‘Well?’ he asked her, coming back on the homestead side of the road, and she looked at him in question. ‘Don’t I get thanked, too?’
‘Thank you, Burn.’
Jason was in a happy mood for Jason. He said, ‘Everyone’s a jolly good fellow today.’ He put one little hand on Frances’ knee and one on West’s.
‘I think,’ he finished, ‘we’re a happy family.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Though it proved just as hard the next day to prise Jason from lessons as on the first occasion, Candy helped considerably. When the little boy’s face clouded as Frances firmly and finally closed the books at noon to decree, ‘That’s all till tomorrow’ she found that an added, ‘Or the horses will get tired of waiting for us’ swept much of the cloud away.
‘Do you think Candy will like me?’ Jason asked anxiously over lunch by the window.
‘No one could help liking you, darling,’ Frances assured him, her heart going out to his little worry-creased face. What a serious little boy he was.
‘I don’t think she liked me sometimes,’ Jason said thoughtfully.
‘A lady you knew?’ asked Frances carefully.
But Jason either lost interest or could not remember.
‘He mightn’t like my leg.’ He was back on Candy again.
‘We’ll explain to him that it won’t be like that for long, only until the plaster comes off.’
‘It came off before and it had to go on again. Do you think it will this time?’
‘If it does you’ll have a lovely new scribbling leg, won’t you?’
‘Only I won’t scribble on it. I’ll do lessons. Will Candy know when you tell him about my leg?’
‘Not if we keep him waiting, for then he won’t be there. Finish up your plate, honey. I think Burn is ready for us.’
When they came out on the verandah, Burn was. He let Jason struggle laboriously ahead of them to the stables. ‘It will loosen him up; I’ll carry him back.’
‘You do think he will be all right, Burn?’
‘Only his disinclination could discourage me, but I believe the boy is keen.’
‘He can’t wait.’ Frances smiled. ‘He was a little dubious whether Candy would like him, but I assured him that everybody and everything would.’ She frowned slightly.
‘Feeling you overdid your assurance?’ Burn grinned at her. Evidently he had noted the frown.
‘No, I was just wondering at that “I don’t think she liked me” of Jason’s.’
‘Jason said that?’ His voice was sharp.
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say—’
‘No, he didn’t say a name,’ Frances forestalled, ‘he just went on to something else.’
They walked in silence for a few moments and Frances darted Burn a quick glance. His eyes were narrowed and he wore a tight look. She said rather hastily so as to change the atmosphere more to the occasion it should be; ‘I believe I read once how pony riding has been used as therapy for handicapped children.’
‘There was an instance in Copenhagen where a young woman who had been struck down in infancy recovered through equestrian exercise and eventually succeeded in the Olympic Games,’ he answered. ‘I have no Olympic ambition for Jason, but I feel he’ll take readily to riding, for after all he is a West.’
Which answers everything, Frances felt like inserting tartly. But when she saw Jason’s ecstatic little face as he fondled Candy’s chestnut head, she felt ... if reluctantly ... obliged to the name of West for passing on to the little boy such love and confidence as shone in his eyes. He was, as Burn West had said, born to this. As Burn had said on yet another occasion: His father’s son.
But where was Jason’s mother? And Burn West’s wife?
Burn lifted Jason up on Candy’s accommodating back and began walking him. As with his lessons, Jason progressed almost too fast. He would have cantered alone, and probably have made a success of it, too, but Burn ruled otherwise.
‘Not until you have two knees to hug on with, sonno. Knees are very important with horses. Anyway, it’s France’s turn to be taught.’
Jason laughed merrily as Burn made Frances mount and dismount. ‘You wait till it’s your go,’ she grimaced at him, getting up and down for the tenth time. But, passed as satisfactory by Burn, she found the cantering completely enjoyable, especially when Burn mounted his own bay horse Major and accompanied her on white Miss Cloud.
