by Lucy Walker
Sara could not help a mild feeling of sadness that everyone in the room had noticed her … that a stranger had come amongst them … except these two by the window.
She did not expect courtesy from Julia but she could not help but wonder that the man had made no move at all. After all, they were on a lonely cattle station a hundred miles from the nearest neighbour. It must be something to have a stranger in the house!
Mrs. Camden was chattering on, rather like the brook, and Marion interspersed it with, ‘Don’t be silly, Mother’, or ‘All right, Mother, in a minute’.
Sara had only to sit, smile and occasionally say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. It was soon apparent there was no possible way of communicating with Mrs. Camden. She did not wait for answers or comments.
While Sara listened to Mrs. Camden with politeness she could not help but take in the room and all who were in it.
She was dressed right. Thank God for that. Mrs. Camden and Marion were both in gay floral dresses of pure silk. Sara could almost feel the lovely quality in the gentle light of the sheen. Julia, like herself, wore a plain dress, but it was beautifully cut.
The men were dressed much alike. The three by the window wore immaculate white shirts with long sleeves and soft silk ties. They had on some kind of loose-legged cotton drill trousers. Only the man talking to Julia was a little different. He had a loose cotton coat over his white shirt. His tie was dark and long and straight. His trousers were a fawn-coloured gaberdine and like his shoes were of beautiful fine well-cut quality.
Mrs. Whittle left the group and came down the long room towards them.
‘Here comes Witty,’ said Marion with a grin. ‘I guess she’s going to introduce you to Greg now. The other poor darlings have had to wait.’
Sara felt something like a shock go through her.
So that was Gregory Camden! She was to be his secretary. How odd that he did not come and greet her himself! Odder still that he hadn’t even looked up to see what kind of a secretary he had!
And that Mrs. Camden hadn’t made introductions! And that everybody had hung back, waiting …
Maybe he was some kind of a harsh taskmaster. Sara remembered the terseness and brevity of his business letters.
Yet his face wasn’t harsh.
Sara thought all this as she walked back up the room, this time on the window side of the billiard table, with Mrs. Whittle. She could look at his face because he had ceased to look at Julia now and was looking down again at the toe of his shoe. It still rested on the edge of the chair. He hadn’t once changed his position.
His face wasn’t harsh. His face was rather a nice face except that, now he wasn’t smiling, it looked grave, as if it was in thoughtful repose.
His features were even and strong. He had far and away more personality than anyone else in that room.
Was that really true? Or did she read it in him because he had a million acres and 15,000 head of cattle strung round his neck? Not to mention 10,000 sheep on the south run below the twenty-sixth parallel?
Sara could not help a little thrill of anticipation as Mrs. Whittle brought her towards the two by the window. Yes … he had a good face. He’d be all right to work for.
‘Miss Sara Brent, Mr. Greg,’ Mrs. Whittle said.
Sara began to lift her hand and then it wavered in mid-air and fell to her side. Her smile faltered.
Gregory Camden had looked up from his shoe at last.
His eyes were a dark blue. They were grave and appraising. In addition there was a cold, forbidding antagonism in them.
‘But why?’ Sara asked herself. ‘Why? Why? Why?’
He said ‘How do you do?’ in a soft voice that came between barely opened lips.
‘Quite well, thank you.’
He did not drop his gaze but went on looking at her with that look of cold, reflective dislike in his eyes.
‘Oh, so you’re here,’ Julia said with some insolence.
It was Sara’s turn to look at the speaker gravely.
The customer is always right, she remembered, and secretaries cannot answer back.
She did not attempt to answer Julia but turned and looked inquiringly at Mrs. Whittle.
‘Now come and meet Mr. Benson; he’s the book-keeper. Jim Smith’s the overseer and Dave is one of our jackaroos.’
Chapter Three
Dinner was served in a style that Sara had thought to belong to another age.
