“Thank you,” said Roberta in a small voice.
“You only arrived yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“From New Zealand. That’s a long journey. What part of New Zealand do you come from?”
“The South Island. South Canterbury.”
“Then you know the McKenzie Country?”
The scent of sun-baked tussock, of wind from the tops of snow mountains, and the memory of an intense blue, visited Roberta’s transplanted heart. “Have you been there?” she asked.
“I was there four years ago.”
“In the McKenzie Country? Tekapo? Pukaki?”
“The sound of the names makes the places vivid again.” He spoke for a little while of his visit and like all colonials Roberta rose to the bait. Her nervousness faded and soon she found herself describing the New Zealand Deepacres, how it stood at the foot of Little Mount Silver, how English trees grew into the fringes of native bush, and how English birdsong, there, was pierced by the colder and deeper notes of bell-birds and mok-e-moks.