Cane Music Read online

  CANE MUSIC

  Joyce Dingwell

  Roslyn had always adored baby Belinda, and had always cared for her and about her—which was more than the child’s relatives had ever done!

  Now, belatedly, they wanted to claim her, but Roslyn had no intention of parting with her. How should she set about fighting these masterful Morenos?

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was quite appropriate, Roslyn mused idly, choosing one of the empty benches in the garden of the hospital at which she nursed, that an infirmary overlooking Australia’s Murray River should be named ‘The Border Clinic’. The Murray River marked the border between the two states of New South Wales and Victoria, and though the clinic lay on the New South Wales bank, it still was only a cobblestone throw to the Victorian bank, making it in all a mutual border effort.

  Still abstracted, for she had other things ... serious things ... on her mind, Roslyn thought next of the hospital itself, of its close affinity to Old Man Murray, as the river was fondly called, of the hospital’s every window from ward to theatre to waiting room, overlooking that shining green stream, of the sound, down every corridor, of whispering waterbells. She should know, Roslyn smiled faintly; she had started at Border as a young aide, then advanced through the progressive grades of pro, then nurse, and was now the rank of Sister.

  She sat back on the bench, drinking in the peace and the time-dropping-slow effect of the meandering river. She wondered ... still without reality ... if the benches had been placed here to calm the patients’ relatives, for, in spite of the appointed room, it was here they always sat. Sat and waited ... as Roslyn was waiting now. Waiting for Dudley to die.

  She had not wanted to leave Dudley’s bedside to come and sit on a bench, but Chris Willings, the doctor on duty, had insisted.

  “Take a break, Roslyn,” he had advised kindly but definitely—his way, Roslyn had known at once, of saying that it would not be long now. She had tried to tell Chris, who had started as an interne on the same day as she had worn her first cap, that his protection was unnecessary, that she was emotionally capable of nursing Dudley to the end, but the doctor had veered her firmly to the verandah, then nodded across at the garden. She had walked to the empty seat under the thicket of trees, slipped off her veil, and begun to wait.

  Curious, she mused, but not so abstractedly now, how composed, how almost detached she felt, yet not really curious in a way, for the position had been like this for the past three months. Dudley had been dying for three months. It seemed incredible that Nanette, Dudley’s young wife, had been gone now over a quarter of a year. Nanette had been killed instantly in the accident; Dudley had lingered unconscious ever since. Roslyn had been told there was no hope, and she had accepted it. After three months of nothing for Dudley, she even had prayed for it. And now, it seemed, it was here. Goodbye, Dudley, Roslyn wished silently.

  Dudley was her stepfather. Nanette had been her stepmother.—Or was that right? It was all so involved that at times Roslyn had to pause to sort it out for herself. Her own mother had been widowed when she had married Dudley. Mrs. Young had come up from Melbourne to a country post that would accept a child ... Roslyn ... as well as herself, had met the district agent, then it had all gone on from there.

  How well Roslyn remembered that announcement of their engagement. Dudley, mature, suave, sophisticated, polished, yet kind in his way, and possibly not meaning to dash a child down with his: “No, never Father, my dear, perish the thought. Dudley will do nicely, pet.” He had been rather nice himself, and the disappointed child had liked him ... if faintly; later the young woman Roslyn had grown into had appreciated the way he had insisted on keeping her in contact (even though there had been a reason behind that) after her mother had died and Dudley had very soon taken upon himself a new young wife.

  Yet she never had loved Dudley, just liked him, and when it had come to Nanette it had been hard even to get to liking. Except that with Nanette had come Nanette’s baby daughter by a first marriage, the liking might never have been achieved. Only one had to compel oneself to like the mother of a child one adored, Roslyn had found—and Roslyn adored Belinda.

  Nanette had not resented that love at all. Quite openly Nanette had considered herself fortunate to have attracted such a person as suave as Dudley Forrest, and when a free nurse for Belinda had come with him she scarcely could believe her good luck.

