It’s as if her clockwork has wound down. Tracey is fearful for a moment that the old lady might be having a heart attack. She moves towards her, ready to take Manny, but Delia comes to life again.
‘Well then. I will bring him back a little later. Thank you, my dear.’
And she climbs slowly, carefully, down the steps and away into the white land.
Donny rams his head into Bull’s home-made contraption of wood and carpet, keeping his back straight and knees bent. He can feel Bull’s hand pressing on his shoulders, flattening them, then running down along his spine, ending with a congratulatory slap on his rump.
‘Good lad, Donny, straight as a pikestaff. Can you feel that you’ve got it right?’
Donny comes up grinning. ‘Yeah, it feels good, Mr Howie. Am I ready then?’
‘George says he’ll give you a start, yes. Tight head. So don’t you let him down. Will the Virgin look after Manny?’
‘She likes to be called Tracey, Mr Howie.’ Donny’s face is serious. ‘Tracey Smith.’
Bull walks with him up from the back garden where Donny goes through his paces on a Wednesday after work, up past the neat rows of carrots and cabbage to the back door. ‘That wouldn’t be the T. Smith who did the painting in the exhibition?’
Donny slaps Bull on the shoulder and Bull rears back as if shot. ‘Don’t do that, Donny! You gave me a fright.’
‘Sorry, sorry, Mr Howie. But it was her! She did that beaut painting!’
‘And I bought it. I’m going to frame it and hang it over my mantelpiece.’
‘Whoo hoo! Wait till Trace hears that! How much did you pay?’
Bull sighs. Donny’s exuberance is wearing him down. But there is something he wants to speak to him about. ‘Come inside for a moment, Donny, I want a word.’
Donny Mac eyes Bull anxiously. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
But Bull shakes his head and ushers him inside. Donny is the only person, apart from Vera, who is ever invited in. No one (least of all Donny) knows what has made Bull the way he is. As a young man he played senior rugby, travelling to fixtures all around the country; in his thirties and forties he worked in the draper’s shop in Ohakune, friendly to all and sundry, a regular at the RSA club, even though he’d never seen war service. But at a certain stage in his life he began to withdraw from his friends. It happened slowly, over the years, no one really noticing. Sometimes he’ll watch the club rugby, but even that is often too much — or too far from his own front gate.
Now he hands Donny a towel to wipe off the sweat, seats him at the kitchen table and hands him a glass of water. He’s hopeful that Donny is learning that alcohol is not for him. He’s also hoping that this is a good moment — Donny being relaxed after the training — to bring up the subject of Nightshade Holloway. Donny seems to have erased her from his thoughts, but surely her return is a very messy probability. Bull can imagine the boy losing control again, becoming violent.
‘So is the Virgin … Tracey … living in your house now, Donny?’ Bull is curious about the girl who paints so surprisingly well and yet has lived in Manawa for the last year or more as secretively as a small wild animal.
Donny grins. ‘She sort of lives in my house, but sometimes she goes back to the shack. She’s shy.’
Shy isn’t the beginning of it, in Bull’s opinion. Scared might be closer to the mark. He recognises and understands the behaviour.
When Bull mentions the possibility of Nightshade returning, being angry to find another woman looking after Manny, Donny shows no anxiety. He frowns, then assures Bull that there’s no possibility of that happening.
‘You can’t be sure of that, Donny,’ says Bull. ‘You need to think what you would do.’
Donny is becoming agitated. ‘I can be sure, Mr Howie. I can. Please can we stop talking about her?’ He gets up, makes for the door. ‘I can’t talk about it.’
Bull goes to the boy, takes him by the shoulders and brings him back to the chair. Donny is trembling; he glances this way and that as if looking for an escape route. Bull hasn’t seen him like this since his grandfather died.
‘Donny,’ he says, ‘tell me truthfully. You didn’t hurt her?’
Donny looks up at him. ‘No, I never did. Never once. I never hurt her, Mr Howie.’
Bull can see it’s the truth and breathes a sigh of relief. He decides to change the subject, see if he can’t get to the bottom of whatever is on Donny’s mind.
‘Donny, your grandfather was a Catholic, wasn’t he?’
Donny looks quickly to Bull, grateful, it seems, for the change. ‘Oh, yeah. But I don’t go to church now.’
