The mountain that went to the sea

by Walker, Lucy

  ‘Sit over there, my dear,’ she said, indicating the place opposite herself. ‘Barton will sit on my right tonight.’

  Jeckie glanced surreptitiously at the empty chair at the head of the table. It had not been pulled out.

  ‘That’s Andrew’s place,’ Aunt Isobel said, catching Jeckie’s glance. ‘He always sits at the top of the table. He is the head of the family, you know. But of course I don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure you know all about the Ashenden family. Even if your surname is different, my dear, you are one of us.’

  Jeckie was too tired to think of the right thing to say. Besides, she was beginning to feel that Aunt Isobel was a ‘character’ out of time. Aunt Isobel was probably using her voice the way her own grandmother had talked in the ‘olden times’. Jeckie’s mother had told her that Aunt Isobel had gone to a Boarding School in Sydney, then to a Finishing School in Switzerland. From Europe she had come straight back to Mallibee Downs and here she had stayed ever since, living as her parents and grandparents before her had lived.

  She does all her buying by mail order, Mrs Bennett had said with an amused smile. She hasn’t the faintest idea what the rest of Australia even looks like. Of course they don’t have television as far north as Mallibee. Only the radio sessions.

  Jeckie had always noticed that her own mother, too, often did her personal buying by mail order, and always said ‘television’ when most people said `TV.’ And never put the milk in cups before the tea was poured in.

  Mallibee could almost, but not quite, be home-from-home — as far as ‘manner’ was concerned.

  Jeckie suddenly felt overwhelmingly homesick.

  How crazy could she be?

  ‘Help yourself to the milk and sugar, Juliet,’ Aunt Isobel was saying in a directing tone of voice. Jeckie thought

  her great-aunt did not approve of young women who daydreamed, or who sat in a trance because of sheer physical and nervous fatigue.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jeckie said, and was astonished at herself sounding so meek. She accepted the fact she was just too tired to be anything else. Tomorrow she would show them a brighter Jeckie. But now, tonight, she must ask them —these Ashendens — not to call her Juliet.

  ‘My name’s Jeckie,’ she said aloud as she took the small silver milk jug, and shook her head at the matching sugar bowl. ‘Nobody ever calls me anything but Jeckie.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’ Aunt Isobel asked, her voice chilly.

  Barton came in at that moment. He still wore his slightly sardonic grin. He had heard his aunt’s last few words.

  He pulled out his chair and raised his eyebrows at Jeckie as he sat down.

  ‘Shall I tell her?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Aunt Isobel demanded from glacial heights.

  “‘Juliet” goes with “Romeo”? Barton said meaningly as he took a cup of tea from his aunt, then the milk and sugar from Jeckie.

  ‘Naturally,’ Aunt Isobel said. ‘That is a classical story. It was much warped, though well done — by Shakespeare. I don’t remember you reading Shakespeare as a pastime, Barton.’

  ‘But I do remember the rows between the Montague and Capulet families from my school days.’ He glanced mischievously at Jeckie. ‘What I don’t remember was whether they wanted the Juliet of one family to marry the Romeo of the other. Or not to marry. To be or not to be! No. That bit came out of some other Shakespeare play. Hamlet, was it?’

  Aunt Isobel had drawn herself up to full back-straight height. Jeckie’s blue eyes regarded Barton balefully.

  For a half a minute nobody spoke. Barton sipped his tea nonchalantly.

  ‘Try one of these tea-cakes, Ju . .. er … Jeckie, my dear,’ Aunt Isobel said. ‘They’re very simple and won’t give you stomach pains in the night. I always disapprove of rich food taken after the usual dinner hour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jeckie said, taking a cake. She did not take her eyes from Barton. They said — loud and clear — Wait till I meet you somewhere outside the homestead and preferably when Aunt Isobel is not about.

  Barton declined to get the message. He went on sipping tea and smiling just a little wickedly each time he caught Jeckie’s eyes.

  ‘Of course, if Andrew were here,’ Aunt Isobel was saying seemingly from a great distance, ‘he would not permit…’

  `Hush, hush!’ warned Barton even more wickedly. ‘I hear footsteps approaching. Could it be the Master of Mallibee comes?’

  Jeckie swallowed her mouthful of cake and put down her teacup. Her eyes were fixed on the open doorway into the passage: mesmerized in advance.

