Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  Houseboat, Maraekowhai

  Erected for the accommodation of Steamer Patrons, is the largest, most complete, and unique of its kind in the world. Has a Social Hall, Piano, Dining Room, Smoking Room, and Berth Accommodation for Seventy Persons. The Sanitary Arrangements are perfect: Good Baths, Electric Light, etc.

  EVERY TOURIST should see the Houseboat and the magnificent river scenery between it and Pipiriki, the loveliest in New Zealand, the land of beauty.

  Good trout fishing at the Houseboat

  Hatrick & Co. brochure

  STELLA STANDS AT the polished sideboard in the ladies’ social hall, watching the guests for signs of need. Her dark maid’s uniform — a sailor suit — is spotless, her thick hair neatly secured behind the starched cap. She tries to keep her eyes cast down and her hands folded as she has been taught, but the conversation is too interesting, the ladies’ fine appearance too demanding of scrutiny.

  The meal is long over. The men linger over cigars in the smoking room, while the two ladies chat quietly over tea. The Houseboat shifts gently against the current, but in this backwater no hint of the mid-stream turbulence is felt by the tourists. The Pipiriki boat, the Wairua, is well overdue, and as usual when that happens, the guests from upriver want to stay up for the excitement of its arrival. Stella listens to the ladies’ talk. Most of the party are from Australia, on a tour of the country. They seem to be farmers, though obviously in a wealthier situation than Danny. The five men and two ladies who have raced down from Taumarunui aboard the tough little Ongarue — ninety hair-raising rapids in a short thirty miles — arrived in time for afternoon tea and a stroll. They have now dressed for dinner in clothes that are a wonder to Stella. Silky reds and greens glow in the lamplight. Both women wear jewelled necklaces and long sparkling earrings.

  ‘I wish now,’ says the taller of the two, ‘that I had travelled with Emily to see the mountains.’

  ‘Oh, but the river trip was so exciting!’ says the other, flapping her hands in mock terror. ‘Wait till we tell them.’ Stella gathers that there are three other women in the party, and several children, who have decided to take the overland coach trip through the Tongariro National Park, in hope of seeing the great volcanoes under snow — or perhaps, Stella guesses, to avoid the fierce rapids of the upper two legs of the boat trip. They will come down the coach road from Raetihi and join these friends at Pipiriki House.

  ‘I do hope Pipiriki House is as good as the poster boasts, Tilda,’ the tall one continues. ‘I cannot quite believe such a palace exists in all this wilderness. What will Emily think of it, I wonder? She is used to the very best.’

  ‘She is.’

  Both ladies ponder Emily’s opinion.

  ‘She approved of the Bath House,’ says Tilda, ‘even though it is not quite completed.’

  ‘The Bath House is indeed magnificent,’ the tall one grudgingly admits. ‘And the geysers. Rotorua is bound to prosper. We will see about Pipiriki House.’

  ‘And the famous views from its balcony. They will have to be fine to compete with Rotorua.’

  ‘Or the Blue Mountains.’

  ‘True.’

  Stella smiles brightly at the two as she pours more tea. She knows they will be impressed. Even foreigners from the other side of the world are full of praise and wonder. She thinks of Danny and Pita, who must by now be nearing the sea in their log raft. In her imagination Wanganui, which she has never seen, is a vast and magical town, like the clothes tonight’s guests wear. She imagines tall buildings and wide streets, great ships bringing goods from all parts of the world and shops full of those goods. It is a world that she would like to see. Not from dissatisfaction with her present life — she loves upriver life — but simply out of curiosity. Perhaps, if Danny makes good money on the logs, they will both ride the steamers down to the sea and he can show her the sights.

  A short blast of the approaching Wairua’s steam whistle has all the guests stirring. Stella hurries with the ladies to their cabins on the lower deck and helps them into warm coats. The air outside is bitter. The men, rumbling and jolly after their men’s talk, join them at the stern, where they peer into the darkness, searching for signs of the approaching steamer.

