‘Mr McPhee,’ I said — the first words I had uttered aloud, though I had thought of plenty — ‘your daughter is a wanderer. The Sisters, bless them, do what they can, but she is often seen hereabouts. And further upriver. Shame on you to think the good souls down at the mission are responsible. Who care for your daughter when you show no shred of interest yourself.’
That stopped the silly fellow. He eyed me sharply. He is not an attractive man to look at, his eyes like little pieces of ice, so pale and small, his freckled skin scaly and dry like a lizard. What two wives have seen in him I cannot imagine — the thought of being close to that makes me shudder.
‘Well then, what do you know of it?’ he demanded, stabbing his finger in my direction as if he would accuse me. ‘If it is not the mission, then who?’
I was not about to lay blame, though I had my suspicions. There’s a fellow in one of the river gangs … but I won’t go into that. I told McPhee plain that his daughter had not the wit to recognise a lecher from a God-fearing man. That the father of the child could be a tourist, long gone, for all we knew. That Bridie had wandering ways and had been seen upriver as far as the hermit and Charlie Chee’s place, and that there was no telling who might be responsible six months on.
Angus McPhee went silent at that. I thought he might have come to his senses and be ready to spare a thought for his daughter’s plight. But when I looked at his face I realised different. There was such spite sitting there — and a kind of mad glee that would turn an angel to stone, let alone a poor mortal.
‘The Chow did it,’ he whispered. ‘God in heaven, a Chow has touched my daughter.’
Bert and I exchanged a look. Charlie Chee might have strange ways and a stranger way of speaking, but he is so proper and good-mannered he would never hurt the least fly, let alone our Bridie, who is so fond of him. But before either of us could say a word that man was out the door and on his horse.
‘Charlie would never,’ I said to Bert.
Bert nodded. But the wretched man had put the thought in our heads and a grain of the dirt stuck, I suppose you could say. Was there more to Bridie’s fondness for Charlie Chee? Perhaps the Chows have different ideas about women to us. I didn’t want to think bad of Charlie but a little niggle of doubt crept in. That is the curse of men like Angus McPhee. They are worse than chickenpox the way their nasty ideas spread.
THE NEXT THING we know, two days later it would be, there is a notice posted on Hatrick’s shed down by Pipiriki landing, and another up at our post office.
Too Little, Too Late!
Changes to the Chinese Restriction Act
Yellow Peril at our doorstep!
Meeting on Saturday 20th February 1908 at Hanson’s house, Pipiriki, 3 p.m.
Do your part to strengthen the arm of the law-makers.
IT WAS SIGNED Anti Asiatic League. Clear to see McPhee was behind it. Bert told me there was a notice posted on the Wairua for the upriver farmers’ information. I thought no one would take notice and the meeting would come to naught, but I was wrong. Meetings are rare up our way and curiosity is a powerful influence. In the end I went too, I am ashamed to say.
Maraekowhai
TAX CERTIFICATE
Under Section 7 of ‘the Chinese Immigrants Act 1881’ and Section 2 of ‘The Chinese Immigrants Act 1896’
No. 1615.................................................. £100
Date of Issue ...................................... 16.11.04
Name .................................................. Yee Nam
Born at .................................................. Canton
Apparent age................................................ 27
Former place of residence...................... Canton
Arrived by ship .................................... Moeraki
From ..................................................... Sydney
Signed ..............................................................
Collector of Customs
A Chinese immigrant’s Poll Tax certificate
ONCE A FORTNIGHT in the summer, Charlie Chee comes upriver on the Wairua to spend a day in the Houseboat vegetable garden. The Houseboat captain’s wife, Mrs White, loves her roses and hydrangeas but leaves the veges to Charlie’s expert ministrations. He has dug a patch on the bank above the crew’s hut, lined it with ponga logs and levelled the slope so the water will not run off. Stella likes to visit him and watch as he coaxes the red-flowering string beans up dead sticks until they reach almost higher than she can pick them. His potatoes and carrots, cabbages and silverbeet keep the tourists fed all summer. In a shady corner that Stella imagines would grow nothing, strong-hearted lettuces provide the crunch for the travellers’ lunchtime sandwiches. Stella, who loves the crisp, summer taste of lettuce, has tried and failed with them in her own farm garden. Sometimes she will slip a few leaves into her pocket when she is washing vegetables in the Houseboat galley.
