Bride in Flight (20 page)

She pulled herself together. She must not be childish and take a minor postponement as a tragedy or feel suddenly apprehensive. Simon must be as disappointed as she was. He hadn’t known she had arranged tea for two. He might even have felt that by coming in late they would be sure of solitude.

But oh, why couldn’t things go to plan just once!

She suddenly smelt burning, rushed to the oven, drew out the pie, burnt black.

Oh, well, what did it matter now? She’d just make herself a cup of tea. She had a slice of bread and a pikelet sitting in a chair by the fire.

She cleared the table, washed her cup and saucer, built up the sitting-room fire, carried the jar of briar-roses in, put it on the small coffee-table Simon had made her. It was stupid to feel no pleasure in this simply because Simon had not got in for his meal.

Kirsten got a book and tried to read.

It was all of eleven before she heard him coming in. He came across to the sitting-room door, opened it, stood just inside, leaning against it.

Kirsten’s heart had leapt with joy, knowing he would be all the more eager after the wasted hours apart. But now her heart thudded painfully as she stared at him.

What was wrong?

His face was drained of color and unfamiliar lines were deeply etched from mouth to chin. His eyes, usually so warm and dancing, were like chips of glacier ice.

“
Is
your Gilbert dead?” he asked her. It was an accusation.

She caught her breath. “No, but—”

He held up his hand. “No buts,
please.
It’s all I wanted to know. I told myself I wouldn’t believe it till I heard it from your own lips. I thought—I prayed it was some ghastly mistake.”

Kirsten could not speak for the too-rapid beating of her heart, the thud-thud of her pulses.

He went on inexorably: “And all you told me about being widowed, your grievous loss, your getting over it... the whole wretched tissue of lies ... was false, was it? Answer me, was it?”

“Yes, but I—but I was going to tell you everything tonight, Simon. Oh, why did somebody else have to tell you? I wanted to explain myself.”

“No doubt!” His tone was like that of the whip-lash bird, cracking out of the Australian bush. “I can well imagine that. A well-embroidered tale, no doubt. What made you think I’d stand for
that
? Do you think I’d have brought you here had I known? What will Nan think? She’d never have let the children come. We’ve been lucky there’s been no talk as it is, that it hasn’t come out. But there will be soon. The whole camp will buzz with it.”

There was a drumming in Kirsten’s ears. “You mean ... you mean the others know? That he said it straight out in front of them?”

He shook his head, his face set. “No, I was at least spared that. But it’s a wonder he didn’t blurt it out. I feel he was decidedly restrained.”

Kirsten tried to get hold of the situation. “But, Simon, does it really matter? I mean it will be only a nine days’ wonder. I thought you would understand. I knew you’d be hurt I hadn’t told you—but when I explained I thought you would understand. I want to clear things up. I knew I shouldn’t have come here, but I needed a refuge. I was in a state of shock when I first met you. You know that. You know what I was like on board the plane.”

“I know what you
seemed
like. All an act, I suppose. I fell for it, hook, line and sinker, didn’t I. It sounded so damned pathetic ... the bright new wedding-ring, the confetti, your refusal to speak of your bereavement, sobbing yourself to sleep that night in the hut ... ah, pah! It makes me sick!”

He drew in a deep breath. “And now you speak calmly of putting things right.’ What on earth are women coming to? You can go back to Australia ... back to your Gilbert. I couldn’t care less.”

Kirsty, now white to the lips, said, “Gilbert and I have nothing further to say to each other, ever. It’s finished. So is this. If you can act like this, never even allowing me a chance of explaining, then I’ve been almost as much deceived in you as you in me. I’ll leave here tomorrow—” Suddenly the thought of the children hit her. She said flatly, “Oh, Nan will be on her way. Well, Simon MacNeill, if you can put up with me for a fortnight, I guess I can put up with you, but only for
their
sakes.” She suddenly felt her temper flare. “And don’t look at me like that—as if I were some strange insect under your microscope. Even if I have lied and deceived—at least in that I was honest. I
have
loved the children. I would have told you about this long ago but for them. I thought if you knew you wouldn’t want me to stay. Even now when I’d prefer to rush out of your house and never see you again I must still put their welfare first. Two weeks isn’t long. I suppose we’re sufficiently civilized to be able to behave reasonably normally in front of them for fourteen days?”

