Wife to Order: An Australian Outback Romance

by Lucy Walker

  On the dressing-table his two hair brushes and a comb stood on a square glass tray. On the walls were some photographs of rowing eights, souvenirs of Oliver’s school days. Otherwise the room was bare of any ornament.

  What could she take and put in her own room to give that masculine touch?

  Then her eyes went down to the base of the chest of drawers and there, heels just protruding, stood Oliver’s house-shoes. Carey darted across the room, picked up the shoes and went back to the door. She looked up the long passage and across the wide hall to make sure Hannah was not in sight and then she sped down to her own room. She did not wait to shut the door but put Oliver’s shoes under the bed that stood nearest the window, their heels just showing. She put her own slippers, which generally were hidden in a cupboard, under her own bed. She went back to Oliver’s room, took a shirt from a drawer and brought it back and put it over the back of a chair as if ready for him to don.

  ‘There … Jane Newbold,’ she said. She tossed a lock of hair back from her eyes and went to the dressing-table to readjust her make-up. She must have her hair neat, her lips made up … and that was all. Her dress straight …

  In the mirror of the dressing-table she could see the two beds, her own slippers under one bed and Oliver’s house-shoes under the other, the shirt over the chair back.

  It was a shoddy little deception, but she was going through with it. She would have to go through with it. When the glorious red-headed Jane came up with Oliver she, Carey, could hold her head up like any very truly married wife.

  Carey went back to the salad making and then to help Tony over any stumbling blocks with his lessons.

  Twelve o’clock came and Tony’s lessons were over; the telephone had not rung and Oliver had not appeared with Jane.

  Carey could not bring herself to go on spying through the binoculars. Hitherto they had been a means of being with Oliver. Now they would be in the same category as an information bureau.

  It was Tony who vouchsafed the next news bulletin. He had taken down the binoculars and planted himself in Carey’s chair, his elbows on the balustrade, the glasses to his eyes.

  ‘Tim Wackett’s got two horses in the saddling paddock, Carey. What you bet those are the two horses for me and you? He told me yesterday Mr. Oliver had picked a brown gelding for you and I’m to have a grey one he can’t sell for a decent price because he won’t jump and he shies at motor-cars.’

  ‘Oh …’ said Carey, wishing that her voice wouldn’t sound strained in her own ears. ‘Are you sure they’re the ones? I mean if the grey one shies at motor-cars, it would be playing up with that big car down by the gate, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘The car’s not there now. It’s gone,’ said Tony.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Mr. Oliver’s gone, too. Maybe he’s gone over the hills to look at the cattle. Or maybe he’s taken the lady to look at something out in the horse paddock.’

  ‘Yes … maybe,’ said Carey. ‘Tony dear, put those binoculars up now, will you? If Oliver comes in and catches you with them he’ll get mad. You know that.’

  ‘Aw … he won’t come in. He doesn’t ever come up for lunch, Carey.’

  ‘All the same put them up, will you, Tony. Maybe this afternoon after lunch we’ll go down and look at those horses.’

  ‘Why can’t we go now? There’s time, isn’t there?’

  ‘No … there’s not time. Besides, if they are for us I think it would be polite to wait for Oliver to give them to us … ceremoniously, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘He’ll forget,’ said Tony peevishly as he hung up the glasses. ‘He forgets all about you and me.’

  Yes, thought Carey sadly, I sometimes think that myself.

  Lunch-time came and went and there was no sign of Oliver or his visitor.

  ‘Must have been just another buyer,’ Cook said to Carey. ‘You don’t want to take notice of the comings and goings down there at the stables, Miss Carey. Half the people what calls there Mr. Oliver wouldn’t invite up to the homestead anyway.’

  Half-way through the afternoon the telephone went at long last. Carey tried not to fly to it.

  It wasn’t Oliver, it was Millicent on a long distance call from Melbourne. She was coming out to Two Creeks and would get there late to-morrow afternoon. Was there anything Carey or Oliver wanted brought out from Melbourne? Was there anything they needed in the homestead?

  ‘A little love,’ Carey thought, but of course could not say that to Millicent.

