Show Me a Huia!

by Chris Barfoot

  He looked back at the wall, and realised it was almost impossible to get back up in the same place.

  That’s torn it. Might as well have a look around.

  He kept away from the driveway, moving down through the pohutukawa. Soon he could hear the water just below him, and smell the seaweed on the rocks. There would be deep water off shore, the Marine Reserve. Still no lights. He wondered where the house was.

  There was not a star in the sky, the water was black, and the night windless. Absently he reached down and raked through the fallen blooms with his fingers. Suddenly, he felt something hard. Shaped like a twig, yet it was not a twig. It was metal and hollow. As he rubbed it, there was a slight vibration and a low hum.

  He tensed and listened. Only the crickets and the water lapping, and the thumping of his heart.

  Suddenly the night erupted. Dogs barked, lights shone, and shouts came from a short distance along the headland.

  He pondered the option of meeting his pursuers and trying to explain his presence there, but realised it might be difficult, especially explaining it all to the dogs. So he took off, half running, half creeping through the trees, making towards the only place where he could find safety from the dogs’ sense of smell – the water. Now it was just below. He eased himself down to it over pohutukawa roots and then rocks covered with seaweed.

  The dogs and lights were now only a few yards away, the dogs following his trail. He lowered himself into the water, welcoming its cool, silky embrace. He took a big breath and, submerging quietly, swam underwater till he was well clear of the shore. He repeated this several times. Then he looked back towards the land.

  At last he could see the dim outline of the whole headland, and the bay, probably the site of the granite quarry, the wharf and the deep-water anchorage.

  There was something else there. A large shape at the end of the wharf. A large yacht or small ship? Yes, it could be! Yet there were no lights on either the ship or the wharf. He listened. A low hum came to him across the water.

  There’s some work going on there. Was it like cranes loading? He listened more carefully. Was there another sound? It could be the clicking that wagons make as they move over railway lines The granite mining operation? But why at night? And without lights?

  Another sound close at hand, less welcome this time. A powerful hull cutting the water, a smooth, low motor. Now a strong searchlight was moving over the surface of the water, sweeping fast and wide.

  The Marine Reserve patrol boat – definitely unfriendly. Well, we’ll show them a thing or two.

  If in his work-orientated life David had any spare time, he would go swimming. Ever since those holidays on the East Coast when he had been taught by the Maori how to hold his breath for a long time when diving for kai moana, he had enjoyed being in the water. Senior swimming champion at Grammar, he had since taken part in the harbour and Rangitoto swims.

  Down he dived. When he surfaced, it was only to catch breath and to assess the direction of the pursuit. Several times he watched as the jet boat sped towards him, submerged in the nick of time and looked up at the light flashing over the water. Finally, the launch appeared to veer away and head back towards the quarry bay.

  Slowly David swam towards the dark silhouette of the land where the road ran. Now lights had appeared, car lights on the coast road, torch lights on the beach and along the coastline as far as he could see.

  So they are still searching, and if what I’ve seen so far is a guide, they’ll be pretty thorough. Better stay where I am.

  He wondered how long he could last before the cold got to him. The search went on and on. He wished he had his wet suit that he used on the Rangitoto swim. The jeans were difficult to swim in. He felt the cold seeping into his legs, his arms and his chest, and struggled to keep moving. At last with relief he saw the lights thinning out, then disappearing, and the car lights on the coast road heading back towards the headland of Pataratara.

  When David finally pulled himself out on the rocks, he was exhausted. Dawn was just sketching the saw-tooth outline of the Raukumaras. He had been nearly two hours in the water. Thank heavens it was midsummer!

  He clambered over the rocks and up the bank towards his car, grateful that he still had his sneakers on. He was tired, hungry, not thinking clearly. The car was unlocked. How careless of me! He didn’t even check whether anything had been stolen. All he could think of was getting as much space as possible between himself and Pataratara in the shortest possible time. He pulled the key from his sodden jeans pocket, slipped it into the ignition, started the car, reversed it sharply so that it skidded on the grass, and took off at speed, heading westward towards Opotiki.

  After he had passed the gates of Pataratara, he listened to the singing of the engine and the humming of the wheels on the seal.

  He began to whistle.

  On the other side of Pataratara there was a long ascent to get over a very high, steep bluff. He remembered this bluff when he was driving in and the sheer drop to the sea on the upward ascent. He accelerated quickly and soon reached the top of the bluff. Now there was only sea before him, and the steep, narrow road ahead wound around precipices dropping off to the rocks and the water hundreds of metres below.

  Just take it easy, David.

  He started the descent cautiously with his foot lightly on the brake. After a few yards he felt that the car was moving faster than was comfortable on that hill. He pressed down harder on the brake, but it went sickeningly loose and hit the floor. He pulled furiously at the hand brake but the handle just went loose in his hand. He swung the gear lever into low, but heard only an ominous graunching, tearing sound.

