by Lucy Walker
This might have been insolent of Clifford if he hadn’t spoken with a smile.
‘You never were a good business man, Cliff. Greg has other charms besides his managerial interest in Ransome.’
‘Since when have the scales fallen from your eyes?’
‘Since I’ve been around,’ said Julia. ‘And I have been around, you know. Quite a lot.’
‘So your bank balance … or rather the absence of it … tells me.’
Sara had not quite understood the references to Greg and his charms but now Andy Patterson had enlightened her. Greg had once been in love with Julia … and she had turned him down. He was still her best friend … according to Clifford … and that might mean anything.
Andy Patterson stopped whistling and looked down at her.
‘Homesick already?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Sara said hastily. ‘I suppose I’m just a little tired.’
‘Well, take a look at that lake over there. That’ll take your mind off your sorrows.’
Sara looked away to the north, and across the brown and grey stubbly undergrowth she could see a great expanse of shining blue water. She could even see the blurred outline of clumps of trees on the far side.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I notice it before?’
‘Because it wasn’t there before. It’s just got there in the last five minutes.’
Sara looked at him puzzled.
‘It’s a mirage,’ he said with a grin. ‘Want me to drive into it to prove it?’
‘You drive straight on, Andy,’ said Julia sharply from the back seat. ‘Miss Brent will see plenty of mirages before she leaves Ransome and I don’t want to be all day getting there. I’m sure Miss Brent is quite as tired as I am.’
‘But it’s marvellous,’ said Sara wonderingly. ‘One could swim in it, it’s so real.’
‘It’s real in a way, I guess,’ said Andy. ‘It’ll probably be a sky reflection of Dampier Lake … that’s about fifty miles away. You get Greg to take you out some day while you’re at Ransome. Or maybe I’ll take you myself.’
‘Really, Andy,’ said Julia from the back seat. ‘Is that all you have to do with your time? No wonder things on Ransome want shaking up.’
‘They’ll certainly shake up with you there, Julia,’ he said. ‘I can see the whole place getting a face lift.’
‘I’m certainly going round the bores this time and see for myself just what you are mustering out at those grass patches. Have you ever really taken a complete count of the stock on Ransome?’
‘Nobody could ever do that, Julia. You know that. There’s always cattle in the scrub that never get caught in a muster. And now that the sheep down south are paying the way they do the cattle get away more than ever. Remember the day when you fought ’em single-handed to keep the sheep off the place, Julia? That was the day! I bet you’ve eaten those words many a time since.’
‘I was merely putting Greg on his mettle,’ said Julia haughtily. ‘A little opposition galvanises Greg into activity.’
‘M’m,’ said Andy meaningly. ‘Well, there’s the old plane over there, Miss Brent. How does she look after the Dakota?’
Sara had already had it drummed into her that the Dakota was very utilitarian compared with the big liners, but this funny thing to her untutored eyes looked more like a handful of tin cans soldered together. She tried not to feel anxious.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Anson,’ said Andy. ‘Backbone of the north. Without the good old Ansons north of twenty-six we’d be marooned.’
Julia, who had complained of the Dakota, oddly enough did not find anything wrong with the Anson. She got into it and settled herself down on one of the narrow seats as if she were getting into a car. Sara half expected her to say ‘Home, James’ any minute.
Sara in her ignorance was appalled at the dilapidated interior and the exposed cockpit. There was no controls board. Just a mass of knobs and wires.
Andy Patterson handed the station wagon over to a driver and got into the plane and sat in the cockpit with the pilot. The pilot was a second Andy … tall, thin, laconic, dressed in open-necked shirt and brown drill trousers. He wore nothing at all on his head.
What a crazy crew, thought Sara and shut her eyes and hoped for the best as the plane took off. She kept them shut for the next three-quarters of an hour until she felt the plane come down, strike the bumpy ground and seem to ricochet off it. A few more bumps and the engine was silent. Then they were at a standstill.
They were at Ransome. She was alive.
In the paddock was another station wagon, half a dozen barking dogs racing towards them.
