by Gloria Bevan
THE HILLS OF MAKETU by Gloria Bevan
"Maybe I'd better put you in the picture,"
Scott Ballantyne said to Trudy as he explained the job at Elsmore sheep station. "Up here we shear twice a year. We've no living quarters to put up the shearers when they come. And that means it's up to us to provide food for them. Three meals a day, with a five a.m. start — plus in-between smokos. These blokes work hard and fast. They've got to keep up their strength — and I warn you that they haven't got city appetites. Meals have to be ready bang on time. So there you have it. Reckon that you could handle it ?" Trudy answered that she could — but it was perfectly obvious that Scott, as he surveyed her silver-lacquered fingernails, her high-heeled shoes, thought she couldn't.
Printed in Great Britain
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individualknown or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
First published 1969
This edition 1969
© Gloria Bevan 1969
For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.
ISBN 263 70991 4
CHAPTER ONE
`Goon luck, miss!' the Maori bus driver set Trudy's travel bags down in the dust of the metal road, splashed with the lacy shadows of overhanging tree ferns. With a friendly wave, he climbed back into the driver's seat, leaving Trudy staring after the vehicle until it vanished around a bend in the ribbon of smooth highway snaking into the heights above.
She stood looking curiously around her, a small conspicuous figure on the lonely, bush-fringed road with its backdrop of towering hills.
So this was Maketu! She had expected to view the plantations of sombre native New Zealand bush that clothed the steep hillsides, the seemingly endless expanse of steeply sloping 'paddocks', dotted as thickly as daisies with grazing sheep. But she was unprepared for the clarity of the atmosphere in this southern hemisphere, the intensity of colour in the vividly green hills cutting like cardboard outlines, against a diamond-bright sky.
Nor had she anticipated that the township of Maketu wasn't a town at all! In the course of the bus journey from Auckland she had passed through small centres, comprising a handful of modem stores lining the main northern highway; a cluster of multi-coloured timber houses set against acres of lush, emerald pastureland.
But here there was nothing but the hills — and the silence. That is, if one discounted the presence of the derelict-looking two-roomed building with its flaking paint and faded sign: `Garage and Service Station', standing on the opposite corner of the road.
She was struck by a sense of remoteness ... something to do with the vastness of the scene around her. Nothing moved. Only a hawk, skimming over a nearby hill and soon lost to sight in the distance.
Odd that the Land Rover wasn't here to meet the bus from Auckland. Panic shot through her. Supposing Aunt Geraldine had forgotten to send someone to Maketu to meet her? The older woman was elderly — ailing. Supposing, even, she had
forgotten all about Trudy's letter announcing her arrival in the country township today?
How stupid could you get? she chided herself. For of course Aunt Geraldine must have received the telegram that Trudy had sent on arrival at the wharves this morning. At any moment now, the Land Rover would appear around a bend in the winding track. Maybe the bus had arrived here ahead of schedule ... Maybe ...
She endeavoured to smother the uneasy feeling of apprehension that was creeping over her, like a shadow dimming the brightness of the early winter, sunshiny day.
And all at once she wondered. Hadn't she been rather foolishly naive and trusting in expending her small capital on this journey from England? In arriving alone in an unknown land, her only security a promise of employment by a strange woman living in this remote northern district?
Not that Aunt Geraldine was actually a stranger. Or was she? A girlhood friend of Trudy's mother, Geraldine Allen had in her youth emigrated to New Zealand, where she had married a North Island sheep farmer. And through the ensuing years the two women had kept their friendship alive through correspondence.
In reply to Trudy's letter informing Aunt Geraldine of Trudy's mother's tragic death in a road accident, a letter had arrived from New Zealand, inviting Trudy to come out to Springdale, the station in the far north of the country.
`Being an only child and having no father,' Aunt Geraldine had written, 'I expect you'll be feeling rather lost and alone at the moment. A change of scene might help. And I always think that twenty-one is such an excellent age for travel. So how about coming out to Springdale to work for us? As you are a florist by trade, I'm sure you'll be interested in gardening and we're in desperate need of someone to help out in that direction.
`Since I lost my husband, the gardens here have been a constant worry to me. I know Will would be horrified if he could see the state of the terraces now — everything so dreadfully overgrown and in need of attention. I've put advertisements in the local paper, but have never had a reply. The men in the district don't want to be bothered with such light work, and the local girls leave to find work in town. Certainly it's
pretty remote up this way. But you might enjoy the life, all the same.
`Unluckily,' she had gone on, 'a spell of bad health this year has cost me the renewal of my driver's licence. So you would be doing me a real favour if you could help me out in that direction, as well.
`Let me know immediately if you decide to come out to Springdale and I'll make arrangements about the air fare.
`I hope you like the idea.
Sincerely,
Your friend,
Geraldine Allen.'
Trudy liked the idea very much indeed. She made up her mind to accept the offer on the day of the letter's arrival. Here was an opportunity to travel, to see another part of the world. Best of all, assured employment awaited her at the end of the journey.
