by Amanda Doyle
Lindsay hummed under her breath as she walked, her depression gone. There was something about this fresh, Outback morning that induced optimism, banished apprehension. As she neared the station-hands’ quarters, she caught the sound of whistling, and several varieties of singing, together with the splash and splutter of noisy ablutions, and as she passed the building, she realised that these sounds all emanated from the row of shower cubicles. She was relieved to note that whereas yesterday the showers had been open for all to see, pieces of sacking had now been nailed roughly to the bottom half of each cubicle, secured by hooks of fencing wire, so that the lower portion of the ablutionist’s anatomy was effectively screened.
Even so, Lindsay went scarlet with embarrassment as, too late, she realised that she had walked right into the men s bathing session. Head down, she scuttled along the row, obtaining, as she ran, a cineramic impression of flailing arms, dripping heads, muscular shoulders, grunts, splutters, whistles.
A sidelong glimpse of a freckled back and thatch of red hair that could only belong to Bluey—Mickie’s face grinning cheekily over the hessian—Herb’s toothless mouth agape as she scudded past—Artie’s baritone from the final cubicle—
‘I been chasin’ sheilas for more than half me life, but seldom have I found one I’d ask ter be me wife,’ Artie was rumbling enthusiastically as she flew past.
‘Don’t you try ter leave me, don’t you try ter run—’ the united chorus of the refrain reached Lindsey’s ears as she panted round the far corner. The occupants of all the cubicles had joined in for that bit, and the subsequent laughter followed her as she plunged her hand into her skirt-pocket and brought out the key of the store.
Inside, she slammed the door and stood for a moment, slightly shaken by her experience, then, after recovering her breath, she began to check over all the things that were in the room.
Lindsay had no idea what some of the articles were. After gazing around with a certain amount of self-exasperation at her own ignorance, she decided that the only system she could adopt which would make for sensible handling would be to regroup all the supplies which she did know along one lot of shelves, and place all the ones which were unfamiliar at the other end of the place. She would then be able surreptitiously to enlist the aid of one of the men, and by the time Rod Bennett turned up, she would be au fait with her domain. There was a hope in Lindsay’s mind that he never would turn up! After all, that was what he hired a bookkeeper for, wasn’t it? Maybe he would just leave her to do things in her own way, and with the men’s help she would manage to bungle along somehow. Lindsay found herself praying fervently that this was the way it would be!
She had piled the heaps of khaki clothing together in a corner, sorted blankets and bolts of bright cotton materials, and was in the process of dragging a couple of rolled leather machinery-belts across the floor—they were surprisingly heavy, and covered with a grease preservative which added to their slippery state—when the door opened and a shadow darkened the entrance. Lindsay straightened, turned to face the bow-legged, lounging figure that now sauntered inside.
Artie’s grin was faintly self-conscious. He cleared his throat noisily.
‘G’day, Lindsay. A beaut mornin’, eh?’
‘Er—good morning. Artie, isn’t it? I’m just beginning to put the right names to the right faces, I think.’
‘Bang on, this time, then. Artie’s me monicker, true enough. Williams is the other bit. Artie Williams.’
Lindsay paused uncertainly. She had not been properly introduced to any of the men yet, and now that one of them was actually here, announcing himself, perhaps she should shake hands. Did one shake hands out here in the Outback, or didn’t one? They all seemed such casual, friendly people that Lindsay could not be sure. It was better not to take chances, anyway—better not to risk offending.
She wiped her hand down the side of her denim skirt, leaving a disastrous trail of belt-grease, and held it out in Artie’s direction.
‘How do you do,’ said Lindsay formally.
Artie blinked, but only for a moment, before he gripped her hand in a crushing grasp and shook it vigorously.
‘Reckon I’m O.K.,’ he told her on a note of surprise that this slender, rather lost-looking sheila could possibly be concerned as to his present state of health. ‘How about you?’ he added, with commendable presence of mind.
‘I’m O.K. too.’
Lindsay smiled, and Art smiled, and then they both laughed, quite uproariously.
‘That’s that, then,’ observed Artie with some relief. ‘Yer gone and got grease on yer skirt now, Lindsay.’ He poked a gnarled finger in the direction of the smear.
‘Oh dear, so I have!’ she wailed. ‘It’s my only skirt, too.’
