Shining River

Lucy Walker - Shining River

(First published 1954, as by Dorothy Lucie Sanders)

Esther and Oliver grew up together in Pepper Tree Bay. She was shy and lonely, oppressed by her parents' strange personalities, he was wild and adventurous and fascinated by this forlorn child so different from himself. Time and circumstances parted them. Esther went to live in formidable Mrs. Riccard's mansion, and Oliver left for the country to find work. There he met Hilary, also growing up the hard way. But Oliver never forgot his childhood companion. On his return to Pepper Tree Bay, he and Esther found that in spite of the intervening years and all the obstacles in their way, there was still a bond between them too strong to be broken. PART ONE CHAPTER I - ONE MORNING IN MAY ON a May morning in 1932 I began to piece together the story of Esther Hillman. She was a reserved person, very beautiful in a carefully groomed way. That immaculate beauty was a barrier, just as her manner and the odd way of her life had cut her off from the rest of us in Pepper Tree Bay. I had gone across the park to look at the river in its first morning shine. It was eight o'clock and Oliver Harding's car was parked by the look-out. 'Very early for Oliver,' I thought. He had been a child in Pepper Tree Bay, farther round the river. At the time my father had been Rector of the parish church and had founded the boys' school in Queen Victoria Drive. Oliver in fact was the son of the church caretaker. He had lived, in those days, in a little wooden house between the church and the parish hall―a bare-footed, dark-haired, freckle-faced urchin with blazing brown eyes that defied authority as a matter of principle; and not always because it was rewarding. Esther Hillman had lived half-way up Queen Victoria Drive, between the Rectory and the river. In our different kinds of ways we were all very poor then. But presently Esther came to live in a rich house while Oliver grew to be one of the most successful of the younger men of Perth. We Montgomerys gained riches in another way. As I came now towards Oliver's car in the spangling light of the autumn morning I thought of Esther. Oliver was sitting back in his seat staring across the river and I remembered a morning―it seemed so long ago it was sad to think of it―when I had gone, just at this hour, down by the old school jetty in Pepper Tree Bay and had seen the boy Oliver sitting with a fishing line in his hand between the girl Esther and old Mr. Sweeting, the headmaster of the school. They sat in silence and I can remember the shadows lifting over the bay as the sun topped the banks in the west; and there was such a stillness on the river I felt awkward and clumsy. After staring at them for a while I had turned round and gone away; and I

forgot about this strange and silent trysting of the three of them,. Yet somewhere in the back of my memory it must have stayed, for when Oliver, sitting in his car, and I, beside him, began to tell one another all the things about Esther and her childhood, I remembered everything clearly as if it had been yesterday. . . . I remembered everything I had known about her then; and there was no dustiness on the edges of my picture. Everything came back so that I think it was meant I should someday write about her. 'Oliver,' I said, 'You know about Esther?' He turned his head and looked at me. His black eyes were black pools and I didn't think he saw me out of them. 'Oliver,' I repeated anxiously. 'It's me, Theodora.' I took his arm and shook it. 'Oliver . . . it's only me.' He turned his head gently from side to side and his eyes regained their light as if he had come back from a long way away. 'Get in, Theodora,' he said. He leaned sideways and opened the door of his car. It was a beautiful car. It had a magnificence about it that exactly matched Oliver; but the story of the car comes later, for it is all mixed up with Esther growing older and being taken away from her father's little green and white latticed house in Queen Victoria Drive. She was taken to live in Mrs. Riccard's grand mansion that stood farther round the bay, brooding like a pineencircled spy-tower over the high banks of the river. 'What is it, Oliver?' I asked. His brown freckled hands gripped the steering wheel and I could see the pain that was in him rippling through the sinews at the backs of his hands. Looking at his hands and then at the dark look in his eyes, I felt he did not know the story of Esther as I knew it. But of this I had to be sure. 'Do you feel like talking to me, Oliver, or would you rather I did the talking?' 'I came out of poverty . . . and she out of Mrs. Riccard's mansion,' he said bitterly. 'Shut up and don't talk rubbish,' I said sharply. 'Whatever happened to Esther... that had nothing to do with it.' 'Do you know what happened? Listen, my Theodora, and I will tell you.' He wiped his hand over his face. Quite suddenly, the Oliver who I thought could take the whole world in his strong hands and break it in two pieces and give it to the giants for breakfast, was holding my arm and looking stricken, like a child. 'Remember the little house in Queen Victoria Drive? Just over the way from the school? Remember the lilac trees along the drive? And the pepper trees behind them? Remember the boys streaming across the fields at sundown? Remember old Mr. Sweeting as he was then... a kingfisher coming in on a line

at six o'clock in the morning?' He gave a laugh that was half a groan. 'Remember Esther standing at her gate the day I cut your finger with my scout knife?' Yes, I remembered that day. We had gone, the whole gaggle of us, as my father would call his five daughters, down the road towards the river. We were going swimming and had our bathing suits and towels draped turban-wise around our heads. Denney and Gerry dragged behind on short fat legs, but I, the second eldest, led the way for I was arguing fanatically with the brown-eyed Oliver. 'It did so! It did so!' I was shouting aggressively. 'It did not! It did not! It did not!' he mimicked derisively. He dragged his naked toes in the dust and dodged and twisted about the road when I tried to catch him and drive home my argument. (Those Rectory children quarrelling again! Shades of dead and terrifying parishioners who had no love for this gaggle of Irish girls bestowed on the Bay by a reluctant clergyman as an act of God and against everyone else's will.) We were half-way along the Drive and opposite Esther Hillman's house when Oliver stopped dead in his tracks and faced me, his right hand held up before his face, his towel over his eyes. 'Touch me if you dare!' The sun shone in such a way that I did not see the scout knife held up in front of his face. I ran forward and thrust out my hand to pull the turban from his eyes. I felt a sharp sting between my third and fourth fingers. My sisters all began to cry out in unison. 'Look at the blood!' 'Look at Theodora's hand.' 'It's all down her dress.' 'He's cut off Theodora's hand.' I remembered my surprise at the amount of blood and not at the wound that had nearly severed my finger from my hand. Because there wasn't very much pain I felt a little important and very much the martyr. Then Oliver turned his head, and my sisters began again. 'Oh, look at Esther.' 'Esther's fainted.' 'Is she dead?' 'Mary, run and get her mother.' I stood in the road aggrieved, for they all gathered around Esther now. Oliver was mute and rather white . . . the only time I ever saw him change colour. He stood looking down at Esther where she lay like a pale doll on the front lawn. He minded more about her than that he had all but cut off my finger.

Esther was born in 1907, the same week and year as my birthday. I remember that well for whenever I had a party for my birthday Mother would make a great business of Esther's health being drunk as well as mine. 'But, Mama, it's my birthday, not Esther's. And it wouldn't matter if she didn't go and hide behind her mother's skirts all the time.' 'Esther's very shy. I wish sometimes you children could take a leaf out of her book.' 'Well, we could begin, Mama, by having some lace and ribbons on our dresses the way Esther does. Her frocks are real party dresses while ours are just our Sunday dresses with sashes on.' I knew I was being naughty because really Esther did have too much lace and too many frills on her dresses. All the same she always looked like a doll, the kind that is all dressed up for show in shop windows round about Christmas. Her father, Roderick Hillman, was a master at my father's Grammar School, the one of which Mr. Sweeting became Headmaster when my father went to the war. Mr. Hillman was tall, thin, pale. He made of piety a virtue so rigid, that paradoxically it became a vice. Mrs. Hillman was gentle and faded, the way pretty blondes sometimes become. All our world in those days was bounded by the school and the church. The people who inhabited that world came to matins at eleven o'clock on Sundays. And quite the most remarkable, impressive and terrifying of the world's inhabitants was Mrs. Riccard, she with whom Esther came finally to live. This tall regal woman timed her arrival in church one minute before the choir entered; and she stood in the porch immediately after the service, bowing and smiling on those she thought worthy of her notice. It was not only the power of the purse that gave Mrs. Riccard her place in the parish. She had something more than money. She had personality, and exalted connections in other countries. These things added together made her different from other people in Pepper Tree Bay. She also owned a motor-car, the first in Pepper Tree Bay; and she was driven to church by a chauffeur. Mrs. Riccard's hair was elaborately coiffured and she wore small hats that remained distinctive in and out of season. Her dressing was always formal; her clothes were beautifully made and of the finest materials. She wore a diamond watch suspended on a thin gold chain from a brooch over her left breast. She had a large and intimidating breast. It was inconceivable that matins should begin without Mrs. Riccard. My father always said she was 'a great lady' and bade us learn from the elaborate gracefulness of her manners; but he had been reared in an age and in a country where the great of the parish were very great indeed, and were truly members of a class that ruled. As such they were doubtless beyond

reproach. It is a good thing for my father and his idea of a 'great lady' that he died before the world came to know that there was another side to Mrs. Riccard's character. Amongst the parishioners Mrs. Riccard was given to favouritism, and oddest of all her favourites was Roderick Hillman. Her notice and patronage were a solace to the schoolmaster in his personal isolation. His apparent piety was such that it seemed to separate him even from the rest of the church circle. Esther as a little girl was terrified of the friendship between her father and Mrs. Riccard. Of course she never told any of us that. She was too shy. She clung to her mother; and they did not often go about among people. But I remember once going to the Hillmans' house on a message from my mother when Mrs. Riccard arrived to pay a visit. Mrs. Hillman was overcome with nervousness and anxiety, and Esther's face was as pallid as the arum lilies that grew in rank profusion along the back lane. I sensed the power that Mrs. Riccard had in that house and the ruthlessness with which she wielded it by intruding into the life of these two fluttering creatures. After that I hated her a little more than I had done before. 'Mama,' I said, 'Why does Mrs. Riccard go so often to the Hillmans'? They're really quite poor and the furniture is very shabby. She would hate those cushions of Mrs. Hillman's. I don't suppose they even give her a strong cup of tea.' 'What a little critic you are, Theodora! People don't go visiting just for the sake of a strong cup of tea.' 'Father does,' I said wickedly. 'Though Mrs. Riccard wouldn't be going to the Hillmans' for that reason.' Mother was pulling out an oven shelf. She stopped and looked at me speculatively. 'What are you talking about, Theodora?' 'I don't know, Mama. I just think she goes there for a reason. I can't think what the reason could be, though.' 'I suppose she likes calling on people.' 'She doesn't come here―except when she has to come on some parish business.' 'You rowdy children put her off. An attractive child like Esther now . . .' 'Esther hates her.' 'What are you talking about? How could a child like Esther hate a good woman like Mrs. Riccard?' 'She's not a good woman. She's a wicked woman; and she has a bad influence on Esther and her mother.' Mother stood up angrily. 'That tongue of yours will get you into serious trouble one of these days.' Nevertheless there was a faint vexed frown on my mother's forehead, and I

knew by the way she was biting her underlip that she too wondered at Mrs. Riccard's preoccupation with the Hillmans. . . . Why should children fear and distrust Mrs. Riccard? Are children and animals always infallible in these matters? I certainly wasn't the only child who thought Mrs. Riccard wicked. 'Old bitch, wicked old bitch!' Oliver chanted from the back bench of the Sunday school when Mrs. Riccard came to give the prizes. I was sitting in front of Oliver, so I heard him. He had only been coming to Sunday school for a short time, and that, he told me long after, was on account of Esther. As far as the spinster Misses David (the ladies who superintended the Sunday school) were concerned, Oliver was a back bencher and was there on sufferance. Miss Priscilla and Miss Betsy David lived at the Swamp. Their house was an old colonial home built out of the natural sandstone running like a spine through the higher parts of Pepper Tree Bay. The swamp land nearby stretched far back into the sand dunes that wavered in a line to the sea. Only stunted ti-tree and stink-wort grew in its wastes. In the middle was an island; and on the island was a red-gum. At night the black cockatoos came back to the Swamp and settled on the red-gum. The sound of their wailing was like the terror of rain coming in from the sea. The Misses David were slight and of unfixable age. They wore high lace collars supported by bones, but their voices were soft and kind and their faces sweet and good. They were the only people in Pepper Tree Bay, other than Oliver Harding, who did not strike Esther Hillman dumb with shyness when they approached her. Later, of course there came Mr. Sweeting, but that was after my father went to the war. 'Has everyone got a hymn book open at Hymn 340?' said Miss Priscilla. 'Esther Hillman hasn't even got her book open.' 'Open your book, Esther dear.' 'She can't find the place, Miss Priscilla.' 'Find it for her, Theodora. . . . No, you find it, Oliver. Make yourself useful and we just might let you stay in the Sunday school.' Did Miss Priscilla look into the secret places of Oliver's heart and know that he came because of Esther? Did she hope that Esther might be the missionary who would bring the black sheep into the fold? Did she know that in Oliver's mind there was one light of purest ray serene? And did she know it was the reflection of the sun westering down the sky and shooting fire-fingers through Esther's honey coloured hair? It was her hair and face that Oliver worshipped. I'm sure Oliver told me more about Esther, and more about himself than he told Hilary Brown. That is not to detract from Hilary's kindness nor the deep

understanding she had of Oliver. But Hilary came so much later in Oliver's story. As for me, I was there from the beginning. Oliver and I knew all about each other, all about our little shabbiness, and our moments of success and failure. There's a bond of kinship between those who were children together. They have nothing to hide. We understood each other's anguish of growing up. Out of that comes a pity one for the other; and out of this pity there comes affection. Thus Oliver to me and me to Oliver. On this morning of 1932 Hilary drove up to the look-out in her roadster. She pulled the car in alongside Oliver's Stannard and for a moment we all three sat looking at one another. Then Hilary pulled out her cigarette case and, after taking a cigarette, threw the case to Oliver, who caught it. She did not bother to ask where I had come from or why I was sitting with Oliver as the first of the morning's gold spread like a coverlet over the grey-blue of the river. It was a heavenly morning. So quiet and lovely there was sadness in it. In a moment the south wind would stir the shine on the river and there would be catspaws over the glass. 'I'm taking Oliver home to breakfast,' Hilary said quietly. 'Would you like to come too, Theodora?' 'No, thanks,' I replied. 'I'll walk home. It's only across the park. I've got work, you know.' I smiled wryly at Hilary. I envy you your leisure.' I climbed out of the Stannard. 'You'll come home for a meal or something when you feel like it, Oliver?' 'I'm coming to-night,' he said dully. I knew that we both had to go on now until the telling and re-telling of Esther's story wore away to nothing in both of us. And we knew that Hilary understood. CHAPTER II - A DIFFERENT MORNING IN MAY IT was during the war―back in the year 1915―that Esther, then a little girl, had first gone down to the river with her fishing line. She had wakened early. It was a fine cloudless summer morning with magpies warbling in the pepper trees and a kookaburra somewhere over the playing fields. She sat on the school jetty, throwing in her string line and occasionally bringing in a gobble-guts on a bent pin. My father had gone to the war and Mr. Sweeting was in charge of the Grammar School. Esther did not hear him coming until she felt the old jetty shake under his heavy footfall. To Esther the headmaster was as august as royalty and she was struck with terror at her temerity in fishing from the jetty. But more than any real fear of the headmaster was the terror of her father's displeasure. Esther was never allowed, not under any circumstances whatever, to be near school property or where any of the officials of the school might become aware of her presence.

Then, to her astonishment, as Mr. Sweeting came nearer, she saw his face break into a smile, half amused, half musing. He did not mind at all that he had on an ancient bathing suit, that his face was unshaven, and that his rubber shoes were bursting at the sides. His round, scholarly face and pale, preoccupied eyes were close to her and she could see in them only whimsical interest. This was no tyrant. Both Oliver and Mr. Sweeting told me about this first meeting between Esther and the middle-aged schoolmaster. At once and without premeditation she became for all time his 'dearest child' and he her friend and protector. 'Why,' he said. 'Why, the early bird is little Miss Hillman.' She looked at him, puzzled by his smile and perplexed by his ordinariness. She was bewildered that he saw no wrong in her presence on the jetty. 'What have you got there?' Mr. Sweeting asked as he settled himself down on the jetty and began to search in a leather bag he had brought with him. 'Blowies,' said Esther. Then looking up suddenly for fear that he did not understand this sub-technical language. 'Gobble-guts,' she explained. 'Ah!' The exclamation was contemplative and gave due importance to the catch. Mr. Sweeting was not a handsome man. Esther, looking at his brown sinewy arms, thought him hairy; and a little bristly moustache lent a mock fierceness to his face. He searched in the pocket of a faded dressing-gown that he let fall beside his leather bag and taking out a pipe put it in his mouth. As he went about the business of baiting his hooks he chewed at the stem. 'There's no smoke in it,' said Esther. The schoolmaster took the pipe from his mouth and examined it reflectively. 'I never smoke before breakfast,' he replied. 'I only pretend. Don't you ever pretend?' 'Oh yes,' said Esther. 'I pretend these gobble-guts are fish I can eat for breakfast.' Mr. Sweeting examined Esther's line with professional interest and then turned to his own. 'Mine's a better line,' he said judicially. 'A little above gobble-guts and capable of something really edible. I have several more up at the school. Will you be down to-morrow? I shall bring them with me and you shall make a choice. With one of them you might manage some tailer . . . that's if they're biting.' Would she be down to-morrow? Esther stared at him as he turned and went about his fishing. The enquiry had been so casual, so much as if her presence was not a nuisance but rather something to the contrary! When Mr. Sweeting had made a catch he began to wind in his line and put

away his hooks and bait. 'Now for a swim,' he said. 'Where's your costume, Esther?' Esther blushed furiously, for her costume was on the sands behind the elephant grass. Mr. Sweeting, seeing her glance towards the beach, guessed her dilemma. 'You've left it on the sand. Well run and change into it while I swim out to the buoy. Can you swim?' 'Oh yes,' Esther breathed. She ran down the crazy jetty wondering that Mr. Sweeting saw no wrong in a little girl changing her clothes on the shore, and caring nothing for her father's anger and shame should he learn that Mr. Sweeting was less than one hundred yards away. Esther was late home that morning, and her father was already at breakfast. 'Esther, Esther,' her mother called anxiously as Esther tip-toed into the kitchen. 'Look at your hair! What on earth have you been doing?' 'Swimming . . . and oh, Mother. . . .' 'Swimming? But whereabouts at this time of the morning?' 'Down by the school jetty . . . and fishing too . . . and he was there. You know―the headmaster, Mr. Sweeting.' Mrs. Hillman nervously twisted her apron in her fingers. 'What will your father say? You know you aren't allowed to swim except in the baths. And with Mr. Sweeting too!' For the moment Mrs. Hillman was overcome at this unforeseen breaking of the taboos that ruled their little home. 'He told me to put on my bathing suit behind the grass; and he said to come fishing to-morrow.' 'Your bathing suit behind the grass! Oh, Esther!' What effect have such pruderies on the mind of a child? I remember vividly one morning in our kitchen when Esther had been embarrassed by some frank remark of our maid. The colour had stolen up her face and her eyes were wide and frightened. She was standing turning one foot over on the side and staring unseeingly out of our great kitchen window. Her bottom lip was drawn beneath her upper teeth. Then suddenly the spell was broken. From outside there came a long piercing whistle. It was Oliver Harding. . . . The backyard of the caretaker's house met the side fence of ours at right angles, and along the fence grew mulberry and fig trees. According to parental edict we were supposed to be above social intercourse over the fence; when my mother and father were about Oliver remained in regions nearer his own back door. Sometimes as we passed down the vegetable garden a mulberry would land on our heads, or a squashy fig. One would turn with a sharp― 'Ow, who did that?'

But no stirring of the leaves above ever gave away the hidden marksman. . . . I saw the transformation come over Esther's face when she heard the whistle. Her eyes seemed to focus. The colour ebbed and rose in her cheeks. Her small even teeth let go her bottom lip. Her mouth parted. A smile both wistful and sensuous crept over her face. Like a child sucking sugar. Looking back I can see Esther in all manner of places and in all manner of moods; but that transition of expressions in our kitchen remains a memory. In it, I think, lay the unconscious fascination she had for Oliver, and of the ambivalence of his love for her. Esther had a most beautiful mouth. Perfectly shaped, neither too big nor too small, with the outline of a delicate bow. More than the shape of her mouth was its colour. Her lips were those of a painted doll. They were smooth, shiny, even. 'The loveliest mouth in the world,' Oliver said. I've forgotten why Oliver whistled, but I remember that we went outside and saw him standing barefoot on the rail of the picket fence gazing truculently into our back yard. I also saw the quick look he gave Esther. Oliver was a slim boy with a sharp mind. His brown eyes looked out on a resistant world with stubborn courage. I knew that he added to an inadequate family income―for Mr. Harding was often drunk―by gathering bottles, collecting clean papers for the shop keepers and holding the cabby horses outside the church on festival or wedding occasions. On Sundays he was dressed up in an old suit and clad in boots and socks and perched in the back pew of the church. From his back seat he stared a scornful challenge at the parishioners as they came to matins ... all except Esther Hillman and her mother with their honeycoloured hair and their too-fluffy dresses. Oliver was four years older than Esther and me. In spite of our arguments his notice of us was more than a condescension. From one so elderly it was almost a compliment. CHAPTER III - A WIND ON THE SHIRE ON the day when Esther first went swimming with Mr. Sweeting her father came home early to lunch. The scene that followed left a powerful impression on Esther and later she told Mr. Sweeting all about it. For the headmaster Esther's story shed a light on Roderick Hillman's character that he had never quite been able to understand despite their close association in the school. When Mr. Hillman walked into the house he did not speak to his wife, but passing through the kitchen pushed open the door of Esther's room. She was sitting on her bed copying spelling. Her head was bent down and was meant to convey her innocence of his coming. 'Esther!'

She did not understand the twitching movements of his face nor did she know the fear, jealousy and anger that were in his mind. She stood up awkwardly and obediently. 'How long have you been going to the river in the early morning?' 'I haven't been before,' said Esther. 'I fish from the old boat-house after the boys are in school . . . sometimes,' she amended. Roderick Hillman turned his pallid eyes on his wife. 'Do you know what she has been doing?' Mrs. Hillman made a gesture with her head. It neither confirmed nor denied a knowledge of Esther's doings. Her husband stared at her, his face drawn and inarticulate. He turned and strode out of the kitchen. Mrs. Hillman and Esther looked after him, nervous and irresolute. Esther recovered first. 'I will take his tea in,' she said with unexpected eagerness. Pity assailed her, but she was too young to understand it. 'I will ask him what Mr. Sweeting said. I know Mr. Sweeting liked me being there.' Mrs. Hillman put a teapot on a small tray, already set for lunch, and handed it to Esther. Roderick Hillman watched Esther as she entered the study and set the tray down on the cutler desk. He seemed to have discovered something about her that he had not known to exist before. He made a swallowing noise in his throat. 'Mr. Sweeting says he expects you to go fishing to-morrow.' Esther did not reply. She looked from the dull cleanliness of the sparse carpet to the piles of schoolboy papers and exercises on the desk. 'You will remember when you are with Mr. Sweeting,' her father said, 'that he is the Headmaster of the Grammar School. If you don't behave properly it will have unfortunate consequences for your father and mother.' Esther, running a finger along the edge of the desk and at the same time glancing at the pallid sterility of the rows of grey-bound sermons that filled the shelves of the bookcases, said simply, 'We don't talk. We only sit and fish.' They only sat and fished! Mr. Hillman slowly set his cup down and sat bolt upright in his swivel chair. 'We are friends,' continued Esther. Companions! The idea of it was a wound to his lonely mind. It kindled his jealousy. Without effort the child succeeded where he failed by earnest and unfailing endeavour. Esther had made friends with Mr. Sweeting, and at their first meeting, while he remained in the outer darkness of the headmaster's dislike. Esther was backing away from him. It was something in his eyes from which she shrank. She felt their coldness and their lack of love. Her hands were clammy. She turned and ran out of the room.

It was on the same momentous day that one of the master's wives sent word there would be a mulberry picking. Esther did not go to school. Her father's salary was not large enough for school fees and Roderick Hillman was too proud and rigid to send his child to the State School not far away. A legend that Esther was not strong had been circulated among the neighbours and those associated with the Grammar School, a legend not difficult to believe because of Esther's fragile build and fair, almost transparent skin. She learned her lessons at home. Mrs. Hillman taught her to read and write and to play the piano extremely well. She also used the needle dexterously and with greater pleasure than other children of her age. She read endlessly, all that she could find that was readable whether understandable or not. She even took down the grey-bound volumes of sermons and read a few lines at a time. She loved the rhythmic roll of the words. It did not worry her that they had no meaning for her. But two books she had that were different. They were the fairy tales of Andersen and Grimm. . . . News of the mulberry picking had come just after her father's return to the school and she was hard put to while away the hours until the other children would be free and she could meet them at Mrs. Reynolds's house. She was wise enough to know her life was different from that of other children. She longed to join them swinging, arguing, running down Queen Victoria Drive helter-skelter, cutting across the school-grounds and racing to an orgy of mulberry stains. Yet she was allowed to do none of these things. She could not use the school-grounds. Her father forbade it. Instead she had to wait behind the trellis of their little green and white house until she heard the first sounds of the Rectory children coming up the lane behind the church. Then she would set out on the long walk round the boundary of the school to Mrs. Reynolds's house. Only the Rectory children, taking all privileges to themselves as a natural right, would go unassailed and straight across the school-grounds, indifferent to the little girl with the honey coloured hair who struggled up the hill behind them towards Mrs. Reynolds's gate. We Montgomerys were unaware that Esther marked the hours of the day by our comings and goings and that she learned the strange and predatory ways of adventurous children from her surreptitious look-out behind the hedge in Queen Victoria Drive. That is, until the advent of Oliver Harding. Mrs. Reynolds, thin and bird-like, had a passion for order and she kept an array of old print dresses hanging in her wash-house. They were to provide cover for the visitors who came to mulberry pickings. 'Now, children, you know what to do with those dresses, don't you? You must rinse them out when you've finished and peg them on the line. That's a bargain, isn't it?'

'Mrs. Reynolds, Theodora's bagged the blue one again. She ought to give it to Denney. She's too big for it.' 'I really do think you'll burst it, Theodora. Put on one of the others like a good girl.' I pouted. Denney, perceiving she had more than one ally, was dragging at the dress. But it wasn't in my nature to give it up immediately when Denney was so persistently and triumphantly wrestling for it. 'Here's Esther Hillman coming up the drive,' I said eagerly. 'I'll give it to her. Nobody ever leaves a nice one for Esther. She never has a choice.' 'That's a generous girl,' Mrs. Reynolds said with relief as she took the dress from me, grateful I suppose that it would not come apart that day. Denney, disappointed, kicked me sharply in the shins. Slyly turning my back on Mrs. Reynolds, I poked my tongue out at my younger sister. Of course I had given up the dress to Esther not out of generosity to her but out of spite to Denney. Still, I knew that Denney would get her own back. In a minute the mulberries would come pelting in my direction and there would be more than one, squashed and juicy, down my back. 'Hurry up, Esther dear, the others are all ready.' No one would ever have known that Esther had been eagerly awaiting this moment since two o'clock. She hung back and had no word of greeting for us. She stood silent biting her underlip. Her shyness was irritating. Nevertheless, I could not help feeling sorry for her. 'You've got the blue dress, Esther,' I said. As I watched her put on the blue dress I wondered why she shrank into corners, and even, on occasion, put her fingers in her mouth like a baby. How much she missed! But being only a child myself I could not for long remain sorry for Esther and I beat the others to the biggest of the mulberry trees. The real fun now began. I made sure that no one else attempted to share my tree. Vicky took the fat Gerry up her tree while Denney and Mary shared another large one close to mine. The game was to fill one's basket with mulberries from the other's trees by crawling along the limbs to the point where the branches interlocked. The defenders resisted invasion by pelting off the enemy with mulberries. The battle was on when Esther emerged in the blue dress and stood irresolute beneath my tree. For its proper defence, two were needed in each tree and Esther knew by common consent that she would come into mine. 'Come on, Esther, for goodness' sake,' I called impatiently. She looked up nervously from below. As she did so I dropped a big fat juicy over-ripe mulberry squarely into her lovely shining hair. 'Theodora,' Vicky said sharply. 'You're mean. You're not allowed to put mulberries in Esther's hair. She can't come if she gets too dirty.'

'Phooey!' I replied. . . . Why couldn't Esther be like the rest of us? Why couldn't Esther get just a little dirty too? The mulberry left a large stain, like blood, in her hair. 'What a good way to murder someone!' I said. 'Esther looks as though she has been shot in the head.' 'Someone shot in the head wouldn't look like that,' Mary, who always knew the answers, said sagely. 'Her head would be all in pieces.' Esther looked up at Mary's tree and the lovely mouth broke into a seraphic smile. I had seen that sort of thing happen before. But heaven alone knows what thoughts flitted through her head on such occasions. Esther smiled suddenly, and happily, at the strangest times. . . . My preoccupation with Esther had given Denney, in the tree on the other side of mine, an advantage, and she was not only filling her basket from my tree but had actually climbed on to one of its branches. 'Fort captured!' she yelled. 'Come on, Esther,' I demanded almost savagely. 'Do something.' I swung along the mulberry tree intent upon the only means of regaining my branch―by capturing one of Denney's. But Mary, the watchful tactician, had worked herself into a good defensive position. 'Vicky, Vicky!' I cried. 'Give me some help! Grab the other side of the tree while I hold them both here.' Mulberries flew fast and viciously. Meantime Esther had clambered into the tree. Her shyness had gone and she had put herself right in the line of fire. She was throwing mulberries at all and any, friend or foe. 'Ass!' I hissed tersely. Mrs. Reynolds appeared on the gravel below. 'You know where to get the yard broom, Vicky,' she called. 'You sweep up the mess under the trees. Mary, you wash Gerry. And Denney, don't forget to use very green mulberries to rub out the stains. Theodora, you've made more noise and mess than anyone else. You had better rinse the dresses.' She gazed up at us speculatively. 'Oh, Esther, look at your hair!' Esther climbed slowly out of the tree. Mrs. Reynolds wrung her hands. 'You've literally dyed your hair. However did you do it? I daren't send you home like that. I shall have to wash you myself. Denney, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on.' Fat with mulberries and sweating from our activities we climbed down and did as Mrs, Reynolds ordered. As I had to rinse and peg out the print dresses I was later than the others. When I climbed through the wire fence between Mrs. Reynolds's house and

the school football oval I could hear Denney and Gerry calling to one another as they walked under the pines on the far side. As I stooped to pick up my mulberry basket I saw Esther coming from Mrs. Reynolds's door. 'Are you late, Esther? Will you get into trouble?' She nodded and stood irresolute beside the wire fence. I put one foot on the lower wire and lifted the upper one. 'Get through,' I commanded. 'You can run home in two minutes this way.' She stood looking at me. Then she shook her head. 'Oh, for goodness' sake!' I exclaimed. I can't stay here all day. Aren't you coming?' 'I'm not allowed to.' 'Pooh!' I said airily. 'Who's to know?' Still she hesitated. A bell tinkled over the stillness of the darkening lawns. 'Tea,' I said urgently. Esther bent her back and climbed through the fence. 'Now run for it,' I ordered. I watched her run in a straight line towards her own home. Her route was a little north of the short cut I would take myself. I set out across the grass on which the gold and purple of sunset lay in still patterns. A row of pines behind me stood erect and sentinel. A few scattered magpies loitered on the lawns, stalking their last evening dish. The world of Church, Rectory and School lay quiet in the approach of evening. As Esther's twinkling legs moved towards the far driveway, two boys came out of the school-house and began to run in a queer puppyish, helter-skelter way towards the changing shed at the lower end of the playing fields. As I watched I saw Esther halt, look about her, and then turn sharply and begin to run towards the privet bushes that surrounded the changing shed. 'Silly fool,' I said to myself. 'As if the boys would take any notice of her! She's gone and hidden herself.' I swung my basket loftily to demonstrate my irritation and half the mulberries showered out on the ground. 'Drat. That's that silly Esther's fault!' I knelt down and began picking up the fruit. As I did so I thought of other things and forgot for the moment about Esther who had taken refuge behind the changing shed where she stood against the wall shielded by the bushes. Neither Esther nor I, as we crossed the school grounds, had seen Oliver, who, for reasons of his own, had already hidden himself in the bushes by the changing shed. But he saw Esther run round the corner of the building. Saw her with her feet planted a little apart, her basket beside her on the ground, and her two hands, on each side of her, pressed with their palms against the wall. She was leaning back, her face turned a little sideways, and her eyes anxious

for fear the boys might turn the corner and see her. But the boys had other ends in view. The part of the changing room against which Esther was leaning was the latrine. The laughter of the boys and the sounds of their preoccupation drifted out on the still air. Oliver saw Esther's face shocked with embarrassment. One half of him kept saying: 'Shucks! What's she scared of?' The other half remained shy for her. Then quite unexpectedly the whole situation resolved itself into one even more terrifying for Esther. In her endeavour to hide from the boys she had placed herself in a position where she could be seen by passers-by along Queen Victoria Drive. As the boys left the shed, Esther looked up and caught sight of Mrs. Riccard leaving the Rectory. At the same moment I too came abreast of the changing shed. However, I was still behind the screen of privet bushes. Mrs. Riccard could not see me, but it was clear that she could see Esther. She paused with her hand on the Rectory gate. Then, before I had time to speak, I heard Oliver's voice from the ground beneath the privets on the side adjacent to the shed. 'Duck your head and come on in,' he commanded. A thin arm with red freckles drew the bushes aside. Above it Esther saw Oliver with his glittering eyes and urchin smile. She stared at him. Slowly and speculatively Oliver gathered the saliva in his mouth. He milled it round with his tongue and then sent it forth in a stream in Mrs. Riccard's direction. 'Old bitch!' Mrs. Riccard meanwhile was still standing with her hand on the latch of the gate, her gaze turned enquiringly towards the changing shed. 'Come on!' Oliver repeated. Esther lowered her head and crawled under the bushes. She lay down on her stomach beside Oliver, and their two heads watched the enemy as she took several steps towards the school. But suddenly Mrs. Riccard stopped, changed her mind, and turned down Queen Victoria Drive towards the Highway. 'Name of a dog of a dog!' Oliver exclaimed after the manner of Baroness Orczy, and hitching up his pants he spat again while Esther looked on admiringly. As he caught her eye a slow smile came into his face. Esther's lovely mouth parted over her teeth and she smiled back at him. Meantime Mrs. Riccard paused in her procession down Queen Victoria Drive and looked back towards the school. 'Old bitch!' repeated Oliver staring menacingly at Mrs. Riccard. 'You come here and you'll cop it!' 'Vulgar little beast!' I said to myself, although I was on his side. It was a riddle

to me to see Esther so enamoured of such ill-bred truculence. Yet enamoured of it she was. She gazed at Oliver as though he were some young and lovely god. 'I see you two,' I said tossing my head and strutting on towards the Rectory. 'I can see the two of you. I can see. I can see.' 'Yoo-hoo!' called Oliver sarcastically. 'I can see! I can see!' With a child's insight I knew the ignominy that Oliver would suffer if accused of an interest in girls. And with a child's cruelty I sought to drive home the spurs of my contempt. I ignored the fact that I was partly responsible for Esther being seen in the school grounds by Mrs. Riccard. Indeed, in my anxiety to hurt Oliver, I remained oblivious to Esther's feelings. But what I did not realise was that Esther had something for Oliver that was above any indignity to which I might subject him. I can see! I can see!' I cantered off, waggling my bottom, and swinging the mulberry basket dangerously high. At the gate of the Rectory I paused. With a new and wicked idea buzzing in my head I turned a little to the left and went through the small side gate of the church―that gate which later became indelibly imprinted on my mind as the gate through which the child Esther subsequently disappeared into Mrs. Riccard's motor car to be lost to the world we knew. I turned around the south wall of the church and selecting a paling on the Harding fence at a spot that Oliver would be sure to notice, I drew, with wicked delight, a bulging heart in mulberry stain. Through the heart I drew two arrows and printed; 'OH. loves E.H.' 'Yoo-hoo to you!' I bestowed a malicious farewell grimace on the timbered walls of the Harding house, and continuing round the east side of the Church went through the side gate to the Rectory. Twilight had deepened. On the other side of the church Mrs. Riccard was thoughtfully walking back towards Queen Victoria Drive. I should have known the events of the afternoon would have a sequel. Less than three quarters of an hour after my arrival home there was a loud and imperious knock on the Rectory door. It heralded Mrs. Riccard with a pale and terrified Esther held firmly and menacingly by the arm. All this I and my sister saw when the maid answered the knock. On such occasions we always crept up the passage and peered at visitors from behind the folds of the thick velvet curtains that marked the point between the passage and the hall. No visitor of distinction called at the Rectory out of school hours without being duly marked by five pairs of eyes from behind the velvet curtains or

from the green frills of the pepper trees. The curate, who lived in the Rectory during my father's absence at the war, came out of the study. He looked at his visitors with considerable surprise. It was clear there was something odd about them. In any event, Mrs. Riccard had but lately been in conference with him about parish affairs. And as for Esther, it was the hour when girls were safely closeted in their homes. Mrs. Riccard held up her hand to spare Mr. Wilding his greetings. 'Say nothing now,' she said. Her shrewd glance in the direction of the velvet curtains did not so much embarrass us as outrage our dignity. How dare she think we would be listening! As if we'd be interested in what she had to say! Somewhat more genteel in our up-bringing than Oliver, we called her the old cat. Without invitation Mrs. Riccard swept into the study propelling Esther in front of her. The study door closed. She had beaten us and we retreated in mass formation from behind the velvet curtains. 'What do you suppose?' murmured Mary doubtfully. 'Wretch!' exclaimed Vicky. 'Did you see Esther's face?' asked Denney. 'She came out of the school gates and went round to the back of the church with Oliver as I came into tea,' I volunteered. 'Is Esther going to get a trashing?' asked Gerry. 'What can we do to save her?' added Denney. Ordinarily we would have been too callous to think of saving Esther, but Mrs. Riccard's magisterial presence caused us unanimously to side with the weaker party. It became a matter of honour. 'Let's go and whistle up Oliver,' said Vicky, 'and see what happens.' We didn't even have to do that, for as we trooped down the back stairs on to the lawn, Oliver's thin figure could be seen standing on the ledge of the picket fence, the newly risen moon providing a halo of light behind him. 'Hey!' I whispered tersely. 'Shush!' from the rest of the Montgomerys. 'Get through the back slip rail under the fig tree,' ordered Oliver, who almost appeared to have been expecting us. The five of us flitted lightly into the forbidden Harding domain. 'What's it all about. . . Esther, I mean?' I demanded of Oliver. By this time we were squatting in the long grass under the fig trees. 'I was showing her my marbles in the cubby hole under the church. Mrs. Riccard, the old bitch, came round the path like a peeping torn. Esther an' I were kneeling on the ground looking at the marbles.'

'What for?' 'Shut up, Denney!' 'What sort of marbles were they?' 'King-thumbs and coloured globes,' said Oliver with a mixture of pride and truculence. We were duly impressed. 'How many coloured globes?' There was suitable respect in Denney's voice. 'Where'd you get them?' I asked suspiciously. Even Esther's fearful plight was not enough to dispel my doubts about Oliver. 'Where d'ya think?' said Oliver derisively. 'I pinched 'em of course. Blew up the Pascoe shop and grabbed all the marbles before the police got there.' 'Will you two stop being silly?' Vicky said peevishly. 'Heaven only knows what is happening to Esther at this moment . . . and you just go on arguing.' The short of it was that Oliver, so attracted to Esther, had taken her to see his secret store behind the grating of a ventilator. By removing the grating he was able to use the horizontal shaft built into the foundations of the church as a repository for such of his possessions as he wished to keep outside his house. But more of this presently. To understand what really happened it is necessary to know something about the character of Grandma Harding. . . . Just as one side of the Harding fence separated our place from Oliver's so another side of it separated the Hardings from the back of the church. On this side there were irregular gaps in the pickets, but over the whole a Morning Glory creeper sprawled like a green and blue cloth of heaven. I had often looked through the fence at the Harding house. To anyone gazing at it from the back of the church, it presented a windowless wooden wall except for a tiny porch-like verandah, a square of warping wood outside a side bedroom door. On this verandah, at all times and in all weathers, sat Grandma Harding. To us she was a black witch of a woman. Black, because she wore a voluminous black woolen dress; and round her ancient, raddled neck was twisted a string of jet beads. Her eyes, too, were black, and though by contrast her hair was white, her eyebrows were still black. On her feet she wore black slippers, with the toes out, while her hands, mottled with dusky patches, rested on a black ebony stick. When Grandma Harding wanted attention she thumped her stick on the wooden floor and called: 'Oily! You there, Oily. . . .' Otherwise she was silent and sphinx-like. Often in the holidays Oliver would sit on the edge of her small verandah throwing gravel in the air or drawing figures in the sand with his bare toes. He would sit for hours beside his grandmother. But I never heard them speak a word to one another. On this evening when Oliver had led Esther round to the rear of the church,

Grandma Harding had, as usual, been sitting silent on the verandah only a short distance from the irregular pickets and the Morning Glory. Mrs. Riccard trod gently as she had followed the figures of Oliver and Esther. Yet Esther told me long afterwards that she had heard the tread. She felt her heart beating exactly to its rhythm. 'What are you doing?' Mrs. Riccard's voice was sharp with accusation. Oliver, kneeling, slowly swivelled and looked at her. There was contempt in his brown eyes. 'Nothing to you,' he said. Disregarding her he gyrated back to his former position and went on separating coloured globes from the more glamorous king-thumbs. But Esther, rising slowly, her eyes hynotised by those of the older woman, was suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, of her recent trespass in the school grounds, of the unknown offence of which she stood accused in Mrs. Riccard's eyes. 'Esther, what are you doing? What were you doing when I came round the corner?' Silence! 'What were you doing in the school lavatories with this boy?' Esther's face lost all trace of colour. Then out of the gathering darkness there came a cackle from behind the Morning Glory. 'Wha' d'ya think they was doin'?' The voice was so unexpected that Mrs. Riccard took a half step towards the creeper wall behind which could now be heard Grandma's heavy stick rhythmically thumping the verandah floor. Then as if recalling her mission, Mrs. Riccard exclaimed sharply: 'Esther! Come with me at once!' Esther did not move. The basket of mulberries was fixed to her paralysed hand. Grandma Harding's cackle came again. 'Wha' d'ya think they was doin'? Are ya try in' to put ideas in their 'eads?' Mrs. Riccard's voice rose to imperious heights. 'Esther, come here!' Esther moved slowly towards Mrs, Riccard, who grasped her by the forearm and began pushing her along the path in the direction of the Rectory. Having now a firm control of Esther, she paused and stared at Oliver. 'You, boy! Go indoors at once. You've no business in the churchyard. If the Rector were here he would deal with you with his stick.' Oliver ignored Mrs. Riccard's order. Instead, he stared with a mixture of anger and dismay at Esther. 'Leave her go!' he commanded truculently.

There was silence but for the thumping of Grandma Harding's stick and the low muttering of her voice. Oliver and Mrs. Riccard eyed each other, their wills in combat. It was Mrs, Riccard who was first to drop her gaze. She turned and, still propelling Esther before her, left the battle ground. In fear for Esther Oliver kept back the abuse that in other circumstances he would have unleashed on such an occasion. Yet years after he said: 'It was at that moment I first began to hate Esther. I liked her . . . loved her . . . because she was so pretty . . . the prettiest girl I ever knew. But she was a coward. And I always hated cowards!' Instead of taking Esther straight home, Mrs. Riccard brought her to the Rectory and that is how we Montgomerys came to know her plight. Mr. Wilding, the curate, having closed the study door, listened bewildered to Mrs. Riccard's tirade of accusation. The alleged monstrousness of a harmless escapade held him speechless, and he humbly agreed that she should telephone Mr. Hillman and bring Esther's father to the rectory. All this we heard from the verandah outside the long sash window. We had gone there as soon as Oliver had told us what had happened when we met him under the fig trees. The long window always stood a couple of inches open at the bottom. We took ourselves there when interesting things occurred in the study. 'Will Esther get a frashing?' Gerry demanded again so loudly that we had forcibly to put her off the verandah. Oliver, who against all the rules had come with us, lay full length on his belly peering between the edge of the blind and the panelling of the window. While he lay thus I cut round to the front hall to hear the telephone conversation. 'Roderick, it's Amelia Riccard . . . yes . . . yes. I'm at the rectory. Yes, she's with me. Will you come down? No, there's been no accident, but the matter's important. I'm with Mr. Wilding in the study. We'll wait. . ..' Then to my astonished ears there came a sudden change of tone. Without warning the authority died from Mrs. Riccard's voice. Her speech assumed a honeyed quality. The sickly sweetness of it shocked me. I thought at first that she was talking to Mr. Wilding; then I realised that she was still using the telephone. 'No, I fear the situation would be beyond Mrs. Hillman. . . . Yes please, do come yourself, Roderick. . . . It's quite all right. Mr. Wilding's here. It's a difficult situation, quite outside the control of Mrs.. Hillman I'm afraid. . . . Yes, I quite understand.' I had heard enough. I tiptoed down the passage past the sewing room where my mother was immersed in a mass of mending for her five daughters. Running round the house, I crept back among the eavesdroppers on the verandah.

The talk of 'lavatories', 'indecent conduct behind the church', 'that boy Oliver Harding' and Mrs. Riccard's honeyed 'Yes, please, do come yourself, Roderick', caused me to see Mrs. Riccard in a new light. She was more than a woman of domineering moral rectitude to be avoided, disliked or feared. There was now something about her which gave rise to an instinctive revulsion in me. The light from the crack below the door shone on Oliver's face. He had heard most of what had been said in the study. There was a pale grimness about him. Angry but thoughtful, for once he was utterly silent. After Mr. Hillman's arrival and the story in the study had been repeated, Oliver stood up and hitched his pants. 'I'm going,' was his only pronouncement on the scene. But he had hardly disappeared round the corner of the house when Esther, having been kept standing from the time Mrs. Riccard had first brought her into the room, suddenly slipped to the floor in a dead faint. Horrified, we leapt off the verandah and ran in a stream to the back steps. As we scrambled up the steps Mr. Wilding was striding down the passage towards the sewing room, Esther inert and white in his arms. 'Is she dead?' demanded Gerry. The suggestion of death terrified us and I began to cry. Mother, quick into action, bundled us outside. The door closed and once more shut us out. From the back porch we could see Oliver silhouetted on the ledge of the fence. The fig tree behind him was thrown into silver relief by the moon. For a moment he seemed to be hanging to the fence, a thin skeleton of a boy, then he dropped into the long grass of the Harding domain. 'Oliver! Oliver!' If Oliver heard he did not answer. What was passing through his mind at that moment I did not know. But he had seen and heard enough. CHAPTER IV - A WIND FROM THE WEST THE more he came to know her, the more Esther was beloved by Mr. Sweeting. When he came upon her in the Highway or up amongst the shops of the Terrace, or on the pathway under the pepper trees in the churchyard, or for that matter anywhere in Pepper Tree Bay, he would remove his hat and bow with all the punctiliousness and courtesy of a great gentleman unexpectedly meeting an equally great lady. When they walked together he would measure his step against hers and talk with grave earnestness. Esther, looking up into his middle-aged, kindly and scholarly face, would

smile in that seraphic way that so inexplicably changed her whole aspect. What they talked about, more often than not remained their secret. Their thoughts too were secret when they sat, Oliver included, in silent contemplation of the river as they fished from the old jetty, summer and winter mornings alike. 'Scat!' Oliver said fiercely when I ventured upon them. Though Mr. Sweeting was too kind to turn away a child―me included―his regard for Esther was so embracing that he remained thoughtful and unseeing as Oliver spat at me. 'Scat!' 'Phooey!' I retorted. Who wanted to sit all day dangling strings in the water? And who wanted to sit sewing beads or spangles or forget-me-nots on doll's dresses as Esther did? Not just occasionally either. I had never seen, nor even imagined such fineness of stitching and such elegance of cut and colour as Esther could contrive for her one and only, but very beautiful, doll. The one that Mr. Sweeting gave her for Christmas. Sometimes when driven by extremities of boredom to seek any sort of human companionship, I went to the Hillmans' house. The doll's wardrobe was kept in a cabinet in the drawing-room amid a sea of embroideries and evidences of needlecraft. In two things Mrs. Hillman herself excelled―needlework and teaching the piano. Every inch of the poor little drawing-room testified to her patience with the needle. Curtains, cushions, antimacassars, d'oyleys, table mats, all were covered with the finest and most intricate patterns. But so many and so varied were the patterns and colour contrasts that the whole was a jumble of idiosyncrasy. Esther herself contributed to the assortment of embroideries, though the arrival of the doll lent a direction to her needlework. She made clothes for the doll that out-rivalled the latest modes in the fashion magazines. Secretly I was both awed and full of admiration for the beauty and detail of that miniature wardrobe of hers, but I would have lost caste with the rest of Pepper Tree Bay had I confessed to an interest―even a superficial one―in dolls. Dolls were not the fashion in my childhood. At least, not in Pepper Tree Bay. A year had passed since the incident in the churchyard. The Great War, whose impact on Pepper Tree Bay had been distant and delayed, began to create more difficulties at the Grammar School. During this period I went one day to have tea with Esther. Mr. Hillman came home from school at the moment when Esther was spreading out her array of doll's clothes. Mrs. Hillman was sitting in a cane chair by the window. She held an embroidery frame close to her face. She usually did this and I had the impression that her eyesight was either weak or strained.

