Reaching for the Stars

by Lucy Walker

  She was here. In Australia. Put. She couldn’t back out, or away. She couldn’t run because there was nowhere to go but into the sea. The liner was sailing the wrong way to take her home. It was travelling east on to Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane and all the other magical names of Down Under.

  She stopped blinking her eyes and looked at Lang Franklin, preparing a formal smile, hoping to convey the impression she was deaf and had not heard what he had said.

  Lang Franklin was simply not looking at her. He looked from one middle-aged woman to the other under the B-sign, and then at two men.

  ‘Where is she, Ross? Here or on the ship? Can take an hour to get anyone off the ship if they don’t have the wit to come off in the first half-hour.’

  ‘Right bang beside you, Lang,’ Ross said with exasperation. ‘This young lady is Miss Boyd ‒ Ann Boyd.’

  Ross punched his words home because by this time he thought Lang had better be struck dumb by the facts of the case. Any minute he would say something more devastating.

  Lang brought his eyes back from outer space and looked at Ann. He was quite serious now. It was hard to define his expression. Ann thought he could have been surprised but was not showing it. Why should he be surprised? What sort of a girl had he expected? A dowdy one, or a fat lumpish one? Or one so insignificant she was too small for his eyes to take in? Ann was medium height but so slight she did look small. Couldn’t he even see her?

  Then his smile edged its way back as he raised his hat. It wasn’t the open friendly smile he had had for Ross Dawson, nor the slightly ironic smile he had worn while he was waiting for the unconscious Ross to turn and recognise him standing there. It was kind enough in a controlled way. Ann thought he was not taken aback because she had overheard him, but taken aback because she was not what he had expected. She hazarded a guess he didn’t remember or realise exactly what it was he had said to Ross about his aunt having dispatched him to look for her ‒ a ghastly duty he had of necessity to perform. Something else was occupying his mind to its complete exclusion. It was a detached questioning of herself as a person.

  He held out his hand, automatically. She lifted her hand to meet it.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Boyd,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. I expected someone quite different. But you are very welcome as you are.’

  His eyes softened suddenly with the most engaging smile. ‘Specially under that blue hat,’ he added, quite gently.

  It was so unexpected and so easily said. She wanted to forgive him. Yet somehow she couldn’t. Not quite.

  It had been a chore, imposed on him by his aunt, this coming to meet her. Now he was covering up. Besides, he was disappointed in her. He hadn’t even noticed her standing there because he had been looking for someone much more dazzling. She wondered, desperately, was she wrongly dressed for this Australian climate.

  He had been nice about her hat being blue but perhaps the hat was out of place. It was a flower-head-hugging affair and everyone to be seen had on a wide-brimmed hat of straw or linen.

  Something was wrong with her.

  Perhaps it was just herself. She wasn’t glamorous or wildly beautiful ‒ or fit for Lang Franklin!

  Ann felt her mouth dry and her throat contract so that what she said next she could not afterwards remember but was certain it was not very articulate.

  Ross smoothed things over with much deftness ‒ making a joke that blue, specially blue hats, always got a man in. Had Ann, with great forethought, planned this?

  Seeing her struggle between dignity and confusion he added with a grin: ‘It brought me in. The hat was for me, wasn’t it, Ann? Not this fellow Lang Franklin who thinks all he’s got to do is smile at any girl to have her in the cup of his hand?’

  Somehow the ice was broken.

  ‘As you’re such a good guardian, Ross,’ Lang said, ‘keep your eye on Miss Boyd and see she doesn’t get stung by the Customs. I’ll go across to my aunt and tell her the lost is found and that Miss Boyd has landed.’

  As he walked away Ann watched his back. There was a sudden bleak expression in her eyes. Ross took out his cigarettes and offered her one. As he lit it his eyes smiled into hers.

  ‘It’s always tough landing in a new country,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to us in time. We look a little different, speak differently, and sometimes act differently. But the old blood-thumper is in the right place. People are people wherever you find them. Some are good, some bad, but mostly the same as people anywhere else ‒ all sorts.’

