Sarah and Grant gazed at each other in consternation.
“That’s really torn it,” he said. “What in the world can we do? We want stacks of sandwiches for morning tea and afternoon tea ... and bread and butter for the tea meal at night!”
Sarah thought rapidly. “I could get by with vast quantities of scones and pikelets and oatcakes for the teas at the shed, if only I could bake enough bread for the evening meal. Any chance of getting some compressed yeast from the store?”
Grant looked doubtful. “But bread-making’s a dying art, isn’t it? I mean—could you? And how long would it take? Doesn’t it have to stand and rise?”
“Oh, about ... let me see. Half an hour to make, rise it—another half hour, knead it, rise it another hour, knead it ... bake it ... oh, about four hours.”
Grant looked at his watch. “After eight now. Be nine before we got back with the yeast. It would be into the early hours before it came out. No, you couldn’t do it.”
Sarah’s chin came up. “I’m used to night duty. And we often made bread at home. Get me the yeast and I’ll guarantee the rest.”
He went into action, rang the store, sent one of the single men in for it. Under Sarah’s instructions he stoked the fuel stove, switched on the electric, while she hunted out loaf-tins, “Thank goodness, you seem well supplied with them.”
Grant nodded. “My aunt was a dab hand at bread. In the old days it was always made at home.”
Sarah organized the children, who were only too delighted to postpone their bedtime. Even peeling potatoes and cutting up vegetables was preferable to being banished upstairs. They worked with a will. Soon the big kitchen was a hive of industry.
Sarah’s cheeks were carnation pink, her hair streaked with flour. Suddenly she said, “The children will have to sleep here, Mr. Alexander. I’d not like them down at the cottage by themselves. I’m too afraid of fire. I’ll go down myself when the bread is out, but it would be too late for them. I’ll be lucky if it’s all finished by two a.m.”
He looked at her. “You’re not sleeping in the house by yourself.”
She met his eyes squarely, though her hot cheeks flushed even deeper. “Well, I can scarcely stay here. I imagine even in N.Z. one must observe the conventions.”
“Of course. But I’ll go down to the men’s quarters and turn in with them. They’re connected by phone with the homestead, and should you need me, you can reach me.”
“I shan’t need you for what will be left of the night,” said Sarah shortly.
He laughed, disregarding her tone. “Don’t be too sure of that, Miss Isbister. A few days ago I couldn’t have imagined myself accepting favors from your fair hands ... and now look at the position I find myself in!”
Her tone was light, but mocking. “How are the mighty fallen!” She added something else he wasn’t meant to catch.
“What did you say?” he asked quickly.
“Oh, nothing. You weren’t meant to hear.”
“You said, ‘Also the high and mighty,’ didn’t you?”
Pauline looked up. “I don’t always understand what you two are getting at!” she complained.
Grant’s look was solemn. “It’s all right, Pauline, neither do we, at times. We just like to sound clever.”
Rory said, “And why do you still say Mr. Alexander and Miss Isbister? It’s daft. Why, Wiremu and Jock and Ben all say Sarah and Grant.”
Grant said, “You’re right. It is daft.”
Sarah said, “I don’t know. It’s rather free and easy.”
He laughed. “You’ve not got rid of all your hospital starch yet, have you, Sister Isbister? You will.”
A moment later, under cover of a furious argument Rory and Pauline were having about who should have the green peeler and who the red, he said to her, “Better give in to our crude colonial ways, Sarah, the kids think it’s strange. Even if you don't like it, we’ll have to preserve an outward amity for their sakes.”
“Very well,” said Sarah stiffly.
While the bread was rising, they made supper for the children and banished them upstairs straight after it, returning to the kneading.
Grant said as he called goodnight to them, “You’ll probably be on a win tomorrow. You’d better stay home from school to save Sarah running up and down to the shed.”
Their gratitude was boundless.
Sarah looked up from her deft, quick kneading to say, “What’s in that box on the dresser so carefully tied up, Grant?
He looked across. “I don’t know. I’ll investigate.” He undid it. “Oh, it’s a sitting of Brown Leghorn eggs.”
