A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

'Well, no—but—'

  'I thoroughly enjoy my work, and let me tell you I'm damn good at it. And as for your opinion of the career of a cook,' he glared at her furiously, 'that's nothing but snobbish rubbish. A good cook is just as important in our society as a nuclear physicist or a brain surgeon. You're insulting when you talk that way.'

  'I don't mean to insult anyone.' She was stung by the scorn in his voice. 'But surely you'd agree that being a cook isn't exactly forging a path for the new woman in today's world. I'd just be…' she groped for one of Marjorie's phrases, 'perpetuating a stereotype about women. Shackling myself to the kitchen stove as some man's slave. I don't even want to run my own restaurant,' she confessed unhappily, 'that's how little ambition I've got.'

  'Don't parrot other people's ideas, Polly,' said Flint. His temper, which had flared so suddenly, seemed to have died as quickly. 'It weakens your argument.'

  'I don't want to argue. In fact, I don't know why we are.' She looked at him beseechingly. 'You don't need to get so angry.'

  'I always get angry when I'm confronted with pretentiousness,' he informed her. 'It makes me mad. I was surrounded by it when I worked in fashion, I meet it head-on among Dexter's crowd…'

  'Dexter isn't pretentious,' said Polly, leaping to the defence of her hero.

  'I didn't say he was. It's the people around him I find hard to take.'

  'Sable doesn't strike me as being pretentious,' Polly went on doggedly. She didn't know why she was labouring this point, but Flint had caught her on the raw with his remark about parroting other people's ideas.

  'Sable isn't really one of Dexter's crowd. Not in the sense I mean it.' He swallowed his last dregs of coffee. 'Let's drop it, shall we? We've got work to do, we can't sit here bickering all morning.'

  He led the way to the cash desk, ignoring Polly's efforts to pay her share of the bill. 'You would have eaten breakfast at the farm, so it's part of your salary. Don't be tedious,' he said when she insisted.

  With bad grace she gave in and followed him back to the car. Flint took a biscuit from the pocket of his jeans and gave it to Duvet who had been waiting patiently in the shade of a tree.

  'Look at Duvet,' he said, scratching between her woolly ears. 'She doesn't have an ounce of ambition, but she doesn't get edgy about it. Do you, old girl?' Duvet wagged her tail and noisily sniffed his pockets for more biscuits. He pushed her away, laughing. 'Time to go home.' Duvet bounded towards the car, barking happily. Flint turned to Polly. 'And now, Pollyanna, let's head for the hills. We've got work to do.'

  As they drove away Polly slumped disconsolately in her seat. Duvet might be thrilled to be going to the farm, but Polly was unable to share her enthusiasm.

  'You have to do some serious work on your self-image, kid,' said Flint, throwing her a quick glance. 'You have a bad habit of selling yourself short.'

  'I don't sell myself short,' she muttered defensively, 'I just wish I had better motivation, that's all.'

  'Your motivation had better be honed and ready to have a go at my manuscript,' he replied, 'that deadline's starting to make me twitchy.'

  'That's typing!' She was derisive. 'Typing's easy.'

  'Not to me. Wait till you see the mess I've made of it.'

  She didn't answer this. She knew she was upset out of all proportion, but Flint disturbed her. He brought things to the surface of her mind, things she thought she'd safely buried. She knew she had an inferiority complex. Well, so what? she reasoned, lots of people had. But she also knew she did nothing to make herself conquer it; she just sat back and passively accepted her own, and her mother's, bad opinion. And she suspected that this was what Flint found unacceptable. In her heart she did too, for she was not cowardly by nature.

  They left the main highway and headed towards the Caledon Hills. Gentle, undulating country replaced the industrial sites. A shallow stream meandered alongside the road, and the lush valleys were dotted with farms and cattle. They drove through the quiet little town of Caledon—an overgrown village with a scattering of antique shops and one modest restaurant—and turned on to a gravel road.

  Here the trees met over their heads and the pattern of leaves was like feathers against the sky. Duvet thrust her nose out of Polly's window to sniff at the scented air. A sign read, 'Hidden Driveway', and after a moment Flint made a sharp turn on to a long, tree-shaded dirt road. Polly just had time to read the white and gold painted notice that hung at the turning—'Crabtree Farm. A. McGregor'. They drove for quite a long time, it seemed to Polly, before climbing a small rise and coming to a halt outside the house.

