Ginger In Australia
Chapter 1
An Inauspicious Beginning
Ginger walked into the office and slammed the door behind him. Biggles looked up surprised as the young man stalked stiffly across to his own desk, his lips compressed, and sat down.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Biggles, astonished. "You've got a face like thunder."
"I've just come from Raymond's office," stated Ginger, fuming. "He's detailed me to work with that Australian woman."
"I'm not sure I approve of your referring to a superior, and an Air Commodore at that, by his bare surname," rebuked Biggles with a frown. "And by 'that Australian woman' I assume you mean Miss Pearson. What is the matter with being detailed to work with her? Why don't you want to help out with her research?" he wanted to know.
"Research? Huh!" scoffed Ginger. "I don't think it's research she's interested in."
Biggles looked mystified. "The university has a very good reputation, particularly in the field of leadership studies. The Air Commodore has been told our Lords and Masters want some good PR for the Department, where's the harm in that? You don't have to like the woman, just answer her questions." He paused as Ginger glowered. "You've only met her once. What has she done to make you feel like this?" he asked, thinking it was so out of character for Ginger to be unwilling to co-operate.
Ginger blushed, furious with himself for the betraying rush of blood to his cheeks. "I'd rather not say," he muttered, failing to meet Biggles' eyes and fidgeting on his seat, remembering the shock he had experienced when he had finally realised what Georgia Pearson was insinuating when she kept harping on about the fact they all lived together and had no female interest in their lives.
"Well, like it or not, you'll have to do it," concluded Biggles, unwilling to press him further in the light of his obvious unease. "So make up your mind to that and do it with as good a grace as you can manage."
Ginger nodded resignedly, still clearly unhappy with the situation.
"You get to go to Australia," added Biggles as an incentive. "It will be very pleasant in Melbourne at this time of year. Make a change from this eternal rain. I've never known such a wet autumn."
Ginger looked unconvinced and it took him some time before he recovered his usual good humour. In the ensuing days he made his preparations to leave with more reluctance than Biggles had ever seen him show about a trip abroad.
"Whatever Miss Pearson said to Ginger when she first met him," Biggles remarked to his colleagues, Algy and Bertie, as Ginger unenthusiastically departed for Heathrow to take the regular BOAC flight to Sydney on the first leg of his long journey to Melbourne, "she seems to have put his hackles up. I've never seen him like this before. What is even stranger, he won't talk to me about it. Every time I try to broach the topic, he just goes red and changes the subject."
"She must have touched him on a nerve, old boy," opined Bertie. "Perhaps she brought up something from his past - you know what these sociologists are like, always digging up old things."
"I think that's archaeologists," put in Algy with a grin. "But you're right," he continued. "Ginger might have been going to his own execution rather than a paid excursion to the sunshine at a dismal time of year! Something has definitely upset him. He's usually so enthusiastic about a foreign trip."
The object of their speculation settled himself into his seat on the long haul jet airliner bound for the other side of the world and considered what Biggles had told him. Ginger concluded Biggles was right, as usual. He did have to put his personal feelings aside and make the best of a bad job. The woman was only a research assistant after all, he mused. Her boss, Dr Jennings, with whom he would mainly be working, might be quite pleasant and Ginger hoped he would have a different approach to the qualities of leadership from that hinted at by his assistant.
The flight was boring. Ginger never felt entirely happy being flown by a stranger, although he knew regular flights had a good safety record and he discounted the crash earlier in the year that had involved this new type, the Comet, when it was heading for Sydney in Canadian Pacific livery. That was a matter of pilot error; having the nose too high and losing flying speed, according to the accident report he had read. Ginger had devoured the latest information about the innovative jet airliner when it made the inaugural scheduled passenger service and thought it rather historic that he was travelling in the same aircraft, Yoke Peter, that had made the first scheduled jet flight. He was very grateful that the high cruising speed of 724 kph cut the flying time considerably, even by as much as a half compared with piston-engined aircraft.
There was, however, something about not being in control that made him feel slightly uneasy. One of the air hostesses came to talk to him and he laughed softly to himself when he realised why, reassuring her he was not nervous of flying. Quite the opposite.
