She’d volunteered early for the Women’s War Service Auxiliary, hoping to be manpowered to somewhere fancy like Wigram or Ohakea. Even the WAAF station at Taieri would have been great, if a little close to home. But, tempted by a rousing speech from MP Mary Grigg to a little-attended afternoon tea at church, and Robbie’s love for the countryside, she had forwarded her name to the Land Service. How strange it had been when the recruiter focused on her posture, dress, and quality of her shoes! How on earth would any of those help on a farm? Surely her nimble gardening fingers and heavy-lifting ability from nursing Grandad were more important.
She’d felt conspicuous on the train with her lack of uniform or even a badge – the Service alluded they would be forthcoming if she survived one month on the job. All she had were ugly gumboots and overalls to denote her call to duty, and she didn’t want to show them off to the other girls in their trim blue uniforms and smart hats.
“Oi! Gittin beyind, ya filthy mongrel!”
Tea flinched, and her purse shut on her finger. She yelped. Who would use such filthy words as a greeting to a girl? “Hello?”
“Who’s that?” A figure pushed through the tall, fluffy toetoe, weapon propped casually on one shoulder, prancing dogs at his heels.
Tea gulped down the taste of her heart. It wasn’t a weapon, just a spade.
“My name is Dorothy Gray. I’m looking for the MacGregor farm. Can you help me please?”
The heavy rhythmic thunk of hooves. A horse too big for the pallid boy atop pushed through the tussock and picked its way onto the gravel road. She bit her lip, annoyed at her surprise. This isn’t Dunedin anymore, Tea. You must pay attention to the smells, like Robbie taught you.
Dogs rushed her legs, but they danced rather than nipped. They were good dogs. And they were dogs, she was sure of that smell. The other dog, the strange one in the bushes, had smelled different.
How silly, she admonished herself.
The older man, dressed in sagging dusty pants and a red bush shirt, stepped to the fence line. His spade clanged against the wire; ‘number 8’, Robbie had called the ubiquitous fencing material.
“I’m MacGregor.” He sized her up too slowly for her liking. “Gray, huh? I know a shearer named Robbie Gray. You his thing?”
Tea set her shoulders like Robbie had taught her too. “I’m his sister. I’ve been sent here from the Land Service.”
“Huh. That’s right. Was expecting you on the evening train. Hmm. Robbie said something about a sister once. Didn’t expect a girl to follow in his footsteps.” MacGregor eyeballed Tea in a way that made her scalp prickle despite the warm spring afternoon. “You’re awfully dark for Robbie’s kin. You not one of them lazy mowrees, are ya?”
Tea didn’t hesitate; Mum hated such inferences, too. “No, sir. I simply take the sun easier than he does. We’re twins.”
“Huh.” MacGregor looked unconvinced. “Gonna have to put that hair of yours up. None of those pins and rollers round this place.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You better have your gear, girl.” MacGregor lifted his chin at her attire. “Them gloves are useless out here and Mrs MacGregor don’t have time to be wasting on mending and frilly sewing.”
“Yes, sir. These are my Sunday clothes, sir.” She hefted her suitcase. “I have overalls and such, from the Land Service.”
“Fine, fine.” MacGregor waved her words away like a fly. “A boy and girl twin, you say? You don’t got Robbie’s hair or much of his face.”
“Fraternal twins, sir,” chipped in the skinny boy on the horse. He too had been watching Tea too close for her liking. The shivery rush of blood made her vision tunnel and she had to take a deep breath. “Means they don’t always look the same. Like Robbie can have brown hair and Miss Gray can have black.”
MacGregor grunted and kicked at one of the dogs snuffling near his shoes. It yipped and slunk away with a baleful backward glance. Shame pinched at Tea’s throat.
The boy bent forward a little and tipped his floppy brim hat, showing off big ears and a peeling, beaky nose. She was glad he couldn’t offer a hand from that height; he might crumble at a stiff shake. Or a breeze. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Robbie told me a lot about you. I’m Grant Stevenson.”
The prickle went through her scalp again. And Robbie didn’t tell me anything about you at all, Tea thought.
“Call me Tea. Everyone does.”
“In my farmyard, you’re Miss Gray, girl,” MacGregor snapped. “Grant, give her your seat and take her up to Mrs MacGregor to show her the ladies’ cottage. Don’t be late for dinner.”
“Yessir.” Grant tipped his hat again.
“There you are, you little bitch!” MacGregor bellowed, heaving a dirt sod at a slinking dog. Tea jumped and set her molars. “Gittaway now!”
A border collie, mostly black with a scattering of white on the bib and paws, yelped and skittered. Her shadow! It wasn’t male after all. The look the dog cast back at Tea made her shiver for a third time. The familiar-strange scent hit Tea, making her flinch. It was a scent she thought she’d only dreamed, one she associated with starlight, fresh turned soil, warm cotton.
The night-and-star dog tore off, folding and stretching to avoid snapping teeth and pejoratives. The trees swallowed the farmer up, the yipping of dogs a trailing cloak of noise as they crashed through the flax.
“The driveway is a few hundred yards up that way, beyond the macrocarpa,” Grant pointed. He bent forward as if to slide off the animal.
“It’s alright. I’ve walked this far. I can walk a little more.”
“At least let me take your suitcase.”
“Alright then.”
Her heavy heels joined the slow clop of the horse’s hooves.
There was something long about the boy’s face. Sharp, stubborn, but not conniving – like Robbie after one of those nights out dancing, but he had never looked quite this ill.
Closer, she could see he wasn’t quite a kid after all. There were deep lines around his mouth, and though his hairline was already receding it was a pretty, silvery blond. The knuckles of his long fingers were too large, like Grandad’s had been. She guessed Grant might actually be slightly older than her. A sickly one then, still working on a farm, and not conscripted.
“Sorry there was no-one there to pick you up in town,” Grant said, letting the reins drape. The horse swayed along at a pace that was considerate of Tea’s blisters. “We thought you were coming in on the evening train, not the express to Christchurch. We only send the carriage down to pick up empty milk cans off the evening train on mail and shopping day. Besides, the girls were fixing the shearing shed roof today. The Dodge is parked up on blocks because of petrol rationing. We only take the truck out when delivering a load of wool.”