Huia Short Stories 10 (6 page)

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Authors: Tihema Baker

BOOK: Huia Short Stories 10
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The journal was covered in soft green suede, worn at the edges and with a faded gold script on the front. Bending closer, Mia could make out the letter ‘E', then a ‘b' and realised it was the name ‘Elizabeth'. She brushed her hand over the leather, enjoying the almost sensual feel of the cover. She picked it up and held it to her face, inhaling the scent of age but also herbs and spices and some strange perfume she couldn't define.

Opening the cover, she saw an inscription:

This journal belongs to Elizabeth Murray. It was given to me by my beloved husband on my twenty-sixth birthday.

The handwriting was neat and easily legible and although the ink was faded, Mia could still read it.

On a perfect summer's day, while I was away on an errand, my mother, father, three smaller sisters and both brothers vanished as though they had never existed.

Mother called me into the kitchen that morning as she was preparing breakfast, before the rest of the family arrived with their usual noise and clatter. ‘Elizabeth, I need you to go into town and take Mrs Anderson some baking. I heard she's not been well lately, and some of my malt biscuits might cheer her up.' I was surprised; the trip to town and back was likely to take the best part of the day and as for Mrs Anderson, I didn't think mother even liked her that much.

My brothers and sisters arrived, clamouring to be fed and as usual there wasn't much to go round. There was porridge, a thick gruel, grey and unappetising, seasoned with salt to give it some taste, and milk to pour on it, but that was all. It did stick to your ribs, I have to admit, and sometimes, if times were particularly meagre, we had it for lunch as well. On occasion, mother added some meat and we had it as rissoles, but meat was a rarity, and we often only ate bread and dripping for dinner. I was always hungry, and the thought of Mrs Anderson having an entire basket of biscuits to herself made me upset and angry.

‘Why do I have to go?' I asked.

‘Because you're the oldest and can look after yourself,' she replied. I was to remember those words later and wonder at them.

‘Can I take the horse?' I asked, but my father who had now come into the kitchen, shook his head. ‘Not today. I need her to cart some hay. Besides, you've got good strong legs. It won't do you any harm to stretch them.'

Resentment rose inside me. It was summer and the day promised to be a hot one. Besides, it was a long way to walk alone. Eight miles at least to the cluster of shops we called a town and the small community of houses that surrounded it. Mrs Anderson's was on the far side, and I would have to make my way along the rutted, dusty streets to get to her house. Knowing her, she was unlikely to ask me in for a cool drink or to share Mother's biscuits.

However, it wasn't just the thought of the long, hot walk or Mrs Anderson's lack of charity that made me unhappy.

The first time we went to town as a family, I had been excited at the prospect of seeing something other than the everyday sameness of our small farm and my quarrelsome brothers and sisters. But it was a disappointment. At no time since had that initial impression changed. The street, stretching from north to south, was full of potholes, big enough to lose an ox in. When the wind blew, which it did constantly, clouds of grit-laden dust billowed up, coating clothes and faces and embedding itself in eyes, ears and hair.

People on the footpath stared as though we were strange, exotic creatures from another land, and although Mother encouraged us to ignore them, it was difficult. ‘Take no notice children,' she said. ‘They have no manners,' which as far as she was concerned, explained everything. We may have been poor, but each one of us could use a knife, fork and spoon almost before we could walk. We said a blessing at mealtimes, despite there being little to eat, and learned to say ‘thank you' and ‘please' as some of our first words. We had manners even if we had little else.

I attracted the most stares and blamed the red hair that hung in curls midway down my back. It refused to be tamed despite constant brushing and attempts to straighten it. Mother said it was a burden I would just have to bear. To add to my problems, a light batch of freckles covered my cheeks and nose, which despite Mother's assurances that they would one day disappear, never did fade.

It became apparent that no amount of complaining or procrastinating was going to change the course of the day. I put on my only good pair of boots and the sunhat that tied under my chin and prepared to set out. The basket for Mrs Anderson seemed heavy, but Mother explained it also contained a flask of cool water and a sandwich for when I became hungry. ‘There's a letter in there to give to Mrs Anderson, so wait for a reply,' Mother said. She gave me a hug and a kiss while Father patted my head, a show of affection that was strange for him.

