Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  Sister Anne sighs in exasperation as she fiddles with the napkin. Bridie, her face vacant, lets the baby suck but seems unaware of what else is going on; will not shift or help in any way. It’s a messy business.

  The Sisters have made inquiries downriver, but it seems that possible wet-nurses are reluctant to feed a Chinese baby. Sister Carmel thinks they will have to send the babe to the convent downriver at Ranana, or even to Mother Aubert’s orphanage in Wellington. Which will not solve the problem of Bridie. Sister Carmel is of the opinion that Bridie will forget the baby if they send him away. Sister Anne is not so sure. Some things fly out of Bridie’s head the minute you place them there, but others seem fixed and unchanging. Her desire to walk freely, for example. Bridie has never given up her wandering ways; would walk out with her baby right now if the door were unlocked. Surely her feeling for the baby will be the same; the need — the love? — is fixed. Yet it is clear to them all that it can’t go on. John will have to grow up normally, away from Bridie’s smothering.

  And yet, when the baby is feeding happily they are such a pair! Bridie is thinner now, but is not allowed to wander and so always appears at her best — washed and brushed and properly dressed. A truly beautiful young woman. Her shining copper hair and the delicate freckles on her pale skin give her a look, at moments like these, of great sweetness. An innocent. And John, with his fine straight dark hair and pale creamy skin seems too fragile — those almondy black eyes fringed with perfect delicate lashes make him look somehow wise. He’s very different from the robust Maori babies in the village. Sister Anne would love to cuddle the little fellow, but as long as Bridie is awake she will not allow it. Will not allow anyone else to love him. Sister Anne fears Bridie will damage little John, not intentionally, but perhaps by holding him too close, or forgetting what she is doing. Something will have to be done.

  Samuel Blencoe

  I HEARD HER babby was Charlie Chee’s, the old bugger. I never believed it till I seen that Chow babby myself. It were his all right.

  I remember the way she would hold close to Charlie sometime, a handful of his tunic, or his hand, as if he were the one steady thing in a world adrift. I seen the look on Charlie’s face then — a shadowy smile, something tender in it. That little smile made him look young. Maybe he were young: just a boy maybe. A lonely boy who gave in to her poor innocent tempting of him. They will think, now, that he hanged himself out of shame. More likely the despair of the proper wife not coming. No sense wondering: he is hanged and dead.

  Bridie come upriver with the little tyke. Terrible mess, the both of them. Bridie, I said to her, Bridie, we can’t have this. She just smiled away and walked down to the river to dangle her feet like she used to. Blood running away from the cuts on them. Her smock torn. The little babe crying. She held him in a gentle manner, I’ll say that for her, but he were not at all clean. Nor her. She were doing her rocking, like she used to when things got too much. Not the gentle kind of rocking a mother does to a babby, but back and forth, back and forth; urgent, it seemed. And Charlie Chee’s son crying the while.

  I feared she might drop him in, so I sat with her. Then when she seemed more settled and the rocking not so fierce, I got my billy and dipped clean riverwater and washed the two of them as they sat there. The sun being up and warm, neither a one of them seemed to mind the cool of it. Then somehow Charlie’s boy got his little mouth latched onto her breast and we had a bit of peace.

  Dear God.

  What were the Sisters thinking of, letting her loose with the babe? I heard our Bridie were back with them, away from that cold bugger McPhee. That were a great piece of news, I thought, and thanked the Maori feller down at the pa that come up and told me. He knew I were fond of her. Now she’ll be right, I thought. Then she turns up, scratched and torn and the baby’s mess all down her front and stinking. We can’t have that at all. My hands were shaking as I washed the two of them, and then my legs caught the shakes and I had to sit beside her till I could catch my breath.

  My poor Bridie. Dear God.

  It would be some months since I seen her. She gone right downhill. Thin. That sweet smile gone. Any soul could tell she were not at peace with herself. Some kind of flickering between her eyes, like a small frown, on off, on off. I put out a hand to smooth it away, stroked her like you might a sick dog. But that twitch kept on till I was mad thinking how I might bring some peace to her. I could not.

