Recalled to Life

by Wendy M Wilson

  “The worst of the worst,” said the constable. “I wonder why the constables didn’t shoot them all before they left…not worth saving, any of them.”

  Frank had no answer for that.

  Coming over a low hill they saw the shape of the new town of Bunnythorpe stretching out on the plains below them. New homes were going up, some of wood, and a few soddies – built with clods of earth reinforced with totara ridge poles, window frames stuffed with rags and dried grass to allow room for settling. Frank had seen soddies before up in Patea, and knew how well they worked in the New Zealand climate. Like so many places in this district, the homes were surrounded by swaths of burned tree stumps and scraggly bush, but the outlines of farms pegged out by surveyors for eager new landowners were visible.

  As they came closer to the new town, he heard the echoing sound of hammering. A house with a floor, a section of roof and a rudimentary wall was going up on the left side of the road; a man he recognized was attaching planks to studs he’d already erected.

  “My God,” he said. “It’s Pieter.” He turned to his companion, hoping he hadn’t heard him say a name, and said as casually as he could. “I’ll get down here. Maybe I can get a bit of work and a bed for the night with that bloke over there. Looks like he could do with a hand.”

  Constable Farmer was preoccupied with the road and did not appear to hear what Frank had said, but he pulled back on the reins and let him down. Frank watched as he went on his way towards the Gorge. Farmer would have a lot on his mind, with the murder and the need to make the difficult journey through to Woodville. He’d not be likely to report that he’d seen a suspicious character on the road who claimed to be new to the district but recognized a local farmer.

  8

  A Trip to Bunnythorpe

  Pieter and Maren were busy spending the inheritance that had not yet arrived from Denmark, and had purchased a small section of partly-cleared land in Bunnythorpe, on the Crown Lands that had been put up for auction two years earlier. The small 40-acre section was part of a larger holding purchased by an absentee landlord who was selling off pieces of it as they were cleared by Scandinavians, making a nice profit without the inconvenience of having to do physical work. Pieter had checked the soil, and been excited about the timber he would be able to sell to the Feilding sawmill to allow him to stock the land with dairy cows. He also liked the fact that it was at the junction from which railway lines radiated to Napier, Wanganui and Foxton. He could already picture himself selling milk and cheese to all those places.

  Pieter no longer worked at the sawmill, but spent his days building a house for his growing family, often sleeping at the site to save the travel time. Maren visited Mette in the book shop and moaned about how she missed him. Mette found it hard not to remind her sister that she had reason to miss Frank even more, as no one had any idea where he had gone.

  The Wanganui police had telegraphed saying they’d checked the SS Stormbird and found nothing, and that no important person had disembarked that they knew of. Karira had gone to Wanganui to do his own search. “I know Constable Crozier in Wanganui took it seriously,” he told Mette. “But I prefer to see for myself, and talk to people up there. A telegraph doesn’t allow me ask the questions I want, or to see how people respond.”

  He’d be gone for several days and all she could do was wait. Not having to go to work at the book shop made things worse, so she went in to help Mr. Robinson take inventory of his books and magazines, with the understanding that she could leave instantly if necessary. She was arranging a pile of her own little leaflets, entitled Mette’s Kitchen: Cooking in the Bush, and working out how many of them had sold at a shilling apiece, when Pieter came through the door. He took off his hat and nodded at Mr. Robinson, avoiding the piles of books like they would jump at him and demand to be read, something he was not able to do.

  “Mette.” He said. “Maren says you should come to Bunnythorpe with me.”

  “Now?” she said. “I’m busy, Pieter, I have…”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Robinson. “Go, Mette. It will do you good to have an outing. You’ve been downcast all day. I insist, in fact.”

  She’d expected Mr. Robinson to back her up, and was a little annoyed when he forced her to go. Did her work mean nothing to him? But she did as she was told, and reluctantly fetched her bonnet and her light cotton shawl and climbed into Pieter’s dray. The new dray was pulled by a slow-moving horse he’d picked up at the auctions. It was a step up from the shared bullock the Scandies from the clearing used, and he was proud of it.

