Huia Short Stories 10 (5 page)

The sun comes out, making for a pleasant warmth in the momentary intervals in the wind. Around midday, a niggling rain sweeps in, hissing across the ocean. Fishpuke slides down the mast and looks about on the deck, his dampened black hair licking down across his forehead. We women scramble to catch the water. We are hopeful that we will not need it; that land is close, with clear mountain-fed rivers. When the shower stops, we inspect the pittance of water we have funnelled into our gourds. The clouds have been frugal with their gift. The sun comes out again and sparkles on the water. The hope of land we had dared to hold in our hearts dwindles again.

But later that afternoon, there is a shout from a woman standing on the prow: ‘Hoi! Cloud! Cloud ahead!'

Not land yet. Just cloud in a low pearly bank, layered on the horizon. This is not storm cloud, but the pale billows that might cling to land. We all stand up to look. There is a new vigour as the captain begins to give orders to the men: get working with the bailer, take a reading of the current; we will do everything we can to increase our speed. I take a gourd and recklessly pour the fresh water over my hair and take the wooden comb to drag it through the tangles and sea-matted ends. I put on my shell necklace. I try to make myself ready to meet the chief of the rock people.

The navigator stands staunch at the oar, his lips pressed together. He does not need to say anything. The spirit fish, or at least his own shark-like senses, have served him well. He is certain now of his success.

Skimming across the waves, we come.

Crushing Butterflies

Ann French

The bus stopped with a hiss of brakes and Mia stood up, wincing as the pain in her back and legs flared. She ignored it, concentrating instead on the baby swaddled like a papoose, snug against her breasts.

Moving to the door, she avoided looking at the other passengers. With her long black hair and smooth skin, people always stared, but today she was wearing dark glasses, which on such a gloomy day must seem incongruous.

Outside, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs. It felt good after the stale air of the bus and the confinement of bodies squeezed into a small space. The baby murmured, content in his cocoon, and he blew a bubble of milk between his lips.

Mia walked down the road to her mother's house, taking her time. She enjoyed looking at the houses in the street. They were well kept, with neatly tended lawns and gardens – quiet too. That's what she noticed most. It wasn't like that where she lived with broken cars on driveways and lawns – if you could call them lawns, patched with weeds and littered with rubbish. And always the noise, stereos, dogs barking, kids screaming and adults fighting. She was tired of it all.

Almost there, she thought. Number 30, a white house with blue window-sills, set behind a wooden fence. She had helped her father paint those sills and what a pain that had been. He was such a perfectionist. ‘Rub them down properly, Heremia,' he said, giving her a little block of wood wrapped around with sandpaper. He never called her Mia like everyone else. It was always Heremia. From him she had learned there was only one way to do things. The Right Way.

He'd died six years ago of a heart attack, and she missed him every day. She often heard his voice in her head, especially now, when her aunts, her mother's sisters, were involved. He had called them ‘the short, the tall and the bloody ugly,' although never in front of his wife. Aunty Em was the small, quiet one who would slip Mia some money when she had a little to spare and it was Em who knitted a beautiful layette for the baby that must have taken months.

Moe, her sister, was tall, bossy and had been married three times. ‘Poor bastards. Bet they were glad to kick the bucket,' Dad would mutter. He had never forgotten the day he had called round to take Moe's last husband, Pete, fishing. He was met at the door by his sister-in-law in her dressing gown and curlers and told that Pete couldn't go because he had to mow the lawns, clean out the garage and complete a list of other jobs as long as your arm. Mia remembered her father coming home and giving Ma a hug. ‘I got the best of the bunch,' he'd said.

Finally, there was Fran, the oldest. ‘A real piece of work,' Dad would say. ‘Tongue like a whip and never a good word to say about anybody.' Mia agreed with her father and, today in particular, dreaded a meeting with her aunt.

‘Anyone home?' she called, opening the front door and stepping inside. The house was warm as Ma felt the cold these days, even with summer at its hottest. It had a smell to it as well – lavender air-freshener and something else not so pleasant.

‘In the bedroom,' a voice said. Mia, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back, walked into the lions' den.

Her aunties were all there but it was Fran who immediately questioned the sunglasses. ‘Why are you wearing sunnies inside? Walked into a door again?'

Mia could hear her father's voice, ‘Told you she was a nasty piece of work, didn't I? Give her time – she's just warming up.'

