Dogside Story

by Patricia Grace

  Boat sounds fluctuated, now and again becoming lost as the vessel made its way past the outer reefs, round the bearded island and towards them. Voices, whispers travelled across water, a small light went on and the motor was cut to its lowest.

  They could see a man lying along the prow of the boat, looking down into the water, sweeping the light from side to side as it came trundling in over low humpy waves.

  In the neck of the cove they saw the light turn to pick up the outline of the two buoys, then settle ahead again as the boat made its way through. A second man in the boat switched the motor off, tilting it up out of the way of the rock and weed of the now shallow lagoon. They watched as the boat drifted towards the two buoys and the man with the light reached out, hooking the near one with a gaff.

  Jackson, from where they all were on the ledge, switched on the torch and shone it down. ‘Happy New Year, Cousins.’

  In torchlight they saw one man roll off the prow into the water while the other scrambled towards the front of the boat.

  ‘Swim,’ Jackson called, and as the man still in the boat, reached for the ignition switch the gun went off, the shot shattering the water’s surface like chased herrings, and the second man went overboard, the two clinging to the far side of the boat with their heads hidden from view.

  ‘Swim,’ Joeboy called sending another shot echoing round the cove, dislodging rubble from the bank opposite.

  There was splashing, and the big sound of Jackson laughing as the two men scrambled for shore. ‘Stop when you get to Sydney,’ Jackson called.

  ‘Seedney, ha ha,’ Joeboy called.

  They watched the men, two shadows, leave the water, untangling themselves from weed, pulling themselves out over the rocks, up the side to the hole and disappearing into the water that was now spilling out through the gap.

  Gone.

  Running by now over rocks, along sand by dying bonfires and a few last explosions.

  Joeboy was up again, aiming.

  ‘Ahh, ahh Cuz,’ Dion was saying, ‘it’s a pretty good boat. Won’t be so good full of holes.’ Joeboy lowered the gun.

  ‘Serve themselfs right,’ Kid said.

  ‘Come on Cuz,’ he said helping Jase up. ‘Going up the old house,’ he said to Jackson, ‘taking Kid and Jase.’

  ‘We do it then, me and Joe,’ Jackson said. ‘Take the boat, empty the last two and take her up the inlet.’

  ‘Wait round ’til daylight then take her in,’ he said. ‘Give them the gear to take home. And take Bones.’

  ‘Uncle Arch’ll come and pick you up,’ Moana said. ‘We’ll tell him.’ She was on the home track with Eva, Dion and Reggae. ‘Get yourselves back in time to do the hangi fire, ha, put the hangi down,’ she called. ‘Happy New Year.’

  It was as though several days had passed since he’d left the hangi tent to go get them a couple of congers. He took Kid’s hand leading her through the trees, along the narrow track to the house. Jase, close behind, was beginning to stagger, needing rest and food. There was music still coming from over the hill, people waiting for the rise of big-dollar, dining-room sun, but it was too cloudy for a sunrise.

  The old place smelled of dried insects and mice, old boards that had been damp during winter and were now scorched and heated, and there was a whiff of old fruit and wood stacks, soot and ashes. It was as though the old house was full, like a pod ready to bust open scattering old brooms and cooking pots, books, rags and blankets, breaking mattress, old blood, old bones, dried juices.

  He lit a candle and found a towel for Kid to dry herself with and an old shirt of his for her to wear, then went out to where Jase was sitting with his back against a tree making noises like, Ah, ah, mmm. It ah, ha ha.

  ‘Talking crap Cuz,’ he said as he went about gathering dry wood, starting the fire and putting water on to boil. ‘Load a shit. Worse than Pop Henry, you.’ Jase’s black eyes had gone creepy and his black face was the colour of an eel underbelly, ‘Lucy Lula, you love that silver belly tuna, an old Archie song, ay Cuz?’ He put teabags in the pot as the water came to the boil and went inside for tinned milk. ‘Going to town on the uke, ay Cuz, Uncle Archie?’ he said as he returned. ‘Lucy Lula, make a hula, no sleeping, no sleeping.’ He scooped a cup of tea from the pot, let the milk drip into it and put it into Jase’s hands. ‘… And in the morning, you will be my lady. Come on, come on …’ He watched as his cousin drank the tea then took the cup from him and refilled it. ‘Hiki dula, he the fella. Come on, come on Man. Lucy Lula …’

  ‘You love that silver belly tuna,’ Jase sang.

