The hills of Maketu

by Gloria Bevan

  Trudy leaned forward. 'That's Scott.'

  'Oh! Your boss?' Paul grinned. 'Want me to get you home

  first? He's got a start, but we could make it, all the same. Just

  say the word.' The dark, laughing face turned towards her.

  'No, no,' Trudy protested swiftly. 'It doesn't matter — now.'

  Later or not, she could scarcely sink further in Scott's estimation, and a motor race with her employer over the lonely hills was the last thing she wanted.

  But she need not have concerned herself, she thought a little later, for there was no sign of the de Soto on the clear road ahead. Apparently Scott had turned off the metal road. Probably he had taken the track leading to Diana Bartley's home. And why not? a jeering voice said in her mind. What's it to you where he goes?

  But when she reached the house, she was surprised to see that the de Soto was already standing in the red gravelled driveway. She stared at it blankly.

  The next moment a man appeared suddenly from the garage. 'You get to know the short cuts when you live in a place,' he said with a grin.

  Apparently he had forgotten all about the incident in Whangarei. What a fool she was to have imagined that it meant anything to him, one way or another, where Trudy Western went, or in what manner she arrived back at Elsmore.

  `Enjoy the film?'

  `Yes. Very much.' With heightened colour, she turned away. 'I've got to get on with dinner. I'm so late already. . .

  `You should have come with me,' he said pleasantly, and turned away to garage the big car.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WITH the luncheon menu in mind, Trudy thumbed through a pile of cook-books lying in the kitchen drawer, and discovered, at the foot of the collection, an egg-stained notebook that evidently contained her predecessor's favourites.

  Skimming through the hand-written entries, her eye was arrested by a luncheon savoury, a simply prepared dish comprising eggs beaten in milk and poured over cubes of buttered bread. The whole was interspersed with layers of grated cheese and topped with grated cheese, grilled tomatoes and bacon.

  To Trudy's gratification, the dish emerged from the oven temptingly crisp and colourful, with perfectly set custard filling. Then, because she anticipated being absent from the house this afternoon, she prepared a casserole of lamb chops, frozen peas and potatoes and set it in a low heat in the oven in readiness for the evening meal.

  It wasn't until the midday meal was over that she broached the subject of her intended visit to Terry Page. Scott had already excused himself and was standing smoking beside the window.

  `Mr. Ballantyne, I'd like to ride over to Page's place this afternoon.' She hadn't spoken to him directly since yesterday and she had the uncomfortable sensation that she was addressing a cold and forbidding stranger. But she struggled on, her voice, even to her own ears, sounding stilted and nervous.

  `Terry asked me to come. He wants to see me rather particularly about something or other. I wondered if you'd mind saddling Patsy up for me.'

  He sent her a searching glance. 'Let me get this straight. You want to go and see him?' Trudy bit back the angry rejoinder that rose to her lips. Any objections? She answered quietly, 'That's right. You see, I promised . . .' Her voice trailed away, and for no reason at all, Diana's shrill accents, with their mocking undertones, echoed in her mind. It might be a good investment at that!

  He was still eyeing her enquiringly. So why didn't she explain that it wasn't, as he mistakenly supposed, a spark of

  mutual attraction that was taking her to Terry Page's home today, but something quite different? But – music! No, never again would she discuss that subject with Scott. Not after the manner in which he had let her down on that other occasion. Once was quite sufficient to put herself at his mercy.

  `Oh,' she shrugged lightly, 'I guess he gets bored with his own company.' Her eyes sparkled with the antagonism this man so often succeeded in arousing in her. 'Wouldn't you, in his place?'

  He frowned. 'You've got a point there. But it's not quite so simple as all that. There's something—' He ran a hand through the crisp black hair. 'Oh well, skip it!' A smile transfigured the strong, compelling features. 'The kid's had a rough time.' He offered her a cigarette, held a match to it. `Sure you feel confident about riding? I could send one of the boys with you if you like. Or why not take the car?'

  `No, thanks.' She wanted no favours at the hands of Scott Ballantyne. 'I'd like the ride. I'm a bit like Patsy,' she said with an attempt at lightness. 'In need of the exercise.'

