Fleeced (4 page)

‘What are you doing?'

At first, she hadn't noticed Stan curled up on the sofa, looking at a bird book. Books and puzzles were piled on the shelf. The last book was about New Zealand birds. Someone must have been looking at it. The page was open to keas.

‘Going to do some bird watching .' Stan touched the binoculars slung around his neck.

‘Oh yeah,' Amy drank her juice. ‘Why would someone put crosses on a map?'

‘To mark something, of course. Like on that wall. Swing bridges. Places of interest.'

Amy wondered if No 108 had been a bird watcher. Could the crosses have been where special birds were seen? Or something else was found? Like gold nuggets?

Dinner was a noisy affair. You could sit anywhere at the tables.

‘Please, sit with us, if you wish.'

The Japanese leader's moustache was so spiky thin, you could see individual bristles, like a broom. He stood and bowed and Amy felt herself bowing back.

So Amy sat with climbers from the Japanese chemical factory. They all belonged to the Mountaineering Club at their factory in Tokyo. They were very polite and wanted to practice their English. Each asked the same sort of questions.

‘Where are you from?'

‘Are you enjoying your holiday?'

It was like answering a phrase book. Kyoto, a girl from Amy's hut, was more interested in talking than eating. But Amy was hungry.

Onion soup. Roast New Zealand lamb with pumpkin, cauliflower, potato and peas hiding under gravy. Thick apple pie with cream, ice-cream or both. Amy had a second helping. So did Stan.

In-between courses, you dipped your plates and cutlery into a big basin of hot water, which steamed.

‘Do you make special meals for people?' Amy asked the cook whose white jacket covered black and white check pants. He was serving second helpings.

‘Why, are you vegetarian?'

‘No.'

‘We serve the same meal every night. The staff have a different one of course. But if there are any vegetarians in the group, we make them non-meat meals.

Their lunchtime sandwiches don't have any meat. Usually the guide tells us, and we write the person's name on their sandwich. Why, is there some food you don't like?'

‘No, the dinner was ace,' said Amy. ‘Have you ever had a diabetic to cook for?'

‘Yes. A few groups ago.'

‘D'you remember the name?'

The cook shook his head. ‘Never looked. Just a special plate. It's all numbers for us.'

‘Roast kea tomorrow night , ‘ joked Zoe pointing to a photograph on the wall.

A browny bird with bluey green under feathers and a large beak peered back from the photo. The eyes seemed to follow Amy. Kyoto looked worried until Zoe assured her, ‘roast kea' was a joke.

‘Are keas that big?' Christopher was surprised. ‘Mum had photos, but..'

‘Almost. Clever thieves too. Wait until we get to Pompoloma Hut. Not safe to leave your boots outside.'

‘They wear boots?' Amy ‘d heard of the non flying kiwi but a bird in boots sounded fun.

‘That was the bird on the kea watch,' Christopher reminded her.' Someone's keen on collecting keas.'

Later, in the Drying Room ,Amy couldn't see the letter .It wasn't on the drying rack. The light was murky. Then she felt around on the floor. Yes. There it was. The hot paper was crinkled like parchment. Amy hadn't liked to return the wet letter to Gertrude. The golfer hadn't wanted the stamped envelope back, but she'd probably need the letter from her son. Since the letter started ‘Dear Mum', that would be a pretty good bet.

Amy was a superfast reader. Otherwise she wouldn't have read down as far as the bit about the gold. Gertrude's geologist son had told her to look out for the nuggets.

What did that mean? The door banged and Big Jon was in the Drying Room.

‘What are you trying to dry?' He draped his extra-large top over the highest rack.

The sleeves dangled to the floor.

‘Just a letter.' Amy hadn't quite finished reading it.

‘From a boyfriend?'

‘No. Belongs to Gertrude.'

‘Why have you got it?'

‘She gave me the stamp.'

‘Collector ,are you? She's in the hut next to me. D'you want me to give it back to her?'

‘No thanks.' Amy turned over the envelope and noticed the sender's name and address. ‘See you later .'

‘Oh, I'd forgotten there was a letter inside. Thanks dear,' said Gertrude as Amy returned the letter. She didn't seem upset or act as if there was anything to hide.

Perhaps Gertrude was a good actor? Or just forgetful?

Especially since the return address said Todd, Prison Farm.'

Chapter 5

Something was at the door!

Down low, there was a tapping. The night was still black. Christopher tried to read his watch.

It was either quarter past two or ten past three. He couldn't remember where they'd left the torch.

There was snoring from the bunk above. The bunk creaked as the sleeper turned over. There were six bunks in hut 18 at the end. Dad and Christopher had tossed a coin. Dad won. He went up on top.

‘You can poke me if I snore.'

The good thing about being on top was that no-one climbed over you. The bad thing about the top bunk was falling out. Christopher often dreamed in moving pictures. Dreams about running or jumping or getting away from monsters were Christopher's favourites. That could be dangerous on the top bunk. So he didn't mind being below.

