by Lucy Walker
But it was about Peter she was worrying, not herself! She couldn’t tell Stephen that, of course.
He gently but firmly turned her and indicated the comfortable sitting place she had been in earlier. Yesterday the men had dug with their heels these shallow ground hollows and put in them the seats out of the plane.
‘Sit down and I’ll bring you something to eat,’ he said with a solicitude that made her grit her teeth. ‘You’ll feel better.’
‘But it’s Peter’s eating time,’ Cherry protested as, since she was forced to do so, she had to sit down.
‘Peter is asleep. He too can wait his turn.’
Cherry drew her knees up under her and resting her elbows on them cupped her chin in her hands.
How badly had she behaved? she wondered. She hadn’t actually said anything, had she? It must have been the way she looked. He was treating her like an invalid. Or worse, like a difficult relative that needed coddling in order to keep her quiet.
She suddenly had a new idea.
Could he, very cunningly, be getting his own way? By putting her out of action he was going to feed Peter with indigestible fat.
Cherry slewed her eyes round and peered through the firelight at Stephen. He had broken the duck apart and was bringing her a portion on a plastic plate. He put it on the ground beside her and so doubtful was she of his intentions, and so humiliated by his ‘little troublesome girl’ treatment of her that she did not say thank you.
A minute later he came back with another helping of duck on another plate. He sat down beside her.
‘Now eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you company.’
Cherry was not only hungry, she was not childish; and she was incapable of sulking. She picked up the plate and resting it on her knees took a piece of duck flesh in her fingers. When she put it to her mouth she thought she would die of the delight of real food, tasty, and well cooked.
Stephen, eating with relish himself, was watching her. Cherry turned her head guiltily and their eyes met. Stephen smiled. Then Cherry smiled back.
He lifted his hand and pulled the vagrant lock of her hair hanging across her temple.
‘Not so bad, eh?’ he said kindly.
Cherry shook her head, for there were suddenly tears blinding her eyes. Kindness often hurts more than hostile reproaches, but she could never let him know this. She had to pretend it was the smoke from the camp-fire getting in her eyes.
‘You worry too much,’ he said presently, when they had finished their meal and wiped their greasy fingers on the ground leaves around them.
‘Not really,’ said Cherry, nearly back to her old self. ‘Apart from Peter it seems rather unkind of us to be sitting here so safely and comfortably when the others are lost in the bush.’
‘They’ll have their camp-fire too,’ said Stephen with an attempt at comforting her. ‘If Alan hasn’t enough nous to wring the neck of one of those red-legged water-hens Tracy will tell him how to do it. Somewhere down there in the jungle they’re doing just what we’re doing. And waiting for morning.’
‘Oh!’ said Cherry, deflated.
‘And Tracy will not be trying to seduce Alan. Or vice versa, if that’s what’s worrying you. Tracy has a mind on other things, and I’ve a shrewd idea Alan has his mind on other people.’
‘Don’t you think you’re entitled to your nightly cigarette?’ said Cherry to change the conversation.
‘I’ll have two to-morrow night instead, but don’t shelve your worries that way, my dear child. Let’s dispose of the current disposition of the plane crash survivors first. Then to feeding Peter and sleep afterwards.’
‘I don’t quite understand ‒’
‘Those two are as safe as if they were sitting in that front sitting-room of yours in the Street of the Pines, with Mrs. Landin for chaperone.’
‘Don’t you laugh at my mother,’ said Cherry spiritedly.
‘I’m not. I’m laughing at you. I trust you feel perfectly safe in my company, Cherry.’
Now he was laughing, just as he had that day sitting talking to her mother in the home near the ocean.
‘I couldn’t imagine anything safer,’ she said coldly.
‘You are safe, my child,’ said Stephen, getting up and picking up the plates. ‘But not your reputation? Is that what you are thinking? I don’t advise you to write and tell your parents about it all ‒ when we do eventually get out of here.’
