by Lucy Walker
She heard Greg turn savagely to Andy.
‘Why didn’t you let her come in a jeep … if you had to bring her?’
Andy’s voice was reassuring as if he had often heard Greg angry and knew it would not last, so long as no one added tinder to the fire.
‘She can ride a darn sight better than you know, Greg. She’s tired, that’s all. In the morning she’ll be sore but right as a cucumber for salad on a hot day. Come out in a jeep? She’s no softy!’
‘Well, this is a nice welcome for our Miss Brent,’ said Clifford, reaching for a billy which was already on the boil. ‘And I say “our” advisedly. Seems you want to share her, Greg.’
Jack Brownrigg brought a mug of tea over to Sara.
‘Now you know what a cattle camp’s like,’ he said. There was a laugh in his voice. ‘No hospitality … not treating ladies as if they were anything but stockmen. It’s a tough life … Sara.’
It was the first time he had called her Sara and she felt grateful to him for his kindness. She was still too tired to say anything more than ‘Thank you’. Vaguely she hoped Greg’s displeasure wouldn’t mean she’d lose both jobs … the one on Ransome and the one with the Company down south.
The noise round the camp-fire had brought Marion out of her swag. With eyes that would hardly stay open, Sara noticed Marion was in rumpled blouse and shorts. No night attire on cattle camps evidently.
‘For crying out loud!’ said Marion, leaning over Sara. ‘Couldn’t you even leave her for five minutes, Clifford?’
At this Sara stirred herself.
‘If I can manage to sleep somewhere tonight,’ she said, ‘I’ll go back with the first stockman going that way in the morning.’
There was silence from Greg but a sudden protest in unison from the others.
‘Don’t be silly, Sara,’ Marion said. ‘Everyone in camp is crabby at midnight. Matter of fact, I was against leaving you at the homestead in the first place. A week of Mama and Mrs. Whittle would drive anyone to desperation.’
‘You’re all right, Sara,’ said Jack Brownrigg. ‘Everyone’s just worrying for fear the trip was too much for you. Matter of fact, I had a conscience about it myself.’
‘Andy reckoned she could ride the distance,’ Clifford said defensively.
‘So she could, and did,’ said Andy calmly. ‘I’ll thank you two boys for ten quid each. And I’ll take it before we turn in. You might clear out with the cattle if I leave it till morning.’
The tea had revived Sara somewhat and she sat upright and opened her eyes wide. To her astonishment Clifford and Jack were both taking out their wallets and counting out pound notes into Andy’s hand.
Greg turned away from them and came over to where Sara was sitting.
‘Would you like some more tea, Sara?’ His manner had unbent a little. ‘I was concerned that you had been in the saddle for over six hours.’
That was nice of him, Sara thought, but it didn’t account for the extra remark he had made to Andy … if you had to bring her at all.
But he gave her a hand up as she rose stiffly to follow Marion to the nets where Julia was now lying awake, one hand under her head and the other waving a cigarette in the long amber holder.
‘I wondered what the din was about,’ said Julia. ‘Did you bring your typewriter?’
Tomorrow, thought Sara, as she crawled painfully into a swag, I’ll find time to cry.
Chapter Nine
Nevertheless on the morrow Sara did not cry. When she awoke she was so stiff she could hardly move, but Marion showed a softer side of her nature by giving her a good rubbing down.
‘Stay there for half an hour,’ she advised, ‘and then get up and move about. Keep moving all day. Otherwise you’ll stiffen out flat like a plank of wood.’
Sara took Marion’s advice, and after she had been to the water-hole for a wash and bent over the now smouldering fire to retrieve her own breakfast damper and chop, she began to feel some resilience coming back into her body.
Greg had given her a quick look, had said ‘Good morning’ and then walked away to the wooden uprights of the yard built some distance from the camping spot. He stood talking there to Clifford and Jack Brownrigg for some minutes. He then shouted for two of the stockmen and Sara could see him pointing to the distances. She supposed he was giving orders for the day.
