by Gloria Bevan
`Onera? Wherever's that?'
`Search me! Probably so small that we'll go right past it in the dark and never recognize it. Well, what do you say ?'
She hesitated. The odd sense of hurt still lingered, though why she should be hurt over Scott was a mystery. Scott, who had warned her about seeing too much of this man. But what did it matter to Scott Ballantyne what she did? Why should she consider him, or the unsolicited advice he persisted in handing out to her?
She flashed a quick, upward smile. 'It might be fun.'
`It will be, I promise you!' They emerged from the dim green light into the bright sunlight of the yard. And the man paused beside the sports car standing in the driveway. 'Pick you up about nine.'
Trudy nodded. For a second, as the car turned in the driveway, she had an impulse to change her mind, but she crushed it down. After all, Scott Ballantyne didn't know everything!
As Trudy hurried up the front steps, she met Sharon, gay and attractive in a bold and brilliant shift. She jingled the car keys from her fingers. 'Have you rung the order through to the home cookery?'
Trudy nodded. 'They promised to have everything ready this morning, when you call.'
`I'll be on my way, then!' While the other girl backed the big car out of the garage, Trudy returned to the littered kit-
chen. Swiftly she spread the slices of cut bread with colourful ribbons of filling — salmon, chives, egg, celery, tomato. And at length stacked the small triangles in mounds on thin china plates.
Once the mountain of crusts was cleared away, she mixed a batch of scones, breathing a sigh of relief when they emerged from the oven feather-light, with a crisp brown topping. Now for the pastry!
By the time Sharon returned, a stack of wide cardboard boxes balanced precariously under her chin, Trudy had baked and buttered two date loaves, prepared lunch and cleared it away and was busy polishing the massive silver teapots that Fergus had set down on the long bench.
In the end, everything was in readiness long before the appointed time. Trudy, as she surveyed the lavishly set tables, felt a surge of pride.
Generously sized lace cloths disguised the rough timber of the trestle tables, and delectable small cakes, exquisitely iced, together with pale, cream-filled sponge sandwiches, were interspersed with a variety of temptingly attractive savouries and plainer fare.
As the first rider turned his sweat-soaked mount loose on the grass and moved towards the tables, Fergus set down the steaming teapots, and Trudy took her place at the head of a table behind the gleaming silver tea service.
Brilliant sunshine filtered through the leafy branches overhead as the throng of riders converged at the tables, and as the gale of talk and laughter rose on the still air, Trudy filled the seemingly endess stream of white cups.
At length, during a lull in her activities, she glanced around the colourful scene. They all appeared to be eating heartily, she noticed, with an involuntary feeling of satisfaction in a job well done.
And then a voice cut across the babel of sound. Diana's voice — mocking, brittle, devastatingly distinct.
`Would you believe it? It's shop stuff! Who'd ever have imagined we'd be offered mock cream in sponges up here? I always had the idea that it was one of the good old traditions of Elsmore — home-made eats for this occasion. But then, of course, she wouldn't know any better!'
All at once Trudy found herself surrounded by black-
coated figures extending cups and requesting second helpings of tea. She continued to pour out the fragrant liquid as though nothing had happened. Nothing had, really, only somehow all her pleasure in the sunlit scene had evaporated.
It seemed an age to Trudy before the plates were emptied, formalities completed and the last rider had strolled away towards the horses tied along the boundary fence or grazing nearby. Then at last she was free, free to abandon all pretence of being what she most certainly was not — a competent, gay and gracious hostess.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRUDY was in her room, preparing for the evening's outing, her arms raised as she gathered up the dark hair and swirled it in a petalled arrangement high on her head.
Although far from new, the black lace frock, held by the narrowest of shoulder ties, was one that she had seldom worn. Silly of her to imagine that a frock could affect one's enjoyment. It must be a coincidence that when wearing this frock, she had never enjoyed herself. But how ridiculous! She slipped her feet into black, gold-heeled shoes. As if it could possibly make any difference! And black suited her fair skin. At least - she peered into the mirror - she used to have a fair skin, for now a faint line of tan was visible above the lacy, scooped neckline.