‘Fair enough.’ Bull was raised Catholic but doesn’t brave the trip in to church either. ‘Remember how your grandfather had you baptised when you came to live here? I think he would have liked you to baptise little Manny. Especially as he has the same name.’
‘Yeah. I remember being christened. You were my godfather.’
‘I still am. You could get the priest to come out here and bless Manny. Just in case.’
‘In case what?’
‘Well, in case he got sick and died.’
Donny roars, ‘He’s well, he’s good, Mr Howie, he’s not dying.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I know.’ Bull sighs. He doesn’t seem able to get anything right today. ‘But it’s a good thing to do. And I’ve made something for him. Look at this.’ Bull opens a drawer and brings out the lacy gown. He lays it on the table, spreading the little ruched sleeves, smoothing the long filigree skirt which he’s been working on for the last several weeks.
The sight of the lovely thing seems to calm Donny. He stares at it. ‘Hey, is this for Manny?’
‘It’s a christening gown. Manny could wear it if you have him christened.’
Donny fingers the lace carefully. ‘It’s beaut. You could be his godfather too. Is that allowed?’ He rattles on now, making plans for a party, wondering whether Sky might be christened too, whether Bull might be godfather to both babies and might make another gown, whether Vera could be godmother if she washed her hands. Or maybe the old ladies, since they’re related. Bull is relieved that the corner seems to have been turned, but the unreality of the plans is striking. What about the mother? The spectre of Nightshade returning and disrupting proceedings is surely a real one? Donny is unrealistic to think he has seen the last of her. And yet. Vera’s mention of screams the night the woman disappeared; Donny’s certainty that she’s gone for good; Mona’s report that Nightshade had no intention of moving on. Bull doesn’t want to put these thoughts together, wants to push them away, but they will crowd in.
He smiles, though, to see this precious young man so happy at last. ‘We’ll see,’ he says gently. ‘We’ll ring the priest and ask him, shall we?’
‘Miss Delia, Miss Aureole, we will definitely not be going to a Papist christening!’ Roe McAneny addresses her sisters formally only when at her most adamant. She stands in the middle of the kitchen, leaning on her stick, her breath coming in short gasps, her free hand visibly trembling. Delia fears (or hopes) she is about to have a heart attack.
‘But Roe,’ wails Aureole, ‘Donny has asked Delia to be godmother.’
‘Their God,’ says Roe, ‘is not ours. McAnenys are Presbyterian. It is quite impossible—’ she pauses to steady herself, lays a hand on the floury table — ‘that our great-nephew could submit to a priest’s blessing.’
Delia continues to beat butter and sugar. ‘Nevertheless,’ she says quietly, ‘it will happen whether we are there or not. Donny’s branch of the family have been Catholics for three generations. I have accepted the invitation. I will go.’
‘No, Miss Delia. You will not disobey me this time.’
Aureole looks from one sister to the other. ‘Oh! But surely!’ She can think of nothing to say that will help this terrible crisis.
Delia beats steadily on, the butter and sugar becoming a beautiful creamy white under her hand. This is to be Manny’s christening cake
. ‘The ceremony,’ she says, ‘will not be in a Papist church. The priest is coming to Donny’s house. I think we can make an exception.’
‘We cannot.’
Roe’s distress is painful to see. Delia knows that, despite her protestations, her sister has accepted Manny as a family member. She’s caught Roe standing, when she thinks no one is watching, gazing into the makeshift cradle in the kitchen where little Manny is asleep. But a Catholic christening is one step too far. It would be tantamount to admitting guilt in the failure to recognise, all those years ago, Donny’s deserter great-grandfather, her own Papist brother. Too much, too big a step for one as old and set in her ways as Roe McAneny.
Delia puts down her bowl. She smiles at her two agitated sisters. ‘I have an idea,’ she says.
Two days later, all is prepared at Donny’s place. Donny, bursting with pride, wearing a tie and tweed jacket donated by Bull, his dark hair cut neatly by Tracey, his work shoes polished, stands in the back yard beside a trestle table laden with food. Bull has bravely walked the distance, arm in arm with Vera, who has invented a constant stream of gossip to keep his mind distracted. Vera has brought her chocolate rice-bubble clusters even though it’s not Easter. Fitz Smart, who has closed his ‘emporium’ in the belief that his fortunes are about to change dramatically for the better, has brought a bundle of all his second-hand clothes. ‘The babies won’t need to buy a thing for the next ten years,’ he says with his usual breezy confidence.
