Paraiti took Tiaki fishing with her in a favourite lagoon. She speared a fish, but it floated with the spear away from the rocks. ‘Kia tere,’ she commanded Tiaki. Immediately he dived into the sea after the speared fish, swimming fast and grabbing it just before it sank. ‘What would I do without you?’ Paraiti winked.
Camping on the beach one evening, Paraiti saw an uncommonly bright star blazing a trail across the sky. That night she had the dream again. It had changed in two respects: the auburn-haired woman had now become the ngangara, and it was a child who was caught in its slithering shape.
This morning, Paraiti is waiting for Tiaki to bring her breakfast. Perhaps he has caught a nice silver-finned kahawai.
Of course she will have to throw it back into the sea — first fish to Tangaroa — but the thought of a fish for breakfast is enticing. She leaves her tent to get some driftwood together for a fire to boil water for her manuka tea. She puts a skillet on the flames so it will be ready for Tiaki’s catch.
As she is ranging along the beach, with the surf rolling in, she sees an old koroua sitting on a log in the middle of a vast expanse of sand. His trousers are rolled up as if he has just come out of the surf. He is smiling at her and waving to her as if he knows her.
When she sees him, Paraiti’s heart bursts with pain and love. She drops her driftwood and runs towards him like a young girl. When she gets nearer, he motions her to sit down next to him.
‘Hello, daughter,’ Te Teira says. ‘Isn’t it a lovely morning?’
Paraiti smiles at him. ‘Yes, Dad.’
He closes his eyes and sniffs the sea air. ‘Mmm, kei te whiti te ra, such a day brings back so many memories, daughter.’ He looks at Paraiti again, and she can feel herself drowning in his eyes, irradiated with his love. ‘You always had good hands, daughter. They can save lives and they can heal people. You know what you have to do.’
Then he is gone.
After breakfast, Paraiti talks to her animals. ‘Well, Tiaki, Ataahua and Kaihe, I know you like to visit kin at Tikitiki, Tokomaru Bay, Tolaga Bay and Whangara, but we have to cancel our travels. Maybe we’ll go to Ngati Porou another day. Instead, we are going straight home.’
The animals simply look at her with puzzled expressions. So, what are we waiting for, mistress?
Paraiti puts on her wide-brimmed hat. She packs the saddlebags, says a karakia on the beach and sprinkles sea water over her head and those of her animals. She taps Ataahua on his knees and mounts him.
It will be a long, hard ride. She wants to send a telegram from Opotiki and be at the Waioeka Gorge by nightfall. Although she is reluctant to negotiate the gorge during the day — Pakeha are dynamiting the road where the rock is resistant — she wants to reach Gisborne in two days’ time.
Better get a move on.
‘Me hoki matou ki te wa kainga,’ she orders.
The waves thunder and spray around her as she rides along the beach with her animals and then heads inland.
CHAPTER SIX
Rebecca Vickers waits upstairs in the bedroom of her home on Waterside Drive.
She is smouldering with irritation. Yesterday, Maraea brought news that the Maori medicine woman, Paraiti, had telegraphed from Opotiki to say that she was returning to Gisborne. The message had read: ‘We have a matter of mutual benefit to discuss.’
‘What are you up to, Scarface?’ Rebecca Vickers mutters to herself as she lights a cigarette. ‘How presumptuous of you to think you have the upper hand.’ Nevertheless, an appointment has been arranged for this evening.
She wears her auburn hair unpinned. She is dressed in a long black robe striped with crimson. Her pregnancy is now clearly showing; her backbone has curved to make space for the baby, and all the other organs have found their places around the whare tangata.
Puffing at the cigarette, she looks out the window. The gardener is working but stops for moment to stretch his back, sees her and quickly goes back to work. ‘As well you should,’ she says under her breath. ‘I will not pay people who shirk their duties.’
