Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  I went down to sit beside her and she give me that big wide smile. I do love that smile of hers — no cloud in it whatsoever. Some might say it showed an empty mind. I say Bridie’s smile bestowed more blessing on them that received it than the Pope himself could manage in a year.

  We sat there in that peace, the river smooth as glass, no soul upriver nor down. I made her a bite and we ate it together. I reckon she liked it with Charlie and me for the way we would let her be. The Sisters and them at Pipiriki would fuss at her to do this and that. Tidy herself maybe, or sit like a lady. That’s how I reckoned. Otherwise why did she bother to make this walk all the long track up? Another way of looking is that she maybe liked to put one foot after another. Some need in her. Even that morning, her feet cooling in the river were moving back and forth, back and forth — nothing frantic about it, just back and forth, hardly stirring the green water.

  But she were restless that day, poor soul, I could see the babby kick under her smock, something I never seen before. I put my hand on it and there it went. Some little tyke inside, all right. Bridie smiled and shifted a bit, then up she stood and off away upriver, as I knew she would. She would come back after seeing Charlie Chee. Like as not she would stay a day or two up his way, pull out a weed for him, then come back down. You had to trust the Sisters to put the brake on her when the babby was near to coming. I doubt Charlie nor I could help in that direction.

  This time she did not stay any night with Charlie Chee but was soon back, lolloping along, first time I ever seen her run. Her sweet face all in a fright. She took my hand then and pulled, sounds coming out her mouth — not words, but any fool could tell what she wanted. So I come with her. Red and panting she were, but would not slow down or let this old feller favour his stiff joints. Something were up, that was clear.

  Well, so it was. We come to Charlie’s place, as neat as a pin like usual, every row of carrot and potato in order and the chooks pecking at nothing much in front of his hut. Bridie pulled me round behind Charlie’s shed. Still I saw nothing till she pointed up. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there he was.

  Charlie Chee had gone and hanged himself. The bugger. His body hung high off a branch of the big beech, brown bush-flies zooming in and around him. His pointy straw hat hooked to a branch up there — trust Charlie to put it away neatly before he done the deed. His body so small and thin and that blessed pigtail hanging straight down his back.

  Why did he have to do it so high? No way I could get up there, cut him down. Dear God. And Bridie standing there, holding her tummy and rocking, rocking, turning her face away from that horrible sight. Back and forth she shifted, one foot to the other and her eyes closed. Moaning sounds coming out of her like a young piglet looking for the sow.

  What was Charlie Chee thinking of? With his wife soon coming out and his business doing well? And now giving poor Bridie the fright of her life. Nothing I could think to do to get the bugger down. I was right wild with him except he were dead.

  Well, I took Bridie into his hut and sat her down. Pulled a carrot and give it to her. That seemed to calm the poor soul. Then I give the chooks a handful of corn like I do sometime when Charlie is away, and put an egg or two in my pocket. My hands trembling so I near dropped them. I seen hanged men before, plenty of them on Norfolk, but then you might envy the dead, that they were out of it for good. I never expected any hanging upriver here. I had to sit a while with Bridie and eat a carrot myself to stop the trembling.

  Bridie seemed to forget about Charlie Chee after a bit. She went out and pulled a weed. Brought me a tomato and ate one herself. So then we left. Left Charlie hanging high off the beech like a dark banner, never stirring in the still afternoon. We went downriver again to where the river Maori were camped. I told them. They come up to see him but would not touch the body for some fear they had. Tapu, they said. Something to do with the tree he were on, or the colour of his skin, so there he hung inside his curtain of flies.

  Bridie and me stayed in my hut. She’s used to stopping here. No way I could shift her, nor did I care to. Poor soul was tired out. The both of us. She sat on my log and I cooked us the eggs with a potato or two from my own scruff y patch. We ate. I talked to her the while, as I do when she needs calming. Only person I find ease to talk with is Bridie. Her and the river. Neither the one of them will come back at me. Once I got fifty lashes for some word came out my mouth — I never learned what wrong word it was. Some warder in a foul mood. Back there you learned to distrust words. But here, some days, I might talk all morning to the river as she flows on past. The words drift away, no sense to them maybe, but some kind of ease unto myself.

