The caravans are hauled to a vacant lot by the hall. No star emerges, though, and the children begin to drift back to school. Vera plots a course through it all to Bull’s and sees it will be possible. But the thought of the weeks to come fills her with dread. Keeping Bull on an even keel will be bad enough; much worse will be the inevitable discovery of a body in the bush section. All these busy strangers! They’re so full of importance, so intent on whatever they’re doing. They won’t care whose toes they tread on, whose lives they might destroy. She’d like to lash out at somebody, but who? It’s all too much.
Vera goes to have a word with Tina Kingi, who it seems is now a caterer for the crew, but she’s turned away from the door of the hall.
‘Crew only, sorry,’ says a polite but firm woman in overalls and headset.
Vera wants to explain that this is her hall, where she went to dances back in the old days; where her mother had her wedding reception; where the library used to be and, for a while, the post office. But in the face of the friendly, impersonal stare of the stranger, she turns away, defeated.
In the following days, all activity is centred on the hall. Vera and Bull dare to hope that the bush section will not, after all, be needed. There’s even a kind of pleasure in marvelling at — and deploring — the enormous expenditure.
‘Tina tells me,’ reports Vera, as she and Bull eat their sausages and baked potatoes, ‘that all of them — even that dreadlock boy on the traffic signal — have ham steaks, eggs, bacon, chicken legs and crumpets for breakfast. Breakfast!’
‘Wouldn’t suit me,’ says Bull. ‘I like my toast and marmalade.’
‘Well, but Bull, they have that too! And cereal if they can manage to stuff it down. And then there’s lunch and dinner if they go on late.’
Bull adds butter to his potato. ‘However do those stars stay slim, you’d have to wonder.’
‘Oh, they don’t eat with the crew. They’re not even here yet. Lovey is quite disillusioned.’
Bull relies on Vera for reports. He’s stayed at the back of the house all week. His face looks drawn tonight, a wrinkling around the eyes and a greyness to his skin giving Vera fresh cause for outrage. But he’s interested in the money side of it. ‘Who’s in those great caravans then, if not the stars?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, Bull, no one. They’re empty. Waiting for their ladyships and his majesty to put in an appearance.’
They speculate on the likely daily cost of the empty caravans, the generator which stood silent all day yesterday, the food bill, let alone the salaries.
‘What are they actually doing?’ asks Bull.
‘Search me. The Virgin’s in there helping Tina. She says they’re not allowed to talk about it. I think they’ve been building a forest lair with fake rocks and ferns and buckets of dried potato flakes thrown everywhere for snow. Or was it an underground cave? Something like that, inside the hall. Then they decided it wasn’t right and pulled it down again.’
‘Good God.’
But in the silence that follows, they are thinking of the Virgin and Donny, not the fake lair. Or the wasted money.
‘No activity out in the bush?’ asks Bull eventually, rising and taking the few dishes to the sink.
‘Not yet.’
A week later, the news is that Di Masefield has appeared on the set. Lovey brings the story to Vera, along with half a bacon-and-egg pie. Her big sister, Tina, has been quietly distributing the leftovers around Manawa. All the locals are eating well these days.
‘Di Masefield?’ says Vera, not believing it.
Lovey nods. ‘Yep. And it was me done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Got her the part.’
‘You’re making it up, you little monkey. Di Masefield has a part in a film?’
‘Well,’ Lovey concedes, ‘not exactly a part, but sort of.’
It turns out Lovey and her class were visiting the craft centre in Ohakune to watch a weaving demonstration. Di was there doing the explaining. As they were leaving, Lovey dared to tell Di that her hair looked quite like Lydia French’s wig.
‘Who?’ says Vera.
Lovey rolls her eyes. ‘Lydia French. You must have heard. She played that old lady in Autumn Remembrance, don’t you remember?’
‘Did it come to Ohakune?’
‘No, but her photo was in the magazines and the papers — you must have seen her.’
‘Go on then,’ growls Vera.
‘Well, they want a stand-in for her to do the marks.’
Vera gets up from the table to put the pie in the oven. ‘Lovey Kingi, if you can’t talk plain English, take your news somewhere else. Stop pretending you’re the world expert on movies and spit it out.’
