The Girl for Gillgong

by Amanda Doyle

  When their chairs finally scraped back, Kerry stood up too. Small shivers of apprehension chased up and down her limbs. Was this the end of the trial? Would he tell her, now, to leave? Watching the grim cast of his features, Kerry decided that it was more than probable.

  Hilary sidled from the room, and Andy reached for his felt hat—never far away, even in darkness—on the sideboard, and cleared his throat a little awkwardly.

  ‘ ’Night, Kerry. See you, Tad.’

  ‘Sure, Andy. Oh, and—Andy?’—the quiet voice held irony, resignation—‘open up the store in the morning and furnish Kerry with another hat, will you?’

  ‘Sure thing, Tad,’ the book-keeper nodded amiably as he left them there together.

  Kerry’s heart bounded right up to her throat with optimism. Another hat, he had said! Another hat! Surely he wouldn’t be telling Andy to give her another hat if he was intending to give her her notice? Would he?

  Kerry’s mobile mouth widened into a sudden, wonderful smile of unaccountable joy and warmth, and her eyes were big and soft with hope as she turned to Tad. Then the smile trembled a little at the corners and contracted all the way back to gravity again, because there was no smile beginning to spread over Tad’s face in answer.

  Instead, an odd expression touched the greeny depths of his eyes—an expression that Kerry just couldn’t fathom, except that he seemed all at once to be hesitant, uncertain, surprised, in that order. As he looked at her, the greeny depths seemed to turn even greener, even darker, till she felt that she was drowning in them. Then they looked away.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ Tad’s voice was careful, reserved, at odds with his drowny green eyes.

  Kerry obeyed.

  For an instant he placed a hand on her hot, dry forehead. His hand was wonderfully firm and cool.

  ‘Put out your tongue.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your tongue.’ Tad sounded weary, and the word came out in a tired drawl.

  ‘Oh.’ Kerry poked her tongue out at him. He gave it the merest glance, and left the dining-room. She could hear his heavy steps fading away in the direction of the kitchen, and then she heard them coming back. They were firm, measured steps, and Kerry felt that the sound of them was imprinted on her mind, so that she would never mistake them for anyone else’s steps after tonight.

  Tad had brought back an aluminum pint-measure, full of water. Into it he put a spoonful of salt, stirred it vigorously, then filled a glass, setting it in front of her.

  ‘O.K., Kerry,’ he grinned, taking the chair opposite. ‘Drink it up, will you.’

  Kerry’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

  ‘Drink that? All of it?’ Her tone was shrill with horror.

  ‘All of it,’ Tad ordered, at his most stern and implacable.

  ‘I’ll be sick,’ Kerry threatened.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he retorted evenly. ‘I’m not squeamish. In fact, I’ll be evens with Bob Merrit then, won’t I?’

  Indignant brown eyes locked with imperturbable green. The green never wavered.

  ‘Very well,’ said Kerry at last, with great dignity, ‘you don’t need to wait.’

  ‘I’ll wait, all the same,’ he assured her pleasantly, reaching for his tobacco and papers. He had obviously settled down there for a good long spell, possibly for the entire evening.

  ‘Tyrant!’ Kerry told him rebelliously, under her breath.

  ‘Monster! Brute!’ she added, in between swallows, silently.

  It wasn’t as salty as she had imagined, but there was such a lot of it. Three glasses, to be precise.

  ‘Later?’ she suggested, when the third glass was full and the aluminum measure empty.

  ‘Now.’

  Somehow Kerry managed to obey. After all, it could mean the difference between staying, and going, couldn’t it? And Kerry knew, in spite of the smarting in her burnt, swollen, pudding face, that she wanted to stay—more than anything!

  ‘Good girl.’ The words were almost a caress. Tad Brewster’s eyes were kind, too, as he came round and took away the glass and the measure. Somehow his gentleness unnerved her.

  Kerry scrambled to her feet.

  ‘If you think you’ve p-punished me enough, I’ll g-go to bed,’ she said hastily, breathlessly aware of his sudden, overpowering nearness, longing to escape.

  Tad’s hands came up, grasped her shoulders, and held her there, facing him.

