Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  He walks out of the meeting, his heart beating hard. Stella might be in danger! She should at least be warned. Alone up on the farm, who knows what Danny might do to her.

  He finds Stella in the kitchen at Pipiriki House, clutching a mug of tea as if she would strangle it. Her face is red and swollen. Douglas stands in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome. Before he can utter a warning Stella turns on him, her dark eyes blazing.

  ‘You agree with him, don’t you? I saw you nodding.’ ‘No … Not really … I …’

  Tears roll down Stella’s face. She wipes them away furiously. ‘Go away, you silly boy. You let him persuade you! You’re just like all the others.’

  Douglas is unmanned by her onslaught. He can’t think of the right words.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave the meeting?’ she shouts. ‘If you — that man’s own son — had walked out, that would have meant something.’

  Douglas shrugs. Looks at the floor. ‘I only listened. It doesn’t mean …’ But he cannot defend himself in the face of her fury. Miserable and silent, he leaves the room. Behind him, in the kitchen, Stella throws something that shatters.

  Douglas stands outside for some time, hoping she will come to the door. He must warn her about Danny. He grows more and more certain. It is his duty. Perhaps he should seek out the constable and tell what he knows. Danny must be taken away — locked up before he can damage Stella.

  Samuel Blencoe

  AFTER CHARLIE DIED, Bridie slept in my hut, one, maybe two days. Next thing I heard the horsemen come upriver. Talking loud with that hard laughter a bunch of men will give out when up to no good. I saw them ride up the track, no sideways look to me nor my hut. They was heading for Charlie’s all right. I reckon the river Maori give the word. But these men carried no respectful manner as you would coming to collect the dead. They had more a police look about them, those riders, so I let them be. That McPhee was with them.

  Those damn men on their horses. Damn them all to hell, and especially McPhee. They cut Charlie Chee down and buried him without no word to a soul. I heard it later from a river Maori. Buried him with no sign nor marker. Even on Norfolk the dead got a marker. I seen a lag work away on a headstone for his dead friend. A whole month he scraped away on that stone with a blunt knife — just his name, J. Scrivens, and birthplace, Devon — and then set it straight and proud. The dead were free men on Norfolk and afforded a marker if there were someone to care. But McPhee put Charlie Chee in a hole and went away. Never told no one. I heard later one man boasted that he peed on the dirt that covered Charlie Chee.

  They came back our way, those black-hearted horsemen; stopped at my hut and spoke rough words that I cared not to answer. But the sound woke Bridie and she come out and her father cursed most foully, and struck me on the head with his whip. He dragged the silent girl up on his horse, she smiling at the horse and the ride, poor simple soul.

  Away he took her up to Raetihi and locked her up in his cold house, so her belly would not shame him. Nothing I could do, damn them all to hell. Shut her up out of sight like some nasty thing. Our Bridie that needed open air around her and her feet to be moving over the land. Poor sad soul.

  I never seen our Bridie again for a good long while.

  Charlie Chee’s brother, I never knew his name, come upriver later. He been chased up north a while back, he said, by angry white men, and was afeared to come down this way. Heard about Charlie from some Chow man in Raetihi. Respectful, he were, quiet in his dark suit and hat set straight and real leather shoes polished to a shine. He carried a bunch of yellow flowers and some other things in a bag. He stopped a bit and took a mug of tea with no milk nor sugar. His English is better than Charlie’s. He said his brother was too shamed because of Charlie by not having money to bring a wife. He said he was shamed too but would not kill himself because he had a wife and sons to feed. And because he was a different man from Charlie Chee. He called his brother some other name but I guessed he meant Charlie. Some anger about him, I could feel it, but he never said any sharp word. A good polite man.

  He stood and bowed to me, give me back my mug and went up to Charlie’s.

  When he come back he stopped again. Told me he had fixed the grave. He asked me to keep it nice and I said I would. He said he would come back in twelve month time to pick up Charlie’s bones. I asked him why. Seemed a disrespectful thing to do. He said he would send the bones to China to rest in peace there. He said it cost too much to send a whole body so he would wait till the bones were clean in the ground and then send them. He said this country was not welcoming to Charlie, so his bones would rest more easy in ground that respect him.

