‘I don’t snore,’ I snap, pouring a glass of fruit juice.
Tracey giggles. ‘Oh, yeah? What were you doing then? Singing?’
Aunt Lorna puts a loaded plate in front of me and sits down at the table. I can’t help looking in surprise from my huge breakfast to her single piece of toast with a thin scraping of marmalade. She sees me looking. ‘Weight watcher’s breakfast,’ she chuckles, patting her stomach. ‘Trouble is, I nibble away all day on bits and pieces so I never lose any weight.’
‘You could try not cooking,’ I say.
‘But I love cooking!’
‘We love her cooking too,’ Uncle Steve comments.
‘Catch twenty-two,’ Glynn mumbles through a mouthful of toast.
Nobody seems in a great hurry to leave the table. Uncle Steve picks up what looks like a local newspaper and gives half to Lorna. They both begin reading through their sections. Suddenly Lorna sits up straight and points to a column. ‘Hey, here’s some more about that Ngati Whetu lot. It’s an interview with the kuia, Mere Ihaka.’
Steve puts down his paper. ‘Yeah? What’s she going on about this time?’
‘Umm, same old stuff. Last members of the tribe still living locally … lost all their land early in the nineteenth century … claim registered with the Waitangi Tribunal but it’s taking years to settle. Hey, this is new. She’s talking about occupying land now. She says that she and her whanau are going to lay claim to the land and the foreshore in the only way that’s left to them — by occupation.’
‘Better not try occupying my land,’ Steve snorts. ‘They’ll find themselves booted into the sea so bloody fast they won’t know what’s hit them.’
Lorna keeps on reading. ‘Umm … no, she says they’ll only lay claim to Crown land. She’s a cunning old witch, that’s for sure.’
‘Do you know her, Mum?’ Tracey asks.
‘I’ve met her once or twice at meetings in Picton.’ She laughs shortly. ‘To tell the truth, she gives me the creeps.’
We all stare at her in surprise. ‘Why?’ Tracey asks.
Lorna shrugs and screws up her nose. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being stupid. Her eyes are so sharp — it’s like she can read your mind. She always makes me feel quite strange.’ She looks at me and puts on a bright smile. ‘Never mind silly old Mere Ihaka. What are you going to do with yourself today, Bel?’
‘I thought I’d walk over to Dawson’s Beach for a swim.’
‘It’s a fair walk,’ Lorna warns. ‘Takes at least twenty minutes. And the track’s quite steep in parts.’
What does she think I am — a total wimp? ‘I like walking,’ I say. Then to prevent further argument I add, ‘I want to get away on my own.’
Steve buries his face in the paper. Tracey and Glynn exchange quick embarrassed glances. Lorna gives me a cheerful nurse’s smile. ‘That’s fine, dear. Just make sure you wear a hat and some sun lotion. It’s the kind of day when you can get burned even if there’s a bit of cloud around.’
‘Can you swim?’ Steve asks from inside the newspaper.
‘Yes.’
He peers at me over the top of the page. ‘How well?’
‘Four lengths of the school pool.’
‘Okay. Just be sensible if you’re swimming on your own. It gets deep very quickly in the Sounds.’ His face disappears.
‘So how do I find the track to Dawson’s Beach?’ I ask.
‘It goes off the back of the paddock behind Lenny’s cottage,’ says Glynn. ‘Once you’re on the track you can’t get lost.’
‘But watch out for Ripper,’ Tracey pipes up.
‘Ripper?’
Glynn smirks. ‘Ripper belongs to Lenny. He’s a Rottweiler. A big one. Don’t worry, Lenny keeps him on a chain. Most of the time.’
‘Just remember his bite is worse than his bark,’ Tracey says darkly.
‘Gee, thanks heaps,’ I retort.
‘Don’t you worry about Ripper, Bel,’ Lorna says. ‘Lenny keeps him well tied up. These two rotters are only trying to scare you.’ She begins gathering greasy plates. ‘I’m sure the exercise and fresh air will do you good. You two girls, you’re on dishes this morning. And Tracey, don’t forget to feed the chooks before you go over to Apple.’
‘Yes, Mum, no, Mum,’ Tracey chants, ‘three bags full, Mum.’