  Two things surprised her. The first was the farmhouse itself. She hadn't known what she had been expecting. Anything really, from a broken-down dump to a modern bungalow. What she was totally unprepared for was this graceful, charming old house, two stories high, built of beige stone, with dormer windows trimmed with glossy white paint. In the front of the house was an incredible expanse of green meadow that dipped and fell away from the flagstoned patio. The valley was criss-crossed by a stream, and dotted with apple trees.

  The second surprise was the sight of Sable standing on the porch. She was dressed in a thin silk nightie and was eating yogurt out of a carton.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Ah, Sable! You finally surfaced!' Flint opened the car's rear door and Duvet hurtled off into the meadow to chase imaginary intruders. 'And how do you feel this morning?'

  'Not so bad,' Sable replied. She waved her spoon at Polly. 'Welcome to Liberty Hall!'

  'Good morning.' Polly knew she sounded rather formal, but the truth was she was stunned to find Sable here, and in her nightie! Her last glimpse of her had been in Dexter's kitchen, when she had refused Flint's offer of a lift. Since then she had clearly changed her mind!

  'Where's Cakey?' asked Flint, shouldering Polly's holdall and leading the way towards the house.

  'She went into town to shop,' Sable told him, 'for garden supplies.'

  'It figures.' He sounded grim. 'Has she done anything about food, do you know?'

  'Search me! This is the last of the yogurt.' She held out the nearly empty container. A faint breeze caught at her pale oyster-coloured nightdress, so that it was moulded against her body. If I were built like that I'd wander around in next to nothing too, Polly thought enviously.

  They entered the spacious hall which was decorated with creamy, rose-flecked wallpaper. All the woodwork had been painted white, and it gleamed in the sun which shone through a stained-glass fanlight, causing a pool of colour to shimmer on the highly polished floor. A hand-braided rug, woven in shades of cream, rose, and leaf green, added a touch of cosiness.

  'Take Polly up to the guest room, will you, Sable?' Flint said. 'I'll go and check if Cakey's got anything in for dinner.'

  'Should I phone the—the city—do you think?' Sable asked him pensively.

  Flint's expression became enigmatic. 'I wouldn't. But it's your life, Sable. You must do what you want.'

  'I just get so restless in the country.' She smiled at Polly who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 'There's nothing to do, is there?'

  Polly, who could think of a million things to do in the country, didn't answer.

  'If you need a job,' said Flint, 'you can go grocery shopping. I'll bet my bottom dollar we're low on food.' He snapped his long fingers impatiently. 'Time is passing, girls!' he barked.

  'Okay, okay!' Sable placated. She handed him the empty yogurt carton and the spoon. 'Take these into the kitchen, would you, Flint? If you're going that way.'

  'Meet me in the kitchen in five minutes, Polly,' he said briskly.

  'Yessir!' Polly answered, determined to make it in three. She picked up her holdall. 'Lead the way, Sable!' she commanded.

  Polly's room was at the end of a long corridor, and faced an orchard—she could hear the gurgling sound of a brook which ran through it. She threw the nylon bag on to a pine rocker, and took a quick look round her domain. Everything was fresh and flouncy. There were blue forget-me
-nots on the wallpaper, and blue ribbons looped back the starched, white cotton curtains. The bedspread was white too, with a scattering of primroses embroidered on it.

  'You share a bathroom with Cakey,' Sable informed her. 'And with me when I'm here.'

  'Are you here a lot?' Polly tried to sound casual, aware that it was really none of her business.

  'Off and on,' was the vague answer. 'This place is a sort of bolt-hole.'

  Polly wasn't quite sure what she meant by that. She wondered if Sable and Flint were lovers, although they seemed awfully casual together. Perhaps Sable meant that when she 'bolted' to Flint's house, she also bolted into his bed. For some reason the image of Flint as a free and easy lover was a distasteful one, and when she asked Sable where the kitchen was her voice was sharper than the question warranted.

  'Just follow the hall downstairs to the back. You can't miss it. Don't you want to freshen up first?' Sable asked.

