The Coral Tree (12 page)

“And every hospital employee?” He paused, then said carefully: “But I
’
m sorry, Miss Porter; I shouldn
’
t have called you an employee. You are an employer, aren
’
t you, even though you do depend, the same as your underlings, on that fortnightly pay cheque. Tell me”—confidentially—“is it an ample cheque? Even though your ideals come first, you should receive what you would have received if you were—say, still a companion to a rich old lady.”

“I am quite satisfied,” said Cary.

“Very good.” He nodded twice. “Then that,” he shrugged, “I think is all. I am staying the night at Currabong and shall fly back in the morning. Would you ladies care to join me tonight at dinner?”

Cary said “No” so hurriedly that it brought Sorrel
’
s surprised eyes on her. Lamely she made the many papers she had to attend to her excuse.

Stormer did not comment. “Very well,” he accepted without regret, “another time.”

Presently he left. Still stroking Molly, Cary did not look up, but Sorrel walked with him to the end of the stalls.

“It looks a nifty plane,” she said enthusiastically when she returned. “A little Skyfarer, nicely upholstered. It will carry four.” As Cary still did not comment, she asked: “What
’
s wrong? Still got your dogs on to him? I think he
’
s nice—much nicer than you reported. You can
’
t blame him for being thorough. After all, it
’
s his job. I must say, too, you weren
’
t very affable over the invitation. We could have gone.”

“
You
could have, Sorrel.”

Sorrel glanced shrewdly at her. She noted the set line to the usually mobile mouth, the glitter in the calm eyes, the tightly
clenched hands.

Wisely, she did not comment, and, arms linked together, the girls went back to the house.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE NEXT morning an army of workmen invaded Clairhill. Cary remarked humorously to Sorrel that little Sunset must have deployed its entire working resources in order to put the old house back into use. “I
’
m sure,” she said, looking at the army, “there
’
s only this many people in the entire town.”

Mrs. Heard
’
s husband Joe was among the workers. “Joe is handy,” pleaded Mrs. Heard; “I
’
d like you to keep him in mind if you
’
re wanting anyone permanent, Miss Cary.”

“I am, and I
’
m sure Mr. Heard would suit us admirably.”

“In that case young Maysie had better come, too. She can help in the kitchen.”

Maysie was their only child, and to Cary
’
s eyes not very promising, but Mrs. Heard was a treasure, and it was worth putting up wit
h
the daughter to have the services of her mum.

Overnight, it seemed, the butterfly emerged from its chrysalis. That was an over-statement, Cary knew, but at least the house rated a second glance. From beneath the shaggy grass emerged smooth lawns shaved to perfection by petrol mowers; the unkempt gardens, rid of their entangling weeds, looked neat, if bare, and
t
he chocolate earth that composed the slopes smelled sweet and fresh and tangy.

“We must plant some annuals,” planned Cary.

Old Mark Bennow, who in the past had done some desultory gardening—even Mrs. Marlow had been unable to make him
work
—mumbled something about “Mrs. M. never going in for them things.”

“Guinea Golds, portulacas, borders of pansies and backgrounds of hollyhocks,” decided Cary, ignoring him.

When he took his shears to the oleanders and hibiscus she hurried after him. “Oh, no, you don
’
t Mark.”

“Got to be cut back.”

“Not this season.
Nor next season, either, and only a light pruning after that. They
’
ve been sheared to the ground for years.” Lazy Mark thought this over and decided it suited him. However, he wished to remain on at the cottage for the winter, in which case he must make some show of doing something.

“Mrs. M. always grumbled over that last coral,” he said, waving an arm to the end tree of the avenue, the one that tapped its leaves against the kitchen window. “Never bloomed like the others, and Mrs. M. thought it better come out.”

“Why doesn
’
t it bloom, Mark?” The bees, thought Cary, must be busy around its leafy branches as the rest of the trees.

Mark shrugged. “Ain
’
t a good
‘
un, that
’
s all. Some are,
some ain
’
t. That tree ain
’
t.” He took his axe.

“It
’
s not to come down.” Cary said it so imperiously it surprised even herself. It surprised Mark, but after a moment
’
s thought he decided this suited him, too. He wasn
’
t going to beg for work. Skirting the other toilers, he went back to his old sofa in the boundary cottage. No one, he thought, can say I didn
’
t ask.

