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属类: 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 阅读:[21195]
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当琴·佩吉特走下星宿号的舷梯,双脚踏上达尔文机场的时候,心里荡漾着阵阵难以名状的狂喜。我想,事实上直至彼时她才真正走出了战争的阴影。归国后,她来到英格兰,在帕克和利维公司工作了两年,高质高效,但在为人处世上,她一直把自己当成一个五十岁的人。她活着,但如槁木死灰一般。关丹的悲剧一再在她脑海深处重演,慢慢绞杀着她的青春。只有那一次,当她告诉我,她觉得自己已经七十岁时,才流露出了真情实感。

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她于八点十五落地,夜幕已降临。下飞机的时候,澳航已经帮她在达尔文酒店预订了一个房间。她踏上混凝土地面,有人给她指路去位于飞机库内的海关。三位年轻小伙儿在舷梯脚下仔细打量她。那时她以为他们是机场官员,后来才知道是澳大利亚各家报社的记者。他们毫无疑问摊上了所有新闻工作中最糟糕的差事:在达尔文机场迎接每架飞机降落,希望从飞机上下来一位首相,或是长了两个脑袋的女人。

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她一过关,其中一个记者就走向她。这班飞机的乘客平淡无奇,很难从他们身上挤出故事来。然而,一个满脸洋溢着快乐的姑娘却可能暗藏玄机。他说:“请问是佩吉特小姐吗?听机组成员说您在这里下飞机,并且要住进达尔文酒店。您是否愿意搭我的便车进城?我的名字是斯图尔特·霍普金森,这儿《悉尼监督报》的代表。”

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她说:“您真是太好了,霍普金森先生。但我不想让您为了我而兜远路。”

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他说:“我自己就住在那里。”他有一辆小型沃克斯豪尔,泊在飞机库外面。他帮她拿手提箱,把它放在后座上,然后两人上了车,一边闲聊星宿号和这次飞行。不久,当他们驶过维斯提屠宰场时,他说:“您是英国人吧,佩吉特小姐?”她说是。“请问您能否告诉我您来澳大利亚的原因?”

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她笑道:“恐怕不太方便,霍普金森先生。只是一些私事——编不成一个有趣的新闻故事。我是不是从这里下车自己走?”

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“不用,”他说,“我只是随便问问。我已经有一个星期交不出稿了。”

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“我要是说我就是觉得达尔文很棒,对您会有帮助吗?‘伦敦打字员对达尔文赞赏有加’?”

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“我们不能嘲讽伦敦,在《悉尼监督报》上不行。您是一个打字员吗?”

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她点点头。

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“出来找对象结婚?”

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“我不认为是这样。”

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他叹口气。“恐怕您对我的新闻不会有什么贡献。”

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“请告诉我,霍普金森先生,”她说,“从这里怎么坐公共汽车去爱丽丝斯普林斯?我想去那里,但手头并不宽裕,所以我想还是坐公共汽车吧。有去那里的公共汽车吗?”

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“当然了,”他说,“今天早上就有一班车。您要等到周一,周末不发车。”

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“要坐多久?”

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“两天。您周一出发,当天晚上到达戴利沃特斯,周二晚上到达爱丽丝。一路上不会太辛苦,但热得很。”

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他把她送到旅馆,帮她把包拿进走廊。她居然能在那样一个人满为患的地方订到一个单人房,而且房间还带有可以俯览海港美景的阳台,实在是太幸运了。达尔文很热,是一种让人恹恹缩缩的湿热,即便是最轻微的动作也会令她汗流不断。这对她而言并非什么新鲜事,因为她对热带天气已经习以为常。她把门锁好,脱掉衣服,洗了一个淋浴,在洗手盆里洗刷一番,几乎一丝不挂地睡下了。

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第二天她一早醒来。黎明的空气凉爽清新,她继续躺了一会儿,思考自己的处境。现在的头等大事是找到乔·哈曼并和他好好谈谈。然而,和霍普金森先生碰过面后,她也警惕到未来可能会遇到的困难。不管这些年轻人看起来有多么友善,他们的任务是为报纸探寻新闻。她一点儿也不希望自己的名字出现在报纸头条,但她来澳的目的一旦被发现,这将无可避免。“英国姑娘飞越重洋,追寻为己受刑之士兵……”如果她是男人的话,就没有这些烦恼了。

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然而她不是。她开始给自己编造一个故事:她去阿德莱德找姐姐,后者嫁给了在当地邮局工作的霍姆斯先生。这个故事似乎很稳妥。她取道达尔文和爱丽丝斯普林斯,是因为她有一个叫作乔·哈曼的远房表兄应该是在那里工作,但已经有九年没有写信回家,她的舅舅想知道他是不是还活着。她将从爱丽丝坐火车南下阿德莱德。

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这不太能解释她坐星宿号去达尔文的原因,不过她可以说,想去达尔文别无他径。她躺在床上,反复推敲这个故事,觉得它似乎滴水不漏。当她起床下楼吃早饭的时候,决定要在斯图尔特先生身上试验一下这个故事的效果。他当天早上告诉她怎么去公共汽车订票处时,她找到了机会。在超过半小时的谈话中,她把它分成风趣的小片段讲了出来,《悉尼监督报》的记者对之深信不疑,她都感到有点羞愧了。

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他带她去一个牛奶吧,给她点了一杯可口可乐。“乔·哈曼……”他说,“九年前他在爱丽丝干什么?”

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她吮着吸管。“他是牛场上的牛仔。”她故作天真地说,希望自己的表演并未过火。

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“牧工?你还记得那个牛场的名字吗?”

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“沃拉华,”她说,“那个牛场叫作沃拉华。在爱丽丝斯普林斯附近,是不是?”

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“不知道,”他说,“我给你问问。”

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午饭后,他回去找她,和《阿德莱德先驱报》的哈尔·波特一起。“沃拉华离爱丽丝斯普林斯远着呢,”波特先生说,“那儿的牧场住宅离爱丽丝肯定有一百二十英里远。您是说汤米·杜维恩的牛场吧?”

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“我想是的,”她说,“有没有从爱丽丝斯普林斯去那里的公共汽车?”

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“没有公共汽车,也没有其他办法,除了开卡车或者越野车去。”

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霍普金森说:“艾迪·麦克莱恩会在那里停站吧,是不是?”

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“你这么说我想起来了。”波特转向琴,“麦克莱恩航空公司每周都会飞一遍那些牛场派送邮件,”他说,“你应该可以坐飞机去那儿。那是最轻松的方式了。”

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她受到电影的影响,对记者怀有一种成见。但她惊讶地发现,在现实生活中,他们彬彬有礼、善良友好、乐于助人。她由衷地向他们表达了感激之情。他们带她在达尔文四处兜风。她看到仙境一般的雪白沙滩和碧蓝的大海,高兴得大喊大叫,建议举行一个游泳派对。

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“有几样东西会破坏这个派对,”波特先生说,“其中之一是鲨鱼。如果你走进齐膝深的水里,它们就会把你拖走。另外一样是短吻鳄。然后还有石头鱼——它不声不响地躺在沙滩上,看起来跟石头一模一样。如果你不小心踩到它,它就会向你喷出一品脱的毒液。僧帽水母也不怎么友好。但真正让我望而却步的是珊瑚耳朵。”

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“那是什么?”

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“一种长在脑里的肿瘤,由于这些幼细的珊瑚沙进入耳朵而引起的。”

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琴得出了结论,也许她还是不要在达尔文游泳了。

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但她后来还是去游了一次。周日的时候,他们开车带她顺着一条马路往南走了大约四十英里,到达一个叫作贝里斯普林斯的地方。那是某条河流上的一个深水池塘,非常适合游泳。当她换上两件套泳衣来到两位记者面前的时候,他们都非常好奇地看着她,因为她在瓜拉德朗那几年一直穿当地衣服,身上被晒黑的地方跟普通人很不一样。这是她犯的第一个错误,他们的脑海里头一次掠过一丝怀疑:只要他们能套出她的话来,这个姑娘身上一定藏有一段曲折离奇的故事。

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“乔·哈曼……”哈尔·波特若有所思地对斯图亚特·霍普金森说,“我敢肯定之前在哪儿听过这个名字,但想不起来了。”

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游完泳后开车往回走时,记者们向她介绍达尔文的情况。他们描画的图片暗淡阴沉。“这里发生的一切都没有好下场,”哈尔·波特说,“屠宰场关门好几年了,因为劳资纠纷——员工罢工太频繁,后来不得不关门大吉。铁路本打算往南修到爱丽丝,连接上从爱丽丝去阿德莱德的铁路——贯穿大陆南北。如果这个工程能够完成,可能会带来一些好处,但后来只修到伯德姆就断了。天晓得现在修得怎么样了。这条马路修好后,差不多把铁路的生意都抢光了——之前做过的所有生意。以前这里有一家冰工厂,但也倒闭了。”他顿了顿,“你在这里每经过一个地方,都能看见许多废墟,都是某些人尝试过却失败了的事业。”

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“为什么呢?”琴问,“这个地方还挺不错的,有一个很好的港口。”

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“你说得不错。这个地方应当是一个了不起的大港——像新加坡那样。这是北方沿岸唯一一个颇具规模的城市。我不知道。我在这里待的时间实在是太长了,它使我心生畏惧。”

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斯图尔特·霍普金森嘲讽地说:“这里有内地症。”他向琴微微一笑,“这在澳大利亚很常见,尤其是在北方。”

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她问:“爱丽丝斯普林斯也这样吗?”六年前乔·哈曼向她倾诉的回忆繁华艳丽,与他们对内地的描述非常不一样。

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“嗯,”霍普金森说,“爱丽丝不太一样。爱丽丝很好。”

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“为什么不一样?”她问。

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“我也说不清楚。当然了,它是铁路起点,人们将牛从那里运送至南面的阿德莱德——那是其中一个原因。但它是一个方兴未艾的城市,那里的一切都欣欣向荣。我向上帝许愿,希望《先驱报》会派我去那儿,而不是到这个鬼地方来。”

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那天晚上,她和两位朋友告别。第二天黎明,她坐上公共汽车,出发去爱丽丝斯普林斯。这是一辆大型现代贝德福德,流线型的车身沉重厚实,拉着用于装货物和行李的拖车。车上虽然没有空调,但也相当舒适。它沿着宽敞空旷的柏油路往南走,马不停蹄,车速每小时五十英里左右,司机是一位前海军船员。

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车子一直开到凯瑟琳才停下,大家下车吃午饭。这是一个郊区,长着非常茂密的桉树。这些桉树非常矮小,琴发现人们把它们叫作胶树。树丛之间是开阔的野草地,没有放过牧,未被开发,荒无人烟。她有一个旅伴是银行检查员,要去藤南特克里克。两人一起讨论这个郊区的情况,他告诉她这一带沿海地区都无法用于农耕,出于某种她无法理解的原因。过了凯瑟琳,土地渐渐变得更荒芜,树木也更稀少干枯。傍晚,他们已经进入了一个沙漠附近的郊区。

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薄暮时分,他们停在一个叫作戴利沃特斯的地方过夜。她发现,戴利沃特斯除了一个旅馆、一个邮局和一个大型飞机场之外,就没别的任何东西了。旅馆其实就是许多分散的单层小木屋和男女宿舍,对琴而言非常陌生,但也相当舒服。她晚饭前漫步走出门外,在暮色中东张西望。旅馆前面有三个年轻小伙儿坐在地上。他们一条腿坐在脚跟上,另一条腿伸着,跟乔·哈曼的坐姿一式一样。他们穿着一种骑马裤,脚蹬一种用松紧带扎边的薄底靴子,专心致志地在地面上打扑克。她意识到这是她头一次在这里看到牧工。

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她饶有兴味地仔细观察他们。乔·哈曼在参军前就跟他们一样打扮。她真想上前去问其中一人是否认识乔,但这种行为实在有些荒唐,她最终还是抑制住自己。

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公共汽车第二天黎明就启程了,继续沿柏油路一直往南开,经过米尔纳潟湖、纽卡斯尔沃特斯、玛奇蒂波,到达藤南特克里克。沿路植被越来越稀疏,太阳也越来越热,他们在藤南特克里克停车吃饭和休息的时候,已经置身于一片纯粹的沙漠中。一个小时后,他们重新出发,沿着酷热的马路南下,时速五十到五十五英里,途经只有两三间房子的小地方。这些地方寂寂无闻,却都取了名字来自抬身价:沃科普、巴罗克里克和艾勒朗。时近傍晚,他们发现自己马上要经过麦克唐纳山脉。在淡蓝的天空下,荒瘠的红色山坡绵延不尽。薄暮时分,他们缓缓进入了爱丽丝斯普林斯,下榻塔尔伯特兵器旅馆。

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琴走进旅馆,开了一个面朝阳台的房间。旅馆是单层平房,跟爱丽丝斯普林斯所有其他房子一样。他们一到达旅馆就吃晚饭。她已经知道,在澳大利亚乡村旅馆,如果不准时去吃饭,就什么都吃不上。饭后,她换了一身衣服,走到镇上。她沿着郊区宽阔的道路不紧不慢地散步,仔细观察这个小镇。

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她发现这个地方确实就如乔·哈曼所描述的一样,是一个令人愉快的地方,有很多年轻人,朝气蓬勃。尽管地处热带,房子都是平房,但爱丽丝斯普林斯隐约间透着一丝英国郊区的影子,恍惚间有一种家乡的熟悉感。这里也有带花园的独栋房子,花园四周有栅栏或者树篱,围出一片片小天地。街道修得像英国一样,路边种有行道树。如果不去看麦克唐纳山脉,就仿佛回到了儿时的巴西特。大家都说爱丽丝很棒,她现在理解他们的意思了。她知道,她可以在这里为自己营造出快乐的人生,住在其中一栋郊外房子里,也许还有两三个孩子。

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她寻路回到主街道,去看沿街的商店。此地名不虚传,任何一个正常的女孩都能在这里找到她想要的一切——美发沙龙、几间好服装店、两间电影院……九点左右,她走进牛奶吧,点了一杯冰淇淋苏打。她想,如果内地都像这里一样,也胜过很多地方。

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第二天早晨吃完早饭后,她去旅馆办公室找老板娘,一位德赖弗太太。她说:“我想试着跟一个远房表哥取得联系,他有十年没写信回家了。”她告诉德赖弗太太,自己从伦敦来,要去阿德莱德见姐姐,途经爱丽丝。“我告诉舅舅,我会路过爱丽丝斯普林斯,可以试试看能不能打探到乔的消息。”

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德赖弗太太非常感兴趣。“他叫什么名字?”

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“乔·哈曼。”

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“乔·哈曼!在沃拉华工作的乔?”

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“没错,”琴说,“他现在还在那里吗?”

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那个女人摇摇头。“战争刚结束时他常常来我的旅馆,但只在这里住了六个月左右。我是战争期间才来到这里的,不太了解之前的情况。他是日本兵的战俘,没错。他们折磨他。他回来时手上有伤疤,他们用钉子刺穿了他的手,还毒打他。”

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琴装出一副惊讶和恐惧的样子。“您知道他现在在哪里吗?”“我肯定不知道。可能其中一个牧工会知道。”

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在爱丽丝住了三十年的杂工总管老阿特·福斯特说:“乔·哈曼?他回昆士兰了,那是他的故乡。战后他在沃拉华住了六个月左右,后来找到一份牧场经理的工作,好像在海湾地区附近。”

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琴问:“您不知道他的地址?”

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“不。沃拉华的汤米·杜维恩应该知道。”

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“他常常到镇里来吗?”

65
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“是的,他周五在镇里。每隔三到四周就过来一次。”

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琴故作天真地问:“我想乔·哈曼去昆士兰时,是举家过去的吧?他们不会还住在这儿吧?”

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老人家盯着她说:“我从未听说过乔·哈曼成家的事。他没结婚,至少就我所知没有。”

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她自我解嘲说:“我在英国的舅舅以为他已经成家了。”

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“我从未听说过他有一个妻子。”老人家说。

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琴想了一会儿,然后和德赖弗太太说:“在沃拉华有电话吗?我是说,如果杜维恩先生知道他的地址,我很想给杜维恩先生打电话要这个地址。”

71
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“那里一个电话也没有,”她说,“当然了,在沃拉华,人们通过收音机每天早晚收发消息。”这个地区有一个巨大的电台网络,由医院的航空出诊服务部门经营,医院的接线生每天早晚坐在广播站里,把四五十个牛场都呼叫一遍,通过广播互通消息,传递新闻,并大致确认一切安好。牛场的主妇们在另一头操作。“杜维恩太太今天晚上肯定会收听广播,因为她姐姐艾米正住院待产,伊蒂丝肯定想知道孩子是否已经生了下来。如果你写一份电报,拿给医院的泰勒先生,他今晚就会把消息转达给他们。”

72
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琴回到房间,写了一份得体的电报,拿去医院给泰勒先生,他同意帮忙转交至沃拉华。“八点左右再回来吧。如果他们手头有这个地址,可能到时就已经给我回复了。如果他们一时找不着,可能会明早通过广播把地址告诉我。”这样一来,她那天余下的时间都空闲无事。她回到牛奶吧,又点了一份冰淇淋。

73
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她在牛奶吧交到一个朋友,一个名叫露丝·索耶的姑娘,大约十八岁,牵着一条苏格兰粗毛猎狗。索耶小姐每天下午在服装店上班。她听说琴来自英国,对琴产生了很大兴趣,两人谈论了一段时间英国的情况。“你觉得爱丽丝怎么样?”她过了一会儿问道,语气中透出一丝习惯性的轻蔑。

74
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“我喜欢它,”琴直率地说,“我见过很多不如它的地方。我相信你在这里过得挺愉快的。”

75
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那姑娘说:“嗯,我觉得它还不错。以前我们在纽卡斯尔生活,后来我爸要来这里当银行经理。我们都以为这个地方很糟糕。我所有朋友都说这些内地地方糟糕透顶。我原以为自己在这里住不了多久,但现在已经是第十五个月了,我觉得还行。”

76
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“爱丽丝比内地大部分地方要好,是不是?”

