Call of the Kiwi (50 page)

“Well, the land around the stone circle wouldn’t save us either,” he said finally. “We’d maybe gain a week or two.”

“Jack, the stone circle is just one example. I can show you four or five more pieces of land we don’t graze out of consideration for the Maori. Usually it’s not necessary, but in most cases the claim is invalid.”

“By right and by law it is,” Jack replied. “The land was rightfully acquired from the Wardens; even Tonga acknowledged that in the end.”

“The claim is invalid in every respect. It’s not as though every speck of land on which two Maori youths bloody each other’s noses instantly becomes
tapu
. The whole thing is Tonga’s invention. He’s just playing rather mean games with Grandmum.”

“The shearing companies are coming tomorrow,” Gwyneira said to Jack and Gloria at dinner. It was now the middle of September, and the weather had improved.

“Already?” Jack asked. “We’ve never shorn before October in the past.”

“We don’t have any more hay. We have to herd them early. If the weather holds, the ewes can head to the mountains in the middle of October.”

“But that’s madness,” Gloria said, dropping her fork and glaring at her great-grandmother. “That’s much too early. We’ll lose half the lambs.”

Gwyneira was just about to argue back when Jack made a conciliatory gesture with his hand. “The weather can turn at any moment,” he said calmly.

“It can, but it won’t,” Gwyneira insisted. “After that awful summer and rainy winter, it has to stop raining sometime.”

“On the West Coast it rains three hundred days a year,” Gloria said angrily.

“It will undoubtedly stop eventually,” Jack said. Gloria was right—his mother was about to make an egregious mistake. “But not before spring really begins. And not necessarily right away in the mountains either. Mother, you know what kind of weather they’re having now.”

“We don’t have a choice. The weather has to play along. What about the shearing sheds? Would either of you like to oversee one of them? Number three still isn’t taken unless I do it myself.”

Gwyneira looked searchingly from one to the other. She would never have admitted it, but she was desperately hoping for help.

Gloria was torn. She was dying to oversee one of the shearing sheds. Having spent her childhood recording the results of the shearers on a blackboard, she knew how to do it, and she was eager to take on the responsibility herself this time. But she knew the men would not make it easy for her.

“I’ll do it,” Gloria declared, glaring at Gwyneira in warning. She knew that her grandmother had been hoping that Jack would volunteer.

Gwyneira did not appear happy about Gloria’s decision and gave Jack several meaningful looks, but he pretended not to notice. He knew he ought to offer to give Gloria a hand. But the thought of the noise—the men’s voices, the laughter, and the natural, raucous camaraderie—made him shudder. Maybe next year.

“I need to see to the things in Charlotte’s room,” he said by way of excuse. “I wrote to that university an
d . . .
”

Gwyneira had learned to handle her son with care. So she simply sighed quietly to herself.

“Very well then, Gloria,” she said, “but please be sure to count properly and not to let yourself be influenced by anything. The contest between the shearing sheds has nothing to do with vanity. It only serves to motivate the shearers to work faster. So don’t let yourself get carried away.”

“And counterfeit the numbers? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m only giving you advice.”

“I won’t listen to another word,” Gloria yelled, frustrated by Gwyneira’s implication that she might not be able to handle the job. “If you think I’m too dumb or too vain to keep a list, then you’ll have to do it yourself. Otherwise I’ll be at shed three tomorrow at eight.”

Gloria created a small scandal by coming to work in breeches. The men from the shearing companies who arrived around midday stared at her in amazement—and were then informed by the shepherds during the first break of all the scandals surrounding Gloria Martyn.

As if that were not enough, Frank Wilkenson was also assigned to shearing shed three. Gloria assumed that Gwyneira had done that on purpose. He was next in line for the position of assistant foreman, and he was probably supposed to keep an eye on her.

In truth, however, Wilkenson was simply there to shear sheep like all the other men from Kiward Station who could be spared and who had command of the technique. It was quite common for the farmworkers to assist the shearing companies, and good shearers from the farms competed with the professionals in the shearing contests. In shed three, Wilkenson and the fastest worker from the shearing company were soon neck and neck. Though Gloria could hardly keep up with noting the results, she felt she had a good grip on the work—until Frank Wilkenson and his men challenged her scoring.

“Come on, Pocahontas, that can’t be right. That was sheep two hundred, not one ninety. You miscounted.”

Gloria remained calm. “That’s Miss Martyn, if you please, Mr. Wilkenson. And the count is correct. Mr. Scheffer has two hundred, and you are ten sheep behind. So you should hurry up and get back to shearing instead of causing trouble.”

“I saw it too, though,” said Syd Taylor, Wilkenson’s friend and favorite drinking buddy. “I was counting along.”

“You don’t even know how to count, Syd,” one of the other men teased him.

“You could hardly count and shear at the same time,” Gloria remarked, “but perhaps that’s why you only have eighty-five sheep.”

“Now don’t get fresh, chief’s daughter.”

