Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  Drive through the beautiful scenic gorge to the top of Waipuna Saddle, 2,400 feet high and view the beautiful snowclad mountains Ruapehu 9,175, Tongariro 6,455 and the active volcano Ngauruhoe 7,515 feet above sea level. Walk to the old mill along the old mill race, cross the suspension bridge. Canoe trip to the caves, visit the Native village.

  A. Hatrick & Co. timetable brochure, 1908

  THAT SUMMER, BEGINNING of a new year, seemed golden at first. Day after day of clear sunny weather, a treat after that black winter and the flood scouring the land till we wondered would any be left for a soul to set foot on, or all wash downriver and out to sea. All January the tourists were thick as flies on the steamers, and the House full day after day. Mr Hatrick offered an extra pound a week on our wages when we were full so Bert and me were in good pocket. That was before we started worrying about Pita. Our boy was often gone months on end. He was wandering about, I thought, shamed by his logging accident. Or worse, maybe, selling the logs and keeping the proceeds to himself, so I was not inclined to fret too much.

  The great joy was that Stella was downriver more often. I thought it a sign that Danny was finally coming to his senses. That sulky farm wasn’t worth tuppence, in my view, and the sooner they walked off like the other upriver farmers and got on with a different way of life the better. Bert had a different view. He admired Danny for his persistence and his love of that remote part of the river. Well, he would — his family comes from up that way — but these days a man has to think of supporting his family — and the older generation too, I’m not too proud to say it. Bert and I are beginning to feel the aches. I see it in the way he walks, and goodness knows I would happily chop my feet off at the ankles the way they give me gyp come the end of a long day. My dream is for Stella and Danny to take over from us here at the House. Then Bert and me could settle in a little cottage just above the river — I have my eye on a pretty one belongs to James Bertram — and have our family near by.

  Well, so I thought — more fool me — when Danny started to come to church of a Sunday, not just the Christmas visit and Easter if we were lucky. The two of them arrived at the kitchen door, neat as pins in their Sunday clothes and smiling at our surprise. They are a handsome pair when they put their mind to it, Danny so slim and blue-eyed. He could charm the guests, no trouble, while he brought up the bags and cases from the boat. ‘Are you free to take us down to Jerusalem in the motor-canoe?’ asks Danny, more civil than I ever heard him since his wedding day.

  ‘Indeed we are,’ say I, a tear in my eye for the pleasure of seeing them, ‘and you shall come back here for a good Sunday roast after. The mutton is already in the oven for the guests and there will be plenty for the staff.’

  Then the four of us walked down to the river, as smart as the guests themselves, and took our places in the motor-waka along with the Mrs Feathers, who were down for Mass. Bert started the motor with a single pull — there is none to match Bert with the new motor. Stella had her eye on someone on the bank, I noticed, and gave him a wave and a shout that rocked the boat and earned her a stern look from Bert. That quiet fellow Douglas McPhee, I fancied; she must know him from upriver. He is turning into a good river man, despite his wretched father.

  That first Sunday Danny sat behind me in the waka and leaned forward to shout over the racket of the motor, asking about the near-drowned girl Bridget McPhee, how she was doing, was her mind any clearer, were the Sisters taking good care and so on. I thought it civil of him to ask and showed a proper conscience, since he contributed in some way to her fall. I have always considered Danny a flighty lad, not a patch on our Stell for cleverness. I suspect he cannot read or write from something he said once, though Stella keeps mum on that front. She is a loyal wife. Well, he kept the questions up the full six miles down to the landing at Jerusalem, his handsome face showing concern, and I thought the better of him for it at the time.

  That was the first visit. Two weeks later another, and then once he came on his own in the middle of the week. Knock on the kitchen door, something about collecting a harness or a cart-wheel, which made no sense since the Wairua could deliver to Maraekowhai and save him the trip. Was Bridie around? he asked. Had I seen her? He must have gone down to the Sisters because he said she wasn’t to be found at Jerusalem.

  ‘Danny,’ I said, ‘she was here this morning but gone now. It is good of you to take an interest, but she is safe enough. We all keep an eye out for her.’

