A Change for Clancy

by Amanda Doyle

  Clancy read it, and read it again. Whatever could this Mr. Parsins want to discuss with her? She knew nothing whatever about trustees or estates. Vaguely she realised that it had been Johnny Raustmann who had taken the long-distance transceiver message from the city after her mother’s funeral, and he had told her things were to go on as usual, and that’s just what they had been doing. Until now. Clancy felt the merest feather of unease pass over her.

  Neither she nor Tamara could remember when last they had had a visitor at Bunda, except for the flying doctor and nurse who had come to attend her mother, and the mail pilot who called each week. Now, she tried to recollect all she ought to do in preparation. What had her mother done in those civilised, gracious far-off days? Polish the furniture, air the bed, pick some flowers, a small finger of recollection prodded her. Clancy found a chair, stood to survey the top shelf of the spacious linen-cupboard, drew out pure linen sheets and pillow-cases with pretty hem-stitched ends, a snowy bath-towel, a smaller one and a linen guest towel for shaving. Instinct and her own good common sense guided her. She found she had to wash the sheets to remove the lines of age from the folds before she put them, aired and still faintly redolent of lavender, on the large brass bed in the guest-room. Flowers were a joy to Clancy, and her fingers dwelt lovingly on them as she picked some of the hardy, colourful few which always managed to survive the hazards of extreme heat and bore-water. Even shrubby desert varieties could look effective in the lovely old copper um that had been her mother’s favourite, and Clancy, standing back to survey her handiwork with a critical eye, was satisfied.

  Food? Yes, she would make her very best “roast dinner” in the evening, with a succulent leg of home-killed mutton, browned potatoes and peas, and a tangy lemon soufflé to follow. At midday, when Mr. Parsins arrived, they could have tinned ham and salads, and she’d make Tammy’s favourite brawn too, with some of the mutton.

  Johnny Raustmann was always out on the run until evening, so there would only be three of them at first, Mr. Parsins, Tammy and herself. Clancy felt a quiver of nervousness at the thought, but calmed herself and tried instead to conjure up a picture of “Gracious Living with a Country Background.” Yes, she could see them all sitting around, and Mr. Parsins appearing comfortably replete after an excellent meal, and he’d never have guessed Tammy was a tomboy, because she looked so quaint and demure dressed in—in—in what? Oh, dear!

  “Tammy!” she called urgently. “Tam, come here quickly, this minute!”

  For once, Tammy came on the instant, spurred by the alarm in her sister’s voice. Long brown legs apart, arms akimbo, she stared at Clancy, who was still sitting on the step, her gaze fixed in earnest concentration on the distant horizon. “For goodness’ sake, Clan! I thought there was a fire at least! Did you really call, or was I dreaming?”

  “Tammy, what are your clothes like—I mean, have you a dress—any dress?”

  “A dress? Whatever would I want a dress for, Clancy? I’ve heaps of-shorts and jeans and joddies— I don’t need a dress!”

  “But have you one?” Clancy persisted.

  Tamara rubbed her upturned nose for a considering moment.

  “We-e-ll, there’s that red-and-white check—oh, no, there’s not though, you remember you gave it to Snowball’s Jimmy. The only other one would be that blue florid thing, but I haven’t had it on for years.”

  “No, not for years,” agreed Clancy hopelessly. “And your legs and arms have grown feet since then, too! Oh, Tam, what shall we do? Go and try it on, and come back here and let me see it, will you, poppet?”

  Tamara disappeared reluctantly round the corner of the veranda. She hated “dressing-up” as she called it, but she had to admit she was slightly intrigued. What on earth had got into Clancy anyway? When she came back, Clancy stared.

  “Tammy—no!”

  “Clancy—yes!” returned Tamara mischievously. She looked down at her gangling limbs thrusting out of the wispy piece of cotton. “I feel like a praying-mantis in a night-shirt,” she announced feelingly.

  “Let me see, Tam—come here! I wonder if I put a strip of blue round the bottom—some denim or something—and I could let some in round the waist too—look, like that—you can’t breathe?—of course you can—breathe in, Tam, while I pin it. We can’t have our visitor thinking we’re absolutely destitute and devoid of pride.”