The lights of a car swung across the window and she picked up a cobwebby lace stole. As she moved along the verandah, she reflected that she was glad that Scott had been delayed and hadn't yet returned from the day's hunt. It was quite absurd, that preconceived opinion that he had formed of Paul Tremaine. Her soft lips tightened. But, come to think of it, hadn't he made the same snap judgment in regard to herself? And how mistaken he had been in that instance! No doubt in Paul's case Scott's assessment of character, based entirely on hearsay, was equally at fault.
At the foot of the steps, Paul stepped forward to greet her, the expressive dark eyes taking in the slim girl with the unmistakable flair for fashion and good taste.
He whistled appreciatively. 'And just to complete the picture—' he handed her a corsage of crimson hothouse carnations— 'I had to take a chance on the colour. Tried to get a line on what you were wearing, but your number was engaged.'
Trudy pinned the fragrant flowers at the base of the black shoe-string shoulder strap. 'Nice of you, Paul, but you must have gone miles and miles to get it.'
`It was worth it,' he said, with a flash of white teeth.
Soon they were out on the main road. The moon had not
yet risen and the darkness swallowed up the route ahead, so that as they sped over the hills, Trudy was aware only of the shadowy outline of the landscape around them and the frequent jerks as they hurtled over the rough roads.
Once, as the wheels screamed around a blind bend, car lights sprang out of the blackness and Trudy caught a momentary glimpse of a long car that was towing a horse-float. She was certain it was Scott, on the way home to Elsmore, and for some absurd reason, she found herself hoping that he hadn't recognized the passing sports car, driven at a recklessly high speed.
At last, a handful of lights pricked the intense darkness of the country landscape, and soon they were running along a dusty street towards a lighted building at the end. As they drew up on the pavement, Trudy heard the strains of piano music, heard voices, and in a few moments she stepped with Paul inside the lighted doorway of the long, timbered hall.
The man threw her a rueful glance, for this, she could see at once, was undoubtedly a country-style family gathering. The place was crowded with middle-aged men and women, with weather-roughened faces. Small children skated gleefully among the dancers, and a middle-aged woman, seated at a piano in a far corner of the room, played tunes that were popular in their day. For a moment Trudy found herself wishing that Terry and his group were here — Terry, with his undeniable gift for composing melodies that set the feet to dancing.
`Looks like we're the strangers here,' Paul drawled. We'll
have to stick together — closely.' He swept her into the dance. But Trudy, glancing around her, spied two familiar faces. `Look, there are Gary and Bruce!'
Who?'
`You know, the boys who work on the station.'
`Oh!' Paul dismissed them with a shrug as he whirled her on.
As the evening wore on, Trudy, for no reason she could analyse, found her spirits flagging. Paul was a skilful dancer and the music — well, it was music — of a sort. And the fact that the dance had turned out to be a family affair wouldn't have made any difference to her if — if Scott had been here, her heart said. But she pushed the thought aside.
She danc
ed with Gary, with Bruce, and again with Paul, and all the time found herself wishing that the entertainment was over. When a tempting array of country-style supper dishes were handed around the hall by excited children, Trudy found that she had no appetite and a cup of coffee was all she wanted.
But at last the pianist closed the lid of the piano and the groups filtered out and moved towards the long line of vehicles that were parked in the moonlit street.
As Paul fitted the key in the lock of the sports car, Trudy glanced around until her eyes alighted on the boys' battered blue car. A cluster of men and girls, with chatter and laughter, were wedging themselves into the shabby seats, and all at once Trudy found herself wishing that she were one of the laughing young crowd.
Her glance moved back to Paul's flushed face and for a moment she was swept by panic. He was in the habit of driving at a reckless speed, she knew, and with the long drive ahead— But of course it was much too late to let herself dwell on these lines. She agreed to let Paul bring her here and now she would just have to make the best of things.
