Jerry Malcolm opened the door of the convertible. As she had come out of the door his dark eyes had swept her up and down—once. As his foot went on the accelerator he said dryly, “I hardly expected you to make a funeral occasion of it.”
“My gown or my demeanor?” she returned flippantly.
He did not answer. She could see that, like Elvira, he was not pleased.
They left Burnley Hills and made their way down the Pacific Highway. Cathy saw the orchards and poultry runs give way to the privileged homes, and then they were crossing the great bridge into Sydney. It was something to look at, she thought. The velvety waters reflecting the lights of the beetling ferry boats, the rainbow glitter of the fun park on the northern side sending candy illuminations into the lapping bays.
“Not tired of it yet?” He took one hand off the wheel and waved it idly.
“I could never be. Anyway, this is my first visit into Sydney since I arrived here.”
“Good Lord. Why? A dislike of the asphalt jungle or a shortage of money?”
“Neither. I just don’t like leaving the kiddies. Elvira has enough to do. When David comes it will be different. The girls like Uncle David very much.”
“This girl, too?”
Cathy set her lips. “Very much,” she repeated. She was annoyed that she had spoken of Mr. Kennedy as David, annoyed, too, that Dr. Malcolm had noticed it.
“I take it,” he said casually, “that when Kennedy conducts you out it will not rate a black gown. Not by the enthusiasm of that ‘very much.’ Correct, Miss Trent?”
She did not answer him, and he did not press it. Instead, he put his attention to weaving adroitly through the dinner traffic of a big city. Presently he found parking space, helped her out of the car, then putting the palm of his hand under her elbow, led her half a block down the street to the narrow but tasteful entrance to a large restaurant.
The music was playing as they were ushered to their seats. It was a good table, it was a good restaurant. Cathy looked with critical eyes, for she had had her share of nightlife in London, but found nothing to criticize. “It’s nice,” she said.
He did not answer. He was studying the menu. “Shall I order?”
“Please.”
“No particular objections? Oysters, I mean, anything like that?”
“I love oysters.”
“No special favorites?”
“I have,” she said deliberately, “a predilection for gelatin.”
“Probably here it’s known as Creme Dubarry or some such thing. Meanwhile, we’ll forget that part and concentrate on cocktails. Manhattan? Martini?”
“Something exciting, please.”
“In that gown?” One eyebrow had shot up.
She hesitated, then deliberately she unbuttoned the jacket. He stood up, came around and lifted it from her shoulders. She thought as he did so that it was a silly outfit and it had been silly of her to wear it. One moment it was prim, almost Victorian, and the next moment it was far too daring, almost risqué. She felt the color rising in her cheeks. He was back in his seat before she could lift her eyes to his. He had ordered the drinks and the waiter had departed. In his glance she read that he, too, had recognized the purpose of the gown. He had realized it was her answer to his unspoken declaration. She saw that he had found challenge, rebellion, a clashing of her will against his own in her choice of dress. He did not speak. If he had it would have made everything much easier. He just regarded her solidly, until, flushing again, she lowered her eyes once more.
The drinks came and she took hers in a rather shaking hand. “Cheers,” he said casually, and she nodded and drank. Not once did that steady brown gaze flick over the dress a second time. It only regarded the blue gaze of the eyes before him, until, with an indistinguishable murmur, she slipped the jacket loosely but concealingly over her shoulders again. Then he laughed. It was a hearty, amused, contagious laugh. It did away with regrets, spites, little trivialities. It pricked her balloon of unease as nothing else could have, and suddenly she was laughing with him. Vexedly at first, ruefully, then just laughter for laughter’s sake.
He did not explain his change of mood, so she did not either, but there was a truce between them as companionable as that night of her arrival when they had worked side by side and conquered a domestic crisis.
She knew it was only temporary, and he knew it, too, for he said, “I’m calling off my dogs for tonight. Miss Trent. How about you?”
Before she could respond he explained, “I do like to get my money’s worth, and that requires cooperation. I suppose—” lighting a cigarette “—it’s a thrifty habit I learned in my Redgates youth. A penny a week did not go far.”
“They get sixpence now,” proffered Cathy. She added, “Though of course you know all that, being a board member.” She had not thought her voice implied a doubt, but it must have, for he looked at her quizzically. “You don’t really believe I am a board member, do you?”
“You must be if you say so. It simply surprised me.”
“Why?”
“From the beginning you have shown clearly that you have no real confidence in Little Families.”
He shrugged at that and turned his attention to the small dance floor. “Too tired?” he asked, and when she said she would like to dance he rose and came around to her.
He was a decisive dancer. There was no uncertainty in the arms he put around her or in the firm grasp of his strong hands. Their steps blended smoothly. Cathy found she could relax, and that made for enjoyment. She looked up and said, “Did the foundation confer this dexterity on you?”
“They conferred on me physical jerks every Wednesday morning from seven to eight. Old Major Fitzgibbons gave them. It was his act of charity.”
“And a good one, too.”
