by Gloria Bevan
‘I’d have located you a long time ago,’ she was amazed to catch a glint of amusement in his glance, ‘if I hadn’t been given completely misleading information.’
She glanced up at him, not understanding. ‘Misleading—?’
‘That’s right.’ His expression softened as his cool assessing glance took in Tracy’s slim figure, the young eager face with the high cheekbones and faintly tanned complexion. ‘I was told that you weren’t all that attractive, not so you’d notice it. They were dead wrong!’
Tracy giggled. So he was human after all. ‘Oh, that would be my cousin Alison! She’s such a knock-out herself! So tall and sophisticated-looking.’ Tracy sighed wistfully. ‘And that gorgeous colouring! Do you know, she did quite a bit of modelling in London. Even at school, she never had freckles even ... not like me—’
‘You two were at school together?’ He cut in so sharply that Tracy blinked. Now why was he eyeing her with that sharply disapproving look, just as though there were something to be ashamed of in the fact that she and Alison had attended the same school?
‘Why, yes.’ She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by him. ‘You see, her father was my uncle and he—’
But it was clear to Tracy that he was no longer listening. He said coldly, ‘I thought as much. You have the same way of speaking.’
Tracy was disquietingly aware of his flinty look. His own tones, she thought, were cultured and possessed an attractive timbre, or would have had it not been for that cold, hard tone. Why must he say ‘your cousin’? Why not just ‘Alison’? Or even ‘my fiancée’? ‘Well,’ she pointed out defensively, ‘we do happen to be related, so I don’t suppose it’s all that surprising that we have the same sort of voices.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ There was no lightness in his unsmiling tone.
Really, she thought with a prick of annoyance, then what did he mean? What was so wrong about her and Alison speaking in the same way? She had half a mind to ask him to explain himself, only he was wearing his closed look again. She simply couldn’t understand him—tossing compliments her way at one moment, scowling fiercely at her the next! How could Alison, with her undoubted attraction for men, her gay approach to life, have fallen in love with this strange dark man with his laconic speech and stern expression? How could she? The odd part of it all was that he appeared to have taken an unreasoning dislike to herself, even before their meeting.
‘I suppose Alison sent you to meet me?’ Immediately the words had left her lips she realized how clumsily had she framed the inquiry. For who could imagine any girl, even poised and lovely Alison, being able to send this man anywhere? ‘I mean,’ she amended carefully, ‘something happened to stop her coming here this morning to meet the ship?’
He was silent for a moment, an unreadable expression flickering in the grey eyes, but he only said quietly, ‘That’s right. Something happened—Look, we can’t talk here. Better get below,’ he waved a well shaped bronzed hand in the direction of the stairway, ‘get your bags through the Customs. After that we can get things sorted out and head for home.’
‘That will be wonderful!’ She couldn’t conceal her sense of relief. Back there on the ship she’d had a bad few minutes, wondering what could have happened to delay Alison, but there was nothing after all to worry about.
‘Will it?’ As she met his quizzical glance a shaft of alarm pierced her, but she thrust it aside. No doubt he was merely seeking to amuse himself at her expense. Probably, she told herself as they strolled out of the office together, Alison had persuaded him to come here against his wishes and he was still feeling resentful; maybe he was regretting the time spent away from his vineyard duties. In a few minutes she left him to enter the Customs room, still thronged with passengers from the Oriana with their accompanying baggage.
Her modest possessions were soon cleared and in a surprisingly short time she went to join Stephen Crane, who was waiting for her just beyond the connecting doorway. ‘Come on!’ Picking up her travel bags as though they were feather-light, he strode in the direction of the liftwell. In silence she stood by his side as they ascended to the roof-top parking above. He might pretend to look welcoming, just a little, she thought aggrievedly. Not that she expected a speech of welcome, but it was slightly off-putting to be met in an unfamiliar country by this stranger with his cold stare and disapproving expression. For a second something about the grim line of his set jaw faintly disturbed her. All at once she was stung by a frightening suspicion. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ she asked anxiously. But stepping from the lift, moving in the direction of a big grey Holden in the parking lot, he didn’t appear to have heard her. Stowing the bags in the back of the vehicle, he slammed the door shut and turned towards her. ‘Bet you didn’t take time out for breakfast this morning?’
