Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  Lizzie clicked her tongue sympathetically as they walked into the room, which had not been designed to hold six adults and five children. Edie led the three older children over to inspect the baby, then firmly escorted them to the door and sent them down the passage, leaving the adults free to move around more comfortably.

  Lily lay against a pile of pillows, the linen pillow cases looking scarcely paler than her face, but a faint smile played on her lips as she gazed at the child in her arms. Bill sat beside the bed staring at the baby with a look of bemused delight, one hand resting proprietorially on Lily’s shoulder. He glanced for a moment at Frank and Lizzie, then his eyes returned to the baby. Frank watched the three of them and recalled the way he had felt when he had first seen Maudie, a tiny bundle snuggled up against Lizzie. He smiled as much at the remembered joy as at the sight before him.

  ‘Did you ever see a better looking baby?’ Arthur demanded. ‘He’s a fine boy, my grandson. How are you feeling now, my dear?’ he asked Lily.

  ‘Tired,’ Lily said in a weak voice. ‘But better than I was this morning, thank you… Father.’ She added the last word hesitantly, but his beaming smile said clearly that Arthur had forgotten he had ever wondered whether Lily might not be a little too old, a little too well-educated, and a little too finely bred to become the bride of a farmer’s son. The way Lily had thrown herself wholeheartedly into helping Edie run the house had overcome most of his doubts; now that she had produced this wondrous child, her place in his heart was sealed.

  Lily moved a little in the bed as if to ease some discomfort, and her face contorted. She shot a helpless look at Edie, who clearly understood the signal at once.

  ‘Out of here, you men,’ Edie said briskly. She had to give Bill’s shoulder a shake before he took any notice of her. ‘Go on, Bill, you can come back later. You too, Arthur. Give the poor girl a rest for a bit.’ She bustled the three of them out and shut the door in their faces.

  ‘A fine boy, that grandson of mine,’ said Arthur. ‘Time we had a drink to celebrate.’

  Frank soon found himself sitting in the parlour with Arthur and Bill, each of them holding a generously filled glass of whisky.

  ‘To my grandson,’ Arthur intoned.

  ‘To my son,’ Bill added, looking at the wall in the direction of his bedroom.

  ‘To… hey, what’s his name?’ Frank asked.

  Arthur’s smile grew even wider. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he said smugly.

  *

  Two walls away Edie replaced the covers over Lily and patted them down gently. ‘Nothing wrong that a good rest won’t fix,’ she said. ‘It’ll be sore down there for a bit, but you’ll forget it all soon enough now you’ve the little fellow to think about.’

  Lizzie had taken the seat vacated by Bill. She opened her bodice to offer a nipple to a now-wakeful Mickey. ‘What are you going to call him, Lily?’ she asked.

  Lily smiled at the baby, now dozing in his cradle. ‘Well, I’d decided he was going to be William, and Bill had no objection to that,’ she said, a touch of wry humour showing through her weariness. ‘But then when it was all over and I’d woken up properly, and Bill had come in and seen us, your father came in—’

  ‘I’d had a beggar of a job keeping him out till then,’ Edie put in. ‘I said you and Bill were to have a bit of time just the two of you and the little fellow, once you’d woken up. He only gave you five minutes.’

  ‘Was it that long?’ Lily said musingly. ‘Well, he came in and looked at the baby as though he’d never seen one before. He gave me a kiss as if I was really his daughter, and…’ Her smile took on a touch of sadness. ‘I don’t remember my father very well.’ She gave her head a little shake and went on. ‘Then after he’d asked how I was, he asked what we were going to call the baby. I opened my mouth to say “William”, and found myself saying, “We’d like to call him Arthur, if you don’t mind.” ’ She laughed, but the movement made her wince. ‘He doesn’t mind,’ she said softly, her eyes drooping as she spoke. As soon as Mickey had finished feeding, Lizzie and Edie rose and quietly left the room to join the men in the parlour.

