It’s an empty threat but the bookie doesn’t know that. Sulkily he fills in the slip, takes Pita’s money.
‘I dunno why I do this,’ he mutters. ‘Not one punter has bet on Arnst. Someone could take a risk, at least.’
Pita turns away without seeing the next man coming to lay his bet. He would know him, though — Danny O’Dowd. The bookie sighs to hear that Danny also wants to lay a large sum on Webb. Twenty pounds, for God’s sake. This new punter is edgy, looking this way and that, shifting his feet and grinning at nothing. The bookie decides to take a risk.
‘Twenty on Arnst then,’ he mutters, filling in the slip, ‘at four to one.’
Danny nods, oblivious. Pockets the slip. The bookie tips him a wink. ‘Good luck,’ he says as the fool walks away.
Pita is sauntering back to his vantage point when Sergeant Tim Naylor calls out loudly to him. ‘Phillip Matthews! You’ve come into money, then?’
Pita freezes. Thinks about running. But surely he has committed no crime? He turns with a smile. ‘Can’t a fellow lay a bet on a great day like this?’ he says.
‘A fellow fresh out of jail doesn’t generally carry large sums about his person.’
Pita shouts at him, desperate that he might be locked away again. ‘It is earned money! I worked for it — every penny!’
‘Doing what, I wonder?’
Pita, alarmed at the questioning, is about to make a run for it when he is slammed to the ground from another direction. Then hauled to his feet, his cap ripped from his head. Danny takes a bunch of Pita’s shirt in his fist and hauls him close. He seems to have gone mad — laughing, swearing, shaking Pita back and forth like a dog with a piece of rag. The constable is forgotten.
‘Pita Morrow!’ shouts Danny for all to hear. ‘It’s Pita bloody Morrow come back from the dead!’
Pita tries to pull away. He can’t make out Danny’s reaction. Why would Danny shout his name — call attention — when the policeman is not two paces away?
‘Keep your voice down,’ he mutters, ‘or we’ll both be caught.’
‘Is it really you?’ shouts Danny. He turns to the gathering crowd ‘It is! It’s Pita Morrow! We thought him dead.’ The spectators laugh with Danny, sharing his delight, offering congratulations. Tim Naylor watches closely.
Danny traces a finger over Pita’s broken nose and scarred cheek. ‘Oh God, did I do that damage? I’m true and sorry for it, brother, and have cursed myself every day since.’
Pita tries to shake free from this laughing madman. The constable will surely pounce any moment. ‘The police is right behind you,’ he mutters in Danny’s ear. ‘You run that way and I’ll go the other.’
But Danny holds him tighter. Pita can feel the noose already about his neck. Tim Naylor steps forward and the crowd parts to let his uniform through. Pita despairs.
‘Are you Pita Morrow?’ asks Naylor.
Pita is about to deny any knowledge of the name but Danny gets in first.
‘He is! My brother-in-law! It’s him, all right!’
The constable speaks sternly. ‘Pita Morrow, I should have you in for giving a false identity. Not to mention ill-gotten gains.’
Pita notices that the dead girl does not seem to be on the list. He decides to keep his mouth shut until matters become clearer.
‘But,’ continues Naylor, ‘for one thing, your parents would dearly appreciate a sight of the son they think gone. And for another’ — the constable is actually smiling! — ‘for another, this is a day of celebration for Wanganui, and you are just out of jail. Shall we keep it that way?’ He offers his hand and the startled Pita shakes it. The crowd cheers.
‘Now off with you,’ says Naylor, grinning. ‘I am sick of the sight of both of you.’
Danny will not leave hold of Pita but steers him away through the crowd. Pita thinks he must have lost his mind, the way he is hopping and shouting. Then both turn, startled, as a shot rings out. But it is only the umpire’s starting pistol. Wiri Webb is about to defend his world sculling title.
Ruvey Morrow
at the TELSA STUDIOS Opposite the Post Office Wanganui SCULLING WEEK —— photographs taken at special concession prices during this week!