  I told Bridie some nonsense about Charlie and his Chow heaven and whatall. Did any words make sense inside that pretty head? I never seen any sign of it.

  The Anti-Asiatic Meeting, Pipiriki

  The Chinese were a race of people that should be kept out of a civilised community like the Dominion. They were the most immoral race under the canopy of heaven … What the League wanted was an increase of the poll tax to £500, also an amendment to the Factories Act to prevent Asiatics competing unfairly with Europeans … He concluded his address by expressing his admiration ‘for those people of Ohakune who had consistently refused to let shops to Chows.’

  Extract from a report in Waimarino County Call, January 1908, of an address on the ‘Yellow Peril’ by Mr John Cameron, secretary of the New Zealand Anti-Asiatic League

  DOUGLAS IS SURPRISED at the number of people crammed into Hanson’s big front parlour. He had expected a handful. The sashes on the bay window have been raised so that men on the verandah can lean their elbows on the sill and hear the speeches within. Captain Jamie Jamieson is there, and Bert Morrow, showing interest but not willing to make the commitment of a seat inside. Stella and Danny have come down on the steamer, not to support the meeting’s purpose but to fight it. At least that is Stella’s purpose. She has been on fire with indignation since her encounter with poor Charlie Chee.

  Douglas watches as Stella and Danny approach the house. He sees her turn to point out something to Danny; sees him move away quickly in another direction; hears her angry shout. He smiles. Danny was ready enough to make the trip downriver, but as soon as they reached Pipiriki he is sniffing around, no interest at all in the meeting. Douglas is sure Danny must be interested in another woman, the wretch. Perhaps he is planning to leave Stella this very night. A thrilling thought.

  ‘Stay out here with me,’ Douglas whispers to Stella when someone shouts that there is room for the ladies inside. Stella looks at him, frowning. On the trip down she argued with Douglas and others aboard, fiery in her indignation. Douglas, who has been brought up to hate and fear the Chinese, argued against Stella’s strange attitude. Surely she could see that if the way is made easy for the heathen Chinese they will swamp the country and make life even harder for the white farmers?

  ‘Have you met Charlie?’ she countered. ‘Have you talked with any of them?’

  Stella makes every issue personal; it means that arguing an abstract issue becomes difficult. Douglas prefers to steer clear of confrontation, and would not be at this meeting but for Stella.

  He sees the tall figure of his father at the front of the room, by the fireplace, smart in a dark suit, his watch-chain glowing across the neat waistcoat, his red beard combed and trimmed. McPhee smiles and nods at something Hanson is saying, turns to address another man at the front. Almost all the audience is male. Douglas can count only three women, including lovely Stella.

  He slaps at his neck. The sandflies are out in force this afternoon.

  Stella laughs. ‘I’m going inside. Come on. You’ll be eaten alive. These tough old farmers have hides like eels. You’ll be scratching all night if you stay here.’

  Douglas allows himself to be manoeuvred into a corner. He stands hidden behind a big fellow while Stella slips into a vacant chair beside her mother. Despite the open windows the air is stuff y with pipe smoke and the smell of sweat. D
ouglas wants Stella to notice him, but is also afraid of attracting his father’s attention. He leans against the wall, interested to discover why these people, so far from the world of politics, are disturbed about the Chinese.

  Hanson bangs a ship’s bell for attention, which earns him a cheer. He is a heavy man who farms in Pipiriki itself and has done well, they say, supplying meat and timber to the railway camps further inland.

  ‘Welcome, ladies’ — he winks at Mrs Morrow, Lily Feathers and Stella — ‘and gentlemen. We will commence our Anti-Asiatic Meeting with a prayer and a song.’

  Reverend Smith from Raetihi delivers a long rambling exhortation to the Lord to deliver these humble servants here present from the Yellow Peril — the heathen hordes from China. The audience becomes restless; one or two defiantly raise their heads. They are not used to wordy Protestant prayers. Douglas smiles. His father has miscalculated the Catholic fervour down this way.

