Bride in Flight (5 page)

She shivered, “Imagine crashing here!”

The twilit plain came into view, lamps just beginning to glimmer out, below them rich, fertile plains, chequered with hedges, the green of pasture, the burnt gold of ripe harvest paddocks, the purple-brown of furrowed earth, all intersected by the silver ribbons of what looked like streams, but which in some cases, Simon MacNeill said, were mile-wide rivers released from the confines of the narrow gorges to spread out in vast shingle-beds.

They were losing height rapidly, their seat belts were fastened, and Simon was pointing to where a great peninsula reached out into the Pacific, cradling Lyttelton Harbour, the Port of Christchurch, in its embrace.

A puff of smoke rose from the tarmac as the great wheels touched down. They taxied across to the terminal building on the plains, the bustle and stir of passengers began, they gathered their things together, kept their Customs declarations in their hands, went down the gangway.

CHAPTER THREE

KIRSTEN’S heartbeats quickened. The last hurdle had now to be taken. She didn’t want any hitch. She must keep her papers out of range of MacNeill’s eyes. He musn’t see the Brownfield. It wouldn’t mean a thing to the Customs official. News could not have reached New Zealand. The time difference favored her. The evening papers would be on sale at two, she supposed, and that would have been noon, the marriage time, in Sydney.

She assumed a gaiety she did not feel as her foot came into the tarmac. “My foot is at last on its native heath!”

Simon had declared everything dutiable. “So darned silly to do anything else. All I’ve with me are mostly souvenirs for the kids. The rest will be coming by sea. I’ve collected a fair bit in Canada, America and Australia. But I didn’t bring much on the plane, hadn’t time. It was very chancy, my even getting a flight.”

He changed the subject. “You’ve nothing to declare, I daresay.”

“No, I knew no one in New Zealand, so I bought no souvenirs.”

She managed to get two ahead of him by some adroit manoeuvring, so drew a breath of relief. Then they were blessedly through the main building where presently Simon MacNeill managed to book them on a flight to Dunedin for the next morning.

When she saw herself booked in as Kirsten Brown she felt all links with her past life had been served.

Soon they were in the NAC bus, driving through suburbs so English-looking they could have fitted into any travel brochure of the Motherland. A city of trees and flowers. No wonder they called it the garden city.

“There is the odd native tree around,” said Simon, “but just here the Canterbury pioneers planted heavenly English trees.” He pointed to the banks of the river thick with oaks. “Millions of daffodils and bluebells and crocuses bloom there in spring.”

“What is the name of the river?”

“The Avon.”

“After Stratford-on-Avon, I suppose.”

“No, oddly it isn’t, though many people living here still think so. It’s named after a Scots river in Lanarkshire. Some Scotsmen named Deans, brothers, were here before the Anglican Church Settlement pioneers arrived, but the named toned in well ... Anthony Eden said it should be called Christchurch-on-the-Avon.”

He said, “I’m only sorry we aren’t going by car tomorrow. I could have made a detour and shown you Lincoln College where your father studied. It’s a glorious place, out in the country, of course. We may get a glimpse of it from the plane tomorrow.”

At the air-centre Simon did some phoning, got them in at Stonehurst in Gloucester Street.

They were taken upstairs to the bedrooms.

“Put your things away,” said Simon MacNeill gently, “and join me in the hall in a few moments.”

She did, looking at him to find what he wanted to do next.

His voice was kind. “Now, as we’re leaving Christchurch early tomorrow, you’ll have no chance to see Christchurch, so if you’re not too tired, I’d like to run you round now. I know it’s dark, but you’d still get some idea ... I feel it will make up to you for the holiday you aren’t getting now. Or would you rather go to bed? Are you worn out?” No, she didn’t want to go to bed. Her mind was seething with a dozen problems, a score of impressions, swirling in a sea of doubts. Go to bed? This was to have been her wedding night!

“I’d like very much to see Christchurch ... but how?”

“I know someone here who owns a car hire firm. He’ll let me have one.”

No sooner said than done. Kirsty said, “But Mr. MacNeill,” as he opened the phone lobby door, “I can’t allow you to go to all that expense. It costs the earth, I know. Let me stand the cost. I’m not short of money and expected to be tripping here and there.”

One heavy bronze brow lifted quizzically. He put his head on one side, regarding her. “Don’t you think that sometimes you can be too independent? For a start I’m most terrifically grateful to you for attempting to assist me in this situation. For another ... well, you’ve come through something, haven’t you, losing your life partner? Most people would want to do something concrete in the way of sympathy. This is my way.”

