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Chapter IX
Baked Apple—and Smiles!

It happened on the day that the hawker came.

I remember because it was the morning that Uncle Stephen bought such quantities of lovely wide ribbons—yards and yards of blue, red, pink, dark green, black, white and navy. Pipi said she guessed he knew she had a birthday coming in a fortnight, and was getting ready for it. But you can't call a narrow band of velvet a hair ribbon, and that's all Pipi wears. So I knew that they weren't for her.

The hawker was travelling over Canterbury in his van, and he put up for a couple of days at Kamahi. He sold tobacco, ties, moleskins and things like that to the men, and prints, embroidery, cheap jewellery, brushes, scents, dustpans, dress lengths, blouses and aprons to the women. Then he had lollies and toys too, and Uncle John bought Pipi a woolly lamb which squeaked. It made her miserable for the rest of the day, and that very night she asked Kathie to lengthen her frocks. She said it wasn't proper to have all your knees showing; it was no wonder that Uncle John took her for a baby when page 115her skirts were nothing better than a frill around her waist.

After he had completed the purchase of Pipi's lamb Uncle John decided on a collar for Kathie and a Waterbury for Jock, while the rest of us stood round, our tongues hanging out and our eyes fixed on some particular article which had taken our fancy, and which we hoped that uncle might generously present to us. Unfortunately, however, he remembered that he was due at The Grays and Wharanui up the river before lunch. He asked Jan and me if we would like to go with him.

"Put on your hats and be ready to start in ten minutes," he told us.

Jan had to ask Uncle Stephen's permission; she was doing lessons with him every morning now. He was still choosing ribbons when she went up to him, and his eyes travelled up and down and round and through her. You see, she had dressed in a hurry that morning, and donned a shabby holland frock which wouldn't have been the worse for an iron, and needed a stitch at the hem; her hair was rough, and an old Panama was stuck rakishly at the side of her head.

"Kathie has given Ngaire a holiday. Can I have one too?" asked Jan.

Uncle said "Certainly. A drive will do you good." But all the time his eyes were going up and down page 116and round and through again, while poor old Jan stood shuffling nervously before him, trying to hide the hole in her shoe through which her foot protruded, seeking uncle's admiration. But you can't deceive Uncle Stephen.

Jan was glad to get away; it upset her more than a bit.

Kathie was waiting for us in the passage which led to our bedroom. She looked us up and down.

"You'll do, Ngaire," she said. "Put on a shady hat. It's going to be hot. Jan, you look awful. Change your dress at once."

"Shan't!"

"You must! You're a perfect disgrace. Why don't you try to be a little tidier, girl?"

"Oh, go to bed!'"

Jan dashed into the bedroom and flung a cloak over her morning attire.

"We're not going to stop anywhere," she said. "We're coming straight back, and I can't be bothered to change. I'll be respectable enough on top."

Poor Jan! If she had known!

Uncle John was waiting for us in the single-seated buggy, and Jan and I squeezed in beside him. Uncle Dan strolled up to see us off.

"It's ominously still," he remarked. "That means a howler. Tie your hats on, girls."

He pointed to the line of light along the horizon, page 117and we, wise now in weather signs, knew that a gale was on its way—a furious, raging nor'-wester, which would wither and scorch us and hurl itself in our faces as we drove up the river.

Uncle John shook the reins.

"Ready, girls?"

"You'll melt away in that coat," Uncle Dan said to Jan.

Uncle John turned to Jan, and in spite of the heat.Jan shivered in her shoes. But fortunately, or unfortunately, we were late already, so he only laughed and drove off in a hurry.

We went down the drive and over the tussocks, then through the paddocks, as uncle wanted to look at some special sheep before he went to The Grays. Jan and I took the gates in turn, and as the paddocks were punctuated by a series of gates we were climbing in and out of the buggy most of the time.

Then we drove out on to the road again, and here the first hot touch of wind struck us in the face. Jan's hat immediately flew off, and I swallowed half a pint of the eddying, whirling dust which rose to meet us. It wrapped us round and choked us, raising tiny stones and gravel from the road, stinging our faces and drying our skins till they felt like stretched parchment.

"Pleasant, eh?" asked Uncle John, as a vast dust cloud, gathering in the distance, whirled down the page 118road and flung itself against us. "I didn't think it was going to be as Lad as this. I wouldn't have brought you out on such a day."

"We like it," I answered untruthfully, for Jan was speechless. "Do you think the wind will die down at all, uncle?"

"To-night—probably."

Jan groaned; she really couldn't help it. If we were hot, she was nearly in flames. Unfortunately, uncle heard her and turned.

"What's the matter, child?"

"N–nothing." Jan cast about frantically for a subject which would distract uncle's attention. Her eye was caught by the green of a field near by.

