5
Brave New Year
Even though Ward had had the strong conviction that he’d never be able to get it up again in his life—what with finding out he’d been doing the twin of the kid his own son had been doing on top of finding out they were both the sisters of the one that the boss fancied doing—when Ingrid smiled that casual smile of hers and held out her hand, saying: “Hullo, again, Ward,” he found he could.
She wasn’t quite the coolly elegant, top-drawer type that her sister Sloane was: she was a bit too pretty. Which Ward didn’t object to: those cool, calm and collected bitches often turned out to be cool, calm and collected in bed, too. After they’d got you where they wanted you, that was. Heading down the aisle with the ring through your nose and a silly smile on your fatuous face, usually. No, Ingrid’s looks had a bit more to them, and Ingrid had a bit more to her: she was pretty well hot stuff, under that “Hullo, again, Ward,” manner. And not, thank God, clingy or sentimental. Sort that you could trust never to send you a ruddy great pink heart with lace round it on Valentine’s Day. Unless, of course, you’d had a row. In which case she’d like as not send you one to the office. Or to your home address, if your wife was in residence. Bit of spirit, ya know?
He shook hands but also pecked her on the cheek. Ingrid smiled and allowed her cheek to be pecked but didn’t try to kiss him. Which, as their meeting was taking place in the public sitting-room of Lallapinda, where half a dozen KRP junior execs were hanging round trying to look as if they wanted lunch, was a bit of a relief, actually. He didn’t in the least mind showing them he still had it, but he didn’t want them to think he was gaga with it. She didn’t try to pull away when he took her hand and retained it, however, and that was a bit of a relief, too.
“Come on,” he said, squeezing the hand a bit: “let’s sit down. They reckon lunch’ll be on in a minute or two.”
“Good,” she said pleasedly.
They sat down and Ward asked her if she’d like a drink. She only wanted mineral water—but it couldn’t be hangover: she looked as fresh as a daisy. He got up again, grinning. “Right, mineral water it is. Though don’t expect a slice of lime in it. And if anything young, eager and a sickly green in executive trou’ comes up to you, ignore it!”
“I will!” said Ingrid with a little laugh.
Ward went off to the bar, grinning.
Ingrid leaned back on the green brocade sofa and slowly looked around her. She was very pleased that she’d worn this dress: she’d been right in thinking that the sitting-room was done up in cream and pale green with touches of gold and terracotta. Ingrid’s dress was sleeveless, a dark green cotton. It had a halter neck, very little back, and a slim skirt which reached to about mid-calf but which had sufficient of a slit in it to allow you to cross your legs, should you wish to show them off. Ingrid crossed her legs slowly. She had long, elegant feet and the high-heeled, strappy gold sandals did them justice. She had put her hair up in a French roll, with a bit of help from Sloane, and her slender neck was adorned by a couple of thin gold chains. More gold chains twined on one elegant tanned wrist and on the other she wore a very pretty narrow gold watch. Ingrid was fond of pretty watches and owned several. Her earrings were not the small ones that were popular at the moment, but wire-thin big gold hoops. The simple-looking outfit had taken her an entire morning of concentrated thought and considerable consultation with Sloane. She had wanted to look feminine but elegant, and not cheap. When Melodie got home she had eagerly offered one of her selection of watches but the offer had been spurned: Melodie went in for flashy things in very bright yellow metal. When Ingrid bought jewellery it was real.
After a moment she became aware that a young, palish green executive was looking at her resentfully from a clutch of armchairs at the far side of the room. Ingrid swallowed a smile: Neil Reardon, Ward’s son. Melodie had said he was all right in bed but pretty up-himself. When he’d found out that Hugo Kent fancied Kitten he’d panicked, and said she had to go home. Melodie hadn’t minded: Andy had promised to take her out on the boat this arvo. Nikki was coming, too. With Hardy: the one that looked like Martin Sacks. Possibly he was the only one of the lot of them that hadn’t panicked on being told to pack and get out of the place by teatime tonight. Well, him and Ward: he certainly didn’t look as if he was panicking! She smiled at him as he came back with the mineral water and didn’t say anything so crass as she’d heard they were leaving early.
What with finding himself a lot more pleased to see her again than he’d thought he’d be, and with finding her a little more cool and casual towards him than he’d thought she’d be after last night, Ward found it was bloody difficult to work the conversation round to her sister. Finally he said: “So, what are all those girls you were with yesterday up to, today? Your sisters, mainly, weren’t they?”
“Most of them, yes. Well, Sloane’s going over to Muwullupirri for afternoon tea. Mrs Wainwright’s invited all of us, if you feel like it?”
Ward knew that Cal Wainwright of Muwullupirri was the big cheese in these parts. You never knew: couldn’t hurt to keep on his good side. So he said cautiously: “Sounds like fun. Might fit it in, I think. But I’ll have to be back by teatime, bloody Hugo’s told us we’ve wasted enough time here, we’ve all got to push off to WA this evening.”
“Already? I thought you had another couple of days here?”
Ward grimaced. “Yeah, so did we.” He eyed her cautiously. “Look, Ingrid, could I give you a bell when we’re back in Sydney?”
“If you like,” said Ingrid, smiling calmly, concealing her inner glee. She hadn’t even had to prompt him! “I’ll give you our number at the flat, it’s a silent number.”
Ward added it eagerly to his phone contacts. He hesitated, then bent forward. “Look, to tell you the truth, I’d rather go up to the room this arvo.”
“Mm,” said Ingrid, smiling into his eyes but not too eagerly: did this mean he was going to say “Let’s go upstairs,” or not?
“Only—uh, well, in the cold light of day, ya know? Think I’d better set the boys a bit of an example, behave meself, eh?”
“Yes,” she said calmly, smiling reassuringly, this time. At least she hadn't picked up the wrong cue: phew!
“Yeah,” he said dully. “Oh, well. Tell us a bit about this Muwullupirri place, then.”
Ingrid obliged.
Ward’s resolve visibly wavered when they got to the pudding or just coffee stage but Ingrid didn’t let him relent. She had a feeling that if she gave him the slightest impression she was only a little tramp, he wouldn’t ring her when he got back to Sydney.
It wasn’t until she was capably driving them along the dusty ruts of the dirt track from Lallapinda to Muwullupirri that Ward remembered he hadn’t asked her about Miss Fifteen-out-of-Ten, after all. Oh, well, let bloody Hugo Kent look out for himself for once in his life!
“How are you, Sloane, dear?” said the grandmotherly Mrs Wainwright, beaming all over her plump face.
Sloane allowed her cheek to be pecked by Mrs Wainwright and, smiling nicely, admitted she was very well. Before she could draw breath to ask how Mrs Wainwright was, Mrs Wainwright had begun an interrogation as to the state of health of the rest of Sloane’s family. Once this was over, she was allowed to shake old Mr Wainwright’s hand. And to greet the Burgoynes and the Carters. Then she was finally allowed to sit down on one of the large floral linen chesterfields that were a feature of the Muwullupirri sitting-room.
