Barbara Hannay - Her Secret, His Son

As she neared the front of the house she could hear the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen. It was reaching the end of its long cycle. Brilliant timing! She could coordinate the moment she opened the front door with the final gush of the rinse water gurgling down the drain.

At last she was safely through the house and in the slate-tiled front entry, where faint light from the street filtered through long narrow panels of glass on either side of the front door. Almost free.

The hiss of water in the kitchen was her signal. Quickly, Mary thrust her feet into her shoes, took a deep breath and stepped to the door, then slowly, slowly, turned the handle of the doorknob, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound. Not now. Not with freedom so near.

Not with Tom waiting outside.

Already she could picture the glimmer in his dark eyes when she reached him, the way he would haul her close, enfolding her inside the protection of his leather jacket. Already she could feel the warmth of his arms around her and his lips nuzzling the side of her neck as he whispered, ‘Mary-Mary.’

Holding her breath, Mary inched the door open and the potted palm beside her seemed to move. It startled her and she jerked the door back, making its hinges squeak.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Her father’s voice exploded beside her in the dark.

Swift and terrible as a lightning strike, panic flashed through her. With a gasp of despair, she wrenched the door wide and hurled herself forward, but hands, strong as talons, gripped her.

‘No!’ she cried as she struggled to tug herself free. ‘You can’t stop me!’

Her arm was almost pulled from its socket and her backpack fell to the floor as her father hauled her back through the doorway.

‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘You can’t do this! Please, no, you don’t understand.’

She cried out as the door slammed shut. Horrified, she slipped sideways out of her father’s grasp and took off through the dark kitchen, skirting the island bench as she headed for the back door.

‘Don’t be so stupid, girl,’ her father roared, hot in pursuit. Again his hands came from behind her and he seized her arm. Again she tried to break free, but he was too big and too strong. She had no hope of trying to outrun a trained army officer in his own home. She was yanked backwards and pushed hard against the slats of the louvred door on the pantry cupboard.

‘You’ve got to let me go,’ she panted. ‘I’m an adult. I have every right.’

Colonel Cameron’s dark face loomed above her. ‘Call yourself an adult?’ he sneered. ‘An adult wouldn’t slink away in the middle of the night to a pick up with a no-good lout like Pirelli.’

‘He’s not a lout. You don’t know him.’

Light flooded the kitchen and, through her pain and her tears, Mary squinted against the sharp brightness. She saw her mother standing in the doorway in her nightgown and, behind her, her cousin Sonia, staring with huge, fascinated eyes.

‘You can’t hold me prisoner,’ Mary sobbed at them. ‘I’m not going to let you spoil this. I have to go. Let me go!’

‘Mary, be reasonable,’ came her mother’s voice.

‘No! You be reasonable,’ Mary cried back, as she struggled against her father’s tight hold.

Refusing to look at his angry red face, she focused on her mother, who looked so much more vulnerable at midnight in her pale nightgown and without the careful mask of the make-up she always wore.

‘You’re backing Dad against Tom when you don’t even know him. You won’t let me bring Tom into our house, but you can’t do this to me. I’m twenty, Mum. I’m old enough to know what I want. Tom and I love each other and you’ve got to let me live my life. I’ve got to go to him. I’ve got to!’

‘Over my dead body,’ her father roared and, to emphasise his point, he gripped her shoulders harder and forced her back against the cupboard again.

‘Ralph, there’s no need to be rough,’ came her mother’s voice.

Mary moaned and tears streamed down her cheeks. Tears of rage, not pain. Tom was waiting on the footpath. What had he heard? What had he thought when the kitchen lights came on? What would he do if she didn’t show up?

Would she ever be able to see him again? She had to. No one could possibly understand how desperately she needed him. Every cell in her body yearned for the reassurance of his strong arms around her. She needed him to hold her as he murmured his pet name for her, over and over—the way he did when they made love. ‘Mary-Mary, Mary-Mary.’

Her father’s vicelike grip loosened a fraction, but not enough to release her. ‘Stop snivelling, girl,’ he hissed. ‘I can’t believe my own daughter could be such a fool. When you come to your senses you’ll be grateful. You’ll thank me for this.’

‘Never!’ Mary cried, hating him. She couldn’t bear to look at him and she let her tears fall, making no attempt to stop the sobs that racked her. ‘You’ve d-decided you don’t like T-Tom simply because he’s not an officer and—and he rides a motorbike.’

Her father swore and gave her shoulders a shake. ‘Pirelli is a hooligan, Mary. You know he’s been up before the Provost marshal for speeding, and he was involved in a brawl at a local nightclub. I’m not letting a man like that touch my daughter.’

‘But he has!’ Mary cried with a surge of triumphant defiance, and she lifted her head to meet her father’s hard grey glare.

I live for Tom Pirelli’s touch.

‘Where is he? I’ll kill him!’

‘Ralph, for heaven’s sake,’ her mother interrupted, coming close enough to tap her husband’s elbow in a hesitant attempt to soothe him. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Keep your voice down. Why don’t we go into the lounge and sit down and talk this through sensibly?’

‘There’s nothing to talk through,’ Mary protested. ‘Can’t you both understand? I truly love Tom and he loves me. I can’t live without him. If you don’t let me go, you’ll have ruined my life.’

‘Consider it ruined,’ her father snapped.

Mary wept noisily. How could her parents be so unjust and cruel to their own daughter? She felt as if they’d hurled her into the ocean with rocks tied to her feet. Inconsolable, she slumped against the pantry door. Her father released his pressure, but she knew it was useless to try to escape. She let her spine bump down the louvred slats as she slid to the floor and crouched in a miserable, undignified huddle with her arms wrapped around her bent knees.

She wanted to die.

Her cousin Sonia’s voice reached her through her misery. ‘Would you like me to go and tell Tom that you’re not coming?’

Mary’s head snapped up.

Sonia stepped closer and Mary realised for the first time that she was fully dressed, as was her father. Had they known her plans?

Her cousin had been living with her family for the past year because she was studying law at James Cook University. Mary drove Sonia to university each day but, because they were in different faculties, they saw little of each other on campus.

They hadn’t become close, and now the bright, fascinated light in Sonia’s eyes bothered Mary. But she couldn’t leave Tom stranded on the footpath waiting.

‘He’s waiting on the corner. Go and tell him what’s happened. Tell him that I’ll work something out,’ she said.

‘Don’t bother yourself, Sonia,’ interjected her father. ‘If anyone talks to Private Pirelli tonight, it will be me. I’d talk to the mongrel with my fists except that I don’t fancy being court-martialled for assault.’

Her mother had switched the kettle on and now it came to the boil. She turned to pour bubbling hot water into mugs with tea bags.