The Wind and the Spray

by Joyce Dingwell

  “For—for how long?”

  He shrugged carelessly, almost uninterestedly. “Since you’re so determined I’ll make a deal with you. That fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” she nodded.

  “All right, then—until you say.”

  “Very well,” she nodded. “I—I hope you don’t mind all this, but it had to be said.”

  “Any more has-to-be-saids?”

  “No, Nor.”

  “No change of mind—I can scarcely say change of heart, can I?”

  “No, Nor.”

  “Then I’ll go down to Ridge. I’ll tell you what’s doing when I come back.”

  She was in her bed when he came back. Mrs. Jessopp was already bedded along the corridor. Laurel could hear the deep breathing.

  He did not come in. He stood outside and called in a soft voice.

  “Asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Still no change of mind?”

  “No.”

  “Good. The Island would be disappointed. First wedding in Humpback history, I believe. All the rest of the Larsens were tied up on the coast.”

  “When?” breathed Laurel unevenly.

  “Tomorrow,” Nor said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GOLD!

  It was in the sky on Laurel’s wedding morning. It edged the little pink clouds, it was a dreamy haze over the hills, it was on the buttercups sprung up already on the banks of the left-over rain puddles. Some time in the night the storm had slammed away, and now it was a shining golden day. There was even gold in Laurel’s red hair as she brushed it hard, glancing downward every now and then at the circlet of pink frangipani that Mrs. Jessopp had arranged for her to wear round her head.

  When Nor had questioned her as to what she would wear for their marriage she had said, “I have a good white blouse, and my suit is nearly new.”

  The brows, salt-bleached like his hair, had met above the sailor blue eyes.

  “Surely you have something more festive than those in all that vast baggage you fetched along.”

  “I fetched nearly all cold weather things. You warned me not to expect a coral atoll, remember?” She had laughed more to herself. “Even neck-to-ankle pyjamas, cosy flannel. What a strange trousseau!”

  He had ignored that. “You must have some sort of social dress,” he persisted.

  “A pink ballerina.”

  “It will do.”

  “But my blouse and skirt—”

  “This is a wedding, not a shopping tour. I want you to carry a bouquet, wear flowers in your hair, as far as possible at such short notice I don’t want the women deprived of one moment of glamour, understand?”

  “But—”

  “That’s what I want,” he had ordered, and had stamped out.

  Laurel was reminded of Mrs. Reed and how she had said of this man that even as a little boy he would get something set in his mind and never let go of it.

  She had gone to the trunk and taken out the ballerina dress. It was the one and only pink for her ripe hair, pale yet rosy somehow, warm, glowing, like the warm glow of a pearl. She shook it out.

  She had brought the shoes to match. Gloves would not matter, she thought. The frock had tiny cap sleeves and a voluminous skirt.

  When Mrs. Jessopp saw it she called aloud in admiration, and in that instant Laurel could see why Nor was so anxious that these women were not “deprived,” as he had said, of one moment of what women hold dear.

  “It’s lovely. You must wear a wreath of frangipani. Myra Jensen has a pink bush. And you must carry a spray as well.”

  Mrs. Jessopp touched the frock reverently.

  “All the women are working on the reception,” she beamed.

  “That’s very good of them”

  “They’re loving it. There hasn’t ever been anything like this before.”

  “Where,” asked Laurel, “is the wedding to be?” She looked around her. “The kitchen,” she said dubiously, “is the largest room, and I believe Nor would like to fit in as many as he could.”

  “Bless you,” laughed Mrs. Jessopp. “No home wedding for you.”

  “But there’s no church.” That was one of the first things Laurel intended working for, a little community hall that would do for a church as well.

  “You’re being married at the station. Don’t look so alarmed, there won’t be a single sign of a whale—unless we run out of chairs and have to use some of the old vertebrae ones.” Mrs. Jessopp laughed again.

  “The station?”

