Read Online Huia Short Stories 10 by Tihema Baker - Free Book Online

to me, he stared down as I gazed up. About the same age as me, he was handsome, like some prince that had appeared out of the fairy stories I read to my brothers and sisters at night before they went to sleep. His hair was dark and curly and his skin a golden brown. Compared to my own anaemic complexion, which I hated and which was currently turning an unbecoming shade of red in the hot sun, he was magnificent.
    He smiled, ‘Want a ride?’ I nodded, and he held out a hand. I gripped tight and was hauled up behind him. I set the basket between us but was forced to hold him around the waist as we jolted along. I thought of what Mother would think or say if she could see me but then banished the thought. After all, it was her idea to send me walking all the way to town and back on such a hot day.
    â€˜Are you going to town?’ the boy asked and I nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see me. ‘Yes, I have to do an errand for my mother and drop off some biscuits to a lady who’s not well.’
    â€˜It’s a long way to walk just for some biscuits,’ said the boy. ‘Have you eaten any?’
    I was shocked that he would ask and in my coldest voice said, ‘Certainly not. They’re a gift and that would be dishonest.’ He laughed. ‘Only asking. My name is Henry, by the way. I live at the pa about three miles from your house. I see you sometimes with your family. You’re hard to miss with that red hair.’
    My outrage grew. First the biscuits and now he was talking about my hair. I was regretting taking the ride but it was too late now, and we were already approaching the outskirts of the town. ‘You can let me off here, thank you,’ I said, as though he had given me a lift in a fine carriage and not on the back of a saddleless horse.
    He pulled up, and holding the basket carefully, I let myself slide off the horse. Remembering my manners despite his rudeness, I said, ‘Thank you for the ride. I won’t be so tired now when I have to walk back.’
    â€˜I could wait and take you home, if you want,’ said Henry, but I shook my head. I could just imagine my parents’ faces if I turned up on the back of a horse, hanging on to a shirtless Maori boy. A whipping would be the least of my punishment.
    â€˜No, thank you. I don’t know how long I am going to be, and there may be some other business I have to attend to along the way.’ Of course there wasn’t, but the words sounded very confident and important, and Henry appeared to accept my excuses. He wheeled the horse around, raised his hand in farewell and galloped back the way we’d just come.
    I sighed, then hitching up my skirts, made my way along the final stretch of road that led into town and towards Mrs Anderson’s house.
    The town was busy that morning, and more than the usual number of drifters, drovers and farmers were present. I looked straight ahead but was still aware of the stares I elicited and tried to ignore the uncouth comments and loud whistles directed my way.
    Mrs Anderson lived in a white, two-storey house, surrounded by rose bushes that were rumoured to have been brought all the way from England. I walked up the path to the front door and knocked twice. Father always said you knocked once for luck and once to announce your arrival, and having had little practice at knocking on doors, I followed his advice. Soon afterwards, I heard footsteps, the door opened, and Mrs Anderson stood glaring at me. She was tall and thin and had a pinched look about her that made me think that no amount of malt biscuits would either fatten her or make her sweeter.
    â€˜What do you want, girl?’ she snapped, and for a second I was intimidated. Then I remembered what a long way I’d walked, the biscuits (untouched) in the basket and my mother’s letter. ‘Good morning, Mrs Anderson. I’m Elizabeth Murray. My mother says you’ve not been well and has sent these