Heartland (13 page)

Honourable mention

Donny steers Tracey behind a display panel in a dark corner of the hall and stands still. He’s just caught sight of Di Masefield conducting a small group of people from the Ohakune craft club around the exhibition. Tracey shrugs away from his hold, but remains in hiding. Each has a baby tied on in front: Donny’s is sleeping peacefully; little Sky looking here and there, as alert and watchful as her mum.

Tracey frowns at Donny. ‘What?’

‘Di Masefield.’

‘So what? She can’t hurt us now.’

But they remain hidden. Last week a smiling lady from Plunket had come to Donny’s door while he was at work and Tracey in charge. Someone was concerned, she said; would Tracey mind if she had a look at the McAneny baby? Weigh him and so on? Tracey had glowered and muttered, but in the end allowed it and even submitted her own baby to the
surprised woman. Sky was healthy and on target for her age, the Plunket lady said, but Manny was underweight. Tracey made some excuse — the baby was born small, he was feeding properly now that Tracey was nannying him, everything was okay. In fact, Tracey was shaking inside. The Plunket lady seemed friendly, but Tracey feared and mistrusted everyone in authority. She lied about her age and her name, nodded agreement about getting the babies inoculated; couldn’t wait for her to go. All the next week she worried that something bad would come of the visit, but the Plunket lady returned, weighed again, noted the clean house (Tracey had made a frantic effort), and complimented Tracey on her parenting. Tracey had grinned, despite her best effort not to.

Donny had said that the person complaining would have been Di Masefield, who is his enemy. Tracey is interested, now, to see Donny’s ‘enemy’ in the flesh. She’s tall, with wild grey hair standing out from her head, and dressed in a fancy brown coat that looks odd among the ski jackets and pullovers. Her hands are weighted down with large jewelled rings. Her voice carries over the murmuring of the few other people in the hall: ‘… community initiative …’ she’s explaining to her entourage, ‘… commendable standard, considering. Just look at this! Wouldn’t be out of place in the city.’ Her jewelled hand flashes towards a painting in front of her.

Tracey breathes in sharply.

‘What?’ Donny whispers.

‘Tell you later.’

The group makes a quick inspection and goes out to Di’s Range Rover which is parked directly in front of the doorway,
almost blocking the entrance. When the vehicle has truly disappeared, the two continue their own tour.

‘They like Vera,’ says Donny.

‘No they don’t. They’re laughing at her, can’t you see?’

Donny can’t see: the photos look just like Vera to him. ‘This one with the donkey, that’s really good, eh?’

Tracey sighs. ‘Oh, Donny.’

She edges him towards the painting which caught Di Masefield’s attention. It stands out from the other tame watercolours like a tiger in a cat show. There’s a placard beneath it:
HONOURABLE MENTION, Adult watercolour
.

‘Whoo hoo,’ says Donny, ‘somebody’s mad at something. What do you reckon it is?’

‘The mountain,’ says Tracey, ‘erupting.’ Why does Donny think she was angry? Donny can be so dumb and slow, and then come out with an idea that makes you think.

‘Yeah? The mountain?’ Donny puzzles over the wild colours and crazy erupting strokes. He laughs suddenly, his great hoot drawing attention from all around the room. ‘It’s beaut,’ he shouts. ‘Look at that old mountain blowing its top! Whoo hoo!’

Tracey jabs him in the ribs. ‘Shut up. Everyone’s looking. Shut up or I’m going.’ She can feel tears gathering; doesn’t know why.

Donny looks at her. Looks back at the painting. ‘Hey.’ He’s whispering now. ‘This
T. Smith
. That’s you, eh?’

She nods — a tiny movement. Her wild painting that seemed so ordinary back in her kitchen in the low lamplight trumpets its presence. The purple and green strokes (the only
colours she could ‘find’) are too daring in this hall. She wants to rip it down, screw it up.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ she whispers, dragging at his arm.

They walk home quickly. The wind is keen and the dirty grey-brown clouds hint at snow. Across the railway line the beech trees at the edge of the bush are tossing their branches, sending flurries of tiny leaves into the air. Smoke from Bull’s chimney streams out flat, racing towards Ohakune. Tracey hugs Sky to her, leans across to pull the woolly cap further over Manny’s little ears. Donny is full of questions about the painting, but she walks on with her head down.