On this warm morning, early in the new year, she has cleaned the cabins and is free to walk back to the farm. Despite the worries on the farm and the exhausting work these days — the height of the tourist season — Stella is smiling. For some time after the accident it seemed she would lose her position. Mr Hatrick had sent a note, which Stella never read, but there was no mistaking the grim warning in Mrs White’s eye. If any other maid could be found, said Mrs White, Stella would have to go. But the lack of suitable English-speaking applicants and Stella’s cheerful, capable nature gradually wore down resistance. Stella stayed on. In this remote backwater the accident has never been of great consequence. Bridie is never up this way to remind them. The Wairua’s plates were so dented, even before the accident, that she was overdue for a trip to Hatrick’s foundry down at Wanganui.
So Houseboat life continues and Stella still comes to work three days a week. She loves the time when the upriver and downriver steamers have departed with their chattering crowds and belching smoke. Peace spreads like expanding ripples in their wake, as the river settles back into its quiet flow. She can hear the dull roar of the Ohura Falls, and birdsong from the trees across the river. Nearby there is the odd crack of linen as her Mrs White shakes the crumbs from tablecloths over the green water.
Stella sings along with the birds. She is remembering last night, a grand evening. Two of the deckhands on the Taumarunui motor vessel, the Ongarue, brought their banjos down with them and entertained them all with the latest songs from the railhead. Young Douglas sat beside her on the riverbank following along on his own instrument, and then called for Stella to sing. She raised a round of applause with an Irish ditty Dannyboy had taught her and that Douglas also knew. If only Danny had stayed. Douglas said he had been down at the landing earlier but was in a mood and had left. Well, that’s his loss. Danny is too often in a mood these days.
Stella climbs up to Charlie Chee’s vegetable patch, hoping for a carrot or perhaps some lettuce to take home. Charlie straightens as she comes around behind the hut. He smiles widely, bobbing his head with enthusiasm.
‘Good day, Stella,’ he says carefully, proud to show off the phrases she has taught him. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m well, Charlie,’ she says, entering the game. ‘How are you?’
‘In good health too.’ He grins and takes a letter from a pocket in his loose smock. ‘A letter comes for Charlie,’ he says. ‘You help me read?’ He claps his hands to shake off the clinging dirt. ‘I think it about my new wife coming. I have all money saved now. He twenty pound for boat and he ten pound for government poll tax. All my saved.’
‘Her twenty-pound boat fare and her poll tax,’ corrects Stella, reaching for the envelope with its official stamp. Charlie has been talking about bringing a wife out from China ever since she has known him. Last year when Prime Minister Ward introduced the language requirement into the act restricting Chinese, Charlie sent some of his saved money back home to pay for an English teacher for the woman his village had chosen to be his wi
fe. Charlie was angry at the time. ‘Wife learn English here. Or I speak for her. No need she learn in China. Money wasted,’ he had shouted, close to tears. Stella had felt sorry for him after all his hard work. But he had saved up again and finally all was prepared, the boat passage booked and the wife ready to come.
‘You open it,’ says Stella, seeing that the seal is still unbroken, ‘and we’ll read it together.’
Charlie holds out his dirt-caked hands. ‘No no no. I dirty too much. You read, please.’ He points to the wooden bench he has constructed and placed in the shade of a tall tree-fern. They both move into the cool shade. It is a beautiful spot, carefully chosen. Beyond the green rows of vegetables, Mrs White’s flower gardens provide an exotic splash of colour. Below them the broad shape of the Houseboat, partly obscured by bush, sits on the glinting water. The small figure of the caretaker is fiddling with mooring ropes. On the other side of the river, smoke rises from whares that are otherwise hidden among trees. A child’s shout carries across the water. Stella could watch it all day.