She watched him enviously as he tried out a second and large circuit for the pair of them, galloping round in twice the speed and half the time it would take her. If only, she wished, I could do that. Then suddenly, without warning, Miss Cloud was galloping, too, chasing instinctively after her stablemate. Although Frances was aware of all the things she should do, she was too surprised to do any. She simply gave Miss Cloud her head, and somewhere around the circuit she did what she vaguely knew was inevitable unless she managed to bestir herself sufficiently to check Miss Cloud—she came straight down and off her back and was on the ground before she knew.
For a moment she stayed there more from surprise than anything else, then, getting resolutely to her feet, she reached out and grabbed the reins of Miss Cloud, who had stopped and taken the opportunity to crop from some enticing grass at the verge of Burn’s new circuit, and resolutely remounted. Letting Miss Cloud know who was holding her this time, she cantered round to where Burn sat on his saddle, feet long in the stirrups, leading forward to watch her through narrowed eyes.
She anticipated ... and deserved? ... sarcasm. She waited for West to draw Jason’s attention to what, when eventually he started to ride, he must not do. But Burn West’s words surprised her.
‘Good girl, France. After a fall that’s the only way to come home.’
Back in the homestead and lingering over a hot bath with lashings of salt to help a few bruises that were already showing purple, Frances could not help smiling to herself. She was sore, but not in spirit. ‘Good girl,’ he had said. She warmed herself ... quite absurdly, she reprimanded herself ... in the praise.
The morning lessons the next day had Jason racing so far ahead that Frances reported a little dubiously to Burn that she felt at any time he would leave her behind.
‘We’ve our first batch ready to send back to the Education Department.’ She handed the completed pages to Burn. ‘Will you see about getting them away?’
‘I did think we could take them up ourselves,’ Burn answered, accepting Jason’s first efforts, ‘but Doctor Muir can’t get off this week. Yes, I’ll dispatch them for you. Still keeping the sonno to mornings only?’
She looked at him for guidance. ‘I did intend to, but if you want it differently—’
‘I’m all for it. Like you, I don’t believe the enthusiasm will leave Jason, but if I can do anything to keep it there in its present stage I’ll do it.’ He smiled. ‘No, I asked that because I have another aspect here to show you. You won’t be able to join in, not at your present level of equestrian proficiency, but I do believe you’ll enjoy watching the cutting out of the primes.’
‘What’s that? Don’t forget’ ... Frances was humble ... ‘I’m a townie.’
‘Not that much of a townie.’ He took out his makings, his eyes actually teasing her as he rolled and moulded and enclosed and lit. ‘It’s what I said, France, it’s cutting out the primes. Incredible though it may seem, this Riverina has a bit of this going on besides wheat, sheep, fruit, rice, you-name-it-we’ve-got-it.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘What would you guess with cutting out the primes?’
‘Cattle, I think.’
‘Good,’ he awarded. ‘Cattle it is ’
‘In the irrigation area?’
‘I didn’t say that, I said the Riverina. There’s good cattle at Coolamon, Ganmain and’ ... he paused ... ‘where I’m going to take you and the sonno, to Harry Springs.’
‘Are there springs?’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘not now. Plenty of sunbaked pl
ains, and that’s what cattle like. I haven’t many—’
‘They’re yours?’
‘I told you that my father advised a mixed plate. Yes, I have this little property.’ He told her the size, which sounded anything but little to Frances, and she said so.
‘It’s not even a pocket handkerchief when it comes to cattle. I was up at a station in the Northern Territory where the size went in thousands of miles, not hundreds of acres. It was there I got the feeling for cattle, but of course they were not suited right here at West of the River. But I think you’ll like the Springs. It’s not “pretty” country, but—’ He shrugged.
On Burn’s direction Frances cut short the lessons the next day, then, a picnic hamper in the seat beside the driver, they set off. Frances as usual sat in the back in case of rough patches in the road when Jason might need to be steadied.
As soon as they left the actual irrigation area the gold started creeping in—flatness instead of gentle undulations. By the time Burn indicated with a wave of his hand distant Harry Springs, it was a golden world. Golden-green grass. Gold distance. Even a gold mirage that had Jason clapping his hands. ‘Stop, Burn,’ he called, ‘we’ll be rich, it’s a golden lake!’
