Chapter 8 - First Visitors

It was hot in the little school room at Clareville.  For once the headmaster’s raucous voice was quiet and the noise of the senior children was only a steady hum.  Esther smiled at the little girl who was reading to her, but she hadn’t heard a word.  Her heart was dancing as she thought of the holidays soon to come.  She was going to the Waikato to see the farm her fiancé had bought.  Their farm!  Into her dreaming thoughts flashed the remarks her friends made since she first told them.  “The Waikato!  You’ll get killed and eaten,” Mary had said.  Esther had laughed then.  She wasn’t going to a South Sea Island.  It was fifty years since anyone had been killed and eaten in the Waikato. 

 Perhaps Jack was more correct.  He’d said, “You’ll fall in the bog and disappear.”  Anyway Fred was there and if Fred was there that’s where she wanted to be!  And she smiled so sweetly at her little pupil that the child reached out to touch her teacher’s hand.

The piece was broken by a shriek.  “My plait.  George put my plait in the inkwell,” sobbed one of the girls.  

The end of the fair hair was quite blue and as she swung her head, drops of ink splattered everywhere.  “Don’t get it on my map,” said the girl sitting beside her and she jumped up too grabbing her book.

Mr Wallace strode over and yanked George out of his desk, half carrying him to the platform at the front of the room.

“Bend over,” he yelled and grabbing his long cane, whacked the luckless boy several times with a stinging swish that echoed through the room.

It made teaching much more difficult when you had to share a room but Esther hated still more the violence that headmasters of 1913 still seemed to think necessary to make the younger generation learn.

At last the time had come. Esther and her fiancé’s mother travelled from Wellington in the Express, both ladies sitting upright and sleepless through the noisy smoke filled night.

“We’ll get off at Te Awamutu,” had said the older woman when they were booking the seats. When Esther had demurred at the thought of those extra hours before she would see her beloved, Mrs Williamson reminded her that the Express reached Frankton at 3:45am in the morning and Fred would need to leave home over an hour before that to meet them. “Besides,” added the older woman, “You don’t want him to see you all dirty after the long train trip, do you?

So when the train reached Te Awamutu the ladies went to a hotel for the rest of the night. Even Mrs Williamson a leader in the little settlement of Taita near Wellington, had not been to a hotel without her men folk before but not a trace of nervousness was allowed to ruffle her serenity. Not that either of them went to sleep, but a few hours to lie down did ease aching backs and throbbing heads.

Esther put on her crisp white blouse, remembering the hours of loving care and prayers that had gone into the hand embroidery on it. It was seven months since Fred had come up here. Seven months since he had seen her. Would he still think she was pretty? Would he still want to marry her?

A train took the two women to Hamilton later in the day and there was Fred to meet them. As he took her hand Esther realized that Fred too had been troubled, that he too needed reassurance that she was prepared to leave her home and friends and familiar things of Wellington to come to the Waikato, still in 1913 a relatively unknown quantity. 

“I’ve borrowed a buggy from a neighbour,” Fred told them as he collected the luggage. “I haven’t been able to finish making the dray yet but I‘ve got everything ready.” 

“My father promised me a gig and horse for our wedding present,” said Esther shyly. “Lassie’s just a yearling now but she will be ready to break in before our wedding.”

Once seated in the buggy, Fred took the reins and they started off for home. Jock was anxious to go, but Darkie shied violently at a young lady on the pavement carrying a brilliantly coloured parasol and for a while Fred had to give all his attention to his team. There were pot holes in the road to be avoided too, and when two smart ponies pulling a phaeton dashed past they were covered in dust.

“This is Victoria Street. The main street,” said the driver. “There are some good shops here. Paul’s is as good a book shop as any you’ll get in Wellington.”

   

                      

Mrs Williamson looked at the rough surface of the street and didn’t say anything. They drove past Barton & Ross’s window and had time to see some of the beautiful crockery displayed within. The road led down to the bridge and the horses snorted and stopped. Fred clicked his tongue but Darkie took no notice. 

A heavy wagon came rumbling over from the East side and the country horse decided that this bridge was something decidedly dangerous and he tried to pull away. With hand and voice Fred quietened him, turning his head again towards the bridge. “I’ll lead him over,” a well dressed passer-by volunteered and he took the bridle and walked across beside the trembling horse.

“Oh, country horses often need help across the bridge,” he said when Fred thanked him and raising his hat he walked back towards the town. The road led beside the river till a steep slope took them up to St. Andrew’s church. “There’s our church,” Fred said proudly, “though we do have services in Gordonton regularly too.”

