The River is Down: (An Australian Outback Romance)

by Lucy Walker

  ‘But no buts,’ the manager warned her. ‘This country belongs to the nor’-westers. Mr. Brent was born and bred north of the dividing parallel ‒ the Twenty-Sixth. So he gets the best.’

  Born and bred ‒ Cindie repeated as she collected the notebooks and pencils provided in that little office, then followed the other girls to the conference room. And buying into it ‒

  She banished this last thought abruptly. Here, as Nick’s secretarial shadow, she was Cindie Brown. That other self, Cynthia, would deal with what Nick was buying into when all this was over. That was her problem. For these few blessed days in Mulga Gorges, Cindie Brown’s only problem was to measure up with those three highly professional girls and be some credit to Nick ‒ the engineer who could build the roads. These other men could only plan them, pay for them, and use them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The days passed all too quickly.

  ‘We’ve so little time left,’ Cindie said mournfully at breakfast towards the end of the week. ‘It’s been such fun!’

  ‘Well, now’s as good a time as any other for me to admit my weakness,’ Sylvia, the cheery blonde girl, began. ‘Ready with the little green eye, Cindie? I’ve developed quite a crush on your boss. He really has something.’

  ‘So have we!’ the other two almost wailed in unison. ‘We can’t all have him!’

  ‘But why?’ Cindie began, surprised at this frankness.

  ‘Oh, come now, Cindie!’ The girl who had spoken first laughed. ‘That dead-pan look with the glint of a smile at the back of his eyes! Don’t say it doesn’t do something to you? You can’t be that objective. It’s not human.’

  ‘Mr. Brent keeps himself very much aloof,’ Cindie declared firmly, her chin up. ‘That’s as it should be. Besides, it’s his nature ‒’

  ‘He’s not as unapproachable as he makes himself out to be behind that barricade. You have another look, Cindie. You might be surprised.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Cindie replied emphatically. She felt, in her role as secretary, that Nick’s dignity had to be upheld at all costs. ‘Besides building a mammoth road, he has to keep the whole camp ‒ two hundred and seventeen men, plus the service personnel ‒ at arm’s length by that manner of his. It’s perfectly correct for his position. He would never keep order otherwise ‒’

  If she kept on like this much longer, she would begin to believe it herself, she thought.

  ‘He’s possibly thinking of getting married,’ she went on, just to keep the boss’s image in perspective. Her back was very straight and her violet eyes dark and steady.

  The blonde girl pretended to pout.

  ‘Oh, is he? Who is the girl, then?’

  ‘Someone rich, beautiful and the part-owner of a station,’ Cindie said flatly. She wanted them to know she didn’t want to go on talking about the boss.

  ‘That reminds me,’ the dark silky-haired girl with the reserved manner said thoughtfully. ‘She wouldn’t be thinking of visiting him? Some female station-owner has been booked in for the corner room in the passage: the one I’ve been using as a spare place for typing. I’ve been asked to move.’

  Oh, no! Cindie thought.

  Her upright back began to turn to jelly. Her professional dignity on Nick’s behalf suddenly seemed phoney. The other girls were all interest and had eyes only for Mabel, the one who had given the news.

  ‘Go on!’ they implored her. ‘Tell us some more. How did you find out?’

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ Mabel answered. ‘I had a message to report to the desk. When I arrived, the management said they were sorry but they had to have that room for a Miss Alexander. A very important person. She was a station-owner, and nor’-west people always had priority.’

  Cindie’s heart quietly sank lower and lower. Erica! None other!

  ‘That reminds me,’ the third girl said. ‘I heard Mrs. Mollison, the manager’s wife, asking the housemaid if she had seen Mr. Brent. There was a radio message for him from Carnarvon Outpost.’

  It’s not fair, Cindie thought. Only one or two more days ‒ And I was so happy ‒

  Of all unwanted people ‒ Erica!

  She went on spreading butter and marmalade on her toast so the others would not see her disappointment: or her anxiety. Erica flying in from Carnarvon meant she had come with news from lawyers, station brokers, Government leasing agents. Jim had said one could fly from Mulga Gorges to Bindaroo ‒ even if one couldn’t get through by road.

  Jim!

  She must get in touch with Jim. Radio, of course. He would tell her if he too had had any news. He would give her advice.

