‘D’you reckon she’ll be coming with her horses, Joe?’
‘Reckon she might,’ he murmured. He glanced at the youth by his side and hid a smile. Bob Fuller was seventeen and in the throes of first love.
Bob dug a comb from the back pocket of his moleskins and tried to tame his wild hair. It didn’t make much difference, but he smiled with satisfaction, tucked the comb into his pocket and carefully replaced his broad-brimmed hat. ‘She’s a dinkum sheila, and no mistake.’ He sighed, as he searched for her among the alighting passengers. ‘But I bet she’s got the blokes in Brisbane lining up.’
‘She probably has,’ replied Joe, ‘but a girl like Eliza’s too rich for our blood, mate. Better to find a good Tassy sheila that won’t expect fancy dinners and expensive presents.’ He saw the youth flush and knew his gentle advice had not been too welcome. Bob had met Eliza Frobisher fleetingly on her one and only visit to Galway House, but it was enough to convince the youth he was in love – hence the clean moleskins and shirt and the attention to his hair.
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ muttered Bob, ‘but a bloke can dream, can’t he?’
‘Why not? It’s a free country, mate,’ replied Joe. ‘C’mon, we’ve got two horses to collect.’ Joe led the way up the ramp and into the darkness of the hull where the livestock was penned for the rough crossing.
‘Mr Reilly? Over here.’
It took a moment to adjust to the gloom before he could see her. He crossed the distance between them in a few strides, his gaze taking in the businesslike shirt, breeches and polished riding boots. She wore no make-up today, and it was quite a shock to realise she couldn’t be much older than Bob. ‘G’day, Miss Frobisher.’
She shook his hand. ‘Dreadful crossing – poor Moonbeam didn’t like it at all.’ She barely gave the lovesick Bob a glance before turning her attention to the skewbald filly which was sweating up and restless in the narrow stall. ‘Perhaps your boy could walk her for a bit to calm her down while you deal with Starstruck?’
Joe nodded to Bob, who had turned the colour of beetroot. ‘Take her along the towpath. That should settle her,’ he said quietly.
‘Rub her down first,’ ordered Eliza. ‘I don’t want her catching a chill.’
The light of love fled from Bob’s eyes as he grabbed the cloth and bent to his task. The skewbald seemed to appreciate his firm but gentle handling, and quietened as he rubbed her down, placed a blanket over her and led her to the ramp.
‘Bob has handled horses most of his life,’ Joe said firmly when he’d gone, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you remember that in future.’
Her caressing hand stilled on Starstruck’s chestnut neck, and her brown eyes widened. ‘The boy looks half-witted,’ she replied, ‘and I was concerned for my filly.’
‘Bob’s got all his wits, and knows what he’s doing,’ Joe retorted. ‘Shall I unload Starstruck?’
‘Of course.’ She patted the Arab’s neck and stepped back as Joe put on the halter and led him out of the stall.
The thoroughbred colt stood over sixteen hands, was positively bursting with energy, and threatening to bolt after being cooped up for so long. Joe wrestled with him, got him down the ramp in one piece and held tightly to the cheek-strap and leading rein as the animal snorted and stamped.
‘I hope you’re not expecting my horses to travel in that.’ An imperious finger was pointed at the much-patched and welded horse float hitched to the back of the truck.
‘It might be old, but it’s up for the job, and as I’m not planning to ride your horses back to Galway House there really isn’t any alternative.’
‘Oh, yes, there is,’ Eliza said firmly. She turned on her heel and marched back into the hold. ‘Come on, Mr Reilly. We’re wasting time.’
Joe had had about enough of bossy Miss Frobisher already, and was tempted to tell her to take her blasted horses back to the mainland. With a sigh of exasperation he tied Starstruck firmly to the truck and patted his neck. ‘Looks like we’re both under orders, mate,’ he murmured. ‘I wouldn’t misbehave if I were you.’
Starstruck’s golden eyes regarded him knowingly as he tossed his head and bared his teeth in a horsy grin. Joe was still smiling as he went to see what alternative transport Miss Frobisher had in mind.
