One of the men looked up. It took me a moment to recognise Ira under the leather hat, though those waist-length dreadlocks should have been a giveaway.
‘Dudes!’ he cried delightedly, vaulting the fence. ‘Great to see you. Hi, Sacha. Hey, this is my Uncle Tama.’ He gestured back at his companion, who lifted a hand. I saw the hawkish nose and walnut-tanned skin of the shepherd in the rain. ‘Come and meet a little fella,’ said Ira, beckoning the children away. ‘Just a week old.’
I was left to sit on the fence, watching Tama Pardoe’s tall, spare figure. Thinking he hadn’t noticed me there, I was trying to guess his age. The charcoal hair curling around his neck was liberally streaked with silver, but his movements were those of a young man. Flies settled on the horses’ ears and swarmed into their eyes, making them throw up their heads. A scuffle broke out with a squeal and a kick, but he calmly ignored it. Horses followed him almost like dogs, nuzzling against his back.
He was lifting a hefty saddle from the fence when I heard his voice for the first time. He didn’t look at me. ‘You coming?’
‘Me? No!’ I realised I’d injected a girlish giggle into the word, and cursed myself. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Well, because . . .’ I was caught off-guard. ‘This isn’t for me, it’s for the children.’ I watched as he placed the saddle on a horse’s back and reached underneath for the girth. ‘It’s their turn to have adventures like this. I’ve had my turn. I’m just the mother.’
He smiled quietly to himself, and deep furrows appeared around his mouth.
‘My job is to sit on the fence and wave,’ I said. ‘My job is to take the photos. And I’m a bit, er . . .’
He straightened. ‘A bit?’
I heard myself burbling. ‘I had riding lessons when I was small. I loved horses—typical little girl—but I could never get past my fear. When I was fourteen, a horrible bully of a horse pretended it was terrified of a windsock and bolted. I screamed blue murder and my teacher yelled, “Show him who’s bo-o-ss!” Then the horse slipped in the mud and we both went down.’
Tama nodded unemotionally. ‘Happens.’
‘I broke my leg in three places.’
He looked across at my leg, and I stretched it out to show him. ‘Here, here and here. I spent six weeks in traction. Never enjoyed riding again.’
‘C’mon, Ruru,’ he murmured, tapping the leg of a magnificent piebald creature.
‘I’ve seen this horse before,’ I confessed. ‘And you. In the rain.’
‘I know.’ The great horse lifted a heavy foot and Tama cradled it against his knees, examining the underside. Ruru stood quietly, swishing his tail at the flies.
‘No shoe,’ I noticed.
‘No shoes on any of’em.’ Tama grasped another colossal saddle and swung it effortlessly from the fence. ‘These horses aren’t like anything you’ve ever ridden before.’
I looked sceptical.
‘They don’t bolt,’ he said.
‘They would if I was on’em.’
‘No. They wouldn’t. They’re working horses. Now, Martha McNamara— just the mother—would you like to hop down here and give me a hand, or are you going to sit up on that fence like a fantail, and chitter away while I do all the work?’
By the time Ira reappeared with the children, each self-consciously wearing a riding hat, I was doing my best to groom a honey-coloured mare called Kakama. Her foal, a leggy miniature of his mother, bounced around nearby.
‘Kakama’s for you to ride one day,’ Tama had said, as he handed me the brush. ‘So you’d better make friends.’ Then he’d smiled his private smile, and left me alone.
Sacha stood beside me now, watching him lead two horses, a hand lightly resting on each. Dust danced around his boots. I felt her elbow jab my ribs. ‘Eye candy, isn’t he? As old guys go.’
‘Sacha!’ I felt myself blush, possibly because I agreed with her.
She patted my arm. ‘I know, I know. You love Kit. But it’s not a sin to do a little window shopping, is it?’
‘Get away with you,’ I said, smiling. ‘Go on, go riding.’
One by one, Ira and Tama gave their pupils leg-ups. After a little girth-tightening and stirrup-adjusting the five began to wind their way out of the yard. Finn and Sacha looked elated; poor Charlie was terrified, clinging to the saddle and doing a fair imitation of a sack of potatoes.