  Gone were her lovely butterfly wings of escape. As with Cinderella ‒ time was up! Back on her shoulders came the remnants, rags and worries of Bindaroo.

  ‘So silent, Cindie?’ one of the girls asked her teasingly. ‘Disappointed at the imminent arrival of a certain lady? Cheer up. You’re here, and she’s not here yet. There’s always hope while there’s time.’ Suddenly the breakfast talk seemed silly. Of course the girls wouldn’t mean it as anything more than idle chatter. Hero-worshipping was an occupational hazard for girls working in offices. Everyone was supposed, in any big office, to have a crush on someone ‒ whether they really meant it or not. Most times not.

  ‘I was thinking,’ she said apologetically. ‘I have a radio message I must send, myself.’ She folded her napkin, then pushed back her chair as she stood up. ‘How does one send one from the hotel? Does anyone know?’

  ‘One doesn’t,’ the cheery blonde said. ‘One goes over to the post office and writes it down on a telegram form. The postmaster then sends the telegram over the radio.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. If I hurry I can send it before the conference starts again.’

  At the post office Cindie remembered, in her haste, she had not brought her diary with the code words that Jim had given her. She almost nibbled off the end of a pen, her own, while making up a message with what words she could remember. At last she handed the form across the counter. It read:

  MR JIM VERNON OVERSEER BAANYA OUTPOST ‒ WEATHER REPORT SAYS LAND DRYING OUT EARLIER THAN ANTICIPATED STOP IMPORTANT VISITOR HERE STOP DO YOU THINK HOLDEN IS UNDER COVER IN THE INCREASING HEAT STOP ROBINSON MAY NOW THINK IT BETTER IN OTHER HANDS STOP ANXIOUS STOP LOVE CINDIE

  Was it enough? But Jim was very astute. He would read between the words! She guessed he would know the identity of the ‘important visitor’. She looked at the postmaster anxiously. Officially people were not allowed to send telegrams in code. Would this man recognise this message as sense, not code?

  When she had come into the office she had heard him telling another customer that the easterly wind, according to the weather news, was blasting the desert country, also south of the Pilbarra. He wouldn’t be surprised if the dry-out on the upper tableland would be faster than the wash-out had been. The other man had said he would give that place a week to dry out like a burnt cake. The river water was sinking in level already ‒ it was the Devil’s country anyway!

  Cindie had composed her telegram with two thoughts running in her mind at the same time. One was to use the weather as a help for her code. The other was that soon, she too would be able to cross the claypans to Bindaroo, or maybe the river on her way out to the coast ‒ if what the men said about the weather was true.

  Alas, she didn’t want to go out to the coast! She wanted to stay, and keep her job at the construction camp.

  Oh, dear! How did she manage to keep her job in all this dilemma?

  Her face looked strained as she watched the postmaster reading the message. She was no longer worrying as to whether he thought it was sense, or code. She was wondering if one person could really be two people at one time, after all.

  ‘One dollar ten,’ the postman said. He passed her telegram as fit to be transmitted. Cindie paid over the money and walked slowly away, out of the cool building, over the wide street to the pub opposite.

  There she found a note waiting for her. It was written in Nick’s cl
ear neat hand. Like Nick, it was short and to the point.

  There was no need for her to attend the conference this morning. The other members were now on affairs peculiar to their own business. He, Nick, was called away. Would she see Flan as he had arranged for her to visit the Gorges while there was opportunity. Flan would give her the details.

  She stared at his signature. Unlike the rest of the writing it was scrawled at an angle across the lower corner of the page ‒ Nicholas Brent.

  That, of course, put her bang in her place. He wasn’t Nick, or even ‘the boss’. He was Nicholas Brent.

  All right, Cindie thought. Message received! She meant this in more ways than one. Erica, the Queen of the Spinifex, was about to arrive, and Cindie must nip back in her shell, and be nobody all over again. Orders by Nicholas Brent Esquire.

  She went upstairs and brushed her hair again. Then took off her make-up with cold cream, and applied a new lot. All this she did without even knowing she was doing it. It was unnecessary anyway. It was still only nine in the morning.