  ‘That’s it, Cuz, that’s it. You got it … Well you know, you know, that was a go ay? Horomona and Brad?’

  ‘Boom,’ Jase said.

  ‘New Year with a bang, Bro.’

  He went back to the house, where Kid had gone to sleep on the busting mattress, the busted bed, and returned with dry shorts and tees for Jase and himself, pleased to see his cousin on his feet, then pleased to remove the limb, the gritty stump sock, the steamy clothes.

  By the time he went back inside Jase was already in there asleep, stretched out in front of the fireplace. He shook old mason bee nests and spider legs from two old bed covers, spread one over Jase, then lay down beside Kid pulling the second cover up over them.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was something for the rafters, truly, even though it was some time before the rafters picked up on all of it.

  There was what took place before dawn on the first day of the new year, the new decade, the new century, the new millennium, and then what took place soon afterwards—soon after the sun didn’t rise to the big photo opportunity, instead hiding itself giggly and wobbly and beside itself, behind its cloud screen as the earth turned.

  It was some months before it all sorted and settled up there in the beams, after arriving only in instalments at different times, in differing versions, all out of sync and chronology. Not that it mattered how it came, or when, or in what condition. Every scrap and tatter contributed and became part of a mass that sprouted whole in the end. (But what does ‘end’ mean where there is forever the potential to add or embellish and when rafters are such inclusionists?)

  It was past midnight when Wai and the team completed the cutting up of meat and the preparation of vegetables for the hangi. They cleaned up, stored the meat in the fridge truck and finished off the drink ration which had lasted longer than it should have because in the end there were fewer of them than expected. They’d lost half their work force and therefore half their drinkers.

  ‘Disappeared outside,’ Arch said. ‘Jase come talking secret to his cousins. Nex’thing they disappear outside—for a smoke or what? Nex’thing, huh, gone.’

  ‘Off and said nothing. Half our workers.’

  ‘Buggers, they better be on deck in the morning.’

  ‘Blast their earholes in the morning,’ Wai said.

  It was as they were finishing off the last of the drinks that they heard the shots, which they later thought they shouldn’t have mistaken for the sound of fire crackers, but it had been a long eve.

  They left the preparation tent to go home for a few hours sleep before it was time to light the hangi fire, stopping first at the beach to round up children who were still out playing in the dark. There was a crowd still on the beach, the music was blaring out and the bonfires were diminishing now that even the children were retiring from the work of keeping them going. Some families were returning to their camps to have a few hours’ sleep before getting up to see the dawn, and they hoped, the first sunrise. Others were intent on seeing the whole night through.

  ‘Two men come running out the sea,’ the kids said as they were called out of the dark to go home.

  ‘Hard out, them. Running hard out.’

  ‘Wetsuits, them.’

  ‘Down the beach.’

  ‘Running, running, hard out.’

  ‘Down the beach, down the road.’

  The adults didn’t take much interest i
n what the kids were trying to tell them, about what? About campers playing silly buggers in the dark? Or what? The work and the last bit of wine had slugged them.

  Babs and Amiria had not been present at the hangi preparations in the tent. They had their own work to do for the next day, as they had had during the previous nights as well. Their Hot Bread Shop had been a great success—cleared out by lunchtime every day, which sent them home with great smiles on their faces to make more loaves of bread, more and more sponge cakes which they decorated and sold whole, banana and carrot cakes which they sold by the slice, afghans, shortbread, peanut brownies, coconut clusters, yoyos, and chocolate slice which went six to a tray. And now they were doing jars of plum jam as well.

