The Runaway Settlers (7 page)

Lyttelton was very lively. The shops all seemed busy. Men stood outside the Mitre Hotel in noisy groups, and a regular hubbub sounded from the bar. The cracking of carpenters’ hammers echoed through the crisp air. Men were levelling the clay roads and ploughing the gutters along the side to carry away the next fall of rain. At the wharf lay the
Zingari,
the steamship that carried mail between the North and South Islands. Some small boats were also alongside; two large ships rode at anchor; and sailing gracefully with the easterly wind behind her, a good-sized barque came into view.

The boys were passing the Steadfast Dining Rooms when one of the sash-windows was thrown up and a woman called after them:

‘What have you there, boys?’

‘Cabbages, spring onions and radishes,’ answered Bill.

‘Wait! Let me see!’ The woman, plump and wearing a white cap and apron, came rustling through the door. She held a knife to cut the flax cords, but Bill was not to be hurried. He untied the sacks carefully and drew out samples of his vegetables, tender green and crimson and white.

‘They’re spring cabbages—beautiful!’ said the woman. ‘I’ll give threepence each.’

Jack’s eyes widened. Their mother had said they might ask for twopence. But Bill saw, in the quickness of her offer, the chance of a better bargain: cabbages were scarce after all.

‘Our mother said we’re to go to the ships, but if they’re not sold we’ll bring them back,’ he said.

‘Mind you do then! There’ll be a hot drink of tea if you want it.’

They went on to the wharf. Here they displayed their produce and soon everything was sold: the cabbages for fourpence, the radishes for a penny and the spring onions for twopence a bunch. The sailors were eager for such fine fresh vegetables so early in the season; and as for the barque just coming in, she’d be out of luck.

The boats from the barque were coming ashore and the boys stayed to watch. A young woman in a plaid shawl and a pretty pink bonnet sat in the bow with her back towards them. Now she stood up and allowed the oarsman to hand her to the landing.

‘Mary Ann!’ cried Bill. ‘Look, it’s Mary Ann!’

The brothers almost knocked one another into the harbour, and Mary Ann, turning quickly at the sound of her name, lost her balance and fell against the sailor’s shoulder. She flushed, stammered an apology, and raising her long skirts ran up the steps. She would have liked to throw her arms around Bill’s neck; but he seemed too grown up already, so she stretched out her two hands, one for each brother. The boys felt suddenly shy. They had never before seen her dressed as a fashionable young lady.

‘We didn’t think of you coming. And here you are, all togged out fit to kill!’ said Bill.

‘What was it like living in Sydney all that time?’ asked Jack.

Mary Ann smiled. She was happy, yet her face was softer and sadder. ‘I couldn’t stay in Sydney any longer—I had a big disappointment,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t Father—was it? Did he come?’

‘No, it wasn’t Father. A long time ago, when you’d left, I heard about him; that was all. He followed us to Sydney just after the
Armenian
sailed, and went round the shipping offices asking for Mrs Small. Mr McCracken heard about it. He didn’t ask for any passage himself and he must have gone back to Berrima, we think.’

‘That’s good news, at any rate!’

‘What did you do then?’ asked Jack.

‘Mrs McCracken found me a good situation. They were a doctor’s family, so accomplished—every evening they were singing over the piano! I wasn’t allowed in the drawing-room, of course, but I could hear from my little room and I learned all the latest songs. They had me dress their hair—that’s how I learned to do mine. Do you like it this way? And on Sundays we went to church, a big church with a choir.’

She stopped, and flushed again. Other people were watching and listening: did she sound too boastful? ‘Tell me about yourselves,’ she said quickly. ‘Mother wrote that we had a home, but that you were still working at Cashmere.’

Quite forgetting Mary Ann’s box, they walked slowly up the hill, exchanging their news. What the disappointment was that had hurried Mary Ann away from Sydney, she did not say. In any case they were going in and out of the shops, making the seven purchases, and Mary Ann could not help commenting on how poky the shops were after the big ones in Sydney. They went to the Steadfast Dining Rooms too, and promised the woman that she should have the next sackful of cabbages at fourpence each.

