by Debbie Roome
With a struggle, Sarah forced her mind back to the e-mail she wanted to write.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m here in Christchurch, in the motel we studied on the internet. It looks quite different to the pictures, but then, they always do. It’s comfortable enough, however, and I’ll be happy here while I look for something more permanent.
She wondered how much she should tell them. Did they need to know how difficult the journey had been and how much she was missing home?
The flight was mostly smooth and although I was tempted to turn round and come straight back, I didn’t. I know I have an amazing opportunity in my hands and I’ll give New Zealand a fair chance. It’s coming up to 1pm here and I only got up an hour ago. I underestimated the effects of jet lag and the length of the flight, but feel better after having a shower. I’m going to go out after sending this and have a look around the city. I’m longing to see if it’s as beautiful as the brochures made out. I’ll write again soon and send some photos.
Much love, Sarah
The motel receptionist was barely out of her teens; a young blonde with braided hair and a short skirt. She pulled out a map and wrote down the information Sarah needed to get into town. “The bus stop is directly outside the motel. The buses run every half hour and any of these numbers will take you into the city. Get off at the bus exchange and you’ll be in the centre of town.” She drew a lopsided circle on the map. “This is the motel. If you follow the map on the trip back, you shouldn’t have any problem finding us.”
Sarah thanked her and went outside to sit in the shelter. The motel was situated on a main road and traffic was heavy, a blur of chrome and colour. Sarah was surprised at the variety of cars and recognised only a few models here and there. All the rest were foreign to her. She gripped her bag closely as she watched, wondering if it was safe to be sitting there on her own. The bus service in Johannesburg had folded years ago, giving way to the minibus taxi industry. These were used mostly by the black people and Sarah had never been on one. Many were poorly maintained and if accidents didn’t pull them off the road, violence between taxi bosses often did. Patience told Sarah horror stories about the taxis she rode to get to work, and Sarah had felt sorry for her but thankful she didn’t have to use them.
Her thoughts dissolved as a red bus pulled up, doors whooshing open as a group of teenagers disembarked, emerging like colourful butterflies bursting from their cocoons. They epitomised gaiety and freedom as they fluttered down the street, laughter drifting behind them.
Sarah climbed into the bus and smiled at the driver, handing over a $5 note. “I’d like to go to town please.”
He punched out some change and handed her a ticket. “You visiting Christchurch?”
“It’s my first day.” Sarah guessed her accent marked her as a tourist.
“If you get back on the bus within two hours, you don’t pay for the return journey. And look out for bus 19 if you want to come back to this stop.”
She smiled thanking him for his kindness, and walked to the back of the bus. She sat in the second to last row, watching the suburbs unroll before her eyes. Everything looked the same, row after row of neat houses, stretches of lawn and an abundance of flowers.
After ten minutes, the driver turned left and entered a more commercialised area. Here the main road was dotted with businesses and motels, and the traffic much heavier. The driver stopped frequently and she noticed a large mall on the right. A little later they passed through a large park and she spotted Christchurch Hospital on the left before the bus entered the city centre.
The Bus Exchange turned out to be a cavernous building with glass waiting rooms, holding dozens of people. She followed the people out of the bus, stopping briefly by the driver. “Is this the town stop?”
“Yep. If you go up the stairs over there, you’ll come to the main office where you can get maps and directions. Remember to come back here to this platform for bus 19.”
She thanked him and headed over to the stairs. Inwardly, she was feeling quite panicky. She wouldn’t recognise the hotel stop. What if she missed it, or caught the wrong bus? “Stop it,” she admonished herself. “You knew it wasn’t going to be easy.” She picked up a couple of maps and followed the signs leading out of the exchange.
Christchurch lay before her, a charming city with a mixture of old and new architecture. Tiny shops huddled next to big department stores, and brass and chrome mingled with the warmth of old-fashioned wood. She turned to her right and started walking towards Cathedral Square. From what she had read, this was the central point of town. It was only a couple of blocks away and she found it with no problem. The cathedral itself was impressive, a grey stone structure with a high tower and metal railed balconies. The square sprawled out from its base and was throbbing with activity.
A flea market spread across the far left and buskers entertained people as they wandered around. Near to Sarah, a group of young girls took turns performing Irish river dancing. A sign informed the public that they were raising funds for a trip to the championships in Ireland. Sarah watched for a long while, mesmerised by the soulful music and their shoes tapping on the wooden platform. A sudden surge of loneliness caught her by surprise. Oh, Luke, if only you were here with me.
She gazed across the square, knowing there were no familiar faces out there. She was alone, completely alone, in a strange land. There was no one to share the experience with. No one to exclaim over the discoveries and wonders of a new country. No one to talk to about her fears and uncertainties. For a moment she was tempted to pack her things and catch the next flight home, but that wasn’t the answer. Instead, she pulled out her camera and started snapping shots of the city.
After an hour of wandering through the shops and catching the free shuttle round the city centre, she was hungry and stopped in at a coffee shop for a snack. The displays were appetising and it took her a few minutes to decide. “I’ll have a cappuccino and a slice of vegetable pizza, please.”
