by Gloria Bevan
Trudy aware that he had already learned the facts of the specialist's report.
Terry swallowed. 'Fine — now!'
Diana, impeccably clad in tailored stretch jodhpurs and yellow polo-necked jumper, ignored Trudy, except for a brief nod somewhere in her direction. 'You've just got to be fit for playing the dance music for me next month.'
He met her gaze steadily. 'I'll be there.'
We just zipped in for a moment,' Scott was saying. He swung around towards Trudy. 'How about it, Miss Western? Feel like hitting the road?'
`Oh, yes!' Trudy rose with alacrity. In Diana's company she was conscious of feeling nervous and ill at ease. How could it be otherwise when the other girl made a point of studiously avoiding speaking to her, when she regarded Trudy with that expression of smouldering dislike?
As they took the homeward track, Trudy half expected Diana, mounted on her mettlesome show-jumper Lady Luck, to canter on ahead. But the three horses paced quietly side by side on the rough metal.
At the turn-off to Diana's hilltop home, the other girl drew rein. Trudy drew to a halt uncertainly beside her.
`Coming, Scott?' Diana called imperiously.
But the man had continued along the road, and paused only to grin and throw over his shoulder, 'Sorry, not this time. Got the shearers coming tomorrow, remember?'
Diana sat motionless in the saddle, staring after him, the reins held loosely in her hand. Trudy was amazed to catch the glitter of tears in the small dark eyes. Tears — Diana?
The next moment Trudy was half aware of an odd, swishing sound. But before she could pinpoint it, she narrowly escaped being thrown to the ground, as the pony, ears flat to her head, gave a sudden leap forward and bolted wildly along the road.
It all happened so suddenly that Trudy was taken completely by surprise. She found herself slipping out of the saddle, and with a desperate jerk she pulled herself back. But her feet had lost the stirrups and the reins were flying loose. In desperation she clung to the black mane. Somehow, somehow, she must stay in the saddle.
There was a rushing in her ears and she was dimly aware
of hoofs pounding behind her, then the chestnut stallion was abreast of the galloping pony and Scott, reaching over to catch the dangling reins, brought both horses to a halt.
Ashen-faced, Trudy slipped to the ground.
`Are you all right?'
`I — guess so.' She was breathing hard. 'Get me — up again, or I never will.' Trembling violently, she pulled herself up into the saddle and grasped the reins, just as Diana came galloping up beside them.
`Looks as though everything's under control.' There was a baleful, triumphant expression in her eyes. 'You know, Scott, Patsy's too fresh. You should give her more exercise! See you!' She wheeled and cantered away.
`Okay now, Trudy?' Scott said gently.
She nodded and turned the pony back along the way they had come, a question thudding in her mind.
`Patsy never bolts — never has before, that is,' Scott was saying in a puzzled tone. 'I just don't get it.'
Not Patsy. Diana. The words echoed silently over Trudy's swiftly-beating heart. Now she recognized the meaning of the shred of sound that had assailed her ears a split second before the mare had bolted along the highway. The sound of a riding crop swishing through the air, to descend with vicious force across the rump of an unsuspecting pony.
But why should Diana do such a thing? Why should she bear a comparative stranger such ill-will?
All at once, like a close-up on a movie screen, the other girl's shocked, disappointed face flashed on the mental screen of her mind. So that was it! Scott! She actually imagined that Scott — that she — Trudy's soft lips twisted ruefully. If Diana only knew how little she had to fear from her!
Suddenly she was tired of it all, swept by a pang of homesickness. Only how could you be homesick for a home you no longer possessed? What was she doing here, among strangers? Already she had made an enemy — a dangerous one. And there was enmity between herself and the man riding at her side. Was it worth sticking it out, merely for the sake of her own satisfaction? She was a city girl. Why try to change herself into something she wasn't? She'd tell Scott tonight, she decided, that she'd changed her mind, that she was leaving Elsmore and its environs for ever. That at least, she
thought drearily, should please him.
`Don't throw it in, Trudy.'
