by Amanda Doyle
“Tamara?” The deep voice spoke so close to her ear that she started with surprise. Jed Seaforth was standing behind her shoulder, scanning the horizon over the top of her head. He had washed and shaved, and his hair was wetly plastered where he had slicked it down. Clancy felt hot and dishevelled, and just the teeniest bit ashamed of the rent in her shirt. Already he had made her feel guilty, in the wrong. She must resist if she was to win through, though—that was clear.
Now she said briskly, “It’s all right. We’ll start without her.”
She led the way through to the dining-room, shot him a startled, half-embarrassed look as he waited gravely to push in her chair. No one had ever done that for Clancy before, and she didn’t know what to think or say. Johnny always clattered in, picked up his spoon and began supping his soup noisily almost before he sat down. Johnny didn’t wait for anyone.
Clancy kept her glance at table-level. That way, though, she couldn’t help noticing the supple strength of Jed Seaforth’s lean brown hands, and the neat, dexterous way in which he dealt with the food on his plate. She dragged her eyes away.
In the end, Jed was the first to break the silence. “Does Tamara often do this?”
“Yes—at least, no.” Resentment at Tamara’s desertion in her hour of need warred with desire to protect her young sister from the cold disapproval in the new manager’s voice. “She sometimes stays out all day, certainly, but I thought this morning, when she knew—” She broke off, and tried again. “Tamara is well able to take care of herself and find her own amusements. It’s a blessing to me, because I’m quite busy, and a child who was easily bored would find life out here very unsatisfactory.”
“And do you find it satisfactory?” The question was quietly put, but Clancy knew without looking up that she was being watched.
“Oh, yes. I love it,” she assured him enthusiastically, “I always have loved it, except—” she tailed off, her face momentarily shadowed by the returning memory of Johnny Raustmann’s insistent hands upon her back.
“Except—?” he prompted.
“N-nothing,” she evaded. “I was just thinking of—of something quite unrelated. It was very rude of me. I’m sorry.”
He accepted that in silence. Then—“How old is Tamara?”
“Eleven. She’s tall for her age—you’d think she was older. She’s growing out of everything so fast. Why, when Mr. Parsins came we couldn’t find a single dress to fit her, she looked awfully funny.” Clancy found herself prattling on nervously, while Jed Seaforth gave her his gravely courteous attention.
“Does Raustmann eat here too?” he asked when she finally stopped for breath.
“Yes, he’s always here for breakfast and a cooked meal at night. He’s out all day though, and collects a packed lunch in the mornings to take out. Whoever is doing hut-cook duty down at the men’s quarters gets theirs. They take turns.”
“I’ll have a yarn with him this evening, then. We ran go into things more thoroughly over at the bungalow later. I’ll go over the stock and see how things stand when Rex comes with my own horses. He’s my own aboriginal stockman, and he’s been with me a long time. In fact, wherever I go, he goes. It’s his choice, not mine, but it comes in handy now and then to have a faithful follower. It’ll take him about ten more days to bring the horses across, I reckon, and then I’ll be able to get down to sifting things out.”
Clancy bridled. What did he mean, sifting things out? Oh, dear, it all sounded so horribly purposeful, and Johnny was going to be anything but pleased.
She said, almost pleading, “Mr. Seaforth, things are really going very well. Don’t you think you could just leave Johnny to do as he’s always done? He’s been here a long time, and my mother did sort of come to depend on him, and gave him a free rein. He may not be an official overseer, but he has been managing here for a long time now. Couldn’t you just be here, sort of looking on, and leave Johnny to do the things he’s always done in his own way? He’s not going to like anyone interfering, and then—” And then, what? Clancy asked herself miserably, as she traced an absorbed pattern on the tablecloth with a slim finger. A strong, brown hand coming down firmly over her own stopped its aimless spiralling.
“Clancy!” Something in the stern voice impelled her to look up and meet the level blue gaze that was bent upon her. It wasn’t a chilly blue this time, though—it was a steady, kindly blue.
“Stop worrying,” he said gently. “Leave that to me. That’s what I’m here to relieve you of, but I intend to do it in my own way. Do you understand?” Clancy recognised the inexorable quality of his speech. He was about as remorseless as a bulldozer, and as hard to stop! She nodded wordlessly, hoping he didn’t see the moisture that followed the faint pricking of hopelessness behind her eyes.
CHAPTER 4
TAMARA turned over on to her stomach, reached absentmindedly into the paper bag that lay beside her on the ground, drew forth an apple and sank her teeth into the crisp, juicy flesh. Her sandy plaits hung down on to her thin, folded arms, and one skinny trousered leg swung gently to and fro in the air.
She’d had a wonderful day so far. She had got away early before Clancy could pin her down to housework or lessons, and had spent most of the morning getting across to the Peacock Range. By the time the Holden estate car came winding over the dusty track, she had tied her horse up to an old ghost-gum at the foot of the ridges, and made her nimble way down the steep, crevassed edge of her favourite ravine, to drop with a soft thud on to the short, moist grass that grew along the stream’s edge at the bottom. It was cool and shady down there, and Tamara loved the almost eerie gloom that prevailed. It fired her vivid imagination, and she sometimes spent her solitary hours there, concocting and playing out the most exciting adventures her fertile mind was capable of inventing. She could be two or three different people at once—it required the most effortless changes on the versatile Tamara’s part to be villain one moment, damsel in distress the next, or finally, the conquering hero who came to the rescue in the end!
