A Thousand Miles Away

by Dorothy Cork

  Farrell looked at him stonily. ‘I’ve been too frustrated at Quindalup to settle down to anything.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You might have found it helpful, even therapeutic. I’d have imagined it a good environment for creativity. I know Mrs. Adams finds it so. Did you have a look at some of her flower paintings?’

  ‘Yes. They’re very beautiful. But it’s different for her. She lives there—she’s married—she’s got everything worked out.’

  ‘No one has everything worked out, Farrell. And believe me, life hasn’t been all that easy for Lesley Adams.’ His blue eyes darkened and he looked at her sombrely across the table. ‘I don’t suppose she’s told you much about her life.’

  ‘Not much,’ Farrell agreed. ‘She’s always so busy we’ve hardly exchanged two words. Not that she isn’t very pleasant and agreeable,’ she added hastily. ‘She is.’

  ‘Yes. Well, being busy in various ways probably serves a purpose. Mrs. Adams lost her only son in a plane accident about a year ago.’

  ‘Oh—I’m sorry,’ Farrell exclaimed. ‘I knew she had a married son, but I didn’t know he—’ Her voice faltered and trailed off. Her only son, Larry had said. That meant that Helen was a widow, which surely explained Larry’s loving birthday card, and also the fact that Mrs. Adams expected him to bring Helen up here from Perth. But if he was interested in Helen, why had he asked her, Farrell, to marry him, so short a time ago? She wouldn’t have thought him to be the kind of man who acted on impulse—and he had gone back for her, as he had promised he would. She simply couldn’t understand him at all.

  She was staring at him, her eyes wide. ‘What—what happened?’ she heard herself ask huskily.

  ‘He was out at Mullamulla Downs and he and my manager’s son took the plane up. They flew it too low and crashed into some trees. The plane went up in smoke and young Adams lost his life.’ He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes sombre. ‘Bob Nelson prefers to muster from the ground these days. He hasn’t invested in another plane.’ Listening thoughtfully, Farrell found she now had the answer to some of the questions she hadn’t asked Mrs. Adams. Mullamulla Downs must be Larry’s property, and Bob Nelson was his manager. As for the son who had gone—

  ‘Was his—son injured?’ she asked quietly.

  He nodded. ‘But not badly. He got over it.’

  He said no more until Farrell asked, ‘Is Mullamulla Downs your sheep station, Larry?’

  ‘Yes. I inherited it from my father. But as you know, I’ve made my career in mining so I’ve put in a manager. However, I’m not the complete absentee landlord. I spend a fair bit of time on the property, and when I can put in the time, I do a bit of mustering from the air. It’s a big run, and using a plane means you can get the sheep on the move from the most remote paddocks and bring them in for the station hands to take over. I won’t pretend I do it merely from a sense of duty—it’s work I enjoy.’

  Farrell felt a curious stirring. She thought it would have been a great deal more interesting to have gone to Mullamulla Downs with Larry than to have been dropped off at Quindalup and stranded there. But perhaps Helen was at Mullamulla Downs—waiting now for him to come back.

  Disconcerted by her thoughts, she finished her dinner and laid down her knife and fork.

  ‘Dessert?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I’d just like some coffee.’

  He ordered coffee for two, then took up the conversation where they had left it.

  ‘Unfortunately for my father, I was an only child. My mother didn’t live long enough to bear other children. Life in the North-West’s hard for a woman, and in those days we were more isolated than now, and very short of comforts. My father believed in adapting to the environment rather than altering it to suit his needs,’ he added dryly, ‘and he stuck to his own rather spartan ways until the day he died.’ He paused while the waitress brought the coffee, and Farrell reflected that she must seem a very soft and pampered creature to someone like Larry Sandfort. All that fuss she had made about being dumped at Quindalup—

  She was beginning to realise there was a great deal about this man that she didn’t know, and to feel a vague regret that the crash course at Quindalup had never eventuated.