“Yes. And no talking it over with anyone in the camp. I want you well away from here when the news comes out, as I suppose it must.”

Kirsten, still sustained on a wave of great anger, turned away, walked to her bedroom door. Swiftly as it had come her anger ebbed, leaving her feeling curiously bereft of support. She turned, said in a desolate tone, “Simon, wouldn’t you listen? Wouldn’t you let me explain?”

His face might have been granite. “No. No amount of explaining could put things right. Besides, I couldn’t believe you. As far as I’m concerned it’s over.”

She went through, sat on her bed, buried her face in her hands. She hadn’t believed Simon could be so intolerant, so impervious to her plea for understanding.

Fiona had been so right when she had said men looked at things differently. Another pain stabbed at Kirsty. She had trusted Fiona to say nothing. But she
had
told Edward. And Edward had told Simon. Men did stick together. She wondered dully how it had happened. Had Simon, longing to tell his close friend of his engagement, broached the subject? And had Edward said, “Be careful, old man, she’s left one poor fool at the altar already?”

She would never know.

Yet Edward had been so comradely at lunch-time. That hurt too.

She had been very foolish and now she had to pay for it.

Tomorrow she would write Nicola and Patty. Tell them where she was, why she had run away, how she had thought the truth about Gilbert’s attempted bigamy would have been exposed almost immediately and the idea had been to give his wife time to work in.

She would go to Nicola’s when she landed. Her Jock was a lawyer, he’d know what to do. But one thing she was resolved upon—she would broadcast her reasons for the flight from her wedding in all the papers. She was going to vindicate herself in the eyes of the world—and Simon.

He might not be willing to listen to her, now, and even after he read it in the papers he might never want to see her again, but at least he would know that she had not run away for some irresponsible whim.

As he’d refused to listen to her, evidently the unforgivable sin was that of lying to him.

She knew she would not be able to sleep. She would start to write those letters now. Better, anyway, than writing them tomorrow with constant interruptions from Mark.

With the promptness of a stage cue, the lights went out ... Midnight and the camp curfew. Cinderella time!

She took off her clothes in the darkness, crawled into bed.

CHAPTER NINE

THE next morning everything she did was mechanical, and she thought it was the same with Simon. They even managed, for the sake of the children, a little small talk. She was immensely grateful for the children’s incessant chatter, the need for answering. For once they went entirely unrebuked.

When the two little boys went down for their afternoon nap she wrote Nicola and Patty. She couldn’t face writing the horrible thing twice, so made it a joint letter. At first, remembering Simon’s reaction, she was afraid to put pen to paper, but as soon as she had forced herself to write “Dear Nicola and Patty,” the memory of their friendship came back to her. In their loyalty, at least, she could be confident.

She told them in full, up till the moment she left Sydney. Then she simply said she’d met a man on the plane, a Mr. MacNeill, who had needed a housekeeper in this remote corner of the earth, for his sick sister’s children. He’d taken her for a widow, which she had allowed him to go on believing. The children would go home in a fortnight, so she would travel with them to their parents in Dunedin and go on to Christchurch and get the first plane available. Mr. MacNeill now knew the truth, though nobody else here did.

She would like to put the whole thing before Jock and find out what steps they must take. If he didn’t care to handle it or felt it would be better policy for a stranger to do so, no doubt he knew of someone suitable.

She begged their pardon for all the anxiety she must have caused them but at the time she had thought it would be of short duration. She finished up:

“hoping desperately you will understand my state of mind at the time,

As ever,

Christine.”

