A Time of Secrets (9 page)

‘That will be all.’

I turned and walked out of the room.

Seven

W
hen I showed my injured hand to Captain Nancy Gabriel on Monday morning she took one look at it and ordered me to visit the infirmary in the Victoria Barracks. The hand did look most impressive, as overnight it had swollen to twice the size of the other and was now coloured a deep purple across the knuckles and down almost to the wrist.

‘I tell you, Sergeant, you’ve got to stop with the bare-knuckle fighting,’ said Jim Pope, the private who’d been ordered to take me there. In a jeep, no less! He chuckled at his own wit.

I laughed politely, but gripped the edge of my seat firmly with my right hand. Jim was a cheerful twenty-year-old with a very freckled face, who loved driving the natty American jeeps. He especially loved to drive them very fast. In fact, a jeep had definite possibilities as a lethal weapon in the hands of Private Jim Pope. If we’d let him loose in Crete I suspected that it would have been the Germans who’d have ended up in retreat, and not the Allies. When he tore out of the front gate of Goodwood onto Toorak Road, I wished I had two hands available to grip the seat.

‘Watch it,’ yelled Jim to three unwary AWAS girls who stepped out onto the road from Fawkner Park. ‘They should look where they’re going,’ he said indignantly as they scurried back to the safety of the footpath.

At the corner he pulled hard at the wheel and we rounded into St Kilda Road at speed. I was almost thrown out entirely when a military truck appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and forced Jim into evasive action. Nothing daunted, he raced along the busy road, only to pull up hard behind a stationary tram.

‘What’s got his goat?’ asked Jim a minute or so later. He was nodding towards an elderly man who was shaking his fist at us.

‘You shouldn’t have pulled out so suddenly from behind that tram,’ I said.

Jim made a snorting sound. ‘We didn’t touch him.’ He looked across at me. ‘Did we?’

‘Watch the road, Jim,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

I really thought my end had come when an American jeep darted out of Domain Road in front of us, missing our jeep by inches and almost forcing us into the South African Soldiers Memorial. Jim braked violently, swore, and stepped on the accelerator to pass the other jeep. The young GI who was driving the jeep in front picked up speed and made a very rude hand gesture. Jim accelerated hard and came alongside him. The two vehicles were now neck and neck, but Jim was in the tram lane and I nervously eyed the approaching traffic.

‘Mercy dash,’ Jim yelled to the other driver, pointing at me.

I held up my hand as evidence. The American grinned, threw me a mock salute and pulled back, so we did manage – just – to avoid colliding with a tram. I shut my eyes for the rest of the journey, and prayed.

Jim pulled up at the gates to Victoria Barracks and showed his identification. I held up my hand. The guards were sympathetic.

‘I hear you’re a bare-knuckle fighter,’ said Dr Wilson, when he saw me a short while later. I lifted the corners of my mouth in an approximation of a smile. He lifted my hand gently and told me to wiggle my fingers.

‘It’s badly sprained, but I don’t think you’ve broken any bones. Maybe a hairline fracture. Did you fall?’

‘Mmm,’ I said.

‘I’ll strap it and give you a sling to wear.’ He handed me a glass jar. ‘Use this liniment at night; it might help. Come back in a week or so. I’ll give you a certificate to excuse you from manual work.’ He gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Hurts?’

‘Yes, quite a lot. But my flatmate has some strong painkillers.’

‘Here are some more.’ He handed me a roll of tablets. ‘Morphine tablets. They’re the best for strong pain. Not more than six in a day, though, and only when it hurts like blue billy-o. Want one now?’

There was a break in the clouds when I stepped out of the infirmary, and the crowded parade ground lit up with winter sunshine. I closed my eyes and raised my face to the sun, revelling in the heat on my face, the red glare behind my eyelids. Just for a moment I could imagine I was back in Sydney, in summer and in peacetime.