  *

  Lizzie was not normally given to fits of jealousy, but when she felt her husband or one of her children was being slighted she could be fierce in their defence. When she had heard her father refer to ‘My grandson’ one time too many, she tartly reminded him that he already had four other grandchildren.

  ‘That’s all very well, but they’re Kellys,’ Arthur responded. ‘This boy’s a Leith.’

  ‘What a load of old rubbish,’ Lizzie said. ‘Babies are babies—what on earth does it matter what their name is?’ But Arthur laughed at her, and only Frank saw that Lizzie was hiding hurt under her show of pique.

  ‘Take no notice,’ he urged when they were on their way home, with Arthur safely out of earshot. ‘He’s just being silly, just because it’s a novelty for him to have a Leith grandson. Not to mention one named after him. He’ll get over it soon enough and be moaning that the little fellow keeps him awake at night.’

  ‘Serves Pa right if he does,’ Lizzie muttered. ‘I hope he bawls all night.’

  But Lizzie’s sense of fairness would not allow her to feel any resentment towards Lily for the place the young Arthur was clearly going to hold in his grandfather’s heart. Her father might be being ridiculous, but Lily was her friend, and Lily was sore and weary from travail that no man could really understand. Lizzie teetered on the edge of blaming Lily for the way Arthur was ignoring his other grandchildren, then abruptly swung the other way.

  ‘Pa fussing over that baby’s probably getting on Lily’s nerves,’ she said. ‘Poor Lily’s worn out, too. Ma said she had an awful time of it.’

  ‘Mmm. Bill said the same to me. It doesn’t come natural to her like it does to you, eh?’

  The appeal to Lizzie’s pride in her own womanly gifts coaxed a smile from her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m lucky. Still, the first time’s the worst, especially with Lily not being so young. It’ll be easier next time.’

  ‘Bill said something about not wanting her to have another one for a good long time, after this one being so hard on her.’ Frank shifted the reins into one hand so that he could slip his free arm around Lizzie. ‘Hope he’s better at keeping to it than I was when you’d been ill, eh?’ he murmured close to her ear.

  ‘He couldn’t be any worse,’ Lizzie said. They shared pleasant memories in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I don’t remember you looking as bad as she does, Lizzie. You always look as pretty as ever, even when it’s only just over.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ Lizzie scoffed, but she smiled as she said it. ‘She does look awful, doesn’t she? Ma told me she’ll be fine, and Ma knows all there is to know about it, so there’s no need to worry, but I bet she’ll be a while getting over it. She looks nearly as bad as Amy did.’

  ‘Worse,’ Frank said idly.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lizzie insisted. ‘Amy looked shocking that first time. You wouldn’t know, you didn’t see her.’

  ‘Yes I did,’ Frank said. ‘I took you in to see her after she had Mal.’

  He felt Lizzie stiffen against him. ‘So you did,’ she said in an odd voice. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Sorry.’

  An apology from Lizzie was startling. ‘What’s up, Lizzie?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I might make a sultana pudding tonight.’ She faced his scrutiny with a disarmingly open expression.

  The idea of Lizzie’s hiding something from him was too ridiculous for Frank to waste any time on. Her strange behaviour, he decided, should be put down to lingering jealousy over the new baby. He patted her arm, then returned his full attention to the track in front of him.

  *

  Ruatane had held its first ever Agricultural and Pastoral Show the previous year, though the name seemed too grandiose for the small gathering that had taken place. But when it was announced that a second one would be held that March, the show took on the status of an institut
ion. There were few enough opportunities for the farmers of the area and their families to waste most of a day on fun and call it work, and nearly all of those close enough to town managed to attend.

  The competitions were for the most part light-hearted; the farmers who had bothered to bring some of their animals along paraded them around in a roped-off area of the paddock in front of other farmers, while their wives compared baking and gardening skills under a hastily-erected marquee. Children darted about from one part of the paddock to another, admiring cows and horses then trying to beg biscuits from their mothers. But the organisers had made a fair attempt at setting up ordered judging, with animals divided into various categories according to age and breed.

