From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Kura’s boy?’ Ana looked astounded. ‘It is too. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ She moved over to the fence.

  ‘I’m going out with Pauline.’

  Pauline waved; Ana waved back.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch with your mother but I don’t know where you’re living,’ Ana said.

  Sonny told her. ‘And Auntie Wiki’s just across the street from us. Mum’s been trying to track you down as well.’

  ‘Well, now you can tell her where we are. And everyone’s good?’

  ‘Ae. And you?’

  ‘Slowly getting used to the city. The kids like it. They’ve made friends. Well, I’d better let you go. Mrs Roberts has probably got your tea on the table. Lovely to see you, Johnny.’

  ‘You too, Auntie.’ On the steps again with Pauline, Johnny asked, ‘Did you hear all that?’

  Pauline nodded.

  ‘Fancy that. Mum’ll be pleased. She’s been trying to track Auntie Ana down for ages.’

  Finally they went inside. Pauline introduced her parents and Sonny and Allie, and explained that Donna would have come except she was busy with work. Johnny gave Colleen the flowers, which she said were charming, and everyone rearranged themselves at the table, except for Colleen, who was cooking.

  Pauline said, ‘Guess what? Johnny’s related to Ana Leonard. She’s his auntie.’

  ‘Mrs Leonard to you,’ Colleen said. ‘Is that right, Johnny? It’s a small world.’

  ‘Well, her and my mother are second cousins, but we call her auntie. Can I give you a hand there, Mrs Roberts?’

  Surprised, Colleen said, ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sid laughed. ‘Here, have a beer instead. You are old enough to drink?’

  ‘I’m eighteen.’

  There was a bit of an embarrassed silence. Then Sid said, ‘Got a job?’

  ‘Been working since I was fifteen.’

  Sid slid a bottle across the table. ‘Then you’re old enough for a beer.’

  At the bench Colleen scowled.

  ‘So, whereabouts do you work?’ Sid asked.

  ‘At the Destructor.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Sonny said. ‘Money must be OK, though?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m looking for something else.’

  Sid said, ‘Got any interests? Hobbies and the like?’

  ‘Stop interviewing him, Dad,’ Pauline protested.

  ‘Just getting to know him. What’s wrong with that?’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘Music. Dancing. Me and Pauline go to the Maori Community Centre a lot.’

  ‘Is that where you’ve been sneaking off to?’ Colleen said to Pauline.

  ‘Motorbikes,’ Johnny added. ‘But I don’t own one.’

  Colleen said, ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘I’ve got an Indian,’ Sonny remarked.

  Johnny nodded. ‘Pauline said.’

  ‘I’ll take you for a spin one of these days.’

  ‘Cool! Thanks.’

  Allie said, ‘Pauline said you’ve got lots of brothers and sisters. Sonny’s got dozens too.’

  ‘Well, you know us Maoris,’ Johnny said.

  Sonny laughed. ‘I haven’t got dozens. I’ve got ten.’

  ‘I’ve only got seven. But we live right across the street from my auntie and uncle and they’ve got five, so there’s more or less eleven of us.’

  ‘Seven and five make twelve, don’t they?’ said Sid the mathematician.

  ‘We left my little sister back home. She’s special.’

  ‘And where’s home?’ Colleen asked.

  ‘Maungakakari, near Napier.’

  ‘What did your family do down there?’

  ‘We were mostly in shearing gangs. We did the Leonards’ sheep every year and tons of other farms and stations. Our gang was quite famous round Hawke’s Bay. But the wool industry’s drying up a bit now so there’s not so much work.’

  ‘You would have known Jack Leonard?’ Sid said.

  Johnny nodded. ‘Decent bloke. Really fair.’

  ‘Well, that’s a pity,’ Pauline said. ‘He went troppo. They had to put him in the rat house.’

  Colleen glared. ‘Pauline!’

  ‘Well, they did.’

  ‘He’s got senile dementia,’ Colleen explained to Johnny.

  ‘Shit, has he?’ Johnny clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry for the language. That’s the old age thing, isn’t it?’ He twirled his finger next to his temple.

