Bride in Flight (16 page)

She belonged here now, in the wet green bush, in the ever-lasting mountains, the wild beaches, the desolate swamps ... among these gallant-hearted women who made it possible for their men to hack roads through the wilderness so that people from all over the world could come to feast their beauty-loving eyes on sea and mountain, cascade and waterfall, ice-fall and glacier. Yes, she belonged here, in a house built out of huts, with nothing of luxury, with all the terror of the faraway places when it came to illness or accident.

She belonged to Simon MacNeill, Simon with his boundless compassion, Simon who would despise her when he found she was an imposter, trading on his sympathy.

Simon let her hand go, said lightly, “I’ve always had to sew on my own buttons. Something to be said for this life. It hasn’t been good for you on your own. Hope I’m not away too much. I must see if Jimsy will baby-sit some time and we’ll go down to the Saturday night pictures at the Haast. Perhaps some weekend we’ll take advantage of Edward Campbell’s offer and stay at their crib at Wanaka.”

Kirsty said hastily, “I don’t particularly want to go to Wanaka. We might find the Campbells there.”

“Oh, if they were we could stay at a motel. What a time we could have if we were both there together. Edward is a wizard with speed-boats and Fiona’s an expert water-skier.”

“The water’s getting too cold for that, surely. Besides, if the girls’ plans come off, and there’s some more family on the way, she won’t be risking it.”

She didn’t want to meet the Campbells again—it was too dangerous Fiona knowing her identity. It was one thing keeping up this masquerade when no one knew, quite another doing in front of someone who knew you for a fraud. She would feel so bogus, such a hypocrite.

She thought Simon looked tired from the long drive home. His eyes were strained and bloodshot. She made supper early, but then they got drowsy and didn’t want to move. They listened to the news, to a request session. Kirsty no longer dreaded the news, the runaway bride had long been superseded as headline stuff.

“Top favorite,” said the announcer’s voice, “is still Ingrid Macpherson’s
Under the Dunedin Moon.
This song was written in Australia by a former Dunedin woman. Full of nostalgia for the city she loved, she wrote this, of the stars shining over the Otago Peninsula, the lights on the harbor water and the moon rising over Mount Flatstaff. It was published posthumously. It is sung by Normeline S McLeod.”

They listened in silence as the rich contralto voice rose. She wondered what Simon would say if she said suddenly: “My mother wrote that, remembering her courtship, her early married life, so cruelly short. I sent it away to a music publisher when her papers were given me. She left me instructions that there might be money in publishing some of her poems and songs. That if there was I was to take any money resulting and use it for something dear to my heart. So I did, it was to pay for a honeymoon in New Zealand where I wanted to recapture the lost magic of my childhood. But there was no honeymoon. No wedding.”

When the last sounds died away Simon switched off. “That reminds me, Nan told me that the woman who I wrote that was the mother of that absconding bride in Australia. They traced her to New Zealand, by the way, then she simply disappeared. Vanished into thin air. They
seem to have an idea she may have visited Dunedin. I think they’re barking up the wrong tree myself. I can’t see a girl like that—so brutally uncaring about her bridegroom’s feelings—having any fine sentiment about her childhood or her mother. I’d say she’s probably having a darned good time touring round on the proceeds of this song, since it’s such a success. She might easily having been marrying this poor chap for his money, then found she didn’t need it. He’s more lucky than he realizes.”

Kirsten thought numbly that what had seemed so. simple when Gilbert’s wife had proposed it ... to cut and run for a few days ... had become hideously complicated. She knew now, oh, how she knew, that running away from a situation was never the answer, but—well, she must not make a bad situation worse. She musn’t run again, upset
ting
the children, she must just stick it out till, when they were safely back home, she could tell the truth.

She said goodnight and went to bed, not happy.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SIMON was as good as his word. He saw to it that they had some social life. The club at Haast ran indoor sports evenings and when it was a men’s evening, if she could get a baby-sitter, Kirsty often went with Simon, visiting the women at Haast while the men played. She loved those rides. It was a long twilight, starting to close in now, as autumn approached, so they would go down as the sun set over the horizon of the sea, coming back to Kairuri with the magic of starlight and moonlight above them, silvering the spray. It was like living on some remote Pacific island, full of enchantment, distant from all unhappy things ... no scars of war, no racial strife, none of the stress and strain of life in a great city.

