‘You’re not going to wash up?’ he groaned.
‘That’s exactly what I am going to do, Mr. Corraine. Now lead the way, please.’
‘And I called you a romantic girl,’ he said as he held open the door and she whisked past him carrying the loaded tray.
‘There’s a time and a place for everything,’ she said.
‘Is that a promise, Joanna?’
She smiled without answering him.
CHAPTER THREE
THE days that followed were filled with new things for Joanna to learn, so many of them that the hours passed like a flash. The meals eaten by the stockriders were large ones, and besides Tilly and Peg, the two aborigine girls who worked in the kitchen, there was Bushy, whose lower left arm was missing. He was sometimes more hindrance than help, but so full of yams about the bush that Joanna welcomed his weathered face across the tables as they plucked fowls for dinner, or took the stones out of the raisins for a giant plum duff.
As Joanna worked around the enormous kitchen, with its cedar timbering, screened windows to keep out insects, two big stoves and walk-in refrigerator, she absorbed the new sounds in her life. The jingling of spins, the lowing of the cattle that arose on the warm wind, the laugh of a kookaburra on the branch of a red-gum tree. These trees screened the kitchen from the sun, satiny-patched where the bark had peeled. The scent of peppermint stole in from the gum trees, and there was a droning of bees in the blossoms.
As she sliced fruit into a big blue bowl, or spooned gravy over a great baron of beef, Bushy would softly play the mouth organ he kept in a pocket of his faded check shirt. ‘There’s peace here, missy,’ he said to her. ‘A person can feel the passing of time without having it run away from him.’
But for Joanna those first ten days at Raintree went too fast for any savouring of that peace. She worked away like a little Trojan, though Aunt Charly kept telling her that the boys didn’t expect any miracles and didn’t mind waiting a few minutes for their meals.
But Adam Corraine expected miracles and Joanna was conscious all the time that she was on trial.
Maybe that was why she burnt a batch of loaves - she who had never done such a thing in her life. Why she upset a large tin of treacle, threw out some forks with the garbage, and cut the runner beans far too thin for the hearty-eating stockriders.
By some miracle of perseverance and green fingers Aunt Charly had cultivated a garden that kept the homestead well supplied with fresh vegetables. It was Busby’s main job to keep the garden watered and free from the weeds that would strangle or smother the homely cabbages, potatoes, onions, marrows and beans.
Joanna delighted in the garden. It was wonderful to see the plump green cabbages growing here in the wilds of Queensland, and she took a snap of the garden to send to Gran, much to the amusement of Bushy, whose offer to appear in the snap was smartly turned down. ‘Gran would think I was living among bushrangers,’ she said.
‘Your folks wanted you to stay home and not go a-roving, is that it, missy?’
‘It did surprise my grandmother when I made up my mind to come to Australia, but we both thought I’d be living with my sister, who when I arrived had gone off to New Zealand to appear in a stage show.’
‘I had a daughter a long time ago, missy.’ Bushy frowned at his harmonica and polished it on his pinned sleeve. ‘Trudi she was called. Smart little thing. Her mother took her off to Melbourne and after that I didn’t get to see her more than a couple of times. She’s married now. Her husband works for the television network and old Bushy Cloud wouldn’t be welcome in their posh parlour.’
‘Haven’t you paid her a visit since she got married. Bushy?’
‘Nope. Old Bushy knows where he’s welcome, and that’s right here, missy. Right here at Raintree. That Adam he’s good to me, kept me on when I got poisoning and the doctor came in his plane and took me to Alice Springs to operate on me in that smart hospital they’ve got there. The Boss didn’t pension me off. He knows a man needs to work or he gets like some old dog that lays down in a shady corner one day and dies quietly all by himself. Folks say Adam is like his grandfer, but it ain’t rightly so.’
‘What do you mean, Bushy?’ Joanna turned from her task of shaking down plums for the big tarts the boys liked, served with custard. ‘Everyone says he’s King all over again - look at that portrait in the drawing room!’
