by Gloria Bevan
Small, even teeth flashed between lips gleaming with pale, iridescent lipstick. But there was no sparkle in the hard, bright stare the other girl threw towards Trudy. The reddish-brown pencilled eyebrows rose inquiringly.
`This,' the man explained with a grin, 'is Miss Western, Diana.' And as the other girl said nothing, but continued to regard Trudy with that baleful look, Scott said smoothly:
`Miss Western happened along in the nick of time to help out in the housekeeping department. Saw an ad in the
Courier and came to the rescue.' Trudy held her breath, as she waited for the man to add: 'She's only here on a month's trial, of course—' It would be quite in character for him to put in the qualifying statement, if only to embarrass her. But surprisingly, he didn't. Maybe, Trudy surmised, he was too bemused with this lovely girl to remember to be annoying.
`Really ?' It was amazing, Trudy found herself thinking, how much scorn the other girl managed to convey in a single word. The derogatory tone, accompanied by a disdainful look, left Trudy in no doubt as to the implication. Just a menial, the glance implied, scarcely worth a second thought.
With a cool nod, the other girl turned away, swinging her head with its blunt haircut towards Scott, and pointedly ignoring Trudy, broke into an animated conversation with the man.
No longer afraid of the steers gathered around her, Trudy continued her task of scattering the hay on the grass. But in the still country air, the voices carried clearly and she could not avoid overhearing the conversation of the other two, who were evidently on very good terms. Probably, Trudy told herself, that was where Scott Ballantyne had been last night. At Diana Bartley's home.
`I've got the guest list made out,' the other girl was saying, in a high, shrill tone, 'and I don't think I've left anyone out. I mean to say, I just can't afford to do that! Can you imagine, Scott, what would happen if I did? It would be taken as a studied insult!
`And that's what I wanted to have a word with you about. I thought you might be feeding out down by the road this morning. It's about your brother's fiancee—'
`You mean Sharon?'
`Who else? Didn't I get the idea that you were expecting her to stay at Elsmore some time soon? I thought I'd send her an invite. After all, the girl likes a little warning time to get herself something new to wear. I wanted to airmail an invitation to her. Have you any idea when she's coming up here?'
`You tell me! She just wrote a line to say she'd be crossing the Tasman some time soon.'
`Oh well, I'll send her an invite, just in case she gets here in time. Got her address?'
`Not here, I haven't. Think I carry girls' addresses all over the station with me?'
`You don't need—' the low, intimate tone reached Trudy's ears - `to carry mine, Scott.'
`True enough. Look, how about if I send one of the boys over with it tonight?'
`One of the boys? Why not you? I thought you'd be over last night, for sure. What happened?'
What didn't happen? I had a ring from Roy to say that their tractor had broken down again and would I zip over and lend him a hand to track down the trouble. It was three in the morning by the time we got her going again.'
Trudy was conscious of an inexplicable surge of relief. Though why it should matter to her as to where Scott Ballantyne spent his evenings....
The high, carrying voice broke into her random thoughts.
`Oh, I see. Well, listen, there was something else I wanted to ask you about. I've got a problem, Scott. You know that Irish tenor who's engaged to give items at the party? He's pretty well known. Who on earth can I get to accompany him on the piano? Scott, you must know someone?'
Why not rope in Mrs. Parkins? Doesn't she play for the local do's as a rule?'
`She's just not in the picture! No, I'll have to find a good pianist - if possible a professional. And time's getting so short.'
`You'll come across someone,' the man said carelessly, 'if that's all that's worrying you.'
`All? You haven't the slightest idea! Mum isn't any help at all. She just dithers around. I'll be on the phone all day as it is, what with caterers, arrangements, decorations -you know, all that jazz! I must fly - you'll let me know if you hear of anyone ?'
`Anyone?'
`You know! The pianist!'
`Oh, that! Okay.'
"Bye now!' A silent message flashed over Trudy's head. Then, still ignoring Trudy, the other girl turned away.
Somehow, Trudy mused wryly, as she watched the black Jaguar turning in the narrow track above - somehow, I have the feeling that that's one party to which I won't be invited!
Something else too was evident, and that was that Scott's attendance at the gathering was essential to the happiness of the girl with the shrill voice and supercilious smile.
Diana's twenty-first birthday party's coming up,' the man volunteered, lifting a muscular tanned arm in a gesture of farewell as the car flashed by, to vanish around a bend in the winding mountain road. 'Takes some organizing, an affair like that, up here in the hills. But she seems to have it all taped.'
Oh yes, Trudy thought waspishly, Diana will have everything perfectly organized, down to the last detail. She's a country girl. She wouldn't ever be regarded as inept or helpless or stupidly inefficient.
But in some strange way, the shining beauty of the morning had dimmed a little. All at once it seemed to Trudy that the remote scene held a chill loneliness; the green spears of the cabbage trees rustled in the wind with a curiously melancholy sound.
She tried to shake away the mood. 'I suppose Miss Bartley's a local girl?'
Scott tossed down a bale of hay from the stack. 'Lord, yes! Born and bred up here, like her father and grandfather.' Trudy glanced up at him curiously. 'And you?'
