Free A Time of Secrets by Deborah Burrows Page B

tram. I shut my eyes for the rest of the journey, and prayed.
    Jim pulled up at the gates to Victoria Barracks and showed his identification. I held up my hand. The guards were sympathetic.
    ‘I hear you’re a bare-knuckle fighter,’ said Dr Wilson, when he saw me a short while later. I lifted the corners of my mouth in an approximation of a smile. He lifted my hand gently and told me to wiggle my fingers.
    ‘It’s badly sprained, but I don’t think you’ve broken any bones. Maybe a hairline fracture. Did you fall?’
    ‘Mmm,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll strap it and give you a sling to wear.’ He handed me a glass jar. ‘Use this liniment at night; it might help. Come back in a week or so. I’ll give you a certificate to excuse you from manual work.’ He gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Hurts?’
    ‘Yes, quite a lot. But my flatmate has some strong painkillers.’
    ‘Here are some more.’ He handed me a roll of tablets. ‘Morphine tablets. They’re the best for strong pain. Not more than six in a day, though, and only when it hurts like blue billy-o. Want one now?’
    There was a break in the clouds when I stepped out of the infirmary, and the crowded parade ground lit up with winter sunshine. I closed my eyes and raised my face to the sun, revelling in the heat on my face, the red glare behind my eyelids. Just for a moment I could imagine I was back in Sydney, in summer and in peacetime.
    When I opened my eyes I saw Eric Lund standing in front of a bluestone building across the parade ground. He was talking to an air force commander, but he was looking at me. The conversation wrapped up and he saluted. The commander returned the salute and went back inside the building. Eric walked across the parade ground towards me with an easy unhurried stride, but his eyebrows were drawn together in a frown.
    ‘Don’t tell me I did that.’ He gestured towards my left hand, now strapped tightly and in a sling.
    ‘Yes. When you pushed me.’ I glared at him.
    Anger sparked in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . What can I say?’
    I snapped, ‘How about “I’m frightfully sorry, Stella, for pushing you to the floor, hurting your hand so badly that it’ll need strapping for a week and for causing you such pain and irritation”? That would be a good start.’
    ‘Ah. Well, I never say that word.’ His face relaxed and now there was amusement behind the cool voice.
    ‘What word?’ My voice was not cool and I could feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Sorry?’
    ‘No. Frightfully.’ A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘Of course I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’m very sorry that I did.’
    I’d clenched my good hand into a fist and all at once I wished I could punch his mocking mouth. The intensity of my feelings shocked me, the blind anger. I took a breath and forced myself to calm down. I’d not give Eric Lund the pleasure of knowing how much he’d upset me.
    ‘I nearly died, you know.’ My voice was light, unruffled.
    His eyebrow lifted fractionally. ‘From a broken hand?’
    ‘It’s only sprained.’ My tone sharpened. ‘But it’s frightfully sprained.’
    He narrowed his eyes against the sunshine and his face seemed to relax. ‘How did you nearly die, then?’
    ‘Private Pope drives a jeep like an utter lunatic. It’s a wonder I made it here in one piece.’
    He laughed, and his face became vividly alive, just as it had at the dance. I knew full well that it was because of the way his face had lit up when he laughed on the dance floor that I hadn’t let Leroy report him. That, and Irene’s story. I felt myself become calmer, although I was still annoyed at myself for letting him affect me at all.
    ‘He nearly ran over an old man and three AWAS girls,’ I went on. ‘He raced an American jeep on St Kilda Road, practically demolished the South African Soldiers Memorial and almost drove us head on into a tram. And if you hadn’t hurt my hand I’d never have been put through