by Rachael King
I put the eggs on the wide bench, suddenly starving. After poaching a couple and eating them with fresh bread because I couldn’t find the toaster, I put away the rest of the groceries and went back up to my room.
My thesis sat on the desk, taunting me. I was terribly behind schedule, what with Grandpa’s illness, and death, and then the realisation that things with Hugh were a mess. I had gathered all my research material and ordered my thoughts, but now the work of putting it on paper had to begin in earnest, beyond the scribblings I had made to date.
I sat at the desk and was going over my notes when I heard a noise downstairs. Instantly I was on my feet, moving towards the staircase, much bolder than I had been in the middle of the night.
‘Hello?’ a male voice called from the kitchen.
‘Coming!’ I wasn’t really frightened, but I decided to lock the door after whoever it was had left.
Sam stood in the middle of the room with a sack in his hand. He looked as though he had no intention of coming any further than that, which I appreciated. He had removed his gumboots at the door and his big toe poked through one of his thick grey socks.
‘Sorry,’ he said, unnecessarily, but again it made me warm to him. ‘I’ve got that rabbit you were after.’ He held out the sack and I took it from him.
‘Thanks.’
We stood looking at each other a moment, before he started to back away and turn.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
It was my turn to apologise. ‘I’m just doing some work.’ I swung the sack. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘Sure.’ He moved to the door, and turned back to face me. ‘I was sorry about your granddad. We all were. He was real nice.’
‘Thanks. Yes, he was.’
‘What’s going to happen to the farm? Now that he’s gone?’
‘Don’t you know?’ I was surprised nobody had told him.
‘Know what?’
‘It’s being sold. The family’s selling up. I thought Joshua would have told you.’ But perhaps Joshua didn’t know either and I had really put my foot in it.
Sam just looked at me, and I could see him processing the information. He breathed out through his teeth.
‘Fucking fantastic.’ He picked up his gumboots and walked outside without putting them on, slamming the door behind him.
When I opened the big deep freeze to put the sack inside, it felt as though I was lifting the lid on a coffin. Nobody had emptied the freezer since Grandpa had died. Packages of meat and bags of vegetables were piled inside, along with unlabelled containers of liquid and what looked like stewed fruit. I went to close it again when a couple of items caught my eye — clear plastic bags containing whole animals. It was difficult to see exactly what they were without defrosting them, but they were small and furred — stoats perhaps. A larger, darker mound could have been a possum, although I knew that most of the trapped possums were sent off to my uncle, whose company dealt in possum fur.
As I passed through the hallway I glanced into the living room. There was something missing from the side table — the huia. I looked at the spot where it had been and tried to think whether I had done something with it, but I couldn’t remember. The chair was where I had left it after retrieving the bird from the high shelf, and when I looked up, there it was, back on its perch.
Someone was playing games with me. Sam? He looked as though he hadn’t ventured any further than the kitchen. But if not Sam, then who? I felt uneasy then, as though someone might be watching me from somewhere in the house.
‘Hello?’ My voice was absorbed by the carpet and the drapes, and nobody answered. Then I remembered my decision earlier, and I returned to the kitchen to lock the back door. Sam was nowhere to be seen. If someone was in the house, I had just locked them in with me. But that was a risk I was going to have to take. There was no cellphone reception out here, but as far as I knew the landline hadn’t yet been disconnected. I still knew how to dial for help.
Back up in my room, I shook off thoughts of an intruder. Maybe it had just been Sam, thinking I had tried to put the bird back on the shelf but couldn’t reach. He probably thought he was doing me a favour. I picked up my notes again and tried to conjure up the world of Heathcliff and Catherine, to let my thoughts emerge from the fog. But then I thought about the rabbit Sam had brought me. I wondered how big it was. Was it male or female? What condition would the coat be in? It had been so long since I had mounted anything — not since my mid-twenties. I thought of the menagerie room and all the equipment there, lying idle. Would I still remember how to do it? If I switched off my mind, would my hands guide me through the process again, after all these years? There was only one way to find out.
He skinned a tiger once. It took five men to do the job. Henry made the incision while four wiry native assistants stretched the animal’s limbs taut. Their faces were blank as they leaned back, straining.
The tiger smelled of dust and urine and strong sunlight. Henry worked slowly, careful not to cut too deeply. The sun was so strong he thought it might singe the hairs on the back of his neck.
The knife, newly sharpened, sliced through the skin as if through sand; he shuffled backwards on his knees. By the time he had cut to the anus, his arm ached. He must have pierced a musk gland — the air was suddenly filled with an acrid stench; his breath was thick with it.
The smell made him uneasy. Even in death the animal was exerting its territorial nature, as though it were still weakly alive. But he checked the face, the head flung back, slack tongue lolling from open jaws, like a piece of old ham.
