Heartland

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘You hungry then?’

  Lovey nods.

  ‘Mum’s sick again?’

  Lovey frowns, takes breath to deny it, then nods again.

  Vera sighs. Under all her gruff talk, she’s fond of Lovey. ‘Go on then, and take enough for your brothers and Tina too.’

  On the table is a tin heaped with Vera’s notorious chocolate rice-bubble clusters, either rabbits or chickens, equally lumpy, equally indecipherable.

  Lovey darts forward, picks up a handful. ‘Thanks.’ She bites off a lump which might or might not have been a head, and stomps away into the night, waving the rest of the rabbits aloft in salute.

  Vera shuts the door. She lowers her heavy body onto the other kitchen chair, shoves the tin of chocolates towards Bull. He shakes his head, but then catches her eye and takes one. It comes apart in his big hands, but he carefully collects the pieces and eats them slowly. He finishes the last crumb and rises, pours the whisky, adds the Nescaf and boiling water, all without a word.

  Vera waits. They both sip.

  ‘It’s a bit of a shock,’ she says at last. ‘What do you make of that then, Bull?’

  ‘It’s bad news.’

  ‘You know something then? For sure?’

  Bull nods slowly. ‘God help us, I do. Has he spoken to you?’

  ‘Donny?’

  ‘Donny.’

  ‘No, Bull, he hasn’t. I’ve had a hunch these past two years. Saw him plant that tree. Seen him visit that patch of bush, carrying a flower or two. He’s not good at secrets, our Donny.’

  They sip at their whisky.

  Vera touches her old friend’s hand. ‘Did he say something to you, Bull?’

  Tears are rolling down his cheeks. ‘He did. It troubled him, Vera, and it came out — oh, about a year ago. I had my suspicions.’

  ‘He hurt her?’

  Bull looks up quickly. ‘No, no, he didn’t. I don’t think I could have kept quiet if he had. He didn’t touch her. She was drunk, it seems. Was shaking the baby. The Virgin helped him get little Manny away from her. That whore must have fallen and hit her head.’

  ‘Dear God. I thought Donny might have lost his temper.’

  Bull looks at her now. He could be pleading for his own life. ‘That’s what they both feared, you see — that everyone would think Donny killed her. They were probably right at that. And they were scared they’d lose their babies.’

  Vera gets the kettle from the range, adds more whisky and hot water. ‘George must know too. Or at least suspect. For Christ’s sake, does the whole of Manawa know?’

  Bull wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

  Vera snorts. ‘Well, we’d better bloody stop them digging around in that block or we’ll all be for it, let alone Donny and Trace.’

  Bull finishes his whisky, pushes back the chair and stands up. His voice shakes. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now and sleep on it.’

  Vera knows better than to push him. ‘Good idea, Bull. We’ll sort something out tomorrow.’ But inside she’s cursing. She stands too and goes for her coat, trying to keep her chatter light.

  ‘Well, think of that other film. All that hoo-ha — can they use the hall, can they drive a truck through Stan’s derelict shed — and then nothing came of it. Some foreign money-bags pulled out at the last minute. This one might well fall through too. We’ll both sleep on it. I’ll have a word with Fitz in the morning. It’ll be his doing. He was crowing last week about having an important paid job. Some sort of location scout for a big-wig down in Wellington. Surely he can find another decent location. Empty sections are two a penny.’

  Bull helps her on with the stiff old oilskin as if it were good wool; holds the door open as she bumps the battered pram with its empty rattling dishes down the steps.

  ‘A lovely meal,’ he says, as he does every night except Sunday. ‘Delicious, Vera.’

  And then, as she turns on the path to wave, as she does every time, Bull speaks from the doorway, his voice gruff.

  ‘Should we tell Donny, do you think?’

  ‘Bull. We said we’d sleep on it and that’s what we’ll do. No need to panic them yet. Who knows what Donny will get up to if he’s in a stew.’

  Vera feels suddenly angry as she rattles her way home. Not with Bull or Donny, just the unfairness of things; the way something good looks like it’s going to unravel and end up a bloody mess. She glances up and over her shoulder. Where’s her famous Blue Beauty then? Her newly discovered guardian angel? And Bull’s? And Donny’s? They are all going to need them now.