  “The engine gallery, it’s the biggest empty space. The men have been up since daybreak sweeping and decorating it. You’d never know it now. Boilers, pipes, winches and wire are all strewn with ferns and flowers. I should say,” chuckled Mrs. Jessopp, “that you’re the first bride on record to walk up the engine gallery of a whaling station to whisper ‘Yes.’ ”

  At nine o’clock the launch from the mainland arrived. Everyone was down to meet it as usual.

  When Nor saw it coming, he called out to Laurel to run down as well.

  “I think I’d better wait here,” she said a little bashfully.

  “Don’t start going coy,” he called back. “The Islanders wouldn’t understand it. Come down with me and meet the padre. You don’t want to be married by a stranger, do you?”

  “I’m marrying a stranger,” she reminded him.

  “There’s still time to back out,” he said, taking out his makings, not rolling one for her this time.

  “What about you?” she blurted.

  “My mind is the same. And you, mate?”

  “The same, Nor.” It will be right ... it will be right ... she heard the voice that had kept tune with the rain last night saying once more.

  “Good,” he nodded. He went to the door, hesitated, then turned round. “Come on, little green duck,” he grinned.

  The coastal boat came sweeping in on a storm-flattened sea. Above the pier the sky now was garlanded with little cottonwool clouds, underfoot the earth was already soft and warm. The bay held no remembrance of last night’s gales that had tossed it so violently, it simply reflected the blue and the white from above and the flapping wings of the gulls.

  There was a pleased “Ah” and a cheer, and then clapping as the launch made the jetty in the first run.

  “That’s excellent,” said Nor with vast satisfaction. “That’s a good omen. The Islanders will be pleased, everything is going well. It’s a splendid example. By jove, Laurel, I can see a string of weddings after this.”

  She looked at him incredulously. His pleasure was unmistakable. He was looking on everything from one angle ... the station’s. What this ceremony could mean in the way of public example. What standard it could set in the way of serenity, stability, permanency. The prosperity— and expansion—it could bring to the Larsen Humpback Island Whaling Project. That was how, and how only, Nor looked on all this. But what of herself? What right had she to criticize? For what other reason had she agreed to this marriage other than personal security, help for David, a liking for the place ... because of a little voice that assured her it would be right ... it would be right?

  She saw Nor looking at her, the blue eyes narrowed. As ever he read her thoughts.

  “It’s a fair deal, mate,” he reminded a little sharply.

  She nodded agreement. What had she to say back? she thought.

  The padre jumped ashore. He took Nor’s hand firmly in his. “This is a grand day, Mr. Larsen,” he beamed.

  Nor drew Laurel forward. “Here she is,” he said.

  They walked up to the house together, the padre talking with Nor. When they got to the door, the women suddenly became tyrants. It was time Laurel dressed ... her bridegroom shouldn’t see her, anyway, till she walked down to meet him. Had she something blue amongst all that pink?

  In the middle of the babble, Nor’s voice demanded attention. “I want five minutes with my wife-to-be”—wife, how strange it sounded—“and then you can trot out
all your wedding hoodoo.”

  They laughed and took the padre with them to show him the cake Mrs. Jessopp had found time to bake.

  Across the width of the room Laurel faced Nor.

  “It’s the name, age, all that,” he said a little indistinctly. For the first time since she had met this man he seemed less sure of himself. “The padre will need it, and I don’t want him to think I don’t know.”

  “But you don’t, do you?” she reminded him.

  “What do you know of me?”

  “That you’re Nor Larsen.”

  “I’m not that, either. The name is Nils. The first Larsen here was Nils. I”—he shrugged—“look like being the last.”

  “But Nor—”

  “Norski. A friendly tag the Australians had for the Norwegian: other countries have it too, perhaps. The Larsens were Norwegians ... Norskis. The name stuck.”

  Now, thought Laurel, I understand that air of difference, that not entirely Australian air, I found in him.