  `I see. Well, I'll saddle her up for you. Know where the Pages hang out?'

  She shook her head.

  `You can't miss it. Keep to the main road for three miles and you'll hit it, bang on. Run-down old white place on a rise. First on the left. Patsy'll be tied up in the corral by the house when you're ready to take off.'

  `Thank you.'

  At the note of chilly politeness in Scott's voice, almost she found herself regretting the trip to Whangarei yesterday. Why was it, she asked herself, that fate seemed intent in forcing her into embarrassing and awkward situations with this man? Now in his opinion, as well as being a silly English girl, she was probably also a liar and a cheat.

  Abruptly she got to her feet and stubbing out her cigarette, began stacking the lunch dishes in the sink.

  A brisk ride over the hills ... it was exactly what she needed to chase away the cobwebs of gloomy regrets that seemed to be enveloping her spirit today.

  And indeed, mounted on the black mare, as she took the path across the paddocks towards the metalled road, regrets and misgivings fled away, and she gave herself up to the enjoy-

  ment of the ride.

  It took her a long time to open and close the gate leading to the Elsmore property, but she was determined not to dismount for the purpose.

  On the winding road, she cantered along the grassy verges until a rambling, red-roofed farmhouse loomed into sight. Pausing at the mailbox with its painted sign, 'PAGE', she turned up the winding driveway leading to the sprawling white timber house above.

  As she rode towards the shelter belt of trees near the homestead, she caught sight of Terry, waiting in the shade of the towering gums. She was struck by the pallor of the thin face. The light-coloured eyes were shadowed with dark rings, as though he had slept badly, but his smile was warm and welcoming as he hurried forward, leaning heavily on a stick.

  `I knew you'd turn up! Here, give me the bridle,' he said, as Trudy dropped lightly to the grass beside him, 'and I'll tie her up. On the plump side, old Patsy, isn't she?'

  Trudy laughed and slowed her steps to the limping barefooted figure as they approached the open doorway. 'Dad and the others are across the gully,' Terry said. 'But Mum's around somewhere. Come on in.'

  He led the way up a long hall and into a comfortably furnished lounge room, with deep, well-worn chairs. Fluffy white sheepskin rugs lay on the polished wood of the floor. The breeze from the wide open windows billowed the filmy white curtains and scattered the pages of a music manuscript book across the floor.

  `Take a seat.' Terry swept aside a guitar and a tape recorder from the low settee. `So good of you to come.' The tall, slight, nervous-looking woman with the same sharp features as her son, who had entered the room, smiled at Trudy with genuine pleasure, and Trudy, gazing up into the set features, divined that this woman would welcome any distraction that might serve to lighten the long hours of her son's convalescence.

  `Terry tells me that you're fond of music,' Mrs. Page said. `The piano—'

  Trudy smiled. `Yes, I do like it. And I must admit that it comes in handy at times.'

  `Oh, it must do! I believe you've offered to play at Diana's

  twenty-first?'

  Offered to play! Trudy felt a prick of annoyance. Thanks to Scott Ballantyne, everyone she met would have that misleading impression.

  `It was Scott's suggestion actually,' she corrected swiftly. `Just that he knew Miss Bartley was looking for someone to
help out, and I happened to be here, on the spot.'

  But already the older woman had lost the thread of the conversation, and it was clear to Trudy that this small, tense woman was concerned with only one subject, and that was the circle of her own family, and in particular the delicate musical youngest son.

  At last, at the shrill ring of the telephone bell in the hall, she excused herself and hurried out of the room.

  Terry's pale, sharp-featured face turned towards her. 'Look, I'm in the devil of a fix.' She saw with surprise that his hands were trembling. 'That's why I wanted you to come over today. I had to see you, to make sure—'

  Trudy smiled into the tense young face. 'It looks,' she said, with a glance at the scattered pages of manuscript paper that littered the floor, 'as though I've interrupted you.'

  `No, no. It's funny, you know,' he lowered himself carefully down on to the settee at her side. scarcely know you, and yet - I dunno, I feel as though I can talk to you. Really talk, I mean.' The pale face glowed with intensity. 'I can, can't I?'

