by Ann Charlton
Locke arrived home that afternoon, carrying flowers.
'Just like his father,' Irene said to Dru, 'Whenever Johnny stayed out drinking with his friends he brought flowers to smooth his way. So don't you try to tell us that you spent all day fencing, Lachlan.'
'Egad, Madam,' he plucked a gladioli spike from the flowers and tossed the fragrant sheaf to Dru. 'Will you scold a man for slaking his thirst? Take care…' he advanced on Irene, one hand on hip, the other parrying an imaginary rapier with the drooping gladioli. 'Aha!' he did a Fairbanks laugh as he tickled Irene's ear with the flower. 'Will you surrender, Madam?' She laughed as he hugged her.
'Oh Lachlan, I'd love to see you do a swashbuckler— don't you think he'd be superb, Dru?'
'A natural I should think. He could grow a beard— wouldn't have to shave for months.'
He felt his chin. 'Ah, Madam landlady,' he grinned and it was the way it used to be with them. Whatever he had been drinking had relaxed the stern control he'd exercised the past weeks.
Later he came into the bathroom just as Dru was pulling her dress over her head. At the sound of his approach she had rushed and forgotten the hook. His soft laugh reached her through the fabric folds over her head.
'Let me help,' he said. She couldn't see him but felt his fingers touch her neck, release the hook then pull the garment upwards so that her arms raised high in the air.
'Thanks.' She made a snatch at the dress but he tossed it aside and grinned at her bra and briefed figure. Alcohol had put a lazy, sexy light in his eyes. He looked fantastic in a figure hugging cotton tee shirt and jeans.
'Do you mind, Locke, I'm about to take a shower.'
He shook his head, leaned a shoulder on the wall in a familiar pose. 'I don't mind one bit. Want some help?'
She reddened. 'Sssh. Your mother's next door.'
'Is that your only objection?'
Dru grabbed at a towel but he moved and cut her off.
'You're drunk.'
His eyes bleakened. 'No such luck.' He reached for her, wrapped his arms about her near naked body and bent his head so that it rested in the hollow of her shoulder. On a long, shuddering sigh, he raked a hand into her cropped hair and turned her face upwards. His kiss was awkward, uncontrolled. Over her back his hands slid and pressed in seeming uncertainty. This was not the experienced lover, but an inarticulate boy trying to tell her something… Dru returned his kiss, held him close, wishing that this was not whisky inspired.
'I'm sorry,' he muttered as he released her. 'I did promise I wouldn't touch you didn't I? I thought I didn't even want to—'
'Locke, I don't love Michael—I don't care a damn about him,' she blurted out.
'Sure.' He sounded weary now. And sober. Taking his towel he went to the door.
'I don't love him you big oaf—' she insisted, wanting to shout but remembering his mother. 'I love you.'
But the door had already closed.
He showered in the other bathroom then slept off his afternoon drinks. By the time they left for the 'family dinner' at Eric's house, Locke was cool and distant again.
Eric and Van were model hosts. Well, Eric was at least. Vanessa seemed a bit on edge. In a way, Dru felt sorry for her even if she had played her part in Eric's schemes. She probably loved him and her chances of enjoying a permanent relationship with him were slim. Maybe she had already been given her marching orders, Dru thought, eyeing Vanessa's half hearted efforts to eat.
'That buyer still wants your beachfront. He's upped the price old son,' Eric winked at Locke, 'You'd do well to think about it.'
Dru frowned. How very persistent Eric was about Sam's land, she thought. Just who was this anxious buyer of his… someone who had heard the rumours about the building project—maybe the same buyer who had made an offer for Sea Winds? Maybe Eric himself had heard them… Eric who had the expenses of a star and a gambler. He'd sold things Mrs Curtis said. The ruby ring hadn't been around for a while and come to think of it one of his paintings wasn't in its place. Dru tried to remember just what she had said to him when he first began talking about selling. The exact words escaped her…
'Say—that's bad luck,' Eric was saying to Locke, 'The old guy's shack! But the agent did say it was a fire trap. It must have been a shock for you, Dru. I know how much it meant to you.' And he couldn't care less. His phony sympathy grated on her.
