by Alan Duff
Weather permitting, he’d go out with a beer on the veranda, sit on the wooden steps and take in the view of Lake Rotorua and Mokoia Island in its centre, think of the history, Te Arawa tribal history, all them tattooed warriors first of all (the image of them comes to me first). A love tale, too, of Hinemoa swimming to her lover, Tutanekai, on Mokoia Island. The city’s two major streets bore their names, as did most of the streets remember the names of great Maori figures from the area’s past. (Not that I took any notice in the old days.) The Douglas brothers had educated Jake on the local history, so he had a story to go with each street.
Epic battles had taken place all around the lake, as each sub-tribe fought for dominance and yet became allies if attacked by another tribe. Jake thought he’d have been a warrior of some standing back then, but never a general, never a man who commanded others, no. For he was not a planner, a strategist, and you needed to be a lateral thinker to command men in numbers. Jake Heke was a straight-down-the-middle man. A foot soldier and no more. Spear fodder, hahaha. He’d been informed some years ago his surname meant war party, so he figured the tales of his family being descended from slaves must’ve come about from an ancestor leading a war party and allowing himself to be taken captive and reduced to slave status.
The sun fell on his face of an evening, and with the beer giving that familiar buzz of an old true friend, a man never failed to feel good. About himself. About the world. He had fifteen-thousand dollars in savings, a job that paid pretty well, and on the romance (sex) side he occasionally got to bring a woman friend home for a night; though no one promising love like he’d felt for Rita (or Beth). He had the best of friends in the Douglas family, countless hunting and trout-fishing stories, their love of rugby, funny incidents to recall in games they’d played. And he had his guitar (my guitar, my ole voice) to take him back in time to wherever he wanted. Which was not right back, not the time when he was Jake the Muss who believed he was the best bar brawler in all of New Zealand and therefore the world. So come back some more years this way, to Rita times and how she influenced him. Which’d get him nostalgic, but never sentimental — Rita’d hate that — and get him wondering if maybe they couldn’t make another go of it.
He’d had his fiftieth birthday last year, so now he saw life differently; there was talk future governments wouldn’t be able to afford to pay old-age pensions, so how would he live then? Decided he’d follow the idea he had when he saw Beth and would ask Gordon Trambert if he’d sell the cottage to him. A real-estate-agent friend said it would be worth about a hundred-eighty thousand, less fifteen-grand deposit, a mortgage for the rest — on his wages he could easily service the loan. His skills at driving heavy machinery brought him over a thousand dollars a week. Why not own my own house?
Which again brought the question: Who do I leave it to when I die?
Abe, Polly, Huata, and Boogie. (Two others dead. And it stills hits me hard thinking about it.) Huata is in Sydney, according to reports. Boogie’s in Wellington. Jake hadn’t seen Abe since he gave evidence against that gang leader lowlife, Apeman, who murdered that woman, Tania. Abe was living in the South Island Jake last heard. Gone from home and I never knew them, not any of my kids, that’s the shameful part: I didn’t know them.
As for daughter Polly, she’s still around, one of his workmates said she had bought a couple of houses down Pine Block way. When I don’t even own one.
Information on his children came to Jake the long way, and he could never be sure how true or accurate it was. It was strange having a son living in Sydney when Jake had never even been beyond Riverstone, a hundred kilometres away, let alone to the cities his sons lived in. (Not how life was fated for Jake Heke. But I did grow up. I did learn to feel sorry, deeply deeply sick at myself, at what I had done. So least that’s a journey, a fulfilment of sorts in itself.) Made him feel quite the unadventurous man. In fact, a bit of a loser, truth be known. (I been nowhere and done hardly nothing with my life.)
And then there was Beth.
It was an inevitability that took ten years to happen, running into Beth on the street. She was coming out of a shop and turned and was right there in his face. Beth, and yet couldn’t be more different to the Beth a man had known, all those miserable years for her ago. The only other time was passing each other at the cemetery, me finished visiting our kids’ graves, she on her way. Had nothing to say to each other. I wanted to. For our dead children’s sakes. But words wouldn’t come for the shame. I scurried off like a reject.
