Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  Sister Anne tucks her hands into her wide black sleeves. ‘I am on my way to see to her now. Shall we go together?’ she says, stepping around him. ‘Perhaps the sight of you can bring her some cheer. She has not smiled or said a word in all these weeks.’

  The last thing Douglas wants is to see Bridie again. He is forced, now, to follow behind the two Sisters as they pace in their quiet way over to the cottage where Bridie is locked.

  ‘Sister Anne,’ he says to her terrible black back. ‘Please, Sister, I would like to talk to you.’

  She stops, turns to face him. The other Sister pauses too; turns and stands very close to Sister Anne. Are they keeping her prisoner?

  ‘Alone,’ he says, but his voice trembles. He curses his flaming cheeks.

  Sister Anne bestows on him her lovely gentle smile. ‘Sister Agatha is my companion today,’ she says quietly. ‘Whatever you would like to say to me must be for her ears also.’

  This is not working out as he planned at all. He clears his throat.

  ‘I have come to realise,’ he begins, then takes a deep breath and tries again. ‘Sister Anne, I know in my heart you are not happy here. I would like to offer …’ but he falters as his lady frowns.

  Both the Sisters look at him in stern silence. ‘Are they holding you here against your will?’ he cries, desperate to hear her say the words. ‘You cannot want to stay shut up here — inside those dark clothes! Surely you want to be free?’

  Sister Anne smiles. She laughs! Oh, she looks so young and sweet. But why would she laugh?

  ‘Douglas McPhee,’ she says, and the words are broken by little bursts of laughter, which she is trying to smother, ‘I am perfectly happy here. I am not locked up, nor forced in any way. I love dearly my clothes, which I wear proudly as a sign that I have chosen the way of the Sisters of Compassion.’

  Sister Agatha is smiling too, and shaking her head. Douglas realises they are both laughing at him: trying to hide it but failing. It is worse than a physical blow.

  ‘How could you lead me on, then?’ he shouts. ‘You lied to me — you said you were unhappy!’

  Sister Agatha looks at her companion, her eyebrows lifted.

  ‘Douglas,’ says Sister Anne in a voice full of pity, ‘I am unhappy about your sister, not my chosen path. It is all in your mind, any other thought you may have. All in your mind.’

  Douglas watches her, searching for a crack. Sister Anne is serious now, her laughter under control.

  ‘If you have a need to rescue someone, try your sister. Poor Bridie.’

  ‘She’s not my sister any more, she’s one of you! Of your church. I never want to see her again.’ Douglas can feel tears beginning to choke him. He turns away from the two black crows.

  Sister Agatha’s voice follows him. ‘Or ask your family to take in your little nephew, John. That would be a lovely rescue, now.’

  He can hear the accusation behind her words. But who, in his family, would take in a Chinese baby? He walks away from her words, back towards the river. When he dares to look back they are gone.

  But later, as he stands by the slow-moving river, wondering whether to walk up to Pipiriki or to wait for any craft that might still be travelling down, Sister Anne comes running down the hill, her veil flying.

  ‘Douglas!’ she shouts. ‘Oh Douglas, wait!’

  His heart lifts and he runs to meet her.

  ‘Your sister has gone,’ cries Sister Anne. ‘Holy Mother, while we were wasting our time, there with you, she has smashed a window and climbed out and away. She will be bleeding and frantic. Come quickly and help us search. The others are all downriver.’

  Douglas stands rooted to the spot. He is panting, and closes his mouth against what words might emerge. It is all too much.

  Sister Anne is already running up the river path, her veil flying behind her like black wings. She turns to beckon. ‘Come! Come and search!’

  Douglas looks after her. ‘I am needed on my boat,’ he calls. Suddenly he longs desperately for the sweaty, back-breaking work, the roaring furnace, his beloved crowded engine-room. The easy, uncomplicated friendship of the riverboat men.

  He walks away down the river path, watching for passing craft. When the Morrows’ motor-waka comes churning around the bend, heading downriver, Douglas steps into a clear patch and hails it. Bert brings the craft in to the bank, but frowns when he sees who it is.

  ‘Where is your boat, sir? Has something happened to the Wairua?’

