Bride in Flight (14 page)

A tall Maori nearest her reached out a hand and drew her back. “Oh, no, you don’t, girl. This isn’t just a delegation to welcome Simon Peter home. It’s to look you over too.”

Kirsty chuckled and hesitated. “True? You aren’t just being polite? I feel you’d be more free all men together.”

“No fear. Women aren’t too plentiful up here—unattached ones. You’re going to be popular, Brownie! Hope you like the place so much you stay on.”

Simon nodded to her to signify that he’d like her to stay, so Kirsty sat down by Henare. “Oh, my excuse for being here will evaporate when the children’s mother is well enough to have them home again.”

Henare grinned, dexterously rolling a cigarette with one hand. “D’you reckon? It wouldn’t be hard to fit you in in another capacity. I don’t think the boys will let you get away from here, even if Simon is mug enough to do so.”

Kirsty laughed, feeling natural for the first time for days. Henare’s casual acceptance of her widowhood and his complete lack of trying to tread gently was a welcome change from the sympathy that made her feel such a heel.

Henare rolled another cigarette, licked it, expertly fingered it into a perfect cylinder, offered it to Kirsty. Kirsty took it. She wanted to appear matey. She only hoped she wouldn’t cough too much, she hadn’t smoked since her experimental teenage days.

She bent towards him as he lit it for her, and looked up, saw Simon’s look was approving. Apart from everything else he was enjoying the novelty of having a hostess, of being able to dispense hospitality instead of accepting it. And perhaps they would all enjoy it more than the brand they got at the single huts, beer and bought biscuits.

Her mind toyed with thoughts of supper. Not enough of the sponge left to go round. There might be enough bread for a finger of two of savory toast spread with marmite and toasted cheese, but that oven was still hot, could she manage date scones, piping hot?

She excused herself, slipped out to the kitchen, thrust in some wood, opened up the dampers. It obligingly roared away and she slid them back.

Simon arrived out. “Kirsty, don’t skip out on me, will you? The men are enjoying this.”

“No, but bought biscuits for supper doesn’t seem to fit the occasion, so I’m knocking up some scones.”

“Well, don’t knock yourself out. It’s been a terrific day and we had—er—a disturbed night.”

“Well, a batch of scones won’t exhaust me. Back you go to our guests.”

The toast and scones went down well, so did the percolated coffee. Kirsty had only one anxious moment, that was when they began talking about Simon’s good luck in getting a seat on the plane. But Simon headed them off, afraid they might hurt Kirsty with the reference to the unoccupied seat. The men realized and left it alone. We’re all avoiding the subject, she thought, it’s a case of plot and counter-plot. Suddenly her head was spinning and she felt desperately tired.

When she and Simon had dried the last cup, she found he had run the bath for her.

“Don’t stay in long, you’ve exactly ten minutes to Cinderella time.”

She looked up at him inquiringly. “The lights go out at midnight,” he reminded her. “It can be awkward floundering round in the dark in a strange house. I’ve put a torch and candle beside your bed.” He smiled down on her. “Thanks for everything, particularly for tonight. Goodnight and God bless.”

The toffee-brown eyes and the dark blue eyes met and held. Kirsty was conscious of a warmth at her heart, the heart that had felt constricted so long. No one had said that to her since her mother died.

She let time escape her, then became aware that they were still holding each other’s eyes, that something had stirred and wakened. Something kindred, fused. It was superseded with a quick feeling of embarrassment. He betrayed it by hesitation, she by saying lightly, “We sound like an ancient Darby and Joan.”

He ought to have merely said, “Yes, don’t we?”

He didn’t. He said directly, “Yes, but then there would be no need to bid each other goodnight.”

It left all sorts of things unsaid.

Kirsty picked up the towel from the rack of the range where he had put it to warm, and went hastily out of the kitchen.

The two older children seemed quiet and subdued next morning, strained with the thought of facing up to a new school. Even Geordie contented himself with merely saying quietly, without spirit, that he only liked eggs fried, hard, on both sides.