  ‘And is she eating properly? Does she seem happy?’

  ‘She is,’ I said, that bit tart with him now, ‘and she does, to the extent a mindless waif can be happy. To be frank, Danny, I have not heard you take such a care for your wife. Is she eating well and is she happy?’

  That brought him up short. He gave me a sort of hangdog smile that some would find charming.

  ‘You are right,’ said he, ‘but I can’t stop worrying about the girl — she is so lost and alone.’

  The silly chump. His mind still stuck in the same rut.

  I only saw him and Bridie together the once. It was down at Jerusalem — early February it would have been. A beautiful still day, the new church standing in its fresh white paint on the hill, its bell calling out across the river, the windows of the convent shining in the sun. Father Soulas himself was there to take Mass, standing at the church door in his Sunday robes and the Sisters bringing the children across from their building, all in line — smallest in front and the older ones behind — neatly dressed and meek as little lambs. Bridie among them for once, walking hand in hand with Sister Agatha and smiling at all the world in general, no one in particular, as is her way, poor lamb.

  Mass was a joy and a privilege as usual. We are lucky to have Father Soulas. The Mrs Feathers think he should be sainted, which might be going too far, but he is a great man. I would put Mother Aubert ahead as far as sainthood goes, but as Lily Feathers pointed out, she has gone to Wellington for one thing, and for another she is too worldly for a nun, selling her remedies to all and sundry and then taking that big company down there to court for watering her medicines. Well, I said to Lily, she may be a great one to stir things up, and we need a stirrer or two among the saints these days, with all the changes going on. Take the railways, I said. My Bert says the gangs working on the tracks up Ohakune and Raurimu way would curl your hair the things they get up to. Lily had no reply to that.

  Well, we came out into the sunshine, all blessed from a good Mass. Danny walked straight out of the church, took Bridie’s hand and away he went with her, up the hill towards the cherry orchard, not a word to Father at the door or the Sisters. Stella was busy chatting to friends but I noticed. Danny sat the girl on the grass under a tree, still holding her hand, and seemed to be talking to her. In full view he was, stroking her hair, and talking — gentle enough from where I stood, but not proper for a man. Not when the woman concerned is no relation at all. And him known for a cheeky way with the ladies — before he was married, I should say. He has been on his best behaviour since he married our Stell. And thankfully lives upriver, away from temptation.

  Stella finally noticed that people were staring. She gathered some of the Sisters’ homeless children and they all ran up the hill with baskets to collect cherries. Some of us followed, for the Jerusalem cherries are a treat and the Sisters will allow anyone to pick for a small donation to their work. I make a cherry pie for the guests at Pipiriki House, which is greatly praised. Those dear children up in the cherry trees like a flock of big white birds, shaking down the bunches of red cherries, is a sight to bring tears to your eyes. Up rode Sister Agatha, side-saddle on horseback, her habit draped down over the horse’s flank and a big basket on each arm. Most of the Sisters can ride — I don’t know how they manage in all that swelter of clothes. Stella, up a tree, too much ankle showing, called to Danny to join in but he might have been deaf the notice he took. He sat in the middle of all this activity, stroking poor Bridie’s hair as if she were a stray animal, and feeding ripe cherries int
o her mouth, cupping his hand for her to spit the pips.

  In the end he came down with the cherry pickers. But even with his own wife at his side he still held Bridie’s hand, smiling like he was proud of her, ready to show her off. It was a strange thing to see; I didn’t know how to take it. When I walked over to join him he was having a word to Sister Agatha, very earnest, questioning her.

  ‘Surely,’ he was saying, ‘some of Mother Aubert’s medicines can do some good?’

  Sister Agatha was not having her care questioned. She is not one to be crossed. ‘We have tried all cures,’ she said firmly, ‘long ago. We must accept God’s will. She will remain a child in her mind, even though’ (and here she looked most sternly at him) ‘she has the body of a woman.’

