by Joanna Orwin
‘Yep!’ said Tod. ‘Sure is! While we were up there – doing our thing – those dudes were thrashing about in the matagouri, spraying imaginary bad doggies with bullets.’
‘You should be grateful,’ said Tama gravely. ‘The army came to the rescue. You can always rely on the army, you know.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Kirsten. Her voice suddenly became sober. ‘I’d rather rely on you, Tama. You were fantastic up there. We couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘You were pretty hot stuff yourself,’ said Tama.
‘Kirsten’s right though,’ said Tod slowly. He looked at Tama, reluctant respect on his face. ‘You’re okay. No bullshit, mate.’
‘Reckon we’re all okay,’ said Tama. ‘Owl and me couldn’t have done anything without you two.’ He held his hands out, palms up for a high five. Kirsten slapped them, then Hamish. After a moment’s hesitation Tod joined in. And suddenly, the last of the restraint between them vanished.
‘I’ll never forget the sight of you bowling down that scree, Owl,’ said Tod, grinning. ‘Decked out in that wet suit and a helmet. Yelling your head off.’
‘You won’t forget it?’ said Hamish feelingly. ‘I won’t forget it, that’s for sure.’
Then they were all recounting what they’d done, how they’d felt. Interrupting each other, capping each other’s words. Laughing, acknowledging each other’s achievement. And the retelling took away the lingering horror they had felt. They had succeeded, they had defeated Pouākai, the giant eagle from the past. They sprawled on the hay bales in the sun, jubilant at last.
Throughout the rest of that day and the next, other farmers in the basin phoned to confirm there’d been no more killings. By the third evening, the community thought it safe to declare victory. They were all convinced now. The snipers had done it. The leading dog had to be dead, and the others either dead or routed, no longer a threat without their leader. The invitation went out to gather at Rod’s place for a potluck dinner before the late night news, when the announcement would be made to the outside world. Like the other farm kitchens in the basin, the MacIntyres’ began to hum with activity.
Jane, now off crutches, her ankle almost back to normal, marshalled her army of enthusiastic cooks. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you lot,’ she said, watching them as they got stuck in, still joshing each other. ‘Whatever you’re on, it’s good to see you like this.’
‘It’s just relief, Mum,’ said Kirsten as she and Hamish peeled kūmara and apples for their mother’s pork casserole. ‘The sheep are safe now. Nothing left to worry about.’
‘It’s seeing the sun again,’ said Tod as he beat up egg whites for meringue-topped lemon pie, his speciality. ‘That fog sure was getting everyone down.’
‘Who wouldn’t be stoked at the thought of a party?’ added Tama. ‘All this food, eh.’ He peered dubiously at the egg yolk and sugar mix he was stirring over a pot of boiling water. ‘Geez, you’d better check this out. I’m not used to doing fancy stuff.’
‘Party puds are an essential skill in the high country,’ said Tod, taking over from him. ‘Any self-respecting farm hand has at least one at his finger tips, you know.’
Hamish didn’t bother to add his bit. He was content to lap up the warmth, the baking smells, and the light-hearted banter that were dispelling the last of the shadows that had made the farm kitchen a bleak place for so long.
Soon after dark, they set off, the results of their cooking in baskets and boxes stowed in the back. Lights streamed from the Jamieson house as they found a slot for their vehicle amongst the others already there. Inside the house, the noise level was getting up. Rod greeted them at the door with exuberant back slaps for the boys and hugs for Jane and Kirsten. ‘Take the food through to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Then help yourself to drinks – on the table in the living room.’
Armed with beers, Hamish and Tama watched the crowd continue to swell. Captain Walsh and his men arrived, not in snow gear this time but in their dress uniforms. Hamish watched them become the centre of attention as people went up to them to express thanks. Doug Armitage stood beside the captain, his face flushed, voice loud, accepting congratulations from everyone as though he was the hero of the hour. Suddenly Hamish felt removed from it all. This celebration had nothing to do with them, the real heroes. What would everyone think if they knew the real story? He tossed his beer down, and took their glasses for a refill.
‘Go easy on the turps,’ said Tod, now ensconced behind the bar table. But he refilled the glasses, then winked at Hamish. ‘Talked to our soldier boys yet?’
