A Time of Secrets (5 page)

The telephone rang, startling us.

‘That’ll be your Yankee captain,’ said Dolly, in a high singsong voice. ‘Go out dancing and forget all about your worries for tonight. Leave any axe murderers to me.’

‘You’re safe enough,’ I said. ‘Wrong uniform. Wrong suburb.’

Four

‘H
oney, if you want gin I can find some.’

Captain Leroy Johnson was responding to my request for something more alcoholic than a lemon squash. We were in Prahran at Leggett’s Ballroom, one of the biggest in Melbourne, open until midnight every night with continuous dancing and music provided by two bands. It was supposed to be dry, because all public venues were required by law to cease serving alcoholic beverages at six o’clock. That had never stopped the Americans; they smuggled alcohol in to all the dance halls.

‘I’d love a drink. It’s been a difficult day.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ said Leroy. I smiled my thanks and he glanced at our companions. ‘You want some booze, Joe? Kathy?’

We were sitting with Leroy’s best friend, Captain Joe Baudoin, and his Australian girlfriend. Joe was a short, eager-looking man from Louisiana, who was in the Engineering Corps with Leroy. Kathy Kelly was a pretty brunette. Before the war she’d been a salesgirl at the Myer Emporium in the women’s wear department, and although she’d been manpowered into working at a munitions factory in Maribyrnong on the outskirts of Melbourne, she seemed to have an unending store of party frocks and evening dresses from that almost mythical time, Before the War. Tonight she was wearing a slinky dress of dusty pink, embroidered on the sleeves and waist with big black flowers, and she looked stunning. I glanced down at my khaki and stifled a sigh, wishing army regulations allowed me to put off my uniform and dance in a pretty dress.

‘Before you go,’ said Joe, ‘have you heard the latest story?’ Joe loved to tell stories. He nodded towards Kathy and me. ‘One of your upper-crust matrons –’

‘From Toorak, no doubt,’ said Kathy, who was a Melbourne girl.

‘Yeah, well, she telephoned our Morale Section to invite some officers to a party at her home, but made it clear that no Jews were to be invited.’

‘That’d be right,’ put in Kathy.

‘So, when the big day came, she opens the door to find a group of Negro privates standing on her doorstep and she says, “There must be some mistake.” They reply, “No, ma’am, our Major Cohen, he don’t make mistakes.” ’

We all laughed. Wartime Melbourne was a hotbed of rumour and stories, and who knew which were true and which mere wishful thinking?

Leroy left the table and faded into the crowd near the bar. I knew he’d pick up a bottle of gin or scotch from somewhere out the back and he’d smuggle it to our table under his jacket. It would sit under the table all night and we’d mix it into soft drinks he’d order legally from the bar.

‘Mind if we leave you alone, Stella? Kath wants to cut a rug.’ Joe was standing, holding Kathy’s hand.

I smiled and shook my head and watched as Joe led Kathy onto the crowded dance floor. The band’s singer was up on stage in front of the large microphone, dressed in a black velvet cocktail frock with a diamante clip in her hair, and belting out ‘Taking a Chance on Love’, which was one of my favourites. I let my foot tap and my mind wander as I watched the couples whirling around the floor in a haze of cigarette smoke and music, and I concentrated on the issue that had been bothering me all night. I didn’t know what to do about the conversation in the laneway. As the singer finished the last verse of the song I still hadn’t made up my mind.

‘May I have this dance?’ It was an Australian voice, low- pitched and pleasant.

I looked up, startled. An Australian sergeant – no, a staff sergeant – was standing in front of me. It was the staff sergeant from the cafe, the one who’d reminded me of Frank.

My first thought was that he looked nothing like Frank. My second thought was more sinister.

‘Did you follow me here?’ My voice was sharp; his expression was amused and perplexed.

‘What? I saw you sitting alone and I remembered your face from the cafe this afternoon.’ He shrugged. ‘If you don’t care to dance, that’s fine.’