She looked dazzling. Blew me away. Didn’t realise it at first, but chemistry was going both ways. It was like the years when we first went together.
How you been?
Good, I said. No need to ask how you’ve been. You look great, I found myself saying. I ran into Charlie, out hunting.
Yes, he mentioned he did. By the way, did you guys have a hunting permit?
Did my backward Ali-shuffle of old, with a big grin. Permit? Didn’t know we needed a permit to hunt on Maori land. Took her smiling time in responding, too.
Yeah, sure, Jake. Another lingering (or is that appraising?) look. You being a hunter is hard to believe. (Looking at me in that way I know so well when she wanted love.)
Your man looks like he could do with some hunting to fitten him up.
Beth’s eyes went defensive. His mind is super fit. So is his heart, his integrity. She looked at Jake and waited for a compromise on the subject of her husband. But he didn’t feel anything welling up from his heart, so he said nothing.
She shrugged and said, But you’re right, he could do with some physical exercise. You living with someone these days?
No.
She smiled again, her teasing, knowing smile. Waste of all that explosive energy, eh, Jake?
He said, Yeah, guess it is. Just never met the right woman. Or maybe they didn’t like what they saw.
You look different. (Does that mean good?) On the face of it, I’d even say you look a changed man.
The way she said it, a man wanted to break down in tears, say sorry for everything, but that wouldn’t change it, would it? He said, Yes. One word, yet it meant everything.
Oh, well, she said. (Oh, well.) But she didn’t move and nor did (could) he.
He said, You wouldn’t guess who’s become my good friend.
Oh? Who would that possibly be? She searched her mind, their shared past for an unlikely name, shook her head. I can’t think. Who?
Gordon Trambert. He —
I know who he is. Her face grew a mask on the spot. He understood why. You and him … are mates?
Yep. I rent his farm cottage. Thought I might buy it.
Whoa, Jake. This is quite a lot to take in. You and Trambert are mates, you might buy the cottage you rent from him. She broke out in the broadest smile. Been some water under your bridge too, huh?
Yes, he nodded, guess there has been.
Well, I’ll be. Does he ever talk about finding Grace, how —
No. Because I haven’t asked him. (Not going to, neither.)
The moment seemed to have passed, and now it was time to go their separate ways. Then Jake got an idea. I need to talk to you, Beth. About a will. He felt awkward, as if he had another motive (and I do). I mean, if I own a house, then someone’s got to have it. If you want to meet up somewhere, have coffee.
She laughed. Isn’t it funny, Jake, you of all people offering to meet over a coffee? What do you drink?
Long black, he returned the grin. You?
Flat white. And they both stood there in the main street chuckling at her saying how they were all caught up in the changes of a country now become a café society.
What about your alcohol intake? Her question a little loaded this time.
I drink. Beer. Just don’t get wasted anymore, except once in a while.
And then what are you like? This question asked so softly.
Then I go to sleep.
You don’t … ?
No, I don’t do that
. Not to anyone. (It’s finished.)
I’m real glad to hear that, Jake. Not even once in the last few years you’ve raised your fists to anyone?
Not even once, Beth. (Bethy. What I used to call you in our better moments.)
Okay, let’s swap phone numbers and get together to discuss this — she paused — this will of yours. Said with faintly disbelieving smile.
Well, that was some weeks ago and he hadn’t found the courage to call her, and as she hadn’t rung him, maybe he read that face wrong. And maybe it was not meant to be. So forget it and her, Jake, if you want to get nostalgic, do it in song.
So he sang a real old number, by the Ink Spots, in that warbling, tremulous voice that suits a Maori, but he didn’t reach the level an American Negro’s voice does. (Because we didn’t suffer like you Negroes did. Me, I only got told I was a slave. You guys were slaves. And maybe all the best things come out of suffering. Of self or group or sect or an entire race of people. I mean really suffering, not this self-indulgent stuff.) He lost himself in the song, enjoying playing the minor chords, when out of the trees on his right, where the dirt road reaches the crest and swings this way came a vehicle.
