They sat for a long time looking out over the dark valley.
‘Well, what did you think of it, Gwennie?’
‘It was nice.’ She fumbled shyly for words. ‘Nicer than any place I’ve been to.’
‘Don’t get round much?’
He stubbed out the cigarette, and threw it from him. His arm stole along the back of the seat. Just above her head, so that she knew it was there. She leant forward a little, but he made no attempt to pursue her.
‘Know this place?’
She was mute.
‘Next Sunday I might take you on a trip and show you some of the country.’
He opened the door and got out.
‘Might as well have a look around here,’ he said.
They walked slowly down the road.
‘It’s funny,’ Renshaw said. ‘Meeting a girl like you makes a man feel different. Makes him think what a fool he’s been.’
He put his arm around her waist. The night was warm; the scent from the wattles encompassed them. The gums were green and dark.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Renshaw said urgently.
She swept the grass with its few silvery heads aside, and sat.
Renshaw leant towards her. She could smell the aromatic perfume of the cigarettes that he smoked.
Now don’t start that touch-me-not bleating, Renshaw thought. You couldn’t be all that dumb. Even if you lived in a capsule, you couldn’t be all that sealed off. He reached out in the dark. He felt, rather than saw, her startled resistance. But her face was upturned when he kissed her.
For Gwennie, time stood still. Little pictures flicked over in her mind. This was happening to her. Not to some girl in a novelette. She was out on this hillside, with the city away to the east, and Renshaw had his arm round her. His lips slid suddenly down from hers to the base of her throat.
She cried out, struggling to sit up and clutching at his hands.
‘Oh, don’t,’ she said suddenly. ‘Don’t do that.’
He made a soft, reassuring noise. Then his hands caught at the neck of her frock, and his fingers closed over her breast.
‘You’re going to like this,’ he said thickly, ‘and there’s nothing to worry about.’
He was over her. She lay still, feeling suddenly dazed. She reached out frantically for a weapon. Something to hit with. She found the stone before she knew it.
‘You bloody little bitch!’
Gwennie had scrambled free, and began running down the road.
Well, let her go. He could easily overtake her. He liked them better with a bit of fight. Before the night was over the boot might be on the other foot. He got into the car. The engine roared to life.
Gwennie saw the light swing around, saw the vast emptiness of the bush, the yawning dark gullies, the solitary road running back into the city. She began to run again. Then the lights were upon her. For one minute she thought he would run her down. She pressed close to the trees as Renshaw stopped the car.
‘What you think you’re doing?’ he said evenly.
He put his hand out, but she tore herself free and began running down the road that led to the city. When he caught her, he flung her to the ground. She lay still, not knowing what to do. To scream? To have someone coming out of the night to find her like this? To have to tell her father about it?
‘You don’t want to carry on,’ Renshaw said. ‘In a little while you’ll feel better about it all. I told you I’d look after you. What’re you frightened about? After a while you’ll think it’s great. Ever been with a man before?’
‘No! No! Let me go!’
The words ended in a scream.
‘I’ve had enough of you, sister,’ Renshaw said. ‘What do you think I brought you out here for, anyway? To fool about looking at the scenery? You were a pretty willing party. You think I’m going to let you go at this stage?’
Gwennie sat up and began to wail. It was not a loud crying but it could be heard a long way in the still night.
Suddenly Renshaw drew back his hand and slapped her across the mouth. And simultaneously two men came around the bend, tramping towards the city.
Gwennie listened to the sound of the feet as they drew nearer.
Renshaw crouched low. ‘Keep quiet,’ he said. His fist was close to her face.
But her wail rose, and the men stopped.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Oh, some silly sheila changed her mind.’
‘That so?’
‘Take me with you!’ Gwennie cried.
‘Can’t take you with us, lady. We’re hiking down to the coast and then heading north.’
She scrambled onto the road. Around the bend the road dropped away. Unbelievably close, the little township huddled under the hill. She fell in beside the two strange men. Not far away there were trains running to and from the city. She began brushing back her hair, straightening the torn neckline of her frock.
She realized her days at the Dyehouse were numbered.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
But it was not Renshaw who made the decision about Gwennie. The Verrendahs, behind the doors of their over-clean sitting-room, discussed the situation.
‘You said you knew this man?’
Her father’s voice was cold. He had been, at first, secretly pleased that the manager of the Dyehouse had noticed Gwennie.
‘I thought I knew him.’
She thought of the day on the fourth floor when he had cuddled her. She knew him for what he was then. But her eyes had not been really open.
‘Has he shamed you?’
‘No. No. Not that. I picked up a stone. I hit him.’
‘Should we take you to a doctor?’
‘No. No. Let me alone.’
‘It should be stopped. I should see the police.’
He should see the police. Lots of people coming around and inquiring. The whole thing in the evening papers. Neighbours gossiping. Where there’s smoke there’s fire. Those religious ones, always pretty deep.
‘You’re sure you’re all right? No more damage than that cut lip?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Then perhaps we’d better say nothing. It might be better for you, Gwennie. We don’t want any scandal.’
‘We told you, Gwennie. About strange men.’