  George Kingi, standing at the window, sees the dark shape of Vera and the pram heading up the road, picked out for a moment in the light from his window, and then gone. He raises a hand in salute, knowing she doesn’t see, but smiling all the same. One steadfast rock in all this mess — Vera and her meals on wheels.

  George is on the phone to Fitz. ‘Fitzy, the boys tell me you’ve got a location in mind down our way?’

  ‘It’s a beauty, mate, perfect for the shoot. The boss is sure to be pleased.’ Fitz’s breezy confidence always annoys George — this evening especially.

  ‘It’s not settled then?’

  ‘Will be, will be, trust me. Our rugby team might be roped in as extras. I already spread the word.’

  George takes a breath to steady himself.

  ‘You still there, George?

  ‘I’m here. Listen, Fitz, I want you to change the location. There’s a nice piece of bush at the north end of our paddock—’

  Fitz butts in, no respect for his coach, in a hurry as usual. ‘Sorry, mate, I like this one — easy access, a few open spaces for the trenches, view of the mountain from the south end. Perfect. Di Masefield’s already given it the go-ahead.’

  ‘What’s Di got to do with it?’

  ‘Some kind of permission for non-notified activity. Anyway, got to go. Cheers, mate.’

  And he’s gone. George puts down the phone and sees Lovey standing in the doorway, watching. Listening too no doubt, the monkey.

  Lovey’s frowning — her favourite expression. ‘I told them, Dad. Bull says thanks. Vera sent some choc—’ Lovey inspects the sticky handful — ‘rabbits, I think. Shall I take one to Mum?’

  They can both hear Mona shouting to herself in the bedroom. The boys have turned up the TV, trying to drown out the awful words.

  George sighs. ‘Let’s give it a go. Come and we’ll help her pack.’

  On the outside of the envelope Delia writes carefully:

  A situation has arisen which may necessitate my making this statement. If Donald Munroe McAneny is arrested for murder and I am not in a fit state to make a statement — or am deceased — this envelope is to be passed to the police.

  She re-reads what she has written:

  To Whom It May Concern:

  This is an account of what I saw on the night of May 22nd — two years ago at this time of writing.

  My sight and hearing are very good for a person of my age as my medical records will attest. Also, though I have in the past suffered from depression — a withdrawal I would rather call it — on the night I describe I had recovered my health fully and believe that this account may be trusted.

  The back garden of our property at 37 Miro Street, Manawa, touches at one corner the property (10 Hohepa Road) of Donald McAneny, my great-nephew. The woman named, I believe, Pansy Holloway was living in his house and had given birth some weeks earlier to a child whom she claimed to have been fathered by him. While Donny was at work that day, I saw her in Donny’s back yard, drinking directly from a bottle of spirits. The baby was crying, which troubled me greatly. I am ashamed to say that I did not intervene as I was fearful of Pansy’s frequent rages.

  When Donny returned from work — about 5 p.m. — I heard Pansy scream at him. Her language was unrepeatable, but the gist was that Donny had not brought her any cigarettes. I was standing on our back porch. It had become my habit to keep watch, out of concern
for the baby — and for my great-nephew. Donny appeared in the garden, holding the baby and feeding him a bottle. Pansy continued to shout at him from the kitchen steps. I called to Donny to bring the baby over, but I don’t think he heard over Pansy’s shouting.

  Soon after that — it might have been shortly before 6 p.m. — it became dark, with a bitter chill in the air, and Donny took the baby inside. Pansy’s shouting continued. I should say she was screaming — she was — but I do not wish her sounds to be misconstrued. The screams were filled with rage, not fear. My sister Aureole called me in for our dinner but I remained on the porch.

  I must now recount very clearly what I heard and saw.