‘Aye, he looks like the old man, and knows how to boss the stockmen and mix with them, but King Corraine was hard all the way through, missy. He never took into account a man’s feelings, only his muscles and his ability in the saddle, among them cows. He was so ambitious that he gave off sparks, like a magneto. Some of the aborigine boys called him Willy-Willy, which means a whirlwind.’
Joanna couldn’t help but smile, for Adam Corraine was one of the most headlong riders she had ever seen. And if someone dithered about what ought to be done to a broken-down truck, he slid underneath without another word, put the matter right with the all-round skill of a station boss, and emerged looking like a coalminer.
Once or twice he had come into the kitchen looking like that, and under the tap would go his head and the water would run down his brown neck and plaster his shirt to the shoulders that made Joanna shiver with a girl’s fear of the primitive. She felt sure these sallies into the kitchen were made with the intention of watching her at work. As he flicked the water out of his eyes and looked at her, his gaze felt like a lightning in the rain.
The cool grey sparkle of his eyes remained in her thoughts after he had left. He didn’t speak to her very much, but she knew he was biding his time, waiting for the end of her trial fortnight to pronounce his verdict. If he sent her away it would be unjust of him. Apart from the upset treacle, the burnt bread, and a few broken plates, she had surely proved that she was a willing worker.
It would be unkind of him, because you couldn’t be at Raintree and not find it stealing your heart. Her heart felt stolen — curiously so - but she kept this to herself and didn’t even admit to Aunt Charly that it was sheer joy to have a room at the back of the homestead, which overlooked the mystery and magic of the deep valley.
She awoke each morning to bird song, and to the sun-shot mist that slowly unveiled the trees. The dew turned to perfume on the flowering creepers, and there was a jewelled flash of wings as the tiny bush birds flew from branch to branch. Joanna was used to being up and about at an early hour, and by the time she and the two girls started the steak and onions for the boys, she had fed the hens, milked the few domestic cows, and had time to smile at the trio of comical kookaburras perched on a branch like chatter-happy ladies all got up in their best feathers for an outing.
She had no time in those first two weeks to get really acquainted with Bonney Ryan, who steered clear of the kitchen and seemed to spend a lot of her time mooning over poetry, or playing the records of a certain pop hero with a fantastic name. She had a Celtic prettiness that was somewhat marred by a petulant mouth. Her dark hair was smooth as silk, and her eyes were the brown of a highland tarn. Joanna could understand why Adam Corraine didn’t like her riding alone. She was at the romantic age, and several of the stockmen were young and unmarried, and they had about them a brown-skinned, dashing attractiveness as they rode off on their horses, a stockwhip coiled around a broad shoulder.
Several invitations to the next barn dance had already come Joanna’s way, but she could make no promises. The barn dance was on Saturday, and by then she might have been packed off to Hawk’s Bay, found wanting by the Boss, who had looked at her so coldly that first day and whose ice had not melted beyond a cool: ‘Good morning, Miss Dowling. Please remember that I like my eggs sunny side down.’
One evening at sundown Joanna found herself alone on the veranda that overlooked the valley. She had showered and slipped into-a cool sleeveless dress, and she leaned against the veranda post and savoured the wonderful stillness as the sun faded into a violet dusk. There was a seductive scent of honeysuckle from the great c
luster over the trellis, and the afterglow seemed to cling round the mountains like a halo.
For the first time she felt a sense of peace, and then it was broken as a voice spoke behind her on the veranda. ‘Taking a breather from your chores, Miss Dowling?’
She swung round and there was Adam Corraine, a tall figure in the dusk, the light of a match playing over his face as he lit his pipe. The tang of the tobacco floated to her, mingling with the sweet honeysuckle, and the quickened beat of her heart told her that the moment had come for them to discuss her future.
‘Strange how the coming of night changes the look of things, eh?’ His tread was deep on the boards of the veranda as he came to stand nearby. ‘You must find Australia very different from England?’
‘It’s all rather overwhelming,’ she agreed, ‘but I’m doing my best to cope. I suppose you want to talk about that, Mr. Corraine? I am aware that my fortnight is up - almost.’