With a guilty start, she stared across at him, wide-eyed, `I—'
`Riding, I mean. You shouldn't, you know. You've got the makings of a good rider. Pity to pack it up. And Patsy won't put on a show like that again, I promise you. Something must have scared the very devil out of her to make her take off like a tornado! Well, no harm done. With a bit of luck you'll be up at four in the morning, when the shearing starts!' The startlingly blue eyes in the bronzed, laughing face were bright with challenge. 'That is, if you still feel you can cope?'
Trudy's startled gaze flew to meet the challenge in the man's eyes. Was it possible that he sensed her decision to `throw it in'? To leave Elsmore forever? Perhaps, all unconsciously, her downcast expression and drooping lips had betrayed her thoughts. But he couldn't know the real reason for her sudden change of heart - the suspicion that was almost a certainty in her mind. And she would never tell him.
But - her flagging spirits rose to the challenge - allow her employer to imagine that a few brief moments of peril as she clung to a bolting horse were sufficient to frighten her away from Maketu? Admit that he had been correct in his unflattering, snap judgment of her character? No, she wouldn't concede him the victory!
So she braced slim shoulders and lifted a rounded chin. `Oh, I'm not worrying about Patsy,' she said coolly. 'And as to the shearers—' she urged her mount to a jerky trot and threw back over her shoulder, 'F-four - o'clock - in the morning, you said? I'll be there!'
`That's the spirit! We're kind of depending on you, you know!' It wasn't the truth, of course. He was mocking her, making fun of her fumbling, inexperienced ways. Nevertheless, the words made her pause and think again on the matter of her recent decision. Was it fair to leave Elsmore just now, right in one of the most hectic, busiest times of the season? After all, a day or so longer wouldn't make much difference. She'd postpone giving Scott notice of leaving until the completion of the shearing. What did it matter? Now that she knew her time here was so short, Scott's derisive shafts would be
powerless to hurt her.
On reaching the house paddock, they turned the horses loose and Trudy went with Scott to the harness shed, where they hung up the bridles and saddles.
A little later, showered and wearing a brilliantly Hawaiian-patterned shift, light sandals on her feet, Trudy entered the spotless kitchen.
Fergus greeted her, holding in his wrinkled brown hand an unfamiliar fruit that he had taken from a bowl on the table. `Ever come across these in your travels, Trudy?'
She shook her head. 'What is it? Oh, I know! These are the fruit I saw hanging like little long-shaped red balloons in the orchard. They were on that funny-looking tree with the straight, bare trunk.'
`You've guessed it. I picked a few for you to use. Why don't you try one?'
He took a knife from the drawer and sliced into the ruby-red satiny flesh. And Trudy dug a spoon into the fleshy centre. `Mmm, nice. I wonder - could they be stewed, do you think?'
`I don't see why not!'
`Me either. I'm going to have a try, anyway.'
Trudy whipped up a light sponge mixture and spooned it over the hot fruit in the transparent, oven-proof pie-dish. When she peeped through the glass oven door half an hour later, she was delighted to see that the topping had risen high over the fruit.
`Now that,' Fergus remarked appreciatively later, from his place at the head of the long table, 'is what I call a meal! Tender lamb chops, green peas, pumpkin, roast potatoes done to a turn, all topped off by that delectable confection—' he eyed the remains of the golden, sugar-dredged sponge crust with the sw
eet-sour red filling. 'Served with ice cream and thick dairy cream, it was really something!'
`I'll say!' the two farm lads agreed with enthusiasm. 'We used to have oodles of tree tomatoes on our farm further north,' Bruce said. 'Used to skin the tree. They ripened late in the season when most other fruit was over. But Mum never thought of making them into pies.'
With your appetite,' Gary said with his slow smile, 'she probably never had the chance! Say, haven't they got a new
name?'
That's right,' the thin dark youth grinned. 'Tamarillos. Sounds a whole lot more glamorous than tree-tomatoes, wouldn't you say? Kinda Spanish Tropical. ...'
