I swallowed a chuckle. James was a good-natured man but no-one could call him handsome. He had three front teeth knocked out now and he looked purely evil when he smiled.
A loud, hacking cough made us turn towards the entrance of a nearby hut. There was a Maori man squatting there, watching us with a brooding stare. His flax cloak was pulled up tight under his chin. Beneath his heavy tattoos his face was twisted with malice. I recognised Atutahi, a tohunga or medicine-man who’d been sent from Entry Island by the chief Te Rauparaha to keep an eye on the whaling station. He growled something in Maori. Ruihi looked frightened, then scowled and snapped a few words back at him.
After we’d passed by I looked round. He was still glaring at us and muttering to himself. ‘What did he say?’ I whispered to Ruihi.
She pulled an ugly face. ‘He say old gods better over this new Pakeha god. Old gods kill new god.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I say sky big for all gods. No need for fight.’
‘Aye,’ I said with a nod. ‘Sounds like a good notion to me, Ruihi.’
We came to a hut that looked the same as all the others. I was used to the whalers’ rough little huts by now, but when I first came here 16 months ago I’d stood in the middle of the single room that Jack Dawson called home, and wept with dread and dismay. The walls were made of bundles of supplejack tied together and filled in with wads of clay, while the roof was a dense thatch of reeds. The floor was hard-packed dirt, pocked with hollows where the rain dripped through the reeds. At one end was a ramshackle stone and clay fireplace, and a row of rough wooden bunk frames lined the walls at the other end. There was a door made of hand-hewn planks and the single window was covered with an ill-fitting wooden shutter that banged dismally in the wind.
The furnishings, if you could call them that, were a scarred wooden table with benches on each side, a couple of rough-cut chairs, a few whalebone stools with the sharp bits trimmed off, and a set of shelves carrying a sad collection of battered kitchen utensils. Everything was filthy. I’d shed fresh tears when I’d looked inside the big go-ashore cooking pot and found a layer of burned food as hard as rock.
‘What’s amiss?’ Jack asked when he came in and saw the tears on my face. He honestly didn’t know why I was weeping.
‘Look at it!’ I cried. ‘Why, it’s naught but a filthy hovel!’
He looked around in some bewilderment. ‘Aye, reckon it is. But it’s all we’ve got right now, so you’ll have to make do. Reed huts are easy to rebuild if the natives take it into their heads to set fire to ’em.’
That made my tears fall even faster. Jack came over to me and awkwardly took hold of my shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, Lizzie. I’ll build you a wooden house soon as I reckon it’s safe. Meantime, I’ll make sure you get what you need to make it homely, like. Mebbe some curtains, an’ some flax mats from the Maori wives.’
Oh, I’d swept the floor and stuffed mud in the holes in the walls and scrubbed the table till it looked passable clean and soaked the muck out of the go-ashore pot. I’d even tried to make the place more comfortable with flax mats on the floor and hung up on the walls, along with bright calico curtains at the window, but it still looked exactly what it was — a shabby little hut that was no more respectable than the sunken, low-roofed reed houses of the natives.
Marama’s house was the same as mine but there were more flax mats because the native women were most comfortable sitting on the ground. Marama was the closest I had to a friend on the station. She was the common-law wife of George Martin, a shrewd little sailor who’d attached himself to Jack Dawson back in the early days when they were crewing on a schooner trading out of Port Jackson. George could cheerfully turn his hand to any task — labourer, deckhand, cook, sealer, whaler — and he was content to follow Jack Dawson and his dreams of money to the ends of the earth if need be.
He was the only whaler who’d been kind to me when I’d first arrived, so I had a great liking for him and his shy Maori wife. I could never forget the two of them appearing at the door of Jack’s hut on that first day, Marama carrying a pot of flavoursome pork stew and George clutching his cap and a bunch of wildflowers. Marama had been too overcome to speak but George had told me how honoured they were to have a white woman living on the station. I had looked at his ugly, weather-beaten face, brown and creased as a walnut, and my eyes had again filled with tears.
‘Never thought ’e’d get hisself a wife,’ George said, pretending not to notice my tears. ‘An’ such a brave little miss, too, comin’ all the way to New Zealand. You could ’ave knocked me over wiv a feather when I ’eard the Cap’n ’ad ’is wife on board.’