  Bridie was one thing. She were a free spirit and I thought it good for her to come and go. And Charlie alive and on the same beat as it were, up and down river, to keep an eye. But the babby were another thing altogether. I could not think of how to go on. Deadly afeared, I was, to leave the two of them and find help. What if she dropped Charlie’s boy in the river? Or hugged the life out of him?

  Then I thought, sure to God those Sisters would be searching and sure they would know to look up here. That thought calmed me a mite and my legs stopped their trembling. The three of us could wait. I washed out his bit of cloth and spread it on a bush and then he peed again, a shining curve up into the air — a real beauty to see. I laughed and Bridie laughed too, her first. But then he shat all down Bridie’s front again and no one was laughing. I washed them both clean. But now Charlie’s boy cried. I reckon he were cold so I give them both my old coat.

  We waited. I started my trembling again. She would not come up to the hut but stayed with her feet in the river. Those feet turning blue.

  ‘Some good soul please come!’ I said it out loud and she echoed me.

  ‘Come.’

  But no idea in her head what it might mean or how afeared I were. We was all shaking with the cold.

  Then thank the good Lord or the gods of the bush or whoever, up come Bert Morrow in his motor-waka, chugging slow, looking at the bank. I stood and waved and he come in, drifting the last feet, sweet and gentle as featherdown, to touch the bank right at our feet, giving Bridie no cause to startle. That sight of the big man standing in his craft, a smile on his face, was better than a vision from heaven itself. Bert knowing to be quiet, taking my hand and guiding it so I might hold the waka in to the bank, but no word spoken, so her and the babby might stay calm. I thought how that damn McPhee carried her off without any shred of gentleness and in my head I blessed Bert Morrow for his knowledge and his wise ways.

  Bridie stood with the babby and allowed Bert to guide her into the waka. I don’t know how he did that — some Maori trick, for I had no luck getting her to shift. Bert had a good blanket which he wrapped around her and the boy and then he signed me to get in too, to guard her and make sure she would not jump out.

  I do not take pleasure in leaving my spot. I cleared my throat once or twice and spat, but in the end I come, out of care for Bridie and respect for Bert Morrow. He would bring me back, I reckon.

  We went down direct to the Sisters, where I never been since I come upriver. And we handed Bridie to them. Bert Morrow knit his brows and spoke most sternly.

  ‘You must take the baby away from her, Sister.’

  The tall sister, in her white and black like a magpie, said, ‘We know that, thank you, but it is more difficult than you think, Mr Morrow.’

  Bert said, ‘Difficult or not, you must think of the boy first. We none of us would want his death on our hands.’

  The sister sighed and frowned. I reckon she had no taste for being told a few home truths by Bert Morrow.

  Bridie was not happy. It took three of the Sisters to lead her away. She screamed when they forced her arms open and took Charlie Chee’s son from her. A small sound — thin and sharp as glass. I never heard her scream yet, not once, not even when Charlie hanged himself.

  Bert Morrow and myself watched her go up with the Sisters, struggling every step and groaning for her babby. We neither of us spoke. It were the saddest sight.

  Then Bert took me back home, up the rapids in the dark; he knows every ripple and bend blindfold, I reckon. When he put me in to the bank he spoke the first time sin
ce Jerusalem.

  ‘You did a good thing to save her and the baby. It was good she came to you, Sam.’

  I said nothing but climbed up to my hut and lay down under my blanket. I should be glad to be back in the quiet and the soft night, and listen to the motor-waka fade off downriver, but those words Bert Morrow spoke kept churning in my head. Were it good I saved her? Would she be moaning and crying still? I had to hope the Sisters would let her roam again when the babe was safely away from her. But I reckon they would keep her locked for fear of some other man taking advantage of her. I could think of no good path for my Bridie.

  Dear God, she seemed so lost, poor soul.