Beyond the brown stubbly paddock was a garden green with shrubs and trees. Between them was a glimpse of a white painted roof and behind that three tanks standing up like spires in the air. Away to the sides of this oasis, and to the rear, were a host of buildings, some brilliantly covered with bougainvillaea.
It was like a small township set down in the middle of a seeming desert. Only in the distance was there green of timber and blue of hill and valley.
This was Sara’s first view of Ransome … a homestead set in the middle of a million acres of cattle country. The home of the Camdens. She was in the north now. The place of fascination and mystery; of crocodiles, pandanus, floods and droughts. The place where, a hundred years ago, they said white men could not live and stay sane.
Chapter Two
Julia Camden and Sara had been met on the wide veranda in front of the open door by a young girl in shorts with a very gay blouse, very fair somewhat tousled hair and sleepy but curious eyes. She was sane enough … that was certain.
She kissed Julia and said, ‘What have you come for so early, Ju Ju? Didn’t expect you till the eve of the party. Not that you’re not welcome.’
‘I’m sure of that,’ said Julia. ‘Where’s aunt?’
‘Still having her siesta, I think.’ She turned to Sara and held out her hand. ‘You’re Miss Brent? I’m Marion Camden, Greg’s sister. I’m the one who’s having the party all the fuss is about.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Anyhow it’s got us a secretary, which is really setting the bush telegraph humming. Hope you don’t mind organising parties, do you?’
‘I’m anxious to try,’ Sara said with a smile. ‘A house-party of sixty people is quite a big thing, isn’t it?’
‘Not to mention another sixty men and stockmen outside,’ said Marion. ‘Oh well … we’ll manage. Oh, here’s Mrs. Whittle.’
A middle-aged woman dressed in a severe dark blue cotton dress had come through the front door.
‘Welcome home, Miss Julia,’ she said formally and the two shook hands perfunctorily.
‘This is Miss Brent,’ said Marion. ‘Mrs. Whittle is our housekeeper. I should say bodyguard and house guard too,’ she added with an ironic grin. ‘Nothing gets past Mrs. Whittle, so don’t try, will you, Sara? You don’t mind my calling you Sara, do you? You’ll have to call me Marion and Julia, Julia. Nobody in the outback calls anyone by anything but their Christian name. Even the stockmen will do it … so be prepared.’
‘I’ve never got used to it,’ said Mrs. Whittle. ‘In your father’s time it was not like this. No one has ever called me anything but Mrs. Whittle.’
‘Nor ever will, Witty darling,’ said Marion. ‘Come on, let’s carry Sara’s case for her. I’ll get Nellie to bring in the big one.’
Julia had disappeared a few minutes earlier through the front door. From a passage entering the hallway from the left she now emerged with a look of annoyance on her otherwise lovely face.
‘Where’s Greg?’ she asked irritably. ‘He isn’t in his office.’
‘Ju Ju darling, if he’d been in his office he wouldn’t have been out counting his cattle for you. Either way you’d be bound to be disappointed,’ said Marion.
‘He’s down at the yards, Miss Julia,’ Mrs. Whittle said placatingly. ‘He’ll be up presently for a cup of tea. You go and have a wash and
a rest. You’ll see enough of him before your visit’s out.’
‘Which room do I have? The usual one?’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Whittle. ‘The green veranda one on the south side. You’ll find everything ready … and Nellie will bring you some tea. I’ll just show Miss Sara to her room.’
‘I’ll leave you to Mrs. Whittle,’ Marion said. ‘I’m going to get under the shower before everyone else starts a run on it. Come out on the side veranda when you feel like it … that’s where we all sit most of the time.’
A fat jolly-looking maid with pretty, dark curly hair and a flashing set of teeth who had been hovering in the background took Sara’s case from Marion and followed Sara and Mrs. Whittle down a passage that opened off the hall. All the doors of the rooms were open, and Sara caught sight of a billiard room and two bedrooms before Mrs. Whittle stopped at a door and said, ‘This is your room. There’s a shower next door, it’s just been built in since we got the new engine. Would you like a shower first, or some tea?’
