Master of Ransome: An Australian Outback Romance

by Lucy Walker

  Sara sat quite still for a moment and looked at him thoughtfully. Mr. Benson continued to smile, but he began to look with greater interest at the girl. She had character in her face. He wondered vaguely if she was ‘one of Clifford’s girls’ or if, by some stroke of luck, she was genuine.

  ‘I’ve never sent out bad work for Ransome Pastoral Company, Mr. Benson,’ Sara said. ‘Apart from that, I think Mr. Greg Camden deserves something better than the chaff-cutting machine.’ There was a reproach in her eyes if not in her voice, and the bookkeeper was taken aback.

  ‘Listen, young ’un,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s ever called me Mr. Benson in the back country. Barring Mrs. Whittle, that is, and she doesn’t count. Sam’s the name and you’ll have to use it if you want to get on round here. Same as you’ll have to be Sara … like it or not. No “Misters”, no “Bosses” in the outback. Even the stockmen call Greg, Greg. And he is the boss. Don’t you muddle that up with anything Clifford Camden or that city bunch might have told you.’

  ‘I won’t, Sam,’ Sara said.

  The book-keeper slapped his dusty brown cotton trousers with his hand.

  ‘That’s the girl. Now we can talk business. What was that you were saying about the typewriter?’

  Sara told him. She put her case quietly and firmly, the smile gone.

  All the time she talked, Sam’s wary eyes were watching her. After ten minutes Sam agreed to her having one of the typewriters … but it wasn’t to be his own beloved Royal … and he shouted for someone to come and carry it up to the homestead.

  ‘Now mark you, young ’un,’ said Sam. ‘The minute that crowd coming up to Ransome’s gone, and the cattle muster’s over, that typewriter comes right back here. I can spare it because whichever jackaroo’s on the book-keeping business has to be out on the run for the big chivoo.’

  ‘If you sent down to the Company office in the city Mr. Clifford Camden would see that a machine was sent up right away.’

  The quizzical light came back into Sam’s eyes. He scratched his rotund and middle-aged abdomen with the stem of his pipe.

  ‘So Clifford’s the white-haired boy and will do anything for the young ’un, hey?’

  Sara remained serious. ‘I’ve worked for Mr. Clifford for two years, Sam. I’ve never known him not to be very prompt about necessary requirements for the station.’

  ‘For the station or for Sara?’

  For a moment Sara’s lips were a narrow thin line. Sam, through half closed eyes, noted it.

  ‘I think as Mr. Greg Camden’s secretary of the moment, a typewriter for the inside office is necessary.’

  ‘Okay, Sara. We’ll call a truce. You have it and when Clifford flies in in a few weeks’ time you ask him for another. Let’s see if you got the same winning ways with Clifford you seem to have with me.’

  Suddenly he relaxed and laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, getting up and reaching for a bunch of keys from one of the shelves in the open safe. ‘I’ll show you something. Everyone likes to see the station store. Not too hot outside for you?’

  Sara shook her head.

  ‘I don’t mind the heat, and I’d love to see the store.’

  Sam clapped a wide-brimmed, shabby straw hat on his balding head and led her out of the office and towards the next building.

  ‘Would you like to know something, Sam?’ Sara was looking at him sideways and with her eyes suddenly lit up with merriment. ‘I had two bets with myself as I came down here. One bet was that which of these two buildings wasn’t the office, was the store …’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘That you’d let me have a typewriter, if there was one.’ Sam stopped dead in the doorway of the store and stared at her.

  ‘Now just what made you so sure of yourself? Don’t you know I’m the toughest nut to crack north of twenty-six?’

  ‘Yes … I think perhaps you are …’ said Sara. ‘Even so, you put a premium on efficiency. I made a bet on that too.’

  ‘Did you now? Well, I’ll tell you what I think of your efficiency in about six weeks’ time. Seems like efficiency goes by the board when Clifford Camden gets up here and he’s got a girl on the line. …’

  The enthralling sight of the station store, which was exactly like a shop … counter, shelves, cabinets and all … was lost to Sara for a minute.

