The Dreaming

by Barbara Wood

  "It's because of her," Reed said, jerking his head toward the barmaid who was pouring whiskeys at the other end of the bar. "Started working here six weeks ago. Old Joe Finnegan's been doing a brisk business ever since."

  Frank studied her, a mildly attractive woman in her late thirties, not slender, in a rather plain dress that clearly wasn't designed to excite the male imagination. When she handed over the drinks and took the customers' money, Frank saw none of the usual barmaid flirtation; in fact, from what Frank could see, there didn't appear to be anything striking or unusual about her.

  "She's the reason for the crowd?" Frank asked.

  "Her name's Ivy Dearborn," Reed said. "She draws people."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When she isn't serving, she does sketches. See that pad and pencil by the cash register? Watch. Pretty soon she'll pick it up and make a drawing of one of the patrons."

  "And they pay her?"

  "Oh no, she doesn't do it for money, and you can't ask her to do your picture. It's her choice. And you never know who she's going to do, or what kind of a picture it'll be. She does caricatures, sometimes not very flattering ones. She says she draws people as she sees them. You should see how she did me! A fat, lazy-looking koala bear!"

  Frank laughed. "So she draws the truth, eh John?"

  "Don't speak too soon, my friend. She's been doing you."

  "Me!"

  "I noticed she's had her eye on you ever since you came in."

  Frank had been aware of very little beyond the whiskey before him. The expedition was on his mind, the possibility of its fate, and then there was the news he had to tell Pauline. And finally he couldn't stop thinking about running into Hugh Westbrook, in Melbourne, and meeting that girl Hugh said was going to help him take care of the boy. The young woman had asked Frank about a deed that she thought had titled her grandparents with land thirty-seven years ago. Although he had been unable to tell her if the deed was still valid, she had piqued Frank's interest. He was always looking for a good story to spice up his newspaper, and so he was wondering now if there was a story in that girl and her old document.

  "Go on," Reed said. "Ask Ivy to show you the picture she did of you. Aren't you curious to know how she sees you?"

  Frank could already guess how she would draw him; he had no illusions about himself. He knew what he looked like: short, with a receding hairline, and a face that women rarely glanced at twice. Once before, when he was younger, he had had a caricature done of himself at a carnival, and the artist had depicted him as a strutting cockatoo with a cigar in its beak.

  Reed went on: "She's single, has a room at Mary Smith's boarding-house, and although every man in the place has asked her out, she won't go. I asked Finnegan if he was having her on the quiet, and he swears not. Their relationship is strictly business, he says. I can't imagine who she's saving herself for!"

  Frank watched as the woman went to work on the sketch pad, her pencil flying. Her look was one of complete concentration, with none of the coyness that meant she was hoping for a tip. She seemed to be absorbed in the drawing.

  Finally she finished and handed the sketch across the bar to Paddy Malloy, the man she had drawn. Everyone gathered around to see, and suddenly, there was shouting: "Look what you've done to me! This is an insult! An outrage!"

  "Good Lord," John Reed said. "What do you suppose she's done with the poor old fellow?"

  Frank and John went to join the circle that had gathered around the irate Irishman. "I won't stand for this!" he was shouting.

  Frank looked over the man's shoulder and saw that the barmaid had done a drawing of a tall bird, a crane, wearing a bowler hat and a monocle in one eye. The bird strongly resembled Malloy.

  "Aw, go on, Paddy," one of his friends said. "She didn't mean anything by it."

  "I want her fired!" cried the Irishman. "I want this woman out of here this instant!"

  "Now now, Mr. Malloy," Finnegan said as he came up, drying his hands on his apron. "I'm sure Miss Dearborn intended no harm. It's all in good fun."

  "So help me, Finnegan, if you don't fire this—"

  "Calm down, Malloy," Frank said. "Where's your sense of humor? You have to admit there's a resemblance."

  "Oh you think so, do you? Let's see how you like it when the shoe is on your foot." He picked up a pile of papers from the bar and started to go through them. "I'm sure I saw her doing one of you," he murmured. "She's been doing all of us."

