Women and War (44 page)

Alys stood, holding on to the doorpost for support. She tried to form the words to ask what had happened but her lips refused to obey. Donald Whitehorn looked around as if giving the family the chance to speak first and in the silence Beverley appeared to become aware of Alys' presence.

Her head came up with a jerk, her eyes, washed out with tears, blazed at Alys. Then, the lower half of her face contorted with grief and anger, making her uglier than Alys would ever have believed possible.

‘Oh – so you've come home then.' She spat the words out of her wobbling lips. ‘You've deigned to come back. But you're too late, aren't you? Too late!'

Again, Alys tried to speak and this time her voice obeyed her. But it was such a tiny voice it seemed scarcely to belong to her.

‘What happened?'

‘Alys …' her father began but Beverley broke in hysterically.

‘You may well ask what happened! After you abandoned her, Mummy must have got herself to the lift to go upstairs. And it must have got stuck halfway – it's there now. There was no one to help her, no one. Norma was out and so were you. Poor Mummy must have tried to climb out of the lift and get back downstairs. But she couldn't manage it. She fell. Fell, Alys. All the way down the stairs. I came over to visit. I found her …' she disintegrated once more into noisy sobs.

Alys' horrified eyes moved from one to another. When they reached her father he nodded slowly.

‘It's true, Alys. Beverley phoned for Dr Whitehorn and for me but there was nothing we could do. By the time we got here …' He spread his hands expressively.

‘Oh no!' Alys pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. ‘But where was Norma?'

‘This is Wednesday, isn't it? Her afternoon off.'

‘Wednesday?' Alys repeated vaguely. The shock seemed to have removed her ability to think coherently. ‘ Yes, but her afternoon was changed to a Thursday several weeks ago. No, she should have been here.'

‘When she does turn up she will be given a moment's notice!' snapped Daniel.

‘Oh Daddy, you can't do that!' Alys protested. ‘Norma has been wonderful all through Mummy's illness. I'm sure she must have a very good reason …'

‘Such as you told her she could go!' Beverley's voice was harsh with tears and they all turned to look at her. ‘You probably set the whole thing up, Alys!'

Shocked and horrified, Alys could do nothing but stare at her sister.

‘What the hell are you saying, Beverley?' Daniel demanded.

‘She's been waiting for something like this to happen!' Beverley cried. ‘She's never cared about Mummy. I've been here. I've seen. She knew if Mummy died she would be free to go off with her sugar daddy.'

‘Beverley!' Daniel thundered.

‘It's true!' Beverley insisted. ‘You don't know the half of it. Ask her where she's been this afternoon. Ask her!'

‘Beverley, please! Have a little respect! That is your mother lying there.'

‘Because of her!' Beverley rose, pointing with a melodramatic finger. ‘My sister – her own daughter. Well, you got what you wanted, Alys. I only hope it makes you happy.'

She rushed to the door, pushing past Alys in a paroxym of weeping.

Alys stood motionless, her eyes wide and staring. ‘ Take no notice of her, Alys. She's upset. Naturally we all are …' Daniel crossed the room, placing a hand on Alys'shoulder. ‘She doesn't mean it. She'll regret it tomorrow.'

Alys nodded without speaking although she knew better than her father ever could that Beverley, so ready to blame and accuse, meant every word.

And as she looked at her mother, lifeless now after suffering that could indeed have been avoided had she been here, Alys felt the weight of guilt constrict her heart like another notch turned in an instrument of medieval torture.

‘Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live …' The Minister's words rose clearly, reaching every corner of the packed church.

The funeral was to have been a quiet family affair, a Memorial Service for all the many friends and acquaintances of the Peterson family would follow later. But word had spread quickly and many had come along, impatient to pay their last respects.

