Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  In the end sheer exhaustion drags her down into sleep. She lies in the dark room, her arms flung wide, her bedclothes tangled.

  Douglas sits outside all night, watching over her.

  When Stella stumbles out into the early morning light he is there, eager to walk down to the Houseboat with her.

  ‘We must think what to do,’ he says.

  ‘Douglas, please go away.’

  ‘You mustn’t go back to the farm. It’s not safe.’

  ‘My safety is not your business.’

  ‘It is! It is!’

  Stella clamps her lips and walks ahead of him. At least he cannot follow her onto the Houseboat. She escapes into the galley while he reluctantly climbs aboard the Wairua.

  After breakfast the last guests leave the Houseboat and climb aboard the black-belching river steamer. Stella peers from behind the galley window, fearful that Douglas will abandon his duties and remain ashore. She sighs in frustration to see the lanky boy emerge from the engine-room. He goes to climb the rail. Dusty Miller has other ideas, though. His wiry arm grabs at Douglas’s shirt and yanks hard. ‘What d’yer think you’re up to, lad? Get back in here — pressure’s dropping!’

  Stella breathes more freely. But his strange words last night chase around in her mind as she changes sheets and sweeps out the cabins. She is on fire to get back home.

  AT THE FARM Stella finds that Freda is milked, the pail standing in the shed. The chooks are let out and the horse fed. Finn, surprisingly, is tied up on the porch. He yelps to see her — a high agitated sound, not his usual deep-throated warning. She unties him but he doesn’t fly up to the high paddocks where Danny must be — there’s no sign of him close to the house.

  Inside Stella finds the note. It’s written on a sheet torn from her notebook, with stumbling letters that read:

  Brides baby I am father. Gon to bring her here. We can look after both. Will be alrite soon. lov Danny.

  Ruvey Morrow

  SPECIAL NOTE

  Meals are supplied on the steamers at 2/- each Meals and Beds on Houseboat at 2/6 each Accommodation at Pipiriki House 12/6 a day For visitors staying a week or more 8/- a day Morning and Afternoon Tea in Dining Room or Winter Garden Free

  Afternoon Tea on Steamers Free

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  Wanganui River can be purchased from Stewards on the Steamers, at the Houseboat, Pipiriki House and from Messrs Hatrick and Co. Wanganui.

  Hatrick & Co. promotional brochure

  I WAS MAD as a bush-fly with him, even if he is my own son-in-law. ‘Danny O’Dowd,’ I said, ‘you are the one so keen for the land and the farm work. Go back home in the name of heaven and get on with it.’ I might have saved my breath. The boy was beyond reason.

  He came pounding on our cottage door the one free hour in the day. My feet soaking in mustard water and a wet towel over my eyes. A woman in my position must keep herself in strong health or where would we be? Everyone at the House knows about my hour. ‘Between two and three in the afternoon no one bothers Mrs Morrow or there’ll be a cost to it.’ Even Bert wouldn’t dare. But Danny comes barging in, all in a lather and shouting.

  At first I hardly recognised him. You would think him some crazed man come out of the bush, his hair every which way and his eyes shining in some kind of fervour. There’s a holy picture I’m fond of — St John in the Wilderness. Danny had the same mad, wild look as that saint.

  ‘Where is she?’ he cried. ‘Where is Bridie?’

  Dear oh dear, the same old saw. ‘Go back home,’ I said. I covered my eyes with the towel again. ‘She’s not here. Nor will be.’

  Danny is not one to take a hint. When his mind is on something he runs at it like a charging bull. I used to admire him for it. His energy. But oh dear, he does run wide of the mark sometimes.

  ‘I must see her, Ma Morrow,’ he said. ‘She is with child.’

  I would not come out from under my towel nor lift my feet from their little treat. ‘Danny,’ I said, ‘All the world knows she is with child, nor is it any concern of yours.’

