Women and War (56 page)

‘Yes. Oh, it won't be until the war is over, of course, but …'

‘That shouldn't be long now. Well, Alys, I am very pleased for you if that is what you want.'

Again, that slight reservation. It communicated itself to her and suddenly she was thinking. Is it? Is it what I want? I don't know. I'd be happy with him. I could make him happy. But the way I feel about him – is it enough? With a conscious effort she collected herself.

‘You are the first to know. And I promise you that when we do decide upon a date you and Tara will be top of our guest list.' She hesitated, aware of the slight uncertainty in her own voice, then laughed. ‘ If the war lasts much longer, Margaret might be old enough to be a bridesmaid!'

He laughed too and the awkwardness passed – almost, but not quite.

‘I certainly hope it won't be that long! Thanks for coming to see me, Alys, and passing on all the news.'

She stood up. ‘I'd better be getting back to my base.'

He rose also, following her to the door. ‘ Take care, Alys. Come and see me again if you are nearby.'

‘I will.' She smiled at him, their eyes met. Then, because something very odd was happening in the pit of her stomach, she turned and walked quickly away into the night.

Richard stood watching her go, watching her slender figure, trim in her uniform, silhouetted against the lights of an approaching ambulance. He passed a hand through his hair. He felt tired suddenly, yet strangely awake. Alert in every nerve, every brain cell. And there was a knife edge of emotion driving into him too – something halfway between anger and despair.

He swung on his heel and went back into the mess room. What the hell was wrong with him? A few minutes earlier and his mind had been full of Tara and the baby, his feelings pure and simple – pride in being a father. Now, suddenly, he could think of nothing but that Alys was going to marry John.

But why should that fact stir up such a hornet's nest of emotion? Why shouldn't she marry him? They were obviously close – and it was only natural that a girl like Alys should want to many.

But – not him! He's too old for her, he thought and felt a stab of anger again, not white hot, because white hot anger was something Richard was incapable of, but a dull ache painful in its intensity. He is too old for her – old enough to be her father. She's young, beautiful, strong – and yet at the same time somehow very vulnerable. A picture of her lying in the hospital bed after the bombing of Darwin, face chalk-white, hair fanned out on the pillow and gleaming like burnished copper, came into his mind and he was remembering how he had felt then – angry at the waste of all that youth and beauty and moved by a twist of emotion which had been close to desire. He had quickly squashed the impulse as unprofessional and she had been shipped south passing out of his life as quickly as she had entered it. But if she had not been shipped south who knew what would have developed? She had not known John then and he had not been involved with Tara. There would have been nothing to come between them.

The same indefinable sense of regret sunk a bore hole to the pit of his stomach again and he moved abruptly, leaving the mess and pulling the door closed behind him. The night was dark, no ambulance lights illuminating the drive now, only the tiny pinpricks of brightness creeping between the ‘brown-out' at the mess windows and in the darkness another picture crept before his eyes – Alys in Melbourne; coming into the restaurant with John, radiantly beautiful in her green dress. He had experienced another emotion then – jealousy. At the time he had scarcely recognized it, so foreign was it to his nature. But he recognized it now with a suddenness that shocked him to the core. She had stood there holding onto John's arm and he had experienced a moment's blinding hurt – just as he had when she had revealed that John had asked her to marry him. And in truth it had nothing to do with John's age – nothing at all. Whoever the man at her side had been it would have been the same.

Dear God, I'm in love with her! he thought and the shock waves ran through him in ever-widening circles. I'm in love with her and I never realized it until now. How blind and stupid could I be?

The darkness swallowed him and he walked with no inkling of where he was going, while the newfound realization opened doors in his mind. In the bushes beside the path the crickets chirped and a breeze stirred in the leaves drawing from them a soft whispering rustle which seemed to give tangible voice to his thoughts.

