Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Heartland (12 page)
At number 37 Miro, in the big house behind the macrocarpas, Roe McAneny, two bright spots on her cheeks, speaks to her sisters. They are seated, all three, at the polished dining table which presides in the living room. This room, seldom used because of its gloomy light and the dominating presence of the too-large table, has, nevertheless, a formality which Miss Roe feels befits the importance of what she is about to say.
Delia stares out of the one tree-shaded window, her mind elsewhere. Aureole strokes the rich mahogany, which she polishes every morning, her long bony arms sweeping over the already gleaming wood. This was her task as a child back in Auckland and has remained so. Roe, older by eleven years, has taken on the authority of their mother, along with an iron will of her own. She sees it as her duty to keep her hare-brained younger sisters on the narrow path of righteousness. This
includes a daily regime of cleaning (whether the surfaces need the attention or not), washing (the same applies) and Bible reading.
This evening, the simple meal and Bible reading over, Roe is about to lay down the law. Shortly after lunch, Donny came over to inform them that the dreadful woman, mother of the bastard child, has disappeared. He asked whether his great-aunts might look after the child while he attended his rugby game. Roe, who happened to be awake at the time, sent him packing with a flea in his ear.
‘We may be your great-aunts’ (she has conceded this by now), ‘but we are old ladies, not a nursery service. You must find your own way in this life, as we have, Munroe. You must consider whether your duty lies to your child or to a game.’
Donny, looking tired and dispirited, had mumbled an apology and carried the sleeping baby away before Delia could intervene.
Now Roe taps her stick on the floor for attention. Neither sister will look at her. ‘This nonsense must stop,’ she says. ‘You are playing games with a newborn life. Our great-nephew is incapable of caring for the baby.’
Delia clears her throat at this, but continues to gaze out the window.
Roe frowns. Delia’s lack of attention is becoming irritating. ‘Now is the time,’ she continues, ‘for Munroe to relinquish any right to it; now is the time for us to withdraw our assistance so that he may come to what good sense he may possess.’ Roe draws breath. ‘A firm approach will be the kindest in the long run.’
Neither of the younger sisters responds.
‘Delia, are you listening?’ The red spots on Miss Roe’s cheeks have taken on a darker hue.
‘Not really. No, I can’t say so.’ Delia has been thinking about the screams in the night; Donny’s return to his house in the dawn light; his news that the mother has taken off. Her thoughts are disturbing. ‘I think I’ll have an early night,’ she says, rising.
‘We will not take care of the baby anymore.’ Roe is speaking to Delia’s back. ‘Do you understand?’
Delia’s voice echoes in the dark corridor. ‘You can’t really stop me.’ It’s not a defiant speech, simply a stated fact.
‘Oh!’ Aureole’s hands flutter in all directions — into her hair, plucking at the loose silk of her dress.
‘This is not funny, you silly ninny.’
Aureole glances at Roe, but even the sight of her sister’s furious face can’t quell the nervous giggles. She too opts for an early night, leaving Roe alone in the dark room. The old lady, dressed head to toe in black — an unswerving habit since she reached the age of fifty — sits with her hand resting on the family Bible where, on the fly-leaf, the names of her two older brothers have been crossed out. She looks up at the photograph of her mother and father — stern faces staring into the middle distance. She feels a shift as if there’s a small earthquake and grips the Bible more firmly, but whatever it is passes.
She stands with difficulty. It seems as if tonight she will have to make her own way, unassisted, to bed. Weak tears drift down her soft old cheeks.
Donny had always thought of the Virgin as a sort of human stray cat, much like the ferals which live and breed under some of the abandoned houses in Manawa. When she moved into the derelict house down the road, he had walked over to say hello and offer some of his potatoes. She had been sunning her large belly on the back veranda; had startled and frozen to see him stumping down the path. She looked so frightened that he stood stock still, as he would in the face of a fearful animal. In the next moment she had risen, wrenched open the back door and disappeared inside. Donny had placed the potatoes quietly on the porch and left without a word.
After that, he often left his spare veges on her porch and sometimes received a thank you, but the Virgin never invited him in. Once, when he suggested she might like to come and watch TV with him, she shook her head and made a rude face. For Donny, who is naturally friendly, this was a sign that she didn’t want to be his friend. He gave up trying to coax her. Then, of course, he was away for six months doing his time.