  The taped background music that had been playing softly while they were eating had now been turned up slightly, and the lights had been equally lowered, and two or three couples moved on to the tiny parquet floor. Farrell turned back from glancing at them to give some attention to her coffee and to say to Larry Sandfort, ‘Go on—please tell me some more.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you interested?’ She nodded, flushing a little, and he resumed. ‘Well, let’s see—we had no electric light—no electricity plant. Our house was lit by kerosene lamps, and most of the cooking was done in camp ovens. We grew our own vegetables—our water came from a creek-bed soak. As far as station management was concerned, my father was a perfectionist, and he never overstocked, which meant the land was kept in good condition, and the feed was never eaten out. One thing we did have, by the way, was a strip where the flying doctor could land if he was needed, and my mother made her last journey by plane. Well, I’ve made improvements at the homestead since my father died—Bob and Muriel Nelson are as comfortable as anyone else out here.’ His Ups curved sardonically. ‘Of course, it’s a necessary inducement to stay ... Now, Farrell—finish your coffee, because I’m going to ask you to dance. You might as well make the most of your release from solitary confinement.’

  Farrell felt faintly alarmed, for some reason, and her instinct was to say no, she didn’t want to dance with him. She glanced uneasily at the few couples locked together, scarcely moving, on the softly lit dance floor. Her lips parted, yet she didn’t refuse him as she had intended to do. Instead, she finished her coffee obediently, and a few seconds later they had joined the others on the tiny circle of parquet flooring.

  Larry held her to him in a close embrace, exactly the way every other male was holding his partner, and she had no worries about following his lead, because there were no steps to follow. They stood together, their thighs touching, his cheek against her hair, as they rocked infinitesimally and rhythmically to the soft music. Soon Farrell was aware that her nearness affected him physically. He was probably a very sexy man, she thought, tensing slightly. Much more so than Mark. Sexier—and more experienced. So what? That was no reason why her breath should be growing uneven and more uneven. He was doing no more than—dance with her. She made an effort to relax, to study sensibly her own reaction to his closeness. That other time when she had cut her finger and he had put his mouth on it—she had panicked then, quite stupidly. She wasn’t going to tear herself away in a fright this time, she’d be quite sane, quite analytical—she’d be a credit to Aunt Jean’s unemotional training...

  She managed it just long enough to discover that something both pleasurable and painful was happening in her own body—that she was becoming more and more tantalisingly aware of Larry’s physical being. It was not just the hardness of his thighs against hers, or the feel of his chest against her bosom. As well, it was his cheek against her hair, the heavy warmth of his hand on her back, that burned through the silky black stuff of her shirt. It was the way he was twisting the fingers of his left hand with those of her right hand, so that excitement raced through her every nerve.

  Certainly Farrell Fitzgerald was not entirely cold and unresponsive! Or did it all ultimately depend on how far he went? Here in the restaurant she knew she was perfectly safe—that nothing more was going to be asked of her—

  She raised her face, and the emotion that shot through her as she encountered his blue eyes looking back deeply into hers was penetrating and inexplicable. She felt herself go limp, felt moisture on the palms of her hands. A long moment passed and then he deftly turned her away from him, and with one hand under her elbow, guided her back to the table. She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment as she tilted her head a little and smiled and said briefly and falsely, ‘T
hat was nice ... By the way, would it be too much to ask what arrangements you’ve made about me for tonight?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m taking you back to Quindalup. So if you’ll collect your handbag, we’ll go now.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Farrell, briefly and inadequately. She bit her lip nervously. She had made such a to-do before about not going back to Quindalup, yet what alternative was there? It was the obvious solution for tonight, since there were no vacancies at the hotel, and she certainly wouldn’t be interested in sharing Larry’s suite! Besides, she still had her luggage to collect.

