THE letter went, and we waited for a reply: Madge feverishly, I apathetically, and Colin with a good deal of unhappy anticipation: he hated the whole business. I know the poor boy made frantic efforts during those days to earn some extra money, and he did manage to secure some overtime from a fellow-clerk who did not want it. But of course it was very little.
“If I could only rake up enough to send you for a fortnight to Frankston!” he said one evening. “That would be absolute rest for you; far better than slogging at alleged ‘light duties’ in some strange house. I can’t stick the idea of your going away to work, Dor.”
“But I’m quite able to work—truly, old boy,” I told him. “It was only the long hours in school that knocked me up, and the rush every morning.”
“And that will be just the same after the holidays,” he growled. It was quite amazing to hear Colin growl: he had always been so cheery over our misfortunes, and had never once shown that he minded his own bitter disappointment. “If only I could earn enough to keep you at home! I believe it would be more sensible if I worked as a dock labourer: I’d make more money then, and my own expenses would be hardly anything.”
“Yes, and then a strike would come along, and you would go out with your Union, and we should be worse off than ever,” I said practically. “I wish you wouldn’t talk such absolute nonsense. I only needed a rest, which I’m getting now. Don’t I look ever so much fitter already?”
“You do look a bit less like a scarecrow,” he admitted. “But I know that you’re not getting the nourishing things the doctor ordered, and you ought to be right away from Melbourne. January in Prahran isn’t going to be any sort of a picnic for you.”
“When I have finished that bottle of Burgundy you brought home yesterday you won’t know me,” I said. “Just you wait, and don’t worry. Something may turn up at any time; and meanwhile, I’m going to spend every day in the Gardens or on the beach. Isn’t it lucky that it costs so little to get to them?” But all my well-meant efforts failed to cheer him much. He got into a way of looking at me, with his forehead all wrinkled with worry, that made me positively ache for a favourable answer from the advertisement lady. Without telling him or Madge, I went into Melbourne and spent a weary afternoon going round the registry-offices in search of a holiday job in the country. But no one seemed to have the least desire for my services except as a “general.” There, indeed, I could have had my pick of hungry employers, only I didn’t dare to meet them—with the prospect of facing Colin afterwards.
Christmas came and went, and we gave up all idea of getting any answer to my letter. It was a very small Christmas we had—just sandwiches and a thermos of coffee in a quiet corner of the Botanical Gardens, watching the dabchicks in the lake, and building all sorts of castles for the future. We made a solemn compact that no one should worry during the day, and Colin kept to it nobly and played the fool all the time. So it was really a very jolly Christmas, and we all felt better for it.
On Boxing Day Colin wanted to spring-clean the flat; but at that point Madge and I felt we must put our collective feet down, and we did. So we packed the basket again, and went to one of the nearer beaches—one where it is still possible to find quiet corners in the scrub: and we bathed and picknicked, and enjoyed watching Colin smoke the cigarettes we had given him for Christmas—after Father died he had given up smoking, declaring that it made his head ache. It was beautiful to see how peaceful he looked. Altogether, the Earle family agreed that it was probable that a good many people had not enjoyed the holidays as much as we did.
And the next day came the answer to my letter—just as we had given up all hope.