by K T Bowes
Chapter 29
Despite Hana’s nerves, Friday loomed and they set off straight from school. Hana felt Logan’s eyes on her as he stole sideways glances, worrying she didn’t let him down. She ran through her usual internal itinerary of what ifs, wasting time and missing the scenery.
“And right on cue,” Logan said as the truck shuddered to a halt on a wide road. Boats, trailers and jet skis’ rambled ahead on tow, crawling through the tail back. “Scenic Ngaruawahia, bottleneck for the Waikato.” He reached across and stroked Hana’s fingers as they writhed in her lap.
“I’ve never explored out here,” she said, peering through the windscreen at the imposing mountain range ahead. “I can see the Hakarimatas from my house.”
“Yep.” Logan nodded. “And Taupiri Mountain. One side is the back door and the other is the front.”
“Pardon?” Hana’s brow knitted and she lifted her sunglasses for a better view, staring at the distant, knotty ridge.
“It refers to the burial sites,” Logan said, craning his neck sideways to look around the truck in front. “We sound our car horn when we pass by, to acknowledge our dead.”
Hana’s eyes narrowed and her fingers fluttered over an imaginary button. “What, like, honk honk?”
Logan laughed, crow’s feet showing in the corners of his grey eyes. “No. You press for each ancestor resting on the mountain.”
“How many times do you press?” Hana asked, turning in her seat as curiosity bit. She bent her right knee and pushed it under her, relaxing at last.
“Once.” Logan’s jaw ground and he swallowed. “My tribe is from the north but allied with the Waikato tribes during the wars. The Du Roses have one member buried beneath the royal family.”
“Oh.” Hana peered at the mountain in the distance, a new interest in its history and landscape.
“A car’s broken down,” Logan mused. “It’s blocking the first bend into Ngaruawahia.” He put his arm around the back of her seat and turned his body to look through the rear window. “Backing up, buddy,” he mouthed to the car behind and cranked the truck into reverse. The driver pressed his horn in warning and Hana closed her eyes as Logan edged back anyway, gaining clearance to swing out without hitting the car in front. He checked his side mirrors and angled the truck left, driving onto the hard shoulder and skirting the traffic for a few metres. Hana bit her lower lip and watched his capable hands throw the truck around, the scarred fingers depressing the indicator and then turning left. Other vehicles followed, peeling away from the growing queue.
“Where are we going?” Hana asked, seeing wide, tree-lined back streets and chocolate box houses passing by.
“Back route,” Logan said, negotiating a roundabout and then a bridge. “It’s the old rat run to Auckland. I come this way on the bike.” He didn’t reveal the ultimate destination and left her no choice but to trust him.
Logan crossed the Waipa River and turned right into a country road which followed the conjoined rivers north. From Hana’s left rose the Hakarimata Ranges, bush covered and thriving, the road snaking precariously across their mountainous feet.
“This is beautiful,” Hana breathed. “I’ve never been along here.” Vik travelled for his work and often described places of unexpected beauty. He promised to show her, but didn’t. Hana turned to Logan but bit her lip to silence herself, banishing thoughts of her dead husband and feeling the familiar wave of guilt.
Misunderstanding her unease, Logan reached across and snagged Hana’s fidgeting fingers. “Stop worrying. Everything’s gonna be fine,” he soothed.
Occasional glimpses of the main road across the water showed slow moving traffic at a crawl. Hana pointed. “The tail back is still there. It can’t be because of that car.”
“Yeah.” Logan glanced sideways and nodded his head. “Maybe that car overheated in the traffic. There’s definitely something else. I’m glad we got off there.” He concentrated on the approaching bend, wincing as the car behind overtook, despite the driver’s blindness to oncoming hazards. Hana held her breath as a rock face filled her passenger window, close enough to touch. The other side of the skinny road met the wide Waikato River, its surging current containing the thing Bodie never found that day. Logan swore as the car raced him around the bend, lucky not to meet another vehicle. “Moron,” he hissed. The car’s brake lights flashed on for the next bend and Logan shook his head. “Never a cop when you need one,” he muttered. “But always one when you don’t.”
Hana nestled on her seat facing him, watching his strong profile against the backdrop of the river. “Where do your parents live?” she asked.
