by Dorothy Cork
He shrugged his broad shoulders and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just away from you.’
‘Away from me?’ she echoed, startled.
‘Yes. I had some thinking to do and the best idea seemed to be to get away from all distractions.’
Farrell frowned slightly. ‘You have—business worries?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Business worries?’ Larry smiled crookedly. ‘No, I had to think about you, Farrell. Didn’t you guess that?’
‘About me?’ She stared at him and felt swift colour rush to her cheeks. But of course—she had to think what was to be done with her, that was all he meant. She said with a sigh, ‘You don’t have to feel responsible for me. I’ll write and tell my father—’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘Is that what you’ve decided? You’ll go quite happily?’
Oh God, no—she wouldn’t go happily at all! She wished and wished that he would insist he couldn’t let her go—that she must stay—that they would start all over at the beginning again. But he insisted on no such thing, and, eyes lowered, she told him, ‘It’s the best thing to do.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said after a moment. ‘But one thing’s for sure—you’re not leaving this place until you’re one hundred per cent fit again. Doctor’s orders are that you keep quiet and don’t upset yourself—you’ve had a slight concussion, you know. So we’ll forget all about future moves for the time being, and when you’re really better, you and I are going to have a long talk.’ He smiled and got to his feet, then stood looking down at her, an odd expression on his face. ‘Just one thing—I accept what you told me the other day. About yourself and—Mark. That’s his name, isn’t it? You were having quite a conversation with him when the doctor came the other night.’
‘Was I?’ Farrell’s head was spinning. She wondered, in slight alarm, what she had said, but she didn’t really feel greatly concerned, because Larry believed her! That seemed terribly important, and her heart was racing. ‘What did I say?’ she asked lightly.
‘Oh, nothing terribly coherent,’ Larry told her, and with an enigmatic smile he went into the house.
Not much later, Mrs. Adams came out and laid a table for lunch on the verandah, and when lunch was over, the housekeeper insisted she must go to her room and rest. It was the last thing Farrell wanted to do—she wanted to spend the afternoon with Larry—but the fact was, she needed to rest, as she discovered when she got to her feet and was overtaken by an attack of dizziness. Reluctantly, she went to her room, and once she was lying down, she barely had time to remind herself that Larry believed in her innocence before she fell asleep.
When she woke, it was after four. She bathed her face and got into her long flowered skirt and a long-sleeved shirt, and brushed her hair. She felt slightly shaky and she was conscious of the bruises on her body and limbs, and of a throbbing ache under the dressing at her temple. As she came on to the verandah from her room, she heard a car door slam, a motor rev up, and then she saw a taxi moving down the gravel road in the direction of Ansell. Voices became audible as she stood unmoving outside her bedroom door.
‘Oh, Larry, how I adore this big old place!’ a woman’s voice exclaimed. ‘I just want to give it one great big hug and a kiss ... I rang home, you know, from the airfield, and they said you were here, so I came straight out. There are lots of things I’m longing to talk to you about before I see anyone else at all.’
Footsteps sounded on the verandah, and Farrell retreated hastily to her room. Her heart was pounding, her throat dry. She knew the visitor must be Helen Adams, and she felt sick with jealousy. She wanted to go back to bed again, to lapse into sleep—not to wake up until Helen had gone. Except that when Helen went, Larry obviously would go too—and not only because Helen didn’t have her own transport. There was no doubting the proprietorial note in that rather wooing, very feminine voice.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed shivering and hating herself she didn’t know how many minutes later when Mrs. Adams knocked and came in.
‘Oh, you’re up, Miss Fitzgerald. Afternoon tea’s ready in the garden—and we have another visitor.’
Farrell looked at her, her grey-green eyes darkening. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, though she already knew.
‘Helen Adams.’ Oddly, the housekeeper didn’t say, ‘My daughter-in-law’.
‘Oh—well, I—I don’t think I’ll interrupt. I’ll have a cup of tea here, if it’s not too much trouble.’
Mrs. Adams shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but Mr. Sandfort wants you to join them.’'