  All the while poor Bridie stood there, her copper hair shining, lips stained red with cherry juice and her smock clean for once, smiling and standing close to Danny. It is a worry how she will stand close. She has no idea. Stella fidgeting in her Sunday dress — you could see how she wanted to pull Danny away. In the end I took Bridie’s hand and walked away smartly, giving Stell the nod to come too. When I turned to look back I thought I saw Danny give the Sister something. Money it looked like. I had a quiet word to him about that later, back at Pipiriki.

  ‘Did I see you give money to the Sister?’

  He nodded. Back to his old silent self now Bridie was not about.

  ‘Danny,’ I said, ‘your own wife could do with a treat if you are looking to spend what little you have.’ I was that angry to think of him wasting good money on Bridie, who needs nothing but a bite now and then and a kind word, while my Stella is still lacking a proper stove to cook on.

  He nodded again. Walked away down to the river without a word. Likely nothing I said sank in. Goodness knows what has got into the man.

  The Wairua and the Houseboat

  Screw Steamer Wairua

  Name meaning: Spirit

  Type: Screw steamer (later motor vessel)

  Built: 1904 Yarrow & Co. Poplar, England, assembled at Hatrick’s Foundry, Wanganui

  Propulsion: 1 screw in tunnel

  Length: 65 feet; beam: 8 feet; depth: 3 feet 6 inches (as built)

  Passengers: 87

  Usual passage: Pipiriki to Houseboat

  Machinery: 1 Steam/Simpson, Strickland & Co. 66 IHP

  Wanganui Riverboat Museum

  DOUGLAS MCPHEE HEARS about his sister’s condition from a stranger. He is shovelling coal into the Wairua’s temperamental fire-box when he overhears two women chatting as they lean over the side-rail.

  ‘… a scandal,’ he hears. ‘Strutting about in her state for all the world to see. That poor, simple woman should be locked up.’

  ‘So she should. I said as much to the housekeeper at Pipiriki and she nodded and said the matter was in hand.’

  ‘In hand! I can’t see what is in hand if a simpleton is permitted to wander alone in these parts, let alone get herself with child. I feel we should report it to the authorities when we reach civilisation.’

  The women move out of earshot. Douglas frowns and shovels on. The next rapid is approaching and with the river low it will be a tough haul up to the Houseboat.

  Bridie with child! Douglas saw her just yesterday at Pipiriki. He had been pleased to see that she had put on a little fat. That she might be having a child did not occur to him. Who on earth would take advantage of a simple girl? Douglas is used, by now, to her wandering ways, and like most at Pipiriki does what he can to make her comfortable. Last night he took her by the hand and led her to his tiny room in the crew’s quarters. He shared his meal with her and smiled — a little uncomfortably, to tell the truth — when she snuggled up close to him and kissed his cheek. Sometimes she acts like a lover with her stroking and clinging. But that is her simple way. She was happy enough to sleep on his bunk while he took the floor. By morning she was gone.

  The Sisters do not approve. Sister Carmel in particular.

  ‘Douglas,’ she said last month, when he walked down to Jerusalem on his day off, ‘she is not here. Not anywhere. She is a bad girl to run away from our love. Speak to your father, please.’ When Sister Carmel is upset her French accent becomes more pronounced and her eyes blacker than usual. Her rolled ‘r’ growls like a dog. ‘We cannot be r-r-responsible!’

  Douglas had nodded and walked away, back towards Pipiriki. He doubted there would be any conversation with his father over Bridie or anything else. Angus McPhee had visited Jerusalem only once, as far as Douglas knew. He gave the Sisters a small donation and a free hand with his daughter. Somehow his Presbyterian hatred of the Catholics didn’t prevent him from depositing poor lost Bridget at the Sisters’ doorstep.

  Surely, he thinks now, as he shovels coal, banging the door closed after he hurls the black stuff in, surely no one would take advantage of her. Douglas has heard the term — taking advantage — has read of it with interest in the novels he borrows from the guests’ library at Pipiriki House, but has no clear idea of what it entails. He is inclined to disbelieve the gossip he has overheard.