  Colleen nodded.

  ‘I didn’t know that. I’ll have to tell Mum and Dad. That’s a shame, eh?’

  ‘So why’d you come to the city?’ Sonny asked.

  ‘Thought we could make more money here.’

  ‘And have you?’

  Johnny looked down at the table and for a few long seconds Pauline thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘To tell the truth there is more money, but everything costs more too. And everything’s harder, a lot harder. I never saw signs saying No Dogs, No Maoris till I came here. I can’t go in a lot of barbershops, I can’t sit in the good seats at the pictures, and no matter how hard we try my mum and dad can’t rent anything better than a crappy old house in one of the worst streets in Ponsonby. Back home we probably wouldn’t put our cow in the house we’re living in now. And it isn’t even cheap!’

  ‘Welcome to the big smoke, boy,’ Sonny said gently.

  ‘You could always go home again if things are tough,’ Colleen suggested. Her voice was kind and Pauline was grateful to her for it.

  ‘I think Mum wants to, but Dad thinks we should stay. He wants us kids to grow up in a Pakeha world so we can get on. He says Maoritanga belongs in the past.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Sonny asked.

  ‘I just want a motorbike.’ Johnny took Pauline’s hand and grinned. ‘And to go dancing with Pauline. ’Cos nothing else matters then, eh?’

  And Pauline smiled back because he was right. Nothing else mattered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hawke’s Bay, May 1956

  James Murdoch sat on his idling tractor in the middle of a row of apricot trees, staring at nothing in particular. Then he realised what he was — or more accurately, wasn’t — doing, put the tractor in gear, drove to the end of the row and headed for the implement shed.

  The apricot and peach harvests were well over for the season, the pickers and the fruit itself long gone, and he’d been puttering along tidying up beneath the trees. A late summer storm had come through a couple of days ago, and while the worst of Hawke’s Bay’s bad weather very rarely reached as far as the hills of Kenmore sheep station, a fair bit of wind had snapped off some of the older branches and hurled them around the extensive orchard that covered the lower slopes of the gentle hill rising behind the homestead. The soil was good and drained well, the land faced the sun and was more or less protected from frost, and for the last twenty years the orchard had paid its way handsomely. James sold some produce to local outlets but most of his fruit — peaches, apricots, plums and cherries — was bought by J Wattie Canneries.

  He found the outdoors work, and the process of growing and harvesting, immensely rewarding. He’d once been a banker in Napier and that hadn’t suited him at all. He’d come home from the war mentally battered, like most men, but possibly more so due to an incident involving the death of another officer. In fact, he’d shot the man. He, James, had been tried for murder but acquitted, but it had embittered him and he’d taken that bitterness out on his wife, his wider family, and eventually his children. And, seeking release, he’d gambled with money that hadn’t been his. God, how he’d gambled. And lost. Basically he’d been a prick, and his arrogance and refusal to listen to advice had drawn him into trouble at the bank and ultimately he’d had to resign. At his wits’ end he’d finally taken the time to consider what he really wanted to do with the rest of his life, and that was grow fruit. So he had. With his burdens lifted from his shoulde
rs and his soul soothed he’d changed for the better. But not completely, and now he was facing trouble again.

  To date he’d paid Polly one hundred and fifty pounds towards the upkeep of the child she’d said was his. He had no idea whether the child was receiving the money or Polly was simply spending it. All he knew was that it was disappearing from his bank account and that Lucy was bound to notice. Ever since his gambling days, which were long over, she’d checked their accounts for signs of back-sliding, and he didn’t blame her. He couldn’t easily explain away a deficit of fifty pounds a month, and neither did he want to. He had no idea how long Polly would keep up her demands, but he had no intention of paying her six hundred pounds a year for the rest of his life.

  He parked the tractor, had a word with one of his full-time workers, then walked back to the house he and Lucy had built when they’d established the orchard, about half a mile from the Kenmore homestead where, these days, his half-brother, Joseph Deane, and his wife, Erin, lived. He wasn’t at all looking forward to making his confession to Lucy. She’d put up with his rotten behaviour for years and deserved to think those times had passed, but here he was, about to shatter her illusions.

