by Bowes, K T
Chapter 35
As Hana relaxed after the sermon the following Sunday, Pastor Allen’s son rushed over, his face brimming with uncontainable excitement. As the second eldest boy, he was a sunny, creative young man with a gift for drawing and painting which his parents believed was God-given. “Guess what, Hana, you’ll never guess!” he half-shouted in his glee.
Jas perked up, loving guessing games as he sat on Hana’s knee swinging his legs. “I know it, I know, you got a puppy!”
Ben looked smug. “Even better!” he grinned. Jas frowned in disbelief. There was nothing better. “I’m going to Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys,” Ben squealed. “To the Arts Academy. I’m so excited and I got my new uniform yesterday from the menswear shop because I start tomorrow.”
The child looked ready to explode and Hana’s face lit up brightly for him. She hugged him into her shoulder. “You lucky boy! Congratulations.”
Jas considered the scene with confusion. “That is better than a puppy,” he admitted. “Do you think that might happen to me?” He peered up at the older boy, looking for answers.
Ben nodded. “Yep, sure could.”
“Marvellous things happen when people pray to Hanny’s God, don’t they?” Jas looked at his grandmother and Ben smiled with indulgence.
“My dad says so,” he confirmed.
Jas nodded. “Yeah, because when I asked Jesus if I could go to my mum’s wedding without a dress, Hanny said she would buy me a suit.” Jas scratched at a scab in his hair but Ben’s eyes opened wide in horror.
“You’re going to a wedding in a dress?” His face creased in concentration.
“Not anymore,” Jas confirmed, his mind already elsewhere. His mind ran through the costume possibilities once again, veering from Superman to Darth Vader and back again. His grandmother said any suit he liked and Jas smiled at the comforting memory.
“Principal Blair came to see my dad yesterday - on a Saturday!” Ben repeated to Hana, still hopping from foot to foot. “He said there’s a space for me. He created it specially.”
“Wow,” said Hana, maintaining her smile but realising it sounded a little fishy.
“It’s all paid for,” the boy said, hugging himself with excitement. “My uniform and everything is paid for. It’s a new scholarship, look.” He handed over a well-thumbed leaflet and Hana looked at its glossy cover, comprehension blossoming in her chest. She fought the ready tears which threatened to stain the precious leaflet and kept silent, waiting for the emotion to subside.
‘The Reuben Scholarship,’ it declared boldly, over a coloured photograph of the school frontage, ‘is for boys who should not be denied their dreams.’ Inside the front folded cover, the hastily typed words explained the scholarship could be for any subject and would continue throughout the recipient’s school career. The boy would be required to achieve ‘B’ grades or above across all classes, not just his scholarship strength. Good behaviour was a requirement and the recipient of the Reuben Scholarship would receive a mentor to ensure their continued success.
“Guess who my mentor is?” Ben asked, his eyes bugging with passion as he waited for Hana to digest his good fortune.
“I’ve no idea,” Hana shrugged. “Tell us?”
Jas stood up and leaned closer, his body as near to Ben’s as possible, in case the good news rubbed off on him too.
“Mr Blair himself!” Ben said, pursing his lips in barely contained joy. He hopped up and down on the stop.
“Whoa!” Jas inhaled sharply, thinking of the formidable Scotsman with the bright orange hair and scary, patterned ties. “Lucky!”
Hana couldn’t think of a suitable answer, but the leaflet shook in her hand as she hugged Ben again. Tears pricked her eyes and her voice wobbled. “Congratulations, Ben. I’m thrilled for you.”
The boy nodded with embarrassed at the tears in Hana’s eyes and returned to his stepfather. Allen chatted to an elderly congregation member and slipped his arm protectively around Ben’s shoulders in a natural reaction. Catching Hana’s eye he smiled and gave a small salute with his free hand. Hana found it difficult to smile back, recognising the understanding in the cleric’s eyes. Taking charity was difficult for anyone but Logan’s sleight of hand made it impossible to refuse. Hana fingered the leaflet in her fingers and bent down to Jas. “Sweetheart, please could you return this to Ben?” she asked.
