by Gloria Bevan
Once she attempted to get in touch with Terry's parents. But Mrs. Page had answered the telephone call, her voice hoarse and ragged with emotion. 'You! You may as well know, Trudy, that we don't want to have anything more to do with you! Haven't you hurt us enough?'
Long after the receiver had clicked abruptly in her ear, the sense of hurt lingered. She had liked and trusted Terry's parents. She had hoped they felt the same way about her.
Now she found herself avoiding meeting acquaintances. She dreaded to read the accusation or avid curiosity in their eyes, or to hear the instant, inevitable query: 'Heard from Terry yet?'
Only Gary and Bruce remained unchanged towards her, their attitude as friendlily offhand as ever. And Fergus — dear Fergus, who didn't care what folks said about her. Or was it that he didn't know?
But as one week merged into two and despite radio broadcasts and newspaper appeals, there was still no word from Terry, Trudy's courage began to falter and hope to fade.
She could have borne it all, had it not been for Scott —Scott, whom she loved in spite of everything. She couldn't help herself. Once she had thought — hoped — that he had loved her, but now, when he looked at her, when he regarded her at all, it was with cool indifference. For the most part, however, he avoided being alone with her. But he need not have concerned himself, she thought bitterly.
When the third week after Terry's disappearance drew to a close, Trudy knew that she couldn't stay on indefinitely at Elsmore, just waiting — and hoping. On a Sunday morning, she knew, Scott was usually to be found in his study. This time, she thought bleakly, whether he wished or no, he would have to see her alone.
She tapped lightly on the door, and as she went towards
him, took in his involuntary start of surprise.
`Trudy!' He rose to his feet, an unfathomable expression leaped into his eyes, to be immediately extinguished. 'Sit down.' He pushed forward a chair opposite the writing desk and Trudy sank down, unaware that the strong sunlight pouring through uncurtained windows revealed the sharpened contours of cheek and chin, thinner than a month ago, the shadowed eyes brilliant in a wan face.
`I suppose you can guess—' she eyed him nervously, 'why I've come to see you.'
To her dismay her voice held a betraying tremor, and for no reason at all, there sprang back to mind the remembrance of her first, stormy interview with this man, so short a time ago. How very different was her notice of departure from the grand plans she had envisaged.
And yet, in spite of everything, his smile could still turn her world upside down.
`I can't, you know!'
Her hands were trembling and she thrust them in the pockets of her linen skirt. 'I've come - to give notice.' She glanced away, unable to dwell on the features she loved so deeply, so hopelessly. 'Would - would a week's notice be enough?'
He was silent so long she was forced to meet his gaze, that cold, censuring gaze. The lips were firmly set, the jaw line taut. 'You don't intend to wait, then, until Terry shows up?'
She guessed what he was thinking - that she was utterly heartless and without conscience, that having light-heartedly amused herself with a man's health and emotions, she was now going unconcernedly on her way.
But he must never guess how she felt, that it was love of Scott himself from which she was running away. She said, with a flash of her old spirit, 'Any reason why I should?'
`Only,' his voice was infinitely remote, 'that I thought you might have hung on a bit - until you heard something definite.' And as, sick at heart, she made no comment, he added with icy politeness, 'What are your plans? A reference? I'll write one out for you. Any way I can help, just give me the word.'
She could scarcely see the dark, compelling face for the tears that blinded her eyes.
Any way? Any way you could help me, Scott? Trust me! ...Just - trust me! For one appalling second, so
strong had been the impulse that she imagined she had cried the words aloud.
Somehow she found her voice, murmured huskily, 'Thank you. A reference, that's all.' She smothered a wild impulse to throw herself on his mercy, to blurt out the truth. But she knew it was hopeless. She was fighting back tears, and she knew that if she didn't get away from Scott soon she'd disgrace herself utterly.
Blindly she rose and made a rush towards the door. But he was before her, holding it open, regarding her with grave, expressionless eyes.
`Good-bye, Trudy.' It must surely be her imagination that made her fancy that faint ring of regret in the low tones.
