by Geoff Lawson
could be the last time I ever came here if she wouldn’t forgive
me. I dropped my suitcases, fished in my pocket for the note
and poked it through the slot in the door, before turning back to
the road. In it I wrote that I was sorry for what had happened. I
told her I was going home to be with family and then I would
be off to camp in Wellington. I told her that I loved her and I
hoped that somewhere in her heart was a place where she
could forgive me.
At Patea, I got off the train and walked over the bridge,
then up the hill to Zelda’s place. She sure was surprised to see
me.
“Well goodness sakes – come in Richard, tell me what you
and Rachel are doing.” I trooped into the kitchen where I
dropped my suitcases and pulled out a chair. She lifted one of
the lids from the stove and peering through the hole, gauged
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the state of the fire before she placed the kettle over it, opened
the damper and wiped her hands on an oven towel.
“You look troubled. Don’t tell me you and Rachel have
fallen out?” I cringed inwardly. I didn’t realise it was that
obvious. Women seem to have an instinct for such things.
“Yes, Aunt and I admit that it’s my fault. I’ve volunteered
for service in South Africa and Rachel has taken it badly. Now
she won’t see me or speak to me.”
“Well, for goodness sake! You’ve volunteered to fight?
What on earth possessed you to want to leave her and do that?”
“Well, you know. It’s what we do, isn’t it?”
There was a brief silence.
“How long will you be away?”
“A year,” I said casually, inwardly hoping to make it
sound insignificant.
“A year!” gasped Zelda, horrified. “That poor kitten! No
wonder she is mad at you. Did you not think to discuss this
with her first?”
“Er, no.” I knew all too well that I was out on a limb. Like
a dope I had jumped into this; my problem was my lack of
plural thinking. I had been a free agent for too long, able to do
as I pleased, free as the breeze. I had only just begun to realise
that my circumstances had changed and that my decisions
could now impact negatively on someone else.
There was silence as Zelda pushed a cup of tea towards
me. The way I was feeling just now I wasn’t sure I wanted it. I
picked up the cup and hesitated before I took a sip, playing
with the saucer. After it had coursed its way down I decided
that I needed it after all and slumped back in my chair. I didn’t
say anything. I was stuck in my own little world.
Zelda stopped berating me and just sat there, staring at me
with an expression that was both puzzled and concerned.
“Well it’s too late now then, isn’t it?” Her voice had taken
on a softer tone. “You realise I hope, that she is mad at you
because she is afraid of losing you. What if you don’t come
back? What will Rachel do then? Did you think of that?”
I glared at my cup. Of course I hadn’t. This conversation
was doing nothing for my morale and I still had to face Agnes
and Emma.
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Next morning, I began to walk to the farm. My mind
wandered. As I plodded along the edge of the road a stream of
unrelated things went through my head. For some reason, I
began to dwell on the last night I spent in Whanganui. It was
two nights ago and a few days after I had admitted to Rachel
that I had volunteered. I was brooding in my room. I had tried
reading, but there was little enthusiasm for it, until there came
a discreet knock on my window doors.
At first, I thought it might be someone needing directions,
so you can imagine my surprise when I opened the door to find
Rachel’s father standing there. Alistair asked if he could come
in, so I opened the door to admit him through. My mind was
turning over and over. He had never come here before and I
was unaware that he even knew where I lived, for I more or
less assumed he had no real interest in where I went when I left
his house.
He came in and slowly looked at the surroundings,
without making any comment, as if he had noticed something
for the very first time. I was confused. Oddly, he seemed
different. He looked at the walls. They were spartan and still
made the place look like a hospital. Over by the inner door was
a short sink bench and a low cupboard with a gas ring and a
kettle perched on top of it. The bed was a single hospital bed
painted white and there was a table with a blue gingham
tablecloth spread upon it. A chair and a two-seat sofa were the
only other furniture.
“May I sit down?”
I swung my chair around and offered it to him, then sat on
the bed. He positioned the chair so it was facing me and sat
down as well.
“Richard, can we talk?”
My anxiety shot through the roof. He rarely spoke directly
to me and usually called me ‘my boy’ or something impersonal
like that, he had never called me Richard. Neither would he
come here for a social visit. I really felt sick in my stomach,
for he had obviously come to berate me over the distress I had
caused. I suppose it served me right, for it was me who
bragged I could turn Rachel’s life around. It was probable that
he had come to tell me to bugger off and never darken his door
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again, which was far worse than I could have ever imagined.