Steve and Glynn tramp out the kitchen door and pull on their boots, leaving the three females to tidy up the kitchen. Nobody but me seems to think this at all odd. Maybe women’s lib hasn’t come to Taupahi Island yet.
An hour later I’m walking along the track through the macrocarpas towards Lenny’s cottage. As I come closer I see that it’s more of a shack than a cottage, mostly made of Fibrolite with a sloping, corrugated iron roof. It looks as if it’s been put together from bits and pieces of other buildings. There’s a crooked wooden door that doesn’t sit squarely between two odd-sized windows. The whole thing reminds me of a face: a lopsided, sinister face.
I stay well outside the wire fence that surrounds the cottage. There’s a dog lying in front of a large doghouse, brown and black with muscled shoulders and a heavy jaw. He’s enormous. This has to be Ripper. He lifts his head and watches me.
I pretend not to look at him and keep walking. I’m sure he can’t see my eyes behind my snazzy green sunglasses. Plus the straw sun-hat I had to borrow from Aunt Lorna because I forgot to bring one. Aren’t you meant to avoid showing fear in front of dogs? What if they can tell by the way you walk? Or the way you breathe? After an endless minute he yawns and puts his head down again. I let out a sigh of relief.
I find what looks like a sheep track winding up the hill behind the cottage. It disappears into a thick patch of bush at the crown of the hill. I start climbing. By the time I’m close to the bush I’m really looking forward to getting into the shade. The sky has a gauzy covering of cloud but it’s still very hot. I’m glad Lorna gave me a carton of fruit juice and some apples to pack in my rucksack. Dawson’s Beach had better be worth all this effort.
The path shrinks to a narrow space between thick clumps of cutty grass on one side and huge twisted tree trunks on the other. Tree ferns reach down with long green fingers, brushing my sun-hat as I pass. Gnarled roots bulge up in front of my sneakers with the single aim of making me stumble. Millions of cicadas rasp deafeningly all round me. Instead of being a relief, the bush seems to be closing in on me, intent on taking away my air. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I walk faster, longing to be out in the open spaces again.
There’s a weird shriek and a small brown bird with a long beak suddenly scuttles across the path in front of me. It’s not a kiwi — maybe a weka? Whatever it is, it gives me an awful fright. My heart thuds. I follow the path round a fallen tree trunk and come to an abrupt stop. A huge figure looms in front of me. I stumble backwards. Unfortunately I trip over a root and crash down on my backside and my hat falls over my eyes. A perfect target for an attacker. Blood pounds through my head as I stare at a pair of cracked work boots and wait for hands to grab me.
‘Gidday,’ says a man’s voice.
‘Uh … uh,’ is all I can manage because I’ve stopped breathing.
‘You okay?’ the voice asks.
‘Yeah … sorry … you gave me a fright,’ I gasp, managing to get myself upright again. My heart is beating even faster. I push the hat back on my head.
‘You’re the cousin,’ he says, staring me up and down.
I can’t stop myself staring back. He’s a big beefy man with no neck. He reminds me of those disgusting wrestlers on TV. His scalp stubble is grey but I’m sure he could still pick me up with one hand if he really wanted to. His face is truly ugly. It’s very fleshy, and pitted all over like a half-finished clay head. A thin slit for a mouth and deep-set holes for eyes and an enormous nose. I remind myself that people can’t help being ugly.
‘I’m Bel,’ I say feebly.
‘Lenny Skinner,’ he says. His voice is a curious monotone, like Arnold Schwarzenegger
’s. ‘I work on the farm.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I squeak. He stands blocking the narrow path, his huge hands hanging down. Seconds go by. I begin to wonder if he’s all there. ‘Have you been working here long?’ I ask brightly. ‘On the island, I mean.’ Oh no, I sound just like Lorna.
‘Uh … about a year.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Uh huh. I like working with animals.’
‘Well, there’s no shortage of them here. Animals. Sheep, I mean.’
‘Yup.’
I can’t stand it any longer. I blurt out, ‘I’d better get moving. I’m going over to Dawson’s Beach for a swim.’ Instantly I regret telling him. What if he follows me?
‘Yeah,’ he says, not budging.
‘Ah … excuse me,’ I mutter, gesturing at the path behind him.