My parents, brothers and sisters stood and waved as I set out, and that was the last I ever saw of them.

The day turned out to be every bit as hot as I'd expected. Trudging along, feeling the bite of the sun on the back of my neck and arms, it wasn't too long before I stopped for a drink from the flask of water. Tucked next to it was the letter for Mrs Anderson, addressed in the neat, copperplate script Mother was noted for. It was marked ‘Private and Confidential', and I was curious as to what was so important that it should carry such a heading. I presumed I would find out soon enough.

I'd been walking for about two hours, getting slower and slower, dragging my feet through the dust and gravel of the road, when I heard the sound of a horse's hooves. I turned and saw a Maori boy, wearing a pair of ragged trousers, who was riding a chestnut horse that was galloping towards me. There was no saddle or bridle, only a plaited piece of rope he was using as reins.

Stopping next to me, he stared down as I gazed up. About the same age as me, he was handsome, like some prince that had appeared out of the fairy stories I read to my brothers and sisters at night before they went to sleep. His hair was dark and curly and his skin a golden brown. Compared to my own anaemic complexion, which I hated and which was currently turning an unbecoming shade of red in the hot sun, he was magnificent.

He smiled, ‘Want a ride?' I nodded, and he held out a hand. I gripped tight and was hauled up behind him. I set the basket between us but was forced to hold him around the waist as we jolted along. I thought of what Mother would think or say if she could see me but then banished the thought. After all, it was her idea to send me walking all the way to town and back on such a hot day.

‘Are you going to town?' the boy asked and I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. ‘Yes, I have to do an errand for my mother and drop off some biscuits to a lady who's not well.'

‘It's a long way to walk just for some biscuits,' said the boy. ‘Have you eaten any?'

I was shocked that he would ask and in my coldest voice said, ‘Certainly not. They're a gift and that would be dishonest.' He laughed. ‘Only asking. My name is Henry, by the way. I live at the pa about three miles from your house. I see you sometimes with your family. You're hard to miss with that red hair.'

My outrage grew. First the biscuits and now he was talking about my hair. I was regretting taking the ride but it was too late now, and we were already approaching the outskirts of the town. ‘You can let me off here, thank you,' I said, as though he had given me a lift in a fine carriage and not on the back of a saddleless horse.

He pulled up, and holding the basket carefully, I let myself slide off the horse. Remembering my manners despite his rudeness, I said, ‘Thank you for the ride. I won't be so tired now when I have to walk back.'

‘I could wait and take you home, if you want,' said Henry, but I shook my head. I could just imagine my parents' faces if I turned up on the back of a horse, hanging on to a shirtless Maori boy. A whipping would be the least of my punishment.

‘No, thank you. I don't know how long I am going to be, and there may be some other business I have to attend to along the way.' Of course there wasn't, but the words sounded very confident and important, and Henry appeared to accept my excuses. He wheeled the horse around, raised his hand in farewell and galloped back the way we'd just come.

I sighed, then hitching up my skirts, made my way along the final stretch of road that led into town and towards Mrs Anderson's house.

The town was busy that morning, and more than the usual number of drifters, drovers and farmers were present. I looked straight ahead but was still aware of the stares I elicited and tried to ignore the uncouth comments and loud whistles directed my way.

Mrs Anderson lived in a white, two-storey house, surrounded by rose bushes that were rumoured to have been brought all the way from England. I walked up the path to the front door and knocked twice. Father always said you knocked once for luck and once to announce your arrival, and having had little practice at knocking on doors, I followed his advice. Soon afterwards, I heard footsteps, the door opened, and Mrs Anderson stood glaring at me. She was tall and thin and had a pinched look about her that made me think that no amount of malt biscuits would either fatten her or make her sweeter.

‘What do you want, girl?' she snapped, and for a second I was intimidated. Then I remembered what a long way I'd walked, the biscuits (untouched) in the basket and my mother's letter. ‘Good morning, Mrs Anderson. I'm Elizabeth Murray. My mother says you've not been well and has sent these malt biscuits along with this letter that I am to give to you.'

‘You'd better come in then,' she said, turning and beginning to walk down a long passageway that obviously led to the back of the house. I followed, grateful for the coolness and wishing I had the courage to ask for a glass of water or even one of Mother's biscuits.