“Good choice.” The young girl behind the counter smiled as she processed the payment. “The pizza’s fresh out the oven and tastes really good. Take a seat wherever you prefer and I’ll bring your order in a couple of minutes.”
Sarah chose a table for two by the window. Outside, an old wooden tram rumbled past and geraniums in pink, red and white overflowed squat flower boxes. In the distance she heard snatches of a busker playing jaunty tunes on a penny whistle.
“Here you are, ma’am. Enjoy.”
Sarah thanked the waitress and took a long sip of creamy coffee, enjoying the rich aroma. It cost a fortune when converted back to South African currency and she knew she’d have to be careful with her money. For now, though, she was content to sit and eat and watch Christchurch from her window seat.
She bit into tender vegetables smothered with a crispy cheese topping. The pizza was delicious, as promised. If only her moods would stabilise! She felt like she was seesawing from desperation to hope and despondency to determination. For a while she was confident she could cope on her own, and then her emotions crashed and she wanted nothing more than to catch a taxi to the airport. It’ll get better, she comforted herself, swallowing the last forkful of pizza. Give yourself a chance.
The waitress, seeing she was finished, came across to clear the table. “Did you enjoy that?”
“It was excellent, thank you.” Sarah hesitated before continuing the conversation. “Could you tell me where to find a supermarket in town?”
The young girl thought for a moment. “The closest one would be in the South City Mall. Do you know where that is?”
Sarah shook her head. “It’s my first day here.”
“Are you staying in the centre of town?”
“No, I’m in a motel near the airport.” She dug in her bag for the map the lobby receptionist had given her. “See that circle? That’s where I’m staying.”
The waitress placed the dirty plate back on the table and pulled out a pen. “There’s
a large shopping mall just here.” She drew a circle about halfway between the motel and town. “All the buses stop there. If you jump off on your way home, you can do some shopping and catch the next bus that comes along.”
“Wonderful. That sounds easy enough—it’s so confusing not knowing where anything is.”
“I know. I’m from a small town in the south but I’m studying at uni here. It took me ages to learn my way round.” She gave Sarah a warm smile as she picked up the dirty plate again. “It’s a great city to live in. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
Back at the motel, Sarah tapped out another e-mail.
I successfully caught the bus into town this afternoon and discovered the city is incredibly beautiful—see attached pics. I spent a few hours exploring and then had a snack at a coffee shop. I won’t shock you by converting the price to Rands but will say it was probably three times what it would have cost in Johannesburg. I also went to a supermarket and bought a few things to keep me going. Some of the brands were familiar but most weren’t. My motel room has a microwave, kettle, toaster and fridge which will be enough for now.
I’m feeling very tired so will probably have a nap before making dinner. I felt fine when I woke up but jet lag has attacked again. I suppose I’ve been walking round town while everyone in South Africa is fast asleep. It’s 6pm here which means it’s 7 a.m. back home. I almost passed out on the bus back to the motel but was too scared I’d miss the stop!
I look forward to hearing from you both.
Love, Sarah
She clicked the computer off and pulled her suitcase onto the bed, digging under clothes until she found Luke’s photos. Opening the large manila envelope, she laid the enlargements across the duvet. His face was so familiar, the laughing eyes and cheeky grin framed by short dark hair. Each photo brought back a multitude of memories: parties, picnics, family birthdays, work functions, Christmas. She lingered over each one, examining Luke’s expressions before pulling out her favourite. It was one she’d taken of him, dressed in jeans and a casual striped shirt, leaning against a towering pine tree. This will go well in the frame.
She pulled it from her hand luggage and carefully inserted the photograph. That done, she stood it up on her bedside shelf where he could watch over her. The yearning to feel his arms around her again was overwhelming, as it always was when she looked at the pictures.
“It’s just not fair,” she whispered. “I hate you, Dlamini.”
Chapter Three
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
—Jeremiah 29:11
The farm was on the edge of the Canterbury plains, where the land rose steeply to form the foothills of the Southern Alps. Joel’s parents had lived there forever, his dad inheriting the land from his father. That morning, the dogs came hurtling down the dusty track to meet him. “You want to go play, Shelley?” The golden Labrador in the back seat barked exhuberantly as he stopped the car and opened the door for her. For a moment, he was surrounded by a wash of hairy bodies, eyes gleaming, tongues panting, before they took off, racing across the fields to the homestead.
Joel’s mother was waiting at the door, a tall lean figure with cropped blonde hair and a wide smile. “I heard the dogs, saw Shelley was with them.” She reached out and hugged Joel tightly. “It’s so good to see you, Joel.”
“You too, Mom. I’m longing for some really good cooking.”
She swatted him playfully. “Go say hello to Dad. He’s in the shed, servicing the tractor.”
“I’ll give him a hand after I bring in the groceries.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a slip from the supermarket. “I got everything on the list.”
“Marvellous. It’s a real help, doing that for me.” She followed him to the car and they transferred a dozen plastic bags to the scarred kitchen table. “Go find your dad and I’ll unpack these.”
