by Lark, Sarah
“Come along,” she said to Atamarie while she forced her son into a chair, eyeing the wounds on his face. “We’ll clean those first. Miss, you can hold the water bowl.”
Atamarie dutifully did as she was told. If this was a test of her squeamishness, she had nothing to fear. It did not bother her that the water in the bowl slowly turned red while Sarah Pearse cleaned out her son’s cuts with gauze. Richard flinched when she rubbed a salve onto it. Atamarie likewise made a face. Her grandfather used the same stuff on his horses and sheep—it burned like fire.
Sarah Pearse then pulled off her son’s shoe and sock in order to bandage the foot, which had swelled up. During all of this, she spoke to him incessantly.
“You need to stop this nonsense, Dicky. The whole neighborhood’s already talking, you know, and it hurts me to hear them call you ‘crazy.’ You have a nice farm. You could make something of it—and what a cute girl you’ve won over.” Richard’s mother gave Atamarie a warm smile. “You’ll absolutely have to tell me more about yourself, Atamarie. May I call you that? I imagined you quite differently. I thought you were Maori. But that’d’ve been fine by me, you know. So long as my Richard finds a girl. I think a woman would ground him, so to speak.”
Richard shot Atamarie a pleading look, but she was too busy digesting the news that Richard had been talking about her to worry about Mrs. Pearse thinking her halfway to being a housewife on Richard’s dilapidated farm. Atamarie was most certainly not going to ground anyone.
“You’ll stay for dinner, of course, Atamarie. I want to get to know you. We’ll find a bed for you too. There’s no way of getting back to Timaru tonight. Dicky, we’re going to keep you here too. Joe’ll have to ride over and feed your animals.”
Atamarie swallowed. Mrs. Pearse might want to play matchmaker, but surely in the pakeha fashion. If things continued like this, there would not be any lovemaking—nor investigation of the stalled-out motor. But, for now, Atamarie smiled kindly at Mrs. Pearse, thanked her for the invitation, and then helped set the table. Unsurprisingly, Sarah Pearse was an exceptional cook and was not to be thrown off by surprise guests. Only then did Atamarie realize how hungry she was. Mrs. Pearse watched happily as she filled her plate with mashed potatoes, beans, and roast, and then cleaned it.
Richard, in contrast, picked at his food and barely said a word the whole meal. The unsuccessful flying attempt seemed to have discouraged him—that or the lively conversation, which at first focused again on his “crazy ideas” before shifting to subjects like harvests and reseeding. Mr. Pearse held forth about Richard’s failings while his wife tried to learn more about Atamarie’s family. What she heard seemed to please her, though Atamarie’s grandparents’ farm interested her considerably more than Matariki’s position as school director or Kupe being a member of Parliament.
“How nice that you practically grew up on a farm,” Sarah Pearse said, “but you won’t inherit the land, will you?”
Atamarie almost choked on her food, shocked at the question’s indiscreetness. She was tempted to claim they would have to sell the farm to finance her engineering studies, but then bit her tongue. There was nothing to be gained by being insolent to the Pearses.
“My uncle Kevin doesn’t have any interest in sheep,” she emphasized with a glance at Richard. “But his brother Patrick studied agriculture and is going to take over the farm one day. Kevin is a doctor.”
With this, she unintentionally brought the conversation around to Richard’s brother Tom, about whom Sarah and Digory both gushed. This gave Richard some respite from his father’s recriminations. Atamarie wondered why the young engineer struggled so. Digory Pearse was speaking of hiring harvest workers and directing maintenance—simple organizational tasks that she thought herself plenty capable of. Yet Richard did not seem to have much of a knack for either farm management or getting along with his neighbors. Atamarie gleaned from the conversation that Peterson was the most sympathetic. The others complained about the noise his machines made, the weeds that spread from his fields, and the animals that got loose.
“Fred Hansley told me recently he’s not going to lend you his hay tedder again.” Digory Pearse now grew heated again—the conversation had switched back from Tom’s achievements to Richard’s failures. “And that the ‘improvements’ you made last year—”
“He wouldn’t let me explain them,” Richard complained. “It was quite simple and much more effective. The whole thing rotated better. You just had to—”
“You’d better see where you can scrounge up another tedder, or you’ll have to turn the hay by hand,” his father warned.
