Mona nods. ‘Well done. He looks healthy. What about this bruise?’
There’s a dark bruise on one fat little arm. Neither sister has noticed it before; both are distressed to see it.
Mona speaks as gently as she can. ‘Did he slip from your arms, do you think? Was there an accident?’
Delia is very firm. They may be old, she says, but there has never been any accident. ‘We may be rather clumsy with changing a nappy, but little Manny has never suffered in this house. Not once.’
Mona smiles at Delia. ‘It’s good of you to take care of him.’
Aureole tiptoes across the porch and lays a confidential hand on Mona’s arm. ‘We bring him here when we can. When Miss Roe is having her sleep. Our sister thinks we are too old. She considers the child a bastard. She doesn’t approve, you see. But we do what we can.’
‘That will do, Aureole,’ says Delia.
Mona looks from one to the other. ‘Well then. We’ll be on our way.’
‘They’ll take the baby away, won’t they?’ Delia’s voice is heavy and slow.
‘I’ll be honest with you, it’s a bit of a worry. Pansy’s in a bad way. Tell Donny to come to us if he’s worried, will you?’
‘But he can come to us. He’s family.’
‘No mention of a cuppa or a scone,’ says Vera, as they walk back down the road. ‘Did you notice that?’
‘They’re scared of the old one. Roe. Is that her name? Who’s right, maybe, on one thing: they’re too old to look after a baby.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Aureole wouldn’t be much older than me.’
‘She would. And anyway, Vera, could you manage a baby?’
Vera wants to argue. She knows how proud Donny is of his baby; how devastated he would be to lose him. But she has to admit that looking after a baby would not be one of her strengths.
Outside Vera’s place, they pause by the fence. Vera kicks at the gravel on the road. ‘What a mess,’ she says. ‘Better come in for a cuppa.’
But Mona is needed back home. ‘Pansy’s got post-natal depression, Vera. Donny can’t cope with that.’
Vera snorts. ‘She was no different before the baby. They say she was wild as a she-cat before she even came to Donny’s. What’ll you tell the matron, then?’
Mona shakes her head. ‘That bruise is a worry. I’ll have to report it.’
Vera’s attention is diverted by the sight of one of those damn feral cats streaking around the corner of her house. After her new chicks, no doubt. By the time she’s hurled a few stones in its direction, Mona is off down the road, walking with purpose. Good to see her back to her normal self, but for how long?
‘Bloody Di Masefield,’ mutters Vera, ‘sticking her oar in.’
She can’t wait to tell Bull about the old ladies, though. A Goodyear! But how are they related to Donny Mac? Bull might work it out.
She counts the chicks. None missing.
Since he arrived in Manawa at age eleven, Donny Mac has somehow managed to rub Di Masefield up the wrong way time and time again. No fault of his — or not often. More his association with her two boys, Luke and Ethan: not an attractive pair, except in Di Masefield’s eyes, though her mother-love has been sorely tried recently. Even Jock Masefield has been disappointed in his sons, who have failed to excel in rugby or show interest in either real estate or the ski industry.
First there was the bullying incident at Ruapehu College. Ethan and Luke were bullies. Not your usual muscle-up, push-and-shove kind of bullying which was, alas, also rife in the school, but an underhand, blackmailing, rumour-spreading kind of bullying which was harder for the staff to control, although they knew it went on. Donny Mac, newly arrived, was perfect fodder for their snide attacks: ‘Donny Mac failed primer one’; ‘Donny Mac has Marmite sandwiches for lunch’ (it was considered childish to have anything but pork, preferably wild pork, that year); ‘Donny Mac’s socks don’t match and neither of them are college regulation.’ And so on. Petty, trivial barbs designed to make Donny a wretched outcast and the Masefield boys superior and admired. The trouble was their undermining didn’t work with Donny. He grinned, laughed even, at the taunts. Danced around showing off his mismatched socks. ‘Whoo hoo!’ he’d shout, waving his lunch on high. ‘Marmite sandwiches again! Oh boy!’ And Marmite became the new fashion statement for lunches. Donny Mac, easy-going, loved by his granddad and happy for the first time in his life, became popular with staff and students. He failed most subjects, but never gave up trying. And had a natural, instinctive skill at rugby — as a prop.
