by Fiona Kidman
Maria scraped the last loose earth over the grave, turned the spade over, and tamped the soil firm with the flat side.
‘Maria McClure.’
At Hector’s call, she leaned on the shovel. It startled her, but at the same time she had been expecting him. The watchers may have failed at their task, but she knew they would not miss a sight like this. She looked at him without speaking.
‘What are you doing?’ As if he did not know, could not guess.
‘Burying my child. What does it look like?’
‘So you killed it too?’
That was what they would think. She had known that. For two days she had lain, feverish and too weak to move, expecting her own death. She had risen once from the bed and its mess to wrap her daughter in a blanket, clearing mucus from her face. Such a pretty face it could have been, skin like pale morning, slanted eyes and a well-defined mouth, clenched though it was in death’s grimace. A touch of Gael and the gumdigger’s mark upon her too, a new race, my little princess, a different breed we might have brought about, if I had not failed you. Around her neck the tell-tale cord, if only she had known, could have held onto consciousness a minute, or five. A killing of sorts. A failure of will at the critical hour.
This morning as Hector stood accusing her was the first time since the birth that she was not feverish and that her legs would hold her up. She was not in a mood to argue.
‘She died soon after birth.’
‘You didn’t call us.’
‘She came too quickly.’
‘I think you’re lying.’ His closely shaven face gleamed as brightly as the surface of a pond. The blue eyes were chipped stone.
Maria did not answer.
‘Oh not with your bare hands,’ he said, ‘no, I wouldn’t say you killed her like that. But through your pride, which is worse.’
‘If you knew what was happening in that room, uncle, pray why did you not come to my aid?’
He studied her with dislike. ‘Perhaps it’s better, what has happened.’
‘Is there nothing you wouldn’t say to me?’
‘There’s such a thing as natural law. How could you allow the child to die? Unless it was meant. Was it deformed?’
As he studied her, it occured to her that this was what he expected, that the child would have some monstrous malformation through the crossing of races. She thought of the slanting eyes.
‘She was perfect in every way,’ said Maria evenly.
‘Then it’s true. You have killed twice.’
‘I can’t change what you think.’
‘You’re guilty, all right. Two deaths.’
‘I wish she was alive. Not that I expect it means much to you.’
‘I can’t say that it does. Except, if it’s true, it might take down that overweening pride of yours. Your soul is in danger.’
‘My soul is my own business.’
‘There is your Maker, Maria. Think on that. He can never cure you of the sickness and evil that has afflicted you. That is there for all time. But I’ve no doubt the Lord will do His best with you, if you say humble enough prayers to Him.’
‘Your Lord may do as he chooses with you, uncle, but He need not worry about me or my business.’
‘I should beat you, Maria. Only your feebleness of mind and body prevents me.’ His expression registered disgust at her filthy appearance and unbuttoned clothing. Her hand flew to her throat, clutching her collar higher. She could not be sure whether he had seen the row of teeth lying against her skin.
‘Do as you wish,’ she said. ‘You can always ask your Lord to forgive you.’
‘You’re sick. I can’t even begin to understand you.’
‘There’s no great effort involved, uncle. You may consort with the Devil and all his works for all I care, it doesn’t make a scrap of difference to me. There is no God, and there is no heaven and there is no hell, except that which men and women make for themselves and each other. And having known both already in my life, and knowing that my grandmother, and maybe even my mother, have known things which I know now, I have nothing more to say on this subject to you. Or to anyone else. Now, I have things to attend to, not least my appearance and general condition which so clearly troubles you. Will you excuse me?’
‘It is a terrible sickness,’ Hector said, but his voice was uncertain.
When she reached the door of the house, he called after her, ‘When do you plan to go away?’
‘I do not plan to go anywhere, uncle.’
‘You will not be stopped from leaving.’
‘I need time to recover my strength.’
‘I see.’ His agitation was growing. ‘Very well. Provisions will be sent for as long as you need them.’
‘That may be for a long time. I recall there is a rather large credit owing to me, uncle Hector McIssac.’
She closed the door behind her. After standing indecisively for a few minutes, Hector started to walk back to the path where his horse stood tethered, but when he had gone a few steps he came back to the gate and, cupping his hands, shouted up to her. ‘We wouldn’t fail you at this moment. You must be in torment, woman.’
By way of an answer, the curtain at the upper bedroom window was drawn across.
‘We’ll get you a doctor, Maria.’
The curtain was flicked back again and a pan of dirty water pitched down the steep slope of the roof below the window.
‘Witch,’ he screamed then. ‘Witch. Witch.’ He ran backwards into the paddock, stopped and seized a dry cowpat, spinning it discus-like as the schoolboys did to each other towards the door of her house.
Across the paddock by the burned-over ground, figures moved.
Watching from behind the curtain, Maria thought, he is not the only one. There are watchers who watch the watcher.
There were things for her to do. Now she would clean the house and put things in order. The grate would be emptied, the brass polished, the table shone. The cracks in the wall must somehow be papered over so that the night winds could not reach her.
