by Lucy Walker
Sam scratched his stomach with the stem of his pipe.
‘Now I don’t know whether that’s a good idea or not. Some of those stockmen will have heavy going round the barrel and might take advantage of those masks.’
‘Oh, Sam, I hope not.’
‘Well, now that you’ve warned me. I’ll see the overseer and we’ll keep a good watch out for any shenanigans. Our own men’ll be all right. It’s some of those strangers about I’m doubting.’
Sam wheezed and rolled away towards his own office.
‘And young Julia too,’ he added to himself. ‘Now I wonder what she’s up to!’
Mrs. Camden, in disposing of some of her ‘unchartered’ guests, had suggested to Greg that a suite of three rooms was a very selfish claim for him and Sara to stake. But Greg had come down with his veto on Mrs. Camden’s ideas with his old firm way of dealing with an idea to which he did not take.
‘Those three rooms stay the way they are, Mother,’ he said. ‘They’re the administrative headquarters while the invasion’s on. Turn the drawing-room into a dormitory, if you must.’
But Mrs. Camden held up her hands in horror.
‘Really, such selfishness!’ she said and went away calling for Mrs. Whittle.
Greg looked at Sara with a grin. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen him. It must have been days ago. They were no more married ‘in fact’ than they had been the first day she came to Ransome. He was all day looking after his visitors and inquisitors out on the run, and half the night talking to and entertaining them in either the billiard room or the office.
The door between Sara’s room and the office seemed to be permanently closed now, and she was really more relieved than anything else. She fell into bed at night exhausted and slept dreamlessly and deeply until the first sound of galloping horses at daybreak brought her back to another day’s organising.
One morning she woke shocked to find that the bed next to her had been slept in. When she went through the office to shower in Greg’s bathroom she discovered the reason why. Greg’s own bed was full of two very young men who evidently had had to be put to bed the night before.
It seemed strange to Sara that Greg, her own husband, could have slept in the bed next to her and she never to have known he was there.
When he spoke to her for a fleeting moment that night he made no mention of it, so Sara, too, remained silent.
‘It seems we’ve all got to wear masks tomorrow night, Sara,’ he said. ‘The saddler’s shed has been busy making them all day. I told Blue-Bag to bring one up to the homestead for you. This is some new idea of Marion’s and as it is her birthday I expect we’d better humour her.’
Sara agreed, but she wondered if Greg would have been so sanguine if he had known the idea originated with Julia. Greg, being a man, probably did not know that some women were schemers.
Tonight was not the night to worry Greg about the domestic or social problems of the homestead. He had Mrs. Camden’s yacht again on his hands. She talked to all her friends about it and it was quite clear that a number of them were already angling for invitations for what Mrs. Camden promised to be a ‘fabulous’ cruise.
‘The thing’s gone too far,’ Greg told Sara. ‘We’ll have to bring the matter up with the family. Do you know what we can buy a Fairmile for? Because that’s what it would have to be?’
Sara shook her head.
‘Twenty thousand pounds … equipped.’ Sara shook her head again. She would like to have humoured Mrs. Camden in her idea of a yacht. But twenty thousand pounds? Sara felt sorry for the reception Mrs. Camden would get from her fellow-shareholders. She wrinkled her brow to try and think of a way of diverting Mrs. Camden’s interest.
If Marion would only take to one of those MacKensies from Turra station, that might do it. Mrs. Camden’s second obsession was to marry Marion off to a fellow station-owner. If this could come off then perhaps Mrs. Camden could be diverted into running a fabulous wedding instead of a fabulous cruise.
The following day brought more restraint to the outside activities of the house-party. Nearly all the fairer sex preferred to restore their batteries in readiness for the dance that night. They stayed around the homestead, creaming the sunburn off their faces, washing and setting their own and other people’s hair, and shaking out the folds of evening dresses.
There was much laughter and secrecy about evening dresses. Everyone had taken to the idea of a masked dance and that meant that evening dresses had to remain a secret. No use to hide the fair face if the fair robe could be recognised.