One weekend Simon took them down to Wanaka. Kirsten knew apprehension when first he mooted it, though he had no idea.

Then he said: “The Campbells are up in Christchurch. I was at Haast one day when Edward rang through from Wanaka. He still takes an interest in the project. He said they’d be in the North Island three weeks on tour and to make full use of the crib. I’ve a special mission on.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’d never seen a real autumn. Well, here, apart from the odd English tree brought as a sapling by some homesick sentimental prospector, we have only the evergreen native bush. But Central Otago is as good as autumn in Scotland. I’ve made plans to show it to you. We’ll go Friday night, picking the kids off the bus at Haast at. four. You can pack a picnic tea for us. We’ll have it by the Roaring Billy Falls or the Glitter Burn or somewhere.”

“Let’s have it by the Roaring Swine Creek,” said Geordie with relish, enjoying the legitimate use of a word he wasn’t supposed to use.

Kirsten thought she would never forget that weekend, especially the day Simon drove them over the Crown Range through the Cardrona Valley, now a sleepy, sun-filled hollow but once the frenzied scene of hundreds of Chinese miners digging for gold.

At the top, nearly four thousand feet up, they had their first glimpse of Lake Wakatipu, in deep washing-blue waters, basined below the jagged peaks of the Remarkables. Kirsten felt extremely nervous as they descended, looking down into the depths of gorges and valleys, then traversing a comparatively safe zig-zag to the tar-sealed highway.

Kirsten was enchanted with the huge avenue of golden and russet English trees with the light striking through in this town tucked under the sombre granite heights. Behind the trees were Lilliputian cottages, huddled together, incongruous in a place where vastness was the keynote, but perhaps they had felt safer that way in those lawless times. At any moment she felt she would see gold-miners riding furiously under the trees, the gold-coach starting up under escort, the roistering and the gambling, the violence and lack of respect for life.

Further on poplars like flaming torches striped the palely shimmering waters of Lake Hayes, reflecting snowy peaks, and then they came to the close-up of Wakatipu with Queenstown, like a Canadian outpost, nestled at the water’s edge among its larches and firs.

“I’ll bring you back in winter, Kirsty, for the curling and skating and skiing of Central. Only we shan’t come over the Crown then. This side is like a sheet of ice. Sometimes you can’t even stand upright on it. So they close the road. We’ll have to come round by Cromwell. Remember the Junction town where the railway stops and the two rivers join up, the Clutha from Lake Wanaka and the Kawarau from Wakatipu, and they go so fast they don’t mingle for some distance?”

Kirsten looked up at him. The children were playing on the foreshore, and they were leaning over the rail of the boat harbor.

“But, Simon, I won’t be here in winter. The children will be at the school at Haast only one term. You said yourself that Morris will probably come home the middle of May, and Nan should be better by then.”

She’d never seen Simon at a loss before. He hedged, then, looking down on her face, said, “Kirsten, must you be in a hurry? I rather thought—well, if you were willing, we might keep the children a little longer. Er—they’ve been parted a fair time, Morris and Nan. He’s been free of the children for a year or so, he might find it hard to settle down with three boisterous youngsters right away. Oh, he adores them all right, but it would be nice for them to make their reunion a second honeymoon. I wondered if I could stand the cost of an air-trip for Nan to Norfolk Island. I meant to get round to asking you this weekend, but we’ve been on the go all the time.

“Nan’s always had a yen to go there. Morris could stop off. Then, later, we could take the children across to them. I’d got so used to the idea in my mind, I’ve been counting on you being here later. Central is such fun in winter, as good as Switzerland.”

Kirsten turned her head, following the passage of the lake steamer so Simon would not see the joy that had leapt into her eyes.

She said unsteadily, “You—Simon, did anyone ever tell you what a wonderful brother you are?”

He chuckled: “Carry on, you’re doing things for my ego, Kirsten!” His hand covered hers as it lay on the rail.