  Polly grinned. 'No time! Simon Legree's waiting!'

  'Oh, him!' Sable shrugged her slim shoulders.' His bark's worse than his bite. Well, I guess I'll try to do something about my face, and go off to the store.'

  'Your face is always lovely,' said Polly, but now that she looked closely she noticed that Sable's eyelids were red and swollen, and she wondered if the model was suffering from the effects of a hangover. You know, most women would kill to look like you.'

  'Most women are much better off than I am, if they only knew.' Sable's face was a mask of gloom.

  'You'd have difficulty convincing them of that,' Polly assured her. 'Now I've got to run. See you later,' and she sped out of the room, and down the wide staircase, taking an appreciative glance at the framed flower-prints hanging in the hall on her way.

  Flint had just finished making a grocery list, which he put on one of the pine counters, together with a bundle of dollar bills. He gave Polly an approving look.

  'Ah, you're here! Good. Follow me and let's get the show on the road!'

  'What a super kitchen,' Polly remarked as she hurried after him. For, even though she had only been in it for a couple of seconds, she had had time to admire the long room that served both as kitchen and living-room, and which had a fireplace flanked by two cretonne-covered wing chairs at one end, and a vast amount of pine storage and work space at the other.

  'I wish Cakey was as enthusiastic about it,' said Flint. 'Her interests stop at the back door.' He led the way down a back staircase, opened a door, and escorted Polly into a large office.

  It was a functional room, but the white plastered walls were hung with many framed photographs—Flint's, she supposed—and a picture-window had been let in to the outer wall, giving a view of the tree-dotted valley, which relieved the severity.

  'There's my manuscript,' Flint said. But all she could see was an electric typewriter that was almost hidden under sheaves of paper that spilled over a large desk, covering every square inch of space.

  She picked up one of the sheets and eyed it sceptically. It was covered with deletions and additions in red ink. 'Did you at least number the pages?' she asked.

  'Of course I did. But you can see why I need help, can't you?'

  'You certainly need something,' she said severely. 'Perhaps a sense of order might be a step in the right direction.'

  'It's the clerical stuff that defeats me,' he explained. 'I can manage everything but that.'

  Polly took charge. 'I shall need filing folders, and paper in different colours, so we can colour-code each draft. Do you have those things?'

  He indicated a metal cupboard at the side of the room. 'They should be in there,' he said meekly.

  'Good! And it would help me if I could see some of the photographs you'll be using. So I can get a feel of what the visual part of the article will be.'

  'Yeah, I can let you have those,' he agreed. 'Then, if you don't need me, I must shower and change before I attack all the work piled up in the darkroom.'

  'I don't need you. I'm tidying up,' she said sternly, and with a grin he left her to it.

  In spite of his assurances, Flint had not numbered every page, so this was a lengthier task than she had first anticipated. She was impressed with the content of the article however; Flint had an eloquent style, and his description of the people he had encountered in Nepal was vivid and alive.

  She worked steadily for a couple of hours, hardly aware of her employer, who, having put a sheaf of photos on her desk, closeted himself behind one of the doors— the darkroom presumably—and didn't emerge again for some time.

  She had just put the last page neatly in the folder in front of her, and was sweeping up the assortment of paper-clips and rubber bands that Flint had strewn over the desk, when he materialised in front of her, a tray in his hands, and Duvet at his heels.

  'Time for a break,' he said. 'I've fixed us some lunch. Shall we have it outside?'

  'Lunch!' She looked at her watch. 'Is it one already?'

  He grinned at her. 'Time sure flies when you're having fun. Would you open the door? I can't manage it with this tray.'

  She discovered the sliding glass door, and together they went out into the sunshine. Flint set the tray on the grass under a tree. 'Don't you touch!' he warned the sheepdog, who sat and gazed lovingly at a plate of sandwiches. 'Do you need a chair?' he asked her, 'or will you settle for the ground?'

  'The ground is fine,' she said, sitting at the base of the tree and leaning against its smooth trunk. She wished now she had taken the time to change when she had taken her bag upstairs. Flint was freshly showered and shaved, and had exchanged his worn jeans and denim shirt for a pair of clean khaki trousers and a navy shirt. He smelled faintly of cologne, an aromatic scent she was beginning to recognise as his. She felt decidedly rumpled in her jeans and creased orange tee-shirt.