In spite of her former doubts Sara began to look forward with something of secret hope and anticipation to dancing with masked and unknown partners. There was an element of adventure thus with Greg. She banished from her thoughts the idea that this also was at the back of Julia’s mind.
In the afternoon Jack Brownrigg arrived.
‘Why, Jack!’ Sara said. ‘We had given up all hope of you. Where have you been all this week?’
‘Two pilots off,’ he said glumly. ‘One with ’flu and the other’s getting married. Had to do the night runs myself. Shouldn’t be here today but I couldn’t miss Marion’s birthday.’ He looked at Sara quizzically. ‘Or seeing if the new mistress of Ransome was shaking down all right. You want anybody’s nose punched in, Sara? If so, I’m your man.’
Sara laughed.
‘Everybody’s very docile,’ she said. ‘Why, I’m having no difficulty at all.’
‘You don’t say? You got Greg under your thumb too?’
‘Not Greg,’ Sara said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think Greg will ever be under anybody’s thumb. And who would want it?’
‘Some women,’ said Jack knowingly. ‘You know what, Sara, there’s some women aren’t happy unless they’re conquering someone. Not some thing, mind you, but some one.’
‘I suppose there are,’ Sara said hastily. Was Jack thinking of Julia as she, Sara, thought of her?
‘Well, never mind,’ Sara added. ‘Come and have some tea, and then I’m going to pack you down to the quarters. They’ve got a veranda sleep-out built on there for latecomers like you. I’m afraid all the men are there most of the time anyway. Do you know what they do down there every night, Jack?’
‘Tell crocodile yarns. Who’s shot the biggest so far?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to ask. But they all seem to have shot whopping big crocodiles some time or other in their lives.’
Dinner, buffet style, was like the hors d’oeuvre before the feast. It had been decided that the toast to Marion and the family present-giving should be made at suppertime, just before midnight.
As soon as the meal was over Sara did not wait to see the dining-room and billiard room cleared but went quickly to her own room. She wanted to shower and use the right-of-way through Greg’s room before she saw what suit he would be wearing, though she guessed it would be the classic uniform of the men outback … black tailored trousers and white sharkskin coat with a black bow tie on a soft linen shirt … but she just didn’t want to see it. She felt almost like Cinderella who might meet her Prince Charming tonight, and she didn’t want to spoil the mystery of it.
Through her own window she could see the floor that had been put down in the garden, and the lights swinging from the trees so that all was half light and half shadows. Already some of the staff were using the giant sprays that were to keep mosquitoes and other plagues away for a few hours. Fortunately the night was still and the spray would be effective under the trees and shrubs where the bomber mosquitoes loved most to linger.
Overhead the stars shone like brilliant lamps in the dark velvet blue of the sky. Silhouetted against the skyline were the palms and, farther away, the clump of cadgebutt trees.
It was a heavenly night with all the mystery of the tropical scents in the air.
Sara put on the make-up sparingly and gently over her face and neck and shoulders and arms. Then she slipped into her pearl-pale satin dress.
For once she had something of Julia’s style in the swathed skirt. Gone were the full pleats and curving flares of her usual dresses. This was more sophisticated, as became a young matron, Sara had said to herself when she ordered it.
She went to the cupboard where she had put her perfume and took it out. She unstoppered it, and then hesitated. She was aware that her new dress was more Julia’s style than her own, and to use an exotic perfume might be emulating Julia too far. She put the stopper back and the perfume on her dressing-table. Instead she took from a drawer a small bottle of Old Lavender. She sprinkled a few drops on her handkerchief and dabbed some behind the ears.
‘That’s more like me,’ she said.
She picked up her mask and went through the office to Greg’s door. She tapped on the door.
‘If you want to use the long mirror in my room I’m going out now, Greg,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to put on your mask, will you?’
‘Thanks, Sara.’ His voice came gruffly as if he had his studs in his mouth.
Sara smiled to herself and went out of the office door into the passage. She adjusted her mask and went towards the veranda.