After he had cut from throat to tail, he worked laterally on the front limbs, paw to paw. The beast now lay supine, crucified. The flesh below the lappets was knotty and dark; it reminded him of a woman’s most private place. It glistened, made a sucking sound as it lifted away. And now he could skin the animal. It took all his strength. Slowly, slowly, the skin lifted away in one piece, while his assistants grunted and pulled at the bones. It was the largest animal he had ever skinned and as he worked a bizarre thought came into his head: If only my father could see me now. Filthy, clothes streaked with blood and dirt and stinking of musk, wrestling with the pelt of this magnificent beast, far from the drawing rooms where its like ended up, for a pretty penny.
When its belly and legs had been stripped, with much care taken to preserve the contour of the feet, the men heaved the carcass over so they could draw the skin forward over its head. The head took delicate manipulation, and time slowed with his breath as he bent close to the beast with his knife, slitting the skin around the eyes and the conches of the ears, so close to the skull, working deliberately until at last the skin was free.
The most difficult job now completed, they stripped the bones and left the meat in the dust, then carried the skin away to be salted, dried and shipped home anointed in turpentine.
He knew the skin was not the tiger. It could never contain its true essence, the sensuality of each flickering muscle. But it was the closest Henry could get to possession of the animal, to a tactile reminder of their relationship, hunter and hunted, beast and master. With this skin, the tiger would be with him always.
The museum stands on the edge of the botanic gardens: a miniature Kew, with fountains and ponds, and well-fed ducks parading their perimeters. It is Gothic in its architecture, built of solemn grey stone. It is cool inside, cold even; his fingers feel stiff in Herz’s grasp when he is welcomed. As he gives the tour, the head of the museum explains to Henry that the whole collection has been built on the bones of the moa, the huge flightless bird that died out before any European could sight it. Henry is confused for a moment, thinks Herz is being literal and that beneath the museum lie bones and feathers, knitted together in the earth as foundations, but what he means is that one discovery in a swamp yielded enough bones of the extinct bird to enable the museum to trade for the rest of its collection.
He is impressed with this little museum. The moa in p
articular fascinates him: as he stands and looks at the skeleton towering over him, his fingers itch with the desire to find the bones for his own collection. Skeletons dominate the middle of the room, but glass cases around its perimeter house native birds such as he has never seen before: the molten green of the kea parrot; the unusual proportions of the kiwi, with its reed-thin beak useful for nudging out insects from holes in logs and its useless wings that sit on its sides like twigs. And yet its feet are solid, its egg impossibly large. Another bird, the size of a small cat and just as sleek, catches his eye: it is black, with white-tipped tail feathers and a beak that curves like a rainbow. The huia. Oh yes, he has much to find in this country, and he is eager to get started.
After he has left the museum, on a whim he takes a stroll through the gardens, where couples walk arm in arm and the fat ducks congregate around an old man sitting on a bench. For a moment he can imagine himself in Hyde Park, or Kensington Gardens, and he doffs his hat to a carriage full of unchaperoned ladies as they trot by. On the stream a punt slips past silently with a couple trailing hands in the chilly water. His mood is lighter today — he even feels kindly towards the bright spring flowers. He knows he will soon be leaving them and this English town behind him, so he takes a moment to appreciate the gaudy beauty of the tulips and daffodils.
Up ahead a cloud of cyclists stops before it reaches him and the riders dismount. As he approaches, the cloud separates into individuals; he guesses there are fifteen of them in total, all women. They stand now, gripping the handles of their bicycles with gloved hands, casually leaning their hips against them and talking among themselves. They are all dressed in a similar manner, with boaters and blouses or jackets with voluminous leg o’ mutton sleeves. Most wear heavy skirts, but a few are clad in loose trousers.
Let them, he thinks, for who would wear a skirt on a bicycle? Uncomfortable and probably a little breezy, too, dragging on the ground, or getting caught in the bicycle’s chain. It is not as though a bicycle can be ridden side-saddle. But he can see the looks on the faces of other men as they pass, from mild irritation on some, to downright shock on others. Henry isn’t sure whether it is the sight of women unaccompanied, or in trousers, or on bicycles that disturbs them the most.
Their tete-a-tete over, the women remount and set off in the direction of town. As they pass, Henry’s gaze alights on the face of the closest to him: Dora Collins.
Miss Collins! he calls, but when she turns her head to look at him her handlebars begin to wobble, and she neither smiles nor greets him before she turns back to concentrate on her journey.
He follows them, walking briskly along the dusky streets to keep them in his sights. When they disappear from view, he continues in the hope they will stop again. He finds himself in the large square in front of the cathedral, and spots his target — the women have parked their bicycles in a great heap on the ground and are unfurling a banner. He waits, hidden, until they have assembled themselves. Two women stretch the banner between them and hold it high: Women’s International Temperance Union. The rest have donned sashes and, with much twittering, are distributing handfuls of paper between themselves. They fall silent as one woman addresses them briefly. Her back is towards him so Henry cannot hear what she is saying, but the women stare intently at her, nodding furiously in agreement at her words. No doubt she is preaching the dangers of alcohol, urging them to empty their husbands’ liquor cabinets for the good of humanity. Henry has little patience with such women. It is not alcohol that is the problem, he thinks, it is the men who drink it.