‘No need,’ said Hamish. ‘We’re the ones who know what really happened, aren’t we?’ He grinned at his brother, realising it was true. There was no need to be bothered by what the rest of the community believed. All that mattered was that the ordeal was over.
Later, full of food and still clutching glasses of beer and plates of half-eaten second helpings of pudding, the four of them sat together at the back of the room. Everyone hushed to watch the late night news. When the picture of Captain Walsh in his dress uniform was brought into focus and the newscaster’s voice said something about a successful outcome, they turned spontaneously towards each other. They clinked glasses, saluting each other silently, content in their secret knowledge that they and they alone were the real heroes.
≈ FOURTEEN
REAL HEROES? Their success soon proved a hollow victory. Nursing a slight hangover, Hamish listened morosely as Jane MacIntyre told them after breakfast that Reg Hudson was coming back that afternoon. With Mr Xiang and his lawyer. With an offer. An offer Reg said they’d be mad to refuse. The farm was still going to be sold. Killing Pouākai hadn’t changed anything. Hamish’s head thumped dully.
‘Can’t you delay them?’ said Kirsten desperately. ‘At least until we’ve finished lambing? I know we’ve done well, despite the losses. The Pinnacles would be viable with just the stud flock. You’re not being fair. Just give me the time to prove it.’
‘It would be postponing the inevitable, Kirsten dear,’ Jane spoke firmly. ‘We’ve been through this before. Your plans would be a holding action only. I don’t want that, not for you, not for any of us. Lurching from one crisis to another. It’s no way to live.’
‘You don’t want to stay here any more, do you?’ Kirsten stared at her mother, her voice bitter. ‘That’s what this is all about. It’s nothing to do with the viability of the farm.’
Kirsten had a point. Hamish realised that for the first time in months, his mother sounded as though she had things under control. She’d made some sort of decision, hadn’t she? And it was beginning to look as if it didn’t include The Pinnacles. His headache thumped on.
Jane was answering Kirsten. ‘To some extent you’re right,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want to go on here without Alex. I thought I did. Sitting here laid up with my ankle gave me time to think things through. Made me realise that it’s not what I want, not any more.’
‘But where does that leave me?’ Kirsten was close to tears. ‘My life’s here, even if yours isn’t.’
‘Sometimes we have to accept that life doesn’t turn out the way we’d like,’ said Jane. ‘I’m sorry, Kirsten. I know what this means to you.’
‘Like hell you do,’ said Kirsten. ‘You wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.’ She flung angrily out of the kitchen, leaving Jane to look helplessly after her.
‘She’ll come round, Mum,’ said Tod.
He sounded resigned. Hamish stared at him. So Tod was accepting what his mother had decided. Were he and Kirsten the only ones who still cared? Had all their efforts been for nothing? He racked his brains. There had to be something else he could do, surely. He had to keep trying.
‘Don’t sign anything today, Mum,’ he said urgently. ‘Say you need more time or something. It wouldn’t hurt to give Kirsten a breathing space, just another day or two.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Jane. ‘But not to the extent of jeopardising this sale, Owl. I can’t do t
hat.’
‘Just try, okay,’ said Hamish. It was all he could think of. His brain was sluggish. He cursed the beer he’d drunk the night before. Nothing had come of his phone call to Tama’s uncle. He dithered. Was there any point letting him know that time was running out? What did he have to lose? Everything, he thought, and went to phone Uncle Manny. But there was just an answer phone message. For a moment after the signal, Hamish hesitated, fumbling for words. In the end all he said was, ‘They’re coming today, with an offer. We can’t delay them for long.’
He couldn’t do any more.
All too soon it was mid-afternoon. Three vehicles were parked outside when they got back after checking the sheep. The lawyer’s car, a black expensive-looking model, and a red postal courier van. Jane MacIntyre was outside, seeing off the courier. She was clutching a large courier bag under her arm. For a moment Hamish’s hopes rose. Then they subsided. His steps slowed. There was a more likely explanation than a couriered message from the Ngāti Ruru rūnanga. Courier packages had been part of their lives once. This was the first one since his father died. She must’ve asked one of her contact firms in town for some work. It was another sign that his mother was getting her life back under control.
