by Bowes, K T
It wasn’t appropriate to invite a student alone with her inside the unit, but tongues would wag harder if they sat on the steps. Hana hesitated, seeing beads of sweat break out on the teenager’s forehead and noticing how he looked around him as if anxious. She opened the front door and indicated the lounge. “In you go, James. Take a seat.”
“I don’t need more seat,” James said, kicking his shoes off and eyeing the sofas. “Big seats. No room in my small dorm.”
“Would you like a drink though?” Hana offered. “Tea, coffee, water?”
James shook his head. “No, miss. Thank you.” He bowed and sat down at Hana’s invitation. She reached for her cell phone. “I need to tell Logan you’re here with me,” she said.
“No! No!” shrieked James, throwing Hana into a panic. She put her finger up to her lips.
“You’ll wake the baby!” she hissed, flapping her arms. “I just put her in the pram.”
“Sorry, miss, so sorry,” he groaned, agony drifting over his silky complexion.
“James, what on earth is wrong?” she asked him, concerned.
“Yes, miss,” he said, his face lighting up, “the earth is wrong. The man in the earth is wrong.”
Hana struggled to control her exasperation at his misunderstanding of her phrase. Then his words struck her. “The man in the earth? James, do you mean the man buried at St Bart’s?”
James nodded emphatically, his head moving rapidly up and down, up and down. His eyes looked full of hope and Hana’s heart sank. Instinctively she understood he knew something, it was eating him up and he expected her to sort it out. “You help me, miss,” he declared, confirming her worst fears. “You help me all my four years, seven months and twelve days like best good lady. You help me now.”
“Tell me what you know,” Hana said, resigned to becoming more embroiled than she wanted.
“Man in earth work here,” James gushed. “Nasty man who shout all time at boy for no reason. He shout me for no reason. I very upset. Mother send model plane for me for celebration. I play out in paddock. Man in earth always shout.” James employed hand actions to help his explanation, knocking the TV remote off the arm of the sofa during his demonstration of his model aeroplane flying. “I sorry,” he said, retrieving it.
“You mean, Mr Collins?” Hana clarified and James’ head nodded again like a toy doll.
“So, he shout and I take plane to back of St Bart’s out of way. It go too far and I lose. I very very upset.” James beat his breast dramatically to emphasise the extent of his upset. “Mother not afford plane. Very expensive. I go into bushes down...down...in back of St Bart’s.”
“Gully?” Hana tried to help him out. He nodded happily.
“Yes, I went gully. I look for plane but I walk far from St Bart’s down to water where not allow to go.” James looked at Hana, his eyes begging. “You not tell Mr Du Rose I disobey and go to water, no?”
Hana cringed. “I’ll try not to, James,” she promised. “I’ll only tell him if I can’t sort your problem out another way.”
James nodded, satisfied and trusting. His face brightened. “There is plane, sitting in leaf. Yes, leaf. Plane stuck. Lot of leaf cover up. Wire hurt hand with electric charge, very sore.” James clapped his hands, making Hana jump as he demonstrated something grabbing his fingers. “Trap on floor and plane stuck.”
“Traps?” Hana interrupted. “In the gully? James, there can’t be. Do you think someone’s trapping possums?”
James shrugged and clapped again, causing Hana to glance at the pram. “I hear man come, man in earth. I hide and him step through leaf and find plane. He take plane. He water plant and take off leaf, many leaf. Then come out. He has plane in hand. I want plane back. Mother pay for plane. For me. I follow him. I go to shed and say, ‘Give me plane, please? I lose.’ He say ‘No, throw in trash!’ I very angry. Want plane back. I leave and find Mr North. I ask him to get plane and he say ‘Yes,’ but still no plane. Mother ask in letter, do I enjoy plane? I need plane. You help me get back? Please, Miss, get me plane?”
Hana sat for a moment, digesting the student’s strange tale. She looked at James’s hopeful face and felt caught. “Which shed, James? The big one with the mowers and equipment in? Or the one by the swimming pool? When the baby wakes I’ll walk come over with you and see...”
James shook his head vehemently. “No. Shed, shed.”
