Heartland (16 page)

Vera closed her eyes. Bull put on a fine performance. ‘Yes, it’s glowing brighter. That means your angel’s coming closer. He’s a blue guardian!’

‘She,’ said Vera. ‘Or Them. I think there’s two of them. I
can
feel something!’

Bull laughed out loud in excitement. He jumped forward to touch his friend. Perhaps he just wasn’t good at seeing other people’s auras. Or perhaps he had seen something after all?

‘Well, fancy that!’ said Vera, plopping down on the chair. ‘I’m all of a sweat. What does blue mean then, Bull?’

‘Tranquillity,’ said Bull, trying to remember. ‘Tranquillity and beauty. Just right for you.’

‘You’re kidding me.’ Vera was obviously more than pleased to be kidded. She looked at Bull with her good old sharp smile. ‘I suppose we’re just a couple of gullible old fools. But there might be something in it, eh?’

‘There must be,’ said Bull, ‘if you saw something. Nothing gets past you.’

‘True.’

They sat there for a bit. Bull imagined his creamy-gold guardian having a chat with Vera’s blue one. Perhaps he should have chosen a rosy pink?

Vera, practical as always, wanted to know what next. What use were angels exactly, or did they just hover around, glowing? Bull’s view was that they were sort of companions who helped you get over bad spots and gave you courage if you weren’t up to things. A theory which didn’t appeal greatly to Vera, who had never had much trouble fronting up. Or so she said. Vera wondered if a guardian angel could give her a bit of a lift in a more literal sense — take the weight off her feet, for example.

‘I’d pay to see that! You being wafted through the air by some sort of blue forklift with wings!’ They both laughed.

The situation is saved, thought Bull, with a certain degree of smugness. The problem of the feet, an ongoing source of irritation to Vera, could now be tackled.

‘But what’s all this trouble with the feet, then?’ he said, tapping the lumpy arthritic toes. ‘I thought we’d solved the feet?’

A week ago Vera’s one pair of leather boots had finally come apart at the soles. Bull, who had read somewhere that your feet held all the secrets to your inner wellbeing, and thought Vera’s black moods were probably rooted in her feet, had persuaded her to take money out of her savings and get a really good new pair: the sort the young people wore these days — soft leather and flexible soles. And a generous fit to accommodate the fiery points on her toes.

Vera had been persuaded, and took a lift down to Ohakune
in George’s truck. She spent all morning in the fancy ski shops and the one normal shoe store, rejecting pair after pair — something Bull would never, in a hundred years, angel or no, have had the courage to do. She came home triumphant, though, with a beautiful pair — shaved suede, dark blue. Bull would have given his eye teeth for a pair like that.

‘Don’t talk to me about those boots,’ said Vera now. ‘All my savings gone, and in the end they’re no better than the old boots. Worse, even. There’s something not right about them. I feel lop-sided like I’m going to fall.’ A thought struck her. ‘I tell you what, Bull, if my blue guardian could fix my boots, that’d be a job well done. I’m going to ask her right now.’ Vera closed her eyes, spread out her stockinged feet as if displaying them to the celestial view.

Bull shifted uncomfortably. This demand for concrete manifestations was bound to end in disappointment. How could down-to-earth Vera place such hope in something as nebulous as an angel’s intervention in a boot problem?
His
angel would stay firmly in the air, somewhere well above his shoulder, keeping a friendly eye but never interfering directly.

He watched Vera’s quiet smile. Could she be serious? Was she perhaps losing touch with the real world? God help us if she is, thought Bull.

‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘let’s have a look at these boots.’

He brought them in, set them down on the floor. Oh, they were handsome! He shucked one foot out of its slipper and tried the boot. Bliss! ‘Fits
me
all right!’ he said, joking, but with an edge.

‘Have them!’ said Vera, coming out of her trance. ‘And good riddance!’

‘Now, now.’ Bull was severely tempted, but puzzled too. ‘What’s the problem, Vera? Too big?’

‘Too big, too small, too tight. They’re just wrong. They drive me crazy.’

Bull slipped the other one on, just to see. Stopped halfway. Brought the pair to the window to catch a good light and examined the insides. Vera watched from her chair.

‘Here’s your problem, Vera!’ he cried. ‘They’re not a pair. No wonder they mucked you around.’

