Call of the Kiwi Read Online Free PDF Page A

Kura-maro-tini’s farewell concert in Christchurch.
    “You were looking after that little girl, and I was a little jealous.”
    Jack looked at Charlotte incredulously. He had been almost eighteen at the time, and sh e . . .
    “I would have preferred to be playing with that wood horse and building a toy village with the Maori children to sitting still and listening to the music,” the girl admitted.
    Jack smiled. “So you don’t count yourself among the admirers of m y . . . strictly speaking, she’s my half niece.”
    Charlotte closed her eyes, revealing her long, honey-colored lashes. Jack was smitten.
    “Then again, maybe I wasn’t old enough,” she said. She opened her eyes and abruptly transitioned from polite chitchat to her thoughts on artistic representation. “Mrs. Martyn’s interpretation of her people’s heritage is not exactly what comes to mind when I think of the preservation of cultural treasures. ‘Ghost Whispers’ only makes use of that element of the culture that seemed to be of use to the singer to—well, to increase her fame. While Maori music, as I understand it, generally has a more communicative dimension.”
    Although Jack understood little of what Charlotte had said, he could have listened to her for hours. Elizabeth Greenwood turned her eyes toward heaven.
    “Enough, Charlotte, once again you’re giving speeches while your listeners politely starve to death. Charlotte stayed in England to attend college, Jack. She studied something to do with history and literature.”
    “Colonial history and comparative literature, Mum,” Charlotte gently corrected her. “I apologize if I’ve bored you, Mr. McKenzie.”
    “Just call me Jack,” he managed. He just wanted to go on worshipping the girl silently. But then his mischievous spirit shone through again. “After all, we’re among the few people in the entire world who don’t revere Kura-maro-tini Martyn. It’s a very exclusive club, Miss Greenwood.”
    “Charlotte,” she said, smiling. “But I did not mean to diminish the accomplishments of your half niece. I had the pleasure of hearing her again in England, and she is certainly a gifted artist. As far as I can tell, that is. I’m not very musical. What bothers me is how myths are being taken out of context and the history of a people reduced to, well, banal love poetry.”
    “Charlotte, offer our guest a drink before we eat. George should be arriving soon, Jack. And perhaps our Charlotte will attempt somewhat more comprehensible conversation. If you keep ranting like that, my dear, you’ll never find a husband.”
    Charlotte led her guest into the neighboring salon, and offered him some whiskey. He declined.
    “Not before sundown,” he remarked.
    Charlotte smiled. “You do look like you could use something strong. Maybe some tea?”
    When George Greenwood arrived a half hour later, he found his daughter and Jack McKenzie deep in animated conversation. At least that’s how it looked at first glance. In reality, Jack was simply stirring his cup of tea and listening to Charlotte, who was telling him about her childhood in an English boarding school. If English boarding schools produced such angelic beings as Charlotte, nothing bad could happen to Gloria.
    “And your ‘artistic-creative’ development?” Jack asked.
    Charlotte furrowed her brow charmingly.
    “We painted a little,” she said. “And whoever wanted to could play piano or violin.”
    “I don’t think the girls at Oaks Garden are denied a musical education,” George Greenwood interjected. “I have no doubt that the Martyns will put a very different emphasis on their daughter’s education than we did.”
    Jack looked at George Greenwood, confused. He made it sound as if English schoolgirls were forcibly dragged to the piano.
    “These boarding schools aren’t all alike, Jack,” George continued. “Some are little more than finishing schools with a touch of literature and art. Others offer girls