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It was very hot still. Idly she thought of having another swim, but if the boys cried out she knew she wouldn’t be able to hear them, So reluctantly she abandoned the idea. It was far too early to go to bed, but she could at least get into her nightwear. It would be much cooler. As no one was around she slipped on a satin two-piece which left her midriff exposed. She picked up a kung-fu style wrap-around satin jacket that matched it and went to check the boys, All three were sleeping peacefully so she walked back to the lounge.

‘How do you manage to look so provocative all the time?’ Ian’s voice lazily amused, drawled out the question.

‘Ian, what are you doing here?’ Hastily she wrapped her jacket round her scantily clad figure.

‘What a greeting! I’ve come to see you, of course.’ He eyed her satin-clad body and Frances wished her jacket covered more than her bottom.

‘You’ve got great legs, water baby,’ he said.

Frances spoke tartly, ‘Thank you. I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

‘Weren’t you? Somehow this afternoon I got the impression there was an invitation somewhere.’

Frances struggled with embarrassment and decided that she should at least offer him a cup of tea or coffee. However, he turned them down, going instead to the drinks cabinet.

‘I’ll get you a drink.’

‘Fine, very light on Bacardi and plenty of Coke, please.’ She sat on the floor by the stereo and flicked through the records. Earlier she had inspected them, but it gave her time to control herself and quieten her heart, which seemed to be beating painfully quickly. She was very much aware of Jennifer and Rupe’s absence and the distance of the lounge from the boys’ bedrooms. She was relieved to see the door to the passage was wide-open.

Ian brought her a drink, toasted her and stood by the speaker. He turned up the music, then went to shut the door.

‘Don’t want to wake the boys!’ he grinned. ‘Come and dance.’

Frances liked dancing normally and the rhythm of the record was a very strong beat. Ian danced opposite her, the disco sound obviously one he enjoyed. Frances began to relax as they danced, losing her fear as he led her gently but expertly. She began to enjoy herself and forgot her earlier tensions. At the end of the record they collapsed laughing on the couch, and Ian’s unexpected touch made her stiffen immediately. He went to the record player and put on an old-time dance record of soft romantic mood. They listened to it quietly for a while then Ian stood and pulled her into his arms. They danced slowly round the floor, the music weaving its soft melody around them.

Gradually she nestled closer to Ian, letting the music draw them together, only the gentle but firm pressure of his hands guiding her caused sparks of physical awareness so that she trembled in the warmth of his arms. A thousand danger signals ripped through her as he claimed her mouth, drowning her in a torrent of feeling as he eased her on to the thick rug. She caught him to her, answering his passion with an abandoned invitation, but he turned from her, casually reaching for his drink on the small table. Calmly he stood up and switched off the music.

‘I think that makes us even in the sex games stakes. One love to you this afternoon, but the game to me tonight!’

His eyes gleamed as he took in the picture she made, lying in an agony of confusion. With a sob Frances jumped up, hating this male creature who had played her so expertly.

‘You—you beast!’ she spat at him, turning to flee.

He gripped her arm, forcing her to face him. ‘Women!’ he muttered. ‘You don’t like your own tactics used against you, do you? Now don’t get angry, water baby. I can satisfy you any time.’ He crushed her against him, making her aware of the hard solid wall of flesh of his body entrapping her with his strength. She struggled to free herself as his mouth took hers, kissing her brutally, a kiss with no love or tenderness.

The sound of dogs barking and a car’s engine shocked them both and instinctively Ian released her. Frances fled, shutting her bedroom door behind her, as though she could thereby shut out the memory and feelings of that evening. The knowledge of her response to Ian was a bitter blow. What strange chemistry made them react to each other this way? she wondered. She wept softly as she remembered his taunting remarks. If only she could have held herself aloof, she thought. Then a grim smile forced its way out. It would have been easier for King Canute to have stopped the tides, she realised. The same man whose attitude to her was so cheapening was the same man who was idolised by his three small nephews, loved by his sister and her husband and, from comments she had heard, generally well liked by others around him.

She herself had seen him tenderly taking a soot from Greg’s eye, comforting Ivan after a bad fall, teasing Thad and treating his sister with a gentle love Frances envied. He worked hard on his farm, Frances knew from comments Jenny or Rupe had made.