  He said all this in a quiet low voice but I heard the anger in it.

  Charlie’s grave is all clean dirt and a good yard all around it swept clean. A white stick with Chinese writing marks it, and a pretty box. I never open the box to see if something is in it.

  I keep the place tidy and have a word to Charlie if I have a mind. To my way of thinking his bit of land here by the river is respectful enough for him to stay.

  Aboard the Wairua upriver to the Houseboat

  We left Pipiriki on Monday 3rd at 10 a.m. by the S.S. ‘Wairua’, (the water being 36½ inches below ‘the mark’) with 11 passengers and about 2 tons weight of cargo for Arawata. Considerable difficulty was experienced in hauling over Paparoa 197 and 196 Paparoa … The reef on the R.B. was completely dry and the rise on the rapid estimated at 3 feet in 3 chains.

  195 Good water

  194 " "

  193 " "

  Extract from Wanganui River Trust Tour of Inspection, February 1908

  THE DAY AFTER the Anti-Asiatic Meeting Danny and Stella return upriver aboard the Wairua. Today even the weather is a traitor. In Stella’s books there should at least be rain — a fitting mourning for the hanged man — but the sky is clear and the river tranquil as the Wairua, belching black smoke, chuff s away from the landing. Stella’s mood, though, is stormy. She has not spoken to Danny since he arrived, dishevelled, haggard, just before the steamer pulled away from the jetty. She ignored him while he pleaded for passage: looked the other way as if they were not related. Even now — months after the accident — Danny must use every trick of guile, make earnest offers of assistance in poling up the rapids, to even be allowed aboard a Hatrick boat. He was grudgingly waved to a position in the bow while Stella frowned at her feet.

  Stella is on duty in the saloon, as the usual steward is not well. This position is coveted, and normally Stella would be well pleased to hand around scones and sandwiches, pour tea and point out to the tourists the scenic wonders: the famous drop scene, where the bush-clad hills ahead seem to sink into the river, the waterfalls and caves. But for once she is silent. It is up to Mr Feathers, returning to his farm after the meeting, to point out the attractions.

  In the bow, Danny stands frowning at the three-stepped rapid ahead. Ngaporo. This is where all his troubles began. He takes up the long, iron-shod pole, thrusts it into the shingle and heaves against the current. Eru and Rangi do the same. The deckhands are pleased to have his assistance, as the river is low and the rapid strong. Danny lifts and digs again. The Wairua inches forward, her plates rattling, engine pounding. They will manage the first of the triple without winching. But Danny takes no satisfaction. All night he has searched the road from Pipiriki to Jerusalem but found no trace of Bridie. People look askance now when he asks after her, so he is embarrassed to knock on doors. He has called her name, searched picnic spots by the river where she might sleep, but the night revealed nothing. When he plucked up courage to ask Ruvey Morrow, that lady was sharper than usual.

  ‘Danny, you are going too far. Think, for heaven’s sake, man, of her condition. What are people to think?’

  Danny had no idea what she meant. ‘It’s my duty,’ he replied doggedly. ‘She needs me. I must see to her.’

  Ruvey Morrow snorted. ‘She wouldn’t know you from Adam. It’s those of us down here who care for her. Now go a
nd take your wife to the meeting. Have you not noticed the way young Douglas moons after her? You will lose her if you don’t take more care.’

  But Danny had walked away into the dark.

  He thrusts again with his pole, his shoulder muscles cracking. Eru and Rangi exchange a look. They have noticed the silence between those two songbirds, Danny and Stella.

  An hour later the Wairua enters the gorge. Here the water is deep and serene. In Hatrick’s brochure the gorge is described as the most beautiful scenery in the whole Dominion — perhaps even the world. On either side green ferns, hanging from the high vertical walls, glisten in the morning sunlight. A bird watches them from one of the many holes that dot the walls. As children, Stella and Pita would travel upriver in their father’s canoe, admiring the way he slotted his pole into these ancient holes to propel the craft forward against the current. Now many river Maori travel the long distances by steamer, and birds have taken residence in the abandoned poling holes. Stella misses Pita: his wicked laugh, his outrageous tricks. She would like to have him here by her side now. Pita would cheer her up.

