by Gloria Bevan
She made to flash the torch, but he took the flashlight from her nerveless grip. 'No, I can see well enough. Quite a sight!' Only, Trudy realized wildly, he had given the blossom no more than a cursory glance. It was her own face, a pale blur in the moonglow, on which his gaze was fixed. 'You know,' he was saying, in that intimate heart-catching tone, 'I've quite an eye for beauty.'
She was trembling uncontrollably and prayed that the darkness would hide her agitation.
The situation, she knew, was moving into dangerous waters. And most of all, it was her own traitorous feelings that were fast heading out of control.
He took a step towards her and she caught the gleam of his eyes in the moonlight. 'Trudy, you're trembling.'
A warning bell rang in her mind. This is danger. But her wildly tumultuous senses were warning enough.
She pushed back the black hair, blowing over her face in the night wind. 'I've got to go,' she said breathlessly.
`Do you really want to?' He leaned over her and somehow,
somehow, Trudy found herself in the dark shelter of his arms. The lean face was bent towards her lips. A wild wind of excitement rushed through her, shaking her from head to foot, and a whole orchestra of notes pealed wildly all around her.
Time ceased to matter. Nothing mattered but this moment of ecstasy. And then, at last, she came back to reason.
This man who affected her with a delight that was half pleasure, half pain, was in love with someone else. What did it matter to him if he were to marry one girl and to make love to another? But it mattered to her. Oh, it mattered a lot more than she cared to admit!
`Let me go!' She wrenched herself away and turning sharply, ran stumbling, across the dew-laden grass until she reached the track and at last gained the sanctuary of her own room.
How dared he! How dared he! He was even more despicable than she had thought.
Oh, she hated him! Hated him!
One thing was plain. She couldn't leave here as she had planned. Not when it meant giving Scott the mistaken idea that it was his caress that had sparked her sudden decision to give notice.
No doubt he would believe that she was running away from him, afraid of his undeniable masculine attraction -worse still, afraid of her own feelings, where he was concerned. Her cheeks flamed in the darkness at the remembrance of her own instinctive response to Scott's disturbing nearness.
Blame the moonlight for that! Moonlight, and the shock of finding him there in the garden. After all, it was nothing really. Only a kiss.
But a kiss could shake your world!
Excited, confused, torn by conflicting emotions, Trudy was still awake when the alarm bell shrilled beside her. She put out a hand to switch it off, her mind alerted to something that must be done. Of course - the shearing gang was due to arrive today!
Rising, she moved to the window and parting the curtains, stood looking out on a dark world, pricked by a single point of light - the naked electric bulb glowing in the big shearing shed below. The next moment the lights of a truck swept in a
wide arc across the drive and she caught the murmur of male voices and heard the barking of sheep dogs.
Trudy dressed hurriedly and ran into the lighted kitchen, where she found Fergus, his snowy hair tousled and a checked woollen robe swirling around his ankles.
`Hello, Trudy!' He was buttering massive slabs of sliced bread. 'Kettle's boiling. Better use the king-sized teapot today.' Trudy nodded and reached up to a shelf above her head for the huge aluminium teapot that she had never before made use of.
`Shove in plenty of tea,' Fergus directed. 'These blokes aren't exactly dainty at shearing time — here they come now, bound for the washroom. What d'you bet they're taking turns on the weighing machine?'
Trudy refilled the electric jug and plugged it into the switch. She threw Fergus a quick glance, but he appeared to be perfectly serious. 'Weight problem — shearers?'
Fergus chuckled. 'Fact. In their game, they've got to keep their weight up — their strength too.'
Trudy eyed the mounting pyramid of thickly-buttered slabs of bread. She said: 'Well, I'd say that you were doing your best to help them out there.' She set out the thick white breakfast cups on the table. 'Shall I pour out now?'
Fergus nodded. 'Have it ready, bang on! They don't allow themselves an extra minute when they're on the job, these gangs.'
Trudy was filling the last cup when the muscular figures crowded in at the doorway. All were men of magnificent physique, deeply tanned, the powerful shoulder muscles rippling above their black sweat shirts. To Trudy it seemed that the three northern Maoris, with their pleasant, relaxed air and smiling, good-natured faces, were only a shade less bronzed than the two Europeans in the shearing gang.