Food continued to be delivered regularly to her, and whatever other provisions she needed. She left a note of what she required each week on a piece of paper under a rock by the gate. Often on sunny days a lizard crouched on the rock, as if guarding her messages.
Sometimes in the weekly provisions there would be a newspaper or two. She did not know who had placed them there, and was certain it was not her uncle. Well, whoever you are, this is a last reading, she decided as she scanned the headlines: King Dick had made a speech; it looked as if the Maori were dying out; a new art society had been formed in Auckland. The price of butterfat was holding steady. There had been a ball at Government House. She hesitated at this last item. Gavottes or waltzes?
She would never know.
In a pail she mixed flour-and-water paste. Now she took the newspapers and pasted them over the cracks in the walls. When the first layer was dry she pasted another over the top. Soon the upstairs rooms of the house were solidly coated with newspapers.
A wind came up that night and whistled round the eaves. It did not enter by the cracks in the timber. Maria lay in bed and looked around her.
That was it, the year of 1898. It was far enough.
After that, she took the newspapers out of the box the next time they were put at the gate and left them there. When she had done this a time or two, they were not sent again.
twenty-three
You’re sitting quite still now, little bird. We just watch each other. And the wind’s rising, can you hear it? See the tree moving out there? How that tree’s grown. Maybe you should try the elements in the morning. Brave it, you know? What d’you think? It’s good that you rest, but not for too long. We might hypnotise each other. That’s what I think McLeod did to people. Aye, he hypnotised them. It must have been that. And me? I didn’t think I was under his spell but perhaps I was all along … never moving … fixed by the Man’s dead eye … Hmmm, sooner or later one of us will die if w
e just keep sitting looking at each other, little bird. One, or both of us. Do you mind dying?
Some do, some don’t.
Fear’s a strange thing. You can be afraid of all sorts of things. The wrath of God, other people’s way of looking at things, of Maori and Dalmatians, of distance and separation, and yes, certainly, of death itself. But these are as nothing, these are conquerable fears, if one is not afraid of oneself. If one observes a certain truth in dealing with one’s own conscience.
She had time now to read the journals, all the time in the world. At first she went over them often, but after a while they were printed in her head and she returned to them without opening the books.
The accounts of her mother’s life, as seen through Isabella’s eyes, appalled her. She thought over and again of the tall big-busted woman with the plain face, all jutting eyelids and high colour, understanding too late how alone she had been. How she had pursued the notion that somebody might eventually love her. No wonder she felt betrayed by her daughter.
Sometimes she almost hated the grandmother who had cast such a long shadow. And whom she was like.
Then she would go back to the journals again, read the words as they were written on the page.
Journal of Isabella McIssac, 4 January 1858
New Year has been and gone. What a pleasant occasion it was! In this house by the sunlit sea I feel as if I have lived in New Zealand forever. Such things that I can grow here, vegetables, and a profusion of flowers. Plenty of fruit to be had too. The beach beyond is known as the Cove, a shining strip of sand where the boats pass by. It is a place of wild open space, and a good deal of skulduggery goes on, which I find most entertaining. What quantities of rum are smuggled ashore! I wonder if anyone has told McLeod.
As well, there is cattle loading on a regular basis; I dish out a mug of tea to the men now and then, and in return we have a bit of a chat.
In the village the women meet, but nowadays I would just as soon leave the frolicking to Annie. It relieves me of having to see her, anyway.
Though of course I do visit her from time to time. She and her husband are very busy making money these days and to some extent prosperity takes her mind off herself. I try to avoid going when my son-in-law is there. He is a boring man, given to drink and womanising. It is hard to tell whether my poor religious ninny of a daughter is aware of these failings. Francis is so puffed up with his own prowess in the sport of catching girls in barns that he acts with that terrible complacency which fools the innocent and ignorant.
Poor Annie. I did not do well enough by her. But there, she was her father’s child, a solemn creature in love with images of McLeod and his scriptural fantasies. I thought coming here we might make up for some of the failures of the past. I expected too much from both of us. She enjoys misery and I persist in enjoying myself.
Still, she is more agreeable than Hector. He’s one to look out for, to fear. As punishing as McLeod, without his brains. I think he would like to make trouble for Duncan Cave, denies brotherhood with him, and is out to spread a foul rumour or two. He is no different from when he was a boy. I wish he had stayed in Nova Scotia. He is the only thing that really bothers me here.
Duncan Cave is strong now, more than a match for Hector. He works the scows that ply the coastline. I can see the boats passing from my kitchen window, and sometimes he runs his shirt up from the ropes so that I know he is aboard. For the most part he lives in Auckland and has found compatible friends. He has been introduced to botanists and other naturalists who have put his drawing talent to good use, both in his spare time and while at work on the scows, where he has an opportunity to observe coastal plant life and crustaceans in their habitat. He draws them for these researchers and is getting quite a name for himself. He is so happy.
Oh yes, Hector will have to work hard to harm him. And I have heard that Hector has a little trouble of his own on its way. He has a new wife called Rose, and they do not treat each other kindly.
Well, I should not enjoy his problems so.
