The hills of Maketu

by Gloria Bevan

  Trudy laughed lightly. `Actually, I was just leaving.' `Leaving? But you can't! You've only just come! Mother, can't you do something about this?'

  An indulgent smile crossed the thin face. `I've already pleaded with her to stay, son. But she has some business she has to attend to before dark.'

  `I'll go along with that. Night's the time for play - should never be wasted on business.' The dark eyes rested appreciatively on the girl poised on the top step. `Tell me, are you staying around these parts? Can we get in touch with you some place?'

  `I'm sorry,' Trudy shook her dark head, `but I haven't an address at the moment. I really must go. Thank you for the cuppa.' Her smile included both mother and son. `Maybe

  see you again one day!'

  The man followed her down to the car. `Believe me, you will!'

  Trudy waved and moved away. As she circled the curving path and moved on down the driveway, she reflected on the man she had just met. In the early twenties, good eyes, a pleasant manner, an air of assurance ... no doubt he prided himself on his taste in dress. And on having a way with women! Somehow, though, she had difficulty in picturing him as a worker on the land. And wasn't he a little old to be still trying to find his niche in life? But what odds. When one was lucky enough to possess affluent and adoring parents, no doubt one could afford to chop and change.

  It was kind of mother and son to invite her to spend the night at their home, in direct contrast to the treatment accorded her by that man. But 'with a little luck, she might succeed in gaining the advertised farm employment, and would have no need to depend on the benevolence of strangers. Up till now, luck seemed to have deserted her. But the day wasn't yet ended!

  Retracing the route she had already traversed during the afternoon, Trudy turned into a rough track, shaded by towering gums.

  On the rise above, a scarlet roof gleamed through a shelter-belt of dark pines and spreading native evergreens — totara, puriri, matai — and soon she came in sight of the long white weatherboard house that overlooked the vast sweep of paddocks below. The mellow red building a short distance away she took to be the shearing shed. There were stables, pens, outbuildings beyond the dividing fence of tall macrocarpas, and in the yard she could see farm machinery. A De Soto and a truck stood in the open garages, a stock trailer lying nearby. A small, rusty car, badly in need of painting, had two surfboards lying on the hood.

  As she came nearer, two bay mares galloped up a steep incline and halted in a shower of mud at the boundary fence. Ears pricked, their soft gaze followed Trudy curiously as she rattled over a cattlestop and sped up the curving, red-gravelled pathway.

  Here green, springy lawns, dropping precipitously away on one side to a grassy cliff, were dotted with flowering shrubs and overgrown fruit trees. Through a screen of greenery, she caught the gleam of water in a circular lily pond. Thickly

  growing passion fruit vines twined their leafy curtain over the branches of a towering Moreton Bay fig tree. Leafy hibiscus bushes flared with a profusion of scarlet blossoms, and grape vines rioted over the low fence of the enclosure.

  As she braked to a stop at a flight of steps, Trudy could see that the rooms of the farmhouse were constructed in the shape of a rectangle, trapping the afternoon sunshine. Along the rafters of the open porch running the length of the house, jasmine twined thickly, drenching the air with its perfume and cascading over the entrance in a shower of tiny white blossoms.

  Trudy pressed the bell and heard the echoes somewhere in the house. Footsteps sounded in an unseen hall. The next moment the door opened and she stared down at muscular, sun-tanned legs and sturdy, dust-coated working boots. And then she found herself gazing up to meet the startled glance of the shepherd whom she had thought — hoped — never to see again.

  Trudy's first reaction was to turn and run, to leap into the car and escape as speedily as possible. But a second later, common sense prevailed. After all, the man had merely answered the door.

  She found her voice at last. 'Is this — Elsmore Station?'

  `That's right! Come in.' He stood aside, his eyes glinting with amusement. 'I didn't expect to see you again so soon. In there.'

