Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  ‘I’ll just look at her.’

  The nurse’s disapproval had been as obvious as Mrs Allingham’s but Tara had not cared. She was exhausted and the Baby had looked unpleasantly sticky, a small pink scrap that had nothing whatever to do with her. Even afterwards, when Margaret had been washed and dressed in her soft wincyette nightgown, she had felt strangely detached. No rush of maternal love. Nothing really beyond a mild interest and a certain amount of pride. These emotions had been extended to include incredulity when the visitors began to arrive. What did people see in a baby to go so completely overboard about them? She was a nice little thing of course and very pretty – Tara did not think she could have borne it if Margaret had been fat, bald or marred in some way. But to coo and visibly melt … she simply could not understand it. She herself was vaguely disconcerted by the baby’s wide blue stare and damp nether regions. And when she yelled long and lustily Tara was only too glad to hand her over to Nanny, in spite of her almost equal irritation with the woman’s cold superiority and obvious impatience with Tara’s half-hearted efforts to quieten her.

  Now, however, leaning over the crib she was aware of the first stirrings of real tenderness. Margaret looked like a little cherub sleeping there with the tiny soft toy dangling beside her. Nanny had not wanted the toy in the crib, saying that for the sake of hygiene it was best to have nothing near the baby which could not be sterilized or at the very least thoroughly washed, but Tara had insisted, as much to assert her authority as Margaret’s mother as for any other reason, and so the teddy was there, dangling on its lemon ribbon a few inches from the small button nose.

  ‘Margaret!’ Tara said softly, liking the sound of the name and thinking how pleased Maggie would be if she knew the baby had been called after her.

  ‘Mrs Allingham – please!’ The sharp hiss from behind her made Tara jump, her fingernail scagged Margaret’s cheek and she began to squirm. Tara spun round to see Nanny standing threateningly in the doorway. Her uniform had been abandoned now. She was wearing an enormous ‘sensible’ dressing gown but this in no way detracted from her awesome appearance.

  ‘Do you have to creep up on me like that, Nanny?’ Tara demanded.

  Margaret’s squirms became convulsive and she emitted the first warning wail.

  ‘Now see what you have done!’ Nanny bustled towards the crib. ‘She was asleep. Now you’ve woken her – and she is not due to be fed for another hour.’ ‘She’s woken up because you made me jump,’ Tara objected.

  Nanny practically elbowed Tara aside, turning Margaret over and rocking the crib, but the crying only grew louder.

  ‘Seeing she’s awake she might as well be fed now,’ Tara said.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Nanny snapped. ‘Babies have to learn a routine.’

  ‘But if she’s hungry …’

  ‘Allow me to know my job please, Mrs Allingham.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Tara said angrily. ‘She is my baby!’

  Nanny’s cold back was her only reply and Tara turned away overcome with a feeling of helplessness. Under any other circumstances she would have flared back, asserting herself without hesitation. But since she had been here in the Allinghams’ house her self-confidence had deserted her.

  Well, what now? Stay here and admit she had no say in the routine of her own child, or go back downstairs and be intimidated by Mrs Allingham and shamed by her smart friends? Tara felt her lip tremble. If only Richard were here! If Richard were here she could put up with anything!

  I’ll telephone him! she thought suddenly. It’s late but he’ll still be up, relaxing in the mess. Richard was not one to retire early.

  Eager to hear his voice she hurried along to her own room and lifted the extension telephone to place the call. Crackles, clicks, and operators’ monotonous tones charted its progress along the miles of telephone lines. And then at last the AAMWS clerk at 138 AGH.

  ‘Captain Allingham? I’ll try to find him for you.’

  Another wait. With every crackle Tara wondered if the line would be lost. She sat in the basket chair beside the bed, one foot drawn up beneath her, picturing his surprise. She hardly ever called him. It was not exactly forbidden but it was frowned upon. But surely just once in a while no one could object?

  ‘Hello?’ It was Richard, his voice slightly distorted by the distance.

