Heartland

by Jenny Pattrick

  Local schoolgirl, Lovey Kingi (pictured), who first noticed the remains, unerringly predicted that there was an ancient urupa under the ground where filming was taking place. Local kuia, Tangi Stern, believes that the child has inherited second sight from her ancestors. The kuia is related to Lovey’s mother.

  Councillor Di Masefield, who was present at the discovery and was the first to handle the bones, remains unavailable for comment. It is believed that she is in Taumaranui on council business. The site in question is at present a Designated Open Space gifted to the ratepayers of Manawa. The future of the site is yet to be decided.

  The remains are to be returned to the site and ceremonially reburied by the local tangata whenua who wish the section to be fenced and signposted.

  Vera removes her specs, taps them on the table and looks at Bull. ‘Load of old bollocks.’

  Bull shifts his cast, grunting with the effort. ‘That’s as may be, Vera, but it’s good news.’

  ‘Those Goodyears — Reg’s dad, he was one of thirteen kids.’

  ‘He was. Well, twelve living.’

  ‘They had Maori blood, so the saying went.’

  ‘They did. The younger generation didn’t talk about that, though.’

  ‘Reg’s uncle, Chip, when he had that accident with the gun, I never heard of a funeral.’

  ‘Before my time here, Vera.’

  ‘Word was it was suicide. And the older sister, same way. It’ll be them buried there.’

  Bull frowns at her. ‘What’s your point, Vera?’

  ‘Those Goodyears weren’t church-goers and they were mean with money. You can’t call that a bloody urupa. Couple of godless no-hopers buried in secret.’

  ‘Look here, Vera.’ Bull is agitated now, his good knee jerking up and down. ‘You’ve got to keep all that under your hat. Urupa is good news. People are buried there: call it a urupa, give it a sacred name, honour whoever is under the ground. Good. Very good. Get my meaning?’

  Vera wags her head back and forth, grumbling away. But she sees the sense of what Bull’s saying. ‘Well, then. I’ll keep mum. But it goes against the grain, Bull, those Goodyears being honoured and prayed over and what have you. I never liked any one of the whole tribe. Reg bit me once on the arm when we were at school. Drew blood!’

  Bull grins at her. ‘Oho, that’s what it’s all about! And anyway you might be wrong. Those bones might turn out to be really ancient — a real urupa. I doubt Lovey would have sensed anything sacred if it were just the Goodyears.’

  ‘Oh, Lovey,’ says Vera sniffing, ‘she’s just a kid with a big imagination.’

  ‘She sensed the eruption.’

  There’s a knock on the door. The district nurse come to check on Bull.

  ‘Bloody railway station,’ grumbles Vera, but she’s pleased, Bull can tell, and relieved.

  ‘Take the paper over to the young ones, Vera,’ he says. ‘Quick, before they get any silly ideas.’

  Andrew Johnson, county clerk, looks out of his office window at the wide and deserted main street. A plastic bag bowling along in the gutter is the only action in sight. The lone tree down on the corner by the vet’s leans away from the wind. The width of the street, designed in the old days to allow a full bullock train of ten span to turn in a single curve, only adds to the sense of desolation. Raetihi is dying, Andrew knows it. The paucity of work coming across his desk makes the point every day. The once-busy town has lost out to Ohakune. Closer to the ski field, Ohakune is sprouting new chalets and lodges, pubs and restaurants, while half of Raetihi’s shops are empty and the grand old Theatre Royal is in desperate need of a face-lift. He looks down at his empty desk and sighs. His job will be gone soon enough. Amalgamation with Ruapehu District a foregone conclusion.

  He’s almost pleased to see Di Masefield’s Range Rover make an ostentatious U-turn and draw up outside the county office. He watches as the wind whips the door out of her hands; sees the way she struggles to close it. Not her usual confidence, he thinks. Still, he is not surprised to see Di Masefield. She’ll be worried about the value of her Manawa sections with all this talk of ancient burial sites.

  True enough, that seems to be her purpose. ‘About that urupa,’ she says abruptly.

  She’s looking older, Andrew thinks, and pale around the gills. Some bug has maybe laid her low.

  ‘Take a seat, Di,’ he says civilly enough, though he’s wary. ‘You don’t look too good.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well. Just a bit shaken. A hawk flew smack into my windscreen. Almost deliberate it seemed. Look at the mess.’ She gestures through the window at the spattered car. ‘Ever hear of that?’

