A Time of Secrets (7 page)

‘Whatever is the matter? Is something wrong with your hand?’

I was holding my hand protectively.

‘A brute of an Australian sergeant did it,’ said Leroy. ‘He’d been dancing with Stella, then he shoved her to the floor. I want to report him, but she won’t tell me his name.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Dolly’s voice was a high shriek; it was like a knife stabbing into my throbbing head. ‘Did you make him angry? Was he crazy?’

I frowned at Leroy.

I said to Dolly quietly, hoping she’d take the hint, ‘He’d seen something that upset him. I grabbed at his arm, and he pushed me aside. He didn’t mean to hurt me.’

She gently lifted my hand and examined the very impressive array of hues that had begun to discolour the skin.

‘He might not have meant to,’ she repeated ironically, ‘but he did.’ She gave me a shrewd look. ‘Hurts?’

‘Like hell,’ I said.

‘I’ll get the strong stuff.’

Leroy hovered around me as I lay on the couch. He asked me if I was hot enough, cool enough, needed a snack, hot-water bottle, more ice, water, milk, cocoa, gin, brandy? Catching my eye, Dolly smothered a grin, and expertly contrived to get him out of the flat.

Her clear voice floated down the hallway. ‘I promise. If she needs anything at all, we’ll telephone.’

I heard a murmur as Leroy asked her something.

‘Honestly, Leroy,’ she replied, ‘perhaps she doesn’t know his name. She probably simply doesn’t want any fuss. Let it go. I’m sure there won’t be any real damage to the hand.’

The door closed with a satisfying click and Dolly came back into the lounge room. I’d had two of her morphine tablets and was nursing a small brandy. My thoughts were slipping into a confused haze of images and impressions: dancing with Eric Lund; the expression in his eyes, that glimmer of humour and intelligence in a face that was otherwise too serious, too watchful and guarded; his fury when he saw whatever it was by the door; how his face changed when he laughed; how he’d cast me aside as if I was of no account at all and left me lying there, injured on the dance floor . . .

‘Don’t fall asleep here,’ said Dolly. ‘Get changed into your pyjamas first. I’ll help you.’

I mumbled a reply, and she helped me to rise from the couch and walk into my bedroom.

*

The bells of Christ Church, not far away on Punt Road, woke me early the following morning. I was huddled in bed clutching a cold hot-water bottle, lying under a sheet, three blankets, a bedspread, a shawl and my army greatcoat. I was wearing flannel pyjamas, a pullover, a scarf and two pairs of socks – my usual night attire. On my head was an old woollen beret that I’d bought for my father in Paris in 1936. It was large enough to cover my forehead and my ears. Dolly had laughed, I recalled fuzzily, when she’d helped me dress for bed last night and told me I needed a lover to keep me warm. No one was warm enough in Melbourne now – no one had been really warm since fuel was rationed.

I lay still and thought about the night before. Thought about Eric Lund. Irene had described a man who’d taken the time to visit her, to tell her that the man she loved was dead, to tell her that he had died a hero. It wasn’t a pleasant job, not a job that many men would do unbidden. It was a kind thing for Eric to do. And yet, he’d left me sprawled on the floor.

Tears flooded my eyes and I dashed them away with my good hand, annoyed at myself. I spoke out loud as I used my good hand to push myself up in bed. ‘You’ll never learn, Stella. There’s always good and bad in everyone. The trick is knowing which side they’ll show to
you
.’

The cold hit me like a fist when I shoved aside the bedclothes and clumsily shrugged myself into my dressing gown. It punched some sense into me. Yes, I’d been attracted to Eric Lund, but I knew the danger of instant attraction. It led to stupid decisions and to misery.

An hour later and I was feeling a lot more settled. Sunshine streamed in through the balcony windows onto the couch where Dolly and I were lounging around in our pyjamas and dressing gowns, eating toast and drinking tea. Dolly enjoyed fussing occasionally, and as my hand was throbbing painfully and I was suffering from an annoying tendency to leak tears, I was letting her fuss. My left hand was curled protectively on my lap.

