The Station Boss

by Jane Corrie

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN Sheena eventually emerged from the bedroom she saw that Vicky's bedroom door was closed, and that meant that she had gone to bed. Her door usually remained open, Sheena had noticed during the day, and she felt a small spurt of relief that she would not have to face her again until breakfast the next morning.

  In the hope that Clay had now finished making the round of calls he had said that he would make, Sheena slipped down to the lounge, pausing outside Clay's study to ascertain that he was not on the line, then hurried through to the lounge to use the extension line.

  Although it was out of office hours, she knew that any call would be put through to the manager's flat above the office, as had been done when her father had held the same position.

  The call seemed to take a long time to connect through to Barter's Ridge, and as Sheena anxiously held the receiver and waited for the connection, her thoughts inevitably centred on Doyle. The thought that the homestead was only a few yards away from the manager's quarters made her heart thump. What if Doyle just happened to be with the manager? She swallowed. He wouldn't be, she told herself stoutly,

  * * *

  and if he was, and did answer the call, then she would put the phone down.

  She blinked at this thought, slightly surprised at her firm resolve to keep her distance from him She needed time to think things over. There was no question of her accepting his dubious offer of a flat in Sydney, but the plain fact remained that she was sure that Doyle looked upon her as his property and that, faced with the prospect of losing her for good, would marry her.

  No matter how you looked at it, she thought miserably, it all added up to a subtle kind of blackmail, and she wanted no part of it. She could see only too clearly her future as mistress of Barter's Ridge, with Mrs Charter hovering in the background with her too-bright remarks calculated to please Doyle, but her unspoken rebukes and accusing looks would form an unbreakable barrier between them.

  Sheena gave a slight shiver. It wasn't a very bright prospect for any of them, and as much as she loved Doyle she couldn't face a future like that.

  The connection was then made, and to her vast relief she heard the cheerful voice of Mr Jarvis, the farm manager, answer the call. She gave him her message for Cookie, and said she would be writing to her soon. There was no doubt that the news of her hasty departure had done the rounds of the station and must have caused much speculation, and behind the farm manager's enquiry as to how she liked the North, Sheena could sense his avid curiosity.

  She replied that it was early days yet, but she

  thought she might well settle there. She wanted to leave it at that, but Mr Jarvis's, Tit sudden, wasn't it?' comment on her abrupt leaving, gave her no alternative but to reply. She stressed the fact that as Mr Dayman had offered to give her a lift on his way back up North, she had accepted. There hadn't been time, she explained carefully, to do all the rounds of farewells, particularly as Mr Dayman was anxious to be off home.

  There wasn't much they could make out of that, Sheena told herself as she put the phone down a little later. Gossip was rife on the station, just as it was on any isolated station, and although Cookie would keep her counsel on the real reason as to why it had been necessary for Sheena to leave as abruptly as she had, there was nothing to stop others making their own deductions, but they would only be guesses, and none of them would actually know.

  The following morning Vicky took Sheena out on a tour of the farm, the nearby dairy premises that was, as the farm ran into several acres of paddocks and grazing land, too far for a morning trip, even with transport.

  What had looked like a batch of small white buildings in the distance turned out to be quite sizeable buildings as the girls approached them. Sheena was a little apprehensive as they neared the sectioned-off dairy sheds. She didn't know the milking times, and devoutly hoped she wouldn't find herself in the middle of the herd either coming or leaving the milking sheds.

  Vicky laughed as she voiced her fears. 'They won't hurt you,' she said. 'They're just curious, that's all. In any case, milking's over for this morning, they won't be back until this afternoon, and we'll be getting the playroom ready for the dance then, so come on,' she urged Sheena.

  When they entered the first shed, Sheena was struck by the almost clinical cleanliness of the large area. Milking machines stood side by side, gleaming like polished silver. The freshly washed floor was immaculately clean and would have done any housewife credit. By the time they had visited the three milking sheds, Sheena realised that this was dairy farming on a very large scale, and was again reminded of Doyle's scathing enquiry to Clay as to whether he ran a smallholding too, and the fact that Clay had held his temper was even more of a marvel to her now.