Cary went across to the offending tree and looked upward through its branches. Though they were planted primarily for wind-break
’
s and not for beauty, for coral foliage was sketchy and the trunk formation sometimes grotesque, she loved these trees not for their use but for their peculiar charm. They had a way of silhouetting the sky between their leaves so that it looked like little blue bays set between green foreshores. Any Cinderella properties, too, were lost in winter when the trees released their bloom. Though seldom thick, each blossom was gargantuan, and covered such an area it made the tree appear a mass of flaring red.

All except this fellow, she thought ruefully, this one that was, as Bennow had put it, “not a good
‘
un”.

Sorrel had come after her, and she, too, stood looking up through the leaves.

“Mark wanted to cut it down.”

“That would be a pity. It must be lovely when the flowers push through the window.”

“It doesn
’
t flower,” said Cary slowly. She touched the tough trunk, and, standing there, suddenly she made a wish.

The carpenters got to work on partitions, cupboards, shelves and such small but important details as lowering large old-fashioned door-handles to levels accessible to little hands.

Sorrel
’
s sick-bay took shape—ample storage space, a cabinet an adult could only reach on tiptoe for drugs and medicines, a table
big enough for manipulations, several day-beds.

They decided on all white for the sick-bay. There would be sufficient color, said Cary, in the rest of the house not to make this too frighteningly austere.

The boys
’
dormitory was sunshine yellow, the girls
’
a soft mauve. In the littlies
’
room color ran riot. So did a mural of town-going, rainbow-trousered, pert little pigs.

The kitchen was face-lifted; the space set aside for the remedial gymnasium sanded and outfitted; the seventy yards of material from Mallarkey
’
s sewn into curtains, bed-covers and runners for small chests of drawers.

“I
’
d like a heated swimming-pool,” dreamed Cary, “and a covered walk to it from the house.”

“One thing
you
wouldn
’
t walk on it,” chided Sorrel fondly. “These days you
’
re on wings, my dear. Swimming-pool, indeed! You haven
’
t even allotted yourself an office yet.”

“Must I? Couldn
’
t I just put a chair beside the phone?”

“You could not. As Doctor Richard pointed out, you
’
re a boss now, Cary Porter.”

“He also reminded me that as receiving a fortnightly pay envelope I was in the same category as the employees.” Cary wished Sorrel had not brought up Stormer
’
s name. In the excitement of the past week she had successfully forgotten the specialist on whose reports, in a manner, she would be dependent for Clairhill
’
s steady flow of monetary resources.

She dismissed the dismal thought now with the gay announcement to Sorrel of a plan not so ambitious as a swimming-pool. “The exterior of the house,” she explained.

“Yes?”

“It
’
s always been a discouraging sulphur yellow.”

“It
’
s not now; it
’
s a discouraging laundry grey.”

“And will b
e
again in due time if we have it re-washed sulphur.” Sorrel said cautiously but with a dimple of anticipation in her cheek: “What color, Cary?”

Cary said: “Rosy pink.”

She brought out the paint chart, and the two girls went into a huddle over it. “With the slate-grey roof to add a soothing dove-like touch it will be just perfect. The children will love their pink house.”

“I love it already,” admitted Sorrel.

“But, unfortunately, not Carter,” sighed Cary. “Carter is typical Sunset-stuff, Sorrel. He only believes in exteriors of cream, stone and upon frivolous occasion a dull green. Even our yellow-and-mauve dorms offended him, and as for the room with the pigs
...
when I stipulate a rosy paint he
’
ll take a fit.”

“In which case you will need Sister Browning,” giggled Sorrel. “Come on, we
’
ll plead the cause of the pink house.”

Carter was plainly put out, but he was also not proof against two pretty and determined young women. Grumblingly, he ordered the paint, and the next day Clairhill began to emerge from its yellow doldrums into a soft and charming rosiness that even the surprised painter had to admit looked good.

Several evenings later Cary walked beyond the stables as far as the Currabong boundary in order to have a long view of the house. There was no denying she had chosen well. The pink walls in their green garden setting, the white windows with the rose-sprigged curtains made extra frilly and lavish because Mr. Mallarkey had been so generous with the material, delighted her so much she clapped her hands.

“I have often met self-admiration,” said a voice behind her, “but this is the first time I
’
ve met self-applause.”

The last clap echoed away. Cary s hands returned to her sides. Without moving she said perfunctorily: “Good evening Mr. Stormer.”

Suavely, he commented: “You must be familiar with my voice, Miss Porter, not to turn to see who I am. None the less, I must admit it would seem more courteous.”

She felt the color rising in her cheeks. Just as blandly she answered: “I recognized the pattern of the words, not the voice, and I
’
m sorry if you find me discourteous.”

