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Authors: Joyce Dingwell
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saw her own house as the headquarters and Currabong as the remedial wing ...
With a smile she jerked herself back to reality. It was her imagination, not Currabong, that had taken wing. She laughed.
Her first feeling of utter futility had given place to enthusiasm, however reluctantly at first, a little dubious, but quickly becoming a warm and eager thing. Mr. O ’ Flynn sensed it, and followed her up pointing out Clairhill ’ s marvellous possibilities and the very little that would have to be done.
He even lit the fire in the vast kitchen and boiled the kettle. “Mother packed some provisions for a meal,” he smiled.
“Did she pack much?”
“Why, Miss Cary, are you that hungry?”
“No, but it will h ave to last until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow—you mean you intend staying.”
“I intend staying.” The idea had only just come to Cary, but she said it firmly in case Mr. O ’ Flynn objected.
Mr. O ’ Flynn did not. Australian men expect self-reliance in their women, an d the idea of this girl spending a night in this great lonely house did not alarm him.
“I don ’ t know whether I ’ ll be able to start the electric plant, though,” he told her.
“There ’ ll be lamps.”
“I won ’ t be able to budge those windows unless I find some tools.”
“The place was always too airy.”
He grinned at her. “Determined, aren ’ t you?”
Cary grinned back. “Yes,” she said.
“Will I come in the morning or later?” Mr. O ’ Flynn poked more wood in the stove.
Cary considered. “There ’ s a lot I want to look into. Could you make it the afternoon?”
He went after lunch, the old jalopy bouncing between the corals and occasionally slipping on the rank weed.
Cary watched him out of sight, then took a notebook and pencil and started a detailed tour of the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WERE FOUR bedrooms on the top floor, not three. Better and better, thought Cary smugly, making a note on the credit side of the book. She had decided to gather a complete inventory of Clai rhill and Clairhill ’ s furnishings and discuss what she could use and what else she would need with Mr. Farrell when she returned to Sydney.
The rooms were large and airy. Each could take its full quota of beds.
Downstairs she dismissed her first idea of using the lobby for another dormitory and decided to think about changing it into a therapy room instead.
She was still determined to glass in the veranda to trap the sun and cheat the wind and provide the perfect winter corner to assist in the healing of small wasted limbs.
“I ’ ll want ray lamps,” she said aloud, “massage tables, remedial gym equipment. I must write tonight to Jan Bo k ker for advice as to what to order. Sorrel must come to my rescue with the right hospital equipment. We must have a full medicine chest.” Still talking to h erself, Cary wandered back to the kitchen.
There would be no trouble here, she decided. The range was big and efficient and of the type that not only cooked but centrally heated and supplied ample hot water. Everything, admitted Cary fairly, that Mrs. Marlow had possessed had been the best—everything, she added sadly, but the spirit of this house.
But it was never too late, she resolved with determination. It had not been too late for Mrs. Marlow to change her heart, so it should not be too late for Clairhill. She put the book and pencil in her bag so that she would not go without them the next day, and wandered outside again.
She turned her steps in the direction of the stables. She wondered if Matt Wilson had taken the horses to his own small-holding across the next hill or whether he still watered and fed them here.
A whinny answered her. “That will be Toby,” she said excitedly, and fairly ran the rest of the way. Whether the chestnut remembered her or was simply friendly she did not know, but she decided to accept his eager nuzzling as an intimation that he was glad she was back.
Toby, Candy, Bunty,
With a smile she jerked herself back to reality. It was her imagination, not Currabong, that had taken wing. She laughed.
Her first feeling of utter futility had given place to enthusiasm, however reluctantly at first, a little dubious, but quickly becoming a warm and eager thing. Mr. O ’ Flynn sensed it, and followed her up pointing out Clairhill ’ s marvellous possibilities and the very little that would have to be done.
He even lit the fire in the vast kitchen and boiled the kettle. “Mother packed some provisions for a meal,” he smiled.
“Did she pack much?”
“Why, Miss Cary, are you that hungry?”
“No, but it will h ave to last until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow—you mean you intend staying.”
“I intend staying.” The idea had only just come to Cary, but she said it firmly in case Mr. O ’ Flynn objected.
Mr. O ’ Flynn did not. Australian men expect self-reliance in their women, an d the idea of this girl spending a night in this great lonely house did not alarm him.
“I don ’ t know whether I ’ ll be able to start the electric plant, though,” he told her.
“There ’ ll be lamps.”
“I won ’ t be able to budge those windows unless I find some tools.”
“The place was always too airy.”
He grinned at her. “Determined, aren ’ t you?”
Cary grinned back. “Yes,” she said.
“Will I come in the morning or later?” Mr. O ’ Flynn poked more wood in the stove.
Cary considered. “There ’ s a lot I want to look into. Could you make it the afternoon?”
He went after lunch, the old jalopy bouncing between the corals and occasionally slipping on the rank weed.
Cary watched him out of sight, then took a notebook and pencil and started a detailed tour of the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WERE FOUR bedrooms on the top floor, not three. Better and better, thought Cary smugly, making a note on the credit side of the book. She had decided to gather a complete inventory of Clai rhill and Clairhill ’ s furnishings and discuss what she could use and what else she would need with Mr. Farrell when she returned to Sydney.
The rooms were large and airy. Each could take its full quota of beds.
Downstairs she dismissed her first idea of using the lobby for another dormitory and decided to think about changing it into a therapy room instead.
She was still determined to glass in the veranda to trap the sun and cheat the wind and provide the perfect winter corner to assist in the healing of small wasted limbs.
“I ’ ll want ray lamps,” she said aloud, “massage tables, remedial gym equipment. I must write tonight to Jan Bo k ker for advice as to what to order. Sorrel must come to my rescue with the right hospital equipment. We must have a full medicine chest.” Still talking to h erself, Cary wandered back to the kitchen.
There would be no trouble here, she decided. The range was big and efficient and of the type that not only cooked but centrally heated and supplied ample hot water. Everything, admitted Cary fairly, that Mrs. Marlow had possessed had been the best—everything, she added sadly, but the spirit of this house.
But it was never too late, she resolved with determination. It had not been too late for Mrs. Marlow to change her heart, so it should not be too late for Clairhill. She put the book and pencil in her bag so that she would not go without them the next day, and wandered outside again.
She turned her steps in the direction of the stables. She wondered if Matt Wilson had taken the horses to his own small-holding across the next hill or whether he still watered and fed them here.
A whinny answered her. “That will be Toby,” she said excitedly, and fairly ran the rest of the way. Whether the chestnut remembered her or was simply friendly she did not know, but she decided to accept his eager nuzzling as an intimation that he was glad she was back.
Toby, Candy, Bunty,
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