Lovey gives an exaggerated sigh, brushes back her fringe and contemplates Vera. But in the end she has to finish her story. ‘The famous stars just come in at the end when everything’s ready. They sit in their caravans, drinking coffee and eating tiny fancy meals while a stand-in does the standing, in this place or that. Fitz says the stand-in has to look a bit like the star — same height and that — so the cameras can line up the shot. Sometimes the stand-in actually is in the movie, you know, if it’s just back-on or in the distance.’
Vera is interested in spite of herself. ‘And Di Masefield is standing in for this famous star?’
Lovey giggles. ‘Yeah. It’s her hair done it. Lydia French wears this massive wig. Tina saw it hanging up, and Mrs Masefield’s hair is exactly like the wig! Tina thinks Lydia is acting some sort of creature from the underworld!’
‘Go on. Who would go to the movies to see Di Masefield’s hair?’
‘Anything looks good on Lydia French. Anyway, when they’re ready for the real Lydia French, she’ll just pop out of her caravan to do the talking, then pop back while Mrs Masefield does more standing round.’
Vera snorts. ‘Di Masefield won’t enjoy being somebody else’s dogsbody.’
Lovey grins. ‘No, she does. She loves it. Tina says she ponces round like Lady Muck. It’s her hair is the star really. But she don’t know that.’
That brings out a full-throated laugh from Vera. She punches Lovey on the arm, and they lose themselves in the giggles.
‘Who would want,’ splutters Vera, ‘to make a wig like Di Masefield’s hair?’
‘Lydia French must be the baddie!’ shrieks Lovey. She flings her thin arms around Vera’s stomach and buries her face there, hiccupping with laughter.
Vera pats her awkwardly. A good laugh is just what this child needs, she thinks. What we all need. Thank God for Di Masefield’s hair.
‘Let’s try some of this film-star pie,’ she says, wiping away tears.
Donny sees Delia and Aureole standing together in their yard, their arms an archway under which both children are running; they’re shouting something — a song maybe. He blares his fancy horn and brakes to a stop.
‘Hey there, Aunties! Hey there, midgets, Donny Mac’s home!’
While Delia drops her aching arms and flops, laughing, into her porch chair, Aureole runs to the fence, her face alight. ‘Come in, come in, nephew, we are almost done for! Oh, what a day!’
Donny hops over the fence, scoops a child under each arm and stands there looking at the puffing old ladies. ‘Sorry, sorry, Aunties, but I thought I wasn’t late. I came past the kohanga but it was all closed down, no one there. What’s going on?’
Delia mops her streaming face with a tea towel, smiling still in spite of her exhaustion. ‘Not your fault, Donny. That wretched film is turning the world upside down. Someone came from the kohanga to say that Nanny Tangi and Nanny Ripeka were needed for a village scene so kohanga was closing early. Would we collect your two. Neither Sky or Manny look foreign enough to be in the scene evidently.’
Donny beams at the two old women. ‘What champions! These two monkeys would tire a rugby team. Thanks, Aunties. I’ll cut you some firewood, shall I?’
Delia waves him away. ‘Later, later. Leave us to enj
oy the peace and quiet for a while.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Even Roe joined in with story reading. She might say she disapproves, but she has a knack, there’s no denying. Was it fear of the old dragon or the story itself, I wonder? The children were quiet as mice when she told them to listen.’
Donny laughs, swings the children over the fence, then sets them to run home down the road while he herds them from behind on his motorbike. ‘Whoo hoo! Giddyap! Yah, yah!’
Manny and Sky, hand in hand, and baaing like sheep, gallop along.
When Tracey finally arrives home, the children are bathed and ready for bed. Donny opens the door for her, proud of his preparations and bursting with news. It’s the hardest thing not to envelop her in a bear hug, she looks so tired and glad to be home, but he manages by clasping both hands behind his back and concentrating on the children. Tracey settles with them on the couch. She sighs with the pleasure of being off her feet, accepts a hot cup of cocoa. ‘Oh, that’s good, Donny. Thank goodness I’m not in the movies. The hours they work!’
‘Well, you are in the movies, Trace.’ But Donny has other things on his mind. ‘The bunks are finished and ready. Shall we let Sky and Manny sleep in them tonight?’
