The Spanish Helmet (5 page)

* * *

Two hours before arrival in Singapore, Matt was roused from his film by the cabin lights coming on. It was officially morning in the aircraft, and everyone should slowly wake up to the smell of coffee brewing and breakfast coming up the aisle. Matt watched Aimee as she stretched her hips forwards, forming a light arch with her body. Her eyes still closed, she brushed a few strands of her beautiful golden brown hair away from her face and yawned. He was impressed that she could sleep for a solid seven hours while on a flight. It would be a dream for him to be able to sleep on a plane, but no matter how often he had tried, it never worked. He was wired now. Two and a half films on a tiny screen will do that to you. Even worse, he knew that he would get to see a few more before he finally slept in New Zealand.

‘Morning,’ Matt said, in as bubbly a voice as he could
raise
, having not spoken for an eternity.

‘Morning.’
Aimee echoed his words and followed them with a sleepy yawn.

Matt made another obligatory trip to the back of the plane and Aimee followed suit. It would be nice to be able to go without toilet stops for twelve hours, Matt thought, as he smiled uncomfortably at all the folk who watched him squeezing through the aisle. At least the walk back to his seat didn’t present him with so many watchful eyes, but he felt them on his back. A few minutes later, Aimee returned looking refreshed and wide awake. Breakfast followed shortly behind. Matt grabbed at the coffee and gulped it down.

‘Thirsty?’ Aimee asked, laughing.

‘I can’t sleep on these things. If it weren’t for the coffee, I’d look even worse right now.’

‘You don’t look so bad.’

‘Thanks.’ Matt felt himself blushing. She looked damned good too. A response failing him, Matt decided now was as good a time as any to continue last night’s conversation.

‘I was thinking about what you said last night, before dinner came. You mentioned a half a dozen theories. Aside from the Celts, what other theories are there?’

‘Some are more questions than theories,’ Aimee said, as she chewed on some scrambled egg. If Matt’s breakfast was anything to go by, hers was also rubbery and flavourless.

‘Like?’

‘Like the Tamil Bell,’ Aimee said. ‘A missionary, Colenso, found a bell that was being used as a cooking pot by some Maori. It was eighteen hundred thirty-odd when he found it. The Maori said they’d been using it for many generations. Scientists studied it and say it’s a ship’s bell. It has Tamil script embossed in it. Nobody knows how or when it got to New Zealand.’

‘Is on display somewhere?’

‘I think it’s at Te Papa Museum in Wellington.
The national museum.’

‘That’s a shame. I doubt I’m going far from Auckland. What else has there been?’

‘Another Brit published a whole tome on how the Chinese discovered the western world, New Zealand included.’

‘You mean Gavin Menzies?’

‘You know him?’

‘I’ve heard about his book, but I didn’t realise New Zealand was in there.’

‘For sure.
He goes into quite a bit of detail about New Zealand. Evidence of his Chinese discovery in New Zealand includes some buried Junks, the Chinese boats, and the Moeraki Boulders.’

‘The mow
racky
boulders?’
Matt asked, looking confused. He thrust in another mouthful so he could eat while she answered.

‘The Moeraki Boulders,’ Aimee said, ‘large, round boulders that lie embedded in a sandy beach north of Dunedin, in the South Island. Scientists say they were formed, over millions of years, under the ocean. Then they were slowly exposed by erosion. They’re popular with tourists.’

‘How does that relate to the Chinese then?’

‘Menzies reckons the Chinese were beached at Moeraki and needed to lighten their load. So they threw their ballast, large round stones, overboard on the beach. Chinese ballast equals Moeraki Boulders.’

‘Sound s a bit of a stretch. It would be fun to see them and make an opinion for myself. Not that I’m one to argue with science.’

Matt was amazed at how many theories there were about the discovery of New Zealand, and even more impressed with having met Aimee and getting the chance to learn of them.

‘Then there’s questions about the origin of some of our plants and animals,’ Aimee said. ‘Like Kumara, you
know,
sweet potato. It seems to have come from South America sometime. And the rat bones, there are rat bones from European rats that have been carbon-dated to long before Tasman and Cook visited.’

‘I can’t believe there are so many questions. Why isn’t more work being done to investigate these theories?’

Aimee didn’t answer him, but Matt didn’t care. She was so animated and carried away with the conversation and her enthusiasm was infectious.

‘There’s also a tradition among some of the Maori tribes of the fair-haired, tall people. And then, of course, there’s the Spanish Helmet.’ She finished.

‘The Spanish Helmet?’

‘A Spanish Helmet was dredged out of Wellington Harbour, sometime around 1880. It’s quite controversial, coz it’s been dated to the early fifteen hundreds. Some folk argue it’s a sign of Spanish visits. The officials say it was probably a gift to Maori from a later European explorer, or a part of someone’s private collection.’

Matt smiled at Aimee. ‘New Zealand seems to be suffering from an identity
crisis,
it’s going to be interesting looking around. But I don’t understand.
If there are so many questions about your history, why don’t more people bring forward information that might help sort things out?’