He kept strumming, singing, until he saw who stepped out of the car. Beth.
A sexual thrill passed through Jake, like a woman’s breath whispering a promise, or just soft words. Bethy’s home. The words formed in his head in the instant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MATERNITY, NOT MATERNAL
THE WOMAN IN the white uniform looking down at her seemed like an angel. It’s a girl, she told Sharneeta. I haven’t heard you mention a name you like.
Sharns shook her head, no, she hadn’t mentioned what name she’d give the creature forced out of her womb, put her through that unbelievable pain, stretched scars for ever on a woman’s stomach that scratching and pulling the skin every which way won’t deny, like car dents and silver fish laying all over her belly. So it was a girl. Whoopeedee.
No name for my child. The nurse had a name, it was Sue. Sue Clifford. How could she be so beautiful and not be in the movies, on television, a model? Features carved out of beautifully toned marble, sea-blue eyes, teeth you could skate on.
No, Sharneeta said to the empty bed next to hers. I haven’t thought of a name (can’t even look at her, don’t even wanna look at the li’l bitch).
Except Sue was handing her the thing and it was warm and so light, but then again heavier than a fat li’l rock, don’t want to hold and hug no rock, felt like it had been sitting out in the sun for a while, baking. Oh might drop it, a girlwoman’s hands’d suddenly started trembling — I can’t hold it. (Can’t, can’t. Don’t want it, don’t want it, take the thing away from me, I hate it —)
There, there, let me take her, you’re tired. (Yeah, tired all right, Sue. How’d you like to have a baby from being raped? I was all broke up inside before this, so unhappy. Ain’t life had enough claiming on me? Don’t I get a break?)
You had a difficult birth, you really did. (Did I? No, it isn’t that. If it was I’d be laying here singing with joy and hugging this li’l thing near t’ death. It wasn’t the difficult birth. It’s a life I had no part in creating.)
And yet why did she taste joy, from time to time? Why, when the darkness eased did she feel glad to exist. I can laugh. I appreciate humour. I can be funny, occasionally. Now and then.
Ohhh, there, there li’l Sharney, Nurse Sue’s here, Mummy’s just plain worn out from having you. (From that horrible act to this: a slime-covered piece of meat and soft bone, feels like plastic, no, like wax; this final emergence of weight, not a living existence, the monumental relief when finally it got out, towelled off by the nurse in her sparkling-white, starched uniform with its blue trim and badges, presented no doubt by a stout matron pretending to be strict when she was really proud of another angel making it through the tests.
God, I feel so miserable.
She threw another very reluctant glance at the baby — not its face, just its shape, its brand-new existence (into a cruel world, honey baby, I’m so sorry. A world missing understanding of certain key elements) — and it meant worse than nothing.
How about — no, I shouldn’t, Nurse Sue checked herself. Not my child, what right have I got to suggest a name?
Can if you want. (Save me the trouble. Ya gotta love something to wanna name it. Love it for itself, not a name for other people’s sake, to impress or please them. For itself.)
No. I wouldn’t think of it. Or I shouldn’t have thought of it. Just that she’s so … (So what? Tell me, give me a clue. Be the finger that points me and baby the right way.) Well, I get the name Rachel in my head looking at her. She’s so beautiful. Like you, Sharneeta. (Like me? You got to be kidding. You should know, sweet shining beauty yourself, that it starts from the inside. It ain’t just features, it’s the energy generated from the inside.)
You like Rachel as a name? No. Sorry. Forget I spoke. There I go again.
(Funny how they talk, posher, gentler white folk.) Rachel? Rachel sounds nice. (The name sounds okay. Can’t grab the idea she’s an actual human. Feels so distant.)
Oh no, please, I’d never live with myself to think I had named your beautiful baby. Sharneeta, please try and forget I ever mentioned a name. Please?
(Why’s she begging like that? Why’s she so upset at suggesting such a nice name? Ain’t that big a deal.) Finding a smile from somewhere, even with a little laugh. Rachel she is.