Mia went to where Ma lay in bed, covered with a thick quilt, and bending down, she kissed her forehead. ‘How are you feeling?' she asked. Her mother smiled and held her hand. ‘Better for seeing you and baby,' she whispered. It shocked Mia the difference a week had made even, though she knew how relentless cancer could be once it had a grip, and Ma had been fighting the disease for three years now. Her skin was grey and the weight loss was significant, even in seven days. Dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the once plump hand with soft skin was skeletal, dry and cracked. ‘Oh God, let me have her for a little longer,' Mia thought, and her heart broke. Lowering her head, she kissed her mother's hand and blessed the dark glasses that hid her tears.

‘I'd like a cup of tea and a biscuit,' said Ma. There was silence for a second, and then all three sisters made for the door, jockeying for position to be useful. From the kitchen came the sound of cupboards opening and shutting and crockery being set out. Mia's mother smiled. ‘I may be dying, but I'm still the most cunning of all my sisters. Now show me my grandson while they're out of the room so we can have some peace and quiet together.'

Mia unwound the baby and held him out to her mother who, although weak, managed to hold him with the skill of someone used to caring for infants. The baby frowned, stretching his arms and legs free from the confines of the carrier, and opened his eyes. Then he smiled at his grandmother, the first real smile, and she smiled back, the young and the old taking each other in.

‘I've called him Henri, after Dad,' said Mia and her mother nodded. ‘A good choice,' she said, and Mia knew she was pleased.

There was silence for a time and then, ‘Has he been hitting you again?' her mother asked suddenly. The question she dreaded was here, but Mia couldn't lie, so she hung her head and the answer was given.

Her mother sighed, then said, ‘I've told your brother and he wants to speak to you. He's outside in the garage, so go and see him. Do it now before those three come back. I'll look after the baby.'

The thought of what her brother, Kai, might do and say made her heart sink as she made her way slowly out to her father's old workshop. Kai was hammering nails as though it were more than a piece of wood he was battering. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The walls vibrated with the noise, and the blows shook the work bench. Mia called out, but he was concentrating so hard he didn't hear. She came up behind him and touched his shoulder. He swung round, the hammer raised, and for a second, Mia thought he would bring it down on her head, splitting her skull.

Kai threw the hammer down and put his arms around her, holding her tight. ‘Ah Mia,' he said, and when he stepped back, she could see tears in his eyes. ‘Ma told me what's been happening,' he said. ‘I'm going to kill the bastard. How could he do that to you?'

‘No, you mustn't go near him Kai. It will only make things worse if you do. And he's not always like it. Just when he drinks and …,' she hesitated, ‘does the other stuff.'

‘You mean take drugs?' said her brother. ‘How can you stay there? Especially now with the baby. Come home. Ma would love to have you here, and we could look after her together.'

Kai tilted her chin up, making her look at him. ‘You're frightened aren't you? That's why you won't leave him. What's he done that you stay with a piece of shit like that?' Like the thudding of the hammer, Kai's anger filled the shed.

‘You don't understand Kai. He'll come after me like he did before. I even went to the police but that was useless. And he found out – I don't know how. He took me back to the house and beat me so badly I couldn't walk for five days. He broke some of my ribs and did other things I don't want to think about. He wouldn't let me go to a doctor, so I just lay there wanting to die for a long time. I didn't die, but I know I was lucky that time, and maybe I won't be so lucky if it happens again.'

Her brother gripped her arm, staring into her face. ‘Do you remember when I tried to warn you about going out with him? I'd heard things about him even then. They all said he was a vicious bastard, but you wouldn't listen. Thought you knew better. He's in a gang, Mia. A fucking gang that peddles booze and drugs to kids. What the hell is wrong with you?'

Kai turned away and picked up the hammer again. ‘I can't help you if you won't let me. But when you make your mind up what you want to do, let me know. I've got mates that could sort him out, even if he is in a gang, and you could go away somewhere until it's all sorted.'

Mia looked at her brother's broad back and shoulders. He loved her; she knew that, but she also knew that if he made a move against Danny Walker, he would die. She went to touch him but pulled her hand back and turned and walked into the house.

She could hear her aunts talking to her mother in the bedroom but the thought of facing them and making excuses for her black eye was too much after the confrontation with Kai. She made a cup of tea then sat at the table, wondering what she should do.