  ‘You’ve got me wrong, Kerry,’ he told her, willing her to look at him, severe and impersonal once more. ‘Your own stupidity has punished you without me having to lend a hand. You’re definitely a sun burn case through utter carelessness. Sun-stroke is even more unpleasant, and prevention is better than cure. Dehydration is the immediate danger. You were headed that way, but a step-up of fluid intake can fob it off. Clear?’

  He seemed angry. Very angry indeed. Unreasonably angry, in fact.

  Kerry nodded, wishing he would let her go.

  ‘Very well, then. Drink as often as you happen to think of it, over the next twenty-four hours. Your skin is obviously badly burnt—you’ll peel for a dead cert—and you’ll naturally experience local pain and discomfort. If you develop any other symptoms beyond those, be sure to inform me. Clear?’

  She nodded once more.

  ‘Right, then, Kerry. You’d better get off to bed, as you say. Calomine is as good as anything—in the bathroom cupboard. Good night.’

  His hands released her. She was free to go.

  ‘Good night, Tad,’ she muttered, and scurried thankfully through the door.

  The calomine lotion was in his bathroom, not hers. Kerry went straight there and got it, so that she wouldn’t run into him again that night. It was a painful business, creaming off all that heavy make-up she had applied—for nothing, she mourned, since her attempted subterfuge had been an utter failure. So had the whole day been a failure—a miserable, horrible, unpleasant day, the sort you had to try to forget.

  It had been an unfortunate day for everyone—for herself most of all. But Skip hadn’t enjoyed it much, either. Neither had Hilary, really, because tonight she had looked guilty and woebegone and very unhappy with herself. Andy had been embarrassed and awkward, and probably disappointed that she had lost his hat, and he would have to open up the store again. And now Tad was angry with her all over again—properly angry, too! His eyes had been like tongues of green fire licking over her just now, as though she had annoyed him unbearably. She couldn’t think why he had flared up like that, when he had been so kind and gentle only a moment before.

  Ouch! Kerry scraped the last trace of make-up off her eyelids, which were swollen and unbelievably tender. Then she bathed her face with a cold, wet flannel, and dabbed on a generous covering of calomine lotion.

  The effect was grotesque. She looked like some strange, ghostly siren, in full blush, with her long, straight fair hair, pinky-white face and neck, hollow brown eyes. Kerry didn’t care much what she looked like by now. She didn’t care about anything except going to bed and trying to sleep, to forget the misery of her tight, burning skin and throbbing, dry forehead.

  When Kerry went from her room on to the verandah, she saw that Hilary was already in bed. Usually she needed a good deal of persuasion to stop whatever she happened to be doing when bedtime came round, but tonight she had actually got herself ready, unbidden. Perhaps it was a gesture of restitution. Then again, perhaps she was sulking, still guilty.

  Kerry toyed with the idea of asking her whether she had cleaned her teeth, and then decided that, just this once, it didn’t matter. There was something discouraging about Hilary’s back, humped under the sheet, and there was no movement of the little girl’s head on the pillow, either. Maybe she was already asleep. It was difficult to tell, in the thin beam of light from the dressing-room.

  Kerry switched off that light now, and felt her way on cautious bare feet back to her own stretcher.

  She was thankful to lie back at last, with her hands behind her head, staring up at the
dark, ribbed iron roof above her. Apart from the stinging rawness of her face, and the swollen tightness of her lids, she didn’t feel too bad. She had remembered, too, to drink another glass of water when she had brushed her teeth, and she was by now sure that little physical harm had come her way. The only lasting damage had been in the field of relationships—Hilary’s to her; hers to Tad.

  Thinking of Tad Brewster’s expression when she had left him made Kerry’s nerves go tight. For almost two weeks now he had seemed pleasantly indifferent, content to leave herself and Hilary to their own devices, questioning their progress, occasionally, with great politeness. It had been a peaceful, static arrangement, lulling Kerry into a false sense of her own security.

