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Seven
I
“Rowley, can you let me have five hundred pounds?”
Rowley stared at Lynn. She stood there, out of breath from running, her face pale, her mouth
set.
He sat soothingly and rather as he would speak to a horse:
“There, there, ease up, old girl. What’s all this about?”
“I want five hundred pounds.”
“I could do with it myself, for that matter.”
“But Rowley, this is serious. Can’t you lend me five hundred pounds?”
“I’m overdrawn as it is. That new tractor—”
“Yes, yes—” She pushed aside the farming details. “But you could raise money somehow
—if you had to, couldn’t you?”
“What do you want it for, Lynn? Are you in some kind of a hole?”
“I want it for him—” She jerked her head backwards towards the big square house on the
hill.
“Hunter? Why on earth—”
“It’s Mums. She’s been borrowing from him. She’s—she’s in a bit of a jam about
money.”
“Yes, I expect she is.” Rowley sounded sympathetic. “Damned hard lines on her. I wish I
could help a bit—but I can’t.”
“I can’t stand her borrowing money from David!”
“Hold hard, old girl. It’s Rosaleen who actually has to fork out the cash. And after all, why
not?”
“Why not? You say, ‘Why not,’ Rowley?”
“I don’t see why Rosaleen shouldn’t come to the rescue once in a while. Old Gordon put us
all in a spot by pegging out without a will. If the position is put clearly to Rosaleen she must see
herself that a spot of help all round is indicated.”
“You haven’t borrowed from her?”
“No—well—that’s different. I can’t very well go and ask a woman for money. Sort of
thing you don’t like doing.”
“Can’t you see that I don’t like being—being beholden to David Hunter?”
“But you’re not. It isn’t his money.”
“That’s just what it is, actually. Rosaleen’s completely under his thumb.”
“Oh, I dare say. But it isn’t his legally.”
“And you won’t, you can’t—lend me some money?”
“Now look here, Lynn—if you were in some real jam—blackmail or debts—I might be able to
sell land or stock—but it would be a pretty desperate proceeding. I’m only just keeping my head
above water as it is. And what with not knowing what this damned Government is going to do
next—hampered at every turn—snowed under with forms, up to midnight trying to fill them in
sometimes—it’s too much for one man.”
Lynn said bitterly:
“Oh, I know! If only Johnnie hadn’t been killed—”
He shouted out:
“Leave Johnnie out of it! Don’t talk about that!”
She stared at him, astonished. His face was red and congested. He seemed beside himself with
rage.
Lynn turned away and went slowly back to the White House.
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