'If you think I'll agree to sell now, forget it,' she said rudely. 'And don't count on getting Locke to talk me into it.'
Irene looked aghast at her. Locke frowned. Vanessa looked edgier than ever.
'Pet—' Eric was reproachful, 'You mustn't take it so personally. I handle Locke's financial affairs and it would be unprofessional of me not to put him wise to a good offer like this.'
'Us,' she snapped and knew she was sounding petulant. 'This piece of property is jointly owned. And I think it might be better off under our own management.'
'For God's sake, Dru!' Locke exclaimed. Irene murmured something, then made a concerted effort to change the subject which stayed changed until Eric's domestic help removed the dessert dishes from the table. It was Irene's suggestion that they look at Eric's art collection. They wandered through to the pool so that she could view a sculpture there, then followed Vanessa. Dru trailed behind—an outcast. For the first time she was even sensing disapproval from Irene.
'We bought a super wall-hanging near Cairns. From an artists' commune,' Van said as they went into the sun room with its lacquered oriental furniture and the glass shelves full of amethyst deposits and sea-shells. The wall-hanging was an artistic, ragged weaving of jute and natural dyed wools. Dru never looked at it after a first fleeting glimpse. She stared at the glass shelves and remembered just what she had said when Eric first suggested selling Sam's place. 'That pile of junk belonged to a friend and whilever it stands, the land will remain as he wanted it.'
Whilever it stands.
On one of the glass shelves stood the driftwood dragon.
Tears came and she brushed them away, trying to clear her mind. This was important, too important to be risked by emotion. Isn't that right, Sam?
The others turned away from the wall-hanging.
'Where did you get this?' Dru asked Vanessa, her voice husky. Locke glanced at her, frowned and followed her gaze.
'Oh—I, er picked it up while we were in the north— it's nice isn't it?' Van said, 'Have you seen my Wentletrap—they're really quite rare shells…'
Dru didn't look at the Wentletrap Van held out.
'It's one of Sam's carvings,' she said and turned slowly to look at Locke. 'The dragon. I meant to bring it away with me last time I was up there and I—I forgot. It should have burned in the fire…'
'It's just a piece of driftwood pet,' Eric said as if he was being tolerant over some new childishness, 'But you can have it if it reminds you of the old man.'
He didn't know, Dru realised. Eric didn't know that Vanessa had given them away by picking up a piece of timber.
'It has my name on it,' she said almost reluctantly, feeling sorry for Eric now and even sorrier for Locke as he picked up the driftwood and turned it over.
'Silla—' his thumb moved over the letters. 'But how…' he began.
'Oh, I noticed it had letters on it when I picked it up,' Vanessa said brightly, too brightly. 'But it isn't your name.'
'My name is Drusilla. Sam always called me Silla.'
Dead silence.
'I didn't know Silla was anyone's name,' Van said in a high voice. 'I wouldn't have taken it if I'd known…'
Eric turned on her. 'You stupid bitch—haven't you got enough stuff here without picking up another bit of rubbish?'
'It was beautiful and I couldn't resist—' her composure fell apart. 'Oh God, Eric, we should never have done it—I told you we shouldn't—'
'Shut up!'
'Did what?' Irene demanded. 'And kindly don't use language like that, Eric—'
'What did she mean, Eric?' Locke asked. 'Were you and V
an in Sam's place? What shouldn't you have done?' His face was drawn, austere.
'Look old son, I can explain everything.' Eric said the classic line with a desperate smile that made Dru feel sick. 'It wasn't worth anything—it was a pile of junk—I did everyone a favour getting rid of it…'
Dru started to turn away, unable to bear the cornered look on Eric's face and the beginning of pain on Locke's. Her movement seemed to snap everything in Eric.
'I'm glad I destroyed it,' he snarled, 'It was something you loved and that made it a double pleasure to burn. You've spoiled everything haven't you pet—you shouldn't have met him. You were never supposed to be in his life…' He made a threatening move towards Dru. Locke restrained him. Vanessa clung to Eric's arm.