Logan opened his mouth to speak, releasing a slew of expletives in lieu of a destination. Hana’s belt locked, pinning her to the seat sideways and she turned her head to see the dirty bumper of a white van swerve in front of them. It missed the oncoming gravel lorry by mere centimetres. Logan’s heavy braking locked the truck in a sideways motion and only by wrestling the wheel, he pulled it to a sliding stop at the bottom of a steep driveway.
He sat with his hands clamped over the steering wheel and let out a slow breath before turning to Hana. “You ok?”
She nodded, although her face expression and wide green eyes betrayed otherwise. Her fingers fluttered over the seat belt switch and Logan released it for her. “The belt caught my neck.” Hana pulled down the passenger visor and examined the red welt in the mirror. “Serves me right for sitting sideways.” She uncurled her leg from under her and leaned back in the seat. “Thank goodness you were driving. I swear my reactions are slower.” Leaning forward, Hana stared into the wing mirror, seeing the jagged wall of rock which Logan managed to avoid. She sighed and rubbed her neck.
Logan undid his seat belt and removed his jacket, throwing it into the back seat. He ran his hands through his hair and leaned his head backwards. “I hope nobody comes down their drive and wants to get out,” he remarked. “The engine’s stalled.”
Hana stared up the steep slope. “They won’t, look. It’s for sale. Vacant possession.” She read the agent’s board and looked at the photos. “It’s a villa, like the one you live in.”
“Na, it’s a dump.” Logan shook his head at the agent’s attempt to showcase the property. Even the skill of the photographer couldn’t disguise the dilapidated aura. “Maybe nice once, but not anymore.”
“Mmmm,” Hana replied, her eyes acquiring a faraway glaze.
Logan restarted the engine after a few tries, put the truck into gear and pulled out onto the road. Their journey on to Huntly proved uneventful. Logan stayed on the back roads until they reached Rangiriri, joining the motorway for a few minutes and then leaving it behind. They entered the tiny township after six o’clock, their stomachs rumbling. Logan bought food from a chip shop while Hana stretched her legs and looked around at the shuttered shops and empty street. Small town New Zealand attracted her like a magnet, where it sent others screaming in the other direction.
Logan returned with battered hoki fish and chips. They ate from the paper wrapper, washing it down with a shared bottle of cola. “I could do this,” Hana commented, licking her fingers. She jerked her head towards the deserted shops. “I like small towns. I love the community feel; Hamilton’s always felt too big for me.”
Logan wiped his fingers on a handkerchief and put his arm around her shoulder. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Good,” he said, Hana’s hair masking the upward curve of his lips. She crumpled up the wrapper and shoved it into a nearby rubbish bin but remained standing, her posture betraying awkwardness.
“I want to talk about Anka,” she said, her fingers writhing in front of her. Logan’s body stiffened and the mask shuttered down over his emotions. “She said his father beat Tama up, but wasn’t his real father after all. His mother abandoned him as a baby.” She swallowed, seeing a strange warning flash across Logan’s face. “But that’s your family. They’re related to you.”
Logan leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knee
s with care, as though measuring the optimum pressure required to rest his jaw on his hand. He sighed. “Maybe we should’ve had this conversation before we left,” he said.
Hana sat next to him on the bench, leaving a distance between them. “Sorry. Courage isn’t my strong point.”
Logan looked wrong footed, leaning back on the bench and stretching his arm out behind her. The action suggested possession and Hana swallowed. He looked at her, holding her gaze with stormy grey eyes. “You won’t see Tama,” he said. “Or any of his family. My father and uncle haven’t spoken for forty years.”
“Oh.” Hana contemplated his answer, drawing comfort. She wanted to probe more but daren’t, diverting the conversation back to Anka. “She said Tama needed her, like a hurt puppy dog. He made her feel good about herself.”
Logan inhaled, the sound like a hiss of irritation. He took a swig from the cola bottle. “He tells a different story.” His eyes narrowed. “Things aren’t always as they seem.” A flame flickered in his eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“She said she was his first.” Hana chewed her lip, curiosity leading her down a hazardous route.
