by Amanda Doyle
Tamara, thank goodness, was slightly more subdued than she had been at lunch. That, of course, was due to Johnny Raustmann’s presence, for he was quite likely to snap, “Shut up, kid!” if one talked when he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Tamara had no intention of risking such an undignified snub in front of the visitor. Instead, she set herself the role of charming, discreet hostess, eating delicately, and simpering gushingly when she happened to catch anyone’s eye. Her undulating gait was as pronounced as ever, though, and Clancy, in a thoroughly bad mood, warned her acidly on their way to the kitchen, “You’ll dislocate a hip if you don’t watch out, besides dropping those plates.”
Tamara turned an offended eye upon her, one brow dramatically raised, as she deposited her burden safely at the sink.
“May one ask what’s eating you?”
“One may—and one won’t be told until tomorrow, so will one kindly stop acting like some half-baked vaudeville star, straighten one’s back, pick up one’s feet, and bring the pudding!”
Tamara, open-mouthed, obeyed! This time she forgot all about her seductive sway as she pondered over Clancy’s terse rebuke. Goodness, something really was wrong to make Clan behave like that. She was usually so full of fun, so tolerant, so mild. Yes, she was pale tonight, and there was a decided air of strain about her carefully composed features. Tamara took another mouthful of her fly-away lemon soufflé, and covertly studied the others. Mr. Parsins was eating with prim relish, appreciatively, with the self-satisfied air of a man who has accomplished his duty and is free to devote himself to the worldly delights of good food. Johnny Raustmann was stuffing his pudding into his mouth with his usual uncouth haste. He had acknowledged Clancy’s introduction to her guest gruffly, and apart from the odd affirmative or negative grunt when spoken to, he had added almost nothing to the conversation. All the same, he was watching Mr. Parsins thoughtfully with his shrewd, close eyes, flicking a narrowed gaze over Clancy occasionally, too. Tamara was glad when he finished his dessert—he was a noisy eater, and the licking sounds he made and the clatter of his spoon detracted from her own exaggerated air of quiet elegance.
Afterwards, Tammy found her evening spoilt by the unconscious sadness on her elder sister’s face, but it wasn’t until the next night that she knew the reason. If Tammy had been given a hundred guesses, she couldn’t have guessed a more horrid reason! She had been firstly taken aback, then resentful, and finally wildly angry when Clancy had told them about the new manager. Oh, it was beastly to think of that ghastly man coming here to Bunda Downs to order them all about, and act the Big Boss. Well, he’d better not try it on her, Tamara decided, tossing in her bed that night.
She had left Clancy and Johnny Raustmann facing one another across the dining-room table. All the empty plates were still sitting there, the teapot was cold, but no one was aware of any of those things in the midst of the discussion that was taking place. Johnny Raustmann had been furiously angry at first, too, and even, it seemed to the interested Tamara, a little bit afraid. Yes, it was fear she had glimpsed at the back of those nugget eyes. That was an intriguing thought to Tamara. It amazed her to discover that an adult like Johnny, who was so sure of himself and his own position at Bunda Downs that he didn’t even have to bother to be nice or kind to anyone, could actually be afraid of something, just like an ordinary person. Just like Tamara, in fact.
After a while Johnny had got thoughtful, and it was some time before he spoke again. Then he’d said, “There’s a way out of this, Clancy—for both of us,” and next, jerking his head towards Tamara, he’d rasped, “Get that kid out of the way! Send her to bed!”
It was at that point that Tamara had had to leave. She’d cast an appealing eye toward Clancy, and even gestured to the scatter of neglected dishes, but Clancy had shaken her head, and so Tamara had had to come to bed. She wished she had been able to stay. She hadn’t liked the cruelly calculating look in Johnny’s gimlet eyes as he stood up to stare down at Clancy, and she hadn’t liked the sudden widening apprehension in Clancy’s as she stared back. She’d looked like a frightened rabbit on the point of bolting down its hole.
Back in the dining-room, Johnny was saying to Clancy, “There’s a way out of this, girl—a way we can snap our fingers at ‘em. You and me are going to get hitched, and then, by God, this manager can go out on his pink ear.” He seemed carried away with joyous satisfaction at his solution to the problem, and almost missed Clancy’s stunned, incredulous gasp.
“H-hitched?”