  But her mood lifts anyway. The day is so perfect, the gorge so peaceful. She walks out onto the deck, humming a tune in time with the beat of the engine.

  Douglas crawls out of the engine-room hatch, sluices himself with a bucket of water. For stoker and engineer this is the one quiet time of the trip. After the long gorge there are many more rapids waiting to test their skill and the engine’s fortitude. Douglas waves up to her and she smiles down. Douglas grins wider. He is forgiven, it seems. He is about to go up to the top deck but is disappointed to see that Danny is ahead of him.

  Danny, too, has been affected by the serenity and beauty surrounding them. Who can brood in this magical place? All the passengers have come out on deck, are standing silent and awed. Even the pounding engine seems quieter here. Danny walks back through the crowd to stand by Stella. He lays his arm gently across her shoulders, kisses her ear. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers.

  There are tears in her eyes. ‘It’s not allowed to kiss the staff,’ she murmurs. He can hear the love in her voice. With a gentle finger he catches her rolling tears.

  ‘I’m all mixed up,’ he says. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She nods. They stand there, troubled but smiling, arm in arm, watching the ferny walls slide past.

  Douglas frowns to see them so.

  LATE IN THE morning the Wairua pulls in to the Feathers’ landing. Betty and Rob Feathers are there with the cart, cheerful and garrulous as ever. Betty hands a freshly baked cake in a tin up to the captain.

  ‘Give that to Vi White, will you, Jamie? The recipe’s inside. She might like to try it for the Houseboat table.’ She helps her sister ashore. ‘Welcome home, Lily, my dear. Dinner’s on the table back at the farm. I’m dying to hear all the gossip.’

  While the men unload supplies for the River Trust block, Lily and Betty Feathers stand in the sun, chatting. Danny, who is giving a hand with a piece of heavy machinery, overhears Lily reporting to her sister on the Anti-Asiatic Meeting. But Bridie, not the Yellow Peril, is the topic of their gossip.

  ‘Well, we all knew the poor child was in the family way, Bet, but that dreadful man had to shout it to all and sundry. He accused the Chinese man.’

  ‘Charlie Chee?’

  ‘In front of the whole meeting! Ruvey Morrow gave him the edge of her tongue — it is a brave man who crosses Ruvey, as my Mack well knows. Well, I marched out with her. And then we heard that Charlie Chee has hanged himself!’

  ‘He hasn’t!’

  ‘That’s what they say. So maybe he is the one got her in the family way. Oh, Bet, you should have been there!’

  Danny has to interrupt. ‘Bridie is with child?’

  The two women turn to stare at him. Their gaze is very cool. Without another word they turn and walk away out of earshot. Danny stands there dumbfounded. He scrambles aboard as the steam whistle sounds, still shaken by what he has heard. She will have a baby! For the rest of the journey he is busy as they grind their way up rapid after rapid. He feels no pain in his shoulders as he struggles with the long pole. Bridie’s child!

  STELLA IS NEEDED that evening at the Houseboat. She had hoped to go home with Danny, but Mrs White says she cannot manage to feed the large group of tourists on her own. Stella sighs and agrees to stay. The extra money will be welcome.

  Danny is in a strange, distracted mood as they say goodbye on the landing. He picks up his bag, starts to go and then returns to kiss her in front of all the guests.

  ‘It will be all right,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t fret, sweetheart.’

  She smiles at him but is puzzled by his dancing feet, the way he tugs at his cap; he is in some kind of ferment.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘Tell me, Danny or I’ll be in a stew all night.’

  ‘You’ll see — you’ll see. We can make it all right.’ He kisses her again and is off up the track, half running. A back-handed wave to her with his free arm and he is gone — past the big tree and out of sight.

  Stella smiles as the dust settles. That is Danny all over. He has some new scheme and can’t wait to get it under way. Like many of his ideas it is likely doomed, but at least it may help lift the cloud they have been living under. She climbs the plank and enters the steamy chaos of the Houseboat galley.

