‘Pay attention, Donald Munroe McAneny,’ says Roe fiercely. ‘You must listen.’
Donny nods, but his mind is full of the newspaper article, the strangeness of it all, the other old bodies lying there. Or was it just one?
Roe slaps the Bible, and Donny jumps. ‘Put your hand on the family Bible,’ she says, her beady eyes fixed on him, ‘and answer truthfully.’
Donny is fearful now. He shifts to the edge of his chair, reaches forward and places his hand gingerly. This is the first time he has touched Roe’s most precious possession.
‘Did you kill that girl?’
‘What?’ Donny looks around for reinforcements. The dark furniture is no help.
‘Pansy, Nightshade, whatever her name was. Keep your hand on the Lord’s Bible!’
Donny roars. ‘No! No I didn’t!’
‘Did you bury her body in the land opposite yours?’
Donny wants to leave, but her hand clamps down on his, holding it on the Bible.
‘The Lord will know if your answer is truthful. As will I. Did you bury her?’
‘Yes,’ whispers Donny, shaking now, ‘I did.’ He looks at his hand on the Bible and then up at her stony face. ‘I’m sorry, Aunty.’
Roe releases his hand; leans back in her chair. ‘Good. It is good to be truthful, nephew. Now. Listen to me very carefully.’ She looks for a moment towards the window, to the pure and snowy world outside, and sighs. ‘It is not always easy to do the right thing,’ she says.
Donny senses an opening, a chance to explain. ‘It wasn’t! It wasn’t easy at all. But we were afraid, Aunty. There were the babies. We were thinking of the babies. But it was the right thing in the end, eh? No harm done …’ He has been speaking to the floor, his twisting hands between his knees, but now he looks up at her with a hopeful smile. His voice fades away to silence. Roe is shaking her head slowly, her lips pursed, her own hand still resting firmly on the Bible.
‘No, nephew, it was not the right thing to bury a woman without letting the authorities know. That was unlawful and wrong.’
Donny goes to speak, but Roe holds up a warning hand. She speaks slowly as if explaining to a child. ‘The right thing, now, is to go to the police … at once … today. You must say you buried your son’s mother and you must show the police where.’
Donny clutches at his jersey where his heart is pounding. ‘But they might—’
‘Put you in prison? Yes, they might, Donald Munroe, but if you give yourself up, that might stand in your favour. And know this for a fact: your conscience will be eased; you will feel at peace. You will have earned the Lord’s forgiveness. And—’ Roe takes breath, the better to drive the words home — ‘you will have done your duty. You will have restored your right to be a McAneny.’
Donny rises. His dismay and confusion would soften any heart other than the stern Presbyterian one possessed by Roe McAneny. ‘I can’t,’ he moans, ‘I have to tell Trace. She might—’
Roe creaks to her feet. ‘You must not drag Tracey into this. She will be needed to look after the children. You can do it, nephew. You can! Get your coat and boots. We will go together in my motor car. You will drive. I will be by your side when you confess to the police. Then we will see about explaining to Tracey and my sisters.’
Donny’s feet are rooted. He wants to call for help. He pants with the effort to bring out the right words, but only a whimper escapes.
Roe lays a softer hand on his sleeve. ‘It is hard, very hard, yes. If you cannot bring yourself to speak, it will fall to me to tell the truth. But better, far better, for it to come from your lips.’ She stands as straight as her crooked backbone will allow, her eyes shining. ‘Trust me, Donald Munroe McAneny. This is the right thing to do.’
Gently, now that she knows the battle is won, she takes his arm and leads him out of the room.
Delia realises, too late, what is happening. Five minutes ago, puzzled by Donny’s agonised cry, and suspecting that Roe’s invitation had a deeper meaning than taking tea, she went to the old family desk. There she found the photographs in a messy heap and her letter gone. For too long she stared out at the snow, wondering what Roe would do, if it was she who had read the letter. Delia has never been one to think quickly. Or to make swift decisions. But when she hears the motor cough into life and sees the great black shape ease out of sight along the drive, she understands.
‘No! Oh no!’ she cries, looking around for Aureole, but the house is empty. She flies to the telephone. Mona Kingi is the only person she knows with a phone line.
