quickly: ‘ I have some news of my own for you. John has asked me to marry him.’

  She was looking directly at him and she saw his face change. The momentary surprise – and something else. Dismay? Surely not! Why should he be dismayed that she was going to marry John? Then it was gone … ‘I take it you have accepted.’ His voice was even yet she could have sworn for a moment that same quality which she had glimpsed in his expression was reflected in it.

  ‘Yes. Oh, it won’t be until the war is over, of course, but …’

  ‘That shouldn’t be long now. Well, Alys, I am very pleased for you if that is what you want.’

  Again, that slight reservation. It communicated itself to her and suddenly she was thinking. Is it? Is it what I want? I don’t know. I’d be happy with him. I could make him happy. But the way I feel about him – is it enough? With a conscious effort she collected herself.

  ‘You are the first to know. And I promise you that when we do decide upon a date you and Tara will be top of our guest list.’
She hesitated, aware of the slight uncertainty in her own voice, then laughed. ‘ If the war lasts much longer, Margaret might be old enough to be a bridesmaid!’

  He laughed too and the awkwardness passed – almost, but not quite.

  ‘I certainly hope it won’t be that long! Thanks for coming to see me, Alys, and passing on all the news.’

  She stood up. ‘I’d better be getting back to my base.’

  He rose also, following her to the door. ‘ Take care, Alys. Come and see me again if you are nearby.’

  ‘I will.’ She smiled at him, their eyes met. Then, because something very odd was happening in the pit of her stomach, she turned and walked quickly away into the night.

  Richard stood watching her go, watching her slender figure, trim in her uniform, silhouetted against the lights of an approaching ambulance. He passed a hand through his hair. He felt tired suddenly, yet strangely awake. Alert in every nerve, every brain cell. And there was a knife edge of emotion driving into him too – something halfway between anger and despair.

  He swung on his heel and went back into the mess room. What the hell was wrong with him? A few minutes earlier and his mind had been full of Tara and the baby, his feelings pure and simple – pride in being a father. Now, suddenly, he could think of nothing but that Alys was going to marry John.

  But why should that fact stir up such a hornet’s nest of emotion? Why shouldn’t she marry him? They were obviously close – and it was only natural that a girl like Alys should want to many.

  But – not him! He’s too old for her, he thought and felt a stab of anger again, not white hot, because white hot anger was something Richard was incapable of, but a dull ache painful in its intensity. He is too old for her – old enough to be her father. She’s young, beautiful, strong – and yet at the same time somehow very vulnerable. A picture of her lying in the hospital bed after the bombing of Darwin, face chalk-white, hair fanned out on the pillow and gleaming like burnished copper, came into his mind and he was remembering how he had felt then – angry at the waste of all that youth and beauty and moved by a twist of emotion which had been close to desire. He had quickly squashed the impulse as unprofessional and she had been shipped south passing out of his life as quickly as she had entered it. But if she had not been shipped south who knew what would have developed? She had not known John then and he had not been involved with Tara. There would have been nothing to come between them.

  The same indefinable sense of regret sunk a bore hole to the pit of his stomach again and he moved abruptly, leaving the mess and pulling the door closed behind him. The night was dark, no ambulance lights illuminating the drive now, only the tiny pinpricks of brightness creeping between the ‘brown-out’ at the mess windows and in the darkness another picture crept before his eyes – Alys in Melbourne; coming into the restaurant with John, radiantly beautiful in her green dress. He had experienced another emotion then – jealousy. At the time he had scarcely recognized it, so foreign was it to his nature. But he recognized it now with a suddenness that shocked him to the core. She had stood there holding onto John’s arm and he had experienced a moment’s blinding hurt – just as he had when she had revealed that John had asked her to marry him. And in truth it had nothing to do with John’s age – nothing at all. Whoever the man at her side had been it would have been the same.

  Dear God, I’m in love with her! he thought and the shock waves ran through him in ever-widening circles. I’m in love with her and I never realized it until now. How blind and stupid could I be?

  The darkness swallowed him and he walked with no inkling of where he was going, while the newfound realization opened doors in his mind. In the bushes beside the path the crickets chirped and a breeze stirred in the leaves drawing from them a soft whispering rustle which seemed to give tangible voice to his thoughts.

  How had it happened? Life had always seemed so simple to him, even in moments of crisis. Now suddenly all was confusion. In love with one woman and married to another. But how – how? Useless to blame the war and tell himself that in time of peace such a thing could never have happened. He suspected that Tara could have bewitched him under any circumstances. She had been a madness with him and he had desired her as he had never desired any other woman. But in all honesty he thought he had known almost from the moment of marrying her that it could never work. She was uneasy in his world, he was uneasy with her uninhibited philosophy of life. Being apart had been almost a relief and only the fact of her pregnancy had brought him down to earth, made him realize his responsibilities and actually enjoy the prospect of being a father.

