Heartland

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘That’s me,’ says Di, outraged. ‘They’ve got it wrong.’

  But Tracey’s not listening. She crumples the paper, throws it among the floating rubbish and walks out into the rain.

  That weekend the McAnenys invite Donny and the family for Sunday dinner.

  ‘Come on, Trace, it’s only the aunties,’ Donny pleads, but she won’t leave the house. For three days she’s stayed inside with the door locked. Donny knows why, understands her fear, but can’t think what to do. He can’t stay away from work to guard her.

  ‘They’ll come, they’ll come, I know they will,’ she cries.

  It’s back to how she was when Donny first knew her. ‘They can’t make you go back. You’re grown up now.’

  But her fear is not reasonable.

  ‘Is she sick?’ asks Aureole, carving the beef. ‘I have an excellent cordial for the stomach. Shall I take it across?’

  ‘She’s frightened.’ Donny doesn’t know how to tailor his knowledge to the aunties’ understanding. ‘Um. Of her father. He did something bad …’

  Roe raises a claw-like hand to silence him. ‘Not at the table, nephew.’ She intones a grace and they eat their meat and vegetables, paying due thanks to the Lord. A plateful is set aside for Tracey in case she overcomes her fear, but Donny, downhearted and silent, knows she won’t. Even the children, eating out on the porch where their messy habits can be ignored, seem to have lost their exuberance.

  After the meal, over tea and a little chocolate treat, Roe turns to Donny. ‘So she is frightened of her father? This is not unusual, nephew, a father may instill awe in his offspring. My own father was a stern man, ready with the stick if we transgressed.’

  Donny can’t understand half her words but catches the gist. His own desperation — his fear that Tracey will disappear — loosens his tongue. ‘Nothing like that, Aunty,’ he roars, his lowered head shaking back and forth with the burden of his words. ‘Her father did awful, awful things — like a husband does to a wife, but he did it to his little girl. Trace got hurt inside — in her head as well as her body.’ He looks up at the three silent old ladies. He can’t tell what they’re thinking. ‘You saw her — how she was when she came here. Hiding away. Now her picture’s in the paper and she thinks he’ll come for her again.’

  Sky, who seems to catch moods as easily as a cold, wails out on the porch. Donny stumbles away, almost crying himself, to comfort her, wipe away the mess of chocolate and tears. He returns with her on his hip, Manny stumbling along behind. The aunties haven’t moved, or spoken. Little Manny, brave in his innocence, offers Roe the head of a dahlia he has just picked from her flower bed. She nods and accepts without admonishing.

  Donny looks at the silent old women. Even Aureole seems stunned by his revelation. ‘I better get back to Trace,’ he mumbles. ‘Can I take her the plate of food?’

  Delia rises quickly to take the food from the oven and wrap it in a tea towel. She adds a generous slice of chocolate cake. ‘Poor girl, poor girl,’ she murmurs as she wraps.

  Donny takes the food, orders the children to wave goodbye, but is stopped at the door by Roe’s stern voice. ‘The name of the father? Is he a Smith?’

  ‘She won’t say his name!’ Donny’s shouting again in his desperation. ‘Trace is not her real name. Nor is Smith. She changed all that to get away. He’s a minister, that’s all she’ll say.’

  ‘A minister?’ Miss Roe’s voice rises a notch or two. ‘Of what church?’

  ‘Yours. Presbyterian.’

  There’s an audible intake of breath. The younger McAnenys glance toward their sister who has risen from her chair. ‘Tell Tracey,’ says Roe ominously, ‘to come here immediately with the children if her father arrives. I will want a word with him.’

  Donny frowns. ‘You won’t be angry with her, Aunty? It’s not her fault.’

  Roe crashes her stick on the floor. Manny and Sky run outside.

  ‘Tell Tracey she has nothing to fear,’ grates Roe McAneny in a voice that promises everything to fear.

  Manawa is quiet for a short period while filming continues in Whanganui. Two days after Roe’s pronouncement — a weekday — Delia sees a smart car pull up outside Donny’s place. A man and a woman go to the front door. At the same moment, Tracey rockets out the back door, Sky on her hip and Manny half hauled, half running beside her, across the back section, through the now non-existent fence and up to Delia.

  ‘They’re here, both of them!’