  Frank looked at the barmaid, who appeared to be neither amused nor upset over the situation, and then he found himself wondering how she kept all that beautiful red hair piled so neatly on top of her head without having it come tumbling down. Her eyes met his, and Frank felt his cheeks grow hot. He suddenly didn't want to see the sketch she had done of him. "Let it go, Malloy," he said, and he started to turn away.

  But John Reed, laughing, said, "Come now, Frank, be a sport. Let's see what the lady sees in you."

  Someone at the back of the pub made a wisecrack, and everyone laughed. Then a somber Scotsman named Angus McCloud said from his solitary place at the other end of the bar, "The lass probably only needed a half a sheet of paper to draw you, Downs!"

  Finally Malloy said, "Here we go!" and in the next instant his face fell.

  Frank didn't want to look, but when he saw Malloy's expression, and noticed how the others, too, fell silent, he took the sketch and stared at it.

  "Crikey, Downs," someone said. "That would look like you—if wishes came true."

  Frank had never seen such a flattering likeness of himself. It was his face, and yet it was not. Ivy had captured his eyes perfectly, but she had worked some sort of subtle magic on the hair and chin. Why, Frank couldn't help thinking, he was almost handsome!

  He looked up at Ivy, who was busy wiping down the counter, and then back at the sketch. Suddenly aware of the silence in the pub, Frank cleared his throat and said, "I don't see what you're all upset about, Malloy. The lady is clearly very talented."

  Malloy threw down his sketch, and went back to his drink, and the other men drifted back to their tables, their places at the bar, their conversations. When Frank picked up his whiskey, John Reed nudged him and said, "I take it she's picked you."

  But Frank didn't know what to think. He sipped his drink and tried to concentrate on what he should he do next, if anything. First of all there was Pauline, and the news he dreaded having to tell her, about seeing Westbrook, and the pretty nursemaid Westbrook was bringing home; and about the boy, Adam; and how, in a few days, all the tongues in the western district were going to be wagging about all this. And then he tried to think about the expedition and whether or not he should consider sending a rescue party after them.

  But in the end his thoughts returned to Ivy Dearborn and what she could mean by that flattering sketch she had made of him.

  "Miss Downs?" Elsie said, coming into the bathroom. "Excuse me, but Mr. Downs is here."

  Pauline reached for her dressing gown. "Thank you, Elsie. Tell him I shall be right out."

  Frank looked around his sister's room as he poured himself a drink. It looked as if a lady's trunk had exploded.

  There were clothes everywhere—gowns and dresses draped over chairs and sofa, frilly and lacy objects scattered all over the Turkish carpet, feminine ribbony things hanging everywhere. It was her trousseau, he knew, for her honeymoon with Westbrook. The bill from the dressmaker was going to be fantastic, but Frank decided that if it made Pauline happy, he wouldn't say anything about it.

  When Pauline emerged from the bathroom, Frank smelled her before he saw her; fragrance and hot steam preceded his sister's entrance. And then when he saw her he thought as he always thought, my God, but she's beautiful. But that was because Frank had a weakness for tall women. Like that barmaid at Finnegan's, whose actions he was still turning over in his mind.

  "Frank, darling," Pauline said, gliding toward him and kissing him on the cheek. "I hope you have good news for me."

 
That Pauline was going to marry Hugh Westbrook made Frank very glad, among other reasons because she would be the one wife in all of Victoria who could be certain that her husband was faithful to her. Hugh Westbrook was no womanizer; he was known, in fact, for having only one great passion in his life—Merinda.

  "It took some diplomacy and the promise of the best orchestra Melbourne has to offer," Frank said, "plus an outrageous fee. But your wish has been granted.

  The letter finally arrived from London—Dame Lydia has agreed to sing at your wedding."

  "Oh Frank! Thank you!" Pauline said, hugging him. "Now everything will be perfect. How on earth am I going to wait six months!"