I took a sip of tea.

‘Something spooked him,’ I said. ‘Do you think it was to do with the man they were talking about – the lieutenant?’

‘Don’t go on about
that
again.’ Dolly frowned. ‘I think you misheard them.’ She looked down at her cup. ‘So you really think this Eric Lund is an operative?

I picked up a piece of toast. Biting into it with a crunch, I nodded. ‘Yes, I do. It fits. He’s based in Brisbane and, given what Irene told me, it seems that he’s just come back from a mission where he had to watch a friend die. I think he’s in a state, but because he’s one of those strong silent types, he won’t admit it.’ I was suddenly frustrated at myself for making excuses for him. ‘I think he’s an annoying lout who can leave an injured woman on the dance floor and run away.’ I hated to hear the bitterness in my voice.

‘I can’t really recall his face that well from the cafe. I didn’t pay much attention to him. I remember that you could hardly keep your eyes off him, though.’

I rolled those eyes. ‘That’s silly, Dolly. I just looked at him once or twice – he reminded me of Frank.’

‘Does he still remind you of Frank?’

I stared at the couch. ‘Not any more.’

Dolly left me to meet ‘a dreamy American’ for lunch, and afterwards attend a concert at the town hall. I wandered around the flat, feeling sorry for myself. Yesterday’s
Argus
was on the kitchen table, and I turned the pages desultorily. The war news was encouraging. The Japanese had failed to find a weak spot in the Australian mountain positions around Mubo in New Guinea. Allied air raids in Germany, France and Belgium were intensifying and Salonika had been bombed for the first time. The Archbishop of York was quoted as saying that the air raids in Europe were justified, as they would shorten the war and save lives.

I stared at the page for a moment, trying not to imagine what the victims were going through. I couldn’t help thinking of the prints I’d seen of Picasso’s painting,
Guernica
. In it he had captured the horror of such bombings, and the suffering inflicted upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians. My sister had lived in London during the Blitz; there were women like her in Germany, France, Belgium and in Salonika. I pushed such thoughts out of my head and turned the page.

A headline caught my eye, over a small paragraph halfway down:

AXE ATTACK ON YOUNG WOMAN. ASSAULTED IN SLEEP-OUT

Members of the homicide squad are still searching for an unknown assailant who savagely attacked a young woman in a bungalow at a guest house in Barnett St, St Kilda, at 3 am yesterday. Inspector McGurk and Det-Sgt Browne are in charge of inquiries. It is thought that an axe was used for the attack. The victim is Miss Margaret Boyd, 21, tram conductress. Miss Boyd is in Prince Henry’s Hospital with a fractured skull. She is on the danger list.

I looked at my swollen hand and thought that there were many worse things in the world than a sprained hand and injured pride.

At around twelve noon there was a knock on the door. I opened it to Mrs Campbell, who was wheezing a little after climbing the stairs.

‘Stella, dear,’ she said. ‘I hear you’ve hurt your hand. Dolly told me on her way out. Let me see.’ She took hold of it gently and made soft clucking sounds. ‘The poor man who caused it must feel terrible.’

I made a gruff sound. ‘He ran off with hardly any apology and left me lying on the dance floor.’

‘Well, he must have had a reason to leave so suddenly. You’d not like him as much as you do if he was really a bad man.’

‘I don’t . . .’ I took a breath. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Campbell?’

She smiled. ‘A friend at church gave me some new-laid eggs. And my girl left me some soup. I thought we could have a wee luncheon party.’

Her ‘girl’ was Ada, the daily helper she’d employed for the last two decades and who was at least sixty-five. Ada was too old to be manpowered into war work, which was lucky for Mrs Campbell, because the government had made it clear that domestic service was a luxury that the public couldn’t afford in a war. Ada ignored this, and came each weekday to clean Mrs Campbell’s flat and cook her meals. She always left food for Mrs Campbell to heat up on the weekend.

‘Now, if you have bread, we’ll be right as rain,’ said Mrs Campbell.

‘There’s not much, but enough for lunch,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to slice it, though.’ I held up my left hand. It was swollen and now tinted a pale purple tinged with yellow.