She shook her head. ‘I was so determined not to miss the first sight of the Auckland harbour—’
‘Just what I thought! There’s a restaurant down below. Come on, you’d better come down with me and we’ll get some coffee. You’re going to need it.’
They moved towards the lift again and soon he was guiding her across the spacious, attractive room, passing the souvenir stalls with their Maori artefacts and native carvings, as they moved towards a dining area at the far end of the room. He drew forward a chair from a small table. ‘Take a seat, Miss Cadell, and I’ll bring some coffee from the counter. We’ve got a lot to talk about—black or white?’
‘Black, please.’ His twisted smile did nothing to ease her growing sense of discomfiture.
He was back at the table in a few minutes, carrying a tray with coffee cups, and she sipped the hot liquid. She even managed an almost-spontaneous smile, which was quite a feat when someone was regarding you in that queer way, almost like ... compassion ... but that was ridiculous, surely. She was becoming stupidly imaginative. Maybe she shouldn’t have skipped breakfast after all. With an effort she rallied herself.
‘Now at last we can get acquainted,’ she said in her friendly manner. Her gay chatter faltered in the face of his abstracted gaze, but she forced herself to go on. ‘You know something, Mr. Crane? I’ve never ever been out of England before! All this,’ her gaze moved to the glittering waters of the harbour, the luxurious white liner, ‘not to mention Alison’s wedding, staying out here in New Zealand for a while afterwards—it all seems just too good to be true!’
‘I’m afraid,’ his tone was unexpectedly gentle, ‘that it is.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Thank you.’
He was holding a lighter towards her and as he leaned close she noticed the bleak expression in his eyes. Something was very wrong. She was certain of it now.
‘It’s Alison, isn’t it?’ she whispered. ‘Something’s happened? There isn’t going to be any wedding?’
‘No.’ The resonant tones were curiously flat. ‘There isn’t going to be any wedding—ever. Look here, Miss Cadell, I’m not much good at this sort of thing. I don’t quite know how to put it.’ She had to strain to catch the low tones and with a little shock of surprise she realized that he too was embarrassed, having difficulty in getting out the words. ‘The accident happened a couple of weeks after you’d left London. I could have sent you a cable at one of the ports, but I thought I’d let things ride until you arrived here, put you in the picture myself. It couldn’t have made any difference to you at that stage of the game.’
She waited, holding her breath, thankful that the subdued lighting at the cafeteria away from the bright daylight outside served to hide her horrified expression.
‘Thing is,’ he flicked the ash from his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the table, ‘there was this blazing bust-up that put a finish to everything. Your cousin’s gone! Joined up with a cruise outfit here on a tour of the South Pacific. Right now she’ll be somewhere in Tonga, Noumea ... one of the islands. But the night of the flare-up there was this accident—’
‘Accident?’ Tracy’s tone sharpened in
alarm. ‘What happened?’
He stubbed the ash from his cigarette. ‘My young brother Cliff’s fault,’ the low tones were charged with emotion. ‘He was pretty het-up at the time, I guess, went bang through a red traffic light and collected a brand new station wagon coming the other way. A head-on collision! Both vehicles were complete write-offs. Luckily the other passengers in the wagon weren’t seriously hurt, but the guy’ll be a fair time in hospital with a knee injury. By some miracle your cousin didn’t get a scratch.’
‘And your brother?’ She found she was holding her breath as she waited for the reply.
He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Shock ... concussion. He’s still in hospital with a broken leg, down on the East Coast. Unfortunately,’ his voice was grim, ‘he happens to be a putter-offer, forgot to arrange insurance when he bought the new car. Thing is,’ he seemed to be speaking to himself, ‘he’s cleaned out completely, or will be by the time he’s settled up the insurance claims, and court costs. Not that he had much to play around with after throwing away his savings right and left on—’ he stopped short and went on after a moment, ‘other things.’