77
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“他们是这么说的——我还没去过别的地方。当然了,这一切都只是在不久前建起来的。他们说战前还没有这些商店。”

78
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琴了解到这个镇的一些历史,其发展之迅速令她非常惊讶。1928年的时候它只有三间房子和一个酒吧,就是铁路从乌德纳达塔修到这里那年。1930年,航空出诊服务系统开始运营,政府在爱丽丝周边地区修建了一些小医院。护士们眨眼间全部嫁出去了。琴了解到,当地绝大部分老住户的女主人是当年的护士。1939年,爱丽丝的人口大约有三百。战争爆发时,这个小镇成为军事物资中转站。战后,人口在1945年增加到大约七百五十,琴在那里的时候大约有一千两百。“战后,所有这些新房子和商店都拔地而起,”索耶小姐说,“现在人们似乎不停涌入这里。”

79
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她建议琴下午晚些时候过来游泳。“麦克莱恩太太有一个很漂亮的游泳池,就在飞机场外面。”她说,“我会打电话给她,问能否带上你。”

80
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她那天下午五点钟去接琴,琴参加了在游泳池举行的游泳派对。坐在黄昏的太阳底下悠然陶醉,远远望着风刀霜剑在厄特瓦山上刻出的线条,她渐渐融入了爱丽丝斯普林斯的社交生活。大部分姑娘和已婚妇女都不到三十岁,她发现她们善良好客,知书达理。她们热切关注英国的消息,有些人很自然地把英国叫作“家”,尽管她们都不曾去过英国。每个人都怀着一个理想,希望有一天能够回“家”旅行。到了晚上,琴满心惭愧,因为这些讨人喜欢的人对她的国家是如此了解,而她却对她们的国家知之甚少。

81
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饭后,她在清凉的夜色中信步走到医院。杜维恩太太一时未能找到乔·哈曼的地址,但她证实了他在海湾地区某处经营着一个牛场。她会请丈夫在次日早晨的通话时间告知乔的地址。

82
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那天晚上,琴仔细考虑拿到地址之后应该做什么。她想了很多。毫无疑问,她刚开始的担忧是多余的。乔·哈曼康复情况良好,能够继续在内地工作。他竟然能够康复至此等程度,她深感惊讶,这个男人太顽强了。虽然现在与他相见已不再是紧迫之事,但她觉得不能不再见他一面就离开澳大利亚。他们两人一别多年,时过境迁,人物皆非。她不害怕再见到他时心生尴尬,她感到自己可以坦诚相告,说她听说他没有死,就过来找他,希望看到他幸福安稳。如果那之后会发生点什么,好吧,那只是那些无可避免的事情之一。

83
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她不知不觉睡着了,嘴边挂着一丝微笑。

84
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第二天早上广播时间结束后,她去到医院,了解到乔·哈曼是米德赫斯特牛场的经理。这个牛场在威尔斯镇附近,她以前从来没有听说过它。泰勒先生非常亲切地拿出一份澳大利亚地图。这份地图经过专门设计,清楚标示出内地牛场各种广播设施和频道频率。他指出威尔斯镇给她看,就在卡奔塔利亚湾吉尔伯特河河口。

85
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“那个地方怎么样?”她问他,“跟这里像吗?”

86
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他笑道:“那儿可是个鬼地方。”他研究了一下地图。“但有一个机场。我不认为它还有点别的什么。我从没去过那儿,也从未听说有谁去过。”

87
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“我要去那里。”她说,“我走了这么远的路,一定要见到乔·哈曼。”

88
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“那儿的生活似乎很艰苦,”他说,“哦,老天。”

89
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“那里会有旅馆吗?”

90
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“哦,那儿会有旅馆的。他们需要一个喝格罗格酒的地方。”

91
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她离开医院,一边想一边走到牛奶吧。她点了一杯冰淇淋苏打,不知为何,她觉得上一次喝它已经是很久以前的事了。喝完后,她沿着大街走了一小段路,拐进一间书店,买了一份澳大利亚地图、一份公共汽车时刻表和一份飞机时刻表。然后她回到牛奶吧,又点了一杯冰淇淋苏打,边喝边研究这几份印刷品。

92
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不久露丝·索耶牵着小狗走了进来。琴说:“我知道乔·哈曼住在什么地方了。现在我要弄清楚怎样去那里。好像没有去那里的公共汽车。”

93
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她们一起研究时刻表。“坐飞机去是最容易的,”露丝说,“现在所有人都那样做。那是贵一些,但不用花那么多时间,因为如果走陆路的话,你要在路上吃很多顿饭,还要住在旅馆里。我下周一会坐麦克莱恩的航班去克朗克里。”

94
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这意味着要在爱丽丝斯普林斯多停留几天,但似乎是最佳选择了。“你可以来跟我们住在一起,”露丝说,“爸妈肯定很欢迎来自英国的人。住旅馆不太舒服,对不对?不过当然了,我从来没住过。”

95
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“那里的人有点醉醺醺的。”琴说。她已经意识到,在澳大利亚有一条严格的规矩:女人决不能踏进酒吧半步。“我很愿意去你家住,如果那肯定不会给你造成很大麻烦的话。”

96
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“我们很欢迎你来。在这里,几乎不可能找到另一个来自英国的人一起谈话。”她们绕路回索耶家,路上遇到了年轻的麦克莱恩太太,一头金发,推着婴儿车。她们停下脚步,琴说:“我必须到海湾地区的威尔斯镇去见乔·哈曼。我可不可以在您的飞机上预订一个周一去克朗克里的座位?”

97
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“我想应该没问题。我正要去办公室,我会让他们把你加入周一的旅客名单。我要不要请他们给你安排从克朗克里继续到威尔斯镇的行程?我想你能直接从克里去威尔斯镇。但如果你想那样做的话,他们要先查一下,看能不能订到机票。”

98
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“您实在是太好了,”琴说,“有劳他们费心了。”

99
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“没问题。今晚来不来游泳池?”

100
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“好的,麻烦了。”

101
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她们继续走到索耶家。那是一间坐落在小花园中的平房,非常漂亮,蔷薇花爬满屋顶,花园里种满了英国花朵,一个洒水器在草地上浇着水。索耶太太头发灰白,是一个很实在的人,对琴的款待热情周到。她带着所有澳大利亚女人对旅馆的厌恶说:“你跟我们一起住比住在那个鬼地方好多了。你来了真好,佩吉特小姐。露丝昨天把你的事情告诉了我们。见到同乡真让人高兴。”

102
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琴回旅馆收拾手提箱,半路在邮局停下。她要写一份电报给乔·哈曼,告诉他她打算去找他。她花了三刻钟吮吸铅笔头,斟酌措辞。最后她写道:

103
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近闻你从关丹酷刑中恢复倍感高兴。我兹在澳大利亚并计划下周去威尔斯镇见你。

104
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琴·佩吉特

105
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她带着手提箱坐出租车去索耶家安顿下来。她和这些友善的人一起待了四天。第三天,她实在不忍心继续向她们隐瞒自己的秘密了,告诉了露丝和露丝的妈妈在马来亚发生的一切,以及她寻找乔·哈曼的原因。她深恐此事被登上报纸,求她们不要告诉其他人。她们同意了,但请她等索耶先生下班后,把她的故事再讲一次给他听。

106
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那天晚上,索耶先生有很多使她感兴趣的话要说。“乔·哈曼可能了解到那儿的潜力。”他说,“海湾地区现在还很荒僻,但他是一个年轻人。在澳大利亚,一切都可能发展神速。二十年前这个镇还什么也没有,但看看现在!海湾地区有一个优势,就是雨水。我们这儿每年有六到七英寸的雨——大概是伦敦的四分之一。乔·哈曼那儿可能有三十英寸——比英国还要多。从长远来看,那肯定是一个巨大的优势。”

107
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他吮着吸管。“提醒你注意,”他说,“那些雨目前对他们来说并未产生什么实际利益,因为它们全部集中在两个月的时间里,并且直接流入海中,并不像你们在英国那样,雨水是分散在全年的。但我去年遇到一个从家乡来的小伙儿,他说要不是每条河上每隔三英里左右就有一个堰,你们英国大部分的雨水也一样直接流入大海。那是澳大利亚人还未能抽出时间来做的事情——保护牧场水源。他们在这方面做了一些工作,但并不很多。”

108
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住在索耶家的那几天里,琴不可避免地听说了露丝·索耶的爱情生活。它有失严肃,主要围绕一个比利·韦克林先生展开。这位先生有路修的时候就去修路。“他在战争中的表现太出色了,”她告诉琴,“二十三岁就当了上尉,但他跟你的乔·哈曼没法比,他还不曾为我受过酷刑……”

109
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“我并没有和乔·哈曼谈恋爱,”琴颇带尊严地说,“我只是想知道他现在平安无事。”

110
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露丝仍在四处寻找适合她的工作。

111
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“我喜欢商店,”她说,“我不可能去学习速记,像你那样。我觉得商店就很好了,但我不知道在服装店工作有那么多意想不到的困难。衣服不上身,我就永远不知道它适合什么人穿。所以我想我永远成不了一个服装设计师。我想经营一个牛奶吧,那是我的理想。我想,开个牛奶吧一定会很有趣……”

112
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琴去银行拜访索耶先生,他以专业人员的身份接待了她。她请他帮忙,等她离开后,把任何到达她账户的收入都汇至威尔斯镇。她周一上午依依不舍地离开了爱丽丝斯普林斯,索耶一家和麦克莱恩一家也满心不舍。

113
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她乘坐一架蜻蜓号飞机飞了一整天,深受启发。飞机并没有直接飞往克朗克里,而是迂回穿梭于澳大利亚中部的荒地,在各个牛场收取小包邮件,顺带捎上牧工和旅行者,飞行一百或者一百五十英里后又放下他们。在当天的行程中,飞机降落了八到十次,在阿马鲁、哈切特河、库伦地、罗克汉普顿山丘和很多其他牛场。每到一处,他们都会下机喝一杯茶,和牛场经理或者主人闲聊,然后再上机继续行程。那天快要结束的时候,琴·佩吉特已经确切知道了牧场住宅的模样,并渐渐对里面发生的一切了如指掌。

114
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薄暮时分,他们到达克朗克里。克朗克里是一个相当大的镇子,坐落在铁路沿线上,该铁路向东直抵汤斯维尔海边。这里属于昆士兰地区,她一听到当地慢悠悠懒洋洋的昆士兰腔调,乔·哈曼的音容笑貌马上扑进了她的脑海。她坐一辆非常旧的敞篷车到达邮局旅馆,要了一个房间。但饭点已过,她只好走到宽阔的中心大街上,在一片尘土飞扬中找餐馆吃晚饭。她发现,爱丽丝斯普林斯那种干净的魅力,在克朗克里连半点也找不到。这里满镇都是牛的气味,街道宽阔,有很多旅馆和几间商店,人们沿着街道将牛群赶进牲畜栏中。所有房子都是木制的,屋顶是漆成红色的瓦楞铁。旅馆都是两层的,但其他房子几乎都只是平房。

115
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她不得不在那里逗留一天,因为去诺曼顿和威尔斯镇的飞机每周只在周三有一班。早饭后,她趁着空气仍然凉爽,走出旅馆,沿着巨大的中央街道走了半英里,来到镇中心一端,再走四分之一英里就到了另一端。然后她去看了一眼火车站。再看完机场后,就几乎把克朗克里看遍了。她顺路到一个卖玩具和报纸的商店转了一圈,但所有读物都卖光了,只剩下几本女装裁缝杂志。气温开始升高的时候,她回到旅馆,设法从旅馆老板娘那里借到了一本澳大利亚的《女士周刊》,拿回房间。她脱剩勉强能遮羞的衣服,躺到床上,在炎热的白天里,任涔涔热汗兀自流淌。克朗克里大部分其他市民似乎都在做着同样的事情。

116
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饭前不久她就恢复了精神。她洗了个澡,去咖啡店点了一杯冰淇淋苏打。昆士兰人称作“茶”的晚饭,竟是油腻腻的烤牛肉和葡萄干布丁,真让她吃不消。黄昏的门廊暮色阴沉,她在帆布躺椅里坐了一会儿,晚上八点又爬上床睡觉。

117
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她黎明前就被叫醒了,在晨光熹微中赶赴机场。这次的飞机是一架复古龙号,跟上一架一样流连于各个牛场之间,像卡农比、温杜拉和米尔加拉。大约中午的时候,经过四五次降落,他们飞经海边,一片荒寂的沼泽地海岸,之后很快就在诺曼顿降落了。半小时后他们重新起飞,飞往康斯坦茨山丘牛场。他们在那里喝了一杯茶,和经理的妻子聊了会儿天,再次起飞,飞往最后一站——威尔斯镇。

118
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他们下午两三点钟抵达威尔斯镇,琴在飞机降落前盘旋的时候得以鸟瞰这个地方。这个郊区桉树茂密,青翠欲滴,吉尔伯特河奔流入小镇脚下大约三英里处的大海。威尔斯镇及其周边地区肯定深涵地下水,因为她可以看到一个木制码头,吉尔伯特河一直延伸至内陆,以她的目力根本望不到头,远蔽在水汽迷蒙的热霾中。然而,所有其他水道都仿佛干涸了。

119
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这个小镇本身由大约三十栋楼房构成,它们非常稀疏地分散在两条巨大的交叉街道边沿——或者说分布在两条土地的边缘,因为街道尚未铺设好。只有一栋是两层的,她后来知道那是旅馆。有许多泥路从镇中心通往各个方向的郊区。那是在威尔斯镇可以看见的一切,此外还有一个华丽的机场,战争期间出于防御目的而修建,有三条巨大的柏油路跑道,每条长一英里。

120
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他们降落在其中一条跑道上,向一辆停在跑道交会处的卡车滑行。这辆卡车载有两桶汽油和一个用于加油的半回转泵。飞行员从驾驶舱下来时向琴说:“佩吉特小姐,您要在这里下吗?有人接您吗?”

121
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她摇摇头。“我想见一个住在这个地区的人,他在其中一个牛场工作。我想我不得不去旅馆了。”

122
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“您要见谁?阿尔·伯恩斯,那边卡车上的壳牌代理商,他认识这儿每一个人。”

123
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她说:“太好了。我想见乔·哈曼先生。他是米德赫斯特牛场的经理。”

124
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他们一起下了飞机。“早,阿尔,”飞行员说,“她需要加大约四十加仑。我马上就看看你的油。乔·哈曼在镇上吗?”

125
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“乔·哈曼?”卡车里的人说,他身材瘦削,黑头发,年约四十。“乔·哈曼在英国。去度假了。”

126
-

琴眨眨眼睛,努力定定神。她已经准备好要听到哈曼在自己的牛场上,甚至去了凯恩斯或者汤斯维尔,但做梦也没想到会听到他在英国。她有一会儿头脑混乱得说不出话来,然后又想笑。她意识到两位男士正好奇地盯着她。“我给他发了一封电报,告诉他我马上来找他。”她愚蠢地说,“我想他没有收到吧。”

127
-

“不可能收到。”阿尔·伯恩斯慢慢地说,“什么时候发的?”

128
-

“大约四五天前吧,从爱丽丝斯普林斯。”

129
-

“哦,不,他不可能收到。可能发到了米德赫斯特牛场的吉姆·伦农那儿。”

130
-

“那是真的吗?”飞行员问道,“他去了英国?”

131
-

“大约一个月前去的。”那个男人说,“吉姆·伦农前几天晚上说的,十月底之前回来。”

132
-

飞行员转向琴:“您要怎么办,佩吉特小姐?您现在想留在这儿吗?这个地方可不怎么样。”

133
-

她紧咬嘴唇,思考着。“你们什么时候起飞?”她问,“回克朗克里吗?”

134
-

“没错,”他回答,“我们今晚回诺曼顿,在那里过夜,明天早上回克里。趁阿尔给她加油,我先去镇里一趟。大约半个小时后起飞。”

135
-

克朗克里是她最不想回的地方。“我需要考虑一下,”她说,“我要留在澳大利亚,直至见到乔·哈曼。待在凯恩斯还不错,是不是?”

136
-

“哦,凯恩斯是一个很棒的镇,”他说,“汤斯维尔也是。如果您一定要等六到八周,您不会想留在这儿的,佩吉特小姐。”

137
-

“我要怎样去凯恩斯?”她问。

138
-

“这个嘛,”他说,“您可以和我一起回克朗克里,然后坐火车到汤斯维尔,再往北坐到凯恩斯。我不太清楚坐火车需要花多长时间——肯定有六百到七百英里的路程。或者您可以在这儿等到下周三,下周的今天,坐空中列车直接到凯恩斯,行程大概两个半小时。”

139
-

“从克朗克里坐火车到凯恩斯要花多长时间?”

140
-

“哦,那我不知道。我想他们不会每天都从汤斯维尔发车去凯恩斯,但我不是很确定。您就按三天一班作计划吧。”他顿了顿,“当然了,最好的方法就是从克朗克里飞去汤斯维尔,再飞去凯恩斯。”

141
-

“我知道,”她对这些长途飞行的花费变得非常敏感,但不坐飞机就只能坐火车,而在内地的火车上度过三个星期简直要热死人,“如果留在这里等下周坐空中列车的话,会便宜很多,是不是?”

142
-

飞行员说:“哦,便宜很多。从这儿飞到凯恩斯要花十镑十五先令,飞回克朗克里再飞去汤斯维尔和凯恩斯要花大概三十镑。”

143
-

“我想这里的旅馆还挺便宜的?”

144
-

“我想大约每天十二先令六便士吧,”他转向正在忙着加油的壳牌代理商,“阿尔,康纳太太那里多少钱一晚上?”

145
-

“十先令六便士。”

146
-

琴飞快地进行了心算,留在这个地方,花一周时间等空中列车,她会省下十六镑。“我想还是留在这里吧,”她说,“那样比跟你回去便宜很多。我会留下来见吉姆·伦农,并等待下周的空中列车。”

147
-

“您知道这儿的旅馆是怎么样的吗,佩吉特小姐?”

148
-

“就跟克朗克里的邮局旅馆一样?”

149
-

“比那个更简陋一些。人们就在后院方便。”

150
-

她笑道:“我是不是应该把自己锁在房间里,在床头放一把左轮手枪?”

