‘Hey, Kell,’ you call out. ‘The ocean.’ And you point, like you’ve just spotted it yourself.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she answers. ‘So?’
‘Don’t you want to come down here and see it?’
‘I can see it, you dummy.’
And Mum’s laughing.
We go cloud busting, Billy and me, down at the beach, belly up to the big sky. We make rainbows that pour out from our heads, squinting our eyes into the gathering. Fairy flossed pincushion clouds explode. We hold each other’s hand; squeeze really hard to build up the biggest brightest rainbow and Bang! Shoot it up to the sky, bursting cloud suds that scatter, escaping into the air alive.
We toss our bodies off the eelgrass-covered dunes and race down to the shore where seaweed beads trace the waterline. Little bronze teardrops – we bust them too. Bubble-wrapped pennies.
We collect pipis, squirming our heels into the shallow water, digging deeper under the sandy foam. Reaching down for our prize, we find lantern shells, cockles, and sometimes periwinkles, bleached white. We snatch them up, filling our pockets. We find shark egg capsules like dried out leather corkscrews and cuttlebones and sand snail skeletons, and branches, petrified to stone. We find sherbet-coloured coral clumps, sponge tentacles and sea mats, and bluebottles – we bust them with a stick. We find weed ringlet doll wigs and strings of brown pearls; I wear them as bracelets. We get drunk on the salt air and laughter. We dance, wiggling our bottoms from the dunes’ height. We crash into the surf, we swim, we dive, and we tumble. We empty our lungs and weigh ourselves cross-legged to the seabed. There we have tea parties underwater. Quickly, before we swim up for mouthfuls of air.
I’m not scared of the ocean, that doesn’t come until later. When we’re kids we have no fear, it gets sucked out in the rips. We swim with the current, like breeding turtles and hidden jellyfish, as we drift out onto the shore.
We climb the dunes again, covered in sticky sand and sea gifts. We ride home and string up dry sea urchins at our window. We break open our pipis and Mum places each half under the grill or fries them in the saucepan, with onion and tomatoes. We empty our pockets and line the seashells along the windowsill. Mum starts on about the saucepans; she wants to tell us stories even though we know most of them off by heart, over and over, every detail. The saucepans, she says, the best bloody saucepans.
Billy and me sit at the window, watching Mum while she fries and begins. I’m still busting clouds through the kitchen pane, as they pass over the roof guttering and burst quietly in my rainbow.
‘It was Goulburn, 1967,’ Mum would begin.
‘Where’s that?’ we’d say.
‘Somewhere far away, a Goulburn that doesn’t exist anymore,’ she’d answer and carry on with her story.
Anyway, Goulburn, ’67. All my brothers and sisters had been put into missions by then, except Fred who went and lived with my mother’s sister. And me, I was with my mother, probably cos my skin’s real dark, see – but that’s another story, you don’t need to know that. So old Mum and me were sent to Goulburn from the river, to live in these little flats. Tiny things, flatettes or something. Mum was working for a real nice family, at the house cooking and cleaning; they were so nice to Mum. I would go to work with her, used to sit outside and play and wait for her to finish.
When we came home Mum would throw her feet up on the balcony rail, roll off her stockings and smoke her cigarettes in the sun. Maybe chat with the other women, but most of them were messed up, climbing those walls, trying to forget. It wasn’t a good time for the women, losing their children.
Anyway, all the women folk were sitting up there this hot afternoon when down on the path arrived this white man, all suited up. Mum called down to him, I don’t know why, she didn’t know him. I remember she said, ‘Hey there, mister, what you got there?’
A box was tucked under his arm. He looked up at us all and smiled. He come dashing up the stairwell and out onto our balcony. I think he would’ve been the only white person to ever step up there. He was smooth. ‘Good afternoon to you, ladies, I am carrying in this box the best saucepans in the land.’
Mum drew back on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the tin. ‘Give us a look then.’
The suit opened up the box and arranged the saucepans on the balcony, the sun making the steel shine and twinkle. They were magical. All the women whooped and whooed. The saucepans really were perfect. Five different size pans and a Dutch oven, for cakes. Strong, black, grooved handles on the sides and the lids, the real deal.
‘How much?’ Mum said, getting straight to the point.