Alys had seen the full pews as she came into church, the sea of faces, the frill of white lace handkerchiefs. And through the numbness which had seemed to blunt her every emotion these last days one thought penetrated: did they think as Beverley did that it was all her fault? Would their heads nod together as they watched her pass by, following the simple oak coffin? Would they whisper: ‘She left her mother alone you know. Imagine – leaving a woman in her condition!'

Alys bowed her head. She had experienced none of Beverley's genuine grief – love for her mother had died too long ago and it was then that she had mourned her. Now there was nothing to buffer the torments of her guilt.

‘I should have known – I should have been there!' she had wept over the phone to John when she rang, still shocked, to tell him what had happened.

‘Alys, stop torturing yourself. You couldn't be there every minute of the day. Nobody expected it.'

‘Beverley expected it.'

‘Then why wasn't Beverley there?'

‘She has her own family. Louis and Robyn.'

‘And because you haven't she thinks you should dedicate the whole of your life to looking after your mother. That is neither fair nor reasonable. You have to have a life of your own – go out sometimes, have friends.'

‘But I should have made sure Norma knew I was going out. I shouldn't have taken it for granted she would be there. I shouldn't…'

‘Alys!' he had interrupted her sharply. ‘You have done all you could possibly do. A great deal more than most girls would ever contemplate doing. If you don't stop this foolish talk I shall have to come to Melbourne, put you across my knee and spank you!'

‘No, you mustn't come here …' she broke off. ‘ You could come to the funeral, though. That would mean a lot to me and I think Mummy would have liked it too. She was actually very fond of you.'

‘Of course I'll come,' he said.

She glanced at him now, immaculate in his dark suit, white shirt and black tie, and found herself wishing briefly that there could be more than just friendship between them. But it was not possible and anything more intimate might even spoil the quality of their relationship. Maybe one day she would meet Stuart, his son, as John so clearly hoped she would. Perhaps she could find with him not only the warmth and companionship she had found with John, but something more – that indefinable something which would eclipse the shadow of a face which haunted her no matter how often she tried to put it out of her mind – a handsome face with a good strong bone structure, with fair hair that receded slightly and blue eyes which had met hers and said …

May God forgive you, you wicked girl! Thinking thoughts like that at your own mother's funeral!

She folded her hands, listening to the words of the Minister and watching the pale winter sun slanting in through the windows and turning the pale arum lilies which decked the coffin to warm gold. If only her feelings could be transmuted in the same way. If only the regret could become real grief, not just for what might have been, but for her mother too; if only the self-recrimination could be tempered with some sort of understanding, not only from John, who loved her, but from the others, who had also loved her mother.

But it would not be. Her eyes slid from the coffin along the row of principal mourners. There was her father, his head bowed, but his shoulders straight. He had no time for her – nor for any of them. He would always plead the pressures of business as an excuse to keep his distance and pressures undoubtedly there were – but they were his life. He loved them. Then Beverley. Any pretence of closeness between the sisters had gone now, shattered by Beverley's vindictive and shrewish attitude. We were always quarrelling, even as children, Alys thought – but one does not expect to quarrel in the same way in adult life. Yet why not? Personalities are there, already more than partially formed, it is only later we learn to conceal our feelings behind a veneer that is expected of us. Louis, Bev's husband. He was nothing to Alys. She had never liked him. Perhaps even Bev had become disappointed in him and that was the reason she had become so exceptionally bitter and emotional. Robyn … Alys was fond of Robyn, but she would be just another battleground for fighting Beverley on if Alys saw much of her – she could not stand the way Bev mollycoddled the child and tried to take away her individuality and squash her spirit.

No, of all of them, the only one who would keep her here now was John, and he would not do so. Hadn't he already told her she should do what she wanted to do – go off and do her bit to help the war effort.

She glanced at him again now and felt his quiet strength lift her. The Minister spoke the final words and the family fell into line to follow the coffin down the aisle between the pews.

For the first time Alys felt warm tears on her cheeks. This was the end, really the end. Not just for her mother, but for the family as well. They would go their own ways now that Frances had gone. Perhaps they would never come together again in quite the same way. Whatever her failings, she had been the lynch pin.

