Heartland (8 page)

‘“My friend here,” says Bert, giving her his charming smile, “is a McAneny too and son of your brother, Munroe, and is wanting to resume relations with his aunts and uncles” — or some such palaver. Bert had a smooth way of talking when he put his mind to it.'

Manny winked and doffed an imaginary hat, which made Donny nearly choke with laughter. ‘Go on, go on!' he shouted, slapping his knee.

‘Well, Donny boy, that put the cat among the pigeons! The lady took hold of the door knob and pulled it shut behind her with a bang you could hear down the street. That slam showed, plainer than any words, that the ancestral home was not going to welcome us any day soon. Then she faced us with such a fury in her eyes that even Bert backed off a step or two. I don't remember the words, Donny, but those black eyes were on me while she spoke. Something about my dad being dead to the McAneny name and to never, ever come near again.

‘So much for that crusade. I lost any interest in those McAnenys. My dad was better off without them. Back home we travelled, feeling like fools. Or Smiley and I did. Bert stayed in town. We heard later a strange thing. That bosky Bert could never give up on a project. He must of gone back, 'cause he married a McAneny. Not the one slammed the door on us but another. Maybe it was just for a dare, or revenge, we never heard, 'cause he never came back to tell us. Next thing he was gone to the war and got killed.'

Manny sucked his remaining teeth and cackled. ‘So the moral of that tale, lad, is steer clear of crusades and fierce ladies, especially if they be McAnenys.'

Di Masefield's crusade to clean up Manawa

Di Masefield is on the warpath. She guns her big Range Rover down the stretch between Ohakune and Raetihi, windscreen wipers bashing back and forth, sheets of water spraying like wings either side of her car. It takes more than a cloud-burst to slow down Di Masefield. Today there are two issues in her sights — Manawa's sewage and Donny's baby, both infuriating, both in need of a word to the authorities in Raetihi.

Di Masefield is a vociferous member of the Ohakune District Council. Manawa, alas, comes under the jurisdiction of the Waimarino County Council, an outdated body, in Di's opinion, especially as she holds no sway over it. Manawa, in Di's opinion, belongs with Ohakune, where she can influence
what happens in the sleepy little settlement: bring it into the twentieth century, develop Manawa as a satellite town for Ohakune. The skiers who will soon make Ohakune rich need quality chalets. Di owns several half-acre sections in Manawa and is ready to build.

Sewage is the problem.

Di roars down the wide main road, splashes to a halt in front of the old Bank of New Zealand building which now houses the County Council office, and stomps inside, her knee-length leather boots leaving muddy footprints on the carpet.

‘Cindy,' she says, dropping her wet mac on a chair and leaning over the desk, ‘I want a word with Andrew.'

‘He's out.'

‘His car's parked in front.'

‘He's in a meeting, won't be back for an hour.'

In fact, Andrew has hastily retreated to the filing room. Di has never learned the skill of a quiet approach, so is often thwarted in her crusading by the absence of those in charge.

Di eyes Cindy for a long moment. Cindy, a farmer's wife, and no slouch when it comes to dealing with problems, holds her gaze.

‘I'll be back in an hour then,' booms Di, her voice carrying easily to the filing room. ‘I'll be up at the hospital.' She shakes out the mac, sending droplets spraying over the furniture, and jams her arms into the sleeves.

‘Boots at the door next time then,' says Cindy, but Di has gone, leaving the door open to the weather.

Up at the hospital, a nurse appears to help remove Di's coat and boots. Matron is in, she says, and will be pleased to meet her in the staff room. Di Masefield is on the Hospital Board. Raetihi Hospital is under threat of closure. Threats are meat and drink to Di —
Over my dead body
! she shouts repeatedly at board meetings — so she is treated by the hospital staff with a somewhat wary deference.

‘Matron,' Di says, inspecting then rejecting the proffered gingernuts, ‘I am concerned about the welfare of a baby born recently at this hospital.'

‘Oh yes?' says Matron. ‘A relative? A friend?'

‘Neither. Definitely neither. The mother is Pansy Holloway; the so-called father, Donny Mac.' Di speaks this last name with evident distaste.

‘So-called father? He has registered formally as the father. You doubt this?'

