be like if he were freed from the chain of their routine, permitted to stretch his legs a little?
It was so difficult to draw all the threads of her feeling for him together: one moment she thought of him as a small child, the next moment his physical magnificence would remind her that he was a man grown. And it was so hard for her to feel at all, when it was so long since she had done more than merely exist. She possessed no built-in emotional gauge whereby she could distinguish pity from love, anger from protectiveness. She and Tim were like a weirdly juxtaposed Svengali and Trilby: the mindless it was that mesmerized the mind.
Since first seeing Tim all those weeks ago she had confined herself to action, had kept herself mentally out and about, doing things. She had never allowed herself to sit in the quiet withdrawal of private contemplation, for by nature she was not given to probing how and why and what she felt. Even now she would not do it, would not pull herself far enough away from the centre of her pain to come to grips with the cause of it.
The cottage had no neighbours closer than two miles, for the area was not yet ‘developed’. The only road was atrocious, no more than an earthen track through the eucalyptus forest; when it rained mud made it impassable and when it didn’t rain the dust rose in vast, billowing clouds that settled on the vegetation nearest to the road, petrifying it into spindling brown skeletons. The ruts, ridges, and potholes in the road itself imperilled the stoutest car so severely that there were few people willing to risk the inconvenience and discomfort for the sake of isolation.
Mary’s property was quite large for the area, some twenty acres; she had bought it with an eye towards the future, knowing that the cancerous encroachment of the city would eventually lead to development and fantastic profits. Until such time, it suited her love of solitude very well.
A track diving into the trees indicated the beginning of Mary’s land; she swung the car off the road and put it over the track, which continued for about a half a mile through the beautiful, aromatic bush, virgin and unspoiled. At the end of the track lay a big clearing which opened on its far side into a tiny beach; beyond it, still salty and tidal here, the Hawkesbury River twisted and turned its wide way through the towering sandstone landscape. Mary’s beach was no more than a hundred yards long, and was flanked at each end by soaring yellow cliffs.
The cottage was unpretentious, a square little frame structure with a corrugated iron roof and a wide, open veranda running all the way around it. Mary kept it painted because she could not abide disorder or neglect, but the drab brownish colour she had chosen did not improve the appearance of the house. Two huge galvanized iron water tanks stood on high towers at one end of the rear of the house, which faced the track. Trees had been planted at intervals in the clearing, and were at last growing large enough to take some of the bareness away. She had made no attempt at a garden and the grass grew long, but in spite of everything the place had a certain indefinable charm about it.
Mary had spent a considerable amount of money on the cottage since buying the property fifteen years before. The massive water tanks, to have enough fresh water for modern plumbing; electricity, to avoid lanterns and fuel fires. Mary saw no allure in open fires, candlelight, or outhouses; they meant extra work and inconvenience.
From the approaching car the house showed to worst advantage, but Tim was enthralled. Mary pried him out of his seat with some difficulty, and coaxed him through the back door.
‘This is your room, Tim,’ she said, showing him a plain but big bedroom with white walls and furniture; it looked rather like a nun’s cell. ‘I thought perhaps if you like coming here you might think about what colour you’d like your room painted, and what kind of furniture you’d
It was so difficult to draw all the threads of her feeling for him together: one moment she thought of him as a small child, the next moment his physical magnificence would remind her that he was a man grown. And it was so hard for her to feel at all, when it was so long since she had done more than merely exist. She possessed no built-in emotional gauge whereby she could distinguish pity from love, anger from protectiveness. She and Tim were like a weirdly juxtaposed Svengali and Trilby: the mindless it was that mesmerized the mind.
Since first seeing Tim all those weeks ago she had confined herself to action, had kept herself mentally out and about, doing things. She had never allowed herself to sit in the quiet withdrawal of private contemplation, for by nature she was not given to probing how and why and what she felt. Even now she would not do it, would not pull herself far enough away from the centre of her pain to come to grips with the cause of it.
The cottage had no neighbours closer than two miles, for the area was not yet ‘developed’. The only road was atrocious, no more than an earthen track through the eucalyptus forest; when it rained mud made it impassable and when it didn’t rain the dust rose in vast, billowing clouds that settled on the vegetation nearest to the road, petrifying it into spindling brown skeletons. The ruts, ridges, and potholes in the road itself imperilled the stoutest car so severely that there were few people willing to risk the inconvenience and discomfort for the sake of isolation.
Mary’s property was quite large for the area, some twenty acres; she had bought it with an eye towards the future, knowing that the cancerous encroachment of the city would eventually lead to development and fantastic profits. Until such time, it suited her love of solitude very well.
A track diving into the trees indicated the beginning of Mary’s land; she swung the car off the road and put it over the track, which continued for about a half a mile through the beautiful, aromatic bush, virgin and unspoiled. At the end of the track lay a big clearing which opened on its far side into a tiny beach; beyond it, still salty and tidal here, the Hawkesbury River twisted and turned its wide way through the towering sandstone landscape. Mary’s beach was no more than a hundred yards long, and was flanked at each end by soaring yellow cliffs.
The cottage was unpretentious, a square little frame structure with a corrugated iron roof and a wide, open veranda running all the way around it. Mary kept it painted because she could not abide disorder or neglect, but the drab brownish colour she had chosen did not improve the appearance of the house. Two huge galvanized iron water tanks stood on high towers at one end of the rear of the house, which faced the track. Trees had been planted at intervals in the clearing, and were at last growing large enough to take some of the bareness away. She had made no attempt at a garden and the grass grew long, but in spite of everything the place had a certain indefinable charm about it.
Mary had spent a considerable amount of money on the cottage since buying the property fifteen years before. The massive water tanks, to have enough fresh water for modern plumbing; electricity, to avoid lanterns and fuel fires. Mary saw no allure in open fires, candlelight, or outhouses; they meant extra work and inconvenience.
From the approaching car the house showed to worst advantage, but Tim was enthralled. Mary pried him out of his seat with some difficulty, and coaxed him through the back door.
‘This is your room, Tim,’ she said, showing him a plain but big bedroom with white walls and furniture; it looked rather like a nun’s cell. ‘I thought perhaps if you like coming here you might think about what colour you’d like your room painted, and what kind of furniture you’d
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