Apart from those awful hours two nights ago, Donny has
never seen the Virgin in his own property. He suspected, back before he went to prison, that she might have been sneaking in when he was at work, but she never left a sign. So he’s surprised when, on the Sunday after the bad night, she knocks on his back door. She stands there, Sky in a sling around her shoulder, a reasonably fresh petticoat over the black jersey and leggings, a scowl on her face. Donny doesn’t want to let her in. Doesn’t want to be reminded. But she steps in anyway and bangs the door closed behind her. She looks around.
He stands by the kitchen table, watching her nervously. Is she checking whether he’s cleaned up properly? Or to make sure he’s looking after Manny? He moans. Thinking about Manny makes him sick with fear.
‘Nice place,’ says the Virgin. But her face doesn’t look as if she thinks so. Her hands are shaking as she unties the sling and lays Sky on the floor near the heat from the wood-burner.
Donny swallows. He’s desperate for her not to bring up anything about the other night. ‘I’m just cooking an egg and stuff. Do you want some?’
‘Yes.’ She sits by the fire. ‘Thanks.’
In a sudden rush which startles Donny, she delivers what she has come to say. ‘I could be your nanny. I could look after the baby when you go to work.’
Donny stares at her with open mouth. She stares back, her dark mascara-eyes fierce. Donny can see something else in those eyes — something bruised and hurt, an animal look.
Suddenly she grabs her baby and makes for the door. ‘Okay, stupid idea, fuck off then.’ And she’s gone before Donny can gather his wits.
‘But …’ he says to the open door. A gust of cold air slams it.
‘But,’ says Donny again, beating his fist on the table, wishing he could think in a hurry. He can do it when he’s playing rugby. But the Virgin is too quick for him, too edgy.
Little Manny is awake, just lying there; soon he’ll need a feed. But Donny makes the eggs and baked beans first — enough for two — and leaves them on the top of the
wood-burner
to keep warm. Then, trusting the baby to wait a moment more, he runs over to the Virgin’s. He knocks on the door and walks straight in. She’s huddled by the open range, maybe crying.
‘Your eggs are ready,’ he says, ‘and I think the nanny idea is great, but I got to go back and feed Manny.’
She won’t look at him.
‘Come on over or they’ll get cold.’
He runs back across the road. Jeez, he thinks, why is she so touchy? It’s only me.
She follows him, though, stepping behind him, the sleeping Sky in her arms. They eat their food at the table, Donny cradling Manny with one arm while he forks the beans in. The Virgin eats in silence but glances at him now and then, waiting for him to say something. It gives Donny a good feeling, her waiting for him to talk about it. Mostly people tell Donny what has to be done.
‘How old is your one?’ he asks.
‘Six months.’
‘What is it?’
‘A girl. Sky.’
‘Jeez, that’s a funny name.’
‘It was that or her star sign. But Sagittarius was too long.’
Donny grins. ‘Saggy wouldn’t sound too great. Mine’s Emanuel after my granddad, Manny.’
There’s a silence again. The Virgin scrapes the plate clean with a piece of bread. Donny’s pleased to see that. She likes his cooking.
He speaks carefully, not wanting to set her off again. ‘Wouldn’t that be hard, looking after them both?’
She shrugs. ‘I could do it.’
Donny smiles at her. ‘I reckon you could. You’re a pretty fierce mother.’
She won’t exactly smile back but there’s something there that says she wants to. There’s also something bothering Donny which has to be said. ‘Actually I can’t afford a nanny. My pay is pretty small.’
She nods. ‘I don’t need pay. But would your money feed all of us?’
They talk seriously about practical things like enough firewood to keep the wood-burner going all day (not really a problem, as Donny cuts and dries his own and can do more), about soap powder for extra washing. Donny enjoys this kind of planning. He explains how he sometimes takes home the stuff they throw out from the deli at New World, saying it’s to feed the dog. Everyone knows it’s for him — several others do it too — so Donny thinks they can eat pretty well, with his garden and Vera’s chooks on top of that.
‘You wouldn’t have to pinch from the townies anymore,’ says Donny, grinning at her.
There’s a silence and then the Virgin grins back. Her first. ‘How d’you know that?’
‘Everyone knows. And Vera knows you take her eggs. Mr Kingi knows about the carrots. They don’t really mind.’
‘Bloody hell.’
She looks so crestfallen, like a child found out, that Donny asks, ‘How old are you, Virgin?’
‘Sixteen. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three. I can look after you.’ He says this with pride, believing it.
She stands at that. ‘I’m not moving in or anything. Just looking after him when you’re at work.’
‘Yeah, that’s sweet.’
