by Amanda Doyle
‘Not really, Hilary darling,’ Kerry interrupted hastily. ‘I only said—’
‘But you said—’
‘Yes, I know, pet. We’ll leave it for now.’ Kerry’s cheeks were puce, and Tad Brewster seemed aware of the fact. ‘You can go now, Hilary, and thank you for your help. It was a great success. Do run—please.’ She almost begged the child to leave, so mortified was she. That was what came of implying a lie, if not actually uttering one! The lie got embroidered, it got taken one step further in the imagination of a little girl, until—
‘G’night, Kerry, Tad.’
"Night, Andy.’
‘See you.’
‘See you, Tad.’
Now they were alone, the pretence had slipped from Tad’s stern, bronzed features. They were handsome, remote—much more remote than the green eyes which suddenly blazed with accusation.
‘I—I’ll have to clear away the things, help Bluebell with these g-good dishes,’ Kerry stammered.
‘Yes, I realize that.’ For once, Tad didn’t take the initiative. He just stood there, towering over her indecisively.
‘I’ll come to your study afterwards,’ Kerry said calmly, as tranquilly as she could, seizing the advantage, surprising both herself and the big, tough man confronting her.
“You do that, please, Kerry. There are things we must discuss.’
As she began to collect the plates, she heard Tad leave the room.
Her session in the study did not take very long.
‘Come in, please,’ Tad’s deep voice bade her, when she finally brought herself to knock on the door. ‘Sit down, Kerry.’
He gazed at her a moment, almost abstractedly, before he spoke again.
‘I realize I gave you a roving commission,’ he then said carefully, with that stern control with which she was so familiar, ‘but don’t you think you overstepped the limits of your position tonight? I do, but what I want to know is your reason, your motive. Why, Kerry? Why did you act so very far beyond the role for which you were engaged?’
Kerry, the subject of his intense scrutiny, realized that nothing but the truth would do. She lowered her eyes, because it was easier to speak without looking at him, pleating and repleating the hem of her pink shift with quick, nervous fingers.
‘I—I did it for Hilary,’ she admitted. How lame her excuse sounded now! How inexcusable had been her behaviour! Kerry could see, in one blinding, intuitive flash, that she had indeed stepped out of her role, now that she reviewed the situation. Tonight she had taken it upon herself to play the mistress of Gillgong—or that was how it must have appeared to Tad. She had played hostess with beautiful, gracious silver and glass and china that didn’t belong to her, at a table that didn’t belong to her, in a house that didn’t belong to her—and where she herself did not belong, where she had been warned that she was merely ‘on trial’.
She had played a part for which she had not been engaged, a role which did not belong to her—a part that couldn’t, shouldn’t, be played by anyone but the person who had a right to it. And the only person who could ever have that right would be—or rather, had been—the beautiful girl whose name was never spoken, whose photographs were conspicuous only by their complete absence, whose mere mention could bring Tad’s lean brown fingers up to ease the pain of memory from his temple. Tad’s wife!
‘I did it for Hilary, Tad,’ Kerry whispered again. Her lashes were wet, but she forced herself to look up, to meet his eyes, pleading with him to understand. ‘She was all that was in my mind when I decided to do it. The things were there, Tad—the silver and china and everything—hidden away, wasting away, with no one to care about them, nobody to see their beauty. I often take them out, you know, and shine them up, just so they know that someone cares about them, you see. And then, today, when I had them out, Hilary was looking at them, too, and she loved them, because they’re so pretty, so different to the old white kitchen crockery that’s all she’s ever used. And I just suddenly thought that she should be able to have nice things about her, shouldn’t she, if the things are there anyway? She’s your daughter, isn’t she, Tad, after all. She’s Hilary Brewster of Gillgong, and it didn’t seem right or fair to deny her the use of those lovely plates and silver when they were in the dresser, just waiting for someone to notice them. You want her to grow up to appreciate beauty, to cultivate her taste for gracious things, don’t you, Tad?’ Kerry asked anxiously. When Tad made no answer, but just went on staring at her, Kerry rushed on. ‘I thought you would, anyway, Tad, and if I’ve been wrong, I’m sorry. I realize now that I’ve been rash, acted impulsively, but I did it for Hilary.’
