Cross Tides

by Lorraine Orman

  Then Glynn pushes through two bulky flax bushes, the long black stalks towering higher than his head, and disappears from view. ‘Yep, here it is,’ his voice comes through the thick screen of leaves. I hold my breath and plunge forward into the bushes. I even shut my eyes, telling myself it’s to stop the dust and insects getting into them.

  Then I’m through. I open my eyes. The graveyard is small, about the size of four car parks. There must have been a fence around it at some stage because each of the corners is marked by a stump of post sticking out of a lump of cement. The whole area is overgrown with grass and weeds. A few headstones stick up out of the grass: roughly cut slabs of rock with letters carved into their mossy faces. The rest have toppled over and lie buried in the grass.

  Glynn slips off the backpack and kneels down to pull grass away from one of the upright headstones. ‘This is Jack Dawson,’ he announces, peering at the big black stone. ‘He died in 1863. See, you can just read the numbers.’

  I don’t want to look at Jack Dawson. ‘Is his wife here? Lizzie?’

  Glynn looks at the headstone next to Jack. ‘No, this is Marama Martin. Our lots-of-greats grandmother. And this is George Martin next to her.’

  ‘What’s the date Marama died?’

  He scrapes at the moss. ‘It’s pretty hard to read. I think it was about 1869.’

  ‘What’s the other writing underneath?’

  ‘Something like “Loved wife of George and mother of Samuel”. Samuel’s over here in this big fancy one,’ Glynn says, pointing at a large stone that looks like marble. I can read Samuel’s dates quite clearly — 1832 to 1910.

  That jerks some kind of memory in my brain. But before I can work out what it is, I spot a small grey stone lying on its side and almost hidden in the long grass, very close to one of the corner posts. It’s removed from the rest. ‘This one,’ I say, kneeling beside it. ‘This is the one I want to see.’

  Glynn stares at it, then at me. ‘What d’you mean? How do you know?’

  I can’t be bothered lying to him. ‘I just know this is the right one.’

  Together we yank up grass stalks until the face of the stone is clear. We examine the roughly carved words, our shoulders touching. ‘Lizzie Dawson,’ Glynn reads aloud.

  I reach out and trace my finger over the row of faint crooked letters underneath her name. I’m not really reading them. Someone is reading them to me. ‘Drowned by her own will, 1832,’ I repeat. So she killed herself. I guess I should have figured it out. Oh, Lizzie, couldn’t you have kept on fighting?

  ‘That’s right,’ Glynn says thoughtfully. ‘Most of the books don’t actually say how she died. But if my memory’s correct this one has something.’ He digs around in the backpack and pulls out a little old book with a stained, red, cloth cover. ‘I shoved a few books and papers in at the last minute. Don’t know why, just had a feeling we might need them today. Gramps gave this one to me ages ago. It’s got all sorts of interesting stories in it. Just a sec — I’ll find the bit about Lizzie.’

  ‘Let me see.’ I grab the book out of his hand. It’s called Strange but True Tales of the Marlborough Sounds. ‘Is she really in here? Lizzie, I mean?’

  ‘Uh huh. One of the chapters is an extract from a journal written by Samuel Martin. You know, George and Marama’s son? The journal itself is in the Turnbull Library but some bits of it are reprinted in this book.’

  I check the contents page. ‘From the Journal of Samuel Martin,’ I read, ‘as Recounted to him by his Father, George Martin: the Story of an Ill-Fated Love.’

  ‘George couldn’t read or write, of course,’ Glynn told me. ‘But Samuel could. So he wrote down all his father’s stories about the old whaling days in his journal.’

  Suddenly I shut the book and hold it to my chest. I can’t read it yet. Soon. Very soon. ‘Matthew should be buried here,’ I say, indicating the empty spot next to Lizzie.

  ‘Who’s Matthew?’ says Glynn, looking strangely at me. ‘The skeleton in the cave? Why do you call it Matthew?’

  ‘That was his name.’

  ‘How do you know? Was there something with his name on it? That prayer book?’

  ‘I just know his name is Matthew.’

  Glynn gestures at the book I’m holding. ‘It’s years since I read it, but I think Lizzie Dawson’s lover was called Matiu. Does that mean the bones are his?’