Simon stayed in the men’s quarters that evening again, though he did come in for dinner, but only, he took care to inform her, because he didn’t want to cause any more talk than necessary.

When she was going to bed small Becky hugged Kirsty tightly. “I’m glad Uncle Simon’s so busy over there just now ... we have more time with you then for stories.”

Kirsty, too, was glad to be busy. By the time the play-hour was over, the four of them bathed and bedded, the place tidied up, their daily ironing done, it was late enough to make going to bed seem reasonable and saved her being alone with Simon.

She hated the necessity for asking Simon to post her letter at Haast.

He looked down on the envelope. “It’s not to Gilbert,” he said sharply.

She took him up on that instantly. “I told you I was
not
going back to him.”

He took no umbrage at her tone, said. “Who are these?”

“My matrons-of-honor. Close and dear friends. Not that it’s any business of yours. I just want you to post it. I can’t even do that much for myself—privately—in this benighted place.”

He said evenly: “You haven’t put an air-sticker on There are some in my desk.”

“I’m sending it surface. It doesn’t require an answer. I don’t want anyone else to know of my pending return too soon. I’m sure you’ll understand that. I want to follow in person on the heels of this letter.”

“Very well.”

Mac came back, a much relieved man, with the news that Lexie was well and the baby a little charmer. Simon was standing by the sink, outwardly unchanged.

Mac continued: “We’re calling her Kirsten. Lexie said she hopes she will grow up as fine as her namesake.” Kirsten managed to thank Mac, to appear gratified, and to avoid Simon’s eyes which, she knew, would hold a sardonic mockery.

What did it matter? They were keeping Lexie at Hokitika an extra week before allowing her to fly back, to give the baby just that much of a better start, so Kirsten would be gone before she arrived. So if, when she heard the news, she felt the same as Simon about it, Lexie would have time to change her mind about the name. The baby could not be baptized till the next visit of the Presbyterian minister.

Not much point, anyway, in naming the baby for someone she would never see.

Suddenly, at the thought that she would never see Lexie’s baby, Kirsten’s heart felt unbearably hurt. Strange how a little thing could hurt when the big things no longer could. There was just a numbness.

Mac told them his mother-in-law was coming up on the tourist bus that came as far as Haast and she’d take over Chris and look after Lexie for a while.

Henare came in with Simon that night for dinner. Kirsten supposed that was Simon’s doing, to keep the barriers up.

But when they got to the coffee stage, Henare, with Becky on his knee, said, “Kirsty, when Chris’s grandmother gets here could you take another boarder in Chris’s place? Or would it be too much? Just say.”

“It would depend who the boarder was, Hal. I’d take you like a shot, but—”

“It’s my fiancée, my Ruihi ... or Lucy if you prefer that. She’s never been over here and I want her to have a fair idea of what the life is like before she completely casts her lot in with me. After all, I was at Varsity when I first met her and she was too. I don’t suppose I’ll get an administrative job in the city for years yet. I need the experience on the spot. I think she’ll love it here, but she must be sure.”

“A sound idea, Henare. Where is she? What does she do?”

“She’s teaching at a high school in Christchurch. She’s had appendicitis and is convalescent, doesn’t go back for ten days. “We’re getting married at the end of year. How about it?”

“I’d love it. I’ll do all I can to sell her the life here.”

Henare had his cheek against Becky’s straight glossy black hair. “I reckon if she sees a girl like you can take it and love it, she’ll know she can too.”

Simon said: “But of course Kirsty isn’t staying, Hal.”

“Isn’t staying? Why, Kirsty, I thought you’d fallen for the place, and—” he stopped abruptly.

Kirsty sought for words. Simon found them for her. “Oh, she’s got family responsibilities of her own back in Australia, Hal. This was never meant to be any other than an emergency measure.”

Kirsty’s eyes involuntarily flew to his face. It was quite unreadable. Was he trying to ease an awkward moment? Or merely shutting off any possibility of discussion?