Kirsty smiled, thanked him, thought, he’s going to bate me when he finds out how undeserved, how misplaced his sympathy was. Or will he understand? Will he realize that a bride, suddenly faced with the fact that she has almost entered upon a bigamous marriage, and urged to do so, might run?

She stood outside, able to hear every word.

“Yes, much earlier than I expected, Greg. Nan’s broken her hip, a tricky business, and with Morris in England she was in despair. However, I think I’ve solved it. I’ve brought someone over with me from Australia—a widow—who is very used to children and who is going to look after the children right on the job. Yes, at Kairuri-mata.

“I know it’s the back of beyond, but it’s what she needs to take her mind off her bereavement, and as she has been on the staff of an orphanage, she’s the right person. Actually she’s a New Zealander, but left here as a child. We aren’t going to be able to do much tripping around, sightseeing, stuck away there beyond the mountains, so I wondered if you could possibly open up and let me have a car for tonight? Thought I’d at least run her up the Port Hills and let her see the general layout of Christchurch. What ... your own car? Oh, no, Greg, you might need it. You’re sure you don’t? Oh, right, I’ll say no more. I’ve just read Mrs. Brown a lecture on accepting things graciously. We’ll take a taxi to your place. See you soon.” He came out grinning. “That’s the sort of friend to have! We can have his Jag. I’ll ring a Blue Star.”

Greg Bothwell lived on Cashmere, a residential suburb on the Port Hills that divided the plains from the harbor. Both he and his wife were obviously surprised when they saw Kirsty. Greg couldn’t forbear comment.

“Gosh, Simon, you old fox, I imagined Mrs. Brown, widow, as a comfortable, buxom body about sixty in the shade, instead of which—” he surveyed Kirsty and whistled.

His wife looked horrified. Simon laughed and Kirsty’s color rose.

Mrs. Bothwell said hastily: “Men! They’re so wedded to preconceived ideas! I’ve never known anything like it. Mrs. Brown will think we’re very outspoken. I think it’s wonderful that the children are to have somebody young. Nan will be terribly relieved. How extremely fortunate Simon knew someone over there who’d drop everything and come. You don’t exactly look as if you’re from the outback, but I hope you are because then you’ll be able to take the loneliness.”

Kirsten responded mechanically. “It’s an experience I’ve always longed for but never had the chance to sample. My mother came from Wanaka way.”

“Oh, then you’ll have links there, be able to look up your relations, perhaps stay for a weekend if you get sick of the forest and the rain.”

“No, not really. Mother was brought up by a childless aunt and uncle, long since gone. As far as I know I’ve no relations in New Zealand, but I’ve always wanted to see my birthplace—Dunedin.”

Her eyes met Simon’s. He was probably wise. It saved a lot of embarrassing explanations if people assumed Simon had known her in Australia.

He headed the car up to the Kiwi, a stone resting-house perched on the bare hillside of the summit. Below them Canterbury spread out, like navy-blue velvet sequined with the blazing lights of the city, right to the edge of the Pacific eight miles east where no light gleamed save that of the moon above the sable waters. Only the lower slopes of the hills were residential, the rest lay in darkness, bare and tussocky save where man-planted sections of pine and bluegum darkened the slopes.

“Hills for hikers. Christchurch takes its hills seriously, as a city of the plains should. Dunedin is spread out on so many hills they are part of the town itself.” He turned her round to look down on the harbor, at the hills of the Peninsula beyond. “The harbor itself is a filled-in crater of an extinct volcano. We have a railway tunnel running through from Lyttelton, and, recently, a road tunnel. The railway one was begun very shortly after the pioneers arrived, a magnificent undertaking for a new colony.” He laughed. “I’m talking shop! You’ll get sick of it, tunnels, roads, bridges, for breakfast, dinner and tea.”

Kirsty said, “I like it. It’s adventurous. Even to say a man is a road-builder is stirring. We think of the world as so civilized, so very explored. What made you want to be a road-builder, Mr. MacNeill?”

It was an idle enough question, but there was a certain roughness in his voice as he answered. “Because my people lived beyond the reach of decent roads. We were to have had a little brother or sister. It came early, and the river they had to cross for access was in flood. It had only just risen. Father thought he could get across with the dray. They were all drowned. We were away at hoarding school.” He caught the gleam of tears in Kirsty’s upturned face, pinched her chin, said, “Life’s like that. It was grim at the time, but it’s in the past. Get the message? You’ve got a future too.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacNeill.”

