The threat lay there where she’d thrown it. Solid. Heavy. Real.
The Tower hadn’t been his card. It had been Nyree’s. She was burning it down, but there was still no surrender about it.
Did Grant back down? Of course not. “And what about all the fellas who didn’t make it?” he asked. “What about them, eh, when they go back to the freezing works, not a bit better off for all that effort? You don’t see what I see. You don’t know about all the ones I turn away. The ones who try, but it isn’t enough. Half a life wasted, and no catching up.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “Maybe that’ll be me. But I know something else, too. I te ra e hana nei ka herena e au ki te tenga o toku korokoro.”
Grant looked at his wife. “Bloody Maori proverbs.”
“’While the sun glows,’” her mum said, “‘I shall tie it to the front of my throat.’ When you have something good going for you, you hold onto it and make the most of it. If that’s her dream—well, I reckon it is, darling. Same as when she went to University. We have to face it. She isn’t going to become a solicitor, or even an estate agent. She’s not going to make any money.”
“Or she is,” Marko said. The anger was gone, now, replaced with something else. Pride. “Some fellas do become All Blacks, and some artists keep painting, even if they have to do it in a garage. Some people have gifts like they’ve been touched by magic, some people have nothing but grunt, and some have both. You know and I know who comes out best in the end. The ones who have both. When has Nyree stopped painting? When has she stopped trying? Someday, I reckon, maybe even someday soon, she’ll have her work in a gallery, and every piece will have a sticker on it saying it’s sold. It could even be in a museum. It could pay off after all. Not everybody gets to the All Blacks, you’re right about that. But nobody ever got there by giving up.”
Marko wasn’t thinking about Grant Armstrong. He wasn’t thinking about Ella, and he wasn’t thinking about Nyree. He wasn’t even thinking about winning, even though they had less than three minutes to go in the match, the Highlanders were about to get the ball inside the Blues 22, the score was 14 to 17, and the Blues didn’t have the 17.
He was thinking about the lineout, and that was all. Holding his body without tension, but all of him absolutely focused on the ball in George Masaga’s hands as the big Highlanders hooker stood, perfectly focused himself and beard bristling, his toes on the touchline, and prepared to throw the ball into the lineout.
Marko read his motion, his intent, as he’d done so many hundreds of times before from the other side. “At the back!” he shouted, at the same moment he lifted Iain McCormick into the air. He didn’t look to see whether the big lock stole it from the Highlanders. His job, along with Hugh’s, was to lift, so he lifted.
Iain came down with it, Hugh shouted, ‘Maul!,’ and it was on. Iain with his back turned to the Highlanders, his long legs churning, and the rest of the forwards pushing him on with Hugh at the rear of the pack with the ball, directing traffic, while Chris Eaton, the little general of a No. 9, danced around just beyond in the support position and shouted encouragement. “On your feet! Hang on! No penalties! No penalties!”
The Highlanders stopped the momentum, and Marko prepared for what would come next. For Hugh to get the ball and pass it on to Chris.
You couldn’t give the ball away, not back here, not with a couple minutes to go. Hand to hand, one forward to another, working for territory the hard way. Marko at the breakdown again, over and over, slamming his body in there, and then getting the ball from Chris. Working as hard with the ball as he had without it, keeping his legs driving, shoving the other bloke out of the way, because he wanted it more. Going down with it, letting it go as you had to do, then popping back up and driving into Casey Harding, the Highlanders skipper, who was doing his best to rip it out.
Pity for him that Marko knew every one of Hardy’s techniques. Not today, mate, he thought as he countered them. Not happening.
A rush from the Highlanders, then, and the ball going to Will Tawera, the No. 10, who kicked it away, because that was the only choice back here, two minutes or not. A box kick, keeping it close, and Jerry Kaso, the Highlanders fullback, taking it in the air and passing it to Angus Hamilton, the halfback. Angus putting his head down and taking off, counting on his speed to do what his size couldn’t.