No, I must deny that I do, I am simply a harmless old woman. I am batty, I live by the sea, I make plants grow. It is indeed a wonderful life.
On a night of sudden spring storm when the wind funnelled into the sky and the macrocarpa lashed at the window, Maria was disturbed by a knock at her door. She had been dozing by the fire, her knitting fallen from her lap. That year she had shorn two sheep which had appeared at her kitchen door and stayed a season. All the wool had been spun, and a large pile of it was looped around two kitchen chairs.
At first she thought the knocking was a branch come loose, banging against the side of the house. But in a lull in the storm there was another clear rapping and a man’s voice calling, though it was whipped away by the wind rising again.
She put her knitting down, afraid now, her hand on her chest.
‘Go away.’ She listened to the sound of her own voice. She often spoke aloud to herself, but she had been outside the society of other human beings for so long that she did not know how it would sound in their ears or even if she would be understood.
‘It is better for you to go away, whoever you are.’
‘Please, I want to come in. I won’t harm you,’ called the person outside. It was the voice of a young man.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ she lied. ‘It is you who should be concerned. I’m the witch of Waipu, don’t you know? Are you a stranger, or mad, that you come here this dark wet night?’
‘I am your cousin, Jamie McIssac, and I must see you.’
She opened the door a fraction then. It was never locked, in the way of the people.
On her doorstep stood a young man dripping water in rivulets from heavy oilskins. She judged him not more than twenty, his hair plastered to his skull making him almost babyish in his appearance. His eyes were luminous in the light, and startled wide, terrified of something beyond or behind him.
‘Please.’
‘Well. All right, then, drowned rat. The winds are sweeping high and rough over Bream Tail tonight by the sound of it. But be quick about your business.’
She shut the door behind him and motioned him to the fire. With the door closed he seemed more at ease and she saw his glance flick around the room, inquisitive and darting, in spite of whatever it was that had driven him there.
‘Cousin, then. Whose child are you?’ Her voice was coming out quite normally. It didn’t sound strange, or if it did, he appeared not to notice.
‘Second cousin,’ he said, as he began to untie the strings of his oilskins. ‘I’m sorry about the mess.’ He stood awkwardly away from the rug.
‘It will dry. I do not know my second cousins.’
‘The son of William McIssac and grandson of Hector.’
‘Hector. Hmph. That devil. What’s he been up to?’
The boy looked shocked. ‘He’s long dead.’
‘Eh? Well, fancy that. I suppose he would be. It makes no difference. I can do without the McIssacs. I’ve nothing to say to any of them.’
‘Neither have I, cousin.’ Again the young man’s eyes widened, as if he expected to be followed into the house.
They took stock of each other. The woman stood her distance in the shadow of the lamp by the long kauri table. She was taller than average, with fair hair turning grey bundled up behind the ears. It was very thick as if it had not been cut for a long time, or ever, and might fall at a whim. Her skin was very fine and slightly olive, as if she spent time outdoors. She was solid and well built; a slight thickening around her waist suggested that she was no longer young, and under her chin there was a tell-tale crêpiness. Otherwise she was ageless. Only her hands, large-boned and raw-knuckled, suggested any hardship.
The young man’s teeth began to chatter as he considered his surroundings and the woman opposite him.
‘I’ll put a log on. There, you’d better get stripped down and a blanket about you.’ He blushed and she smiled. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m old.’
But with a sense of shock she guessed that was not how he viewed her. It was so long since she had seen herself reflected in anyone else’s eyes.
‘Go on,’ she said firmly, hoping not to give herself away. ‘It’s all right, I’ll get a blanket and start a mug of tea while you’re at it. But you’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve seen a man’s body before. A grown man’s, and you’re not more than a slip of a boy.’
‘I’m twenty-three.’
‘Are you now? A great age, yes. The way you’re shivering I’d have put you at half that. Not so brave now that you’re actually here alone with Maria the witch.’
She filled the iron kettle and placed it on the hob, passing close to him as she did. ‘I’ve got my back turned.’
‘I don’t know much about you, cousin. I was a child when you started living here by yourself.’
‘So how is it then, that you come running to me when you’re in trouble?’
Her bluntness unsettled him. ‘I did not say I was in trouble.’
‘You did not, but it’s written all over you. Jamie McIssac, I am going now to get another blanket from my room, and while I am doing that you had better decide what you want with me, for I’m not standing round making small talk. You have a minute or so to think about it. Or else you can go.’
‘If I do not?’
She turned at the foot of the stairs and looked at him, observing his thin chest which he had stripped. Again she smiled. ‘You would threaten me?’
The wind howled, and beyond she thought she could hear the sea beating. The night was turning to a gale. He dropped his eyes, bright and clear in an otherwise quite ordinary face. Yet the way he held his head and moved were uncomfortably familiar, though she could not identify his appearance exactly with that of anyone she had known. Except, perhaps, her own reflection. She shivered in her turn and hoped he would not notice.
‘No, of course I would not,’ he was saying. ‘I meant what I said. You have nothing to fear from me.’