Gallipoli Street (54 page)

There was a knock at the door and she called out for him to enter. Pete stared at her entranced, letting out a long whistle.

‘What are you trying to do? Kill me?' He walked over and kissed her softly, glancing down the front of her dress then up at the ceiling. ‘Oh God, we're going to have to get married tonight. I can't take it.' He was smiling but it seemed a little forced.

Theresa tilted her head to one side. ‘Is something the matter?'

‘No, nothing, nothing.' Pete said, pausing. ‘Well it's just…'

‘Pete, there's something I need…'

They both laughed a little and he kissed her on the forehead. ‘You go first.'

‘Perhaps it may be better if you sit down.'

Pete looked at her uncertainly.

‘Alright.' He sat on the bed and waited as she began to pace. The late sun streamed across the room, causing the gold dress to cast soft mirrors of light upon the walls as she moved.

‘There's something I need to tell you. Something I should have said before and I'm afraid…of how you'll react. I don't even know how to say it but I have to be fair to you and…I've got to get this out.' She sat on the bed next to him as her legs gave out, the fear of his response threatening to overwhelm her.

‘You're scaring me, love.' He held her hand, waiting.

‘You know how you want to…to wait for our wedding night before we…'

He watched her carefully. ‘Well no, of course I don't
want
to wait but I know you want the whole white wedding bit and all so…'

‘Yes well, that's the thing.' She took a deep breath. ‘Pete I…I shouldn't really wear a white dress. I'm not…I'm not a virgin.' She searched for courage as he stared at her in disbelief. ‘I mean, I have slept with a man before. One man. He had proposed to me and I thought he meant it and he…lied. I am so sorry. I know I should have said something before now but I couldn't bring myself to tell you. I was afraid.' Her eyes pleaded with him as he sat as if frozen.

‘When?'

‘When I was a dancer. Actually, when I stopped being a dancer. He left for war the next day.'

He remained still for a moment, staring at her, then stood suddenly. ‘You're damn right you should have said something before.'

She watched as he walked over to the window then turned to study her, frowning.

‘Is that the whole truth?'

‘Yes…of course.'

He nodded then seemed to battle against something, shaking his head as if in denial. ‘Alright…alright. I'm going to ask you something and I want an honest answer because I'm starting to realise it can't be a coincidence, can it?'

‘What can't?' she asked, confused.

‘The fact that Father O'Brien is here telling stories and all of a sudden you want to make a confession.'

She started in horror. ‘
Father O'Brien?
From St Reuben's? But…what is he doing at Greenshades?'

‘Well I didn't get to ask him that because I was too busy defending your bloody reputation!'

‘I…I can't believe it,' she said, stunned.

‘You mean to tell me you didn't know he was downstairs, sharing your sordid past with God knows who?'

‘No! And I don't have a sordid past, I told you, it was just that one man…that one time.'

‘Father O'Brien said one of his parishioners saw your act and that you were working the streets of Kings Cross, and now you tell me some story about not being a virgin but it only being one man…?'

‘It's not a story…it's true!'

He pinned her with a look, his blue eyes blazing. ‘Did you or did you not work in Kings Cross?'

‘I…I did.'

‘Holy hell, Theresa,' he said, rubbing at his eyes, ‘and did you or did you not…perform in front of men when you were there?'

‘I…it wasn't like that.'

A flash of memory crossed his face. ‘Oh God, that night in Port Moresby. When you were dancing for all the boys. That's something you did all the time, isn't it? Were you…were you a
stripper
or something?'

She stood, shaking. ‘No. Of course not. And I'd appreciate it if you kept your voice down.'

But he banged the wall instead and she could see his rage had taken over. ‘Just what kind of a
slut
were you?'

‘How dare you say that word to me?' she exploded, suddenly furious herself. ‘Actually, just get out. We'll talk about it later when you've calmed down–'

‘What do you mean get out? This is
my
family,
my
life.
You get out
,' he yelled back at her.

‘What are you saying…that you want me to leave?'

‘Just get out of my sight. I don't even want to look at you. And for God's sake put some decent clothes on.'

‘Five minutes ago you loved it.'

‘Five minutes ago I didn't know that you were a
wh
ore
.'

Theresa flinched. ‘You don't seriously believe that.'

‘
I don't know what to believe anymore
. All I know is you worked in the Cross and you've slept around…and now half my family probably bloody knows it too!'

‘One man.'

He glared at her. ‘You know, even if I believed that, you still lied to me. You still let me believe you were this good Catholic girl waiting for her white wedding day. Instead…instead you're what? A reformed
street wor
ker
?'

Theresa's face was stony now as she picked up her purse. ‘Tell me something before I go, just so we are clear. How many women have you slept with?'