‘Never,’ she said, looking. ‘They were a pair in the shop.’ But she could see it written there: an 8 and a 9. She beamed. ‘I’ll take them back straight away.’ She winked at Bull. ‘Some guardian angel! She doesn’t waste her time.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Bull, his emotions too mixed to sort out. ‘It was me found the problem, wasn’t it?’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Vera darkly, and left to find someone going into town.

Bull sat in his kitchen, thinking about the creamy-golden glow Vera had seen. Had she really seen it, or were they fooling each other? He
did
feel a presence, didn’t he? Some warm being near to him? Who might keep an eye on him? There was no way he’d ask for a pair of boots, though. That would be an abuse of your angel. If he couldn’t afford boots like that — and there was no way he ever could — so be it. All the same …

That evening, Bull watched Vera coming down the road with his tea. Her head turned this way and that, ready to ferret out interesting goings-on. Bull smiled to see her feet punish the ground, stump, stump, no trace of a limp. That’s better, he thought, we’ll have a decent meal tonight.

Vera couldn’t wait to get inside. She stopped on the doorstep to hold out the parcel.

‘Happy Christmas, Bull!’

Bull took the parcel. He could feel the lovely shape inside, but didn’t understand. Vera had her new boots on, a matching pair, properly laced. Who could afford another?

Vera’s face was alight. ‘Go on. Try them on. Try them, Bull!’

Bull spread the paper on his polished hall table, laid out the boots. Dark blue, shaved suede, just like Vera’s; one brand new, the other with a hint of mud at the heel. Gently he ran a finger along the leather, marvelling at the shadowy track it made, deeper than midnight. He looked at Vera in wonder, knowing they’d fit. Hadn’t he tried on the muddy one just this morning?

Vera laughed out loud at his astonishment. ‘The lady at the shop wasn’t half mad! Her husband’s fault, she said. He’d wrapped up the boots wrong. Left them with two odd boots, no use to anyone. “Have them all!” she said. “The 9s are no use to me now with one soiled.” And out she stormed to the back to give her husband what-ho! You can bet I skedaddled fast as a skinned cat in case she changed her mind!’ She flapped at the boots. ‘Well, do they fit, man? Get them on! We all know what a bad fit can do to your life!’

Bull sat to put them on carefully, with due reverence and a
proper attention to the lacing. They each held their breath as he stood, letting the weight settle.

‘It’s a miracle,’ Bull muttered at last. ‘This fit is a miracle!’

And then, as he looked up to thank her, didn’t he catch, only for a moment, a fleeting bluish glow somewhere just above Vera’s head?

Vera hoped then that Bull had maybe turned a corner, that the presence of a guardian angel might provide the support he needed to face the world. But the setbacks in the following weeks were a test even for the celestials.

Lovey's news

From inside, the knock on the door sounds more like a small branch slapping: a light scratch, followed by a thump no stronger than a heartbeat. Even so, Bull jumps. Takes off his reading glasses, smooths down his tie, looks at the door and then at Vera. Clears his throat.

‘Someone's at the door.'

‘I heard,' says Vera. ‘It's not the end of the world, Bull.'

Bull's big slabby hands brush at demons crowding in. ‘No one knocks this time of night.' His eyes keep flicking at the door, then back at Vera.

She sighs. ‘It's not yet eight o'clock, you big sook.' But she catches the edge of his mood, and wonders. Everyone knows about Bull. Who, in Manawa, would arrive unannounced? Daytime's difficult enough, let alone a moonless and silent night.

She heaves out of the chair, shaking her stringy hair and muttering. ‘It's your door, Bull, not mine. I'm not your bloody butler.'

With a hand on the knob, she slips her feet into her lovely
new boots to be ready, and then swings open the door. A small figure is already stumbling back down the steps.

‘Lovey?' Vera lowers her head and growls. ‘Lovey, is that you?'

The child stops and comes hopping back. It is indeed inquisitive Lovey, her sharp eyes half-hidden under the dark fringe, hand-me-down jersey reaching to skinny knees. Gumboots several sizes too big. Her smile comes and goes quicker than lightning.

‘Lovey Kingi, you little monkey!' Vera reaches out quickly and grabs a handful of jersey. ‘What are you snooping round here for?'

Lovey's black eyebrows lower. She's a match for most people, even Vera.

‘Let me go, you old witch. Dad sent me.'

