by Amanda Doyle
Not waiting even to observe his reaction, she went blindly in the direction of her bedroom, and once within its sanctuary, turned the key in the lock and huddled miserably between the sheets.
Her heart was racing at a threatening pace, and tears, unshed, stung her eyelids. When Carleen banged and rattled on the door some minutes later, she was thankful that she could pretend to be asleep.
CHAPTER 2
Next morning it was no surprise to Lindsay to find that she looked as dreadful as she felt!
That beastly photographer would not give twopence for her green eyes today, she decided grimly, observing their puffed lids and reddened rims in the mirror as she dragged on her clothes.
Her eyes! That was all he had wanted—to use her, or a part of her, just as Carleen did!
And she had actually been foolish enough to be warmed by his evidence of sincerity, had thought him quite charming when she had shown him in last night. She had permitted herself to be flattered by his complimentary phrases, only to discover that he had not meant them—or, at least, not in the way she had supposed. There was no kindness in him after all, only ambition and selfishness.
Lindsay patted her face with a cold, damp flannel, and shivered at the extent of her own gullibility. What an idiot she had been! And how pathetically little she knew about men! Familiar as she was with Carleen’s spiteful ways and catty remarks about her fellow-creatures, she had stupidly thought that men were above such feline artifices, that those were confined to a woman’s world alone. Now she knew better! She had been far too ready to be deceived, because nobody had ever praised her in such a warm fashion before. She had even been stupid enough to believe the man had wanted her at the party because he had found her attractive. Even though she had refused, it had been encouraging that a sophisticated friend of Carleen’s had actually begged her to stay—that he had sought her out because he found her own particular brand of shy charm irresistible.
Something inside Lindsay shrank with humiliation as she recalled the extent of her disillusion. She had responded as a flower might to the promise of sunshine, unfurling its petals tentatively to those warming rays, only to find itself drenched and frayed by a sudden douche of icy rain. For Lindsay, the effect was as bracing and astringent as a slap on the face.
Her longing for independence had hardened into resolution to actually achieve her freedom from Carleen and her kind. Bitterness was useless, a corroding emotion if ever there was one. Distrust, though, was harder to eradicate. It would be a long time, if ever, before Lindsay would believe in other people, but right now it was supremely necessary to believe in herself.
The realisation of that need enabled her to face Carleen’s ensuing pleas and tantrums with an equanimity she was far from feeling. The other girl begged, cajoled, and finally threatened, but Lindsay remained adamant. After a prolonged bout of sulks and silence, Carleen resorted to sarcasm.
‘Who’d want you, anyway? You won’t find it easy to get someone to share with you. It’s like living with a saintly dormouse, heaven knows!’
‘I’ll find a place,’ returned Lindsay imperturbably, pleased to find her newly acquired courage a foil for Carleen’s venom.
‘I’m not so sure.’ Carleen smiled rather waspishly. ‘Word has sort of got around that as a flat-mate you’re a dead loss, darling. The general impression seems to be that I’ve finally turned you out.’
‘But’—Lindsay blinked in bewilderment—‘that’s not true! You know it’s not, and so do I. And so does Mr.—er—what was his name, the photographer?’
‘John?’ Her cousin’s laugh was brittle, taunting. ‘He’s forgotten all about the other night. I asked him to, and he agreed, so long as I do things his way professionally. Why should that bother me? He’s the tops, after all.’ She shrugged. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of honour among thieves, pet? It’s very convenient at times.’
‘Sydney’s a big place.’ Lindsay tried to appear sanguine, to stop the flutterings of apprehension inside herself. ‘It’s ridiculous to suggest that you can influence a whole city against me, Carleen.’
‘Maybe.’ The other lifted her shoulders again, lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring. ‘On the other hand, most people will ask where you’ve been living before, won’t they, and with whom?’
‘I can live alone.’
