Читать книгу Billabong's Luck - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 6

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CREEK COTTAGE stood upon a gentle rise a few hundred yards from the stream that gave it its name. Only here and there could a glimpse of the water be caught, for all along the bank grew willows, their thick, down-drooping branches covered with the first green of early spring. Cattle had nibbled the young shoots so that they seemed to have been carefully pruned to an even level, and beneath them the grass grew green and thick—a refuge loved by the cattle in summer.

Only where the willows overhung the deep places of the creek were their boughs allowed to “weep” to their full extent. They took advantage of it, trailing their tips in the water that drew them downstream. Here and there a wattle showed gleams of early gold in its dark foliage. But in the garden of the cottage the earlier wattle, the Cootamundra, that defies winter with its hardy buds, had already broken into full blossom, and each burdened tree was loud with the steady hum of bees, working overtime among the feathery yellow masses.

The mistress of Creek Cottage was digging. She was a slight, fair girl; the casual observer would have said that Nature had fashioned her for other things than using a spade in heavy black soil. But there were unsuspected reserves of strength in the slender form, together with a spirit that was not to be subdued: she handled the spade like a workman, patting each sod into position with deft touches. She had paused to look with satisfaction on the nearly-finished bed when a dissatisfied voice hailed her from the verandah.

“Miss Tommy, you hadn’t ought to be doin’ all that diggin’.”

“But I like it,” said Tommy Rainham, smiling at her gaunt retainer. “Think of the roses we are going to have, Sarah!”

“I’m thinkin’ of your back,” stated the handmaiden, definitely. “Couldn’t the ’ole bed wait until Bill gets about again? Mr. Bob ’ull be fair annoyed if he catches you.”

“I want to finish before he comes home,” Tommy admitted. “Or else he will take the spade himself, and then it is I who will be annoyed. Five minutes will do it, Sarah. Is there any sign of him?”

“Not a sign—only any amount of dust down at the sheep-yards. I guess he’s got his hands full. Bill’s real mad ’cause he can’t be there. Well, I’m just goin’ to make tea, Miss Tommy—shall I give you five minutes?”

“Say six,” said Tommy; and fell to digging furiously.

“I’d do it meself, quick an’ lively—only me an’ a spade never got on,” remarked Sarah, unhappily. “When I dig, it looks as if pigs had been rootin’.” She disappeared with man-like strides round the corner of the verandah. Tommy—who had been christened Cecilia by misguided parents—finished her work swiftly, put away the spade, and ran to wash her hands, returning to find the tea-tray awaiting her.

“How good!” she uttered, sitting down thankfully. “But I am worried about Mr. Bob. Sarah, I know what I will do—I will put some tea in a Thermos and take it to the yards as soon as I have finished.”

“Well, I bet Mr. Bob won’t be sorry if you do,” returned Sarah. “And it’ll keep you from the botherin’ old garden. True as life, Miss Tommy, you shouldn’t do that heavy work.”

“How can I be a good Australian if I do not work?” demanded Tommy, laughing.

“If work makes a good Aussie, then you’re one, all right,” quoth Sarah. “People used to say you’d never shake down here, seein’ you’d been reared in France, let alone bein’ English to start with. But they know better now. Seems to me that girls must get taught to be pretty useful in France. But there’s a limit, Miss Tommy, only the mischief is you never seem to see it!”

“Oh—why trouble about limits?” laughed Tommy. “That is what Mr. Jim calls ‘to cramp the style.’ ”

“Much yours gets cramped! Well, I’ll go an’ fix up Mr. Bob’s tea. Make him come home soon, won’t you?—he’s got the milkin’ an’ all. Lor’, I’ll be glad when Bill can get back to work! I don’t see why he wanted to let that old horse stand on his foot!”

“It does not seem that he wanted it greatly—poor Bill!” said Tommy. Bill’s wife, however, was already out of earshot—most of Sarah’s movements were of the type known as “whisking,” a peculiarity which had lent much excitement to the few occasions when she had attempted to wait at table. She was hard of feature and rough of tongue. But—in a country of few retainers—Tommy Rainham had learned to look below the surface, and she was well aware that she had a treasure.

The two-roomed establishment which was the special property of Bill and his wife stood at a little distance from the Cottage. On its verandah sat Bill, bandaged foot propped on a box, his small daughter building houses with home-made blocks beside him. Sarah joined them, and together they watched Tommy, as, basket in hand, she went briskly across the paddock.

“Well, I’m fair sick of this old foot!” Bill said, gloomily. “There’s the Boss doin’ all my work an’ most of his own, an’ Miss Tommy doin’ all he can’t fit in. An’ goodness knows he works hard enough, any old time.”