  ‘They could be. No-one will ever know for sure.’ I stare at him, willing him to just leave it at that.

  Glynn shrugs, brushes the dirt off his hands, and perches on top of Jack Dawson’s headstone. ‘You know what, Bel?’

  ‘What?’

  He’s blushing but he pushes his fringe back and looks me fair and square in the eye. ‘You’re terminally weird. I like you — as a cousin. But it’s like you come from another planet.’

  ‘I like you too, Glynn,’ I say. ‘As a cousin. So we’re all square. Look, will you make sure they know to bury Matthew here next to Lizzie? Please? It’s very important.’

  Glynn nods solemnly. ‘Sure. I’ve got no idea what any of this is about. And I don’t think I want to know. But I’ll make sure that’s where he goes.’

  ‘I’ll be coming back here for the burial,’ I tell him. ‘That’s very important too. In a different way. Will you let me know when it’s going to be?’

  ‘Okay. I promise. Tell me, are all Aucklanders as freaky as you?’ Glynn asks. ‘Is it something they put in the cappuccinos?’

  I punch him on the arm. ‘No. Only the ones who get exiled because their parents don’t want them hanging around being bitchy.’

  Glynn’s smile vanishes. ‘Mum told me what was going on. I’m sorry. It must be the pits. Do you feel any better now you’ve been out of it for a while?’

  I stare down at Lizzie’s sad little headstone, holding the red book close to my heart. It seems a long time since I’ve really thought about what’s going on in Auckland. Like it all happened 20 years ago. ‘I guess so,’ I tell him.

  ‘Good,’ Glynn says quietly. We sit in silence for a minute. ‘Bel, have you finished here? Are you ready to go back?’

  ‘Just a bit longer. I want to look at the book. While I’m here with Lizzie. I’ll meet you back at the beach in about quarter of an hour?’

  ‘Okay. We’ll wait for you.’ He walks towards the row of flax bushes and disappears.

  I sit down next to Lizzie’s fallen tombstone, rest my elbow on it, and open the book.

  CHAPTER 18

  I can hear George’s voice as clearly as if he’s sitting on top of his tombstone, chewing on his smelly old pipe while he talks. His words have been carefully tidied up by his son, everything made correct and grammatical, but it’s him all right. This is what I read:

  ‘Lizzie Dawson was the first white woman to live in the South Island, the Middle Island we called it then. Hers was a mighty sad tale. Pretty little thing she was, but in those days being tough was more important than being pretty, believe me. And she just wasn’t tough enough.

  ‘What a miserable life she had. Not even 16 years old when Jack Dawson won her as a prize in a game of dice back in Sydney. He brought her out to New Zealand on the Marianne and took her to the missionaries in the Bay of Islands and there he married her, all right and proper. As headsman he always liked to set a good example, and that’s to his credit even if naught else is in this sorry tale.

  ‘A hard man was our Jack. Mind you, he needed to be hard to keep any kind of order in a shore whaling station. But he was too hard on poor little Lizzie, never seeing that she needed a bit of love and kindness, and she wilted like a flower torn up by its roots.

  ‘During Lizzie’s second season at Dawson’s Beach, a Maori preacher arrived. Matthew, his name was. Born a Maori slave, cast out to die as a nipper because his chest was bad, raised by the missionaries, sent out to convert the heathen natives. He was neither fish nor fowl. The New Zealanders didn’t know what to make of him, and the whalers hated his guts because their wives flocked aro
und him like sparrows hungry for crumbs. Good-looking rascal he was, face like an angel. Dark angel, I suppose you’d rightly say.

  ‘Poor Lizzie fell in love with him and he with her. Both misfits, you see. Jack Dawson denied it for the rest of his days, but I reckon he smelt a rat and one day he sent the preacher out on a whaleboat. I’ll never forget that day. Heartbreaking, it was. Matthew wasn’t strong enough to man an oar, and by the time we got out into the Strait he was grey and gasping. The irons went in and the fish was heaving over in her flurry and her fluke went up and came down on top of us. Jack had seen it coming and yelled at the crew to row, but Matthew just lay on his oar and didn’t move a finger. We was a split second too slow and the fluke got us amidships.

  ‘By the time the crew were hauled into Geordie’s boat, Matthew was floating face down in the bloody sea. We knew he was a goner afore we even pulled him out.