Logan snorted. “I don’t think so, Hana.” He looked away and she caught the tail end of a smirk. “That kid’s had more sex than a prize bull. But he’s a great actor.”
Hana swallowed and leaned back against the bench. “Oh, dear. So it’s all lies then?”
“No.” Logan sounded nonchalant, a hint the candid moment drew to a close. “The rest is true. If it’s any consolation, he’s in love with her. I guess how he got there doesn’t matter. They’re both as addled as each other.”
“If your family doesn’t speak to his family, why are you involved?” The question hung between them, a knotty issue for another time.
“Because I am.” Logan lifted his hand towards her face and Hana winced. He saw and his brows knitted. Finishing the action, Logan brushed her fringe away from her eyes. “I’ll never hurt you, Hana,” he said, his eyes blazing. “Never.”
She nodded and her lashes flickered. “Okay.”
Logan’s jaw worked in his face and he forced a smile. “Are you ready?”
“Yep.” She rose and slung the cola bottle into the dustbin, her footsteps heavy as she walked to the truck. It felt overwhelming, like stepping off a cliff into nothing. Logan’s arms enfolded her as she reached for the door handle. He held her, pressing her into him and obliterating the small town from view.
“Trust me,” he whispered into her ear. “Just trust me.”
They left the town and turned towards Glen Murray, then left that road too. The lanes became narrow and twisted, navigating through harsher countryside as they drove west. After a while, Logan turned right onto an unsealed road and the truck bumped and lurched over potholes.
“In England, you get more warning of things,” Hana mused. “Day gets lowered into night like God’s putting away toys into a box. In New Zealand, you get no warning. Daylight winks out and the tide rushes around your feet. I don’t get it. It’s the same earth and the same moon, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Logan oozed tension and Hana’s nerves hiked. He wanted her to trust him, whilst looking anxious himself. It didn’t bode well. “You need to visit England to see what I mean,” she concluded. “You just get more time for things.”
Logan’s eyes darted to her with a curious look on his face. He said nothing, navigating the road with expertise and familiarity.
As night pursued them with a vengeance, Hana spotted bites out of the road which left her looking through gaping wash outs. They wound around the mountain until her ears ached with the altitude. The road spun downhill and she swallowed until her ears popped and normal hearing resumed. Logan’s eyes glinted in the reflection of the headlights and she calmed herself with breathing exercises. If he heard, he didn’t mention it.
Twinkling lights appeared in the basin of a distant valley. Bright and welcoming, they promised comfort and warmth. Still some distance away, the house appeared and disappeared as the truck picked its way around the mountain. On the final approach, they passed through magnificent wrought iron gates. Gravel scrunched beneath the truck tyres as the enormous floodlit house swung into view. Logan swept the truck around a circular driveway and slewed to a halt in front of sweeping steps crowned by carved, wooden doors.
“Breathe, Hana, breathe,” she implored herself as Logan slammed the driver’s door. “You can do this, you’re not too old for him, you’re not.” She squeezed a finger and thumb either side of the bridge of her nose. “You are, you are.”
Hana scrabbled at the internal handle as Logan opened the door. Her eyes looked huge in her pale face and she drew her legs away from him. He leaned into the vehicle and put his hands on the edge of her seat. “What’s wrong, Hana?”
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m older than you; they’ll notice.”
Logan climbed onto the side rail and crouched down, holding onto the chassis. “Hana, it’s all fine,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve told them everything about you. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”
“Only to warn me off!” She ran her hands through her hair and panicked. Closing her eyes and wishing herself back to the safety of Achilles Rise didn’t help. The prospect seemed grey and lonely.
Logan let out a soft snuff and clasped her chin in his fingers. “You’re gorgeous and they’ll approve. I’m happy; they’ll be happy. Get out of the car.”
Hana inhaled and opened her eyes. She swallowed. “But there are things you don’t know. They might not understand.”
“Hana, out.” Logan tugged on her arm, a look of amusement on his face. He quirked an eyebrow upwards. “Do I need to put you over my shoulder like a caveman?”
“No.” Hana backed away further, staring up at Logan’s family home. Built of old stone with the symmetry and poise of an ancient European manor house, it rose in front of her. A fantastic fake, it mirrored an opulence non-existent in New Zealand’s history. The windows and pillar work copied a spectacular Gothic emphasis, rising to three stories. “I’m old,” she blurted, feeling like a teenager instead of a woman in her forties.