The shed lay behind the house, a weathered structure of wooden slats, topped with a rusty iron roof. The interior hadn’t changed in Joel’s lifetime. Rough shelves lined the back wall and supported jars brimming with screws, bolts, wire, and various engine spares. A naked globe illuminated the space, highlighting cobwebs that hung in wispy sheets from the roof. Joel stepped inside, inhaling the familiar tang of metal and engine oil, mixed with dust. His dad was wiping his hands on a greasy rag, gazing intently at a vintage red tractor that filled the shed.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Joel!” His eyes lit up with pleasure. “Good to see you, son.”
“Mom said you were servicing Betty.”
“Yep. That’s why she’s lasted all these years. Treat a machine right and it’ll serve you well.”
Joel ran a hand across the smooth metal seat. “She’s still looking good.”
“Surely is.”
They were silent for a moment before Joel laughed. “Do you remember the first time I drove her? The way I couldn’t plough a straight line because I kept looking back?”
“Do I ever? And your sisters were even worse. We planted potatoes that year and the rows curved all over the place. Didn’t matter, though. We still got a good crop.” He tossed the rag onto the work bench. “I’m done here. Just need to scrub up and then check on a ewe. Coming?”
The dogs came running as the two men walked toward the ute. Joel scratched Shelley behind the ears. “Coming for a ride, girl?” She whined expectantly and as soon as Joel’s dad dropped the tailgate, she bounded into the back with the farm dogs. They drove round the house, past the vegetable garden, past a field of grass, to the wool shed.
“What’s wrong with the sheep?” Joel enquired.
“Silly critter caught her leg in some wire. I patched her up and kept her in a holding pen overnight. Just want to check her temp and see how she’s doing.”
After commanding the dogs to stay, he walked through the rusty wool shed to the pens on the other side. Joel lingered for a moment, memories of a dozen shearing seasons coming back to him; the warm air laced with lanolin and sweat, the odours of dust and old timber, shearers stripped to the waist, deftly clipping the wool from sheep while others skirted and graded the fleeces. He’d mastered the art of shearing at fifteen and still came back most years to help.
Out in the pen his dad crouched on one knee, examining the damaged leg. “Looks good.” He rubbed a little salve into the affected area. Joel watched, admiring his easy manner with the sheep. His hands were calloused and tough from years of hard physical work, yet he could be so tender and gentle. Standing now, he gave the sheep a reassuring pat. “Reckon I’ll leave her here one more night.”
Back at the ute, he whistled for the dogs to jump off. “Let them have a run, eh?” He put the ute in gear and drove off towards the perimeter fence, dogs chasing behind, barking with excitement.
At the farmhouse a while later, the aroma of fried steak and onions filled the air. “Smells good,” Joel said, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
“Here you are, dear.” His mother placed tall glasses of iced water on the table, condensation beading and running down the outside.
“Thanks, Mom.” He took a deep swallow. “So what’s for lunch?”
“Steak and onions, roast kumara, peas and carrots, and apple crumble and cream for dessert.”
Dad scrubbed his hands in the sink before joining them at the table. “Is the food ready, Izzy?”
“I just need to get the kumara out the oven.”
“Do that, and then we’ll pray.”
A minute later, the three of them joined hands around the table. “Lord, we thank you for this food and for your provision and ask for your blessing on it today. Thank you also for bringing Joel to visit and keep him safe as he travels back this evening.”
The aroma of cinnamon and onion filled the air as Joel heaped food onto his plate. “There’s nothing like your cooking, Mom.”
They were silent for a while, working on their food
before Joel’s mother turned to him. “Any news on the girl front?”
He’d been expecting this. It had become routine, this digging to see if he had found a girlfriend. He didn’t mind, and winked at his dad as he answered.
“No changes, Mom.”
She cut a thin strip from her steak and dipped it in a pool of gravy. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“I’m only 27. There’s plenty of time.”
“So what happened with Mandy? She seemed to be a nice girl.”
“She is nice, Mom, but she’s not right for me.”
“That’s why I worry. I think you may be setting your standards too high. Why don’t you bring Mandy out to the farm again? Give her a chance.”
Joel sighed inwardly, his list of what he was looking for in a wife running through his mind. Blond, tall, passionate about God, likes the outdoors. “I don’t want to encourage her, Mom. It wouldn’t be fair because I don’t like her in that sort of way. I’ll know when I meet the right woman.”
“I’ll keep praying then.”
“Got much work on?” Dad changed the subject.
“I have a job in Greymouth next week. A photo shoot by the Grey River.” He turned to his mother. “If it’s okay with you, I thought I might drop Shelley off on the way and spend the night with you.”
“Of course. You know I love having you around.”
Joel swallowed a forkful of kumara. The New Zealand sweet potato was sweet and cinnamony as it dissolved in his mouth. “Have you heard from Becky and Susan recently?”
“Becky called last night and said they’re planning a barbecue together this weekend. It still amazes me how those two ended up marrying brothers and living so close to each other … and in Auckland at that … ”
Joel grinned at his dad. They’d heard the same story a hundred times or more and it had become something of a joke between them.