Women and War (37 page)

‘I had a boyfriend once who was a racing driver.' Her voice was determinedly light.

Those sharp eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Anyone I would have heard of?'

‘No, he was killed.' Her tone still gave nothing away, though if she had been looking she might have noticed his gleam of understanding. ‘You know, I thought I'd missed this place,' she went on, changing the subject. ‘I had very nearly given up looking when I saw the drive. And the mailbox. Very impressive, that mailbox.'

‘Do you think so?' he asked dryly.

‘I do indeed.' She glanced at him quizzically. ‘It doesn't sound as if you like it much.'

‘I don't. A fancy thing like that isn't to my taste at all. Give me an oil drum, honest to goodness weatherproof, like everybody else.'

‘So why have you got a mailbox?'

A small shadow darkened his eyes. Momentarily, the lines around them bit deeper.

‘Anne always wanted one. My wife. I had it made for her.'

‘Oh yes, your wife.' Alys glanced around embarrassed suddenly. Stupid of her, she hadn't thought of John's wife. Suppose she took exception to the sudden appearance of a young lady met at the roadside?

‘She's not here,' John said and Alys recognized the same tone she had used a few minutes ago to refer to Race – deliberately matter-of-fact.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, you mean she's …?'

‘Anne is sick,' he said. ‘She's in hospital.'

‘What's wrong with her?' Alys asked sympathetically, saw the tiny muscle tighten in John's cheek, and wished she had not.

‘She never recovered from Stuart's birth,' he said in the same matter-of-fact tone. ‘She had a hard time – it unhinged her. It happens to some women I'm told. I must confess I never knew another it happened to, but then I don't suppose I've known many women. First there was the Great War running off with my youth and then the farm … Anyway, giving birth to Stuart did something to Anne's mind, God knows what, but it did. I tried every damned whitsway I could to avoid having her put away, but the time came when I couldn't put if off any longer.' His voice tailed away as if he was remembering some incident too private and distressing to mention. Then he took a long gulp of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his lean sunburned hand. ‘I had to have a nurse raise Stuart. She became more of a mother to him than Anne ever was. When she died last winter it was the first time I'd ever seen him shed a tear. Even when he was a youngster he never cried – certainly not when his mother went away.'

‘And she has been in hospital all these years!' Alys said, thinking, Dear God, more years than I have been alive, probably.

‘Oh, we've had her home at times over the years, trying to get her back to normal. Sometimes, she'd be quite good for weeks at a stretch but it always caught up with her again.' His eyes narrowed reflectively. ‘It was when she was home once that I had the mailbox made for her. She fancied it. God knows why. But she'd got this idea in her head that she wanted a mailbox different from any others hereabouts.'

‘Did it please her?' Alys asked.

‘I suppose so, for a bit. Yeah, I can remember her running down the road like a kid to look at it, see if there was anything in it. But you could never please Anne for long. No, whatever makes a woman happy and content, well it had just got shut down in her somehow. She'd start criticizing everything, every damn little thing, and then down she'd go into this black depression.' He looked at Alys. ‘Ever seen a horse caught in a bog? Not a pretty sight. But that's what it was like watching Anne. She'd flounder and we'd try to help, but she'd still go in deeper and deeper until she ended up a danger to herself and everyone else …'

Alys was silent.

John drained his beer. ‘ Well, I don't suppose you came all the way out here to listen to my troubles,' he said, the corners of his mouth creasing into a smile.

‘I'm really sorry,' Alys said.

‘Don't be. I'm used to it. If you feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for Anne. She's missed so bloody much.' He stood up. ‘Hey, I'm going to get another beer. D'you want one?'

‘No, it's all right. I've got enough. But don't let me stop you.'

He went back into the house and Alys sat, staring down the track and thinking of the woman who had run like a child to see her mailbox.

When he came back the mood had changed. They sat drinking their beer and chatting but the conversation was at a superficial level now. The time for confidences had passed. At last Alys rose.

