Authors: Essie Summers
Mac and Simon’s voices with the one thought. “Stay still. We’ll come and get the child.”
“No. Not here. Let me get past this bit. It’s too deep in the water, your weight would make it worse. The water is rising too. Where it becomes two trees again you may be able to help, but please, please not till I give the word.”
They knew it was true, torture though it was to watch her doing it unaided.
She advanced only about three inches at a time, but now her hopes were high. At the end was help.
Chris murmured “Daddy” faintly once, but he was too exhausted to do more.
Kirsty began to heave one leg out of the slime to get on to the broader part of the joined trunks. She dared not attempt to crawl now.
Simon’s voice came to her. “Kirsty, stay there. We’ll get to you now. It’s nearly over.”
He and Mac began crawling on to the trees. Immediately Kirsty felt them swing sideways. She clung desperately, called, “Stop ... the trees are moving because the swamp is rising. Try one of you. Two are too heavy. Mac, get off.”
One was too heavy too.
She heard them cursing as Simon, who had been first on, crawled back too.
She managed a confidence in her voice that was entirely false.
“I’m okay. Let’s not jeopardize anything now. I’ll get there. Please be patient. I’ll take it very slowly.”
She knew that for the tense, silent group, it was harder than for herself as inch by painful inch, with Chris a dead weight now, and all her being numbed, she made it towards them. Then she saw that on each side of the trees that had served her so well, they were wading in, Simon one side, Mac the other, and behind each of them, another man with his hand hooked in their belts and another behind him, right back to the solid ground. They were holding the moving trees firmly, giving her more confidence. She thought Chris’s hands must be so numbed they just couldn’t let go.
The men were up to their thighs when they reached them. Simon’s arms were reaching out for her. Mac, in his eagerness to reach his son and his rescuer, was suddenly foundering in a hole, the other men pulling him out.
Simon had them tight against him, he swept them off the trees into the safety of his arms. The arms of the man behind him steadied the three of them, sharing the weight, sinking deep in the ooze, then, unbelievably, they were on the bank, collapsed in a heap.
Mac turned them on their sides, was tearing at the knotted sleeves that bound Chris to her, found it hopeless, took out a knife and sawed away, using the utmost care. The sleeves parted, Chris was swept into his father’s arms and Kirsten into Simon’s.
She was still sprawled on the bank, but he had turned her round, her face up to his streaming wet one, and he was kissing her on her cheeks, her eyes, forehead, her lips.
“Oh, Kirsty, Kirsty,” he said.
Suddenly the big Maori, Henare, pushed him aside. “Fair’s fair, Simon. Let us show our gratitude too! Why should you get all the bonus points?” But he didn’t kiss her, he sat her up and began to assist her into his pullover, pulling it down over her saturated bra, huddling her into his coat.
The least wet man was taking his socks off, tugging them on to her frozen feet. Simon had a flask out, holding it to her lips. The spirit stung Kirsty’s throat, choking her. “Oh, I hate brandy!” she coughed.
“Never mind. You’ll get coffee at the camp, but this will help.”
They were wrapping jackets around Christopher, reviving now.
Henare said: “What’s this knotted round him?” He suddenly saw what it was, said quietly, “It’s Kirsty’s singlet.”
There was a hush and the tears rushed into Henare’s eyes and spilled over his brown cheeks. He knelt down by Kirsty. Simon was chafing her hands. Henare put his arms about her, drew her against him, wordlessly, put his cheek against hers.
Kirsty smiled her crooked smile, put her hand up against his cheek, said, “Hal, I’m not a heroine,” and kissed him, full on the lips. Then she said briskly: “Let’s get going, or I’ll burst out crying too.” But when she stood up her legs sagged under her.
Simon said, “It’s all right. I’ll carry you.”
She shook her head. “No, it sounds fine and dandy in a book but it’s impossible in this terrain. I’ll be all right in a jiffy.”
Simon said, “Kirsten, my love, there are two of us. Hal and I will do it between us.”
They formed a chair with their hands, one of the other men lifted her up, she put an arm round each of their necks and off they, set, the other men going before to clear the way, small Christopher in his father’s arms, safe and subdued.
