A Time of Secrets (33 page)

I woke up again when it was fully light. I opened my eyes to see that Eric was watching me. Then I saw he was holding a sketchpad and his hand was moving. I gave him a sleepy smile. ‘Show me,’ I said.

He lifted the pad to reveal a sketch of a sleeping woman – me with my hair loose and tangled on the pillow, face soft with sleep, lips relaxed and slightly parted. Although there was a hint only of the curves of my body under the bedclothes, somehow it was very erotic, and I blushed.

‘Promise me you won’t show that to anyone else,’ I said.

‘Only me,’ he replied. ‘No one but me.’

We looked at each other for a few heartbeats. I nodded, and when he smiled I had the feeling that something had been resolved between us. I reached out my hand to rub his cheek. It was rough with golden bristles.

The front door slammed shut. Dolly had left for work. I lifted my head and checked the bedside clock. Close to eight o’clock.

‘I’m going to be late to work,’ I said. ‘Oh, well.’

‘Will you get into trouble?’

I smiled at him. ‘I’m going to lie and say I’m ill.’ I drew a lazy figure of eight with my finger, over his shoulder and down across his chest. There was a nasty jagged scar just under his right shoulder.

‘You said that when Nick Ross kept you from drowning it was the first time he saved your life. There were other times?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘That first time I was ten. He saved me again when we were fighting up north – more than once, actually. See this scar?’ He touched the scar under his shoulder. ‘It’s worse at the back.’ He turned to show me a large, puckered scar on his back. I touched it gently, and willed myself not to cry. ‘We were on patrol in New Guinea, away from base. I’d gone on ahead and an enemy sniper got me and had me pinned me down. I was losing blood fast, but the rest of the patrol couldn’t get to me, because they couldn’t work out where the sniper was in the jungle. So Nick stood up and yelled, “Over here, you bloody mongrel.” When our sharpshooter saw the flash of the sniper’s gun, he got him.’

My eyes were wide with shock. ‘Was Ross hit?’

‘Grazed. He’s barking mad sometimes.’ Eric laughed a little. ‘Then he practically carried me all the way back to get me to a medic. Wouldn’t let anyone else do it. They must have thought he was crazy when he staggered into base. A lieutenant carrying a sergeant.’

I looked down at the bedspread, remembering the misery of those days when I didn’t know if Eric would ever come back. ‘He got terribly drunk when he found out you’d been presumed dead. Seemed to blame himself.’

‘If Nick wants you he’ll put on the charm,’ he said. ‘Part of that charm is appearing to be vulnerable. He’s as vulnerable as a tiger snake. And he’s
never
as drunk as he seems.’

‘And what if he does put on the charm?’ I said, looking up at Eric. ‘I don’t really like him that much, you know. I accept that he’s your mate, and that seems to mean a great deal to you, but I’m not interested in Ross. Not like
that
. And he’s not interested in me.’

He shook his head. ‘He’s interested.’

I reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched. I pulled away and sat primly, watching him. Red patches showed in his cheeks. He breathed in and let it out in a sigh.

‘The first girl I really liked told me she’d gone out with me to get closer to Nick. That’s happened more than once. My fiancée dropped me because of Nick.’

‘I can’t help it if the girls you’ve liked before were blinking idiots.’ I tried to keep the tone light, but it was clear that this was important to him. ‘I’m
really
not interested in him. Anyway, I’m a woman, not a girl.’

‘I’ve never been good around women,’ he said. His mouth quirked up into a crooked, rather shamefaced smile. ‘They intimidate me. I’m not much of a talker, but men I’m fine with. Women? I’m tongue-tied and boring.’

I tried not to laugh, but couldn’t stop myself. ‘When I met you I thought you were the sort of man who was scared of nothing. And I certainly didn’t think you were boring.’

‘Stella Aldridge scares me.
A lot
. But I don’t seem able to keep away from her.’

‘Moth to a flame? Irresistible pull?’

He pulled me close and kissed me. ‘Something like that,’ he murmured.