He looked at me and I spoke first. It was an attempt to placate
him, transparent though it was.
“I’m really and truly sorry about what has happened. I
know I have upset Rachel, but I honestly never realised how
distressed she would get. I would change it all back if I could.”
To my surprise, he looked apologetic.
“I know that Richard. I don’t blame you for this and you
don’t need to apologise. It is all an unfortunate mistake and
I’m as much to blame as anyone.”
I didn’t expect that. I didn’t reply. I had no idea what he
was talking about.
“What is done is done and each of us will have to bear
whatever consequences result from it. I want you to know that
I bear you no ill will. I realise now I have been less than
encouraging to you and that you may believe that enlisting
would make me feel more kindly disposed towards you. If that
is true, then I regret that I have caused you to think that, for I
failed to see this whole situation looming. I would be perfectly
happy to have you as my son in law.” I was thunderstruck. My
jaw dropped.
“In spite of what has happened, Rachel has great faith in
you and you have made her happy. I know it was my idea that
you should wait for years and I regret that too. You are more
important to us than you think and this business has made me
come to terms with it. Now that you’ve signed on the dotted
line, you’ll have to go; but you must come back. Rachel needs
you and for her s
ake, at the very least, so do we.”
His face wore an expression I had never seen before. For
once, we seemed to be on the same level. He looked at my
packed suitcases and asked when I was leaving. I told him – I
was going home tomorrow. He looked disappointed, then he
rose and I did too. We shook hands and he wished me luck. He
asked if I would write to them and let them know how I was
getting on. I promised I would and he walked off into the
night. I closed the door and sat down, lost for words – in losing
Rachel I had gained Alistair. I remember wondering, how can I
reconcile that?
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Back on the road I’d been walking along for about an hour
when a neighbouring farmer came by on his gig and gave me a
lift. We had much to talk about, as it was well known that I had
left the farm to chase a bit of skirt.
When I reached home, mother was completely surprised
by my sudden appearance, but her happiness soon dropped
when I told her that Rachel and I were estranged. With an
expression of concern, she put an arm around my shoulders.
“I can understand why young men would volunteer in the
Empire’s time of need. Your father will too and in the fullness
of time, so will Rachel. All couples fight over something, but
the strength of your bond will see you through.” She gave my
shoulder a squeeze; I suddenly felt grief I couldn’t show so I
picked up my suitcases and headed for the door. Behind me, I
could feel my mother’s eyes following me until the door
swung shut and hid me from view.
My room was more or less exactly as I’d left it. My bridles
still hung from a peg on the wall and my spare saddle still sat
on the floor. My book collection contained a hodge-podge of
titles, my favourite being Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand
Leagues under the Sea. There was also The Black Arrow, King
Solomon’s Mines and another favourite, The Lion Hunter, by
Gordon Cummings. It came as no surprise that I had lost a
volume or two. Lorna Doone and Modern American Rifles by
A.C.Gould seemed to be missing.
I checked my Winchester. It was fine, although the
ammunition had dwindled to about sixty rounds – I guessed
that Willy had probably been using it. I flopped on my bed,
awakening all those squeaks it made and stared at the tongue
and groove ceiling above my head.
After a while, there was a quiet knock on the door and
mother appeared in the doorway. I sat up and swung around so
she could sit down next to me.
“You know son, if anything happens to you, I’d like you to
know that I couldn’t have asked for a better son. I’m proud of
who you are and what you have done for Rachel – don’t think I
don’t know what you get up to in Whanganui, because Rachel
writes to Agnes and Agnes blabs everything. Therefore, I know
you have turned her life around. Don’t be hard on her because
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of what has happened, she has her reasons for feeling the way
she does. There will be other upsets as your relationship
matures, so don’t cry over spilt milk. Be patient, give her a
chance to get over it.”
“I understand, Mother. I am surprised at the intensity of
her reaction, but I don’t blame her. I just hope she can wait
until I come back and we can begin again.”
“Oh, she will son. She will.”
Early September, 1899. The train pulled out for
Wellington and the whole family came to see me off. Victoria
was smiling, Agnes and Emma were sniffing and the older men
and women were waving stoically. My only disappointment
was that Rachel didn’t write. I had hoped a letter might turn up
in reply to my note, but alas, there was none. That was
disappointing – very, very, disappointing.
