by Gloria Bevan
As she went out of the back door, Fergus came to join her. `Looking for the laundry, lass? Rotary line's over there by the dividing fence and the rest of the doings are in here.' He flung open a door by the back steps and Trudy entered a small room, painted in sunny yellow, and complete with washing machine, drying cabinet and steam iron.
`We haven't needed a dryer much this winter,' the elderly man explained, 'but it comes in useful when we do get a downpour. And we're certainly due for it!'
As she eyed the modem labour-saving appliances, Trudy reflected that although the Ballantynes availed themselves of the necessities of comfortable living, there apparently their ideas of homemaking came to an end. Both men appeared content to make do in the house with whatever happened to be there when they had taken over the dwelling. It all seemed so bare, so — barrack like.
Suddenly Trudy was struck by an idea. She said with a smile, 'Don't mind my asking, will you? But when you came here from the South, did you bring anything from the other house? Furnishings, I mean. Curtains, cushions, mats — that sort of thing?'
The man clapped a hand to his thick white thatch. 'Bless me, it had all but slipped my mind! I've been meaning to look into that stuff and sort it out ever since we moved in. But somehow I never got around to it.'
Trudy glanced up at him with bright, interested eyes. 'You mean you've got goods stored away ?'
`Sure have, lass. And not too far away either! Come with me over to the shed at the back and I'll show you.'
He led the way across the yard towards the cluster of outbuildings, and flung open wide double doors. Trudy, peering into the dim interior, could see the cartons and boxes piled high in the shed, many still tied with the ropes from the journey.
`Makes you think, doesn't it?' The elderly man followed Trudy's curious gaze. 'We've been here for months and I've never done anything about all this. Guess we just got used to making do up at the house.'
`You've never bothered to unpack them?'
The old man turned his head aside, but not before Trudy had surprised the misty look in his eyes. 'Never got around to it, lass. I guess if Mum had been with us it would have been a whole lot different. But she - well, she died of a heart attack the day we moved in here. So—'
`I understand,' Trudy said swiftly. 'All the same,' she added, softly, 'the house would be so much more comfortable... . And it would be pleasant, surely, to have your own things around you?'
`You've got something there, lass. I guess it's just that I've put off the unpacking. Sort of painful, I guess.'
Only a few months - Trudy's thoughts ran swiftly. It wasn't long. Not long enough, evidently, for time to have healed the wound. For the lonely widower, it was a painful duty to go through the packed boxes. But there was no reason why she shouldn't do it. Indeed, she gained the impression that the elderly man was pleased at the prospect of having his own belongings around him once more.
`But this is marvellous!' exulted Trudy, staring around her. `Do you mind if I have a look and see what I can find for the house?'
`Go right ahead, lass. Is there anything special—'
`Carpeting ... mats ... floor-coverings!' Trudy said promptly. 'Something for that long hall. It looks so - so unwelcoming—' the smile took the sting from the words `—and if you have anything in that line—'
`Must be here somewhere ... Eva packed up most of the stuff. We'd sold up the old place and she was looking forward to coming North. But she—' He blew his nose. 'Mats, you said? Here we are! Hall runner, the name on the box says. Eva marked all the contents on the containers. She was always one to do a job properly.'
Reaching upwards, he pulled from a stack a large wooden box and with the claw of the hammer, lifted the nails.
`Wait a minute, I'll put it out in the sun. Could do with an airing!'
He dragged the long strip of grey carpeting out on to the red gravel of the yard. Trudy, catching sight of a yard broom in the nearby shed, began sweeping away the clouds of dust. When she had finished, the result was more than satisfactory -a length of good unworn carpeting in a neutral colour that should cover most of the length of the passageway.
`Anything else in that crate?' Trudy called. 'The lounge carpet in the house isn't the best, do you think?'
`You're dead right, lass. Let's have a look!'
`Here we are!' The man dragged out a roll of matching grey carpeting. 'Should just about fit the lounge . . . I'll throw it over the line and beat the dust out.'
`Just what we needed!' Trudy said 'Luckily it's a square and not a length of body carpet!'