Hamish watched her go back inside with mixed feelings. Perhaps that’s what she was planning – going back to graphic design. It made the future seem too close for comfort, a future that didn’t include The Pinnacles. Specially with Reg Hudson’s car sitting there. The Asian buyers must be inside, expecting to clinch the deal. Their options were running out. Fast.
Although he would rather have bolted for sanctuary somewhere, Hamish went to the living room with Kirsten and Tod after they’d cleaned themselves up. Show some solidarity. That’s all he could do now.
‘You’ve met my daughter, Kirsten,’ said Jane as they entered the room. ‘And this is Tod.’
The three men stood up. ‘Miss MacIntyre,’ said Mr Xiang formally, bowing over her hand. ‘Seeing you again is my pleasure.’ He then shook Tod’s hand.
‘And this is my younger son, Hamish,’ said Jane.
Reluctantly, Hamish shook hands. It was hard not to think of the visitors as the enemy. Mr Xiang’s grip was firm and dry. He asked about school and wanted to know what subjects Hamish was taking. He seemed to have all the time in the world. There was no sign of documents on the table. Both men’s briefcases were still closed. Hamish answered as fully as he could. Hoping to delay things. He ignored Tod’s look of amazement as he blathered on, talking about science, about archaeology. He realised he no longer believed all that he was saying. No longer cared so much about all that stuff. It didn’t have all the answers, he knew that now.
When Mr Xiang’s attention turned to him, Tod answered gruffly in monosyllables. Trust Tod to have missed the point entirely, thought Hamish, exasperated. It wasn’t long before Reg Hudson was able to open his briefcase purposefully.
‘Well now, shall we get on with the matter at hand?’
Jane said, ‘I think Mr Xiang would like some tea first, Reg. And certainly, my children would. They’ve been working with the sheep.’ She nodded at Kirsten to fetch the tea things she’d laid out ready in the kitchen.
As Hamish sat, unaccustomed teacup and saucer perched awkwardly in his lap, he could see Tama mooching about outside in the yard. Kicking stones. He would give anything to be out there with him, not stuck in here, pretending everything was fine and going according to plan. Even though Kirsten offered second cups and more scones, the moment came when they couldn’t delay the lawyer any longer.
‘Mr Xiang and his consortium have drawn up an agreement that I’d urge you to consider seriously,’ Reg Hudson said to Jane, spreading papers from his briefcase on the cleared table.
Hamish watched, swallowing his outrage. He supposed the lawyer thought he was acting in their best interests, but he sounded as though Mr Xiang was his client, not them, the way he was pushing things along. His mother scanned the papers carefully, then handed them to Kirsten. ‘I would like my daughter to read this,’ she said. ‘As she is the farm manager.’
‘Naturally,’ said Mr Xiang, again bowing slightly towards Kirsten. ‘Please, take all the time you want.’
Kirsten sat reading the papers, turning the pages as slowly as she could. But there was a limit to how long she could pore over four sheets of paper. Just as Hamish was beginning to accept that their delaying tactics were nothing short of pathetic, he heard an unfamiliar vehicle on the gravelled drive. He went to the window.
Hardly daring to believe his eyes, he watched Uncle Manny and Tāua Gray get out of a big Vauxhall, Tama’s uncle almost unrecognisable in a tweed jacket and tie. The old lady was smaller than he’d remembered, frail but upright. They were followed by two guys in smart business suits. He watched Tama greet them, watched him listen carefully, then nod. As the small group of Maori walked purposefully towards the house, Tama leading the way, Hamish let out his pent-up breath. His message had got through. The cavalry had arrived. Barely in the nick of time.
Everyone in the living room looked somewhat startled as the newcomers appeared in the doorway. Jane MacIntyre blinked, then got to her feet. The others followed suit. Hamish nodded at Uncle Manny. He tried to keep his face steady, hide his relief. The big man looked imposing. Perhaps it was the combination of the tattooed face and that sports jacket.
‘Er, Mrs MacIntyre, this is my uncle and Tāua Gray, one of our kaumātua,’ said Tama. He cleared his throat, then gave up, gesturing to Uncle Manny to complete the formalities. He retreated to the background.