  ‘A hawk? Surely not.’

  ‘I saw what I saw, Andrew, I’m not bonkers. It was a harrier.’

  ‘They’re usually more agile than that. Was it after road-kill?’

  ‘No road-kill in sight.’ Di rakes a hand thought her wiry mop of hair. The hand is shaking. ‘Smack, straight for me.’ She adds in a lower voice, ‘I imagine I killed it.’

  ‘Well, no harm done. One less to avoid on the road.’ Andrew fiddles with his pen. ‘Now, which urupa?’ He knows, of course, but wants to see what the old dragon is up to.

  ‘The new discovery at Manawa — you’ll have heard.’

  ‘That is a Designated Open Space, Di, and anyway the age of the find is not yet established.’

  ‘Andrew. I was there. I held the bone. I dropped it.’ Di holds her hand out dramatically. ‘You know what this means. I will have attracted a curse, that’s what they think.’ She swallows. ‘I know this sounds a bit over the top, but I assure you, I can feel it.’ Di rubs the cursed hand with the other, then hides them both under the table.

  Andrew looks down at his papers. This is embarrassing, to say the least. He’s never seen the councillor at a loss like this. Her face is flushed now, and her voice rather shrill.

  ‘I would like to pay for the area to be suitably fenced and notified. And if there is a problem over Designated Open Spaces, I will donate one of my sections — the one opposite the urupa—’

  ‘Di, it’s not yet been established—’

  ‘Never mind that. I will donate it as a replacement Open Space. As a matter of fact, I’ve lost interest in a chalet village in Manawa. Not the right place. Not next to a sacred site.’

  Andrew leans back in his chair. He scratches the back of his head. This could solve some problems, but even so, it seems like taking advantage. ‘You’re taking this so-called curse too seriously perhaps?’

  ‘We call it a kanga, Andrew.’ Di is annoyed now. ‘And I do take it seriously. I’ve talked with the tangata whenua and they assure me I will need to make reparation.’ Di doesn’t like to mention that it’s Lovey, backed up by one old woman, who has made this assertion. But the child was very persuasive, uncannily so. ‘You said yourself that the hawk flying at me was unusual. All part of the kanga, I suspect.’

  Andrew purses his lips, tries to look workmanlike. ‘Well, Di, this is very generous. Perhaps you’d like time to think it over?’

  Di stands briskly. Her old spark seems to be returning. ‘I’ve made up my mind. Send me the bill for the fencing. Will you do the paperwork over the Open Space?’

  Andrew nods somewhat doubtfully. Fencing an urupa will surely not fall within his or Di Masefield’s capabilities or even rights. But it will be an interesting task to explore.

  Inside Donny’s cottage, Manny and Sky are jumping off the furniture. ‘Whoo hoo!’ shouts Manny — the first words he learned and still his favourite. Sky echoes him. Manny, five months younger, is the leader in all their activities. He climbs higher, jumps further, runs faster, eats more, but it is Sky who speaks for both of them when the need arises. Just now, there’s no need for explanations or demands. Their parents are standing at the table, Donny with his arm draped over Tracey’s shoulder as they read the newspaper together. The children jump and whoop, sensing in their own way a freedom, a release of tension.

  ‘Not Nightsh
ade,’ murmurs Donny. His arm hugs Tracey closer.

  ‘Old bones,’ whispers Tracey. ‘Some kind of urupa, whatever that is.’

  The children’s sharp ears catch something. ‘Not Nightshade, not Nightshade!’ they chant, jumping and bouncing. ‘Not Nightshade!’

  ‘Shut up, you kids! Don’t say that word.’

  Sky and Manny are silent for a moment, surprised by the anger in Donny’s voice. ‘You said Nightshade,’ Sky points out.

  ‘It’s a bad word! I don’t want to hear it,’ Donny shouts. Then slumps to the table, cradling his head and boo-hooing as if he were one of the children.

  Tracey pats his back gently. The children watch in silence.

  ‘Why is Nightshade a bad word?’ Sky won’t let it go, always wants to understand words.

  Tracey tells her it’s a poisonous plant and that it’s not really a bad word. Daddy is upset about something else.