It was a lovely room: a gracious room, really, and if it had been hers the first thing Sloane would have done was get rid of all the floral linen chesterfields, the matching loose-covered heavy armchairs and the multiplicity of floral cushions, hand-made tapestry cushions, and handmade patchwork cushions that were a feature of Mrs Wainwright’s décor. If that was the word for it. The carpet was pretty bad, too: also floral, garlands on a pale fawn background: if it hadn’t been in such good nick and if Sloane’s own mother hadn’t sworn blind Mrs W. had had it laid brand-new less than twenty years ago, Sloane would have taken her dying oath it dated from the Thirties. Because that was what it looked like. Not trendy Thirties, like what you saw in the British TV shows: middle-of-the-road, conservative, nice-home Thirties. The curtains were newer, they matched the floral linen on the chesterfields, and were around ten years old. Sloane could clearly remember the Christmas that they’d been new. The Mannings had been at the beach house and Mrs W. had had them all over for Christmas dinner—expressly, it was very soon apparent, to show off the new curtains and coverings. It was just as well she’d stressed the point, because none of them would have noticed that they were new: they looked exactly like the old ones. And, in fact, Mrs Wainwright explained proudly to Karen how terrifically pleased she’d been that the really nice shop in Adelaide had still had that pattern on their books: it was a classic. Sanderson, of course. This fell flat: Karen Andersen Manning had never heard of the magic word “Sanderson”. Perhaps needless to state, nor had any of her offspring, but at that stage only Sloane had been old enough to have been expected to. The Christmas dinner, however, had been vocally appreciated by all of Karen’s family, Kym not neglecting to inform the beaming and bridling Mrs Wainwright that Mum never cooked turkey. The twins, who were only twelve, had also artlessly revealed that they’d never tasted Christmas pudding in their lives. Though they had had Christmas cake, at Nikki’s place. Mrs Wainwright’s shock, horror and delight had been obvious to everybody, though it was fair to say the twins and Kym hadn’t fully understood their implications.
Sometimes after visits to Muwullupirri Karen’s daughters speculated, albeit not with terribly much interest, as to what would happen if Cal Wainwright ever remarried: would Mrs W. ever give up the sitting-room, not to say the reins of the entire household, and retire gracefully? None of them thought the answer was “yes”, which was perhaps why they hadn’t bothered to spend much time on the point. She certainly hadn’t done so for Cal’s ex-wife and according to Ingrid that was one of the main reasons why Trisha had gone off the rails. Well, wouldn’t anyone, with Mrs W. choosing the bloody loose covers, not to say the carpets, and cooking all the meals and deciding who got what room? Melodie had expressed the opinion that it wouldn’t be too bad having a mother-in-law who did the cooking, especially if they were a great cook like Mrs Wainwright, but had been shouted down,
None of the girls could remember Trisha but they had more or less dragged the story out of Karen and Dick, with a few more colourful details from Mrs Keating from Nearby Bay. It had all happened more than twenty years back: Cal had only been twenty-two. Trisha was a red-head. Largely out of a bottle, Karen and Mrs Keating were agreed on that point; but pretty enough. Shallow little thing, dumb as they come: a consensus, Dick Manning not dissenting. Mrs Wainwright had been all over her to start with, because her father was a big noise in state politics and she had had the notion that Trisha was going to talk poor old Cal into taking his rightful place in the community. –Dick, supported by Mrs Keating, who had added the interesting detail that Mrs W. had pushed Cal into the marriage in the first place. Added to which she thought Trisha would start producing grandkids for her. But she hadn’t. Mrs Keating had said darkly: “And why not?” but this hadn’t cut much ice with the Manning girls. However, Karen’s detail that by the end of a year Mrs Wainwright was audibly wondering why not had duly induced cringing and shuddering. At around this time Trisha started going to the pub at Nearby Bay pretty regularly and either picking up whatever was hanging round there or getting blind drunk, or both. Next thing anyone knew, she’d waltzed off with a travelling salesman that was staying at the pub. According to Mrs Keating the Wainwrights had never heard from her again.
Trisha’s brief sojourn at Muwullupirri had left not a trace. Not a photo—Mrs Wainwright herself had removed every last one from the family albums—not a cushion-cover, not a single frill in the double bedroom allotted to the newly-weds by Mrs Wainwright and decorated for them by Mrs Wainwright and in which, if Dick Manning’s word was to be trusted, Cal still slept.
It was still early, not nearly afternoon teatime, and Sloane hadn’t expected that Mrs Wainwright would have them all lined up freshly washed behind the ears and in their best frocks in the sitting-room already, but they were. Well, the Carters and Burgoynes were in wealthy Sydneysiders’ versions of best frocks for a nice afternoon tea in a gracious homestead. Julie Carter, a solid woman, was in tailored linen slacks that were already creased abominably across the crotch. Pale fawn. The belt was a light tan as to the part which slotted through the gold buckle and heavy knitted cream cotton as to the rest of it. The country touch. Perhaps meant to be worn with desert boots but she had given in to the heat and was in lightweight tan sandals. Her top was cream silk and really snappy: a tailored shirt with a safari-look: box-pleated, button-down breast pockets. With it she was wearing a solid-looking string of matched pearls and pearl earrings, thus reinforcing the socio-economic status of the Carters. Possibly the shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow rather more because of the heat than because it was the desired look: the air conditioning was on, but not turned up very high, because Mrs Wainwright was of the opinion that (a) it ruined your good furniture and (b) it wasted electricity.
Both of these points might have been valid but there was no good furniture on view at Muwullupirri: whatever Mr Wainwright might have inherited from the generations of ancestors who had lived in the homestead was no longer evident. Mrs Wainwright liked pie-crust mahogany reproduction, so all the bed-heads, wardrobes, cabinets, chairs and tables, right down to the coffee tables, were. What she was saving the electricity for was a mystery: Muwullupirri of course generated its own. The charitable-minded might have said she was conserving the oil that ran the generator, but those who knew her sincerely doubted that Mrs Wainwright was environmentally aware to that extent. Well, for the past fifty years she had let Mr Wainwright, to whom she generally referred as “your father” or “Cal’s father,” depending on whom she was addressing, give her a large Mercedes every second birthday. True, she only drove herself to Nearby Bay about twice a month, to play bingo and stock up at the supermarket, so perhaps the fact that the things were gas-guzzlers was immaterial. Or perhaps not, given the distance involved.
Old Mr Wainwright himself possessed, though he scarcely ever drove, a handsome Rolls Royce, about ten years old. In the days when he had driven himself it would not have been allowed to reach its fourth birthday before being replaced. Mrs Wainwright had refused point-blank to hear of Cal’s selling it for him. As old Mr Wainwright was not interested in going anywhere, he wouldn’t have minded, but when his had wife put her foot down he had supported her. He always did.
George Carter’s outfit was similar to his wife’s and Sloane on greeting them had blinked slightly. His safari blouse was pale grey. His lighter grey slacks were heavy cotton and probably from an R.M. Williams shop, but the belt was a dead ringer. He wasn’t in sandals, though: elastic-sided boots. Undoubtedly from an R.M. Williams shop. His reinforcement of their socio-economic status, apart of course from the entire outfit, was a heavy gold watch.
Kendall Burgoyne was sort of similar but instead of shouting “R.M. Williams” his gear shouted “Marlboro country.” Tight, dark jeans which didn’t do much for his thickened waist, high-heeled cowboy boots in tooled tan leather, matching belt with a turquoise and silver buckle, tailored pale blue denim cowboy shirt in which he was probably even hotter than he looked. Very evidently he could not have been aware that Mrs Wainwright disapproved entirely of “jeans in the house.”
