‘Go, then!’ she yelled. ‘I’m home now and can take care of everything. I don’t need a useless extra mouth to feed.’
For two months now she has been alone on the farm, watching the weeds grow and the sheep lose condition. On good days she would still sing at her work; would praise the chickens when they produced eggs and ruffle Finn’s ears as he sat with her in the sun. Other days she dragged around the house, the chores exhausting her, hardly bothering to make bread or wash her clothes. The thought of Danny working hard to earn money for the farm sometimes encouraged her, but more and more often it filled her with dread. They were stuck here.
Her mother begged her to give up, to come down to the comfort of Pipiriki. But Stella had never failed at anything before; she didn’t know how to give in.
Twice she received a letter from Danny. They were full of hope and pride. He was learning to read and write; he had been given a banjo just like his old one and was playing with his friends; he was saving good money; he sent his love to his darling and to the baby. Stella sat alone in the dark farmhouse, envying his happiness and freedom.
When Freda and her new calf both died inexplicably, Stella, in despair, asked a neighbour to look after the horse and the sheep, opened the chicken coop door and walked away with Finn, down to Pipiriki. Her mother welcomed her, railed against Danny for leaving her alone, fussed about with special meals and new clothes for the baby. But Stella felt her failure keenly.
NOW SHE HANGS back on the boat, uncertain. Her heart lifts to see Danny, but something holds her to her seat. Danny, shouting and hallooing, jumps the railing and comes aboard. His grin, when he sees his wife’s belly, splits his face. ‘Will you look at this!’ he yells. ‘Oho! See what my darling has been cooking for me!’
‘Danny, for goodness sake!’ But Stella is suddenly laughing, happy now that his arm is around her, steering her off the boat and through the crowd. He chatters away — some plan she doesn’t quite catch.
‘Let me sit a while, somewhere quiet,’ she says. ‘I’m not used to all this, Danny.’
‘No time, no time, sweetheart. We have an appointment!’ But he finds a bench and they sit a moment, arm in arm.
She can see how on edge he is. A sheen of sweat beads his face, and his hands are trembling. ‘Is something the matter, Danny? Tell me now or I’ll be fearing heaven knows what.’
‘No sweetheart; I’m nervous is all. How is your voice?’
‘My voice? You can hear me, can’t you? What a question, Danny, when we have only just set eyes on each other.’
He grins. ‘Sure, I’m sorry. You weren’t listening just now, were you, poor darling, in all the crowd and the fuss. We are about to give a little concert. You are going to sing to Mr Hatrick himself!’
‘What?’
But Danny has her on her feet again and is steering her across the road to Hatrick’s offices. Outside the door three men are waiting with instruments. They are dressed in green waistcoats and bow ties identical to Danny’s. Stella wants to walk away. This will be another of Danny’s madcap ideas, doomed to failure. But his hand is steadier now and his mood quieter as he introduces the men.
‘We have formed a band,’ he says proudly. ‘All of us were together on the road gang and found we could make a grand sound. So listen, Stell, I have spoken to Mr Hatrick this morning and he is willing to give us his ear!’
This seems unlikely, but Danny’s evident pride is infectious. Stella smiles at Danny’s friends and they grin back, clearly as nervous as he is. The tall grey-headed man, Fitz, carries a fiddle; dumpy Harry sits on a stool beside his side drum and tambourine. A freckled young lad, Ginger, hands a banjo to Danny and then unhooks his own accordion. Danny talks non-stop while they are tuning up. Goodness knows how he catches the note.
‘We are mainly Irish, Stell, so that’s what we play. A bit of Scottish. We’ve got one Yankee song too. And even a dance bracket! Wait till you hear! But he wants songs, Stell. He wants a lady singer for evenings at Pipiriki House. I told him I knew all the songs and he nodded away but then demanded a lady singer as well. A lovely sweet voice for the gentlemen tourists, he said. And a band on the steamers for the weekend excursions. We would play on board and then present an entertainment up at the picnic ground. The excursion parties want music, he said, so he’s in the market if we’re good enough. We thought we’d play him an instrumental — “Yankee Girls”, maybe, eh, lads? And then you could sing “Rose of Tralee” or “Teddy O’Neill”. Which would you like? We can do either just grand, sweetheart.’
