Reaching for the Stars Read online

  ‘Not at all. My aunt simply doesn’t speak what is really in her mind. She would like me there at hand, but she would like very much more that I ran this business soundly, and at a profit. She’s quite a big shareholder.’

  Lang unlocked one of the filing cabinets with a master-key from his ring and handed Ann a steep pile of foolscap paper.

  ‘Here’s how they’re set out,’ he said. ‘First column is brand and quality. Second column lot number and finally the broker’s name. Got it? The first group is for Star Catalogue ‒ fleece wools and skirtings. Second lot is for main-room sales and has a minimum of five bale lots …’ He would have gone on, but had mercy on Ann’s struggle to comprehend.

  ‘Never mind now. Type out the lots and I’ll put them in their different categories. The Room Number Three Catalogue is the trickiest to type. I don’t suppose you know what L.K.S. or L.B.S. mean?’

  ‘What is fleece wool and skirtings, Lang?’

  ‘If there’s time I’ll get someone to take you ‒ on sale day ‒ up in the public gallery in Number One Room. You’ll know their values then, anyway. That would be something.’

  ‘I’d love that. Meantime if I follow the setting out of these earlier catalogues I’ll be right?’ Ann asked.

  ‘Yes. Do you think you can manage?’

  ‘Easily,’ she said confidently.

  ‘Good girl.’

  He lifted the heavy typewriter from the side stand and placed it on the work table. He put a chair for her and asked did she want a cushion.

  ‘The “shorties” out in the office use a cushion,’ he said, with a grin.

  ‘I’m not a shortie,’ said Ann with dignity. ‘I’m five feet four-and-a-half inches. That’s average.’

  Lang propped his elbow on a filing cabinet, threw his hat on top of it and took out his cigarettes.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said, cogitating. ‘That’s about three inches too short.’

  Ann was trying the chair and testing the keys, finally the shift-bar of the machine.

  She hadn’t worn her blue flower hat. She had carried it, just to be able to reassure Mrs. Franklin that she had ‘taken a hat’. She had put it on the table beside her. Lang, looking at her, saw her eyes with the light from the side window on them, reflecting the blue of the hat on the table.

  Blue, like the Indian Ocean, he thought, but did not say it aloud.

  ‘Why should I be three inches taller?’ Ann asked as she placed paper under the roller and moved it round till she had the spacing right. She had a fine frown of concentration between the blue eyes and was not taking very much notice of Lang now. There was work on hand, and in any event half the things he said were only his own strange way of fun-making. Like pretending he was terrified of Miss Devine, for instance.

  ‘The picture my aunt drew of you before you came. What do you suppose your Aunt Cassie wrote about you? We expected someone tall and willowy. Very sophisticated, too ‒’

  Ann laughed. She was still concentrating on setting the machine. Half this conversation was going over her head.

  ‘I hope I didn’t disappoint.’

  Her hands were suddenly still on the keys. She was disappointed. She knew that. There had been something indefinable in the air. Did Mrs. Franklin, who was tall, like only tall girls? Was that why Luie Condon, such a pretty girl, had to struggle to gain Lang’s attention? Mrs. Franklin didn’t encourage her. Luie wasn’t statuesque enough for Lang.

  Oh well!

  The faintest sigh escaped Ann’s parted lips.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t sure about the ribbon but I think it is a fairly new one.’ She looked up and smiled brightly. ‘I’m ready to start, Lang. Would you rather shut the door into your own office? When I bang keys I really rattle them.’

  ‘You won’t on that machine. It’s soundless. Or nearly. But don’t worry, I’m going. Are you afraid to be in the office alone if I go out for a while? I’ll lock you in, if you like. I won’t be gone more than three-quarters of an hour.’

  ‘I’m not afraid and please don’t lock me in. I’d rather be alone because that way I can work faster. When do these need to be done, Lang?’

  ‘When you’ve finished, Ann. Don’t overdo it.’

  ‘It’s not as hard or as long as you think.’

  ‘With my two fingers it would have taken me all day.’

  He picked up his hat and went to the door.

  ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be back later, then we’ll go and have some lunch. If there’s time I’ll show you the wool-store and the show-floor.’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘If you need the fire brigade or the hospital the telephone is connected,’ he said. ‘I left the switch down on the board last night.’

  ‘I’ll call the police if I have to,’ Ann smiled back. ‘Please don’t worry.’

  ‘I shan’t. Not with a girl like you.’

  He went out, leaving the door ajar. She could hear his footsteps going back through the long room towards the front entrance.

  What did he mean by that, she wondered. Not with a girl like you, he had said.

  What sort of a girl was she? And what sort of a girl did he think she was?

  Did it matter? Could it possibly matter?

  For a brief sad moment as she stared at the typewriter she thought it could matter to her quite a lot. Not, alas, with nice Luie Condon living on the orchard next door.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, almost to the minute, Lang Franklin came back.

  She heard his steps coming through the main room. Her other ear had been listening for him.

  A minute later he stood in the doorway. Then he came in, throwing his hat on top of the file again.

  For a strong man full of worldly affairs he wore a slight but engagingly boyish grin. He threw a red envelope on her table ‒ the kind that had a window in it to show a name and address. It had ‘INTERNATIONAL TELEGRAM’ printed across the top of it.

  ‘The cable!’ he said.

  Ann’s eyes widened as she picked it up, then looked at him.

  ‘But how did you get it?’

  ‘I went up to the main post office in the city. The night-and-day counter. Of course I had to sign my name for it and they darn near took my fingerprints too. Somehow I didn’t look like Miss Ann Boyd. Persistence won the day, however, and there is your cable. Still homesick?’

  Ann’s face was suddenly touched with pink. ‘I wasn’t homesick,’ she said. ‘But thank you very, very much. It was awfully kind of you. How far did you have to go?’

  ‘Twenty-six miles all told, but that’s a mere bagatelle compared with getting those catalogues typed ‒ on a Sunday morning, too.’

  ‘I’ve liked doing it,’ Ann said. She picked up a paper-knife from Miss Devine’s tray and slit open the envelope.

  Suddenly Lang wasn’t in the room any more. Quietly, without a word, he had gone into his own office and gently closed the door behind him.

  He did think she was homesick. He had gone away to let her cry in the dignity of privacy. The realisation of his kind act very nearly did bring tears to her eyes.

  Her fingers unfolded the red-lined form, and the tele-printed words stared her in the face.

  HAPPY LANDING DARLING STOP CLAIRE COMING WITH ME STOP LOVE AUNT CASSIE

  Something in Ann froze.

  A thought, all scrambled up, wound a tortuous way through her head. It had something to do with tall willowy beauties, and Mrs. Franklin’s taste in tall attractive girls.

  ‘Poor Luie!’ was the only thought that Ann could put into words. Claire was coming! Beautiful, elegant, spoilt, selfish Claire was coming.

  Poor Ann too, she thought.

  She looked up at Lang’s door. She had known him a day. A little more than twenty-four hours, to be more accurate.

  It couldn’t possibly matter …

  But it did matter! Well, for today anywa
y. Tomorrow would be different, because she would make it different.

  By two o’clock the catalogues were finished. Lang brought in the white, blue and yellow covers ‒ a colour for each different saleroom, and together they stapled the sheets together, each group in its own category.

  When this was finished, Lang, standing beside Ann’s table, leafed through them. She sat silent, watching his hands as they flicked through page after page.

  This fascinated her. She didn’t have to look at his face, this way. She knew it by heart now, she thought. It was strong, each feature firmly drawn: his mouth was sometimes a straight line, sometimes eased by that wonderful smile.

  She thought she liked him in this present mood best because he was serious, concentrating on something he was doing with everything else in the world temporarily cut off. This, she thought, was the true man ‒ a person dedicated to his work. It was the rest of it that had been the façade. This was how the girls who worked here every week-day would see him.

  An idea leapt into life.

  If she worked here she would only see this side of him and he would be as impersonal with her as he was being now. Besides, work always cured her of silly ailments like falling in love, almost at first sight. It had happened before ‒ the falling in love; and the work cure too.

