Women and War (39 page)

‘Stay there, I'll bring the mirror to you,' she offered. ‘The light is better over here.'

Tara stood quite still, almost afraid to move. Each time she did a pin dug sharply into her waist and besides this, in spite of her excited wriggling a moment ago, she was terrified of spoiling Kate's handiwork. June lugged the long mirror down the aisle between the beds and Tara almost gasped as she caught sight of her reflection.

Was it really her, standing there in a fairytale creation of white lace? Yes, that was unmistakably her face above the cutaway ‘sweetheart' neckline – and her sensible lace-up shoes peeping from beneath the full crinoline of the skirt.

As if following her gaze Kate frowned. ‘We shall have to do something about your shoes. They spoil the effect completely. You haven't got any, you say?'

Tara shook her head and a pin dug into the base of her neck. ‘No. My one and only civilian pair went mildewed months ago.'

‘The way most things do in the Wet.' Kate sounded thoughtful. ‘And the pair Mrs King sent to go with the dress are too big on you.'

‘To be honest, I think Mrs King would make two of me,' Tara said, then added hastily, ‘not that I'm complaining, mind you. I think it was fantastic of her to offer to loan me the dress. If it belonged to me I don't think I'd ever let it out of my sight.'

‘You would. You'd do just the same, Tara,' June said. ‘We all would. A wedding is just what we need to cheer us up, isn't it, Kate?'

Kate did not reply. Her small freckled face was as serious as ever and momentarily Tara wondered if she was thinking of her fiancé and whether her own wedding would ever take place. But she had been marvellous, they all had, rallying round and enjoying the preparations from the moment they heard the news. It was the first time in the short history of 138 AGH that there had been a wedding in the hospital and everyone had wanted to be a part of the preparations.

Tara knew – though it was supposed to be a secret – that three Christmas cakes of varying sizes had been donated by their owners to be formed into a wedding cake, the hospital cook was busy fixing them into tiers by using the cardboard cylinders from the centre of Elastoplast rolls as supports, icing them over and decorating them with loving care. When he had come to visit Reg – now thankfully almost recovered – Bluey had been asked if he could spare flowers to decorate the church and assured the deputation that they could have free rein to take whatever was needed, and arrangements had been made for a unit band to play for the evening celebrations which would follow the ceremony. But most exciting of all had been the arrival of the dress.

Tara had quite resigned herself to being married in uniform, but one evening Grace had returned from a duty south on Leaping Lena and burst into the mess where the sisters were eating dinner bearing a huge cardboard box.

‘Just wait till you see what I've got, girls!' she announced.

They had downed knives and forks and crowded round, venturing guesses at what the box contained. But when Grace proudly opened it to reveal yards of white satin and lace the gasps that greeted it were more enthusiastic than ever she could have hoped for.

‘A wedding dress!'

‘Where did you get that?'

‘It's beautiful!'

It was. It was also far too large for the petite Tara. Elsie King, a grower's wife, and one of the few women who had been allowed to remain in the Territory, had heard of the wedding and insisted Grace should take it back to Tara to wear for her great day. She was a large-boned woman of the outback and at first when she tried it on Tara could have wept with disappointment. Six inches too long and several sizes too big around. But Elsie had generously agreed that any necessary alterations could be made.

‘I shan't be wearing it again,' she had said with a laugh. ‘Do whatever you have to to make it fit her – no worries. Just as long as I have it back again to show my grandchildren. If it comes to that I'll be able to kid them along that I used to be as little as that, won't I?'

Kate was the best seamstress at 138 and so she had been delegated to make the necessary alterations. Now, just a few days before the wedding, she was putting the finishing touches to her work – watched by half-a-dozen pairs of envious eyes.

‘You'll be a beautiful bride, Tara,' June told her, holding the mirror steady. ‘ Turn around now and have a look at the back view.'

Tara twirled, the lace skirt swished over the board floor and the watching girls clapped. Kate sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with pride.

‘We haven't decided what you're going to do about those shoes, Tara.'

