Sarah’s voice was as bland as cream. “No,” she agreed, “I’m much more like the cuckoo in the nest ... who must be fed. In the manse we always ate in the kitchen.”
Grant disregarded this. “And the men eat with us.” He didn’t wait for her to comment, but turned to Mrs. Mac. “Have they finished in the shed?”
She nodded. “Aye. They’re scrubbing up.”
On the heel of her words in came the three men, Jock, a grizzled Scot, probably a man of few words; Ben, a tall red-headed lad, and, as a direct contrast, Wiremu, usually called Bill, a brownskinned Maori lad of twenty or so, with perfect teeth and evenly-waved black hair.
Both lads looked appreciatively at Sarah, and as she turned away she caught the glint of malicious amusement in Grant Alexander’s eye. A pity—because Sarah would have liked to be friendly and natural with the men, and now she would have to watch her step, or this black-avised partner of hers would accuse her of casting a spell over them.
Sarah was thankful for the children during the meal that followed. They, at least, were natural, and finding Wiremu welcomed their questioning, were soon hard at it.
The long table was covered with formica, and place mats set. There was home-grown mutton, cold, salad, mashed potatoes, mayonnaise dressing, great bowls of beetroot, ice cream and fruit salad to follow. A percolator of coffee bubbled on the large cream and red coal range.
The meal over, Grant Alexander rose. “Miss Isbister and I will take our coffee in the den, Mrs. Mac. The children can go out to explore with Ben and Bill. We’ll beat the gong when they have to come in. We have things to discuss, haven’t we, Miss Isbister?” He pulled out her chair.
Sarah made no answer till they were in the den, where, she noticed, much of the farm business appeared to be conducted.
“Yes, we have much to discuss,” she said, “and the first is that tomorrow we three are moving over to one of the cottages.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing him taken aback.
“What for? The house is large enough, surely?”
She smiled. “Would any house be large enough to hold you and me, Mr. Alexander? It’s a terrible thing to live with people you dislike. It would be quite impossible, for you or for me. Besides, I want the children to live in a happy atmosphere. They have been used to a most harmonious home, full of love and goodwill.”
His eyes met hers above his littered desk. “And you don’t think my home is harmonious.... that there is goodwill in it?”
“No nest is ever happy with a cuckoo in it. I’d be the bone of contention always. Technically, I suppose, half of it should be mine. But in actual living conditions it would be sheer hell—”
He cut in. “I’m flattered. You mean I’d be unfair, unjust?”
Sarah considered it, knowing her casual air was maddening. “I think you’d be fair ... I think you’d be just ... but when did fairness of justice warm the heart? I know you’d have little truck with mercy, or the milk of human kindness.”
She saw the color rise in the dark skin above his collar.
“The whole thing is absurd—you’ll play the part of a martyr. It will cause talk. The cottages are not to be compared with the homestead. I don’t know what wiles you used to induce my uncle to leave you his share of the estate—but, since he did, I insist you have equal shares.”
Sarah’s blue eyes were suddenly pencilled with green sparks.
“You insist! Short of locking me up, insisting will get you nowhere. I’m used to managing my own life, thank you. As to what anyone may think ... how absurd! Is it likely that anyone in the community will be biased towards me? I imagine that already they are up in arms about the interloper from London. The only thing I do hope is that they treat the children properly.” Sarah’s hands clenched for a moment as if she was prepared there and then to do battle. “Besides, I’m not to be swayed by public opinion. I’ll look over the cottages tomorrow and decide which will suit me best.”
Surprisingly, he gave in. “Very well.”
A moment later she realized why—he was calling her bluff.
“You’ll find it lonely after the children are in bed at night, and believe me, there’s a mighty lot of work to be done on them to render them even habitable.”
“To your first objection, Mr. Alexander, I’ve never known what it is to be lonely. I find myself quite good company ... in fact, I prefer my own to less congenial company. To the second, I’m not in the least afraid of hard work.”
She got up, turned. “Now that that is all amicably settled,” (oh, yes, Sarah could be as sarcastic as he), “I’d like to get the children to bed. They’ve had a long, exciting day. And I’ll turn in with them. I’ll get a book and read.”