  Then comes a surprise. From the kitchen doorway steps his sister Gertie, dressed all in green satin with a purple silk flower in her hair. She waves at the audience and simpers. Douglas thinks she looks ridiculous, but the men cheer and clap. Mrs Hanson seats herself at the piano while Gertie folds her hands together and frowns to indicate the seriousness of her message.

  ‘My song,’ she says, ‘is one of my own composition. It is titled “Clouds of Peril from the East”.’

  She sings intensely in a strong alto voice. The tune bears a striking resemblance to the hymn ‘Those in Peril on the Sea’, the sentiment similarly hopeful of rescue from disaster. The crowd cheers when it is over and calls for more. Gertie is willing but Mr McPhee steps up to lay a proud but stilling hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Douglas has never before seen him show any sign of approval towards her. Gertie looks up at him with something akin to worship; Douglas finds her expression unbearable in a way he would not be able to explain.

  Now Angus McPhee takes the floor. He stands upright, speaking without notes and from a deep conviction. Douglas has heard him make the speech before, several times, down in Wanganui. No doubt he has already spread the word up in Raetihi as well. McPhee hooks a thumb in the pocket of his waistcoat as if feeling the tick of the time-piece nestled there. Indeed, time — the urgency of it — is a theme of his speech.

  ‘Every minute that we turn away from the problem, another Chinese crawls under the net and into our country! If we turn away our eyes, shrug our shoulders and murmur, “This is another’s problem,” we betray our children and our children’s children.’

  McPhee stabs the air with his forefinger, drills the audience with his fierce blue eyes. He is a compelling orator. Douglas is proud of his father, despite their differences.

  ‘Friends,’ says McPhee, his voice rising in indignation, ‘the Yellow Peril threatens to engulf us. If the government allows, they will pour into our free land, overwhelm us with their heathen hordes, snatch work from our hands and food from our mouths.

  ‘Recently the government passed a bill requiring a knowledge of one hundred English words from every Chow entering the country. We say: “Too little, too late!” Why not increase the poll tax to five hundred pounds? Why not ban that evil and depraved race from our shores entirely?

  ‘Already, friends, there is a shop run by Chows set up in Raetihi! Yes, up the road in Raetihi! A store that should be sustaining a good British family. Already there is land in the hands of that yellow race here in our very midst! I have seen the title myself and despaired at the ignorant fellow who has sold the land.

  ‘Now, friends, I have learned that a Chinese man has set up here on the river. If you buy vegetables from him — shame on you! You are encouraging the spread. He will use his ill-gotten profit to bring another of his race to our shores. And another, and another. Turn from him! We must stop the rot, chop at the roots before we are overrun.’

  McPhee clears his throat. His eyes sweep the room. A silent expectation grows; something important is coming.

  ‘And worse. Far worse. So despicable I can scarce find words to tell.’ McPhee lowers his voice until all are craning forward. In fact he has no trouble at all finding the words.

  ‘My own daughter Bridget, my poor lost daughter who near drowned and is ever since not right in her mind, has been defiled — yes, defiled, my friends — and I have good reason to believe that the Chow is the perpetrator …’

  Ruvey Morrow has had enough. She rises to her feet, large and formidable, known and respected by most in the room.

  ‘Mr McPhee,’ she booms, her voice cutting through his whispered slander, ‘this is not a fit message for the ladies present. I am leaving, and I urge others to do the same. Also,’ here she turns to face the muttering audience, ‘you all know Charlie Chee. He is a quiet and decent man, is he not? His vegetables are good and his prices fair. Have you not heard Father Soulas say that the Lord welcomes all humankind, whatever the colour of their skin?’

  There is a murmur from the crowd at the mention of Father Soulas.

  ‘Pipiriki House,’ the formidable lady rolls on, ‘will continue giving Charlie Chee its custom. It was he who rescued this man’s daughter, and I do not believe he did any harm to her.’ Ruvey Morrow turns back to McPhee. ‘Shame on you for pointing a finger at your daughter’s saviour! I will hear no more of this rubbish!’

  As she turns to leave, there is a commotion at the back of the room. A big man is being pushed through the crowd at the door. It’s Eru, deckhand on the Wairua, embarrassed by the attention he’s receiving and cursing volubly in Maori. He struggles to stay back, but is shoved by friendly hands until he’s in clear view.

