Vera sees George Kingi and goes to stand with her own Manawa supporters. She scans the players warming up on the field. ‘Bloody hell, George, that son of yours still injured?’
George nods in a preoccupied kind of way.
‘Don’t tell me Fitz is doing our kicking? He’s hopeless! We’ll never win with his boot.’
‘Now, Vera, give him a chance. He’s been working on it.’
But Vera can see he’s as worried as she is. Fitz is standing on the sideline, chatting up someone in a smart overcoat, not one of the locals. No doubt some new enterprise he has in mind. He bloody should be getting his eye in.
Vera stumps over to him. ‘Fitz, my boy, we’re relying on you. Get out there and line up a shot or two.’
‘Don’t panic,’ says Fitz, cocky as ever, ‘I’m ready.’ He turns back to the man — a townie for sure. ‘Stay and watch the match, Frank. You might have a laugh.’
But the man smiles, shakes Fitz’s hand and walks away.
A laugh! Vera is outraged.
At the beginning of the second half, Ohakune is ahead by three points. The smug look on the Masefield faces drives Vera mad.
‘For pity’s sake use a different kicker!’ she rages to George Kingi. ‘We’d be ahead if Fitz hadn’t missed those two shots.’
But George has another problem on his hands. Donny. He’s standing still on the field, marooned, it seems, while the play continues around him. George suspects Ethan. That bloody boy was taunting Donny during half-time.
‘Donny! Donny Mac!’ shouts George. ‘Wake up, boy! The game!’
Donny shakes his head, looks around, then charges down the field after the rest of the pack. His face is murderous. He roars into the ruck, comes up with the ball, pushes off a couple of tacklers and heads for the line. No one can stop him. He dots down between the posts, to the delight of the Manawa supporters, but just stares at the ball, frowning, until Fitz picks it up and this time manages to convert.
After another barnstorming run by Donny which results in a second try for Manawa and two Ohakune players nursing their wounds, George, afraid the boy will seriously hurt someone, if not himself, pulls him off the field. The crowd cheers him to the sideline, but Donny doesn’t seem to notice. He stomps up to the road and stands there by Bull’s car, staring back at the players but perhaps seeing nothing. Vera, pretty sure that the game is in the bag, and curious, decides to follow. Anyway, her feet are giving her gyp, and she’s hoping for a nip from Bull’s flask.
‘Something got your goat, eh?’ she says to the glowering lad.
Donny nods.
‘Was it one of the players?’
Donny kicks loose stones around. He won’t look at her. The Virgin has wound down the window now and is listening.
‘It was Ethan!’ Donny’s voice, too loud, is thankfully drowned by the shouting crowd: the game is over and Manawa has won the cup. ‘He said that he was probably Manny’s father, not me! He said I couldn’t do it properly!’
‘Good bloody God,’ says Vera, ‘that little prick! He’ll be the one couldn’t do it. Don’t take any notice, Donny.’
‘The others heard. They laughed.’
‘Well, they’re fools. Worse than fools.’ Vera looks in at Bull, who has surely heard but is staring ahead through the windscreen, unable, it seems, to offer a comforting word.
The Virgin is the one who reacts. She’s out of the car and heading down to the field before Donny or Vera realise what she’s up to. Encased in her outsize ski jacket, face hidden inside the hood, big boots clomping, she barrels across to the Masefield group like a dark nightmare. Vera sees the swift punch, sees Ethan crumple to the ground, clutching his privates. Then the bundle that is the Virgin marches away, tripping once or twice on the coat, but no one is laughing. She reaches the car and climbs back in without a word, picks up Sky and gives her a cuddle.
‘Whoo hoo, Trace,’ says Donny.
Vera is not so pleased. Those Masefields are dangerous.