  ‘Yes please, Millicent,’ Carey said. ‘Would you call in at the big bookshop on the corner of Little Collins Street and collect the order for Tony. It would save waiting for the delivery. Are you bringing Mrs. Reddin?’

  No, Mrs. Reddin was spending some days on the south coast with a cousin. Hence Millicent’s freedom. She said ‘freedom’ as if it was something of which Mrs. Reddin had deprived her by continuing to exist into elderly infirmity. Carey privately thought it was Mrs. Reddin who would be enjoying freedom.

  She put back the telephone receiver on its cradle. Now, she thought, will begin the real test of my wifehood. Do I … or do I not … manage Millicent.

  And there had not been a word about ‘dear Jane’.

  Carey was too kind to think that Millicent and Jane might have wangled it to meet at Two Creeks but she expected it might happen.

  The important question now was … did she tell Cook to prepare ‘something special’ for dinner, in case Oliver brought Jane in then? Where, she wondered, would they have gone together? Somewhere in the car, of course, because the car had gone from the drive near the stables. She decided against special preparation. If Oliver did not announce Jane’s presence he wouldn’t expect dinner to be any different from usual.

  All the afternoon it worried Carey and all the afternoon she tried to put the worry from her mind. Tony had ended up by going down to the paddock to see if he could glean news about the two horses himself, and he had not returned.

  Carey, now with the excuse of Millicent’s imminent arrival, was able to go about the business of dusting and preparing the second guest room. If Jane came up she could go in there after all.

  But Carey forgot to return Oliver’s house-shoes and shirt to their rightful places.

  Nightfall came and Carey, brushing her hair by her open window, heard Oliver’s horse coming up the rise to the home stable. There was no accompanying hum of a motor-car. Carey’s spirits rose. Perhaps Jane had gone away … wasn’t coming after all. Dear God, she would be thankful for that. She was not very afraid of Millicent … but she was very afraid of Jane. And very, very afraid of the combination of the two of them.

  She heard Oliver coming into the house, and presently the sounds of his going from his room to the bathroom. There was the faint buzz of his electric shaver, then the sound of water pouring from the shower.

  Carey went downstairs and into the dining-room and sat down in a chair by the window. Oliver had brought the mail in and put it in a pile on the end of the long dining-table. Carey took her pile of letters. They were all from Wybong including one from Uncle Tam.

  Uncle Tam’s letter did not amuse her because it was full of advice about how to handle Oliver, and how to run her farm when Oliver had fixed it up for her. The other letters made her eyes smart with homesickness for they were from all the odd people like the yardman at the station, the woman from the drapery shop; one signed at the bottom by three stockmen from Cartheroo station; and one from the matron at the district hospital; another from the cook at the same institution.

  They were all full of love and kindness and good wishes for her marriage.

  ‘Goodness, I didn’t know so many people were interested in me,’ she thought. She was astonished to read their testimony to the love they felt for her. ‘Goodness!’ she kept saying. ‘Imagine them writing to me …’

  For two weeks now these letters had been pouring into Two Creeks and the only thing Carey could think of saying to express her astonishment that there was
so much feeling for her in the world was … ‘Goodness!’

  Carey felt too embarrassed to show them to Oliver. Besides, he didn’t like her mentioning Wybong. He would probably have laughed at Wybong, as well as at herself. So she put the letters away, and said nothing.

  When Oliver came into the dining-room she had just finished reading the last one and she put it with the others in her pocket.

  For some reason Oliver had put on a dark suit to-night. In the shaded light from the wall brackets it made him look remote and shadowy but very distinguished. His hair was shining and brushed down hard against his head, showing what a very well-shaped head he had. The edges of his teeth shone in his sun-bronzed face.

  ‘Are we ready for dinner?’ he asked. ‘I see you have taken your mail.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Carey. ‘I’ll tell Hannah …’

  ‘It’s all right. I will.’ He went to the door again. ‘We’re ready, Hannah, when you are. And you might bring in a bottle of Sauterne. I think there’s one in the fridge.’