Farrell hesitated on the point of protesting that she didn’t feel up to it, but what was the use? She would have to meet Helen—lovely Helen—some time and, despite everything she was curious to meet her, even though it would be rubbing salt in the wound. Bracing herself, she went across the verandah and into the garden. There, in the shade of a poinciana tree, Helen was pouring tea, turned slightly away from Farrell. A dark-haired girl, tallish, slender—
Larry, aware of Farrell’s approach, stood up and smiled, and Helen put down the teapot and turned her head and stared. Farrell saw with a feeling of positive shock a strong resemblance to Mark—the dark eyes, the bone structure, the straight nose. Mark was good-looking and Helen was—yes, she was lovely, in a cool, chiselled, flawless way.
‘Come along and sit down, Farrell,’ said Larry. In a couple of strides he was beside her and had taken her arm. Farrell pulled away without meaning to. She knew she had gone pale and she was trembling a little. ‘Are you all right?’ Larry asked.
‘Of course I am!’ she said with forced brightness. She gazed back at Helen, whose dark eyes, so like Mark’s it was uncanny, were fixed curiously on her, and went from the dressing on her brow to her bandaged hand.
‘This is Farrell Fitzgerald, Helen,’ Larry said. ‘Farrell—Helen Adams. Helen’s just flown up from Perth and is on her way to holiday with her parents at Mullamulla Downs.’
‘Oh, of course—you’re Mrs. Adams’ daughter-in-law,’ Farrell said nervously, managing a smile, but the other girl frowned, obviously not pleased by this method of placing her.
‘I was Helen Nelson—my father manages Larry’s sheep station for him,’ she said coolly. ‘Sit down, won’t you? Do you take milk in your tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ Farrell sat down and there was a little pause while Helen poured another cup and Larry handed it to Farrell, then offered her the sugar.
‘Farrell Fitzgerald,’ Helen said slowly and thoughtfully, then, as Larry sat down, she turned her lovely dark eyes on him and make a little grimace. ‘Have I caught you out in an—indiscretion, Larry?’
‘Not at all,’ he said sharply. ‘Farrell’s been having a much-needed spell here. And if you’re wondering—she had a fall in the gorge the other day, which accounts for her various bruises and scratches and her somewhat bandaged appearance.’
‘Oh dear, what bad luck! But you shouldn’t have left your invalid’s couch on my account,’ Helen said sweetly. ‘Larry and I were just about to embark on a heart-to-heart talk,’ she added pointedly.
In other words, ‘You are intruding’, thought Farrell. But Mrs. Adams had said Larry wanted Farrell to join them. That, she reminded herself, was probably to bring her out in the open, so that Helen wouldn’t think he had anything to hide. And of course he had not. She glanced at Larry rather anxiously, and he said off-handedly, ‘Don’t feel yourself too hamstrung, Helen. You’ll stay tonight, won’t you?’
‘May I?’ Helen raised her eyebrows as she said it. ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ she added not very pleasantly.
‘You’re not doing that.’ Larry sounded annoyed. ‘If it’s not too much of a secret, what’s the news you were about to break, anyhow? I’m sure Farrell will excuse us for returning to the point where she joined us ... Have a lamington, Farrell,’ he added, passing the plate of home-made cakes.
Farrell took one out of nervousness, for she didn’t feel at a
ll hungry, and the sight of the square of sponge cake liberally coated with chocolate icing and coconut made her feel slightly sick.
Helen drank some of her tea before she took up Larry’s question, and Farrell suspected she was put out by her presence. She wondered rather crazily what Helen would say if she told her, ‘By the way, Helen, I know your brother Mark. As a matter of fact, we—’
Her thoughts broke off abruptly as the other girl said, ‘It was about Mark, Larry. I’m aware you’ve been trying to keep track of him for Mother’s sake ever since he left home, but do you happen to know where he is just now?’
‘As a matter of fact, no,’ said Larry. ‘The last time I managed to trace him he was working on a prawning trawler up on the north coast. That was several weeks ago, and since then I’ve had other things on my mind.’ The blueness of his gaze glinted swiftly in Farrell’s direction, then returned to Helen. ‘However, I have an idea that he’s now working his way south.’