  'There's beer or fresh lemonade,' said Flint, holding up an old pressed-glass pitcher so that the ice-cubes clinked. 'Or I could get you some milk.'

  'Lemonade will be terrific, thanks.' Polly realised she was very thirsty.

  He poured some into a matching pressed-glass tumbler that was rimmed in faded gold, and handed it to her. 'There are cheese sandwiches on brown bread, and ham on white. I put mustard on the ham,' he warned.

  'I love mustard.' She took a ham sandwich. 'My mother would approve of this.'

  'Approve of what? Mustard on ham sandwiches?'

  'Idiot!' She took a bite of sandwich and said with her mouth full, 'Of you getting the lunch, and serving it to the hired help. Generally not behaving like a male chauvinist employer.'

  'I take it your mama is quite a Women's Libber,' Flint remarked, helping himself to a cheese sandwich and giving Duvet a piece.

  'Ardent,' Polly said. She took a sip of lemonade and then balanced the glass between two tree-roots. 'Are you?'

  'An ardent feminist?' He nodded. 'Well—not exactly. Although I do support a lot of their ideals.

  'So do I.' He took a large bite out of his sandwich.

  She looked at him, surprised. 'Really?'

  'Really!' he kidded. 'I should think any normally intelligent person would agree that equal pay for equal work, and equal opportunities for women, is only fair.'

  'A surprising number don't. For instance, a lot of men can't imagine working for a woman boss.'

  'I worked for three years for a woman,' Flint said. 'She was talented and tough, and I learnt more from her than I ever did at college. No jewels will fall out of anyone's crown because they make a cup of coffee.' He took a swallow of beer and asked casually, 'How does your father feel about it?'

  She nibbled on a piece of ham before replying. 'I don't have a father.'

  'Is your mother a widow?'

  'No.' She looked past him at the far orchard that seemed to dream in the hot sun, like a mirage. 'My mother's a single parent,' she explained. 'My father deserted her when—when he found out she was going to have me.'

  She always hated talking about it. Not that she was ashamed, but she dreaded the mixture of
embarrassment and pity that flashed over people's faces when she told them the circumstances of her birth. But Flint didn't look embarrassed. Nor did he commiserate with her. He merely said, in a perfectly ordinary voice, 'That must have been pretty rough on your mother.'

  Relieved that he was so matter-of-fact, Polly went on in a rush. 'Yes, it was. That's why I feel so badly that I haven't really turned out the way she wanted. She hoped I'd be talented. An ambitious woman of the future.' She gave him a wry smile. 'And I'm not like that at all.'

  'No.' He finished his beer and watched her give her last crust to Duvet, who had been gazing at it with mesmeric intensity. 'Don't let her bully you,' he advised, pulling the dog away by her collar. 'She's a bottomless pit when it comes to food.' He offered Polly the plate of sandwiches. 'Come on! You're falling behind.'

  'No, thanks—I really shouldn't.'

  'Why shouldn't you? I made a ham and a cheese apiece.'

  'Because of my figure.'

  Flint put his empty beer can back on the tray and booked at her affably. 'I think you have a very nice figure.'

  'Don't try to be kind,' she said tightly. 'I know the truth. I know I'll never be really slim like… like Sable.'

  'Good God! Do you want to look like a model?' He seemed genuinely bewildered. 'Models are just clothes-horses, you know. Not a feminine curve among them.'

  'But Sable always looks so… so elegant,' Polly protested.

  'Sure she does. That's her style. You haven't found your style yet. Now, come on,' he held out the plate, 'eat your other sandwich before Duvet has a nervous breakdown.'

  'My style is dowdy-fat. Nothing can be done about that,' Polly remarked gloomily, taking the proffered sandwich.

  'For a sensible girl you do talk a lot of rubbish,' Flint said. 'I just presumed that you felt the way your mother does and that's why you look…' he hesitated, '—as if you couldn't care less about your appearance.'

  'A mess, in fact,' she glowered, and, appetite vanished, she began to feed her sandwich to the dog.

  'A bit of a mess,' he agreed cheerfully. 'But nothing that can't be easily fixed.'