Richard hung his head and pushed his food around his plate. In the end, everyone sighed with relief when Sarah Pearse cleared the table. She, at least, seemed content. Atamarie Turei was clearly in the running as a wife for her son. Surely, the young woman would trade her strange studies for a farmhouse and some nice children.
For her part, Atamarie was happy when she could at last take refuge in a small but well-kept bedroom—probably once belonging to the wonderful Tom. On the wall hung various pennants from agriculture exhibitions. Plaques and trophies proclaimed sporting victories. Atamarie wondered whether they had allowed Richard to display his little inventions in his room. She felt increasingly sorry for her friend. It was good for him that she, at least, had passed his mother’s examination. She congratulated herself on her diplomacy: she had not mentioned her dream of flight.
Chapter 7
The next morning, there was a hearty breakfast with more depressing conversation. Finally, Mr. Pearse drove his son and Atamarie back to Richard’s farm, then launched right into another tirade when his horses shied in front of the flying machine, which was still stuck in the hedge. He continued while he steered his team into the yard. “This place looks like a junkyard. It’s past time to throw this trash away. And see to it you get the harvest organized! Shall I take you straight to the train station, Miss Turei?”
Atamarie was startled. Digory Pearse had scarcely said a word to her.
“No, thank you. I’ll stay here a bit. Richard, well, we haven’t gotten a chance to talk. He still hasn’t properly shown me his aeroplane.”
Digory snorted. “Fine. But the train leaves at twelve. If you want to pull that contraption out of the hedge, you might miss it.” He fixed the young woman with a look between questioning and disapproving.
Atamarie squared herself and withstood his gaze. “Then I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” she said. “There is still quite a bit to do here, anyway.”
Without waiting for Digory’s reply, she grabbed her rucksack and hopped down, walking toward the house. Richard followed, sighing with relief. After he fished the house key out from under the soiled welcome mat and opened the door for Atamarie, however, he looked uneasy again.
“My parents will think—”
Atamarie glanced into the house, which was as shabby as the yard. But then she looked back to Richard, who seemed anxious and beaten, and seeing him like that touched her heart. Atamarie looked up at him mischievously and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Let them,” she said.
Atamarie kissed Richard in his run-down kitchen and was thrilled when he returned the kiss. Then, she set about cleaning a bit while he harnessed two horses to remove the aeroplane’s wreck from the hedge. It was not particularly difficult. The heaviest thing about it was the motor.
“It needs to be lighter,” Atamarie observed when what was left of the flying machine finally stood in the hangar. Richard had chased the animals back out in short order. “Or the wings need to be bigger. The wheels are a good idea, but pulling it with horses—”
“It’s been done with gliders before,” Richard said. “And see, you need to bridge the time until the motor kicks in.”
“But the motor could just drive the aeroplane from the start, like an automobile,” Atamarie offered. “And only then lift off. You’d have to be able to steer it too.”
&nb
sp; The two of them discussed the problem extensively until the door opened and Mr. Peterson drove in Richard’s pigs and goats.
“Damn it, Dick, lock up your animals! They were in my garden again. Joan is beside herself. This can’t go on.”
Richard nodded, agreed, and thanked his neighbor. Then he returned immediately to the subject of highly charged magnetic ignition.
“I’m simply not satisfied with the contact breaker point connection as Woods built it. The construction of the spark plug—”
Atamarie raised her eyebrows. “Richard? I think we need to focus on building a hogpen first.”
By the evening of their first day together on the farm, Atamarie and Richard had built secure sheds for the animals. Put more precisely, she hammered together the pens while Richard developed a groundbreaking new locking technique based on a system of ratchet levers and braces. The clever goats would surely not be able to open these locks as they could the usual simple latches.
Brilliant,” Atamarie observed. “Make a few more tomorrow and give them to Peterson as an apology. He can secure his garden gate with them.”
