Jarulan by the River

by Lily Woodhouse

  In his previous life Eddie had met the daughters of wealthy European families with the same look, a cultivated reserve that bordered on cruelty. The sharp intelligence in the photographed eyes had alarmed him, had chilled him to the bone, and there was the same face now, right in front of him, but tempered, dulled, softened, and why wouldn’t it be? She was sixteen years older now. Sixteen years of putting up with the old man. In her thirties now, was she? There could only be one reason why she was here.

  The old man had died.

  She took a man’s white handkerchief from the capacious pockets of her woollen suit, a jacket over a midcalf-length skirt. Her walking costume, he supposed it was. While she wiped her face with the handkerchief, there was a flash of embroidered red in the corner — M.F. Just such a handkerchief was produced from his father’s pocket to tenderly wipe his own tears at around eight years old. It had been out by the row of kennels behind the creamery, the Roman numeral carved above the door. IV. Ripper lying dead on his chain in the heat of summer, grey and white heeler snout in the dust, water bowl empty.

  ‘But he was an old fella, Eddie,’ his father had told him. ‘He would have died soon anyway.’

  It was the first of many crimes to do with his negligence, and the first when an animal on the farm had suffered because of him. The worst. What if his father had kicked his arse and yelled at him that first time, like he did every other? It might have shaped him better. Made him pull up his bootstraps.

  Useless even then.

  So he was dead now? An inheritance, then.

  There was laughter from the dining-hall door — a group of girls was hanging about watching him and Rufina, laughing, talking in Maori, a language he had still not mastered after all these years of living here — but he heard his wife’s name and shortly thereafter one of them scooted off to warn her that he was with a strange white lady, that he was embracing her.

  His father’s widow looked about for somewhere to sit, taking the end of one of the wooden bench seats at the long table. It seesawed a little; she slid along to balance it.

  ‘Nance wrote to you,’ she said, after a pause.

  ‘To say you were coming? No. No, she didn’t, did she?’

  He shook his head. How curious that she should come all this way with no warning, no preamble, no seeking of an invitation. What sort of greeting did she think she’d get? Why come herself and not send an envoy? That loathsome husband of Louisa’s, for instance.

  Rufina’s shoes were caked in mud; there were spatters on her stockings. But she looked a practical type, her unadorned cream blouse unsuccessfully spot-cleaned of travelling smirches. The brooch at her throat, clear yellow stone, old gold — had it been Min’s? It looked familiar. Pale serrated hair escaped from the edges of her close hat, dry and ropey; her skin was lining up a little. She could be one of those women who lose their looks overnight, the climate catching up, her life harder than he might have imagined, even with all the old man’s money to cushion her and send her to the dentist. What nice teeth she had, white and strong. And she carried a long black umbrella with a silver duck head for a handle. There were green gems set into it for eyes. Thoughtfully, he took a mouthful or two from his flask. What was he expected to do with her?

  He should offer to take her to his house, where his second wife would have the fire going, but he saw only too well how this Mrs Fenchurch would perceive his whare with the small outdoor kitchen, the patched walls of slab and corrugated iron, the tilting rusted roof. A hovel. She would not see its bucolic charm — but then, neither did he, when he was honest with himself, which wasn’t often. Life was too short for honesty, at least the kind of honesty that came from dwelling on one’s misfortune. Or what others might see as misfortune.

  He didn’t feel misfortunate. Not at all. He was the luckiest man in the world, with rare momentary grief or guilt soothed by jovial company, and many gifted friends to make music and enough food to fill his belly, and plenty of grog if he played his cards right. He couldn’t live this life, the life he had in New Zealand, this life on this marae with Hohepa and Mary and his children, anywhere else in the world. Even when the money came from his inheritance, he’d stay here.

  ‘The letter from Nance,’ Rufina repeated. ‘Did you get it?’

  Eddie sighed. ‘The mails are irregular,’ he said, airily, as a kind of joke. Rufina didn’t smile.

  ‘Not so irregular. We have not heard from you for many years. Nance wrote to you again. So did I.’