  After her first husband, she once had confided to Roslyn, sophistication and polish and know-how were very desirable attributes. She never elaborated on that subject, but Roslyn had gathered that it had not been a happy union, and that when it had ended, whether by death or divorce Roslyn had not learned, it had been no great loss to Nanette.

  Dudley, characteristically, had accepted Nanette’s baby with amiable indifference, just as once he had accepted a small Roslyn. Roslyn, present when the baby had been shown to him, had seen again that “Never Father, perish the thought” look on his now ageing but still handsome face.

  It was then that Roslyn’s stepfather had insisted on keeping in close contact with Roslyn, and Nanette, catching on smartly, had added her bit.

  The reason was Baby Belinda. Roslyn would be very handy with Belinda. Roslyn, though she had followed their cunning strategies, had not minded at all.

  Right from the first moment she had set eyes on the child she had loved her. Belinda was not at all like her mother, not pretty, pert, fetching, coy, but even in babyhood there was something deep and intrinsic in her, something you knew would be hard to win, yet something that promised rich reward once you did find it. In the months that had grown into several years that had followed, Roslyn had often looked at Belinda and thought: Here am I at her little age, wanted but not deeply wanted, not lacking anything but lacking everything. Oh, it must be, it has to be, different for Belinda.

  Nanette and Dudley had been two of a kind, just as her own mother and Dudley had matched up well. But with Mother and Dudley the child between had been older and self-reliant; with Nanette and Dudley there had been a dependent infant. When Roslyn had come forward and offered to take over, everyone had been delighted. With the small girl conveniently off their hands whenever Roslyn was off duty, the couple had gone everywhere, tried everything. They cared about Belinda in their own fashion, Roslyn had often supposed, just as she herself had been cared about in her turn once. But most of the Belinda affection, she had suspected, had been because of a convenient non-involvement. Well ... a small sigh ... they would never be involved any more. Nanette had died at once in the road accident. Dudley had lingered on for a wretched three months. Right from the first moment of impact there had been no hope for him, it had been simply a matter of waiting. Roslyn had found a woman to watch Belinda during the times she was not on duty, but in the times she had off she had watched ... and loved ... herself. Mrs. Maddison once had said: “You love too much. What will happen when you have your own two or three one day?”

  “Four. And I’ve plenty of love,” Roslyn had assured her confidently.

  There was, Roslyn had learned prior to the fatality, a relative, apart from the either dead or divorced husband, in existence for Belinda. Nanette, who liked dramatising at times, had related it all very graphically.

  “None on my side, but on Belinda’s father’s side. A horrible crotchety old man. He rules a huge sugar kingdom in Queensland. We went up there and it was vile—cane beetles and toads as big as plates. And the awful heat! I just couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t stand me when I had a girl and not a boy. Boys are so useful on the land.”

  “Girls milk,” Roslyn murmured. “Weed the onions.”

  “But they can’t take over when the mechanical harvester isn’t working. That’s all old Crotchety ever wanted, a young male, for cheap labour.”


  “Perhaps he wanted an heir, or heiress, to leave the estate to after he died,” Roslyn had suggested charitably.

  “Not likely,” Nanette had tossed, “never that mean old Pig.”

  Roslyn had gathered from Nanette’s grimaces that there had been no financial assistance from the Moreno family. Yes, that was the name: Moreno. Most of the sugar growers up top were either Italian or Italian descended. Another grimace from Nanette. The young mother had not dwelt on that monetary angle, but as she was continually hard up, constantly borrowing, and since Belinda was certainly never indulged, Roslyn had reached her own conclusions. It had seemed unfair for the child then, but now Roslyn was glad ... jealously relieved that there had been no communication, particularly any remunerative one, between the two adults, for it made it very unlikely that that crotchety person Nanette had described all at once would discover an interest in the orphaned Belinda. Nonetheless Roslyn had been acutely aware that the person would have to be told, and she had written an informative letter many times in her mind. But prior to that, she had planned to despatch a wire the moment poor Dudley passed away, telling Mr. Moreno the final news, since previously, naturally, she had had to acquaint him with the news of Nanette. Also in the telegram would be the advice of her following letter, and in the letter would be her offer to take over Belinda, an offer Roslyn had no doubt would be accepted, especially when there was no request from her for financial aid, no strings attached. Oh, no, no troubles there, Roslyn thought.

