by Amanda Doyle
Emmie lifted a pale, strained face, shook her head.
‘Nothing, thank you.’
The man still stood above her for a moment, big, irresolute, his frown deepening.
‘Well, get some grub inside you, for heaven’s sake, and don’t sit there tearing yourself to pieces like this,’ he advised her gruffly. ‘No man’s worth it, I can tell you that. But being you, you’ll have to find out the hard way, no doubt.’
And then he was gone, away again through the shadowed doorway, and this time he wasn’t whistling at all. Emmie heard his heavy steps sounding across the yard outside, and then the shattering noise of the engine as it leapt to life in its tiny shed.
Too weary (or too cowardly?) to resume her former line of thought, she got slowly out of her chair and went to cook her eggs and bacon.
On Thursday morning she caught the train at the siding. It was the train on which Riddley Fenton had planned to send her away, back to Sydney, but now Emmie only took the train as far as Berroola. At the Junction she got off, and when she returned that evening it wasn’t by train at all, but in her very own truck.
Emmie’s spirits lifted as she bumped her way over the graded dirt road in the ancient vehicle. She had had an unexpectedly successful day, and with the acquiring of her own personal transport her sense of independence had been given a moral boost. What was more, Berroola Junction had turned out to be a pleasant little town, with several extraordinarily wide, quiet streets flanked by shade trees, each one in its own small, netted enclosure. The shops had been quiet and spacious too, with great sweeps of wooden floor and a noticeable dearth of people. What customers there were had been openly curious, inclined to be friendly, and when Emmie had remarked on the emptiness around her, they had smiled kindly and explained that Saturday was the busy day around here, because it was the day when all the country people from the surrounding district came in to do their shopping.
Generally they made a day of it, she was told. There was a children’s park and playground, a swimming-pool, bowling green and tennis courts, and on Saturdays all of these places as well as the shops were apparently swarming with life, although Emmie, faced with this enormous sense of space and silence, found it hard to believe.
Where, she wondered, did all the people come from, when outside Berroola there seemed to be only isolation and bare brown plains?
Well, they’d explained, when they said that the country people ramp‘in’, they really meant that some of them came a very long way indeed, anything up to a hundred and fifty or so miles, some of them. The distance they had to travel to get there was partly the reason why they turned the occasion into a family social outing as well as a shopping expedition. The day was usually rounded off with a hearty meal with one’s friends at the Greek cafe-restaurant or the new motel, and once a month there was an open-air cinema to which they could go. Then, at night, the family would all bundle into the car again and face the long drive home under the winking ceiling of stars. Not even the dust and the gates to be opened could diminish the perfection of their day in town.
Emmie had spent her own ‘day in town’, and spent it to her satisfaction.
At least, she thought it had been to her satisfaction until this very moment in time, when there came a strange coughing noise from beneath the dusty bonnet of the pickup. The vehicle gave several erratic lunges, ferocious enough to make Emmie grip the wheel in self-defence, and then it came to a final halt.
When she tried to start the engine again, there was a peculiar little knocking noise, and then nothing.
Oh dear. Whatever could have gone wrong?
She clambered out, wrestled with the rusty catch and raised the bonnet. Her eyes widened at the conglomeration of wires, tubes, plugs and oil-stained filters. She d had no idea that an engine could look so complicated. Back there in Sydney, all she had ever had to do was drive it. Mark or Robert had always been the ones who lifted the lid and looked inside if Emmie thought she had reason to complain of the car’s behaviour, and of course the garage had provided regular servicing too. Only once, when she broke down in George Street, had she had to deal with things alone, alone, that is, except for all the amateur mechanics who came flocking from the pavement to her assistance, arguing heatedly about their relevant theories as to what might have gone wrong. In no time at all someone had summoned a breakdown truck, and the offending car had been removed from her sight. It had only remained to her to take a taxi home and report the misadventure to Mark, who had contacted the garage and seen to all the ensuing ritual.
Here there were no taxis, no breakdown trucks, not even any passers-by.
Or were there?