151
-

他有点被震惊到了。“哦,您会发现这旅馆还挺体面的。但是,嗯,您会发现它有一点简陋。”

152
-

“我想我能活下来。”

153
-

那时另一辆载着几个人的卡车出现了。车里的人好奇地盯着琴看。飞行员帮她拿手提箱,放在后座上,司机帮她坐上驾驶室,让她坐在自己旁边。逃离炫目的太阳,再次进入阴凉的地方,令人觉得轻松多了。

154
-

司机说:“留在威尔斯镇?”

155
-

“我想见乔·哈曼,但他们说他出门了。如果康纳太太那里有空房间给我住的话,我会在这里待到下周,再坐空中列车去凯恩斯。”

156
-

他好奇地看着她:“乔·哈曼去英国了。您是英国人吧?”

157
-

卡车沿着宽广的柏油跑道开起来。“没错。”她回答。

158
-

他满面笑容地向她道:“我父母都来自英国。我爸,他在刘易舍姆区出生,我想是伦敦的一个区吧,我妈来自赫尔。”他顿了顿,“我叫斯莫尔,”他说,“森·斯莫尔,就像那个扛着火枪的小伙子一样。”

159
-

卡车开离跑道,开始跌跌撞撞、摇摇摆摆地走在通往小镇的土路上。驾驶室里尘土飞扬,引擎轰鸣,蓝色的烟气把他们包裹得严严实实。卡车每一个部分都在嘎吱嘎吱地尖叫。“乔·哈曼为什么要去英国?”她扯着嗓子喊道,以期盖过阵阵喧闹声,“他去那里做什么?”

160
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“我想就是一时心血来潮吧,”斯莫尔先生回答,“他几年前赢了珍宝盒。”这在她听来像希腊文。“这个季节在牛场也没多少活儿。”

161
-

她喊道:“你知道旅馆有没有空房间吗?”

162
-

“哦,有的,您能开到一个房间的。您刚从英国出来?”

163
-

“是的。”

164
-

“现在家那边的配给制怎么样?”

165
-

她大喊着回答他。她一边说,卡车一边颠簸摇摆着前行,穿过沿路片片风光。他们路过一座修在道路旁边的小木棚屋,五十码后又路过左边的一座,往前一点再路过一座,然后就开上了主街道。他们停在一栋两层楼房前,底层门廊上有一个褪了色的招牌,上面写着:“澳大利亚旅馆”。“就是这里了,”斯莫尔先生说,“进来吧,我去找康纳太太。”

166
-

澳大利亚旅馆是一座很大的楼房,有大约十个门朝顶层门廊的小房间。地板和门是木的,其余整栋房子都以木作框架,以瓦楞铁做面。那时琴已经习惯了无处不在的瓦楞铁屋顶,但睡房的瓦楞铁墙对她而言还是件新鲜事物。

167
-

斯莫尔先生去找康纳太太时,琴在顶层门廊等待。门廊上有几张床。老板娘睡眼惺忪地来到她跟前。老板娘身材高挑,头发灰白,五十岁左右,看起来是个雷厉风行的人。

168
-

琴说:“下午好。我叫琴·佩吉特。我不得不在威尔斯镇住到下周。请问您这里有房间吗?”

169
-

那个女人上下打量着她。“嗯,我真的说不好。你是单独旅行吗?”

170
-

“是的。其实我是来见乔·哈曼的,但他们告诉我他出门了。我要去凯恩斯。”

171
-

“你刚刚错过了去凯恩斯的飞机。”

172
-

“我知道。他们说我要等一个星期才能坐上下一班。”

173
-

“没错。”女人四处张望,“嗯,我说不好。你瞧,男人们通常睡在这个阳台上。那对你来说不太好。”

174
-

森·斯莫尔说:“那两间后屋呢,老妈?”

175
-

“对了,她可以住那儿。”她转向琴。“在背面的阳台上,能看到后院。你会看到牧工们都去后院上厕所,但我拦不住他们。”

176
-

琴说:“我想我能挺住的。”

177
-

“你以前在内地的镇子住过?”

178
-

她摇摇头。“我刚刚从英国出来。”

179
-

“是嘛!英国现在怎么样了?你们吃得饱吗?”

180
-

琴又回答一遍。

181
-

“我有一个姐姐嫁给了一个英国人,”那个女人说,“住在一个叫作古尔的地方。我每个月都给她家寄去一个包裹。”

182
-

她带琴去看房间。房间很干净,有一个相当不错的蚊帐。房间小小的,但向过道开的门正对着向阳台开的双层落地窗,穿堂风很凉快。“没有人走这边的阳台,除了安娜——她是女仆。她睡另一间,如果你晚上听到任何动静,希望你会告诉我。我盯着那个姑娘。”她把话题转向通风,“你把门打开一条小缝,用你的箱子顶着它,那样就没有人能走错门闯进来了。再开着窗,穿堂风就飕飕的了。我在这个地方一直睡得很好。”

183
-

她往下扫了一眼琴的手,说:“你还没结婚?”

184
-

“没有。”

185
-

“嗯,这个地区的每一个牧工都会到镇里来看看你的。你最好有心理准备。”

186
-

琴笑道:“我会的。”

187
-

“那——你是乔·哈曼的朋友?”

188
-

“我俩是战时认识的,”琴说,“在新加坡等船回国的时候。”至少这比她上一个谎言更接近事实。“后来我来了澳大利亚,就给他发了一份电报,说我想来见见他。我没有收到回复,所以就不管三七二十一先过来了。但他却去‘丛林流浪’了。”

189
-

那女人笑道:“看来你学会了一些澳洲土话。”

190
-

“乔·哈曼教我的,我俩在战争期间认识的时候。”

191
-

森·斯莫尔把琴的手提箱拿了上来,她向他道谢,他窘迫地转身走开了。她走进房间,脱下湿答答的衣服,去浴室洗了一个淋浴,换上干爽的衣服。六点半,铃声响遍整座瓦楞铁楼房,她已经准备好吃晚饭了。

192
-

她找到下楼去餐厅的路。那里已经坐着三四个人,他们好奇地望着她。一个发育良好的十六岁女孩儿让她单独坐一张已经摆好的小桌子,后来她知道这女孩儿叫作安妮。“烤牛肉,烤羊肉,烤猪肉,烤火鸡,”她说,“茶还是咖啡?”

193
-

天气仍然闷热难耐。餐厅里到处都是苍蝇,扑在琴的脸、嘴唇和手上。“烤火鸡。”她说。了解清楚此处食物的供应情况后,明天尽可以优哉游哉地吃一顿清淡的。“茶。”

194
-

安妮端上来一个堆满了肉和蔬菜的盘子,热气腾腾,异常油腻,马上招来了一大堆苍蝇。一会儿茶也来了,里面加了罐头牛奶。土豆看起来很新鲜,但胡萝卜和甘蓝明显是罐头蔬菜。她镇静地想道,这些苍蝇很可能以痢疾收场,但她有应对办法。她有充足的磺胺嘧啶帮她挺过这周。她吃了这份巨大盘餐的四分之一左右,喝了两杯茶,就吃撑了。

195
-

她马上跑到外面的新鲜空气中去,逃离苍蝇的攻击。底层门廊大约距离地面三英尺高,上面有两三张帆布躺椅,就放在离酒吧入口不远处。她已经深知澳大利亚规矩不允许女人靠近酒吧,但在旅馆里又找不到其他可以坐的地方,只好在其中一张躺椅上坐下来,一边担心着这样做是否会违反当地礼节。

196
-

她点燃一根香烟,边抽边看风景。已是黄昏时分,但太阳仍然猛烈,一大片作为街道使用的土地沙尘滚滚,淹没在一片金色的浮光里。街道另一边,一百码开外,有一坐很大的单层楼房,仿佛经过多次加建,挂着一个牌子——威廉·邓肯杂货店。没有任何迹象表明镇里还有其他商店。邓肯先生的商店外面,有三个非白人牧工在一起聊天,其中一个拿着一个马鞍。他们都是人高马大的年轻人,身材健壮,外表很像黑人,同时也像黑人一样,似乎有许多可以嘲笑的事物。

197
-

沿着大街另一边更远处,有一条六英寸长的管子,垂直从地上伸出来,高出地面大约八英尺。水从这条管子的顶端喷出,形成一个小喷泉。水仿佛烧得很热,因为有一团水蒸气围绕着小喷泉。水落在地上形成的小溪流一直流向远处,也全程冒着腾腾热气。四分之一英里开外有一座横跨小溪流修建的小屋,这样水可以流进小屋里,从另一面流出,但琴还没有发现这座建筑物的用途。

198
-

一阵低语声从酒吧内传进她的耳朵,不时地就有一个男人经过她身旁,走进开着的门。她在这个地方一个女人也没见着。

199
-

不久,一个年轻人路过时向她笑道:“晚上好。”她也向他笑道:“晚上好。”

200
-

他马上停下脚步,她知道麻烦来了。“我今天下午看见你和森·斯莫尔一起来的。是坐飞机来的吧?”

201
-

他是一个外貌整洁的青年庄稼汉,走起路来摇摇摆摆的,一副典型的牧工相。他穿着绿色骑马裤和绑边靴子,一看见它们就知道他的职业。尝试冷语相向是不明智的。“没错,”她说,“我从克朗克里来的。请告诉我,那是天然水资源吗?”

202
-

他朝她指的方向看。“天然?那是个钻头。从来没有见过吗?”

203
-

她摇摇头。“我刚刚从英国来。”

204
-

“从英国来?哦,老天,”他拖着内地那种慢悠悠的腔调说,“英国怎么样?你们吃得饱吗?”

205
-

她又回答了一遍。“我老爸来自英国,”他说,“一个叫作伍尔弗汉普顿的地方。离你住的地方近吗?”

206
-

“大约两百英里吧。”她回答。

207
-

“哦,挺近的。那你应该知道这个家庭。姓氏是弗莱彻。我是彼特·弗莱彻。”

208
-

她向彼特解释说英国人还挺多的,又重新回到钻头的话题上。“你们从钻孔钻上来的水是不是都那么热?”

209
-

“太对了,”他说,“而且是矿泉水——你不能喝那些水。还有气一起喷上来。我去点着它,如果你想看的话。”他解释说那会喷出大约五六英尺高的火焰。“等天黑一点时我再点给你看。”

210
-

她说他人真是太好了,他看起来一脸窘迫。阿尔·伯恩斯,那个壳牌代理人和卡车修理工开车路过,停下来加入他们的谈话。“安顿下来啦,佩吉特小姐?”

211
-

“是的,谢谢您。我会在这里待到周三,然后继续去凯恩斯。”

212
-

“很好,我们在威尔斯镇很少看到陌生面孔。”

213
-

“我正在这里问彼特关于钻孔的事情。彼特,牛喝这些水吗?”

214
-

那牧工笑了。“如果它们找不到比它更甜的水就喝。你会发现它们在雨季是不喝这些水的,但旱季时它们喝得挺好。”

215
-

“有一些钻头它们是不碰的。”阿尔说,他正在给自己卷烟,“人们在因弗高登放下去一个钻孔,那是这儿和诺曼顿之间的一个牛场——往南一些。人们要往下钻差不多三千英尺才能找到水,真是费了好大力气,哦,老天。钻孔队在那儿干了差不多三个月。后来当他们钻到水的时候,那些水散发着矿物质的恶臭,牛连碰都不碰一下,即使旱季时也不。更可怕的是,那些水连草都种不活。”

216
-

又有两个男人过来加入躺椅旁边的小聚会。“请告诉我,”她说,“为什么这个镇的房屋这么分散?为什么不修建得密集一些?”

217
-

其中一个四十来岁的新来者说:“过去这儿沿街有很多房子。我有一张这儿的照片,拍于1905年。明天拿来你看。”她后来知道他叫作蒂姆·惠兰,是一个木匠。

218
-

“那时这里的居民比现在多吗?”

219
-

阿尔·伯恩斯说:“哦,老天。这就是其中一个淘金镇,佩吉特小姐。也许你不知道,但这儿一度有三万人呢。”

220
-

另一个新来者说:“八千人。我在一本书上读到的。”

221
-

阿尔·伯恩斯固执地说:“我老爸总是说他刚来的时候这儿有三万人。”

222
-

这明显是一个古老的辩题。琴问道:“现在有多少人?”

223
-

“哦,不知道。”阿尔转向其他人:“你说现在有多少人,蒂姆?”他对一旁的琴说:“他是做棺材的,问他就对了。”

224
-

“一百五十人。”惠兰先生说。

225
-

森·斯莫尔加入了门廊上的谈话。“目前在威尔斯镇住的还不到一百五十人呢。不会多于一百二十人。”他顿了顿,“当然是指住在镇里的人,不包括牛场的居民。就住在镇上这儿的,不算土著。”

226
-

谈话演变成一场小小的争论,所以他们开始坐下来数人数。黄昏的光亮渐渐褪去,琴坐在那里看他们做统计,心想这群人真有趣。最终结果是一百四十六人。数据终于被确认时,她已经听到了镇上大部分人的名字和职业。

227
-

“这里以前有金矿吗?”她问。

228
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“没错,”斯莫尔先生说,“他们曾扬言说有一百个呢,都在这些小河沿岸,哦,老天。这儿曾经有十七家旅馆。十七家。”

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另一个人说:“那时候轮船从布里斯班驶来这儿——绕过约克角半岛,沿着吉尔伯特河一直往内陆走,去到栈桥那儿。我从未亲眼见到过,都是听我家老头儿说的。”

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琴问:“后来发生了什么事?是不是金子都淘光了?”

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“是的。他们从河里和礁石表面就能淘出金子,太容易了。后来他们要挖得很深,使用很多机器,那就不值当了。这些镇都一样。克罗伊登是,诺曼顿也是。”

232
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“他们说要在克罗伊登开一个矿——再开一个。”某人说。

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“从我记事起他们就老那么说。”

234
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琴问:“但那些房子呢?人们都离开了吗?”

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“房子后来就塌了,或者被拆掉,材料用来修补其他房子。”阿尔告诉她,“人们挖光了金子,就不再留在这儿了——他们待不下去。现在这里只剩下牛场了。”

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男人们越聊越起劲,琴偶尔插进一两句话或者几个问题。“鬼城,”有人说,“有一次我在书上读到的,他们就这么叫这些海湾小镇。鬼城。那是因为它们都成了鬼魂,只有在过去有金子的时候才是活着的。”

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“那并没有持续很长时间,”有人说,“这儿1893年首次发现了金子,到1905年就没多少人了。”

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男人们谈话的时候,琴坐着,努力想象这个被抛弃的小城曾经有何等繁盛。那时,它有八千或三万居民,街道交错密布,沿街挤满了十七家旅馆和众多楼房。该镇的设计者,不论是谁,肯定做过一个伟大的梦。当他看见人们源源不断地涌入该镇追求事业,没几天人口就翻一番,自然有理由心生憧憬,要把这里发展成卡奔塔利亚湾的纽约。现在,残留下来的只有许多长方形的泥路,相互交织像一张破烂的网,再也不能称之为街道,其上也不复再见那些木制的楼房。只剩下模样古怪的楼房孤零零地挂在这张网上,仿佛过去梦想的残片。

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夜幕降临后,彼特和阿尔出去为琴点燃钻头。他们划了半打火柴来点它,一片火焰猛地向上蹿起,照亮了整个小镇,在水和蒸汽间跳跃闪烁,直到最后被喷上来的一片水浇灭了。他们再次点着了它,琴饱览了该景象。很明显,这是该镇能提供的最佳娱乐节目,他们使尽浑身解数,以博她一笑。“太漂亮了,”她说,“我在英国从未见过类似的景象。”

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他们都非常谦虚。“这儿周边大部分小镇都有这么一个可以点燃的钻头。”他们说。

241
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那天的飞行使她非常劳累,九点钟,她向他们告辞,他们都祝她晚安。她走之前把阿尔·伯恩斯稍稍拉到一边。“阿尔,”她说,“我想见吉姆·伦农——他在米德赫斯特工作,是不是?我想在周三出发前见他一面。他会到镇里来吗?”

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“他周六会来,”阿尔说,“我敢说他会在这儿过周六,喝格罗格酒。如果我听到任何人去那边,我会托人捎话给他,说你在镇上并且想见他。”

243
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“米德赫斯特的居民会通过广播收发消息吗?”

244
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他摇摇头。“那儿离镇里太近了,不需要那么费事。如果有人生病或者遭遇事故,他们可以带他进城,一个小时左右就到了。护士在医院有收音机。”他顿了顿,“大概明天就有人去那边。如果没有,或者如果吉姆·伦农周六不来,我就周日开卡车送你过去。”

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“那真是太好了,”她说,“我不想太麻烦你。”

246
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“不麻烦,”他说,“只是稍稍改变计划而已。”

247
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她上楼睡觉。旅馆用电灯照明,后院有一个油引擎和发电机组,在她房间外面持续地工作着发电。她十点时听到酒吧关门,十点五分引擎停止工作,所有灯都熄灭了。威尔斯镇沉沉睡去。

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她第二天在晨光中醒来,房间外面传来人们起床和洗漱的声音。她躺着打盹,聆听早晨的声音。早餐要七点半才开始供应,她起来洗了一个淋浴,准时出现在餐厅。她发现威尔斯镇的标准早餐是半磅牛排,上面盖两个煎蛋。她点了一个煎蛋,不要牛排,这让安妮非常惊讶。“早餐是牛排和鸡蛋。”安妮很耐心地向这位英国女士解释。

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“我知道是这样,”琴说,“但我不想吃牛排。”

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“好吧,你可以不吃它。”那个姑娘明显感到非常困惑。

251
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“我可不可以只要一个煎鸡蛋,而不要牛排?”琴问。

252
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“你的意思是,只在盘子里放一个煎鸡蛋?”

253
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“没错。”

254
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就食物的问题展开对话在威尔斯镇明显是一种新理念。“我去问问康纳太太。”安妮说,过了一会儿她从厨房回来,端着一个装着一块牛排和盖着两个煎鸡蛋的盘子。“我们只有一种早餐。”她解释道。琴放弃挣扎。

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早饭后,她冒险走去大楼外面的厨房,找到康纳太太。“我有一些东西要洗,”她说,“请问我可以用您的洗衣盆吗?还有——您有熨斗吗?”