Cherry was standing up too. Once again she was the small irate figure with the firelight flickering over her rumpled collar, half-mast slacks, and undisciplined hair fringe.
‘Do you know what?’ she said steadily and in concentrated fierce defence against Stephen’s silent laughter at the expense of her home and her upbringing. ‘Do you know what? I hate you.’
He paused in surprise, turned his head and looked at her.
If ever there was a sweet tiger ready to spring, it was Cherry.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Stephen infuriatingly. Then walking away he added, without turning to see whether she heard him or not, ‘In the morning, after a good sleep, you’ll feel different.’
Cherry dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands.
‘I mustn’t, I mustn’t, I mustn’t,’ she said between clenched teeth, fighting to keep silence and control of her anger. ‘He thinks I’m just a difficult woman, overwrought because I’ve been plane-wrecked and am scared I won’t ever get found again. And Tracy is perfect at self-discipline.’
Then she fell to wondering if just that was indeed what was wrong with her.
How dreadful! She had better try and become more like Tracy. And anyhow, she didn’t feel the least bit afraid.
Lying in her bush bed, with the rug screen shielding both herself and the baby from the flickering firelight, she took herself to task again. She didn’t feel afraid, and she knew why. It was Stephen’s calm managership of the camp and his unlimited knowledge of the bush that made them all safe. Without him it all might have been a very different story.
Cherry put her hand over the edge of the hammock Alan Donnelly had made for Peter and felt the sleeping child’s warm arm. Her hand slid gently up over his cheek and lightly stroked the downy head.
She felt comforted.
It was still dark when Stephen called Cherry back from a deep sleep.
He touched her on the shoulder and spoke gently so as not to wake Peter.
‘Time to get up, Cherry,’ he said. ‘It will be daylight in an hour and I want to get some shooting done before the birds take off.’
Cherry sprang up immediately.
Yes, was her first thought, and Tracy and Alan have to be found! Stephen was probably just as anxious as she was about the others but was wisely hiding this behind the excuse of early morning hunting.
‘I’ll keep the camp-fires burning while you’re away,’ she said when she had tidied herself as best she could in the dark and emerged to find Stephen, a shadowy figure, raking together the embers of the fire.
‘You go with me,’ Stephen said, continuing his ministrations to the fire. ‘We stay together.’
‘You know the way well now,’ Cherry protested. ‘You couldn’t possibly get lost.’
‘We stay together,’ Stephen repeated. He looked up but the only light was from the glowing coals and it showed nothing of the expression on his face.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Cherry,’ he said. ‘It’s too early in the morning. Can you heat the water and give Peter some powdered milk with it? I’ll see how our second duck looks after a night in the coal bed.’ Cherry made no reply but gathered some dried leaves and twigs together and heaped them on the coals so that, quickly catching, they threw up bright flames of light. She went back to the rug enclosure and stirred Peter.
If only she had quantities of that lovely clear water with which to wash him! Suddenly she was glad Stephen was insisting that they stay together. Theoretically he was right, of course. She must stop arguing with him, in the long run he was always right.
<
br /> When the water was warmed and Peter given his drink, Stephen broke open the clay case of the second duck and they had some of the flesh which was still warm. Peter was given the jellied juice from last night’s bird with a biscuit and this time Cherry did not protest. Nothing had happened to the small child during the night as a result of his fatty diet the night before.
Stephen was right once again and Cherry was thankful he didn’t labour it.
The fire sprang up brightly enough for them to tidy the camp, dress Peter, gather their small load of waterbags, gun and cartridges, and Peter’s shoulder-seat. Cherry made a bundle of her own and Peter’s washing. Stephen did likewise with some of his own.
‘Please let me carry Peter this morning,’ Cherry pleaded. ‘He hasn’t quite woken up yet, and with the shoulder bag he’s not really any weight.’
‘Very well, for the first stage at any event. As soon as it’s light enough we’ll leave. Meantime I’ll bank up the fire. We don’t want to find ourselves burnt out if and when we get back.’
