by Di Morrissey
What could be so important, after all this time?
Chapter One
Ashford Lodge, South Island,
New Zealand, 1963
THE REFLECTION IN THE mirror showed a determined young woman wrestling with the ends of her stock tie. A second figure appeared behind her, taller, heavier set, but with the same hazel eyes and auburn hair.
‘Sally, aren’t you ready? You can’t be late. Mother wants us downstairs.’
‘I’m just having trouble with my stock, it’s got too much starch in it.’ She swung the long tie around her neck, folding it in front, and began to pull on her beige britches, laced the legs up to the knee then sat on her bed and pulled on the long black leather riding boots.
‘What about your hair? You know Dad doesn’t like wisps sticking out under your bowler.’
‘Yvonne, why don’t you go down and eat breakfast? I’ll be ready in a minute.’ Sally glared at her sister, got up and went to the window to look out at the manicured front lawn.
In the crisp cold morning long trestle tables, covered in starched white cloths dotted with silver serving dishes, had been set up for the formal breakfast that followed the Hunt, although it would be hours before the riders sat down to eat. The Rangiora Hunt had become well-known and was a tribute to her father’s years of effort. He’d started breeding steeplechasers and the bloodline was carried on in the fine animals in the lush paddocks enclosed by white rail fences that Sally could see in the distance. Her father, Garth Mitchell, had imported the sire of the foxhounds from England, and the pack of hounds was now a formidable line. The dream of this hunt had begun when the girls were little and Mitchell had set up a paper chase for Yvonne and her friends on their ponies, pinning paper on a long trail they could ride around their home, Ashford Lodge. He had ridden behind, watching in amusement as the children followed the paper trail.
At their mother’s insistence Sally and Yvonne ate bowls of porridge sprinkled with brown sugar, a nob of butter and fresh cream. Yvonne sat at the dining table, but Sally preferred to pull up an armchair close to the large open fire in the adjoining drawing room. Placed around the rooms were beautiful pieces of antique furniture. The two rooms were separated by folding doors, and when the family was entertaining, they opened the doors to make one large room.
She took her empty plate into the kitchen and after downing a cup of tea with her mother she ran up the stairs to finish dressing. She loved riding, even though her father’s involvement – being Master of the Hunt – dominated the family’s social life. Sally couldn’t imagine not being part of this ritual, which had started in Britain and now flourished and had evolved its own customs in New Zealand.
Her father drummed it into Sally and Yvonne that they were to carry on this tradition from the ‘old country’. Sally did sometimes rail against the strict rules and regulations of the Hunt and was happiest riding on her own across the paddocks and through the outlying district of the local town. But being the younger daughter of the Master she knew that her position in the social hierarchy of this island world, which was even more British than the British, was one of honour and privilege.
Garth was proud of the fact that he had bred one of the best packs of foxhounds in New Zealand. He’d also trained a huntsman and two whips – keen young men who controlled the hounds in the field and who hoped to follow in the Master’s footsteps one day.
In her room Sally reached for the gold stock pin her father had presented to her on her eighteenth birthday, centred it on her stock, then folded the ends of the stock into her check waistcoat. Next she put on her black hunting jacket with its royal-blue velvet collar – the colours of this hunt – then pinned a gold hunt button onto the lapel. She much preferred to wear her tweed hacking jacket, jodhpurs and riding boots, which were the more relaxed dress for the Tuesday Hunts. Her attire today was traditional, subdued and appropriate. One was never to draw attention to oneself and modern accessories such as sunglasses, jewellery or unnecessary tack were forbidden. Anyone less than correctly turned out was sent to the rear of the field by the Deputy Master.
Sometimes Sally wanted to rebel and do something outrageous just to shock the whole lot of them. Especially her supercilious and righteous older sister. She loved her family dearly, and never wanted to hurt her father or mother, but Sally recognised within herself a longing to one day do something totally disgraceful – and fun.