After Nightshade, Donny doesn’t want anyone moving in. But he can make sure everyone has food and a warm fire for the coming winter. Maybe she’ll watch TV with him after work.
‘If you be the nanny, looking after him while I’m at work, then I don’t reckon they would take Manny away?’
‘Who says they could do that?’
‘Someone.’ Donny doesn’t want to say Nightshade’s name.
‘Let them just try. I’d scratch their eyes out.’
Her tiger’s face and clawing fingers make Donny laugh out loud. She laughs too. Then, as if at a sign, they both stop. Donny coughs. The Virgin picks up her baby. Donny knows she’s thinking about it too. Neither has spoken a word about Nightshade, buried in the spare section across the road, but the thought is suddenly huge in the kitchen, taking up all the air, beating them down, undermining their plans.
‘What time shall I come across?’ whispers Tracey.
Donny tells her, and she goes, quiet as a shadow, back to her squat.
It was the townies, of course, who thought of an exhibition. It wouldn’t have entered the heads of any of the locals. Bull Howie, being a lace exhibiter himself, was mildly sympathetic to the idea, but to the rest of the real inhabitants of Manawa an exhibition was a typical wacky ski-season idea — the sort of plan rich people dream up when they’ve no real work to do.
The weather turned nasty, that was the trouble. The mountain was closed for a whole week during the school holidays. A couple of frustrated mothers, holed up with six fractious children, decided an art competition in the old hall would be a useful — a
creative
— diversion.
The hall, like much of Manawa, is semi-derelict. Though unpainted and decrepit on the outside — tank rusted through, guttering in shreds — the inside is a marvel of glowing tongue and groove — rich rimu on the walls, totara running diagonally
over the whole arch of the ceiling. This hall was the heartbeat of the town back in the twenties — crowded Saturday dances, school fairs, band practice, weddings and political meetings. Now film companies occasionally use it when an authentic old interior is called for. The ski-mothers thought it would be splendid to bring life back to this historic hall with a local exhibition.
Vera fishes out the leaflet, delivered to every house in Manawa by the organising committee. ‘Open to all residents of Manawa,’ she reads. And lifts her eyebrows. None of the locals would dream of putting brush to paper. ‘Prizes for best watercolour, oil and photograph. Special children’s section. Prominent Auckland artist to present the awards!’ She snorts. ‘What next, Bull? Why don’t they just go home if they can’t think what to do.’
But Bull is interested.
‘We could take a quick look — some quiet morning while they’re all up the mountain. I fancy a nice landscape over the fireplace.’
‘If you want landscape, Bull, get that print of the mountain from the
Ruapehu Bulletin
. Bill’d frame it for you.’
‘I could, I’ve thought about it, but paint is different.’
‘Different’s right. I wouldn’t give you tuppence for anything those gin-and-tonic-set floosies would paint.’
‘Now Vera. At least come with me. You can jeer all you like when you see them.’
Vera knows he won’t go without her. She sighs. ‘Well, we’ll see. If it’s fine. If the mountain’s open.’
Vera is prepared to have a good laugh, to be disgusted even. What she sees is far worse.
Quaint picturesque old Manawa is the favoured subject. Never the skiers themselves, oh no — their smart houses or the bustle of Ohakune. The mountain is there, naturally, in almost all the pictures, but always with some decaying view of Manawa in the foreground. The old shed across the railway line, its roof collapsing in on itself; the decaying house George Kingi uses for storing hay. And Vera’s place! Three paintings of it, all made to look worse than it is. Far worse.
When Bull notices, he tries to steer her away. ‘This is a good one, Vera! Horses aren’t easy.’
But her eye has caught them and she has to look.
There in gaudy greens and reds, nothing like real colours, is Vera herself, army greatcoat dragging, hair bedraggled, stooped and crabby, wheeling the dinner down to Bull’s. Another Vera stands like some wrinkled hairy carrot in her own garden, the house falling apart behind her. She’s the figure in a landscape (
second prize, adult watercolour
), an eccentric witch, gathering greens for the chooks on Dreadnaught Road.
The photograph section is even worse. Images shout from the wall.
Manawa Identity in Garden; Old Lady and Pram; Echoes of the Past
(the front part of her house which she never uses now);
Conversation
(she hadn’t been conversing with the donkey, anyone could see that, she was shouting at it to shut the hell up);
Recycling, Manawa-style
(a blown-up image
of Vera, rain streaming off her oilskin, shovelling horse shit off the road and into a bucket — for pity’s sake, what was interesting in that?).
