The Wind and the Spray Read online

  THE WIND AND THE SPRAY

  by

  JOYCE DINGWELL

  Laurel realised that her new job—on a remote whaling station in the Pacific Ocean—would not be an easy one, but she badly needed the money. However, she made a bigger success of it than she had ever anticipated—and surprised no one more than the overbearing, irritating boss of the whalemen, Nor Larsen.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I SINCERELY hope, Miss Teal, that you are addicted to gossip.”

  Beyond Mr. Kittey’s unromantic bald head that was framed so romantically with dreamy blue water because the office where they sat overlooked Sydney Harbour, Laurel watched a little ferry beetling across to Circular Quay.

  That was what she loved about this Australian city. Its waterways reached almost to its heart. The charm of it all had reached her heart, she admitted. And yet, she regretted, I’m leaving it all, I’m going away.

  The ferry left a wash of white foam behind it. The white, the blue harbour, the red roofs of the houses above the lapping bays and inlets made it all appear a great bright flag.

  “Yes,” repeated Mr. Kittey with a frivolous quirk, “I sincerely hope you gossip, Miss Teal, and if you do not I really would advise you to begin.”

  Laurel came back from the great bright flag, from the frame of colour and light and transparency, and looked at Mr. Kittey instead.

  He had made a surprising suggestion, and her grey eyes questioned him.

  “You heard aright,” he nodded humorously, well pleased with his own wit, and he rose from his chair and went across to a map on the wall. “On an island,” he explained, tapping somewhere along the east coast of Australia, “a small island, it’s supposed to be healthy to have an outlet, even if that outlet consists only of criticism of Mrs. Jones’s taste in hats or Mrs. Smith’s hand with a scone.”

  “An island?” echoed Laurel.

  “Humpback Island.”

  “Is—is it that because of its shape?”

  “No, because of the species of water mammal that is its main activity.”

  “And its activity?” breathed Laurel tensely.

  Mr. Kittey smiled paternally down on his applicant for employment and said: “Whales.”

  * * *

  One hour ago Laurel had never heard of Kittey’s Agency.

  She had been an almost contented secretary to Mr. Chester of Chester and Hill.

  The reason for the “almost” had been salary. It was a good salary but not a remarkable one, not the kind of remuneration that, because of David, she knew she should try to earn.

  She had been in Australia only three months, and she loved it.

  It all had not turned out the streets-lined-with-gold prospect that she had been given to expect, but she had found a pleasant post, pleasant board, become friendly with her fellow workers, she liked the climate, the city, everything ... in fact she knew she could have continued as she was, quite happy and contented, but for David. David, of course.

  Esther, who typed at the next table, had started it all. “You’ll be joining in our theatre party, naturally, Laurel?”

  “No ... no, I’m afraid I won’t.”

  All the girls had looked at her enquiringly, and Laurel had known why. When people open their hearts to you and you don’t open yours in return, it’s only to be expected that their eyes will enquire.

  But not only did their eyes enquire this time, they said with that forthrightness Laurel had found and come to admire in Australians: “But why? Are you mean, or something? You said no last time ... the time before that ...”

  Because only friends would intrude thus, Laurel had told them what she would tell only to friends.

  About David, her brother ... How he was her responsibility ... About his chest ... About the frailty he had had from a small child ... How he would always have to be watched ...

  “But isn’t medical attention free over in England?” Marion had asked sympathetically.

  “There are extras.” Laurel had said it in wry understatement. In what other manner could you explain those beanstalk costs that never seemed to stop growth? Little delicacies ... magazine subscriptions ... things to make an invalid’s life a little brighter ... gifts and surprises, not just on birthdays and at Christmas but all the year round. “Then in winter,” she proffered aloud this time, “I’ve always tried to get Davey to the South of France.”

  She guessed she must sound inadequate, but why should she bother these kind hearts with a hard-luck story of the struggle it had been with only the very small income that had been all Father had left?

  “Why did you leave England, then? Come to Australia? All that extra expense?” someone had asked.

  “My firm was putting on a housing exhibition. They offered me the post of exhibitor at a much bigger salary than I was getting back home ... I had free passage,” Laurel said.

  She had paused a rather tremulous moment, thinking longingly of David, his too-bright eyes, his too-thin body, his lovableness, how hard it had been to leave him, but the high hopes she had had. “It would have been different,” she said more to herself, “if we had been together?”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No. David is, was, practically always has been, in a san.”

  There had been a little silence. With an effort Laurel had broken it cheerfully. “So there you are girls, I stopped on after my firm packed up and went back, and here I am, browner, a trifle plumper, I think, grateful for your friendship, but no richer, not unless I curtail all entertainment—also”—she looked around the group—“hoping you’ll understand my position and forbear.”

  They had, of course. They had smiled warmly upon her. They had showered her with sympathy, offered to pay for her to the theatre, to advance loans; it had been hard to make them stop. Then in the middle of it all Esther had made that announcement that had ended in all this.