A bunk creaked. Someone in the bunk opposite was getting out. Legs waved as the person slipped from the top bunk and landed on the floor.

Christopher couldn't remember who had that bunk. He'd been asleep by the time that person came to bed.

Wrapped up in sleeping bag hoods it was hard to tell who was who. There was a squeak and a whirr as the spring door opened and whirred shut. Was someone going to the toilet? Or perhaps he was going outside for some other reason? It might have been Stan. Christopher decided to follow.

His sleeping bag zip was stiff. At last he squirmed out of his sleeping bag. He felt for his boots. No, he'd go in his socks.

The wooden veranda between the huts was wet. Even the railing was damp.

Christopher could feel damp boards through his thick socks.

Rain drummed on the tin roof. Christopher heard it drip down the overhanging branches. With so much rain, all night, the track would be very slippery.

He opened the bathroom hut door. It zinged shut, just missing his fingers.

Then he remembered Zoe's warning.

‘Don't leave anything outside. They will get it.'

He'd left his damp boots outside the sleeping hut. The drying room was mainly for clothes. Anyway, it was full by the time he got there. So he'd left his boots neatly outside the door of hut 18.

A scuffling noise outside. His boots!

He'd have to get them back! Apart from those boots, he had no shoes. No way was he climbing 33 1/2 miles of the Milford Track in bare feet or even in socks ...

He tiptoed in soggy socks, past hut 16 where Amy woke up with a jerk.

She'd been dreaming about trekking through a Money Forest . On the trees were bank note leaves, and gold coins filled the creek. Somehow, her pocket money got mixed up with the rest. Even in her dream she felt anxious. Amy liked to know exactly where her money was and how much belonged to her. When she grew up she planned to own an international bank.

‘Hey!' Scuffling noises followed.

The commotion outside the huts woke everybody. Even Mum in the lower bunk.

Amy had the upper bunk, ‘Because you're lighter.' Mum had said. So she fell out further! ‘Aw!'

Outside, a kea was dragging a boot across the veranda. That was the noise Amy heard.

Christopher tugged. ‘Hey!' There was a tussle.

The result. Kea nil. Christopher one boot, left with nibbles around laces.

‘What's wrong out there?'

‘Just a kea snack attack!'

‘Go back to bed!'

Christopher tied his boots by the laces to his bed leg as the door zinged shut behind him.

‘Birds got your boots, did they? Clever keas. Birdbrains they are. Not like stupidhuman boys' Stan climbed back into his top bunk. And Christopher quietly tied together Stan's laces, with double knots. He wasn't a birdbrain!

Meanwhile, Amy felt someone moving in her hut. A shadowy figure was creeping around. The door creaked. Thieves out there now? Or keas Amy felt for her torch. She aimed at the biggest shadow. Click. The light beam cut through the dark.

‘Stop!' she called.

Kyoto and her friend stopped. Their torches went on. ‘Sorry to wake you Aimee.

We are going to see the stars . Zoe said they are beautiful at 3 am The sky is black and stars shine. Do you want to come too?'

Breakfast was ace. Porridge, which Amy didn't like at home, eggs, sausages, bacon, juice and lots of toast. ‘Hot chocolate for breakfast!'

Stan was late for breakfast. Someone had tied his laces together and he had to borrow a nail file from First Aid to get them undone. He'd also mislaid a contact lense.

‘Collect your lunch on the way out,' Dad reminded them. So far, their parents had been busy filming and left the twins to look after themselves.

On the table, were piles of sandwiches. A basket of oranges and slabs of fruitcake were labelled ‘help-yourself'. Each sandwich packet was sealed. But two had names written on the outside. Gertrude. Stan. Amy wondered about that. Why did those two people have special vegetarian lunches? Last night, they both ate meat.

‘Here's your special lunch Gertrude. Your name's on it.'

‘Thanks dear.' But Gertrude didn't say what might be in her sandwiches.

Before he left, Dr Al signed the Visitors' Book and left it open on the table. Amy flicked through earlier pages.

She couldn't find Big Jon's name, but some of the scrawls were hard to read. If you were famous, perhaps you wrote so often that your name became unreadable?

‘What's Gertrude's surname?'

‘Don't know. Only the first names are on the name tags, ‘ said Christopher.

‘Doesn't matter.' Amy remembered Todd written on the back of that envelope. Mother and son surnames should match. Unless it was a step- family. Amy found one squiggle that could have been Todd. On the 1/2 .

Zoe's name as leader was on the top of the page. Dates and comments were written after the walkers' names.

Great food. It rained hard. Or A wonderful experience. Nobody seemed to write bad things. Perhaps they didn't write anything if they were unhappy.

‘D'you know Gertrude's geologist son was here on the first of February.'

‘No, he wasn't,' said Zoe.

‘But his name is here in the Visitors' Book. Under your name as tour guide.' said Amy. Why was Zoe telling a lie? ‘Was his surname Todd?'

Zoe nodded. ‘ Yes.'

‘There's a Todd here, I think.'

Zoe swung the book around so she could read the names. ‘You've got the date wrong.'