'I'm sorry—' she cried, 'I should have done something sooner but I didn't want to lose him—'
Irene sat down suddenly on one of the settees.
'Leave us, Dru,' Locke said tersely. And she went, tears streaming down her face.
There were no footmarks on the beach. It was early, very early morning and a haze marked the horizon. October was not so different from April here. The days began chilly and warmed by mid-morning to a delicious heat that lacked the sting of full summer. Gulls shrieked and circled over the unmarked sand.
Dru stood at her curtainless bedroom window and let her eyes drift to that charred patch among the singed cotton trees. This was her third day here, and now she could look at the remains of Sam's house without the choking emotion of the first and the desolation of the second. The gulls tightened into a hungry group. Their cries grew sharper, more plaintive. As Dru watched, a boy of maybe twelve hove into view, leaning with the weight of a fishing basket and bait bucket. He stopped and tossed out something. The gulls dropped from the sky to quarrel over their breakfast and the boy walked on, his fishing rod quivering, leaving his footprints behind. Things changed, Sam had said.
His dragon sat beside her bed. Dru bent to pick it up. Dear Sam. She remembered the day she'd first seen him carving it. The shush of surf and gulls cries. His delicate work had rung down the curtain on Eric's pretences. If she had taken it away with her that weekend, how long might it have been before Eric was exposed? But something had stopped her. Something.
I'd like to see you happy, Silla, Sam had said. She moved the dragon and it lost form, became the simple, striking piece of timber that Vanessa had thought would never be recognised. She might never even have seen the elusive dragon—just a beautiful shape.
Neither Locke nor his mother had come home that dreadful night. Irene arrived by cab later in the morning. She was grey and weary—all the optimistic lines of her face dragged downwards. As she packed a bag for Locke she confirmed that they had the whole story. She cried much of it out on Dru's shoulder.
'He'll have to have treatment, Dru—Locke is seeing to it. He's so patient, so understanding after all that Eric's done to him. Eric was short of money because he'd run up so many gambling debts and the U.S. Revenue people are after him for back taxes—he found out that there was some building project planned near your beach property and wanted to get you to sell to him. His buyer was actually himself—he'd set up a company name just for that—when the new building was announced officially he could have re-sold at a huge profit—oh my dear, I'm sorry about your friend's house…' She cried some more.
Eric had meddled with other investments because of his financial pressures. He'd always thought he could put them all right again with Locke's next film. Eric was caught in a vicious circle. He had to keep up his image—he had to have money because that was part of the Ransome image—and both those things were in Locke's control. Dru had come along just when everything was about to change anyway. Eric saw his little world coming to an end but he couldn't do anything about it. So he crystallised all his problems and made Dru responsible for them. It was her fault he convinced himself that Locke was rocking the boat. Everything had been okay before she came and would be when she went away again. Poor deluded Eric.
A cab took the bag to Locke. He wouldn't come home, Irene said until he had sorted out things for his brother. Together he and Vanessa would arrange matters so that the press were kept out of it for as long as possible. Then there were the financial problems to combat. Locke would have to go to Melbourne and the States to establish the extent of Eric's debts and iron out any negotiations in progress. Dru longed to be with Locke, hold him—offer the comfort he must need right now. But she was symbolic of all Eric's losses and had to stay away or risk making matters worse.
Three days she waited in the apartment, hoping for a 'phone call from Locke. But—nothing. Irene stayed with her, but nodded her understanding when Dru said she had to get away and do something to fill the days of waiting. Irene too, was anxious to return to the comforting surroundings of her own home to await news of Eric. Before she left, she put a letter on Locke's desk. 'The boy might need a few encouraging words when he gets back,' she said.
Dru had left a letter too. A very short letter. He might not have been home to read it yet. She put down the dragon and began to dress in her painting clothes. She painted two upstairs window frames that day.
The boy's footprints were washed from the beach by the next high tide. As the afternoon sun stretched the shadows, Dru wandered along the damp, shining sand near the water's edge. For a long time she walked, to the next bay then turned back again as the sun lowered. She caught her breath when she saw the glint of sun on metal. There was a bike leaning against Sea Winds' fall-about shed. Footprints crossed hers on the damp sand and arced towards the cottonwoods. There in the shadows, an arm hooked over a low branch, was Locke. Waiting for her.