  Sky opens her mouth to ask more, but Manny has found a new activity, balancing odd-shaped blocks of wood to make a bridge. They work away at it, and peace descends in the little room.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ moans Donny, wiping his eyes. ‘It’s too hard.’

  Tracey sits with him, her hand covering his where it rests on the good news article. She understands.

  ‘What can I tell Manny?’ says Donny, his voice rising again. ‘What about his mother?’

  Tracey tightens her hand over his. ‘Donny. Don’t think about it.’

  ‘I can’t stop! It’s there in my head!’

  ‘It’s in mine too, of course it is, and what about Sky’s dad? That’s worse. We have to forget it all. I’m their mum, you’re their dad. Think that. Think that every day. It’s true. It’s fucking true!’

  ‘Bad word! Bad word!’ chants Sky. Manny joins in with his big roaring voice. ‘Bad word!’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ But Tracey’s laughing now, and Donny has to respond — a tearful crooked grin which the children find funny.

  ‘Look.’ Tracey’s feral little face is intent, her mind searching to find the right words. ‘Let’s just bring these kids up right, Donny. Later we can worry about what they need to know. Or not know.’

  ‘But—’

  She lays a finger over his lips. ‘No buts, Donny. Not for now.’ She slaps the newspaper. ‘It’s good news, for fuck’s sake. Sorry kids. It’s perfect. Our famous guardian angels must be watching.’

  ‘Snow,’ says Sky. ‘Snow from the sky!’

  They rush to the window, then tumble down the steps and out into the back yard. Snow is tumbling from a low, brownish sky. There’s no wind. The air is marvellously thick, flakes falling steadily, crowding each other, impelled to reach earth, to blanket the ground, to cover the four of them dancing there. High above them, up on the mountain, the black ash will soon be obliterated, the ski field open again.

  ‘It’s like a blessing,’ whispers Tracey, her hair, her shoulders outlined in white.

  ‘You reckon?’ There’s still a kernel of doubt inside Donny’s pleasure, but he lifts the children high, one in each strong arm, and whirls with them, faster and faster until they all fall down.

  Over the back, Aureole McAneny is dancing too, her long skinny legs kicking at the drifts, arms wide, inviting the weightless mass to settle on her.

  ‘Look up, look up!’ she cries.

  The children hear her. Flat on their backs, they look up and are blinded. They shriek and jump over their dad and caper again, shaking themselves like dogs to see the snow fly out.

  Delia, more sedate, claps from the cover of the porch.

  Roe feels the age of her bones in every creaking step as she makes her way from bedroom to parlour. The snow, falling so thickly outside, is not, in her opinion, any kind of blessing. Her sisters are cavorting outside and have let the fire go down. She turns on the electric heater and sits at the big oak desk, a McAneny heirloom crammed with old papers, obsolete wills, dried pens and blunt pencils, title deeds and a few share certificates. A history here, she thinks, if anyone had the energy to sort it all. It might be a year, two years, since she has sat here. Delia looks after the accounts now that her own hands write so crabbily.

  For several minutes she sits, breathing heavily, trying to recall what it was that brought her here. What task. Then remembers. That old photograph of the McAneny house in Auckland. It should be framed and hung. A reminder. Slowly she pulls out the heap of old photographs and begins to sort them. Her back hurts, her hip twinges, both hands dislike the fiddly work of picking up and discarding. Roe purses her lips and continues. After five minutes more, she groans out loud and gives up, flinging the yellowing and faded pieces of card back among the general mess.

  An envelope, dislodged by her angry activity, falls out of the pigeonhole. Roe reaches for it, notes the lack of address and opens it. She reads. Puts down the letter and gazes outside at the falling curtain of snow. Picks up the letter again. The deep purple flush on her cheeks betrays her agitation. Is it anger? Fear, perhaps, or both? Slowly she tears the paper into small pieces, lets them fall into the bin at her feet. She sits then, looking down at her veined old hands. They are blue with cold. ‘This must be put right,’ she pronounces to the empty room, righteous anger rising in her like a cold flame. She coughs a little, gathers her breath and rises.

  ‘Miss Roe asks you to take tea with her,’ says Aureole, brushing snow from her woollen coat. She stands in Donny’s kitchen, her cheeks glowing with the excitement of the walk through the snow, the beauty of it.