Jas nodded, taking the paper in careful fingers. His brown eyes pierced her soul. “Hanny, I wonder how Mr Blair knowed all about that boy. Do you think he’ll know all about me when it’s my turn?”
Hana looked at the small boy’s desperate face and sought to release him from his panic. She cupped his olive cheek in her hand. “Jas, you’re the son of an Old Boy of the school and it gives you special rights. You won’t need a scholarship because we’ll find the money for you, if that’s what you still want. You don’t need worry about far away things right now. Ok?”
Jas looked up at his grandmother and smiled with relief, moving his head to place a kiss in her palm. “You know Hanny, you’re the best sorter-outer in the whole wide world!” He grinned. “I just have to bring all my problems to you and you’ll make them go away.” He beamed up at her; his baby teeth glinting in his little face and decided she was the most-beautiful person he knew. He skipped back to reunite Ben with the treasured leaflet and caught sight of his poppa over by the organ.
Jas stopped and made his choice. He’d stand next to his mother and be the best groomsman that ever lived. And he’d dress as the smartest and most-courageous superhero in his young world.
Jas pulled his favourite doll from his shorts pocket and kissed the end of Action Man’s nose. “I’m gonna be Poppa Logan,” he whispered to the impassive, plastic face.
James repaired Action-Man-snot-maker, returning him in perfect working order. The schoolboy had somehow dismembered the doll, washed and dried his joints and reassembled him. The unfortunate biro tattoos were gone and the facial scar replaced with indelible pen, smaller and more accurate. “Youse really looks like Poppa Logan now,” Jas beamed proudly.
The only cause for alarm was an unrealistic mop of jet black hair affixed to the doll’s head with superglue. Jas seemed thrilled but Logan wasn’t, especially as Jas told everyone the doll was a mini-Logan. Jas beamed at the little khaki knitted outfit his doll wore, another surprise from the gifted James. He put the gruff looking doll to his mouth and whispered into its ear, “Soon as we get out of here, I’m gonna to see if I can pinch Mummy’s red food colouring. Then we can make you bleed like Poppa too.” He wandered off in search of the biscuit tray, weaving in and out of the adult bodies like a heat seeking missile.
Hana observed her grandson as he followed the lady with the biscuit tray. Her eyes settled on Logan as he chatted to a group of admiring women on the other side of the room. Hana bit her lip as she appraised his muscular physique and the way his neat butt sat in the blue jeans. He arrived to give Hana a ride home, finding himself snagged by the older ladies who were desperate to meet him. One eye looked half closed, shrouded in purple and black bruising and he moved stiffly to avoid jarring painful, broken ribs. The cut on his temple healed slowly. Everything about Logan healed slowly.
Hana saw him glance at her looking for rescue. A sense of mischief made her smirk and wave, leaving him to be interrogated by the pensioners and Logan produced an obscene gesture behind his back. “Naughty!” Hana whispered to herself. “Especially in church, babe.”
Phoenix bounced around the congregation, unperturbed by the constantly changing arms which clutched her, but Logan struggled to tune into the conversation before him. He coveted his beautiful wife through narrowed eyes, watching as she stood alone, her summer skirt moving lightly in the breeze and her red hair drifting behind her. The look on her face seemed serene and devoid of recent agonies.
Logan sighed with contentment and the elderly parishioner before him altered her gaze to include Hana. She smiled and moved away from the imposing Mā
ori, leaving him to his thoughts of love.
As Hana grew more into herself, stepping into power within the Du Rose order, Logan found peace and settled into a steady rhythm that was formerly the stuff of dreams. His girl-on-the-train met every need in him and he found love and happiness exactly where he always expected to find it - with her.
“Where did you go while I was at church?” Hana asked as they fitted Phoenix’s car seat into the back of the Honda.