  ‘Lizzie was heartbroken when she saw his body in the bottom of the boat. She screamed and wailed like her wits had gone. Everyone, including Jack Dawson, soon realised what had been going on. Jack went berserk and just about killed her with his fists and his boots. Can you blame him, being shown up as a cuckold in front of his men? Aye, and with a native and all. I reckon that was what really stuck in Jack’s craw.

  ‘A few weeks later when Lizzie had gotten over her beating your mother and I took her away from Dawson’s Beach for the off-season. Jack wanted nothing more to do with her and went trading up the coast on the Marianne. We got ourselves a canoe and built a hut at Rata Bay about half an hour’s paddle up the channel. A small group of New Zealanders came and lived with us in the bay and helped with the planting and the fishing.

  ‘It weren’t a bad summer, the one of Christmas 1831, but as the months took us into 1832 Lizzie just got worse and worse. She never recovered from Matthew’s death and she moped round the place till she was a shadow of herself. She got fixated on going back to Dawson’s Beach. But we wouldn’t let her go. All for her own safety, of course. Some of Jack’s crew were still mighty disgusted that she’d given herself to a native and they would have treated her very badly. We reckoned it was best to just let things lie and eventually all would be forgotten.

  ‘We were very sad but not overly surprised when she crept down to the rocks one morning at dawn and threw herself into the sea. That was just a week or so after you was born, Sam, so your mother was busy looking after you and she didn’t think to worry about where Lizzie had gone till it was too late.

  ‘Poor little Lizzie. We took her body back to the whalers’ graveyard at Dawson’s Beach and were lucky enough to get her buried while her husband was still in Port Jackson. I reckon he’d have refused to let her lie there if he’d had any say in the matter. Not that she rested peacefully, mind you. Marama always swore she saw Lizzie’s ghost sitting on the rocks when the mists came down. Who’s to say she’s making it up? Not me — your mother always saw a lot more people round about her than the rest of us ever did, and that’s God’s truth.’

  There’s something wrong with George’s story. It all sounds straightforward and logical but I just know there’s something wrong with it. I cast my mind back to Lizzie’s description of that terrible scene on the beach. And afterwards in the hut when Marama and Lizzie are talking. What did Marama say? A baby. Yes! According to Marama, Lizzie was pregnant. Not Marama, but Lizzie.

  So when they left Dawson’s Beach and settled in Rata Bay for the summer of 1831 and 1832, it must have been Lizzie who gave birth to Samuel. Not Marama. Soon after the birth Lizzie drowned herself. And Marama and George must have brought up Samuel as their own son. They obviously never told anyone the truth, not even Samuel. Marama got her baby, just as Matthew had promised.

  The puzzle is complete at last. My family is descended from Lizzie Dawson and Matthew. Their blood runs in my veins. I’ve always known I have a tiny drop of Maori blood, but I thought it came from Marama Martin. But Lizzie Dawson’s blood — well, that’s the last crucial piece of the jigsaw. Now I know why you spoke to me, Lizzie. Why you had to wait for so long to find the right person to listen to your story.

  I’m not going to tell anyone what I know, not even Glynn. It’s our secret, yours and mine, Lizzie Dawson. Maybe I’ll tell Daniel, a long time in the future. Maybe.

  I sing a verse of Lizzie’s song to her, the old country ballad that brought us together. I sing better than I’ve ever sung in my life before. Pity there’s only a ghost to appreciate it. During the chorus I think I can hear a faint voice singing with me but it could just be wishful thinking. When we’ve finished I put my hand on the headstone and whisper, ‘He’ll be here soon, Lizzie.’

  Mum phones me the day before I’m due to meet her and the dreaded Reuben in Picton. We’re just cleaning up after an enormous dinner of roast beef and vegetables, followed by passionfruit pavlova. I can hardly move, I’m so full. Mum speaks to Lorna for a long time. Eventually Lorna calls me to the phone. ‘Hi, there,’ Mum says.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘How are you feeling? Ready to come home soon?’ Lorna had phoned Mum while I was sleeping off the night in the cave and told her all about my adventures. Mum had phoned twice since then, positively overflowing with maternal concern.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine, Mum.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Okay. But I want to hear every single detail when we’re home again.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She’ll get a very short, sanitized version, like Rae. It’s a bummer, really. I’ve done all the things storybook heroines are meant to do, and I can’t tell a soul.