  She looked out on the river again. A paddlewheel boat was going idly by and its ripples were like wide smiles. To the south, green fields stretched as far as the eye could see, to the west the great vineyards of the Riverina were busy on their famous purple and white grapes, and to the north ... far to the north ... and she shrugged slightly, was that Moreno sugar kingdom that Nanette had decried.

  She thought of Nanette’s beetles, toads and heat, and felt glad that old Crotchety didn’t go for girls. Here, by the Murray, it was just perfect to Roslyn’s way of thinking, not too hot, not too cold. A soft carnation pink perennially in Belinda’s cheeks. Up there the little face would have dried out, gone all scorched and freckled, probably suffered a prickly rash, for Belinda had a fine sensitive skin. Oh, yes, it had all been very sad, but it wouldn’t, if Roslyn could help it, be sad very long for Belinda. My Belinda. Roslyn leaned over to re-knot a lace of her duty shoes ... then stopped. She found herself looking instead of knotting, looking at the hospital door. Chris, Doctor Chris, who was sweet, kind, helpful, and ... she sometimes suspected ... wishing to marry her, was coming out of that door. He was crossing the lawn now, approaching the bench where she waited. So ... and Roslyn said a personal little prayer ... Dudley was at peace at last.

  Chris did not speak for quite a while after he had sat down beside Roslyn. Then he said quietly: “Sorry, Ros. But I think you know that without my saying it.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you, Chris.”

  “He just slipped gently away. Well” ... a controlled movement of fine surgeon’s hands ... “he deserved that after three months.”

  Roslyn nodded and they were quiet again.

  Once more it was Chris who spoke first. “Stepfather, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there was a stepmother who died instantly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leaving” ... tentatively... “a child. A girl.”

  “Yes, Chris. Belinda belonged to a previous marriage, poor small pet.”

  “Poor, with you looking after her?” Chris’s nice bramble-coloured eyes smiled at Roslyn, and she felt instantly warmed. She needed that warmth, she thought.

  “Now you understand how it is with me when it comes to Belinda,” she told him, for his warm smile had indicated such understanding.

  “Of course. But” ... tentatively again ... “do you understand how it is with—me, Ros?”

  “With you?” She did not comprehend.

  Chris sat silent a moment, his fingers not so steady now. “Look,” he said at last, “I find I can deliberate wisely and coolly when it’s a diagnosis, but when—when it’s us, Ros, I find I have to blurt.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes.”

  Roslyn looked directly back at him. “Blurt, then,” she blurted herself.

  He still took his time. But eventually he said: “I wouldn’t mind Belinda as well.”

  “As well as—?”

  “As you.”

  “Oh, Chris,” Roslyn cried in distress. She liked the young doctor, she knew that, but how much did she really like him? If it had been a big liking, a significant liking, wouldn’t Chris sometimes have pushed Belinda out of her thoughts instead of Belinda pushing everyone else? Well, wouldn’t he?

  The doctor was watching her closely. “Give it a thought, anyway,” he suggested offhandedly. “For instance, think about it as you go home.”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “You’re taken off for the rest of the week, Sister Young. No doubt you have a lot of things to attend to.”

  “Oh, I have,” Roslyn nodded gratefully, and she thanked him. Together they went back to the hospital. There Roslyn said goodbye rather abstractedly to Chris. Once more she was wording that telegram, planning that letter.

  For the telegram she decided on: “Regret to inform you of death of Nanette’s husband. Letter following.”

  For the letter she planned: “As regards the child, Belinda, I am sure you will be in agreement—”

  But neither was sent.