This is a surprise. George Kingi would know better. Vera growls again, keeps her handful of jersey, but her voice loses its edge. ‘Don't you witch me, you cheeky chip. What's up then?'

‘I got to tell you both.'

‘I'll tell Bull. Spit it out.'

Lovey plants her feet. ‘It's specially for Bull. Dad said.'

In fact, her father has said nothing of the sort, but Lovey wants to see inside Bull's place. Just for a dare. With Vera's wild old eyes glaring at her, though, she's suddenly not so sure.

Too late. Vera yanks her inside, crashes the door shut. She stands between Lovey and the door, a cracked old hand on each of the child's shoulders, holding her pinned. Bull stands, backed against the wall, his smile anxious. Vera curses the sudden intrusion. Bull has been making good progress; this will be a set-back.

‘Get on with it,' she mutters, ‘and then hop it.'

Lovey's quick smile flashes again. ‘Dad said you should know about the bush section down past Donny's.'

Bull and Vera wait.

The child looks from one to the other, important now. ‘The spare block by the reserve.'

Vera flicks a questioning eye at Bull but keeps her voice casual. ‘Oh yeah?'

‘At the end of the road,' says Lovey. ‘Dad heard it's going to be used for a film.'

‘So what?' says Vera, but her heart is thumping.

Bull could be a shop dummy, so still he is in his brown corduroy jacket and grey pants, his face waxy.

Lovey shrugs. ‘Some old-world movie. Or fantasy maybe. With strange creatures. They'll be digging trenches and that in the bush, Dad said.'

Bull puts a hand out to feel the table. Sits down slowly. Lovey's quick eyes notice it all.

‘Dad said hop down and tell youse, because he's got his hands full with Mum, so someone else will have to deal with it. That's what he said.'

Bull looks down at his hands without a word. Vera spins Lovey around so they are face to face. ‘That's it then?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Right then. Hop it.'

Lovey is not about to drop the matter. ‘Why're you interested in that old block?'

‘Who said I was?'

‘It's spooked, that bit of bush.'

‘Who said so?' shouts Vera. ‘Who said that?'

Lovey scowls back. ‘
I
said so. All us kids know. I went in for a dare. You can feel the spooks in there.'

Bull clears his throat, taps the table-top. ‘Well, Lovey,' he says, ‘it's late for your bed. Tell your dad thanks.'

‘Okay,' says Lovey. It's the first time Bull Howie has spoken to her. She's seen him heaps, of course, out on his lawn coaching Donny Mac, or in his garden, or splitting firewood down the back. Sometimes you'll catch him standing on his front porch, just looking down the path to the gate. If you wave, he'll sometimes wave back, that's all. Now she can boast to her brothers that Bull Howie spoke to her.

Vera shoves Lovey towards the door, but then notices the child's backward glance at the table. Lovey's always been an odd child, always poking about the place, singing to herself or making up stories with only herself for audience. She's wild, like the other Kingi kids but, also like the rest, has good
old-fashioned
manners learned from their mother.

‘You hungry then?'

Lovey nods.

‘Mum's sick again?'

Lovey frowns, takes breath to deny it, then nods again.

Vera sighs. Under all her gruff talk, she's fond of Lovey. ‘Go on then, and take enough for your brothers and Tina too.'

On the table is a tin heaped with Vera's notorious chocolate rice-bubble clusters, either rabbits or chickens, equally lumpy, equally indecipherable.

Lovey darts forward, picks up a handful. ‘Thanks.' She bites off a lump which might or might not have been a head,
and stomps away into the night, waving the rest of the rabbits aloft in salute.

Vera shuts the door. She lowers her heavy body onto the other kitchen chair, shoves the tin of chocolates towards Bull. He shakes his head, but then catches her eye and takes one. It comes apart in his big hands, but he carefully collects the pieces and eats them slowly. He finishes the last crumb and rises, pours the whisky, adds the Nescaf and boiling water, all without a word.

Vera waits. They both sip.

‘It's a bit of a shock,' she says at last. ‘What do you make of that then, Bull?'

‘It's bad news.'

‘You know something then? For sure?'

Bull nods slowly. ‘God help us, I do. Has he spoken to you?'

‘Donny?'

‘Donny.'

‘No, Bull, he hasn't. I've had a hunch these past two years. Saw him plant that tree. Seen him visit that patch of bush, carrying a flower or two. He's not good at secrets, our Donny.'

