Authors: Essie Summers
Simon noticed the shadowed eyes, put it down to the aftermath of sorrow. It would be good for this girl when she had to cope with the wearing demands of three youngsters and life in a work camp with few conveniences. Nothing like sheer hard toil to take your mind off things.
It was a glorious morning, still as yet, though with a nor’west arch over the Alps betokening a high, hot wind later.
Simon felt that she was scarcely with him as he explained all the geographical features. None of it was registering. He wondered if she had not been able to weep when she lost her young husband and was still in a state of shock. She needed new relationships to bring her back to reality. Well, she’d get it in a work camp all right.
He suddenly looked mischievous, gazed into her eyes. “Do you know your eyes are absolutely toffee-brown, Kirsty. Neither brown nor gold.”
She put back her head in surprise, laughed a young, carefree laugh. “Oh, Simon, what a thing to be told! Still, a compliment’s a compliment whichever way it comes, and not to be sneezed at.”
He looked decidedly rueful. “Well, I daresay it could be put more poetically. Never mind, I still thing they’re nice.”
A little of the ice round Kirsty’s heart cracked. Then she caught her lip between her teeth. He was nice, yes, but it was all based on pity for Kirsty Brown, widow, young, lonely, quite without kin in this land of her birth. But what would he say when he knew? And what if it never came out about Gilbert’s former marriage?
Kirsty mentally shook herself. She musn’t allow herself to imagine these things. There was still plenty of time for the truth to come out. Gilbert’s wife might have failed to get through by phone; long-distance calls were tricky. Any delay on the line and she’d have missed Gilbert. She would just have to carry on meanwhile and hope Simon MacNeill would not despise her too much when he knew.
The flight to Dunedin was all too short. They went inland a little but with a clear view of the sea, eastward.
Westward were the mountains, still majestic even when a dwarfed from the air. They glimpsed a couple of brilliantly colored lakes, had a perfect view of Mount Cook, Aorangi, the Cloud-Piercer, its tent-ridge mantled in dazzling purity, the sweep of the Tasman Glacier beyond it. They saw immense power stations, a glimpse of Central Otago with its sunburned hills, the whole countryside greening as it neared Dunedin, the Edinburgh of the South.
The city flung a peninsula out to lock its harbor waters much as Christchurch had done, but there the resemblance ended, for below them the houses speckled every hill, running down to the waterfront.
They went beyond the city, circled, dipped down towards Momona, the Fertile Place, said Simon, where the airport was.
All thoughts of Gilbert, of yesterday, fled away. Here at last was the scene of her childhood. She was wide-eyed in the bus, seeking to take it all in, wanting to remember, to recognize something, but it was too long ago, she supposed.
She saw a double hill, not quite divided, rising from the Taieri Plain, and something stirred, not actual memory, but her mother telling herself and the four Richington children as she taught them the geography of this place.
She clutched the arm near her. “Simon, could that be Saddle Hill?”
He nodded, glad to see her so animated. She turned, looked across the mill-town of Mosgiel on the plain below and asked, “That range of bluish mountains... could they be the Faraway Mountains?”
“No, sorry, they’re the Maungatuas.” He paused, looked thoughtful, said, “You know, I think you’ve got something there.
Maunga
is certainly mountain, and
tau
... let me see. It’s got several meanings, like so many of our Maori words ... you could be right. Yes, it can mean back, or distant time, or further side. Yes, the Faraway Mountains. Was that what your mother called them?” He chuckled. “Fancy an Australian putting me right about my own land!”
“I’m not an Australian, Simon. I’m a Kiwi ... come home.”
“True.”
“Simon, where do we go first? To your sister’s place to get rid of our luggage?”
“Yes. The children are just next door. With Mrs. Bryn-Morgan—she’s a peach, but three are too much for her at her age, and besides, they’re going for a long-deferred trip to Rarotonga—in the Pacific—soon. My sister said in her letter that their son and his wife—Anthony and Dinah Bryn-Morgan—offered to have them, but Dinah’s expecting a baby, and as this is going to be a long job for Sis, it would mean another upheaval for the kids, and Nan felt it would keep her on her feet too much just when she needed more rest.”