  15 December 1908

  The World-Champion Rowing Race

  ON 15TH DECEMBER 1908 no Hatrick steamer was seen upriver. Pipiriki House was deserted except for the gardener and his two dogs. A caretaker was left in charge of the empty Houseboat at Maraekowhai. Captain White, his wife, Stella and many of the farming families had crowded the deck of the Wairua two days earlier and steamed downriver to be in time for the great race. Father Soulas had suggested the Sisters take the convent children down to view this historic event. Naturally he was interested himself; wasn’t the pride of Wanganui at stake here? Mr Hatrick, that great man, was in the thick of it (and making money hand over fist), with his whole fleet recalled for duty down at the race.

  One year earlier William ‘Wiri’ Webb, citizen of Wanganui (no one liked to remember that he was born in Christchurch) and a brilliant sculler, had crossed the Tasman to row against world champion Charles Towns on the Parramatta River. And beat him! Who would have dreamed the Australians could be beaten — or for that matter the English, who considered themselves the rightful owners of sculling skills? Not only did our Wiri bring back the world champion cup but he defended it, in February of this very year, against that Tressider of England. Beat him, too! On the Whanganui.

  Hatrick, usually not one to miss an opportunity if there was money in it, realised he had slipped up over the Webb vs Tressider match. Several hundred citizens were there to watch but it should have been thousands! Now, in December, with some fellow from the South Island challenging our Wiri, Hatrick was pouring all his resources into the event. Since dawn his fleet, pluming coal smoke into the blessedly calm air, had been churning up the five miles of calm water to Upokongaro, where the race would be held. Every inch of every deck was crowded. Up and down the steamers chugged, until the banks were crowded with spectators: the ladies dressed to kill in their widest hats and most colourful scarves, the gentlemen as smart as Sunday. Picnic baskets overflowed with sandwiches, tarts and flasks of tea. If you took the boat early in the morning the fare was three shillings. Each hour later the fare rose by a shilling. Wealthy citizens have paid one pound for a place on the steamers that would follow the race, or even two pounds (think of that!) if they could afford to be a friend of Mr Hatrick and ride with him in the umpire’s boat, the Waione — one of the Hatrick fleet, of course.

  On the Hatrick boats you could buy souvenirs of the event, picturing our Wiri, so handsome with his flashing dark eyes and his curving moustache, on one side of the postcard and Richard Arnst, smaller and surely no match for Wiri, on the other. Between them a tranquil scene of the beautiful Whanganui. Silver teaspoons sporting enamelled images of Wiri sold well, as did the mugs painted with a spray of manuka flower and a man sculling into the petals, Wanganui 1908 painted below in gold. The tote was taking official bets, but if you looked along the banks there were plenty of unofficial bookies would take your wager.

  Naturally, the odds favoured Wiri Webb. Hadn’t he beaten the best that Australia and England could throw up? And wasn’t he rowing on his own river? Captain Bill Henderson had taken spectators up to Webb’s training camp on two occasions (another of Hatrick’s money-making ideas) and said that our champion was in top form. In Captain Henderson’s opinion Webb could not be beaten. Bert Morrow took his advice and laid a careful two shillings on Webb to win and another shilling for him to break his own record.

  The Morrows and O’Dowds were there on the bank, a few chains below the finishing line, Bert’s motor-waka moored close by so he could keep an eye on it. Every craft on the river was here, even the Togo and the Mascot, the Harbour Board tugs. Had world shipping come to a standstill for this race? Bert spotted Hepi Samuel’s worm-ridden flattie wallowing under a load of his family and predicted (accurately, as it turned out) that it would sink before the race began.

  And, unknown to any of his family, Pita was there too. Even the jail was more or less empty, prisoners near the end of their sentence having been let out early to view this famous event and perhaps develop a little civic pride along the way. Constable Tim Naylor had spotted Pita and was following him through the crowd. Word was that he had a cache of illegal money hidden somewhere, apart from the sum confiscated from him on arrest. Naylor wanted to catch him red-handed.

  Angus McPhee had come down ‘on business’ with his daughter, Gertie. Evangeline McPhee declined, with a pale sigh, the arduous river trip. None of McPhee’s workers was given leave to travel. ‘Wanganui is no concern of ours,’ he growled to his sulking men. ‘Raetihi is the future of this area. Mark my words, the branch railway will come through here and we will be sitting pretty — citizens of a town, nay, a city — to put Wanganui in the shade.’ The future would prove Angus McPhee’s prediction to be nowhere near as accurate as Bert Morrow’s. The sawmiller was losing his touch — and his business — though he didn’t yet know that. McPhee was on a sharp lookout for his wastrel son, Douglas. It was high time the boy returned to the sawmilling business.