  “Of course,” Esther had said, “if it’s a high salary you’re after, Laurel, Mr. Kittey is the only one.”

  “Mr. Kittey?” Laurel had looked at Esther, at the rest of the girls, and they all had nodded.

  “He gets the plum jobs. Mind you, you won’t stop in Sydney ... any of the capitals ... not for the sort of salary Mr. Kittey assures. You could be sent anywhere … the Centre, the Snowy, the Gibber Desert, the Spinifex.”

  “Would”—Laurel’s voice had faltered in its uncertainty in herself—“I have a chance for a job like that?”

  “Why not?” they all had chorused. “Within ten weeks you’ve become Mr. Chester’s personal secretary, so you must be able to cope.”

  She was able to cope. She had been well trained and she never had permitted her capabilities to lag. You couldn’t when you had a David depending on your skill.

  “Could”—again the faltering uncertainty in herself—“I summon up the nerve?”

  “You are summoning it,” Marion had assured her with decision, and she had taken up the telephone and dialled Mr. Kittey’s office at once.

  It had been a brief conversation during which Marion had said, with a glance at Laurel, “Why, yes, as a matter of fact she has.”

  Then she had put the receiver down again and announced, “In an hour.”

  In that hour, fortunately her lunch hour, Laurel had combed her hair, brushed her suit, muted her lipstick to a colour suitable for an employment interview, then climbed up to Mr. Kittey’s bureau on the city’s brow.

  As she walked she had glanced back at the harbour water and thought wistfully aloud, “I wish I didn’t have to leave it. I don’t want snow, deserts, centres, spinifex, I want—I want wind and spray.” Yes, that was it, wind and spray.

  There had been wind and spray as she had turned into the big stone and glass buil
ding that housed, among others, Mr. Kittey, for Sydney was a windy city and the wind continually made fun with the harbour inlets and bays. Laurel had sniffed the sharp brine of it and felt nostalgic even now at the thought of leaving it behind.

  Once inside the cool lobby the wind and spray had disappeared, of course, the tang and brine had disappeared ... until she saw the man.

  He was a tall, widely-built man, and immediately she had had the impression of a rock. A rock by the sea ... a wave-washed rock ... a rock that stood through the years, hard, impenetrable, part of the ocean itself. He had skin the colour of deeply tanned leather, salt-bleached hair, he walked with a rolling gait, his eyes were sailor blue.

  Those eyes had watched her down every step of the corridor; she had felt their close contemplation as she had stopped in front of the illumined tenant directory opposite the letter K.

  “Kittey’s Employment Bureau,” she had noted, knowing that the man, too, was scanning it over her shoulder.

  Straightening her own shoulders, she had passed on towards the lift. It was aloft, so she had put out her hand to the bell to summon it down.

  She had not pressed the bell, however. There was no opportunity.

  This time, she had thought indignantly, that forthrightness she had decided she liked in Australians went beyond just that.

  The man’s calm, assured: “One moment, madam,” was no mere forthrightness, it was sheer effrontery. And the great rock of a man standing firmly between her and the lift cage was sheer effrontery as well.

  “I beg your pardon?” She had said it as frozenly as she could.

  It had not helped at all that he had calmly accepted the words as an apology and not a rebuff.

  “Pardoned,” he had granted in a slow, confident drawl then lazily but nonetheless decisively he had guided her away from the elevator to a bench at the other side of the hall.

  “Thought I’d save you a trip,” he informed her, and he had edged her down to the seat.

  “A trip?”

  “In the lift. Though perhaps you like elevators. I don’t.”

  “What is all this?”

  “I’ve just told you. You’re going up to the Bureau, aren’t you? Up to Kittey’s. Old Kittey told me he expected an applicant. All right, then, the post’s yours.”

  She had stared at him in amazement.

  “What post?”

  “Mine—ours. We need someone, and you’ll do.”

  “And who”—Laurel had found difficulty in controlling her voice—“might ‘ours’ be?”

  “Myself ... the kids.”

  “How do you know I’m qualified for whatever you require?” Again the tight voice.

  “I don’t, but Kittey’s never let out a no-hoper, everyone knows that. Besides, it doesn’t really matter about qualifications. There’s nothing to do. Mummy Reed sees to the house and I do the clerical myself. So long”—the sailor blue eyes had estimated her hair under her small hat—“as you don’t actually hate youngsters and your head is red.” This time Laurel had needed no edging, she had jumped on her own bidding to her feet. Unconsciously her hand had gone up to her hair. “If it hadn’t been red, it wouldn’t have been my post, is that it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s very good of you.” Her tone was sarcastic.

  The man had taken out a packet of tobacco and some papers and begun rolling a smoke.

  “That’s all right,” he accepted without a blink.

  “Thank you very much.” Laurel had said it icily. He must be something much tougher than just leather, she had thought, because she couldn’t, whatever she said, however she said it, get through his skin.

  “Good afternoon,” she had choked angrily.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Up to Mr. Kittey’s, of course.”