Bull tugs at her arm, but she stands there. Photos don’t lie: she has to accept that. This is what she actually looks like. Her hair. Her lumpy old face. Her good old home. They all think she’s barmy, dirty, different from everyone else.
Bull tries to laugh it off.
‘Well, Vera, looks like you’re famous!’
She shakes off his gentle touch, walks outside without a word. She looks right and left at the open expanse of the road and then, leaving Bull to cope on his own, walks into the trees, climbs a fence and tramps home the back way over George’s paddock. How dare they? It’s her place, her Manawa, not theirs. Taking photos on the sly. Putting her on the wall without ever asking.
Vera slams her back door and stays inside all day. George Kingi sends Lovey across to see if she’s still alive, and when Vera shouts, ‘Go to hell!’ he respects the sentiments and leaves her alone.
When the chickens need feeding, she inspects the yard from the kitchen window before venturing out with the tin of mash. Anyone skulking with a sketch-pad or camera will cop a good handful of warm, wet chicken food.
By Saturday afternoon, though, the perfect weather, the absence of skiers, tempts Vera out into the garden.
‘You’ve got to get over this, my girl,’ she says to herself, bending over the rich earth. ‘It doesn’t matter what a bunch of townies think.’
But later, while she’s having her afternoon tea, there’s a knock on the front door and Vera feels her heart thud with apprehension. No one knocks on that door — it doesn’t open properly. She ignores the knock, reads the racing tips in the
Wanganui Chronicle
.
Light footsteps come around the side of the house, and Vera sighs, waiting for it. Another knock on the back door and a confident little voice: ‘Is anyone at home?’
Vera opens up and stands there, hoping she looks forbidding.
‘Hello, my name’s Fiona, I can’t go up skiing today so I’m doing my holiday project for school,’ says the girl all in one breath. ‘It’s a character sketch and Mum said why don’t I interview you, would you mind?’
‘I would mind,’ says Vera firmly, and adds, because the child is polite, ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh … It wouldn’t take long …’
‘Off you go.’
‘Only you’re different than Mum and Dad and your house is so amazing!’
Vera wants to slam the door. She can’t hold back the anger. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to be in your project. I don’t want to be pinned up on your school wall as some old crazy you happened to come across on your fascinating ski holiday! Now hop it, fast. No means no!’
The girl’s face goes wide with fright. She drops her paper and runs for it.
Grimly Vera picks up the pad, marches around to the front gate and leaves it there in full view so no one need bother her again. Back inside, she beats her good old gardening hands
against her sides to stop them shaking. But even before Vera’s heart has slowed to a decent pace, there are new footsteps, crisp and purposeful, crunching down the path.
The woman at the door wears lime-green stretch ski-pants with silver inserts. Her hair is cut short and swept stylishly back from her temples. Vera has never seen anything like the contraptions on her feet — some sort of lumpy foot-warmer in synthetic blues and yellows.
Vera gives her the eye. The woman is undeterred.
‘I think you should know,’ she says in a clean-edged voice, ‘that you have frightened my daughter badly.’
Vera remains silent on the doorstep.
‘Surely,’ goes on the woman, ‘that was unnecessary. Her request was perfectly civil.’
Vera has turned to stone.
‘We
are
neighbours after all.’ The woman is getting up a head of steam. ‘Fiona was paying you a compliment, asking for an interview, there was absolutely no need to shout at her, none at all. She sprained her ankle on the ice yesterday, and now this.’
Vera takes breath, but before she can speak the woman is away again.
‘Surely you’ve been a little inconsiderate? Goodness knows what lasting impression it may have on Fiona.’
Fiona, watching from a safe distance, looks suitably downtrodden. The mother ploughs on. ‘I think it’s only right you should know how we feel. We only wanted to make a friendly gesture. I thought you might be lonely and welcome a chance to talk. And now you’ve frightened a little girl.’
Her speech delivered, the woman is not interested in responses. She manoeuvres the bright booties in the opposite direction. Vera’s parting shot is a demoralised one: she has no defence against this implacable niceness.
‘We are
not
neighbours,’ she says to the lime-green back. ‘You live in a different world even!’ The woman has disappeared. ‘So bugger off,’ adds Vera, lamely.
She stumps out into the garden. Percy the rooster, hoping for food, runs forward, cocking his head.
‘What are you staring at!’ shouts Vera, and boots him away. He squawks indignantly, flapping and scrabbling, one wing trailing at an awkward angle.
‘Oh Jesus. Sorry, Perce.’ Vera is close to tears.
Over the fence, they are capturing it all on video.