  At the house he slipped off his boots, leaving them and his hat on the back verandah, and went inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the slightly dimmer light.

  ‘Lucy! Where are you?’

  ‘In here!’

  He made his way towards the parlour, his socks slipping slightly on the polished floorboards. She was in the armchair nearest the big window, making the most of the light, knitting. Her hair was completely grey now but, in his opinion, she was as beautiful as she’d ever been, and he loved her. He always had, which made the way he treated her inexplicable. What he had to tell her would hurt her very much.

  He sat down.

  ‘Any real damage?’ she asked.

  For a startled moment he thought she’d read his mind. ‘What?’

  ‘The orchard, from the storm.’

  ‘Oh. No, just a few broken branches. What are you knitting?’

  ‘A jumper, for Lorraine.’

  Lorraine was their granddaughter, Duncan and Claire’s child. Lucy had always hoped Duncan and Claire would have more children but they hadn’t, so she smothered Lorraine with love. But then she smothered all her grandchildren with love when she got the chance, which wasn’t often as she hardly saw Kathleen’s children.

  James nodded. Finally, he said, ‘Lucy, I have something I have to tell you.’

  Lucy kept knitting, her eyes on her needles.

  ‘I am so sorry, but about four years ago I was unfaithful to you.’

  Tappety-tap-tap went Lucy’s needles.

  ‘I went to a brothel during one of my trips to Auckland,’ James said. And then he lied. ‘Just the once. And I saw the girl I met there at that fashion event Kathleen was in. She was one of the models. She told me she’d had a child and I’m the father.’

  The tap-tapping stopped and at last Lucy looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You always were a shit, James Murdoch.’

  ‘I know, and I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Then why are you telling me? Why are you hurting me?’

  James rubbed his face with both hands. ‘She’s blackmailing me. I’ve been paying fifty pounds a month and I knew you’d find out sooner or later.’

  Lucy hurled her knitting at him. It fell well short. ‘You stupid, stupid man! Why can’t you think? Why do you have to be so bloody selfish all the time? What’s wrong with you?’

  James briefly considered trying to defend himself — after all, he hadn’t got the girl pregnant on purpose — but kept his mouth shut. What he’d done was actually pretty indefensible.

  ‘And how do you know it’s your child?’ Lucy went on. ‘She must have slept with hundreds of men. How do you know there even is a child? Did you see it?’

  That shut James up. Briefly. Polly hadn’t shown him a photograph: she might have duped him completely. But somehow he didn’t think so. She was a prostitute, and obviously also a fashion model and a blackmailer and God only knew what else, but he really didn’t think she was a liar. She’d always been honest with him. What you saw of Polly, you got.

  ‘Well, I believed her. Don’t ask me why but I did.’

  Lucy was silent for almost a minute. Then she asked, ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘A girl, apparently.’

  Lucy stared back at him in silence, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her eyes bright.

  *

  Auckland, May 1956

  Ted Hollis sat in his car, an unobtrusive green Ford Consul, across the street from Flora’s brothel, and ate the last of his homemade cheese and pickle sandwiches. She’d be out soon. He knew this because he’d been in yesterday and asked Flora MacKenzie, with whom he was well acquainted because of his job, for a chat with the Maori girl called Polly, and had been told he’d have to pay like everyone else and she’d be on from eleven o’clock that night till eleven this morning. He didn’t fancy paying so he’d asked for Polly’s home address and Flora told him to get on his bike, the old bat. He didn’t blame her, though. She was trying to run a business, albeit an illegal one.

  It was ten minutes to eleven now. He took a swallow of his Coca-Cola, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief, shoved the sandwich wrapper into the glove box, lit a smoke and waited.

  And twenty minutes later there she was, providing the description James Murdoch had given him over the telephone was accurate, and it should be — apparently he’d screwed her often enough. She was definitely a stunning-looking girl, so he couldn’t blame Murdoch. He took a couple of photos through his passenger window, even though the glass might render them a bit blurry.

