by Geoff Lawson
excitement at being here enhancing her evident charms.
After collecting the rest of her luggage from the van,
everyone climbed back on the gig and after making some room
it was back to Zelda’s for a compulsory cup of tea. All eyes
were on Rachel and I was surprised how relaxed she seemed.
She had removed her hat and was perched on a bow back chair,
her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other. She seemed
glad to be back, her luminous eyes moving from one speaker
to another while seeming to absorb her surroundings. She
knew that a potential mother-in-law was studying her for
defects and if she was nervous about that, she didn’t show it. I
know I was nervous, for it was paramount that they get along.
Any failure on that score would have the consequences of
absolute disaster.
Later, we were once more opposite one another at the
dinner table and my eyes still couldn’t get enough. I was
feeling guilty, reduced to looking elsewhere, ‘trying hard not to
make it obvious’ and all the while conscious that I was not
really pulling it off. She wore an elegant evening dress that
seemed to shimmer in the light of the kitchen lamps. As she
moved, the folds in the material would subtly change from
normal to darker, depending on the angle that you observed her
58
from. Over it was a matching, collarless, long-sleeved
waistcoat, while the gathers on the sleeves of her blouse
protruded discreetly from under the cuffs.
Whenever she looked at me her eyes seemed to glow. She
knew. I was drawn like a moth to the flame of a candle. I
looked at my plate and discreetly slid my foot along until I felt
hers touching mine. I suppose that was a bit presumptuous of
me, but what the hell, how much trouble could that get me
into? She made no attempt to move her foot, so a few seconds
later I glanced towards her; her eyes smiled benignly back –
our secret. Partners in crime. It would be nice to be alone
awhile, but there would be no chance of that. Touching our feet
would be the closest we were going to get.
Rachel proved to be a captivating and endearing audience.
She looked relaxed and seemed to shine, never talking of
herself except in the most generic of terms, preferring instead
to absorb and enjoy everyone else’s conversation. The effect
she had was contagious, for the obvious success of our efforts
to entertain her made everyone else feel relaxed as well.
Later that evening, after the dishes had been put away, we
moved to the lounge and sat in a semi-circle around the fire.
The lamps were off, our backs to the door. I had stacked an
extra-large pile of firewood on the corner of the hearth and the
flames curled and danced, our faces illuminated by the glow
while grotesque light patterns flickered vividly across the
ceiling. We sat content after a good meal to recline and talk in
comfort.
Mother was less vocal than usual, although Agnes and
Emma were up to the mark and Aunt Zelda was there for
mutual support. Occasionally though, Mother would add her
bit to the conversation by asking Rachel a question.
“Tell me, Rachel, what does your father do?”
“He’s owner and manager of Warner’s department store,”
replied Rachel, matter-of-factly, just a hint of pride in her
voice. “Jewellery, ready-to-wear clothes, cosmetics,
dressmaking patterns and materials, evening wear, bedding,
porcelain, large mirrors, furniture, all that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” went Mother, trying to remember if she had been
there with Eleanor Vance.
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“Dressmaking patterns?” queried Agnes.
“Yes, it’s a new thing. You can now buy readymade
patterns and adapt them, instead of having to draft your own.
There’s a picture on the packet so you can see what it will look
like when it’s finished.”
“Is it a large store?” asked Zelda.
“Oh yes,” replied Rachel, explaining that it had three
storeys, an elevator and a grand staircase at one end
surmounted by a storey-high set of leadlight windows.
Everyone went silent, trying to take that in. Warner’s must be
almost as large as all the shops in Patea combined. I recalled
the day I followed her there; it was a shock to realise that
Rachel’s father owned all of that.
Later, it was back to the bunkhouse and I began to read a
novel by Zane Grey. By uncanny coincidence, the heroine of
the story was called Rachel. She was a belle from Boston who
had gone west to visit an aunt who owned a ranch in Arizona.
Little did she know when she embarked on her journey that she
would fall in love with a cowboy; a man of the West, the
foreman of her aunt’s ranch.
I was up to the part where the villains had abducted our
heroine and departed for parts unknown. Her reputation and
her virginity were now in imminent peril, although not
necessarily in that order. This was heart-pounding stuff and her
cowboy hero was nowhere in sight. He was far off in the desert
and trapped under a rock pile, having been ambushed by the
very same villains. Help however, was at hand, because the
only old gold prospector for a thousand square miles was about
to come wandering along and rescue him. Unfortunately, our
heroine was pining for her boyfriend to come and save her. He,
however, didn’t know he was her boyfriend, because they
hadn’t got around to discussing it yet and anyway, he thought
she was a thousand miles away and was not aware that she was
missing. Meanwhile, the entire US Cavalry in Arizona was on
alert and would have come thundering to her rescue had
anyone only known.
