Free Second Chances by Charity Norman Page A

ego.’
    ‘Kit!’ squeaked Sacha, rolling her eyes. ‘You are so embarrassing .’
    ‘We don’t have any friends to impress,’ I explained sheepishly. ‘Not within twelve thousand miles, anyway. C’mon, Allan. Isn’t there anything a bit . . . I don’t know . . . older? Less, um, tidy ?’
    Kit pointed out of the window. ‘Like that, over the valley—see? Bit small, that one, but you get the idea. Those old weatherboard things.’
    ‘Ah. Yes. You’re looking at the traditional New Zealand construction method,’ said Allan, following Kit’s gaze towards a white wooden cottage wreathed in foliage. I bet there was a rocking chair on the front porch.
    ‘They’re lovely,’ I said.
    ‘They’re a pain in the backside. Millstone around your necks. You have to paint them every five years or the wood rots away. They’re draughty. Dark. No indoor–outdoor flow.’
    ‘They’re still lovely,’ I insisted. ‘Find me one of those.’
    ‘Sorry.’ Sacha smiled up at Allan from the floor, where she was tickling Charlie’s tummy. ‘Sorry to waste your time. My family are idiots.’
    Allan twinkled at her and rubbed his chin. ‘Okay,’ he mused. ‘I’m thinking . . . you need at least four bedrooms, ideally more, bit of land, some kind of space for Kit’s painting . . . and you’ll be working north of Napier, Martha?’
    ‘That’s right. Capeview Lodge.’
    ‘D’you mind living in the Wop-wops?’
    ‘The where ?’
    ‘The Bundu,’ said Allan, helpfully. ‘The back of beyond.’
    Finn had been watching the estate agent with goggle-eyed interest. If he stood very straight, the tip of his sticking-up hair was on a level with the man’s waistband. ‘Will I ever talk like him?’ he asked, jabbing a thumb.
    ‘No, silly.’ Charlie leaned down from Sacha’s lap, spinning a Dinky car across acres of concrete floor. ‘We’ll nevereverever sound like them. They talk in baby language.’
    Sacha yelped and clapped her hand over his mouth, but Allan bent to ruffle Charlie’s curls. I think he genuinely liked children. ‘There’s a Grand Old Lady with the acreage you’re looking for. It’s way up north, in tiger country. Much longer commute than I’d like, but you Poms are probably used to that, and it’s on a school bus route. Needs, erm . . .’ He faltered a little, looking for a euphemism. ‘Needs a bit of TLC. Home handyman’s paradise. Might suit you.’
    I grabbed the car keys from Kit’s pocket. ‘Lead on!’
    ‘It’s quite a long way,’ warned the estate agent.
    He never spoke a truer word. After a lifetime of following Allan’s truck down deserted country roads through banjo country I’d begun to doubt the man’s sanity. Perhaps we’d pushed him over the edge; he was leading us into the wilderness and a slow death. Maybe he was going to tie us all to trees and use us for target practice. The road meandered through landscape that was a little like Scotland, and a little like a Pacific Island, and a lot like nowhere else on earth. There was pine forestry with wisps of cloud rising like steam; there were ravines, and black cattle, and glimpses of rocky coast. I was groping for the map, last seen under my seat among two weeks’ worth of rotting chips and sweet wrappers, when Allan flicked an indicator and turned up a farm track.
    A rusting letterbox squatted by the gate. It proclaimed, in faded paint: 6001—Patupaiarehe. And in a different script, hawke’s bay today, which I knew was the local newspaper. It all sounded vaguely intrepid.
    We crossed the cattle grid with a satisfying rumble. Our people carrier— suddenly puny and low-slung—tilted unhappily, jolting as we negotiated boulders in the drive. Charlie, who’d taken off his seatbelt when we turned off the road, was bounced so high that his hair actually touched the roof. Allan’s rugged four-wheel drive crunched ahead, throwing up a festive swirl of dust. We ground our way uphill past grazing sheep, willows and stands