256
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“安妮会替你做的,”康纳太太说,“把衣服给她吧。”

257
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琴并不打算把衣服托付给安妮。“她有很多活要干,”她说,“而我无所事事。如果我能借用洗衣盆的话,我可以自己洗。”

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“那好吧。”

259
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琴整个早上都在底层背面门廊洗熨衣服,就在厨房门口。在那个干燥灼热的地方,把衣服挂在外面的晾衣绳上,十分钟就干了。厨房里的温度肯定接近一百二十度。琴匆忙走进去,从炉子上取走她的熨斗,心想,女人们每天都在这种条件下做三顿热饭,实在是坚毅得令人惊讶。不久安妮走过来,在门廊上东站站西站站,在琴洗衣服的时候偷偷地观察她。

260
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安妮拿起一个装肥皂片的纸板箱。“你放多少这个进水里?”

261
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琴说:“我想每加仑水放一盎司吧,是不是?据我所知就是这样。我就放一点儿。包装上有说明。”

262
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那个女孩儿把包装转过来,细细察看。“在‘使用说明’里写着。”琴说。

263
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康纳太太的声音从她身后的门口传来:“安妮不太认字。”

264
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那个姑娘说:“我能看懂。”

265
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“哦,你会吗?好吧,那你给我们念一念,看包装上写了什么?”

266
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那个姑娘把箱子放下。“我最近练习得太少了。我在学校的时候念得可好了。”

267
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为了缓和气氛,琴说:“你需要做的只是不断把肥皂片放进去,直到水适当起泡。各种水放的量不一样,因为硬度不一样。”

268
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“我用普通肥皂,”安妮说,“我不太会用这种。”

269
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过了一会儿那个姑娘说:“你是护士吗?”

270
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琴摇摇头。“我是个打字员。”

271
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“哦,我还以为你可能是个护士呢。差不多所有来威尔斯镇的女人都是护士。她们在这里都留不长。六个月,然后就受够了。”

272
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大家都不说话。“如果你曾经当过护士,”过了一会儿,那姑娘说,“我想请你开一些药。我最近一起床就觉得很不舒服。今天早上还吐了。”

273
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“那可真糟糕。”琴小心地说。似乎也没别的可说。

274
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“我想我要去医院,”安妮说,“找道格拉斯护士开点药。”

275
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“换我也会这么做。”

276
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当天白天她见到了威尔斯镇大部分有头脸的人物。她穿过马路到杂货店去,尝试买点香烟,但只买到一听烟丝和一包卷烟纸。她在杂货店里和比尔·邓肯聊天,他拿出一块石英石给她看,说里面含有金子。她仔细端详这块石头的时候,学校教师肯莱小姐进来了。半小时后,琴过马路回旅馆,阿尔·伯恩斯来找她,想把她介绍给该郡的文书卡特先生。

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下午大部分时间,她和威尔斯镇的其他人一样躺在床上睡觉。白天的热气消散后,她下楼到门廊上,跟昨晚一样坐在帆布躺椅里。牧工们很快就发现了她。他们一个接一个走过来,扭扭捏捏地,在这个英国姑娘面前毫无自信,但又无法抗拒她的吸引力。不久,他们都坐在了门廊上,在她周围形成一个小圈子。

278
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她让他们谈谈他们自己的事情,那好像是让他们放松的最佳办法。“这儿挺好的,”其中一个说,“是一个很不错的牧牛区。这儿的雨水比往南一些的牧场更充足。但我明年就要离开了。我的兄弟在罗克汉普顿的铁路上工作,他说如果我去投奔他,他会让我跟着他们干。”

279
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琴问:“那里的薪水是不是要高一些?”

280
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“嗯,不。我不认为那儿给的薪水很高。我在这儿有五镑十七先令六——当然,那是包食宿和日用的。这是普通骑马放牧人的薪水。”

281
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她感到很惊讶。“那很不错,是不是?对于一个单身男人来讲?”

282
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彼特·弗莱彻说:“这儿的薪水还可以。问题是这个地方实在是太无聊了。”

283
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“你们这里有过电影院吗?”

284
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“有一个小伙子每隔两个星期过来一趟,在郡政厅里放电影——就是那边那栋房子。”她看到一座矮矮的木结构建筑物,像谷仓一样。“他有一个月没来了,但卡特先生说他下周会来。”

285
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“舞会呢?”琴问。

286
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这个问题引起了一阵讽刺的笑声。“他们有时试着举办,但在这个地方很难办起来。姑娘太少了。”

287
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彼特·弗莱彻说:“我们这些来威尔斯镇的牧工大约有五十个,佩吉特小姐,但可以跟我们一起跳舞的未婚姑娘只有两个,多丽丝·纳什和苏西·安德森。我是说年龄在十七到二十二岁之间的姑娘,不包括孩子和已婚女士。”

288
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其中一个牧工坏笑道:“苏西已经不只二十二了。”

289
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琴问道:“但这里的姑娘们都怎么了?这附近肯定还有其他姑娘吧?”

290
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“她们都去市里找工作了,”某人说,“威尔斯镇没有适合女孩儿干的工作。她们去汤斯维尔或者罗克汉普顿——还有布里斯班。”

291
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彼特·弗莱彻说:“那正好是我要去的地方,布里斯班。”

292
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琴说:“这么说,你们不喜欢在牛场上工作?”她想起乔·哈曼和他对于内地的满腔热爱。

293
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“哦,牛场挺好的。”彼特说。他迟疑了一下,不确定该如何准确地向这个英国女士表达他的感受,同时避免一时大意说出脏字。“我的意思是,”他说,“一个小伙子有权利找一个女朋友结婚,就像任何其他人一样。”

294
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她盯着他看:“真是这样吗?”

295
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“这儿是个鬼地方,”有人说,“这儿真是个鬼地方。不是开玩笑,女士。五十个单身汉争夺两个未婚姑娘。老爷们儿在这儿讨不到媳妇儿。”

296
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另一个人向她解释道:“您瞧,佩吉特小姐,如果一个姑娘是正常的,脑子没坏——比如说,就像您这样——就不会留在这儿。一旦到了可以离家的年纪,你就会离开这儿,去一个能找着工作的地方,自己养活自己。老天,你会的。留在威尔斯镇的姑娘都有点笨,在其他地方混不下去,要不就是想留下来照顾老人。”

297
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另一个人说:“那样想的姑娘会带老人一起进城。像埃尔西·弗里曼。”

298
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琴笑道:“你是说,如果你留在威尔斯镇,最终只能娶一个不怎么抢手的姑娘了。”

299
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他们尴尬地面面相觑。“嗯,小伙子都想周游四方……”

300
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“如果你们都进城,周游四方的话,谁来经营这些牛场呢?”琴说。

301
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“让经理为此而头疼吧,”彼特说,“我自己的事儿就够我头疼的了。”

302
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那晚饭后不久,一辆破旧的老雪佛兰越野车开来旅馆。它的车头是一个驾驶室,车身则像卡车一样是敞篷的。司机是一个瘦削的男人,五十来岁,看起来弱不禁风。他旁边坐着一个棕色皮肤的女孩儿,二十到二十五岁,皮肤光滑,面容安详。她不是纯本地人,但很可能只有四分之一白人血统。她穿一条鲜艳的红色连衣裙,抱着一只小猫咪,它显然是她的一大乐趣。他们穿过门廊进入旅馆,男人拿着手提包。他们显然要在旅馆过夜。饭点时,琴看见他们和男人们一起坐在另一张桌子旁边,但几乎不跟别人说话。

303
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饭后琴问康纳太太他们是谁。“那是埃迪·佩吉,”她说,“是卡莱尔牛场的经理,那牛场大约在一百英里开外。那个土著女人是他太太,他们过来购物。”

304
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“明媒正娶的妻子?”琴问。

305
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“哦,是的,他和她是合法结婚的。布什修士会的科普兰修士去年正好在那儿,为他们主持了婚礼。他们时不时来我这儿住。我必须说,她从未惹过任何麻烦。当然了,她是文盲,话也不多,总是带着一只小猫咪或者小狗。她就喜欢小猫小狗什么的。”

306
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琴想起那个男人脆弱却睿智的脸,觉得这对夫妻很不般配。“我真想知道他为什么要这么做。”

307
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康纳太太耸耸肩。“我想是寂寞的缘故吧。”

308
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那晚琴上楼回卧室的时候,看见一个人站在俯瞰后院的阳台上,倚在扶手旁。阳台上只有两个睡房,她的和安妮的。在微弱的光线中,她走向双层落地窗时说:“晚安,安妮。”

309
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那个女孩向琴走来。“我一直感觉很糟糕,”她嘟囔道,“介意我问你件事情吗,佩吉特小姐?”

310
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琴停下脚步。“当然不介意,安妮。什么事?”

311
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“你知道怎样打掉婴儿吗,佩吉特小姐?”

312
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琴在早上的对话后,对这句话早有心理准备。一阵对孩子的深切惋惜涌上心头。“我很抱歉,安妮,但我不知道。我不认为你应该那样做。”

313
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“我去找道格拉斯护士了,她告诉我我的问题。老爸知道了肯定会狠狠揍我一顿。”

314
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琴执起她的手,把她拉进卧室。“进来,告诉我是怎么回事。”

315
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安妮说:“我知道有一些办法,比如吃点什么药,或者去骑马,或者类似的事情。我想也许你以前也被迫这么做过,应该知道办法。”

316
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“我从不需要这么做,安妮。我不知道,为什么你不让他娶你,名正言顺地把孩子生下来?”

317
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那个姑娘说:“我不知道孩子是谁的。他们都会赖账的,不是吗?”

318
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这是一个琴从来不需要面对的问题。“我想他们会的。”

319
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“我想去问问我的姐姐贝西。她应该知道。她结婚前就有俩小孩儿了。”

320
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看来贝西在这方面的知识对她不会有什么用。“护士难道不会帮助你吗?”

321
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“她只说我是个荡妇。那没什么帮助。就算我是个荡妇吧。在这个鬼地方也没别的事情可做。”

322
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琴尽她所能好言相慰,但话语对安妮毫无用处。她关心的不是道德问题,而是现实问题。“老爸知道后,肯定会大发雷霆,”她忧心忡忡地说,“他会打死我的。”

323
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琴无能为力,不久她们各自上床睡觉。琴久久不能入寐,苦苦思索人类遭受的各种痛苦。

324
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她继续在威尔斯镇待了两天,坐在门廊上和牧工们聊天,参观镇上各座建筑物。肯莱小姐带她去学校,道格拉斯护士带她去医院,卡特先生带她去郡政厅——那里的公共图书馆只有少得可怜的几册书。沃特金斯先生带她去苍蝇横飞的银行,海恩斯警察长带她去警察局。周末时,她对威尔斯镇已经非常熟悉了。

325
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吉姆·伦农跟预想一样,周六进镇买格罗格酒。他开着一辆国际越野车,比普通汽车大一号,前座后面拖着一个像卡车那样的车身,装备着七十加仑的油箱和五十加仑的水箱。琴知道那是乔·哈曼的财产。伦农先生身材瘦削,皮肤棕黄,沉默寡言。

326
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“我昨天收到了一封航空邮件,”他拖着那种懒洋洋的昆士兰调子说,“乔已经坐上轮船,启程从英国回来。他说预计十月中旬到达。”

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“我知道了。”琴说,“我想在回英国之前见他一面。我已经计划好周三飞去凯恩斯,在那里等他。”

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“好的。我觉得你要在这儿等他的话也太无聊了。我想邀请你去米德赫斯特,但那儿更无聊。”

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“乔在英国都做了些什么,伦农先生?他告诉您他去那里干什么了吗?”

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牧工笑道:“我连他要去英国都不知道。我只知道他要去布里斯班,后来我收到信说他去英国了。我不知道他为什么去。他确实在昨天给我的信里说,他见到了一群属于一位丹尼斯·弗兰普顿先生的赫尔福特牛,那群牛棒极了。也许他把牛运到国外去育种了吧。他什么也没跟我说。”

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她告诉他,她的地址就是凯恩斯的海滨旅馆,请他收到乔到达的准确消息后通知她。

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那晚,她照常坐在门廊的躺椅上,阿尔·伯恩斯带了一位蓄着胡须的老人家来见她。这位老人家非常腼腆,阿尔费了不少力气才把他从酒吧里拽了出来。他拿着一个袋子。“佩吉特小姐,”阿尔说,“这是杰夫·波科克。”琴站起来和他握手。“我想你会很乐意认识杰夫的,”阿尔兴奋地说,“他是全昆士兰最好的短吻鳄猎人。是不是,杰夫?”

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老人家摇摇脑袋。“我从很小的时候就开始捕猎短吻鳄了,”他说,“我想现在还算是个内行吧。”

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阿尔说:“他有一张鳄鱼皮要给你看,佩吉特小姐。”他又向老人家说:“把你的鳄鱼皮给她看一下,杰夫。我打赌她从未在英国见过那样的皮。”

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杰夫·波科克拿起袋子打开,拿出一小张卷起来的鳄鱼皮。“当然了,”他说,“我已经自己把它洗干净、裁剪好并晒干了。我一般只是用盐腌起来卖给制革厂。”他在她面前的地板上摊开鳄鱼皮,“斑纹很漂亮吧?我敢打赌您在英国没见过这样的鳄鱼皮。”

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它惹起了琴的乡愁。她想起了佩里维尔西大道上红彤彤的公共汽车,帕克和利维公司,一排排姑娘们坐在工作台边制作鳄鱼皮鞋、手提包和化妆盒。她笑了。“我在英国见过成百张这样的鳄鱼皮,”她回答道,“这是我真正了解的一样东西。我曾经在一个手提包和化妆箱工厂工作,原材料就是这种皮革。”她拿起鳄鱼皮,轻轻抚摸着,“我想我们用的皮比这张硬。你把它加工得非常好,杰夫。”

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又有两三个人过来了。他们添油加醋地流传她的故事。她告诉他们关于帕克和利维公司的一切。他们对此很感兴趣,没有人知道这些皮革被卖出海湾地区后的下落。“我知道他们拿它做鞋子,”杰夫说,“但我一双也没见过。”

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琴在脑海里形成了一个模糊的主意。“像这样的皮,你们每年能找到多少张?”她问。

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“去年我卖出去八十二张,”那位老人说,“不算很多。几乎都是三十到三十六英寸宽的皮。一条大概十一英尺长的短吻鳄。”

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“杰夫,你能把这张卖给我吗?”

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“你要来做什么?”

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她笑道:“我想用它来给自己做一双鞋子。”她顿了顿,说,“如果蒂姆·惠兰可以给我做一双鞋楦的话。”

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他一脸窘迫。“不要钱,”他生硬地说,“我把它送给你吧。”

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她和他争论了一小会儿,然后感激地收下了。“我们要找一点小牛皮做鞋底,”她说,“以及更厚一些的材料来做鞋跟。”

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她在手里抚弄着这张鳄鱼皮。“真柔软啊,”她说,“让我告诉你们它的用途。”

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When Jean Paget stepped down the gangway from the Constellation on to Darwin airport she was wildly and unreasonably happy. It is a fact, I think, that till that time she had never really recovered from the war. She had come to England when she was repatriated and she had done her job efficiently and well with Pack and Levy for two years or so, but she had done it in the manner of a woman of fifty. She lived, but she had very little zest for life. Deep in the background of her mind remained the tragedy of Kuantan, killing her youth. She had only been speaking the truth when she had told me once that she felt about seventy years old.

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She landed at about eight-fifteen at night, after dark; as she was getting off the plane at Darwin, Qantas had booked a room for her at the Darwin Hotel. She stepped on to the concrete and was marshalled to the Customs office in the hangar; at the foot of the gangway there were three young men who scrutinized her carefully. At the time she took them for officials of the airport. It was only later that she found out that they were reporters on the staff of various Australian newspapers engaged in what must surely be the worst assignment in all journalism, meeting every aeroplane that lands on Darwin airport in the hope of finding a Prime Minister on board, or a woman with two heads.

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One of them came up to her as soon as she was through the Customs; there had been nothing to make a story in this load of passengers. A happy-looking girl was a small dividend, however. He said,“Miss Paget? The stewardess tells me that you’re getting off here and you’re staying at the Darwin Hotel. Can I give you a lift into town? My name is Stuart Hopkinson; I represent the Sydney Monitor up here.”

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She said,“That’s terribly kind of you, Mr Hopkinson. I don’t want to take you out of your way, though.”

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He said,“I’m staying there myself.”He had a small Vauxhall parked outside the hanger; he took her suitcase and put it in the back seat and they got in, chatting about the Constellation and the journey from Singapore. And presently, as they drove past the remains of Vestey’s meatworks, he said,“You’re English, aren’t you, Miss Paget?”She agreed.“Would you like to tell me why you’re visiting Australia?”

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She laughed.“Not very much, Mr Hopkinson. It’s only something personal—it wouldn’t make a story. Is this where I get out and walk?”

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“You don’t have to do that,”he said.“It was just a thought. I haven’t filed a story for a week.”

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“Would it help if I said that I thought Darwin was just wonderful? ‘London Typist thinks Darwin wonderful’?”

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“We can’t go panning London, not in the Monitor. Is that what you are, a typist?”

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She nodded.

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“Come out to get married?”

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“I don’t think so.”

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He sighed.“I’m afraid you’re not much good to me for a story.”

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“Tell me, Mr Hopkinson,”she said,“how do the buses go from here to Alice Springs? I want to go down there, and I haven’t got much money, so I thought I’d go by bus. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

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“Sure,”he said.“One went this morning. You’ll have to wait till Monday now; they don’t run over the weekend.”

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“How long does it take?”

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“Two days. You start on Monday, stop at Daly Waters Monday night, and get in late on Tuesday. It’s not too bad a journey, but it can be hot, you know.”

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He put her down at the hotel and carried her bag into the lobby for her. She was lucky in that overcrowded place to get a room to herself, a room with a balcony overlooking the harbour. It was hot in Darwin, with a damp enervating heat that brought her out in streams of perspiration at the slightest movement. This was no novelty to her because she was accustomed to the tropics; she bolted the door and took off her clothes and had a shower, and washed some things in the hand basin, and lay down to sleep with a bare minimum of covering.