‘Donny Mac is an idiot. Mentally deficient. The girl is a notorious whore. Reputed to be on drugs. Possibly they have created the child, Matron — personally I have my doubts — but they are surely not capable of bringing it up satisfactorily.'

Matron sighs. ‘I've not heard any complaints.'

‘Matron,
I
am complaining now. We don't want it said that a child under our jurisdiction is being mistreated. Or worse. I believe we should bring in the authorities. Remove the child. The boy is a convicted criminal, as you will remember. Grievous Bodily Harm, in fact.'

Matron replaces cup in saucer. She smiles carefully at Di Masefield. ‘Well, I'll look into the matter. We have no jurisdiction, you realise …'

‘But surely where a young life is at risk …?'

‘We don't know that, Mrs Masefield. I'll get Mona Kingi to pay a visit.'

Di releases an angry snort of laughter. She bangs down her cup of tea. ‘You must be joking! Mona Kingi is unhinged, as you very well know. She spends half her time in here …'

Matron rises slowly. Her face is turning purple — a dangerous sign. ‘Mona Kingi is a registered nurse, a competent mother and is at the moment quite stable. She will give me an accurate assessment of the baby's welfare. Is there anything more? Because I am needed in the ward.'

Di Masefield is helped back into her boots and coat and released out into the storm.

‘Interfering bitch,' says Matron as soon as she's out of earshot.

‘Andrew,' says Di (she's caught him this time), ‘how's the sewage scheme progressing?'

‘Manawa?'

‘Of course Manawa. Does the county have myriad sewage treatments in hand?'

Andrew smiles thinly. He produces a plan of Manawa, points to a shaded area. ‘We plan to build two settling ponds
here, down by the river. The treated effluent will—'

‘I'm familiar with the plan, Andrew, but when? When? What's your timing? I see no signs of implementation as yet.'

They both know that Di needs the sewage system to be in place before she has any hope of subdividing her sections and creating her ski-chalet enclave.

‘The locals are fighting this,' says Andrew, ‘as you are aware. We need to move with care. They have presented a very competent petition.'

‘A petition? I don't believe it. Who, in Manawa, would think of getting up a petition?'

‘Bull Howie for one. Vera Whatshername, the Kingis, Fitz.'

Di waves a hand as if brushing away flies.

‘No, but Di, they must have their say. There are forty signatures. Several townies with properties in Manawa have signed — one of them an Auckland lawyer. He helped them draw it up in the proper language. They're organised, Di.'

Di looks at Andrew in stunned silence. Then rallies. ‘What on earth are their grounds?'

Andrew flicks through the pages of argument. ‘They say bringing in sewage will ruin the rural quality of Manawa. A sewage system will lead to the possibility of subdivision. Subdivision will lead to Manawa becoming a satellite village of Ohakune. Ski-chalet development. They want to preserve their different semi-rural lifestyle. It's well argued, Di.'

‘Oh, good God, they're Luddites, Andrew. You don't go for that backward sort of thinking, do you?'

‘The council may. They're rural people too.'

Di slams her hand on the table. ‘Amalgamation is the
answer. The Government wants it. Ohakune wants it. Taumarunui wants it. Amalgamation is coming — a single Ruapehu District Council — and Waimarino County bloody Council can't hold out against it much longer. Then we'll see about sewage for Manawa.'

‘The petition also makes a big thing about rates. If sewage comes in, rates will go up and many of the locals won't be able to afford to stay.'

‘Yes. Well.' Di smiles at Andrew. ‘We can't hold back progress for the sake of a few old folk whose time is over.' She stands. ‘I'll have a word with Tom Peddie in Taumarunui. See how the amalgamation plans are progressing. All these small councils — it's ridiculous. Nice to talk.'

And she's out the door, new plans forming as she roars back down towards Ohakune.

The rain has passed over, swept by a fierce wind. Ahead the mountain stands, massive and clear against a blue sky, a small mushroom-shaped cloud hovering above the peaks the only remnant of the spent storm. There's been a light dusting of snow, Di notices with approval. She's hoping for a good ski season.