I laughed at that. ‘One day you’ll have to ask him how we met,’ I told him.
‘Oh, aye, I will,’ he said, in all seriousness.
There were already several native women in Marama’s house, squatting on the mats, whispering and giggling to each other. Some were smoking tobacco in clay pipes, making the air hazy with smoke. Several were nursing sleeping babies or stroking drowsy children nestled in their laps. They all wore a curious mix of Maori and European clothing, for their husbands were always trying to turn them into English housewives. But with their calloused bare feet, their dangling bone earrings, and their fancy chin tattoos, they were still every inch New Zealanders.
My eye was caught by a young man sitting on the end of the bench by the big table, close to the hearth. When he spotted me he jumped up and held out his hand. To my surprise he said in perfect English, ‘Mistress Dawson, I’m delighted to meet you at last. The ladies here have been telling me all about you.’
I could only hold his hand and gape at him like an addlepated street brat. He was wearing a spotless white shirt and brown moleskin trousers, but his feet were bare and there was a fancy flax cloak pinned across his shoulders. He looked to be about 20 years old. The bones of his face were fine, his eyes deep-set and piercing, his mouth firm but somehow thoughtful at the same time. He wore his thick black hair tied back in sailor’s style.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was so different to all the men I’d ever known. Raised in the Rocks, I’d lived in the midst of folk who mostly made a living by trickery, theft and murder. The whaling station was more of the same, for it was always the dregs of the town who fell for Jack’s fanciful stories of easy money and willing wenches. Once he’d got them safely ashore in New Zealand, he kept them where he wanted them by being meaner and tougher and smarter than the whole crew put together. A born leader was Jack Dawson.
This eager, bright-eyed Maori had the manners and bearing of a worthy English gentleman. I was reluctant to leave go of his hand, for I felt a strange longing to be close to him, to touch his hair and smell the musky odour of his skin. I did not know how to reply to his well-spoken words and I must have looked like my wits had left me.
‘My name is Matthew,’ he said politely. ‘Leastwise that’s the name the missionaries gave me. My own people call me Matiu.’
Finally I found my tongue. ‘Missionaries? You were raised on a missionary station? I’ve been to the one in the north. The Bay of Islands, it was.’ I lowered my eyes modestly. ‘Mind you, my husband only took me there to wed me so it was an awful short visit.’
‘I know.’ His eyes sparkled at me, full of a secret joy. ‘You didn’t see me. I was just one of the native apprentices wandering round the place. But I saw you. Indeed, I saw you well.’
Again I could do no more than gape at him. That had been one of the worst days of my life. Dressed in a dirty, pink taffeta gown that Jack had forcibly bought from a whore at Kororareka, I’d kept my eyes fixed on the ground and stumbled through my marriage vows. I’d have died rather than have lifted my head and met the eyes of the English missionaries and their wives. I knew that all I’d see in their faces would be disgust for the dirty little slut who’d obviously just crawled out from under the Captain’s blanket.
Matthew read in my face that my memories were painful. He quickly ch
anged the subject. ‘I was an orphan when the missionaries took me in. Sick, with an illness in my chest that stops me drawing breath even to this day. Everyone expected me to die in a week. But they saved my life. I spent eight years with them. They taught me to love the Bible and speak a fair tongue and write a respectable hand.’ He smiled. ‘Luckily for me they also taught me a few ordinary skills which have been of use during my travels, such as carpentry and agriculture. Then they sent me out to carry the word of the Lord to my people. And that’s why I’m here at your whaling station.’
I nodded, but then I had a sudden fear that Matthew would soon be driven from the bay at the point of Jack’s cutlass. ‘My husband, Jack Dawson, does he know about you?’
‘Aye, Captain Dawson does indeed know I’m here. But he also knows I arrived with the blessing of Te Rauparaha. Whatever he thinks of my presence here, there’s precious little he can do about it.’
I took a deep breath. Te Rauparaha was the rangitira, the top chief, of the mighty Ngati Toa tribe who were the owners of all the land in the area. The whaling station was only allowed to survive as long as the chief wished it. If Matthew had the protection of Te Rauparaha, then Jack could do nothing.