For a week after the rugby final, Di Masefield entertains the idea that Pansy Holloway’s illegitimate child might be her grandson. Ethan’s taunts to the unfortunate Donny Mac could well be the truth. The idea carries a certain charm. She longs to walk down the street with a trusting little hand in hers; can hear herself explaining to admiring friends how she has rescued the poor little mite. She imagines dressing him smartly, reading him stories, sending him to a good school where he does exceptionally well. None of her three children is particularly close. Di occasionally pauses in her rush from activity to activity and thinks rather wistfully of lost opportunities: Sunday lunches where the grown children return to enjoy a roast, play a game or two and leave after bestowing hugs. A loving little grandchild might bring a certain glow back to their too-large, too-empty house.
The drawback to these imaginings, of course, would be Pansy Holloway. Di’s dream of grandparenthood does not involve the mother; even Ethan is a shadowy bit-player somewhere in the background. If Pansy returned, ownership would become messy and unpleasant.
Di writes to Iris Holloway with whom she has been in intermittent contact over a business venture in Auckland.
Dear Iris
I am concerned over the fate of your grandson. Has Pansy spoken to you about him? He is being cared for — if ‘caring’ is the right word — by a dim-witted boy who claims to be the father. The sad fact is that Pansy bestowed her favours rather liberally in Ohakune. My own son Ethan has claimed, rather half-heartedly, to be the culprit. Hence my letter.
Does Pansy show any interest in the child? Has she even contacted you since she left here? I rather fear she has simply discarded an unwelcome encumbrance and moved on. My guess is that she has not confided in you. Our children can be a trial, can they not? But if we are the grandmothers of this unfortunate child, do we not bear some duty towards him?
We have had our disappointments in our children, you and I. We cannot always choose what we are given. Perhaps here is a chance to start afresh with a new little soul.
With best wishes
Diana Masefield
Di waits a fortnight. She even finds herself eyeing baby clothes in Buck’s Drapery. But when no reply comes, she finds her interest waning. Di admits she’s always attracted by a new project; she’s equally quick to move on when the project stalls. She hears news of movement in the ongoing sewage scheme for Manawa, and grandmotherhood is put on the back burner for the time being.
‘Well then, Andrew, let’s have a look,’ she says briskly, studying the plans spread on his desk. ‘That bunch of protesters has folded then?’
‘Not exactly folded, no not at all, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say that we came to a compromise.’
Di eyes him across the desk. ‘Compromise is a dangerous thing, Andrew. Leads to wishy-washy agreements that don’t stand up in court.’
Andrew smiles mildly back at her. ‘I think you’ll find we’ve done our homework. It’s rather clever. We’re all signed and sealed. Digging started yesterday.’
In Di’s opinion, Andrew is not up to the job. She takes in his lack of tie, crumpled shirt, glasses mended with sellotape. Hair already receding. Di, who possesses extremely vigorous hair, believes that abundant hair in older men denotes a strong personality. She sighs. ‘Well, let’s see what you’ve given away.’
Andrew taps the plan. ‘Designated Open Spaces,’ he says.
‘What?’
Andrew is all too ready to explain. ‘Designated Open Spaces. A rather neat concept. The protest group, you see, complained that bringing in a sewage scheme would allow subdivision, thus ruining the rural nature of Manawa. Now—’ he indicates several shaded sections on the plan, some blue, some red — ‘there are many empty sections in Manawa, as you know.’
He smiles up at Di and she becomes uneasy. What is this weasel up to? Is he aware of her property interests in Manawa? She’s been careful to disguise some of her purchases under the name of a trust. Doesn’t want to start a rush. Sections are a
s cheap as dirt in Manawa, and she has her eye on several more.
‘Some of the empty sections are Crown land—’ he taps the plan again—, ‘those marked in blue. And several more county land — the red ones. These we have posted as Designated Open Spaces. Can’t be sold. They will protect the rural nature, you see. Open fields dotted throughout the settlement for the enjoyment of all.’ He beams. ‘We bring sewage to Manawa. They retain a degree of rural atmosphere.’
Di studies the plan. She’s appalled. ‘But Andrew, there’s no pattern to this. They’re dotted everywhere. No rhyme or reason.’
