A Man For All Seasons (7 page)

“There's a phone call for you, downstairs in the lounge.”

Alarm bells rang. “Who is it, do you know?”

She shook her head; her hair shimmied softly around her shoulders. Even in his heightened state of agitation he found himself tuned in to every nuance of her being.

“I'll show you the way.”

Without further ado she turned and set off, Chad right behind. His brain went ballistic as a dozen possible disasters popped up at once. Quite frankly, back home fire, flood, plague and pestilence were all definite possibilities. Possibly all at once.

He took the phone from Barry and held it to his ear. A voice blasted him like a scud missile.

“CHAD?”

Holding the receiver further away, he couldn't help a small prickle of amusement. It had to be Frank, who obviously felt that extra volume was necessary over greater distances. “What's up Frank?”

“It's that silly bastard, Chin.”

Dear God, what'd the mad devil done now? “What's he done?”

“He's gone and shot himself.”

There was a pause and Chad felt sick. “He's not dead is he?”

“No! He's not dead. He shot himself in the bloody foot.”

Relief gave way to shocked anger. “What the hell was he doing?”

“Snake in the kitchen. He was chasing it around and then he lost the bastard. Trouble is, when he found it, the big devil was on his foot. He jumped like you would, and the gun went off by accident like. Shot himself through the foot.” There was a pause. “Got the snake too. Big king brown.”

“Where is he?”

"Hung on the back fence, as a warning to other browns."

Despite himself Chad smiled. “Not the snake, Frank. Where's Chin?"

“He's in the general, at Emerald. They've got him doped up and will operate when the surgeon comes up from Brisbane.”

Poor Chin. “Thanks for letting me know Frank. Everything else okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Still dry.”

“Will you all manage not to starve until I get back?”

Frank chuckled. “We've lots of beans. We're in fine farting form, I can tell you.”

Chad grinned. It was great to hear a familiar voice, although it was the harbinger of disaster. “See you soon then.”

There was a click and the line went dead. A wave of homesickness engulfed him.

“Is everything all right?” asked Seraphim, her fine black eyebrows drawn together in concern.

He realised then that despite her privileged and sheltered life, she was not the spoilt girl that one would expect. Perhaps that was why she had stolen his heart away. Beneath the lovely exterior a good heart resided. And that was a rarity, in any guise. He looked into the black liquid eyes and for a moment lost his sense of time and place.

“Chad, is everything all right?” she repeated, a little louder.

He wanted to say that no, nothing was all right. He wanted to say that when he went away, he would miss her. That he would take her with him in his heart, and think of her for all of his days and nights. But instead he shook his head. “My cook's shot himself in the foot.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Good grief.”

Barry snorted. Chad's irritation was somewhat diluted by the look of undisguised fury that Seraphim shot her fiancé.

“Is he okay?” she continued, her concern obviously genuine.

“He'll live, but he's going to be laid up for a while.”

“Will you be able to replace him?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Dunno. It's always hard to get good staff. The mines are soaking up the workers at the moment. I just can't compete with the wages.”

She nodded. “I see.”

“Anyway, I'd best get ready for dinner.”

“Me too,” she said. With one long finger she brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and glanced at Barry, who appeared to be deeply involved in a crossword. “I'll see you in a little while.”

As Chad wound his way back to his room he couldn't shake off the feeling that she'd wanted to say something, but hadn't. As he showered he entertained himself trying to guess what it could have been. But his imagination failed him. A little dismally he reflected that she'd probably been going to ask him to join her and Barry to some posh do, and changed her mind.

Dinner was pretty good up until the main course. The conversation started innocently enough.

“Miffy, did you hear about Sarah and Reginald Bishop?” asked Margot Driscoll.

Seraphim shook her head. “No, what about them?”

“They've just come back from Africa with their baby boy. He's absolutely ravishing apparently.”

Seraphim smiled. “Oh, how splendid,” she looked at Barry, “isn't that lovely?”

Barry finished his mouthful and dabbed his mouth carefully. “Best thing all round,” he agreed.

For his own part Chad remained steadfastly quiet. The piece of fish in his mouth seemed to dry out, making it impossible to swallow. The conversation rolled around him, everyone adding their apparent approval to their acquaintances recent venture into adoption.

“What do you think, Chad?” said Wally cheerfully.

With a valiant effort he swallowed the bite of fish. He'd hoped that the topic would die a natural death and he cursed his host's efforts to draw him into the conversation. But with all eyes now fixed upon him he had little choice but to respond. He took a sip of water and tried to collect his thoughts.

“Well, I can't say that I really go along with it,” he said, carefully.

There was a babble of excited conversation up and down the long table. Everyone shot questions at him. He wished he'd lied.

Finally Barry managed to dominate. “You mean that you don't think it a beneficial arrangement for both baby and adopting couple? After all, these are unloved and unwanted children we're talking about.”

Chad felt his temper bite. “How do you know that?”

Barry paused, obviously taken aback. “Well, they wouldn't be up for adoption otherwise, would they?”

Chad ceased all attempts at civility. “So you'd say that there's absolutely no chance that these babies have been procured by illegal or immoral means. I'm guessing your friends are wealthy people.” The table went quiet. Chad couldn't have cared less. “Taking a child from its home and people may not actually be the best thing for the child in the long run.”

Barry glared at him. “You're just being ridiculous.”

Chad laughed softly, an ironic sound with little humour. “I guess you've never heard of the Stolen Generation?”

Barry pointed his knife at Chad, who observed him in a detached manner. The man was a complete ignoramus. He'd have liked to kick him up his prissy pommy posterior.

“Well, let me tell you…” Barry began, but he didn't finish.