Inside Donny’s house they huddle close to the wood-burner until the fresh logs have caught and the room has snugged up again. Tracey can’t face the idea of going back to her cold kitchen, so she must put up with Donny’s endless questions.

‘What did that mean, that
Honour
thing under your painting? And the red sticker?’

‘Someone thought it was good and someone else bought it. The red dot shows it sold.’ Tracey fiddles with the kettle but she can’t help the pleasure showing.

‘Whoo hoo! You’re an artist, Trace. How much did you get?’

Tracey doesn’t know. She had thrust her painting at the lady who was collecting entries and asked her to put whatever price she thought right.

‘We might be rich! We could buy something for the babies!’

Tracey puts her mug down too quickly; tea sloshes onto the floor. ‘It’s
my
money, stupid, not ours!
I
earned it.’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry.’

Donny’s crestfallen face makes her want to scream. Or cry. After all that he’s shared with her, she didn’t need to sound off like that. She places the apple box as a guard in front of the wood-burner — Sky is crawling now — then wipes up the spilt tea.

‘Hey,’ says Donny, quieter now, less excited. ‘You don’t need to cry. I know it’s your money. Don’t cry, Trace.’

He looks as if he might cry himself. Tracey flings herself into the chair by the fire. ‘I’m not crying!’ she sobs. ‘Bloody hell, Donny, leave me alone!’

Donny goes outside. When he comes back with an armful of wood, he stands in the doorway, uncertain, watching her.

Tracey wipes her eyes, picks up Sky’s slippers, puts them down again. ‘Did you go out because you were angry? Were you doing your one two three?’

Donny grins. ‘No, I went to get the wood. You don’t make me angry, Trace.’ He goes over to the wood-burner, stacks the logs, then asks her, ‘Were
you
angry when you painted that picture?’

She thinks about this. ‘No. I don’t think so. I was enjoying myself.’

‘You’re often angry, eh?’

‘Oh!’ Tracey jumps up, walks over to the window. ‘Let’s not talk about this. I’m just not used to being nice. I’ll get over it.’ She stares out the window, then comes back and picks up Sky. ‘Hey look, it’s snowing!’

Big fat gobs of snow are drifting down, blown this way and that by the wind. Sky waves her hands and giggles. Donny goes outside and dances in front of the window, letting the
snow settle on his hair, his jersey, his eyebrows. He sticks out his tongue to catch the flakes, and Tracey laughs. He comes inside, covered in cold white fur, his cupped hands full of flakes. Sky plants her whole face into the delicate pile and shouts her surprise. Manny wakes in his cosy carrot box and stares up at his dripping dad.

‘Dry yourself off, you big idiot,’ says Tracey, ‘or we’ll have a flood in here.’ But she’s laughing. They all are. It’s wonderful.

That night Tracey sleeps for the first time on the lumpy mattress in Donny’s spare room, Sky tucked in beside her. Donny seems to take it for granted that she won’t go back across the road. After they’d watched a bit of television, he brushed his teeth and went off to bed, leaving her to find what she needed and settle herself. It felt good and natural and safe. Tracey can’t believe her luck, finding someone like Donny.

Next morning, before Donny roars off to work through the snowy landscape, he asks her, ‘Do you think about Nightshade much?’

The question, asked so simply, in the middle of breakfast, shakes her. ‘Donny, you mustn’t ever talk about it.’

He nods. ‘But do you?’

‘I try not to, but I do, yes.’

‘Yeah, me too. When it’s spring I’m going to plant a tree over her.’

After he’s gone, and she’s left with the babies, she sits a while at the table, looking out at the beauty of Manawa under snow. But even that bright and pristine landscape can’t lift the slow weight that is settling on her. The lightness of last night has gone. She fiddles with her spoon. She swallows, trying to
stop the sick panic from rising. They are fools to think they can get away with this. Someone will surely find out. They’ll lock Donny away again. And her.

Sky wakes with a start, as if she’s caught her mother’s black thoughts. Her mouth opens to bellow her outrage. Manny follows suit, his smaller lungs producing a high-pitched scream, but Tracey sits there, unable, for a moment, to deal with it all. She lowers her head on to her hands and joins in.