A crowd is beginning to gather outside the Hatrick offices, attracted by the sound of Fitz’s fiddle. Once the instrument is under his chin, it seems he can stop neither fingers nor bow. The lively tune has them all tapping.
‘Wait, man, wait!’ shouts Danny. ‘We got to do this right.’
‘Get the boss out there, then,’ says Fitz, jigging and nodding away in time to some tune in his head. ‘I can’t hold back the music all day!’
Stella’s head is reeling with it all. She has come downriver, full of anxiety about her husband, dreading having to tell him how badly the farm is doing, wondering how he will take the news that she has lost her work at the Houseboat, and here he is, chirpy as a cricket, none of the old cares and anxieties. She fears a sudden descent.
‘Button your coat, love, so he can’t see the baby just yet,’ whispers Danny. Then he’s off inside to bring out the big man, walking proudly, banjo tucked under his arm.
‘You’ve a good’un there,’ says grey-headed Fitz to her. ‘He’ll do the business all right.’
No one has ever said this to her about Danny.
‘I hope your voice is as good as he says,’ he adds. ‘I need this job right bad.’
‘We all do.’ Ginger is strapped up and ready, his fingers poised over the buttons of his accordion. Stella guesses that he is not quite so confident as the older two. ‘I’d be pleased if you chose “Rose of Tralee”,’ he whispers. ‘The chords are easier.’
‘“Rose of Tralee” then.’ Stella clears her throat. ‘I like to sing it high.’ Ginger pulls a chord out of his squeeze-box. She hums a note or two and nods. ‘That’ll do.’ She smoothes the creases in her worn old coat; wishes she had something smart to wear like the others. Fitz notices and remembers something. He pulls from a bag at his feet a long green scarf.
‘Danny bought this for you. The idiot forgot to give it to you. On with it smartly!’
She wraps the bright material around her neck, letting it flow loose down over the mound of the baby, then pulls out the ribbon tying back her hair. It falls long and dark over her shoulders. She turns to the men. ‘How do I look?’
‘A bloody vision of loveliness, madam. Welcome to Danny’s Irish band!’ says Fitz, laughing and bowing low.
And here, surprisingly, is the great man himself, out on the pavement to listen. Something Danny has said has put him in a good mood, for he is laughing, his bushy moustache leaping around like a small animal and his big paw clamped on Danny’s shoulder.
‘Let’s hear you then, Mr Cheeky O’Dowd, and we’ll see.’ He stands, feet apart, hands on his hips, every inch the successful entrepreneur, with no minute to waste on inferior matters.
Danny counts them in and they are off at a lively pace. They’re good. Someone in the crowd knows the words and joins in at the chorus: ‘… Yankee girls, can’t you dance the polka?’ Others clap. Mr Hatrick likes that, you can tell. He’s watching the crowd, noting their reactions. Stella watches him. Does he realise the connection? The logging accident? Her parents at Pipiriki House? Then the slower introduction to ‘Rose of Tralee’ brings her back to the moment and she sings. The band stick with her when she draws out a note, the fiddle playing a counter-tune. It’s such a pleasure to sing with them! Stella turns towards Mr Hatrick and sings just to him for a line or two, then turns back, smiling, to the crowd. Danny beams at her.
‘Should we play another?’ asks Danny when the applause fades.
‘Yes! Give them a go!’ the calls come back. Mr Hatrick can work a crowd better than any entertainer.
Hatrick bestows on Stella what might pass for a smile. ‘You have an enterprising husband,’ he says.
Stella smiles back, light-headed with it all. ‘I have.’
‘Can you manage the singing and a baby, though?’
So he’s noticed. She might have known. ‘The excursions might be tricky,’ she answers. Best to be truthful with this man. ‘But at Pipiriki House it would be fine. My parents work there and could help.’