‘This probably isn’t the kind of riding you’re used to,’ grunted Tama, flinging himself carelessly onto Ruru’s back. He held the reins in one hand, and his stirrups were long. I noticed that Ira didn’t even bother with a saddle. ‘There’s no bit in their mouths. How would you like to run around with a piece of metal on your tongue?’
‘This saddle’s like an armchair!’ Sacha rocked back and forth.
Tama showed his little posse how to turn. ‘These guys want to work with you. So you don’t yank at the reins. You don’t lean forward, you sit back.’ He glanced at Charlie. ‘That’s it, my friend. Perfect.’ Instantly Charlie’s chin lifted and his back straightened.
I climbed onto the fence with my video camera, thinking of the film I’d send to Dad: Finn’s ebony hair, blue sky, streaks of cirrus, two men who looked as though they’d been born on horseback. A flashing diamond of a sun, and dust in clouds around twenty hooves.
When the riders strolled away between the dunes, I resisted the temptation to follow on foot. I’d brought some work to do for the Maori culture paper, so I fetched it from the car and sat under a tree. The rest of the herd began grazing nearby. I could hear their strong teeth as they tore at the grass. I felt almost marinated in peace.
I think I’d dozed off when Finn’s shrill chirrup heralded the return of the adventurers. He was telling Tama and Ira all about Muffin and how she had flown on a plane. They rode up bright-eyed, buzzing and wet.
‘We swam in the sea,’ piped Charlie. ‘Our horses really swam! The waves came right over us. And Sacha and Ira galloped!’
The best sight of all was Sacha. Her cheeks were flushed, her tawny eyes glittering as she slid to the ground and kissed her horse’s neck.
‘How was it?’ I asked, and she laughed breathlessly.
‘That was the best hour of my life.’
I cornered Tama in the yard. ‘They’ll be back,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
The following Friday morning Sacha lugged a backpack downstairs, clutching her flute in its case.
‘Can you give me a lift to the bus?’ she puffed. ‘I’m late, and the driver’s a complete jerk—won’t wait ten seconds.’
‘Sure.’ I eyed the backpack. ‘Got everything you need for the fireworks party?’ I was about to ask for Bianka’s address and telephone number when I checked myself. Sacha was sixteen, and she had her mobile.
Kit fished in his wallet. ‘For a taxi,’ he said, handing her two twenty-dollar notes. ‘Just in case. If you don’t feel right for any reason and you want to get out, you can always call a cab.’
‘I won’t need this,’ she protested, trying to give the money back.
‘Keep it for emergencies,’ said Kit. ‘And remember: you can call us any time of day or night. If you don’t feel safe, we’ll come and get you. We’ll moan and complain like buggery but we’ll come and get you.’
Dimpling, she kissed her stepfather’s cheek. ‘You’re a big leprechaun softie.’
‘And you play your parents like you play that flute,’ retorted Kit. ‘With scary skill. Be good.’
Sacha drove as far as the road. She had to slide the seat way back and shot down the track, spinning the wheel one-handed before slewing to a halt by the letterbox.
‘We start study leave next week, because of the exams,’ she said. ‘This is turning out to be a pretty cruisy term for me. We get loads of time off.’
I tweaked her ear. ‘You’re still wearing Ivan’s locket.’
‘Whatever happens, he cares about me. As long as I’m wearing this I’ve got a friend with me.’<
br />
‘How’s orchestra?’
‘Good. Oh—I’ve got a form for you to sign. I’m taking the performance diploma next year. My new flute teacher’s inspiring! She’s played all over the world.’
‘Wonderful. You’re lucky.’
The bus hove into view, and Sacha scrambled out. ‘So you’ll meet me tomorrow, eleven o’clock, by the cathedral fountain?’
‘Sure will. Have fun.’
She blew me a kiss as she ran, ringlets streaming in a westerly wind. I watched her hop aboard the bus and disappear into its gloomy interior. Grinning faces were pressed mockingly to the rear window, smeared against the glass like Halloween masks. Why do the troublemakers always sit at the back of a school bus? It was the same when I was at school. I know, because I was one of them. We used to lob things at passing bicycles.
An apple core rocketed out, curving in an elegant parabola before exploding onto the bonnet of my car. It was followed by a yoghurt pot.
‘Clean, green New Zealand,’ I sighed, selecting reverse gear. ‘One hundred per cent pure.’