‘Probably ninety-nine percent of them don’t even know there’s a question in the first place. It just doesn’t interest them,’ Aimee said. ‘Even I hadn’t thought about this stuff for a while. But now you’ve got me interested again. I’ll probably spend the next few days immersed in pseudo-history websites.’

‘Really?’
Matt thought she was joking, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘Yeah, and it’s
all your
fault,’ she said, laughing and thumping him gently on the thigh.

‘Sorry.’

Matt grinned and watched Aimee place her knife and fork together, take a last sip of the juice, and sit back in her chair looking thoughtful. He sat thinking, perplexed by what he had learned. It amazed him there could be so many questions about the history of a country, yet so little information about these theories was publicised. He thought about his own England and was convinced if there were serious questions regarding her history, these would be addressed as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. What was standing in the way of the New Zealand government?
Or the people for that matter?

After breakfast, Matt and Aimee talked about various tourist sites he might like to visit while in New Zealand and also about a few beaches where he might relax. They also compared their boarding passes for the second flight and saw they would be in different parts of the aircraft. During the descent and transit time in Singapore they made polite small-talk and got to know each other a little better. She even surprised Matt by giving him her contact number, in case he wanted to get in touch for more info. As they boarded the second flight they said goodbye and wished each other a good flight.

The second take-off and landing both went off without a hitch, or a wink of sleep.

It was only as he walked the through the gangway between the aircraft and the Auckland terminal building that Matt remembered he had wanted to ask Aimee how a change in the history of New Zealand could possibly provide some sort of payout to the alternative history theorists. That would be a perfect excuse to call her. He felt in his pocket and confirmed the little piece of paper with Aimee’s phone number was there. Matt smiled to himself. If he continued to meet incredible girls like her on flights, he might have to fly more often.

As he walked through the sliding glass doors that led him out to the bright and airy arrivals lounge, Matt saw Warren immediately. They shook hands, exchanging warm hellos, and Warren took control of Matt’s baggage trolley, insisting that Matt must be tired.

‘You’re right, it was a long flight,’ Matt said.

‘And it’ll be a long few weeks. I’m sure you must be excited about finding your father.’

Matt looked at Warren, confused that the first item on his agenda seemed to be his father. But when he saw the imploring look in Warren’s eyes, he realised there must be a reason why he didn’t want to talk business.

‘Yes,’ Matt said, hoping that the look he gave Warren in return would reassure him that he understood. ‘It sure is great of you to have done everything you have to find him.’

Warren’s smile confirmed they understood each other.

‘That reminds me,’ Warren said, as he stopped the trolley to pull a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, ‘I found the last known address of your father too.’

Matt hesitated for a moment but reached out and took the paper from Warren. Opening it, he saw a three-line address in a town with a name he had never heard of. It could have been anywhere for all Matt knew.

‘Thanks Warren. Where is this
…
Devonport?’ he asked, wondering how he would feel when he actually made it to the door of his father’s house.

‘It’s on the North Shore, the northern part of Auckland. Sort of in the direction of where I live in the East Coast Bays. I can take you there, or show you a bus. No worries.’

As they had been talking, Warren had led Matt out into the humid summer air and across a sprawling parking lot. They had come to a stand-still next to a big red Toyota Hilux. Matt had seen these on some of the farms in Cornwall too, and figured they were probably popular out here. Warren tossed Matt’s bags into the back part of the double-cab and they climbed in.

‘Sorry I couldn’t talk back in there,’ Warren said, ‘but the boys from the NISO and the DCI are all over the place.’

‘The Detective Chief Inspector?’

‘The Detective what?’
Warren looked really confused.

‘You said the N-something and the DCI… Detective Chief Inspector.’

Warren laughed. ‘I see where you got it wrong. The DCI is the Department of Cultural Identity. They’re the part of the government responsible for how we identify with our culture.’

Matt laughed too.
‘Sounds complex.’

‘In all seriousness,’ Warren said in a mood-changing tone as a traffic light turned green and they started on a motorway, ‘the DCI are trouble.
For you and me anyway.’

Warren pulled into the right lane and put his foot to the floor. Matt noticed him make repetitive glances in the rear-vision mirror.

‘The DCI will confiscate the site if they decide that my findings there are too threatening. I had to call them, of course, and let them know what I found, but until now they haven’t interfered directly. But I’m convinced that they’re watching my every move, as if trying to catch me out or something.’

‘Catch you out with what?’

‘With anything that might throw question over the original inhabitants of New Zealand, or cause changes in New Zealand history to be considered.’ Warren checked the mirror again.

‘Don’t they think that a Celtic burial site raises some fascinating questions?’ Matt asked, not believing it could possibly fail to.

Matt watched as a sly grin appeared on Warren’s face. ‘I haven’t exactly told them the whole story yet. But if we don’t shake these NISO boys, we may lose our little advantage sooner than I’d like.’