  By the time Roslyn reached the post office, it was closed. She would have to wait until tomorrow. It would be useless then to write the letter, since it must arrive later than the wire, so that, too, must wait. Belinda was at Mrs. Maddison’s for the night, the woman always took her when Roslyn was on duty. It disorganized the child to change a plan, so Roslyn left her there now, though she could have done with the little girl, she thought wistfully, she would have been something to hold on to.

  She could not have explained why suddenly she felt like that. She had known for months about Dudley, but still a restlessness, almost a foreboding, persisted.

  She turned on the news, not listening very much until she heard a name—Dudley’s name. It should not have been unexpected, she knew that, for Dudley had been something of an artist. The news reader mentioned the tragedy of three months ago when the road accident had claimed the life of Dudley’s wife. Then he related Dudley’s own sad story. A child was left, the reader said, and for a stupid moment Roslyn wondered whether she herself would be mentioned, too, though of course not; she was over twenty-one and no relation—well, not actually, to either of them.

  All the same the news item rather disturbed her. She had not counted on the radio, and she found herself hoping that such local items as this did not reach interstate media. It did not really matter, she supposed, but it would render tomorrow’s telegram rather redundant. However ... brightening ... it was the letter that really counted. That: “As regards the child, Belinda, I am sure you will be in agreement...”

  It was at that moment that the telephone rang.

  Even as she leaned over to pick up the receiver, though there was no possible reason to feel as she did, Roslyn felt alarm. It was quite stupid of her, it would be Border Hospital asking her to report back after all, that there was an emergency, or it would be Mrs. Maddison, who was something of a mother hen and always taking temperatures, it would be one of her friends, it would be—She announced her number into the mouthpiece.

  “Would this be the residence of Miss Belinda Moreno?” The voice of the inquirer was firm, matured and masculinely deep, but these facts did not register very much on Roslyn, she was too incredulous. The residence of a baby of just three indeed!

  “She is a small child,” she said coldly over the wire.

  “I’m perfectly aware of that, but I didn’t know any other way to ask what had to be asked.”—Had to be asked? Roslyn did register that, and clearly. She also reg
istered the equal chill to her own chill that the caller put into his words.

  “You could have inquired did a little girl of the name of Belinda Moreno live here,” she said shortly.

  “Does she?”

  A pause. What was this? What was it all about?

  “Does she?”

  Reluctantly Roslyn murmured: “Yes.”

  “I represent Mr. Moreno.”

  “Old Crotchety.”

  “What, madam?”

  “I said you’re speaking for her father’s side, you mean? Are you really ringing from Queensland? The line is very clear.”

  “I’m ringing from less than forty miles away, but I can assure you the line is clear, for Mr. Moreno telephoned from Queensland himself only some ten minutes ago, and he might have been speaking in the same room.”

  “And saying?” asked Roslyn sharply.

  “That he had heard the news” ... so it had gone interstate ... “and while I was down here to collect the baby and take her back with me.”

  “Take here where?”

  “North. That’s where Queensland happens to be, madam. Didn’t you know?”

  “I knew, but—But what right has he?”

  “Moreno,” reminded the firm, matured, deep voice. “While the stepfather lived he still retained the custody, but now that he has gone—” The voice trailed significantly off.

  “There’s something this Moreno person seems to be forgetting,” Roslyn broke in with barely controlled fury.

  “Madam?”

  “The child is a girl. A girl. She will not grow into a boy.”

  “I hardly think it was expected she would.”

  “Was anything expected, or rather executed?” called Roslyn tightly. “I mean, silence ever since Belinda’s disappointing birth.”

  “You call two hundred dollars a month for three years silence, madam?”

  “Two hundred—” Roslyn could not finish it. Her throat seemed to be closing up. It could have happened, it could have been like that, she knew agonizingly. Nanette always had played round with the truth, and she and Dudley had rushed hither and thither in gay abandon. Expensive abandon. Roslyn had often wondered had Dudley sold all his pictures to run around so much.