“I think she’s right. Better to have the children just moved the once. Two changes of school would be most disrupting.”
He smiled down at Kirsty. “Would you mind if we got a taxi and dashed straight up to the hospital? She’s not in the city one, she’s up at Wakari. It would set Nan’s mind at rest. Then when we get home to the children they can stay put.”
“Yes, a much better idea on second thoughts.”
The hospital was tall and modern with sunny windows and was surrounded by immense lawns and rose-gardens, rearing above an immense crop of brand new wooden bungalows painted all colors of the rainbow.
Simon waved a hand to the lawn-surfaced hill of the hospital. “Most marvellous place for tobogganing when we get a heavy snowfall.” He paid the cab off. “Kirsty, would you mind waiting in the lobby for a few moments?”
She quite realized he would want to explain her to his sister. A sickening thought occurred to her. What if Nan didn’t fancy the idea? If she did not relish having a stranger take her children into the wilderness. Women were more shrewd than men, more inquisitive. Rightly so, perhaps, where their dear ones were concerned.
She was glad to see Simon coming back, but afraid to read his face.
He was frowning. He dropped to the seat beside her, said, “Kirsty, there’s just one thing—”
She Interrupted, her head held high. “Please don’t, apologize—I understand. Your sister, naturally enough, doesn’t take kindly to the thought of her children being committed to the care of some chance-met stranger, someone you picked up. She thinks you slightly crazy to have entertained the idea even. I can easily find—”
He shook her arm to stop the flow. “Kirsty Brown, stop it! Talk about jumping to conclusions! Nan—oddly enough—respects my judgment. She knows I’m not the sort to be bowled over merely by a pretty face. I just wanted to say that for reasons you’ll understand, I implied I’d known you longer ... just as I did with the Bothwells.”
Kirsty felt her lip quiver, caught it under her top teeth. “I’m sorry, Simon. I—sound prickly.”
He ran a finger absently down her gloved hand. “We
are
prickly when a wound is recent. Which brings me to this. Sis did ask a few questions. Out of sheer concern for you. I implied we had mutual friends, that I’d heard you wanted to visit New Zealand as a measure of forgetting your loss a little, and that hearing about our predicament you had offered to come with me.” He paused. “She asked how long you’d been married, how long you had been a widow. I didn’t know quite what to say, so said I thought it was a very short time, that I’d not liked to ask outright, but that your husband had caught a chill soon after you were married.”
She swung round towards the passage he had come from, as if the questions were too poignant to be borne, and said unsteadily: “You did very well, and near enough to the truth to let it go at that.”
His hand came under her elbow, steadily guiding her over the highly waxed surface. “Nan won’t ask any more questions, Kirsty. Keep a stiff upper lip. We’ll not be able to stay long, so it won’t be a lengthy ordeal. But don’t forget to call me Simon.”
They were modern four-bedded wards with a delightful vista of gardens and the bush-crowned slopes of Mount Flagstaff.
Nan Chisholm was very like her brother. “I didn’t dream Simon was bring a ready-made solution across the Tasman with him! The children have been dying for Simon to get back to the Haast and for us to visit him. The two elder ones, I mean. They think it must be an enchanted place, especially for Geordie, full of bugs and flying things. I do hope you’re not squeamish. It’s not nice to investigate ,a knotted hanky in Geordie’s drawer and find it full of defunct black beetles or an outsized spider or moth. He collects worms, frogs, taddies and cockabullies. Tins and jars all over the place.”
Kirsty instantly felt more natural. “Oddly enough I like those things myself. I never had time to study them, but perhaps now I may. I’ll give him some place to keep his specimens. Now tell me their likes and dislikes—all children have some—most of their faults I’d prefer to find out, but if they have any dangerous quirks, like playing with matches, or experimenting with explosives, I’d better know.”
Nan looked up from her awkward position frankly. “There are one or two things I’d like to mention ... Simon Peter, that woman in the corner, Mrs. Montrose, has a brother in the Ministry of Works Department. She wondered if you had met him. He worked on the Battling Betty and you did some preliminary surveying there didn’t you?”