Something in his closed unhappy expression made Tracy wonder if he could possibly be blaming Alison for all this. Or did she merely imagine the bitterness in his tone?
‘Your brother couldn’t afford to lose so much?’ she hazarded, but underneath she was thinking that surely a vineyard owner would have some capital.
He must have read her thoughts. ‘Cliff was on wages, that’s all. The capital he had he got through with his mountaineering expeditions. They cost him a packet, and now—’ he threw out bronzed, well-shaped hands, ‘he’s cleaned out completely.’
And it’s all Alison’s fault.
She could almost hear the words he left unsaid. Of all the childish, unfair attitudes ... Aloud she asked: ‘How did it happen?’
‘We were touring at the time, on our way back from the South Island. Cliff had got this new car and was dead keen for the four of us to tour the country. Alison, Lucie (that’s an aunt who keeps house at the Valley), Cliff, myself. On that particular night we were putting up at Gisborne. We couldn’t all find accommodation at the same hotel and Cliff was taking Alison back to her lodgings when it happened. It was one of those filthy nights, a summer storm that blew up out of nowhere, with rain pelting down in torrents. On the way Cliff—well, there’d been this helluva row and he didn’t have his mind on driving, that’s for sure. Like I said, he just didn’t see that red light.’
The terse sentences struck her like blows and she set down her coffee cup with a little clatter, vaguely aware that her hand was trembling. So that was the reason why Stephen Crane was acting so strangely. His engagement to his girl broken off so close to the wedding date, his brother injured in a motor smash. She wished, though, that she knew more of the pieces of the puzzle that appeared to be missing. There was so much that he had failed to explain. A blazing quarrel, he had told her, the engagement terminated and then, on that same night, the accident. On top of all that she herself had to arrive from England, an encumbrance to Stephen Crane and his family. An embarrassment too, reminding him of Alison, forcing him into explanations of matters that obviously he much preferred to forget. What had happened to cause the break between him and her cousin? Well, whatever it was it was clear that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence. As for herself, there was something that must be said, painful, difficult though it was to put the thought into words.
With quick sympathy her hand went to touch his sleeve. ‘But how awful for you, just before the wedding ... and everything.’
His blank expression was as dashing as a shock of cold water thrown in her face. ‘You don’t seem to get it, Miss Cadell. It was my brother, the one who was hurt in the smash, who was to marry your cousin.’ In a fluid movement he was on his feet. ‘You’ve finished your coffee? Shall we go?’
‘Go?’ she stared bewilderedly up into the set face. ‘Go where?’
‘Back to the house, of course,’ his tone was impatient. ‘Where else?’
Slowly, she got to her feet, her face drained of colour, her eyes shadowed. ‘But I can’t! I mean,’ she stammered in acute embarrassment, ‘everything’s different now. And there are hotels—’
‘Why the hell would you need a hotel?’ His incredulous stare jerked her back to reality. ‘You’re coming back to Valley Vineyards with me, Miss Cadell! Lucie would never forgive me if I arrived back home without you!’
He had made it very plain, she thought unhappily, that the invitation stemmed from his aunt, and not himself. Without another word she went with him to the parking area on the roof of the building, waiting while he unlocked the car door. He saw her seated, then went around to the driver’s side. There wasn’t much that she could say at the moment, Tracy thought, trying to control her whirling thoughts as they moved through the wharf gates, then turned to merge into the traffic of the main street of the city.