“Here.” Logan lifted the sleeve of his tee shirt to bear his muscular shoulder, exposing a white medical dressing on his upper arm.
“What happened?!” Hana’s eyes widened with fear.
“This.” Logan peeled off the white gauze and showed her his morning’s work.
The tattoo which swirled around his shoulder had been extended further down his arm, hugging the bottom of Logan’s substantial bicep. In beautiful italic script were the words, Hana-Phoenix-Tama-Du-Rose, nestled beneath the swirls and whirls representing Logan’s precious whakapapa, his heritage. It completed it like a border and Logan smiled at Hana, his anguish over. Hana smiled and traced the outline of her name with her eyes.
Logan scooped her into his arms and pressed her back against the vehicle, his lips turning upwards in his lopsided smile. “When I look at my beautiful, sassy wife, I see the frightened eighteen-year-old girl of my dreams, her round belly rubbing against her yellow dress on the dingy tube train and her green eyes filling with tears.” Logan punctuated his words with a tender kiss. “I vowed then I’d find her and give her something to smile about.”
“You have,” Hana whispered.
Logan nodded. “Yeah, but I never expected you’d make me smile in return. You’ve given me everything you’ve got, Hana Du Rose and I’m indebted to you.”
“You’re not going to say, ‘skillet to the nuts’ again, are you?” Annoyance worked its way into Hana’s soft expression. “It’s getting old.”
Logan smirked. “I’ll never mention it again,” he promised.
“The tattoo’s beautiful,” Hana complimented him, a sheen of happiness in her green eyes. “There’s something quite sexy about having my name indelibly on your body.” She smiled coyly at her husband.
He snuffed a gentle laugh and pulled her into him, kissing her on the lips in a tentative, seeking action. “Why not? You’re a woman of more depth than I could ever have imagined.” His lips twitched.
Hana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the skillet queen,” she groaned. She pushed at Logan’s chest and narrowed her eyes.
“I never said a word!” he chuckled. “I’m good for my promises.”
“You’d better be!” she warned. “Drive me home, Du Rose. I fed your daughter in the service and while she’s asleep, I need to do a strip search to find other places to put my signature.”
“Yes, miss!” Logan nipped the soft skin of his wife’s neck and climbed into the car, anticipation building as he started the engine. He shook his head and plugged into the sense of release he experienced in the tattoo shop, surrounded by the buzzing guns of Māori craftsmen plying their traditional trade.
As he sat in the tattoo artist’s chair, watching the needle inscribe the precious names into his skin, a feeling of satisfaction settled on his heart, knowing he underestimated Hana. At fourteen years old, Logan Du Rose never understood how the frightened, pregnant teen opposite would one day wield the power to take his dangerous, latent anger and turn it into love.
“The new Du Rose matriarch has reformed me,” Logan breathed in Hana’s ear, settling his naked body over hers in the double bed. “Only you could do that. My house will become an honest one for our daughter,” he promised.
“I hope so,” Hana whispered, running her hands over her husband’s lithe form. “I can’t live with anything less.”
“Show me where you want these other signatures,” Logan whispered, his breath tickling Hana’s ear. She giggled and arched her neck, narrowing her eyes as her fingers strayed.
“It might take me a while to decide,” she threatened. “There’s so many bruises.”
“I don’t mind a few attempts.” Logan smiled coyly, his eyes sultry and full of promise.
Logan’s grandmother was right to mark him out as the one to build a new legacy. Out of dishonesty, infidelity and cruelty, he forged the roots of something fresh and clean. Much of the change was attributed locally to the influence of the new Mrs Du Rose, who worshipped a different God to those selfish idols previously given houseroom - power, violence and superiority.
And all was well, for a while.