  `Go ahead.' For a moment the tape unrolled and Trudy found herself back in another house in another hemisphere with a seventeen-year-old cousin, who had used the same words. Terry was probably the same age as herself, yet he seemed no older than that other youth. 'What's the trouble?' she prompted, 'stuck with the last line of the lyric?'

  `Worse than that. Last night,' his tone was low and strained, `the specialist from the hospital ... he rang through to give me the story about the X-rays on my back and hip.'

  `Oh!' Trudy's eyes widened. So that was the reason for Terry's agitation. 'I hope everything's going along well,' she said gently, 'that you're going to be as good as new in a little while—' She broke off, for Terry was gazing evasively away.

  `No,' he muttered at last, plucking nervously at the frayed pocket of his blue jeans, 'that's just it. A very big, very final,

  very damning no! Oh, I'll be much the same as I am now,' he went on after a moment, as Trudy was silent, at a loss for words. His mouth had a bitter twist. 'Seems they've done their best at the hospital, but I'll be a lame dog. Finish farming. Finish riding. I guess,' he said on a low sigh, 'it's finish everything!'

  Trudy cast about in her mind for some words of comfort to offer. Terry had obviously sustained a cruel shock and was still suffering from the effects of it.

  She said slowly: 'Not necessarily. What about your music? You can still play in the group, surely?'

  He seemed to pull himself together, but the light-coloured eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses still had a dazed expression.

  `Oh, that! I guess so. But that's not what I wanted to see you about. You see, Dad, my brothers, they're - well, husky, he-man sort of types. Pretty rugged lot. They haven't got much time for music or anything in that line, and if I told them that I was going in for composing pop music for a living—' He broke off with a self-conscious grin. 'Guess I can't blame them in a way. I guess the big beat doesn't get through to them!

  `Even my cousin Diana - you heard the hearing I got from her the other day.' So the scoffing words had cut deep, Trudy thought, although Terry had given no outward indication of hurt.

  `There was a family conclave here last night, after the news about me broke' he went on, in a low voice. 'My uncle - you met him - big man, Diana's father - he's rolling, you know. Well, he made a suggestion that everyone thought was the perfect solution to the problem. Everyone but me, that is. He wanted to set me up in a produce store in town. But I told him, "nothing doing". The family were no end annoyed about it, I know they were, but I'm going to make my own way in the world. And without Diana's dad's help either! I told him so too. Oh, he's just like everyone else, I guess. They think I'm a oner, that I've had a success with one number and that's the end of the chapter. But I'm going to have a stab at the pop market. Oh, I know,' he went on, as Trudy opened her mouth to protest, 'what you're going to say - that it's overcrowded, that I haven't a dog's chance. I know the competition's terrific.

  I know all that. But all the same, I'm going to give it a go. I've got to succeed, I've got to!' He broke off. 'But that's all between you and me, you understand? When I'm rolling in dough and the name of Terry Page is so famous you won't need to ask who he is, then it'll be different. But until then—' he looked away with a self-conscious grin, 'guess it's a sort of superstition with me.'

  `I see.' Trudy saw, only too well, that Terry was attempting the impossible - or very nearly impossible. But in his overexcited state it would be useless to argue at the moment. One hit in a lifetime, perhaps. But to hope to make a living from the overseas market was, in her opinion, to court disappointment and heartbreak.

  He was glancing at her downcast expression. 'You too.' His voice was accusing. 'You're just like all the rest of them. You don't think I've got a chance, do you?'

  Trudy frowned thoughtfully. 'I wouldn't place too much faith in cracking the world markets. But,' she went on gently, `I can't help thinking that if you made a success of the Maori melody, why not take it from there? Wouldn't you have a start in that line of country? At least it would get your name known!'

  `No, no.' He shook his bandaged head impatiently. 'A spot of local success, maybe. But I'm going for the overseas markets, where the real money is. I mean, if you're going to aim, aim high. You reckon?'