When the man came back to the tea billies Clifford had something of a grin on his face.
‘No riding for you today, Miss Brent,’ he said. ‘Greg says you can have a saddle tomorrow. Andy’s been sent to Hell Hole and I’m going out to the overseer’s camp with Greg. Jack will be around on the wing of the mob with the girls all day, so you’ll be all right.’
‘Where’s Hell Hole?’ Sara asked Marion. What a name! She wondered if the place was as bad as it sounded.
‘Same thing as Coventry this morning,’ Marion said with a grin. ‘Greg’s hopping mad with Andy. It’s the toughest place to hunt cattle round this end of the run. Broken wild country and it’s always tough bringing in stragglers.’
‘Is that because Andy brought me?’
Marion shook her head.
‘Greg doesn’t mind you being here, Sara. My guess is he’s rather relieved. He didn’t like leaving you to Mama’s mercy either. But he’s wild that they had a bet over you. Even though Jack’s a visitor he got the rough edge of Greg’s tongue earlier on.’
‘It was my fault,’ said Sara contritely. ‘I encouraged them … really to help myself stick it out.’
‘That won’t help them out with Greg. Men in the north bet on anything from a thoroughbred race to a drinking contest. But they never bet on women. It’s an absolute law. I guess Greg will keep you on Ransome now … if you want to stay, Sara. He wouldn’t think Clifford fit to exchange typewritten letters over an office table … with any woman.’
Sara listened to this with astonishment. Not that it astonished her that Greg would have principles about betting on women but that he might still want her to stay on Ransome. She thought his displeasure the night before had been so keen he would regret his invitation.
For three days Sara enjoyed all the novelty and thrills of a cattle camp. After her first day of rest she rode out every day with either Marion and Julia, or Jack Brownrigg. Clifford and Greg had left the camp to join the overseer somewhere the other side of the timbered spur, and the girls were left to their own devices under the watchful eye of the head stockman and with Jack Brownrigg in attendance.
Of all the sights Sara loved best to see the stockmen racing round a wild bunch of stragglers, stockwhips swinging through the air, and bunching them in with the coachers and finally rounding up and embedding them in the heart of the main mob.
After one or two more teasing remarks about Clifford Camden, Sara was determined that she would rid them of that plaguey suspicion once and for all. She not only evinced no interest in where Clifford was or how soon he would return to the main camp but she spent as much time as possible with Jack Brownrigg. He was a nice young man and likeable. His company was easy without being inspiring, and Sara thought by staying with him she was demonstrating she could enjoy the company of more than one man and therefore did not hanker after the company of one in particular.
The life on the run was enough to settle Sara’s own mind about staying. She thought it was the happiest experience she had ever had. She was absolutely confident on a horse now. She loved the chivalrous but unorthodox treatment of herself by the stockmen. She was intrigued and full of admiration for the open, brusque, totally uninhibited way they spoke to one another and of the overseer and Greg, yet for all their freedom of speech showing respect and obedience to them. This last she realised was because they respected them as men and not just as bosses.
The only thing she failed to notice was that Jack Brownrigg was responding to her friendliness and seeking out her company to the point of satirical comment from Marion and Julia. The latter two were still puzzling out what all this meant and had not
yet started on a teasing campaign of Sara. So Sara failed to notice what was in the air.
On the fourth day Greg and Clifford rode back into camp.
As they sat around the fire that evening the head stockman looked up from his whittling of a peg and spoke across the fire to Greg.
‘What’s doing tomorrow, Greg? We’ve just about cleared out the river-bed and the gully of stragglers. Might pick up a few more later in the season when the Dry drives the rest of ’em round the permanent water-holes.
‘I think we’ll get the drovers moving this lot along the Wyndham track. We can spell them a week on the Buckjump Billabong and that’ll give the crowd that’s coming up at the end of the month an opportunity of seeing them before they go out to the coast. I’m going into the homestead tomorrow …’ He hesitated, then turned to Sara. ‘I’d like you to come in with me, if you will. There’ll be arrears of correspondence on the office table. In less than three weeks we’ll have sixty visitors on Ransome.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Sara said.