  She preceded him along a wide, uncarpeted hall and into an old-fashioned room with faded wallpaper and comfortable, worn easy-chairs. Guns lay on the mantel The walls were hung with photographs of football teams, aerial maps of the district and big game fishing launches, and in that first swift appraisal Trudy had no doubt but that this was a masculine room.

  She seated herself in the massive wing chair he indicated —and then wished she hadn't. She felt lost in its shabby depths. Or was it the odd effect this man seemed to have on her, that made her feel so — so helpless — insignificant?

  He perched his long length on a chair arm opposite and extended a crumpled packet. 'Cigarette?'

  `Thank you.' He struck a match and as he bent towards her, once again Trudy felt that disturbing sense of awareness.

  `Is the - the—' Why on earth was she stammering? It must be that unnerving blue stare that was causing her to lose her wits like this. She took a deep breath and began again. 'My name's Trudy Western. Could I see Mr. Ballantye, please? Or - or his wife,' she added nervously.

  Ballantyne. What's the trouble?'

  `Oh. . . Trudy's voice died uncertainly away. She gazed at the old piano in a shadowy corner of the spacious room, at the bowl of faded plastic roses on a small occasional table -in any direction save that of the tall man seated opposite.

  `What did you want to see me about?' he asked curiously.

  `I - I—' Like the jangling of discordant bells, the angry words rang in her ears. A man's voice - this man's voice. 'You wouldn't last a week on my sheep station!'

  Wouldn't I indeed, Mr. Ballantyne!

  He was eyeing her inquiringly. She'd have to make some explanation to account for her presence here, so it might as well be the truth.

  All her carefully rehearsed speeches fled, and she heard herself say in a rapid, high voice. 'I - called about the position advertised in the - advertised in the—' She cast about in her mind for the name of the newspaper - 'Courier. Domestic help—'

  `What?' The bushy black eyebrows rose and the match the man was about to toss into the fireplace was suspended in a well-shaped brown hand. 'You've got to be joking!'

  Stung, Trudy glared back at him, a bright, defiant gleam in her sea-green eyes. She had endured just about enough today at the hands of this Ballantyne man.

  `And what,' she achieved what she hoped was a distant tone, 'is so odd about my applying for the job of housekeeper here?'

  He threw a quick glance. 'A good, capable woman') Would you put yourself in that category, Miss Western?' he inquired softly.

  Trudy flung up her softly rounded chin. 'Why not? I can cook and clean and keep house. If that's all you're needing—' She broke off.

  This was her chance to explain that the interview was all a mistake, that she hadn't the slightest intention of working under this overbearing man.

  But something in his tone nettled her. What right had this odious Ballantyne man to assume that she couldn't cook, couldn't clean, couldn't keep house or do anything useful, merely because she had neglected to fasten a farm gate, failed to take notice of a hidden ditch beside a track?

  She would like, she thought vindictively, to wipe that mocking grin from the tanned face. She'd like to show him that she was far from being the helpless nit that he appeared to think her. He had no right to base his opinion of her on a mistake — a simple mistake — that anyone could make.

  And then it happened! The temptation of proving to this arrogant man that he'd been utterly mistaken in his snap judgment of Trudy Western's character was irresistible.

  Call it a character weakness, call it what you like. But throughout her life, when presented with a challenge, she simply had to accept it, often with disastrous results. And now, despite good resolutions to the contrary, the small devil of contrariness once again took possession o
f her.

  She'd take this job. And what's more, she vowed silently, she'd make herself so indispensable to the household that within a month or so this Ballantyne man would be forced to admit how wrong had been his assessment of her character. And then — then would come her moment of triumph! It would be her turn to smile condescendingly and ride — or rather drive — away!

  His voice jolted her back to the present. He was glancing at her perceptively. 'Where have you come from, anyway?'

  She hesitated. There was no help for it. She would have to confide in this man, tell him the whole story.

  `London — today.'

  `Today?' His voice was sharp with surprise.

  `That's right,' she said demurely, pleased in some obscure way that she had startled him. 'But I don't see what that has to do with it!'