Farrell was sitting quite still. So that ‘private investigation’ that had brought Larry to the Coral Reef Hotel had been to check up on Mark! But what had given him the idea Mark was now working his way south? She didn’t look at him, and now Helen was speaking again.
‘You’re quite right, Larry. He hasn’t been all alone, though—he’s had a girl with him. And you’ll never guess what—’
She paused, but Larry said nothing. Farrell went red and then white, and lowered her head to hide her agitation, pretending to be intent on brushing crumbs from her skirt. Oh God, what on earth was Helen going to say next? How much did she know? Yet reason said she couldn’t possibly know that the girl with Mark had been Farrell Fitzgerald, or surely she’d have said so before this. All the same, there had been something decidedly strange in the slow way she had repeated Farrell’s name a little while ago. Farrell waited in an agony for her to go on.
‘Well, let’s hear it,’ said Larry, setting his cup on the table and looking hard at Helen.
‘He wants to get a job and settle down! He’s reached the conclusion that the free and easy life is not so free and easy after all.’
Farrell let out a slow breath of relief—somewhat prematurely, as she all too soon was to discover.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Larry. ‘What does he plan to do? Frankly, I very much doubt he’d ever make the grade jackerooing at Mullamulla Downs. Muriel would love it, but I don’t think he and Bob will ever be able to work together—there’ve been too many serious clashes between them.’
‘Don’t worry, he doesn’t want that, Larry. Actually, he’s hoping you’ll wangle something for him with Ansell-Sandfort Mining. You know—something with a nice house and good pay, but not sweating in the dust out at the mountain.’
Larry’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘You’ve seen him, have you?’
‘Yes. He turned up in Perth a couple of days ago and came to see me at the office. I was rather busy, but he got the essentials across, and I promised I’d ask you.’
Larry’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Just how serious is he? Because it’s not my policy to employ—hangers-on.’
‘He’s really serious. Honestly. As a matter of fact—hang on to your hat, Larry, because here comes the punch line—he wants to get married!’
‘What? To whom?’ Larry shot out.
‘To this girl he’s been with, of course.’
Farrell stifled a gasp, and her senses reeled. She leaned back in her chair, feeling completely stunned. It just couldn’t be true! Mark had never shown the slightest sign of wanting to marry her. Could he have been making it all up simply to persuade Larry to give him a job? Was Mark like that? She glanced across at Larry. He was lighting a cigarette, and as he raised his head their eyes met for a split second that, to Farrell, had something of the quality of a lightning flash about it. Because in that split second she saw with utter clarity that Larry knew Mark Nelson was the man she had ‘ran away’ with. Had he known all the time? she wondered bewilderedly. Or—or what had she said that night she was unconscious? Her throat was dry, but she finished her tea and she felt incapable of either asking for, or getting herself, another cup.
‘It’s all arranged, is it?’ There was a chill in Larry’s voice that made Farrell shiver.
‘Not quite,’ said Helen. ‘You see, they parted company—he apparently left her somewhere up the bush, just don’t ask me where or why—but he was going back to ask her as soon as he’d had some repair job done on his car.’
‘And he’s sure she’ll say yes?’
Farrell closed her eyes. She wanted to cry out that she would never say yes, that it was all crazy, but she stayed silent and helpless as if she were in the grip of some unending nightmare.
‘Well, I should say so,’ Helen said confidently. ‘Girls have always liked Mark. And anyhow’—she sounded amused, tolerant—‘I gather they’re as good as married already. It’s just a matter of making up their minds to do the good old-fashioned thing and, make it legal.’
Oh God! It grew worse and worse. Farrell could feel Larry looking at her and as if compelled she raised her lashes. His eyes were smouldering. Their patent accusation seemed to burn through to her very soul. Only this morning he had said he believed what she had told him about herself and Mark. Now, quite simply, she wished she could die...
‘You will help him, won’t you, darling?’ Helen murmured persuasively.
‘I’m not making you any promises,’ said Larry, his voice hard. ‘If Marks wants any favours from me, he can plead his own case. I’ll decide then what proposition I’ll make him—if any.’