‘I never want to see any men again,’ Gwennie said.
‘You’ve always got us.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know we love you, Gwennie.’
‘I know that.’
‘And know what’s best for you.’
Her mother lit the bath-heater and ran the water into the bath. Mr Verrendah went into the kitchen.
‘The best of men are a pretty poor lot,’ Mrs Verrendah said. ‘They’re all dirty beasts at heart. You won’t want to go back to that Dyehouse. Your father will call in and pick up your money. But you trust us, Gwennie. There’s always a home with your Mum and Dad.’
‘Yes,’ Gwennie said.
She thought of the bushes, of the dark gullies and of Renshaw so close to her. She thought fleetingly of the boys and girls that she saw going off to the dances, holding hands. She shivered.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
As his car pulled into the gutter before his house, Renshaw saw the tall figure loitering at the gate. He switched off the lights and sat back for a moment, feeling stunned. Verrendah was tall and square. In the dim light Renshaw took him for a plain-clothes detective.
She’s blabbed, he thought in panic. She’s been to the police.
There were witnesses. The two hikers. His mind swung round in circles. What good would their word be? Probably vagrants who’d done a stretch or two. Probably ducking the police at this very moment. He prepared to bluster.
‘Get out, Renshaw. I want to see you. I’m Gwennie’s father.’
Renshaw let his breath out gently. It was only Verrendah. He would handle him. He was cocky as he walked to the gate. It was only that bloody psalm-singing, come-to-Jesus bastard. Verrendah g
rabbed him by the lapels of his coat.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Renshaw asked.
‘What would you think?’ Verrendah said evenly.
‘Gwennie.’ Renshaw gave an ugly laugh. ‘I did nothing to her.’
‘You won’t get away with this, Renshaw.’
‘What you intend doing about it? Look, I took her out. I gave her a good day. I cuddled her up a bit and she hoofed it.’
‘You struck her, you animal. You tried to force her.’
‘Break it up. The kid’s that full of notions she thinks any bloke that puts his hand on her is out to rape her. You want to let her circulate a bit. Get her out of Sunday School and let her see a bit of life. She’d get a man hung.’
‘She won’t be working under you again,’ Verrendah said. ‘You get her money made up and have it ready Monday.’
‘Oh, well, if it’s how you want it. I’ll be sorry to see her go. Be sensible, Verrendah—you know what kids are like.’
He put out his hand, but Verrendah struck it aside.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ he said violently. ‘I’ll see that it’s reported. I’ll see that your wings are clipped. I’ll go to the police first thing Monday morning. Decent people sending their kids to work there! You should be stopping this kind of thing, not encouraging it. But you haven’t heard the last of it. I’ll see that a spoke’s put in your wheel. I’ll get it stopped!’
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Patty spent a long and unhappy weekend.
Her talk with Oliver Henery had cleared the air a little, but had not in any way resolved her conflict. She had been often in Renshaw’s company in the weeks that followed, but never alone. Nor did she raise the question with him again. The matter was decided. The cards had fallen to Gwennie.
Working beside Miss Merton, she told herself bitterly that it didn’t matter. In a few years’ time they would all be dead. Everyone working in this building would be dead. For a while people would talk about them. Tell stories about them, sympathetically. Mostly sympathetically, and all in the past tense. About how good they were. But soon no one would talk about them. No one would remember them. They would be wiped out, like a slate being sponged clean. A new set of figures would appear. New people. It wouldn’t matter then that she was suffering today.
But it did. What did it matter that she might be dead in five, ten, fifty years? Today was important to her. It was important to everyone who drew breath in the foul, damp air of Macdonaldtown.
Renshaw had not been actively unkind to her. When he got around to thinking of it, he felt that she had acted with dignity and restraint. Apart from her one flight from the office, there had been no acts or tantrums. And she had not gossiped. He wondered briefly what old Merton thought about it all. He wondered whether Patty had discussed it with her, and decided that she had not. Not the full gory details. Only the little-girl-in-love part. In a way he felt almost grateful to her. She had acted up well. And if anything went wrong, if the cards fell this way, and not that way, she was at hand.
Along with the thoughts of Renshaw in Patty’s mind, was the new and surprising picture of Oliver Henery. A drifter, a wanderer from workshop to workshop. Yet you couldn’t run away, he said. Wherever you run they get you. Wherever you go they catch up with you. The loud-mouthed, insincere Oliver Henery. The man who loved girls; who hated them; who cared for animals. And again the quiet Oliver Henery who had waited outside the church, who had talked to her in the park. The Oliver Henery who had walked her home, who had put a watch upon his tongue, who had made no attempt to kiss her at the door.
The Oliver Henery who had waited because he was a friend. The thought was a revelation. A man who could be a friend.
She looked up quickly, and there he was, standing at the foot of the stairs. He was stripped for work. A pair of khaki shorts hung upon his hips. He had a pair of rubber waterproof boots laced around his ankles. His chest was bare. He moved off into the warehouse. Patty watched him as he crossed the drying area. Beyond, the mist caught at him. She saw him vaguely for a second, then the steam blotted out his figure, as he moved deep down into the bowels of the Dyehouse.