Fortunately for her, the irrevocable and inescapable truth
was that pure and virtuous young maidens could take good
heart. The frontier justice of Colt .45 would surely prevail and
60
terminate the careers of the villains, writing yet another stirring
chapter of the West in the process.
I put down the book. It had been a long day and I should
have felt tired – but I wasn’t. I couldn’t help thinking there was
a parallel between the characters of this story and Rachel. The
real Rachel had also gone west to stay with an aunt (mine) and
fallen in love with a stockman (me). The only thing missing
was the outlaws. I idly wondered what Titokowaru and Kimble
Bent would care to make of that.
Unlike last time, there was little chance of Rachel turning
up but still, I had hoped. She had certainly surprised me. The
extent of her considerable audacity and sense of adventure was
completely unexpected. Then I realised that tonight, with a
potential mother-in-law in the house, it would doubly not do to
get caught.
Actually, Mother had already mentioned that she shouldn’t
really be here. If Rachel’s mother and father knew what was
going on all hell would break loose. If her folks were half as
&
nbsp; rich as we suspected they were, then only a relationship along
formal lines would be acceptable and what was happening here
couldn’t be more informal. Mother would be a conspirator and
so would Agnes, Emma and Zelda. The resulting
embarrassment would be too horrendous to contemplate. I
should announce my intentions and put this in the open,
although that presented me with another problem. What,
exactly, were my intentions? I was forced to concede that at
this point I didn’t actually know.
Since meeting Rachel my conscious thoughts were
dominated by her. I could not even read without her worming
her way into it. How simple and boring my previous life was!
I still pondered these things when there was a subtle knock.
The door swung slowly open. Rachel came into view and shut
the door before gliding lightly towards me, her eyes bright
with expectation and arms outstretched. Clad only in a
nightdress, it was shades of deja vu. I sprang out of bed and
she glided into my arms and leaned against me.
“Are you insane? What are you doing here?”
“Please don’t be mad, I’m here because we need to talk.”
There was a sense of suppressed urgency in her voice. I was
61
happy to see her of course, but she would be the death of me
yet, I swear.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“We can’t go on meeting once every four months. What are
we going to do?”
I held her, acutely aware that she seemed to fit so well.
How natural it was to hold her like this.
There was that lavender smell; the lightness of her.
Excitement and trepidation soared in equal proportions –
trepidation that we would probably get caught doing this and
excitement generated by her nearness that was difficult to
suppress.
“Would you move to Whanganui for me?”
I blinked in surprise. Was that the reason for sneaking out
here? Unlike me, she had obviously thought this through.
“Of course I would.”
“That’s all I need to know. Now I’d better go, but if we get
the chance we should talk about this tomorrow.” She gave me a
hug and turned to leave, pausing to mime a kiss before closing
the door behind her.
I looked in the direction of the house and strained my ears
for the sounds of voices, but there were none – all was serene.
My heart stopped thumping and I flopped back on my pillow,
my mind racing instead. Had I been manoeuvred? I probably
had. I couldn’t stop shaking my head and grinning. To be
honest, I would move to the other end of the country if it
meant she would be closer to me.
The following morning us young ones went for a walk. It
was a calm, balmy, autumn day, cool at first with dew on the
lawns. Here and there a blackbird hopped, stopping every few
seconds to eye the surroundings. Starlings perched on the
gutters and squawked their delight in the warmth of the sun.
Off in the distance a hawk circled slowly round and round and
beyond the hedge sparrows chattered and danced.
The older women weren’t interested in walking and they
had no need to chaperone, for Agnes and Emma would be
there to ‘play gooseberry’ – to ensure we didn’t do anything
inappropriate. Rachel wore a close-fitting suit of pale blue
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tartan on a cream background, the jacket of which was
buttoned up level with her breasts, but could be buttoned to the
neck. Her matching skirt featured a fringed hem, and the
combination was a statement of her femininity that left me
silently gasping.
The girls were in a playful mood. Whenever we came near
mud they would push one another, shriek and make up jokes
about each other. Rachel was buoyant, her eyes were bright
and I also knew why. I idly wondered if Mother had noticed it
too.