‘Only it isn’t there, sonno.’ Burn pulled up, though, to explain the wonder of a mirage to the little boy. While he did so he nodded for Frances to take out the hamper and pour the flask tea. ‘A crime to offer tea from a Thermos in the bush, but we haven’t much time. Also, the country’s dry and at least this way there’s no fire risk.’
They ate after Jason had gone to make sure for himself that his father was right, that there was no golden lake. He mused thoughtfully afterwards over his chicken and salad sandwich. ‘It didn’t look pretend,’ he puzzled, ‘yet it was.’
‘Well, soon you’ll see something that’s not pretend, sonno, and believe me, they’re almost as valuable as a golden lake.’
‘The cattle?’ Jason asked.
‘Yes. I’m rather proud of Garo Garo.’
‘Is that its name? It’s funny.’
‘It’s aboriginal for lying down, and that’s what the plains do, just lie in the sun—but not the cattle, as you’ll soon see.’
There was no need to tell Jason to hurry up with his sandwich, he swallowed so fast that he nearly choked and had to be slapped on the back.
‘We’re not in that much of a hurry, sonno,’ Burn remonstrated.
More golden paddocks, golden distances, even another golden lake, only this time Jason looked scornfully at it and said, ‘You’re only pretend, you don’t kid me.’
Then they were turning in at gates ... Burn let Frances do the honours ... and travelling a very different avenue from the one that led to West of the River. There were no tree plantings here. There was not even the inevitable peppercorn to shade the way to the house. Then when they got to the end of the drive there was no house!
‘No,’ smiled Burn at Jason’s gasp, ‘no one lives here. If they ... or I ... do come, we put up in the gunyah.’
‘Is that a gunyah?’ Jason was looking rather disgustedly at the skimpy shack which was the only building in sight.
‘Gunyah means a hut.’
‘It is,’ demanded Jason. He had got out by himself, he was getting pretty good at it now, but he was not going to waste any effort, for walking was an effort to the little boy, on examining the hut. He began moving laboriously to a sliprailed fence. It would take the clumsy leg some time to get there, so when Burn opened the unlocked hut door and indicated to Frances to enter, she did.
There was nothing inside except a bed and a packing case table with a Primus on it.
‘Bit rough,’ he grinned.
‘Yes.’ She was annoyed that her answer came out indistinctly. The almost monk-like austerity of the shelter affected her quite oddly. She could see this uncluttered man in this room, its complete absence of unessentials matching his direct nature. She could see him coming in of a night, making a simple meal, perhaps reading by the candle she saw on a shelf and then going to bed.
‘Well?’ he asked, and she gave a little start, caught out as she was in her thoughts.
‘Nothing,’ she said defensively, ‘I mean—’
‘Nothing is the sonno’s prerogative, one we’re trying to break him of. Tell me, France, what were you thinking?’
‘That—that it looks like you.’
‘Do you really think that?’ He had not taken his hat off when he came into the gunyah and now he pushed it to the back of his head.
‘You mean I look the part?’ he asked her. ‘The celibate?’
She looked at him in surprise. How could he say this when outside his son—
‘Because I’m not, you know.’ His eyes held hers.
‘Oh, I know that.’
‘You do, France?’ he had come a step forward. ‘This room,’ he said, ‘is not as it looks, it’s for blossoming. After all, poor though it is, it’s still a roof tree, and trees blossom.’
He had stepped forward again and across the dark, bare ... celibate ... room was looking at her, imprisoning her glance. And suddenly the celibacy seemed gone, the blossoming, the potential blossoming, was there.
‘France! Burn!’ came Jason’s injured shout, ‘what are you doing in that gudyah?’
‘Gunyah, sonno.’ Burn emerged to the light again, and Frances followed.
A horse was untethered from a post beside the little water tank. Jason asked in amazement where it had come from.
‘Bert Patterson has a holding over the hill,’ Burn told him.
‘I can’t see any hill.’
‘Well, there is one,’ said Burn, ‘or at least we call it that.’