  Above the river the sky is iced with stars; the slopes up from the river are pitch black, except for the glow from the windows of the crew’s huts on the rise beyond the flood line. The guests cheer to see the lights of the Wairua slide around the bend and to hear the chuff chuff of her slowing engine. The journey must have been difficult to have been so delayed. The men look forward to tales of excitement. Stella sees uncertainty on the ladies’ faces. Perhaps they are dreading the next day’s adventure. The Ongarue, the motor-vessel from Taumarunui, is tied alongside the Houseboat to allow space for the new arrival. And here comes the Wairua, engines shut down, steam sighing as the pressure drops and she noses gently as a feeding lamb into the landing. Rangi and Eru jump ashore to tie up as the guests and crew exchange greetings.

  Stella hears a woman’s voice shouting on board the Wairua. Captain Jamie Jamieson climbs smartly up the gangway of the Houseboat, leaving the deckhands to usher the guests. This is unusual. Stella sees him mutter something to the Houseboat captain and watches with interest as Mrs White is brought out from the galley.

  ‘See if you can calm them, Mrs White,’ says Captain Jamieson. ‘We don’t want them disturbing the guests.’

  Captain White puts out an arm to lead Stella away from the ladies.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ he says quietly. ‘A woman lost overboard. The brother and sister are in a state. Are cabins 19 and 20 made up?’

  ‘No’, says Stella. ‘We weren’t expecting …’

  ‘Make them up now. Mrs White will bring them directly to their cabins and then you bring a good hot dinner down to them there.’

  ‘But I am supposed to serve …’

  ‘Mrs White will serve the others. There are only three. Off with you.’

  He pats her behind briskly. Captain is very particular to keep his beloved Houseboat shipshape and orderly.

  Stella runs upstairs to the linen locker and then down again to the two aft cabins. These are always the last to be filled, as they are next to the ladies’ and the gentlemen’s bathrooms and therefore likely to be disturbed with comings and goings in the night. While the other guests climb wearily up to the dining saloon, Stella lights lamps in the little cabins and runs a duster over the washstands. In winter these cabins are seldom used. She smiles to see the beautiful grain of the wood glow. But a woman lost overboard! Despite floods and damage to boats, no person has been lost in the two years Stella has been working here. She shakes out sheets and pillowcases and smoothes the snowy counterpane. When she opens the door to leave, someone is standing there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, bobbing a curtsey as she has been taught, and then steps back to allow him entry.

  He makes no move. Stands silhouetted in the doorway as if turned to stone.

  ‘Come in,’ she says gently. ‘It’s all right. This is your cabin.’

  He clears his throat — a rasping sound that ends in a great sobbing groan. He turns a little and Stella thinks he might be going to run away. She puts out a hand and draws him into the cabin.

  ‘Sit down,’ she says, keeping her movements slow. He is like a shy wild animal who might bolt at any moment.

  His legs give way suddenly. He sits on the edge of the bunk and covers his face with his hands. He is shaking with sobs but makes no sound. Stella stands in the doorway, wondering whether it is safe to leave him while she fetches food. She can hear a shrill voice in the port cabin opposite, and Mrs White’s soothing words. That will be the sister. Something bangs against the partition — a fist or a boot — and the boy flinches.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Stella. ‘Is that your sister? Mrs White will look after her. Will you be all right here while I get you something to eat?’

  He nods without looking at her, his whole body still heavi
ng with sobs. Stella pats his bony shoulder as she would a spooked horse, and runs upstairs to the galley. Through the servery hatch she can see all the guests gathered in the dining room. They are talking excitedly. Liquor is not allowed on the Houseboat, as it is technically ashore, but Stella notices that the steward is offering them all a ‘medicinal’ brandy. Mrs White comes in while Stella is spooning gravy over two plates of mutton and vegetables.

  ‘No need for food in cabin 19,’ says Mrs White. ‘I have given her a sleeping draught.’ She frowns as she speaks, gives Stella a sharp look. ‘There will be trouble now,’ she says darkly.

  ‘What is it? Is the sister dead?’ asks Stella.

  ‘We haven’t heard yet. There is a search party out. But none of the Houseboat pigeons are downriver today, so we will have no news till tomorrow.’

  ‘What happened?’ Stella begins to fear what Mrs White will say.

