Call of the Kiwi (36 page)

“We won’t really be safe until we’re in Auckland,” Ben said.

“Yes, a big city would be good. Come on, with a little luck we’ll soon be on the train to Blenheim.”

The rest of the journey to Christchurch proved more of an adventure. Although a few farmers took them part of the way on their wagons, they did not reach the city until evening when it was already dark. Ben pleaded for them to take a room somewhere, but Lilian hesitated.

“I’ve been here before, Ben. Someone might recognize me. Maybe not by name but as a relative of my grandmum. We look quite alike. And this is George Greenwood’s town. If he makes inquiries, he’ll be on our trail.”

“And what does the Brigand Queen suggest?” Ben asked sourly.

They ended up at the freight depot on a load of sheepskin. In the shed next to them a herd of cattle waiting to be transported provided additional warmth—as well as the penetrating stench of dung and urine.

“Yesterday we looked like coal miners; tomorrow we’ll stink,” Ben complained. “What’s next?”

Lilian snuggled into his arms. “Ben, it’s romantic. This is our love story. Think of Romeo and Juliet.”

“They killed themselves,” Ben remarked grumpily.

Lilian giggled. “See, we’re doing better than they did,” she said before yawning and closing her eyes.

4

P
eople shied away a bit from Ben and Lilian when they sat down on the train to Blenheim the next morning. Although the stench of cattle dung had dissipated, the lanolin scent of the wool clung to their clothing. Lilian did not care, as it gave them more space at the window. Though not as lovely as the path through the mountains, the coastline was a mesmerizing mix of snow-white beaches and cliffs that fell steeply into the sea.

The journey took almost all day, and when the train pulled in, they were too tired to think of any maneuvers to cover their tracks. They agreed to take a room in an inn instead of looking for a new hiding place to sleep.

“We’ll be on the ferry tomorrow anyway; after that it won’t matter,” Lilian said, leaning into Ben as they left the train station arm in arm. “Only you can’t blush when you introduce me as Mrs. Biller. Otherwise people will think we’re lying.”

They decided on a small, clean hotel. Though it was a splurge, both of them tacitly assumed that this would be their wedding night. Ben paid with his father’s money, which put quite a dent in their reserves. Add the ferry and maybe a night in Wellington and his money would be gone. Lilian was less concerned. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she produced her own savings in the amount of three hundred dollars. Unlike Florence Biller—who viewed Ben’s work as a contribution to the family fortune—Tim Lambert had always paid his daughter for her work in the office. And although Lilian had spent a small fortune every month on stationery, perfume, volumes of poetry, and romantic novels, she had managed to stash some away under her mattress.

“My dowry,” she proudly declared. Ben kissed her and then together they inspected the room with its wide marriage bed and the bathroom, which was dominated by a giant claw-foot tub.

“We can both fit in there,” Lilian laughed.

Ben blushed. “I don’t know, if, is that proper?”

“Nothing we’re doing here is proper. And we’ve already taken our clothes off once. There’s no difference between here and Arthur’s Pass—except that the water here is warm.”

The last of their inhibitions fell away in the hot, perfumed water. They washed each other’s hair, and rubbed soap on each other’s bodies—and this time Lilian did not complain about the size of Ben’s sex. Before they drowned while attempting to consummate their relationship, they climbed out of the tub and ran to the bed. Ben dried them off, and they began a second attempt.

Neither of them really knew how to proceed properly, but after some initial discomfort for Lilian, they finally succeeded in their act of love, and ecstasy carried her past the pain. Afterward, they laughed and cried with happiness, curled up in each other’s arms.

“So that was right, wasn’t it?” Lilian whispered. “A little blood is normal. At least that’s what the girls in my boarding school said. It’s just a good thing that we’ll be gone tomorrow before the maid comes, otherwise we’d definitely have to pay for the sheets. I’m ravenous. Shall we order room service?”

Between the late dinner and an opulent breakfast the next morning, they squandered most of the rest of Ben’s money but agreed to save on their real wedding in exchange. On the ferry that day they were so happy they were practically floating. While other passengers groaned with seasickness, Lilian and Ben tried to take a stroll about the deck, laughing hysterically over the boat’s rocking.

When they reached Wellington, they boarded the night train to Auckland. Lilian dreamed of a sleeping car, but that would have demolished their entire budget. So she slept through the first night of their journey in her seat, curled up close against Ben’s shoulder. Ben hardly dared stir. He still could not entirely believe that fate had sent him this girl. As the train crossed the North Island, he composed new poems in his mind.

After a day and another night on the rails, they reached Auckland in the first light of the rising sun. Lilian suggested they begin looking for an apartment right away and began asking at the train station.

“Look around the west side of town,” the stationmaster advised them, “unless you’re richer than you look.”

“Where’s the university?” Ben asked.

Following his instructions, they made their way toward campus, basking in the tepid breeze and warmth of the subtropical city.

“Palm trees,” Lilian gaped, “and giant kauri pines. Everything’s bigger than back home!”

After the ornamented buildings in Cambridge and Oxford, Ben found the university a bit disappointing. Tired and hungry, but also exhilarated from the initial success of their adventure, the pair roamed through the streets around the campus waiting for the registration office to open.

