One year I spent the whole holiday in love with a girl working part-time at the superette just down the main road towards town. She worked afternoons and evenings, weekends off. I was in love with her from the moment I saw her.
Any excuse and I'd be down there in a flash, nonchalantly whistling as I walked slowly up and down the shop's three narrow aisles, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a boy to spend half his summer holiday in studied concentration of groceries. At the counter I'd avoid her eyes, try and settle my beating heart. Sometimes her small soft fingers brushed mine as she gave me my change. Back at home on my bed I'd endlessly debate to myself whether or not this was really a sign of her mutual feelings for me.
She was quiet, friendly enough, but it was her poise, her relaxed, almost lazy femininity that most of all possessed me. A slight absence. When she walked she'd scuff her sneakers, as if lifting her raggedy legs off the ground was somehow an onerous task. I imagined her mother telling her off. Lift your feet when you walk! Who wants to know a girl too lazy to even walk properly? I wanted to interrupt: No! Let her walk like that! It's perfect how it is! How could a mother know what was sexy in her own daughter?
There was a sense of softness, pliability, yielding; always a strand of errant hair across her mouth. Grey eyes that closed up when she smiled. Small, perfect teeth. A yellow dress down to her ankles she wore almost every day. Men are supposed to hate the soft, the yielding, the yellow; women the hard and the tough. Why is it they secretly long for these exact same qualities in each other?
In the end I got it so I did all the family shopping myself. I made out I was actually going to the supermarket, got my mother to prepare me a list. In fact I did it all at the superette in small dribs and drabs, a couple of things at a time. I hid the stuff under my bed until I'd bought the entire list. As long as I was careful about labels and price-tags there was no reason for my mother to suspect. At first I even subsidised the extra cost out of my own money; later I found my mother didn't seem to notice whether I did this or not and gave it away. For her part she was pleased—if a little bemused—by my sudden desire to help out.
I longed more than anything to confess my love and every night lay awake composing a new speech. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. There were so often customers coming in and out of the shop, a middle-aged woman who worked there always hanging about; the superette was not the right place. A couple of nights I loitered down the road and waited till she'd finished work with the intention of ambush, but each time my nerve failed me and I stayed hidden in the shrubs. Finally it got to the last Friday of our holiday; we were leaving on the Sunday. I knew if I was ever going to go through with it it was going to have to be now.
I bought some flowers at a greengrocer in town, yellow ones in pink wax paper. Even though it was a hot day I wore an overcoat so I could hide them as I walked back. I was still debating exactly what to say, whether to say anything at all. After all this time I still didn't know her name.
I waited a couple of minutes outside, trying desperately to build my courage. Finally, my heart battering against my chest, I pulled out the flowers and went in.
My love wasn't there. The middle-aged woman was serving some kids sweets they were choosing individually. Two licorice all-sorts. Three jaffas. Two pineapple lumps. No, three … I've always hated waiting for kids buying sweets; perhaps it dates back to this. A couple of young guys with long hair came in. I could feel myself starting to lose it. Where in hell was the girl?
In the end I interrupted the kids. Here, I said, pushing the flowers into the woman's hands. These are for you from my mother. We're on holiday. She says thanks for all the stuff we've bought here.
For me? She didn't quite seem to believe it. Well thank you. Goodness! She smelt them. How nice. I haven't been given flowers in years. You must thank your mother.
Yeah, so anyway, thanks, I said, backing out of the shop. I wanted to be sick, to cry, to kill. I punched several lamp-posts as hard as I possibly could, scraped the skin off a couple of knuckles. At home I lay on my bed for hours trying to conjure up the next summer, when it would all finally work out.
But the next summer the superette was closed. And I'd long since fallen in love with someone else.
It was always this way with me: that first magic glimpse—as if God had pulled a whole new girl out of the hat especially for me; an overwhelming need to follow, to watch her. Hungry, jealous obsession. An inability to act. It was as if I was no more than a mechanical toy, doomed to repeat over and over the same few foolish tricks, unable to progress beyond the simplicity of my design. Was it my designer I was supposed to amuse?
Another summer, another superette. In the Harpoon Bar I saw the young woman who'd wanted Gary's chair again later in the evening, talking to an older man by the bar. She was smoking. From a distance I could watch her without her realising, get her image permanent in my mind. She talked a lot but didn't seem to smile much; maybe she knew she looked pretty good serious. She kept brushing the same bit of hair from her forehead. I think she was drinking wine.
I wanted to go and tell her I would have given her the chair, that I hardly knew Robert and didn't like him anyway. I was angry at the way he'd dismissed her. I wanted her to know I was on her side. I wanted the older man to fuck off.
A tiny, gasping voice somewhere in the corner of my mind struggled to call out to me, to warn me: Don't! Stop! … lost in the chorus of other more irrepressible voices urging me impulsively on. I kept thinking of the sexy way she'd first looked at me. Was it possible we were thinking the same thing? What sense was there turning my back on her until I knew for absolute certain what she wanted? Besides, the whole thing was out of my hands. Greater forces were responsible. Could it really be just an accident our paths had crossed? Maybe in a strange sort of way this was the real reason Kidd had come to Hope Springs, simply to get us together. She stretched, her raised arms lifting her top, exposing the soft skin of her belly.