That afternoon, we were lounging on the lawn when
Mother came up behind us.
“Rachel, can we go inside and talk?”
The four of us were really enjoying ourselves – it was after
lunch and we were basking on the lawn, languid in the warmth
of the sun. Rachel was clearly happy and the last thing I
wanted was something to come along and mess things up. But
she dutifully got up and followed Mother towards the house
where they ascended the front steps and disappeared through
the door. Their heads appeared in the bay windows of the
lounge. Was last night what this was about? Had Rachel been
caught? I have to admit I was worried.
63
Chapter Eight
JAMESTOWN, Cape Colony, South Africa
It was two in the morning when we were woken. Someone was
banging on our doors.
“Wake up you lot, it’s the Chief Constable. Open up!
Ferg’s been shot!”
We leaped out of bed with our revolvers ready and
cautiously poked our heads out to find that it was indeed the
Chief Constable in a perturbed state.
“Ferg was shot through his cell window!”
We leaped into our clothes while the Chief Constable
waited, then we sprinted in the dark to the jail, still clutching
our weapons and ready for action.
It was too late for Ferg though; he was dead. Wisps of
black powder smoke still obscured the ceiling and its
distinctive sulphurous smell permeated both cells. He was
stretched out facing the cell window, his arms spread away
from his sides – as if he had been standing under the window
and simply keeled over backwards, his chest perforated with at
least two dozen holes which covered an area no larger than a
dinner plate. He would have haemorrhaged massively and been
dead within a minute of hitting the floor.
I blanched. Ferg was not a pretty sight. The damage to his
upper body was extreme. The whole chest area from his neck
to the bottom of the ribs was reduced to pulp. Even the
clothing that covered his chest had been obliterated, with only
a few threads here and there to hold the bloodied, shredded
mass together. The blood pool was equally impressive and had
spread around him like a halo, his eyes so unnaturally wide
and staring; his chest cavity so shattered it looked as though it
had collapsed.
I was getting used to seeing dead men, mostly killed by a
single bullet. Normally, there wasn’t that much blood for much
of the bleeding was internal. This was different. This was
overkill to the point that it could almost be personal.
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“Double or triple-O buckshot,” proclaimed Potts, bending
over him with a paraffin lamp, having got as close as he dared
while avoiding the pool of blood. “A lot of spread in the
pattern when you consider that he was obviously shot at very
close range, probably no more than a yard, which means a gun
with very short barrels.”
Five minutes later, the constable with the stripes arrived
with a doctor to pronounce the obvious, aft
er which we
trooped around the back of the jail to investigate how this
could have happened.
The answer was not long in coming – there were
unmistakable marks of a ladder in the dust below Ferg’s
window, which was a good ten feet from the ground.
“Look at this,” said Floyd, holding a lantern aloft.
“Whoever did this used this ladder to climb the wall and pulled
the ladder over with him, so he could use it to shoot through
that window.”
Whoever killed Ferg must have called him to the window
and shot him through the bars from so close that he couldn’t
miss, no matter how dark it was. “An’ look here; he initially
went to the wrong window, see, an’ once he realised he had
gone to the wrong cell he dragged it over to this window.”
We could see the ladder he was referring to, propped
against the high brick wall that enclosed the jail. This was
obviously the exit point. The killer hadn’t bothered to burden
himself with the ladder any longer and had left it behind. Dead
men tell no tales, but the question was – what did Ferg know
that made it necessary to kill him? There was nothing more to
be learned here, so we reconvened in the front office where we
sat around in silence, turning the pattern of events over and
over in our minds, trying to figure out what the hell had
happened. The Colonel mumbled as though thinking to
himself.
“There’s something really fishy about this. Ferg obviously
didn’t tell us everything he knew. It would appear that we
weren’t the only ones he needed to be afraid of.”
“He was genuinely scared of us,” said I.
Potts agreed. “The devious little sod conned us though. He
was scared all right; but was it us he was afraid of? It may
65
have only looked that way. Was he afraid because he knew that
if he told us anything, there would be some swift retribution? It
seems that all the while, he was sitting on a powder keg.”
No one spoke. I had no idea what to make of it. It was
perplexing and shocking.
Potts leaned back, his hands clamped behind his head. A
smirk of irony fleetingly creased his otherwise serious face.
“Obviously he wasn’t the smartarse he thought he was.
Perhaps in getting caught, he had unknowingly signed his own
death warrant.”
The Colonel sat up straighter. “The question now is, who