Donny thinks of shooting through

Delia Goodyear stands in the long grass at the back of the section, listening. Every part of her great slabby body points towards the cottage over the fence. Her legs, thick as trunks under ancient brown tweed, could be growing roots they have been planted so long, so still. The screams inside the cottage rise to a new crescendo. Delia leans forward slightly, her horsy old face creased in pain as if a blow has caught her in the stomach. She straightens again. The direction of her attention never wavers.

‘Come in, come in!’ sings Aureole from the back porch. ‘Come in, Delia, you can do no good.’

But Delia keeps her vigil. There’s no sign that she even hears her sister.

The back door of the cottage over the fence bursts open and Nightshade hurtles down the steps, yelling back over her shoulder. Wild words fly out of her mouth, rising and falling
as she paces up and down between rows of silverbeet. Delia doesn’t watch her. The old woman’s eyes are fixed on the empty rectangle of the open door, where no one appears.

‘And what are you staring at, you silly old bat?’ yells Nightshade, noticing Delia and striding down to the fence. ‘Piss off, it’s none of your business!’ She reaches down, wrenches a handful of young carrots out of the ground and flings them at Delia. The orange roots, the clods, spatter against the shapeless grey cardigan but could have hit a stone wall for all the impression they make.

Goodness knows what Nightshade might have flung next. She’s out of control, screaming and weeping, her hair uncombed, legs and feet bare on this cold morning, arms frantically tearing at a cabbage. Donny, soundless, head down, clumps out of the house, grabs her by one arm and drags her back inside. The door bangs shut.

Delia stands there.

‘Come in, come
in
, Delia!’ Aureole’s draped blue silk flutters as she calls. Her bony arms and legs, tramping and waving at all angles, set the soft material aglow in the pale morning sun. But her agitation is to no effect. Delia is as impervious as the Rock of Ages. Aureole turns and clatters inside for reinforcements.

In the cottage over the fence, the shouts and screams continue. Some piece of furniture crashes. The thin wail of a baby’s cry slices through the heavier noise of battle.

Delia lifts heavy, sodden feet and starts wading through long grass towards the fence. She grips the wire with fat old hands, unused to work, and heaves downwards, using the weight of her body to bend the stubborn stuff. When this proves useless,
she turns her ponderous attention to the fence-post. The rotten wood gives no resistance. Delia and post collapse to the ground, the wire sagging and snagging around them.

And there she is cast: marooned at the back of the section like a pile of garden rubbish.

‘It is not right,’ says Delia Goodyear to a clump of yarrow. ‘She should be locked up, taken away. The boy is not strong enough, though he is our great-nephew.’ The white flowers of the yarrow bob and nod. ‘It is no laughing matter,’ says Delia severely. ‘Some people do not deserve to have a baby. What will he grow into, listening to anger night and day?’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘I cannot bear it, that little wail, I cannot bear it. And must do my duty, with God’s guidance, if no one else will.’

Roe McAneny, leaning heavily on Aureole’s arm and using her stick to slash at any weed that dares to block her way, arrives on the scene. ‘Delia,’ she says, glaring down, ‘you are talking to yourself!’

Delia looks to the yarrow for support. When none comes, she looks away from her sisters and withdraws from the world.

‘Oh, oh,’ wails Aureole, ‘she’s gone again, Miss Roe. Whatever can we do?’

‘She is perfectly all right,’ says Roe. ‘Stubborn. Stubborn and headstrong. Always was from a small girl.’ The bones in her knees creak, taking the weight as she continues to slash at the weeds with her stick. ‘Get up at once, Delia, your underclothes are damp.’

Delia lies on her back and gazes at the sky.

‘Should I ask our nephew for help?’ Aureole speaks without
enthusiasm. She’s afraid to go over there, and Roe couldn’t walk the distance.

Roe lifts her stick again and strikes Delia smartly on her shoulder. ‘You can get up, Delia, if you wish. Or not. Your sister and I are retiring inside. Give me your arm, Aureole.’

Delia shows no sign of noticing her sisters’ creeping journey back to the house, or Aureole’s anxious glances back over her shoulder.

The sun rises higher. Inside the other house, the shouts have subsided. Nightshade’s outbursts are intermittent now, rising to the surface of the morning like water on a slow boil.