  Now the trees began to race past and he saw the sea in front of him and the cliff edge where the road swung away at the first bend. He swerved at the very last moment outside the seal at the bend, as the tyres screeched and the metal rose in a white cloud. He struggled desperately to control the flying car on the next stretch. He knew that there was nothing he could do at that speed on the next bend.

  He found himself looking at the sea – how peaceful it looked! Helplessly he watched the second bend coming up. The trees were now a green blur. For some reason he unfastened his seat belt, rested his hand on the door handle and dreamily thought of himself swimming in all that blue. As he made a last desperate attempt to swerve, he was thrown against the side of the car, the driver’s door burst open and the momentum shot him out.

  Blue, green and black seemed to be whirling around him. At one stage he saw a comet of red hurtling past him.

  Then something struck him with a heavy blow, and he knew no more.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sir Charles Hawthorne sat in the police station at Opotiki late on Friday morning. His eyes were moist and his handkerchief was in his hand.

  Sergeant Herewini of the Opotiki police felt almost as if he were dealing with next of kin. “Sir Charles, we are very grateful that you have driven down from Auckland, especially to help us in our enquiries. Your staff have also been very helpful. We are still looking for the body. It seems to have been thrown out of the car. He must have forgotten to put his seat belt on. It may be hard to identify as the cliff was high and it would have landed on the rocks. Besides, the tide could have taken it anywhere.”

  “My staff will be available for the search as long as you require them.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, to ask this, as I understand that you were a friend of the owner of the car, Dr Corbishley from the University. Do you have any idea of the background of this incident?”

  A tear glistened on the cherubic cheek. “Thank you, Sergeant. It is as you realise most distressing for me. He was a young man whom I was trying to help. On Monday he came to me for assistance in locating a lost colleague. I made several calls to Australia as a result and provided him with a fare there in order to follow up a likely sighting at Broken Hill. The flight was due to leave tonight. Now I find that he disregarded my assistance, drove down to the Bay of Plenty and la
st night broke into my property.”

  “Any motive for his action, sir?”

  “During the interview on Monday he questioned me quite closely about the Waitoa sanctuary of which I am a guardian. Apparently his colleague may have visited there before it became a sanctuary and he had formed the opinion that his colleague had made a valuable mineral discovery. A few days ago he asked me for some geological information about my property which he apparently did not accept. He had obviously decided to make his own investigations.”

  “May I ask about this geological information?”

  “It related to an idea in his head that there was an underground passage from the Waitoa to my property.”

  “Why was he interested in this?”

  “I believed at first that he was genuinely interested in tracing his colleague and therefore gave him all the help I could. Now I am afraid that his main desire was not to find his colleague but to find a way to enter the sanctuary illegally in order to exploit his colleague’s possible discovery. I formed this conclusion after he visited me the next day with further questions. He had in the meantime broken into his colleague’s confidential records and found a letter which referred to the discovery. He had also been trying to extract information from the Whanau Apanui.”

  “Would you say that this action was unusual on the part of someone of his standing?”

  “I fear that Dr Corbishley from my observation was a man under considerable mental strain due to the conflict between his desire to find his friend and his desire for monetary gain.”

  The psychological implications of the case were taxing the sergeant’s understanding. “I see,” he said slowly. “Have you any idea of the cause of the accident? I believe your staff were there before us?”

  “They reported that the car was so badly damaged that they could not detect the cause. They were also searching for him on the property and in the bay for most of the night after the break-in. As it was noted that the car was still parked near Pataratara shortly before dawn, it’s possible that the unfortunate man started driving back just after dawn and was half asleep.”

  “So he might have been inattentive about his belt. Not that it would have made any difference, except in finding the body.”

  The handkerchief went again to the eyes. “Whatever his faults, Sergeant, it is a terrible way to die.”

  “Do you want us to check your property?”

  “There is no need. We have already done so, and there is nothing missing.”

  The sergeant completed his report. Sir Charles Hawthorne was held in such regard locally that he did not look for or interview any further witnesses. He noted the missing man’s two actual break-ins and a third contemplated break-in to the sanctuary. He did not think there would be any prosecution. When the body was found, there would probably be a rahui, and he could then close the file.

  Sir Charles sat solitary on the terrace looking out over the bay enjoying a gin and tonic. It was a perfect January afternoon. The sunlight bedecked the blue waters with hosts of dancing jewels. The Pacific rollers having lost their strength lapped lazily on the beach at the head of the bay where the golden sand was streaked with the scarlet of the lately fallen pohutukawa blooms. The bush, alive with cicada, rose from the beach in a riot of rata. The terns wheeled and called in a cloudless sky.