‘I’ll dance,’ I said, almost blurting out the words. I wanted to know more about him, and this was a safe way to find out. His lips twitched and he put out his hand. I slipped my hand into his and got to my feet, and he led me out onto the dance floor.

The band had begun playing ‘Reaching for the Moon’, which was in waltz time. I placed my left hand on his shoulder and felt the scratchy wool of the Australian uniform – as scratchy as Frank’s uniform had been. The sergeant was also around Frank’s height, slightly over six feet, or maybe he was a little taller. He took my right hand in his, put his other hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer than was strictly acceptable.

I felt the usual excitement that came from dancing with a new partner. I’d read somewhere that dancing was actually a courtship ritual. I could believe it when I danced with a man for the first time. It was almost overwhelming, the sensation of a stranger’s body close to mine, learning to synchronise my movements with his as we followed the music, making conversation, becoming familiar with his scent. Just about every American wore scented hair oil, and some Americans even seemed to wear cologne. But this staff sergeant was Australian, and all I picked up was Lifebuoy soap and the wool of his uniform and something that was his alone. At least there was no tobacco on his breath, which was a pleasant surprise. It was also a pleasant surprise to find that he danced well, despite the crush of couples on the floor. I relaxed into the steps and looked up at him.

‘I don’t know your name,’ I said.

He should have introduced himself when he asked me to dance. An unreadable look flashed over his face and was gone. I suspected that was as close as he ever got to being embarrassed, because he soon reverted to an expression of wary indifference. I also suspected that he wasn’t the talkative type.

‘I’m Eric Lund,’ he said coolly, pushing me to the left to avoid a collision and then swinging me quickly to the right, where a space had opened up. I enjoyed the sense of being pushed and pulled at his direction and again I wished I’d been able to wear a pretty evening frock like Kathy’s, one that would swirl against my calves as I moved. The singer was warbling rhymes about the moon and June and being near yet far from the one she loved. I hummed along, forgetting the reason I’d accepted his invitation to dance, just enjoying the moment.

‘It’s Stella, isn’t it?’

‘How did you –?’

‘I heard your friend call you Stella in the cafe.’

He whirled me around quickly, which was disorienting for a few seconds, until I saw he’d just avoided colliding with a clumsy American marine who was lurching rather than leading his partner. I was surprised at the skill with which he anticipated and avoided obstacles. Dancing with him was exhilarating.

‘Stella Aldridge,’ I replied, raising my voice because we’d moved nearer to the band.

There was a fierce, well-controlled energy about Eric Lund, and I couldn’t help wondering what he’d be like if he became angry. I suspected that he didn’t give in to anger lightly, though. He was holding me close and his hand was firm on the small of my back. I was very conscious of the feel of his left hand, holding my right in a secure grip. I looked up, into his eyes. For a moment we just stared at each other, watching each other’s faces as our bodies moved together in time to the music.

He was lean with broad shoulders and a sharply chiselled face that I thought was only just on the right side of good-looking. It was more Scandinavian than English. The slight droop at the corner of his eyes was similar to Frank’s, only now I had the chance to really examine his features, it was clear that the shape of the eyes and the blond hair was all they had in common. Frank’s eyes had been a pale blue; Eric Lund’s eyes were a dark blue-green – teal blue. His skin was tanned and slightly yellow from the Atebrin that the troops took to combat malaria. It was clear that he was a tougher man than Frank had been. Attractive? I thought so. Ruthless? Perhaps. But that might be why Eric Lund was still alive and Frank Aldridge lay in a grave in Syria.

‘Who do I remind you of?’ I jolted in surprise. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘You seemed to recognise me when you saw me at the cafe, just for a moment. And you’re doing it again, comparing me to someone.’ The tone was casual, but I had the impression of keen interest in my response.

I swallowed nervously and my gaze fell away, down to his chest. I watched it moving as he breathed.

‘My husband,’ I said. His grip tightened. ‘He . . . was killed in Syria in February ’41.’

