by Bowes, K T
“Get lost, Du Rose,” Bodie reacted. “This is my mother and you don’t get to throw me out of here!”
“So come and see her out of uniform,” Logan smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you’ll be welcome. My wife’s been through hell today and needs to relax and get used to her new son. So goodbye.” Logan put his body between the policemen and Hana, opening his long arm span to usher them towards the door.
“I want to say goodbye to my mother,” Bodie stated, drawing himself up to his full height, which still didn’t match Logan’s six feet and four inches. Logan heard Hana sigh behind him and relented, smirking as Bodie brushed roughly past him. The dark-skinned policeman leaned in and kissed his mother but there was no love in the action. It was done out of pure bloody-mindedness and Hana’s face dropped in dismay.
Logan followed the cops out into the wide corridor. He let Odering walk on a short way and stepped close in behind Bodie. The younger man felt his presence and whirled around. Logan pushed his face into his stepson’s and hissed, “One day, you little dick, you’re going to take that uniform off for good. And that day, I’m gonna drop you harder than you ever thought possible.” Logan stepped back, gave the man a nasty smirk and placed himself outside Hana’s door like a sentry, leaving Bodie balling his fists, still stationary in the corridor.
Odering turned and found his subordinate missing. He looked confused at first until his eyes fixed on the senior sergeant working himself up into a frenzy about ten metres away from Logan Du Rose. “Johal,” he hissed. “Just let it go.”
Bodie clenched his jaw in fury and glared at the detective inspector through bottomless dark eyes. He stormed after him in a temper and Odering clapped him casually on the back. “You’ll never win against him so don’t even bother. I worked that one out a long time ago.”
“How long ago?” Bodie asked sulkily, expecting the answer to be a matter of months. To his surprise, his superior put his head back and laughed, the sound hollow and filled with regret.
“Before you were born, my friend.”
Hana watched the whole thing from the bedroom doorway, her son balanced over her shoulder. Logan spun on his heel and the smirk died on his face at the sight of her. He pursed his lips and looked like a naughty child. “Happy now?” she asked him, her face stony as she patted her little boy gently on his back. The gown hung limply around her legs and the long cardigan barely reached her thighs, only just hiding her modesty at the back. Logan screwed his face up. Yeah you should look guilty, Hana’s green eyes told him.
Logan pressed past his wife and slipped into the ward. She kicked him on the ankle with her bare toes as he passed and his eyelashes fluttered with mirth. “Get in there!” she told him crossly, feeling irritated that she had somehow acquired not one, but two extra sons. “You’re worse than he is,” Hana complained. “I don’t know which one is the bigger baby, but this little man has more maturity than either of you.”
Logan sat in the seat next to Hana’s bed and gazed intently at something out of the window. He stretched his long frame out on the chair and worked to control the blossoming grin on his face. When he turned back to Hana, his eyes crinkled at the edges and he looked like a whipped puppy. “You’ve got nice legs, woman,” he smiled and Hana shook her head.
“No dice, cowboy,” she said sarcastically. “Take your son while I nip to the bathroom.”
Logan stood up and took the sleeping child from his wife. He leaned in and planted his lips over hers, his smouldering grey eyes glinting with promise. “I love you, Hana Du Rose,” he whispered and she rolled her eyes. “I do,” he protested, sounding hurt. “I said I’d deal with the cops and I did.”
“I didn’t mean you to pick a fight with my son!” Hana’s irritation lurked dangerously near the surface. “I meant you to get them off Bobby’s back and help me with the whole...not having the right gun licence thing.”’
Logan let out a laugh and the baby’s arms shot out sideways in a fear reaction. His daddy pulled the blanket tighter round his son and swaddled him close into his strong chest. “I don’t know about not having the right gun licence, babe. You don’t have any gun licence!”
“That’s completely academic,” Hana waved her arm as though it was no big deal. “It’s sorted now. Can you boys manage to behave for five minutes?” She eyeballed her husband and he shook his head in exasperation.