‘A shower … I think,’ said Sara.
‘I bring ’um you,’ said the maid, smiling happily.
‘Thank you very much,’ Sara smiled back.
‘I think you’ve got everything,’ said Mrs. Whittle, looking round the room professionally.
‘It looks very nice. And I like those windows opening out like doors on to the veranda.’
‘All the doors do that in this house,’ said Mrs. Whittle. ‘It’s built square and on a quadrangle for that reason. One has to have air in this climate. Except for the front veranda it’s all fly-screened, as you can see. We never leave a veranda fly-door open.’
‘I shall be careful about that,’ Sara said, feeling that Mrs. Whittle was giving her a polite instruction.
‘I’ll leave you now. Have a cup of tea and a rest. We have dinner at seven. The triangle sounds at six … that’s for the men down at the quarters, but at that time most of the inside people go into the billiard room. They have a drink or a cigarette or something before dinner. They’ll be expecting you.’
‘Thank you,’ Sara said gravely. She felt Mrs. Whittle was being tactful and helpful. The woman was a little severe but Sara thought she might be going to like her. Intuitively she guessed that as far as the inside of the homestead was concerned Mrs. Whittle was the power behind the throne. If so, Sara would have to work with her in the organising of the big house-party.
Mrs. Whittle went out and shut the door softly behind her. The passage was so thickly carpeted Sara did not hear her footsteps receding.
Sara’s room was plainly but comfortably furnished. The bed was wide and covered with a blue cover that matched the small armchair over by the veranda door. The other pieces of furniture, a dressing-table and wardrobe, a small bedside table and another chair, were made of a light red wood. It looked very old furniture … but very good. Brought here, Sara thought, by the first Camdens who had brought their own furniture out from England. Probably a hundred and twenty years ago. The curtains were gay and light.
Sara’s first impression of Ransome became her lasting one. It was furnished in a good and comfortable way and there was something solid and dignified about it in spite of its white roof, its fly-screen like a netting all round it and its flanking of small galvanised iron buildings. The first Camdens had built the homestead solidly of mud brick and stone in an age when most pioneer graziers had had to build of wood and iron. They had planted trees and creepers on this place where they had found water, and somehow a hundred years had added to the solidity of the whole building rather than produced signs of wear.
She had showered and changed into a light dressing-gown by the time Nellie, the maid, brought her her tea.
‘You like ’um plenty good, plenty hot?’ said Nellie, smiling happily.
‘Yes, thank you. This is very nice. Just what I wanted, Nellie.’
‘You drink ’um up plenty soon. I see you’m bye-’m-bye,’ said Nellie.
At six o’clock Sara heard the triangle being struck outside and she got up from her bed, creamed and made up her face and brushed her hair. She slipped on a plain but pretty dark pink silk frock and a pair of open-toed light shoes. She had been given an extra travelling and dress allowance by the firm because of the necessity for tropical clothes. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered if she did justice to that dress allowance.
I don’t look like Julia, she thought. But I ought to do.
Somehow it was a very nervous moment to appear before the household for the first time. Sara had to screw up her courage before she opened her door and stepped into the passage. She could hear laughter and voices, male and female, coming from the open door of the billiard room farther down the passage. She drew in a deep breath and walked steadily towards the door.
I do hope I’ll do, she thought, and wondered if her dress and shoes were either too elaborate ‒ or under-elaborate. She wished she knew, really knew, what was the right thing for a secretary to wear for dinner on a far north station.
She paused in the doorway of the billiard room.
‘Here goes!’ she breathed.
She took a step inside, and then hesitated.
She was in a very big room. On the far side two french windows, wide open, gave on to the veranda. A young man was just coming through. He held a glass in one hand and turned to a table which was almost weighed down with decanters, jugs of frosty water and glasses and a variety of bottles. There were two other men at the table with their backs to Sara. She supposed she saw them first because they were so big.