  “Our visitor?” queried Tamara, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “What visitor?”

  Clancy explained briefly about Mr. Parsins. “So he’s coming on Friday and you must wear a frock, Tammy darling, and do be sure and look as if you always wear one. And pull it down on to your knees when you sit, and don’t sprawl, and keep your feet together neatly, and—”

  “Oh, come off it, Clancy! It’s a man who’s coming—not some namby-pamby prim and proper duchess like Aunt Elizabeth, who—”

  “Tamara! That will do!” Clancy reproved. “Aunt Elizabeth has been very kind, and you’re not to say such things. I know she rubs you up the wrong way, but it’s because she wants to see her goddaughter grow up into a nice young lady—you know that’s all it is! Perhaps if you pretend to yourself that Mr. Parsins is Aunt Elizabeth, you might manage to give a ladylike impression at that,” she advised unhopefully.

  Unexpectedly, Tamara put her arms round Clancy’s neck and administered a swift, remorseful hug.

  “O.K., Clan, don’t worry.”

  “Tammy, I am worried.”

  Tamara gave her urchin grin.

  “Well, don’t be,” she advised. “I’ll do you justice, I promise. Just you wait and see!”

  CHAPTER 2

  FRIDAY found Clancy up at dawn, scurrying around, putting the finishing touches to her preparations to welcome the solicitor from Adelaide. Frequently she paused to wonder what he would be like, and what he could possibly have to say to her that necessitated making such a lengthy journey.

  At eleven o’clock she despatched an excited Tamara to put on the Dress, following shortly afterwards to the room which they shared to slip on her own blue linen. It was a plainly cut button-through of simple charm, and smoothing it over her slender hips as she appraised her reflection in the mirror, Clancy decided that she just wasn’t the type to get away with clothes of sophistication. She saw before her a slim figure which, in its present too-thin state, gave promise even so of tender womanly curves. Yes, she analysed, it wasn’t her figure that lacked sophistication. It was her face. She frowned at it now, disapprovingly. There was a look of complete, unfledged innocence there that Clancy was powerless to alter, because that was the whole root of the matter—she was innocent, hopelessly so.

  She sometimes had a frightening suspicion that there was an enormous amount going on in the world about which she didn’t know, things about which she could only guess, so long as she sheltered here; things which might revolt, frighten, sadden, thrill or charm her—but whatever they did, Clancy often had a longing to be involved in them. She had the feeling that she was poised on the outer edge of a pulsing, beating life, about the living of which she was abysmally ignorant. Her lovely young face gazed back at her in reproach—the honey-blonde curtain of hair swung as she shook her head; the timid brown eyes, large as a doe’s, were wistful; the pink mouth was for a second petulant with dissatisfaction.

  “Two little girls in blue, lad,” trilled Tamara tunefully, as she came to stand beside her sister. Clancy couldn’t restrain a smile. Tamara’s high spirits were infectious, and to a large extent unjustified, as she would have realised had she studied her own reflection as hard as Clancy had done. For all Clancy’s ingenuity with the bands of denim and her reel of blue thread, Tamara and her dress looked incongruous together. They didn’t seem to co-ordinate at all, and her limbs, although there was somewhat less of them exposed, still appeared coltish and awkward in the drab cotton. Still, Tammy seemed pleased with the result—or else she just didn’t care! The latter explanation was undoubtedly the more probable, if one knew Tamara.

 
Listen, though. Was that the whirr of the plane? Yes, it was due. Clancy and Tamara hastily crammed their linen hats on their heads, and ran out into the heat towards the air-strip. Clancy watched the plane, a glinting silver speck in the distance, droning nearer all the time, while the wind-sock hung motionless in the hot forenoon. Soon, soon, she would know what it was Mr. Parsins had to tell her. Suddenly she retracted all the wishes she had just made to her mirrored reflection. Nervously she prayed that nothing was about to be altered. This was the only life with which she was familiar, and she didn’t think, after all, that she’d like to become involved in that pulsing, beating unknown one, with which her imagination toyed and teased her so often. Oh, no, let things go on as they are, please, she found herself praying.

