Undercurrents, Page 2

  The beach curved in a crescent of pale yellow sand that was lapped by the milky froth of the warm Pacific. At the furthest reaches of this arc lay sheltering cliffs of black rock that tumbled into the turquoise sea. These rocks were streaked with red, the colour of rust – the colour of the vast outback, which sprawled only a few hundred miles west of this peaceful bay. Pine trees and bright yellow wattle jostled for position along the clifftops, their roots buried in a thick carpet of pine needles, cones and rich black soil.

  Olivia breathed in the fragrance that had been so much a part of her childhood, and as she watched the elegant pelicans glide across the water, she listened to the cries of the curlews and plovers. Home. This was home, regardless of the painful memories, regardless of the secrets she had still to uncover. Her time away had been short in the wider scheme of things, but in truth her spirit had never left. For like the native trees, her roots were buried within this black soil. She prayed only that they were deep enough to withstand the coming storm.

  *

  Giles ran a finger around his collar and wished he’d worn something more suitable. His tropical suit was rumpled and travel-stained, the collar too tight on his shirt, the tie strangling him. He pushed back the panama hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The heat reminded him of Italy, and the interminable weeks he’d spent in the POW camp after being shot down. Escape had come at a price and even in these peaceful surroundings he thought he could hear the echoes of gunfire beyond the seabirds’ cries.

  He tugged his hat forward and smoothed his moustache. He was doing this for Olivia, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter if he suffered a little discomfort. She was worth it.

  Giles eyed the young woman sitting on the bench by the shore and although she was set apart, not only by her clothing, but by her demeanour, he knew instinctively she was content to be alone. Her thoughts had to be in turmoil, and he felt he understood what coming home had to mean to her. He’d experienced something similar when he’d finally left hospital and returned to Wimbledon, but if he’d been asked to describe the overwhelming emotions of that day he’d have been hardpressed. For they were legion.

  He loosened his tie and collar and after a moment’s hesitation slipped off his jacket. The empty shirtsleeve would always be a reminder of his war, but he had to learn to come to terms with it. At least he was still alive. Placing the jacket on the ground beneath a pine tree he sat down and leaned against the rough bark. Lighting a cheroot, he watched Olivia through the drift of smoke.

  She had been a part of his life for twenty-two years and he could still clearly remember the day she and her mother had arrived in that quiet street in Wimbledon. He closed his eyes and watched again as the crates and cases were carried into the house from the removal van. His eleventh birthday was a week away and he’d been hoping their new neighbours had at least one son young enough to play with. It was lonely being an only child.

  Giles opened his eyes, his gaze immediately seeking out Olivia. He smiled at the memory of the sharp pang of disappointment he’d experienced when the little girl had emerged from the taxi. How wrong he’d been to think she couldn’t be a friend.

  Olivia had intrigued him from the start, for she was different from anyone he’d ever met. Despite being a year younger, she enjoyed the rough and tumble of his boyish games, and positively thrashed him at climbing trees and riding their ponies full tilt across the common. She was brave and energetic, never bursting into tears or telling tales, and would wear the grazes and bumps of their adventures with a bravado he’d admired.

  Giles felt the laughter bubble up as the snapshots of memory flashed before him. He’d poked fun at her accent once. He’d never done it again. For he’d soon discovered she could deliver a stinging punch as good as any boy.

  He looked across the expanse of sand to the young woman on the shore, and felt the old familiar surge of love. Olivia’s rougher edges had been smoothed by the years at a girl’s boarding school, and the accent was gone, but there were still flashes of that famous temper, of the little hoyden who’d admitted in a quiet moment to feeling out of place in what the English termed ‘society’.

  Olivia had come into her own during the war years, if the gossip on the wards were anything to go by. No-one could drive an ambulance quite as fearlessly, or deal with stroppy air-raid wardens and surgeons quite so effectively. Her energy and no-nonsense approach had served her well, and yet her gentler side had come to the fore when caring for the maimed and screaming as they had been disinterred from the burning rubble of the East End and brought into the wards.

  Giles watched as she sat deep in thought. Small and slender, the straw hat shadowing her face, there was no hint of the passion he knew was encompassed in that little body – no clue to the experiences she’d had, or the bewilderment she must be suffering over the events of the past few months. The casual observer would notice only the aura of stillness that surrounded her, the neatness of her dress and the deceptive delicacy of her frame. On closer observation perhaps they would note the depth of fire in her dark eyes and the way the chin was held so defiantly – and garner a hint of the strength of will behind the elfin facade. Perhaps get a glimpse of the lustrous black hair she had refused to cut despite fashion and matron’s orders and which lay coiled neatly at her nape.

  He flicked ash from his cheroot and sighed. How many times had he been tempted to unfasten the pins so he could run that curtain of ebony through his fingers? How many times had he wanted to kiss those dark winged brows and sweet mouth, to cup her face in his hand and feel the softness of her skin?

  He dipped his head and grinned. Olivia would box his ears for taking such liberties – and quite rightly. For he’d never told her how he felt – had never dared risk the deep friendship they had shared over the years. Now it was too late. What woman, let alone one as beautiful as Olivia, would want him now?