“Havin’ a stiff time, too, he is,” added his wife. “He’s pretty worried——I know Miss Tommy don’t spend a penny she can help.”

“Not much wonder if he’s worried. This last season’s been enough to break bigger men than the Boss. Sheep worth nothin’, an’ wool sellin’ at a price that’s givin’ it away. If it hadn’t been for that bit of range-country he took up beyond Billabong he’d have been in Queer Street. Mighty good thing Mr. Jim persuaded him into it. Them bullocks he ran out there must have just about pulled him through.”

“But I say, Bill”—Sarah leaned forward—“the Lintons ’ud always stand by the Boss and Miss Tommy. Bad times can’t hurt a place like Billabong.”

“Don’t you believe it—Billabong isn’t what it was, not by a long way. What with bad times and new taxes everywhere, the Lintons and Mr. Wally are hit, too. Not that they’re exactly poor, or likely to be. But none of the squatters can find much ready money now. An’ if they could—well, great friends an’ all as they are, do you think Mr. Bob’s the sort to take it?”

“He might—considerin’ Miss Tommy.”

“She wouldn’t let him. No, I reckon them two’ll stand or fall alone.”

“They’d never have bought this place but for the Lintons,” said Sarah, accusingly.

“Well, that was only because they all made friends on the ship, comin’ out from England; and then Mr. Bob was glad enough to take Mr. Linton’s advice about settling—him bein’ a new-chum and knowin’ nothin’ about Australia. Jolly good advice it was, too; and the Billabong people have done a heap to help them, in all sorts of ways. But I don’t believe they’d ever take money from the Lintons.”

“I say, old man”—the hard face was suddenly softened—“we could let our wages run on, if Mr. Bob’s short. We got enough banked to carry on with.”

Bill grinned.

“Tell you the truth, old woman, I offered that to Mr. Bob last month. Said we were all right—not needin’ cash.”

“What’d he say?”

“Turned as red as a lobster, looked as if all the pride of all the Kings of England was ragin’ in him—an’ then shook hands with me an’ told me a man with a wife an’ kid couldn’t afford to be generous. Said he’d sell the place for what it ’ud fetch if he couldn’t pay wages.”

“I might ’a’ known it,” said his wife, dolefully. “But I’d rather work for nothin’ than leave Miss Tommy.”

“Oh, well, I guess it won’t come to that.” He shook out his pipe. “Look here, old girl—you bring the potatoes out here, an’ I’ll peel ’em. Time you got busy if you don’t want Mr. Bob to come home an’ find nothin’ to eat.”

At the moment Bob Rainham’s thoughts were far removed from such matters as food. He had yarded his sheep early, and had spent a strenuous day in dealing with foot-rot. To catch and throw sheep for many hours on end is a pastime requiring more than average strength; and though Bob was no weakling, he had begun to feel that his body was one vast ache. His dog was temporarily out of action, lamed by a kick from a struggling ewe; and he had decided to cease work for the day when a sheep of an enquiring turn of mind discovered that the latch securing the gate in the fence between two yards was not fully home. This discovery was made by the act of bumping against it; the gate swung open and the two flocks hastened to visit each other.

It was upon this scene that Tommy came, finding an infuriated brother, surrounded by sheep whose outcries drowned his voice, struggling to shut the gate against the mass of bodies moving both ways. He succeeded at length and, meeting Tommy’s eye, grinned at her ruefully.

“Marvels, aren’t they? If I’d wanted to make them change yards do you think they’d have done it? Not they! And why I’ve gone to all this trouble to shut the gate I don’t know, because they’re thoroughly boxed. I’ll have to draft the lot. Sheer waste of time!”

“That was your proud spirit determined to show them they had made a mistake,” laughed Tommy. “Let them simmer down now, and come and have ‘smoke-oh!’ I’ve brought your tea.”

“Bless you!” Bob said. “My throat is like a lime-kiln. Come over to the creek; I want a wash almost more than a drink.”

He climbed over the low fence, took the basket, and together they strolled towards the creek. Bob plunged down the bank. Sounds of splashing and rubbing ensued, and presently he came back, face and hands dripping.

“I might have brought a towel,” mused Tommy.

“There’s grass,” stated Bob, proceeding to pull up a handful and rub himself more or less dry. “My handkerchief is past praying for.” He sat down on the ground, looking wolfishly at the Thermos as Tommy poured out the tea. “I drank about a quart of creek-water, just to get the edge off my thirst. At least, I don’t think I swallowed it; it was just absorbed, like water on hot sand. Now I can drink comfortably.” He did so.