  ‘I happen at the moment,’ she said severely, ‘to be Mr. Greg Camden’s secretary. What are all those bolts of cloth for, Sam? Don’t tell me Marion and Mrs. Camden will wear all that pink and red gingham.’

  ‘No. That’s for the homestead maids. Look over this side. Sweets, tobacco, cigarettes. See in through there … flour, sugar, kitchen groceries. Bigger shop than you see in Alice Springs, heh?’

  Sam proudly showed the station store, and as they emerged from its cool shade and he locked it up the triangle was sounded in the men’s quarters for the midday meal.

  ‘Can you find your way home, young ’un? I eat in my own office and the men all eat down at the quarters midday. Mrs. Whittle’ll have something for you up top. Don’t know where the family is, but look hard and you’ll find them.’

  Sara thanked Sam for his kindness and walked back up the avenue of buildings towards the homestead garden.

  Chapter Five

  Within two days Sara had reduced Greg’s correspondence to recognisable order. Moreover, she had wrung a large number of manila folders from Sam and had managed to file all the current ‘In’ letters and the carbon copies of the ‘Out’ letters. She longed to file the back-log of years in proper steel cabinets with a card-index to it.

  Tentatively she broached the idea to Gregory Camden.

  ‘A card-index system would relieve you of the necessity of secretarial assistance, Mr. Camden,’ she said. ‘I feel perhaps …’ Greg Camden lifted his head and looked at her across the table.

  ‘The same type of cabinet that Sam’s got?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very simple really when the key card has been worked out. I could do that. I did it for the office down south.’

  He was silent and Sara already knew him well enough not to push her case by speech. When Greg was silent he was thinking.

  ‘You could do it in the time?’ he asked shortly.

  Sara might have allowed herself a wry smile in anyone else’s presence. Evidently Greg didn’t want to have her foisted on his hands for longer than the arranged period. She wished she wasn’t such an embarrassment to him as a person. Never mind! She had a job of work to do and there was a time limit to it. She would do her best.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered simply.

  ‘Very well. I’ll order them by wire. I’ll have them airfreighted up. You might let me have the particulars and I’ll send them over the Flying Doctor Service when the air’s open tonight.’

  This was something Sara did like very much about Greg Camden. When he had made up his mind he was immediate and final in putting things into operation. In this instance it again demonstrated his confidence in Sara as a secretary. It all seemed as if, having finally made up his mind that she was efficient, he accepted all that side of her without question. His aloofness was for herself as a person.

  Sara was just an efficient secretary, that was all. Thus she saw herself in the shadow of Camden history.

  Greg now spoke unexpectedly.

  ‘I hope a plane load of expensive office equipment arrives before the rest of the Camden family,’ he said. There was a sudden flicker of a smile in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid there’ll be another outcry at my expensive habits if they see it before it accumulates some age. Do you think you could allow some office dust to settle about the place before the families all arrive?’

  Sara smiled, and her eyes sparkled but she didn’t know it.

  ‘I could put a scratch or two on it … even on the new typewriter … though it would hurt me very much to do so.’

  ‘The new typewriter?’

  ‘I was going to ask you …’

  ‘Sam spoke to me about i
t.’ His manner was again thoughtful.

  ‘I think it would help you, Mr. Camden. Sam insists on this machine going back to the book-keeper’s office.’

  Greg Camden sometimes had a disconcerting way of looking at her thoughtfully. It made Sara want to drop her eyes but pride in the rightness of her requests made her hold his gaze. It seemed to go on for such a long time that Sara could not help some bewilderment creeping into her own eyes.

  Why did he look at her like that? Was there some lack of confidence after all?

  ‘You seem to have found a soft spot with Sam,’ Greg said. He looked away from Sara and let his gaze wander around the office, out of the window, then back momentarily to Sara.

  ‘I’m afraid …’ There was a touch of embarrassment, an unexpected shyness in him now. He ran his hand through his hair, looked down at the table, and then back at Sara.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to call me “Greg”,’ he said. ‘It’s all Christian names here. A sort of convention … I’m sorry!’