  Giles dismissed the fleeting moment of self-pity, recognising it for what it was, but acknowledging the truth behind it. Yet he was all too aware of the spark of hope that would not be extinguished. The hope that one day Olivia would come to love him.

  He ran his fingers over the empty sleeve. The ghost of his left arm was still there, still aching, itching, tingling with a life it no longer had, and he supposed he would eventually become used to its absence. In a way, he mused, his missing limb was like his relationship with Olivia. There, but not really in the form and solidity he wished it to be. He’d had to settle for friendship – second best – and forget all the plans he’d made at the beginning of the war for marriage, children, and a home in the country.

  He suspected she didn’t share his passion, but regarded him with deep affection as the elder brother she’d never had, the closest friend and keeper of her secrets. To speak of love would change things between them; bring an awkwardness that had never been there before, a shifting and withdrawal of their shared intimacies that would ultimately destroy what they prized. So he’d remained silent.

  He stubbed out his cheroot, careful to make certain it was well and truly dead before getting to his feet and retrieving his jacket. He was being selfish, he admitted. Thinking only of himself when Olivia was obviously deeply troubled. She had made this journey for a reason – a reason, which unusually, she had so far not shared with him. He had no doubt she would tell him when she was ready, and he must be prepared to put all thoughts of love aside and be her anchor. For he had a nasty feeling they were heading for stormy waters.

  2

  ‘Wait on a minute, why don’t ya?’ yelled Maggie Finlay as she struggled through the narrow door into the bar with the crates of beer.

  ‘A bloke could die of thirst,’ grumbled the shearer, who was in town for a few days to spend his hard–earned money before moving on to the next sheep station.

  ‘You’ll die of something far nastier if you don’t stop your whingeing,’ Maggie muttered as she stacked the crates beneath the
counter and plucked out a bottle. She looked the shearer in the eye. He was a grizzled individual, with leathery skin and bloodshot eyes. ‘Money up front, mate. You know the rules.’

  He pulled a ten bob note out of his pocket and slammed it on the counter. ‘Strewth, Maggie. What’s bitin’ you today?’

  Maggie tucked back the wisps of brown hair that had escaped the bristle of pins she used to keep it neat, and blew out a breath. ‘The heat, the flies – having to run this place on me own while Sam goes fishing. So what else is new?’

  She left him to his beer, turned back to the shelves behind the bar and began to run a damp cloth over them. Despite living so close to the shore, the outback dust still lay in a red film over everything, and Maggie wondered if she would spend the rest of her life trying to get rid of it. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirrors behind the shelves and sighed. The clean cotton dress was already sticking to her, and there was a smear of dirt where the beer crates had left their mark. Her hair, freshly washed that morning, already looked limp and dull, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She was too skinny – more like a boy than a woman in her thirties, and the lack of decent make–up didn’t improve matters either. There seems to be no time to myself any more, she thought crossly. I look a sight.

  Yet she liked living in Trinity. It was a nice little town, with enough passing trade to keep things fairly lively. Shearers and drovers came in from the Big Wide to spend their money, and the homesteaders left the awful heat of their remote stations and came to relax at their beachside cottages. All in all, she mused, she was glad she’d come here, even if the reason for the long journey north hadn’t quite been fulfilled. At least a part of her curiosity had been satisfied, and knowing what she did, she’d had to acknowledge that some things just weren’t meant to be.

  I really shouldn’t grumble, she thought as she dusted. I have work, a roof over my head and the sea to swim in – to hell with everything else.

  She looked in the mirror, gazing past her reflection to the room behind her. The hotel stood on the corner of the main street, which ran directly down to the shore. It was almost a hundred years old and had so far managed to escape fire, flood and the pestilence of white ants, but it needed a coat of fresh paint and some of the windows were webbed with cracks. Painted brown, it had two storeys, both surrounded by wrap–round balconies where the guests could sit in the shade and watch the world go by. The old hitching rails were still embedded along the kerb, but most of the hotel patrons arrived in utes and cars these days.

  The bar was similar to any other in Australia, dark and sombre with fly papers hanging from the ceiling and a rickety old fan stirring the hot air in an attempt to cool the patrons down. There were a couple of rough wooden benches set against the walls, but most of their customers preferred to lean against the polished pine bar with their boots resting on the brass railing that ran just above the floor.

  Maggie would have liked tables and chairs and vases of flowers about the place. Gingham curtains would have looked nice at the windows, and perhaps a bit of carpet to deaden the noise. Yet she knew this was out of the question. This was a man’s world and not even a second world war could alter that. They liked things unchanged, and probably didn’t even notice just how run–down and shabby the place was.

  Women and their fancy ideas were still relegated to the lounge or the verandah, and after almost a year of working here, Maggie approved. After all, what lady would want to hear a load of blokes swearing and boasting, the volume rising in direct parallel to the amount of beer consumed? Fights broke out regularly – never anything too serious – but it was why the furnishings were kept to a minimum, and women kept out.

