Mud and Gold (70 page)

The idea of Lizzie’s hiding something from
him was too ridiculous for Frank to waste any time on. Her strange
behaviour, he decided, should be put down to lingering jealousy
over the new baby. He patted her arm, then returned his full
attention to the track in front of him.

*

Ruatane had held its first ever Agricultural
and Pastoral Show the previous year, though the name seemed too
grandiose for the small gathering that had taken place. But when it
was announced that a second one would be held that March, the show
took on the status of an institution. There were few enough
opportunities for the farmers of the area and their families to
waste most of a day on fun and call it work, and nearly all of
those close enough to town managed to attend.

The competitions were for the most part
light-hearted; the farmers who had bothered to bring some of their
animals along paraded them around in a roped-off area of the
paddock in front of other farmers, while their wives compared
baking and gardening skills under a hastily-erected marquee.
Children darted about from one part of the paddock to another,
admiring cows and horses then trying to beg biscuits from their
mothers. But the organisers had made a fair attempt at setting up
ordered judging, with animals divided into various categories
according to age and breed.

Most of the animal entries were from farmers
who lived within a mile or two of the town, but Frank was keen to
show off his best despite the inconvenience of getting the chosen
animals to the show. It meant spending a fair part of the morning
driving Duke William and Orange Blossom into town, leaving Lizzie
to come in later managing the buggy and the children on her own,
but when he had groomed and fussed over the animals in their small
pens until their coats were glowing in the sunlight Frank knew it
was worth it. He stepped back and studied the two creatures with
satisfaction; he was sure they were the best in the show, even if
the rest of the town might be too foolish to see it.

As he hung over Duke William’s pen, waiting
for the judging to begin, Frank became aware that he was being
scrutinised. He turned to see a man whom he did not recognise,
which was something of a novelty in so small a town.

‘That’s a fine animal you have there,’ the
stranger remarked.

‘Yes, he is,’ Frank agreed readily. The man
was obviously someone of discernment, to have seen Duke William’s
superiority. ‘That’s one of my cows over there, too.’

The man admired Orange Blossom to Frank’s
satisfaction, then introduced himself as Ted Jackson, a farmer from
near Thames (though he mentioned in passing that he also owned two
farms at Tauranga) who treated himself to attendance at some of the
more distant A and P shows from time to time.

As they chatted, it soon became clear to
Frank that although he and this Ted Jackson both called themselves
farmers they meant something rather different by the term. The
quality of Mr Jackson’s clothes, made of the sort of cloth reserved
for Frank’s best suit, gave him the first clue. After Mr Jackson
had talked casually of managers and staff, and the pressures of
overseeing several farms, Frank guessed that this was a man who had
staff quarters more elaborate than Frank’s own house. He nodded and
smiled at much of what the older man said, contributing little to
the conversation.

But on the subject of his Jerseys he waxed
eloquent. He could quote the pedigrees of the four he had purchased
back for several generations.

‘Good lines you’ve got there,’ Mr Jackson
said. ‘You must be getting good stud fees.’

Frank mumbled a noncommittal reply,
unwilling to admit that no other farmer in the area had as yet
shown any interest in hiring his bull.

‘Do you sell many of your calves?’ Mr
Jackson asked.

‘Um, not… many,’ Frank said, narrowly
avoiding an outright lie. ‘I’m still building up the herd.’

‘Fair enough.’ Mr Jackson fished around in
his jacket pocket and produced a card with his name and address.
‘I’m a bit fed up with the prices some of these fancy breeders try
to screw out of me for pedigree cows. If you decide you can spare
one or two this spring, drop me a line.’

Frank glanced at the card and stowed it in
his pocket. ‘I might just do that.’ He shook hands with Mr Jackson
before the latter moved off to admire some heavy horses. Then Frank
heard the call for bulls to be led out and promptly forgot the
stranger.

