Call of the Kiwi, page 5
part #3 of Neuseeland-Saga Series
Sarah felt the trap spring under her feet. Miss Arrowstone would not hire her. Her only remaining option was to obtain a position as a tutor in the area. But from what she’d seen thus far, no one seemed particularly well-off. And the town matrons would probably not want to stand in the way of “the reverend’s happiness.” She would have to have a serious word with Christopher. Though it spoke well of him that he was so determined to marry Sarah, he had to give Sarah at least a few weeks to make up her mind. She cast a shy sidelong glance at the man next to her. Would a few weeks really suffice to get to know him?
Miss Coleridge, the east wing’s gaunt and strict-looking housemother, was older than Miss Barnum, and appeared to be her exact opposite.
“You’re Gloria Martyn? Why, you don’t take after your mother at all.” Miss Coleridge sounded markedly disapproving. Gloria was coming to expect this response.
Miss Coleridge cast a further, rather unmerciful look at her before looking at her notes.
“Martyn, Martyn, ah yes, here we are. The Titian Room. Gabrielle and Fiona are already there.”
Gloria followed her housemother down the halls of the east wing, which were rather gloomy in the afternoon light. Though she tried to convince herself that there must be more than one Gabrielle in the school, she knew that was not likely. And, indeed, the girl who had been at the reception desk looked up when Miss Coleridge opened the door. Gabrielle was hanging up her school uniforms in one of the four narrow wardrobes. Another girl—Gloria recognized a petite blonde who had been with Gabrielle in the entrance hall—appeared to have already finished putting away her things. She was placing a few family pictures on her night table.
“Fiona, Gabrielle—this is your new roommate,” Miss Coleridge said. “She’s from . . .”
“New Zealand, we already know, Housemother,” Gabrielle said, curtsying politely. “We met her when we arrived.”
“Well, then you all already have something to talk about,” Miss Coleridge said, clearly happy not to have to break the ice between the girls. “Please accompany Gloria to dinner.”
With that, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. Gloria stood awkwardly at the entrance. Fiona and Gabrielle had already claimed the beds by the window, so she plopped down on the bed in the furthest corner, wishing she could simply pull a blanket over her head and hide. But the other girls did not intend to leave Gloria alone.
“Here we have our blind little bird,” Gabrielle remarked nastily. “Though I’ve heard she can really sing. Isn’t your mother that Maori singer?”
“Really? Her mother is a niiigger.” Fiona dragged the last word out. “But she doesn’t even look black,” she added, looking Gloria over intently.
“Maybe a cuckoo’s egg?” Gabrielle giggled.
Gloria gulped. “I . . . we . . . back home there aren’t any cuckoos.”
She had no idea what she had done to become the object of ridicule without cause. But she understood that she was stuck.
And there was no chance of escape.
5
Charlotte Greenwood arrived at Kiward Station with her parents a month after she had met Jack in Christchurch and following a formal invitation from Gwyneira McKenzie. The official occasion was a small celebration for successfully herding the sheep down from the highlands. Although this was a routine occurrence and not normally cause for celebration, Jack had hounded his mother to come up with a reason to invite the Greenwoods, and this was as good as any other.
Jack was beaming as Charlotte alighted from the coach. She was wearing a simple, dark-brown dress that highlighted her hair, and her huge brown eyes shone.
“Did you have a pleasant trip, Charlotte?” he asked.
Charlotte smiled, and dimples appeared in the corners of her mouth. Jack was once again smitten.
“The roads are much better than I remembered,” Charlotte replied in her melodious voice.
Jack nodded. He yearned to say something intelligent, but he could not think clearly in Charlotte’s presence. Everything in him wanted to hold this girl, protect her, bind her to him, but if he did not manage to say something intelligent, she would think of him as the village idiot.
Nevertheless, he managed to introduce the girl to his parents, at which point James McKenzie expressed precisely the gallantry that had escaped Jack.
