‘I could, I’ve thought about it, but paint is different.’
‘Different’s right. I wouldn’t give you tuppence for anything those gin-and-tonic-set floosies would paint.’
‘Now Vera. At least come with me. You can jeer all you like when you see them.’
Vera knows he won’t go without her. She sighs. ‘Well, we’ll see. If it’s fine. If the mountain’s open.’
Vera is prepared to have a good laugh, to be disgusted even. What she sees is far worse.
Quaint picturesque old Manawa is the favoured subject. Never the skiers themselves, oh no — their smart houses or the bustle of Ohakune. The mountain is there, naturally, in almost all the pictures, but always with some decaying view of Manawa in the foreground. The old shed across the railway line, its roof collapsing in on itself; the decaying house George Kingi uses for storing hay. And Vera’s place! Three paintings of it, all made to look worse than it is. Far worse.
When Bull notices, he tries to steer her away. ‘This is a good one, Vera! Horses aren’t easy.’
But her eye has caught them and she has to look.
There in gaudy greens and reds, nothing like real colours, is Vera herself, army greatcoat dragging, hair bedraggled, stooped and crabby, wheeling the dinner down to Bull’s. Another Vera stands like some wrinkled hairy carrot in her own garden, the house falling apart behind her. She’s the figure in a landscape (second prize, adult watercolour), an eccentric witch, gathering greens for the chooks on Dreadnaught Road.
The photograph section is even worse. Images shout from the wall. Manawa Identity in Garden; Old Lady and Pram; Echoes of the Past (the front part of her house which she never uses now); Conversation (she hadn’t been conversing with the donkey, anyone could see that, she was shouting at it to shut the hell up); Recycling, Manawa-style (a blown-up image of Vera, rain streaming off her oilskin, shovelling horse shit off the road and into a bucket — for pity’s sake, what was interesting in that?).
Bull tugs at her arm, but she stands there. Photos don’t lie: she has to accept that. This is what she actually looks like. Her hair. Her lumpy old face. Her good old home. They all think she’s barmy, dirty, different from everyone else.
Bull tries to laugh it off.
‘Well, Vera, looks like you’re famous!’
She shakes off his gentle touch, walks outside without a word. She looks right and left at the open expanse of the road and then, leaving Bull to cope on his own, walks into the trees, climbs a fence and tramps home the back way over George’s paddock. How dare they? It’s her place, her Manawa, not theirs. Taking photos on the sly. Putting her on the wall without ever asking.
Vera slams her back door and stays inside all day. George Kingi sends Lovey across to see if she’s still alive, and when Vera shouts, ‘Go to hell!’ he respects the sentiments and leaves her alone.
When the chickens need feeding, she inspects the yard from the kitchen window before venturing out with the tin of mash. Anyone skulking with a sketch-pad or camera will cop a good handful of warm, wet chicken food.
By Saturday afternoon, though, the perfect weather, the absence of skiers, tempts Vera out into the garden.
‘You’ve got to get over this, my girl,’ she says to herself, bending over the rich earth. ‘It doesn’t matter what a bunch of townies think.’
But later, while she’s having her afternoon tea, there’s a knock on the front door and Vera feels her heart thud with apprehension. No one knocks on that door — it doesn’t open properly. She ignores the knock, reads the racing tips in the Wanganui Chronicle.
Light footsteps come around the side of the house, and Vera sighs, waiting for it. Another knock on the back door and a confident little voice: ‘Is anyone at home?’
Vera opens up and stands there, hoping she looks forbidding.
‘Hello, my name’s Fiona, I can’t go up skiing today so I’m doing my holiday project for school,’ says the girl all in one breath. ‘It’s a character sketch and Mum said why don’t I interview you, would you mind?’
‘I would mind,’ says Vera firmly, and adds, because the child is polite, ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh … It wouldn’t take long …’
‘Off you go.’
‘Only you’re different than Mum and Dad and your house is so amazing!’
Vera wants to slam the door. She can’t hold back the anger. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to be in your project. I don’t want to be pinned up on your school wall as some old crazy you happened to come across on your fascinating ski holiday! Now hop it, fast. No means no!’
The girl’s face goes wide with fright. She drops her paper and runs for it.