  The plane was touching down now, a graceful silver bird that swooped and then glided along the strip. Clancy and Tamara clung to their hats as they were fanned by the momentary hot breeze. Then they were welcoming Mr. Parsins as he stepped down. Clancy’s murmured greeting was conventionally polite, but Tamara gave him an airy hand to be shaken, and said, “Mr. Parsins? How do you do? We’re so pleased to see you!”

  Her voice was heavily cultured, as if she were curling her tongue around a peach-stone as she talked. Clancy gave her a startled, warning frown, before turning to ask the pilot if he would like to come to the house for some lunch. No, thanks all the same—he had another passenger to pick up before returning to Adelaide.

  Clancy, Tamara and Mr. Parsins watched him swing the propeller, hop in, and take off once more, before they turned back towards the homestead. Tamara walked mincingly, her hips undulating at alarming angles as she moved. Clancy dragged her fascinated eyes away from them to study their guest. He wasn’t a big man, about Clancy’s own height as they walked side by side. He was elderly, of a precise, serious mien. He wore a large panama hat and rimless spectacles perched on his nose. Just now, his pale blue, analytical eyes were riveted on Tamara’s sashaying form, as in silence they approached the steps. She turned now with an extravagant gesture of welcome.

  “Do come in, Mr. Parsins! We’re charmed to have you with us. I’ll show you your room, and perhaps you’d like to wash before lunch.”

  Clancy, stunned at having the initiative taken from her in this manner, could only note that Mr. Parsins followed Tamara, like a donkey mesmerised by a carrot. Helplessly, she went off to bring in the lunch. Just wait till Tamara came to help her—just wait! Clancy gritted her teeth, carried on deftly with her tasks. As time went on, though, it became increasingly apparent that Tamara was not going to show up at all. Armed with a shallow oval plate of beautifully arranged salads and a sauceboat of mayonnaise, she entered the dining-room in time to hear Tamara’s effusive voice float through from the adjoining sitting-room.

  “I’m sure you must be panting for a drink,” it was saying. “Whisky and soda, or gin-and-French?”

  Clancy set down her plates hurriedly and rushed in.

  “Tamara!” She turned to Mr. Parsins in distress. “I’m afraid we have nothing like that to offer you,” she apologised, with a quelling glare at her little sister. “We’ve—there’s really only beer, or shandy—or—or orange squash. But it is iced.”

  “A shandy will do nicely, thank you, Miss Minnow.”

  Now that he had removed the cream straw hat, Clancy saw that his head was bald, with a silver tuft of hair above each ear. It gave him a benign, almost paternal appearance, and he looked a bit less unapproachable, even a little kindly, and quite definitely dependable. She relaxed a little, then stiffened again at the sight of Tamara, reclining in one of the deep leather chairs, skirt pulled well down, one skinny knee crossed over the other while a match-thin bare leg swung to and fro with studied elegance. Clancy placed herself cunningly in Mr. Parsins’ line of vision so that Tamara was obscured, and hoped she would keep quiet. Fortunately, she did—she was busy turning her hand this way and that, arching her fingers and displaying her nails.

  Lunch went off well. Mr. Parsins talked amiably about life and sights in the city he loved—about the beautiful gardens of Adelaide, the hills that rose behind, the memorials, the music festival. Tamara, for once, listened! She was completely intrigued at these references to places and things she knew nothing about, and hung on every word, round-eyed. Mr. Parsins warmed to his enthusiastic audience.

  Tamara found herself jerked back to the present as the meal ended, and Clancy announced, “Now, Mr. Parsins, if you’ll go back to the sitting-room I’ll bring some coffee there, and we won’t be disturbed. Tamara has very kindly offered to wash up for me. Oh, yes, you have,” she hissed in a whisper at Tamara, who had opened her mouth to protest, once she thought Mr. Parsins was out of earshot. Clancy’s face was grim, as she caught Tamara’s rebellious eye.

  “Now, Tammy, please do as I ask for once. And don’t go out afterwards in your dress—and don’t get it dirty, put an apron on—and Tammy, no more of these dramatics on any account, or you’ll be sorry!”

