Authors: Jane Corrie
This Rafferty, she thought grimly, would not be able to hold her head high until the records were put straight.
By now her thoughts were drowsy ones, and when sleep claimed her she was still working out ways and means of returning the land to its rightful owner.
THE following morning, Teresa woke with a heavy head. Having eased some of the heartache out of her, she was now emotionally drained.
With almost cold calculation she applied her mind to the task of somehow forcing her uncle to give up his claim on the land that really belonged to Carl.
She had badly needed an objective to prevent her from falling into total despair, and this would surely fit the bill. She, more than anyone else, had a right to make it her business to wipe the stigma completely off the books, and her uncle had to be made to see things that way.
Having showered and dressed, Teresa was on the point of leaving her room when her uncle called out to her that he had to be off, but there was some hot coffee on the stove and he'd be back for lunch.
Glancing at her watch, Teresa was surprised to see that it was eight o'clock. She frowned; she had meant to be up early enough to see that her uncle had a good breakfast, although when she had first suggested she would do this he had -.told her he 'rarely bothered with breakfast. There were always cafés, he had said, that he could stop off at if he felt peckish. But Teresa suspected that he never gave himself time to sit down and enjoy a meal before he left, and now that she was here she would see that
he did so. He was no longer young, and it was about time he took things a little more slowly.
She drank some coffee but did not bother to get herself a meal; she had no appetite anyway. Afterwards she did some cleaning, odd jobs that had been put aside until the more urgent ones had been done, and when they were finished she turned her attention to the overgrown back garden.
When all the weeds were cleared, she thought, she would plant some vegetables. It was a waste of good space not to grow a certain amount of food, and Teresa had always wanted to grow things like lettuces and carrots. Of course, she mused as she stared round at the weed-tangled plot of land, she didn't know much about what she could grow. She had heard of 'dry spells' and the 'wet' that could go on for weeks, but she wasn't sure if this applied to this part of New South Wales, although Carl had said droughts were possible, and it wasn't too long ago that they had had a bad one.
Teresa bent determinedly over a patch of weeds and started pulling them up; there she went again—it appeared she couldn't even concentrate on this simple task without remembering something Carl had said. Well, that was something she would have to cure in the future.
She had cleared a small patch and was just wondering where she ought to pile the weeds she had pulled up possibly for burning later, when a man in green overalls appeared from the front of the chalet.
'Tried knocking,' he said with a grin, 'so I thought there might be someone round the back. Okay if we
get cracking? Ought to be able to fix that roof by midday.'
Teresa stared at the man; had her uncle got someone on the job? If so, he hadn't said anything to her, and she was sure he would have mentioned it.
With a start she realised that the man hadn't waited for her answer, but had disappeared round to the front of the house again, and Teresa, with a horrible feeling that they had got the wrong house and a vision of her uncle's horror at the thought of being presented with a huge bill for repairs in the not too distant future, was suddenly galvanised into action. She must ascertain that he had ordered the repairs.
The ladders were up against the front of the chalet, and the work was already well in hand. The tiles to be fitted on the gaps in the roof were laid out ready for use beside the ladder when Teresa, on the point of calling out to the man perched on the top of the ladder, saw the van parked a little way down the road.
The cream and maroon colours of the van made her question unnecessary, for they were the colours of all vehicles belonging to Sunset Ridge—Carl's ranch! Her throat constricted painfully as she gazed at the familiar colours, and not trusting herself to speak to the man who had by now seen her and given her another cheery grin, she went back into the chalet.
So her uncle had been right, he did own the chalet! Was it conscience that had made him order the repairs to be carried out? Of course it was! she told herself bitterly. Just a rich man's way of saying `sorry'.
Her small hands clenched into fists. If only they could pay for the repairs, show him they didn't want his charity or his pity—at least she didn't, and she was sure that Uncle Patrick felt the same way.
When Teresa's uncle arrived for lunch, the workman had gone for his meal. The roof was finished, but he'd promised to be back that afternoon to have a look round inside the chalet and take a few notes of the repairs, if any, that were required, such as plumbing or plaster cracks.
Eating the light lunch Teresa had prepared for him, her uncle took the news with more calm than she had shown. 'Seems he's got a conscience after all,' he commented drily. "Bout time that roof was fixed.'
Teresa put her knife and fork down with a clatter. She hadn't been hungry to start with, and the philosophical way her uncle had taken the news had dampened any appetite she might have worked up. 'Conscience or not, I don't want his charity!' she declared vehemently.
Holding his cup out for a refill, her uncle nodded sagely. 'Spoken like a true Rafferty,' he remarked.
Teresa glared at him. 'Well, do you?' she demanded crossly.
Her uncle seemed to take his time in considering this question. 'Well now,' he said after a while, 'it's like this, girl. I don't want no Elton charity either, but I've got a spot of rheumatism in me right leg that's mighty grateful the place is going to be dry next time it rains.'
Effectively silenced, Teresa gazed down at the table; she ought to have thought of her uncle in-
stead of her own miserable plight.
She didn't have to say what she was thinking, her whole attitude showed it as she ruefully met his eyes. 'Well—if you put it that way,' she murmured, ending with a sigh.
He put his cup down and leaned towards her. 'Look, girl,' he said solemnly. 'I know how you feel; if we'd got the money then we'd chuck it at him—but we ain't, and that's a fact. 'Sides, I pays me rent, I'm entitled to me rights. You look at it that way.'
Teresa had already looked at it that way but still didn't like it, for it placed her under yet another obligation to Carl. As for money—surely she wouldn't get a better chance of bringing up the subject of getting a job?
