‘For God’s sake! I could outrun you by hopping!’
‘Damn you! Damn you to hell!’ she swore as her chest tightened. She slowed as purple patches began to appear in front of her eyes and a firm hand gripped her arm. On the verge of fainting, she bent over, panting like an asthmatic dog and having no choice but to let him take her weight.
‘Sit down. I’ll go and get you some water.’ He gently eased her down onto a doorstep. ‘Wait there, I’ll be back.’
‘I don’t want you back . . . Go away, go away . . .’ Kitty moaned as she bent her head between her knees and tried to hold on to consciousness.
‘Here, drink this.’
With her eyes closed, she smelt the whisky before she saw it.
‘NO!’ She swiped at the tin mug, which went sailing through the air, then bounced and rolled across the ground, spilling its contents. ‘How dare you!’
‘How dare I what?’
‘Bring me liquor! I need water!’
‘I have that here too.’
Kitty grabbed the flask he offered her and gulped the water down. Taking some deep breaths while fanning herself with her bonnet, her senses slowly returned to her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped.
‘I’ve been coming here for almost forty years. I rather think it’s me that should ask you that question.’
‘I hardly think it’s any of your business . . .’
‘You are right as always, but I will warn you that our theatrics along the main street of Alice Springs will soon be everyone else’s business. Could I suggest that we continue this conversation somewhere more private?’
‘You will escort me back to the hotel,’ she said, allowing him to pull her to standing and feeling a number of eyes upon them. ‘And then you will leave.’
‘Hah! You’ve arrived on my patch. You’re the one who should leave.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ she retorted.
They said no more until they reached the hotel. He paused on the doorstep and turned to her.
‘I suggest that for the sake of form, we take dinner together tonight. We happen to be sharing a roof under the watchful eye of the town gossip.’ He indicated Mrs Randall, standing behind her reception desk and peering at them through the dust-coated pane of glass in the front door. ‘And later, when she is asleep, which is usually around nine thirty after a few bottles of grog, we will talk.’
‘Agreed,’ Kitty said as he moved to open the door.
‘Everything all right, ducky?’ Mrs Randall asked her as they walked into reception.
‘Yes, thank you. It must have been the heat of the day affecting me.’
‘For sure, dearie, it gets to all of us, don’t it, Mr D?’ Mrs Randall winked at him.
‘It certainly does, Mrs R.’
‘So have we decided if we’re eating together?’ Mrs Randall queried.
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘Mrs Mercer and I met many years ago. Her husband was a . . . close friend of mine. It will be a pleasure to catch up on old times, won’t it, Mrs Mercer?’
Kitty could see that at least part of him was finding this charade funny. Before she put her hands around his neck, she managed a strangled ‘Yes’, then walked as calmly as she could up the stairs to her room.
‘Good God!’ she exhaled as she slammed the door, then locked it behind her for good measure. She lay down on her bed to try and still her banging heart.
You loved him once . . .
Kitty rose a few minutes later, and prowled the room like a trapped animal. She studied her face in the small looking glass, which had bevelled black lines that criss-crossed it and marred her reflection.
She gave a small chuckle that fate should bring her here to a place where there was barely a feminine comfort to make herself smell nice or to look better for him. Even though, of course, she didn’t want to and it shouldn’t matter . . . Deriding herself for her vanity, but nevertheless, fetching Sarah from the room next door, she asked her to take out her favourite cornflower-blue muslin blouse, and do something with her mane of greying auburn hair that had become as unruly as a spoilt child and was hanging in an unwashed mass of curls about her face.
‘I think it suits you down, Missus M,’ commented Sarah as she attempted to twist it into combs. ‘Makes you look years younger.’
‘We’re eating with a very old friend of my husband’s,’ announced Kitty as she added a little lipstick to make her mouth seem fuller. Then, as it began to bleed into the lines that led from her lips, she rubbed it off harshly.
‘Missus Randall mentioned there was a gentleman who’d be eating with us tonight. Didn’t realise ’e was an old friend of yours. What’s ’is name?’
Kitty swallowed hard. ‘Everyone here calls him Mr D.’
He was waiting for them in the parlour, and Kitty could tell from his clean skin and freshly shaved face that he too had made an effort to smarten himself up.
‘Mrs Mercer.’ He stood, then bent to kiss her hand. ‘What a coincidence this is.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And who is this?’ His attention turned to Sarah.
‘This is Sarah. I met her aboard ship on my journey back to Australia a few months ago. She is my lady’s maid.’
‘’Ow do you do, sir?’ Sarah dipped an unnecessary curtsey. ‘Very well indeed, thank you. Shall we sit down?’ he suggested.
As they did so, he reached to whisper in Kitty’s ear. ‘You really do excel at collecting waifs and strays.’
Over the rather good stew, which they were informed by ‘Mr D’ was kangaroo, Kitty sat back and watched as Drummond charmed Sarah. She herself was happy for another person to be present, which removed the attention from her. Her stomach was so tight that every swallow made her feel as though she would burst.
‘So, where do you go from here?’ he asked Sarah.
‘We’re off to see some big rock in the centre of the desert tomorrow,’ Sarah informed him blithely, taking another slug of the ale Drummond had insisted she try. ‘Missus M wants to see it for some reason. It seems a long way to go to see a bit o’ stone, if yer know wot I mean.’
‘I do, but trust me, once you get there, you’ll understand. It’s special.’
‘Well, if we’re up at four, I’m off to me bed. What about you, Missus M?’
‘She’ll be up after a coffee, won’t you, Mrs Mercer?’ Drummond eyed her.
‘All right.’ Sarah gave one of her enormous yawns, and rose from the table. ‘See you bright and early tomorrow morning.’
Kitty watched as she tottered unsteadily out of the parlour.
‘Is it a habit of yours to get young women tipsy? Sarah is not yet sixteen!’ she whispered.
Drummond raised his glass of ale. ‘To you, Kitty. I swear you haven’t changed one jot since the first moment I laid eyes on you. What is it, I’ve often wondered, that makes you quite so angry?’
Kitty shook her head, hating how, after all these years, Drummond could reduce her to a mass of seething insecurity and fury. Again, she had a desperate urge to slap him.