‘Sit there,' she commanded, pointing to a kitchen chair. I sat. Not bothering to glance at the biscuits, she tore open the letter and began to read, every so often sucking in her bottom lip in a way that made her look as though she was biting into a sour lemon. She snorted once or twice and when she'd finished reading the letter, looked at me. No longer intimidating, she appeared sad, and for some reason that worried me. I stood up. ‘Is there any reply I should take back to my Mother, ma'am?' I asked.

Mrs Anderson shook her head. Then she said words that terrified me and made me wish I could sprout wings and fly back to the farm. ‘You poor child,' she said. ‘Your parents have done you a great wrong. Go home quickly, run as fast as you can even though I know it's a long way. I would take you myself, but I have no available transport this day. If you find you need me, then come back, and I will help as much as I can.'

She turned me around so I was facing the front door and gave me a gentle push. Before I knew it, I was outside, and the hot sun was beating down on me. Beginning to run, I wished I hadn't told Henry that I didn't need a ride and told him lies.

I'd always been a good runner and with my long legs and thin build could outdistance my brothers and sisters with little difficulty. I flew along the roads, ignoring the dust and gravel that had seemed so prevalent on the way in to town. I fell twice and skinned my knees, hands and elbows, but I kept going. Finally, gasping for breath and exhausted, I arrived on the doorstep of my home.

The first thing I noticed was the silence, a rarity in our house with so many children. Opening the door, I went inside. Nothing remained that said ‘a family lives here'. No toys, books or chairs, not even the kitchen table. It was swept clean with no trace of the people whom I had known all my life.

A chasm opened at my feet, and I fell into it.

From Here to There and Back Again

Ann French

I was never sure if I liked Maaka, even though I had known him most of my life. We were cousins, and when his father died in a car accident, my mother took to visiting the family and helping out in small ways on a regular basis.

At the moment the car struck my uncle and killed him, my mother claimed a glass that shattered into a zillion pieces at that precise second in our bathroom was his spirit letting her know he had departed this life. Hopefully for a better one.

Maaka had a younger brother, Pita, whom his mother much preferred. Not that she was a spiteful or vicious woman – she wasn't. She just liked one of her children more than the other and didn't bother to hide it.

If there were two portions, Pita got the larger piece. If there were two roads to be travelled, she would send Maaka down the rutted, gravelly, weed-infested one while Pita skipped and hopped merrily across macadamised smooth pathways, arriving an hour earlier than his misguided and ill-prepared brother.

Maaka was dyslexic, which didn't help matters. He struggled at school with writing, spelling and reading. Nothing made sense to him. It was all strange symbols from another land. Bullied at school, he was considered stupid and backward, a view often confirmed by his mother. ‘Dumb as an ox,' I once heard her say to my mother, who had the grace to wince at the ungracious description of her nephew.

The priests where he went to school, the brothers, beat and hit him constantly on his hands, his knuckles, the back of his head and his buttocks for daring to be slow. ‘Lazy, lazy, lazy,' they chanted in chorus, making a hymn of their cruelty.

But two good things evolved from this. Maaka learned to draw really well, and his memory was amazing. He once repeated to me the speech from
Hamlet
‘Alas, poor Yorick,' although I had only read it to him once.

He liked me. I knew that, and when I visited he would hurry me off to see his intricately constructed model airplanes or his latest drawings of horses. I didn't much appreciate the models that hung in constant limbo from his ceiling, but the drawings were amazing. The horses leapt from the sketch pad, manes and tails flowing, eyes wide and flashing in panic, hooves uplifted in flight. Never anything but horses – until the day I saw a sketch of me. It was sensual, beautiful, how I looked through his eyes. And I was naked.

He had forgotten the drawing was there and tried to hide it, making excuses, finally ripping it into pieces and throwing it in a bin. It put a different slant on our relationship, and I felt uncomfortable around him and didn't trust him the same. We were no longer cousins or friends. I sensed he wanted more, and withdrew. I stopped going with my mother when she visited, and made excuses not to be there when they came to our house.

Maaka probably sensed my renunciation of him and was hurt by it, but I was young and didn't care.

