Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘Here comes the lovesick lady!’ they would shout. Or ‘Here I am, sweetheart — just call me Conrad and I’ll serve the purpose!’

  She would smile and nod but hold on to a reserve that none could break — or only one, and he regretted it for a good month afterwards, nursing a thick ear and a bruised face and having to endure ribald comments from his mates.

  The only sailor who had seen or heard of the big Dane was the one who had sailed with him aboard the Asterope on that first voyage back to England.

  ‘A grim voyage, lady,’ he said. ‘The cap’n were sick before we left this shore and then croaked on us not two week out. Just as well we had that Danish bishop on board. A useful kind of a fellow in a storm, for he read the last rites for the cap’n and then gave our poor first mate, who were thick as a plank on his navigation, a helping hand. But for that bishop we might of fetched up on God knows what wild foreign shore. Your man Conrad were a right darlin’ of the crew, too. Sing! He could find a tune for any occasion — doleful or merry — and argue a point till he had you turnin’ your thoughts about-face without knowing it. Cunning bastard. But we loved that foreign giant for his big heart and his grand voice. Useful aloft in a storm, too.’

  ‘And when you reached England?’ Anahuia asked.

  ‘He was off, wasn’t he? Along with the bishop and his mess of lovely ladies. Never saw him again. The world’s a wide old place when you’re on the sea: you can lose a man soon as blink your eye.’ And then, seeing Anahuia’s face, added, ‘Good luck to you, sweetheart, anyways. I can surely understand your liking for the fellow.’

  As she returned to Ngauranga after one of these trips, riding on the cart’s plank-seat with Tipene, he removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke to her — an unusual event.

  ‘Time to move,’ he said.

  Anahuia waited for more but none came. The wind was keen this late afternoon; small white-caps broke against the shore, flecking the cart and its occupants with spray. Tipene hauled an empty sack from the tray behind them and handed it to her. He had been courteous over the past months, and generous, but she had never felt drawn to him as she did to Erenora. Now she received the sack gratefully and huddled under it.

  ‘Time for who to move?’ she asked.

  ‘For you.’

  Anahuia thought about this. She also was feeling a desire to move. Did silent Tipene recognise more of her feelings than she realised? She waited for more.

  After a plodding mile Tipene said, ‘My cousin in Pito One. His wife is dead. I have an obligation to him. I have offered you.’

  Anahuia drew breath to protest but Tipene raised a hand to silence her. The imperious gesture reminded her of Bishop Monrad: the way he liked to conduct an interview.

  ‘He is a good man,’ said Tipene, looking straight ahead. ‘Not so big a garden as us but enough. There are four children who need a mother. You need a man to protect you and your boys.’ The big man nodded, as if pleased with this long conversation. Before he replaced his pipe, signalling the end of the conversation, he added, ‘He has agreed to take your Pakeha boys.’

  Perhaps, thought Anahuia, he takes my silence for agreement. In fact her feelings were so strong she feared to open her mouth. She pulled the sack closer so he could not see her face. She glared out at the wild sea. Here was another man willing to trade her against an obligation, who assumed she was available for such a purpose. This time, she swore, it would not happen — no way would she let it happen. On they plodded, in silence. What to do now needed some thought.

  Erenora, seeing her grim face, greeted her with some anxiety. ‘He has told you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anahuia, bending to pick up Enoki, trying to remain calm.

  ‘I know that man, Whiri,’ said Erenora. ‘A little old perhaps, but not so bad — you could do worse, and after all, it is better to have your own husband. And your own house to care for.’ Grinning, she dug Anahuia in the ribs. ‘You will need more babies. Why not some good brown ones for a change, eh?’ She looked for a moment at Anahuia’s set face and added quietly, ‘There is nothing to be done, girl. Accept it. Tipene has made up his mind. And you must think of this — so many of our people have died it is our duty to have babies.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Erenora,’ said Anahuia, unable to keep her peace any longer, ‘but I cannot agree. My Conrad will return soon …’

  ‘Conrad, Conrad — we have heard enough of him! Forget your lost Pakeha man, girl; everyone knows he will never come back. A stubborn heart is no use to anyone. So then, be happy! No more talk of the big Danish man. Whiri is the husband for you.’ Erenora turned her attention to a crying child. ‘Now, give me a hand with dinner. Did you bring the pork?’