‘We’ll talk again later, Mistress Dawson,’ Matthew said softly, nodding at the native women waiting patiently on the mats.
‘’Tis time to begin our meeting.’
I sat down on the mat next to Ruihi. Already I was under some sort of spell. I watched Matthew as he spoke to the women, sometimes in Maori and sometimes in English, pacing up and down, drawing pictures in the air with his hands. There seemed to be a fire inside him, making his face glow with light. The God he spoke of was one of love, a God who forgave sinners and promised eternal happiness. He smiled and reached out and the women giggled and reached back to him. As I listened, I longed to be able to believe in his God. How comforting to know you were loved and cherished all the days of your life.
I watched every movement of Matthew’s hands and every lift of his eyebrows. When we practised a hymn, singing the lines after Matthew, I opened my mouth and the words came out but I had no idea what they were. He was like an angel from some glorious heaven sent to help me in my misery. Matthew, Matiu — the words rolled round in my head and filled up all the space. He was so bright, so beautiful, he lit up my heart.
I could hardly bear it when the meeting ended with a final prayer. Tears of disappointment pricked my eyes as I watched Matthew cough quietly into a rag and sip at a mug of water. It was getting late and Jack would expect his dinner to be simmering over the fire. I had to go. ‘Oh, that was lovely,’ I cried. ‘When will you hold another meeting? On the morrow?’
He looked at me with eyes that seemed to see into my soul. ‘No, not for some days yet. But you and I have much to talk about, Mistress Dawson. Shall we meet?’
I thought frantically. There were too many spying eyes in this place. I looked at Marama, who was watching us in silence. She never spoke much but she said plenty with her eyes. She hated me being sad and was always trying to cheer me up with gifts of woven flax or pots of fancy food. ‘Marama,’ I said, ‘You reckon Matiu could come and have tea with you two days from now? And I’ll just happen to look in while he’s here?’
She gazed at me. For a few moments she didn’t say anything and her eyes went strangely blank. Then she frowned as if she could see something she didn’t like. ‘Dark,’ she muttered.
‘Marama?’
She shivered, sighed, and said to me, ‘You come, Eri. Same time this day.’
I gave her a hug. ‘Eh, Marama, thank you!’
She hugged me back. ‘Careful, Eri,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘I see shadows. Too many shadows.’
I hardly heard her. I said farewell to Matthew in a fever of happiness and flew through the door and along the track to my hut. At last I had found someone who could become my friend, a real friend. Someone to talk to, someone who would listen to my story and give me strength to carry on. Friend was the word I used to myself, trying to be right and proper, but deep in my mind another word was struggling to be heard. That word was love.
CHAPTER 8
I open my eyes. Ouch. The light hurts. Where am I? Lying on something hard and uncomfortable — the stone chair. I must have fallen asleep. I wriggle into a less painful position. My body aches as if I’ve been beaten with a stick. My head is pounding.
Lizzie. Where is she? The beach is empty except for a flock of seagulls resting on the sand with beaks towards the sea.
Was I really asleep? Did I dream her? Did I dream her voice inside my head, telling me a story so vividly that I could see everything through her eyes, just as it happened? No way. I couldn’t possibly have dreamed it. She told me things I’ve never ever read about in books. Things my brain could never make up.
I stand and stretch my arms to the sky. My bones still ache and my head feels as thick as mud. Maybe a swim will help wash out the sludge. I clamber back over the rocks and stumble into the sea, shuddering as I remember the polluted water of the bay in Lizzie’s time. Decomposing whale flesh … yuck. The coldness of the water makes my skin tingle. After a minute I begin to feel better, but still very tired. I could sleep for a week.
Tired or not, my brain keeps on asking questions. What just happened to me?
I definitely didn’t dream it. So I must have seen a ghost. And heard her voice. But only crazy people see ghosts and hear voices. Am I crazy? No! So what really happened to me? There is no answer. It just happened, something totally inexplicable.
Somehow, a person from the past has found a way to tell a story inside my head. Even now, I can still hear a faint echo of her voice. Precise and measured, as if she’s spoken the words a hundred times to herself — and she’s determined not to falter. As if she knows this is her one and only chance.
