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Uncles Three

Chapter I — Father Forgets

page 9

Chapter I
Father Forgets

The tussocks were all shimmering and sunbrowned; the haze of midsummer heat lay over the mountains; and the clematis was shining in star palaces in the bush when we came to Kamahi.

We did not arrive like ordinary, everyday guests in motors, traps, or buggies, which met us at the station, and brought us to the homestead; we came on foot in the middle of the night, and the uncles had to get out of bed to welcome us.

Of course we did not choose to walk; we would have ridden had it been possible. We would have welcomed any conveyance—motor or buggy, gig, wagon or wheelbarrow, even a pig-cart with the pigs. But no one appeared to offer us a lift, and we arrived at Kamahi footsore and weary, with a bruise on Jock's heel and a split in Pipi's shoe, with a bump on Rob's forehead, and with Jan's hat and Kathie's temper both missing.

It was all the fault of the Conference in Sydney. You see, Father had been invited to a Conference— with a capital C—in Sydney, and wanted to take Mother with him, since Mother is not very strong, page 10and he thought the trip would do her good. But there was a difficulty in the way. We were the difficulty.

"I should like to go," said Father, "but——"

"I should like to go," said Mother, "but——"

We were the 'buts.' Kathie was the biggest 'but' and Pipi the littlest. Kathie was a soft, brown-haired, twenty-year-old 'but,' and Pipi a curly-headed, blue-eyed little conjunction, who looked like an angel, and acted like an imp. Kathie is the eldest of us all, and Pipi the youngest. There are six of us, all Malcolms, and we live in a big town on one of the little islands of New Zealand. But though we live in a town we love the country more and we love Kamahi best of all.

Six is really quite a large family, but it doesn't sound so many when you say it quickly—one-two-three-four-five-six. Like this: Kathie-Rob-Jan-Ngaire-Jock-Pipi. Uncle John says he will have to tally us off as he does the sheep; Uncle Stephen declares that taken as a whole we are less overwhelming; and Uncle Dan—well, it doesn't matter particularly what Uncle Dan thinks.

The uncles had invited the whole half-dozen of us to spend Christmas with them at Kamahi while Mother and Dad were in Sydney. Mother and Father were doubtful, but Kathie welcomed the suggestion. She said the thought of looking after Pipi all by herself made her shiver in her shoes.

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"I'd sooner manage a whole roomful of Ngaires and Jocks," she said, mournfully. "Pipi doesn't take the slightest notice of what I say, except to do the opposite thing. I'll be grey in a week if I have to look after her."

"Grey hair is pretty," Jan remarked soothingly, but Kathie wouldn't be comforted. She said she liked grey hair too, but on somebody else's head, not on her own.

Father took a long time—two days—to make up his mind, and we could have made it up for him in a minute. We were wild to go to Kamahi. Kamahi is the uncles' sheep station, and it lies away back in the country, far from any town. It is the dearest old place, a red-roofed, rambling old homestead, standing in the bed of a wide, rushing river. We often play down by the river; when the waters are low there are the dearest little islands rising out of it everywhere. In flood-times, however, these islands all disappear, and the river comes down in a sullen, yellow torrent, carrying everything before it. On the other side of the river are the mountains, and all around the homestead sweeps of wind-blown tussocks stretching to the river on the one side, and rolling away into the distance on the other. The house itself is protected by cosy pine plantations, and the [unclear: six] seeks it out early in the morning, and li[gap — reason: damage] there at night, till the tussocks shine,[gap — reason: damage] page 12said once, in a poetical mood, "like a yellow oasis in a pool of light." Kathie is quite poetical at times.

Kathie wasn't writing poetry just then, though. Oh, dear me, no! She was far too busy for that. After the second day Father tucked away his doubts and his `buts,' and decided to send the whole six of us in a bunch to Kamahi.

"It's on the uncles' own heads," he told Mother." They have invited them, and the trip will set you up for the year. There do seem a lot of you when you are all together," Father said, looking at us.

"It's Pipi I'm worried about. I should feel easier if I knew she didn't mean to be so specially perfect," Mother answered. "She has bought a notebook, and one page she has headed, `What to Do at the Uncles,' and another, `What Not to Do at the Uncles.' The last will be the longer list I am afraid," Mother added, with a smile.

Father laughed.

"They will live through it," he said. "The uncles know Pipi, and having survived her before they will struggle through the next six weeks. And I expect," added Father cheerfully, "they would be disappointed if they were asked to entertain an angel instead of the special brand of [gap — reason: damage]imp they are accustomed to."

[gap — reason: damage]es are saddening, I think, don't you?

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Even good-byes for just six weeks. Mother and Dad would be gone only six weeks, but when I saw them waving to us from the station platform I began to feel a wee bit choky. Six weeks is a long time—six weeks, seven days to a week, twenty-four hours to a day, sixty minutes to an hour, sixty seconds to a minute. I gave it up then, and sat down on the seat beside Jan, and rubbed away a trickly tear. Jan was choky too, but Rob was stowing bundles on the rack, and Kathie was looking worried.