He is about to turn away, disappointed in Miss Collins, when the women begin to approach the curious spectators who have gathered, thrusting pieces of paper into their hands. Henry waits to see what the reaction will be. Some of the men politely hand the tracts back; one makes a show of tearing his in two and walking away, the pieces drifting forlornly to the ground before the red-faced messenger picks them up. Still others stand and listen, nodding, but Henry suspects it is to humour the wives attached to their arms, who glance at their husbands as if for permission to react.
His curiosity gets the better of him, and he drifts towards the small crowd. He scans the faces until he sees Dora in conversation with an elderly woman who is shaking her head. Dora appears to be pleading with her, and as Henry approaches the old woman puts a hand up, shakes her head and turns away.
Miss Collins, he says. Dora looks up, then down, and takes a step back, looking cornered.
Do I make you uncomfortable? he asks.
She resigns herself to talking to him and stands her ground, looking up at him defiantly. An unruly blonde curl falls in her eyes and she blinks and brushes it away with a gloved hand.
Not at all, Mr Summers. How pleasant to see you again. Her voice betrays her lie.
May I ask what it is you are peddling? he asks her.
I am not peddling anything, sir. I am petitioning.
For? He holds out his hand and she reluctantly places the tract in it.
For women’s suffrage. For our right to vote.
Interesting. He glances down at the printed sheet and reads the heading: Ten Reasons Why the Women of New Zealand Should Vote. A few scratchy signatures decorate the paper she holds in the crook of her arm.
So you are not petitioning for temperance then? I misunderstood. I saw the banner.
Well, it is true that one has arisen from the other. Mrs Johnson believes that only when women have the right to vote will the government take steps to abolish the sale of liquor, which is harming families.
Then you don’t believe that women should vote per se? Just that liquor should be banned and this is the way to do it.
No, I do. She stumbles over her words and hesitates. That is … She falters again and stops. To be honest, I am not that interested in the temperance cause. It is the vote that is important to me.
Henry chuckles. It’s all right, Miss Collins, I am not here to interrogate you. I wish you well. It is a fine cause — I see no reason why women should not vote. Any man who says otherwise is a brute. Perhaps you will be successful and you can teach your English sisters a thing or two.
Are you mocking me? she asks. Because we are quite serious. Mrs Johnson is very well connected. In Parliament. She will be heard.
And who is this Mrs Johnson?
He turns in the direction she is indicating and sees a stout woman in her late thirties holding forth to three younger women.
Yes. I am staying with her at the moment. She and her husband have taken me because Father has had to go to the country unexpectedly.
But why did you not go with him, I wonder?
She sighs. I begged him not to make me. He agreed reluctantly, but only for a little while. I am to join him there at the end of the next week.
Miss Collins, forgive me, says Henry, but you seem to be very displeased to see me. I thought that we had become friends when we met yesterday, but I am very sorry if I have offended you somehow. You appear to have quite changed your attitude to me.
Mr Summers, may I be blunt?
But of course.
When I saw you on the stairs last night I smelled you before you appeared. The odour of brandy was overwhelming. You stumbled on the stairs, quite embarrassing yourself. And me. While I am not passionate about the temperance cause, that kind of behaviour is enough to make me change my mind.
And your father, leaving so unexpectedly …
Oh, you needn’t worry, she says. I did not mention it to him. He likes a drink himself. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.
She gives the tiniest of nods and turns her back on him.
Henry finds himself rooted to the spot. He forgets for a moment where he is, what his business is supposed to be. Then he smiles. An Englishwoman would never dare speak to a gentleman in such a way. He thinks he may be beginning to like this country after all.
When I think back to childhood holidays at Magpie Hall, the colours are saturated, like the Super-8 films that Gr
andpa was always shooting. I see myself from the outside, a skinny kid with a pageboy haircut and crooked front teeth, a scattering of freckles, grinning widely at the camera. Charlie follows me around like a toy on a string. In another memory — or perhaps it is a movie — we ride our ponies bareback into the river, looks of concentration on our faces. When I think of those days, they are always silent, with only the ticking of the projector as a soundtrack, and everything is slightly sped up: when we wave for the camera our hands are blurs.
Magpie Hall was a crowded place then, filled with children in swimsuits skidding across the lawn on plastic slides, and birthday parties with pointed hats and kazoos. Parents in shorts and jandals, holding big bottles of beer. Picnics and horse rides, cavorting dogs and bonfires. We often made family treks up to the limestone caves over the hill. We were warned about playing in them because of the danger of falling rocks, and we imagined they were filled with buried treasure. My grandfather was always there in those days, skirting the edges with his movie camera, recording, never being recorded. Perhaps he had looked at everything through that lens to stop himself experiencing it first hand, so his memories were always sugary and colour bloated, the lows and grey spots edited out. I know I would like to remember my life like that.