  A shadow appeared outside Donny’s kitchen window. Someone was looking inside. I believe it was Tracey Smith who lived opposite. The screams inside were very loud and I also heard Donny pleading with Pansy to give him the baby. The girl outside suddenly shouted ‘Grab the baby, Donny!’ I saw the back door open and a shaft of light showed Donny running outside, holding the crying baby. I saw, against the lighted window, the shadows of the girl and Donny running away. Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed. I saw Pansy appear in the doorway, shouting at Donny to come back. Her voice was slurred with drink. The door was still open. She turned back inside and I heard a crash. Then there were no sounds from the house.

  I can swear to it that Pansy appeared unhurt when she stood at the door and that Donny had left the house before the crash.

  At that stage I went inside, satisfied that the baby had been removed from Pansy.

  In the early hours of the morning, perhaps 6.30 a.m., I saw Donny return to the house. He was carrying a spade. My belief is that he had found Pansy dead, and buried her out of fear that he would be blamed for it and imprisoned.

  My great-nephew is a good-hearted young man, but simple. I, the only other person knowing and understanding the events of that night, should have advised him to go to the police. I did not. If anyone is to bear the burden of blame for the illicit burial, it is I.

  Signed

  Delia Winsome Goodyear

  Delia dates and then folds the sheets of her handwritten statement, seals the envelope and slips it with her Will and Marriage Certificate into a pigeonhole in the old oak writing desk.

  ‘Fitzy sold another of my paintings,’ says Tracey, her head down, voice gruffly avoiding any signs of pleasure. ‘And he says— Whoops!’ She stumbles and nearly falls. Donny holds out his hand to guide her over the fallen log. Tracey accepts the help easily, smiling even, which warms Donny to the pit of his stomach. Both babies are in backpacks, Manny’s donated by the McAnenys, Sky’s a Kingi cast-off. The little ones chat away in their endless baby language, bobbing up and down as their parents stride along.

  ‘What did Fitzy say?’ Donny is only half listening.

  ‘Tell you when we get there.’

  The river hole they’re heading for is a Manawa secret: years ago, Donny’s granddad showed him the pool, close to the road, though the entrance to the track is hidden by bushes. Donny was pleased to be able to share the secret with Tracey last summer; now they come as often as the fickle mountain weather and Donny’s work allow. Today has been a scorcher, Ruapehu standing sharp against a pale blue sky, tiny wisps of steam rising from its crater, the bush up its flanks a hazy purple.

  Here by the river, the beech trees provide welcome shade, the babble of water over stones a cool and easy accompaniment to the children’s gurgling. Over the years, those in the know have built a dam of rocks at the lower end of a natural bend in the river. The quiet pool, dark below the far mossy bank, glinting by the near shore where the sunlight catches it, is perfect — sandy shallows for the children, cool depths for Donny and Tracey.

  Donny tears off his clothes and bombs naked into the pool, bellowing like Tarzan. The children, already paddling, are showered; familiar as they are with Donny’s loud ways, they scream with delight. Tracey, wearing bathing togs, enters the water more sedately, splashing her thin arms and shoulders with the delicious water before she commits her whole self. There they bob and fossick for a while, Donny wading downriver with a large rock to add to the dam, Tracey letting pretty Sky ride on her back in the shallows. Manny roars for his dad to give him a ride too and Donny returns, tosses his son high in the air, scattering shining droplets, then dips him head and all into the river. Tracey and Sky watch in alarm but Manny loves it.

  ‘More, more!’ he shouts — his favourite word.

  Later, they sit on the bank where sun slants through the outstretched branches of a beech tree, eating a meal of New World deli throw-outs — ‘Fit for kings!’ as Donny says almost every night. Out on the road, a truck bumps and rattles over the little bridge, but the family is hidden by the great leafy trees, a world away from work or worries. Even Tracey seems to lose her edginess at the river hole. She sings with her mouth full — ‘Three bags full!’ — and the children join in with deep belly laughs, opening their mouths to show how full of food they are. Donny lies back among ferns, drunk with happiness.

  ‘I heard some good news,’ says Tracey. ‘Fitzy told me.’

  Donny stares lazily up into the trees. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Some big-shot down south is doing a movie and some of it will be filmed in Manawa.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard.’

  Tracey scowls over at him and Donny grins. He knows by now to ignore whatever mood her face might suggest.

