Mud and Gold (71 page)

Malcolm stared at him a moment longer, all
the happiness that had been in his face souring into the bitterest
of disappointment. He shook Amy’s arms off and ran back to his
pony, ignoring the cries of congratulation that were shouted out to
him as he passed. Amy saw him press his head against Brownie’s
sweaty flanks, but she knew it was not the pony’s sweat that left
damp trails on Malcolm’s cheeks when he lifted his head to look
back at his father. He turned away, and led the pony off to the
privacy of a shady willow near the river bank.

Amy managed to force a smile for the people
around her who commented on Malcolm’s skill. When she trusted
herself to look at Charlie again, she saw pride on his face as he
agreed that his son was a remarkable rider, and began to enlarge on
just how gifted Malcolm was with a verbosity that was unusual for
Charlie and soon drove even the most sincere admirers away.

She sent David off to join a group of boys
around his own age who were being organised into teams for a
tug-of-war, then walked away to pretend fascination over a
prizewinning Shorthorn cow as an excuse not to have to stand close
to Charlie. For a moment she considered joining Malcolm, but she
knew she could offer nothing to comfort him. Only his father could
do that. She glanced at Malcolm hugging his pony’s neck, then back
at Charlie, his face full of the pride he would show to everyone
except the one it mattered to.

You don’t even know what you’ve done. You
don’t know you’ve hurt Mal
. She did not realise how viciously
she had kicked the ground in front of her until the cow gave a
snort of surprise and backed away from the unpredictable woman
standing so worryingly close.

*

Amy went into the boys’ bedroom that evening
to tuck them in, opening the door just in time to hear the whack of
a body landing on the floor. A pair of soulful brown eyes stared up
at her and a tail thumped in greeting.

‘Davie, you’re not meant to let Biff on the
bed with you,’ she said. ‘He’ll drop fleas.’

‘Biff doesn’t have fleas,’ David assured
her, with more sincerity than accuracy. Biff, named by David for
the sound of his bark, thumped his tail even louder at the sound of
his name. He was not the most beautiful of dogs, though he had a
nature of irreproachable sweetness towards the children, and
tonight he looked more ridiculous than usual, with the ribbon Amy
had won for her bottled peaches tied around his neck. Despite his
supposed status as Charlie’s guard dog, Biff had swiftly become
‘Dave’s dog’ to everyone in the family. Even Charlie occasionally
referred to ‘That bloody dog of Dave’s’ when they drove up to the
house to be greeted by wild barking.

Malcolm lay silent, facing away from her.
Amy found the trophy he had won flung into a corner of the bedroom.
She picked it up and placed it on the boys’ chest of drawers, then
leaned across David to squeeze the older boy’s arm.

‘I was so proud of you today, Mal.’ But it
was not her he wanted to hear the words from. He pulled his arm
away.

‘Your pa was, too,’ she tried. ‘He told
everyone how well you’d done.’ A stony silence greeted her.

One last attempt. ‘They’ll all be too scared
to ride against you next year, you were so good today.’

Malcolm rolled onto his back and stared at
the ceiling. ‘I’m not going in that stupid race again,’ he said
with more bitterness than any seven-year-old should have been
capable of. ‘I’m not ever going in any races again.’

Amy knew better than to argue. ‘No one’s
going to make you, Mal. Good night.’ She patted him on the arm, and
kissed David. The little boy was looking at his older brother with
a puzzled expression, but his eyes were already drooping.

Charlie looked up as she came into the
parlour and took up her sewing. ‘Asleep?’ he asked.

‘Davie nearly is. Mal’s wide awake. He’s
still wound up from today.’

He grunted and pretended to be engrossed in
his newspaper. ‘He’s a bloody good rider, that boy,’ he remarked to
the room at large.

‘Why don’t you tell him?’ She had not meant
to voice her thoughts aloud, but the words came out of their own
accord.

‘Don’t want him getting above himself. It’d
only fill his head with a lot of nonsense.’

Amy stabbed the needle into the thick
moleskin of the trousers she was mending and pictured Malcolm as
she had last seen him, staring fixedly at the ceiling and trying to
look as though he did not care what anyone thought of him.
Better than what it’s full of now. Better than that poor child
lying awake wondering why nothing he does ever seems to please his
father. He’s going to stop trying one day, Charlie. He might have
stopped trying already
.