Joyce Burgoyne had gone the other way and was terribly gracious-country-house, lounging-on-fringed-swing-on-verandah sort of thing. The full dirndl skirt was a floral pattern in misty shades of mauve and green on a cream background. From under it a heavy frill of white lace frothed in a petticoat effect but Sloane, who had seen these skirts for sale, was aware that in fact it was sewn on. Round her short, very ginger hair she had tied a narrow lacy white scarf, bandeau-wise, the long ends allowed to trail and flutter. The blouse was an off-the-shoulder peasant style: fine white lawn, trimmed with wide bands of cotton lace. It would have been lovely on a girl of twenty-odd, with the shoulders and bust to support it. On Joyce Burgoyne it emphasised the boniness of the tanned shoulders. A huge collection of silver bangles jostled on one bony wrist while on the other a silver chain vied for position with a pretty wristwatch: a strap of links faced with amethyst. If this didn’t reinforce the socio-economic status sufficiently your eye would be irresistibly drawn to the ball of the same stone strung on a long silver chain around the neck, and the tangle of amethyst chips above it. The earrings were a mixed bag: one small silver hoop in each, a small amethyst stud in each, and a single long, dangling, antique-look silver and amethyst artefact. Sloane was happily aware that real antique Australian amethyst jewellery was inevitably set in gold, and that this earring was therefore as fake as it looked, even if the stones themselves were real. She was also happily aware that Ingrid would spot it immediately.
Sloane had also dressed very carefully for Mrs Wainwright’s afternoon tea. Being aware of the floral sitting-room helped: anything patterned was out of the question. She couldn’t wear green, in case Ingrid came over. She didn’t want a pastel shade: she didn’t want to look too pretty-pretty and little-girly; on the other hand she did very much want to attract Kendall Burgoyne. Jeans, of course, were ruled out: she didn’t want to annoy Mrs Wainwright from the word “go”. Melodie had suggested black but Sloane felt it would make her look drab: it was summer, after all. She had finally settled for white. It was very new, she’d bought it just before Christmas and in fact had almost not bothered to bring it with her on holiday. The fabric was only cotton-knit, but it had been used with great skill. The dress was sleeveless, with a boat-neck, culminating on each slender shoulder in a neat tie. Not quite a bow, but a neat little knot with the pointed ends of the short ties sticking out in an effect which was just on the pretty side of jaunty. The bodice was not quite form-fitting, so that it appeared to stroke her gentle curves; and the waist was a little lowered, the soft-looking, loose but not full skirt being eased into it just on the hipbones. It was a very easy, comfortable style to wear but on Sloane’s tall, slim figure it looked quite incredibly elegant. She had not made Mrs Burgoyne’s mistake of flat sandals with the mid-calf skirt: instead she wore very high-heeled scarlet leather ones. Actually Kitten’s: but no-one at Muwullupirri could know that. The matching scarlet clutch-bag was real leather: like Ingrid, Kitten had some expensive tastes. Sloane was wearing a small gold watch on a narrow scarlet leather strap (also Kitten’s) and plain gold studs in her ears. Her shiny, light-brown hair was up in a style which according to Karen Andersen Manning made her look a dead ringer for her maternal grandmother fifty-odd years back in the family albums: a smooth wave off the forehead, and pulled up away from the neck into a roll round the head. It had taken Nikki and Kitten two hours to achieve but they had been only too happy to do it. The hairstyle set off the elegant line of her neck and the modelling of her cheekbones and jaw: Sloane, in short, looked stunning.
She had been pretty sure of it when she left the house but when she was ushered into the sitting-room at Muwullupirri by Mrs Wainwright, who had a habit of not letting Cal or Cal’s father answer the door, and she saw the expressions on Kendall Burgoyne’s and George Carter’s faces, not to say those on their wives’, she knew it. Cal also looked stunned but although Sloane was pretty pleased to see the effect this obviously had on his mother she wasn’t too sure that she wanted him to be that stunned. Enough to make Kendall Burgoyne jealous: yes. Not enough to really fall for her, though.
Cal had sat himself down on the other end of Sloane’s floral chesterfield. He grinned admiringly at her. Sloane took a deep breath and smiled back at him determinedly.
“So where are those sisters of yours?” said old Mr Wainwright.
“Ingrid might come over later: she was meeting a friend at Lallapinda for lunch. But the others can’t come, I’m afraid. –And Mum sends her apologies, Mrs Wainwright,” she lied: “she’s working on a program that she’s got to get finished.”
“She’s so clever!” Mrs Wainwright explained to her guests.
“She’s a programmer, is she?” asked Kendall, clearing his throat.
“Yes,” agreed Sloane.
“Yes, and imagine, she kept on working when the kiddies were little: I don’t know how she managed it!” marvelled Mrs Wainwright. “Six of them!”
“It was meant to be five: she hadn’t planned on the last one being twins,” said Sloane on a dry note.
“No!” agreed Kendall, chuckling.
“She’s always earned enough to be able to afford good child-care: even Mum can’t actually do two full-time jobs at once,” she added, twinkling at him.
“Only gives the impression of it,” noted Mr Wainwright drily.
“Yes!” said Sloane with a startled laugh, smiling at the old man.
Mr Wainwright heaved himself out of his big chair. –Floral Sanderson linen, but very comfortable. He had very bad arthritis, which he hated anyone to refer to, and about ten years back had had a slight stroke, which he refused to admit had ever happened. He was over eighty, but certainly didn’t look it. “Come on, you can come and look at the black—Cal tell you about him?”—Sloane shook her head, smiling.—“Dunno why he bought him, scarcely ever see him on a horse these days,” grumbled Cal’s father.
Cal had also got up. So had Kendall Burgoyne, looking eager. Well, looking eager and as if those cowboy boots were killing him. So had George Carter. He was looking eager, too. Sloane got up slowly, looking at her hostess.
Mrs Wainwright produced a piece of woollen crochet-work from the handmade patchwork bag that stood beside her floral armchair. “Yes, run along, then, Sloane, dear,” she agreed placidly. “The rest of us have seen him, haven’t we? –Just see your father doesn’t do too much, Cal.”
Cal and his father both ignored this speech and they and Sloane went over to the door, the tall, gaunt, creaky old man opening it for her. Sloane saw that Cal hung back slightly in order to let his father do this: unexpectedly she found there was a lump in her throat. She swallowed hard, smiling shakily up at old Mr Wainwright, and went out.
“Well, go, if you’re going!” said Joyce Burgoyne irritably to her spouse. Kendall had been going anyway: he went.
“Coming?” said George Carter to his wife.
“It’s hot out there, dear,” warned Mrs Wainwright, crocheting placidly.
Julie Carter in any case was too good-mannered to desert her hostess; but she agreed: “Mm; I don’t think I’ll bother.” George went out, looking mildly pleased.
Cal had held the door for them, his face expressionless. He went out in their wake, closing the door quietly,
Mrs Wainwright did not say anything so crass as “Good, now we’ve got rid of them we can have a nice woman-to-woman chat.” What she did say was: “So what was that you were saying about your Louise having a check-up, dear?”
Jumping slightly, Julie Carter wrenched her mind off the fatuous expression on her husband’s face as he’d gone out in the company of that Manning girl, and said: “We thought it would be wise, before they decided to start another, after the miscarriage.”
Nodding, Mrs Wainwright urged her to expand on the topic.
Julie obliged, though reflecting as she did so (a) that at least George’s expression hadn’t been nearly as bloody fatuous as Kendall Burgoyne’s, (b) that at least George could be trusted to behave himself, which was more than could be said for Kendall Burgoyne, and (c) that if Joyce Burgoyne lost him she’d very largely have herself to blame.