Wanganui Herald, 15 December 1908
BERT HAD US a good spot on the bank where we could see up and down river. A grand day, everyone in their Sunday clothes, strangers exchanging news and views as if they’d known each other since birth. I’d never seen such a crowd! Every citizen of Wanganui must have been there and more. A very friendly lady next to me said she and her husband and her three sisters had come up all the way from Foxton to watch the race! She was very interested when I told her I was cook at Pipiriki House.
‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘we have booked to visit there after Christmas. They say the scenery is outstanding.’ I told her all the fine appointments of the House. She had read about the electricity and hot and cold running water and up-to-date sanitation, but didn’t know about our croquet lawn and the beautiful winter-garden room.
Everyone wants to visit Pipiriki!’ she said. ‘You are lucky to live there.’ So much for the doom-sayers who predict Mr Hatrick’s steamer service will wither away when the railway goes through. Whanganui River and Pipiriki House will always be jewels in New Zealand’s tourist route, mark my words.
A brass band marched up the road, very smart in their red caps and blue jackets, playing lively tunes and earning cheers as they passed. Bert said my mouth was hanging open like a child’s. Living in our quiet little backwater, we forget how many people there are in the Dominion now — not that I’d say a word against Pipiriki: it is very modern, but in its own way.
Then Eru, who has sharp eyes, pointed to a little puff of smoke away downriver. ‘They’re away!’ he shouted, and at that second we all heard the crack of the pistol. I could see nothing but two dots in the distance but our Wiri would soon be rowing up in our reach; we were all ready to cheer him on and wave the flag that Mere and I had stitched, which said ‘WEBB AND WANGANUI — 1ST IN THE WORLD’ in green letters on an old white sheet.
Beyond the two dots was a great black mass of smoke from the stacks of every one of Mr Hatrick’s fleet, following behind the rowers. I had to hope the umpire would keep them back a respectful distance. It would be a fearful thing to hear those great churning steamers advancing side by side up behind you. Then as they came a bit closer the people around us raised a great cheer, for you could see our man was pulling ahead, and see his long oars flashing in and out at a great rate, the other fellow struggling to match his speed. Oh, I was that excited! ‘Wiri! Wiri Webb!’ we all shouted. A tall fellow in a fancy uniform stood above us on the hill with some kind of trumpet or horn, which he pointed to the sky and blew long, high notes of triumph. It was like the King himself arriving. Mere and I waved our flag and shouted till we were hoarse. I am not ashamed to say that the tears were rolling down my cheeks. Definitely Wiri was pulling ahead now by a couple of boat lengths.
But then the strangest change. The crowd downriver quietened. We could see their waving arms go slack by their sides and hear their cheers wavering. I said to Bert later it was like the dark stillness of storm approaching, the way all the shouting and the ferment died away.
Eru was the first to see it. He turned to Bert, his face a picture of misery. ‘It’s not Wiri that’s leading; it’s the other fellow.’ Then we all saw it. That Arnst from the South Island was well ahead and still pulling away! The trumpeter on the hill put down his instrument; Mere and I let our flag flap to our feet; Bert muttered that his two shillings were dead and gone. Somehow you could tell that our Wiri was beaten, even though the race was not done. His strokes were steady, but the other man pulled harder and faster. No doubt he was the better man, the wretch.
Well, he won and that was that.
The best of the day was yet to come, though. The two scullers proceeded up the river to the finishing line, the crowd all about us silent and stunned. Then came the Hatrick fleet — the three
paddle-steamers in a row, followed by a boil of the upriver boats, even little Ongarue, so we gave the parade a cheer to keep our spirits up. And in all that burst of noise and black smoke we didn’t notice Danny and Stella till they were almost on us, shouting and cheering as if we had won the world championship, not lost it to that silly little Avon River in the south.
My son Pita with them.
I could speak no word. You could have offered me a thousand pounds to say something but I would not have been able. There he was. His same sheepish grin, shifting his feet, expecting a scolding — as well he might — but whole and well. His nose twisted and a scar down one cheek — that would be the blow Danny gave him. I felt all along he was not dead. Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I tell Bert? My Pita.