Family! She had nobody in the world with whom she could claim relationship. Never would have now. She was finished with human relationships. Gilbert had grossly deceived her, Simon had failed her. She had no ambition to trust a man again, ever, much less give her heart into his keeping. Simon’s love hadn’t been worthy of the name if he wouldn’t even ask why she had fled from her wedding.

“When are you going?” Henare asked. “I’d an idea Jimsy was going to ask you to stay on and help her for a bit after the children have gone back. I heard her saying to one of the chaps that if she got you into the running of it for a week or two, she might even manage a holiday. Nobody wants you to leave, Kirsty, we’ve grown so fond of you.”

She smiled a little bleakly, shook her pale head. “Sorry, Hal, I’d love to oblige Jimsy, but I’m committed to returning.”

He nodded. “Yes, I think Lexie once said to Jimsy it might not be possible, that you were going over to attend to some legal business—but how about coming back when it’s fixed? Eh?”

Simon intervened again. “Oh, I don’t think there’s the same urgency about the legal business now. But she’d got to go just the same—permanently. This was only an interlude.”

Becky was pulling at Henare. “Come and play tiddlywinks, Uncle Hal. Uncle Simon and Kirsty’ll do the dishes.”

They did them in silence.

Simon wasn’t coming to Dunedin with them. Kirsty heard that without a pang, even knew relief. Easier to deliver the children and get away. No fear of Simon telling Nan.

Ruihi would be going back to Christchurch about that time so Simon had asked Henare to take a couple of days off and take them all to Dunedin in the station wagon. He could come back with an M.O.W. truck that was coming back with supplies.

Ruihi was delightful. “Just call me Ruihi ... to rhyme with cooee,” she said to the children. She pulled a face over the doubts Henare had had about the way she might react to the life.

“Anywhere with Henare would be heaven,” she said to Kirsty one day as they gathered driftwood on the beach. “I’ve enjoyed teaching immensely, but I want to settle down now, raise a family, and I can’t think of anywhere more delightful than this. I’m trying to write a book, and these would be ideal surroundings for writing. I hope I’ll get a bit of scope for teaching still. It might be possible to start a smaller Sunday-school right here, do you think?”

“I think it would be fine, Rui. I’d have done just that myself had I been staying.”

Suddenly time seemed to be rushing. Everything Kirsty did seemed to have a finality for her ... visits to the women, the last Institute meeting, the last visit to where the men are working.

She could not bear to think of the parting with the children. She had thought so happily, before the reckoning, that some day soon she would be their aunt in very truth. She filled the days to the brim, washing, mending, sorting, finishing a pullover for Geordie. Simon’s had been finished long ago, and lay at the bottom of her wardrobe, unbestowed. Jimsy came over to tell her they were giving her a party the night before they were to leave. It would serve to honor Ruihi too. Chris’s grandmother offered to look after the children. She would bring Chris’s stretcher over and he could sleep the night at Simon’s.

Kirsty wished they hadn’t thought of it. She loved these folk, the hard-working, fun-loving women, brave in facing the loneliness, the isolation from medical aid; she loved the men, rough diamonds some of them, but nevertheless diamonds, but it was hard to pretend in front of so many that she and Simon were still friendly.

Somehow she got through, but was touched to tears when at suppertime she was presented with a beautiful
paua
shell clock, to make her remember, they said, the
paua
shells on the shore she had loved so much, and the happy hours spent there.

Apart from the desolation in Kirsty’s heart it had been a wonderful evening. Henare and Ruihi had donned Maori garb, looking superbly handsome, had sung Maori songs, and Ruihi had given a
poi
dance. Jimsy had done some delightful Yorkshire sketches, accompanying herself on the piano.

She had also played for most of the dances. The most popular of all for the community singing had been Kirsten’s mother’s song,
Under the Dunedin Moon.
No one knew what poignant memories it held for Kirsten. She knew her mother would never have imagined the circumstances under which it was being sung tonight.

