by Janet Tanner
The moment she saw his face darken, however, she knew he was not.
‘Fetch Margaret?’ he repeated, fumbling in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘ I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
‘Why not?’ Tara retaliated sharply.
He found the cigarettes, put one between his lips and looked at her steadily across it. ‘Don’t you think she’s better off where she is?’
‘No. Why should she be? Besides, I want her with me, Dev. I’ve missed her so much …’
‘That’s as maybe.’ The flame of his gold cigarette lighter flickered briefly and he drew the smoke into his lungs. ‘ I think you should consider what’s best for Margaret. You love, her, I know. But what sort of a life would she have with you? A gypsy’s existence, no real security or roots. Just one hotel room after another, living out of suitcases.’
‘It’s not that bad! Travel is a good thing. It broadens the mind. And I’d be with her. That’s what matters most.’
He turned away and poured more whisky onto the half-dissolved ice cubes in his glass. ‘And what is Richard going to say about it?’ he asked quietly.
Instantly she was trembling with aggressive reaction. ‘What can he say?’
‘He’ll fight you.’ Dev turned slowly, looking at her with the same disconcerting directness. ‘And after what happened last time you had her I would think the chances are very good that he would win.’
‘Fiddlesticks! I don’t see why.’ She held out her empty glass and while he refilled it she went on: ‘Red is dead now. He can’t harm her any more. And I am her mother.’
‘A woman alone in a very precarious position.’ He handed back her glass. ‘A woman on her own.’
She took a quick gulp of the amber liquid and felt it burn her throat. ‘I’m not on my own. I have you.’
He shook his head. ‘ Uh-uh, Tara. No.’
She jerked her glass away from her mouth. Whisky slopped onto her wrist. ‘What do you mean – no?’
His gaze was still, steady and emotionless. ‘ If you go through with this you can count me out.’
‘But I thought that we …’ Her voice was breathless.
He put down his glass and leaned back against the cabinet, hands in pockets. ‘I want you, Tara,’ he said ‘I’ve always wanted you, you know that. But I’m not prepared to go along with you in this. I believe a child needs a stable background to grow up against. And there’s more.’ He paused but his eyes continued to hold hers. ‘While Margaret is with you, you will still be tied to Richard. I’m not prepared to go along with that any longer, either. It’s my opinion that you should let Richard have custody of Margaret and leave him to pair off with Alys. It’s what they have both always wanted and they will make a good stable home for Margaret. So there you are. I’m laying it on the line. It’s decision time, Tara. Margaret and Richard – or me. I won’t compete any longer.’
She had turned white. Angrily she banged her glass down on the table top. ‘Margaret is my child, Dev – and Richard is still my husband, whether you like it or not.’
He shrugged. ‘Then go to them,’ he said coldly. ‘But leave me out of it. I’ve had enough.’
‘You don’t mean it!’ she cried.
‘Oh, but I do. For years I have stood by and watched you make a fool of yourself – and me – over that man. Since we have been together you have asked me to stay and sent me packing with equal abandon several times. Well, enough is enough. I am not prepared to go on that way. Either you make a firm commitment to stay with me and me alone, or we are through. Once and for all. The choice is yours, Tara.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she had never known him to be like this before, so cold and hard. It frightened her and the fear fired her quick Irish temper. ‘You can’t make me choose to give up all the rights to my own child! It’s too much to ask. I won’t do it.’
His face was like granite. ‘I didn’t really think you would. Though after what has happened, I don’t believe it’s too much to ask. I killed a man for you, Tara. Oh yes I did, even though the official verdict was that it was an accident and God alone knows he deserved to die, but I shall always have it on my conscience – what conscience I have. And further than that I am not prepared to go.’
She was shaking uncontrollably now and could say nothing.
‘Go for Margaret if that’s what you want to do,’ he said harshly. ‘But don’t expect me to be here waiting when you get back.’
‘All right, Dev,’ she said. ‘Of course you must please yourself.’
She finished her drink in one gulp, reached for her wrap and swung it around her shoulders. But even now, as finality hung coldly in the air with the echo of their angry words, she did not accept that he meant what he said. He couldn’t. He loved her, didn’t he? When he saw she was serious about having Margaret with her he would accept the situation. For now the most important thing was making a good exit.
‘Don’t bother to see me down, Dev,’ she said. ‘I’ll take a taxi.’
As she swept out of the door she heard the crash of his glass as he flung it against the wall after her.
Buchlyvie was dreaming in the afternoon sunshine.
Since John’s death it had continued to tick over and as yet the farm had scarcely missed him. A stickler for detail, he had left everything in apple-pie order and those problems that had occurred had been minor ones, routine matters, easily settled.
‘You’ll sell the place, of course,’ Daniel Peterson had said to Alys on the day of the funeral when the mourners had all left. ‘Come back to Toorak. There’s always a home for you there.’
Alys had stared at her father uncomprehendingly.
‘Sell Buchlyvie?’
‘Of course. You can’t run a farm on your own.’