  She had wondered whether they would meet him during their walk about the dairy, but if he was around he did not trouble to show himself, and she had a vague suspicion that he was still displeased with her for attempting to excuse herself from the dinner dance. He had not said a great deal during dinner the previous evening, she recalled, and it would have been an uncomfortable meal had it not been for Vicky's gay chatter that had effectively covered the all-too-frequent bouts of oppressive silences between Sheena and Clay.

  Unlike Barter's Ridge, where you were sure to run into several station hands whatever direction you

  '

  took on the property, they met very few dairy hands, and those that they did come across were industriously engaged in their tasks, and only paused to nod a welcome to Vicky and her companion, then resumed their duties again. It said a lot for the smooth running of the dairy farm and the use of modem machinery that so large an industry could be run by so few hands.

  Clay put in a brief appearance for lunch, and be-fore leaving, instructed Vicky not to forget to get the records out ready for use that evening, and to stay out of Pietro's way during the afternoon as he would be busy preparing the food for the buffet. Would she also remember to put some of that chalk stuff on the playroom floor, ending with, `Sheena can help you,' and that was the only reference to Sheena that he made; she supposed that she had to be grateful that he had remembered her existence!

  A highly indignant Vicky had replied that she knew what to do, didn't she? and this had brought a slight relaxation of Clay's hard features, and he had ruffled her hair in passing her on his way out of the kitchen.

  A slightly mollified Vicky met Sheena's eyes with a rueful look in hers. 'He's in a mood,' she said, 'and he's not usually like that,' she explained to Sheena. Mum used to say Dad was always having moods when he was chasing her. I suppose it's something to do with being in love,' she added half to herself.

  Sheena gave a sceptical look at this conversation, and Vicky correctly interpreted her thoughts. 'They do too,' she replied assertively, to Sheena's unspoken

  rejection of her diagnosis of Clay's unusual manner. `Didn't your boy-friend have moods?' she demanded of Sheena.

  The question threw Sheena, and she blinked. Like her uncle, Vicky had the knack of suddenly discomfiting her when she least expected it. 'No, he did not,' she replied primly, giving Vicky a frown of disapproval at the question.

  `Then it wasn't true love,' Vicky replied, with a triumphant note in her voice, totally ignoring the warning signs in Sheena's eyes.

  Sheena looked away and stared at the bright blue condiments on the table. 'There are different kinds of love, Vicky,' she said in a low voice, her tone showing her unhappiness at the thoughts the subject had aroused.

  `Oh, well,' replied Vicky, now sounding contrite,

  suppose so—but it ought to be happy—even if it's moody,' she added obstinately, then abruptly changed the subject. 'Let's offer to do the washing-up for Pietro, that way I'll get in his good books and he'll put me something by later, just in case I miss the pastries.'

  After Vicky had ingratiated herself in Pietro's good books, the girls set about getting the playroom ready for the dancing later that evening.
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  By the time the table tennis board and the various other items of recreation had been stacked away, Sheena saw there was plenty of room for dancing, even with the snooker table still in place at the end of the room.

  Seeing her look rest on it, Vicky said, 'Clay covers

  that with a special board, just in case someone tries to use it as a table to rest their drinks on.'

  The next task was to search out suitable records for dancing, and this Sheena left to Vicky who knew what would be required, and while Vicky applied herself to this task, Sheena sprinkled the fine chalk powder over the dancing area.

  `I've probably overdone the powder,' she commented a little later when all the preparations were complete and the girls stood surveying their handiwork. 'Mind you don't slip,' she warned Pietro, as he walked in carrying the top of a long trestle table that would serve as the buffet table, and he altered his direction and walked gingerly on the edge of the floor towards his destination.