  Sara looked away towards the window too. ‘Yes, I know. I understand.’ She looked back at him and smiled. ‘I might just forget now and again, at first …’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s just to keep things normal.’ This time he actually smiled. ‘Somehow “Mr. Camden” and “Miss Brent” sounds a lot more pretentious than … than Christian names.’

  ‘I think so too.’

  ‘I’ll order the typewriter, though heaven knows who’ll use it when you go.’

  ‘You will,’ said Sara. ‘You’ll type on it with two fingers. They all do, once they get one.’

  Greg straightened his back and looked at her with considerable surprise.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sara, nodding her head seriously. Then they both laughed.

  There was a knock at the half open door. It was Mrs. Whittle.

  ‘Mrs. Camden has sent her list of guests, Mr. Greg,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s very long.’

  Greg stood up. He took the pages of closely written paper from the housekeeper.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll be vetoing three-quarters of them anyway.’

  ‘Miss Marion’s is shorter.’

  ‘Well … it’s her party.’

  He glanced down the page which indicated Marion’s guest list.

  ‘Some of these people …!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘They’ll have to come, I suppose. It’s her party.’

  Sara could not help a feeling of both wonder and irritation that Greg and Mrs. Whittle had to arrange and do everything for Mrs. Camden and Marion … even to running the homestead. Sara knew already that Mrs. Whittle was the power behind the throne and that she ran the homestead. Sara guessed, rather than knew, that Greg’s part was nominal and more to keep the last say in his hands in the case of differences or complaint.

  But he shouldn’t have to do it, she thought.

  ‘Miss Julia wants to order some special clothes for the muster. She’s bent on chasing the cattle, Mr. Greg. I suppose her order could go by wire over the transceiver tonight?’

  Sara saw there was a complete change of expression on Greg’s face now. He and Mrs. Whittle exchanged a smile.

  ‘We must have Julia looking the part, Mrs. Whittle. Anything but Julia at her best would be a loss for us all.’

  Mrs. Whittle appeared to nod approval.

  ‘I’ll get her to give you the particulars.’

  Again Sara felt irritation. Why couldn’t Julia look after her own wardrobe instead of loading Greg up with silly domestic requirements. And why did he do it? And obviously he expected Julia to fulfil her promise that she was going out to the cattle camps for the muster!

  Sara’s heart dropped a little. Not because Julia was going … but because she would like to go herself and did not see its possibility.

  What would the homestead be like with them all gone except Mrs. Whittle and Mrs. Camden?

  Well, if the cabinets arrived express she could get on with the key card and the filing. That would keep her busy. Perhaps while they were all away she could have an occasional ride at sundown, as Marion did. Sara didn’t know how to ride but she longed to try. She wondered if she dared mention it to Andy.

  She looked now at Greg where he had resumed his seat and was crossing out name after name on Mrs. Camden’s list of guests. He looked cold and remote again.

  Greg threw his pencil down on the table.

  ‘Will you send invitations to the names I’ve left in,’ he said. ‘Leave Marion’s list as it stands.’

  Sara understood the challenge in his manner. She knew well enough that he and Mrs. Whittle had to manage Mrs. Camden’s affairs for her with a minimum of reference to her. But he did not wish to discuss this with his secretary. Nor did Sara wish to discuss it with him. She simply accepted his instructions without comment.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Camden … er … er … Greg.’ For a moment she lost her poise and actually blushed. Greg looked away quickly.

  ‘Clifford will be here on the twenty-fourth,’ he said. ‘We got a radio message last night. He wants to know if you have anything you wish him to bring up for you?’

  ‘No, thank you. I think I’ve everything …’

  Sara wondered if that would have been her answer if she had been going out to the cattle camp or even riding modestly in the early shadows of evening. She had no jodhpurs … only blue drill jeans. Well … if she did manage a ride in the absence of the others, the jeans would do. There would be nobody to see except Sam.

  Greg pushed back his chair, stood up and reached for his hat.