When at last we emerged from the bedroom we found a note from Dolly on the kitchen table.

Darling Stella, hope you were warm enough last night. I’ll cover for you at work. There’s plenty of food for breakfast, and it’s all courtesy of the Americans.

Love,

Dolly

I stood in the doorway, wrapped in my greatcoat, and watched Eric fry bacon and tomato. He broke a couple of eggs into the pan and they made a satisfying sizzle. A delicious smell filled the air and my stomach gurgled.

His head was bent over the pan and he was absorbed in cooking. I thought that Eric would always concentrate on the job at hand, whether it was designing a home for a fiancée who’d dropped him, or sketching a girl he’d met at a dance hall, or getting his men safely out of a Japanese ambush, or extricating Nick Ross from a stoush with marines.

Eric had pulled on his vest and woollen army underpants but his legs, shoulders and arms were bare.

‘Don’t you ever feel the cold?’

I wasn’t complaining, because he was pleasant to look at, but I was surprised at his fortitude.

He twisted around and threw me a grin.

‘Softie. It’s not so cold, not really. I did most of my training at the Prom – Wilsons Promontory. In winter. Now
that’s
cold.’

Bread was sliced and toasted, and tea was made in virtual silence. I had no idea what to say, and Eric had described himself correctly: he really wasn’t much of a talker. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. I wasn’t much of a talker either. He piled the breakfast onto two plates and handed me one.

‘Want to eat this in bed?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, shivering. The heater was still in the bedroom.

I put on my khaki pullover and draped a shawl across my shoulders to eat my breakfast, propped up against a pillow. The plate was balanced on my knees.

When I finished the last of the toast I lay back with my empty plate still balanced on my knees and I gazed at him. Eric had a lovely body: tanned smooth skin over round, well-defined muscles. He’d make a wonderful subject for a life study. Nudity didn’t worry me, I’d done many so life drawings. I’d even earned extra money as a life model in Paris, which was something I’d never revealed to Frank. I thought of posing Eric, naked, and drawing him.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What does that smile mean?’

‘May I do a life drawing of you some time?’

A burning look came into his eyes, and I felt my pulse quicken.

‘If you’ll return the favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Finished?’ he asked.

At my nod, he took my plate and put it on the side table. I quaffed the rest of my tea and he put my cup on the table as well. He pulled the shawl off my shoulders and dropped it onto the floor by the bed. I took care of the sweater myself.

*

While Eric was showering, I picked up the teapot. It was heavy with the dregs of the breakfast tea. I peered out the window and saw patches of blue among the clouds. At school in England we’d ask, ‘Is there enough blue sky to patch a Dutchman’s trousers?’ I looked again. Just enough blue, I thought. It looked like it might be a fine day.

Dolly and I made a habit of tossing the used tea leaves into a large pot of geraniums that stood on the narrow wooden landing outside the kitchen, because they didn’t seem to do the geraniums much harm and it was somewhere to put the slops other than the sink or over the rails into the garden.

The cold air hit me like a blow as I stepped through the kitchen door, even though I’d shrugged on my greatcoat over my uniform. I walked carefully, because the wooden planks were wet from last night’s rain and slippery. As I tossed the tea leaves onto the geraniums the sound of a door opening downstairs caught my attention. Mrs Campbell’s back door had opened and a small cloud of dust preceded her ‘girl’, Ada Beatty, as she emerged, wielding a broom with determination. Ada’s hair was hidden under a large cotton scarf she’d knotted around her head and she was wearing a faded cotton pinafore.

‘Good morning, Mrs Beatty,’ I called out.

She looked up at me. ‘It is so far,’ she said. She seemed affronted that I was still at home at ten in the morning. I smiled at her. Last week she’d arranged for her son-in-law to change Mrs Campbell’s locks. Ada held a key and the other keys were held by Mrs Campbell and me.

As I turned around I saw that Violet’s back door was also open, just slightly.

‘Good morning,’ I called out. Violet had to be nearby, because it was too cold to leave the door open for any length of time.