“No, you’re gorgeous.” Logan smiled at her, shyness in his face. He fondled her fingers and tugged her forwards. “It’s gonna be fine.”
The ornate wooden doors opened on the cold night and a woman in her seventies flew down the steps towards them. Small but agile, she oozed capability. Her hair had passed from black into grey, pulled back into a fluffy bun which created a halo around her head. Logan’s enchanting grey eyes twinkled from her face. The outside lights illuminated her skin and Hana saw the black tattoo on her chin, denoting her family lineage. “Inside, tamariki,” she said, rubbing Hana’s upper arm. “It’s cold out here.”
Up the stairs and into a lobby, Hana followed Logan’s lead. His mother clasped his hand, tiny and wizened against his. In the light from a glittering chandelier, she turned to scrutinize him. Not convinced about something, she seized bifocal glasses swinging from a neck-chain and perched them on her nose. “Better, much better. Haere mai,” she declared.
She turned to Hana and grasped both her forearms, pressing her face forwards. Their foreheads met and the grey eyes flickered closed before opening and staring into Hana’s soul. “Welcome,” she said in English and then let go with a nod of satisfaction. She waved her arm towards a row of seats in front of a glowing fire. “Sit, sit,” she said. “I’ll fetch a tray.”
Logan pushed Hana into a sofa nearest the fire, giving her a moment to look around. Books lined the walls either side of the fireplace and the hearth matched her kitchen for size. “I’ll build up the fire,” he said, pulling away the guard and reaching into a basket of cut logs.
Hana felt an unsettling sense of misgiving grow. His mother seemed familiar, the lines on her chin invoking the faint dusting of a memory she couldn’t retrieve. It came again, more powerful than before. Déjà vu. She’d only ever seen one wom
an with a chin tattoo, so long ago it felt like a movie starring someone else. “What’s your mother’s name?” she asked, desperate for answers.
Logan glanced up at her and then continued his work, deft fingers laying the logs in a pattern designed to let the flames breathe. “Miriam,” he replied, caressing the name on his lips.
Nothing. Hana searched the annals of her brain and came up empty. Logan prodded the glowing embers with a metal poker. Hana sensed he watched her from beneath his eyelashes. She ran a shaking hand across her face and tried to settle. “I made this poker in metalwork at school,” Logan said, hefting it over the guard. “Best thing I ever made.” He twirled it, displaying the ornate twisting of the iron in the shaft and the perfect loop of the handle.
“Always good with your hands,” his mother remarked, laying a tea tray on the coffee table before Hana. Logan quirked his eyebrow at Hana and she fought the urge to giggle.
“Where’s Pa?” he asked, brushing ash from the hearth and tipping it into the fire. He rose and closed the guard, inspecting his sooty fingers.
“Toby rode up with him to the stock in the forty-eighth this afternoon. He’ll be here soon.” She pushed a spoon into the teapot and smiled at her son. “I’m glad you came; you look well. Hei koanga ngākau.” She patted his hand with sturdy, work worn hands but Logan’s eyes flashed towards Hana with unease. He drew his fingers away and nodded.
“I’ll wash my hands.”
Hana’s brow knitted with confusion at the Māori phrase. She knew that one. Wonderful news. What wonderful news? She watched Logan disappear through a door in the distance and heard running water.
His mother’s manner seemed excitable, like a child with a new toy. She squeezed her open, brown face up in pleasure and Hana allowed herself to relax. Logan returned and took the cushion next to Hana, his movement subtle as he forced Miriam to sit opposite. She didn’t notice, pouring tea for Hana. “He doesn’t drink tea.” She jerked her head towards Logan and Hana nodded.
“I know.”
The heat of the fire felt welcome, filling the cavernous lobby with rising heat. A set of ornate stairs curved behind a desk, rising out of sight in a beautiful arc. Hana followed the line with her eyes, sipping her tea in silence while Logan’s mother observed her. The other woman searched for something in Hana’s face and it unnerved her, feeling the gentle tug of recognition, yet unable to respond. The flames roared in the fireplace, rising and falling in their short-lived dance routine.