Suddenly Jimsy swept her fingers over the keys. “Now I’m going to sing that song as it ought to be sung ... as it was written first.”

Kirsten stiffened. What could Jimsy mean?
As it was written first.
She held her breath as Jimsy’s mellow old voice sang on, came to the last line of the first verse, sang: “Under the
Otago
moon.”

Kirsten closed her eyes against the impact. That
was
how Mother had written it, how it had been submitted to the publisher. But they had thought it wise, as it would have world distribution, to change it to Dunedin Moon ... more easily pronounced. The publisher had written, “We know, of course, that it should be pronounced O-tah-go, but we are afraid it would often be sung to rhyme with sago. Have we your permission to make the change?”

It had been wise. In any case, Otago wasn’t a true Maori name, it had been an early corruption by the first settlers—or whalers—of Otakou. It hadn’t really mattered ... but how had Jimsy known?

Simon was asking her. Jimsy smiled, “The writer was my neighbor in Dunedin in the war years. My son and her husband both went away, neither of them to return. That poem eased something of the ache in Ingrid Macpherson’s heart, recaptured for her the magic of her courting days. She was a wonderful person.”

It was inevitable that someone should suddenly realize there had been a news item not long ago that linked up with this.

It was Lars, the big Norwegian. “Jimsy, wasn’t the writer of that song the mother of the bride who ran away from her wedding in Sydney?”

Kirsten stood as if transfixed. Oh, no! Not on the eve of her departure. Not right at the last moment!

Jimsy said, “Yes, that’s true. I have every reason to believe that girl is just as fine as her mother. I’m quite sure that she must have had some very good reason for it. Much, much better a runaway bride than a broken marriage later. It took courage to do it, I’ll warrant. For her mother’s sake and her own, I hope that some day that girl finds true happiness.”

There were little murmurings amongst the crowd, they turned to each other discussing it.

As they did, Jimsy swung round on the circular piano stool, looked directly at Kirsty, smiled.

Jimsy knew! Kirsty’s head and senses reeled before the impact of realizing that. Of course she knew. She had been her mother’s neighbor. Kirsty could see Jimsy now, examining the photograph of Kirsty’s parents on her bedroom wall the day she had arrived. She had never said a word, but now, when Kirsty was leaving them, she wanted her to know that she trusted her. And yet she didn’t have an inkling of her reasons.

It underlined for her the fact that Simon had not given her the benefit of the doubt ... hadn’t even allowed her to explain. She looked across at him, afraid to meet his eyes, yet impelled to look.

There was nothing in his face for her to read, only hardness. Even Jimsy’s opinion had not affected him.

He looked away, called, “Strike up, Jimsy, for the last dance,” and took Ruihi into his arms.

He had not had one dance with Kirsty. Had anyone noticed?

Henare swung her into the swirling dancers. “Simon’s got my girl, I’ll pinch his.”

Kirsty said flatly, “Not his, Henare dear, never his.”

The dark eyes searched hers deeply. “What went wrong, Kirsty? I could have sworn that night of the rescue that—”

Her smile was bitter. “That didn’t mean a thing. Just sheer relief.”

Henare said softly, “Are you sure, my friend? Simon is no trifler. I thought you had engaged his heart. He might just think it too soon after your husband’s death.”

“Henare, it wasn’t that. We quarrelled. It was entirely my fault. I’d told him lies. I’d cheated him. He isn’t just angry. It’s simply that he no longer cares.”

The big Maori put his cheek against hers in wordless sympathy, as a brother might have done.

Kirsty managed a shaky laugh. “That’s very nice, Henare, only better not. Ruihi might not understand. It’s so easy, so pitifully easy for things to go wrong, for misunderstandings to flourish. But thank you.”

As Henare took his cheek away Kirsten was aware of Simon’s despising eyes upon her, she thought he was keeping Ruihi from seeing them. What did it matter now? He could think she was flirting with Henare for all she cared.