Not trusting herself to speak, she fled along the passage and out into the brilliant sunshine, where Bruce and Gary were tossing surfing gear into the tattered back seat of the old car.
Trudy gathered her senses together, forced a smile. `So you've got the perfect free day for surfing at last!'
Too right.' Bruce's freckled face emerged from the bonnet and he glanced up at the sky, a pale, washed blue, feathered with streaky white shreds of clouds. 'We're not going to waste it, either. There'll be a big swell out there today.'
All at once Trudy couldn't bear the thought of the ensuing hours, the day when Scott would be at home, the anguish of being forced to speak to him; to try and act normally, knowing his opinion of her; the endless strain of waiting for a telephone call that never came.
`Take me with you!' she said quickly, raising her voice against the noise of the engine running.
Gary's candid blue eyes opened wide in surprise. 'No kidding? You want to come? Gee, we've just about given up trying to get you to come and watch us ride the waves - what with the boss—'
`Forget about the boss. He doesn't care . . . any more. . . Her voice trailed disconsolately away, and at something in the set, pale face, Bruce said quickly:
`Okay, let's get cracking. The old crate's been playing up, but she's going like a bird now - as long as we keep the engine running! If we don't hit the road right away we'll miss the tide. Hop in!'
Gary swung himself behind the wheel. Bruce leaped in beside him, banging the door shut. 'Right! We're away - laughing!'
Trudy settled herself on the sagging upholstery between the broken springs of the back seat. She reflected forlornly that perhaps the broad sweep of the ocean beach would dwarf her own anguish of spirit. The winds sweeping in from the vastness of the Pacific might dispel the memory of Scott's cold, accusing look, and if she could swim there - certainly the air was sufficiently warm.
`My swim-suit!' she cried. 'I forgot to bring it! Could we go back?'
`Definitely not! You're coming to watch us!' Gary shouted back over his shoulder. 'It's tricky, the coast. The boss would blow a gasket if we let you go into that surf.'
`Out there it looks okay,' Bruce put in, 'kind of gentle like. Then - whoosh! Along comes a big one and you've had it! That rip through the narrow harbour entrance can send you a mile or so out to sea before you know what's hit you.'
`But you'll be swimming,' she objected.
We know it! Just the same, though, it can be pretty scary,' Gary said. 'Remember that time, Bruce, when the tide was on the way out and you lost your board. There was this heavy hollow wave on the bar at the harbour entrance—'
But Trudy, her hair blowing around her shoulders in the strong wind rushing through the still shattered windscreen, had ceased to listen. Her unseeing gaze was fixed on the highway snaking up the rise ahead. Presently they turned off on to a narrow dirt track with deep ruts and hollows, as they cut across country in the direction of the coastline.
`It's rough,' Gary turned to say, as they lurched violently out of a deep rut on the narrow road, 'but it's a short cut, and every minute counts when the tide's running out.'
Trudy nodded. Her eyes were on the sheep-dotted hills rising all around, but her thoughts drifted inevitably back to Elsmore. Now that she was away from the homestead she regretted her hasty action in leaving. The telephone might ring. Terry might even now have been found. And she was out of touch for hours. Where was Terry? What was he doin
g now? If only she could return tonight to find that he was safely home again, had absolved her of all blame.
She wrenched her mind away and endeavoured to concentrate on her surroundings. They were moving along a narrow bush track, where the ground was rough with exposed tree roots and stained crimson with the fallen berries of the great, glossy-leaved uriri trees overhead.
Ahead, towering native bush obscured the view, but long before they neared the end of the track, Trudy could hear the booming of the surf. Then the old car took the last rise and they were out in the open, moving over the coarse marram grass growing on the sand, and Trudy found herself staring out at the immensity of the ocean, where great combers rolled in on an endless coastline, and there was no living thing in sight save the oyster pickers, their white feathered bodies and scarlet legs reflected in the glassy, wet sand at the water's edge.
There was a sense of space and distance in the scene, infinitely soothing to her taut nerves. As the surfers carried their boards over the drifts of sand, Tru went with them, to where the breakers tumbled and washed a thunder of spray on the wet, firm sand.