“Is it open now?” Hana asked. “If you give me a couple of hours, I’ll see if one of the other grounds staff will open it for me.”
The boy’s face dropped. “No, only man in earth have key. Other mens not get for me. No key.”
Hana’s eyes narrowed in confusion. Someone would have a master key to all the equipment sheds, otherwise none of the mowing or maintenance would have occurred in the last week. The realisation came with a flush to Hana’s cheeks as she remembered the other shed and the tennis player’s soft kiss outside it. “Do you mean the shed near the tennis courts?” she asked, feeling a sickness pervade her stomach as James nodded with eagerness.
“Yes, yes! You get me plane, miss?”
“Please James, can you give me a few days to sort this out for you? I’ll see what I can do; I might have a plan. I don’t have a key but I might know a man who has.” The question was when could she sneak out and meet him?
James left and Hana cleaned up after her cooking frenzy, spooning the baby food into ice cube trays and freezing them. She picked up her knitting and watched pointless daytime television without seeing it as her brain replayed the conversation with James. She wondered if he’d exaggerated and the leaves he spoke of were innocent. Her gut told her they weren’t. The cops must have searched the gully for clues so she figured she was reading too much into it.
Tama rocked up half way through the afternoon. He didn’t look well.
“You forgot the shopping, didn’t you?” Hana asked, staring at him. Tama grunted and kept his body slouched. “Did you wreck the car?” Hana stood as Tama shook his head, his grey eyes channelling anger and pain.
“No! Check if you want; it’s fine.” He dangled the keys in front of her.
Hana was suspicious, standing and putting her arms around Tama’s stomach. “Haven’t you got a cuddle for Aunty Hana?” she asked facetiously.
“No, ma!” He shied away and she knew then something was wrong.
“Tama!” she exclaimed. “You think I’ve learned nothing from months of watching Logan trying to hide injuries and ailments? Don’t take me for a fool!”
“Leave me alone,” Tama protested and backed away.
“Tell me!” Hana ordered, but he shook his head, high-tailing it to the bathroom and locking himself in. “Tama Du Rose, open this door right now!” Hana hissed through the wood, trying not to wake Phoenix. The teenager hid inside, refusing to come out or communicate and Hana was forced to admit defeat.
After school, Logan ducked a heads of department meeting. “I’m knackered, Angus,” he complained to the principal. “You promised the night duties would ease but they haven’t.”
“I know,” the Scotsman admitted. “The new guy doesn’t arrive back in New Zealand until November.”
Logan shook his head. “Hana hates it here, Angus. You knew this was only temporary at the start of the year. Pete and I spent the whole night dealing with two puking kids and now you expect me to sit in a bloody meeting with droning old men after a day’s teaching?”
Angus bridled at Logan’s description of his departmental meetings and then relented. “Fair enough, Mr Du Rose. You’re excused for tonight.”
“Just as well,” Logan jibed. “Because I’m going anyway.”
Angus’ red hair moved in the breeze and he couldn’t resist the urge to rein in his wilful employee. “Mr Du Rose!” he called, enjoying the satisfaction of Logan’s pause and slow turn to face him. “Wives don’t sit on their husband’s knees in my staffroom. It’s not appropriate.”
An evil look crossed Logan’s face. “No, you�
�re right. It should have been the typist sitting on a student, shouldn’t it? Or what about a Year 13 dean sitting on a sports teacher?”
“All right, Mr Du Rose.” Exasperated and needing the final word, Angus turned and whisked away on quick footsteps.
Logan smirked and strode home. He walked into a disaster zone, finding his disgruntled wife hopping around in the lounge. “I’m desperate for the toilet and Tama’s in there. He won’t come out,” Hana wailed. “I can’t keep hammering on the door because the baby’s asleep.”
Logan peeked into the pram, meeting his daughter’s grey eyed smile. “Not anymore,” he said. He walked down the hallway with long strides, producing a ten cent coin from his trouser pocket. He used it to turn the bolt on the other side of the mechanism and gained entry to the bathroom in seconds. He shut the door behind him and Hana hopped around outside, keeping her legs crossed.