Grimly Vera picks up the pad, marches around to the front gate and leaves it there in full view so no one need bother her again. Back inside, she beats her good old gardening hands against her sides to stop them shaking. But even before Vera’s heart has slowed to a decent pace, there are new footsteps, crisp and purposeful, crunching down the path.
The woman at the door wears lime-green stretch ski-pants with silver inserts. Her hair is cut short and swept stylishly back from her temples. Vera has never seen anything like the contraptions on her feet — some sort of lumpy foot-warmer in synthetic blues and yellows.
Vera gives her the eye. The woman is undeterred.
‘I think you should know,’ she says in a clean-edged voice, ‘that you have frightened my daughter badly.’
Vera remains silent on the doorstep.
‘Surely,’ goes on the woman, ‘that was unnecessary. Her request was perfectly civil.’
Vera has turned to stone.
‘We are neighbours after all.’ The woman is getting up a head of steam. ‘Fiona was paying you a compliment, asking for an interview, there was absolutely no need to shout at her, none at all. She sprained her ankle on the ice yesterday, and now this.’
Vera takes breath, but before she can speak the woman is away again.
‘Surely you’ve been a little inconsiderate? Goodness knows what lasting impression it may have on Fiona.’
Fiona, watching from a safe distance, looks suitably downtrodden. The mother ploughs on. ‘I think it’s only right you should know how we feel. We only wanted to make a friendly gesture. I thought you might be lonely and welcome a chance to talk. And now you’ve frightened a little girl.’
Her speech delivered, the woman is not interested in responses. She manoeuvres the bright booties in the opposite direction. Vera’s parting shot is a demoralised one: she has no defence against this implacable niceness.
‘We are not neighbours,’ she says to the lime-green back. ‘You live in a different world even!’ The woman has disappeared. ‘So bugger off,’ adds Vera, lamely.
She stumps out into the garden. Percy the rooster, hoping for food, runs forward, cocking his head.
‘What are you staring at!’ shouts Vera, and boots him away. He squawks indignantly, flapping and scrabbling, one wing trailing at an awkward angle.
‘Oh Jesus. Sorry, Perce.’ Vera is close to tears.
Over the fence, they are capturing it all on video.
Donny steers Tracey behind a display panel in a dark corner of the hall and stands still. He’s just caught sight of Di Masefield conducting a small group of people from the Ohakune craft club around the exhibition. Tracey shrugs away from his hold, but remains in hiding. Each has a baby tied on in front: Donny’s is sleeping peacefully; little Sky looking here and there, as alert and watchful as her mum.
Tracey frowns at Donny. ‘What?’
‘Di Masefield.’
‘So what? She can’t hurt us now.’
But they remain hidden. Last week a smiling lady from Plunket had come to Donny’s door while he was at work and Tracey in charge. Someone was concerned, she said; would Tracey mind if she had a look at the McAneny baby? Weigh him and so on? Tracey had glowered and muttered, but in the end allowed it and even submitted her own baby to the surprised woman. Sky was healthy and
on target for her age, the Plunket lady said, but Manny was underweight. Tracey made some excuse — the baby was born small, he was feeding properly now that Tracey was nannying him, everything was okay. In fact, Tracey was shaking inside. The Plunket lady seemed friendly, but Tracey feared and mistrusted everyone in authority. She lied about her age and her name, nodded agreement about getting the babies inoculated; couldn’t wait for her to go. All the next week she worried that something bad would come of the visit, but the Plunket lady returned, weighed again, noted the clean house (Tracey had made a frantic effort), and complimented Tracey on her parenting. Tracey had grinned, despite her best effort not to.
Donny had said that the person complaining would have been Di Masefield, who is his enemy. Tracey is interested, now, to see Donny’s ‘enemy’ in the flesh. She’s tall, with wild grey hair standing out from her head, and dressed in a fancy brown coat that looks odd among the ski jackets and pullovers. Her hands are weighted down with large jewelled rings. Her voice carries over the murmuring of the few other people in the hall: ‘… community initiative …’ she’s explaining to her entourage, ‘… commendable standard, considering. Just look at this! Wouldn’t be out of place in the city.’ Her jewelled hand flashes towards a painting in front of her.