While Richard fed the animals, she combed through his weed-infested garden for something edible, ultimately finding a few carrots and potatoes, as well as plenty of beans, and making a soup. It was nothing special, but Richard hardly seemed to notice what he ate. In fact, he did not stop talking about the advantages of the simple kite system over the double-decker until Atamarie finally stood up, loosing her hair with light, natural movements and moving to open her blouse.
Richard looked at her with big eyes. “Atamie, you—I—are you sure you really want to?”
Atamarie smiled. “What does it look like?”
Richard turned away. “Atamarie, you don’t know me,” he said quietly.
Atamarie furrowed her brow. “Of course I do. You’re like me.”
He shook his head. “I’m not, Atamarie, believe me. I’ll disappoint you.”
Atamarie snuggled against his back. “Because you’ve disappointed everyone else?” she asked gently. I’m not like your parents. I don’t want a farm. I don’t even want to get married. Just you, Richard, I just want you.”
Richard turned around to face her. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said.
Atamarie smiled. “You mean this mess here? We’ll put that in order quickly. So, you’re not a born farmer. But, with a little help—”
“I’m no good for you, Atamie. I’m no good for anybody.” Richard’s voice sounded throaty, resigned.
Atamarie shook her head. “Oh, you’re good for me,” she whispered. “You’re my gift from the gods.”
Richard smiled now, too, weakly but hopefully. “If you really think so,” he murmured, and pulled her into his arms.
Atamarie did think so, and she thought of the wisdom the god Tawhaki gave humans and the beauty of the earth they owed to the god Tane. She did not think of Pandora’s box.
Richard Pearse proved to be an exceptionally tender, slow, and thoughtful lover. Atamarie had feared she would have to encourage him again in bed and then wouldn’t know what she was doing herself. Richard, however, led Atamarie to fulfillment with all the patience, solicitousness, and care she had hoped for. Atamarie briefly wondered where he had gotten his obvious experience. In Christchurch during his brief studies? The country girls of the Waitohi Plains surely did not go to bed with their neighbors’ sons. At least not without a promise of marriage. Whence arose the question of why Richard still did not have a wife, or at least a fiancée. Did the girls not want to marry him, or had he refused them? Had his reputation and gloomy misgivings scared them off? Atamarie decided that he had simply waited for his soul mate—her. That night, she fell asleep happily in his arms, dreaming of more lovemaking in the morning. Richard, however, was up before the cock crowed, brimming with energy.
“I need to look at the carburetor again,” he declared. “That stalling, it might have to do with the valve. The air-to-fuel mixture isn’t constant.”
Atamarie frowned. “Did you think of that while—”
“While we were making love? No, of course not, Atamie. Only, um, later. I, uh, don’t need much sleep. But don’t you think that could be it? The fact is, a thicker mixture . . .”
Atamarie sighed and climbed out of bed. She did find carburetors exciting, but so early in the morning—and after that night? But Richard no longer had eyes for her. By the time she had dressed and come into the kitchen, he had already made coffee but was in no mood to breakfast cozily with her. He quickly downed a cup of the strong, black brew and rushed to his workshop. Atamarie was shaking after the first sip. She needed bread and butter. There had to be flour somewhere, and the chickens must lay eggs.
On her way to the coop, she realized Richard had forgotten to feed the animals. She would have to put some things here in order.
Over the next few days, Atamarie put Richard’s farm to rights. In addition to cleaning the house and caring for the animals, she visited Joan Peterson, his neighbor, apologized for the escaped animals, and haggled with her for vegetables, butter, and milk.
“Long term, you’ll have to get your own garden working. Well, if you plan to stick around,” the bustling farmer’s wife said, offering seeds and starter plants.
Atamarie remained coy with regard to her and Richard’s undeveloped future plans. She accepted the plants with thanks but did not bother planting them. Richard would not maintain the garden afterward, and she did not plan to stay long. As intimate as her relationship with Richard was growing, she was determined to finish her studies before she even thought of starting a family. And then, she most definitely did not want to live on a farm. But that would work itself out later. First, Richard’s harvest needed to be brought in and his chaotic housekeeping brought under control.
