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  Jean hesitated before continuing cautiously. This was the first time Sean had shared his memories of the past and she knew it had been difficult.

  “How did you stay in the cottage with the man you thought had murdered your mother? Didn’t you want to kill him?”

  She saw an unfamiliar hardness travel over Sean’s face and instantly regretted her question.

  “Yes, I wanted to kill him. But he was doing that job for himself. I never really communicated with him after Anne went missing. I wondered, I hoped that as he got close to the end he would respect my mother enough to tell me where she was. Of course, that never happened.” Sean shook his head.

  “He went to his grave holding the last piece of control he had.”

  Jean looked up sadly. If she could have been granted one wish at that moment she would have asked that Anne’s remains would be found and the poor woman and her son could be let rest.

  She reached for Sean’s hand. “Thank you.”

  There is always a lesson left by those that went before. An example left to follow or a warning of where not to go. Be wise enough to know the difference and humble enough to listen.

  Chapter 5

  “Sean Clarke”

  Sean’s first priority was to clean up the foul odour of Allan Clarke that hung like a mouldy blanket in every corner of Shearers Cottage. He scrubbed and bleached the surfaces and walls that oozed the foul stale smell of sweat, urine and liquor, he repaired the surfaces broken in fits of rage, and he burnt not only the bedding but the bed itself, collected the bottles and opened the windows to blow the memory of Allan out of the tiny building.

  Larger changes were in the air for Twin Pines.

  “So you want to convert your cattle farm to lamb and wool?”

  Sean sat opposite Cliff in the Keane’s small kitchen that was dominated by a huge square oak table.

  “That old Ba….” Cliff trailed off as his wife, Dorothy cast him a warning glance.

  “Your father would be turning in his grave,” he laughed.

  Cliff had a reputation for being gruff and impatient, gained mainly after he had threatened local youngsters with a pellet gun when they made their annual visit to steal fruit from his orchard.

  Sean had spent the afternoon visiting the substantial Keane sheep property looking at their implement sheds and studying the efficient shearing shed and yards.

  “You would need to invest quite a bit of capital. It’s been awhile since I last visited Twin Pines but from memory you have nothing that will be of much use to you in your new venture.”

  Cliff hesitated before continuing.

  “I would imagine Allan left you very little by the time he passed away?”

  Sean smiled.

  “Some of the money he got from selling the lifestyle blocks went into developing Twin Pines. Unfortunately, much of it didn’t.”

  There was no need for Sean to explain further.

  “I am considering selling off the three thousand acres bordering you. It is on a separate title and would still leave me with just over five thousand acres. That would give me enough capital to get set up and enough land to operate with financial viability.”

  Cliff nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  “Well Sean, I would be very interested in putting an option on that land if you decide to go ahead and sell. If I can help in anyway or you need to know anything, give me a call.”

  Cliff looked thoughtful.

  “I guess you wouldn’t consider selling the ridge with the views? The one at the back of Twin Pines.”

  Sean smiled before answering.

  “James Ridge? No, that is part of the title I will retain. It would be wrong to let it go.”

  Cliff nodded his understanding. He continued after he had poured another hot steaming cup of tea for his young visitor.

  “We are running the Romney’s here. They do pretty well on the King Country. I am sure I can help if you want to purchase some good ewes or I can put you on to someone else when you are further down the track with the conversion.”

  Cliff’s wife put down her knitting needles. They had kept up a methodical clicking throughout their conversation.

  “You know Sean; it might be time to put a match to that old cottage of yours. I know it’s none of my business but it would be nice to see you moving forward. Some memories just aren’t worth keeping.”

  Sean looked up at the well-meaning face, open and friendly, a genuine woman showing genuine concern. It made him miss his own mother and feel the familiar ache of not knowing.

  Cliff pushed a piece of paper into Sean’s hand as he stood up to leave.

  “Here is the telephone number of a local builder. David is a very nice man with a reasonable charge out rate. He could design and build you a decent house you know. He would also be handy to bring on site when you start on that shearing shed of yours. He is very practical and has a farming background.”

  While Sean had been left with very little actual money to spend on the conversion to sheep and wool, Twin Pines itself had benefitted from years of hard work. The basic development was completed, it was clear of scrub and weed, the fences and access roads were in good repair and the pasture fertilised and well stocked with quality Angus cattle.

  The desirable, rolling, three thousand acre block Sean had decided to sell was never listed publically. Cliff purchased the land after obtaining an independent valuation and set about helping Sean stock Twin Pines with the best quality Romney rams and in-lamb ewes available.

  “David Hollingway speaking, how can I help you?” the voice rang out gruffly on the other end of the line.

  “Sean Clarke here from Twin Pines Station.”

  “Cliff said you would possibly be ringing. He said you needed a design and build on a shearing shed, yards, raceways and ramps. Is that right?”

  “And a house.”

  “I don’t do much of the farm building work anymore. But I spent most of my younger years farming sheep. What I can’t do, I can at least get organized for you. There are specialised builders now days, some good some not so good.” He continued, “Cliff said you were pretty handy yourself.”