Over coffee the two argued interminably, their talk drifting invariably back towards the prospects of surfing in the swelling cumbers of the ocean coast, at the coming week-end. The technicalities of climatic changes, wind directions, ocean swells - their conversation was laced with odd-sounding surfing terms that rang strangely in Trudy's ears. Pearling.. . a wipe-out ... a set ... a ding....
'I say, Miss Western,' Gary's plump face with the permanently blistered nose, turned eagerly towards Trudy, 'when are you coming to watch us ride the rollers?'
`Yeah! You said.'
'I did?' Trudy looked mystified.
`You did! You promised!' the two young voices chorused accusingly.
Bruce appealed to his friend. 'Remember, Gary? Last night it was. I distinctly heard her say—'
`All right, all right,' Trudy smiled placatingly, 'you can count me in! Just guarantee me a fine day and some transport.' She added thoughtfully: 'But isn't the coast a long way from here?'
`Long way? A mere ninety miles! And we've got the old bomb - at least, I think she'll be on the road again by then.'
`It's a date, then,' Trudy said with a smile 'As long as I get fine weather on my first week-end off.'
`Fine weather! Don't you know,' Bruce said, 'that they call this part of the country the Winterless North?'
Gary said eagerly: 'Your first week-end off? When's that?' The two surfers began an animated discussion as to dates and tides.
`Now that should be—' But before Bruce could complete the sentence, a deep, decisive voice cut in. 'Now get this straight, you two! Miss Western isn't going any place in that old jalopy of yours! When she wants to go to the coast I'll take her!'
There was a moment of startled silence. Then Bruce said cheerfully: 'We don't mind how she gets there, as long as she comes.'
But Trudy, though she made no sign, was seething with indignation. How dare Scott take it upon himself to answer for her! Even on such a trivial matter as a drive to the ocean beach, he wouldn't allow her to make up her own mind. But of course — how could she have forgotten? She wouldn't be here when her first free week-end in the month was due.
Wouldn't you think, Trudy scolded herself, that having made up her mind to leave Elsmore, she would at once feel free and relaxed? Yet, for some unknown reason, the opposite proved to be the case. This evening she felt restless and unsettled. For a time she joined Fergus in viewing the television programme, but her thoughts drifted back to her own problems, and at last she rose and went up the hall towards the lounge.
As she passed the slightly open door of the small office, she caught a glimpse of Scott. Seated at a desk, surrounded by sheafs of papers, he was frowning in concentration, his dark head bent over the open account books.
Years of florist work experience had made Trudy conversant with simple book-keeping. Probably she could be of some assistance to Scott in that direction. But she knew that he wouldn't welcome any offer of assistance at her hands. So instead she went on into the lounge and began to rip down the perished curtains from the windows. Then she unpicked the dusty hems and used the drapes as a guide for cutting into lengths the shimmering peacock green, iridescent silk.
Fergus had regretfully informed her that there was no sewing machine among the packages stored in the outside shed. But no matter, the curtains could be hemmed by hand. Trudy threaded a needle with matching silk and began to stab the needle through the fabric.
It wasn't until she had all but completed the last length of curtaining that she realized that it was the thought of Scott that was making her fingers jab with short, angry movements. Scott! How delighted he'd be to be proved right. How glad to know that he'd won, that she couldn't, after all, make good her wild promises.
It was late when at last Trudy completed the last curtain hem. Fergus, after watching the final television programme in the dining room, had retired. And the two farm helpers had long since gone to their quarters. Only in the small office off
the hall, a light still burned.
Trudy folded the lengths of shimmering silk carefully. She would put the curtains aside until she could — With a start she realized that the lounge room would probably not be repainted now. She thrust the thought aside. Of course someone else could take over the much-needed renovations. Someone, probably, much more skilful than herself. Fergus, perhaps. But deep down she knew that the older man would have no heart for the job, not without her encouragement and interest.
She tried to brush away the sense of regret. What was the matter with her tonight? She should be so delighted at the thought of escaping from this alien, antagonistic life at Elsmore.
But later, as she tossed and turned in bed, the thoughts kept coming ... the thoughts she did not wish to face.