They all sat down to a long wide table in a big room nearly as big as the billiard room. Greg Camden sat at the head of the table and carved. His mother sat on his right hand and Julia on his left. It was Mrs. Whittle who did the honours with the vegetables at the other end of the table. Three other quite young men had come in at the sound of the dinner bell, and Sara, at Mrs. Whittle’s request, had taken a seat half-way down the table between one of these young men and Mr. Benson, the book-keeper. Sara noticed with a smile that her seat was neither above nor below the salt. She was exactly halfway to the hierarchy at the top of the table.
Marion Camden sat next to Julia so she had evidently moved down one to make place for Julia. Two jackaroos were ranged between her and Mrs. Whittle.
The men on either side of Sara were talkative and friendly. Both the jackaroos on the other side of the table, young Englishmen sent out to learn the business of cattle-raising, were shy of Sara but not of her neighbours.
At the top of the table Mrs. Camden kept up her stream of happy innocuous chatter. Occasionally Greg Camden spoke to Julia or Marion, but mostly he concentrated on the business of the administration of a big meal to a big family.
It was Marion who seemed to concern herself most with Sara’s welfare. When there was a lull in the conversation she spoke down the table to Sara.
‘Do you type and do shorthand? Both?’ she asked. ‘Can you type on an old chaff-cutting machine, because that’s all we’ve got in the office? You’ll have to cadge off Mr. Benson if you want something modern and well-oiled.’
Mr. Benson was the stout and kindly bookkeeper.
‘Mr. Benson has the best of everything,’ Mr. Benson said. ‘A labourer is worthy of his tools.’
‘Labourer!’ one of the jackaroos scoffed. ‘Sitting in the cool of a bough shade all day! You and Miss Brent have the best end of a day’s work on a cattle station.’
‘If we didn’t, you wouldn’t get your bust-cheque when you shoot through,’ said Mr. Benson happily. ‘Someone’s got to sign on the dotted line.’
‘Sara won’t have anything to do with cheques, will she, Greg?’ Mrs. Camden sounded puzzled. ‘She’s going to write all my letters for me, isn’t she? All those cards. That’s what Clifford sent her for …’
‘Nothing of the kind, Mother,’ interrupted Marion. ‘You’re not to monopolise Sara.’ She looked down the table at Sara and the slightly ironic smile deepened. ‘Clifford sent you up to help Greg. At least that is what he said.’
Sara was conscious of a sudden silence round the table. It wasn’t as if they were waiting for her to say something so much as that they knew something in advance and were waiting to hear her views.
‘My instructions from the Camden Pastoral Company,’ Sara said carefully and with a smile, for she felt she was skating on thin ice, ‘were that I was to be secretary to Mr. Gregory Camden for six weeks.’ She let her smile broaden and her eyes shone. ‘With a verbal rider to make myself useful all round.’
There was a ripple of laughter all round the table. Greg Camden did not drop his eyes from her face, and Julia leaned forward and helped herself to a piece of bread.
‘Useful all round for Clifford,’ she said with a drawl. ‘The girls Clifford sends up here seem to be so busy being useful to him nobody on Ransome ever sees them except for meals.’
There was another silence and all the men were suddenly busy with something on their plates. Greg dropped his eyes and went on eating. Only Marion remained looking at Sara.
What did they mean by all Clifford’s girls? No other gir
ls had been sent up from the office as far as Sara knew. And hadn’t that man at the airfield … Jack Brownrigg … said something about it being quite unique Greg Camden having a secretary?
‘Clifford’s girls!’ said Mrs. Camden suddenly as she had just caught up with the conversation. ‘There was that girl with the red hair. What was her name? Well, it doesn’t matter. She was a sweet little thing. Used to put flowers in my bedroom every day.’
‘Now, Mother,’ said Marion. ‘We don’t have flowers every day of the year on Ransome.’
‘Was she here a whole year? Dear me, I had forgotten.’
‘One month,’ said Marion.