‘The Morrows, yes. Your man here has confessed who he is.’ He watches her face closely and then turns to Danny, growling. ‘See how pale she’s gone. As well she might, you rascal. One single hint of adventuring downriver again with logs and you’re out that very day.’
Danny dares to grin. ‘Ah sir, that was a youthful indiscretion. I was led astray.’
Hatrick is not minded to join in the fun. ‘An ill day for your wife’s family, I believe. And for a girl’s lost mind.’
Stella moves to take Danny’s arm. For a moment it seems he will argue, then all the light goes from his face. He swallows, looks to the ground. The members of the band watch on, clearly not understanding.
Hatrick pulls out his watch. ‘Well, enough of that. I am trusting that your “youthful indiscretions” are a thing of the past. I like a man with enterprise and will give you the chance. Come back this afternoon, then, and we’ll settle the terms.’ On his way back inside he turns. ‘There’s a new Australian song, “Waltzing Matilda”. Can you play it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Learn it.’ And he’s gone inside.
‘I know the tune,’ says Fitz. ‘A bit common — no style to it at all. We’ll have to educate him.’
But Danny is not laughing with the others. He mumbles something to Fitz and walks away, across the road to the river, leaving Stella to make excuses.
‘He’s upset by something Mr Hatrick said. Don’t worry, he’ll be there to sign.’ Stella arranges a meeting time and shakes them each by the hand before hurrying after Danny. The little exchange with the men, the new plans give her pleasure after the months of failure on the farm.
She sees Danny immediately — a dear sight: his green waistcoat, his jacket slung over his shoulder, hat tipped at a jaunty angle. Though he is anything but jaunty now, standing still, head down, among all the bustle at the river’s edge. She takes his arm, stands silent with him, watching the water flow past. A crowded waka with a barking dog in the prow paddles upriver. Stella wishes she had thought to bring Finn down. He would push his wet nose into Danny’s hand, give him comfort.
‘Ah dear,’ he sighs. ‘I had managed to forget, for a while there.’
Pita?’
‘Pita.’
‘We will both have to learn how.’
‘We will.’ He looks at her, such a rueful, complicated smile. ‘Dear God, it is wonderful to see you, Stell. And the baby.’
Suddenly Stella begins to shake. ‘Oh Danny, I needed you so badly up there. I think the farm is gone, sweetheart. I couldn’t manage.’ Tears run down her cheeks: exhaustion perhaps, or shame. ‘I did things all wrong, upset everyone. I’m no good without you. You mustn’t go away again like that.’
Danny leads her to along the bank to where the weeping branches of a willow make a private place. They sit there, hidden, not caring whether their tears are sorrow or joy.
‘That damn farm,’ says Danny, smiling. ‘It has a will of its own, eh, sweetheart? It wants its bush back. The tall trees and the ferns. Shall we walk away? Let it grow wild again?’
‘It’s already doing that, willy-nilly.’ Stella sniff s. ‘This band thing: can it work, then?’
Now it’s Danny’s turn to show doubt. ‘I think so. We’re good. We can do better, too. Fitz is a bloody genius. But we would need to live at Pipiriki. Would your parents have me there?’
Stella frowns. ‘I don’t know. Pa is still angry. The baby will help, maybe.’
Douglas McPhee
He must be
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WHEN DOUGLAS REALISES that Sister Anne is not among those embarking with the other Sisters at the Jerusalem landing, he speaks urgently to his engineer.
‘Could you do without me for the last leg? Please, Dusty, please? It’s easy going now. I’ll make it up to you. Just don’t tell Captain. It’s my sick sister. She’s in need up at the convent.’
He has no intention of visiting Bridie, but Douglas is on a desperate mission, which in his mind excuses the shaving of the truth a little. Dusty opens his mouth to grumble, but before the words are out, Douglas is over the side and into the river, quick as a fish. All eyes are on the excited convent girls and the perfectly starched Sisters; the captain doesn’t spot his grimy stoker swimming away from the steamer, then drifting, with scarce a ripple, under the drooping branches of a willow. Douglas clings there, hidden among the green reflections, until the Wairua has steamed downriver, leaving behind the usual pale signature of its presence — a smudge of coal smoke hanging in the still air and the dying echoes of its pounding engine.