Tara surveyed her feet and wrinkled up her nose thoughtfully.

‘I suppose I could stuff paper into the toes of Mrs King's. The trouble is I might fall over my own feet.'

‘We can't risk that. Hasn't anybody here with feet your size got a pair of party-going shoes?'

Silence. Most of the girls had travelled around Australia on slow and uncomfortable troop trains carrying their own kit. Party-going shoes were an unthought-of luxury – even if they could have been squeezed in without the knowledge of the authorities.

Claire Dober, a pretty dark-haired sister, sat up on her bed, swinging her feet up beneath her. ‘I've got friends in the Alice. There are still civilian women there. Maybe if I sent an SOS we could get a pair sent up on the convoy.'

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘We'll leave that with you then, Claire,' Grace said. As provider of the dress she was naturally taking charge of making sure it was shown to its best advantage. ‘Now let's see you in the veil as well, Tara. We want to make sure we can fix the head-dress properly.'

Out of the box came the veil, another froth of white lace, and the head-dress, a simple circlet of orange blossom. Tara stood quite still this time as Kate placed it over her curls, easing it into place and evening out the spread of lace around her shoulders. This time there was a hush. Tara looked so like a fairytale bride that it took the breath away.

‘Well, Tara,' June said at last, ‘I think we can safely say you'll do.' Her voice sounded slightly choked and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

Entranced as they were by the picture Tara made, none of them noticed the voices as two people approached the hut. The first any of them knew of it was the dragging creak as the door, warped by the wet and the heat, opened and a girl's voice said: ‘She's here, I'm sure. You'd better come inside before you drown …'

Six pairs of eyes switched from Tara to the door. Six girls' breath came out on a concerted gasp of horror. Hearing them, Tara swung around and her heart seemed to stop beating.

‘Richard!'

He was standing in the doorway behind Marje Curry, the masseuse who had invited him in. Rain was dripping out of his hair and running down his face but he made no move to wipe it away. He might, Tara thought, have been turned to stone – so might they all as they stared at him, frozen by horror. Then June was on her feet, diving towards the door.

‘Get out! Go on – get out of here! Don't you know it's unlucky to see the bride in her dress before the day?'

‘Oh I'm sorry! I didn't know she was …' He backed out and Grace slammed the door behind him, turning angrily on Marje.

‘What the hell were you thinking of, bringing him here?'

‘How was I to know she was trying on her dress?' Marje defended herself. ‘ He was looking for her and it's bloody wet outside.'

‘Well you've done it now, haven't you?' June stormed. ‘ Of all the bloody silly idiotic dills!' she turned. ‘Tara, are you all right?'

Tara had not moved. She stood as immobile as Richard had done, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes wide.

‘Don't let it worry you.' That was Kate, always quietly matter-of-fact.

‘But – he saw me.' Tara's voice was shocked.

‘Yes. It's a darned shame but there it is. What's done can't be undone.'

‘He saw me! He shouldn't have seen me!'

‘No, but as Kate says it's no use crying over what can't be altered. And all that other stuff is just superstition. I mean, I know I said it's unlucky, but that's just an old wives' tale to keep your dress a secret. It doesn't mean anything,' June comforted.

Tara could not answer. A dread she could not explain was welling up inside her. Partly, perhaps, it had to do with the superstition. Old wives' tale or not, Tara's Irish blood made her less sceptical than some when it came to superstitions. But it was not only that. It also had to do with the look on Richard's face as he had seen her standing there.

He hadn't just been surprised. He had been shocked. Shocked to his upright moral core because she was wearing viginal white, perhaps. And shocked because he had suddenly been brought face to face with the reality of what was happening.

In a dream Tara raised her hands to her head, removing the circlet of orange blossom and the cloud of white lace. And as she laid it down in its box she found herself wishing that she would never have to put it on again.