  Ann knew he was comforting her, not only because of that remark of Lang Franklin’s but because he intuitively knew that a new country was indeed a strange country and meeting Mrs. Franklin, with whom she was to stay, would be an ordeal for anyone.

  At that moment the Customs official arrived amongst her baggage and Ann had now to give all her attention to him.

  Lang walked away towards the one exit from the railed-off Customs section. He raised his hand with a glint of a smile to the one or two people he knew. He stopped to speak to one Customs official with whom he was well acquainted and asked him to look after Miss Ann Boyd over there under the ‘B’s.

  ‘She’s visiting. Not likely to have anything you’re looking for, feller,’ he said with a grin. ‘Nice girl without a clue what’s banned on the import slate ‒ I should say.’

  ‘Could have an apple in her bag or a flower-spray on her dress. That’s mostly what we’re looking for with the girls.’

  ‘As an orchardist, a farmer and a wool man I’m all for keeping other countries’ plant-diseases out of here.’

  Every head turned and looked at him as he walked away. He was a man who commanded attention, without conscious effort.

  Lang, through the exit, weaved his way amongst the tables in the restaurant to where his aunt sat, her tea finished, and one foot tapping restlessly on the floor as she waited for her guest to be found.

  He stood a moment over her, his hands in his pockets, and rocked gently back and forward on his heels. The way he looked at his aunt was an expression somewhere between irony and defeat.

  ‘What did you say this girl was, Aunt? This girl who knocked you down with her “tall fair English-rose look?” Her “tall slim elegance”, the “last word in Paris fashion”?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Lang? Please don’t be irritating. You’ve found her, haven’t you? What with a thousand people landing ‒’

  ‘I’ve found a girl, Aunt. She’s not tall. She’s not fair. She’s not elegant in a Parisienne way, though she has a dazzler of a blue hat on her head. Moreover, Ross Dawson, who you might or might not remember as a wool-buyer for the Continental companies, has already gathered her under his wing. She looks to be claimed ‒ in a purely preliminary way, of course.’

  ‘Then you’ve found the wrong girl. Did you remember to ask her her name? Or even remember her name at all? You’re such a ‒’

  ‘I remembered her name, and Ross made the introductions in advance. Her hair is quite dark ‒ what I could see of it under that blue hat. Not black, mind you, but dark. Glossy in a pleasantly washed way.’

  ‘Dark hair? What rot.’

  ‘Not rot. True,’ Lang said. He was watching his aunt with faint amusement. He wasn’t terribly interested in the colour of any girl’s hair at all. This one certainly had the bluest of eyes under that blue hat; but after that mental comment he wanted to get back to work. He was a busy man.

  A beautiful thought struck Mrs. Franklin and she sighed with relief.

  ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘It’s this fashion of having colour-rinses and changing oneself overnight. Lang dear, I use colour-rinse myself. I absolutely refuse to be magpie-grey for anyone on earth. I couldn’t bear looking at my own face in the mirror without it. Colour-rinse is my most important ego-builder.’

  ‘Good! I’m glad you have a satisfactory explanation for leading me up a gum tree, Aunt. I was looking for a golden daffodil. Or was it an English rose on a long stem?’

  He was
smiling down at her now. This exasperated her. She would do anything on earth for Lang. She knew he knew it and sometimes he deliberately played on her heart-strings. If that wretched girl had changed the colour of her hair then she, Mrs. Franklin, was sorry. She would have a lot of explaining to do to her friends and neighbours, to whom she had already described the girl in detail. That was all there was to it. The girl was here and at least she would be elegant, in spite of what Lang had just said.

  From what seemed like half a mile above her, Lang, looking down, read the ideas that chased themselves through his aunt’s mind. Nothing, he thought, would ever teach her. Plotting and planning gave her lots of fun and filled in her time. He wouldn’t do her out of the opportunity for a million pounds.

  But he was a busy man!

  ‘Come and meet the girl, and see for yourself,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll make the introductions, then I’ll go off and get the car out of the rat-race in the parking area. I’ll pay a luggage man to move her stuff and be waiting by E-shed. Right?’

  Mrs. Franklin gathered handbag, sunshade and herself together, and now stood up.