“A boarding-school education in England suddenly strikes me as a very good idea,” James remarked, “if it produces women as charming as you, Miss Greenwood. And you’re interested in Maori culture, is that right?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’d really like to learn the language,” she explained. “And since Jack speaks fluent Maori . . .” She gave Jack a quick look that James couldn’t help but notice. He had already noticed the light in his son’s eyes. But now he saw that Charlotte appeared to be interested too.
“He’ll no doubt spend the next three months teaching you words like Taumatawhatatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoroukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu.” James winked at her.
Charlotte bit her lip. “They have words that long?”
She furrowed her brow in that manner that had charmed Jack when they first met.
He shook his head and reassured the girl. “That’s a mountain on the North Island. And even the Maori think it’s a tongue twister. It’s best you begin with simpler words. Kia ora, for example.”
“Which means hello!” Charlotte smiled.
“And haere mai?”
“Welcome!” Charlotte translated, apparently having gotten a head start. “Woman is wahine.”
Jack smiled. “Haere mai, wahine Charlotte.”
Charlotte wanted to reply, but was trying to think of a word. “And what’s the word for man?” she asked.
“Tane,” James said.
Charlotte turned back to Jack. “Kia ora, tane Jack.”
James caught Gwyneira’s gaze. She, too, had been closely observing the interaction between Jack and Charlotte.
“Looks like they don’t need to make a detour by way of Irish stew,” Gwyneira said, alluding to the first blush of her love for James.
“But bible verses might be important soon,” James quipped. When Gwyneira had first come to New Zealand, the only book that had been translated into Maori was the Bible. Whenever she needed a specific word, she had to think about where she might find it in there. “For where you go, I will go.”
While Gwyneira and James chatted with George and Elizabeth Greenwood, Jack gave Charlotte a tour of the farm, which was bustling now that the sheep had been herded down. All the stables were packed with sheep in their prime—well-nourished and healthy, with clean, thick wool that would keep them warm through the winter until shearing time. Talking about the sheep was easier for Jack than making polite conversation, and he gradually recovered his self-assurance. He and Charlotte wandered over to the Maori village, and Jack’s easy interactions with the natives gave him a chance to impress Charlotte. She enjoyed the idyllic village on the lake and admired the carvings on the public buildings.
“If you want, we can ride over to O’Keefe Station tomorrow,” Jack said. “Only the people who come to work at the farm every day live here. The tribe itself has moved to Howard O’Keefe’s old farm. The Maori received that land as reparations for irregularities in the purchase of Kiward Station. Marama lives there. And Rongo, the herbalist. Both of them speak good English and know lots of moteateas.”
“Those are songs that tell stories, right?” Charlotte asked.
“There are lamentations and lullabies, stories of revenge and of tribal feuds—just what you’re looking for.”
Charlotte looked up at him with a slight smile. “No love stories?”
“Of course there are love stories!” he said reassuringly. But then he understood. “Would you like to take down a love story?”
“If one presents itself,” Charlotte said, embarrassed. “But, I mean, it may be too early to take anything down. I think first I need to, to experience more. I’d like to be better acquainted first.”
Jack felt the blood rush to his face. “With the Maori? Or me?”
Charlotte blushed in turn. “Won’t one lead to the other?”
Charlotte planned to stay on Kiward Station for three months to research Maori culture. Elizabeth and Gwyneira exchanged conspiratorial looks as the arrangements were made. It was clear to both of them what had sprung up between Jack and Charlotte, and both approved. Even if Gwyneira did not always grasp right away what Charlotte was talking about, she found the girl charming.
She rode around the farm with Jack, let Gwyneira explain the finer points of the wool trade to her, and laughed as she practiced the various shrill whistles the shepherds used to direct the collies. At first the shepherds and Maori treated her with reserve—the young lady just back from England with the latest fashions and perfect manners had an intimidating effect. But Charlotte knew how to break the ice. She attempted the hongi, the traditional Maori greeting, learning that here it did not involve the mutual rubbing of noses but rather a light touching of one’s nose to the other’s forehead. Her elegant riding dress soon looked worn, and she quickly turned in her sidesaddle for one of the more comfortable stock saddles.