There was some good-natured grumbling over
Frank’s cheek when he was awarded a ribbon for the best Jersey bull
in the show; as the only Jersey bull, Duke William had not had to
face competition to win his prize. But after Orange Blossom had
been awarded her own ribbon as the best Jersey cow of any age in
the show, again having been paraded around the ring in solitary
splendour as the sole example of her breed, she was involved in a
more genuine contest.

A small group of cows were arranged in a
ring, with their owners crouched beside them on stools to milk
them. When the buckets were full they were passed over to the panel
of men who had been appointed judges: the manager of the butter
factory, an elderly farmer from the other side of Ruatane whom
Frank barely knew, and a Dairy Advisor who had conveniently been
visiting Tauranga and had had his return fare to Ruatane paid so
that he could give the show a little extra status.

In terms of quantity there was not much in
it. Orange Blossom was much smaller than any of the Shorthorns, and
by rights a good Shorthorn should have had the edge over her in
sheer volume produced. But when the contents of the buckets were
carefully measured, Orange Blossom’s production was found to be
second only to one huge Shorthorn.

That would have been enough to make Frank
prouder than ever of the dainty Jersey, but there was better to
come. With elaborate care, milk from each cow had been poured into
graduated glass cylinders and left to stand in the shade of the
judges’ tent while other competitions went on in the ring. When the
milk had stood long enough for a clearly discernible layer of cream
to have formed, the percentage of cream was measured and the winner
announced.

Frank knew well enough that his Jerseys
produced creamier milk than any other cows in the area; the
payments he was getting from the factory showed that more tangibly
than any afternoon competition could do. But to have it loudly
announced in front of everyone he knew made his chest swell with
pride. He owned the cow that produced the best quality milk in the
whole district.

Lizzie squeezed his hand so tightly at the
announcement that he knew she was almost as excited as he was
himself. She gave him a little push to start him on his way over to
the tent to collect his prize: a small silver cup and five
shillings.

‘Congratulations, Mr Kelly,’ the Dairy
Advisor said, fixing Frank with a friendly smile. ‘Even for a
Jersey that cow of yours is producing impressive milk. You must
have a fine herd.’

‘They’re not bad,’ Frank said, then he
plucked up the courage to express his true thoughts. ‘I haven’t got
many Jerseys yet, but the ones I’ve got are really good. I’m going
to have a really special herd.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ the advisor said.
‘Perhaps I should pay you a visit while I’m in the area, have a
look at these fine cows of yours and talk over your plans?’

‘That’d be good,’ said Frank. ‘Come out for
lunch one day, my wife’s a great cook.’

The advisor laughed. ‘You’re obviously a
very fortunate man, Mr Kelly.’ And Frank silently but
wholeheartedly agreed.

Frank was not used to attention. Elation had
carried him over to the tent, but when he stepped back clutching
his prizes and looked around at what seemed a sea of faces all
staring at him, his courage nearly failed. It was only when he
picked Lizzie’s face out of the anonymous mass that he found the
strength to make his way back past his applauding audience, fixing
his eyes on Lizzie like a beacon to safe harbour. He hugged each of
the children in turn, then gave Lizzie the biggest hug of all
despite the baby in her arms, heedless of the amused looks turned
on them.

*

Amy clapped with the rest, though Charlie
did not bother. ‘Load of rubbish,’ she heard him mutter. ‘Making
all that fuss over a funny-looking cow.’ He had said nothing when
she showed him the ribbons she had won for her baking and
preserves, but she had not expected him to. She glanced down at her
handful of ribbons and reflected on how little it took please her;
being told that her strawberry jam was better than anyone else’s
would not have excited her in the days when she had dreamed of
going to live in Auckland, of discovering what wonders the world
outside her little valley held.

She shoved those thoughts back into the
recesses of her mind where they belonged. Dreams were for people
who had some hope of making them come true.

The cattle judging over, she held David by
the hand to stop him racing ahead as they walked beside Charlie. An
event was about to begin; an event the thought of which had filled
Malcolm’s waking hours for weeks.