Through the door, onto the pavement, following those lilies turned golden by the sun. But there was no warmth in it. The chill made Alys shiver and the cold breeze dried the tears on her cheek.

Two weeks later she drove out to the farm to say goodbye to John.

‘You're really going then,' he said.

She nodded. ‘ Yep. They actually decided I might be of some use.'

‘What did I tell you?'

She smiled, ignoring the teasing remark. ‘I'm off to training camp first, to learn how to be a soldier. And they think they need to teach me a thing or two about engines before I become an AWAS driver.'

It was his turn to laugh. ‘ You'll teach them a thing or two!'

Her face grew serious; she patted the bonnet of the Alfa Romeo. ‘Would you do something for me?'

‘What?'

‘Give my car a good home while I'm gone.'

‘Of course I will, if you want me to.'

‘I do. I can't imagine anyone else bothering to take care of it.' She smiled. ‘ You can even drive it if you can get hold of the petrol.'

‘I am honoured!'

They looked at one another for a moment, then she laid her head against his chest.

‘Oh John, I'll miss you.'

‘No, you won't. There won't be time even to think of me. You'll be too busy with all your new experiences.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that.'

‘Well I do. If anyone does any missing, it will be me. Left here all alone.'

‘Not all alone,' she teased. ‘ You'll have your Land Army girls.'

‘So I will! So off you go and enjoy yourself.'

‘You make it sound like a holiday.'

‘For you, Alys, after what you have put up with, that is just what it will be.'

A shadow crossed her face. ‘Don't say that, please. I did what I had to do. But I was a terrible daughter. I was nothing but a disappointment to her. And what I did I did grudgingly. She must have known that.'

‘That was her choice, Alys. She could have chosen to keep your respect and love. Instead she chose to keep you.'

The shadow came fully into her eyes. ‘It's so sad. When I was a little girl she was a good mother really.'

‘Because then she knew she could make you do what she wanted. There are people like that, Alys. Just as long as life – and everyone in their vicinity – conforms to their pattern they can be wonderful. Step outside their wishes and they become tyrants.'

She took his hands. ‘Oh John, I wish I could be as wise and calm about things as you are.' He smiled his sideways smile. ‘When things can't be changed there's no point wasting energy worrying about them.' He kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Goodbye, Alys. Take care of yourself.'

‘And you. I'll write and let you know the news.'

‘You'd better. But you probably won't have time. All your free moments will be spent cavorting with handsome young officers.'

‘I doubt it.' She laughed and once more thought of one handsome young officer with whom she would very much have liked to ‘cavort'.

But he had married someone else.

And that, thought, Alys, was very much that.

Richard Allingham carried the two beers from the mess bar to the chairs in the corner of the veranda where Tara was sitting.

She took one from him with hands that shook slightly and drank. ‘Ah – I need that!'

Richard set his own drink down on the floor beside his chair, leaning forward urgently. ‘Right. Now tell me again what the CO said.'

‘I told you already. There's nothing else to say. They are sending me to New Guinea.'

Richard swore softly. ‘But why for God's sake? You're doing fine here. You're a good medical orderly and we need you. Why send you to New Guinea?'

Tara laughed nervously. ‘ Why does the army do anything? They are a law unto themselves. And I'm in the army now, remember.'

‘But it doesn't make sense.'

‘To them it does. The whole unit I trained with is going. I should have thought of what might happen before I agreed to sign on. I did think of it. But I assumed that …'

‘That because we were married they would have more consideration,' Richard finished for her. ‘ Yes, I'd have thought so too. Perhaps, if I have a word with the CO …'

‘It won't do any good,' Tara said. ‘He's under orders like the rest of us.'

‘But maybe he could put in a word.'

‘No. It wouldn't do any good,' Tara repeated stubbornly.