‘My travelling box!’ exclaimed Mary Ann, remembering.
‘Oh, we must go back to the wharf and fetch it!’

‘Is it heavy?’ asked Jack doubtfully. Up hill and down dale, all the way back to Governors Bay and through Rapaki, they would have to carry that box!

‘Oh yes—I’ve bought a heap of new things,’ she said brightly, ‘but I’ll help with it myself, of course.’

But they had a stroke of luck. Mr Parsons was at the wharf, setting up the sail on his boat, for the breeze was still blowing up the harbour; and the boys helped him stack his goods to make room for them all. ‘I’m delighted to hear you have come, Miss Phipps,’ he said in his gentlemanly way. ‘Your mother will be glad of your help, I’m sure. She spends all day in the garden.’

Mary Ann thanked him for his courtesy, and he could not have guessed how startled she was to be addressed, without hesitation, as Miss Phipps.

Nothing was seen of Rapaki as they sailed past, except curls of smoke rising above the trees and a number of half-naked figures gathering pauas by the headland.

The little cob hut, with her Mother and all her family there, was cosy and comforting to Mary Ann. True, it was a squeeze to get everybody in; Bill and Jack were still sleeping on the floor of the little bedroom at nights, and Emma would have to top-and-tail with her mother to give Mary Ann, who was taller than anyone except Bill, a bunk to sleep in. But how pretty it all looked as Emma and Jimmy took her to the spring; through the bush with its kowhai already golden and along the beach scattered with shells, white and gold and mauve,
and the sea gleaming in the evening light! That night there was rejoicing because the garden had brought its first profits, and the last of the family had come to the new home. No piano was needed as Mrs Phipps sang the old familiar ballads in the firelight, and Mary Ann sang the new ones she had learned in Sydney, until Emma fell asleep across her sister’s knees and Jim could fight back his drowsiness no longer.

In the midst of it came a knock on the door and a deep voice calling in words that nobody could understand.

Maoris!

Jack made a leap for the bedroom as Mrs Phipps lifted the door-latch. How could she do it so calmly! Bill flattened himself against the wall where he could not be seen. But only one face appeared, a tattooed face over a neat European coat and trousers.

‘I come to speak of the tamariki,’ said the stranger.

‘Tamariki?’ repeated Mrs Phipps. She thought at first that he meant animals, but he pointed to the sleeping Emma.

‘Tamariki—children. The tall children. Boys.’

‘You have lost your boys?’

‘No. I speak of the boys from this house. They come by Rapaki in the morning and they do not return. We watch, and we grow afraid, for you.’

In all the excitement of the home-coming, Mrs Phipps had been told nothing about Rapaki except a few words from Jack about having been chased; boastful words about having regained his lost sack. But the speed with which the boys had disappeared from view was enough, and she said mischievously:

‘They are not here just now, but they are not lost. Would you like me to send them to you tomorrow?’

She caught a glimpse of Bill’s horrified stare as the Maori answered calmly:

‘Not tomorrow. Some time we will see them. I come only so that, if they are lost, we may find them for you; for the land is an open book to us.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Phipps with a grave courtesy that matched her visitor’s. ‘I’m very much obliged, and I will speak to the boys.’

‘Kia ora,’ said the Maori in courteous farewell. Mrs Phipps waited until he had passed from the beam of firelight which stretched from the doorway, then latched the door and sank back into her packing-case chair, helpless with gay laughter. Shame-faced, Bill and Jack crept back to the hearth.

‘They chased you!’ she said. ‘They took your sack and you made them give it back! Ah! It was only curiosity—and if you’d had your share of it, you wouldn’t have made such fools of yourselves!’

Mary Ann said nothing more to her brothers about the disappointment that had hurried her home from Sydney; but from the talk that went on between her and Mrs Phipps, it plainly had something to do with a young man. He had gone away, back to England; and she, not able to face the thought of never seeing her own family again, had let him go without her.