My spirits dipped even lower when the train pulled into
Aramoho Station, for the sight of the familiar landmark
reminded me of my loss. I was gazing ruefully out the window
when suddenly my heart leaped into my mouth. Rachel was
standing on the platform! She was scanning each window as it
went past and she saw me. She ran over and frantically
beckoned to me, so I rose from my seat and worked my way to
the door. She was waiting and with tears in her eyes she flung
her arms around me. Standing in the background was a smiling
Emily Ellen, who made no attempt to stop our very public
indiscretions.
We kissed each other wantonly, completely oblivious to
people walking past and staring. I lifted her in my arms and
spun her round and round. My happiness soared.
“Oh Richard, I would have been heartbroken if you had
left and we hadn’t said goodbye. I forgive you and I’ll pray to
God that you come back in one piece.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. As I held her, I looked over her
shoulder and noticed a carriage window behind us was
crammed with the faces of wide-eyed children, all deeply
absorbed in the soap opera on the other side of the glass.
All too soon the guard blew his whistle and shouted all
aboard, so reluctantly I let her go. I gazed at her through my
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window and she stared wistfully back, her face a mixture of
happiness and sorrow. As the train began to move, she ran
along the platform with one hand on the windowsill, but
inevitably, the train began to accelerate and with a final wave,
she disappeared from view.
I fell back on my seat with a lump in my throat. I didn’t
have to see her to know she would be crying. Why had I put
her through this anguish? In truth, I didn’t really know. For a
second I thought about leaping off and going back, but logic
prevailed. I realised that far from solving anything, it would
only serve to create more trouble. No, I had gotten myself into
this mess and now I must be man enough to see it through. As I
sat there with thoughts spinning round and round in my head
else – how did Rachel know I was on this train? Someone must
have tipped her off. Mother! It had to be.
Once we reached the Manawatu it wasn’t long before we
were passing through the suburbs of Palmerston North, to
continue through the square in the centre of town. Pedestrians
walked across wide lawns and the streets were ringed by
substantial two and three-storeyed buildings.
Not long after, the train stopped at Longburn, which was
the northern terminus of the Wellington & Manawatu Railway.
We disembarked from the Government Railway carriages and
walked through to the Wellington & Manawatu side, where a
new train was waiting to continue our journey.
As there would be a delay while our luggage and mails
were transferred, I wandered along the platform and noticed
that the Wellington & Manawatu carriages were strikingly
different to those I was familiar with. They were classic
American. The locomotive that was to take us was also
American, an equally classic Baldwin that had the largest
; driving wheels of any locomotive I had ever seen, a sure sign
that it was capable of speed. The fireman was sitting in the cab,
so I called out to him.
“What class of locomotive is this?”
“It’s a ten wheeler, made in the USA. This and its sister
engine are the fastest in New Zealand; they can easily maintain
a mile a minute.”
“A mile a minute,” I gasped and tried to work that out.
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“That’s sixty miles an hour!” I would not have thought it
possible to go that fast on rails.
Soon, Longburn was left behind. Ahead of us were endless
miles of plains and the train began to accelerate until the
carriages swayed with the speed. Near Foxton, we slowed
when we came to some very long bridges, but once across we
were away again, the staccato beat of the exhaust accelerating
while continuous bursts of condensing, white vapour rose
briskly into the clear blue sky.
We stopped at Paekakariki and as passengers got on and
off our locomotive was changed. The plains were behind us
and the railway would now traverse long, winding grades on
its final leg to Wellington. This would require the use of a
‘consolidation’ locomotive with smaller wheels, the better to
maintain speed while ascending hills.
The ten-wheeler was uncoupled and the replacement
engine cruised past on a parallel track. It was another Baldwin.
It was a compound, that I could tell, and there was a space
between the centre driving wheels. The boiler was painted
gunmetal blue while gold boiler bands encased it. It had glossy
black wheels and white-walled tyres, red side rods and a
polished copper-capped funnel to finish it off. It looked so
spectacular that a more perfect picture of grace and power was
impossible to imagine. It was without doubt, the handsomest
engine I had ever seen.
As it cruised slowly past I noticed a nameplate mounted
centrally on its running board. ‘The Lady’ it said, in polished
brass letters. Immediately I thought of Rachel, for ‘lady’ was a
word that defined her. Then I heard a voice beside me.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I replied, thinking of Rachel.
“She’s a Vauclain compound you know, the very first
narrow gauge compound to be built in the world.” I looked at
the speaker. He was a young bloke of about sixteen and wore a
black porter’s uniform and a cap with a large WMR badge in