‘It’s a good thing I had the foresight to bring this,’ she said, as she pulled the tarpaulin off the float with a flourish.
Joe stared in admiration. Like its owner, the float was glossy and superior, and the only time he’d seen something similar was at Carrick races, and that had been owned by a Sydney man. He walked around it, appreciating the plump new tyres, the gleaming paint and the heavily padded lining that had been fixed to the inside to protect its cargo. It was wide enough for two horses and far outclassed his.
‘You’ll find it easy to manoeuvre. Turns on a sixpence.’ She folded her arms and glared as if daring him to argue.
He tugged his hat brim. ‘Better get it hitched up then.’ He grasped the tow bar, discovered the float was indeed light to handle, and soon had it firmly fixed to the truck. He assessed the arrangements, hoping the colt wouldn’t kick in the sides trying to reach the filly. ‘Will Starstruck play up if the filly rides with him?’
‘They’re both too young for that, and they’re used to travelling together.’
Starstruck seemed to have decided to behave and daintily tripped up the ramp and began pulling at the net of hay Eliza had put in as Joe tied the halter ropes to the conveniently placed rings. Bob returned with the skewbald, and the filly happily joined her stable companion for breakfast.
Joe eyed his battered old float and realised it looked even more dilapidated beside its shiny new rival. Perhaps Miss Frobisher had a point after all, and he should think of buying a newer one.
‘Are you going to tie ours on the back?’ Bob was already hunting for some rope.
‘No, he is not,’ said Eliza. ‘It will scratch the paint, rattle about and unsettle my horses. You’ll have to leave it here.’
‘Fair go, Miss Frobisher!’ spluttered Bob. ‘Some bludger might steal it.’
Her gaze was withering. ‘I doubt anyone would want that heap of junk.’
Joe could see Bob was set to argue and hastily interrupted. ‘I know the harbourmaster,’ he said quietly. ‘He’ll keep an eye on it until I can get back.’ He wrestled the heavy old float off the quay, parked it in the long grass by the harbourmaster’s house and went in to speak to him and collect the mail.
He returned to find Eliza leaning against the truck smoking a cigarette, an overnight case at her feet, while Bob stood with his back to her, hands in pockets, staring moodily at the men unloading the Rotomahana. Joe’s smile was wry as they clambered into the truck. At least Bob had been cured of love-sickness by a closer acquaintance with the glamourous, but tricky, Miss Frobisher. Perhaps now he could get a sensible word out of him.
The atmosphere in the truck was heated despite being winter, and Joe suspected it had more to do with the proximity of the fragrant Eliza than the weather. She was wedged between him and Bob, who was making a show of ignoring her by studying the view from the window that he’d seen a thousand times before – but Joe could tell that the boy was all too aware of the occasional brush of her arm or thigh as the truck bounced and rattled along.
The drive home took them down paved roads at first, but as they drew nearer to Galway House they had to negotiate the baked mud of the country tracks that bore the evidence of farm vehicles and mobs of sheep and cattle.
‘Doesn’t Tasmania have any decent roads?’
‘Not much point,’ Joe replied. ‘Up to a few years ago there were no cars on the island, and even now most people get about on horseback.’
‘God,’ she sighed, ‘how primitive.’
There was no point in arguing, so Joe concentrated on avoiding the potholes and ridges and sighed with relief as he finally turned in through the five-bar gate and headed for the stableyard.
Eliza’s critical eye
examined the two horses as they were led down the ramp, then inspected their stalls and pronounced them adequate before heading for the house with her bag.
Joe kept his mouth shut, turned the animals out into the homestead paddock to spell them after the long journey and leant on the railings to watch them. They were good looking, especially the Arab, which was firm in the bone and looked as if he could run like the wind.
‘I’ve given over the guest room to Eliza’ said Molly, who’d come to stand beside him. ‘She’s decided to stay for the rest of the week so she can make sure her horses are settled before she catches the boat on Friday.’
Joe grimaced. ‘She’s a spoilt brat – barely out of the nursery, and yet she’s the rudest, bossiest female I’ve ever had the bad luck to meet. She’s already upset Bob by treating him like an idiot, and now she’s got me thinking I need a new float. Bloody girl’s a menace.’
