Bride in Flight (8 page)

Kirsty was fascinated by the inland, it looked as if some mighty upheaval had flung the land up, twisted it into range shapes and macabre images, hewn mighty chasms through solid rock for the Clutha River, peacock blue-green from its snow source lakes, to pour its magnitude out to sea.

Every now and then they caught a glimpse of dazzling snows peaks far against the horizon ... and this in the hottest month of the year.

“Do we get close to them?” she asked.

“We go right through them. We come to their edge tonight where their snows melt into the lake basins.” Everywhere were sheep stations and fruit orchards, an area teeming with potential wealth yet looking so burnt and dry. They drove through tree-girdled towns that were like oases in the tawny-flanked, crouching hills, skirted gorges on roads that were miracles of engineering, saw everywhere the piles of shale and diggings, incredible monuments to the labors of the gold-rush days.

They picnicked beside a monument in blazing sunshine, where one a party of miners had perished in a snowstorm. Hard to believe in heat like this.

They came to Lake Wanaka in the late afternoon. They could have turned off straight to Hawea, but Simon thought Kirsty should see Wanaka. They came up over a gentle hill and there below them, encircled by trees and dreaming mountains with here and there the silver flash of snow or glacier glinting from them above, was the dreamy peace of the cornflower blue lake.

“It’s quite incredibly blue,” said Kirsty. “I used to think Mother’s memories had colored it. She often spoke of it in the schoolroom at the sheep-station.”

It was thick with holidaymakers, reluctant to leave the blue and gold of it, the weeks of unbroken sunshine. There were speedboats on the lake, launches, water-skiers.

The children were weary, longing for journey’s end now. Mark had dozed off and wakened grizzly. Lake Hawea was very near, separated only by a few hills and the lake outlet into the Clutha river, yet it was entirely different. The hills were barer, with a sweeping, ruthless grandeur, and this time the color was kingfisher blue.

Kirsty looked out over the blue-green waters, wondered what Hawea would come to mean to her. A time of decision, no doubt? The mountain pass was going to shut off civilization to a great extent. Was she going through as an impostor? She thought she would have to.

The hills dropped steeply down to the water. “Terrifically deep, isn’t it?” she said.

Simon nodded. “Yes, it always was, but it was artificially raised for the. Power Scheme. The sites of many holiday cribs are beneath the waters. Even that short distance between the shore and the tiny island is over three hundred feet deep. It shelves a few feet from the edge. We’ll go down to the water now. It will do the kids good after the long hot drive. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

It was a shingle beach with a reasonably shallow patch at the edge. They kept a close watch on the children, paddling with them, skimming stones over the water.

Geordie began turning stones over carefully, hoping for queer new creatures lurking. He walked up to a group sitting on some larger boulders and said politely, “Excuse me, but you’re sitting on a rock that’s just the kind to have lizards underneath. Would you mind awfully getting up, so I can look?”

Kirsty came quickly up. “Geordie, you mustn’t disturb people.”

A good-natured, leisurely Canadian voice answered. “Bless the boy, why should I mind? I’m interested in lizards too. My only regret about this trip of mine is that I’ve not seen a
tuatara
.”

Geordie’s reaction was prompt. “A
tuatara
isn’t a lizard. They don’t like being called lizards.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure I’d not like to hurt a
tuatara’s
feelings. What is it, then?”

“It’s a prehistoric survival. A mixture of bird and reptile. Something like a baby dinosaur. It’s even got the—
ma
—traces of a pineal eye. Know what a pineal eye is?”

“No, but I sure would like to. What is a pineal eye?”

“It’s a sort of third eye ... in front of the pineal body.”

“Well, fancy that! Even if I haven’t seen one—I believe they are only on off-shore islands—at least when I get back I can trot out that bit about the baby dinosaurs and their third eyes.”

Geordie and his new friend rolled away the stone, found no lizards but a most interesting spider, which, according to them, had a navy-blue face.

“Goodness,” said Kirsty, “what nightmares I’ll have tonight ... dinosaurs and spiders with navy-blue faces!”

