Sarah looked thinner, but very well. She still made time to help Mrs. Mac with the extra baking, and was home to help serve the evening meal to the harvesters. At times, when she was busy, she could even forget that Elaine’s visit was so near.
Elaine was in the North Island now, seeing the citrus growing up north, the thermal wonders of Rotorua, the famous glow-worm caves at Waitomo, visiting the main cities. From Wellington, the capital, she was flying to Harewood Airport near Christchurch.
Sarah got the telegram one evening as she came in. It was phoned up to the homestead. She turned from the telephone quite perturbed.
“Elaine is coming on Thursday, Mrs. Mac. I’ll have to wire instructions to the airport to tell her to get the bus up here. I’d hoped to meet her, but we’re short-handed. Sister Morgan is away, and Nurse Petersen had word today of a cousin’s death and is off to the funeral at Blenheim on Thursday.”
Grant, busy with fishing tackle, looked up. “I’ll meet her, Sarah. I was going to town Wednesday. I’ll make it Thursday instead.”
Sarah supposed she ought to be thankful. That would be eighty miles for Elaine to get to work with her husky voice, with the coloring Grant admired most, with the deceptive air of sincerity. Sarah didn’t blame anyone for trusting Elaine.
Sarah herself had once believed in her, had thought her charming. Until the doubts crept in. Sarah wondered wistfully what this brief visit of Elaine’s would mean to her. But for it, Sarah believed enmity between herself and her partner would have gradually died down. Life at Challowsford could have gone on so pleasantly in the matchless rhythm of the country ... ploughing, sowing, reaping ... mating, lambing, weaning...
Mrs. Mac said, “I know you’ve insisted after all that you are going to put Mrs. Thomason up yourself, but one thing I have set my mind on is that we’ll have the first meal over here, and I’ll do it all. You have heavy enough days up at the maternity home, and the day you’re expecting visitors will be for sure the very day dozens of little Kiwis will pick for arriving in this world. I’ll have an extra special tea all set out, and after we’ve had the meal, I’ll see to the dishes, and you and your friend can away to the cottage and talk your heads off.”
Sarah hesitated. “It’s sweet of you—I’ll appreciate the meal being ready, but ... well ... afterwards—”
Mrs. Mac looked at her shrewdly. “You’re no’ so sure you’ll want to talk your head off. She’s no’ a kindred spirit, I take it.”
Sarah laughed and put her arms around Mrs. Mac. “Oh, Macsie, you’re a scamp. But you couldn’t have put it better. I’m dreading the next fortnight.”
Mrs. Mac patted Sarah’s shoulder. “Well, never you mind. I'll take her off your hands whenever I can. You’ve enough on your shoulders at it is, lass. With two children and a house, and a job, you don’t get enough relaxation. You ought to be out more ... what’s happened to Jeff?”
Sarah flushed. “He was taking me too seriously. I didn’t want him to get hurt.”
Mrs. Mac nodded approvingly. “Yes, but not many girls these days would think of that. I feel you are no age yourself to be weighed down with all these responsibilities. I don’t really approve of anyone in their twenties working as hard, it’s nothing but work, sleep, and eat for you!”
Sarah laughed. “Oh, Mrs. Mac! But I love it here. This is the sort of life I love. I just adore Challowsford, it’s got right into my blood ... the hills and the sea, the great paddocks, the sweep of the downs, the river, the homestead.”
She looked up to see Grant in the doorway watching her, his eyes enigmatic. Sarah wished the impulsive words unsaid. She had told him she had been yearning to nurse again, that she lived for the day when she could buy a small holding away from here ... Sarah felt the hot color come rushing into her face.
It was a long, hard day at the hospital, beginning with a baby born in a taxi, and finishing up with a grim, hard struggle to save two lives, and the hopeless feeling that even when this young mother was restored to health, she would be back in the nursing home again much too soon.
The roads were dusty coming home, Sarah felt windblown and gritty and tired enough to cry. Mrs. Mac was putting the last touches to her meal.
“We’re having it in the dining-room tonight. You do look weary. I’ve brought over your things and put them in the bedroom you often use. Take a shower. If you want to see your friend first, they’re through in the dining-room.”
As Sarah went to she was very conscious of her by now far from immaculate cotton frock, her feeling of sagging weariness, the fact that she desperately needed that shower.
