The Coral Tree (20 page)

As she went down the stairs she heard a noise issuing from Maysie
’
s room, which was a small alcove on the left of the landing. She paused involuntarily, then recognized two voices: Mrs. Heard
’
s, her daughter
’
s. Mrs. Heard must have come up to Maysie
’
s bedroom, after all.

“Where were you last night, miss? Now, come
o
n, no more of your deceit.”

“Why are you asking me when you know already?
she
told you, didn
’
t she? All right, two can play at that game.”

“I don
’
t know what you
’
re talking about, but I do know you
’
ve got mud on your shoes and your father polished them last night; he always does—”

...
Stupid Maysie, thought Cary; probably she left the shoes at the foot of the stairs.

“I sleep-walked,” said Maysie sarcastically. “Does that suit you better?”

“The truth would be better still.”

“Then ask Miss Porter to finish the tale.”

“Maysie, leave Miss Cary out of this.”

“Why should I? She didn
’
t leave me out.”

“I won
’
t have you talking about her like that. Not to me nor anyone else.”

“I won
’
t talk to you, then—but I will to someone else.”

“Maysie!”

Cary went on, her lips tight with distaste. Unfortunately for her own peace of mind, she could see Maysie
’
s angle as well as Maysie
’
s mother
’
s. Clairhill, for all its large household, was a lonely place for a young girl. To the teenager, she thought, recalling her own youth, a different age group, be it young or old, is a world away. A child will fraternize with either maturity or immaturity, but an adolescent is different stuff.

Then, again, Maysie
’
s parents were already mid-elderly. How could they expect to reach a girl of fifteen?

Cary
’
s brows met. How was she to solve this problem that was Maysie? Perhaps she could inveigle some of the village girls to come and work at Clairhill, but if she did would they stay, and where, for that matter, could she place them? Perhaps Matt could be persuaded to sign on a few young stable-hands.

I
n her absorption as to the future of Maysie, Cary gave no heed at all as to her own future—in Maysie
’
s hands. The girl was only a child, sly, impertinent, even underhand, perhaps, but a child for all that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SEVERAL DAYS passed before Jan and Cary had their long-due talk.

The delay was not due to reticence or evasion on either side; it was simply lack of opportunity. In a place like Clairhill, with its quota of children and attendant adults, it was not easy to pick a right moment or choose a right spot in which to speak freely and without fear of interruption.

Sorrel did her best to afford them moments alone, but was unsuccessful. As is often the way with such charitable foundations, everything suddenly happened at once—a Sydney journalist arrived to write a feature article, an honorary dentist spent several afternoons advising on young teeth, a local member brought a party of V.I.P.
’
s to watch the functioning of the new home in his constituency.

It all meant extra work, not only to Mrs. Heard, on whose shoulders fell the burden of double catering, but to Sorrel, who had to demonstrate what was being done remedially, and to Cary, who was the home
’
s instigator, and therefore considered the pivot of Clairhill.

Jan helped tremendously. When the journalist and the dentist and the V.I.P.
’
s all descended together, it was the blond guide who discreetly sorted them out, tactfully farmed them to the girls, then took the largest party himself on a tour of inspection—including among other points of interest Pudding Basin Hill.

There was something about Pudding Basin, reminded Cary to herself as she raced here and there ministering to her guests.

She found time to ask Jan, and he nodded gravely. “A gentle hill, a grass landing area—I spoke of that the night of my arrival. I told you I had worked on such a project with our mutual friend Jan Bokker; but you, Cary, did not heed.”

There was no reproach in his voice, but Cary felt reproached. “I
’
m sorry, Jan; I wasn
’
t attending. I was worried.”

“I know that—now.”

“Will you tell me what this plan of yours is?”

“After we speak of other t
h
ings. We have tried, I believe, to speak of other things.” His blue eyes searched hers.

“Yes.”

“Then when your guests depart I shall take you to the hill and demonstrate.” He paused. “And talk,” he added.

Cary said humbly again: “Yes.”