He watches her anxiously. For a year now Tracey has slept in Donny’s house, without ever showing the need to return to the squat. She’s slept on one mattress in the spare room while the two babies shared another. But now they will sleep better in their own beds, so Donny, with Bull’s help, has built sturdy bunks, painted bright orange, with blankets from the op shop and coverlets embroidered by the aunties with flowers and leaves and their own names proudly in the centre.
Tracey nods slowly. She looks tired, wary but not frightened, Donny thinks. They both know what this means: the two single mattresses will be used by the children. Either the adults both sleep in Donny’s double bed or one of them takes the couch. Last winter, Tracey crept in with Donny a couple of times but only stayed an hour or two. Donny longed to call her back, to cuddle her, stroke away her fear. He doesn’t understand what has made her this way. ‘What is it, Trace?’ he asks, but she shrugs and turns away.
But now they stand together in the doorway of the spare room, admiring their babies — the heartbreaking innocence of their sleeping faces; Sky curled up around her beloved pink elephant, Manny on the top bunk, flat on his back, arms flung wide, long-lashed eyes glued shut.
‘They’re so beautiful,’ murmurs Tracey, almost asleep herself, ‘so beautiful.’
Donny dares to take her hand. He leads her to the bed and helps her into her nightdress, gently, quietly as if she were another child to be coaxed into sleep. Tracey lets him tuck her in, receives his kiss with a smile, and is away, breathing steadily. Donny stands there watching her. She looks so different now. The spiky dyed-black hair has grown out; these days it’s honey coloured, softly curling and shoulder length. The studs have gone too — not allowed in the catering tent. ‘You’re beautiful too, Trace,’ whispers Donny.
By the time he has cleaned up and got ready for bed himself, she has turned towards the centre of the bed. Donny eases down and lies facing her. He feels her sweet breath tickling his shoulder, and smiles. Tracey sleeps on. Donny watches the shadows of dreams drift across her face. Not nightmares tonight. He sometimes hears her call out — shout in her sleep, or scream — and wake the children, but when he goes in she sends him away. Tonight, though, is perfect. Donny hardly dares to breathe.
A little later, as he’s falling into sleep, he feels a familiar stirring, and sighs. It’s no good, he can’t control that part of him. Quietly he edges out of bed, goes to the bathroom and eases the problem with his own hand. Trace, Trace, Trace. The pleasure and guilt a confusing mixture.
When he creeps back, she’s awake, watching him. ‘Where were you?’
He grins sheepishly. ‘I got a stiffy. Sorry.’
She smiles back, sleepily reaches a hand out to hold his. ‘It’s okay, Donny Mac. We’ll get there in the end.’
Donny feels his heart swell; it’s choking him. ‘Jesus, look at me, I’m crying like a baby.’
‘Keep your voice down, you big lout, you’ll wake them.’ With her other hand she wipes at his tears.
When his gulping has died down, he says, ‘What happened, Trace? Who hurt you?’
She says nothing, and he thinks she’s gone back to sleep. Or is angry maybe. But then she tells him in a tight voice. ‘My bloody dad.’
‘Yeah?’ Donny can’t imagine it. He groans. ‘Is he the father then? Jesus.’
‘No, he’s not!’ shouts Tracey, sitting up in bed. ‘He’s not. You are.’
The noise wakes Sky, who wails from her warm nest in the bottom bunk. Donny goes to her quickly, rubs her back, sings her a song, and she settles down again. He’s grinning when he comes back to bed.
‘Too true,’ he whispers. ‘I’m her dad. And you’re Manny’s mum.’
Tracey nods, swallowing. ‘I never told anyone that — except my mum. She didn’t believe me. Now I never want to say it again.’
‘Okay,’ says Donny Mac. ‘Got it. Chapter closed.’ He touches her nose. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’
In the morning he tells her his good news. ‘Mr Godfrey said did I want to train up in the meat department. He said he reckoned I’d make a good butcher. I said yes. How about that! It’ll be more pay.’
Tracey gets up from the table, comes over and hugs him. She’s different this morning, kind of lighter — a freshness in the way she walks.