The day is already beginning to wane. Rebecca Vickers switches on a reading lamp and rings the bell for Maraea. ‘Where’s the copy of the Tatler? Bring it to me.’ When Maraea returns with the magazine, Mrs Vickers stubs out her cigarette and flicks quickly through the pages before pausing at a full-page photograph of Merle Oberon: rich black hair, high noble forehead, exquisite cheekbones, long neck and skin of unsurpassed whiteness. When she was recently in London, Rebecca Vickers had seen the young film actress in her latest role as Anne Boleyn in The Private Life of Henry VIII; she had been entranced by that flawless face filling the huge darkness. It is on Merle Oberon’s looks, style and manners that she has modelled her own image.
Rebecca Vickers ponders her predicament. Merle Oberon has the world at her feet, but she? In a growing temper she closes the magazine. She is not about to throw away the future for a mere indiscretion, an adulterous affair during her stay in England. But her lover had excited her in a way her elderly husband had never managed to do. Why should she not take some pleasure for herself?
However, it had come to this: an unwanted pregnancy.
Oh, when she had discovered her condition she certainly considered pretending to St John Vickers that the baby was his. She suspected he would have been delighted to have fathered an heir at his advanced age. Indeed, he had been besotted by her ever since he’d met her in Christchurch ten years before. She had been recently widowed — her first husband was Reginald Chichester, a fairly prosperous shipping agent who had died in a dockside accident at Lyttelton. Already passing as white, she had fooled him, too, with her white skin. But Chichester had been a spendthrift, and Rebecca, fallen on hard times, was obliged after his death to work as a hostess at a well-known cabaret frequented by high-spending gentlemen. St John Vickers, already a notable politician, was entranced by her beauty and sad widowhood and set out to woo her.
As she picks up her hand mirror and looks at her reflection, turning her head this way and that, she catches a hint of darkness in her complexion that a recent application of acid nitrate has not covered.
‘Why,’ she says, astonished, caressing the blemish, ‘there you are, Ripeka.’
She has come a long way from the kainga she left when she was twelve years old. She had never been as dark as her friends, and her features had always been aquiline. In India she would have been called Eurasian, in Latin America mulatto; her beauty would have given her a special status at a quadroon ball in antebellum New Orleans.
But Rebecca Vickers had wanted more than that — she had wanted to cross the colour bar.
As many other women who lacked status and money had done before her, she perfected her masquerade and used her youthful sexuality to rise within Pakeha society. Through two marriages, she gained entry to its most gracious houses, something she would not have obtained by pedigree. And as Mrs Rebecca Vickers, travelling to and from New Zealand, she has finally obliterated all traces of the young Maori girl she once was.
She frowns at the blemish, rubbing it with her left hand so vigorously that the skin reddens. ‘No,’ she says to her reflection, ‘you can never have a child, can you, Ripeka darling, because if you do it may look like you …’ — she stares into the mirror again — ‘… and not like me.’
The risk is too great.
Suddenly Rebecca Vickers hears footsteps and she sees Maraea appear in the hand mirror.
‘Scarface has arrived. She is waiting for you in the living room.’
Paraiti is unprepared for Mrs Vickers’ appearance. One month on, pregnancy has given her a transcendent, astonishing beauty. In her black and crimson robe, she looks gorgeous and shimmering, newly emergent in dark shedded skin.
‘You said you had a matter of mutual benefit to discuss with me,’ Mrs Vickers snaps. ‘If you’ve come to gloat, you can get out now.’
Exhausted from her journey — she has not detoured to Waituhi, and her animals are tied up three streets away — P
araiti takes the upper hand. ‘You want something from me,’ she says, ‘and if you agree to my terms, I will do it. It is too late for an abortion now. But I can begin to bring on the birth of your baby. I can start the procedure tonight if you wish, so that it will come ahead of its time.’
Rebecca Vickers turns her back on Paraiti. To mask her elation she takes a cigarette from a silver case and lights it. Her reflection blazes in all the mirrors in the room. ‘Tonight? What is the method?’
‘I will give you a compound made from flax, supplejack roots and other herbs that you will drink at least three times a day for the next two weeks. It will bring on contractions and cause your whare tangata to collapse.’
‘Is that the extent of the treatment?’
‘No, don’t assume it will be so easy. The compound will affect the pito, the cord that connects your baby to your womb, and it will begin to constrict. But to hasten the process I will come every second evening to massage the area of the whare tangata so that the baby will not want to stay inside. The massage will be deep, forceful and extremely painful for both of you. If my herbs and the massage have the desired effect, your baby will gladly leave the whare tangata ahead of time.’