Garth Mitchell sat on his seventeen-hand grey mare and watched with pride as fifteen couples came down the drive from the kennels under the watchful eye of the huntsman and whips. The hounds were taken to the front paddock and kept in a tight group; now that they were out of the kennels they were raring to go.
A field of one hundred and twenty were riding in this opening hunt of the season, and they gathered at the front of the house where the lawn was encircled by a white gravel driveway and neatly clipped hedge. The two girls rode up beside their father to watch him being presented with the traditional stirrup cup by the local farmer, who doffed his cap as the Master returned the small silver goblet to him, acknowledging permission for the Hunt to ride across his land.
They rode out the front gate, the girls behind Garth, the hounds a long way ahead, the gravel road crunching beneath the horses’ hooves. Twenty minutes later they turned right to a clearing and a ricker, where the first strand of wire on the fence had been pulled down and a rail placed on top, and jumped into a lush paddock. The Master and the field stayed at a distance as the huntsman and whips assembled the pack. With a flick of the whips to the lead hound, the huntsman cast the hounds and silence fell over the field. Noses to the ground the hounds ran feverishly, looking for the scent as the field waited. In fifteen minutes the lead hound took up the scent of the hare and gave tongue and immediately the rest of the pack started to speak.
Sally felt her adrenalin surge as her big strong mare stretched into a full gallop. To her left was her father, on her right Yvonne, and close by Lachlan, the Head Cadet who was in charge of the Master’s horses. Behind them streamed the rest of the field. Yvonne always thought being at the fore, taking the fences in the lead and following the hounds, was thrilling. Sally, while an excellent rider, was only too conscious of the hundred odd horses pounding behind her and the unpredictable line the hare might take ahead of them. It often meant jumping thick gorse hedges, rickers and the occasional barbed-wire fence. She concentrated on the blurring ground in front of her, hearing only the thud of hooves, but then the field took a check.
Sally found she had dropped back but decided to stay there as the field waited. She thought she knew everyone in their Hunt but a strange horse, a black gelding ridden by a slight man she didn’t recognise, was beside her.
‘Seems we’ve got a smart one,’ said Sally softly.
‘Trying to outfox us, eh?’ He smiled at her as the horses stood, breathing heavily.
At these times while they waited, Sally preferred to be back in the field. Yvonne always accused her of flirting, even if only with eye contact. Sally thought her sister took the Hunt too seriously. Yvonne saw their participation as being part of a great and grand tradition, and was a stickler for the pomp and ceremony. Sally thought of it as sport and fun. She was in it for the thrills, speed and social interaction.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ whispered Sally, hoping no one would overhear their subdued conversation. The Master frowned on chatter when the field was on check.
‘I ride with the Tautama Hunt. I feel privileged to be invited to ride with your father.’ He touched his crop to his bowler and Sally acknowledged the gesture with a smile. He had a soft Irish brogue and mischievous blue eyes. Sally knew her mother would consider this handsome man totally unsuitable for her to socialise with, as he looked at least ten years older than her, he was Irish and probably not considered of their class, yet Sally had no doubt he was being more than charming. He was flirting too.
An hour passed as they waited, and the horses, spread over the paddocks, shift
ed their weight, gnawed at their bits, flicked flies with their tails. The Irishman, who introduced himself as Sean Flanagan, and Sally talked in low whispers. He had moved from Auckland where he’d lived since he was sixteen and worked for an import company. He planned to stay in the South Island and he casually let it be known that he was single and liked dancing. Before Sally could think of how to mention the Hunt Ball later in the season, a blast from the huntsman’s horn went up and they were off at a gallop. From the top of the hill a crowd of spectators, many perched on shooting sticks, watched the large field run almost full circle of the point.
Back at Ashford Lodge Sally’s mother, Emily, and several young women who preferred not to ride were helping prepare the traditional Hunt breakfast. Everyone had brought a plate and they were carrying dishes through Emily’s beautiful English cottage garden to the front of the house.
These girls were all part of a world that observed and revered its heritage while evolving its own customs and lifestyle. Like Sally and Yvonne, they were part of a circle of young people who came from well-to-do families, had been educated at private schools, and shared the same interests, tastes and goals. It was expected they would all marry young men from the same circle.