Emmie stared at the moving trail of dust that heralded the approaching traveller, sank her teeth into her lip with vexation as she recognised Ridd Fenton’s big Chev. It was a relief, when it got near enough to see, to learn that the driver was Kevin Condor, and not Ridd himself.
Kevin was alone. He pulled in ahead of her, got out from behind the wheel and came over.
‘Good lord, is it really you, Emmie? What on earth are you doing in that thing?’
‘Oh, Kev, am I glad to see you! It’s my new car—truck, I mean.’
‘New?’
‘Look, Kevin, I’m stuck.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I didn’t think you’d be stopped here just to admire the scenery. Where on earth did you get it?’
Emmie swallowed her impatience.
‘At a place called Gulliver’s Travels. They specialise in secondhand sales.’ ‘I know it. Gulliver’s Travels for GIANT Discounts. Out on the Nobdoo Road. They specialise, all right! Whatever took you there, Emmie, to that used-car dump?’
‘Second-hand, not used.’
‘Very used,’ Kevin corrected her shortly, peering inside at the panel with distaste. ‘Eighty-one thousand, she reads, but you can bet that’s not the half of it. She’ll be wound back, with the head off as many times as I’ve got fingers. Now, why did you go and choose a thing like this?’
‘I—I hadn’t enough money for something better, not if I wanted to lay in some stock for the store. And anyway, I thought a truck would be just the thing. Much better than a car. Children just love sitting in the back of an open utility, you know. They get the breeze, and it’s so much more fun than being cooped up in a saloon.’
‘Hmph!’ Kevin’s grunt was disparaging.
‘Well, can’t you do something?’ Emmie was beginning to be annoyed. ‘If all you’ve stopped for is to criticise, you’d better just get going again!’
‘I’ll try.’ He grinned at her peevish tone. She was beginning to decide that he was almost as maddening as his own boss, when he disarmed her completely by adding an appeasing, ‘Now, don’t flap, and tell me what seemed to be wrong. Did she die on you?’
‘Well, I—I changed gear, and it sort of jerked and stalled. And then I pressed the starter and nothing happened.’
‘She’s in gear now.’ He slid into the seat. ‘Second.’
‘Fourth.’
‘Second,’ said Kevin firmly. ‘She’s been fitted with the four-speed optional, see. And a limited slip differential. Not a bad old bus, in her day.’ He was mumbling to himself inside the cab.
‘It’s nice and roomy, anyway.’ Emmie, posted at the window, took heart from his cautious word of praise, choosing to ignore that added ‘in her day’.
He jabbed at the starter to no avail, climbed out again and peered under the bonnet.
‘Ye gods, just as I thought! Your terminals are filthy!’ he diagnosed in a disgusted voice. ‘They might at least have
cleaned them up for you!’
‘Are they important?’ she questioned humbly.
‘Everything’s important, when it makes a difference to going or not going. Really, Emmie —’ Kev sounded exasperated—‘you aren’t fit to be let out alone. One should never buy a second-hand vehicle without a preliminary road test and a thorough going-over by an experienced mechanic. And some guarantees? No, they d
idn’t give you any, you don’t need to tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, Kev, if I’ve been foolish. It was because
of-----’
‘The money. I know. It’s false economy though.’ He shook his head, his fingers working deftly as he cleaned each terminal in turn. ‘That should do it. She’s contacting now. I’ll top up the battery when we get you home. You start off, and I’ll follow to make sure you arrive.’
‘Thanks, Kev. And I’m sorry,’ she said again, this time from the driver’s seat, with the engine stirring heavily to life. ‘It’s not in bad order generally, is it?’ Her eyes were round with anxiety. No guarantees, he’d assumed, and he was right. ‘I mean, it’s big and roomy, and substantial. Strong. I—I thought it would be just the thing.’ Her voice tailed off.
Her companion put a hand up and patted her shoulder consolingly before he slammed the driver’s door, shutting in her small, disconsolate form.
‘So it willbe just the thing. Don’t worry too much.’ He sounded kind. ‘I’ll give it a strip-down and get it purring like a baby for you yet.’
‘Oh, Kevin, would you?’