No. No. Please. I feel such a fool now. I have no right. Please forgive me.
No forgiving to do, nurse. (What’s wrong with you?) I like Rachel (as a name) as a name.
Well, as long as you’re happy with it … Are you really? Honestly and truly?
(Honestly and truly? Haven’t heard someone talk like that in years.) Honestly and truly, nurse. Though Sharneeta can’t call her Sue, friendly though the person is: she’s too perfect a creation (too up there, far beyond my reach).
Before she could ask of the father’s whereabouts, Sharneeta told Nurse Sue, Don’t be asking of the father. There ain’t one, if you get my meaning.
Sue looked sad, then dismissed it. We get quite a few — too many in fact — mothers here without the child’s father around. I hate it, but it’s a plain fact we have to deal with. You’ve got a visitor, though.
For just one preposterous moment Sharns believed it was the father, here to claim his child, his parental responsibility and to say sorry a thousand times thick to her. (Then we could work out together, brown to brown, how if we can’t quite figure this life for ourselves, how we will make sure our child does. Then it’ll be worthwhile. Then we can look back and say we did our daughter proud and ourselves whilst we were at it. Like drowning but making sure your (our) child lives.)
But it was only Alistair. Without Kayla. (Only Alistair.) Wondering what’s different about him. (I know: he’s clean. Shaved, shiny hair, a sparkle in his eyes. Didn’t realise he was quite so handsome.)
Hi, Al.
Hi, Sharns. You had it. The baby he means.
Yeah.
You okay?
I guess so. It’s a girl.
Can I hold her?
If you want — you sure? You don’t have to.
I’d like to. Just how do I hold it?
Here, let me show you. I’m Sue Clifford, by the way.
Hi, I’m Alistair Trambert.
Nurse Sue looked at Alistair for a familiar moment, I’ve met your father I think. Small world. Small world. (Confusing world, dark world.) This is — she looked at Sharns who managed a smile, a nod. This is beautiful Rachel. And this is how you hold little Rachel.
The way Alistair smiled down at the bandaged tiny bundle you’d think it was his (or himself, holding, cradling, nestling himself). But the mother couldn’t get herself to behold the new-born creation yet. Not yet (maybe never).
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A MATERIAL WORLD
SIMON AND HIS table of friends were laugh
ing, the more as the champers went down. Bolli, Moët, and Andrew Holdsworth was threatening to order Dom. Whatever all of it was to Polly’s uneducated ears; she was just enjoying the company, as she and Simon were celebrating a theoretical profit: equity in their thirty-two rental houses, of debt against valuation figures of around $750,000. The night was on Integrated Properties Ltd, which was why Andrew was making his laughing threats to buy the very best champagne on the restaurant’s wine list. And everyone thinking the company name was witty.
They didn’t actually state the figure of theoretical profit, as that was never done in Simon’s circles, a social rule that Polly found disappointing since she wanted to shout it to the world that they were getting rich. Rich! And being that made one feel ten-metres tall and, yes, bullet-proof. Which was why she delighted to hear both the men and women get onto the subject of expensive cars and expensive toys in general.
She saw how animated they became talking about the brands: Porsche, Range Rover, Lexus, and how about a Ferrari.
No, not in Two Lakes, you show-off, one teased another. The peasants will only scratch the paintwork with twenty-cent coins.
You mean ten-cent coins, twenty might be a bit beyond them, said another. Instead of aspiring to own one, they aspire to coining the paint-work.
Though they did send asking eyes at Polly, seeing as how they meant — assumed — the vandals to be Maori, but of course could not say. (And I’m not giving you permission, either, folks, much as I love you. Much as I know you’re right.)
One of their number owned and flew his own helicopter. A Bell Jetranger. Which put him at the top of the pile, though he didn’t have to mention a word of it, not its price tag at any rate, nor its high running costs, let alone the capital cost. James flew his friends to out-of-town golf courses, to parties with an overnight stay in a luxurious lodge, so he could get drunk, too. Huka Lodge, if they were in Taupo. Twelve hundred a night, plus drink.