Sitting in the bus later, wedged between a hard-faced businessman immersed in the financial pages and a plump housewife who smelt strongly of onions, Lindsay prided herself upon the dignity of her reply. It had been an effective exit line, at any rate, she thought, recalling with a sudden spurt of fun the expressions that had chased themselves across her cousin’s lovely face as she picked up her handbag and walked to the door. Dislike, frustration, helpless rage had distorted Carleen’s classic features, and yet she managed, as always, to appear incredibly beautiful in a quite frightening way. She had usually succeeded in getting her own wishes met in everything, simply because of that ineradicable beauty, and she had been none too pleased at having her way challenged by Lindsay, of all people.
It was stuffy in the bus, although a welcome shaft of air from the platform fanned the long rear seat into which Lindsay had squeezed herself.
They jolted down into Double Bay, with its gay boutiques and pavements alive with shoppers, and then up the hill towards Edgecliff. At the Cross the housewife got out, and her place was immediately taken by another of the standing passengers. The businessman never raised his eyes from his paper, dedicating his entire attention to it in the way that regular commuters do, oblivious to his surroundings, incurious as to his fellow-travellers. No doubt a sort of built-in radar would tell him when his own destination was near, and he would fold up his newspaper with automatic precision, preparatory to leaving the bus, without even bothering to glance about him.
He had finished the financial columns now, and had turned another page, folding the paper back upon itself to render it more manageable in the confined space.
Lindsay’s eyes wandered over the newsprint only vaguely, her mind absorbed in her own problems.
Advertisements, he was at now.
Registered teacher. Works Superintendent. Cost Accountant. Salesman with Ambition. Deputy Director of Public Relations. The next advertisement was enclosed in a neat black square, and printed in heavier type.
Somewhere in Lindsay’s inattentive brain, a little bell rang. It was an unexpected little bell, but it rang loudly enough to bring her eyes, already passing on to Stationery Representative and District Midwife, back to the message inside the neat black square. The message was to the effect that Gundooee Station was needing a book-keeper, experienced, single preferred, salary negotiable on appointment. It also told the reader how many sheep and cattle and sub-bores Gundooee Station had—the first two were in thousands, the last in single figures. Sub-bores, whatever they were, came a poor third on Gundooee Station, decided Lindsay whimsically.
She read on.
‘Airstrip eighty miles west of Emmadanda. The successful applicant will be responsible to the station manager, but personal initiative rewarded. Enclose qualifications, own handwriting. All communications answered.’
Well, Lindsay asked the little bell reprovingly, what is there to ring about in that? It was, after all, just another advertisement, like the Cost Accountant and the Salesman with Ambition.
The bus groaned on, and the businessman turned to sport. Races, mostly.
Gundooee.
What a strange name! Lindsay wondered what it meant. Perhaps it did not have a meaning at all. Maybe it was just a name, but it had a nice friendly sound. Emmadanda, too, was pretty and quaint. Lindsay thought she could imagine the sort of place Emmadanda would be. It would be tiny and clean, with narrow streets lined with jacaranda trees, all mauve and drooping, a pretty country town held in the arm of a willow-fringed river.
Lindsay’s green eyes became soft and misty.
Even sitting here, she could smell the cool,
wet willow smell of that river, could hear the shallow singing of the rippling water, feel the caressing tree-clad shade of its peaceful bends. There would be orchards and lucerne plots and a neat, red-roofed house somewhere nearby, and that house would be Gundooee. At least, it would be quite near. Eighty miles, the advertisement had said, but it had implied that Emmadanda was desirably close, hadn’t it?
Lindsay sighed.
Gun-doo-ee. What a pretty, friendly name! A ‘bush’ name, with a ‘bush’ sound of friendship and welcome.
‘And the bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him’
She pushed the haunting words to the back of her mind and stood up as her own stop came in sight. Other alighting passengers jostled, propelling her forward as she made her way rather dreamily to the exit.