‘Reckon there’s somethink ’ere for that, though. There’s somethink ’ere for everythink, supposed to be.’ The station-hand began to go through the assortment of bottles on the shelf. ‘Yep, ’ere we are—Kum-Kleen—I reckon that’ll shift it.’
He handed her a stoppered bottle with a red and white label.
‘Yer shouldn’t of ’ad it there, though, Lindsay. Not right beside that belly-ache mixture. And look where yer’ve got the strychnine for them dingo baits! Good Gawd Almighty! If Rod sees any of them things mixed up with the stutnmick stuff, ’e’ll ’ave yer hide, I’m tellin’ yer! ’E can’t afford fer folk ter be swallerin’ the wrong stuff away out ’ere, yer know, Lindsay. The Flyin’ Doctor ain’t a ruddy miracle man, quick though ’e is when we need ’im.’
‘I didn’t put them there,’ Lindsay hastened to point out in self-defence. ‘I was just beginning to sort things out, Artie, and I haven’t touched the bottles yet.’
‘Well, they ought ter be locked up, and clocked in on that chart, see. It must’ve been that Lowney feller then—the last bloke. ’E was on the booze somethink awful this last while.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Lindsay had wondered about the previous book-keeper. ‘Was he—er—dismissed?’
Artie shook his head.
‘ ’E would of been,’ he asserted darkly, ‘only ’e ran off with a well-sinker’s wife first. Kind of took Rod on the ’op.’
‘Oh.’ Fancy anyone managing to take the psychic Rod Bennett on the hop! Lindsay was aware of a tiny thrust of respect for her predecessor, booze and all. ‘Surely he must have been very upset—the well-sinker, I mean?’
‘ ’E was flamin’ crazy at first’—Art spoke with retrospective relish—‘but ’e soon got sort of used to it. ’E’s got ’is sights set on a little filly out at Peperina since then. ’Ere, give me that cloth and I’ll rub it for yer.’
Before she could reply, Artie had taken the cleaning fluid from her, splashed it liberally on to some wadding, and rubbed clumsily at her skirt with blunt-fingered, awkward hands. He appeared absorbed in his task, completely unabashed at his necessary proximity.
‘There y’are! That’s fixed it’ He handed back the Kum-Kleen, dropped the wadding in the rubbish tin, and grinned engagingly. Lindsay smiled back, then retreated quickly to the other side of the counter at the answering gleam in his eye. It was the self-same gleam that had been present in all those eyes that morning—was it only two mornings ago?—when she had alighted from the plane. All eyes but one pair, that is.
‘Er—thank you, Artie. I’m very grateful,’ she said from her place of instinctive sanctuary. ‘Now, is there something I can do for you? Something you came in to get?’
Lindsay’s direct question produced quite an astounding effect upon Art. The gleam in his eye faded instantly, to be replaced by a look of acute embarrassment. Colour gathered slowly under his rugged tan, deepening to such a rich plum shade that Lindsay wondered, in quick alarm, if the man was sickening for some sort of physical fit. He took off his wide, battered felt hat, wiped his forehead with a rough palm, scratched his ear uncomfortably, shifted his feet in their heavy boots, slammed the hat on again, and turned to her with a sudden show of iron determination.
‘I re
ckon I never came for somethink in the store, Lindsay,’ he muttered doggedly.
‘For what, then, Artie?’ Lindsay asked, intrigued.
‘I came to get a kiss, that’s what.’
The admission was delivered in such a strangled, choking, but determined tone that Lindsay was asking herself if she could possibly have heard aright.
‘Did you say—you did say—a kiss?’ she repeated, half startled, half incredulous.
‘Yeah—a kiss,’ Artie reiterated with a slight indication of returning courage.
‘Yes, that’s what I th-thought you said.’ Lindsay’s voice was weak. She sat down heavily on the pile of blankets.
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of Art’s still-restricted breathing processes.
‘Well—will yer?’ he asked, diffidently.
‘I—I don’t think—no, Artie, I’m afraid not,’ returned Lindsay firmly.
‘Please, Lindsay. Just one.’
‘No, Artie, not one. Couldn’t you go over to—to Peperina, maybe? Like the—er—the well-sinker?’ she suggested helpfully, touched by the man’s air of defeat.
Artie shook his head dejectedly.
‘It ain’t the same,’ he said dismally. ‘Yer see, Lindsay’—he gave her a direct, pleading look—‘it’s gotter be you. Nobody else will do.’