  She had taken a maternal tone and Eddie had to remind himself that he was her senior, actually, by seven years. He had worked the difference out after learning of the marriage, thinking it would be an amusing tale to tell his companions, how his German stepmother was younger than he was. But his Maori friends didn’t see anything amusing in it at all, since older men often took much younger wives.

  ‘Nance says she wrote to you many times.’

  Eddie nodded, though he didn’t think there had been many letters. She had written, but only when she had what she considered momentous news. The death of Llew. His father’s courtship and marriage. The unmarried Tyrell girl — Evie, was it? — who had run away to Sydney leaving Nance with a baby girl to care for.

  ‘Did you get Nance’s last letter?’ The German was getting impatient, tapping the point of her umbrella so that sharp holes appeared in the yellow dust. Nearby, Hohepa’s oldest girl wielded a broom, sweeping a patch near the table into a trapdoor in the boards. Another girl scattered fresh sawdust in her wake. The smaller girls gawping at them didn’t seem to have any task to do. They crept forward to stare from a closer vantage point, Eddie’s six-year-old daughter among them.

  ‘This is Gracie.’ He hooked his arm around his six-year-old and Rufina looked from her face to his with a startled expression, which Eddie had no trouble in interpreting. The child looked like him, but also like her mother, and Rufina did not appear to enjoy seeing the Fenchurch traits translated this way. She would see, as he did, the shape of Matthew’s chin in the small brown face, his flat Fenchurch mouth.

  Why had she never had any children of her own? She was young enough, healthy enough.

  ‘This is …’ How to introduce her? Your grandmother?

  ‘Mrs Fenchurch,’ supplied Rufina.

  ‘Are you my auntie?’

  Firmly, Rufina shook her head. The child waited for the relationship to be explained. Eddie packed his pipe and struck a match.

  Rufina told Gracie, ‘I was married to your grandfather, Matthew. I am his widow.’

  So he was dead then. He really was dead. The flaming match fell to the floor where it ignited enough of the sawdust to necessitate leaping from his chair to stamp it out, and while he did so he began to weep, though he scarcely knew why. His father was a brute. He was. Patient for only so long. He would have made Eddie into a dumb workhorse for his own benefit, for the eternal continuation of that ridiculous house and farm, of Jarulan.

  His stepmother stood up too and watched him impassively. She didn’t offer him any comfort and neither did he expect it. They were strangers to one another. His tears and nose coursed, and he had nothing to wipe himself up.

  ‘Here.’ She gave him the monogrammed handkerchief, slightly damp. ‘Keep it.’

  After a few minutes he was able to dry his face and blow his nose. He stuffed the thing into his pocket. Not looking at him, as if she was embarrassed by his show of emotion, Rufina asked, ‘Is there anywhere I can get a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Tea more likely.’ He wanted to ask her how long ago it was that his father had died. He wanted to ask how, what from. But she was turning away from him towards the door, as if she would lead him, as if she was used to being in charge. He pushed ahead out into the brilliant winter sunshine, taking her arm and leading her towards the tearooms beyond the marae gate, of which he was the erstwhile manager. He could tell her about that, make it look as though it was only recently that he gave it away, rather than the eight years it actually was. He could
lead her into believing that the success of his and Uncle Hohepa’s dance band had precluded any chance of his continuing to run the successful business, which was why the tearooms were closed. The windows were smeary, dead flies lay along the sill, paint peeled from the front door where someone had drawn an arrow to point down the hill and the word ‘HOTEL’.

  A little of his whisky fog cleared and the ensuing clarity was sharp, hard-edged. She would think he was a failure, of course; everything his father and sisters would have told her about him vindicated. She would see him as a clown, a singing jester for the natives. But she had been kind enough to come and see him. He supposed she would have some of the money with her, or at least documents from the lawyer, a copy of the will.

  ‘A casualty of the times,’ she said pleasantly, and they walked away in the direction of the arrow, because the sign did give the impression that the hotel was nearby. It wasn’t. It was a good half-hour walk away, up on the main road that took travellers towards the coast.