  TWO days later, news came that the chief Te Puni had died and there would be a great tangi at his marae. The government had declared a bank holiday for their good friend, and all the important men in the capital would pay their respects at the funeral. Tipene made preparations to take the whole family, along with a slaughtered pig and sacks of vegetables to help provide for the occasion. He also planned to introduce Anahuia to her new husband.

  ‘Since we are going that way,’ rattled Erenora, bundling children and provisions into the cart, ‘we can leave you and the babies with Whiri after the tangi. All his family will be there.’ She sighed. ‘It will be their gain and our loss. They are lucky to be getting such a clever woman into their household.’ Smiling, she embraced Anahuia, smoothed her hair and admired her dress. ‘I’ll miss you, my tall friend. But it is kind of my man Tipene to find a good place for you, so look a bit cheerful, girl. It is not your funeral.’

  Anahuia had other plans for the tangi, but held her peace.

  THE celebration for Te Puni’s death was indeed impressive. So many dignitaries from the capital wanted to attend that a ship was commandeered to bring them across the harbour. Anahuia, already arrived at Pito One beach, stood on the tray of the cart with the children and cheered to see the Rangatira steam across, its decks crowded with top-hatted men, Bishop Hadfield standing out from the field of black suits — a single purple flower. On the beach, tents had sprouted overnight like mushrooms and there must have been fifty canoes pulled up. The old chief might have earned enemies in his life but who would deny him respect at his death?

  From the marae came much wailing and calling on of dignitaries; on the beach a haka party challenged those who stepped ashore, whether they were men from the government or important parties from allied tribes. In all the bustle and noise Anahuia found it easy to slip away from her little party on the pretext of chasing after her toddlers, who were into everything. She had seen someone she knew — a deckhand from the Rangatira. Tom stood at the end of the jetty, leaning against a bollard, enjoying the sun and the spectacle.

  ‘Hey there, Ana,’ he grinned with a wink and a cuff to the little boys. ‘Here’s one face I know, then, in all this boil. What a to-do! Are you part of it all?’

  ‘I should be up there peeling a mountain of potatoes but the boys are determined to get into that water, as you can see!’ She laughed and hauled a dripping fellow out of the waves. ‘Noki here would walk straight out to his death if I’d let him.’

  Tom was surprised to find her so ready to chat. Ana had a reputation on the wharves back in Wellington: friendly up to a point, but definitely not for sale, nor any other favour if you pushed your suit. Best, everyone said, to keep your distance. Silly Notso Gully nearly had his block removed when he tried, one drunken evening, to get too close. But today Ana had a purpose, which soon became clear.

  ‘Tom, could you get me on board, do you think?’

  ‘What, on the Rangatira here?’

  ‘Me and the boys. I need to disappear — don’t ask why — and these lads are too heavy to carry all the way back to the capital.’

  Tom was intrigued. Also keen to join in a bit of an adventure that would earn him a pint, maybe, in the retelling back at the wharves.

  ‘Well now, can’t see the harm,’ he said.
‘There’ll be a crush going back and I’d say you’d not be noticed, but for your clothes. The ladies are trussed up like pigeons in all their finery and bonnets.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tuck away quietly.’ Ana gave Tom her hand like a man. ‘I’ll remember this, friend. Would you keep a quiet tongue on you for the time being?’

  ‘Ah well, I would if the lady would promise to tell me the story first when it is available!’ Tom let out a guffaw. ‘I don’t mind betting there’s a man in it, and he won’t be your lost Conrad, for no one has set eyes on that deserter!’

  Ana gave Tom a chilly smile and he decided to press the matter of the mysterious Conrad no further.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ she said. ‘Just before the official party come aboard.’