The knock on the door is light, but she jumps nevertheless, checks from the window before she opens, but it’s only smiling old Delia from next door, in heavy boots and warm coat, holding out a knitted rug. She waits to be invited in, but Tracey can’t manage the ordinary rituals of greeting yet. She scowls, lost for the words. Delia waits a moment or two, then comes in anyway, but quietly, nothing like Donny’s usual exuberant rush.

‘It’s Tracey, isn’t it? Donny says you’re helping him with Manny.’

Tracey nods without looking up. The babies cry on.

‘I’m so glad. Has Donny told you he’s related to us?’

Tracey nods again.

‘My sister and I have knitted this rug for him.’ She unfolds the little blanket — a riot of mismatched colours — and laughs. ‘We used up all our scraps as you can see, but it will keep him warm.’ As she talks, she walks over to Manny’s carrot-box cradle and looks at him. His eyes are open and his tiny fists waving. ‘Would you mind if I held him?’

Tracey sighs. Delia picks up the baby, wraps him in the shawl and then turns to look at Tracey. She can feel the old
eyes noticing her clothes, her tears, her uncombed hair. She wants, desperately, to be left alone.

‘I tell you what,’ says the old lady, ‘why don’t I take Manny over to our place for a while? Wouldn’t you like some time alone with your little one?’

‘I can manage. You don’t need to.’ Tracey’s voice is rough, angry; she can hear it herself, hear how rude it sounds, but can find no other way. In fact, she would love Delia to take Manny. She picks up Sky and cradles her. The silence, both babies content now, quietens her own unease. ‘Okay then, but don’t keep him for long.’

Delia seems impervious to Tracey’s lack of grace. ‘Thank you so much. My sister and I have little to do these days. It’s such a pleasure — the wee one. I can’t tell you how much …’ Her voice fades away. She stands by the door, gazing at the wide-eyed baby in her arms.

It’s as if her clockwork has wound down. Tracey is fearful for a moment that the old lady might be having a heart attack. She moves towards her, ready to take Manny, but Delia comes to life again.

‘Well then. I will bring him back a little later. Thank you, my dear.’

And she climbs slowly, carefully, down the steps and away into the white land.

A christening

Donny rams his head into Bull’s home-made contraption of wood and carpet, keeping his back straight and knees bent. He can feel Bull’s hand pressing on his shoulders, flattening them, then running down along his spine, ending with a congratulatory slap on his rump.

‘Good lad, Donny, straight as a pikestaff. Can you feel that you’ve got it right?’

Donny comes up grinning. ‘Yeah, it feels good, Mr Howie. Am I ready then?’

‘George says he’ll give you a start, yes. Tight head. So don’t you let him down. Will the Virgin look after Manny?’

‘She likes to be called Tracey, Mr Howie.’ Donny’s face is serious. ‘Tracey Smith.’

Bull walks with him up from the back garden where Donny goes through his paces on a Wednesday after work, up past the neat rows of carrots and cabbage to the back door. ‘That wouldn’t be the T. Smith who did the painting in the exhibition?’

Donny slaps Bull on the shoulder and Bull rears back as if
shot. ‘Don’t do that, Donny! You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry, sorry, Mr Howie. But it
was
her! She did that beaut painting!’

‘And I bought it. I’m going to frame it and hang it over my mantelpiece.’

‘Whoo hoo! Wait till Trace hears that! How much did you pay?’

Bull sighs. Donny’s exuberance is wearing him down. But there is something he wants to speak to him about. ‘Come inside for a moment, Donny, I want a word.’

Donny Mac eyes Bull anxiously. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

But Bull shakes his head and ushers him inside. Donny is the only person, apart from Vera, who is ever invited in. No one (least of all Donny) knows what has made Bull the way he is. As a young man he played senior rugby, travelling to fixtures all around the country; in his thirties and forties he worked in the draper’s shop in Ohakune, friendly to all and sundry, a regular at the RSA club, even though he’d never seen war service. But at a certain stage in his life he began to withdraw from his friends. It happened slowly, over the years, no one really noticing. Sometimes he’ll watch the club rugby, but even that is often too much — or too far from his own front gate.

Now he hands Donny a towel to wipe off the sweat, seats him at the kitchen table and hands him a glass of water. He’s hopeful that Donny is learning that alcohol is not for him. He’s also hoping that this is a good moment — Donny being relaxed after the training — to bring up the subject of Nightshade Holloway. Donny seems to have erased her from his thoughts, but surely
her return is a very messy probability. Bull can imagine the boy losing control again, becoming violent.