  That cut him. He didn’t like to think others knew more about his precious Bridie than he did himself. He was silent for a moment and I was foolish enough to lift my towel. He was staring at me, a little smile on his face, sheepish and proud — not at all what I expected. I began to fear what he would say next: a premonition of disaster. Laugh you may, but I am well known for my premonitions. We are in for trouble, I thought. And was right. ‘Danny,’ I said in a voice I hoped was firm, ‘Bridie’s father has the matter in hand. There is nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘What matter?’ he asked, gentler now, but still smiling in that odd, crooked way.

  I told him how Mr McPhee had taken Bridie away up to Raetihi. I suppose I let my anger at his treatment of her show — it was hard enough to forget the picture of the poor girl tied in the cart, twisting and crying for her freedom. ‘But she is gone, Danny,’ I said. ‘He has the right; he is the father.’

  Danny cried out then. ‘But it is my right! My fault! I am the father of the baby, Ma Morrow!’

  Well, that silenced me good and proper. Mooning over the girl is one thing, adultery another entirely. I sent him my sharpest look and waited for more, wet towel and sore feet forgotten.

  He spread his hands towards me — he can be very appealing when he tries, can Dannyboy O’Dowd.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ he said, ‘I did wrong. I was tempted — you know how she is — and I fell. But the baby is mine and now I must care for them both.’

  There was something not right about the way he spoke. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Too glib, perhaps. You’d expect a man confessing such a deed to be more abject. Pride was there, the silly chook, and his usual crazy determination, but no real sense of shame that I could tell. Nor any mention of my Stella, I noticed. What did Stella think about all this? I wondered.

  It turned out he hadn’t told her — just left a note, he said. What husband would walk out leaving her to find out through a letter? I stepped out of my nice mustard bath in quite a rage. Raised a hand to him, if I remember right.

  ‘Danny O’Dowd,’ I said, ‘get on that boat and go straight back home to her. What are you thinking? Your wife will be in a right state, with no one to comfort her. You will be a lucky man if she does not walk away from you and the farm both.’

  That gave him pause, I was pleased to see. And my slap. He is a dear boy but well overdue for taking his place in the adult world.

  ‘No she won’t,’ he said at last. ‘I said in my letter’ (Danny smiling at me, cocky that he had written a letter, as we have all been on at him about learning his ABC) ‘that I would bring Bridie back to the farm and we would look after her and the baby. I wrote it would be all right.’

  Holy Mary. The man cannot think past his nose.

  I tried to sit him down then, talk some sense into him. If only Bert had been there we might have made some progress. Bert can be a very straight talker when push comes to shove. And I am no slouch either, as any will tell you, but I could hammer no understanding into his silly head. The baby might not be his, I suggested: if he was tempted and fell others might have also. Danny was outraged by this, as if he owned the poor girl. Then I asked him how could he care for poor senseless Bridie, away upriver, with Stella at the Houseboat four days out of seven and him out on the farm all hours? Danny flicking his hand at my good points as if he were swatting flies. I could have been talking to the flowers of the field for all the progress I made.

  ‘Bridie needs me. It’s my duty,’ was all he would say, over and over.

  ‘Bridie needs you like I need the pox,’ I snapped. ‘You are little enough use as it is, to Stella or any of us.’

  Well, he goaded me. I should not have been so harsh. He has not done too badly, and Stella seems to love him, but the upshot was that his face closed like a fist and he was out the door before I could say another word.

  If only he had given Stella a ba
by. She is healthy enough. I have said to her that she is away from her husband too many nights. You cannot expect to get with child, I said, if you are away down at the Houseboat so often. But secretly I feared she was barren. I had the same fear myself years ago when no children came. Then my firstborn dead a week after birth, and the second, not a year old, dying before we could get him down to Mother Aubert and the Sisters. It can be a heartbreak giving birth, another heartbreak if no children come. But we still pine for them. Children are our lot: our cross and our joy. After Danny went on his way I sat down and shed a tear for my poor barren Stella. What must she be going through, on her own up at the farm?

  NEXT THING WE heard, Danny was arrested for disturbing the peace. Other charges to follow. Danny in the lock-up at Raetihi, due to be sent to the jail down at Wanganui, and Stella on our doorstep in tears. As if losing Pita wasn’t enough.