Mrs. Camden turned to her son.
‘Sara is going to help me, isn’t she, Greg? And there’s that business about the yacht. I’m sure I could get one and there’ll be all the invitations …’
So Mrs. Camden was the Louise Camden who had wanted the company to buy her a yacht!
She shot Sara a sudden quick look under her eyelids and Sara realised she wasn’t quite as simple and innocuous as she pretended to be.
But what did they mean about Clifford’s girls? Were they confusing Clifford’s guests with his employees?
‘I’m employed by the Company,’ Sara said gently. ‘Not a friend …’
Greg Camden looked up at her quickly, then turned and spoke to the maid who had been serving the meal.
‘Nellie will put the tea and coffee in the billiard room,’ he said. ‘Miss Brent, perhaps you could give me a few minutes in the office.’
Sara sighed with relief. So he was going to notice her in her capacity of secretary at last!
‘If you’re going to shut yourself in for the night, Greg,’ the overseer said, ‘do you want those horses out in the morning? I’ll get Blue-Bag to yard them.’
Greg Camden had risen. He turned and looked down at Julia.
‘You want that early morning ride, Julia?’ he asked. His voice was suddenly quite kind, and Sara thought his manner visibly softened.
‘Of course I do. I want to ride and I want to talk to you not in the middle of a crowd.’
‘Don’t do it, Greg,’ said Marion. ‘She only wants to talk to you about dollars.’
Julia stretched across the table and took a sultana.
‘That’s all you know,’ she said. ‘Clifford’s not the only Camden who gets courted on his home territory.’
Sara felt as if her heart missed a beat. What were they trying to say? What were they implying?
She could not help her gaze going quickly to Greg Camden’s face. But he was looking at Julia, the little tight smile playing round his lips.
‘Sun-up in the saddling yard!’ he said. ‘I think that’s about five-ten, tomorrow.’
He stood aside at the door for his mother and Marion to go through. Mrs. Whittle was obviously remaining behind to oversee the maid clearing away the meal.
Sara hesitated.
Greg looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘Miss Brent?’ he said, indicating the door. Sara went through it quickly. ‘The office is the middle room in the passage on the left of the main hall. I’ll join you in a minute.’
Sara had no difficulty in finding the office. It was a medium-sized square room with a large table behind which was a swivel desk chair. Behind the table was a long sash window and doors leading into the room to the right and the left of the room. A bookcase stood in front of one of these doors. The wall behind the door through which Sara entered was lined with shelves which were packed with the folders and files of years. The desk was heavily piled with papers too but they did appear to be stacked in orderly arrays. There were too many shelves and bookcases for pictures, but on a table in the far corner stood a transceiver set, and beside it, on a smaller table, the ‘chaff-cutting machine’ that would pass for a typewriter.
Sara sat down and waited.
She looked around. The room was neither tidy nor untidy. It was the office of a business man who had too much to do. Greg Camden was evidently orderly and efficient in his office management but the volume of correspondence had overtaken him.
Sara had left the door open behind her, and because the passage outside was thickly carpeted she did not hear Greg coming until he entered the room.
She half rose.
‘Sit down, Miss Brent, please.’
His manner was authoritative and there was an edge of sharpness in his voice. He closed the door behind him and walked quickly round his table and picked up a bundle of mail that had probably come in with the plane that afternoon.
Sara looked at his hands rather than at his face. His movements and the movements of his hands were quicker than she had expected. There was something lithe and tigerish in them.
He dropped the bundle of mail unopened and looked at the girl sitting correctly but easily in the chair the other side of the desk.
‘Do you think you can understand all this sort of thing?’ he asked, waving his hand over the desk.
His eyes were inquiring but still hostile. Sara wondered if he had had a secretary foisted on him by the Company and if he was just one of those station owners, conservative and reactionary, who would not accept change.