The speed of the Hunt increased and Sally was happily chatting with Sean. Suddenly a blind fence loomed – a wall of green she couldn’t see through or over. She had no sense of any other rider being with her, and there was no chance to avoid the solid gorse hedge that rose before her. She prayed there wasn’t a drop or water hazard on the other side. A conversation flashed through Sally’s mind where her father had discussed setting a challenging diversion to the Hunt. She closed her eyes, leaned forward, balancing her weight as her mare lifted her forelegs, her face so close to her horse’s straining neck she could feel the urgency and tension in the muscles. Then there was a moment of blissful airborne silence, before they fell, green hedge and blue sky spinning, a crash as they tumbled into the hedge, a crushing feeling as the breath was expelled from her lungs by the weight of the horse, then oblivion.
*
When she opened her eyes, her mother’s concerned face swam into focus.
‘Sal? Oh, darling. Please say something. Can you hear me?’
‘Have I missed the breakfast?’
‘Breakfast? Sally, dear, you mean the Hunt breakfast?’ Emily asked gently.
‘Sorry to drag you away, Mummy. What happened?’ mumbled Sally. ‘Is Rani okay?’
‘She’s fine, dear. That was a week ago. You’ve been unconscious for a week. How do you feel?’ Her mother stroked her hand.
‘A week? I’ve been out for a week. Oh, hell.’ Sally closed her eyes again.
Her mother winced slightly. ‘No need to swear, darling. The doctors say you will be all right. Do you remember anything?’
‘Not much. How was the Hunt?’
‘Daddy thought it all went very well . . . considering you had to be taken to hospital.’
‘Oh, I spoiled it.’ Sally felt her head hurt. She could imagine the chaos her accident must have caused. It would have ruined her father’s organisation, the finale of the Hunt, her mother’s Hunt breakfast. Her sister’s joy in it all. ‘Sorry, Mummy.’
‘Don’t be upset. The Deputy Master took over and the ambulance people were very discreet. I went in the ambulance and once Daddy made sure you were getting the best of care, even though it’s the public hospital, he hosted the breakfast. By the time I got home the usual group was ensconced in the library with Daddy and the liqueurs.’
‘Oh. Did the doctors know I’d be out this long?’
‘Goodness me, no. We were terribly worried. But you’re going to be just fine, and the horse is all right, so that’s good news. You’ll be home soon. Daddy thinks you’d better rest up for some of the season. But he wants you to ride in the end-of-season hunts. And there’s the Hunt Ball to look forward to.’
‘Was anyone else hurt?’
‘Luckily, no. Now, let’s concentrate on the future,’ she said briskly and Sally closed her eyes, seeing for a moment the face of Sean Flanagan. She’d probably never see him again. She took a deep breath and squeezed her mother’s hand. All she wanted to do was sleep.
Later, after her mother had gone, a young nurse came in with Sally’s tea. ‘You’re a lucky girl. You had a fair-sized sleep.’
‘Yeah, out for nearly a week, and I have no memory of it at all.’
‘You’ll be well enough to leave soon. So will your uncle be taking you home? He’s been so sweet.’
‘My uncle? I don’t think so.’ Sally couldn’t imagine Uncle Richard, her father’s brother, coming all the way from his home at Mearsham Park to see her. ‘Did he visit me?’
‘Every day. Brought you flowers. Your mother took them. He is such a lovely man. I love his Irish accent.’
The penny dropped and Sally blushed with pleasure. Uncle her foot. The dashing Sean must have taken an interest in her. Instinct told her not to mention it to her mother, who probably knew and didn’t approve.
Within a few days of leaving hospital she had settled back into the family’s routine. Her mother didn’t talk about visitors to the hospital and no cards or flowers from the charming Mr Flanagan were mentioned. Two weeks later, on a Monday morning, Sally appeared at breakfast dressed in a neat suit, a tailored cream blouse and smart high heels with pointed toes.
‘Surely you’re not going to work?’ exclaimed Emily.