August – November 1893

With his two-year-old heifers now calving
for the first time, that spring Frank had six new Jerseys to add to
his herd. The four heifers were a welcome addition to his tally of
future milking cows, but the two bull calves made Frank consider
more closely just what he should do with the one-year-old bull he
had kept from the previous year.

Frank’s normal practice with the Shorthorn
bull calves, as well as any unwanted Shorthorn heifers, was to keep
them for a year then sell them as fat cattle, and he had vaguely
assumed he would do the same with the yearling Jersey bull. But a
few days before he was due to ship out these unwanted calves, he
remembered his conversation with Ted Jackson at the A and P
Show.

Had the older man really meant he might be
interested in buying some of Frank’s cows? Perhaps he had only said
it to be polite. Mr Jackson would probably give him a brush-off if
Frank tried contacting him. He had almost decided not to bother
when he casually mentioned the idea to Lizzie.

That settled the matter. Lizzie was as
doubtful as he was that Mr Jackson would genuinely be interested,
but, as she pointed out, the worst the man could do was say no.
Accordingly, Frank sent off a wire to Mr Jackson and decided to
delay shipping the calves for a short time while he waited for a
reply.

The reply came within days, but not in the
form Frank had expected. When the
Waiotahi
made its next
trip to Ruatane it carried a passenger: Mr Jackson in person. He
arrived at Frank’s farm on a hired horse later that same day,
apologising for having invited himself but keen to look at the
herd.

Frank was only too pleased to show off his
precious Jerseys to someone who appreciated their qualities. He
explained something of the background and nature of every single
one, right down to the new calves, and he noticed Mr Jackson
nodding approvingly as he studied the good condition all the
animals were in.

‘Well, that’s a fine lot of animals you’ve
got there,’ Mr Jackson said when he had finished his tour, ending
up by the fence where Frank had tethered the yearling bull for his
closer inspection. ‘Have you ever thought of taking a couple up to
the Auckland Show?’

‘Eh? I couldn’t do that,’ Frank said,
startled at the outrageous idea.

‘Why not? They’re as good as any I’ve seen
up there most years.’

‘Auckland’s, well… it’s so
far
. I’d
have to leave the farm and everything.’

‘I’m sure that wife of yours could run the
farm by herself perfectly well for a few days, as long as you could
get someone to help with the milking,’ Mr Jackson said. ‘Mrs Kelly
strikes me as a very capable woman. You should consider it—you’d
find a readier market when you came to sell stock if you could
boast of a prize from Auckland.’ He glanced around the paddock at
the cows grazing contentedly between the remaining stumps. ‘Funny,
they look almost out of place here, royalty like them with that old
cow shed of yours in the background.’

‘I’m thinking of doing up the cow shed, when
I get a bit of money to spare,’ Frank said, trying not to sound too
defensive.

‘Eh? Oh, yes, I’m sure you are.’ Mr Jackson
flashed him an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry, I suppose that sounded
rather rude. I just meant it’s a bit surprising to find such fine
animals on a bush farm like this. You’ve obviously got… well,
vision
, if that’s not too grand a word.’

‘Vision,’ Frank repeated thoughtfully. ‘Like
I imagine things then make them happen? That sounds good—I’ll have
to tell Lizzie that one.’

‘Mmm, I’d be interested in hearing Mrs
Kelly’s reaction to that,’ Mr Jackson said, smiling. ‘Now, about
these animals you want to sell—’

‘Um, it’s just the one I want to sell,’
Frank interrupted. ‘I did say that in the wire, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did, but I was hoping I could talk
you into more—especially now I’ve seen them all. One or two heifers
would fit into my herds nicely.’

Frank shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, I know
you’ve come a long way and all that, but I can’t sell you any
heifers. I’ve only got six milking Jerseys, then the two yearlings
and now these four heifer calves, I need the lot of them if I’m
going to build up the herd as quick as I need to.’

Mr Jackson nodded. ‘You’re quite right, of
course. It was worth a try.’

‘You can have the bull calves as well as the
yearling if you like,’ Frank offered, without any particular hope
of being taken up on it.