  The footsteps came on, strong and purposeful. They stopped outside the door. Then they came on into the room.

  Jeckie felt a little golden thread winding its way down her spine.

  If she didn’t hold herself in hand she might — any minute — admit her heart had missed a beat. He was good-looking in a tall, tough, lean way; dark brown from living in the sun. There was a subtle air of command about the way he moved, and his grey eyes were quietly, implacably alert. Yet there was diffidence somewhere in him too— as if he were unwilling to intrude. Shy of the stranger in their midst. His eyes met hers. Then he glanced away towards his place at the top of the table.

  Put away your hackles, Jeckie, she thought. And think about the stars. They must be shining again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Barton watched Jeckie’s face quizzically. He was used to Andrew having this effect on people. It amused him. He leaned across the table and said — so that Aunt Isobel, now welcoming Andrew — would not hear,

  ‘Don’t forget not to mention a certain man you met at the airport, Jeckie. If you do you’ll be put on the first plane south. Over my dead body, of course. But on it all the same.’

  `Which man?’ Jeckie asked, deliberately misunderstanding.

  ‘Well, not the two-timers from Westerly-Ann Mine, that’s for sure. The one who played Galahad to your “reclining queen”, of course. Jason Bassett. Forget him, will you?’

  ‘You mean the man you sort-of barely nodded to as you came in past the palms?’

  ‘Well … don’t tell Andrew I did any nodding. He wants to enjoy his supper.’

  ‘There you are, Andrew, my dear,’ Aunt Isobel was saying. ‘You must be tired. What a day you have had. And night too, of course. The tea’s still hot but I’ll make you a fresh pot if you’d prefer that —’

  She lifted the teapot and half rose.

  ‘Not to worry, Aunt,’ Andrew said quietly. He had stopped by his chair at the top of the table and looked down at Jeckie on his left. He did not smile, but in spite of this Jeckie felt something sleeping inside her lift its head again.

  Aunt Isobel’s voice, clear and precise, broke the odd silence.

  ‘Now this is Juliet, Andrew. She, too, is very tired of course. You won’t mind if she goes to bed as soon as she’s finished her supper?’

  ‘How do you do, Juliet,’ he said.

  He nearly smiled, and he was very polite. In the fleetest of quick glances he seemed to have taken her in. All of her ! Her tired face, her wrinkled shirt, her bright golden-brown hair; and the blueness of her eyes.

  Jeckie’s lips barely moved as she replied, ‘How do you do, Andrew. Please I’m not called Juliet. Ever. My name is Jeckie.’

  ‘Oh?’ He sat down and took the cup of tea which Aunt Isobel had poured for him. ‘Were you christened “Jeckie”?’ he asked, his voice still very quiet.

  ‘No. It’s my given name. That’s all.’

  ‘Given? By parents and god-parents?’

  ‘No. By me.’

  ‘I see.’ Andrew appeared unexpectedly to accept this state of name-giving as quite logical.

  `Jul … Jeckie is very tired, Andrew,’ Aunt Isobel repeated, not as an excuse but, as it were, by way of explanation.

  For what? Jeckie wondered.

  ‘Yes, you have said that already, Aunt,’ Andrew remarked, nodding — still giving an impression of being the head of the family, but
being, if not shy, then wary.

  ‘Then please excuse her, Andrew,’ Aunt Isobel went on. ‘That is — excuse her from the table so she may go to bed now. Like everyone else at Mallibee, she will want to be up early in the morning. Sun-up is getting-up tune, Jeckie, my dear.’

  Jeckie wanted to say that, down on the farm in the south west where she helped with the horse training, she had always been up before sun-up. A whole hour before sun-up in winter. It was a relief to find something about living in places far distant from the nor’west and the outback that had some kind of equal performance.

  She felt Andrew’s eyes on her. She was sure Barton also was watching her, but he, at least, would be wearing some kind of a smile: even if it were one at her expense.

  Suddenly, and with quite an effort, she summoned whatever natural dignity. she could command.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Isobel,’ she said. ‘I am very tired. If Andrew and Barton will excuse me, I would like to go to bed.’