  Mum’s still talking. ‘I’m phoning to finalise things for tomorrow. We’re flying down to Nelson tonight and we’ll pick up a rental car and drive over to Picton in the morning. Lorna says that midday is a good time for us to meet you. How about in front of that big war memorial on the foreshore? Lorna says she and Steve will get there about quarter past twelve to give us a bit of time on our own.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Silence from her end. ‘Bel, are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you heard from Dad?’

  She sighs. ‘I got a postcard from Paris saying he’s going to Rome next. He gave me an address in Rome. That’s all. What about you?’

  ‘Postcard of the Tower of London.’

  There’s a silence. I can almost see her frowning and biting her lip. ‘Bel, give him time.’

  ‘I know.’

  She sighs again. ‘I miss you, Bel. I can’t wait for you to come back and see our lovely new house.’

  Oh, no. Our new house. One step at a time, Mum. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say and hang up.

  We get into Picton the next morning with an hour to spare. Tracey, Glynn and I wander along the main street. I nip into a grocery store and buy the biggest box of chocolates I can find as a thank-you present for all those vegetables.

  Next we come to the bric-à-brac shop. ‘I’m going in here,’ I announce. The other two wander in behind me. I head straight for the antique cabinet. The whalebone dolphin is still on the shelf. I pick it up and rub my thumb over the smooth curve of its back. Just as Lizzie did when she picked it up from Marama’s table.

  ‘It’s made of whalebone,’ Glynn says, peering over my shoulder. ‘Probably quite old.’

  ‘She says it’s an antique.’ I gesture at the woman behind the counter. ‘Carved by a whaler in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘How much is it?’

  I sigh. ‘Ninety dollars.’

  Tracey and Glynn look at each other. ‘Mum gave us some money,’ Tracey says with a big smile, ‘to buy a going-away present for you. We could put thirty dollars towards the dolphin, if that’ll help.’

  I don’t hesitate. ‘Cool. Thanks.’ I look at both of them in turn. ‘It’s … very special.’

  ‘A souvenir of your holiday,’ Tracey says coyly.

  ‘A lot more than that,’ I murmur.

 
Glynn catches my words. He raises his eyebrows, mouths ‘Weird,’ at me, and hands over three ten dollar notes. I pull out my purse.

  I can’t even bear to give the dolphin to the shop owner to wrap. ‘I’ll take it like this,’ I tell her and pass over the money. She frowns at me and counts the notes carefully. The dolphin nestles comfortably in my jeans pocket. I wrap my fingers round it. Maybe I’m just dreaming it’s the one George Martin was carving. But maybe not.

  Glynn disappears into a hunting and fishing shop, saying he’ll catch us up. I look at my watch. ‘It’s almost noon,’ I say to Tracey. ‘I’d better get moving.’

  ‘D’you want me to come with you?’ she asks with a hesitation in her voice I haven’t heard before. ‘To meet them, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah. I’d like that.’

  ‘Bel, I really liked having you to stay,’ she says, turning pink and looking a lot like her brother.

  I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘But just as a cousin, not as a sister,’ I say firmly.

  She giggles. ‘No, not as a sister. I couldn’t live with a sister who doesn’t like horses. No way!’

  I put my arm round her shoulder and give her a hug. ‘Thanks for sharing your bedroom, kiddo,’ I say. ‘The horses neighed me to sleep every night.’

  We walk down the street towards the white war memorial with the soldier on top. Up the steps and through the archway and down the steps on the other side. The breeze rustles in the phoenix palms and children shriek in the playground close by. As we go down the steps I pause and look back at the memorial. The inscription says, ‘Peace, Perfect Peace.’ I can’t help giving a kind of snort.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Tracey.

  ‘Nothing.’

  A red brick path leads down to a circular paved area just above the beach, surrounded by beds of yellow and red flowers. Trust my mother to pick a meeting place full of flowers. There are two people standing in the middle of the circle, looking out into the bay. Their shoulders are pressed together. Their heads are close. They look like two people in love. They both turn round as Tracey and I walk towards them. Tracey grabs my arm. ‘He looks nice,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘A bit nervous, though.’