  “So Miss Laurel Teal is marrying Mr. Nils Larsen.” He paused, and then grinned at her. “Laurel Larsen is quite alliterative, but no more little green duck.”

  She waited for whatever else he had to say in the five minutes he had requested.

  When he didn’t say it, she told him crisply, “Twenty-two years,” then told him where she was born.

  Still he stood silent, and for a while she thought he was not going to say anything else after all.

  Then he asked quietly, “Still agreed on it, mate?” “Agreed,” Laurel said.

  Padre Flett brought Nor to the improvised altar, then he came down the engine room to the pair waiting for him on the top of the ramp.

  Laurel had chosen Luke’s arm on which to place hers as she walked to meet Nor.

  The little brown nut of a man had been speechless with pleasure when Nor had told him. He had hurried back to his bachelor quarters and not been seen till he emerged an hour later, smelling of yellow soap, bootblack and camphor balls, his boots squeaking from disuse, his serge suit shiny because in his haste he had pressed it on the wrong side, a proud beam from ear to ear.

  Behind the padre they began the long walk.

  Laurel supposed all walks down an aisle seemed lengthy, but this one was really long. The Islanders formed a guard on either side.

  The men certainly had done wonders with the deck. It was a mass of tree fern, umbrella leaves and maidenhair. There were bowers of frangipani, cream as well as the pink Laurel carried, giant clams crammed with island flowers, wild briar streamers strung end on end.

  All at once it seemed to Laurel a kaleidoscope of leaves and petals and smiling faces. Somehow it made her feel in a cyclone, the winds of the cyclone seemed to whirl round her, and then, quite suddenly, she was caught in a still, peaceful centre; she had stopped at the end of the long walk and she was looking at Nor.

  He was the rock again, sea-washed, impenetrable, standing the test of years. She looked up at the sailor blue eyes and saw that they were looking at her. It was odd, but abruptly she knew that before this moment their eyes never really had met.

  Quietly, serenely, she turned and faced Padre Flett.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony ...”

  Laurel swallowed, aware that the moment had come from which there is no going back. Then she knew something. She knew: I don’t want to go back.

  The kindly face of the minister came out of a blur. She saw him nodding to Nor and Nor bringing out a plain gold ring. When, she wondered vaguely, did he buy that?

  Then she thought: I’m married. I’m not Laurel Teal any more. I’m Laurel Larsen for ever more.

  When they came off the deck the women threw flowers. Mrs. Jessopp called, “Everyone over to the house, please.” Laurel and Nor and the padre drove over in the jeep.

  There was tea, there was beer, there was a bottle of champagne, there were armies of cakes, there was a white cake bigger than the rest of the cakes with a sprig of orange blossom on it that Mrs. Jessopp took carefully off and wrapped in a paper napkin for Laurel to take away with her.

  “But you won’t have to sleep on it,” she smiled. “You have your man, my dear.”

  They all ate and laughed, and the padre made a speech, and Nor made one back. Laurel could not have told what anyone said.

  Then the Leeward was coming round to the jetty and Nor was telling Laurel to get into her suit.

  “Where are we going? Aren’t we stopping here?”

  “I told you before, I want everything done as these women like things done. These women expect a honeymoon. A honeymoon it is.”

  “In the Leeward?”

  “On the mainland. The Leeward will take us to Anna Head and moor there till we’re ready to return.”

  All the island saw them off.

  The padre went in his own launch, and the two boats kept fairly close together to the coast.

  “Now you can see what you slept through before,” Nor told Laurel—but she did not see much. Again she seemed to be in a blur.

  The blur remained when they arrived at Anna and shook the padre’s hand in farewell. It remained as they climbed the hill to the hotel.

  The hotel had a lift and its walls were framed with advertisements for the local stores. Laurel read each one in turn. She got out and followed the porter and Nor down a long corridor. Their room had French windows that opened out on to a wide balcony.

