Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  A smiling Sister answers her knock. They have been up for hours, she says — no worry about disturbing them. She is happy enough to lead Stella around to the nursery. They have several orphan children, she says, more’s the pity, but surely Stella is not thinking to adopt with one of her own so close? The Sister sighs over the many mothers who have died this last year — tuberculosis, in most cases. It is a crying shame.

  Stella asks to see the Chinese baby, John. The Sister raises her eyebrows but leads the way. There he is, quiet in his cot, so small, so beautiful.

  ‘Would there be a problem to adopt him?’ asks Stella.

  ‘My dear, no one seems to want to claim him.’

  ‘There was someone — a brother to his dead father.’

  ‘We have tried to trace him, with no success. The whole family has disappeared. He was not welcome, I believe, up at Ohakune and was moved on — forcibly, they say.’ The Sister tut tuts. ‘A Chinese baby will not be easy to place. He is doing well at last, but we have had a struggle.’

  ‘Is Bridie allowed to see him?’

  ‘Bless you, no! She was smothering him to death, poor mite. We will certainly not be going through all that again. Dear Lord.’

  Stella looks down at the sleeping John. She has a sudden memory of Charlie Chee. Of him tearing his carrots out of the ground and hurling them away in his despair.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ she says to the Sister. ‘Maybe we can take him.’

  AT ABOUT THE same time, early that morning, Danny comes finally to the hermit’s hut. He knows she will be here. Before he leaves the bush, before he comes to the little clearing, he dismounts quietly and tethers his horse. As he walks into the open the whole scene is laid out, every shocking detail.

  The river is calm and dark, the morning mist just beginning to rise, pearly in places where the shafts of sunlight strike. Danny sees the little sandy beach, the bank rising up to the hut in the clearing. No smoke rises from the hermit’s fire. The morning is still. Birdsong echoes back and forth across the river. The hermit sits, hunched under a blanket near the water’s edge. Beside him lies Bridie, white and still, her hands folded across her chest, her copper hair smooth and wet each side of her face.

  Even at a distance Danny can see she is dead. He remembers the violence of the earlier time, when she lay a short distance away upriver. He hears again the crack of his fist when he struck Pita, the rasping coughs as Bridie spewed up the river. But this scene is peaceful. The descending notes of the bellbirds tolling her death sweetly, the river sliding past without comment.

  He walks forward slowly, not wanting to break the moment.

  The old man looks up. His long grey hair is tangled, his face haggard. The hands that hold the blanket tight around his old shoulders shake, but he smiles to see Danny.

  ‘Good lad,’ he says.

  Danny sits the other side of Bridie. He strokes her hair. Both men sit a while, watching the river.

  ‘She drowned,’ says the hermit at last.

  Danny nods. Tears run down his cheeks. ‘The poor darling,’ he whispers. ‘Poor sweet Bridie.’

  Later Sam Blencoe says, ‘You are the right one to bury her. Put her up with Charlie Chee.’

  He will say no more, nor will Danny question him. It feels the right thing to do. If others rail against it, let them. Danny lights the fire and makes them both a mug of tea. He does not want to leave the quietness of that place, the sight of Bridie lying there, so peaceful. But at last he goes up the track and finds a place near the marked grave where Charlie Chee lies, and digs into the rich earth of the bush. The strike of the spade and the ache in his shoulders satisfy a need; he digs the hole deep and generous.

  He walks back, eager to see her again. Nothing has changed. The hermit. Bridie. He lifts the light weight of her in his arms and carries her up gently to her grave. Sam follows, staggering a little from the stiffness in his limbs.

  When it is done they stand together beside the mound of dark sweet earth. Sam pulls two carrots from the overgrown garden and lays them, side by side, on the grave. When Danny smiles at the odd gesture, Sam only shrugs.

  Later they sit quietly together on Charlie Chee’s bench, looking down at the river.

  ‘Their boy should know this place,’ says Sam Blencoe. ‘You keep it clear when I am gone.’

  Danny nods, glad to be given the task. ‘I will bring him here. I will tell him.’

  He watches as the old man stands stiffly, takes the broom of twigs that is propped against the hut and slowly sweeps the fallen leaves from Charlie’s grave, stroking away from the mound until the earth is evenly scored and clear. Then the two take their leave, walking back through the bush in silence.

  At Sam’s clearing, Danny stops and turns to face the hermit. He holds Sam’s bony shoulders for a moment, would like to draw him close but feels the resistance.

  ‘You’re a good man,’ he says.

  Sam snorts, shoots him a strange, wide look and walks away.

  For a moment Danny watches as the old fellow makes his way down through the clearing. His breath catches in his throat to see again the place where she lay; his tears flow afresh. Then he turns to his horse, mounts and rides downriver, back to Stella.

  Samuel Blencoe

  SHE COME UP into my clearing just before dawn. First I thought it were that wild boar come again to root in my patch. I took up my stick and went out. The saddest sight there, in the early light, the poor demented girl, scratching the dirt like some animal, pulling up clods of moss, holding them close to her nose.

  When she seen me she come stumbling, holding out her empty arms, clear as day to see she were showing me the lack of her babby. The sounds coming from her would break your heart.

  Dear God.

  She lifted my old shirt and thrust her face inside, searching my own old skin for some sign. Then went up to the hut. I could hear her pulling my few things about up there. Maybe there was some thought in her fogged-up mind that since I were with her that day they took her babby, I might have him here.

  She would not give up. Up and down she went, searching and groaning. One arm had a long cut, the dried blood all down her dress, both legs scratched and her feet also cut, the black dirt on them mixed with blood. I thought to wash her but had not the strength to bring her to the water. Up and down, here and there she scrabbled, restless as a kiwi in the night, searching for its food. I had to let her be. Wait till she might calm.