  But not only were the loaves and goods a success, The Two themselves were a success as well. Among the campers were regular customers, some of whom made straight for the tent when it opened each morning in order to be first to make their morning tea selections. Some would buy what they wanted and go. Others would stay on, chatting to The Two, whom they found to be charming and interesting and who could tell them a bit of the history of the place, and who were willing to show them round.

  Amiria and Babs were happy to do this, more than happy, and had time to do it because once the goods were set up on the table, displayed to their liking on the polystyrene trays covered with gladwrap, prices showing on coloured stickers, they could leave the selling in the hands of Moana and Reggae.

  The sisters were photographed many times linking arms in front of the wharenui or other scenic places, with people from all over the country, all over the world. Among these new friends were two in particular, Americans Francis and Molly from Maryland who loved the home cooking and loved The Two. They were intent on photographing every single thing, getting the very best shots of every single thing to take home with them.

  For New Year’s Day Amiria and Babs were preparing something special to go alongside the usual array of cakes and loaves. It was to be two triple-decker chocolate cakes which they would decorate with chocolate icing, cream, and chocolate-dipped strawberries. So the cooking on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve had taken them through to almost midnight. At that point they decided to leave the finishing touches to be done the next morning so they could join their new friends down on the beach to welcome in the new millennium.

  They arrived down on the beach where the radios had been turned up high for the countdown, the bonfires had been boosted and the rockets were lined up ready to be fired. There was a dampness in the air that wasn’t quite rain and was not enough to affect the fires or the fireworks or the spirits of the people. As midnight broke out of its egg Babs and Amiria, cold sober, but quickly able to get into the spirit of it all, walked down into shouting and tears, hugs and wishes, and especially into the arms of Francis and Molly who wanted to hug every New Zealander in the world.

  ‘We made it, we made it, waddaya know?’ Francis said, taking Amiria and Babs into his arms and breaking into tears.

  When, not long afterwards, two men popped out of the tide and sprinted through the crowd, past the fires, spraying drops of water and kicking up sand, it was like all part of the happening.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’

  ‘Hey, hey, you guys.’

  ‘Hey Happy New Year.’

  ‘What? First Iron Man of the millennium or what?’

  ‘Ha, ha, where’s y’ bikes?’ Some of the children followed for a short distance, running after the two men in the dark.

  In a glimpse by firelight Babs and Amiria thought there was something familiar about the two runners but were enjoying themselves too much to put thought to it. They didn’t get to recalling their view of this, this scrap for the rafters, until many months later.

  Apart from the music, the beach became quieter as some families returned to their camps to have a couple of hours’ sleep before getting up to see the first dawn and, they were still hoping, the first sunrise.

  The fireworks were done and the fires were going out, but it was while they were sitting by the last of the fires, with the last of the drinks, that Francis had the idea of going up on the hills to photograph the new millennium sun as it popped up out of the sea. It’d be such a great shot, and it’d be seconds ahead of any taken down on the beach, he thought. He was enthusiastic about it, so he stood, brushed himself down and asked Babs and Amiria to point the way. Molly stood reluctantly beside him.

  ‘Why bother?’ someone asked. ‘You might lose yourselves.’

  ‘And won’t be any sun showing its face this morning, it’s raining for God’s sake.’

  ‘If the sun don’t happen the dawn’ll sure happen,’ Francis said.

  ‘There’s a track up,’ Babs said, who didn’t like the way these drunk Kiwis were discouraging their overseas visitors.

  ‘We’ll take you,’ Amiria said, ‘You need good torches and good shoes.’

  Well, there were still a few hours to wait and some of the people were starting to feel a little slumped, wishing they hadn’t promised the kids they could stay up all night. Kids were racing about being a pain and throwing sand up all over the place. A hill climb would fill in time, might be just what they all needed.

  ‘OK, why don’t we join you?’ someone said.

  ‘How long, how far?’

  ‘Half an hour,’ Babs and Amiria said. Both knew it would take longer, especially in the dark, but didn’t want anyone to be put off. They were dead keen on living up to this super-hostess image they’d acquired recently.