  Pieter certainly wasn’t asking her to go to Bunnythorpe because it would be a nice outing for her, and she was curious as to his motives. She suspected he wanted her to fill out a form or read a paper. It was still difficult for the two of them to discuss his problem, partly because he didn’t think it was a problem. He’d managed in life perfectly well to this point, and saw no reason to learn how to read now. But why would he not simply have her fill out the form in Palmerston?

  Once they were out of town, and her annoyance with everyone had abated, she decided she may as well settle back and enjoy the scenery. The road followed the railway tracks and she watched with interest as the morning train passed them in a whoosh of energy. She’d never taken a train, just the tram to Foxton when it was still pulled by horses. The thought of hurtling through the countryside in a train terrified her. What if she got sucked from the window and thrown against the trees on the side? Or worse, into a river, as train tracks were often built alongside rivers. Recently, a horse had wandered across the track in front of a train near Feilding and been cut in two pieces. The driver had been forced to get out and scrape what was left of the front of the horse off the cow catcher.

  “What’s this you have in the back, Pieter?” she asked, noticing something covered by a large grey blanket in the back of the buggy.

  “Oh, some pegs,” he said, staring ahead. “And a few other things. It’s just, well, I’ll tell you about it when we get there.”

  “Pegs?”

  “I have to keep replacing the surveyor’s pegs,” he said. “Someone comes in the night and pulls them out.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “They say it’s the Maori women,” he said. “They don’t like that we have their land – well, not their land as they sold it to the Crown. But they think it’s their land and they’re trying to stop us doing anything with it.”

  Mette thought about the Pa, and how Wiki and her brothers and grandmother were going to have to leave the home of their ancestors, and said nothing.

  She was curious about what else he had under the grey blanket, and why he was being so mysterious about why she needed to go with him to Bunnythorpe. But he was a stubborn man and she knew better than to insist that he tell her what was up. She watched the slow plodding of his new horse, and thought of Copenhagen, Frank’s horse, which made her sad again.

  It was a half-hour ride to Bunnythorpe. Pieter became quieter and glummer as the time passed, his shoulders slumped. She knew that look. It was the one he got when Maren forced him to do something he didn’t want to do. What could it be this time? She tried to start a conversation by asking him about the twins, but he answered with grunts, concentrating on the horse pulling the dray, his head turned away from her.

  “Is something wrong, Pieter?” she asked finally, as the partly-built house came in sight.

  He looked at her finally, and then looked away. He clearly felt guilty about something. “Nothing,” he said. “But Maren…”

  It was as she’d suspected. Maren had forced him into something against his will. She thought again of his problem with reading and writing. “Maren what?” she prompted.

  Pieter stopped the dray and helped her down from the buggy; she stood looking out over the stretch of land. They would have a beautiful view, once all the trees had been cut down and the stumps burned away, giving the grass a chance to grow; she could live a h
appy life with a view like that. She turned and saw Pieter taking the blanket and the basket from the buggy. She took it from him, mystified.

  “What…?”

  He nodded towards the house, and climbed back on the buggy, giving the horse a little flick of his whip.

  “Pieter?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

  He looked at her helplessly. “Maren…” he said, and gestured with his head towards the house. She followed him for a few steps, saying his name again. “Pieter? Where are you going?”

  Someone started hammering. The sound came from the house. She looked towards the sound, and then back at Pieter, puzzled.

  “I have to put these pegs in,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. Maybe an hour. You wait here.”

  “Wait here? By myself? Stop Pieter. Where are you…? Why did you bring me out here? I thought…”

  She heard hammering again, and looked towards the house again. And there, standing in the shadow of one of the half-built new walls, his back to them, stripped down to his trousers, was a figure she would recognize anywhere.