  He came back to the dining-room table and held Carey’s chair while she sat down. He then went to his own place, sat down and took his napkin from its ring.

  ‘Tony bedded down for the night?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Mrs. Wackett still prefers him to sleep there, but I would like him to come up to the homestead. Do you think we could turn that back box-room into a room for Tony, Oliver?’

  Oliver frowned.

  ‘Time enough when we see how he settles down to lessons and some kind of orderly routine. We can’t begin a thing we may not want to go on with. It’s easy enough to bring him up here, but would be hard to change our minds and send him packing.’

  Carey spread her napkin delicately on her lap.

  ‘I don’t think I would ever send Tony packing,’ she said.

  ‘No, but I would,’ said Oliver. ‘If he doesn’t measure up. Oh, thank you, Hannah. Just leave the bottle on the tray. We’ll have it after our soup.’

  Hannah had brought in the bottle of white wine on a silver tray and she now left it on the table near Oliver’s left hand.

  ‘Any news of the homestead to-day, Hannah?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Mr. Oliver. Only that Miss Millicent’s coming to-morrow. I expect Miss Carey’s told you about that.’

  ‘I haven’t had time yet,’ said Carey. She looked at Oliver. ‘Millicent rang up from Melbourne this afternoon …’

  Oliver looked thoughtful. Then the edge of a sardonic smile showed on his lips.

  ‘We’d better drink to that,’ he said. ‘I was wondering what kind of an excuse I could find for having a bottle of Sauterne.’

  ‘I wondered if you had a special reason. Has something pleasant or unusual happened, Oliver?’

  ‘No. I just felt like Sauterne to-night.’ He fell silent as Hannah put the soup before them.

  He hadn’t mentioned Jane. In a minute he would tell her, of course, that Jane had been on Two Creeks. Perhaps she had only called in, or brought a message. In a minute Oliver would mention it.

  The soup was finished. Oliver carved the roast beef and they ate it in comparative silence. While waiting for it they had drunk their wine in the same silence. With the dessert Carey spoke.

  ‘It might be nice having Millicent. We don’t have many visitors to the homestead, do we?’

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she felt guilty of probing. Deep in her heart she knew she was giving Oliver a lead to tell her Jane had called to-day. She didn’t want to hear about Jane, only that Jane’s presence was not a cause for reticence on Oliver’s part. Yet she hated herself for doing it. She longed to be honest and open. She longed to be able to say … ‘I saw Jane’s big car through the binoculars. I saw you down at the stables as yesterday I saw you riding out over the bullock paddock … and I saw you bringing those bulls in from the creek scrub … and I saw you watching the trainers pacing the racers on the tracks …’

  Yet she could bring herself to say none of these things. It would be like exposing herself and her inner loneliness to him. And not for all the world would she let him know his every action had some kind of secret charm and interest for her.

  ‘If the visit passes with you managing Millicent and not Millicent managing you, it might be a good idea,’ Oliver said. He looked at Carey thoughtfully. ‘I am afraid you have a family now, Carey. You might as well get to know the members of it properly.’

  Carey thought of the letters in her pocket and the others in the bottom of her glove drawer. She had a family … a very big one … but she could not tell Oliver about it because the subject of Wybong was forbidden. And he, of course, would never understand how a girl of eighteen could have a whole town full of family, not one of which, except Uncle Tam, was related by blood ties.

  No, Oliver Reddin would never understand that.

  And he still remained silent on the subject of Jane.

  Carey began to think now that he was not going to tell her of his visitor at all. As the meal progressed her spirits sank lower and it was hard for her to keep smiling as if this was just an ordinary day. Hannah had said that Carey always smiled. So she mustn’t stop on the day of Jane’s visit.

  If only he would tell her. It was the silence on the subject of Jane that mattered … not Jane’s presence. Jane calling in might mean nothing but Jane hidden from Carey’s sight might matter very much.

  The meal finished. Oliver stood up.

  ‘I think we’ll have coffee in the drawing-room to-night,’ he said unexpectedly. Then added quickly, as an afterthought, ‘We might as well practise in readiness for Millicent. Everything is done by the book where Millicent is concerned.’ He went to the door and stood aside for Carey to go through.