Now that her mother was no longer here, there was nothing to hold her in London. Certainly not the unsatisfactory romance with Jeff that as far as Trudy was concerned had already dragged on far too long. Not that Jeff wasn't a nice lad — serious-minded, hard-working — but somehow the thought of spending the rest of her life with him filled her with an inexplicable sense of imprisonment.
Only she wouldn't accept the older woman's generous offer of the air fare. Although she knew Aunt Geraldine to be well able to afford the cost, nevertheless Trudy preferred to finance the trip herself, even if she had very little money left afterwards.
Indeed, there had been little to spare, after the expenses were paid. But with the sale of the furniture and her small savings, she managed to purchase a passage by sea, and a last-minute cancellation had enabled her to obtain a booking on the Southern Cross, due to sail from London to New Zealand in two weeks' time.
Aunt Geraldine had written immediately on receiving the news of Trudy's decision to come out to New Zealand.
`I'm delighted you're coming out to us at Springdale,' she wrote in her characteristic black scrawl. 'There's only one bus a day, so we can't make any error about the time to pick
you up at Waionu, where the driver will put you off. The station is forty miles further on. You take the first road to the right after passing the store at Kaiu. But of course you won't need any directions. If I don't get there to meet you myself, I'll send one of the boys in the Land Rover to meet the bus. That is, if I don't get down to meet the Southern Cross at the wharf in Auckland. But I must warn you that my health isn't the best and there are times when I have to stay put. I'll be on the wharf to welcome
you if I possibly can.'
But she hadn't been among the throng waiting at the wharf when the Southern Cross sailed into the sparkling blue waters of the island-dotted harbour. But what did it matter? When the necessary Customs formalities were completed, Trudy found the bus depot without difficulty. It was handily situated only a short distance from the wharves. She booked her seat on the afternoon trip. And that was that. No problem.
No problem? Well, not if 'the boy' sent to meet her made an appearance. But what if he didn't arrive? What could she do were she to find herself stranded up here in the hills in the middle of nowhere?
Come to think of it, wasn't it just a little odd that Aunt Geraldine had neglected to send any message to the Southern Cross, on arrival? She brushed the thought aside. Messages often went astray when there was no definite address to which to send them.
Close on the unwelcome thought came another. It was strange that there had been no letters awaiting her at the various ports of call. She had received no communication from the older woman since leaving England. Aunt Geraldine had mentioned her failing health. And during those long, lazy days of shipboard life, anything could have happened. Anything.
She thrust the dismaying possibilities aside. She must look foolish, standing here with her travel bags on the empty road, like a hitchhiker, waiting to be picked up by a passing motorist. And even in the filtered shade of the tree ferns she was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot.
Picking up her bags, she crossed the track to wait under the wooden verandah of the Service Station, and found herself hailed by a small, deeply tanned, elderly man who sauntered out into the sunshine towards her. 'Here, give me
those!' He took the luggage from her grasp. 'Waiting for someone?'
`Oh yes!' Trudy was inordinately pleased to see him. She wasn't quite alone in this green wilderness, after all. She said, trying to control the tremor in her voice, 'I - came up from Auckland - on the bus. They - said they'd send someone to meet me, here. You see, I'm on my way to Springdale Station—'
`Springdale, eh?' The stranger's leisured speech was curiously soothing to Trudy's taut nerves. 'You'll be all right,' he said easily. 'No lack of transport in that outfit. Land Rovers, trucks, Holden - you can take your pick. One of the largest runs in the area, Springdale.' He peered down at the labels on the travel bags and the weather beaten face creased in a friendly grin. 'You just arrived from overseas?'
Trudy nodded. This morning - by the Southern Cross.' `Staying long?'
A dimple peeped at the corner of Trudy's small mouth. `That depends—'
Her companion gave an old-man chuckle. 'Like that, is it?'
His glance softened as he took in the girl at his side. He liked that vital, alive look about her - and the eyes struck one immediately. It was the colour - put him in mind of something. In a flashback he was transported to youthful mining days in Australia. Of course! Opals! The same flecked shade of sea-green. Good figure too. And that skin! An Englishman himself, up here in the northern sun he'd almost forgotten the translucency of an English complexion. And with that soft, silky dark hair curling over her shoulders. . .. He sighed. If only he were forty years younger!
Aloud he murmured, 'Taking a risk, wouldn't you say, going so far up north?'
`Risk?' Trudy's glance flew upwards, beneath black, winged brows. 'How d'you mean?'
`Guess you haven't got around yet to hearing about the reputation the place has got.'
Trudy stared back at him in perplexity. 'Reputation? For what?'
`Ah-ha ! A sinewy brown arm dropped the bags on the concrete landing outside the small building. 'Bachelors, m'dear! Place is lousy with 'em. They say up there there's a dozen un-
attached blokes to every girl.' He grinned teasingly. 'Fair warning!'
`Oh! Is that all?' Trudy joined in the old man's merriment, but her anxious glance returned to the road curving over the distant hills.
`Not to worry,' her companion followed her gaze, 'they'll turn up in their own good time. You'll see.'
But one hour later, even her optimistic companion was forced to agree that something untoward must have occurred to delay the arrival of the Land Rover.