Kirsty did poached eggs for everybody else and served Geordie’s as he liked them. She wished she could have gone with them, to have seen them settled in.

There was a tap at the door. Three beaming faces greeted her. One boy’s, two girls’. “We’re the Merrills. We just got back last night from our holidays, too late to meet you. Mum said to come and take your children to school and make them feel at home.”

Kirsty brought them in and was relieved to see them all go off to the corner where the school bus would pick them up, chattering freely.

Simon, in work clothes and a beret, picked up his lunch too, kissed Mark in his high chair, said, “The jeep should be here any moment. I’m not taking any surveying kit this morning. I’m just going over the toad seeing what’s been done and so on.”

Kirsty went to the gate with him to see if the school bus had come yet. The children were just piling on.

It was quite a suburban scene, she thought, here at the end of nowhere. Houses close together, almost huddled against the loneliness, giving the impression of a city—lack of space, and the women coming to the gates with their men. On their left Jimsy had come out with the single men.

“Now off you go,” she said. “Happen I’ll get more done today than yesterday with all of you traipsing in for lunch.”

“It’s a lonely woman and all you’ll be,” vowed Finnerty. “It’s the wonder of the universe we love you as we do, and you with a tongue so cruel.”

Mac kissed Lexie goodbye, Lars, the big Norwegian, kissed his grey-haired wife, B
a
rb Merrill stooped to his Lydia.

“A very domesticated scene,” said Simon loudly. “I feel downright out of it. It’s a good old custom, maybe I should follow suit.”

Kirsty stepped back hastily, not sure whether he meant it or not. They all laughed. His blue eyes were dancing as he piled into one of the jeeps. He leaned out. “Don’t worry about Geordie eating his vegies if you eat before we get back home. I’ll carry on that scientific stuff when I come home.”

“Scientific? A child and his vegetables? What is this you say?” demanded Lars.

The women hung over the gates, listening.

Simon elaborated.

Lars put back his head and roared. “Man, but you have a job ahead of you, you have! When you have had four—as we have had—it is for sure you will know better. Have you not heard of the chap who started out with six theories and no children? Ten years later it was six children he had—and no theories!”

Chuckling, off they went.

Mrs. Jansen said, before they returned to domestic chores, “I know it sounds weak, but I found bribery a good approach. You might almost say a psychological approach. I used to hang candy sticks on the cup-hooks on the dresser, and if they ate all their vegies, they were allowed a nibble.”

Kirsty laughed. “I’ve known that sort of thing work.” They looked surprised. “I’ve brought up orphans,” she explained. “I was house-mother to nine. I’ve got ideas of my own. I’ll say nothing to Simon. His
may
work.”

It didn’t have any quick results, but Simon was every bit as determined as Geordie. They didn’t bicker over it. Geordie, true to type, soaked up the information like blotting paper and could easily have passed examinations in advanced nutritional studies, but he still picked at his food and had to be watched for raids on the cake tins, filling himself up with starchy stuff.

The children settled in well at school. Kirsty was quite prepared for a few lapses with Rebecca’s trouble, due to the nervous strain of fitting in with a new teacher, new playmates, but that small maiden, having learned plenty of children were the same, had stopped worrying and it was now never mentioned.

She was the demonstrative one. She always ran from the school bus, caught Kirsty in a bear-hug, then hugged Mark, who was much less appreciative. Geordie was like Kipling’s cat, walking by himself, and waving his long tail where he pleased, but showed his affection in offering his trophies of the hunt, and Kirsty accepted them for what they were.

She would turn from rolling pastry for a pie to find a jam-jar at her elbow, complete with vegetation, slimy water, and water-snails. Queer-looking insects appeared in boxes with holes punched in and with cellophane windows for observation.

“If you like,” Geordie would say, “you can have it in your room for the night. But it’ll have to be returned to its own place in the bush tomorrow.” He was never cruel or thoughtless or neglectful of his specimens.

To his delight she always named them, had a flair for aptness, and never threw out even any of his defunct specimens. Sometimes, after rootling round in hollow logs, he found things in a state of decomposition. All she said was:

“In the sacred name of hygiene, that will have to be kept in the wood shed.”

