The hills of Maketu

by Gloria Bevan

  That man! She began to peel a potato with angry, jerky movements.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BUT despite her disagreement with Scott Ballantyne, Trudy found herself hurrying through her morning chores with a feeling of anticipation. Though goodness knows why, she chided herself, preparing for the outing. She sorted out the rugged laced shoes that she had brought with her in anticipation of outdoor living, found in her drawer the slim-fitting navy slacks for which she had searched in vain on the previous day.

  After all — she pulled her hair away from a back parting and tied it on either side of her face with narrow black ribbons —I'm merely taking a ride to a neighbouring farm, making a visit to the home of a strange girl in whom I haven't the slightest interest, and who, unless I'm vastly mistaken, feels exactly the same way about me.

  It must be the day, she decided later, as she waited on the wide verandah for Scott's arrival with the horses.

  A gusty, lively, exhilarating sort of day, where shreds of white cloud feathered a sky of palest blue and the trees forming a shelter-belt at the back of the homestead tossed their leafy branches in a high wind.

  Even the farm animals seemed imbued with a feeling of energy, Trudy mused, as a tortoiseshell cat fled past her in a streak of yellow and grey, to plunge down the steps into the grounds below, while over in the house paddock, the mares galloped wildly along the boundary fence, tails and manes flying.

  The next moment she caught sight of Scott. He was riding towards the line of dark microcarpas, a sturdy black pony held on a leading rein at the side of the dancing, sidestepping chestnut.

  `All ready?' the man called, as he passed through the gate and the horses clip-clopped over the red gravel of the yard.

  `Ready and waiting!' Trudy ran lightly down the steps, her hair bobbing over the polo neck of her dark blue sweater.

  Scott, from his seat astride the prancing, restless stallion, smiled down at her. A bronzed, virile man, a deerskin jacket

  zipped to his throat, black hair blowing in the wind. Trudy tore her glance away with an unconscious sigh. If only he were as agreeable as he looked!

  `Meet Patsy,' the man was saying, 'she's just right for a learner! Could do with some exercise too. She's been out to graze for months, haven't you, old girl?' Dropping lightly to the gravel, he threw the reins over his arm and fondled the velvet muzzle. The pony's black head nudged him affectionately.

  `See what I mean?'

  `She looks a pet.' Trudy patted the silky, jet-black neck, and taking a carrot from the pocket of her slacks, placed it between the soft gums.

  But if you go for strength and stamina—' the man's glance moved proudly towards the great chestnut with his clipped coat and white blaze who was throwing up his long, slender neck, as he moved impatiently on the gravel.

  Trudy eyed the big horse warily. 'He certainly looks -strong,' she agreed dubiously.

  `He's a great horse.' The man's voice was tinged with affection and pride. 'Best I've ever owned— Look out!' he shouted suddenly as the stallion lashed out in Trudy's direction.

  But she had already sprung clear of the flying hooves. It seemed, she reflected wryly, that the golden, mettlesome steed, like his owner, was a law unto himself and went his own way, regardless of anyone else.

  `He's a trifle spirited,' Scott said, still with that note of pride in his voice. 'Here—' he threw her the leading rein `—grab hold of Patsy, will you, while I fetch the gear.' Tying the struggling chestnut to the sliprail, he strode towards the stables at the rear of the house. In a few minutes he was back, throwing a soft, fluffy sheepskin over the pony's back, adjusting the saddle, tightening the girth.

  Sight—' He extended a lean, bronzed arm, the hairs bleached colourless with the sun, give you a leg up.'

  Placing her foot firmly on the man's hand, Trudy leaped up into the saddle. But as she gathered the reins together, she realized that despite her airy assurance to Scott that she had some experience of riding, in actual fact it was years since she had been in the saddle. She had almost forgotten the sensation, forgotten how alarmingly high up in the air one felt,

  even mounted on this moderately sized steed.

  Urging the pony forward, she endeavoured not to show her apprehension, and immediately betrayed herself by crying involuntarily, 'You won't go out of a walk, will you - at least, not for a start?'