The walls of the well-designed old stable block of Muwullupirri were over a foot thick: it was pleasantly cool in there. The black gelding’s name, Cal confessed he didn’t know why the Hell, was Purple Noon: he looked at them placidly from his loose-box. Cal led him out to be admired. No-one got on him: Mr Wainwright these days needed a block to mount, so he never did in front of guests, and besides, he was in the grey flannels he habitually wore in the house. Cal was in handsome, narrow cream drill trousers that, Sloane had to admit, did everything for the legs, plus elastic-sided boots which unlike George Carter’s were natural wear to him: nevertheless he would have thought you were batty if you asked him to get on a decent horse bareback. George Carter also needed a block to mount, and although Kendall could ride, and could get on unaided, he had no intention of making a fool of himself in front of the Wainwrights, who had both ridden before they could walk.
The horse was duly admired and returned to his box and, Mr Wainwright having remarked again that he didn’t know why Cal had bought him, Sloane asked, smiling a little: “Why did you buy him, Cal?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Couldn’t resist him.”
“I see!” She laughed into his eyes, not unaware of the watching Kendall’s scowl.
“He’ll eat his head off, of course,” said Mr Wainwright, taking her arm. “He’s started a flaming aviary: you want to see it?”
“An aviary?” echoed Sloane, stunned.
“Yeah: going soft in ’is old age,” said his father pleasedly. “Shoulda heard Pete Dawkins on the subject! Come on: round here.”
They went round to the side of the homestead and there, sure enough, was a long structure of wire mesh, with one end thatched over. It was a very odd shape indeed: evidently in order to allow it to incorporate two well-grown gums, plus a lot of shrubs which had once been Cal’s mother’s pride and joy.
“Has your mother given up on the shrubbery, then, Cal?” asked Sloane cautiously. Mrs Wainwright had fussed over that shrubbery for as long as she could remember.
“Yes,” said Cal as they went into the double-door arrangement of the aviary, Mr Wainwright pointing it out with a heavy scorn which did not conceal his pride in the whole thing. “Come on, George: get in before Dad opens the inner door!”
“Eh? Oh: right. Sorry.” George Carter squeezed in, and old Mr Wainwright opened the inner door.
“Pete offered to mow the lawn for Mum the last spring it got real high—not this last year, the one before,” explained Cal as his father led the way into the aviary. “Sliced right through the hose that she had her sprinkler system on. That was the last straw.”
“At least it meant he could get his ruddy wounded birds out of the flaming garage,” grunted Mr Wainwright.
“Oh!” said Sloane in great enlightenment. “I see! So it’s a bird hospital, then, Cal?”
“Not exactly,” he muttered, his wide shoulders moving uneasily.
“Of course it is!” said George with a kindly laugh. “Though whether what he’s got in it’s worth conserving—!”
As Mr Wainwright was at this moment chirping encouragingly at a large, one-legged crow which had hopped up to them, Sloane could only nod.
“Dad calls him Peg-Leg,” said Cal neutrally.
At this point—not only because old Mr Wainwright had become more animated, talking to the crow, than the Mannings had seen him for years—a great light dawned on Sloane. She looked up at Cal Wainwright with great liking, smiling. Cal merely looked dry.
As well as Peg-Leg, the aviary featured a half-grown emu with a limp. It had had a toe amputated, but that didn’t stop it having a very cheeky look in its eye, or attacking George Carter’s hip pocket, presumably in search of cake, which was certainly what Mr Wainwright then produced from his clean and pressed but baggy grey flannels for it. If it hadda have a name, the old man admitted grudgingly to Sloane’s enquiry, you could call it Ollie, he supposed. The younger men swallowed smiles as Sloane eagerly held out a piece of cake to Ollie Emu.
A cluster of parakeets was dozing high in one of the trees: they were free to come and go, most of the aviary was not roofed over by the wire mesh, which was largely intended, Sloane realised, to stop the ambulatory wounded like Ollie Emu and Peg-Leg wandering out, or dingoes and the farm dogs getting in. The parakeets were perfectly healthy and had invited themselves to join the group. The roofed structure sheltered a half-asleep sulphur-crested cockatoo that had suffered a broken wing that had never set right—it could only flutter and had been half starved when Pete Dawkins had picked it up out in the bush; a collection of native crested pigeons, all asleep, which Mr Wainwright, with a scornful grunt, stigmatised as vermin: they were self-invited, too; and in a nest of straw next to a large tin bath full of water, two sad-looking, half-bare black swans.
“They are a pair,” said Cal on a grim note. “Swans mate for life, you know. Would have been too cruel to save the one, but they both seem to be pulling through.”
“What happened to them?” gasped Sloane in horror.
“Bloody tourists, we think. During the last conference but one they had over at Lallapinda. Well, we don’t know, exactly, Sloane.”
“They think it might have been brandy—some sort of alcohol, anyway—the bastards poured on them,” said Kendall hoarsely.
“Yeah. Well, if they’d doused ’em with petrol they’d have been incinerated. Pete’s theory is they sprinkled them with brandy, let them go, and then—” Cal shrugged.
“Yes,” said Sloane, gulping, blinking back tears.
“They look worse than they are. Well, the cob, he had a nasty burn on his chest, but it’s healing okay. Mum had some ointment that seems to work on birds as well as humans. The pen’s wing-feathers copped it badly but she wasn’t really scorched.”
“I see. Will they—will they ever fly again, Cal?” she said huskily.
“I dunno, Sloane.”
“That’s not so bad. Thing is, they can’t swim properly. Tend to sink,” said his father.
“Oh!” said Sloane, putting her hand to her mouth. “How dreadful!”
“Makes you ashamed to belong to the human race,” said George grimly.
“Mm,” she gulped.
Cal swallowed a sigh. “I’ve seen worse. –Nothing that anybody from round here ’ud do, mind you. But— Oh, well. They’re eating. It was a job to find out what the Hell they would eat, though. Didn’t fancy Mum’s cake, at first,” he said wryly.
“They’ll take it now. –We rang the Adelaide Zoo, in the end. Figured that if they couldn’t tell us, they’d put us on to someone who could,” said his father. “Cal and Pete took it in turns to trek down to the creek twice a day to bring ’em back fresh tucker. Had to put it in the water so’s they’d scoop it up.” He bent, very creakily, and offered the swans a little cake. The big beaks snapped and Sloane saw the old man’s fingers had been nipped, but he neither flinched nor yelped.
The Lallapinda revenge and the entrapment of Kendall Burgoyne had begun to seem entirely petty and beneath consideration. And Kendall himself had begun to seem altogether less attractive to Sloane than he had last night, and considerably less of a man than was the hidebound macho Aussie male who laid himself out to look after the welfare of a scruffy collection of wounded birds and an elderly father whose occupation was gone.
But on their return to the house Mrs Wainwright immediately undid most of what the trip to the aviary had done by saying tolerantly: “Did they show you that thing he calls his aviary, dear? Well, it keeps him and his father amused, I suppose.”
A familiar rage with the self-satisfied, complacent Mrs Wainwright and the smugly self-centred, ultra-comfortable way of life that had been the Wainwrights’ on Muwullupirri for generations—and that might still have been the Mannings’ on Lallapinda but for Robert Burgoyne—re-engulfed Sloane. She was far too angry to reflect that at least eighty percent of the tolerant scorn with which Mrs Wainwright referred to her male belongings was due to her cultural conditioning and that in fact the old lady was very proud both of her son and of his efforts to give his embittered old father an interest in his declining years.
