Call of the Kiwi Read online

  Before marrying Tim, Elaine had played the piano for a few years at the Lucky Horse Inn. Lilian had a weakness for the stories behind the ballads and folk songs that Elaine had once entertained the coal miners with.

  “Lily, we don’t ask such questions.” Elaine said. “Those are Miss Bleachum’s private affairs. Please excuse her, Miss Bleachum.”

  “Lilian is right, of course. It’s not a secret. My cousin Christopher and I have been writing to each other since we were children. Over the last few years, we’ve, well, become closer. And yes, I do have a picture of him, Lilian. I’ll show it to you on the ship.”

  Gwyneira wished for nothing more than a happy rendezvous for Sarah and Christopher Bleachum. If it all turned out as they hoped, Gloria would have a trusted adult nearby.

  When the girls finally climbed into the coach in which Jack would drive them to the ship, Gwyneira forced herself to smile. Elaine would accompany the group and then board the train in Christchurch to return to Greymouth.

  “We’re riding over the Bridle Path,” Lilian said excitedly. Legions of New Zealanders had stumbled along the path, weary from the endless ocean passage and too poor to afford the mule transportation service. Gwyneira had told her about the magnificent sight that greeted them at the end of the climb: the Canterbury Plains in the sunlight, with the breathtaking panorama of mountains rising behind them. In that moment she had fallen in love with the land that was to be her country. But the girls’ path now led them in the opposite direction.

  3

  Accompanying Gloria and Lilian to Christchurch was the hardest thing Jack had ever done. The group made good time with his powerful cob mares, but he would have given a great deal to slow the passage of time as they approached the ship.

  He still thought it an awful mistake to deliver Gloria to her parents and their whims. He knew people did it all the time, but Gloria was different. Everything in him bristled against putting the girl in Kura’s custody. He still recalled the many nights when he had taken a wailing Gloria out of her crib while her mother slept soundly in the next room. And Gloria’s father had only cared about what to name her. “Gloria” was meant to symbolize his “triumph over this new land,” whatever that was supposed to mean.

  The travelers spent the night at a hotel in Christchurch then took the Bridle Path early the next morning. The ship was to weigh anchor at dawn, and Gloria and Lilian were still half-asleep as Jack directed his team through the mountains. Elaine held her daughter tightly. Gloria clambered onto the driving box and curled up next to Jack.

  “If it’s really bad, you’ll come get me, right?” she whispered sleepily.

  “It won’t be so bad, Glory. Just think of Princess. She came from England. There are sheep and ponies there just like here.”

  Jack caught a look from Miss Bleachum, who was visibly biting her lip. She had made inquiries, and there were neither sheep nor horses at Oaks Garden. But she held her tongue. Sarah Bleachum, too, loved Gloria.

  Shortly thereafter, Jack and Elaine were left waving on the pier as the gigantic steamship pulled out into the bay.

  “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Elaine sighed. “Tim and I are far from certain, but Lily wouldn’t hear otherwise.”

  Jack did not answer. It was all he could do to hold back his tears. Fortunately, however, they had to leave to get Elaine to the train on time.

  After dropping off Elaine, Jack directed his team toward the Avon River. George Greenwood and his wife had a house near the river. Although he would have preferred to brood silently on the drive back to Kiward Station, he was hoping to catch up on the latest news on the wool trade, and Elizabeth had invited him to spend the night.

  Elizabeth Greenwood, a slightly corpulent matron with crisp features and friendly blue eyes, noticed his unhappy demeanor when she opened the door.

  “My God, boy, you look like you sent little Gloria to the scaffold. We’ll cheer you up a bit,” she said and embraced Jack. Elizabeth Greenwood and Gwyneira McKenzie had traveled on the same ship from England to New Zealand, and Jack was like family to her. “She’ll be happy in England. Our Charlotte didn’t even want to come back.” Elizabeth smiled and opened the door to their little parlor for Jack.

  “That’s not true, Mum.”

