The Coral Tree (6 page)

CHAPTER SIX

THE LAST DAY went quickly for Cary. She packed her bags and sent them up to the station; she settled her bill; she slipped a reward into Hilde
’
s hand; she said au revoir to the Misses Whitney, reminding them that it was only that and not farewell, since they must still consider a visit to the Commonwealth. And she went out to Jan Luknit.

In the Australian manner she did not say “goodbye”. She put her hand in his, gave it a firm grasp, smiled “Good luck until I see you,” then came back to the hotel.

At the top of the steps she turned and waved to him.

He stood very still looking after her. Then he straightened up and waved back.

Afterwards Cary was to regret her choice of words because of Jan
’
s interpretation, but just then they meant nothing at all to her other than her parting gesture; they meant as much as had that kiss she had thrown to him from the chairlift ascending the Horn.

Not looking back, she ran inside.

She left Mungen at five that evening, and from then on it was the usual confused dream of foreign place-names—Spiez, Berne, Basle, Calais, then at last Boulogne, and waiting to take them to Folkestone the
Maid of Orleans.

There was a raw wind blowing and the cr
o
ssing was rough, but Cary did not notice.

At Victoria Station she waited to pass the Customs under a notice telling her she must not bring any Musk-rats, Parrots or Snuff.

“I only brought a ruby-red sweater,” she smiled to the officer, and he must have believed her. He scrawled his magic sign on her bags, grinned, then turned to the next traveller.

An hour later Cary had found a room in a small hotel. Half an hour after that she was pushing a legal door bearing the notice “Please Knock and Enter.”

“I
’
m home, Mr. Beynon,” she said.

Over the tea for which the solicitor had rung at once, Mr. Beynon ventured: “Did you mean that, Miss Porter?”

She looked at him questioningly and he reminded: “You said just now you were
home
.”

There was no hesitation in Cary now.

“No, I really meant I was back. My home will not be in England. I
’
m going out again to Australia.”

“And Clairhill?”

Cary said quietly: “And Clairhill.”

The solicitor nodded with satisfaction. “I told you those snowy giants would bring a solution,” he reminded.

“They didn
’
t really. I found the answer in a valley.” Cary related the discovery of the lodge; she told him of the work being done there; she confided her plans to do the same in Australia.

Again he nodded, this time with admiration as well as satisfaction. It was the same admiration that the two Miss Whitneys had given her, and Cary felt embarrassed. She had not even
started
to achieve, she thought. To change the subject she handed over the sweater.

Mr. Beynon tore a little corner from the wrapping, and was so delighted with the color, he told Cary he thought he would add a pair of earrings to match.

“It is our anniversary month
,
Miss Porter. Having your postcards from Mungen made us both feel on our honeymoon again. Will you come and help me choose?—and while we
’
re out we could call at the shipping offices and inquire as to sailing dates.” As they went together out of the building, the solicitor asked his client whether she had any preference in sea routes. “Perhaps, though, Miss Porter,” he added, “you intended to fly.”

Cary said she had not intended flying. She wished to conserve her money as much as possible; she also looked forward to an enforced leisurely month or so planning her first important steps in this new venture.

To Mr. Beynon
’
s question she answered: “The first available ship will do admirably.”

W
hen the shipping clerk announced that there was a cancellation a fortnight from now via the Cape she turned to the solicitor
.

“I
’
ll take that berth,” she instructed.

On their way back to the office Mr. Beynon told Cary that she need not have been in such a hurry.

“There
is
need,” she corrected him. “Haven
’
t you ever felt so anxious to begin that you can
’
t begin too soon?”

Mr. Beynon explained that he had a representative in Sydney. This Edward Farrell would furnish him with the reports that would keep the Marlow allowance to Clairhill at a steady pace. “Steady,” he reminded, “but by no means extravagant, Miss Porter.”

“I suppose not,” she nodded resignedly. “All charitable institutions have their monetary cares, so why not Clairhill?” She thought a moment, then looked at the solicitor. “Is he a reasonable man, though?” she asked. “I mean, it will take some time for me to get established. I can
’
t get everything achieved at once.”

“You will find him very reasonable,” assured Mr. Beynon,
“have no fear of that. Naturally Farrell in his turn will depend on medical reports from someone qualified for the task, but doctors are not ogres, my dear.”

“No,” murmured Cary, remembering one who was.