It was Bert found his voice first. ‘And where have you been, lad?’ His tone ominous.
‘In jail, Pa. A stupid thing. Just a mistaken identity.’
All charm and apology: he was always good at excuses, which today cut no ice at all with his Pa. Bert gave him a good tongue-lashing in both languages, telling him how sick with worry I had been all these months, how he owed to his whanau to keep in touch, how Bert would personally scrag him if he had shamed the family name with wrong-doings. What he said in his own language I can’t say but the tone was blazing hot.
Bert did not mention his own heart-sickness but I had seen it — saw now the pleasure that he could not hide behind all those stern words. At last I found my voice, which came out shaking with tears. ‘Pita Morrow,’ I cried, ‘you could have got word to us even from jail. We have had no word for an entire year! Wretched boy!’ But my heart was not in the scolding. I had to hold that scrawny son of mine to make sure he was real and solid and not some ghost.
‘Sorry, Ma,’ he muttered into my shoulder. ‘I thought …’
Whatever he was going to say was drowned then by a great blasting and hooting of steam whistles and ships’ bells. The race was over.
Pita looked up, frowning. ‘Why are you not all cheering? All these people? You’d think we’d lost the race.’
‘We have, son,’ growled Bert, ‘and I’ve lost two shillings that could have been put to better use.’
Pita’s mouth dropped open. He looked from one to other of us as if he didn’t believe what he’d heard. Well then, I thought. That stupid boy has bet a large sum and lost it. You could read it all, clear as a book, in his face. That will do him no harm, I thought. Perhaps he will come home and take on a decent trade. But Pita just laughed. Then pointed at Danny and laughed louder, slapped him on the back. Poor Danny was in misery.
‘Danny, you didn’t,’ said Stella, unbelieving. ‘You leave me alone all these months to earn money and then you risk it all on a race?’
‘Not all of it,’ said Danny. ‘Not all of it, Stell. Only half.’
‘Half!’ cried Stella. ‘Let me see!’
Dear oh dear. Danny is born unlucky, or foolish, but at least Stella loves him and at least he had not the strength to lay our Pita out for good.
Poor Danny, head hanging, handed her his betting slip.
‘Twenty pound!’ she shouted. And then stopped, peered at the slip, then back at Danny. ‘Is this some joke?’
Danny could not look at her for shame. ‘I’m sorry, Stell,’ he whispered. ‘Sweetheart.’
But our Stell was laughing, her big belly heaving up and down till I thought she might have the baby on the spot, tears running down her cheeks.
‘Look at it — look, Danny!’ She waved the slip in front of his nose. Gave him a laughing great hug.
A blessing for once that our Danny never learned his letters too well. He had bet on Arnst at four to one!
Well, it was all too much for me. What with Pita and then this nice little nest-egg for the new baby and all the laughter, I had to sit down and catch my breath. Stella sat beside me on the grass.
‘Oh Ma, are you all right? You’re as pale as a ghost.’
My heart was going like a train but I said nothing. Tried to smile through all the tears.
‘Ma,’ she said, her dear, pretty face anxious, ‘rest here a bit while Pa brings the waka. There’s been enough excitement today to last the year.’ She smiled, proud as a lady. ‘And the baby not born yet!’
‘Not today, please the Blessed Virgin,’ I said, giving her a little pat. ‘I could not stand another thing.’
‘Is Danny forgiven, Ma? He makes mistakes sometimes …’
‘Mistakes!’ I said. ‘That is a kind way of putting it.’
‘But I love him, Ma, that’s all there is to it. We fit.’
They do — they are a proper pair, for all their differences, so I gave them my blessing. Bert will no doubt come around to it in a while, now that he has his son back.
AS IT HAPPENED, there was more news that day. Father Soulas had a word with Bert as we crowded into the waka for the long journey home. He said that poor Bridie had run off. She was in a bad state, he said, and would Bert run up to the hermit’s place when we got to Pipiriki. Father said it was not likely she had the strength to get that far but he would be grateful if we checked. He is very humble and polite for a great priest who, in my opinion, should be cardinal at the very least, though goodness knows I would be sad to see him leave our mission. Bert agreed to go when he could, but said we would not be home till the next day, as we had to stop for the night someplace upriver. Father Soulas said Bridie’s baby was safe at the convent at Ranana, so the concern this time was not so great.