  Tonight Kerry had suddenly become aware of a subtle alteration in the status quo. Alone in the dining room there with Tad, a personal element had somehow encroached. His initial exasperation with her had changed, right there at the table, while she was swallowing her horrid, salty drink, to an expression of great kindness—a kindness directed to her, as a person. Then the kindness had changed just as quickly as it had come, to anger—and again it was a personal sort of anger, as though she and he had started up some sort of chain reaction that neither could control. Tad had controlled it, of course, whatever it was. He was that sort of man, wasn’t he? Reliable, dependable, always in command, always controlled—master of his own fate. Master of hers, too, come to that! Kerry felt as though she were walking a tightrope’s edge—and she realized, suddenly, that she had little or no experience of tightrope-walking. It was an unpleasantly alarming sensation!

  ‘Kerry?’

  The white-sheeted mound in the next bed had stirred. It moved, turned her way.

  ‘Kerry, are you awake?’ Hilary’s whisper was thin, strained.

  ‘Yes, dear—what is it?’

  ‘Oh, Kerry!’ The wire mattress groaned as Hilary flung her small form from it. She came catapulting over to Kerry’s bed, and buried her face into Kerry’s sunburned neck. ‘I’m sorry, Kerry,’ she wailed, ‘awful sorry! I never meant your hat to sink, honest, I didn’t. I never meant you to get all red and burnt up, either.’

  Two thin arms came up, and Kerry drew the trembling little body close.

  ‘I know you didn’t mean it, darling,’ she soothed. ‘It all happened so quickly, didn’t it? Of course you didn’t mean it—or to hurt Skip either—I knew that all along! Let’s forget about it, eh? Let’s be friends again, and pretend it never happened.’

  ‘Your face’ll keep reminding us.’ Hilary’s logic came to the fore even in her distress.

  ‘Not for long it won’t. It’ll all peel off, and I’ll grow a nice new skin like snakes do. You can put my calomine on for me, every time.’

  The child’s thin arms squeezed harder. It was good, really good, to feel them there—such warm, passionate, alive little arms!

  ‘Dad was awful angry, wasn’t he? I—I knew he would be. I was frightened, weren’t you?’ There was a pause. Then—‘Kerry? It was awful nice of you, not to tell.’

  ‘Awfully, Hilary, not awful.’

  ‘Awfully nice of you, Kerry. Kerry?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Kerry, I’m awfully glad you didn’t tell, an’ I’m awfully glad we’re friends again.’

  ‘Are you, darling? So am I!’

  ‘And—Kerry? Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, Hilary.’

  ‘I’m really awfully glad you came to Gillgong, Kerry, after all. It’s much nicer with you here! I reckon I just—well, Kerry, I love you for not telling! G’night.’

  ‘And I love you, too, Hilary. Good night.’

  Kerry’s cracked lips smiled into the darkness. She wanted to laugh and to cry, both at once. She gave the child an impetuous hug, and sent her back to her own bed, to sleep.

  It hadn’t been such a bad day, after all! It had had a wonderful ending, anyway, thought Kerry drowsily, contentedly. Hilary and she were friends, and Hilary was glad she had come to Gillgong. And Hilary had said she loved her—that was the most wonderful thing of all! That had made the entire, wretched affair suddenly, heart-warmingly worthwhile!

  Kerry turned her burning cheek into the pillow, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Kerry walked around the corner of her own verandah and along the next one to make Tad’s bed next morning, he himself stepped out of the adjoining room.

  Kerry was surprised, because she had expected that he would be out somewhere on the property, as he usually was by this time. Evidently he was heading that way, because he carried his wide-brimmed hat in one hand, and what looked like a greasy leather tool-kit in the other. In his narrow riding-trousers, many-pocketed bush shirt, and mid-heeled boots, he appeared rakish and casual, but when he addressed her his voice was quiet, oddly formal.

  ‘Good morning, Kerry, how are you this morning? No side effects?’

  Kerry looked up from the sheet she was deftly cornering, and matched that formality.

  ‘No, thank you, Tad, no ill effects. I’m feeling very well, thank you.’

  So she was, because she had this glow of happiness to cheer her when she remembered Hilary’s responsive little arms hugging her hard last night!

  That brought a non-committal grunt from the big man framed in the doorway of his bedroom.

  ‘All the same, you’ll need to give your face a chance to recover. Stay out of the sun all you can, and keep to the house as much as possible.’