“Yeah—hitched! That’s what I said. Spliced, married, or whatever you like to call it. That’s the big idea. If you and me get spliced, they can’t do a damn thing about it.”
He was looking at Clancy now in that way she always hated. He pulled her up, kept a hold of one of her wrists. Clancy gazed at him, a faint chill of fright feathering over her.
“You’ll make a pretty sweet armful at that. I’ve had my eye on you a while now—and you don’t have a clue what I’m getting at, do you? Well, that’ll make it all the better, all the sweeter. Yeah, you’ll make quite a cosy, obedient little mate, Clancy.”
Now he was drawing her close, closer. Clancy was aware of his rough hands moving over her, down her back, forcing her nearer. His face was just above hers now. She could feel his hot breath, see the faint stubble on his jaw, the yellow tobacco-stained teeth as his lips parted.
“No! No!” In her mind she screamed the words, but they came out a whisper. Desperately she wriggled away, and brought her hand up to give him a stinging slap on his unshaven cheek. Then, horrified, she stared at the slowly reddening mark.
Johnny Raustmann’s face was ugly. He laughed, and that was ugly, too. He stepped back. His voice was hoarse and low as he said, “So that’s the way, my high-flying little madam. You’ll be sorry for that some day—by George, you will. You’ll be glad to marry me—glad! And just remember this, Clancy—you ought to know me by now—I don’t change my mind so easy. I take what I fancy. I go after it, and I get it in the end.” Then he went out.
Clancy was shivering as she got into bed, although the night was hot. Luckily Tamara was asleep.
CHAPTER 3
THE next morning it all seemed unreal, like a bad dream, to Clancy. But no, it couldn’t be. There was still evidence of Mr. Parsins’ visit, the cigarette ash in the trays, the pile of Stock and Station Journals he had read, the extra sheets to be washed on Monday, the room to restore. There was no doubt this was no dream. Mr. Parsins had indeed come, to tell them there was to be a new manager, and they’d all hated the idea, she, Tamara, and Johnny. Johnny! Clancy’s mind shied violently from remembrance of that moment in his arms, but her body gave a single revulsive shudder.
Tamara, with the optimism of extreme youth, had woken in good spirits, which took the form of a newfound defiance and rejection of the coming manager. “What’s his name again, Clancy?”
“Mr. Seaforth. Jed Seaforth.”
“Well, Mr. Jed Seaforth needn’t think he’s going to boss me around—or you either, Clancy, eh?”
For once, Clancy was of the same mind as Tamara, but it would, she felt, have been a bit subversive to the man’s interests to agree with her openly, and wisely she gave a non-committal grunt.
“He needn’t think I’m going to dress up in my frock for him either,” Tamara prattled on. “I must say it was quite fun yesterday, being a lady in front of Mr. Parsins. He really was impressed, too, Clancy—he kept looking and looking. Just like the man did in Causeway to Love—only of course he was young, and frightfully good-looking, not old like Mr. Parsins, and it was really nicer for the girl to dress—”
“What are you talking about, Tamara?” Clancy was somewhat alarmed.
Tammy looked superior and adult, as she replied placidly, “It’s in Causeway to Love—one of those books on the shelf in that old cupboard in Mummy’s room. I’ve read them all, that’s how I know what a lady does act like, Clancy. That’s how I could do it yesterday for Mr. Parsins. The
re’re a whole lot of books there, didn’t you know? I often take one down to the creek and read in the shade. Their pages are a bit yellow, and they’re very old. Probably they’re just a little bit old-fashioned now,” she temporised, “but Mr. Parsins is old too, so it worked all right on him.”
“Tamara!” Clancy stared at her sister, shocked. Finally, though, she had to grin reluctantly at the earnest, freckled face. Oh, she was incorrigible! They must be awful books—terribly unsuitable. If she’d dreamed that Tammy might lay hands on them, she’d have gone through them herself, just to see, only she never seemed to have time to do all the things she ought to do.
“Well,” she observed, with tolerant amusement, “don’t go trying yesterday’s tricks out on anyone again, please, Tammy. Mr. Parsins may have looked and looked, but he doubtless thought and thought, too—and what he thought we’re better not to know! For Pete’s sake, don’t go acting like that when this Seaforth man comes. Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Tammy promised solemnly, adding scornfully, “As if I would, Clancy. All the Seaforth man is going to get from me is a big freeze-up. The nerve of him, bursting into our lives like this! Just when things were going well. Why, even Johnny hadn’t been as sour as usual this past while, and now he’s going around like a thunder-cloud. It’s beyond everything.”