How had it happened? Life had always seemed so simple to him, even in moments of crisis. Now suddenly all was confusion. In love with one woman and married to another. But how – how? Useless to blame the war and tell himself that in time of peace such a thing could never have happened. He suspected that Tara could have bewitched him under any circumstances. She had been a madness with him and he had desired her as he had never desired any other woman. But in all honesty he thought he had known almost from the moment of marrying her that it could never work. She was uneasy in his world, he was uneasy with her uninhibited philosophy of life. Being apart had been almost a relief and only the fact of her pregnancy had brought him down to earth, made him realize his responsibilities and actually enjoy the prospect of being a father.

Until Alys had walked into the mess and told him she was to marry John. And there was suddenly nowhere to hide from the knowledge of his feelings for her.

The path petered out into bush, the leaves of an overhanging gum whipped his cheek and he stopped abruptly. It was too late now to harbour thoughts of Alys – almost three years too late. You are a husband and a father now – she will soon be a wife. Might as well resign yourself to the fact.

But as he turned, walking back towards the lights of the hospital, his step was slow, his shoulders had the stoop of an old man and there was no escape from the weight within him.

Tara set down her coffee cup, folded her napkin and pushed back the Chippendale dining chair. At once conversation around the dinner table ceased and five pairs of eyes turned to her questioningly.

‘Excuse me, I just want to make sure Margaret is all right,' she said quickly.

‘My dear, I am sure there is no need for that,' Mrs Allingham said. There was a hint of ice beneath the pleasantly modulated tones which was not lost on Tara. ‘ Nanny is with her is she not?'

‘Yes, but …?'

‘Tara wants to see for herself. That is a mother's prerogative.' Charles Allingham smiled, his eyes, so like an older version of Richard's, twinkling at her. ‘Go on, Tara, take no notice. If you want to look in on your baby I am sure nobody here will mind.'

‘Thank you,' Tara said gratefully. She crossed the room, aware of the swift resumption of conversation behind her and the chink of glasses as the port and liqueurs were passed yet again – and aware, too, of Mrs Allingham's disapproving eyes following her.

She closed the door behind her and let her breath out on a sharp sigh. Blessed escape! She had offended Richard's mother again, of course, but that could not be helped. She had the feeling that nothing she did or did not do would ever meet with Mrs Allingham's complete approval. It was a fact of life that she was disappointed in her son's choice of wife and, however well her breeding led her to disguise it, Tara could see through the veneer. So, upsetting Richard's mother was a daily hazard and in this case infinitely preferable to remaining at the dinner table with her and her snobbish guests a moment longer.

Through the closed door Tara heard the tinkle of their rather forced laughter and cringed. How she hated these dinner parties – hated the polite conversation and the stiff propriety, hated the tiny portions of food which were picked at rather than consumed, hated the vast quantities of different drinks, all of which had to be taken in the correct glasses. Damn stupid, she thought. She liked a drink as much as anyone but these people simply used it as yet another excuse for one-upmanship, discussing the wines knowledgeably, comparing vintages and origins – and spending on a single bottle a sum of money which would keep a poor Sydney family in food for a week. It was the one thing amongst all the luxury which truly grated on her, though in calmer moments she told herself she was being irrational – Red had never spared any expense when it came to his champagne and his whisky. But that had been different somehow. How she could not quite explain. But different for all that.

I'll never fit in with these people, Tara thought, not if I live to be ninety-four – and was immediately struck by a shaft of self-doubt.

Just where did she belong? As a child in Sydney she had wanted nothing more than to break away from the squalor – longed for a little luxury. In the army, she had disliked the rigours and the discipline and the hard living. Now, she had a life of wealth and opulence beyond her wildest dreams and she was still not satisfied. She loved Richard, of course, but Richard was not here. She had married him and found herself all alone in an environment which was totally foreign to her.

I was probably happiest when I was with Red, she thought, climbing the sweeping staircase. Not because I loved him but because at least I had the comforts I enjoy, and the company of people I felt at home with. And I still had contact with the world of entertainment. He didn't let me sing, but I always thought that one day he might.