She watched from the shoreline the waves breaking around her ankles, as the two waded beyond the line of foaming breakers and out into the deep. Then, crouched on their boards, they straightened, arms extended, bodies poised at an angle as, riding the slope of a huge wave, they raced the curling edge of its crest and swept towards her, only to tumble, boards flying, in a crashing wall of spray.
Again and again they moved out, gradually drifting further down the shore. They were far out now, difficult to see, but if she could climb on to the rocky outcrop a short distance away, she would have a perfect view. All she needed to do was to gain the rocks before the next big swell made the intervening space too deep for her to wade out.
When she reached the outcrop, she found it to be slippery and jagged. But, climbing over a fallen board, she pulled herself up and gaining a foothold, stood staring out at the two dark shadows beyond the reef. She waved a hand in their direction and they waved back. But to her surprise, they continued waving. It was as if they were attempting to signal her. But whatever the shouted message, it was carried away by the strong ocean breeze. She leaned forward, and at that moment a great wall of green, splintery glass towered over her as she was
swept from the rocks and tossed over and over like a rag doll. She was gasping, fighting for breath. There was a roaring in her ears like a mighty wind. She couldn't breathe ... couldn't breathe. . . . Then she felt herself jerked upwards and she gulped in welcome draughts of air. A voice said: 'Take it easy. I've got you. Just relax. . . .' Then a wave swept them both towards the shore, and Scott, picking her up like a child, held her in his arms and he strode up the beach and towards the Land Rover standing on the sand.
`I ought to shake you, instead of rescuing you!' But his eyes held a look in their depths that Trudy had thought never to see again. 'Going out to the rocks? Didn't you see the sign —Danger?'
Seawater was streaming from her hair, her clothes. 'There was a board, but it had fallen down ... I didn't look at it ...' she gasped.
When they reached the vehicle he opened the door and thrust her inside. 'Get rid of that wet blouse!' Shivering violently now, Trudy did as he commanded, and the next moment she found herself wrapped in the man's fleecy-lined green windbreaker. Then Scott, kneeling on the sand, sea-
ter dripping from his hair and his drenched garments,
wound a bandage around her leg over the long, deep graze.
`You don't know how lucky you are,' he observed lightly. `You could have been cut to pieces on those rocks out there. But you were carried in towards the beach.' He straightened. Well, that should do until we get home.' He sent her a long look, vividly blue eyes no longer cold and forbidding but dark with suppressed feeling. 'And I mean home!'
Trudy didn't know whether it was the effect of chill or excitement that was causing her to tremble so.
`Is she okay?' The two surfers came running up the beach towards them. We did our darnedest to warn her, but she didn't catch on. Guess she didn't hear with the wind blowing the other way.'
`Listen,' Trudy sought the man's gaze pleadingly, 'you won't blame them, will you? You see, I asked them to take me with them to the coast today.'
`Blame them — for giving me what I want ?' He swung around to face Bruce and Gary, standing uncomfortably beside him. 'It's okay. Trudy fell in the drink, that's all! I'm
taking her home. But you two carry on.'
Bruce hesitated, the freckled face still anxious. 'You're quite sure you're all right, Trudy?'
`Of course I am.' She thrust a streaming head from the vehicle. t-thanks for t-taking me,' her teeth were chattering. `S-see you tonight.'
`Look,' Bruce said eagerly, 'there's a swag of gear in the old bus. Hold on!' He ran over to the blue car standing on the sand a short distance away and returned with an armful of woollen sweaters and a collection of worn towels, which he threw in a heap on the sand. 'Here you are, help yourself!'
A little later as the surfers waded into the sea with their boards, Scott turned towards Trudy. 'I've wanted to do this for a long time.' There was the taste of salt water on his lips, but nothing could mar the thrill of this moment. He released her at last, though his arms were still around her, firm and strong and infinitely reassuring.