  ‘No, I … I was left behind at Jerusalem.’

  Ruvey Morrow, who has not favoured Douglas since he spread tales about Danny, melts a little. ‘You’re a good boy, Douglas, to stop and see to your sister. How is poor Bridie?’

  ‘Not well,’ says Douglas, trying to smile. ‘Not well at all, Mrs Morrow. Can you give me a lift back to my boat?’

  The waka is not crowded: Bert, expecting to bring Danny and Stella back upriver, has left space for them. He grudgingly allows Douglas aboard.

  Douglas sits in the prow, watching the green water slide past. The memory of Sister Anne’s laughter torments him. What an idiot he is. What a fool to think that pretty women will want him. He leaves a limp hand to trail in the water. Behind him, the Morrows chat with Mere and Eru. He knows he should have said something to them about Bridie’s escape. But stronger is his own need to escape — from that cruel Catholic place; from the terrible, unsolvable complication of Bridie.

  For a while the putter of the motor, the familiar twists of the river, the exhilarating rush down the rapids bring some kind of peace to his tangled feelings, his shame. But images of Bridie invade: a bleeding, desperate madwoman running through the bush. Sister Anne’s plea to help find her haunts him. The beat of the motor strikes a pulse in his head. Bridie, Bridie, Bridie. He should have stayed to help. Douglas shifts restlessly against the rough wood of the waka. He can’t be expected to look after her. Or her Chinese baby. How could he? Those black Catholic crows are mad to suggest it. Bridie is past anything Douglas can do. He blames his father, who should not have abandoned her in the first place. It’s his fault. And so his thoughts twist, around and around, his anger mounting.

  By the time the waka noses alongside the Wairua near the quiet settlement of Upokongaro, Douglas has worked himself up into a righteous rage against the entire unjust world. He climbs aboard to the whispered complaints of Dusty Miller.

  ‘I am fed up trying to keep pressure and shovel coal single-handed. Captain noticed, of course. You’re for it when we dock. Get in here, lad; we are not done yet and pressure is down.’

  The familiarity of the abuse is somehow comforting. Douglas is about to climb down into the fug of the engine-room when a hand clamps his shoulder. He turns to hear his father’s rasping voice.

  ‘Well, son, I am come to bring you back home. You are needed in the family business and I will stand no more of this lazing about on the river.’

  Douglas loses control. The past hours’ shame and confusion rise like bile in his throat. He wrenches away from his father’s grasp. ‘I am a river man!’ he shouts, ‘and will be engineer in time! Go away! You have harmed enough people in our family. I will not be another!’

  In a white rage he pushes wildly at his father’s chest. The tall man windmills his arms but cannot maintain his balance. Over he goes, into the river, with a mighty splash. The crowd on the bank, waiting for the spectacle of the race, cheer at this curtain-raiser. The crew aboard the Wairua laugh and punch Douglas on the shoulder, his absence forgiven. Angus McPhee is not a popular man upriver. Meanwhile McPhee, panicked, thrashes and cries for assistance.

  Douglas grins back at his friends, then, easily, all his rage evaporated, takes up a pole and offers it to his sodden father. McPhee seizes it and is hauled, dishevelled and complaining, to the deck. Douglas feels the stoker’s strength in his arms and is deeply satisfied.

  One of the Maori on the bank jumps into the water and wades over to the steamer, demonstrating to all that the sawmiller was ne
ver in danger: the water would never have reached past his chest had he but planted his feet calmly in the mud. This raises another round of applause. McPhee, dazed and humiliated, turns his dripping back on them all.

  A tall and elegant woman brings a rug from the saloon, drapes it over McPhee’s shoulders. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘That’ll keep you warm till we get back ashore.’ She leads McPhee to a vacant seat, then returns to Douglas. ‘A childish act,’ she says, her voice detached, as if speaking from a distance to someone of little note. ‘Surely unnecessary?’