They went right round the Summit Road, joined up with Evan’s Pass, dropped down to Sumner and the waters and mud-flats of the Estuary where the Avon and Heathcote joined to go out to sea, then back to Cashmere where the Bothwells had a savory supper ready for them.

They were just finishing their coffee when Mr. Bothwell said: “Mind if I switch on the late news? There’s been a by-election in which I’m interested.”

Kirsty was only half listening. It took a while to become interested in the news of a strange place. It was the usual thing ... reports of accidents, stolen cars, overseas headlines, some night-trotting results, then, suddenly: “In Sydney today, a bridegroom was left at the altar. His bride, robed by her attendants except for her veil, made an exit through an upstairs window, to a roof below, leaving the gown tossed on the floor, and a note containing only a brief excuse for her flight. Inquiries are being made in the vicinity of King’s Cross where, later, her car was found abandoned.”

“My stars!” said Gregory Bothwell. “That chap will probably stay a bachelor for the rest of his life. How could a girl do that to a man?”

Mrs. Bothwell said more carefully, “There’s something behind it. Must be. No girl would do that without a very strong reason.”

Kirsty felt a warm rush of gratitude go over her. She said cautiously, “Yes, we read it in the Sydney papers coming over. She must have had some good reason, surely.”

Greg Bothwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Some women—in fact most—are quite unpredictable. Bet that girl regrets it, and tries to make it up later.”

His wife said, mock coldly, “Jolly good thing for you, Gregory Bothwell, that you said
some
women!”

Simon MacNeill was laughing. “I should think so! Twenty years or so with a pearl of a wife, Greg, and you have the nerve to make a remark like that!”

He grinned unrepentantly. “Well, she’d know it didn’t apply to her ... I didn’t have any fears about Molly ditching me. She turned up good and early to make quite sure I was there, believe me!”

“Greg, you wretch! Simon, he begged me not to keep him waiting, said he’d be like a jelly-fish, the coward. I’d have loved to have been traditionally late.. I must have been besotted with him.”

The smile that the two Bothwells exchanged was all of good comradeship. Till that moment Kirsty had been a stranger to envy. Now a definite pang tore through her. How wonderful to be so sure of each other, to have all the turmoil of youth behind you, to have lovely, close-knit years to remember. She closed her eyes against the impact of feeling.

Molly Bothwell said, “Simon, Mrs. Brown is looking tired. No wonder, what a long day she’s had. I suppose you’d be up early packing, dear. You must get her home, though why you had to book in at a guest-house I don’t know. We’d have loved to have had you both. Oh bother, I can’t go on calling you Mrs. Brown. You don’t look much older than my daughter. What’s your name?”

“Kirsty ... and thanks very much.”

“Kirsty! What a lovely old name. What’s it short for?”

“Kirsten,” she said firmly. She wanted no one asking was it short for Christine. “My mother was Scandinavian, mid so was my father. At least he was of Scandinavian descent.”

“Oh, how interesting. I was a Jenson before I married. What was your single name?”

“Oh, it was my father’s mother who was the Norwegian. She was an Olsen.”

“And what was your father’s name?”

“Macph—” Kirsty stumbled, horrified to think she’d nearly said Macpherson, coughed, thought madly, kept coughing and finally came up with “MacFie.” Oh, how many pitfalls yawned in front of her. She’d have to watch every idle word. Aunt Mandy would have said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

She stood up. “I believe I’m tired. Do you mind, Mr. MacNeill?”

Gregory Bothwell blinked. “Are you still on formal terms? I always thought Australians were even more casual than we are.”

Simon MacNeill laughed easily, “I wager long before we get to Haast, it will be Simon. Come on, Kirsty.”

Going back with Gregory driving them her mind kept returning to the news item. “I didn’t think you’d have bad trivial little bits of Australian news on your day-to-day bulletins,” she said. “Something big, perhaps, like rockets going up at Woomera, or something, but not things like that.”

She’d better know if it were usual so she could be on guard.

“Oh, we get quite a bit of Australian news. Much more than Australia gets of ours, I’d say. You’ll notice it particularly at the pictures. We almost always have an Australian newsreel.”

Deep uneasiness stirred her. Did that mean the papers here Would keep it up? Because sooner or later someone would dig out a photograph of her. Kirsty felt sick. But surely, soon, the news of her real reason for flight would break. That Yorkshire girl would reach Sydney.” Kirsty didn’t sleep much. You didn’t naturally, when this should have been your wedding night. She had an idea she would not sleep really soundly till the bush and the mountain gorges closed behind her, shutting off most contacts with civilization.