He scoffed, his hands on his hips. ‘It's different for men, and you know it.'

‘How many?'

‘I don't know, a few.'

‘Were you engaged to them? Did you think that you were going to marry them? Or did you just pay them?'

‘It's different. They knew the score.'

‘Oh yes, the
score.
Men get whatever they want; women get either marriage or whoredom. Very fair. Let me tell you something, Peter Murphy, I just told you the hardest thing I've ever had to admit: that I slept with a man who offered me security, a home, the day I lost my job because I wouldn't turn whore. Yet here you are, someone who's had sex God knows how many times for the fun of it and you call me a slut?
Hypocr
ite
!'

He said nothing, his face still grim with fury.

She gestured around them. ‘What do you know about the real world, growing up in….in mansions, food pouring in from the kitchen from your legions of admirers and loving family? The perfect goddamn golden-boy life. Aside from Missy I had nothing and no one and then he…he came along and he promised me marriage. A
family
…' Her voice broke slightly and she waited for him to speak but he still said nothing. ‘I was betrayed, Pete, and I didn't want to betray you, so I'm telling you the truth.' He raised his eyes, hard and angry, and she tried one more time to reach the man inside, the one she trusted. ‘I…I thought you would understand…'

‘Well, I don't,' he said shortly.

She shook her head in frustration. ‘
Why not
? What happened to the man who forgives so easily? I mean…for God's sake…you can forgive the bloody
Japanese
but you can't forgive me?'

‘Soldiers don't have a choice in what they do.'

They glared at each other, both unyielding.

‘Do you still want me to leave?'

He walked over to the door and spoke to the wall before walking out. ‘No, allow me.'

Theresa felt like screaming as she stared at the closed door, her whole being fuming at the unfairness of it all before marching towards it and flinging it open to go search for him. She wasn't letting him go that easily.

‘There you are dear! Don't you look lovely? I have some friends I want you to meet.' Veronica looked nervous as she ushered Theresa over to some guests who had just arrived and she found herself trapped in a circle of polite introductions as she scanned the room for Pete. She found him, standing in the corner and downing a large glass of whisky, glaring across at Father O'Brien who was holding court with familiar arrogance. The priest raised his eyes and met her glance, leaning forward purposefully to whisper his lies into one of the neighbour's ears. Theresa felt her cheeks burn in response but it wasn't from shame. This was plain, straight out fury.

‘Drink, madam?' The waiter paused.

‘Yes, thank you.'
I'll give them something to talk about.

She didn't know how it had happened but she seemed to be surrounded by men in uniform, all eager to fetch her drinks or tell her jokes, which she laughed at with false appreciation. It pleased her to see how it infuriated Father O'Brien and even more so how it angered Pete, who was still glowering from the other side of the room.

‘Care to dance?' asked one enterprising young corporal.

‘Thank you,' she accepted, allowing herself to be sailed about the dance floor. She was really quite drunk she observed, somehow pleased at the notion.

‘I hear you're engaged to Pete Murphy. Why isn't he dancing with you?'

‘Because he's a royal buffoon,' she responded airily and he raised his eyebrows, obviously figuring he might have a chance with her after all.

By the time she had danced with several partners Pete looked to have had enough and a pathway cleared for him to stalk towards her.

‘I told you it was déjà vu,' Pattie whispered to Mick as Veronica and Jack watched anxiously.

‘May I have this dance?' he demanded through gritted teeth. Her partner acquiesced and he steered her away from the crowd and towards the door.

‘Goodness, what will your family think? Dancing with a lowly whore like me.'

‘Shut it, Theresa. You made your point.' He grabbed her arm and led her towards the parlour, where she flung herself onto the couch and poured another glass of champagne. ‘Don't you think you've had enough?'

‘Oh I don't know, I thought that was your verdict tonight. You've had enough!'

She pointed her hand in the air dramatically and sipped at her glass.

The door opened and Mildred walked in. ‘A word alone with me granddaughter if ye don't mind, Peter.'

He threw his hands up and marched out. ‘She's all yours!'

‘That's what you…used to say. I got the hiccups.' She frowned at her glass.

Mildred stood, looking agitated, and Theresa patted the seat next to her on the lounge. ‘Come sit down, Nana.'

‘No, no, I think I'll stand for now. I know yer in the middle of an argument and all but I….I just needed ye t'know a few things for yer own good before y'go on. Things I suppose I should've said sooner, but there it 'tis. I guess I just didn't want to tell ye.' She paused, wringing at the material of her handkerchief and taking a large gulp of sherry.

‘Come on,' said Pattie, dragging Veronica to the door to eavesdrop.

‘But…'