The Canadian woman looked up at Kirsty. “How young you look to have a boy this age.”

Kirsty put her hot cheek against Mark’s, in her arms. “I haven’t. I’m just looking after him.”

“But this one will be yours?” She flicked the baby’s cheek. “Exactly your coloring ... hair and eyes. So unusual, such a fair hair, such brown eyes.”

Kirsty blushed again as Simon laughed. “It’s true, Kirsty, I noticed it before.” He said to the woman, “They’re mine—at least my nephews and niece. We live over on the Haast, we’re just staying the night. This is Mrs. Brown, and I’m Simon MacNeill.”

“I’m Sarah Macintyre from Toronto. Tell me, Mrs. Brown, where are you from? Your voice isn’t quite a New Zealand one, is it?”

“By birth I’m a Kiwi, but I
^’
ve lived mostly in Sydney.”

“Oh, we went to Australia first—fascinating country. Isn’t it a shocking thing about that girl leaving her bridegroom at the altar?”

Kirsty swallowed, said hastily, “Yes, a frightful thing to do.”

“There must be something behind it,” said Mrs. Macintyre. “Mark my words, the story will come out some day.”

I hope it will, thought Kirsty bleakly. Even criticism from a stranger could stab you. Was all New Zealand as well as Australia talking about it?

Mark suddenly struggled to get down, Kirsty had tightened her grip on him too much.

“I think we should get the children up to the hotel now, Simon,” she said. “They’ll need showers. I wonder if they would bring me some soup and mashed vegetables to my room for Mark. He’s dead beat and would go right off to sleep then.”

“I’m sure they would. I know them well, we’re always passing through here and calling in. Come on, Geordie and Becky. Geordie, is it absolutely necessary to fill your pockets with those stones?”

“Yes,” said Geordie simply. “You see, I’ve not got any like these at home.”

Simon shrugged and followed.

Mark was asleep before the others had changed. Kirsty had been feeling wretchedly weary after the miles covered in the last few days, the bewildering blow to her hopes for the future and the responsibility of taking on three strange children at once coupled with the need to hide her identity and the strain of feeling furtive and underhand. But after her own shower and change she felt new again. She slipped into an Assam silk frock with an embroidered hem and a vivid green belt clipped about her slim waist, brushed the shoulder-length hair till it shone, put a green band round it.

The children looked sweet. She’d picked out a white broderie anglaise for Rebecca. It had an old-fashioned blue sash with it, and Kirsty hunted out a long string of blue beads of her own and twisted them twice round the child’s neck. Rebecca’s eyes were like stars. She hugged Kirsty tightly, said, “Oh, I do love staying in hotels and dressing for dinner.”

“Girls!” said Geordie in tones of deepest woe, and Kirsty heard Simon chuckle behind her as he came in the door. He surveyed his nephew, impeccable for once in green shorts, tussore shirt, green tie.

“You look ravishing, Geordie, and in that color scheme you exactly match Kirsty. Now for Pete’s sake stay clean till the gong goes.”

“What about afterwards? Do I have to stay clean all night?”

“I never try for impossibilities,” said Simon. “You can get back into khaki drill after dinner and have a good scout round for strange bugs.”

Geordie’s eyes glistened. “This is sure the place for them, Uncle Simon. Have you seen that wall near the door into the garden? It’s just covered with moths from last night still.”

Rebecca and Kirsty shuddered. The gong went.

After the meal Simon took Geordie, back in his old clothes, to the beach, but Becky elected to stay with Kirsty, who wouldn’t leave Mark.

“He might waken in a strange room and feel scared, poor lamb,” she explained.

“Sure you don’t want to come, Becky?”

“No, I’d rather stay here and wear my beads. Kirsty is going to read me
Anne of Green Gables.
The words are too big for me. We’ll be right next door to Mark.” Before the menfolk got back Rebecca had fallen asleep. Kirsty managed to undress her without waking her, carried her into the bedroom where Mark’s cot was, tucked her into one of the twin beds, turned her own bed down so she could creep in later without disturbing her and retired to the other room to lie on Geordie’s bed to read.

