Nurse Abroad(20)

“We’ll have late tea,” said Grant,” because when I sit down to Christmas tea, I like to feel that all the chores are over.”

The countryside was beautiful, lying goldenly in pools of sunshine, with shadows dimpling the hills dotted with sheep.

Sarah loved the cool-sounding splash of the waters as they ran through the ford, shallow now in the summer drought, and breasted the last rise towards Challowsford.

As they came into the farmyard, the dogs began to bark, several pet lambs—who were perfect nuisances, and a danger to the vegetable garden—baa-ed, and hens rushed towards them.

Sarah exclaimed impulsively. “Isn’t it lovely coming home in the country, all the animals rushing to greet you ... even if it is mostly cupboard love ... Look!”

Grant looked, but not at the geese; at Sarah, sparkling-eyed, wholly sincere, and his look was puzzled. Her hair was still rough and tangled, she had no make-up left, there were rings of salt on her cheeks, her sandalled legs were sandy. She looked like any girl after a day at the beach ... windblown, slightly sunburned.



He’d seen her in many guises ... Like this: poised, well-groomed, at home in the nautical sophistication of the captain’s cabin: cool, starched, efficient in the Granger home, delivering twins without batting an eyelid, or showing fear lest mother or babe slip away from her skill; cooking for shearers, being matey with big Hori, the Maori shearer; trundling fowl manure from the hen-houses: to the vegetable garden, which she dug herself, in heavy boots ... but which was the real Sarah? Was any of them real, or part of a composite picture with which she hoped to convince him that her motives were not acquisitive ones? He didn’t know.

Sarah looked up, found his eyes on her, said, “Would you like me to help, outside tonight? I’ll help milk.”

“No, we don’t need you,” he said curtly. Then, since he felt Mrs. Mac’s disapproving eye on him, “Thanks all the same. We’ve enough help with Pauline and Rory. You lend Mrs. Mac a hand with the meal.”

Sarah bit her lip, bent and picked up the children’s indescribable sandshoes and wet bathing togs, and went into the house.



Mrs. Mac was delighted to have the children for whom to festify the occasion. She had a knack of setting a table well.

“It’s quite wasted on Grant and Duncan usually,” she said, smiling, when Sarah commented on this. “They’d usually say, ‘This looks good,’ but never comment on the details. Yet this time it was Grant himself who brought all these.”

She indicated the crackers, the individual boxes of chocolates, the favors for each place, the bright red candles that were to be lit when the curtains were drawn, though it was still broad daylight outside.

“I must get my best frock on now,” said Mrs. Mac, stepping back and surveying the table with pride, as well she might.

She had a bowl of Australian Bottle-brush in the centre, each spike looking like a thick red candle at the end of its green leaves, and gold tinsel streamers leading from it to the plates.

Sarah decided to do the occasion justice and slipped upstairs to change. She called Pauline up when she heard her come in, bushed her hair, made her don a green frock that brought out the lights in the tawny hair, and slipped a green band over it.

They came down hand in hand. Grant emerged from his den just as they turned the bend from the landing. He’d never seen Sarah in anything but lilac, green, or blue before, but now she was wearing a dull rich silk of carnation red, simply cut, with a lower neckline than usual. About her throat was a necklace of Chinese amber, and at her ears stud earrings to match. There was a simplicity and grace about them both as the sisters came down.

He smiled. “You look very Christmassy, the right color motif ... red and green.”

Sarah looked at him sharply. “Believe me, I’d not thought of that, Grant, it was just that—”

He shook his head at her. “I didn’t think you had. Not all my compliments have a second meaning, Sarah.”

Pauline looked puzzled, glancing from one to the other.

Grant laughed at her, pinched her chin. “It’s all right, poppet, just put it down to the incomprehensive ways of grown-ups.”



If Sarah could have forgotten his reference to the spoils of war, it could have been an enchanted evening. They asked each other riddles, listened in to a Christmas programme on the radio, ate chocolates and nuts, drank fruit punch icy from the fridge, and finished up by singing carols around the piano, Grant himself playing.

The children went up to Bed, the three grown-ups had supper, and Grant said, “You go off now, Macsie. Sarah and I will do the supper dishes.”