She had a tremendous sense of relief. She was just a masked lady tonight. No looking after other people. No hastening to see that all was well in the kitchen, dining-room or drawing-room. Any hint of overseeing and she would have given her identity away.
To her amazement some of the party had carried the intent of their anonymity so far that they had washed their hair in strange colours. There emerged far more brunettes than had been present in the homestead two hours earlier. One almost luscious-looking girl might well have been Julia except that her hair was dark. When Sara looked at it closely she could see the hair was still damp and there was a tiny smudge of coloured rinse just below the hair line. Could it be Julia, she wondered? The full skirt did not look like Julia but the hibiscus behind the ear did. So did the dangling ear-rings … and the all-pervading scent of Chanel 5.
Everybody was at the same game of guessing, but no one seemed to recognise Sara. She had not touched her hair but no one gave her the credit for it.
‘Don’t think you’re a blonde,’ someone said. ‘Who’s a blonde we haven’t accounted for. Oh, I know who you are, that red-headed girl from Brisbane, what’s her name … Myra Pennyfeather!’
Sara shook her head but would not commit herself to speak. So many of them gave themselves away by their voices. The girl in the hibiscus and Chanel 5 didn’t give herself away by speaking either. She merely sipped her cocktail, laughed, and smoked a cigarette out of a short dark holder.
The men who had been strolling round the garden now began to join the ladies. They, too, peered in the dimmed lights from the garden at their fair companions, and tried guessing.
‘No guessing,’ someone said. ‘That will spoil it. And you can’t tell by the hair either. We’ve all dyed our hair.’
‘Not all,’ a voice said at Sara’s elbow.
Sara kept her voice very low so as not to give herself away with it. Oddly enough, Jack Brownrigg had given himself away by his.
‘I’m a raving redhead on week-days,’ said Sara.
‘Come and dance with me and I’ll tell you who you are.’
‘I’m Julia!’
‘No, you’re not. Julia doesn’t smile the way you do. When you smile a couple of pixies dance in your eyes. Julia’s eyes never smile.’
‘You’ve never looked in her eyes. I recommend it. She would find it quite diverting.’
‘This is diverting enough for me. I just hope Greg will take all night finding you … then I can have you to myself.’
Sara laughed.
‘Greg?’ she said loftily. ‘Who’s Greg? Oh, you mean that tall striking-looking man who runs the place?’
‘All right,’ said Jack. ‘If we have to pretend … then let’s pretend. I’m still going to dance with you as often as I get in first.’
This was a promise he carried out, for Sara found herself dancing for the third time with Jack before the evening was half over.
Several times as tall men had come towards her Sara had looked searchingly through her mask to see if it was Greg. So many of these outback men were tall, bronzed and laconic in their speech. It wasn’t till she was in their arms that she knew it wasn’t Greg. Would he know … if and when he danced with her … just as Jack Brownrigg had done? She must remember to keep her eyes downcast, if it was her eyes that gave her away. She just wanted the thrill of dancing in Greg’s arms … unknown by him.
But as the evening wore on no Greg came her way. Despairingly she began to search the tall men with her eyes. There was one who had danced three times with the girl in the hibiscus and Chanel 5. Sara edged her partner near them. She looked at the back of the man’s head. She was sure that was the back of Greg’s head. Didn’t she know it off by heart? Then reluctantly, for she felt she was cheating, she looked at his feet. No one else in the world wore the beautiful fine leather, hand-sewn shoes that Greg wore, she would recognise them anywhere. Yes, it was he. Did he know with whom he was dancing? And was the hibiscus-wearing girl Julia?
Sara and her partner were dancing near them now. The girl, dressed somewhat Spanish fashion, was affecting a slight foreign accent, but Sara noticed that neither of them spoke very much. Each seemed quiet and content just to dance, well, not quite heart to heart. But very nearly.
Sara felt a pang of distress. She had meant to play that part herself tonight, but Greg, this tall masked man in the fine leather shoes, had not come her way.
Greg for his part had taken rather slowly to this idea of seeking out a masked partner. He had first seen that most other people had partners before he approached, rather shyly … for this man, so little embarrassed when with men or out on the run or doing business with men or women, had a touch of reserve about him when it came to parties and dances.
He had danced first with a little woman with greying hair, and this was pleasant enough. After that he adjourned with two of the men to the billiard room and had two stiff whiskies.
Thereafter he went back to the dance floor.
Before he had gone out into the garden he had gone into Sara’s room to tie his tie in front of the long mirror. He was a man without vanity but he liked his clothes to fit properly and sit properly. And so he had stood in front of the long mirror to adjust his belt and see the cuffs of his trousers rested just exactly on the instep of his shoes.
He had stopped by Sara’s dressing-table and picked up the bottle of Chanel 5 she had left there but not used. He lifted out the stopper and sniffed it. He smiled and put the bottle back in its place. He looked under the dressing-table and saw Sara’s slippers standing neatly side by side. He bent down and moved them, turning the toes into one another so they stood at a tizzy angle. This time he was smiling broadly, and when he left the room he closed the door silently behind him.
Out in the garden he had had two dances and two whiskies. He felt like smiling again and was doing just this when the girl with the hibiscus touched his arm.
He peered at her a minute and then quietly took her in his arms. He did not speak for he fancied he was still anonymous. It didn’t occur to him that to one young lady his smile would give him away just as to another his shoes would tell the story. He just danced quietly and firmly, listening with a smile and his head bent slightly on one side while the girl spoke a few sentences in an affected foreign accent. Thereafter they danced in silence, Greg holding the girl tightly in his arms, the girl relaxing her body against his and knowing full well the hint of Chanel 5 in the air was filling his nostrils. She could tell by the way the man against whom she rested her body was dancing that he was content.
It was the last dance before supper … and the unmasking.
Sara was once again in Jack Brownrigg’s arms. The hibiscus girl was once again in Greg’s.
‘I zink,’ said the hibiscus girl, who had hardly uttered a word since they first met, ‘zat the tall man wiz ze girl in the p
earl satin dress is Jack Brownrigg.’
Greg looked over his shoulder.
‘I think I could tell that figure anywhere,’ he said softly. ‘Couldn’t you?’
His partner shook her head.
‘I haf vondered all night because he haf danced with zat girl all night. Now I know.’
‘Good old Jack,’ was all Greg said.
There were only a few minutes to go now. The imported orchestra was entering into the spirit of the occasion. Many couples had taken advantage of the masks to play a part they would have been too shy or too well brought up to do bare-faced. There was romance in the air, which is, after all, the main business of a masked dance.
The lights winked out one by one and the orchestra had muted its tones to something dreamy and sweet and just a little poignant with old melody.
The dancers, some of whom knew who their partners were but were discreetly pretending not to, danced cheek to cheek. The moon and the stars washed them all in pale silver and dark shadow.
Jack and Sara did not dance cheek to cheek but each knew who the other was. For the last minute Jack gathered Sara just a little more closely in his arms.
‘This is goodbye, Sara,’ he said in her ear. ‘I’m off at sun-up. Be good … and be happy. Promise me you’ll let me know if you ever want anybody’s nose punched?’
Sara was touched. She knew now that Jack did have some deep feeling for her. But he had observed the proprieties and he was saying goodbye. She kissed the tip of her finger and placed it on his mouth.
‘I’ll always remember you carry a good punch, Jack.’
Next to them … surely not coincidence … Greg was dancing with the girl in the hibiscus. Sara was trying to keep her head averted. The girl seemed crushed in Greg’s arms and her head was resting on his shoulder.
There was a sudden chord of music. The lights sprang up. Masks were being torn from faces and the air was full of laughter and shrill protests.
Greg and the girl in the hibiscus had each quietly taken their masks off, as had Sara and Jack. It was Julia. Sara had been almost certain of it. And Julia continued to lean against Greg looking up in his face.