The hills of Maketu

by Gloria Bevan

She found that it led off the kitchen — a square, drab room with heavy dark curtains obscuring the view. But the mahogany dining table and chairs, though uncared for, were undoubtedly period pieces, and the muted shadings of the creamy Persian carpet held an ageless beauty. A television set was built into a long shelf along the end wall, and an assortment of magazines, ranging from The Farmer to Time and Life, spilled from the open fitting.

  The meal was a simple one, consisting of sliced cold meats, pickles, beetroot, bread and butter, followed by cheese and coffee. But Trudy found difficulty in choking down more than a few mouthfuls of food.

  It was seldom that she found herself ill at ease when dining with strangers, but being forced to share meals with Scott Ballantyne was proving to be more of an ordeal than she had anticipated. Maybe it was because, freshly showered and shaven, clad in impeccable grey shorts and open-necked white shirt, he was quite devastatingly good-looking — that is, of course, if one admired that lean, outdoor type. And more forbidding than ever! He made little contribution to the general conversation, and Trudy wondered if he were already regretting his decision to make use of her services.

  She was glad of the presence of the older man, who cheerfully sustained a flow of small talk as he related various amusing incidents concerning the neighbours in the scattered farming community.

  She was grateful, too, for the conversation of the two lads, Gary and Bruce, who, she soon discovered, were both enthusiastic surfers. They were delighted to discuss the unpredictable surfing conditions of the northern coast, the merits of various surfboards, winds and currents, and the endless challenge of the 'white water'.

  `We never get it all at once.' That was Gary, the plump youth with the slow smile and the smooth golden skin. `The windless day — the uncrowded beach — the perfect wave!'

  `And the week-end off,' the thin, dark youth grinned.

  `They eat, drink, think surfing,' the older Ballantyne twinkled across the table at Trudy. 'It's a special kind of madness!'

  But Trudy was glad of the eager young voices, glad of anything that would distract her mind from the man seated opposite her. That was the worst of detesting anyone — it made you so — so acutely aware of him.

  It was a relief to Trudy when at last the meal ended and she made her escape to the spacious kitchen with its depressing grey-painted walls and modern amenities that included a shining electric range, double-sized refrigerator and massive deep-freeze cabinet.

  `What time is breakfast?' Trudy asked of the elderly man who was drying the dishes she heaped on the draining board.

  He lifted a stack of plates up to the shelves of the overhead cupboards. 'I'd set the alarm for six if I were you, lass, but I'll be up and about by then, so I'll give you a call if you sleep in.'

  For a panicky moment, Trudy wondered what manner of food was served up on the breakfast menu on a New Zealand sheep station. She had a vague impression of huge quantities of mutton being consumed at each and every meal.

  But her companion answered her unspoken question. `You'll find the Raro in the fridge.'

  `Raro?'

  He chuckled at her puzzled expression. 'Tinned orange juice, to you! Comes from Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands, out in the Pacific — hence the name. Eggs and bacon are the usual fare. They're in the fridge too. Coffee perc lives on the shelf over there by the window with the pop-up toaster, and the electric fry-pan stays on the small table. Anything you want to know, don't be afraid to ask!'

  `Thank you.' Trudy relaxed. It sounded easy enough. There was nothing to it, really. All one had to do was to find out first what was required.

  Pleading tiredness, she went to her room, and after hanging a gay array of cotton frocks in the roomy wardrobe and placing a few personal treasures on the bureau, she went to bed. She was almost immediately asleep, the novel she had intended to read lying unopened at her side.

  At some time during the early hours of the morning, she woke to brilliant moonlight streaming through the open window. Moving out of bed to draw the curtains, she saw a car sweep up the drive and a tall man jump out and stride up

  the steps — Scott Ballantyne. Probably he had been out with a girl ... although how any girl could endure his company.... She drifted back to slumber.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEN Trudy awoke on the following morning she was conscious of a vague impression of knocking. For a few seconds she pondered hazily on her unfamiliar surroundings, then awareness shook her wide awake. She threw a frantic glance towards the gilt alarm clock. Six-thirty! The alarm had failed to function. And no doubt both Ballantyne men would be expecting their morning meal to be served very shortly. While here she was, not even dressed!

