“Jess!” calls Alison. “If I’ve asked you once, I’ve asked you a dozen times to get a box and tidy away that paper.”
Jess stalks past us to the tree and picks up an armful of paper and stalks out to the back of the house. Today she is wearing a pale-lemon-colored dress and a flower behind her ear. A pink ribbon, a gold tinsel bow, a scrap of red crepe, and a twist of multicolored Christmas paper fall from her grasp along the way.
“Wal! Wal! Get Ben and Lin a drink. Oh, don’t put it there! Put it there!” and Alison gesticulates until everything is just so, then bustles back into the kitchen to tell Magda how to boil the eggs.
I follow Jess, picking up the scraps that fall.
“Which bloody rubbish bin do I put the wrapping paper in, Mum?”
“The paper bin, Jess. The paper bin. Not that one, the other one. And don’t you swear at me, young lady!”
Jess drops her armful of paper and rolls her eyes. I shake my head at her and am rewarded with a small smile.
“She’s doing my head in.”
“Nice dress,” I tell her. “You have a real gift.”
Her eyes fix on mine, and I get a wider smile this time.
“Do you think so, Auntie Lin? You’ve got beautiful clothes, I can tell they’re from overseas.”
“France and Italy, mainly.”
“What’s it like in Italy? I’d love to go to Milan.”
I smile at her. “Someday you’ll have to come traveling with me.”
Her eyes are very bright and she is about to say something more, but her mother calls her into the kitchen.
Vivienne and Christopher arrive, dressed to kill. Vivienne wears pale-pink Trelise Cooper, a Kiwi designer with a nice line in color and fabric. Christopher wears a crisp, white linen shirt and fawn jeans. I can see why my sister is clutching his arm so adoringly. He really is a very handsome man. They navigate the room to avoid the aged granny and the children and settle themselves at the most comfortable seats.
Eventually, order is brought to all proceedings, and we are all squeezed around the tables ready for the feast. Alison brings out a tureen and starts ladling a dark-red soup into bowls and passing them down the table.
“Chilled spiced cherry soup,” she announces.
Just then a car screams up in a shower of gravel, and she pauses and looks out the window.
“It’s your brother,” she says. “Get another couple of chairs.”
A younger version of Wal struts in with a German shepherd at his side.
“Yo, bro!” he says, slapping Wal on the shoulder. “Hey, Ali,” kissing my sister’s cheek. “Ma,” another smack for old Flo.
He nods at Magda and Murray and offers his hand to Ben and then to me.
Cheryl gets her own kiss. “Good to see you again, gorgeous!”
Nicholas walks in the door behind him. My blood slows.
“Met Nick down the road and told him he should tag along,” says the dark young man.
“Lovely to see you!” Alison says.
Vivienne sees my frown.
“Nick is our property agent, but you know that, don’t you, Lin?”
Chapter 40
“Tie your dog up, Matiu,” says Wal. “I don’t want him amongst the sheep.”
“He wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“We don’t want him to be tempted. Remember the mutt you brought here last year?”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
Wal sees me staring and assumes it’s the conversation that is worrying me. “Once they get a taste for killing, they don’t stop. We had to shoot the brute.”
Matiu ties the dog up on the back porch, and Alison lays another two settings. We all shuffle together a little more to make room.
Across the table, Nicholas smirks at me. Does my family know about him and me? Oh, God, I can’t let Ben know about it!
“What happened to Taihape?” asks Wal.
“Still there last I heard, Witi.”
“And wotshername? Or did she get a better offer?”
“I got the better offer, bro,” his brother replies and his black eyes move around the table, flashing a smile at Cheryl. “Didn’t want to miss Ali’s cooking.”
Alison smiles in satisfaction. “Jess, clear the bowls. The beef will be ready in a tick.”
Wal brings out the roast filet of beef and carves it at the table. Alison carries in a bowl of new potatoes and a bowl of ratatouille. Magda follows with the salads.
“Give Ben a bigger piece, Wal. A bigger piece!”