  Raetihi

  ‘being lunatic and wandering at large’

  ‘depositing waste matter in the gutter’

  ‘was found drunk in charge of a horse’

  ‘did introduce liquor, to wit whiskey into Maori kainga’

  ‘did play a certain game of chance to wit two-up in a public place, to wit Raetihi main road’

  Extracts from police charge sheet, Raetihi, early 1900

  TIM NAYLOR ADDS Appropriating a horse to the growing list on his charge sheet. McPhee watches while he writes, then turns on his heel without a word and leaves the station. The constable sighs. He likes Danny, finds him earnest and co-operative, unlike Angus McPhee, that officious sawmiller, who is in and out of the station six or more times a day with his complaints and accusations. McPhee has ferreted out the news that Danny did not ask the farmer down in Pipiriki if he could borrow his horse and has brought in the news with a triumphant smile.

  ‘You need to sharpen up, lad. I have work enough at the mill without doing your job as well.’

  Away then to your mill and out of my hair, thinks Naylor as he writes. He guessed the horse was not Danny’s — has put it with his own in the police stable, waiting for someone to claim it. Danny is in enough trouble.

  He saw Danny ride into town two days ago, his horse in a lather, dust caking the sweat on the poor beast’s flanks, Danny himself a ghost man, masked in silvery dust. The grey papa clay, such a claggy curse in winter, was almost worse when it dried in summer, drifting with every stirring wind or footstep to coat the town and its inhabitants in its soft mantle. But Danny clearly had no thought to his appearance. The constable saw him lean from his horse and ask the postman for directions; saw Matt Hunter point in the direction of the McPhees’ place. Off Danny rode, his mount snorting and pulling at the bit, reluctant to get going again. Naylor had imagined some emergency to do with milling orders, or perhaps the son, Douglas, was hurt.

  Naylor considered riding up to McPhees’ but then let matters be. He was not welcome there since he had married his dear Emily. Gertie McPhee had stormed into the station on the very day he came back from the wedding, screaming that he had betrayed her trust, that she and he had an ‘understanding’, that he had insulted her and would never be forgiven. ‘How could you choose a native,’ she bellowed, ‘ahead of me?’ All this in front of Emily. He had taken Gertie by her shoulders, shunted the wailing girl outside and closed the door. Emily, whose father’s chiefly family owned most of the land around Raetihi, only laughed at the silly woman, thank goodness.

  All in all, Tim Naylor was in no mood to ride up to the McPhee household to inquire about their well-being. Especially now that Bridget McPhee was back. The fate of that poor girl has gnawed at him these past few weeks. Several townspeople have asked him is it right? Can something be done? The Sommervilles next door to the McPhees say they hear moaning day and night. Even the Chinese vegetable man came into the station — his first visit, very polite and nervous — to say that the girl had been a friend of Charlie Chee down on the river and that she was harmless.

  ‘Not right tie her up. I see her feet tie by rope when I go with veges to Sommervilles. Please make them free her.’

  Tim Naylor had tried to explain that McPhee did have the right. That the daughter was troublesome and wandered. Jimmy Sun had listened carefully, his face unreadable, his black eyes fixed on Naylor’s face.

  ‘This is not free country,’ the man said at last. ‘Not better than my home country.’

  He waited for an answer but Naylor could think of none.

  Then foolish Danny came riding up to rescue her. While the whole town applauded his failed attempt, Tim Naylor has been forced to arrest him.

  He looks down now at the charge sheet:

  Disturbing the peace, to wit striking a man in his own home.

  Trespass on private property.

  Attempting to abduct a female.

  Unlawful union with a female of unsound mind.

  Adultery.

  (Naylor is not sure McPhee can lay a complaint of adultery. Surely that would have to be Danny’s wife?)

  Abduction of private property, to wit a horse.

  DANNY HAD APPROACHED the house properly enough, the Sommervilles reported. (They were on his side, naturally, and visited him in the lock-up with cakes and other delicacies, which the constable allowed.) Danny had knocked on the door and when one of the children answered — Mrs McPhee was in bed, unwell — had asked to see Bridie. The child had said, as she had been taught, that Bridget did not receive visitors. Danny stood on the porch, refusing to go, no doubt a strange sight, covered as he was in grey papa dust, his hair a wild bird’s nest from the headlong gallop up through the gorge.