  ‘I’ll tell Hannah,’ Carey said and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen pantry.

  Why the Sauterne for dinner? Why Oliver’s dark suit and that groomed appearance? Why coffee in the drawing-room? Was he celebrating something, if only just a mood? And what would put him in a mood different to-night from other nights?

  ‘Coffee in the drawing-room, Hannah, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘And would you pour Mr. Oliver’s? I’ll be back presently.’ She went out on to the veranda and stood, her cheek leaning against a veranda post. She closed her eyes to shut out the great vista of limitless starry sky and the endless shadow of the paddocks that stretched away as far as human eye could see in the glorious streaming moonlight.

  ‘If only he’d told me she was here,’ she thought. ‘If only he’d told me.’

  She could not bring herself to go into the drawing-room. She walked the length of the veranda and then down the steps and across the lawn. She bent down to climb through the fence and walked on across the track, across the fallow paddock, towards the wire fence that was the boundary between Two Creeks and her own farm.

  At the fence she stood leaning against a post and looking over the waste of bracken-ridden furrows.

  ‘I must have something to live for,’ she thought. ‘I must have something to live and work for. It will be this … my farm. When Harry comes it will be different. I know how Harry works. Day by day the fences will be put in order, day by day that bracken will be pushed back and back into the bush. And I’ll have Harry to talk to …’

  There was a lump in her throat as she saw herself and Harry Martin working, side by side, bringing beauty and order again to that stretch of country. Making the earth to flower again.

  ‘Oh, Harry, why don’t you come?’ her heart cried. ‘Why don’t you come and help me?’

  It was indeed a cry from the heart for Carey wanted Harry to help her even as much as she wanted him to help her farm. And she knew that when he came, that is just what he would do. Harry had dried her tears before this.

  She turned and went back to the homestead. The house was a blaze of lights, and even as she went up the steps on to the veranda she could see Hannah’s figure hurrying through the hall. Carey went in through the side door. The li
ghts were on in Oliver’s study … in the passage … in the hall … in the bathroom. In his bedroom.

  ‘What is the matter, Hannah?’ she asked. ‘Is the place on fire?’

  ‘No. It’s Mr. Oliver’s house-shoes. If there’s one thing Mr. Oliver can’t stand it’s not putting his shoes back in their right place. If I leave them around the floor there’s the dickens to pay. But I’m certain they were right there in his room this morning. Where they always are …’

  Carey’s hand went to her mouth.

  ‘Yes, they were, Hannah …’ she said. ‘I ‒ I took them …’

  How could she get to her own room and get them without Hannah or Oliver seeing where she had put them. Under that other bed.

  ‘I took them. Now let me think … Where did I put them?’

  She stood, her hand to her forehead, her face flushed with the dilemma of her deceit.

  How does one go through life always telling the truth, she wondered? I couldn’t possibly tell them why I took those shoes.

  Oliver had gone into his room and changed from his dark suit into an older pair of trousers and a reefer jacket. This, with his house-shoes, was a favourite form of dress when he was going to work late at night in his study. He heard Carey speaking to Hannah in the passage and he came to the door.

  ‘What goes on?’ he demanded. ‘Have you found my shoes yet, Hannah?’

  ‘Well … er … no, Mr. Oliver. You see …’

  ‘I took them,’ said Carey. ‘I can’t ‒ I can’t quite think where I put them.’

  ‘You took them?’ said Oliver. ‘What on earth did you take my shoes for? Where did you have them?’

  ‘Would you go and look on the veranda? Or in that storeroom, Hannah? I might have had them there with Tony.’

  ‘With Tony?’ demanded Oliver. ‘What is Tony doing with my possessions? I’ve said before he is not to come wandering in and out the rooms of the homestead. Specially my rooms.’

  ‘It wasn’t Tony. It was me,’ said Carey.

  ‘Now you’re protecting him, of course.’

  ‘No. I was just playing with him. You know … ‘Big Shoes, Little Shoes’ … a game we played when we were children. If you’ll just go into your study and wait, Oliver, I’ll bring them to you.’