  He came here to find peace. But for some reason peace eluded him. In the law courts he reigned supreme: by his oratory he carried all the jurors with him, by his cross-questioning he intimidated and bedazzled the witnesses and by his cherubic smile and by his handkerchief and carefully controlled tear and dimple he charmed and beguiled. In the grand parties in his Epsom house and garden he towered above his guests and moved gracefully among them. He spoke to everyone because he knew them all intimately – in many cases he knew far more than they could ever have suspected. At society dinners his great laugh boomed around the room as evidence of his bonhomie. His munificence was legendary. Some even saw him as “the father of Auckland”, another Sir John Logan Campbell.

  Yet strangely enough he had very few close friends and he had never married. Was this it because he did not wish to share his deepest thoughts? Or was it because he was used to acting a part? Leading roles at King’s and at Oxford had won for him a reputation of being able to submerge himself completely in the person he was playing. If he had not become a Q.C., he could have been an actor with the reputation of a John Gielgud or a Ralph Richardson.

  The skill was fortunate in one way. For who could bear the burden that he bore, the memories that came increasingly to dominate his life?

  In Africa it took a long time to kill a man with a machete. They had to cut the hamstrings first to prevent them running away. They talked of the blood running down the dirt street in little rivulets, of the hundreds of bodies floating in the river.

  He thought of the sick old man with a deeply lined, hollow face, sitting hunched at a table with his arthritic fingers painfully and ponderously labouring on an ancient typewriter in a room bursting with documents, letters and newspapers, while outside on the former model farm the gorse grew again and the sheds rotted among rank weeds.

  There came to him the words which he had spoken as Hamlet:

  “The time is out of joint; o cursed spite

  That ever I was born to set it right.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon nap, Mr Chairman.”

  The broad American voice came from a tall man who had appeared on the terrace like an apparition. He was big, raw-boned and a little ungainly, and had deep blue eyes under a wide lined forehead and a mop of sandy hair. In his hand he held a book.

  “Not at all, dear friend; I see you have your Bible.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “He’s just completely out of touch with the modern world.”

  The Bishop of Auckland, who was of the progressive school, was just waiting for the vicar of St Peter’s-on-the-Hill to retire. He considered that the appointment as Archdeacon by the ageing previous bishop would have been made in one of his most absent-minded moments. Harry Mountjoy had not shown the slightest interest in the programmes on inclusive language which were just beginning to be promoted by the Bishop. He continued to use liturgies which still referred to God as “He”, refused to have Groups for Living instead of Evensong, and his views on current moral issues had a predictable inflexibility.

  Harry Mountjoy himself had no ambition to be a popular vicar. He had but two aims. One was to make sure the services were properly and reverently celebrated. The other was to get to know his parishioners as well as he possibly could. Because of this latter aim it was acknowledged by his small but faithful congregation that he had at least one good point. He was an indefatigable visitor.

  In fact for the vicar no other activity occupied more time than visiting. As he did not attend the many seminars, conferences or training sessions arranged by the Bishop and the Diocese, parishioners were likely to see him, any hour of the day or evening, quite without notice.

  “I was just passing your way, and I thought I’d call in.”

  If there were no answer at the front door, he would go round to the back. If there were no one in the house, he would wander down into the garden where the man of the house was cutting the hedge or building a playhouse or a sandpit. Quite often he would lend a hand with the job before everyone decided it was time for a drink. If his parishioners were away at work during the day, he would call in at the office or the shop where his white collar would cause either embarrassment or scarcely concealed mirth. In the evening he would call in sometimes when the family were sitting down to a meal, in which case he was happy to form one of the family and crack a joke with the younger members.

  New parishioners were initially disconcerted by his sudden appearances. They felt they would have liked to get out the good tea set and be better dressed. However, regular St Peter’s parishioners accepted their vicar’s visiting habits.

  All except one. This was the vicar’s warden, Dr
Randall Richardson.

  ***

  The vicar called around immediately to see Eleanor as soon as she rang early on Thursday morning to tell him about the search being called off. He tried to think of something that would give comfort. “Perhaps we could have a little service…”

  “I don’t want any kind of service,” she broke in with spirit. “Stan would be horrified.”

  Harry was a little taken aback. “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that young geologist.”

  “I’m sorry his story upset you. I am afraid young people today are a little tactless.”

  “Yes, he did disturb me at the time when he talked about his friend who had disappeared.” There was a tremor in her voice and she got up suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’ll put the kettle on.” There was a rattling of cups, then she came back. “Do you know, Vicar, they seem to be such similar people. I mean Dr Corbishley’s friend and Stan. They both wanted to get to that dreadful valley. And that’s not the only thing. The geologist’s friend used to speak out a lot and make people uncomfortable. And I know how rude Stan can be.” Then her eyes lit up. “But Stan’s sometimes right, and I expect Dr Corbishley’s friend might be too. Do you know how you sometimes talk in your sermons about the need for prophets for today?”

  He decided to keep to the practical issue. “You must realise, Eleanor, that there’s nothing more that we can do to find Stan – apart from prayer.”

  “But why can’t we help Dr Corbishley find his friend? I know it sounds odd, but I feel there’s a kind of link between us all.”