by Lucy Walker
Julia, in leaving her place, passed by the lesser sideboard. She picked up the entrée dish, yawned, and replaced it carelessly. Sara, as she passed Greg, glanced at him, but he was watching Julia. Sara saw with dismay that his mouth was in that straight line that was so forbidding. Then suddenly he looked older, and very tired.
Chapter Fourteen
There was no time in the next few days for Sara to worry about her own, or Julia’s, relations with Greg. The family bent itself as one to conclave, argument and the overseeing of Ransome. Greg was gone out on the run at dawn, to be back in the dining-room, now given over as the meeting-place of the shareholders during the day-time, for nine o’clock morning tea. Sara, rising at sun-up, was busy first with Mrs. Whittle in the nether reaches of the house and then with seeing that Mr. Hunt and Mrs. Sam Camden were occupied if not entertained. The family, tight and conservative in the matters of its own estate, precluded all those who were not actual shareholders from these meetings.
Sara took her guests round the gardens. ‘Trouble with Greg,’ Mr. Hunt said, ‘he’s a law unto himself. He doesn’t take advice. Now if he listened to me …’
‘He does, Mr. Hunt,’ Sara said consolingly. ‘You know I was his secretary formerly and each time a letter came from you he set it aside to read when he could give it undivided attention and thought. He was always very interested in comments from you.’
Mr. Hunt looked at Sara with suspicion but when he saw the open candour of her face he was mollified.
‘One always gets the impression anything Greg doesn’t want to hear about he puts in the waste-paper basket,’ he said.
Sara laughed and her eyes were merry and charming. Mr. Hunt was being won over to this pretty, half serious, half gay little wife without knowing it.
‘I think he does occasionally do that … but never with any communication from you. After all, he knows you are a man of affairs.’
Sara was not conscious of any attempt at either flattery or peace-making. What she was saying was the actual truth. She liked Mr. Hunt to know the truth about Greg.
‘They’re too remote up here,’ Mrs. Sam Camden said. ‘They don’t know what’s going on in the world. Now take Marion. She really has a very careless taste in clothes.’
‘Marion likes to take life easily in this hot climate,’ said Sara. ‘But she does like nice clothes. She was admiring that travelling suit you wore when you came up and wondering if she could get one like it.’
Sara was again unconscious of flattery although she knew this time her words were intended to make peace. Marion had admired Mrs. Camden’s clothes and Marion never said anything catty about anyone, though occasionally she was sharp to Julia and impatient with her mother.
Mrs. Sam Camden, like Mr. Hunt, was mollified.
After two mornings of these little jaunts and Sara’s kind-hearted peace-making remarks there seemed to be an easing of the tension between some of the warring Camdens.
On the third night Greg came into the office quickly to leaf through his mail. For three days he had not once been consulted about internal homestead affairs nor had he had to bother about his mail. Sara had put aside magazines, pamphlets, journals, bills and circulars. Only sealed personal letters were left in a neat pile at the right of his blotting pad.
‘Tomorrow I’m taking the men, including Mr. Hunt, out to the No. 9 bore,’ he said to Sara. ‘Somehow I seem to have convinced them that carving up Ransome won’t get anyone anywhere. That neck at the north-east end is what Hunt was after, but he can see now that in spite of the permanent water-holes there he’d have to use Ransome transport and Ransome cattle pads to get anything through. It would work in this generation because I wouldn’t stand in anyone’s way. But there’s no guarantee what the future generations will do.’
‘It’s the future generation he’s worrying about, I think,’ said Sara. ‘There’s his son …’
Greg went on slitting open envelopes.
‘It’s the future generation we’re all worrying about at this stage,’ Greg said. ‘I might have sons too. We don’t want them all at loggerheads with one another.’
Sara was putting something away in the filing cabinet. She paused and her hands rested a minute on the steel trays. She found it hard to turn round for fear that Greg’s eyes would be on her.
When she did turn round, however, Greg was reading a long document.