The suit started up then on his big speech: Rena Ware, 18/10, only the best, and this and that, lifetime guarantee, all that sort of stuff.
The women started laughing. They knew what the punch line was going to be, nothing that they could afford, ever. Their laughter cascaded over the balcony rails as they followed each other back into the shade of their rooms.
‘Steady on there, Alice, you got a little one to feed there too!’ they said, seeing Mum entranced, watching his mouth move and the sun bouncing off the pans.
He told her the price, something ridiculous, and Mum didn’t even flinch. She lit up another fag, puffed away. I think he was surprised, maybe relieved she didn’t throw him out. He rounded up his speech and Mum just sat there as he packed up the saucepans.
‘You not gunna let me buy em then?’ Mum said, blowing smoke over our heads.
‘Would you like to, Miss?’
‘Of course I bloody do, wouldna sat here waiting for you to finish if I didn’t!’
Mum told him then that she couldn’t afford it, but she wanted them. So they made a deal. Samuel, the travelling salesman, would come by once a month, when money would come from the family, and take a payment each time.
Mum worked extra hours from then on, sometimes taking home the ironing, hoping to get a little more from the lady of the house. And she did, just enough. And Samuel would come round and chat with Mum and the other ladies and bring sweets for me. He and Mum would be chatting and drinking tea in the lounge until it got dark outside. They were friends after all that time.
Three years and seven months it took her. When Samuel came round on his last visit, with a box under his arm, just like the first time, Mum smiled big. He came into the flat and placed the box on the kitchen bench.
‘Open it,’ he said to Mum, and smiled down at me and winked.
Mum pressed her hands down the sides of her uniform then folded open the flaps and lifted out each saucepan, weighing it in her hands, squinting over at Samuel, puzzled. With each lid she pulled off, her tears gathered and fell.
‘What is it, what is it?’ I was saying as I pulled a chair up against the bench and could see then in one pan was a big leg of meat, under another lid potatoes and carrots, a shiny chopping knife, then a bunch of eggs, then bread. And in the Dutch oven, a wonky looking steamed pudding. Mum was crying too much to laugh at the cake.
‘I haven’t got a hand for baking yet. Hope you don’t mind I tested it out.’
Mum just shook her head; she couldn’t say a word and Samuel understood. He put on his smart hat, tilting the brim at Mum, and as he left the doorway, he said, ‘Good day to you, Alice. Good day, young lady.’
And when Mum passed, she gave the pots to me.
When our mother finished her story she’d be crying too, tiny streams down her cheekbones. I knew she would hock everything we’d ever own, except the only thing that mattered, five size-ranged saucepans, with Dutch oven. Still in their hard case, only a few handles chipped.
I run my fingertips over fingerprints now, over years, generations. They haven’t changed much; they still smell of friendship. I suppose that to my nanna, Samuel was much like a cloud buster. Letting in the sun, some hope, the rainbow had been their friendship. And I suppose that to Mum, Samuel was someone who she wanted to be around, like a blue sky. For Samuel, my mum and Nanna, I don’t know, maybe the exchange was even, an
d maybe when those clouds burst open, he got to feel the rain. A cleansing rain, and maybe that was enough.
Two boys went out hunting: they went a long way. They saw some clouds coming up in the afternoon. The clouds got bigger and bigger with rain. The two boys were frightened by the clouds and the rain.
Picking up their two little stones, they threw them. When they threw them the stones got bigger and bigger. They got very big, and each stone had a cave in it.
The two boys went into the caves. One boy went into one cave, and the other boy went into the other cave. That night there was a big rain. Each boy built a fire inside his cave. They slept safely in those caves.
The next morning they woke up and they went out hunting. The rain had gone. They hunted and hunted, and then they saw some clouds coming up again. They became frightened because the clouds were so big. But the two boys still had their stones.
Next morning when they woke up, they picked up the two little stones and went on hunting. As they walked along they saw two other stones, two better-looking ones, so they changed stones. They threw away those two little stones they had been using before and they picked up the new stones.
Then they saw more clouds coming up, and they saw that the rain was coming close. The two boys threw those two new stones so they would grow bigger, but those two new stones didn’t grow bigger. So the boys threw them again and again, waiting for those stones to save them. But those new stones didn’t grow any bigger. When the rain came, it killed those two boys.