At last the journalist had all the material he needed, the dentist was finished, the member in possession of any facts for future speeches that might be required and the V.I.P.
’
s anxious to look into something else.

They watched them go, Maysie, who had gone out of her way since her late night at the dance to be unco-operative, remarking sulkily: “Good riddance, I
’
m sure. Just a lot of old fogies causing a lot of extra work.”

That afternoon Sorrel came to her and suggested that she go with Jan up to Pudding Basin. “He wants to tell you what he has in mind, Cary. He demonstrated it to the journalist and the V.I.P.
’
s, an
d
they all thought it was a very good idea.”

“Can
’
t I learn about it down here?”

“It has to be demonstrated.—Besides, you have something to say to Jan, and he
’
s waiting for you to say it. Had you forgotten that?”

“No, I hadn
’
t, Solly. I would have preferred to have said it days ago.” Cary hesitated. She had been about to add: “I promised Richard I would.”

Presently she asked: “What about the children?”

“I
’
m sending Maysie out with them. They need some exercise after all the luxuries they have had this last week. Cakes three days running, hot scones twice. Then one of the V.I.P.
’
s left a huge box of chocolates. Unfortunately he left it with
them.
You can imagine how few are left, and the effect on their young turns.”

“Will Maysie be responsible enough to supervise them?”

“My dear Cary, they will be walking, and you know what that means.”

Unhappily Cary did. The little braced legs would be doing well to cover even a quarter of a mile. No harm could come to them, even under such uninterested eyes as Maysie
’
s, in such a short distance.

“Very well,” she told Sorrel. “I shall go up to Pudding Basin Hill with Jan.”

They left after the midday meal, walking down the drive beneath the corals, over the flat, then climbing the gentle slope.

“I think it
’
s a jam pudding,” Cary informed Jan, laughing; “it
’
s one of those suety ones that emerge from the basin rather short and squashed.”

“It is an excellent place,” said Jan gravely. “I saw that at once.” Jan indicated the grass, and Cary sat down. After a moment he sat down as well.

“I am sorry, Cary.”

“It
’
s I who should say that, Jan. Don
’
t make me feel ashamed.”

“But you are not, are you? You are not ashamed?”

She looked at him apologetically, then nodded an admission. “No Jan, I
’
m not. The only wrong thing I feel I have done is not to have told you how things were the moment you arrived here. You took me by surprise, though. I never guessed
...”

She paused a while.

“Jan,” she said anxiously, “am I saying all this too late? Have you burnt your boats behind you? I mean”—as his brows creased in puzzlement—“can you return to your home again and on the ol
d
terms?”

He shook a decisive head. “I have no wish to go back, old terms or new. Cary, I shall be very honest. Perhaps a great deal of your charm to me was the fact that in you was an avenue of escape. I was tired of Europe, yet I would never have left, perhaps, if I had had no incentive to do so. You provided that incentive, with your talk of Australia—with your gift.”

He took out the opal pin and looked down at it thoughtfully.

“I am stateless, Cary. It is a very involved story of borderline countries, of wars, of confusion. I shall not burden you with the discouraging details. Sufficient to state that I had no roots to keep me in the country that was no longer mine; no people; that I wanted to go somewhere, to do something, but I did not know where or what it was—until I met you.”

“Richard said,” Cary proffered, a little embarrassed, “that you were financially independent. You said so yourself on your arrival here. Jan, could that be true?”

She was hoping it was. It would be dreadful if he had spent all his money on a journey that ended like this.

Jan inclined his head. “It is true. Many of my friends had their wealth in lands which became valueless. I had tangible wealth. I still have. Don
’
t let the loss of a position teaching rather stupid tourists wor
ry
you,
liebchen
.”

She smiled mischievously. “Was I stupid?”

“You were very quick, very alert. It was a pleasure to instruct. Perhaps that helped to make me feel towards you as I did.” He paused, then added frankly: “Yet you were also a little unwise.”

“Unwise?”