She visited the Beynons one night for dinner. “I have been in touch with Farrell,” said Mr. Beynon. “He is looking forward to seeing you. Your medical yea or nay, he informs me, will depend on one of their child after-care specialists, name of Stormer, Richard Stormer.”

Cary said politely: “Oh, yes.”

On receiving a card from the Whitneys she met them at Victoria Station and later visited them in Kent. But all the while she was aware of a rising impatience. She was sick of marking time; she wanted to be off.

And then at last she was off, England crying so bitterly for her departing sons and daughters that it was almost impossible to see
Mrs. Beynon in the red sweater and ruby earrings fluttering a handkerchief from the wharf.

It was unruly weather until they reached Madeira, and Cary
’
s fellow passenger, a girl, she judged, perhaps a few years older than herself, never raised her head from the pillow.

As most of the passengers were also under the weather and the stewardesses almost run off their feet Cary took over the care of this patient.

It was not until they had left the picturesque island behind them, most of the passengers unable to sight-see and the time available for the more stalwart souls so brief that any impressions were rather vague and ephemeral, that Sorrel Browning could be persuaded to sit up.

“Have I missed much?”

Cary gave the girl a quick travelogue of the bullock-carts on the steep, narrow island streets, the sledges pulled by oxen bearing the famous wine, the rich variety of trees.

“I wish you could have come,” she concluded.

The girl in the bed regarded her with affection.

“I do believe you mean that. You
’
ve been an angel to me. Incidentally”—curiously—“are you a nurse?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“You have all the earmarks—and that comes
from
a nurse.”

“You
’
re one yourself?”

Sorrel Browning nodded. “I qualified in Australia, did a year in London, and then a year with an English family in Alexandria. Now I have itchy feet, but
a yen for home, so I
’
m going to look around my own backyard. Odd, isn
’
t it, how one neglects one
’
s own country? I never realized how much
u
ntil I was asked questions in England that I couldn
’
t answer. Do you know, apart from overseas, I
’
ve never been out of my capital city? I
’
ve never been north, south, or west.”

She stopped and smiled. It was a wide, friendly smile; Cary liked the dimple it brought and the sparkle to the dark brown eyes that matched exactly the dark-brown curly hair. “Now,” she said, “it
’
s your turn
.
”

Cary told her story in the same breezy way that the nurse had told hers. When it came to her hopes for Clairhill, Sorrel became very interested.

“It should be splendid,” she enthused. “It
’
s never been done before. Of course there are after-care establishments, but not after-care slanted especially and with emphasis on the outdoors.”

“What should be my chances of approval from the medical authorities?” asked Cary, mentioning the doctor
’
s name that Mr. Farrell had given. “Do you think such a scheme would be welcomed?”

“It should be, though I know that Richard Stormer is a very demanding gentleman. I have worked under him, and he is thorough, to say the least.”

“You make him sound a bogey.”

Sorrel looked contemplative. “No, he
’
s certainly not that, but I would say he was a perfectionist.”

Cary nodded feelingly. “I know the type—impatient of little failings. There was one at Mungen
...
”
She sat silent a moment remembering—and not liking—those moments of both silent and spoken censure.

“I hope Mr. Stormer won
’
t be too difficult,” she said at length.

Sorrel looked at her warily—too warily. “A lot might depend on the way you go about things,” she suggested slyly. “It might be well to pander a little, offer a few attractions.”

“Like?”

Sorrel, said over-innocently: “Like a certificated sister on the staff.”

Cary glanced quickly at the nurse, but it was too early yet to meet her half-way. They had still a long distance to Cape Town, and after that there was Durban, then over five thousand miles to Fremantle
and
the rest of the Australian ports. She decided to take her time.

During the following days Cary and Sorrel became firm friends, though never to the extent of discussing their futures.

They were a popular twosome on board, and the fair and the dark, the quiet stream and the chattering brook. By Cape Town they lacked no escorts to take them ashore.

They both loved the dignified city nestling beneath Table Mountain and Lion
’
s Head. They delighted in the Marine Drive flanked by the twelve apostles and the sea. They admired the Dutch-styled buildings, the churches with their surprising air of antiquity and tradition.

It was the same enjoyment at Durban, only less dignified, perhaps, more gay.

After that, with no ports of call until Fremantle, with five thousand six hundred nautical miles before them, and with only the deck-games and the pool for amusement, they began to talk more seriously of tomorrow.

“Cary,” Sorrel said one night as they lay in their twin beds, “you
were
in dead earnest when you told me of Clairhill and what you proposed to do?”