  Then Gertie McPhee arrived at the door to stir up emotions, as was her habit. The Sommervilles had observed it all for later reporting.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what my sister said? Get off our property or I’ll call my father!’ said Gertie

  ‘Fanning flames,’ said Lucy Sommerville, her ample bosom rising and falling indignantly. ‘The woman has clearly never been taught the gentler virtues.’ Tim Naylor had to agree.

  Danny’s flame had indeed been fanned. He pushed past Gertie and strode though the house until he unlocked a door and found Bridie, tied by rope to a bolt in the floor, her ankles chafed, her hair matted, moaning and rocking from one foot to the other. Danny had gone to her gently, he insisted, untied the rope, taken her by the hand and was attempting to lead her outside when McPhee arrived, followed by a panting Gertie. Who struck first was a matter of opinion. This took place inside the house and the Sommervilles, for all their peering, couldn’t make it out. Both men sustained blows and wore the bruises as proof. McPhee, a trained boxer and a good six inches taller, bloodied Danny’s nose, while Danny winded the furious sawmiller.

  The Sommervilles could hear the insults, though. ‘By God, I’ll have you for this!’ shouted McPhee. ‘Breaking into my house, stealing my daughter!’

  ‘I am the father!’ shouted foolish Danny. ‘She must come with me!’

  More blows, thud, crash.

  ‘Trespasser! Thief!’ from the father.

  And again Danny shouted, ‘It is my child! Bridie needs me!’

  By the time they had taken breath from all their manly shouting, Bridie was out of the house and walking. The Sommervilles called to her but she paid no heed. Barefoot, in her petticoat and bodice, no skirt or bonnet, the bare skin of her big belly showing for all to see, she was off across the yard and over fences, ignoring the road, heading for Pipiriki.

  A sorry sight. Sorrier still to see Gertie reach her and try to drag her home. Several townspeople had gathered by this time. Bridie would not budge while Gertie yanked and shoved and railed. Red as a beetroot she was, at all this public display of their shame. Then Bridie sat down suddenly, in the Hoddles’ back yard, moaning — a sad, wordless hum, on and on. A few descending, heart-breaking notes, endlessly repeated. Tim Naylor was on the spot by then, with the Hoddles, wondering how to shift the poor soul when McPhee arrived, manhandling a bloody Danny and demanding his arrest. D
anny had eyes only for Bridie, and no words except to insist that he was the father, which did him no good in the eyes of the law.

  Tim Naylor had no choice but to arrest Danny O’Dowd. He led him away to the lock-up, away from the gossiping townspeople, while McPhee fetched a cart and heaved his daughter aboard. She was quieter then, gone into herself. Danny, too, dispirited, perhaps, at the sight of her, or too bruised.

  HE IS STILL in low spirits, Danny, or at least much quieter. He talks very little; eats what is put in front of him. After all that fury two days ago he appears strangely at peace now. Almost as if he’s pleased to be incarcerated. Naylor takes him the plate of stew his wife has prepared for the midday meal, unlocks the heavy door and sits in the entrance, watching as the prisoner eats. Danny shows no inclination to escape.

  ‘There is a complaint,’ says Naylor, ‘that you have stolen a horse on top of all the rest.’

  Danny frowns. ‘Did the farmer complain?’

  ‘No. McPhee.’ Naylor allows a sour smile to show.

  Danny smiles back. The first for two days. ‘Jock Haami is a friend of our family. He wouldn’t complain. You can cross that one off.’

  Naylor fingers the charge sheet. ‘You’re in plenty of trouble without that. Do you have to claim fatherhood so loud? That’s the one will set judge and jury against you.’

  Danny chews his meat. Takes a quick look at the constable and then back to his food.

  ‘You have done the girl no favours, you know. She is locked up tighter than before.’

  ‘I know.’ Danny’s voice is low. ‘I should’ve done it better.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it at all! What about your wife? What will she be thinking?’