‘What have I done to deserve you?’ she says, and then cuffs his head to bring him back to earth. ‘Let’s get these monsters to kohanga and hope that the nannies are not film stars today.’
Rain drums on the roof of the catering tent. A gofer has dug a makeshift trench which does little to redirect the water cascading off the flimsy walls. Tina and Tracey jump as thunder and lightning break directly overhead. The filled rolls and pizzas and the famous Skiers’ Inn chocolate éclairs are dry on their trestle tables, but the women, gumbooted and jacketed, slosh back and forth clearing away half-eaten food and sodden paper plates. They’re standing in a good two inches of water.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Tina, ‘sod this for a job. Listen to the river! It must have broken through somewhere.’
Tracey can hear the roar in between the bursts of thunder. This is the third day of rain. The meandering stream on the other side of the railway has become a torrent. Waterfalls on the mountain are heading downhill at a furious pace. Manawa, on the flat at the base of the volcano, is rapidly turning into a lake.
There’s a different kind of fizzing explosion, and the throbbing of the generator truck outside the hall dies away. This is too much for Tina. ‘Come on, Virgin, let’s get out of here. We’re sitting ducks — ha! ducks it is! — with our feet in water and all this electricity snaking about.’
They dash across to the hall, where the usual blaze of spotlights and activity has become a muted and messy mêlée. In the light cast by the feeble bulbs high overhead — the hall’s everyday lighting — they can just make out crew rolling up cables, packing sound equipment, pushing back standing lights and stacking chairs. The current set — an underground cave dripping with ferns — is being dismantled: the vegetation carried outside into the rain, while the moody set-dresser packs away swords and daggers, gnawed bones, a grotesque helmet and various heaped chests of treasure.
The set-dresser, Tim, a fan of the food (and Tina, Tracey thinks), has always been up for a chat. ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time.’
‘What was?’
‘Your food and my set.’
‘Why wasted?’
Tim shrugs. ‘The director’s not pleased with it. My lair, the weather, the actors — everything. He wants to do the whole scene again down in Whanganui.’
Tracey stares. ‘You’ve been doing that scene for ten days!’
‘That’s the film industry for you,’ says Tim. ‘Waste, waste, waste. What’s an extra million here and there? They’
re over-budget as it is.’ He sighs. ‘I hope Fitzy’s found a location in Whanganui. I need to build this whole bloody scene again by Tuesday.’ He hefts a wooden chest and walks with Tracey and Tina to the door. ‘Don’t worry, sweethearts, we’ll be back. For the big battle scenes. But they can’t dig the trenches until the rain stops.’
Tina nods and waves him off. ‘That’ll be fun,’ she says to Tracey. ‘The battle. All the rugby club are going to be warriors in leather armour and leggings and winged helmets. They’re going to do the fight scenes down your way.’
Tracey grins, thinking of Manny’s and Sky’s excitement. Back in the tent, they clear away food, carefully packing usable stuff for ‘the deserving poor of Manawa’. Di Masefield is the only other person there, her famous hair standing out from her head as if electrified by the storm. She has a chocolate éclair in each hand.
‘Oi,’ says Tina, who fears no one, ‘leave some for the kiddies. That’s the kohanga’s afternoon tea you’re eating.’
Di shrugs and goes on eating. ‘They want me down in Whanganui now. I said I was busy, but I don’t like to let them down. So the council will have to do without me for a week or two.’
‘They’ll manage,’ says Tina, winking at Tracey. ‘By the way—’ she deftly removes the plate of éclairs and stacks them in a box — ‘we’re famous, all three. Did you see?’ She picks up a newspaper, finds the page and reads it out:
Catering for the Stars. Tina Kingi and Tracey Smith are hard at it, sourcing delicacies to tickle the palates of actors and crew of The Last Invaders, the big-budget movie being shot in little-known Manawa in the centre of the North Island. Lydia French is of the opinion that New Zealand catering is up there with the best that international firms can serve.
And so on. There’s a good pic of us too.’
Tracey looks. There she is, behind a pile of chicken legs and coleslaw. Tina is smiling at the camera; Tracey’s attention is on the plate she’s filling. The shadowy figure holding the plate is Di Masefield, not Lydia.
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