  `Not unless you want to.' The man grinned and leaned forward to close the gate in the dividing fence of tall pines.

  Side by side, they took the rough track winding over the hill, the pony's short legs taking quick steps as she endeavoured to keep pace with the prancing gait of the big chestnut.

  They passed the woolsheds, the loading ramp, the sheep pens, and moved on between an endless expanse of green paddocks, where the high barbed fences were festooned with fragments of creamy fleece that fluttered in the high wind.

  Wherever do the boundaries end?' Trudy inquired, as they skirted a valley clothed with dense native bush.

  `Too far away to see from here. I'll show you one day -here comes someone I know. Frank Danby's working on the next door property today.'

  `Frank?' Trudy's bewildered gaze searched the empty scene. 'I don't see anyone.'

  With Frank, you don't see him, you hear him - here he comes now.'

  The next moment an aerial topdressing plane skimmed a nearby peak and swooped so low overhead that instinctively Trudy bent her head. But the next moment the plane had regained height and climbing steadily, soon vanished over a nearby hilltop.

  'Frank's got a load of topdressing on board,' Scott remarked. 'You'll get used to seeing him cruising around after you've been here a while. There's our airstrip—' he gestured towards a strip of mown grass running down a hillside '—over there. These hills are too steep for any other sort of fertilizing. But with aerial topdressing - well, take a look for yourself. See that rise over there? Up to a couple of years ago it was scrubland, unproductive, no use for anything, covered in ti-tree. But since Frank's got to work and dusted it—'

  Trudy glanced up at the lush green slopes with their grazing sheep, and once again that inexplicable exhilaration surged over her. Surely something to do with the clean, washed

  brilliance of this unknown world ... wild and free ...

  It was odd, though, that she should feel this sense of utter -what was it - happiness? Excitement? When she was so far from her own way of life. And in the company of a man with whom she sensed an atmosphere of mutual antagonism.

  Odd, but there it was. She shrugged away the mystery and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the fresh, wind-swept day.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop ... the horses' hooves echoed on the rough metal of the roadway as they turned into the highway and took the dusty thoroughfare that branched off into the hills.

  Gradually, as they went on, Trudy gained confidence. She reflected that the journey promised to be a slow one, if both horses were forced to move at a walking pace all the way.

  `How about a trot?' she called across to the man.

  `Good for you! Old Patsy's sluggish, though. You'll have to be firm with her!'

  For answer Trudy dug her heels into the soft flanks and the pony's short legs broke into a fast, jerky trot. With acute discomfort, Trudy found herself bumping up and down in the saddle. If only she could get into the rhythm of the movement! Scott was a few paces in the rear, and what he must think of this exhibition of horsemanship—

  Bump! Bump! Bump! Well, she thought breathlessly, nothing could be worse than this. She'd try a canter. It might be easier. She urged the mare on and the next moment the choppy, uneven gait broke into a steady movement.

  Trudy sat forward, cheeks flushed, hair flying behind her. As she became adjusted to the movement, she was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration, only half aware of the thundering hooves of the other horse as he kept pace at a fast trot.

  At the foot of the slope where the track curved towards a bush-fringed stream, Trudy drew rein. She glanced across t
he boulder-strewn water towards the thickly growing native bush that clustered the valley on the other side. 'Do we have to cross through the stream?' she inquired of the man, who pulled up beside her.

  `That's the idea. The track winds through the bush for a couple of miles ... It's okay to cross the ford. Patsy won't turn a hair. Just leave it to her. She knows where to cross—'

  And indeed, Trudy thought, as the pony splashed her way

  carefully and surefootedly over the fallen logs and boulders in the water, it was obvious that the mare was familiar with the place.

  On gaining the opposite side, the pony leaped up on to the grassy bank, and soon Trudy found herself in the dim shadows of the thickly-growing native bush.

  A green, filtered world, where pale sunshine fell between the lacy fronds of giant tree ferns and great forest trees — matai, kauri, totara — thrust upwards towards the sky, and all around rose the damp, earthy fragrance of the bush.