Silence, which was unusual. Violet had a habit of turning on the wireless in the mornings, although sometimes she sang. It was late for her to still be home. I called again, more loudly.

‘Morning, Violet.’

Nothing. The silence pressed around me. No birds or wind or traffic, no wireless or Violet singing. A rhythmic sound came from below. Ada had draped a small rug over the stair rail and was beating it with the broom. Dust puffed out in little clouds with each thwack on the rug.

I put down the empty teapot next to the geraniums and walked the few steps to Violet’s back door. It was only just ajar. I wondered if someone in a hurry – perhaps Cole leaving last night or early this morning – had pulled it to, but had not checked that it had shut properly behind him. That would be just like him, I thought. I wondered if I should close the door. I peered through the window into the kitchen. Empty.

Feeling foolish, I called out, ‘Violet, the back door’s open. Do you want me to close it?’

No response. Perhaps Violet had gone to work early, had left by the back door and hadn’t pulled the door shut by accident. There was no reason to feel so apprehensive about an empty kitchen and an open door.

Without thinking too much about it, I pushed the door open more fully and entered Violet’s kitchen. It felt odd to be in someone’s home uninvited and I stood absolutely still, conscious of a vague discomfort. I listened. There is never silence, not really. The clock on the small pine dresser ticked, the electric refrigerator whirred, and the muted thumping continued from below.

The kitchen was neat, but there were stains on the lino floor. Red smudges, large enough to be footprints or shoeprints, and a smear of red on the wall by the door into the vestibule. Venetian red, I thought. It was a light pigment, a brownish red, darker than scarlet, derived from almost pure ferric oxide. The colour of blood.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I licked my lips.

My voice was tentative as I called out again. ‘Violet?’ It was a small sound, the sound of someone who was afraid.

I took a breath and squared my shoulders.
Steady on, Stella. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I couldn’t leave now; I had to know that Violet was all right. So I slowly picked my way past the bloody shoeprints. In the mystery novels they said not to disturb a crime scene. Was this a crime scene? I walked into the small vestibule off the kitchen. The door into Violet’s bedroom was ajar.

‘Violet?’ My voice was louder now. ‘Are you all right?

I went inside.

She was still half under the covers, but one white arm was lying outstretched. Her torso was twisted so that her head was off the pillow towards the side of the bed and her hair hung down. Rust-red stains daubed the pillow, the sheets and the bedspread, and there was a spray of red on the wall. Blood had pooled on the floor. Blood had matted her dark hair.

She must have been asleep when he struck at her, chopped at her head. She must have been pulled out of dreams into pain and terror and, finally, oblivion.

Every instinct told me to flee, to get out of that charnel house as quickly as I could. To get Eric, who was trained to handle such things. My mouth was dry and my skin was painful under my clothes, my face felt raw where cold air touched it. I forced away nausea and I walked towards her. It was only when I was very close, close enough to smell the sweet, metallic scent – it was only then that I realised the blood in her hair was still wet and I heard the rattle in her breath. I turned and ran, through the vestibule into her lounge room, stumbling on the carpet where it met the floorboards.

The phone was in the hallway, just as ours was. I cursed stiff, clumsy fingers that were slow in dialling. I cursed the operator, who was slow in understanding that I needed an ambulance, needed it right away. ‘Yes, yes, right away. And I need the police. A woman has been attacked.’

I hung up the phone and dashed back to Violet. As before, she was unconscious and her breathing was merely a rattle in her throat. I had no idea what to do, whether I should leave her as she was, or put her on her left side as we’d been taught in First Aid, or help her to lie upright on those bloodstained pillows. I suspected that I should move her as little as possible, but she looked so uncomfortable in that contorted position that I tossed her pillows onto the floor and clumsily pulled her more into the centre of the bed, so that she was lying on her left side. Throughout my grim manhandling she made no sound at all. When she was as comfortable as I could make her, I stepped back, away from the smell of blood, and I prayed that she’d keep breathing, just keep breathing.