Sanchia's Secret. Robyn Donald
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only reason she could think of for the pump’s failure to deliver water was so scary she had to force herself out to the large, circular concrete tank behind the bach. Armed with the long-handled broom, she tapped from the top of the tank to the bottom, the same hollow clunk, clunk, clunk all the way down confirming her worst fears.
No water.
And, once she looked for it, the reason was obvious. The guttering around the far side of the bach had rusted away, diverting all the precious rain of spring onto the ground. Last time Sanchia had stayed she’d been using water that couldn’t be replenished.
‘Let’s not panic here,’ she said out loud. ‘It’s a nuisance, but it isn’t the end of the world. The electricity’s still on and the gas bottle’s more than half full. Buy some water.’
But she’d had the telephone disconnected. And she’d have to find out how much water cost; her bank account was too anorexic to be able to deal with more than a few dollars.
Of course, there was always her credit card.
‘So find out how much a tanker-load of water costs, Sanchia,’ she said aloud into the humid, unresponsive air.
Normally she’d have gone to the caretaker’s flat behind the big house and asked to use their telephone, but the prospect of meeting Caid again set her skin prickling.
All right then, she’d walk to the farm manager’s cottage.
After replenishing her sunscreen, she clapped on a wide-brimmed straw hat and set off for the Henleys’ house, a beautifully renovated old farmhouse a couple of bays along.
It took her half an hour—thirty minutes of watching nervously for Caid Hunter to gallop over a hill on a gleaming black stallion like something from a fairy story. Except that in fairy stories the prince always arrived on a white horse, she thought with a wry smile.
But then Caid was no prince, no romantic stereotype. In the world of fairy tales he might even be the villain—devious, impossibly handsome, a little brutal.
And determined.
‘Of course you can use the phone,’ Pat’s wife told her when Sanchia got there, hot and sticky and puffing slightly. ‘I’ll make some coffee while you’re doing it.’
She even gave Sanchia the number of the tanker owner, whose wife wasn’t nearly so welcoming. ‘Do you know how many people have used up all their water already?’ she asked wearily. ‘Brett’s working fifteen hours a day trying to keep up with the demand. Where did you say you are? Oh, Waiora Bay. Well, there’s no way we could get our tanker down that hill. The corners are too sharp.’
Sanchia felt sick. Without water she’d have to go back to Auckland. Until then she hadn’t realised how much she’d banked on this final holiday to give her some sort of closure. Compulsively rolling a pen back and forth, back and forth, she asked, ‘What about a small tanker?’
‘We haven’t got one,’ the woman said, marginally more sympathetic. ‘You could try Kerikeri—or even Kaitaia—but I don’t think either of them have one either, and they’re busy too. It’s been a dry spring and summer all over the north.’
‘I see,’ Sanchia said woodenly. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Look, I’ll take your number—’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a phone.’
From the kitchen Molly Henley called, ‘Give her our number, Sanchia.’
Gratefully Sanchia did so, and the other woman took it down, but warned, ‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘I know. Thanks very much.’
‘Bummer,’ Molly commiserated when she’d hung up. ‘Come and have your coffee while we work out what to do next.’
Things didn’t seem quite so bad when Sanchia was sitting out on the verandah with a mug of coffee in her hand, feet propped up on the balustrade, the sun pouring onto a sea as blue and tender as a Madonna’s robe.
Her hostess said practically, ‘Caid had a bore put in for us so we’ve got plenty of water. Wait until Pat comes back—he’ll work out some way of transporting it to the bach. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing since we saw you last.’
‘Just the usual,’ Sanchia said lightly. ‘What have you been up to?’
Molly embarked on a funny, racy overview of district gossip, then asked, ‘Have you seen Caid yet? He got in yesterday.’
‘Yes.’ Sanchia fiddled with the handle of her mug. ‘Is his mother coming?’
‘Haven’t heard. I hope so; I like her. She’s a bit stately—I think she finds us Kiwis really casual—but she’s lovely. And she always brings presents for the children; nothing expensive, just thoughtfully chosen. I suspect she wants grandchildren.’ Molly gave a comfortable laugh. ‘She might have a wait on her hands because Caid doesn’t seem ready to settle down yet. I know he doesn’t turn up much in the newspapers, but I did read a snip about him and a high-powered magazine editor last year, and did you see the photo of him with that film star? Leila Sherif? She looked besotted. I wonder if she’ll be here this summer.’
Repressing a snake-slither of jealousy, Sanchia said, ‘Perhaps.’ She had no right to be jealous.
‘She won’t if Mrs Hunter’s coming,’ Molly decided. ‘He doesn’t usually bring his girlfriends when his mother’s in residence. Rather old-fashioned and nice of him, when you think of it.’
‘He might be scared of her,’ Sanchia suggested frivolously.
‘Oh, for sure,’ Molly scoffed, laughing. ‘I can just see him shivering in his handmade shoes when she frowns at him. He’s no mummy’s boy. You didn’t know his father, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, Caid’s a real chip off the old block—tough as they come but fair with it. A good boss, although he gets his money’s worth. I suppose he’ll get married one day, but I doubt if it will be to please his mother.’
‘Not many men do that,’ Sanchia said drily, and steered the conversation to her hostess’s children, a topic Molly indulged to the full with a willing listener.
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