This morning, though, she had contented herself with digging in the damp soil for some fat, yellow grubs, which she carefully placed in a battered cigarette tin with holes bored in the lid. Then she had taken her home-made fishing line, gritted her teeth as she thrust a protesting plump grub on to the hook, and flung it expertly into her favourite quiet pool. She had caught two fish—very small ones, but their capture gave her the fisherman’s customary thrill of achievement, and afterwards she made a little fire and cooked them native-fashion, carefully laying them out on a hot stone among the ashes. They were surprisingly fleshy, but full of fine bones, and it took a long time to eat them.
At two o’clock or so, she made her way back in the direction of the homestead, following the creek, riding sometimes, or leading her horse slowly as she dodged the overhanging boughs of spindly gums. When she knew herself to be within earshot of the cow-bell with which Clancy summoned them to the evening meal, she tied her horse, withdrew a book and the apples from her saddle-bag, and lay down in a shady spot beside the creek. She didn’t read at first, though. Her mind sifted over the happenings of the last week.
It was incredible to think it was only a week since they heard the manager-man was coming, and today was the day he was to arrive. In fact, he’d be there now, for sure. Well, she wasn’t going to be waiting on the doorstep. Not only was she absenting herself as a mark of protest at his coming at all, but she still had the vague hope that if she kept out of his way and pretended he wasn’t there, then life might conceivably go on in the pleasant, casual way in which it had done before. She felt a bit mean, deserting Clancy, but if she gave the Seaforth man enough of the “cold shoulder” in the way she intended to apply it, it wouldn’t be long before he went away, and that would certainly please Clancy.
Tamara sighed. There was no doubt that her sister had been difficult to live with this last week, and today she had looked quite strained and pinched and apprehensive. Tamara pondered idly on what the me
eting might have been like this morning, but it wasn’t much use guessing about it. She’d try to get Clancy to tell her tonight—that is, if Clancy wasn’t too annoyed with her for “clearing out!” She opened her book and was soon engrossed.
Some time later she dragged her mind from the thrilling world contained in the yellowed pages of the book she had brought with her. Something wasn’t right. The peaceful hush of late afternoon was disturbed by some sound that didn’t fit in somehow. It hadn’t been there before, she was almost sure. Tamara listened again. Yes, it was definitely the thud-thud of a horse’s hooves, and it was coming nearer. Tamara could feel the vibration of it under her elbows, and when she laid her head sideways and put her ear flat to the ground, there was no doubt about it. She waited expectantly. Presently she heard the crackling of dried leaves and breaking of twigs from farther along the creek—the way she had come earlier. The sounds got nearer and nearer, and then Tamara saw a tall figure, trailing one of the station horses after him by the bridle crooked over his arm, making his way towards her. Heavens! thought Tamara, in a panic. It could only be Mr. Jed Seaforth, and how on earth had he found out where she was? She’d been sure she was perfectly safe here. From the one petrified glance she had, he appeared as a lean brown giant striding to devour her. What would be best to do, what on earth way should she handle this? Quick, Tamara—think!
Well, she had planned to “send him to Coventry,” hadn’t she, so she might as well begin right now. She’d just ignore him coolly, as if he wasn’t there, as if he was of no particular importance.
The steps paused a moment. Glancing furtively sideways, Tamara saw that he was securing his bridle at the same tree to which her own horse was hitched. Quickly she turned her head back to her book as his steps alone came on. It took all Tamara’s strength of will to ignore the two big elastic-sided boots that planted themselves firmly beside her. She kept her eyes on the open page, even though the print danced hazily in front of them.
“Tamara!” She almost jumped at the depth and sternness of that voice, but somehow she managed not to bat an eyelash. The boots stayed there for a moment. Then Jed Seaforth lowered himself down beside her, spread his long legs comfortably, and asked, “Mind if I have one too?” Without waiting for a reply, he reached into her bag and helped himself to an apple. She stared with unwilling fascination at the muscular brown forearm, covered thickly with springy black hairs, as it momentarily crossed her line of vision. She heard the sharp crack as strong teeth bit, and the apple gave way. There was silence for a while as they both chewed the fruit. Tamara was having a bit of bother swallowing hers—it suddenly seemed to be sticking half-way down her throat. Jed, though, munched with relish. Finally, he threw away his core, picked up a twig, and began to break it.
“You like reading?” he asked companionably. No reply. He went on casually, “I do. I always have, although I guess I don’t have much time for it now. I did as a kid, though. Funny, I suppose your kind of life here’s pretty well exactly like mine was, only I had a brother and you’ve got a sister. We lived away out a good bit north of the centre—we got ‘the wet’ and ‘the dry,’ just the two seasons, far clearer defined than you get them here. Mum used to have a lot of books, and we had read the lot by the time we were fourteen and went off to boarding-school, away down in Sydney, where Dad had an uncle for us to go to on free days. Half the fun of reading those books was that no one knew we were doing it. Mike got caught, and was given a real thrashing—I guess they were pretty awful books—but I managed to skin out, and of course we never told on each other. You just don’t do that!