  She was a tall woman and wore a lovely face-shading hat with her light summer dress. She looked cool and elegant herself, Lang thought. This in spite of the fact the heat was mounting already. How did she manage to look so young?

  He smiled to himself. Colour-rinses, of course!

  From that his thoughts switched to the newcomer. A bathe in the swimming pool would be the best way for the girl to fill in the first day, he thought. He would give up an hour or two to driving her home. After that ‒ he was a busy man!

  Maybe Ross Dawson would tag along and take care of her. He would sound his aunt out about that presently. One thing Mrs. Franklin was adamant about ‒ anyone who came to the house in Kalamunda had to measure up to her social barometer. She had probably forgotten that Ross had been a dinner-guest on several occasions.

  He guided his aunt to the entrance to the Customs section, spoke the magic word to the officials on guard there, then led her to the stand where the inspector had finished with Ann’s luggage and had now passed on to the next passenger.

  ‘Here it comes!’ Ross warned Ann with a smile. ‘Not formidable but takes a little knowing. Don’t be nervous now ‒’

  Ann had finished her cigarette some minutes ago. She grasped her gloves uneasily.

  Did one, or did one not put on gloves in the morning on a warm early-summer day in this country? What was custom and what was not custom? These were anxieties that had not crossed her mind before.

  ‘Gloves?’ she whispered to Ross. He shook his head.

  ‘Perish the thought. Look round and see what all the other people your own age do. Mrs. Franklin’s age will go to super-markets in gloves. Very Victorian still, though getting rarer and rarer.’

  Ann was relieved, though her smile was wintry.

  It really was hard to take, she thought, remembering Lang’s words that had implied he was meeting her in the manner of doing a reluctant chore. And unfair, too. She had been the invited one, not the one who had thrust herself on someone else.

  She waited till she knew the Franklins were near her before she turned.

  Pride and poise at all costs, she thought, and remembered the terrific dignity and charm of her great-aunt. She’d be Aunt Cassie’s niece and hold her head up. She didn’t have to look at Lang Franklin anyway. Only at his aunt, the writer of all those enthusiastic letters to Aunt Cassie.

  Ann had a smile ready. She was taken aback when Mrs. Franklin first gave Ross Dawson a vague smile, and then, puzzled, looked about her as if seeking someone else.

  ‘Oh yes, of course, Mr. Dawson,’ Mrs. Franklin was saying. ‘We have met before, haven’t we? Where is ‒’

  ‘Aunt, you are not listening,’ Lang said with half-amused patience. ‘This is Miss Boyd. This young lady standing right beside you. Ann Boyd.’

  Mrs. Franklin stared at Ann. No manners came to her aid for quite half a minute.

  ‘I … er … you are Ann? I mean … you are Ann Boyd?’ She asked the question as if she meant to follow it with another. Are you quite sure?

  Ann smiled valiantly. ‘Yes, I’m Ann Boyd ‒’

  ‘You … you received all my letters?’

  ‘Yes. My aunt received them all, Mrs. Franklin. You were expecting me today … I mean by this ship?’ Why were her hosts at such a loss when they looked at her? It couldn’t be just the flower hat! Mrs. Franklin gathered herself together. She tried to make her smile of welcome friendly but her surprise fixed her muscles in a way that prevented the whole smile coming through.

  ‘Of course. You …’

  Mrs. Franklin remembered she had never mentioned in any of her letters to Mrs. Boyd that she had seen Claire ‒ the tall fair niece ‒ that day in the club and that she had then and there fallen in love with a girl who, she dreamed, ‘looked exactly what she would have picked out for Lang’ if he had allowed her. In her invitation for that English girl to come to Australia she had taken that chance.

  Who was here? She must have looked at the wrong girl that day. Yet she was certain she had seen a different ‒ a totally different ‒ girl leave the club with that devastating and wonderful woman, Mrs. Boyd.

  Somewhere there must be an explanation. She would have to wait till it was forthcoming.

  This girl was quite pretty, of course. Thank goodness for that at least. She was not distinguished, but pretty. Yes, and her clothes were simple and in good taste. The blue hat was really very attractive.