  Delia nods. ‘Go inside, dear. Take the children to my room. There are some biscuits in a tin by the bed.’ She raises her voice. ‘Aureole, would you call Miss Roe?’ All the time her attention is on the house across the back.

  The couple have seen Tracey’s rapid exit. ‘Marion! Marion!’ calls the mother. ‘Marion!’ the father echoes. ‘Wait!’

  They quickly retrace their steps, drive up the road and around the corner to the McAnenys’ entrance, then drive in, blocking any exit if escape by automobile were planned. They leap out and race up to the front door.

  Before they can knock, the door is opened and Roe, leaning on her stick, is framed there.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, ‘can I help you?’ Her voice is even, civil.

  The couple, in their anxiety perhaps fail to detect the menace in those dark eyes. But they are taken aback by the formal black clothes, the apparent frailty, the polished woodwork of the hall-stand and the sight of two other old crones standing shadowy in the hallway behind. This is not the sort of place they expected their wayward daughter to use as a refuge.

  The man is tall, grey haired, his white collar and black bib spotless, shoes likewise. He smiles and extends his hand. ‘Good morning. I believe I saw my daughter running in here?’

  Miss Roe declines the offered hand. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh,’ wails the mother, ‘she had a child with her! Has she got herself into trouble? We saw it coming, didn’t we, Ian?’

  ‘Into trouble?’ says Roe, frowning. ‘No, I don’t believe she is in any trouble. Perhaps she’s not the daughter you seek.’

  The man clears his throat. He looks over his glasses at the tiny old lady blocking his way. ‘We have driven a long distance to find Marion, who ran away three years ago. My wife saw her photograph in the paper and is quite certain it is she. We have spent some energy and time in tracking her to this place. Why would you deny us the pleasure—’

  Roe interrupts the practised flow of his lecture. ‘I am Miss Violet Munroe McAneny. These are my sisters Delia and Aureole. You are?’

  He smiles tightly. ‘The Reverend Ian Fyfe and my wife Lillian. Please allow us to come in.’

  There’s a muffled cry from somewhere inside.

  ‘Marion!’ calls Lillian Fyfe.

  ‘Presbyterian?’ Roe is implacable in her pursuit.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘From which ministry?’

  ‘Saint Blane, Auckland.’ The Reverend sighs. ‘Please—’

  Roe barks at him. ‘Spare me your impatience and your humouring, young man. I have a few old friends living in your ministry. Mrs Abernethy, widow of the former moderator? Mr Arnold Stark. Is he still alive?’

  Lillian Fyfe giggles a little nervously. ‘Goodness. Fancy you knowing …’

  ‘Oh, we were well known in the Presbyterian community of Auckland. My father was moderator in years gone by. Now Reverend—’ Roe taps her cane smartly on the floor and the sisters crowd a little closer. ‘I’m sorry, but we will not be inviting you inside.’

  The Reverend and Roe lock eyes for a moment. Something of her fury seems to communicate itself at last. He drops his eyes and begins to bluster. ‘Look here, my wife … it’s our daughter … I don’t want to have to call the police—’

  ‘It is we,’ interrupts Roe, her voice icy, ‘who would be obliged to call the police. I very much doubt that the poor young woman whom we shelter out of Christian charity is your daughter. Tracey was abused—’ Roe pauses, finding the words distasteful, difficul
t to force out into the open — ‘abused sexually by her father. She reported the abuse to her mother, who would not believe her story. We are referring to Sodom and Gomorrah, Reverend. Surely you are not these wicked parents?’

  Delia and Aureole move to take the arms of Roe, who is beginning to wobble.

  Lillian Fyfe, covering her mouth with her hands, stares up at her husband, whose face has flushed dark red. One of his hands rises as if to strike all three McAnenys, but they don’t fear him now. He’s beaten and frightened, and shows it.

  ‘Please give my regards to Mrs Abernethy,’ says Roe levelly. ‘I will be writing to her anyway.’ It is clearly a threat.

  When the couple have left the porch and are at their car, Delia finds the courage to call out. ‘If we see you in this area again the police will be called!’

  ‘Delia, there is no need for histrionics.’ Roe allows herself a smug little smile. ‘That man will not return.’

