In the Land of the Long White Cloud (88 page)

James McKenzie was caught that night, though his bad luck had a silver lining. He ran right into the arms of a search party from Kiward Station, led by his old friends Andy McAran and Poker Livingston. If the two of them had been alone, they would no doubt have let him go, but they were out with two new workers and did
not want to take the risk. They made no move to shoot at James, but levelheaded Andy was of the same opinion as Helen and Gwyneira. “If someone from Beasley or Barrington Station finds you, they’ll put you down like a dog. Not to mention what Sideblossom would do! Warden—between you and me—is a scoundrel himself. He still has something like sympathy for you. But Barrington is deeply disappointed in you. After all, you gave him your word of honor that you wouldn’t flee.”

“But only on the way to Lyttelton,” James said, defending his honor. “That didn’t go for the five years in prison.”

Andy shrugged. “Regardless, he’s not happy. And Beasley is nervous he’s going to lose more sheep. The two breeding stallions he ordered from England cost a fortune. The farm is up to its neck in debt. You’ll receive no pardon from him. It’d be best for you to serve your sentence.”

The police officer was not upset when James returned.

“It was my fault,” he grumbled. “Next time I’ll lock you in, McKenzie. Then it’ll be your fault!”

James dutifully stayed in prison three more weeks, but when he broke out this time, certain circumstances led the officer to Gwyneira’s door at Kiward Station.

Gwyneira was examining a group of ewes and their lambs one last time before they would be herded into the highlands when she saw Laurence Hanson, the chief of law enforcement in Canterbury County, riding up to the house. Laurence Hanson was approaching slowly because he was leading something small and black on a leash. The dog offered stiff resistance; it only took a few steps when it was in danger of being strangled. Then it planted all four of its feet on the ground.

Gwyneira frowned. Had one of her farm dogs run away? That never happened. And even if that were the case, surely the police chief himself was not responsible for bringing it back. She quickly
excused herself from the two Maori shepherds and sent them off to the highlands with the sheep.

“I’ll see you in the fall!” she said to the pair, who would be spending the summer with the animals in a hut in the pastures. “Just be careful my son doesn’t see you here before fall.” It was delusional to think that the Maori would spend the entire summer in the pastures without occasionally visiting their wives. But then again, perhaps their wives would move up there with them. It was difficult to say since the tribes were mobile. Gwyneira only knew that Paul would frown upon either solution.

Gwyneira went to the house to greet the sweating police officer, who was already headed her way. He knew where the stables were and obviously wanted to stable his horse. So he did not seem to be in a hurry. Gwyneira sighed. She had better things to do than spend the day chatting with the police chief. On the other hand, he might give her news of James McKenzie.

When Gwyneira arrived at the stables, Laurence Hanson was already untying the dog, whose leash he had tied to his saddle. The dog was without a doubt a collie, but it was in pitiful condition. Its fur was dull and clumpy, and it was so thin that its ribs were visible despite its long hair. When the sheriff bent over to it, the dog bared its teeth and growled. Such an unfriendly face was rare among border collies. Nevertheless, Gwyneira recognized the dog right away.

“Friday!” she said sweetly. “Allow me, Sheriff, she may remember me. She was my dog until she was five months old.”

Laurence seemed skeptical that the dog would remember the woman from whom it had received its first lessons in sheepherding, but Friday reacted to Gwyneira’s soft voice. He did not try to stop Gwyneira from petting the dog and undoing its leash from the cinch on the horse’s saddle.

“Now where did you find her? Isn’t this…”

The police chief nodded. “Yes, this is McKenzie’s dog. Showed up in Lyttelton two days ago, completely exhausted. You see the shape she’s in. McKenzie saw her out the window and raised a rumpus. But what was I supposed to do? I can’t let her inside the prison. Where would
I be then? If one can have a dog, then another will want a pussycat, and when the cat eats a third fellow’s canary, there’ll be a prison riot.”

“Now, now, it wouldn’t be that bad,” Gwyneira said, smiling. Most of the prisoners in Lyttelton did not spend nearly long enough in prison to need a pet. The majority just went there to sober up and were released the next day.

“In any event, it would be unacceptable,” the sheriff said sternly. “So I took the animal home with me, but it didn’t want to stay. I would hardly open the door and it would run back to the jail. This time he picked a lock and stole meat from the butcher for the mutt. Luckily it wasn’t an issue. The butcher later maintained it had been a gift, so there won’t be any charges…and we caught McKenzie again the next day. But of course this can’t keep happening. The man’s putting his own neck on the line for the mutt. And so I thought, well…because you bred the dog and your old dog just died…”

Gwyneira sniffed. Even now she couldn’t think about Cleo without tearing up. She still had not picked out a new dog. The pain was too fresh. But here was Friday. And she was the spitting image of her mother.

“You thought right,” she said calmly. “Friday can stay here. Please tell Mr. McKenzie that I’ll look after her. Until he comes for us…ahem, her. Now come inside and have something to drink, Officer. You must be very thirsty after the long ride.”