In the years that followed, I occasionally caught up with him. His mother, my aunt, died a miserable death from cancer. The son she'd favoured ignored her – didn't visit the hospital even when she asked to see him. Maaka took his mother home, cleaned and washed her as she became incontinent, and wept inconsolably when she died. Pita had to be reminded twice to attend the tangi.

He married in his early thirties, a woman who was an alcoholic. I doubt Maaka knew that at the time, as he didn't drink at all – the signs may have been there but he didn't recognise them. His wife grew large with age and drink, but he never abandoned her, nor to my knowledge looked elsewhere. It wasn't a happy marriage, but then what marriage is when one partner is an alcoholic with no plans for redemption or redemptive measures? ‘A slow jog to hell,' as my father would have said.

There were three children, two boys and a girl. One boy, Pita, was called after the brother who no longer spoke to Maaka. Wiri, like his father, was happiest tinkering with cars and bikes, and was an artist of ability. The girl, Mereanne, was the apple of her father's eye. She called him ‘Pops', and although he threw off at her, he would have walked on hot coals if she'd asked. She never did.

One day I got a call to say that Maaka's oldest son had been killed. Like his father and brother, he loved motorcycles. He had been riding up the driveway to his parents' house when a stray dog ran in front of him. Pita braked, came off the bike and hit his head on the concrete curb. He died instantly.

I went to the funeral, held in a small chapel reeking of incense and ripe lilies. My cousin Maaka and his brother, although no longer speaking to one another, talked to me. Sadness hung in the air like a scene from a primeval tragedy. Maaka shed no tears, blaming speed and the errant stray dog for his son's death.

Two years later, almost to the day, Wiri was dead. As he was driving through the Karangahake Gorge on his beloved motorbike at speed, the chain of his bike came off and wrapped itself through the front wheel, and he was catapulted over the safety barrier onto the rocks below. Maaka had to identify his son. He told me every bone in his body was broken.

The morning of the accident, there had been words. Maaka had recognised the chain was loose, and had given Wiri money to have it fixed. It didn't happen, and the price, though not in dollars and cents, was paid. Again my cousin didn't cry at the funeral, blaming fate and circumstances.

Over the years, he would pop up now and then. ‘Tēnā koe,' the voice on the phone would say. ‘Do ya know who this is?'

Of course I did, but I would pretend not to, and we'd go through the charade of me guessing Brad Pitt, George Clooney, until I got it right, or in desperation and frustration he'd say, ‘It's your cousin,' and we'd laugh, though we were too old for such games.

One year he told me his wife was drinking more than ever, and I think, from his tone, he'd given up on her. Visits from the police were regular occurrences, as she often verbally abused the neighbours and physically abused him. He didn't seem to care, and I thought afterwards it was his way of punishing himself for the loss of his boys.

A Christmas later, a card arrived, not glittery or fancy, not even festive. There was a note from his wife wishing our family a Merry Christmas, and underneath one line to say Mereanne was expecting a baby in the new year. ‘Wonderful,' I said to my husband.

‘Maaka won't care,' he grunted.

‘He will, but he'll pretend he doesn't,' I replied.

The phone rang a few weeks later. ‘Kia ora, cuz,' a voice said. ‘Know who this is?'

‘Frankenstein,' I replied, as we began the dance. I wasn't going to ask, but from a mixture of boredom and curiosity after five minutes and because it didn't seem like he was going to mention it, I said, ‘You're going to be a grandfather soon?'

‘Never thought it would happen. Girl doesn't even like kids. Prefers cows and mucking around with cars.' And try as I might, he would say no more on the subject. I knew Mereanne was thirty-five, so maybe it was an accident, not something planned or wanted. ‘Please just don't ever buy it a motorbike,' I prayed.

It was a long time after that when I heard from him again, and even then it wasn't a phone call or a card. It was a photograph. Only two words were written on the back – ‘Pop's girl' – and it showed my cousin, old now with a beard long and silvery, seated on a bench looking down at a little girl. She was a small twin of her mother, curly brown hair and golden eyes. A small hand was tangled in her grandfather's beard, and she nestled against him like a snug pocket in a comfortable pair of jeans.

I was never really sure if I liked my cousin Maaka, even though I had known him most of my life. The photograph changed all that. In it, I saw there was someone who was sure she liked him. I was glad.

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