  They watch as the car is backed out and driven away, then Aureole slams the door. ‘Oh, Miss Roe you were magnificent!’

  Roe nods grimly. ‘Well.’

  Delia’s bedroom door opens and Tracey’s head appears. Her eyes are huge in a face that is still bloodless. She looks like the frightened child she was when she arrived in Manawa.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispers.

  ‘Oh, did you hear Miss Roe?’ cries Aureole, clapping her hands. ‘She sent that monster away with a flea in his ear!’

  ‘That will do, Aureole.’ Roe turns her beady eye towards Tracey. ‘You have had a shock, child. A little normal activity will set you right. Please be so good as to make me a cup of tea. Milk and sugar. I’ll take it in bed.’ She processes grandly — triumphantly — towards her room, Aureole flapping in attendance.

  Delia catches Tracey’s eye, and they both hurry into the kitchen where their disloyal giggles will not be noticed.

  For two weeks the film madness has left Manawa. The caravans and trucks, the throbbing generator van, the snaking cables and scurrying, mysteriously busy strangers have disappeared, rolling down Kingi Road and away, leaving the settlement to live at its own sweet pace again. Vera dares to hope they may be gone for good and that the threat of trenches in the spare block is forgotten. She mentions her hope to Bull, who is not so sanguine.

  ‘But, Bull, think of the timing.’ Vera is just back from shopping, courtesy of George’s ute, and has dropped in for a cup of tea and to deliver Bull’s groceries. ‘Another month and the bloody season will be here again. They won’t be able to film with all the townies hooning around, surely?’

  Bull is determined not to get his hopes up. ‘The townies would lap it up.’

  ‘Well, the weather. What about that? You can’t have all our lads in flimsy outfits and bare feet standing round turning to ice while they line up their angles and what-not.’

  ‘True.’ Bull refills Vera’s cup. ‘How’s the mountain looking?’

  Bull’s place is too close to the bush to get a view of Ruapehu. Vera’s, on the other hand, has a clear and magnificent outlook. Not that she looks up too often. These days the mountain is more enemy than thing of beauty. Once she would have enjoyed its magnificence; would have sat on her back porch and admired the morning sun on snow, or the dark shadows and crags against the sky in summer. Now the changing seasons on the mountain mean the skiers arriving or the skiers leaving them in peace.

  ‘Not enough snow to open yet,’ she says with some satisfaction. ‘Not nearly enough.’

  Bull’s smile is teasing. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Vera. A good dump may open the ski season but it could keep away the film crew.’ But there’s anxiety in the lines around his eyes and the way he taps with the sugar spoon. No one has told Donny and the Virgin about the plans to trench the spare block. The fears are unspoken in Manawa. The Kingis seem to know or suspect what is hidden there, maybe the old ladies do too, but it’s as if they are all averting their eyes, hoping that if they keep looking elsewhere the potential disaster might disappear. Bull’s afraid for Donny. That he might run away. But where else could the boy manage and flourish?

  That week there is, in fact, a good dump of snow and the ski field opens. The mountain is transformed and the colder weather allows the snow-making machines to spew out their clouds of icicles. Vera lies under her blankets, cursing as the townies’ cars roar away for an early start. She can tell by the echo that the day is clear and frosty. And by her ears: you could almost snap them off. The mountain, when she finally heaves back the curtain, towers over Manawa, huge and smug like a fat pavlova. The sight of icy sunlit ridges, of glaciers still a cold purple, leaves her unmoved.

  ‘Treacherous bugger,’ she growls. ‘Where’s all that global warming then? How come the greenhouse effect passed you by?’

  She holds the blanket around her shoulders with one hand while the other feeds coal and chips into the wood-burner. The fire is sulky, but at last the frosty windows begin to stream and Vera makes a dash for her clothes.

  ‘Now, girl, you’ve got to get over this,’ she says into the folds of her jersey. ‘You can’t go around all winter in a misery.’ But the images in those photographs two years earlier keep returning. She sees herself from outside as the photographers saw her. Not the old, solid Vera, who eyeballed the world and cursed it cheerfully when necessary. That Vera has melted like the ice on the window under the fascinated stares of the townies.

  Later, she stumps across to George’s with an empty sack. George is perched up on his carrot harvester, banging at something. Vera shouts up at him.