As he stood in the doorway Mr. Hillman filled the room with an atmosphere of tension. 'Esther, go outside and take your little friend with you.' He was cold, taciturn and ungracious. Mrs. Hillman lowered her embroidery frame and sat still, looking at him. The way in which she did so seemed different from what I remembered of earlier occasions. Indefinably, her attitude seemed more assured. The anticipation of recrimination for something done, or left undone, was not so apparent. But she sat very still, an odd fixity in her eyes. No word was spoken between them until we had gone outside. 'Shall I make tea?' I heard Esther asking me with grave good manners. 'Oh, yes, please,' I said, awkwardly following her into the kitchen. Somehow Esther was unaccountably forcing good manners on me too. With due solemnity we brewed the tea. 'My father says one heaped teaspoon for each person and two for the pot,' I said for the sake of making conversation. I saw Esther hesitate, then add more tea. I felt embarrassed. Perhaps they could not afford to make strong tea, and I could not unsay my words. Esther unblushingly drank the tea which I could see was far too strong for her. 'Why does she do it?' I miserably asked myself. 'Why doesn't she throw it down the sink as Mary or Vicky would do and make herself a nice wishywashy cup?' Why was she so painfully correct? And why did I mind it? After what seemed to me a long time we heard a door close as Mr. Hillman left the drawing-room and went to his study. Mrs. Hillman came into the kitchen. Her eyes were wet and she was brushing back the tears. Esther stood up. 'Mother, what is it? Me again? What have I done wrong?' 'Nothing, nothing, Esther.' She paused. 'It's quite stupid of me. It's nothing bad this time. Mr. Sweeting is coming to the house tonight to ask me to give music lessons to the boys from the school. . . . It's really good news. More money for us. Who knows? We might be able to send you to a good school.' 'Then why . . .?' 'Of course, your father doesn't like it. It hurts his pride, but he can't refuse the headmaster. He's full of all sorts of things about a woman going into the school.' 'But will you go to school every day like Father?' Mrs. Hillman sat down at the kitchen table and drew the teapot towards her. The light came back into her eyes, and her manner showed a faint

exhilaration, like a light breeze coming in from the west and just rippling the surface of the river. 'I think I will only go to the school to give lessons in singing and theory. For the piano lessons the boys will come here.' 'The boys!' Esther's eyes were big. I looked at their two faces. 'What's wrong with boys?' I said. 'Father often took me to the school when he was headmaster.' Mrs. Hillman shook her head. 'Your father is the Rector. He can do no wrong. But Esther and me―that's another question!' On my way home I kept thinking about what Mrs. Hillman had said. 'What's wrong with boys, Mama?' I asked. 'Grubby, noisy, selfish creatures!' she replied. She had been washing up the syrup glasses after choir practice and still had the crackling voices of the choir boys resounding in her ears. 'That's not why Mr. Hillman doesn't like them.' 'Of course he likes them. If he didn't have boys he couldn't earn his living.' 'But he doesn't like them near Esther or Mrs. Hillman.' 'Well, I suppose there's no necessity for Esther and Mrs. Hillman to be near boys.' 'There is now. Mrs. Hillman is going to give the boys piano lessons . . . and in her drawing-room too!' Mother looked at me in silence. 'What's wrong with that, Mama?' Her gaze travelled from my face towards the window which gave on to the aspect of Queen Victoria Drive, the Hillman house and the school. She faintly shook her head. 'Nothing, child,' she said. 'Nothing at all.' Nevertheless, something brought a fleeting frown to her face. 'You don't like Oliver Harding,' I said, shifting the axis of the conversation, 'I do really,' she replied. 'But he's such a little guttersnipe. Such language! He gets that from his drunken father.' 'You won't allow him here.' 'Certainly not until he learns manners and how to behave like a gentleman.' Oliver a gentleman! Much he'd thank Mama for that! With the beginning of the second term, things did indeed alter in the Hillman house. On some of the mornings Mrs. Hillman went to the school and nearly every afternoon boys followed one another into the cane-furnished, overembroidered little drawing-room. And through a crack at the bottom of the sash windows came sounds of the laborious strumming of reluctant fingers. It was laid down that Esther at these times was neither to be seen nor heard. The cabinet of doll's clothes, the exotic fashion magazines, the work baskets of ribbons, silks, laces and threads were all transferred to Esther's back bedroom

leading from the kitchen; and very soon embroidered curtains and cushions turned this sometime servant's room into Esther's version of a fashion salon. To us children, bare-footed river wanderers, it was the strangest preoccupation. 'It will soon settle Esther's hash with Oliver,' I thought. Actually we weren't sagacious enough to realise that Esther's frilly adornments, despite Oliver's sarcasm, were more than half her attraction. Esther, while the music lessons were on, was quiet, obedient and a little secretive. She rarely talked or played with us. Her nervousness and silence in company cut her off. Yet for all her silence her face was seldom empty. Sometimes there were thoughts that floated like leaves across her unguarded consciousness. I knew that in some ways she was afraid of the indolent yet demonstrative adolescence of the boys. And she was terrified of our frankness. Only with Oliver was she freed from the complexity of her emotions. Sometimes Esther walked across the Highway to the Swamp. In winter it was a wonderful place. It had an eerie, goblin quality. Where the Misses David had cultivated the earth there were fruit trees and maize patches; but outside their fence, which separated their cultivation from the Swamp, the ti-trees and reeds grew exactly as they had done before the white men came. In the Swamp there were small islands of firm ground, stepping stones to the red-gum in the middle. Oliver it was who showed Esther the way to the islet on which the red-gum stood; and she often went there during her visits to the Davids'. Many years later Esther told Oliver she was twelve years old when she first noticed how her father would sit watching her mother with a sort of cold animosity, and yet his manner made no impression on Mrs. Hillman. In the work she had taken up at the suggestion of Mr. Sweeting she was almost fully occupied; and there was some dream-life associated with her pupils that no one else in the house shared. Though many small comforts were surreptitiously added to the house there was no further mention of school for Esther. Storm clouds were gathering, but we children who shared the life of Queen Victoria Drive were too preoccupied with the business of growing to notice their approach. One afternoon we were walking, as we so often did, in a kind of posse, towards the river. I don't remember how many of us there were nor the purpose of our mission. But ahead of us was Esther moving towards her house while behind us Oliver, grown very tall now, was lagging. Now and then a pebble whizzed along the gravel path and stung an unshod

heel. But always when we turned around Oliver was looking the other way. As we came abreast of the Hillman house we saw Mrs. Riccard standing on the verandah looking down at Esther who had just come through the gate. 'Shall I call Mother?' Esther asked from the foot of the steps. Mrs. Riccard raised a hand as though to silence Esther. The same moment chords of a Chopin prelude sounded unevenly through the partly raised window of the drawing-room.. It was a strange scene. We children stood curious and irresolute at the gate. Esther seemed rooted to the spot. She did not mount the steps and approach her own door. Mrs. Riccard above her, with hand raised, stood sentinel, her head bent slightly sideways towards the window. The only sounds were the suffering chords of Chopin music. As I gazed at her I got a strong impression that Mrs. Riccard had been standing there for quite a long time. Then suddenly the odd tableau broke up and came to life. Mrs. Riccard began to descend the steps. Esther moved timidly aside while we ran off towards the river so as not to be caught eavesdropping. Only Oliver stayed beside the gate and heard Mrs. Riccard's parting words. 'Don't interrupt your mother, Esther,' she said in sharp but low tones. 'She's busy and even I have avoided intruding.' She hesitated beside Esther. 'I will come another day,' she added. When she opened the gate Mrs. Riccard had to pass Oliver. On seeing him she stopped, then using her furled sunshade as if to brush him aside, she moved through the gate and proceeded along the path beside Queen Victoria Drive. Oliver said nothing. He had watched her every movement from the moment he had first seen her. Her eyes were bright, mean, malicious. Something had happened that pleased her. He watched Esther mount the steps, turn the key in the front door, and disappear inside. For a minute or two he waited and then as he walked off in the opposite direction to Mrs. Riccard he looked back over his shoulder. A boy from the Grammar School emerged with his music case under his arm. It was Geoffrey Thorn, the captain of the football team. About a fortnight later, a storm, borne in by the wild and vagrant westerlies, broke over Pepper Tree Bay. As we pressed our noses to the windows and looked out on the sleet we knew the wind would be tossing the surface waters of the river into grey-black waves that shattered their crests in fountains of spray. Even in the deep channel, half a mile across the Bay, the normal lethargy of river would have changed to a racing pell-mell of dirty coloured water. Thinking of the Swamp I imagined the wind whistling through the tiny leaf twigs of the red-gum. And below the stiff rigidity of its ancient branches I saw the reeds, the prickly bushes and the paper barks sodden with runnels of

water. Then in the midst of my thoughts I saw Esther. No, she was not a dream. Swathed in a rain-coat and with her head down against the wind she was battling along the footpath outside the Rectory fence. Under her arm she carried some books. Overhead great drifts of cloud, white and black, were being driven across the sky. Beneath her feet the pathway was crunchy with the red berries of the pepper trees. 'Golly, where's Esther going?' Mary asked. 'To the Swamp,' I said. 'Look at her books. She's going to get some more from Miss Priscilla.' 'Won't Esther get wet?' asked Gerry. I was speculating on the discomforts of wind and rain against the chances of getting a good book to read myself. 'Mama,' I pleaded. 'Let me go to the Swamp with Esther. I've got nothing to read and it's dreadful just standing here all day looking at the rain.' Mother came to the window to judge the state of the weather. With my eyes I was following Esther's retreating figure as she came out of Queen Victoria Drive on to the Highway. She lurched a little as a squall of wind buffeted her. Then she crossed the road and was lost around the corner of the road to the Swamp. 'Mama,' I repeated urgently. But Mother was craning her head and staring up the Drive. 'Mama!' She did not hear me, and I stood on tip-toe to see beyond the fence at what was engaging her attention. A man stood under the pepper trees on the opposite side of the road from the Hillmans' house. His coat collar was turned up, perhaps against the wind and the rain. His hat was pulled down over his eyes. 'It's Mr. Hillman, Mama. Whatever is he standing there for?' We continued to stare through the window at him. The wind swished the trailers of pepper berries about him from the tree above. The rain was a gusty mist. His overcoat flapped behind him. 'Whatever is he doing in the rain?' Mother shook her head as if ridding herself of some idea, some untoward thought that had disturbed her. Then she said: 'I expect he's watching to see if the wind lifts any of the tiles from the roof.' She seemed relieved at her explanation. 'Mama, can I go? Esther will be almost at the Swamp.' 'Yes, go―for goodness' sake take yourself off!' Such unexpected expediency! I flew into my rain-coat, gathered up a borrowed book or two and burst out into the wind and rain. The cold clasped my

fingers in ice. As I lifted tire latch of the Rectory gate I saw Mr. Hillman cross the road and enter his own garden. At the Swamp the swollen waters were an ugly clay grey; and here and there mats of fallen leafless twigs, empty nests, and paper bark floated like desolate rafts. The pathway to the house of the Misses David was a squelch of mud. Miss Betsy David took me inside to the vast kitchen where Miss Priscilla was turning cream into butter in a wooden churn on a bench under the window. Esther, nearby, was leaning against the wall watching her. She had taken off her coat but I could see that her shoes were soaking. Miss Betsy was dragging my coat off from behind. The same moment Esther turned a curiously sightless glance towards me. 'It's because her eyes are grey,' I thought, shocked by their effect upon me. As I gazed at her I realised that Esther's prettiness was not a quality of her eyes, which were neutral―even empty and colourless. What made her so attractive was the evenness of her features and the porcelain texture of her skin; the soft honey of her hair and the perfect moulding of her mouth. 'Her face is exactly like a doll's,' I said to myself. 'Pretty but empty.' Miss Priscilla spoke to Esther in a soft voice. Esther smiled... a little smile. Then in a moment there followed that extraordinary change which occasionally came over her face. Warmth and life bloomed as radiantly as roses in spring. 'Theodora, will you take a turn at the churn?' Miss Betsy said in her mousy voice. 'Esther's little arms are hardly strong enough.' 'Esther could never manage the handle,' said Miss Priscilla firmly. 'It's too stiff. But it wouldn't be fair on Theodora to have to do it in that case.' This was a challenge and I insisted on taking the handle. 'Drat!' I murmured to myself. 'And that pussy Esther gets off scot free.' Miss Priscilla began to lift down from the cupboard shelves large tins of home made biscuits. 'Some tea first,' she said. 'Then we'll look at the books afterwards.' 'Yes! The books afterwards,' echoed Miss Betsy, But even a tea party was not a success with Esther this day. The smile had gone. She was silent and preoccupied, wearing all the time, except when spoken to directly, that static doll-like look of emptiness. 'What's the matter with you, dear? Aren't you well?' I wanted to say: 'She's well enough to go out in the rain.' But instead I temporised with: 'She was doing all right against the wind when she passed the Rectory.' 'She's not as strong as you, Theodora.' 'Oh hell!' This to myself. Then: 'Did you want some books to read, Esther?' I

asked. I could have lent you some from the Rectory.' Esther was being cornered in an argument to which so far she had made no contribution. 'I want to go home,' she said. 'Oh! For crying out loud! Have I frightened you off your tea?' Esther's eyes brimmed with tears that fell overboard making her face pathetic and babyish. Miss Priscilla and Miss Betsy alternated between giving her looks of concern and me looks of admonishment. 'Esther, Esther, what's the matter with you to-day?' 'My mother isn't well,' she faltered not quite truthfully. 'You don't have to hurry,' I said more peaceably. 'Your father's home. He was standing ages in the rain. "Looking for loose tiles", Mama said. Anyway, when I came out of the rectory he was just going in your gate.' The tears in Esther's eyes froze into stillness. In her face was terror. 'But he's at school.' 'No, he's not. He's inside your house.' Esther's eyes faltered from one face to another. 'What is it, child?' Miss Priscilla asked. 'I don't feel very well,' she said. 'I want to go home.' 'Then you shall go home,' Miss Priscilla said with sudden resolution. 'And Miss Betsy and I will go with you. A walk in the rain will do us good.' 'Do us all the good in the world,' echoed Miss Betsy. We trailed up the Swamp road and across the wind-stormed Highway. I felt like a pariah in this goodly company. It had been my conversation that had upset Esther. Branches from the lilac tree in front of the church were down on the ground. Outside the porch door a nest of shattered shingles testified to damage on the roof. 'I wonder where Cutty Bannister is?' I said, eager to return from Coventry. Cutty, a road mender, was also a self-appointed custodian of the church and its environs. A large taciturn man. The only child in Queen Victoria Drive who ever voluntarily addressed him was Oliver. 'Dear, dear,' stuttered Miss Betsy. 'He will be upset. Just look at the lilac! Oh, the beautiful lilac!' But neither Miss Priscilla nor Esther was looking at the lilac, nor thinking of Cutty Bannister. . . . Nor for that matter was I as I turned my head. A little way along the road―perhaps half-way between the Rectory and the Hillmans' house―was Mrs. Riccard's car. The chauffeur sat in it, his cap pulled down over his eyes. Two things were clear. The chauffeur had been there some time, and as Mrs. Riccard did not call on anyone in Queen Victoria Drive other than ourselves and the Hillmans, the car was standing where it was for some outstandingly peculiar reason. Ordinarily the wind, rain and mud would not have permitted

Mrs. Riccard to walk the thirty yards or so to either house. Miss Priscilla and Miss Betsy walked determinedly on. Esther between them looked blue with cold and I could see that her teeth were chattering. It was not the coldness of the day that was twisting her little doll face. I took the books from under her arm. She did not even notice. Nor did any of them remark that I had passed the Rectory. My going with them was more than common curiosity. There was that too, of course, but something more. This day―and now―my jealousy and antagonism towards Esther died for ever. I knew as surely as Miss Priscilla did, that something was wrong. My heart went out in pity and protection. I did not realise until later, much later, when I was old enough to understand fully what took place, that this was Friday afternoon, a fortnight after the day when Mrs. Riccard had stood on the Hillman verandah, her head bent towards the partly opened window of the drawing-room. As we came to the gate I could see Mrs. Riccard now. She was again standing on the verandah. But this time she was not alone. Nor was she silent. Her hand was on a youth's shoulder. She was talking to Geoffrey Thorn, the boy who on Friday afternoons took music lessons, and was captain of the football team. . . . When she looked up and saw our rain-coated party at the gate, she dropped her hand from the boy's shoulder and lifted her head. Her face suffused with an angry red. The assumed dignity and graciousness left her. She looked at the Misses David who had, by their timorous presence, put a period to the scene. There was hate in her eyes. Geoffrey Thom, whose white face was strained with uncertainty and fear, glanced at her for a moment, then seeing a chance to escape, ran down the path and forced his way between us. In a moment he was gone. CHAPTER V - LULL THAT stormy Friday and its subsequent events marked the beginning of the end of childhood for the seven of us in Queen Victoria Drive: we five Montgomerys, Esther and Oliver. Within a week Esther had gone to live on the hill. A month or six weeks later Oliver had gone into the country. Another year and my father would be home, broken by war and the span of his life counted in weeks. Long afterwards Mother put the events of that Friday in better perspective for us. 'Mrs. Hillman had not in actuality had a love affair with Geoffrey Thorn. But she had come dangerously near it. Near enough to cause some harm to the boy. . . .' 'But, Mama, he was only a boy after all. Surely Mrs. Hillman...'

'Was only playing with him? No, that would have been bad in itself. A teacher of whatever subject, in whatever place, has a grave responsibility to her pupils. No, she did not play with Geoffrey Thorn. She was too witless a creature to be a real coquette.' 'Then what was she? Why did you hear of the music lessons with misgiving? You did, you know, Mama. You always seemed to be worried about it.' 'She was unsuited to handle boys. She was pretty and fluffy and over-dressed in a sugary way. And with that husband of hers she was terribly lonely. I would never have advised Mr. Sweeting to employ her.' 'Then why did he?' 'He was desperate for teachers and took a chance. Perhaps he relied on the jealous watchfulness of her husband. More likely he was such an innocent, guileless kind of man himself he would never have seen danger in having the boys round Mrs. Hillman. 'But she wasn't vicious, Mama.' 'No, only stupid. And married to an iceberg.' Poor Mrs. Hillman! For a short time she had known a little power in that house. She had had company. She had made a little money. She had made an impression on somebody. She had known a little independence, and had for a little while been relieved of her husband's moods. She was, however, flotsam on the currents of life in Pepper Tree Bay. That she was in control of her own tiny barque was simply an idea of hers, a dream. She was not equipped by temperament or experience to understand the social pitfalls of sentimental attachments with older boys. She was too unworldly to know anything of the effects of her manner and her nearness on the boys. There were others who had a greater knowledge of the frailties of human nature, and one or two of these―Mama and Miss Priscilla David―had watched her with anxiety. Mrs. Riccard, of course, had also watched her; but for other reasons. Mrs. Riccard knew how to play on Roderick Hillman's pathological jealousy. On that dreadful Friday when all was found out, Mrs. Hillman suddenly learned for all time how feeble were her resources for independent thought and action. That she completely broke down under Mrs. Riccard's accusation was testified to by Mr. Sweeting when he came, with Oliver and me, to the unravelling of Esther's story. 'Mrs. Riccard ordered Miss Priscilla away... You would remember that, Theodora...' Yes, I remembered that awful scene at the gate.... Mrs. Riccard, having looked up, sharply gathered together the forces of her scattered dignity, and descending the three stone steps, advanced on us. 'Oh, you have Esther with you, Miss Priscilla. . . . Please leave her now!'

She held up her hand to silence intervention. 'Her mother and father are inside. They will attend to her. Please do not intrude at this moment, Miss Priscilla. I assure you Mr. and Mrs, Hillman are occupied.' 'The boy . . .!' Miss Betsy was whispering. 'What was wrong with the boy?' Mrs. Riccard stood firmly in front of us so that no one could pass her. Then followed an awkward silence, for Miss Priscilla made no attempt to give ground. 'I think I will take Esther . . .' began Miss Priscilla. Again Mrs. Riccard held up her hand. 'Esther, go up to the school and fetch Mr. Sweeting. Tell him I want to see him urgently about one of the boys . . . Geoffrey Thorn.' None of us could think quickly enough to out-manoeuvre Mrs. Riccard at that moment. None of us could think of Mr. Sweeting as anything but a saviour. Esther did not move at once despite the peremptory manner of Mrs. Riccard's command. She tried in her childish mind, just as we did in ours, to understand in what way Mr. Sweeting could be an ally of Mrs. Riccard. Esther could think of Mr. Sweeting only as her very personal friend, someone to go to in an emergency. She pulled her hand away from Miss Priscilla's arm. 'Yes,' she said to all of us rather than to Mrs. Riccard. 'Yes, I will get him.' 'I'm coming with you, Esther.' I ran after her as she darted up the road. We ran helter-skelter, impeded by the wind which was still blowing strongly, as well as by our rain-coats. The lead-light in the front of the school door presented a fascinating maze of colour as we waited for the door-bell to be answered. We did not speak to one another. I counted twenty-nine coloured panes of glass, all of different shapes and sizes, knit together by a strange, meandering ribbon of lead. Yes, I'm sure that if I went to the school now I would still find those twenty-nine panes of glass. The housemaid opened the door. Mr. Sweeting's cap hung jauntily on his walking stick where it tipped crazily forward in a nest of umbrellas and old golf-sticks. The hall, bare, yet not without warmth, smelt of ink-wells and leather satchels. Even as the maid was considering our request to see the headmaster, Mr. Sweeting, crossing the hall, saw us. He took his pince-nez from his nose and peered at us. 'Esther? And yes . . . little Miss Montgomery, to be sure.' This was Esther's mission. So I remained silent. 'Will you come to our house, Mr. Sweeting? Please, Mr. Sweeting ... Miss Priscilla said so . . . please?'

Thus was the headmaster misled. Had Mr. Sweeting known that it was Mrs. Riccard who had summoned him the scales might immediately have fallen from his eyes. Clearly Esther had mentioned Miss Priscilla because her mind would not accept it that she had run so fast and willingly on Mrs. Riccard's errand. And I? Miss Priscilla had not attempted to stop us, so she was a party to it. And what could Mr. Sweeting do but put to rights all that was so palpably wrong in the little green and white house? I don't quite remember what followed Esther's plea. But I do remember standing again in the gateway of the Hillmans' house. . . . Mrs. Riccard was gone. Miss Priscilla and Miss Betsy David were gone. The car and its chauffeur were gone. Mr. Hillman, however, was just coming through the front door. He looked in astonished dismay to see Esther leading Mr. Sweeting through the gate. 'Father, I've brought Mr. Sweeting.' 'You . . . you've brought Mr. Sweeting!' The headmaster turned and firmly bade me good-bye. 'Go home now, little miss. If we need your help any more we shall come and get you.' He shut the gate on me. 'Come now, Esther. . . .' There was no sign of any one about the Hillman house on Saturday. And I was too awed to discuss Friday's events―even with my sisters. They were full of portents, I too young to understand. On Sunday morning as we prepared for matins my mother made an unexpected announcement. 'If you see Mrs. Hillman and Esther you must be sure to smile. Quite specially I want you to smile today.' 'But why, Mama?' asked Vicky. 'Don't we always see them at church? And don't we always smile?' said Mary. 'Is Esther sick or sum-fing ?' asked Gerry. My mother fussed with the tying of our hair ribbons. We could see she was prevaricating in a Christian kind of way. 'It's such a nice day after the storm. They all had such a miserable time in the wet weather. That house is altogether too small. Besides Mr. Sweeting wants...' She turned at that moment and caught my eyes on her. 'What is it, Theodora?' she said sharply. 'What does Mr. Sweeting want, Mama?' She put down the hair brush. 'Nothing except that life in Pepper Tree Bay should go on exactly as it always has. Least said soonest mended.' Mother stared at me for quite a long time. But I said nothing. 'Yes, smile at

them,' she said. 'Specially today.' Then her mouth folded up to a determined button and nothing more could be got out of her. The five of us filed through the side gate of the Rectory about the time the pealing of the second bell was due to stop. Esther, her father and mother, had just reached the porch door. Mr. Hillman without a glance at his daughter or his wife walked on around the church to the vestry. He was going to take his place in the choir. There was something wrong with Mrs. Hillman. She trailed her laces and ribbons untidily. Her face, always a little over made up, had nothing on it but uneven dabs of powder. She was in an intensely nervous state. The lids over her eyes flickered unceasingly. Her hands plucked first at her gloves and then at Esther's arm. Her lips moved stiffly. 'Nobody knows. No one need know. Nobody knows. No one need know!' Then as we all entered the porch in something of a melee she smiled at me quite brightly. 'Keep up appearances, that's the thing,' she said distinctly. It was almost as though she had been schooled to utter the words. My sisters stared at her bewildered. Esther pulled at her mother's arm. 'The prayer books, Mama. We've forgotten the prayer books.' 'Dear me, of course!' Mrs. Hillman darted behind the massive door that led from the porch to the church. On shelves behind the door were prayer books for those who had come unprepared. The same moment there was an unmistakable footfall on the gravel path. Esther stared at the shadow across the sunlit doorway. Then Mrs. Riccard appeared. As she mounted the single step she grew tall and towered above us all. Mrs. Hillman, prayer book in hand, came from behind the door. Over Esther's head their eyes met. Esther turned and took her mother's hand as if to protect her. It was Mrs. Hillman who was now the child. 'She knows, Esther. How does she know?' Clearly Mrs. Hillman was in no fit state to go to church. If only Mama had been there at that moment! Or even Miss Priscilla! But there was only Mrs. Riccard, stiff, correct, implacable. 'Come on, Mother,' Esther urged. She dragged at her mother's hand, leading her in the only direction of escape from Mrs. Riccard―into the church.. 'What's the matter with Mrs. Hillman?' Mary whispered. 'Shush!' 'Has she gone potty?' asked Denney. I was quite sure that that was what had happened. I followed them into church and we sat in the Rectory pew across the aisle. I

thought Mrs. Hillman would never get off her knees. I was embarrassed for her. It was a glorious Sunday morning. The sun streamed through the stained glass windows and fell in a shaft of diamond dancing light into a pool on the floor of the chancel. The choir boys paced solemnly to their places, each passing through the mist of light, becoming hallowed by its beauty. Old Canon Miling from the next parish, who was taking the service, stopped in its very centre. Heaven had, for a moment, turned its glory on his snowy head. His lovely, mellifluous, aged voice sounded through the organ music. 'Let us pray.' Then while we waited for his prayer there was a silence. Never had there been a silence so prolonged. The congregation lifted their heads and there was something like awe on everyone's face. Thought of the Hillmans was banished from our minds. It was as if the moment had become halted in time and rested on the sunlit heads of the choir, on the flooding light across the chancel. Then softly and very slowly Canon Miling began to intone the matins. It was the strangest service. It was quite different in timing and emphasis from any that I remember before or since. It was wrapt in a mystery, yet a mystery in which everyone partook. Again there came a long waiting silence. Now the glory of the day began to be something of an anxiety to me. Something in the atmosphere of the service seemed palpably wrong. Perhaps the shaft of sunlight had made us all think it was different. Yet I knew it was something more than that. In the choir stalls I could see Mr. Hillman's face buried in his hands. His knuckles were white. Over the aisle Mrs. Hillman sat bolt upright when she should have been bowed in prayer. Her eyes were bright with a sort of hysteria. Yet this oddness of the service had nothing to do with the Hillmans, or with any of us in Pepper Tree Bay. It had to do with Heaven and Canon Miling. He moved slowly down the steps of the chancel to the foot of the pupit. Very slowly he mounted it. As he stood looking at the congregation he seemed to take a long deep breath. His left hand held his stole pressed against his breast. He bowed his head. Very gently he sighed, with a sound that fingered at one's heart. His head drooped forward as if to lean on the Bible. Then soundlessly he disappeared from view. One of the masters in the choir stood up and very quietly walked round the stalls and mounted the pulpit. Then he straightened himself.

He did not need to speak. The congregation knew. . . . Esther's mother stood up and screamed. Then, stumbling into the aisle, she ran from the church. CHAPTER VI - DRIFT THERE was silence in the church except for the knocking of shoes and an occasional parasol on the polished boards of the floor. Then there was a hollow echo from the foot treads; for there was none of the accustomed organ music to accompany the dispersal of the people. Esther sat unmoving. She had not attempted to follow her mother. Whether in her childish imagining she thought, by some little dignity of her own, to redeem something that had been lost by her mother's scream, or whether years of discipline had made her incapable of acting quickly enough, or whether some glance had passed between her and her father, I do not know. Certainly Mr. Hillman had left the choir stalls and had disappeared through the vestry door before anyone in the church had moved. Not once did Esther tum her head to see what the church wardens, who had gone to the pulpit, were doing. Her chin was high, and her eyes―tire light in them extinguished―were fixed on the pews in front of her. It was only when we Rectory children, always instructed to leave the church last, began to move out into the aisle that Esther stirred. She stood up and came with us. Then Miss Priscilla David's face appeared over the shoulders of the last of the retreating congregation. She came towards us, her face calm and reassuring. Behind her faltered Miss Betsy, bewildered and tragic, her hair wispy. Miss Priscilla's hand went out under Esther's arm. 'Come, child,' she said gently. Esther looked up into her face. There was nothing of the day's tragedies in Miss Priscilla's eyes nor in her smile. 'Come along, dear.' Perhaps she thought we were all too young to know that Canon Miling had taken his last service. There was nothing of sorrow or dismay in her voice, only matter-of-factness, calm reassurance. When we came outside into the fine crystal air the boys from the Grammar School were already marshalled to be marched away. They began to move in twos towards Queen Victoria Drive. This was the custom, and the events of the morning did not vary it. Miss Priscilla kept a firm grasp of Esther's arm as they stood a moment outside the porch door. Under the pepper trees near the rectory gate Oliver stood staring at us. Esther did not look in his direction; her gaze was turned anxiously towards the corner around which her father must come from the vestry. Or had he run out, still clad in cassock and surplice along Queen Victoria Drive in pursuit of Mrs. Hillman? And where had she run? And who was

there to go and see? I pushed Denney towards the Rectory. 'Tell Mama to come,' I said. 'Go on. Hurry!' 'It's all right, Theodora,' Miss Priscilla intervened. 'Your mother is looking after Mrs. Hillman.' She smiled down at Esther. 'You see, Esther, someone kind and gentle is looking after your mother.' But Esther was preoccupied with the corner of the church. What dreadful scenes had taken place in the Hillman home that Mrs. Hillman had so departed from her normal senses? And Esther, the beloved child, thought only of the fear that must come to her when her father turned the corner. Mr. Sweeting came back from the church gate through which the last of the Grammar School boys were departing. His feet crunched on the gravel and he dodged his head between the straggling veils of the pepper trees. The parishioners stood around talking in subdued tones; but Mr. Sweeting addressed none of these. He was looking only at Esther. Raising his hat to Miss Priscilla, he cleared his throat. 'Ah!' he said. I see you have Esther. I came back to find out how things would go with her.' He looked down. 'Are you all right, child?' Esther's lip trembled and her eyes suddenly swam with tears. There was such a world of gentleness and kindness in his tones that she seemed to come back from the wasteland of her fears, and be aware she stood in the midst of friends who meant protection. Outside the group and near the Rectory gate, Oliver kicked impatiently at the pepper tree. Miss Priscilla answered for Esther. 'Betsy and I are thinking of asking Esther to have lunch with us at the Swamp. We are waiting to ask her father's permission..' 'Would you like that, Esther?' Mr. Sweeting asked. 'I want my mother,' she whispered almost inaudibly. The tone of her voice said what her words could not―that she wanted to go far away―away from Queen Victoria Drive, away from the little green and white house, away to some place where she and her mother would be safe from the dark animosity that haunted their lives. . . . Mr. Sweeting's glance strayed to the pepper tree by the Rectory gate. 'I suppose you wouldn't have lunch for two visitors, Miss David? Suppose Oliver also paid you a visit today.' Esther's eyes, which had been travelling backwards and forwards between Queen Victoria Drive and the corner of the church, now rested with startled anxiety on the thin, restless boy under the pepper tree. Miss Priscilla raised her voice a little. 'Will you come, Oliver? Will you come and have lunch with me and Miss Betsy and Esther?'

Dinner in a rich home? Oliver darted around the side path, evidently to ask permission for the outing. Esther, hunted into a corner by her friends, and haunted in her mind's eye by the fugitive figure of her mother, had no words to say to this latest invitation. At that moment Mama, with Mr. Hillman―and God save us― Mrs. Riccard, emerged from the Rectory. At the side gate Mrs. Riccard, preceding them both, came to the little circle standing around Esther. Mama called us softly from the gate. 'Vicky, Theodora. . . . All of you! Please come in now.' There was a peremptoriness about her tone that said that there was vulgarity and indecent curiosity in our loitering. Mr. Hillman had turned back into the Rectory. So that was where Mrs. Hillman had taken refuge. We began to straggle towards the gate in obedience to Mama. I turned and observed how the little scene in the church-yard had changed, now that Mrs. Riccard had entered it. She had become the focal point of the people gathered there. Clearly she knew more intimately the nature of the things that had taken place that morning. I saw her speak to Miss Priscilla and her hand fell in an arresting way on Esther's arm, I saw Miss Priscilla open her mouth, a hint of anger in her face. But clearly Mrs. Riccard's commanding presence was not to be gainsaid. If they were disputing over a claim to Esther's person Miss Priscilla was about to lose all along the line. She it was who would not make a scene in any public place; nor would she desecrate the remains of Canon Miling with a vulgar altercation. Nor could she by force of personality prove a match for Mrs. Riccard. She dropped Esther's hand, stood a moment irresolute, then partly turned away. The same moment Oliver came round the corner. At a glance he knew what had happened. He looked at Miss Priscilla not only in disappointment at a dinner lost, but in chagrin and despair that there was no one to stand up to this woman he hated. Esther stood, white-faced, no gesture or sign of rebellion at the change of plan. Oliver looked as if he could have wept for her stupidity. Then all these emotions were gathered up in one horrific stare at Mrs. Riccard. Quite distinctly I heard Mrs. Riccard's voice. The furled umbrella began brushing Oliver aside. 'Go away, boy. You have no place here.' Then before the gaze of those who waited in the churchyard he spat upon the ground, the spittle falling not a foot from Mrs. Riccard's beautifully made and polished shoes. Mrs. Riccard opened her mouth, but Oliver forestalled her. I don't know what he said―and the grown-up Oliver has forgotten― but I saw him swing his left arm across his chest, the elbow and the back of his hand presented to Mrs. Riccard's outraged person. It was a gesture that was half a threat and half an

expression of contempt. I knew for the first time then what my father meant when he used to say: 'The back o' my hand to ye!' Mrs. Riccard addressed her punitive stare to the people standing around. Almost in a shame-faced kind of way they began to disperse. Fear of Mama's wrath and sense of my own lack of taste in hovering there bade me withdraw inside the Rectory gate. Here I could abandon all pretence and gaze over the picket palings at the departure of Esther and the retreat of the Misses David. Grasping Esther's arm in a predatory kind of way, Mrs. Riccard began to push her along the footpath. Miss Priscilla took her sister's arm and they made a few reluctant steps towards the main gate. Then Miss Priscilla stopped and looked towards Esther. Miss Betsy was unashamedly crying. 'Oh, Oliver, stop her!' I cried. Even to someone less imaginative than myself, it was clear Esther was being forcefully taken away by Mrs. Riccard. Oliver stood unmoving. Under the trails of pepper tree I could see Mrs. Riccard's motor car drawn up in Queen Victoria Drive outside the church gate. As Mrs. Riccard and Esther proceeded towards it the chauffeur got out of the front seat. I now ran along our own short drive to see what was about to happen. The chauffeur was not the only one standing on the pathway by the car. Cutty Bannister, clad in his stiff shiny Sunday suit, with its high, hard, white collar and cravat tie, his brown shoes looking new and heavy-soled, stood munching his lips beneath his walrus moustache. From where I stood I could see the look of implacable disapproval on his face. He was at one with Oliver in his hatred of Mrs. Riccard. Still holding Esther's hand, Mrs. Riccard spoke a few words to the chauffeur, who touched his forehead in acquiescence. At the same moment Oliver came through the side gate of the church and stood beside the road mender. They were not three yards from the car. They stood in silence, impervious to any suggestion of intrusion. Their united dislike and condemnation of the whole Riccard menage was evident in their attitude. But they said nothing until Esther got into the car. Then when it was certain that Mrs. Riccard was remaining and that Esther was to sit alone in the rear seat Cutty could resist speech no longer. 'Get outa that there thing, Miss Hillman,' he said. 'It's not decent you goin' with the likes o' them. Y' safer round here with yer friends.' He turned a baleful eye on Mrs. Riccard. 'It's not good for the likes of little missy there to be travelling round in them motor car things. Leave 'er here with them that knows 'er. You should've let 'er go with Miss David.' Mrs. Riccard, a match for most people in Pepper Tree Bay, was no match for

Cutty's size and immobility. She ignored him. 'That's all, Harris,' she said to the chauffeur. 'Instruct Mrs. Wood to expect me when she sees me.' The chauffeur slammed the front door and released the brakes. 'You'll be sorry, little missy,' Cutty warned. Esther sat still and regal in the middle of the back seat. Her face was sheet white and her bewildered eyes were without light. Oliver stood, his feet apart, his hands in his pockets. His eyes blazed across the widening space as the car moved off. There was not only anger but incredulity in his face. He did not understand Esther's kind of submission. The pride he had in his own superb independence was affronted by Esther's departure for Mrs. Riccard's house. 'Milk-sop!' The words burst bitterly from his lips. He was not to address her in other terms for many years. And he was never quite to forgive her. Whatever happened in the next half-hour Esther recounted long afterwards. 'It was windy on the top of the hill. The pines made a coughing sound. They darkened the stone balustraded porch of Mrs. Riccard's house. I had never been there before.' 'When Harris pulled up at the foot of the stone steps I sat looking at the tall stiff, white house. I was not thinking of anything but the tall house and the pines, and the darkness of the porch. Harris walked around to the back of the car and opened the door for me. When I got out I bowed slightly. I don't know why I bowed, but I must have thought it was part of the procedure of riding in a motor car. I had seen Mrs. Riccard do it. After that I always waited for Harris to come and open the door for me. And he always did.' 'I went up the seven stone steps, counting them as I mounted, on to the porch, and when I turned to the right there was the big door into the house. It had one round lead-lighted window in it. With the sun flickering on it through the pines, it was like a great cat's eye.' 'Before I could ring the bell the door opened and Mrs. Wood, the housekeeper, stood there. Somehow I liked her at once. She was smiling a little, her hands folded under her white apron. 'Mrs. Wood was like Harris―nothing to be frightened of. But I minded the door. It was big, heavy, and noiseless, perhaps three inches thick. I thought it was the kind of door that could close on one for ever.' 'Mrs. Wood said: "Come, child. Here, let me take your hand. Don't stand there staring. There's nothing at all to be afraid of". Then she called over her shoulder. "Dinner's served, Harris. Get a move on or you'll spoil it." 'Inside the hall was a thick red carpet. I could see a carved chair and a carved table with a white marble clock on it. The hands of the clock were gold. In

corners of the hall were white marble statues.' 'I took a step forward and my foot sank in the deep pile of the carpet. Then Mrs. Wood shut the door behind me. There was no light and I could hardly see.' 'I was not frightened, but I knew I had come to Mrs. Riccard's house for ever and ever.' 'I didn't think of the front door opening and shutting again, though I went in and out of it for years . . . until the day my father died.' PART TWO CHAPTER I - A WIND ON ITS WAY OLIVER grew up the hard way. To begin with, life in the little wooden house by the church had not been easy. Mr. Harding drank most of his wages as caretaker of the church. Yet for these same wages it was Mrs. Harding and Oliver who laboured. Mr. Harding held his position for so long only because the church and the parish hall were kept so scrupulously clean by his wife and son. The well-being of the grounds was in the self-elected hands of Cutty Bannister, the road-mender. Cutty's was a labour of love, or as Mary more aptly put it, a labour of possession. Cutty set himself up as custodian and observer of all parish affairs. No one ever dreamed of questioning his right, or, as after many years it became, his authority. Oliver's father, on the other hand, was a worthless creature. He kept as far away from the church as possible. In course of time therefore people came to think that Mrs. Harding was the caretaker. A week or two after Esther's disappearance from Queen Victoria Drive a pronouncement by Mrs. Riccard against the Hardings― father and son―was accepted by the Vestry. Mr. Harding was dismissed from his post on the grounds of inefficiency. This was irony indeed, for never again did the church wear such polished beauty as during the Harding regime. The last I saw of Oliver for many years was himself riding on a lorry of derelict furniture down the Highway that joined the port of Fremantle to Perth. No monarch rode more gloriously to his coronation. Oliver sat supreme above the world of Pepper Tree Bay. His brown eyes shone scorn; and if he was wordless it was not for want of words but rather that he disdained to use them. His silence defied comment on the Harding departure. Instead red berries from the pepper trees flicked down from his dirty fingers and spat along the road at our feet. So dexterous and swift were the movements of Oliver's fingers that one could not exactly say he threw berries at us. Yet I knew from the sharp sting on my

shins and the look of derision in his eyes that Oliver was saying good-bye... in his own way! I must now tell what befell Oliver in the years that followed. I was not there, yet I know exactly how it all fell out. Oliver told me the story very fully and so well do I know him, his attitudes and opinions, his words and gestures that I knew how he behaved in the situations he described. I know how he would have appeared―the veiled look in his eyes, the guilelessness and then the wickedness of his smile; the glint of steel that shone deep in his brown eyes in an unguarded moment when he looked up too quickly. I know how he would have sounded―the soft slow drawl with its sing-song diphthongs and its quick change to a hard crackle of laughter or anger. I know the words he would have uttered. As he told me this story with ironic accuracy I could picture the manner in which he brushed back his hair when excited and then the sudden stillness that would come over him when he was sizing up a person or a situation. I knew how he would slap his hands on his knees and shout with laughter, and the next minute be gentle as a child and full of naive wonder because he had seen or heard something exotic, or something beautiful had touched him. When he told me this story it was after he had come to manhood and fortune. He had never quite lost the qualities of Oliver the barefooted guttersnipe of Pepper Tree Bay. He remained brash, direct, defiant, but with a difference. His happy-go-lucky manner masked a capacity for decision; his will to prosper had a cold element of cruelty about it. His humility before music or a thing of beauty was an attribute of his craving for possession. With all his contradictory qualities he remained courageous and lovable. And so to Oliver's story. . . . Somewhere out in the sun-blown wheatlands along the Great Eastern Highway that runs from the coast to the goldfields, the grotesque lorry and its strange cargo came finally to rest. The farms about were scattered, the country poor and dry. They were on the edge of the goldfields. A year had passed since they had left Pepper Tree Bay. Harding pere had bought the lorry with the few pounds he could muster. His intention was to contract for carrying between the farms, the Highway and the railway that ran parallel to the Highway. As an economic venture it soon proved hopeless. Oliver's father disappeared for days at a time; and all the while Grandma Harding grew more feeble. During the year they had slowly moved across the wheatbelt from the better watered lands in the west. The little money they earned was made by Oliver and his mother. Everybody was suffering. The war was nearly over and there had been three years of drought. Now, having pitched their camp on the edge of the wilderness, it was inevitable that Oliver's father should make a voyage of exploration. Having

figured out how far they were from the nearest town that contained a pub, he took one of the two horses and made off towards the Highway. . . . He was seen no more. Months later the remnants of the Harding family heard that he had found journey's end on a beggar's bench outside a low-class hotel on the goldfields. The day on which Oliver watched his father go off astride the horse he was sixteen years of age. He had no misgivings at his father's departure. They were almost completely without subsistence and Oliver knew he must look to find a means of providing for his mother and grandmother. The weeks past had weakened Grandma Harding and now Oliver's mother could not leave her. They were on the edge of the Sandplain, a pitiless country. At day-break on the following morning, when a million grey and pink galahs swarmed screaming overhead, Oliver saddled the remaining horse and set out for the nearest farm, a tumble-down place they had passed on the way. About ten o'clock he came through the outside gates and pushed the ambling horse towards the out-houses, where there were signs and sounds of human habitation. He stopped the beast in the shadow of what had once been substantial shearing sheds. A thick-set man was squatting on the floor inside the nearest shed. He was mending harness. The man's face was brown and burnt as the earth. His eyes were suspicious and without warmth. 'Whatcha want, son?' 'Work.' 'Do y' now? An' who's goin' to pay ya?' He stared at Oliver. 'What sort o' work do ya want, a great strapping fella like you?' Oliver had learned to dissemble his feelings. 'I'll work all day at what you say . . . that's if I can take home some milk and a bit of meat for pay,' he said. 'I'll do that all the week. Then if I'm any good we can talk it over.' The farmer sat down on an up-turned box. One hand rested on his knee and the other fingered his chin. Oliver knew he was mean. The farmer stared at Oliver's tired old horse, its head hanging towards the ground. 'So you'd work for yer keep, huh? An' what could you do, me lad, I couldn't do better meself?' From the look of the farm Oliver guessed the man was lazy. Even the drought could not be held responsible for the dilapidation. Oliver slid from the horse and stood in the doorway of the shed. The light was behind him so the man could not see his face. The farmer was his one

slim chance of food. Oliver watched him bend down and pick up a length of broken harness. 'There's this here harness. Whaddya reckon you could do with that?' Oliver gazed around at the leather straps and mess lying on the floor, old saddles, rusted stirrup irons, horse-hair packing; and enough harness for a couple of teams. All that leather if repaired should have so much value in food! Oliver, who had held the cabby horses back in Pepper Tree Bay and had tightened their girths, knew about harness while he still ran about bare-foot. Then the year in the wheatbelt keeping the lorry running had made him a seasoned veteran. He took a few steps into the shed and squatted down near the pile of harness. His thin strong fingers began quickly to sort it out. The farmer watched him cynically for a while. Then he stood up. 'Okay, me boy,' he said. 'Since yer so smart!' He half-rolled, half-walked, to the doorway. 'Keep at it, and keep yer fingers outa things round 'ere. If any-thing's missin' you'll cop it. See?' His voice was an acrimonious drawl. 'We'll see what ya worth at tea-time.' When he'd gone Oliver went outside. Nearby was a drinking trough and he gave himself and the horse a drink. He screwed his eyes against the sun and watched the man going down by the fence towards the rabbit warren of a farm-house. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen a chaff stall in the shed and by it an upturned kerosene tin. Now was the time to feed the horse. If he got turned away at least half the party would have been fed. He half-filled the kerosene tin with chaff and set it under the horse's head. Then he went back to work on the harness. Among the litter, there were tools lying about, rusted and uncared for. On shelves along the side walls was a vast assortment of tins and bottles, he looked into a number of them. Everything in the ramshackle building was in a state of neglect. The tins and bottles contained rusted nails, bolts, bits and pieces of machines, old screws. Returning presently to the box on which the farmer had been sitting he began to clean some of the tools he had collected, using kerosene and black oil which he had found in bottles. He worked thus for a time and then picked up a piece of harness. He softened the leather with grease and with the tools began his task of repair. With grim determination he worked. He didn't think about the hollowness of his stomach when he could work and think about the things he liked. He always began in his mind where he had left off the previous time he'd been

having a thinking session. Last time it was at the place where he'd taken Esther Hillman one day to the red-gum on the island in the Swamp. He had turned up old logs in search of scorpions. He could hear Esther's 'Oh, Oliver, Oliver, don't! as very slowly and methodically he teased the scorpion into erecting its vicious stinging tail. He liked Esther to bend down over what he himself was doing near ground level. That way he could see the parting in her hair. How clean, shiny and soft her hair had always looked! After a long time working and thinking his stomach began to hurt so badly he got up and walked outside. The sun had passed its zenith. The horse had finished the chaff and he removed the evidence of its feeding. Returning to the shed he examined the chaff bins. In one of the bins there was bran and pollard. In another he found two sacks of turnips. Oliver ate two turnips. For the rest of the afternoon he worked on a bridle. Its original craftsmanship had been good. He hammered down the studs and cleaned and polished the bit. When he had finished he thought he had done a good piece of work. Hanging the bridle over his arm he walked out of the shed and led his horse down towards the farm-house. As he came round under some trees by the back door the farmer was filling a pannikin with water from a pump. Blowflies buzzed everywhere. Somewhere nearby was a dead bird or beast. Oliver caught the stink of it. The farmer straightened his back and stared at Oliver. 'What? You still here?' Oliver put the bridle on a wooden table by the door. 'I'll be back tomorrow,' he said. 'There's plenty more to do in the shed.' The man put down the pannikin and set both hands on his hips. There was a calculating smile on his face. 'An' who said you was goin' to sit on yer behind all day, me lad? If it's tomorrow yer thinking of there's fencin' posts over in the outside paddock.' 'All right,' said Oliver stoically. The farmer, puzzled, fingered his lip. 'Ever sunk fencin' posts in iron-stone country?' 'No.' 'An' yer goin' to sink 'em tomorrow?' 'All right, if you say so.' Oliver's face was as blank as the stone wall of the house behind him. He had to keep it that way if they were to eat at all, himself, his mother and Grandma. 'Smart boy, ain't you? Okay then, I'll see you tomorrow.' The expression did not change on Oliver's face. 'Can I have my tea? I'll take it with me if you don't mind. Just some milk and meat will do.'

'An' who said you was goin' to get fed? You made the bargain. I didn't.' Oliver stood quietly looking at the farmer. 'I'm pretty hungry,' he said. He made no mention of Grandma who needed some sort of fresh food―and soon. 'An' you'd like some milk? And also some bread... or was it meat?' The man's simulated mockery was maddening. 'Well, well! An' what about me? I only own the place and I ain't drunk milk in twelve months.' Oliver had seen no signs of a cow. But in a far paddock there were several goats. In any case, most farms during the dry periods laid in a supply of tinned milk. A woman came to the back door. 'Aw, leave the lad alone, Jack,' she said. 'You can give him tea, same as we've got anyway.' She was slatternly looking and the everlasting blaze of the sun had grooved and browned her face. She was small and thin, her dark hair streaked with grey. 'If you don't mind I'd like to take it with me,' said Oliver. The woman turned into the doorway, but over her shoulder she addressed the man. 'You leave him be.' She then addressed Oliver. 'Come on in, boy. You can have yer share and eat it here. There's nothin' for you to take away. It's six months since we had any provisions up from Perth. He should've told you. We're down to almost nothin' ourselves, . . .' 'I've mended harness and cleaned tools,' said Oliver as he followed her into the long bare kitchen. A fire in the stove and the hot iron on the roof above made the room unbearable. There was a large wooden table under a window at the end of the kitchen. There were benches on either side of the table. There was no sign of food. 'So you mended harness. Well, for that you can get him to pay you,' said the woman. She went to a cupboard and brought out a tin of jam and a tin of condensed milk. These she put on the table. Looking up Oliver could see a crock of eggs and a partly cut loaf of coarse home-made bread. That was all. The woman took a number of the eggs over to the fire and began to break them into an enormous pan of fat. 'Cut the bread,' she ordered. 'Cut the slices in half to go in the pan. Fried eggs an' bread. . . . Eggs an' fried bread. . . . Fried eggs an' bread . . . and a rooster to eat on Sundays ... or rabbits when there's no rooster.' Oliver took the bread to the table and began to cut it. As he did so he was thinking. His mother had some flour, enough for some days. She could make

damper with that. But they were out of meat. They had eaten the last of a small kangaroo he had shot. And now he was out of bullets. His father had taken the last of them. He would have to set some traps when he got back to the camp. But they were sick of rabbits. He looked at the bread. There was nothing to be gained by slipping a few slices into his shirt. The eggs, on the other hand. . . . He would like to take some eggs. 'I've worked most of the day,' Oliver said bringing the bread to the fire. The heat hit him in the face. 'My grandmother's sick. Could you give me some eggs to take?' The woman began to lift eggs on to a vast enamel plate. 'Look, boy, I've heard that one before,' she said shortly. Then she looked at him. As she did so she wiped her hands on a dirty apron. 'So you want some eggs? I suppose we could spare a few. But they're my eggs, not his. You can buy 'em. Or if yer broke you can work for 'em.' 'How much work?' asked Oliver wearily. To Oliver her face seemed loveless. 'A big fellow like you oughtn't to be goin' round begging.' She made a gesture with her hand. 'You get this kitchen cleaned out. .. . An' then the pantry. . . . An' the back verandah. Do that proper and you can have a dozen eggs. And that'll leave us short.' Oliver considered. Fresh, he could do the job in an hour. But he had the long ride back. To get a start in the cool on the fencing posts he would have to be up before daybreak. 'Okay,' he said at last. The woman gave him a plate and told him to help himself. He slid two eggs on to a piece of bread and took it to the table. As he ate he thought. 'Sinking fence posts in iron-stone country. . . .' He looked at the woman. 'How many posts does a man sink in a day?' 'One if he's lucky. Two if he's strong as a bullock as well as lucky. An' none at all sometimes.' 'What will he pay me?' asked Oliver. 'A pound a week and all found. That's what the other fellow got. Only he didn't last a week.' Oliver crunched a piece of fried bread with his teeth. 'Why? Too hard?' 'Too hard an' no decent tools.' She nodded her head towards the kitchen door. 'He don't care any more. He did once. Now he don't look after anything. The only things that get cared for round here are the fowls . . . and the horse. An' they're mine.' Oliver reflected that he could do better―he could hardly do worse―by riding on the extra three miles to the next farm.