  She looked up and glared reproachfully at Elizabeth.

  “I was always homesick for Canterbury, sometimes even dreaming of the view from above the plains toward the mountains. There’s no place where the sky is as clear as here.” Her voice was soft and musical.

  Jack had heard that Charlotte, George and Elizabeth’s youngest daughter, was back in Christchurch. As the girl stood up to greet Jack, he momentarily forgot the sharp pain of separation from Gloria.

  Charlotte Greenwood was the prettiest girl Jack had ever seen. Her skin glowed, translucent and milk white like fine porcelain. Her hair was blonde like her mother’s, and her ponytail fell in luxuriant locks over her shoulder. Her most riveting feature, however, was her large, chocolate brown eyes. The girl looked like a fairy—or like the magical being in that song, “Annabel Lee,” that little Lilian was always singing.

  “Allow me to introduce my daughter Charlotte. Charlotte, Jack McKenzie,” Elizabeth Greenwood said, breaking through Jack’s breathless silence.

  When Charlotte reached out her hand to him, Jack responded unconsciously with a gesture he had practiced in his etiquette lessons but never performed for a woman from the Canterbury Plains: he kissed the girl’s hand.

  Charlotte smiled. “I remember you, Mr. McKenzie,” she said amiably, “from that concert that your—cousin?—gave before she left for England. I traveled on the same ship, you know.”

  Jack nodded. He only had hazy memories of Kura-maro-tini’s farewell concert in Christchurch.

  “You were looking after that little girl, and I was a little jealous.”

  Jack looked at Charlotte incredulously. He had been almost eighteen at the time, and she . . .

  “I would have preferred to be playing with that wood horse and building a toy village with the Maori children to sitting still and listening to the music,” the girl admitted.

  Jack smiled. “So you don’t count yourself among the admirers of my . . . strictly speaking, she’s my half niece.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes, revealing her long, honey-colored lashes. Jack was smitten.

  “Then again, maybe I wasn’t old enough,” she said. She opened her eyes and abruptly transitioned from polite chitchat to her thoughts on artistic representation. “Mrs. Martyn’s interpretation of her people’s heritage is not exactly what comes to mind when I think of the preservation of cultural treasures. ‘Ghost Whispers’ only makes use of that element of the culture that seemed to be of use to the singer to—well, to increase her fame. While Maori music, as I understand it, generally has a more communicative dimension.”

  Although Jack understood little of what Charlotte had said, he could have listened to her for hours. Elizabeth Greenwood turned her eyes toward heaven.

  “Enough, Charlotte, once again you’re giving speeches while your listeners politely starve to death. Charlotte stayed in England to attend college, Jack. She studied something to do with history and literature.”

  “Colonial history and comparative literature, Mum,” Charlotte gently corrected her. “I apologize if I’ve bored you, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “Just call me Jack,” he managed. He just wanted to go on worshipping the girl silently. But then his mischievous spirit shone through again. “After all, we’re among the few people in the entire world who don’t revere Kura-maro-tini Martyn. It’s a very exclusive club, Miss Greenwood.”

  “Charlotte,” she said, smiling. “But I did not mean to diminish the accomplishments of your half niece. I had the pleasure of hearing her again in England, and she is certainly a gifted artist. As far as I can tell, that is. I’m not very musical. What bothers me is how myths are being taken out of context and the history of a people reduced to, well, banal love poetry.”

  “Charlotte, offer our guest a drink before we eat. George should be arriving soon, Jack. And perhaps our Charlotte will attempt somewhat more comprehensible conversation. If you keep ranting like that, my dear, you’ll never find a husband.”

  Charlotte led her guest into the neighboring salon, and offered him some whiskey. He declined.

  “Not before sundown,” he remarked.

  Charlotte smiled. “You do look like you could use something strong. Maybe some tea?”