  Obviously it was high time that someone took the trouble to show him that he didn't know everything about everyone, that he had no right to order folk about in such a high-handed manner. She couldn't wait to begin proving to him how wrong he was. But first she must obtain the situation.

  'It might surprise you to know,' she said, 'that I can keep house as well as anyone else!' And at the man's sceptical look,

  she added with spirit: 'What makes you think I wouldn't be suitable?'

  His deliberate gaze flickered over the feather-light oyster-coloured coat, with its matching suit. The iridescent, silver-tipped fingernails. The pale high-heeled shoes, soft as a glove.

  But at something in the girl's steady gaze, the mockery died out of his eyes. 'Hell,' he burst out, running a hand through the crisp, dark hair, 'I believe you're actually serious about this! But why? I don't get it!'

  `Could be,' Trudy answered flatly, 'that I need the money.' And she wondered what he would say were she to confide that the cost of the outfit she wore, together with her passage money from England, had depleted her small capital to almost nil, that the car in which she had arrived was a borrowed vehicle, and that she possessed sufficient funds only to tide her over the next few weeks until she could find employment

  `You mean,' he was staring at her in obvious bewilderment, `that you really want to take it on?'

  `I really do. Oh, I admit,' she went on quickly, 'that I don't know a thing about sheep farming. But at least I can keep the place clean and tidy and—'

  `Cook?' His derisive smile mocked her. 'Maybe I'd better put you in the picture. Up here in this warm climate 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 smokes. These blokes work hard and fast. They've got to keep up their strength. And I warn you that they haven't city appetites. They can't afford to hang around, either. Meals have to be ready bang on time. So there you have it. Reckon you could handle it?'

  `Of course!' Trudy answered evenly - and sent up a silent prayer that the simple meals she had prepared in the London flat would be of some help when it came to providing food for these husky, hungry New Zealanders. And anyway, weren't there excellent cookery books available, giving explicit instructions?

  To change the subject, she ran an exploratory finger along the dust-coated kauri table. 'And it looks as though you could do with some help in the cleaning department!'

  Unexpectedly he grinned. 'You're dead right! I do need a hand around here. Had a gem of a housekeeper - until she zoomed off to the South Island to help out at her married daughter's place. Promised to be back here in a month, but that was six weeks ago. I'm not much of a hand when it comes to cooking, and with the shearers booked in for next month—'

  As he hesitated, Trudy put in cunningly, 'Why not give me a trial, then? I could work here for a month. And then we'll see.'

  Oh yes, she thought triumphantly, then we'll see! Across the screen of her mental vision flashed an alluring picture of the future. She saw herself standing at the gates of Elsmore, travel bags at her feet. Something else was at her feet too -nothing less than Ballantyne, a humbled, deeply repentant Ballantyne, apologizing for past rudeness, pleading with her to change her mind, to stay. Never, he assured her fervently, had he known such a clean and shining farmhouse. Never had he sampled meals of such variety and succulence. He implored her—

  The man's voice shattered the illusion. He was regarding her without enthusiasm. 'Okay, then,' he agreed dubiously, `we'll give it a go. For a month.'

  And Trudy sensed the words he left unsaid. 'Seeing that I have no alternative, that there's no one else available.'

  `Wages are eighty dollars a month and keep—' She brought her mind back to what he was saying. 'Okay with you?'

  `Oh yes! That part's quite satisfactory.'

  But I'm not! His perceptive glance completed the sentence. Aloud he said: When can you clock in?'

  `Today, if you like!' Trudy's voice was eager. 'As you see, I happen to have my bags with me. When I met you this afternoon,' she went on breathlessly, 'I was on my way to another position at Springdale. I - I told you about it. At least, I thought I had a position there—' She hesitated, reluctant to go on, but he was regarding her closely and she had perforce to continue. The words tumbled over one another as she related the change of ownership. `So that's why I had to look around for something else. Is your wife—'

  `Wife?' He caught her up swiftly. 'But I'm not married! Whatever gave you that idea ?'