  Then she went downstairs; out of the main door and round the corner to the open square on the far side of the hotel. She had only seen Flan at the pyjama parade these mornings since they had arrived in Mulga Gorges. Now he was busy polishing the Land-Rover as if it were a Rolls-Royce or a Jaguar.

  She sat on the steps of the side veranda and watched him in silence.

  ‘My, you’re pretty silent for a young lady that has herself a nice unexpected day off!’ Flan said at last, looking up. He folded and refolded his polishing cloth to make a pad of it.

  ‘How did you know I have a holiday to-day, Flan?’

  He looked puckish. ‘The boss told me, of course.’

  Cindie rested her elbows on her knee and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘Oh, you mean Nicholas Brent Esquire?’ she inquired.

  ‘I’ve seen that name on the mail now and again, if that’s what you’re getting at, young miss.’ He went on fiercely polishing, talking as he rubbed and wiped. ‘Come to think of it, it was on a radio message the housemaid was hawking round the upstairs corridor ‒’ he looked up, mimicking a female voice ‒ ‘Mr. Nicholas Brent! Mr. Nicholas Brent, please! Anyone seen Mr. Nicholas Brent? A radio message ‒’

  ‘So what did you do, Flan?’

  ‘I said “Give it to me, and I’ll give it to the boss.” So she did; and I did, and here you are with a holiday on your hands.’

  ‘It’s not because of the message. The holiday, I mean. It’s because Nick’s share in the conference is probably at an end.’

  Flan bent himself to polishing again. ‘Quite a coincidence, eh? I never did think Nick took that conference seriously. All he wants to do is build his section of the road in peace. In one piece, too. A thousand miles of it.’

  ‘What was the coincidence, Flan?’ Cindie had not moved her position, nor varied the half-dead beat in her voice.

  ‘Miss E. coming in by chartered plane. And Miss E. taking Nick along with her to that place up next to Marana. Forgotten the name. The one that’s about run out of sheep.’

  Cindie did not move. She said nothing, for she had a cold stone for a heart, and it hurt her as it froze her. Funny, because it was blazing hot sitting here in the sun on the veranda step. That east wind drying out Bindaroo?

  ‘You and me for the Mulga Gorges proper, anyway,’ Flan said, looking up. He put a cheerful note in his voice, because he noticed the pallor in Cindie’s face. ‘Girl, you haven’t seen anything till you’ve seen those gorges. I bet you something ‒’

  ‘Yes? What do you bet, Flan?’

  ‘You think we go out to those ranges and find the gorges tucked in amongst those red rock mountains ‒’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Ah, ha! That’s caught you like it catches most people. True we go out thataway. And we go in through the prettiest mountain folds you ever saw. Trees, flowers, birds ‒ everything. Then we come to a crack in the ground. Well, you wait and see ‒’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that, Flan. When do we go?’

  ‘We go to-morrow morning, but only on one condition. You get a nice smile on your face, young Cindie girl. I’m not taking any sad-puss out for a day’s ride.’

  Cindie did indeed smile, straight away. ‘I’m sorry, Flan,’ she said contritely. ‘I had worries on my mind. I’ll shake them off, here and now. To-morrow I’ll rise with the sun, and feel like the sun’s rays. That suit you? I’m dying to see those fabulous gorges anyway.’

  ‘Good girl. Now forget you’re a certain somebody’s secretary, and a front-dining-room guest ‒ for the next half an hour. You nip round to the back kitchen and say Flan ordered two mugs of coffee ‒ with cream on the top, too. It pays to be backstairs in these parts. You get real attention. For nix, too.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Flan,’ Cindie said cheerfully. ‘I think coffee’s all I want ‒’

  She broke off. Round the corner of the building she could see a man coming across from the post office with a red-edged envelope in his hand. He was looking over the lawn and through the patio towards her.

  ‘Something for Mr. Brent?’ she asked as he came up.

  ‘No, for you, Miss Brown. I recognised you as the young lady who sent that message to Baanya this morning. Here’s a reply. Nothing faster than the radio, eh?’

  She took the envelope from his outstretched hand.

  ‘Thank you very much for bringing it over,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Easy done,’ he answered with a grin. ‘Saved me telephoning it through to the hotel manager.’

  She tore open the envelope and read quickly. Flan watched her out of the corner of his eye.