Tracey breathes in sharply.
‘What?’ Donny whispers.
‘Tell you later.’
The group makes a quick inspection and goes out to Di’s Range Rover which is parked directly in front of the doorway, almost blocking the entrance. When the vehicle has truly disappeared, the two continue their own tour.
‘They like Vera,’ says Donny.
‘No they don’t. They’re laughing at her, can’t you see?’
Donny can’t see: the photos look just like Vera to him. ‘This one with the donkey, that’s really good, eh?’
Tracey sighs. ‘Oh, Donny.’
She edges him towards the painting which caught Di Masefield’s attention. It stands out from the other tame watercolours like a tiger in a cat show. There’s a placard beneath it: HONOURABLE MENTION, Adult watercolour.
‘Whoo hoo,’ says Donny, ‘somebody’s mad at something. What do you reckon it is?’
‘The mountain,’ says Tracey, ‘erupting.’ Why does Donny think she was angry? Donny can be so dumb and slow, and then come out with an idea that makes you think.
‘Yeah? The mountain?’ Donny puzzles over the wild colours and crazy erupting strokes. He laughs suddenly, his great hoot drawing attention from all around the room. ‘It’s beaut,’ he shouts. ‘Look at that old mountain blowing its top! Whoo hoo!’
Tracey jabs him in the ribs. ‘Shut up. Everyone’s looking. Shut up or I’m going.’ She can feel tears gathering; doesn’t know why.
Donny looks at her. Looks back at the painting. ‘Hey.’ He’s whispering now. ‘This T. Smith. That’s you, eh?’
She nods — a tiny movement. Her wild painting that seemed so ordinary back in her kitchen in the low lamplight trumpets its presence. The purple and green strokes (the only colours she could ‘find’) are too daring in this hall. She wants to rip it down, screw it up.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ she whispers, dragging at his arm.
They walk home quickly. The wind is keen and the dirty grey-brown clouds hint at snow. Across the railway line the beech trees at the edge of the bush are tossing their branches, sending flurries of tiny leaves into the air. Smoke from Bull’s chimney streams out flat, racing towards Ohakune. Tracey hugs Sky to her, leans across to pull the woolly cap further over Manny’s little ears. Donny is full of questions about the painting, but she walks on with her head down.
Inside Donny’s house they huddle close to the wood-burner until the fresh logs have caught and the room has snugged up again. Tracey can’t face the idea of going back to her cold kitchen, so she must put up with Donny’s endless questions.
‘What did that mean, that Honour thing under your painting? And the red sticker?’
‘Someone thought it was good and someone else bought it. The red dot shows it sold.’ Tracey fiddles with the kettle but she can’t help the pleasure showing.
‘Whoo hoo! You’re an artist, Trace. How much did you get?’
Tracey doesn’t know. She had thrust her painting at the lady who was collecting entries and asked her to put whatever price she thought right.
‘We might be rich! We could buy something for the babies!’
Tracey puts her mug down too quickly; tea sloshes onto the floor. ‘It’s my money, stupid, not ours! I earned it.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry.’
Donny’s crestfallen face makes her want to scream. Or cry. After all that he’s shared with her, she didn’t need to sound off like that. She places the apple box as a guard in front of the wood-burner — Sky is crawling now — then wipes up the spilt tea.
‘Hey,’ says Donny, quieter now, less excited. ‘You don’t need to cry. I know it’s your money. Don’t cry, Trace.’
He looks as if he might cry himself. Tracey flings herself into the chair by the fire. ‘I’m not crying!’ she sobs. ‘Bloody hell, Donny, leave me alone!’
Donny goes outside. When he comes back with an armful of wood, he stands in the doorway, uncertain, watching her.
Tracey wipes her eyes, picks up Sky’s slippers, puts them down again. ‘Did you go out because you were angry? Were you doing your one two three?’
Donny grins. ‘No, I went to get the wood. You don’t make me angry, Trace.’ He goes over to the wood-burner, stacks the logs, then asks her, ‘Were you angry when you painted that picture?’
She thinks about this. ‘No. I don’t think so. I was enjoying myself.’