In silence Stephen worked around the camp, burying the scraps of bird bone and washing the utensils in the water from the hole. Cherry tidied Peter and then stole a few minutes to comb her own hair.
Next time she was plane- or ship-wrecked she would remember to bring a brush with her. She wondered if Tracy had another private cache in which there was a hairbrush. How did Tracy keep herself so perfectly groomed?
Cherry had slept in the slacks she had worn the day before so this morning, in view of the fact there was a lake full of washing water only a few miles away, she felt entitled to put on fresh clothes from the case that had been salvaged from the plane.
Her mind went back to that day in the Street of the Pines when she had so suddenly and resolutely made up her mind she would buy slacks.
How pained Mummy had been, but what a wonderful buy they’d turned out to be! Imagine living in this jungle in dresses and skirts!
Thinking of this made Cherry anxious again for the distress her parents would be suffering just now. She went on unthinkingly combing her hair and patting it down with her fingers, as she stood by the fire waiting for Stephen to give the word to move out. What would they be doing now, down there in that little house by the sea?
Stephen had just slung Peter’s hammock up among the branches of a tree, against intrusion from ground insects, and turned round, when he caught sight of Cherry, peering into the polished surface of the milk tin lid, and caressing her wayward fringe back into place.
He stood looking at her for a moment. Had Cherry lifted her head she would have seen that faintly amused smile that had annoyed her so much when he had sat in the small living-room of her home down south.
‘You should take a leaf out of Tracy’s book,’ he said, walking across the space and picking up the gun. ‘She carries a little flat brush in her pocket. Always.’
‘Here we go again,’ Cherry thought. ‘Tracy can do no wrong in his eyes.’
‘I wondered how she did it,’ she replied, coming out of her thoughtful trance. ‘Her hair always looks so polished.’
She picked up Peter. Stephen, propping the gun against a tree, helped to fit the child into the leg-holes of the shoulder bag. They were very close and Cherry felt dwarfed beside his tall body and broad shoulders. She looked at him over Peter’s head and his eyes met hers.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe we mentioned it before.’
Cherry smiled. It was going to be peace between them.
‘Lovely morning,’ she said, feeling unexpectedly happy. Rule number one for the day. I shall stop being jealous of Tracy.
Peter’s hat had become awry in these operations and Stephen now straightened it.
‘Why doesn’t this child ever cry?’ Stephen asked.
‘Because he’s surrounded with love, and happens to be enjoying this strange adventure.’
Stephen turned and took the gun again.
‘You sound as if you are enjoying it yourself this morning.’
‘I am,’ said Cherry. ‘Look, there’s the light coming into the sky. Do we go now?’
‘Yes, we’ll get a move on now. The sooner your mind’s at rest the better, I suppose. You still worrying about Tracy running off with Alan Donnelly?’
Cherry, hugging Peter close to her, endeavoured not to look annoyed.
‘I’m worrying about both Tracy and Alan,’ she said, pressing her lips together. ‘And in spite of your casual manner, I believe you are worrying, too.’
Stephen raised his eyebrows.
‘How astute you are. Must be the early morning duck for breakfast. By the way, I thought you didn’t like duck?’
The morning was indeed lovely so Cherry didn’t allow herself to be cross. The very fact he teased her a little meant their relationship was easier.
Chapter Ten
Light came creeping through the great trees and the vast tangle of undergrowth, like a beautiful wraith. The scents of the bush; of leaves and trees and creepers assailed them with a magic charm.
No, Cherry had to forget her own small vanities. What did it matter that he had never taken much notice of her; that she had been no more than a slightly prissy girl standing the first test of being interviewed for a job; and then passing through the second phase of his acquaintance with her, a mere travelling appendage being taken home to his station to help his sister-in-law bring up her children? What did it matter that on the station she had been a quiet nobody in the kitchen and around the verandas, looking after small Peter when she should have been drilling bigger Sandra in the skills of reading, writing and arithmetic?