  It was a hushed world of shadowy sunlight and sombre greens, where the horses' hooves sank into the carpet of black leaf mould underfoot. And the only sound was the faint splash of an unseen waterfall.

  Vines and creepers and long ropes of twining supplejack edged the winding bush track. Trudy leaned sideways suddenly to avoid the long, green fingers of a thorny vine that threw its prickly fingers across the narrow pathway.

  Bush lawyer!' The man slashed at the vine with his whip. `Let me go first!'

  But already Trudy had emerged into the sudden brightness of the sunlit world.

  Drawing rein, she swung around to face the man who pulled up beside her. 'Is that the homestead we're bound for?' Her gaze was fixed on the narrow track winding up the hill towards the magnificent, modern brick home. Built in a V-shape that trapped the sunshine, the house commanded an uninterrupted view of the hills below. Behind it native bush ran up into the hills.

  The man nodded carelessly. 'That's Diana's place. You can get up to it by another route, but I thought this would be the best way for riding — feel like a canter up the hill ?'

  Why not?'

  Trudy urged the mare forward and the pony broke from a jerky trot to a smooth canter, taking the steep slope without difficulty. And only pausing as they reached the white wrought iron gates with their ornamental scrollwork forming the Maori words Winhong?.

  In that first glance it seemed to Trudy that the homestead and grounds presented a picture of perfection. The sweeping paddocks were neatly fenced, the outbuildings freshly painted

  white with dark blue roofs. The whole effect was one of orderly neatness.

  Here were no flower beds, but a great expanse of manicured lawns, surrounded by shining white picket fences. A wide concrete driveway swept up to a paved patio, gay with coloured cane chairs and scarlet circular table.

  It was the sort of terrace, Trudy reflected, waiting while Scott tied up the horses, where one could imagine a gathering of week-end guests lounging and sipping cocktails on summer evenings.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, at that moment a tall, immaculately dressed girl appeared in the opening of the wide ranch-type doors.

  `Scott! Surprise! Surprise!'

  Strolling across the patio, she moved towards them with a bright forced smile. But Trudy had been sufficiently close to catch the expression of dismay, immediately suppressed, that had crossed the exquisitely made-up face, at the sight of herself.

  Diana's glance moved from the man's face and turned towards Trudy. 'And Miss—' The pause was deliberate. 'What did you say your name was?'

  As if, Trudy thought with a sudden droop of her spirits, she was someone not important enough to notice - let alone remember.

  `What a lousy memory you've got, Di!' Scott said, as they strolled together towards the house. 'I told you yesterday -Western's the name.'

  The lovely, pouting face looked up into the man's eyes. 'Oh, I can remember some things well enough . . . things I want to!'

  The laughing glance flashed a message, private and intimate, and Trudy felt as though a door had been shut in her face. All at once she felt very much alone - alone in a world of strangers. Her head was beginning to ache, maybe because of Diana's voice, with its flat, hard, metallic timbre.

  `Dad wanted to see you,' Diana was saying to Scott. 'You know the faith he has in you - when it comes to tractor trouble—'

  She led the way through the wide doors into a vast expanse of white carpeting.

  Trudy gained an impression of space - light - glass, of a massive brick fireplace; a wall of ornamental stonework. Cigar smoke drifted through the room and a man rose from a deep wing chair, a short, thickset man with a weather-beaten face. Clad in work shirt and faded slacks, he had obviously entered the house in the course of his day's farm work.

  `My father - Miss Western,' Diana smiled her brilliant smile.

  Tall, elegant, a topaz pin at the lapel of her deceptively simple Courtelle suit, it seemed to Trudy that the other girl could have stepped from the pages of Vogue. But even without her financial advantages, Trudy told herself in fairness, Diana, with her splendid figure and good features, would be beautiful. Beautiful - and hard.

  `And this—' A slight young man in faded jeans and sloppy pullover who had been huddled over a guitar rose with some difficulty to his feet.

  An accident - the thought sped through Trudy's mind as she took in the bandage above the pale, narrow face, the plaster cast encasing one leg. But the light grey eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses were friendly, and his smile was singularly sweet.

