two notes, and the bushes beside Elly parted
as a small brown body barrelled through in a flurry of barks and whipping tail
to stop short, eyeing Elly enquiringly. ‘This is Pepper, famed as a snake
catcher. And may I introduce myself also? Paul Gascoigne at your service.’
‘How do you do, Mr Gascoigne. Pepper. My name is
Eleanor Ballard and I’ve remembered my manners at last. Thank you for saving my
life. I couldn’t have survived another day on the track, even without the snake
attack.’
She studied him: a tall man of about thirty;
broad, loose-limbed; dressed sensibly for the bush in boots, moleskins and a
many-pocketed jacket. His lean face was intelligent and strong-jawed, and his
eyes were a clear green verging on grey, with sun-creases at the corners. A
mass of dark unruly waves needed cutting, unlike hers, thought Elly with a
sigh.
As for the man’s manner, he projected an air of
confidence that was comforting to someone lately brought to the edge of
extinction and not yet in a position to fend for herself. Nor did she feel the
customary wariness of a woman confronting a strange male in isolated
surroundings. Confronting was the wrong word. Paul Gascoigne’s self-possession,
his attitude of ‘take me as I am’ required no proof of good intentions.
He held out his hand. ‘Come, Miss Ballard. Rise
and join me for breakfast. You may perform your ablutions down at the water
hole beyond that stump.’ He handed her a cloth wrapped around a sliver of soap.
‘And then you may give me an explanation for your presence alone on the bush
track, close to expiry.’
Elly accepted his help to extricate herself from
what must be his own bedroll, waiting until the world had steadied around her
before taking the wash-cloth and making her way barefoot through the scrub to
the water hole. This lay well back off the track, screened by mimosa bushes. Alone,
she’d have passed it by, never knowing it was there. The pool, dark, cool and
deep in the shadow of the gums, was so entirely inviting that, with a glance
around, she removed her bodice and knelt to plunge head and shoulders into the water,
scrubbing the worst of the dust and sweat from her hair and leaving it standing
in short damp spikes all over her skull.
Wriggling her top back over her wet chemise, she
brushed down her gown while deciding how much of her story she would tell her
autocratic saviour. Still raw from her recent ill-treatment by the people she
had once called friends, she hesitated to expose her humiliation to a mere acquaintance.
Then she shrugged at her reflection. There was precious little dignity left for
her to clutch. Besides, she owed the man the truth in exchange for his honest
help.
Pushing aside a mimosa bush in full golden bloom
she re-entered the small glade where a camp fire burned with a tripod and a
billy pot on the boil. A saddle sat on a stump beside a couple of packs and a
sheet of canvas hung across a branch, shielding the bedroll. As she watched,
Paul Gascoigne took down the canvas and rolled it tightly, securing it with a
leather strap. Elly heard horses grazing nearby and smelt the gum bubbling in
the eucalypt branches on the fire. She stepped forward as Paul raised the pot
lid.
‘Would tea suit you, Miss Ballard?’
She thought his low-pitched voice the sweetest
music she’d ever known. ‘Tea! I could die for a cup of tea. You can’t know how
I’ve longed for one.’
His face lightened in a half-smile which seemed
to hover on the edge of commitment, then disappeared. ‘Well, hold onto life a
little longer,’ he said. ‘The water has boiled already.’
Elly sat on the bed-roll sipping from a steaming
mug, watching the light change the trees from shadowed sepia to all shades of
green against the dawn sky. She felt oddly content. Pepper lay in similar
repose across her feet, his acceptance complete, while Paul Gascoigne moved
about the camp, tidying and packing, soon to move on.
Elly felt a flutter of panic at the
as a small brown body barrelled through in a flurry of barks and whipping tail
to stop short, eyeing Elly enquiringly. ‘This is Pepper, famed as a snake
catcher. And may I introduce myself also? Paul Gascoigne at your service.’
‘How do you do, Mr Gascoigne. Pepper. My name is
Eleanor Ballard and I’ve remembered my manners at last. Thank you for saving my
life. I couldn’t have survived another day on the track, even without the snake
attack.’
She studied him: a tall man of about thirty;
broad, loose-limbed; dressed sensibly for the bush in boots, moleskins and a
many-pocketed jacket. His lean face was intelligent and strong-jawed, and his
eyes were a clear green verging on grey, with sun-creases at the corners. A
mass of dark unruly waves needed cutting, unlike hers, thought Elly with a
sigh.
As for the man’s manner, he projected an air of
confidence that was comforting to someone lately brought to the edge of
extinction and not yet in a position to fend for herself. Nor did she feel the
customary wariness of a woman confronting a strange male in isolated
surroundings. Confronting was the wrong word. Paul Gascoigne’s self-possession,
his attitude of ‘take me as I am’ required no proof of good intentions.
He held out his hand. ‘Come, Miss Ballard. Rise
and join me for breakfast. You may perform your ablutions down at the water
hole beyond that stump.’ He handed her a cloth wrapped around a sliver of soap.
‘And then you may give me an explanation for your presence alone on the bush
track, close to expiry.’
Elly accepted his help to extricate herself from
what must be his own bedroll, waiting until the world had steadied around her
before taking the wash-cloth and making her way barefoot through the scrub to
the water hole. This lay well back off the track, screened by mimosa bushes. Alone,
she’d have passed it by, never knowing it was there. The pool, dark, cool and
deep in the shadow of the gums, was so entirely inviting that, with a glance
around, she removed her bodice and knelt to plunge head and shoulders into the water,
scrubbing the worst of the dust and sweat from her hair and leaving it standing
in short damp spikes all over her skull.
Wriggling her top back over her wet chemise, she
brushed down her gown while deciding how much of her story she would tell her
autocratic saviour. Still raw from her recent ill-treatment by the people she
had once called friends, she hesitated to expose her humiliation to a mere acquaintance.
Then she shrugged at her reflection. There was precious little dignity left for
her to clutch. Besides, she owed the man the truth in exchange for his honest
help.
Pushing aside a mimosa bush in full golden bloom
she re-entered the small glade where a camp fire burned with a tripod and a
billy pot on the boil. A saddle sat on a stump beside a couple of packs and a
sheet of canvas hung across a branch, shielding the bedroll. As she watched,
Paul Gascoigne took down the canvas and rolled it tightly, securing it with a
leather strap. Elly heard horses grazing nearby and smelt the gum bubbling in
the eucalypt branches on the fire. She stepped forward as Paul raised the pot
lid.
‘Would tea suit you, Miss Ballard?’
She thought his low-pitched voice the sweetest
music she’d ever known. ‘Tea! I could die for a cup of tea. You can’t know how
I’ve longed for one.’
His face lightened in a half-smile which seemed
to hover on the edge of commitment, then disappeared. ‘Well, hold onto life a
little longer,’ he said. ‘The water has boiled already.’
Elly sat on the bed-roll sipping from a steaming
mug, watching the light change the trees from shadowed sepia to all shades of
green against the dawn sky. She felt oddly content. Pepper lay in similar
repose across her feet, his acceptance complete, while Paul Gascoigne moved
about the camp, tidying and packing, soon to move on.
Elly felt a flutter of panic at the
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