If only he wasn’t Jenny’s brother, she thought. How could she continue to face Ian after what had happened? Should she give up the job? Reluctantly she decided she couldn’t hurt Jenny so badly. Several times during the week Jenny had been so kind and thoughtful, charmingly grateful for Frances’ efforts to help. Frances felt trapped. She couldn’t let Jenny down at this late stage. Well, at least she had the weekend in town to work out a plan to keep out of a certain man’s way.

Early
the next morning Frances dressed for town, putting on tights, petticoat and suit, which felt strangely unfamiliar. She made herself some breakfast and tiptoed along to Jenny and Rupe’s room to see if they wanted any tea. Jenny lay snuggled into her husband, his arm outflung in a protective gesture. Silently Frances tiptoed back to the kitchen. How wonderful to be loved like that, she thought. She had always dreamed that one day she would meet a man, fall in love, marry and have children. Her lips twisted wryly. She had certainly met a man who puzzled and disturbed her, yet to her he showed nothing of love, she acknowledged.

She sped away from the farm, swung on to the main road and headed the car back to Christchurch. It seemed incredible to think so much had happened in just a week. She had barely time to think of her family or even to wonder about John Brooker and his wife. Strangely enough she felt a little more sympathetic towards him. Now she had experienced a passionate unfulfilled yearning it had taught her a little more of human needs.

Determinedly she thrust the thought of Ian from her, seeking relief in driving steadily and easily. The quietness of the countryside calmed and soothed her, and when she reached down she drove straight to the little city chapel she loved. It was dim and restful and the atmosphere of prayer helped her, She knew now that she had been partly at fault, regretting that she had teased Ian with those sexual poses by the pool. She remembered, too, how he had found her on the riverbed, almost totally naked, apparently giving him the belief that she cared little for conventions. Only now, when she had nearly lost so much, could she admit the truth. She wanted Ian, she realised, not as a casual animal passion but as a constant companion who would love and cherish her. After the service she met some friends who invited her for morning tea, but she explained that she wanted to get home.

What could she answer to her mother’s anxious, ‘How did it go?’

‘Marvellous,’ she answered quietly. After all, she could hardly blurt out, ‘I’m in love.’ Her secret was too newly discovered for that. Besides, there was no chance of that love ever being completed.

‘My dear Frances, life on the farm seems to suit you!’

Kathy pirouetted round her sister. ‘You’ve got that vim feeling, that zest for living,’ mimicking the television advertisement. ‘Hey, Sis, what are the boys like?’

‘Nothing like you,’ was Frances’ answer as she ruffled her sister’s hair. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s gone to get Aunt Kate for dinner. They should be here soon. Martin’s at the beach with friends.’ Kathy pulled her sister’s case in from the car. ‘Gosh, it’s light!’

‘I didn’t bring much home,’ laughed Frances. ‘I’m only here till Tuesday morning.’

Her sister’s rueful expression told her how sharply young Kathy had missed her. Perhaps it might be possible for Kathy to come out to the farm one day. The Christmas holidays would soon be on them with their six weeks of freedom from school.

‘How’s school?’ she asked Kathy.

‘Hmm, O.K., I guess. I got the results of my language and social studies exams and they weren’t too bad. I’ve got maths and science this week, so I’ve been studying.’

Frances’ father arrived then, bringing Aunt Kate for the family meal. There was much merriment in their home. Frances realised how good it felt to be accepted unquestioningly. They lingered over the meal, Aunt Kate keeping them entertained with a string of family jokes. Sunday afternoons were generally relaxed affairs. Frances followed Aunt Kate’s example by resting. Later she gave Kathy a game of tennis and much to that young lady’s delight they were both hard-fought matches.

As they walked back home Kathy said jokingly, ‘You must be in love, your tennis is lousy!’' She beat a hasty retreat as Frances ran after her, and Frances was left thinking that young Kathy was far too perceptive. Thank goodness she would have these two days to recover herself before going back to the farm.

Over tea she told them about life on the farm and in particular the shearing. Kathy decided it sounded great fun and was quite disappointed that her elder sister had helped with the catering rather than in the shed.