  As Pieter drove away, she dropped the basket to the ground and said, “Frank?” Her throat was so constricted that she was sure he hadn’t heard, but he turned. She said his name again, her voice stronger, “Frank?”

  He stood, holding the hammer loosely beside his leg, looking at her, then dropped it slowly to the ground. He began to move towards her, but not fast enough for her. She raced towards him, laughing, her arms out, and reached him before he had taken more than three or four steps; with a bound she had her arms around his neck, kissing him all over his face.

  “Ah, min gud, Frank, my Sergeant Frank. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  He held her tightly, his face buried in her neck. “You kept me alive – thinking of you – or I would have given…”

  “Where were you? We looked so hard for you, and Karira went to…”

  “I was kidnapped,” he said. “By the Armed Constabulary I think…”

  “But why?”

  “I wish I knew. They didn’t tell me…just threw me in a cell and left me there…then there was a fire and I managed to escape into the river…”

  She began to cry, the sobs changing to laughter and back to sobs. “I was thinking of a body in the river, and you…”

  He stroked her head and said, “I’m here now and I’m never going to leave you again if I can help it…but how…where’s Pieter?”

  Mette released her grip on his neck but stayed close. “He gave me a basket and a blanket and went away. He didn’t tell me you were here…I don’t know why…. Ah, min Gud, I’m so happy to see you I can’t hardly think…pegs I think…”

  “Pegs? Surveyor pegs?”

  “He said the Maori women have been pulling out his pegs. I wonder how it can make a difference, but…”

  “The pegs mark the sections,” said Frank. “When they’re missing, the settlers argue about their land…and the police can’t stop them….”

  “Why not?”

  “They can’t catch them in the act,” he said. “I heard Maori women are doing it, at night, and the Maori constables are letting them get away with it.”

  “That’s very clever of the women,” said Mette. “Frank, I think…”

  “Do you have any food in that basket?” he asked. He sat down on the step and patted the spot beside him. “I haven’t eaten all day and I’m famished.”

  She was beginning to wonder if Pieter was going to return at all. Clearly Maren had told him to leave her and Frank alone for a while. What did she expect would happen? She fetched the basket and looked inside.

  “Yes, there’s food in here. In fact, there’s a lot of food. Maren wanted us to enjoy…a picnic I think, without Pieter here to ruin things.”

  The basket was a veritable feast of German sausage, bread, some large chunks of fine Taranaki cheese wrapped in cheese cloth, apples and pears and a large glass bottle of milk. A picnic would usually have made her very happy, especially such a delicious one as this. But at the bottom, wrapped in a napkin, she found a small carved bed, of the kind men whittled for dolls houses. She felt the blood rush to her face.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Frank.

  Mette wrapped the bed up in the napkin and thrust it back into the bottom of the basket. “Nothing.”

  “You’ve gone all pink. Not that it doesn’t suit you, but…” Before she could stop him, he reached into the basked and took out the napkin. As he spread it across his knees, the bed fell out. “What’s this? A toy? It looks like a bed.”

  She gave a deep sigh, looking down at her hands. “Maren put it in there. She thinks it’s a joke, I think.”

  “A joke about…? Oh, I see.”

  She looked up at him and risked a small smile. “It’s not funny, is it?”

  “Maren is trying to force you to…”

  She nodded.

  “She says I shouldn’t make you wait until we’re married. I didn’t know it, but Hamlet was born just seven months after she and Pieter were married. He was…I’m not sure how you say it…udtaenkt…on the boat.”

  “Conceived?” he asked. “Look Mette, your sister has no right to force you into bed with me. And I wouldn’t have thought Pieter…”

  “He hated to go along,” said Mette. “He was so strange while we were driving…”

  “But what do you think?” asked Frank. “Surely that’s what’s important, not what your damn… what your family thinks.”

  She looked down at her hands, which were gripped in a tight knot. Should she tell him about the foredeck, and about the many nights she’d lain awake listening to Pieter and Maren through the thin walls of her lean to?