‘No, there’s only room for so many new
bulls, and calves are too risky. I can see that yearling of yours
is already well-grown and healthy-looking. He’s not a proven stud,
of course, so he’s a bit of a gamble. He’s got good blood lines,
though, so I’m prepared to take the risk.’

‘There’s no risk,’ Frank said stoutly. ‘He’s
raring to go, that fellow. Come spring, you won’t be able to keep
him away from your girls.’

Mr Jackson smiled. ‘I hope you’re right.
Well, let’s get down to a price, then. What sort of amount were you
thinking of?’

This presented Frank with something of a
problem. Sold as part of a mob of fat cattle, the yearling would
have been worth no more than a pound or so, but sold as a pedigree
Jersey he must be worth a good deal more. But how much? ‘Ah… what
do you think’s a fair price?’ he asked, knowing this was not the
best way to set about bargaining but unsure what else to try.

‘Well, he’s only a yearling.’

‘A good, healthy one,’ said Frank.

‘That’s true, but he’s not a proven stud,’
Mr Jackson reminded him.

Ten pounds, Frank decided. It seemed an
outrageous price to suggest for a calf he had bred himself, but it
would do no harm to ask. Maybe Mr Jackson would offer five.

Mr Jackson walked around the bull, studying
him from all angles. ‘He’s filling out nicely. Going to take after
his father, eh?’

‘Sure to,’ Frank said.

‘Hard to tell at that age, of course.’ Mr
Jackson leaned on the fence and took a pipe out of his pocket, then
spent an inordinate amount of time filling and lighting it. At last
a puff of smoke emerged. Mr Jackson pulled the pipe from his mouth
and pointed it at the bull.

‘Twenty pounds.’

‘What?’ Frank tried to bite back the stunned
outburst, but it was too late. He realised his mouth was hanging
open, and snapped it shut before going on. ‘You’re offering me
twenty pounds for that bull?’

‘All right, twenty-five,’ Mr Jackson said.
‘Now, I know it doesn’t sound much for a pedigree Jersey, but he’s
only a yearling, and I’d pay all the shipping costs, too. I’ll take
him back with me when the
Waiotahi
leaves if we can come to
an agreement.’

Twenty-five pounds? Frank tried to appear
calm as his mind raced. Take the money, part of him screamed, but a
small core thought rapidly. Just because he had bred this bull
himself didn’t mean there was anything inferior about it. He had
paid seventy pounds for Duke William. Duke William had, of course,
been a lusty three-year-old and a proven stud, but this bull was
William’s son and might well be just as good. Yes, Mr Jackson was
taking a gamble on the yearling, but not a foolish one. If he had
offered such a staggering amount so quickly, perhaps he could be
persuaded…

‘He’s got really good blood lines, that
bull,’ Frank said, forcing a note of reluctance into his voice. ‘On
both sides, too. He’s Orange Blossom’s calf, and she—’

‘All right, all right,’ Mr Jackson cut in.
‘Thirty pounds. And that’s my final offer.’ Frank could see in his
face that he meant it. Mr Jackson offered his hand. ‘Shake on
it?’

Frank grabbed the hand and shook it
heartily, beaming all over his face. Wait till Lizzie heard about
this!

Mr Jackson accepted Lizzie’s invitation to
stay for dinner, but turned down her offer of a bed for the night,
explaining that he had a room reserved at the Masonic Hotel. Lizzie
declared that the two men could not possibly discuss business with
four lively children around, so she put the little ones to bed
early. Left in peace, Frank and Mr Jackson made their final
arrangements for the bull to be brought into town the next day,
when Mr Jackson would pay over the money for it. They shook hands
again when Frank saw the older man to his horse.

‘You know, you should think seriously about
taking some of those animals of yours up to Auckland,’ Mr Jackson
said just before he left. ‘It’s not going to be all that long
before you start having heifers to sell, you want to make a name
for yourself before then. You think about it.’ Frank assured him
that he would think about it, then promptly put the idea out of his
head.

Lizzie was waiting to hear all the details
when Frank went back to the house. ‘So you sold that bull, then?’
she said, looking up from the basin where she was washing the
dishes. ‘What did you get for him?’

‘Oh, not a bad price,’ Frank said
nonchalantly. ‘A bit more than I expected.’

‘That’s good. How much? More than you would
have got selling him for meat?’