Kerry remembered something else, then. When she remembered, her cheeks got suddenly scarlet, all over again. She had a now-or-neverish feeling, a point-of-no-return feeling, because still Tad Brewster hadn’t spoken, and she decided that she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
‘Tad?’ She squared her slender shoulders, and decision brought an added firmness to her voice. ‘Tad, I guess maybe I’m not being wholly honest when I say I was only thinking of Hilary.’
‘Oh?’ Quick interest leapt into Tad’s intent eyes.
‘No, not just of Hilary.’
‘Of whom, then, Kerry?’ His deep voice was curiously alive, curiously insistent.
Kerry took a long breath.
‘Well, I was thinking of—myself, too, Tad, just a bit. You see, I didn’t really say that to Hilary at all, about our family using pretty plates always—because—well—’ Kerry floundered in her explanation, ended a little desperately, ‘we never used nice plates in my family, Tad. We just used white kitchen crockery—plain and thick and white and dull—the same as Hilary’s.’ Her voice trailed off forlornly.
There was a moment’s pregnant silence, before Tad’s chair scraped back and he got to his feet. When he came around the desk to her side Kerry stood, too.
Tad gazed down at her, stroking his square, tanned chin. His thoughts seemed to be far away, but he himself was very near, disturbingly so. As always when he was so close, Kerry was aware of an odd current running along her nerves. It left her with a trembling weakness in her limbs and a tantalizing shortness of breath.
‘I understand, Kerry.’ Tad’s voice was kind, impersonal, very gentle. ‘Perhaps it’s I who’ve been wrong, after all, in denying Hilary the use of those beautiful things which bring her such an obvious measure of delight. Perhaps, for entirely personal reasons, I’ve been selfish, thoughtless of her welfare, in not thinking that I might be depriving her of an enjoyment which, as you’ve rightly pointed out, was there at hand, waiting for her. You may go now, Kerry—and you may continue to do as you’ve done tonight. In fact—’ here the merest ghost of a smile—‘from now on, Andy and I will expect it! Goodnight, Kerry.’
‘Goodnight, Tad.’
It was only as she closed the door that Kerry saw his strong square, capable hand come up to his brow in that tell-tale gesture—and this time, Kerry told herself in a sudden excess of remorse, it was she herself who had caused it!
In the days that followed, Hilary and Kerry really enjoyed themselves. Even Bluebell, now that the threat of the boss’s wrath had been lifted, permitted herself a whole series of grins, each one as wide as a slice of watermelon, and helped by wielding a polishing cloth ‘Alla-same Bluebell make thatfella teapot shine good-oh, eh, missus!’ as she expressively explained.
One by one, the bits and pieces were extracted from the cupboards, to be cleaned and given a place from which to show themselves off. A pair of tall, slender candlesticks adorned the sideboard, and pretty cut-glass decanters reposed in coasters heavily embossed with silver grapes and leafy silver vines. The tea-service was next to emerge, together with the great oval tray upon which it stood, and Kerry persuaded Andy to fix some of the lovelier specimen plates to the walls with fittings from his store. In the cool depths of the sprawling homestead lingered the faint, waxy smell of furniture cream, and the slightly more pungent one of metal poli
sh. The wooden surfaces gleamed with mellow cheer, and the handsome ornaments were reflected in the shining base upon which they stood.
Hilary and Kerry carried on with their school lessons, and continued to listen in to the air sessions. They rode, picnicked, swam in the long tank near the homestead, caught yabbies with baited lumps of fat at the edges of the muddy dams.
Kerry worked at her garden border in her spare time. For hours she knelt there on an old sugar-bag, wrestling with the weeds which Jackie had either ignored, or disguised by the simple expedient of slicing their tops off near ground level and pretending that they weren’t there at all.