Exodus 20:5 “You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”
If you enjoyed The New Du Rose Matriarch, check out this sample chapter of
One Heartbeat
The crowd gathered in McDonald’s restaurant on Greenwood Street in Hamilton, the epicentre of New Zealand’s North Island. The staff were not happy, descended upon by a group of more than twenty without notice, but they coped with the relentless orders for their particular brand of sustenance. The group was jubilant, having just won their soccer game against the staff and old boys of another local school and the men were dirty from rolling around in the mud, allegedly in pursuit of the ball.
“That was so funny,” chortled an amply built woman with a mop of damp blonde curly hair. “When those little boys started shouting ‘Dad, Dad,’ half of both teams stopped to look!” She chuckled happily, distracted by a short dumpy man in a pair of extremely short shorts, who had just ordered a supersized cheeseburger. “No, Peter North!” she said, bouncing up behind him, “Have you forgotten our diet?” She ordered him a chicken salad with a fruit bag and he came away from the counter looking disgruntled.
“I’ve run around for ninety minutes, Henrietta,” he whined, “surely that will have burnt off enough calories?”
The large woman was considerably smaller than when she began the year, her efforts paying off. She put her arm around the little man and ruffled his fluffy sandy hair which amusingly parted at the back of his head. They went off to the side to allow the other members of the group to order their food.
The team gathered in a large seating area which allowed them to all sit at one long table, where they continued their excited conversational buzz. The men who had played the beautiful game wore an unpleasant brand of soil, largely found on the pitches of the Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys soccer ground that had once been a swamp. It was the oldest school in the city, forged on flax fields when the town was in its fledgling beginnings as a garrison, stationed around the Waikato River. The game was conducted during an unpleasant bout of horizontal rain and the players looked as though they had been alternately doused and dunked. The spectators looked marginally better, having hidden under umbrellas and latterly in their vehicles as the rain pelted them cruelly.
Last through the door was a stunning redhead carrying a little girl of around six months old. The woman’s auburn hair reached her waist and flickered under the harsh strip lights. She was thin and elegant despite the waterproof jacket and jeans that buried her under layers of warmth. Her eyes were so green that they were almost emerald in colour. The baby was dry and took in the lights and bustle of the place with interest. The tiny girl was part Māori, yet had the most unusual grey eyes which glittered and shone as she calmly observed her surroundings.
“Logan and Hana are here,” Henrietta observed, standing up to attract their attention. “Get some food and come over,” she called to the redhead and the whole restaurant winced at her volume.
Appearing suddenly through the sliding doors came a giant of a man, around six foot three or four. He possessed such presence, that several other customers nearby stopped eating their burgers and stared at him momentarily. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, dark h
air and dark features on an impressive physique. No-one would have denied the Māori heritage which oozed out of him as confidence and satisfaction with his lot. He had mana and nobody doubted it.
He wore the same strip as the other players; black shorts with a black and white striped shirt displaying the letters of his team, ‘WPSB Staff and Old Boys’ in a round red insignia on the breast. The back of his shirt read ‘Du Rose’ and a number four. He ran his hands through his soaked hair and smiled at the redhead by the doors as rain water dripped down his face. She reached up and wiped the water away, laughing at him. “You’re soaked.” Her English accent was different from the cacophony of New Zealand vowels around her as she said, “Pity the changing rooms were locked. You all needed a good shower.”
Intense grey eyes the same as the baby’s shone out of the newcomer’s face as he turned a hundred watt smile on her and his daughter. They ordered fizzy drinks at the counter and took their tray to sit with the noisy crowd.
“Hana did you see my goal?” a young man shouted from the other end of the table to the redhead. He shared similar features to the tall, dark man with her and she smiled back at him.
“Yes Tama, it was spectacular. I didn’t know you’d been practicing scoring with your backside!”
Everyone on the table began laughing and talking at once.
“Did you all see Pete’s?” cried Henrietta, proudly patting him on the head and almost dunking his face into his salad.
“That was an own goal!” Tama shouted down the table and Pete looked embarrassed.
Henrietta bridled in her boyfriend’s defence, “Well, really!” she huffed. “If the groundsman had turned up, poor Pete wouldn’t have had to play!”