With light banter and jokes, the men swooped on the table. Trudy was amazed to see the piles of bread and butter disappear as if by magic.
Involuntarily her gaze went past the group, searching for Scott. But he was standing at the rear, obviously arranging for the morning's work and intent on the matter in hand.
She didn't know whether she was glad or sorry that he hadn't looked her way. Indeed, stealing a glance at the
strong profile as he filed out with the shearers, Trudy told herself that almost she could have dreamed that scene in the moonlit garden. Almost.
Immediately the shearing gang had left the room, Trudy began making preparations for the morning meal.
`Never mind the fruit juices,' Fergus told her. 'Get cracking with the real filling stuff. Porridge, eggs, bacon, toast, swags of jam. I'll give you a hand.'
It seemed to Trudy no time at all before the men were back again, filling the dining room with their good-natured jibes and deep male laughter; consuming vast quantities of the food that she had mistakenly imagined must be far in excess of what was required.
`Good girl,' Fergus complimented her as she cleared away the empty plates, cups and cutlery. 'Takes some doing, getting the grub on the table on the dot of seven-thirty. Smoko's next. That's at ten sharp. Think you can rustle up some scones?'
Trudy nodded, thankful for the practice she had gained in baking during the short time she had been on the sheep station. Scones at least she was confident of making with some success.
But when she opened the oven door, she stared aghast at the flat shapes lying on the oven tray. 'Fergus!' she shrieked in dismay, 'I've forgotten the baking powder! And there's no time to make any more!'
But it seemed that today Fergus was equal to any emergency. What the hell does it matter?' he returned cheerfully. `Slap 'em on the plate. They're hot and they're fresh, aren't they? They'll go down just the same as any others. You'll see!' He flashed her an encouraging smile.
And to Trudy's amazement, the hard, thin shapes disappeared with unbelievable speed. She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heaven for work-sharpened appetites!
Trudy found herself wondering helplessly how she could possibly manage to produce lunch on time. Today the hours were flying by like minutes. But Fergus helped enormously, both with good advice and practical assistance. 'Salad's the thing for midday,' he advised. 'Something cool. The heat down there in the shed's terrific. I've cut some lettuces from the garden and gathered tomatoes. And there's that cold mutton in the fridge.' He took in Trudy's tense, flushed
appearance. 'Don't worry. You're doing fine. Oh, by the way—'
Trudy, hurriedly taking advantage of a few spare moments, barely glanced up from her task of sweeping the tiled floor. `That cactus flower you were so keen to see open,' Fergus said. 'I had a quick look at it this morning, and damme if someone hadn't trodden it into the ground. By the look of it it had been in full bloom too. Bad luck!'
Like my feeling for Scott. The thought pierced her mind and for a moment her flying fingers were arrested. A brief blooming, soon to be crushed out of existence. For she must crush any tender feelings she had for Scott. She must.
She sighed and turned her attention to the lettuces that Fergus had placed on the
sink bench.
Somehow, the great glass bowls of lettuce salad, cool and attractive with their wedges of tomatoes, were on the table as the clock struck midday. After the meal was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Trudy placed in a baking dish in the oven a great roast of mutton, in anticipation of the evening meal.
Somehow, on the stroke of three, she managed to have `afternoon smoko' in readiness. Tea, hot and strong, was waiting in the huge teapot, accompanied by plates heaped high with mounds of pikelets. Mercifully the outsized rounds had come from the electric fry-pan fluffy and golden. Somehow today Trudy didn't think she could face a second baking failure.
`How about some of these for dinner tonight? They're pretty popular with the gang.' A little later Fergus entered the kitchen, holding in his wrinkled hand a woven green flax kit that bulged with what appeared to Trudy to be great purple-coloured potatoes.
She regarded the kit doubtfully. What are they? How do
`No trouble. You just peel 'em and chuck 'em into the hot fat with the roast. They're a kind of sweet potato - Kumera, we call them. The Maoris prefer them to any other vegetable. Chances are you'll feel the same way once you've tried them.'