‘So is the Virgin … Tracey … living in your house now, Donny?’ Bull is curious about the girl who paints so surprisingly well and yet has lived in Manawa for the last year or more as secretively as a small wild animal.

Donny grins. ‘She sort of lives in my house, but sometimes she goes back to the shack. She’s shy.’

Shy isn’t the beginning of it, in Bull’s opinion. Scared might be closer to the mark. He recognises and understands the behaviour.

When Bull mentions the possibility of Nightshade returning, being angry to find another woman looking after Manny, Donny shows no anxiety. He frowns, then assures Bull that there’s no possibility of that happening.

‘You can’t be sure of that, Donny,’ says Bull. ‘You need to think what you would do.’

Donny is becoming agitated. ‘I can be sure, Mr Howie. I can. Please can we stop talking about her?’ He gets up, makes for the door. ‘I can’t talk about it.’

Bull goes to the boy, takes him by the shoulders and brings him back to the chair. Donny is trembling; he glances this way and that as if looking for an escape route. Bull hasn’t seen him like this since his grandfather died.

‘Donny,’ he says, ‘tell me truthfully. You didn’t hurt her?’

Donny looks up at him. ‘No, I never did. Never once. I never hurt her, Mr Howie.’

Bull can see it’s the truth and breathes a sigh of relief. He decides to change the subject, see if he can’t get to the bottom
of whatever is on Donny’s mind.

‘Donny, your grandfather was a Catholic, wasn’t he?’

Donny looks quickly to Bull, grateful, it seems, for the change. ‘Oh, yeah. But I don’t go to church now.’

‘Fair enough.’ Bull was raised Catholic but doesn’t brave the trip in to church either. ‘Remember how your grandfather had you baptised when you came to live here? I think he would have liked you to baptise little Manny. Especially as he has the same name.’

‘Yeah. I remember being christened. You were my godfather.’

‘I still am. You could get the priest to come out here and bless Manny. Just in case.’

‘In case what?’

‘Well, in case he got sick and died.’

Donny roars, ‘He’s well, he’s good, Mr Howie, he’s not dying.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, I know.’ Bull sighs. He doesn’t seem able to get anything right today. ‘But it’s a good thing to do. And I’ve made something for him. Look at this.’ Bull opens a drawer and brings out the lacy gown. He lays it on the table, spreading the little ruched sleeves, smoothing the long filigree skirt which he’s been working on for the last several weeks.

The sight of the lovely thing seems to calm Donny. He stares at it. ‘Hey, is this for Manny?’

‘It’s a christening gown. Manny could wear it if you have him christened.’

Donny fingers the lace carefully. ‘It’s beaut. You could be
his
godfather too. Is that allowed?’ He rattles on now, making plans for a party, wondering whether Sky might be christened too, whether Bull might be godfather to both babies and
might make another gown, whether Vera could be godmother if she washed her hands. Or maybe the old ladies, since they’re related. Bull is relieved that the corner seems to have been turned, but the unreality of the plans is striking. What about the mother? The spectre of Nightshade returning and disrupting proceedings is surely a real one? Donny is unrealistic to think he has seen the last of her. And yet. Vera’s mention of screams the night the woman disappeared; Donny’s certainty that she’s gone for good; Mona’s report that Nightshade had no intention of moving on. Bull doesn’t want to put these thoughts together, wants to push them away, but they will crowd in.

He smiles, though, to see this precious young man so happy at last. ‘We’ll see,’ he says gently. ‘We’ll ring the priest and ask him, shall we?’

‘Miss Delia, Miss Aureole, we will definitely
not
be going to a Papist christening!’ Roe McAneny addresses her sisters formally only when at her most adamant. She stands in the middle of the kitchen, leaning on her stick, her breath coming in short gasps, her free hand visibly trembling. Delia fears (or hopes) she is about to have a heart attack.

‘But Roe,’ wails Aureole, ‘Donny has asked Delia to be godmother.’

‘Their God,’ says Roe, ‘is not ours. McAnenys are Presbyterian. It is quite impossible—’ she pauses to steady
herself, lays a hand on the floury table — ‘that our
great-nephew
could submit to a priest’s blessing.’