Andrew nods. ‘Exactly. That’s the beauty of it. These just happen to be sections that have fallen into Crown or county hands over the years. Quite haphazard. The protest group spokesman was rather complimentary.’
Di can scarcely contain her rage. She pretends to study the plan in detail but can see all too clearly that several of the sections crucial to her chalet-village scheme are now wretched Open Spaces. There are more than twenty marked here. ‘This one,’ she says, pointing to a red-shaded section close to two of hers and opposite Donny’s place. ‘Where’s your entrepreneurial spirit, Andrew? The county could be making much-needed money by selling this, not making ridiculous compromises. I’d make an offer myself.’
Andrew stands. ‘Done and dusted, Di. Not for sale.’ He offers his hand, which she is forced to shake. ‘You’ll get a copy of the plan in the mail. Now. I’ve got another meeting.’
Di drives back to Ohakune, her mind racing. Could she somehow incorporate Open Spaces as part of the chalet-plan design? Could someone higher up be persuaded to sell a few lots? She blares her horn at a cow that has wandered onto the road, then slams on the brakes as the cow stalls and turns to face her. She glares at the silly placid animal. Every bloody thing is against her today.
What is it, she rages to herself, as she continues on through the bright morning landscape — what is it about sad, run-down old Manawa that seems to bring out rushes of sentimentality in otherwise rational people? How, for instance, does it manage to field a rugby team, let alone a whole bunch of supporters? Manawa’s time as an independent town is long gone. The few permanent inhabitants are odd-balls and misfits, remaining because they lack the initiative to move elsewhere; the school will inevitably close soon; the sad excuse for a second-hand store has already shut down. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to retain anything about Manawa, let alone its ‘rural nature’?
She roars into the service station, slaps away the young lad who offers to help and fills up herself. On the newsstand the Ruapehu Bulletin headlines the satisfactory sewage compromise: Double victory for brave little community! Rugby Cup and Open Spaces!
If she was not a strong and rational woman (the last, it would seem, in this neck of the woods), Di Masefield would be inclined to shed a tear.
That year, when Sky and Manny were lively two-year-olds, was the time of — among other things — the Guardian Angel craze. Like the bending-forks-and-persuading-old-watches-to-tick-again craze a few years earlier. This time, a visiting self-styled expert on the occult toured the country speaking eloquently and persuasively about the presence of personal guardian angels who hovered close at hand, ready to bring succour if only we paid attention. Donny saw the interview on TV and instantly recognised a purple aura glimmering above the Virgin’s head. Tracey, on the other hand, declared that you had to look out for yourself and she wasn’t going to shift responsibility onto any dodgy guardian angel. ‘Anyway, mine would be green, not purple,’ she said. But later Donny saw a painting she’d done of Sky and Manny, each with a coloured halo: pale blue for Sky and purply-red for Manny.
Lovey, always different, always spooky, declared her guardian was a two-headed taniwha, black with green spots. Old Roe McAneny declared the craze to be a plot of the Pope’s and forbade any mention of guardian angels within the four walls of her house. Aureole McAneny hugged her personal guardian’s thrilling violet aura to herself, and called the angel closer only when Miss Roe was asleep.
Guardian angels were sorely needed that year in Manawa on account of the film shoot. That calamity came later. But, early in the year, Bull and Vera’s shoe story was a pretty good sign that they existed. The shoe story gave them all hope.
It started with the appearance of someone in Bull Howie’s back garden. Someone or something was there, right down the bottom by the stream. Bull drew back the curtain just far enough. He tilted his head and squinted to get a better long-distance view. The shifting brownish blob could be Vera, in which case it was safe to go down. Or it could be a heifer from next door, which posed no problem either. The third possibility — a stranger — was the worry. Vera could tease him as much as she liked, it wasn’t going to change a thing. ‘Accept it, Vera,’ he’d said on several occasions, ‘I’m just like this. Dragging me screaming out the gate into the open won’t help matters.’