The next morning as I lay in bed lining up the strips of wood with the string, I made a vow that this time I would act. I wouldn't just dream about it and only pretend I was trying; I would actually do something. I would approach her the next time I saw her—and I would make sure I did see her—and strike up a conversation. Not some stupid bullshit about liking her, but a proper, normal conversation about anything. Show her I was a normal human being; charm her with my wit.
I tried to imagine who she was, what she was doing in Hope Springs. I felt positive she was here because of Kidd. Maybe she was a reporter, a TV reporter. There were heaps of media people about. A TV reporter would explain the serious face. Of course I didn't recognise her, but maybe she worked for TV3 … the story grew. She and her boyfriend had recently split up; he'd been sleeping with other women. It was hard for her to know who to turn to. Because she was famous as well as good-looking everybody was nice enough to her but few if any truly sincere. I was the first person she'd met in her life she felt she could really confide in. Quite apart from that, I also inspired in her a deep, animal desire … a helicopter flew over our house.
At breakfast I found myself something of a hero with my family. Usually it took days to get over the kind of language I'd used, but the whole search business was just too exciting. It had been the main item on the news three nights running and the size of the whole operation was now a New Zealand record. The Minister of Police himself was cutting short a holiday in Europe to come back and face the music. There was even a suggestion he might come to Hope Springs.
My father in particular was proud of my contribution to the effort, even a bit jealous. He wanted to know everything, exactly what we did. I told him all about the line, the way you held the stick. I did my best to make it sound interesting.
I only hope the weather holds out, said my mother.
My father looked up at the ceiling. Especially with the helicopter. I can't say I see how it'd be useful really. I mean he'd hear it coming, wouldn't he.
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p; There's a TV helicopter too, said Cass. They've been showing stuff live between the cartoons.
I think it's marijuana, actually, I said. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
What? said my mother.
Nothing. Just joking.
There's no marijuana around here, said my father, waving a piece of toast through the air. There's too many of us out there fishing. That's where they grow it, near water. There's no marijuana round this place.
It's that poor little girl I worry about, said my mother. I hope they hang him, I do.
Mum!
She bit her lip. I just hope he gets what he deserves, that's all.
I hear the mother's a prostitute, said Cass.
My father shook his head. It's terrible. And you just wouldn't believe how much one of these search operations costs to mount.
They haven't paid me, I said.
You know what your father means, said my mother. She started clearing the table. That poor little creature!
After breakfast I went down to the motorcamp again. I had an overwhelming desire to tell Matt what had happened right under his nose the night before, to confess my feelings for the woman in the pub. I needed to tell him, let the secret out into the world. After all, people would have to find out some time. I took the main street route to the motorcamp, looked carefully in the Coffee Pot window as I went past. Not there.
Matt listened to my story and gave me his support, but seemed more worried about Julie. She's keen on that cop, he told me. I think she might even be in love.
Christ, Matt, I said, we all fall in love. Give her a chance why don't you! No. No. I agree with you. That guy is a fucking wanker. I spat. But what am I going to do? God I want to see her so fucking badly. I have to see her, Matt. It's destiny, I tell you.
The whole day passed like this, me trying to get the conversation back to my TV3 reporter, Matt worrying about Julie. It kind of worked, too. I think we both stopped each other going insane.
Of course that night we went back to the Provincial again. Even two blocks away we could hear the singing, and there was a much larger crowd outside, quite a few in camouflage. There was broken glass on the road.
It was almost impossible getting into the Harpoon Bar, difficult enough in the crush just looking around. A man by the door had an enormous dead pig in a wheelbarrow he wanted to push through the bar. It had an apple in its mouth and lay on a bed of lettuce. Neither of them looked very happy. He had no chance of getting it anywhere.
Matt and I split up. I worked my way slowly through the crowd. At least half of them were singing: NA NA NA NA, NA NA NA NA, HEY-EY-EY, GET YOUR GEARS OFF! At one point I got a glimpse of Robert with his arm around Julie, at another the young doctor from Auckland. I didn't see Gary, but of course Gary didn't really matter any more. The place was too crazy for anyone to be worried about me being under age.
I found her in the corner we'd sat in the night before, with the same older man. It flashed across my mind she might have come back looking for me, but then it hit me with a sick stab that the man was quite possibly the boyfriend of my fantasy, except not back in the city having sex with other women, but right here in Hope Springs, ruining everything.
I stood there about five minutes, hanging back so she wouldn't see me, trying to contain my panic. She and the guy were arguing. At one point he pushed his finger into her chest. I didn't know what to do.
Someone behind me grabbed my arm. I turned to see who.
Dad, I said, too soft to be heard in the noise. How's it going?
Did I mention Dean Kidd was Maori? I mean I don't know exactly how he stacked up genetically, his blood lines, stuff like that; only that he was Maori in the police statements on the news and that he looked vaguely Maori in his mug-shot. All the searchers thought of him as Maori. Mind you, people who knew him said he was probably more fifty-fifty. His mother was white for a start.