I wade out of the water and sit on the beach for a few minutes to dry off and warm up. Groan, now I’ve got to walk all the way back to the farmhouse. A vision of Glynn’s kayak flashes into my head. Maybe it’s time to take him up on his offer to teach me how to paddle. It looked so easy and effortless when he came gliding round the point that other day.
To make the trip back to the farmhouse even worse, I meet Lenny and Ripper on the path. They’re coming towards me out of the patch of bush where I met him last time. I look round at the spindly manuka bushes, hoping I can hide before they see me, but it’s too late. We walk towards each other along the narrow track. ‘Hi,’ I say brightly when we’re a couple of metres apart.
‘Huh,’ Lenny grunts. He stands in the middle of the path and stares at me. Ripper sits down and stares at me too, tongue hanging out and saliva dripping from his teeth.
‘I’ve been for a swim at Dawson’s Beach,’ I gabble. ‘The water’s lovely.’
Lenny grunts again.
‘D’you do a lot of walking round the farm?’ I ask. ‘I always seem to be bumping into you.’
‘Yup,’ Lenny says. ‘Part of the job.’ His eyes glisten in his doughy face. I look down into Ripper’s wet black eyes. They’re just as scary. ‘He’s a very big dog, isn’t he?’ I squeak.
‘Yup. Well trained, though. Understands every word I say.’
‘Really smart, then?’
‘Smarter than a lot of people I know,’ Lenny says darkly.
I make a noise that’s meant to be a laugh. What’s the matter with me? I can cope with a ghost, for heaven’s sake, but Lenny makes my knees go weak and my throat close up. It’s that face, a cross between Potato Man and a Cabbage Patch doll. ‘Well, excuse me, I’d better get going, the others are expecting me back.’ I move to go past him and he shuffles to one side of the track. I feel his hot breath on my cheek as I squeeze past, and I smell a stale yeasty odour. Beer. So he is drinking beer on the island. I bet Uncle Steve doesn’t know. Shall I tell him? No, mind your own business, Bel.
When I’ve walked a few metres I risk a look back. Both Lenny and Ripper have turned round. Their eyes are like laser beams on
my back. I long to take to my heels and run, but I stop myself. I walk slowly and steadily into the bush. Rack off, creepface.
Dinner that night is satay beef and vegetables, served with brown rice. All I can think about is Lizzie, but suddenly I realise I’m actually enjoying the vegetables, all spicy and crunchy. Everyone pretends not to notice me eating them by the forkful. To distract them, I ask Glynn if he’ll teach me how to handle a kayak. ‘Okay,’ he says, swallowing his mouthful hastily. ‘But not tomorrow. Dad wants me to give him a hand shifting stock.’
Okay, tomorrow I can walk back to Dawson’s Beach. ‘The day after then?’
Glynn looks across at his father who shrugs and nods. ‘You’re on,’ Glynn says to me. He flicks his hair back and grins. ‘Hope you don’t mind getting wet. Very wet.’
‘I’m not as fragile as I look,’ I say loftily.
Aunt Lorna splutters. ‘Fragile? Bel, you’re tough as old boots.’
So Lorna thinks she has me sorted, does she? ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I ask casually.
‘Course not,’ Tracey hoots.
I gaze solemnly at her. ‘I do. I keep on seeing one at Dawson’s Beach.’
They gape at me. As usual Tracey’s the first one to bite. ‘What did it look like?’ she breathes.
‘A drowned man,’ I say in a hollow voice. ‘He’s all white and oozy because his skin is melting. He’s got small crabs and strands of seaweed in his hair, and his clothes are in rags. He’s got a huge spear in his hand with a big barb on the end. He keeps on waving it at me and moaning something that sounds like, “Thar she blows”.’
‘He must be the ghost of a drowned whaler,’ Glynn says thoughtfully. ‘Quite a few of them drowned, you know. Maybe his boat got dragged under by a whale during the chase.’
Tracey looks from me to Glynn with her mouth open. ‘A drowned whaler? Really? Glynn, have you seen him too?’
‘Nah,’ Glynn says. ‘The one I keep on seeing is the Maori warrior with his head cut off. He runs along the beach stark naked waving his club in the air.’
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