`Tell you what, I'll ring through.' He moved into the other room. But in a few moments he was back. 'No luck, I'm afraid. All I could get was the "engaged" signal. Tell you what, though—' he eyed Trudy speculatively across the cluttered little table. 'You hold a driver's licence?'
She nodded. 'Yes, but—'
`Well then, you take Min and get along to Springdale under your own steam.'
`Min?' Trudy stared in bewilderment.
`There she is!' A bronzed forefinger gestured towards the yard outside. 'Little blue job.'
Through the dusty window, Trudy glimpsed a Mini-Minor. The small car was conspicuous among the array of dust-coated, battered vehicles by its gleaming paintwork and sparkling chrome.
`I do the odd spot of repair work,' the man explained, 'and that little job belongs to a mate of mine. Old Bill won't mind when I tell him what a fix you were in. He's over in Aussie at the moment. Left the little bus with me to give her a going over. Not that she needed it. She's in good nick, I can promise you that! You take her. Bring her back sometime next week. No hurry.'
`Why, that would be wonderful!' Trudy's spirits rose. `I expect the Land Rover's broken down on the way or something. I sent a telegram from Auckland when I landed there from the ship this morning, so they must be expecting me to arrive today. They must,' she added desperately.
The small brown man nodded reassuringly. 'Sure, sure. Everything 'll be okay when you show up.' He stowed the bags in the back of the car and held up a protesting work-stained hand, as Trudy made to open her purse.
`Forget it,' the little man said easily. Just don't tangle with any stock trucks up there in the hills. There's not much traffic about, but what there is zips around the bends like nobody's business. Old Bill thinks the sun rises and sets in that Mini. Bit of a fanatic about that car, Old Bill.'
`Don't worry,' Trudy smiled as she let in the clutch and guided the small vehicle over the strip of concrete on to the metal road. 'I'll take good care of it, I promise you.'
Shading his eyes against the bright sunlight, the small elderly man held up a wrinkled hand as the car moved away.
As she went up the incline, Trudy reflected that even if the owner were aware that a strange girl had borrowed his beloved 'Min', he would have little cause for anxiety. Although she had never owned a car, years of business experience had made her an experienced and careful driver. And even had she been otherwise — her lips quirked in amusement — she could scarcely come to much harm on this lonely track where as far as she could see at the moment, she had the entire road to herself.
She turned into a stretch of open road, and her spirits lifted. It was exhilarating to feel the steering wheel beneath her hands once more. She lowered the window and her dark hair streamed behind her in the cool breeze.
She moved on, past high, fern-covered banks where tiny waterfalls trickled down the outcrops of grey rock; past thickly barbed wire fences dividing endless hilly stretches dotted with sheep. Then she descended into the green gloom of a valley where the long shadows of evergreen trees slanted across the stony road.
But soon she was once more out in the open. Mercifully, a bank of clouds drifted across the sun and no longer was she forced to face the glare.
She was careful to keep a check on the mileage. Forty miles was a long way on this rough, dusty track, where she had need to reduce speed at every bend. And rising clouds of dust made visibility difficult.
Presently she caught the clatter of horses' hooves pounding behind her, and glimpsed in the small mirror above her head two Maori lads mounted on their sturdy stock ponies. Beneath wide-brimmed Stetsons, white teeth flashed in bronze faces as for a few moments they kept pace with the car, before
being forced to fall behind.
As the miles fell away, Trudy realized that the isolated farm
houses she passed at long intervals were becoming increasingly further apart. Surely before long — Then with a stab of relief she caught sight of a square, modern building at the side of the road. The up-to-date store appeared oddly out of place against the backdrop of sheep-dotted paddocks. A painted sign sprang to view: `Kaiu Store'. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now she had only to take the first turning to the right and she'd arrive at Springdale Station. And just as well, for the shadows were lengthening, and she had no wish to be caught on these unknown roads, once darkness fell.
She almost missed the turning, after all, and had travelled a few yards further before realization struck her that the cutting up the hillside must be the road for which she was searching. She backed the car, opened the Taranaki gate and swept up the narrow track curving up the bush-covered hillside.
She was nearing the top when a flock of sheep appeared over the rise and came pelting down the narrow track towards her. Bleating, running to and fro, the sheep milled around the car in wild confusion, and Trudy, slamming on the brakes, narrowly averted running down two white woolly animals crowded against the car wheels.
And then, glancing upwards, she saw on the summit, a man astride a great chestnut horse.
For a timeless second it seemed to Trudy that horse and rider were figures carved in bronze, silhouetted against the vast backdrop of billowing clouds and sky.
The next moment the man began to weave his way through the milling mob towards her. Above the crying of sheep and the frantic barking of dogs, Trudy became aware that the shepherd was shouting directions, gesticulating. But whatever it was that he was trying to tell her, she failed to catch the words. He appeared angry too, furiously angry.
She had no idea what he was endeavouring to communicate. And anyway, she had her hands full trying to make her way up the hill, blocked by this senseless, seething mass. It wasn't her fault that he had arrived with his flock just as she was mounting the narrow track.