  Somehow she had to get out from under Claire’s feet. She couldn’t bear that situation any more. Even if Claire worked in this new country it wouldn’t be in a wool-store. It would have to be something much more glamorous like Heather Condon’s job in TV. If Heather was a good model to decorate quiz shows, Claire would be the perfect one. All the viewers in the country would turn on to see Claire.

  Ann knew that silly thoughts were running through her head at random. To begin with ‒ it was probably very hard to get work in TV.

  Why was she worrying about Claire and a job? It was herself that mattered, for once.

  She had not taken her eyes from Lang’s hands. At last she realised they had stopped moving and were holding the catalogues closed.

  She lifted her head. He was looking down at her, obviously studying her face.

  ‘Are you tired, Ann?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no. Goodness, that wasn’t hard at all, Lang.’ She laughed up at him. ‘You see I use ten fingers ‒ not two ‒ and I’ve been typing for years …’

  She broke off. For goodness’ sake, there wasn’t a mistake, was there?

  ‘Are they all right?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘All right? They’re perfect. What a waste to have you sitting up there on that orchard entertaining Aunt Mary when you could be down here saving Franklin’s Wool Exporters from almost certain penury ‒ due to staff shortage.’

  He was joking, of course, but she had to make a bid for escape from Claire. Was this the opportunity?

  ‘Would they be good enough for you to give me a reference, Lang? One from someone in this country would help.’

  He laughed. ‘Good lord! You look serious.’

  ‘I am. I’d like a job. I’d give anything for a job. You see …’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I’m not very good at sitting still. I’ve always worked. I think wool is going to interest me because I loved doing those catalogues. Are there other stores around? And is there really a shortage of staff?’

  ‘There’s a shortage of girls because they’re so well paid they all go off to England and the Continent as soon as they’ve saved up enough money for their fares. As for other stores? If you’re going to work, Ann, I’ve first claim.’

  Suddenly he smiled. It was that mesmerising smile again and was nearly her undoing. She wanted to say, ‘I have to escape from you, as well as Claire.’ She didn’t have the heart, or the courage. She murmured something muddled about its perhaps being better if she worked for another wool firm.

  This time Lang was really amused. ‘What a prim and proper miss you are, Ann,’ he said. ‘I believe it bothers you that you might be working for someone in whose house you also live. Is that it? A sort of noblesse oblige about not mixing business with home-life? There’s a way out of that situation and we’ll fix it up over lunch. Meantime, Miss Devine has her own washroom through that door in the corner. Go and make yourself beautiful and I’ll meet you in the main office in ten minutes.’

  He went towards his own office, carrying the catalogues under his arm. At his door he turned.

  ‘Wear the blue hat, Ann.’ He was smiling again.

  ‘But it’s useless. It hasn’t a brim to shield the sun.’

  ‘Damn the sun. I was thinking of other things. It’s a nice hat.’

  Of course he said that to cheer me up, Ann thought as she powdered her nose five minutes later before Miss Devine’s mirror. He’s a flatterer, amongst other things. That’s how he gets me in. Probably Luie Condon to. He just might meet his Waterloo in Claire.

  Thinking again of Claire almost put her off the idea of lunch. It was not dislike of Claire but a strange ambivalence. Claire was her cousin and she loved her. Claire in England ‒ happy, successful, even rich if she married the right man ‒ would delight Ann.

  But Claire here? She might spoil the garden at the bottom of the orchard. She might.

  When Ann was ready she went out through Miss Devine’s room, first looking carefully round in case she had left behind one single sign of an intruder having used the sacrosanct room. She walked through the main office to the entrance.

  Lang was there first. He held the door open for her to pass through while he was locking up. Ann saw Ross Dawson swing in from the street in a Holden car. He pulled up beside Lang’s big car, got out and slammed the door shut as he said:

  ‘I’ve killed two birds with one stone. Caught both of you. Hallo, Ann, how are you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but grinned at Lang knowingly. ‘Took my girl, did you? Ann, please explain that I knew you first and longest. The claim is mine.’