Yet that couldn’t be the true explanation. She knew from the town end of the station management that Ransome had always been very advanced as far as the ordering and installation of plant were concerned. In fact, this had been one of the toughest bones of contention with other members of the family who were shareholders. Greg, they had constantly claimed, was spending a fortune … their fortune … buying every new-fangled idea and piece of mechanism that came on the market.
Sara hesitated before she answered. She wanted to give confidence so she chose her words carefully.
‘I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty about that, Mr. Camden. I have handled all the station’s correspondence for the last year. Perhaps if you would give me a day to do some sorting I will be able to help you.’
‘How do you propose to begin?’ he asked. He was still standing and the hand that had held the mail was now holding a paper knife. He waited … questioning and unconvinced … on her answer.
‘From my instructions, Mr. Camden, I understand you are about to organise two big events on Ransome. If I could reduce your current correspondence to an ‘in’ and an ‘out’ tray and answer your ‘yes-no’ letters for you, we could …’ she faltered. Then, swallowing, she went on firmly. ‘You would then know what you would wish me to do. You would be able to instruct me.’
Greg Camden pulled his chair up and sat down. He rested the palms of both his hands on the table and sat looking at them thoughtfully.
He hasn’t any confidence in me, Sara thought. I wonder why. I must have been well recommended.
‘Have you an idea what organising a big gathering and a muster in the Far North is like?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Sara simply. ‘But I can find out. I think I’ll be able to help you, Mr. Camden.’
He got up abruptly and walked backwards and forwards across the room. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. Then he halted in front of the desk again.
‘I suppose we’ve got to give it a trial now we’re landed with one another,’ he said, stopping suddenly and facing her across the desk.
Sara allowed herself a very small and friendly smile.
‘Perhaps we may surprise the Company and do it quite efficiently,’ she said.
‘I always do things efficiently,’ he said abruptly.
‘Yes, Mr. Camden. I’m the one who has to prove myself, I think. If I’m not able to help you I would like you to say so.’
He was silent again, looking at her thoughtfully.
‘All right,’ he said at length. He waved his hand over the table. ‘I’ll be out on the run all day tomorrow. See what you can do.’
Sara felt dismissed so she stood up.
‘You understand that my mother and Mrs. Whittle must be consulted?’
‘Of course.
I will take no responsibility without reference, Mr. Camden.’
‘Very well then. I will tell Mrs. Whittle to make arrangements to make the office available to you tomorrow.’
He pulled a scribbling pad towards him and began to jot something on it with a pencil. He tore off the leaf and began to write on the second page. Sara could see his writing was big and bold and the memos contained no more than a few words.
At that moment there was a firm tap on the door.
‘Come in!’ His voice was staccato and commanding.
The door opened and Mrs. Whittle came in.
He looked up and pushed both the memos across the table in her direction.
‘I was just sending you a note,’ he said. ‘Will you arrange for Miss Brent to have what meals she wants and when she wants them? In the office, if necessary. Dinner, of course, we all have together. The other note is to authorise Benson to let Miss Brent go to the store for any materials she needs in the office.’
‘Very well, Mr. Greg. Do you want to see the menu for dinner tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ He took a small card from Mrs. Whittle and glanced down it.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose Julia has any special dislikes at the moment. If she has, we’ll no doubt hear about them in the fullness of time. Are the drinks put away, Mrs. Whittle?’
‘Yes, except the fruit drink in the dining-room refrigerator, and there’s a fresh bottle of port wine in the decanter.’
‘Good. Thank you.’ He turned to Sara. ‘There’s usually tea in the dining-room about half past nine. Or port wine and a biscuit if you prefer it. We’re early risers so the homestead closes down early.’
‘All except you, Mr. Greg,’ Mrs. Whittle said severely. ‘I hope that now Miss Brent is here you won’t do so much office work late at night.’
He did not answer her.
‘Good night, Mr. Camden,’ Sara said as she went to the door.
‘Good night! Mrs. Whittle, just wait one moment, will you, please?’
