Disastrous fires were not uncommon in the district, but Donny’s granddad reckoned that Manawa’s proud spirit was also consumed in the fire of 1926 that burned down his father’s workplace and then spread to several shops and houses.
‘The drift started then, boy; not in a rush, but family by family, drifting away to larger towns, surer work.’
Since Donny arrived, the drift has continued. Manawa is no longer really a town. The school still staggers along with two teachers; the one last shop on Matai Street has dwindled from store and post office to store and, finally, to a sad, half-empty ‘Emporium’ containing examples of Notso’s many failed money-making projects and one or two racks of old clothes. More than half the houses are empty, ownership reverting to the Ministry of Works. Houses owned by ski-happy townies outnumber locally owned homes. Manawa, which sprang into life as the railway came through, has sunk again, the forests felled, business and jobs moved elsewhere.
Manny Mac would walk down with Donny to the rugby ground and show him where the mill had been — all ploughed field now, behind Kingis’ farm. ‘See, a mill would employ maybe twenty-six or thirty men, let alone those in the bush bringing down the timber. How many people are needed to plough a field or milk a herd? Two? Three? No need for a town any more, eh Donny? No need for us buggers unless we can earn a crust in Ohakune or Raetihi. Fact of life, boy.’
Then he would grin his gap-toothed grin and slap Donny on the back. ‘But we still beat them all at rugby, eh?’
And young Donny would let loose his great hooting laugh and punch the air for the sheer joy of walking down the road to the rugby ground with his granddad Manny Mac.
The seven years that Donny Mac lived with his granddad were the best of his life so far. When his parents dumped their large embarrassing son in Manawa and shot through, Donny was eleven. At school up north he had been ridiculed and taunted for his size and his slow speech; at home his parents either shouted at or ignored him. Beatings were routine. Living with Manny Mac was different in every way that Donny could imagine. First, his granddad was pleased to have him around. Manny Mac was a small wiry man, his legs a little bowed, his hair and his teeth mostly gone.
‘I got the Munroe name,’ he joked to the boy, ‘but that’s about where it stopped. My dad, also Munroe, was tall but, you know, a broken man. The war broke him once and then his family broke him a second time. His stooped shoulders, his limp from the war wound, his need to hide because of deserting — all them things made of my dad a silent sort of a fellow, when most around that time were loud and brash, liking their beer and their dances and their girls and the odd rowdy fight down at the club. He didn’t fit, no more than my mum did. She was a quiet one too, worked in the post office, like my missus after her.’
‘That would be my gran then?’ Young Donny loved stories about family, couldn’t get enough of them, starved as he was in his early years.
‘It would, lad, it would. If she could, she would come back from the dead to hear she had a grandson living in the family home. A lovely pearler of a lady, your gran. Smallish like me and a sweet way about her. Everyone loved Mavis. A relative of Mona Kingi.’ Manny Mac went silent for a while, thinking about his Mavis. ‘Looking back, I reckon she had a bit of Mona’s problem, you know, the ups and downs, though it wasn’t so obvious in my missus until the boy shot through.’
‘My dad?’
‘Your dad, our Jimmy.’ Manny’s face clouded. ‘We only had the one. Mavis had her heart set on a girl but we never managed that. So she lavished all her great powers of loving on the boy. Then when he was seventeen he shot through: no note, no sign, no letter later. A big bloody hole in her heart that never healed.’ Manny spat. ‘Sorry, lad, but I don’t hold much of a candle for Jimmy, even though he is — or was — my son. After he left, the missus just wasted away, quieter and quieter day by day. Not interested in her job or food nor even me. None of us could drag her out of it. It was a sickness, I suppose, but Jimmy set her feet on the path. You might as well know, boy, that your gran hanged herself. Bull Howie found her at the railway station, hanging from a beam in the waiting room, cut her down, but she was long gone. A sad, sad day.’
Young Donny moaned to hear it, clapped his hands over his ears and rocked.