“In my country—I mean, the country to which I no longer belong, young women do not make such gifts.”

He stared down again on the opal pin.

“It is beautiful,” he said. “It is dark as your friend is dark. She is a red rose, Cary.”

“Sorrel?”

“Yes, Sorrel.”

Again he paused.

“They do not,” he went on quietly, and this time there
was
reproach in his voice, “gesture so!” He blew a kiss in the air. “They do not say good-bye in a way that indicates they do not wish to sever an association.”

“Jan, did I do all those things?”

“You did.”

“And you took me seriously?”

“I packed my belongings and came after you, didn
’
t I?”

“I
am
ashamed.”

Cary stared down at the shallow valley. Maysie and the children were moving slowly over the flat. In t
h
e far distance a car was beginning to cross the straight dusty road.

“You are ashamed, yet not ashamed,” summed up Jan shrewdly. “I have stated your case, now I must, in all fairness, state mine. Here beside you, Cary, is a foolish man, a man who read too much in a laughing word—or so our good Sorrel has said.”

“Sorrel?”

“She showed me my error. She insisted I admit it to you.” Jan smiled and spread his big hands. “I am admitting it now. I sought a meaning in everything you said and did, Cary. In my heart I should have suspected it could all mean nothing, that it was just the friendly gesture of a friendly girl from a friendly country whose easy ways I did not comprehend. But I would not admit it. I was determined to find something that was not there, therefore I forced myself upon you. I did these things, so I, too, am ashamed.”

“Ashamed, yet not ashamed,” suggested Cary.

He considered, nodded, then put out his hand to touch hers. “You are quite sure how you feel towards me?” he asked.

“Quite sure, Jan.”

“There is someone else, I believe, and that makes you more certain than ever?”

Cary hesitated, flushing.

“Come, Cary.”

“Yes—there is someone else.”

The car was getting nearer to the valley. Cary looked at it unseeing.

“An
d
you, Jan,” she ventured, “are you very hurt?”

“My pride a little. That was inevitable. But it will also be good discipline to me. Apart from that—no hurt at all.” Again he spread his hands. “I shall tell you something. I believe I prefer
red
roses.” He looked at Cary meaningly and smiled.

Cary stared back bewildered, slowly deciphered his words, then frowned.

At her expression of concern, he beamed widely
.
“Don
’
t worry; I shall never rush in again. Not this time, my friend. This time, you see, I think I could be hurt. It is different.
She
is different.” For a moment his eyes dreamed.

Cary frowned again. She realized what he meant. Jan was a dear. She thought so. Sorrel had admitted so. But liking a person was not loving them
...
She looked hesitantly at the man, and as though reading her thoughts, he bent forward and tilted her chin.

“Don
’
t worry, it is only a feather in the air as yet. One note does not make a song. I have told you only to make you feel better in yourself. You understand?”

“Yes—yes, Jan, I do understand.”

“And that little cloud that has been between us, not even permitting a friendship, it is gone?”

“It is gone.” She smiled up at him.

“It is good, then, we can know each other like this. You are my dear friend always, I am yours.”

He bent over and kissed her gently, gravely. Cary accepted and returned the kiss in the manner it was given.

On the flat Maysie turned the children back towards Clairhill. On the valley road the car that before had been a speck in the distance passed beneath them.

“And now my project,” said Jan busily, “my scheme for this Pudding Basin Hill. When you took that expedition in Mungen, Cary, to meet the good Bokkers, it was winter. Otherwise, perhaps, you might not have been there.”

“No, Jan, I only went for the sports.” I went for that, she thought to herself, and for the solution. Something shining within her assured her that the happy answer was near her hands at last. “Yet in spring and summer, Mungen is even more lovely. There
is the scent of pine, good and sweet and clean; there is the velvet darkness of the trees. There are also slopes at the foot of Lannwild as gentle as your jam pudding.” He laughed at her. “I was interested in the Bokker institute. We all of us in the village were interested. Everyone is interested in a child.”