  “He’ll charge you commission. Agents do. I’m saving you cash as well as a trip.”

  “I’m not interested in your post.”

  “It’s the post he’ll offer. Kittey’s don’t get columns of jobs on their books as other agents do. Kittey is a specialist, doesn’t deal in bulk.”

  “I’m not interested,” was all Laurel could trust herself to answer back.

  The man, the wide rock of a man, had been as untouched as if he was really a rock. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “No need to.”

  “The location is an island.”

  “Really?”

  “The activity”—the sailor blue eyes had flickered at her—“is whales.”

  * * *

  “ ... Whales,” Mr. Kittey said brightly now. But don’t be dismayed, you won’t have anything to do with them, not even any clerical work concerning them. Your position will be a sort of stand-in for the children’s mother, I understand, because the mother will not be there.”

  Somehow or other Laurel found herself able to murmur, “Red hair, Mr. Kittey ... Can you explain that, please?”

  “Oh, so you’ve been talking to your prospective employer, or did the lady who telephoned tell you what was required? Anyway, it doesn’t matter so long as you’re titian. Mr. Blake’s wife is titian.”—So that was the Rock’s name. Blake. “Mr. Blake believes, then, that the children will take more readily to someone of the same colouring as their mother. I said there might be a delay, but it appears he will be fortunate, the same as you.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Kittey. I don’t want this post.”

  “The salary,” said Mr. Kittey forbearingly, “is very generous.”

  “I don’t want the post.”

  Mr. Kittey either did not hear or pretended not to. “You are paid an extra sum for being away from the mainland,” he explained. He named the sum and Laurel knew at once that it was very generous indeed. She knew too it was so exceptional that she could not possibly refuse it, not when she had David to think about.

  “Is it all right?” she blurted unhappily. “I mean—well, I mean—”

  “My dear Miss Teal, if propriety is worrying you, let me put your mind at rest at once. Humpback, though an island, is not the desert variety, in fact it’s not very far distant from the coast. It is populated, if perhaps not densely, then quite agreeably, I think. Again there is a brother-in-law as well as the chief in residence, and an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Reed. Finally, Kittey’s have known the family for many years ... found them their staff from labourer to tally clerk ... only replaced that staff when someone was finally pensioned off through old age. That’s the kind of post you are questioning now, Miss Teal.”

  Mr. Kittey went on enthusiastically, but Laurel did not hear him.

  ... I don’t like that man, she thought. I won’t be happy, better to turn the offer down at once for something less lucrative but more reassuring, and yet, David darling, the things I could do for you, buy for you, with money of that sort.

  Mr. Kittey was saying now: “No shops to entice you ... even if you stopped only a few months you’d be financially well ahead of yourself. I can assure you, Miss Teal, you’re really fortunate. This position is quite unique. No extreme temperature either way, no stony desert, the advantages of the sea all around you—”

  “And the wind and the spray,” Laurel suddenly, eagerly, thought.

  Perhaps the wind and the spray did it, perhaps it was just the salary, perhaps it was David, but ten minutes later Laurel had signed an agreement, walked out of Mr. Kittey’s office, down the hall, into the lift.

  In the lobby below she saw him rise from the bench and roll more than walk towards her. The Rock, she thought.

  “Feel better now you know I have no ulterior motives?” Again he was rolling a cigarette. “Rather expensive reassurance, though,” he drawled, licking the edges of the paper together. “Kittey knows how to charge.”

  He lit the cigarette. The sailor blue eyes were narrowed as he avoided its smoke wreaths.

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  “Yes. Is my hair red enough?”

  “You’ve got the job, haven’t you? Today
week, and the Leeward is moored off Blue’s Bay. Go light on social clothes, a few will probably be too many. And include sensible warm stuff, you’re not going north to some coral atoll. Here’s your first week’s wages.” He handed her an envelope he must have had ready.

  ‘You were very sure of yourself,” she remarked, accepting the packet distastefully.

  “Sure of you,” he corrected. “There are only two things, madam, on which you can safely bet with a woman. One is cash; the other, and a vastly bigger fish, I maintain, is a man for keeps.”

  She went to open her mouth, but he forestalled her.

  “Incidentally, if you’ve any ideas on the latter, forget them. There’s only one available male on Humpback Island, and he has other ideas.” The blue eyes were slits again, but this time there was no smoke to narrow them as before. “As a matrimonial bureau, then, Humpback Island is a complete wipe-off. Sorry and all that, but all we can offer you is cash. Good day to you now. Ring Kittey for any extra information. I’ll be seeing you today week, Blue’s Bay, at nine a.m.”

  “Not nine bells?” Her voice was caustic. She wanted to take some of the wind out of his sails, make him less of the sailor.

  “You have those bells wrong,” he drawled maddeningly back. “You mean two, not nine. Not”—again the narrowed eyes—“that I’m a nautical many myself. I’m a whaleman, an entirely different breed.”

  He might not be a nautical man, but when he went it was with that characteristic roll, and the lobby, she noticed, was not full of brine any longer.