Friday lay panting in the shade. She was still on the leash, and Gwyneira knew she was taking a risk when she bent over and undid the lead.

“Come along, Friday,” she said softly.

The dog followed her.

A
year after James McKenzie’s sentencing, George and Elizabeth Greenwood returned from England, and Helen and Gwyneira finally got news of their children. Elizabeth took Fleur’s request for discretion very seriously and rode in her little chaise to Haldon herself to bring the letters to her friends. She hadn’t even mentioned the reason for her trip to her husband when she met with Helen and Gwyneira on the O’Keefes’ farm. Both women inundated her with questions about her trip, which had obviously done the young woman good. Elizabeth seemed more relaxed and at peace than before.

“London was wonderful!” she said with a wistful look. “George’s mother, Mrs. Greenwood, is a little…well, takes some getting used to. But she didn’t recognize me; she thought me very well-bred.” Elizabeth beamed like the little girl she once was and looked to Helen for praise. “And Mr. Greenwood was charming and very nice to the children. I didn’t care for George’s brother. And the woman he married! How terribly common.” Elizabeth rumpled her little nose smugly and folded her napkin. Gwyneira noticed that she still did so with precisely the same gestures Helen had drilled into them so many years before. “But now that I’ve found these letters, I’m sorry we extended the trip so long,” Elizabeth apologized. “You must have been so worried, Mrs. O’Keefe and Mrs. Warden. But it looks like Fleur and Ruben are doing well.”

Helen and Gwyneira were profoundly relieved, not only by the news Fleur sent, but also by her detailed description of Daphne and the twins.

“Daphne must have rounded up the girls somewhere in Lyttelton,” Gwyneira read out loud from one of the letters Fleur had sent.
“Apparently, they were living on the street and eked out a living by stealing. Daphne took the girls in and looked after them lovingly. Mrs. O’Keefe can be proud of her, even though she is a—the word has to be spelled out—w-h-o-r-e.” Gwyneira laughed. “So you’ve found all your lambs again, Helen. But what should we do with the letters now? Burn them? I would be sorry to do that, but neither Gerald nor Paul and certainly not Howard can get a hold of them under any circumstances.”

“I have a hiding place,” Helen said conspiratorially and went to one of her kitchen cabinets. There was a loose board in the back where a person could deposit inconspicuous little objects. Helen kept a little money she had saved and a few mementos from Ruben’s childhood there. Embarrassed, she showed the other women one of his drawings and a lock of his hair.

“How sweet!” Elizabeth declared and admitted to the others that she carried a lock of George’s hair in a locket around her neck.

Gwyneira would have envied this concrete proof of her love, but then she cast an eye on the little dog lying in front of the fireplace who was looking up at her adoringly. Nothing could bind her more tightly to James than Friday.

Another year later, Gerald and Paul returned angry from a breeders’ conference in Christchurch.

“The governor doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Gerald ranted, pouring himself a whiskey. After a moment of consideration, he filled a second glass for the fourteen-year-old Paul. “Banned for life! Who’s going to check on that? If he doesn’t like it there, he’ll be back on the next ship.”

“Who’ll be back?” Gwyneira inquired, only moderately interested. Dinner would be served in a moment, and she had joined the men with a glass of port—to keep her eye on Gerald. It did not please her one bit that he was offering Paul something to drink. The boy would learn that soon enough. Besides, he could hardly control his temper
when he was sober. He would be that much more difficult under the influence of alcohol.

“McKenzie! The damned sheep thief! The governor commuted his sentence.”

Gwyneira felt the blood rising to her cheeks. James was free?

“On the condition that he leave the country as soon as possible. They’re sending him to Australia on the next ship. Sounds good to me—he can’t be far enough away for my liking. But he’ll be a free man over there. Who’s going to keep him from coming back?” Gerald blustered.

“Isn’t that unwise?” Gwyneira asked flatly. If James really left for Australia forever…she was happy about his commutation, but it also meant she had lost him for herself.

“For the next three years, yes,” Paul said. He sipped at his whiskey, observing his mother attentively.

Gwyneira fought to maintain her composure.

“But after that?” Paul continued. “He would have served his sentence. A few more years and it would fall under the statute of limitations. And then if he had brains enough to come back through Dunedin, for example, instead of Lyttelton…he could also change his name; after all, no one cares what it says on the passenger manifest. What’s wrong, Mother? You don’t look at all well.”

Gwyneira clung to the thought that Paul was right. James would find some way to get back to her. She had to see him again! She had to hear it from his own mouth before she would really begin to have any hope.

Friday snuggled up to Gwyneira, who scratched her absentmindedly. Suddenly she had an idea.

The dog, of course! Gwyneira would go to Lyttelton tomorrow to take the dog back to the sheriff so that he could return her to James when he was released. She would then be able to ask the man if she could see James in order to talk to him about Friday. After all, she had taken care of the dog for almost two years now. Surely the police chief would not deny her that. He was a good-natured fellow and could not possibly suspect a relationship between herself and McKenzie.