‘This is your marriage settlement, Sara,’ he said at length. ‘I want you to read it, then sign it in the presence of two witnesses. You could use those two stiff-necked solicitors, or Sam Benson and Mrs. Whittle.’
He passed the document over to Sara. She sat down and began to read it with concentration. The legal phraseology called for concentration. Greg went on opening letters without looking at her.
The main import of the settlement was that it gave Sara an annuity for life. One last clause held her attention.
‘To have the use, rights and privileges of the homestead known as Ransome Main Homestead so long as the said Sara Ruth Camden remains the true and legal wife in fact and deed of Gregory Charles Ransome Camden.’
This last clause was the only qualification in the document. Sara was to have her annuity from the date of her marriage until her death whatever her whereabouts.
She put the document down on the table.
‘I’d like you to sign that as soon as possible, Sara,’ Greg said. ‘I like to get that sort of thing tied up and done with. Then it’s out of mind.’
‘It’s very generous,’ Sara said reluctantly. ‘I don’t really want it, Greg. I’d rather just be your wife in the same terms that other people depend on their husbands.’
‘I’m protecting you against the future,’ Greg said with an implacable note in his voice. ‘I should have got that fixed up before we were married. There wasn’t time.’
Sara sat silent. She supposed an annuity was the same thing as the dress allowance that men of means gave to their wives. It simplified the discussion of money matters as between husband and wife. She could not, however, but feel hurt about the proviso in the last clause. It was a right and proper clause, she knew that, and was designed to give her privilege and even authority in the homestead. Moreover, she could see the necessity for the proviso in the event of their marriage not being a success. But it hurt her, it underlined the possibility of the marriage not being a success.
Greg noticed her hesitation and unbent a little.
‘Sign it, please, Sara.’
She noticed the tiredness in him now. He’d been contending with his family unremittingly for three days. She wasn’t being any help by humming and hawing.
She picked up the fountain pen.
‘Very well, Greg. I’ll go and find Mrs. Whittle. It’s just that you are generous.’
She went to the door and turned round to speak to him.
‘I hope the proviso in the last clause won’t ever take effect … that is … that I will forgo my privileges in the homestead.’
She went out and as she did so she quietly shut the door behind her. Her heart was beating rapidly for she felt she had said something that should convey a world of meaning to Greg.
She did not see him standing looking at the closed door. He stood thus for a few minutes and then walked quietly into Sara’s room. He stood hesitant in the middle of the room and then walked slowly over to her dressing-table. He picked up her crystal powder bowl and looked at it. He picked up a fragment of lace handkerchief and lifted it to his nose. Then he picked up her perfume, loosened the stopper and sniffed it. For the first time in days he smiled.
He replaced the perfume bottle and noticed it was Chanel No. 5. What, he wondered, were Chanel 1, 2, 3 and 4? He bent and straightened Sara’s slippers and then decided he liked them best the way they were before. He moved them so that they stood under her dressing-table at an angle, their toes pointing in towards one another. This time there was a real smile on his face. He bent and looked at himself in the mirror and brushed his han
d through his hair.
Then he went quietly out of the room.
In the passage he met Marion.
‘If you’re looking for Sara she’s in the kitchen regions,’ he said. ‘But have you got five minutes, Marion?’
‘All the time in the world,’ said Marion. ‘As you well know.’
‘Then come into the dining-room and have a drink with me. I deserve a drink.’
‘I think you do, Greg. I don’t, of course, but then I can always help someone else after six o’clock at night.’
They went into the dining-room and Greg unstoppered a decanter on the main sideboard. He poured the light yellow wine into two glasses.
‘What do Chanel No. 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 mean, Marion?’ he said over his glass.
‘I don’t know. Ask Julia. She’s an authority on perfumes,’ said Marion. She walked to the end of the room and stood looking at the array of silver on the other sideboard. ‘Why does Sara set so much store by that silly entrée dish?’ Marion asked.