‘Me?’ Her eyes rounded. ‘But why me?’
Artie scuffed self-consciously at the floor-boards with the toe of his boot.
‘ ’Cos we’re bettin’ on it, see, Lindsay.’
Lindsay’s eyes, round before, were now like saucers.
‘Betting on it! Do you mean, betting on—er—on me?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Good gracious!’ Her mind was racing, implications jostling with one another for pride of place.
‘First bloke home collects the kitty,’ Artie explained now, earnestly. ‘I reckoned this was me chance, Lindsay, when I seen yer comin’ in ’ere. I didn’t mean ter startle yer, honest. I wasn’t goin’ ter pounce on yer, or anythink like that. Even now, if yer won’t do it, well, yer won’t, and that’s me out. I’d most certainly ’ave liked ter collect, all the same.’ His deep voice was wistful.
‘And if it isn’t you, will one of the others try?’
‘You bet yer, Lindsay, they’ll try. I don’t know how or when or where, but they’ll try—Herb and Mickie and Blue and Shorty.’
‘And if you get a kiss, then they’ll stop trying?’ Lindsay was assembling her thoughts.
‘That’s it.’
‘If you get a kiss, that will be the end of it?’
‘That’ll be the end of it.’
‘Once and for ever?’
‘Once an’ fer all, Lindsay—you can bet on that!’
‘I don’t think so, Artie. I think there’s enough betting going on around here without me starting,’ Lindsay was driven to point out smilingly.
Artie grinned, unabashed. ‘Gee, Lindsay, you’re a little beaut! Does that mean you’ll do it?’
‘I’ll do it, Artie. I don’t think I have much choice.’
‘Except who with?’ he elucidated with some humility.
‘I’d like you to be the one,’ said Lindsay gently.
Artie scratched his ear, caught once more in a transfixing agony of embarrassment.
‘I ain’t much of a hand,’ he mumbled apologetically.
‘Never mind,’ comforted Lindsay. ‘I’ll do all I can to help. But how will the others know? Will they just take your word for it?’
‘Not them. That’s the other thing. That’s why I reckoned on this bein’ a good time ter take the bull by the ’oms,’ Artie was explaining. ‘Cook’s gettin’ breakfast, and they’re all out there waitin’ around fer the tucker-bell, so if we was ter go outside—’
‘I see. Let’s get it over, then, Artie, shall we?’
Lindsay got off the bale of blankets and walked to the door with resolution in her step.
‘I’ll go yer splits, Lindsay, if yer like? How about that?’
‘No, thank you, Art,’ she declined with dignity. ‘I don’t wish to make off the deal, only to end it. It’s as much for my sake as yours.’
‘You’re a beaut, a little beaut.’ He pulled the door shut behind him, locked it, passed her the key. ‘Not a word, though, eh, Lindsay? Not to Mannie, or to Rod? Rod, most of all. ’E’d skin us alive if ’e knew.’
‘Not a word to anyone,’ Lindsay found herself promising with due solemnity and a sense of complete unreality, as she and Artie walked together over the bare, smooth ground in the warm, early hush of that Outback dawn, until they were within sight and range of the clinking sounds of the hut-cook’s breakfast pans, and in full view of the men who were hanging about waiting to eat that breakfast.
Lindsay and Artie stopped and faced each other.
‘I ain’t much,’ warned Artie once more. He was very red indeed.
‘If it’s only for a bet, it doesn’t matter, does it,’ Lindsay reminded him encouragingly, ‘just as long as it’s a kiss.’
Strange that she should not mind! Strange that she should be the one to impart confidence and consolation to this big, awkward, inarticulate bushman! But then perhaps it was because she could sense in Artie a fundamental kindness, a basic decency, a hesitant humility and honesty that were oddly endearing qualities in a work-roughened, tough-living ‘outbacker’, that she didn’t mind him being the one. Artie was nice, and Artie was on the level. If Lindsay hadn’t agreed, he’d have been willing to leave it at that.
She sent him a warm smile.
‘You’re a decent kid, Lindsay.’
He put his hands on her shoulders, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and Lindsay, suddenly afraid that the gesture had not even been noticed by the men lounging around near the cook-house, found herself putting her arms right around Art’s sun-seamed neck and squeezing hard.