Marko had him. He knew every one of Angus’s juking moves, and he adjusted for them, squared his shoulders, and laid him out. The ball popped out, and Hugh came up with it.
Little Nyree, Marko heard, despite everything, as Angus lay on the ground, winded and gasping. Would you bang?
Fuck you, mate, he thought, and took off again in the other direction. The right direction, towards that winning try. Checking the position of the Highlanders forwards, lining up against his man. Running, shifting, and running some more. His lungs burning, his legs like lead, and running anyway.
He had nothing but grunt left, so that was what he used. Hitting, bouncing off, and hitting harder. Taking the ball, slamming into the defender, and handing it off.
The hooter signaled eighty minutes, and nobody cared. This was it. Now or never. Do or die. No giving the ball away, no penalties, and no kicks.
You did it by glory, or you did it by grunt. Twelve phases. Thirteen. Fourteen. The ball moving a meter, three, two, or none at all with each carry. Being patient. Waiting for your moment. For the mismatch. For the mistake.
There. Numbers to the outside. If Chris, the halfback, saw it…
Chris saw it. So did Angus on the opposite side, shouting to his forwards, but Chris was faster. A looping cutout pass that flew ten meters like a bullet into Kevin McNicholl’s sure hands. The redheaded winger putting his head down. Twenty meters from the tryline, his halfback running in support and everybody else taking up their positions, a flying wedge around him.
Kevvie was a horse who’d scented his stable. Blazing speed, towering strength. One defender dove for his legs, but he kept going. Another tried for his hips, but Kevin had a hand in his chest, shoving him straight off again, sending him sprawling.
Two meters, and there was only the fullback, the last defender, in the way. A sidestep nobody could have expected, not at that speed. A grab at Kevin’s heels, and he was falling. Stretching. Hitting the ground with a jarring impact, his arms in front of him. Not to catch himself. To put the ball over the chalk, into the corner.
The whistle. The referee’s arms flying into the air. The noise erupting around him.
A try.
A win.
That morning, Marko had shown Nyree his card of the day. She’d read what his mum had written and said, “I’d call that your card of every day.”
Strength, she’d read.
“Maybe not what I achieve every time,” he’d said, “but it’s what I aim for.”
She’d read on. What a match day card. Courage and determination, and following through to the end. Remember, though—it’s not just about what you do, it’s about helping everybody else do it, too. It’s about summoning your patience as well as your willpower. In other words—it’s nothing I have to tell you.
“Nice to have your mum believe in you,” Marko had said. “I thought yesterday’s card was about you burning it down. I’d say I’d take this one, but could be this one’s for you, too.”
Now, watching Marko on the field, embracing teammates past and present, looking like he could have gone on for ten more minutes, she thought, Nah, boy. That was all you.
“Eighty-four minutes,” Ella said joyfully. “I’ve never seen a match go this long. They did it. I didn’t think they could. I thought it was over about four times, didn’t you?”
Nyree didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Hugh was making the winning captain’s speech below them, hard to understand as always, the amplified sound bouncing off the stands and off the crowd. Casey Harding, the Highlanders’ skipper, making his own speech. Gracious, as Hugh’s had been. Acknowledging a battle fought against a
worthy opponent, mistakes made and opportunities taken. Leaving a margin of humility there, because there had to be humility, or you couldn’t learn.
And then something else. The Man of the Match award, sponsored by a beer firm. Marko stepping forward to take the trophy, his face inscrutable and hard on the big screens overhead. No quarter given, and no humility evident. An arrogant bastard.
Nyree strained to hear the presenter’s words. She could watch the replay later, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to hear this now.
“…a special moment,” the woman said, “coming against your old team? Any bittersweet quality to this?”
“No,” Marko said, and surely nobody else could pronounce that syllable with so much finality. “It’s all sweet. They’re a good side, the Highlanders. I’ve got mates there. But I’m here now.”
“You say that,” the presenter said, “like you have scores to settle. Anything to say to Grant Armstrong?”