  When George Greenwood arrived a half hour later, he found his daughter and Jack McKenzie deep in animated conversation. At least that’s how it looked at first glance. In reality, Jack was simply stirring his cup of tea and listening to Charlotte, who was telling him about her childhood in an English boarding school. If English boarding schools produced such angelic beings as Charlotte, nothing bad could happen to Gloria.

  “And your ‘artistic-creative’ development?” Jack asked.

  Charlotte furrowed her brow charmingly.

  “We painted a little,” she said. “And whoever wanted to could play piano or violin.”

  “I don’t think the girls at Oaks Garden are denied a musical education,” George Greenwood interjected. “I have no doubt that the Martyns will put a very different emphasis on their daughter’s education than we did.”

  Jack looked at George Greenwood, confused. He made it sound as if English schoolgirls were forcibly dragged to the piano.

  “These boarding schools aren’t all alike, Jack,” George continued. “Some are little more than finishing schools with a touch of literature and art. Others offer girls Latin and phy
sics and chemistry, and the students don’t automatically get married right after graduating. Some go on to college or university. Like our Charlotte, you see.”

  He winked at his daughter.

  “It’s true. I went off to college, and now I’m not even engaged. But you’d be happy if I were to get married, admit it. And Mum most of all.”

  George Greenwood sighed. “Naturally your mother and I would welcome it if you were to find a suitable husband, Charlotte, instead of parading around in blue stockings. Studies in Maori culture! What use is that?”

  Jack’s ears pricked up.

  “You’re interested in Maori culture, Charlotte?” Jack asked rather keenly. “Do you speak the language?”

  George rolled his eyes. “Heavens no.”

  Just then, Elizabeth called them to dinner.

  Elizabeth Greenwood dominated the conversation at dinner, mostly chatting about society in Christchurch and the Canterbury Plains. Jack only half listened, as he was making his own plans. Toward the end of dinner, the conversation returned to Charlotte’s projects. The girl intended to ask a Maori named Reti, George’s business manager for the wool trade, for lessons in Maori. George was energetically opposed.

  “Reti has other things to do,” he explained. “Besides, the language is complicated. It would take you years before you had enough of a command of it to understand their stories and get them down on paper.”

  “Oh, it’s not all that complicated,” Jack objected. “I speak fluent Maori.”

  “But you were partly raised in their village, Jack,” George said.

  “And the Maori on Kiward Station speak English just as fluently,” Jack continued. “If you came to stay with us for a while, Charlotte, we could arrange something. My half stepmother, so to speak, Marama, is a tohunga. A singer, really. But she supposedly knows all the most important stories. And Rongo Rongo, the tribe’s midwife and witch doctor, speaks English as well.”

  Charlotte’s face brightened.

  “You see, Daddy? Everything will work out.”

  “Gwyneira McKenzie has probably had enough of spoiled girls interested in culture beneath her roof for one lifetime.”

  “Not at all, not at all. My mother is . . .” He trailed off.

  To depict Gwyneira as a patron of the fine arts would be an exaggeration. But Kiward Station, like all the farms in the plains, was a welcoming household. And Jack could not imagine his mother being anything but taken with this girl.

  Elizabeth, however, broke in.

  “But George, what are you thinking? Of course Gwyneira would support Charlotte’s research. She’s always been interested in Maori culture.”

  That was the first Jack had ever heard of it. Gwyneira got along well with the Maori. Many of their customs aligned with her practical nature, and she did not tend toward prejudice. But Jack’s mother was more interested in animal husbandry and dog training than anything else.

  Elizabeth smiled at Jack.

  “Didn’t Jenny work for a year on their farm?” Charlotte asked, turning to her mother.

  Jack nodded fervently. He had forgotten that the older Greenwood daughter, Jennifer, had spent a year on Kiward Station teaching the children in the Maori village.

  “Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. “Your sister got to know her husband there.”

  Elizabeth gave her own husband a meaningful look. When he still did not understand, she moved her eyes back and forth between Jack and Charlotte.

  George finally seemed to understand.

  “Naturally nothing at all stands in the way of Charlotte paying a visit to Kiward Station,” he said. “I’ll take you along the next time I have business in the plains.”