“Your house is gorgeous, Mrs Du Rose,” Hana commented, unable to bear the heavy silence. She meant it. The furniture looked antique, but the effect seemed comfortable and relaxed, not showy and pretentious. Expensive but useful.
“Call me Miriam, Hana,” Logan’s mother stated, staring at her through piercing grey eyes.
Just as Hana reached breaking point, a man appeared from a corridor to the right, his face friendly and wrinkled. Dirt filled a crease on his forehead from a hat and the scent of horses arrived with him. “Son!” The quiet voice contained the strength of command, hidden beneath a smooth, lilting accent.
“Hey, Pa.” Logan rose and they pressed noses in a hongi of greeting. When Logan released his father with a slap to his shoulder, Hana saw a wiry man with a strong Māori profile. In his seventies, he lacked his wife’s vibrancy, the cares of the world bending his spine into a shallow question mark. A delicateness shrouded him as though the rigors of life and hardship wished to drag him to earth faster.
“Ah, the famous Hana.” He held his right hand out to her and Hana stood, clasping it and strengthening her fingers to greet his. “Call me Alfred,” he offered and she nodded. His eyes searched her face, the greyness of his irises identical to Logan’s. His hand tilted over hers, seeking dominance whilst exerting no extra pressure. She glanced down, seeing the hammer shaped thumb with the stunted first knuckle. Genetics.
Alfred sat next to his wife and accepted tea. Logan sipped water from a tall glass. The conversation centred around beef stock and over-wintering and Hana drowned it out, staring at a portrait above the fireplace. A regal woman posed for the oil painting, vibrant grey eyes glaring from the canvas. Black hair cascaded past her shoulders in curves and lines accentuated by the painter’s brush. The weight of the world sat on her shoulders and it showed in her face. Tattooed lines decorated her chin and continued into her lips to give them a darkened hue. Hana felt life in the grey eyes and shivered.
“That’s the kuia,” Miriam said, ignored by the men who continued to discuss cattle.
“Your female elder?” Hana translated, cocking her head.
Miriam nodded. “Logan’s grandmother. She adored him. Alfie was the kuia’s first son.”
Hana removed her gaze from the painting, something about it leaving a haunting hollowness in her soul. She felt grateful when Miriam rose and carried the tray away, giving her space to relax. She returned with glasses and a bottle of exquisite red wine, doling out a double portion to Hana. The alcohol loosened her tongue and dispelled the nerves and Hana relaxed. Miriam asked her questions across the coffee table and Hana answered, telling her about Bodie and Izzie and their various achievements.
“Your husband died?” Miriam asked and Hana nodded, the action slow and otherworldly.
“Yes. Eight years ago. Car accident.”
Miriam nodded and crossed her chest in a Catholic sign of the cross. She didn’t express condolences, just that single action. Hana realised the third glass made her ramble and she bit her tongue to prevent anything important escaping. Logan noticed and made their excuses.
The journey upstairs seemed endless, walking past more doors than Hana could count. She felt drunk and foggy, not used to high-end plonk which went straight into her blood stream. Logan held her hand, brushing his thumb across the tops of her fingers as they walked. Hana heard noises from behind the closed doors and worried about other family members bouncing out to meet her in her sozzled state. “Your mum got me tipsy,” Hana said with a hiccough as Logan stopped outside a door and kissed the ends of her fingers.
“You helped her.” His lips quirked into a smile and he pushed the door open. “Come on, wahine.”
“Am I your woman again?” Hana’s voice wavered and her feet stumbled of their own accord.
“Yep.” Logan caught her and swung her onto the bed. “You always were.”
“No.” Hana shook her head and a clip pinged across the room. She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. Pain entered her green eyes, widening them with innocence. “You called me Mrs Johal. I don’t wanna be Mrs Johal.”
Logan winced. He sighed and sat on the bed next to her. “I regret that,” he said, his voice soft. “It won’t happen again.”
“It sucked!” Hana’s shoulders slumped and she twisted her face into a pout.
Logan snorted and stroked her hair back from her face, tucking a long, curled strand behind her ear. “It did. Sorry.”