“Yes: it’s sweet, isn’t it?” she replied with a wide smile. “I had no idea that Cal was such a New Age man, under that terribly macho exterior!” She looked at him admiringly, and giggled in a manner worthy of Kitten herself. This very clearly cut no ice with Cal: he looked at her drily, not smiling; but Kendall scowled.
Mr Wainwright sat down heavily in his big chair, saying testily: “Don’t talk such tripe, girl! And what on earth’s a New Age man, when it’s at home?”
“It’s a man who’s not afraid to let the feminine, caring side of his nature show,” explained Sloane dulcetly, fluttering her eyelashes a bit.
Old Mr Wainwright gave a terrific snort.
Sloane felt a certain sympathy with him; her eyes twinkled but she said: “Real men eat quiche these days, you know, Mr Wainwright!”
Julie Carter laughed, and tried hurriedly to turn it into a cough.
Mr Wainwright sniffed and hunched himself into his chair.
“Just ignore him, Sloane, dear,” said his wife placidly. “He had quiche for lunch himself, just the other day.”
From almost anyone else Sloane would have scored this forty love against herself: but Mrs Wainwright not only appeared perfectly serious, she was.
“Mum makes a decent quiche,” said Cal grimly. “And talking of food, is Ingrid coming over, or not?”
“I don’t know. She did say she’d try to. –Don’t wait for her, though, Mrs Wainwright,” said Sloane quickly.
“That’s all right, dear, it’s not time for afternoon tea yet. Now, tell me about yourself, Sloane. What are you doing these days?”
Warily Sloane began to tell her about RightSmart. The enquiry, she knew, was not aimed at her professional activities but at her private life. But she wasn’t about to let it be apparent that she knew. The interrogation was prolonged and by the time it had reached the point of Mrs W.’s having to hear what Melodie was up to, these days, Sloane was feeling slightly desperate: the more so because Kendall was looking bored and had given up even trying to address a few words to her. Every time he tried Mrs Wainwright blocked him. By this time Sloane was beginning to think it wasn’t coincidental and was also beginning to wonder in horror if Mrs Wainwright had picked on her, Sloane, as being suitable for Cal. Help! And she’d thought it would drive the old lady mad if she pretended to make eyes at him!
With the arrival of Ingrid and Ward things began to look up—though as Mrs Wainwright wondered on meeting him if he was an uncle that she hadn’t met not everybody present looked as if they felt things were immediately looking up. But Sloane was at least able to feel that it took the spotlight off her.
Ward Reardon, after the initial shaky start, was soon looking quite at home, and capably drawing out Mr Wainwright on the subject of the rural economy, though whether he really agreed with a word the old man said was impossible to tell; and encouraging Cal to talk about the property. Soon Mrs Wainwright declared she’d better get on with it and bustled out to the kitchen. Julie Carter went with her, smiling a little, but as the Manning girls hadn’t budged, Joyce Burgoyne stayed on.
Both Sloane and Ingrid knew better than to stick their oars in when old Mr Wainwright was holding forth on the rural economy or Cal was talking on the sacred male topic of the property, but it appeared Joyce Burgoyne didn’t. She had several goes and after she had been ignored three times and flattened once by Mr Wainwright and once by Ward, she got the point. “I’ll see if they need a hand,” she said grimly, getting up,
“Mrs Wainwright never needs a hand, Joyce, she’s been known to produce Christmas dinner for thirty-five unaided!” said Ingrid with a laugh.
“Nevertheless,” said Joyce through her teeth, going out.
“You cook, Ingrid?” asked Ward with a twinkle in his eye.
“No. I can do stir-fries and a decent rare steak and I don’t overcook broccoli, but that’s as far as I go,” replied Ingrid calmly.
“You’ll do!” he said with a laugh,
“I suppose you’re as bad?” said Mr Wainwright testily to Sloane.
“Not quite. Though judged by Muwullupirri standards, I would be,” said Sloane, smiling at him. The poor old man had a blue look round the mouth and she’d noticed him shifting uneasily in his chair: his hip joints playing up, probably. “I can do a roast dinner, and Wiener Schnitzel, and I bake a fair apple pie.” She stopped.
“That it?” said Cal numbly.
“Apart from stir-fries—yes.”
“Cripes,” he muttered in disgust.
Sloane looked at him sideways. “I’ve also been supporting myself since I was eighteen. Can you say as much?” She got up and walked out.
There was a short silence and then by tacit consent the men returned to the topics of the rural economy and the Muwullupirri property. Ward was not unaware that Ingrid was sitting there silently, watching them. He avoided her eye.
“Goodbye,” said Kendall Burgoyne hoarsely, engulfing Sloane’s slim, long-fingered hand in a warm and sweaty paw. He endeavoured to give her a meaning look without letting his wife see him do it.
“Goodbye; nice to have met you, Kendall,” said Sloane cheerfully. She squeezed his hand a little: Kendall suddenly looked as if he was about to explode.
Cal was not unaware of this by-play: what with the dig at him over being a rich squatter’s son who’d never had to earn his own living, he was wondering by this time why the Hell she’d accepted the invitation. To play him and Kendall off against each other? Very likely. He was an idiot ever to have asked her. Mum would’ve been quite happy to have been told he’d delivered the invitation but the Mannings hadn’t been able to make it. “I’ll see ya, Sloane,” he said grimly, opening her car door for her.
Sloane got in gracefully. “Next year, perhaps!” she said cheerfully.
“What?” said Cal numbly.
“I’ve got to get back: the office won’t run itself. Bye-ee!” she said cheerily, starting the car.
Cal shut the door grimly. “See ya.”
Sloane drove off with a cheerful wave.
... “Well?” said Ward, halfway back to Lallapinda.
“Well, what?” returned Ingrid warily.
“Well, what the fuck’s your sister up to?” he returned with feeling. “Cal Wainwright strikes me as a bloody decent type!”
“He is. Did you think he was interested in Sloane?”
“Yeah,” he said flatly.
“Oh. Um—he has known her all her life, you know, Ward. Um, well, we don’t always see the Wainwrights when we’re over here, but... He’s never paid her any attention before.”
“Then I’d say he’s started, now.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“So why was she giving that Burgoyne tit the eye?”
“Don’t blame me,” she said with a sigh.
“Uh—no. Sorry. Male solidarity, or some such: must rub off,” he admitted with a rueful grimace.
“Yes!” said Ingrid with a startled laugh.
They drove on, more or less west.
“That right, what you said about not being able to cook?” he said abruptly.
“Yes,” replied Ingrid calmly.
“Mm. Well, I reckoned there was only a fifty-fifty chance you’d said it to wind the Wainwrights up.”
“I might say it to wind Cal up, he takes himself a bit too seriously, but I wouldn’t tease old Mr Wainwright. He’s got dreadful arthritis: did you notice his hands?”
“Yeah,” said Ward with a grimace. After a moment he put a heavy hand on her thigh and squeezed it hard.
“Don’t you have to leave straight away?” said Ingrid calmly.
“Yeah. Look,” he said, licking his lips: “I will get in touch, Ingrid, the minute we get back to Sydney: okay?”
“Mm.”
“Do you want to keep on with it or NOT?” said Ward loudly.
Ingrid swallowed. “Yes, I do,” she said evenly, not looking at him. She hesitated, and then took one hand off the wheel and put it lightly on top of the hand that was on her thigh.
“Then could you for Pete’s sake stop the car for a moment?” he said hoarsely.
She drew in sedately to the side of the rutted track—though there was nothing in sight to the horizon except dust.