  Oh well, poor girl, she would have to be made welcome ‒ if she really was Ann Boyd. She could hardly tell the girl she was not in the least what she herself had expected ‒ and promised Lang and all her friends as a rare surprise.

  All these thoughts were raging through Mrs. Franklin’s head as she shook hands with Ann and murmured the customary ‘Have you had a good trip? How is your great-aunt? In good health, I hope? What a wonderful idea it was that she should come out here for the winter. For the English winter, I mean …’

  It was a stilted reception. Ann felt that disappointment in herself shadowed all the polite words Mrs. Franklin was saying. She wondered vaguely if Claire, her cousin, would have been more successful. All Mrs. Franklin had really wanted was a niece of Aunt Cassie’s. Ann could see that now. It was Aunt Cassie to whom Mrs. Franklin had been attracted. She had invited Ann to please Aunt Cassie ‒ hoping perhaps she would have all Aunt Cassie’s charm.

  It was the letters that had made the friendship between them. Mrs. Franklin had expected an image of Aunt Cassie ‒ about fifty years younger. That must be it!

  If only that beastly nephew ‒ Lang ‒ would go away now; and stop smiling that cat-and-the-mouse, heart-hurting smile of his.

  Chapter Three

  While the tepid greeting continued between Mrs. Franklin and Ann, Lang offered cigarettes to Ross. Ross responded by lighting up for both of them.

  ‘I’ve a frantic programme for today,’ Lang said. ‘Wool sale is on Monday. Well, you know that since you’re here for it. Will you help me out with this situation? I’ll drive Aunt and Miss Boyd home but after that I’ve to take off for the wool-store. I’ve to check the classing on the last bales through from Idana Range. The classer went sick and the classing had to be left to the Two I.C. How about coming along with us, then take over up at Kalamunda for me? I can’t leave the girl to Aunt’s mercies at the moment, I can see that. I must be back at the wool-store after lunch.’

  ‘You don’t have to ask, Lang. I’m there already.’ Ross grinned through a wreath of cigarette smoke. He didn’t say that this was the sort of chance any wool-buyer would grasp with both hands; and desert-boots too. If he was lucky enough he might pick up a few bales of wool from the Franklins ‒ stragglers’ clips. For chips too. Bales that didn’t go through the wool-stores and auctioneers were always cheaper by a long long way. Lang Franklin would have a big stragglers’ clip. Anything up to eight thousand merinos maybe
. Triple A …

  Ross, in a dream of the ‘pick-up’ at Franklin’s by the chance of doing a favour in the shape of a good day in the hills with a nice poppet like Ann Boyd, could hardly count his lucky stars. For the record, he’d taken rather a shine to Ann anyway.

  This was going to be his lucky wool season.

  Lang glanced under the brim of his hat at his aunt chatting somewhat stickily with the English girl. His eyes moved from his aunt to Ann.

  The girl held her head beautifully, just high enough to look poised without making a point of it. If his aunt wasn’t coming over the wave-lengths too well, the girl wasn’t reacting too badly, either. She was controlled and at ease in a calm and pleasant way. Lang found himself watching her with greater interest.

  His aunt wasn’t the easiest to take to in the first six months of knowing her. He knew that. She had felt disappointed in the girl without all that golden hair she’d raved about.

  Man-like, that situation amused Lang.

  You never can tell what women want, or how they will take to one another, he thought, at the same time taking a tilt at his own sense of humour. Not to laugh at them. They were both rather cute, standing there, each hiding some disappointment, each trumping the other’s civilities with a reasonable attempt to put a good face on disappointment.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, Aunt ‒ Miss Boyd,’ he said. Then paused. ‘Or do I call you Ann? It’s a most attractive name and we will be living under the same roof. Surnames would be rather a struggle.’

  His smile was that engaging kindly one now. He had worn it when he tried to atone for his blunder about meeting her. He had said ‘Welcome. Specially under that blue hat.’ It was a smile that could have touched something amongst her heart-strings, except that she was cold all over, inside and out; the result of being a disappointment to Mrs. Franklin and a chore to Lang. In fact, right now, her face hurt from the effort of the bright smile she was wearing like a shield for defence.