“Nope, you’ve had long enough,” she grumbled after a few minutes, barging in to discover Logan inspecting something under Tama’s shirt. She shoved them both out of the way and undid her jeans, jiggling on the spot in desperation. “I’m stripping off,” she announced.
“Hana!” Logan exclaimed, shoving his hand over Tama’s eyes and giving her an admonishing glance. He ushered his nephew from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Sorry, but I was desperate,” Hana said, back in the lounge. “I kept saying I was. What’s happening?”
Logan jerked his head towards Tama, a smirk on his face. “Go on, idiot. Tell her what you did.”
Wincing in pain, the teenager gently removed his tee shirt, displaying a livid, angry mark on his side. The tattoo covered the area from under his left armpit ending somewhere inside his jeans. The wording was Māori and looked familiar. Hana moved closer for a better look and saw Tama wince. “Is this what you’ve been doing every day?” she asked and he nodded slowly. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“That’s what I asked him,” Logan said crossly. “At least then it would have been spelled right!”
Hana put her hand up to her mouth, looking to Tama for confirmation and he closed his eyes and struggled to hold back his tears. “Darling,” she said and touched his arm. “Can’t you sort something out?” she asked her husband, so used to him fixing everything.
“I can give the tattoo artist a slap, but this idiot wrote it down for him so not really, no. It’s not too bad; it’s a grammatical error.” He shook his head at Tama, his frown slipping into a smirk. “Pity you didn’t research it before you let him write it indelibly on your skin, aye?”
Hana gave her husband a hard look. He knew the pain of wearing a faulty genealogy etched into his flesh. The whakapapa tattoo on his upper arm and shoulder took a wrong turn when it listed Alfred as his father, neglecting a fork it should have taken through Reuben Du Rose. Logan caught Hana’s reprimand and felt its impact. “It’s ok mate; when it stops looking so angry it’ll be cool. I never thought of doing anything like that. Well done, I approve. It’s good to preserve our heritage.”
Tama cheered up, allowing himself a tight smile.
“I love the font,” Hana said with encouragement. “How can we help the pain go away?” She looked across at her husband, hope in her eyes.
Logan opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a roll of plastic food wrap. “Get me the nappy rash cream from the change bag, please?” he asked Hana. When she returned with it, Logan made Tama coat the painful area with the cream. “You don’t want it to dry out. Didn’t they give you any instructions?” Tama shook his head. Logan tutted and rolled his eyes with annoyance. “If you’d asked, I’d have given you the address of my guy. He uses traditional methods and would’ve known straight away the wording wasn’t right.” He caught the look on Hana’s face and dropped the urge to chastise the silly teenager. “It’ll be ok. It looks bloody sore. Make sure you don’t get an infection.”
Logan waited for Tama to spread grease over the tattoo before wrapping him in plastic, going around his torso four times. He asked Hana for tape and sealed the unusual dressing. Pushing Tama’s tee shirt over his head, Logan clipped him round the ear. “You’re such a bloody dork!” he told him, then in a fit of un-Logan-like behaviour, grabbed and hugged the teenager, letting him go just as quickly. Tama’s cheeks burned red with embarrassment and a deep sense of acceptance.
“Do you really like it?” he asked Logan.
“Don’t push it, boy,” Logan warned, his grey eyes flashing.
“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” Hana suggested, keen to disband the dangerous vibes collecting around her. They wound up in a cafe on Victoria Street which was famous for its pancakes. After ordering from the menu the subject returned to Tama’s unfortunate tattoo. “Why did you keep going back for more?” Hana asked. “You must have been about four times already.”
“It’s eight times and because it bloody hurt,” Tama replied, ignoring Logan’s snort of derision. “Today’s was the worst though. I kept wanting to pass out!” Logan laughed and Tama glared at him. “It’s hard on yer ribs. That’s the most painful part of the body apparently!”
“Is that what he said to cheer you up after he picked your sorry ass off the floor?” Logan ran a hand over his face, avoiding Hana’s raised eyebrow. “The tattooist must be glad it’s over,” he sniggered and Hana shook her head at him.
A loud group of English tourists raised their voices, causing a disturbance. They spoke in southern accents, behaving as though they owned the place and Hana cringed as Logan turned to watch them. “Don’t stare,” she hissed at him.
