by Nevil Shute
Jane said, “Let’s get out of here. People must be mad if they like things like that.”
Out in the street he said, “There’s another gallery in Bourke Street, up by William Street or somewhere.”
Jane said, “I want a cup of tea.”
They turned into a café; over the tea she said that she was through with picture galleries. “I know what I want,” she said, “but it’s not here. I want a picture that an ordinary person can enjoy, not someone who’s half mad. I’ll find it some day.”
He said tentatively, “There might be time to go down and pick up the Ford before dinner….”
“Let’s do that,” she said. “Take the taste of those foul paintings out of our mouths.”
The new utility was a very lovely motor-car, a low, flowing dark-green thing with more art in it than anything that they had seen that day. Twenty minutes before lunch-time it became their property, and they got into it, thrilled by the new possession, and drove it very carefully and slowly to park it in the Treasury Gardens. Jack Dorman locked it up, whistling softly between his teeth,
“I don’t want her, you can have her,
She’s too fat for me …”
His wife caught the air, and smiled a little. “We must ring Angie,” she said. “See her this afternoon.” Their daughter was staying for a few days with a college friend in Toorak, the most fashionable suburb of the city.
Her father said, “Maybe we could run her out into the country somewhere. She might like a drive….”
She was in fact driving in their utility at that moment, with Tim Archer. He had picked her up in the old Chevrolet that morning and was driving her southwards to bathe in Port Phillip Bay, thirty miles from the city. He had collected a lunch of sandwiches and soft drinks and they had set off at about twelve o’clock; they were now coming to the beach that was their destination.
Angela Dorman was twenty years old; she was taking Social Studies at Melbourne University and was just about to start upon her third and last year. She was a well-built blonde girl, superbly healthy. Like many Australian girls, a country life in her early years with an abundance of good food, plenty of riding, plenty of swimming, and the good Australian climate had made her a magnificent physical specimen; she would have graced a magazine cover in any country of the world. Now she was going through that phase of youth that can find nothing good in its own country; in Australia the only places that could satisfy her were Melbourne or Sydney, and her one ambition was to escape altogether from Australia to a rose-tinted and a glamorous England.
She had known Tim Archer for three years, since he had come to work for her father at Leonora. She knew that he was devoted to her in the inarticulate, dumb manner of a dog. She found him slow and unenterprising, without much interest in the world outside Victoria; a typical country boy. For all her restlessness she had enough of her father’s shrewd common sense not to throw away lightly something that she might want later on; she was sufficiently realist to know that she might not find so steady an affection easily again. She left most of his letters unanswered but she was kind to him when they met, and when he had rung her up and asked her to come swimming down past Mornington she had put off another engagement to go out with him.
They parked the old utility beside the road, took their lunch and bathing gear, and walked down through the tea trees to the beach. They had it practically to themselves, that little beach; they went back into the tea trees to change and came out in their bathers wearing dark glasses to sit and sun themselves a little before going in. Then they swam in the hot sunshine, keeping an eye open for the possible shark; although they were both strong swimmers, like most Australians they did not venture very far from the shore. Sharks in Port Phillip Bay were a rarity, but then you only meet one once….
They came out presently, and sat drying in the sun on the hot sand till they began to burn; then they moved into the shade of the tea trees and got out their lunch. Over the cigarettes he broached the subject that was foremost in his mind.
“Coming up to Leonora soon?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “I’m going to spend a week or so in Sydney with Susie Martin at the end of the month. I suppose I’ll have to go home for a bit before that.”
“It’s nice up there now,” he offered. “Cooler than the city.”
“There’s nothing to do there,” she replied. “It’s different for you. You’ve got a job to do. When I come home there’s nothing to do but help Mummy with the cooking and washing up. There’s nobody to talk to.”
“I know,” he said patiently. “It must seem a bit slow.”
She turned towards him. “Don’t you ever get tired of sheep—seeing the same sheep every day?”
“There’s the beef cattle,” he said slowly and quite seriously. “They make a bit of a change.”
“But don’t you get bored up there?”
“I dunno,” he said. “There’s always something that wants doing—fences or rabbits or spreading the super. We’re going to plough about eighty acres of the middle paddock in March and sow it down to rye-grass and clovers.”
“Will that make it better?”
“My word,” he said. “If we did that all over we could carry twice the stock. Costs a lot of money, though.”
She was silent. She knew that she ought to be able to take an interest in the property that had given her the university, and pretty clothes, and leisure; she knew that the fault lay in her. “I can’t stand the country,” she said quietly.
He knew that what she said was true, and it was painful to hear her say it. “What are you going to do when you leave the university?” he asked. “Get a job down here in the city?”
She said, “I want to go to England.”
“What’s the matter with Australia?” he asked in his slow way.
“It’s so small, so petty, and so new,” she said. “Everything we think about or talk about—everything that’s worth while—comes from England. We’re such second-raters here. I want to go home and work in London and be in the centre of things and meet some first-class people. I want to be where things really happen, things that are important in the world.”