  Most of the animal entries were from farmers who lived within a mile or two of the town, but Frank was keen to show off his best despite the inconvenience of getting the chosen animals to the show. It meant spending a fair part of the morning driving Duke William and Orange Blossom into town, leaving Lizzie to come in later managing the buggy and the children on her own, but when he had groomed and fussed over the animals in their small pens until their coats were glowing in the sunlight Frank knew it was worth it. He stepped back and studied the two creatures with satisfaction; he was sure they were the best in the show, even if the rest of the town might be too foolish to see it.

  As he hung over Duke William’s pen, waiting for the judging to begin, Frank became aware that he was being scrutinised. He turned to see a man whom he did not recognise, which was something of a novelty in so small a town.

  ‘That’s a fine animal you have there,’ the stranger remarked.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Frank agreed readily. The man was obviously someone of discernment, to have seen Duke William’s superiority. ‘That’s one of my cows over there, too.’

  The man admired Orange Blossom to Frank’s satisfaction, then introduced himself as Ted Jackson, a farmer from near Thames (though he mentioned in passing that he also owned two farms at Tauranga) who treated himself to attendance at some of the more distant A and P shows from time to time.

  As they chatted, it soon became clear to Frank that although he and this Ted Jackson both called themselves farmers they meant something rather different by the term. The quality of Mr Jackson’s clothes, made of the sort of cloth reserved for Frank’s best suit, gave him the first clue. After Mr Jackson had talked casually of managers and staff, and the pressures of overseeing several farms, Frank guessed that this was a man who had staff quarters more elaborate than Frank’s own house. He nodded and smiled at much of what the older man said, contributing little to the conversation.

  But on the subject of his Jerseys he waxed eloquent. He could quote the pedigrees of the four he had purchased back for several generations.

  ‘Good lines you’ve got there,’ Mr Jackson said. ‘You must be getting good stud fees.’

  Frank mumbled a noncommittal reply, unwilling to admit that no other farmer in the area had as yet shown any interest in hiring his bull.

  ‘Do you sell many of your calves?’ Mr Jackson asked.

  ‘Um, not… many,’ Frank said, narrowly avoiding an outright lie. ‘I’m still building up the herd.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Mr Jackson fished around in his jacket pocket and produced a card with his name and address. ‘I’m a bit fed up with the prices some of these fancy breeders try to screw out of me for pedigree cows. If you decide you can spare one or two this spring, drop me a line.’

  Frank glanced at the card and stowed it in his pocket. ‘I might just do that.’ He shook hands with Mr Jackson before the latter moved off to admire some heavy horses. Then Frank heard the call for bulls to be led out and promptly forgot the stranger.

  There was some good-natured grumbling over Frank’s cheek when he was awarded a ribbon for the best Jersey bull in the show; as the only Jersey bull, Duke William had not had to face competition to win his prize. But after Orange Blossom had been awarded her own ribbon as the best Jersey cow of any age in the show, again having been paraded around the ring in solitary splendour as the sole example of her breed, she was involved in a more genuine contest.

  A small group of cows were arranged in a ring, with their owners crouched beside them on stools to milk them. When the buckets were full they were passed over to the panel of men who had been appointed judges: the manager of the butter factory, an elderly farmer from the other side of Ruatane whom Frank barely knew, and a Dairy Advisor who had conveniently been visiting Tauranga and had had his return fare to Ruatane paid so that he could give the show a little extra status.

  In terms of quantity there was not much in it. Orange Blossom was much smaller than any of the Shorthorns, and by rights a good Shorthorn should have had the edge over her in sheer volume produced. But when the contents of the buckets were carefully measured, Orange Blossom’s production was found to be second only to one huge Shorthorn.

  That would have been enough to make Frank prouder than ever of the dainty Jersey, but there was better to come. With elaborate care, milk from each cow had been poured into graduated glass cylinders and left to stand in the shade of the judges’ tent while other competitions went on in the ring. When the milk had stood long enough for a clearly discernible layer of cream to have formed, the percentage of cream was measured and the winner announced.