Syd Taylor towered over Gloria. She felt for her knife, but knew that was not the right approach. Gloria took a slow, deep breath.

“Mr. Taylor,” she said calmly, “that’s unacceptable. Get out of here; I’m dismissing you. The rest of you, please keep working.”

Gloria sighed with relief when Syd Taylor moved toward the door.

“I won’t take this lying down,” he said. Gloria thought she had won—until Frank Wilkenson looked up from his work and grinned at his friend. “I have to win this contest first, Syd, but afterward I’ll clear this up with Mrs. McKenzie, don’t you worry.”

Keeping her cool, Gloria reprimanded him once more. She had learned that fits of rage accomplished nothing. But fear gnawed at her the rest of the day.

Her fear proved not unfounded. Frank Wilkenson proved himself to be the fastest shearer not only in shed three, but on Kiward Station.

Gloria saw him in Gwyneira’s office when she came home after work, dirty and tired.

“She just tends a bit toward overreaction, and Syd, well, he can’t help teasing girls.”

Gloria knew she should go in and set things straight. But recalling her last confrontation with Gwyneira over Tonga, she let it go. She crawled into bed.

At dinner Gwyneira revealed that she had rehired Syd Taylor. Gloria stood up without a word and went to her room. After she had cried her eyes out, she sought refuge in her stack of letters. By then she had read most of them. The one she had in her hand was dated August 6, 1915. Jack must have been wounded shortly thereafter. Gloria unfolded the letter.

Today two thousand men died in a feint attack. Only to distract the Turks. Tomorrow it’s supposed to get serious. We’re to leap out of the trenches and run screaming into enemy fire. The new troops seem to be looking forward to it. Tonight I’ll sit with them at the fire and listen as they dream of becoming heroes. I’m beginning to hate this campfire bliss. The men with whom I drink tonight might be dead tomorrow. This battle can’t be won.

Gloria knew exactly how Jack had felt. She spent half the night drawing.

7

J
ack McKenzie had never fought as fiercely with his mother as he did that night.

“How can you give her oversight over a shed and then undermine her authority? Gloria was probably completely in the right. Syd Taylor is a son of a bitch.”

“We all know he’s no choirboy,” replied Gwyneira, folding her napkin, “but Gloria has to learn to ignore a little teasing. My lands, when I was that young they even made advances on me. They’re men, after all. And they’ve never taken etiquette lessons.”

“And what if the story unfolded completely differently? Why is Frank Wilkenson stepping in for the fellow? Did he not maybe have something to do with it? You should at least have listened to Gloria’s side of the story. And even if she made the wrong decision, she was in charge of the shed, and her word was law. It’s always been that way. Either you trust her or you don’t.” Jack thought of Gloria’s face, which no longer expressed anger—just pure desperation.

“That’s just it, Jack. I don’t know if I can trust her,” Gwyneira replied. “She’s so contrary, so angry at the whole world. She doesn’t get along on the farm, or with the Maori apparently. Something’s not right with the girl.”

Jack did not know how he should tell her. In fact, he could not tell her. He would be betraying Gloria if he did. True, she had not told him her story. What he thought he knew had come to him thirdhand. But who was he to say aloud what Gloria could not even bring herself to say?

The next morning Jack rode out to the shearing shed. He had no idea what he could do to help Gloria. After all, it would be no less mortifying if he took over. But he had to do something. When Jack pushed open the door to the shed, he was almost knocked down by the noise of the protesting sheep and the men yelling out their tallies to Gloria, who stood at the board in the middle of the room, looking small and vulnerable. Frank Wilkenson and Syd Taylor were working in the front row.

“Jack.” Gloria did not seem to know if she should be happy or annoyed. Had Gwyneira sent Jack here to relieve her of her authority?

Jack smiled weakly. “I wanted to see if I can still do it,” he said, loud enough that Wilkenson and the other first-class shearers could hear it. “Would you start a tally for me?”

A few of the older sheepshearers applauded. Jack McKenzie used to be among the best.

Gloria knew that too. She gave him a heartrending smile. “Are you sure?”

Jack nodded. “I don’t think I can win. But I’ll give it a shot.” He took out his shears and looked for a workstation. “We’ll see how much I’ve forgotten.”

Jack reached for the first sheep and turned it on its back. Naturally he had forgotten nothing. He had done this ten thousand times. His hands flew over the animal’s body. By noon, Jack was worn out, but he was ten sheep ahead of Wilkenson. In the general competition, however, the professional Rob Scheffer had taken the lead.

Jack did not like to leave Gloria alone, but he knew he would fall behind if he continued. His lungs burned, and he was exhausted. So he excused himself by saying he needed to go work on Charlotte’s papers.

“And don’t give your boss any grief,” he said with a sharp look at Wilkenson. “Miss Martyn may be doing this for the first time, but she’ll be taking over the farm soon enough. I think she’ll tap an extra keg on her first day if you all win.”