‘Like Harry Springs?’
‘Yes. When I come over to cut out the primes I get in touch with Bert to leave Bruce here.’
‘Is he Bruce?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ride him?’
‘No, sonno.’
‘Doesn’t he like legs like mine?’
‘I’ll tell you something, he likes only my legs, or at least puts up with them. Bruce isn’t a Candy or a Miss Cloud.’
‘Or Major.’
‘Not even Major. Now, you two, strictly behind the fence and no further.’ Burn went across to Bruce, addressed him a moment, then climbed up.
Bruce was a big brown horse, and showed his spirit once by rising up on his hind legs, wheeling at Burn’s direction, retreating from the rails, then coming back at them at a fast pace to hurdle dizzily across.
‘Ooh ...! gasped Jason, enthralled, and Frances felt like echoing it. She watched fascinated as Burn cut out the primes, so intent that he did not notice the arrival of a brown-skinned horseman until one of the riding boots went up on the fence rail beside her and a pair of strong tanned arms, shirt sleeves rolled, leaned on the upper rail as the man drawled of himself, ‘Name of Patterson, miss. I’ve come to tie up what Burn cuts out. Pretty sight, isn’t it? He’s a dab hand at cutting, is Burn—learnt it up in the Territory. I will say this for West, he learns everything the proper way, from pumpkins to pigs. Watch this cut.’
Burn on Bruce was now on the edge of the small bunch of bullocks, and was carefully, inch by inch, easing out a picked animal. It was wonderful to watch the tableau, for tableau it seemed at this stage, it was all, apart from the selected animal, so unmoving.
‘On a big station there’d be a corral waiting,’ said Bert Patterson, ‘but on this place of Burn’s I just tether the beasts in a makeshift enclosure until he gets them trucked.’
The cutting-out went on for an hour, Bert Patterson, as each selected beast was secured, coming back to talk to the rail perchers.
‘Why has Burn got ladies’ shoes on?’ Jason asked. ‘Cattle shoes. Burn doesn’t really need them today for cutting out, but if you throw a bullock you want heels as a brake.’
‘Throw a bullock?’ Jason’s eyes were saucers.
At last the selected ones were wired in, Burn came back on Bruce, had a
few words with Bert, then, squinting up at the sun, reckoned they had time for a cuppa before they pushed off home again.
‘The flask is empty,’ Frances reminded him, ‘and boiling a billy takes a while.’
‘Not if you do it the right way. However, I’m not showing you that today. The Primus can work instead.’ He went into the gunyah, tinkered and pumped, and presently they heard the hiss of the little stove as it heated the water.
‘There’s no milk,’ Frances reminded him.
‘There’s tea and sugar here, and if you’ve never enjoyed a cup bush-style, it’s time you began.’
‘Jason, too?’ doubted Frances, not too keen on a black brew for a small boy.
‘You try to stop him!’ grinned Burn, nodding to Jason who already had found a cup and was eagerly waiting.
Whether Jason really enjoyed the strong dark potion Frances could not have said, but she rather believed he liked the man-feel of drinking it beside two cattlemen. She enjoyed it herself, though. It had been dusty and drying sitting on the rail.
They pushed off as soon as they had finished, Burn passing Bruce back to Bert as he told the cattleman what transport arrangements he had made. They reversed the way they had come, not so golden now as the sun was reaching the west, a few violet shadows creeping in here and there. It was almost dark when they reached the home run, and Burn put his foot down on the accelerator so as to get to West of the River by the time of lights-on.
But he didn’t make it for all his speed. He braked abruptly at Uplands, opened the jeep door and let out a yell.
‘Trev, you old traitor!’
‘Burn, you old——!’
‘Lady present,’ prevented Burn in time. ‘Also—Jason.’
‘The sonno,’ said the man he had called, and he came across. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
In a daze Frances heard herself being introduced. She heard Burn and Trevor Trent talking together ... making arrangements to meet for more talking ... Trev telling Frances she must get Burn to bring her into Wagga Wagga ... telling Jason...
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