  All these details were beamed up eventually.

  The last thing Babs and Amiria wanted to happen in front of these national and international visitors on their way along the tracks on this night time guided tour, was to meet with a bunch of young relatives, wet and barefoot, rowdy in the trees, coming into torchlight bearing weapons. There was no chance, out on the track, which was lit up like a street by all these flash torches the campers had, and with kids barging in and out around trees with their glow-sticks, that Amiria and Babs could pass by unrecognised. Nor could they pretend not to know the four coming toward them, all hyped up, calling, ‘Happy New Year Aunty Babs, Happy New Year Aunty Miria,’ hugging wet all over them. Bloody kids, hugging and kissing everyone else as well.

  ‘These two lovely ladies are taking up us to view the sunrise,’ Francis informed them. ‘And what have you all been up to? How did you all see in the New Year?’

  ‘Ancient water ceremony,’ Dion said.

  ‘We should move on,’ Amiria said. ‘Otherwise …’

  ‘Sorry we missed it,’ Francis said. ‘Maybe …’ he was unclipping his camera. But they were gone and the group was moving forward, ‘Maybe we could hear more about this special ceremony sometime. Maybe our ladies here …’

  ‘Looked like a pretty dangerous ceremony to me, weapons and whatnot,’ someone said.

  ‘Ah, they’re pulling your leg.’

  ‘Here’s where we start our climb,’ Amiria was thankful to be able to interrupt. Those nieces and nephews of theirs had themselves a plantation she wouldn’t mind betting. In cahoots with that Jackson and that Joeboy growing dope, that’s what. Now if they walked into something like that … plants … well … how would they explain that to their friends? ‘It’s not too far,’ she said, ‘and just gets a little steep near the top.’

  Being up high made them laugh, though this is no mountain we’re talking about. It was a rise that sloped quietly upward to one side of Rua’s breaking-down house. It was the way Rua would take if he was to go round and out to the ledges of the cove rather than down onto the grassy shore banks. It was the way to the plank, the way Ani Wainoa had gone with her bundle. It was a hump in the foreground of the much greater heights that stood in layers beyond it.

  The rain had begun to fall more heavily since they left the beach but they hadn’t noticed while they were under the shelter of trees. Now it made them feel foolish, made them laugh. They could’ve been down on the beach larking, back under
canvas snoring, home making coffee in their campervans. Instead they were perched on a slippery slope in the rain and in the dark, a more dark dark than they had ever seen, with their torches and cameras and two lovely ladies, waiting for a good old Y2K sunrise that wasn’t going to happen. However it was a warm night and after a while the rain stopped. Eventually the birds piped up and the sky lightened in its sneaky way.

  And it was so great, you know. The whole world was so …

  A little later, though the sun didn’t actually show its face they were able to tell where it was, see the tinge that it made on the clouds for some seconds, way out there over the water. You could cry.

  ‘And you can say,’ parents said to their kids, ‘you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you saw the dawn of the year 2000, and that you were one of the first in the whole world to see it.’

  ‘Is that it?’ kids said.

  ‘Big deal.’

  ‘Spare it.’

  Though Tamsin was really pleased.

  In full daylight and with the sky clearing they made their way down the slope through the trees to where the house was, to the beginning of the track leading out.

  ‘What have we?’ someone asked.

  ‘One of the old places,’ Amiria said.

  ‘It’s done for,’ Babs said. The Sisters were wanting to hurry everyone along now, thinking of the work they still had to do when they got home. They needed sleep, needed a shower, clean clothes, make-up and hair fixing. God knows what they looked like in all this daylight.

  Some were of the same mind about getting back as quickly as possible to showers and sleep. Others needed to straggle and to go poking about and looking in windows. Tamsin followed her Mum and Dad and put her nose over the windowsill of the old house and looked in. What she saw was two bumps under an old sheet, two heads, mainly hair—straight and black, spread in strands at the top end of a split mattress.

  She came away from there, running and yelling after Max, Leanna and her brother, ‘Lovers, lovers,’ she squealed at them down the path.