  ‘I’ll be down at the stockyards for the rest of the day. I’m breaking-in a blood colt!’ Without looking at her again he left the room.

  Two minutes later Julia came in without knocking.

  ‘Oh! So you’re alone. Where’s Greg?’

  Sara went quietly on with her work as she replied, ‘He said he would be at the stockyards all day.’

  ‘Well … he didn’t tell me.’

  Julia dropped into a chair, took a cigarette from the box on Greg’s table and reached in her blouse pocket for the amber holder. She watched Sara out of half closed eyes.

  ‘Not very communicative this morning, are you?’ she said.

  Sara wondered if Julia knew how arrogant and insolent her voice and manner were. Hardly … because she used them thus with everyone. She wondered what Julia had in her to recommend her as a person, other than her fine sculptured looks and her one-ninth share in Ransome station. Well … something. Because everyone on Ransome treated Julia with an air of tolerance and humour. There was something more in Greg’s manner than that. His face had softened and a really very nice smile had shone through at Mrs. Whittle when he had been confronted with Julia’s request for a wardrobe for the cattle camp.

  Greg and Mrs. Whittle understood one another on the subject of Julia … that was certain.

  ‘Too busy to talk?’ Julia said again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sara said. ‘I was thinking out a sentence. No, I’m not too busy to talk. In fact I’d quite like to talk a little. Greg is not very communicative, you know, when he is in the office … which is seldom.’

  ‘So? We’ve got around to calling him Greg, have we?’

  Sara looked at Julia and hoped her eyes were as cold as she intended them to be.

  ‘One doesn’t seem to have any option about Christian names on Ransome,’ she said. ‘To use the surname seems an intolerable affectation.’

  ‘Well, don’t let’s fight … Sara. If that’s the way you like it.’

  Sara didn’t want to fight with anyone on Ransome so she thought she’d better follow everyone else’s example and treat Julia with friendly tolerance. She smiled now.

  ‘I do like Sara,’ she said. ‘Most people don’t like their own Christian names. Always think somebody else’s is better. But I like mine. It is my mother’s.’

  ‘So you’ve got a mother?’

  ‘In England,’
said Sara quietly.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s not what I came to talk about …’

  ‘I thought perhaps you came to see Mr … Greg.’

  ‘You can give me the information. You’re his secretary so I suppose you have all the information necessary. It’s the mob of sheep down south. Who financed … and with what money … the base flock down there two years ago?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’ Sara hoped the words sounded as if they meant she really couldn’t tell.

  Sara knew very well that Greg Camden had financed the base flock from his own personal account and had then turned the thing into the general Ransome account. She also knew the fantastic difficulties he had with his fellow-shareholders in keeping Ransome together and in one piece.

  ‘I am handling Greg’s personal correspondence in relation to the people coming on to the station for Marion’s party and the muster,’ she added quickly. ‘Sam would be the one to give you any information about station accounts. I do not touch them.’

  Julia stood up, stretched herself gracefully, shook her ash on to the ash-tray on the table and moved towards the door.

  ‘I thought you might have arrived at the confidential stage with Greg,’ she said coolly. ‘My advice is … don’t. The Camdens as a family are as prickly as hedgehogs.’

  Sara made no reply, partly because Julia did not wait for one and partly because she, Sara, was too angry to trust herself to words. Julia’s words held an under-current of warning. And it wasn’t altogether to do with Ransome business affairs. Julia wanted Sara to know that she, Julia, had a proprietorial interest in Greg … and Sara was to keep out.

  Keep out? As if she wanted to do anything different. She knew just what was the role of secretary and employer. What did these people think she, Sara, was made of?

  Being a modern miss, Sara said quietly, firmly, ‘Damn them!’ She banged the typewriter very loudly and at great length until she had calmed down.

  By the time she went into the dining-room to take her solitary lunch … the family lunched very much later than Sara … she was ready to laugh at herself and laugh at the Camdens.

  ‘It’ll all be the same in a hundred years,’ she reflected. ‘And I’ll be away from Ransome in five weeks’ time.’