  She picked up her small handbag and without further comment, crossed the room with him to the exit. She was conscious for the first time that a number of people were taking an interest in their movements—and had probably, earlier, been interested in their dining—and dancing—together. After all, Larry Sandfort was a big shot in this mining town, and so far he was unmarried. She supposed there was possibly some curious speculating going on about her and Helen Adams, and the thought caused her to experience a feeling of distaste. She wondered, as they made their way to his suite, whether he would stay at Quindalup for the night or return to Mullamulla Downs and, possibly, the lovely Helen.

  She ached to know, but she didn’t ask him.

  She fell asleep in the ear on the way to Quindalup, and woke to find herself slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She drew away quickly, yawning, shivering slightly, and looking out at the black loneliness of the night. ‘Are we nearly there?’

  ‘Sure. Round the next curve in the road you’ll see the lights of the house.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s early—not yet ten o’clock.’

  Farrell had edged a little away from him, and glanced now at his profile, barely discernible in the darkness, remote, unreadable. Yet fascinating despite everything. Suddenly she had to ask him.

  ‘Are you—going back to town tonight after you’ve unloaded me?’

  ‘Into your cell, you mean?’ She heard faint amusement in his voice. ‘No, I’m not going back. I’ll stay awhile.’

  Her heart leaped inexplicably. ‘Well, aren’t I lucky!’ she said sarcastically. ‘When did you decide on that? You must be feeling like a holiday this time?’

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ he agreed.

  In another couple of minutes she saw the lights, yellow and soft and very small in the immensity of the darkness and silence. She wondered if Mrs. Adams would be waiting up. It was her usual habit to go to bed at nine-thirty each night, but perhaps Larry had already told her he would be coming to stay, perhaps he had planned it well ahead, and it had nothing to do with Farrell Fitzgerald. Perhaps Mrs. Adams would make them coffee, give them supper—a thing she never had done when Farrell was there on her own. If Farrell had wanted a bedtime snack, she was free to get it from the kitchen for herself. Tonight, everything was going to be different.

  Her thoughts strayed back to those minutes she had spent in Larry’s arms at the hotel—to her own very definite and quite unexpected response to the close physical contact with him. What could he have taught her about love—about passion—if she had come here with him as he had planned—without the episode with Mark to upset the applecart? She had the decided feeling he could have taught her a lot, that she would very quickly have recovered from her nervous puritanism. Now, she didn’t think he wanted to teach her anything. He was convinced, of course, that she had already learned a good deal from someone else—from Mark Smith. Plenty of men these days would accept that without batting an eyelid—girls were liberated, they were as free to indulge in sex as men were, they weren’t expected to be virgin brides. Larry obviously expected innocence in the girl he loved, and though Farrell was innocent, he probably wouldn’t believe her if she tried to protest it now. She was well aware how guilty she had looked when she had admitted to sharing a room with Mark.

  Didn’t he mind, she wondered, her thoughts going off at a tangent, that Helen Adams was no longer innocent? Or—or did he mind? Was that the whole point? Was that why he had turned to her, Farrell—and, since, been disillusioned?

  Her thoughts broke off as he pulled up outside the bungalow, and she suddenly felt both excited and afraid. This time, he was staying at Quindalup, and she knew that she couldn’t go back to hating him as she had done when she was here on her own.

  No, she didn’t hate Larry Sandfort. But neither was she in love with him. Definitely not...

  He reached for her beach bag as she stumbled out of the car and climbed the steps. The verandah light was on, but evidently Mrs. Adams had retired, for she didn’t appear to welcome them. Farrell stood blinking in the light, running her fingers through her curling hair, and as Larry joined her, she remarked nervily, ‘You didn’t bring a suitcase with you—’

  ‘I don’t need one. I keep a supply of my gear here.’ He pushed open the door and flicked on an inside light, then followed her indoors. Farrell turned to take her bag and their fingers touched. She looked up quickly and caught a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,’ she stammered.

  ‘Straight away? It’s not late,’ he said mockingly.

  ‘I know, but what else is there to do?’ Colour surged into her face the minute she had said it, and she felt annoyed with herself.

  ‘We can play some music, talk, make ourselves some supper.’ He sounded amused, but she didn’t look at him, so she didn’t know if he was smiling or not. ‘We’ll take a walk down by the water, if you like. It’s a beautiful night.’