He stood and hefted Hana’s suitcase onto the bed. She stared at it, wondering how it got upstairs. “You’ll be okay in here,” he said, unzipping it and flopping the lid back on the bed. Hana’s eyes widened at the sight of her tatty grey underwear nestled on top. She lurched for it as Logan turned away, relieved when he strode towards the enormous windows and dragged the curtains across the aperture. “Tomorrow you’ll see the mountains. They look amazing the first time you see them.” His voice sounded wistful and held a deep longing. “There’s a bathroom and gear to make drinks.” He prodded around in a basket and pulled up a regular tea bag amongst the herbals. “Milk’s in the fridge under the desk.”
He turned and his eyes widened as Hana shoved her pants under the pillow, so engrossed in her work, she didn’t catch him watching. “Where are you sleeping?” she asked, the wine giving her a false dose of bravery.
“Front wing of the house.” Logan nudged her aside and turned back the sheets on one side. “I always sleep in my old room.”
The walk to the bedroom had sent
the merlot swirling around Hana’s body, intensifying the effect. Her co-ordination failed first and she giggled as a pair of knickers flicked across the room with the action of turning back the covers. She lurched for them, missed and landed at Logan’s feet. “Oh no!” she grunted, pushing herself backwards into the nightstand.
“You’re a mess, woman,” he said with a smile, helping her off the rug. “I didn’t know you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
Hana shrugged. “I buy cheap stuff.” She wagged her index finger in his face. “And it lasts for months and months.”
“Right.” He smirked, holding her upright with his arms around her. She hiccoughed again and he smiled with his eyes. “My mother gets the best stuff out and you end up paralytic.”
“Shorry,” Hana said, attempting to look contrite. She pushed at the waistband of her jeans and then remembered the zipper, hauling it down without shame. She stripped her blouse over her head, getting it stuck around her ears when she forgot to undo the buttons and Logan extracted her with gentleness and patience. Her jeans clung to her lower legs and he removed them, grinding his teeth into his lower lip and working his jaw as she flopped backwards and hummed to herself.
Hana sat on the edge of her bed in her bra and knickers and Logan fished around in her suitcase. He handed the claret coloured silky number over, retrieving it from the floor as she missed. “You should put this on,” he said, a catch in his voice. She dropped the nightdress again and stood, pressing herself close into him. His jeans felt scratchy against her bare thighs. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his lips. “I always feel like I know you,” she said, drunkenness drawling her sentence. “Like déjà vu. You make me happy.”
“Good.” Logan’s eyes softened to the colour of pewter and Hana watched the transition. “You make me happy too.” His fingers stroked her shoulders and his gaze searched her face. His pupils dilated and he struggled to keep it decent between them. Hana experienced a strange surge of power as alarm bells clanged into her brain.
“I think I love you,” she slurred and then hiccoughed. She tried to put her arms around his neck and missed.
Logan snorted and caught her flailing arms. “Yeah, you do,” he replied and kissed her merlot-flavoured lips. “You just don’t know it yet.” He sighed. “But you’re also worse for wear and need to sleep it off.”
“Okay.” Hana flopped onto the mattress in her bra and knickers and closed her eyes in obedience. Sleep sounded like a great idea as the room spun with her eyes open.
Logan stroked her hair and she missed the powerful look of longing in his eyes. “Bathroom light’s on, wahine,” he whispered and covered her with the sheets. “Night, babe.” His voice sounded husky and Hana giggled because he called her babe.
She meant to use the bathroom to clean her teeth. In a minute. The light speckled the room with silver and Logan left, pulling the door closed behind him. The heady merlot swept Hana’s worries away on the breeze and she slept sounder than she had for years.
The king size bed felt empty and cold when she woke next morning and the pounding headache reminded her of her student days. A pair of knickers were wrapped around her wrist like a tatty bracelet and Hana groaned. “He’s seen my pants. I want to die.”
Sunshine filtered around the heavy drapes and she lay for a while, staring at the ornate ceiling rose. Forced to face the day, she found activity dispersed the hangover, helped by a strong cup of coffee and a shower. Then Hana sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the mountain scene outside the window. “He’s right,” she whispered. “It does take your breath away.