‘Yea lord,’ said Manny Mac, still inside his story, ‘a great talent Jimmy had for shooting through. Done it twice. Once to leave my Mavis in his wake, and then to leave you behind.’
That was the only time Donny remembered his granddad speaking about Jimmy and shooting through. What stuck in Donny’s mind, in particular, was the way his granddad sighed and then changed tack completely. He grinned and draped a scrawny arm around Donny. ‘But here you are, boy, my great good luck in my old age. A fine lad to help me, and a willing ear. You’re a good listener, Donny Mac, and a strong boy. I am a blessed man.’
No one had ever before even remotely suggested that Donny could be good luck or a blessing.
‘Back in those days,’ said Manny Mac, one soft evening when he and Donny were sitting on the back porch watching the snow on the mountain change from white to pink to steely grey, ‘when I was a smart-arse lad and a pretty useful half-back, my best mates were Bert and Smiley Goodyear. Butcher’s sons, they were, and as such owned a couple of horses. Bert and Smiley did the deliveries to the outlying mills — the mill hands and their families mostly lived close to work in accommodation provided. Anyway, on days off, the three of us would take the nags into the bush with three or four dogs, and hunt pigs. Sometimes deer, but the wild boar were our favourite. I’ll show you how to hunt, Donny, and use a gun properly. You’re old enough now.
‘Well, on one of those hunting trips I told those Goodyear boys about my dad. It was supposed to be a secret, how he had deserted, but I told them anyhow, and how Dad’s family had turned their backs on him. I was a hot-headed lad in those days and was pretty mad about it all, especially at how low it had brought my dad. So we hatched this plan, all bright and bushy tailed as lads are, that we’d charm our way into the stuffy old family up in Auckland and somehow bring about a reconciliation. So. Not a word to the ma and pa, off we head to the bright lights, all shaved and washed in our Sunday suits. The Goodyear boys were not bad lookers, taller than me, and fair, eyes a surprising blue — clear and happy-looking. I was pinning my hopes on my mates to do the charming, you see.
‘Well, we get to Auckland and take the train out to St Heliers Bay. That’s where the family home used to be, according to Dad. It was a fair enough bet that the parents were dead, but we hoped that someone still lived there and the brothers and sisters might be overjoyed to find a long-lost brother. Desertion not to be mentioned.
‘It was a big old bungalow, Donny, your ancestral home, long and low, looking out over the sea, on a sloping lawn shaded by a beautiful jacaranda tree. The three of us stood on the road above, eating our sandwiches, looking for signs of life. Suddenly the whole scheme seemed crazy. Smiley and I were all for walking away, but Bert, who had a bit more gumption to him, started off down the path, so we had to follow.
‘Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened and there was this smart lady in her dark coat and hat, handbag over her arm, obviously on her way out. Grim faced she was, not at all pleased to see the three of us.
‘“What’s this?” she said. And waited.
‘Bert gives me a nudge, but I couldn’t get a word out. I was only a lad, Donny — sixteen maybe — and was ready to run all the way back to Manawa. But Bert doffs his hat and asks is she a McAneny.
‘“Miss McAneny, yes, and who might you be?”
‘“My friend here,” says Bert, giving her his charming smile, “is a McAneny too and son of your brother, Munroe, and is wanting to resume relations with his aunts and uncles” — or some such palaver. Bert had a smooth way of talking when he put his mind to it.’
Manny winked and doffed an imaginary hat, which made Donny nearly choke with laughter. ‘Go on, go on!’ he shouted, slapping his knee.
‘Well, Donny boy, that put the cat among the pigeons! The lady took hold of the door knob and pulled it shut behind her with a bang you could hear down the street. That slam showed, plainer than any words, that the ancestral home was not going to welcome us any day soon. Then she faced us with such a fury in her eyes that even Bert backed off a step or two. I don’t remember the words, Donny, but those black eyes were on me while she spoke. Something about my dad being dead to the McAneny name and to never, ever come near again.