  There were hotel rules and meal hours on the back of the door, and after he had tipped the porter, and the porter had gone, Nor went across and studied them.

  Laurel went to the bed to open the case that had been placed upon it—but gave a little cry and took up a nightgown of some soft white stuff instead. The garment was waltz length and it had threadings of pale blue ribbon and deep lace. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life.

  She turned and looked questioningly at Nor.

  He was studying the meal hours now, but he must have felt her enquiry, for he said gruffly over his shoulder: “You complained you had only flannel in your trousseau.”

  “Is—is it mine?”

  “Whose else?” he snapped. “Of course it’s yours, you silly duck.”

  A little wildly she said, “I’m not a teal anymore, remember?”

  “Yes, you’re Mrs. Nils Larsen, remember?”

  She sank down on the bed, the lovely nightgown cradled in her arms.

  From the other side of the room the man watched her. Suddenly he knew he wanted to tell this slender red-haired girl a lot of things. He wanted to assure her that in one moment he was going to leave her by herself, engage another room, find a lounge somewhere, that she need not worry herself about when they returned home either, that he would keep his word as he had said.

  But in this instant he knew that if she had whispered: “Stay, Nor,” he would have forgotten everything he had bargained ... and taken her into suddenly hungry arms.

  He waited. She did not say it. She fingered the nightie, marvelling at its delicate stuff.

  He still waited. He had not intended to wait ... he had planned everything very meticulously, a light kiss on her forehead, a teasing “Sleep tight,” a quiet exit ... Why, then was he standing waiting like this?

  Then he saw that her head was nodding. Poor little green duck, he thought, she had had a long and emotional day and she was little more than a scrap of a thing.

  He crossed over and eased her back on the bed; softly he pulled the cover over her, snapped off the light, went out.

  When Laurel woke she was still in the clothes in which she had travelled to the mainland, the nightgown still in her arms, and it was tomorrow, and Nor was standing beside her saying, “Good morning, Mrs. Larsen, breakfast is waiting ... and after that we can push off.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  BREAKFAST came in on a trolley. Apparently Nor had rung room service.
/>   There was orange juice and steaming coffee and two omelettes. Nor buttered the toast and poured the coffee himself, and passed Laurel hers.

  “I must look very crumpled,” she apologized, embarrassed.

  “You were very tired,” he excused kindly.

  “I shall change before we go. Nor, where are we going? What did you mean when you said we could push off?”

  “I meant just that. We can’t return to the island this soon, the Islanders would expect a proper honeymoon”— always the Islanders, Laurel thought—“but I don’t fancy staying on in Anna. So I’ve hired a car, quite a nice car if you care to look out of the window, and we’ll do a run down the coast. Do you know the south coast?”

  “I know only Sydney and Humpback Island.”

  “Then there’s a treat for you in store.”

  Laurel ate, then showered and changed into soft grey jersey. She packed her skirt and blouse and carefully put the new nightgown between the folds of a clean white towel before it, too, was packed. She came out of the hotel to find Nor waiting beside a red estate wagon.

  “Nor, it’s lovely.”

  “A nice job ... we might even buy it one day. It would be handy for us to have a car on the coast.” As he spoke he put Laurel’s bag in the back seat.

  Laurel got in the front, feeling extraordinarily warm and happy. It was nice to be thinking, even though you knew it was untrue, in the plural and in the future. It gave you a sense of family somehow. Suddenly realizing the trend of her thoughts, Laurel flushed.

  They set off. The coastal road rimmed the ocean, seldom was it out of sight of sand dunes, beyond the crashing of waves or the slapping of tides, but now and then it thrust down into woody valleys, ran along flats deep in golden grass.

  Ulladulla, Eurobodalla, Wolumla ... Bermagui where Nor told her the big fish were and where Zane Grey had put his pen and his Indians aside and turned instead to singing reel and fighting marlin.