  ‘Hello, it’s me, Tara.’

  ‘Tara! What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Oh. You’re all right then, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Your mother is having a dinner party and the baby is crying but apart from that we’re all fine. How about you?’

  ‘Tara, this is a hospital line. You shouldn’t ring me on it for no reason.’

  ‘Richard – I miss you …’

  ‘And I miss you. But we can’t talk about it now. I’ll write to you. Goodnight now.’

  ‘Good …’ she began obediently, but before she could even finish the word a click and a buzz indicated the line gone dead. ‘… night,’ she said and it echoed hollowly back in her own ears.

  I ought to understand, Tara thought. Perhaps I do. Perhaps I understand too well.

  And for a long while she sat there in the half-light with the telephone still cradled to her chest.

  ‘Richard, do you think you could do something for me?’ Alys put her head around the door of the treatment room where he had just finished seeing his last patient.

  ‘Alys! What are you doing here? Come in!’ Pen in hand he looked up from completing a notes sheet.

  ‘My boss is seeing your boss and I’m taking this opportunity to ask if you could have a quick look at my thumb for me. I think I’ve got a bit of glass in it – it’s giving me hell but I can’t see anything. I know it sounds idiotic but every time I grab the gear stick I’m yelling and it’s driving the General mad.’

  He smiled. ‘A mad General in this neck of the woods we can do without. Just give me a second to finish this and I’ll have a look at it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She pulled up a canvas-seated chair and relaxed into it, watching him work. After a few minutes he put down his pen, boxed the record cards and stacked them on top of his filing cabinet.

  ‘My clerk can put these away. Now, tell me about this thumb of yours.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell really. One of the girls broke a glass in the mess and I helped to clear it up. I felt it prick at the time and thought no more about it. But now …’

  ‘That will teach you to let people clear up their own messes. Let’s have a look.’

  She gave him her hand and he prodded the ball of her thumb where a single spot in the broken skin showed angry red. She winced. ‘Ow!’

  He was holding her hand, dabbing at her thumb with antiseptic-soaked cotton wool. She looked up at him and as their eyes met something sharp as the glass had been yet strangely sweet stirred in the pit of her stomach.

  He felt it too. His hands stilled, his whole body seemed to freeze. Only within the frame of utter calm he was aware of the inner turmoil which was sweeping away the barriers of propriety. He looked at her and felt the values of a lifetime lose their importance, looked at her and desired her more than he had ever desired anyone, even Tara, because the desire he felt for Tara was a physical thing and this was much much more. The physical was there, in the touch of their hands and the vibrant chords which sprang from that touch. But it was mental too, the reaching out of two minds, and also spiritual. The wholeness of it was dizzying, reducing thought to a single level – Alys sweeping away any consideration beyond her.

  She moved slowly, like a dreamer, one fluid movement and she was on her feet and in his arms. Her hair brushed softly against his cheek and then their lips were touching, drawing, clinging. For one long timeless moment they remained rendered helpless by the suppressed desire of the years suddenly became reality. Then she twisted away, pressing her hand to her mouth as if physically to remove the touch of his lips.

  ‘No
!’ Above her hand her eyes revealed her conflicting emotions – shock and longing, fear and love. ‘Richard – no! We mustn’t!’

  Why not? he wanted to say. But already sanity was returning. He knew why not and so did she. No point in making things worse by putting into words things which were best left unsaid.

  ‘Alys …’

  ‘I think I had better go,’ she said. Her voice was taut and breathy, adding to the awkwardness between them. He nodded, unable even now to wish she had not come.

  Only when the door had closed behind her and he was alone did the thought occur. And even then it had nothing to do with the fact that he regretted the moment of truth and love which they had shared. Only that he knew with a feeling of great sadness that nothing in his life could ever be simple and straightforward again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tara sat in the basket chair in her bedroom reading and rereading the letter with a mixture of dawning horror and disbelief. The war was virtually over. After the Allies had bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki the Japs had agreed to lay down their arms – it was not only a matter of the official surrender being signed. But Richard was not coming home. He was going to Singapore to help set up a hospital to care for the Australians who had survived the Japanese prison camps.