‘I knew you would need me, Mother,’ she said, ‘and all the fine ladies of Sydney aren’t worth as much as you.’

It was true that Mary Ann was needed; for Mrs Phipps spent all the daylight hours working in the garden, and could now leave all the housework and cooking to her daughter. But the house was far too small. Bill, Jack and Archie set to work building a new room on to the end of the cob hut.

The cost was small, but it took hours of work. First they had to cut strong, straight poles of kowhai and drive them into the ground for uprights. To this frame they fixed laths made of thin sticks of manuka, rather like concrete boxing; and into the space between they pressed the cob, which was clay and chopped tussock mixed with water like a mud pie. When it dried out, hard as brick, the laths were taken away and the wall smoothed and white-washed. The roof was thatched with tussock and the room fitted with a door opening on to the outside path, a glazed calico window of its own, and four new bunks. The tiny original bedroom was
left clear for Mrs Phipps, Mary Ann and Emma.

During the building, Wagga blundered happily about the place knocking over tubs of water and clay with the greatest freedom. This was a great nuisance; for all the water had to be carried from the spring in wooden buckets balanced two at a time on a shoulder-yoke. Mary Ann thought a pet piglet was quite ridiculous and drove him away from the kitchen door; but the others forgave him, and Archie succeeded in keeping him off the garden.

When the boys were not building they were carrying vegetables to Lyttelton. Before long Mrs Phipps went too, with a basket of the first strawberries on her arm. At Rapaki the Maoris came to admire the kete (kit) which did not hang loosely like their own, but displayed the berries prettily arranged in a nest of their own leaves. Mrs Phipps had fashioned the kete with a hoop and a handle of supplejack and with green flax interlaced between.

The Phipps’s produce was earning fame. Buyers learned to watch for it, and ships’ cooks would order supplies for the next time they came into port. But there was much waste of time and labour in carrying everything on human backs and arms, and so Mrs Phipps would buy nothing that was not absolutely needed, but put aside something out of every sale towards buying a boat. Knowing that this boat was Jack’s great dream, she let him hide away the money in a secret place.

As the green crops were harvested she planted potatoes, carrots and parsnips, which would grow through the dry summer. Already there were gooseberries and currants, red and black. All of these were picked for sale and only the undersized or squashy ones used for the children. Mrs Phipps did not, like most parents in those days, use the stick freely
to discipline her family, for she had seen too much of harsh beatings. All the same, a supplejack was kept handy for anyone seen taking the fruit.

There was hardly any time for lessons: only on wet days. There was no time for games either, but the boys could cool off by swimming in the Bay, and with the new lines they went fishing at the Pinnacle. Jack spent odd moments at the fireside in whittling small boats. He inserted masts and bowsprits, joined on long ropes of plaited flax, and had Mary Ann make sails out of scraps of old linen. Jim, whose main job was looking after Emma, spent hours with her on the beach sailing these boats and rescuing the rag doll, Bibi, who proved to be a most unsteady sailor and was now looking like a washed-up piece of fish.

As summer drew on, Wagga changed from a piglet into a young pig. His reddish coat began to turn iron-grey, and he was no longer content with the scraps that Archie fed to him. He wanted to root for himself; and although Archie tried to keep him to the fern, Wagga dodged back and made a meal of new potatoes. On the very same day he pulled down and trampled some clean clothes which Mary Ann had spread over the bushes to dry. This was a serious crime, for washing was hard work with only buckets to wash in.

Mrs Phipps backed up Mary Ann’s complaint: ‘Archie, a piglet is a pet, but a full-grown pig is not. You must let him go!’

‘He isn’t very big yet,’ pleaded Archie, although he was dismayed himself with the speed at which Wagga had grown. At least his mother hadn’t said, ‘You must let him be eaten.’ So Archie hardened his heart and sent Wagga away—but Wagga came back, every time.