Molly patted his arm. ‘Never mind, son. You’ll get over it.’
He was about to protest when he caught the twinkle in her eye and burst out laughing. ‘Fair go, Ma, but you’ve got to admit she’s a handful.’
‘Too right she is, but she can afford to be.’ Molly eyed the grazing horses. ‘Nice-looking animals though,’ she said. ‘Concentrate on them instead of letting her get under your skin. After all, Joe, it’s what her dad’s paying you for.’
*
The next six days went surprisingly well, despite his misgivings. With so many horses in the yard, he’d bent the rules and allowed the girl to help out. Eliza was up and ready to work as the sun rose, her clothes practical, her face bare of make-up to reveal freckles across her nose. She never once mentioned the scars on Joe’s face or stared at them as she’d done before, and she proved to be an excellent horsewoman when she joined him and Bob for the morning and evening ride-outs.
Joe got used to her following him around the yard as she asked endless questions, and he was impressed by the intelligent way she discussed his training programme for her young horses. He discovered that despite her often brusque manner she could be quite charming when she made the effort, and as the days had gone on, she’d even managed to bewitch Bob into running errands for her.
Yet it was with a relieved sigh that Joe waved her off on the Rotomahana early that Friday morning, and he hoped it would be a long time before she returned.
As he collected the post from the harbourmaster and hooked up his battered old float to the truck, he had to smile. Eliza Frobisher was a pain in the rear end, and spoilt rotten, but she and her father knew good horseflesh when they saw it. Moonbeam was a natural over the sticks, her character as sturdy as her muscled hindquarters, and he was looking forward to seeing how she did in the next point-to-point.
Starstruck had a rare quality. His heart was as big as his personality and he’d fulfilled the promise of speed and enthusiasm for competing during the ride-outs each day. If luck held and things went to plan, Galway House might have a Melbourne Cup winner in the Arab – and that was worth putting up with a dozen Eliza Frobishers.
He sat in the utility and sifted through the mail. There were the usual catalogues and programmes from the various racing committees, a couple of letters for his mother and three cheques from the owners down in Hobart. He had set them aside and was about to leave when the harbourmaster tapped on the window.
‘Sorry, Joe. This came too. I hope it’s not bad news.’
He eyed the brown envelope – the symbol of bad news throughout the war – the dreaded telegram no one wanted to receive – and tore it open.
Ownership confirmed. Arriving Tasmania 14th October Rotomahana. Please meet. Pearson.
‘You all right, mate?’
Joe stared at the ruddy-faced retired sea captain and shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got rid of one bossy female, now it looks as if I’m about to get another.’
‘I should be so lucky, mate,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Bossy or not, I could do with some female company.’
Joe laughed. ‘Tell you what, mate – if this one turns out as tricky as the last, I’ll drop her off at your place and let you deal with her.’
His thoughts raced as he began the long journey home. Miss Pearson obviously had money, probably talked as if she had a plum in her mouth, and was no doubt a spinster of a certain age who brooked no argument. He thought about the middle-aged Pommy women who’d come to visit the Allied wounded at the Sussex hospital where he’d recuperated. They were definitely a breed apart – redoubtable, and rigidly trussed in sensible suits and shoes. They had meant well, and were very kind with their gifts of home-made jam, cakes and knitted socks, but he’d had to struggle through a minefield of strangled vowels to understand a word they said. He suspected Miss Pearson would prove to be from the same mould, and if so, he was in for a rough few weeks.
The Port of London
‘I hope I’ve remembered everything,’ said Dolly, as she slipped the lightweight coat from her shoulders.
Excitement fluttered in Lulu’s stomach, and it seemed she’d been smiling ever since she’d got out of bed this morning. ‘Including the kitchen sink, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she replied. ‘You’ve brought enough clothes to last a year.’
She thought of her single trunk and suitcase, then glanced at the taxi behind them. Dolly’s two trunks were strapped to the roof, her suitcases piled inside, which meant Freddy and Bertie had had to hire a third cab and follow in convoy.