Behind Charlotte’s well-bred facade lurked a child of nature—and a feminist. With an astounded Gwyneira, she discussed the writings of Emmeline Pankhurst and seemed almost disappointed that women already had the right to vote in New Zealand. In England she had taken to the streets with other students and had obviously enjoyed herself royally. James teased her by offering her a cigar—smoking was considered a means of protest by the suffragettes—and Jack and Gwyneira laughed when she took a few puffs on one. Everyone agreed that Charlotte enriched life on Kiward Station, and even Jack managed to converse normally in her presence. One night, Charlotte lured him outside in the moonlight, insisting on seeing to the horses once more. Cautiously she placed her hand in his.
“Is it true that the Maori don’t kiss each other?” she asked quietly.
“I’m not sure,” Jack replied.
“You might think the Maori would have learned to kiss from us pakeha by now,” Charlotte whispered. “Don’t you think one could learn?”
Jack swallowed. “Without a doubt,” he said. “If you found the right teacher.”
“I’ve never done it before.”
Jack smiled. Then he tentatively took her in his arms.
“Should we start by rubbing noses?” he asked teasingly, trying to downplay his own nervousness.
But Charlotte had already opened her lips. There was nothing for her to learn. Jack and Charlotte were made for each other.
Love did not distract Charlotte from her studies. She had fun flirting with Jack in Maori, and found in James McKenzie a patient teacher. After three months on Kiward Station, she could not only pronounce the old tongue twister but had written down her first Maori myths in English and in their original language. Time flew, and her parents soon arrived to fetch her.
“Naturally I would like to stay longer,” she explained to her parents. “But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper.”
At which point she blushed and smiled over at Jack, who almost dropped his fork. He had just been about to help himself to a piece of roast lamb but suddenly seemed to have lost his appetite.
The young man coughed. “Yes, well, the Maori see things differently, of course, but we want to stick to the old pakeha customs. And so, well, when a girl is engaged, it’s not proper for her to share a roof with her future husband.” Charlotte caressed Jack’s hands, which were nervously playing with his napkin. “Jack, you wanted to do it right,” she said, softly chiding him. “You were supposed to request a tête-à-tête with my father now and formally ask for my hand.”
“To sum up, it looks like the young people have gotten engaged,” James McKenzie remarked, getting up and uncorking a particularly good bottle of wine. “I’m eighty, Jack. I can’t wait anymore for you to ask a simple question. Besides, the thing’s long been decided. And at my age, I ought to eat my roast while it’s warm or it’ll get tough and chewing will be hard. So, let’s have a quick toast to Jack and Charlotte. Any objections?”
George and Elizabeth Greenwood were delighted with the match, in spite of the surprise announcement. Naturally there would be whispering in town. Though Jack inspired respect from all sides, the sheep barons had not forgotten that he was the son of Gwyneira and a rustler. The biggest gossips would recall that fewer than nine months had elapsed between the McKenzies’ wedding and Jack’s birth, and everyone knew that Jack was not the heir to Kiward Station but could at best hope to fill a managerial position. The daughter of the immensely wealthy George Greenwood could undoubtedly have made a better match. That argument, however, left George cold. He knew Jack was hardworking and trustworthy, and he simply wanted to see his daughter happy—and married!
Jack and Charlotte married in the spring, right after the sheep had been herded into the highlands. Elizabeth had planned a romantic garden celebration on the banks of the Avon, but unfortunately it was rained out, and the guests rushed into the tents that had been set up just in case. Jack and Charlotte withdrew early from the party and drove to Kiward Station the very next day. They took over the rooms William and Kura Martyn had shared early in their marriage. William had furnished them with exceptional taste and at great cost, and Charlotte had nothing against living surrounded by such furniture. Jack only insisted on less opulent furnishing for the bedroom and asked the carpenter in Haldon for a simple bed and some wardrobes out of native wood.
“But no kauri,” Charlotte insisted, smiling. “You know Tane Mahuta, the god of the forest, forced Papa and Rangi apart.”