“Go woman, we’ll be fine.” Logan kissed his baby son’s soft forehead and sighed, whispering to the sleeping redhead. “Something tells me you’re gonna have her sparkling personality.”
Chapter 60
Hana sat in the family dining room at the hotel with her son sleeping in Phoenix’s old pram. Her daughter played happily on the rug by the sideboard, putting shapes into a box with matching holes. “You ok, baby?” Hana asked her and Phoenix screwed up her face.
“No, Mama. I not baby now. I big girl.” She smiled beatifically at her mother and Hana felt sadness creep across her heart.
“You’ll always be mine,” she said softly. “Wanna cuddle?”
“In a minute,” Phoenix replied, pushing the shapes into the holes with dexterous fingers. She fitted the final cube into its square hole and sat back on her heels with a look of satisfaction on her pretty face. “Ok nen, Mama,” she said, standing up and tottering over to Hana in a new pair of pink gumboots that her baby brother had allegedly chosen for her. She held her hands up for Hana to lift her and Hana cuddled her beautiful daughter into her breast.
“You’ll have to take your boots off to go to bed,” she crooned into her hair and kissed her forehead.
“Na, fanks,” Phoenix replied softly and pushed her thumb into her mouth.
“Funny girl,” Hana breathed. “I love you.”
“Luff you, Mama,” the little girl whispered and closed her eyes. Hana cradled her daughter and rocked her son with her foot on the wheel of the pram. “What baby’s name?” Phoenix asked as she snuggled harder into Hana’s body.
“I dunno,” Hana whispered. “Daddy’s sorting it out. At the moment we’re just calling him Baby but he should probably have a name soon. I want to call him Mac because he came from Ireland and my family name on my mother’s side was McGillivray. Dad’s not sure, he’s up to something...” Hana looked down at Phoenix’s closed eyes and sighed. “You’re not listening are you?”
Hana lay back in her seat and enjoyed the sense of peace her sleeping children brought and prayed that her God would continue to protect them, even when she could not. Her mind reached out to Izzie and Bodie, stretching the fragile cord of maternal love and wishing them well. She started in fright as the heavy fire door shot open and Logan struggled through, carrying something heavy under his arm. “Ssshh,” Hana told her husband, indicating the sleeping babies.
“Ok,” Logan lowered his voice and leaned the heavy rectangular object against the wall and spun a chair around. He sat astride it, resting his arms along the back. His face was alight with excitement and Hana rolled her eyes. What now?
“Will’s been helping me,” he began. “You remember that really old photo from my grandma’s boxes, you know, the one with the guy in all the frilly clothes?” Hana nodded helpfully, the image tugging gently on her memory. “Well, Will and I thought there was something odd about the grey colouring of his portrait so I’ve been into the attic and done some serious searching over the last few days -whenever you’ve been asleep at the house. I’ve uncovered heaps of stuff in those other wings. And I found this!” Logan stood up and spun the object around so Hana could see it.
A faded oil painting of a Frenchman took up most of the canvas, a reasonable likeness of the man in the sepia photograph. Hana bit her lip with surprise at the artist’s impression of a curly swathe of bright red hair which coiled around the handsome face. A bushy red beard completed the image of a man with crinkles around his laughing eyes. His face was dour and serious for the era of the painting, but the twinkle remained, betraying a man of standing
and wealth with a wicked sense of humour.
“Who is he?” Hana asked, looking at the tatty frame and painting, badly in need of restoration.
Logan’s smile broadened. “He’s the father of the first Du Rose who came to New Zealand. He put the money up for the family to come over. There’s heaps of information about him in the attic. He sounds like an awesome guy. He was an entrepreneur in his time and made his own fortune. Real inspirational stuff.”
“You want to name our son after him, don’t you?” Hana’s heart sank. She had already begun calling the little boy, Mac, in her head and it seemed to fit him somehow. “What was his name then?” She tried to make her question sound upbeat, as though the answer didn’t have the power to make her miserable.