  Reluctantly Eddie followed along behind her, puffing on his pipe. Cigarettes were a rare treat — but he’d grown to like the pipe better, the way you could just charge it up now and again, take a puff or two. With any luck the lady would realise in the next minute or two the distance, and give up on any hope of a cup of tea and decide to go back to her hotel. She must be on holiday, taking a tour, and seeking him out an addendum, a side trip. To make sure he got the news. She wouldn’t have bothered coming all this way just for him. Surely.

  The old man dead.

  He trudged along beside her, smoking, trees meeting overhead over the road dripping now and then with the heavy rain of the morning. Little Gracie slipped her hand inside his, and some of the other children who had been hanging around the hall while he played the piano were following along behind them. One of them was leading the others in a song, singing in a high, true voice. They had been running around loose on the marae, which was not allowed, just like his clandestine whisky was not. Lucky none of the old ladies came along to tell them off.

  ‘My mum will make you a cup of tea,’ Gracie said clearly. ‘Range’ll be hot. Won’t be no trouble.’

  It would not have occurred to Gracie to be ashamed of their home, thought Eddie, and why should it? The kid had never seen Jarulan, and the cottage she was growing up in was only in slightly worse repair than some of the neighbouring houses, and perhaps she thought that difference was because she had the only Pakeha father and stepmother in the village. Who knew what she thought, really, except that she regarded Rufina Fenchurch in her tailored woollen costume and bird head umbrella as a prize to be proudly borne home to Mary.

  Rain had turned the dirt road into a long, narrow creek of sucky mud, different to the mud at Jarulan. Why would he remember the mud? Oh the mud of Jarulan! Red silty skilly mud, which in places around the river would form thick enough to swallow a horse, not thick and brown and viscous like this, which threatened only to suck off their shoes, so that they had to go in single file along the driest part.

  They came out into the open again, where green fields shimmered on either side and long blades of grass at the roadside glistened still, water-glazed. A fat old sow had got loose with two of her piglets and they rolled so happily in a puddle that Eddie fancied he could see them grinning. Why shouldn’t all of them be grinning, her family and his? It was a beautiful morning, the mist cleared and the rain clouds skiving off towards the coast. At certain points, where the land wound around the lake, they could see it gleaming quiet and silver. He lifted his hipflask to his lips. There was promise all about them. Life going on.

  There would be some money.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Rufina after a few minutes.

  He pointed to the next bend in the road, where patches of roof and chimney smoke marked the location of the little village, columns rising in the still, cold air as proof of where Rufina could get her cup of tea, provided the stores were in. He hadn’t been home for a few days — he’d spent several nights away with the band in Rotorua — and it occurred to him now as they took the narrow track up from the road that he might not be greeted warmly, or at least as warmly as did his neighbours from the doorways of their houses or at work in the gardens, waving and calling out as Eddie and Rufina and the children made their way to the last house in the village, the children singing again, the German walking strongly in country women’s shoes. Lace-up brogues. She was fit, he’d give her that. Got out on the farm herself maybe. A worker.

  And here was his estate. Not that he owned it. It was on loan from his first wife’s people, this little house of lopsided slab, sagging under a roof of flattened kerosene tins, with no garden to speak of save for tussock, clumps of wilted silverbeet and frost-bitten rhubarb, and a wormy, leafless apple tree.

  Mary was coming out of the cottage door, stooped over a chipped enamel basin of dirty dishes. She had the scarf tied around her face, the one that only made an appearance when someone had the toothache. It was tattered puce chiffon, the bow flopping tiredly on the top of her greying head. He gave her a kiss, high on her cheek — and she reared away. The swelling in her jaw had sent red tendrils of infection towards her ear, into the hollow of one eye, half closing it. She looked ancient, he thought, and generally sick, as if she could peg out at any moment.