She was sorry to leave the camp, but on the other hand looked forward to getting on with her work with Greg. Somehow Greg in the homestead would drive away the loneliness she had felt when she had been left there alone with Mrs. Camden and Mrs. Whittle.
‘I hope I haven’t left too much to Mrs. Whittle,’ she added contritely.
Greg said nothing. Jack Brownrigg threw a small log on to the fire with some energy.
‘I might come in with you, Greg,’ he said.
‘No need to do that, Jack. I’m sorry I had a bit of a liver the day you came. I’d take it kindly if you’d stay on a bit. The boys like having you around.’
This was in the nature of a handsome apology from Greg, and Jack could only accept it by accepting the invitation to stay on longer at the camp. Only Marion and Julia noticed he did not seem so anxious to stay after all.
Greg, Sara, and a stockman left the camp at dawn while the others were still rolling their swags. Sara had no opportunity to say good-bye to Clifford Camden or Jack Brownrigg, but she did not think anything much of this. They would all be together in the homestead in a few days’ time.
The return journey was made by an easier staging because Greg called two stop-offs, each of an hour’s duration. They boiled the billy, ate damper and tinned meat which they carried in saddle-bags, and dozed a little under the shade of trees. It was blistering hot but by this time Sara was used to it. Greg and the stockman took it in turns to ride alongside Sara, and because of the heat conversation was desultory. It confined itself to pointing out occasional points of interest.
Greg in his manner to Sara was much easier. It was more like that of a host formally taking a polite interest in the welfare of his guest.
Sara was content, except that she felt something foreboding in the atmosphere. In spite of Marion’s opinion of what Greg intended where Sara was concerned, Sara could not help wondering, a little anxiously now, whether he was going to take her to task or, worse, dispense with her services altogether. The cattle camp had proved a lure Sara could not resist and she knew that in her heart of hearts she had perhaps wanted to stay on Ransome all the time. It had only been common sense and not the heart that had made her hesitate.
She had altogether forgotten her anger with Greg because he was a man who thought of women in one of two classes … the decorative or the chattel. His chivalrous attitude about betting on women had mitigated this somewhat and moreover Sara had reconciled herself to her place in affairs at Ransome. She was there to work. She was paid to work. How else could she appear in Greg’s eyes? It was no good hankering to be a lily of the field. Who wanted to be idle, anyway?
Sara remembered Mrs. Camden’s accusation and a smile curved her lips. Her eyes took on that gleam of merriment that so pleased Andy Patterson. Four days in the open air had scarified Sara’s wounds. She felt healthy and happy … and oh, so braced by the riding and the camp life. The homestead, she thought, would never intimidate her again.
They had crossed the river below the homestead and Greg had stopped and dismounted to feel for the moisture, if any, in the long rustling grasses.
Evidently what he felt gratified him, and as he straightened up to say something he caught Sara’s eyes watching him idly but what struck him was her smile and the warm glow of something that was almost fun in her eyes.
Her horse took a side-step and Greg put his hand on the bridle to steady it.
‘What’s making you laugh, Sara?’ he asked, puzzled.
Sara shook her head to shake her thoughts back to the present. She looked down at Greg where he stood, one hand on her bridle and one hand still holding a tuft of grass. It was the first time he had ever said anything personal to her … touching on her personal appearance.
‘I was just thinking how lovely it all is … the homestead up there, and the camp miles back there. And right in front that long waving grass.’
Then her eyes rested on his face. She noticed the firm lines of his brow and his chin, the sculptured strength of his mouth, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time the few white hairs intruding in the dark brown of his hair at the temples. For some inscrutable reason those several white hairs stirred her. They were like trophies of battle. Greg had a lonely and strong hand to play in managing this great station and all the warring factions of his family.