She paused a moment in the doorway. Grant was lighting a cigarette for Elaine; it brought his face close to hers. Elaine looked up into his eyes, smiled, her pansy-dark eyes holding his a moment.
“Thank you, Grant,” she said as he threw the match away.
Grant! They were on to Christian names already. It looked as if Elaine hadn’t wasted any of the eighty-odd miles home.
Elaine had too much sense to change for dinner in a Colonial farmhouse, but still gave the air of making it an occasion. She wore an off-white paper tweed frock, plainly cut, moulded to her figure, with the high cowled neckline caught on one side with a fascinating gold filigree brooch. Bracelets to match clasped her wrists, and her shoes were ornamented with buckles of it.
Her hair was simply parted in the middle and waved softly back from her beautiful, delicately veined brow. The whole effect was of ivory, ebony and gold, the only other note the carnation red of her sultry lips.
Sarah felt Grant’s gaze flicker from Elaine to herself and back to Elaine, and knew the glance was comparative. Elaine came forward with pretty hesitancy. Sarah found herself saying:
“I thought I’d just say hallo before a shower and a change, Elaine. Have a good trip?”
She knew it sounded brusque and unwelcoming. Elaine put her hands into Sarah’s, and said, “Sarah, but how lovely to see you again. This is wonderful!” and she lifted her face, clearly expecting Sarah to kiss her.
Sarah took a cool peck at the cheek nearest her, turned and said over her shoulder, “I’ll be more sociable when I’ve scrubbed up.”
She felt better after the shower, and was amused, but a little rueful, to see Mrs. Mac had put out for her the one extravagance Sarah had allowed herself for the ship, a ballet-length black lace dress over an underskirt of turquoise taffeta. On top of it lay her silver and opal necklace.
Sarah would rather by far have worn something simple tonight, but it was beyond her to hurt Mrs. Mac, and she mustn’t hold the meal up.
Her reflection in the mirror gave her confidence, however.
They were all in the dining-room when she entered, the children unusually spick and span.
Elaine’s eyes widened. “Oh, Sarah,” she said, her voice carefully holding generous admiration, “I’ve never seen you look so lovely.” It sounded refreshingly spontaneous—from one woman to another. “I always felt you had the looks ... that you only needed the money. I’m so glad you spent some of the legacy on clothes.”
Sarah made an effort not to blush, smiled slightly and said to Pauline and Rory, “Take your places, children. I’m afraid I’ve kept dinner waiting as it is.”
Grant answered Elaine. “Oh, it didn’t come out of the legacy, did it, Sarah?” He turned to Elaine a little. “Sarah assures me she hasn’t touched a penny of it herself.” He pulled out Elaine’s chair. Sarah abruptly pulled her own out.
Elaine said, “No?” Her tone held puzzlement, and a faint disbelieving quality. She might as well have said, “And you believed her!”
Mrs. Mac had surpassed herself. Cold turkey, potato and celery salad tossed in a delicious dressing, almond cream with pears and clotted cream, coffee and cheese straws.
Afterwards Sarah insisted on helping Mrs. Mac wash up while Grant entertained Elaine, walking with her in the scented twilit garden, a hand under her elbow, her skirts brushing the lavender and rosemary in the borders.
Sarah could hear their laughter and the low murmur of their voices as she scraped the plates into the pig bucket, wiped the dishes, stacked them away.
Then Elaine’s voice, more clearly: “But, Grant, how enchanting ... what kind is that?”
His voice answering, “The bird-song? ... a tui. They call him the parson-bird because of his white wattles against his black throat ... look ... on the tip of that red gum. Can you see him? A little larger than a blackbird ... his feathers are quite iridescent. He has a wonderful variety of notes. You must hear a bell-bird too, only to get their sweetest song you want to hear it chiming over the waters of a mountain-pass, or in the bush at mating-time.”
Sarah looked through the pantry window as she put the left-overs in the refrigerator, and saw Elaine, small, dainty, exquisite, her face lifted in rapture towards the tui. The line of her throat was perfect, her profile enchanting. Sarah’s eyes went to Grant, who wasn’t watching the bird. His eyes were on Elaine, and his expression was one Sarah had never before seen.
Within three days Elaine was staying up at the homestead. She had done it very cleverly. Mrs. Mac had overheard. She’d said: