Mud and Gold (23 page)

Jane struggled to lift herself upright, then
sank down heavily. ‘I c-can’t.’ Now her teeth were chattering. ‘My
skirts are full of water, they’re too heavy for me to stand up. I’m
so c-cold.’

Harry’s look of glee had changed to concern.
He scrambled down the bank into the shallows of the creek. ‘Here,
take my hand, I’ll pull you out.’

Jane stretched out her arm towards him. ‘I
can’t reach. Come a bit closer.’

Harry took a few tentative steps until the
water was lapping over the tops of his feet. ‘Can you reach
now?’

‘Not quite.’

He took another step and perched one foot
awkwardly on a rock that jutted out of the creek bed. Jane reached
up and took hold of his proffered hand. As he tried to get a firmer
foothold Jane suddenly yanked at his hand, pulling him off balance.
Harry fell into the water beside her with a loud splash.

Now it was Harry’s turn to splutter. Jane
shrieked with laughter as he sat up with his hair plastered to his
head.

‘That’s fixed you! Hothead yourself. Serves
you right.’

Harry glared as though he was mustering his
strength to fling abuse at her, then he let out a guffaw. ‘Jane
Leith, you are a hell-cat. You’re enough to drive a man to drink.’
He held out his arms and Jane pressed herself against him. They
carefully stood up, supporting one another as they did. ‘Let’s get
back to the house. Must be nearly time for lunch now.’

‘Oh! Oh, Harry, we’re meant to go up to your
pa’s for lunch. I think we’re a bit late.’

‘Heck, I suppose we are. The bitch’ll make a
fuss about that. Too bad about her. We’d better hurry up and get
changed, though—don’t want you getting a chill. Come on.’ They
climbed up the bank and made their way back to the cottage,
streaming water as they went.

John took his hand from his mouth, where he
had clamped it firmly to stop his laughter escaping. ‘Those two are
mad. They were made for each other.’

‘They’d drive anyone else mad, I suppose,’
Amy said. She was unsure whether to laugh or cry at the sight of
Harry and Jane with their wet arms around each other. ‘I’m glad he
didn’t hit her.’

‘I told you he wouldn’t.’ John looked as if
he were debating whether or not to ask her a question, then seemed
to decide against it. ‘Let’s get back and tell Pa they’re on their
way.’

Harry and Jane arrived arm in arm ten
minutes after Amy and John got back to the house; Amy noticed that
Jane’s hair was still damp. Jane rushed to hug Amy with the warm
affection she always showed her little sister-in-law. Jane was
quick to love, or, in Susannah’s case, to dislike. Amy suspected
that Harry had told his wife about Amy’s dark secret and Susannah’s
role in it.

Susannah was tight-lipped all through lunch,
from time to time casting wounded glances at Jane, which were
steadfastly ignored. Although they were both barely polite to
Charlie, Harry and Jane made much of Malcolm.

‘He’s such a big, healthy baby,’ Jane said.
‘You must get a lot of pleasure from him.’

‘Jane likes babies,’ Harry said, gazing
fondly at his wife.

‘You two could get on and have one of your
own if you didn’t waste all your energy fighting,’ Jack said. Jane
blushed and looked to Harry for help.

‘Jack! Don’t be so coarse,’ Susannah
reproved.

‘We will,’ Harry said. ‘There’s no rush.
I’ll have to build an extension in a year or two, I suppose. That
shouldn’t be too much trouble—I know all about building houses now.
I made a really good job of my house,’ he said, warming to his
subject. ‘I reckon it must be the best house around here.’

‘It’s all right when it doesn’t rain, dear,’
Jane said with deceptive sweetness. ‘When the roof doesn’t leak,
and the door doesn’t stick.’

‘Don’t you start on that,’ Harry said.
‘There’s nothing wrong—’

‘Now, you two,’ Jack broke in. ‘There’ll be
no fighting in this house.’ Harry and Jane subsided, and Jane
lowered her eyes with a suitably meek expression, but not before
Amy had seen her poke her tongue at Harry for the briefest of
moments.

Amy carried a sleepy Malcolm in her arms for
the first part of their walk home later that afternoon, but Charlie
took the load from her when they were out of sight of the
house.

‘What did she mean, saying the boy’s slow?’
he demanded. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, is there?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Amy said. ‘Anyone can see
he’s healthy and normal—he’s much bigger than most children his
age. Susannah likes to make trouble, that’s all. She’s always been
like that, you just have to ignore her. Pa tries to.’

Charlie looked relieved at her words.
‘They’re mad in that house. They let the women carry on with a lot
of nonsense—especially your pa’s wife. All that back talk, and he
let her go on and on and never even corrected her.’ He did not seem
to want a reply, so Amy said nothing.

‘You behaved all right,’ he added.

‘Thank you,’ Amy said, grateful for the
small sign of approval.

‘They’ve no idea how to handle women. No
idea at all. No wonder he let you run wild. Look what that led
to.’

*

The New Year came in warm and dry, and all
the haystacks were safely finished before January was half over.
One evening a few days after haymaking was finished Charlie
announced, ‘I’ll be away over the back of the farm tomorrow.’

Amy looked up from the shirt she was sewing
for him. ‘What are you going to do over there?’ Charlie did not
usually spend much time in the wild area of the farm that nudged up
against the bush.

‘There’s a couple of paddocks that are full
of scrub. They were cleared once, a long while before I bought this
place, but they were half-wild again by the time I got here. I’m
going to break them in properly.’ He glanced towards the bedroom,
where Malcolm was asleep in his cradle. ‘I’ll be needing the extra
grazing when I build the herd up—can’t have wasted land. I’ve the
boy to think about, you know.’

Amy thought it would be more sensible for
Charlie to leave the heavy work of clearing scrub till the cooler
weather of autumn, but she did not offer unwanted advice. ‘I’ll
bring your lunch down if you like, that’d save you coming home for
it.’

Charlie grunted an acknowledgement and
turned his attention back to his newspaper.

Next day while Malcolm had his morning sleep
Amy used the peaceful time to prepare lunch. She had just lifted a
large, golden-crusted meat pie out of the oven when she heard
Malcolm crying a complaint.

‘I’m coming, Mal,’ she called. She slid a
tray of jam tarts into the range and closed the door on them before
hurrying into the bedroom.

Malcolm was struggling to get out of his
cradle, but as soon as he leaned against one side the cradle would
tilt on its rockers, making him fall flat on his bottom again. The
indignant look on his face made Amy smile. She knelt and lifted him
out before his cries could turn into roars.

‘You mustn’t try and climb out by yourself,
Mal. You have to wait for Mama, or you’ll hurt yourself. You’re
getting too big for a cradle, aren’t you? We’ll have to ask Papa to
make you a little bed.’ And anyway, there would be another baby in
the cradle by the end of the year.

She carried Malcolm out to the kitchen, sat
him at the table and gave him a mug of milk, holding it to his lips
as he sipped. The smell of cooked pastry caught her attention. She
took the empty mug away before lifting the tray of jam tarts out of
the oven.

Malcolm looked wide-eyed at the tarts. ‘Me!’
he said.

‘Not yet, Mal. Wait till they’re cold, then
you can have one.’

‘Me!’ Malcolm demanded.

‘No, you’d burn your mouth.’ She winced when
she saw Malcolm’s face start to turn red as he opened his mouth to
roar his disapproval. She reached up to a cake tin and pulled out a
biscuit. ‘Do you want a bikkie? Have this one. Go on, Mal.’

Malcolm took the biscuit in his hand and
flung it onto the floor. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Cake!’

‘Malcolm! That’s naughty.’ She gave
Malcolm’s hand a small slap, which he did not seem to notice. ‘I
should give you a real smack for being so naughty. Papa wouldn’t
like it if he saw you doing that.’ But she knew she would not hit
him, and she suspected Malcolm knew it too.

Amy picked up the rejected biscuit and threw
it into the slops bucket, then fetched a small plate and gingerly
lifted two tarts on to it. ‘Look, here’s tarts for you and me. We
just have to wait for them to cool down.’ She put the plate on the
windowsill, where the breeze from the open window would blow over
them.

She turned around just in time to see
Malcolm clamber down off the chair and make his unsteady way
towards the range. ‘Mal! Don’t you touch that,’ she called, but it
was too late. Malcolm let out a shrill scream as his little hand
touched the hot iron tray that held the remaining tarts.

Amy crossed the kitchen in a few steps and
caught Malcolm up in her arms. He screamed and screamed, but she
could see that it was mostly in anger at not having been able to
snatch a tart. She sat with him on her lap and took the two
reddened fingers into her mouth for a moment to cool them. ‘Poor
Mal,’ she crooned. ‘Poor little Mal.’

The jam jar was still on the table. Amy
picked the spoon out of it and looked around guiltily, half
expecting to see a disapproving Charlie in the doorway, then
slipped a spoonful of jam into Malcolm’s mouth. His cries stopped
abruptly as he tasted the sweetness. Amy gave him another spoonful,
then held him close as he slowly quietened, his sobs subsiding into
whimpers.