And that, of course, was the knub of the matter. She was never happier than when she was performing. Apart from Richard it was the one great passion of her life – the one thing that could make her feel she had something to give. For a moment, with the chandeliers casting their glittering light upon her as she climbed the stairs, she imagined she was back in the glare of a spotlight, hearing the murmuring anticipation of an audience and the roll of drums, seeing the smoke of countless cigars and cigarettes dancing in the shaft of light, experiencing the twist of excitement and fear and the power which would hold them in her spell. Oh, how she loved it! Loved everything about it, the glamour and the glitter, the surging adrenalin and the high on which it left her. But she had left it behind her now, left it for a husband she loved dearly and a child born of that love. Useless to hanker after it.

She pushed open the door to Margaret's room. A shaded nightlight showed the dim outlines of the cot and the crib, the tall chest of drawers, the low nursing chair. The connecting door to the nanny's room was ajar, a band of bright light showing that Nanny was still up, probably reading or knitting. Tara crossed to the crib, leaned over and peeped inside.

In the shadows she could see the silky soft hair dark against the lemon pillow, the curve of cheek and nose. She reached inside, turning back the sheet and trailing her finger against the baby's cheek. It was smooth like a peach, Tara thought, but even softer. A moment's love welled in her. She was not a maternal type. When Margaret had been born and the nurse had asked if she wanted to hold her she had shaken her head.

‘I'll just look at her.'

The nurse's disapproval had been as obvious as Mrs Allingham's but Tara had not cared. She was exhausted and the Baby had looked unpleasantly sticky, a small pink scrap that had nothing whatever to do with her. Even afterwards, when Margaret had been washed and dressed in her soft wincyette nightgown, she had felt strangely detached. No rush of maternal love. Nothing really beyond a mild interest and a certain amount of pride. These emotions had been extended to include incredulity when the visitors began to arrive. What did people see in a baby to go so completely overboard about them? She was a nice little thing of course and very pretty – Tara did not think she could have borne it if Margaret had been fat, bald or marred in some way. But to coo and visibly melt … she simply could not understand it. She herself was vaguely disconcerted by the baby's wide blue stare and damp nether regions. And when she yelled long and lustily Tara was only too glad to hand her over to Nanny, in spite of her almost equal irritation with the woman's cold superiority and obvious impatience with Tara's half-hearted efforts to quieten her.

Now, however, leaning over the crib she was aware of the first stirrings of real tenderness. Margaret looked like a little cherub sleeping there with the tiny soft toy dangling beside her. Nanny had not wanted the toy in the crib, saying that for the sake of hygiene it was best to have nothing near the baby which could not be sterilized or at the very least thoroughly washed, but Tara had insisted, as much to assert her authority as Margaret's mother as for any other reason, and so the teddy was there, dangling on its lemon ribbon a few inches from the small button nose.

‘Margaret!' Tara said softly, liking the sound of the name and thinking how pleased Maggie would be if she knew the baby had been called after her.

‘Mrs Allingham – please!' The sharp hiss from behind her made Tara jump, her fingernail scagged Margaret's cheek and she began to squirm. Tara spun round to see Nanny standing threateningly in the doorway. Her uniform had been abandoned now. She was wearing an enormous ‘sensible' dressing gown but this in no way detracted from her awesome appearance.

‘Do you have to creep up on me like that, Nanny?' Tara demanded.

Margaret's squirms became convulsive and she emitted the first warning wail.

‘Now see what you have done!' Nanny bustled towards the crib. ‘She was asleep. Now you've woken her – and she is not due to be fed for another hour.' ‘She's woken up because you made me jump,' Tara objected.

Nanny practically elbowed Tara aside, turning Margaret over and rocking the crib, but the crying only grew louder.

‘Seeing she's awake she might as well be fed now,' Tara said.

‘Certainly not!' Nanny snapped. ‘Babies have to learn a routine.'

‘But if she's hungry …'

‘Allow me to know my job please, Mrs Allingham.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!' Tara said angrily. ‘She is my baby!'