Heartland (9 page)

Mona Kingi forms an opinion

Mona Kingi leans her beefy arms on Vera’s front railing and waits. Vera raises a hand, then goes on forking in manure. After a bit, when Vera has come to the end of a row, Mona offers a comment.

‘That early snow has melted. Might not be such a good season after all.’ She knows this remark will please Vera more than any hello or how are you.

Vera clumps over to the fence, leans on her fork and nods. ‘Good to see you out and about, Mona. You on your perch again then?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Vera; they say so, but it’s a battle.’ Mona is wearing old dungarees, a tartan shirt and gumboots: a good sign. There have been days when she’s wandered down the road in dressing gown and slippers. ‘They say it’s my time of life and that I’ll get over it, but it’s been two years now.’ She raises a shaky hand to smooth back a strand of hair that has
escaped the bun. ‘Anyway, thanks for taking care of Lovey. She says she often came over here for kai.’

Vera grunts. Waves a hand in the direction of her garden. ‘Pity to waste good food.’ She glowers. ‘What that light-fingered Virgin leaves me.’

Mona laughs: an even better sign. ‘That Virgin! She can winkle a carrot out of our field neater than tickling trout. Hardly a footprint. George can’t work out how she does it without waking the dogs. Speaking of which. The other girl with the baby …’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Liddy asked me to pay a visit.’

‘Who?’

‘Matron up at the hospital.’

‘Well, good luck, Mona, you’ll need it.’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘You make up your mind, you’re the expert on babies. What’s it to do with the matron anyway?’

Mona takes out a clean handkerchief, wipes the sweat that is trickling down her neck even on this crisp morning. She sighs. ‘Di Masefield says she’s concerned.’

Vera stabs her fork into the soft soil. ‘Bloody hell! ’Scuse my French, Mona.’ Mona has brought her children up to speak politely, keep themselves clean and display perfect table manners — all foreign territory to Vera, whose behaviour is sometimes stretched when visiting her friend. But mention of Di Masefield shatters any restraint. ‘That bloody woman just can’t let Donny Mac alone.’

‘That’s what it’s about?’

‘Reckon so. Although. You’d better have a dekko. Want some reinforcement?’

Mona nods. ‘Come on then.’

The two of them march down Miro, past the dark row of macrocarpas, past the townies’ house across the corner, and turn into Hohepa. From here the view of the mountain is stunning, but the women have grown up with it; they’re more interested in what the townies have planted or repaired or let go.

The old ladies’ house is visible from this side, so Mona and Vera stop to inspect. On the back porch one of them is sitting in a rocking chair, feeding a bottle to a baby. She’s singing something in a cracked voice and rocking gently back and forth.

‘That’ll be Donny’s boy,’ says Vera.

‘Not the Virgin’s?’

‘No one on earth touches the Virgin’s. Probably not in heaven either.’

The old lady on the porch doesn’t notice them. Her eyes are fixed on the tot in her arms.

‘So much for a neighbourly chat,’ grumbles Vera. ‘I don’t think she’s quite all there. Never heard her speak.’ It’s a good sign, though. The baby seems contented.

They decide to get Pansy Holloway over with first. Then a word with the old lady.

The door to Donny’s is open. Mona gives a yoo-hoo but there’s no reply. Donny will be at work, but Vera says Nightshade must be here somewhere. Drunk most likely. They walk around to the back, and there she is, stretched out on an old mattress on the lawn. Behind her the vege garden has been
freshly turned and a couple of rows of something planted. Vera doubts this is Nightshade’s work, but is pleased that Donny seems to be taking things seriously.

They look across at Nightshade. She’s curled up on her side, her hair knotted, a pair of Donny’s pyjamas twisted around her legs, an empty beer bottle lying on the grass by her outstretched hand. Mona coughs.

‘Get the shit out of my property,’ says Nightshade without turning or opening her eyes.

Vera glances angrily at Mona, but her friend walks calmly to the other side of the girl and squats beside her. Vera waits for an explosion.

‘Hello, Pansy,’ says Mona in a neutral kind of way. ‘We just came to see how you are. And the baby. How’s it going?’

Pansy groans; she turns over to her other side, throwing one arm over her eyes against the brightness of the sunlight. ‘Who cares. Go away.’

‘The baby,’ says Mona gently, ‘is he doing okay?’

Pansy sits up and glares at Mona. ‘It’s all about the baby, isn’t it? How’s the baby? How’s the dear little tyke? What about
me
?’

Mona puts out an arm, touches the girl softly. ‘Well, what about you?’ she asks, quiet and steady. Vera is amazed at her patience.

Pansy jerks violently at the touch. ‘Don’t you touch me, you cow. Leave me alone!’

Mona waits for a moment, looking away as if to steady herself before she speaks again. ‘You’re not too flash, are you, girl?’

Pansy bursts into a storm of tears. ‘Oh go to hell,’ she howls.

‘Where’s your mother these days, Pansy? Does she know about her little grandson?’

‘She doesn’t want to know. Me or the baby. Kicked me out.’

‘Have you got friends you could stay with for a while?’