Clancy was inclined to agree, but knowing she’d probably caused the thunder-cloud herself, she determinedly turned her mind to brighter things.
“There’s some brawn left, Tam—let’s have it for lunch with some cold broad-bean salad. You could get those for me, and put them on to cook, and they’ll be really cool by the time we’re ready to eat.”
Tamara disappeared with alacrity towards the vegetable garden beyond the tank. It looked as if lessons had slipped Clancy’s mind altogether this morning!
In fact, they had! Clancy’s mind was occupied with other problems, mostly revolving around Mr. Jed Seaforth. What would he be like? she wondered. Would he be bossy and dogmatic, quiet and ruthless, or just plain dour and uncommunicative, like Johnny? And what if he and Johnny didn’t get on? And what if she couldn’t abide him either? Already, in her heart, she had to admit that she disliked him intensely, resented the idea of having him here every bit as much as Tammy did. Mr. Parsins’ testimonial of the wonderful Mr. Seaforth still rang in Clancy’s unwilling ears—“successful, able, efficient, expects co-operation.” Oh, did he, indeed! They’d see about that! Maybe Tamara had something after all. Maybe, if he got a pretty cool reception and some lack of cooperation, he might even leave again, and they’d have their own home to themselves once more.
Clancy brightened. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? If they could make things tough enough, and get rid of him, Johnny would be overseer again, and then Johnny wouldn’t think any more about getting married to Clancy, and he wouldn’t have any reason to ever force her to him, hold her eyes in that—that covetous stare, or her body in those bruising arms, of tell her she’d make a cosy, obedient little mate. Ugh! He wouldn’t need to try to marry the young mistress of Bunda Downs to retain his hard-won authority. He’d get his authority back the very moment Mr. Jed Seaforth left. She’d see to that, she vowed to herself, on a thrill of relief.
On Friday, Clancy didn’t bother to change into her blue linen. Like Tamara, she only possessed one frock, and why should she wear it for Mr. Seaforth, when she’d no intention of welcoming him anyway? Therefore, she was still in a pair of outgrown, outworn jeans, faded almost to a milky grey, and a khaki shirt that sported a tear over one shoulder, when the dust-cloud appeared on the horizon. It travelled a good bit faster than most of the dust-clouds Clancy had ever watched, and it wasn’t very long before a powerful, buff Holden estate car came swinging up the track. It had some gear and two sheepdogs in the back, and a disconcertingly large proportion of the front seat was taken up by the man behind the wheel.
He opened the door, slid out, straightened, and Clancy found herself face to face with Mr. Jed Seaforth, the new manager. She looked up, and swallowed. It hadn’t taken Clancy more than a second to realise, with misgiving, that the Seaforth man wasn’t the kind to be easily dislodged. One look told her that he would resist being “got rid of” with the tenacity of a British bulldog clinging to the postman’s pants!
Clancy’s eyes travelled up and down. What she saw was a broad-shouldered, whip-lean man, in an immaculate white shirt, open at the throat, and an immaculate pair of narrow, moleskin trousers, slung around hip-level with a kangaroo-hide belt. Only the elastic-sided boots, with their suggestion of a “cowboy’s heel,” were not immaculate. They were covered with red dust of the plains. His face looked as if it might have been carved out of granite, still, unrevealing, unyielding. Clancy’s heart sank. He had crisp, springy black-brown hair with a faint suggestion of grey at the temples; bushy black brows streaked lighter with the sun; a tough, angular face with an aquiline nose; a firm, uncompromising mouth, and an inflexible chin. An impregnable man. The fact that he was tanned and weathered to a dark mahogany possibly made his chilly blue eyes seem lighter than they really were. At the moment they were fixed rather pointedly on the tear in Clancy’s shirt, but they moved to her face as he asked softly, “Will you know me again, d’you think?”
It took Clancy a second or two to grasp his meaning, and then, to her mortification, she felt resentful colour flow up her neck into her cheeks in a tide of embarrassment.
“I—I’m sorry.” She held out her hand. “You must be Mr. Seaforth.”
“Yes, I’m Jed Seaforth. And you’ll be Clancy.” Clancy suddenly remembered her plan to “make things tough.” She might as well begin right away, and at least see how she got on.