‘The letter, please.’ Charlie Chee taps the envelope in her hands. He removes his pointed straw hat as if he has entered a formal room. His dark, almond-shaped eyes watch every movement of her fingers as she unfolds the paper.
‘Yes,’ she says, smiling, ‘it is from the government.’
Charlie bobs his head up and down, grinning. ‘Read, read!’
‘“To Hong Lip Yee, Chinese National,”’ she reads. And stops to look at him. ‘Have they sent to the wrong man?’
‘No no no. Is me.’
‘Your name is Hong?’
‘My father name Hong. My self name Lip Yee. My brother name Hong Lip Sun.’
‘So why do we call you Charlie Chee?’
Charlie frowns. ‘One man call me that. Then every man.’ He smiles at her. ‘Lip Yee not hard to say? I learn English, you learn Lip Yee?’
Stella laughs. ‘Lip Yee is easy. What do they call your brother up in Raetihi?’
‘Sonny boy. He shop say Hong Lip Sun Groceries, but they call he Sonny boy. Make Lip Sun angry very much.’
‘Oh dear. Well, Lip Yee, shall we read?’
‘Yes, please read.’
‘“In the matter of your immigration application for a Chinese national wife. It would seem that you are unaware of changes made some years back to the Immigration Act.”’ Stella stops reading aloud. Looks quickly up at Lip Yee. He is watching her face intently, has not understood a word, she thinks, but has sensed something in her voice. She reads on silently but cannot hold back a sharp intake of breath.
‘Oh, Charlie!’ she says. ‘Oh, Lip Yee. This is bad, bad news.’
Lip Yee looks down at his earthy hands. ‘Tell, please. Not understand.’
There is no way Stella can soften the terrible news. ‘They have changed the rules for Chinese coming here. You must now pay one hundred pounds poll tax.’
Lip Yee stands. ‘Not ten pounds?’
‘Not ten.’ Stella has not the heart to show him with her fingers. ‘One hundred.’
Stella is outraged. Danny’s uncle came out from Ireland the previous year and was not taxed. Her mother’s family came out from England with no fee placed on their heads. Somebody in the government must hate the Chinese.
Lip Yee shouts at her, ‘Brother pay ten pound for he wife! Brother friend pay ten pound!’ He throws his hat to the ground. ‘Why one hundred?’
Stella reads the paper again. ‘Oh, Lip Yee. It has been one hundred pounds for years. No one told you. She must have one hundred words of English and one hundred pounds’ tax.’
Lip Yee picks up his hat, turns away from her. ‘Go, please,’ he says. ‘Go.’
Stella lays the letter on the bench. She speaks to his back. ‘Perhaps your brother can help?’
‘Aieee!’ His cry startles birds from the trees. ‘Not know where Lip Sun go. Maybe he go home. Not know anyone man here!’ And then, quieter, ‘Go, please.’
He will not turn around. Stella thinks he may be crying. There’s nothing she can think to say. As she walks away down the slope she hears a shout of pure rage and looks back. He is grabbing handfuls of vegetables and soil, flinging them towards the river, his long pigtail flying from side to side, his screaming mouth a shocking slash in a face usually so calm.
Stella dodges a flying carrot. She wants to pick it up, take it home, but the thought seems disloyal somehow, in the face of such anguish. She leaves it to wither in the sun.
BACK HOME, STELLA finds she cannot interest Danny in Lip Yee’s plight.
‘Oh, Stell,’ he says roughly, ‘let the Chinese look after themselves. We have enough worries of our own.’
He stands at the gate, hatless in the hot sun, fiddling with a loose wire. He looks so forlorn. Stella takes his hand, pulls him down towards the river.
‘Come on, sweetheart, it may never happen.’
‘What may not?’
She laughs at his serious face. ‘Whatever you fear. Where has my happy Dannyboy disappeared to? Eh?’
Danny sighs, shrugs.
But Stella doesn’t wait for an answer. She slaps his arm. ‘Race you to the water!’
Danny can’t resist and with a whoop he sets off after her. Stella’s flour-bag bonnet flies away and her dark hair streams out. Her bare feet fly down the bank but his slapping boots are close behind. They arrive at the river together. With one expert shove Stella pushes him in, clothes and all. Laughing on the bank, she strips off her skirt and blouse, dances there naked and provocative before plunging in on top of him.
