Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  He starts well north of Horopito, near Erua, where the last section of the line is almost complete. The work gangs have finished the heavy work, felling and levelling, and are now shovelling ballast around the newly laid rails. Thirsty work. As far as Pita knows, the bush camp gangs do not have regular drops. They are always moving. No time to set up regular supply routes. They will be easy meat.

  He is in high spirits as Tawhi picks his way alongside the railway line. On one side the bush towers; no logging tracks here in Tongariro National Park. To his right the land is more open: pale toetoe tassels droop in the still morning air like dipped flags at a funeral. But Pita’s mood is far from funereal. Ahead he hears the shouts of a railway gang and then he sees them, five wiry men stripped to their singlets, pipes clamped between teeth, shovelling stone. The man standing atop the railway hopper leans on his shovel and shouts a welcome. The rest stop and look towards Pita, pleased at the interruption. Pita rides up easily, gives them a cheeky grin, though his heart is pumping. It would be just his luck to hit a wowser first time up. They exchange names. Pita calls himself Phillip — the last time he’ll use it. If word gets back to O’Leary, Pita likes the idea that the fat bastard will know who cheated him.

  The leader of the gang, Slim Fitchett, asks if Pita is lost. ‘The coach trail between railheads is off to the right. You won’t find travellers up this way, not till the rail opens.’

  Pita winks. ‘Suits me, gentlemen. I have an offer for you and don’t fancy running into the law. You know?’

  They look at him, unsmiling.

  ‘Have I made a mistake, then?’ says Pita, grinning, but the sweat prickles under his thatch of hair. ‘No drinkers among you?’

  Slim clears his throat. Spits. ‘You a sly-grogger?’ His interest is obvious.

  ‘I was,’ says Pita, ‘Getting out while I’m ahead. But there’s stock here I’m selling off cheap. Interested?’

  One of the men, Hapi, a big fellow, laughs. ‘Boy, I haven’t tasted a drop in five weeks. Interested? My tongue’s hanging out, man.’

  Slim is more careful. ‘Seems strange, coming in broad daylight. Your stuff good?’

  Pita produces a bottle of pure O’Leary, pours a small shot. Offers it. ‘I’ll be honest with you — it’s not as good as Scotch, but it’ll do the trick.’

  Slim knocks it back. Inhales sharply and grins. ‘It will do that!’

  ‘Hey! Me too,’ growls Hapi, already belligerent.

  Pita pours him a shot. Hapi whoops with joy.

  ‘Ten shillings a bottle,’ says Pita, ‘and there’s a condition. A serious condition.’

  ‘Well, then?’ Slim is hooked. Hapi too. The other three are definitely interested.

  ‘You get the liquor cheap. It’s fifteen shillings anywhere else. But I’ve got a run of bush camps to do and don’t want word getting out till I’m well down the line.’

  Slim smiles wryly. ‘I can understand that. You’re taking a risk, letting us see you.’

  ‘I am. But by tomorrow I’ll be out of the business and away.’

  ‘So the condition?’

  ‘You don’t touch the liquor till sundown.’

  ‘What?’ Hapi is clearly ready to get stuck in.

  Pita frowns at Slim. ‘If anyone is found drunk on the job they’ll find me before I’m away. Can you keep him under control till nightfall? Otherwise the deal’s off. I’ll take the goods down the line.’

  He heels his horse, moves a step or two away. One of the others speaks up. ‘We’ll stay off till night. There’s a job to be done here and the boss is due sooner or later.’

  ‘From the north?’ Pita is suddenly anxious.

  ‘North, yes.’

  ‘Well, gentlemen? I’ll need to keep ahead of him. Are you in? No more than two bottles apiece. Plenty of thirsts where I’m headed.’ Pita has timed the run for the day after payday. He knows they will have coin in their pockets.

  Slim looks at his gang. They all nod. Quickly Pita dismounts, exchanges his rotten liquor for good shillings and mounts again. He grins at them. ‘Stay sober, friends. If I’m caught, your mates down the line will miss out on the deal and I’ll be sure to let them know who blew the whistle.’

  Slim grunts. ‘You can trust us. Good luck, then, with whatever you’re off to.’