  Charlotte beamed at Jack. “I can’t wait!”

  “I’ll be counting the days.”

  4

  After the first few exciting days at sea, Lilian Lambert had grown bored. Though it was nice when dolphins accompanied the ship or the occasional giant barracuda or whale was spotted, Lilian was more interested in people, and the Norfolk had little to offer in that regard. There were only twenty passengers, primarily older people visiting their homeland and a few businessmen. The latter were not interested in children, and though the former found Lilian sweet, they had nothing to talk about.

  Gloria, however, enjoyed the journey—as much as she could enjoy anything that was not Kiward Station. She often sat for hours on deck watching the dolphins at play. Miss Bleachum and Lilian were enough company for her. She listened enthusiastically when her teacher read to her about whales and ocean fish, and she attempted to figure out how the steamship’s engine functioned. Her insatiable interest in the sea and the ship brought her into contact with the crew as well. The sailors attempted to bring her out of her shell by showing her sailors’ knots and eventually let her help with minor tasks on deck. One day, the captain brought her onto the bridge, where she was allowed to hold the steering wheel of the giant ship for a few seconds. Navigation interested her as much as sea life.

  Sarah Bleachum observed it all with growing concern. Her cousin—who had expressed his delight that Sarah was accompanying the girls to Canterbury—had arranged for her to receive a prospectus for Oaks Garden. The syllabus confirmed her worst fears. The natural sciences were hardly covered at all.

  When the ship arrived in London, Gloria was at a loss for words for the first time in her life. She had never seen such large buildings, at least not so many at once. Although the cathedral in Christchurch could hold its own against its European counterparts, here there were just so many. Between the architecture and the incessant noise and the fast pace, the English capital oppressed her.

  While Lilian blossomed—she was soon speaking just as quickly as the English and laughing with the girls selling flowers—Gloria only looked around her with big eyes, careful not to lose sight of Miss Bleachum.

  Gloria could not even comprehend the musical performance for which Kura and William had reserved tickets—the only proof of their existence that they had left for their daughter before departing for Russia. She found the singers affected and the music too loud, and she did not feel comfortable in the clothes she had to wear in London.

  Sarah Bleachum was not surprised. While Lilian looked lovely in her sailor’s outfit, it looked like a costume on Gloria. The girl even burst into tears over her school uniform. She looked stocky in the knee-length skirt and long jacket, and the white blouse made her complexion look doughy. What was more, they would not hold up to the demands of Gloria’s daily life. Gloria wanted to touch everything, and was accustomed to wiping her hands on her clothes, which wasn’t a problem when she was in breeches on Kiward Station, but white blouses and light-blue blazers were not made for such treatment.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when they finally boarded the train to Cambridge. Country life would be more appealing to Gloria. According to Christopher, Sawston—the nearest town near to Oaks Garden—was a rather idyllic little town. Sarah looked forward to meeting her cousin with a wildly beating heart. She had rented a room in the house of a widow who was said to be a pillar of the community, but she hoped to take a position at Oaks Garden. She had told the McKenzies nothing about applying for the job, to keep Gloria from getting her hopes up. But she wanted to get to know Christopher with the security of a solid position rather than as a more or less destitute relative. A school year would be an ideal way to reach a final decision about her possible future husband. And in the worst case, she could save the money she earned to return to New Zealand without admitting her failure to the McKenzies. It would be too embarrassing for her to accept Gwyneira’s magnanimous offer of a return ticket if things didn’t work out.

  Sarah watched with bated breath as London gave way to suburbs and finally to the lovely landscape of the midlands. Gloria appeared happier when they spotted the first horses in the green pastures, and Lilian could hardly contain her excitement over Miss Bleachum’s love life.

  “It must be so thrilling to finally see your sweetheart. Do you know the song ‘The Trees They Grow So High’? A girl marries the son of a lord, but he’s much younger than she, and . . . How old is the reverend anyway?”