  With a hurried call of 'just coming!' she leaped out of bed, and flinging open a bureau drawer, groped frantically amongst the piles of neatly folded garments in search of a pair of slacks. They must be here - but no! Well, she couldn't afford to waste time searching now. Pulling over her head a woollen sweater, she snatched a skirt from the wardrobe. It was straight cut and fitting, scarcely the garment in which to begin her housekeeping career. But no matter. She could change into something more suitable later in the day. Running a comb swiftly through her hair, she tied it back from her face with a black ribbon, and in the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water.

  But when she entered the dining room a few moments later, she found, to her relief, only the older man waiting there. Seated by the open window, a pipe between his lips, he glanced up from the open newspaper as Trudy hurried into the room. 'Morning, lass! Thought I'd give you a call, just in case.'

  `I'm very glad you did! I'm afraid I slept through the alarm.' Trudy moved quickly into the kitchen. She went to the refrigerator and took out a tin of orange juice, and switched on the electric fry-pan.

  `Scott's taken a run up the hill to have a look around. Should be back any minute now!' the older man called through the open doorway.

  `Let him be late today - just five minutes—' Trudy prayed silently as she lifted a huge slab of bacon from the double-sized refrigerator. Soon the kitchen was permeated with the aromatic smell of sizzling bacon and the rich aroma of perco-

  lating coffee.

  She was laying knives and forks on the floral cotton table cloth when the man pulled aside the heavy brocade curtains and peered out at the steep hill rising nearby. 'Here comes the gnat now.'

  `Gnat?' Trudy glanced up inquiringly.

  `New to you, eh?' The wrinkled face broke into a smile. `Won't be for long, though. It's just a pint-sized motor vehicle - handy on the hillsides. Only a two-stroke engine, but it can take on any slope at all - and carry a sheep as well.'

  Trudy, coming to stand beside him, gazed out at the tiny three-wheeled vehicle that was descending the steep slope. The man seated at the steering wheel waved a cheerful hand in the direction of the window and Trudy drew back hurriedly. If Scott Ballantyne had the mistaken impression that she was looking out of the window for the purpose of gazing admiringly in his direction—!

  "Mornin', Miss Western!' The two lads, Bruce and Gary, scrubbed and shaven, unruly hair plastered down into place with water, standing shyly by the table, dispelled all thoughts of anything but the matters in hand.

  A little later, as Trudy set down the plates of crisply grilled bacon and yellow farm eggs, Scott's glance moved inquiringly towards Trudy's empty place at the table.

  `Where's your breakfast, Miss Western?'

  Trudy, unhappily aware of her flustered appearance, pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. She took a sip of chilled fruit juice, hoping it would have the effect of cooling her flushed face. 'Oh,' she disclaimed lightly, 'I'm a toast-and-coffee person myself. Haven't touched a cooked breakfast in years.'

  `You will, here,' Scott assured her. 'Country air makes all the difference. I'll give you a couple of days at Elsmore, and then you'll see.'

  Will I?' Trudy glanced up, a sparkle of annoyance flickering in the greeny-blue eyes. Now he was telling her what she
must eat!

  But once again she was forced to drop her gaze. There was something about that quizzical blue stare - To change the subject, she gestured towards the leafy citrus trees. The branches brushing the windows drooped with the weight of ripening

  grapefruit, sweet navel oranges and great Lisbon lemons.

  `I found some Olde English Marmalade in the fridge,' she remarked smilingly. `I'd have imagined you wouldn't need to use the made-up variety, up here.'

  `Oh, we've got swags of citrus fruit,' Scott assured her. `What we need is someone to make the marmalade. Actually, the grapefruit are slightly on the green side yet, but give them another month and maybe then—'

  Maybe then, mentally Trudy completed the unfinished sentence - You, Miss Western, won't be at Elsmore to make use of the fruit, and added silently, and maybe, by then, Mr. Scott Ballantyne, you'll be wishing I were!

  She was standing on tiptoe, stacking the last of the breakfast dishes in a cupboard, when the back door opened and a white head appeared around the lintel. 'Nearly through, lass?'

  Trudy glanced over her shoulder. 'Just about. I've just got to sweep out. What did you want, Mr. Ballantyne?'