“Bloody English,” he muttered, dodging her kick under the table.
“Stop,” Hana begged. “It’s embarrassing to be associated with people who can’t behave properly through a common accent.”
“Can you tell them to shut up?” Tama asked the waitress as she took their order and she shook her head.
“Chef already asked them. They’re getting drunk and the blonde one threatened him. The owner says if they carry on, he’ll call the cops but then they’ll leave without paying.”
A male child with the English party walked over to their table and stared at Hana.
“What you doing?” he said, pointing rudely at her. Hana turned her body so he couldn’t see her breastfeeding the baby, pulling the blanket further round her daughter.
“Nothing,” she said. “Please go back to your family.”
The child had blonde curly hair and a superior air, even though he was around Jas’ age. Luckily they were sitting in a booth with Hana furthest from his prying eyes, but Logan became increasingly frustrated as the child appeared again and stood there, watching them like they were zoo exhibits.
“Sod off, kid!” Tama hissed and the child poked his tongue out.
The inebriated tourists complained loudly about the service, the cleanliness of the perfectly acceptable cafe, the quality of the food and anything else they could think of whenever the waitress was within earshot. The errant child appeared again and Hana’s hopes sank as his party found him cute. “Aw, in’t he lovely sayin’ ‘ello to everyone?” his bleach blonde mother drooled.
“No, actually!” Tama exclaimed, but a roar of laughter broke out from the other end of the group’s table and his comment was drowned out. The boys’ food arrived, delivered by a waitress who seemed flustered and upset and apologised for the awkward clientele in the next booth.
“Excuse me, please,” she said to the spectator at the end of the table, reaching over his head to lay the plates down.
“I don’t think he’s all there,” Hana commented under her breath to Tama, jerking her head towards the weird child. “He might have a disability and they can’t cope. Sometimes it’s not the parent’s fault.” Her mind wandered to her beautiful granddaughter Elizabeth whom the world classed as different, with her Down syndrome and chromosomal anomaly.
“Can you see Marcus and Izzie putting up with this?” Logan asked, his patience waning.
Hana sho
ok her head and admitted they wouldn’t. Tama’s pain affected his good humour as the child stole a chip from his plate “Just go!” he said, raising his voice to the little boy.
The child put his elbows on their table and grabbed another chip from Tama’s plate. “No!” he said in a cocky voice. “Up yours!”
Tama’s fragile tolerance snapped. He widened his eyes as though beginning a haka. Standing, he took a rigid stance with his arms folded and stuck out his tongue, flattening it against his lower lip and chin. His demeanour was terrifying, accompanied by a low growl which matched his warlike face. The child bolted.
Phoenix sat on Hana’s knee and stared at her cousin in amazement. Hana expected her to wail with fright as her rosebud lips parted, but the little Māori girl let out a peal of laughter like tinkling bells at a Christmas fair. Her whole body rocked with pure delight. When she stopped giggling, her eyes pleaded with Tama to do it again. He widened his eyes and growled and the baby laughed so hard her grey eyes squeezed tight shut and tiny tears collected at their corners.
“You scared my son, you ignorant git!” the child’s father bellowed, appearing at the end of Hana’s table. He was a picture of arrogance, enjoying staring down the table at them and flexing arms which showed more flab than muscle. His shaven head and bulging blue eyes made up a picture of aggression and he reeked of alcohol.
Hana sensed trouble and her chest involuntarily tightened, hating confrontation. “Your son behaved rudely,” she said. “We asked him nicely to leave.”
“Do you know who I am?” the man spat, leaning over the table, his shoulder close to Tama’s face.
Hana shook her head. “No. Should I?”
The man stood up like a spring, affronted by her ignorance. “I just won the English lottery,” he said with a sneer. “So if my son wants to stand and stare at the natives, then he can.”
Hana gritted her teeth, experiencing an overwhelming urge to slap the man for spoiling their meal out, not bothering to control his brat, and humiliating her by cultural association. From the corner of her eye Hana watched the frazzled waitress run into the kitchens to fetch someone, fearing there would be a fight with the tourist’s clumsy playing of the race card.