“What? But I thought you always bought seven-week-old pullets. I heard you saying it was the only economical way of running a poultry-yard. And you’ve got hundreds.”
She thought he looked sheepish. “Well, Pauline and I thought we’d pop these under those two broody bantams that are sitting under the macrocarpa hedge.”
Sarah looked amazed. “But it’s far too late, isn’t it? They’ll not come into lay till next summer. Or am I all mixed up with the southern hemisphere seasons?”
“No, you’re right.” He was surprisingly meek. “But—”
Sarah subdued her dimple. “But Pauline thinks it’s unnatural not to let those bantams become mothers ... am I right?”
“You are. Go on, say it—Pauline twists me round her little finger!”
“Well, she does, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Pauline has only to look at me to disarm me.”
Till now, Sarah had been a stranger to jealousy. But swiftly within her rose the thought, “How nice to be Pauline!”
She instantly subdued it. She didn’t want to twist Grant Alexander around her little finger ... why should she?
“I rather fancy myself at this,” said her partner, thumping and turning the dough.
“Ye-es,” said Sarah doubtfully, “but it’s supposed to be kneading ... not just bashing.”
“Oh, the wicked tongue she has on her,” said Grant mournfully, “and me trying my best to help her.”
Sarah said, “I’m sorry to be so dashing, but I don’t think you’re doing a thing for it ... I—I can’t afford to have you ruin it at this stage.”
“All right, partner,” he told her cheerfully, no whit crushed. “You’re quite right, there’s too much at stake. Well, what else can I do? Wash up?”
Sarah told herself it was absurd to feel relief, much less elation, that he’d called her partner in so friendly a tone.
They worked on while the kitchen, with both stoves going, got hotter and hotter. Sarah felt hot and sticky, her legs ached, her head felt spinning. Her make-up had gone hours ago, and her hair, she was sure, was more in straggly wisps than curling tendrils. But what did it matter? The main thing was, it now looked as if the shearers would be fed in their accustomed style—as long as the bread emerged all right.
How horrible if it was hard on the outside and soggy in the middle, or dry right through, and burned on the crust! Neither of these stoves worked quite like the stoves she had known. The fuel stove had been inclined to roar at first, due, her partner said, to the wind being nor’west, and in any case the left-hand oven rarely got as hot as the right one, no matter now you worked the dampers.
Sarah had filled all the tins, and now shaped some small loaves like round scones, out of the left-over dough.
“What did you call them?” asked Grant. “Oven-bottom cakes? My mother came from Tyneside, and always called them that. I like them best of all loaves.”
At last the work was nearly over. Sarah began setting the big table ready for breakfast, and slicing the toast bread ready.
“What’s that I can smell?” she asked, sniffing.
“Coffee percolating,” answered Grant. “I switched it on in the scullery. We’ll have coffee and biscuits, and as soon as the bread comes out, you’re going off to bed.”
Sarah’s legs felt more tired than ever on night duty. She sat down, drank two huge cups of coffee, accepted biscuits and cheese gratefully, said, “I’m thankful the men won’t arrive till after breakfast,” then sat drowsily in her chair, her feet on the big rag mat, opposite Grant Alexander, till the bread was done.
“It’s perfect,” said her partner with satisfaction, prodding the golden-brown crust of one he had just removed from the tin.
“It looks perfect,” said Sarah. “The proof will be in the eating.”
Grant chuckled. “I’ve an idea that I’m going to find the men lingering over their meals tomorrow. I’ll have to chase them out.”
Sarah pulled a face. “That’s complimentary to my bread-making, but, honestly, I don’t think the loaves will be as good as that.”
She looked up to see a twinkle in the hazel eyes. “I didn’t mean quite that,” he said. “I mean you’ll probably turn out to be their ideal of a pin-up girl, and they’ll offer to stay and help with the washing up.”
Sarah felt her color rise, but managed to say with a laugh, “if they could see me now they’d hardly think that. Hot ... dishevelled ... wispy-haired ...” She shrugged.