In Maori mythology, Papatuanuku, the earth, and Ranginui, the sky, had once been lovers, lying close in each other’s arms in the cosmos. Their children decided to separate the two, thus creating light, air, and vegetation on the earth. But Rangi wept almost daily over the separation.
Jack laughed and embraced his wife. “Nothing will ever separate us again.”
Although Jack and Charlotte were happy on Kiward Station, George Greenwood suggested a real honeymoon.
“It’s time you saw the world, Jack,” he insisted when Jack found a thousand reasons not to leave the farm. “The sheep are happy in the highlands, and your parents can take care of a few cattle on their own.”
“A few thousand cattle,” Jack noted.
George rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tuck them into bed yourself every day,” he replied. “Your wife would love to see the Pancake Rocks.”
Charlotte had suggested a trip to the West Coast. She was less interested in the rocks themselves than in talking to the most famous Maori researcher on the South Island: Caleb Biller. After she heard that Jack’s niece Elaine and her husband not only lived in the area but knew Biller personally, she would not take no for an answer.
“As far as I know, the Lamberts and Billers aren’t exactly friends,” George said, but nothing would deter Charlotte.
“They don’t have to sit there while I talk with Mr. Biller,” she said. “They can just introduce us. Besides, it’s an easy trip by train.”
Jack could not object to that. George Greenwood had agreed to place his own salon car at their disposal. The luxury wagon was attached to the regular train, and the honeymooners could enjoy the trip in plush seats or even in bed, drinking champagne. Though Jack would have preferred riding a horse to a train and a shared camp under the starry sky to a rolling bed, Charlotte was enthusiastic, so he played along.
Tim Lambert had decided not to like Jack’s young wife, Charlotte, too much—if only because she was forcing him to meet with Florence Biller. But the young woman took his heart by storm. Charlotte succeeded in not “overlooking” Tim’s handicap but engaging with him candidly about it. She got along beautifully with Elaine and found in her an open-minded audience for her adventures as a suffragette, and the Lambert boys loved her.
“How is Lilian doing? Does she write?” Jack asked. The question had been weighing on him for some time. Although his marriage and the work on the farm fulfilled him, he still worried about Gloria. Her letters hardly put him at ease. Although she dutifully reported music lessons, reading circles in the garden, and summertime picnics on the banks of the Cam, he could detect none of Gloria’s personality in her words. It was almost as if someone else were writing them.
Elaine nodded. “Of course she writes. The girls are made to every Friday afternoon. She always has something to say, you know. Though I ask myself how she gets her letters past the censor. The teachers must check the letters randomly, don’t you think?”
She turned to Charlotte.
“Actually they respect the privacy of the letters. At least with the older forms and where I went to school,” she informed Elaine.
“What sort of subversive writing is Lilian putting to paper?” Jack asked, unsettled. “Is she not happy?”
Elaine laughed. “She is. But I’m afraid Lily’s idea of happiness and that of her teachers don’t always match up. Here, see for yourself.”
She took Lilian’s last letter out of a pocket in her dress. Elaine liked to carry Lilian’s letters with her and read them over and over until the next one arrived.
“‘Dear Mummy, Daddy, and brothers,’” Jack read aloud. “‘I got a bad grade on the English assignment where we were supposed to retell a story of Poe’s. It was so sad that I gave it a different ending. But that was wrong. Edgar Allen Poe sometimes wrote some really sad stories and really weird ones too. But there is no such thing as ghosts, however. I know that because last weekend I was at Bloomingbridge Castle with Amanda Wolveridge. Her family has a real castle, and it is supposed to be haunted, but Amanda and I stayed up all night and did not see any ghosts. Just her stupid brother in a sheet. Other than that, we rode Amanda’s ponies, and it was very fun. My pony was the fastest. Rube, can you send me a weta? Last week we stuck a spider in the map our teacher has to unroll. She was terribly frightened and leaped up on a chair. We could see her underwear. It would be much better with a weta since they sometimes jump after you.’”