  ‘They are going to be in a bad way after being in Japanese hands for three years,’ he had written, ‘ They will be suffering from all the tropical diseases that you know only too well and they are probably half-starved into the bargain. We have to be ready to do all we can to help them.’

  The words blurred before her eyes in a red mist. Oh yes, I’m sure we do, she thought. Poor sods, I don’t begrudge them anything we can do for them. Send food. Send medical supplies. Send every able-bodied doctor and nurse we can spare. But not Richard. Oh no, not Richard.

  She riffled the pages together and stood up, crossing to the window. Darkness had fallen, the soft dark of a late August evening, but it was too early yet for stars. She jerked the curtain across, shutting out the night, but some of it seemed to have crept inside making a small dark place at the pit of her stomach.

  It had been a good day, one of the best since she had come to Victoria. She and Nanny had taken Margaret into Melbourne to shop for baby clothes – first-size dresses and matinee jackets – with spring and summer just around the corner Tara wanted to have first choice of what little there would be in the shops. Nanny for once had been in a good mood, pushing the lightweight pram which stowed away conveniently in the Daimler when a journey was involved (trips within walking distance were made with Margaret riding in the regal navy blue coach built perambulator whose handlebars reached halfway up Tara’s chest), and Tara had walked happily alongside enjoying the appreciative glances which Margaret attracted.

  Oh, she was a beautiful child, everyone said so – except, of course, when she was crying. But today she had not cried. She had been a model baby, sleeping peacefully during the journey, cooing at the assistant at the baby-wear counter in the Department Store and not depositing a single damp patch on Tara’s skirt or shoulder when she cuddled her. In spite of the shortages they had been quite lucky with their shopping – Tara had chosen half-a-dozen dresses, three smocked, three lace-trimmed, and a little jacket with a rabbit-fur collar. The jacket was an extravagance, she knew – with the warmer weather just around the corner there would hardly be the opportunity for Margaret to wear it – but Tara fell in love with it and Margaret looked so adorable with her small face peeping above the snow-white fur. She had managed, however, to resist Nanny’s urgings to buy two or three bonnets – it was such a shame to cover Margaret’s lovely hair! – and she placated the older woman by tracking down a good supply of baby wool as Nanny had expressed a desire to do some knitting for Margaret in the long hours when she sat alone in her room with only her wireless for company.

  Yes, all in all it had been a good day, marred only by the knowledge that she had to sit through one of Mrs Allingham’s dinner parties this evening. But, as they drove home through the failing afternoon light, she had felt she could cope with even her mother-in-law’s snobbish friends.

  And then this. She had been so excited to find a letter from Richard awaiting her – when she recognized his handwriting on the envelope lying on the silver salver in the hall she had snatched it up eagerly, escaping as soon as possible to read it in privacy. She had curled up in the wicker chair, wanting to extend anticipation yet unable to resist tearing open the envelope immediately. And then her pleasure had turned to dismay as she read what he had to say.

  Why Richard? she asked herself, distraught at the prospect of the long months before she would see him again. Of all the doctors who could have been sent, why Richard? Surely there must be enough single men who would have been only too happy to take the opportunity to see another country before settling back to civilian life. So why send a man who had a career to resume, and a wife and baby waiting for him?

  She glanced at the brass carriage clock which stood on the mantelpiece. Ten past six – an hour and more yet before she would be expected to put in an appearance for dinner. She had planned to look in on Margaret’s evening feed and perhaps insist on giving her her bottle. From time to time she experienced feelings of guilt that she had been unable to produce enough milk to feed Margaret herself – though she was also relieved at how quickly her figure had returned to normal. But now all domestic thoughts were far from her mind. She could think of nothing but that Richard was not coming home.