Surprisingly, Mrs. Mac made no demur. Perhaps her arm was aching. Sarah slipped upstairs with her to undo her frock, and came down again. It had turned cooler earlier, and Mrs. Mac had set a match to the fire with a sigh of satisfaction. “I’ve aye liked a fire Christmas night.”

So now Grant and Sarah were left in the silence of the big room, one each side of the hearth in the deep winged chairs that were so comfortable.

Sarah looked up to find Grant’s eyes on her. She rose immediately, yawned. “It’s been a long day, I’m for bed. Let’s get these dishes washed.” She dared not sit any longer in the intimacy of this room, watching every word, schooling her responses to anything he might say. It was bittersweet to be alone with Grant.

They washed up in silence. As Sarah turned to dry her hands on the roller towel, Grant said, “I’ll lock up,” and went along the verandah to lock store-room and laundry.

He came back in and said, “There’s a light over at the cottage. Were you over there at all tonight?”

She shook her head. Then said, “Oh, but the children were. Something they said they wanted. They must have left a light on—” She stopped, puzzled. “But it was broad daylight.”



Grant said, “It’s not much of a light, only a gleam. It could be that a swagger’s gone in and camped for the night, just lighting a candle. A swagger is a tramp to you. Not many of them about these days, no need for it financially, but there is always the footloose, no-good, bottle-happy fellow who keeps to the roads. I’ll go over and see. He can sleep in the shearing-shed if it is. I'd rather know where they are. Such a danger of fire if they light candles. I won’t be long. Though if it is a swagger I'll have to rustle him up a meal. You go on up to bed.”

“No,” said Sarah, and there was decision in her tones. “I’m coming over with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, if it is a swagger, it’s not safe to go over on your own.”

Amusement gleamed in the hazel eyes. “Oh, Sarah, how priceless! Are you going to protect me?”

She had to laugh too. “I know it sounds absurd, but it’s safer than going alone—and after all, I am your partner.”

Hip lips twitched. “So you are.” He put out a hand to her. “Come on. Oh, wait—you’ll need a wrap, that wind has turned quite cold.”

He disappeared into the hall and came back with a coat Sarah often used if the weather was rough, an old green velour with a hood on it. He held it for her while she slipped her arms in, turned her round, buttoned her into it, pulled the hood up over her bright head.

Sarah submitted with a disciplined rigidity, acutely aware of his fingers at her breast and throat, her heart thudding.

Into the night they went, silently, for if there was a swagger at the cottage, they did not want to startle him into flight.

As they drew near Sarah whispered, “It’s the sitting-room.”

They opened the back door quietly, stole across the kitchen, gently opened the sitting-room door, then stood amazed.

Above the mantlepiece hung the picture of Sarah’s mother and stepfather, and beneath it burned a candle, almost guttering now, down to its last inch.

Grant switched on the light. In the rim of the candlestick were sprigs of holly, berryless of course, and some tiny sprigs of rosemary. There was a little card leaning against it, and on the card in Pauline’s neat printing: “With love to Mum and Dad from Pauline and Rory.”

Sarah heard Grant swallow. She couldn’t speak at first, then she managed words. “This—this was an old custom of Mother’s and Father’s. Always on Christmas night they lit a candle under the portraits of their own parents. I thought about it last night, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought it might be too poignant for the children. Mother’s and Father’s parents had lived to a ripe old age. There was no sting in it for them. But this ... was I wrong in not preserving the old custom for them, Grant? Did I fail them by—”

Sarah’s voice cracked.

Grant turned to her swiftly, caught her in his arms.

“Don’t, Sarah! You were very wise, of course you were. The children probably guessed why you didn’t do it. They’d know you hadn’t forgotten. So they did it, quite simply and naturally, themselves. You’ll find comfort in that, when you’ve got over the first shock of it.”

He guided her to the couch, sat down with her, drew her head on to his shoulder, saying nothing more, letting her weep it out. Sarah found a large handkerchief pushed into her hand, sat up, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and would have stood up, but he restrained her, his arm compelling her to rest against him, his chin against her hair.