‘Why not? I feel fine. What else am I going to do?’ Sally took her bowl of cereal off the sideboard and headed for her favourite armchair.
‘Don’t spill anything on that suit, dear,’ cautioned her mother. ‘You do look nice.’
‘I don’t see why you dress up so much when you just work for one of Daddy’s friends. You could get a proper job,’ muttered her sister.
‘What, like yours? Counting packets of grubby bank notes? At least I’m learning about our business.’
Yvonne’s job as a bank teller was regarded as an adequate pastime until she met the right man. Sally worked in the office of a stock and station agent who was also a leading auctioneer. It was an informal arrangement and there was little pressure on her, but Sally was efficient and they liked her affable manner with the clients. If she took time off for a hunt, there was no objection. Garth Mitchell and Sally’s boss were old friends and drank at their club together. Her job had been mutually arranged between them and it didn’t stretch her. She’d finished a secretarial course but knew she was only marking time. Until what, she wasn’t sure. Unlike Yvonne she wasn’t filling in time waiting to find a fiancé. No, there had to be more to life. She just had to figure out what it was and how to find it.
Garth poked his head out from behind The Christchurch Press. ‘Girls, a job is job. Make the most of the opportunity to meet people and save a little money. Leave your mother in peace. Shall we proceed with breakfast?’
The women took the hint, and breakfast was eaten in relative silence.
The sisters made the two-hour drive to Christchurch every Monday after spending the weekend at Ashford Lodge. During the week they stayed in the family flat in town. Both had cars, a luxury for girls their age, but this morning they were driving in with their father.
He dropped Yvonne outside the bank at eight forty-five, Sally walked into the stock and station agency at five to nine, and Garth drove on to see his accountant at precisely nine o’clock. This journey could have been a sociable time between father and daughters, but they travelled in silence so as not to interrupt the NZBC morning news, rural report and finance update. Yvonne read the newspaper her father had finished over breakfast, while Sally sat in the back seat wrapped in her own thoughts. Whatever was happening in Australia or the rest of the world rarely penetrated their cosy routine.
At lunchtime Sally walked down the street to the milk bar to buy a sandwich. She paused outside La Belle de Jour ladies dress salon to see what new garment was on the mannequin in the window. She sighed as she studied th
e mink cape draped over the shoulders of the blank-eyed model.
‘Now that would suit you very well,’ said a friendly voice beside her.
Sally turned at the sound of the soft brogue and saw the amused blue eyes of Sean Flanagan. He whipped off his hat and ran his fingers through his unruly curls. He was smartly dressed in a suit and she almost didn’t recognise him. He looked older and more sophisticated than in his hunting attire.
‘I’m pleased you’ve made a good recovery. I was worried I might have played a part in your tumble.’
‘No, not at all. These things happen.’ She looked at him. ‘You knew I was in the hospital?’
‘I did indeed. I visited you every day. Just like Sleeping Beauty you were.’
‘The flowers . . . they were from you?’ She didn’t say she’d never seen them, thank heavens the nurse remembered him and told her. But then, what girl wouldn’t recall such a good-looking visitor?
‘A small token.’ Neither mentioned that Sean had called himself her uncle. ‘Where are you off to? May I buy you lunch?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Sally’s boring Monday brightened.
He held out his arm, placed his hat at a rakish angle over his eyes, tucked her arm in his and they set off to one of his ‘favourite haunts’.
By the end of lunch there was a subtle acknowledgment of their mutual attraction. Sally felt light headed even though she’d only had two shandies with the meal. They’d shared some personal details, but he’d kept the conversation around their interest in horses and hunting.
Sally glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better get back. I’m half an hour late. My boss is very easy going, but I don’t want him to get cross.’
‘He might be worried, do you think you should call him?’ Sean glanced at the flushed and sparkling Sally Mitchell, thinking he’d love to spend the whole afternoon with her. Beneath her well-brought-up manner and politeness there lurked a mischievousness that hinted she’d have little compunction at breaking the rules on occasion.