Malcolm was already there, holding Brownie
by the reins and looking eager for action. As soon as all those
interested had found places to stand, the riders were told to mount
and bring their horses up to the rope lying across the ground that
marked the start and finish line.

The race was meant to be for boys aged
twelve and under, but Amy was sure that one or two of the dozen or
so who lined up were thirteen or even fourteen. It was ridiculous
for a boy of seven to be riding against them, and Amy had been
worrying about Malcolm ever since Charlie had said he could
compete. But it would have been no use her speaking out against it;
even if Charlie were to take any notice of her, which would be a
near miracle, Malcolm would hate her for it. That would be harder
to bear than watching any tumble he might take.

A pole had been stuck in the ground a few
paces in front of the start line, and a hundred yards or so in
front of that a second pole marked the other end of the course. The
riders would have to gallop up to the far pole, turn around it,
race back to the near pole, then repeat the performance twice more
before sprinting for the finish line. It occurred to Amy to wonder
whether Malcolm, with his total disdain for school and all it had
to offer, would be able to manage the necessary counting, but as he
listened to the man who was explaining the rules she saw him
repeating them under his breath and glancing back and forth at the
poles, picturing what he would have to do. He would manage, she
decided. The race meant enough to him to make him try, something he
never did at school.

A lowered handkerchief signalled the start.
The riders dug in their heels and the horses broke into a run.
Malcolm’s pony was soon left several strides behind some of the
longer-legged mounts, and Amy hoped he would not be too
disappointed if he ended up trailing the field.

But there was more to this race than speed.
Malcolm was the fifth rider around the far pole, but Amy could see
that he made by far the tightest turn. By the time they approached
the near pole he was barely behind the leading bunch of four, and
again he made a turn so tight that the pony seemed to fold back
upon himself. Amy began to cheer for her son, though she knew he
was too occupied to hear her, and David joined in with his
higher-pitched voice.

‘Come on, Mal,’ they shouted. ‘Go, Mal!’

As the leading group, with Malcolm now
firmly part of it, rounded the far pole one of the bigger boys
swayed for a moment, clutched at his reins, then slid almost
gracefully to the ground. He scrambled up to get his horse and
himself out of the way of the other riders, and made his way off
the track kicking disgruntledly at the dirt.

His example made the remaining riders more
cautious, and they took the next two bends making a wider berth
around the poles. All except Malcolm. He sat his little pony as if
they were two parts of the same creature, sliding his legs
instinctively so as to urge Brownie into the tightest of turns
while giving the pony’s spine all the freedom it needed to
bend.

With the end in sight, the other boys kicked
their mounts into faster gallops, then leaned into the turns so
recklessly that two more fell off on the last pass of the far pole.
Malcolm did not appear to lean at all, but Brownie passed the pole
so closely that he all but brushed it, and when he had rounded it
he and Malcolm were in the lead.

‘Go, Mal! Go, Mal!’

Amy and David were not the only ones
shouting now. She could hear voices all around her taking up the
cry, including Charlie’s deep one. Brownie would have been no match
for the fastest of the horses in a long gallop, but the flashiest
two were riderless after that last turn, and although the remaining
riders tried desperately to swallow up Malcolm’s lead he crossed
the finishing line a full stride ahead, to a roar of admiration
from everyone watching.

Malcolm sprang from Brownie’s back and
rushed to them, eyes shining. Amy flung her arms around him and
gave him a hug, but Malcolm hardly seemed to notice. All his
attention was on his father. ‘I won, Pa!’ he cried. ‘Me and Brownie
won! Didn’t I do good? Didn’t I?’

Amy followed Malcolm’s gaze.
Tell him,
Charlie. Tell him you’re proud of him
.

Charlie looked away, and began fiddling with
his pipe. ‘Not bad. You took that second-to-last turn like a fool,
you were bloody lucky not to come off.’ He glanced at Malcolm, to
see the boy’s face crumple. ‘Don’t stand there gawking like an
idiot, boy, go and see to that pony. Leaving the beast standing
there in a sweat! I’ll take him off you if you won’t look after him
properly.’