  Tamara tossed her pigtails in injured silence. Then she remarked coolly, “I think I’m doing rather well, actually.” Her tongue was curled around the peach stone again. Clancy pressed her lips firmly together, and went to make the coffee.

  She was soon to wish she could change places with Tamara—not that that would have really solved anything. One could not prevent something happening simply by not listening, even the innocent Clancy realised that. It appeared that nothing could stop this happening anyway, since “They” had decreed it was to be so. Clancy couldn’t argue, Tamara couldn’t either, and it seemed that Johnny Raustmann was not even to be deferred to at all.

  She heard herself say now, doubtfully, “Johnny Raustmann won’t like it.”

  “My dear Miss Clancy—you don’t mind if I call you by your name?—this Raustmann fellow has no grounds for objection, no possible grounds. Nor has he any right to object. There is not—nor has there been—an official overseer employed on Bunda Downs. Therefore the trustees of your mother’s estate feel no obligation on themselves to ask Mr. Raustmann’s opinion before coming to a decision. As I think I’ve already made clear, the trustees comprise myself and my partner, Mr. Snell; the manager of the bank with which your mother dealt, a Mr. Crowther (you may even have met him during your schooldays in residence in Adelaide?); and your sister’s godmother, Miss Elizabeth Stuart. You will realise that the trustees feel it incumbent upon themselves to do all they can to ensure that the estate is administered in the most profitable way possible for yourself and Miss Tamara, until such time as it becomes your own. For that reason, they have decided to install a manager here at Bunda Downs—and a very knowledgeable and efficient man he is, I am able to assure you. Mr. Jed Seaforth is personally known to several of the trustees, and has the highest credentials. He is a man who, at an incredibly young age, has achieved much success in life, and he has administered a considerable number of indifferently run properties to the owners’ eventual advantage.”

  “Do you mean that this isn’t an efficiently run property, then?” asked Clancy, stung.

  “I mean nothing, Miss Clancy—nothing.” The lawyer’s previously kindly expression became inscrutable, his tone final. “I am simply instructed to inform you that Mr. Seaforth has been appointed manager here by your mother’s trustees, and I understand he will be arriving this day week, by car. He particularly requested me to acquaint you of his mode of travel, so that you would know when to expect him. He is capable and forthright, and may be depended upon in every way. In return, he will expect a high standard of behaviour and co-operation from his employees.” He sounds detestable, Clancy thought acidly. And, anyway, she wasn’t one of his employees. A high standard of behaviour indeed! Who did Mr. “Miracle” Seaforth think he was, butting into their lives like this? Their hitherto peaceful existence was to be upset, their familiar routines changed, their home invaded by someone who sounded like an automated paragon of efficiency.

  “How long is he to be here?” Clancy had admitted defeat.
She had accepted the fact that he was coming, however reluctantly.

  “That remains to be seen, Miss Clancy—that remains to be seen,” was the evasive and unhelpful reply..

  “What—what about Johnny Raustmann? Will I—I suppose I shall have to tell him?”

  “Naturally, he and the other men will require to know that their future here depends upon their willingness or otherwise to co-operate with Mr. Seaforth,” Mr. Parsins stated, on an uncompromising note. “If you prefer it, I can tell them myself, as I happen to be here.”

  Clancy shuddered at the thought of Johnny Raustmann’s reactions if the ultimatum were issued in Mr. Parsins’ baldly tactless manner. She said slowly, “No. No, thank you, Mr. Parsins. I think it would be better after all if the news came from me, after you have left tomorrow. I shan’t tell Tamara until then, either, if you don’t mind.”

  How Clancy got through that evening and the next morning without saying a word to the others she never afterwards knew. She had left Mr. Parsins sitting rather glumly with a pile of Stock and Station Journals—the only reading material she could offer—while she went to make her special dinner. It was delicious, Mr. Parsins told her appreciatively. Delicious and unsuitable, thought Clancy peevishly—more like a celebration dinner, and what on earth had she to celebrate? The end of freedom, most likely. The beginning of oppression, from what she had heard of Mr. Jed Seaforth.