‘Having someone here has certainly taken a load off my aunt’s shoulders, but there are aspects to living as we do, miles from our nearest neighbours and the bustle of a town, that might in another couple of weeks make you wish you had never set eyes on Raintree. Australian girls are used to the life—’
‘You can only get used to a place by living in it,’ she argued. ‘It’s like people. How can one tell from appearance what a person is really like? Shyness can hide aggression. Brusqueness can be a mask for reserve.’
‘It’s rare for a home-help to be a student of philosophy,’ he drawled.
‘It’s mere good sense, Mr. Corraine, to know that the sweetness of an apple can’t be assured unless one takes a bite.’
He drew on his pipe and his soft laugh was enigmatical. He might have been amused by her reasoning, but she felt that if she looked into his eyes she would see a mocking light in them. It was as if there was no ground they could meet on without this sense of tension and battle. She looked away from him, but was very aware of his considerable tallness, even lounging against the veranda rail.
‘You’ve taken but a nibble of the apple,’ he said. ‘What about later on when it gets really hot, when everything is quiet with Vance and the boys away mustering? A large apple is not firm and sweet all round. There might be patches that could set your small white teeth on edge.’
‘You - you talk as if I’m a child!’ It both confused her and annoyed her that he should mention anything personal about her. Her teeth were quite nice, but they weren’t milk teeth. ‘I don’t expect everything to be tame and cosy here at Raintree. I’m well aware that it isn’t a holiday resort!’
‘Some women would think it a hardship to be miles from the fancy shops and the hairdressing salon; lush restaurants and theatres.’
‘Mr. Corraine, if you were talking to my sister Viviana, then all this would be relevant. She is the Dowling girl who likes to be within reach of smart shops and theatres, not I. I find the countryside peaceful, not monotonous.’
‘Fighting words, Miss Dowling.’ His eyes flicked her hair, her winged eyebrows, her mouth that held a young and touching obstinacy. The stars came out beyond his shoulder and from the men’s quarters came the sound of guitar music. ‘There are people who take root here like the brigalow tree, but let’s you and me be honest. Isn’t it because of my cousin that you’re so keen to stay here?’
For a stunned moment she could hardly believe her ears. There was a tense silence filled with the faint sound of music, and her eyes matched the spark of the fireflies. ‘If you want the truth, then here it is,’ she said frostily. ‘I don’t like cities and was prepared to put up with your rudeness in order to work in a beautiful place like this valley. I don’t have to put up with cooking for a crowd of stockmen. I could cook for just one man if I wished—’
‘Meaning?’ Adam Corraine’s voice had gone softly dangerous, in contrast to the sudden sweet call of a bush bird.
‘Your cousin asked me to marry him,’ she said recklessly. ‘I know you don’t want me at Raintree, but if I marry Vance then you’ll have to put up with me!’
She stood taut against the cloud of honeysuckle, wanting to bury herself in it a second after her crazy statement. To a man like Adam Corraine marriage would be a serious proposition. He wouldn’t jest about it, as she knew Vance had been jesting. Her heart hammered. What would he do? She watched silently as he tapped the ashes from his pipe, a tall, spare man, with a profile marred by the broken bridge of a dominant nose. A man contained within himself, as the valley was, and the mountains. She trembled a little and wished she had the courage and poise to laugh off what she had just said about Vance wanting to marry her.
Then Adam turned to look at her. ‘You’re a fast worker, Miss Dowling. You must have got that proposal out of Vance almost as soon as you met him, seeing as how he’s been at Once-Lonely working on that bore for the past couple of weeks.’
‘Yes, I was so anxious to be married,’ she flared, ‘that I’ve been burning my fingers on those big gas cookers for the past two weeks, loading and unloading great baking tins of potatoes and beef!’ She drew away from the veranda rail and went to sweep past him. ‘Keep your job, Mr. Corraine. You’re too exhausting to please!’
‘Just a minute.’ His hand caught her elbow in a firm grip. ‘If I let you go, that ardent cousin of mine will waste his weekends making visits to Hawk’s Bay. You’d better stay here.’