"Six suitcases, one hat-box, one rug, apples, books, Pipi—where's Pipi?"

Pipi was on the platform. She said she was going to stay there, but Kathie brought her inside, and made her sit down by Rob. Straight away, right at the beginning of the journey, I believe Kathie got one grey hair.

We rushed across the burnt, brown plains, pausing every now and again with an impatient hoot at some wayside station. Pipi and I pressed our noses against the panes, not wishing to lose anything, but Jan opened the window and put her head right outside. This was unfortunate, as a strong wind was just blowing up, and Jan's hat —her best one—went sailing suddenly and surprisingly into the air. Jan drew in her head again, and sat looking sadly at us.

"Of course it was my best one," she said.

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"It would be my best hat. And of course it would blow off directly I put my head out of the window. Kathie's wouldn't. Oh, no! It's glued on. And I've got a cinder in my eye. It's hurting awfully. If there was just one cinder on the train," said Jan, slowly, and with conviction, "it would go round asking, `Where's Jeanette Malcolm?' and when it found me it would snuggle into the corner of my eye."

Jan is fifteen, long and leggy, with a mop of reddy-brown hair, and a habit of losing her own possessions and some things which belong to other people. Pipi—perhaps you had better take a look at us as we sit in a row in the railway carriage. Kathie, as I told you, is the eldest of us all, and she is soft and round and pink and pretty. Rob is seventeen, and tall and thin, and inclined to argue about everything and everybody. Why, he even argues with Uncle John, and gets the better of the discussion too, which makes Uncle furious enough to eat the whole half-dozen of us without stopping to think how we would taste. Jock is eleven, and though he is small for his age he likes to think he is as tall as Goliath and as strong as Samson. Pipi is our baby, and she looks so like an angel that you quite miss her wings.

Kathie, Rob, Jan, Jock, Pipi, and Ngaire. I haven't told you about Ngaire, because unless page 17excitable horses that pranced when they saw us, and executed a neat little step dance when Rob jerked at the reins.

"The man didn't want to lend them," Jan explained. "Toby is all right, but Simon is skittish. Rob said he'd be able to drive them all right."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Kathie sat down suddenly, and with determination. "Well, I'm not going to risk my life driving with Rob and a skittish horse."

"Don't be a chump!" urged Rob.

Since there was no other way Kathie at last gave in, and took her place between Pipi and Jock on the back seat. Rob shook the reins, and we set off in fine style down the road, which ran between the gold of gorse-hedges till it disappeared, a white ribbon, in the distance. The sun was sinking now, and stared at us, all big and round and red and surprised-looking, before it disappeared for the night. I don't wonder the sun stared. Toby pranced and danced, and stood on one leg, then two, then three, till our scalps grew prickly with horror, and our eyes stuck right out of our heads. And then the worst was over. Rob went sailing into the air, just like Peter Pan, and Kathie, Jan, Jock, Pipi, and I went sailing too.

Kathie picked out a nice soft clump of grass page 18to fall on; Jock selected a heap of gravel; Rob and I clasped each other at the side of the road; and Jan decided on a gorse-bush, from which her black hair-ribbon hung like a sign of mourning. Pipi we could not find, but at length we discovered her, bruised, dishevelled, and very cross, on the other side of the fence.

"And that's your idea of d-d-driving," Kathie gasped, nearly in tears, and sitting up and glaring at Rob. "It's a wonder we're not killed. I expect we are if we only knew it."

"We'll have to walk," Jan said, feeling a bruise tenderly. "I wouldn't mind if my ankle wasn't broken, and my wrist sprained, and my nose out of joint."

We laughed at that—Jan is funniest when she really doesn't mean to be amusing—and in good spirits we set off on our long walk. At first we laughed and joked with one another, but gradually as the evening drew on we drifted into silence. We hadn't strength enough for conversation.

On and on till our legs ached, and our heads ached, and our bruises began to swell. We left the ruins of the buggy far in the rear, and Toby and Simon disappeared, twin specks in the distance. The sun dipped behind the hills, flinging a pinky haze over the land. Tree and fence and great shimmering sweep of tussocks were gathered into the haze of evening time. Occasionally a page 19sheep lifted a plaintive voice, or a bird whirred suddenly and disturbingly across our path.

The blur deepened, and the darkness lay packed all around in solid, terrifying blackness. I clung close to Rob as we plodded ahead—on and on and on. One mile, two miles, three—four—five—six, seven, ten—twenty—fifty—one hundred—two——

Then, quite suddenly, when we had given up thinking at all, we saw the gleam of a light wobbling in the distance. It came nearer; it shone like the stars in heaven, or the lanterns at a Christmas feast. Then a big, gruff voice, which sounded like music in our ears.

"Who is it? Is anyone hurt? Why, bless my soul! It's the youngsters!" cried Uncle John.