The river is Down

by Walker, Lucy

  She dragged herself off the bed, hunted for her sponge bag and toothbrush in her carry-all, then lifted the towel from the rack by the wall. She crept down the corridor to the bathroom. When she had showered and was clean-allover again, she tiptoed back to her room. She pinned up her hair, threw off the top bedclothes–all but the sheet—and crawled into bed. She turned her face into her pillow and thought about crying.

  Instead, she went to sleep: at once.

  The next morning Cindie was wakened by the clatter of cups and saucers somewhere along the corridor.

  She knew what that patter of feet outside meant. It was the pyjama parade. This was going on right this minute in every country and outback hotel all over, the million square miles of State.

  She scrambled out of bed. Ouch! Her back muscles told her she had sat a long, long time in a confined space yesterday.

  She slipped -on her short cotton gown, splashed water over her face and hands, then undid the pins from her hair and gave it a few swift sweeps with the brush.

  Right! She was ready for the pyjama parade, and that cup of tea, however good, bad or indifferent it might be!

  She opened her door and slipped out to follow a long-legged pyjama-clad figure in, of all things in this heat, a woollen gown: and two figures in shortie nightwear with no gown at all. All men, and bare-footed, too. No slippers in their luggage.

  At the far end of the corridor stood a bunch of other pyjama’d people: men and women, girls and boys. There were tousled heads, and combed heads; shaven faces and unshaven ones. Amongst these last was Flan.

  `Morning, Cindie!’ he said, smothering a yawn. ‘Sleep well?’

  `Yes, thank you. Is it your turn for the teapot, Flan?’

  `I’ll sneak one for you ahead of the queue,’ he muttered,

  still. not wholly awake. ‘Stand back by the wall now so I

  don’t spill it on someone. Generally speaking, in this pub the tea’s hot.’

  Juggling miraculously over heads and between shoulders, Flan brought Cindie her cup of tea.

  `Wait till the crowd thins out,’ he advised. ‘You can get yourself a second lot then.’

  `Thank you, Flan. Isn’t this wonderful? Everyone everywhere drinking tea at six in the morning, and not caring a fig what they look like?’

  From the far end of the passage, around the turn from the bathrooms, Nick came. He too was in pyjamas, and swinging his towel. His hair was wet and he looked so shaven and showered he could have been an advertisement for soap.

  `Never catch Nick on the wrong foot,’ Flan whispered in a husky voice. ‘How come you look so fresh and daisy-like, Cindie? You get up at dawn too?’

  `I’ve only washed my face and hands so far. But I did brush my hair. Me for the shower when, as you say, the crowd thins out.’

  Cindie was trying very hard not to notice Nick too much. No one was ever self-conscious about the pyjama parade—she knew that. Yet she was being just that, in a foolish way. This was because of last night

  `Good morning, Cindie. Did you sleep well?’ Nick asked.

  `She did,’ Flan answered for her. Cindie, you be a good girl and go fetch the boss a cup of tea. Being mere man he can’t push in amongst those ladies. And being a man he doesn’t like waiting his turn either.’

  `Of course.’ Cindie was delighted to do something. She liked doing something anyway, specially as this morning she seemed short of words where Nick was concerned.

  `I’ll hold your cup,’ Nick said. `You might like a second one later.’

  Cindie edged sideways to the table. A stout middle-aged woman was wielding the teapot. She spoke with an English accent: someone from the Midlands.

  `You want a cuppa, luv?’ she asked. pour it while

  I’m here.’

  `It’s for my boss,’ Cindie whispered. ‘I’ve already had one for myself. Am I being fair?’

  `Well, you do have to keep your job, luv! I don’t know a better way than by giving the man his cuppa early and hot. A good way of getting a raise too, take it from me.’

  `Oh, thank you,’ Cindie said gratefully as the woman passed the filled cup on its saucer towards her.

  `No trouble. You’d do the same for me.’

  ‘I hope I can tomorrow. I’ll try and be early.’

  Cindie carried the tea back to Nick.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit full,’ she apologised. ‘A nice person poured it for me in a hurry. You know—out of turn

  ‘Thank you, Cindie,’ Nick said with a smile. ‘You look rested. I expected all your bones to rattle after that drive yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten them. I’m so thrilled about being here.’

  ‘You certainly did sleep well in that case.’ He looked at Cindie over the brim of his cup. His eyes were inquiring, looking for something in her face.

  ‘Didn’t you do the same?’ Cindie asked anxiously.

  ‘No,’ he replied as if this was not important. ‘I had things on my mind.’

  ‘Nothing unusual for Nick,’ Flan mumbled. ‘Never knew him sleep when he had things on his mind.’

  ‘Is this conference at Mulga Gorges a problem?’ Cindie asked, sipping her tea.

  `That, and other things,’ Nick replied. ‘I don’t worry about lack of sleep. One can always take a cat-nap in the midafternoon in this climate.’ His smile was only half-concealed.