‘Mona, for pity’s sake, can you stop our car? It’s heading your way!’ Delia beats her fist against her side as Mona asks questions. ‘No time!’ she shouts at last and drops the receiver, leaving it swinging and banging as she heads for the back door. Too late she remembers the snow, but flounders on in her slippers across the back yard. ‘Tracey! Tracey!’ she calls as she stumbles. ‘Oh Tracey, quick!’
Mona Kingi, frowning at the strange request, glances out the window. The big black Austin Princess is slowly turning into their street, its tyres tracking down the white expanse of the road. In a moment it will have passed.
‘Lovey,’ she calls, ‘duck out and see if you can stop the car. Old Doomsday is on the warpath.’
But she can see Lovey will be too late. She rings Bull Howie. ‘Delia McAneny is desperate to stop their car. It’s heading your way. Donny driving. The old lady with him.’
‘Heading where?’
‘Delia said the police.’
The phone goes dead.
Mona looks out and sees Lovey stomping through the snow after the big car, her fists in the air, shouting. Donny is driving slowly, but she won’t catch it. Lovey keeps on, though, in her outsize gumboots, enjoying the chase. Mona tries to think what else to do. George is out somewhere, looking after stock. Then she realises, suddenly, that she has asked Bull to walk out into the snow on his crutches. A mad and dangerous request. She throws on her coat, steps into boots and heads down to Bull’s place.
Vera misses the excitement on Kingi Road. She’s heading down Smith, trudging through the snow with a basket of scones for Bull’s morning tea. The road is empty. Fitz’s hunting dogs are inside their kennels, his half dozen sheep sheltering under the hedge. At least it’s stopped snowing, though by the look of the cloud cover on the mountain it’s still bucketing down up there. There’ll be a bloody ski season after all. She plods on, cursing as the cold finds a chink at her neck and melting snow begins to seep into her boots.
The sight, when she turns into Matai, is another matter altogether. For a moment Vera thinks the film crew is back again. In the distance, the McAneny Austin is proceeding along Dreadnaught Road, Lovey Kingi in hopeless pursuit. Mona is by Bull’s gate, leaning over a prone figure who must surely be Bull. Vera breaks into a lumbering run. What in heaven’s name is Bull doing out in this, with his leg in its cast and unable to bear weight? By the time she reaches him, Mona has him upright, his crutches slipping this way and that but all his attention on the disappearing car.
‘Got to get you back inside,’ says Mona, levering Bull’s unwilling arm over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see what can be done about those two—’ jerking her head in the direction of Dreadnaught Road — ‘once we’ve got you shipshape again.’
Bull clings to his gate, looks at Vera in desperation. ‘We think old Doomsday’s persuaded Donny to go to the police!’
A roaring motorbike bears down on them, and all three look back up the road. This is a frightening and unlikely apparition. Wobbling through the snow is the Virgin on Donny’s bike; bulking behind her on pillion is Delia McAneny, leaning forward, shouting advice into the girl’s ear. Vera jumps out of the way, but as the bike draws level to the little group Tracey manages to de-throttle the beast. Her face is intent. It seems she hardly notices the three bystanders.
‘Get off,’ she shouts, ‘get the fucking off! I can’t manage it with you as well.’
‘But I am needed,’ De
lia protests. ‘My evidence—’
‘Get her off!’ pleads the Virgin, noticing now that help is at hand. ‘Quick, or I’ll be too late!’
Vera gives Mona a nod and the two of them step up to Delia, hold her firmly by an arm each, and heave as the Virgin throttles away. All three women land in the snow. The motorbike roars down Dreadnaught, weaving a little but gaining, perhaps, on the big black Princess.
‘Dear God,’ mutters Vera, ‘are we stuck here then?’ She knows she will find it difficult to rise; no doubt Delia the same. And Bull is still clinging to the gate, watching the retreating motorbike, unable to move forward or back.
‘Just as well the townies aren’t here to laugh,’ says Mona, who at least is able to stand. ‘Now let’s get you lot sorted. And where is George Kingi when you need him? Always somewhere else.’
Ten minutes later, they are all in Bull’s kitchen, various socks, slippers and scarves drying on the rack over the coal range.