She turned back towards the treasure trove of crates and boxes, picking up a flat, oblong package. 'This one is labelled "Picture". Sounds interesting. Would you—'
But the pocket knife held in the wrinkled brown hand was already snipping the strings binding the oblong box.
Trudy pushed aside the protective covering of tissue paper and stared down at the framed picture in her hands. 'But this is really something!' Kneeling on the concrete floor, she held the watercolour at arm's length. 'It's just a stark impression really . . . a lonely stretch of beach, sand-dunes, dried tussock grass blowing in the wind. And yet somehow—'
`Somehow you can just about feel the heat waves rising from it,' the man put in, bending down to look over Trudy's shoulder.
`That's it!' she agreed. 'It seems to shimmer with sunshine. It's quite uncanny, the way the impression comes through so strongly. Hot, dry wind . . . high summer . I wonder who the artist is?' Her eyes moved over the scene. 'There's no signature. Not even initials.'
`That's one of Wilf's.' The low voice was tinged with pride and pain. 'My older boy.'
Trudy glanced up swiftly. 'Surely he was a professional painter?'
`No, Wilf was a doctor. Painting was just a hobby with him.'
`But it's wonderful!' Trudy said warmly. 'It should be hung where everyone can see it.' Something in the set line of the
man's jaw made her add hesitatingly: 'That is, if you'd like to have—'
`Of course I want Wilf's pictures around,' Fergus said brusquely. 'Hand it to me, lass. I'll give it a clean up while you carry on here. There's a lot of stuff in that wooden crate over there – china and ornaments. Time it saw daylight again.'
As the man moved away, Trudy turned her attention to the large crate. China! That sounded promising!
As she drew out the exquisite Japanese tea-set, so fragile that she could glimpse the shadow of her hand through the cups, Trudy realized that Scott's mother had undoubtedly possessed good taste. Perhaps she had travelled in the East, for there was an Oriental influence in the ornaments that Trudy lifted out from the box – a great brass gong, wooden wind bells, an exquisite Chinese vase, a lamp with a base of flowered china.
She delved deeper and lifted out a cardboard box, filled with trophies. Each one, it seemed, was engraved with the name of Scott Ballantyne. The silver cups commemorated a variety of sporting events – Rugby, show jumping, snow sports. How proud Scott's mother must have been of him, Trudy mused as she tore away the soft tissue wrappings, to have packed each trophy with such loving care.
The long mantel in the lounge room would provide an excellent shelf for arranging these. She would attend to that matter first of all. The remainder of the unpacking could await her pleasure.
Carefully replacing china and ornaments in the crate, she carried the trophies into the house. And while Fergus was busy laying the carpet in the lounge, Trudy polished the silver cups to a brilliant sheen.
`Carpet's down!' the elderly man announced, coming to stand beside Trudy in the kitchen. 'Now for the picture! Just tell me where you want it and I'll screw in the hook.'
It was on the tip of the girl's tongue to advise that the scene be left until the walls were renovated, but at something in the man's eager gaze, she changed her mind. After all, a picture could always be re-hung. So she went with Fergus into the lounge and after a brief discussion it was agreed that the only possible place for the wat
ercolour was in the full light, above the piano.
Sweeping aside the litter of papers and guns lying on the mantel, Trudy arranged the glittering cups along the shelf. `These should brighten up the place rather.'
`Sure do. Well, I'll go and see what else I can find out there.' With a last lingering glance of pride at the picture, the man left the room.
Trudy moved towards the piano and lifted the lid. She ran experimental fingers over the keys. The instrument was in need of tuning, of course, but undoubtedly the tone was good.
She seated herself at the old-fashioned tapestry covered stool and soon a flood of melody cascaded through the sunlit room.
On and on . . . remembered tunes merged one into another as she played, forgetting everything else in the sheer joy of feeling the keys beneath her flying fingers once again.
The melodies merged from grave to gay as the music poured from her fingers. She was lost in a world of sound, unconscious of time, of anything else, until, glancing up from the rippling keys, she was abruptly aware of the tall man in dust-stained shirt and shorts, who lounged in the open doorway.