Gwennie was not in on the Monday.
Patty noticed it as she went across to the bench where the girls were weighing up the rolls. There was no one on the wrapping table.
It could mean…?
That Gwennie had dealt with him. That she had seen through him; that she had somehow escaped.
It could mean that Gwennie had made trouble.
She stood at the bench, thoughts tumbling through her mind.
And if this was so, if Gwennie had run out, if Gwennie was never coming back, it could mean that Renshaw would be on the lookout for a girl again. It could mean…
She picked up the tickets and walked slowly back to the office.
It could mean that Renshaw would think of her again. She put the thought far away at the back of her mind.
But it persisted. And as time went on, and the whistle blew for morning tea, she began to smile. Something had happened, and Gwennie’s reign was over.
It was almost ten o’clock when Renshaw came in. He had pulled into the doctor’s to get some advice about his injury. He was too busy to take the day off. He was not unduly concerned over his dark, swollen eye. He was not thin in the skin, and he could take all the ribbing that the men might be inclined to dish out.
But he had to find a girl for the wrapping bench. That was number-one priority. For certain, the rolls could not go out unwrapped. He called through the office.
‘Patty.’
She came slowly into his office and stood with a pad in her hand, her pencil poised to take his instructions. She noticed his eye briefly, and the cut above the brow. So Gwennie had not submitted easily. She had fought back. Patty put aside her own guilty thoughts.
‘Ring the labour exchange. We need a girl for the wrapping.’
It was said. She wrote it carefully on the pad. A girl for the wrapping bench.
‘Junior?’
‘Oh—useful girl. Better make it a senior, but no old crones. You’d better get Miss Merton to talk to them. And I don’t want anyone straight from school, either.’
Patty wrote the instruction in silence. Once, the obvious question was on her lips, but she stifled it. In time the employees’ attendance sheets would have to be made up, and then: ‘Gwennie Verrendah. Reason for leaving: leaves of her own accord.’
It was enough that things were working out. There was no need to tempt fate.
She walked to the door.
On the threshold he called to her, ‘That’s a pretty skirt you’re wearing, Patty.’
She looked up slowly, carefully.
He was already absorbed in his letters.
It was the first time he had noticed her since Gwennie began working at the Dyehouse.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
‘Reckon I might clean up on this yet,’ Goodwin said. ‘I think the little sheila dumped him cold. There’s no one on the wrapping bench today, and he says he ran into a door.’
‘He’s got a stinker.’
‘Going to be hard to put up with for the next few days.’
Renshaw was irritable and uncertain. The Verrendahs sounded like people who might take some action. But as time went on and nothing came of it, things settled down into the same old groove.
Barney was having more time off than usual. Cuthbert complained to Miss Merton about it. He had been watching the sick-pay claims for some time.
‘It’s his wife.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Miss Merton delicately skirted the subject. ‘I think there’s a baby expected.’
‘Well, get Mr Renshaw for me.’
‘What are you doing out there?’ Cuthbert asked Renshaw. ‘Is Barney Monahan or his wife having this baby?’
‘Oh, well, she’s been pretty crook.’
‘He still claiming sick-pay?’
‘I don’t know.
I’ll see into it. Haven’t seen any declarations about.’
‘We can’t pay blokes for getting into bed too often.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t think he cops too much. Bit of bad luck. Wife’s getting on. Not like a youngster, you know.’
‘You defending him?’
‘Hell, no. Only sorry for him.’
‘Well, make sure about that sick-pay.’
There had been endless worry for Barney over Esther’s pregnancy. She was under Dr Peters’ close care. There were unexpected complications and the birth would not be an easy one. The doctor had prescribed medicines, exercises and rest. Barney was not really worried. Having babies was a common enough complaint. Barney had never met anyone who’d died of it.
But one day the doctor phoned him at work. He had sounded serious and Barney decided to give work away for the afternoon.
He sat in the waiting room furnished with comfortable, arty little chairs, reading paragraphs from old magazines and wondering fretfully what could be wrong.
When at last it came to his turn, he pushed the door open pugnaciously. He would talk up to these medicine men. He would ask them a thing or two. And he’d want a straight answer. None of this bone-pointing and backchat.
Peters was sitting behind the desk. He watched Barney clinically as he walked to the table. He was inclined to like the cocky, pugnacious little man. Must have been quite a fellow in his day. Footballer. But time had given him a hell of a hiding. Just one hell of a hiding.
He picked up Esther’s card and smiled at Barney.
‘What I can’t understand,’ Barney said, ‘is why there’s all this fuss. People we know have babies all the time. No trouble at all. And Esther’s always been healthy.’
‘You’ve got one girl, I see,’ Dr Peters said, ‘about nineteen.’
He was holding the card and looking at Barney.
‘She’s out of the State. Married. Living in Perth. I could bring her over, at a pinch.’
‘It may not be necessary,’ Dr Peters said. ‘I think you will manage. I’ve talked to your wife about it. The main thing is that we’ll need her in one of the city hospitals, and a little earlier than usual.’
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