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‘I’m only hired till March the first,’ put in Frances quietly. ‘I go home every weekend, so you’ll be quite safe to visit Jenny and the boys then.’ A tear formed slowly in her eyes and glistened, trembling on to her cheek.

Ian caught his breath. ‘Goodbye, Frances, my water baby.’ He held her briefly, then moving aside, he strode from the room.

Frances reached the sanctuary of her bedroom. Mechanically she undressed, changing her good satin skirt and top carefully. It was only when she was in bed with her head buried in the pillow that she could allow the tears to fall. Never to see Ian again—the enormity of it swept her with desolation. Over and over his words came back to her, until finally exhaustion came and she slept.

The
sound of a baby crying woke Frances early in the morning. Dawn was breaking, shafts of apricot red and pink driving back the purple of the night sky. The sun would be up soon. Frances turned over in her bed. Her eyes felt sore and she felt as though she wanted to hide herself in the sheets. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was quite impossible. Already she had remembered that she would not be seeing Ian again. The agony in her heart had to be hidden. She groaned quietly. Reality was the sunrise, she thought as she pulled herself out of bed. She dressed in her old jeans and a neat check blouse. Her hair she brushed ruthlessly, pulling at it so it flattened to spring into long glinting curls. She wrapped a kerchief round it to hide its bright colour. Somehow, it seemed symbolic; she was there, head, face, arms, legs and body, but the flame of her personality was covered.

Breakfast was a staggered one. Rupert had his with Frances, Jenny stopping in bed to feed the baby. They went round the farm, and Rupert explained the week’s feeding plans. At lunchtime they rode back to the house together.

Frances stayed on in the house helping Jenny with the baby. The baby was so tiny and helpless, her only protest a wail. Frances cuddled her against herself, holding the small bundle rather gingerly at first.

‘I’ve not had much experience of small babies, I’m afraid!’ she told Jenny.

‘Lots of love and cuddling and you can’t go far wrong!’ laughed Jenny. ‘Thad was very tiny when he was born, so we were inclined to handle him like a delicate piece of Dresden china. Everything had to be done to the minute, ready or not. With Ivan it was different. He was a big, bouncing bruiser right from the start. There was no chance of keeping to the clock where he was concerned. He yelled when he was hungry—and could he yell! As soon as he was fed he’d settle down as good as an angel. It was no good trying to tell him it wasn’t dinner time for twenty minutes. By the time I’d had Greg, Rupert and I were both more relaxed about the babies. I guess he was lucky, really.’

‘It’s amazing how tiny the little one is. Look at her dainty fingers and the exquisite fingernails.’

The baby snuggled deeper into Frances’ shoulder. She stroked the baby’s back softly and rhythmically, while Jenny watched approvingly.

‘See, it’s quite easy. You’ve got the feel of it already.’ She felt strange emotions run through her when she saw the eyes of the baby looking back at her. Marian was obviously going to be very like her mother. Even now when she was so newborn Frances could see the outline of the face which reminded her so much of Jenny and Ian. Was this how Ian had looked as a baby? Unconsciously her hands held the baby firmer and she wriggled, fascinated by the bright hair peeping out. She was too small to clutch at it effectively, thought Frances. Later she helped Jenny to bathe her and that too was a joy.

When she was in bed that night Frances reviewed the day. If I take one day at a time, she thought quietly, I’ll be able to manage. Soon her time at the farm would be over. She was glad she had the tickets for the cruise from the middle of March; it would give her a breathing space. While she was at the farm there was always a faint hope of seeing Ian. Once she had left she knew she would never see him again; the prospect seemed extraordinarily bleak.

At the end of the week she left for town, driving easily over the long flat roads. She knew Ian had been up to Nelson and would be returning with Gam and the boys on Saturday. Jenny and Rupert had asked her to stay on as Jenny was going to cook a special dinner to welcome them home again. Frances felt tempted to stay but did not wish to cause any embarrassment with Ian. The boys’ reactions to the new baby would be a treat she would miss, and she was sorry about that. Still, there were the three weeks ahead, she reflected.