“That was glorious!” He handed back the cup. “I don’t believe I want to eat anything. The dust of the yards is very sustaining, and I’ve had plenty of that.”

“Of course you must eat,” said Tommy, calmly. “It would discourage me to think I had carried food across the paddock for nothing. This habit of yours of subsisting on dust is becoming too regular to please me.” She held out a sandwich, and Bob took it meekly. They talked, and gradually the contents of the basket disappeared.

“Well, I didn’t want anything, but somehow it’s all gone,” remarked Bob, nibbling the last cake and tossing fragments to his dog, which had limped to join them. “You have a way with you, Tommy. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, just pottering in the garden. There will be plenty of daffodils soon.” She jumped up and went to where his coat was hanging upon a post; returning with his pipe and tobacco pouch. Bob had rolled over on his back, and was looking up into the heart of the willow overhead.

“Shouldn’t have done that—thanks all the same,” he said. “I’ve no time to smoke.”

“Ten minutes won’t make any difference,” said Tommy. She filled the pipe, and Bob watched her, a twinkle in his eye, too lazy to argue the point.

“You won’t smoke, but you fill a pipe like a man,” he said, looking at the slender fingers.

“How else would I fill it? I have not had the opportunity of watching women fill pipes. And I do not smoke because I do not wish to—but just now I wish to keep you quiet for a little. There!” She gave him the pipe, and he lit it meekly.

“There isn’t really time. I’ve got those blessed sheep to draft, and Spot’s about useless. However—ten minutes won’t make matters much worse. I’ll get into trouble with Jim for not letting him know that Bill was off duty.”

“Yes, Jim will be annoyed with you, and so will Wally. They would have been here very quickly if they had known. Why would you not tell them, Bob?”

Bob hesitated.

“Too much like asking for help,” he said. “They’re such good chaps: they’ll put aside anything they’re doing to lend me a hand. And it’s queer, Tommy—I didn’t mind taking their help when things were going well with us. But now that we’re having a bit of a struggle I don’t like doing it. Quite senseless, of course, but that’s how I feel.”

Tommy nodded wisely.

“I know. I feel it, too. Even with Norah—I find myself keeping things back from her, although I know she would be hurt if she guessed it. Are you afraid of being offered other help, Bob—money?”

“Yes. I couldn’t take it. They’d offer it like a shot if I gave them an opening. And because I can’t take money I don’t want to take the other help. It’s just an idiotic form of pride, I suppose—or like an animal that prefers to get off by himself to lick his wounds.” His tired young face set in obstinate lines. “I want to win out by ourselves, without anyone’s help—even the Lintons’.”

“Well, we will do it. But we must be very careful, Bob. They are so quick to notice things, and they know so much of our affairs. It would be easy to hurt them.”

“That’s just it,” Bob said. “Already I’ve kept one or two things about the sheep back from Jim, and I’m sure he knows it. Wally, too: there never was anyone quicker at feeling things than Wally. I’d hate them to misjudge us about it. It’s—it’s only the feeling that, apart from money, we owe them a thousand times more than we can ever pay back: all the kindness they’ve showered on us from the time we left England.”

“All the friendship,” said Tommy, softly.

“Yes. Well, we know what it’s been. And now I’ve the feeling that I ought to be able to make good on my own, without any spoon-feeding; only I’ve been so worried lately that it’s hard to help showing it when I’m with them. That’s why I’ve been keeping away from Billabong.”

“But you must not overdo it. That would be a bad mistake. Our plan is to keep our heads very high and be more cheerful than ever, so that they will think everything is going splendidly.”

“Per—haps,” said Bob, dryly. “I know Jim.”

“We must do it, Bob. And it will be good for us. You know what Jim and Norah and Wally believe; that if one always holds on to the thought that things will come right, then they do come right—if one goes on doing one’s best all the time. Let us do that. We’ll think success, and dream success, and we won’t let ourselves talk or think of anything else. And then—well, the Goddess Success will be so pleased with us that she will turn her face towards us again, all smiles!”

“It’s a good dream,” said Bob, smiling at the eager face. “But a bit hard to stick to when you come to pay the month’s bills with mighty little in the bank!”

“That is the time to dream harder—to believe that the Goddess is putting us through a test, just to see how much backbone we have. And you know, Bob, worrying and being unhappy never make things any better.”

“Better!” said Bob, with surprising energy. “It makes ’em a million times worse, because one only gets thick-headed and afraid, and one misses chances. If I’d had the pluck to buy those ewes of Wilson’s six months ago I’d have made a lot of money; but I worried over it, was scared to act, and some other fellow snapped ’em up. That’s what worry does. I get wild every time I think of it!”

