Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

The young man saw with surprise he was meant to accept this cleanly hand. ‘No trouble at all,’ he whinged rather than spoke, as though punched in the thorax, and gave her a lopsided smile.

Dorothy noticed that the wrench her mother’s whole arm sustained from the pilot’s mechanical handshake did not make her flinch, and that the legs, far from being brittle and spindly, justified exposure.

Dorothy looked in vain for the car which must surely come to meet them.

While Mother had decided to make the best of a hitch in the arrangements. ‘Is there much wild life on the island?’ she asked the pilot in a clear, rather jolly voice.

‘Lousy with it.’

‘Then I shall spend my time studying the wild life of Brumby Island.’

Dorothy winced for the tone, even if the pilot did not understand. Mother could start a flirtation at a street crossing, waiting for the lights to change.

After thinking things over, the pilot informed them, or more precisely, Elizabeth Hunter, ‘The wife likes to watch birds — whenever the kids give her a break.’ He added, ‘She’s got a bird book.’

‘Have you a bird book with you, Mother?’ The pilot’s presence made it sound more sardonic.

‘Don’t be silly ! I don’t propose to go into it scientifically, only for my own pleasure.’

Of course you were silly, not to say boring: wasn’t it what Hubert had given you to understand, by exquisitely tactful innuendo, long before margarine had started offering its rival charms?

‘And I haven’t yet decided whether it’s birds I’m interested in.’ Mother was still at it though the pilot had obviously dropped out. ‘For all you know, Dorothy, I may take up trees — or sea creatures.’

Dorothy looked down, and caught sight of a land crab, claws raised in anguish as it moved sideways over the sand by bursts of protective choreography.

She enjoyed a reprieve from her own anguish when an ancient car dashed towards the airstrip from out of the tallowwoods and sassafras, bucking, almost pig-rooting, at every ridge it had to cross. Jack Warming had driven across the island to fetch them as Helen had promised in her letter. He was a large man, with large, extrovert manner allied unconvincingly to that faded, quasi-mystical expression of those who spend their lives searching the shimmer of distance for the sheep or cattle dissolved in it.

Mrs Hunter responded enormously to Jack Warming’s arrival. ‘Now I can feel we’re really off to the races!’ She offered her cheek, bravely patted the Chevrolet’s overheated bonnet, and advanced on two little children dressed in the tatters of the rich, who had come with their father.

Jack bellowed in appreciation of Elizabeth Hunter, ‘We’ve been wondering whether you realize what you’re in for. We lead a pretty simple life on the island. Helen thinks you’re tough, though.’

Dorothy suspected the Warmings were among the many Mother had taken in. Jack was innocent enough to attempt drawing ‘old Dorothy, here’ into the circle of his own pleasure: with good-natured clumsiness he took her by an elbow, squeezed it, but let go at once. The quasi-mystical expression was averted, though light still lingered on the tips of teeth exposed in an uncertain smile.

As for Elizabeth Hunter, she was engaged in seducing the children. ‘The stones are turquoises. It’s a tremendously old chain. It belonged to my mother before me — one of the few pretty things she possessed: we were poor, you see. I’ll allow you to wear it, Sara,’ she promised the girl child, ‘tonight.’

The children were entranced by the kind of stranger Elizabeth Hunter excelled at being. Then they looked at the one who was the princess, and looked away.

Dorothy was not hurt: if children disliked, or perhaps feared her, it was because they recognized one who understood them too well. Mother’s strength lay partly in not knowing what other people were like.

With revived bellows, Jack had begun recalling ‘the MacGregors’ party’, apparently the last occasion Mother and the Warmings had been together.

As Mrs Hunter left off courting the children she lowered her eyelids, raised her chin, and smiled faintly at the others. ‘It was a riot, wasn’t it?’ she said in the softest voice.

Dorothy was surprised, even shocked: she failed to equate the MacGregors’ party with anything she knew of her mother’s life; she had a stampeded vision of Elizabeth Hunter in a paper cap, then, too brutally sudden, Mother’s naked, white body as seen through a sheet of water or curtain of tropic light.

Mrs Hunter opened her eyes very wide and said with studied emphasis, ‘You won’t believe, Dorothy — I cooked bacon and eggs for about twenty people at three in the morning.’

It was a relief to be getting into the car. Dorothy made sure she had the seat beside the driver: in this way she would be separated from the children. She was appalled to think there were five other Warming offspring, fortunately ‘farmed out for the holidays’ their mother had written, ‘at points between Rockhampton and the Monaro’.

Nonchalantly the Chevrolet leaped away from the airstrip, tore through a belt of thinnish scrub, and started its climb through the rain forest.

Compared with the other islands strung out along the Queensland coast Brumby was considerable. Grabbed by a Warming grandfather early on, most of it had been resumed for its timber. The present Warming owned no more than a few acres on the ocean side and a house to which he brought his family as a respite from the inland summers. The island was uninhabited, except by a permanently stationed gang of foresters, and the Warmings on their infrequent visits.

Now it hushed the strangers it was initiating. At some stages of the journey the trees were so densely massed, the columns so moss-upholstered or lichen-encrusted, the vines suspended from them so intricately rigged, the light barely slithered down, and then a dark, watery green, though in rare gaps where the sassafras had been thinned out, and once where a giant blackbutt had crashed, the intruders might have been reminded of actual light if this had not flittered, again like moss, but dry, crumbled, white to golden.

The Chev skirted a clearing in which stood three or four tents coloured by permanence, as well as a Nissen hut, a couple of hatless men outside it, their leather visors of faces expressionless below white, vulnerable foreheads.

Jack bellowed. The children waved and shouted. The men waved back. Out of the corner of an eye Dorothy caught sight of Elizabeth Hunter languidly wooing the foresters with the flicker of a white arm.

The Princesse de Lascabanes failed to animate the stick she was changed into. More than anything, she feared that the secret joy she had experienced while carried onward and upward through the forest, might overflow through her eyes, and give her away. So she screwed it up as tight as she could, together with the equally terrifying sobs which were rising in her. Ten minutes later, as they sprang into the open and down a grass-stitched slope, she might have prayed, if her prayers had been more successful in the past, that their car should continue charging into the immensity of light and water, as far as the ocean would support its wheels. Better blinded by green glass, ear drums burst by a black roar, infinity pouring into the choked funnel of your throat, than the paroxysms and alternating apathy of a lopsided existence.

Instead they were pulling up alongside what must be the Warmings’ house, a ramshackle ricketty structure in the easygoing Queensland style: where breezes are encouraged to blow through lattice nailed to unequal stilts, behind which any old thing you want to forget about may be stashed away, and children hide, to share their more sinister imaginings. Standing on a shelf between the forest and a strip of powdered coral, the house had been stained a practical brown with trimmings of glossier, though blistered green, the whole so placidly domesticated it was a wonder it had resisted the throbbing, the threats, the apocalyptic splendours of an ocean perpetually unrolling out of an indeterminate east.