  Frank knew well enough that his Jerseys produced creamier milk than any other cows in the area; the payments he was getting from the factory showed that more tangibly than any afternoon competition could do. But to have it loudly announced in front of everyone he knew made his chest swell with pride. He owned the cow that produced the best quality milk in the whole district.

  Lizzie squeezed his hand so tightly at the announcement that he knew she was almost as excited as he was himself. She gave him a little push to start him on his way over to the tent to collect his prize: a small silver cup and five shillings.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Kelly,’ the Dairy Advisor said, fixing Frank with a friendly smile. ‘Even for a Jersey that cow of yours is producing impressive milk. You must have a fine herd.’

  ‘They’re not bad,’ Frank said, then he plucked up the courage to express his true thoughts. ‘I haven’t got many Jerseys yet, but the ones I’ve got are really good. I’m going to have a really special herd.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ the advisor said. ‘Perhaps I should pay you a visit while I’m in the area, have a look at these fine cows of yours and talk over your plans?’

  ‘That’d be good,’ said Frank. ‘Come out for lunch one day, my wife’s a great cook.’

  The advisor laughed. ‘You’re obviously a very fortunate man, Mr Kelly.’ And Frank silently but wholeheartedly agreed.

  Frank was not used to attention. Elation had carried him over to the tent, but when he stepped back clutching his prizes and looked around at what seemed a sea of faces all staring at him, his courage nearly failed. It was only when he picked Lizzie’s face out of the anonymous mass that he found the strength to make his way back past his applauding audience, fixing his eyes on Lizzie like a beacon to safe harbour. He hugged each of the children in turn, then gave Lizzie the biggest hug of all despite the baby in her arms, heedless of the amused looks turned on them.

  *

  Amy clapped with the rest, though Charlie did not bother. ‘Load of rubbish,’ she heard him mutter. ‘Making all that fuss over a funny-looking cow.’ He had said nothing when she showed him the ribbons she had won for her baking and preserves, but she had not expected him to. She glanced down at her handful of ribbons and reflected on how little it took please her; being told that her strawberry jam was better than anyone else’s would not have excited her in the days when she had dreamed of going to live in Auckland, of discovering what wonders the world outside her little valley held.

  She shoved those thoughts back into the recesses of her mind where they belonged. Dreams were for people who had some hope of making them come true.

  The cattle judging over, she
held David by the hand to stop him racing ahead as they walked beside Charlie. An event was about to begin; an event the thought of which had filled Malcolm’s waking hours for weeks.

  Malcolm was already there, holding Brownie by the reins and looking eager for action. As soon as all those interested had found places to stand, the riders were told to mount and bring their horses up to the rope lying across the ground that marked the start and finish line.

  The race was meant to be for boys aged twelve and under, but Amy was sure that one or two of the dozen or so who lined up were thirteen or even fourteen. It was ridiculous for a boy of seven to be riding against them, and Amy had been worrying about Malcolm ever since Charlie had said he could compete. But it would have been no use her speaking out against it; even if Charlie were to take any notice of her, which would be a near miracle, Malcolm would hate her for it. That would be harder to bear than watching any tumble he might take.

  A pole had been stuck in the ground a few paces in front of the start line, and a hundred yards or so in front of that a second pole marked the other end of the course. The riders would have to gallop up to the far pole, turn around it, race back to the near pole, then repeat the performance twice more before sprinting for the finish line. It occurred to Amy to wonder whether Malcolm, with his total disdain for school and all it had to offer, would be able to manage the necessary counting, but as he listened to the man who was explaining the rules she saw him repeating them under his breath and glancing back and forth at the poles, picturing what he would have to do. He would manage, she decided. The race meant enough to him to make him try, something he never did at school.

  A lowered handkerchief signalled the start. The riders dug in their heels and the horses broke into a run. Malcolm’s pony was soon left several strides behind some of the longer-legged mounts, and Amy hoped he would not be too disappointed if he ended up trailing the field.