“Barry, I think that's enough on the subject, don't you?” Seraphim's tone held such a note of authoritative finality that her fiancé goggled at her in amazement. She turned to Chad. “Would you like to ride out again in the morning? I could take you out through the woodlands.”

A moment's stunned silence held sway. Then somewhere someone giggled and conversation picked up. Utterly relieved Chad nodded at Seraphim. “That'd be great.” He owed her big time.

Dessert arrived. It was a heavy steamed cake full of currants which went by the peculiar name of Spotted Dick. That, Chad reflected, was one for the lads back home. Still, it wasn't bad. “One of yours?” he asked Seraphim and she laughed.

“No, it's one of Nanny's specialties. I grew up on it. By rights I should be as big as a house.”

It was hard to imagine. And then… she blew his world apart.

Peering down the table, she waved at her father. Walter smiled at his daughter fondly. “Yes, Miffy, what is it?”

“Daddy,” she said clearly, “I'm going to Australia with Chad. He's asked me to be his cook. I thought it would be fun for a little while.”

Chad stared at her, his chin on his chest. Either she was crazy or he was. He could swear he'd never said any such thing. He forced his jaw shut and tried to muster a protest. What the hell would Wally Driscoll think?

He opened his mouth to protest his innocence but found himself instead staring into the dark, beseeching eyes of his host's daughter. She was unbelievably pale, and a small pulse fluttered at her collarbone. God but she was beautiful.

He cleared his throat. “I sure would appreciate the help.”

Eight

Seraphim's racing heart steadied a little. She wanted to cry with relief. She wanted to race around the table and kiss the man full on the lips, beard or no beard. Actually, she reflected, she wanted to do considerably more than that. Relief rolled over her. Without his support her uncharacteristic show of defiance would have come to nothing. Indeed, it was doubtful that the moment would ever have arisen. What was it about him that stirred her senses so?

With a surprisingly steady hand she lifted her wine glass and took a hefty swig. Beside her she could feel Barry's disapproval rolling over her like a fan-forced oven. Silence reigned supreme.

Well, she told herself indignantly, it was really Bloody Barry's fault. Barry, with his outrageous hypocrisy. He had no right to have any views on the issue. Although he would have denied it vigorously, he'd displayed deeply seated prejudices more than once. A man who said that blacks 'belonged on the buses' really had no place voicing a view about African babies.

There was no way she could sit back and say nothing. She glanced at Chad, who observed her in his quiet way. She wondered what he was thinking. A ghost of smile touched his lips and she had to fight down an urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Really, it wasn't funny at all. She must get a grip before the major assault began.

Inevitably it was Bloody Barry who broke the ice. “How long exactly, do you intend to be away?” He looked strained; beads of perspiration had popped up on his high forehead. She almost felt sorry for him. “Have you taken even one minute to examine the consequences of your intentions? I beg you please, strain your tiny brain just a fraction.”

Her empathy evaporated in an instant. The arrogant sod. From some hidden canyon in her soul a small ember of anger ignited. Months of suppressed anxiety, self-doubt and frustration burst into flame. “I don't know how long. It may be a week or a month or a goddam year.” She threw her napkin into her pudding. “Maybe I won't come back. But this I do know, I'll come back when I goddam please. It will be my decision. And mine alone.”

“Miffy darling, you're overwrought. It's just a bit of pre-wedding nerves,” her mother interjected in the calm voice she usually reserved for toddlers and the simple minded.

Seraphim stood up and rounded on her mother. “It's not pre-wedding nerves. There's not going to be a wedding.”

“Walter, for goodness sake, say something,” said Margot Driscoll to her husband.

But Walter Driscoll smiled his sweet smile and shrugged helplessly. “I can't really see what I can say. After all, we can't force our child to marry against her will. It's not the sixteenth century.” He looked at Seraphim. “Perhaps a bit of time out would be a good thing. Young Chad will look after her all right.”

Her mother looked as if she'd have liked to have stuck the cork screw into her father's right eye.

For her part, Seraphim wanted to get down and kiss his feet. Instead, her temper gave way to tears. “Thank you, Dad,” she said.

“Coffee anyone?” said Walter cheerfully.

By way of reply Barry stood abruptly. He pointed one accusing finger at Seraphim. “Don't think you can come back crawling to me for forgiveness.” And he stalked out of the room. Margot Driscoll shadowed him out.

“I'll take that as a no,” said Walter.

Seraphim's legs suddenly felt wobbly and she sank down into her chair. She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her running nose and eyes.

“Here, try this. You're wearing your pudding.” Chad held out his own napkin.

She took it gratefully. “Thank you.” She mopped up. Then something Chad had said popped into her mind. “What's the Stolen Generation?”

“Long story. I'll tell you some other time.” He picked up his spoon and then put it down again. “Are you really going to come to Australia?”

She nodded. “If you don't mind.”

He seemed deep in thought and she felt a moment's anxiety. Maybe he did mind. Then he grinned. “Will you make cherry cheesecake?”

And she laughed. “I have a mean recipe for sherry trifle too.” Then she sobered and looked at her father who, apparently unconcerned by the high drama, sipped a cup of coffee and observed them both carefully. “I'm sorry, Daddy. I know I should have done something about the wedding months ago. It's just that…” But she couldn't find the words. She felt terrible.

“I'm sorry too Miffy. But better late than never. I must say, I've never been overly fussed on the match. But your mother seemed so sure. I thought she knew best. And I thought you were happy.”

What a mess she'd made of things.

“You'll need a passport,” said Chad.

She felt a hot flush rise up her neck. “I went to immigration this morning. My passport is current so I just needed a visa. I got a six month working holiday visa.” Her voice petered off in embarrassment but she forced herself to continue. “You know, just in case.”

Apparently her father found this hilarious. “How about that Chad, a chip off the old block or what?”