Women and War (47 page)

‘I hear we have to call you ‘‘sir'' now,' Tara said, changing the subject. ‘A commission! My, my!'

‘That's right. I shall expect a little more respect from you in future.'

‘Respect – hah!' she was laughing. ‘The best you can hope for is that if you behave yourself I shall come and see you again.'

‘Quite an honour, I agree,' he said, heavily sarcastic, and to his surprise saw the colour flame in her cheeks. Tara embarrassed? Never!

She leaned over, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek. The touch of her lips made the tiny pinpricks tingle over his skin as if he were about to start another shivering fit. He reached out and caught her around the wrist. In his haggard fevered face his eyes were very sharp.

‘Is this a bonus I get now that you are a married lady? If so – it was almost worth losing you. Especially as your husband is a good long way away.'

She looked at him in confusion and he shook his head sadly.

‘He has never known how to look after you, that bloke.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's obvious isn't it? If you were my wife I would never let you be posted so far away.'

‘And how could you prevent it?'

‘Oh, I'd find a way.'

‘Well, I am not your wife.' She snatched her hand away. ‘And I'll be much obliged if you would remember that.'

Suddenly, he felt very tired. Strange how it could creep up on him so suddenly that one minute he could be feeling he was well on the way to recovery, the next as if he was being dragged down into that morass of muddled dreams which had stretched end to end through the early days of the illness.

‘Tara.' He controlled the movement of his lips with difficulty. ‘Tara – did I ever tell you you are beautiful?'

Then, before he could hear her reply, before he could see the expression on her face when he said it even, he was asleep.

Tara stood in front of the notice board gazing longingly at the announcements and invitations. A picnic to Fisherman's Island – a visit to a native village a sailing trip on a lak-a-toi – a dance in the mess at Base. The visit to the native village did not interest her, nor the sailing trip – just the thought of it made her feel seasick all over again. But the picnic and the dance – oh, it would be so good to put on a pretty dress and enjoy herself for a little while!

Teeth holding her lip in the effort of concentration, Tara calculated on a mental calendar. No. The picnic was out. Definitely not one of her days off. But the dance – she was almost sure that was a day off – and even if it was not she should be through with her duties in time to go.

Tara scrabbled around in her bag, found a stub of pencil and added her name to the list. Four names up already and with any luck there would soon be two more. Six girls to be interested in any invitation before it could be accepted was the rule, and six escorts to go with them.

A shadow fell across her shoulder and Tara turned to see Jill Whitton standing behind her.

‘What's on then?' she asked.

‘There's a dance,' Tara pressed hopefully. ‘Shall I put your name down?'

‘Well yeah, all right, go on,' Jill agreed. ‘I expect I can wangle it even if it means swopping duties with that dill Edna Royston. How did she ever come to be an AAMWS, I'd like to know?'

‘She's mustard keen, she's efficient, she does twice as much work as anyone else in half the time.' Tara added Jill's name to the list and turned to grin at her. ‘She's a gem. I've heard Sister say so.'

Jill snorted. ‘She is also the biggest crashing bore I've ever met. She is so earnest, Tara. And the clothes she wears when we get out of uniform for an hour or two! I wouldn't put my grandmother in them!'

‘It's one less to compete with then, isn't it?' Tara teased.

The girls fell into step heading back towards their tent.

‘If there's one thing I like about this war it's the men!' Jill said with a laugh. ‘ So many to choose from! Not that there's much chance to misbehave. Back home they seem to think we are all fallen women. They don't seem to realize we're too tired most of the time for carryings on, even if we did have the opportunity. Not that it bothers you much, I suppose, as a married lady.'

Tara pulled a face. ‘A ring on your finger doesn't change you that much. I still long to have a bit of fun.'