He grunts and moves aside a few centimetres. We squeeze past each other on the narrow track. I pick up his smell of sweat and unwashed socks and something else stale and sour.
I continue very briskly on my way. In fact, I’m almost running. After half a minute I risk a look behind. I’m relieved to see the back of his grubby T-shirt and shorts disappearing round a tree trunk. I slow down. My knees feel weak.
I hope there’s another way to get to Dawson’s Beach that doesn’t go past Lenny’s cottage. I don’t know which is more scary, Lenny or his dog. I certainly have a bone to pick with my cousins. Why didn’t they warn me about Lenny? I can’t be the only one who thinks he’s straight out of Elm Street.
I spend another ten minutes trekking up and down valleys and across rolling paddocks, panicking dozens of silly sheep simply by walking past them. Then I come over a rise and see the curve of a long sandy beach lying below me. This must be it. At last. Dawson’s Beach.
CHAPTER 4
The beach is so still I can hardly believe it’s real. It’s like looking at an oil painting. The shoreline stretches away in a perfect curve to the string of black rocks and islets at the far end. There’s another, smaller, knobbly finger of rock poking out into the water at the end closest to me. Behind the beach there’s a wide flat valley sloping up towards the hills, covered with scrub, toi-toi, and flax bushes. The opposite side of the valley is quite steep, more like a cliff, with a creek snaking out from the trees at the bottom.
For a moment it looks like someone is standing next to the creek where it channels across the sand. A dark figure, staring up at me on the ridge. But when I take off my sunglasses to see better, I realise that I’m just looking at a pointy rock at the end of the beach. Funny how it seemed like a person.
The sea water is breathtakingly clear, changing from pale aquamarine close to shore to a deep teal out in the channel. Huge clumps of seaweed look like shadows on the sand. I can’t wait to dive in. I trot down the track and jump over the bank on to the beach. I’d put my togs on under my clothes before I left, which was probably a bit unnecessary because there’s not a soul in sight. Not even a passing boat out in the channel.
I splash into the magical green water. God, it’s so cold! I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Gasping, I flap my arms like a dying seagull. But after a minute I get used to it. Maybe I’m just going numb all over.
For a few lovely minutes I’m able to forget everything. I swim and splash and kick like a five-year-old kid. A whole beach to myself! Awesome. There’s still not another person to be seen and no boats going past in Tory Channel. Does Dawson’s Beach exist in a kind of time warp?
Eventually I begin to shiver. Time for this mermaid to get out. I wade to the beach and towel myself dry and eat an apple. Homegrown on Lorna’s trees, of course. A lone seagull arrives out of nowhere and positions himself a metre away, watching me with a hopeful black eye. ‘Nothing for you, matey,’ I tell him. I stare along the beach as I chew. Just sand and driftwood and seaweed, and eager little waves tipping over and slipping back with a sigh. No notices or rubbish bins or drink cans.
I shut my eyes and listen. Really listen. I can almost hear something, as if there are shadows of sound in the air. And flutters of movement close by as if people are almost there all around me. I open my eyes. Nothing. The beach is empty. I shut my eyes again. What are those sounds? Men shouting? Fires roaring? You have an overactive imagination, Bel. Rae tells me that often enough. She jokes that one day my imagination will make something unreal happen and I’ll scare myself to death.
There would have been a Maori village here before the whalers came. Waka pulled up on the sand and naked children playing in the water and men fishing in the channel and women weaving flax on the grass. What’s the name of that tribe Aunt Lorna was talking about at breakfast? Ngati Whetu? I even have a name for my imaginary tribe.
After the Maori village came the Pakeha whaling station. I know absolutely zilch about that part of New Zealand’s history, so I decide to do a bit of exploring. Maybe the sand and the bush are hiding all sorts of ancient treasures that will tell me about the whalers.
I stroll along the beach as far as the creek, but the sand offers me only dry seaweed and broken shells. I turn and walk up the middle of the creek towards the trees. Under overhanging branches the water moves very slowly through wide shallow pools, black and thick as oil. I step into the first pool and begin to wade upstream. The bottom is pebbly, but not too difficult to walk on. Soon I’m right inside the grove of trees, with no sight of the sea. I can hear birds singing far away but none in the trees around me. To my right the bush is very thick, with huge gnarled trunks leaning across each other, entwined with springy kiekie vines. To the left the cliff rises steeply from the bank of the stream, a rough, rocky and unwelcoming face.