  Douglas McPhee was expected at the race — expected to be shovelling coal along with all the other stokers in the fleet — but he had taken advantage of the general mayhem of the day to slip off the Wairua as it drew in to Jerusalem to pick up a chattering load of Sisters and convent girls. Douglas was on a mission of his own.

  No one expected Sam Blencoe or Bridie to be interested in the great event. Nor were they.

  Danny and Stella

  THE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP!

  BILLY WEBB

  TRAINED ON …

  Advertisement, Wanganui Herald, December 1908

  AT FIRST STELLA can’t see Danny among the milling crowds at Hatrick’s wharf. For a moment she fears the worst but there he is, hopping from one foot to the other, shouting and waving.

  ‘Stella! Stell! Over here!’

  After the quiet despair of the farm at Maraekowhai, the noise and activity at the landing is almost overwhelming. So many people! Stella has travelled down to Wanganui on the day before the race, but already the whole town seems to be on the move. Tents and makeshift whares dot the banks of the river; hawkers invite sightseers to buy souvenir postcards showing W. Webb in every pose imaginable — always against a background of luxuriant bush and peaceful river. An enterprising couple have set up a plank on which bottles of home-made lemonade are selling well. Another fellow shouts and cajoles customers into buying his muscle-building tonic — ‘guaranteed to give you the strength of Wiri Webb, gentlemen! You will notice the difference in one week. And all for only two pence!’ A photographer has set up a life-sized portrait of Wiri Webb standing beside a fashionably dressed lady with a hole where her head should be. Women are lining up to be photographed, smiling and posing through the hole. At the Hatrick’s office people clamour for steamer tickets. The hesitation Stella feels in the face of this cheerful pandemonium is unusual for her. Usually she loves new sights. But the dragging weight of the baby and her uncertainty at meeting Danny after all these months have made her nervous. She lifts a hand to wave to her husband but then holds back as the other passengers surge off the boat ahead of her.

  THE PAST SIX months have been difficult. More than difficult. From the moment when her cousin Hone came upriver to lend a hand, her feeling for the farm changed. Hone was pleasant enough, but no farmer. He came up expecting an easy time; that his task was to protect his cousin and in
return be fed and housed. When Stella pointed out that the sheep needed shifting, the meagre crop of hay cut, he became sulky. He demanded that she leave cooked food for him on the nights she spent at the Houseboat. They quarrelled over who should milk the cow.

  ‘You’re too bossy, girl,’ shouted Hone. ‘Milking is woman’s work.’

  Stella shouted back that she couldn’t milk on Houseboat days; that Danny milked Freda and so should he; that Hone should be grateful for the food she cooked and earned. Looking back, Stella could see she had indeed been too bossy. Exhaustion was her excuse: walking back and forth to work became a chore as the baby grew heavier; cooking a meal at the end of a long day almost more than she could manage. Hone’s surly manner spoiled any pleasure at homecoming. Stella began to resent the dead weight of the farm.

  Then Mrs White took her aside for a quiet word.

  ‘My dear, we can’t keep you on after next week. You’ll understand, I’m sure.’

  Stella had been dreading this, but had to argue. ‘Hasn’t my work been good? Have I slipped up at all? You know I have completed all my tasks well.’

  Mrs White had frowned at her bold words. ‘I don’t need to tell you. You are showing, my dear, and we can’t have you serving the guests in this state. There have been complaints.’

  ‘Who? Who?’ shouted Stella in a rage. ‘They all love me!’

  A foolish statement. Mrs White tightened her lips, turned away. Later the captain told her that a new girl would be coming upriver at the beginning of the week to replace her. He gave Stella a half guinea and a pat on the shoulder and that was that.

  Stella walked back to the farm, still raging. She found Hone lying in the sun and Freda bellowing with the pain of a full udder.