The breeze moved the leaves so that pale patches of sun shimmered over his shoulders and his russet hair. There was no sound save the whispering wind and the gulls and the ocean. She felt like laughing and crying at the sight of him there with the scorched, cold remains of Sam's cottage as backdrop.
He looked weary, pale. There was stubble on his cheeks. And a gleam in his green eyes.
'It must have been hell,' she said, wanting to run to him but held back by all that had happened.
'It was.'
'I'm so sorry, Locke. Will Eric be all right?'
'He's agreed to have treatment. There's a place in the country—it's—nice,' he said and she tried to imagine the trauma of committing your brother to a place no matter how nice. 'Vanessa's sticking with him. I don't know if that's good or bad. She was damned irresponsible but she says she loves him so maybe it will work out.' He sighed, flexed his shoulders. 'It was staring me in the face—but in this business, so many people live like Eric—act the whole star bit. If anything, it was me who was unnatural. Sometimes I'd joke about him playing the Ransome Man and he'd just grin and say, "Someone's got to do it." I never dreamed he was obsessed with it—'
'He's your brother. Sometimes it's harder to see things like that in someone so familiar.'
'You tried to tell me.'
'I only knew half of it myself then.'
'Will you hate him for it, Dru?'
'Will you?'
He shook his head. 'I did for a few minutes when I realised what he'd almost done—but no, I can't hate him.'
'Neither can I.'
He looked around at the ruins of Sam's house then back at her.
'My mother left me a letter,' he said at last in a husky voice. 'Three pages of it. She told me a lot of things I should have seen for myself. About my dreams of Eva and what interpretation you put on them… three pages.' He took a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. 'But everything I needed to know was in yours.'
'I kept it brief,' she said. The words croaked out.
'One line,' his eyes skimmed it, 'The greatest line I'll ever read.'
Waiting for you at Sea Winds. I love you, she'd written.
She ran to him then as he came for her. Her bare feet lifted from the sandy ground as Locke pulled her into his arms. 'I love you, Dru,' he said and though the words were mu
ffled in her hair, they rang clear as a bell in her head. Holding him she spilled it all out— Eva, her hurt pride that made her flaunt Michael, her failure to believe Locke could love her.
'I knew you felt obliged to do something about me because of Sam and then, when the press started making my life a misery I thought you felt responsible and as you wanted a wife anyway just to stop tongues wagging—'
He laughed. 'I did feel responsible. Because I was. I was so damned frustrated. You were letting me think that you might get back together with Pennington and he sounded all wrong for you. All I had to do I thought, was sit back and wait for the press to link your name with mine and that would put him off and keep you unattached until November.'
'You mean you really intended coming back?'
'Oh yes. A few months I thought, to let you get your boyfriend out of your system and I'd come and sweep you off your feet. Instead after Sam died you started talking about going back to Pennington and all my plans fell apart.'
'But I only said that because I was sure Sam had asked you to keep an eye on me and I didn't want you to feel obliged.'
'Well, how was I to know that? Anyway I thought I had it licked with the press ferretting out juicy bits about any girl I ever speak to. But the very time I wanted them to find out they milled around like a lot of sheep. So I had to leak your name as my mistress.'
'You told them?'
'Very uncharacteristic of me. Then there was that day here when I'd read about Pennington's engagement and thought that all your talk of making up with him had been sheer pride and I'd got you involved with the press for nothing. And you cried and I thought you still loved him and I felt like killing him. Because then I had to sweep you off your feet before you were ready and without saying I loved you.'
'I wish you had.'
'Sheer ego, I suppose,' he confessed, 'I didn't want to start off at a disadvantage. I knew you were fond of me, knew I could make you want me, but I wanted you to love me. That's why I held back—tried to hold back—on the physical bit, to give you time. In the past I've never denied myself sexually. To wait for you was a—way of loving you I suppose. A way of saying you weren't like the other women I'd known.'