She was glad to hear the men returning. They looked a little sheepish. Geordie was soaked, Simon was wet to the knees.

“We’ll have to travel on tomorrow with wet clothes!” said Simon in disgust. “He fell in head first. I got wet fishing him out.”

Kirsty burst out laughing. Anything was better than brooding. “Well, it looks, like another shower, Geordie, you’re all green slime. Talk about cleanliness next to godliness ... you’ll be sprouting angel wings tomorrow, that’s three showers today! You too, Simon. Tell you what, I’ll stand outside the door of the shower-room and you can hand out your clothes. I’ll wash them and hang them on that line behind the hotel. It’s mild and warm, they’d be almost dry by the time we leave, the sun’s up so early. But it won’t have improved your trousers, Simon.”

By the time she returned he had Georgie in bed, once more looking angelic.

“You can have exactly ten minutes’ reading,” vowed his uncle. “We’ve a fair ride ahead of us tomorrow. There’s my travelling clock. If we come back in a quarter of an hour and find your light still on, look out!”

“Back?” asked Kirsty. “Where are we going?”

“Just to the lounge. The children will be all right. I’ll come and peep at them once or twice. I’d like to listen in to the forecast. Haast is through the rain forest. It’s just as well to know what to expect. Rivers can rise in than an hour there and all the water-courses are not bridged.”

They strolled along. Just as they were entering the lounge Simon was called to the phone. “Wanaka on the line,” said the girl.

Kirsty went on in. The forecast was just finishing. A trough of low pressure was approaching across the Tasman but was not expected to reach here for thirty-six hours. It sounded all right for journeying.

The broadcaster began the headlines. Right in the middle it came: “The missing Australian bride is now believed to have travelled to New Zealand.” He continued: “In a spectacular five-car crash on the Hutt road, though two cars were write-offs, no one was injured ...” Kirsty didn’t hear the rest. Her color was beginning to rise. She bent down and fiddled with her green shoes to account for it. She felt as if everyone was looking at her. Absurd.

She pulled herself together. She must appear quite ordinary, not look in the least self-conscious or guilty when Simon came in. She braced herself for the news in full. If only Simon’s phone call delayed him. That was granted her, mercifully, though she sat in a state of extreme tension as the announcer said: “Christine Macpherson, Tuesday’s missing bride, actually travelled on the plane she had intended to take on her honeymoon. She travelled under the name of Mrs. Brownfield, the
name
that would have been hers had she kept her tryst at the altar. She arrived at Christchurch, checked through Customs and disappeared into thin air. Mr. Gilbert Brownfield has returned to Queensland and says it is a complete mystery to him.”

Kirsty didn’t hear the rest of the news for the roaring in her ears. She was trying to think. Would the New Zealand police be put on to it? She hardly thought so. Nothing criminal was involved. She had disappeared voluntarily and left a letter, inexplicable though it might have seemed. Surely, within a week or so, Gilbert’s wife would find him out and the hue and cry die down. If only she could preserve her identity till then. Pity it had become such a sensation. The man next to Kirsty said,

completely disregarding the rest of the New Zealand news. “Odd thing to happen ... don’t know what girls will be coming to next. Poor chap, what he must be suffering.”
Poor chap.

She controlled herself, said, “Absolutely shocking, isn’t it? Makes you wonder what got into her.”

“There’ll be a man behind it, mark
my
words. Perhaps she’s chased him to New Zealand. Might even be something quite sordid.”

She checked a wild desire to say: “Yes, extremely sordid ... bigamy, in fact!”

The door opened and in came Simon, dropped to the seat beside her. “That was a chap I know from a sheep station uplake. They’re down seeing off the children to boarding-school. They have a crib—would you call it a weekender?—at Wanaka. He was an engineer, but when his brother accidentally shot himself he took over the station. He saw the chap driving the M.O.W. track through with our gear earlier today and wanted to know a few things about my trip and experiences. They’d like us to call back at Wanaka before leaving tomorrow just for a few minutes.”