  All this activity should have taken Sheena's mind off Vicky's disquieting question that had brought back memories of her courtship with Doyle, but the preparations for the coming evening only highlighted her unhappiness. Doyle had been too sure of her to indulge in moods, she thought sadly. He was always the same, he could be aggressive if opposed, this she knew, but then she had never opposed him. He had known what he wanted and went straight after it. If anything it was this quality that she had adored in him. Uncertain of herself and shy, she had been totally overwhelmed by his strength of character.

  But there had been one trait of his that she had failed to recognise—pride—pride in his name and standing in the community, and it was this pride that had torn them apart.

  Her thoughts then centred on Clay Dayman. In a sense they were very alike. Clay Dayman knew what he wanted too, and went after it with the same single-mindedness. He had pride too. Sheena paused on this thought, remembering what he had said about her being his guest, and that counted for something in that locality. Oh, yes, she thought bitterly. He had just as much pride as Doyle, and yet he had condemned Doyle for the way he had treated her after her father had absconded with the station payroll.

  How would he have acted in a similar situation? she wondered ironically. It was all very well to judge others, but it hadn't happened to him, and he had no right at all to condemn Doyle. She totally ignored the small voice deep within her that insisted that a man like Clay Dayman would not have acted as Doyle had. If he had loved the woman involved, then no amount of skulduggery would have swerved him from his course. That small voice was just acting in a spirit of fair play, and needn't necessarily be right, and Sheena did not want to think of Clay as being a better person than Doyle. For one thing, he was older than Doyle, of that she was certain, and age always, or should always, give a person that much more wisdom. The three or four years that she suspected that Clay could give Doyle would have made all the difference, and would have undoubtedly made him see things from Sheena's point of view rather than following the dictates of his fierce pride.

  Having reached this conclusion, Sheena should have felt better about things, yet she didn't, for that

  small voice that kept interrupting her trend of thought told her that she was a fool if she believed that things could have been different. If that was so, what was she doing at Rimini, a dairy farm miles away from Barter's Ridge, and miles away from the folk she had grown up with? There was such a thing as fate, that small voice persisted. She was meant to be here, so she might just as well accept it and not keep harping back to the past.

  Vicky helped her dress for the dinner dance that evening, and although Sheena would have preferred to be on her own, she hadn't the heart to refuse her help. She so obviously missed feminine company. With her mother and grandmother, plus two aunts, it must have been a female-dominated household once upon a time, and there would have been plenty of gaiety and bustle about the old homestead in those days. It was perhaps this atmosphere that Sheena had caught when she had first arrived at Rimini, as if the old place was now hushed and expectant, ready to expand once again with the noise and laughter of children.

  Sheena had just successfully fended off Vicky's offer to 'make her up', smilingly refusing the use of a well stocked make-up case, that she suspected had belonged to her mother, when the first guests arrived, and Vicky rushed out to the landing to get a bird's eye view of the first arrivals.

  `It's Cynthia,' she said flatly, as she returned to join Sheena. 'Might have known she'd be the first. Hopes to get Clay on his own, I bet,'she added sagely, and

  then rushed away again as another car could be heard drawing up outside the homestead.

  `That was Mr and Mrs Dawson,' she reported, a few moments later. 'They've got the nearest farm along the valley, and Daphne and Jeannie are dressed up to kill,' she giggled at her own wit. 'Cynthia will be furious,' she added in a pleased voice. `Daphne's wearing deep red too, only a shade lighter, and the shades will clash. She'll spend the evening avoiding standing next to her.'

  There was another crunch of wheels on the drive, and Vicky was off again. This time she returned with wide eyes. 'You've got some competition tonight, Sheena,' she announced breathlessly. 'There's three of Clay's exes in that lot. Oh, I do wish I could be a fly on the wall ! Mandy Johnson and Cynthia loathe the sight of one another, mainly because of Clay, of course. He used to date them alternately, just to show that there were no hard feelings, but there were, of course—between them, that was, they each thought they'd hooked him.'

  Sheena stared at her. She couldn't be serious, surely? 'What exactly do you mean by Clay's exes?' she asked, her voice petering out faintly as she envisaged the evening ahead of her.