Delia continues to protest. ‘I need to make a statement. The blame should not be Donny’s. Let me at least phone the police …’ and so on.
‘Let us wait and see,’ says Mona sensibly. ‘Tracey may be able to stop them.’
‘But she can’t ride at all,’ says Bull, beating at his cast as if it is at fault. ‘Doesn’t like the beasts. She’ll come off.’
‘I was advising her.’ Delia pauses in her search for a telephone. ‘At least we got it going, though we didn’t have time for changing gears or stopping.’
The others look at her in some surprise. Delia smiles — her first since the fall. ‘I used to ride in my youth. Just as well Donny’s bike is ancient, I would have no idea how the modern ones perform.’
Mona inspects Bull’s leg, then makes tea. ‘Young Tracey may surprise us,’ she says. ‘Let’s see how that modern one performs, before we take further action.’
Dreadnaught Road is as straight as an arrow, running alongside the railway, pointing towards Ohakune. It has pitfalls, though, especially today. Twice it is cut by streams. At these places the road takes a dip, crosses by means of a one-way bridge, and then rises steeply to reach the level of the railway line again. Donny takes the first bridge carefully, easing the old car down the slope and then up, half hoping it won’t make the rise. But the solid Austin Princess purrs regally on.
‘Just keep thinking you are doing the honourable thing,’ says Roe, sitting stately and stiff as the Queen herself, looking neither right nor left, a black crone in a black car in a snowy landscape.
Donny doesn’t feel honourable. He feels alone and miserable as he drives on towards the town — the Big Smoke, as Manawa people call it.
As they approach the second bridge, Donny glances in the rear-vision mirror. Something is bearing down on them, weaving dangerously. His heart starts to hammer. He looks again. Surely that’s his own bike? If that’s Tracey, she’s bound to come a cropper at the bridge. They all will. He slows the car to a walking pace.
‘Drive on,’ says Roe, ‘if you please, nephew.’
Just before the bridge, Tracey and the bike pass them.
‘Tracey!’ bellows Donny. ‘Here I am!’
Tracey looks grimly ahead. She crosses the bridge, and somehow manages to slew the bike across the road and into the path of the Princess. She can manage no more. Machine and girl crash to the ground, the bike’s rear wheel still turning, engine still roaring.
Donny slams on the brakes. A mistake in these slippery conditions. The car skids ponderously towards the prone Tracey. She disappears from sight under the huge bonnet and Donny roars again, this time in fright. Roe is jolted sideways as the car hits the bridge railing and comes to a halt. Donny is out of the car and down on his knees in the snow.
‘Trace, Trace!’
There she is, lying between the wheels, her blue eyes open, staring at him. Donny moans, unsure whether to leave her or pull her out. Is she dead?
‘Stupid bloody bike,’ says Tracey. ‘That’s the last time I ever go near it. Get me out of here, Donny, you big idiot.’
Donny is crying now, his smile twisted by all manner of thoughts. ‘Trace! You okay?’ He crawls around to the front of the car, reaches and, with shaking hands, pulls her out gently by her feet and lifts her. He holds her close to his chest and will never, ever let go again.
The upturned motorbike sputters and whines in its own little drama, but neither pay it attention.
Tracey, shaking violently, speaks from inside his arms, her face jammed against his shoulder. ‘What in hell were you up to, going to the police?’
‘She said it was the right thing. Honourable.’
‘Holy shit, Donny! What about me and Manny and Sky?’
‘She said it was the only way. I’d feel better, she said.’
‘Bullshit. And do you?’
Donny grins, holding her tight. ‘I do now.’
She punches his arm. ‘Idiot.’
‘She said it was wrong to bury someone where it wasn’t holy.’
‘Since when did that old bitch rule our lives?’
‘She’s my aunty.’
They are interrupted by a blast from the Princess’s impressive horn. Inside, Miss Roe has struggled upright and is watching them, her face thunderous. A trickle of blood runs past her ear.
‘Get in the back,’ says Tracey. ‘I don’t trust you behind that wheel.’
Donny does as he’s told, Tracey scrambling in beside him, glad of the warmth. In her haste, she has come out without coat or mittens.
