fierce, began to burn back in a slanting line to where it had first been lit. If the sou’wester held, it would certainly burn itself out.
Bill and Jack sat down to rest their heads on their knees. Ittook a long spell before they could think of a fresh worry.
‘Bill,’ said Jack, stretching up, ‘what if it burns down to our place?’
‘How could it? It’s burning uphill.’
‘But if the wind came down again?’
‘We’d soon know.’
‘What’s happened to Archie?’
‘He’s at my place, with your mother, quite safe,’ said a voice, and Jack looked up to see Mrs Dobbs holding out a pannikin of water. He thanked her and drank gratefully, and stood up.
‘I’m off home. I want to see it’s all right,’ he said.
Although common sense told him that the fire could not possibly have touched the house, Jack couldn’t rest until he had made sure. Bill went with him, but as they reached a high point and saw for themselves that the fire was beyond danger, he exclaimed:
‘I don’t suppose I’ll be around here much longer.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jack.
‘What is there for me here? One day I’m a schoolboy, next day I’m a hired labourer. Something happens like this fire and I’m as good as the next man, and better than most. I could make my way anywhere.’
‘Where would you go, Bill?’ Jack wasn’t sure whether to admire his brother’s boldness or to jibe at his boasting.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Bill seriously. ‘It might be Nelson.’
A vague connection stirred in Jack’s mind. ‘Nelson? Did they find gold in Nelson?’ ‘Somewhere thereabouts. I’d go if there was a real big strike. Whatever anyone said.’
A weird, high-pitched cry sounded suddenly from the direction of the cottage. Goldfields forgotten, Jack began to run—the haunting vision of his own home going up in flames returning.
But the clearing, the garden, the white walls were exactly as they had been left. Only the two goats strained at their tethers and bleated in protest because it was time for their milking.
14. Through the Storm
Although it was only autumn, there came a burst of winter with a ‘southerly buster’ which raged for six days. No one could go to school, for the dry gullies became rivers, and the tracks were impassable with mud. The roar of the waves and the gale in the trees filled day and night with noise.
Snug and warm with a good stack of firewood and a huge pan of broth always simmering, the Phipps family had spent the third day indoors with their needlework and their lessons. Even Emma borrowed a slate and made letters and drawings which looked like scribbles to everyone else, but were full of meanings for herself. When daylight gave out, books had to be put away. After the meal, the family gathered around the fire.
‘A story now, Mumma!’ said Jim.
‘Story,’ sang Emma, ‘story, story!’
Bill and Jack took out the draught-board and settled down to play, while Mary Ann sat quietly knitting. Mrs Phipps began with Emma’s favourite—the Old Woman and her Pig.
They had reached the point where for the seventh time the piggy wouldn’t jump over the stile, when Archie interrupted from his place by the door.
‘Somebody’s knocking.’
‘Hark, everyone!’
There was a hush, but nothing was heard except the stormand the crackling of the fire. ‘Who would find their way down here on a night like this?’ said Mrs Phipps.
‘Go on with the story,’ begged Jim.
‘So the old woman went a little farther and she found a butcher—’
Archie turned his head sharply, stretched over and lifted the latch. The door swung open with the force of the wind behind it.
A young Maori woman stood there, wrapped in a cloak of coarse flax, with a little girl in front of her. The woman had a pikau on her back, but whether there was a baby in it nobody could tell. They were like two sodden statues.
‘Why, come inside!’ cried Mrs Phipps. ‘You can’t stand there in this weather.
Bill and Jack sat down to rest their heads on their knees. Ittook a long spell before they could think of a fresh worry.
‘Bill,’ said Jack, stretching up, ‘what if it burns down to our place?’
‘How could it? It’s burning uphill.’
‘But if the wind came down again?’
‘We’d soon know.’
‘What’s happened to Archie?’
‘He’s at my place, with your mother, quite safe,’ said a voice, and Jack looked up to see Mrs Dobbs holding out a pannikin of water. He thanked her and drank gratefully, and stood up.
‘I’m off home. I want to see it’s all right,’ he said.
Although common sense told him that the fire could not possibly have touched the house, Jack couldn’t rest until he had made sure. Bill went with him, but as they reached a high point and saw for themselves that the fire was beyond danger, he exclaimed:
‘I don’t suppose I’ll be around here much longer.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jack.
‘What is there for me here? One day I’m a schoolboy, next day I’m a hired labourer. Something happens like this fire and I’m as good as the next man, and better than most. I could make my way anywhere.’
‘Where would you go, Bill?’ Jack wasn’t sure whether to admire his brother’s boldness or to jibe at his boasting.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Bill seriously. ‘It might be Nelson.’
A vague connection stirred in Jack’s mind. ‘Nelson? Did they find gold in Nelson?’ ‘Somewhere thereabouts. I’d go if there was a real big strike. Whatever anyone said.’
A weird, high-pitched cry sounded suddenly from the direction of the cottage. Goldfields forgotten, Jack began to run—the haunting vision of his own home going up in flames returning.
But the clearing, the garden, the white walls were exactly as they had been left. Only the two goats strained at their tethers and bleated in protest because it was time for their milking.
14. Through the Storm
Although it was only autumn, there came a burst of winter with a ‘southerly buster’ which raged for six days. No one could go to school, for the dry gullies became rivers, and the tracks were impassable with mud. The roar of the waves and the gale in the trees filled day and night with noise.
Snug and warm with a good stack of firewood and a huge pan of broth always simmering, the Phipps family had spent the third day indoors with their needlework and their lessons. Even Emma borrowed a slate and made letters and drawings which looked like scribbles to everyone else, but were full of meanings for herself. When daylight gave out, books had to be put away. After the meal, the family gathered around the fire.
‘A story now, Mumma!’ said Jim.
‘Story,’ sang Emma, ‘story, story!’
Bill and Jack took out the draught-board and settled down to play, while Mary Ann sat quietly knitting. Mrs Phipps began with Emma’s favourite—the Old Woman and her Pig.
They had reached the point where for the seventh time the piggy wouldn’t jump over the stile, when Archie interrupted from his place by the door.
‘Somebody’s knocking.’
‘Hark, everyone!’
There was a hush, but nothing was heard except the stormand the crackling of the fire. ‘Who would find their way down here on a night like this?’ said Mrs Phipps.
‘Go on with the story,’ begged Jim.
‘So the old woman went a little farther and she found a butcher—’
Archie turned his head sharply, stretched over and lifted the latch. The door swung open with the force of the wind behind it.
A young Maori woman stood there, wrapped in a cloak of coarse flax, with a little girl in front of her. The woman had a pikau on her back, but whether there was a baby in it nobody could tell. They were like two sodden statues.
‘Why, come inside!’ cried Mrs Phipps. ‘You can’t stand there in this weather.
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