So, Atamarie inquired about harvest workers. However, Peterson had been right: there really weren’t any left. The other farmers were already cutting their grain and flapping their gums about the failings of Cranky Dick. Luckily, there was a Maori tribe settled nearby, and Atamarie went over to hire some men to work for Richard. The women gladly helped her out with sweet potatoes and other vegetables—in exchange for Joan Peterson’s seeds and starter plants. With reference to the farm work, however, some consultation with the elders was necessary—and, to her surprise, the Ngai Tahu proved astoundingly well informed about Richard Pearse, his dreams, and also his problems. Waimarama, one of the old women, knew him as Birdman.
“He was here once,” she declared. “After Matariki this year. He had seen the kites. Then, he came from deep darkness. But through the manu, he found his way to the light again. He seeks to touch the gods. But he does not know what he’s doing.”
Atamarie smiled indulgently. “But he does, tupuna. When it comes to technology, he’s a tohunga.”
Waimarama nodded amicably. “He is that, no doubt, child. But Rangi will decide for himself to whom he opens his heart.”
Atamarie smiled. “The sky god should be happy when any of his children come to visit! Then he would not have to cry all the time.” After the beautiful weather the day before, that day she had been forced to ride through long threads of summer rain to reach the Maori village. “We’d also bring Rangi greetings from Papa.”
Waimarama looked slightly disapproving at Atamarie’s blasphemous expression, but then held up her wise hand as if in blessing.
“Perhaps Rangi is also crying for your friend. For the darkness all around him,” she said patiently. “You don’t sense it, but it threatens him. That is why he strives for Rangi’s light.”
Atamarie did not understand the tohunga’s remarks, but she sighed with relief when the elders assented to her request. The very next day, three stocky, young Maori men appeared on Richard’s farm. Though they spoke only broken English, they were glad for the work. Richard welcomed them, then disappeared promptly into the barn. Fortunately, reaping and threshing machines were nothing new for Hamene, Koraka, and K
uri. They set about harnessing the horses at once.
Naturally, Richard’s neighbors began to gossip about the new arrivals. Maori men sometimes did things differently than pakeha, and the other farmers worked themselves up about that. Richard, however, ignored their criticism and did not tell his workers how to do their job. He worked dutifully alongside them and toiled just as hard as any other farmer. Still, his thoughts were not with wheat and corn but with the spark plugs and carburetors he would return to as soon as the day’s farming was done. Richard lived for his inventions, a fact the Maori man observed with equanimity and reverence.
“Dick tohunga,” one of the workers explained to a flabbergasted Toby Peterson. “Build machines. Must speak to many spirits.”
Atamarie did not care about Richard’s ineptitude as a farmer, but his behavior did sometimes puzzle her. They made love every night, often for hours. Richard seemed not to be able to get enough of her, and Atamarie shared his passion. Beneath Richard’s caresses, she forgot her exhaustion. After making love, she snuggled in his arms, happy and content as a child, and would have slept like one if Richard had not tossed and turned all night. After another sleepless night, he always got up in the early hours, disappearing into the barn with his motors.
The first few nights, this annoyed her a bit—for one, she did not like sleeping alone, and for two, she would have liked having a part in the development of the motors. Then, however, she began to worry about the fact that he never seemed to sleep. It was getting eerie. Atamarie told herself he must nap in the fields during the day. The Maori workers couldn’t confirm that, but then again, they did not constantly have eyes on their employer.
Reluctantly, Atamarie took on the duties of a farmer’s wife, and Richard accepted her unskillful attempts at homemaking without complaint. At the same time, neither did he show any enthusiasm when something did turn out well, such as the chicken pies she prepared out of necessity when he absentmindedly ran over a chicken with a crop wagon. Richard shoveled the food down and then returned wordlessly to his work. Atamarie could only hope that things would get better when the harvest was over and they could devote themselves together to his flying machine. She already had lots of ideas about wings and, most of all, the propeller. People always assumed it had to sit to the rear of the machine, but one could just as easily attach it to the front. Atamarie would have loved to present this idea to Richard at once, but she was afraid he might drop everything and disappear into the barn for days or weeks. He had done that once after Atamarie had asked a question regarding the air-to-fuel mixture in the carburetor, which had given him an explosive idea—in the truest sense of the word.