  Trudy opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  'Then you—' She couldn't seem to frame the words that trembled on her lips.

  `Have no fear, Miss—'

  `Western,' she whispered.

  `Miss Western. I can assure you that you'll find yourself perfectly safe with me.' At the cool tones, tinged with amusement, she writhed inwardly. 'The previous owner happened to have quite a family, so there's swags of room for both of us, as well as for my dad, who lends a hand around the place since he sold up down south – not to mention the odd friends, relations, whatever, who zip up here for the odd holiday or weekend. Matter of fact, my brother's fiancée's coming over from Sydney one day soon for a spell. Might be company for you. That's about the set-up – except for the two lads who are employed here. They have meals with us but sleep in the bunk-house, over there.' He gestured towards a two-roomed shack a short distance from the house. 'You'll find supplies in the store room, a truck delivers the orders twice a week, with bread, mail, newspapers – which isn't a bad service, considering how far we are from the nearest township And meat is no problem. As far as mutton goes, we're self-supporting, and the deep-freeze out in the kitchen is well stocked with beef and—' He broke off, staring through the window at the small car in the driveway below. 'That car of yours—' He threw her a puzzled glance. 'I could have sworn that that was the number of Old Bill's Min. Colour's identical too.'

  Trudy swallowed unhappily. Why must he persist in forcing her into these humiliating situations? 'It is Old Bill's Min,' she admitted in a low voice, and added swiftly, as the man sent her a penetrating look, 'Oh, don't worry! You haven't hired a car thief! The man at the garage lent it to me today. He assured me that the owner wouldn't mind, that he would be only too pleased—'

  `Pleased? To see that whopping great dent in his beloved Min?' The bushy black eyebrows rose. 'You don't know Old Bill!'

  `What's going on in here, Scott?' An elderly man, extremely erect, with a thatch of thick white hair and a kindly expression, entered the room.

  Thankful for the interruption, Trudy smiled back into the twinkling eyes, deeply set in a brown, furrowed face. She

  found herself liking the elder Ballantye at sight. She approved of his firm handshake too. And if an unmistakable start of astonishment crossed the weatherlined face as he took in the meaning of Trudy's visit, it was immediately suppressed, and his expression, as he turned politely towards her, was warmly welcoming.

  Well now, that's a bit of news, if you like! From England, you say? And you're going to lend a hand up here at Elsmore? Go
od for you! Well, lass, you've had a long day's travelling by the sound of things, so come along with me and I'll collect your bags and show you to your quarters.'

  Thankfully, Trudy made her escape from those other blue eyes, that were entirely too discerning. She would need to play her cards skilfully, for Scott Ballantyne, she divined, wasn't an easy man to trick. And trick him she must, if her plan were to succeed. And it would! She'd see to that!

  The elderly man led her along the open porch until they reached a door at the end. 'Here you are! It's a bit stuffy, I'm afraid — been shut up for a while. Come along to the dining room when you're ready. Bathroom's next door.'

  Left alone, Trudy glanced around the small room. Modestly furnished with old-fashioned rimu bed and chest of drawers, a faded carpet on the polished boards, the room lacked the slightest evidence of personality.

  But she would change all that. She flung open the window with its magnificent vista of rolling hills. In fact, there were quite a few things in this homestead that she would like to change for the better — the dingy, dreary lounge room, the dark, cheerless, uncarpeted hall, and most especially Scott Ballantyne himself!

  Trudy took a refreshing cool shower and slipped into a diaphanous frock splashed in abstract patterns of black and white.

  In consideration of her new status, she gathered her hair back from her face and swept it into a smooth swathe round the back of her head. And as she twisted and turned to catch her reflection in the mirror, she decided with satisfaction that the style of hairdressing lent her a new and unaccustomed dignity.

  She applied fresh make-up, accenting the curves of her small mouth with palest pink. Then, thrusting her bare feet

  into crimson thonged sandals, she went in search of the dining room.