“That’s the thing,” Logan leaned the picture face outwards against the wall and sat down on his chair again. “I would like to name our son after him, but I need to be sure you’re happy with it. I feel like I want to go back to something from before the Du Roses came over here and screwed everything up and I believe he’s the last bastion of good sense before it all went wrong.” Logan reached for Hana’s hand and caressed her fingers in his. “What if we had McGillivray as his middle name after your mum’s family and his calling name was Mac? Then have this name as his first name and when he gets older, let him decide?”
“What’s the name then?” Hana asked. “Just tell me.”
“Well, it’s a Scottish name apparently and this particular Du Rose had a Scottish mother from Auchinleck in Ayreshire and it’s Gaelic for hollow.”
“Wow, that’s weird.”
“Oh, you think so?” Logan’s nerve wavered and he looked nervous and awkward.
“Yes, because that’s where my father’s from,” Hana smiled. “It’s very odd. I always assumed your name was French. So what was the man’s name? I can’t agree to it if I don’t know it, can I?”
“His name was Logan,” her husband said with the same twinkle in his eye as the man in the painting. “His father took a wife from Scotland - no idea why yet. But the male line remained French and the Scots side went unrecognised - until now anyway.” The unmistakeable grey eyes glittered out at Hana through the artist’s brush strokes, alive and vital. She laughed and rolled her eyes.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly,” her husband smiled. “What do you think?”
Hana stared at the skirting board, noticing a chip out of the paintwork. She looked up at her husband with a concerned look in her eyes. “Do you ever worry that we called Phoe after your grandmother and...well, she didn’t exactly make such a good job of things?”
Logan shook his head with certainty. “No, this wee girlie will do exactly what she wants. I remember my Karani Phoenix being a strong woman with a good heart and a headful of incredible knowledge. She had mana and greatness and people deferred to her. That’s who I see when I look at our daughter, none of the other stuff. She can choose not to carry that forward. We all get that choice, don’t we?”
“True,” Hana said softly, feeling the warmth of her daughter’s body through their combined clothing. “Yeah, actually, I like it. Heaps. Let’s do it.”
Logan Du Rose drew his wife’s body into his, holding her like finest china and breathing in her clean scent. “Thank you,” he whispered into her neck and Hana rubbed her free hand over his strong back.
“For what?”
“For being part of this with me. Helping to build this legacy. It’s all gonna be ok, you know?”
Hana smiled and nodded, glad her son finally had a proper name. She snuggled into her husband’s chest and felt the jade encrusted brooch dig into her thigh through the pocket of her jeans, its prick a timely accusation of her dilemma. The elderly jewellery condemned Hana, removed from Logan’s grandfather’s grave clothes and lost for two generations, it rested in the new matriarch’s pocket. It was as lethally sharp as the day it was created, it’s jade and paua decorations intricate and fine. Its preservation under such circumstances was a mystery. Nobody had told her where Jack died but Hana knew. His blood still stained the bottom of the old kauri tree, which bore all the family names except his. Logan’s grandmother stole the brooch herself, unleashing the legend of the Du Rose curse more than sixty years before Hana Du Rose ever set foot on the mountain. The linen bag which kept it safe through all those seasons, had disintegrated as Hana picked it up out of the envelope. Will would be incensed if he knew she handled it without gloves. He would quit if he ever found out her intentions.
Logan’s happiness seemed so complete, Hana didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. She bore the pressing of the sharp needle-like object in her flesh and said nothing. A purely accidental find, the epitome of the Du Rose curse and its very existence weighed heavily on her heart. Not today, she told herself. I’ll let him be happy today.
At home later, Hana stood on the deck in the dying sunshine and let Logan put their children to bed. Bobby’s letter, mailed to her from England nestled in her hand, wrapped around the brooch. Hana had read it, reread it and then read it again and it looked creased and tattered around the folds. She wouldn’t examine its contents again; she could remember them by heart.
