by Daphne Clair
She still made the hospital visits, too, and found that her presence was doubly appreciated by the young patients who had seen her TV programme.
Sometimes she was asked for an autograph, and Bridie teased her about
'the price of fame'.
'You're looking a bit strained, though,' she added, her gaze shrewdly knowledgeable. 'I know you're enjoying the job, but are you sure you're not taking on too much, what with that, and the hospital, not to mention your family?'
'Believe me, the job keeps me sane,' Catherine assured her. 'And I'd hate to give up the hospital. Some of the children are really in need of someone ...'
'So are your own children, I guess.'
Stiffly, Catherine said, 'I'm not neglecting .my children. Usually I'm home before they .are, and they don't feel in the least deprived. They enjoy seeing me on TV.'
'Hold on there!' said Bridie, mildly surprised. 'I wasn't suggesting that you were neglecting them. Just that maybe in doing your duty by them, and the job and the hospital, you could be burdening yourself too much. I know how conscientious you are about your kids. Personally, I think the job is a terrific idea. You've always been a wee bit intense about your family responsibilities, to my mind. It might do you good to have another real interest in life.'
'What do you mean—intense?'
Bridie's face softened. 'Sorry, love. It's none of my business. Forget I said it.'
Catherine was silent for a moment, her eyes puzzled. 'No,' she said finally,
'I'd like to know.'
Bridie bit her lip, and shrugged. 'It's just that sometimes I get the feeling you've wrapped yourself up in Jenny and Michael to such a degree that there's scarcely room for anyone—or anything—else in your life. They grow up awfully fast, you know, and then what will you do? You'll still be a young woman when they leave the nest. Well, anyway, you've proved me wrong. A TV star, no less!'
Catherine smiled. 'Hardly a star. A minor personality is all, honestly. And that only among the youthful population!'
'Great things from little acorns,' said Bridie. 'Etcetera. You're only starting.'
'Then you approve?' Catherine asked almost wistfully.
'Yes, I do. I take it there are some as don't? Jason?'
'Oh, he doesn't object,' said Catherine.
'I see.'
'Why do you say it like that? What do you see?'
'He doesn't object, but he's not wildly enthusiastic, is that it?'
'Something like that,' Catherine admitted. 'Actually, I don't think he takes it at all seriously. It's a whim to keep the little woman happy, as far as he's concerned.'
Bridie looked at her sharply, hearing the waspish note in her voice, and Catherine coloured. 'Well, you know how men are,' she said weakly.
'Sure I do.' Bridie replied instantly, but her eyes were bothered. Changing the subject, she asked, 'Are your in-laws still with you?'
'They go home next week,' Catherine told her, on a note of such relief that Bridie laughed aloud.
'Oh, dear, I know I shouldn't!' Catherine almost wailed. 'They're so awfully good—I haven't had to have a babysitter since they came, and they just shower the children with presents . ..'
'But ---' Bridie began with expressive sympathy.
'Oh, you know how it is, having someone else in the house, and I've always felt that Althea didn't quite approve of me, anyway. Even more so, now.'
'Ah! She's the one who doesn't approve of you working, I suppose. Am I right?'
'That's certainly part of it. She doesn't say anything directly, but somehow she makes me feel that a real mother would never dream of taking a job if her husband can afford to keep her and the family in any sort of comfort.
She's been terribly helpful, actually, and that makes me feel awful about talking of her like this. You won't pass any of this on, though, will you?'
Bridie managed to look mortally offended and funny at the same time, so that Catherine laughed and said quickly, 'I'm sorry! I know you won't. And I'm sorry if I snapped at you before. I think that Althea's attitude has made me over-sensitive to any implied criticism of my working. Even if it wasn't meant at all.'
'Forget it. I guess the strain of having your mother and father-in-law in the house-' might account for some of that haunted look you've acquired. I'm fantastically lucky with my in-laws. They never interfere, they're always willing to help if we need them, and they're among my closest friends.'