  Douglas realises with a start that this fashionable lady is his sister Gertie. He stares at her, his jaw hanging open. How has she managed this transformation? Gertie’s lumpy figure is now trimly corseted inside a green silk dress with darker trimmings and gleaming buttons. Her once lanky hair is pulled high on her head and tied artfully so that little ringlets cascade around her forehead. A deep amber shawl drapes around her shoulders, pinned at her breast with a golden brooch. This simple, elegant manner of dress is change enough, but more startling is her manner. Gone are the drooping shoulders and the pouting, sulky mouth. This Gertie stands proudly, her back straight, her eye clear, a faint smile on her lips as if she finds the doings of the world mildly amusing.

  She watches Douglas, enjoying, perhaps, his amazement. When he remains silent she repeats her question. ‘Surely unnecessary?’ Like a kindly schoolteacher waiting for a reply from a reluctant pupil.

  Douglas shifts his feet on the deck, lays a hand on the rail, reassured to feel its smooth wood under his fingers. ‘Gertie,’ he says at last. ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look … like a lady.’

  ‘Yes. I hope so. And you do not look like a gentleman.’

  Douglas laughs. ‘What stoker aims to dress like a gentleman?’

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Gertie smiles at him, not with pity or scorn: simply not caring. ‘Don’t take any notice of Father,’ she says. ‘You are not needed in the business. I see to everything now.’

  ‘Oh?’ Douglas is irritated by her calm, wants to dent it.

  ‘Father is a little old-fashioned in his business views. I think we will move out of sawmilling shortly. Raetihi is not the future for us. I have several ideas.’ She smiles again. ‘Which he will accept.’

  Douglas finds it hard to believe that his stern father would let a woman run his business. Is Gertie mad, perhaps? But she seems so confident — almost beautiful, standing there so easy and elegant.

  ‘So stay here in your dirty boat with your rough friends,’ she says pleasantly. ‘I am the one Father needs.’ Without changing the even tone she adds, ‘And if you ever do something like that to Father again, you will regret it. Deeply.’

  Douglas breathes in sharply. ‘You are hardly one to threaten. You who threw our sister overboard — to her ruin.’ His voice rises. ‘In this same river. With far worse consequences!’

  Gertie raises her eyebrows. ‘Surely it’s beneath even you to bring that up. Bridget’s fall was a simple accident. If anything, she brought it on herself. It was a sad, sad accident, no one to blame, well in the past now.’

  Douglas, watching her closely for signs of discomfort or distress, is disappointed. Her calm grey eyes are steady on his.

  ‘You, however,’ she continues, ‘pushed Father deliberately. He could have drowned.’

  ‘Bridie lost her mind! She is out in the bush even now, alone and desperate …’ Douglas feels a stab of guilt at his own words.

  But Gertie is clearly impervious. She cuts in on him firmly. ‘Bridget is not our concern. We cannot be held to account for anything in that direction. We did what we could when needed and are surely not expected to act further in the circumstances. She is no longer a member of the family. Father has crossed her name from the family Bible.’

  Douglas can picture his father taking down the heavy, leather-bound volume that came out with him from Scotland; can imagine the black strokes of the pen drawn through Bridget’s name and her date of birth. Perhaps his will be next. He goes to turn away but Gertie lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right, Douglas. Don’t frown so. It’s all right. Can’t you see that?’

  He brushes her hand away — a sharp, angry movement. ‘It’s not! It’s not all right!’

  She will not give way. Shows no sign of distress or anger. ‘You are not thinking clearly. We have chosen different paths. You the river, I … other directions. That’s good.’

  ‘And Bridie?’

  Gertie flicks at a speck of coal dust with an immaculately gloved hand. ‘Douglas, our sister does not exist any more. Has not for many months. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘You do. Accept it.’

  ‘She needs help!’

  Her grey eyes are steady on his. ‘Whose help, Douglas? Not mine. Yours?’ She goes to her father, places a gentle hand on his drooping, blanketed shoulder. Without looking back, she guides him carefully towards the saloon.

  ‘I’m needed in the engine-room,’ mutters Douglas, but she’s not listening. He escapes down to the busy throbbing heat and the welcome, forthright abuse of Dusty Miller.

  Pita Morrow

  What Oh!