On the other hand, Luke and Ethan were not popular. They considered themselves a cut above the regular farming children who made up the school roll, most of them Maori or Chinese, or a mixture of both. The Masefield boys, pale skinned and lanky, did well at maths and science. At the end-of-year prizegiving, Di Masefield, chair of the Board of Governors, thought it only natural that her boys carry off prizes. But she noticed the silence that greeted the Masefield achievements, and the feeble smattering of applause from the rows of staff on the stage. She noticed also the roar of approval from staff and students when Donny Mac went up to receive the prize for most improved player in the first fifteen.
Donny’s failure to buckle under Luke and Ethan’s undermining campaign led the boys to push boundaries further than was wise. They spread a new rumour — that Donny Mac had been seen exposing his willy to the fourth form girls. And that Donny Mac had no idea that such behaviour was bad; no idea, indeed, what to do with a fully grown willy, the stupid git.
Donny’s granddad heard this rumour from Mona Kingi, whose daughter Tina was in the fourth form.
‘Tina says Donny would run a mile before confronting any fourth form girl,’ said Mona. ‘Someone’s got it in for Donny.’
Manny Mac shaved his two-day stubble, put on his old tweed jacket and kicked over the motorbike. In the principal’s office he demanded to know who had spread this rumour. When the trail led to the Masefield boys, Manny demanded a family meeting to sort the matter out. An awkward demand, with Di chair of the Board of Governors, but one which the principal bravely organised.
Old Manny Mac was fearless in the face of Di’s scorn and the Masefield boys’ sniggering.
‘My boy doesn’t understand anything to do with girls yet,’ he rasped through his perpetually choked lungs. ‘He’s a late developer. Where’s your evidence, Luke? Ethan?’
‘We know what we saw,’ said Luke.
‘Oh, so you were there? Over with the fourth form girls too, were you?’
‘We heard about it,’ corrected Ethan with a wide grin which enraged Manny further and irritated the principal.
‘Well, I heard from a fourth form girl,’ said Manny after a bout of coughing, ‘that it was Ethan did the exposing, with his older brother egging him on.’
This produced a silence.
Di Masefield was the first to draw breath. ‘That is an outrageous and unsubstantiated slander.’
‘Not unsubstantiated,’ wheezed Manny Mac. ‘Tina Kingi reported it to her mother and is willing to be called to give evidence.’
The principal turned his attention to the Masefield boys, whose grins had disappeared and whose fidgeting was frozen. Tina Kingi, at fourteen years old, was a fully grown woman, beautiful, smart and tough as boots. She was also star of the school’s girls’ first fifteen and could probably have made the boys’.
Donny Mac sat quietly through the whole family conference, looking from one party to the other, not really understanding what the fuss was about.
In the end, the Masefield boys were suspended for a week and, as far as Di was concerned, relations between her family and the Macs were set on a collision course.
Later there was the incident over Manny Mac’s dog, which was shot by Ethan, who insisted it was worrying sheep. Donny Mac, bellowing with rage and sorrow, clocked Ethan on the nose and was reported by Di. Donny received a warning from the police.
Then there was the matter of the shop
lifting. Granddad Manny was near death by this time, hooked to an oxygen machine, but he asked George Kingi to take Donny and the stolen goods back. Donny told the police that Luke Masefield had told him that the boots, displayed outside Brock’s store, were there for anyone to take. Ethan had taken a pair too, said Donny. Donny was fined that time, but Ethan was fined more and given a warning because he hadn’t owned up.
The last straw for Di Masefield (or the last straw so far) was when Manny Mac died. Three of her sections in Manawa surrounded his. Adding Manny’s place was part of the plan for establishing the pretty ski-chalet village Di had set her heart on. It was a reasonable assumption, when Di bought the sections, that Manny Mac’s property would soon be on the market at a cheap price. Manny was sick — an old man without family. Even when Donny came on the scene, Di assumed the stupid boy would not be capable of living alone or managing the place when his granddad died.