Once she had cleared all the weeds away, Kerry dug the narrow soil border, breaking up the heavy, dry clods of earth with the prongs of her fork. It was back-breaking work, and while she did it she perspired profusely in the burning sun, and her face beneath the blue linen hat would become scarlet with heat and exertion.
At just such a time, when she was engaged in a fierce attack with a pronged fork on a particularly resistant sod, did Tad Brewster come upon the scene. Kerry had been unaware of his soft footfall over the short, springy lawn. She had assumed him to be away from the homestead for the entire day, so it was something of a surprise to hear his quiet drawl right behind her ear.
‘Strike me pink!’ was what the drawl invited someone to do to its owner, and then it added, more seriously, ‘What in Pete’s name do you reckon you’re doing, Kerry, out here in the sun at this time of the day?’
Kerry swung, startled, then straightened her aching back and jabbed the fork upright, deep into the ground, so that she could lean on the shaft.
She pushed a palm over her moisture-beaded forehead, and stared at Tad uncertainly.
‘I was just digging, really, Tad—or forking, to be exact. I’m going to plant a border along the front of the shrubs. I—er—I hope you don’t mind?’ She glanced at him anxiously.
Tad continued to stand with his hat pushed back, feet a little apart, hands on hips, regarding her quizzically.
‘Why should I mind, Kerry?’ he countered mildly. He inspected her handiwork. ‘What’s going in the border, when you have it ready for planting?’
‘These. Come and I’ll show you.’
Kerry led him round to the tin-roofed gardening shed, and proudly displayed her seed boxes. There were three of them, each liberally dotted with the first tender green shoots of tiny flower plants, each surmounted by a piece of bent wire stuck into the soil, impaled upon which was an empty packet. The brightly illustrated paper envelopes were like gay flags of promise above the struggling, minute shoots, and Kerry’s eyes were bright, too, with optimism, as she showed Tad her seedlings.
He looked at them a minute, then shook his head.
‘They’ll never grow here, Kerry, not these ones,’ he told her kindly.
‘They might.’ Kerry was stubborn. She believed in those gay little flowers painted on the packet tops.
‘Where did you get them?’
‘From the store. Andy said they wouldn’t grow, either, but I can’t see why not, if they get love and attention.’
Tad shook his head again.
‘They’re not suitable for Gillgong, Kerry. It’s the water,’ he explained patiently, as one might to an ignorant child. ‘They don’t like the bore water, this lot, I reckon. So long as we’re on the tank, O.K., but if the tank gets low and we switch to the bore—’ brown fingers clicked expressively—‘there go your flowers!’
‘But we—you mightn’t switch to the bore, ’ Kerry argued persistently. ‘The tank might not get low.’
‘It generally does, though, Kerry.’ Tad’s tone was dry. ‘I’m only warning you,’ he added pleasantly, seeing the expression on her hot, shining face, ‘because you could be disappointed, and then you’ll be sorry you tried.’
‘No, Tad,’ Kerry corrected him earnestly, ‘I’ll never be sorry I tried, not even if they do fail. You’ve got to try, haven’t you? You’ve got to give them a chance, those little seeds, because if you left them in the packets they’d never get one little chance to show what they can become. You couldn’t just leave them shut up, sealed away in little paper envelopes, in the dark where nobody could see them, could you, Tad?’
As he looked at her, Tad’s grey-green eyes softened. They seemed, suddenly, to envelop Kerry in a warm, enmeshing snare of tender amusement. When his hand came up to her cheek, it was rough and hard, but tender, too. Even his deep voice was tender as he chided her, amused.
‘I know, Kerry—like the china and the silver and the ornaments shut away in the cupboards. Did you know you have a big smear of dirt across your, cheek?’ he asked her gently. ‘Poor Kerry! Come on inside and we’ll have a nice cold drink of beer, just to bring you back to the reality of this harsh, outback existence you’ve got yourself mixed up in!’
He took her unprotesting hand into his big, rough, firm one, and marched her over the lawn in the direction of the house.
‘Poor Kerry!’ he drawled again, teasing her this time, ‘I reckon I’m going to feel awfully sorry for you the day we switch over to the bore!’