‘See yourself as others see you,’ she had had to say to herself. ‘Then I was nobody but now I’m somebody because I’m stranded in the middle of the bush with him. We, we just can’t help being something to one another, can we?’
‘Because he’s a man he’s got to look after me and Peter. Because I’m a girl I’ve got to be looked after, and I’ve got to follow where I’m led. Meantime it’s a lovely morning and in no time now I’ll have a bath. And so will Peter.’
‘You seem happy this morning,’ Stephen remarked.
Cherry smiled up at him.
‘Perhaps it’s the way you cook duck,’ she replied.
For a moment he looked surprised, not at her words but at her bright elusive smile.
‘Let’s go and shoot some more,’ he said agreeably. ‘We’ll cook it in the coals for lunch too.’
He had the gun under his arm and now he picked up the bags in one of which he had already packed such utensils as he thought they might need on their new excursion. He broke through the screen of bushes, held the bushes back with the butt of the gun so that Cherry, carrying Peter, could pass through, and five minutes later they were well on their way down the trail that led to the lake.
They had covered half the distance when Stephen called a halt under the ancient cabbage tree beyond which Cherry had not been able to find the trail yesterday.
‘Five minutes’ rest, and change burdens,’ said Stephen.
Peter had been kicking and wriggling for the last ten minutes. Cherry felt that he at least needed a change so she gladly agreed.
Stephen had to help free Peter’s chubby legs from the carrying-bag before she could set him on the ground. Again she had that pleasant feeling of them both, herself and Stephen, being in closer companionship. The going had been hard and as they had had to go in single file they had hardly spoken since they left the camp.
Peter, on the ground, hooted with delight at this new environment. He immediately began to scrabble around where he was sitting for new wonders with which to play; a broken stick and several tree nuts.
‘Sit down and rest,’ said Stephen.
Cherry did so, leaning her back against the tree-trunk and drawing her knees up under her. Stephen did likewise and they were shoulder to shoulder. The tree-trunk though large was rounded.
Stephen searched a moment in his pockets, then frown
ing, let his hands fall. Cherry knew what had happened. From habit he had been looking for a cigarette and then remembered they were forbidden until shared.
Cherry with a smile of triumph produced a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She drew a cigarette from the packet and handed it delicately to Stephen between her thumb and forefinger; the rest of her hand and arm had the stylised gesture of a ballet dancer. Mischievously Cherry was telling him in pantomime that here was a packet from Tracy’s cache.
Stephen frowned, then relaxed and smiled.
‘Where did you find them?’ he said. He still did not take the cigarette.
‘Growing in the bushes behind our private camp. You know, the way Moses grew in the rushes. And there’s plenty more.’
Stephen was only of half a mind to take the cigarette but Cherry leaned forward and held it close to his nose.
‘You needn’t smoke it,’ she said. ‘Just smell it.’
Stephen smiled, took the cigarette and put it in his mouth. Then began the futile search for matches in his pockets.
Cherry bided her time, and then took out a box from the same pocket whence came the cigarettes. She struck a match and held it to the tip of his cigarette. When he had drawn deeply, she flicked out the match and put the box back in her pocket. She wrapped her arms round her legs and gazed innocently in front of her. Stephen shook away the first ash and regarded Cherry’s profile with curiosity.
‘Do you know,’ he said at length, ‘if I had a wife I’d rather she found me a cigarette in a moment of dire need than be able to roast duck for dinner.’
‘What a wonderful wife I’ll make someone,’ said Cherry. ‘I find cigarettes growing on bushes and I can’t roast duck in a coal-fire.’
‘That’s something worth remembering,’ said Stephen lazily. Then he looked at Cherry through smoke-hazed eyes. ‘I must tell Alan. He’s looking for a wife. But what happens to the man down south?’
‘What man down south?’ asked Cherry, surprised.
‘The one you promised to return to … one year to the day, I think you said.’