  Pita waves and sets Tawhi off at a gallop. The run is on! They won’t catch him. He doesn’t even think about taking a drink. By night-time he’ll be a rich man and on his way. He shouts in triumph to a hawk hovering high above. Yes, friend, we are both good hunters! See if you can make as good a catch!

  By late afternoon he has sold all but the last six bottles. He has thundered down the railway line, through five gangs, veering away only at the towering Makatote Viaduct, just completed, which the horse will not cross. Here Pita is forced to take the coach route, winding steeply down to the great Makatote River and crossing at the ford there. For such a river, heading as it does straight towards his own beloved Whanganui, spit is not enough. Pita nicks his finger, lets his red blood drip onto a broad rangiora leaf and sends the glistening offering downriver. Tears gather and threaten to fall at the thought of all he had lost. ‘Whanga-nui-e!’ he calls, high and drawn out, and hears the echo come off the high ferny walls of the ravine. Then he is off again, dashing up the slope before a coach full of tourists might notice and describe the solitary rider. They say there is one more gang just north of Horopito. After that, Pita will disappear into the bush.

  HE HAS MISCALCULATED, though. He discounted the risk of some drinker discovering the trick before he is properly away, reckoning that a man buying illegal liquor in a dry area will not complain. He is wrong on that count. Slim Fitchett is not one to laugh off a clever trick. When Hapi takes a secret glug in the bush and comes out roaring, Slim doesn’t hesitate to slip a quiet word to his boss. ‘Don’t say who complained, boss, but the wretch is headed down the line, set to cheat the whole gang of us. Can you get word out?’

  The boss can indeed. Another error, though Pita could not have been expected to plan for this one. Down on his river, the only way to send a quick message is by pigeon, and that’s never going to work with shifting railway gangs. But strung alongside the railway track is a brand new telegraph line. The boss rides his jigger back to tiny Erua, telegraphs through to Horopito, and when Pita rides up to the last gang he’s shocked to see a couple of policemen on the line, blocking his way forward.

  Desperately he wheels Tawhi, heading for the nearest patch of bush. But there are no tracks here except the railway line and the coach road beside it. Tawhi is soon brought to a halt by clinging undergrowth. The policemen’s horses, fresher, more used to the territory, close in on each side of the sweating Tawhi. Pita is caught with the money and the adulterated liquor. In a rare moment of despair, he feels the walls of a cell crowding in. He howls for his mother.

  Horopito lock-up is an old railway wagon set on blocks and going nowhere. It is full — with drunks, as it happens, the result of Pita’s latest drop. The constable telegraphs to Ohakune and Raetihi: ‘Lock-up full up. Any space?’

  As it happens, Tim Naylor has just sent his prisoner, the strange fellow who claims to have molested the McPhee girl, downriver for trial in Wanganui. He offers to lock up Phillip Matthews in the Raetihi jail until he’s due for sentencing.

  Ruvey Morrow

  Commercial Hotel

  Est. 1903 George Pike prop.

  Seddon St, Raetihi

  Excellent accommodation.

  First class meals.

  14 rooms; 8 bedrooms

  12-stalled stable with secure padlocks for travelling stock

  Staging post for Crowther and McCauley’s coach:

  Tokaanu – Pipiriki via Raetihi

  Advertisement, Waimarino Argus

  MY POOR STELLA. I fancied she’d live a charmed life, with her clever ways and her good looks. Could have been anything, even famous like Mother Aubert — wouldn’t that be a turn-up — but instead she lands a criminal f
or a husband, a childless womb and worthless land for a farm.

  ‘Come and stay with us a while,’ I said to her when she came down to the House. ‘You can’t be on your own up there.’ But she wouldn’t. Her sweet face swollen with tears, the hiccups still wracking her, but still she swore she’d go back on the next boat. That’s Bert’s strong blood won’t let her give in. In my opinion a bit softer, a touch more of a woman’s gentleness wouldn’t go amiss. Danny needs to feel in charge now and then.

  ‘At least go up to Raetihi and talk to him,’ I said. ‘Have it out. He’s a foolish lad, has made his mistake, but he’s not really bad, Stell. He won’t like being locked up and all alone.’