  Maggie grinned, gave the shelves one more swipe and began to wash the glasses. She knew why she was having a bit of a blue – Sam. Impossible man. Impossible to deny her feelings for him. If only he would notice her – see her as more than a good manager and barmaid – see her as a woman. But she suspected Sam thought of her as just someone to clean and cook and take care of his business. A companion at the meal table, someone to chat to when the bar was closed and they could rest for an hour before retiring to their separate rooms.

  Samuel White was the owner of the Trinity Hotel. A war hero who’d returned from Europe to find his wife and son had perished in a bush fire. He had turned away from life in the outback and had invested in this place. At forty–two he was ten years older than Maggie, but still had the energy of a man half his age. Tall, lean and tanned by the sun, his dark hair was winged with grey. He wasn’t handsome in the ordinary way, not until he smiled. Then his face lit up and warmth struck the startling blue of his eyes and emphasised the blackness of his lashes. Maggie was in love with him, God help her, and she would often lie awake at night and wonder what it would be like to share his bed.

  ‘Any danger of another jar?’

  The shearer’s voice broke into her thoughts and she thankfully pulled another bottle from the crate and opened it. There was no point in wishing things were different between her and Sam, and thoughts like that were doing her no good at all.

  The bar was slowly filling and the noise level was rising as an argument broke out on the possible winner of the Melbourne Cup which was due to be run in a week’s time. Maggie was sweating profusely as she served drinks, mopped up spills and tried to keep the peace between the warring factions. Her feet were hurting and her back ached, and there was still no sign of Sam. Love him or not, Maggie would give him a piece of her mind when he did show his face.

  She was bent double, wrestling with a heavy barrel that needed to be attached to the pump and didn’t notice the drop in the noise. ‘Can one of you blokes get round here and help me with this flaming thing?’ she yelled. ‘Stuck tighter than a cork up a goanna’s arse.’

  The silence that greeted this plea for help was so unusual she left the barrel and straightened her back. Maggie was met by a sight and sound she’d never before experienced. The silence was so profound she could hear the cricket chirruping in the drainpipe, and the wall of backs pressed against the bar made it impossible to see what had brought about this phenomenon.

  As she stood on tiptoe and tried to see what was going on, the wall in front of her parted like the Red Sea. The silent men shuffled back, their glasses held tightly against their chests, their eyes wide in suspicion and horror.

  The woman stepped into the bar and let the door swing behind her. She seemed unfazed by the reaction of her audience and actually smiled and nodded to a couple of the younger men who’d apparently forgotten how to shut their gaping mouths.

  Maggie reddened, aware of how she must look to this cool, elegant woman in the beautiful suit and white shoes. Aware of the coarse language she’d used only moments ago, and surely been over–heard. She ran a hand over her hair, tucked back a few stray wisps and attempted to smooth the lapels of her cotton dress. The lady had courage, whoever she was. But she wasn’t a local, that was for sure, for no respectable Australian woman would be seen dead in here unless she was working behind the bar.

  ‘What can I do you for, luv?’ she asked. ‘Ladies lounge is out back, or you can sit on the verandah and I’ll bring you something.’

  All eyes followed the woman as she approached the bar and placed her handbag on the counter. They began to mutter as she pulled off the gloves and dabbed her top lip with a pristine handkerchief. ‘I was wondering if you have a room?’

  A Pom, realised Maggie. No wonder she could waltz in here like that. ‘Come with me and I’ll see you right,’ she said hastily.

  ‘I’d like a drink first,’ said the woman who seemed determined to remain on the other side of the bar. ‘A cold beer would be just the ticket.’

  The muttering grew and Maggie could distinctly hear the comments now being bandied about. ‘I’ll get you a drink in the ladies lounge,’ she said with a firmness that belied the laughter bubbling up inside her. Whoeve
r this woman was, she was one tough sheila, because she had to be aware of the stir she’d caused. Good on her. About time this place was shook up a little.

  Maggie flipped back the panel in the bar and almost pulled her towards the side door. ‘In here, luv. Before you put my customers off their beer.’

  They entered the cool parlour, the light dimmed by the closed shutters, and turned to face one another. Of similar height, Maggie found she was staring into a pair of wide brown eyes that were several shades darker than her own. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘But the blokes can be a bit crook when a woman comes into the bar. Makes ‘em nervous.’

  ‘Why ever should they be nervous of me?’ The tone was soft, the vowels rounded. ‘I often go into the pub in England.’

  ‘It’s different here, luv. You’ll learn.’ Maggie grabbed the visitor’s book. She was feeling uneasy, gauche, all too aware of her grubby clothes and reddened hands. This woman had an unsettling effect on her, and she could only think it was the stillness of her, the complete confidence in the way she did everything. ‘One night, was it?’

  The handbag was placed on a side table, the gloves alongside it. The hat was removed and the black hair smoothed back from the flawless face. ‘We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry if I’ve caused trouble.’ A slender hand was thrust forward. ‘The name’s Olivia Hamilton.’

  Maggie shook her hand, noting the polished nails, and the absence of a wedding ring. ‘Maggie Finlay. Manager and general dogsbody of this place,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘It ain’t much, but it’s home and the sheets are clean.’