the takeover and Miss Erica Alexander is the know-how. So it's said. She lives on the next-door station.'
`They ought to hurry up and marry and put the partnership in double-harness, and be done with it,' Hazel said, sitting down with her own tea.
Cindie sat perfectly still. Not even the teacup in her hand rattled. The tea in it didn't sway, and the unused teaspoon didn't clatter to the floor.
She knew her face was still and expressionless—but her
R.I.D.
heart raced. The pulse beating in her ears hurt. Yet she had to say nothing, and appear to feel nothing.
The first relevant thought that flashed through her mind seemed to be toneless and unimportant.
Thank God I didn't tell Nick that my name was Cynthia Davenport, not Cindie Brown. This morning, on that drive, he seemed . . . I nearly liked him. I nearly told him
It was at least three minutes, and some desultory but unheard talk about the station on the tableland, before the girl felt the real clang. Something seemed to hit her.
Nick, Erica, and Bindaroo! The signature tune sang in her ears.
Now she thought she saw him in his true colours. The landed man, turned engineer, who wanted to buy back on to the land using the takeover tool as his means. Fair and
square enough—if an important shareholder, namely Cindie's mother—had been informed about it! And agreed.
Her thoughts couldn't go on with the details of this iniquity. Something warned her loudly that she had now, this moment, to begin keeping an appearance of complete innocence of these things. Now, here in this caravan living-room, drinking tea with strangers, she had to begin to play Nick's game. And Erica Alexander's game. The silent game. The dead-pan way: illuminated now and again by a false smile.
This was big business, this was. And she, no matter how reluctantly, was in it too.
Cindie's heart sank. She didn't want to carry on deceiving people this way. She, unlike Erica, did not have the know-how. But she did have a duty. When she had left home in that Holden to come north she had assumed that mantle. Now she had to stay with it.
Her mother? Her gentle, spineless mother, with barely enough money left to live on! Yes. She had to stay with it. She had no choice.
At least—and this thought came with a sudden weariness of heart—at least she supposed she had to play some sort of game, for the time being. Until she could contact the Stevens brothers anyway.
Then, a ray of hope!
She thought of Jim Vernon over there at Baanya. He was her friend and had helped her out of one predicament. Now around the total horizon that encompassed her new acquaintances, he alone was the one who could and might help her again. He would tell her what to do. He knew the country. He knew the station business. He knew Nick Brent.
Jim Vernon!
Cindie clung to her idea of Jim much as she had clung to her steering wheel when stalled between the billabong and a river— When the river was down!
That night as Cindie helped Mary prepare dinner, the two children showed a readiness to talk, now they were used to the visitor.'
'You're very pretty. Why are you pretty, Cindie?' Myrtle asked, staring at the newcomer.
Cindie was setting the table; she looked at the child with surprise.
'Am I? That's a nice thing to say to me, Myrtle. Thank you. I don't feel pretty. I feel as if my skin's dried out and the sun has burnt me brown-all-over.'
Oh, dear! How guilty that phrase made her feel.
'Brown. That's your other name, isn't it?' Myrtle persisted.
'Why—er—yes.' Cindie muddled the knives and forks at the place before Jinx's chair. She had to change them about. 'You're right-handed, not left-handed, aren't you, Jinx? How silly of me!'
The children had a single line of thought and were not to be deployed by a knife and fork being placed left to right.
'Miss Erica came down the road in the bulldozer with Ted Hawkes from back-up towards the Gibber Gorges. Nick said that's fifty miles out,' Jinx put in. 'She was the one
`They ought to hurry up and marry and put the partnership in double-harness, and be done with it,' Hazel said, sitting down with her own tea.
Cindie sat perfectly still. Not even the teacup in her hand rattled. The tea in it didn't sway, and the unused teaspoon didn't clatter to the floor.
She knew her face was still and expressionless—but her
R.I.D.
heart raced. The pulse beating in her ears hurt. Yet she had to say nothing, and appear to feel nothing.
The first relevant thought that flashed through her mind seemed to be toneless and unimportant.
Thank God I didn't tell Nick that my name was Cynthia Davenport, not Cindie Brown. This morning, on that drive, he seemed . . . I nearly liked him. I nearly told him
It was at least three minutes, and some desultory but unheard talk about the station on the tableland, before the girl felt the real clang. Something seemed to hit her.
Nick, Erica, and Bindaroo! The signature tune sang in her ears.
Now she thought she saw him in his true colours. The landed man, turned engineer, who wanted to buy back on to the land using the takeover tool as his means. Fair and
square enough—if an important shareholder, namely Cindie's mother—had been informed about it! And agreed.
Her thoughts couldn't go on with the details of this iniquity. Something warned her loudly that she had now, this moment, to begin keeping an appearance of complete innocence of these things. Now, here in this caravan living-room, drinking tea with strangers, she had to begin to play Nick's game. And Erica Alexander's game. The silent game. The dead-pan way: illuminated now and again by a false smile.
This was big business, this was. And she, no matter how reluctantly, was in it too.
Cindie's heart sank. She didn't want to carry on deceiving people this way. She, unlike Erica, did not have the know-how. But she did have a duty. When she had left home in that Holden to come north she had assumed that mantle. Now she had to stay with it.
Her mother? Her gentle, spineless mother, with barely enough money left to live on! Yes. She had to stay with it. She had no choice.
At least—and this thought came with a sudden weariness of heart—at least she supposed she had to play some sort of game, for the time being. Until she could contact the Stevens brothers anyway.
Then, a ray of hope!
She thought of Jim Vernon over there at Baanya. He was her friend and had helped her out of one predicament. Now around the total horizon that encompassed her new acquaintances, he alone was the one who could and might help her again. He would tell her what to do. He knew the country. He knew the station business. He knew Nick Brent.
Jim Vernon!
Cindie clung to her idea of Jim much as she had clung to her steering wheel when stalled between the billabong and a river— When the river was down!
That night as Cindie helped Mary prepare dinner, the two children showed a readiness to talk, now they were used to the visitor.'
'You're very pretty. Why are you pretty, Cindie?' Myrtle asked, staring at the newcomer.
Cindie was setting the table; she looked at the child with surprise.
'Am I? That's a nice thing to say to me, Myrtle. Thank you. I don't feel pretty. I feel as if my skin's dried out and the sun has burnt me brown-all-over.'
Oh, dear! How guilty that phrase made her feel.
'Brown. That's your other name, isn't it?' Myrtle persisted.
'Why—er—yes.' Cindie muddled the knives and forks at the place before Jinx's chair. She had to change them about. 'You're right-handed, not left-handed, aren't you, Jinx? How silly of me!'
The children had a single line of thought and were not to be deployed by a knife and fork being placed left to right.
'Miss Erica came down the road in the bulldozer with Ted Hawkes from back-up towards the Gibber Gorges. Nick said that's fifty miles out,' Jinx put in. 'She was the one
Similar Books