She was eighteen when she met Danny and was flattered by the attention he gave her. Charming, handsome, intelligent, he made her laugh. It wasn't until later that the violent, vicious streak that made up so much of his personality became apparent. In black leathers, riding his Harley, an element of danger surrounded him that intrigued her. She was unsophisticated, worked in a small office and had never had a boyfriend. Later, she was sorry he hadn't met her father, dead two years by then. He would have known immediately what sort of man his daughter was getting involved with and stopped her from having any more to do with Danny Walker.

She moved in with him after a year to a state house in Otara, South Auckland. Love made her blind to the unending poverty, the drugs and alcohol abuse around her. There was no privacy in the cramped, grimy conditions she found herself in. People came and went, some for just a few minutes, others for hours at a time. All of them came to see Danny, some offering to sell him something they thought he might need, others to buy what they couldn't purchase elsewhere – drugs and guns.

The first time he hit her was because she forgot to buy his cigarettes. She knew as soon as she came in the door he'd been drinking. His eyes were red and his breath, when he leaned into her, was heavy with the stink of whisky. Mia didn't feel the pain immediately, only shock that she had been struck. Her lip split, her head banged against the door, and she bruised her hip when she landed on the floor. Blood flowed down her chin and neck, dripping onto her clean white blouse, and no amount of washing removed it.

She should have left then, gone home, but Danny came after her, apologising, bringing flowers and chocolates, saying it would never happen again, that it was a ‘one time' thing. That he loved her and she was his girl.

She stayed.

It had gone on for a long time now, each time getting progressively more violent. He often raped her, the worst being just after the baby was born. She was tired, but Danny had been demanding. She tried to stop him, had cried out ‘No,' but he had thrown her down and pushed himself into her. Mia had struggled against the surging pain of his thrusting cock, but that seemed to excite him even more. His hands closed around her throat and black dots swam before her eyes. It was hard to breathe but she still fought him, trying to scratch him with her nails and beat against him with her fists. Eventually she blacked out, and when she came to, she was still on the floor, and the baby was crying. Everything hurt – her throat, her head, but mainly between her legs. There was blood, a lot of it, so Danny panicked and took her to hospital, dropping her off with the baby and then driving away, the red tail lights of his car flashing in the dark like the eyes of a demon.

The woman doctor who examined her asked questions, but Mia turned her face to the wall, refusing to answer. She was too scared, hurt, and ashamed, wondering if this was the price she would pay to survive.

She phoned Ma, who came in a taxi. She waited by the bed until Mia was wheeled into theatre and was still there when she woke up four hours later. Her mother didn't ask questions, she didn't have to. Looking at the bruises on her daughter's throat and face told her everything. ‘Do you want to come home with me?' she asked. ‘Oh, Ma,' said Mia, ‘I'm never going back to him again.'

And then, like the evil genie popping out of a bottle, Danny walked through the door. He carried a huge bouquet of flowers and tears ran down his face. He picked up Mia's hands and kissed them as though they were the most precious things on Earth. ‘I'm so sorry babe,' he said. ‘What can I do to make it up to you? I've been such a fool. Can you ever forgive me?' It all sounded hollow to the damaged girl lying in the bed, and then the words came that chilled her blood and she knew she was doomed. ‘You know I can't let you go. You mean too much to me. I'll find you wherever you are, wherever you go, and bring you back. You're mine forever.'

The menace behind the words was not lost on either Mia or her mother. The line she had drawn in the sand moments before was erased, as though it had never been. Mia went back to the house in Otara, and, in time, the abuse began again.

In the kitchen, Mia put her head on the table and closed her eyes, thinking how wonderful it would be if she could go to sleep and never wake up.

She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew a hand was gently stroking her hair. It was Aunt Em, and in her hands was a book, which she placed carefully on the table. ‘This journal belonged to your ancestor, Elizabeth Murray, a courageous and spirited woman. Bad things happened to her, but she survived them all, much like you Mia,' she said. ‘Keep it to yourself and read it when you're alone. Don't let that boy get his hands on it. Only your mother knows I have Elizabeth's journal, and we've decided you should have it now. It's your turn to keep it safe.'

She bent down and kissed Mia on the cheek. It felt like a blessing.

‘Don't forget, if you ever need me, you know where I live, and you can stay for as long as you like. For an old girl, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, some that even Danny Walker would be surprised at.' Her auntie smiled.

‘Stay here for a little while. They're playing with the baby, and your mother is comfortable and enjoying the little fellow. He's brought his own joy with him.' Quietly she went from the room, shutting the door behind her.