  `Not really,' Trudy said thoughtfully. `I'd say that you've got the stuff for real ballads right here. A new country -adventurous living - back country ways. What about the shearers, the swagmen, the gold-diggers of last century? Pioneer stuff, you know? I should imagine there'd be a treasury of folk songs out here in the South Pacific just waiting to be set to music.'

  `Oh, all that jazz! It's been done before,' Terry said indifferently. 'And besides, don't you see, it's purely local stuff. Of no interest to overseas listeners - although—' picking up the guitar, he bent over it, plucking idly at the strings. Trudy thought how different he looked, the tense, agitated look wiped from his face. 'I did have ideas in that direction once. A ballad. Never took it any further, though.'

  `You did?' Trudy cried eagerly. 'Well then, that's a start!

  What was it about? What was it called?'

  `You'd never guess!' He grinned at her, over the instrument. The Hills of Maketu! How'd it go now ?' Trudy found herself listening intently as the light voice spilled the melody into the sunlit room.

  `Got a lively nag,

  Kiwi hair-cut too, Goin' to ride the trail To Maketu.

  Where the shearing's good,

  The grub's okay,

  And a good, keen man

  Can earn his pay.

  Goin' to live it high, Goin' to live it hard,

  Goin' to whoop it up

  When I've left the yard.

  Got my old guitar,

  Harmonica too,

  Goin' to ride the trail To Maketu!'

  With a last, solitary plunk, the guitar notes died away, Terry glanced across enquiringly at Trudy. 'Well?'

  `It's got something,' she said warmly. 'A sort of catchy rhythm. You can almost hear the hoof-beats in it. I like the words too – simple, easy to remember. Yes, I'd say it was worth writing up, definitely!'

  `But that's just it! I'm lost when it comes to writing the score.'

  `And you'd like me to help you out?' Trudy suggested smilingly.

  `Would I ever? Gee, if only you would!' The peaked pale face was alight. 'You don't know what this—'

  `On one condition,' Trudy broke in on the over-excited tones, 'and that's we work on this score. On Maketu.'

  `It's a deal! And if I can get it recorded, if it's a hit, you'll get an equal share of the proceeds. And there's a chance. I mean, Bright Star sold quite a few recordings all over the country. And then later I can switch to pop. Who knows, this might be the beginning of something big!'

  `I don't want any money,' Trudy disclaimed. 'But I don't mind writing the scores for you. Is this the book you've been using?' As she picked up the manuscript notebook, a paper, inscribed with
neat ballpoint markings, fell from it. Trudy picked it up and studied the musical notation. What's this? Looks as though someone around here can write music, anyway. But the words,' she stared down at the black markings with a puzzled expression, 'they're written in some other language. Would it be Maori?'

  Terry nodded carelessly. 'Just one of Moana's Maori songs. She must have left it in the book. At the start of the talent quest last year, she had one or two other chants in mind. But in the end she settled for Bright Star.'

  Trudy was still studying the paper. 'This looks rather interesting. Mind if I keep it?'

  `Heck, no! It's no use to me! I don't even know the English translation of that one. We never got as far as that!'

  `Thank you.' Trudy folded the paper carefully and placed it in the pocket of her slacks. She picked up a pencil from the floor. 'And now for Maketu. Give me that first line again, will you, so I can get the rhythm.'

  They were still working on the notes, the score altered, crossed out, re-written a dozen times, when the door opened. Hurriedly Terry pushed the notebook out of sight behind him as Diana, followed by Scott and Mrs. Page, entered the room.

  `Hope we're not interrupting anything,' Diana's significant glance took in the two sitting close together on the settee; Terry's guilty, nervous expression. 'Makes you think,' the laughing gaze was upturned to Scott, 'that there must be something in that theory of men remaining faithful to a certain type, doesn't it?' At her words, her cousin's face crimsoned. Trudy glanced up at Diana in bewilderment. Same type? What did she mean?

  But ignoring the younger man's obvious confusion, Scott strode forward. For once, just for once, Trudy told herself, she was glad of her employer's presence.

  `How are you feeling?' As he grasped the youth's hand, Scott seemed to Trudy to appear more than ever vigorous and healthy, with his whipcord thin body and lean, tanned face. And something in his concerned expression made