“Then that is just a double worry, for you are worrying because you worried!” said Tommy, laughing. “And it does not one bit of good.”

“Well—but one can’t be so happy-go-lucky as to believe that one’s mistakes don’t matter.”

“I think one has to learn by one’s mistakes. But not to be miserable over them, when it cannot help. That only wastes time. Oh, let us try it, Bob!—we’ll make it a game. We’ll have a compact that we refuse to worry: we’ll just believe that all is coming right for us. Then, even if the Goddess Success keeps her back to us for awhile, we shall be much happier in ourselves, and we can put up with her back view.”

“Think it will work?” asked Bob, doubtfully.

“Yes, if you play the game fairly. Not if you pretend for my benefit and go on with the worry-thoughts inside your mind. That would not be cricket. Besides, it would be foolish, for I would certainly know!”

“And what do you call your game? The game of make-believe?”

Tommy considered this, nibbling a blade of grass.

“Not a bad name,” she said. “But I think a better would be, The Game of Thinking-True.”

“That’s the last thing I’d have dreamed of calling it.”

“Well—just make believe that it is the true name. And we’ll play that game as hard as we can, and get some fun out of it.”

“Right-oh!” said her brother. “You’re a cheerful soul of mate to have, anyhow. I believe you’d just smile if I told you the whole place was to be sold up to-morrow!”

“But certainly!” said Tommy. “We are young enough to start again. Only we are not going to be sold up. Already I have a conviction that the Goddess is feeling the back of her neck with the idea of turning round!”

“May it be soon!” said Bob, fervently. “At all events, I had better begin to feel the back of my own neck, or whatever part of me will stir me towards drafting those sheep.” He rose, stretching himself. “You’d better trot home before the dust begins to rise. It’s going to be a beast of a job, without Spot.”

Tommy looked at him severely.

“This is where you begin thinking-true,” she informed him. “It is going to be a very pleasant job, because I am about to take Spot’s place, and the sheep will be so impressed that they will behave meekly!”

“My dear kid, you can’t,” protested Bob. “You’re far too clean to come near that yard.”

“All of me can wash,” stated Tommy. “You forget I’m a working partner, Bobby. Come along—the gate is where you stand.” She cut short any further argument by running off to the yards, where she climbed the fence nimbly and dropped in among the huddling sheep. Bob grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and took up his position at the drafting-gate.

Possibly the sheep were tired: perhaps the Goddess Success turned just a glimpse of her smile: but the flock displayed surprising docility. They moved gently in response to the energetic, pink-clad figure that urged them on with little French ejaculations—Tommy always broke into French when dealing with sheep, declaring that it was quite impossible for her to learn the correct Australian expressions; a decision which showed prudence. The dust raised by the scuffling little hooves rose and almost hid her from Bob as he stood, his hand on the gate that ended the narrow race, his eyes watchful; swinging the gate from side to side so that each sheep found the way clear to its rightful yard. But behind the cloud the gay voice came to him, bearing the message that his partner was finding it possible to enjoy even dust and dirt and smells when they made part of life and work. Something of the weight that had lain on Bob Rainham’s anxious heart lifted. Dimly he felt that it might be possible to play Tommy’s game of make-believe.

The last ewe joined her sisters in affliction, lending her voice to join their chorus of bleating protest. Bob slammed home the peg that held the gate and turned to meet his sister, who had scrambled over the fence and made the circuit of the yards.

“I believe you bewitched them,” he told her, laughing. “I would say they went like lambs, only the fellow who invented that saying had never dealt with lambs—they can be wickeder than most things. Anyhow, you did more work than I did, Tommy, old thing.”

“You provided the science: I should never know one sheep from another,” said Tommy, cheerfully. “I only danced at their heels.”

“You’re not as clean as you were,” said Bob, looking ruefully at her dusty face. “However, it’s no use rubbing that in. Well, we’ll put one lot into the next paddock, and then turn the others out here. They won’t be sorry to get back to grass, poor brutes!”

Together they freed the prisoners: then went slowly towards the house. Sarah came out to meet them.

“You needn’t go lookin’ for the milk-buckets, Mr. Bob. Bill’s been helpin’ me, an’ I had a bit of time on me hands, so I slipped across an’ did the milkin’.”

“Sarah,” said Bob, joyfully, “you should have a halo. If Cunjee stocks them I’ll buy you one next time I go in.”

“Ah, go on!” said the handmaiden, beaming. “Nice I’d look with one of them contraptions under me hat!”