But Manny had it all thought out. Donny, at sixteen, had a job stacking shelves at New World, riding to work each day on Manny’s old Honda 250. He was a valuable member of the Manawa Rugby Club and could cook simple meals. Before he died, Manny asked Vera to put the hard word on Bull to make an exception and pay him a visit, since he was unable to walk any more. Bull came.
‘In the drawer there,’ gasped Manny, ‘are the deeds to this place, my bank book and my will. It all goes to Donny. The property’s all paid off. There’s enough in the bank to pay the rates and electricity for five years as long as the sewage doesn’t come in and the rates go up.’
‘Bloody sewage,’ growled Bull and waited for the old fellow to catch his breath.
‘I want you to manage the bills until Donny’s a bit older. And maybe teach him how to do the banking. At the moment he just spends what he earns. He needs to learn.’
Bull smiled. ‘I can do that, Manny. He comes over to me for coaching on Wednesdays. We’ll have a crack at the banking too.’
‘Di Masefield wants the section. I’ve told Donny not to sell, but who knows what tricks that woman will spring on him. Will you keep an eye, Bull?’ The old fellow wheezed for a bit. ‘I hate to leave him.’
‘We’ll all keep an eye, Manny, don’t worry.’
‘You promise?’
‘We promise. He’s a good boy — a credit to you.’
Manny sighed then, coughed a bit and slept. He died next day.
Donny Mac went to pieces for a year or two, as even his best friends would admit, suffered several run-ins with the police; but he managed to live on in the house, which enraged Di Masefield, and not just because she wanted the land. He held down a job, owned property, was civil and liked, none of which could be said of her own sons.
Vera takes the long way around to Bull’s, not really to check up on Donny and Nightshade but because it’s the weekend, and the ski season, and she wants to avoid the hooning townies. Last night a group of them were standing on their front veranda, waiting for her to go by with Bull’s meal. One lad actually rushed out to the gate to take a photo. Another shouted, ‘What’s for dinner tonight then?’ and they all laughed. Vera kept her head down and wheeled the pram on, muttering curses but undermined by their confident rudeness.
Hohepa Street has only one townie house: nice older people who are not down this weekend anyway. Vera hopes the shepherd’s pie will stay warm under its blanket; the frost is forming already, even on the stones of the gravel road. She wheels as quickly as her stiff legs will take her; the night is pitch black but she knows every rut, can steer the battered and rattling old pram around any obstacle.
Shouts are coming from Donny’s place. Nightshade’s high-pitched curses and Donny’s deeper voice, pleading, ‘Don’t, don’t do that!’ Vera mutters her own curses, but what can she do? It’s just not going to work, Donny and Nightshade and the baby. Mona is probably right. There’s another scream and something smashes inside the house. Vera pauses for a moment, wondering if Donny will come out, but things seem to have quietened again, so she moves on down to the corner and around to Bull’s.
One block away, on Smith Street, Fitz (Notso) Smart is out in his littered back yard, testing the weight-bearing properties of a home-made trolley — his prototype for a fleet which will, he hopes, entertain the townies in an ‘adventure park’ close to the Junction (the lease of the property yet to be negotiated). He stands still for a moment — listening to the screams — shrugs and goes back to his experiment, but his rhythm has been lost. The front wheels fly off and Notso falls painfully. His own screams mingle with those over on Hohepa Street.
Delia stands on her back veranda, listening. She’s shivering with cold but stays there, keeping watch. Aureole brings a blanket and wraps it around her sister’s shoulders.
‘Come in, come in, Delia,’ she cries, wringing her own icy hands. ‘Miss Roe says your dinner is getting cold and you can do no good standing there listening.’
Delia looks over to the small square of light in Donny’s kitchen window. She sees a shadow passing and then passing again. Is that a hand raised?
‘Did you hear a crash?’ she asks Aureole. They both hear the stream of curses and then a louder scream.
They see a larger shaft of light as the back door opens, then darkness again as it shuts. Delia hopes that Donny is bringing the baby over, away from all that screaming. But there is no crunching of feet on the road, no darker human shadow against the softer dark of the trees. The light in the kitchen window still glows.