  `Look here,' a grin creased the wrinkled face, 'all these Ballantynes! It's darned confusing for you.'

  Trudy sprinkled soap powder on the stainless steel bench. `You've got a point there,' she agreed smilingly. 'But I can scarcely call you Dad, like your son does.'

  `Oh, make it Fergus, lass! That's what I get from everyone else. And it's good enough for me! Agreed?'

  She dimpled back at him. 'Okay, Fergus it is.'

  `Good as gold! Now that's settled! Thought you might care for a run up the back paddocks. They're feeding out there this morning. Would be a good chance for you to have a look around—'

  Trudy's face was alight with interest. 'Oh, I'd love that!'

  `That's the spirit!' With the words, the man put two fingers to his lips, to emit a piercing whistle. And Trudy, glancing through the open doorway towards the dividing line of tall macrocarpas, caught sight of Scott Ballantyne. He was guiding a horse-drawn sledge, and evidently arrested by the signal, paused to glance back inquiringly in the direction of the house.

  The older man cupped a hand around his mouth. 'Hold on!' he yelled. 'Miss Western wants to come too!'

  `No, no, I don't . . . I can't. . . .' She hadn't realized that the proposed outing would mean accompanying Scott. Urgently

  she tugged at the man's woollen shirt sleeve. 'Tell him I've changed my mind,' she entreated, adding swiftly, 'I've got far too much to do inside.'

  'Oh, blast the housework! It'll keep! Here, what are you waiting for?' A knotted hand snatched the wet sponge cloth from Trudy's hand and sent the cloth spattering in the sink. `We're not slavedrivers at Elsmore! Off with you!'

  And Trudy had perforce to go, unhappily aware that the man awaiting her at the wide farm gate would be anything but pleased at having her company forced upon him.

  As she crossed the gravelled yard where the sheepdogs were chained, she could see the man controlling the movements of the strongly built black horse pulling the sledge. Both man and horse appeared to be impatient, chafing at the unexpected delay.

  She went through the gate and as she passed the stock yards and sheep pens, Bruce and Gary, mounted on sturdy stock ponies, galloped up the rise and reined in beside the horse-drawn sledge.

  It was obvious that Scott was giving the young station helpers their orders for the day. Trudy gathered that the lads were to ride over the hills, inspecting the far boundary fences, making sure that all was in order. A pleasant enough task, she would imagine, on this mild, sunshiny day.

  With a parting wave and a wild `Ya-hoo !' the boys dug their heels into the flanks of the stock ponies and galloped away, and Trudy turned to find the man regarding her speculatively.

  `Ever ridden on a horse-drawn sledge, Miss Western?'

  She threw him a quick glance and caught the glint of amusement in his eyes. Obviously he was waiting for her to register horrified amazement. The new chum. The sheltered English miss. Well, she would change his attitude, call his bluff in no uncertain terms.

  `Not yet,' she replied crisply, but I guess there's always a first time!'

  The man steadied the big horse, whose hooves were moving restlessly on the patch of dried earth, sadly in need of the winter rains. 'Up you go, then!'

  For a moment Trudy hesitated, staring up in dismay at the rough timber sledge, piled high with bales of hay. 'You

  mean – keep my balance – on that?'

  His lips twitched. 'It's a fair walk over the hills.' 'I wouldn't mind.'

  His gaze mocked her. 'In that get-up?'

  All at once Trudy was conscious of her ridiculously tightfitting skirt, the flimsy raffia scuffs that had seemed so attractive in the foreign port where she had purchased them on the voyage out to New Zealand, but which now seemed woefully inadequate for the rough terrain in which she found herself.

  `Slacks are the best bet for this sort of rugged life,' the man was saying, a note of disapproval in his voice. 'I've got to run into town in a day or two. Better make out a list of the gear that you need. You can pick it up while I'm at the saleyards.'

  Trudy's soft red lips tightened. Not: Would you care to? Not: I would suggest. Not even a: How about— But of course, the great Scott Ballantyne didn't suggest. He ordered, as a matter of course. He had decided that she was to wear slacks, and that was that. End of subject. Already today he had informed her what she must eat. Now it was what she was to wear. Did he imagine he was omniscient?