All along the street, that refrain seemed to echo, her own footsteps keeping time with it. It was a lilting measure, that one of Banjo Paterson’s, easy to walk to. Too easy! At lunchtime, it was still with her, when she bought coffee and a sandwich, and carried her paper cup and packet to the park bench in the gardens opposite the office block in which she worked.
‘Emma-danda, Emma-danda,’ trilled a bird in the bushes behind her seat. ‘Gun-doo-ee, Gun-doo-ee,’ whispered the lapping water at the base of the near-by fountain.
Some madness seemed to have taken possession of Lindsay. I’m crazy, she thought, even as she was buying a copy of that newspaper and stuffing it, into her hold-all.
They’ll want a man, anyway, she was telling herself all the way home on the bus. It’s meant for a man, quite obviously, although they don’t say.
But why should it matter, to them? coaxed a tiny, persuasive voice within, as she walked towards the lift. So long as the ‘someone’ can keep books, why should they mind?
With a name like Lindsay, it could be either, couldn’t it? suggested the small, persistent devil inside her again, as she pushed the button and swept upwards to the top of the Dover Heights unit-block.
Lindsay Hallingham Dutten. There was definitely a masculine ring to that name, especially if you couldn’t see the luminous green eyes, sensitively curving mouth, fly-away brown hair, and fragilely coltish limbs of its indubitably feminine possessor!
Thank goodness for Grandfather Hallingham! breathed Lindsay, as she fitted her key in the Yale lock and let herself into the flat. There had been times when she’d hankered for a ‘Jane’, or ‘Margaret’, even ‘Adelaide’ or ‘Euphemia’, but now there was a satisfyingly nondescript sound about her middle name that gave her cause for gratitude. If anything, it leaned slightly to a suggestion of male ownership rather than complete sexlessness, she decided, and for her present purpose that was all to the good!
Lindsay made herself a cup of tea to still the fluttering unease within herself at the boldness of her intention. It was difficult to sit in the kitchenette, perched up there on the heights above the harbour, watching the yachts and ferries and hydrofoils in the sea below, when already you could feel the peace and stillness of the bush about you, smell the gum-trees, see the paddocks full of sheep in the country sunshine.
Presently she got up, rinsed her cup and saucer, and went to the bureau in the lounge. It was gratifying to find that all but one of her certificates made no mention of her actual sex.
She put the offending one aside, and studied the others thoughtfully.
‘This is to certify that the bearer Lindsay H. Dutten has satisfied the Board of Examiners—’ ‘that Lindsay Hallingham Dutten has passed with merit the required examination in Advanced Book-keeping—’ ‘A Pass with Credit has been awarded to Lindsay Hallingham Dutten by the Examining Board of the College—’
She was sitting on the floor, with the certificates still spread out around her, when her cousin came in.
‘Don’t tell me they’ve sacked you from the office as well?’
Carleen spoke almost with relish as she took in the scene.
‘No, but—Carleen, I’m going to try for another post. Look!’ In her enthusiasm and excitement, Lindsay could not sustain her own antagonism, even in the face of Carleen’s unfriendliness. She opened the newspaper, and pointed out the advertisement. ‘See that? I’m going to try for it, Carleen. A job in the country—just what I’ve always longed for!’
The other girl read the item, handed it back.
‘You must be out of your tiny mind, Lindsay. That’s obviously a man’s position, you twit! Why don’t you look in the Governess column if you’re determined on country life—’ She yawned. ‘Boring as it is, it might just suit you down to the ground.’
Lindsay flushed, half defiant, half guilty.
‘It doesn’t say it’s for a man, Carleen. It just says it’s for a book-keeper, doesn’t it?’
‘Darling, you know perfectly well it’s for a man,’ drawled Carleen. ‘Why pretend? For heaven’s sake, come down to earth.’
‘But they don’t say, do they? And I need never have realised, need I? If I could land it, they wouldn’t know until I got there that I wasn’t a man, and once they saw that my work is efficient, they wouldn’t mind, I’m sure. All they want is a book-keeper, and with a name like Lindsay, I could be either, couldn’t I, anyway?’
