Magpie Hall (20 page)

I will bring you a huia
, he writes,
to show you how much I love you
.

That night, Dora dreams about the Maori women and their moko. She dreams that they have chosen her to receive it, but she is frightened of the chisel they approach her with. They must hold her down. Even in sleep, Dora feels the tap tap of the chisel on her face, the excruciating pain as it cuts her to the bone.

Despite the summer months, the house is as cold as death. She keeps the fires lit, but the rooms remain gloomy in the unseasonably dark and rainy days. Nobody comes to visit — the neighbours have all gone to town for the festive season — so she reads, and sleeps, and waits.

Finally her father appears and is shocked at the change that has come over her: her hollowed cheeks, her dried skin, her damp eyes.

You must come to stay with me at once, he says. You are not well.

No, Father. I am expecting Henry any day now. I must wait for him.

Well, damn him for leaving you alone like this! I will speak to him when he returns, upon my word I will.

No, really — she reaches out a hand and he clasps it as she faints.

When she comes around, she is in her own bed, so she rolls over and sleeps, but is soon awoken by the doctor.

Her fear, the one she didn’t even allow herself to think about, has been realised. She is pregnant. She has little choice in the matter of
her father and his wife coming to stay with her. Her father tiptoes around her and whispers as though she is an invalid; he won’t even hear of her getting out of bed, even when the days brighten and she begins to feel a little better. She watches him, the pride beneath his concern, the way he holds himself a little taller and absently hums lullabies such as one might sing to a child.

She thinks that her stepmother looks at her with resentment when she brings her soup, and that she spills it on purpose, burning Dora’s fingers. She mutters about Dora’s blessing, but all Dora wants to say to her is, Take the baby, it is yours. I have no need for it. But she eats her soup in silence.

Rosemary

My pony died the August that I was thirteen. A crash and a scream woke me at first, then there was the sound of the horses calling to each other in the mist of dawn, their hooves slapping in the mud. I looked out the window of my little single bedroom and saw their shapes moving in the fog. Then another sound, like music, floating through the air to the house, an eerie note playing over and over. It made no sense.

I ran out as fast as I could, in my pyjamas, with Grandpa close behind, pulling on his coat. I hadn’t stopped to put on my gumboots and the gravel of the road spiked my feet, while the cold and damp seeped between my toes. It wasn’t until we got to the gate that I saw that Grandpa was carrying his rifle.

My pony Lily — the pony I had learnt to ride on, had cared for
and groomed and loved every holiday I had spent there since I was seven years old — lay in a crumpled heap, tangled in a web of wire and fenceposts. Her sides rose and fell in panic. With one leg, she was trying to get up, but instead she kept hitting the wire, again and again, almost rhythmically. It was this action that produced the beautiful and troublesome sound, the note that has played over and over in my head and has invaded my dreams for twenty years. Grandpa and I stood, mesmerised. Then Lily gave an exhausted whinny and gave up. Her back leg was gashed and bleeding; it jutted out an awkward angle. She lifted her chestnut head and glared at us, her eyes rimmed with white.

To this day we don’t know why Lily was trying to jump the fence, whether she had slipped on take-off or simply not cleared the height. I wished I could ask the magpies that sauntered around us as we tried to calm her down. The frenzy of her movements caused more damage to her broken body, and eventually Grandpa told me to turn away.

The shot echoed in the close grey valley. The magpies rose, calling out, and for a moment sound upon sound enveloped me, layers of echo in the stillness. I closed my eyes and hugged my cold body. My feet were soaked and numb, hooves of mud. Grandpa gathered me in his arms, keeping my body turned away from the silent horse. His jersey scratched my face. It smelt of lanolin and Gram’s cigarillos.

That might have been the end of the matter, except for what happened next. Grandpa gave instructions to Josh, who was just a farmhand then, to get a digger and bury my pony. That afternoon I went for a walk, as I often did, up the hill past the dog kennels so I could look out as the light was leached from the valley. My melancholy gene, Grandpa reckoned, but just as I liked to spy on people from the tower, I liked to look back down over the house and watch people moving about inside, the smoke from the chimneys hanging in the
quiet air. I badly needed to remove myself that afternoon.

As I approached the kennels, Josh came from the other direction in the ute. He waved to me as he left the road and started backing up towards where the dogs were now barking, turning circles in their runs in anticipaton. Something made me stop and watch what was going to happen next.