  To tell the truth, I had an idea that if Danny and Stella adopted Bridie’s baby, that might ease things. They needed a family. And what’s more, Bert and I could do with grandchildren. So I stuck out for Danny. ‘He wants to take responsibility,’ I said. ‘That’s something at least.’

  ‘He wants to take on the girl, too,’ said my daughter hotly. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘He did, and that is his foolish side. He’s a dreamer, Stell, you know that. You can talk him out of it.’

  ‘Oh, Ma!’ Stella wailed like a lost child — it wrung my heart to see her like this. My strong girl. ‘Ma! It’s more than that. Douglas said … he said … awful things about Danny.’

  I am not generally one for cuddles but I took her in my arms then. Rocked her as if she were still my baby. ‘I am not interested in any views from Douglas,’ said I firmly. ‘That silly boy is smitten with you, anyone can see that, and will try to poison you against Danny if he can.’

  Stella saw the sense in my words. She nodded against my shoulder and sniffed a bit.

  ‘I wish Pita was here,’ she mumbled.

  ‘We all do,’ I said, pleased that she had changed the subject. ‘I cannot help feeling he will walk in some day, grinning as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘He’s dead.’ She said it flat, as if she knew.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ I said, ‘you are down in the dumps. We’ll have a cup of tea. Where’s my chirpy girl gone?’

  But she would not be cheered up. Caught the morning boat upriver, her face white and set. With the farm and the Houseboat, she said, she couldn’t be wasting time trekking up to Raetihi.

  She loved him still, though; any fool could see that.

  WHEN BRIDIE’S BABY was born the news spread like a bush-fire. Pigeons couldn’t have done better. Stella was back down to Pipiriki, eyes full of hope, not more than a day after I heard from Jock, who runs the Crowther and McCauley coach down from Raetihi. He had stayed the night at Pike’s Hotel in Raetihi and heard it all as it happened.

  Poor Bridie was in a bad way, he said, with the birthing, Mrs McPhee and that Gertie no use at all, so they sent for Mrs Hoddle, the butcher’s wife, who is a good sensible soul and experienced, goodness only knows. Even she had to send for her sister-in-law, and then one of the lady tourists at Pike’s gave advice, so there were plenty of witnesses and no lack of wagging tongues. A breech birth, as if the girl hadn’t enough to deal with. Angus McPhee was down at Pike’s, evidently, for a hot meal, showing no care for his daughter. Jock heard him say that it would be a blessing if the poor girl died. Said it out loud to George Pike! The man has a lump of lead where his heart should be.

  At last, with Bridie moaning and writhing — she wouldn’t understand it at all, and no friend to hold her hand: I might have calmed her, or the Sisters — the babe was born, a little boy of a good size. But Chinese! No mistaking it. They were all shocked into silence, the lady tourist told me. His little head covered in long black hair and his slits of eyes. I could tell that lady was no friend of the Chows. The only good thing, she said, was that the mother seemed to like him. Held the mucky bundle while they tidied her up, and whimpered to hold him again when they washed and wrapped him.

  If the ladies were silent at the birth, Angus McPhee was anything but. Jock said that when the news came down to Pike’s that his grandson was Chinese you could have heard his fury miles away.

  ‘Get her out!’ he shouted. ‘Out of my house! I’ll not set foot there till she has gone.’

  Mrs Hoddle, who had been sent with the news because she is a powerfully built woman and can stand up to most, tried to reason with him. ‘He is your grandson, when all is said and done, Angus, and may be a useful hand in the mill for the future.’

  ‘No grandson of mine!’ the fellow ranted. I can just imagine his pale skin turning raspberry and those icy eyes searching for anyone to blame. ‘He will not be a McPhee! Get her out. Get them both out!’

  So the Hoddles took Bridie and the baby in until she stopped her bleeding, and then they were both sent back to the Sisters at Jerusalem, thank the Blessed Virgin.

  STELLA WAS WITH me when Hatrick’s cart brought them down. McPhee wouldn’t pay for the coach. Lucky brought the cart right to the back entrance of Pipiriki House, Bridie bouncing around among the empty sacks, smiling and holding the baby. That same empty smile. My heart in my mouth that she would drop the babe. How could they allow her to hold such a precious bundle over all the ruts and pot-holes between here and Raetihi? Lucky is a good carter, but has no thought except for his horses and his cart. I reached up to take the babe, for surely he would need changing, but Bridie frowned and clutched at her baby. Here’s trouble, I thought. Even then I could see it. The Sisters were going to have their hands full. So I called to Stella to fetch fresh napkins and a big mug of sweet cocoa — Bridie’s favourite.