Her jawline had tightened a fraction. Sell Buchlyvie? The idea had never occurred to her. It was her home, hers and John’s, and she had been happy here. To leave would be to sever the last link with something very precious and would be a betrayal of all they had shared – a betrayal of John himself.
‘I can manage,’ she had said. She had seen the disbelief in her father’s eyes and read his thoughts – the shocking manner of John’s death had unhinged her. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she had said, smiling slightly. ‘You said once you wished you had taken me into the business because you thought I might have been able to make a go of it. Well, this is my business and I’m not going to let it go lightly.’
Her father had nodded, patting her arm. ‘Perhaps you can do it, Alys. You’re my daughter right enough.’
Yes,’ she had said. ‘I think I am.’
In those first dreadful weeks responsibility for the farm had kept her going. When she lay sleepless in the big bed she and John had shared, grieving for him and reliving too sharply the horror of the night when Red’s thugs had invaded the house and their lives, she turned her mind to the practical problems – how she, a woman with no farming experience, could run a place like Buchlyvie.
Manpower was the most urgent problem to be solved. John had done the work of several hands. So, several hands would have to be hired. That was no problem for there were plenty of returned servicemen seeking employment. Then there was the book work, the accounts and the dealing. Alys could feel only gratitude that she had learned this side of the management so thoroughly with John’s help and advice. Much of it now came to her as second nature, though when she had to make a decision or deal with an unexpected problem loneliness could sometimes descend on her without warning so that she sat head in hands at his big desk crying silently to him: ‘Oh John, John – what would you do? Help me, please!’ And often, it seemed to her, he was there. His calm presence would seem to pervade the room so that she could almost feel him, hear him, and gradually the despair would fade to be replaced by a new determination.
Richard came to visit often, bringing Margaret with him, and these were the times Alys loved best. With John dead there was a slight awkwardness between them, as if they both real
ized that now only Tara prevented them from being together – and Tara was not there. But they were reluctant to make the move that would change their relationship forever – it was too soon, though the love between them was as real as it had ever been. That move, once made, would be irrevocable. They both knew it and shrank from it. And Margaret provided the buffer they needed. When she was there, there was no question of them having to make or avoid physical contact. They could simply take pleasure in one another’s company – and in being with Margaret.
Alys adored the little girl – not only because she was Richard’s. Somehow, it seemed to her that Margaret was the child she could never have, the embodiment of everything she could have wished for in a daughter of her own. And Margaret returned that love. Her brightest smile was always for Alys, and her warmest hugs. When Margaret was curled trustingly on her lap Alys felt more fiercely maternal than she would have believed possible and her patience with the child was endless.
That warm drowsy afternoon the three of them were on the veranda. It was Richard’s afternoon off the hospital and he had brought Margaret to Buchlyvie as was his habit. He and Alys sat in the cane chairs chatting while Margaret played happily with some brightly coloured wooden shapes and a posting box – a favourite game which Alys kept to amuse her when she came to Buchlyvie.
‘Are you staying for dinner?’ Alys asked Richard.
He stretched comfortably. ‘I don’t think I should. It’ll be past Margaret’s bedtime. Why don’t you come into Melbourne and dine with me?’
‘That would be nice. I must confess it’s in the evenings when I really do begin to get a little tired of my own company. But I’m not sure I ought to come to Melbourne, Richard. What would your mother say?’
‘About what?’ He leaned forward to retrieve one of Margaret’s cubes which had rolled away.
‘About you keeping company with me, of course. You are still a married man, after all. And your mother is very much a stickler for protocol.’
‘That’s true.’ He smiled, a little wistfully. ‘However, you can take it from me that you are in great favour with my mother, whereas Tara …’ He glanced at Margaret as if for the moment he was afraid she might be able to understand what he was saying, then reached across so that his hand was lying on the arm of Alys’ chair. ‘My mother never did approve of Tara. I know she thought I married her for all the wrong reasons, and she was probably right – except that she never did know what those reasons really were.’ He paused and in the silence Alys thought for a moment that he was going to tell her what had happened in Northern Territory to precipitate the wedding. But Richard was too much of a gentleman for that. Close as he and Alys were there were some things which were too private, and which did not belong to him alone. ‘I suppose I believed I was doing the right thing,’ he said evenly, ‘but they do say, don’t they, that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.’
She put her hand out to cover his, but said nothing – some things needed no words.
A small squeal of frustration from Margaret attracted her attention. The child was trying to post one of the cutout shapes into the box and she could not do it. Alys smiled, rose from her chair and dropped to her knees beside Margaret.
‘Look, sweetheart – like this. You hold the piece and push it through there – see?’
Margaret snatched the piece back eagerly.
‘Me do! Me do!’
‘All right. Like this. Let me show you again …’
‘Alys.’ Richard’s voice was quiet but taut. She looked up, surprised, to see him looking down the drive. She turned her head to follow his gaze. Someone was coming up the drive, someone small and dark, wearing a bright yellow sundress. Alys’ heart came into her mouth.
‘It’s Tara,’ she said.