Greg followed her and picked it up.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Supposing we put it in a less distinguished position. Do you think she’d notice it?’
Marion looked at Greg with amusement.
‘What’s happened to you tonight, Greg? You sound as you used to sound years ago. Before you had the weight of Ransome on your shoulders.’
Greg smiled.
‘I think I’ll move the entrée dish,’ he said. ‘We used to do that years ago when we were kids. Remember? Move mother’s silver all round the place.’
‘Yes. And it was weeks before she noticed it. Then she thought the bunyips had been in the homestead.’
Greg picked up the dish and carried it to the small table on which rested the tea urn and the silver tray.
‘Among the wedding presents …’ said Greg absently. And he put it down, but in the shadow of the tea urn. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a silver hot-water jug.
‘That’s from Clifford. He gave it to Sara this morning. Had it sent up on the plane.’
‘But he came in in the family tea urn, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. Quite big-hearted he was. But this is a special one for Sara. Quite a hit with the boys … is Sara.’
But Greg was not going to have his mood spoiled. He poured himself another wine and half filled Marion’s glass for her.
‘Greg, you look as if you might bowl hoops down the path any moment.’
‘Two glasses of wine won’t do that to me, young Marion.’
‘No. It’s your mood. What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s perfume. It sort of stirs one’s memory. One remembers that one was once young and did behave as if one was young.’
‘Hey, steady on, Greg. You’re married now. Chanel 5 belongs to the days of Julia.’
Julia was passing the door and heard her name. She came in. She was looking particularly beautiful tonight in a tight swathed black dress, her fair hair brushed back so that one could see her fine square forehead unblemished and smooth as alabaster.
‘Talking about me?’ she asked. ‘And do I have a glass of wine too?’
‘Certainly,’ said Greg. ‘Which wine-glass will you have, Julia?’
‘The cut-glass one,’ said Julia. ‘I always have the best.’
‘That’s just what we were saying,’ said Marion. ‘Greg said Chanel 5 was his favourite perfume.’
‘Did I say that?’ asked Greg, surprised.
Julia opened her mouth to say something, then suddenly closed it. A little gleam came into her eyes. She stared thoughtfully into her wine-glass.
‘Chanel 5 …’ she murmured.
Then she shrugged and walked around the dining-room. The undulation was marked because her dress was so tight, but Greg and Marion could only stand and admire her … both with something of their old youthful smiles.
Julia paused at the small table. She picked up Clifford’s jug and pushed Jack’s entrée dish another inch into the shadow of the tea urn.
‘Sara’s conquests!’ she said. ‘Oh, well. They did know her first, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, but she didn’t choose them,’ said Marion suddenly.
‘Perhaps she made a mistake. We all do sometimes.’ She came back to the sideboard and poured some more wine into her glass. She looked at Greg in a tantalising way. ‘As long as she doesn’t regret it …’ she said lazily.
Sara came into the dining-room. She had the legal document rolled around the fountain pen.
‘Family conclave?’ she asked with a smile.
‘It is now,’ said Greg.
His eyes did not leave her face. Once again Sara had that odd feeling that Greg’s eyes were looking into hers. Seeking? Or telling?
Marion, standing beside Greg, and Julia, leaning against the sideboard, watched her. Sara dragged her eyes away from Greg and to hide her feelings glanced round the room.
‘Oh!’ she said, going over to the small table. ‘Who put my dish there? I’m really going to growl at Nellie.’
She picked up the dish and returned it to its former place.
Julia looked at Greg and cocked one supercilious eyebrow. ‘What did I tell you?’ was what that eyebrow and the imperceptible movements of her lips said.
Greg put his wine-glass down on the sideboard.
‘I’m not bossy, am I, Greg?’ Sara said gently. ‘But I can have my own way about my entrée dish, can’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Greg quietly. ‘You can have your own way about that. Is that document signed, Sara?’
‘Yes. It’s complete.’ She gave it to him.