She drew herself up to her full five feet five inches, and corrected him frostily.
“I am Miss Minnow,” she said.
Jed Seaforth looked the girl over with a shrewd sweep of cool blue eyes.
“What did your mother call you?” he asked gravely.
“Clancy,” was the suspicious admission.
“Well, Clancy’ll do for me, too,” he told her offhandedly, turning towards the estate car to let the dogs out of the back. They leapt up on him for a flurried moment, and then stood expectantly, tongues lolling, sides heaving in the heat. It had been pretty airless there in the back seat.
“Where’s Tamara?” he barked, for all the world as if he had known her all his life.
“I—I don’t know,” Clancy confessed weakly. “She —she’ll be around somewhere.” She looked irritably towards the house. Really, Tamara might have come to give her some moral support! It was just like her to go and disappear at the very moment the man arrived.
“Take these dogs, please, and tie them some place that’s shady. And give them some water. I’ll see to them myself later. They won’t need a feed till sundown.”
Clancy braced herself against that hateful note of authority.
“If you bring them, I’ll show you where you may leave them,” she offered icily.
The muscles in his brown forearm rippled powerfully as he lifted a large saddle, worn smooth and polished to mellowness, from the gear in the back, crooked Clancy’s arm forcefully, and thrust the saddle over it with a thud. Clancy staggered. With his other hand he reached out a rolled canvas groundsheet and held it out, too.
“Perhaps, then, you’ll carry these over to wherever it is you want me to sleep?” he suggested in a dangerously level voice.
“I—I don’t know where I want you to sleep. I mean—” Clancy felt the colour flow all over again as he gave a sudden, unexpected shout of genuine laughter.
“I’ll tie up the dogs,” she said hastily, taking her two hands to thrust the saddle back at him in confusion. She led the two sheepdogs off on their chains, round to the back, where she tied them up. By the time she forced her reluctant steps to retrace their path, he had his gear out, and the saddle and swag of rolled canvas were resting against the veranda post.
“Who sleep
s over there?” He indicated the bookkeeper’s bungalow.
“Johnny Raustmann, but—”
“Are there two rooms?”
“Yes, there are, but—”
“Right,” said Jed Seaforth, in that off-hand way he had, “that will do for me too.”
“Yes, but, Mr. Seaforth, Johnny won’t like it.” Clancy wetted her lips nervously, thoroughly alarmed. Things were going all wrong. This man was going to antagonise Johnny, and he didn’t care. But Clancy cared. She cared very much, because she didn’t ever want Johnny Raustmann to suggest his “way out of this” for them both, ever again. Clancy felt trapped. She didn’t know it, but she had gone quite pale, and her eyes were large with appeal as she looked at the rock-like, unyielding face above her.
Intent blue eyes searched her face thoughtfully, but the Seaforth man’s tone was studiedly casual, as he replied imperturbably, “There’s no reason for him not to like it, Clancy. I don’t even snore.”
He gave a sudden lop-sided grin, and picked up an armful of belongings, strode off towards the little cottage with a long, easy lope.
Clancy gazed after him helplessly. Snakes alive, but this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. There was something about the man you just couldn’t get at. He didn’t seem to listen to anyone, just went his own way with that air of calm authority, without even bothering to argue. He’d remained quite impervious to hints, pleas, suggestions, rebuffs. Elusive, that’s what he was. Why, dealing with him was like trying to strike a match on a piece of velvet!
By the time lunch-hour came, Clancy felt quite limp with frustration. She rang the old cow-bell that hung outside the gauze door of the kitchen three or four times, gazed out over the distant scrub-covered plains, the majestic orange cliffs of the Peacock, the tree-lined creek where the black moving figures of Snowball’s and Jackie’s families showed up momentarily in the stark sunlight, then merged with the dappled shadows of the gums. If she was down there, Tamara should have heard her call by now. It looked as if she wasn’t going to show up at all, and Clancy wanted her badly just then. She clasped her hands together nervously as she gazed in all directions, willing Tamara to appear. The prospect of lunch alone with Jed Seaforth unnerved her. It wasn’t that he looked at her the way Johnny did. The Seaforth man’s look was, if anything, worse. His was a probing look with knowledge behind it, as if he could read the workings of one’s mind much too accurately for comfort.