`Did you grow them yourself ?' Trudy asked curiously.
Fergus shrugged. 'No need to grow them around these parts of the country. The Maoris make a living from them. Feel like cooking some today?'
`Why not?' Trudy peeled the skin of the vegetables, exposing the firm, yellow, purple-veined flesh.
Slicing the late crop of beans took time, but at last they were bubbling in a saucepan on the electric range, and the great pie dishes of rice pudding would take care of the dessert.
When the gang returned, sweat-soaked and weary, for the last meal of the day, Trudy put out a supply of clean towels in the washroom, and soon she heard the shower running.
A little later, showered and cheerful, the men filed into the dining room.
They ate with gusto. There were appreciative grins and loud remarks concerning the incredible luck of the Ballantyne men, in acquiring a housekeeper who was not only a super cook but a good-looker as well! Once the meal ended, however, the men lost no time in moving outside, and a few minutes later Trudy heard the truck start up and move away.
But still she sat motionless at the littered table, aware, now that the day's tension had lessened, of aching muscles and a dreadful weariness.
`Just about had it?' Scott was standing in the doorway, watching her.
Quickly she sprang to her feet, forced a wan smile to her lips. 'I'll get used to it, I guess.'
`Look,' he strode towards her, 'pack it up for tonight! You clear off to bed. Dad and I can take care of this lot.'
But doggedly she shook her head. Wearily she pushed away the strands of hair that had escaped from the confining ribbon. She couldn't meet that direct gaze now, not after last night. Embarrassment made her voice cold and stiff. 'Thanks, but I can manage.'
`As you wish.' He swung on his heel, and Trudy, blinking away the tears of fatigue and misery, willed herself to fresh energy as she braced herself to attack the mountain of greasy dishes piled haphazardly over the sink bench.
The next two days flew by in a frantic effort to meet the deadline of meals ... meals ... more meals. Her feet ached with the long hours of standing, and at night it seemed that she had scarcely dragged herself to bed before the alarm called her to yet another pre-dawn rising.
But the last day of the shearing came at last, and with it, a slight easing of her duties. Or perhaps she was getting her-
self better organized. She even managed to find time to go down to the shed herself.
The floor was slippery with grease from the wool — the reason, she realized, why the men wore on their feet sacking moccasins, laced with baling twine.
`They make them themselves, in the evenings,' Fergus followed her glance. 'Look, that's Rousie.' Trudy glanced across at the well-built man who shot out a tanned muscular arm and captured a sheep from the pen. 'And that's Fleeco — the one picking up the fleeces from the floor.'
But Trudy was fascinated by the sight of the Maori shearers, sweat trickling in rivulets down their shoulders, as they bent over the sheep and sheared away the thick, creamy fleece.
Already a number of bales were being fastened and stencilled with the large black letters, 'ELSMORE'. Tomorrow all the wool would be piled on a truck and transported to town.
Tomorrow . . . It seemed to Trudy that she had spent the last few days in a battle against time. On two occasions she had answered the telephone, to hear Paul's deep tones. But caught up in the endless round of food preparation and serving, she had cut him short with a promise to get in touch with him once the shearing gang had left Elsmore.
On the last evening, as the shearers' dust-stained truck disappeared over the far hills, Trudy answered the phone, expecting to hear Paul's rich tones. But it was Terry who answered her.
`Didn't call you before,' he said in his light, pleasant tones, `thought you might have been kind of caught up.'
Trudy smiled wryly. 'How did you guess ?'
`That bad?' he asked with swift sympathy.
`Oh, not really. It's just that I'm not used to such — healthy appetites. At the moment I never want to see food again. Not in vast quantities anyway. Don't let's talk about it. Tell me, how's the composing coming along?'
`Not too bad.' But he sounded elated. 'I guess you must have inspired me. I've just hammered out another country style ballad. That is, I've got the tune rolling. After that, the words will come. Want to hear it?'
`As long as it's not about shearing sheds!'