  Later, dog-tired, she climbs the bank to the Whites’ house, where a room is kept for her on these nights. Outside the crew’s quarters the men are singing a last song in the soft dark.

  The water is wide, I cannot get o’er

  And neither have I wings to fly …

  Most of the guests have retired to their cabins but a few of the younger couples still linger on the bank, lolling on the grass under a full moon. Stella can’t resist the beautiful, sad song. Her clear soprano lifts above the deeper voices.

  Build me a boat that can carry two

  And both will row, my love and I.

  The other singers fall silent, leaving the banjos to accompany her to the end.

  … but love grows old and waxeth cold

  And fades away, like the morning dew.

  There is a moment of silence and then a pattering of quiet applause. Stella bobs a curtsey, smiling. She is suddenly awake again — could sing all night — but the party is breaking up. Captain White is strict with his rules. As she turns to walk up to the cottage, a hand pulls at her from the dark. It is Douglas.

  ‘That was so beautiful it made me cry,’ he says.

  Stella smiles. ‘Thank you.’ He is so intense, this young lad, standing there, tall and bony, half hidden in the trees, his copper hair silvered in the moonlight, his damp eyes glowing.

  ‘You could be on the stage,’ he says. ‘You could be famous.’

  ‘Well, I am happy enough as I am.’ Stella knows the boy is smitten with her. Sometimes she enjoys his attentions, but not tonight. She is ready for bed. She turns away but again his hand stays her. He is panting a little and his hand shakes.

  ‘I must warn you,’ he says. ‘I must.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘You are in danger. You mustn’t go home.’ Douglas whispers in her ear as if enemies might be hidden in the bushes. He pulls her closer. ‘Your husband may harm you.’

  ‘What!’ Stella snorts. She’s had enough of this nonsense. She pulls away but he grabs at her again.

  ‘Wait! Please, Stella!’ It’s the first time he has used her name to her face. For a moment he is silenced by his own bravery. Then quickly, before she can tear away again, he tells her. Every word is clearly aimed. He has imagined this moment so often. ‘You know how strange your husband has been recently? I heard you tell Mrs White.’

  ‘You hear too much for your own good.’ She is curious, though.

  ‘No, listen! Listen, Stella. Your husband killed your brother!’

  Stella laughs.

  ‘I saw him leave the landing today. All jittery. He is planning something. You mustn’t go home!’
>
  A pair of tourists, walking arm in arm down to the Houseboat, turn at the urgency in his voice.

  Stella lowers her voice but the words are cold. ‘Douglas, you are a silly boy. Go to bed.’

  He takes both her hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘It’s true. He told me himself. He told me right here — you know, that night you saw him with me. He said he hit Pita, smashed his face in a fury. Sent him senseless into the river. He is a murderer, Stella.’

  Stella’s heart is thumping. There could be some truth in this outpouring. She tries to keep an edge to her words. ‘Why would he tell you such nonsense?’

  ‘I think he forgot I was there. And then it all spilled out. He didn’t mean me to hear.’ Douglas is thrilled by a new thought. His voice becomes shrill. ‘We may both be in danger. Now we both know.’

  Another couple walk down past them. The man steps towards them. ‘Are you all right, miss? Is this fellow bothering you?’

  Stella makes use of the diversion to break away from Douglas’s grasp. She mumbles something and runs away. The wretched boy stumbles after her. ‘But wait! We must think what to do …’

  She reaches the porch, rushes inside and slams the door in his face.

  In her own room she sits on the edge of the bed, panting. She can see him standing still behind the hydrangeas, watching her window. She pulls the curtains, undresses quickly and slips under the blanket. But she can’t blot out the picture of the boy’s tense face, his urgent words. There is some kind of madness in the way Douglas speaks, and yet why would he make up such an extravagant story? Stella’s problem is that she can imagine it happening. Danny’s sudden rage at the ruined expedition. His moodiness in recent months. Perhaps the obsession with Bridie is because he is guilt-ridden? She remembers Danny’s words on the landing as he left for the farm. ‘It will be all right. I can make it right.’ And suddenly she is dreadfully afraid of what he might do. Dear God, if only she were home with him.