‘I found this in the old bastard’s hand, Hana. I guess it was his property -now we know who he was, but I feel it belongs to you. I know what it is; I read the diaries, all of them. Thanks for making Logan help me. I know that was your doing. He has the diaries now, cursed things. I gave them to him at the airport, just so you know. I don’t think he’ll give them back to you; I wouldn’t if I was him. I don’t know why I kept that brooch. I guess it was so I had an excuse to write to you and imagine your face one last time. I won’t come back, but then you know that, don’t you? I love you, Hana Du Rose and I always will. See you on the other side - then again, maybe not. I’m sure you won’t end up where I’m going - Hell, not England. Although maybe they will prove to be the same place.
Forever yours,
Your blonde drover, Bobby.
PS. I never killed Jack.’
Hana brushed the stray tear away. She was done crying. The object was heavy in her hand, the letter wrapped around the brooch and a heavy stone, barely fitting between her gripped fingers. A small kete lay on the ground, its tightly woven flax walls forming a bag of fifteen centimetres high and the same wide. It was adorned with a tiny piece of paua shell at the front in honour of the treasure it would bear. Hana pushed the package inside and slipped the string fastener around the decorative bone button.
“Why do you want a kete, girl?” Leslie’s voice echoed in Hana’s memory. “I haven’t made one for years!”
“Just make it for her,” Alfred interjected, his voice sounding harsh. His uncanny Du Rose perception made Hana’s skin tingle and she nodded her gratitude to him.
Hana stood at the rail before the deadly drop beyond, the cliff falling away at her feet, rampant with native bush and hazardous climbs. The Tasman Sea sparkled in the distance, still turquoise despite the orange sunset blazing overhead. Last chance, Hana told herself. She could keep the brooch safe for Phoenix, gift it to her on behalf of her namesake. She could keep the letter too as part of her history. The matriarch’s diaries called to Hana from Logan’s hiding place, destructive and dangerous; another woman’s history. I don’t want that for my daughter. Bobby’s letter and the brooch needed to rot and never be found by human hands, especially not Du Rose hands. Hana had contemplated every possible way of successfully disposing of the items. This was her best plan, unwittingly suggested by Will who once told her that Logan would tow the diaries up the mountain still in the safe and hurl it off. “He said best place for ‘em,” Will had laughed. Then his face dropped. “I’d kill ‘im with me bare hands!”
Still Hana debated with herself. If the curator ever found out, he would leave in a hail of wheelchair wheels and dust.
“Hey gorgeous, what ya doin’ out here.” Logan’s voice made Hana jump in guilt and she fought a flash of irritation.
&n
bsp; “Just thinking,” she replied, clutching the bag in her hand.
“Mac’s a good kid, aye?” Logan reached his long arm around Hana’s shoulders and cuddled her close. “He went into the cot like an angel.”
Hana smiled, her face serene, belying the agony and dilemma in her chest. Logan looked down at the kete and then at Hana, his grey eyes questioning. Hana gulped. “Logan?” Her husband smiled in response. Hana held the bag up towards him and he took it, automatically weighing it in his strong palm. “Would you throw this for me, please? Out there.” Hana pointed out towards Port Waikato and the sea in the far distance.
Logan looked down at the intricate Māori weaving for a moment and then back at his wife, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip in a betrayal of her fear. A memory came to him of himself, hurling clods of earth from this place in frustration; throwing his dreams back in Atua’s smiling face. The day he did that was the day he found Hana.
Logan bounced the bundle in a palm dotted with scars and cuts, exacerbated by his haemophilia. Then he drew his long arm backwards, the muscles rippling on his chest and arms as he released the object with force. It flew upwards, maintaining a decent trajectory as it arced and then coasted down into the canopy with the grace of a falcon. It landed too far away for Hana to hear the sound it made as it cascaded through branches and leaves to the impassable slopes below, but the highest Nikau palms shuddered to admit its cursed entrance. Hana sighed with relief and let her body slump against her husband’s, burying her face in his chest.
Further down the mountain, Jacob Darcy Du Rose’s killer grazed in peace, her sharp teeth nipping at the tasty summer shoots with contentment, the occasional snort her only speech. Her white ears flicked as something clicked in the universe and she shook the flies away from her face and exhaled a loud, snuffled gratification; her debt finally paid in full.
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