  Ann knew this was no more than Ross’s way of talking, but she sensed that though Lang nodded pleasantly to Ross he was not pleased. It had nothing to do with the claim on her own company, but rather something to do with the fact that Lang knew Ross was trying to make a business deal and wasn’t coming out in the open with it.

  ‘I’ve been typing catalogues, Ross,’ Ann said proudly. ‘I know quite a lot about wool already.’

  ‘Nice work. You wouldn’t know about the Franklin stragglers’ clip yet, would you? If so, put a word in for me, Ann. It would be so much easier to buy in the store instead of waiting for the auctioneer’s knock-down.’

  ‘That catalogue will be out to the buyers during the week, Ross,’ Lang said pleasantly. ‘Probably up for next Thursday’s sale. Meantime you can look at the bales on the show floor. By the way, where’d you get the Holden? Last heard of, you were driving my runabout.’

  This last, Lang said with a grin that was meant to wipe away from the moment’s encounter everything pertaining to wool.

  ‘That’s what I came to see you about, Lang. I drove it up to Kalamunda this morning and missed you by ten minutes. I took a swerve round past the Condons’ orchard and asked Luie if she’d drive me back to the coast. She did, and I’m here. Your runabout is safe in the garage. Thanks for the loan of it.’

  ‘Luie?’ There was a slightly uneven edge to Lang’s voice. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She went sun-bathing on the beach. When we heard you’d brought Ann down to the store we figured on meeting up with you, making a four of it for lunch ‒ that is if you weren’t working the fingers off Ann ‒ and afterwards having a look at the wool. How’s that for planning, Lang?’

  ‘Very good, I should say. Meantime if you’ll take Ann to the Athens Restaurant round on South Beach I’ll go and find Luie. Which beach?’

  ‘Leighton, of course. You’ll find her in candy stripes, and getting herself a fine early-summer sun-tan.’

  Lang turned to Ann. ‘I might be quite some time. Do you mind going on with Ross?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sure I’ll be in good company.’<
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  Lang glanced at Ross then back to Ann.

  ‘So it seems,’ he said briefly. He raised his hat and went over to his own car without another word.

  ‘Come and try a Holden,’ Ross said, taking Ann’s arm.

  ‘It belongs to a hire-a-car firm but is the latest model. It’s quite a car.’

  Lang had opened the door of his own car, put his legs in under the steering wheel, slammed the door shut and driven away without another look at them.

  ‘I think he’s angry,’ Ann said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Luie Condon. He treats her like a schoolgirl when no one else is around, but let another man borrow a ride down to the coast in her car and he’s all possessive. Don’t worry, Ann. I imagine that is Lang all over.’

  Ann was in her place in the Holden now. Ross walked round to let himself into the driving seat. He started up the car. Before he moved it forward he turned again to Ann.

  ‘Don’t look anxious, child,’ he said. ‘Take Lang as he comes. Everyone else does. He makes use of people ‒ Luie’s adoration, his aunt’s devotion, your typing on a Sunday morning! He even made use of me yesterday to add to the company spirit up at the orchard.’ Ross smiled cheerfully. ‘I have to admit I’m jolly glad he did. It gave me an “in” before the wool season begins. I couldn’t have asked for more. Now could I?’

  ‘I don’t understand the wool exporting business yet, but I hope I will before I go home. It seems fascinating.’

  ‘What? Typing catalogues?’

  He had moved the car forward and now turned into the road that led round to the South Beach.

  ‘Wool reduced to figures like bb and aaa bkn and aaa m is fascinating,’ Ann explained. ‘But mostly the names of the sheep stations. They’re like a sort of poetry. Numarra, Doolawarra, Yinda-Yarragarra. I remember some already. It’s typing them, I suppose. I wish I could see some of the stations.’

  ‘You will. And some of the road-trains of wool coming in too. That is the greatest thrill of all. They haul the wool for nearly a thousand miles in this State. Not all of it, of course. Some comes down by coastal boat and some by train where there are railheads. But thousands of bales come by road-train. The drivers are quite characters too. The whole country thrums when wool is on the move.’