  She did not calm but at last slowed from the exhaustion. Suddenly her legs gave way and she sat on the grass there, still groaning. I went to her. She turned her face up to me. It was worse than when she found Charlie Chee. The deep misery there, and her eyes begging me to help.

  I took her poor mashed arm, then, helped her up and she come down to the water. We walked in, the two of us, where the sand is soft and the slope gentle, up to our knees. Poor Bridie still moaning, but quieter now, the cool of the water taking her breath. Slowly I pushed her down till she sat, the rags of her dress floating out, her head leaning upon my arm. It were heavy work but I washed her clean: her cuts, her blackened feet, her dress. The slow movements of my washing calming her a little but those beseeching eyes still locked on to me.

  Then I prayed for strength and pushed her sweet face under. One kind thing I could do for her. She struggled a while but I breathed deep for the strength and held her under till she found her peace at last.

  Afterwards I could pull her no further than the sandy bank, so there we both stayed. The bright shafts of sun found the river; the mist rose. I told her what I saw.

  Some historical dates relevant to Landings

  1884 Snagging punts operated on the Whanganui River, to clear rapids of debris.

  1891 The Wanganui River Trust was established by government grant to create navigable channels through rapids. Surveyor John T. Stewart headed the trust.

  Alexander Hatrick’s first paddle-steamer, the Wairere, made its maiden voyage from Wanganui township to Pipiriki. It t
ook eleven hours.

  1894 A road between Pipiriki and Raetihi was opened to wheeled traffic.

  1899 Hatrick bought Pipiriki House from Huddle and modernised it. The house described in this novel burned down in 1909 and was immediately rebuilt by Hatrick, opening in 1910 with all modern conveniences. This Pipiriki House also burned down in 1959. In the 1990s an attempt was made to rebuild on the old foundations but the venture ran out of steam. The unfinished shell remains.

  1903 Steamer trips above Pipiriki began: a weekly service to Taumarunui, then the terminus of the main trunk line. Carrier pigeon communication between stages was established.

  1903–08 Clashes between loggers on the river and Hatrick’s steamer service.

  1903–13 Heyday for the tourist river service. Fourteen boats in the Hatrick fleet. Three-day tours between Taumarunui and Wanganui, via Houseboat and Pipiriki House. Service operated three times a week.

  1904 The Houseboat (Makere) was built in Taumarunui and floated down to Maraekowhai. It was moved to Retaruke in 1927 and destroyed by fire in 1933.

  1905 The Colonial Drink Bill stipulated that no liquor should be dispatched or delivered within the Rohe Potae (King Country) and upper Whanganui River.

  1907 Joseph Ward successfully proposed a legislative amendment extending the English-language requirement for prospective immigrants.

  1907 A branch of the Anti-Asiatic League flourished in the Ruapehu district.

  1907–08 A coach service connected the north and south railheads of the main trunk line between Raurimu and Ohakune. This tourist service also connected with Pipiriki House via Raetihi.

  1909 Main trunk express train service between Wellington and Auckland opened.

  1928 Wanganui River Services Ltd took over A. Hatrick Co Ltd (then owned by Hatrick’s heirs). The service dwindled from then on, and the company failed in 1964.

  NOTE: Two of the steamers named in this novel — the paddle-steamer Waimarie and screw-steamer Wairua — have been dug from the mud where they sank and have since been faithfully restored by volunteers of the Whanganui Riverboat Centre. These now run regular trips out of Wanganui. A third steamer — the greyhound of the fleet, Ongarue — is under reconstruction. The rapids, however, are no longer maintained in a navigable state for these craft. Hatrick’s tourist route, ‘The Rhine of Maoriland’, which flourished in the first part of the twentieth century, can now be enjoyed only by canoe, kayak or jetboat.

  Reproductions of John Stewart’s superb hand-drawn map of the river, its rapids and the surrounding area, dated 1903, are available from the Whanganui Riverboat Centre.

  For the little French girl, Lily Alouette, performing became a way of life. A life that those who love her must be prepared to share.

  The Denniston Rose is about isolation and survival. It is the story of a spirited child, who, in appalling conditions, remains a survivor.

  Eighteen years have passed since Rose first arrived in Denniston. She has grown into a young woman, intelligent and talented, with an outrageous zest for life … and love.

  This is the tale of Con the Brake. A talented and impetuous Faroeman, he finds he cannot escape his past.

  A tender and amusing novel set in the nineties, with the Springbok Tour still a recent memory.

  Elena glimpses her friend Jeanie in a New Zealand art gallery twenty-three years since she disappeared in Samoa. What are the secrets she is hiding?

  About the Author

  JENNY PATTRICK is a writer and former jeweller whose six published novels, including The Denniston Rose, its sequel Heart of Coal, the Whanganui novel Landings, and Inheritance, set in Samoa, have all been number one bestsellers in New Zealand. In 2009 she received the New Zealand Post Mansfield Fellowship. In 2011 she and husband, musician Laughton Pattrick, published the children’s book and CD of songs, The Very Important Godwit.

  Copyright

  A BLACK SWAN BOOK published by Random House New Zealand,

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand

  For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National

  Library of New Zealand

  Random House New Zealand is part of the Random House Group

  New York London Sydney Auckland Delhi Johannesburg

  First edition published 2008

  This edition first published 2012

  © 2012 Jenny Pattrick

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 86979 845 1

  eBook ISBN 978 1 86979 692 1

  This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing

  no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

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  Cover design: Kate Barraclough

  Text design: Anna Seabrook

  This publication is printed on paper pulp sourced from sustainably

  grown and managed forests, using Elemental Chlorine Free (EFC)

  bleaching, and printed with 100% vegetable based inks.

  Printed in New Zealand by Printlink

  Also available as an eBook