“Quite so ... but you are to blame for the way you use them.”
There were several moments when Sarah did not speak. He thought she had appealed to Duncan because of her looks. Sarah thought of that week she had spent in July at Orkney, and the things that had drawn Duncan and herself together: their love of the sea, of climbing, of bird-watching; their liking for the same books, the same people ... When she could speak she said quietly, “This is getting us nowhere. I know the children can’t hear us for the noise of the plane, but I wouldn’t like them to sense an atmosphere like this. They’ve been through a sad time. Don’t mistake me—I’m not making a bid for sympathy for myself—but these children have lost their mother and father and their familiar pattern of living. I want them to get back their sense of security, of happiness. Do you mind if I talk to them about the scenery? They've been spellbound till now.”
At that moment Rory turned in his seat in front and poked his freckled face over the back of it. “There’s land ahead, sir. What’s that?”
Grant Alexander said quite equably, “The South Island is coming up. We’ll be over the Sounds in a moment ... see ... just like Norwegian fiords—hundreds of them, inlets and bays and islands all around the raggedy top of the South Island. The mountains you can see are the Kaikouras. They run right to the coast from inland. Very rugged country behind them, sparsely populated. Over there, west, are the Southern Alps. They run like a spine down the South Island, there’s just a narrow strip the other side, all lush bush and rivers and glaciers, the West Coast, bordered by the Tasman Sea.”
Sarah closed her eyes against the brightness and beauty of it all. She supposed she ought to be glad he wasn’t rude to the children.
Pauline’s face appeared over the back of the seat, with its straight fringe of tawny, almost ginger, hair and beautiful tawny eyes. She had an elfish, pointed chin, and a puckish expression that hardly ever sobered.
“I’m going to love this land,” she announced. “There’s plenty of it, isn’t there?”
Grant went on pointing things out to the children. Sarah stared out of the window.
In no time at all they were buckling on their safety belts for the descent and coming down to Woodbourne aerodrome on the Wairau plain. It was a short drive through immense fields to Blenheim in the airport bus, and they found the town itself delightful, with colorful public and private gardens, clean-looking stone and wooden buildings, encircled by yellow tussocky hills devoid of bush or trees, towards which, presently, they headed in Grant Alexander’s luxurious car.
Rory, in true boy fashion, whistled when he saw it.
“Gee! What a beaut! Bet she goes some!”
“She can,” said Grant Alexander nonchalantly, then, with meaning, “But don’t be too overawed by her magnificence. Your sister will probably own one just as plutey before long!”
Rory was temporarily bereft of speech before this prospect, then he recovered and said, “Jumping Jehosaphat! Do you really mean it, Mr. Alexander? That we’ll be as rich as all that?”
Sarah said off-handedly, “I hardly think so. I’ve no ambitions like that.”
“No?” asked her partner, handing her into the front seat; his tone called her “Liar!”
Sarah did not reply. How could she tell this dark-visaged forbidding stranger that all she craved for the children was a roof over their heads, a school near by ... something to set the spectre of orphanage life for them farther away?
If Sarah’s tumult of mind could have been stilled she would have enjoyed the glorious countryside. They threaded through hills by steep passes, crossing and re-crossing the railways. They would emerge from the yellow hills to sweep down beside the rock-bordered coast and dip back through green bush and rocky cliffs. There were holiday camps tucked into every little glade, some old and neglected, some smart and modern.
Above them the semi-tropical bush reared up the lower slopes of most amazingly high mountains that, but for the railway and road at the water’s edge, would have dabbled their feet in the Pacific.
Though it was uncomfortably hot, a gash in the tall peaks here and there showed the silver-white gleam of snow. Sarah turned to the children. “You’d better take your jackets off. Had I expected it to be so hot you’d have worn something summery.”
She slipped out of her own jacket and sat in her plain short-sleeved blouse.
They came into Kaikouya, a sleepy, sunlit town, bright with creepers and geraniums above the sapphire bay. Sarah would have loved to stop to stretch her legs and have some fresh air, to see if this band of pressure about her brows would lift, and the queasy feeling at the pit of her stomach disappear, but on they swept. She’d heard it was a land of large distances, that travel meant little to New Zealanders.
