The Driftwood Dragon Read online

  'You're young to be a landlady,' he murmured as he stood close to her, the folded sheets tucked now under one arm. 'You don't entirely fit the image.'

  'I fit it perfectly well, Mr Matthews,' she said, turning away from the rather disturbing close-up of the famous Matthews torso. 'Let me show you where the bathroom is.' He followed her again, looked in as she switched on the bathroom light.

  'I did a play once about a landlady. Come to think of it she was young.'

  'There you see, Mr Matthews, I do fit the part.'

  'I played the lodger… we saved on sheets at any rate.' He looked down at the single bed linen under his arm and leaned one bare shoulder on the wall. Dru met his tired, amused suggestive eyes.

  'Good night, Mr Matthews.'

  But it wasn't a good night. Dru lay awake until the early morning again and this time there was a new element in her wakefulness. Locke Matthews. A movie star! But he was only here by accident. Maybe tomorrow he would leave and seek the luxury he was used to among the Gold Coast high rises over the border. She heard him moving about in the room that was separated from hers only by the bathroom and got up to lock her door. What a laugh, she thought sourly as she padded back to bed. Securing her door against a man who could take his pick of willing partners! Locke Matthews was not likely to steal into the room of anyone as ordinary as herself in spite of his subtle pass earlier. She gave a brittle laugh that was more like a snort and pulled the bedclothes roughly around herself. Why, even Michael—himself no Adonis— didn't think she measured up. 'I know we've been going together a long time Dru darling—and believe me I feel guilty that I might have led you to think it would be permanent…' He certainly had led her to think just that. She had pinned her belief not on airy dreams but on a twelve-month old proposal. 'Will you marry me one day, darling?' was how he'd actually put it and she'd said yes and been content for wait for 'one day'. It didn't come. 'Over the past year I feel that I've—changed direction—' Michael's career in the Solicitor General's Department had benefited from an early promotion. He anticipated further rises and a future break away into the private sector—would have to throw himself into a more 'public life'… the long winded farewell had begun at that point to make sense to Dru. She would be a liability. No doubt his mother had pointed out to him that Dru's direct manner was a drawback, her lack of background a sad misfortune and, unlike her sister, she hadn't even the moderating factor of beauty. Gently, Michael had pointed out how much she would hate the life he hoped to lead.

  The signs had been there for her to read. His mother had often taken pains to tell her about Michael's colleagues and their suitable wives. 'He's a lucky man,' she'd cooed about one, '—such a diplomatic wife. And pretty.' Oh yes, she should have seen then that the campaign was on for a wife for Michael. A wife who dressed up her body and her opinions in frills and lace, a wife who would give successful little dinner parties and who would, into the bargain, be photogenic. After all, who knew? Michael could even go into politics one day—and it wouldn't do for a potential top man to drag a drab first lady with him.

  The hurt had pierced deeper when she'd seen Michael with an attractive brunette at the classier of the Department's two lunch haunts. Michael himself she continued to see frequently. As she worked cataloguing the statistics that Michael needed, it was unavoidable. But it was an effort to give him the no-hard-feelings smile and a flippant remark to hide her emotions. After a month of it she applied for holiday leave. It was an unfortunate time to choose. Locke Matthews would have come and gone from here without her being any the wiser if it hadn't been for Michael and his mother and his brunette.

  She threw off the covers and went to the window. The broad expanse of sand looked cold in the moonlight—the glittering sea colder still. Sounds came again from his room. Apparently his weariness hadn't been enough to make him sleep. Perhaps Mr Matthews didn't care to sleep alone, she thought acidly as she got back into bed.

  It was more than likely she had dreamed it all, Dru thought when the seagulls woke her. The early, low rays of sunlight reached her through the window that she always left uncurtained to the view. The gulls shrieked louder and she went to look. That would be Sam, tossing down the remnants of his gutted morning catch. Raising her hand to shade her eyes, Dru saw the old man, fishing rod a-quiver across his shoulder, his body listing against the weight of his fishing bag and bait bucket. He looked for all the world like some derelict old craft with more than its share of patches and an uncertain mast sprouting above. Sam had been giving the seagulls early breakfasts here for as long as she could remember. He was as taciturn now as he had been when she had crouched as a child on the sand to watch him scale and clean his catch with silver flashes of his knife. Just how old he was, she couldn't tell. Sam had always been old. And always there. Every holiday. In a way she thought, watching him tack his course through the soft, yielding sand crests to the grass verge, Sam was the only constant thing in her life.

  Her parents were dead—gone before their time in one senseless, fateful twist of a car wheel. Barry, her brother was married with two children and a business to build and his life was full of new priorities. Gillian, three years older had never been really close. Her sister, with her glamour hostess job jetted in and out of Dru's life with stories of faraway places and far-out men. There was just this jointly inherited house, divided in two, as a reminder of holidays when they had been a family. And now Michael who had seemed to promise constancy, was gone.

  Sam's fishing rod disappeared between the cotton-wood trees where his tiny house crouched. She stayed at the window to marvel at the daylight warmth of the sand and the sea. Sunlight made all the difference. Even late April sunlight which had lost some of its sub-tropical heat but refused to surrender to Autumn.

  She heard sounds from the spare bedroom.

  'Oh, hell,' she muttered and whirled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, cleaned her teeth and hurried out. In the hall she marched right into her house guest as he emerged from his bedroom. Her shoulder hit his upper arm and the impact sent her staggering. He grabbed her to steady her and Dru got her first daytime close-up of Locke Matthews.

  This was the sex-symbol himself. Unshaven, his squared-off, classical chin bristled reddish brown. His hair was roughed up in peaks at the crown, spiky over his eyes and he looked as if he'd tasted something bad. He was wearing only pyjama trousers and these were low slung. So low slung that at first she dared not look down lest he was wearing nothing at all. A smooth, brown chest muscled down to a smooth, brown waist. In fact the tan was even all the way to his hips where the pyjama pants clung so precariously.

  'Good morning, Mr Matthews,' she said and stepped away from him. The man was so evenly tan. She would have to warn him not to try deepening it all over on her beach. The thought of looking out her window at him naked on the sand made her blink a few times. 'I hope you slept well?'

  He ran a hand through his hair, yawned and scratched his chest. Sex-symbol! She grinned. 'If you want to lose a few troublesome fans, let them see you like this.'

  He put one bare shoulder to the wall, as he'd done the night before. 'Some of them have seen me like this.'

  Her mouth tightened. 'What a thrill for the lucky ones.'

  'They seemed to think so. Have you got any coffee on?'

  'I haven't even been downstairs yet, Mr Matthews,' she looked him up and down, '—but if you care to get yourself cleaned up, there'll be some ready in about ten minutes.'

  'Something wrong with the way I look now?' He spread his forearms and his hands fell naturally into the relaxed fingered pose of the actor. There was a gleam in his eyes. He wanted to squeeze some admission from her that she found him irresistible she supposed. Mr Matthew's pandered ego was in for a few jolts.

  'You're unshaven, unkempt and almost undressed,' she told him coldly. 'And if you want coffee or anything else, you'd better not come downstairs looking like that.'

  He straightened, put his hands on his hips. 'Good l
ord—I could be at home again. You sound just like my mother.'

  'Sorry about that. I'm sure you're accustomed to some early morning adulation over your coffee. I'd provide some but I'm just not a good enough actress.'

  His greenish eyes narrowed. 'I'll settle for coffee.' As she began to walk away he added, 'I definitely won't be wanting—anything else. Cold breakfasts don't appeal to me.'

  She didn't turn around. Her face was flushed but she admitted she had probably asked for the unflattering inference. To him she must look not only cold but also plain and prudish. He would not be even remotely interested if she was the type to offer more than coffee. Last night he might have been able to overlook her obvious failings. But then he'd been tired and no doubt not seeing too clearly. It was one thing, Dru thought as she made coffee and showered cornflakes into a bowl, to know oneself to be average in every department save that of common sense and quite another to be reminded of it so often. Bleakly she took her first sip of coffee and stared out the kitchen window at the battered old shed and its cape of convolvulus. A motor bike gleamed there in the morning sun. Michael—she thought—Michael with his ordinary, clever face, Michael whom she'd loved for nearly two years, had found her lacking. For a while she'd been angry. She hadn't cried. Not at all. The hurt and humiliation had eventually settled too deep for relief by tears or anger. This listlessness was worse, far worse than her first jealous reactions. At least when she had been able to rage about his perfidy, it had seemed some sort of positive response.