‘One can’t be sure of what one will need,’ explained Dolly, lighting a cigarette and filling the taxi with smoke. ‘I mean, darling, what on earth does one wear in Tasmania?’
Lulu opened the window so she could breathe. ‘Country clothes, I would guess,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s been so long since I was there, and I never really noticed.’ She eyed her friend’s scarlet dress and cloche hat, the fine calf gloves and shoes and the slender legs encased in silk stockings. She might not remember much, but she had a sneaking suspicion Dolly would be overdressed for Tasmania.
She ran her fingers over her own new dress and admired the way the silky blue fabric fell over her knees. The matching coat she’d folded on the seat beside her was draped from the shoulders so that it swung when she walked, and her high-heeled shoes looked very smart with their T-bar straps. There was a newfound sense of freedom in Lulu that was quite heady and, as the taxi drew to a halt in front of a vast shed that had ‘Departures’ written on it, she grinned at Dolly. ‘Are you as excited as me?’
Dolly took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course, darling. This is going to be an absolute hoot, and I can hardly wait to get on board.’
‘Have you seen or heard from you know who?’
Dolly grimaced. ‘I bumped into him in Harrods. Quite ghastly, because I was with Freddy.’
‘What happened?’
‘Thankfully Freddy didn’t spill the beans about Australia, and we were all frightfully polite to one another and I managed not to shudder every time he stared at me.’ She smoked her cigarette and frowned. ‘I’m just so relieved I’m leaving. I don’t know how much longer I could have managed to avoid him. Hopefully, by the time we get back he’ll have forgotten all about me.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ agreed Lulu as the taxi came to a halt. As they clambered out, she was transfixed by the scene before her.
The dockyards stretched in every direction and were teaming with life. Great ships were being unloaded by what appeared to be hundreds of stevedores, their shouts mingling with the raucous screech of gulls and the rattle and tramp of horses, wagons and trolleys moving over the cobbles. Sailors were busy swabbing decks and tidying ropes, or leaning idly on railings as they smoked and conversed with their counterparts on nearby vessels. Little boats scuttled busily between the ships as they delivered their cargoes and ferried passengers, and enormous cranes rose against the smoke-laden sky as they deposited tons of coal into the ships’ holds.
‘Come on, darling, the men will organise the luggage and pay the t
axis while we find where to book in. Give me your passport.’
Lulu dragged her attention from the bustling scene, handed Dolly her passport and followed her into the cavernous departure shed. She didn’t quite know what to expect, but it wasn’t this endless queue that seemed to meander back and forth like a shuffling serpent towards a line of tables.
‘This way,’ said Dolly, confidently striding towards the end of the shed where a solitary table was manned by a young man in uniform whites. The placard on his table read ‘First Class Passengers.’
‘We aren’t travelling first class,’ hissed Lulu, tugging on her arm.
Dolly grinned and waved the tickets. ‘I thought we deserved a treat.’ She must have seen Lulu’s stricken expression, for she hurried on. ‘It’s on me, darling, don’t fret.’
‘But I can’t …’
‘Done and dusted,’ said Dolly, handing over the tickets and passports to the young officer with a coquettish smile.
‘Dolly,’ she muttered crossly, ‘you can’t do this. I’m not a poor relation. If I’d wanted to travel first class I’m perfectly capable of paying for myself.’
‘Don’t be stuffy, darling. Think of it as an early Christmas present.’
Lulu simmered. That was typical of Dolly, generous to a fault, but totally unaware of how demeaning that almost careless generosity could be. She would find a way of paying her for those tickets.
‘There you are,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack in here.’ His glanced at the placard and frowned. ‘I didn’t know you were going first class.’
‘Neither did I,’ replied Lulu drily.
‘I decided we couldn’t possibly travel steerage,’ Dolly interrupted. ‘Too ghastly for words. Where’s Freddy?’
‘Here I am, old thing.’ Freddy pushed through the scrum. ‘I thought you’d gone without saying goodbye.’
‘Darling Freddy, as if I would.’ Dolly kissed his cheek and gently tugged his moustache. ‘Silly boy.’
Ocean Child Page 9