He went on eating in silence. His face remained expressionless so that the woman could not guess his thoughts and his conflict of emotions. The day had practised him in keeping his eyes from shining like danger lamps and warning the world what was going on behind them. As he was thinking he heard footsteps along some inner passage. A third person was in the house. When he looked up a girl was standing in the doorway. He felt a challenge as she stared at him. 'Who's he, Mum?' She leaned against the doorway, her fair hair thrown back. Her legs beneath a partly soiled and shabby dress were thin and straight. Her shoes were old and cracked with the heels and sides worn over. 'She's like Esther,' Oliver thought. 'If Esther's hair had been straight and kept in a loose plait that hadn't been done since last week. . . . And if Esther had worn a dirty old dress. . . . That's how Esther would have looked.' With the expressionless eyes he stared back at the girl. The mental vision he had given himself of Esther translated did something to his blood-stream. He felt a tautening of the muscles under the skin. His nerve ends tingled. The girl came into the kitchen and sat down at the end of the table. Her arms rested on its edge. Her mother had not told the girl who he was. Instead she was busy sizzling more eggs in the pan. 'What's your name―you?' the girl said. Oliver gazed at her steadily, conscious that he was deliberately controlling his mouth and eyes. 'One crack from me and I'm out,' he thought. 'And we got to eat, including Grandma.' He looked the girl in the eyes. 'Oliver,' he said. 'Where'd you come from?' 'She's not like Esther. She's like me,' Oliver thought. 'She'd like a fight, that's what she'd like. And she'd make it plenty tough.' He wiped the fried bread round his plate. 'No, she's not like Esther at all. . . . She's older. . . . She's tough. . . . And she hasn't done her hair for a week. . . .' Then fatigue must have played a trick with his eyes, for he seemed to see the girl through a mist. And on the other side of that imaginary veil the girl's hair was soft and curled. Her skin had the pink bloom of a pale rose; and her mouth―her exquisite mouth― was like a doll's. She was Esther. In a moment Oliver was a small boy overwhelmed with home-sickness. He was home-sick for the church in Queen Victoria Drive, for the river, for the school, for the cabby horses that he held outside the church at weddings, for Miss Priscilla David, for the old fig-tree, for the five rollicking Rectory girls... and even for that old bitch Riccard. He was home-sick for Pepper Tree Bay.

He was a stranger in a hostile land. He was tired, and despite the food, he was still hungry. He still had far to go. And the girl behind that misty veil wasn't Esther Hillman. Yet his eyes and his mouth remained under control. They had to eat―including Grandma. The girl opposite continued to stare at him. 'What's your name?' he asked. 'Larry,' she said. The woman put a plate of fried eggs and bread in front of her. 'Her name's Hilary,' the woman said. 'Hilary she was born and Hilary she stays.' The girl crunched a piece of fried bread. 'Larry for short,' she said. She glanced towards the woman. 'She's not my mother. She's my step-mother. I haven't got one of my own. My father handed me over to Mum here when I was five.' The woman went back to her pan and began to fry more eggs. She showed neither interest nor umbrage at the girl's explanation of their relationship. 'Hilary what?' enquired Oliver. 'Hilary Brown . . . Larry for short. . . . And what are you doing here anyway?' 'Working.' 'Fence posts in the out-paddock,' said the woman. 'The likes of him. . . . Don't make me laugh.' Oliver got up from the table. 'Where's the water? And a scrubbing brush and bucket?' 'So you're really gonna clean up the place?' The woman eyed him with fresh interest. 'I've eaten,' he said. 'Grandma'll get hers when I get back.' 'Where's back?' asked the girl. 'This side of the main goldfields road.' 'Gawd! And what made you come up here where there isn't anything?' 'My father wanted to do contract work.' 'Yeah, an' who for?' asked the woman. 'The goldfields proper are another hundred miles,' said the girl. 'Round here there's only a few moth-eaten farms.' 'There's gold,' said the woman. 'When you can find it and in little bits,' said the girl. She stood up and walking to the door brought in a bucket from outside. She put it beside the stove. 'There you are,' she said. Oliver turned a tap and steaming water flowed into the bucket. There was a scrubbing brush and soap on a ledge under the window. Rolling up his sleeves, Oliver picked up the bucket and sluiced hot water over the floor. The girl jumped aside to avoid the splash. 'You did that on purpose!' 'Then keep out of my way,' said Oliver.

He refilled the bucket and its contents followed the first. The girl hoisted herself on to the table and pulled her legs up. Her bottom lip jutted out and there was a scowl on her brows. 'What d'you think you're doing, eh?' 'Earning twelve eggs, . . . Tea and dinner and breakfast for Grandma.' Oliver stood amid the swill of dirty water. 'That's if I can get the eggs back whole,' He knelt down with the scrubbing brush. The girl, swinging a leg, watched him in silence. The woman took a plate of eggs, a pannikin of tea and a knife and fork outside. She put them on the table by the door and called her husband. The girl clasped her fingers and caught her knee between them. Her foot continued to move backwards and forwards. 'Haven't you anyone else but a grandma?' "Course I have. But the old one's sick,' said Oliver. 'Well, aren't the others going to eat?' 'Not eggs,' said Oliver. 'My father's gone away and my mother looks after Grandma.' 'Your father's gone. Ain't that just fine and dandy? Then what men have you got up at that camp?' 'Just me,' said Oliver. Oliver's answer seemed to catch the girl in the middle of a breath as though she was about to say something and had forgotten what it was. Her mouth hung open but no words came. Except for the scratch of the brush on the floor and the sluice of water there was silence, Oliver worked quickly. The heat of the kitchen dried the floor almost as fast as he scrubbed it. When he had finished the floor he turned to the table without a word. The girl got off and sat on the bench, her legs sprawled apart and supported by her heels. Deliberately she put her elbows on the table. Her mouth was aggressively shut. She half-closed her eyes as she watched him work. Grudgingly she moved her arms back when Oliver showed that he meant to wash the whole table, arms or no arms. 'I'll get you one day for that,' she said in an undertone. 'Oh yeah,' said Oliver. Half of him wanted to hit her with the scrubbing brush. The other half exulted in her fight-worthiness. 'You go and brush your hair,' he added. What had made him say that? He stopped and looked at her. Did he really want this girl to have her hair shiny, and with frills on her dresses, like Esther? Yes, like Esther? Again the overwhelming homesickness. He felt the greasy eggs regurgitate in his throat. He turned from the table and got to work on the pantry floor. His throat hurt and his eyes smarted. . . .

He was just sixteen and very tired. It was seven on the following morning that Oliver brought his horse into the home paddock and slid off its ancient back outside the harness shed. The farmer was not about and entering the shed Oliver brought out the kerosene tin of chaff for the horse. Oliver watched the horse eating. 'So, you little bastard, that's what you've come at . . . eh?' The farmer had unexpectedly appeared from the direction away from the house. He thumbed his lip as he estimated the amount of chaff that Oliver was giving his horse. He took a step, paused, and stuck his thumb in his belt. Over the belt his abdomen swelled like a grey-clad pumpkin. Then lurching forward he kicked the bucket from under the horse's head. Oliver watched him in silence while a stream of abuse burst about his head. For a moment the farmer looked as if he was about to strike. . . . Oliver did not move and the farmer watching him bent down and picked up a stake which he balanced in his hand. Time passed but nothing happened. 'Look in there,' said Oliver pointing through the doorway of the shed. I did more than my fair share of work yesterday. For that I got fried bread and eggs and went home hungry. The horse deserves to eat.' He walked over to the up-turned bucket and righted it. Then after scooping up the spilled chaff in his cupped hands he replaced the tin under the horse's head. The man still held the stake as Oliver stepped back and waited to see what would happen. The farmer turned into the shed and examined the tools and harness. 'It's all there, every bit of it,' said Oliver. 'What did you expect? That I'd take my wages in tools and harness? Well, I didn't. You could sell the harness. It's worth money." The farmer seemed to weigh up the facts and Oliver's words. His manner imperceptibly changed. Oliver's presence at the farm that morning seemed unaccountable. But since Oliver had seen the girl the night before, he had known he would come back. The girl was the other young thing in this arid wilderness of poverty. 'So y' want to keep on workin' eh?' said the man. 'Yes, if we can eat.' 'I'll see about that,' said the farmer. 'You lay off the chaff.' Oliver felt he had gained a respite and for the moment the advantage lay his way. More boldly he said: 'I don't know who I'm working for.' 'Mattinson,' said the man. The sun was coming up. It would soon be scorching the bloom off the earth. A

puff of morning wind from the east brought the smell of carrion in the nearby paddock. Mattinson, catching the odour, grunted. Then, without instructing Oliver about the day's work, he rolled off towards the house. 'Going to get his breakfast,' thought Oliver. 'Even if it's only eggs.' He looked through the door into the shed. 'There's nothing in there but turnips.' He remembered the eggs he had so carefully taken back to the camp the night before... They had been for the Old One. And the Old One would soon die. Of that Oliver was certain. Yet he could not think of death as something that might be personal to himself. He sniffed the morning air with its taint of decay. Grandma's arid old body could not breathe the burning air of mid-day. It choked her. And her stomach revolted against damper, dried beans, and tinned beef. Yes, and even at times, against eggs. Some fowls were picking in the dust at the far end of the shed. 'I'll take her back a chicken,' he thought. Oliver walked into the shed and kicked at the leather harness. The day before while he had been working on it he had tried to think of the farms they had passed before they had found their camping ground. He recalled some names on pieces of tin nailed to trees . . . A. F. Rowbotham, Fernlea Park . . . Pete Hough, Arandale . . . Alf Smith, Timbucktoo. . . . Under each piece of tin was a mail box of pine casing. And from each mail box there wound into the distance sandy tracks to a hidden habitation. One white-painted board he could clearly remember. It was like the board on the corner of the Terrace and Riverside Parade in Pepper Tree Bay. It read: SCHOOL. Until he had met the girl, it had been the only thing to give him a sense of belonging. Yet when he had looked, the building itself was hidden behind a clump of trees. . . . Since Mattinson had given him no further instruction about the fence posts, Oliver sat down and picked up several harness straps that had dried to a hardened toughness. As he began to work on them he thought of the girl with a wilful, sulky face―with unkempt hair and with over-trodden shoes. She was a challenge, and, paradoxically, the calling of like to like. About mid-morning Mattinson returned. He stood in the doorway and watched Oliver working. 'Thought you was gonna sink fence posts,' he said. 'All right,' said Oliver. 'But the horse eats and I eat.' 'So the horse eats an' you eat?' 'Yes, please,' said Oliver. The politeness took Mattinson unawares. A look of suspicion came into his face. 'What y' comin' at?' he demanded. 'If I catch you at anythin' I'll skin the back off you.' 'Where's the tools?' asked Oliver, ignoring Martinson's threat.

Mattinson lazily waved an arm. Oliver knew what the shed contained. There were tools in plenty, but they had been left to accumulate dust and rust. 'The fence posts can wait,' he added. 'There's too much to do here first.' Oliver began assembling kerosene, grease, files, shovels that needed handles, a post-hole digger, a broken pick, a hammer and nails, some knives, a jack plane, some chisels. 'What are ya goin' to do with that lot?' asked Mattinson. 'Clean, repair and sharpen them,' said Oliver. As he spoke he glanced through a broken square of window. The girl was walking along the wire fence from the house to the shed. Her hair had been brushed. To divert Mattinson's attention Oliver bent down to pick up a long-handled shovel. It broke in his hands. It was rotten with white-ants. 'For digging fence posts,' he murmured with bitter irony. The girl's figure darkened the doorway. In her hand was a blackened tin billy of tea. Oliver knew she had brought the tea for him. But she gave it to her step-father. CHAPTER II - WHIRLWIND WHEN Oliver tells the story of the year he spent on Mattinson's place he always does so in the same way. He spreads his hands and hunches his shoulders. He purses his lips a little. Then he strikes himself on the chest. 'Me!' he says. 'Can you imagine that? Me, sticking that place for a solid year and all on account of a girl!' Here I, who seemed so often to be Oliver's audience, would laugh, while he would look inconsolable at the recollection of his own folly. Then that swift transition of expression, and he would slap his knee. His voice would rise a little. The soft lilting of the see-saw vowels would disappear and his voice would crackle like a sanding machine. 'But I learned a thing or two. Learned how to eat turnips and eggs and scraggy roosters, till I all but crowed and laid turnips myself. But most I learned about tools . . . yes, tools! Not from Mattinson, mind you. He was nothing but a lazy sod of a fellow. But there was some good stuff lying round that place―machine parts and tools. How did it get there? Don't ask me.' 'And what did you learn from that girl, Oliver?' I would say. I, who knew Hilary-Brown-about-town, and that she had been the girl Oliver called Larry, didn't let him know I knew her other name. 'Can you imagine that?' Oliver would say. 'Me hanging round on account of a girl. Me ... a man's man! Just look at my muscles.' Oliver for sure was a man's man: Oliver covered in grease-stained overalls, Oliver amid the roars of the crowd emerging on to the race-track at the

Speedway, his crash helmet in the crook of his arm after he had smashed a record, Oliver surrounded by a pack of hero-worshipping females. Oliver throwing a spanner at the works boss of the big motor company in the United States, Oliver, cutting a figure right across the world―to come back again to Pepper Tree Bay with the broad gentle blue of the Swan River on one side and the turbulent immensity of the Indian Ocean on the other―was a man all right. But all this was nine years away from Mattinson's place. A week from the day when he started work at cleaning and sharpening the tools, mending the harness, and finally giving rebirth to an old spring cart, a dray, and a rust-ridden harvester, Oliver took a day off. 'I'm not coming to-morrow, but I'll be here the day after,' he told Mattinson. The girl, her hair combed fresh every day now, opened her cat's eyes at him. 'You looking for a better job?' she asked. Mattinson, striking his usual attitude, with one thumb under the pumpkin which rested on the leather belt of his trousers, the other caressing his underlip with the tip of the nail, stared with narrowed eyes at him. 'Whaddya up to, eh?' Oliver knew that Mattinson had no right of enquiry. Except for a daily portion of eggs, a couple of tins of milk, two cockerels, and four rabbits that Oliver had himself shot in the out-paddock, he had received no reward for his labours. Yet imperceptibly he had already gained an ascendancy over the Mattinsons―including their step-daughter, Larry Brown. The speed, thoroughness, and authority with which he worked astonished as well as puzzled them. They did not grasp the sheer need of the two women in the camp and especially of the grandmother for whom his loyalty was abiding. Nor could they, in their limited experience, understand that this boy who had settled himself amongst them, was both mature and valiant. His behaviour was eccentric. It needed explanation. They could not understand his guts. 'What are ya up to anyway?' Mattinson repeated. He looked suspiciously at Oliver. 'I've got business,' said Oliver. He filed the smarter end of a chisel. 'The Old One's sick. I've got to get some help.' Mattinson remained silent. He wasn't going to provide help. The girl looked uncertain and fidgeted on her feet. 'I just want the day off,' said Oliver finally. The next day Oliver rode back on the horse to the white board that said

SCHOOL. The board was the only thing in that locality which suggested civilisation. He had left the camp before dawn and it was getting on for half-past-nine when the horse pulled up against a little brown wooden shack, with sliding windows of glass and canvas. The windows were open, and a drone of busyness filtered through the hot air as Oliver slid to the ground. Several horses, one in a sulky, were tethered under the nearby trees. Oliver mounted the steps of the schoolroom and stood in the doorway. The teacher, nearing middle-age, sat at his table in front of the class writing in a book. His coat was off and his shirt was open at the collar. His blue serge pants were supported by a pair of stained braces. He looked round as Oliver's shadow was cast across the floor. 'Well, come in, son. Come in. Come in.' Oliver wiped the dust from his boots on a wire mat and walked in. The twelve children of the school looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Their ages ranged from infancy to nearly Oliver's own age. They were all barefooted. They had long home-haircuts and they were all burned and dried so that their skins looked like fine grained leather. The teacher went on writing in his book. Then, drawing his sprawling legs together with an unexpected jerk, he ran a piece of blotting paper across his writing and closed the book with a snap. Deliberately he turned round in his chair and made a close examination of Oliver. 'Now, son, out with it. What's the trouble?' His voice was brusque but not unkindly. His manner was faintly eccentric as if his school occupied only part of his mind, the other part of it being concerned with worldly matters beyond the understanding of the local inhabitants. Oliver, to his benefit, was in due course to discover that this was true. 'I've written a letter, sir,' said Oliver. 'It's an important letter. But I haven't a stamp, or any money to buy one. And I don't know where to post the letter. So I've brought it to you, sir.' Oliver's explanation was an expression of simple faith, and the master was not hesitant to acknowledge it. 'Quite right, my boy. Quite right!' He swung round suddenly on the gaping class. 'On with your work. This gentleman and I have business together.' Oliver watched the schoolmaster. Oliver's own eyes were steady and appraising. 'Crazy,' he thought. 'Crazy but. . . .' The master indicated a chair and Oliver sat down. They were frankly measuring each other up. With the nail of his little finger the school teacher

flicked some imaginary speck of dust from the corner of his eye. The gesture was theatrical. Yet Oliver liked the man. 'Now, young fellow. You want my assistance. You shall have it by all means . .. in loco parentis if that is not beyond your scholarly understanding.' Oliver had taken the letter from his pocket and had placed it on the table. The schoolmaster picked it up and read the address: Mr. Cutty Bannister, c/o The Post Office, Pepper Tree Bay. (Please deliver to the road mender.) 'Very interesting. Very,' he said. 'Euphonious and interesting.' He looked at Oliver and caught the smile at the corner of Oliver's mouth. 'I see that we agree with each other,' he said. Oliver replied: 'Thank you, sir.' 'And how do you come not to have a stamp, young man?' Oliver spread his hands. 'No money.' 'Ah! And no work?' 'Yes, I work,' said Oliver. 'Seven miles from here. At Mattinson's place.' 'Mattinson's? What is there to do there but grow rank and rotten, dried out and dreary? Look at that girl now! What's her name? Larry! Clever girl... very clever girl. As smart as they make 'em.' He paused. 'And what is she now?' He leaned his elbows on the table and stared at Oliver. Oliver said nothing but felt uneasy under his ribs. The schoolmaster jabbed a finger at him. 'What does Mattinson pay you? And when were you last paid?' 'I work for keep and some food to take home for my Grandma and my mother. My grandmother's dying, I think, sir.' 'Like to die now? Or be a long time dying?' Oliver shook his head. 'I don't know sir. But I work at Matttinson's because there's a few eggs, and sometimes a chicken for the Old One.' 'And where is Grandma, pray?' 'We got a camp up near the Goldfields road.' 'Ah.' Then after a minute― 'Like to die eh? And no money and no help?' Oliver looked steadily in front of him. 'I can go on working,' he said. 'Yes, I suppose you can. But what sort of work are you doing up there on Mattinson's place?' 'Cleaning and fixing tools and mending harness. I'm fixing the spring cart now. When I've finished I'll give it some paint.' 'Spring cart?' The schoolmaster pursed his lips. 'What will Mattinson do with it when it's fixed?' 'Sell it,' Oliver said. 'Will it be a good job? Will it be worth buying?' The master looked interested. 'Would you want to buy it?' Oliver asked. 'Mattinson would sell it to anyone who comes along.' 'I'll have a look at it first, my lad,' said the schoolmaster. 'See what sort of a job you are making of it.'

Oliver smiled. 'It's all right, sir.' The master looked at him appraisingly. 'So you know the worth of your work, eh? Well, I'll come out in the sulky and have a look at the cart. But you paint it up first, son.' He jumped up and disappeared into a store room. Oliver could see it was a jumble of books, pads, apparatus, brooms and buckets, rolls of paper, gardening tools, and a hundred and one different kinds of boxes. Immediately on the disappearance of the teacher the class began to jump up and down in their seats. Several threw papers and pencils at each other. There was a minor hub-bub. Suddenly through the doorway the wrathful face of the master appeared. 'Shut-up!' he commanded. There was silence and diligence. As soon as the master disappeared the noise began once more. Then for a second time the schoolmaster emerged to deliver himself of another salutary roar. 'Like a game of jack-in-the-box,' Oliver thought. Glancing through the doorway Oliver saw the teacher straighten himself, a large tin in each hand. He smiled happily. 'Got it,' he announced. He brought the tins into the room and placed them on the table. 'Brown and yellow,' he said. 'The only colours known to the Public Works Department.' He sat down turning the tins round and round. 'A little gift of paint for that spring cart.' 'It's all right by me,' said Oliver. 'There's no paint at Mattinson's.' 'We'll make a book entry on it,' said the schoolmaster. 'Got to keep everything square and above board.' He rummaged round in the schoolroom cupboard and then produced a ledger. He was in the midst of making some entry in the book about the paint when he remembered the objects of Oliver's visit. 'This letter now,' he said placing his pen in the ledger and closing the book. 'Would this Cutty Bannister be a friend of yours? Or a relation? Someone likely to help you.' 'I want tools,' said Oliver unexpectedly. I want to know about them. What they are called. How you use them. How to clean and sharpen them.... I used to know Cutty Bannister in Pepper Tree Bay before we left there. I've seen him sharpening and cleaning his tools. He lives by himself in a little house right down by the river. And his kitchen is turned into a workshop. Cutty's got all the tools in the world. And he looks after them. They're always sharp and shining. Cutty can't stand rust. He's also got them all hanging in their proper places on the wall. The whole kitchen is covered with them. It shines when the sun comes in. I've always wanted tools like Cutty. And Mattinson's got them, but they're all rusty and blunt____' What Oliver did not know was that the schoolmaster was staring at the shine in Oliver's own eyes as Oliver related how Cutty Bannister, the road mender,

looked after his steel children. 'Hum,' said the master thoughtfully, thinking of tools and Oliver's grandmother. Then almost as an afterthought he added: 'But haven't you got a father?' 'Yes,' said Oliver without emotion. 'He was always getting drunk. Then he left us.' The schoolmaster nodded. At that moment he caught the eye of an idle pupil. 'You there,' he roared, darting a long hooked finger in the boy's direction. 'Get on with your work!' Then in more dulcet tones he said to Oliver: 'And so you've written to your friend Cutty Bannister for some tools.' 'No, only for a book about them. Mattinson has got tools all over the place. I want to know their names and what they're used for. Cutty'll get me the book. I know Cutty.' 'A lot of those rusty tools at Mattinson's,' said the schoolmaster, 'came from the old mines here-abouts before they closed down. Yes, it might be useful to know about those tools. You never know when there might be another gold strike round these parts. There have been two already. They each lasted three or four years and then petered out. . . . But where's this Cutty Bannister to send the book to? And who's going to pay for it?' The corners of Oliver's mouth smiled a little, 'I told him in the letter to send it to the school teacher at Yoo-winning. That's what this place is called, isn't it? And I said I'd pay for the book with interest some day. Cutty would trust me.' The master slowly nodded approval. He understood Oliver perfectly. Then quite unexpectedly he jumped up again with one of his jerky movements and disappeared into the store once more. Books, boxes, tins, instruments, buckets, brooms, and rolls of paper were bumped about ruthlessly. Occasionally the schoolmaster's head appeared in the doorway and he shouted admonishment to the children in the desks. Finally he emerged with four dusty tomes. These he placed on the table beside the tins of paint. 'Manual on Carpentry,' he read aloud. 'A Handbook for the Handyman. . . . Things for Hands to Do . . . The Home Builder. . . .' He leaned back in his chair beaming benevolent satisfaction. 'There you are, my boy. Something to go on with.' He pulled the ledger towards him and opened it again. 'However, we'd better make another book entry.' He began to write in the ledger. 'Nobody cares where anything goes, so long as it's all down in black and white.' When he had finished he closed the book. 'Now that clears everything up. The letter will go off with the mail man tomorrow. He comes through about three o'clock.' He shook his head. 'But

there's still your Grandma and the spring cart to be settled!' Suddenly he became aware of the restlessness of the class and he looked at his watch in a startled manner. 'Good heavens! Morning tea! No wonder they're all fidgeting.' He made a gesture towards the class. 'All right, outside the lot of you.' With a wild whoop the children streamed out through the doorway into the blazing sun. The schoolmaster walked to the fireplace and lit a Primus stove. Oliver stood watching his long thin body as he put water on the stove and then pottered about amid tins of biscuits, tins of milk, sugar in a brown bag, and two large cracked cups. 'Peculiar but kindly,' thought Oliver. The schoolmaster was sharp enough to catch the flicker of Oliver's eyes when a large tin of biscuits was opened. He filled both his hands with biscuits and brought them over. 'Hungry, eh? Quite natural. Quite natural, my lad. Was roaring hungry myself when I was your age. And not in a country like this where you can take a gun and shoot a rabbit or shanghai a parrot. When I was a boy there wasn't a rabbit the length and breadth of the British Isles that didn't belong to someone else who didn't want to eat it.' Oliver filled his mouth with biscuits. 'Say nothing of it, son. Say nothing of it.' Then as though growing tired the schoolmaster lapsed into silence. He made the tea. Great steaming cups of hot strong tea, lavishly helped with thick tinned milk. Oliver thought the tea and biscuits one of the finest meals he'd ever had. But as the schoolmaster cautioned, he said nothing of it. Early after sunrise on the following morning Oliver was at Mattinson's place again. He went straight to the shed where he had cleared a space and had set up a carpenter's bench. The tools he had cleaned and sharpened were neatly hanging from the wall just like Cutty Bannister's. Oliver worked all the morning on the spring cart with the tools he took from the wall above his carpenter's bench. Then after a snack lunch he cast around for mixing tins for the paint. Outside the shed the spring cart newly restored, its shafts resting on the ground near the doorway, was almost ready for painting. Oliver rubbed it down with some sheets of sandpaper the schoolmaster had pressed upon him when he was leaving. Having found several old brushes and cleaned them, Oliver was about to begin with the yellow paint, which he preferred to the brown, when Mattinson came rolling along by the wire fence. He grinned as he saw what Oliver was about to do. 'So you got some paint! Where?' 'From Mr. Taylor the schoolmaster,' said Oliver. 'The spring cart will be worth

double when it's painted.' 'An' who's goin' to buy it?' Oliver shrugged. 'Someone'll come along. Maybe you can sell the harness too.' The farmer raised his head and looked away towards the road. A tiny cloud of dust moving slowly along the track showed where someone was coming to the farm. 'Ruddy prospector,' said Mattinson spitting in the dirt. 'Begging, you bet.' Oliver drew in the corners of his mouth. 'Fat lot of good it will do him here,' he murmured. Despite the softness of Oliver's voice Mattinson heard the words. Impulsively he lurched towards Oliver as though to strike him. Oliver did not move. He knew he had Mattinson's measure and that the farmer would not touch him. 'If he did,' thought Oliver. 'I'd go for that pumpkin belly of his. I'd pound blue murder out of it.' Along the track a thickset man of middle height came into view. Mattinson had been right. It was a prospector. He wore a slouch hat, dusty and oilstained, that was pulled down almost over his eyes. His bush rugs were in a roll across his back while a frying pan dangled at his side. Over his shoulder he carried a short spade and a pick. From the opposite direction the girl, Larry Brown, was coming with a billycan of tea. She came up by the wire fence, round the shed, and stood gazing at the cart. 'So you came back after all. Wouldn't the other fellow give you a job?' Oliver dipped his brush in the paint. His brown eyes jeered at her. He did not reply. 'Where did you go yesterday?' the girl asked pettishly. 'There and back,' said Oliver. 'Where'd you get the paint?' 'Stole it.' 'Bet you did too.' Mattinson, both thumbs in his belt, listened to their by-play. He leaned against the shed wall turning now and then to watch the prospector. He waited until the man reached the group. 'Well, whaddya want?' The prospector was of uncertain age. His grey beard was stained brown where he put his pipe in his mouth. His pale blue eyes appeared to be focused on distant horizons. He was diffident to the point of absent mindedness. 'Good day to you, mister,' he said to Mattinson without attempting to answer the question. 'What are ya doin' round here?' repeated Mattinson sourly. 'Just digging, mister. There's no harm in digging.'

'Well, go and dig somewhere else. But get off my farm.' 'Only just arrived,' the man went on as if he had not heard. 'Used to know these parts. Found gold here twenty years ago. Thought I'd come back and have another look.' 'Blokes like you been cornin' round for years, and not findin' anything,' Mattinson said. 'You could let me look, mister. If I found something you might be rich. I found some nuggets up there on the ridge when I was here before. Alluvial stuff, I know, but there's rock underneath.' He pointed to the out-paddock. Larry put the billy-can of tea on the ground. Then she offered a mug of tea to the prospector. 'Of course you can fossick if you want to,' she said. 'There's sheep in the out-paddock,' said Mattinson. 'Sheep!' exclaimed Larry. 'Goats, you mean. What's there to lose in letting him potter round?' 'Nobody thought there was gold round Toohit way six months ago,' said the man. 'Then someone picked up a few specks after a storm . . . and look at it now!' Mattinson's eyes narrowed. He looked at Oliver. 'That what you're doin' here? You know this bloke? You after gold, eh?' Oliver shrugged. 'You took the day off yesterday? You pick up with this chap, eh?' 'Never seen him in my life before,' said Oliver. He did not add that the only gold he ever thought of was when the sun came up and played a sheet of it, all sparkling, over the Swam towards a rackety old jetty where a middle-aged schoolmaster and a little girl with a face like a sugar plum and hair all shot with the stuff would be sitting angling for fish. . . . The prospector drank the tea and the girl filled his mug again. 'Thank you, miss,' he said. 'When you've finished you can go and look where you like,' she said. The prospector looked uneasily at Mattinson. 'His bark's worse'n his bite,' Larry said. 'Water?' the man asked. 'Take what you want but don't waste it,' she said airily. 'Thank you, miss. Maybe I'll camp up there.' Oliver had been watching out of the corner of his eyes. Mattinson, despite his bluster, did not count for much about the place. Gold! Well, you never can tell. His father had come this way because it was on the edge of the goldfields. There were small speck camps around the district. Maybe he would go back to Pepper Tree Bay... and to Esther... very rich. Very, very rich! 'You going to have some tea? It's almost cold.' Larry took a small parcel with a newspaper wrapping from her blouse. 'And here's something to eat, bread and dripping.'

'And what about me?' said Mattinson. 'Yours is down there,' replied the girl jerking her head towards the farmhouse. She watched Oliver as he bit into the bread. 'What were you doing at the schoolmaster's yesterday?' 'Getting some books,' said Oliver. 'Books. What on?' 'Tools and building,' said Oliver. I wanted to check up on some things.' 'What sort of things?' 'Some of the tools in the shed.' 'Well, I could have saved you the trouble. Most of them came from the mines after they were closed down.' 'You know about tools?' asked Oliver. 'Of course I know about tools. Who doesn't in these parts?' When the spring cart was gilded to a pristine yellow touched with brown, Oliver put his own horse in it and moved the cart up to the gate on the main road. He then placed a FOR SALE notice on it and returned, not to the shed, but to the farm house. The girl had boiled some rabbits and was slapping the flesh off the bones to make a turnip stew. She did not lift her head, but he knew that out of the corner of her sleepy cat's eyes she was watching him. He wished she would turn round because looking at the smooth contours of her face, her olive skin, and her drooping lids, he felt a pleasurable excitement. . . . Nothing but bitter sharp words ever passed between them. Yet when she glanced at him with that look of feline sophistication and when she dropped the lids of her eyes, he always experienced a physical sense of her presence. Mr. Taylor, the schoolmaster, out of his kindness, wisdom and bountiful eccentricity, took Grandma Harding home to the school house to die in the cool shade of a stone wall―and between sheets instead of under a canvas lean-to rigged at the side of the lorry. Before she died he was able to line her ancient, stringy gut with tinned milk and meat extract instead of eggs, turnips and jack-rabbit. As arranged with Oliver he passed by Mattinson's place scarcely an hour after the FOR SALE notice had been hoisted on the spring cart. He gave Mattinson twenty pounds for the cart, insisting that one pound went to Oliver as commission on the sale. He said to Mattinson: 'Of course he told me about the cart. I gave him the paint. As for the twenty pounds which I'm offering, you can take it or leave it. You may get another customer. Or you may have to wait...' 'It shouldn't be so hard to sell,' said Mattinson, as though he knew. 'Do you know any farmer round here wants to buy anything these days?' retorted Mr. Taylor.

'Come to think of it, why do you want to buy it?' asked Mattinson. 'Well, I'm a farmer in between school-teaching,' said Mr. Taylor. 'That's why I can do with the cart. But I don't want it so much I'm prepared to stand here all day bargaining for it. Make up your mind or I'm going.' And off he went loping over the road to his sulky in a queer, bent hoppity skippity stride. 'Not so fast,' called Mattinson. 'There's no reason why ya should get somethin' for nothin'.' 'I said twenty pounds,' Mr. Taylor turned round and took a small roll of notes from his pocket. He stripped one of the notes from the bundle and handed it to Oliver. 'That leaves nineteen,' he said. 'I'm making sure the boy doesn't get nothing for something.' The first task of the spring cart after it came into Mr. Taylor's possession was to transport Oliver's dying grandmother to the more civilised parts of Yoowinning. The nearest neighbour to the school-house was only a mile and a half away. When they got the old lady into the cart she was smiling and mumbling unintelligible somethings. 'She's past knowing anything. She's not suffering,' said Mr. Taylor. Oliver steadied her on the mattress as they went along. She still clutched her heavy black stick. I think she knows,' said Oliver. Between them they installed Grandma Harding, with Oliver's mother to look after her, in the schoolhouse. Oliver with the lorry then camped nearby. Tired, and by an oil lamp, after he had returned from Mattinson's each day, Oliver would sit and listen to his grandmother's wandering voice. Mr. Taylor, watching him, knew that behind his calm brown eyes Oliver was quietly but relentlessly angry. That steady anger would never quite wear away. 'By and by the story will come out,' thought Mr. Taylor. He approved of Oliver and he knew Oliver's anger was a righteous one. 'A sound lad! Yes, a sound lad,' he said to himself. 'With his ear to the ground too . . . but a chip on his shoulder!' Mr. Taylor would then reflect that there were two Olivers, possibly three. The corners of that mouth drawn in with silent laughter! The firing yet quick suppression of the lights in those brown eyes. The quick flush that bespoke his anger so rapidly controlled. 'Time will show,' said Mr. Taylor. While Oliver's grandmother and mother occupied the school-house Mr. Taylor lived in a shack on his farm which adjoined the school. It was usually well after dark before he set out to find his way there. After a particularly humid day he said to Oliver.

'You know where the keys of the school are kept. If there's a willy-willy or a thunderstorm, move into the school. It'll be all right, we'll make an entry in the book.' Mr. Taylor's respect for his ledger knew no bounds. He showed it to Oliver whenever there was a chance. 'Wonderful things, books. Not a penny missed and everything comes out even.' He pointed to an item. 'To caretaking and cleaning gutters, . . . That would be worth ￡3. The paint wouldn't come to half that.' After the journey in the spring cart Grandma was only ten days dying. They put her away solemnly in the burial ground, a sandy hill, a mile from the largest of the worked-out mines. This gritty cradle had previously given rest to two farmers, several children―babies that didn't get a start―a prospector found dead in his camp, and half a dozen miners. Oliver shovelled the sand on to the rough-made coffin. With each thud of earth he could hear the thud of Grandma's stick through the veil of Morning Glories and the rasping of her voice. 'You there, Oily? What you doing, Oily?' And he thought again of the little girl bending down to look at his marbles so that he could see the parting in her hair. And he hated Larry and her sleepy eyes and her long yellow hair back there at Mattinson's farm. . . . Yet Oliver went back to work on Mattinson's place and before long the pile of sometime junk, renovated and restored, that stood at the front gate with a FOR SALE notice on it, continued to grow despite occasional buyers. Very soon machinery, an odd bicycle, a broken axle arrived at Mattinson's to be repaired. From the results of this work Mattinson took his substantial percentage. Yet for Oliver a dream was coming true. The shed became a forge and a workshop. Oliver worked steadily―for no wages, only for keep and kind. 'You're crazy, Oliver,' said Mr. Taylor. 'No, I'm not. I'm learning a job and in Mattinson's time.' Mrs. Harding, without the responsibility of Grandma, followed her husband to the goldfields. There for a time she obtained a respectable job as a cleaner in a mine manager's office. Then after several months she transferred her activities to the School of Mines, It was from this vantage point she was able to communicate with Mr. Taylor about books on machinery. Then followed a conversational correspondence between two of the lecturers and Mr. Taylor, and books and more books arrived at the schoolhouse of Yoowinning. Beside the lorry Oliver built something of a roofed stockade. He used wattle and daub to make a weatherproof shelter. The shelter was covered with galvanised iron from part of the school play-shed that had been blown over by a willy-willy. In his new dwelling Oliver was at one with the small-time miners who had at one time inhabited the district. He was even at one with the scrub farmers

whose huts consisted of mud, corrugated iron, and the flattened sides of kerosene tins. Little by little his ability in repairing machinery became known throughout the district. Occasionally a car stopped at Mattinson's place and Oliver repaired a broken spring or made a new part for it. Out of scraps he made a lathe and with the lathe a host of other things. Then suddenly, and for all time, the sun broke through the clouds. A motorist came chugging up to the door of the shed. It looked like the usual sort of case, a spring to be restored or a part to be turned on the lathe. It was an open tourer and the driver, leaning out of it, saw Oliver. 'Where's the mechanic?' he drawled. 'They told me there was one hereabouts.' 'I've been fixing a few things,' said Oliver. Sun-tanned, with an open-necked shirt, and an old pair of dungarees, he looked older. But the man was not deceived. 'You been fixing cars?' There was surprise in his voice. 'You're a bit young, aren't you?' 'There's no one else round here,' said Oliver. 'Well, I got a radiator that's choked up, here in the back of the car. See what you can do about it. It belongs to Vic Smythe.' 'Vic Smythe?' repeated Oliver. The man looked at Oliver. 'You ought to have heard of him by now. He's the boss of the Yoowinning North Mine. They had a lucky strike a fortnight ago.' 'But that's twenty miles away,' said Oliver. 'And it's off the main road. . . .' 'Seems that news travels more slowly these days than when I was younger,' said the man. 'Thought everybody about here would have heard of it. Should help to re-establish the place.' Oliver carried the radiator into the shed and examined it on a bench. 'I'll have to test it,' he said. 'And then I'll need to flush it out. If I find leaks I'll have to plug them with solder. It mightn't prove so good to look at. But it ought to work.' 'Nobody's going to worry about the appearance so long as the car will run,' said the man. 'This bus of mine isn't heavy enough for the roads out there. . . . It's urgent. How long will it take you?' Oliver turned the radiator over. enquired.

'How about this time tomorrow?' he

'Okay,' said the man. 'But I don't want to come out all this way on a wild goose chase. I expected a man around here. How old are you?' 'Sixteen,' said Oliver. 'But getting on for seventeen.' The man whistled. 'I'm taking a risk. But I got to. Go ahead, son. If the job turns out right I can probably put some more work in your way.' Oliver delivered the repaired radiator on time and then for nearly three weeks

the Yoowinning North Mine became part of the limbo of half forgotten things. Whatever had taken place there had not shaken the world of which Mattinson's was the centre. It was after dark when Oliver next met the man. He had found his way to Oliver's camp. 'You're certainly a hard bloke to find. Thought you lived back there at the farm.' 'What's wrong this time?' asked Oliver. 'The car again. The engine's playing up. It keeps on missing. Runs for a bit and then there's an explosion. It nearly smashed my wrist when I tried starting it with the handle.' Oliver's knowledge of engines was a matter of observation and an imperfect understanding from several of the books he had read. But he thought he could adjust the timing, if that was the cause. And he did not want to miss the opportunity to see inside a car engine if there was a chance. 'Where do you want me to go?' asked Oliver. 'Out to the mine,' said the man. 'If you come with me to-night you should be able to get to work first thing in the morning. Oh, and I've fixed it with that bloke Mattinson back there at the farm if you need to take any tools with you. All we got to do is call in and take them. I said with any luck you would return 'em tomorrow.' As they travelled towards Mattinson's place the man looked down at the seat― 'What's that?' he said. 'Just a book,' replied Oliver. 'Book, eh?' 'Yes,' said Oliver. 'It might come in handy.' 'With luck,' said Oliver, 'I'll have it working before lunchtime.' He raised the bonnet. As he did so the corners of his mouth twitched. 'Wonder what they would say if I told them I couldn't even drive the thing,' he thought. He discovered the fault fairly quickly. He wondered why. He had a flair. When things were wrong he seemed to know where to look. And again he wondered why the others hadn't thought to look in just the place where he did. The temptation to examine the engine was too great and he decided partly to strip it down. If he had everything working by four o'clock that would be soon enough. There was nothing romantic about the mine. It was a small show with less than a dozen men working on it. There was plenty of activity, and apparently the place was winning gold. The man who had brought him seemed to be the underground boss. Vic Smythe, the manager, spent most of his time working with crucibles in a nearby shed. 'How you going?' asked the man who had brought him when mid-day came. 'It'll take a bit longer than I first thought,' said Oliver.

Already the engine was partly dismantled. 'Hope you know what you're doing,' said the man suspiciously. 'Vic won't like it if he thinks you're just mucking about.' 'It'll be all right,' said Oliver confidently. 'I'll have it running before tea.' 'Before tea? It was to be before lunch when you started off.' He watched Oliver uneasily. 'We want to use that car this evening. Got some gold to run in to the train. We could drop you off on the way. . . .' 'What was wrong with it?' asked the schoolmaster. They were sitting opposite each other at a table in Oliver's hut. A lamp stood between them. At one end of the table there was a pile of books. 'Timing mostly,' said Oliver. 'It wasn't much. I picked it at once. It was all just as it says in the book.' Oliver drew one of the books towards him and turned the pages. Presently he stopped and ran his finger over a diagram. Mr. Taylor nodded gravely. 'You know these books pretty well, eh?' Oliver grinned. 'What do you think?' he said. 'And those others, eh?' Mr. Taylor made a gesture towards another pile of books neatly stacked on the floor beside Oliver's camp stretcher. Among the pile were some of Mr. Taylor's own books. 'Yeah,' replied Oliver slowly, turning his head. 'I read them after I get into bed.' Mr. Taylor got up from the table and walked over and sat himself on Oliver's stretcher. Leaning down he picked up a small armful of books. It was an astonishing assortment. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes stood on top of Scott's History of Australia. Below them was Conrad's Lord Jim, Stevenson's The Master of Ballantrae, and a book on the great symphonies. The last was The Motor Mechanic. 'Interesting, very interesting,' said Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor put the book down and slowly scratched his head. 'How long did it take you to fix that car?' he asked unexpectedly. 'Not so long,' said Oliver. 'That's what I thought,' replied Mr. Taylor. 'When those men from the mine drove away I heard one say to the other that you fixed the car in a couple of hours and then spent the rest of the day making out there was more wrong with it than there really was. He reckoned you were going to charge them plenty and was surprised when you didn't. What did you really do to that car?' 'Oh, just stripped the engine down to have a look inside.' There was a twitching at the corners of Oliver's mouth. 'How often have you done that before?' asked Mr. Taylor.

'First time,' said Oliver. I just couldn't miss the chance.' 'Thought so. Yes, thought so,' said Mr. Taylor getting up and beginning to pace about the shed, his queer loping strides indicating a suppressed excitement. 'The other day I heard one of the men round here say: "That kid up there at Mattinson's wields a bloody good spanner". That's what he said.' He stopped and faced Oliver. 'I've made a move,' he said dramatically. Oliver waited. 'Next week you're leaving Mattinson's.' Mr. Taylor paused long enough for Oliver to capture the full effect of his words. 'You're going to Kalgoorlie, to the School of Mines.' He waved aside an imaginary objection. 'No, don't get any false notions. You're going as a paid hand― a lackey one might say. You're going to work for a month as a cleaner in the motor mechanics' department.' He began walking again. 'No charity in it... no charity at all. You can stay with your mother. She's got a couple of rooms.' He stopped and faced Oliver once more. 'Then he said. 'Then, you'll come back here... No, not to Mattinson's place, but to mine. Yes, mine. And you'll make us both a fortune out of that "bloody spanner" of yours.' For a moment doubt assailed him. 'Could you learn how a motor car is made in a month?' 'I could learn in a week,' said Oliver. 'Could you now? You know there's one thing I like about you. Confidence!' He lowered his voice. 'The days of horses on farms are numbered. Before long everybody'll be running round in motor cars. In ten years there'll hardly be a sulky such as mine. And on the farms they'll be using tractors. You see what that means. . . . Those that know engines will make a fortune. . . .' 'I figured it out that way,' said Oliver quietly. 'Did you now? And how long have you been reading those motor books―seven, eight months? And you know 'em so well that when someone says: "Come on out and fix my car", out you go and fix it.' 'That's right,' said Oliver. 'But to be really good you've got to be able to make your own car, and not just fix up other people's.' 'I'll do it,' said Oliver. It was near midnight. The lamp still burned on the table. The books lay scattered about. Open under the lamp was the volume on the symphonies. Mr. Taylor banged his fist on the book. 'You've read all this and you've never seen an orchestra. You'd recognise Beethoven's Ninth at first hearing?' The light was in Oliver's eyes. 'Too right I would,' he said. Mr. Taylor snorted. 'There's a big difference between motor engines and

orchestras. And as for symphonies . . . Beethoven's Ninth now. . . .' 'I can hear it singing in my ears,' said Oliver. 'It's a symphony with a choir. . . .' Mr. Taylor turned the pages of the book. 'Go on,' he said. 'I used to hear the organ as a kid when we lived behind the church in Pepper Tree Bay,' said Oliver. 'I got to know the hymns. No one ever taught me. But I used to follow them in one of the hymn books used by the choir. I found it in the grounds and I should have put it back, but I never did. I've still got it. It's here. I knew when they sang out of tune. It made me grit my teeth.' Idly Mr. Taylor bent down and picked up a piece of stone that lay on the earth floor. He tossed it in his hand. 'Oliver, what sort of person are you?' Oliver did not reply. Mr. Taylor, as one abstracted for the moment, continued to throw the piece of stone into the air. Presently as he failed to catch it, the stone fell with a rattle on the table. It lay glittering under the lamp. 'Damn me!' exclaimed Mr. Taylor. 'If it doesn't contain gold!' CHAPTER III - TYPHOON MR. TAYLOR was not the only person in Yoowinning to find gold. After a few sharp showers several others in the district picked up specimens. Oliver found nothing. 'Somebody must have dropped that bit of rock I found,' said Mr. Taylor. 'I never heard of gold being picked up here before. It's a mile or two further over, along the ridge country. Through the out-paddocks of Mattinson's place. He was always waiting to strike it. . . that's why he let the farm go to pieces. That and he's lazy anyway.' Nevertheless, Mr. Taylor was often seen poking about the grounds. 'I get lumbago, walking and staring at the ground . . .' he said. There was an odd child-like expression in his eyes. 'There's always hope . . .' he said. When Oliver returned from the School of Mines Mr. Taylor helped him erect a workman-like place with sleeping quarters attached. The timber and iron were already there when Oliver got back. So too were tools and machines. The building was placed on Mr. Taylor's farming block at a point where it abutted on to the main road. Painted white, it was the most distinctive place for miles around. 'From now on you and I are in partnership, Oliver. Mattinson did pretty well out of you. He's sold almost everything you repaired, and for a tidy sum too.' The months went by . . . summer, autumn, winter. Then spring again. Oliver, growing up, looked a man―was a man in all but years. There was a steady flow of work which increased as the months passed by. One morning a young fellow on a new motor bicycle stopped in the shade of Oliver's verandah and asked for petrol which Oliver kept in tins.

'Nice machine,' said Oliver as he filled the tank with the aid of a funnel. 'Been giving any trouble?' 'None at all,' said the youth. 'Just driven up from Perth on it.' 'Where you going?' 'Kalgoorlie.' 'Got a job there?' 'Yeah. Born there. I work on the mines.' 'How are things?' 'Looking up. They also tell me there's a bit more activity round these parts. Recently had a good offer of a job at Yoowinning North.' As the youth drove away and became a diminishing dustpatch in the distance, Oliver said to himself. 'Got to get one of those things myself. I could rebuild an old one.' 'You've got a rival up there at Mattinson's,' Mr. Taylor said when he came in. He looked slyly at Oliver. 'Doing repair work . . . and riding a motor cycle!' It was months since Oliver had visited Mattinson's place. He had occasionally seen Larry Brown. She had looked at him with her challenging cat's eyes. And it still did something odd and queasy to his stomach. Somehow he didn't feel so good about Esther when he'd been thinking about Larry Brown. Larry Brown did something to him, but it was Esther he wanted. Sometimes he thought of writing her a letter, care of Mr. Sweeting. That, of course, was only a day dream. He knew he would never do it. He was standing in the doorway wiping a hand on a lump of cotton waste when a motor cycle turned in from the road and came to a stop a few yards from him,. As Oliver watched a slim youthful figure wearing goggles throw a leg over the machine he thought: 'This is it. . . .' The goggles came off and Larry looked at him coolly. Oliver did not look at the motor cycle. 'What have you done to your hair?' he said. 'Cut it off. It got in the way.' 'What of?' 'The forge mostly. Sometimes the oil.' 'You're the mechanic at Mattinson's place?' 'How about a partnership?' 'Not doing so well, eh?' 'I'm doing very well as it happens. That's where the bike came from.' 'What do you mean, a partnership?' 'Mr. Taylor set you up, didn't he? Him and me always got on all right when I was in his school. You ask him. I bet he'd take me' 'What do you want to come in for?' 'There's plenty of work up there. It kept on coming in because they thought you were still there. So I took on what I could do. And I messed about learning a bit, too. I've got the tools up there, but I'm not strong enough. Can't do the lifting. I'll have to get someone, or come in with someone.' Oliver was looking at her face. Something inside him was saying "ware danger!' Something else, more calculating, was saying, 'It's a challenge. I could do with those tools. I could do with Larry too.'

Larry could see the dark look in his eyes. She stared back into them, and she did not falter. She was not much more than a kid herself, but she knew what she was doing. 'You and I'd do all right, Oliver,' she said. 'You'd be the boss.' 'You go up to Mr. Taylor. He's got law books galore. He knows how to fix an agreement.' Her eyelids drooped over her eyes. Oliver saw it. He also saw her tender young breasts rising and falling under the tight-fitting short coat. He put out his hand and caught the handle of the motor cycle as she went to remount. 'That stays,' he said. She was silent a minute. 'And the agreement has to be in Mr. Taylor's name. We're only minors,' he added. 'Me and the bike?' she said softly. 'You and the bike.' She smiled. 'Okay. Suits me.' Oliver, when he told me of it spoke quietly, even a little sadly, all the restlessness gone out of his ceaselessly moving hands. 'And I wasn't feeling so proud of myself either. Something inside made me feel rotten. In every chap's life I guess, sooner or later, there's got to be a first one. It shouldn't have been Larry. It should have been someone else. It should have been Esther.' Mr. Taylor just looked knowing when Oliver asked him about the agreement that followed. But within a week gear began to move from Mattinson's place to Oliver's workshop. And day by day more cars passed either towards the goldfields or back in the direction of Perth and the coast. 'Who'd have thought it?' Oliver asked himself one day. His workshop was becoming known as the only garage for fifty miles around. And as for his skill with tools, he was the best mechanic for twice that radius. And Larry. . . . She came every day, sometimes on horseback and sometimes on her motor bicycle. With a rubber cap over her yellow hair and overalls enveloping her neat figure, she clambered in and out of any vehicle that needed cleaning or greasing. Within four months of the partnership they bought a secondhand Ford runabout for the firm. Mr. Taylor, keeping the accounts, smiled his approval. Everything was coming out as he had predicted. With luck they would make a fortune. And a fortune they did make. But in a different way. Before the year was up Larry brought Mattinson to the garage for the first time. It was early in the morning, and ignoring Oliver's urgent enquiries, she said breathlessly: 'Mr. Taylor, is he about? We need his help.' 'Yes, he's at the house,' said Oliver. 'But what's the matter?' The girl's eyes were glittering. 'I'll tell you later,' she replied.