“What about you ... you’re only a girl, despite this ring, yet you shouldered a big responsibility.”

Kirsten wondered if that caress meant as much to him as to her ... did his blood leap too? She said lightly, “Well, it was always my job, and they’ve helped me more than I’ve helped them.”

A silence fell.

Simon broke it. “Kirsten, you mean ... you’re getting over it?”

“Yes. Only I don’t particularly want to discuss my affairs ... even with you.”

His grip on her band tightened. Her pulses were singing. “You mean it’s too soon, Kirsty?”

The hand beneath his shook a little. “Perhaps. I mean I’m not yet at the stage where I can talk, Simon. Let’s leave it till the time when we take the children back to their parents.”

“Kirsten, there’s no particular term to grief. When the time of healing is come, it’s come. Convention shouldn’t play any part in that. It’s like clinging to outward trappings. That went out with mourning clothes.”

She bit her lip. Her hair hid her expression. She said with obvious difficulty, “I’m sorry, Simon, but that’s the way it is with me. I don’t want to discuss my affairs till—well, at least June, perhaps July.”

“But in July you might not be here.”

“No. Listen, Simon, after we deliver the children to Dunedin in June—when Morris and Nan are back from Norfolk Island—I’m going to Australia. I’ve something to clear up over there. Legal business, if you like. Then with that behind me I’ll come back, and if—if you’re still of the same mind—we—can talk.”

Another silence, then Simon said crisply, “All right, Kirsten, fair enough. If that’s the way you want it. And I shan’t change my mind.”

That night, lying in her stretcher at the Wanaka crib, Kirsten thanked God for her chance of new happiness, that she had met a man like Simon, all delicacy of feeling, all strength. He was no milk and water hero, but he would not force any lovemaking on her while he thought she still grieved for a young husband. He would want her to come to him free of the past. What joy it would be to tell him that there never had been the past he thought. She was confident that when she told all he would understand all.

Lexie was going to her mother in Dunedin for her baby’s birth. Her mother could then look after Christopher and after Lexie and the new baby till they could face the journey back.

“It’s the only sensible thing to do, for all concerned, but I do wish at these times that we lived in town. I so envy the town mothers having their husbands bring them in, stay a while with them, and visit them every night. And Mother, though She’s a pet, is a trifle depressing at those times. Treats me like an invalid—if I’m cheerful she tells me how brave I am, that I don’t deceive her for a moment! She feels we go down to the valley of the shadow for it, and really it’s a natural function when all’s said and done. And when I start labor, she’ll pace the floor wringing her hands. Still, it’s no use grizzling. When you live in the back o’ beyond you’ve got to take it. It will be only a fortnight.”

“Is that all?”

“Most don’t go sooner than that. Although I admit there have been one or two babies born here through, arriving early. Don’t be alarmed, Kirsty darling, the district nurse has always managed. Though as far as that goes, she didn’t get here soon enough when Lydia Merrill’s Patricia arrived. It was all in the space of a quarter of an hour. I’ll never forget the look on her husband’s face when he arrived in for tea—found me cooking it—and a seven-pound daughter, surrounded by her adoring brothers and sisters, yelling her head off in the kitchen in her bassinet!

“Jimsy had delivered it, with the greatest of aplomb, and She bustled out to hear him say, eyes like stalks: ‘What in the world it that?’ She said, “Good heavens, lad, hadn’t Lydia told you her little secret ... it’s a baby!”

“Well, all I can say,” said Kirsty, thoroughly alarmed, “is that I just hope Jimsy doesn’t take any days off between now and the time you go off to Dunedin.”

“Don’t worry, pet,” giggled Lexie, “I’ve got my dates so nicely worked out that I’ll probably be biting my nails to the quick down at Dunedin for three weeks or so before the event.”

Nevertheless Lexie was glad of Kirsty’s company. The men were away such long hours, on the job at seven-thirty and not leaving it to come home till six. She depended on Kirsty for the long walks she needed. They came to know every one of the beautiful bush tracks, exploring them with the children, collecting mosses and creepers and flowers and ferns for Geordie’s scrapbooks, examining birds’ nests and crevices for insects, bringing back rock and fossil specimens.