She walked towards them and knew that the tightening in her throat came from a backwash of pure jealousy. Oh, but they looked like a family there on the veranda – Richard tanned and relaxed in his cool slacks and open-necked shirt, Alys sitting on her heels playing with Margaret. She had known what to expect, of course. When she had arrived at Richard’s home and his mother had told her, in that coldly disapproving way of hers, that Richard and Margaret were at Buchlyvie she had been neither particularly surprised nor dismayed. She had known the situation for a long time and knowing it helped to ease the guilt she felt about the havoc she had brought indirectly into Alys’life. But knowing Richard and Margaret were here was one thing, seeing them all looking so right together was quite another.
‘Well,’ she said, and her voice was harsher than she intended. ‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’
‘What a surprise, Tara,’ said Richard. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
‘I can see that. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you. I didn’t know I had to make an appointment to see my daughter.’ Her face softened as she dropped to her knees beside Margaret. ‘Hello, darling. What are you doing? Have you got a hug for your Mammy?’
Margaret regarded her solemnly but made no move.
‘Margaret!’ Tara coaxed. As she reached for her the child’s face puckered mulishly and she turned to Alys.
‘Box! Show Magit box!’
‘Margaret!’ Alys admonished, embarrassed – and to Tara: ‘I’m sorry, she’s fascinated by those toys. You know what children are.’
‘You can hardly expect her to come running to you, Tara.’ Richard said coolly. ‘You are virtually a stranger to her after all.’
‘I’m her mother!’ Tara protested.
‘And this is the only home she knows. She’s probably afraid you are going to take her away again.’
Something cold and hard twisted in Tara. Was that how Margaret saw her – as a stranger to be afraid of, someone who would take her away from the familiar and trusted?
She glanced up to see Richard looking at her accusingly.
‘Is that why you are here, Tara?’
She could not answer. All her usual confidence seemed to have deserted her and she was defensive suddenly.
‘What if I am?’
‘I won’t let you do it.’ His jaw was set, those narrowed eyes chips of granite.
Tension sang in the air as they glared at one another.
Alys stood up quickly taking Margaret’s hand. ‘Shall I take her for a little walk while you discuss it?’
Tara looked at Richard sharply.
‘It’s all right,’ he said with irony. ‘It’s not some plan to abduct her. I intend to keep Margaret with the law on my side. But it’s better that she doesn’t hear all this, don’t you think?’
Tara could only nod, her sense of guilt deepening. What sort of a mother was she to argue about her child’s future in front of her? What sort of a mother had she ever been? But then she had been given little chance to be anything else. From the moment she had been born Margaret had been treated as an Allingham. She, Tara, might have been biologically responsible for her, but Richard’s mother had made up her mind she should have as little influence on Margaret as possible and that dreadful bossy nanny had been employed to intimidate and keep her at arm’s length. The one attempt she had made to be a real mother had ended in disaster.
But, oh God, I love her so! Tara thought in a moment’s desperation. She is mine – the only person in the world who has ever been truly mine …
‘We had better talk this through here and now, Tara.’ Richard’s voice brought her sharply back from her reverie of guilt and indecision. ‘I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this but since it has I might as well put my cards on the table. I won’t have Margaret dragged around from one theatre to another with no home except a succession of hotel rooms. A child needs stability – to know where she belongs.’
‘She needs her mother!’ Tara protested. ‘ Shouldn’t I of all people know that? My mother left me and I never stopped looking for her, wondering if I’d find her again – and why she walked out on me. I don’t want that for Margaret.’
‘With respect, Tara, your situation was a li
ttle different. Margaret has a good home with me.’
Tara’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘And, I suppose, with Alys.’
For a moment he did not answer.
‘You’ve always wanted her, haven’t you?’ she said and was surprised at how little bitterness there was in her tone. ‘Going right back to Darwin it was always her. If circumstances had been different I’d never have stood a chance with you.’
‘That’s not true,’ he said, but it did not sound convincing.
‘Oh yes it is. You only married me because you thought I was pregnant. And now you think you can have it both ways – you think you can have both Margaret and Alys.’
For a brief moment she saw some of her own doubt reflected in his eyes. She had hit home, she realized, touched a raw nerve.
‘You are in love with her, aren’t you?’ she said.
He moved impatiently.
‘This discussion is about Margaret, not about us. Unless you have changed your mind and want to come home. Is that it? Do you want to try again?’
She caught her lip between her teeth. So the door might still be open to her. In spite of everything Richard would still take her back. For Margaret’s sake and probably for the sake of the propriety which meant so much to him. Suddenly, she experienced something close to panic. She had accused him of wanting everything – but wasn’t that exactly what she was guilty of? Greedy, greedy Tara. Snatching at Richard. Snatching at a career. And now snatching at her daughter.
The time had come to choose. She knew it now, saw it starkly before her. She could go on with her career, fight, fight and fight again. Or she could come home and try to make something of a marriage which had never really been given a chance. Be a wife to Richard and hope she could make him love her. Be a mother to Margaret and make a home for her. The very thought of it closed in around her like the walls of a prison cell. And she had always been a fighter, hadn’t she?