‘You’ll be wondering why we’re here,’ said Uncle Manny, ‘barging in and interrupting your meeting with these gentlemen.’ He inclined his head politely towards the other visitors. ‘I had a message from young Hamish here – I’ve had several messages from him.’
While Hamish tried to shrink himself, Mr Xiang regarded him thoughtfully. Jane said nothing. She waited for Tama’s uncle to continue.
‘To cut a long story short,’ said Uncle Manny, ‘when these boys visited us last week, they told us of something they’d found up here. Something important to our people.’
‘Oh, do you mean the rock drawings Hamish found?’ asked Jane.
‘Ae, that’s right,’ said Uncle Manny. ‘Well, the site needs protection. So the Ngāti Ruru rūnanga, that’s us, want to make a counter offer for your farm. Hamish told us it’s on the market.’
Mr Xiang looked at Hamish again, but his face hid his thoughts. Hamish was too busy dealing with his own reaction to worry about Mr Xiang this time. He was disconcerted. He hadn’t expected the rūnanga to try and buy the farm. He wasn’t sure now what he’d thought they would do. Stop the sale somehow. Invoke Treaty rights or something. He hadn’t really thought it through, had he? It looked as though they were going to lose the farm anyway, whatever happened.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr – er,’ said Reg Hudson. ‘Mr Xiang here already has an option on buying The Pinnacles.’
‘We’ll cap any price he’s offering,’ said one of the men accompanying Uncle Manny.
Mr Xiang’s lawyer leaned over and whispered something to his client, who shook his head emphatically. The silence grew tense. Stalemate? Hamish clenched his fists. He didn’t dare look at any of his family. He wasn’t at all sure he’d done the right thing, involving the rūnanga. But it was out of his hands now, wasn’t it? Too late to turn back.
Before anyone could break the tension, Mr Xiang spoke. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, then turned to Jane. ‘Mrs MacIntyre. I believe some ethical issues are involved here.’ He paused.
Hamish waited. What was he on about?
‘Am I to understand correctly that your property possesses some sort of particular significance for these people?’
Jane nodded. ‘It seems so,’ she said.
‘Do I also understand that they would once have owned this land?’
Jane looked to Uncle Manny.
‘Ae, this is all ancestra
l land around here,’ said Uncle Manny, ‘lost to my people at the time of European settlement.’
‘But bought and paid for more recently by the MacIntyre family,’ interjected Reg Hudson. ‘They legally own this land.’
‘Indeed,’ said one of the rūnanga representatives. ‘Any quarrel over this land has been with the Crown, not with the present owners. We don’t dispute their title.’
‘It seems to me that you have some obligation, Mrs MacIntyre,’ said Mr Xiang, overriding Reg Hudson as the lawyer started to speak again. ‘If you sell your land, should it not be to its original owners, if that is what they wish?’
‘Having heard what this gentleman has to say, that would certainly be my preference, Mr Xiang,’ said Jane slowly. ‘But I have agreed an option with you.’
‘Such options can be put aside with our mutual consent,’ said Mr Xiang, ignoring the sudden movement of protest from his lawyer. ‘If these people can truly cap our price, my consortium will withdraw in their favour.’
Hamish stared at him, not sure he was hearing right.
‘Shall I?’ said Kirsten, speaking for the first time. She waved the sheaf of papers she was still holding in the direction of the rūnanga representative. Mr Xiang nodded, and she handed them over. As she turned back, she met Hamish’s eye. He smiled tentatively, not at all sure how she was reacting to all this. But to his relief, her face was lit with something that seemed very like hope. He dared to breathe again. Perhaps it would work out after all. It was a better option anyway, the rūnanga taking the farm over. It seemed more fitting somehow. He wouldn’t have expected Mr Xiang to realise that though. He looked cautiously at Tāua Gray, seated calmly on a chair slightly behind the men. She’d taken no part in the discussion so far, seemingly content to leave it to them. He was beginning to wonder why she was here.
‘We can and will cap these figures,’ said one of the men, giving the papers back to Mr Xiang. ‘The three of us have the authority to draw up and sign an agreement immediately.’