‘How long will this expulsion take?’
‘Fourteen days.’
‘Two weeks?’ Rebecca Vickers considers the proposal. She rings the bell for the servant, Maraea. ‘When does Mr Vickers’ ship arrive in Auckland?’
‘In twelve days, madam,’ Maraea replies.
‘He will be expecting me to be waiting for him at the dock …’
Mr Vickers has just been elevated to a ministerial position in the United Party. An anxious prime minister, seeing the way the rival Labour Party is rising in the polls, has called him to return to New Zealand immediately.
Rebecca Vickers turns to Paraiti. ‘You must take less time.’ It is not a request; it is a command.
Paraiti does not give ground. ‘A clever wife like you,’ she begins, the sarcasm barely disguised, ‘with a loving husband like yours, would easily be able to plead illness as an excuse for not meeting him in Auckland.’
Although Mrs Vickers is defiant she is also vulnerable, and Paraiti’s heart goes out to her. ‘Why don’t you change your mind?’ she begins. ‘Talk to your husband. He might forgive you.’
The young woman gives an incredulous laugh. ‘Forgive me for bearing a child from another man? Yes, he might do that, but forgive me and the child for having a touch of the tar? No, he would never do that.’ Her eyes are haunted as she looks at Maraea. ‘I might have to go back to the kainga with its dirt, fleas, poverty and … harassment.’ She holds herself tightly, making brushing movements as if ridding herself of unwanted embraces. ‘No, I can never do that.’ She looks at Paraiti. ‘You, you are so unbeautiful, you would know nothing about the world I left. It was a brutal and angry place for a young mission-educated girl who only wanted to better herself, and because I looked … like this … men mistreated me in ways that almost broke my valiant spirit. Why aren’t you pleased for me that I escaped?’
She stubs out her cigarette.
‘Less time, damn you.’
‘That is not possible. I have already doubled the number of herbs in the compound. If I increased them again your body might not be able to cope with the strain. You could have a heart attack.’
‘You already know how strong I am. Just rid me of my burden.’
‘I will not have a dead woman and child on my hands.’ She is thinking fast: yes, Mrs Vickers has the stamina. ‘You must compromise.’
‘You are bargaining with me?’ Mrs Vickers laughs, incredulously.
‘Fourteen days,’ Paraiti answers. ‘You do want to live to enjoy the rest of your life, don’t you?’
Rebecca Vickers is seething with fury. ‘I want to know if the baby will be born dead or alive,’ she demands.
Paraiti includes both Mrs Vickers and Maraea in her gaze. ‘I can’t tell you,’ she answers. ‘If the baby survives the poisonous and dangerous ordeal as the whare tangata collapses, it will be born alive. If not, I will have to pull it out of you dead.’
Rebecca Vickers has one final question. ‘Why are you doing this, Scarface?’ She moves with surprising swiftness, cupping Paraiti’s chin with one hand and, with the other, stroking the scar that crosses her face. The touch of her hand stings.
‘He Maori koe,’ Paraiti answers, pulling back. ‘You are a Maori.’
‘You do this for aroha of me?’ Mrs Vickers is probing her soul.
‘Kia tupato, tuahine,’ Paraiti warns. ‘Be careful, Mrs Vickers. You push me and I will change my mind.’
The threat of withdrawal has the desired effect. Rebecca Vickers blinks and steps back, but she is soon on the offensive again. ‘You mentioned your terms. What do you want, Scarface? Where is the benefit that you seek for yourself?’
It is now or never. ‘I will not require payment for my services,’ Paraiti says quickly. ‘You will not understand this, Mrs Vickers, but my purpose is to save lives, not take them away. Whether the baby is dead or alive, I will keep it.’
‘What are you up to, Scarface? Wait here while I consider.’