  What would Rufina make of her? What a shame she never met his first wife, his beautiful Roma. He went inside and came out again with a chair, which he put beside Rufina for her comfort, while Mary stared wordless. He knew what she would see at least — that whoever this was, the Depression hadn’t hit her so hard she’d had to sell her jewellery. A gold band on her wedding finger, the brooch. The pockets from which Rufina was drawing a packet of Capstan cigarettes. The midlife vigour. Her health.

  ‘I thought your wife was a Maori lady,’ she said.

  He watched Mary take it all in, the basin still in her hands. She would have been on her way to the spring near the house, where hot water bubbled out of the earth and the women gathered to work.

  Gracie had picked up one of the new kittens and was pushing it at him, enjoining him to see how it had grown since he had ‘gone away grogging’. It was a phrase she’d learned off Mary.

  ‘See, Pa, see, Pa?’

  He took it from her and petted it. Upended in a clump of muddy grass was a nail box, so he retrieved it and sat with the kitten on his knee with Rufina beside him, her bag on her lap, the chair wobbling a little on the uneven ground.

  The old man’s wife. Here. Who would have thought it? The hipflask was nearly empty.

  Gracie took the kitten from him, jammed it under one arm and climbed up on his knee, showing him the place where a cut on her leg had nearly healed, and how the scab could be lifted to show pink skin underneath. The child felt bony, underfed, and the kitten squirmed to be released, digging its little claws through the thin fabric of his trousers.

  ‘Where is your wife?’

  ‘I’m his wife,’ said Mary, ‘pity for me,’ the toothache making her more belligerent than usual.

  ‘My first wife died,’ Eddie said, ‘in childbirth.’ He made an oblique gesture towards Grace, hoping she wouldn’t see.

  ‘Mary Fenchurch. That’s my name. And you are?’

  ‘Rufina Fenchurch.’

  ‘My father’s widow,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s dead, Mary.’

  A look crossed Mary’s face and he saw the avarice in it. Avarice or need? The wife knew there would be money. And there would be, wouldn’t there? The old man would have left his only surviving son something.

  ‘How long ago was it?’ He’d like to know the date. When the old man breathed his last. What he died of. What killed him.

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Three years?’ She must have made a mistake. They wouldn’t have kept it from him for that long.

  ‘We wrote to you. Nance and I.’

  ‘To what address?’ A normal man would be angry about this. Three years.

  ‘Here,’ said Rufina, lo
oking around herself, and he wondered if she was lying. He wanted to press her on it, get her to remember what she’d written on the envelope, but what was the point? If the will hadn’t changed, it hadn’t.

  ‘What were the conditions of his — ’ he started, but she interrupted him.

  ‘Must have got lost.’

  ‘She keeps my mail for me.’ He meant Mary. ‘If anything comes for me, she keeps it.’

  ‘Nothing came.’ Mary put the basin down on the ground.

  ‘Was it quick? When he went?’

  ‘Quick enough.’

  ‘An illness?’

  ‘No it was …’

  He saw her decision not to tell him, her thin lips clamp shut, the sharp line of her jaw turn away.

  ‘The will,’ he said. ‘Is there anything for me?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  At the hut Mary was calling, ‘Irving!’ and Eddie’s oldest son came to stand in the doorway, his dark hair ruffled and flat on one side, as if he’d been sleeping.

  He’d come home while Eddie was away, then, home from the shearing gang. He was a worker; you had to give him that, his first-born. A good boy. Tall, strong limbed, more like his Uncle Hohepa than his father, and thank God for that.

  ‘Not directly? Some cash?’

  But Rufina was not going to answer him. She was gazing at Irving, as if she had seen the answer to her prayers.

  *

  She mustn’t stare. He wasn’t the first handsome young man she had seen and he wouldn’t be the last. But what a combination of traits, of other faces that crossed his as she saw him for the first time. Matthew’s, Louisa’s, Min’s from her portrait. Even a little of Evie’s brat. All mixed in with his other side.

  She mustn’t gawp. Eddie had noticed her staring, the morning’s drinking taking hold, narrowing his eyes, slackening the muscles in his jaw.