True, she learned always to turn the pockets of his drill shorts out after once putting a pair through the wringer with a collection of sloughed-off skins of cicadas inside, and she did insist that his polythene lunch bag was no place
for grisly-looking bones or fossils, and gave him a spare. Simon made him a deep set of shelves, sectioned off, for his collection, where he could also store his numerous jars and his scrapbooks of pressed flowers and leaves...

Becky lived in a world of imagined people with princes and fairies and dragons, sometimes creating them so vividly that she scared herself to death. She was quite content to play inside as long as Kirsty addressed her occasionally as “Your Royal Highness” or “Your Grace” and spoke in the mincing tone necessary in her little mind for the addressing of such exalted personages.

Kirsty became quite accustomed to saying: “Queen Mab, wave your wand over the kitchen floor, would you, and make those crumbs disappear?” The silver paper wand Simon had made her would be passed to and fro and then out would come the broom.

It was quite impossible to remain completely depressed under these circumstances.

They had been at Kairuri-mata eight days when Simon was recalled to Dunedin for consultations and to do some lecturing on his overseas experiences.

He was rueful about leaving her so soon. “A bit tough, coping with three children on your own. I hadn’t bargained on this.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a scrap. Too much to do to feel lonely. Jimsy and Lexie will see I’ll get a bit of company.” She dared not say she was inwardly glad, that she wanted to put her own theory about Geordie’s eating habits to the test. It might prove as unrewarding as Simon’s, but she’d give it a go, yet she didn’t want Simon to think she had succeeded where he had failed ... but looking after nine orphans at a time had given her a head-start.

Simon left early, wanting to run through to Dinedin in the one day and be early enough to see his sister that night. He was armed with several undeveloped films of their life in the camp for Nan’s reassurance.

So Kirsty started on her theory at breakfast.

Everything was set out when the children got to the kitchen. She lifted Mark to his high chair. Rebecca, always hungry, slid on to hers. “Oh, look ... look what’s happened to my boiled egg!”

Geordie leaned across her chair. “Gee ... a beaut Red Indian squaw ... headdress, feathers, braids ... and a little wigwam and bow and arrow behind her!” Kirsty had drawn it before boiling the eggs. Mark had suddenly started to talk more. “Mark’s got Humpty-Dumpty!” he announced. “Couldn’t put him togever again,” he added mournfully, shaking his head over the calamity.

Geordie looked at the pan on the stove. “What’s mine got on it, Kirsty?”

Kirsty’s tone was surprised. “Oh, I didn’t do
you
a boiled egg, Geordie. You don’t like them. Your hard fried eggs are on the rack.”

Geordie glared, swallowed, controlled his tears, said, “Well, you might have given me the chance.”

Kirsty said in a puzzled tone, “But you hate boiled eggs ... they taste exactly the same as without drawings.”

Geordie said slowly: “I don’t think I hate them the way I used to. You get like that. Suddenly you like something.”

“Well, sorry you missed out this morning. I did one for Becky’s lunch too, but never mind, I put in a tomato for you. If you’d like an egg tomorrow, I’ll do you one.”

“Couldn’t you do one now for my lunch?” asked Geordie.

She sounded convincingly regretful. “No, they take ten minutes after they come to the boil, and the fire’s a bit low, and then they have to cool completely before putting them in your bag. And even the drawing takes time. I did those last night.”

“What did you draw on Becky’s school egg?”

“A wombat.”

“Gee! I’ve never seen a wombat, and I don’t suppose any of the other kids have either. What are they like?”

“They’re low on the ground and they’re covered with fairly coarse thick fur, darling little bright-eyed faces, and they’re terrifically friendly. We’ve one in a reptile park near Sydney that appears on TV. Of course Australian animals are by nature friendly. The wallabies and kangaroos could rip you to pieces, only they don’t seem to know it. At the Reptile Park they roll over in utter bliss to have their tummies rubbed just the way spaniels do. If they aren’t in the mood, they just gently paw you away.”