‘You’re often angry, eh?’
‘Oh!’ Tracey jumps up, walks over to the window. ‘Let’s not talk about this. I’m just not used to being nice. I’ll get over it.’ She stares out the window, then comes back and picks up Sky. ‘Hey look, it’s snowing!’
Big fat gobs of snow are drifting down, blown this way and that by the wind. Sky waves her hands and giggles. Donny goes outside and dances in front of the window, letting the snow settle on his hair, his jersey, his eyebrows. He sticks out his tongue to catch the flakes, and Tracey laughs. He comes inside, covered in cold white fur, his cupped hands full of flakes. Sky plants her whole face into the delicate pile and shouts her surprise. Manny wakes in his cosy carrot box and stares up at his dripping dad.
‘Dry yourself off, you big idiot,’ says Tracey, ‘or we’ll have a flood in here.’ But she’s laughing. They all are. It’s wonderful.
That night Tracey sleeps for the first time on the lumpy mattress in Donny’s spare room, Sky tucked in beside her. Donny seems to take it for granted that she won’t go back across the road. After they’d watched a bit of television, he brushed his teeth and went off to bed, leaving her to find what she needed and settle herself. It felt good and natural and safe. Tracey can’t believe her luck, finding someone like Donny.
Next morning, before Donny roars off to work through the snowy landscape, he asks her, ‘Do you think about Nightshade much?’
The question, asked so simply, in the middle of breakfast, shakes her. ‘Donny, you mustn’t ever talk about it.’
He nods. ‘But do you?’
‘I try not to, but I do, yes.’
‘Yeah, me too. When it’s spring I’m going to plant a tree over her.’
After he’s gone, and she’s left with the babies, she sits a while at the table, looking out at the beauty of Manawa under snow. But even that bright and pristine landscape can’t lift the slow weight that is settling on her. The lightness of last night has gone. She fiddles with her spoon. She swallows, trying to stop the sick panic from rising. They are fools to think they can get away with this. Someone will surely find out. They’ll lock Donny away again. And her.
Sky wakes with a start, as if she’s caught her mother’s black thoughts. Her mouth opens to bellow her outrage. Manny follows suit, his smalle
r lungs producing a high-pitched scream, but Tracey sits there, unable, for a moment, to deal with it all. She lowers her head on to her hands and joins in.
The knock on the door is light, but she jumps nevertheless, checks from the window before she opens, but it’s only smiling old Delia from next door, in heavy boots and warm coat, holding out a knitted rug. She waits to be invited in, but Tracey can’t manage the ordinary rituals of greeting yet. She scowls, lost for the words. Delia waits a moment or two, then comes in anyway, but quietly, nothing like Donny’s usual exuberant rush.
‘It’s Tracey, isn’t it? Donny says you’re helping him with Manny.’
Tracey nods without looking up. The babies cry on.
‘I’m so glad. Has Donny told you he’s related to us?’
Tracey nods again.
‘My sister and I have knitted this rug for him.’ She unfolds the little blanket — a riot of mismatched colours — and laughs. ‘We used up all our scraps as you can see, but it will keep him warm.’ As she talks, she walks over to Manny’s carrot-box cradle and looks at him. His eyes are open and his tiny fists waving. ‘Would you mind if I held him?’
Tracey sighs. Delia picks up the baby, wraps him in the shawl and then turns to look at Tracey. She can feel the old eyes noticing her clothes, her tears, her uncombed hair. She wants, desperately, to be left alone.
‘I tell you what,’ says the old lady, ‘why don’t I take Manny over to our place for a while? Wouldn’t you like some time alone with your little one?’
‘I can manage. You don’t need to.’ Tracey’s voice is rough, angry; she can hear it herself, hear how rude it sounds, but can find no other way. In fact, she would love Delia to take Manny. She picks up Sky and cradles her. The silence, both babies content now, quietens her own unease. ‘Okay then, but don’t keep him for long.’
Delia seems impervious to Tracey’s lack of grace. ‘Thank you so much. My sister and I have little to do these days. It’s such a pleasure — the wee one. I can’t tell you how much …’ Her voice fades away. She stands by the door, gazing at the wide-eyed baby in her arms.
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