‘I think I had better be getting back. But thanks for the beer and your company. I've enjoyed it.'

He stood up, too, and she thought that for all his troubles there was no stoop to his shoulders. He looked tall and straight and strong.

‘My pleasure. I hope you'll come again. With any luck the Buick will be back. If not we can still crack a beer, can't we?'

She laughed. ‘We certainly can. Yes, I'll be back, John.'

She had gone back. Again, there had been the easy communication, the pleasure in each other's company. This time he had drawn her out and she had found herself telling him about Frances in much the same way that he had told her about his wife, frankly, without embarrassment, but leaving out the details that were too private to mention to someone she had met only three times – even if she did feel she had known him for years.

He listened sympathetically. ‘You must be champing at the bit.'

‘I've resigned myself to staying as long as I'm needed. Ninety per cent of the time I feel I could be making myself much more useful working for the war effort and releasing another man to go overseas, but the doctor told me straight out that if I did anything to upset Mummy it could bring on another stroke. I couldn't have that on my conscience.'

‘Hmm. You're in a tight spot, aren't you?'

‘You could say that. Never mind, I expect I'll survive.'

His mouth twisted into that ‘S' that she was beginning to know – and feel affection for. ‘I'm sure you will. You are a survivor, Alys.'

Two days later he telephoned. Alys was in the garden cutting roses for Frances' room when Norma called her.

‘A Mr Hicks for you.' Her eyes were curious – not many men telephoned Alys. Alys bit back her amusement at the maid's expression and took the call.

‘John – how did you know where to find me?'

‘There is only one Daniel Peterson in Toorak – only one in the whole of Melbourne probably.' His wry tone told her he had realized who her father was. Still, to John Hicks that would be of no importance. Wealthy though her father was, John could probably buy and sell him several times over.

‘It's nice to hear from you, anyway,' she said.

‘Good. Look, Alys, I'm picking up the Buick this afternoon – it's ready at last. It wouldn't take me long to come on into Melbourne and pick you up. I know you're keen to take her for a spin.'

‘Oh super! But don't come here. I know this will sound odd to you but I learned a long time ago it's better to keep my personal life and my family life separate. I'll meet you in town – say beside the fountain in Parliament Place.'

‘That's insane. I'm coming to Toorak or not at all.'

‘Not to the house, please. You'll only upset Mummy. If you insist on coming to Toorak, I'll walk up to St John's Church. I'll be on the corner.'

He did not argue any more but later, while she was trying to enjoy the glories of the Buick, he raised the subject again.

‘I don't honestly understand why I had to meet you away from your house. You're quite sure you haven't got a husband at home?'

She laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! No, as I told you on the telephone, I learned the hard way that my family feel they have the right to vet my choice of companion. And if they don't approve they do all they can to make things unpleasant.'

‘And what makes you think they would disapprove of me?'

‘Oh, I don't know,' Alys said irritably. ‘Let's leave it. I thought the idea of this trip was to drive the car. So why don't we drive it?'

For the next hour Alys was able to lose herself in the intricacies of the Buick but though John did as she asked, dropping her off where he had picked her up, there was a slight tension between them that had not been there before and Alys hoped she had not offended him by her insistence that he should stay away from the house. But she could not bring herself to explain to him the way she tightened up inside at the thought of Frances' reaction – the questions, the ill-disguised surprise that Mr Hicks was so much older than Alys, the refusal to believe that it was a friendly, platonic relationship and nothing more. Frances, with her insinuations and innuendos was expert at spoiling things – whatever her stroke had done it had not robbed her of her talents in that direction, Alys was sure.

What a choice! she thought. Have John think I'm crazy – paranoid – or maybe that I really do have something to hide, or give Mummy and Beverley the ammunition to wound me all over again.

Well,
that
had been decided now, Alys thought, as she carried the teatray to the drawing room where Frances was waiting. She had been seen with John and Beverley was now in full cry. Yet it had not worried her much. I think I handled it pretty well, Alys thought, smiling to herself. I didn't lose my cool at all. Perhaps I'm growing up – at last!