“Battling Betty!” cried Kirsty. “What on earth’s that?”
“Oh, the new bridge over the Kawarau. A grand job replacing a delightful suspension bridge more than eighty years old. It was a fine old-time effort, but too narrow for today’s traffic. We are preserving it, though. The contractor’s wife was most enthusiastic about the new one, and they called it the Battling Betty in her honor, bringing it into line with other place names in the Gorge ... the Roaring Meg and the Gentle Annie. I’ll take you there some day. We turn off before we get to the Kawarau Gorge. Now, Sis, don’t go putting Kirsty off. Geordie and Rebecca are no worse—and no better—than any youngsters of their age.” He moved across the ward.
Kirsty realized how tense Nan was, and how hard it was for a mother to relinquish her family into unknown care, how prickly she can be lest their faults be attributed to her upbringing, how terrified lest they be made unhappy or spoiled.
She smiled, feeling less uneasy, in the desire to put Nan’s mind at rest.
“Please call me Kirsty, Nan. Simon has told me so much about you. I take it that Geordie’s a bit fussy about his food. Don’t worry—they always get over it.”
“Yes, but I thought that as you worked in an orphanage where there isn’t time to study too many whims, you might be inclined to—”
“To think he should eat everything. No, we ran our Home on modern ideas, allowed them a few dislikes, did a lot of old-fashioned mothering as—oddly enough—the newest idea is that nothing can take its place. Occasionally a different setting jolts a child into accepting things he wouldn’t at home. It’s wonderful how they like to be one of the herd too ... if they see others eagerly wading into some despised food, they do too. Simon said you’d explain Rebecca’s trouble.”
She saw the color rise under the fair skin. “Well,, I don’t know what you feel about this. It’s probably one you’ve met up with. I mean it’s aggravated by psychological upsets very often. And this will have distributed Rebecca. She’d almost got over it when her daddy went away and it flared up again. One thing I’m terrified of—that she might get smacked for it. I’ve had no bother with either of the others, so I can’t account for it. Even Mark at his age—”
Kirsty interrupted her, smiling. “I’ve got it, don’t worry. You mean that Mark at two-and-a-bit is out of nappies at night, and Rebecca still has a wet bed?”
“But not always. Just enough to make her worry. I haven’t let on to her that Mark doesn’t any more. It would make her feel worse.”
“Quite right. I’ll enter into the conspiracy. You mustn’t worry, Nan. Our matron had more success with this than any other had had. Do you know how?”
Nan shook her head.
“By completely ignoring it. She was always furious with any parent who had scolded or smacked, said it was iniquitous, that it terrified the child to the point of nervous trouble and worsened it immediately. She didn’t even believe in restricting drinks at tea-time, said it underlined the fact that the child hadn’t the same control. As newco
m
ers with this trouble arrived in, she told them lots of children were like that, and what did it matter with a good rubber sheet and a draw-slip. Sure, they’d got over it some time, everybody did, some sooner, some later. It wasn’t worth worrying about. It was amazing. The children went to bed relaxed and happy. Before long they were always dry. Have you been worrying yourself sick about it?”
“Yes. I admit I’m a little over-anxious about the children.”
Kirsty patted her hand. “Of course you are. You had so many ups and downs as a child. I know. So did I. Your family sound like any ordinary family to me. Now, there are things you’ll want to know. I’m rather ultra-careful about fire. I don’t smoke in bed because I don’t smoke!” She grinned. “I believe in fire-guards and safety catches for electric jugs, and turning pan handles inwards ... I lock up all medicines and cleaning fluids
and
polythene bags. I don’t let the children play unattended near water, or dangle aprons from the clothes-line with the neck-loop downwards.
“I don’t believe in sending them to bed as punishment. Their beds should be their one inviolate refuge, and they ought to be happy when they go there, have their storytime, their prayers heard, their goodnight kisses. They should be allowed to read in bed with the light on, to settle them to drowsiness, or to take a cuddly toy. I think a spank is quite a good way of dealing with some things, but think it should be given in the place intended for punishment and never, never with anything other than one’s own hand. Anything to add to that list?”