  ‘It was logs hit the Wairua, Stella. At Ngaporo. The vessel is damaged. The girl must have gone overboard then, but no one noticed till much later.’ Mrs White steadies herself against the bench with a plump hand. ‘Logs, my dear. They say your Danny was on them. And your brother.’

  ‘Oh!’ Stella knows she should take the food down below, keep silent and obey the rules, but she cannot hold back. ‘But what of the men? Oh, is Danny hurt?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, please.’ Mrs White’s voice is stern, her eyes hard. ‘You would do well to think of the harm your husband has done. The lost girl. The damage to Mr Hatrick’s boat. What was he thinking of, to endanger the service?’

  ‘But is there news of him?’ Stella whispers. She must know.

  ‘There is not. We must wait for all news. Now take this food below before it is stone cold.’

  Stella wants to run ashore, to question the deckhands, beg Captain Jamieson for news. Instead she carries the plate of hot food carefully below to the lost girl’s brother. If Danny has caused a death it is best that she does what she can to be kind to the boy. Possibly she will lose her position here anyway. But if Danny and Pita are charged with murder — what of them all then? The plate of food trembles in her hands.

  She knocks quietly before entering. The boy has his back to her. He is washing his face at the stand in the corner. He is not so young after all, standing taller than her, his coppery hair shining in the lamplight. When he turns she sees a blotched and swollen face and ears that stand almost straight out from his head. His attempt at a smile goes horribly wrong and tears well up again.

  Stella can’t think what to say, faced with such raw misery. ‘Eat it while it’s hot,’ she says at last.

  He nods and seats himself at one end of the bunk. After the first mouthful he can’t stop but eats ravenously. Stella watches him devour the bread and then drink down the sweet tea. It’s as if he hasn’t eaten in a week.

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  He nods and this time the smile works. His eyes are a pale blue and his mouth small. It is a gentle face.

  When she returns with a heaped plate he is waiting for her. She sees that he finds it difficult to look at her.

  ‘Please wait,’ he says, his voice very quiet but clear. ‘Would you sit?’

  Stella is not allowed to sit with the tourists, but is desperate to hear any word of the accident. She does as the boy asks, sitting as far away from him as she can on the bunk.

  After he has eaten a little he manages to look directly at her. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘Of your sister? Not yet. We won’t hear till tomorrow afternoon.’

  He puts down his knife and fork. ‘Oh.’

  ‘But there are people living near that rapid. Someone will have helped her.’

  He looks at her quickly and then away. ‘Do you think so?’

  Stella is not at all sure that either old Sam Blencoe or Charlie Chee would notice. ‘Yes,’ she says, smiling. ‘I think so.’

  He eats some more.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asks. This is bold, but she can’t think what other conversation to make.

  ‘Douglas McPhee.’

  McPhee! Stella stares at him. Is the name a coincidence or can he be related to the very sawmiller who ordered the logs? What a strange irony. But this wretched boy certainly doesn’t look like the son of a successful businessman.

  Douglas speaks in a low voice. ‘It was the best day of my life, and now it’s the worst.’

  Stella is curious. ‘Why the best?’

  ‘I disobeyed my father.’ A flush rises through his pale skin. ‘He ordered me to stay behind but I came anyway. Then I helped in the engine-room.’ There is something defiant and proud in the way he looks at her. ‘He said I was good at it.’

  Stella smiles. She begins to rise, but Douglas asks quickly, ‘Where is Gertie?’ The way his head moves from side to side reminds her of a trapped animal.

  ‘Your other sister? In the cabin behind you. Mrs White gave her a sleeping draught. We have such things here for nervous tourists.’

  ‘She’s not nervous,’ says Douglas, looking down again, ‘just angry. She says it’s my fault. I should have watched out for Bridget. I should have known she was gone.’ His voice is barely audible.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ says Stella, more sharply than she had intended. She is tired of his low spirits. Also she is anxious that he might discover that it was her husband whose logs caused the accident. She stands with her hand on the brass latch of the door. ‘Your sister is the older, isn’t she? Why didn’t she watch out? You were busy helping in the engine-room.’

  ‘Gertie never helps or watches out for anyone. I should have known that.’

  Stella thinks this is a poor answer but holds her tongue. She takes the tray.