Ward pulled her into his arms and kissed her greedily. After a moment he pulled one hand over to his fly. Ingrid didn’t draw it away, but when he paused for breath she looked up at him and said dubiously: “I don’t like doing it in cars.”
“No,” he said, scowling. “Okay. Well, nor do I. Just a kiss, okay?”
“Mm,” said Ingrid, letting herself be kissed again.
When he tried to edge her skirt up, however, she said: “No, don’t.”
“I just—”
“I don’t like anything... grubby,” said Ingrid in a low voice. –She had, of course, been doing it, more or less, in cars since she was about fourteen. Nevertheless she felt very strongly at this moment that it was grubby and that she didn’t want to fumble around in the car with Ward. Though she could not have said precisely why she felt it.
“Uh—no,” said Ward, rather shaken. She was a pretty classy girl, all right. “Okay, sweetheart: we won’t do anything grubby. But you will see me when we get back to Sydney, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Ingrid, holding up her face again.
He kissed her hard, then hid his face in her neck. Ingrid hugged him gently, rather puzzled. When he hadn’t moved for an appreciable period, she said: “Are you okay?”
“I suppose so,” said Ward with a sigh, sitting up. He looked at his watch. “Shit. Come on, we’d better get back, don’t want to get up the boss’s nose.”
She nodded, and started the car.
Ward put his hand back on her thigh and left it there for the rest of the way, not speaking.
To her surprise, though he did tell her not to get out of the car when they got to Lallapinda homestead, he leaned over and kissed her very hard, right in front of the house, with Mr and Mrs Bailey and three sets of guests sitting there on the verandah having drinks. “I’ll ring you the minute we get back,” he said huskily.
“Fine,” said Ingrid calmly. Not pointing out that if he was that keen he could ring her from Western Australia. “Have a good trip.”
“Yeah,” said Ward heavily, getting out. He bent down. “See ya soon, then, Ingrid.”
“’Bye,” said Ingrid, smiling calmly. She started up and drove off, with a little wave.
She made it all the way to the spot where the Lallapinda track met the main road before her wrists and knees went all wobbly and she had to stop the car and take some deep breaths. She was almost sure she’d done it. Ward Reardon! ...But why the Hell she felt so shaky instead of indecently triumphant, she couldn’t have said. Because she’d had every intention of feeling indecently triumphant.
Sloane was already home, of course, when she got back. According to Karen, down the beach, sulking. Ingrid shrugged a little, but ran down to the beach. Sloane was sitting under the umbrella, hugging her knees.
Ingrid sat down beside her. “I think I’ve cracked it with Ward,” she said cautiously.
Sloane stared out to sea. “Good.”
“What’s up?” said Ingrid cautiously.
Sloane sighed. “Nothing. I think Kendall might ring me, when he gets back home.”
“That’s as far as you could reasonably get at this stage.”
“Yes. –Did you notice old Mr Wainwright’s hands?”
“Yeah. But then, they’ve been bad for a long time.”
“Yes. He likes the aviary,” she revealed abruptly.
“Uh—that dumb thing that Ma W. was telling us about?”
“It’s NOT DUMB!” shouted Sloane.
Ingrid blinked. “If you say so.”
“I thuh-think Cal did it all so as to give the old boy an—an interest,” said Sloane, her lips trembling.
“Probably. Well, good on him.”
Sloane stared out to sea. After quite some time she said: “I just wish we could find someone nice for Cal.”
“Oh.” Ingrid looked at her sideways. “We don’t know anyone nice, Sloane.”
Sloane gave a hard laugh. “You can say that again!”
On second thoughts, Ingrid didn’t bother. Help. The last thing they needed was for Sloane to go soft on it all. Ingrid thought she could manage Ward Reardon okay, and possibly Kitten could manage Hugo Kent as well as she seemed to think she could. But if it started to go wrong, they’d need Sloane’s input: she’d always been the hard-headed one, who kept her cool in all their plots. Though admittedly none of their plots had been on quite this scale, before.
“I didn’t see anything of Kitten at Lallapinda. Any news?” she said cautiously.
“Mm? Oh: Kym saw a four-wheel-drive heading down the track to the hut a bit back,” said Sloane dully.
“Well, good!” she cried.
“Mm.”
“Well, it is, Sloane!” said Ingrid vigorously. “Considering that this time yesterday she hadn’t even laid eyes on him!”
Sloane gave her a startled look, and they both laughed.
Ingrid relaxed a bit. She could see that Sloane was still upset over something or other. But she didn’t probe: she didn’t want to know. They’d decided on a course of action, so they might as well get on with it.
After a few moments, when Sloane said in a low voice: “I won’t look back. No regrets,” she jumped a foot, even though it was more or less what she’d been feeling, herself.
“No. No regrets,” she agreed quickly.
Even though Wendy had cut short the afternoon part of the trek the four-wheel-drive was waiting for them on their return. Hugo hurried upstairs to fetch his bags and Kitten retrieved her carryall from behind the front desk where she’d left it.
Chris Bailey was on the desk. She hesitated, then said cautiously: “Dear, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Kitten was aware of the lanky form of Pete Dawkins lounging in the front doorway. “Yes, of course, Mrs Bailey. He’s really a nice man,” she said earnestly.
Chris swallowed a sigh. “Mm. Well, enjoy yourself, dear.”
“Thanks!” said Kitten with a beaming smile, going out.
Pete grabbed the bag off her as she emerged onto the elaborate stone porch. “Gimme that.” Kitten favoured him with a blinding smile and surrendered the bag. “I’m not so flamin’ naïve as Chris Bailey, so I won’t ask you if you know what you’re doing,” he said in a thoughtful voice. Kitten gave a smothered giggle. “And I can see he’s pretty well the same sort of cool customer as you are yourself. So I won’t say, Go easy on the poor bugger. But I will say, Watch yourself.”
Kitten gave him a disconcerted glance. After a moment she said sulkily: “Why?”
Pete took a deep breath. “Because you may not be immune after all, you silly little thing.”
“Oh, pooh!”
“Listen,” he said, grabbing her arm.
Kitten pouted. “What?”
“This is gonna sound bloody silly,” he muttered. “Uh—look, Kitten, if you ever end up really in the shit—I mean really in the shit, something where your family’s not gonna be of any use to you—not that Dick and Karen ever have been, far’s I can see—uh, well, look, you can come to me. I’ve got my hut on Muwullupirri, no-one ever comes there. And I’m not kidding myself you can do without a bloke for more than three minutes at a stretch, so, uh, if you need it, that’s on offer, too. For what it’s worth. If and when ya want it.”
Kitten swallowed. “Live in your hut?” she squeaked.
“Yeah. Go on, laugh.”
“I’m not laughing...” She stared into space. Finally she said: “I think you’re a very masculine man.”
“Thanks,” gulped Pete.
“But our goals in life are diametrically opposed,” said Kitten solemnly.
Wincing, Pete agreed.
“But I accept. If I’m ever in real trouble I will come to you. –What if I’m pregnant?”
“That, too,” he said unemotionally.
“Yes. Well, I always take precautions. But you never know. –What if I got AIDS?”
Pete swallowed a sigh. She always had been ’orribly ’ard-’eaded, the Kitten. “Yeah: that, too. Any sort of strife. But, uh, not just practical things. Any time ya can’t cope: geddit?”
She nodded solemnly. “Thanks. Though so far I always have coped.”
“Mm. Come on, then,” he said, pulling her on with a hand under her elbow.
Kitten hung back. “You could kiss me, if you like.”