  Frank laughed and shook his head. Pauline was going to have no trouble occupying her time until the day of the wedding. The Melbourne Cup race was coming up, which meant the Governor's Ball and lots of parties and several hunts, immediately after which came Christmas and the annual ball the Ormsbys gave at Strathfield, which always demanded every minute of Pauline's time. And then there was the New Year's midnight masquerade Colin and Christina MacGregor gave at Kilmarnock, which was usually followed by summer picnics and excursions to the sea.

  Pauline went to her dresser and began to comb out her hair. "I invited the MacGregors to dinner tonight, Frank. I hope you'll join us instead of hurrying off to your men's club."

  "I thought you didn't like the MacGregors."

  "I don't. But they have the station next to Merinda, and they will be my neighbors, so I thought I had best start cultivating their friendship.

  "Speaking of Merinda, Pauline," Frank said. "I ran into Hugh as I was leaving Melbourne."

  Pauline turned and looked at him. He noticed how just the mention of Hugh brought color to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. "Oh Frank! Tell me he's on his way home!"

  Frank envied Westbrook; he doubted that the mention of his own name had ever affected a woman so. He found himself thinking of that flattering portrait; why had she done it, when she had done comical ones of everyone else? He had tried to talk to her before he left Finnegan's, but she had been busy serving a demanding crowd, and Frank had known that Pauline was waiting for him. "Yes, Pauline," he said. "Hugh is on his way home."

  "Then he should be back tomorrow. I'll plan a picnic—"

  "He probably won't be here for another two or three days, I was traveling alone on horseback, but Hugh is coming in a wagon. And with the child."

  "Oh," she said. "So the boy did come."

  "Yes." Frank looked down at his drink. The child had seemed a little strange, Frank thought, and there had been a haunted look in his eyes. "There's something else."

  She looked at him. "What?"

  "There was a woman in the wagon, too."

  "A woman?"

  "Yes. Hugh hired a sort of nanny off one of the immigrant ships. To care for the boy."

  Pauline stared at her brother. One of the reasons Hugh had given for insisting on a long engagement was that Merinda was unfit for a woman in its present state; he had said he wanted time to make it suitable for Pauline. But now he was taking another woman to live there!

  After a moment of jealousy, Pauline reminded herself of the immigrant women she had seen, and how many of them were grateful just to have a roof over their heads, no matter how crude that roof might be.

  "I know what you're thinking, my dear," Frank said. "But you only have yourself to blame. If you had offered to take care of the child yourself, Westbrook wouldn't have been forced to hire a nanny."

  "You're right, of course. And anyway, this might be a blessing. After all, we'll have someone to look after the boy when we go on our honeymoon. Remind me, what is the child's name?"

  "Adam," Frank said, turning to the liquor tray to refill his glass.

  As Pauline watched her brother, she realized he seemed preoccupied with his whiskey; he was avoiding looking at her.

  "Frank," she said. "What is it?"

  "What is what?"

  "Frank, I can read you like one of your own newspapers. There's something more. What is it?"

  "Well," he said, turning and looking at her. "You're going to hear about it sooner or later, so I'd rather it came from me. The nanny—she's young."

  "Young? How young?"

  "Oh, you know, I'm not good at judging ages."

  "How young, Frank?"

  He shrugged. "Well, not quite twenty, I'd say."

  "So she's a girl?"

  "No, not a girl, Pauline. A young woman."

  "I see." Pauline carefully set her hairbrush on the dressing table. "What does she look like?"

  "Well, she's, ah, not quite what you might expect. I mean, she doesn't look like an immigrant girl. She's very well dressed, for one thing."

  "Go on."

  Frank took a sip. "And some people might say she was pretty."

  Silence descended over the gowns and laces and bolts of fabrics. "Some people," Pauline said. "What about you? Did you think she was pretty?"

  "Well yes," Frank said. "I suppose."

  "Would you even say she was beautiful?"

  When he didn't reply, Pauline said, "I see. What is her name?"

  "Joanna Drury."

  Joanna Drury, Pauline thought. Young and beautiful Joanna Drury. Traveling for days in a wagon, alone on the Melbourne Highway with Hugh.

  Pauline felt a cold chill run through her body.

