Outback Surrender. Margaret Way
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photographs of the town’s past decorating a wall. From the night it had opened Harriet’s had been a very popular gathering place for the locals as well as people from the outlying stations.
Harriet, looking marvellous in a mandarin-yellow Thai silk caftan that flowed softly around her slim body, came forward to greet them jauntily.
“Welcome, welcome!” She bent forward to kiss her ex-pupil Shelley’s cheek. “Where have you been all this time, Brock? We’ve really missed you.”
“Ireland.” He looked into Harriet’s eyes, finding them kind and very shrewd. He named a famous stud farm.
She nodded, having heard of it. “The life must have agreed with you. You look marvellous. But someone told me as I came up that you lost your dear mother?”
For a minute he couldn’t answer, grief and wildness spoiling in him. “She’s where she wanted to be, Harriet. The home of her ancestors. There was no home for her here.” Pain and bitterness played about his chiselled mouth.
“My heart aches for you, Brock. You’ve taken a hard blow.” Harriet pressed his arm, looking with great sympathy into his brilliant eyes. “We’ll talk of this again, but for now you’ll be wanting to find some peace and comfort. I have a good table for you in the courtyard. Come through. You look lovely, Shelley.”
Harriet smiled with great encouragement at her. Shelley was a young woman she very much admired. A brave person of high intelligence, Shelley Logan could have gone far in any one of the big cities, but she had stuck with her highly dysfunctional, unappreciative family. What it was to be tied by the bonds of love and loyalty! And a quite un-deserved feeling of guilt, Harriet thought.
“Great to see you, Brock!”
Brock’s hand was caught and held over and over, slowing their progress, but finally they were seated at a secluded table for two in the courtyard, with its white rattan glass-topped tables and white rattan chairs and huge golden canes in glazed pots. The comfortable upholstery was in white Indian cotton with a pattern of green bamboo leaves to continue the theme, while near them white ceramic elephants held pots of colourful flowers on their backs. It all looked enormously attractive.
The restaurant was only open three times a week—after all Harriet was well into her sixties and couldn’t risk burn-out—on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, for lunch and dinner. But far from stretching her to the limit, Shelley thought affectionately, Harriet looked years younger and on top of the world.
“An experience awaits you,” Harriet was saying with a flourish, passing them what looked like a fairly extensive menu for a small restaurant. “Oriental-style cooking is the speciality of the house, but if you would like something else we can whip it up for you.”
“You’re a wonder, Miss Crompton,” Brock told her, his face respectful but still holding more than a trace of that wicked daring that had so distinguished him as a boy.
“Tell me that when your meal is over.” Harriet smiled. “Now, I must return to the kitchen—but one of my girls will be here shortly to take your order. Would you care for a drink in the meantime?”
“Shelley?” Brock looked across the table at his companion, so pretty he had no desire to look anywhere else.
“May I have a glass of white wine?”
“Certainly. Why don’t we push the boat out and have champagne?” It had been a rotten day. He could do with a few bubbles, and Shelley might like it. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” Shelley agreed.
Harriet smiled. “I’ll have someone bring it over.”
CHAPTER TWO
OVER the leisurely meal Brock left the soul-destroying world of Mulgaree with all its bleak memories behind him. Shelley was lovely enough for any man—so interested in what he was saying, asking such intelligent questions that he found his whole body, for months coiled tight as a spring, relaxing. And dinner rated highly. He’d had some fine, unforgettable meals in the gourmet restaurants of Ireland and France, where he’d visited constantly on the stud farm’s business, but the well-travelled Harriet was right up there with them. No mean feat for a small Outback town on the edge of nowhere.
They’d opted for Thai food, as it was the speciality of the house: magnificent chilli prawns, flown in from the tropical north, garnished with crispy curry leaves and served with a wonderfully flavoured cream sauce, followed by a chicken dish in a peanut sauce, accompanied by shredded cucumber, carrots and spring onions. Then they’d enjoyed little jellied fruits, beautifully arranged, to finish. Delicious, imaginative and innovative, when most dishes were done to death.
“That was superb!” Brock said with satisfaction and not a little surprise.
“I’ve never had such a wonderful meal in my life!” Shelley agreed. “I’ve been flat out trying to master a few Japanese dishes for my guests.”
“Have you succeeded?” He was deriving a lot of pleasure from watching the swift changes of expression on her mobile face. In the candleglow from the frangipani-ringed lamp her eyes had little flecks of gold suspended in the emerald. Fascinating!
“It’s taken time,” she said. “I’ve certainly mastered sushi rice, but the rice only lasts a day. You can only serve it once. The biggest problem is getting in fresh fish—frozen simply won’t do. Most times I have to make do with canned salmon and crab, but our plentiful beef is the basis for sukiyaki, teriyaki, kushi-age. I’ve even bought special serving ware—bowls, plates, platters. They’re white. Food always looks good on white. Not to mention accessories like omelette pans. Japanese omelettes need a special rectangular pan. I’m good with thin and thick omelettes, and I’m not bad with presentation.”
He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’ll have to visit some time,” he said, making a decision to do just that. “I seem to recall you had an artistic streak at school. Didn’t Miss Crompton keep all your drawings?”
“She did.” Shelley felt a tingle of pleasure. “Fancy your remembering that. I still have my drawing and my watercolours, whenever I get the time for relaxation. I’m a thwarted botanical artist. You’d be surprised at the remote areas I’ve ventured into when all the wildflowers are out.”
“You sound like you really love what you do.” She looked so happy he wanted to reach over and take her hand. Seemingly so fragile, she sizzled with life.
“Of course. I’m not as certain as Miss Crompton my watercolours are that good, but she seems to think so. She taught me art and its appreciation in the first place. Encouraged me every step of the way. Told me I was way better than she was years ago! She’s been trying to get me to mount an exhibition. She even offered to have it here.” Shelley glanced about the courtyard and into the packed main room. “Imagine my watercolours all over her walls, like a gallery.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Brock realized with surprise he was getting a considerable lift out of Shelley’s company, when beautiful, experienced women with languorous eyes had come close to boring him. “I’m quite sure Miss Crompton is an excellent judge.”
Shelley smiled. “That’s what gives me confidence. Harriet has done me such a lot of good. I love painting on silk as well. One of these days I’m going to find my way up to the Daintree. I want to paint the rainforest flora and the butterflies. The brilliant electric blue Ulysses and all the lacewings. Butterflies are so romantic! But, there; you’re making me talk too much.”
“Believe me, I’m enjoying it. Keep going.” The tension had all but drained out of him. He might even see if he couldn’t organise a trip to the Daintree for her some time.
“Stop me at any time,” she advised. “I’ll never run out of things to paint. There’s a whole world of tropical birds, and all the fruits of the rainforest.”
“How are you going to fit all this in?” he mocked.
“Heaven