Mr. Taylor sat at the top of the kitchen table. Mattinson and the girl sat on either side of it. Mr. Taylor sipped his coffee. He had just admonished his visitors to remain calm. There was silence while he returned his cup to its saucer. He looked from Mattinson to the girl and then back to Mattinson. 'So two men offered you seven thousand pounds cash for the farm,' said Mr. Taylor slowly. 'What I can't make out is why they offered you so much. Seven thousand pounds now. . . .' 'They offered the seven thousand pounds because I was there,' said the girl. 'They knew I knew.' The prospector, whom months before Mattinson had reluctantly allowed to pick over the land of his farm, had turned up a nugget too heavy for a child to lift. And there was more to be had for digging. It was gold with a vengeance! 'What you need is an attorney,' said Mr. Taylor with an air of finality. 'What's that anyway?' asked Mattinson suspiciously. 'Me,' said Mr. Taylor pulling down a book of contract law and opening it on the table. 'An' whaddya need the book for?' Mr. Taylor slipped easily into the role of legal adviser familiar with any such case. 'Look here,' he said. 'Left to your own resources you would be lucky to get seven hundred pence, gold or no gold. Blokes that can offer money like that know how to avoid paying it out. They'd catch you every time. Ever read one of those legal documents?' Mattinson remained silent, fidgeting with his fingers. 'Of course they'd catch him,' said the girl. 'He couldn't read quickly enough for them,. That's why we came to you. I told him you were honest.' 'Thank you,' said Mr. Taylor. 'But I expect to be paid.' 'I told ya so,' growled Mattinson at the girl. 'He's like the rest of them.' Mr. Taylor stood up and this time lifted down a ledger and some foolscap which he put beside the book of contract law. Without a word he made an entry in the ledger. He then began to fill a sheet of foolscap with writing. The girl edged along the table and began to read what he was putting down on the paper. Mattinson sat sullenly in his seat. The schoolmaster looked up and caught the girl's eye. 'Well,' he said. 'What do you think?' 'The same way as you do,' she replied. 'An' what 'ave you got to do with it?' demanded Mattinson. There was a gleam in Larry Brown's green eyes. 'I have some rights.' She sat down beside the schoolmaster. 'The farm belonged to my father,' she said. 'I heard that,' said Mr. Taylor. 'But there's always been a rumour about you and the farm...' 'Dad just handed me―and the farm to pay for me―over to Mr. Mattinson here. But nobody did anything about the title. You see, Dad walked off the

place. He reckoned the land wasn't any good but the machinery he'd collected would pay my board and keep until I was old enough. . . . Dad's dead now and I inherit the title.' Mr. Taylor put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He looked steadily from one to the other. Mattinson had an expression of mixed truculence and calculation. Larry was looking smart as a cat that has just licked up the breakfast milk. Mr. Taylor regarded her with some displeasure. 'You've thought all this up since that prospector found the nugget in the paddock,' he said. Larry shrugged. 'Not altogether. Of course, Mr. Mattinson is my legal foster-father and all that. The State Welfare Department fixed it. All the same I get a share of the farm.' Mr. Taylor directed the back end of his pen at the girl. 'Morally your step-dad has a claim on that land. And in law he could win a case on it.' He paused and reflected. 'All the same we'll see you get your share.' 'We!' shouted Mattinson. 'Whadd'ya mean by We!' 'Just "we". You and me and Oliver―not to mention the Occidental Gold Mining Company whose representatives are making offers to you.' 'The Occidental. . . . Say, how the hell do you know who's out there?' 'I own shares in the company. Fifty pounds' worth. Nothing to speak of as you might say. Just a little flutter on the part of the local school-teacher. I picked up a bit of gold-bearing rock quite some time ago. Then Oliver saw me find another bit. I sent them to the Company. And since then the Company and I have been interested in each other.' Mr. Taylor began leafing through his law books. 'Ha! Here we have it: "Miner's Licence―Rights and Claims of Holder Thereof". That's your prospector. We should have a licence if we're going to form a syndicate with these fellows.' 'Syndicate with what fellows?' demanded Mattinson. 'I come here to ask how to sell the farm when I can't find the titles―and you start talking about a syndicate.' 'That's right,' said Mr. Taylor starting to write again. 'A year's wages you owe young Harding. That gives him a small share. Then there's me as attorney or executive officer. If you are going to get anything out of the business you can't do without me. So I'll take my fee as a small share. Then there's fifty-one per cent, for the Occidental Gold Mining Company. They'll have to put up the capital to do the mining. You and Larry get the rest between you. It should be plenty―enough anyhow for each of you to cut off a bit for Mrs. Mattinson. If it weren't for her chickens and eggs you wouldn't be here to sign the necessary instrument. . . .' Mattinson crouched forward in his chair his slouch hat pushed back on his

head. His mutinous jaw jutted in Mr. Taylor's direction. 'I'm talkin' about my seven thousand quid . . .' he began. 'And I'm talking about anything above twenty thousand,' Mr. Taylor said complacently. Larry, now seated on a corner of the table beside him, was swinging a leg backwards and forwards and gazing out of the window. Oliver, black overalls open at the neck and wiping his hands on cotton waste, was coming up the track from the gate. 'Anything else you're likely to be wanting, Larry?' asked Mr. Taylor. 'Quite a lot,' she said. The lids drooped over her eyes. Her smile was full of guile. 'But I guess I can get that myself,' she added. Oliver came through the doorway. 'Looks like a conference,' he said. 'It is,' replied Mr. Taylor. 'Oliver, my boy, how would you like to go gold mining? In a big way, of course.' Oliver used a foot to propel a chair into place at the table. He sat down, his strong, thin hands in front of him on the table. The grease stains improved them―gave them character. 'I wouldn't', said Oliver. Mr. Taylor leaned back in his chair and examined him. 'You wouldn't? You wouldn't want to get rich quick?' 'I want to get rich any old way. But I don't want to go gold mining. I reckon I can make money out of motor cars and engines. I want to go back to Pepper Tree Bay.' The name fell like a stone in a pool of silence. Larry turned her head and looked at Oliver with narrowed eyes. 'Pepper Tree Bay . . .! That psalm-singing, yacht-sailing, kite flying hunk of river. You'd never make money in Pepper Tree Bay!' Oliver spoke quietly, his voice low and drawling as a lullaby. In his eyes were the little black pools Larry had learned to respect. 'The Highway from the Port to Perth runs through Pepper Tree Bay. It's all motor cars these days; and motor cars need oil and fuel―and attention.' He gave a little laugh. 'Why, they are building a Speedway on the old swamp land north of Pepper Tree Bay.' 'Ah!' said Mr. Taylor bringing both hands down on his knees in tragic acquiesence. 'So it's the Speedway that's done it.' Oliver's fingers played a gentle tattoo on the table. 'Well ... yes!' he said. 'But there's more to it than that. There's the river. . . . Have you seen the river in the morning before the sou' wester comes in? Where there's sand on the bottom it's like yellow wine. And where there's rocks and weeds and shadows from the over-hanging trees it's blue and green and misery grey. But whatever its colour, it shines like a mirror . . . like a piece

of glass. . . . Then round about six the fishing's good.' Larry snorted. She jumped off the table, and stared at him, hands on hips. 'And what would you be getting up at six in the morning for? I'm to believe in you sitting all on your lonesome catching fish at six in the morning?' Oliver's face lost its stillness. There had been nostalgia in his eyes and voice. Now there was the smile of one who sees a joke that is still a mystery to the rest. He pointed an accusing finger at Larry. 'No, you don't, Larry. No, you don't have to believe that at all.' His laugh rang out; it was half-way between a crackle and a roar. Then he stopped, and shook his head sadly. 'You haven't got it in you, Larry. You don't even begin to have it in you.' 'Have what in me?' 'The mood of the river at six o'clock in the morning.' 'And I'm supposed to believe you're going back to that ... to that river for fish at six in the morning?' Oliver shrugged. 'There's other things,' he said. 'There's the Swamp and the Grammar School and the boys who wear shoes and socks, summer and winter. There's the church and the old fig tree at the bottom of a garden. And there's five Montgomery kids―girls―holy terrors! By golly, Larry, they'd take a slice out of you.' 'I'd like to see them try it on.' 'I will someday,' said Oliver without malice. 'Well, go on. The five holy terrors, and who else?' 'And who else?' Oliver looked out of the window into the patterned shadows of the trees. Who else? A girl with golden hair and a mouth like an angel! Larry looked at him thoughtfully for quite a long time. Mr. Taylor looked from one to the other. 'Larry,' he said at length. 'When this goes through I'm going to send you to Sydney. To a finishing school . . . one for grown-up young ladies.' PART THREE CHAPTER I - QUIET ON THE REACHES 'WHO do you suppose is that bat-winged creature who sometimes flits about Oliver's workshop―back of the Bank on the Highway?' Mary asked. 'Mr. Taylor,' I said. 'Another of Oliver's elderly cronies. He comes down from the bush on vacations.' Mr. Taylor cut an unmistakable figure in Pepper Tree Bay. After Yoowinning he called the Coast cold in any and every season. He always wore a dark coat with a shoulder cape. This, with a wide-brimmed hat, and a long loping walk

gave the impression that he swooped about the place. 'How do you suppose he and Cutty Bannister get on in conversation?' Denney asked. 'It's a one-sided affair,' I said. 'Mr. Taylor talks. Oliver listens. And Cutty whittles sticks with his pocket knife.' 'You're the one who's always calling on Oliver,' Mary said. 'How does he get on with Esther nowadays?' 'Yes, remember how she always trailed after him when they were kids?' said Vicky. 'And how he always looked after her?' said Mary. 'He looks after her plenty now,' I said. They all looked up in surprise. 'He wouldn't dare put a finger on that immaculate miss,' someone said scathingly. 'Imagine Miss High-and-Mighty walking out with a Speedway Ace!' 'Well, that's not what I meant,' I said reluctantly. 'When I said: "looks after" I meant "looks after". Esther bowls up the Terrace or along the Highway in that ancient Hupmobile with the chauffeur at the wheel while Oliver just looks―looks all the time with those brown eyes of his.' 'Who wouldn't look at her anyway?' said Gerry. i could take a piece out of her for that "private don't trespass" appearance she has placarded over her. . . . But I could still stop and look at her any time, any place.' 'I've never found Esther high-and-mighty,' I said. 'Look,' said Gerry. 'Last year when I was staying at the Grand Hotel in Albany, Esther was there with Mrs. Riccard. The first morning after I arrived we both came out of our bedroom doors at the same time―and sort of faced one another in the corridor. I hadn't seen Esther for years. I said: "Hullo, Esther!" You know how I would... a bit loud... a bit excited... We're all like that, aren't we? "How do you do?" says Esther, cool as a cucumber. I felt as squashed as if an iceberg had fallen on me.' I started to laugh. 'I can imagine it!' Gerry was a big girl, rackety as a young colt. Her salutations would have all but clean bowled Esther. 'You know what,' I said. 'I'll bet you anything you like, Esther was so shy she didn't know how to say anything else but "How-do-you-do?" ' 'You should have seen her walk away,' said Gerry. 'She had a smashing dress on, pink, the palest I've ever seen. So plain there was nothing to it. Just a bit of linen with six big buttons down the front. She looked heavenly.' 'That's why you feel wild,' I said. 'That kind of impeccable behaviour and appearance leaves you stuttering. You feel as wild as hops, yet you envy everything about her. I do, anyway. . . . Well, not quite, now that I come to

think of it.' 'Just what don't you envy?' asked Gerry. 'She's got everything ―magnificent home, a car, servants, good looks . . . correct that . . . sheer beauty, perfect taste, excruciating exquisite manners.' 'All that and more too. . . . She's got Amelia Riccard. And I'll bet she's so lonely when she's riding in that big car she'd give anything to get out and hop in a tram alongside of me. Only she doesn't know how.' The year was 1928. Esther and I, being born in the same week, were twentyone. I was mid-way through my course at the Teachers' College in Pepper Tree Bay. My father was dead and we Montgomerys now lived six miles nearer to the centre of the Capital in West Perth. I alone of the family during the last two years had returned to Pepper Tree Bay. That was because of the College. I often saw Esther about, sometimes up the Terrace where she would be shopping, a basket over her arm, and Harris, the chauffeur, waiting by the door of the Hupmobile. Quite often we stopped and spoke―but never at any length. Something shut Esther off. Partly her reserve, partly my own self-consciousness, for I could never have asked Esther home to eat at the communal table at 'Forty-Five' where we now lived. The boarding house, which was now our home and a means of keeping a roof over our heads, was no place to which to ask the lovely Esther. Yet the first time I had seen Oliver in Pepper Tree Bay I had jumped on him with a whoop of joy. We were too old to quarrel any more. And I dragged him home and had presented him to a delighted family. After that he came often. But Esther never. Sometimes when I caught a glimpse of her as the car sped up the hill to the shopping centre, or along the Highway towards Perth, I would wonder what had happened to Esther the day she drove away from the Church in Mrs. Riccard's car . . . the day Canon Miling had died in the pulpit and Mrs. Hillman had screamed and ran out of the church. In course of time Esther told Mr. Sweeting. The Misses David knew. Later Oliver knew―perhaps by gleaning scraps of information from them all―perhaps because he wanted to know, and behind thoughtful eyes was listening intently to each bit of information that came his way. . . . Little by little in time he came to have the complete picture. Even how Esther looked, what thoughts passed through her head, the very words she uttered. When the door of the big house on the hill had closed behind the little girl Esther she had been shut in from the world she had known. From that day she was to live with Mrs. Riccard. Esther had followed Mrs. Wood, the housekeeper, in through the house. But when food was set before her she barely tasted it. And Mrs. Wood in her

kindness did not press her. A great river of misery was creeping through Esther's heart. It was incalculable―not to be told in words. It was beyond despair. Her life would be according to Mrs. Riccard's ordering and circumscribing. She knew it instinctively, young as she was. Meantime, in the Rectory there was a great to-do. Although anxious to have us out of sight, preserved from an indecent prying and staring, Mother was at a loss what to do with all five of us in the small house. Mrs. Hilknan was prostrate on the leather couch in the study. Every now and again some hysterical impulse would cause her to cry out and there were sounds of struggle and restraint. Mr. Hillman came and went and came again. Mrs. Riccard came and would not go. For once we Montgomerys did not want to peep between the folds of the velvet curtain. For once such a pastime seemed a gross indecency. For once we were afraid. When a move was made to bring Canon Miling into the Rectory, Mother said it was beyond her coping. All was confusion and we five found ourselves in the backyard too miserable to care what was going on around us. Finally, two of the parishioners―Mr. and Mrs. Doonan, whom we knew but not very well―volunteered to take us to their home for the day. A cab was summoned and we were despatched with haste. However, the day which began with tragedy and hysteria ended in adventure. Mr. Doonan lived in a large house on the hill overlooking the river, less than five hundred yards from Mrs. Riccard's place. After a dinner that was solace to our hearts, Mr. Doonan took us on the river in his boat. The boat trip was important, for Mr. Doonan proved an excellent teller of stories. He took us round the bay to a little shelf of sand at the foot of the cliffs. Below the cliffs and with access only from the sandy beach was a cave. . . . Convict's Cave it was called and Mr. Doonan sat us around him while he built up the whole fabric of a wonderful adventure about the convicts, who once in actuality had escaped and taken refuge there. Often in later years as I went down the river by boat I would search with my eyes, hunting for the strip of sand and the tiny cave. It remained ever afterwards a place of adventure and romance, a scene of exploit and daring. It was many years before I found the cave again―and it belongs to the end of this story. But on that day with Mr. Doonan, as we rowed back to his jetty, we could see Mrs. Riccard's tall, white house―like a secret tower behind the pines that grew on the cliff top. In the water below the house there was always stillness. It was deep and blue-

black with shadow from cliff and trees. And because the winds came from west or south the bay itself was sheltered. The part below the cliffs was the loveliest on the river, seldom used and very secret. There were jagged rocks just below the surface of the water. Only a flat-bottomed boat was safe. Because it was unfrequented by us I remember looking back to that other part of the river which we knew so well. 'I guess it's a whole mile to the school jetty and the yacht club,' I said. 'More than that,' said Mr. Doonan. 'Could you swim it, lassie?' 'I'd like to have a try,' I said. 'But I think it's too far without a rest.' 'There are two ways of doing it,' said Mr. Doonan. He pointed towards the centre of the bay. 'Do you see that light-coloured water out there? That's half a mile. Like swimming in the wrong direction for the jetty, eh? It is in a sort of way. But there's a sand bank there and you can stand on it. The water's never more than waist deep. After a rest you could turn at right angles and swim into the jetty―about another half-mile. . . . The other way is to swim round the bay. That's an extra quarter of a mile and you would have to trust to finding an occasional foothold on an under water rock.' I thought of Esther up there in Mrs. Riccard's big house. 'If she wants to go fishing with Mr. Sweeting and Oliver,' I thought, 'someone had better tell her about the shallow water in the middle of the bay.' Looking at the house behind its pines, I thought things wouldn't have gone so badly if it had been me instead of Esther. What with the convict cave, a way home via the river, and a secret sandy bank, I could have done quite well for myself. But I shook my head in sorrowful reflection at Esther's probable ineptitude in such a situation. I was, of course, quite wrong! For days Esther remained self-imprisoned in the Riccard house. No one locked doors on her or forbade her to use the gates. True, Mrs. Riccard suggested a certain modesty about appearing in public for a while. 'Such a scene is not easily forgotten, Esther. You should not offend people by showing yourself just now.' All this was over Esther's head. She onlv knew that her mother and father had gone away . . . and that nobody in Pepper Tree Bay remembered her any more. She was forgotten―out of the world. Yet Mrs. Riccard was not exacting. She fetched Esther her clothes from the little house in Queen Victoria Drive. And with them came the doll with its miniature wardrobe, the embroidery frames and the pile of fashion magazines. She gave Esther leave to examine the books in the bookcases of the house. Except occasionally in innuendo she was not unkindly. She asked nothing of Esther except that she do something with her hands and keep away from people in Pepper Tree Bay. Esther had a curious sense of being a prisoner. But not an ordinary prisoner. More like a prisoner on parole.

Endlessly she sat sewing. Mrs. Riccard sat reading under a beaded lampstand in the drawing-room, Now and again Esther saw Mrs. Riccard looking at her over the top of her reading lorgnettes. At such times the older woman seldom spoke to Esther― except in innuendo. 'How many boys did your mother teach the piano, Esther?' Or: 'I suppose Geoffrey Thorn came at other times―I mean not necessarily for a music lesson.' Once, after Mrs. Riccard had been suffering from migraine, which was a frequent ailment with her, she came into the drawing-room quite late in the evening. She stood, her jewelled hand resting heavily on the rosewood of the piano, and about her face was a strange black-ringed, fiery-eyed quality that Esther came to know she always had when she was suffering from migraine. 'You understand what they did, Esther? You saw them?' Esther did not know what they had done, nor had she seen anything. Yet she knew what Mrs. Riccard meant. It upset her so that she did not want her supper when Mrs. Wood brought it in. That was the night when Mrs. Riccard sat down at the piano and began to play. She sat very stiff and straight and she held her hands rigidly. Yet she played very beautifully. Then she told Esther to go to the piano and play. Mrs. Riccard moved from the piano and sat in the tall-backed chintz-covered chair under the beaded lamp. 'Play, Esther,' she commanded. Then when Esther stopped she opened her eyes, 'Play!' she commanded. 'Don't stop. Keep playing.' So Esther began to recall everything she had ever learned. When Mrs. Wood fetched the supper she set Esther's on a little table. Then she went over to Mrs. Riccard and tapped her on the shoulder. She took Mrs. Riccard's arm and guided her towards the door. Esther, still playing, could partly see Mrs. Wood leading Mrs. Riccard as one would lead a sleep-walker. 'Go on with your supper, child,' Mrs. Wood said. 'You can see the mistress is suffering from migraine. She shouldn't have come downstairs. Just have your supper and put yourself to bed.' She shut the drawing-room door behind her. Esther thought in later years that Mrs. Riccard was indifferent to her. Having got her into the house and thereby forged for herself a chain that linked her destiny with that of the Hillmans, she appeared no longer to take an interest in the girl. She wanted peace and decorum. Otherwise Esther was left to her own devices. The truth was that, having lost her own husband, Mrs. Riccard was drawn to Mr. Hillman by some subterranean current that flowed through the secret depths of her mind.

In some indefinable way―and not unrelated to the religious fervour of both of them―Roderick Hillman was attracted to her. But Mr. Hillman's regard was in the nature of a compulsion. Hers was more a whim; and she had no conscience about indulging it. Because she was strong and Mr. Hillman jealous, she had destroyed the Hillman home―or rather she had created the circumstance whereby it had destroyed itself. In Esther she had a contact with Roderick Hillman. Time would do the rest. Especially on those days when fire-lit rings were round the pupils of Mrs. Riccard's eyes and black shadows enveloped them, Esther was afraid. Yet Esther soon learned that, when an attack of migraine was imminent, she was certain of anything up to twelve hours' freedom from Mrs. Riccard's company. It was on one of these occasions that Mrs. Wood took Esther to the upstairs box-room at the end of a passage leading on to the balcony. 'It's time you stopped mooning, Miss Esther,' she said. 'You fair give me the creeps sometimes.' She looked at Esther thoughtfully. 'That reminds me. You come along with me. . . .' They went upstairs and along a little carpeted passage to the box-room. Inside all was dark until the blind was pulled up. Then Esther saw that the walls were lined with trunks and suit cases. On a rack hung several tennis racquets with their strings asunder. There were bags of golf sticks and some croquet mallets. Mrs. Wood pulled and heaved at a large trunk until she raised its lid. As she did so a regiment of silver fish scuttled for cover. 'These were the colonel's,' she said as she began to lift out book after book. 'Quite different from what's in the bookcase downstairs. . . . Now how about this? And this? And this?' She had lifted out Vashti and Inez and The Beautiful White Devil. Then came Poems of Banjo Paterson and The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse . . . Heavy stuff that Esther had yet to sample and understand. Allowing the lid to fall, Mrs. Wood attacked another trunk. This was full of postcards. 'Great on collecting postcards he was,' said Mrs. Wood. She shook her head. 'He came down here from India with all this stuff. He meant to retire and spend the rest of his life here on the river. His heart wasn't too good and everyone thought this would be a quiet and easy way for him. Me and Harris were sent on first to get the house ready.' She paused. 'He was only here a week . . . and he dropped dead in the bathroom. . . . Having his morning shave he was.' She stood up leaving the lid of the trunk open for Esther's inspection.

'All his things are in here. You might as well hunt through whatever is interesting. It'll keep you busy for a time.' Along the wall behind the door was an enormous chest of drawers and beside it a wardrobe. Mrs. Wood went over to the wardrobe. With her hand on the door she gave an exclamation: 'Well I never!' She was looking at the floor in front of the wardrobe. There was powder there, and imprinted in the powder an unmistakable footprint―Mrs. Riccard's. 'What would she be coming here for?' she muttered. I thought she'd given up that medicine years ago.' Mrs. Wood opened the wardrobe. At one end hung a number of men's suits―one or two of them were military uniforms. At the other end there hung about fifteen beautiful evening dresses. Silk. Satin. Velvet. Beads, sequins, ribbons, frills, decorated these lovely but old-fashioned gowns. 'Oh!' exclaimed Esther. 'Oh!' But Mrs. Wood was taking no notice of Esther. One at a time she was taking out the suits and examining them. 'Well I never!' she said suddenly. 'Well I never!' The boxroom opened up a new activity for Esther. But even this occupation and the kindness of Mrs. Wood, and the friendliness of Harris, could not assuage her loneliness. After all, Mrs. Wood and Harris belonged first to Mrs. Riccard . . . and Esther was afraid of Mrs. Riccard. Nothing would have induced her to cross the hallway and enter Mrs. Riccard's bedroom. In all the years Esther spent in the house she never crossed that threshold. 'It smelt of verbena,' Esther said. 'Like Mrs. Riccard. . . . And somehow I always felt the colonel might appear from nowhere. . . . There was something about Mrs. Riccard―some secret private life of her own―and it was lived behind her bedroom door.' Esther was six weeks in Mrs. Riccard's house before she left its precincts. It was early in the morning and by way of the river. Summer was in full blast. The sun, not yet up, was burning the eastern sky as Esther went down the cliff path. When she reached the water she stood on a boulder and searched the distant coastline of the bay for the speck which she knew was the school boat-shed from which she and Oliver and Mr. Sweeting had fished. Not far away she saw Mr. Doonan plunging into the water after his dinghy which had gone adrift and was now well out towards mid-stream. Mr. Doonan was some time in reaching the boat, but when at length he clambered aboard he paddled on for a further hundred yards or so to where the water was pale in colour. As Esther watched she saw him leap out of the dinghy and stand beside it. Then he began to bale out the boat.

Esther understood two things at once. The water over the sandbank was very shallow. And the distance from the bank to the old boat-shed seemed remarkably short. Esther returned up the cliff path and got out her swimming suit. A few minutes later she dived into the deep blue-black water below the cliff and began swimming steadily towards the middle of the bay. Mr. Doonan returning to his jetty in the dinghy did not see the small head bobbing out towards the sandbank. Esther found the distance to the bank no great effort. She had this in common with the children of Pepper Tree Bay. She could swim easily and for long distances. She waded across the sandbank and after resting for a few minutes began to swim towards the boat-shed jetty. A little to the west of the jetty was a short promontory. It was the nearest shallow water and Esther made for it. As she swam, Esther could see Mr. Sweeting sitting alone at the end of the jetty, and suddenly she began to fear he would go before she could reach him. Her fear made her heart thump and her breath come quick and short. The distance to the rocky promontory did not seem to shorten. At last her foot touched bottom and in a few moments she had clambered along the rocks to the little beach. When she reached the sand she began to run; and as she ran the tears of her loneliness welled up and began falling down her face. It was Mr. Sweeting who told me his part of the little adventure. At first he did not notice the figure running in his direction along the disused and weed-strewn part of the beach. When he did he saw that from anonymity it became a young girl. Then the young girl became Esther . . . and Esther in distress! He fixed the line; dragged his dressing-gown about him, and made towards her, stumbling on the loose planks of the jetty. Then he jumped down on the sand and ran to meet her. 'Esther!' Involuntarily he threw open his arms. His heart was in the gesture, and with a slight moan Esther flung herself into them. She was indeed his 'dear child'. He never forsook her again. When, years later, he spoke about that morning, there were tears in his old eyes. Mr. Sweeting, having plotted with Esther, sent her back to Mrs. Riccard's house by the way she had come. He, himself, was late back at the Grammar School that morning, for he had sat long on the jetty watching Esther swim out towards midstream. When she reached the sandbank she stood up and waved to him. He, the headmaster, had stood and waved to her. To him, his gesture was a salute. Of all of us who knew Esther, Mr. Sweeting alone had seen her courageous. And of all of us he was the only one who never misjudged her. . . . There was of course Miss Priscilla David; but her affection was never fully

tested. 'Where's Oliver?' Esther had asked Mr. Sweeting. 'Oliver?' The headmaster had frowned uneasily. 'Oliver has gone. We have a new Rector now, Esther. It was thought the duties were too heavy for the Curate. . . .' He hesitated, for guilt about things left undone was troubling him. 'With the new Rector there came a clean sweep altogether. A new caretaker, you know . . . I'm afraid the Hardings had to go, Esther.' 'You mean they've gone away? You mean Oliver doesn't live in Pepper Tree Bay any more?' Mr. Sweeting bowed his head. 'Yes. That's what I mean.' Esther was silent, her eyes unhappy. Mr. Sweeting placed his hand on hers. 'I am very sorry, Esther. I will try and find out where the Hardings are.' He looked at her hopefully. 'Mrs. Riccard would possibly know. She is on the Vestry . . . Mr. Harding was not a pleasant person. I must agree he was not the sort of man to have around the church.' This was beyond Esther. That Mr. Sweeting did not understand the monstrousness of Mrs. Riccard was something Esther accepted and could not debate. . . . But that Mr. Harding was unfit to be around the church! That was odd indeed―because Esther had never seen Mr. Harding near the church. It was an offence of which for many years he had not been guilty. Esther, already stricken by the many events that had encompassed her―the loss of her mother, her separation from the life of Pepper Tree Bay with its five Montgomerys and its tribe of Grammar School boys―had no power to savour this extra and very special loss, the going of Oliver. His absence became part of her general un-happiness. Mr. Sweeting had talked to Esther for a long time. In the end she had agreed to return across the bay; and her visit was for the time being to remain a secret between them. But it was also agreed that when the weather was fine she might make the journey again. Thus in the course of time Esther visited the jetty on many occasions. Meantime, Mr. Sweeting, in his own way, had a word with Mrs. Riccard. She was a member of the Board of Managers of the school. It proved quite easy. He arranged a little party. Esther had told Mr. Sweeting of her loneliness but not of her fear of Mrs. Riccard. Esther was too inhibited to make such a confession; and the schoolmaster was too unworldly to guess at the deeper currents that flowed through the lives of Esther and Mrs. Riccard. Mr. Sweeting saw Mrs. Riccard objectively―a rather bossy woman given to good works and occasional difficult moods. He thought her greatest sins were lovelessness and a want of understanding of the spiritual needs of a child like Esther. He made no move to deprive Mrs. Riccard of Esther. He could find no adequate reason to do so. On the contrary he applauded Mrs. Riccard's charity. But one thing he did do. He persuaded Mrs. Riccard that for some

period each day Esther should be away from the big house. On one point, however, Mrs. Riccard was adamant. She would not send Esther to school. 'The child's parents are the talk of the town,' she said. 'A period must be put to it. And that won't happen if Esther goes to school and becomes a centre of morbid interest among the girls.' Mr. Sweeting had no answer to this. 'But the child must be educated. It's the law.' 'I will certainly give that woman―her mother―credit for something. Esther is remarkably advanced in her reading and she plays the piano with considerable facility. But her embroidery is by far her most practical asset.' 'Perhaps we could find a governess? Or do you think her a little old for that? If she were a little boy we could suggest a tutor.' 'You mean someone she could visit? Who in Pepper Tree Bay would take on such a proposition? Remember there is an element of doubt about the circumstances of her living in that house. I don't think anyone would take the risk. Mud might be thrown.' Mr. Sweeting looked vaguely puzzled. Mrs. Riccard saw the expression. 'You understand perfectly well what I mean, my dear Headmaster,' she said. 'Do you suppose one of your masters would want to do it? It's what tongues might say.' For the first time Mr. Sweeting was aware of an active dislike of Mrs, Riccard. 'I will have a talk with Miss Priscilla David,' he added. 'She may be able to make a suggestion.' Miss Priscilla's suggestion―and one that was immediately adopted―was that Esther should bring her school books to the Swamp each day. In between dairying and jam-making and general housekeeping, the Misses David would supervise Esther's education. Thus a new life began. As Esther became accustomed to her new way of living she was not really unhappy. Mr. Sweeting, as much as Esther, looked forward to that matutinal meeting across the bay. Neither of them said anything about it to anyone―probably because the beauty of the strange companionship lay in the perfect understanding each had for the other. Books, the business of learning, and the Misses David filled in the hours of the day. Mrs. Wood and Harris, the servants, were good to Esther, and sometimes there was laughter in the kitchen. 'Do you suppose the fish mind being fish, Mrs. Wood?' 'Land sakes, child. Read your books and find out.' 'Cassell's Natural History says what fish do and what they look like, but it doesn't say what they think.'

'No book says what I'm thinking right now, either. Or what Harris is thinking when he makes that noise sucking up his tea.' 'I know what you're thinking,' said Esther. 'You're thinking . . . land sakes, how many more questions is the girl going to ask? And Harris is thinking . . . the women in this house always make the tea too hot.' Their laughter was muted because Mrs. Riccard's house was not meant for noise. Even happy noise. It was sombre in its luxury. Sound was muffled by its rich carpets. The sun shone into the upstairs balcony rooms that faced east and overlooked the river. The windows facing west always had their blinds drawn against the dazzling light of afternoon. 'The sun fades the carpets.' As the carpet in the large square drawing-room was an Aubusson this mattered. Esther lived in an adult world, and she lived in the restricted manner prescribed by Mrs. Riccard. It meant that she grew up before she should have done and that where there should have been companionship there was a void. For companionship Esther substituted handwork. She made the most intricate embroideries, and finally her own clothes. These she made beautifully and with exquisite taste. Had she made tapestry she would have embroidered a tableau of her life. It would have been Mrs. Riccard, a trifle stouter, immaculately dressed, her heavy-ringed hands on her lap, and sitting in the high-backed chintz chair beside the beaded lampstand.... On the carved Indian table a lace handkerchief. . . . And since it was but a tableau the fact that the lace handkerchief was scented with verbena would have been represented in a symbolic way. Something of the veiled past was revealed to Esther when she borrowed books from the trunk in the box-room. She would turn the pictures that stood with their faces to the wall and examine them minutely. 'Who is the tall dark man under the sunshade with Mrs. Riccard?' she asked Mrs. Wood later. 'That is the colonel. A fine figure of a man he was.' 'Were his eyes really black?' 'Yes. He was the descendant of an Italian noble family.' 'Why was he in the British Army?' 'The family had been several generations in England. They were what is called anglicised.' 'Why?' 'England's a better place to live, of course.' 'Does everyone in Italy think that? And why did they live in India instead of England?' 'Land sakes, child, I'm talking about their forebears.'

'Why didn't they go back to England when the colonel left the Army?' On this occasion Harris was in the kitchen drinking his tea at the little side table under the window. He and Mrs. Wood exchanged a glance. 'He was a sick man. The kind of medicine that kept him well could be got more easily in India. It was made in India.' 'Is that the medicine Mrs. Riccard takes for her migraine? The medicine she pushes in her arm with a needle?' Both Mrs. Wood and Harris looked at Esther speechless. She knew never to mention the needle again. She had been hunting in the boxroom one day and had gone to the chest of drawers that stood behind the door and beside the wardrobe. The two top drawers were filled with pieces of lace, jabots, collars, velvet ribbons, net blouse fronts, spangled medallions, scarves of Brussels lace, little powder purses, tiny Indian handkerchiefs, and a hundred other treasures of dress decoration. 'May I use some?' Esther had asked Mrs. Wood. 'Well, I don't see why not. They've been there for years and years.' But Mrs. Wood had locked the two long drawers at the bottom of the chest. 'Leave them be,' she said. 'There's nothing there to interest you.' And she locked the half of the wardrobe that contained the colonel's clothes. 'No reason why you shouldn't admire the mistress's gowns,' she said. 'When you grow a bit, maybe she'll give them to you. You'll never get material this side of the world to match those satins and velvets.' For some time the half of the wardrobe and the bottom drawers remained locked. Then one day one of the drawers was open a little bit. Not more than an inch, but enough to show that the lock had been forced. Esther gave the drawer underneath a slight tug. It gave easily. Its lock was also broken. For quite a long time Esther went on sorting pieces of lace and medallions of spangles from one of the upper drawers. But every now and then her eyes strayed downwards to the lower drawers. When she replaced the odds and ends in neat little piles, her fingers slipped almost without volition to the first of the two drawers below. It slid through enough to reveal an extraordinary sight. On a sheet of white paper, covering the bottom of the drawer, there stood rows of little medicine bottles and neat stacks of paper-covered packets that bore long unreadable Indian names. At one end were larger boxes bearing the more familiar labels of 'boracic acid', 'alkali powders', 'Talcum'. There was a flat metal box of iodex, some bottles of iodine. Several large bottles made Esther's eyes really open. With unaffected candour they bore the bold inscription. 'Hair Dye―Titian-Tinted'. There were quite a number of half

emptied eight-ounce bottles with the cautionary command Esther knew well of old: 'SHAKE THE BOTTLE'. The other end of the drawer from the boxes was the gadgetry of medicine. On a white towel, looking particularly sterile and antiseptic, were two little medicine glasses, a powder measure shaped like a round spoon, a fine brush on the end of a long strong wire which Esther recognised as a brush for painting an inflamed throat. There were some surgical scissors, and, a little apart, a hypodermic syringe. The drawer and its contents were intriguing, and a little fearful. Esther was at the age when a girl is morbidly afraid of sickness. The array of bottles both attracted and repelled. Somehow these bottles and packets revealed something more of Mrs. Riccard. She was not just sawdust figure that retired into and emerged from the big room which was the counterpart of the drawing-room below it. This person who emerged from the room each day had a body beneath those perfectly tailored clothes. And besides being fed and bathed it had to have medical care. A medicine drawer, or a chest, is more intimate than a bedroom. It tells more. Perhaps that is why Esther experienced something of a shock when she opened the drawers. It wasn't that there was anything shocking in its nature; it was just that the material being of Mrs. Riccard was revealed. Esther, if she was curious as to why the lock had been forced, forgot about it later. She realised at once, without any explanation, that Mrs. Wood had locked the drawer and that Mrs. Riccard had forcibly opened it. She just knew these things. It was not on this day that her curiosity prompted her to look in the very bottom drawer. The medicine drawer was enough for her on one day. When she got used to the knowledge that all those 'SHAKE THE BOTTLE' and 'POISON DON'T TAKE' instructions were standing about appended to mysterious fluids in a various assortment of bottles, she ceased to be so fearful and on more than one occasion looked over the array. The small square packets in rice paper with asiatic designs and long Indian names remained a mystery. What they contained she could not guess. Then one day the drawer beneath was slightly out of line, showing a barely perceptible crack. Esther bent down and slid the drawer open. This time she jumped back with very real fright. Lying on a spotless towel was a pink and white fleshy leg. Esther shut the drawer with a little cry. 'It's wooden! Of course it's wooden!' she said, holding her hands to her face. Nevertheless, her find was so unexpected and so suggestive of the gruesome she never again opened the drawer. 'When the Colonel's sitting down, in those pictures upstairs, he's always got his leg out in front of him,' Esther volunteered one day to Mrs, Wood. 'That's because he had a wooden leg, poor man. And deary me what he

suffered with that leg! His leg and his heart. . .!' Mrs. Wood, who had been peeling potatoes, put down the knife and looked absently into space. 'Did he always have a wooden leg?' 'Of course not. How could he have become a soldier? He lost it in a sabre attack on the frontier in Kashmir.' She went on peeling the potatoes. 'Doctors in India treated him. But it was no good. They could only give him stuff to soothe the pain, not to cure it. Now, you be a good girl and get on with that sewing. Right lovely it is, Miss Esther, and as fine as the best I ever saw in India. Don't you be asking too many questions about the Colonel. Let him be in peace, poor man.' 'Sometimes I think . . . sometimes I think, Mrs. Wood, he's still here. He hasn't really left the house at all.' Again the knife and the potato went down. 'Neither he has, Miss Esther. Harris and me, we still do what the Colonel said. We're still in his service . . . God rest his poor soul.' To Esther's embarrassment Mrs. Wood's eyes filled with tears. Thereafter the Colonel, whom Esther had always been afraid would materialise from some secret recesses in Mrs. Riccard's room―and in these last few weeks clearly thought would be wearing a wooden leg―was not quite so frightening. Mrs. Wood mourned him, that was certain.

CHAPTER II - THE STILLNESS OF HIGH NOON THIS story set out to be the story of Esther and Oliver, so I must skip the intervening years and come to that period when they did at last come together. The events which I have recorded of Esther's first years with Mrs. Riccard are according to how she related them to Oliver and me. Though Esther continued in her fear and dislike of Mrs. Riccard, she was not entirely alone in that house. The servants were her friends. Though she dwelt in a state of anxiety, a good deal of it was from her own imagination. Yet one would hesitate to criticise her. What worse could Mrs. Riccard have done to her than deprive her of her mother, her home and her friends? How unexpected had been this catastrophe! And how much did the events leading up to it appear to have their origin in some nether world of morality of which the girl would have no understanding at all? And why should she not fear the un-understandable in the big house on the hill? At the period when Esther and I were both twenty-one and Oliver four years older, we, that is myself, Esther, Oliver, Mr. Sweeting, Cutty Bannister, and

occasionally Mr. Taylor, were again living in Pepper Tree Bay. Oliver had had his workshop and garage for some years in a lane leading off the Highway and behind the Bank. Here he had been doing very well in the motor business. The first time I went there Oliver was standing in the middle of his garage, his overalls giving him a greater illusion of physical strength than did an ordinary suit of clothes, and he was gazing with a rapt expression at a small racing car on the hoist. In characteristic stance Oliver was wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste. 'Some little beauty!' he said. I stood off and looked at the car. Except that it was gleaming clean and had just had a face lift, it appeared no more to me than a rather tinny-looking oneman expression of speed and noise. 'Beautiful!' I said dutifully. Oliver shouted at Cutty working at a bench just inside the workshop. 'Hear that, Cutty? She says it's beautiful.' There came only a grunt in reply. Oliver threw the waste into a corner and took me by the arm. 'Come on, girl. Come on in. Where the heck you been you haven't been to see me before?' We walked into the workshop. I didn't tell him I'd been intimidated by the fear there might be around him a coterie of knowledgeable motor men, and I might be an embarrassment to him. I'd come now because I was conscience-driven. Here in this beautifully kept shop there was only Cutty and Oliver. I wished I'd known it would be so easy. Oliver wiped a duster over a bench and pushed me on to it. 'Tea? Just wait! I've a Primus that works. Also milk, biscuits, sugar. Good heavens, Cutty, how'd we come to have everything in for once? Want some cream, girl? Cutty can get it if you want, just round the corner in the Cinema Shop.' Cutty's snort at this was weighty with unuttered refusal. Oliver, fiddling with the Primus, was swearing gently and mostly under his breath. I dipped into the big tin of biscuits. 'I'm always hungry, Oliver,' I warned him. 'If you make it too easy and too nice, I'll come every day. All College students are on the prowl for free tea.' Oliver finished with the Primus and stood looking at me. 'Don't tell me they starve you at that place? You look a fine figure of a girl to me.' 'A fine figure of a girl takes a lot to keep her that way,' I said loftily. 'You're doing all right. You come here and get a cup of tea whenever you like. Every day'll do. I like women around. Cutty here . . . well, he's not so keen on women. But I'll educate him. Give me time.' 'Do you have so many women, Oliver?' 'Only one. More'n enough,' Cutty put

in morosely. I raised one eyebrow. 'And does this one come often... or just occasionally.' 'Often. She's my partner. Miss Hilary Brown.' I stared at him. 'My, my! Hilary Brown! That's some dame to have coming around to see you, Oliver. She's about the best-looking girl in Perth. And with lots of money, so they say.' 'Some of it made right here,' said Oliver. 'Gold mines,' put in Cutty. Oliver brought me a cup of tea. 'Say, what is it all about?' I asked him. 'You make the tea next time,' he said. 'You come here whenever you like, but your job is to make conversation and strong tea. Not to ask questions. Leave the tools to Cutty, the management to me and Hilary. There don't have to be any questions.' I wasn't going to be put off that way. 'Are you going to marry Hilary, or something?' Oliver put his own cup of tea down. 'Does every man have to marry every woman he goes into business with?' 'All depends how many women he's in business with and... what the business is!' 'Okay, this is it! Hilary part-owns a small gold mine....' As my mouth was full of unpaid-for biscuit, I nodded. I knew that much about the Brown girl. The social columns of Perth used her as their favourite copy and pin-up girl. One had to have money to make the social columns of the evening papers. '. . . And she's in partnership with me. In this business.' 'Aren't you making money, Oliver? Can't you buy her out?' 'I'm making plenty money. And who the hell wants to buy her out?' 'Oh-ho!' 'You girls are all the same.' 'Well, Oliver, dear, that does need some explaining. Men don't go into partnership in any kind of business with a girl―not even a beautiful one―for long. And no man, even with a beautiful woman, goes into partnership in a garage.' 'I'm the exception,' said Oliver. I appealed to Cutty. 'What's it all about, Cutty?' He shrugged. 'I don't guess he's going to marry Miss Hilary any more'n he's goin' to marry you, Miss Theodora.' Oliver's laugh crackled out and he slapped both hands on his knees. 'How's that?' he demanded. I nibbled thoughtfully at my biscuit. Oliver pressed the tin on me. 'Don't starve, girl,' he said. T know just how you feel, hollow in the guts every time you think of a biscuit. One day I'll try you on turnips.'

Though his eyes were laughing I knew there was an edge of bitterness to his reference to turnips. I'll ask him about it one day, I thought. In the meantime I went on eating his biscuits, I was hungry. College food never filled me. Yes, Oliver could be like no one else and take a woman into partnership and make it a success and like doing it. Oliver liked women, and women liked Oliver. They could like him two ways. They could be in love with him. Easily. His personality challenged one. And they could like him very soundly on a basis of friendship. It was because he could treat them exactly as he would a man. That, I reflected, was how he treated me. That is how he had dealt with all of us when we were kids in Queen Victoria Drive. Though he was quite a lot older he had thrown stones at us and ducked us in the river and cheeked us over the Rectory fence, as he would have treated his male equals. There was always the exception of Esther, of course. As I ate Oliver's biscuits and stared back into his quizzical brown eyes I thought about Esther. Yes, that had been Oliver's weakness. Esther he treated as a man treats a woman, even though they had been only kids. 'A penny for them?' Oliver asked over the rim of his cup. 'Achilles' heel,' I said. 'The Achilles being?' 'You.' 'And Hilary my vulnerable heel?' 'No,' I said slowly and not taking my eyes from his face. 'I was thinking of Esther Hillman.' The expression on his face did not alter except in the depths of his eyes. A tiny black coal glowed there. For a fleeting moment I knew a different Oliver was present. Someone hard, and male. Touche, I thought. I wonder if he has seen her since he came back to Pepper Tree Bay? Or am I just giving a side kick at a treasured memory? 'We were all children together. It was rather fun, wasn't it?' I said with a laugh. The little black coal disappeared and Oliver was smiling in the corners of his mouth. 'Do you know who's come back to Pepper Tree Bay?' he asked. 'Mr. Hillman. The sour-puss schoolmaster.' 'No! At the Grammar School?' 'No, in Mrs. Riccard's bedchamber.' 'What?' 'He's gone and married her,' said Cutty. Oliver went back to work at his bench; his eyes were covered by his lids as he fitted together a thing called a generator. 'It took her a long time,' he said. 'But she got him in the end.' I was too staggered by the news to make any comment. At the time of Mrs. Hillman's breakdown when we were children I had not dreamed of motives on Mrs. Riccard's part. Oliver looked up. 'Calculating . . .eh?' 'Oliver,' I said. 'I won't believe that was in her mind way back in those days. Why, she seemed as old as the hills to us―and as for Mr. Hillman why... no

one would want him.' A mental vision of Mrs. Riccard and Mr. Hillman on terms of intimacy simply would not conjure itself into life. 'Ugh!' I said. Oliver grinned. But his eyes looked worldly and knowing. 'Oliver, you couldn't have thought that then―you were only a child.' 'I didn't think that―I just knew she was a wicked old bitch. But Cutty knew.' He nodded his head in the older man's direction. 'She set her cap at him,' Cutty said. 'And now she's got him. She wasn't so old in those days; it was only she seemed so, because you were so young-like. She's no more'n fifty now. An' he's gettin' on that way.' 'What happened to Mrs. Hillman? Did she die?' 'No. She got better after a while,' Oliver said. 'But she left him. Then he took to coming to Pepper Tree Bay―to see...' Ah! There was that telltale coal in his dark brown eyes... 'to see the girl, I suppose. In no time there was a divorce. An' now she's married him.' 'A divorce? But Mrs. Riccard wouldn't believe in that!' 'She believed in what she wanted to believe in,' said Cutty morosely. 'She gave up Church long ago. Fell out with the new Rector. Reckoned she didn't approve of his popish ways. Truth was she was gettin' ready to swaller that divorce.' 'My, oh, my,' I said. 'I wonder how Esther has taken all that?' This fell into silence. Oliver was looking down as his fingers, strong like steel, were working on the engine. Cutty Bannister gave me a long look. I wondered. Could Oliver and Esther have renewed their friendship? Or even an acquaintance? If so, then, why not say so? But was it possible? I thought about Esther as last I had seen her. The car had been moving off from the sidewalk in the Terrace and Esther had been sitting upright in the back seat. Harris had been driving the car. Esther looked so cool and aloof, quite the proud lady. She wasn't quite cold enough to be that in reality. She reminded me more of someone who was playing a part and was carrying it off with considerable dignity. She wore some kind of ice-blue crepe dress. One or two curly strands of hair escaped under the brim of a primrose coloured hat, just enough to soften the contour of her face. She had a lovely face. Fair, blue-grey eyed, straightfeatured. The colour of her dress was this day reflected in her eyes making them more blue than grey, but they were immensely shy and reserved. Somehow one felt that Harris was a guardian as well as a chauffeur. How would Oliver fit into a picture beside Esther? I was watching his hard, strong brown hands. How their grease stains would

besmirch Esther's elegance! He was a mechanic, yet there was almost an elegance about the tempered strength of those fingers. No black motor marks could detract from their length, the perfect curving shield of the nails and the sudden flicking movement his wrists gave to them as they worked. Oliver's hands were the keys to his personality. I would have liked to draw them. I looked up to find his brown eyes mocking me. Would they mock Esther too? 'Let's skip the Hillman-Riccard family,' he said. 'They give me a pain in a place it would be rude to mention.' 'Is she "Mrs. Hillman" or is he "Mr. Riccard"?' 'They've split the difference. He is Mr. Hillman and she is Mrs. Riccard-Hillman.' 'Glory be!' I said getting ready to go. 'Did you really mean that about my coming and getting tea and biscuits all for nothing, Oliver? I surely get very hungry about four in the afternoon.' 'Come and eat whenever it suits you, girl. We'll be expecting you round about four in the afternoon. Cutty . . . take a note. Don't put kettle on. Leave same for Theodora.' 'And you'll come home for a meal on my week-end off?' 'Not next Saturday. That's the day!' 'More Speedway?' 'I'm gonna win five hundred pounds on Saturday.' 'If you don't get killed,' said Cutty heavily. 'I drive to win, not to die,' said Oliver. 'You could do both―on a Speedway,' I said. 'It has been known.' 'Not by me,' said Oliver. 'Say, do I look like a crazy speed-hog?' He opened his eyes, spread his hands. He shook his head. 'It's headwork does it, Theodora,' he said. 'Is this a very important race on Saturday?' 'I'll be cock o' the walk. All Australian Champion!' I laughed. 'You surely must be going to win.' 'I surely am.' His smile was as seraphic as a choir boy's. Not very long afterwards my curiosity as to whether Esther and Oliver had renewed their friendship was settled. Pepper Tree Bay boasted a fine modern cinema which fronted on to the Terrace about twenty-five yards north of the Bank. The back of the Cinema formed part of the wall of the lane in which was Oliver's workshop and garage. Next to the Cinema was a restaurant with two entrances―one into the Terrace and one through an archway into the foyer of the Cinema. On this evening I was returning, with two other girls, from lectures at the University in Perth and we left the tram at the Bank corner. We went into this restaurant for coffee. It was a little before eight o'clock and already patrons

were arriving for the Cinema. As we entered the restaurant, Oliver with two men, all of them in overalls and obviously but lately prone beneath the leaky works of motor cars, left the buffet counter near the archway. They were about to make their exit through the rear door of the cinema into the lane behind. One guessed that work had stopped for a short snack and was about to be resumed. As we came in Oliver saw me. He grinned and lifted one hand, his finger and thumb making a circle. It was a sign familiar and friendly. He was barely recognisable under the quantity of black grease on his face. 'You surely do have some strange friends,' one of the girls said. 'Under the grease, he's very handsome.' 'He'd need to be.' 'And he makes lots of money.' 'Then what are you worrying about grease for?' 'I'm not. You are.' Oliver had stopped in the archway to roll a cigarette. His profile was towards me, but I saw him lift his head and his fingers halt their work a minute. I could see the lashes of his eyes were verandahs under his brows. The grease hung on them like mascara. Esther had crossed the foyer to the ticket office. She was with Mrs. Wood, Mrs. Riccard-Hillman's housekeeper. As she turned away with the tickets in her hand she looked up. Oliver was directly in front of her, about six yards away. Her glance flickered unseeingly over him, slid away. She smiled a little as Mrs. Wood said something to her. I felt cold with the pity of it. I remembered all that lovely companionship of their childhood, the long vigils on the jetty in the morning, the back bench of the Sunday school, the curved road to the Swamp and the Swamp itself with the island and the red-gum in the middle of it. It couldn't be possible it left no echo in time's memory. Oliver was as stiff and still as a statue. Neither the fingers, nor the eyelashes, nor anything else moved. He saw Esther. He had not forgotten. She had seen him, but she had not recognised him. I could have cried out... 'Under the mask of grease... Look, Esther! Look! There is Oliver!' She had turned away. Then suddenly she stopped. Somewhere deep inside a bell had rung. She turned her head and looked at Oliver uncertainly. He made no move. I sat at my table almost leaping up in my anxiety that she should see and know him. Oliver's mouth, a tiny little smile drawing in the corners, remained stubborn. His eyes, all the browmiess gone, were black as dead pools. A gentle colour stole up Esther's cheeks. She hesitated, turned away. And lost him. Oliver looked at me sideways and winked elaborately.