He followed her, beat the gong, and asked her, in mock solitude, what she would like to read.
“I’m afraid we’ve very little that is likely to suit you.”
“I know exactly what I want to read,” she said. “I saw it here before. It was in the ship’s library, but I didn’t get time to finish it.”
She picked up “Mustering on Molesworth” by Bruce Stronach.
His eyes were mocking. “Aiming to understand N.Z. farming in one night, Miss Isbister?”
Sarah called the children to hurry, bade them say goodnight to Mrs. Mac and Mr. Alexander. She answered him over her shoulder as she opened the door.
“No, Mr. Alexander, what I’m at is attempting to understand the wild colonial!”
Despite the fact that she had given as good as she had got, Sarah found her legs were shaking. She knew she would not sleep, that her chaotic thoughts would take over as soon as she put out the light. Surprisingly, she slipped deep into dreamless slumber as soon as she switched off the light.
She woke to find Pauline bending over her. “Sarah, don’t you want to come out to explore?”
Remembrance rushed in on her. She was in a strange land, among people who resented her, and her future, dark and dreary, was on her.
But all it meant to the children was a new place to explore. She, Sarah, must walk warily, watch every word she said.
“You and Rory are not to get in anyone’s way, Pauline. They aren’t used to children here. Today we’ll move over to our own quarters and get settled in. But don’t worry anyone with questions, or—or interfere with the way they treat the animals—or stop Mrs. Macfarlane when she’s getting breakfast.”
Pauline made an impish face. “Rory’s out already, Sarah. I saw him going over to the milking shed with Mr. Alexander.”
Sarah groaned. She couldn’t imagine Grant Alexander’s pre-breakfast mood being the sort to suffer Rory’s chatter. Pity she’d not heard him sneak out.
She decided against taking a bath or shower. Better find out first how good the water service was. She remembered a woman on the ship who came from North Otago, the one who took showers morning, noon, and night. Said she’d keep up her yearly average that way!
She had told Sarah the climate of North Otago was marvellous—it hardly ever rained—but as they depended on rain-water for everything, this was sometimes a calamity. “I’ve seen them carting water from the Kakanui River to us, in mid-June ... winter! six pounds a tank!” What wells were sunk were usually hard, and so far below surface, in limestone country, that boring was an expensive business.
From what Sarah had seen of the country on the way down, she thought this part was one of many waters, but better not risk any unpleasantness. She contented herself with a wash, donned a lilac uniform, as a sensible working dress, and went down with Pauline.
She arrived at the kitchen door in time to hear Grant Alexander say, “I’ve no idea what she’ll want for breakfast ... half a grapefruit and a finger of toast by the look of her, I should imagine. She’s as skinny as a filleted herring!” Pauline put her head back and roared with laughter. Sarah could have smacked her. She’d rather have pretended not to hear.
She said, “Good morning, Mr. Alexander. Good morning, Mrs. Macfarlane. No, I like a hearty breakfast, thank you, and I’ve no truck with dieting.”
“Good morning, Miss Isbister,” he returned, seemingly not in the least embarrassed that she had overheard him. “Then you’ll have something of everything, I presume?”
“Yes, thank you, whatever is going.”
“Rory, beat the gong, would you?” he said.
Sarah said stiffly, “I must apologize about letting Rory down so early. I didn’t hear him. I hope he hasn’t annoyed you.”
She was surprised to hear Mr. Alexander say, “He was no bother at all. In fact, quite the reverse. We’ve got a skittish little heifer that doesn’t like the cups, and has to be milked by hand. None of us likes the job, in fact it makes us mad ... but Rory took over, and managed her fine.”
Sarah knew Rory would. He had a way with animals. She was grateful for the child’s sake that he had been praised, even if it was just one more way her partner found to disagree with her.
The men came in, and they sat down to huge platefuls of porridge and cream. While Mrs. Macfarlane dished out the eggs, Grant Alexander served them from the large flat dishes on the stove. As he put Sarah’s in front of her, their eyes met. She recognized the gleam in his for a challenge, and dropped her eyes to her plate ... two large chops, tomatoes, an egg, and a huge mound of fried potatoes.