  Sean had always been talented working with timber. Several of his macrocarpa tables and rustic seats had been sold locally and commanded very respectable prices.

  “I enjoy building tables and chairs, smaller items along those lines,” Sean replied modestly.

  As promised David Hollingway made a brief visit the following day.

  He was a large, efficient and friendly man with a brisk manner, ready smile and was always quick with a good humored but often inappropriate joke. When he laughed it seemed to come from the very pit of his generous belly.

  He had already sketched plans for the new shearing shed designed to minimise stress and time, comfortable shearers quarters that combined an area for workers to prepare and eat meals and a three bedroom brick and tile rectangular farmhouse typical of the structure constructed at the time. The house had a central hallway, large lounge and farm kitchen with a wet room at the rear entry so that dirty boots and coats could be shed without mess.

  Sean mulled over the plans. There was little he changed. David Hollingway was practical; exactly as he had been described.

  David Hollingway arrived in the early summer to supervise the foundations for the new farmhouse. Sean was busy cutting silage and hay for the winter stock feed. He had employed several local men to help with the labor-intensive job of picking up the smaller bales from the paddocks and stacking them neatly in the huge, old fashioned hay barn.

  Large, green, plastic wrapped bales, sweet rich piles of silage and massive round bales of hay were picked up by front-end loaders to be trucked away and stacked in neat rows. They would be used when the stock was low on feed and needed supplementing, or when snow fell heavily and the animals could not scratch out the grass from under the dense cover.

  By the middle of the summer the shearing shed was nearing completion and the past
ure was dotted with fat spring lambs running evening races through the rolling green pasture. It was a far cry from the years of turmoil that had once been Twin Pines.

  Chapter 6

  “Jean and Sean Clarke”

  The days were long and hot by the time the first shearing gang arrived at Twin Pines. They took up residence in the new shearing quarters on a Friday morning and by that evening the shiny new wooden slatted floor was stained with lanolin from the thick wool fleece.

  Rivulets of sweat ran down the faces and stained the backs of the transient shearers. They expertly removed the clean fleece with sharp blades appearing to work without hesitation despite the stifling summer heat. The fleece was then pushed down through the sheds portholes to the waiting hands below and the shearer moved on to the next animal.

  On the slatted floor below the fleece was taken from the chutes by the wool handlers. They sorted and removed any dirty fleece before pressing it into large brown bales ready for grading and sale.

  Other workers herded the sheep in the pens, whistling to control the movement of their dogs. Twin Pines was alive with the sound of thousands of bleating sheep, the whirl of clippers and the barking of working dogs with their pink tongues lolling as they jumped from one ewe’s back to the next. The occasional curse or the sound of good natured teasing broke through the sound of the organized chaos.

  Sean returned late in the afternoon. He had been fixing a fence that had been in need of tensioning for some time. He had also moved the dwindling herd of Angus cattle to new fresh pasture. They would soon be ready for sale, and beef prices were at an all-time high.

  As always, Sean saw to the dogs needs first. He gave them each an individual few minutes of attention, a full bowl of food and checked their water was fresh and cool. He wearily made his way past the stacked brown bales, pausing to sniff the unfamiliar odour that assaulted him in the now damp trampled yards.

  The workers sat sprawled across the linoleum floor. Each man was holding cold beer with several surrounded by empty bottles. The conversation paused briefly when Sean entered the building. He stood in the doorway enjoying the familiar aroma of fresh hearty stew. He remembered a time when his mother had stood at the coal range stirring bubbling pans of fragrant meat.

  A woman stood banishing a wooden spoon. She gave the impression of being in her mid-twenties although could have been much younger. She was tall and athletic. Her hair was wavy, unruly and the color of ash.

  She turned around suddenly, laughing and pointing the wooden spoon at one of the men, firing back a quick response to the light hearted teasing she had received from the shearers. A lock of uncontrolled hair fell over her sharp intelligent almond-shaped eyes. Sean’s gaze met their hazel depths. Her round honest face broke into an open genuine smile and she extended a calloused hand. Not the skin of a woman afraid of work.

  “Hi, I’m Jean Hollingway. My father, David, is building your house. He thought you might need a hand.”

  The shearing gang roared with laughter but neither Jean nor Sean were listening.

  Without question Jean arrived at Twin Pines to cook for the workers. Without complaint she slid easily into the routine. She made delicious pots of stew, mutton roasts, cottage pie with the leftovers, baked loaves of bread, scones and cold meat sandwiches all good hearty food to keep the tired men happy. She never asked for thanks, it wasn’t in her nature. There was a job that needed doing and a person that needed help, she was more than happy to give her time.

  When the shearing gang had moved on to their next job, Jean still turned up to help. She always carried sweet smelling treats and nourishing meals.

  As the framing for the new house went up Sean politely listened to Jean when she shyly made suggestions for the building.

  As the roof went on and the locals turned up for the traditional roof shout he paid attention when she made suggestions.