  `My cousin, Terry Page,' Diana said carelessly. 'Oh, and here's Mum!'

  A small, cheerful-looking woman with grey hair and a clear, tanned skin smilingly acknowledged the introduction. As the friendly gaze turned towards her, Trudy divined that whatever exalted ideas Diana might entertain as to her position in the brick homestead on the hill would not be shared by her parents.

  The florid-faced man, a hand on Scott's arm, paused in the doorway. 'You'll have to excuse us, Miss Western. There's something I want to get Scott's advice on. You've no idea,' he added in a rich, deep voice, 'what a help it is to have a mechanically-minded bloke handy.'

  Already, it seemed to Trudy, Scott was regarded there as a trusted member of the family.

  `But we'll meet again, I hope.' He glanced inquiringly at Scott, then back towards Trudy. 'That is,' he added politely, `if you're staying around these parts for a while ?'

  In the sudden silence, the girl's glance went to Scott, but

  he merely threw her a quizzical glance.

  Trudy managed a light laugh. 'That depends,' she said uncommittally. And wondered.

  It was strange that Diana hadn't mentioned to her family the fact that the Ballantynes had engaged a new housekeeper.

  Once again the hurtful answer leaped to mind. To the other girl, Trudy was a mere domestic helper, not worth a second thought. She brought her mind back to what Mr. Bartley was saying.

  `Should get around and see all you can while you're up this way,' he advised. 'Scott tells me you've just arrived in this country, from London.'

  `Imagine!' Diana's piercing tones broke across the man's deep voice. 'All that way! But why come away up here? I guess,' she said with her high, tinkling laugh, 'you must have heard about this district being bachelor territory. I knew it was well known, but I'd no idea it was as famous as all that. A long way to come. And what an expense! But still,' she busied herself at the cocktail cabinet, turning to throw over her shoulder, with a flash of small white teeth, 'it might be a good investment, at that! What would you say, Scott?'

  But the man had moved through the doorway and to Trudy's immense relief was apparently out of earshot.

  Good-natured laughter rippled through the big room, and only Trudy was aware that the light words were barbed with venom.

  Trudy - and perhaps Diana's mother. For the older woman, after a quick glance at Trudy's heightened colour, came to seat herself at her side.

  `Don't mind her, Miss Western,' she sa
id kindly. 'It's a standing joke around here - the reputation the North has as a happy hunting ground for husband-hunters. You'll get used to hearing about it. Do tell me about London . . . it's thirty years since I've seen it. We used to live in Paddington when I was a child, and I've often longed to go back. Maybe one day . . .' her indulgent gaze rested on Diana, 'when I've got this last chick out of the nest—'

  At length, with a murmur that she must make afternoon tea, Mrs. Bartley rose to her feet. As she left the room, the thin, stooped young man rose and limped towards the record player.

  What do you feel like listening to, Miss Western?'

  She smiled back companionably. 'What have you got?'

  The protruding shoulder blades moved beneath the sloppy black pullover. 'Opera, orchestral, pop . . . whatever you like.'

  The way I feel at the moment,' Trudy said, 'I'd settle for something soothing. I haven't been in the saddle for years, and after cantering flat-stick up that slope—'

  `You're not used to riding, Miss Western?' Trudy hadn't realized that Diana had overheard the conversation until the ringing voice cut across the words.

  `Not really,' Trudy admitted, 'but I did make a start today.'

  `Very brave of you.' Even across the expanse of the big room, Trudy could glimpse the hard stare, the smile that didn't quite reach the small, opaque dark eyes.

  Why was Diana regarding her like that? Why was she so deliberately offensive to her - a stranger?

  Almost, the thought came unbidden, it would seem that the other girl was consumed by jealousy. But how could that be? Trudy asked herself bewilderedly. Diana, who possessed everything that made for the good life, adoring parents, wealth, position, on the point of becoming engaged to be married to the man with whom she was obviously madly in love. Jealous? Of Trudy Western, who, when you came right down to it, had nothing at all? No, it just wasn't possible.