Josh got out of the cab and went around to the back of the truck. He started dragging great heavy lumps of something off it, and throwing them on the ground. The dogs’ barks turned to yelps and they threw themselves against the doors to their cages. Once Josh was finished, he let the dogs out, stepping aside while they launched themselves at the lumps, tearing, growling, chewing. Josh stood by, his hand on his hip, his body bent over as though there was a great weight on his shoulders. He slowly looked up and saw me standing there. He gave me a cheerless wave as the dogs tore my pony to shreds and ate her in front of me. The look of satisfaction on his pinched face has always stayed with me.

I refused to eat meat after that. Every time I looked at it I thought of Lily, and the indecent act that had been performed on her body. She didn’t deserve it, and neither, I decided, did any other animal. I channelled the same feelings into my taxidermy, visiting acts of respect and kindness on my subjects, bringing them dignity in their death, burying their carcasses and planting trees on top of them. I was nothing if not an idealist.

Later, I heard Grandpa yelling at Josh, threatening to fire him. I listened from my narrow room, which I refused to leave until my mother came and coaxed me away, to leave the farm and return to the city. It would be years before I returned to Magpie Hall, and I never spoke to Josh again.

The horses seemed surprised by the attention but stood placidly as they munched on carrots and we slipped their bridles on. I took Jimmy because he looked as though he could no longer support Charlie’s weight; my brother would ride Blossom. Their hooves were beginning to grow over their shoes, but at least they were still shod. I made a mental note to mention to one of the farm staff to get them redone; with Grandpa gone they stood the risk of being severely neglected.

It was one of the misty mornings I had loved as a child. For a moment I imagined myself back in that simpler time, when riding seemed as safe and natural as going for a walk. The horses’ breath hung in the cold air and we trudged over dew-heavy grass to the stable to give them a quick groom. By midday the fog would burn off and we would have a fine day. We led them without speaking, listening to the plod of hooves in mud and the jingling of the bits in their mouths. I felt less anxious than I had for days, and at that moment thought of nothing but the task at hand — no Hugh, no Sam, no Grandpa, no intruders. I had forgotten how therapeutic horses could be.

After we’d brushed them and removed the mud and stones from their hooves, we saddled up and headed up the hill by road. We passed the empty dog run. Even though it was Saturday, some farm work just didn’t take a holiday. I pictured Sam out there on his bike, whistling and growling in the unintelligible language shepherds use with their dogs.

‘Christ, I’d forgotten these muscles even existed,’ said Charlie as he stood in his stirrups and stretched. ‘We’re going to be sore tomorrow.’

I nodded but said nothing. I, too, could feel my thighs weaken with the effort of digging in my knees. My hands tingled with cold and my nose was beginning to run. I wiped it on my sleeve.

The road twisted up the hill, past the limestone cottages. Josh and his family lived in the biggest, and shearers and farmhands used the others. Children’s bikes lay scattered in front of Josh’s place, but apart from smoke rolling from the chimney, there was no sign of anyone.

‘I suppose we should stop and say hello,’ said Charlie, starting to turn Blossom’s head toward the driveway. ‘We could ask them if they’ve seen anyone prowling around the house, too.’

‘Let’s not,’ I said. ‘I haven’t talked to them yet and Sam said Josh is pretty unhappy about the way things are going. You could talk to him if you want. Later. I couldn’t stand it right now.’

Charlie seemed satisfied and resumed his path. As we passed the house, we saw a face at the kitchen window, looking out at us. A large figure, with unkempt black hair. Charlie waved with his whole arm, a great sunny smile on his face, while I lifted my hand tentatively. Josh’s expression remained unchanged. He didn’t wave back, and after a moment or two he turned his back and walked away.

‘Maybe he didn’t see us,’ said Charlie.

‘Oh, he saw us all right,’ I said.

Further up the hill, we left the road and entered one of the paddocks. Charlie urged Blossom into a canter and I followed, worried that old Jimmy might not be able to take the pace. But he pricked his ears forward and took off; I had a hard time reining him in from breaking into a full gallop. Sheep scattered away from us and the wind was luxurious on my burning cheeks. Charlie whooped ahead of me and streaked off. By the time we got to the next gate, I was breathing hard with the effort of staying on and keeping Jimmy under control, but I was exhilarated.