The women both admired the grey stone building and even his mother admitted that it looked more distinguished than the church where his Father was the well-loved Sunday School Superintendent.

At the next corner the road turned away from the river and a smart trot soon brought them to Claudelands Railway Station. 

“That’s our railway station. We come here for the things you send us,” and the young man smiled at his mother. Presents sent up from all the family had greatly helped life on a raw farm.

At Five Cross Roads there was a group of two or three houses. “It’s goodbye to town now,” said the driver. “There are only five more house now till ours,” and could not keep the pride out of his voice. The buggy lurched across the tea-tree fascines over Crosby’s swamp but then the land rose a little and the horses were able to trot till they came to Holdaway’s Hill.

“How steep it is,” commented Esther, “Shall we get out and walk?” “Not today, it’s in the winter that this stretch of road will give us the most trouble.”

Digging in their toes at each step, the horses pulled the buggy to the top of the hill and there was another steep little rise till they came to Rototuna Corner.

“We can go that way into town,” commented Fred, “in fact we usually do when it has been raining.”

Just past Tommy Martin’s house they saw a big lake on the left hand side of the road. The water sparkled and the little islands of sedges and rushes with a few straggling manuka gleamed brown and gold in the sunshine.

“That’s Lake Tuna Whaka Peke Peke,” said Fred. “It comes right to our boundary. Actually, I guess most of our farm was part of the lake. I’m afraid it isn’t really as clean as it looks, and when you get close, a lot of it is covered with ugly, yellow scum. But there are lots of swans and pukeko there, and bitterns too, though I haven’t seen one yet.” He pulled on the brake sharply as the horses started to slither down the hill to cross another boggy place before rising again. 

“You can see our house from here,” said Fred, stopping the buggy. In fact they could see three houses. Sainsbury’s was the near at hand, McMullen’s on the next hill, and across the rise behind, Williamson’s.

The rays of the sun flashed on the tin chimney reflecting a glad welcome and even at that distance Esther could see the little trees of the orchard.

Growing fruit was one of Fred’s hobbies and the little trees had been planted with care and treated with all the knowledge of the time. The orchard was sheltered from the rough winds with clumps of toi-toi dug up from the swamps.

“No bees, no fruit.” So a couple of hives of bees had been bought too. Fred had had a dozen hives at home in Wellington, and was interested in work in the apiary, but it was another task in a busy life.

Both the brothers had absorbed the tradition of the townsmen of the day, ‘Saturday afternoon in the garden.’ It was a new idea in a country district where ‘spuds and meat’ was the typical meal, and gardening was usually left to the wife and kids. 

By McMullen’s gate, Fred passed the reins to Esther as he got down to open the gate. “The rest of the way is through paddocks,” he explained.

They crossed another gully, boggy even in the summer, and the horses stopped at a wide wooden gate. Two sturdy pine trees guarded the entrance.

“Okoropong” said Fred. Esther’s hand stole into his.

“Our gate,” she said. “We will make this wilderness blossom like the rose. Instead of the thorn tree shall come up the myrtle tree.”

“And instead of the manuka shall come up grass,” chimed in Fred and they looked at each other and laughed, and with high hopes and laughter, and the word of god on their lips they entered the farm together.

Sam came to greet the travelers as they stopped at the back door. Almost before the ladies had had time to comb their hair and wash their hands, he called out, “The tea is made. Can you use a camp oven?” he asked Esther.

“I think I could,” replied the young woman, though she knew she would not have to. Fred’s letters from the farm had told her how the two young men had replaced the open fireplace with a gleaming black stove which the family had sent up from Wellington.

“It goes well,” he told his mother. “Thank you.” “It will burn coal also when we can afford to buy some,” said Fred, “but meanwhile there is plenty of manuka and swamp wood. The only difficulty is getting time to cut it.”

“There’s water running in the bathroom too. Lots of cold as long as the windmill keeps going and there’s even some hot with the ‘wet back’ behind the stove,” Sam told them. “We really are very civilized here.”

Esther knew that in many country homes and indeed in the towns too, the wash basin usually stood on the tank stand by the back door.

“We have to boil up a little if we want a very hot bath,” added Fred, “but the water in the well is about the best in Gordonton, so we are lucky. One of the big hindrances to the development of this country is the problem of fresh water.”

“The cows seem to do alright on the swamp water,” said Sam, “but it’s yellow and ugly and mostly has a nasty smell.”

“The tea goes quite black but I don’t think it would really hurt you,” added his brother. “But I’m glad we have a bit of hill and can get pure water.”

Esther felt very glad too. Swamp water didn’t sound very helpful in trying to keep her table cloths and sheets and blouses sparkling white as every housewife strived to do.