But something stirred in her mind, piercing the daze of utter content. 'Scott,' she put up a finger, tracing the line of the firm lips, 'there's something I've got to tell you. It's about Terry—'
But he stopped her lips with a kiss. 'I don't want to hear it! I've got you, safe and sound, and that's all that matters! And what's more, I'm not taking any more chances of losing you! What you need, Trudy Western - mark that name, you won't be hearing it many more times - is someone to take care of you all the time! Come on, let's go and tell Dad the good news.'
He put the vehicle into gear, moved over the springy marram grass and swung into the main road, and soon they were spinning along the route taking them back to Maketu.
When they reached the house, even the sight of a long yellow car parked in the driveway could not cast a shadow over Trudy's new-found happiness. She was aware that the car belonged to Mrs. Lynch, the stout lady whose principal interest in life appeared to lie in delving into the personal affairs of her neighbours. Not having seen Trudy since Terry's disappearance, the fact that she was here, Trudy surmised, could only mean that Mrs. Lynch wanted to pry into the matter of Trudy's part in the affair.
But today, she thought, she could cope with anything - or
anyone!
She slipped along the porch to her room, and a little later, wearing a gay floral shift, her damp hair combed out on her shoulders, she entered the lounge, where the small, stout woman was seated with Fergus.
`Oh, Miss Western, I had to come over and tell you!' She sounded as wheezy as ever, Trudy thought, and braced herself for what was coming. 'You see, I had a letter from Mrs. Page with news of Terry—'
Trudy froze. 'Terry? Where is he? Is he – all right?'
`Well, yes and no.' Mrs. Lynch savoured to the full her moment of drama. 'He'll be well again soon, but just now he's in hospital, recovering from loss of memory.'
`So that's what happened,' Trudy murmured slowly, her gaze fixed on the fleshy face.
The other woman nodded. 'Such bad luck,' she panted. `It was all because of his music ... some songs he'd been composing. Terry told his mother that you and he were working on them together, that you wrote out the arrangements for his lyrics. He said that he persuaded you to promise that you wouldn't let on to anyone about the partnership, or even about his composing the tunes. Seems he didn't want anyone around here to know if he didn't make a go of it. Once he was famous, he told his mother, it wouldn't matter. Well,' the ample bosom moved in a deep sigh, 'seems that things didn't work out like the way he hoped—' She broke off, appealing to Trudy. 'But of course, you know all about that.'
`No.'
<
br /> `Oh dear, he was so close to success. So very close. And then, at the last minute, he had word that the singer who was to promote Terry's song throughout Australia had had a disagreement with his manager, and the new promoter simply wouldn't hear of featuring Terry's song. And if that wasn't bad enough, by the same mail Terry got word from the music publishing firm in New York, rejecting the other two lyrics he'd set such store by.
`It was the shock of it all that affected him. He left the car at the bridge that day and was walking along the road, when he was picked up by a passing motorist, a commercial traveller, who was going south and bound for Hamilton. So he put Terry out there, and that night he was found wander-
ing the streets of the town in a dazed condition - didn't know where he was, or even who he was.
`When he came to his senses, he found himself in hospital. He didn't remember a thing from the time he left the farm in the car that day. But since then, of course, it's all come back
to him, and his mother told me in her letter that he wanted everyone up in Maketu to know that his breakdown was nothing whatever to do with you, Trudy. "A business partnership," he said. That's all there was to it.'
`Yes,' Trudy said slowly, raising her clear, candid glance to Scott's brilliant gaze, 'that's all there was between us - ever.' Fergus said in a puzzled tone, 'Then the note—'
`All a mistake,' the breathy tones continued, 'just a silly misunderstanding. Terry explained everything. Seems it wasn't a note at all, but just the opening bars of a new lyric that he happened to be working on. Really, it didn't mean a thing. But wasn't it an odd coincidence?'
Odd indeed. Across Trudy's mind flashed a mental picture of Sharon's tear-stained face - Sharon, who had confided that Terry had betrayed his secret love for her by his involuntary reaction to the news of Sharon's approaching marriage, on that same day. The day when the young composer's luck had run out.