`You play very well, Miss Western.'
How long had Scott been standing there, watching — and listening? For in that one swift glance his expression had told her that he was listening attentively.
`Don't stop,' he said in his deep, attractive tones. 'I'm enjoying it. Especially that last one . . . what was it? Clair de Lune?'
She nodded, absurdly pleased at the appreciative note in the man's voice.
Thoughts chased one another swiftly through her mind. The fact that he recognized and enjoyed the music proved that he must, after all, have another, more human side to his nature. Maybe she had been a little harsh in her judgment of him. He had obviously enjoyed her playing, and had even told her so! It was possible that, given a common interest, they might in time become — well, not friends exactly — their mutual antagonism was too easily sparked for that, but at least come to understand each other a little better.
`Were you there — all the time?'
Wouldn't have missed it! It's not often we get a chance to hear music like that, up here in the hills. I'd say that you
were pretty well up to professional standard.'
`I suppose so.. . .' Trudy nodded carelessly, obscurely gratified at the warm note of praise in the man's tones. 'Actually,' she went on with a smile, 'I only intended to come in here for a moment or so, but I made the mistake of sitting down at the piano to try out the tone. And that was it!'
`Oh, don't apologize, Miss Western! I'm delighted to find that you're so proficient!'
Trudy couldn't help the quick, pleased expression that lighted her face.
`You are?' Perhaps he too was musically inclined. Maybe even he loved music as she did herself. After all, there must surely be some chink in his armour of cold indifference.
She made a gesture towards the floor. 'What do you think of the improvements in here?' she inquired lightly. 'Your father was telling me about all the furnishings and ornaments and what have you, stored out in the shed. He found the grey carpet, laid it down in no time at all. And put up - that!' Her glance indicated the stark beach scene, hanging above.
`So I see.' Striding across the room, the man studied the watercolour. We were camped up in the sandhills that Christmas holiday, Wilf and I—' For a moment it was as if he were talking to himself. 'Just like old Wilf to pack his precious paintbox and forget to bring the tent-pegs! After I'd gone all the way back to town to collect them, I told him he owed me that scene. But I still had the devil's own job to prise it off him.'
In a swift movement he swung around and perched his long length on the arm of a big upholstered chair.
`Cigarette?' He extended the packet towards her. 'You know,' he remarked, as the lighted match flared between them, `you've really got talent!' He surveyed Trudy with a mixture of surprise and reluctant admiration. 'I had no idea.'
`Thank you.' She leaned back on the stool, one elbow resting on the piano ledge. 'You're interested in music?' The greeny-blue eyes were alight with animation.
The man took his time before answering. 'You could put it that way - ever played in public?'
A tide of pleasure swept over her. So he did have another side to his nature, this arrogant, domineering male. And that it should be that of music, her own true love!
She nodded, watching the smoke rise among the dancing motes in the sunshine. 'A little.' She smiled companionably. `But only when I'm forced into it.'
He leaned towards her. 'Look,' he said persuasively, 'would you let me force you into it? Just for one night?' And as she opened her lips in protest, he went on quickly, 'A friend of mine's been canvassing the district trying to contact someone to accompany a singer at a party that's coming off here in a few weeks' time. If you could help out, she'd make it well worth your while.'
Trudy jerked herself upright, her arm slipping on to the keyboard with a discordant crash. All the latent hostility she'd felt towards this man returned with a rush, the more intense because of its temporary abeyance.
The next moment she told herself that it was ridiculous to feel so - so let down. It was her own stupid fault that she'd allowed herself to be misled. What lunatic hope had impelled her to imagine, even for a few moments, that he might - he just might - perhaps be different from her first impression? That she might have misjudged him. As if Scott Ballantyne could ever be other than maddeningly, deliberately offensive!
It was all too clear now that his sole interest in her musical ability was a means to an end. To him she was merely a convenience, her musical talents something to be used in the form of a gift for that spoilt, imperious red-haired girl, in the same manner as a man might offer an orchid . . . a silver flacon of perfume . . . Look, Diana, what I've brought you! A pianist, all readymade!