‘If you would like a glass of wine I’m sure Marion will keep you company. I want to put this thing in Sam’s safe.’
He quietly left the room.
That night when Sara was preparing to go to bed Greg was still sitting behind his table in the office.
‘I’m going to work late tonight,’ Greg said. ‘I think you’d better shut your door.’ Then he added pleasantly, ‘I’m going to try out the typewriter … with two fingers.’
‘Can I help you?’
‘No. I feel like struggling on my own. Do you mind?’
Sara said good night, and when she went into her room she quietly shut the door behind her. For the first time there was a shut door between them. Sara put her hand to her head.
Greg had been in the dining-room laughing and talking with Julia and Marion. Now he was quiet, polite … and wished to be alone. Somehow, Sara thought, Julia was behind Greg’s mood tonight.
One day, she thought, when she had time, and when she could gain the confidence, she would fight Julia with her own weapons.
She went to her dressing-table and, catching sight of the perfume bottle, she picked it up.
‘And not with Chanel 5,’ she added.
She put the scent away in the back of a cupboard. She hadn’t much confidence yet, she knew. But one day, if she hung on, who knows?
She undressed, creamed her face and went to the bathroom she had formerly used in the long passage. She got into bed and lay staring at the crack of light under the office door.
She felt like a small girl shut out and in the cold.
And I did it myself, she thought, remembering the night after her wedding night when she had put Greg’s pyjamas in the other room. But would I do different now?
Did Greg still sometimes think of Julia? What would his thoughts be? The same as hers were for Greg?
The back of Sara’s hand rested on her eyes. Her heart longed for Greg, but her head rebelled against Julia. It was like her eyes and her mouth ‒ they argued with one another.
Chapter Fifteen
For days now there was no time for thought and no time for futile longing. People were beginning to converge on Ransome from far and near. Visitors arrived in ones, twos and threes. Stockmen from other stations on their way to ‘bust their cheques’ stopped off at Ransome to see some of the fun. The caterers plus all their equipment ar
rived and had to be installed in one of the galvanised iron cottages that had been cleared out and set aside for them.
A specially chartered plane came through from Adelaide, along the Alice Springs air route, to bring food supplies.
Sara was so busy she didn’t know what day it was or where she was herself.
‘Don’t know Thursday from Swanston Street,’ said Sam Benson as he sent an SOS up to the homestead for Sara to come and help him dole out the government stores to the fringe-dwellers. ‘Most of that stuff,’ he said morosely as he handed out flour, sugar and tobacco, ‘will go out to the myalls in the Never-Never. Then these fellows will be back for more for themselves. They share everything they’ve got.’
Up in the homestead Mrs. Camden was creating her own diversions. Her friends, the officially uninvited ones, were arriving and Mrs. Camden was busy re-allocating bedrooms and sleeping quarters and sending Mrs. Whittle and her staff scattering through old cupboards and pantries to bring out long-forgotten treasures that Mrs. Camden might display them to her friends.
In the evening there were so many people in the homestead, and so many up from the camps recently erected in the cadgebutt trees, that at least Sara did not have to worry who was who. There were too many people and they all were strangers to her. All Sara had to do was keep smiling and leave them to themselves. They all knew one another, or knew about one another, and there was many a party within the party especially down in the camps. There the fires glowed all night and the mouth organ and concertina competed with the human voice for noise and gaiety.
‘How are you wearing, young ’un?’ Sam asked her.
‘All right, but as you said, Sam, I don’t know Thursday from Swanston Street. By the way, where is Swanston Street?’
‘Crikey! Where you been all your life? Swanston is the holy of holies. Melbourne.’
‘Oh! I only know Sydney and Adelaide. And now Perth, of course.’
‘Well, you better know that Saturday’s Marion’s birthday. And that’s the day of the big party. Don’t go and forget what day of the week that is.’
‘I won’t. Did you know that Julia is putting about the idea that nobody dresses until after dinner … and that then it is to be a masked dance?’