Wilhelm said: “I’ll beat it. I’ll run like hell back to camp to let Lexie know.”
At the first fallen tree on the track Kirsten slipped from their hands. “It’s too narrow and awkward from here. I’ll be better walking now.”
Hal, a gleam of mischief in his dark eyes, said, “Toss you for the privilege of helping her, mate.”
“No show,” said Simon in a voice that brooked no argument. “The right is mine.”
Through all Kirsten’s exhaustion it penetrated. The right was his! He had declared himself. And he had called her his love in front of them all.
As they crossed the swing bridge, a bridge that in comparison with the trees across the swamp seemed an example of stability, Lexie met them. She and Jimsy had kept a vigil there. Once she had contacted the rescuers they had been unable to keep here away.
As Lexie’s arms went out for her small son Kirsten knew reward for every perilous, moment and agonizing fear she had experienced.
Then Christopher’s tones floated out clearly above the hubbub. “Mum,” he said, “Chris lost his jelly-baby.”
The resultant laugh did them all good.
The women had fires blazing, pots of soup on the stoves, coffee bubbling, blankets on the racks and on the cylinders, others hung over chairs, hot water bottles were ready filled. They were used to rescues. Deerstalkers were sometimes stranded, climbers and trampers lost. Sometimes helicopters had to be flown in. Not all had this happy ending.
In their own home Lydia Merrill had the bath running, took Kirsty straight in after she had greeted the children, peeled off her clothes, got her into the water, not too hot at first in case it was too painful for her fingers and toes. She added more till it was up to Kirsty’s chin. Nothing ever felt so good as Lydia soaping her back.
Outside the rain began to fall again, sounding like drums on the galvanized iron roofs, but now it only served to accentuate the cosiness within.
Lydia brought in pyjamas and dressing-gown straight from the hot cupboard, put her feet into woolly bed socks, deerskin-lined moccasins, then brought her out to the big, rattan chairs in front of the range where she brushed her hair till it shone like spun gold.
Nobody could get a word in for the children asking questions. Every now and then Lydia wiped away a tear. Simon emerged from the shower-room laughing.
“I ought to have waited for the bath ... the slime from my legs and feet splashed right up the walls.”
“I’ll gladly mop that up,” said Lydia. “Now both of you get stuck into that soup.”
She wouldn’t allow them to sit up to the table, but drew their chairs close to the heat, handed them trays.
By and by, the men, returning from the ablution block, crowded in, and had soup and coffee. Jimsy was still with Lexie.
Mac came over, reported that Chris had had a mustard bath, a good meal, got very cocky over the adventure, and now was fast asleep, looking very little the worse for wear. And Jimsy had put Lexie to bed.
Mac looked across the men to Kirsten.
“Kirsty,” he got out, “I must—” and got no further, but turned and went hastily out of the door, unwilling to break down in front of the men.
“Pity the poor
pakeha
,” said Henare, grinning. “He doesn’t like to betray his feelings. The Maori he just lets go ... like me, back at the swamp.”
Kirsten said hurriedly, “Let’s talk about something else. Who won the Rugby match ... Otago or Southland?”
Simon burst out laughing. “That’s only relatively important ... incredible though it may seem. But anyway, I think you ought to be off to bed now. So, chaps, vamoose.”
Lydia said, “And no getting up in the morning, mind, Kirsty, to cook breakfast. Johnny and Anne can manage ours and I’ll be right over to get yours and to get the children off to school. And I’ll take Mark for the day so you can rest.” She added, seeing the look on Kirsty’s face, “And I’ll grapple him to me with hooks of steel!”
Kirsty protested, “I’m going to be all right. I’d rather be up and doing than going over it in my mind, thinking of all that might have happened and didn’t.”
Lydia shook her head. “You might easily have a reaction, and we want to ward oil a chill. You must be sensible.”
Kirsten gave in. A delicious languor was stealing over her. How she would sleep tonight, secure in this house of Simon’s, lapped round by the knowledge that he loved her.
He came across to her chair, knelt beside it, bringing his eyes on a level with hers, smiled into them.