Pansy stands. She shifts on her feet. Tears streak a face that looks as if it hasn’t been washed for days. But the belligerence has won against the misery. Vera thinks she’s going to take a swing at Mona, and moves in. Pansy swivels to face her; grabs a handful of Vera’s old cardigan. ‘What’s wrong with staying here?’ she shouts. ‘Oh, I get it, you want me out. Want me to leave your precious Donny alone. Well, fuck off, I’m staying.’

She throws herself back down on the mattress, curls up in a ball and ignores them.

Vera, outraged, goes to walk away, but Mona, watching Nightshade closely, reaches out to stay her friend.

‘I tell you what,’ she says quietly to the girl on the mattress, ‘why don’t you bring the little one down to me this afternoon? I could lend you a pram. You might both enjoy a walk in the sun.’

No response.

‘Think about it. I might have some baby clothes too.’

‘Oh, piss off with your bloody good works!’ screams Nightshade. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, get me another beer from the fridge.’ She clamps her hands over her ears. ‘Or else go away, right now.’

‘I’ll be home anyway this afternoon, Pansy. You’d be welcome.’

Mona stands there for another moment and then sighs. ‘Not good,’ she mutters. ‘We’d better leave her, I think.’

There’s a rusty gate squeezed between two of the big macrocarpas and a concrete path leading to the front door of number 37 Miro, but they opt to walk up the drive and around the back to where they saw the old lady and the baby. There they still are, both asleep in the sun. The back section is choked with tall grass and weeds; one of the veranda posts is on a lean, but the other shows signs of recent repair.

‘Good morning,’ says Mona from a safe distance.

The woman wakes suddenly, almost dropping the baby, who starts crying. But the woman is civil this time and ready to speak.

‘Good morning.’

Mona introduces herself and Vera, and offers a hand.

Delia carefully releases one hand from its grip on the baby and shakes. ‘My name is Delia Goodyear.’

‘Well, for goodness sake,’ says Vera. ‘Related to Smiley?’

Delia nods. ‘This is my great-great-nephew, Manny.’

‘You don’t say?’ Vera tries to work it out and fails. Perhaps Delia is not quite right in the head.

Mona is focused on the baby. She asks questions and receives civil, if scanty, answers. Delia or her sister often take care of the baby while Donny is at work. Sometimes Delia sees that other strange girl — not the mother — taking a walk with both babies slung about her body. Pansy is in a bad way. Donny has a hard time of it when he comes home. They hear the mother shouting and screaming at him. Delia frowns. ‘She gives our great-nephew no help, poor boy.’

Mona looks at the baby, who is sleeping again. ‘Would you mind if I had a look at him? I’m a nurse and have been asked to check up.’

Delia holds the bundle tighter. ‘He’s perfectly all right.’

‘No bruises, signs of abuse?’

‘Oh!’ Delia hugs the baby to her. Tears well up. ‘You’re not going to take him away? We thought we were the last of our line, and here we have new life — Donny and the baby.’

The door opens and the youngest of the three sisters stands watching. Vera has seen her striding around Manawa in her distracted, angular way.

‘Aureole,’ cries Delia, ‘they want to take the baby away.’

Aureole takes the few steps to stand behind her sister. She grips Delia’s shoulders and faces the other two. ‘We will resist! This is trespass! Kindly remove yourselves!’

Delia tries to attract her sister’s attention but is hampered by the baby in her arms. ‘Shh, shh, Aureole, you will wake Miss Roe.’

Vera notes the instant effect this has on Aureole, who breathes quickly and flutters her hands about but remains silent.

Mona smiles. ‘Let’s just take a look at the baby together, shall we? Just to make sure?’

Delia pulls back the shawl that wraps the baby. He’s encased in a good new gown, bootees on his feet and a woollen bonnet.

‘We bought him what he needs,’ whispers Aureole, glancing anxiously back inside and then pulling the door to.

Mona nods. ‘Well done. He looks healthy. What about this bruise?’

There’s a dark bruise on one fat little arm. Neither sister
has noticed it before; both are distressed to see it.

Mona speaks as gently as she can. ‘Did he slip from your arms, do you think? Was there an accident?’

Delia is very firm. They may be old, she says, but there has never been any accident. ‘We may be rather clumsy with changing a nappy, but little Manny has never suffered in this house. Not once.’

Mona smiles at Delia. ‘It’s good of you to take care of him.’

Aureole tiptoes across the porch and lays a confidential hand on Mona’s arm. ‘We bring him here when we can. When Miss Roe is having her sleep. Our sister thinks we are too old. She considers the child a bastard. She doesn’t approve, you see. But we do what we can.’

‘That will do, Aureole,’ says Delia.

Mona looks from one to the other. ‘Well then. We’ll be on our way.’

‘They’ll take the baby away, won’t they?’ Delia’s voice is heavy and slow.

‘I’ll be honest with you, it’s a bit of a worry. Pansy’s in a bad way. Tell Donny to come to us if he’s worried, will you?’

‘But he can come to us. He’s family.’

‘No mention of a cuppa or a scone,’ says Vera, as they walk back down the road. ‘Did you notice that?’

‘They’re scared of the old one. Roe. Is that her name? Who’s right, maybe, on one thing: they’re too old to look after a baby.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Aureole wouldn’t be much older than me.’

‘She would. And anyway, Vera, could you manage a baby?’

Vera wants to argue. She knows how proud Donny is of his baby; how devastated he would be to lose him. But she has to admit that looking after a baby would not be one of her strengths.