  Back peeling potatoes alongside Erenora she chatted and worked cheerfully, until that woman paused in her work to wipe away a tear.

  ‘I’ll miss you about the house, and so will the children, but I can see you’ve come to realise you have a better life ahead of you.’

  ‘I have,’ said Anahuia. ‘Thank you for your friendship and your care. I would not have survived easily if you had not welcomed me. I’ll remember you always.’

  ‘Eh, girl,’ laughed Erenora, ‘you are only moving up the road! We’ll see each other at family occasions. You won’t have to remember this fat old face for long before it is in front of you again.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Anahuia quietly.

  2.

  A letter to Olga Monrad,

  Karere, via Foxton

  16 Jervois Quay

  Wellington

  12th March 1871

  Dear Fru Monrad,

  Please go with God.

  I hope that you are well and your children thriving. A sailor on the wharves here has brought news that you and Herr Viggo Monrad are back at Karere and that the wars are no longer dangerous in your area. I am glad to hear it.

  My boys are doing well. I have named them Enok and Johan after their father and my father, but mostly they are called Noki and Jackie. I have taken the name Rasmussen as my second name. Here it is important to have two names, particularly with two babies. My boys walk and are beginning their first words. I will teach them Danish, but first English and our native tongue. I have baptised them and myself in the Methodist religion. There is no Lutheran church here. The ladies at the mission have been kind and find me work.

  You will be pleased to know that your gift has helped also in finding that work. I live in a small room close to the wharves and take in sewing to mend. Also I am beginning to stitch new clothes, which are a great shortage here. Again I am thankful to you, Fru Monrad, and to your mother-in-law, who have taught me by example the skills I need for this work.

  I have learned to speak and write English, so please forgive if my Danish is not correct. This is my first Danish writing. Also this is my first letter. A kind woman from Copenhagen is helping me.

  There are very, very many people here. This was a big surprise to me. I thought Foxton was the biggest town. Perhaps Foxton also is growing a big city? Every day more people arrive. Some from Denmark but they went to another place they call Seventy Mile Bush. Not your side of the mountains. But perhaps anyway you meet them and help them?

  I have a favour to ask, if you please. Please tell Conrad Rasmussen my address here as written at the top of this page. Perhaps it is too early to expect him back but just in case. I keep watch over the ships arriving here but there are so many it is hard to know. I might miss or he might arrive at Wanganui or Nelson. I do not expect him to arrive until maybe a few months more, but please keep me in mind because no other person can tell him. My mother and family are all passed away or gone so I have come here.

  While I wait I am happy. I send greetings to you and to Herr Monrad and to little Ditlev.

  Live with peace.

  God bless you and your family

  Arohanui

  Anahuia Rasmussen

  3.

  A STORY ANAHUIA never tells her grandchildren is the one she thinks of as The Night the Whalers Came to Town. Often it comes back to her and she smiles as she sews — or sheds a tear — but the events of that night are too personal, too charged with conflicting emotions for her to turn them into a good tale, so she keeps this one for herself.

  IT is November 1873 and the boys, Noki and Jackie, are almost four years old. Anahuia Rasmussen, seamstress, now rents three rooms above James O’Halloran Saddlers on Jervois Quay. The ladies who visit the ships — and there are many, be assured — favour Mrs Rasmussen because she asks no questions and because she has a wonderful eye for draping the bustle just so, or for matching surprising colours that will catch a sailor’s eye (and consequently his purse-strings).

  The seamstress is respected down on the waterfront but she has few close friends. Sometimes Erenora comes to town with her gaggle of children and the two women walk along the wharves chatting while the children run wild among ropes and bales and drays laden with goods from all over the world. English is the only language heard around the ships and Anahuia is always pleased to slip back into her first tongue. ‘You can have a good laugh in our language,’ says Erenora. ‘English is too solemn for me.’

  Erenora has forgiven her friend’s disobedience but her husband has not. Tipene is still outraged that Anahuia should flout his arrangements and embarrass him in front of his wider family.