She wanted to stay, not only because she was beginning to love the life, but because she wanted to help him. Something went out of her towards him. She wanted to help him.
Perhaps he felt it because he dropped his hand from the bridle. He shook the soil from the roots of the tuft of grass, fingered it and then strewed it into the wind.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘When a breeze comes from the south it stirs the grasses like waves … waves in a mill pond.’
Sara thought that Greg’s request for her to stay on at Ransome had been like that. It had been a wind that had stirred her in a troubled way. She had no idea of the next request that he was to make to her. That was to be like a cyclone that would alter the whole course of her life!
‘It’s nice to come home to the homestead,’ Sara said. ‘The north doesn’t seem so vast after all.’
Greg shaded his hand at the brim of his hat and looked up to the westering sun. Then turned round, he put his foot in his horse’s stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.
They rode, without saying any more, up to the homestead.
Sara had committed a grave error in her stewardship of Greg’s affairs when she left to go out to the cattle camp. In the morning of her day of departure she had closed the filing cabinet, put papers away in the drawers, and everything in order. She had then gone out of the room and had not returned to it before she rode out with the men that evening. She had spent the greater part of the day washing out her jeans and three blouses and resting in anticipation of the night ride.
For none of these things did Sara reproach herself, but she was bitterly angry with herself for not having gone back into the office before she left.
The door of the office was never locked, in fact rarely closed, and she had not thought it necessary to lock it. There was only Mrs. Whittle in the homestead, and Mrs. Camden had left in the utility in the middle of the morning. It had not occurred to Sara that Mrs. Camden would visit the office, or that she had not any right to do so.
It was after dinner that Greg discovered the mess of scattered papers there.
He and Sara had dined with Mrs. Whittle and Sam Benson. Most of the time, while they ate, Greg told Sam of the state of affairs with the mustering and Sara discussed with Mrs. Whittle the plans for the housing and feeding of the multitude expected to arrive within the fortnight.
Immediately after dinner Greg had gone to his office and Sara had gone to put on a light cotton cardigan. The breeze had brought a cool draught of air with it.
Sara added another dab of powder to her nose and repaired her lipstick without asking herself why she did it. S
he patted her hair in places and then went down the long passage, across the hall into the short passage and the office.
Greg stood behind his table looking at a pile of untidy papers scattered over it. Sara, astonished, noticed that her new filing cabinet had drawers open and files tip-tilted half out of them.
Greg lifted his eyes and looked at her. To her surprise she did not see anger so much as despair.
‘Sara! What did you do with that list of guests?’
She went to the filing cabinet but knew with a sinking heart she would not find it. She searched for a brief minute and, turning, shook her head.
‘It’s not here,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s there on the table.’
‘Did you leave it on the table?’
‘No, Greg. I left nothing on the table.’
She felt unhappy as she said the words. Perhaps it would have been more a gesture of noblesse oblige to have said nothing and taken the blame for carelessness on herself. But if she did this it might hide the truth … that Mrs. Camden had taken it. And if Mrs. Camden was going to alter or add to that list, then the whole homestead would be involved in a mess. It meant reorganisation.
Greg drummed his fingers on the table. They were both standing facing one another. He looked suddenly tired.
‘I should have stayed here,’ Sara said. She wondered helplessly if, when Greg got over his tiredness and got angry, he would dismiss her.
He walked to the window and stood, arms folded, looking out into the night. Over his shoulder Sara could see the paddocks bright in the moonlight and through the open window hear the wind rustling in the pandanus.
He spoke without turning round.
‘I suppose you know it will mean chaos for the house-party. We won’t know how many … or who’s who.’
Sara couldn’t answer. The whole object of her coming to Ransome had been to assist in the smooth running of the arrangements for the house-party. Now by her selfishness in going out to the cattle camp, by not having set a permanent vigil in the office, she had allowed poor inconsequential Mrs. Camden to run amok with the guest list. And neither she nor Greg could say one word about Mrs. Camden.