His fingers were twirling the cigarette. He licked the paper, took matches from his pocket and lit the cigarette. Through the smoke his eyes were watching Esther going up the staircase. Half-way up she faltered, halfturned. Oliver walked rapidly away down the passageway leading to the rear door and the exit into the lane. 'What is the matter with you?' Both friends were looking at me puzzled. They had been speaking and I had not heard. I was enraged with Oliver. 'How could you? How could you?' I thought fiercely. I shook my head to bring myself back to earth. For one crazy moment I had stood in Esther's shoes and had looked at Oliver puzzled... and then.... Well, then my heart had done what I knew her heart had done. It had turned over. CHAPTER III - THE MEETING OF THE WATERS SOMETIMES a third person will be aware of love between two other people before those two know it themselves. At least before each knows the other loves also. Sometimes in a crowded room, the young man and the young woman―a whole room apart―will have about them that aura of love that an onlooker will know instantly and with infallible instinct what lies between them. One senses the pain and anxiety of love. I don't know how long Oliver had been looking at Esther from behind his mask of grease or from beneath lowered eyes and a mechanic's cap with its peak drawn down close over his eyes. It became certain to me, though no word was said of it, that Oliver knew Esther's every movement. He had seen her often, knew from week to week the state of her well-being, was able to hazard the nature of her outing by the clothes she was wearing. He was even able to assess the degree of happiness―or it might be better to say well-being―she was enjoying, from whether she smiled when she spoke to Harris as he held the door of the car open for her, or whether life was not so good because both she and the chauffeur were preoccupied, and had no thought for one another's moods. He could only judge her relationship with other people according to how he saw her with Harris, or more occasionally with Mr. Sweeting. I couldn't help wondering what Esther was doing in these years that Oliver was so near, and sharing, unknown to her, so intimate an insight into her life. It was the other worldliness of Esther that was so exasperating. In a sense it conditioned the rigidity of attitude Oliver had towards her. Briefly, he was in love with her. He could not take his eyes from her. But he would not lift a little finger to renew the friendship. He took an almost masochistic delight in remaining un-recognised.

A word must be said for Esther. She did not see him at first because she was not expecting to see him. Oliver saw her because he knew precisely where to find her. To Esther, Oliver was out of the world. And even if he had not been so, even if she had known that some day a young man walking around Pepper Tree Bay might turn out to be Oliver Harding, she would not have known to look for him behind the grease disguise and his long lean active body encased in black overalls. On those occasions when Oliver walked abroad in an everyday suit he had the advantage over Esther in that, since he was always thinking of her, he was also always watching for her. There would always have been some extra sense extended in search of her, because it is always so with people who love. All this, in the course of a few weeks, I discovered. 'Oliver,' I said one day over the afternoon cup of tea. 'You've got a mean streak in you.' 'What, me?' His face was aghast, but his eyes laughed at me. 'You know what?' I said. 'You know the yellow dog that wanders over the farmlands and the sandplain, and the desert, the dog that can stand up to fire and drought and guns and a pack of humans always on the hunt?' 'You mean a dingo?' 'That's what I mean.' 'Well, what about a dingo?' 'Why doesn't anybody ever admire a dingo? He's a lovely looking dog. The finest and bravest and handsomest wild dog anywhere in the world. Yet nobody can really get round to admiring him.' 'He's got a mean streak.' 'Ah,' I said. 'That's just it. It doesn't matter how handsome or strong, or clever he is, he's spoilt, all on account of a mean streak.' 'So I'm a dingo?' 'I didn't say so. But you've got a mean streak.' 'All because I don't ask Esther Hillman to come and sit in amongst the grease tins and talk to me?' This was a frontal attack. Oliver leaned over his bench and wagged a spanner at me. 'Seems to me I take an awful lot from you women. What makes you all so anxious to run my life for me?' 'Everyone wants to run your life,' I scoffed. 'Look at Cutty Bannister, and this Taylor person one hears so much about. He's another partner in the firm of Oliver Harding. Why shouldn't I have a say? I knew you long before Taylor, Brown and Company, anyway.' 'Funny the way I attract people,' Oliver said. 'I almost get to thinking I'm helpless. Everybody can do something about me . . . better than I can do it myself.' He sighed and then went on with his work. That was the funny part of Oliver. He provoked the wish to serve and help

and yet he was the most capable person I have ever known. It was like a kind of game we all played. We all played at doing something for Oliver and everyone of us knew that he just went on smiling and working behind his bench and putting up with it all because he liked people round him. In a way he liked an audience. And when he was good and ready he would go out and do something so clever and audacious that we, who had developed this tendency to look after him, were left gasping. 'You could just say "hallo!" ' I said. 'Who to?' He looked up surprised. 'Oliver, you know darn well "who to". Esther!' 'What makes you think she'd appreciate that?' I blinked. 'Some people want to be dull,' I said. He began to tap viciously at something on the wooden bench. He wasn't joking any more. 'What makes you suppose my fine lady up on the hill there would want anything to do with a workman? Don't you make any mistake about it, girl, I'm a working man. I'm a Speedway driver. I mix with the toughest guys in the racing world. Because I can put on a clean shirt and a decent suit of clothes, and hold my knife and fork the right way, that doesn't make me anything else but a motor mechanic. A Speed Guy.' Oliver's voice in anger lost its soft drawl. It crackled now like a nut-cracking machine. 'I like it that way too,' he added with an extra bang on the bench. 'You're crazy, Oliver.' 'Oh I am, am I?' 'Yes. You live in Australia. An egalitarian State, remember that? Success tempered with a little book-learning equalises things. You've got both. And―oh hell, Oliver! I've got an inferiority complex when I'm round you. I'm always swotting, but whenever I open my mouth you know what I'm going to talk about before I start. And you always know more than me. That's not fair because book-learning is my trade, not yours. Seems to me you've got everything, brains, looks, ability, ambition, persistence . . . and even success. You're trying to tell me Esther, or any one else for that matter, is going to look down a long nose because you get your hands dirty.' 'That was a mighty long speech, Theodora.' The sting was out of his words and he was drawling again. 'What sort of a person do you think Esther is, anyway?' I persisted. 'I wouldn't know,' said Oliver. 'Perhaps you do?' 'I'll soon find out,' I threatened. He shrugged. 'Maybe someday I'll tell you about me,' he said. 'About us getting pushed out of Pepper Tree Bay, and roaming round the wheatbelt like a pack of myalls; and camping on the edge of the Sandplain; and Grandma dying because turnips didn't suit her gastric juices.' He looked up at me. 'You remember my old Grandma?' I nodded.

'I don't know why, but I was fond of the Old One. Maybe it was because she was fond of me . . . and she kind of thought I'd make good one day. "You and me'll get out of here one day, Oily", she used to say. "You'll buy me a carriage an' two horses and you'll build me a big house with servants to do the cooking".' I could see the black coal in Oliver's eyes. 'I got her the carriage and two horses all right,' he said. 'It was the lorry we drove out of Pepper Tree Bay on. I got her the house too. It was a canvas shelter built alongside the same lorry. I got her the servants. It was me and my mother. I even got her plenty of food. It was turnips, rabbit and scraggy rooster.' 'Oliver,' I begged him. 'Don't blame all that on Esther.' 'I don't. I blame the woman she lives with. Maybe it's a lot of fun to be building that new house of mine round the river, but every brick I put in there I think is one brick too late for Grandma. Sentimental, hey?' I shook my head. 'No. I respect you for those feelings. But I just don't believe in punishing Esther for something she was too young to understand.' 'I don't think about her,' he said. 'You're a liar, Oliver,' I said. 'Listen, girl,' he said. 'To begin with, Esther doesn't even know I'm alive. What are you talking about? "Punishing her!" ' It seemed strange to me that anyone with Oliver's fire and strength did not know he had but to lift his little finger... to any woman. (From this susceptibility on the part of women I must at once absolve myself. Half the reason I came to Oliver's workshop was from loneliness―but not for Oliver. I had a heart already irrevocably given away. Perhaps it was this state of affairs with me, licking my own wounds, that made me so sensitive to the tight rope of feeling that extended between Esther and Oliver.) In spite of what he said I thought, Oliver was punishing Esther in his own mind. Partly because she sat enjoying roast Sunday dinner at Mrs. Riccard's ample table while Grandma was dying of an overdose of turnip (or was it eggs and scraggy rooster?). And partly too because she was so lovely, and inarticulate, and dealt-with-by-other-people instead of dealing-with-her-owndestiny, as Oliver would have done. The discussion we were having on this day was interrupted by the arrival of the mythical Mr. Taylor, enveloped in his coat and cape, and in the company of Hilary Brown. I don't know which of the two interested me more. Of course Mr. Taylor, being somewhat flamboyant and an eccentric, rather filled the picture. I was so curious, however, about Hilary Brown I found my eyes wandering in her direction. 'So you've come for your cut?' Oliver said. 'Well, now, my boy...' began Mr. Taylor while divesting himself of his vast coat.

'Did they give you a cheque, or did you carry it off in bags?' Hilary asked. My goodness, I thought, the Speedway! He must have won something quite startling. Why didn't I know about it? Why don't I remember to read the papers? 'You could have come... and seen for yourself,' Oliver replied. He was looking at her from under his lashes. Hilary lit a cigarette and puffed the smoke in his direction. 'And die of heart failure?' 'I never have an accident.' 'No, but the engine might have broken down. Don't forget I own a share of it.' 'Just interested in profits?' 'Just interested in profits!' Mr. Taylor was still unrobing. I can only call the ramifications of getting out of his coat, hat and gloves by such a name. 'Stout effort, stout effort, my boy,' he said. Hilary Brown had acknowledged the introduction Oliver made between us and then she ignored me. She went straight over to the racing car, unstrapped the buckles holding down the bonnet and began peering in the engine. Her manner was direct and businesslike. She was without affectation, and very sure of herself. She was slim, medium height. Her fair hair was cut in a long bob and was shining straight. Her eyes were large, very large and narrowing a little at the corners, and were green in colour. She had a trick of looking through her eyes half closed. Her nose was slightly retrousse. She was well groomed in a beautifully cut and tailored brown'linen suit, one I was to remember and see later. Her shoes were brown suede brogues. Oliver went over to the car and they began a technical discussion on its insides. Mr. Taylor attended to the Primus. Evidently he and Hilary were intent on having tea. Mr. Taylor took the cups that Oliver and I had used and washed them at the sink. With a cup in one hand and a tea-towel in the other he stared at the racing car. 'Not without awe... ' he began and then darted through the open door of the workshop to put the cup on a bench, '... does one regard that instrument of speed, noise and financial gain...' The saucer went to join the cup. 'Are you acquainted with speed cars, young miss?' he asked me in mid-flight. 'I'm afraid not. Except this one of Oliver's. One might call it a mere speaking acquaintance.' 'Now for myself . . .' said Mr. Taylor emptying the tea pot in the bucket under the sink and disappearing into the workshop to put tea in it. 'For myself . . .' he said coming back into the garage, 'in my youth I was addicted to the tandem. Now don't make the mistake of thinking there are no hazards attached to tandem riding. He looked up as a shadow fell across the doorway. His face became a picture of tragic resignation. Cutty Bannister had come into the garage. He took off

his coat as he crossed the floor to the bench at which Oliver had been working. 'So we meet again,' said Mr. Taylor elaborately. Cutty looked at him as one would expect him to look at a crocodile in midstream. 'Good day to you,' he said. He changed his mind about which bench he would work at and retreated into the workshop. He ignored the woman. Oliver and Hilary turned away from the car, but they were still talking the technicalities of racing engines. There was a set-apartness about them in this conversation. Their relationship puzzled me. Oliver was concentrating on the content of the conversation. His eyes were thoughtful and his manner preoccupied. Every now and then he would brush his hair back with his left hand. His right hand twirled a pair of pliers. Hilary's manner to him was easy and natural, beyond the necessity of explanation. Yes, I suspected, there was something undoubtedly proprietorial in Hilary's manner. She had the quiet authority of ownership about her. Oliver, the index finger of his left hand caressing the parting in his hair, had his mind on the business of the car. The banter, the challenge, the watchfulness were all gone. His face was the study of a man engrossed in calculations. 'Tea's made,' pronounced Mr. Taylor. Oliver and Hilary dropped the conversation and came over towards the bench at the back of the garage. Mr. Taylor was bringing steaming cups of tea from the workshop. Oliver, forgetting he had already had his afternoon tea, picked up a cup absentmindedly and began to sip the tea. Hilary now looked at me with some interest. When she had come in and gone over to the racing car she had moved with a certain purposefulness. Now this was changed. Her movements were rhythmical and her eyelids drooped in a manner that was irritating as well as very attractive. It was a little film-starrish, but the fault, if fault it was, lay with nature more than with herself. The Almighty had given her those drooping lids and long, thick brown lashes. She looked up at me through them and it gave her eyes a gleaming cat-like quality. She was extraordinarily attractive. 'I'm sorry we were so busy,' she said easily. 'Will you have a cup of tea?' 'I've had one, thanks,' I said. I rather felt as if the invitation to take tea disposed of the civilities as far as I was concerned. She showed no interest in who I was or where I'd come from. Cutty was now the object of Hilary's interest. 'Can you manage the workshop, if we get two mechanics in while we're away? They needn't interfere with you. We need someone in charge of the garage.' She had taken her tea and leaned against the doorway between workshop and the garage. So they were going away . . . and together! Oliver was watching my face and he burst out laughing. 'Rectory bred!' he

scoffed. I showed him the tip of my tongue between my teeth. Mr. Taylor now brought a pocket diary from his coat. 'You've got the Challenge race here on Saturday. You leave by train the following Monday....' 'If he's still alive...' put in Cutty from inside the workshop. 'I'm always alive... so far,' said Oliver. Mr. Taylor was still consulting his diary. 'You leave by train on Monday. You'll be a week getting to Sydney. That gives you five days before the big race. Four days for business afterwards. Back here....' 'The business will all be fixed up before the race,' Hilary put in. 'Only the signing on the dotted line will have to wait for the race. That will take four minutes, not four days.' 'Young lady, you're very sure of yourself.' 'Of Oliver,' she said looking down at the tea in her hand. Then with a quick upward glance... 'and of the engine, of course.' 'What is it all about?' I pleaded. 'We're trying out some structural alterations on the engine,' Oliver said. 'The Stannard car people are sending someone over from America for the Speedway races in Sydney. I'm the biggest advertisement they've got. I won the race here on Saturday with the altered design. I guess I'll win with it again next Saturday. If I pull it off in Sydney the Stannard Motor Company and I go into business. I'm racing their car, but with our altered design, and a cooling gadget all my own.' 'The cooling's yours, but the design's mine,' said Hilary. 'Okay, okay,' said Oliver. 'The whole thing's yours.' He grinned at me. I felt forlorn, not only because I was outside all this technical motor car business, but because of the pretty little edifice of love I had been building in my mind for Esther. What place did she have in this world of hazard and reality? And what chance did she have against Hilary Brown? 'Don't slop your tea when you stir, Larry,' said Mr. Taylor. Hilary had poured herself another cup of tea and was stirring it as she came back into the garage. 'Even a fine school in Sydney,' Mr. Taylor went on, 'and a preoccupation with dressmakers and beauty salons won't get you to being a lady if you don't stir straight.' He had dropped his faint donnishness and was talking in the Australian idiom. It occurred to me that he knew Hilary very well. Larry? Where did I hear Oliver speak of someone called Larry? And how did one ever bring Esther Hillman into a setting like this? Imagine her daintily stepping over the bits and pieces of motor car in the garage and over the tins and general paraphernalia of the workshop! I could imagine Hilary disposing of Esther in less time than it takes to drink a cup of tea. In even less time than she seemed to dispose of me!

However, if there are forces in a spiritual world whose sole purpose it is to bring people together, then these forces were, after all, at work in favour of Esther. CHAPTER IV - THE MEETING OF THE WATERS ― TWO IT began with an announcement from Gerry at the Montgomery table on a Sunday morning several weeks later. I was home from College for the weekend. Oliver and Hilary Brown had been to Sydney and returned victorious. The papers had bannered headlines, 'OL HARDING WINS AGAIN'. Underneath had been a picture of a helmeted track hero. Who anywhere in the world would have recognised this creature from a sound and fury world as Oliver Harding? I had seen Hilary Brown two or three times lately. But to return to Gerry and Sunday's breakfast. . . . 'Any of you girls seen that shop in the Central Arcade in Perth― you know, the one that always has a hand-embroidered frock of some kind all draped over a satin cushion, or hanging on a tiger's rug, or something?' There was a general murmur of assent from four Montgomery girls. Who didn't know the shop? 'You'll never, never, never guess who runs that shop! Not in a thousand years, you won't guess.' 'Then let's not try,' I suggested. 'Esther Hillman!' 'What?' This from everyone simultaneously. 'Uh-huh,' said Gerry. 'I've seen her going in there once or twice. And I thought to myself―that's just the sort of shop Esther would patronise. It's very expensive, choosy, and everything is hand-embroidered.' 'How do you know she runs it? Don't tell anyone here you can afford even to cross its doorstep.' 'Penny Parsons is getting a new dress made for her sister's wedding, and I went along with her for a fitting. You could have knocked me down when Esther, beautifully clad in black satin and with a string of pearls, emerged to supervise the fitting.' 'Esther in business?' 'Don't believe it,' said Denney. 'She couldn't even add up her bills.' 'But those lily-white hands?' Mary persisted. 'They're not supposed to work!' 'I wonder if the chauffeur takes her to work and calls for her!' All this was Oliver-talk, though issuing from the mouths of the Montgomerys. It had a streak of cruelty in it, yet no one really despised Esther. I was prompted again to her defence. 'She has patience, persistence, skill... and experience... as a needlewoman,' I said. 'What other qualities make for successful business?' 'Courage to undertake it,' Mary said. 'Capital to begin it,' said Vicky.

'A thick skin to carry staff and...' Gerry began. 'Which Esther hasn't got,' we said in chorus. 'The thick skin, no,' I said. 'I suppose she'd get the capital from the RiccardHillman, and courage from...' 'Well, where from?' asked Vicky. 'From desperation,' I volunteered. They all looked at me. 'How would you know?' 'I don't know. I'm just making a good guess.' 'On what grounds?' I had a mental picture of Esther mounting the hill to Mrs. Riccard's big white house. I remembered how she sat so still and tortured in that car. 'I guess Esther's always stuck in my mind a bit,' I said. 'I feel we left things undone we should have done when she went to live with Mrs. Riccard. She must have loathed it. If she did, this would be a let out.' The rancour went out of Mary's voice and she spoke thoughtfully. 'She could have gone to work... as we have done, out of necessity. She need not have accepted a home from Mrs. Riccard, after a while.' 'It is possible that that's exactly what she has done,' I said. 'She may not own the shop. Or, if she does, she may have begun somewhere as an employee―when she was quite young.' 'Or a "home-embroiderer",' said Gerry. 'Lots of those shops get their work done by people working in their own homes.' Calling on Esther in the shop in the Arcade in Perth was no mean feat. I felt nervous, guilty of prying, afraid of a well-bred snub, if there is such a thing. I began to wonder why I was so engrossed in what I had come to call the 'Esther and Oliver affair.' I was horrified at the thought I was just a common meddler. Or worse, a sentimental matchmaker. Yet when I examined my conscience, and my conduct, I could not, even in most self-deprecatory moments call myself guilty of bad taste in this affair. Where Esther and Oliver were concerned, we had a shared childhood, an indestructible bond. Here we were grown-up, the creatures time had made of us out of those children who had dragged bare-feet up Queen Victoria Drive in the long ago. How Oliver used to laugh in the early days of summer, in that distant and beloved childhood time, when the soles of our feet, softened by the months of winter, in which we had worn shoes and socks, burned and hurt us as we scampered in fits and starts from one shady spot under the pepper trees to another. Once in the shade we would dance about, for we had literally been running on hot bricks. Then, feet cooled and courage up, we would dart off across the burning gravel to the next cool spot. Meantime Oliver, who was always barefooted summer or winter, and therefore had feet like iron, would stand off and jeer at our wry faces and the imprecations that fell in chorus from our lips.

And how Esther, with her great doll's eyes, would watch us from her gate! Of course we had to come together again when we lived, grown-up, in Pepper Tree Bay! It was unthinkable that we should be separated, me in College, Oliver in his garage, Esther in the spider's parlour on the hill! I could never have known Oliver again without thinking, if only obliquely, of Esther. Whatever had happened in the years on the fringe of the goldfields, whatever the claims of Mr. Taylor and of Hilary Brown, Oliver had belonged before, in an earlier time. He belonged not to the sandplain but to Pepper Tree Bay; not to Mr. Taylor but to Cutty Bannister; not to Hilary but to Esther. When I lay on my back under the trees outside the library of the College I reflected on all this. I also reflected that Esther ought to go and get what was rightfully hers. I would have moments when, in my thoughts, I would abandon her to her inaction . . . and its consequence. It is so simple to know what other people should do, and to want to shake them because they do not do it. Yet was I not in precisely the same situation ? Why didn't I go out and get my man, up there in the Grasslands? I was not so brash myself when it came to loving the wrong man! By and large, it was for want of moral courage I had let time drift and left Esther to other resources of friendship. Occasionally, years before, I had seen her with Mr. Sweeting; often with either Miss Priscilla or Miss Betsy David. I knew she went to the Swamp every day. Twice I went to a little stiff afternoon tea-party at the Swamp that the Misses David had arranged. The affairs had been formal, smothered by the lavishing preoccupation the spinster ladies had with Esther. Miss Priscilla had always been the strong member of the team. Legend had it that Miss Betsy had a weak heart. She was always treated as delicate, unfit for strain or heavy work. It had been Miss Priscilla who had undertaken these obligations. It came as a shock then, to the whole community, when it was Miss Priscilla who, walking early one morning down to the orchard had fallen on the footpath . . . and failed to get up again. She had had a heart attack, and had died within a few minutes. Miss Betsy had been packed off to remote relatives on the other side of Australia. The Trustees carved up the Swamp property in building lots and sold to the first comers. There remained only, as there does to this day, a lake of still muddy water out of which there still stands an occasional derelict tree. The red-gum and the island have disappeared. There is only stinkwort left, a grey green fringe around the water-hole. Miss Priscilla had died about the time Oliver returned to Pepper Tree Bay. We Montgomerys, now fatherless and well-nigh penniless, had left. Esther's life had become entirely circumscribed by the routine of the big house on the hill. Her only intimate, outside the confines of that house, had been Mr. Sweeting.

The only other person who knew and watched her life, until Oliver came, was Cutty Bannister. And he knew as much about everyone else in Pepper Tree Bay. He was a living recorder of the doings of the parish, but it only came out in dribs and drabs; in half remarks and opinionated pronouncements. Sooner or later one discovered that Cutty knew everything. Also that he disapproved of everything. Why I should have so suddenly felt it incumbent on me to do something about Esther, and why I had a guilty conscience because I had not done it before, I do not know. Except that Oliver's presence awoke me from my own dream of adolescence. So I went to Esther's dressmaking business. It is easy enough to saunter casually down an arcade and loiter before the window where a heavenly gown of what the ancient Egyptians called 'woven glass' was draped to show great cascades of embroidered flowers down the front panels of the dress. What patience and exquisite delicacy in the work! It is easy enough to say to oneself― 'Oh well, I've hovered about in front of this shop before. Why not now?' The difference is, of course, that before I did not know who was inside. Now I did, and I had come with a purpose. I might be in for a rebuff. Finally I went into the shop. Sure enough it was Esther who came out from behind long velvet curtains. And she was in an elegant, sheath-like black frock, as Gerry had said. And she did wear a string of pearls round her neck. Her manners, when she recognised me, were exactly correct. They were charming and above reproach, but they didn't give anything away by so much as a flicker of the eyelids or catching of the nether lip by her teeth. 'I saw Gerry a few weeks ago,' she said. 'How well you both look.' 'You can guess I haven't come to order a dress, Esther,' I said. 'I'm afraid I'm just a student still. But I'm certainly going to get-rich-quick and have a gown like that one in the window . . . someday.' She smiled. She still had that lovely mouth. Smooth and red and with a sweetness―not quite as guileless as before―that touched one. 'I'm glad you like it. I think it is one of my best.' 'I remember the doll's wardrobe. I suppose you never gave up making clothes from French designs?' I said. 'Even when you were beyond the doll stage.' 'Not until I started to design myself,' she said. (In a minute, I thought, the conversation will get so stiff we'll both feel silly.) 'Esther,' I said. 'You know I'm living in Pepper Tree Bay again? That is, during term time. I'm at the College.' 'Yes, I know that. It was nice to see you about again. I guessed you were at the College because whenever I've seen you you've had a load of books under

your arm.' I looked ruefully at my present load and we both laughed. I half turned away as if to look at the people passing up and down the Arcade. 'Oliver Harding has come back too. He's been here ages. I didn't know for quite a while, and then I ran into him in the street one day.' A certain delicacy made me keep my eyes away from her as I spoke. After a second I thought it was necessary, in the interests of ordinariness, to turn back to her and look at her as I spoke. 'I wondered if perhaps you would like to meet him again. I haven't asked him about it, Esther, but I'm sure he would like to meet you. He was awfully fond of you when we were all kids.' This I thought dealt with the subject frankly and yet worded it in the nicely commonplace. Only Esther's eyes changed a little. 'Why, I should like that very much, Theodora. It was nice of you to think of it.' I drew in a breath with relief. I could see the faintest colour creeping in her cheeks. She did care then, but she wasn't going to let it matter.... yet. I leaned against the big carved chest she had against the wall. I reached in my pocket for a cigarette. Esther, also playing her part in the comedy of the commonplace, stretched out her hand to a red lacquered cigarette box. 'Do have one of these, Theodora. I believe they're very good.' I took one. Also the lighter from her hand. I grinned at her. 'Oliver will tell you I'm sure to be around when there's something for nothing. He refers to food chiefly. Students are always hungry, even when they're not, if you know what I mean. Oliver has a pretty consistent supply of tea and biscuits in the workshop.' 'Workshop?' There was a faint frown of interest on her forehead. 'Yes. You know the lane that runs off the Highway behind the Bank? It's in there. It's a sort of motor repair shop. He's mad on motors, drives them on the Speedway and is even getting round to making them. At least, engine parts and alterations.' Esther was replacing the lid on the red lacquer cigarette box. Her lids were lowered but I could see the light had dawned. Yes, she had recognised Oliver that night in the foyer of the Cinema. Now I had explained it for her. I also had a feeling that motor mechanics were as foreign to her as to me, and this fact, together with a recollection of the grease stained face and dirty overalls, had quite suddenly put Oliver in another-world category. Exactly as fear of my awkwardness had prevented my going to the workshop, in the first instance, for so long. Esther thought this unget-atable quality of Oliver the mechanic laid a ghost for her for ever. By the quick way she looked up and smiled I knew she no longer anticipated embarrassment in meeting Oliver. 'Do you go to the workshop?' she asked.

'Every time I go up the Terrace. I'm always broke and I'm always in need of sustenance.' We laughed. 'I guess I'll go in on my way home this afternoon,' I added. 'If you could wait about half an hour I could go with you,' Esther said unexpectedly. This all but clean bowled me. I looked uneasily at her long, beautifully-manicured fingers. Don't you be snobby about dirty hands, Esther, I pleaded in my heart. What sort of a person have you become under that black satin and above those lustrous pearls? I couldn't tell her she would be out on her ear like greased lightning if anyone around Oliver's place thought her attitude suspect. As I looked at her, I realised I was unjust and she was conscious of no such thinking. It was only that dirty hands and a dirty face, together with the inexplicable nature of mechanics, had put Oliver so far away from her that he was now just a friend of her childhood. The person she was going happily to meet would be a stranger with whom it would be pleasant to pass the time of day. An excursion in good manners. I saw this at once. But I knew she was reckoning without Oliver. She had yet to learn that Oliver's trade made him a thousand times more ascendant in personality. Speed and power, which were the magics of his handiwork, were also the attributes of his own character. The one brought the other out into the light of day. 'Will you sit here and wait?' Esther asked. 'I'm afraid the only books are fashion magazines.' 'I've some shopping,' I said. 'Shall I call back later?' 'If you come back to the top of the Arcade at five o'clock you'll see Harris there. He has the car there at exactly five because we are not allowed to park.' 'Golly,' I said to Esther later, as we bowled around Mount's Bay Road towards Pepper Tree Bay. 'This is going to business the right way. A car to fetch and bring.' 'Oh well,' she said. 'It gives Harris an excuse to come out. And it does make it easy for me.' As Esther had come towards me through the Arcade she had nearly shattered my newly restored nerves by the suit into which she had changed. The black dress was gone and she had on a tailored brown linen suit. 'Very nice,' I said touching it with my hand when we got into the rear seat of the car. 'It's useful,' Esther said. 'I wear it often.' 'It's just right for your colouring,' I volunteered. She laughed. 'That's what my favourite customer says. And as she is the same colouring she had to have one the same. In fact, exactly like it.' 'She didn't mind having a twin to your suit?' 'Oh well, we don't ever meet one another. It doesn't really matter. Besides her style is so different from mine.'

You're telling me, I thought. I'll keep my fingers crossed that Hilary doesn't turn up in the workshop today! Harris pulled up the car outside the Bank. I suggested he did not turn into the lane. 'It's one way traffic,' I said, 'unless you actually drive into the garage and turn round there.' Really I didn't want Esther to drive up to Oliver's door in the Hupmobile, with Harris at the wheel. I knew the bitter rasping sound Oliver's laugh could make if he wanted to be mean about my bringing Esther. As we walked the fifty yards up the lane I felt nervous. Esther was perfectly composed. She tried not to look as if her narrow shoes would mind getting themselves a little dirty in the stream of oily water that flowed downhill towards the gutter in the Highway. Once behind the Bank one could smell petrol and oil. We had walked into a different world. I came through the door on the left, the door into the workshop. Cutty was at the bench against the inside wall. Oliver was working in front of the window that looked down on to the Highway, the window through which he sometimes watched Esther driving along the Highway to Perth, and through which he had now watched us walking towards his shop. Cutty looked up and grunted. Then he gave vent to more action than I had ever seen before. He threw two tools he had in his hand on to the bench with a clatter. He almost hurried towards the door at the back of the shop, and taking his coat from the hook presented us with his back as he made his exit. There was no mistaking what Cutty Bannister thought. Oliver turned round, wiping his hands on cotton waste. His brown eyes were saying nothing and his mouth was smiling a little grimly. It said that in a minute he might take me out and thrash me. 'Oliver, I've brought Esther,' I said. Her smile was not so certain now. Perhaps the camouflage of grease stains didn't matter after all! Besides, there was only one little smear on his forehead―and perhaps the eternal Oliver was behind those eyes! For a minute they looked at one another, Oliver's eyes sardonic and not as kind as they might have been, Esther's smile faltering and then suddenly becoming fixed. Her lids flickered a little. Then she held out her hand as Oliver came towards us. Oliver looked at the grease on his hands. 'Don't mind my gloves,' Esther said. 'They'll always wash.' Oliver threw the rag with which he was wiping his hands into the corner. 'Wash like hell!' he said. 'This grease lasts a life-time. It's meant to.' He wasn't going to show any manners. Esther's training at the hands of Miss Priscilla stood her in good stead. With unobtrusive dignity the muscles of her face carved her mouth and cheeks into a polite smile. She dropped her hand.

'I suppose you are right,' she said gently. She looked at both her gloved hands and then smiled with sudden sweetness. 'I should have taken them off.' I could have cried. How beautifully she showed the other cheek! And with such dignity! The look I gave Oliver said I would do something to him when I got him alone. 'Would you like to sit down?' Oliver's politeness was very nearly a mimicry. He went over to a bench and elaborately wiped it down with a clean cloth. 'I'm sorry I haven't a chair. Only benches. We're still at school at this place.' Esther sat down. 'I wouldn't know,' she said. 'I never went to school.' This time Oliver had the grace to look shamefaced. He spoke more gently. 'Ask Theodora,' he said. 'She's never stopped going to school.' 'It's true,' I said, eager to talk about anything. 'Pupil, monitor, now student. I'm twenty-one and still learning. Am I allowed to make some tea, Oliver?' 'For a person who takes the law into her own hands the way you do, Theodora, that seems a silly thing to ask.' At this I put my hands on my hips, 'Yellow dog dingo...' I said under my breath. Oliver ignored this. While I went on with the business of boiling the kettle Oliver leaned against Cutty's work bench and looked at Esther. The light from the open door of the garage streamed over her. 'It was nice of you to come,' he said 'It was nice of you to want me to come,' Esther said quietly. I nearly dropped the kettle. Was Oliver going to turn round and call me a liar? But no, he put his head a little on one side. 'Was that meant to be nice or nasty?' Esther's face, with the last light of the day all over it, was smiling up at Oliver in a perfunctory kind of way. Then some vagrant thought must have blown across her mind. I remembered how this used to happen when we were children. Her eyes grew lighter, then her lids drooped a moment over her eyes, a smile of extraordinary sweetness hovered round her lips. She had a dreamy gaze. It was exactly as if she was not with us for a moment but in some other pipe dream world of fabulous charm. With a little start, she came back from somewhere else. Her eyes focused again on Oliver, the lips disciplined themselves into politeness. Oliver's hand, which had been playing nervously with a screwdriver, was stiff and very still. It does something to him too, I thought. Esther shook her head and looked down at her hands in her lap. 'I wouldn't want to be nasty...' This was puzzled. Then the quick upward look. 'Would I?' Oliver threw the screw-driver down. 'Hell!' he said. 'What's the matter?' Someone was standing in the door. It was Hilary and she had on the brown suit I had seen her in the first day we met. I blinked and held my breath. Oliver moved abruptly over to the sink

where he began washing his hands noisily and splashily. 'Miss Hilary Brown, Miss Esther Hillman,' he said by way of an ungracious introduction. He did not look up from the sink. Hilary moved out of the light of the doorway and Esther could see her. Both girls started to laugh. 'Well,' drawled Hilary. 'And I was the one who said we'd never meet in the same suit.' 'I'm awfully glad we have,' Esther said easily. 'Now we can see what the other one really looks like in it.' My lungs expelled a great quantity of air. 'Good job somebody's relieved about something,' Oliver said sententiously to me. 'Seems these two have met before.' 'Seems like it,' I said meekly. 'Esther made her own suit and then made Hilary's for her.' Oliver's eyebrows went up and he turned and looked at the two girls. He appraised them. Sure enough they had the identical suit on. He shook his head. 'But you don't look the same,' he said. 'Of course not,' said Hilary, walking over to the work bench and throwing down her gloves and bag. 'I'm the sporty type and wear my clothes that way. Miss Hillman now...' She paused and looked at Esther. There was both friendliness and admiration in her gaze. 'Well, she's plenty smart in a special kind of way.' 'Oliver,' I whispered as I passed him with the tea. 'You can knock me down with a feather... right now.' 'Just let me get things straight,' Oliver said. 'Do you two girls know one another?' They were both laughing. 'Of course,' Esther said. 'The relationship is buyer and seller.' 'Make it sound more professional than that,' I said as I handed out the tea. 'Call it client and designer.' 'Who does the selling?' Oliver asked. 'I do,' said Esther. 'I have a dressmaking and designing business.' 'You have?' 'Yes.' Oliver shook his head. 'You buy and sell in the hot-footed textile world? And those long white hands ply a mercenary needle and thread?' 'But yes.' Oliver shrugged and turned away. 'Amende honorable please,' I whispered viciously at him. 'Theodora,' he said. 'If you don't shut up I'll strangle you.' He had turned away from Esther because there really was something in his eyes he didn't want her to see. It had been there ever since, looking down at her as she sat with the light flooding and spangling all over her, he had watched that slow dreamy smile transform her face for a moment. 'Mine tink it not so plurry useless, after all?' I flung at him as a last word in pidgin aborigine. 'In Spain they garotte them,' he said at me through tight

lips. Hilary came over to pour more tea. 'What are you two talking about?' 'Murder,' Oliver said. 'Derives from one or two motives,' I said. 'Passion or acquisitiveness. Some people have both.' Oliver put his face close to mine. 'I could say you inspire neither,' he whispered. 'No?' I whispered back. 'But somebody else might.' 'Oh, oh, oh to be in Spain!' Then I looked at Esther. 'Stop being nasty, Oliver,' I said. 'We have the angels with us.' Certainly the light was playing tricks of glory in the workshop as the sun went down on that spring day. CHAPTER V - TOWARDS THE SEA THE Speedway in the Show Grounds on the north side of Pepper Tree Bay was across the railway line from the Terrace and the residential part of the suburb. It was built on a large flat sandy depression on the edge of the Swamp land. A line of sandhills stretched between it and the sea to the west. On the Saturday night following Esther's meeting with Oliver I went to watch the races. The papers were making headline splashes of what the great 'Ol Harding' was going to do to the records with his newly adjusted Stannard engine. When I read their accounts of Oliver's career written in the queer Speedway jargon that was professional exposition to the familiars of the sport, I could not believe this mythical speed-ace was one and the same person I had known so well in the past―and now had more than a speaking acquaintance with in the present. It seemed to me that nothing about the fierce adulation wringing itself from the columnists was in keeping with Oliver's personality. He was made out a wild, crazy speed-maniac; a fireball of courage, rashness, luck and skill! I thought of Oliver saying . . . 'I drive to win, not to die. . . . It's brainwork, a top-ranking machine, and strong hands that does it.' I decided I must go and see for myself. It was twilight and the breeze off the river did not reach this side of the sandhills. It was a warm night. As I came across the railway bridge I saw Cutty Bannister a little ahead of me. He had on a suit usually worn on Sundays, and his appearance was less that of an assistant in a repair workshop than of an elder of the Church. He looked with scorn about him. Quite clearly he despised the endless stream of humanity, marching eagerly towards the brilliantly lit Show Grounds. Poor Cutty! He would refuse to see himself as one of these speed-hungry hundreds. I shook my head in conjecture. Was there anything of which Cutty did not disapprove?

How he hated the cars and the noise; the blazing lights, the blaring motorcycle horns! Outside the Speedway was an enormous car park and an adjacent paddock for cycles. The din coming from the paddock was terrific. The cycle owners identified themselves with the heroes of the speed track in terms of hullabaloo. Inside the Showground was the sound of machines racing and the roaring of the people. It was like a great symphonic accompaniment. Outside, milling round me and Cutty and the rest of the multitude trying to get in, shabby youths were shouting: ― 'Rice card! Rice card!' Right in the gateway of the turnstile a bleary eyed veteran of the gutters was offering 'Chewing gum, peanuts, lollies!' In the eyes of the youths and the chewing-gum, vendor there was the same narcotic gleam, an expression of undernourished mind and body that fed unnaturally on the excitement of electric lights, crowds, noise, bets. Between sales they delivered themselves of tips on each event. In the bright light of the day they were poor things, respected by none. Here, in the artificiality of the excitement, they were little caesars on their surburban forums. I was sorry for them. Cutty despised them. I caught up with him and touched his arm. 'Hallo, Cutty, wait for me. I'm coming too.' Underneath his too obvious expression of displeasure, he was not so angry at my presence. He nodded his head in the direction of some young excited women. 'Common and loud!' he said. 'No place for a decent woman.' 'Well, I've only come to see Oliver, Cutty. It's just a little matter of loyalty.' 'Women should be in their homes,' he grumbled. 'Cutty, you wouldn't come to a place like a Speedway ordinarily, would you?' I cajoled. He growled in his moustaches. We were nearing the turnstile and here the din from inside was so infusing those outside with delirium that people were pushing past one another; small boys were worming their way between the adults. Cutty, very broad and massive, gave ground to no one. He proceeded with slow deliberation into the stream passing through the turnstile. Neither loud woman, nor impatient child found anything about his rock-like fixity that would give way either to a violent push, or to a more judicious insinuation. I followed, sheltered in his wake, but with the certain knowledge that I came not at Cutty's invitation but very much at my own risk. On the other side of the turnstiles a race was in progress. There was no confusing the sounds of racing machines in competition with those of the show-off machines of the fans in the paddock outside the gates. The ring was a blazing circle of light. Lesser lights lit the dark corners of the Show Grounds but the effect of the whole was that people moved about in shadowy anonymity whilst the glaring white light publicised the performers

and their machines on the track. The programme announced the first cycle races were over and the speed cars were about to begin their events. I heard Oliver's name. 'Who's taking Ol Harding? Who's taking Ol Harding?' Cutty watched the bookie, a hand to his mouth and chewing a match. There were two men the other side of Cutty standing and watching the bookies speculatively. One of them spat. 'Ol Harding's gonna win,' he said with finality. 'He ain't a bet. There's no money in him.' 'There's that fella Fraser!' This was from the other man. 'You never can tell. He's a dark horse, hasn't raced over this way before. He's got a new engine in his car. His backers reckon it's second to none.' 'Aw nuts. I'd like to be around when anyone beats that Stannard. Little beaut!' 'They say it's got Ol's own invention in it.' 'They say!' Cutty began to move down the grassy slope towards a little gate leading on to the track. I followed behind him. Where Cutty went, I thought, either Oliver or Hilary, or one of his mechanics was sure to turn up. At that moment there was a lull between the races. Some new type of event would take place next. Nearby a man was doing a trade in hot dogs. Two girls were in front of us, We could smell their cheap scent. They spoke in high pitched nasal accents and when they laughed they squealed. 'Gee, there goes the Stannard!' The girls, in unnaturally high-heeled shoes, stood on their toes and craned their necks. They resisted all efforts on the part of the jostling crowd to move them from the hand gate. 'Is that Oily in the car?' 'Nah, that's the mechanic. Oily don't bring out his own car. Wot you think? He's cock of the walk, ain't he? The mechanic does the dirty work.' 'The mechanic don't drive it for him in the race anyway.' 'He's the boss. He's the big I-am. And oh boy, can he drive that car!' A young fellow with long lank hair and sallow face pressed up alongside the girls. 'Now then, you two! Hangin' round for Ol Harding agin? Wot's 'e got I haven't got anyway?' The girls squealed and slapping one another's shoulders protested at this wit. 'Oh gee, he can have my shoes under his bed anytime he likes.' The girl was plump. She took a comb out of her handbag and began to sweep up her hair into a mound on the top of her head. 'Aw gee!' the other said. 'Do you reckon he'll come down here again tonight.' The plump girl leaned forward and whispered in her friend's ear. They turned slyly and looked at Cutty. They giggled and turned away, prodding one another knowingly.

A shout went up from the crowd. A man was coming on to the Speedway from a lane leading into the paddock. He seemed to reel a little as he walked but this was because of the unnatural shape his driving suit gave to him. He was padded against crash accidents. He carried his crash helmet in the crook of one arm. 'Ol Harding!' 'Here he is!' 'Golly, here he comes!' 'Oily, Oily, Oily boy!' I watched this curious figure walk on to the track and shake hands with one or two officials. He went over to the Stannard and spoke to his mechanic. They shook hands elaborately. Then he looked up and held up his hand in salutation to the crowd. The whole time the people had been roaring and swaying. When he held up his hand a single shout rose from the throats of the thousands: ― 'Ol Harding!' So he was indeed a king. How small and odd he looked standing there, one hand held high, his crash helmet in the crook of his arm, his great padded shoulders rising like humps on either side of his head. Standing there so simply by his car he was suddenly very great indeed. He was a hero. It was not just newspaper talk! Presently other cars came down on to the track, one at a time, and their drivers made their salutations to the crowd. Oliver was free now to walk away. While the others were being greeted in the curious ritual peculiar to Speedway fans, Oliver walked around the track to the little hand gate. Those nearest it closed in round him, their faces pressed against his, their ears so that no words falling from his lips might be lost. The routine of excitement near the starting line was going on as each car arrived, was inspected. From the repair paddock at the back of the main stand came a tumultuous roar of engines. All this, Oliver told me afterwards, was part of the build-up. If the crowd couldn't get a crash for their money they had at least to get the expectation of it. The ovation was not only a greeting but a last sad farewell. The driver might, after all, get killed in the interests of their entertainment. The two girls had pressed themselves against Oliver as he came through the little gate. He could see Cutty, and lifted his hand. Then he dropped his head a little sideways to the plump girl, who in spite of her high heels only came up to Oliver's shoulder. His arm slid around her waist. He seemed to hold her tight a minute and there was a sly smile in the corners of his mouth. Then he released her suddenly and slapped her hard on the buttocks. There was a shout of laughter all round. The girl squealed and reaching her arms round Oliver's neck kissed him with a sound like a smack. There was a red stain of lipstick on his chin. Without violence but without courtesy he elbowed her out of the way.

Cutty was sitting on a wooden seat ten feet away. He sat, his knees spread, which made it uncomfortable for anyone to sit beside him. He chewed a match. I stood a little further behind. I didn't sit down, not only because of Cutty's legs but because I wanted to see over the people's heads on to the track. Oliver didn't see me. A man thrust his face into Oliver's. 'Hallo Ol! Howzit?' 'Okay, digger.' He sat down beside Cutty and pushed his fingers through his hair. He balanced his crash helmet on his knee. The crowd milled around peering into his face. Some touched him lightly on the shoulder as they passed behind him. 'You shouldn't have done that,' said Cutty. 'What?' 'That girl. She's no good.' 'I know.' He grinned at Cutty. 'But they like it.' He slid his eyes around to the girl and added wickedly, 'So do I.' 'They don't do you any good. They're trash.' 'I know. I leave 'em alone most of the time, I know what I'm doing.' They sat a minute or two in silence. Oliver's smile was fixed, his teeth just showing and his brown eyes, hard and intelligent, watching what was going on at the starting end of the tracks. His eyes narrowed a little as the mechanic drove the Stannard to the starting mark. Megaphones were blaring the numbers, places, drivers. When Oliver's number went up and his car pulled up to the number post a great shout went up. 'I'm in front. The thing's to stay there,' he said to Cutty. Then he lifted the crash helmet on to his head, and lost all personality. He became like all the others... fiends of noise, sub-human monsters from Mars. Underneath that protective regalia, I thought, is Oliver. But no one would ever know it. He was sitting there as if he didn't belong to the race. His eyes had a dream quality. 'Who are you thinking about now?' Cutty asked, his voice heavy with jealousy. Oliver brought his eyes back from the other world and shook his head. He grinned and gave the little short choked laugh so typical of him. It sounded like a little regretful groan. 'Why, no one. I was thinking of the river.' He stood up. His hand dropped a moment on Cutty's shoulder. 'Unless you think a thirty pound kingfish coming in on a line at six o'clock in the morning is a "someone".' His smile must have warmed the old man's heart for Cutty reached up and for a second held Oliver's hand pinned to his shoulder. 'You got a bet?' Oliver asked. Cutty shook his head. 'It's a cert.' CHAPTER VI - BACK TO THE MAIN STREAM I

WONDERED

if there had been a touch of anger in Esther's voice when on the

day they met in the workshop she had looked at Oliver with the quick upward glance followed by that 'Would I?' At all events there was a touch of spirit. This in itself must have surprised Oliver. When and how had she learned her spirit? Clearly Mrs. RiccardHillman had not crushed her entirely, and her father must have lost, during the absent years, his power of awe and restriction. Yet it would be wrong to say Esther had changed very much. That quick upward glance and the 'Would I?' were only variations, surely, of the odd little glance and smile which she had given as a child on rare and unexpected occasions, and which she had produced so unselfconsciously in Oliver's garage. At a later date Esther told Oliver in brief outline of her father's arrival in Pepper Tree Bay, but Mr. Sweeting, who followed every minute of her life with loving interest, was always the confidant of every experience. From them both I pieced together the following picture. Life in Mrs. Riccard's house when Esther was still a young girl was a monotone of placidity. No one stirred in the mornings until the sun was well up. That is, no one but Esther. Though Mrs. Riccard and her servants knew that Esther went swimming every morning they had no idea of the sand bank in the middle of the bay; of the route to the jetty that was shaped like a bow; of an elderly man watching for a black spot that became a head; of a small upright figure on the sand bank; of a waved hand and the plunge onwards. 'Well, young miss. And how far did you and Miss Priscilla get with the Wars of the Roses?' Esther would retell the details of her history with serious exactitude, her grey eyes preoccupied and a frown between her brows as she strained at her memory to get every detail correct. When a short review of the lessons was over Mr. Sweeting would ask Esther what she had done with herself during the afternoon. So often it was the same recital of reading and sewing. Occasionally Harris would take Mrs. Wood and Esther to the market. This was an adventure. Mrs. Wood always sat in front with the chauffeur, her large basket on her lap. Esther sat alone, very straight and dignified in the back seat. It was thus Oliver had first seen Esther when he returned to Pepper Tree Bay from the sandplains. 'Blow me down!' he had said under his breath. He watched Harris turn the car into the Terrace, changing gear to climb the hill. Mrs. Wood and Harris were so unmistakably servants, Esther the 'waited upon'. Oliver's heart had been filled with a mixture of pride in that slim figure with the big serious eyes, and anger and scorn that she should be riding thus, a protegee of their detested enemy. His anger hardened when he turned away and thought back to the Hardings'

ignominious dismissal at Mrs. Riccard's hands. Mr. Sweeting, for his part, thought there was nothing peculiar about Esther's isolated grandeur in the rear seat of the Hupmobile. His instinct was to protect Esther and had she been entirely in his hands he would have overendowed her with kindness and attention. He did not even ask that she should love him in return. That she did, unaffectedly and whole-heartedly, was a joy and an astonishment to him. He ceased entirely to associate her in his mind with the cold ascetic schoolmaster who had been on his staff. That is, until one morning, when he asked the familiar question. 'And what did you do then, my dear? What did you do for the rest of the day?' Esther replied, her eyes steadfast on his face, yet her words being spoken stiffly, calculated to amaze. 'I read one of Mrs. Riccard's letters. I read a letter to Mrs. Riccard from my father. . . .' 'You what?' He was puzzled, certain he had not heard aright. 'It was on the card tray in the hall. It said . . . "Dearest Amelia, I will be with you in less than a month now-" then it said something about a "dreadful case" and their "terrible ordeal". It was very big hand-writing so there were just the four lines. I couldn't see any more.' 'You... you recognised your father's handwriting?' 'No. I didn't know who it was from then. After dinner Mrs. Riccard said my father was coming back to Pepper Tree Bay in a month...' Esther's eyes did not falter from Mr. Sweeting's face. 'So when I went to bed I took the letter from the card tray, and read it.' 'You shouldn't have . . . Esther, my dear child, it was not wise, not right for you to do that. A letter is. . . .' 'I know, Mr. Sweeting,' she said. 'But I wanted to know about my father because I used to hate him so. And I wanted to know about my mother. I thought the letter might tell me about my mother.' 'Your mother?' His hand was twitching as it rested on the wooden plank of the jetty. 'Mr. Sweeting, do you know what happened to my mother?' The eyes that were looking at him were calm and steadfast. The schoolmaster drew in his lips sharply. 'Did they not tell you? Did not Mrs. Riccard keep you informed...?' He stopped, bewildered by his own omission in never having discussed the girl's parents with her. 'Miss Priscilla surely.....' 'No,' she was shaking her head now, more like an old lady than a young girl.