  Well, there was no getting her down, and anyway Lucky would take her on down to Jerusalem, so up I climbed — no easy feat for me — and sat with them both. Bridie was neat and clean, the Hoddles had seen to that, but I was shocked to see how pale and thin she was, and terrible raw patches on both ankles. They had tied her up like some animal! Bridie smiled, though, and showed the babe. Wouldn’t let me hold him, mind. The best we could do, when Stell arrived, was to change the poor mite on Bridie’s lap while she gulped at her cocoa.

  ‘Oh, the sweetheart,’ cried my Stell. ‘Look at all that hair! Look at his button nose! He’s so like …’ And then stopped. No doubt remembering Charlie Chee and his sad end.

  We got his little black head latched on to her breast. At least we were at the back of the House and no guests in sight — Bridie has no idea of modesty. But the little fellow sucked away and Bridie let him. I fancy she liked it, for she went into some quiet dreamy world and sat still for once. It was strange, though. The babe so Chinese. My babies were half Maori, so you’d think I’d be used to a mixture, but I have to admit it was an uneasy sight to me, that foreign head latched on to Bridie’s pale breast. I could see Stella had no qualms, smiling and clucking at the sight. She is more modern than me.

  So it was Charlie Chee all along, that poor lonely man. We none of us understood one thing about him.

  Then Lucky hupped his horses and took the two of them down to the Sisters. They would know how to manage. I suppose it was the news that Danny wasn’t the father, but my Stella was transformed that day. I hardly recognised her from the tearful wreck who went upriver a few weeks ago. Glowing is the word that came to mind. You’d think she was the one with the baby.

  ‘I’m heading downriver,’ she said, giving me that wonderful smile. ‘Dannyboy and I need to talk.’

  ‘But why on earth,’ I said — I couldn’t stop myself asking the question — ‘would Danny claim fatherhood?’

  Secretly I thought that if Charlie Chee had lain with her, Danny might well have done the same, and a good many others I could name.

  ‘I need to talk to him,’ was all she would say. Stella knew something. Some bee in her bonnet. But it was a tonic to see her so alive again, so I let the matter lie.

  ‘They can’t hold him now,’ I said. ‘Or not for anything more serious than hitting that wretched McPhee, and he’s done lock-up time for that already.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, very determined. ‘I’ll bring h
im back.’

  ‘And if you’re down in Wanganui, ask around about your brother,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling …’

  For some reason this sobered her up. ‘No, Ma, he’s gone. We would have heard by now. Pita’s gone.’

  Next morning she gave me a quick hug and was running down to the landing where the Waimarie was belching and whooping, pressured up and ready for the run downriver. Douglas McPhee was down there, seeing to the Wairua’s coal bunker. I saw him come across to Stella. Pleading, it looked like. Saw Stella push him away so he stumbled. They had an argument; I could hear the shouts even up at the House, Stella’s hands flying at him.

  That boy is becoming a nuisance. The other day he told Tim Naylor some cock-and-bull story about Danny killing our Pita. As if Douglas would have any idea. When the constable came to me, worried about the silly tale, I told him how Douglas had taken a shine to Stella. Probably thought he was in with a chance while Danny was locked up. Perhaps, I suggested, now that Danny was off the hook in the fatherhood department, Douglas had dreamed up another tale to keep him out of the way. I laughed at the time, but the constable didn’t see fit to crack his face.

  Bert must have a word to Douglas.

  Hatrick’s Landing, Wanganui

  Approximate time occupied on trips: Travellers must understand that these vary according to the state of the river.

  Wanganui – Pipiriki: 9 hours up stream.

  Pipiriki – Wanganui: 5 hours down stream

  Pipiriki – Houseboat: 10 hours up stream.

  Houseboat – Taumarunui: 8 hours up stream

  Taumarunui – Houseboat: 3½ hours down stream

  Houseboat – Pipiriki: 6 hours downstream