‘I wouldn’t stay if you gave me another pound a week!’ She wrestled with him in an effort to break free of his grip, but the hand that held her was the same one that handled a raking chestnut horse, and it was tiring, not to say undignified, trying to escape his iron fingers. She breathed quickly and was confused at finding herself too close to him. Pine soap and tobacco smoke mingled in her nostrils.
‘The job is yours,’ he said firmly. ‘I like a fighter, though at first glance you don’t give that impression. My father fought alongside the English in Burma and he wrote in his letters home that they were “cool as cucumbers, and they don’t cry in company”. Aunt Charly also tells me that you don’t get impatient with her ramblings, or Bushy’s. That’s unusual in a young person.’
‘I was brought up by my grandmother,’ Joanna reminded him, somewhat disarmed by what he had said about his father, who had fought and died in the jungles of Burma and left his son to be reared by the autocratic King Corraine.
‘I’m fond of my aunt,’ he said roughly, as if a revelation of his feelings was more difficult for him than roping a scrub bull or taming a range horse. She was amazed to find herself smiling a little in the shadows where he still held her, his fingers tough and warm about her slender arm. ‘I’d do a lot for her.’
‘You’d even let me stay at Raintree, though I set your teeth on edge?’ The smile still lingered on Joanna’s lips, for some reason.
‘Now I didn’t say that—’
‘You said an Australian girl would suit you best, so if you’ll release me I’ll go in and pack my bag.’
He didn’t release her, and as the seconds ticked by and the night sounds from the valley drifted to them, Joanna felt the fight go out of her. She felt a sense of surrender to the place and the master. There was nothing tame about either of them - a mere girl could not withstand their silent strength, their hold on the imagination.
‘Now you’re forcing me to stay?’ she murmured. ‘Does it please you better?’
‘Pleases both of us,’ he retorted. ‘Women like to be bossed.’
‘Or they do the bossing?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’re a ruthless man, Mr. Corraine.’
‘But my cousin is charming.’
‘Yes, he’s a born charmer.’
‘‘Something women like even better.’
‘Can you blame them?’
‘No.’
He let her go and where his hand had held her arm there lingered an impression of strength and rough warmth. She wondered if he minded that his cousin was easier to like, with a grace to him that made Adam seem rug
ged and a bit fierce. He was like the horse or the bull that led the mob ... you didn’t try to get a rope on him because it wasn’t in his nature to be roped. He’d trample over anyone who tried, be it a man or a woman.
She gazed from the veranda and thought the trees in the starlight had silver trunks patched with black velvet ‘I like Miss Charlotte,’ she said, as if in this moment she needed to let Adam know that it wasn’t just for Vance that she stayed. ‘I like her very much. I think her life has been selfless and rather wonderful. She must once have been very beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ he said, in that rough tone. ‘But if we’ve a purpose and it’s a good one, and we squander ourselves for it, then I reckon we’re living.’
‘You think it’s better to have a purpose than a love?’ Joanna dared to ask. ‘It must at times be a bit lonely.’
‘It could be lonelier if the love we accept is not the love we really want.’
‘Then you believe there is only one soul mate for each of us, Mr. Corraine?’
‘Don’t you, Miss Dowling?’
Of course, she wanted to say. I believe with all my heart in one true love, but it was an intimate subject and she thought it wise that she remain impersonal in her dealings with the Boss of Raintree. Tomorrow or the next day she might do something an Australian girl wouldn’t do, and Adam’s frown was easier borne if a girl kept her distance.
‘How many different sounds there are at night at Raintree,’ she said. ‘Have you ever tried to count them?’
‘They’re part of living and breathing to me.’ His voice held distance as he straightened to his full height ‘Shall we go in and join the others for dinner?’
She preceded him, and as they entered the dining-room together, Bonney Ryan glanced round from the window where she was standing and the light was soft on her silky dark hair, but her eyes were sharp as she took in the slender fair figure of Joanna ... startlingly fair against the leathery tan and toughness of Adam Corraine.
Raintree Valley Page 5