Earlier, the Kingi boys laid down a hangi at the bottom of the garden; they are now busy unwrapping the fragrant meats and roots. The priest, his vestments flapping in the light breeze, shakes Bull’s hand and talks about rugby. Tracey has spent all morning on sandwiches, using leftover bread from the New World and eggs from Vera’s chooks — donated not stolen.
Lovey Kingi holds the hand of an old fellow vaguely familiar to Donny as a rugby supporter. She drags him forward to meet the proud dad.
‘This is Koro Pita from my kohanga. Is it okay if he comes along?’
Donny grins at serious little Lovey; shakes hands with Koro Pita. ‘More the merrier!’ he shouts. ‘Welcome, Koro Pita!’
Koro Pita, thickset, grizzle haired, is dressed formally like Donny, in tie and jacket, a smart black fedora on his head. He leans on a stick elaborately carved. ‘Kia ora, Donny,’ he says. ‘Thought maybe your little fella might be joining the kohanga in a year or two so we’d better get acquainted.’ Lovey hops up and down, still holding his hand, and Koro Pita chuckles. ‘She has us all organised, this little teina. She wanted the whole kohanga to come along too but I said one koro would be enough.’
‘There’s only seven more of us,’ says Lovey, looking up hopefully from under her dark fringe, ‘and Nanny Tangi and Aunty Rita.’
‘That’s enough, Lovey,’ says Koro Pita firmly, but already Lovey has taken Donny’s grin as an invitation and sped away. Koro shakes his head and sighs. ‘A handful, that one.’ He clears his throat a little uncertainly. ‘The aunties want me to say a short karakia over the new little one. Given his Maori ancestry.’
‘Yeah?’ Donny’s uncertain too. ‘What about the priest?’
The old man looks up at the mountain as if gathering strength from it. ‘To be honest, the aunties are more into all this than me. But I could say a few words if the priest gave the thumbs-up. Shall we ask him?’
Turns out Father Benedict is quite familiar with sharing the ceremony. ‘Look, no problems, fellows, we do this all the time. I’ll do the formal blessing with the holy water, and then what else follows, it’s not going to change anything, is it? Actually, you might be in for another little surprise.’ He nods in the direction of the road, where the McAnenys’ ancient Austin Princess is approaching at a snail’s pace.
Everyone crowds to the front of Donny’s house to admire the shining old car, large enough to carry eight in comfort. In the front seat, Roe McAneny, her face grim, is chauffeured by her sister Aureole. In the copious rear are Delia and a tall man.
‘It’s Reverend Stevens!’ says Tina Kingi, looking in some alarm at Father Benedict. ‘Have we got a fight on our hands here?’
But the priest spreads his arms as if inviting all to partake of the loaves and fishes. He winks at Donny. ‘Don’t worry, my boy, it’s all arranged. The good Lord understands. We’re not in any consecrated church here.’ He lowers his voice to whisper, ‘But I’ll go first. Your boy will be a proper Catholic.’
Miss Roe descends with difficulty. The brief ride was necessary not only to save her aching legs but also to transport the magnificent cake which Delia and Aureole carry to the table. The frosting on its two tiers sparkles in the sun; there are three candles (‘For Manny’s three great-aunts,’ explains Aureole); and the plate has a tartan border, no doubt reinforcing the Scottish Presbyterian ancestry. Reverend Stevens, taller, thinner and less jolly than the priest, shakes hands solemnly with Father Benedict and Donny, then walks over to inspect the food table, perhaps at a loss over what might happen next. Roe proceeds slowly to one of the two chairs and settles herself.
‘Let’s get the ball rolling, eh?’ Father Benedict claps Donny on the back. ‘Where’s the little man?’ He looks to the back door, and there is Bull, his arms gently holding the resplendent baby, the lacy white gown cascading over his hands and down almost to his knees. Manny blinks in the sunlight; waves his little fists as if responding to a cheering crowd.
‘Oh, the little darling!’ cries Aureole. ‘The little McAneny!’
‘Trace! Trace!’ shouts Donny, torn between pride and anxiety. ‘Come on, it’s starting!’
‘Go on, you big lump,’ mutters Vera, ‘go in and bring her out.’
Donny runs up the steps and into the kitchen. There’s the Virgin, hiding in the bedroom, holding Sky. The solemn little child is dressed in a lacy petticoat made from one of Bull’s antimacassars.