‘Oh, Mal, you do get in a state, don’t you?
You want your own way all the time, and you make such a fuss when
you don’t get it. What am I going to do with you?’
Give him what
he wants
, part of her said.
Give him a smack for being so
silly
, came a more pragmatic thought.

But she could not see Malcolm’s tears
without remembering that she had not wanted him; that she had felt
nothing when he was first placed in her arms. She had to be as good
a mother as she was capable of. She did not want to see Malcolm
crying; far less did she want to make him cry by hitting him.

Amy brushed down a tuft of hair standing
awry on his head. No one would call Malcolm a pretty baby; the
kindest remark Edie could make was that he was ‘a sturdy little
fellow’. His hair, still sparse on the big, square head, was an
orange flame. Malcolm’s skin was very fair, and sure to freckle
when he grew a little older. His eyes were small and the palest of
blues, and just now they were wet with tears.

Malcolm nestled against her, seeking
comfort, as he had not done since he was a small baby. Amy placed a
light kiss on his head. ‘You do like Mama a little bit, don’t you,
Mal? I think I love you like a mother’s meant to. I love you as
much as I can, anyway.’
Would I have loved Ann properly?
she
wondered.
Yes
, the answer came clear and strong as she
remembered the feeling of her little girl warm in her arms, pulling
at her breasts; long black eyelashes framing those deep blue eyes
that had stared so wisely at her.

Amy roused herself from her reverie when she
saw that a large tear had dropped from her cheek on to Malcolm’s
head. She kissed it away. ‘Ann’s got a new mother now, you’ve only
got me. It’s not your fault you look like your Papa. It’s not your
fault Papa gets angry with me, either. It’s my fault.’

Malcolm began to nuzzle against the cloth of
her bodice, and Amy realised what he was trying to do. ‘No, Mal,
you mustn’t do that.’ She gently pushed his head away from her
breasts. ‘That’s not allowed any more. There’s no milk left,
anyway. There’ll be milk again in a few months. Milk for the new
baby. A little brother for you—I hope it’s another boy, anyway.
Will you like that? You won’t be jealous, will you?’ Malcolm looked
dubiously at her, and Amy laughed. ‘It’s a good thing you can’t
talk much yet, or you’d tell Papa about the new baby, and it’s
still my secret.’

She stood up and balanced Malcolm on one hip
as she walked over to the window. ‘Let’s have our tarts now, Mal,
they’ll have cooled down. Then we’ll take lunch down to Papa. We’ll
have a picnic, the three of us. Do you want to go and see
Papa?’

‘Papa, Papa,’ Malcolm echoed as he reached
for the tart Amy held out to him.

Charlie had cleared a wide swathe of manuka
scrub, Amy saw when she rounded a corner and he came into view. She
let Malcolm slither down from her hip as she lowered the basket of
lunch to the ground.

‘Papa,’ Malcolm called in his shrill
voice.

Charlie turned abruptly. ‘You’re a wee bit
too early, I want to clear down to yon fence before I stop for my
lunch,’ he called back. ‘Keep the boy away. I don’t want him
falling on this stuff.’

Amy could see what he meant. Every felled
manuka bush left a lethal-looking spear of stem sticking out of the
ground. A small child falling over in that deadly forest would be
badly hurt, if not killed. ‘Papa will be finished soon, Mal, let’s
just watch him for a bit,’ she said, keeping a tight hold of
Malcolm’s hand.

‘No!’ Malcolm protested. ‘Papa.’ He
struggled to pull away, and Amy saw the dangerous red tinge
mounting in his face. Malcolm was going to yell soon if she did not
distract him. He flailed his free hand, knocking his floppy-brimmed
white bonnet askew, and when Amy tried to straighten the bonnet he
pushed her hand away. ‘No.’

‘You’ve certainly learned that word, haven’t
you, Mal?’ Amy said, grateful that Charlie was not close enough to
see his son misbehaving. How was she going to keep this boy out of
mischief until Charlie was ready to stop? ‘I know! I’ll show you
how to climb a tree. Come on, Mal.’

She coaxed Malcolm into a patch of tall bush
safely to the side of the scrub area and lifted him onto a broad
tawa branch at her chest height. ‘That’s how your Uncle John and
Uncle Harry taught me to climb trees, Mal,’ she told him. ‘Put me
on a high branch and said I had to get down by myself, then they
pretended they were going away.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘The
bullies! I didn’t know how to climb, so I just jumped. I got a big
bruise on my arm—I ripped my dress, too. Granny gave me a hiding
for ripping it, but only a little one. John and Harry got a real
hiding from Pa, though. They taught me how to climb properly after
that. You’re a bit small for that yet. Now, come on, jump to Mama,’
she coaxed, holding out her arms.