When I opened my eyes I saw Eric Lund standing in front of a bluestone building across the parade ground. He was talking to an air force commander, but he was looking at me. The conversation wrapped up and he saluted. The commander returned the salute and went back inside the building. Eric walked across the parade ground towards me with an easy unhurried stride, but his eyebrows were drawn together in a frown.

‘Don’t tell me I did that.’ He gestured towards my left hand, now strapped tightly and in a sling.

‘Yes. When you pushed me.’ I glared at him.

Anger sparked in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . What can I say?’

I snapped, ‘How about “I’m frightfully sorry, Stella, for pushing you to the floor, hurting your hand so badly that it’ll need strapping for a week and for causing you such pain and irritation”? That would be a good start.’

‘Ah. Well, I never say that word.’ His face relaxed and now there was amusement behind the cool voice.

‘What word?’ My voice was not cool and I could feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Sorry?’

‘No. Frightfully.’ A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘Of course I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’m very sorry that I did.’

I’d clenched my good hand into a fist and all at once I wished I could punch his mocking mouth. The intensity of my feelings shocked me, the blind anger. I took a breath and forced myself to calm down. I’d not give Eric Lund the pleasure of knowing how much he’d upset me.

‘I nearly died, you know.’ My voice was light, unruffled.

His eyebrow lifted fractionally. ‘From a broken hand?’

‘It’s only sprained.’ My tone sharpened. ‘But it’s
frightfully
sprained.’

He narrowed his eyes against the sunshine and his face seemed to relax. ‘How did you nearly die, then?’

‘Private Pope drives a jeep like an utter lunatic. It’s a wonder I made it here in one piece.’

He laughed, and his face became vividly alive, just as it had at the dance. I knew full well that it was because of the way his face had lit up when he laughed on the dance floor that I hadn’t let Leroy report him. That, and Irene’s story. I felt myself become calmer, although I was still annoyed at myself for letting him affect me at all.

‘He nearly ran over an old man and three AWAS girls,’ I went on. ‘He raced an American jeep on St Kilda Road, practically demolished the South African Soldiers Memorial and almost drove us head on into a tram. And if you hadn’t hurt my hand I’d never have been put through it.’

‘Then my apology also includes putting you through such anxiety,’ he said. His face was blandly expressionless, but there was definitely amusement lurking in his eyes. ‘I’m
very
sorry, Stella Aldridge, for pushing you to the floor, hurting your hand so badly that it’ll need strapping for a week and for causing you such pain and irritation.’ He gave me a calculating look. ‘I’ll drive you back, if you like. To spare you further horror.’

‘Back where? You don’t know where I’m assigned.’

‘Goodwood, on Toorak Road. APLO headquarters.’

That stumped me. We’d met on Saturday night and it was now ten o’clock on Monday morning.
How
. . .

‘How do you know that?’ I blurted out the words, and then wished I’d kept quiet. I’d just admitted to a stranger that I worked in a top-secret facility.

‘I made inquiries.’ His face had returned to the guarded look he often showed and I knew he wouldn’t reveal how he found out classified information in just over a day. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got security clearance.’

‘Show me.’ My voice was brusque, too belligerent, which was not like me at all. I hated that I was acting like this. ‘Please,’ I added.

He pulled out a wallet, removed his identity card and handed it over. He was Staff Sergeant Eric Charles Lund, WX13371. Born Wyalkatchem, Western Australia on 10 December 1914. Unmarried. Next of kin: Kai Lund (father). If you went by the photograph alone, you’d run a mile, because he looked like a caricature of a murderer. He’d also given me his security clearance card: ‘Top Secret’. I stared at the card. My clearance was merely ‘Secret’.

‘Are your parents Norwegian? Swedish?’

‘My dad’s parents were from Denmark. Look, I have to go to Goodwood. I’ve been asked to see someone there. I need a lift, and apparently you have a jeep at your disposal.’

I handed back the documents with a sick feeling in my stomach. It was probably because of my conversation with Lieutenant Ross that he was being called to Goodwood. I wondered if I should warn him, but thought it would be a breach of security.