'Sometimes I think the greatest virtue Althea and Winston have is the fact that they live in Australia,' Catherine said wryly. Then immediately she added, 'Oh, that's a terrible thing to say! I don't really mean it.'
'Yeah, I know. They're kind to you.' Bridie nodded exaggeratedly. 'You'd just prefer that they were kind to you from twelve hundred miles away.'
Catherine laughed again. 'Oh, Bridie, you're good for me! I don'I know—I feel so guilty about saying these things.'
'Better to tell someone than bottle it all up till it explodes into a row with your mother-in-law. Let it all hang out, kid. I don't mind being a wailing wall.'
'You're a very good one,' Catherine said gratefully. For a moment it crossed her mind to confide in Bridie the main reason for her strained looks, the ever-increasing estrangement between her and Jason. But even with a friend as understanding as Bridie, she couldn't bring herself to betray such intimate secrets. There wasn't anything anyone else could do about it, and she knew that the obscure sense of guilt she already felt would grow to larger proportions if she did so. If Jason found out, he would never forgive her for discussing their relationship with an outsider.
She went in to the studio one day to find it strangely quiet. Russel was waiting for her, his face grim. 'The technicians have gone on strike,' he told her. 'There won't be any show going out today, unless they just use the segments we've already filmed.'
'I thought they'd sorted out their pay claims,' she said. She had known there was some unrest in the union to which the technical staff belonged, but there had been talks, and she had understood that an agreement was reached and the threat of a strike averted.
'Everyone thought so,' said Russel. 'Then the authorities refused to go along with one clause, and the technicians walked out, after all. Sorry I couldn't let you know before.'
'That's all right. It's not your fault.' She paused, thinking about going back to the house, to Althea and her subtle, sugar-coated criticism. 'Maybe I'll go and do some shopping, or something,' she said vaguely.
'Like to come out to the bach with me instead?' Russel asked unexpectedly.
Catherine's face lit up before she had time to think about it. 'We couldn't,'
she said. 'Could we?'
He laughed at her. 'Why not? Let's play hookey for once. It doesn't take that long to get there, and you can phone home and tell them you could be a bit later than usual. Can't you?'
Althea had already promised to watch the children if Catherine was not back when they arrived from school. She hesitated only a moment longer, then said, recklessly, 'Yes. Yes. I could.'
It was rather cooler at the beach now than it had been. The wind off the sea whipped spray back towards the horizon from translucent, frothing breakers, and when they walked along the sand together, small eddies of sand blew stingingly about their ankles. Dark clouds overhung them and eventually smothered the sun, until Russel glanced up and said, 'I think we're in for a downpour any minute. Want to go back?'
Catherine shook her head. The wind and the walking were good. She felt fine, and free for once of the oppressive atmosphere of tension that pervaded her home. The long sweep of clean sand, the thundering of the ocean, somehow made her feel that her problems were insignificant after all, that a little longer in this salt-tangy, invigorating air would clear her mind of its fog of misery and help her to see the way ahead.
The rain came suddenly in the end, huge droplets falling in torrents, so that they were drenched within minutes, scarcely able to see for the downpour.
Catherine gaspe
d and laughed, and Russel, his face streaming with water, stripped off his shirt, trying ineffectually to shield her with it, making her laugh again as she thrust it back at him, shaking her head.
He took her hand and they ran stumblingly over the sand, making for the path. He almost hauled her bodily up it, and at the top pushed her ahead of him into the little house.
The slam of the door sounded loud even against the thunder of the rain on the corrugated iron roof. Russel stayed just inside it, shaking himself, while she stood with a smile of amusement on her face, her arms hugging herself against the chill of the water that had saturated her clothes.
Russel saw the smile and grinned back at her. 'We're mad!'
'I'm sorry, I should have agreed to turn back when you suggested it,' she said, but she couldn't help giggling at his bedraggled appearance, his hair plastered down over his forehead, the rain running in little rivers down his bare chest, and one leg of the trousers he had rolled to the knee during their stroll along the beach hanging about a sand-caked ankle.
