THE ROAD

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 543, 21 December 1928, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE ROAD

+ By

LUCIE WINN

™ HE road began outside Moyra's (&A&! sate. It _ began suddenly, springing into its clean whiteness from the dreary sweep of tussocks and clay and £T/. black sand. It hurried past the ' vSnSfTJ farm of Moyra's husband w f n t demurely through the ~" “ village, narrowed a little at the doctor s house and wandered on through sudden turmngs and little hollows till it disappeared over the hill many miles away Moyra loved that white shell road. It was the only thing m her life that had made her happy the only thing that had not failed her Her parents had failed her. They had been old, with little sympathy for her chUdish play ings. Her mother grumbled at the waste when she made a little doll from a peg, and her father scattered with a heavy, impatient foot, the little house she had built with tiny pebbles on the path. They made promises and broke them. They said. You be a good girl and do so-an-so and we will give you such-and-such,” and then they did not give her such-and-such. They frightened her by threatening to lose her in the hills at the back of the house—those sharp-ridged hills slowly smothering under black sand. And when her sloe-eyed, smooth-haired dark beautv attracted a few shy young men, they sneered and grinned .hem away. Then they died and left her alone on a poor, sandy fr.rm. And her husband failed her.' He was old too. She married him because she was young and forlorn, ana he had been her father's friend. But he had lived all his full, young days, and all he wanted was food and work and a warm place to sleep. He planted potatoes where she wanted to grow red geraniums and glowing marigolds, and he trampled mud over her carefully scrubbed floors. So Moyra turned to her road. She leaned over the gate and watched it day after day. She knew every inch of it to the doctor’s house, and the look of it, to the hill. She knew what it was like over the hill though she had not been there —her life with old people had not taken her farther than the village. Why she knew, she could not understand. Perhaps, because loving it so she had been along it so often in her dreams. She knew the white road curved gently down the far side of the hill. There was a little church on the left of it, shaded by big aspen trees, with straggling white tombstones creeping up to the old wood walls. Then there was a cottage with a bed of pink geraniums, and green fields as smooth as lawns, and straggling hawthorn hedges, and some more little houses, very new and white, with green front doors. Then the white road ran on alone for a while, clean and shining, with the briar roses marching along its grassy borders like babies playing at soldiers. But it soon caught up to more houses and suddenly it was no longer a little country bumpkin of a road but a smooth city street, edged by shops and theatres, and tea houses, where people laughed and sang and danced and were young and lovely to look at. Some day Moyra was going with the road—the only thing that had not failed her—along all its twisting white way to the happiness it promised her in the town, to the beauty none had given her yet, the laughter, the love, the sweet wholesome joy of living. But at present she was content to watch it, as she watched to-day, her arms folded on the gate, her chin on her arms. She saw the tinman come down the road in his old cart. She remembered with a little shock of surprise that it was six months since he had come. But it seemed like yesterday, so quietly and dully did one day slip into another. She went round to the kitchen for her purse when the tinman climbed gruntingly down with his hamper of shining wares. He spread his pots on her back door step and she bought a cake-tin because she had only ninepence. The tinman fishing in his pocket for a penny turned his little blue eyes to the hills. “My,” he said, stretching his leg and fumbling, “the sand’s drifted in a lot.” Moyra looked at the hills and saw them for the first time for many months, saw the slow ugly, merciless drift of sand. Her hands flew up as if the tinman was clutching her throat, for quite suddenly she saw something else—the slow ugly merciless drift of time over her. She was growing old. Soon it would be too late to go down the road to gather its promised beauty. Staring at the black sand, she knew she must go at once, and she spoke breathlessly to the tinman. “I’m coming with you.” " W-what ?” “Down the road.” “You want a lift?” “No, I want to go away with you—down the road. I want to see all the road. And there’s no body to go with, except you.” “You’re go-going to run away with me?” “Wait till I get my hat.” The tinman did not wait. He scurried out to his cart and packed his clattering pots. He looked dazed, a bit frightened, rather pleased. She was a good looker if she was a bit queer, and he had sampled her cooking. Moyra climbed up by him and settled herself among the pots. The tinman clucked sheepishly at his horse and they went along the white road through the village. The tinman burned under curious stares, but Moyra was serene and unconcious. Near the doctor’s house they met a man plodding home with a spade on his shoulder and a dog at his heels. He was slightly bent and his moustache was grey and straggling. Moyra reached across and pulled the reins, stopping the horse. “My husband,” she said to the tinman, and to her husband: “I’m going down the road." Her husband showed little surprise. “When will you be back?” “I’m not coming back.” “Haw! haw! haw!” The tinman, looking hurt, at his horse. Moyra’s husband called “You’ll come back, my beauty. Haw! haw! haw! You couldn't leave your old man.” When Moyra looked back he was plodding on with his dog and spade, jfihe tinman produced a newspaper packet, and opening it displayed large slabs of bread and cheese. He passed a chunk to Moyra. “Try that my dear.” Moyra took and bit into it with keen teeth. She was hungry and happy. They went serenely along the road. There was ho sound except the slow plod of the horse s hoofs and the crush of the wheels over the shell. Moyra munched her bread and cheese, and looked round with satisfied eyes, but she did not talk. The tinman found the silence a little embarrassing. He glanced sideways at her thick slice of bread and cheese with the neat half-moon bitten out of it, and seemed to find inspiration there. “Bread and cheese,” he said, “you can’t beat it when you're hungry.” Moyra munched on. The tinman tried a little humour. He opened his slices of bread, glanced at the cheese, and clapped them shut again. Then he peeped in cautiously and shook his head. “Got away.” He shaded his eyes and staring up the road whistled in amazement. “There she goes. Cripes, lively cheese all right!” Moyra was staring at a clump of pine trees. The tinman sighed and tried a little sentiment. He took a large bite, threw the last bit of crust on the road, and gazed at it. “Do you know,” he said, “I think you and me is going to get on real well.” Moyra looked at him with quiet eyes, mused • (Continued on last column of this page)