  THE TRIP UP is uneventful, if arduous. When the river is low the difficult rapids are swift and troublesome but at least the wire rope lying on the riverbed is easily fished up and attached to the winch. Douglas loves the nuggety Wairua and feels a family pride when it manages to churn and haul its way up to the Houseboat on time; he takes it as a personal compliment when a farmer waiting on his landing expresses thanks for a sack of flour or a piece of equipment safely delivered. For three months he has been fireman and for a spell before that general hand at Hatrick’s foundry down at the port. Mr Billy Coates, foreman at the foundry, had been short a hand and gave him work, but it was upriver that drew Douglas. As soon as the position of stoker came up he applied.

  Mr Hatrick had looked him over. ‘One of Angus McPhee’s?’

  Douglas had nodded briefly, hoping he seemed sufficiently off-hand.

  ‘Were you on board when the accident …?’ Mr Hatrick had eyed him fiercely.

  ‘Aye.’ Douglas nodded again, ‘But I am not with my father any more. I would like to train as riverboat engineer.’

  ‘Would you indeed? And what does your father have to say to that?’

  Douglas had dared to look the great man in the eye. ‘My father is displeased, sir, but I am my own man now.’

  Mr Hatrick had seemed amused at the chance to do something that might augment Angus McPhee’s displeasure. ‘We’ll try you in the foundry. Mr Coates will test whether you have aptitude for the engineering and then we will see.’

  And Douglas has not regretted one grinding, dirty, blistering minute of the past three months. Especially the nights he spends at Maraekowhai.

  STELLA IS THERE, leaning over the top deck-rail of the Houseboat as they drift in to the landing. To Douglas she stands out from the crowd of tourists, who point and clap as the Wairua comes alongside. Stella wears the Hatrick uniform — sailor dress and apron, black cap trimmed with white lace. The smile on her pretty dark face and the little wave could be for him, he’s almost sure of it. He lifts a grimy hand in reply. Later, if he’s lucky, he might see her up at the crew’s quarters. But for now she will be busy. Douglas takes the long-handled rake and shoves the red-hot coals to the back of the fire-box, where they will burn themselves out. He tops up the two coal bunkers, raking the fuel to be ready at hand for the downriver trip in the morning. He rubs an oily rag over the handles and valves and checks the water level in the boiler. Then it’s a good sluice with a bucket of riverwater before he goes up into the galley for a blessed mug of hot sweet tea.

  Through the servery hatch he can see Stella moving up and down the two long tables with dishes of meat and vegetables. He knows she’s married but because he has never set eyes on the husband, Douglas finds it easy to ignore that fact. He dreams of a life with the pretty maid whose songs excite him in a way that is hard to bear. He would die for her, he’s quite sure of that. He tries to catch her eye through the servery
.

  The dining saloon is full, which means there will be forty tourists travelling downriver, along with the wool bales and extra waysiders picked up en route. Summer brings good business for Mr Hatrick. It is good for Douglas, too, as Stella will stay the night, until the tourists have had their breakfast and their rooms are cleaned. He smiles and waves when she glances his way. She winked! He’s sure of it. He stumbles out onto the bank and up into the bushes to hide — and then relieve — the wonderful swelling in his crotch.

  These summer evenings daylight lingers well into the evening. While some tourists prefer to talk in the smoking room or social hall, others go ashore and wander through the bush tracks or sit on the bank in the gardens the captain and his wife have planted. Douglas has brought his new banjo with him; he wants to impress Stella. He sits outside his hut trying to pick out a Highland song his mother used to sing before she died. He can get the first line but then is stuck. As he works away, repeating the few notes over and over, he is suddenly aware that a man is standing near, listening. Douglas judges him to be a local by his clothes, which are worn and stained with sweat. He nods to Douglas, who stops playing, shy to be overheard when he is just learning.

  ‘Don’t give up on me,’ says the man, smiling. ‘I was listening. Scottish, is it?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Douglas. ‘All I know yet.’ Even with encouragement he will not play on. The man sits beside him.

  ‘I used to play one of those but have sold my instrument. All I have now is …’ The man pulls from his pocket a beautifully carved pipe, made from the bone of some animal. He offers it. The light is fading now and the stars beginning to show. Douglas can just make out Maori designs mixed with other shapes he doesn’t recognise. He hands the precious thing back.

  ‘Did you make it?’

  ‘No. My wife’s … brother.’