  Her heart thumped. She began to move down the hallway towards her bedroom and he followed her, and stood in the doorway as she switched on the light and deposited her bag on a chair. The room looked a complete mess with her clothes scattered around where she had thrown them in a fit of temper this morning. Only this morning! She hadn’t cared what sort of havoc she created then, but now she felt embarrassed about' her behaviour.

  ‘Looks like a hurricane’s hit the place,’ commented Larry, his brows lifting. He looked at her curiously. ‘Do you generally leave things like that?’

  ‘No, of course not. I—I left in a hurry.’ That of course didn’t explain how the room had got into such disorder, but she didn’t fill out her statement.

  ‘You’re untidy,’ he remarked. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed it.’ He leaned indolently against the door frame and watched her as, both angry and embarrassed, she stooped to gather up an armful of clothes that were tumbling from a chair on to the floor. Thrusting them into a drawer, she dropped a pair of panties and was further embarrassed when he picked them up and handed them to her. He did it as casually as if it had been a handkerchief, but that didn’t stop her from turning scarlet.

  His gaze wandered thoughtfully round the room. ‘Well, I guess you’ll be able to crawl into bed without staying up all night to set yourself to rights ... I’m going to make some coffee. If you want any, come and join me.’

  Farrell didn’t answer. She felt oddly put out at having him discover the mess she had left her room in. She wasn’t really untidy, and it would give him just one more wrong idea about her. When she had lived with Aunt Jean, she had been a model of orderliness—‘Your person and your possessions must be as orderly as your mind,’ Aunt Jean had ordained. At her father’s hotel, Farrell hadn’t been quite so particular, but she had never been as disorganised as this. Larry had disappeared to the kitchen without waiting to know if she meant to join him or not, and she supposed he was probably disgusted with her. She wouldn’t join him, she decided. It was—too much effort.

  She began putting away her clothes, then, catching sight of her reflection, she walked close to the mirror and stood staring at herself. She looked different—alive. She had lost that sulky look she was aware she had developed. Her eyes were bright as well as her cheeks, and suddenly she remembered vividly that moment when she had looked into Larry’s eyes on the dance floor.

  She turned from the mirror, marched across the room
, and went in search of Larry.

  She found him in the sitting room, and as though expecting her, he had put two cups on the tray with the coffee pot. Farrell drank a cup of coffee and ate two of Mrs. Adams’ home-made biscuits and then she rose from her chair and murmured something about washing up the cups. She was disturbingly aware by now that she had not come from her room simply because she wanted a cup of coffee. She wanted more than that. She wanted—something unnamed from Larry. The realisation made her nervous. It was as though her desires had been spoken aloud even though she couldn’t formulate them properly even to herself, and she turned aside from him as she stooped for the tray.

  ‘Oh, leave it,’ Larry said imperiously. ‘Mrs. Adams will see to all that in the morning.’

  Farrell’s heart began to beat fast. She straightened and faced him nervily, aware that he had risen and was moving towards her. He was lighting a cigarette, and as he shook out the match he looked at her steadily and disturbingly.

  ‘You don’t smoke, do you, Farrell?’

  ‘No.’ She added shakily, ‘I—I thought you only smoked under stress.’

  His eyes didn’t move from her face. ‘That’s right. So I’m under stress now.’

  ‘What—what do you mean?’ Farrell stood perfectly still. Her pulses were racing and she had this crazy feeling she wanted to be back in his arms—here, in the seclusion of Quindalup, where she was no longer safe. To see how much she could take without freezing up—or fighting herself free. She asked, her voice low, vibrant, ‘Why—why are you under stress?’

  One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. ‘Why do you think?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, come on now, Farrell. Of course you know.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten what was happening between us on the dance floor tonight.’

  ‘What?’ she said huskily.

  He frowned. ‘You want me to say it? All right—to put it mildly, we wanted to go to bed with each other.’