  ‘You should get some sleep now. In the morning there will be breakfast. The boat downriver leaves early. You will hear news of your sister before we do. Goodnight.’

  ‘No, wait!’

  Stella tries to smile at him but all she feels is an ache to hear news of Dannyboy. ‘I have work to do,’ she says.

  ‘What is your name? Please?’ He smiles back at her. A hopeful, friendly offer.

  ‘Stella.’

  ‘That’s a nice name.’

  But Stella has had enough of his need. She closes the door on his eager face. Goes back up to the galley.

  Later, as she crosses to the bank and climbs up to question the crew, she sees Douglas standing on the lower deck. He is quite still, his head up, watching her. In the dark Stella can’t tell whether he is weeping still. From the way he looks up, the set of his bony shoulders, she thinks not.

  O’Dowd’s Farm

  Last week’s flood topped a record set in February 1891. The river rose four feet over Taupo Quay and many low-lying properties were inundated. The riverbank at Taylorsville is undermined, causing a house and shop to fall in to the river. A. Hatrick’s river service was cancelled for three days, though business is back to normal from today.

  Wanganui Herald, May 1904

  TWO DAYS AFTER the accident a violent storm sweeps up from the south, bringing torrential rain. For once the riverboat service is cancelled. Stella cannot remember another time. Neither can she remember the flooded river reaching so high. She has been released from Houseboat duty to see to the farm.

  ‘I can manage here,’ says the old caretaker, stumping fore and aft to ease the creaking mooring ropes. ‘Best go ashore while you may.’ He sounds confident but Stella eyes the rising floodwaters with alarm. The great bulk of the Houseboat heaves against its ropes. If it breaks loose there will be nothing can save it — no engine, no rudder. Three years ago she came to her mooring place after brilliant Captain Marshall and his crew winched, poled, lowered her on ropes, fending off banks and shallows, for six slow weeks, all the way from Taumarunui, down the thirty miles and ninety rapids of the upper Whanganui River. Here she must stay to ride out the flood.

  Stella wades over the submerged gangplank and sloshes her way home over sodden fields. The track is
already underwater. Through the driving rain she can see the Ohura Falls, no longer a pretty sight for the tourists but a frightening maelstrom of foaming mud and logs. Sad sheep huddle on patches of high ground among stumps of felled trees. Some will drown and others find their way through broken fences into the bush. She can only hope most will survive and return. At the farm she finds that the river has crept up the lower paddock and is approaching the kitchen garden.

  ‘Holy Mother Mary!’ says Stella, aloud. ‘Will it come into the house this time?’ There have been floods before, but this one promises disaster.

  She calls out for Hone, but Finn, Danny’s border collie, is the only one to come running. Her cousin, who should have been taking care of the animals, has gone. The kainga where he lives, on a shelf above the river, may well be flooded by now. He will be needed there. ‘And where are you, Dannyboy, when I need you?’ Stella shouts into the rising wind, more in anger than fear.

  She cannot believe him dead. Though there has been no news of Danny or the logs, Stella has heard that the girl is found and alive with no bones broken. Surely Danny’s body would have been found by now, had he drowned. And if the girl survived, it stands to reason that Danny and Pita, both strong swimmers who know the river, would also be alive. She can only hope that the men have made it down to Wanganui before this storm. Otherwise, with the river so high and wild, the raft would likely be driven ashore and stranded in some lonely place. Or swept, pell-mell, out to sea.

  Stella stands on the porch facing the furious weather. She breathes in the damp air deeply and is suddenly filled with an odd pleasure. The threat of the rising water is in some way thrilling to her. There are tasks she must do quickly, and for the moment at least she feels up to the challenge. When Dannyboy returns he will be impressed. She talks cheerfully to the horse and the house cow as she leads them to high ground and tethers them safely to a sheltering tree. Finn seems to understand. He drives the sheep up from the lower paddock, barking and bossy, enjoying Stella’s praise. Stella sings as she stumps through the sheeting rain to rescue onions that are floating up out of the garden soil and threatening to find their way downriver. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she yells, running after a rolling clump of potatoes. ‘I’ll have you inside, if you please!’ She dashes back to the porch, fetches a sack and is soon bundling the muddy vegetables into it. The rain drums on her back.