`I'm a new arrival — comparatively. Took over the place when Dad sold up in the South a year ago. Farming's in my blood, I guess. And luckily Dad likes it here too.' He was down to the last few remaining bales now. 'Wilt my brother, didn't ever have any ideas in that direction. He was set on being a doctor ever since he was a kid. Been practising over in Sydney for the last few years. Got himself engaged to a Sydney girl, over there. He's away at the moment, though, took off with a geological survey expedition outfit that they were flying out to Scott Base in Antarctica at the beginning of October. That's when I dropped a note to his fiancée and suggested that she come over here for a spell. Actually I've never met her, but I thought it might be a change for her, seeing Wilf's year's stint won't be up for a few months yet. Well, that's about it.' He picked up the last bale and cut the twine.
Trudy would have liked to have heard more concerning the Australian girl — who she was and how long she intended to stay at Elsmore, and why her husband-to-be should be content to spend a year in the frozen wastes of Antarctica at a
time when it would surely be more normal to be involved in wedding plans.
But there was no opportunity for further conversation, for the return ride on the sledge, uncushioned by the bales of hay, proved even more uncomfortable than the first experience. It was with a deep feeling of thankfulness that at last she found herself nearing the home paddock. Leaving the man in the yard, Trudy entered the homestead.
A long yellow Holden car stood in the driveway. Heavens, Trudy thought in alarm. Visitors already! And I've scarcely done a thing in the house. What will they think? Oh well, it can't be helped.
She entered her bedroom and paused, horrified, at her mirrored reflection. Could that be herself? Wind-burnt face, untidy hair, fragments of hay entangled in her sweater! She did what she could to repair the ravages of the morning's activity, then she hurried along the wide porch towards the dining room.
The extremely stout, good-natured-looking woman of middle age, clad in slightly outdated garments, who had been speaking with the elderly man, glanced up as Trudy approached.
`Mrs. Lynch very kindly called to see if there was anything we needed from town,' the man explained, after making the introductions. He ran a wrinkle
d hand along the high mantel-shelf. 'Never can find that tin of tobacco. If you ladies will excuse me—' He slipped away, leaving Trudy with the stout woman, whose shrewd, small eyes openly appraised the girl seated opposite.
Indeed, so interested was her glance that Trudy found herself wondering if the neighbourly visit had been the real purpose of the call. Or was it curiosity concerning the English girl who had taken the housekeeping position at Elsmore? No doubt in these remote places news travelled fast.
She thrust the unworthy thought aside and brought her mind back to what the stranger was saying.
`You see, my dear, I'm going into town today for a special reason.'
Leaning towards Trudy, she peered into the girl's face as if imparting information of the most breathtaking nature, so that Trudy found herself waiting expectantly.
The stout woman had a breathy manner of speaking. Could it be that she was asthmatical? Trudy wondered. 'For the party, you know.'
At the girl's look of blank amazement, the woman chuckled wheezily, her massive bosom heaving with amusement.
`But of course you don't know! How could you? About our little doings away up here in the hills. Of course, you come from England, I hear . . . so far away, fancy!' But apparently she couldn't for long abandon the fascinating subject so near to her heart.
`It's Diana's twenty-first, you see - Diana Bartley. The Bartleys have a big station about five miles from here. And she's so attractive - really lovely! She could have been married a dozen times by now. Lord knows, she had her choice of all the men around here. But no, she never really cared for any of them - not until he came along. You wouldn't have seen her, of course, but—'
`Oh, but I have,' Trudy broke in. We were over in the paddocks this morning, "feeding out", I think you call it. Diana came along the top road in a black car. She wanted Scott—'
The tiny mouth, so absurdly out of proportion in the big, round face, pursed. 'Exactly. And I'll tell you this - what Diana wants, she gets! But then she's always got everything she wanted.' She paused, drew a deep breath, and a moment later the breathy voice continued. What was I saying? Oh yes - about my frock. You see, Diana's inviting everyone -simply everyone.'
Except me, a small voice whispered, deep in Trudy's mind.
She brought her attention back to the wheezy tones. 'Pink lace, I thought. Not too young a pink, though. A mauvy sort of pink, maybe. That is, if I can get it. But of course there are only a few dress shops in the town. And I'll be so mad if someone turns up with the identical outfit, like they did last time!
`It's bound to be a marvellous turnout. The Bartleys have no lack of funds. And Diana's parents simply adore her. Imagine - the only girl in a family of five boys! Not that sons aren't sort of useful on the station - that is, if they'll stay -but five! I ask you! And of course,' she ran on wheezily, `what makes this affair so special is because everyone's expecting the news to be given out then—'
As the monotonous tones flowed on, Trudy's attention
wandered. How long would this loquacious visitor stay? She hoped the visit wouldn't be too prolonged. Really, she must get on with her household chores, and lunch time loomed ahead. What could she prepare for lunch?
With an effort, she brought her mind back to what the other woman was saying. Vaguely, Trudy gathered that it was something to do with a building.