‘Well, now's your chance. There are a lot of Yanks about – and I've heard they can get you all kinds of things our lads can't. Silk stockings, perfume, even pretty underwear, if you play your cards right. And ciggies and chocolate and cookies …' Jill broke off, laughing. ‘All I hope is if we get to go to this dance that my escort doesn't turn out to be a killjoy. They can be, can't they? They tend to get carried away with the responsibility of making sure your honour is preserved and act as if they – own you!'

‘Hmm, I think I might just take my own escort,' Tara said.

‘Your own? Oh, you mean that officer with malaria who you're always trotting in to see.'

‘Yes. He's so much better now I think I'll ask him.'

‘I can see you were right – marriage certainly doesn't seem to have changed
you
!' Jill remarked and Tara failed to notice the sprinkling of spite in her tone.

‘Yes, I'll have to get clearance from the MO first to say he's fit enough and then I'll ask him,' she said.

The Aussie army truck ploughed its way along the muddy road and each time the wheels slithered and spun, the six girls piled in the back held their breath. As it was after sundown they were dressed in their safari jackets and trousers – civilian dress was restricted to the hours of daylight even on special occasions – but no one wanted to arrive at a dance covered in mud after having to push a truck which had become bogged down.

‘You'd never think there could be so much water up there would you?' Doreen Callis, one of the AAMWS remarked, peering up into the thick haze which almost obscured the tops of the trees. ‘You'd think the whole sky was going to fall down.'

‘Yeah, it reminds me of when I was in sugar country up in Queensland …' one of the men began, but Tara was not listening.

The storm and the truck jolting over the boggy track had brought back memories of her own, though she had no intention of sharing them. That night when she and Richard had gone down to the Freeman brothers' farm was too private – and too precious – for that.

Oh Richard, so damned far away! Tara thought, and in spite of the crowded company in the truck she felt lonely. She had told Jill marriage had not changed her much and probably that was true. But falling in love most certainly had.

A cheer of relief went up when the driver ground to a halt outside the base camp recreation hut where the dance was being held. They all piled out and headed in the direction of the music – popular tunes being played by the unit band.

The hall, scarcely big enough to contain all those, who wanted to let their hair down, was already crowded. A thick haze of cigarette smoke floated just below ceiling height. Dev managed to fight his way through the crowd at the bar to fetch a drink for himself and Tara, then they stood squeezed into a corner sipping them. As the crush increased Tara glanced at him anxiously. He still looked far from well, though perhaps it would be less obvious to someone who had not known him before. He was thin and wiry now where before he had been strongly muscled, his skin an unhealthy yellow instead of his normal deep tan. As if reading her thoughts he grinned at her over the rim of his glass.

‘Stop worrying, love. I'm not about to pass out on you.'

‘I hope not!'

‘No way am I going to miss out on the chance of a dance with you. After all, it might be my last.'

‘Your last? Whatever do you mean?'

‘If they think I'm fit enough to be allowed out on escort duty for an evening, they must think I'm damned near fit enough to be discharged.'

Tara ran a finger around her mouth wiping away a tiny fine line of beer foam. ‘ But the thing with malaria is it can keep coming and going, surely.'

‘Yep. For years. They can't keep me that long. Especially when I'm taking up a bed that could be needed urgently.'

‘But yours is a particularly nasty sort of malaria. I thought they wanted to study your case.'

He laughed. ‘Tara Kelly – Allingham! – I don't believe you want me to go!'

‘Hah!' she snorted, but the thought passed through her mind – no, I don't believe I do.

Dev took the glass from her hand, putting it down with his on a table.

‘Come on, let's have that dance while we can. Before long the floor is going to be so crowded not even a flea would be able to do a hop on it. Now, hang on to my jacket and we'll see if we can get through without losing one another in the crush.'

He ploughed off in the direction of the dance floor and Tara followed. A breathless romp to ‘The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B' was just coming to an end – just as well, thought Tara. She really did not think Dev would have been up to leaping about to that. No, the tune the band had just begun to play was much more suitable the slow, haunting ‘String of Pearls'.

‘Right then, Madam, may I have the pleasure?'

He executed a small theatrical bow and she giggled.