  ‘Shall we all come?’ Tracey is still in awe of Roe, after the way she dealt with her parents.

  Aureole explains that Donny is the only one summoned and that the children are rather too boisterous for Roe. ‘The cold weather makes her grumpy,’ she says, giggling at her own boldness. ‘Nothing seems to please her these days.’

  Donny shrugs into his warm coat, pats down his unruly mop of hair. He looks anxiously at Aureole. ‘Will I do? Is she angry with me?’

  ‘No, no, no, nothing like that, I’m sure. You look splendid, nephew. A private family matter, she said.’ Aureole lays a confidential hand on Donny’s coat. ‘Perhaps a new will? Perhaps she will endow some family treasure upon you! She may be feeling her mortality. Yet again. Roe has altered her will five times since we have been here, without divulging the contents.’ Aureole frowns. ‘She considers that all our possessions are hers, which is not right. Just as well the house itself is Delia’s. Being as she is the Goodyear. Well.’ Aureole pauses, having lost the thread.

  ‘Well, off you go,’ says Tracey, ‘and mind your manners, Donny.’

  The two women and the children watch as Donny trudges over the back yard and through to the McAneny place. The snow has thinned to a few random flakes. Donny seems to be the only dark thing in the landscape as he plods along, lifting his boots over the ankle-deep drifts. The two wood-bins — an old water tank cut in half and laid so that the openings face the setting sun — each wear a smart white cap; so do the vegetable beds. The cabbage tree on the corner sports white nests among its spiky leaves.

  As Donny reaches the back porch, Aureole turns to Tracey with a bright smile. ‘Well now, shall we have tea here then?’

  Tracey nods, embarrassed that she didn’t think of it, but Aureole is off on another tack. ‘He’s a dear, dear boy.’

  Tracey’s not sure who is meant: Manny or his father. She nods again, pours hot water into the big old teapot. ‘Sorry we haven’t got any biscuits. Would you like a lolly?’

  ‘Oh, what fun, a lolly!’ Aureole skips around the kitchen with the children — like a child herself, thinks Tracey — then settles beside them on the sofa, discussing colours and flavours and finally choosing a red jellybean.

  They drink their tea. ‘Our nephew is so lucky to have you,’ says Aureole, bouncing little Sky on her knee. ‘I don’t know what would have become of him.’

  ‘Why?’ Tracey is both pleased and, on Donny’s behalf, defensive.

  ‘On his own. With Ma
nny. He just wouldn’t have managed. He’s not as sharp as you, dear.’

  Tracey frowns. ‘He’s good enough. Better than me at heaps of things. Leave him alone!’

  Aureole’s hands fly to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I’ve upset you! Delia is always saying I should think before I speak.’ She appeals to the children. ‘Dear oh dear, what shall I do?’

  Sky bursts into tears in sympathy. Manny uses the fuss to sneak another lolly. Tracey mutters to herself. Two kids are more than enough without this grown-up one. She knows that Donny would find a way of sweet-talking the situation into good humour, but she hasn’t the knack.

  Come back soon, Donny, she prays, I need saving here.

  Donny sits in his stockinged feet in the chilly front parlour. Delia has lit a fire, but it has yet to make any inroad on the cold air. Roe has taken the chair near the fire, but even she looks cold. Why not the kitchen, Donny wonders, which is cosy with the heat from the wood-burner? This room, with its dark furniture and heavy curtains, is intimidating.

  When Delia has brought the tea and poured it, Roe asks her to leave. ‘This is a private matter between me and Donald Munroe,’ she says, dipping her biscuit into the tea and then sucking at it, her wrinkled old lips clamping on the soggy thing, then releasing for another softening dip.

  Delia winks at Donny and backs out, mocking her sister’s imperious manner.

  Donny watches Roe’s biscuit being devoured. Keeping an eye on her, he reaches out to take one himself, though it hasn’t been offered. Roe nods, brushes crumbs from her cardigan, strokes the Bible which lies on the table beside her.

  ‘Shall I put on more coal?’ says Donny hopefully. ‘It’s burning brighter now.’

  Roe nods. ‘You’re a good boy, nephew. But …’

  Donny carefully adds a lump or two and takes the opportunity to move his chair closer to the fire. His toes will now reach the warmth.