“Probably, only we kids never thought so. No, Miss Trent, dancing came later in my career. To be precise, when the female sex entered into it.”
She did not comment. She was thinking that he would find plenty of teachers. Most women were attracted by tall dark men like Dr. Malcolm.
She was suddenly aware that he was watching her closely, and said hurriedly, “I asked because I’d like to start something like that myself. I believe the children could do with a few social attributes. Especially girls of Rita’s age group. Rita is growing up.”
“So I’ve noticed.” His voice was dry, and she looked up, trying to read the inscrutable expression in his eyes. As usual, she failed. The music stopped and they went back to their table.
They began dinner. It was an excellent one, and Cathy frankly enjoyed herself. “Mrs. Ferguson is a gem,” she told him, “but it is nice to have something not out of the little black book.”
They sat back waiting for coffee.
“Dance again?”
“No, thank you.”
“That leaves only one alternative, a tete-a-tete conversation.”
She raised her blue eyes to his. “Why not, Dr. Malcolm? I believed that was the real purpose of all this.”
He hunched his shoulders. “Not entirely the purpose but part of it. I thought it was high time you understood a few things.”
“Like...?”
“Like the statement you made a little while ago, Miss Trent. You said, ‘From the beginning you have shown clearly that you have no real confidence in Little Families.’ ”
Cathy inclined her head. “It has appeared so to me. Have you confidence?”
“No.”
“Then...”
For a moment there was silence, then with an abrupt movement of his head, as though brushing aside other issues, he said, “If we could advance ten years, perhaps more, maybe less...”
“What do you mean?”
He did not speak at once. He seemed to be selecting his words. “On your way up to Redgates on the night of your arrival here you mentioned the segregation of the sexes in the Australian section of Little Families.” He paused and then said, “That is what I mean.”
&nb
sp; He did not speak loudly or forcibly, but she was unmistakably aware of the force behind his quiet words. It was a white-hot force. It showed in his narrowed eyes, in the blanched knuckle bones of his clenched hands. She, too, felt strongly on this issue, but not as strongly as this man before her. To him, she could see, it was a major disaster.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered, “I never dreamed ... I mean...”
“You did not think a thing like that could be so important?”
“Oh, I agree it is important, Dr. Malcolm, but you take the long view. The country is young. It still has growing pains. You must work to a certain stage, not arrive there.” She was suddenly conscious of a stricken light in his eyes, and her heart went out in sympathy and wonder and she leaned forward.
“I felt a little as you did,” she confessed. “It was when Mrs. Jessopp left. She swept out very outraged because I had said all children, boys and girls, should be kept together in their own family units irrespective of sex. It was then that Elvira stepped in. She said that was true, and most people admitted it, but things could not happen overnight, one had to wait for them. Then she told me—” and Cathy half shut her eyes remembering that gentle liquid voice “—‘we haven’t gone half your distance, so you’ll have to give us time. In a little while it will all be right. Keep that in your mind. Keep telling yourself in a little while.’ ”
The coffee came. He did not speak for several minutes. Then when he did his voice was a little blurred.
“Twenty-five years,” he said, “is not a little while.”
She looked across at him with a question in her eyes. He answered it.
“I was five when I was farmed out to Australia from England. That is twenty-five years ago now.”
“Yes?”
“Even then there was a movement to follow the English Little Families precedent of keeping brothers and sisters together, and even then people spoke as you do now of ‘in a little while.’ ”
“The country was in its infancy—still is,” defended Cathy.
“And members of Little Families are still separated if they are misguided enough to comprise both sexes.” His voice was bitter.
She looked at him curiously. Allowing that it was a sore point with him, he still seemed more than ordinarily upset. Could there be something personal in his bitterness? She waited, and after a while he spoke.
“There were two Malcolms on the ship that brought across our particular cargo of experimental young. I was one. The other was—my sister.”
“Your sister.”
She sat silent a long while digesting his words. She remembered how she had been distressed over the separation of the Curtises and the Bannermans and how David Kennedy had assured her that these particular families were inured to being apart and were not, anyway, particularly sensitive types.
But a child not inured to it, a vulnerable child like this clever moody man now sitting before her, must have felt terribly uprooted, completely shattered. She blinked back a quick tear. It was a tear for all lonely, bewildered, uprooted, shattered little boys.
“I’m sorry,” she said spontaneously, “I’m terribly sorry. Can you tell me about it?”
“I expect is sounds silly. I expect it is silly. One does not cherish a dim childhood figure in one’s memory for twenty-five years.”
“Yet you did.”
“Yes, I did. I’ll always remember Susan.”
That was her name?”
“Yes.”
“You were together in England?”
“I can’t remember her there, but then I can’t remember anything there. My first recollections were on the ship coming out. She was a little mother to me. I depended on her for everything. When we were parted on our arrival here it broke my heart.”
“Were you parted at once?”
“Oh, no, the boys came to Redgates and occupied the other block, as next week Mr. Kennedy and his charges will do. That was bad enough. To be under a different roof from my sister, the only person who belonged to me in the whole world, was a barb to a child’s heart, but when she went altogether...”