‘It’s not fair! Why do girls have to do the cooking when they could be doing exciting things like shearing?’ Kathy muttered indignantly.

Mr Elaman jokingly said that if Kathy really wanted to try, many shearing gangs were employing women and some women were extremely good. Kathy was greatly impressed; already she had declared she wanted to be a politician when she grew up, although she' hadn’t decided which party to follow! There was a deal of good-natured chaffing about Kathy being the world’s first champion lady shearer—the family well knew that Kathy was not the most inclined to do any physical work!

‘Telephone for Frances,’ sang her mother.

Wondering who it would be, Frances ran to answer it, and was pleased to hear Harry Smithson who took most of her modelling assignment work. Harry had been asked to do some large stills for a window display for the New Year. Harry was a member of the advertising agency she had worked with, but he did a number of private clients’ photographic work as well. He explained that he had tried to contact her earlier but with no success. Her mother had told him that she would be back at the weekend.

‘Sorry it’s not much notice, Frances. It’s mainly summer casual range and they want a country backdrop. We’ll pop up to Victoria Park. I’ve got two other girls as well.’

‘Sounds fun. What do I wear and what time do you want me?’ queried Frances.

She had worked often with Harry and one of his studies of her had won him considerable recognition in his own field. Harry was a professional to his fingertips, and he reeled off the items she was to bring and then gave her explicit directions. As well he told her the fee she would receive, and that certainly was an incentive! She would be pleased to see Harry as he could tell her about her friends at work and he might even mention how John Brooker was getting along.

The morning dawned fine and clear. At ten o’clock Frances drove up Hackthorne Road, past the stone castlelike structure of the Sign of the Takahe, turned sharply and swung up on to the road leading to Victoria Park. She reached the top and parked in the area beside Harry’s van and another car. Immediately she took her gear and headed to the area Harry had mentioned yesterday. She walked across the park, which was practically empty. A gardener was mowing the lawn, the tractor pulling a wide mower behind it. Frances admired his skill as she lightly followed the track past the children’s playground. Normally a hive of active movement, the giant wooden climbing frame, swings and stepping stones stood abandoned, only a mass of angles and lines. She passed a ragged old macrocarpa tree. From one of its sturdy branches hung the tattered remains of a rope for a Tarzan swing. Tantalisingly it was swaying slightly above her head and instinctively she reached for it.

Then she climbed the hill and gazed about. Harry and the other two models were preparing the shots. She waved in recognition and Harry hugged her gleefully. ‘Great to have you along, Frances.’

They chatted with comfortable ease. Frances had worked with the other girls before. One she knew quite well, having worked with her before on numerous occasions. Harry soon started lining up frames and angles and then work started in earnest. In front of them the city of Christchurch lay spilt on the ground from the sweep of the coastline marking the giant estuary in the east to the fiat green paddocks of Halswell in the west.

Instinctively Frances looked towards the towering mountains that met the sky in the north. Her eyes picked out Mount Hutt, its top snow-covered. From this angle she knew exactly where Ian’s farm lay. Lovingly she allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to be loved by Ian, to be cherished and needed.

Harry’s voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘That’s swell, honey, keep that romantic yearning look—hold it, fantastic, baby; right arm up—great, terrific! That’s it! Relax!’

Frances ruefully pulled herself together. She noticed Harry looking at her a trifle oddly, but it wasn’t until the other girls had left and she was helping Harry pack up that they had time to chat.

‘Well, Frances, do tell Harry!'

‘Tell you what?’ she enquired meekly.

‘Who is he? Don’t tell me the rumour about John Brooker and you was true? Is that why you left?’

Frances fielded the questions neatly, diverting attention from John Brooker by saying she was working on a farm and how much she enjoyed the change. Harry realised that Frances was in love, but he also knew it wasn’t John Brooker who was involved. He had sighed with relief because he was fond of Frances and he knew her high moral standards. When he heard the rumour about John and Frances he had refused to believe it. They dropped the topic and went on to discuss other workmates, and it was only hunger that made them both laughingly aware of time. Harry followed Frances to her home, where Mrs Elaman cooked them some tomatoes for lunch. Finally Harry said farewell, anxious to get back to his darkroom to check his work.