  His eyes met hers across the cups of tea, and asked—‘Guilty?’

  Her own eyes replied—‘Yes, I’m afraid so!’—because she could not govern their reflexes at this early hour. He was actually teasing her about that long sleep on his shoulder. One never knew about Nick! What he had said improbably seemed full of subtle depths.

  Later, when Cindie entered the dining-room, the waitress led her to a place reserved for her at a special table where three other businesslike girls were sitting. All three looked up at the newcomer with appraising glances.

  Cindie, as she sat down, hoped her dress measured up, and that her hair and make-up would pass scrutiny. She felt nervous because she had not been a secretary before: only one more typist in a big concern.

  The other three girls introduced themselves. They too had come with their chiefs to the conference that had brought Nick to Mulga Gorges. Two of the girls had come with the party of men from a big mineral and mining company with international ramifications. The third was on the staff of a Government engineer from the Main Roads Board.

  The group of men, including Nick, were sitting at a table

  in one corner a little apart from everyone else in the dining-room. The three girls pointed out their own employers to Cindie.

  `I am secretary to the one with his back to the palms,’ Cindie told them. `He is Mr. Brent—road construction engineer

  His name and description sounded strange coming from her lips that way, as if Nick too, in his new role, had changed his personality.

  He was better-looking and more impressive than the other men, she thought. He did not seem now to hold himself apart, as was his usual way. And yet, there was something wary and intriguing about the way he bent his head and listened to the man next to him.

  `We’re thrilled to be up in this place,’ one girl was saying. `I travel around a fair bit with my chief, but I’ve never been north of Twenty-Six before.’

  The other two agreed that they too were strangers in this area.

  `It’s like coming into a different world,’ the girl with the dark silky hair and a rather reserved manner said.

  All three opened their eyes wide with interest when Cindie told them she was working on the actual road-site—the thousand-miler being built by Brent & Co.

  `Out there!’

  In the Never country?’

  `How do you live? In tents?’

  They were quite incredulous.

  `No, in a town,’ Cindie laughed. ‘It’s called a camp, officially—because it’s transportable. The houses are big caravans —the last word in domestic comfort. There are also several special houses for
the boss, the care-all and important visitors. They’re collapsible, and mobile too. The town gets moved on as the road extends

  `How did you get a job out there?’

  Cindie, unwilling to sail under false colours, told them the real facts.

  `I was rescued from the river when the rains on the upper tableland cut me off from retreat

  ‘Well, lucky you!’ one exclaimed. ‘Of course, the boss needed a secretary: he snapped his fingers, and hey presto, there was one waiting for him in the middle of a creek

  They all laughed.

  How true it was, Cindie thought. Her spirits were high because these girls had so readily taken her into their charmed

  circle. Already she felt she belonged. She was the Personal Secretary to an Important Person, as they too were.

  Nibbling toast and marmalade, she forgot that Nick had only brought her for prestige reasons. If these girls had serious work to do, then she, Cindie, would find some equally serious work too. If Nick didn’t give it to her, she would make it for herself.

  Out of the corner of her eye Cindie saw one of the men at the far table glance in their direction, then lift his little finger. The girl who was at that moment speaking ,broke off in the middle of a sentence.

  `Excuse me,’ she said primly, very much the professional secretary now. ‘I have work to do.’

  As all the men were now rising from the table, the other girls ‘did so too, including Cindie. As they moved to the door, only Nick remained, pausing by his chair, casually lighting a cigarette.

  `How are you getting on, Cindie?’ he asked, as she hesitated, awaiting orders.

  `Marvellously,’ she said eagerly. ‘Nick, you must find me important work to do. I have to live up to those other girls. They’re so competent and experienced. I don’t want to feel like a hanger on—’

  He was quite indignant.

  `Like what?’ he demanded.

  She hesitated, then looked-straight into his eyes.

  `Well, like the shadow behind a prestige person,’ she explained. ‘I want to be like them—and put something more than one dash between two letters on my typewriter. I’d like to put several yards of earth on that road.’

  He suddenly smiled. ‘I thought you’d feel like that,’ he said with an almost impish grin.

  `Then you have real work for me to do?’

  `Plenty. Do what the other girls do, and take down every word said by everyone, including me, in the days’ meetings. I’ll go over it all afterwards—when we get home.’

  When we get home! She liked the ‘we’ in that statement. It really made her belong.

  Cindie said the words over again as she went in search of the small office the hotel management had set aside for Nick.

  `We kept this one for Mr. Brent,’ the manager, Mr. Mollison, said with an undisguised wink. ‘He’s a nor’-wester like the rest of us. So he gets the best.’

  `But,’

  Cindie began thinking of the billionaire company those international mining men represented.

  ‘But no buts,’ the manager warned her. ‘This country belongs to the nor’-westers. Mr. Brent was born and bred north of that 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.

  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 little 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

  CHAPTER XIV

  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.