Tokoroa

Puzzled, she put the glass down. Nobody ever came to the hall door. When her girl friends came to visit, which wasn't often these days, they always came to the kitchen, and the local salesmen had long ago realized the futility of visiting this run-down farm at the end of a lonely road. It must be a stranger.

Janet eased the edge of the curtain to one side, and peeped through the gap.

Her heart gave a sudden lurch. The man standing on the porch looked like Peter. His back was turned, but he had the same long legs and trim rear and broad shoulders. If anything, this man's shoulders were even wider than Peter's. His hair was very short and curly, and a strange grey colour, and his clothes were a disgrace. His jacket and trousers were torn in several places, and they hadn't been ironed in years. He was covered in mud and great black sooty marks, and one or two crimson patches which looked like oozing blood.

Janet allowed the curtain to fall gently back into place. The shotgun was on top of the cupboards in the kitchen, out of the children's reach. Glass crunched as she stood on her toes to retrieve it. The two cartridges in it were old, but they were all she had. She thumbed off the safety, and ground more glass into the linoleum as she walked into the hall. He was tapping on the woodwork of the door, which she interpreted to be a knock.

"Who's there?" she called out.

The answer meant nothing to her. Balancing the shotgun upright in her right hand, finger poised over the trigger, Janet rotated the Yale lock with her left hand and pulled the door open.

The man was younger than she thought. His hair at the front was black, but his eyebrows and lashes had been singed off, and he was holding his left arm gingerly with his right hand.

"Please. I need help," he said faintly, and collapsed.

All thought of danger cast aside, Janet stood the shotgun in the corner of the hall, and knelt beside the stranger. He was breathing shallowly, and coughed once or twice, as if his lungs were congested.

She put her hands under his shoulders, and pulled him slowly into the hallway. He must weigh nearly two hundred pounds, but farm work had given her the strength to cope with such a burden. She'd never be able to lift him onto a bed, but she could probably make him comfortable on the living room couch. While she was trying to lift him, he recovered sufficiently to understand what she was doing. With the aid of his own efforts, she got him onto the couch, and slipped a cushion under his head. Then he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

There was an ugly bruise on his forehead, buried under congealed blood. His left arm looked a mess. Janet hurried into the bathroom for towels, a bowl of hot water and disinfectant, a pair of scissors, bandages and gauze and sticky tape. Peter had always insisted on a well-stocked first-aid kit in the house.

She cut the shirt sleeve away from the wound on his left arm, and gently cleaned it with disinfectant. He moaned once or twice as she dabbed at the raw, blistered skin. It was a bad burn, and needed professional attention. She squeezed antiseptic from an old tube onto a piece of gauze, and bound it in place with a bandage and tape.

His forehead was bruised, and the small break in the skin had stopped bleeding. Janet used the mild disinfectant to wipe the dirt and soot from the rest of his face. Cleaned up, he was quite handsome, even without his eyebrows. Janet carefully tucked a blanket around him, and stood back to take a better look.

They were probably about the same age, she decided. Good clothes, but not very well looked after. If he was married, his wife was a poor housekeeper. No ring on his finger, although that didn't mean very much these days. His one shoe was re-soled and well polished. Probably a professional. She sighed, and carried the remains of her first aid materials into the kitchen.

For the rest of the morning, she cleaned and scrubbed the kitchen, and did housework which had been left to slide for too long. Just before lunchtime, she took a pair of scissors and went outside into the garden. Neglected for years, there was little sign of the well-weeded flower-beds or the manicured lawns where she used to spread a crisp white cloth on the little folding table and have a summer picnic under the apple tree. She found a few self-set pansies and Michaelmas daisies growing amongst the weeds, and arranged them in an old vase on the kitchen table.

After a shower in the newly-scrubbed bathroom, she put on a bra and a light, low-cut summer dress. It was a bit tight around the waist and hips, but the overall effect surprised her. She hadn't put on as much weight as she thought. Her usual farm clothes just weren't very flattering. She switched on the radio, and even found herself humming a tune as she reddened her lips. She hadn't felt like singing for a long time.

She carried the radio into the kitchen, and looked in at her patient on the way. He was sleeping peacefully, and rather easier, she thought. He'd probably be hungry when he woke up, and she had enough eggs for a giant omelette. While it cooked, she slid some bread under the grill for toast.

At one o'clock, she was just scooping the omelette onto a serving plate when the news began. Practically the entire bulletin concerned a forest fire which was raging between Putaruru and Rotorua. Firefighters were devoting their efforts to containing the blaze on the northern side of the road. Arson was suspected. A car which hed been rented to a Kevin Wright, who had recently been dismissed by KFP, had been found close to the source of the fire. Police were anxious to interview Mr. Wright. Anyone knowing his whereabouts was requested to contact the nearest police station. His description followed.

Janet listened, with growing apprehension, as the announcer described the man lying on her living-room couch.

The shot-gun was leaning against the wall, in the entrance hall. The only way to get to it was through the living-room. She would have to walk within six feet of the man on the couch.

Janet's heart began to thump against her ribs. She leaned forward, and slowly turned up the volume on the radio. When it was loud enough to cover the sound of her movements, she stood up. Eyes riveted on the doorway, she stepped carefully across the linoleum. At the living-room doorway, she glanced towards the couch to make sure her visitor was still asleep. Her heart gave a lurch, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying out.

The couch was empty.

She shrank back between the doorposts, while she quickly scanned the living-room. The stranger had disappeared. Then a movement in the dim light of the entrance hall caught the corner of her eye, and her visitor walked into the living-room, carrying the shot-gun in his right hand. His harsh voice made her jump.