‘Haven’t I just said so? At least I’ll keep it in running order. More than that I can’t really promise.’
‘That’s all I’ll need, just running order,’ she accepted gratefully. ‘And—er—Kevin?’
‘Yes, Emmie?’
‘Would you mind awfully not saying anything to Ridd about my breaking down like this? He’d think me awfully stupid. I’m afraid he does already.’
‘Not a word, if you want it that way. I’ll be as silent as the
Sphinx itself,’ he promised gravely, but she could see that his eyes were brimming with laughter, all the same.
Emmie let in the clutch and moved off, sighing resignedly.
It seemed that her day hadn’t after all been quite as successful as she had hoped. Thank heaven Kev seemed to know what he was doing, and would get things right for her. She could see those men at Gulliver’s Travels in Hades for selling her a dud, she really could! You couldn’t trust a man an inch not to do you down if he got the chance, it seemed. A good thing that with any luck Ridd Fenton need never know. Bad enough to have Kevin Condor laughing, but Ridd! No, thanks!
When she got home, she would wash and polish the bodywork. It was that nice bright blue that had taken her eye in the first place, and if Kevin could get the engine running better, the whole effect would be more impressive. It might even appear to be a reasonable purchase in Riddley Fenton’s eyes, although she had no intention of ever letting him know how much she had paid for it. The suitability of a truck as opposed to a car was not to be gainsaid. Why, she could even take firewood home in the back, stock for the store, all sorts of things.
When they reached their destination, Emmie ran the truck into one of the open sheds at the rear of the store and climbed out. She was carrying her day’s purchases towards the back door when the big Chev rolled up behind her. Kev had wisely been keeping far enough away to avoid her dust.
‘Well, we made it!’
‘Here, let me carry some of those.’ He relieved her of the better part of her burden. ‘You’ve been having quite a spree at the Junction, by the look of things. What in the name of all that’s wonderful—no, it can’t be------’
‘A tree? It is. It’s just little yet, though. An apricot,’ she confirmed triumphantly.
‘But why?’
‘Because I’ve always wanted one, that’s why,’ she told him stoutly. ‘I’ve ordered a wistaria, too, but it isn’t the right time
of the year to transplant it, it seems.’
‘Are you a keen gardener, then, Emmie? It’s an uphill struggle out here, you know—light rainfall country, windy too in some seasons, when the dust-storms blow, and the bore water doesn’t suit a lot of things.’
‘That’s why I didn’t risk the agapanthus. I didn’t even ask for them,’ she replied reasonably. ‘They’re those lovely purple and white lilies, you know. They’re a bit tender for here, I would think, so I’ll have to be content with a wistaria and an apricot, won’t I?’ She was speaking half to herself, gazing out over the plain where a gilded sunset had turned the mulga clumps to molten gold, with eyes that were soft and dreamy all of a sudden.
‘Will you?’ Kev shot her a swift look, half puzzled, half indulgent.
‘Yes, I should think so. But with the white walls --------- ’
Emmie put her parcels down on the step, and surveyed the dissolute rear of her inherited dwelling with eyes that were beginning to shine with enthusiasm. ‘With white walls, and the wistaria climbing about the place, it will begin to look like—like home!
‘You’re going to paint it?’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Why not?’
‘No particular reason, I suppose, except that it’s always been that dirty pink colour. Weatherboard is usually that colour, Emmie. Weatherboard colour. In any case, I’d question whether the surface is good enough to warrant new paint.’
‘I’ll scrape it and reprime it, and then it will be good enough. I’ve got stripper and everything in that parcel you’re carrying, as a matter of fact. And the paint’s still in the utility.’
‘You think it will be worth all that trouble?’
‘Oh yes, Kev, it’ll be worth it. Just think, the lovely little store with its white walls and the purple wistaria rambling about, and the—no, not the agapanthus, after all—but an apricot tree, with real, fresh apricots that you can pick warm off the branches.’
‘You could do that over at Koolonga,’ Kevin informed her sensibly. ‘There are fully a dozen apricot trees in the orchard there, and Ridd wouldn’t mind.’