Paraiti watches as Mrs Vickers and Maraea leave the room. She hears them talking in low voices. ‘I had not realised that your motives would be so selfless,’ Rebecca Vickers says on her return, ‘but I agree to your request. What choice do I have? You hold all the cards. But I have the easy part of the bargain, not having to dispose of the baby. Are you planning some midnight black magic revel with a dead foetus?’ she laughs. ‘Do you want to bury it in holy tribal ground? As if that would save its soul?’ She is enjoying the way her thoughts are coming to her.
‘It’s not the baby’s soul you should worry about.’
‘Enough of this,’ Rebecca Vickers says. ‘All right, I agree, but twelve days is all I am giving you, takuta, and if by any chance the baby is born alive, take it quickly for I would soon murder it.’
Having asked Maraea to bring up the saddlebag containing her medicines, Paraiti begins the treatment. She instructs both Mrs Vickers and Maraea on the compound and its dosage and frequency. Maraea measures out the first dose and administers it.
Self-confident though she is, Mrs Vickers’ eyes show alarm. Her face increases in pallor; after all, it is a poison being administered to her. ‘The medicine is making me feel ill,’ she says, panicking.
‘Be warned,’ Paraiti answers, ‘it will get much, much worse as we progress.’
She begins the massage. It is light at first and Mrs Vickers relaxes into it. ‘This is not so difficult to cope with,’ she laughs.
Paraiti goes deeper, stronger, faster — above, around and upon the mound of the whare tangata. Soon, sweat starts to pop out on Mrs Vickers’ forehead and she groans, ‘No, please, enough, no.’ She tries to push Paraiti away.
‘Hold your mistress down,’ Paraiti says to Maraea.
For half an hour Paraiti keeps up the massage, her eyes dark and her face grim, until Mrs Vickers starts to scream with the pain. Paraiti stops and steps away. Mrs Vickers moans; she can feel the after-effects of Paraiti’s manipulations rippling within her womb.
The massage isn’t over. Paraiti takes one step forward and, ‘Aue! Taukiri e!’ she cries as she administers a hard, shocking series of hand manipulations on and around the whare tangata. Then bearing down with both hands she applies relentless pressure on the baby. Please child, forgive me, but this is the only way. She can sense the child beneath her hands, fighting the pressure and unbearable pain — and Mrs Vickers screams and loses consciousness.
‘Every second day, this?’ Maraea asks, horrified.
‘Yes,’ Paraiti answers. ‘Meantime, make sure your mistress drinks the compound. This regime is the only way to achieve what she wants. Under no circumstances can we slow or halt the procedure.’
It is time for Paraiti to leave.
‘If Mrs Vickers struggles with me as she has tonight,’ she says to Maraea brutally
, ‘find ropes so that she can be tied down.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Mrs Vickers has revived. ‘Never will I give you, takuta, that satisfaction.’
‘I can find my own way out,’ Paraiti answers. She walks to the stairs, but Rebecca Vickers says, ‘Wait.’
Paraiti turns to look at her.
‘You and I, Scarface, we are not so dissimilar. You wear your scar where people can see it, I wear mine where they can’t, but our lives have been affected by them. Me pera taua, we are both the same, you walking unlawfully through your world and I secretly through mine.’
Paraiti pauses a moment longer, then continues down the stairs and along the corridor to the side door. As she leaves, a man steps from the shadows; it is the gardener.
‘It was wrong of her, e kui,’ he says, ‘to put you in jail like that.’
She gives him a grateful glance, then goes down the pathway and closes the gate behind her. She continues along Waterside Drive and, when she is out of sight of the house, her legs fail her and she collapses. ‘Oh, child, forgive me for the pain I have done to you tonight.’
My purpose is to save lives, not take them away.
She hears panting and sees that Tiaki has joined her; he licks her face. Sighing to herself, Paraiti joins Ataahua and Kaihe; they could be home by dawn. ‘I have gambled tonight,’ she says to Tiaki as she mounts Ataahua. ‘I have played a game of life and death. Let us pray that I will win.’
Together they fade in and out of the street lights and, finally, into the comforting darkness beyond the town.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Normally, Paraiti would have spent the rest of her haerenga on a circuit of the villages closest to Waituhi. The old woman with a dog, horse and mule are familiar sights among the Ringatu faithful in Turanga, which the Pakeha have renamed Poverty Bay.
White Lies Page 6