  ‘Where is her family respect?’ he raged to Erenora when he discovered her disappearance. ‘An unnatural woman. No sense of tradition. Do not speak her name in this house again.’ So Erenora, who admires her friend’s enterprise and enjoys her company, keeps quiet about her visits and hopes her children do not chatter too loudly about the antics of the ‘Pakeha mahanga’: no one can tell the ‘Pakeha twins’ apart so they get lumped together with the common name.

  Apart from Erenora there are few who would claim Anahuia as a friend. Annie O’Halloran, the saddler’s wife, speaks to her on occasion, but disapproves of her clientele. Tom, deckhand on the Rangatira, likes to lean over the rail and chat. The ladies at the Methodist Mission fuss over the ‘beautiful’ twins, and bring Anahuia their mending. But the seamstress keeps her distance. The reserve is perhaps in her nature, but her past has also made her wary. Looking back, Anahuia recognises that she was, at that time, probably lonely, but also that she valued the freedom, found real pleasure in making beautiful clothes and earning money from her skill.

  Everyone loves the outrageous twins. As soon as they were able to walk Noki and Jackie — or Jockie, as many call whichever one happens to be in sight — toddled across the road and into the ships. Anahuia, sewing at her window, often sees them both riding atop a dray piled with bales of flax fibre or barrels of liquor, waving to passers-by and shouting at them to watch while they perform a handstand or a hornpipe or some other trick. The boys show only slight traces of their Maori blood. The skin is lightly coloured like well-milked tea, and their hair flaxen. Not the ash-blond of their father but honey-gold. Only the lashes around the green-grey eyes they have inherited from their mother are dark. They are strikingly beautiful — as the ladies at the mission note, tall for their age and as active as fleas. In summer the colours of their skin and hair change places: skin darkens to the colour of malt and their wild hair — always in need of a good cut — bleaches white. Sailors teach them to knot and splice ropes and to fish off the wharves. Anahuia never fears for their safety. Remembering Napoleon, she has made sure both boys can swim. Now the lads will jump off the wharf, diving for whatever their sailor friends might throw in to tempt them, and come up triumphant, streaming and laughing, the trophy held aloft in small fists.

  When a new ship arrives in port they’ll be among the first to wheedle their way aboard. ‘Have you seen our father, Conrad?’ one will ask, as they have been taught, of sailors freshly arrived. ‘He is a very tall white man who tells the best stories.’

  ‘And sings,’ the other will add, ‘and carves things and is a F
aroeman from way in the north.’

  No one has seen Conrad.

  Anahuia has not lost hope. ‘He will come,’ she says to her boys. ‘You will see your father one day. He’ll come roaring in and scoop you up in his strong arms and tell you all the stories of the world and far places.’

  She believes this. She feels him about in the world — sometimes in danger but always alive. When Jackie, who is the quieter and more thoughtful of the two, asks why his father is taking so long, she answers, ‘Your father is a storyteller. On his way north and then back here again he might see things or places that will make a good story, so he just has to follow that thing.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Maybe a beautiful ship going to a strange country. Or a golden city he must explore.’ She smiles. ‘I am not the storyteller so I can’t say.’

  ‘I want him now!’ Noki demands, and Anahuia smiles again at her fierce little son. ‘He will come. The longer the wait, the more stories he will have to tell. Now, bed!’

  But this day — the day of the whalers — she is forced to doubt. In the morning a farmer delivers a letter from Fru Olga Monrad. The busy woman is apologetic: she should have written much earlier. At last there is news of Conrad but it is not good news. A farmhand happened to mention to Olga that the big man called in a good while ago. Evidently he was told by the Maori down at the kainga that Anahuia and her babies were dead. Conrad had spoken to the farmer but then left without seeing anyone else. (Here Anahuia, reading the letter, cries out and clutches at her bosom, fearing she might faint.) The farmhand, writes Olga, got the impression that Conrad was headed back to sea. Olga advises Anahuia to forget the sailor — he would never be a settled husband. Men of the land, she writes, are best.