  HOLDEN WELL PROTECTED FROM THE HEAT AND IS IN GOOD ORDER STOP HAS MANY RUNNING MILES IN IT FOR THE FUTURE STOP NOT TO WORRY CINDIE STOP PLENTY OF TIME STOP LOVE JIM

  Cindie, standing there in her blue dress, a backdrop to the brilliant flame of the bougainvillea growing against the fence, read the message again and again and again. What could it mean? Didn’t Jim understand ‒?

  She looked at the heading on the form. It read ‒ ‘CONSTRUCTION CAMP VIA BAANYA OUTPOST.’

  ‘Flan ‒’ Cindie asked, turning round sharply. ‘Could Jim Vernon be at the construction camp?’

  ‘Why not? There a beaut flying-fox rigged up across that river. It’ll last quite a time. The weather news says the river water’s going down, anyway.’

  ‘But why would he go back to the construction camp?’

  Flan shrugged.

  ‘Please, Flan. You know something ‒’

  ‘I don’t know something. I just guess. Same as everyone else on that raking site guesses, or bets. And I’m not telling. Go and get that coffee, Cindie, like I said, and quit worrying about Jim Vernon. He knows his own business best.’

  But he knows I’m not there: I’m here! Cindie thought, puzzled.

  It was a waste of time, guessing. There were too many riddles in the air this morning. Flan was right. A good cup of coffee, with cream on the top, was the thing she needed most right now. She did believe in a little self-help ‒ and determined uplift, too. It was this spirit that had made her come north in the first place. At home, all she and her mother had done was worry.

  She would be cheerful for Flan’s sake. She would, she would!

  That afternoon, to pass the time, she went for a walk. It didn’t matter where one walked in the tiny two-street town of Mulga Gorges, the air-field could be seen lying in a long cross-strip beside it. She had been out of doors less than half an hour when she saw the tiny bright red and silver chartered plane fly in, land, and run delicately off the main strip to stop under the shadow of the larger Fokker Friendship that had come in earlier from Darwin.

  From the distance Cindie saw a slim, hand-waving figure descend from the plane, in a dress of those bright colours that Erica always wore.

  Cindie did not wait to see who might be on the receiving end of those hand-waves. It was somebody standing in the shadow of the waiting-room. She turned away a
nd went on picking mauve mullas where they grew in their wild delight alongside the air-field, up the two streets of Mulga Gorges, to the very doors of the general store.

  They were lovely flowers ‒ a thousand flowerets in each cone-shaped parent flower. There were little yellow-polled desert daisies too. Right beside the air-field waiting-room were splashes of the crimson Sturt Pea creeper she had first seen lying by the waterhole on their way up from the camp.

  She wished, in a desolate way, the Nick she had learned to know these few days in Mulga Gorges was not so easily beguiled by beauty alone. Erica would accept his love with selfish intent. Cindie was certain of that. Well, they’d look a handsome pair standing on the veranda of some sheep station ‒ Marana or Bindaroo.

  Not the latter yet. Jim had said Time would help. Yet Erica, quite unabashed, flying in from the coast ‒ where all nor’west business was done ‒ didn’t exactly look like someone who had failed in her purpose.

  Nick had a mind. Couldn’t he use it? Couldn’t he see ‒ ?

  Stooping to add yellow daisies to her bunch of flowers, Cindie felt angry.

  Like everyone else, even my masterly overlord must reap where he sows, she thought bitterly.

  Cindie did not go in to dinner that night. She did not want to see Erica, nor watch the two of them dining side by side. She went to the one small cafe opposite the general store instead, and ate baked beans on toast. She bought a packet of biscuits so that she would have something to eat with her early-morning cup of tea. She’d be there first so as to avoid certain other people in the pyjama-parade. She didn’t intend to go to breakfast because she wasn’t two-faced enough to greet Erica with a smile. Well, not if Erica was en route to Bindaroo ‒ taking Nick with her.

  She thought of Jim’s optimistic message. He had sent that to cheer her up, of course. Perhaps, this time, he didn’t really know what was going on.

  Cindie’s absence from breakfast was a gesture in vain, for Nick and Erica had taken off in that plane at midnight. With the speed of air travel, they would probably be at Marana, or Bindaroo ‒ long before breakfast.