"Is—is it oats or wheat?" she asked, trying to seem interested.

"Turnips! Why don't you take off your coat?"

"Oh, I'm not hot, not a bit. You've lots of wheat, haven't you, uncle?"

Poor Jan. After this she suffered in silence, her complexion changing from pink to red and from red to a deep, rich purple, till really I began to fear that she would melt and run down the side of the buggy.

About eleven o'clock we pulled up outside The Grays. I scrambled down and opened the gates; Jan scrubbed her face with a doubtful pocket handkerchief and put on a sickly smile; Uncle John shook page 119the reins and settled himself comfortably on top of both of us, and we went up the drive with a flourish.

Mr. and Mrs. Gray came out on to the veranda to greet us, and were full of commiseration for our woes. Mrs. Gray wanted us to stay and lunch-people always do want you to stay and lunch or dine, or breakfast in the country—and when she asked us I felt Jan suddenly stiffen, and she didn't go loose again till uncle said that he had to reach Wharanui before one o'clock, and that he'd only dropped in to see about those Leicesters. Then he talked sheep with Mr. Gray, and Mrs. Gray brought Jan and me big glasses of iced lemonade. Jan said she was so hot that she could hear it sizzle as it went down her throat. After that we had sponge cake with cream between and sugar on top, and then another glass of lemonade and more cake till Jan whispered to me that the buggy wouldn't hold the three of us if we ate any more and went on expanding at the present alarming rate.

Then we drove out into the dust and whirl of the wind again. Jan and I bent our heads, trying to shade our faces with our hats, but our eyes were stinging, and though the sky was leaden and overcast the heat was almost unendurable.

"Finish with a thunderstorm," muttered uncle, heaping agony on our already reeling heads, for Jan and I both hated thunder.

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"Soon?" I asked, holding my hat firmly with both hands as a vicious gust caught it and tore at the brim.

"Before night," answered uncle, pulling up with a jerk, as Jan's headgear rose from her head and went sailing birdlike through the air.

With a sigh that was almost a groan Jan alighted from the buggy and gambolled down the road in pursuit of her Panama, overtaking it as, in an unwary moment, it paused to greet a straying gorse bush. She returned to us, panting and moist, and climbed aloft once more.

"After this," warned uncle, who had already waited three times while Jan chased her headgear, "you'll have to go without your hat—that is, if you can't keep it on your head. Why don't you tie yourself up like your sister does?"

Kathie affects a motor veil—a pale blue one which suits her down to the ground.

"Or fix it on tight like Ngaire's?"

I wear an elastic under my chin because by hair is short, but Jan wouldn't look at anything so childish. She has four hatpins, just as Kathie has, but two are always missing, and the other two either pointless oh headless, and of very little service in a gale. Now she tried to drive the sole survivor in more firmly, and unfortunately loosened her grip of the soft brim. Immediately a vicious gust seized the oppor-page 121tunity, and Jan's Panama took its fourth soaring flight Kamahiwards.

Uncle drove steadily on.

"No, I won't stop!" he said in such a determined voice that Jan didn't dare mention the matter twice. "I told you what to expect." He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a big, clean handkerchief. "Tie this round your head," he commanded, and though it made Jan just a little warmer than before, she had to obey. She looked for all the world like a Maori wahine.

The luncheon bell was ringing when we went up the drive at Wharanui, and uncle gave way and said that we could stay for an hour or two. If it hadn't been for the thought of what Jan's coat hid I should have been very pleased, but now we could only gaze at each other in an abandonment of horror and, speechless, follow a spick-and-span maid up spick-and-span stairs into a spick-and-span room. On the way Jan whispered to me that she thought she would lunch in her jacket and hat—it was quite the correct thing to do. But she hadn't a hat; she had only a pocket handkerchief.

"Uncle doesn't know his own mind," she said very bitterly when, left to ourselves, we stood staring at each other, the horror of the situation forcing itself upon us. "He said he wouldn't stay. If it had only been any other house—but the Owens are page 122the properest people in the country. And the tidiest too. What shall I do?"

"P'raps the dress won't look so bad when we've brushed up a bit," I suggested. "Let's make a start, anyway. Time's getting on."

I poured some water in the basin and dipped my face into the soothing coolness, but when I came up again I found that Jan, having taken off her coat and her pocket handkerchief, was standing half paralysed, wondering where to begin. She dipped her face in the water as I had done, but it didn't have a good effect, for she came up hotter than ever and with a beautiful shine. I looked at her and, dropping the hairbrush, giggled helplessly. She looked so funny, like a veritable scarecrow against the neat propriety of the room, with he hair all over the place and her worn shoes, through which a stockinged toe protruded, coming out to see the world.