Geordie was the delight of the men and they were building him a hut they were calling the Kairuri-mata Museum.

It was to be transportable, because when the project was finished the settlement would be removed holus-bolus somewhere else.

Kirsty hated that thought. Hated the knowledge that in the years to come the bush and the forest would once more creep in and destroy every trace of their happy habitation.

There came the day she and Lexie were alone in the camp. There was a function on at the school, Jimsy was in demand always, for giving humorous Yorkshire sketches, so Kirsty had offered to stay with Lexie and the two little ones because Lexie’s ankles were so swollen she could get only slippers on.

She went across to Lexie’s, taking some fresh baking with her, found Chris was down for his rest so put Mark down on Lexie’s bed.

“I suppose it’s just because I’m feeling lethargic,” sighed Lexie, “but really young Chris has been a demon the last few days. He was just tired out with paddy after lunch, but still didn’t want to go down for his nap. Listen to him, still grizzling away. I don’t know what’s come over him. However, I’m determined not to give in to him. So I’ve told him that even if he can’t sleep he’s to stay in his bed. I need a break even if he doesn’t!”

“Quite right. They soon get the upper hand if you give in. He’ll drop off out of sheer exhaustion soon.”

“Yes, if he stays up he’s so crotchety when Mac gets in, and I think it’s essential for father and son to have a happy time together pre-bedtime. Last night he was terrible. I’d got him up after he’d grizzled for an hour in the afternoon, and by tea-time he was unbearable and got spanked. So today I’m adamant.”

Half an hour later they realized Chris had given up, that blessed silence reigned.

Kirsty said: “What bliss ... silence!”

Lexie giggled, “And of course, now he’s quiet, I can imagine him in trouble, suffocated or something. Really, motherhood is not unalloyed joy.”

“I know. I’ve often wakened Mark tiptoeing in to make sure he’s all right. Though once he’s off, he hardly ever wakes.”

“Yes, Chris is like that too, so five more minutes and I’ll peep.”

When they did it was to see Chris spread-eagled on his pillow, his cheeks adorably flushed. It was probably the flush of rage, but it made him look a model baby. He had Red Rabbit clutched in his arms. They peeped at Mark, cuddled down with a piece of fluffy blanket against his button nose.

They relaxed. In the sunny sitting-room Lexie put her feet up, Kirsty made a cup of tea, they got out their knitting.

“What’s that you are busy on, Kirsty? Have you finished Mark’s blue jersey?”

“Yes. This is a pullover—for Simon.”

She looked up, saw the brightly speculative look in Lexie’s eyes, and to her horror found her color rising.

Lexie burst out laughing. “Kirsten, you do blush adorably. I’m so glad, pet. You’re far too young and lovely to wear the willow for ever. I’m probably crashing in where angels would fear to tiptoe, but it’s what Mac and I have been hoping for.”

Kirsten said hastily, “Lexie, it—well, don’t. There are all sorts of things in the way. I—there’s nothing between us—honestly. For all I know he—”

“If you’re thinking of what he said to me when I was teasing him when he first got back about having his eye on a New Zealander, well, I’ve got my own ideas about that. I reckon he meant you. It dawned on me the day you said you really were a Kiwi.”

Kirsty looked up, her eyes meeting Lexie’s straightly. “I didn’t mean that, Lexie. I was going to say for all I know Simon might not be attracted to me when he knows all my background. My—my affairs aren’t as straightforward as they seem. I have things to put in order in Australia before can even make up my mind.”

“What things, Kirsty?”

Kirsty looked away. “Well—sort of legal things. Hard to explain. I’d like to, but feel it’s better not. I’ve—I’ve told Simon I’ll be going back to Australia when the children go back to Nan and that later I may come back to Dunedin. If he—well, don’t make your mind up about things, Lexie, there’s nothing to make it up about. I’ll explain to you by letter—if not in person—when I get things cleared up.”

“Kirsty, I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m your friend ... come wind, come weather. I want you to know that, and to know that there’s always a bed here for you if you want to come to stay.”

“I won’t promise to come. I’ll write, and if, after I’ve written, you still want me, I may come.”