  She took off at a hell of a clip, flustering him. Should he follow her in the car, which admittedly would be a bit obvious, crawling along the road behind her, or tail her on foot? Bugger, he’d have to leave the car here. He grabbed his things, got out, locked up and crossed the street.

  By the time he caught up, puffing a bit — she must be bloody fit — she was waiting at a tram stop, having a cigarette. Lucky he wasn’t in the car after all. He got on when the tram arrived and sat several seats behind her, jotting the cost of the ticket in his expenses notebook as the tram rattled along the street. They went all the way into town and at Customs Street she hopped off the tram and caught a bus. Again he noted the ticket price, and the route number, aware they must be heading somewhere slightly out of town, or at any rate to some destination the tramlines didn’t reach.

  While they bumped along, stopping and starting to collect and deposit passengers, he surreptitiously checked the camera in his satchel to make sure there were enough exposures left to get a decent number of photographs. Once on a job he’d followed someone for three hours and when the time had come to photograph the crucial evidence — it had been an ‘other woman’ situation in a divorce case — he’d discovered he’d run out of film. What a cock-up! But yes, he had plenty today.

  By the time they were on Tamaki Drive he had a fair idea where they might be heading. He dreaded traipsing up Kitemoana Street and wished he had the car after all. Then again it might be the only car up there, which meant it would stand out, the occupants of the street being who they were.

  He lit a quick cigarette to fortify himself for the walk up the hill, which he suspected would be energetic. Given how quickly she moved she’d probably go up it like a mountain goat and he couldn’t afford to lose sight of her.

  The bus stopped at Okahu Bay and the girl got off. Yep, he’d been right. He followed her and stood for a moment pretending to admire the view of the massive sewage pipe extending out across the water until she gained twenty yards or so on him. Then he slung his satchel over his shoulder, jammed his hat firmly on his head, and strode off after her.

  By the time he reached the top of the hill where the houses were he thought he might pass out, or vomit, but was just in time to see her enter a property. He wrote do
wn the number on the letterbox, then looked around, considering his options. His assignment was to obtain evidence that the girl had a child, and if she did, to get photos of it, close-ups if possible. Today he was just looking for the kid. If there was one, and she lived here, he could come back if necessary and take his time getting decent pictures.

  He walked back down the street a few hundred yards and cut across an empty section onto farmland behind the houses, then doubled back so he was just beyond the backyard of the house into which the girl had gone. Finding a handy stand of bushes near the fence he had a pee, then, well concealed, sat down on the grass to attach his telephoto lens to his camera. And then he waited.

  Eventually the girl, an older Maori woman, and a little girl came out the back door and down the steps. The little girl looked around three, maybe four, years old. She had a good head of dark hair, was brown-skinned, and did look suspiciously like the girl Polly. Also, she was calling out ‘Mummy’ to her, which was a bit of a clue. As the two women hung out some washing, the kid wandered around the vegetable garden, singing and pulling up carrots that didn’t look ready yet to be picked. The older woman called, ‘Gina, leave those alone!’ He made a note of the name, then raised his camera and snapped away. He wouldn’t know how good the photographs were until he got home and developed them, but he thought they might be good enough for James and Lucy Murdoch. If they weren’t, he could always come back.

  He’d also need to follow the girl Polly to wherever she lived as the Murdochs wanted her home address, but he’d do that another day. He was too knackered and anyway he thought he’d be pushing his luck if he shadowed her back down the hill. He’d have to tail her from the brothel again, but that was all right. The more he could add to his bill, the better.

  *

  Kura Apanui flushed the loo, exited the stall and washed her hands thoroughly with the special soap the hospital provided in all the staff cloakrooms. She wasn’t supposed to be in there using the toilet at any time other than lunch break or morning or afternoon tea, when access was supervised, but she’d been absolutely bursting. There’d been a spate of thefts from lockers so no one was allowed in the cloakroom except under the beady eye of Mrs Shand, Mr Price’s right-hand woman, but honestly, she’d been so close to wetting her pants.