‘Private Pope won’t give up the pleasure of speed-car racing in the jeep without a fight.’

Eric made a dismissive gesture. ‘I outrank him.’

In the end, Jim accepted the inevitable, and settled into the back seat as we set off. As Eric’s hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, I was shocked to see that there were scrapes and bruises across the knuckles of both hands. As if he’d been in a fight. They had not been like that at the dance.

‘Your hands . . .’

‘Got involved in a scuffle after I left you on Saturday night,’ he replied, with perfect insouciance.

He pushed the starter and we were moving before I could ask any more questions. I sat back, grabbed the seat with my good hand and thought about the bruises on Lieutenant Ross’s face. Surely not . . . But Ross had admitted he knew Eric, and he had behaved oddly when I mentioned him. It was a mystery, but I doubted either Eric or Ross would enlighten me.

Of course, Eric was an excellent driver. He drove fast enough to impress Jim, but carefully, moving without fuss along the busy streets. It was when a dog ran onto Toorak Road, immediately followed by a small child, that it became clear just how fast his reflexes were.

‘Crikey, Staff,’ said Jim from the back seat. ‘I thought you’d hit the kid for sure.’

‘How are your nerves?’ Eric asked me, as he picked up speed again. I caught his quick glance, and then he was watching the road.

‘Still in one piece,’ I replied, trying to sound unconcerned. Trying not to give away how my heart was racing, because any other driver would have collided with that child.

Jim called out, ‘There it is, that big pile on the corner.’

Eric’s eyebrow rose. He changed gear, slowed the jeep and pulled in beside the sentry gate. When the sentry had checked our identity cards, he waved us through. Eric drove into the area set aside for a car park – it would have been a garden in the house’s heyday – climbed out of the jeep, and stood motionless, staring at the house.

I wasn’t surprised at his reaction, because Goodwood was an impressive ‘pile’. It was one of the few remaining grand mansions in the area, with a tower and a beautiful double-storey cast-iron verandah. It made me happy just to look at the house when I came to work each morning.

Eric’s expression had softened into a slight smile and he was gazing at the grand old house in the way that other men might watch a lovely young woman.

‘That’s called a mansard dome.’ He pointed to the roof of the tower. ‘See the dormer windows? And just look at that verandah. What a beauty! Built in the 1880s, I’d guess. She’s got it all: Italianate, with a canted bay wing, stylised first-floor cornice and window mouldings, coupled columns on the ground-floor verandah, balustraded plinth.’

‘Are you sure you’re really an architect?’ I said, with mock surprise. ‘Surely an architect would want to tear down an old place like this and put up a square box designed according to Bauhaus principles.’ Frank would have hated the ornate detail on Goodwood.

Eric’s expression was amused as he shook his head. ‘There’s a place for modern design, but I’d prefer to renovate this old girl rather than demolish. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ There was that sudden, brilliant smile; again it made me catch my breath.

Shaken, I turned away from him and began to walk towards the verandah that Eric admired so much. He followed, and we entered the house together. My friend Corporal Betty Emerson was sitting behind the reception desk. I knew that Eric would have to check in, so I lingered, trying to look busy while I listened to find out who it was he’d been asked to see.

‘Staff Sergeant Eric Lund to see Captain Molloy.’ It was serious, if Captain Molloy had summoned him.

Betty ran a finger down the column of names in her appointment book.

‘Yes, Staff. I’ll let him know you’re here.’ She looked up and caught my eye. We didn’t stand on ceremony at APLO and everybody was expected to help out when necessary. ‘Stella, the telephones are playing up again. If you’re not busy, can you let Captain Molloy know that Staff Sergeant Lund’s here?’

I ducked around the desk, ran up the stairs and along the corridor to the office of Captain Molloy. Before the war he’d been a lecturer in history at the University of Adelaide and he was a published author of poetry and mystery novels, all of which I supposed meant he had a clever and devious mind – very useful in his line of work. We were a small group at Goodwood and we all held him in high esteem; we were certainly in awe of his intellect.