But there was more to this race than speed. Malcolm was the fifth rider around the far pole, but Amy could see that he made by far the tightest turn. By the time they approached the near pole he was barely behind the leading bunch of four, and again he made a turn so tight that the pony seemed to fold back upon himself. Amy began to cheer for her son, though she knew he was too occupied to hear her, and David joined in with his higher-pitched voice.
‘Come on, Mal,’ they shouted. ‘Go, Mal!’
As the leading group, with Malcolm now firmly part of it, rounded the far pole one of the bigger boys swayed for a moment, clutched at his reins, then slid almost gracefully to the ground. He scrambled up to get his horse and himself out of the way of the other riders, and made his way off the track kicking disgruntledly at the dirt.
His example made the remaining riders more cautious, and they took the next two bends making a wider berth around the poles. All except Malcolm. He sat his little pony as if they were two parts of the same creature, sliding his legs instinctively so as to urge Brownie into the tightest of turns while giving the pony’s spine all the freedom it needed to bend.
With the end in sight, the other boys kicked their mounts into faster gallops, then leaned into the turns so recklessly that two more fell off on the last pass of the far pole. Malcolm did not appear to lean at all, but Brownie passed the pole so closely that he all but brushed it, and when he had rounded it he and Malcolm were in the lead.
‘Go, Mal! Go, Mal!’
Amy and David were not the only ones shouting now. She could hear voices all around her taking up the cry, including Charlie’s deep one. Brownie would have been no match for the fastest of the horses in a long gallop, but the flashiest two were riderless after that last turn, and although the remaining riders tried desperately to swallow up Malcolm’s lead he crossed the finishing line a full stride ahead, to a roar of admiration from everyone watching.
Malcolm sprang from Brownie’s back and rushed to them, eyes shining. Amy flung her arms around him and gave him a hug, but Malcolm hardly seemed to notice. All his attention was on his father. ‘I won, Pa!’ he cried. ‘Me and Brownie won! Didn’t I do good? Didn’t I?’
Amy followed Malcolm’s gaze. Tell him, Charlie. Tell him you’re proud of him.
Charlie looked away, and began fiddling with his pipe. ‘Not bad. You took that second-to-last turn like a fool, you were bloody lucky not to come off.’ He glanced at Malcolm, to see the boy’s face crumple. ‘Don’t stand there gawking like an idiot, boy, go and see to that pony. Leaving the beast standing there in a sweat! I’ll take him off you if you won’t look after him properly.’
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.
31
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 intere
sted 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.’
‘Mmm.’ Frank looked at her very seriously. ‘You know when we did all those sums about borrowing money to buy the Jerseys?’
Lizzie groaned. ‘I’ll never forget! I thought my head would never stop spinning from that lot. Why? Oh, Frank, you don’t want to do any more, do you?’
‘No, not just now. I just thought I’d better tell you that we did them all wrong.’
‘What?’ Lizzie said in dismay. ‘We can’t have!’
‘Yes we did, we left something out. We never put in anything to do with selling bulls. It doesn’t matter, don’t worry about it. That was a nice pudding you made tonight.’
Lizzie studied him narrowly. ‘Are you teasing me?’
‘Maybe,’ Frank confessed. He laughed aloud, crossed to Lizzie in two strides, and put his arms around her waist to pick her up and swing her around, making Lizzie shriek. ‘Thirty pounds, Lizzie! Thirty pounds he’s paying me for that bull!’
‘Put me down!’ Lizzie squealed, waving her soapy hands ineffectually. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief, Frank!’
‘Not carrying a little thing like you, I won’t,’ Frank teased. He swung Lizzie around a few more times, then let her gently down to the floor.
She clung to him for support against her dizziness, and Frank took advantage of her helplessness to kiss her soundly. ‘Thirty pounds,’ she breathed when her mouth was free. ‘What are you going to do with all that money? Buy more cows?’
Frank shook his head. He sat down at the table and drew Lizzie to the chair beside him. She wiped her wet hands on her apron and looked expectantly at him. ‘For a minute I thought I might,’ he said. ‘But then I thought about it a bit more, and I’ve decided it’s better for me to breed my own from now on. I’ve got really good cows, why should I pay a fortune to buy someone else’s?’ Lizzie nodded her agreement.
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