Almost she'd become necessary here. Fergus — Bruce and Gary. In a way they were like a family, the father, the brothers, whom she had never had. Was it fair to let them down? What nonsense! She thumped her pillow, swung it over. There were other housekeepers, more knowledgeable, more efficient by far.
If it weren't for Scott — Scott! Why did her mind always return to him?
She tried to concentrate on that other life, on the other side of the world, but somehow it had become strangely shadowy and unreal. At last she drifted into an uneasy slumber, to dream of great creamy flowers, splashed against the background of darkness.
Through the mists of sleep something plucked at her mind. Flowers! Realization flooded her, jerking her to full awareness. No wonder she had blossoms on her mind. The night-blooming cactus! By now it could be in full flower, even, perhaps, already over — its brief blooming spent. Seeing that she was leaving so soon, if she missed the opportunity of seeing the blossoms open, she might miss it for ever.
In any case, it was useless courting sleep now. She was wide awake. She'd go and view the plant now — this minute. At this hour of the morning, there'd be no one else about.
She slipped out of bed, pulling a pale blue quilted nylon brunchcoat over her filmy nightdress, and dropped a flash-
light in the pocket. Then she moved along the moon-washed verandah and down the steps.
Under the silvered shadows of the trees in the orchard, the heavy dew was wet beneath her bare feet as she sped across the grass towards the clearing among the great upthrusting spears of wild ginger.
Even before she reached it, she caught sight of the blossom in the moonlight. Rising from a fleshy, three-sided stem, the great creamy-white flowers looked almost luminous. Trudy bent down and shone the torch on their delicate, waxen beauty.
It was very still. Only the now familiar 'more-pork' — the cry of the native owl, somewhere in the trees above — disturbed the silence. And then something, some slight sound, made her turn, and she caught the glowing red of a lighted cigarette, not far away.
She sprang to her feet, snapping off the flashlight, but it was too late. Already someone else had entered the moonlit garden. A tall shadow was moving along the path towards her. She froze, seized with panic. If it were Scott . . . He thought her stupid enough already, but to be discovered wandering alone in the garden in the early hours of the morning. ...
She glanced wildly around for a way of escape. That dark form was Scott, she was certain of it.
But there was no gate at this end of the garden, and the vine-hung fence was too high to scale. She was t
rapped here — with him! She didn't pause to ask herself why it should matter so much that Scott should find her here. She only knew that instinct told her to run. And there was nowhere to run to! All she could do was to hurry forward, pass him, make some absurd excuse for wandering the grounds in her night attire.
But something about the steadily advancing figure warned her that she wouldn't escape so easily.
She drew the blue coat around her and, head bent, hurried along the moon-silvered path.
`Trudy!' Unaccountably, she felt her heart plunge. She made to dodge past the man standing on the narrow, overgrown pathway, but a strong, sinewy arm shot out and barred her frantic rush.
Breathlessly, she pulled herself free and stood looking
defiantly up into the dark, inscrutable face.
`You must think I'm crazy,' she heard herself say in a low tremulous tone. The fact that his face was in shadow gave her the courage to go on. 'It was just that I wanted to see —a flower,' she stammered. 'It only blooms for one night, so I came out. I thought .. tonight ... maybe.'
'I know.' The vibrant voice was warm with an unexpected tenderness that did things to her heart. Things she didn't want to face, just now. 'So Dad told me! I guessed that's what you were up to. I thought I'd take a look too. Where is it, anyway? Down at the end of the orchard?'
`You — want to see it?' Trudy was so amazed she could scarcely get the words out. Hitherto he hadn't evinced the slightest interest in the flower garden. Then something struck her. Did he really wish to glimpse the rare bloom, or was he simply attempting to delay her, to torment her for his own amusement?
`Why not? It's my garden, after all,' he pointed out, reasonably enough. 'And my — what do you call it — cactus.'
So Trudy had no option but to turn and retrace her steps. `It's this way.' She moved nervously ahead of him until she neared the great creamy blossom. 'That bloom down there.'