  "Well then!" Frank said, putting down his glass. "I'm ready for a bath and a change of clothes. I hope you'll forgive me, my dear, but I'm not up to facing the MacGregors for dinner tonight. Colin is such a bore with his constant talk about his lineage, and all poor Christina ever does is sigh. Do you mind?"

  But his sister wasn't listening.

  "Anyway," Frank said as he walked to the door. "I'll be out for the evening. I told John Reed I'd meet him at Finnegan's ..."

  Pauline didn't even hear the door close behind him. She was staring at herself in the mirror, and she was thinking: Frank is right. This is all my fault. I am responsible for the fact that Hugh hired a nursemaid. Well, I can also be responsible for seeing that she leaves. I shall tell Hugh that I want the child to come and live with me at Lismore until the wedding. And that, therefore, he does not require the services of a nanny.

  THREE

  T

  HERE'S A PLACE UP AHEAD WHERE WE'LL STOP FOR THE night," Hugh said, as the wagon rolled along a road shaded by eucalyptus trees. "I hope you don't mind camping out. There aren't many inns along this road, so most people just set up camp."

  It was late afternoon, and Melbourne seemed very far behind them as they rode in the country silence past green fields and farmhouses and great flocks of sheep with newborn lambs. It was October, and the plains of Victoria were alive with spring. Hugh had filled the past few hours since leaving the city telling Adam about Merinda, the new home he was going to, a sheep station in the Western District of the colony.

  "Sheep are what is going to make these colonies great, Miss Drury," he said. "The world needs wool and mutton, and we can provide all that it can use. If we work together—the colonies, I mean. We need to find ways to make the Australian colonies the first in the world in wool production. And I have an idea of how to do it."

  Joanna noticed that Adam was starting to get sleepy; she was glad they were going to be stopping soon.

  "Only a small part of this continent is inhabited, Miss Drury," Hugh went on. "Just the coastlines. The rest, the interior, is too harsh, too defeating, so it's going to waste. I've been working on a plan to produce a new breed of sheep, one that can live in that kind of country. If I'm successful, then we can make use of that wasteland, and run millions of sheep on it."

  Joanna noticed that Hugh spoke slowly, with pauses between his sentences, his words measured. There was none of the hurry to get something said, the way Joanna had heard people speak at the social clubs on the military outposts in India. She thought of Hugh Westbrook as a man who had never had to compete for a chance to talk; he hadn't known crowds.
The pauses between his phrases reflected a life of solitude. "You sound very determined, Mr. Westbrook," she said.

  "I am."

  Adam suddenly sat up and pointed. There were people in the road directly ahead, some on horseback, some on foot. There was shouting, and fists were being waved.

  "What is it, Mr. Westbrook?" Joanna said. "What do you suppose is happening?"

  Hugh snapped the reins and when they drew up at the scene, they saw a man on horseback raising a whip and threatening to "beat the life out of the whole lot o' you!"

  Hugh got down from the wagon and called out, "Hoy there. What's the trouble?"

  Joanna realized that the men on horseback were white, while those on foot were black. Aborigines. They were poorly dressed, and she guessed that they were a family, for there was an elderly couple, some men and women, and a few children; they were carrying blankets and bundles on their backs.

  The man with the whip was saying to Hugh, "They tried to rob us! Flagged us down and asked for handouts, and while we weren't looking, had their kids try to steal from our packhorses!"

  "No, boss," said the eldest of the group, an old man with a white beard and eyes so deeply recessed beneath heavy brows that they could not be seen. "Not true," he said, shaking his head. "We don't rob, we don't steal."

  "I saw you, old man!" the one on horseback said. Then he turned to Hugh. "Gotta watch 'em every minute. Steal you blind, they will."

  As the arguing continued, Joanna felt the eyes of the Aboriginal women on her. They seemed to stare so intently that she became suddenly uneasy.

  Finally the men on horseback spurred their horses and rode off, while the Aborigine elder said to Hugh, "That one a liar, boss."

  "Maybe so," Hugh said. He looked at the family huddled close together, at their cast-off clothing, the children clinging to the women's dresses. "Do you have anything to sell today?" Hugh asked. "I could use some good baskets. Or maybe possum-skin blankets."