“No,” Marko said again. “Anything I had to say, I’ve already said. I’ll leave it at that.”
In the sheds, Marko went through the usual post-match activities. A bottle of beer that you tapped against your mate’s. Stripping off the tape, then the uniform. Washing off the dirt and the sweat and the blood and getting dressed again, not feeling the soreness yet, because there was no anesthetic like a win. Being glad that you weren’t the skipper, the one who had to face the press afterwards.
On the thought, Hugh came and sat beside him. “Well done tonight, mate,” he said.
“Cheers,” Marko said with another pull at his beer. “You as well.”
Hugh said, “Wrong time for this, maybe, but…” He hesitated, something he did as rarely as Marko himself.
“Spit it out, mate,” Marko said. “No second thoughts, no, if that’s what it’s about. I’m here to stay.”
“Nah,” Hugh said. “This one’s personal.”
Marko eyed him warily. He wasn’t talking about Nyree. That was nobody’s business.
“Your cousin,” Hugh said. “Ella.” And Marko thought, What?
“Yeh,” he said. “What about her?”
“Koti says she’s pregnant. Well, I saw she was. But—putting the baby up for adoption, eh.”
“Yeh,” Marko said.
“Oh.” Again, the hesitation. “Josie and I are on that list, you know. Hoping for a baby.”
Now Marko was the one to say, “Oh.” He thought a minute more and said, “I think Ella’s chosen somebody. We’re meant to meet them tomorrow.”
Something changed on Hugh’s tough face. “Right,” he said. “Thought I’d take the chance to put it out there, that’s all. Josie can’t have kids, you see. It looms pretty large for her. So if it doesn’t work… we’re an option. Of course, it may be too close for Ella. Too close to home, eh.”
“I can’t say for sure,” Marko said, “but you’re not wrong. Close to home could be hard.”
Hugh nodded and stood, his hand gripping Marko’s shoulder for a moment. “I reckoned,” he said. “Thought I’d say something anyway, though. I won’t tell Josie.”
It was a pity, Marko thought as he finished his beer, got dressed, and got ready to go home to Nyree, that life wasn’t simpler. That every triumph came with pain, even if it wasn’t your pain.
On the other hand, laying out Angus Hamilton had been sweet.
The next morning, Marko wasn’t having a sweet, sexy lie-in with Nyree. He was driving north, all the way to Orewa, saying, “Remind me of their names again.”
“Carol-Anne and Adrian Hopkins,” Ella said. “They seemed awesome on the phone. Well, she did, because I didn’t talk to him. Super excited, though. Her.”
The house, when they got there, was white, single-story, and impeccably tidy. Not enough greenery around it for Marko’s taste, but no question, it was an upscale address. North Shore, with a little sleepiness to it. A little suburban, and a lot family.
Ella put a hand on the door handle, then stopped and said, “How do I look?”
“Good,” Marko said. “But remember—you’re the buyer, not the seller.”
“Huh?” she said. “I’m totally the seller. Except not, because I’m not selling the babies.”
“No,” he tried to explain. “You’re in the power position. You’re deciding if they’re good enough to get the babies. You’re not trying out for the team. You’re choosing the team.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Except it doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why Nyree and I are here. Just remember—no promises. It’s a meeting.”
He didn’t say more. She wouldn’t have listened, and the front door of the house had opened and a woman had come out. An absolutely tidy brunette, her hair glossy and swinging around her shoulders, wearing a wrap dress and high-heeled sandals. The fella was behind her, hair cut short and trousers cut conservative. A business type, Marko decided, or a lawyer, and the missus was probably one of those things as well. Both of them pretty dressy for Sunday in Orewa, but then, this would be as big an occasion for them as for Ella. Bigger, because whether she realized it at this moment or not, there were heaps more couples out there who’d want these babies. For them, it might be their only chance.
Don’t, he told himself. You’re the objective one. It’s about what’s best for Ella and the boys, and that’s it.