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She woke early next morning and lay for some time in the cool of the dawn considering her position. It was imperative to her that she should find Joe Harman and talk to him; at the same time the meeting with Mr Hopkinson had warned her that there were certain difficulties ahead. However pleasant these young men might be, their duty was to get a story for the paper, and she had no desire whatever to figure in the headlines, as she certainly would do if the truth of her intentions became known.“Girl flies from Britain to seek soldier crucified for her...”It would be far easier if she were a man.

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However, she wasn’t. She set to work to invent a story for herself, and finally decided that she was going out to Adelaide to stay with her sister who was married to a man called Holmes who worked in the Post Office; that seemed a fairly safe one. She was travelling by way of Darwin and Alice Springs because a second cousin called Joe Harman was supposed to be working there but hadn’t written home for nine years, and her uncle wanted to know if he was still alive. From Alice she would take the train down to Adelaide.

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It didn’t quite explain why she had come to Darwin in a Constellation, except that there is no other way to get to Darwin. Lying on her bed and cogitating this it seemed a pretty waterproof tale; when she got up and went downstairs for breakfast she decided to try it out on Stuart Hopkinson. She got her chance that morning as he showed her the way to the bus booking-office; she let it out in little artistic snippets over half an hour of conversation, and the representative of the Sydney Monitor swallowed it without question so that she became a little ashamed of herself.

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He took her into a milk bar and stood her a Coca-Cola.“Joe Harman...”he said.“What was he doing at Alice nine years ago?”

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She sucked her straw.“He was a cowboy on a cattle farm,”she said innocently, and hoped she wasn’t overdoing it.

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“A stockman? Do you remember the name of the station?”

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“Wollara,”she said.“That’s the name, Wollara. That’s near Alice Springs, isn’t it?”

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“I don’t know,”he said.“I’ll try and find out.”

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He came back to her after lunch with Hal Porter of the Adelaide Herald.“Wollara’s a good long way from Alice Springs,”said Mr Porter.“The homestead must be nearly a hundred and twenty miles away. You mean Tommy Duveen’s place?”

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“I think that’s it,”she said.“Is there a bus there from Alice Springs?”

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“There’s no bus or any way of getting there except to drive there in a truck or a utility.”

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Hopkinson said.“It’s on one of Eddie Maclean’s rounds, isn’t it?”

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“Now you mention it, I think it is.”Porter turned to Jean.“Maclean Airways run around most of those stations once a week, delivering the mail,”he said.“You may find that you could get there by plane. If so, that’s much the easiest.”

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Her ideas about reporters had been moulded by the cinema; it was a surprise to her to find that in real life they could be kind and helpful people with good manners. She thanked them with sincere gratitude, and they took her out for a run round Darwin in a car. She exclaimed at the marvellous, white sand beaches and the azure blue of the sea, and suggested that a bathing party might be a good thing.

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“There’s one or two objections,”Mr Porter said.“One is the sharks. They’ll take you if you go out more than knee deep. Another is the alligators. Then there’s the stone fish—he lies on the beach and looks just like a stone until you tread on him, and he squirts about a pint of poison into you. The Portuguese Men-o’-War aren’t so good, either. But the thing that really puts me off is Coral Ear.”

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“What’s that?”

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“A sort of growth inside your head that comes from getting this fine coral sand into your ear.”

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Jean came to the conclusion that perhaps she wouldn’t bathe in Darwin after all.

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She got her bathe, however, because on Sunday they drove her forty miles or so southwards down the one road to a place called Berry Springs, a deep water hole in a river where the bathing was good. The reporters eyed her curiously when she appeared in her two-piece costume because the weeks that she had spent in native clothes in Kuala Telang had left her body tanned with sunburn in unusual places. It was the first mistake that she had made, and for the first time a dim suspicion crossed their minds that this girl held a story for them if they could only get it out of her.

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“Joe Harman...”said Hal Porter thoughtfully to Stuart Hopkinson.“I’m sure I’ve heard that name before somewhere, but I can’t place it.”

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As they drove back from the bathe the reporters told her about Darwin, and the picture they painted was a gloomy one.“Everything that happens here goes crook,”Hal Porter said.“The meatworks has been closed for years because of labour troubles—they got so many strikes they had to close it down. The railway was intended to go south to Alice and join up with the one from Alice down to Adelaide—go from north to south of the continent. It might have been some good if it had done that, but it got as far as Birdum and then stopped. God knows what it does now. This road has just about put the railway out of business—what business it ever had. There used to be an ice factory, but that’s closed down.”He paused.“Everywhere you go round here you’ll see ruins of things that have been tried and failed.”

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“Why is that?”Jean asked.“It’s not a bad place, this. It’s got a marvellous harbour.”

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“Of course it has. It ought to be a great big port, this place—a port like Singapore. It’s the only town of any size at all on the north coast. I don’t know. I’ve been up here too long. It gives me the willies.”

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Stuart Hopkinson said cynically,“It’s got outbackitis.”He smiled at Jean.“You’ll see a lot of this in Australia, specially in the north.”

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She asked,“Is Alice Springs like this?”It was so very different from the glowing recollections of Alice that Joe Harman had poured out to her, six years before.

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“Oh, well,”said Hopkinson,“Alice is different. Alice is all right.”

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“Why is it different?”she asked.

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“I don’t really know. It’s railhead, of course, for trucking cattle down to Adelaide—that’s one thing. But it’s a go-ahead place is Alice; all sorts of things go on there. I wish to God the Monitor’ld send me there instead of here.”

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She said goodbye to her two friends that night, and started at dawn next morning in the bus for Alice Springs. The bus was a big, modern Bedford, heavily streamlined; it towed a trailer carrying goods and luggage. It was comfortable enough although not air-conditioned; it cruised down the wide, empty tarmac road at fifty miles an hour, hour after hour, manned by ex-naval crew.

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As far as Katherine, where the bus stopped for lunch, the country was well wooded with rather stunted eucalyptus trees, which Jean discovered were called gums. Between these trees were open meadows of wild land, ungrazed, unused, and uninhabited. She discussed this country with a fellow traveller, a bank inspector on his way to Tennant Creek, and she was told that all this coastal belt was useless for farming for some reason that she could not understand. After Katherine the country gradually became more arid, the trees more scattered and desiccated, till by the evening they were running through a country that was near to desert.

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At dusk they stopped for the night at a place called Daly Waters. Daly Waters, she discovered, was a hotel, a post office, a large aerodrome, and nothing else whatsoever. The hotel was a rambling collection of single-storey wooden huts or dormitories for men and for women, strange to Jean but comfortable enough. She strolled outside before tea, in the dusk, and looked around. In front of the hotel three young men were squatting on their heels with one leg extended in the peculiar attitude that Joe Harman had used; they wore a sort of jodhpur trouser and elastic-sided boots with a very thin sole, and they were playing cards upon the ground, intent upon their game. She realized that she was looking at her first ringers.

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She studied them with interest; that was how Joe Harman would have looked before he joined the army. She resisted an absurd temptation to go up to one of them and ask if they knew anything about him.

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The bus started at dawn next day, and drove on southwards down the tarmac road, past Milners Lagoon and Newcastle Waters and Muckety Bore to Tennant Creek. As they went the vegetation grew sparser and the sun grew hotter, till by the time they stopped at Tennant Creek for a meal and a rest the country had become pure sand desert. They went on after an hour, driving at fifty to fifty- five miles an hour down the scorching road past tiny places of two or three houses dignified with a name, Wauchope and Barrow Creek and Aileron. Toward evening they found themselves running towards the Macdonnell Ranges, lines of bare red hills against the pale blue sky, and at about dusk they ran slowly into Alice Springs and drew up at the Talbot Arms Hotel.

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Jean went into the hotel and got a room opening on to a balcony, the hotel being a bungalow-type building with a single storey, like practically every other building in Alice Springs. Tea was served immediately after they arrived, and she had already learned that in Australian country hotels unless you are punctual for your meals you will get nothing. She changed her dress and strolled out in the town after tea, walking very slowly down the broad suburban roads, examining the town.

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She found it as Joe Harman had described it to her, a pleasant place with plenty of young people in it. In spite of its tropical surroundings and the bungalow nature of the houses there was a faint suggestion of an English suburb in Alice Springs which made her feel at home. There were the houses standing each in a small garden fenced around or bordered by a hedge for privacy; the streets were laid out in the way of English streets with shade trees planted along the kerbs. Shutting her eyes to the Macdonnell Ranges, she could almost imagine she was back in Bassett as a child. She could now see well what everybody meant by saying Alice was a bonza place. She knew that she could build a happy life for herself in this town, living in one of these suburban houses, with two or three children, perhaps.

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She found her way back to the main street and strolled up it looking at the shops. It was quite true; this town had everything a reasonable girl could want—a hairdressing saloon, a good dress shop or two, two picture houses.... She turned into the milk bar at about nine o’clock and bought herself an ice-cream soda. If this was the outback, she thought, there were a great many worse places.

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Next morning, after breakfast, she went and found the manageress, a Mrs Driver, in the hotel office. She said,“I want to try and get in touch with a second cousin of mine, who hasn’t written home for ten years.”She told her story about being on her way from London to Adelaide to stay with her sister.“I told my uncle that I’d come this way and stop in Alice Springs and try and find out something about Joe.”

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Mrs Driver was interested.“What’s his name?”

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“Joe Harman.”

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“Joe Harman! Worked out at Wollara?”

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“That’s right,”Jean said.“Do you know if he’s there still?”

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The woman shook her head.“He used to come in here a lot just after the war, but he was only here about six months. I only came here in the war; I don’t know about before that. He was a prisoner of the Japs, he was. They treated him terribly. Came back with scars on his hands where they’d put nails right through, crucified him, or something.”

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Jean expressed surprise and horror.“Do you know where he is now?”

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“I don’t know, I’m sure. Maybe one of the boys would know.”

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Old Art Foster, the general handyman who had lived in Alice Springs for thirty years said,“Joe Harman? He went back to Queensland where he come from. He was at Wollara for about six months after the war, and then he got a job as station manager at some place up in the Gulf country.”

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Jean asked,“You don’t know his address?”

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“I don’t. Tommy Duveen would know it, out at Wollara.”

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“Does he come into town much?”

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“Aye, he was in town on Friday. He comes about once every three or four weeks.”

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Jean asked innocently,“I suppose Joe Harman took his family with him when he went to Queensland. They aren’t living here still, are they?”

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The old man stared at her.“I never heard Joe Harman had a family. He wasn’t married, not so far as I know.”

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She said defensively,“My uncle back in England thinks he’s married.”

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“I never heard nothing of a wife,”the old man said.

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Jean thought about this for a minute, and then said to Mrs Driver,“Is there a telephone at Wollara? I mean, if Mr Duveen knows his address, I’d like to ring him up and get it.”

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“There isn’t any telephone,”she said.“They’ll be speaking on the radio schedule morning and evening from Wollara, of course.”There was an extensive radio network operated by the Flying Doctor service from the hospital; morning and evening an operator at the hospital sat down to call up forty or fifty stations on the radio telephone to transmit messages, pass news, and generally ascertain that all was well. The station housewife operated the other end.“Mrs Duveen is sure to be on the air tonight because her sister Amy is in hospital here for a baby and Edith’ll want to know if it’s come off yet. If you write out a telegram and take it down to Mr Taylor at the hospital, he’ll pass it to them tonight.”

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Jean went back to her room and wrote out a suitable cable and took it down to the hospital to Mr Taylor, who agreed to pass it to Wollara.“Come back at about eight o’clock, and I may have the answer if they know the address right off; if they’ve got to look it up they’ll probably transmit it on the schedule tomorrow morning.”That freed her for the remainder of the day, and she went back to the milk bar for another ice-cream.

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In the milk bar she made a friend, a girl called Rose Sawyer. Miss Sawyer was about eighteen and had an Aberdeen terrier on a lead; she worked in the dress shop in the afternoons. She was very interested to hear that Jean came from England, and they talked about England for a time.“How do you like Alice?”she asked presently, and there was a touch of conventional scorn in her tone.

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“I like it,”Jean said candidly.“I’ve seen many worse places. I should think you could have a pretty good time here.”

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The girl said,“Well, I like it all right. We were in Newcastle before, and then Daddy got the job of being bank manager here and we all thought it would be awful. All my friends said these outback places were just terrible. I thought I wouldn’t be able to stick it, but I’ve been here fifteen months now and it’s not so bad.”

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“Alice is better than most, isn’t it?”

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“That’s what they say—I haven’t been in any of the others. Of course, all this has come quite recently. There weren’t any of these shops before the war, they say.”

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Jean learned a little of the history of the town and she was surprised at the rapidity of its growth. In 1928 it was about three houses and a pub; that was the year when the railway reached it from Oodnadatta. The Flying Doctor service started about 1930 and small hospitals were placed about in the surrounding districts. The sisters married furiously, and Jean learned that most of the older families were those of these sisters. By 1939 the population was about three hundred; when the war came the town became a military staging point. After the war the population had risen to about seven hundred and fifty in 1945, and when Jean was there it was about twelve hundred.“All these new houses and shops going up,”Miss Sawyer said.“People seem to be coming in here all the time now.”

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She suggested that Jean should come swimming in the late afternoon.“Mrs Maclean’s got a lovely swimming-pool, just out by the aerodrome,”she said.“I’ll ring her up and ask if I can bring you.”

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She called for Jean that afternoon at five o’clock and Jean joined the swimming party at the pool; sitting and basking in the evening sun and looking at the gaunt line of Mount Ertwa, she became absorbed into the social life of Alice Springs. Most of the girls and married women were under thirty; she found them kindly, hospitable people, well educated and avid for news of England. Some spoke quite naturally of England as“home”though none of them had ever been there; each of them cherished the ambition that one day she would be able to go“home”for a trip. By the end of the evening Jean was in a humble frame of mind; these pleasant people knew so much about her country, and she knew so very little about theirs.

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She strolled down to the hospital in the cool night, after tea. Mrs Duveen had not been able to give Joe Harman’s address offhand, but she confirmed that he was managing a station somewhere in the Gulf country. She would ask her husband and send a message on the morning schedule.

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That night Jean thought a good deal about what she would do when she did get the address. It was clear now that her first apprehensions were unfounded; Joe Harman had made a good recovery from his injuries, and was able to carry on his work in the outback. She was amazed that this could be so, but the man was tough. Though there was no compelling need for her to find him now, she felt that it would be impossible to leave Australia without seeing him again; too much had passed between them. She did not fear embarrassment when she met him. She felt that she could tell him the truth frankly; that she had heard of his survival and had come to satisfy herself that he was quite all right. If anything should happen after that, well, that would be just one of those things.

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She drifted into sleep, smiling a little.

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She went down to the hospital in the morning after the radio schedule and learned that Joe Harman was the manager of Midhurst station, near Willstown. She had never heard of Willstown before; Mr Taylor obligingly got out a map of Australia designed to show the various radio facilities and frequencies of the outback stations, and showed her Willstown at the mouth of the Gilbert River on the Gulf of Carpentaria.

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“What sort of a place is it?”she asked him.“Is it a place like this?”

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He laughed.“It’s a fair cow up there.”He studied the map.“It’s got an air-strip, anyway. I don’t suppose it’s got much else. I’ve never been there, and I’ve never heard of anyone who had.”

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“I’m going there,”she said.“I’ve got to see Joe Harman, after coming all this way.”

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“It’s likely to be rough living,”he said.“Oh my word.”

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“Would there be a hotel?”

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“Oh, there’ll be a hotel. They’ve got to have their grog.”

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She left the hospital and went thoughtfully to the milk bar; as she ordered her ice-cream soda, it occurred to her that it might be a long time before she had another. When she had finished her soda she walked up the street a little way and turned into the magazine and book shop, and bought a map of Australia and a bus timetable and an airline timetable. Then she went back to the milk bar and had another ice-cream soda while she studied this literature.

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Presently Rose Sawyer came into the milk bar with her dog. Jean said,“I’ve found out where Joe Harman lives. Now I’ve got to find out how to get there. There doesn’t seem to be a bus going that way at all.”

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They studied the timetables together.“It’s going to be much easiest to fly,”said Rose.“That’s how everybody goes, these days. It’s more expensive, but it may not be in the long run because you’ve got so many meals and hotels if you try and go by land. I should take the Maclean service to Cloncurry, next Monday.”

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It meant staying a few days more in Alice Springs, but it seemed the best thing to do.“You could come and stay with us,”said Rose.“Daddy and Mummy would love to have somebody from England. It’s not very nice in the hotel, is it? I’ve never been in there, of course.”

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“It’s a bit beery,”said Jean. She was already aware of the strict Australian code, that makes it impossible for a woman to go into a bar.“I would like to do that, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be a lot of trouble.”

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“We’d love to have you. It’s so seldom one can talk to anyone that comes from England.”They walked round to the Sawyers’ house; on the way they met Mrs Maclean, fair-haired and youthful, pushing her pram. They stopped, and Jean said,“I’ve got to go to Willstown in the Gulf country to see Joe Harman. Can I get a seat on your plane on Monday as far as Cloncurry?”

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“I should think you could. I’m just going to the office; I’ll tell them to put you down for Monday. Shall I ask them to arrange the passage for you from Cloncurry on to Willstown? I think you can get there direct from the Curry, but they’ll find out that and make the booking if you want.”

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“That’s awfully good of you,”said Jean.“I would like them to do that.”

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“Okay. Coming down to the pool this evening?”

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“Yes, please.”

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They went on to the Sawyer house, a pleasant bungalow with a rambler rose climbing over it, standing in a small garden full of English flowers, with a sprinkler playing on the lawn. Mrs Sawyer was grey-haired and practical; she made Jean welcome.“Much better for you to be here with us than in that nasty place,”she said, with all of an Australian woman’s aversion to hotels.“It’ll be nice having you, Miss Paget. Rose was telling us about you yesterday. It’s nice to meet somebody from home.”

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She went back to the hotel to pack her suitcase, and on the way she stopped at the Post Office. She spent a quarter of an hour sucking the end of a pencil, trying to word a telegram to Joe Harman to tell him that she was coming to see him. Finally she said,

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Heard of your recovery from Kuantan atrocity quite recently perfectly delighted stop I am in Australia now and coming up to Willstown to see you next week.