Richard and Tara walked down the track just out of sight of the hospital. The rain had stopped but the vegetation and the ground still steamed, filling the air with suffocating mist. Tara reached for a bloodwood leaf, pulling it down as she walked, and moisture sprayed from it, splashing her face with a damp film.

‘There's something I have to tell you,' she said. ‘I'm not going to have a baby.'

For a moment there was no sound but the chirping of crickets and grasshoppers and the croak of the frogs.

‘So you see you don't have to marry me after all, if you don't want to,' she said.

It was the night before the wedding and all day she had been nerving herself up for this moment. She had known really the moment she saw his face on the previous evening that she had to do it – she could not go through with this, could not go ahead and trick him into marrying her. Much as she wanted to be his wife, certain as she was she could make him happy, she simply could not do it. She looked at him now and thought she saw a shadow lift from his eyes.

‘I see,' he said quietly.

She felt numbed as if all emotions were muffled, but somewhere deep within she could feel her heart beating uncomfortably fast and when she spoke there was a tremble in her voice.

‘I made a mistake. I don't know why it happened. I'm always so regular I was sure …'

‘Maybe it was because you were anxious,' he suggested. ‘ Emotional disturbances can upset the cycle.'

‘Maybe that's what it was.' She couldn't look at him now. ‘Anyway, if you want to call it off I shall understand.'

He stopped walking, caught her hands and turned her to face him. ‘Do you want to call it off?'

She still could not meet his eyes. ‘I don't want to feel I've forced you.'

‘You haven't answered my question. Do you want to call it off?'

The tears were there behind her eyes. All day they had been threatening, now she felt them prick more urgently.

‘No, of course I don't want to call it off.'

‘Well, in that case …' he paused. ‘In that case I think we should go ahead with the wedding as planned.'

‘But you don't
have
to.'

‘Tara, I never
had
to. Oh, I know what I said about my responsibilities and everything and I meant it. But I always had my doubts that you were pregnant. It was much too soon to know for sure – so many things, as I say, can play havoc with your cycle.'

‘Then why …?'

‘It was possible, for goodness' sake. I wanted to play safe. Better to go ahead and plan the wedding than leave it until it would be obvious to everyone. But, by the same token, I can hardly go to the CO now and say we're calling it off – we only asked permission to marry because we thought Tara was going to have a baby.'

‘Oh.' Her voice was small and mortified. ‘And that's the only reason you don't want to call it off?'

‘Tara!' He held both her hands in one of his and with his free hand stroked the curls away from her forehead. ‘Of course it's not the only reason. What the hell sort of a marriage would that be? No – you know what my feelings were about taking on responsibilities while this damned war lasts but I suppose I've come to terms with that now. Other men do it – what's so special about me? Or rather, what's wrong with me that I can't cope with that kind of situation. You can cope, I'm certain of that. You're strong, Tara.'

‘Sometimes I don't feel very strong.'

‘Maybe not, but you are. Where did it come from, that strength? Your Irish blood maybe. Or …'

‘Yes, well, maybe you're right,' Tara said hastily. ‘ But I just couldn't live with thinking you only married me because you thought it was the right thing to do.'

‘Believe me, it's not just that.'

‘You mean – you do love me?'

Rain began to patter onto the branches again.

‘Yes.'

‘Oh Richard! Oh … Richard …'

Those threatening tears overflowed and began to run down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. But they were happy tears. Oh thank you, Holy Mother, thank you, thank you! I don't deserve it, I don't, I'm so wicked. But thank you, thank you!

‘We had better get back,' Richard said.

He took her hand and they ran together between the dripping trees. At the door of the hut he kissed her again quickly and lightly.

‘I'll see you in church tomorrow.'

‘Yes.'

She stood in the doorway and watched until the mist had swallowed him up. And it was only then that she realized he had only replied ‘Yes' when she had asked her last question. He had not said: ‘Yes – I love you.'

The tiny bamboo church was packed to overflowing and those who could not get in stood outside waiting expectantly. As she crossed the clearing, holding her dress well up to prevent it from trailing in the mud, Tara saw them through a haze.