A suggestion that had both of them laughing. It would be like a lumpy round ball trying to shift a solid wall. A neat and tidy wall, mind you. Bull might be nervous of people these days, but no one could say he’d let himself go. Even his gardening shoes were polished to brilliance each night and his fingernails cleaned after the housework.
Bull cursed his eyesight. Definitely getting worse. But the alternative — a visit to the new optometrist in town — was too difficult. He tiptoed across the back porch and into the shed. The view from here was better. It looked pretty much like Vera. He opened the window and risked a shout.
‘Vera! Is that you?’
The lump straightened, raised an arm and bent back to the soil again. Vera. Bull’s world settled down comfortably. He stepped out of his house-slippers, laced up the shining gardening shoes and strode down the path.
‘Well, Vera, this is all very nice, doing my gardening for me, but I’m not quite incapacitated yet, you know. What’s all this about?’
‘I’m giving you my bloody tulips,’ muttered Vera without looking up. ‘The sulky dodos won’t flower up at my place. Last year, not even one bud.’
Bull wanted to stop her scrabbling in his neat beds, but recognised the black mood and held his peace. Flattery might help, he thought.
‘If they won’t flower with all the chicken manure and TLC you give them, they’re not going to do better here.’
Vera straightened up with a groan. ‘I thought the precious little darlings might prefer your poncey regimented rows. If you don’t want them, chuck them in the river, I don’t care.’
Dear oh dear, thought Bull, this is bad. A cup of tea is needed post haste.
‘Of course I want them,’ he said, ‘it’s very generous. Now leave the rest to me and come in for a cuppa.’
He steered Vera up the path, noticing that the limp was worse, and in his courtly fashion stopped at the door to remove her boots. She usually liked that. He stroked the lovely new leather but frowned to see the gaping tongues. Vera had left her new boots unlaced. Hello, what’s this, he thought, but waited until she was settled with her tea and dipping a gingernut.
He swept a crumb or two from the table into his palm and popped them in the bin.
‘Now come on, Vera, this is not like you. What’s brought on this fit of the blues? Eh?’
Vera sighed. Today everything about her drooped, and Vera drooping was not a pretty sight. Often the forthright way she stumped through life disguised the general seediness of her clothes and hair. When her face came alive with a laugh or a bit of gossip, Bull could even surprise himself by finding her handsome. Almost. But not today. Sitting at his spotless kitchen table was a sad and grubby old lady.
She sighed again but said nothing. Bull took a deep breath and prepared to do battle. Dirt and depression brought out the best in him, especially if the problem was contained within the firmly fenced boundaries of his own section.
‘It’s not just the tulips, is it, Vera? You wouldn’t let a few bulbs get the better of you? Come on, spit it out, old girl.’
Vera frowned, eyes snapping. ‘Old girl yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re more one than I am, any day of the week.’
Bull laughed. This was more like it. ‘Battle lines drawn, is it?’ he said. ‘Scrum goes down at halfway? Silly old bag!’
But Vera wouldn’t rise to it. Her shoulders slumped again. She flapped an arm out the window at the cloudless sky.
‘Ah Bull, I can’t keep my pecker up. Doesn’t it get you down too?’
‘Doesn’t what in particular?’
‘Just every-bloody-thing. Nothing’s right anymore. The weather. Look at this! Summer only just started and we’re parched as if it’s autumn. No wonder the tulips won’t flower. Where’s their cold winter gone? Where are our nice crisp mountain mornings, eh? When did you last wake up fresh and frosty? What happened to the dew? My lettuces are wilted first thing in the morning and so am I. I can’t feel right without my seasons in place, Bull, and neither should you! To be honest, I don’t much feel the point in going on, with the weather screwed up like this. Anyone can see the world is running into the sun and we’re all headed for the furnace. I’m hot and uncomfortable. I itch all over, and my feet hurt. Oh!’ Vera almost screamed. ‘I could cut them both off!’
Bull let a little silence develop.
Vera said, ‘Ah well, it’s age, I suppose. Golden years, my aching bloody feet!’
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