'Nobody ever told me what happened to my mother.' 'But you asked? Surely, dear child, you asked? You enquired of Mrs. Riccard?' 'No. I didn't ask anybody.' He wanted to ask in God's name why? Yet was the fact that Esther had not asked any more strange than that no one had told her? And had she not failed to ask because she had been afraid, not of the asking, but of the knowledge ? 'So I read the letter,' Esther said again. 'My dear...' Mr. Sweeting began. He was so ill at ease that Esther was sorry for him. 'The "dreadful case" was the divorce, wasn't it, Mr. Sweeting?' He was in deep anxiety. 'I... expect so. What do you know about divorce, child?' 'I read the papers. I read them every morning after I get back from my swim. I go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea and read the paper. I make the tea for Mrs. Wood and Harris too.' She paused for a moment and sat swinging her legs over the jetty, her eyes resting on the water where it reflected in the piles and where the reflection of the morning sun under the boathouse made a fairyland of the underwater world. 'I read that my father... divorced my mother for desertion.' 'My child, my dear child!' 'What will happen to my mother now?' 'Let us suppose that she will marry again―as your father proposes to do. Perhaps there will be a new happiness for them both. I understand this is the case. Yes, I think perhaps you should know... this is very likely to be the case.' 'Do you think I will see her again, Mr. Sweeting?' 'That, I imagine, will rest with your father, Esther.' He put his hand on her arm. 'Leave your mother to her peace, child. You have waited so long. Wait a little longer.' Esther understood him perfectly. 'I don't want to see my mother, Mr. Sweeting. I don't ever want to see her.' This, though an expedient, shocked Mr. Sweeting. It might be a happy solution, but not at all a correct one. He was at a loss for words. To correct the girl for these sentiments would ask him to justify the status quo. He looked at her, puzzled and troubled. Whether it was the iridescent lights in the water reflecting themselves in Esther's eyes or whether it was that his own were getting old and he was troubled, he seemed to see something, some knowledge and maturity, that were beyond the girl's years and surely beyond the cossetting of her life. Esther lowered her eyes and stared again into the water. 'She left me in that house with Mrs. Riccard.' Thus calmly, without accent upon a single word, did she state the horror of her captivity. Even Mr. Sweeting could not gauge it because he did not know that her entire life had been wrapped up in the two people who had gone

from Pepper Tree Bay, whose names she had never again mentioned. The whole fabric of her life since had been a makeshift. One which she had suffered with a patience worthy of God, but which nevertheless remained but an interim. Mr. Sweeting who loved the girl, felt a tiny fear clutch at his heart. The return of Mr. Hillman occurred shortly before the unexpected death of Miss Priscilla. Mrs. Riccard had first given Esther official notification. A day or two following her first announcement that Esther's father would return in a month she broke the news of her impending marriage. 'You know, Esther, your father and mother are no longer man and wife. In fact, your father is free to marry again. Fortunately he did not have to make the decision of parting from Mrs. Hillman; it was she who took that step.' She had gone on eating as she spoke. On the other side of the dining-table Esther had also continued to eat, her eyes cast down at her plate, her face expressionless. 'There is a limit to what a man of your father's sensitivity and integrity can endure,' pursued Mrs. Riccard. 'Your father is entirely right in this affair.' She did not say what the affair was, and she presumed that Esther was ignorant and unquestioning. She knew absolutely nothing of the girl's reading and her absorption in the daily papers. 'Your father will make his home here, Esther. You are his daughter and it is only right that he should again take up the responsibility of your upbringing, and of course that he should come to his friend and champion in Pepper Tree Bay.' Esther finished her breakfast and after excusing herself in her usual formal manner went upstairs to her room and collected her hat and books. Mrs. Riccard heard her going out the front door. She went to the window and watched the long-legged girl go through the gate and down towards the Highway. What a godsend, she thought, had been the idea of sending Esther each day to the Misses David at the Swamp. At least, these were the sentiments Mrs. Riccard herself expressed to Mr. Sweeting when she told him of how Esther had taken the news. 'Will there be another scandal?' Esther asked Miss Priscilla. 'Oh, my child. Surely not. . . .' 'There was before; when my mother screamed in Church. That is why they had to leave Pepper Tree Bay.' The two ladies looked at Esther bewildered. Like Mr. Sweeting and Mrs. Riccard, they had shut their minds to the responsibility of either speaking to Esther of her parents or on the other hand enquiring of the child how much she knew and what was in her mind.

'Do you know, Miss Priscilla, I think Mrs. Riccard was glad my mother screamed that day. She meant her to.' The two ladies looked at one another in bewilderment. At last Miss Betsy spoke. 'It may be an unchristian thought on my part,' she said with unusual firmness. 'But I have always thought that myself.' Miss Priscilla turned her eyes away. As Esther was leaving the room she heard her say: 'We have never mentioned it between us, Betsy. I was afraid that was so myself. That is why I took Esther for lessons. I was afraid of that... and of other things.' Esther stopped quite still in the doorway. 'Of course it was necessary to bring Esther here,' Miss Betsy said. 'And what a dear child she is. You know, Priscilla, I don't think I would have been anything like as happy as I am if we hadn't had Esther.' Miss Priscilla nodded. ''It has been as if we had a child of our own.' Esther's eyes filled with tears and she ran hastily down the orchard. So moved were the two sisters by this conversation that Miss Priscilla confided it to Mr. Sweeting. 'Do you suppose it is right the child should grow up without companions of her own age?' she asked. 'I sometimes think I have been a little selfish. Esther seemed so contented . . . and somehow her coming gave new life to Betsy and me.' Mr. Sweeting nodded his head. 'Me too, Miss Priscilla,' he said. 'I have kept her companionship for myself when I should have given her to others.' 'What shall we do about it?' Before they could do anything about it Fate stepped in and Miss Priscilla died. Miss Betsy was packed off to the Eastern States and the Swamp came into the hands of others. In the meanwhile Mr. Hillman, a little strained and nervous, also very much under Mrs. Riccard's thumb, was installed as husband and titular head of the big house on the river. In real fact he was less than the least in that house. In a short time Esther got used to Mr. Hillman at the table. She rarely saw him at other times. His life was according to the ordering of Mrs. Riccard, and he did not deviate from it by a hair's breadth. Because Mrs. Riccard had left Esther to her own devices in the past this continued to be the case. Whatever life there was between Mr. Hillman and the now Mrs. Riccard-Hillman Esther did not share in any way. They might have been living in different worlds. Upstairs Esther had a large bedroom opening on to the balcony and overlooking the river. In this room was all the paraphernalia of her interests. They consisted of dress designing, the making of miniature clothes as well as her own, reading. To this room there came every week the magazines devoted to the cult of dress and fashion, and Esther was well supplied with drawing paper, paint boxes and lengths of materials. Mrs. Wood had seen to all this. When Esther had delighted and even awed the housekeeper by making first a house-dress and then an afternoon dress for her, Mrs. Wood had seen that a

brand new machine, one that could gather, hem-stitch, spoke-stitch and embroider as well as plain-stitch, was installed. On the rare occasions when Mrs. Riccard had glanced into this big, sunny, busy room she had shown mere approval. The girl was industrious, something of an artist and her reading material was advanced but above reproach. Mrs. Riccard left the girl to her own devices. After Miss Priscilla's death Esther took the first of the few steps which marked her will to a life of her own. Oliver, even Mr. Sweeting and Miss Priscilla, might have thought of Esther as a cypher in that house. Like the placid river, however, there was somewhere a deep channel through which the current of life was stirring, and carving its way to the sea. Esther so loved dress and fashion that her thoughts naturally ran along its concomitant attributes―grace and bearing. In her room she walked and stood and posed before her mirror to give the line and grace of the dresses she draped around her. 'Well I never,' Mrs. Wood said one day. 'Who'd have thought it? But you look like a grown-up young lady.' She had come upstairs with some clean linen and found Esther, her fair hair piled on top of her head, lipstick marking her lips and a long Grecian-type dress swathed around her. Esther moved about in front of the mirror, swaying, bending, turning, the young lines of her body suddenly blossoming in this new plumage. Mrs. Wood walked up close to Esther and peered at the dress. 'Where did you get that now? Seems I've seen that before.' 'It's one out of the cupboard,' Esther said. 'It was very full in the skirt. When I unpicked it there was five yards in the skirt alone.' Mrs. Wood pursed her lips and fingered the lovely soft velvet. 'I remember when she wore that. . . . She was so grand no one else could match her. It was at a Club Ball in Simla. . . .' 'Did Mrs, Riccard dance?' 'Of course she danced. Everyone danced. Now if you were in England, Miss Esther, you would be going to dancing lessons. There'd be all the gentry's sons to dance with the young ladies. White gloves and all. . . .' About half an hour later, when Mrs. Wood was making pastry in the kitchen, Esther appeared in a satin beaded evening gown. Her lips and cheeks were made up to that degree of sophistication the onlooker cannot perceive where artifice has altered nature's appearance. 'Land sakes child, you gave me a start.' 'Do I look nice?' 'You look very beautiful, Miss Esther. Indeed, and it frightens me.'

'Why should it frighten you?' 'It's like an omen, child. You're young and innocent. When you're dressed up you look so beautiful and worldly it just frightens me.' Esther preened herself a little. 'If only I could dance.' She sighed at her reflection in the kitchen window. On a morning when she was sixteen she drove into Perth with Harris. The car had to be left to be cleaned and greased. Esther did not mind the wait, she had an errand of her own. She walked down the steep hill, past the theatre in William Street till she came to the Public Dance Hall and the row of offices and studios it housed on its upper story. She took the lift to the top floor. Along a corridor was a door on which was painted: JERRY WREN Dancing Instruction. Underneath in tiny printing were the words 'Enter Without Knocking.' Esther turned the handle and found the door gave into a large dancing floor. Highly polished floor boards swept away to a row of full length windows. Along two walls were mirrors, floor to ceiling. At the far end of the room a young woman was playing idly at a piano. A lank-haired youth leaning over the piano was humming the tune. When Esther came in at the door the young woman dropped her hands from the piano; she stood up and brushing past the youth came with little high tapping heels across the great expanse of floor. 'Are you Miss Jerry Wren?' Esther asked. 'That's me.' She had dyed blonde hair and she chewed her gum in a manner thought to be genteel. She had bright, hard blue eyes and a breezy smile. 'I rang you about dancing lessons. I'm Esther Hillman. I'm a few minutes early, I think.' (When Esther recounted the scene she said she felt sick with embarrassment. Her knees were stiff, her hands clenched her gloves and handbag, She longed to turn and run.) 'Uh huh!' said Miss Jerry Wren. She moved back a step or two and looked Esther up and down. 'Can you dance at all? Ballroom, I mean?' 'No.' Esther flushed. 'I don't know as much as a step.' 'Well, that's nothing,' Miss Wren was unexpectedly consoling. 'If it wasn't for the likes of you there wouldn't be any living in it for the likes of me. Most of 'em just take classes at two bob a time to give them practice. Dump yer hat an' bag.'

She turned and whistled to the youth. 'Come on, Jamie. Here's yer patron.' To Esther's dismay the long thin youth with the black lank hair and pock marked face unwound himself from across the piano and came with noiseless padding feet towards her. 'Show her a hitch or two while I find some music,' commanded Miss Jerry Wren. 'Better make it half-time for a kick-off.' Esther looked at the youth with frightened eyes. She needn't have worried. She was in the hands of experts, the kind that always won ballroom championships. She had chosen Miss Wren's studio because she was afraid of coming face to face with someone from Pepper Tree Bay if she had gone to a more fashionable class. She was very embarrassed about her desire to learn to dance. She did not ask herself who, if anybody, she might dance with if she learned ballroom dancing. She only thought about it as teaching her rhythm and carriage. On this she set her solitary ambition. In spite of Miss Wren's less fashionable clientele she was a first class teacher. Esther learned quicker and better from Jerry and Jamie, and without frills. 'Put up yer hands,' said Jamie through a gap in his teeth. 'Like so!' He stood in front of her. Then he took her arm and led her to one of the mirrors. 'Like so,' he said again. Esther felt stiff with embarrassment. In the mirror Jamie could see her teeth clenched on her bottom lip. He said nothing. He handled dozens of girls. This one was only different in that she had class. He showed her a step or two before the mirror and then, holding her hands, so that he stood off as far from her as the length of their two arms and looking downward at her feet, he directed her as she essayed to follow him. 'Do that in front of the mirror ten times,' he commanded, releasing her. He went over to the piano. 'Give us a slow jazz, Toots,' he said. Then in an undertone which Esther caught, 'Where'd she come from? Bit of swank, hey?' Miss Wren shrugged her shoulders. 'You teach her good and proper,' she said not bothering to keep her voice down. In fact they always tended to discuss Esther as if she were a robot, a creature whose movements were to be guided and controlled but who had no ears to hear with and no voice to utter a protest. 'She's got style that one has.' 'How's she goin'?' Miss Wren asked presently over the top of the piano. 'Not so bad,' Jamie replied over Esther's head. 'Loosening up a bit now. She'll do.' When he had finished the lesson he wiped his fingers through his long hair. 'You'll make the grade,' he said. 'Easy.' Esther's heart swelled with pride. In time she learned to look for words of praise from the sharp little Jerry Wren or the lackadaisical Jamie. Their style was crisp and impersonal. From them Esther learned to dance, to walk up and

down the floor like a mannequin with a book on her head; to sway and bend to lift her arms; to put on a hat; to take off a coat or put on a scarf―all with an elegance and grace worthy of royalty. She learned confidence and lost her self-consciousness and moreover she learned to like and respect Jerry and Jamie. She learned about the world of affairs from them, and she learned wisdom. 'Seems like you always quote what Jerry Wren says,' said Mrs. Wood one day. 'Seems like she must know everything, that Jerry Wren.' Then one morning Esther went to her lesson in a new, specially fashioned dress of which she was justly proud. 'Say, where'd you get that dress?' Jerry Wren asked her. She even stopped chewing her gum as she gazed in admiration. 'I designed it, then I made it,' said Esther. 'Aw, come off it. A kid like you can't make a dress like that.' 'I can, and I did.' 'You make one for me like it? What's your charge, if we agree?' Esther laughed. 'I'll make one―and I don't charge.' 'Okay. Suits me. Five lessons free and you make me a dress.' The first day Jerry Wren wore the dress to the studio she had someone with her. When Esther came in there was a short frizzle-haired woman sitting by the piano. She was another dyed blonde. She stood up and eyed Esther as the girl came down the long room. 'She's certainly got what it takes,' the woman said to Jerry. They both looked Esther up and down. Esther felt as if she was in the mannequin business, 'Uh huh,' said Jerry, chewing her gum reflectively. 'She's got figure―and style.' 'Meet Mrs. Twine, Esther,' said Miss Wren. 'How do you do,' said Esther. 'Pleased to meet you,' said Mrs. Twine, not looking at Esther's face but running her eyes up and down the dress. 'How you doin'?' enquired Jamie conversationally. 'All right, thank you,' 'Where'd you get that stuff?' enquired Mrs. Twine. Esther was standing in front of her inquisitor, taking off her gloves. She laughed. She was used now to Jerry and Jamie discussing her objectively, and without apology. Mrs. Twine made no difference . . . merely one more. 'I'm glad you like it,' said Esther. 'The stuff came from India. My dress is made out of a pair of curtains.' 'Uh huh,' said Jerry patting her own dress. But Mrs. Twine looked impressed. 'You couldn't get it here,' she said. She put out her hand and fingered the skirt. 'Lovely,' she said. 'Lovely and soft, yet plenty of weight.' 'Mrs. Wood―the housekeeper―said it is made of angora.' 'Where'd you get

the style?' 'I told you she designs 'em herself,' said Jerry impatiently. 'Well, will she do?' demanded Jamie. 'Do for what?' asked Esther. 'You like to come in my shop? Model clothes for me? Do some of that handembroidery between times? That pays well. You look like you'd be worth money to me. I'll pay well.' Jerry and Jamie smiled with a kind of heavenly satisfaction. 'There you are, Esther. Job on a platter for you. And Mrs. Twine's the toughest house to crack in Perth.' Esther was startled. She looked at Mrs. Twine's shrewd businesslike face. There was something hard and intimidating about the calculation in her eyes. 'Look, Esther,' Jerry said. 'You go along. You'll work hard, but you'll learn the business well. An' you'll get paid well. Mrs. Twine's the best dressmaker in Perth. What she wants is someone round the place to give it class. That's what you've got, Esther. You go out an' sell it.' So Esther joined a dressmaking establishment. The only thing odd about it was that Harris took her to work, and called for her. Even the oddness of this came to be accepted in time by those who worked with her. Even Harris thrown in didn't antagonise her associates when they saw and valued her work. Esther was an artist. In due course she learned to be a business woman. PART FOUR CHAPTER I - WAIT FOR THE WIND OLIVER made a trip to America. When he came back he took to wearing white and brown brogue shoes. These were a constant object of teasing. He showed a child-like delight in footwear, the more noticeable the better. He also wore beautifully tailored shirts in the American fashion, a tweed jacket and brown gaberdine pants. For the first time in his life he wore a hat. This, he said, was because the fur-felt in the hats he had to wear during the winter in America were such a joy to the touch he would wear hats evermore as a tribute to luxury. One also had the feeling that after the northern winter the glare of the Australian summer worried his eyes. For he liked his brims a little broader than the American fashion. But he said nothing of this, and we were too polite and too impressed to mention it ourselves. He certainly was a very impressive figure. He had worked for four months in the Stannard motor car factory. He came back to Perth the sole agent for Australia with big show rooms in the city. Moreover, his own invention had been bought by the firm and adjusted to the standard model. Oliver only went to the Speedway now as a guest or as an official. There he figured in his white and tan shoes and light brown gaberdine trousers with the short jacket―the striking and exciting example of what a motor mechanic

can become, given courage, enthusiasm and the will to work. Nobody else could have worn those clothes the way Oliver did. There was something jocund as well as sporty about them. Moreover, as one of the leading men in the motor car world he could wear anything and get away with it. And he did. When Oliver moved about the metropolis it was in an enormous car. This was the Stannard luxury tourer Ducoed with Oliver's flare for the unique; it was streamlined and plated as much as was consistent with good taste. Oliver at the steering wheel of this beautiful car was the object of admiration of all eyes. He and his car became known by everyone in a very short time. 'There goes Ol Harding!' He had to remain Ol Harding for all time. His beautiful car and his white and brown brogues made a special type of him. And he had to live up to it. The population would have been disappointed if he had appeared as an ordinary man-about-town. His manner developed a little more of the flamboyant. He talked hard and laughed uproariously. Sometimes behind that extrovert manner one would see the brown eyes with their little black light. That was when he was making a friend of a sometime rival or enemy. Sometimes it was because he was deeply angry; sometimes only because he was thoughtful . . . and his thoughts had something to do with the sentimentalist, the lover of music, the humanist who was the being very much alive under the sporty nature of his personality. A little while after the time Oliver came striding into the business world of Perth, I took a cab from the Bank corner in Pepper Tree Bay and proceeded up the hill to Mrs. Riccard's house. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and Esther was going to help me with some ideas and designs for theatricals we were putting on for end-of-term at College. I don't know what trauma of distrust Mrs. Riccard had left with me in childhood but it is quite certain I had a feeling of disquiet, even to the point of anxiety, as the cab turned into the drive gates. Mrs. Riccard―or should I call her Mrs. Riccard-Hillman?―belonged to the part of the past I would rather leave alone. I felt better when Esther came out on to the porch as I climbed down the steps of the cab. 'Hallo,' Esther said. She was in a white linen dress. Out of the simple roundnecked bodice her neck and face rose as fair and soft-skinned as if she had never been exposed to the harshness of the Australian sun. Her lovely honeycoloured hair was full of lights. She looked so fresh and unassailable I looked up at her as she stood above me, and marvelled. 'Esther,' I said. 'How do you look so lovely?' She smiled quickly. 'That's the Irish in you, Theodora. You're a flatterer.' 'How do you do it?' 'Do what?'

'Keep so clean,' I said, almost morosely. 'You look very much that way yourself,' she said as she turned and led the way into the hall. It was dim, only lit by the light coming in from a stained glass dome in the ceiling. The upper story of the house was arranged like a gallery around this dome. I stared at the white marble statues, at the same time feeling conscious of the padded luxury beneath my feet. Though we had got to know one another rather well in the last few months I had not come here before. 'We'll go straight upstairs to my room,' Esther said. 'I use it as a workroom as well as a bedroom.' As we passed the door of the drawing-room I had a glimpse of its spaciousness and the two great windows leading out on to the verandah and overlooking the lawns and drive. The furniture was chintz covered and I had a vague impression of an Indian scarf lying across a baby grand piano; some carved tables and a high-backed chair beside a beautiful lampstand beaded in an Indian design. As we were going up the staircase Esther explained that Mrs. RiccardHillman and her father were out. 'They drive nearly every afternoon,' she said, 'You don't mind my not treating you ceremoniously. It is much simpler for us to go to my room. I have all my materials on hand there.' 'Of course not,' I said. 'I'm not much for ceremony anyway. I feel better sitting on a bench with a cracked cup of tea in Oliver's shop than anywhere else in Pepper Tree Bay.' 'Oh yes,' Esther was carefully polite. 'I suppose you miss him, Theodora, now that he is most of his time in his show-rooms in Perth.' 'He's always in the old work-shop in Pepper Tree Bay on Saturday afternoons. And so is Cutty. While the rest of the world plays or goes to the races Oliver works.' 'Oh really!' Esther was still polite―just a little too carefully so. She looked down as we mounted the last of the stairs, perhaps to watch her feet, but somehow it seemed as if she veiled her eyes. A tiny pulse was throbbing in her neck. 'It's a lovely day . . .' I said lamely and really wanting to say something else. Esther looked up at me curiously. She laughed. 'You don't come inside a house to discover that. You must have been going to say something else.' 'I was. It's Saturday afternoon, Esther. After you've given me some ideas, let's go down to Oliver's garage. It's always fun there.' 'No, I can't do that,' she said quietly. 'I have quite a lot of work to do. I mean to finish it today if possible.' 'You can't or you won't?' 'A little bit of both,' she said. We had walked along a short passage and as she

stood aside to let me enter her room first she looked me fully in the face and smiled. I shook my head sadly. 'He's in love with you, you know. It's such a pity.' 'This is my room,' she said. 'Do you like it?' I stood a minute in the doorway. It was a beautiful room. Big, square, highceilinged. Two deep windows opened on to the balcony and between the eucalyptus and pines one could see a mile of river. It was blue and still. Nothing stirred on it. Inside, the room had more character than any I'd ever seen. The bed, in one corner, was fairly small with a heavy carved head piece. There was a bureau and small carved table at the side of it. These pieces of furniture stood on a carpet with a heavy deep pink design, and it occupied the inside third of the room. The rest of the floor was of highly polished jarrah boards on which lay two Indian carpets with a Tree-of-life design in gold and crimson and olive green. Under the windows was a sewing machine, a drawing board, and a large flat table with carved legs. On the side of the machine was a chest, for materials and cottons, one supposed; on either side of the drawing board and table were bookcases and magazine holders. The beauty of the room lay in its proportions, the heavy splendour of the furniture and the green and gold and crimson colours in the mats, embroideries, and curtains. The fireplace was in the wall on the left of the door as one entered; and in front of it was an upholstered rectangular boxseat. Its cover was a heavily embroidered Tree-of-life design which matched the carpets. It was not only a room of spaciousness and polished charm; it was an artist's room. I stood staring with unfeigned admiration. 'Do you like it?' Esther asked again. 'Who wouldn't!' 'I don't know,' Esther said thoughtfully. 'Except for Mrs. Wood and the charwoman I don't think anyone else has been in it since Jerry Wren went to the Eastern States.' 'Who is Jerry Wren? And what a quaint name! Sounds like a professional one.' 'It is,' Esther said. Then while I put my things on a chair and Esther began to unroll sketches of dress designs, she told me about Jerry and going to the dancing classes and how she herself had become a professional dress designer. I stood in front of the mirror pushing my hair into place and watching her. She told the story easily, quoting both Jerry and Jamie and even mimicking them a little. She laughed and showed me how her knees knocked together when Jamie, parking the gum in the side of his cheek, had said, 'Put up yer hands.' 'I stayed and worked with them for three years,' she said. 'Even after I had started working in Mrs. Twine's showrooms. I loved them . . . Jerry and Jamie,

I mean. Mrs. Twine I respected, but that was all. She died unexpectedly, so I opened the shop in the Arcade.' I walked across to the table where she had spread her sketches. 'Before you look at them, just look at the river. Did you ever see anything more glorious!' I gazed through the window. The water was Reckitt's blue sprinkled with dancing diamonds. In the middle of the bay was the yellow shallow water. 'The sand bank in the middle,' I said, 'Have you ever been that far?' Esther laughed. 'Nearly every day.' 'How do you keep your hair looking as if you've just come from a hairdresser? If you swim that far, you must get it wet.' 'I never use a rubber cap at all. There's a shower in the little changing box down there. . . .' She pointed down the steep path. I could not see the box. It must have been under the cliffs. 'Keeping it shortish and having some natural curls helps,' she said. 'But hair that's washed every morning ought to look nice.' 'Every morning?' I asked. 'Well, nearly every morning. I swim to the sandbank and then turn into the Bay by the school shed. If I'm early enough I keep Mr. Sweeting company and cast in a line.' 'He fishes every morning?' 'Every morning.' (It was thus I began to get my first picture of Esther in the lost years of girlhood when we Montgomerys had gone away from Pepper Tree Bay. All that I have already recounted and much that is yet to come was told to me partly by Oliver and partly by Mr. Sweeting.) 'Have you seen the convict's cave?' I asked pointing to the dark speck in the cliff on the south side of the bay; the side directly opposite the school jetty. 'No. I knew there were caves there and have always meant to take Mr. Doonan's boat―he's next door you know―and look for them:. But I haven't got around to it.' 'You don't need a boat,' I said. 'I've been across there. It's no farther from the sandbank than the school jetty on the opposite side. You could swim that, easy.' 'Could I really? Then I must do it some day.' I picked up the top sketch on the table. Under the painting of Columbine I could see the pencil strokes of the original drawing. The lines were long, deft, simple. As uncomplicated as those of the caricaturist. There had been no erasions. 'Where did you learn to draw like that?' I asked in wonder. 'Miss Betsy David. Do you remember all that painted china in the drawingroom and library? And the seascapes in the gilt frames? They were all Miss Betsy's. She was quite an artist.'

'The china . . . that was lovely,' I said. 'But honestly, I never thought much of all that sea and all those dunes.' 'No, Miss Betsy was a figure artist. When she was young that wasn't considered proper. So the china and the seascapes, which really weren't so bad, were done to please old Mr. David. The line and figure drawing was all hidden away in folios on the bottom shelves.' 'You must have had a flair for it yourself, Esther.' 'I think I did. But I didn't know about technique. Betsy made me study anatomy. We had books and books on it.' She laughed. 'Miss Priscilla never quite approved, except of the finished subject which had a dress, hat and shoes on.' I put the drawing down, and resting my elbows on the table I sat listening to her, and remembering the home of the Davids, its thick stone walls, its high dark rooms, inadequately lighted except the kitchens and dairy, yet beautifully comfortable. I felt sad to think the Davids and the home had gone. 'Even the Swamp is different!' I said regretfully. 'I felt I would never be quite the same again when Miss Priscilla died!' Esther said. The business of our meeting was forgotten. We were both nostalgic for the past which embraced the old colonial home, the Swamp, the cockatoos that came screaming in from the north when it was going to rain, the hogea and orchids that starred the sandy shores in winter. 'Remember the red-gum?' I said. 'Oliver and I used to walk across the Swamp to the island and the red-gum every Sunday afternoon after we'd been to get our books from the library.' 'How did you know the way across the Swamp? It was supposed to be a secret. Once I went there with some children, but I never could find the way again.' 'Oliver showed me,' said Esther. 'But I went lots of times with him before I could go by myself. Did you know you had to count the stepping stones in threes and fives? Some of them were under the weed. Three to the north, five north east, three to the north, five north east.' 'It was really the fun of getting there rather than that it was so wonderful on the island.' 'I loved the old red-gum!' Esther said. 'Oliver used to put sticks in the gum holes to make the gum well out. I used to think the tree was bleeding.' 'And wouldn't he stop for you?' 'Oh never. He said I was a milksop and would even jab the sticks deeper into the tree. So I stopped saying anything and pretended I didn't notice or didn't care.' 'But he knew you were pretending?' 'Yes,' Esther said. 'He always knew.' She sat, her hands in her lap, her gaze far away. I knew it was not the river at which she looked, but at the Swamp.

'He didn't know you were running your own business, Esther,' I said, gently bringing her back into the present. 'I suppose doing that was part of a whole pattern of behaviour.' 'You mean, it was an escape for you?' 'No,' she said frankly. 'Not an escape, just an occupation to fill the waitingness of the years.' 'Waitingness?' 'Yes. I was waiting. At first it was for my mother to come for me. Then it was for me to grow up and go and find her. Then it was . . . then it is. . . .' She stopped. "I still wait,' she said shaking her head. 'But I don't know any more what it is for. Perhaps I'll go right through life just waiting. I often wonder if there aren't hundreds of others like that in the world. All the young women who have no homes of their own, who don't marry, and therefore never will have a real home. Perhaps they go through the whole of life, just waiting. Waiting for something to happen that never will happen.' She had spoken with such matter-of-factness that I could not relate this feeling to her at all. In fact I related it to myself. I thought of my own hopelessness in love. Maybe I'd just 'wait' all my life too. Esther laughed. 'Don't look so sorry for me, Theodora,' 'I'm not, I'm sorry for myself.' 'You mean you have a faculty for putting yourself in the other person's place and feeling the feelings you would have in that case?' 'Golly, Esther! You'd get an alpha for psychology if you came into College.' 'That's what you feel in relation to me . . . and Oliver. Now isn't it?' This, I thought, was bravely taking the bull by the horns, because I wasn't going to be persuaded into believing that Esther didn't preoccupy herself somewhere, somehow, with a little thought for Oliver. And thought not unrelated to deep affection. 'Love is rather preoccupying you at the moment,' Esther went on. 'So you want to invest all your old friends with the same feeling. Specially if they happened to have been once boy and girl sweethearts.' Her eyes were full of genuine laughter. 'Esther, I could strangle you,' I said. 'In Spain they garotte them,,' she said softly. 'Why, you she-beastie, you were listening to me and Oliver having a private conversation behind our hands!' 'You are very obvious, Theodora. Besides you have a voice meant for the Town Hall. . . . Please don't be hurt! You have such a kind heart, I know you mean . . . well, I know you want happiness for everyone.' 'All right then,' I said flatly. 'You loved Oliver and he loved you, all in the past tense. Why don't you love him now? If you don't you're the only person in the world who doesn't. Bar me, of course, and I do love him. But not the going-to-

bed way.' 'Going to bed?' Yes, there was a faint colour in her cheek! 'Arms-around-you. You know what way! And don't call me well-meaning. That is reserved in my vocabulary for parish spinsters who devote their lives to laundering the curate's surplices.' Esther picked up a sheaf of drawings and began to leaf through them. I had startled her, all the same. Doubt assailed her. She had been sure of herself that day, almost a year ago, when she had gone with me to Oliver's garage. Then when he had come, overalls, grease stains and all, across the shop, she had not been so certain. Today she had been certain―until I mentioned physical love. Perhaps there had come unbidden a quicksilver picture of Oliver in his beautiful sports jacket and pants, his white and brown shoes, the tiniest flash of gold in one tooth when he smiled; the grandeur of the manner in which he rolled in and out of Pepper Tree Bay. 'There is laughter like the fountains in the face that all men feared, It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard, It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.' 'What and who?' asked Esther looking at me bewildered. 'I was thinking of the gold filling in Oliver's front tooth. It makes me think of Don John of Austria.' She leaned back in the chair and laughed. 'There were no such things as gold fillings in the days of the Crusade.' 'I know, but the poem makes me think of Oliver.' 'Listen, Theodora. When we were kids, and it's you who are fond of reverting to that stage, I did have some kind of hero-worship for Oliver. He was so kind to me. I knew it was a compliment because he was such a beast to everyone else.' 'Was he?' I said surprised. 'You mean our quarrelling? We really liked it, you know. It was the breath of life to us.' 'Oh no. He was really quite polite to you Montgomery girls. Polite for Oliver, that is. You should have seen him with the other boys of Pepper Tree Bay. They used to come round the Swamp with shanghais after wild duck . . . and sometimes just to loiter about in groups. You know how young boys do. They were petty gangsters in a way. But Oliver had them all under his thumb. As soon as he appeared they would come up to him like hangers on. He would strut about and give them orders. He used frightful language when he spoke to them, and he was very free with his fists and feet.' 'They could have ganged-up on him,' I ventured. 'But they never did. His word was law. And it was quite a cruel word sometimes.' 'What were you doing?' Esther smiled, that faintly knowing, secretive and unexpected smile. As if she remembered something, had gone back for a minute to that other world of

hers. Then she shook her head slightly and came back to earth. 'Esther, what were you thinking just then?' 'Thinking?' 'Yes, I asked you a question and you didn't hear. For a moment your thoughts were somewhere else.' She looked puzzled. 'I don't know. You asked me a question about Oliver, didn't you? I was thinking of Oliver.' I sighed. 'What were you doing while Oliver was bullying the small boys of Pepper Tree Bay?' 'I was lying in the long grass watching them.' 'Did Oliver know?' 'Of course. He put me there.' I sat puzzled. 'He put me there,' Esther said. 'And I used to wait for him when he went off with the boys. You see, he would take me out to the island and the red-gum or perhaps in the David Orchard, or to round up the David cows. But I was never allowed to walk home with him, for fear the boys would see him with me. I had always to be out of sight in the long grass when they came around. Oliver was kind to me and in his little-boy way he loved me. But he was ashamed of being with me when the children of Pepper Tree Bay were about. Even you didn't know I was with him so much, did you? Of course, I loved him with everything I had to love with, then. It seemed as if heaven smiled when he was pleased with me, and when he scowled, or snapped at me―which was often―I felt as if the end of the world had come. I waited hours and hours for him in the long grass. Once I hid because the boys were coming and he said, "Wait till I come back". I can see his scowl and his brown eyes bullying me. "If you're not here when I come back I'll come and find you and tie you up in a knot till you're dead". I didn't mind in the least bit being put to death by Oliver. I would have suffered anything at his hands. But I waited nearly all day. I was hungry and terribly thirsty. I thought a hundred times of running to the Davids' for a drink. I was afraid I would miss him; that he might come while I was away!' 'You weren't afraid of him, surely?' 'No. Only of losing him. Afraid of his displeasure. So I waited.' 'And he came?' 'He only remembered at tea-time . . . but he came.' 'Oh, Esther!' I could have cried for the little girl who had waited. Waited! This was the theme on which we had begun our conversation ! I looked at Esther suddenly but her thoughts were miles away. She had made a connection between the child and the young woman unwittingly. Esther was calm and somewhat shrewd in her appraisal of people, but she had slipped on the little matter of knowing herself. She caught the look of interrogation on my face. 'About these designs . . .' she said with a smile. 'All right,' I said. 'We'll get down to work. But tell me one more thing first. What do you think of Oliver now? The grown-up, rich and sporty Oliver?' 'He's just little Oliver grown big. I know your logic, Theodora. If I'm little

Esther grown big, then why not Esther and Oliver now? Because I'm not little Esther grown big. I know now that the little people of the world get pushed around by the big people. Being in business has taught me that. Being in this house has taught me that. Also the little people only go on being pushed about or sat on by the big people because they don't know what is happening to them. As soon as they know, then they can't suffer it any more. Rebellion or pride or just egocentricity won't let them have it done to them any more. . . . 'That is why Oliver and I―grown up―can no longer have the same feeling as we had as children. I have been to Oliver's garage twice. I have been to Hilary's, and Oliver has been there. Once I went with Hilary to Oliver's new home―or should I call it a mansion―and it is always the same. Oliver wants to push me, just the tiniest bit. He doesn't even know he's doing it. He looks at me as if he does so reluctantly. But I don't react as little Esther would have done. Perhaps he doesn't know why. Perhaps he doesn't even care. But you see, Theodora, everyone around Oliver hero-worships him. I don't. So you see I don't really belong.' I thought that big Esther waiting was almost the same as little Esther waiting in the long grass. The difference was this. In the long grass days she feared he might not come or might not find her. She waited because she was afraid. In these, her grown-up-days, she waited because she had learned pride. She was waiting, but Oliver would have to come himself and get her. CHAPTER II - O, LOVELY NIGHT! WHEN Esther and I had discussed our ideas for the theatricals and drunk tea out of some beautiful china I prepared to leave. As I was departing I met her father and Mrs. Riccard-Hillman in the entrance hall. Esther had not mentioned them again during the afternoon. She had told me much about Mrs. Wood and Harris and about the house and its routine, but she had never mentioned her father or his wife. Now, as I was about to say good-bye, I had to wait because Mrs. Riccard was coming in the hall with her husband. The light was behind them so I could only see their silhouettes. Their faces were in shadow. The edges of their silhouettes were clear and they both wore wellfitting tailored suits. And they wore dark clothes. Somehow, in spite of the fact it was late summer, and still very bright outside, these two invested everything around diem with darkness. Or was it merely my own thoughts that invested them with this quality? I felt my heart thumping as if in anticipation of some cold reception, or even a snub, for transgressing here in the spider's parlour. 'You remember Theodora Montgomery?' Esther said. 'She is a student in the College around the Bay.' I noticed she did not mention them by name. I didn't know whether to hold out my hand or not. It was half-way up and as no hand came forward from Mrs. Riccard I dropped it. She inclined her head in a gesture so well remembered that I was almost transported back to those days when she stood outside the church and bowed to the hoi-poleoi. Mr. Hillman

did nothing but stand and stare. They moved a little into the hall and now their faces were halfway to the light. 'How do you do, Miss Montgomery. And how is your mother?' 'Quite well, thank you.' Her face had aged. The lines on it had set; but where they had shown promise of being firm and haughty they were querulous. The skin hung under her jaw to make a frill over her high collar. There was a frown deeply engraved on her forehead. Her mouth was pursed as if in chronic irritation. Mostly it was her eyes that were odd. They were too bright. Mr. Hillman was different. His face was white and shiny. His eyes were not so prominent but they were dull and heavy as if he did not see out of them. He looked a very sick man, pallid, inert, almost as if he were in some kind of dulled pain. He neither spoke nor bowed. He just stared, and waited. Over the whole scene there presided a faint odour of verbena. How I remembered the smell of Mrs. Riccard! It was the verbena more than anything else made me turn and look at Esther. Was it possible this beautiful composed young woman, talented, able, a little witty, could live in this house looking at these two people and for ever smelling verbena and be what she had made me think she was all the afternoon? I had forgotten in the naturalness of our conversation, the whole sense of other-than-rightness that Mrs. Riccard and her mansion meant to me, to Oliver and to Cutty Bannister. Even, I thought, to the Misses David, and lots of other people in Pepper Tree Bay. Being with Esther had made me forget my feelings of distaste for the house. Why hadn't Mrs. Riccard-Hillman any friends? Had it something to do with people's innate dislike for the extraordinary? Did people mind, in the long run, about being dominated by this strange woman? Esther saw the quandary I was in―my sheer inability to make conversation with Mrs. Riccard-Hillman. She smiled ironically as she walked to the top of the steps on the stone porch. 'I didn't realise you would not have met for years,' she said. I said good-bye lamely and began the long pleasant walk downhill to the Terrace. I hadn't intended going to Oliver's garage, but somehow it seemed inevitable. I hadn't the will-power to pass it by and forgo the pleasure of just being there, even if for only a few minutes. Moreover, Oliver's 'Old bitch!' would have a cleansing effect on my spirit. 'Of course, I've seen her about,' I told him. 'But only at a distance. More or less always in that ancient car with Harris screening her from the front and the unpleasant Mr. Hillman sitting beside her. It's a sight I didn't want to examine closely.'

Oliver levelled a spanner at me. 'It's all right for me to call Mrs. Riccard an old bitch,' he said. 'But it is not at all politic for you to disparage Esther's father. It's you who's doing the courting on her behalf. Remember? Well, you won't do her case any good by reminding potential suitors her father is a sanctimonious moron.' 'And are you a potential suitor?' 'Listen, girl, I'm anybody's potential suitor... up to a point. The point is matrimony.' 'If you want Esther you'll have to go and get her... armed with flowers and chocolates, and be prepared to tilt at windmills. Esther said so.' 'What?' 'Well, not that exactly. But she laughed, and... I would have you know, Mr. Big Business Man, she laughed quite naturally at the whimsicality of my idea that she should feel for you the way she did when she was a child. And if people laugh naturally when they are talking about men, you can bet your bottom dollar, also the last drop of petrol in your tank, it's because they haven't a care in the world. And care, when you're between twenty and twenty-five is one and the same thing as "men".' Oliver put his foot up on the bench and examined me. 'So you've been putting in a pleasant Saturday afternoon talking about me. . . .' 'You know very well I have. So have half the girls in Perth. You'd be upset if they hadn't. You can go outside and whistle and they'll all come running. Except one . . . the one that matters.' 'Theodora, in Spain. . . .' 'I know. They garotte them. Esther reminded me this afternoon.' 'What does Esther Hillman know about Spaniards?' 'I thought she might take the bull by the horns if, by a few well-chosen words, I could elevate you in her estimation from dingo to cattle status.' 'And you didn't succeed?' I shook my head sorrowfully. 'As an emissary I'm a washout. It will have to be flowers and chocolates.' He withdrew his foot from the bench and strode over to his tool rack. He made a lot of noise putting up tools and taking them down. I scowled at the floor. Sooner or later Oliver too would tell me to mind my own business . . . and mean it. At the moment I was only conscious that it was Saturday afternoon late, and the hour of the doldrums. Up in that big white house, even if Esther was in the privacy of her lovely lavish room, she would be harboured by the same roof that stood over that wretched couple. Could one live with such people and not be touched by them, tainted? I looked at Oliver, working silently now at his bench.

Behind the burnished brightness of those eyes, when he lowered his lids thoughtfully and pulled the corners of his mouth in a little so that he halfsmiled, he knew what was going on in the world. And in particular he knew what was going on the Riccard-Hillman world. Did he suspect Esther was a part of it? Or should I perhaps say fear? There was a clatter of footsteps in the lane outside and the sound of a sharp, gay, confident voice. The door opened and Hilary and Mr. Taylor came in. 'Well!' said Hilary standing in the doorway and surveying Oliver. 'Still in your overalls. Aren't we going to the Oyster Beds?' She looked smart in a careless, sporty way. She had on a golden linen suit. Her dress and skin and hair were a symphony in amber. She wore the everlasting brogue shoes, but they were tan and of beautiful suede leather. She had no hat. Mr. Taylor dodged behind Hilary and came right into the workshop. He napped his great cape like a bat. 'Well,' he said bowing to me with a flourish of good manners. 'Miss Theodora, to be sure, We meet again. What great pleasure!' 'Oh hallo,' said Hilary looking away from Oliver. 'I'm afraid I've kept Oliver talking,' I said. He was pulling his overalls down over his waist. 'How far down do they go before you leave the room?' Hilary asked pointedly. Mr. Taylor decided the conversation, such as it was, should take a turn. 'I had a very good car trip down,' he said. 'Quite extraordinary to be in Perth so soon. Five hours. In the train I would have been all night.' 'Did you drive yourself?' I asked politely. 'Or did someone give you a lift?' 'Oh good gracious no. Hilary came up for me. She brought me down.' I looked at her with interest. 'Have you been up in the goldfields, Hilary?' 'Only as far as Mr. Taylor's place. Yoowinning. I had some business and it being school holidays I intended to bring him down for a few days.' I looked at the quaint caped school-teacher and at this smart clever girl. It was a curious friendship. 'Miss Theodora,' Mr. Taylor began ceremoniously, bending towards me with a display of anxious interrogation. 'Hilary had asked me to join Oliver and herself to take supper at the Qyster Beds. Would you give me the honour of your company? I would not then feel I was an intruder. On the contrary I would be a most happy host.' I laughed at him. 'Yes, do come,' Hilary said. 'It is just a case of thinking up somewhere different to have our meal. I haven't been in the flat for a week, and Oliver never burdens his mother with unexpected guests.'

'I would like to come very much,' I said. 'Ah,' said Mr. Taylor with satisfaction. 'That will make a pleasant party.' Oliver had disappeared through the door leading into a small shower room,. We could hear the water pouring down and a hullabaloo of sound that was Oliver singing. Then suddenly he stopped fooling and began singing properly. Like all Australians he had a good voice and he was now giving us something from Don Giovanni. We stopped talking. I was looking at the floor and listening to the notes. How beautiful was that song and how beautifully and effortlessly Oliver sang it! There didn't seem any gift Oliver did not possess. And with all he was kind, generous and patient. How cruel had he been to the little boys of Pepper Tree Bay? And why did he make Esther wait in the long grass for nearly half a day? I was quite certain Oliver would never have forgotten her. Was he making her wait now? And if so, what for? 'Oliver,' I called out. 'Can I ring Esther and ask her to come too?' 'May I . . . not can I,' said Mr. Taylor reprovingly. There was silence from the shower except the sound of water pouring over Oliver. I looked at Hilary but she was sitting on the bench, one foot crossed over the other and a nail file moving in her hands. She did not even lift her eyelids. The water was turned off. 'What say?' 'May I ask Esther?' 'Ask her what?' 'You know very well. May I ask Esther to come to the Oyster Beds?' 'Why not? Tell her to bring her father and step-mother too,' I said a fiery word not quite under my breath. Mr. Taylor looked at me in surprise. 'Two ladies? Am I to have the honour of two ladies?' Hilary had not moved, nor did she say anything. 'But such a beautiful lady, this one is,' I cajoled Mr. Taylor. 'Well, then, of course, by all means.' Still no sign from Hilary. Oliver came out of the shower room. His pants were on and he was pulling his shirt over his head. 'Go right ahead, Theodora,' he said. 'Rope in the servants too.' 'But it's your party, Oliver,' I said sweetly. 'You have to pay for it. . . well, all except what Mr. Taylor is going to pay for me. You should do the telephoning. And if you did that you could, of course, include anyone you wanted.' The shirt was on and buttoned. He was struggling with a tie. Suddenly Hilary got up and went over to him. She began to tie his tie. Oliver lifted his chin and examined me over Hilary's shoulder. I knew instinctively that this had happened so many hundreds of times that neither of them even knew it was being done. I felt a catch at my heart.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Hilary had some claim, some established relationship into which I could not intrude Esther. 'Your idea,' said Oliver. 'Go right ahead.' His eyes said that before long I would have overstepped the mark. The tie-tying business undermined my confidence. I shook my head dolefully. 'She wouldn't come anyway,' I said. 'She said she was going to work tonight.' Hilary stood back, head on one side and examined the finished tie. 'She's not doing any work she can't finish tomorrow,' she said matter-offactly. 'I'll ring and ask her myself.' I swallowed hard. Oliver, looking over Hilary's shoulder winked at me. You devil, I thought. Oliver swung his glorious Stannard between the gates of Mrs. Riccard's house and drove up the curving drive to the porch steps. The sun had gone down and the stillness of twilight was in the pines. Between them the river lay sombre. A light went out upstairs. Oliver's hands rested on the steering wheel and he looked under the brim of his hat towards the door. Over my shoulder I could see where Hilary, following in her car with Mr. Taylor, had pulled up in the street outside the fence. 'I think I'll sit in the back . . .' I began. Oliver's hand went on to my shoulder firmly. 'You stay right where you are. Move over here against me. Esther can get in beside you.' He drummed his fingers on the wheel. 'So this is it,' he said. 'This is where Esther disappeared one Sunday long, long ago.' 'You remember it was a Sunday?' 'It was a Sunday. And Cutty Bannister and I wanted to stop her. . . .' He stopped a moment chewing his under lip. 'You know, Theodora, there is something very poignant about childhood. That was the saddest thing that ever happened to me. It spoiled all the rest of my childhood. Yet often... I wish I were a child again.' He jerked himself into another mood. He turned his head and looked at me with the knowing smile in the corners of his mouth. 'Do you suppose I'm crazy?' he asked. 'A wonderful kind of craziness, Oliver. But you are crazy. No one else in the world could do what you have done in ten years.' He put his head near mine and whispered, 'Do you suppose anyone else but me would have the nerve to drive up to Mrs. Riccard's house. What do you suppose she'd do if she knew who was

waiting outside for her precious protegee?' We both began to laugh. 'Oh, Oliver, I would love to see her face.' A stream of light poured out of the front door as it was opened and Esther came out and down the stone steps. She had a loose jacket over the white linen dress. She had a little French beret on her head. She stood uncertainly by the car, bending a little and peering into the window. 'Hallo, both of you,' she said. Oliver bent towards me again. 'Do you know what she is waiting for?' he asked me. 'She is waiting for me to get out and open the door for her.' Esther laughed and began to fumble at the handle of the rear door. 'Just one moment, lady,' said Oliver. He laboriously unrolled his legs and got out of the car. He walked around the front of it and opened the front door. He smiled at Esther and raised his hat. 'Oliver, you're a dingo,' I said. I caught the half-shy, half-startled smile Esther gave him. She didn't know whether he was jesting with her or at her. 'Room for all three in front?' she asked with some surprise. 'Well, thank you... it would be rather nice.' She got in and Oliver closed the door. He walked round the car and got in the driver's seat. 'She's never been in a front seat before,' he said. 'It was nice of you to come for me,' said Esther. 'It was nice of you to come with us,' said Oliver. 'It was nice of you both if you didn't spar across me,' I said. 'Ah-ha,' said Oliver. 'That's what I put you there for. Didn't you know? Everything is your fault, Theodora, so you can intercept the blows from both sides. You deserve them.' We drove out of the gates and giving Hilary's car a toot, turned left and followed the road round the river. It was all but dark now and the moon and the stars could be seen in mild reflection in the night mirror of the water. A tiny breeze wafted in the window of the car. We drove in silence for a minute or two. 'Move over and keep me warm, Theodora,' Oliver said. He put his arm round me and drew me against him. There was a tiny space between me and Esther. I felt as if she were being cut off and alienated from us. Oliver's arm stayed round me. 'Can you drive with one hand?' I asked. 'With one finger,' he said. He suited action to his words. 'Theodora, do you observe it is a lovely night? "In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew. . . ." ' ' "In such a night," ' I interrupted, ' "Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well." '

The pressure of Oliver's arm round me eased . . . yet he had not taken it away. Imperceptibly he had raised his forearm a little. I kept my face turned towards the road and away from the river with the heaven patterned with bright gold mirrored in it. Had I turned my head that way I would have seen that Oliver's hand now rested on Esther's shoulder. I would have seen that she had not moved away: that for a moment her lids had dropped down over her eyes. I would have seen that under her lids there were tears in her eyes. I knew... but I must make no sign. We said nothing more until we arrived at the Oyster Beds. Hilary and Mr. Taylor talked across the table and at great length. The subject of their discourse was shafts, number three stope, cross-cuts, and so many pennyweights to the ton. It was quite clear that Hilary and Mr. Taylor had vested interests in gold-mining at Yoowinning. 'Don't you own a gold mine too?' I asked Oliver. 'Only a shovelful,' he replied, 'and I just stay at home and collect the profits.' 'Do you prefer teaching to gold-mining?' I asked Mr. Taylor. 'I divide my attention equally,' he said. 'I've been at the little school twenty years now. All the children are mine. That is to say the children of children I taught. I'm like a relation who can't be parted from his family. As for the gold mine. Like Oliver, I own a mere shovelful. I'm always hoping I'll turn something up on my own block. Like all prospectors I can't leave a gold district while something might be lying about.' Mr. Taylor's elbows were on the table and his finger tips pressed together. 'If you would like a dissertation on . . .' he stopped and craned his neck to look through the wide open door at the landing stage outside. '. . . It could be a dissertation on crabbing by moonlight. Yonder rides the barque!' A dinghy had pulled up alongside the landing jetty and three young men had piled out. They were dragging nets full of crabs from the boat. 'What will they do with them all?' I asked wonderingly. 'Sell them to the proprietor,' said Oliver. 'After the theatres and cinemas are out the crowd comes down here for crab as well as oyster suppers.' He slammed his hand on the table as Gyp, the proprietor, passed the table. 'How about some crabs for us?' 'Right you are,' said Gyp. Oliver poured himself a whisky. It was the third he had had, and it was strong. I had never seen Oliver drinking whisky before. He winked at me over the glass. 'Do you have to?' I asked. 'Dutch courage,' he said. 'It might be appreciated... the courage I mean! But not if it comes out of a bottle.' 'Have a whisky, Hilary,' he commanded. Hilary lit a cigarette and poured her

own. Esther said . . . 'Me too.' 'Not on your life,' Oliver said. Esther looked at him with surprise. Oliver took the bottle and planted it beside him, out of Esther's reach. He looked at her through faintly ironical eyes. 'Not for the children.' Esther looked at him coolly. 'I haven't been a baby for twenty years. And I would like a small, a very small whisky.' 'Give her one, Oliver,' I commanded. 'You too?' said Oliver peevishly. 'The point is... we would all like a little courage, preferably Scotch.' 'All right, all right.' Oliver said and measured a very mild dose. Esther sipped it. She smiled over her glass at Oliver. 'You see, I am not poking faces,' she said. 'It is possible I have had it before.' Oliver's face suddenly became thunderous. We weren't joking any more, and he didn't look at Esther for a long time. I knew Oliver was thinking of Mrs. Riccard and those fire rings round the pupils of her eyes. Presently he got up. 'Let's look at the haul,' he said. He went across to the landing stage where the boat was emptying the last of its crab cargo. One could hear his voice exchanging comments with the young men. On the still night air every sound could be heard. We heard underneath us the lapping of the water round the piles of the jetty on which the tables were set and across the river the sound of a row boat travelling down the deep channel. Hilary and Mr. Taylor got up and went to see the cooking of the crabs. Esther sat turning her whisky glass in her hand. Then she looked up and out towards the landing stage. Oliver was standing with the men but he had turned and was facing us. His hands were in his pockets. His head was bent down and sideways a little as he listened to one of the boatmen, his eyes were watching us. He was smiling. I could see his white teeth flashing in the darkness of his sunburned face. Right across the space of the jetty Esther and Oliver watched one another. Then Oliver took one hand out of his pocket and without saying anything he just beckoned. I got up quickly and went over to join Hilary and Mr. Taylor. They were leaning over the counter talking to Gyp as he threw live crabs in the tin of boiling water. I heard Esther walking across the planks of the jetty as she went over to Oliver. 'What now?' I wondered. 'Will they go crabbing too?' The water lapping over the oyster beds was gold with the amber electric light shining on it. Sickened with the sight of blue crabs slowly turning pink I turned and walked to the other side of the jetty. It was a heavenly night. The water, with tiny ripples like cat scratches lay

shimmering on the shell beds. Farther along the jetty and leaning over the railing as I was doing were Esther and Oliver. His arm was round her. I could see the flash of the gold ring he wore as his hand moved up and down on her arm. Mr. Taylor, behind me, was moving towards the table and Gyp followed him with a plate of bread and butter and a bottle of vinegar. Hilary had the crabs on an enormous dish. 'Hi-yah!' she commanded. 'Come and eat.' I thought it was quite legitimate at this stage to turn and look in the direction of Esther and Oliver, instead of stealing glances at them out of the corner of my eye. Oliver had turned and was leaning against the railing. I could not see Esther's face. I saw her bend her head and look down at her feet. I saw Oliver smiling at her. Then she lifted up her head and I knew as well as if she had been facing me, and as if I could see her face, that that funny little secret knowing smile had curved her lips, that for a moment her eyes were far away with the errant thought that always brought that look to her face. 'Coming?' commanded Hilary again. Oliver, not quite smiling now, was looking at Esther's face. Then quite suddenly he bent his head and kissed her on the lips. I realised I had been holding my breath for at least half a minute. I expelled it now with relief. ' "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the bank",' I thought. I went over to the table. Hilary was standing looking steadily at Esther and Oliver. She said nothing. Mr. Taylor watched her anxiously. Then quietly he put his hand in his pocket and offered her a cigarette. He took matches out of the pocket and lit the cigarette for her. I knew Mr. Taylor didn't smoke, so I knew he carried the cigarettes for Hilary. She filled her lungs with smoke and expelled slowly. All the time she was looking at Esther and Oliver through half-closed eyes. 'Is it a sense of possession?' I wondered. 'Or does she love him?' I felt sad for her. 'What have I done now?' I thought. CHAPTER III – DEEP . . . SOMETHING STIRS AFTER the evening at the Oyster Beds I did not see either Esther or Oliver again for some time. Preparation for final examinations, then the examinations themselves kept me tied to a College routine. I did not even go home for week-ends so that if Oliver called in there I did not see him. Occasionally I wondered what had been the next move in this affair that embraced not only Esther and Oliver, but also Hilary. I knew I must not interfere again in whatever situations there were between the three of them. I sometimes felt more fool than angel, so now was wary of rushing in again. If I

felt regret for any part I had played, it was for Hilary. Lifting my head from text books when the night was already giving ground to morning, I wearily wondered if the artistic demands of this story, which I had set in action in real life, did not demand that final fulfilment had come with the kiss. Thereafter, perhaps Oliver should be handed back on a plate to Hilary. At this thought I would say 'Oh Hell!' . . . light a cigarette and brood on the vision of Esther's face rising with the smoke, That curious little guileful smile! And Oliver looking at it, and kissing her . . . according to the seven-reel requirements of modern cinema! I had only seen the back of her head, but I knew with infallible instinct that the smile had been there. It was the smile and the three whiskies that did it. I knew nothing of all that followed, for I did not see Oliver again until the morning by the look-out when we began to piece together the whole story . . . his and Esther's. I can only recount it as Oliver told it to me. . . . Some weeks elapsed after the night at the Oyster Beds before Oliver saw Esther again. But she rarely, if ever, was out of his thoughts. Then one late afternoon he was driving along Hay Street in Perth and had to change down and crawl with the five o'clock traffic. He saw Esther standing on the edge of the pavement. She was about to step off and cross the road to where Harris waited in the Hupmobile. Oliver eased the car between Harris and Esther. He gave the horn a single toot and pointed to the seat beside him. Esther smiled, but she shook her head. Oliver tooted hard to draw Harris's attention. When the chauffeur looked around Oliver motioned him on. He then got out, took Esther by the arm and put her in the car. Harris, reassured by the smile Esther gave him, let in the clutch and moved off. Oliver said nothing then. He became almost fiercely engrossed with the traffic and the negotiating of the cross section and turning down into Mount's Bay Road and thus homeward. Esther was stealing an occasional glance at him. Only once she stirred. She put out her hand and rested it a moment on Oliver's knee. It was a gesture, placating if that was what he needed, yet with a hint of intimacy in it. Oliver dropped his hand from the wheel and took Esther's where it lay on his knee. He pressed her hand against him, and kept it there. They sat thus without a word spoken until he turned into the drive of the Big House. He paid no attention to Harris crawling his Hupmobile up the drive behind him. Oliver leaned across Esther, pushed her head back gently against the curve of the upholstered seat. For quite a long time he looked at her. Then he put his face down against hers, and kissed her till it hurt. With one hand he opened the car door. 'Home, Esther,' he said. She got out. ('Her mouth hurt and I think her heart hurt,' Oliver said.) Then Oliver had slammed the door and driven away. 'But why, Oliver? Why?' I asked.