Donny appears in the cottage doorway. For a moment he stands, rolling his shoulders like a boxer and frowning against the sun. Or his thoughts, perhaps. He comes down the steps, takes up a spade and strides over to the wild corner of the garden, jabbing with every step. His ferocity, as he attacks the waist-high mounds of old grass, is clearly aimed at someone else. One by one the clumps are toppled until Donny, straightening to drive from another angle, gets a clear view of his great-aunt Delia, lying there. He had taken her for a tree trunk.

Donny rests one hand on the fence and looks down at her, not ready yet to make civilised conversation. Delia returns the stare. In the end, she’s the first to move. The complicated manoeuvre involving hip, elbow and a handful of grass brings
her half on to her knees and then, flopping down again, securely if damply seated. Now she can face Donny square on.

‘This won’t do,’ she says. ‘Think of the baby.’

Donny’s dark eyes are even blacker today. His hair is tangled, his shirt and trousers grubby. Donny usually takes good care. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says.

‘Well,’ says Delia. And waits.

‘There’s nothing I can do, Aunty.’ Donny chips halfheartedly at a clod. After a while he adds, ‘So leave me alone.’

‘Well,’ says Delia again. Waiting is as natural to her as breathing.

Somehow her lack of expectation, her stillness seem to calm the boy. He leaves his spade lying and steps through the tangled wire of the fence. He sits, a little distance from her, looking in another direction, and begins, in stops and starts, to speak.

‘It’s too hard,’ he says. ‘I’m thinking of shooting through.’

‘Oh?’ says Delia.

‘She won’t do anything! Look after the house, or cook, or any stuff.’ Donny pulls at a grass stalk and adds in a low voice, ‘I’m no good with the baby.’

‘Nor is she,’ says Delia with a little spirit.

Donny seems not to hear. ‘She won’t let me near him, that’s why. If I try to change a nap or pick him up, she laughs at me, or shouts, and grabs him away. She says I drink and stuff. I don’t, not really, she’s the one who drinks. She makes like I’m some kind of monster. Always screaming that I’m useless or I don’t care. Then I get mad and have to do my one two three.’ Donny turns to look at his great-aunt. ‘I asked her to leave but she won’t.’

Delia reaches to touch his arm. ‘You must stay.’

Donny pulls away. ‘I could take Manny with me.’ But it’s clear he doesn’t believe this.

‘No, Donny, you must stay.’

‘But what use am I here? Just make it worse.’ His hand closes on a buttercup, slowly obliterating the gold like a tiny cruel sunset. Every line of his tough and beautiful body droops. Even his toes, groping in the red soil, suggest pain or misery. Delia can’t bear to see it.

‘If you go,’ she says slowly, ‘we will lose Manny. Both Manny and you.’

‘Oh,’ shouts Donny, ‘what then? Who can help? You’re too—’

Delia smiles. ‘Yes.’ Then adds, ‘We are not too old to love him, though.’

‘Whoo hoo, Aunty!’ cries Donny. ‘Get off my back, will you?’ His nose reddens and swells with the tears he’s holding back. ‘She might be better without me.’

‘She won’t,’ says Delia.

He turns his head away then, and Delia waits while he hides his crying. The boy pinches his nose; wipes his fingers in the grass. His head shakes from side to side.

Delia tries to gather her thoughts, to say something of importance. She stares at that nodding head of yarrow, then away again. It is only a plant and will not assist. ‘Donny, dear nephew. Go into your house, but go quietly. Bring the baby to me.’

Donny looks at her.

‘No words or shouting, Donny. Bring him to our place for a while. We have bought a bottle and some formula. We can feed him there.’

Apprehension stains Donny’s face. ‘She might …’

‘She needs a rest. And so do you. Go quickly, nephew.’

He stands there, his eyes hollow, unable, it seems, to move. Delia keeps her voice gentle. It’s like talking to a spooked horse. She smiles. ‘But first help me up or I will be stuck in this mud forever.’

Donny grins at that. At last his mood is broken. He heaves her up easily, proud of his strength. Then hesitates, looking back at his house where there are, for the moment, no sounds of conflict, just a baby’s thin wail.

‘Off you go,’ says Delia.