'You don't look sorry!' He looked pointedly at her own feet, equally sandy, and the hem of her dress spattered with sand and dripping water, and eventually at her face, as she pushed a wet rat's tail of hair away from her mouth. 'And you don't look too soignee yourself.'
She made a face at him. 'I didn't say a word,' she protested innocently.
He snorted disbelievingly. 'You didn't need to. Your face says it all. Don't you know that it's a dead giveaway?'
'You are the one who said I could act!'
'You can. Because you have such an expressive face. It shows all your emotions.'
She made a mock moue at him, and shivered suddenly.
'Hey, you're cold! You'll have to take off those wet things. You can't go home like that!' he told her.
Catherine looked down at herself and suddenly giggled. 'We could say we were interviewing a fish,' she suggested flippantly.
'You're crazy! Get in under the shower and I'll see what I can find for you to wear.'
She did as he said, because obviously it was the most sensible thing. He had given her two beach towels, and when she had rinsed off the sand under the warm stream of water, she wrapped one about her sarong-wise, and turbaned her hair up into the other.
When she emerged, her wrung-out clothes held in her hand, Russel was standing in the middle of the room, holding out a denim shirt. 'It's about the best I can do,' he said. 'I don't keep a ladies' wardrobe here, I'm afraid.'
'I'm glad,' she said simply, eyeing the shirt and mentally trying it for size.
'I think I'll stick to the towel, thanks. It's actually a lot more adequate than that looks.'
'It's big enough,' he agreed. 'Suit yourself. If you're cold, take a blanket from the bed.'
She looked where he indicated, and for the first time really noticed the changes that had taken place since her last visit. When they had arrived, they had simply dropped their shoes on the deck and gone straight down to the beach, and as they ran in from the downpour, she had not taken the time to look about her. Now she saw that the narrow camp bed had been replaced by a wide divan covered with bright striped cotton, and made inviting by several cushions in solid colours to go with the stripes. A thick rich brown sheepskin lay on the varnished floor in front of it, and there was a pile of huge floor cushions in a corner. A cane lounging chair was set where it commanded a view of the sea.
'I've strung a sort of line in the kitchen area that you can hang those wet things on,' said Russel. 'Switch on the fan heater under them, and they should dry.'
She found the line and the heater while he was showering, and directed the fan on the wet clothing. Then she rubbed her hair nearly dry, and when Russel came back, dressed in the denim shirt and matching pants, she asked for a comb, since she had left her bag in the car and hers was in it.
She sat on the lounger, tugging the comb through the tangled mass of her hair, until he came over and said, 'Here, let me try.'
He carefully teased out the snarls with remarkable patience as she sat half turned from him. By the time he had finished her hair was half dry, lying sleekly on her bare shoulders, the ends just beginning to curl.
Russel tossed the comb over on to the end of the bed, and asked, 'Feeling better now?'
'Much, thank you.' Catherine wriggled further back on the lounger and stretched a little.
Russel moved, sitting on the floor, his arm casually resting on the side of the lounger, near her thigh. 'You've been pretty down lately, haven't you?'
he said.
'Why do you say that?' she asked cautiously.
'I told you about your face,' he reminded her.
it doesn't show when I'm working, does it?' She asked, a little on the defensive.
'I told you also that you're a good actress. When you're working you seem happier. It helps you forget, doesn't it?'
It was true, but she said in brittle tones, 'What would I want to forget?'
For a moment Russel was silent. Then he said, 'Don't pretend with me, Cathy. Please.'
Her eyes met his for a heartbeat of time, then she lowered her gaze,, saw that her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, over the patterned beach towel. Her voice low, she said, 'I can't talk about it, Russ.'
'Okay.' He waited a moment longer, then got up and went to the window.