But Tracey, white faced, is stuck, it seems. ‘Go on,’ she says, giving Donny a shove. ‘I’m not coming.’
Donny takes Sky from her, and settles the baby in the crook of his elbow. Then he links arms with Tracey and walks her into the kitchen. He stands with her at the door, the three of them looking down at the little group on the back lawn.
‘You can do it, Trace,’ whispers Donny, gentle for once, ‘don’t be scared.’
For a moment everyone is silent. Tracey trembles and Donny thinks she will bolt, but then Aureole begins to clap.
‘It’s like a wedding! Is it a wedding too?’
The Virgin rolls her eyes and snorts, but her mood is broken. She descends and walks arm in arm with Donny up to the priest.
‘This is Tracey Smith and Sky,’ says Donny. ‘Would you mind doing her baby too?’
‘Well,’ says Father Benedict, ‘well now, isn’t this the strangest christening? Is the little one a Catholic then?’
‘Whatever,’ says the Virgin. ‘Whatever Manny is, Sky is too.’
‘This is Manawa, Father,’ says Bull, grinning. ‘Things tend to be a bit different here. Could you make an exception perhaps?’
So, under the good warm sun, Emanuel Munroe McAneny and Sky Smith are blessed three times. First the holy water welcomes them into the Catholic congregation, then Koro Pita blesses them in te reo Maori, pointing with his carved staff at the mountain, Ruapehu, and the river Mangahuehu which will now be theirs, and bestowing upon them Maori bird names — the cheeky weka for Manny and tiny hihi for Sky. Finally, Reverend Stevens steps forward. Roe gestures to her sisters to help her up. She glowers at priest and koro, lays a proprietary hand on Manny, and gives the reverend the nod. Sky is no part of her plan, but Donny and Tracey think otherwise. Both babies receive a stern Presbyterian blessing. Roe nods grimly. In her mind the last blessing will annul any that came before.
‘Whoo hoo, lucky babies!’ shouts Donny Mac.
It always surprises Vera to see how many people turn up to the rugby. None of the townies, of course — they’ll be up the mountain skiing if it’s fine and in
the pub if the mountain’s closed. But on days like this, when Manawa plays Ohakune, the sports field beside Manawa school is lined with bundled-up spectators, plenty of them supporting Manawa.
George Kingi’s down on the field warming up the Manawa boys — he’s had a tough time recently with Mona and needs to get out of the house, in Vera’s opinion. And there’s Bull’s motor parked up on the road where he can get a good view. She knocks on his windscreen.
‘You lazy old bugger, Bull, you could walk up here in the time it takes you to get the car started!’ But she’s only joking. It’s good he’s come. If he needs the security of the enclosed space, that’s his business.
Bull smiles at her through the window and gestures at the empty seat beside him. Vera shakes her head. She likes to be within shouting distance of the players. Maybe later when her legs give out … She pauses, though, for a moment, at the sight of the dark bundle on the back seat.
‘What’ve you got in behind there, Bull?’ And then laughs to see a face almost hidden in the folds. It’s the Virgin.
Bull winds the window down a fraction. ‘Donny wanted her and the babies to see him play. She’s a bit shy of a crowd.’
You and her both, thinks Vera, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a step forward that Bull allows the Virgin in the car. She waves at them both, then trudges through the gate and down on to the verge, pulling her old greatcoat tighter. There’s a nip in the wind even though the pale sun is out.
Donny Mac’s there, proud as punch, his jersey spotless, his socks pulled up, headgear already laced in place.
‘Go Donny boy, you show ’em!’ shouts Vera. She loves the excitement of these games, particularly when it’s against Ohakune. More than once George has had to restrain her from charging on to the field. Today should be a good one too. Manawa is in with a chance for the cup.
Vera spots the Ohakune mob. There’s Di Masefield and that poisonous son of hers, Ethan, who has never played the game but pronounces on every move as though he has swallowed the rule-book. Today Ethan is standing hand in hand with young Betty Leong. Vera grins to see them. Ethan’s flirtation with homosexuality lasted only as long as the threat of being named the father of Nightshade’s baby. Now that Nightshade has disappeared, Ethan’s ‘boyfriend’ has been given the boot and Betty, the daughter of wealthy market gardeners, has taken his place at Ethan’s side. Di must be pleased. Or maybe not? More than likely her rich seam of prejudice extends to the Chinese.
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