The interior of the house was as tidy as the outside. White walls, posh kitchen, fresh flowers, black leather, chrome, and art prints under glass. A bit like his house pre-Nyree, other than the flowers. It had felt like a pretty lonely place back then. He tried to imagine this one with two little boys in it, and failed. But then, probably nobody was ready for a baby, let alone two of them.
“So,” Carol-Anne said after glasses of water and cups of tea had been fetched from the perfect kitchen and a couple minutes of small talk had been disposed of. “We’re so excited that you chose us. When you sent your photo, we couldn’t believe we’d been this lucky. And you’re a pupil at St. Heliers? That’s a good school. Do you plan to go to University?”
“Yeh,” Ella said. “In Maths, probably. That’s my best subject. But I’m only here—in Auckland, I mean, at St. Heliers—because of Marko. My cousin. I came to stay with him, you know, because it was hard in Tekapo. Where I’m from.” Neither Carol-Anne nor Adrian had recognized Marko. Just as well. That would only have got in the way.
“I’m sure it was,” Carol-Anne said. “Have your parents had a hard time with this, then?”
“It’s my mum, that’s all,” Ella said.
“Oh,” Carol-Anne said. “So your mum is…”
“Not married,” Ella said. “Not anymore, if that’s what you mean. My dad’s not around.” She glanced at Marko.
He said, “My family’s around, though. Ella’s uncle and aunt and grandmother, and all the rest of us as well.” Did Adrian ever talk, he wondered? Not much of a business type if he didn’t. Or lawyer. Lawyers always talked, in his experience.
“Well,” Carol-Anne said, “anybody can make a mistake, can’t they. So your family is…” She looked between Marko and Ella. For what?
“Sheep farmers,” Ella said. “Merino. That’s what most of my family is, anyway. My mum’s a vet tech. Large animal.”
Adrian said, his hand covering his wife’s, “That certainly sounds wholesome, doesn’t it?” So he could talk. He smiled and said, “The truth is, Ella, we’re a bit nervous. Ask us anything you like. This is a two-way street.”
“Oh, of course,” Carol-Anne said. “Please. So—family. Us. Both Adrian and I come from big families, which is why twins are so exciting. I have three brothers, and Adrian has two, so you see, it’s perfect. We have space for the babies, which I’m sure you’re concerned about. Two bedrooms just waiting for them. We took the furniture out of the guest room already, we were so excited. We decorated the nursery, you know, and then… well, it’s been empty, and now…” She stopped, took a breath, and tried to smile, and Marko though
t, That’s all right, then. “We both grew up in Auckland,” she went on, “so the babies would have grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins around. All sorts of family.”
“That’s good,” Ella said. “But I read that twins do better if they’re in the same cot. They’re used to being together, so they sort of… calm each other down. They’re kind of like… almost the same person, like they need to touch each other. At least, that’s what I read.”
Carol-Anne said, “Well, there’s time for us to decide all that, isn’t there?’ with a tight little smile that made Marko sit up straighter.
Ella looked at Marko, and he said, “You know that twins can be born early, be more likely to need extra time in hospital. Preemies, eh.”
“We know,” Carol-Anne said, leaning forward a little in her earnestness. “We’re prepared for that. Any baby can have problems. We just want one. Or… two.”
Silence, again. Marko could have filled it, asked another question. Instead, he waited.
At last, Carol-Anne said, “As we’re all here and this is our chance, Ella, tell us about the baby’s dad. Is he all good with this idea as well? The adoption?”
“Yeh,” Ella said. She was running her thumbs over her fingertips, glancing at Marko, then away again. Nyree was sitting quietly, watching and listening, and Marko realized that he wanted to know—needed to know—what color these people were. He’d ask her, after. Ella went on, “He knows he has to sign and everything. I could just not put his name down at all, and then he wouldn’t have to sign, but the babies need to know where they come from, their people and all. My grandmother was saying that. Nyree said it as well, because she’s Maori, but my grandmother said the same thing.”
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