Delia continues to beat butter and sugar. ‘Nevertheless,’ she says quietly, ‘it will happen whether we are there or not. Donny’s branch of the family have been Catholics for three generations. I have accepted the invitation. I will go.’

‘No, Miss Delia. You will not disobey me this time.’

Aureole looks from one sister to the other. ‘Oh! But surely!’ She can think of nothing to say that will help this terrible crisis.

Delia beats steadily on, the butter and sugar becoming a beautiful creamy white under her hand. This is to be Manny’s christening cake. ‘The ceremony,’ she says, ‘will not be in a Papist church. The priest is coming to Donny’s house. I think we can make an exception.’

‘We can
not
.’

Roe’s distress is painful to see. Delia knows that, despite her protestations, her sister has accepted Manny as a family member. She’s caught Roe standing, when she thinks no one is watching, gazing into the makeshift cradle in the kitchen where little Manny is asleep. But a Catholic christening is one step too far. It would be tantamount to admitting guilt in the failure to recognise, all those years ago, Donny’s deserter
great-grandfather
, her own Papist brother. Too much, too big a step for one as old and set in her ways as Roe McAneny.

Delia puts down her bowl. She smiles at her two agitated sisters. ‘I have an idea,’ she says.

Two days later, all is prepared at Donny’s place. Donny, bursting with pride, wearing a tie and tweed jacket donated by Bull, his dark hair cut neatly by Tracey, his work shoes polished, stands in the back yard beside a trestle table laden with food. Bull has bravely walked the distance, arm in arm with Vera, who has invented a constant stream of gossip to keep his mind distracted. Vera has brought her chocolate rice-bubble clusters even though it’s not Easter. Fitz Smart, who has closed his ‘emporium’ in the belief that his fortunes are about to change dramatically for the better, has brought a bundle of all his second-hand clothes. ‘The babies won’t need to buy a thing for the next ten years,’ he says with his usual breezy confidence.

Earlier, the Kingi boys laid down a hangi at the bottom of the garden; they are now busy unwrapping the fragrant meats and roots. The priest, his vestments flapping in the light breeze, shakes Bull’s hand and talks about rugby. Tracey has spent all morning on sandwiches, using leftover bread from the New World and eggs from Vera’s chooks — donated not stolen.

Lovey Kingi holds the hand of an old fellow vaguely familiar to Donny as a rugby supporter. She drags him forward to meet the proud dad.

‘This is Koro Pita from my kohanga. Is it okay if he comes along?’

Donny grins at serious little Lovey; shakes hands with Koro Pita. ‘More the merrier!’ he shouts. ‘Welcome, Koro Pita!’

Koro Pita, thickset, grizzle haired, is dressed formally like Donny, in tie and jacket, a smart black fedora on his head. He leans on a stick elaborately carved. ‘Kia ora, Donny,’ he says. ‘Thought maybe your little fella might be joining the kohanga in a year or two so we’d better get acquainted.’ Lovey hops up and down, still holding his hand, and Koro Pita chuckles. ‘She has us all organised, this little teina. She wanted the whole kohanga to come along too but I said one koro would be enough.’

‘There’s only seven more of us,’ says Lovey, looking up hopefully from under her dark fringe, ‘and Nanny Tangi and Aunty Rita.’

‘That’s enough, Lovey,’ says Koro Pita firmly, but already Lovey has taken Donny’s grin as an invitation and sped away. Koro shakes his head and sighs. ‘A handful, that one.’ He clears his throat a little uncertainly. ‘The aunties want me to say a short karakia over the new little one. Given his Maori ancestry.’

‘Yeah?’ Donny’s uncertain too. ‘What about the priest?’

The old man looks up at the mountain as if gathering strength from it. ‘To be honest, the aunties are more into all this than me. But I could say a few words if the priest gave the thumbs-up. Shall we ask him?’

Turns out Father Benedict is quite familiar with sharing the ceremony. ‘Look, no problems, fellows, we do this all the time. I’ll do the formal blessing with the holy water, and then what else follows, it’s not going to change anything, is it? Actually, you might be in for another little surprise.’ He nods in the direction of the road, where the McAnenys’ ancient
Austin Princess is approaching at a snail’s pace.