‘Oh, yeah!’ said Charlie, as he jumped off Blossom to open the gate. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t done that for so long. Where’ve I been all this time?’

‘Too busy being a big-shot city doctor, I expect.’

He shrugged and waited for me to come through the gate before shutting it again and remounting.

‘Do you remember the way to the caves?’ he asked.

‘I think so. A few more paddocks over. Past the church.’

‘Wish we had some of Mrs G’s bacon and egg pie,’ he said. Even I felt nostalgic, despite now being a vegetarian. It was quite a ride. We had only a couple of sandwiches to keep us going.

The fog had lifted by the time we got to the small stone chapel near the top of the hill, but the wind chased thick white clouds across the sky and I could feel it cutting through my jacket into my kidneys. The little building was still standing, leaning slightly on unstable foundations, but the roof had fallen in and what was left of it had become a home for birds and mice. It was a shame, but I liked it like that; it made me think of the English countryside, with all its history. This church would have been built for the first family who owned the house, the people Henry had bought it off after the earthquake, and it would have been attended by them and all the workers and domestic staff they employed. It was probably quite a crowd in those days.

‘Can we stop here for a bit?’ I asked. Charlie nodded. We dismounted and tied the horses to a fencepost, then went through the little iron gate that barely clung to its hinges. An old-fashioned water pump rusted nearby. Charlie headed for the door of the church, but it was the few stark gravestones that interested me.

They rose up out of the scraggly grass and sheep droppings, small and lichen-covered, with names I didn’t recognise — servants long forgotten, perhaps, or ancestors of the original owners. Some stones commemorated the short lives of babies and small children.

One stood apart from the rest, under an apple tree fat with fruit.
This headstone alone was made from marble, and it stood at a slight angle.

Charlie came over and stood next to me as I looked at it.

‘Dora Summers,’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’

‘You know,’ I said, ‘Henry’s wife. The one who drowned.’

‘But I thought her body was lost forever. I thought he murdered her.’

I read out the inscription. ‘
In Memoriam, Dora Summers, taken
tragically
. I think this is just a memorial. I don’t think she’s actually buried here. See, most of these graves are enclosed. This one just has a headstone.’

‘I wonder where Henry is, then? When did they stop burying people here?’

‘When the church stopped being used, I suppose. I don’t know.’

We stood looking at it a while longer. The clouds threw moving shapes on the ground.

‘Grandpa should be here, really, shouldn’t he?’ I said. ‘And Tess.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Charlie, taking my arm. ‘Mum would never have let them bury her here. Not after what happened.’

‘You’re right. That was a stupid thing to say. Sorry.’

He squeezed my arm. Tess’s name had fluttered up unexpectedly between us, but it seemed that neither of us wanted to grab at it. I broke the silence.

‘I’d like to be buried here though. Can you arrange that please?’

I felt him relax beside me. He dropped my arm and stepped away. ‘Thought you were donating your body to science. To be stuffed or whatever it was.’

‘Ah, so I am. Thanks for the reminder.’

‘You know, there is another alternative,’ said Charlie. ‘You can get your ashes pressed into a diamond. Then your sweetheart can make a
ring out of you and wear you forever.’

‘A memento mori. I like that. Now all I need is the sweetheart.’

‘Well, you don’t seem to have a shortage of options.’

I grunted. ‘Not viable ones.’

‘You’re too fussy, that’s your trouble. You’ve read too many romantic novels and you’re wasting your time waiting for your Heathcliff.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. I didn’t want to think about it any more.

We left the sad little graveyard behind and crested the ridge that dropped down to the caves. We were not allowed to come here alone as children — Grandpa said the caves were too unstable. One of them had been blocked by falling rocks when he was a child himself. We had seen them just a few times, on family outings, and I could only yearn for the games that we could have played in them. As we approached I had a strange thought: that the caves would make a good hiding place for treasure. The blocked cave had become barred when Grandpa was a boy, which must have been around the time Henry had boxed up his cabinet of curiosities and arranged for it to be sent to the British Museum. Only, it never arrived. Could it have been hidden somewhere on the estate? I had ruled out its being in the house, as Grandpa had found nothing in all the years he lived there. But perhaps the instruction to stay away from the caves was to hide something. Could Grandpa’s father have gone against Henry’s wishes and hidden the cabinet there, warning his son and subsequent generations away?