“How do you mean she went altogether?”
“I don’t know. I only remember I went down with measles, as half Redgates was down with measles, and that when I came out of quarantine my sister was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes.”
“Were others gone? Other girls?”
“No, only Susan.”
“Where had she gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“I asked her friends. They did not know.”
“Did you ask the authorities?”
“How,” he flung harshly, “can a child of five ask a question of anyone in authority?”
“The children of today do. Christabel would ask anyone.”
“Yes ... Christabel.” He leaned back in his chair. He was temporarily diverted. “I always think of Susan when I see Christabel. She had that same tenacity of purpose, that same impish mischief. It was the mischief, I expect, I most admired in her. To a small, rather shy boy she seemed a most satisfactory elder sister.”
“How much older?”
“Susan was nine.”
Cathy was quiet. She was seeing a small, introspective, sensitive boy searching wildly for the only one who really meant anything to him and finding instead a big blank wall.
“You grew up with that on your mind,” she said, half to herself.
“Yes, I expect I did in a way. Fortunately the bread-and-butter influence of Little Families dispelled most of any inhibitions I might have gathered.”
“But not all?”
“As you say, not all.”
“When you grew up did you try to find out?”
He shook his head rather wearily.
“Why?”
“The wound had healed. I had outgrown the pain. I did not want to reopen it.”
“Why are you reopening it now?”
“Because I want you to understand how a man can be of two minds at the one time. How he can fight for something and yet distrust it. How he can show clearly that he has no real confidence, as you just remarked, yet still persist. I was a Little Families brother. I am still, and always will be, a Little Families brother, but that does not blind me to their shortcomings.”
“You must be patient,” repeated Cathy rather helplessly. “There is sure to be a change to the English way. In a little while...”
“In a little while will mean a long while, and in that while another brother and sister are lost to each other, and another child remembers something tender and puts out an eager hand to find emptiness instead.”
“Dr. Malcolm, you feel very deeply over this” Her voice held concern.
His face had darkened. “I believe that the thing we call family is a living structure. That is what I shall expect my family to be. I believe that you can’t take away from a family without destruction. When Susan was taken it was like tearing a piece off myself.”
His words ended and she did not say any more. She felt that they had both spoken enough. He must have agreed, for when he broke the silence it was lightly, casually. He said, “Another dance?”
They moved in the same ease of rhythm around the floor. He made trivial remarks, and she responded with trivials.
She commented on the aboriginal murals around the room, and he swung her closer to examine them the better.
“Jerry.” The voice that called was low, careful of timbre, rather studied.
“Fayette, of all people.” He stopped in his dancing and, steering Cathy in front of him, retired to the table whence the voice had come.
“Sit down, darling. And do sit down, Miss...?”
“Trent,” said Dr. Malcolm. “Miss Trent, this is Mrs. Dubois.”
Cathy saw a quite beautiful and very elegant blond woman who was regarding her with frankly curious eyes. The eyes took in everything: Cathy’s modern and expensive dress, her fair coloring, her
unease at being in the company of the woman whom Elvira had mentioned several times as the most influential member of the board. She wondered if Dr. Malcolm would explain his companion’s position at Redgates. He did not. Mrs. Dubois appeared to be thinking it over, but the cut of Cathy’s dress must have satisfied her that this was not the young and attractive person she had been told was now ensconced at Burnley Hills, and she turned back to Dr. Malcolm.
“This is Brent, darling. Brent Fordham.” Her suave escort bowed and turned his attention to Cathy.
They had drinks together, and while she talked to Brent, Cathy heard odd scraps of conversation.
“But you must come to the meeting, bad boy. I’ll be there...
“Jerry, you have neglected me terribly of late. You can’t do that to a Dubois. Hasn’t anyone told you?
“Of course it’s blackmail, but I mean it. I’d be ruthless enough to do anything to keep you.”
The voice was still low, sweet, studied, but there was a note of deliberation in it—and of warning.
Cathy half turned. Dr. Malcolm was intent on the woman beside him. If he had deserved her censure or intended deserving it he did not betray it. He appeared totally absorbed in her beauty and charm.
At length he rose, Cathy after him, and they took their leave.
“Next week then, Jeremy.”
“Next week, Fayette.”
They did not sit down again at their own table. By unspoken agreement they gathered their things together and left.
As they sped over the bridge, the fun park’s lights out now, the beetling ferries docked for the night, and only the stars and the moon reflected in the velvet harbor, Cathy said, “I thought Elvira said Miss Dubois.”
“Fayette was a Miss Dubois. She married her cousin.”
“So she is Mrs. Dubois, a married woman.” Cathy spoke reflectively.
“No,” said Dr. Malcolm, “actually she is not. Fayette was widowed last year.”
CHAPTER SIX
Mrs. Ferguson had decided on Apple Float for the dessert course and had taken up a basket and gone down to the shed.
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