by Fiona Kidman
There were three of them. They were not expecting her when she appeared on her stick in the doorway. Two were half way down what remained of the path. Their faces were raised towards her upper windows, their expressions mischievous, laughing. They looked so lively and full of enjoyment she could have laughed with them for a moment, if it had not been for the thought of cold air swirling up her stairs in the night.
The third boy was beside the door.
‘Go on, Ross,’ cried the taller of the two in the pathway It was clear that he was the one who had to prove himself.
He stood transfixed with the door swung open, as if his feet would not shift for him. Maria reached out and caught him by the wrist. He shrieked and struggled in her grip. The laughter of his companions ebbed away.
‘C’mon, Ross, let’s go. She’s only an old woman, don’t be a weakling.’
The two of them were running, their tanned legs twinkling in the evening light as they raced away.
Maria knew she could not hold the boy and dropped his arm, expecting him to follow. Instead, he stood looking at her. He was different from the other two. Whereas they had been sandy-haired, fair-skinned boys, Ross had a nuggety copper face and an upturned nose. His mouth was wide and full and, just discernible across the bridge of his nose was a thick row of freckles. His eyes were brown, and very large and dark at their centre.
‘Well, off you go. Aren’t you going with your friends?’
He took two steps away from her. ‘So you’re the witch?’
‘Who did you think I was? Are you new around here?’
He nodded. ‘Are you really a witch?’
She saw that he had wide-spread teeth, very white in his brown face. It was difficult to tell his race.
‘What do you think?’ For what could she tell this strange child on her doorstep? It felt like the beginning of another story.
She put her hand to her face and touched its downiness, the hair that had grown there in the last year or so. It was too late. He was only a curious child.
‘What is your name?’ she said, certain that he would disappear at any moment. He looked quickly at the broken window.
‘I’ll fix it up, miss. Don’t tell my father.’ His voice was frightened.
‘Fix it? Well, that will do. I don’t want to get you into trouble. What did you say your name was?’
‘Ross Munroe, miss. I just come here about two weeks back.’ He had an odd, twanging accent.
‘Munroe, eh?’ For a moment it did not register, but when it did, the shock was so powerful that her heart hurt. ‘Where have you come from?’
His answer was lost in the rushing sound in her ears. She thought, dimly, that he may have said Australia, but she couldn’t be sure. ‘What is your mother’s name?’ she whispered.
‘Jane, miss.’ He was not looking at her, stubbing his toe backwards and forwards along the path and clearly wishing that he had followed his companions. She steadied herself. ‘I see. Well. You’d better go along, hadn’t you.’
‘Yes, miss. Miss, my dad said I wasn’t to hang round here. When he come back here to live, that’s what he said.’
He turned, hesitant. ‘Miss, she’s my stepmother. My first mum died when I was real little. I don’t remember her.’
‘Yes, I see. That was unfortunate. But you like your new mother?’
‘She’s okay.’
‘That’s good, then.’ She would have liked to give him something, but she couldn’t think of anything that a boy of twelve or so might like.
Still he hung back. ‘Can I come back some other time?’
‘If you like,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t get yourself into trouble.’
‘I’ll be back. Fix the window, G’bye.’
And he was away, running down the path, glancing towards the hill where his friends might or might not be watching. So straight, she thought, not a sign of a limp. No blemishes. It was a myth that the mark was there forever. The generations were getting stronger. This boy had to be Christie’s son, and yet in an odd sort of way it hardly mattered. He didn’t look especially like anyone, except for the pale touch of copper in his skin. She sensed the vitality. He was his own person. A new kind of person, without allegiance to a particular group or race. He would make new choices.
‘Beannachd, Ross,’ she said, though he couldn’t hear.
It does make sense, you know, she says to the bird. It always did. How could I ever have doubted it? It’s nice to be right, though. Tsst tsst, come sit on my finger, there, we are friends, aren’t we? And you know bird, he is coming back.
The pain had persisted for several hours. At first she thought: I can bear this, it is part of growing old. As it grew worse it occurred to her that she had been stubborn in the past and had suffered for it. She was suffering now. And I have so much to live for yet, she told the bird when she could breathe. The pain surged up again. Oh. This. This is. So hard to bear.
She heaved herself out of bed. Holding the bedpost, she took the walking stick and with trembling hands peeled the pillowslip from her pillow. It was so thin it nearly fell apart in her hands. One knot. Over another. There, that should hold.
The catch had stiffened with the years. She pushed and pushed until it gave under her hands. The stick was now poised on the edge of the sill.
I have done it.
But the bed with the feather mattress seemed a long way away.
The window is open but the bird stays until morning. There are some crumbs to find by the early light. The sky looms, so big. Another bright day. The bird cannot resist, cannot wait longer for flight.
Also Available by Fiona Kidman
Fiction
A Breed of Women
A Needle in the Heart
Paddy’s Puzzle
Ricochet Baby
The Captive Wife
The Infinite Air
The Trouble With Fire
True Stars
Memoir
At the End of Darwin Road
Beside The Dark Pool
Poetry
Where Your Left Hand Rests
About the Author
Fiona Kidman has published over twenty books, including novels, poetry, non-fiction and a play. She has worked as a librarian, creative writing teacher, radio producer and critic, scriptwriter for radio, television and film, but primarily as a writer.
The New Zealand Listener wrote: ‘In her craft and her storytelling and in her compassionate gutsy tough expression of female experience, she is the best we have.’ She has been the recipient of numerous awards and fellowships; in more recent years The Captive Wife was runner-up in the 2006 Montana Book Awards Deutz Medal for Fiction, and her short story collection The Trouble with Fire was shortlisted for both the NZ Post Book Awards and the Frank O’Connor Award. She was created a Dame (DNZM) in 1998 in recognition of her contribution to literature, and more recently a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres and a Chevalier of the French Legion of Honour.
‘We cannot talk about writing in New Zealand without acknowledging her,’ wrote New Zealand Books. ‘Kidman’s accessible prose and the way she shows (mainly) women grappling to escape from restricting social pressures has guaranteed her a permanent place in our fiction.’
For Amelia Herrero-Kidman
A VINTAGE BOOK published by Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand
Random House New Zealand is part of the Random House Group
New York London Sydney Auckland Delhi Johannesburg
First published 1987. This edition first published 2012.
© 2012 Fiona Kidman
The moral rights of the author have been asserted. This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any f
orm or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978 1 77553 286 6
eISBN 978 1 77553 355 9
Cover photograph © Susan Fox /Trevillion Images
Author photograph Robert Cross
Design: Carla Sy
Images
Part One / McLean’s store, Lachie McLean, Waipu Museum
Part Two / Upper Waipu Township, Sir George Grey Special Collections, Auckland Libraries
Part Three / The McLeans haymaking, Lachie McLean, Waipu Museum
Part Four / Waipu River and bar, Sir George Grey Special Collections, Auckland Libraries
Part Five / On the way from Waipu to Whangarei, Sir George Grey Special Collections, Auckland Libraries
Printed in New Zealand by Printlink
Also available as an ebook