*
Kit threw the balcony doors open early the next morning. It was still dark outside, though I could see a fiery gleam on the rim of the sea.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I whispered.
‘Sorry.’ He padded closer, kneeling on the floor to kiss me. I felt his unshaven cheek. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you up.’
I grabbed him by the ears, trying to haul him back into bed. ‘Get in, you silly man,’ I ordered. ‘It’s freezing out there!’
I saw his smile, white in the half-dark. ‘My plan is to get up at this time every day for a fortnight,’ he said. ‘That view from our balcony is astonishing. Have you ever wondered how it is that nature always whips the pants off anything man-made, in terms of sheer beauty? I’m going to paint it every morning, bang on sunrise. Hopefully I’ll end up with fourteen very different studies.’
‘Bloody Nora! Why the hell would you do that?’
‘It’s an exercise. I need to understand the way the light works.’
‘That’s it.’ I pulled the duvet over my nose. ‘You’ve gone bonkers. I knew this would happen.’
He looked hopeful. ‘Um, d’you want some tea? It’s going to be a lovely day.’
The rising sun glowed on Kit, humming to himself as his gaze shifted from horizon to canvas. It also found me, curled on the shabby sofa under a duvet, sipping tea and feeling supremely content.
At eleven o’clock, I spotted two girls sitting on a bench beside the cathedral fountain. They were facing one another, deep in animated conversation. When I tapped Sacha’s shoulder, she jumped up.
‘Hi, Mum! This is Bianka.’
Her companion might have walked straight off the set of a 1930s Hollywood extravaganza, with dark blonde waves in her hair and elegantly arched eyebrows. She got to her feet, smiling with sad, cupid’s-bow lips. I noticed blackberry-coloured lipstick.
‘We all love Sacha.’ It was a low voice, oddly adult. ‘Thank you for bringing her to us.’
Sacha nudged her in happy embarrassment. I was asking about the party when a woman approached from across the road; a redhead, wearing a rather chic linen sundress and straw hat.
‘Hello!’ she called, as she came closer. ‘You’ll be Martha? I’m Anita Varga.’
I took the proffered hand. Anita’s arm was pale and freckled. She was probably in her forties, as tall and fragile as a champagne flute. Creases radiated from the outer corners of her eyes.
‘Thank you for having Sacha to stay,’ I murmured, as though my daughter was three years old.
‘I hope we’ll see lots more of her. The girls have had a ball—sorry, I’m afraid they didn’t get much sleep.’
We chatted for several minutes. Pleasantries. Anita’s hair had a nylon sheen, and I forbade myself to stare. In the end she mentioned that she was about to begin more chemotherapy.
‘You’re doing well,’ I said, and meant it.
‘I am well. Today.’ Her smile never faltered. ‘I’m still here. Which of us can ask for more?’
‘Amazing woman,’ I marvelled, as Sacha and I wandered along Napier’s side streets.
‘She totally crashed last night. Didn’t even get to the party.’
‘Oh, dear . . . How was it, then?’
‘Awesome.’
Awesome? That sounded markedly antipodean. We found a pavement café where families of fat little sparrows hopped on and off the tables, stealing crumbs. I was desperate for espresso, Sacha chose a milkshake and carrot cake, and we sat under tall palms in the sunshine. A young busker was playing his recorder nearby, and Sacha gave him a dollar. She was wearing a silk scarf around her head, with the rich coffee and gold patterning of a giraffe. It echoed her warm colouring.
‘C’mon,’ I prompted. ‘Tell me about last night.’
‘Just awesome. Bianka’s cousins have a farm by the Tukituki River. They’d made an epic bonfire! There were lanterns in the trees, and a whole pig on a spit. We danced all night, had leftover pork for breakfast. Never bothered going to bed.’
‘You must be shattered.’
‘Nah! I feel great.’
The youngest, fluffiest sparrow in the flock hopped onto her plate and made off with a crumb of carrot cake.
I rapped the table. ‘Tell me more! Give me the low-down. Did you meet anyone new?’
‘Loads of people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Mum, you could get a job with the Spanish Inquisition. What you’re really asking is, were there any hot guys?’
‘Hot . . .?’ I let my jaw drop in innocent indignation. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’
‘Yes it was. And yes, there were actually. In fact, Bianka’s brother is a total sizzler. Whew!’ She fanned herself with a hand.