  ‘Listen to Eru!’ shouts one of the men. ‘He’s got some news from his cousins upriver.’

  McPhee frowns. The meeting is taking an unfortunate turn. The fellow Eru looks as if he’s been drinking. He raises a calming hand.

  ‘Friends, friends,’ he says, ‘let us keep to the point. My good man, sit if you want to join the meeting, but keep a civil tongue. We are speaking God’s English in this room.’

  ‘No, wait,’ says another voice. ‘He’s got news of Charlie Chee. Hear him out.’

  The room quietens at this announcement and all heads turn to Eru, who rolls his eyes and slaps at the restraining hands of his captors.

  ‘Charlie Chee’s dead,’ he says. ‘Hanged.’

  The silence is complete. ‘Strung himself up,’ Eru adds. ‘My cousins are feared to cut him down. He too tapu.’ He shrugs. ‘No point you buggers having a meeting. Send some white men up to cut him down.’ He mutters something low at the standing men and they part to let him stumble out.

  McPhee clears his throat. ‘Well, indeed,’ he says. Then, his voice gaining strength as the faces turn towards him, ‘Indeed. If this is true, surely the hanging is a sign of guilt. A guilty conscience. A defiler of our women. This, friends, is what the Asiatic race is capable of!’

  Stella stands now, tears in her eyes and shaking with rage. ‘His name is Hong Lip Yee! If he has hanged himself it is because of people like you! You don’t know anything about him. Why would you think Lip Yee … hurt … Bridie? Why? Anyone could have. You know what she’s like. Ma’s right. Lip Yee wouldn’t do something like that. He was about to bring his wife out here and now he can’t afford it after he has saved for so many years. Despair, not guilt, is what Charlie — Lip Yee — what drove him.’ The tears are running down her face now. ‘You people make me sick!’

  Ruvey Morrow puts an arm around Stella’s shoulders and leads her weeping daughter outside. Lily Feathers follows. There is general movement in the room — an uncertainty. Bill Anderson, downriver captain, rises and leaves with the women. A smartly dressed gentleman — one of the guests at the House, perhaps — also leaves, pushing his way through to the door. But Angus McPhee is speaking again, persuasive, needling. Douglas stays to listen, earning a furious look from Stella.

  ‘They are women, friends, with a softer way of thinking. Their female minds do not see the hard truths — or t
he duty we men have to protect their sensibilities. If the Chow has indeed hanged himself, we are well rid of him. But we must be vigilant. Others will come. Others are in our midst.’

  The growl of agreement swamps the more hesitant questions. Douglas hears Hatrick’s store-master say, ‘But would Charlie Chee do such a thing?’ and the farmer next to him answer, ‘Who knows what the Chows think is right? Maybe taking defenceless white girls is acceptable to them.’

  ‘I do not suggest — as many might — taking punishment into our own hands,’ says McPhee, confident now that he has the crowd with him again, ‘but we must send away these — I hesitate to call them members of the human race — heathens from our isolated community. This man has a brother in New Zealand, I hear, and perhaps another will take his place here. Spurn them. Neither sell them land nor buy their goods. They must learn that they are not welcome here.’

  McPhee waits confidently for a response.

  Hanson raises his beefy hand. ‘Can we bring a dead man to justice? He should hang again. In public.’

  McPhee smiles. ‘I fear we cannot, Mr Hanson. He has cheated us from our rights. But in our hearts we know him for what he has done. And we revile him.’

  The men rumble approval. McPhee brings the meeting to a close with another, shorter prayer. He is jovial with the group, shaking their hands, urging them to be vigilant. Mrs Hanson hands around hot, buttered date scones.

  Douglas is torn. He wants to be part of this good-natured crowd, several of them riverboat men like himself. But he remembers the conversation with Stella’s husband: Danny’s story of finding Bridget. His anger with Pita. Could Stella’s dead brother be the one? Or Danny himself possibly? He admitted to hitting Pita, maybe killing him. Perhaps he has done worse. Douglas remembers the dreamy way Danny spoke of Bridget. Stella’s husband could well be both murderer and lecher.