It was in that moment, walking companionably across the lawn with her fingers locked in Tad’s, that Kerry realized that the last thing she wanted from Tad Brewster was pity!
And what she wanted was also the very last thing that she was likely to get!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Christmas Eve found Kerry wrapping up the last of her presents.
This was her gift to Tad, and she eyed it uncertainly, wondering even now if she should give it to him. She had no wish to embarrass her employer by foisting upon him some unsuitable or expensive article, but neither could she leave him out of her plans. It was not that she did not want to include Tad—if Kerry were to be honest with herself, she would have liked to give him the whole world, and her heart along with it, but of course she was sensible enough to realize that Tad might not want the whole world—the Gillgong bit of it seemed to keep him happily preoccupied as it was—and he obviously did not want her heart, either. That would really have embarrassed him, because Tad had made it clear, in a hundred tiny ways, that Kerry herself was no more to him than one of the small cogs in the chain which helped Gillgong’s wheels to turn effectively.
Often she hugged to herself the brief, intimate moment when his brown fingers had closed over hers, and he had drawn her after him, over the lawn towards the house. It was several weeks ago now since that had happened, but still Kerry could feel the warm tingle in her fingers as they curled around Tad’s hard roughened ones. Her nerves, too, could still quiver when she recalled the way her heart had seemed to melt, right inside her, spreading a warm tide of love through her limbs.
Kerry knew, now, that she had been right to hide the surge of love from the big, tanned boss of Gillgong Station. There had been no more moments of intimacy, no more gentle raillery, no more tender amusement in caressing, green-soft eyes. Perhaps she had imagined that those eyes had been even temporarily caressing. Perhaps she had felt like that simply because she had never before found herself walking companionably with a man’s hand enveloping hers, strolling together over springy green lawns in the hot sun of a cloudless Australian day. It was a moment that Kerry would treasure all her life, but it had obviously not been of the slightest significance to Tad Brewster, and she was glad that he had been unaware of her weakness.
It was that weakness in herself, the melting love-warmth inside her, which made it somehow imperative to strike just the right note with Tad’s Christmas gift. It would need to be something inexpensive, casual, impersonal, and Kerry had wracked her brains to achieve the right balance in those requirements, but she was still not sure that she had been successful.
That was why she gave her handiwork a final, dubious inspection before covering it up with pretty red tissue wrapping paper.
It was an old wooden cigar box with a hinged lid, which Kerry had found in Andy’s store. Andy had actually been using it to keep paper-
clips in, but when Kerry’s idea had come to her, he had obligingly transferred these to another box, and had given the wooden one to. Kerry. Then she had set about transforming it. First she had erased the brand name by sandpapering the surface of the lid, and then she had made a little poker-work design, painted it, and varnished it, as she had been shown how to do in the handwork classes at the orphanage. Bluebell’s oven range had heated the poker suitably, and she had burned Tad’s initials carefully into one corner—T.J.K.B., just as he had signed them on his little note to her about the hat, on her first day at Gillgong. Andy had been so impressed with the end result that he had offered her a small piece of fine kangaroo-leather with which to line the box, so that it would have a more professional finish.
‘Roddie uses it for plaiting belts and stockwhips in his spare time,’ Andy had informed her. ‘It’s a hobby of his in the evenings, but he won’t miss that bit off one of these hides—reckon you’re welcome to it, Kerry girl.’
Hilary had also taken a personal interest in the project. Sworn to secrecy, the little girl had been proud to lend her own paints, and in return Kerry had allowed her, under supervision, to brand her initials on some of her possessions with the hot poker. Hilary was more than a little proud of the scorch-marks that now liberally adorned her own pencil-case and ruler, and had difficulty in restraining herself from showing them to her father before Christmas Day, as she had promised. Instead, she involved herself with Kerry in the delicious conspiracies of the Christmas season, and worked away happily fashioning her own gifts for her father and Andy, while her older companion set about making a cotton shift for Bluebell in an even gaudier print than either of her present ones.