At the pavement edge tall cabbage trees flick-flacked their clustered green spears lazily in the ocean breeze and from the centre of the roadway the great bronze figure of a cloaked Maori chieftain gazed out over the sparkling waters of the harbour. Couples strolled by in the sunshine, the girls wearing vividly-coloured shifts, the men in crisp white shirts, walk shorts, sandals. It all appeared so normal, yet she felt as though the ground had been cut from under her feet. She must pull herself together, make plans for the future. She gazed with unseeing eyes at the hills around her, where clustered red-roofed houses were surrounded with greenery. There was something about it all that she couldn’t understand, and that was the attitude of the man at her side. Why should he be so bitter over the affair that his anger extended to anyone even remotely connected with Alison? Unless, a thought pierced her, he was in love with her himself? Now she came to consider the matter, the explanation fitted perfectly. Indeed, she reflected wryly, it would be more unusual in the circumstances had Stephen Crane proved to be impervious to Alison’s peculiar brand of calculated charm. For some reason that she couldn’t fathom, she found herself wishing that there were some other explanation for her companion’s dark mood. Any other explanation but that one!
The next moment she took hold of herself. What possible difference could it make to her? Forcing herself to concentrate on the present, she gazed towards the wide glass display windows lining each side of the wide thoroughfare. Auckland was certainly an attractive city, she mused, taking in pink geraniums trailing from hanging wrought iron baskets, bright flower beds in the centre of the roadway, the clear, clear blue sky. They swept past a fountain where the breeze was blowing the water on to the pavement, paused at a red traffic light, then took a steep incline that led them into a long street with modern stores and shady verandahs. Tracy eyed with interest the big, dark-skinned women with their graceful carriage and flowing black hair, who thronged the street. Smiling, unhurried, they wore their sweeping floral frocks with grace and dignity and one or two of the younger ones had tucked a glowing scarlet or pink hibiscus blossom in their luxuriantly dark tresses. Young mothers had with them appealing little people with lustrous dark eyes, the girls wearing crisp cotton frocks and white socks and shoes, the boys in spotless white shirts and black bow-ties.
Tracy was so intrigued that for a moment she forgot Stephen Crane’s unfriendly attitude. She turned an eager face towards him. ‘Those big dark women, so relaxed and smiling, in their long frocks. There are so many of them strolling along the street. Are they Maori women?’
He shook his head, his attention fixed on the road ahead as he skirted a great truck piled high with bales of wool. ‘Not in this district, though you’ll come across plenty of Maori folk all over Auckland. Around this locality they’re mostly Islanders—’
She glanced up at him with puzzled blue eyes. ‘You mean, they come from the Pacific Islands?’
He eyed her briefly and she noticed the lift of his lips. ‘You happen to be in a South Pacific country yourself rig
ht now. Miss Cadell. What would you say if I told you that this little city of Auckland happens to have the largest Polynesian population of any city in the world?’
‘Really?’ Tracy glanced again towards the dark-skinned women shoppers in their long cotton frocks printed with vividly coloured tropical designs of birds and flowers.
‘It’s true! A part-Polynesian population, that’s us! And all the better for that. They come here from different islands of the Pacific, mostly from the Cook Islands, Niue, Tokelau, but a lot arrive here from Fiji and Samoa too.’
‘But why?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘There’s precious little employment where they come from. Over here in Auckland they can get themselves a job, send part of their wages to their families back home. It must seem a bit strange at first, wouldn’t you think, coming straight from a thatched grass hut, a sleeping mat, diet of fish and coconuts and then—instant civilization! But it all goes to make a colourful city! And something else that’s a darned lot more important. The Pacific Islanders have got something—call it enjoyment of life. To them to sing and dance and laugh comes as naturally as breathing. Take European culture added to that and you could say we’ve got the best of both worlds.’
Tracy nodded. ‘I know. In Fiji, on the way out here, we were taken to a concert, and the way those natives sang and danced! It was fantastic! You could see they were enjoying every moment of it.’
Along the highway the buildings were thinning out. There were many open spaces where from the ridge, Tracy caught glimpses of hills and valleys, clusters of multicoloured roofs and beyond, the blue of distant hills.
‘They’ve got a lot they can show us,’ Stephen Crane was saying, ‘culture, new concepts, a sense of proportion. Much more, actually, then we can offer them.’