`A . . . Memorial one, you know. Only built last year ... there were screeds about it in the Northern papers at the time. An architect in the city designed it. That little circular blue window at the end . . . you know? So unusual, don't you think? Strikes you the moment you come through the door. It would be perfect - so right—'
Trudy couldn't pick up the thread at all. She frowned in bewilderment.
`What would?'
The tiny eyes, almost lost between folds of fat, surveyed Trudy with astonishment.
`But, my dear, I've just been telling you! Diana and Scott's engagement, of course! Everyone's expecting the announcement to be made on the night of the party. And Diana would make such a perfect bride - the first girl in the district to be married in the lovely little Memorial Church on the top of the hill!'
The stout woman went on to discuss with unconcealed interest, affairs relating to the various residents of the country district. But Trudy was scarcely listening. All at once she was in a fever of impatience to continue with her household chores. So much waited to be done. And as yet she hadn't even made a proper start! A fine way to begin the projection of her perfect-housekeeper image, which she was determined to achieve, must achieve if she were to force that hateful man into accepting the fact that Trudy Western was not merely decorative. She was definitely useful, indeed, indispensable!
Meantime she was imprisoned with this garrulous stranger who showed no signs of departure. At length, however, with the peculiarly graceful walk of the extremely overweight, the other woman swept majestically along the passage. And Trudy watched the yellow car brush its way beneath the tangle of shrubs overhanging the driveway.
Those grounds! Overgrown, untidy, tangled with vines
and untended shrubs. That was another item high on her agenda of successful accomplishments with which she would confront Scott. But at the moment she would have to concentrate on household duties. To think she hadn't yet fully explored the place!
As she strolled along the creeper-hung porch and peered into two small bedrooms adjoining her own, she reflected that Scott had been correct when he had told her that there was room to spare at Elsmore. At the memory of the reason the man had made that particular observation, she felt a surge of anger. But she thrust the mocking words aside and moved up the hall towards a small room that was obviously used as an office.
Adjoining it was a masculine bedroom, meticulously tidy. Trudy raised her glance to the pictures decorating the walls —one, a framed photograph of a Rugby team, captained by Scott Ballantyne, the other a colour print of a horse that Trudy recognized as the great chestnut stallion Scott had ridden at their first meeting.
Unconsciously her eyes raked the room in search of another picture, that of a tall, strong-featured girl. But such a picture, of course, would be kept in a drawer or pocket-book, somewhere more personal than a bureau top.
As she began vigorously making the bed, Trudy gave herself a mental shake. Whatever was the matter with her? It must surely be the fact that her employer made her so furiously angry that sparked this ridiculous interest in his personal affairs.
Closing the door firmly shut on the room and her emotions, she moved into the room opposite. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale pipe smoke, she flung the windows wide and began to tidy the books and magazines that littered the window seat of Fergus's room.
She paused, studying the pictured face of a pleasant-faced, grey-haired woman. No doubt this was a photograph of Fergus's wife. There was one other picture — that of a young man who bore a startling resemblance to Scott, except that the features were cast in a softer mould, the smile more gentle.
But on entering the lounge room, Trudy's first impression of dowdiness was confirmed. Wallpaper, once cream, had
deepened to a depressing shade of gingery-fawn. And those ugly, heavy drapes at the windows! With a swift movement, she jerked the maroon velvet folds to one side, revealing wide picture windows that looked out on to grounds and garden.
The sunshine streaming into the room exposed the long rents where the perished, dusty material had fallen apart in Trudy's handling. But she was unabashed by the torn fabric. A good excuse for new drapes, she told herself. And about time! She was tempted to pull the curtains down altogether, but decided to leave them hanging until she could get to town to purchase more suitable material. Distastefully she dislodged a spider who had built a nest in the window-frame and was now scuttling away.
Then, swooping down on the low coffee table, obviously in need of polish, she gathered up the discoloured plastic roses and stuffed them in her skirt pocket.
Almost without her volition
, her steps took her towards the massive old piano. But she resisted the impulse to try out the tone of the instrument, knowing that to do so Would be to yield to the temptation of the keys, so she contented herself with flicking away the coating of dust lying on the top of the instrument.
She stood surveying the room, reflecting that if she could discover a sewing machine in the house, this room could be made to look quite bright and cheerful, without a great deal of effort, or expense.
Delphinium blue and clear orange scatter cushions would accentuate the faded tones of the loose linen suite covers. Filmy white Terylene curtains at the windows would let in the sunlight. The walls could be painted in a cool grey shade. Then all that would be needed to complete the transformation would be one good picture to hang in place of the three china pheasants now flying in dreary formation across the end wall.
The chimes of the grandfather clock, that seemed to her to be so incongruous standing in the bare hall, brought Trudy back to the present.
Midday meant the preparation of lunch. She would beat up a fluffy omelette, to be served with grilled bacon and tomatoes.
But Scott, after all, didn't appear for the meal. He had gone out fencing in the back paddocks, taking a flask of tea and sandwiches with him, the older man informed Trudy.
She wondered if she were expected to prepare a cut lunch on these occasions. But Fergus reassured her. Not to worry, lass. He's been looking after himself lately — won't do him any harm, at that!'
As if she were worrying about him!
When she had cleared away the meal, Trudy started on a tour of the outbuildings.