He ignored the apology, but seized on the first answer. “You
’
re not used to frankness, are you? You
’
ve led a life where everyone addresses you in flattering little phrases dressed up to go to parties.”

Flattering phrases
...
For a moment the inaccuracy of it made Cary clench her hands. There had never been any flattering
p
hrases. Neither from Mother nor from Mrs. Marlow. There had
b
een complaints, criticism, carping, harshness, intolerance, even unkindness. There had been
w
ords spoken expressly to hurt.

The pride she had felt in the house fell down like a pack of cards. She forced herself to say politely: “You flew up, Doctor?”

He nodded to the field behind her, and this time she did turn to look.

It was a neat craft, as Sorrel had said, but it wobbled up and down, for all at once, and absurdly, there were tears in her eyes.

Perhaps, though he could not see those tears, Stormer sensed them, for presently he said, gruffly as though it came unwillingly: “I must add my applause to yours, Miss Porter. Clairhill has emerged from its ordeal better than I thought.”

It was poor praise, but she accepted it eagerly. “You like the color?”

He considered, then conceded: “It looks all right from this distance. How about the interior?”

“You must discover that for yourself.”

“I certainly will.” The ends of his mouth had gone down again; his moment of softening, if it had been softening, was over.

“Will you come, now?”

For answer he stepped over the fence and together they approached the house. He did not comment over the mown lawns an
d
weeded gardens. To bridge the rather awkward silence she found herself babbling about the coral tree that she would not permit Bennow to cut down.

“Why did he want to cut it?” Stormer asked.

“It doesn
’
t flower.”

“I see. And you, Miss Porter, have belief that one day it
will
blossom?”

She felt suddenly embarrassed and would have changed the subject, only there was about him now an odd persistence that seemed to demand a reply.

“Yes,” she said lamely, “I have belief.” She could not tell him further. She could not tell him that with that blossoming—she
knew
it—would bloom a house.

They went through each room. He neither praised nor condemned. Sorrel, hearing them, came out of the sick-bay and conducted the doctor over her realm. Remembering how he had closed the door on her before, Cary took the opportunity to escape.

She did not see him after that. Sorrel came in later full of enthusiasm over the doctor
’
s reaction to the new Clairhill. “He
’
s pleased, Cary.”

“Did he say so?”

“No, but you could tell it.”

“All I could recognize was the usual overall disapproval.”

“Darling, you
’
re touchy, and I don
’
t wonder. You
’
ve done a mighty job and now you
’
ve gone phut.”

“I am a bit depleted,” admitted Cary, sinking down on the softest chair she could find. She added, yawning: “I wonder what comes next.”

Who comes next would have been a better choice.

The following morning Cary was busy on some reports for Mr. Farrell when Sorrel ran in, her face wreathed with smiles. “Come on, darling; it
’
s operation cheesecake. Wait a minute while I tidy that hair.”

“Sorrel, what is this?”

Sorrel would not pause to explain. “There, that
’
s better. Out in front of the porch with you, Cary, and later on he wants one of you by the stables.”

“Sorrel—”

It was no use, she was being literally pushed into the brilliant sunlight. A camera clicked and a pleasant young man said: “Thanks, Miss Porter; another shot with a
bigger
smile?”

“Sorrel, if this is the press—”

“It is, but only the local
District Times,
Cary. That
’
s the worst of setting
’
one
’
s undertaking in the remote outback. It only gets published in a little pond.”

Again the camera clicked. Under protest Cary posed by the stables, one hand on Toby
’
s head. The photographer clicked his tongue as he clicked the catch of the camera. It looked a good shot.

“I don
’
t know why you
’
re so down on publicity,” Sorrel remarked as the pleasant young man drove off".

Cary shrugged. One thing, she thought, Richard Stormer in mind, Sydney
’
s papers and little Sunset
’
s would have entirely different ideas on news values.

But she was wrong. The last shot, as the young man had hoped, was one of those occasional studies about which photographers dream. It had appeal, it had sympathy, it caught Cary
’
s sweet wistfulness in such winning reproduction that the local
Times
sold it at once to a city syndicate, and two nights later it appeared on every front page.

Cary stared at it, a day later again, feeling both alarmed and aghast. Sorrel looked at it in triumph and satisfaction.

“Now we
’
ll be inundated with letters,” she said.

They were. Most were from parents of afflicted children anxious to have their own particular little sufferer a future guest at Clairhill. Some were from readers praising the project. Many enclosed a little sum to help in any way it could.

There was one letter that Cary put aside immediately. Without opening it, she knew whom it was from. There was something so unmistakably Richard Stormer in that strong, decisive hand.