  `I told you,' replied Vicky impatiently, as she smoothed a pleat of the white dress back into place as if Sheena was about to model the gown. 'Also-rans,' she supplied irreverently, 'and I'll bet that's why Clay's asked them. As soon as the party season starts, he's pestered with invitations from hopeful

  parents with good-looking daughters.'

  'Vicky ! ' exclaimed Sheena, shocked at her bald observations. 'You're making your uncle sound like a heartless man. If I believed you, I'd feel very sorry for the poor girls he's apparently led up the garden path.'

  'They practically dragged him up it,' replied the unrepentant Vicky, with a wide grin.

  'There's nothing like that kind of treatment to give a man a swollen head,' answered Sheena sourly. 'No wonder he's used to having his own way ! '

  'Clay hasn't got a swollen head! ' Vicky retorted smartly. It's not his fault if they throw themselves at him. Besides, he's rich, isn't he?' she added with honest simplicity.

  'Then he shouldn't encourage them,' Sheena snapped back, feeling outraged.

  'Why shouldn't he?' challenged Vicky. 'They deserve all they get, they're only after his money.'

  `Not all of them, surely?' Sheena said faintly, feeling out of her depth.

  'Well, most of them,' conceded Vicky. 'There's Daphne and Jeannie for a start. Their father's farm needs a lot of money poured into it to keep it going. You know about Cynthia, she's coming to the end of her modelling days. There's Mandy Johnson, whose mother's a widow with expensive tastes and hasn't any ...'

  Sheena did not wait to hear any more, but made her way to the door, pausing only long enough to snatch a handkerchief out of the dressing table

  drawer, then with a firm but resolute, 'Goodnight, Vicky!' she went to join the gathering below stairs.

  Her heart was hammering against her ribs as she entered the lounge where the guests were assembled, and where Pietro was handing out glasses of sherry before dinner was announced.

  She felt rather than saw the curious looks directed her way at her entry, but she looked directly at Clay, who seemed to be taking his time in his approval at her appearance and her apparel. She saw him give a small smile, and then walk towards her. 'Meet Sheena, everybody,' he announced, with an inflection in his voice that spoke of ownership, and that made her give him a wa
ry look.

  Vicky had not been all that far out in her surmising of the number of guests invited. There were in fact nine. To Sheena, as she was introduced to them one by one, it seemed a much larger gathering, and she was relieved when that part of the evening was over and she could relax.

  Mr and Mrs Dawson were a pleasant, if slightly garrulous, couple, but there were undertones of anxiety in their too-bright welcome to Sheena. There was no sign of restriction, moneywise, where the female contingency's dresses were concerned, Sheena noticed, for although she did not know much about fashion, she did know an expensive dress when she saw one, and it did occur to her that perhaps Mr Dawson might not have had quite such a hard time of it if he had been able to curtail his family's dress allowances.

  As these thoughts went through Sheena's mind, she rebuked herself sternly. It was all Vicky's fault. She ought not to have taken any notice of what she had said, but like her uncle, she had an uncomfortable way of getting right to the heart of the matter and presenting the bare facts without frills.

  Jeannie and Daphne Dawson had also given her an effusive welcome, but their smiles did not reach their eyes, and Sheena had an astute feeling that should she find herself alone in their company, the welcome would not have been quite so evident. This was not so surprising, considering that they looked upon her as an encroachment in their bid to reimburse the family fortune.

  When she was introduced to Mrs Johnson and her daughter Mandy, Sheena again wished that Vicky had not been so forthcoming in her bald summing-up. Mrs Johnson's grip had been noticeably slack when she had taken Sheena's hand, and her inquisitive eyes had seemed to bore right into her. Mandy Johnson, a very pretty redhead with blue eyes, bore no resemblance to her mother, and must, Sheena presumed, have taken after her father in looks. She appeared shy and diffident, but as Vicky had intimated, there was nothing shy or diffident in the look that Sheena caught her directing at Cynthia, when Cynthia stationed herself beside Clay as dinner was announced.