‘What’s he called?’
‘Jani. He’s a student down at Massey University, been coming up at weekends because of Anita being ill. Hang on,’scuse me.’
A bizarre hum was sounding from the pocket of her jeans. She pulled the vibrating phone out of her pocket, scanned it, and smirked while pressing buttons at manic speed.
‘Bianka? Tabby?’ I asked, surreptitiously squinting at the screen.
‘Nunya.’
‘Nunya who?’
‘None of yer business.’
She was still chirping like a budgerigar at the start of our drive— I couldn’t get a word in edgeways—but a night’s dancing took its toll and she suddenly fell asleep, her batteries flat. She opened bleary eyes once we’d pulled up.
Kit had taken the boys grass sledging that morning, but as soon as I returned he dashed off to his studio, rubbing his hands. I began to unpack the shopping, feeling sorry for myself. Sacha was slumped groggily across the kitchen table; Finn pinched Blue Blanket, which made Charlie caterwaul. I’d have loved to moan about parenthood with Lou, but she wouldn’t appreciate a call at three in the morning.
I was at my lowest ebb when Ira rumbled up the drive on a motorbike. His uncle Tama had killed a sheep, he said, and sent over a roast for us. I felt my spirits lift at the sight of his easygoing smile, though Finn and Charlie immediately dragged their hero off for a game of soccer on the front lawn. Sacha draped herself down the verandah steps, looking about as energetic as a wet dishcloth, so Ira appointed her referee. Once the twins had scored three goals in a row I offered him a beer. He accepted gratefully, throwing himself into the swing seat with grass stains on his jeans and mud on one cheek.
‘English lads,’ he gasped. ‘You’ll be strikers for the All Whites, both of you.’
The boys grabbed a leg each and tried to haul him onto the floor, but they couldn’t shift his massive frame a single inch. He gamely let them manhandle him for a few minutes, then leaned forward and held them both by their noses.
‘Give me ten minutes to chat,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll have another game before I go, eh?’
Once the boys had set off for their sandpit, I han
ded Ira his beer. ‘So you’re born and bred here in Torutaniwha?’
‘Born, anyway.’ He took a swig. ‘My mum left Hawke’s Bay when I was a kid. Took my brother and me up to Auckland. I’ve just come back.’
‘Oh.’ I had a feeling this might be a sore subject. ‘So you went to the primary school down on the beach?’
‘Yep. Until I was twelve. Then she took me away. But I’ve been coming down in the summer holidays to help Uncle Tama when the trekking gets busy.’
‘And now you’re back permanently?’
‘Hope so. This is home for me. Mum’s grandfather, old Duncan Pardoe, emigrated here from Scotland in 1910. Then he fought in the First World War and was helped to buy the land . . . there was this government scheme to resettle returned servicemen. Glengarry’s a thousand-acre block, about four hundred hectares.’
‘That’s a big farm, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm . . . not really. Sounds like a lot, but it wasn’t productive back then. There’s some pretty steep hills and gullies and it was all covered in scrub. The Pardoe block was originally part of Patupaiarehe Station, but a lot of that got taken off the absentee landlords and broken up. My great-grandfather cleared Glengarry single-handedly. Took him the rest of his life.’
‘So Tama is farming land that was cleared by his grandfather?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘Hey.’ Sacha stirred. ‘Did you find out about those fairies?’
‘Fairies? . . . Oh, yes! I asked my nana.’ Ira grinned. ‘She’s eighty-five, used to ride a horse to school when she was small. She told me the whole story. Ooh, yes. It seems the patupaiarehe were up to their tricks around here!’
Sacha perked up. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Well.’ The young man leaned forward and slipped into storytelling mode; big hands up, speaking in his formal, florid way. It was mesmerising. ‘There was an ancient pa near here—a fortified village. The forest came right down to the edge of it. A beautiful young woman lived there. Her name was Hinemoana, and she became the wife of a powerful man. They were very happy. One evening when the mist was swirling in the valley, Hinemoana went out to fetch water from the river. At the same time a group of patupaiarehe crept down from the hills to hunt for eels in the pools. Well, she didn’t see them, but as she turned away from the river a gust of wind parted the mist. The moonlight shone full on her face, and they saw her all right. She was so young and lovely that one of their hunters decided he would have her for his own.’
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