"If I'd only changed them," Jan said, gazing down at her shoes. "But I didn't. Oh, no, I didn't. Does my dress look very awful, Ngaire? What are you laughing at?"

"Not so bad. I'm not laughing," I said, giggling helplessly, for the holland frock which had seemed shabby at Kamahi looked worse than awful here. The dust, pentrating the coat, had magnified each page 123spot and stain, and a tear in the hem and one in the turndown collar shrieked for a needle and cotton.

Jan gazed at me imploringly.

"Don't laugh," she said, with a quiver in her own voice. "Do I look very awful?"

"N-no."

"And very hot?"

"N-n-no."

"That means I couldn't look worse, and my face is the colour of a beetroot. Oh, I know. It's—it's not funny, Ngaire—not a bit funny. Don't be sillier than Nature made you. Oh!"

She measured me with a calculating eye, and a vague forewarning of disaster held my laughter for a moment.

"You've got on a sailor blouse," she said at last. "So have I. And they're both the same stuff, and there's not much difference in our size—at least, not very much. Let's change."

"What?"

"It's a good idea," said Jan wheedlingly. "The only thing to be done. Your dress is quite respectable—mine's awful. Let's halve. I'll wear a bad skirt and a good blouse, and you a bad blouse and a good skirt."

"But——"

Jan's inspirations frequently led to disaster, and page 124I certainly didn't fancy the stained and tattered article destined for my apparel.

"Don't be mean! I—I can't go down in that awful rigout. Please, Ngaire!"

Jan's voice held a hint of tears, and with many inward misgivings I gave way.

I slipped into Jan's blouse and she forced herself into mine. It wasn't till we had buttoned each other up that we noticed how queer the fit was. My blouse was yards too small for Jan and Jan's was yards too big for me.

"Lots of room to grow," I said, admiring the artistic drape of the folds.

Jan glared at me.

"It's no jolting matter," she said, giggling hysterically. "We mustn't laugh. I tell you, Ngaire, we mustn't! Oh, o-o-oh! Don't!"

She flopped helplessly on the bed and giggled and giggled and giggled till the back seam gave way with a crack which brought her up short.

"Oh, there I go! I knew I'd bust in a minute. We—m-m-must c-c-c-change back. Get out of my blouse at once or—I'll be ill. Say I'm dead and can't come down till it's time to go home. Oh, here comes that silly maid again! Stop laughing, Ngaire. If you don't stop now you'll keep it up all lunch."

But I couldn't. We got fairly going, and, as I told you before, once Jan and I get fairly going page 125nothing short of battle, murder or sudden death will bring us to a halt. We followed the spick-and-span maid downstairs again, two lambs led to the slaughter, and at the dining-room door Jan swallowed a giggle and I choked back a rising laugh.

Uncle John gave us one look, and his eyes nearly dropped out of his head. He must have felt really proud of his nieces. Even Mrs. Owen was startled, though she was too polite to show her feelings, but Mr. Owen gave quite an audible chuckle. Jan and I, wishing the floor would open and swallow us, slunk to our seats on opposite sides of the table and, fastened our eyes upon our plates.

"Pepper? Salt? Mustard?" suggested Mrs. Owen kindly enough, trying, I think, to cover our confusion, uncle's very evident anger, and her husband's too apparent enjoyment of the situation. "Sauce?"

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," said Jan desperately, accepting everything.

"Warm day for driving," remarked Mr. Owen, and Jan choked suddenly, blushed, coughed and tried to apologise. Mr. Owen laughed too in a hearty, encouraging way, and Mrs. Owen tried to lead the conversation to the latest magazine and give us time to recover ourselves. Jan struggled valiantly and went on with her lunch, though she caught uncle's eye and wilted perceptibly.

We fought through the next few minutes in com-page 126parative decency, and I took two mouthfuls of horseradish which, in my confusion, I had accepted, and which I hate worse than poison. Then, unfortunately, I looked at Jan and saw that she was rapidly rising to hoiling point. She looked so hot and so damp and altogether so uncomfortable that the giggle which I had heen choking down all the meal rose suddenly and soared beyond my control.

Jan saw me and shook in sympathy.

Uncle saw me and glared.

Mrs. Owen saw me and pretended she didn't.

So did a young man with a moustache and a lady with elaborately arranged hair.

Everyone saw me, even the maid, and she giggled too, for I saw the peas rolling round in the dish when she handed them to uncle.

With a huge effort I pulled myself together; we struggled on somehow through the nightmare of a meal, and they all waited for me while I finished a potato of abnormal dimensions and a chop of the size of a young leg of mutton.

Warned by my previous experience, I chose the second course with greater discretion, taking custard because it would slip down easily, but Jan was so flustered that she accepted baked apple, and when I saw the size of the one Mr. Owen gave her I couldn't help wondering how she would get it all down past the tight blouse she was wearing.