He tried to read but could not concentrate, still unsettled by what Georgia Pearson had insinuated when she had interrupted his lunch in the police canteen. The idea of drinking himself into a stupor did not appeal, his neighbour had his head in some paperwork and he himself felt wide awake, so there was nothing left to do but mull over the arrangements for his visit. He had had the choice of staying in Ormond College or being lodged with a member of the Faculty. Not knowing anyone in Melbourne, he had opted for the latter, thinking he would not fit in very well with student life, never having had the opportunity to experience higher education, or indeed, the benefit of much formal schooling at all.
More than once he wished the Air Commodore had chosen one of the others, but Biggles had told him many times that regretting what might have been was pointless, so he put it to the back of his mind. Eventually boredom took its toll and he dozed fitfully.
When he finally arrived at his destination, having changed to Butler Air for the internal flight from Sydney to Melbourne, he was glad to disembark and be able to stretch his legs. It was one thing flying with friends in easy stages, he reflected, being cooped up with thirty-odd strangers for a long time was something else entirely. Perhaps that was why some passengers overindulged in alcohol, he brooded. That and the easy availability of flights which enabled people who previously would never have dreamed of flying now to do so. He knew all about the tendency of people to drink too much when under stress.
When he reached the arrivals hall, he looked around, hoping that someone would meet him, but there was no sign of anyone seeking a lone Englishman. He looked at his watch and stifled a yawn.
"Mr Hibblethwhite?" queried a voice behind him.
Ginger spun round at the sound. He recognised the speaker immediately. Her eyes met his and he saw malicious amusement in them. He guessed his irritation and dislike were written all over his face and tried to stifle his instinctive reaction. He forced a smile.
"Miss Pearson - Georgia," he greeted her. "How nice to see you."
She laughed shortly at his discomfort. "You don't mean that at all," she told him frankly. "You're thinking, 'it's that damned woman again'."
Ginger had to laugh in spite of himself. He had indeed been thinking exactly that.
"Don't tell me," he murmured ruefully, "I'm going to be staying with you while I'm here."
"There's no need to make it sound like a death sentence," she rebuked him coldly. "I drew the short straw, too, you know."
She hefted his luggage, a small suitcase, with a snide remark about travelling light, and led the way to her car.
Ginger had to admit that Georgia drove well, manoeuvring the small car through the traffic with dexterity. She pulled up outside a large, Victorian house in what was clearly an affluent suburb and got out.
Ginger followed and would have seized his suitcase but Georgia got there first, leading the way into the cool interior. A large, ginger cat strolled across to greet her and rubbed its face around her legs. She tickled it behind the ears and murmured sweet nothings to it.
"Have you missed me, Ginger?" she crooned.
"What?" asked Ginger astonished, hardly able to believe his ears. Then he realised that she was still talking to the cat.
"That's going to be confusing," he remarked. "I shan't know who you're talking to."
She looked at him, perplexed. "I'm Ginger, too, in case you didn't know," he explained. "I'd rather you called me that than 'Mr Hibblethwhite'," he added with emphasis on the vowels.
"Then I'll have to watch what I say," she told him sourly. "I'd hate you to think any endearments were aimed at you."
He laughed good-humouredly at her venom and she looked at him sharply. "We're going to have to get along for the next fortnight," he stated practically, "so we might as well make an effort. You have to admit, you did start off on the wrong foot."
She looked reluctant, but finally owned, "I could have put it better, I suppose. But it is a legitimate factor to include in our research," she added in a justifying tone, "whether it upsets you or not."
Grudgingly Ginger nodded. "I suppose so," he admitted slowly, "but I don't know much about academic circles."
"It is," she told him firmly and, considering the matter closed, let the atmosphere thaw slightly. An amicable truce was declared as the cat wandered off to sit on the porch, hoping against experience for a suicidal bird to walk within reach and Georgia introduced Ginger to her parents. Her father, a stock broker, eyed the young Englishman with curiosity and Ginger wondered uneasily what Georgia had said about him before she arranged his accommodation.