‘Hey! Hey!’ Danny splutters, but he is laughing too now. ‘Wait till I catch you!’
Stella swims across to the big rock on the opposite bank, her body slippery as quicksilver in the dark water of the little river-hole. Lip Yee’s anguish, the blistering dusty tramp up the track are washed downstream. She hangs on the rock, half in, half out of the cool river.
‘Heaven! Oh, Danny this is heaven.’
He pulls her down off the rock, kisses her sweet wet mouth. They both laugh as he struggles to strip off his wet clothes. The wretched trouser buttons are too stiff to manage underwater. Finally she draws them down as he floats out, clinging to an overhanging branch. She flings the stubborn things up onto the bank. There, with the sun on their heads, the cool water flowing past them, they make love. Danny’s toes curl into the gravel of the riverbed; Stella wraps her legs around his waist, lets her head fall onto his shoulder. Their twin shouts, as they come — amazingly, at the same moment — are echoed by a dog’s bark. Finn, alerted by the commotion, is flying across the paddock, ready to protect them. Danny and Stella, oblivious, lie together in the cool water.
LATER, WHILE STELLA is milking Freda the house cow in the back paddock, she feels Danny’s hand, gentle on her shoulder. She bobs her head without breaking the rhythm.
He doesn’t speak; winds his fingers into the hair above her ears, resting them there for a moment before he walks away over to the shed, trailing the horse’s harness.
Stella smiles into Freda’s flank. She draws the last drops from the wrinkled old teats, washes them in her bowl of clean rainwater, and sends the placid cow off with a slap to her rump. In the shed she dips a little of the warm creamy stuff for the cat, who has followed her in, then sets the lidded pail in a cool corner for the cream to rise.
Danny is rubbing mutton fat into the worn harness leather. He nods over at her and smiles, blows a kiss, his shock of wiry hair unruly after the swim. He is so beautiful. Stella skips her way back to the house, singing a clear, high song of her own design. Tonight she will make a pie; she’ll set it on the fire in the lidded tin oven while they eat their mutton. Please, God, Danny will stay sweet.
As the pie cooks, and they drink their mugs of tea in the cool shadow of the verandah, Stella says, ‘You were down at the landing yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you stay? There was singing.’
‘I was in a hurry. Work to do bac
k home.’
‘At night? What work?’
‘Farm work. Same as usual.’
‘Douglas says you talked with him.’
Danny sets down his mug. ‘Yes, I did.’
Stella tries to keep her voice light. ‘You had time for that boy.’
‘You were busy, Stell. Then it was dark and I had to get back.’
The rich smell of apple pie steals out through the open door, but the air between them has chilled.
‘Danny, love, what is it?’ says Stella. ‘You are avoiding me. That’s what it feels like.’
‘What else did that boy say?’
‘Why are you so interested? Because he is your precious Bridie’s brother?’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Danny stands suddenly; jumps down off the porch and strides off into the dark.
Stella could bite her tongue out. She goes into the house to see to the pie. It is perfect, golden crust, tender steam of cooking apples curling up through the diamond cuts she has made. She wills Danny to come back.
He does, the smell too rich to ignore.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says as she spoons Freda’s thick cream onto their plates. They eat the fragrant marvel, sitting together at the table. ‘But I worry about you,’ she says. ‘Are you unhappy with me over something?’
He shakes his head, mouth full of pie.
‘With something else?’
Danny swallows. Winks and grins crookedly. ‘Stella O’Dowd, that pie is a bloody miracle. I have fallen in love with you all over again.’
But he won’t answer her question.
Samuel Blencoe
SHE GOT HEAVY with the babby, our Bridie, so was not up our neck of the river so often. I reckon the Sisters kept ahold of her more. But on a bright summer day she might come. And so she did that time. There she were sitting on my bank, feet cooling in the dark water. A pretty sight in the sunlight, that copper hair shining and her white smock clean washed. She’d been with the Sisters all right.
Landings Page 15