“It wasn’t until I went away that I realised what a lot more fun it was to read real books—I mean about real people, and the things they actually did—you know, discovering inland seas—all those things. Mike and I used to play a lot of discovering games—boy, they were exciting too!—but they never just excited me so much as reading about the things that were really happening.
“It wasn’t all so long ago, either, Tamara. And even now, every day, someone is discovering something new, or doing something that has never been done before. I believe, the way they’re talking, that it won’t be long before you are actually joining in a proper school class over that transceiver set back at the house, for instance. They’re working on the idea now—the teacher will really talk to you, just as if you were sitting in the classroom at a proper school, and you’ll talk back to the teacher, and hear what the other pupils have to say, too. That’s an exciting thought, I reckon.”
Jed Seaforth paused. “What’s your book about?” he asked, as he leaned over her to see it. Tamara was very much aware of the broad shoulders looming above her, shading the light from her page. In spite of herself, she looked up—into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. In spite of herself, too, she found she was answering this kindred soul, who read in secret, and loved the exciting, the adventurous.
“It’s called The Passionate End. It’s very good really. The girl’s called Pamela and she lives in HongKong and the man is half-Chinese, which is a bit unlucky, ‘cos her father absolutely hates him, and she hasn’t got a mother, and then this ship’s captain—just young, he’s awful nice—well, he comes in, and—”
“I get the general idea, I think,” was Jed’s somewhat dry assurance. “I’ve read nearly all those ones. There are a few I know that are even more exciting though. Did you ever read about Burke and Wills, and Eyre and Wylie, who made the first explorations into this great inland of ours? There was a man Leichhardt too, and of course Stuart—ever hear about him?”
“No,” breathed Tamara.
“Well, I think I could get you some of these stories, excitingly told. My own mother got them for me. She’s dead now, but I know where I can lay my hands on them. That’s if you’d like?”
“Oh, yes, I would!” Tamara was genuinely enthusiastic. “I’d love to get some more books. Don’t tell Clancy, but as a matter of fact, I’ve read everything in the house—this is the second time I’ve gone over this one.”
She studied him curiously. Really, he was terribly good-looking, in an awesome sort of way. He didn’t look the kind you could freeze up or send away, she decided (in unwitting agreement with her elder sister’s conclusion!). That face was too stern altogether, although she could swear that there was actually a twinkle in his blue eyes as he returned her candid stare now. She smiled a little, uncertainly, and was immediately rewarded with an answering grin. Gosh, that changed his whole face somehow! And what wonderful white teeth. He must clean them every night and morning, like Clancy was always telling her to do. She really would remember every morning after this, and maybe hers would look like that. Of course, being so brown and not having freckles made a difference too. Her face would never get so tanned and leathery as his, and her freckles would keep coming, so her smile would never be quite so devastating, she had to admit resignedly. Now she asked, “Did you say your mother is dead?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So is mine,” Tamara told him. “Ours died just a little while ago. She got awful sick, and then she went to bed for a long, long time, and then she—she—she just died. Clancy said it was the best thing for Mummy—the kindest—that she wouldn’t have to suffer any more, and now she’ll be happy with Daddy. Do you think that?”
“I reckon so,” said Jed. “It’s pretty tough to be sick for a long, long time like that, and have to stay in bed. You wouldn’t like it, Tamara, and I guess I wouldn’t either. It’s been a big worry for Clancy, you know, because being older than you, she has to take the load on her shoulders. I reckon you and I are going to get together on this, and see if we can’t help her. For instance, why weren’t you around today, to give her a hand with the lunch?”
Tamara blushed. His friendly tone was overlaid, with a condemnatory insistence there was no gain-saying.
“Well, I—I—”
Stiffen the crows, what was there to say to that?
She couldn’t admit it was to avoid him. Why, he was
really rather nice—so handsome, too—and he understood about her secret orgies with her books much better than Clancy had. Clancy had said he was going to be horrible, and he wasn’t after all. In fact, he wasn’t a bit like she had imagined he was going to be, either, and she knew now that she didn’t want to avoid him. He didn’t look down on her the way Johnny Raustmann did. He’d spoken to her almost as an equal, not even in that “now-little-sister” way that Clancy so often exasperatedly employed.
He was watching her closely, as these thoughts chased themselves around in her head. She changed the subject abruptly.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He grinned. “It wasn’t hard. I saw your smoke over in the ridges just before I had my lunch, and I followed your tracks. You left a good trail, you know,’ he added humorously.
Tamara eyed him with considerable respect.
“D’you know all about tracking, the way Jackie does? I suppose you do?”
“We-e-ll, I know a fair bit, but probably not as much as Jackie,” was the modestly drawled reply. “I’ll show you some time, but the one to really put you wise is my boy, Rex. He’s been my stockman for a long time, and he’ll be here in ten days or so. He’s bringing my horses across right now, but it will take him a while. When he gets here, you ask him. Rex knows all the answers.”