`Sorry. It's a little thing called Silver Shears and Golden
Fleece. But you'll like it. Honestly. It goes something like this. ...'
The whistled bars of melody were drowned in a sudden crackling over the wire.
`Got it?'
`Not really.'
`Didn't think you could. But look — can you hear me now?' `Perfectly.'
`Right. What I really rang for was to pass on a message. A spot of recreation, that's what you need. And that's what's offering! Tomorrow night, at eight. Seems the local girls are putting on a barn dance in the woolshed at Jill McIvor's place, just down the road from us. They asked me to pass the word along to you. Seems that all the crowd will be there — except my cousin Diana's taking off to Auckland on a shopping spree. What it is to be rich! Well, think you can make it?'
Trudy hesitated. At the moment, dancing was the last thing she felt like. Still, it would be an experience. And the local girls had taken the trouble to seek her out and invite her to the gathering. On a sudden thought she said: 'Will you be there?'
Will I? It isn't a hop around these parts without Terry Page and his Revellers to provide the sound effects,' he informed her gaily. 'Oh, Trudy, I've made a couple of alterations to the score of Maketu. Going to try it out with the drums, at the barn dance, to see how it goes over. I'd rather like to get your opinion on it.'
Trudy laughed. 'Now I'll really think about coming!' `Great! See you.'
She turned thoughtfully away from the telephone. Maybe her drooping spirits weren't altogether due to fatigue. Maybe it was because of Scott and the memory of his kiss that she couldn't seem to banish from her thoughts. Perhaps if she were to go out dancing, she'd forget ... forget.
It wasn't the type of entertainment that she could imagine Scott being attracted to, so she need have no worry on that score. Deep down inside her, something stirred. Why should you dread meeting Scott there so much? Don't you trust yourself to dance with him?
When Trudy entered the living room on the following evening, she was immediately struck by the mingled fragrance
of after-shave lotion, soap and hair oil. She scarcely recognized the two young men who were anxiously inspecting their reflections in the mirror over the mantel.
Gary's thatch of sun and wind-bleached blond hair was slicked firmly down over his forehead. His scarlet cotton shirt was freshly laund
ered; the light slacks he wore were pressed in knife-like creases.
Her glance moved to Bruce's neat, dark jacket. Then her gaze flickered over the freckled, smoothly-shaven skin and stopped short as she took in the unfamiliar jagged crew-cut.
`Don't say it,' he groaned. 'I know it's a mess! Thanks to Gary here! He would send off to town for this electric haircutting outfit - it's the last time I'll trust him with any "do-it-yourself" ideas!'
`Got to get some practice in somehow.' The plump, fair lad was adjusting a shoe-string tie. 'And you did ask me to give you a haircut.'
Bruce rolled his eyes upwards. 'Haircut!' he said. 'And brother, look what I finished up with! Jealousy, that's all it is! He wants to ruin my chances - cut me out with the girls at the hop tonight. Say,' he turned towards Trudy with his shy smile, 'why don't you come along with us?'
`You mean to the barn dance over at McIvor's woolshed?' Trudy enquired.
`Where else? Oh, I guess it's not much of a show after London nightspots. But seeing that you're here, on the spot—' `And there isn't much else doing—'
`Come on, Miss Western, give it a whirl! You'll have a ton of fun!'
`Why not?' Suddenly weariness fled. Maybe, Trudy reflected, Terry had been correct in suggesting that it was recreation, rather than rest, that was the answer to her physical fatigue.
`You'll have to put me in the picture, though. What do they wear - the girls, I mean - to this sort of entertainment?'
Bruce stared at her blankly. 'Ask Gary, he's the expert.'
The fair-haired youth considered the question. `Aw, sort of casual things,' he volunteered. 'You know?' He waved a work-stained hand. 'Skirts, blouses, sneakers. Barn-dance stuff, if you get me?'
Trudy nodded. 'Give me ten minutes to change and I'll
be with you.'
`Whee!' They let out a whoop of delight.
`I'll go and give the old crate a look over,' Gary said. But at the door he stopped short and turned back, biting a thumbnail thoughtfully. 'Gee, I've just had a thought. Is the boss about?'