  ‘Yes, Tad.’ Kerry moved round to the other side of the bed.

  ‘And get another hat from the store.’

  “Yes, Tad.’

  Another pause, while Kerry pulled up the striped cotton counterpane, and folded it neatly over the pillow.

  ‘Can you drive a car, Kerry?’ Tad’s next question was something of a surprise.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Should I be able to, Tad? I mean, is it necessary for—for—the girl at Gillgong to know how?’

  She looked anxiously over at him, and Tad regarded her thoughtfully. He ran a hand through his hair without seeming to be aware that he did it, and left the ends standing ruffled, spiking up at the back of his head. He appeared to hesitate before replying, then—

  ‘Not really necessary, Kerry, but it’s a useful thing to know. It occurred to me that while you’re restricted in your activities for the next few days, Andy could give you a few lessons, round about the homestead.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kerry didn’t know whether to be grateful or apprehensive. ‘In the jeep, would it be, Tad?’

  Her employer shook his head.

  ‘No, not the jeep, Kerry, since it has no hood, no protection for the sun. It would need to be the Holden.’

  ‘The Holden!’ Kerry echoed, incredulous. She had caught glimpses of a gleaming, big estate car when the doors of the double garage had been open sometimes. She hoped he wasn’t seriously intending that she should try to drive such a great monster as that. If he had suggested she learn to take that beautiful Beagle aircraft up into the sky, Kerry could not have experienced a greater qualm than she did now.

  ‘Oh, no! Not the Holden,’ she pleaded.

  ‘The Holden.’ Tad’s mind was obviously made up. ‘I shall tell Andy he can start any time, so be ready when he tells you to come, will you?’ He glanced at her uncertain face. ‘Cheer up, Kerry. There’s nothing much you can run into out there. You’ll manage, I’m sure, or I wouldn’t be risking my car! And just think! You can keep your accomplishment a secret, and give everyone at home a nice surprise when you leave Gillgong.’

  He crammed the slouch felt on his head, pulled it well down over his eyes with a gesture of finality, and strode off along the verandah, leaving Kerry staring after his retreating figure, feeling quite shattered. It wasn’t his reference to home—that home she had never had—that had upset Kerry. It was those last few words that kept ringing in her ears like her own death-knell. ‘When you leave Gillgong.’ Not even ‘If you leave Gillgong!�
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  Kerry’s heart was heavy as she walked down to Andy’s cottage, and followed him to the store. Not even the sight of another blue linen hat, identical to the first, could lift her spirits. It was enough to have one’s face all burnt and sore and threatening to peel, without having one’s future knocked from under one’s feet as well.

  ‘I’ll get you going at the Holden in the afternoon, Kerry,’ Andy said kindly, aware of her depressed expression. ‘ ’Bout five o’clock suit you? It’ll be cooler then. No need to come out before then.’ He patted her shoulder awkwardly. ‘Cheer up, Kerry,’ he added, in much the same voice Tad had used. ‘It’s easy as pie if you keep your head—you’ll see! Why, by Christmas you’ll be driving around by yourself, I’ll bet!’

  By Christmas? That had a better sound! It had a slightly more permanent ring than that ‘When you leave Gillgong,’ anyway. Kerry had almost forgotten that Christmas was approaching, but now, when she thought about it, she remembered that it was only four weeks away. Andy, at least, expected that she would still be here at Christmas-time.

  Kerry felt cheered.

  ‘What do you do out here at Christmas, Andy? What does Hilary do?’

  Andy reflected for several moments.

  ‘Nothing much different from what she always does, Kerry, I reckon—what we all do. Tad generally gets a little Christmas tree—he goes off in the plane and brings one back—and Hilary gets a few surprises, and we all get full up with turkey and plum-pudding cold, of course. I guess Tad keeps up the tradition as best he can for Hilary’s sake.’

  ‘It must seem very different to her, though.’

  ‘I reckon not.’ Andy shook his head. ‘It’s always been the same.’

  ‘But—when her mother was here—?’

  Andy shook his head again.

  ‘Hilary wouldn’t remember that far back. She was only a baby.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ A pause. Then, ‘What was she like, Andy? Hilary’s mother?’ Kerry’s voice asked curiously.