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She couldn't. She ate up it and down it and round it and through it, but it didn't seem to grow any smaller. Steadily she pegged along, spoonful by spoonful, washing it down with copious draughts of water. I dared not watch her, but attended to my custard till at length, with a sigh of relief, I laid down my spoon.

"A little more?" asked Mrs. Owen kindly. "You are eating nothing. Or a baked apple?"

I said, "No, thank you," very quickly—why did even the simplest remark appear so funny to-day?— and pinched my arm and bit my tongue till it bled. I don't know what Uncle John thought of us; I don't know what our host and hostess thought of us; why, I don't know what you think of us. But I do know that even now I blush with shame when I think of that terrible luncheon hour when Jan and I disgraced ourselves so terribly that we are still trying to live down the memory of it all.

For things went from bad to worse, till very suddenly everything failed me, and a mouse-like squeak and three distinct splutters announced that I had reached the limit of my self-control. Jan saw me and shook in sympathy, but she didn't make any noise about it, which was all the worse, as she was simply laughing inside, and there wasn't room for anything like that.

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It happened when I was trying to calm myself with a drink of water.

"Crack—c-c-c-c-cr-ack!" it came from the other side of the table.

I knew what it was. So, alas! did Jan. she was coming out of her blouse! This was too much for me; I gave myself up for lost, and laughed so hard that the tears went rolling down my cheeks.

Uncle looked ready to explode, but Jan and I didn't await developments. Jan says she feels sure that she collided with a milk jug and a maid in the hall. At any rate, there was a tremendous stain down the front of my blouse and skirt where no stain should be.

We raced down the drive, out on to the road, threw ourselves behind the fence, and laughed and laughed till it hurt to go on any longer. Then we started all over again. Jan said she wasn't going back; wild bulls wouldn't drag her.

"I couldn't. Fancy sitting down to finish that baked apple. We've done for ourselves all right this time, Ngaire. I shall never, never be able to face anyone again. Whatever made you laugh?"

"What made you?" I asked indignantly; and then, added with a giggle, "Your—your—face."

"Not two hundred, Jan."

"Well, nearly. I can feel their eyes glued to us still. And there were at least five men at that table."

T-they c-c-can f-finish the b-b-baked apple," I said, beginning all over again, and it will show you how far gone we were when we sat down and laughed once more—at a feeble joke like that.

Jan struggled to her feet and wiped her eyes.

"Shut up! We'll never get home at this rate. Fancy, if Uncle John came along and hauled us back!"

We set off quickly, impelled by the thought, but very soon we began to realise that we had undertaken rather more than we could manage. At first we stumbled along, laughing at intervals and running with the wind. Every time anyone passed—and a buggy and a motor did go by—we hid; we weren't anxious to meet Uncle John on the warpath.

It was quite late before we realised that we were lost. We had walked miles and miles, but, as Jan pointed out, we weren't horses or motorcars, and couldn't expect to cover the distance in less than treble the time it had taken in the morning. Soon we were regretting the luncheon we had left. Jan said she'd give something for the remains of her page 130baked apple. But we didn't talk much of eating or things to eat; it roused a gnawing pain, and we hadn't had anything since breakfast, save a glass of lemonade and some sponge cake. Luncheon didn't count—it was merely a snack between giggles.

The sun sank in the west and twilight settled down over the plains. The wind died away with protesting murmurs; the tussocks rustled eerily.

Were we afraid? We walked on as calmly as if we had been in the fifty-acre lot at Kamahi. Kathie says that is nothing to boast about, as we were perfectly safe, but she doesn't like swaggers too well, I know, and we might have met one (only we didn't). And she thinks the plantations are "creepy" at night, and we passed three gloomy, desperate-looking bunches of trees.

I wonder how she would have felt when the shadows lengthened, gathering in plantation and plain and hill-side, and the wind died away altogether, until the cry of a bird nestling in a solitary cabbage-palm or the scuttling of a frightened rabbit cut startlingly across the silence?

Would she have smiled when she found herself standing before a desolate-looking old house, where the roof showed white and ghostly in the half light? No reassuring light shone in those windows; no dogs barked a glad welcome.

Only darkness and a deep, deep silence; a broken page 131gate leading into a wilderness of overladen fruit trees; a rioting creeper leaning over the fence and perfuming the air with a sickly, overpowering scent; an eerie feeling over everything, sending thrills up your spine and then chasing them down again.

Would Kathie have jumped, I wonder, if Jan had suddenly grabbed her arm and said, with unintentional rhyme and in a voice which sounded as if it had come straight from the sepulchre:

"Ngaire! Ngaire, don't stay. Come away. It's— Morrison's!"