‘Not so great?’ said Danny as soon as the priest had gone. ‘Is Bridie not one of God’s poor creatures too?’
That outburst of his had me frowning. Stella too, I noted. Surely the boy was over his silly obsession with Bridie? Mind you, Danny had a point. But the sad thing was, we had all given up on Bridie. There is only so much a body can manage. Bridie had become too difficult and too strange. Only the previous Sunday Sister Carmel had said Bridie had slipped away beyond their ability to help her. She would have to go down to the lunatic asylum in Wanganui.
Danny and Stella
While we sympathise with Webb on his defeat — the more so because of the fateful circumstances known only to the few, which prevented him from rowing as his many friends and supporters believed, and rightly so, that he could row — we must express our heartiest satisfaction that the championship is retained in New Zealand …
Arnst is a man of magnificent muscular development, added to which he seems to have a natural aptitude for rowing otherwise he could not possibly have achieved success in so short a time …
While again sympathising with Webb we must congratulate him on the plucky fight he put up against such odds — odds which would have disheartened most men. He fought against fate and fought bravely to the finish. All honour to him.
Extracts from the report of the race,
Wanganui Herald, 16 December 1908
AS THE LADEN motor-waka approaches Ranana, Bert says they must stop for the night. He won’t risk the last few rapids in the dark, he says, not with such precious cargo. Stella smiles and cradles her belly. Pa is thinking of his two children and his unborn grandchild all together here. What a day! Stella is dog-tired, though, and ready enough to settle. There are no lights showing at the little settlement, but they can see the dark shape of the convent standing against the moonlit sky. There will be a bed for them somewhere. Stella would happily put her head down on the grass of the bank and sleep in the open, but Danny has other ideas. He takes her hand, easing her onto the landing as Bert holds the waka steady. Carefully he supports her with one arm, guiding her up the path to the wharenui. She leans on his shoulder, happy for once to let him make the decisions.
Sure enough, there are people awake and ready to welcome them onto the marae. The beautiful whare is already crowded with travellers returning home after the big day, but there is space still for the family. Stella groans with pleasure as she lies down on the mattress of straw, her mother beside her. Danny has stayed outside talking
to some of the men, but now he comes inside and kneels to kiss her, to stroke her hair. His hand rests on the taut skin of her belly. She smiles in the dark to feel the baby shift under his hand.
Danny laughs quietly. ‘As active as his mother!’
‘Oh, it’s a boy is it?’
‘Boy or girl. Oh Stell, it’s so good to be with you again.’
She can tell he is about to say something difficult. The baby shifts again. She waits for the twinge of pain to pass.
‘Sweetheart,’ he says. Then, ‘I have arranged a horse. I want to ride up to the hermit tonight.’
Stella breathes in sharply. She wishes she could see his face but it is too dark. She would like to cry out — No! — but her mother is already asleep beside her.
‘It’s all right, Stell,’ he says. She can hear the smile in his voice, and feels that it is, indeed, all right. He whispers in her ear. ‘She is in need of help. She will have gone to the hermit, but he will not be able to manage her. It must be me.’
She is fearful that the old obsession may reawaken. What she hears now in his voice is simple concern, but will he change? ‘Ride carefully,’ she whispers, and when he tries to rise she holds him back. ‘Bridie has changed. She is very difficult.’
‘I know.’
‘All she cares about is to have her baby back.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘You may have to force her. To come with you.’
‘I will be gentle.’
He touches her cheek and slips away.
IN THE EARLY morning Stella walks up to the convent. Back at the marae a few kuia are up preparing food, but the Morrows are still sleeping. Stella noticed as she crept out of the wharenui that Pa had a bunch of his son’s shirt held firmly in his sleeping hand. Pita would not slip away without Pa knowing it!
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