‘So much for that crusade. I lost any interest in those McAnenys. My dad was better off without them. Back home we travelled, feeling like fools. Or Smiley and I did. Bert stayed in town. We heard later a strange thing. That bosky Bert could never give up on a project. He must of gone back, ’cause he married a McAneny. Not the one slammed the door on us but another. Maybe it was just for a dare, or revenge, we never heard, ’cause he never came back to tell us. Next thing he was gone to the war and got killed.’
Manny sucked his remaining teeth and cackled. ‘So the moral of that tale, lad, is steer clear of crusades and fierce ladies, especially if they be McAnenys.’
Di Masefield is on the warpath. She guns her big Range Rover down the stretch between Ohakune and Raetihi, windscreen wipers bashing back and forth, sheets of water spraying like wings either side of her car. It takes more than a cloud-burst to slow down Di Masefield. Today there are two issues in her sights — Manawa’s sewage and Donny’s baby, both infuriating, both in need of a word to the authorities in Raetihi.
Di Masefield is a vociferous member of the Ohakune District Council. Manawa, alas, comes under the jurisdiction of the Waimarino County Council, an outdated body, in Di’s opinion, especially as she holds no sway over it. Manawa, in Di’s opinion, belongs with Ohakune, where she can influence what happens in the sleepy little settlement: bring it into the twentieth century, develop Manawa as a satellite town for Ohakune. The skiers who will soon make Ohakune rich need quality chalets. Di owns several half-acre sections in Manawa and is ready to build.
Sewage is the problem.
Di roars down the wide main road, splashes to a halt in front of the old Bank of New Zealand building which now houses the County Council office, and stomps inside, her knee-length leather boots leaving muddy footprints on the carpet.
‘Cindy,’ she says, dropping her wet mac on a chair and leaning over the desk, ‘I want a word with Andrew.’
‘He’s out.’
‘His car’s parked in front.’
‘He’s in a meeting, won’t be back for an hour.’
In fact, Andrew has hastily retreated to the filing room. Di has never learned the skill of a quiet approach, so is often thwarted in her crusading by the absence of those in charge.
Di eyes Cindy for a long moment. Cindy, a farmer’s wife, and no slouch when it comes to dealing with problems, holds her gaze.
‘I’ll be back in an hour then,’ booms Di, her voice carrying easily to the filing room. ‘I’ll be up at the hospital.’ She shakes out the mac, sending droplets spraying over the furniture, and jams her arms into the sleeves.
‘Boots at the door next time then,’ says Cindy, but Di has gone, leaving the door open to the weather.
Up at the hospital, a nurse appears to help remove Di’s coat and boots. Matron is in, she says, and will be pleased to meet her in the staff room. Di Masefield is on the Hospital Board. Raetihi Hospital is under threat of closure. Threats are meat and drink to Di — Over my dead body! she shouts repeatedly at board meetings — so she is treated by the hospital staff with a somewhat wary deference.
‘Matron,’ Di says, inspecting then rejecting the proffered gingernuts, ‘I am concerned about the welfare of a baby born recently at this hospital.’
‘Oh yes?’ says Matron. ‘A relative? A friend?’
‘Neither. Definitely neither. The mother is Pansy Holloway; the so-called father, Donny Mac.’ Di speaks this last name with evident distaste.
‘So-called father? He has registered formally as the father. You doubt this?’
‘Donny Mac is an idiot. Mentally deficient. The girl is a notorious whore. Reputed to be on drugs. Possibly they have created the child, Matron — personally I have my doubts — but they are surely not capable of bringing it up satisfactorily.’
Matron sighs. ‘I’ve not heard any complaints.’
‘Matron, I am complaining now. We don’t want it said that a child under our jurisdiction is being mistreated. Or worse. I believe we should bring in the authorities. Remove the child. The boy is a convicted criminal, as you will remember. Grievous Bodily Harm, in fact.’
Matron replaces cup in saucer. She smiles carefully at Di Masefield. ‘Well, I’ll look into the matter. We have no jurisdiction, you realise …’
‘But surely where a young life is at risk …?’
