She could not do that today, of course. It would disgrace her-not that that seemed important. But it would hurt her family, especially her mother and John’s mother, if she let the side down by doing something like that, when she was expected to be the grieving, virtuous young widow.
She left the crowd of people in the big house to walk to her own house. She did that because she had to visit the loo, and there was actually a line before the loo in the big house.
She just happened to notice the car coming across the bridge over the Murrumbidgee River. It made the sharp right onto their property.
Still somebody else coming? Ireally don’t want one more expression of sympathy, one more man to tell me, "Steady on, girl, " or one more woman to tell me, "The Lord works in mysterious ways. You must now put your trust in the Lord."
There’s no one behind the wheel.
Of course not. It’s an American car, a Studebaker like the Americans at The Elms have.
What is an American car doing coming here?
Oh, my God, it’s him. It can’t be. But it is.
What in the name of God is Steve Koffler doing here?
She cut across the field and got to the Studebaker a moment after Steve Koffler had parked it at the end of a long row of cars, got out, and opened the rear door.
The first thought she had was unkind. When she saw his glistening paratrooper boots, sharply creased trousers, and the tightly woven fabric of his tunic and compared it with the rough, blanketlike material John’s uniform had been cut from, and his rough, hobnailed boots, she was annoyed: Bloody American Marines, they all look like officers.
He got whatever he was looking for from the backseat of the Studebaker, then stood erect and turned around and saw her.
"Hello," he said, startled, and somewhat shy.
"What are you doing here?"
"Lieutenant Donnelly told me about your husband," Steve said, holding out what he had taken from the backseat: a bouquet of flowers, a tissue-wrapped square box, and a brown sack, obviously containing a bottle.
"What are you doing here?" Daphne repeated.
"I didn’t know what you’re supposed to do in Australia," he said, "to show you’re sorry."
"What is all that?"
"Flowers, candy, and whiskey," Steve said. "Is that all right?"
"It’s unnecessary," Daphne snapped, and was sorry. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to tell you how sorry I am about your husband getting killed," Steve said.
"And you drove all the way out here to do that?"
"It’s only two hundred and eighty-six miles," he said. "I just checked. And that includes me getting lost twice."
It never even entered his stupid American mind that he might be intruding here; he wanted to come, so he just got in his sodding car and came!
"I really don’t know what to say to you," she said.
"You don’t have to say anything," he said. "I just wanted you to know I’m sorry."
Is that it? Or did you maybe think that now that I’m a widow, you could just jump into my bed?
What the hell is the matter with me? He‘s just stupid and sweet. Except that I know he’s not really as stupid as I first thought Naive and sweet, rather than stupid,
"That’s very kind of you, Steve, I’m sure. Thank you very much."
Steve Koffler relaxed visibly.
"It’s OK. I wanted to do it."
But my mother is not going to understand this. Or John’s mother. Or anybody. They’re going to suspect that this boy and I are... what? Something we shouldn’t be. That that is absurd won’t matter. That’s what they’re going to think.
And I can‘t just send him packing, either. Not only would that be cruel of me, but by now everyone has seen the car and will be wondering who it is. What thehell am I going to do?
"I suppose you must think I’m terrible," Daphne Farnsworth said to Steve Koffler as the Studebaker turned onto the bridge over the Murrumbidgee River, "lying to my family like that."
"No. I understand," he replied, turning his head to look at her.
"Well, I feel rotten about it," she said. "But I just couldn’t take any more. I was going to scream."
After quickly but carefully coaching Steve in the story, she had led him up to the big house and introduced him to her family. She had told them that her officer, Lieutenant Donnelly, had learned that the American Marines were sending a car to the Wagga Wagga airfield. The lieutenant had arranged with a Marine officer to have Steve, the driver, whom she referred to as "Corporal Koffler," stop by the station and offer her a ride back to Melbourne. Her "death leave" was up the next day anyway. It would save her catching a very early train, and a long and uncomfortable ride.
It sounded credible, and she was reasonably sure that no one had questioned the story. They had been effusive in their thanks to Steve for doing her a good turn. All of which, of course, had made her feel even worse.
"I’m just glad I decided to come," Steve Koffler said.
They rode in silence for a long time, while Daphne wallowed in her new perception of herself as someone with a previously unsuspected capacity for lying and all-around deceit, the proof of which was that she felt an enormous sense of relief at being able to get away from people who shared her grief and would, quite literally, do anything in the world for her.
Steve Koffler broke the silence as they reached the outskirts of Wangaratta, fifty miles back into Victoria.
"Would it be all right if I looked for someplace I could get something to eat? I could eat a horse."
"You mean you haven’t eaten?"
He nodded.
"You should have said something at the station," she said. "There was all kinds of food . . ."
He shrugged.
"On condition that you let me pay," Daphne said. "I really do appreciate the ride."
"I’ve got money," he said.
"I pay, or you go hungry."
He smiled at her shyly.
As he wolfed down an enormous meal of steak and eggs, Daphne asked, "Tell me about your family, Steve. And your girl."
"There’s not much to tell about my family. My mother and father are divorced. I live with her and her husband. And I don’t have a girl."
"I thought Marines were supposed to have a girl in every port."
"That’s what they say," he said. "I know a bunch of girls, of course, but there’s no one special. I’ve been too busy, I suppose, to have a steady girl."
He’s lying. That was bravado. He’s afraid of women. Then why did he drive all the way out to Wagga Wagga? For the reason he gave. He felt really sorry for me. Whatever this boy is, he is no Don Juan. He’s just a sweet kid.
When they were back on the road, she found herself pursuing the subject, wondering why it was important.
"There must have been one girl that. . . stood out. . . from all the others?"
From his reaction to the question, she sensed that there had not only been a girl in Steve Koffler’s life, but that it had not been a satisfactory relationship. "Who was she, Steve?" Why am I doing this? What do I really care? Over the next hour and a half, Daphne drew from Steve, one small detail after another, the story of Dianne Marshall Norman. By the time she was sure she had separated fact from fantasy and had assembled what she felt was probably the true sequence of events, she had worked up what she told herself was a big-sister-like dislike for Diane Marshall Norman and a genuine feeling of sympathy for Steve.