Carleen raised one eyebrow. It was a very expressive eyebrow, neatly shaped, and she lifted it quite beautifully, in a way that suggested scepticism, amusement, and a certain element of surprise.
‘Well, well! What duplicity, from a saintly dormouse! I didn’t think you were capable of such deception. Don’t tell me you’re human, after all? You can hardly accuse John and me after this little revelation, can you?’
‘It’s not really deception,’ mumbled Lindsay damply, redcheeked and a bit miserable now. ‘I mean, they don’t say—’
Carleen studied her uncertain face, shook her own head. ‘You aren’t likely to get it, anyway, so why waste time talking about it? By the end of the week, you’ll doubtless have come to your senses, and will realise what a good wicket you’re on here with me. I’ll be quite prepared to overlook your quite atrocious and embarrassing behaviour of the other evening, Lindsay, and we’ll just go on as before, so long as you pull your weight about the place.’
With this magnanimous utterance, Carleen went to her bedroom, leaving Lindsay more unhappy, apprehensive, indignant, and determined than she had been before.
‘I can’t bear it,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Not another week!’
A few minutes later she was writing with desperation.
‘Credentials are enclosed herewith. I am accustomed to positions demanding trust and initiative, and furthermore am free to take up the post immediately. Salary is not of paramount importance, providing employment and surroundings are congenial, and I should be prepared initially to accept the minimum award of remuneration as per scale at present pertaining. I have former experience of, and a marked preference for, country life, and trust that you will seriously and favourably consider my application.
Yours faithfully,
Lindsay H. Dutten.’
She signed her name with a flourish, and addressed an envelope to The Manager, Gundooee Station, Via Emmadanda.
Her step was swift and assured as she walked along to the local Post Office and slipped the letter through the slot. It was something to manage a spring in your step, when your palms were actually moist with fright and your heart thudding like a bongo drum!
A week later, Lindsay was walking the same route, but without quite such a spring. She was walking the same route because it was not only the way to the Post Office, but to the taxi stance as well, and the lack of spring was partly because of the weight of the suitcase she carried, but also because of Carleen’s farewell scene.
Lindsay’s knees trembled as she recalled it,
Her petulant cousin had been unbelievably nasty in every way. Her final reprisal had been the taking back of any clothes which she had bestowed on Lindsay over the past eighteen months. Even though they had been given in a spirit of patronisati
on, Lindsay had been grateful for them, and had spent a good deal of time shortening hems, mending seams, and sewing on buttons, to make them fashionable and presentable. They had comprised the better part of her wardrobe, and it had been something of a shock to find Carleen snatching them all from their hangers and dumping them on her own bed in a fit of rage when she saw that Lindsay was really serious about leaving.
‘I—I thought you’d given them to me,’ she had protested rather stupidly, aghast at her cousin’s malicious action.
‘I loaned them to you, which is a very different thing,’ Carleen had retorted coldly. ‘If you choose to go, you forfeit them, naturally. They’ll probably come in handy for my next flat-mate. I shall make sure they go to someone who appreciates them, at any rate!’
Lindsay had swallowed her dismay, resumed her packing.
There had not been very much, after that, to put into her cases, and by dint of some rather ruthless cramming, she had been able to fit all her possessions into the one bulging suitcase which she now carried. At least Carleen had saved her the burden of a lot of luggage, she told herself as she panted on her way, smiling half grimly. And if the manager of Gundooee Station was really expecting a male book-keeper in trousers, it could hardly matter to him if the female one who turned up instead had only the suit she stood up in, one cotton sun-dress, and a faded denim skirt to her name! Just so long as she was the perfect book-keeper, it couldn’t matter at all!
Because it was so early in the morning, there was a taxi waiting at the rank. The city was scarcely astir, the streets almost empty. The rising sun cast long-fingered shadows upon the great columns of sky-scrapers, and the air was warm, gently suffused with the pink light that foretold another hot humid day.