  `Don't bother,' she said coolly. 'I happen to have some slacks with me.'

  He stared at her blankly. 'You have? Then in heaven's name, why—'

  Suddenly Trudy's feelings got the better of her. 'Because,' she flung at him, 'I thought I was keeping you waiting! Because my alarm clock didn't go off this morning and I slept in! I got dressed in such a hurry that I—'

  She stopped short, suddenly aware of the hateful amusement in his glance.

  `Funny,' a bushy black eyebrow rose, 'but I could have sworn I heard your alarm ringing its head off, about six. I'll give you a hand up.'

  'No!' she protested quickly, swept by a sense of panic she couldn't define. She turned towards the sledge. 'I can manage. I—'

  But before she could utter another word, strong arms lifted her up and the sunlit scene shimmered and danced around her. For a moment he held her, then the world steadied once more into focus and only her wildly beating heart betrayed the fact that once more this man had imposed his will on her.

  She wedged herself in the hollow between two stacks, and tucking her legs beneath her, made herself as secure as she could. If only she weren't wearing this tight-fitting skirt!

  `All set?'

  `Yes,' Trudy answered faintly. She glanced apprehensively at the hilly terrain all around and clutched at the ropes for support.

  `Right! We're away!' The man leaped on to the back of the sledge and the horse broke into a trot.

  At first, thrown from side to side with the wildly swaying sledge, Trudy thought that she would overbalance from her precarious position and be flung to the ground at any moment. She was too intent on keeping her precarious balance to take notice of her surroundings. But as she became accustomed to the jerking and bumping of the conveyance, she ventured to glance around her. And at the sight of the steep slope looming ahead, her heart failed.

  `We're not — going — up there?' she called anxiously up to the man standing behind her.

  `Where else? Hold on. You'll be okay!' was the unfeeling reply.

  Trudy closed her eyes and clung tightly as she braced herself for the upward climb as they bumped over the rough ground.

  It seemed to her an age before they reached the summit, and then began the uncomfortable, nightmare journey down the slope. At last, however, the sledge bumped down on to a smooth, grassy stretch of pasture land where the grazing black steers raised curious eyes at th
eir approach.

  As the sledge came to a halt Trudy sprang down from her uneasy perch, certain that she was bruised in every muscle.

  She stood looking around her, pleasantly conscious of the warm, strong wind that fluttered the man's open-necked cotton shirt against his bare chest and rustled the clustered green fans of the cabbage trees nearby.

  All at once she was swept by a feeling of glorious well-being, engendered by the remote loveliness of her surroundings; the clear, sparkling atmosphere. And the unexpected warmth of the sunshine.

  The man was tossing the bales down on to the ground, and Trudy, casting an apprehensive glance towards the black

  steers converging towards them, bent down to help him scatter the hay.

  Out of a corner of her eye, she was aware that Scott was watching her, awaiting her reaction. What did he expect? That she would utter a maidenly scream and run, trembling, towards him for protection?

  But all he said was: 'I've got to go back to the stack for another load. Will you be okay here?'

  `Of course.' With an assumption of courage she was far from feeling, she continued with her task. She told herself firmly that the steers now forming a dark ring around her were merely curious — and concerned only with the hay. All the same, she was glad to notice that the herd had been de-horned, and more thankful than she cared to admit to see the piled sledge come bumping down the hill towards her.

  `Hi!' Startled, Trudy glanced up from cutting the twine around a bale of hay, and found herself gazing into the eyes of the tall, blazingly beautiful redhead who leaned on the top wire of the boundary fence, surveying the two on the grassy stretch below. 'Diana!' Scott's surprised tones betrayed the fact that he too had been unaware of the approach of the sleek black Jaguar on the curving mountain road.

  Trudy took in the other girl's near-perfect figure, the bright, natural colour glowing through the exquisite make-up. But there was a pettish twist to the thin lips. And the eyes were small, with a hard expression — eyes of such a dark brown that they appeared almost black. Like onyx, Trudy found herself thinking. Eyes that with darting glances took in everything that was to be seen, especially, Trudy suspected uneasily, her own unsuitable attire and damp, stained scuffs, in contrast with the other girl's impeccably tailored slack suit with its matching cinnamon-coloured suede jacket.