Douglas climbs out onto the bank. The little settlement seems deserted, but surely Sister Anne will be here if she is not aboard the steamer? His heart beats to think of her pretty young face, cruelly imprisoned inside the stiff folds of the wimple and heavy black veil. He is convinced she is being held against her will, and will come away if offered a way out. He washes the soot from his face and clothes and stands a while on the bank, letting the morning sun dry him. Even the dogs must have gone down to the race — or are asleep. He watches the settlement, looking for signs of Sister Anne.
WHEN STELLA’S BABY became obvious under her Hatrick uniform, Douglas soon forgot his great love for her.
‘Whose is it?’ he had whispered to her one night outside the crew’s quarters. ‘Did one of the tourists take advantage of you?’ He was ready at first to forgive, to knock the blackguard down, even to save her reputation by accepting mother and child.
When Stella laughed and said of course it was Danny’s he had stared at her, outraged. ‘How could you?’ he cried. ‘How could you lie with a murderer and a lecher?’ The poisonous words slid off his tongue, as satisfying as a warm bath.
Stella was very short with him. ‘He is my husband. Whatever he’s done is no business of yours, Douglas McPhee. I’ll hear no more of your nasty little lies.’
The thought that she could be happy to carry that man’s child made her repugnant — no better than a slut. She continued to work on the Houseboat and at the farm, often singing and smiling, even though her husband — the evil father of her child — had abandoned her, it seemed. It cut Douglas deeply that no one took seriously his report that Danny had murdered Pita. Stella had laughed at him. The policeman dropped the case, citing insufficient evidence, and then asked several sharp questions about his pestering Stella. Pestering! She was in danger of her life. Well, he doesn’t care any longer. When Stella was dismissed from the Houseboat and disappeared up the Ohura River to her farm, Douglas felt no regrets.
AT JERUSALEM THE church bell tolls and the dogs join in furiously. There must be life here after all. Douglas climbs up to the convent on the hill. She’ll be there. He’s still thinking of Sister Anne, not his blood sister. He came down once to see Bridie after they took the baby away. It was so shocking he could not visit her again. She had torn the skin of her face and arms with her fingernails. The wounds were healing — the Sisters kept her nails closely pared now — but the sight of the scars and her ang
ry staring eyes frightened him. She had been so gentle before. Sister Anne had been with her then, patiently feeding the demented girl. Douglas no longer thought of Bridie as his sister.
‘This is a terrible task for you,’ he had said. ‘My sister gives you no thanks for your care.’
Sister Anne had sighed. ‘It’s very painful for her, poor soul. She cannot forget her baby, but searches all day for him.’
Douglas thought she looked so sad, the Sister — so beautiful, captured inside her dark clothes and sighing.
‘Is this what you do all day?’ he had asked. ‘Sit with Bridie all day?’
‘Goodness, no. I care for the other children, and clean their rooms and milk the cows and work in the garden. And pray to God for His guidance.’
Douglas, always ready to seek out those in need of rescue, could see only sadness in her face. ‘Aren’t you sorry?’ he asked.
The Sister had sighed again. ‘I am out of my mind with worry,’ she said. ‘There is nothing to be done that I can think of.’
Douglas had vowed then and there to devote his life to saving Sister Anne.
HE FINDS HER praying with another Sister in the church. He stands in the doorway watching her. The sun comes through the beautiful arched windows, illuminating her bowed face. She looks like a painting, Douglas thinks — so calm, so stoic, even though her life is so unbearable. He waits there, worshipping her.
As the two Sisters come from the church into the sunlight, Sister Anne smiles to see him.
‘Hello, Douglas,’ she says. ‘While all the world has gone to the champion race, you have come to visit your sister. I am pleased to see you so caring.’
Douglas has practised the words he will say, but now they will not emerge. He stands silent before her, blocking her way forward. The other Sister waits, looking downward modestly.
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