Lilian waited patiently while Ben laid out all the documentation of his previous studies. It looked like they would accept him with open arms. The university wanted to develop its Maori studies program, and a student who had graduated Cambridge would only enhance the department’s status. The students who worked in the office provided Ben with the names and addresses of all the professors in the department, handed him a course catalog, and advised him to come back around midday.

Lilian then broke in and asked about lodgings. She was exhausted—though not opposed to repeating their wedding night before going to sleep. For both things, however, they could not do without a bed.

“We have a list of renters,” one of the men said doubtfully, “but most of them are private rooms intended for young, single men. A few ladies take in girls too when their references check out. But a married couple? I don’t know.”

Lilian and Ben spent the next several hours walking the streets without success. None of the renters would open up their apartments to a couple.

“No, no, dearies, there’s two of you now, but in a year there’ll be little ones if one’s not already on the way. And then I’ll have my retirement filled with screaming babies.”

“Will there be little ones in a year?” Lilian asked flirtatiously as they stepped back onto the street.

Ben looked at her, shocked. “It’d be a little early, don’t you think?” That said, he had no idea how it might be avoided. “So what are we going to do now?”

They followed the stationmaster’s suggestion and headed west of the university district to a neighborhood inhabited by artisans and laborers. The first two apartments with “For Rent” signs in the window were located above a carpenter’s and a baker’s. Lilian’s mouth watered at the scent of fresh bread. Yet the renters were not enthused about renting to a young couple who had no work and only lofty dreams.

“How do you intend to pay the rent?”

Sobered, they continued on. As they approached the docks, the houses began to look dingier. They eventually came upon a sign in the window of a sleazy-looking pub. The apartment that was advertised was nothing more than a large room with a kitchenette and a bathroom down the hall.

“In the evening it can get a little loud,” admitted the landlord. “And the furniture, well, I had to kick the last tenants out. No-good riffraff.”

The furniture was filthy, smeared with sticky liquids, and the last residents’ dirty dishes were still in the sink. Ben made a disgusted face when he saw maggots on them.

“Take your time looking around. Just don’t take anything with you,” said the landlord before returning to the pub. Not that there was anything worth stealing.

“It’s a rat hole,” Ben said.

“But it’s cheap,” Lilian said. They would be able to live there for months on her money. “Sure, it’s a little run-down, but it’ll do. You are, after all, a poet, an artist.”

“You mean it’s going to rain in here too?” Ben thought about Spitzweg’s painting
The Poor Poet
.

Lilian laughed. “Come on, it has character. That has to inspire you.”

“It’s a rat hole,” Ben repeated.

“If we clean it thoroughly and buy some more furniture, it won’t be that bad. Besides, we’re not going to find anything else. Let’s take it. After all, we still need to buy a bed today.” Not even Lilian could whitewash the stained mattress and decrepit bed frame.

A few hours later they had given the room a good scrub and at Ben’s urging treated the floor and walls with a generous quantity of anti-pest powder. After acquiring a used bed that had seen better days, they finally repeated their wedding night in their own home. In the pub below, it began to get rowdy. “A little loud” proved to be quite an understatement. Raising a child there—the remark of the landlord on Princess Street had not left either of their heads—would be out of the question.

Lilian and Ben agreed not to let it come to that, albeit without taking any actual measures to prevent it.

“The question isn’t whether we
can
find them. It’s whether we
want
to find them,” remarked George Greenwood.

Even without making rigorous inquiries of all the passengers, it would not have been difficult for him and the Lamberts to pick up Lilian and Ben’s tracks and follow them to the ferry at Blenheim. The only difficulty was the first leg of their journey—it took almost two days before Florence Biller was willing to cooperate enough to investigate the transportation out of the Biller Mine. The ticket salesman in Christchurch remembered Ben right away. From Blenheim it became even simpler.

Tim Lambert was beside himself when he heard about their staying overnight in a hotel in Blenheim. Elaine bore it more calmly.

“Dearest, what did you expect? At least we know they took the ferry from Blenheim and they’re on the North Island. We should inform the Billers.”

“Florence probably already knows all this. She could have figured out everything we have.”

Not as easily as George Greenwood, however, whose firm had branches in practically all of New Zealand’s larger cities. And as it happened, the Billers had undertaken no measures to that effect. Florence appeared determined simply to forget her unfilial eldest son. Only Caleb accepted Tim’s invitation to a meeting.

“I’m convinced that my son has no dishonorable intentions,” he said with slight embarrassment to Elaine after they had all exchanged greetings.

Tim gave an angry snort.

“I’m sure he didn’t need to use force to carry my daughter off,” Elaine said, smiling, “but let’s stick to the matter at hand, Caleb. Nobody’s making accusations. The question is merely how to proceed from here.”

George Greenwood nodded. “As I said, we know they’re on the North Island, and we can assume that they’ve located to one of the bigger cities. Probably one of the university towns—after all, it’s unlikely your son has hired himself out as a shepherd or signed up to work with a coal mine, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Biller?”