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Jean Paget

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She took her suitcase round to the Sawyers’ house in a taxi, and settled in with them. She stayed with these kind people for four days. On the third day she could not bear to go on lying to them; she told Rose and her mother what had happened in Malaya, and why she was looking for Joe Harman. She begged them not to spread the story; she was terribly afraid that it would get into the papers. They agreed to this, but asked her to tell her story again to Mr Sawyer when he came back from the office.

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Mr Sawyer had a lot to say that interested her that evening.“Joe Harman may be on to a good thing up there,”he said.“The Gulf country’s not much just at present, but he’s a young man, and things can happen very quickly in Australia. This town was nothing twenty years ago, and look at it now! The Gulf’s got one thing in its favour, and that’s rain. We get about six or seven inches a year up here—about a quarter of what London gets. Up where Joe Harman is they probably get thirty inches—more than England does. That’s bound to tell in the long run, you know.”

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He sucked at his pipe.“Mind you,”he said,“it’s not much good to them, that rainfall, because it all comes in two months and runs off into the sea. It’s not spread out all the year round, like yours is in England. But I met a chap from home last year, and he said most of your water would run off into the sea, in England, if you hadn’t got a weir every three miles or so on every river. That’s what Australia hasn’t got around to yet—water conservation on the stations. They’re doing a little at it, but not much.”

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In the days she spent with the Sawyers, Jean inevitably heard about Rose Sawyer’s love life, which was not so far very serious. It chiefly centred round a Mr Billy Wakeling, who built roads when he could get a road to build.“He did awfully well in the war,”she told Jean.“He was a captain when he was twenty-three. But he’s nothing to compare with your Joe Harman. He hasn’t been crucified for me yet...”

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“I’m not in love with Joe Harman,”Jean said with some dignity.“I just want to know that he’s all right.”

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Rose was still looking round for work that would suit her.

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“I like a shop,”she said.“I couldn’t ever learn shorthand, like you do. I like a shop all right, but I don’t know that the dress shop is much catch. I can never tell what suits a person till I see it on, so I don’t think I’ll ever be a dress designer. I’d like to run a milk bar, that’s what I’d like to do. I think it must be ever such fun, running a milk bar...”

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Jean visited Mr Sawyer at the back in his professional capacity, and arranged for him to transfer to Willstown any credits that might come for her account after she had gone. She left Alice Springs on Monday morning with regret, and the Sawyers and Macleans were sorry to see her go.

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She flew all that day in a Dragonfly, and it was a very instructive day for her. The machine did not go directly to Cloncurry, but zigzagged to and fro across the wastes of Central Australia, depositing small bags of mail at cattle stations and picking up stockmen and travellers to drop them off after a hundred or a hundred and fifty miles. They landed eight or ten times in the course of the day, at Ammaroo and Hatches Creek and Kurundi and Rockhampton Downs and many other stations; at each place they would get out of the plane and drink a cup of tea and gossip with the station manager or owner, and get back into the plane and go on their way. By the end of the day Jean Paget knew exactly what the homestead of a cattle station looked like, and she was beginning to have a very good idea of what went on there.

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They got to Cloncurry at dusk, a fairly extensive town on a railway that ran eastward to the sea at Townsville. Here she was in Queensland, and she heard for the first time the slow, deliberate speech of the Queenslander that reminded her of Joe Harman at once. She was driven into town in a very old open car and deposited at the Post Office Hotel; she got a bedroom but tea was over, and she had to go down the wide, dusty main street to a café for her evening meal. Cloncurry, she found, had none of the clean glamour of Alice Springs; it was a town redolent of cattle, with wide streets through which to drive the herds down to the stockyards, many hotels, and a few shops. All the houses were of wood with red-painted corrugated iron roofs; the hotels were of two storeys, but very few of the other houses were more than bungalows.

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She had to spend a day here, because the air service to Normanton and Willstown ran weekly on a Wednesday. She went out after breakfast while the air was still cool and walked up the huge main street for half a mile till she came to the end of the town, and she walked down it a quarter of a mile till she came to the other end. Then she went and had a look at the railway station, and, having seen the aerodrome, with that she had exhausted the sights of Cloncurry. She looked in at a shop that sold toys and newspapers, but they were sold out of all reading matter except a few dressmaking journals; as the day was starting to warm up she went back to the hotel. She managed to borrow a copy of the Australian Women’s Weekly from the manageress of the hotel and took it up to her room, and took off most of her clothes and lay down on her bed to sweat it out during the heat of the day. Most of the other citizens of Cloncurry seemed to be doing the same thing.

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She revived shortly before tea and had a shower, and went out to the café for an ice-cream soda. Stupefied by the heavy meal of roast beef and plum pudding that the Queenslanders call“tea”she sat in a deckchair for a little in the dusk of the veranda, and went to bed again at about eight o’clock.

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She was called before dawn, and was out at the aerodrome with the first light. The aircraft this time was a vintage Dragon, which wandered round the cattle stations as on the previous flight, Canobie and Wandoola and Milgarra. About midday, after four or five landings, they came to the sea, a desolate marshy coast, and shortly after that they put down at Normanton. Half an hour later they were in the air again for Constance Downs station; they had a cup of tea here and a chat with the manager’s wife, and took off on the last leg to Willstown.

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They got there about the middle of the afternoon, and Jean got a bird’s-eye view of the place as they circled for a landing. The country was well wooded with gum trees and fairly green; the Gilbert River ran into the sea about three miles below the town. There was deep, permanent water in it as far up as Willstown and beyond, because she could see a wooden jetty, and the river ran inland out of sight into the heat haze with water in it as far as she could see. All the other watercourses, however, seemed to be dry.

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The town itself consisted of about thirty buildings, very widely scattered on two enormous intersecting streets or areas of land, for the streets were not paved. Only one building, which she later learned to be the hotel, was of two storeys. From the town dirt tracks ran out into the country in various directions. That was all that one could see of Willstown, that and a magnificent aerodrome put there in the war for defence purposes, with three enormous tarmac runways each a mile long.

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They landed upon one of these huge runways, and taxied towards a truck parked at the runway intersection; this truck was loaded with two barrels of petrol and a semi-rotary pump for refuelling. The pilot said to Jean as he came down the cabin,“You’re getting off here, Miss Paget? Is anyone meeting you?”

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She shook her head.“I want to see a man who’s living in this district, on one of the stations. I’ll have to go to the hotel, I think.”

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“Who is it? Al Burns, the Shell agent out there on the truck, he knows everybody here.”

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She said,“Oh, that’s a good idea. I want to see Mr Joe Harman. He’s manager of Midhurst station.”

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They got out of the aeroplane together.“Morning, Al,”the pilot said.“She’ll take about forty gallons. I’ll have a look at the oil in a minute. Is Joe Harman in town?”

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“Joe Harman?”said the man in the truck. He was a lean, dark-haired man of forty or so.“Joe Harman’s in England. Went there for a holiday.”

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Jean blinked, and tried to collect her thoughts. She had been prepared to hear that Harman was out on his property or even that he was away in Cairns or Townsville, but it was absurd to be told that he was in England. She was staggered for a moment, and then she wanted to laugh. She realized that the men were looking at her curiously.“I sent him a telegram to say that I was coming,”she said foolishly.“I suppose he didn’t get that.”

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“Couldn’t have done,”said Al Burns slowly.“When did you send it?”

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“About four or five days ago, from Alice Springs.”

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“Oh no, he wouldn’t have got that. Jim Lennon might have it, out at Midhurst station.”

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“That’s dinky-die is it?”the pilot asked.“He’s gone to England?”

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“Went about a month ago,”the man said.“Jim Lennon said the other night that he’d be back about the end of October.”

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The pilot turned to Jean.“What will you do, Miss Paget? Do you want to stay here now? It’s not much of a place, you know.”

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She bit her lip in thought.“When will you be taking off?”she asked.“You’re going back to Cloncurry?”

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“That’s right,”he replied.“We’re going back to Normanton tonight and night-stopping there, and back to the Curry tomorrow morning. I’m going into town now while Al fills her up. Take off in about half an hour.”

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Cloncurry was the last place that she wanted to go back to.“I’ll have to think about this,”she said.“I’ll have to stay in Australia, till I’ve seen Joe Harman. Cairns is a nice place to stay, isn’t it?”

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“Oh, Cairns is a bonza town,”he said.“Townsville, too. If you’ve got to wait six or eight weeks you don’t want to wait here, Miss Paget.”

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“How could I get to Cairns?”she asked.

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“Well,”he said.“You could come back with me to Cloncurry and then go by train to Townsville and up to Cairns. I don’t quite know how long that would take in the train—it must be between six and seven hundred miles. Or you could wait here till next Wednesday, today week, and go by the Dakota straight to Cairns in about two and a half hours.”

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“How long would the train take, from Cloncurry to Cairns?”

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“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t think they go every day from Townsville to Cairns, but I’m not really sure. I think you’d have to allow three days.”He paused.“Of course, the best way would be to fly from Cloncurry to Townsville and then fly up to Cairns.”

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“I know.”She was getting very sensitive of the cost of flying these vast distances, but the alternative of three days in an outback train in sweltering heat was almost unbearable.“It’ld be much cheaper to stay here and go by the Dakota next week, wouldn’t it?”

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The pilot said,“Oh, much. From here to Cairns would cost you ten pounds fifteen shillings. Flying back to Cloncurry and then on to Townsville and Cairns would be about thirty pounds.”

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“I suppose the hotel here is quite cheap?”

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“About twelve and six a day, I should think.”He turned to the Shell agent, busy with the fuel.“Al, how much does Mrs Connor charge?”

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“Ten and six.”

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Jean did a rapid mental calculation; by staying in this place and waiting for the Dakota in a week’s time she would save sixteen pounds.“I think I’ll stay here,”she said.“It’s much cheaper than going back with you. I’ll stay here and see Jim Lennon and wait for the Dakota next week.”

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“You know what it’s going to be like, Miss Paget?”

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“Like the Post Office Hotel at Cloncurry?”

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“It’s a bit more primitive than that. The whatnot’s out in the back yard.”

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She laughed.“Will I have to lock myself in my room and take a revolver to bed with me?”

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He was a little shocked.“Oh, you’ll find it quite respectable. But, well, you may find it a little primitive, you know.”

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“I expect I’ll survive.”

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By that time another truck had appeared, a lorry with a couple of men in it; they stared at Jean curiously. The pilot took her suitcase and put it in the back; the driver helped her up into the cab beside him. It was a relief to get out of the blazing sunshine into the shade again.

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The driver said,“Staying in Willstown?”

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“I wanted to see Joe Harman, but they say he’s away. I’m staying here till next week if Mrs Connor can have me, and going on to Cairns in the Dakota.”

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He looked at her curiously.“Joe Harman’s gone to England. You’re English, aren’t you?”

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The truck moved off down the wide tarmac runway.“That’s right,”she replied.

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He beamed at her.“My mother and my dad, they both came from England. My dad, he was born in Lewisham, that’s part of London, I think, and my mother, she came from Hull.”He paused.“My name’s Small,”he said.“Sam Small, like the chap with the musket.”

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The truck left the runway and began bumping and swaying over the earth track leading to the town. Dust rose into the cab, the engine roared, and blue fumes enveloped them; every item of the structure creaked and rattled.“Why did Joe Harman go to England?”she shouted above the din.“What did he go for?”

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“Just took a fancy, I think,”Mr Small replied.“He won the Casket couple of years back.”This was Greek to her.“There’s not a lot to do upon the stations, this time of the year.”

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She shouted,“Do you know if there’s a room vacant at the hotel?”

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“Oh, aye, there’ll be a room for you. You just out from England?”

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“Yes.”

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“What’s the rationing like at home, now?”

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She shouted her information to him as the truck bumped and swayed across the landscape to the town. A wooden shack appeared on one side of the track, and fifty yards on there was another on the left; there was another some distance ahead, and they were in the main street. They drew up in front of a two-storeyed building with a faded signboard on the first-floor veranda, AUSTRALIAN HOTEL.“This is it,”said Mr Small.“Come on in, and I’ll find Mrs Connor.”

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The Australian Hotel was a fair-sized building with about ten small bedrooms opening on to the top floor veranda. It had wooden floors and wooden doors; the whole of the rest of it was built of corrugated iron on a wood framework. Jean was accustomed by that time to the universal corrugated iron roofs, but a corrugated iron wall to her bedroom was a novelty.

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She waited on the upstairs veranda while Mr Small went to find Mrs Connor; the veranda had one or two beds on it. When the landlady appeared she was evidently only just awake; she was a tall, grey-haired determined woman of about fifty.

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Jean said,“Good afternoon. My name’s Jean Paget, and I’ve got to stop here till next week. Have you got a room?”

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The woman looked her up and down.“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. You travelling alone?”

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“Yes. I really came to see Joe Harman, but they tell me he’s away. I’m going on to Cairns.”

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“You just missed the Cairns aeroplane.”

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“I know. They say I’ll have to wait a week for the next one.”

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“That’s right.”The woman looked around.“Well, I don’t know. You see, the men sleep out on this balcony, often as not. That wouldn’t be very nice for you.”

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Sam Small said,“What about the two back rooms, Ma?”

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“Aye, she could go there.”She turned to Jean.“It’s on the back balcony, looks out over the yard. You’ll see the boys all going to the gents, but I can’t help that.”

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Jean said,“I expect I’ll survive that.”

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“You been in outback towns before?”

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She shook her head.“I’ve only just come out from England.”

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“Is that so! What’s it like in England now? Do you get enough to eat?”

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Jean said her piece again.

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“I got a sister married to an Englishman,”the woman said.“Living at a place called Goole. I send her home a parcel every month.”

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She took Jean and showed her the room. It was clean and with a good mosquito net; it was small, but the passage door was opposite the double window opening on to the balcony, giving a clear draught through.“Nobody don’t come along this balcony, except Anne—she’s the maid. She sleeps in this other room, and if you hear any goings on at night I hope you’ll let me know. I got my eye upon that girl.”She reverted to the ventilation.“You leave your door open a chink, prop your case against it so that no one can’t come barging in by mistake, and have the windows open, and you’ll get a nice draught through. I never had no difficulty sleeping in this place.”

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She glanced down at Jean’s hand.“You ain’t married?”

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“No.”

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“Well, there’ll be every ringer in this district coming into town to have a look at you. You better be prepared for that.”

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Jean laughed.“I will.”

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“You a friend of Joe Harman, then?”

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“I met him in the war,”Jean said.“In Singapore, when we were both waiting for a passage home.”It was nearer to the truth than her last lie, anyway.“Then as I was in Australia I sent him a telegram to say I’d come and see him. I didn’t get an answer so I came here anyway. But he’s gone walkabout.”

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The woman smiled.“You picked up some Aussie slang.”

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“Joe Harman taught me that one, when I met him in the war.”

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Sam Small brought up her suitcase; she thanked him, and he turned away, embarrassed. She went into her room and changed her damp clothes for dry ones, and went along to the bathroom and had a shower, and was ready for tea at half past six when the bell echoed through the corrugated iron building.

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She found her way down to the dining-room. Three or four men were seated there already and they looked at her curiously; a well-developed girl of sixteen whom she came to know as Annie indicated a separate small table laid for one.“Roast beef, roast lamb, roast pork, roast turkey,”she said.“Tea or coffee?”

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It was swelteringly hot still. Flies were everywhere in the dining-room; they lighted on Jean’s face, her lips, her hands.“Roast turkey,”she said; time enough to try for a light meal tomorrow, when she knew the form.“Tea.”

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A plate was brought to her heaped high with meat and vegetables, hot and greasy and already an attraction for the flies. Tea came, with milk out of a tin; the potatoes seemed to be fresh, but the carrots and the turnips were evidently tinned. She thought philosophically that the flies would probably result in dysentery but she knew what to do about that; she had plenty of sulphatriad to see her through the week. She ate about a quarter of the huge plate of food and drank two cups of tea; then she was defeated.

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She got outside into the open air as soon as possible, escaping from the flies. On the downstairs veranda three feet above the level of the ground there were two or three deckchairs, a little distance from the entrance to the bar; She had seen nowhere else in the hotel where she could sit and she already knew enough about Australian conventions not to go near the bar; she went and sat down in one of these chairs wondering if by doing so she was offending against local manners.

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She lit a cigarette and sat there smoking, looking at the scene. It was evening but the sun was still strong; the dusty great expanse that served as a street was flooded with a golden light. On the opposite side of the road, more than a hundred yards away, there was a fairly extensive single-storey building that had been built on to from time to time; this was labelled—Wm Duncan, General Merchant. There was no sign of any other shop in the town. Outside Mr Duncan’s establishment three coloured Abo stockmen were gossiping together; one held the bridle of a horse. They were big, well-set-up young men, very like Negroes in appearance and, like Negroes, they seemed to have plenty to laugh about.

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Further along the other side of the great street a six-inch pipe rose vertically from the ground to a height of about eight feet. A fountain of water gushed up from the top of this pipe and the water seemed to be boiling hot, because a cloud of steam surrounded the fountain, and the stream running away into the background was steaming along its length. A quarter of a mile away a small hut was built across the course of the stream so that the stream ran into the hut and out the other side, but Jean had yet to discover the purpose of this edifice.

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A low murmur of voices reached her from the bar; from time to time a man passed her and went in through the open door. She saw no women in the place.

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Presently a young man, passing by upon the road, smiled at her and said,“Good evening.”She smiled back at him, and said,“Good evening.”

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He checked immediately, and she knew that she had started something. He said,“I saw you come in with Sam Small this afternoon. Came in the aeroplane, didn’t you?”

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He was a clean-looking young yokel; he walked with the typical swaying gait of the ringer, and he wore the green jodhpurs and the elastic-sided boots that marked his calling. It was no good trying to be standoffish.“That’s right,”she said.“I came up from Cloncurry. Tell me, is that water natural?”

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He looked where she was pointing.“Natural? That’s a bore. Never seen one before?”

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She shook her head.“I’ve only just come out from England.”

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“From England? Oh my word.”He spoke in the slow manner of the outback.“What’s it like in England? Do you get enough to eat?”