“Uh—in front of the flaming homestead: right. With them wallies from the Big Smoke looking on. Not to mention the few Yanks that didn’t inflict themselves on us for today’s little do. Thanks very much.”
She looked up at him uncertainly. “I’d like you to.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Pete drily. “Come on: your poncy Pommy boyfriend’ll be wondering where you are.”
Kitten accompanied him silently.
She got into the driver’s seat automatically. Pete eyed her sardonically. “You’re in charge, are ya?”
“What? Oh! Um, well, I know the short-cut.”
“Right. We’ll send out the search party first light tomorrow.”
“Hah, hah,” said Kitten unemotionally.
Out of the corner of his eye Pete could see the Top Panjandrum heading for them. Hadn’t even changed out of the poncy riding gear: he must be keen. He stood back, looking wry. When the bloke came up to them he said: “Ask her if she can manage them gears.”
“Kitten, can you drive a four-wheel-drive?” said Hugo with a laugh in his voice.
“I thought you could do the gears. I know the short-cut, you see,” she said on a plaintive note.
Swallowing a sigh, Pete called out: “See ya!” and walked off without waiting to see if she was gonna bother to reply. He had, of course, made an almighty tit of himself. But Jesus, that kid had “riding for a fall” written all over her! Top Panjandrums like his Muckamuckship ate little kittens like her for breakfast. Just as a starter.
“Move over!” said Hugo, smiling at her. “You can show me the short-cut.”
There was really nothing to see. Not that you could explain. But if she insisted his male pride would be wounded. Kitten moved over into the passenger’s seat obediently, glancing uncertainly at Pete’s retreating back as she did so.
Hugo swung himself in, grinning. “Ready? Let’s go!”
They drove in silence as far as the main gate of Lallapinda. Once or twice he glanced at her, and smiled. Kitten’s heart was beating very fast; she smiled back tremulously.
At the gate she said: “Go left, Hugo.”
“What?”
“There.”
Hugo looked blankly at the arid, dusty plain.
Kitten pointed.
“Kitten, are you sure? I can’t see a track.”
“There isn’t a track, as such. But that’s the way.”
He hesitated. “I think it would be safer to stick to the road.”
“But it takes nearly two hours longer.”
“Oh.”
There was a short silence,
“Very well,” he said, swinging the thing to the left.
After about five minutes she said: “No, you’re going too far left.”
Hugo pulled up. “I think you’d better drive this lap.”
“Okay. When we get to the bit where we meet the track to the hut, you can do it: it’s all bumpy.”
“Mm.” He looked at her sideways.
Kitten raised her bum. “You slide over first, and then I’ll—”
Hugo was rather flushed. He managed to manoeuvre himself under her warm, plump curves. “There!” he gasped.
“Ooh!” said Kitten with a giggle, rubbing her bum against his genitals.
“Come here,” he said thickly, pulling her down onto his knee. He mumbled his face into her neck.
Kitten closed her eyes and sighed. When she heard his breathing deepen, however, she reluctantly removed herself and slid into the driving seat. “We’d better get on!” she said with a smothered giggle. “Or we’ll never make it before dark.”
“Mm,” said Hugo faintly, biting his lip.
Kitten looked sideways at his pants, and smiled.
“Yes,” said Hugo through his teeth, grabbing her hand and putting it on him.
She caressed him for a moment, smiling. Then she said: “Better get going.”
“Uh—yes!” he agreed groggily, opening his eyes.
She let the clutch in and they set off.
There was, as far as Hugo could see, no landmark of any kind. He stood it as long as he could and then said: “Listen, for God’s sake! Are you quite sure you know where we are?”
“Yes. We’ll come out on the road in about twenty minutes.”
He sat back, chewing on his lip.
They drove on. The westering sun was now behind them. In front of them was nothing. Not a blade of grass, certainly not an animal or bird in sight, no trees, not even any stumps…
“Darling, I don’t want to criticise, but are you quite sure this is the way?”
“Yes; we’re nearly there.”
They drove on…
Quite suddenly they bumped over a slight rise and emerged onto an almost-paved road.
“Good God,” said Hugo limply.
“The track to the hut’s just up the road,” she said. “On the far side. You want to drive?”
He could see that on the opposite side of the road the ground was rougher: he nodded silently.
“I could slide over!” said Kitten with a muffled giggle. She raised her sunglasses and looked naughtily at his pants.
“Come on, then.” said Hugo hoarsely, taking his sunglasses off.
Kitten hadn’t thought he’d want to, on a public road. She smiled, and slid onto his lap. Hugo gave a muffled groan, put his arms right round her, crushing her breasts, and strained himself against her.
Several heart-stopping moments passed, Then Kitten squirmed on his knee and turned her face up to his. Hugo kissed her hungrily, shaking a little. “Darling—” he said hoarsely.
Kitten was fumbling for his dick. She got the zip down, but he was pulling her so tightly against him— Then he released his grip and she got it out.
“God!” said Hugo with a gasp, hiding his face in her shoulder. He looked up, panting a little. Kitten had time to resister with surprise that his eyes were full of tears before he covered her mouth with his.
Kitten let Hugo Kent kiss her hotly and wetly, mumbling his mouth backwards and forwards across hers, tangling his tongue fiercely with hers, mumbling across her lips again— She was just about capable of realising as he did it that he was the most exciting kisser she’d ever met.
“There isn’t much room!” she said breathlessly as he slid her jeans zip down, panting.
”No,” agreed Hugo faintly, forcing his hand down inside the jeans as he kissed her.
Kitten kissed him back fiercely and raised her bum up so as he could get his hand into her jeans and clutched one strong shoulder very hard with one hand, rubbing his member frantically with the other, for the moment quite losing sight of the fact that he was Hugo Kent and she was Kitten Manning, let alone of anything approaching tactics. They both shuddered as he got a finger inside her. Hugo wrenched the white singlet down over her shoulder and shoved his face against her bare breasts for a moment, panting. “I think I might come,” he admitted in a very muffled voice. “I haven’t had it for a long time.”
Kitten’s nostrils flared: it was a mixture of triumph that he’d admitted something so personal to her, triumph that he wanted to come, and an overwhelming urge to come herself. “Mm,” she said through her teeth.
“Darling,” said Hugo faintly, moving his finger in her.
“Hu-go!” said Kitten in a very high voice: “I’ll come if you keep doing that!”
“Mm. Come. Please,” he said in her ear.
“You—too!” she gasped, her face contorting.
“Mm.” Hugo bit her neck gently.
Kitten gave a shriek and moved fiercely on his finger. Panting, he shoved himself against the hot little hand.
The second time he bit her neck it was harder, and he was panting and gasping. Kitten let out a shriek like a steam train and came furiously; at the same time, he flung back his head and gave an agonised series of yells, exploding violently into her hand.
Neither of them would have dreamed for an instant of calling it grubby. Hugo lay collapsed against her, panting, the sweat making great patches on his white silk shirt. Kitten’s head was flung right back: her eyes were open and glazed. Eventually he managed to say groggily: “Darling.” And drop a kiss on her chin.
Kitten blinked and smiled dazedly.
“I didn’t exactly plan that,” said Hugo faintly.
“No. It was good, though,” she murmured.
“Mm.”
By the time Kitten was herself again he still hadn't moved. “Come on, shall we go?” she said, sitting up and smiling at him.
Hugo blinked. “Er—yes, very well, darling. Oh—I was going to drive, wasn’t I?”