“I
’
ve come to do it,” replied Cary stoutly. “That
’
s why I
’
m here.”

A pause from Sorrel, and then:

“I am applying for the position.”

“What position?”

“Sister.”

“Does there have to be a sister? Did I mention a vacancy?” Cary could not help teasing her, though already she knew, and for some weeks had known, her answer to this.

“There doesn
’
t have to be,” returned Sorrel unperturbed, “but what better way to win that medical support you yearn for than to include a nurse on your staff?” She finished succinctly: “Also, though you didn
’
t mention a vacancy, you must admit it
’
s an idea.”

Carry nodded. “It is, but—”

“But?”

“I don
’
t like to tie you up, Sorrel. I mean, I might not get going, or I might get going and then flop. It all depends, as I told you, on this solicitor
’
s reports from the doctor
’
s reports to Beynon. You might come to Clairhill, stop only a few months and then be faced
with the problem of securing a new post.”

“That would be my worry, wouldn
’
t it?”

Cary said promptly. “No, Sorrel, it would be mine, too.”

The nurse, leaning up on one elbow, regarded her fondly. “You
’
re a darling. Well”—
w
ith a sigh—“it
’
s all settled.”

“You mean”—Cary knew a quick pang of disappointment—“it would be wiser for you to forget the whole idea.”

“I mean what I just said.
“
It
’
s all settled.
I start at Clairhill. You can tell your Mr. Farrell, Cary, I
’
m number one member, after you, on the staff.”

As Sorrel spoke, Cary knew all the old excitement surging up within her again. She propped herself up against a pillow an
d
began to babble her plans. Mrs. Heard, she told her companion, would be sure to oblige her in the domestic section. She believed she could secure some local girl to help, or perhaps Maysie, Mrs. Heard
’
s daughter, would be old enough now for that. With a
s
table-hand, a handy-man, probably Joe Heard, for the garden, perhaps an assistant cook, they should manage nicely.

She painted such a rosy picture that her inherently honest heart prompted her sharply.

“But Sorrel,” she said in the middle of her chatter, “are you quite sure? It
’
s a rather depressing place—I told you so before, and with your experience you coul
d
do much better. Tell me now. I won
’
t mind,” and she waited, anxious-eyed, for the nurse. She waited a long time and she waited for nothing. Sorrel was fast asleep.

In the morning, though, Cary
’
s fears were banished like frost in the sun. “It wasn
’
t all roses in Sydney, and the view from L
a
dy Anne Hospital in London was no picture in a frame; then Alexandria, too, might have had its moments, but, believe me, it had more moments that were
not
.”

Sorrel grinned. “No, it
’
s no use, Cary, depressing or not, no opportunity or not, I
’
m coming.”

“Come, then,” welcomed Cary, and she sat back in her deck-chair and relaxed.

Between dances and movies and the usual shipboard fun they discussed and planned until they reached Australia. Fremantle, Adelaide and Melbourne brought an intake of local tourists and the entertainment ran high until Sydney, journey
’
s end.

Sorrel wanted Cary to stay with her at her parents
’
home in the suburbs. Cary thanked her, but refused. “I
’
m only remaining in Sydney long enough to see Mr. Farrell, and then I
’
ll be off. I
’
ll come back again, of course, but I
must
go to Clairhill, Sorrel.”

“I
’
d like to come with you,” said Sorrel, “only I feel that after all this time I should spend a few weeks with Mum and Dad.”

“Of course you should spend them,” insisted Cary, “just as I should go to Clairhill.”

She meant that. Of late she had kept on thinking about the old house. She had found herself tallying up the bedrooms. Were there three on the top floor, or four? And could that lobby on the ground floor level be changed into a small dormitory? and the open veranda to a suntrap? She knew she was impatient to re-discover Clairhill, she, who once had dreaded to return. Now she could not go back too soon.

Mr. Farrell, briefly visited, turned out now to be an Australian counterpart of Mr. Beynon. Cary saw at once that the London solicitor had been right when he had promised that there would be no unreasonableness here. She came out of the office both relieved and inspired.

The obvious thing now would be to interview the medical authority, Mr. Richard Stormer to be precise, but before she did that Cary determined first to go back to the old stone house. She must get the
feel of it again, she must try to find in it what she had never found before. She must also, she thought practically, tally up the bedrooms. Were there three, or four, on that top floor?

So the next day she returned to that place of unhappy memories, to the ghosts of Ian, Megan and Alison and all their shattered dreams.

She went back to Clairhill.