Gloria gave him a thankful look as he made his exit.

That evening Gloria changed for dinner, though she had no desire to face Gwyneira. Probably she would have defended herself in some way. After Jack had left the shed, Wilkenson had tried once more to challenge Gloria’s tallies, but this time the whole shearing company had opposed him. Gloria didn’t completely understand why, but Jack’s entrance had won her respect.

As she left her room, she was surprised to find Jack waiting for her. It seemed as if his whole body ached: he looked sore after the unaccustomed work, his eyes watered from the dust in the shed, and he was fighting back a cough.

“I’m not used to a good day’s work anymore,” he joked as Gloria looked him over, concerned. “I hope you’re hungry for grilled meat. Oh, and grab a jacket. We’re eating with the shearers tonight. Mother’s providing mutton, and we’re taking a keg of beer. It’s time we made our appearance at the fire.”

“But you . . .” Gloria did not finish her thought. She may just have been imagining that Jack had been avoiding the society of men since Gallipoli.

Jack took her hand. Gloria was startled but fought back against her aversion. Jack closed his fingers gently around hers. “I’ll manage,” he said. “And you will too.”

Gloria sat at the men’s fire, replying to their japes monosyllabically, but that did not stop the sheepshearers from lauding her for donating the keg. The oldest among them still recalled Gloria from when she was a child on the farm, and they teased her about her high-class English boarding school.

“Be nice to the young lady,” one advised the younger men. “Otherwise she’ll run away again. We didn’t think you’d ever come back, Miss Martyn. We thought you’d marry a lord over there and live in a castle.”

Gloria actually managed a smile. “What would I do with a castle and no sheep, Mr. Gordon?” she asked. “I’m right where I want to be.”

She found herself in rare high spirits when Jack accompanied her back to her room. As she thanked Jack, she pushed her hair out of her eyes in a futile effort to keep it under control.

“You should just cut it off,” Jack said, smiling. He did not understand why Gloria suddenly went pale.

“You think I’d look pretty if
I . . .
?”

Jack was thinking of the pictures of modern young women with short haircuts and hadn’t intended anything by it. But Gloria saw only the faces of all the men who had been excited by her bald head—and made her do things that still made her blood run cold.

“I always think you’re pretty,” Jack replied, but Gloria didn’t hear him. She fled into her room, profoundly horrified, and slammed the door behind her.

Two days passed before she could look at Jack again. Jack, who did not understand, apologized several times. Only later did she realize that he might have been referring to the close-cropped hair she’d had as a child. She chided herself for her stupidity but did not know how to explain herself to Jack. So they simply ignored it and moved on.

The sheepshearing continued without further incident, and shed three won. When the men tried to lift their boss up on their shoulders and carry her once around the shed during the celebrations, she initially panicked, but Jack intervened and diplomatically held his horse’s stirrups for her. Rob Scheffer, the overall winner, was permitted to lead Anwyl around the shed while the others sang “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Jack watched, relieved, as Gloria laughed along and celebrated with the men.

The euphoria died down once the shearing companies had moved on. It was raining again, and Jack and Gloria stood in front of the naked sheep in their pens. Gwyneira had given directions to herd the sheep into the highlands once this—according to her view, final—patch of bad weather had passed.

“They’re so thin,” Gloria worried. “They’re normally not like that, are they?”

Jack agreed. “They’re scrawny. The ewes in particular are giving everything to their lambs. But the situation still isn’t dire. After a few weeks in the pastures, they’ll be plump again.”

“We need to get to the pastures first,” muttered Gloria. “It looks like they’re freezing.”

Jack nodded. “They were already thin, and now they don’t have their wool. It was too early for shearing, and it’s definitely too early for the highlands. What does Maaka have to say about all this?”

Gloria snorted. “He’s only thinking about his wedding. It suits him fine if the sheep are gone. Then he doesn’t have to feel guilty about leaving Grandmum alone with the sheep and that unspeakable Wilkenson. That rat is simply after Maaka’s job. But she isn’t
that
dumb.”

“Gloria! Your Grandmum is not dumb.”

Gloria raised her eyebrows doubtfully.

“What if we were to herd them out onto the rest of the pastureland on Kiward Station? Without regard to Tonga’s
tapu
. Would that improve things?”

“Of course. They’d stay warmer than in the foothills, and we could keep a closer eye on them during lambing.”

“Jack, why don’t we just make Tonga and Grandmum accept it after the fact? With Nimue and the four little dogs, we could have all the sheep up to the circle of stone warriors and the other pastures before morning.”

Jack considered this. “There would be a lot of trouble.”

“Jack, think of all the lambs. They’ll freeze to death up there. If we let them pick Kiward Station dry first, we’ll gain four weeks. The weather will be better by then.”

“All right, Glory. We’ll do this on our own. We’ll herd this group to the empty cow stables near the Maori village first. They can warm up there. And if it doesn’t rain tonight, we’ll take them out. Go call the dogs.”