She led me downstairs and into her flat, which was of a similar design to ours. The front door led into a tiny hallway, through which was a large lounge room with a porch. A decorative archway off the lounge room led into a central square vestibule that boasted a decorated plaster cupola. From this were doors leading to the two bedrooms, the bathroom and the kitchen, which overlooked the backyard. Mrs Campbell’s kitchen door led to the garden. In our flat it led onto a small wooden landing that we shared with Violet’s flat, and rickety wooden stairs that ended close to Mrs Campbell’s back door.

I trod carefully across the crowded lounge room. Mrs Campbell was surrounded by mementos of a life of comfort in an earlier, more gracious time. Heavy lace curtains framed the windows, sitting incongruously over the blackout blind, and the floor was covered with faded Persian rugs that Dolly said were worth a fortune. There was very little free space in the room, with its heavy mahogany furniture, knick-knacks and
books
. Mrs Campbell was a terrific hoarder of books, and they lay in piles on the tables, the sofas, the floor and some of the chairs. A space had been cleared on one of the sofas, and some silver was sitting on old newspapers, half cleaned.

‘The soup is on the stove, heating up,’ she said. ‘Merciful heavens, I really must sort out those books one day. There might be some that you’d like, dear. What do you like to read?’ She perched on the sofa and started to move the books from one pile to another in a fussy manner.

‘I’ve been cleaning some silver,’ she said, gesturing towards the tarnished pile next to her. ‘It gets dirty so quickly.’

She handed me a small cup extracted from the pile and I looked at it carefully. It was pear-shaped with two delicate handles. The cover had a flat lid, like a foot, on which it could be balanced upside down. The bowl was embossed with flowers and foliage and tendrils. If it were polished, it would be absolutely beautiful. There seemed to be a date engraved on it. I lifted it higher to the light and gasped.

‘Mrs Campbell, it says that it was made in 1663.’

She smiled. ‘That’s right, dear. Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘It’s very valuable, obviously. Don’t you think it might be better off in the bank?’

‘Oh, I’ve got lots of nice things,’ she replied airily. ‘I like to have them around me.’

‘But what if they’re stolen?’

Mrs Campbell shook her head.

‘I really think –’ I began, but she cut me off.

‘Dinna fash,’ she said, dropping into the Scots of her youth. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.’

I murmured something noncommittal, still worried that Mrs Campbell had such valuable items in her flat. Only a couple of weeks before, a man with a revolver had pushed his way into St Anne’s Flats nearby and robbed the owner of a valuable diamond ring and around thirty shillings.

Mrs Campbell looked at me closely and made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘The robbery at St Anne’s was what they call a set-up.’

I laughed, and then felt mean when I saw Mrs Campbell’s hurt expression.

‘That’s the right term, isn’t it?’ she said. Her Scottish accent was more pronounced now. ‘I’d say that Mr Lawrence owed money for a gambling debt and the man with the gun who came to the door was an enforcer – isn’t that what they call the men who are used to call in debts by nasty means? Of course, the diamond ring was fully insured.’ She nodded sagely.

I stared at her. ‘Why do you think it was a set-up?’

‘Oh, well. Mr Lawrence always carries a newspaper folded to the racing pages, which is the sign of a betting man. It was reported that the ring was insured. And Mrs Lawrence hasn’t worn her fur coat at all, despite the cold weather. Don’t you see?’

I didn’t, but I decided to ‘let it go through to the wicket-keeper’, as my father would say, when he thought it best to keep his own counsel.

‘Did you hear?’ She lowered her voice and leaned towards me. ‘They think it might be a soldier.’

‘Who? The man who stole the ring?’

‘No.’ She shook her head in annoyance. ‘The axe attacker.’

‘How horrible,’ I said, remembering Leonski. Other memories came unbidden and it was as if the room was suddenly darker, colder. ‘Why do they think it’s a soldier?’

‘I don’t know, dear. The girl’s been moved from the critical list to the danger list, so she must be improving. I prayed for her at church this morning. We all did.’