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. The two men automatically stood up with her. Then Aunt Isobel followed suit. Andrew went to the door and held it open. Jeckie, in her turn, waited for Aunt Isobel to go through first. Then, and only then, did she lift her eyes and look straight at Andrew. She attempted a small smile. A sort-of try-out of a smile. Andrew’s eyes, steady, grey, did not exactly smile back — but they softened. Or did they?

  So that’s that, Jeckie thought.

  She followed her great-aunt down a side. passage to the ‘spare bedroom’. He doesn’t exactly welcome me. Perhaps he doesn’t like too many visitors at Mallibee. Well … do I really mind? I didn’t come up here myself. I have to be fair-Funny, she thought, sad all over again. But that was just what she did do … mind. She had put away her hackles when he had first looked at her.

  How crazy can I be? she asked herself, and went to the window to see if the stars were really shining. She hadn’t taken any notice of them for weeks.

  Yes — they were shining. Brightly!

  Jeckie’s bedroom was large and old-fashioned, but somehow beautiful. Like the dining-room, very Victorian. Someone — and it must be Aunt Isobel — loved and cared for these out-of-the-world bits and pieces that stood around. The only modern thing in the room was the innerspring mattress. For this last Jeckie was truly thankful when showered, brushed, and really weary, she climbed into bed.

  She tried despite her tiredness to think about Andrew and Barton. Which did she like the most after this short acquaintance? Barton might turn out to be more fun — except, she thought, his wise-cracking about Romeo and Juliet had better wear itself out pretty soon. Or else!

  But Andrew? Even in his silence, and the hint of shyness, he was sort-of imperious. That would be because of his manner and bearing. There was this thing about him that had affected her strangely. He had the indefinable `air’ of the outback aristocrat. Maybe it was the fact of being head of the family that did it, or the fact of managing a million-acre station. One of the land barons. Yet he had a touch of shyness mixed in with his impeccable manners.

  Jeckie, too tired to think straight, wondered why she was thinking about him so much.

  She buried her head in the pillow, and sleep began slowly and gently to take aver. In that half-world land she saw a mental picture not of the homestead, but of herself slumped in that chair in the airport’s waiting-room. She even imagined her right leg thrown over the knee of her left leg; and her foot waggling around in search of a lost shoe. She heard again certain footsteps come through the palms. She felt the shoe being exactly fitted back on her foot. Then again, so near sleep now, she peeked through half-closed eyes and saw a face, touched

  with a kindly smile Someone gently pleased with his handiwork.

  So much kinder, she thought. Safe!

  She would think about it tomorrow.

  Tomorrow was another day.

  Next morning Jeckie awakened to the sound of homestead noises — mostly the clattering of dishes in some not far distant kitchen. Outside a dog gave one short, sharp bark. She heard the sound of a horseman galloping away into the distance, then the crunching sound of a Land-Rover driving over gravel. It came to a stop some short distance from the homstead.

  Jeckie threw off the sheet and scrambled out of bed.

  Through the window Aunt Isobel, already dressed in something cotton and flowered, could be seen watering pot-plants on the side veranda.

  Jeckie sat back on her bed with a plonk.

  So much for her private self-boast that she was used to being up before sun-up!

  The sun was well and truly up, and she hadn’t even showered yet. She could imagine Barton’s grin — in advance.

  She took herself into the bathroom next door and organized herself into the shower alcove as quickly as possible. When she came back to the bedroom it was to see another new face. A youngish woman — in her late thirties perhaps — dressed in a plain blue cotton frock, was coming through the doorway carrying a tray.

  `Good morning, Miss Jeckie,’ she said in a soft voice, smiling a little. There was something winsome about her calm, gentle manner.

  ‘Goodness me!’ Jeckie exclaimed. ‘Are you bringing me tea? I should have been up and out — ‘

  ‘Not on your first day, Miss Jeckie. Miss Isobel says — ‘ ‘Miss Isobel?’ Jeckie, half-way to taking the tray from this nice, pleasant-faced person, was surprised.

  ‘Yes. That is what we all call her. Miss Isobel is always called that name by everyone on the station. By the Aborigines along the creek too. She is Miss Isobel generally. Let me put the tray on this table for you.

  There! Now you can pour your own tea. This small teapot is the one Miss Isobel always keeps for special visitors.’