“Hey, did you hear the joke about the Kiwi, the South African, and the Aussie?” asks Nicholas. “They were touring Dubai and got caught drinking, so they get hauled up in front of the big Pooh-Bah, and he sentences them to twenty lashes each. But as it’s Christmas, he tells them they can have a wish before they get the lash.
“Well, the South African says, ‘Okay I wish for a pillow!’ And he straps it to his back. But it only lasts five strokes before it’s in ribbons, and then he’s screaming like a woman. So the Aussie guy, he says, ‘I’ll have two pillows, thanks, mate,’ but his pillows only last for ten strokes and then he’s screaming like a girl.
“The Pooh-Bah turns to the Kiwi, and says, ‘Well, I know New Zealand is a very beautiful country, so I’m going to give you two wishes before your lashes.’ The Kiwi guy says, ‘Thanks, mate, because you’re a man of taste and discrimination my first wish is to get one hundred lashes instead of just twenty.’
“What a man! thinks the Pooh-Bah. ‘And so what is your second wish to be?’”
“Tie the Australian to my back.”
The whole table erupts in laughter. Murray howls so much he falls backward off his chair.
“There isn’t much racism in New Zealand,” says Alison, apologetically, to me. “Only against Australians and that doesn’t count.”
I smile, but she doesn’t notice.
“More beef, Ben?” she asks. “Matt?”
“Witi, pass me the gravy,” Matt/Matiu replies.
“Is Witi the Maori equivalent of Walter?” I ask.
Wal laughs. “More like Walter is the Pakeha equivalent of Witi. Actually, my name is John but everyone calls me Witi or Wal. It’s because of my surname being Repati. Witty repartee, geddit?”
Eventually Alison brings out the trifle, made with red wine, damson plums, homemade butter spongecake, white chocolate custard made with a dozen egg yolks, and a lot of cream and butter. If you are what you eat, then Kiwis are cream-colored and soft and melt in the sun.
“Do you remember Billy T’s joke about the handbag?” asks Matt and the family is away, telling joke after joke after joke. They’ve probably heard them all before, but it doesn’t matter. I guess that’s what families do. It’s a shared history, something they do when they get together.
And then a warm feeling slips over me, from head to toe.
I am part of a family now. This is my whanau. Nicholas can’t spoil this for me.
“Why don’t you all go for a walk around the block while I clear up,” says Alison. “You too, Lin. Jess can help me.”
Jess scowls at her mother. Max gets up and goes into the kitchen. “I’ll help you, Auntie,” he says.
“Where the hell’s the block?” asks Ben.
“She means out past the studio to the ridge and then back up the road. It takes about forty-five minutes to walk. Burn off some of those calories, eh, Cheryl?” says Matt. Cheryl giggles and follows him as he struts outside to put on his boots.
“We’ll leave you now,” says Vivienne. “The house will be unlocked.”
She and Christopher saunter arm in arm back up the driveway to the house at the top of the hill. Nicholas joins Cheryl and Matt ahead of us and Wal falls into step with Ben and me.
The dogs start barking as we reach the first paddock.
“Siddown, you bastards!” yells Wal. “Siddown, I say!” And the barks trail away to spasmodic woofs.
The wind catches us as we walk up the first hill, li
fting my hair. I can smell something rotten in the air.
“Poo! What’s that stench?”
“The offal pits are up there,” says Wal. “Where we dump any waste we can’t burn.” He turns and smiles at me. “No rubbish collection around here, city girl.”
The wind drops again and the smell dissipates.
As we near the studio, Wal points out other features of the farm. “Up there is our main spring,” he says, pointing toward a stand of trees above the studio. “We have a system of pipes and pumps to get the water to the troughs in each of the paddocks.”
“Jean de Florette,” I say, musing about the understated importance of water to agriculture.
“Eh?” says Wal.