She was amazed at the sparsity of the population, the great areas where no roof-top showed, the sense of vastness. Then they were skirting the coast again, tumbling breakers on the left. The railway disappeared, it seemed, every few miles, into tunnels in the cliffs. Sometimes the road went through short tunnels, one for south traffic, one for north. Rory was counting the tunnels. Pauline was sitting silently beside him, hands between her knees, eyes rapt. Pauline the beauty lover. If only Sarah could keep them unaware of the hostility the partner of Challowsford had for her, the children could be happy here.
They were running into the Hundalee scenic reserve now, with a magnificent coastline, all rocks.
“My goodness,” said Rory, “wouldn’t I love to dabble my feet in that water.”
Sarah said quickly, “Oh, we can’t stop, Rory. Mr. Alexander will want to be back to the farm. We’ve taken up enough of his time as it is.”
“Wrong,” said Mr. Alexander. “I enjoy a break as much as anyone. I’ve been looking for a parking place this last mile or two. It’s so narrow here.”
He drew into a bank that curved out over the shore. He opened the doors, said to the children, “Right. Scram. Down to the beach with you.”
Pauline scrambled out, stopped.
“Whatever is that noise, Mr. Alexander?” She added as he looked puzzled, “That sort of sizz-sizz-sizzy sound.”
“Oh, cicadas. A sort of locust. They’re in the trees. They sing in the sun.”
It was a happy, contented sound. Sarah watched the two children drop down to the shore, and go racing down to the screaming tide.
The cloudless blue vault of the sky, like an upturned bowl, curved down to meet the sapphire sheet of the Pacific at a lavender horizon. A steamer trailed smoke on its way down the coast. A lovely, lovely world, and only herself out of harmony with it. Nostalgia for the ordered, safe routine of the hospital ward shook her, for those carefree days when she was independent, knew no responsibilities, was beholden to no one for the roof over her head.
She was aware that Mr. Alexander had spoken to her twice.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Would you give me a hand to take the eats down to the shore? I thought the children would enjoy a snack out of doors better than in a hotel. I had a hamper packed in Blenheim.”
Sarah snatched at this olive-branch ... if that was what it was. Perhaps in time he would soften, maybe a love of children was the chink in his armour. Maybe later he would realize that all she had done was for the children’s sakes.
She looked at him with warm eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Alexander.” She smiled.
He held her gaze, a hint of agate in his hazel ones. “Don’t bother to turn on your charm for me,” he said. “I’m not one of the gentlemen who prefer blondes. I did it for the children’s sakes.”
Sarah couldn’t help it. She gave a short unamused laugh.
“Actually,” she said, “I’d not taken you for a gentleman at all ... only for a colonial.”
They both picked up the food.
The whole scene took on a strange, unreal quality for Sarah. The children were delightfully natural, and she could not fault Mr. Alexander for his manner towards them. They took off their socks and shoes and waded into the cool water, and he went with them when they clambered over the rocks, not trusting them out of his sight as the incoming tide swirled higher. He was not impatient with them as they dallied, turning over stones in search of crabs and sea-anemones, answering their endless questions about the strange shells and seaweeds with exemplary patience.
But she was the interloper, the usurper. Sarah felt her hands go clammy at the thought of further strangers to meet at the homestead, more hostile people, judging her as a gold-digger.
She heard him call to the children: “Five minutes more—no longer,” and as he came towards her she said, “I hope it hasn’t put your housekeeper out, Mr. Alexander, having three extra suddenly thrust upon her. Your uncle said help in the house was extremely hard to get in New Zealand.”
His look was stabbing. “Oh, I daresay I shan’t lose her because of you, Miss Isbister. She happens to be the sort to stand by in difficult times. She is devoted to me. Besides, she’s a Scot, a Macfarlane, and won’t infringe any of the laws of hospitality.”
“You mean, I suppose,” returned Sarah, holding her temper in check, “that she’ll do what she must for us, and—remain aloof!”