“Australia’s all right,” he said. “We’ve got some pretty good people here.”
“But not like England,” she said. “It’s not like things are at home.”
“You don’t get enough to eat in England.”
“That’s all nonsense. The children’s health at home is as good as it is here.” She paused. “The trouble is we eat too much here. Be a good thing if we all ate a bit less and sent more home.”
“What’ld you do in London?” he asked presently.
“I’d like to get a job with a hospital,” she said. “An almoner or social work of some kind, with one of the big London hospitals. If I could get that, it’ld be a job worth doing.”
“Down in the slums?” he asked. “With very poor people?”
She nodded. “I want to get a job where one could help—help people who need helping.”
“Couldn’t you do that in Australia?”
“There’s not the scope,” she said. “There aren’t any poor people here—not like there are at home.”
He knew that to be true, and he thought it was a very good thing. “Too many people in England,” he said. “That’s the trouble. Do you know this girl Jennifer Morton that your ma’s come down to meet?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen her, nor has Ma. I don’t think any of us know much about her.”
“She worked in London, so you ma was saying. She might be able to give you a few tips.”
“I want to meet her,” the girl said. “Be somebody to talk to up at Leonora, anyway.”
He lay propped on one elbow on the warm sand, staring out at the sunlit beach and the blue sea. He was trying not to keep looking at her, but it was difficult to keep his eyes under control. “When do you suppose you’ll be going?” he asked at last.
; “About this time next year,” she said. “I’ve not told the parents yet, but it’s what I want to do. I think they’ll let me—if the wool keeps up.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone for?”
She stared down at the sand and traced a little pattern on it with one finger. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d rather work in London than work here. I might never come back.”
“Bit hard on your dad and ma,” he said.
“I know. That’s what makes it difficult.” She paused. “I ought to be home by five, Tim,” she said. “I must see Dad and Ma this evening.”
“Too right. Your dad won’t worry because he was taking over the new Ford today. Your ma will want to see you, though. Like me to run you straight to the hotel, or do you want to go back to Toorak first?”
She thought for a moment. “I’d better go back to Toorak. I can’t go to the Windsor straight from here, like this.”
“I’ll run you back and wait while you change and take you on to the hotel.”
“Will you, Tim? That’s terribly sweet of you.”
He coloured a little, and she noticed it, and knew that she had been a shade too kind. “That’s all right,” he said gruffly. “We’d better get changed and get upon the road, if you want to be at the hotel by five.”
They changed back into their clothes in the tea trees and got into the utility, and drove back to the city with hardly a word spoken all the way.
The Orion docked at eight o’clock next morning, with Jennifer on board. Jane Dorman had written to her again at Fremantle, and Jennifer had replied agreeing to go to Leonora for a few days before she came back to the city to take a job. Now as the vessel docked she was uncertain if she had been wise; she knew little of the Dormans and nothing of Australia; she would have preferred to go to a hotel for a few days, and find a lodging in the suburbs, and settle down in her own way. It was impossible to refuse the evident kindness, however, and it would be interesting to see a bit of the country before starting on a city job. Moreover, it was to visit Jane Dorman that her grandmother had given her the money; but for that she would not have been there at all.
When she met the Dormans in the tourist-class saloon, in response to a loudspeaker call, she was surprised in one or two respects. For one thing, they were far smarter than she had expected them to be. Jack Dorman in a new grey suit, heavy though he might be, was better dressed than her father, and Jane Dorman, though her hands were old and worn, was very smart in a new black and white coat and skirt. Their daughter, Angela, was with them, rather younger than Jennifer, but even better turned out than her parents; Jennifer felt pale and shabby in comparison with this glorious young woman.
As she came into the saloon Jane Dorman got up to meet her; in the crowd of passengers and friends she came straight to Jennifer. “It’s Jennifer Morton, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m Jane Dorman.”
Jennifer said, “How did you know me, Mrs. Dorman?”
Jane said, “You’ve got a look of your grandmother about you, my Aunt Ethel. I knew you right away.”
Then there were introductions, and enquiries about the passage, and business of the luggage. The Dormans had brought both utilities to the pier-head and Tim Archer was sitting in the Chevrolet below. Presently Jennifer was passing through the Customs, and then her suitcases and trunk were down in the new Ford utility, and she was free into Australia.
She drove to the hotel with Jack and Jane Dorman, Angela following behind in the old Chevrolet with Tim. In a blur of first impressions the width of the streets and the great number of motor-cars impressed Jennifer most; whatever else Melbourne might be, it was a beautifully laid-out city, and obviously a very prosperous one. The Dormans had engaged a room for her at the Windsor for a couple of nights; she found herself whisked up into this, and then they all had lunch together, except for Tim Archer, who had started back for Merrijig in the old utility.
Jennifer decided that it was easier to submit until the hospitality of these kind strangers had exhausted its first impetus; she felt that it would be rude and ungenerous to battle against it now. Angela disappeared after lunch upon her own affairs, and Jane and Jack Dorman took Jennifer out to the new Ford utility. They all sat together in the wide seat and started out on a long drive up into the Dandenong mountains, clothed in trees finer and taller than any that Jennifer had seen in England. At the outset she protested diffidently at the waste of their time in making this outing for her, but she was quickly told about the newness of the car and made to realise that her host would certainly have done that anyway that afternoon for his own pleasure. Indeed, the fun that Jack Dorman was getting out of his new possession was so evident that Jennifer relaxed, content to enjoy herself.
By the time they got back to Melbourne she was dazed with new impressions. By common consent they spent the evening quietly in the hotel. Jennifer was tired, and at Leonora the Dormans were in the habit of getting up at six in the morning and going to bed soon after nine each night. So for a while after dinner Jennifer sat talking quietly with Jane Dorman in a corner of the lounge of the hotel, while Jack smoked a cigar and read the Herald.
The girl said presently, “I’d like to take a little time tomorrow looking for a room or a small fiat to live in here. It’s terribly nice of you to ask me up to Leonora, and I’d love to go back with you for a week, but after that I’ll have to come back here and take a job. I thought I’d better see about that tomorrow.”
Jane said, “I know just how you feel. We’ll get you fixed up with somewhere nice to live before we go back home. I don’t think you ought to be in too much of a hurry to start work, though. The temperature was over a hundred the day before yesterday, in the city here. It’s the worst time of the year for anybody coming out from England, and you’re bound to feel it more than we do. You’d be much more comfortable if you stay with us at Leonora for a month, and start work in the autumn. It’s much cooler out there.”
The girl said awkwardly, “I think I ought to start earning something sooner than that, even if it is a bit hot.” The austerities of England were still strong in her; to relax and rest was somehow vaguely disgraceful. “I’m living on your money as it is,” she said.
The older woman said evenly, “You’re doing nothing of the sort, my dear. When we sent that money to Aunt Ethel we gave it to her. That was the end of it, so far as we were concerned.”
The girl said, “I’m sorry—I oughtn’t to have said that. But I would rather start earning my own living fairly soon. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, when you’ve been so very kind. But I’ve got to paddle my own canoe sometime, and the sooner I start the better.”
“I know,” said Jane. “So long as you know that we should love to have you for as long as you can stay with us. None of our children are home now; Angie will be coming up at the end of the week, but she won’t stay longer than ten days. It’s dull for young people up at Merrijig, of course—nothing ever happens there.”
“I think I’d find it rather interesting,” said Jennifer. “If I stayed up there too long with you, I might not want to come back to the city at all.”
Jane glanced at her curiously. “Have you ever lived in the country, at home?”
The girl laughed. “No,” she said frankly. “I’ve always lived in towns—in Leicester, and then in London. I don’t really know what living in the country’s like. I suppose that’s why I’m interested in it.”
“It can be very dull in the country,” Jane said. “Long periods of doing nothing but the daily work a woman has to do, cooking and washing and cleaning the house. No one but your husband and the men to talk to, and only the radio to listen to. But … I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to live anywhere else.”
Jennifer thought about this for a minute. Then she asked, “How many sheep have you got?”
Jane looked up in surprise. “I don’t quite know—about three thousand, I think. Jack, how many sheep are there on Leonora?”
He looked up from h
is paper. “Three thousand five hundred and sixty, unless someone’s been along and pinched some of ’em.”
“Then there’s the beef cattle,” Jane Dorman said. “About two hundred Herefords.”
“Two hundred and six,” said Mr. Dorman, and returned to his paper.
“I suppose you sell a lot of them for meat,” said Jennifer.
“Sell about six or seven hundred fat lambs every year,” Jane replied, “and a good few ewes. But most of the money comes from the wool clip, of course.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much about the money,” the girl replied. “It must be rather fun raising so much food.”
“Fun?”
“Don’t you feel pleased at being able to turn out such a lot of meat?”
Jane smiled. “I never thought about it. Send them to market and that’s the end, so far as we’re concerned, except to bank the cheque when it comes in.”
“It seems such a good thing to be doing,” said the girl.
Jane Dorman glanced at her curiously. It was the first time that she had heard it suggested that there was any ethical value in the work that she and Jack had spent their lives in. In the early years they had been looked down upon as country hicks, unable to make a living in the city and so compelled to live upon the land; in those hard days between the wars when wool was one and six a pound nobody had cared whether they lived or starved. In recent years with wool ten times the price, they had been abused as profiteers. In neither time had anyone suggested in her hearing that their work had any social value. Jennifer, she thought, came to Australia with a fresh outlook; it would be interesting to find out what it was.
She asked, “How are things at home now, in regard to food? What’s it really like, for ordinary people?”