Then, looking across the acre of billiard table she could see another man. He, too, was tall and he was standing in front of the other window, one foot raised to rest on the edge of a chair. Sara could only partly see him because Julia was talking to him. And Julia had her back to the door. Sara was just conscious of the fact that this man, dark and bronzed, was tall, perhaps thirty years of age or more, and that he looked down as he listened to Julia.
Sara blinked. Then she was aware of the group sitting in wide cane chairs at the end of the room, and of Mrs. Whittle, dressed now in a dark grey silk dress, coming towards her.
‘Oh, there you are, Miss Sara,’ she said. ‘You must come down and be introduced to Mrs. Camden.’
She led the way towards this group in cane chairs and Sara quite literally walked ‘down’ the room. It was like parading a ballroom. She was aware that the three men by the table under the window turned round and looked at her. She was also aware … though she never knew why … that Julia Camden and the tall bronzed man to whom she was talking did not turn or lift up a head. They took no notice of her at all.
As Sara came towards the group at the end of the room, Marion, who was sitting in one of the cane chairs, smiled at her affably. For a moment Sara could not see Marion’s companion. She was buried deep in her chair and its back was towards the door.
Sara and Mrs. Whittle walked round the chair and the introduction was more in the nature of a presentation.
‘Miss Brent, Mrs. Camden,’ Mrs. Whittle said formally.
‘So here you are,’ Mrs. Camden said, holding up a soft, white powdered, be-ringed hand.
Sara bent a little to shake hands.
Mrs. Camden smiled happily.
‘Sit down, my dear. Marion, pull up a chair. Mrs. Whittle, get her a drink. What do you drink, my dear? Whisky? Gin? Anything you like, dear. It’s all over there.’
She waved her hand towards the table. Mrs. Whittle had not waited to ascertain Sara’s choice. She had simply gone to the table and one of the men was pouring something from a tall frosty jug.
‘Don’t be silly, Mother,’ Marion Camden said. ‘As if Sara drinks whisky at this hour. You don’t, do you?’
Sara shook her head.
‘I’d rather have a lemon drink or something like that just now.’
‘That’s just what Witty’ll bring you,’ said Marion with a grin.
Sara sat down in the chair Marion indicated. I
t was between Marion and her mother, and she could just see Julia and the dark bronzed man out of the corner of her eye. But she did not look at them. Instead she looked at Mrs. Camden.
‘Well … tell me how you got here, dear,’ said Mrs. Camden.
Sara could not help reflecting that here was a plump, very coddled woman, but pretty in her own way and certainly very kind and friendly.
‘I came on the mail plane …’ began Sara.
‘Wonderful plane,’ said Mrs. Camden, interrupting her. ‘What would we do without it! Of course, my father, and the children’s father, used bullock wagons. Here’s your drink, dear. Marion, tell those boys to come over and meet Sara. Boys always like to meet a pretty girl.’
‘In a minute, Mother. Let Sara have her drink. Besides, the boys are shy too.’
Sara glanced round at the three men by the window. One she might have called a boy. He wouldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, but the other two were big, thick-set men well in their forties.
She wondered if Mrs. Camden included the man talking to Julia amongst the ‘boys’. Sara looked at him. He was still looking down. One eyebrow might have been just a little cocked as if he was listening to Julia.
Sara wondered who he was. There was an air of quiet authority about him. And his shoes were of beautiful polished fine leather. No wonder he liked looking at them.
Sara didn’t have to pay much attention to Mrs. Camden. Her hostess kept up a running commentary of conversation that was half questions … the answers to which she did not wait for … and statements about things and people to Marion … to which Marion did not reply.
Mrs. Whittle had gone over to speak to the man by the window, the man talking to Julia.
For the first time he looked up and Sara could see all his face. It was very bronzed. His eyes were blue and he looked at Mrs. Whittle with a kind of unflinching gaze as if he was paying great attention to her. Yet still he said nothing. Then quite sharply Julia lifted up her right elbow and leaned it on the man’s shoulder. She looked right up into his face as she spoke to him.
For the first time his smile widened a little as he looked at Julia and Sara could see the quick flash of his teeth. The two made a conversation piece that might have been called ‘Possession and Tolerance’. Or was it something more than tolerance?