  Until Alys had walked into the mess and told him she was to marry John. And there was suddenly nowhere to hide from the knowledge of his feelings for her.

  The path petered out into bush, the leaves of an overhanging gum whipped his cheek and he stopped abruptly. It was too late now to harbour thoughts of Alys – almost three years too late. You are a husband and a father now – she will soon be a wife. Might as well resign yourself to the fact.

  But as he turned, walking back towards the lights of the hospital, his step was slow, his shoulders had the stoop of an old man and there was no escape from the weight within him.

  Tara set down her coffee cup, folded her napkin and pushed back the Chippendale dining chair. At once conversation around the dinner table ceased and five pairs of eyes turned to her questioningly.

  ‘Excuse me, I just want to make sure Margaret is all right,’ she said quickly.

  ‘My dear, I am sure there is no need for that,’ Mrs Allingham said. There was a hint of ice beneath the pleasantly modulated tones which was not lost on Tara. ‘ Nanny is with her is she not?’

  ‘Yes, but …?’

  ‘Tara wants to see for herself. That is a mother’s prerogative.’ Charles Allingham smiled, his eyes, so like an older version of Richard’s, twinkling at her. ‘Go on, Tara, take no notice. If you want to look in on your baby I am sure nobody here will mind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tara said gratefully. She crossed the room, aware of the swift resumption of conversation behind her and the chink of glasses as the port and liqueurs were passed yet again – and aware, too, of Mrs Allingham’s disapproving eyes following her.

  She closed the door behind her and let her breath out on a sharp sigh. Blessed escape! She had offended Richard’s mother again, of course, but that could not be helped. She had the feeling that nothing she did or did not do would ever meet with Mrs Allingham’s complete approval. It was a fact of life that she was disappointed in her son’s choice of wife and, however well her breeding led her to disguise it, Tara could see through the veneer. So, upsetting Richard’s mother was a daily hazard and in this case infinitely preferable to remaining at the dinner table with her and her snobbish guests a moment longer.

  Through the closed door Tara heard the tinkle of their rather forced laughter and cringed. How she hated these dinner parties – hated the polite conversation and the stiff propriety, hated the tiny portions of food which were picked at rather than consumed, hated the vast quantities of different drinks, all of which had to be taken in the correct glasses. Damn stupid, she thought. She liked a drink as much as anyone but these people simply used it as yet another excuse for one-upmanship, discussing the wines knowledgeably, comparing vintages and origins – and spending on a single bottle a sum of money which would keep a poor Sydney family in food for a week. It was the one thing amongst all the luxury which truly grated on her, though in calmer moments she told herself she was being irrational – Red had never spared any expense when it came to his champagne and his whisky. But that had been different somehow. How she could not quite explain. But different for all that.

  I’ll never fit in with these people, Tara thought, not if I live to be ninety-four – and was immediately struck by a shaft of self-doubt.

  Just where did she belong? As a child in Sydney she had wanted nothing more than to break away from the squalor – longed for a little luxury. In the
army, she had disliked the rigours and the discipline and the hard living. Now, she had a life of wealth and opulence beyond her wildest dreams and she was still not satisfied. She loved Richard, of course, but Richard was not here. She had married him and found herself all alone in an environment which was totally foreign to her.

  I was probably happiest when I was with Red, she thought, climbing the sweeping staircase. Not because I loved him but because at least I had the comforts I enjoy, and the company of people I felt at home with. And I still had contact with the world of entertainment. He didn’t let me sing, but I always thought that one day he might.

  And that, of course, was the knub of the matter. She was never happier than when she was performing. Apart from Richard it was the one great passion of her life – the one thing that could make her feel she had something to give. For a moment, with the chandeliers casting their glittering light upon her as she climbed the stairs, she imagined she was back in the glare of a spotlight, hearing the murmuring anticipation of an audience and the roll of drums, seeing the smoke of countless cigars and cigarettes dancing in the shaft of light, experiencing the twist of excitement and fear and the power which would hold them in her spell. Oh, how she loved it! Loved everything about it, the glamour and the glitter, the surging adrenalin and the high on which it left her. But she had left it behind her now, left it for a husband she loved dearly and a child born of that love. Useless to hanker after it.

  She pushed open the door to Margaret’s room. A shaded nightlight showed the dim outlines of the cot and the crib, the tall chest of drawers, the low nursing chair. The connecting door to the nanny’s room was ajar, a band of bright light showing that Nanny was still up, probably reading or knitting. Tara crossed to the crib, leaned over and peeped inside.

  In the shadows she could see the silky soft hair dark against the lemon pillow, the curve of cheek and nose. She reached inside, turning back the sheet and trailing her finger against the baby’s cheek. It was smooth like a peach, Tara thought, but even softer. A moment’s love welled in her. She was not a maternal type. When Margaret had been born and the nurse had asked if she wanted to hold her she had shaken her head.