The weekend passed quietly. Frances’ parents were away at a friend’s bach at Kaikoura and Kathy was spending the weekend with a girl friend. Martin had some of his friends round and on Saturday night they had a small impromptu party. Frances thoroughly enjoyed herself, flirting outrageously with some of the boys. One of them had a guitar and he sang sweet love songs with a melancholy air. Inside, Frances could feel herself weeping in tune with the soft sadness. On top she was bright, vivacious and quite the life of the party. After everyone had left she cleaned up the room, opening windows wide and pushing chairs into their usual places. She washed the dishes and at last, with everything tidy, went to bed. Suddenly she felt as old as Methuselah, a condition which would have surprised her young companions, who thought Martin very lucky in having such a smashing sister. On Sunday night her parents returned late, so Frances made sure she was in bed early. Time enough to hide from their loving glances in the morning when all would be hustle and bustle.

When she arrived at the farm Jenny was just finishing bathing the baby. Incredibly she seemed to have grown just in the two days Frances had been away. For a little while they exchanged news then she read Rupert’s instructions. There was quite a lot to be done, so she changed into her shorts and top immediately. She was tired when she fell into bed that night. It had been a hectic day. The three boys had greeted her with great Indian war-whoops followed by hugs and kisses. Afterwards they had helped her with the work. According to their mother they had wanted to get their baby sister on to a horse immediately, and there had been a fight among them for who should have the honour of giving Marian her first ride.

‘Considering that their horses have scarcely been ridden for three weeks you could imagine my face! They know now not to put her near a horse till I say the word!’ grinned Jenny.

‘They seem very pleased with their new sister,’ commented Frances. She held the baby close. The little baby smelt fresh and clean, her blue eyes looking around with wonder. The boys all wanted a turn at holding her too, so the baby was passed from one to the other with great care and tenderness. Ivan the Terrible was gentle and kind, more like Thad in his handling of the baby, while Greg sat a trifle anxiously but determined not to be left out of his turn. His smile of joy when the baby smiled at him was beatific. Jenny hastily removed the baby when a free fight was about to break out because Ivan claimed it wasn’t a smile, just wind! The boys were hastily sent for a swim and Frances was glad to join them. At least now, she reflected, I can swim any time without feeling self-conscious about it. The boys had a race with her and she had to really struggle to keep up with Thad and Ivan. After five lengths Greg hauled himself out, content to watch. Thad won by the merest stroke and Ivan was just an arm-length away. Afterwards they sat on the side, bodies heaving, till their reactions steadied.

‘I’ll have to practise a bit more,’ laughed Frances. ‘I’ve got so used to just playing in the water I’ve got soft!’

‘I beat Uncle Ian the first time.’

‘So did I,’ put in Ivan.

‘After that he always beat us. We used to swim with him out to the raft most mornings and see who could get there first. It was really neat when Uncle Ian was with us.’

Jenny called them to change and have tea, and Frances was pleased, as she found it difficult to listen to talk about the wonderful Uncle Ian! At tea the boys began talking about going back to school. The Christmas holidays with six weeks of freedom were over so quickly. The boys would be starting school in the morning; once more they would be flying out the door to run down to meet the bus at the gate.

The next day Frances waved goodbye to the three grey-clad figures, their shirts and shorts neatly pressed, socks pulled up, shoes polished, faces gleaming, hair wetly slicked down. They seemed to be anxious to be on time for once, no doubt looking forward to meeting their friends and telling each other about their holidays.

Thinking of holidays reminded Frances of hers, due so soon. Her lips curled into a weak grin as she remembered how she had bought it simply as a means of escape. Now it would be used for just that. She was to fly to Auckland and join the large luxury liner there. There would be three weeks in the Pacific cruising to Fiji and Samoa, then on to Sydney and back to Auckland. Strangely enough the trip held no joy for her now. Once she would have eagerly planned such a holiday, carefully working out outfits to wear, swimsuits and playsuits. Now the life seemed empty.