Roe looks at the pair of them, soaked now from the melting snow. ‘The upholstery will be ruined. There’s blood here, and now you are both saturating the back seat.’ But she can’t keep it up. Her hand reaches up to her ear and her voice quavers. ‘Oh!’
Tracey clambers forward, dabs at the wound with a damp handkerchief. She eyes the old lady fiercely. ‘You need a bloody good telling off. Are you gone soft in the head or what, stealing Donny away like that?’ She dabs again. ‘You need a bandage on this.’
Donny uses the car rug to wedge Roe’s head more comfortably.
Suddenly the car jerks. Donny shouts, thinking the bridge is giving way, but the jolt is from behind. There is George Kingi, hooking up a cable to his tractor. Lovey, sitting on the tractor seat, waves.
‘Handbrake off!’ shouts George. ‘Get you out of this mess.’ He walks around the car, checking the lie of the land, then picks up Donny’s bike and runs it up onto the tractor.
Tracey releases the car’s handbrake and they inch away from the bridge, rear wheels in the air, the Princess travelling ignominiously backwards through the snow to Bull’s place, where everyone is waiting.
‘Donny I’ve got to say something,’ whispers Tracey.
‘Yeah.’
‘They’re none of them talking about it.’
‘Yeah, I know. You say something then. You’re better than me.’
‘Hold my hand.’ Her hair is bedraggled, there’s a bright scrape all down one arm; one of Bull’s towels is draped over her shoulders. She makes an awful, mad face, poking out her tongue and screwing her eyes almost shut. Tracey’s way of gathering strength.
Donny grips for all he’s worth.
Mona Kingi has lit a fire in Bull’s lounge — a room seldom used but immaculate. Now she hands around cups of tea. Above the fireplace blazes Tracey’s purple volcano, framed by Bull in blond kahikatea wood. Roe sits close to the fire, sticking-plaster covering the cut which turned out to be minor, a rug over her knees. She glowers from inside a small bubble of isolation. The others busy themselves looking elsewhere. Aureole, never one to miss out on excitement, had bundled the little ones and skipped through the snow with them, following the motorbike tracks until they reached Bull’s place. Now she, with Lovey and the children, are messing around in the kitchen, which puts Bull on edge — but on the whole he’s managing magnificently, Vera considers. He wouldn’t have coped with a crowd like this a month ago.
She has settled him on the othe
r side of the fire, his cast, now battered and damp, propped on a stool. Delia sits on the couch, as far away from her sister as possible. She accepts one of Vera’s scones but forgets to eat. Her mind is elsewhere. Manawa, she is thinking, this gentle, odd little community, is a world her sister Roe cannot understand. She is too old to understand, and disaster may yet come of it.
Gradually everyone becomes aware that the Virgin, standing by the door, hand in hand with Donny, wishes to speak. A silence grows and spreads, eventually, even to the kitchen.
‘You’re all pretending!’ Tracey’s words burst out louder and angrier than she means. She swallows. The solid attention is unnerving. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she whispers, too quiet now. ‘I don’t mean that.’ She turns to Donny, desperate to find the right way.
‘Go Trace!’ he says, grinning, and they all smile and murmur, breaking the chill that had settled in the room.
‘What I mean is, I reckon you all know what happened. You all know—’ she shrugs, takes a breath, then manages to get it out — ‘that we buried the girl in the bush section. We both did it, both of us. So anyway thanks for keeping quiet about it.’
The others shift a little, unsettled, perhaps, by the raw words, but Roe clears her throat, sits a little more upright. Mona’s heavy hand descends on her shoulder. ‘Let the Virgin have her say,’ she mutters.
‘We knew it wasn’t right—’ Tracey is speaking directly to Roe now — ‘but Donny was just out of prison, I was running away from … well, anyway. We knew no one would believe us and they’d take the babies away. Put Donny back inside. They would have, you all know that! We didn’t count.’ The towel slips from her shoulders and Tracey lets it fall; stands there, small and damp and fierce. ‘The babies needed us.’
Delia speaks gently. ‘They needed you, yes. We all understood that.’
Tracey glances at this ally, and swallows. ‘It was my idea to bury her. Then Donny did it best he could. Properly, deep down. He said some words. It was a good burial. Respectful.’
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