Within reach of Milford Sound, a solitary hut crouched beneath the cliffs and mist. A stocky pony, shaggy in her winter coat, stood tethered to the lean-to stable, twitching her ears as dusk smothered the valley.
A willowy girl emerged from the hut and stood for a moment, listening to the chorus of waterfalls fill the air. Abi McNevin had seen fourteen autumns, though this one lingered the longest. She clutched her shawl tight against the bitter cold and hoisted her ankle-length skirts so they didn’t drag in the mud. Bucket in hand, she crossed to the cliff face. Careful not to let even the slightest drop touch her skin, she held the vessel at arm’s length under a burbling spring. She filled the pony’s water trough and stuffed a handful of hay into its feedbag. The little mare snorted happily and snuffled her nose into the hessian sack. Abi smiled, patted the pony’s neck and returned to the hut.
Inside, she stirred the pot hanging over the hearth. The aroma of savoury stew mingled with earthy peat smoke. Satisfied, Abi resumed her sewing. Dipping her darning needle in and out of a frayed heel, she watched her father who sat whittling a wooden figurine across the room.
‘Winter’s late, Pa.’ Her voice had a lilting quality, that curious hybrid burr of the first northern children to be born on southern shores.
Kerr frowned, flames flickering shadow over his face. ‘Aye, Abigail, it is.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Naught much.’ He swigged whiskey from a tin mug. ‘Some say late winter’s a fierce winter down here. But half of ’em have forgotten wha ’tis like back home.’
Abi nodded. ‘That’s what Ikaw said. “Late winds blow harsh”.’
When her father didn’t reply, she added, ‘Ikaw says it’s going to be another winter for the Sound.’
Kerr’s hands stilled. His eyes, deepset under heavy brows, rose to meet Abi’s.
She didn’t know what drove her to continue. ‘Ikaw says the Sound loves the fierce winters. They make it stronger. It feeds on them. He says –’
Kerr surged to his feet and his carving clattered onto the floorboards. ‘Don’t say it,’ he warned. ‘Don’t you dare say it.’
Abi clamped her mouth shut, fixated on the blade glinting in the firelight. Kerr stepped toward her, knife hand trembling. Her eyes darted to the needlework in her lap. The movement dislodged a ringlet from her braid. Without thinking, she tucked it behind her ear.
Kerr froze. Copper curls. Maggie’s curls.
The seconds ticked by with father and daughter locked in silent tableau. Abi dared not look up.
‘You’re speaking nonsense, girl,’ Kerr finally said, driving the knife into the tabletop, ignoring his daughter’s flinch. ‘Nonsense.’
‘Yes, Pa.’
He raised his mug and gulped the dregs. Pushing aside the curtain to his sleeping area, he paused. ‘And Abigail?’
‘Yes, Pa?’
‘I trust you’ll keep better company than that half-caste Maori boy this next trip to town.’ The curtain fell behind him.
Abi curled up on her pallet.
‘No, Pa,’ she whispered into the blanket. Regardless of her father’s wrath, she wouldn’t obey his order. As soon as Kerr was preoccupied with his business in Te Anau, she would seek out Ikaw.
He was her only friend.
The trek over the mountains took days. Abi rode the sure-footed mare. Kerr walked ahead. Her father treated each crossing as a battle for MacKinnon’s track, sallying forth, machete swinging. His blade sliced through frost-silvered fern fronds, hacked aside manuka saplings. Behind him, Abi inhaled the scent of crushed vegetation cut through with the antiseptic tang of tea-tree. She would have thought it a pleasant smell if she could forget that the perfume rose from the forest’s wounds.
Snow covered the shoulders of the summit and the wind clawed at Abi’s skirts. She leaned forward to twine her numb fingers through the mare’s mane, knowing that the full cloak of winter would soon make the pass too dangerous.
To her relief, a lull greeted them on the other side of the range, making the descent to the lakeside settlement almost pleasant. Her father straightened, and lifted his chin as he walked into town wearing his Sunday best – a plain but well-cut frock coat over patched trousers. He waved to a familiar figure crossing the muddy main street, grand in his three-piece suit, complete with bowler and gold fob chain.
‘Miss Abigail.’ The man removed his hat to greet her, before shaking hands with her father. ‘Kerr. It’s late in the season for you to be here.’