  I suppose I ought to go down and tell his mother before the guests arrive, she thought. Richard had asked her to do this. ‘I’ll write to my mother myself in the next few days but perhaps you would prepare her,’ he had put it. Well, it would not be fair to spring it on her in front of her guests. And little as she liked Mrs Allingham it would be a relief to talk about it to anyone – even her.

  She found Richard’s mother in the dining room making last minute adjustments to the table settings. As usual they were immaculate – snow-white tablecloth with the napkins folded into white water lilies, crystal glassware and silver cutlery reflecting each tiny facet of light from the overhead chandeliers, and a perfectly arranged centrepiece of Christmas roses and anemones low enough not to interfere with the guests’ view of one another across the table. As she entered the room Mrs Allingham looked up, surprised. ‘Tara! I thought you would be resting after your tiring day.’

  Normally, Tara would have been irritated by the suggestion that an afternoon’s shopping could have been too much for her. This evening her mind was too full of Richard to allow room for any other thought.

  ‘Richard is going to Singapore,’ she said.

  One of Mrs Allingham’s eyebrows arched slightly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I had a letter from Richard. He’s not coming home – not yet anyway. He says doctors are needed to take care of the POWs and he is going to be one of them. He’s sailing any day now. He didn’t give a date of course – I suppose the censor would have cut it out if he had – but reading between the lines he could have left already.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mrs Allingham’s voice was expressionless. Only the slight tremble of her hand on the flower arrangement betrayed any emotion. ‘Singapore – good heavens. I thought he’d finished with overseas service.’

  ‘So did I!’ Tara’s usual reserve with her mother-in-law was forgotten now in her distress. ‘ Oh, why couldn’t they have sent someone without any ties? I thought now the war is nearly over he’d be coming home.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Allingham was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose he must have volunteered.’

  ‘Volunteered?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you think so?’ Her voice was ice cool now, her eyes hard and bright. ‘Now I wonder why he would do something like that?’

  In spite of the spareness of her words her meaning was crystal clear.

  Tara reacted violently. ‘ How dare you! How dare you suggest he doesn’t want to come home to me!’

  Mrs Allingh
am assumed an expression of distate. ‘ Don’t be ridiculous, Tara.’

  ‘Sure I know you don’t like me,’ Tara ran on. ‘ I know you think I’m not good enough for him. But suggesting he’d rather go to Singapore than come home to me – well! And there’s Margaret too. He’s never even seen her. Oh, he wouldn’t do it – I know he wouldn’t!’

  Mrs Allingham turned away, moving a crystal goblet a mere fraction of an inch. The set of her shoulders was stiff.

  ‘You are becoming hysterial, Tara. You are upset, I expect. I am upset to think I shall not be seeing my son again for a while. But that is no excuse for such wild talk. I think the best thing would be for you to retire and compose yourself. I wouldn’t want our guests to see you like this.’

  Tears blurred Tara’s eyes – tears which seemed to come too readily since Margaret’s birth. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you. I’ll be the model daughter-in-law this evening – as far as I’m capable, anyway.’

  She turned and ran from the room back up the stairs but there was no escape from the hurtful implication behind Mrs Allingham’s words. Had Richard volunteered to go to Singapore? Didn’t he want to come home to her? It was a terrible thought, worse even than the prospect of more months in this prison without the comfort of his presence, worse than the knowledge that she could never be the daughter-in-law Mrs Allingham wanted. She couldn’t believe it – wouldn’t believe it – and yet …

  Too clearly she was remembering the lack of warmth in his greeting when she had surprised him by hopping over from New Guinea. Reserve where there should only have been joy, coolness instead of ecstasy. The look on his face when the provosts had come for her. The way he had cut her off when she tried to telephone him …

  I forced him to marry me, she thought. Oh yes I did. I know I told him the night before the wedding that there was no need, but Richard is a gentleman. It wouldn’t have been in his nature to pull out then. He hates scenes. He avoids unpleasantness. Perhaps he is delaying coming home because when he does he will have to face the most unpleasant fact of all – that he is married to me, Tara Kelly, immigrant Irish, raised in the slums of Sydney.…