‘And I look like him?’

‘No, not really.’ My voice fell away. ‘Maybe the shape of your eyes.’ My voice strengthened. ‘No. You look nothing at all like Frank.’

I thought I heard him murmur, ‘Good.’ But it was very noisy in that ballroom and I couldn’t be sure. We concentrated on the dance for a minute or so.

‘So, Staff Sergeant Lund, what do you do on civvy street?’

I thought it was time to get the conversation on to normal ground. I’d start with banalities and move on to more specific questions. Although I really had no idea how to approach the conversation in the laneway without giving away the fact that I’d heard it.

‘Well, Sergeant Aldridge,’ he replied, in a faintly mocking voice, ‘in peacetime I’m an architect.’

The room swayed. His grip was like iron, holding me up, stopping me from falling.

‘I’m fine,’ I said to his suggestion that we sit down. ‘Please, let’s keep dancing. It’s awfully hot in here, that’s all.’

‘What is it? What did I say?’

I ventured a look at his face. His expression was grim, worried.

‘My husband was an architect,’ I said. ‘In Sydney.’

‘I . . . see.’

He didn’t, not really. We danced in silence for a few moments.

‘Were you married for a long time?’

‘Two and a half years, before he shipped out.’

‘Any children?’

‘No.’ I looked at his chest again and focused on the dance. He swung us to the right, and away from the stage.

‘Are you from Melbourne?’ I asked, trying for a light note of unconcern.

When he looked at me, his eyes seemed darker than they had been before.

‘No. Lately I’ve been based in Brisbane.’ His reply was in the same tone. ‘But I’m really a “groper”.’

My eyes went wide. ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

Eric laughed. It transformed his face, swept away all his careful indifference and all at once he looked younger, pleasant. A girl could forgive a lot for that laugh, I thought.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ I said, smiling up at him. I put on a posher accent. ‘However did you guess?’ I reverted to my usual voice. ‘My parents are English and I was at boarding school in England, but otherwise I’ve lived most of my life in the Far East. My father was an engineer there.’ I saw his quick appraising look, and I was annoyed at myself, because I didn’t want him to know I understood Malay.

‘In Ceylon, for instance,’ I went on quickly. ‘But I’ve been living in Sydney since ’37. Why do you call yourself a groper?’

‘I was born in Western Australia.’

I pulled my eyebrows together, perplexed.

‘West Australians are nicknamed sandgropers. Queenslanders are banana-benders; South Australians, crow-eaters.’

‘Victorians?’

‘Gumsuckers.’

‘What are people from New South Wales called?’

I had travelled so much when I was young that I couldn’t really call anywhere home, but in the past few years Sydney had become as close to a home as anywhere I’d ever been.

‘Cockroaches.’

‘How horrible!’

Eric laughed, and once again his face was transformed.

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Are you from Perth?’

‘I was born in Wyalkatchem. It’s a little town in the Wheatbelt. But I was at boarding school in Perth and I call it home.’

‘Perth’s the most isolated capital city in the world, isn’t it?’ It was all I knew about the city.

‘Yes. It’s a pretty place, especially around the Swan River. Cleaner than Melbourne.’

The music was winding down. Our dance was ending, and I’d found out only that his name was Eric Lund, in peacetime he was an architect from Perth, he wasn’t talkative, his eyes were a lovely colour and he had a nice smile. I wondered how old he was. He appeared to be around thirty, but the men who’d seen action often seemed older than they really were.

The music faded and we slowed and then stopped our steps. He kept holding me, though. I looked up, surprised.

‘The band will start again soon. Care for another dance?’ His glance flicked behind me. ‘Or will your American beau be annoyed?’

I twisted my head to see Leroy sitting alone at the table, frowning at us. I smiled at him, and mouthed,
Ask a girl to dance
. His frown increased. I felt a little guilty, but not enough not to refuse Eric. I turned back to Eric and said, ‘Another dance would be lovely.’