‘How could I refuse?'

His arm went around her waist, his hand held hers, firmly and steadily. No hint of the ‘shakes' now. For a moment she moved unselfconsciously in his arms, enjoying the lift she always got from being at one with music, feeling it flow through her veins, touch and sensitize every muscle, every nerve ending. Her head was thrown back, lip caught between her teeth, eyes half-closed as she lived each throbbing beat. He was watching her though she did not know it; as she brought her head forward their eyes met.

And suddenly it was not just the music that was singing in her. It was more, much more, and it had to do with Dev and the way he was looking at her. Deep within, she felt something lurch and then it was as if every bit of her was being drawn towards him, as if his eyes were magnetizing her just as they had that day back in Darwin when he had been helping her prepare for her show. Only then she had been able to escape.

Today, she was on a crowded dance floor, hemmed in by a mass of perspiring bodies. And she was not so sure, anyway, that she wanted to escape …

‘Dev …' she said. Her voice was small and breathy and almost lost in the haunting music.

A muscle moved in his cheek. Abruptly he swung her round so that she was at his side instead of facing him. He still had hold of her hand but now his fingers bit into her sinews. He turned, forcing his way between the dancing couples and dragging her after him. Startled, she offered no protest.

The night air was thick and moist, still retaining the heat of the day. Across the packed mud yard from the club room was a clutch of single storey buildings. The moon glanced palely off the white wood supports on which the corrugated roofs rested but the windows were unlit. Were they store rooms of some kind, or offices? Dev and Tara neither knew nor cared. As they rounded the corner there was nothing but a line of palm trees in front of them and Dev moved into the shadow of the huts, leaning back against the wall beneath the overhang of the roof and pulling Tara with him.

The whiplash catapulted her against him; she felt her breasts flatten against his hard chest.

‘What are you doing?' she tried to say but his mouth was on hers, muffling all speech. For a moment, she let the tide of ecstasy that had begun with the dance carry her along; her lips moved and responded beneath his while desire ran flickering through her veins like a line of fire along a fuse. His body was hard against hers, his arms held her in a vice-like grip and she could think of nothing, nothing, but melting into him.

Then, somewhere out in the wild jungle beyond the fringing palm trees a night bird called, its cry a jagged screech against the background of music which was carrying softly from the club room. The sound jarred Tara to reality. She jerked her lips away from his, pushing at his chest with her hands to free herself, but he held her fast.

‘Dev – let me go! What are you thinking of?'

‘I'll give you three guesses, Tara my lovely.' His voice was low.

‘Let me go!' she was amazed at how strong he was. She had thought he was still weak from the malaria.

‘Supposing I don't let you go, huh? What are you going to do about it?'

‘Dev …!'

‘I think I'll keep you here. Make sure that you don't go back to that husband of yours. Ever.' There was an undertone in his voice now which frightened her. All humour had gone and violence was there, raw and unchecked. ‘ Do you know what it does to me, Tara, thinking of you with him? Christ, I think I would rather kill you than have his hands on you …'

As he spoke he slid one hand up around her neck. The span of it from thumb to finger was enough to circle her throat from ear to ear. He began to press gently, then held steady as he brought his lips towards hers again. She stood mesmerized but unresponsive while he tried to kiss her back to awareness. After a moment, he lifted his head a few inches leaving his fingers still splayed around her throat.

‘I could do it, you know.' His voice was still low and dangerous. ‘I could do it and you wouldn't even get the chance to cry out. But I'd rather hang on in there and show you what you're missing. You and I, Tara …'

Just when she began to panic she was never afterwards certain. One minute she had been alive with an electric desire more potent than anything she had ever experienced before, the next the hysteria was welling up from some hidden place deep within her and she was shaking violently as she fought to free herself from his grasp, sobs gurgling from her restricted windpipe.

‘Tara!' He let go of her throat, sliding his hand up to cover her mouth and cut off the sobs. ‘For Chrissakes, cut it out! I won't hurt you!'