There was a racial overtone to the whole affair, but that only became clear to people like me later. Once things had died down a bit and everyone began putting all the details together it was apparent it'd been Maori whose houses were ransacked in the directionless search for Kidd, and—you just needed to read the nationally reported Court News over the following weeks—mostly Maori who'd been arrested and charged for other things. Micky's older brother was one of them. Did I mention Micky was Maori?
The anger from this time had hardly died down when it flared all over again in the debate over the town's name. Most places in New Zealand the major issue was land. In fact there was a claim on the springs and much of the spa before the Waitangi Tribunal, but it was never heard, and in the end the issue instead became one of words, of naming. And this time the Maori won.
Tumanako has several English translations. The generally accepted one here is 'regard any absent object with favour or desire’… used especially in reference to a greedy anticipation of game to be caught by others. He tumanako te koura i kore ai. In specific relation to the town, the most enduring of several different stories tells of two brothers, Tane Papa-kai and Mutunga-i-te-ata. Tane Papa-kai was honest and hard-working, but his brother lazy and sullen. They were travelling south with their family to a tangi when they found themselves lost, and because it was near sundown they decided to stop for the night by a stream near the lake. Tane Papa-kai went off straight away to fish for the family's meal, while Mutunga-i-te-ata lay about dreaming of eating his brother's catch.
Unfortunately Tane Papa-kai only managed to catch a few tiny fish, barely enough to feed one. When Mutunga-i-te-ata saw there wasn't enough he became angry and accused Tane Papa-kai of eating the rest in secret, demanding what was left for himself. Naturally Tane Papa-kai refused, telling his lazy brother to go off and catch his own. A fight developed. At first it was even, Tane Papakai's fitness matched by Mutunga-i-te-ata's tenacity and willingness to cheat. But in the end Mutunga-i-te-ata managed to knock his good brother unconscious with a rock, and before his family could stop him speared Tane Papa-kai through the heart.
It is said the hot springs developed as a memory of this incident; that it was the blood of Tane Papa-kai that gave the waters their special healing powers.
The claimed sources of ‘Hope Springs’ were if anything more murky than those of Tumanako. The story about James McAndrew's mother's miracle healing was the most popular, but it seems probable that incident actually post-dated official use of the name, which effectively confirms this theory as false. There were other versions, though, most commonly one about a publican who made the name up as a joke and through a convoluted series of comedy-like deceptions lubricated with good doses of whiskey managed to convince a map-maker researching the region of its historical authenticity.
The strange thing is that Tumanako also translates to ‘hope’. This naturally leads to the argument—as it so often did at the time of the debate—as to who ripped off who first. Some people said the brothers story and the others like it were all a load of hogwash, red herrings specifically created to sway a culturally over-sensitive Geographic Board. Te Puna o Tumanako was no more than a direct Maori translation of the proper—and original—English name. Others of course took the opposite line: the English was obviously a translation of the earlier Maori name—with the original accurate definition of Tumanako sacrificed in the translator's eagerness to make the pun really sing.
You can see it's impossible to tell. There's always the chance, of course—however slim—that the pun was actually a coincidence, a fluke, which would at least vindicate everybody, but you wouldn't be putting your pants on it. It has to be said that at the time everyone certainly seemed deadly earnest, with absolute faith in their own particular theories, but even if one side was in fact deliberately making it up you still have to hand it to them. All names are made up some time. In the end the argument is really only over who made theirs up first.
As I say, this whole idea of a racial dimension to the search operation wasn't clear to me as a participant. I mean i
t was becoming rapidly clear to me that the supposed goal of finding Kidd and Heidi was really a bit of a joke, but that still didn't tell me exactly whose houses the police were going through, who they were doing for the dope. I suppose I had a vague image of drop-out drug addicts, nothing more formed than a Reader's Digest cliché, and that was the extent of my political recognition. And as my father drove me home from the Provincial with silent, exaggerated care, I had simpler concerns than politics.
To this day I have no idea how he came to know I was there. Maybe he just saw me and Matt in the street and followed us. As recently as a year ago I asked him but he still refused to tell me. My parents always had a thing about keeping good sources secret, a kind of family intelligence network devoted purely to spying on children. As a prime suspect myself I could only participate in the official network as an informer, ie, if I could help them with Cass. Of course there's little point in any of it now; Cass and I have grown up, and I have to say I can't really see why the secrecy needs to continue. Mind you, what else has he got?
When we got back from the Provincial my father sent me straight to my room. My mother was in the kitchen, doing something with her toenails. She ignored me.
In bed I thought only of one thing: the older man pointing his finger into the chest of the woman I loved. I tried to work out all the possible meanings. Who was he? What were they arguing about? What gave him the right to treat her like that? Where did I stand in all this? As I finally drifted into anxious sleep I think it briefly occurred to me that in fact the answer to all these questions—and the explanation for everything else going on—was simply that I'd completely lost my mind and needed to get it back very soon if I wasn't going to go down in an extremely heavy heap … I let it pass. I was going to sleep, which is a cure anyway.
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