Greytor nickered softly and she drew herself back sharply to the matter in hand. The dogs had brought the sheep in from idly grazing and held them into a neat brown-coloured mob. Even the dogs knew what to do now without being told! Frances opened the gate and signalled to the dogs. Rupert had asked her to let this mob of sheep on to the lower flats. She sent Fay ahead to clear the way, restraining Scamp with a quick word. Once a wide enough path had been made with no danger of the mob mixing she led the sheep through. Scamp showed signs of becoming a really useful musterer, barking already at just the right moments. Frances watched as a couple of sheep decided to make a break for it. Scamp flashed past her in a wide semi-circle and the two sheep, seeing their route blocked, rejoined the mob. Scamp trotted back, his bark ringing triumphantly, and Frances laughed. She praised him and Scamp looked at her, his mouth seeming to grin and his tail wagging. She closed the gate behind the mob and drove them to the far side where Fay and Scamp held them while she opened up the next paddock.

They repeated the manoeuvre until they got the mob down to the flats. From here the bank eased to the river, where this morning it glinted in the light. Frances took Greytor down in case he wanted to drink, the dogs had already raced in. They had wallowed and now were shaking themselves, sending a spray of diamonds flying in the sunlight. The beauty of the river always moved her, the colours of the water fascinating in their range. The stones were too hard to walk on to see the main bed of the river. At this width it was still some distance away. Ahead a couple of gulls screeched insults at their peace being disturbed. Frances pulled a drink from her saddlebag and perched herself against a big stone, using another for a backrest. It was a fabulous morning, the sun gleamed hotly, the wind had swung round to cool the air, the sky was blue. Towards the south Frances could see clouds lining up. With the wind springing up she knew there was a chance of rain. At the moment, though, it was pleasant resting against the sun-warmed rocks.

A startling zonk, zonk, zonk sound attracted her attention. This was echoed by another bird, and Frances realised she had disturbed two paradise ducks. She smiled softly. The ducks were obviously a pair, the female with her distinctive white head and neck being anxiously guarded by the green-necked male bird. Frances departed softly, telling the dogs to be quiet. The pair might have nested somewhere close at hand. She wondered if Rupe or Ian had noticed them before. She remembered her father telling her about the ducks as a child. There had been one female often to be seen on the Avon in Hagley Park in town. She knew a sadness for the bird as it had been obviously lonely, sometimes taking out its frustration on any ordinary wild ducks who dared to come too close. Her father had surmised that the mate had died, perhaps shot or savaged in some way. The bird seemed to make no attempt to seek its own kind, its own partial lameness possibly being the reason. Paradise ducks always mated for life, and this was the first pair she had seen out here.

At the top she remounted and glanced back. Now she understood the birds’ alarm. Five small brown fluff balls waddled over the stones after the parent birds. They must have been carefully camouflaged from her sight. Somehow the day seemed a little brighter for the discovery.

When she told the family about the birds that night the boys were immediately anxious to ride down to the river to see for themselves. However, their mother suggested they wait for Waitangi Day.

‘You can take a picnic and spend the day down there, but you stay right away from that section,’ she cautioned.

Ivan agreed perhaps a trifle reluctantly, but they all cheered up when told they could borrow their father’s binoculars. That night the wind blew sharply, driving rainclouds over the plains. After the heat of the preceding weather it was something of a shock to feel the coolness of the temperature. The rain began early in the morning and kept up a solid steady beat. The boys left for school, kitted out in oilskins and hats and gum-boots. Frances was glad not to have to go out and even Rupert seemed happy to have a compulsory rest from the harvesting.

When the boys returned from school the rain was still steadily thrumming down. That evening Rupert listened to the forecast. If the rain was just as heavy in the hills the river would fill rapidly, all its tiny shiny strips merging to form one enormous, roaring brown torrent driving all in its path. In the morning the rain seemed to have increased its tempo slightly. The boys were sent off to school and Frances and Rupert discussed plans for shifting the stock to higher ground. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ Rupert had smiled a trifle grimly. ‘Summer floods can be disastrous. Thank God we harvested the white clover and the hay on the flats or we might have lost the lot.’

It was rotten work. Frances wore an old coat of Rupert’s—Jenny dismissing her town coat out of hand with a wry laugh. It flopped wetly about her as she rode a decidedly bad-tempered Greytor. Her horse obviously thought they were mad to be out in such weather. The dogs walked behind them, even Scamp’s tail was down flat and his coat wet. As they approached she could hear the river roaring and sucking at its banks. It seemed incredible to think that in such a short space of time it could have changed so much. She could see logs and bits of tree sailing rapidly downstream.