“A movie about a man who tries to set up a rabbit farm, but he needs to grow feed for the rabbits and to grow the feed crop he needs water. He checks the weather records for the region going back for decades and he predicts there will be enough rain, but that summer there’s a once-in-fifty-years drought. So he borrows his neighbor’s donkey to carry water from the village well, but the neighbor stops letting him use the donkey because he’s secretly in league with the man’s enemy who wants him to fail. So then his crop dies and he has to let his rabbits go. But he tries again. He tries to dynamite a well for himself, but the rocks fall on his head instead and he’s killed.”
“Nice story,” says Wal.
“Oh, it’s a lot better than I’ve told you. And, of course, there’s a twist at the end.”
“There’s always a twist at the end.”
“It’s my favorite movie, Jean de Florette,” I reply. “Because it’s a story about commerce, about an entrepreneur trying to build something from scratch. It’s not a love story.”
“Don’t you like love stories, Lin?” Wal asks.
“We all like love stories. But life’s about more than love.”
“Talking of love, has your brother been—seeing—my sister?” Ben asks Wal.
Wal flicks him a sidelong glance. “I don’t think there’s any talk of love there, Ben. He seems to have cheered her up though.”
Ben grunts.
We stop at the edge of the farm, at the top of the cliff above the zigzag road, and look out across the broad valley. You can see for miles, all the way to the sea. The wind tears at my clothes and chills me to the skin. I shiver.
“Be careful,” says Wal. “It’s a long way down.”
We step back from the brink and join the others on the road home.
Later in the day, I decide to get rid of some vermin.
I find him at the pool, lying on an air mattress in the water, his skinny body clad in tartan swimming trunks, his finger waving in the air to the beat of whatever he is listening to on his headphones. Matt snoozes on the second air mattress, tanned body glistening in the last rays of the sun, a scruffy khaki hat pulled over his face.
“Matt,” I toss a tennis ball at his stomach to get his attention.
He sits up with a start and promptly falls into the water.
Nicholas opens his eyes and takes off his headphones. “The lovely Lin,” he drawls. “What can we do for you?”
“How long are you guys staying?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The food is pretty good here, eh, Matt?”
Matt pulls himself back onto the air bed. “Bit slow, though.”
“Ali has a set of cousins arriving tomorrow,” I reply. “She is too polite to say.”
Nicholas flicks water at me. “There’s plenty of room up at the big house.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, but Ben and I are using the guest suite and Vivienne’s redecorating the other two bedrooms.”
Matt sits up. “Thinking of heading back anyway,” he says. “My dog is sick of being tied up on the porch.”
Nicholas scowls at me, but there is nothing he can do. I head back to Vivienne’s house, treading carefully over her immaculate floor to the guest bedroom. I sit on the bed and close my eyes and wonder whether my father had slept in this room and left his clothes in the walnut dresser. And for a minute or two it seems I can sense his presence, here in the house where he would have stayed with his wife and family, on holiday from his job in Wellington.
It feels right that I, too, am here at Ngatirua with my family and Ben, on holiday from my job in Wellington.
Chapter 41
The flames have died down into glowing embers. Ben takes a sip of beer and carefully places the lamb chops on the grill, sideways so they don’t slip into the fire. As the fat sizzles and melts and crisps in the heat, the meat darkens into sweet caramelized brown.
Vivienne was an uncomfortable hostess. She kept tidying up the things Ben kept leaving around and wincing whenever she heard me speak. So the following day, once Nicholas and Matt had left for Havelock North, Ben and I escaped to stay at the studio with Cheryl.
It is a slice of heaven—the warmth of the sun on your neck, the tang of a cold Sauvignan Blanc in your throat, the smell of barbecuing meat in your nostrils, your man beside you doing the cooking. I felt my father here too.
“The chops will be ready in two!” Ben calls.
Cheryl seems content, relaxed, and at peace, not scared any more. I guess that brother of Wal’s has been good for her.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” I ask her a second time.
“Matt’s asked me to a party on New Year’s Eve,” Cheryl replies.
“Not anywhere near Joe’s family in Haumoana, I hope.”
“Nah. Up in Wairoa.”