‘Oh, Larry, you are hard,’ Helen protested. ‘You’ve always been so good about him before. I know he’s given my parents all sorts of trouble and heartache, but he is my brother, and despite what happened to Brian, I could never turn my back on him or refuse to help. This could just be the one thing that’s going to settle him down—’
There was a brief silence, then Helen said brightly, ‘Poor Farrell! None of this makes any sense to you, does it? You look bored to tears—or are you feeling sick?’
Farrell was feeling sick. She murmured something to that effect and stumbled to her feet. ‘Please excuse me,’ she managed to say before she turned away and headed for the house.
‘Are you all right, Farrell?’ Larry’s voice followed her.
‘Quite all right,’ she tossed back over her shoulder. ‘I’ll have a rest before dinner.’
She had been afraid he might follow her—hurl unanswerable accusations in her face—but he didn’t. No, she thought, he won’t bother about me any more. If only it had happened earlier—before she had discovered that she was in love with him!
In her room, she sat on the side of the bed, her face in her hands, waiting for her stomach to stop churning. She simply couldn’t believe that Mark was coming to look for her—that he wanted her to marry him. It was so utterly fantastic that she almost wanted to laugh. Almost, but not quite, because it was not a mad dream, it was real. So what happened next? Would Mark find her? Where would he look? she wondered. Not at that roadhouse where they had spent their last night together—under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Then in Port Hedland, perhaps? Or would he do the more rational thing and ring through to her father’s hotel? If Tony told him she was at Quindalup, then he could turn up here at any time...
‘Farrell—’
She raised her head, startled, to find Helen had come into the room and was standing looking at her.
‘I came to see how you’re feeling. You look terrible. Why don’t you get into bed? I’ll tell Mrs. Adams to bring you something on a tray—nobody will mind in the slightest if you don’t come out to dinner.’
No, Farrell could well believe that. She noted abstractedly that Helen said ‘Mrs. Adams’—not ‘my mother-in-law’. Larry had said they didn’t have a close relationship.
‘Come on,’ Helen said briskly. ‘Don’t sit there looking like a stunned mullet. Shall I help you to undress?’
‘No, than
k you,’ said Farrell, and was more than a little surprised to hear herself add, ‘Your mother-in-law will help me if I need any assistance.’
Helen’s lovely eyes were suddenly cold. ‘You are intent on emphasising that—relationship, aren’t you? I wonder why? I know a lot more about you than you imagine, by the way.’
Farrell, feeling sicker than ever, bent to take her shoes off. So Helen did know she was the girl who had come south with Mark. But why hadn’t she already said so? She was about to ask when Helen swept on. ‘Farrell Fitzgerald. I knew your name was familiar, and I’ve remembered why.’
‘Why?’ Farrell asked exhaustedly, fully expecting the answer to be linked up with Mark. But it wasn’t.
‘Because we’ve met before.’ Helen sauntered over to the dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror, touching her dark hair, moistening her upper lip with her tongue. Then she turned back to Farrell. ‘You wouldn’t remember. My mother and I spent a holiday up on the coast when I was a schoolgirl, and we put in a couple of nights at your father’s scruffy hotel—It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
Scruffy? Farrell’s head was throbbing. Perhaps her father’s hotel used to be a little scruffy—there wasn’t much civilisation up there then. But things were different now. She wanted to tell Helen so, but she couldn’t make the effort, and simply sat staring at her—and feeling somehow thankful that Helen didn’t know about her association with Mark. She was coming very rapidly to the conclusion that she didn’t much like ‘lovely Helen’.
‘Yes, well—I remember very clearly being absolutely horrified the way a little kid like you was allowed to hang around the bar with all the tough characters there. I was so protected.’ She paused and smiled slightly, and Farrell absently began to turn her bed down. ‘I suppose you grew up to work behind the bar and mix with the men. Larry must have been very different from the usual type. That’s where you met him, isn’t it?—when he was looking for my brother. How did you manage to scrounge an invitation to Quindalup? Or did you invite yourself? Anyhow, you can stop feasting your eyes on him now, the way you were doing this afternoon—because as it happens he’s my property.’