She pushed open the drawing room door. Frances was sitting in the wing chair which Alys had set by the window so that she could look out at the garden, but she was not admiring the view. Her head was half turned and cocked to one side; the expression on the good side of her face told Alys she had been listening. Alys' heart sank. Ridiculous how that look from her mother could turn her into a child again.

‘What … was that?' Frances demanded haltingly.

‘Nothing, Mummy.'

Frances eyed her malevolently.

‘Don't … lie, Alys. A man is it?'

If you heard why are you asking? Alys thought. Aloud she said: ‘Yes.'

The good corner of Frances' mouth tightened so that it almost matched the pulled side.

‘No!' Her tone was violent. ‘No! Don't want you to …'

Alys had begun to tremble. How the hell was it her mother could do this to her? With an effort she attempted to reconstruct the cool attitude she had adopted when speaking to Beverley.

‘He is just a friend, Mummy, that's all. I have to have friends.'

‘No!'

‘You're getting worked up about nothing.'

‘No! You … and men …' her mouth worked for a long moment. ‘Miserable!' she finished triumphantly though Alys felt sure it was not quite the word she had been searching for. ‘I … worry 'bout you.'

Oh yes, thought Alys. Same old story. Do as I want or you will worry me. Same old blackmail. I am your mother. Don't cause me unhappiness.

‘Look, Mummy, I have stayed here to look after you and I am doing the best I can, but I have to have some life of my own.' Alys' voice was rising though she had meant to keep her temper. ‘You can't expect me to do nothing but stay in all the time.'

‘You don't want to …' Frances' voice, too, was rising tremulously and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I'm as … I am … and you … begrudge me … You're hard, Alys …'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!' Alys exploded.

‘Alys!' It was Beverley, standing in the doorway looking shocked and angry. ‘I thought you had come in here to upset Mummy!'

‘I did no such thing!' Alys retorted. ‘I never intended …'

‘Well, for someone with no intentions you have made a pretty good job of it!' Beverley stormed. ‘ You should be ashamed of yourself. Just look at her, Alys! Look what you've done!'

Alys looked. Frances was without doubt in a state of agitation. Her colour was high, her mouth worked, a tic pulled jerkily at the one good eye.

‘You'll bring on another stroke before you've finished,' Beverley hissed, adding under her breath: ‘It's probably what you want to do!' she crossed to Frances, going on her knees beside her and taking the lifeless hand in her own.

‘It's all right, Mummy.' Her voice was loud and patient as if to a deaf child. ‘Alys doesn't think, that's all. She won't worry you any more, will you, Alys?'

Alys could not find the strength to answer. She turned away, sick at heart. How did one cope with moral blackmail of this kind? She simply did not know. All very well to refuse to be blackmailed, all very well to try calmly to enforce one's own point of view. But supposing Frances
did
have another stroke? It was quite possible. Even Dr Whitehorn had said so.

Oh God, where will it end? Alys wondered helplessly. How much tighter does she want to weave her web? He's only a friend, for goodness' sake, but he gave me something to look forward to. Surely she can't intend to have even that ounce of flesh?

She glanced back at Beverley on her knees and Frances slowly calming under her soothing words.

If this little scene was anything to go by it certainly looked as if she intended to try.

Tara tidied her hair with her fingers, straightened the skirt of her uniform dress and went into the hut where Richard had just finished taking his morning surgery.

‘Richard – I have to talk to you. Please!'

He looked up from finishing his notes, a small frown puckering between his eyes. He had just seen almost twenty men, spread right across the board from the malingerers looking for an excuse to get out of an honest day's work, to those who had tried too long to avoid bringing their condition to the attention of a Medical Officer – including one married man with advanced VD and an alcoholic who had bruised his ribs badly in an inebriated fall – and his mind was still busy with their problems.