  ‘Can I pinch a bit of straw for the chooks? They’ve sunk into the mud again.’

  He waves a spanner. ‘Help yourself. There’s an open bale in the shed. Nice day, eh?’ He gestures at the celebrated Kingi clothesline stretching away across the paddock, fifteen small rugby jerseys and an assortment of Kingi clothes flapping in the breeze, two timber props hefting the laden line into three elegant loops.

  ‘Nice for some!’

  Vera plods through the mud to the shed. Once the sun is up, everything in sight turns to mud. Under Manawa, miles deep and soft as sponge cake, lies rich, friable, volcanic ash. Marvellous for carrots, but anything heavier — houses, cars, people, animals even — tends to sink a little in the winter.

  One of the Kingi boys holds her sack while she stuffs straw. Vera straightens her back for a moment and listens.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asks.

  ‘Don’t ask me. Not Mum, that’s for sure.’

  Someone is singing outside. A bit of a dirge, monotonous. Not in English.

  ‘Sounds like Maori,’ says Vera.

  ‘Won’t be any of us, then,’ says the Kingi boy.

  But when they investigate, it is Lovey, sitting cross-legged on the tray of George’s ute. She is pointing at the mountain with both hands, palms flat and vibrating, frowning through her fringe. The notes are drawn out, slow, repetitive. It’s a Maori chant. Lovey takes no notice of her audience.

  The boy rolls his eyes at Vera. ‘Spooky as!’ Most of the Kingis think Lovey is weird.

  ‘What’s she singing?’ asks Vera, impressed.

  ‘Don’t ask me. She’s making it up.’

  Lovey stops abruptly. ‘Go away! You’re breaking the spell!’ She takes a breath to continue, and then stops again. ‘Am not making it up.’

  ‘Are.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘What’s it mean then?’ sneers her brother. He shoots Vera a man-of-the-world wink: now we’ll get to the truth.

  Lovey opens her mouth to explain, then changes her mind. She presses her lips tight and stares at the mountain.

  ‘Yeah! It’s not a spell or anything!’ says the boy to Vera, though he doesn’t look completely convinced. ‘It’ll be some silly nursery rhyme she learned at kohanga. Probably some counting thing.’

  Lovey’s eyes are sharp enough to slice him, but she won’t speak.

  He’s hit the nail on the head there, thinks Vera, looking at Lovey�
�s red cheeks, but aloud she asks the boy to give her a hand with the sack. They leave the child to her witchcraft. The eerie song follows them down the drive.

  Crossing the road, Vera keeps a sharp lookout for lurking photographers, though of course they could be behind some bush at Kingis’, getting a shot of the child-witch of Manawa. Let them ogle Lovey for a change, she’s every bit as odd.

  Lovey Kingi is as slippery as an eel when it comes to changing moods. By midday she’s around at Vera’s, following the scent of pumpkin soup.

  ‘So what about your own lunch?’ asks Vera.

  ‘Mum’s not well,’ says Lovey. ‘I like pumpkin soup.’

  ‘Okay, okay, sit down then.’ Vera ladles out two bowlfuls, leaving enough to send the rest over in a billy with Lovey. The child folds her hands on the table, glances at Vera to make sure she has an audience, then bows her head and says a karakia.

  Vera snorts. ‘Since when did you get religious, Lovey, my girl?’

  Lovey doesn’t answer. They both spoon pumpkin soup and bread.

  After a while, Lovey lays her spoon carefully beside her bowl and looks, unsmiling, at Vera. Her black eyes don’t come much over the edge of the table.

  ‘You won’t need to worry about the townies,’ she says.

  ‘Oh yes?’ says Vera.

  ‘They won’t be coming after tomorrow.’

  ‘Says who?’ Vera lays her spoon down too and frowns at Lovey. There’s a limit to how much you should humour this child.

  Lovey blinks once but stares back stoutly.

  ‘The mountain’s gunner blow,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ says Vera, wishing they could all the same. ‘You fixed it privately with the gods, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lovey, deadpan.

  ‘That’s what the karakia’s for, eh? Keeping in good with them?’

  Lovey doesn’t answer.

  ‘Go on, off you go!’ Vera half believes the child, and is angry. ‘Go and play with the others. You give me the shivers.’