They might as well do the thing properly, she told herself. It was better to leave no doubt at all in those other men’s minds that a kiss had been exchanged, because she did not want to be pestered any more over this wretched bet! She wanted it settled, once and for all, as Artie had promised it would be, and that was why she hugged Art just as hard as she could, and even gave him a return kiss near the side of his stubbled chin.
That should do it! she told herself, noting with a sense of satisfaction that the men outside the cook-house were now standing immobile in their tracks, as though turned to stone by the unexpected scene they had witnessed. The conversation had ceased. The silence was so complete that it seemed to Lindsay as though the very birds had ceased to sing. Even the cook, who had stopped clattering his tin plates and pannikins about inside the cook-house and had come to stand in the doorway, suddenly stopped wiping his hands on the front of his butcher’s apron and left his fingers dangling stupidly in mid-air.
Yes, thought Lindsay with gratification, that should finish the whole silly affair! The effect on the bystanders had been dramatic indeed.
She opened her mouth to say something light-hearted to Artie—she felt light-hearted, as though she had successfully disposed of a potentially unpleasant business—and then she closed her lips again, because Artie’s eyes weren’t looking at her at all. They were centred on something right behind her, a little to her left, and they held an oddly riveted expression, every bit as dramatic in its intensity as the silent tableau down beside the cook-house.
Lindsay turned to see what could possibly have captured Artie’s attention so completely, and stiffened as visibly as though she had been Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt.
Rod Bennett was standing not far away, his feet in their heeled stockman’s boots planted a little apart on the dusty ground, his brown hands linked casually into the plaited hide belt that held up his moleskins. That was the only casual thing about him, that stance!
Lindsay felt the impact of his shrewd grey gaze rake her with a force that was almost physical. She took an involuntary
step backwards, bumped into the transfixed Artie, who seemed to recover his senses at the contact and shambled off towards the cook-house as fast as he could.
Rod Bennett ground his heel in the dust with a curious sort of savagery, turned without a word, and went the other way. Lindsay, still encased in her own immobility, stared after him until he was out of sight. Then she forced her tottering limbs in the direction of the homestead.
Breakfast tasted like sawdust that morning! Lindsay chewed her way through chop and egg with wooden concentration, aware of the relish with which her employer, to her right, disposed of his own much larger helping. She swallowed hot tea automatically, folded her napkin thankfully when the meal was at an end.
She might have known, of course, that a man like Rod Bennett would not allow such a facile escape!
‘I wish to see you in my office, please, Miss Dutten,’ he announced firmly when they finally left the table.
‘Certainly, Mr. Bennett.’ Lindsay tried to match his calmness, but failed miserably. She actually felt sick with dread. She could see her dismissal looming up to meet her, and felt powerless to prevent it.
If only she could explain! If only he could be made to understand what a light-hearted, meaningless, silly little act it had all been. Like a schoolgirl dare, almost. But Rod Bennett didn’t look the sort who would have any patience with schoolgirls or their dares, just as he hadn’t with his own men’s inveterate inclination to gamble on any and every incident that presented itself. ‘He’d skin us alive,’ Artie had said, and Lindsay had promised not to tell. If she told, she would maybe be able to make Rod Bennett understand the harmlessness of that one little kiss, but in doing so she would forfeit her friendship with all the men, and in her capacity as store-keeper she would be coming into contact with them a good deal more than with the aloof and unfriendly Mr. Bennett
No, to tell would be unthinkable. And yet not to tell meant the permanent banishment of all those things for which Lindsay found herself wistfully longing—the warmth of a grey-eyed welcome, the fond glance of respect, the caressing comfort of a true affection that was reserved exclusively for Mannie. Lindsay longed for the contribution she intended to make to Gundooee to be recognised in the same way. She wanted to be wanted, longed to be able to call Gundooee her home, the way Mannie could. Lindsay knew, as she followed the big, loping figure in the direction of his office, that this man was capable of all those endearing qualities that so attracted her, because he gave them all, unstintingly, to Mannie. How nice to bask in the sunshine of his approval, the way the old lady did, thought Lindsay enviously. If she, Lindsay, could just enjoy that approval, too, she would not ask for more. After all, she wasn’t one of those lovely, sophisticated Brisbane Belles, with pretty clothes and loads of poise and a fund of amusing repartee. She was only simple Lindsay Dutten, longing for a home and a welcome, and that was as much as one could expect when one had flyaway hair, gangling limbs, an uncertain manner, and a skirt that still reeked of Artie’s Kum-Kleen!