They sip at their whisky.

Vera touches her old friend's hand. ‘Did he say something to
you
, Bull?'

Tears are rolling down his cheeks. ‘He did. It troubled him, Vera, and it came out — oh, about a year ago. I had my suspicions.'

‘He hurt her?'

Bull looks up quickly. ‘No, no, he didn't. I don't think I could have kept quiet if he had. He didn't touch her. She was drunk, it seems. Was shaking the baby. The Virgin helped him
get little Manny away from her. That whore must have fallen and hit her head.'

‘Dear God. I thought Donny might have lost his temper.'

Bull looks at her now. He could be pleading for his own life. ‘That's what they both feared, you see — that everyone would think Donny killed her. They were probably right at that. And they were scared they'd lose their babies.'

Vera gets the kettle from the range, adds more whisky and hot water. ‘George must know too. Or at least suspect. For Christ's sake, does the whole of Manawa know?'

Bull wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I thought I was the only one.'

Vera snorts. ‘Well, we'd better bloody stop them digging around in that block or we'll all be for it, let alone Donny and Trace.'

Bull finishes his whisky, pushes back the chair and stands up. His voice shakes. ‘I think I'll go to bed now and sleep on it.'

Vera knows better than to push him. ‘Good idea, Bull. We'll sort something out tomorrow.' But inside she's cursing. She stands too and goes for her coat, trying to keep her chatter light.

‘Well, think of that other film. All that hoo-ha — can they use the hall, can they drive a truck through Stan's derelict shed — and then nothing came of it. Some foreign money-bags pulled out at the last minute. This one might well fall through too. We'll both sleep on it. I'll have a word with Fitz in the morning. It'll be his doing. He was crowing last week about having an important paid job. Some sort of location scout for a big-wig down in Wellington. Surely he can find another
decent location. Empty sections are two a penny.'

Bull helps her on with the stiff old oilskin as if it were good wool; holds the door open as she bumps the battered pram with its empty rattling dishes down the steps.

‘A lovely meal,' he says, as he does every night except Sunday. ‘Delicious, Vera.'

And then, as she turns on the path to wave, as she does every time, Bull speaks from the doorway, his voice gruff.

‘Should we tell Donny, do you think?'

‘Bull. We said we'd sleep on it and that's what we'll do. No need to panic them yet. Who knows what Donny will get up to if he's in a stew.'

Vera feels suddenly angry as she rattles her way home. Not with Bull or Donny, just the unfairness of things; the way something good looks like it's going to unravel and end up a bloody mess. She glances up and over her shoulder. Where's her famous Blue Beauty then? Her newly discovered guardian angel? And Bull's? And Donny's? They are all going to need them now.

George Kingi, standing at the window, sees the dark shape of Vera and the pram heading up the road, picked out for a moment in the light from his window, and then gone. He raises a hand in salute, knowing she doesn't see, but smiling all the same. One steadfast rock in all this mess — Vera and her meals on wheels.

George is on the phone to Fitz. ‘Fitzy, the boys tell me you've got a location in mind down our way?'

‘It's a beauty, mate, perfect for the shoot. The boss is sure to be pleased.' Fitz's breezy confidence always annoys George — this evening especially.

‘It's not settled then?'

‘Will be, will be, trust me. Our rugby team might be roped in as extras. I already spread the word.'

George takes a breath to steady himself.

‘You still there, George?

‘I'm here. Listen, Fitz, I want you to change the location. There's a nice piece of bush at the north end of our paddock—'

Fitz butts in, no respect for his coach, in a hurry as usual. ‘Sorry, mate, I like this one — easy access, a few open spaces for the trenches, view of the mountain from the south end. Perfect. Di Masefield's already given it the go-ahead.'

‘What's Di got to do with it?'

‘Some kind of permission for non-notified activity. Anyway, got to go. Cheers, mate.'

And he's gone. George puts down the phone and sees Lovey standing in the doorway, watching. Listening too no doubt, the monkey.

Lovey's frowning — her favourite expression. ‘I told them, Dad. Bull says thanks. Vera sent some choc—' Lovey inspects the sticky handful — ‘rabbits, I think. Shall I take one to Mum?'

They can both hear Mona shouting to herself in the bedroom. The boys have turned up the TV, trying to drown out the awful words.

George sighs. ‘Let's give it a go. Come and we'll help her pack.'