Ridd!
No, she didn’t want Ridd’s apricots. She didn’t want
anything else from Ridd. She was beholden to him already, just for being here. He had taken some delight in making his point over that. Without his custom there’d be no turnover. Without a turnover, no income. Without an income, no security. Without security, no children. Without the children, no mission in life. It was as simple as that! ‘I want my own apricot tree,’ she avowed with such feeling that Kev looked closely at her again.
‘What a strange little thing you are, Emmie Montfort. And look! What’s this?’
He deposited her things down on the kitchen table, and rattled a box-like shape done up in brown paper. From within came a throaty, tinkling sound.
‘That’s my bell—a little bell for the shop door. The kind that rings every time anyone goes in and out. I couldn’t get a proper one. They told me that one’s for a ringer-horse or something, but it will do.’
Kevin’s face was a study.
‘Who’ll be going in and out? I mean ------- ’ He scratched
his head rather helplessly.
‘If nobody else is, I will be,’ Emmie informed him firmly. ‘I’ll come in by the front whenever I’m out, and the little bell will tinkle a welcome, just the same as it would for proper customers.’
Kevin took her by the shoulders, and looked down at her with that belying twinkle.
‘Know what I think, Emmie Montfort?’ he stated solemnly. ‘I think you’re loco.’ He tapped his head comically. ‘Loco— but in the cutest way.’
Then they both burst out laughing.
And in fact, as they sat down amongst the parcels to partake of the tea that Emmie had quickly prepared, they were still giggling like a pair of children.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emmie applied herself diligently during those next few days.
It was hot work, scraping off the peeling paint and sandpapering the rough places in preparation for the fresh white coat the weatherboard was about to receive. By the weekend
she had completed all but the back of the lean-to, and it was while she was daubing stripper on to the shabby exterior that Susan Wensley came to call.
Emmie was quite certain that it was Susan Wensley even before the other girl climbed out of her Holden sedan and came over to where
Emmie was stooped over her task.
‘You must be Emily Montfort.’ The girl extended her hand. ‘Sue Wensley.’
‘Oh yes. How do you do?’
Emmie ran a rather grubby hand down her paint-streaked overall before extending it to meet a cool, confident clasp.
‘Ridd suggested that I’d better come over and make your acquaintance, and that’s why I’m here,’ Susan told her with smiling candour. ‘I’d have come under my own steam sooner or later, I suppose, but my weekends are rather precious to me, as a matter of fact. Teaching full-time is a demanding occupation, and one gets to look forward to one’s few hours of uninterrupted leisure.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Do come in, won’t you?’ Emmie put the brush down and beckoned her visitor inside. ‘I’ll just get cleaned up, if you’ll excuse me a moment, and then I’m sure you’ll be glad of a cup of tea. I’m dying for one myself.’
She ran to her room and whisked off the stained overall in some haste. One felt at a distinct disadvantage, like this, beside that lithe, comely figure out there. Susan’s own cotton dress was the prettiest coral colour, uncreased, unmarked, her thonged sandals the latest fashion in footwear. With that abundant dark hair and wonderful violet eyes, her colouring, and stature too, could almost have been classic Montfort—the sort of Montfort that earned those lingering looks of admiration from the male fraternity. No wonder Kevin Condor had apparently found her irresistible. And Ridd Fenton, too.
Emmie pulled on her own floral cotton and smoothed her hair, gazed for one despairing second at her little-girl reflection in the mirror before she went back to where Susan Wensley was flicking with disinterest through a magazine while she waited.
The juvenile reflection hadn’t lied, worst luck.
‘Are you really twenty-six? You look about sixteen, if you ask me,’ Emmie was told with a frown almost of disapproval. ‘I must say the petite are at a distinct advantage in that respect— men are apt to go all gentle and protective over you little five-footers when all the time you’re as well equipped as the rest of us to take care of yourselves.’ She followed her hostess through to the kitchen, and perched idly on a corner of the table while Emmie put the kettle on. Emmie found herself rather liking the other girl’s naturalness, and somehow couldn’t resent those frank remarks.