  He put his hand over hers. “I can wait, you know, Mette. I don’t want you to be compromised, if anything happens to me…”

  She looked up sharply. “What might happen to you?”

  “The Armed Constabulary could be looking for me...”

  “Did you do something wrong? You wouldn’t, I know you wouldn’t…”

  “Not that I can remember….” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s not worry about anything else now. We’ll have the picnic and wait for Pieter…did he say how long he’ll be?”

  She hesitated. Maren had probably told him to give them plenty of time. “No, he…what’s this on your shoulder? It looks like…”

  “My tattoo?” he said. “I had it done in Patea years ago, when I was young and foolish. You see, it says Die Hard the 57th, for my regiment.”

  “I can’t see any words. Just a pattern. It looks like moko,” she said. “You look a little like a Maori, with your brown body and your dark eyes.” She stroked his chest. “I like that.”

  He stood abruptly and walked away from the step. “I’d better put my shirt on. Where did I leave it?”

  “Over here.” She followed him, wondering why he was acting so strangely. “By the wood pile.” She picked it up and held it out. “You must have been chopping…oh, here is Pieter coming back already.” Pieter had crested the hill on the road from Bulls, and was driving his dray like a mad man, whipping at the horse as if he was trying to win the Wellington Cup. “Something must have happened.”

  “Frank, Frank,” Pieter gasped as soon as he was within earshot. “You must hide. There are soldiers coming. They could be looking for you.”

  There was nowhere to hide close by. The house was half-built and full of gaps and openings. The surrounding land was, like most of the valley, a sea of tree stumps and dirt. But across the metalled road the bush was mostly intact; no one had purchased the land yet and just a few stumps showed where the surveyor had gone through and laid out the shape of a potential farm with his pegs. Close enough for Frank to reach in a minute or two.

  “How far away are they?” asked Frank.

  “I saw them from the top of the hill. They’ll be here in five minutes, no more.”

  “I’ll get into the bush across the road,” he said. “And get dow
n to Palmerston by the old Maori track that runs into Stoney Creek Road. I’ll keep off the main road. Listen, Mette, find Karira and tell him I’ll meet him at the tree where…”

  “Go to the Pa,” said Mette. “Find Wiki. She’ll hide you…and I’ll send Karira there…better than hiding in the bush...”

  “Wiki?” he said. “Right. I’ll look for her…” He sprinted towards the road and the bush beyond.

  “Pieter,” said Mette tentatively, “I should go with him.” She had taken a a single step, when Pieter grabbed her arm and held it so tightly it hurt. “No. You must not. He can move faster by himself. You will stay here and talk to the soldiers.”

  She tried to pull herself loose, but he pulled her tighter, his fingers digging into her arms. “No Mette. We will talk to the soldiers. Slow them down. They can’t be allowed to catch Frank.”

  She watched as Frank disappeared into the bush, her heart breaking. He was gone again. Would they ever be together?

  The group of riders was on them in minutes. Five men, three in the formal blue uniforms of the Armed Constabulary, a young man in riding clothes and knee boots, and a large, dark-skinned man dressed oddly in a suit and a bowler hat. Mette had not seen any of them before, but she thought instantly of the man Agnete had seen talking to Frank on the Stormbird – a large Maori man in a bowler hat, although this man did not look like a Maori. The young man drew her attention. He looked familiar.

  One of the constables touched his hat. “Were you here yesterday?”

  Pieter nodded mutely.

  “Did you see a tall dark man pass by? A man in his late thirties, dressed like a tramp…”

  Pieter could not speak. Mette put her arm though his, and she could feel him trembling. “Lots of people…” he said after a minute, his voice shaking.

  The young man interrupted him. “What’s your name?”

  “Sorensen,” said Pieter.

  The young man thrust his horse forward. “Pieter Sorensen?” he asked.

  Mette squeezed Pieter’s arm. How did this man know his name? Best not to be truthful. But Pieter was unable to lie. He nodded slowly.