  She heard Locke Matthews on the stairs and her hackles rose. The surge of anger was a welcome thing. A positive thing. She turned around, her face set in cold, hard lines. The man looked devastating. There was no denying it. Reddish hair—the faint freckling and all. He was incredibly good looking. Now his hair was combed carelessly back, his jaw tanned and smooth and he wore an open mesh sweater over shorts.

  'Do I pass, Mum?' he mocked and again spread his arms.

  Dru set another cup on the table. 'Your coffee, Mr Matthews.'

  He sat down, not touching it and watched her eat her cornflakes. And listened too, no doubt. Dru was irritatedly aware that she was making a noise as she crunched the cereal.

  'It occurs to me, Dru, that you shouldn't be handing out criticism over correct breakfast dress.' His critical eyes lingered on her disreputable tee shirt and jeans.

  'I'm the landlady remember? I can come to breakfast any way I want. Besides I'm working.'

  'You said you were here on holiday.'

  'So I am—but as I own this place with my brother and sister, we have to maintain it, so I'm working as well.'

  'Maintain it?' he mocked and looked outside to the fall-about shed. One eyebrow shot up.

  'Just be thankful we don't keep it like the kind of places you're used to, Mr Matthews. Otherwise those press friends of yours would be hanging about waiting to hear what you plan to do about your latest amour.'

  A vision of Michael's brunette floated into her mind just then and she wondered how long he'd been seeing her before he'd shaken off faithful Dru— whether she had been taken home for Mama's approval yet. Off with the old, on with the new. Men could do it so easily. But this one had a bit more trouble getting away with it. There was some odd satisfaction in that.

  'It's garbage,' he said, 'all those stories about Dorothy Falklands and me. The woman visited the studio and I had some coffee with her.'

  'Those men seemed to think there was more to it or they wouldn't tear around in the middle of the night after you.'

  'It's my fault. I told them I was getting married soon.'

  'According to what I read, you're always about to get married or you're already secretly married. You must be crazy telling them that if you want a peaceful holiday.'

  He let his head roll back and sighed. 'Don't I know it. But it got to me I guess. The same old questions about any woman who's been seen even talking to me.

  The same old speculations over who is—' he stopped.

  'In your bed?'

  He grinned. 'So direct. You wouldn't like to marry me would you, Dru? And stop all the guesswork?'

  'Is this an official proposal?' she enquired. 'Should I go weak at the knees?'

  His laugh was wry. 'At least I'd know you don't want me for my body—or my alimony.'

  'I don't want you for anything,' she told him. But of course others would. His looks, his money, his value as publicity for an ambitious actress. And presumably the man had his personal attractions too. He'd never really know if it was Locke Matthews being loved, or the Ransome Man. Her sympathies were almost engaged when she remembered the 'companion' he'd mistaken her for last night.

  'Tch, tch. Poor Mr Matthews. Success, riches and persecution. So you arranged to drop out for a week or two. When does your friend arrive?'

  'Today I suppose.'

  'You don't really remember what she looks like do you?'

  'I remember. But women change their hair, the light was terrible and I haven't seen Shelley for six months.'

  'And she agreed to come on holiday with you after all that time?'

  'Why not?' he levelled those green eyes at her. 'We're friends—consenting adults.' Aware of her disapproval, he added provocatively, 'Lovely girl, Shelley.'

  'So lovely that you can mistake me for her! We're all the same to you, aren't we, Mr Matthews?'

  He took his time looking her over. Her face flamed. What an idiot she was, inviting comparison with the kind of women he knew.

  'Oh no. Not all of you.'