Paul took off with a lurch and then shot away. Trudy held her breath as they swung around the blind bends on the moonlit roads, but she knew that to make any adverse comment would serve only to increase the erratic driving at the breakneck, dangerous speed.
She heard the scream of tyres as they hurtled around a concealed corner and suddenly a car loomed up beside them. But with a violent swerve and a scream of brakes, they were safely around the bend and speeding ahead, to the accompaniment of a wild hooting of the horn.
At least, Trudy told herself, trying to still the fluttering of fear, they seemed to have left all other traffic returning from the dance behind them. And, she consoled herself with dreary logic, at this speed they'd reach Elsmore quite soon. That is, of course, if they reached it at all! But when they reached the signpost marking the private road leading to the station, to her surprise, the car shot into a small side road, then braked to a violent stop.
Why did we stop here ?' she asked involuntarily.
'Oh, come now, you're not as naive as all that!' His arm
slipped around her shoulders. He switched off the lights, leaving only the glow of the dashboard. Why do you think?' The low voice deepened as he gathered her towards him. 'I'm crazy about you . . . you must know . .
She tried to pull herself away, but he caught her in a still firmer grip. 'All this time,' he said in a strange, deep voice, hoarse with passion, 'and I've never even kissed you.'
She struggled in his grasp, but the man's grip was too strong for her. All at once the bearded face above her took on the look of a dark and menacing stranger.
`Don't—!'
But the bruising kiss on her mouth silenced her. At last she succeeded in breaking away from the violent embrace.
`Let me go! I wish,' she said in a low, distressed tone, 'that I'd never gone out with you! I should have listened to Scott—'
`Scott!' His hands fell away from her and he sent her a sullen, angry look. 'Now I get it! I might have known,' he sneered in a hoarse whisper, 'why you were so particular all of a sudden. Scott, eh? Not that he's so damned particular at that! Practically engaged to Diana and making love to you—' The soft full lips twisted in an ugly line. 'Or hasn't he got as far as that yet? Are you just hope—'
The words were cut short abruptly as Trudy delivered a sharp, stinging slap across the bearded face.
`You—!' Once again he lurched towards her. But she was out of the car in a flash and running ... running . . . up the stony road.
`Trudy! Come back!' She heard the heavy footsteps pounding behind her. 'Don't be such a little fool!' But she had reached the five-barred gate and was up and over, dropping down to the other side and speeding up the familiar track. Once she stumbled to her knees as the curved gold heel of her shoe snapped off, but she picked herself up and, breathless, glanced behind her, to where the lights of a car were moving up the main road.
Dazedly she was aware of blood trickling down from her grazed knee. But no matter. The house, infinitely safe and homelike, loomed ahead, and as she passed through the gate beneath the shelter-belt of tall trees, the first rays of a brilliant rose and gold sunrise, tinged the eastern sky. Almost "there at last! If only she could succeed in slipping into her own room,
unnoticed.
But as she limped across the driveway, footsteps sounded around the corner of the house, and the next moment she found herself meeting Scott's contemptuous gaze.
If only he'd say something, Trudy thought wildly. But after all, what was there to say except 'I told you so!'
All the same, exhausted, dispirited, Trudy felt a flash of her old spirit. There was no need for him to look at her like that, as if - as if— With horror she realized what she must look like. Dishevelled hair, dust-stained frock, blood running down her stocking into a broken shoe...
But he said nothing at all. His icy glance said all there was to be said.
She timed silently away and made to pass him.
`Better grab some sleep,' Scott advised quietly. 'We can rattle up the meals today.'
Meals! She felt a hysterical urge towards laughter. A flame of anger ran through her. He was treating her like a naughty child, she thought rebelliously, a child who was being sent to her room in disgrace. _
She gained the sanctuary of her own room at last, and stood motionless, gazing unbelievingly at her mirrored reflection. No wonder Scott had sent her that dreadful look . . . contemptuous . . . and something else. As though he'd somehow lost even the small opinion he'd once had of her. And it was all her own fault.