After the third try, Mrs Phipps said:

‘You must take him right to the top of the saddle above Mr Dyer’s, and let him go from there. He’ll soon find other pigs to be friends with, and then he won’t fret for you.’

Archie plodded unwillingly up the hill. It was lunch-time when he came out of the bush and there, sitting on a sunny bank, were four men with a billy steaming over a fire. They had been levelling off the new road from Cashmere. The men thought it very funny to see a boy followed by what looked at first like a dog, but gave out most un-dog-like grunts and snuffles.

‘Taking him to market, sonny?’ asked one with a bushy black beard.

‘No,’ said Archie. ‘This is Wagga. He’s my pet but he’s grown too big, so I’ve got to let him go bush.’

‘Now here’s a case!’ said the man, and the other three all laughed uproariously while Archie, to whom it was not at all funny, stood quite still, not knowing whether to go or to stay. Then another man said seriously:

‘What will happen to him when he goes bush?’

‘He’ll find a lady pig—a sow—and get married.’

The men thought this sensible explanation was funny, too.

‘Supposing he won’t settle down to bush life with his sow?’

‘He wouldn’t stay when we sent him away at home,’ said Archie, ‘but up here he won’t be able to find us, so he’ll get used to it.’

‘Chase him into the bush and see,’ said a third man, reaching mysteriously behind his lunch-bag.

Archie’s quick eyes saw the movement and something froze
inside him. The man had a gun! Of course, they must keep it handy in case wild pigs came around when they were working—but Wagga wasn’t a wild pig; of this, there must be no mistake. ‘I’m going to take him, not chase him,’ said Archie.

He went a long way into the bush, meaning to find a small bluff where Wagga could be dropped over without harm and could not scramble up again. A good place was not hard to find and soon Archie was alone, with Wagga’s surprised grunt growing fainter and his own face hard set, because he was too old to cry.

When he came out the men were putting away their billy and pannikins, and taking up their tools. Archie nodded and marched silently past. Then he heard a call: ‘You think you lost him, sonny?’

Archie swung round. There stood Wagga exactly where he had himself come out of the bush. If Wagga had run back, or run to him! But he’d learned to be friendly to all humans. He went up to the black-bearded man and stood happily waiting for some titbit or mark of interest.

‘Stand back, Hal!’ said the man with the gun.

It was all done in a minute. The shooter was so near that he could not possibly miss. Archie did not even wait to see his pet fall. He ran wildly down the hill, into the cool dark of the bush, feeling the tears rush from his eyes in spite of himself. Even here, the sound of the shot seemed to echo without end. When he came within sight of his own cottage he could not bear the sight of that, either, with no Wagga any more. He wheeled off into the trees and slid down a bank into a private nook, with his feet in the cold water of the Bay; there to stay hidden until it was almost dark and hunger grew stronger than his sorrow.

‘Wherever have you been? There’s no wood chopped, and we called and called,’ said Mary Ann sharply.

But after dinner Mrs Phipps sat patiently alone with Archie in the new room until the story was at last confided.

‘They take all my pets away,’ he whispered.

‘We shall have to find a pet that’s useful too, Archie, even when it grows up.’

‘I don’t want an old goat,’ he said, for she had often spoken of buying milking goats. ‘They’re no fun.’

‘What if it should be a puppy?’

‘Puppies aren’t useful,’ said Archie, determined at that moment not to love anything but Wagga.

‘They
can
be, and you know it, Archie. Of course they take a deal of keeping in meat, and you would have to train it to work.’

‘A big one—like Mr Dyer’s?’

‘Yes, if you choose it, Archie.’

When he was at last in bed—his brothers, for once, fast asleep before him—he tossed about all night, bothered by dreams in which Wagga became a dog, and Mr Dyer’s dog became Wagga, and men with guns were strangely put to flight and lost over bluffs in the bush. In the morning he began thinking, but not too urgently or hopefully, about puppies.