'I don't know. Every time I looked at her, I could only think of her face. I was possessed by it. Is that love, Theodora? Is it love when you look at a woman's face and think of the tiny veins like lace on her eyelids, and the funny little smile on her mouth, and the edge of white teeth between parted lips? Is it love when you can only think her hair is like the colour of honey with the sun shooting through it? Is it love because all you want to do is feel a body crushed against your own? Because you want to smother loveliness with yourself? What do you suppose I thought―when I could manage to think without the picture of her hair, and eyes and mouth―yes, very particularly her mouth―rising up and taunting me? You don't think of Esther as taunting, do you? But she was! She always had that capacity to taunt. What knowledge did she have? What was there in her mother that made her mother do the things she did . . .?' 'Oh, Oliver,' I cried angrily. 'Did you have to go on for ever punishing Esther for something someone else did?' He wiped his hand over his face. 'No!' he said. 'No! I was possessed. I could not see Esther for seeing her face.' Oliver put his hand on my arm. He leaned back in the corner of the car and smiled wryly at me. 'A pretty exhibition I am making of myself.' I did not answer for a minute. 'You are very strong,' I said. 'As a boy you wrestled against starvation with a spanner and a bag of turnips. You beat every obstacle that lay in your path―until you came back to Pepper Tree Bay. There you couldn't beat Mrs. Riccard, except through Esther. That rankled with you, Oliver. The last tower would have to fall before that restless will-to-conquer of yours would leave you in peace. 'And Esther was in your way. In your own manner you've tried to ride roughshod over her but every time she stopped you. Not because she was strong in action, or defiant, or as you would wish, worthy of your mettle, but simply because she had a face that melted your heart.' Oliver groaned. 'Yet she did beat you another way. Her weapons were more subtle, that's all. You've never been subtle in your life, Oliver.' 'She beat me because she ran away. You cannot fight an enemy who is not there.' I was silent on that one. I knew more about Esther and her last night in Pepper Tree Bay than Oliver did. I was not yet certain what to tell him―if I was going to tell him at all. 'She had character,' I went on. 'She had patience, and endurance. And when put to it she did not falter. Oh no, Oliver, Esther was stronger than you think.' He put his hands over his eyes. I was sorry for him. 'You wanted to hurt her because you loved her. There's nothing very uncommon about that. It was made hard for you because she was on Mrs.

Riccard's side. And, above everything else, the motivating force that sustained you on the goldfields and drove you victorious around the Speedways of Australia, was revenge for Grandma, death, moral, spiritual or social, to your enemy the woman who had driven you ignominiously out of Pepper Tree Bay, stolen Esther into her spider's parlour on the hill.' 'Yes,' Oliver said. 'You are right.' 'The blow to your solar plexus came when you found Esther a voluntary prisoner―someone bought over by luxury and comfort. Seduced by security!' 'Yes.' 'You could not understand it. In any case you would not forgive it.' 'Yes.' 'And how many other times did you tantalise her with those roadside kisses?' 'Only once. I took her into the workshop.' I looked at Oliver. He shrugged. 'I ran into her coming out of the Bank. I had overalls on. And some grease on my hands. She said "Hallo" and I said "I'm honoured".' 'Why?' Esther asked. Oliver told her he remembered a fine lady who didn't recognise a motor mechanic when he was dressed in overalls and grease. . . . Oh, a long time ago . . .just inside the cinema! She frowned then and said she could explain that. 'Explain then,' Oliver had said. 'I can't, Oliver, standing here in the middle of the Terrace. Does it really matter? It was ages ago.' 'Come and explain,' he insisted. It really was her face getting him again. He didn't want to kiss her there. He took her arm and almost ran her up the lane and into the workshop. They stood in the middle of the floor looking at one another. Oliver said . . . 'I'm damned if I'll let her get me like this... by looking at me with these lovely grey eyes and that mouth.' And he walked over to the bench and started to wipe the grease off his hand. She didn't say a word so he turned round. She was standing there as she always did in his thoughts. He was sorry for himself, and sorry for her. Sorry for what Mrs. Riccard had done to them all. He held out his arms. When Oliver said this to me he put his head in his hands. 'And then?' I asked. 'I didn't let her go for an hour. Then I got out the car and drove her home.' 'Oh Oliver!' I sat silent. CHAPTER IV - GALE WARNING THE cataclysmic events that led up to the disappearance of Esther from Pepper Tree Bay began with the defection of Harris and Mrs. Wood from Mrs. Riccard-Hillman's service.

The events which follow began their sequence suddenly; just as death will, in a matter of a few hours, change the whole aspect of life for those left behind. A simple thing like a telephone call immediately changed everything that had to do with Esther in her life in the big house. On a day not very long after the day in the workshop, Esther did not drive home from the Arcade in Perth with Harris. About the middle of the day he had rung her up and told her he would not be able to bring the car to Perth. Esther was struck by an odd note in Harris's voice. He ended the telephone conversation in a way unusual for him, too. 'Good-bye, Miss Esther.' 'Oh good-bye, Harris.' 'Miss Esther?' 'Yes?' 'I just wanted to say good-bye. Good-bye, Miss Esther.' 'But you said it, Harris. Is everything all right?' 'Yes, quite all right. Good-bye, Miss Esther.' This last time it sounded as if he was saying good-bye for ever. Esther was perplexed. When she arrived home in the evening the house was in darkness except for the drawing-room. There were no signs of supper being prepared in the kitchen. The fire was out. Neither Mrs. Wood nor Harris were about. Esther, who had always gone straight through to the kitchen for a cup of tea when she arrived home, stood uneasily inside the door. She drew her gloves off slowly. She had known since midday that something was wrong. At that moment the drawing-room bell buzzed. She looked up at the disc, then putting her gloves on the table she turned and walked slowly up the passage and across the big domed hall to the drawing-room door. Mrs. Riccard was sitting upright in the high-backed chair under the beaded lamp stand. Esther knew at a glance she had her migraine. Her eyes burned brightly in her ageing face, her mouth was pulled in sharply at the corners and there was a look of malicious purposefulness about her whole aspect. Mr. Hillman sat in the arm-chair in the other corner. He was white and strained. The three of them looked at one another. Esther knew what Mrs. Wood would have done. She would have walked over to Mrs, Riccard-Hillman and taken her almost roughly by the shoulder. 'You shouldn't be down with that bad head of yours,' she would have said. 'Now upstairs you go.' She would have taken Mrs. Riccard peremptorily to her bedroom. 'That's what she's waiting for now,' Esther thought. 'She is waiting for someone to take charge of her.' 'Mrs. Wood is not here,' Esther said at length. 'I know. I rang for you.' 'Would you like me to get some tea?' 'I want to go up to my room.' This was pettish and yet there was a slyness about her face as she watched Esther. Esther came into the room and sat down on a chair. She knew she was dealing with two people who were not in a normal frame of mind. She spoke very

quietly. 'Where is Mrs. Wood?' she asked. 'Mrs. Wood has gone. So has Harris. They won't be coming back.' This was harsh, and the voice jangled in the room. Esther shook her head a little. Gone? She felt dazed. Mrs. Riccard spoke again. 'I want to go upstairs.' Esther stirred. A thousand hurried thoughts were flying through her head. 'This house without Mrs. Wood and Harris? Impossible! All I have to do is go upstairs and pack a bag. I can do what Mrs. Wood had done. I can just . . . go!' She stood staring across the room unconscious now of Mrs. Riccard's concentrated gaze on herself. 'Why don't I go?' Esther was thinking. 'I hate her. Yes... I owe her something. She fed and clothed me, and in her own way let me be educated. Until I made money of my own she gave me everything without question. True, it was through the medium of Mrs. Wood, and she has plenty of money. 'But I took it! There lies the obligation. I took it!' Esther bent her head a little at the thought. Perhaps five years ago, Harris had said to her quite unexpectedly, 'You should leave Mrs. Riccard now, Miss Esther. You should find a home of your own.' She had understood what he meant. Yet she was unable to go. Vaguely she understood she had some duty to perform in relation to Mrs. Riccard and her father. If they had been in good health . . . well, it would have been different. 'I want to go upstairs,' Mrs. Riccard said angrily. Her hand came heavily down on the arm of the chair and she held it now like a claw grasping the branch of a tree. Esther stared at the claw-like hand. 'If she grasped me like that,' she thought . . . 'I'd never get away from her.' There was an unnatural strength in the rigid muscles of that hand. 'Very well,' Esther said at length. She stood up. 'Father, will you take her to her room?' He did not even lift his eyes. Esther bit her lip. Common decency required that these two be looked after. Why had Mrs. Wood gone? And without a word of warning? 'Evelyn!' Mr. Hillman said suddenly. Esther turned sharply. Even Mrs. Riccard lifted her head with a jerk. Mr. Hillman was looking at Esther. 'Yes, take her upstairs, Evelyn,' he said. Esther stood perfectly still and stared at her father. She couldn't believe her ears. Evelyn was her mother's name. Mrs. Riccard stood up. She seemed to tower over her husband. 'Roderick!' But his eyes were on Esther. petulantly.

'Take her away. Take her away,' he said

Esther went outside and turned on the hall and staircase lights; then she went over to Mrs. Riccard.

'Come,' she said, taking the older woman by the arm. Mrs. Riccard seemed, for a second, undecided. Then she straightened her back. Her eyes were as malignant as a bird's. The scent of verbena assailed Esther. 'I won't go into her room,' she thought. Holding Mrs. Riccard by the arm, she mounted the stairs. When she opened the bedroom door she dropped her hand and giving Mrs. Riccard a gentle push into the room she stepped back herself. The verbena scent of the room was almost annihilating. Esther leaned forward a little and taking the door knob in her hand made as if to close the door behind Mrs. Riccard. But the older woman saw instantly her intention to escape. She turned sharply and grasped Esther by the arm. The claw-like hold was on her like the lock of pincers. 'You look very white,' Mrs. Riccard said. 'Are you afraid of something?' 'Afraid of what?' They stood thus, their eyes each staring into the other's. Esther tried to shake her arm loose. The older woman held it tighter. It hurt. 'Do you see what is happening to your father?' Was this a question or a threat? Esther felt faint. She swayed backwards a little. Mrs. Riccard's manner changed suddenly to the placating. 'Just a minute. I will get some sal volatile for you.' She turned into her room as she dropped Esther's arm,. Esther ran quietly down the little corridor to the main gallery. At the corner of the passage that led to her own room she saw the door was ajar. A stream of light lay across the passage carpet. Behind her Mrs. Riccard had come out of her room. There was something in her hand. Esther wanted to cry out. Then a shadow blocked the stream of light coming from her own doorway. Mrs. Wood, one finger on her lips, was beckoning her. With a cry of relief Esther flung herself down the little passage. Mrs. Wood turned the key in the lock of the room and taking Esther by the arm led her to her bed. 'You look as if you're going to faint,' she said. She went to the dressing-table and bringing back the eau de cologne began dabbing it on Esther's forehead. Presently she began to talk softly to the girl, telling her what had happened that day, and why she and Harris had left. Esther lay on the bed, her eyes closed for the most part, and listened to Mrs. Wood's story. She had gone with Colonel and Mrs. Riccard to India thirty-five years before. Harris had joined the Colonel's staff a year later. He had been pensioned out of the army after rheumatic fever. After Colonel Riccard had been wounded, and had had his leg amputated, he and Mrs. Riccard had decided they did not wish to return permanently to England. The cold damp climate had disastrous effects on the bad leg. They

had decided to come south to Australia. Harris had been glad to remain on the staff because he too suffered rheumatic ailments when in colder climates. She, Mrs. Wood, had been lady's maid to Mrs. Riccard from the day of the latter's marriage. She, herself, had had a short-lived marriage in India. After a month of marriage she had discovered the young soldier whom she had married already had a wife in England. 'So you see we all came to Australia together. All of us licking wounds of one kind and another. Mrs. Riccard was a very beautiful woman, self-willed and gay. The Colonel lavished everything on her in the early days of their marriage.' It was after four years of marriage Colonel Riccard had been severely wounded by sabre slashing in the North-West: the amputation had followed. Because of this wounding the more intimate aspects of marriage had also come to an end. Mrs. Riccard was a different woman. Esther, her hands under her head, listened in silence. She stared at the ceiling. A good deal of what Mrs. Wood had just told her she had pieced together over the years. 'Why have you always stayed with her, Woodsy? And what happened today?' 'It was a good place. I was glad to have a new country to come to. Then I was fond of the Colonel. He was a fine dashing young fellow. Even after the operation he kept up a show of being bright. 'I suppose I was sorry for Mrs. Riccard. Indeed I was. I suffered so much of that feeling myself. I had married in good faith to find myself legally widowed after only one month. Yes, the two of us had a lot in common. I was sorry for her.' Mrs. Wood got up and went to the window and stared into the darkening night. For a long time neither spoke. Then she came back slowly to the chair by the bed. 'I suppose you wonder why Harris and me didn't marry? There's always been people wondering that. At first we couldn't because he had a wife in England he didn't want and who didn't want him. Then when he was free we weren't so certain. Harris wasn't really a marrying man. We hummed and hawed about it for years. Then everything seemed all right the way things were. We got used to the set up. We got stuck in our ways. We didn't bother about it any more,' She stopped and something in the silence made Esther turn her head and look at Mrs. Wood. 'Harris and me got married yesterday, Miss Esther.' 'Oh Woodsy!' Esther put out her hand impulsively and took Mrs. Wood's. 'That's not why we left. It was because we left we got married. Special licence.' Esther dropped Mrs. Wood's hand and sat up. 'Go on,' she said. 'Years ago me and Harris wanted you to go away. We were torn. So long as we were here we thought we could look after you. Keep an eye on you, sort of

thing. But we knew it couldn't go on for ever. We didn't want to stop here for ever. But we were bound for a time . . . I'll tell you in a minute about that. . . . When she married Mr. Hillman and we could see him going downhill, we knew you should go away, Miss Esther. When you started business we hoped maybe you would make a break then. We tried hinting to you. . . . You see, we knew that someday we would leave, when we'd finished our service to the Colonel.' 'To the Colonel?' 'Yes. He left me and Harris an annuity each . . . after thirty years' responsible service.' There was a long silence. Esther lay back on her pillows again. 'And the annuities were due yesterday?' 'Day before. Mrs. Riccard-Hillman called the lawyer down here to settle with us. Harris and me had decided that we'd do battle with those two. Not the lawyer, Mr. Hillman and the mistress. They need attention, Miss Esther. They need advice. They need a doctor. And you know she won't have a doctor near the house. We decided we'd be open and above board with it so we told the lawyer. We told him and Mrs. Riccard―she was standing right there at the table in the dining-room―that we was worried about her health; and about Mr. Hillman's health. And we said you should go away, Miss Esther.' Esther was thoughtful for a minute. 'I suppose she said that old Indian herbalist she calls in was good enough?' 'She didn't say anything of the kind. She told us to pack up and go. We wanted to tell you that night, but we couldn't. We had several goes at telling you. We just couldn't.' 'Did the lawyer understand what you meant?' 'Yes. That's why she told us to pack up and go.' Esther put her hand over her eyes. 'Why would you never go away, Miss Esther? What makes you stay here?' 'I don't know. I used to think of it often and often. I dreamed of it when I was still a child. Then when the time came I kept putting it off. Then I couldn't go. When my father came I knew he was trapped. As a child I was afraid of him. But after he'd been here a little while I knew he'd been trapped. Then, after all those years, he began to understand it himself. I saw the horror beginning to dawn in his eyes as day by day it grew on him that all the years of unhappiness had been deliberately brought about... for a whim. That's what it was, Woodsy. When Mrs. Riccard got my father, she didn't really want him any more.' 'Oh, Miss Esther, don't say that. She must have had something more than a fad for him.' 'I saw my father retracing his steps in his mind, and yet being incapable of retracing them in fact. We never said anything to one another. I suppose, in a

way, we avoid one another. But I think I stayed because of him.... and because of pity. Even for her. You see, we were all in the same plight. He and I in the cage, and she in it to watch us. I could escape, but they couldn't... so I stayed.' Esther looked up at Mrs. Wood. 'Mr. Sweeting knew all about it. He thought I was right.' 'Oh, him' said Mrs. Wood disparagingly. 'Half the trouble with you, Miss Esther, has been that old schoolmaster. If he'd taken the trouble to give you a bit of firm advice when you were young you wouldn't have got so firmly stuck in this place.' Esther shook her head. 'No, it was not Mr. Sweeting. Once he did offer to share his home with me. I could have gone to him at any time. But I knew I should stay.' 'When that young man in the big car drove you home once or twice, Miss Esther, I thought perhaps, sooner or later, he might take you away. Mind you, child, I never thought of him as being your style. Not your type at all. But nice to see you come home with a young man, all the same.' Esther stirred restlessly. 'Why were you so sure he was not my style; and why were you so glad to see him come?' 'Just to take you out of yourself. And you were different too. You are different, Miss Esther.' She turned her head and looked at Mrs. Wood. 'In what way?' Mrs. Wood couldn't have looked at the wide grey eyes with the faint smudge of shadow round them, at the clear amber skin and the beautiful honeycoloured hair without a stirring of her love and understanding. 'One can tell. One can tell. It's a pity he is not your style.' 'But he is my style,' said Esther. 'Because I like to wear a reticent type of dress and shoes, and because I'm careful about what shade of lipstick I have on with what shade of dress, it doesn't mean I don't like someone else who is more flagrant about colour, whose voice crackles when he raises it, who wears the kind of shoes no other Australian would dare to wear. Of course, he's my style. I love everything about his style. It excites and thrills me. It makes me want to do what all the others around him do. It makes me want to hero-worship him.' She looked steadily at Mrs. Wood. 'That is the trouble,' she added. 'It's his style makes people fall in love with him. The man inside the clothes is a different proposition altogether.' 'What is wrong with him?' 'He is hard.' Mrs. Wood said, 'Oh,' thoughtfully. Esther closed her eyes tight and her bottom, lip was caught a minute in her teeth. There was a long silence between them. Then Esther spoke again. 'Why did you come back to-night, Woodsy?' 'I came for you, Miss Esther. I didn't live in India for nothing. You must join

them, or you must leave them. You are not safe here any more. There will be a tragedy someday. It's no place for you.' Esther sighed. 'Yesterday the sun was shining and the river was like a mirror. I didn't think I had many cares in the world at all.' 'And to-day you find we've gone and you're faced with the prospect of giving up your home.' 'I couldn't do it, Woodsy.' 'You've got to do it, child. You've got no choice.' Esther was silent for a long time. Mrs. Wood stirred uneasily. 'I can't do that.' 'Why not?' 'I don't know. Noblesse oblige, I suppose. Why would I feel obliged to a woman who drove my father silly with jealousy, and my mother into a nervous breakdown, who stole me here into her house for her own ends, who has stolen my father here too?' 'Land sakes, child. You've got to look at your safety.' 'I suppose it is on account of my father. And because she is old, and no longer fit to be alone. Oliver would say I stayed in the good times, and ran away in the hard times. . . .' She was thoughtful for a while. 'Why do you suppose my father called me by my mother's name?' 'No one knows where love ends and hate begins with some people. Certainly his life has come to a bad state of affairs now. He would be thinking of her―perhaps with regret for the past. Perhaps with blame for the present.' Esther sat on the edge of the bed. 'And if I don't come with you? Or even go to Mr. Sweeting?' Mrs. Wood shook her head. 'Then I must leave you, Miss Esther. But I would be sorry to do that.' It was about this time they heard Mr. Hillman coming upstairs and the final night sounds of the house. 'They've had no supper,' Esther said. 'It won't hurt either. They eat too much and too rich.' 'Let's go and get something to eat ourselves,' Esther said wearily. Her feet felt heavy and her heart was numbed. She wanted to behave like a small child and find somebody's shoulder on which to weep. There had been times when she had done that to Mrs. Wood. Esther looked at her now as she straightened her hair. She could never do that again. 'Supposing I asked them to stay . . .' she thought, then shook her head. What recompense would there be to them in a life of devotion to two disintegrating people? They went quietly downstairs and began to make some tea in the kitchen. 'There is no way of pleasing Oliver,' she thought irrelevantly. 'I lost my chance twelve years ago when I got into Mrs. Riccard's car. If I went away now he would condemn me. But he'll condemn me for staying.' Suddenly and wearily Esther sat down at the kitchen table and put her head

in her hands. Mrs. Wood looked at her, but did not speak or touch her. CHAPTER V - A TONGUE OF LIGHTNING ESTHER must have been in something of a predicament as to the running of Mrs. Riccard's house. It was a simple matter to replace servants with other servants, but it was impossible to undo thirty years of habit. Mrs. Riccard continued to live in the unalterable routine of her daily life. Esther had to let her own business obligations go by the board while she remained at home to train the new staff in Mrs. Riccard's way. The new chauffeur and housekeeper lasted a week. They were Australians and did not understand about tipping their forelocks. They worked hard; they were quick and merciless on dirt of any kind. The chauffeur did not have to take the car to a garage, but could attend to its inside himself with efficiency and dispatch, whereas Harris had been the servant of mechanics. But they never bent their knees or bowed their heads to any human being. They simply didn't understand Mrs. Riccard-Hillman's expectation of it. They gaped their mouths and said with a genuinely puzzled air. 'Eh? What?' So at the end of the week they were paid off. When she came to tell Oliver of all that happened in the house in the week following the departure of Harris and Mrs. Wood, Esther spoke at length of Mrs. Riccard's demeanour. The domestic situation was the least of Esther's worries. Though Mrs. Riccard gave no outward sign of the shock it had been when Mrs. Wood and Harris had packed up and gone, Esther knew her world must have fallen about her ears. Mrs. Riccard was faced with the incredible fact that someone had defied her authority. And she could do nothing about it. She belonged to the breed to whom authority was assumed as a natural right. . . . Esther noticed that as she sat in the high-backed chair beside the lamp-stand her face twitched a little. Her mouth, ageing and lined around the corners, remained grim. She had a cruel face, Esther thought. There was a hint of power lost, of might corroded, in the twitch that every now and again lifted her mouth to one side. Moreover, Esther knew that Mrs. Riccard, for the first time since she, Esther, had come to the house, was taking stock of her. Hitherto Esther had merely been a docile hostage, then an inconsequent member of the household. She knew now that Mrs. Riccard had to regard her as somebody to be reckoned with. What was she wondering as her black eyes stared with faintly narrowed lids? 'Am I for her or against her? That is what she is wondering. Have I a use in the house for her? Or would she best be rid of me?' Esther knew Mrs. Riccard was assailed by doubts. She was not sure whether she could do without her; she was not sure whether she should placate and

win her, or dominate and submerge. Esther looking at her thus remembered Mrs. Riccard on the verandah of the little house in Queen Victoria Drive, Mrs. Riccard coming with a stealthy tread around the path to the back of the church, Mrs. Riccard looking over Esther's head at her mother that day in church! Esther did not falter. Once again she had to do battle with a strong will. She was older now, and understood what was happening. Her only fear was that Oliver might misjudge. He would not dream that in remaining in the house she was not only honouring her sense of decent conduct, but actually engaging in a battle of wills. One that had been postponed twelve years. Was this what she had been waiting for after all? She might not have been able to withstand his sheer male aggressiveness when he bent back her head and kissed her in a way that partly terrified her with its wonder, and partly drugged her with its sweetness, but she would not go to him uninvited. At least, not until driven there by events outside her control. Mr. Hillman sat silent, his face strained as if some conflict was raging inside of him of which he could utter no description. The only time his face was relaxed was when Mrs. Riccard had prescribed one of her tablets which she received from the Indian herbalist. The household was in a curious state of unnatural elevation. Esther thought of the three of them as being in a balloon steadied above the earth by anchoring ropes. At any moment anyone might sever the ropes. . . . She was waiting for someone to make the false move which somehow seemed inevitable. When she lay in bed at night she marvelled that only a week ago there was order and continuity about the lives of all those about to sleep in this house. It was Saturday. Autumn lay like a golden shroud over Pepper Tree Bay. Only some imported trees shed their leaves; otherwise the outward evidence that summer was over lay only in the mildness of the weather and the golden glow that touched everything the sunlight touched. For the next two months the winds that touched this coast of Australia would be fitful and vagrant, with no hint of the wild westerlies that would storm around the higher Antarctic from June onwards. The mornings lay like jewels on the water. The river was as calm as a lake in heaven. Age could not wither the vigilance of Mr. Sweeting as an early morning fishermen. Each day of that week Esther had stood on the rock wall at the foot of the cliff path and looked across the golden mirror to the tiny figure sitting wax-like at the end of the racketty jetty.

Only on this morning, because the glory of the water was beyond her refusal, did Esther take that long swim across the Bay. To her, of course, it was not long. She swam easily, slowly, with long gliding strokes, turning over every now and again in the water so as not to miss the least sensation of physical delight that cool clear water washing over her body could give. She used the changing box at the bottom of the cliff path that Harris had built her years before when he discovered that she insisted on swimming in winter as well as summer. 'I don't suppose the water will harm you, Miss Esther,' he had said. 'But those winds at the top of the cliff will give you your death of cold if you come up there in wet clothes.' So Esther had been in the habit of changing from her clothes after she had left the house, always keeping one or two things in the cupboard in the box in case the wind had risen in her absence, or a day that promised fair should change its mood in its first morning hour and decide on tantrums. Several pairs of sand shoes had accumulated as well as an assortment of towels, beach-robes and a dress or two in the bathing box. She remembered on this morning with a pang that Harris would come no more with his straw broom and buckets of water to clean out the little wooden shed. The first pair of substitutes for Mrs. Wood and Harris had come and gone. Esther arranged to interview another couple on the following Monday morning. In the meantime she had somehow to manage the household for the two intervening days. From the moment she had climbed back up the cliff path on Saturday morning she had known that it was Mrs. Riccard who was going to make the move that would not only shatter the silence of speculation in which both she and Esther had watched one another for days, but would also make some decisive move that would upset the balance of their present precarious existence. Mrs. Riccard was standing on the balcony outside Esther's own room watching the girl come up the path. Esther looked up and saw her. She halted a moment. She had exactly the feeling she had had on that day when, returning with Miss Priscilla and Miss Betsy David from the Swamp, she had seen Mrs. Riccard standing on the verandah of the little green and white latticed house in Queen Victoria Drive. She had never seen Mrs. Riccard on this part of the balcony before. Moreover, she had never known her to be up and about so early in the morning. Mrs. Riccard looked down and Esther looked up. There was no mistaking the presence of a challenge. Esther, who was bare-footed and had a white towelling jacket over her wet suit, walked slowly through the needle carpet under the pines and across the prickly buffalo grass. She rubbed her hair with a towel as she walked. On the

stone step at the side door she turned a moment and faced the river. She tossed her hair in the soft morning sun. Her eyes strayed over the river. She had a sense of impending farewell. In spite of all the loneliness there had been around her, during her years in the big house, one glorious recompense. It was the river. Its serenity, its still beauty, its brilliant colour, only seen elsewhere in the world round the isle of Capri, its secret companionship shared with the elderly schoolmaster. These things had not only made a lonely girlhood bearable; they had enhanced its years and taught her patience, integrity and wisdom. As she stood looking at it from the side door she had an intolerable sense of farewell. Then she shook her head and gave a short sigh. One cannot say farewell to a river, she thought. It would take an earthquake to change its course. Perhaps there was some such other cataclysmic force awaiting her on the balcony that would change her course. Well, she was ready for it. This time she would not bow her head. First, Esther went into the kitchen and lit the fire. Then, still rubbing the moisture from her hair, she walked steadily up the staircase. There was no sound of either Mrs. Riccard or Mr. Hillman. She walked out of the passage doorway on to the balcony, but Mrs. Riccard was not there now. She walked through the long window into her own room. It was not Mrs. Riccard who was waiting for her, but her father. He sat, still in his night attire, but with neither slippers nor dressing-gown, in the one arm-chair she had. The light was streaming full on his face so she could see at once he was ill, and under some unutterable strain. His very presence alarmed her because he had never before been inside her room. So wide was the gulf between them that Esther, though moved both by pity and concern, was unable to do anything but stand bewildered and stare at her father. He lifted up one hand as if to ward her off, then drooping his head he let his shoulders sag down and he sat speechless, staring at the floor. She took several steps into the room and towards him. 'Father, are you ill?' The words fell awkwardly. She rarely if ever addressed him. She realised now how desperately cut off he had been in this house. His marriage had delivered him into Mrs. Riccard's bedroom where presumably he had displaced the memory of the lurking Colonel. (Certainly since his arrival the Colonel's clothes in the big cupboard in the box room had ceased to have so much care lavished on them.) Only Mr. Hillman's shadow moved about the house. Elsewhere in the house Esther, Mrs. Wood and Harris led their own lives. There had indeed been life where they were. Where her father had been had become only a living death. Esther's mouth set a little grimly. 'Today I'm going to bring a doctor to this house,' she said. Mr. Hillman did not move.

Esther went over to her own bed. The clothes were turned back just as she had left it when she had gone down to the river. She now made it up. When she had finished she went over to her father and took him by the arm. 'Come,' she said. He got up and walked obediently to the bed. She put him on it and drew some covers over him. She then went into the bathroom to dress. Still there was no sign of Mrs. Riccard. When Esther came back into her room her father was lying as she left him, his eyes staring ceilingwards. She went over to him. Though she was filled with pity for him she could not touch him. She could make no filial gesture of love. ('He froze that out of me when I was a child,' she said. 'I pitied him. I pitied him the same way as I pitied the flies struggling when the house spiders raced round and round them tying them tighter and tighter with cobwebs... I didn't really love him. But I wouldn't desert him...') 'I will bring some tea, Father,' she said. 'Then I will get a doctor. He will make you better.' He brought his eyes down from the ceiling and stared at her. The pupils were distended and black. She went over to the door. 'Evelyn!' Esther's hand was on the door handle. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door. 'Dear God,' she thought. She had a glimmering of understanding of that valley of self-destruction through which a repentant and tormented soul may sometimes pass. 'He wants her back. She, the one he despised and distrusted, would be sanctuary from this other. How much more terrible is this other than even I can guess?' She went downstairs and into the kitchen. There was still no sign of Mrs. Riccard. As Esther set a breakfast tray and watched the toast in the toaster she wondered what had taken place earlier that had brought her father to her bedroom. That was the reason for Mrs. Riccard's presence on the balcony. Had she followed her father there? Or merely gone to see where he had disposed himself? What were the relations between husband and wife? Did they love, or did they hate? Certainly her father feared. Did Mrs. Riccard destroy everything she touched? Oliver had said that. He had said Mrs. Riccard was like the red-backed spider that haunted the dark places under the house. It mated and then destroyed its mate. It fed upon its mate. Esther shuddered. The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Riccard came in. 'This is it,' thought Esther. She said: 'Good morning. . . .' But she did not look up. She went on buttering toast. Even with her eyes on the toast she could see Mrs. Riccard's feet―in the soft black leather shoes―and the bottom of her long house-gown. The feet did not move.

Esther took the plate of hot buttered toast to the range and put it above the fire. She brushed back her hair, and then turned round. Mrs. Riccard had not moved. She stood just inside the door, her eyes watching Esther's every movement . 'I think my father is ill,' Esther said. I think he should have a doctor.' She guessed the impact the remark would make. No doctor had ever been allowed to cross the threshold of Mrs. Riccard's house. Their small ailments had all been treated with simple remedies. Not even when Harris had so bad a cold he was threatened with pneumonia would Mrs. Riccard allow medical advice. Behind Mrs. Riccard's black eyes fires were springing up. Slowly her neck mottled with red and purple blotches. She coughed. Business experience had taught Esther to watch for the physical sign of weakness in bargaining with another. The shifting of a glance, the turning away of a head had sometimes told her when she could drive home and clinch a bargain. She knew when Mrs. Riccard coughed that the older woman was emotionally disturbed. 'I won't be battering my head against a wall,' she thought. 'Something will happen now. She'll give ground... or she'll attack and throw me out...' Mrs. Riccard took a step towards the centre of the room. She rested one hand on the table. 'Your father is not ill. In any event, I will attend to him myself.' Esther did not move. 'He came to me,' she said. 'He came to my room.' This clearly was a surprise. Mrs. Riccard had probably looked for him on the balcony, perhaps elsewhere in the house. It had not occurred to her that he would take refuge in his daughter's room. The heavy lids flickered a moment. 'Touche,' thought Esther again. Mrs. Riccard went to the door. She paused. Her voice and manner were commanding. 'You will not call anyone, anyone at all to this house. This is my house. I will say who will come in and out of it.' 'I think a doctor should be called,' Esther said doggedly. Mrs. Riccard looked at her with fury. 'I should refuse any such person admittance.' She went outside, closing the door behind her. Esther stood by the range listening. There was not a sound; but she knew Mrs. Riccard had gone upstairs. That soundless tread would take her along the little passage to her, Esther's room. Esther moved quickly. She picked up the tray with the teapot and snatching at the plate of toast on the range, set it by the cup and saucer. Holding it with one hand, she poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. In her haste she splashed the water and her arms felt little stinging stabs of pain. She left the kitchen. Along the passage there was no sign of Mrs. Riccard. Esther was almost at the top of the stairs when she saw the older woman

come out of her own room. She carried something in her hand. It was a hypodermic syringe. 'Just a minute,' Esther said. Mrs. Riccard looked at her in surprise. She was haughty and disdainful. Esther put the tray on a table at the head of the stairs. 'Excuse me,' she said, passing in front of Mrs. Riccard. Clearly the older woman not only did not realise what Esther was about; but she had failed to estimate correctly the determination of the girl to have not Mrs. Riccard's way but her own. Esther was now between Mrs. Riccard and the entrance to the passage which led to the balcony at one end and to Esther's room on the left. 'I think, if you intend that for my father, you had better leave it until after the doctor calls. He would naturally ask where such treatment was recommended.' The red and purple spread and stained Mrs. Riccard's neck. Her face grew darker in hue. Her eyes, suspicious and affronted, blazed. She held the hypodermic in her hand like a weapon. Yet words failed her. In her own house? And this girl? Esther could see the manner of her reasoning, and that she was staggered by the affront. 'How dare you . . .!' She advanced towards Esther. 'I think you had better put that on the table with the breakfast tray,' Esther said. 'We could perhaps ask the doctor's advice about it.' Mrs. Riccard halted. It evidently dawned on her not only that Esther was not afraid, but that she really was going to call a doctor. Mrs. Riccard's eyelids flickered. Her face twitched. The hand that held the hypodermic faltered. 'She's beaten,' Esther thought. 'She doesn't know what to do now. She doesn't know the rules of the game. She's never been in business, dealt in human relations with a big staff.' Esther did not take her eyes from Mrs. Riccard's face. Mrs. Riccard could not advance towards her husband because Esther was in the way. She would either have to put the thing down or turn round and return to her room. She put the hypodermic on the table with the breakfast tray. Perhaps, she was thinking, she had done wrong to use these mixtures on her husband. For herself now, yes, she used narcotics and soporifics when her migraine assailed her. But they had never been more than a remedy. Her husband was different. The very things about him that had attracted her, his intenseness, the fine needle of fanaticism in the depths of his pale eyes, the thin taut body, these things when familiarised became no more than the symptoms of a neurotic disposition. They were the things about him that were rigid, and when they would not bend or give, they broke. There was no silent recorder there to take a note of Mrs. Riccard's thoughts . . . but how else would such a person in such circumstances have thought?

Mrs. Riccard realised that a physical retreat to her own room would be inglorious defeat. She would have to make some face-saving gesture. 'You have lived long enough in this house,' she said viciously. 'I brought you here, virtually from the gutter. You may now go back to it.' That is how she would think of Mr. Hillman too. Esther realised that. Mrs. Riccard had stopped socially when she had allowed herself to be infatuated with a pious intellectual. Very well, now she had to face the consequences. These people―she would argue―she had raised up out of the pit of anonymity to enjoy for a brief time the lustre of her own high estate in Pepper Tree Bay. But they had been unable to sustain the role. What was Roderick but a broken-down failure of a school-teacher? What was this girl? A common little seamstress! To have spent so many years with such truck! Much of this she said to Esther, who waited calmly and with dignity, not because she wanted to hear what Mrs. Riccard had to say but because, while she remained at the entrance to the passage, she still held the line of approach to her father. She would not leave that post. Neither would she do what she had done the other night when Mrs. Wood had been there, she would not retreat. In spite of the quietly spoken but vicious animosity of Mrs. Riccard's words, Esther, so long as she stood firm, remained in the ascendancy. The one who first left the scene would be the one in retreat. Mrs. Riccard indulged one final stroke of justice before she turned and went downstairs. 'I never intended more than roof, food and clothing for you. That I gave you, and that alone. The life you have led in this house has been, of your own choice, in the servants' quarters. Go and join them!' Esther watched Mrs. Riccard's descending head. She never felt more calm in her life. 'Oh, Oliver!' she thought. 'Am I such a milk-sop after all?' Mrs. Riccard had gone into the drawing-room. Esther picked up the tray from the table and went to her own room. Her father was still on the bed. He was huddled in a half-sitting position against the pillows. 'Here, father,' she said. 'Drink this.' His eyes seemed to wrench themselves from her face to the tea. He pushed it away. 'There's something in it,' he said. His voice was high pitched. Frightened and frightening. 'Only milk and sugar. I made it myself.' 'There is something in it. Did she go down to the kitchen while you were making it?' 'Why, yes, but she wasn't anywhere near the tray...' 'She'd manage it somehow,' he said. 'Father, you must eat. What can I get you that you won't believe has been tampered with?' His face lost its strain for a moment and became pathetic. 'In the pockets of my overcoat,' he said. 'There's biscuits. I get them when I go out. Each morning. They're sealed, she couldn't touch them'

Esther got up from the side of the bed where she had been sitting and went to her desk. She brought out a packet of biscuits. 'Will these do?' she asked. 'You see they are sealed?' He held out an eager hand. 'Yes, yes. Bring them to me. I am hungry. I am starving.' Yet when he took the biscuits he only nibbled one or two. As soon as he tasted the food he was no longer hungry. Esther brought him some water. He sipped it, then suddenly pushed it away. 'Father,' Esther said. 'Mrs. Riccard is in the drawing-room. I don't know how long she will be there. Will you go and get your clothes out of your room? Bring them back here. If you are well enough I'm going to take you to a doctor.' 'I have every intention of going myself,' he retorted angrily. He got off the bed with a quick jerky movement. He seemed to rush, in stops and starts, through the door and down the passage. Esther followed him. The hypodermic was still on the table and she picked it up and put it in her pocket. She sat down on the top step of the stairs and waited. She could hear sounds of banging and knocking and stumbling in her father's bedroom. Presently he emerged. Usually neat, in a cold compact way, this morning his clothes had been thrown on. His tie was not properly tied and the collar had come away at one end from the stud. 'I am going,' Mr. Hillman said. 'Where are you going? Shall I come for a walk with you?' He pushed her aside roughly. She realised his strength was beyond her control. The unexpected had happened. Mr. Hillman was taking the law into his own hands and physically neither Esther nor Mrs. Riccard would be able to restrain him. He was going rapidly downstairs. 'Father . . . please . . .' Esther was now thoroughly alarmed. The commotion was great enough to bring Mrs. Riccard to the drawing-room door. Her husband did not appear to see her. He blundered and stumbled his way to the front door. He fumbled furiously at the chain and latch. Then in a moment the door was open, and he was gone. Esther ran out on to the porch after him. But he was hurrying now, almost running. His hair, unrestrained by any hat, was flying; as he went a tiny spray of yellow dust and pebbles flew up from his feet. 'What do I do?' Esther thought desperately. She didn't know if he had gone mad or was simply nearly out of his mind with anxiety. She went to the hall. 'Is he fit to go out? How long has he been like this?' Mrs. Riccard stood silent, her mouth twitching and her hard, dark eyes angry. 'How ill is he?' Esther demanded. 'Where would he have gone?' Mrs. Riccard made as if to cross the hall and go upstairs. Esther caught her by the arm. 'If you don't answer me I will have to ring a doctor―and the police.'

Mrs. Riccard stopped dead. She turned round slowly. Her eyes were so full of concentrated hate that Esther dropped her arm and stepped back. 'You dare,' said Mrs. Riccard. 'You dare . . . you. . . .' 'Where is he likely to have gone?' said Esther. 'Either I go after him now and take him to a doctor myself, or I bring one here.' Mrs. Riccard relaxed a little. There was calculation in her reply. 'He has gone to buy biscuits,' she said. 'He does that every morning. It is an obsession with him.' Her voice hardened again. 'If you do not leave this house in the next few hours I will have you put out.' She turned and went upstairs. Esther stood looking after her. Perhaps he had gone to buy biscuits. It was useless to call a doctor while he was away. She would have to wait until he came home again. Now she came to think of it, he had gone out each morning and returned about an hour later. She had supposed it was because there was no Harris to drive him. Esther crossed the hall and went down the passage into the kitchen, She felt suddenly weak . . . and very hungry. She had been up a long time, swum a long distance and fought a mighty battle. Do I go, or do I get put out? she asked herself. I don't think I'll do either . . . yet. Even she is not fit to be left alone. She can't put me out. She is bigger and much heavier than I am, but she's old, and I am strong. She can't put me out herself. Or could she? She had lost one weapon. Esther put her hand in her pocket gingerly. . . . There might be another! She sat at the table and drank cup after cup of tea. In spite of her fears and the uneasiness of her previous thoughts she still felt a reluctance to go. 'I don't know why,' she thought. 'At first it was duty, then elementary decency, then because of Oliver. I would not let Oliver think I was running away, or that Mrs. Riccard had beaten me again. Now I feel tired and thoroughly frightened, and I know it is none of these things keeping me here. It is not only my father . . . it is that woman. I cannot leave her here alone, unattended, uncared for. Why? Why? Why?' Esther wondered if the Colonel had loved Mrs. Riccard. She went upstairs to the box room. She pulled up the blind and went across the room to where the ancient photographs in their carved wooden frames stood with their backs to the wall. She turned them round, one at a time. Even in the fantastic clothes of the British Army in India at the beginning of the century, the Colonel was a handsome man. He was debonair, poised. Mrs. Riccard's face, as a young woman, was a perfect oval. How proudly she held her head. How firm was her mouth and challenging her eyes! With what disdain she held the centre of the picture and with what obsequiousness the

servants appeared to fawn on them both! Why had she become what she was? CHAPTER VI - THE STORM BREAKS ESTHER waited all morning for Mr. Hillman to return. She grew more uneasy as time passed. 'I should not have let him go,' she thought. 'Or at least I should have run after him.' Mrs. Riccard had not moved from her room. The extraordinary thing was that Esther was stirred as much by pity for the woman self-imprisoned there as she was by caution and a determination to bring help to her father. How simply, and by what innocuous means are other people's lives altered! How dramatic, thought Esther, were the changes in the lives of the Hardings and of herself, her mother and her father. And all because an Indian army soldier and his wife had come to live in Pepper Tree Bay! And, having come, had an interest in Church affairs! And finally, because the surviving one had become in some obscure way infatuated with a pale man whose mind when not on the classics was on his own version of God. What would have become of herself, and the Hardings, had Mrs. Riccard never looked with predatory eyes at Roderick Hillman? Would their paths through life have brought Oliver and herself to the same point as now, when the very thought of him brought her head down in her arms, and a smarting behind the eyes? How confidently she had gone with Theodora Montgomery to Oliver's workshop! Magic, she thought, had stopped with childhood. Grown up and in the hard light of a workshop, she would be a world away from the little girl with lacy frocks and curly hair who had looked through the mists of the Swamp and the river with longing and adoration at the brown-eyed guttersnipe whose only gentle and kind words to a fellow being were reserved for her alone. Of this other feeling, this grown-up feeling, this love, she could say nothing to Oliver. Shortly after midday Esther went for the second time that day down the cliff path to the river. There had never been a period during her life in the big house when she had not gone down to the river when worried, lonely, or just, as in recent years, over-tired from work. The river was a companion as constant as life itself. She stood now looking into its calm depths. The water was still. The pine fringe around the house lay mirrored in it like a picture. Then as if she were looking at a cinematograph she saw Mr. Hillman pass in between the pine trees. She turned sharply, but he was gone. She climbed back along the path. Yet she saw no sign of her father. She went to the side door. It was shut and locked. The key was in the inside.