  'Can't you manage to enjoy yourself for two weeks without—' she began and couldn't bring herself to be that direct.

  'What's the matter—can't you bear to sleep alone?'

  He finished his coffee and stood up.

  'How did you guess?' he said mockingly and went.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It wasn't sympathy for him that later made her wheel his bike inside the shed. It was common sense. She didn't want the press snooping around spoiling her holiday. Dru collected some sandpaper from the shed and began working on the side of the house. When a car approached, she turned to watch it. Cars along this road were few, very few.

  It was white and natty. A neat little hatchback with lovely lines. It turned in at the bumpy drive and stopped. The girl who got out was a neat little ash-blonde with lovely lines. She smiled at Dru.

  'Hi. I'm looking for Sea Winds.'

  Dru studied her. She wasn't quite what she'd imagined Shelley would be like. But if she was looking for Sea Winds, that must be who she was. The sign, like so much else, was in need of repainting and Dru had only removed it two days ago. It lay in the shed awaiting her attention.

  'I thought it would be along here but there's nothing but shacks—oh, I'm sorry—I mean—' the girl glanced at the house with its peeling paint and stopped. 'Am I on the right road?'

  Dru couldn't really be sure what prompted her to say no. It could have been the girl herself—so attractive, confidence in every hand gesture, the careless expertise of cosmetics and clothes. It might have been Locke Matthews' subtle digs, his casual male memory that had allowed him to mistake a brunette for a blonde—or it might have been Michael's rejection finding its way to the surface again in a misplaced hit back. But whatever it was, the girl had taken her own and the car's lovely lines and gone again within minutes. And Locke Matthews hadn't even appeared on the scene.

  A whitish veil of dust marked the natty car's turn back towards the main road and Dru watched with a sudden rush of guilt. She shouldn't have done that… she really shouldn't, and she couldn't give herself one good reason for it but spite. Dru found that uncomfortable.

  The real estate agent in Coolangatta opened at eleven on Sundays. Dru was waiting at the door when the on-duty agent arrived. But also waiting was a young couple who were gazing starry-eyed at the land sale window display and he was far more interested in them than in finding a missing key. At her insistence though, he looked several times and could not find the Sea Wi
nds tenants' key. She phoned Barry but there was no answer. There was no point in contacting Gillian. She was probably away, or zonked out from her latest flight and anyway her part-ownership was purely financial. Gillian wouldn't be seen dead at the holiday house and didn't possess a key. Two locksmiths offered recorded messages and Dru rammed the phone back on the hook and left the booth. Another night with Locke Matthews hanging about seemed unavoidable. She supposed she would have to give him dinner as well. As she crossed the Queensland border and drove back through Tweed Heads into New South Wales, Dru gritted her teeth. The very last thing she felt like doing was catering to the needs of a man—any man, but as this one had paid his rent and inadvertantly been given the run-around she would have to.

  It was after twelve when she drove her car up beside the house and into the shade of the mango tree which served as her garage. The beach was empty but the row of tracks across it remained evidence of the visits of holidaymakers from the next cove. People rarely drove on to the beach here because of the unsealed road and the swampy creek beside it. Families trailed along the sand from other beaches but rarely stayed. They preferred the beach further south where the surf was patrolled by lifesavers. Sometimes couples strolled its length, arms wrapped about each other in lovers' insularity and Dru had come upon the occasional two or three girls baring their all to the sun on the privacy of the sand dunes. But they never appeared more than once. One sighting of Sam, his clothes napping about his gaunt frame, his lips moving in private dialogue was usually enough to send them elsewhere to untie their bikini strings.

  From the mango tree the lawn, rough and threadbare in the sandy soil, ran outwards to a tangle of goatsfoot creeper and the succulent ground cover that ran wild to the sand. It reappeared in clumps and questing runners on the low dunes that flattened out on to the beach itself. The surf crashed and shattered itself into foam fleck and fine spray and the horizon cut a hazed indigo line to separate the sky's slow motion from the sea's quick replays. Dru's eyes moved down from the drifting clouds to the solitary figure running along the edge of the surf.