  THE PREMIER CATERER has been engaged to Cater REFRESHMENTS and LUNCHEON at the

  SCULLING CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

  W.S. DUSTIN begs to notify the Public that having secured the privileges from Mr R. EARLE and the WAITOTARA COUNTY COUNCIL for the erection of LARGE MARQUEES, he intends to put on

  Luncheon and Refreshments

  IN FIRST CLASS STYLE

  This should be a great convenience to those attending the race

  Advertisement, Wanganui Herald, December 1908

  FOR WEEKS, NOW, Pita has planned this day — the day of his release. He will go straight to the tree stump behind O’Leary’s pub, where his cash is hidden, dig up the little bag and head away — to the South Island or maybe Australia — where no one knows him and no one will have reason to set the hand of the law on him. Never, ever, will he be locked up again. The days and weeks inside four blank and grubby walls have been pure torture to Pita. He has tried every trick of imagination to turn his prison cell into a dark and leafy refuge in the bush or an empty stretch of river. Nothing worked. The heavy weight of bricks and timber enclosing him won out every time.

  He feared to find Danny O’Dowd in prison for the death of the girl; feared that he would be recognised by someone and tried, too, for that death. Or the ruined steamer. But not even the long-serving lags knew of Danny or any trial concerning a drowned girl. Pita didn’t like to ask too many questions. Perhaps such a crime went down to Wellington for trial. At any rate no one questioned his identity. Phillip Matthews he remained.

  But now, with the money in his hand and the blessed sun warming his back, the excitement of the day suddenly overshadows all his plans. Pita pulls his cap lower over his eyes and saunters, with everyone else, to the river. In prison, all the talk has been of Wiri Webb and the sculling race. Pita boasted that if the race were with paddles he himself might well stand a chance of beating the champion, but the older lags laughed him down.

  ‘Our Wiri trains day and night.’

  ‘He has arm muscles harder than pure solid timber.’

  ‘Not a man in the world can come close to him. God himself would lay odds on Wiri Webb.’

  Pita has to see it. The river itself, as much as the race. It hasn’t occurred to him that his own people from upriver might be down here. He walks quietly along the bank, heading with the crowds towards Upokongaro. After a while he forgets to keep his head down and his shoulders hunched. He walks with his old swing, grinning to see the crowded cartloads of spectators, the mounted gentlemen trotting ahead, the dozens of waka poling up against the current, loaded with passengers. He whistles a favourite tune. The air is calm; the surface of the river green and smooth. A perfect day for sculling.

  He asks an old fello
w where the finishing line will be. The man points further upriver. ‘But this will be as good a viewing place as any,’ he says. ‘Wiri will have tired the other fellow out well before the finish line. I reckon the race will be won about here.’

  Pita nods and looks about him. Plenty of people have had the same idea. The riverbank is already two or three deep. He climbs a little higher, until he can see the stretch of water up and down. This will do. He sits with his back against a willow trunk and breathes in the earthy richness. His river. Below are several waka, seemingly untended. For a moment Pita is tempted to slip one away from its mooring and head upriver. His arms twitch to be thrusting the pole deep; he longs to stand, bracing his bare feet against the rough wood, shifting his weight slightly this way and that to keep the balance. But then he remembers the horror of the prison cell and looks away.

  A little to one side a bookie is taking bets. Pita watches as, one after another, spectators go up to him, hand over the money and come away with their slips of paper. The odds would not be high but at least he could increase his capital if he bet it all. He scans the crowd. No one he knows. And anyway, the incident with the dead girl and the logs would surely be forgotten by now. Pita walks casually down the bank, waits for a moment when the bookie is alone and approaches him.

  ‘Twenty-five pounds on Webb to win,’ he says quietly.

  The little fellow looks at him sharply. ‘Twenty-five pounds? You trying to break me?’

  Pita repeats the bet.

  ‘Come off it.’ The bookie is pleading with him. ‘I’m going to make little enough as it is. If you want to bet big, take it to the Tote.’

  ‘I’ll make it thirty, then,’ says Pita, enjoying the argument, forgetting to keep his voice down.

  The bookie looks at him fearfully. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘go somewhere else.’

  Pita steps closer. Shows him the bag of coin. ‘You’re obliged to take my bet, mister. You want me to make a fuss?’