She looked anxiously around, behind the shrubs, down the cliff face. He had disappeared. Esther went round to the front of the house expecting he would at least be there. Perhaps on the drive or in the porch. . . . But there was no sign of him. When she went up the steps and tried the front door, it too was locked. She went round to the back of the house. The kitchen door was locked. She examined every window that reached verandah or balcony level. They too were all down and the safeguarding clip thrown across to prevent them being opened. Shut out! So this was Mrs. Riccard's last word! Was Mr. Hillman inside the house? Esther began quietly to walk down the drive. There was nothing for her to do but go. Of course she would go to Mr. Sweeting. She would have to tell him now what had been happening in Mrs. Riccard's house, and enlist his aid. She smiled ruefully, for she supposed that Mrs. Riccard, by forcing her to leave, had forced defeat on her. Would Oliver ever believe anything but that she had run away? 'Oh,' she cried to her own heart. 'Why do I have to relate everything to Oliver's pleasure or displeasure?' And then because something inside her body really hurt her she blinked her eyes and shook her head. She was out in the road now and she looked back over her shoulder. Mr. Hillman was following her. He hurried in little broken stops and starts. When Esther turned and went towards him, he ran back towards the house. She turned and went on down the road towards the Highway. When she looked over her shoulder her father was following her. When she stopped and turned about, as she did when she came to the corner of the Highway, he turned and walked away. Esther looked about. There was no one in sight. 'Early Saturday afternoon,' she thought. 'The old are asleep; and the young at play.' Somewhere to the right she could hear tennis balls pinging beyond the high wooden wall of a big house. The sun was like a golden haze over Pepper Tree Bay. She thought carefully. 'If I go on I will lead him away from Mrs. Riccard. I can lead him somewhere safe . . . to. . . .' Ah! To whom would she lead him? Mr. Sweeting? No, that would not be fair on the elderly schoolmaster. Then to the Church ... a doctor... Esther went on down the Highway, occasionally turning, and each time she did this her father stopped. When she went on, he followed. 'I am leading him away . . .' she thought. She went on till she came to the dip at the bottom of the hill and she turned the corner into the Swamp road, and leaned against the picket fence of the little house opposite the Grammar School. She could see the white-clad cricketers on the School oval. She could hear the click of bat on ball. Behind

her up the Highway she could hear the stumbling ill-controlled footsteps of her father. She could hardly bear to face the moment when he would turn the corner. Then he did. They stood facing one another. There could only have been pity and a plea in Esther's face. Her father's face showed terror, relief, anxiety, and, in swift succession, something almost like joy. Esther put out her hand. 'Father?' His face darkened. He took a step forward and struck her across the face. Esther flinched back. 'Where is she?' he demanded, standing over her. 'Where is she? I followed her down this road. She came this way. Where did she go?' Esther was backing away, her hand to her cheek. 'You are Esther, aren't you?' 'Yes.' 'Where is your mother? I saw her coming down the road.' Esther closed her eyes. So that was it. On and off during the week he had mistaken her for her mother. Quite suddenly Esther knew what she must do 'Come,' she said. She crossed the road to the corner and continued down the Highway, past the Church on the other side of the road, towards the Terrace. When she looked over her shoulder Mr. Hillman was following. When Esther hurried, he hurried. When she stopped, he stopped. At the Terrace she crossed over in front of the Bank. She went round it and turned up the lane to Oliver's workshop. 'All day I've remembered it was Saturday and Oliver would be in the workshop. All day I've known I would come here in the end. I only pretended to myself that I wouldn't come. Please God, let him be here,' she prayed. So strung up did she feel now she thought she would be unable to bear it if Oliver were not there. 'In this lane I'm trapped. There's only one way out and that is through the workshop and the cinema.' The door of the workshop was closed, but the padlock on the latch was hanging open. Esther turned the handle and went inside. Oliver was on his back under a car on the hoist in the garage. He turned his head and could see Esther leaning against the closed door. He crawled out, wiping his hands, as he always did, on a piece of cloth. 'Esther? What's the matter?' She was speechless, Oliver, seeing that something was wrong, kicked over a stool and came through the workshop door towards her. He threw the grease rag away and took her by the shoulders. 'White as death,' he said. 'What's the matter, Esther?' She wanted to say she had come for help, that her father was outside. She wanted to say she had done battle with Mrs. Riccard, and not altogether

failed. She wanted to say she would undo the years if he would forgive her that fatal ride with Harris over twelve years ago. She wanted to say that, as she looked up at him, she loved him so much his face seemed filled with a strange and wonderful beauty for her, that his hands on her shoulders were hard and strong and held within them her only chance of happiness. Her heart was so full of things which in common decency and pride were unutterable that all she could do was look at him, shake her head a little, and remain speechless. Whatever he saw in Esther's face, Oliver did not afterwards tell. He only records his arms went round her and he kissed her gently. It was a kiss so sweet it poured a honey balm on the sorrow, anger, loneliness and hunger of all those lost years. This time he meant never to let her go. CHAPTER VII - DESTRUCTION As soon as Esther, halting and stammering in her distress, had told Oliver about her father, Oliver opened the garage and took out the Stannard. He bundled Esther into the front seat. 'We'll find him,' he said. 'He won't have gone far. We can find him quicker by car. And he won't see us. . . .' He slammed the garage doors behind him and shut the padlock in the workshop door. He was still in his overalls. Oliver got in. He smiled sideways at her, put his arm round her and kissed her. 'We'll find him,' he told her again. He let the hand-brake off and the car began to roll gently down the lane. At the bottom, at the turn into the Highway, was a blind corner. The brick walls of the rear premises of the cinema and the bank formed the end wall of the lane. A car could only crawl out, a pedestrian must cross that exit into the main street after first peering round the corner and ascertaining the lane was clear. The front wheels of the Stannard were within inches of the corner. 'Look to the left, will you?' Oliver said. 'Is the road clear?' Esther looked northwards along the Highway. Oliver craned his head forward to see along the main road to the right. Mr. Hillman, hastily, jerkily seemed to rush forward, turned as if to enter the lane and struck the car. He went down with a thud. 'What was that?' Esther said. Foot and handbrake were on. Oliver sat perfectly still for the fraction of a second. Then he put his left arm round Esther. 'I've hit someone. Keep looking the other way, darling!' 'Oh dear.' 'Get out and run round the back of the car. Here are the keys of the workshop. Get on the telephone and ring the ambulance first. They generally have an emergency doctor on tap. If they haven't steadily ring every doctor in Pepper

Tree Bay until you get one here at top speed. Got it?' 'I've got it.' She was already out of the car. She ran back up the lane. Oliver got out of the car and went round the front. He stooped down. A man walking along the Highway had stopped in front of the car. 'Can I help, digger?' 'Yes,' Oliver said steadily. 'He's not right under the wheel. It hardly touched him. Just ease him over gently. Here, you take the legs. . . .' Mr. Hillman lay stretched out straight. He was free of the car. His eyes stared at Oliver. 'Are you all right?' Oliver asked. Mr. Hillman didn't answer, but his eyes never wavered from Oliver's face. The two men knelt beside him. Oliver could find no wounds, no obviously broken places. 'Whatever he's got, it's the impact of his own weight,' Oliver said. Two women had crossed the road. 'Is there... is there anything we can do?' 'Yes,' Oliver said. 'One of you go up to that door. There's someone inside telephoning. Walk in, get a glass of water, a cup, anything. You'll see a sink.' He looked up at the other woman. 'You watch out for the first sign of an ambulance. Keep anyone else away.' He knelt down again and began methodically to go over Mr. Hillman's body. He'd seen too many crashes on Speedways not to know what to look for, and how to look for it. A few more people gathered at a respectful distance. The man who had helped lift Mr. Hillman was standing at his feet. 'Getting help?' he asked Oliver. 'Yes.' He looked up and saw Cutty Bannister edging through the group of people on the Bank side of the Highway. Oliver sighed with relief. 'God be praised you're here,' he said. 'Come over this side.' Cutty stood beside Mr. Hillman. He looked down at him and shook his head slowly from side to side. There was an inevitability about Cutty's manner of acceptance that here, in this last plight, should lie the unfortunate Mr. Hillman. 'You two. . . .' Oliver looked at the man standing at Mr. Hill-man's feet. 'You take charge. Don't let anyone touch the car... or this man. Don't let him move. Keep him down if he tries to move. I'm going up to the shop.' He went rapidly up the lane. The woman who had gone for the glass of water came out. Esther was just behind her. Oliver put his hand on Esther's arm. 'I got them,' she said. 'The ambulance will be here in about ten minutes.' 'Esther,' Oliver said. 'I want you to stay here a minute.' 'Who is it? Is someone dead?' 'It's your father. He's not dead. He might even be all right. I can't get any response from him. It might be because he was, as you said, distracted when

he followed you down the hill.' Esther stood perfectly still in the lane. The sun and the gentle afternoon breeze were stirring her hair. Evidently she felt it chilly round her bare shoulders, for she shivered. Oliver said (when recounting it) that she looked bewildered, young and lost. Then she gave a half laugh. 'Steady,' Oliver said. His hand held her tightly. Esther shook her head. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I don't. . . really . . . quite understand.' Oliver pushed her into the workshop. He stood pinning her to the wall with both arms, 'Listen Esther,' he said. 'I wasn't even crawling... I was barely moving at all. No driver is quicker than I am on the brake. But I wasn't quick enough for your father. He turned into the lane at top speed and simply bashed into the car. You were looking well up to the left for any traffic coming. I saw who it was. I knew it was your father when I sent you up here. I wanted to see him first. He's all right, as far as I can tell. Have you got that?' Esther's eyes seemed out of focus. 'I expect it's because I'm tired,' she said. 'I've been up for hours and hours. Then I had such a scene with Mrs. Riccard . . . you wouldn't really believe it, Oliver. We didn't say much. Hardly anything at all really. But it was all there. We both knew it. Something had to happen. I had to take him away. It was the only way I could get him to come. He followed me.' Oliver shook her gently. 'Listen, darling,' he said. 'I want you to go down there and talk to your father. Can you do it?' She said after him, 'Darling!' in an unsteady way. Then she said, 'Your voice sounds so different when it is soft . . . and you drawl.' She shook her head as if shaking water from her hair. 'What did you say, Oliver?' 'Go down and speak to your father.' 'Of course.' He took hold of her arm and together they went down the lane. Mr. Hillman was lying as Oliver had left him. There was quite a big crowd now. They stood back, curious yet respectful. Someone said. 'Golly, that's Ol Harding.' Someone else said, 'Don't tell me Ol Harding's run someone down.' 'No. It would be the dame. There's often a dame driving his car.' 'That Ol Harding's car?' 'Yeah. Ain't it a beaut?' They began peering in at the dashboard. 'Gee whiz, have a look here!' 'Gor blimey!' Esther knelt down by her father. He looked up at her but did not move. 'Father?' His eyes did not waver. There was something irrevocably final in that look. He did not look as if he was dying, but his look was final. Esther knew it as intuitively as Oliver had done. She knelt beside him but did not touch him. She might have been at prayer except that her eyes were on his. 'Father,' she said. 'I want to tell you I am sorry. All my life I will be sorry. Something happened to us... I don't know what it was. Perhaps it was when I was very young. But it wasn't our fault. It wasn't your fault and it wasn't

mine.' His eyelids drooped a minute over his eyes, then he opened them again and went on staring at her. He made no other movement. No sound. 'Father! I want you to know I understand how you have suffered.' She was silent for a long time. Then she bent down over him. 'It might have been different . . . and I am sorry it wasn't.' Now his lids dropped over his eyes and he did not open them again. He might have been asleep. Oliver took Esther's elbow and helped her to her feet. 'Get in the car,' he said. He opened the door and helped her in. At that moment the ambulance siren could be heard coming over the hill. A police motor cycle pulled up beside the pavement. The policeman swung his leg over the bicycle and came towards them, opening his notebook as he came. 'Damn his soul,' Oliver said. 'He's hired to do it,' Cutty Bannister said. It was the first time he had spoken. The policeman marked with chalk the place where the front wheels of the car were and where Mr. Harding's body lay . . . just the few inches clear of the wheel that Oliver and the man had moved it. Then the ambulance men put a rug over Mr. Hillman and lifted him on to a stretcher. Within two minutes they had disappeared around the corner. Cutty Bannister had got in the back of the ambulance and gone off with Mr. Hillman. Esther, still suffering from shock and unbelievably tired, looked at Oliver out of dulled eyes. 'Where do I go now?' she asked. 'Home!' 'Home?' 'Home with me.' Esther's eyes closed. She leaned against him. Her left hand slipped inside his overalls and rested on his heart. Oliver said, recounting all this, that from the moment he had told Esther it was her father lying beneath the Stannard's wheel she had been overcome with a terrible lassitude. Even when she had knelt by her father, it seemed as if lassitude had prevented her from saying all that she had wanted to say. Later she told Oliver this was not so. She certainly had suffered from shock. Too much had happened to her since six o'clock in the morning. But she had said all there was to say to her father. 'I did not love him,' she told Oliver. 'I could not have loved him. I suppose there is some tie between father and daughter so that the one cannot let the other go out of life without feeling some pang, grieving for the things that might have been and weren't. I felt a terrible pity for him. I was sorry our life had gone awry. If I could have made it different for him I would have. That is all.' Oliver put his latch key in the door and let Esther in. At the same time Mrs.

Harding, who must have heard the car, came from a room at the back of the house. Esther knew her at once. Some of the hardness, perhaps bitterness, had gone out of her face. But her eyes were without welcome. She had that still, closed look that a mother has when she sees her son's arm around a young woman and senses that this is the young woman whose existence is going to alter the course of her own life. 'Mother, this is Esther Hillman.' Mrs. Harding's hand went on to the hall table. She leaned on it. 'Yes,' she said. 'I remember.' She looked at Esther. There was nothing in her face at all. 'You live with Mrs. Riccard,' she said. 'Yes . . . why, yes,' Esther said. Mrs, Harding looked at her son swiftly. 'Oliver! Do not bring this girl here. That woman. . . .' 'Just a moment, Mother. Let's forget it for the moment. Esther's father has just had an accident. I did it. I did it. I've brought Esther home... for the time being.' He still had hold of Esther's arm and he took her into the big lounge. The south wall was mostly of plate glass and from anywhere in the room one could see the great expanse of Bay lying stretched out like a canvas of blue upon the land. Esther sat down on the big sofa. Mrs, Harding followed them into the room. 'What sort of an accident, Oliver?' He did not answer. He was pushing cushions under Esther's head. 'What have you done, Oliver? Did you kill him?' Even Oliver was astonished at the venom in Mrs. Harding's voice. He turned round. 'No. I didn't kill him. He may die... I don't know. The only blow he got was the force of his own weight against the car. It was barely moving. But he was ill. That sometimes makes a difference if people suffer from shock.' Mrs. Harding looked at the girl leaning back on the sofa. 'And her?' Oliver took his mother by the shoulder. 'Listen,' he said. 'I've got a job to do. She's part of it. A man has just run into my car; he may die. This is his daughter, and she saw it happen.' Mrs. Harding's shoulder drooped. 'All right,' she said. 'Just as you say, Oliver. Only it was... it was that woman who caused all the trouble.' 'Esther is not that woman.' Mrs. Harding turned and went to the door. 'I'll tell Alice to make some tea.' Oliver went over to a side cabinet and opened it. He took out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured himself a stiff one, and a smaller one for Esther. He took the drinks across and sat beside her on the sofa. 'Drink this!' 'You don't mind this time. Last time. . . .' 'I know,' he said. 'Last time I was just a bad tempered louse.'

She sipped the whisky. 'I feel so dreadfully tired,' she said. 'I can hardly hold my head up, or my eyes open. Yet I couldn't sleep. Too much has happened today.' 'Do you want to tell me? Or would it be better to wait.' 'There's so much, Oliver. It isn't only what happened. It is everything that lies behind what happened. Years of... of relationships... of fears and doubts... of ill health... no, not mine.' 'Go on,' he said looking at her over the top of his whisky glass. 'Mrs, Wood and Harris left...' She began. 'It seemed as if the end of Mrs. Riccard's world had come. In a way everything had been static in that house. We all got a little older, and looked a little older, but life went on exactly the same. Nothing ever altered. Yet the whole edifice was only a pack of cards. Two cards pulled out from the bottom.... and everything fell down.' Esther went on with her story. Presently Oliver got up and poured another whisky. A big one for himself, and a small one for Esther. She was sitting upright now, her eyes hard with tiredness. The shock of the accident, the psychological reaction to everything that had happened in the house was now loosening the tongue of memory. Once Oliver put down his glass and pulled her roughly against him. He could feel how soft she was. He wanted to say, 'Shut-up darling, and just be loved. Be content to be loved.' ('That was before I poured the second whisky,' Oliver said when he was telling me what happened in the house before Esther went out into the night alone and had not been found in Pepper Tree Bay since.) Esther told the whole story. Perhaps the whisky helped her in remembering all the little details, the words said, the glances given, the thoughts stored up. For it was not only of the events of this week that Esther told Oliver. She told him much more, all that had happened to her in twelve years of her life with Mrs. Riccard. The story seemed to go on for hours. Alice, Oliver's housekeeper, brought in tea with tiny little fingers of buttered toast and small cream cakes, Esther barely touched it. She sat on the sofa, sometimes leaning back with eyes closed, sometimes leaning forward, her hand in Oliver's, her face upturned to his and her eyes on his. ('She had a memory for detail,' Oliver said. 'It was amazing how she remembered so much and how it had all accumulated to form a pattern―the tapestry of her life. Perhaps, as I listened, I did not show enough of the understanding I so unexpectedly got of how Esther had come to stay so long in that house. I was so overwrought myself. . . .') Some hours later, Cutty Bannister rang up the house to say that Mr. Hillman had died shortly after being admitted to the hospital. He, Cutty, was in Oliver's workshop and the police were with him. They wanted to interview Oliver, and possibly the girl, though she'd do later. Did Oliver want them to

come to the house, or would he, Oliver, come to the workshop? Oliver would go to the workshop. Only give him half an hour. Esther said nothing when Oliver told her. She had known her father would die. She had said the only farewell of which she was capable. The only thing she could say, and kept on saying, was that she was tired. She had been awake so early. She had done so much that day. She and Mrs. Riccard... Oliver had opened the flood gates but he did not realise that the stream of consciousness, having begun to flow outward, would have to continue until Esther had told all. It was not meant to be stemmed. And yet this is what Oliver did. Moved by pity for her evident fatigue, the shock from which she was so obviously suffering, he insisted that she should go to bed. Alice the housekeeper was called. 'Can you find something Esther could wear?' he asked. 'And could you give her a bath and put her to bed... in one of the spare rooms?' The housekeeper folded her hands and looked at Esther with pursed lips. 'Your mother's things would never fit, Oliver. I guess it will have to be my calico nightgown. Would you mind calico, my dear? It has got a lace frill on the collar?' Esther was sitting up, one foot on the floor and one leg still stretched along the sofa. Her hair, fair, curly and tousled stood up over her head like a mop. She smiled. 'I'd like anything... if it comes kindly.' 'Everything comes kindly if it's for Oliver, young miss.' She nodded her head towards him. 'You leave things to him and don't worry any more. There was never anything Oliver couldn't manage.' 'Unsolicited testimonial,' said Oliver. 'A cup of tea, a bath, and you're "out" for the night, Esther. The morning will look after itself.' Alice went outside to prepare the bath and Oliver stood over Esther, looking down at her. 'I can't really believe it.' 'Believe what, Oliver?' 'I'll tell you tomorrow. It's all about your face.' 'What about my face?' 'It's a lovely face.' 'Are you going now?' 'When I've seen you in bed.' 'Calico and all?' 'Without the calico, if you like.' 'Oh, Oliver!' He had put out a hand to help her up. She took his hand and turned the palm up and looked at it. 'So hard... so strong.' He called Alice. 'If you don't take her away and bath her, Alice, we won't get the night's work done.' Alice took Esther's arm and they went to the bathroom. Even it managed to have windows looking over the river, and pink and white tiles and pink and white candy-striped curtains. Even it was lovely as well as luxurious. 'What a heavenly house,' Esther said as together she and Alice undid her

clothes. 'It's so calm and peaceful.' Mrs. Harding came to the door. She neither looked at nor spoke to Esther. 'Has she got powder and soap?' 'Everything's here,' Alice said. 'But that nice apple blossom soap of yours now. . . .' 'There's some in the cupboard.' 'She hasn't changed,' Esther thought as she looked at Mrs. Harding. 'Well dressed now. She wasn't here that day I came with Hilary!' When Alice had helped Esther to bed Oliver brought in some more tea on a tray. Esther made a faint pretence of drinking it. 'I just can't. . . .' 'Will you go to sleep?' 'I don't know. Perhaps when you've gone. It's still very early, isn't it? Hardly dark. . . .' He sat on the side of the bed and leaned over her. 'Is everything all right, Esther?' 'Oliver,' she said. 'I'm frightened to tell you I love you. I've always loved you. I've never stopped. And I'm frightened to tell you.' His mouth was on hers and she couldn't hear what he was saying as he kissed her. 'Oliver, do you remember Mr. Sweeting playing Don Giovanni on the gramophone? Remember the great horn? We used to call it "Some Mozart" because Mr. Sweeting used to say . . . "Now you two sit quietly and we'll have 'some Mozart'." Then when Miss Priscilla bought a gramophone you asked her why she didn't have "some Mozart". So she bought a record. But it wasn't Don Giovanni so we called it the "other Mozart".' Oliver was leaning on his hands now, one on either side of the pillow. Esther's face looked up into his. (He said he thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful than Esther's face. It took the will to be honourable out of him. She was defenceless. 'In that funny white calico nightgown she looked like an angel. I was frightened to stay. I couldn't have stayed another minute. . . .') So, in the middle of the Mozart story, he got up and said good night abruptly, barely brushing her lips with a kiss. He had gone out, shutting the door behind him. When he came back in the small hours of the morning . . . after the ashes of Mrs. Riccard and her big house on the hill, were cold . . . Esther was gone! This brings to an end the part of the story filled in by Oliver, and what Esther had told him in that period between the night we had supper at the Oyster Beds and the burning down of Mrs. Riccard's house. The problem that Oliver and I tried to thrash out over and over again from that morning, eight days ago, when I found him sitting solitary by the lookout, was―who had burned Mrs. Riccard and her house? Where was Esther? Had she played a part in it? That is why we had gone back to our earliest memories of Esther. Somewhere in all that story, we felt, there would be the solution of that riddle. Where had

Esther gone that night? Where was she now? How was it that sometime after she had left Oliver's house, Mrs. Riccard's house had been burned down? After leaving his house Oliver got into his car and went down to the workshop. The police who had been there previously had gone home to their several dinners, but promised to be back later. Oliver had found Cutty making tea and boiling eggs for himself over the Primus stove. Cutty had even less to say for himself than usual. 'Did they tell you what he died of?' Oliver asked. 'Heart and shock.' 'That's how I thought it 'ud be. The car never really hit him. He hit it.' 'What was he doing down there... and no hat! Where was the old Hupmobile?' Oliver did tell me just how he and Cutty exchanged intelligence as to the doings high up there on the hill. He himself was tired, and yet exhilarated. There had been some sense of strain in the last few hours; yet beyond this immediate feeling of a difficult passage of time to be endured―because of Mr. Hillman's death― there was a great relief and happiness underlying his physical fatigue. He helped himself to a whisky because, being tired―and in this matter something of a coward―he needed fortification before he told Cutty about Esther. 'You know what, Cutty? More I try to talk to you, more you show me your back. How can a man talk to a back?' 'I'm eatin'.' 'I know. Then you're working. Then you're doing some other hell of a thing. Anything to keep your back turned.' 'Well, go ahead and say what you want to say... if you must.' Cutty turned round, but he kept his head down while he messed about the bench. 'I only wanted to say Hillman was a tragic figure, you know. More to be pitied than blamed. You know what, Cutty. You and I were born different. Our glandular systems are different. You didn't know that Hillman was the way he was, back there when he was a master at the school, all on account of the fact his glandular system didn't work the right way? Retard or accelerate the spark . . . you know what happens, Cutty.' 'Seems you've changed, Oliver. Seems I remember mostly you thought that fellow was a hell of a bastard.' 'Well, I've got a bit older. A bit longer in the tooth.' 'An' I suppose it was the girl's glandular system brought her down to the workshop this afternoon?' Oliver groaned. One can imagine that in the past Cutty was not unaware that a certain pair of brown eyes gave the lips the lie when he and Oliver together had denounced the menage on the hill. On this night, if Cutty was more difficult than usual, it was probably because he was reflecting that there was a streak of treachery in the youth in whom he

had invested all his own love. When Oliver's tongue had lashed the iniquitous ones, his heart had been basely consorting with the other side. Cutty wasn't going to say one word that would help Oliver to change sides now. Thus it was that Oliver, very tired, his heart a little sore for the old man, tried to get out of his past opinions the wrong way. He enunciated them all over again. The more he knew he was going to hurt Cutty the more he floundered in past attitudes. The arrival of the police tided him over for a while, but when at length they went away Oliver was no nearer a declaration of the present state of affairs between himself and Esther than he had been before he came in, and before he had unstopped the whisky bottle in the cupboard over the sink. And when he stopped talking to think, he didn't think of Cutty at all. He thought of Esther lying on pillows in the spare room with a white calico nightgown nearly up to her chin. In the meantime he was quite wrong about Esther lying on pillows in the spare room. Esther had got up and gone out. And much later Alice found Esther's clothes in a neat little pile on the sandy beach of the Bay, just below Oliver's house. Oliver said that during those hours when he'd been in the workshop, laying down the law about the past, someone had come up the lane, stayed outside a while, then gone away. He had thought at the time it might be Hilary, who sometimes came in after a show or a cinema. When Esther disappeared from Pepper Tree Bay, he feared it was Esther who had come, had overheard some of his conversation and gone away distressed. He was tormented by a picture of Esther swimming out, out into the heart of the river, and becoming part of it . . . for ever. 'One can always swim far enough out to be too tired to get back,' he said. I was equally tormented by a picture of Esther in some strange town, probably the other side of Australia, neatly designing her beautiful clothes, meticulously embroidering with minute exactitude the tiny flowers, leaf fronds and recurring tree-of-life design on opera cloaks and wedding gowns. Perhaps spectacles, a mild disguise, hiding the curious depths of her grey eyes. For I knew perfectly well where Esther had gone when she left her clothes on the beach. Not only did I know about the sandy bank in the middle of the Bay, and that Esther had used it as a short cut from one side to the other, but I knew her well enough to know she wouldn't walk four miles round the road, and uphill nearly all the way, when she could make it less than a mile across the water. What I didn't know, nor could I guess, were her reasons for going back to the big house. I only know the result of it was the burning down of the house and the death of Mrs. Riccard. Oliver himself persisted in the fear that Esther, over-tired, perhaps unable to

sleep, had got up, dressed, and come to the workshop, that it had been she who had come up the lane while he and Cutty had been talking, and had inadvertently overheard them. 'You didn't think to look? Or call out?' 'I didn't think at all. Perhaps there was no one at all. But if it was Esther she heard me denouncing Mrs. Riccard. She heard me telling Cutty what we had told one another on and off for years . . . what we thought of them up there. What we had thought of her, what one said but didn't believe. If Esther heard me that night. . . and didn't wait to hear all . . . then she heard the unforgivable.' 'Was it so bad?' 'Listen, girl, when men like Cutty and me talk, just between men, we don't mince it. We've lived too much on the track with the toughest nuts in the racing business to talk in drawing-room language.' 'In other words you swear a good deal, by way of descriptive prose.' 'Swear? Oh my God, Theodora, that's the mildest part of it! I did think, that night I took her home, the best side of me, the decent, clean, wholesome side of me, was good enough to give Esther something worthwhile in life. But there's another side. When you're in the Speedway business you don't just dirty your hands. Men pull one another down, and there's no moral law about how they do it. There's more than that. When you ride against death you're not always riding against death as an accident. That's the least of the risks.' He was silent. I saw only dimly what he meant. 'You have something of an inferiority complex in relation to Esther, after all.' 'Yes. That's why I got drunk. And that's why I said too much.' 'You think that Esther, unable to sleep . . . worried, perhaps suffering from shock, came after you to the workshop and found you and Cutty, shirt sleeves up, wallowing.' 'Yes.' 'And in her state of exhaustion and shock, it was too much for her.' 'It could be.' 'Are you very sure how much she loved you?' Oliver said nothing. 'Enough to do something silly, just because she might have overheard a conversation that was even more silly?' 'She was very tired . . . and . . . well, very tired.' My own knowledge of what Esther did that night did not necessarily preclude the supposition that she had been to the workshop. But I thought not. If she had gone that far she would have gone on up the hill to the big house by foot. She was not likely to have returned to Oliver's house first and then have taken a short cut across the river. There must have been some compulsion to return to Mrs. Riccard. From what she told Oliver immediately after the accident I can believe that her motives were on the highest level of good intention. As far as she knew no one had made any attempt to communicate with the woman since Mr. Hillman's accident. Moreover, she was alone, and not fit to be alone, in that house.

If one wanted to think of Esther as conscience-stricken for Mrs. Riccard, this then was an excellent motive for her return. There could be a dozen others. There could also be despair, and even revenge. I knew Esther swam across the Bay, leaving her clothes because they would have hindered her, and she knew there would be some alternative wear in the changing box at the bottom of the cliff. I knew this because I saw her there... at Mrs. Riccard's house. It was shortly after midnight, Oliver said, when he remarked to Cutty the sky, over the high Bank buildings, was very light. He looked at his watch. 'Could have been daylight for all I knew of the time.' 'Did you realise at once it was a fire?' 'No. Didn't think about it. Any more'n I'd thought about somebody coming up the lane, and then not coming inside. It was Cutty smelt fire first. Then he went outside. You could see the sky over the western side of the Bay was bright with it.' 'Big fire,' Cutty said. We stood and watched it a minute. 'Them's pines we can smell burning,' Cutty said. We didn't say any more. We just got in the Stannard and drove up the hill. We both knew what was in the other's mind. Only supposition, of course, but enough had happened to set Mrs. Riccard-Hillman off. It could be her house on fire. I remembered every detail of that fire. Several of us had gone up the tower of the College to get a better view of the great conflagration lighting up the sky on the other side of the Bay. I watched it for quite a time and when the flames raced into the pines Mrs. Riccard's house had been illumined like a picture on a cinema screen. 'Esther!' I thought. I knew nothing of the day's incidents, of course. I just knew that it was Mrs. Riccard's house going up in smoke, and that Esther might have been in it. Like her I went down to the beach. I too was going to take a short cut across the Bay. There were groups of people standing about on the beach staring across the water. My interest was more personal than theirs. I ran along the beach to the main jetty. Without giving it a thought, much less asking permission, I cast off a dinghy. There was another girl from College with me. 'Come on,' I said grimly. 'I'm going.' I gave her an oar. 'Pull,' I said. When I saw her fumbling I told her to match her pull to the rhythm of mine. In a few minutes she had it. We pulled out into the mainstream. I had enough presence of mind to skirt the sandbank and we came round in a curve parallel with the shores. Every now and again I would turn my head. The pines were ablaze like pokers of fire sticking up into a

brilliant heaven. Sheets of flame poured out and upwards from the windows of Mrs. Riccard's house. 'Esther!' I prayed. 'Be safe.' As we pulled under the overhanging cliff the water was a sea of reflected fire. It was red and gold, green, turquoise, black, then a sheet of mirrored flame. Over the side of the dinghy, in the water, I saw one wall of Mrs. Riccard's house come down. The water was a typhoon of reflected flame and sparks. The fire was beginning to run in little fingers down the bushes of the cliff. 'We can't land here,' my friend said. We pulled a little farther around and brought the dinghy in amongst the rocks. I shipped my oar. 'Do you want to stay here?' I said. 'If you're going up that cliff you might want to make a quick getaway. Those pines might come down,' she said. 'If the fire catches up you'd better take a header into the water. I'll pick you up.' 'Right,' I said. I scrambled out of the boat on to the rocks. I began to crawl and slip my way across them towards the changing box at the foot of the cliff. When I got up from all fours and stood on the sandy path just above the rocks I saw Esther standing perfectly still looking up at the house. It gave me a fright. She was so still and somehow out of place. She was alone, which was odd. Altogether I felt as if I'd seen a ghost. I don't remember what she had on, except that her legs were bare and she had sand-shoes on her feet. Otherwise she had a towel round her shoulders, but over a dress of some kind. The fire was reflected on her face and in her hair. The light danced all over her. She looked tired and ill. 'Esther,' I said. She started. When she saw it was me she gave a little cry. Then she seemed to take a step backward. She leaned against a tree and buried her face in her hands. She began to cry bitterly. 'Esther,' I said gently. But she held out her hands as if to ward me off. 'Don't touch me, Theodora.' I sat down on a hummock of grass and bush and watched her. 'Okay,' I said. 'But I'm here if you want me.' After a while she stopped. She wiped her eyes with the corner of the towel hanging over her shoulder. 'Have you lost everything, Esther?' I said. 'Did you save nothing?' I had my back to the fire, but she had its lights pouring on her as if it were a two hundred candie-power lamp. She looked at me with surprise as if she had only just thought of her possessions. 'I . . . yes, I suppose so,' she said. 'Your father, and Mrs. Riccard-Hillman? Is everyone safe? The servants?' I realised then how deeply disturbed Esther was. She stared at me silently but her face was so full of unexpressed feelings, of an incommunicable

knowledge, that I feared for her. 'Are you all right, Esther?' 'Yes, I'm all right,' she said wearily. Then she too sat down on a bushy hummock, on the other side of the path. She rested her chin in her hand, her knees were crossed in front of her, and she stared up at the fire. It was beginning to wane. Up above us we could hear voices as men shouted, and the sound of pressure water streaming through hoses. 'That water . . .' Esther said. 'There wasn't any pressure at first.' 'That could be why they didn't save the house.' 'She . . .' Esther said. She brought her eyes down from the cliff and looked at me. 'They wouldn't have saved her. She was locked in.' 'Locked in? Whatever do you mean? You were able to get out?' 'This morning she locked me out. So tonight I locked her in. They wouldn't have got her in time.' I came over the path and sat down by Esther. 'Esther,' I said. 'Listen to me. How did you get out of the burning house?' 'It wasn't burning,' she said wearily. 'I got out before it started to burn. I came back when I saw it on fire. I just know they wouldn't have got her in time. It went very quickly . . . and there's no water pressure. That's why we have pines this side instead of lawns. There's not enough water.' I put my hand on her knee, but she pushed it gently away. 'Don't touch me, please.' 'Look, I'm terribly sorry to be a nuisance. I know you're very upset. Does anyone know you're here? Who else was in the house? You must tell me, Esther, because I've got to help you, if it's only going up there and bringing someone else down to help you.' Her hands flew to her face and she all but cried out. 'Theodora, don't get anyone! Leave me alone please!' 'I can't do that. You know I can't just walk away and leave you.' She made an effort now and dropped her hands. 'There was no one in the house,' she said dully. 'Only her. The fire is my fault. I locked her in. Then I came down to the river. I was going to swim back... to Oliver's house, you know. But I was too tired. I waited a little while and I thought I'd borrow Mr. Doonan's dinghy out of the boatshed along the bank there. I was only a little way out on the river when I saw the fire. I came back, but it was all on fire. They wouldn't get her in time.' I stood up and spoke firmly. 'Come on, you've got to have help.' She looked up at me. 'Don't do that, Theodora, please. I've always trusted you. You're such an honest sympathetic sort of person. Please, Theodora, stay my friend just a little longer. Please, please go away and don't tell anyone you saw me here. Will you promise me?' There was no panic or distress in her now, only great weariness. Yet this weariness was under control. 'I can't do that.'

'Listen, Theodora. The fire is my fault . . . and Mrs. Riccard will have been in it. You are the only person in the world who knows that now. I don't know what to do because I am so tired my brain won't think. I want to have a little time. Just a very little time... to think. Wouldn't you want it?' I sat down thoughtfully. Esther was speaking the quiet truth. 'I beg you to go away, and leave me.' 'Esther, you'll have time, and be alone, if you come back with me. I can smuggle you into College. You needn't take any action till tomorrow.' She shook her head. 'Please, Theodora.' What was I to do? How much was she in trouble and how much was it a risk to leave her alone? 'All right,' I said. 'A promise is a promise. You won't do anything silly? You will just wait for a time? You will do nothing else?' She actually smiled. It was a little rueful and wan. 'Like throwing myself in the river? You needn't worry, Theodora ... I'd think of a better way out than that. But I'm not going to do anything silly.' She looked into my face. 'I've always trusted you. Perhaps you could trust me this time?' 'All right,' I said. 'I'll go. And I didn't see you here. I haven't seen you for weeks.' 'Thank you. And Theodora . . . thank you for everything else too.' I knew what she meant and I wished I wasn't so darned sentimental that I wanted to cry on occasions like this. An account of the fire in the papers said that Mrs. Riccard had been alone in the house at the time. Miss Hillman had not been traced. It was understood she was not in town. The servants who had left on Friday could give no information as to how the fire might have started. The event was a double tragedy, for Mr. Hillman had been killed in a street accident late on the same afternoon. As for Esther's clothes on the beach. Alice, Oliver's housekeeper, had gone down to the foreshore, as did many others to see the fire across the Bay. In the clear moonlight she had seen Esther's clothes in a neat pile. When Oliver came home, in the small hours of the morning she was waiting for him. Alternately they spent the rest of the night waiting for Esther to come and claim her clothes. At daylight they substituted others, a bath gown of Alice's and house shoes. Thus it was no one else in Pepper Tree Bay knew that Esther had gone across the Bay, and had not returned. Thus it was too that Oliver and I throughout the rest of that week stayed almost perpetually in one another's company. Somehow we thought that if we pictured Esther as she was, as she always had been, we would be able to tell what she would most likely have done. We consulted Mr. Sweeting, very old and very sad, at great length.

Once or twice, when we first started, Hilary Brown had listened in. It just never occurred to either of us to ask for her opinion. Yet it was Hilary who held the key! CHAPTER VIII - PEACE AFTER STORM OF course, when Oliver and I, with the occasional help of the distracted Mr. Sweeting, were telling one another all about Esther, we did not dream that Hilary had the answer to the riddle. I don't know what kept her silent except that she, like me, had made a promise. Or perhaps she was punishing Oliver . . . just a little. She might have been punishing him, because in his mind he had sinned against Esther. He had loved her but never known her worth. Or there could have been other reasons, very personal, for punishing him. I would not know, for of her personal feelings Hilary never uttered a word. Nor do I expect that she ever will. It was again early in the morning. A week had now gone by. It was Saturday morning and I was walking along the grass verge of the park, making, almost involuntarily, for the look-out. Inevitably Oliver would be there. I heard a roadster slowing down alongside me, when I turned my head it was Hilary. She sat looking at me across the small space of a footpath. 'Get in, Theodora,' she said. 'I'll take you where you're going.' She did not attempt to start up the car when I was beside her. Instead she lit a cigarette and offered me one. Her manner was at once a challenge and a rebuttal. 'Not before eight o'clock in the morning,' I said tersely. 'You were going in search of Oliver, I suppose?' 'I was.' 'He's bound to be up there,' Hilary said nodding her head towards the Park and the look-out. 'I rang his house before I left home . . . but he'd gone. Six o'clock every morning, Alice said.' 'Why not?' I asked belligerently. Hilary laughed. She still made no attempt to move the car. 'How far have you and Oliver got in the "story of Esther",' she asked. I couldn't believe that there was a hint of satire in her voice. Esther's disappearance wasn't funny, even for those who didn't care for her. I made no answer. Hilary flicked the ash off her cigarette. 'I suppose you'll always go round with your head in the clouds, Theodora. You're that kind of a person.' Hilary wasn't being very pleasant. 'You sound as if you know something,' I said. 'I do,' she said. 'I know where Esther is.' I had the most extraordinary feeling of mixed relief and rage. Hilary, who had always been a little feline to me, now seemed more cat-like than ever. She was playing, and I was the mouse. 'What are you trying to tell me?' I asked. 'Listen, where do you suppose Esther would go? You know as well as I do she

is not in the river.' 'Where should I suppose she'd go? To Oliver? Well, hardly, if she heard him saying all those pretty things about her to Cutty on the night of the fire.' 'She didn't overhear him. That was me. I called in at the workshop and Oliver was in one of his authoritarian moods. Or so I thought. Also he'd had too much to drink. I sat on an upturned box and smoked a cigarette. His voice annoyed me, so I went home.' I blinked. 'Esther,' she went on, 'was round the Bay... in Mrs. Riccard's house. She spoke to you there.' 'How do you know?' 'She told me.' 'Hilary,' I said. 'In a minute I'll do something desperate to you. Why don't you get on with it and tell me where Esther is . . . and why?' She looked at me through the smoke of her cigarette. She wasn't going to hurry. She was going to punish me. 'Supposing you tell me where she went after she left the house.' 'All right,' I said. 'She took the Doonan dinghy and went across the Bay to the convict's cave. That's where she put in the night. She was afraid, and too tired to think properly, so she went across there. She put the dinghy back the next morning and must have found some kind of clothing in that old changing box at the bottom of the Riccard cliff. I know, because I was worried about her and I went back the next day. I worked it out for myself she might spend the night in the cave. It was I who had told her about it. Sure enough she had. There was a towel there, and I'd seen that towel round Esther's shoulders the night before. When I saw she really had been there I knew she must have been very frightened. That's why I've been so worried. I could not tell Oliver where I'd seen her. To begin with I'd promised. Then I didn't know what exactly had happened in that house before the fire.' 'You're quite right,' Hilary said, more gently. 'She was very frightened.' 'What should I have done? What would you have done?' I asked. 'I'd have shut up. Which is what you did. You can have top marks for that one.' 'Where did Esther go?' 'To me.' 'To you?' 'Who else? Mr. Sweeting? Too old. Oliver? Perhaps . . . but then she'd been to him once already that day, and he could be hard and brusque. I can guess why―but then I know Oliver.' She stopped and snubbed out the cigarette a little sharply. 'She thought of somebody practical. She thought of me,' Hilary said. 'I wouldn't have thought of you,' I said, bewildered. 'I wouldn't have thought she knew you well enough.' 'She knew I was tough and she wanted someone tough. She came to me as naturally as a homing pigeon with a wounded wing.' 'Has she been in your flat all this week?' 'Listen,' said Hilary. 'Esther told me what had happened at Mrs. Riccard's

house. Did she tell you?' I shook my head. 'She didn't think she had, but she couldn't remember. She left Oliver's house because she couldn't sleep, and because she was filled with some kind of remorse that her father had died; and no one who knew his wife had the courage or the human feeling to go and tell her. More than that she became, out of her sense of shock and frustration, I suppose, unduly perturbed and anxious about that horrid woman sitting all alone in her spider's parlour, as you called it. Esther seemed to think it was sheer cowardice not to go back. And absolutely indecent to let the woman get up in the morning and find out what had happened from the newspapers. It being night time, when we all worry most―and Esther being alone and unable to sleep―it got on her nerves. In the end she got up and went across the Bay. The shortest and easiest route for her.' 'Yes,' I said. 'That is what I thought had happened.' 'When she arrived she had to knock the Riccard up. The place was in darkness. She knocked hard and to her surprise the woman came and let her in. She was surprised because she had been locked out earlier in the day.' 'I knew that.' 'Esther followed the woman upstairs and when they got to the landing managed to tell her what had happened. I don't think there was much of a scene. Esther said Mrs. Riccard just went as white as death and stood staring unbelievingly. Just then the police officers did arrive with the news. Mrs. Riccard-Hillman did not ask them in but stood listening to them with the same impassive silence. When they had finished they went away. She had not spoken a word.' 'So they didn't know anyone else was in the house?' 'No. When they'd gone she bolted the front door, turned the key in the lock and came upstairs to the landing. The key was in her hand. On the table was another key. The key to the back door. Mrs. Riccard picked them both up, and then going to the window overlooking the side of the house threw them away. "I'll never leave the house again," she said. Esther said she thought the gesture was symbolic, for one could always leave the house by the side door. The key was in the lock on the inside of that door. Esther knew because she had tried it first when she had come up from the river. It was locked, but she could see the key was there. 'Yet Esther said she felt a chill of fear when Mrs. Riccard threw away the keys. Clearly Mrs. Riccard intended the gesture to include Esther too. Esther turned and walked down the passage that leads to her room. Mrs. Riccard remained standing at the head of the stairs. 'Esther was shivering as she went into her room. She sat on the side of the bed and tried to think. By this time she was so utterly weary no rational thoughts would muster themselves. Though the night had been moderately warm it was very late in the season for a long swim. Esther had the chill of the river on her and at the same time shock and a certain fear of Mrs. Riccard kept her

shivering.' 'I don't suppose she was properly clothed . . . that is, if she had the same things on as when I saw her. In spite of the fire she had a towel round her shoulders... I gathered for warmth.' 'I think when you're tired and scared you do shiver,' Hilary said. 'Anyhow she got up and turned on the electric fire in the fireplace and sat on a covered box of some kind which she says always stands there.' 'I've seen it,' I said. 'It is of pine wood probably and was upholstered and embroidered.' 'Good and inflammable,' Hilary said. 'Well, presently Esther started to undress and then decided to go downstairs and get a hot drink. She put on some flimsy negligee and went to the door. When she opened it Mrs. Riccard was standing there. Just standing like a wordless statue and right in the doorway. Esther nearly fainted with fright. How long she had been there Esther had no idea. She thought herself she had been about half an hour in her room. Anyhow, she took several steps backwards and Mrs. Riccard came into the room. She was as stiff, white-faced, and as frightening, as Don Giovanni's statue come to life. 'Esther asked Mrs. Riccard if she could get her a drink, but the woman didn't answer. When Esther went to pass her, however, she caught hold of Esther's arm. Evidently she had a grip like a vice and Esther said the same thing had happened earlier in the day. There was some kind of a struggle and Esther managed to throw Mrs. Riccard off. She fell against the bed. She half lay there breathing hate and fury, I gather. Esther was terrified. She threw off the negligee and snatched up the cotton dress she had taken off. She remembers she threw the negligee over the wooden box in front of the electric fire and she remembers that she didn't throw very straight. The thing probably trailed all over the place. But she wasn't thinking about it. She was only thinking of getting out of the room and the house at top speed. She pulled on the cotton dress as she ran from the room. She also remembers, in retrospect, that there was something almost like stertorous breathing coming from Mrs. Riccard. 'As she ran out she shut the door behind her. She remembered the key in the inside of the side door. She ran downstairs and turned on the passage light. She unlocked the side door, let herself out and locked the door on the outside. She had some vague idea of preventing Mrs. Riccard from running after her. It was a natural sort of thing to do. She felt hunted and pursued, whether she was or not―there'd been a build up of that sort of thing all day. 'Esther ran down the cliff path to the river. She doesn't remember how long she sat on the rocks. She knew she was too tired to swim back. She was also too tired to walk back. So she borrowed the Doonan dinghy. 'As she rowed out into mid-stream she saw the flames of fire shooting through her own bedroom windows. That is why she knew the fire started there. She remembered the electric fire and the negligee. 'Rowing back to the house she remembered the height of the downstairs

windows and that to unlock one of them Mrs. Riccard would have had to mount a chair. And no light appeared in the house other than the one that had been in her own room and the downstairs passage light. 'When she brought the dinghy in and got to the foot of the cliff she blacked out. When she recovered the whole house, and the pines, were ablaze. That's how you found her.' When Hilary stopped talking I could say nothing. We sat in the car in silence. I was appalled at what Esther had been through. 'Hilary,' I said at length, 'I've been out of my depth.' 'I damn well know you have,' she said. There was another long pause. 'I still don't understand why she didn't go to Oliver . . . even the next day.' 'You're still out of your depth, Theodora. She didn't go to Oliver because he would have done one of two things... and she was too tired and too frightened to cope with him.' 'What two things?' 'He would either have put her to bed and made love to her, or he would have raised hell all over Pepper Tree Bay. She didn't want either love or a riot just then. She wanted legal aid. She wanted sleep, help and sound advice.' Hilary had taken off the brake and started up the car. We began to move along the road. 'And you were able to supply these things?' 'No. Mr. Taylor. I took her to Yoowinning.' 'You what?' 'I took her to Mr. Taylor. Packed her in the car and hit the track for the goldfields. She was out of the firing line there, and I knew he'd either know the legal situation, or be able to look it up. He was a law clerk in the old country before he came to Australia. He always knows what to do.' Oliver's car was drawn up on the grass verge by the look-out. The river was a sheet of opal blue; in the distance the yellow sands of South Perth lay like a pale fringe to the grey bushlands behind. Hilary eased her car in beside Oliver's. 'Get out and come in beside me,' she called to Oliver. 'Theodora, do you mind swapping seats?' 'I'll sit in the back,' I said. Oliver came across from his car. He pushed his hat on the back of his head and said, 'It 'ud be a lovely day if I wasn't so damned tired.' Hilary, both hands on the steering wheel, looked at him speculatively. 'How they brought the good news from Esther to Oliver,' she said, just a trifle sadly, I thought. 'What are you talking about?' 'The modern version of how they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix,' she said. 'All done by Stannard's Super Structure and Service.' 'Hilary,' I said. 'For heaven's sake tell him!' She lit a cigarette and passed the cigarette case to Oliver. 'Esther liveth,' she said. 'At this moment she is eating

breakfast in my flat.' Oliver said not a word. He finished lighting his cigarette, but his hand trembled. Hilary saw it. 'I guess it's the only time in your life that's ever happened,' she said, closing her own hand over his, the one that held the cigarette. I knew by the way they looked at one another they had fought and loved and lied and hurt one another. But it was all past now. 'Go on,' Oliver said. Hilary told him the whole story from the moment Esther left Oliver's house on the Saturday night. 'I took her to Mr. Taylor, partly as respite, partly as escape . . . and partly because I knew he would know what to do. We got in touch with a legal firm in Perth. Also a doctor. The doctor gave her bromides, tonics, and we gave her lots of good food. Then I came back and got the legal firm to send a representative up there. She'll be all right. I went up on Friday and brought her, and Mr. Taylor, back to Perth. Sometime to-day her lawyer is taking her to the police. But she'll be all right.' Oliver hadn't uttered a word. Even when Hilary had finished he sat very still for a long time. His hat was on the back of his head and he was looking through half-closed eyes across the river. At last he held his hand to his head. 'Oh my God,' he groaned. 'Well, shall we go?' Hilary said, a new cigarette in her mouth, both hands on the steering wheel. She lifted the brake and let in the clutch. We slid away from Oliver's magnificent car. I supposed he'd come back and get it sometime later. We turned off before coming to the Terrace when we had driven towards Pepper Tree Bay. We followed the line of gardens till we came to the Flats, partly hidden from the road by a shrubbery and a hibiscus hedge. Hilary came to a standstill. 'You get out, Oliver. I'll drive Theodora home,' Hilary said. He seemed stiff as if it hurt him to move. As he opened the door I saw Esther coming through the garden. She was wearing a jade green jacket. My heart seemed to turn over so that I wondered if, deep in me, I had really been afraid she had gone for ever. I stared at her face as one might stare at the beloved face of one thought to have been dead. There were shadows beneath her eyes, but they were clear and sweet; her soft honey-coloured hair was curling round her forehead. Her mouth was like cherries and the colour in her cheeks like the pink edge of the roses that used to grow in the Rectory garden. But it was her mouth that was always so lovely. It was not its colour, but its shape. The perfect curve. Just full enough to be promising, just fine enough to be beautiful. When I looked at Oliver I knew why he hadn't spoken a word since Hilary had begun the story. He looked at Esther coming down the garden path, and his face was full of unshed tears.

I felt the tears in my own eyes, and a lump was sticking in my throat. Oliver held out his hand to Esther and the funny little half-shy, half-anxious smile lit up her face. Mr. Taylor winged his way rapidly down the path. He skirted Esther, barely nodded to Oliver, and threw himself into the front seat by Hilary, Hilary looked at me through the rear vision mirror. 'How are your own love affairs?' she asked. 'Forgotten,' I said. 'I've been too busy meddling with others.' Oliver, his hat still on the back of his head, had dropped his outstretched hand and put both in his pockets. He was standing in the gateway . . . making Esther come to him. She did. And as the car moved off I saw his arms go round her. Hilary's face in the mirror was a closed book. Mr. Taylor held out a cigarette. 'Look,' he said. 'Your favourite brand, Larry. I've just been out and bought them.' THE END