  As the bricks went on and the insulation was installed, as the walls were gibed and stopped, Sean listened to her suggestions and encouraged Jean to choose the wallpapers, carpet and drapes.

  The spring lambs and dry stock cattle were finished and ready for the pre- Christmas sales. They drafted the lambs into two lots, with the larger and heavier mob fetching a local record price for the season.

  The days shortened and autumn’s slight chill came on the breeze.

  Jean and Sean had found an easy familiar comfort in each other’s company. Jean no longer hesitated before speaking; she no longer spoke softly or spoke with any hint of shyness.

  It was in this first autumn that Jean put forward the idea of the large man-made ponds. Of creating rustic private places, established and planted to allow thought and rest, with no compromise to practicality or profit.

  Before the first spade turned the earth, she visualized the oaks, claret, elms and maples displaying their brilliant reds, gold’s and scarlet’s providing pleasure each and every autumn.

  Autumn was tupping, repairs and maintenance. They moved the dry stacks of macrocarpa, ti tree and pine firewood closer to the house in preparation for the bleak high country winter.

  It was in that first autumn that Sean had proposed to Jean.

  The King Country suffered a harsh winter. Stock was moved to higher ground as rivers raged and deep crippling snow seemed to be followed by relentless rain or gale force winds. The huge fireplace in the house was stoked all day to provide a welcome refuge from the conditions outside. Romance blossomed in front of the warm friendly flicker of that fire. They had been a couple from the very first time they met.

  With relief the end of winter approached and the ewes were brought in, vaccinated and crutched in preparation for spring lambing. The cycle was about to begin again.

  In the early summer of 1951 Jean and Sean were married in the small local chapel. There was no one in the Clarke family left to attend. The Saunders remained too deeply affected by Anne’s unexplained disappearance to celebrate the marriage of their only grandson. The jovial Hollingway’s filled the tiny room to witness the marriage and welcome Sean into his first real family.

  Chapter 7

  “Jean, Sean and Paul Clarke”

  In the plan of nature, a species survival relies on the nurturing protective environments into which the young are born. Why then, is it so often the couples most suited to parenthood, with the most well thought out plans and with the most to offer a child that have the most problems bringing new life into the world?

  The months faded to years. At last, just before Jean turned thirty years of age she tested positive for pregnancy. The couple sat beside the picturesque pond looking at the reds and gold of the leaves. The tree’s reflected on the surface of the still water as they sipped homemade lemonade and watched the dragonflies skimming across the shining silvered surface. This was their celebration.

  Five weeks later the couple again sat beside the reflective water of the pond.

  Already most of the spectacular leaves had fallen, leaving stark ghostly branches nude in preparation for winter. The dragonflies skimmed across the surface as Jean sobbed on her husband’s shoulder mourning the loss of their unborn child.

  Now in her mid-thirties Jean sat impatiently in the office of the local doctor. She had been vomiting for a few weeks and the constant nausea had pushed her reluctantly into town.

  “Jean,” the doctor repeated.

  “You are pregnant. And you are already into your second trimester.”

  “You must be mistaken. We decided not to try again after my miscarriage five years ago. Are you sure?”

  He smiled. He liked Jean and Sean Clarke and had always felt it was a pity they seemed destined to live without children of their own.

  “Yes, Jean, I am sure. You are definitely pregnant and we will want to monitor you carefully this time. Don’t go overdoing it. I know you are busy out there on Twin Pines and in the community. But you have to look after yourself and your baby. Even if that means others have to look after some of your work. OK?”


  They were both cautious as they greeted the news. Sean held his wife’s hand when she confirmed her pregnancy.

  “Do you want to go and sit down at the pond?”

  “No, I don’t want to celebrate until he is born.”

  “What makes you so sure that it is a he?”

  “I just am.”

  A universal sigh of relief greeted baby Paul as he entered the world, screaming to announce his arrival. Wrapped tightly to ward off the evening chill, Paul made his first visit to the pond when he was only one week old.

  If Jean was only to have one child it seemed nature had taken the very best of their features and traits and given them all to Paul.

  Paul towered over his peers as an athletic teenager. He inherited the Clarke’s broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes, his mother’s unruly mouse colored hair, the patience of his father, the intelligence and business sense of his grandfather and grand uncle and the humor of the Hollingways.

  He was one of those rare individuals that excelled at anything he chose to do. Sports, in particular, but he was also a high achiever academically. Paul was a natural leader and genuinely unaware of his good looks or popularity which seemed to make him even more attractive to the girls in the area.

  The one thing he did not seem to have inherited was the families’ obsessive love of Twin Pines. He enjoyed his upbringing, he enjoyed the rural life and working with the stock and the dogs, he loved dangling his line in the crystal clear streams and smoking fat rainbow trout in brown sugar and salt over manuka sawdust, he loved hunting and the clean crisp air of the mountains, but he knew Twin Pines didn’t hold the answer to all his long-term dreams.

  It was in the fifth form of high school that Leslie had come into Paul’s life. Demanding and spoilt, she skipped through college aiming to be the center of attention.