‘We don’t know that, Mrs Masefield. I’ll get Mona Kingi to pay a visit.’
Di releases an angry snort of laughter. She bangs down her cup of tea. ‘You must be joking! Mona Kingi is unhinged, as you very well know. She spends half her time in here …’
Matron rises slowly. Her face is turning purple — a dangerous sign. ‘Mona Kingi is a registered nurse, a competent mother and is at the moment quite stable. She will give me an accurate assessment of the baby’s welfare. Is there anything more? Because I am needed in the ward.’
Di Masefield is helped back into her boots and coat and released out into the storm.
‘Interfering bitch,’ says Matron as soon as she’s out of earshot.
‘Andrew,’ says Di (she’s caught him this time), ‘how’s the sewage scheme progressing?’
‘Manawa?’
‘Of course Manawa. Does the county have myriad sewage treatments in hand?’
Andrew smiles thinly. He produces a plan of Manawa, points to a shaded area. ‘We plan to build two settling ponds here, down by the river. The treated effluent will—’
‘I’m familiar with the plan, Andrew, but when? When? What’s your timing? I see no signs of implementation as yet.’
They both know that Di needs the sewage system to be in place before she has any hope of subdividing her sections and creating her ski-chalet enclave.
‘The locals are fighting this,’ says Andrew, ‘as you are aware. We need to move with care. They have presented a very competent petition.’
‘A petition? I don’t believe it. Who, in Manawa, would think of getting up a petition?’
‘Bull Howie for one. Vera Whatshername, the Kingis, Fitz.’
Di waves a hand as if brushing away flies.
‘No, but Di, they must have their say. There are forty signatures. Several townies with properties in Manawa have signed — one of them an Auckland lawyer. He helped them draw it up in the proper language. They’re organised, Di.’
Di looks at Andrew in stunned silence. Then rallies. ‘What on earth are their grounds?’
Andrew flicks through the pages of argument. ‘They say bringing in sewage will ruin the rural quality of Manawa. A sewage system will lead to the possibility of subdivision. Subdivision will lead to Manawa becoming a satellite village of Ohakune. Ski-chalet development. They want to preserve their different semi-rural lifestyle. It’s well argued, Di.’
‘Oh, good God, they’re Luddites, Andrew. You don’t go for that backward sort of thinking, do you?’
‘The council may. They’re rural people too.’
Di slams her hand on the table. ‘Amalgamation is the answer. The Government wants it. Ohakune wants it. Taumarunui wants it. Amalgamation is coming — a single Ruapehu District Council — and Waimarino County bloody Council can’t hold out against it much longer. Then we’ll see about sewage for Manawa.’
‘The petition also makes a big thing about rates. If sewage comes in, rates will go up and many of the locals won’t be able to afford to stay.’
‘Yes. Well.’ Di smiles at Andrew. ‘We can’t hold back progress for the sake of a few old folk whose time i
s over.’ She stands. ‘I’ll have a word with Tom Peddie in Taumarunui. See how the amalgamation plans are progressing. All these small councils — it’s ridiculous. Nice to talk.’
And she’s out the door, new plans forming as she roars back down towards Ohakune.
The rain has passed over, swept by a fierce wind. Ahead the mountain stands, massive and clear against a blue sky, a small mushroom-shaped cloud hovering above the peaks the only remnant of the spent storm. There’s been a light dusting of snow, Di notices with approval. She’s hoping for a good ski season.
Delia Goodyear stands in the long grass at the back of the section, listening. Every part of her great slabby body points towards the cottage over the fence. Her legs, thick as trunks under ancient brown tweed, could be growing roots they have been planted so long, so still. The screams inside the cottage rise to a new crescendo. Delia leans forward slightly, her horsy old face creased in pain as if a blow has caught her in the stomach. She straightens again. The direction of her attention never wavers.
‘Come in, come in!’ sings Aureole from the back porch. ‘Come in, Delia, you can do no good.’
But Delia keeps her vigil. There’s no sign that she even hears her sister.
Heartland Page 6