Free Bride in Flight by Essie Summers Page B

words yet. You’ll know what he’s asking for.”
    Diverted, Rebecca began on family history, idiosyncrasies, and a few oddly old-fashioned ideas of her own on bringing up the family.
    They woke early. Geordie chased Kirsty to the bathroom. “I forgot to ask you last night. Have you got take-out teeth? If so, could I watch you scrub them?”
    Kirsty burst into such a peal of genuine mirth that Simon, in the kitchen, smiled broadly, opened the door to see what was going on.
    She was giggling madly. “I can think of much more exciting entertainments,” she said. “Sorry, Geordie,” she gave a tug at her top teeth, “they’re very firmly attached.” Simon watched them indulgently through the open door.
    “Nobody in our family’s got them,” said Geordie gloomily. “Yet both Brynnie and Mr. Brynnie have got them top and bottom.”
    “Never mind. Not all families are ideal.” Her eyes were dancing. “And while you’re here, just do your own and pop the brush in that bag, will you.”
    It was a blue and golden January day, cloudless and still. They drove right along Highgate and should have turned south at the Lookout Point fire-station. Instead Simon turned east, towards the sea.
    The children began to exclaim. He said: “You said your parents had lived at St. Clair just before your father went to the war, Kirsty. I thought I’d show you that much. You don’t happen to know what street, I suppose?”
    “Yes, I do. Why—”
    “We’ll let you have a peep at it. It isn’t as if we’re going right through to the Haast in the one day. You can hold hands with your childhood for about five minutes.”
    Kirsty looked away to hide the sparkle of tears.
    They swung into the suburb of Corstophine and a mile or two on, ran downhill to the street and found the house, an unpretentious bungalow in a small, neat garden. Kirsty could recognize it from old snapshots.
    She looked her fill, swept her eyes about to the view of the shore and White Island that her mother must have known so well, said, “Thank you, Simon.”
    “Do you want to go in, make contact with whoever lives there now?”
    “No, thanks. It’s too early. She might feel she ought to show me round and she might not even have the beds made yet.”
    As good an excuse as any. She dared not go in. Simon would accompany her. The woman would want to know her single name. She had told Simon Macfie. The woman would say, “There used to be Macphersons here.”
    An instant of almost unbearable nostalgia for her mother swept over her such as she had not known for years. Oh, to have those kind arms to run to, that wise philosophy help her rebuild her shattered world!
    It was good to have the three lively children in the car. No chance to brood. Mark was in a car-seat between Kirsty and Simon, the other two and the picnic baskets occupied the back seat. The tray at the back was packed floor to ceiling With their goods and chattels. Kirsty made up her mind to enjoy this adventure. She could do nothing about the situation in Australia. That was over to Gilbert’s wife.
    It was glorious country. They headed south through gentle rolling country, skirting the Taieri River and turning west in the Bruce County past Milton, running into closely-folded hills and valleys.
    Kirsty was fascinated by the inland, it looked as if some mighty upheaval had flung the land up, twisted it into range shapes and macabre images, hewn mighty chasms through solid rock for the Clutha River, peacock blue-green from its snow source lakes, to pour its magnitude out to sea.
    Every now and then they caught a glimpse of dazzling snows peaks far against the horizon ... and this in the hottest month of the year.
    “Do we get close to them?” she asked.
    “We go right through them. We come to their edge tonight where their snows melt into the lake basins.” Everywhere were sheep stations and fruit orchards, an area teeming with potential wealth yet looking so burnt and dry. They drove through