  ‘Am I special?’ Jeckie asked, just a little bewildered. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Yes, I know. You’re one of the family. You don’t have the Ashenden name — just like Miss Isobel wasn’t born with it. So perhaps you would like us to call you Miss Juliet? Or is Miss Jeckie better?’ She seemed anxious to please, Jeckie thought.

  ‘Thank you for the tea tray. No, I would not like you to call me “Miss” anything — let alone Miss Juliet. I’ve always been Jeckie. Just Jeckie. Please do call me that.’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand. I never liked my name either. So out-of-date. Plain Jane. I’m Jane Baker. I help Miss Isobel run the homestead.’

  ‘How do you do, Jane,’ Jeckie said, breaking into the kind of smile that lit her eyes with beautiful blue lights. ‘I can call you “Jane” by itself because you’re not plain at all, are you? You’re not elderly enough to be Aunt Isobel’s assistant. You’re quite—’

  ‘I am thirty-five, you know. Getting on, I’m afraid. I live here on Mallibee. It is my home. My father was overseer to Mr Andrew Ashenden the Second — and my grandfather was head stockman before him —’

  Jeckie sat down on the edge of her bed and laughed.

  ‘Oh … I’m so sorry!’ she said. ‘How awful of me to laugh. It’s all those royal “Andrews”. Why ever didn’t the latter-day sons change their names as they succeeded to Mallibee? My mother was always talking about Andrew the First, Andrew the Second, or Barton the First or Second. They never seemed to me quite to have ever existed except in something like the Dream Time.’

  Jane Baker, who was warm and friendly in manner, yet who maintained a certain reticence, was now a little uncertain as to how to take Jeckie’s irreverence. She had half a mind to laugh too, though thought it might be wiser to refrain.

  The tea tray was safely on the side table so Jane began her retreat doorwards.

  ‘Oh, please don’t go yet,’ Jeckie pleaded. ‘There’s so

  much I want to know, and I’m scared about doing or saying things the wrong way round. You will help me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Miss Jul . er Jeckie.’

  ‘It was wrong of me to be impatient about all the Andrews,’ Jeckie said contritely. ‘I made up my mind to come to Mallibee so quickly. I hadn’t sorted
things out in my mind. Then I came — presto!’

  ‘Yes. It was short notice. It put Miss Isobel in quite a dither. But she was very pleased.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I’m too impetuous. Well, my mother says that of me anyway. But please will you explain? Is it all right for me to call Aunt Isobel Aunt Isobel? Not Great-Aunt, or even Miss Isobel?’

  `Oh, I think I’d leave out the “Great”. Of course we — that is, the staff — all call her “Miss Isobel” because she doesn’t ever use her original surname. In fact, I don’t think anyone even remembers what it is. You see … she likes to be thought of as an Ashenden. When you get to know her you will understand why. She loves anything to do with the family and Mallibee. So you see — well, she is in direct descent, as your mother is, but through the daughters of Andrew the First — so the surnames were different. Some people in the district — not so well known — always address her as “Miss Ashenden”.’

  ‘I see,’ Jeckie said, slowly digesting that ‘Andrew the First’ all over again. ‘So Aunt Isobel is called “Ashenden”. Just as Andrew and Barton are real Ashendens?’

  ‘Yes. And Miss … er … Jeckie — if you don’t mind my saying so— don’t smile at her ways. Please.’ Jane was a little fussed now. ‘I know they’re a little bit old-fashioned to strangers, but nobody here ever laughs. We treat her just the way she expects, and it all works out very well.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. I feel cross with myself already. In fact, Miss J

  ‘Just plain Jane, please — ‘

  Jeckie smiled all .over again. ‘Never “plain”,’ she said. ‘Just Jane.’

  Her startling blue eyes lit her face in a lovely early morning way. Jane, as she watched, drew in a little

  breath. She really is a lovely girl. And so natural! she thought.

  `You will guide me in this worrying land of Mallibee, won’t you?’ Jeckie persisted. ‘The more distant members of Andrew the First’s descendants always seem to talk about one another so scathingly. I’m scared now that something silly will slip off my tongue — ‘

  `Yes, I know all about the distant relatives. We all do. If you find yourself treading on prickles, Jeckie, just send me an S.O.S. across the room. I’ll run in to the rescue. Now drink up your tea like a good girl. And stop being frightened.’