“Kirsty, you must be exhausted. Another time we’ll finish what we began ... back there on the edge of the swamp. You’ll never know what I went through when I thought you might be bushed ... or what I went through as you shuffled across that tree in that ice-cold, evil-smelling morass, unable to help you in case the logs turned over. I felt as I reached you that I had died and come to life again. But we’ll postpone discussion for a couple of days to get you fully recovered. Because, as you’ve been married before, there are things we must talk out, and some of it’s bound to upset you. Old griefs, old heartaches ... but you mustn’t consider yourself bound to a memory. I know it may seem soon to you, and I’m willing to wait. Only I must know, when you leave here, with the children, that you’ll wait the time you have set yourself in Dunedin, not too far away.”
The brown eyes were smiling, he could see the gold flecks in them. “We’ll have to talk, Simon. And I’ll have to go back to Sydney for a brief time, to get things settled, but after that, I won’t ask you to wait too long.” As he bent to her she held up her hand. “No, Simon, not yet. Till we have everything cleared up. But I don’t want to wait. Let’s discuss it now.”
He shook his head. “No. Not tonight. It’s bound to upset you, and on top of an experience like this, it might be the last straw. I want you to sleep, not mull things over. It’s bed for you.”
She hesitated. What a relief it would be to have it over.
Not the story of a bereavement as he thought, not the necessity to go to Australia to settle up her supposed late husband’s estate, but to tell him the story of a wedding that wasn’t, about Dallas, her disillusionment, then, right on the heels of that, the second shattering blow that had panicked her into flight across the Tasman. But she was weary, she needed sleep. Perhaps Simon was the wiser.
“I suppose that will be best,” she said wistfully, rising.
Suddenly, almost without knowing, they were in each other’s, arms...
Simon said, almost roughly, “Oh, Kirsten, Kirsten!” and his mouth came down on hers, blotting out all thought of the past, of the recent ordeal.
When finally he lifted his head and drew back, Kirsty felt him trembling, and knew why. It was not easy, this intensity of feeling, to be shut into the home that would be theirs one day.
He smiled ruefully. “It isn’t going to be easy, Kirsty, living together like this. We’ll have to keep our feelings in check. It won’t be for much longer. I had a letter today. Haven’t had a chance to tell you. I was at Haast and got the mail. Nan’s out of hospital and down at Tangaroa Bay with Anthony and Dinah. Morris is coming a bit earlier than he’d thought, so she’s going to fly from Auckland to Norfolk Island next week.
“Kirsty, I’ve never found it easy. I loved you right from the start. I knew you had to have time to get over the other. But now I know you care too ... well, it will be harder still. But three weeks or so should see it through. If you like, when we take the children to Dunedin, I’ll see if I can come with you to Australia. They might give me time off. Or if you prefer to go by yourself, all right, but with my ring on your finger. Then you can come back and stay with Nan until—the time. Only don’t make it too long, darling.” His arms went out to her. Then he stepped back. “No, better not. Kirsten, for goodness’ sake go to bed.”
She laughed and fled.
She slipped happily and easily into sleep. A dimple cleaved her cheek as she decided Simon would probably be glad he had no young dead husband’s memory to contend with. She would see his eyes light up as she told him. How wonderful to wake tomorrow morning to the sure knowledge of happiness ahead, a smiling future.
She woke with first light to hear unusually early activity next door. Her heart thudded. Chris wasn’t ill, surely. He could be. Perhaps bronchitis. She grabbed her dressing-gown, went to the window. Mac was getting the car out. Simon joined her, also in a dressing-gown.
“What’s up? Think Chris might have developed croup or what have you and he’s off for the district nurse?”
They didn’t pause, they went straight out to Mac.
“Not Chris—Lexie! She’s in labor. Nearly a month too soon. Jimsy is with her and is coming with me to Haast where she’ll be under supervision of the nurse till the plane gets in from Hokitika. Thank heaven it’s a good day. She can’t go to Dunedin now. Not by road. And I want her away. Some babies have been born here all right, but if it’s premature it will need special care.” His face was drawn. “Though at the moment I can’t worry about the baby, only Lexie.”