‘But is says 1/2 . That's the first of February.'

‘Gertrude's family is American.'

‘Can't they count?' joked Stan.

Zoe gave a tight smile. ‘ Americans write the month first, and then the day. Todd went through with my group on the second of January this year. He was the geologist who was interested in nuggets. Ready to go? I'll be at the back today. Mack, our other guide, is upfront.'

Only the Japanese group was left. They liked to leave late. They were so fit, they overtook most of the walkers before the drinks stop. They marched in single file, like colourful butterflies in their light-weight gear.

The twins' parents had already gone. They wanted to film Dr Al climbing up the path. That was the hardest part of today's climb. So they wanted to be above him, and film Dr Al as he climbed up.

‘Got my stick. Just in case you want me to fast -forward,' joked Dr Al.

Trampers, such as Stan , used their walking sticks in-between rocks as they crossed the river. Stan's still looked suspiciously top heavy, thought Christopher. And it still rattled.

‘Used to be a few nuggets around here,' Dr Al looked closely at the path.

Despite the rain, bird noises could be heard. Beyond a bend in the track , there was the swift flowing river. Markers showed where the path was supposed to go. But the water level was halfway up the markers and the path had vanished.

Trampers perched from rock to rock. Often the rocks wobbled and Amy slipped.

Balancing with his camera, Dad slipped on a wobbly rock. He put out his hand, grabbed Stan's arm, and Stan fell sideways, his right hand grabbing a branch. They steadied each other. Stan's stick in his left hand saved him, and Dad.

That's when Christopher realised that Stan was left-handed. Well co-ordinated, Big Jon just strode across, helping those with shorter legs or poor balance.

It was rocky fun! Like an adventure course on a T.V.gameshow.

‘Thanks Stan. I'll dress Claud in a plastic bag now.' Dad wrapped one of the black plastic bags around the camera. The rain increased. But he was also concerned about falling in the river.

‘Lost my contact lenses.' Stan scrabbled around and found it. ‘Just new. Not used to them yet.'

Across the river, the path was clearly marked. Amy felt disappointed. When her parents had talked about ‘The Track' she'd imagined ‘bush-bashing' through the undergrowth and making her own track. Here, someone had even slashed the long, wet weeds at the side of the track.

The pathway was wide enough for two backpackers to talk and walk alongside.

Each time Big Jon took a stride, Christopher took two to keep up. Below his baggy, purple shorts, Jon had the thickest and longest legs around.

‘Does your hand get tired autographing for fans?'

Big Jon lifted his trunk-like neck. A smile split his wide face. Ultra white, his teeth were like those in T.V. toothpaste commercials.' Not really. No one can read my name anyway. One kid complained that I'd scribbled on his autograph book. That was my proper signature. Another one got me to write on his broken arm. I collect signatures myself. It's a hobby.'

‘Amy, my sister collects phone cards. How many of you got?'

‘Phone cards or autographs?'

‘Autographs. Whose?'

‘I write to interesting people in the news. Sometimes they write back. Then I've got their signatures for my collection. Sometimes they even send autographed photos. I'm a hard core collector. Got thousands. I send off about four letters a day.'

‘Do they cost a lot? ‘

‘Usually the cost of two stamps.'

‘Why two stamps? Oh, you send them a stamped self addressed envelope?'

Big Jon nodded. ‘ Email is no good. Need the original signature. Selling historical letters and documents is big business. I can spot the difference between an authentic signature and one written by a secretary or an ‘auto-pen'. That's a machine which gives a signature in ink. I've written to politicians, gurus and pop stars.'

‘Have you written to ‘The Mouth?'

‘Yes, but he didn't write back. Or he hasn't yet.'

That was neat, thought Christopher. A famous rugby player who collected other famous autographs. ‘We met

‘The Mouth' on one flight. We thought he was trying to smuggle his famous dog Bozo. But he wasn't.

What's an autograph worth?' asked Christopher.

‘Depends whose it is. And whether they're alive or dead.'

‘What's yours worth?'

‘Depends if it's on a cheque or not?' Big Jon laughed.

‘Have you signed the Visitors' Book?'

‘Did it before.' Big Jon just shrugged. ‘Look.' He pointed down.

Christopher'd never seen so much water . The river boiled to a white froth on the rocks. Christopher looked over the handrail of the bridge. What if he slipped? Or if he were pushed? Below, the water had a life of its own.

‘Heard the news?' Big Jon looked at the powerful water. ‘Zoe told me.'

‘What news?'

Out on the Track, there were no television news programs or newspapers. But Zoe was in radio contact.

‘Someone in the group ahead has broken his leg. Avalanche destroyed the path and he slipped over the edge.

Has to be flown out by helicopter from the heli-pad at the next hut.'

‘Will we have to walk that path too?'

‘There's an alternative path the other side of the Pass. Pretty rough though.'

Like a gun on her hip, Zoe wore her radio. The aerial stuck out, wobbling when she climbed. From behind, Zoe's legs in shorts were like ruddy-coloured