“Yes.” Kitten managed him competently into the driver’s seat, found some tissues in the glove compartment, mopped herself and him, and, Hugo by this time had a feeling, would have zipped his trousers for him if he’d let her. He didn’t know that he would really have minded: being managed by Kitten was next-door to Nirvana.
“Show me which way to go, darling,” he murmured.
Competently Kitten showed him which way to go.
The “hut” was very small, but it wasn’t badly appointed, if very basic. The floor was covered with a bright vinyl and there was a large double bed, a rug by the bed, and two chairs and a small table by the window, overlooking the sea. The bathroom was a tiny lean-to affair, likewise the kitchen. There was no proper stove, only a camping-gas burner, but Kitten said cheerfully that they’d manage. The fridge, also gas-driven, was an old high-shouldered Frigidaire that was like the first fridge Hugo remembered in the house in South Yarra: it had produced home-made ice cream that always tasted faintly of machinery, but whether that was the fridge or the electric beater, Hugo had never been able to determine. His mother had done most of the cooking herself and the big electric beater had been her pride and joy, when he was about five. The bachelor uncle who had preceded Hugo as head of the firm had scoffed at Hugo’s mother’s interest in domesticity and at Hugo’s father’s partiality for the old house, which when Hugo was a little boy his parents had shared with his elderly grandfather, but that hadn’t stopped Uncle John from eating Mother’s ice cream! Somehow Hugo found he was imparting all these details to Kitten as she bustled around in the tiny place, unpacking the cartons of provisions that had mysteriously appeared in the four-wheel-drive. He was eventually driven to ask where the stuff had all come from.
“Well,” Kitten explained, straightening and smiling: “I asked Mrs Bailey if she could put us up some stuff. I’m afraid she’ll have put it on your bill: I didn’t expect it’d be this much.”
· “Very practical!” said Hugo, laughing. “No, no, that’s fine: of course it must go on my bill, silly one! –What’s in here? Ice cream, I hope!” he said, opening a large polystyrene hamper.
There was ice cream, butter and beer. A lot of beer. Hugo looked at it rather limply, the more so as there had also been two dozen unchilled cans in the back of the four-wheel-drive.
“I hope you like beer,” she said on an anxious note,
He rarely drank it, actually, but suddenly it seemed just the thing. “Yes,” he said, opening a can of lager and attacking it forthwith.
Kitten looked up at his strong throat in the open-necked shirt and suddenly gulped and looked away.
“What?” said Hugo, lowering the can with a deep sigh.
Her eyelashes fluttered wildly. “Nothing,” she said faintly, turning away from him.
He put an arm round her from behind and leaned his cheek on the curly mop. “Not nothing, darling.”
“I’m just so glad you’re you and we’re here!” said Kitten in a high voice.
He pulled her gently against him. “So am I.”
After quite some time she swallowed and said huskily: “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, very. Can you cook?” he asked with a laugh in his voice.
Unlike her sisters, Kitten had been to every form of cooking class known to humanity. Or at least to that part of it which inhabited the more affluent stretches of Sydney. She could do, amongst others, your cordon bleu, your genuine Thai, three different varieties of Chinese, and even Japanese, though as that had been taught by an Australian lady who had lived in Japan while her husband was with the Consulate, she had her doubts about it. None of the classes had impressed her very much: apart from her newspapers and magazines a great deal of her leisure reading consisted of cookery books. Not the ones with the large, shiny coloured pictures. Like the wine-tasting classes, the cooking courses had all been in the pursuance of the attributes most likely to be desirable in a rich man’s wife. It might have been pure luck that she had met Hugo Kent at Lallapinda, but Kitten Manning never had been one to leave much to chance.
“Yes. It’ll have to be steak, we’ll need to eat the meat up, the freezing compartment will only hold one carton of ice-cream.”
“Er—mm,” he said, hurriedly putting it in there.
“There’s some tins of mushrooms... I’ll do Boeuf Bourguignonne tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t that require red wine?” he murmured, investigating the large Tupperware container she’d put at the bottom of the fridge. Fruit. In the fridge? Mother had always had a bowl on the kitchen dresser.
“It’s in the car: could you get it, please? Um, it’s a whole carton. It might be heavy,” she said, pinkening.
“There’s nothing wrong with my back.” Hugo looked down at her in amusement. “I’ll prove it to you later tonight,” he murmured, going out.
Mrs Bailey had given them an incredible number of tins of sliced mushrooms, possibly out of a feeling that they were suitably up-market. As there was also a carton of sour cream, Kitten decided to turn tonight’s steak into Beef Stroganoff. She had got as far as slicing it and heating up the pan when he came up behind her and put his arms round her, squeezing her breasts gently and pressing his erection against her bum. By this time Kitten had been wondering if he was ever going to! She turned the gas off under the pan, shoved the half-sliced meat in the fridge, and let him take her through to the big bed and demonstrate to her very thoroughly that there was nothing wrong with his back. First making sure he used a condom while he did it.
They eventually ate at around nine. Left to himself Hugo would probably have ignored the steak and settled for bread and cheese, but Kitten finished off the cooking efficiently and served the steak up with potatoes sprinkled with a little dried marjoram and tinned green beans that she’d almost managed to make taste edible. Revealing with a laugh that although it was a trade secret she could tell him that it involved thyme and a little olive oil.
“Mrs Bailey seems to have given you plenty of dried herbs,” he noticed.
“I asked her to,” said Kitten serenely. “–I like that dressing-gown: it suits you.”
“Good.” Hugo Kent ate Beef Stroganoff made with tinned mushrooms, together with tinned beans jollied up with olive oil and thyme and plain boiled potatoes sprinkled with marjoram, with a smile on his face.
He was delighted to help with the dishes after dinner, standing very close to her in the tiny kitchen. Kitten didn’t kid herself that he was doing anything but playing House; it was nice, though. After that he was very eager to go back to bed so she let him bundle her up in his arms and take her there, squealing and giggling.
Quite some time later, when he’d proved his manhood again and was fast asleep, Kitten was still awake. The hut was warm: there was no air-con, of course. She got out of bed and opened the door, making sure the screen door was secured against the mozzies. There was a little breeze off the sea. Kitten stood there for a while, thinking. There was no problem in bed: he was lovely, and he turned her on like anything: she only had to be in the same room with him for her knees to go all weak, so that was all right. And very clearly her effect on him was just as strong. In the immediate future, he was hers, that was certain. But after a week or ten days, when he’d have to get back to work— Hmm…
Hugo woke up the next morning with a tremendous hard-on and with very little ado put it into her blinking and half-awake but soft and willing pink form. Paradise on earth.
Afterwards he lay back smiling. “Oh, brave new year, that has such a Kitten in it,” he murmured.
Kitten knew he’d got it wrong: it wasn’t “year”, it was “world.” She didn’t correct him. “Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand and pinkening. “It is a brave new year, Hugo!”
Even the Kitten couldn’t fake a blush. She was, indeed, terribly pleased he’d said it. And she felt more than ever that he was the most attractive male human being that ever walked. In the same spilt second, however, she was thinking: Well, he was hooked for the time being. But that was only a start. If she ever wanted him to marry her and buy Lallapinda for them to live in she’d really have to play her cards right.
Even her sisters wouldn’t have believed that all these thoughts and emotions were equally genuine. Pete Dawkins might have had some inkling of it, but even he would probably have had difficulty in crediting that the Kitten wanted to be loved and cherished by Hugo for the rest of his life just as much as she wanted to be the third Mrs Hugo Kent and the mistress of Lallapinda.
Next chapter:
https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-big-smoke.html
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