‘Aye, Vernon. We’re want for supplies. Besides, ’tis high time I caught news of the goldfields.’
Vernon nodded. ‘The rush is well and truly over. Even the Chinese are clearing out. Jamestown’s deserted. A real ghost town.’
Kerr snorted.
‘But the silver lining?’ continued Vernon. ‘Greenstone trade. The Oriental market’s booming and the Union’s leisure passengers can’t get enough. The Maori will even buy it back from you, can you believe that? Imagine the price the stone from up your way could fetch. That blue colour and translucency are so rare.’ He pulled his gold watch from his pocket. ‘I’m about to meet some colleagues from Dunedin at Oscar’s. They’re looking for a supplier.’
Kerr smiled. ‘I could use a drink.’
Abi was glad when her father turned her away at the door of the inn. She snuck around the side. In the stables, an olive-skinned boy, already broad-shouldered and thick of arm, stooped to inspect a horse’s shoe.
‘Ikaw!’ She threw her arms around him.
‘Woah, Abi, you’re likely to get me kicked,’ Ikaw laughed, maneuvering them away from the gelding’s hooves. ‘Or shot, if your father had any say in it.’
‘Pah to my father. I don’t care what he thinks.’
Ikaw leaned down to press his nose to hers in traditional greeting. ‘Well, I’d like to keep my head if that’s all right with you, Miss Abigail.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
He straightened. ‘Why? It’s your name.’
‘Not to you. To you I’m just Abi.’ She tilted her head to look him in the eye. He grew taller every time she saw him. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What will we do?’
‘You’ll see.’ He took her hand.
They skulked around the rear of the inn, past the town’s only row of shops and down to the lake. Ikaw pulled a dugout canoe from the wharf’s shadow and dragged it to the water’s edge. Eyes twinkling, he gestured to Abi.
She stumbled backward, shaking her
head. ‘You know I can’t. Not anymore.’ She spread her hands, pleading for him to understand. It felt so irrational to be afraid of canoeing on a calm lake when Ikaw’s ancestors had braved ocean crossings in similar craft. But irrational or not, the terror wouldn’t loosen its grip.
Ikaw reached inside his shirt and pulled out a greenstone pendant threaded onto a leather thong. Carved and polished into a fishhook shape, it gleamed like silver beech leaves after the rain.
Abi’s eyes widened. ‘What is it?’
‘A hei-matau. I made it for you. My father’s people believe it brings the wearer good health.’ He tied the thong around her neck. ‘And safe passage over water.’
Abi tested the hook on the ball of her thumb. She winced as it drew blood.
Ikaw brought her hand to his mouth. He kissed the tiny wound, his expression solemn. ‘E hi noa ana, na te aroha. Though my gift is small, my love goes with it.’
Abi flushed.
Ikaw led her to the canoe and helped her settle in the prow, pushing them off with the single paddle.
They glided across the lake. For the first time in seasons, Abi felt safe enough to admire her surrounds. The mountains towered even higher than the cliffs at home, blankets of white sloping to meet blue-green forest. All was mirrored in the lake’s glassy surface.
Far from shore, Ikaw stopped paddling.
‘Abi,’ he asked quietly, ‘what really happened with your mother?’
Abi stared into the reflections. ‘We were cutting peat. Mother didn’t care that it was men’s work. But then she tripped and fell into the Sound.’ Abi gave a sad little laugh. ‘Ever the actress, she came after me dripping and moaning like a monster from the deep come to claim a soul. I couldn’t stop laughing and shrieking as she chased me home.’
She choked back a sob. ‘I don’t know why it happened. I got her warm straightaway. But by night she had taken a fever.’
Ikaw leaned forward to rest his hand on her shoulder.
‘I begged Father to fetch the physician but he said the track was impassable. I tried everything: cool flannels, mustard compresses, broth. But she kept tossing and turning and fitting on the bed, muttering of Ireland, talking as if people she hadn’t seen for years were right there in the room. Sometimes she would sit bolt upright and demand to see the Sound, feel the dark, cool water. Later, it was all she spoke about. The Sound. One morning I went down the shore to take Father his lunch. He was looking for that special greenstone that he talks to the men in town about.’
Things a Map Won't Show You Page 2