Heartland (27 page)

Manawa

The McAnenys are the first to leave, Roe on the arm of Delia, Aureole running ahead to open the gate and then the car door.

‘That was very nearly a disaster,’ Delia is saying sternly. ‘It is high time you stopped taking the law into your own hands.’

‘Well,’ says Roe. She cannot speak and negotiate the snow both at once.

‘You heard Bull Howie. We live in Manawa now. We need to behave differently here.’

Roe grunts.

‘Different in a
good
way.’

Roe backs against the passenger seat and allows Delia to shove her in.

‘I swear,’ says Delia, ‘that was the unkindest, stupidest action you have ever taken. Among many examples.’

‘For goodness sake, Delia—’ Roe has her breath now — ‘stop wittering on. It’s over and done, madam. I hope our dinner is not burning.’

Aureole lets out a screech and the brake simultaneously, and they lurch away down Matai Street and up Smith.

Here comes George Kingi on his tractor. He’s fed out to the sheep in the Dreadnaught paddock and is now heading home for lunch. He sounds his horn at Bull’s gate. Mona waves from the window and soon appears at the door, Lovey under her wing.

‘All good?’ shouts George.

‘Sort of,’ says Lovey darkly, running from her mother and climbing up behind. ‘For the moment.’

‘Lovey Kingi.’ George ruffles his daughter’s mop of hair. ‘Never happy unless there’s a disaster looming.’

Lovey eyes her father grimly.

George sounds the horn again. ‘Come on, Missus! And Donny — the match is off. Practice in the hall. Two o’clock.’

Donny appears in the doorway, grinning. ‘Right, Mr Kingi!’

George watches his wife with some anxiety as they chug back along Matai and into Kingi. ‘You okay? Not too much excitement for you?’

Mona laughs. ‘Definitely too much excitement. Dear oh dear, those old sisters! But Donny’s safe, it seems. And the little ones.’ She looks with love at their fields, the drifted snow, the donkeys standing forlorn under the hedge. ‘Oh George, I’m okay.’

‘Right.’ George slows at their gate, reaches over to pat his wife’s knee. ‘That’s good. Come on then, Lovey, out you hop. Fetch those donkeys some hay while Mum gets the lunch.’

‘I’ll do these dishes,’ says Vera, looking at the stack in Bull’s sink, ‘tonight. Right now I fancy a bit of peace and quiet. Can you manage your own lunch?’

Bull has limped through to the kitchen where he feels more at home. ‘I can.’

‘Tooroo then.’ Vera shoves her arms into her greatcoat, goes for the door.

Bull stands, holding on to the table. ‘Do you think it’s all right then, Vera? Settled?’

‘Don’t come on all anxious on me, Bull. No more of that.’

‘It was touch and go. Still might be.’

Vera wags her head at him. ‘Look. If Di Masefield thinks she has to make amends to some gods or whatever nonsense Lovey has put into her head, she’ll do it. We’ll have a fancy urupa in Manawa and good luck to it. I’m fond of that bush section. Grows good puha for my chooks. Be happy, Bull.’

Bull nods, sits heavily back on his chair. ‘I am. Or trying, Vera. Seems to be working.’

Vera winks at him. ‘I tell you what I reckon. Our Donny’s your son.’

Bull can’t hide his pleasure. ‘You reckon?’

‘He’s got your build. Your shoulders. Doesn’t look anything like a McAneny.’

Bull laughs. ‘Well, certainly not like that old crow. What a battler. You almost have to admire her.’

‘You do not. I was close to wringing her scrawny neck. Anyway, Bull, father or no, you’ve done a good job with Donny, looking out for him. You should be proud. Sausages do for tonight?’

‘Bottler. Think we might open that special whisky. Bit of a celebration.’

The snow on Bull’s path is trampled now, and muddy. Vera kicks at a drift to allow the gate to close properly. On her way down Smith Street, she bestows a curse on Fitz’s place: ‘No more damned prime film locations in Manawa, Fitzy boy!’ And a more thorough one upon the townie houses, knowing that next weekend they’ll likely be full of revellers: ‘May your pipes freeze and burst and rats gnaw at all your fancy provisions!’ She pulls a clump of greens from one of their gardens, and there, on the other side, are her chooks glaring at her from the henhouse. ‘All right, you buggers, here I come,’ she shouts as she turns into Miro and unlatches her gate. Next week’s project will be getting Bull to have dinner at her place. Just now and then.

Donny and Tracey conduct a running snow fight all the way down Railway Row. Sky wails when a wet one hits
her, and Donny lifts her on to his shoulders — ‘Yeee ha!’ — while continuing to take aim at Manny and Trace.

They turn the corner and there’s the bush section. They stand for a moment, Tracey and Donny Mac, while the children watch them for new surprises, but there are none. What they all see is the bush, pretty in its winter coat. A
good
place. Peaceful.

‘All those other people lying there,’ says Donny. ‘I’m glad she’s got company.’

‘
They
might not be so glad,’ says Tracey. But her scowl changes to a snort of laughter. She takes Manny’s hand, and then Donny’s, and they walk on home.

Notes and acknowledgements

Those familiar with New Zealand’s Central Plateau may recognise, in the location and layout of Manawa, a similarity to the tiny settlement of Rangataua, beloved of our family for four generations. True. The characters and homesteads are, however, entirely imaginary.

Forty years ago, when we first came to Rangataua, there was an old lady, now passed on, who regularly carried food in a billy from her home near the main road to her friend across the railway line. I never met her, but I admired her steadfast service. This gave me the idea for Vera’s ‘meals on wheels’. Vera’s character is in no way based on this old lady.

Earlier versions of some of the chapters in this novel were broadcast on Radio New Zealand National. I would like to acknowledge their support.

Thanks to Jack Lasenby for his help with deer-hunting knowledge. Simon Barlow and Tony Burton helped with the Easter Hunt and firearms. Thanks also to the staff at the Ohakune Police Station for their advice on sentencing.

My text editor, Jane Parkin, was a pleasure to work with.

And deep appreciation, as always, to my publisher, Harriet Allan, for her insight and inspiration.

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