The sudden silence is worrying at first, but after a while reassuring. Delia, almost frozen solid, decides that the terrible drunken mother will have fallen asleep. Their great-nephew will at last have a peaceful night. She creaks her way inside, where Roe delivers a lecture on the futility of interfering with matters beyond the remedy of the elderly. Aureole reheats Delia’s ruined dinner.
The Virgin Tracey is standing outside Donny’s window, looking in. Her attention is on the baby, who is enraged, his little face purple, his tight fists beating the air. The Virgin appears more like a dark lump of rock than a human being; her tiny frame is engulfed by an enormous padded and hooded ski jacket designed for a burly man. On her feet, outsize furlined snow boots. Her hands, resting on the window ledge, could be the big furry paws of some large animal. Her growl is inhuman too, as she sees Nightshade shake the baby, yelling at him to shut the fuck up. Donny’s hands are reaching for the little fellow.
‘Don’t, Nightshade, don’t do that,’ he moans. ‘You’re hurting him.’
Nightshade stumbles away from Donny, the baby hanging, screaming, from one unsteady hand. The Virgin can see that she’s bombed out of her mind.
‘Get the baby, you idiot,’ she shouts. ‘Grab the baby, Donny!’
In the startled moment when Nightshade tries to locate the voice, peering outside into the dark, Donny takes the baby, hugs him close and makes for the door. Nightshade screams abuse. There’s a thump. The Virgin guesses she’s throwing stuff. Outside, Donny stands on the back step, unsure what to do. The ungainly bundle that is the Virgin grabs his arm, pulling him along, out on to the road and down to her place. She shoves him inside, slams the door and bolts it, then blows out the kerosene lamp. They stand, panting, in the dark kitchen. The slammed door has woken Sky, so now there are two crying babies.
‘Bloody hell,’ mutters the Virgin. ‘Try to shut yours up and I’ll do mine.’ She unzips the mound of padded jacket, and there she is, in the usual black wool and overlaid petticoat, plugging Sky onto one small breast.
Donny stares. ‘Mine’s hungry too.’ He rocks the baby gently, holds him near the warmth of the wood-burner, but the little fellow roars on.
‘Jesus wept,’ says the Virgin, ‘give him here then. You guard the door. I’m not having that bitch set one foot in here.’
Donny stands by the door, while the Virgin plugs in a second baby. Both disappear inside the jacket.
Peace descends.
‘What’ll I do if she comes?’ says Donny.
‘Don’t let
her in.’
Donny shifts his feet. The babies suck away.
‘Jesus,’ says the Virgin, ‘your tyke is sucking the life-blood out of me. I can’t keep this up.’
Donny grins. ‘You look like an Eskimo. Where’d you get all this fancy gear from?’
‘Don’t ask.’ The Virgin looks at him with fierce eyes, then shrugs. ‘Anyway, that house has got fifteen ski jackets. Fifteen! And this is the oldest. I’m doing them a favour, making space on their rack. They’ll never notice.’
There’s another silence. The babies have gone to sleep.
‘Put another log on,’ whispers the Virgin.
Donny stokes the wood-burner, then goes back to the door. ‘Do you think she’ll come over?’
‘I think she might have passed out. Where’d she get the booze, Donny? You should have stopped that.’
Donny hangs his head. ‘Yeah, I know, but she steals it when I’m at work. I reckon she gets it like you do, Virgin … from … you know.’
She glares. ‘You can take your baby and fuck off if you think I’m like her. Have you ever seen me drunk?’
After a bit of thought, Donny shakes his head.
‘And my name’s Tracey, not Virgin.’
‘Yeah.’ Donny tries a smile. ‘Trace. Hey thanks. Thanks for saving Manny.’
‘You’ve got to kick her out, Donny. Nightshade. They’ll take the baby anyway. The bloody authorities. I saw Mona and Vera come and inspect the baby. It won’t work, Donny.’
Donny stares. ‘They can’t do that.’
‘They can.’
He starts to cry. ‘They can’t. He’s my boy.’
Little Manny wakes up and joins in with the misery.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Tracey. ‘Go over and get his bottle and some formula. I’m sucked dry. Just tiptoe in. Don’t wake up the bitch.’
Donny bellows in his despair. ‘He’s my Manny!’
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