Suddenly I feel uncomfortable. The air is so still and quiet. The pool in front of me is like a huge black hole. The back of my neck quivers. Something is watching me. Waiting to see what I’m going to do. I turn round and there’s nothing there but trees and shadows. I feel like shouting, ‘Go away!’ but that would be very uncool. Hastily I splash back along the creek bed. It’s a relief to come out into the light and see the brilliant colours of the sea again.
I wander back along the sand, trying to forget about the creek and its ghostly atmosphere, until I find myself at the rocky outcrop at the farm end of the beach. Right on the outmost edge of the point I discover a small rock, split into several chunks and shaped just like an armchair. It’s impossible to resist. I sit down in it, lean back, and survey Tory Channel. It’s a million dollar view, but suddenly the thought shoots into my head, ‘I really don’t want to be here.’ The most stunning scenery in the world isn’t going to make me feel any better about what happened on D-Day.
D-Day (short for Divorce Day) had been totally ordinary right up to the moment my parents had called me downstairs. Mum had been quiet during dinner but that’s normal after a day of teaching. She’s usually very ragged round the edges when she comes home. While I was watching a movie on TV, my father arrived home from work. He didn’t come upstairs to say hello but that’s normal too. In the quiet moments of the movie I vaguely heard the rise and fall of their voices in the lounge. At one stage their voices seemed to be very loud, but it was an exciting bit of the movie so I didn’t take any notice.
‘Bel?’ Mum called up the stairs.
I heaved myself off the bed and went to the doorway. ‘What?’ I yelled, my eyes still fixed on the screen.
‘Come down here, please. We need to talk to you.’
‘In a minute. When the ads are on.’
‘No. Turn it off and come down. Now.’ It was her ‘you’re pushing me beyond the limit’ voice, guaranteed to chill the blood of the stroppiest student. She hardly ever used it at home.
I groaned, turned down the sound on the television, and ran downstairs, making my feet clump heavily on the steps. I burst into the lounge. ‘What?’
Both of them were standing. Dad was poised in front of the fireplace. He still had his expensive lawyer’s suit on, immaculately groomed as usual. He glanced at me and looked away again with a care
fully neutral expression on his face. He made me think of a mannequin in one of those up-market menswear shops. But then he clicked open the clasp on his expensive gold watch, and clicked it shut again. Click, click. That was a give-away. He only did it when he was stressed.
Mum was standing behind the sofa, her hands gripping the backrest as if she needed it to stay upright. Her eyes were red and she looked like she was about to scream — or burst into tears. Her wispy brown hair was even more messed-up than usual. Her blouse was hanging outside her slacks, all crumpled and creased.
My heart sank. What have I done now? I rapidly scanned the last few days in my mind. ‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded, staring at Mum.
‘Sit down, Bel,’ my father said quietly. ‘We have something important to tell you.’
I sat in an armchair, draped one leg over the side because he hates me sitting like that, and glared at him. ‘What?’
‘Your mother and I are getting divorced,’ he said.
I blinked. I couldn’t speak. There were no words to say. I carefully removed my leg from the arm of the chair.
‘We’re going to sell this house,’ he went on, rocking forward on his toes. ‘You and your mother are going to live … elsewhere. I’ll be going overseas for an indefinite period once things are sorted out.’
I heard a roaring in my ears. I felt my heart skip a couple of beats. ‘Why?’ I said stupidly. My tongue and lips didn’t seem to be working properly.
Dad frowned as though I were a witness replying incorrectly to his questions. ‘Why what?’ he said in a reasonable tone.
‘Why … why …’ I stuttered. I couldn’t ask what I wanted to ask. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and asked, ‘Why are you selling the house? Why can’t Mum and I just stay here?’
He folded his arms and gazed at Mum. I looked at her too. Her face was pasty white with red spots on her cheeks and her lips were pressed into a thin line. ‘Kate, you’d better tell her,’ he said. For the first time a trace of emotion showed in his voice. It was distaste.
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