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She said her piece again.“My Dad came from England,”he said.“From a place called Wolverhampton. Is that near where you live?”

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“About two hundred miles,”she replied.

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“Oh, quite close. You’ll know the family then. Fletcher is the name. I’m Pete Fletcher.”

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She explained to Pete that there were quite a lot of people in England, and reverted to the subject of the bore.“Does all the water that you get from bores come up hot like that?”

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“Too right,”he said.“It’s mineral, too—you couldn’t drink that water. There’s gas comes up with it as well. I’ll light it for you if you’d like to see.”He explained that it would make a flame five or six feet high.“Wait till it gets a bit darker, and I’ll light it for you then.”

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She said that was terribly kind of him, and he looked embarrassed. Al Burn, the Shell agent and truck repairer came by and stopped to join them.“Got fixed up all right, Miss Paget?”

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“Yes, thank you. I’m staying here till Wednesday and then going on to Cairns.”

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“Good-oh. We don’t see too many strange faces, here in Willstown.”

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“I was asking Pete here about the bore. Pete, do the cattle drink that water?”

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The boy laughed.“When they can’t get nothing sweeter they’ll drink that. You’ll see that they won’t touch it in the wet, but then in the dry you’ll see them drinking it all right.”

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“Some bores they won’t touch,”said Al. He was rolling himself a cigarette.“They sunk a bore on Invergordon, that’s a station between here and Normanton—over to the south a bit. They had to go down close on three thousand feet before they got the water and did it cost them something, oh my word. The bore crew, they were there close on three months. Then when they got the water it was stinking with the minerals and the cattle wouldn’t touch it, not even in the dry. What’s more, it wouldn’t grow grass, either.”

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Two more men had drifted up and joined the little gathering about her chair.“Tell me,”she said,“why is this town so spread out? Why aren’t the houses closer together?”

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One of the newcomers, a man of forty that she later learned to know as Tim Whelan, a carpenter, said,“There was houses all along here once. I got a photograph of this town took in 1905. I’ll bring it and show you tomorrow.”

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“Were there more people living here then?”

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Al Burns said,“Oh my word. This was one of the gold towns, Miss Paget. Maybe you wouldn’t know about that, but there was thirty thousand people living here one time.”

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The other newcomer said,“Eight thousand. I saw that in a book.”

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Al Burns said stubbornly,“My Dad always said there was thirty thousand when he come here first.”

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It was evidently an old argument. Jean asked,“How many are there now?”

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“Oh, I dunno.”Al turned to the others.“How many would you say now, Tim?”To Jean, aside, he said,“He builds the coffins so he ought to know.”

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“A hundred and fifty,”said Mr Whelan.

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Sam Small had joined them on the veranda.“There’s not a hundred and fifty living in Willstown now. There’s not more than a hundred and twenty.”He paused.“Living here in the town, not the stations, of course. Living right here in the town, not counting boongs.”

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A slow wrangle developed, so they set to work to count them; Jean sat amused while the evening light faded and the census was taken. The result was a hundred and forty-six, and by the time that that had been determined she had heard the name and occupation of most people in the town.

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“Were there goldmines here?”she asked.

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“That’s right,”said Mr Small.“They had claims by the hundred one time, all up and down these creeks, oh my word. There were seventeen hotels here, seventeen.”

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Somebody else said,“Steamers used to come here from Brisbane in those days—all around Cape York and right up the river to the landing stage. I never see them myself, but that’s what my old man told me.”

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Jean asked,“What happened? Did the gold come to an end?”

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“Aye. They got the stuff out of the creeks and the surface reefs, the stuff that was easy got. Then when they had to go deep and use a lot of machinery and that, it didn’t pay. It’s the same in all these towns. Croydon was the same, and Normanton.”

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“They say they’re going to start the mine in Croydon—open it again,”said somebody.

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“They been talking like that ever since I can remember.”

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Jean asked,“But what happened to the houses? Did the people go away?”

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“The houses just fell down, or were pulled down to patch up others,”Al told her.“The people didn’t stay here when the gold was done—they couldn’t. There’s only the cattle stations here now.”

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The talk developed among the men, with Jean throwing in an occasional remark or question.“Ghost towns,”somebody said.“That’s what they called the Gulf towns in a book that I read once. Ghost towns. That’s because they’re ghosts of what they were once, when the gold was on.”

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“It didn’t last for long,”somebody said.“1893 was the year that the first gold here was found, and there wasn’t many people still living here in 1905.”

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Jean sat while the men talked, trying to visualize this derelict little place as a town with eight thousand inhabitants, or thirty thousand; a place with seventeen hotels and houses thickly clustered in the angles of the streets. Whoever had planned the layout had dreamed a great dream; with people streaming in to take up claims and the population doubling itself every few days, the planner had had some excuse for dreaming of a New York of the Gulf of Carpentaria. Now all that remained was a network of rectangular tracks where once there had been streets of wooden houses; odd buildings alone remained among this network to show what had been the dream.

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As the light faded Pete and Al went out and lit the bore for Jean. They struck half a dozen matches and got it to light; a flame shot upwards from it and lit up the whole town, playing and flickering amongst the water and the steam till finally it was extinguished by a vomit of water. They lit it again, and Jean admired it duly; it was clear that this was the one entertainment that the town provided, and they were doing their best to give her a good time.“It’s wonderful,”she said.“I’ve never seen anything like that in England.”

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They were duly modest.“Most towns around here have a bore like that, that you can light,”they said.

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She was tired with her day of flying; at nine o’clock she excused herself from their company and they all wished her goodnight. She drew Al Burns a little to one side before she went.“Al,”she said.“I’d like to see Jim Lennon—he’s the man at Midhurst, isn’t he? I’d like to see him before I go on Wednesday. Will he be coming into town?”

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“Saturday he might be in,”Al said.“I’d say that he’d be in here Saturday for his grog. If I hear of anybody going out that way I’ll send him word and say that you’re in town, and want to see him.”

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“Do they work a radio schedule at Midhurst?”

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He shook his head.“It’s too close in town, it wouldn’t be worth it. If anyone gets sick or has an accident they can get him into town here in an hour or so, and the sister has a radio at the hospital.”He paused.“There’ll be someone going out that way in the next day or so. If not, and if Jim Lennon doesn’t come in on Saturday, I’ll run you out there in the truck on Sunday.”

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“That’s awfully kind of you,”she said.“I don’t want to put you to that trouble.”

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“It’s no trouble,”he said.“Make a bit of a change.”

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She went up to bed. The hotel was lit by electric light made in the backyard by an oil engine and generator set that thumped steadily outside her room till she heard the bar close at ten o’clock; at five past ten the engine stopped and all the lights went out. Willstown slept.

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She was roused at five o’clock with the first light with the sounds of people getting up and washing; she lay dozing, listening to the early morning sounds. Breakfast was not till half past seven; she got up and had a shower and was punctual in the dining-room. She found that the standard breakfast in Willstown was half a pound of steak with two fried eggs on top of it; she surprised Annie very much by asking for one fried egg and no steak.“Breakfast is steak and eggs,”Annie explained patiently to this queer Englishwoman.

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“I know it is,”said Jean.“But I don’t want the steak.”

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“Well, you don’t have to eat it.”The girl was obviously puzzled.

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“Could I have just one fried egg, and no steak?”asked Jean.

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“You mean, just one fried egg on a plate by itself?”

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“That’s right.”

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Food conversation in Willstown was evidently quite a new idea.“I’ll ask Mrs Connor,”said Annie. She came back from the kitchen with a steak with two fried eggs on top.“We’ve only got the one breakfast,”she explained. Jean gave up the struggle.

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She ventured out to the kitchen after breakfast and found Mrs Connor.“I’ve got a few things to wash,”she said.“Could I use your washtub, do you think? And—have you got an iron?”

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“Annie’ll do them for you,”Mrs Connor said.“Just give them to her.”

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Jean had no intention of trusting her clothes to Annie.“She’s got a lot of work to do,”she said,“and I’ve got nothing. I’ll do them myself if I can borrow the tub.”

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“Good-oh.”

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Jean spent the morning washing and ironing in the back ground-floor veranda just outside the kitchen; in that dry, torrid place clothes hung out on a line were dry in ten minutes. In the kitchen the temperature must have been close on a hundred and twenty Fahrenheit; Jean made quick rushes in there to fetch her irons from the stove, and wondered at the fortitude of women who cooked three hot meals a day in such conditions. Annie came presently and stood around on the back veranda, furtively examining Jean’s washing.

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She picked up a carton of soap flakes.“How much of this do you put in the water?”

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Jean said,“I think it’s an ounce to a gallon of water, isn’t it? I used to know. I put in just a bit. It tells you on the packet.”

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The girl turned the packet over in her hands, scrutinizing it.“Where it says, DIRECTIONS FOR USE,”said Jean.

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From the door behind her Mrs Connor said,“Annie don’t read very well.”

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The girl said,“I can read.”

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“Oh, can you? Well then, read us out what’s written on that packet.”

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The girl put the carton down.“I ain’t had much practice lately. I could read all right when I was at school.”

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To ease the situation Jean said,“All you do is just go on putting in the soap flakes till the water lathers properly. It’s different with different sorts of water, because of the hardness.”

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“I use ordinary soap,”said Annie.“It don’t come up so well as this.”

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Presently the girl said,“Are you a nurse?”

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Jean shook her head.“I’m a typist.”

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“Oh, I thought you might be a nurse. Most women that come to Willstown are nurses. They don’t stay here long. Six months, and then they’ve had enough.”

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There was a pause.“If you’d been a nurse,”the girl said,“I’d have asked you for some medicine. I’ve been feeling ever so ill lately just after getting up. I was sick this morning.”

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“That’s bad,”said Jean cautiously. There did not seem to be much else to say.

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“I think I’ll go up to the hospital,”said Annie,“and ask Sister Douglas for some medicine.”

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“I should do that,”said Jean.

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In the course of the day she met most of the notable citizens of Willstown. She walked across to the store to try and buy some cigarettes, but only succeeded in buying a tin of tobacco and a packet of papers. While she was chatting to Mr Bill Duncan in the store and examining the piece of quartz with gold in it that he showed her, Miss Kenroy came in, the school teacher. Half an hour later, as Jean was walking back across the road to the hotel, Al Burns met her and wanted to introduce her to Mr Carter, the Shire Clerk.

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She slept most of the afternoon upon her bed, in common with the rest of Willstown, when the day cooled off she came down to the lower veranda and sat there in a deckchair, as she had the previous evening. She had not long to wait before the ringers found her; they came one by one, diffidently, unsure of themselves before this English girl, and yet unable to keep away. She had a little circle of them squatting with her on the veranda presently.

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She got them to talk about themselves; it seemed the best way to put them at their ease.“It’s all right here,”said one.“It’s good cattle country; more rain here than what you get down further south. But I’m off out of it next year. My brother, he’s down at Rockhampton working on the railway. He said he’d get me in the gang if I went down and joined him.”

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Jean asked,“Is it better pay down there?”

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“Well, no. I don’t think it’s so good. We get five pounds seventeen and six here—that’s all found, of course. That’s for an ordinary stockrider.”

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She was surprised.“That’s not bad pay, is it? For a single man?”

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Pete Fletcher said,“The pay’s all right. Trouble is this place. There’s nothing to do here.”

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“Do you get a cinema here ever?”

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“There’s a chap supposed to come here every fortnight and show films in the Shire Hall—that building over there.”She saw a low, barnlike wooden structure.“He hasn’t been for a month, but he’s coming next week, Mr Carter says.”

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“What about dances?”Jean asked.

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There was a cynical laugh.“They try it sometimes, but it’s a crook place for a dance. Not enough girls.”

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Pete Fletcher said,“There’s about fifty of us stockmen come into Willstown, Miss Paget, and there’s two unmarried girls to dance with, Doris Nash and Susie Anderson. That’s between the age of seventeen and twenty-two, say. Not counting the kids and the married women.”

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One of the ringers laughed sourly.“Susie’s more than twenty-two.”

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Jean asked,“But what happens to all the girls? There must be more than that around here?”

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“They all go to the cities for a job,”said somebody.“There’s nothing for a girl to do in Willstown. They go to Townsville and Rockhampton—Brisbane, too.”

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Pete Fletcher said,“That’s where I’m going, Brisbane.”

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Jean said,“Don’t you like it on a cattle station, then?”She was thinking of Joe Harman and his love for the outback.

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“Oh, the station’s all right,”said Pete. He hesitated, uncertain how to put what he felt to this Englishwoman without incautiously using a rude word.“I mean,”he said,“a fellow’s got a right to have a girl and marry, like anybody else.”

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She stared at him.“It’s really like that, is it?”

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“It’s a fair cow,”said somebody.“It’s a fair cow up here. No kidding, lady. It’s two unmarried girls for fifty men in Willstown. A fellow hasn’t got a chance of marrying up here.”

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Somebody else explained to her,“You see, Miss Paget, if a girl’s a normal girl and got her head screwed on right—say, like it might be you—you wouldn’t stay here. Soon as you were old enough to go away from home you’d be off to some place where you could get a job and make your own living, not have to depend on your folks all the time. My word, you would. The only girls that stay in Willstown are the ones who are a bit stupid and couldn’t make out in any other place, or else ones who feel they’ve got to stay and look after the old folks.”

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Somebody else said,“That kind take the old folks with them down to the city. Like Elsie Freeman.”

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Jean laughed.“You mean, that if you stay in Willstown you’ll finish up by marrying a girl who’s not so hot.”

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They looked over their shoulders, embarrassed.“Well, a fellow wants to look around a bit...”

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“Who’s going to run the stations if you all go down to the cities, looking round a bit?”Jean said.

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“That’s the manager’s headache,”said Pete.“I’ve got headaches of my own.”

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That evening shortly before tea a utility drove up, a battered old Chevrolet with a cab front and an open, truck-like body behind. It was driven by a man of about fifty with lean, sensitive features. Beside him sat a brown girl of twenty or twenty-five with a smooth skin and a serene face; she was not pure native, but probably a quarter white. She wore a bright red dress, and she carried a kitten, which was evidently a great amusement and interest to her. They passed into the hotel, the man carrying their bags; evidently they were staying for the night. At teatime Jean saw them in the dining-room sitting with the men at the other table, but they were keeping very much to themselves.

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Jean asked Mrs Connor who they were, after tea.“That’s Eddie Page,”she said.“He’s manager of a station called Carlisle about a hundred miles out. The lubra’s his wife; they’ve come in to buy stores.”

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“Real wife?”asked Jean.

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“Oh yes, he married her properly. One of the Bush Brothers was round that way last year, Brother Copeland, and he married them. They come in here from time to time. I must say, she never makes any trouble. She can’t read or write, of course, and she doesn’t speak much. Always got a kitten or a puppy along with her; that’s what she likes.”

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The picture of the man’s sensitive, intelligent face came incongruously into Jean’s mind.“I wonder what made him do that?”

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Mrs Connor shrugged her shoulders.“Got lonely, I suppose.”

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That night, when Jean went up to her bedroom, she saw a figure standing by the rail of the balcony that overlooked the backyard. There were two bedrooms only that opened on that balcony, her own and Annie’s. In the dim light as she was going in at her window, she said,“Goodnight, Annie.”

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The girl came towards her.“I been feeling awful bad,”she muttered.“Mind if I ask you something, Miss Paget?”

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Jean stopped.“Of course, Annie. What’s the matter?”

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“Do you know how to get rid of a baby, Miss Paget?”

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Jean had been prepared for that one by the morning’s conversation; a deep pity for the child welled up in her.“I’m terribly sorry, Annie, but I don’t. I don’t think it’s a very good thing to do, you know.”

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“I went up to Sister Douglas and she said that’s what’s the matter with me. Pa’ll beat the daylights out of me when he hears.”

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Jean took her hand, and drew her into the bedroom.“Come in here and tell me about it.”

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Annie said,“I know there’s things you can do like eating something or riding on a horse or something like that. I thought perhaps you might have had to do it, and you’d know.”

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“I’ve never had to do it, Annie. I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him to marry you and have it normally?”

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The girl said,“I don’t know how you’d tell which one it was. They’d all say it was one of the others, wouldn’t they?”

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It was a problem that Jean had never had to face.“I suppose they would.”

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“I think I’ll ask my sister Bessie. She might know. She had two kids afore getting married.”

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It did not look as if Bessie’s knowledge had been very useful to her. Jean asked,“Wouldn’t the sister do anything to help you?”

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“All she did was call me a wicked girl. That don’t help much. Suppose I am a wicked girl. There’s nothing else to do in a crook place like this.”

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Jean did what she could to comfort her with words, but words were little good to Annie. Her interests were not moral, but practical.“Pa will be mad as anything when he gets to know about it,”she said apprehensively.“He’ll beat the daylights out o’me.”

324

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There was nothing Jean could do to help the girl, and presently they went to bed. Jean lay awake for a long time beset by human suffering.

325

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She continued for the next two days in Willstown, sitting on the veranda and talking to the ringers, and visiting the various establishments in the town. Miss Kenroy took her and showed her the school. Sister Douglas showed her the hospital. Mr Carter showed her the Shire Hall with the pathetically few books that constituted the public library; Mr Watkins showed her the bank, which was full of flies, and Sergeant Haines showed her the Police Station. By the end of the week she was beginning to know a good deal about Willstown.

326

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Jim Lennon came into town on Saturday, as predicted, for his grog. He came in an International utility that Jean learned was the property of Joe Harman, an outsize in motor cars with a truck body behind the front seat, furnished with tanks for seventy gallons of petrol and fifty gallons of water. Mr Lennon was a lean, bronzed, taciturn man.

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“I got an air mail letter yesterday,”he said with the deliberation of the Queenslander.“Joe’s starting on his way back from England in a ship. He said he’d be about the middle of October, so he thought.”

328

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“I see,”said Jean.“I want to see him before I go back to England. I’ve arranged to fly to Cairns on Wednesday and wait there for him.”

329

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“Aye. There’s not much for you to do, I don’t suppose, waiting round here. I’d say come out and live at Midhurst, but there’s less to do there.”

330

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“What’s Joe been doing in England, Mr Lennon? Did he tell you what he was going for?”