The rain was still pouring down, the view obscured by the moisture sliding down the glass. 'Just don't try and tell me there's nothing wrong,' he said, with his back to her. 'Because I know that isn't true, and I can't stand to hear you telling gallant little lies.'
It was an odd word to use, and she was strangely touched by it. He thought her gallant. She felt that it was a compliment. When he turned to face her again, she was frowning down at her hands, and he came over and untangled her twisted fingers, and held her hands gently in his as he squatted beside her.
'Relax,' he urged her softly. 'I'm not going to pressure you.'
She withdrew her hands reluctantly from his warm, comforting clasp, and sat up, swinging her feet to the floor. 'Shall I make us some coffee?' she said. 'I think I can remember where everything is.'
She stood up, and Russel followed suit more slowly.
'Help yourself,' he said. His eyes followed her, an unreadable expression in their depths, as she boiled the water and found the coffee, sugar and cups.
'No milk?' she queried.
'There's some tinned cream.' He came into the kitchen area and found it in the cupboard, handing it to her. 'I haven't been out here for a couple of weeks. Supplies are a bit limited. There are some biscuits somewhere, though.'
'Not for me, thanks.' She spooned coffee into the cups and added the boiling water and cream. She sugared hers and pushed the sugar container towards him on the counter, taking her cup over to the table.
'How long do you think the strike will last?' she asked him when he joined her, taking the other chair.
'That's hard to say. Depends on how long the two parties take to reach an agreement, doesn't it?'
Catherine stirred in the sugar and cream and sipped cautiously at the hot brew, her two hands wrapped about the cup. 'You must be fed up. The programme was just beginning to find its feet, wasn't it?'
'You're involved, too. It's pretty depressing for us both.'
'Yes.' She took a gulp of hot liquid that brought tears to her eyes, it won't—
affect the future of the programme permanently, will it?'
'I shouldn't think so. Don't worry, it'll probably all be over in a day or two, and we'll be back at work.'
'I certainly hope so!'
Russel looked at her strangely. 'You sound as though it's all that stands between you and the wolf at the door.'
'You know it isn't that.'
'But it's important to you, isn't it?'
'I love it,' she said simply. 'I don't know what I'd do if—'
Swiftly, he said, 'You'd find something else. You've got brains and guts, and now that you've struck out on y
our own you've gained a lot of confidence which was the only thing lacking before. Whatever you decided to do, Cathy, you'd make it.'
She put down her cup to look at him, staring. He looked calm and forceful and his eyes met hers steadily. 'You have a lot of faith in me,' she said strangely.
'Yes. Why don't you have some in yourself? You're terrific, Cathy. I mean that.'
She stood up abruptly and turned her back on him to go over to the window and watch the rain sliding insistently down the panes. Her vision blurred, and she put up a hand to her eyes, biting fiercely on her lower lip.
He came up behind her and tentatively touched her shoulder. 'Cathy?'
She had tried to hold her breath, to contain the tears, but at his touch, the concern in his voice, she was shaken by a heavy, wrenching sob. Russel exclaimed in appalled tones, 'Cathy!' and turned her, his hands on her shoulders, as she sobbed again, unable to stop, the tears running down her face as she tried to hide it from him.
His arms came around her, and after one feebly convulsive effort to free herself, Catherine let him hold her, his cheek against her hair, his hand stroking her shoulder.
After a long time the sobbing became less violent, and she managed to gasp, 'I'm—sorry. I— don't know what ---'
'Shh!' he soothed her. 'It's all right, honey.'
He picked her up in his arms, ignoring her murmur of protest, and sat down on the divan, cradling her like a child in his lap. She felt him reach sideways towards the pile of clean clothing on the cupboard nearby, and then a handkerchief, large and unironed but fresh-washed, was pushed into her hand.
The tears kept coming for some time, but at last she leaned against him, exhausted, the dampened handkerchief clasped in her fingers, her hot forehead on his denim-covered shoulder. His hand was soothing her hair, his lips murmuring comfort against her temple.