  ‘Fitzy says there might be a job for me in it. Helping Tina Kingi. She’s doing catering while they’re filming here. Those film stars, he says, need good meals — you know, cooked breakfasts and special stuff for lunch. Tina will need a hand.’

  ‘Whoo hoo, Trace. We might be able to buy a car.’

  She looks at him, and Donny clears his throat anxiously. ‘There I go again. Your money, right?’

  But Tracey is watching something — a dragonfly hovering over the water, perhaps — and doesn’t answer. Donny levers himself up and brings the children back from the water. He towels and dresses them, and loads them into the backpacks. From time to time he looks at Tracey, worried that she’s angry, trying to guess what she’s thinking. She’s gone quiet as she often does, drifting into another world where Donny doesn’t seem to exist.

  Back on the road, plodding along under their dozing loads, Tracey says abruptly, ‘A car would be a good idea.’

  ‘I don’t have any savings, Trace.’

  ‘Well, I do, you idiot, that’s the whole point. I could buy it.’

  Donny groans. ‘Trace! You’re not thinking of shooting through?’

  Manny wakes with a start and begins to cry.

  Tracey scowls furiously. ‘It would be both our car. You provide the house and food for us, I provide the car.’

  Donny stops in the middle of the road, ignoring Manny’s wails. ‘For us both? Dinkum, Trace?’

  She nods, stopping too and studying the grey metal of the road. ‘Might as well. Makes sense.’

  Donny knows what she’s saying. It’s a commitment. She’s decided to stay with him. More than anything in the world he wants to hug her; he takes a step, meets her dark eyes and checks. But he can’t resist a light touch on her arm, which she allows, the slightest smile breaking out from behind the ramparts.

  ‘I love you, Trace,’ he says.

  ‘Your Manny’s crying. Get cracking, you big lump.’

  But there are tears in her eyes and she lets him see them.

  Like everyone else in Manawa, Vera has trudged down to the railway line to have a dekko. She’s outraged at what she sees and marches up to a long-haired young man who’s lounging in the middle of the road, directing traffic. Traffic control in Manawa! The lanky fellow straightens in alarm. Vera on the warpath is a frightening sight.

  ‘What the hell is all this?’ she demands in a voice that carries to the kohanga children and Lovey’s school class who are lined up safely behind a fence, marvelling at the sights. ‘Look here, I have to get Bull’s tea across this road in a couple of
hours. Will you be clear by then?’

  The young man clearly doesn’t understand. He speaks into his walkie-talkie, switches the sign to GO, then turns back to her.

  ‘We’ll be here for three weeks, maybe four, depending on weather,’ he says, politely enough. ‘You’d better get off the road now. They’re coming through.’

  Vera plants her feet, lowers her head as if preparing to charge. ‘I’m not going anywhere till I get some answers. I’m not going to be bloody cooking all afternoon and then find I can’t get a hot meal through.’

  The young man scratches his locks, which are nearly as disreputable as Vera’s. He gestures back up the road. ‘The caterers are back at the hall. Perhaps you should talk to them?’

  ‘I am the bloody caterer,’ Vera shouts, and is about to say more when she sees the cavalcade arriving.

  ‘Come over here!’ calls Lovey. ‘Quick or you’ll be smashed.’

  Vera decides to move after all.

  Manawa gawks as five big trucks, three enormous caravans and an assortment of smaller vans lumber down Kingi Road, turn right onto Matai and find parks near the hall. All the trucks are enclosed. One of them has a satellite dish and various other protuberances on the roof. The stretch-limo-style caravans are painted white and pink, have floral curtains and TV aerials. Suddenly the quiet street is full of men and women sporting headphones and voice mikes, clipboards and tool-belts. One of the trucks begins to emit thumping noises — a generator. Wires are unrolled from it and into the hall.

  ‘Selina Sands is going to star,’ shouts Lovey over the racket. ‘And Max Burton and Lydia French. They’ll be in those caravans, I bet.’ Lovey’s habitual solemnity is gone. She’s a normal excited child, jumping up and down with her schoolmates, ready to squeal, eager to garner autographs or even a photograph.