Not looking at her uncle but concentrating on the condiment set, she said casually, 'I've been thinking about getting a job,' and went on hastily as she sensed him stiffen. 'I worked back home, you know, and I feel rather at a loss now that I've got the house straight. Besides,' she added firmly, 'I owe Carl my air fare out. It means nothing to him, but I'd sooner pay my way.' She swallowed quickly. 'I won't feel easy in my mind until I've paid him back, every penny of it.'
There was a short silence while her uncle digested this, then he sighed heavily. 'Okay, girl, I see how it is. Only wish I could settle that myself.' He screwed his eyes up. 'Kinda like to present him with it personally, like.'
Teresa said nothing; she did not intend it to be done that way, she had no intention of giving her uncle another opportunity of rekindling old fires,
but he wouldn't understand, so she held her peace. One thing at least had been accomplished, she had got her way over a job. The next thing was, where could she get one?
She put the question to her uncle, who gave the matter due thought. 'Secretary, eh?' he murmured, then scratched his chin. 'I'll have a word with Ken Oates, at the auction rooms. He's always moaning about shortage of staff.'
Teresa's eyes brightened. She hadn't realised how much she had been looking forward to getting back to work, and to be honest she was at the stage of accepting anything as long as it helped her to forget the past.
When her uncle returned later that evening, he told her it was all fixed up. Mr Oates had jumped at the chance to take on trained office staff. 'They all leave for the towns and the big money,' he explained to Teresa, 'there's not much in this one-horse town to hold 'em. Still, you'll be okay with Ken Oates. He's a fair man, and he'll give you the rate for the job okay.'
That weekend, her uncle took her round the district and showed her where the auction rooms were. He'd be able to take her down in the mornings, he said, but she would have to make her own way back in the afternoons as the chances were he'd be out on a job.
It was no great distance, Teresa noticed, for as Uncle Patrick had said, it was a very small town that had sprung up through necessity around the auction sales. There was only the one hotel, and two food stores that sold everything one could want in
that line, and a sort of haberdashery store. These were all contained in just the one street, and put Teresa in mind of a small village back home.
As she wandered from shop to shop, familiarising herself with the locality, she remembered Carl saying that they rarely bought supplies from the township, but ordered everything in bulk from Sydney, perhaps once or twice a year, when it was packed away in the ranch storeroom until required.
She also remembered Carl's casual, 'We're better stocked than the town is', and with it came another memory of him pulling her to him with a possessive hug and adding, 'Whatever my lady fancies will be there. Even dress materials and a good seamstress to make them up for you.'
Teresa blinked rapidly to dispel the mist that had formed over her eyes. Why had she to remember things like that? Why couldn't she pull a veil down on the past and forget it ever existed? There was no sense in torturing herself like this.
Later she was taken to the auction rooms and introduced to Mr Oates and Michael, his son, who turned frankly admiring eyes in her direction. Teresa instantly took to the short tubby auctioneer whom she was to work for in a week's time; as for his son, she decided to reserve her judgment there, for she was certainly not going to get involved again with any other man. Not for a very long time, if indeed, ever.
The visit had cheered her immensely, for her uncle had been right when he had said Mr Oates was eager to employ her. This much was obvious in his welcome to her, and he had been a little dis-
appointed when told she would not be starting work that Monday, but the next, for Teresa had decided to paper the sitting-room walls before she started work. Now that the roof had been repaired there was no reason why this shouldn't be done as soon as possible, and she was in a fever to cover up that damp patch that seemed to shout at her each time she entered the room.
All that remained now was to buy the paper, and Teresa had enough money to be able to do this; money she had been saving for essentials, but now that she had a job with an extremely good salary she had no worries in this direction. She could pay her way, and there would be enough left over for the odd little luxury—after, that was, she had put aside the amount she would be able to save each week towards paying Carl back the air fare. It might take a long time, but no matter how long it took, Teresa meant him to have that money.
A surprised Uncle Patrick found himself whisked into a store and confronted with various patterned wallpaper rolls before he guessed her intention, and after a lot of backchat between him and the storekeeper, eventually allowed himself to be persuaded to settle for Teresa's choice, although to be honest he wouldn't have argued with whatever she had chosen, he was too busy propounding the merits of a horse running that afternoon in the Sydney races.
Her uncle, Teresa noticed, thrived on arguments, and was not unpopular among the townsfolk. She was proudly introduced to each person they met who was acquainted with him. As she listened to him bandying words with the owner of the food store
while she waited for her order to be put up, she couldn't help thinking of the way Carl had treated him. Her lips twisted wryly. So Uncle Patrick wasn't a paragon of virtue, and was not likely to spoil a good story by telling the truth; nevertheless he was harmless, and certainly not the outright rogue that Carl had intimated he was.
If anything, she suspected, the town sided with her uncle. It could, of course, be a case of sympathising with the underdog, but Teresa didn't think so. Even a likeable villain made some enemies, it was inevitable, but there was no evidence of any ill-feeling among the local people.
She sighed as she collected the groceries; so it was pure bias on Carl's part. As her uncle had said, he was Jonathan Elton all over again.
On the way home, her uncle turned off the main road just before the turning to the chalet and guided the van down a track towards some pastureland, stopping by the side of some stout white fencing at the end of the track. For a moment or so he just sat gazing out across the expanse of land before him, then turned to Teresa and gave her a wry grin. 'Thought you'd like to see what all the fuss is about,' he said, and got out of the van and stood close to the fence.
Teresa didn't think 'fuss' was quite the right word, but she knew what her uncle wanted to show her, and joined him beside the fence.