She threw herself on the bed while the tears coursed down her cheeks.
But at last the spasm was over. Pale and heavy-eyed, she bathed her swollen lids, brushed her hair and tied it severely back from her strained face.
But she wouldn't attempt to sleep, as Scott had advised. She couldn't, knowing that someone else was coping with her tasks. So instead she slipped into jeans and sweater and in the preparation of the morning meal, succeeded in forgetting, for a brief time, the sick feeling of misery that pervaded her.
By early afternoon, Sharon still hadn't made an appearance. Trudy envied the other girl her ability to sleep through the daylight hours. As for herself, she went to her room, and after a short rest, felt better. To her relief she found that Scott had ridden out to inspect the water races and wouldn't return
for some hours, for she knew that today the strain of trying to appear happy and carefree in his presence would tax her to the utmost.
That evening the house seemed curiously silent. Scott had gone out in the strekka presumably to visit Diana. And why not? Trudy scolded herself. Weren't they on the point of becoming engaged?
Sharon, emerging at the dinner table, fresh and untired, had taken the other car and murmuring something about going to see friends, had also left the house.
As the time wore on Trudy found herself becoming increasingly restless, and as on so many occasions throughout her life, she turned to music to relieve her pent-up feelings.
Seating herself in the soft pool of radiance from the gold-shaded standard lamp, she let her subconscious mind take over, as her fingers drifted idly over the keys.
But somehow tonight, the familiar classics failed to touch her ... and she found her fingers picking out the rousing rhythm of Maketu. Then the random notes changed and fell into the pattern of the pulsating melody she had arranged for Terry. 'Love, for me, is just a crazy game—'
Another melody plucked at her mind, a thread of sound, notes memorized but never actually heard, and presently through the quiet room drifted the strains of a Maori melody, ages old, with its poignant haunting rhythm.
Where on earth did you pick that up?'
Trudy's heart leaped, then steadied, as she caught sight of the tall figure in the doorway. The thread of sound broke off abruptly as Scott came striding into the room, tossed his windbreaker carelessly over a chair, and stood gazing down at her with
that piercing blue stare.
`How come,' he asked again, 'that you're playing a Maori chant?'
To Trudy he appeared to have forgotten entirely the incident at dawn today. But of course, it wouldn't mean a thing to him – a small untoward incident, already passed from his mind. Well, if he could forget so easily, so could she. She pulled her thoughts together, essayed a tremulous smile, glad of the soft dim light that hid her expression.
`As a matter of fact,' she schooled her voice to a light, conversational tone, 'I picked it up from Terry. I came across
it among his music - Just in time she remembered the
secrecy of their music-composing efforts. 'It seems that Moana, that Maori singer who had such success with the Maori Lullaby, wrote out the score for him. The trouble is,' she went on lightly, 'he hasn't a clue as to the words.' She glanced upwards and something in the man's glance made her fumble for words. 'Don't tell me you know it?'
He nodded carelessly, and taking out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, he offered it to her. But Trudy shook her head impatiently.
`It's a chant,' Scott said. 'The Maoris used to use their songs and dances to tell a story, pass on the culture to the next generation.'
She tried to still her heart that for no reason at all was beating wildly.
`But how do you - do you—'
He laughed. 'Me? Good lord, I was brought up on the wild east coast. There were more Maori kids in the little school I started at than Europeans.'
`But that's wonderful!' For a moment, the events of the last few hours fled from Trudy's mind. The brilliant sea-green eyes gazed eagerly up at him. Would you—'
`It's a love song,' Scott said matter-of-factly.
`Oh!' Immediately Trudy found herself regretting the enthusiams that had betrayed her into this moment of intimacy. She turned back to the piano, away from the magnetic glance in which she found herself drowning fathoms deep, and began playing a Chopin Nocturne. Anything to break the mood of intimacy. But the deep, resonant tones reached her above the rippling notes.