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The stockman laughed.“I didn’t even know he was going. All I knew he was going down to Brisbane. Then I got a letter that he’d gone to England. I don’t know why he went. He did say in this letter I got yesterday he’d seen a bonza herd of Herefords, belonging to a Sir Dennis Frampton. Maybe he’s having bulls shipped out to raise the quality of the stock. He didn’t tell me nothing.”

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She gave him her address as the Strand Hotel in Cairns, and asked him to let her know when he got accurate news of Joe’s arrival.

333

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That evening as she was sitting in her deckchair on the veranda, Al Burns brought a bashful, bearded old man to her; he had disengaged the old man from the bar with some difficulty. He was carrying a sack.“Miss Paget,”he said,“want you to meet Jeff Pocock.”Jean got up and shook hands.“Thought you’d like to meet Jeff,”Al said cheerfully.“Jeff’s the best alligator hunter in all Queensland. Aren’t you, Jeff?”

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The old man wagged his head.“I been huntin’ ’gators since I was a boy,”he said.“I reckon I knows ’gators by this time.”

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Al said,“He’s got an alligator skin to show you, Miss Paget.”To the old man he said,“Show her your skin, Jeff. I bet she’s never seen a skin like that in England.”

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Jeff Pocock took the sack and opened it, and took out a small alligator skin rolled up.“’Course,”he said,“I cleaned and trimmed and tanned this one myself. Mostly we just salt them and sell ’em to the tannery like that.”He unrolled the skin before her on the floor of the veranda.“Pretty markings, ain’t they? I bet you never seen a skin like that in England.”

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The sight of it brought back nostalgic memories to Jean of red buses on the Great West Road at Perivale, and Pack and Levy Ltd, and rows of girls sitting at the work benches making up alligator-skin shoes and alligator-skin handbags and alligator-skin dressing-cases. She laughed.“I’ve seen hundreds of them in England,”she replied.“This is one thing I really know about. I used to work in a factory that made these skins up into handbags and dressing-cases.”She picked up the skin and handled it.“Ours were harder than this, I think. You’ve done the curing very well, Jeff.”

338

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Two or three other men had drifted up; her story was repeated back and forth in other words, and she told them all about Pack and Levy Ltd. They were very interested; none of them knew much about the skins after they had left the Gulf country.“I know as they make shoes of them,”said Jeff.“I never see a pair.”

339

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A vague idea was forming in Jean’s mind.“How many of these do you get a year?”she asked.

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“I turned in eighty-two last year,”the old man said.“’Course that’s a little ’un. They mostly run about thirty to thirty-six inch—width of skin, that is. That’s a ’gator about eleven foot long.”

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Jean said,“Will you sell me this one, Jeff?”

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“What do you want it for?”

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She laughed.“I want to make myself a pair of shoes out of it.”She paused.“That’s if Tim Whelan can make up a pair of lasts for me.”

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He looked embarrassed.“I don’t want nothing for it,”he said gruffly.“I’ll give it to you.”

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She argued with him for a little while, and then accepted gracefully.“We’ll want a bit of calf skin for the soles,”she said,“and some thicker stuff for building up the heels.”

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She fondled the skin in her hands.“It’s beautifully soft,”she said,“I’ll show you what to do with this.”

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

Jean

[dʒiːn]

n.斜纹布(复数)jeans:牛仔裤.

Darwin

['dɑːwɪn]

n.达尔文(英国科学家))

unreasonably

[ʌn'riːznəbli]

adv.不合理地

repatriate

[ˌriː'pætrieɪt]

n.被遣返回国者

Levy

['levi]

n.征税;召集

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

marshal

['mɑːʃl]

n.陆空军元帅;典礼官;司仪官

Customs

['kʌstəmz]

n.海关

scrutinize

['skruːtənaɪz]

v.仔细检查;细看

aeroplane

['eərəpleɪn]

n.飞机

dividend

['dɪvɪdend]

n.股息;红利;被除数;彩金;回报

Sydney

['sɪdni]

n.悉尼

suitcase

['suːtkeɪs]

n.手提箱

chat

[tʃæt]

vi.闲谈;谈天

Singapore

[ˌsiŋgə'pɔ:]

n.新加坡

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

Typist

['taɪpɪst]

n.打字员

typist

['taɪpɪst]

n.打字员

harbour

[ˈhɑːbə]

港,海港,港口,港湾入港停泊,停泊

perspiration

[ˌpɜːspə'reɪʃn]

n.汗水;流汗

novelty

['nɒvlti]

n.【C】新奇;小装饰

tropic

['trɒpɪk]

n.回归线;热带

basin

['beɪsn]

n.脸盆;水池

imperative

[ɪm'perətɪv]

adj.紧要的;必要的;祈使的

downstairs

[ˌdaʊn'steəz]

adj.楼下的

conversation

[ˌkɒnvə'seɪʃn]

n.谈话;会话

Coca-Cola

[ˌkəʊkə'kəʊlə]

可口可乐(财富500强公司之一, 总部所在地美国, 主要经营饮料)

overdo

[ˌəʊvə'duː]

v.做或表现得过分;使用过多;煮得过久

stockman

['stɒkmən]

n.畜牧工;仓库管理员

Porter

['pɔːtə(r)]

n. 【英】守门人,门房(= doorman【美】);

Tommy

['tɒmi]

n.英国兵;抵作工资的粮食;【机】螺丝旋杆

mould

[məʊld]

n.发霉;模具

sincere

[sɪn'sɪə(r)]

adj.真诚的;诚挚的

alligator

['ælɪɡeɪtə(r)]

n.短吻鳄

tread

[tred]

n.步法

squirt

[skwɜːt]

v.喷出;溅迸;注射

poison

['pɔɪzn]

n.毒药;毒害;败坏道德之事

tan

[tæn]

n.棕褐色;黝黑 v.晒成棕褐色

thoughtful

['θɔːtfl]

adj.深思的;体贴的

gloomy

['ɡluːmi]

adj.阴暗的;忧闷的;前景黯淡的

crook

[krʊk]

n.钩;曲柄杖;弯曲;骗子

labour

[ˈleɪbə]

n. 劳动;劳动力

railway

['reɪlweɪ]

n.【C】铁路

willies

['wɪliz]

n.焦虑不安;心惊肉跳

cynical

['sɪnɪkl]

adj.愤世嫉俗的;悲观的;恶意的

goodbye

[gʊdˈbaɪ]

再见

streamline

['striːmlaɪn]

v.使 ... 成流线型;使 ... 合理化;使简化

air-condition

['eəkənˌdɪʃən]

v.给…装上空调;用空调调节(空气)

Katherine

[ˈkæθrɪn]

凯瑟琳(女子名)

stunt

[stʌnt]

n.特技;阻碍成长

eucalyptus

[ˌjuːkə'lɪptəs]

n.桉树

gum

[ɡʌm]

n.粘性物质

unused

[ˌʌn'juːzd]

adj.未用过的;不习惯的

traveller

[ˈtrævlə]

n.旅客;旅行家

gradual

['ɡrædʒuəl]

adj.逐渐的;逐步的;平缓的

dusk

[dʌsk]

n.黄昏;薄暮;幽暗

dormitory

['dɔːmətri]

n.集体宿舍

stroll

[strəʊl]

n.闲逛;漫步

squat

[skwɒt]

v.蹲下;蹲坐;擅自占地

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

ringer

['rɪŋə(r)]

n.振铃器;敲钟人;铁环;套环;冒名顶替者;酷似的人

Lagoon

[lə'ɡuːn]

n.泻湖;咸水湖

vegetation

[ˌvedʒə'teɪʃn]

n.植物;草木

sparse

[spɑːs]

adj.稀少的;稀疏的

scorch

[skɔːtʃ]

v.(使)烧焦;变焦;(使)枯萎

dignify

['dɪɡnɪfaɪ]

vt.使高贵;使增辉;抬高…的身价;将…美其名为

kerb

[kɜːb]

n.街头的边石;路边

soda

['səʊdə]

n.汽水;苏打

manageress

[ˌmænɪdʒə'res]

n.女经理;女管理人

handyman

['hændimæn]

n.勤杂工;手巧的人

telegram

['telɪɡræm]

电报;

Aberdeen

[ˌæbəˈdiːn]

n.阿伯丁(地名)

candid

['kændɪd]

adj.率直的;坦诚的;公正的;偷拍的

Daddy

['dædi]

n.爸爸

furious

['fjʊəriəs]

adj.狂怒的;猛烈的

bask

[bɑːsk]

vi.取暖;舒适地晒太阳;沐浴于

kindly

['kaɪndli]

adj.和蔼的;温和的;爽快的

cherish

['tʃerɪʃ]

vt.珍爱;抱有;抚育

apprehension

[ˌæprɪ'henʃn]

n.理解;忧惧;逮捕;了解

obliging

[ə'blaɪdʒɪŋ]

adj.乐于助人的,

Gilbert

['gɪlbət]

n.【电】吉伯(磁通量的单位)

grog

[ɡrɒɡ]

n.格罗格酒(一种掺水烈酒)

Mummy

['mʌmi]

n.木乃伊

sawyer

['sɔːjə]

n.锯木匠;漂流水中的树木;食木虫

Curry

['kʌri]

n.咖哩饭菜;咖哩粉

sprinkler

['sprɪŋklə(r)]

n.洒水装置;洒水车

nasty

['nɑːsti]

adj.下流的;严重的;令人不快的;难懂的;危害的

atrocity

[ə'trɒsəti]

n.暴行;残暴

Sawyer

['sɔːjə]

n.锯木匠;漂流水中的树木;食木虫

rainfall

['reɪnfɔːl]

n.降雨;降雨量

chap

[tʃæp]

vt. 使(皮肤)裂口,裂开;变粗糙;

chiefly

['tʃiːfli]

adv.主要地

Billy

['bɪli]

n.棍棒;警棍;【英纺】粗纱机

shorthand

['ʃɔːthænd]

n.速记;缩写

instructive

[ɪn'strʌktɪv]

adj.教育性的;有启发的;有益的

zigzag

['zɪɡzæɡ]

n. 【C】之字形,锯齿形;

pick

[pɪkt]

采摘,挑选;

hatch

[hætʃ]

n.孵化;舱口,舱口盖

gossip

['ɡɒsɪp]

n.流言蜚语;爱说长道短的人;闲话

eastward

['iːstwəd]

adj.向东的

deliberate

[dɪ'lɪbərət]

adj.深思熟虑的;故意的;从容不迫的

dusty

['dʌsti]

adj.满是灰尘的

herd

[hɜːd]

n. 【C】(牛、马、猪、象等)群;

stockyard

['stɒkjɑːd]

n.牲畜围栏

corrugate

['kɒrʊgeɪt]

v.(使)起波浪形;起皱纹

storey

['stɔːri]

n.楼层.

bungalow

['bʌŋɡələʊ]

n.(有凉台的)平房;小屋

revive

[rɪ'vaɪv]

vt.使重生;恢复精神;唤醒

pudding

['pʊdɪŋ]

n.布丁;甜食;血肠

inland

[ˈɪnlənd]

adj.内陆的, 国内的

haze

[heɪz]

n.薄雾;迷糊

watercourse

['wɔːtəkɔːs]

n.水流;河道;水道

intersect

[ˌɪntə'sekt]

v.贯穿;(和 ... )相交;交叉

pave

[peɪv]

vt.铺路;铺设;铺满;安排

runway

['rʌnweɪ]

n.跑道;河床;悬索道;滑沟

intersection

[ˌɪntə'sekʃn]

n.交集;十字路口;交叉点

refuel

[ˌriː'fjuːəl]

v.补给燃料

gallon

['ɡælən]

n.加仑(容量单位)

cairn

[keən]

n.石堆纪念碑;石冢;堆石界标

stagger

['stæɡə(r)]

vi.蹒跚;犹豫;动摇

Lennon

['lennən]

n.伦农,列农(人名)

shilling

['ʃɪlɪŋ]

n.先令(货币单位)

primitive

['prɪmətɪv]

adj.原始的;简陋的

revolver

[rɪ'vɒlvə(r)]

n.左轮手枪

lorry

['lɒri]

n.卡车

blaze

[bleɪz]

n. 火;火焰;

Hull

[hʌl]

n.外壳;船体

sway

[sweɪ]

v.摇动;摇摆;支配;影响;说服,使相信

roar

[rɔː(r)]

v.吼叫;咆哮

fume

[fjuːm]

n.烟;汽;愤怒

envelop

[ɪn'veləp]

vt.包封;遮盖;包围

creak

[kriːk]

n.辗轧声;嘎吱声

rattle

['rætl]

vi. 发出格吱声;呱哒响;

fancy

['fænsi]

n. 【C】设想;幻想;空想;

vacant

['veɪkənt]

adj.空虚的;空的;木然的

ration

['ræʃn]

n.定额;定量;配给

outback

['aʊtbæk]

n.(尤指澳大利亚的)内地

parcel

['pɑːsl]

n.包裹;部分;一块(土地)

revert

[rɪ'vɜːt]

vi.恢复;回复;归还

ventilation

[ˌventɪ'leɪʃn]

n.通风;通风设备

prop

[prɒp]

n.支柱;支持者;倚靠人

barge

[bɑːdʒ]

n.驳船

slang

[slæŋ]

n.俚语;行话

echo

['ekəʊ]

①[C][U]回声;反响;共鸣;

Annie

[ˈænɪ]

n.安妮

heap

[hiːp]

n.堆;许多;破车

greasy

['ɡriːsi]

adj.油腻的;滑溜溜的;油滑的

turnip

['tɜːnɪp]

n.萝卜;芜菁;大头菜

tin

[tɪn]

n.锡;罐头;听头

dysentery

['dɪsəntri]

n.痢疾

bridle

['braɪdl]

n.马笼头,缰绳;约束,约束物

Negro

['niːɡrəʊ]

adj.黑人的

fountain

['faʊntən]

n.喷泉;源泉;储水容器;泉水

gush

[ɡʌʃ]

v.迸出;涌出;滔滔不绝地说

murmur

['mɜːmə(r)]

n. 低沉连续的声音(如风的沙沙声、流水的淙淙声等);

Presently

['prezntli]

adv.不久;一会儿;现在;目前

gait

[ɡeɪt]

n.步态;步法

Pete

[piːt]

皮特(Peter 的昵称)(m.)

bore

[bɔː(r)]

【1】 v.使厌烦 【2】 vt. 钻(孔);镗(孔);开凿

repairer

[rɪˈpe(ə)rə]

n.修理工人;修补者

stink

[stɪŋk]

n.臭味;臭气

stubborn

['stʌbən]

adj.顽固的;倔强的;难对付的

coffin

['kɒfɪn]

n.棺材

veranda

[və'rændə]

n.阳台;游廊

census

['sensəs]

n.人口普查;户口普查;统计

steamer

['stiːmə(r)]

n.汽船;轮船;蒸笼;【动】沙海螂

Cape

[keɪp]

n.岬;海角

York

[jɔːk]

约克郡;〈板球〉使击球员出局

machinery

[mə'ʃiːnəri]

n.机械

layout

['leɪaʊt]

n.安排;布局;设计

rectangular

[rek'tæŋɡjələ(r)]

adj.矩形的

flicker

['flɪkə(r)]

n.闪烁;闪光;颤动

extinguish

[ɪk'stɪŋɡwɪʃ]

vt.熄灭;扑灭;消灭;使破灭;偿清

duly

['djuːli]

adv.的确;当然地;适当地

thump

[θʌmp]

v.重击;怦怦跳;猛击;用拳头打

rousing

['raʊzɪŋ]

adj.使奋起的;使感动的;使醒的,

doze

[dəʊz]

v.打瞌睡

fry

[fraɪ]

v.油煎;油炸

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的,奇怪的;

washtub

['wɒʃtʌb]

n.洗衣盆;洗濯盆

carton

['kɑːtn]

n.纸板箱;硬纸盒

flake

[fleɪk]

n.薄片;小片;火花

packet

['pækɪt]

n.小袋

lather

['lɑːðə(r)]

n.(肥皂水的)泡沫;激动

hardness

[hɑːdnəs]

n.坚硬;困难;严厉

Bill

[bɪl]

①帐单;清单;

quartz

[kwɔːts]

n.石英

Carter

['kɑːtə]

n.运货马车夫

diffident

['dɪfɪdənt]

adj.无自信的;客客气气的;羞怯的

stockrider

[s'tɒkraɪdə]

n.骑马的牧牛或牧羊人;牛仔

unmarried

[ˌʌn'mærid]

adj.未婚的;独身的

Brisbane

['brɪzbən]

n.布里斯班(澳大利亚地名)

incautious

[ɪn'kɔːʃəs]

adj.不小心的;轻率的;不注意的

rude

[ruːd]

adj.粗鲁无礼的;原始的;未加工的;粗糙的;猛烈的

Freeman

['friːmən]

n.荣誉市民 ,自由民

batter

['bætə(r)]

v.猛击;打坏;往后递倾

amusement

[ə'mjuːzmənt]

n.乐趣,娱乐;消遣

puppy

['pʌpi]

n.小狗;自负的小伙子

incongruous

[ɪn'kɒŋɡruəs]

adj.不协调的;不一致的;前后不一的

afore

[ə'fɔː]

prep. 在 ... 前

apprehensive

[ˌæprɪ'hensɪv]

adj.忧虑的;善于领会的;知晓的

besetting

[bɪ'setɪŋ]

adj.不断攻击的

deliberation

[dɪˌlɪbə'reɪʃn]

n.熟虑;审议;从容

Dennis

[ˈdenɪs]

n.丹尼斯(男子名)

wag

[wæɡ]

vt. 摇,摇摆(尾巴等);

gator

['ɡeɪtə(r)]

n.短鼻鳄鱼

unroll

[ʌn'rəʊl]

v.(由卷曲状态)展开;展现;显示

width

[wɪdθ]

n.宽度;广度

gruff

[ɡrʌf]

adj.粗鲁的;生硬的;粗糙的;粗哑的

graceful

['ɡreɪsfl]

adj.优雅的;得体的

calf

[kɑːf]

n.小牛;幼崽;愚蠢的年轻人;小牛皮;小腿肚

fondle

['fɒndl]

v.爱;爱抚;溺爱;抚弄

简典