Later, Cheryl returns inside to watch television, and Ben and I sit watching the sun set like fire behind the hills. Ben has extracted the old guitar from the cupboard and is tuning it.
“You still have to talk with Alison.”
“I know, I know. Just not until I have to.”
“What are you afraid of?” Ben asks.
“Nothing. I just don’t want to spoil being here with my family.”
“It’s your call.”
“So I need to go back to work for three days and then we’re free after that,” I say. “Do you want to go south? Or north?”
In the dark, I can just make out his smile. “Why don’t we just play it by ear,” he says. “Go with the flow and all those other clichés.”
Then he starts playing “Alhambra” and I lie with my head tilted back listening as the beautiful notes trickle into the night air.
Cheryl is asleep on the divan by the time Ben and I quietly climb the stairs to the loft. Although the bed is old and lumpy, it suits us to fall together into the dip in the middle. Ben puts his arms around me and we kiss like we kissed last summer, before it all fell apart, and then we move together like we used to, and all is well with the world.
A sound like glass breaking wakes me. In the moonlight I can make out Ben’s sleeping shape. I clamber out of the bed and tread softly over to the ladder and look down. Below, all is still. Nothing has fallen. Perhaps it was the wind in the trees.
Ears straining, I think I can hear a soft footfall, but then all is silent. Perhaps it is a sheep moving outside. Ben reaches over and sleepily pulls me back into bed, snuggling against my back. I try to lie still and go back to sleep, but my body is still tense. I need to check the house, I decide.
When I climb downstairs and pick my way across the room, the scent of smoke wafts lightly across my nostrils. I am sure we dowsed the barbecue coals, but perhaps something slipped out and is still burning somewhere? I go to open the door, but it is stuck, the handle won’t move. Now the smell of smoke is stronger.
“Ben!” I yell. “Get up! Cheryl, wake up!”
I push the door again and again, but it doesn’t budge. Ben is climbing down the ladder.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“There’s a fire burning outside, and I can’t open the door.”
Cheryl climbs off the divan and comes to stand beside me. “It’s Joe!” she shrieks suddenly. “He must have come for me!”
Ben charges and kicks at
the door, but there is no effect. I can hear the crackle of flames, and now we can see the dancing of the fire’s light under the door. It seems to have something wedged in front of it.
Ben goes to the window and breaks the glass. Fresh air pours in and so does the strong smell of smoke.
“We can’t get out there!” I cry. “It’s a sheer drop!”
I turn to the bathroom, where a small louver is open, letting in some air. Too small to fit through.
“Start filling pots with water,” Ben says. “We’ll keep the flames down until I can break us out of here.”
The fire is taking hold of the wall beside the door. We might be able to escape once it has burned through.
“Each of you grab a blanket and get it soaking wet,” he says. “And put something on your feet.”
Cheryl is gulping in fear, but she stands in the bathroom running water on a blanket while I do the same in the kitchen.
The smoke is thick so I smash more of the window to let in air. Ben rummages through the cupboards trying to find something he can beat on the panels with, hard enough to break us out of this death trap. He takes up the vacuum cleaner pole and uses it to hit the panels next to the door, the ones half burned through from the fire outside. He smashes through and starts on the next. I grab a mop and hit the wall too. Not very effectively. I hit Ben instead.
“Leave it, Lin, I’ll do it.”
Then he picks up the television and smashes it against the hole we have made. Cheryl wails loudly. “Noooo, not the television!”
Somehow I’m laughing and then Ben grabs a wet blanket and pushes his way through the hole, hopping as the fire on the ground licks at his feet and throws the blanket on the ground. I follow behind tugging at Cheryl, but she pulls out of my grasp.
“Cheryl!” yells Ben and heads back inside. There is a shriek and Cheryl comes tumbling through just as the roof collapses.
“Ben!” I call, but the hole is now covered in flaming planks.
I can see the barbecue tilted against the door. I take up my wet blanket, covering my hands and drag the barbecue free. Ben crashes through the door, and we stagger back out of the way of the flames and fall down into the grass.
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