No need to knock the piano about,' he was saying, with his crinkly grin. Well, what do you say, Miss Western? Interested?'
`I'm sorry,' Trudy said, in a tight voice, 'but—'
`Oh, come now. Didn't you say you needed the money?'
`Not all that much! And besides,' she reminded him coldly, 'I mightn't even be here when your friend's party is held. I'm only here on trial, remember?'
`I haven't forgotten, don't worry.' He eyed her narrowly. `You're not nervous? It's not that, is it?'
`Of course not. Only—'
`Only you'd rather not. Why?'
She straightened her shoulders, tried to make her voice definite. 'I couldn't possibly—'
`Couldn't you?' He leaned towards her, a grin on the mobile lips, the tanned face so close that instinctively she shrank back. 'You'd enjoy it!'
Would I?' Enjoy being patronized by Scott's condescending girl-friend? Enjoy being ignored, except for the times when her services at the piano were required. 'And anyway,' she stared down at the glowing tip of her cigarette, 'what makes you so sure that your - friend will want me 'to play for her?'
`Well, there's only way to find out, isn't there,' he countered smoothly, 'and that's to go over and ask her. Tell you what -I have to take a trip over to her place tomorrow.' I'll bet you have, Trudy thought ironically. 'I'll take you with me. You two can talk it over ... find out the score. But Diana will be delighted about the whole set-up. You'll see!' He threw her one of those intent looks. 'How are you on horseback?'
`I've ridden - once or twice,' Trudy admitted.
`Good! That's a start! You can take Patsy. She's quiet enough.'
`How - far is it?' Trudy inquired faintly.
`No distance - five or six miles. Believe me, you'll like the trip ... nice bit of bush on the way over.' He smiled engagingly. 'Coming?'
`I suppose so,' Trudy said uncertainly.
`That's the idea!' Stubbing out his cigarette, he rose to his long, rangy height. 'Don't forget those slacks this time, will you? And by the way, do me a favour, will you?'
`Favour?'
`You can do as you please about the rest of the stuff o
ut in the shed. But get rid of this junk, will you—' he jerked a dark head in the direction of the scintillating mantelshelf - 'back in the shed. That's the place for it!'
Trudy stared at him. 'But I've just got them out! Don't you like them about?'
`Not particularly,' he returned coolly. 'Good grief,' he glanced down at the watch on the tanned wrist, 'you've kept me late, Miss Western!' With a derisive grin, he turned away, and Trudy heard his footsteps echoing down the bare boards of the hall.
Typical, Trudy thought with taut lips. He simply took it for granted that she would do as he wished.
She turned to close the lid of the piano and caught sight of her reflection in the fly-speckled mirror. Could that be herself, that grubby, untidy creature, a cobweb tangled in her hair, a long smear of dust across her face?
To think that it was mid-afternoon and she wasn't changed, wasn't even tidy. But her watch indicated the time as five o'clock! She stared down at it incredulously. It couldn't be. . . . She remembered taking note of the time when she had entered the room. Two-thirty. She must have been playing for hours, actually hours, without realizing it!
Not exactly the start you had in mind, is it? a mocking voice echoed in her mind. Scarcely the perfect housekeeper. Scarcely a housekeeper at all. What have you done in that direction today? A few essential household chores, prepared a couple of meals, rummaged through some crates and boxes. And here it is, time to cook the dinner, and you're still wearing that appalling outfit you threw yourself into before breakfast!
Hardly the way to impress the Ballantynes with your super-efficiency, would you say?
But out in the kitchen she was struck with a comforting thought. She mightn't be the perfect housekeeper — yet. But there was something she could do well, even in Scott Ballantyne's opinion, and that was to play the piano.
So why not accompany him to Diana's home tomorrow, as he'd suggested? Why not let them beg — Scott and Diana both — for her services at the party? But even as the thought crossed her mind, she recognized the absurdity of it. Scott would never beg. Oh no, he would merely order, and expect the order to be carried out.