Mrs Burtt nodded, then looked at something beyond him. ‘Thank you, Reverend,’ she said.
‘God bless you,’ said Marcus.
But she had already turned, and not to talk to other members of the congregation but simply to finish the conversation with Marcus, it seemed. With her hands down at her sides she went away.
Marcus spoke to some others, then conferred with Williams on when they would next meet on administrative matters concerning Te Awanui. Then he went up the pā to speak to Burtt’s teachers. The walk took him past the mission whare, and at the back of the small house he caught sight of Pono yarded in a pen of mānuka poles, where he had nothing but hard mud and chewed-down plants to eat. Yet the horse was nibbling at the scant plants all the same, and Marcus almost laughed to see Pono doing that, to see his lips groping out so valiantly. He whistled and the horse looked up, his ears circling and ready, and Marcus felt some of his own tension leave his body. For this short moment he was unrequired by the people, by anybody, and he spent it watching the horse and anticipating his trip back down the coast in a day’s time, with luck, or in two. He looked forward to the solitude of it, to the communion only with his horse and the lightly worn trail.
ALL OUR FRIENDS AND GHOSTS
I should have known it was a haunt of ghosts. My stepson had told me as much. One night out riding with him I’d cycled into the shortcut, when he skidded and stood astride his small bike.
‘No, Michael,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’
I was already halfway down the lane. It ran alongside a replanted creek—really an old drain, tarted up—and when I looked back at him, mist from the drain wisped in between us. It was dusk.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘Ghosts.’
‘What? Who says?’
‘Everyone,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows there’s ghosts.’
His face was very serious, so I tried not to laugh. Instead I looked up and down the lane, then beckoned him towards me. ‘Come on, mate. It’s all right. There’s no ghosts. And we’re going to be late. Your mum will kill me.’
But he wouldn’t budge. Parked right up the end of the lane by the street, he was head-down and sulking behind his helmet. I’d never drag him down the creek. I gave up and was turning my bike when something shuddered past—a whisper of something, a jolt and change of temperature, a waft of aniseed on the cold draft. I felt fingers play on my neck, tickling down from my ear round my throat.
‘Jesus,’ I said, and shivered.
I looked both ways along the lane, but saw only the midges, the steam rising through the gathering dark, and my stepson holding his bike. I shivered again.
This time the boy’s voice was plaintive. ‘Michael. Please come back.’
I tried to reply but couldn’t—my throat was blocked. When my voice came back it was brusque. ‘All right,’ I said, coming towards him. ‘But you can explain to your mum why we’re late.’
‘She knows too,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows there’s ghosts here. It’s a kēhua place, after dark. There’s a book in the library at school.’
‘Sure there is.’ I shuddered again and pushed beyond him into the street and the light. ‘Get on your bike, please. We’re going to be late.’
That was the first encounter—the first warning, as I later interpreted it. The next came in hot, bright daylight, midway through the afternoon as I raced for the train station and on to work. I worked for the council, and part of my job was to act as the clerk for council meetings in Porirua. Meetings were held after five so the public could attend, so on meeting days I could start late too. But still I managed, half the time, to be late for the train. I was careering up the lane on my mountain bike, when I rounded a toe-toe and almost collided with the ghost.
She wasn’t ethereal or floating or scary. She was brisk and pissed-off, walking firmly in my direction up the path. In that moment I was sure I recognised her—the Edwardian and moth-eaten clothes, the hair elegantly done up—before I skidded to avoid her, then crashed into the fence.
She stopped too and turned, then walked back to look at me.
‘Mr Hunt,’ she said.
For a time I was too stunned to reply. I had recognised her.
‘Well?’ she said, peering from behind her sharp nose.
‘Mrs—Mrs Reeves?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunt.’
I untangled myself from my bike, set my helmet right on my head. ‘Do you need help?’ I said. ‘Do you know where you are?’
A severity came into her face. ‘No, I don’t need help. And yes, I know where I am. I know who you are too. In fact you’re the man I’m seeking, Mr Hunt. I was en route to your house, just now.’
I swallowed against a flutter of panic. I knew for a fact that she had died sixty years back.
‘Well, I’m honoured,’ I said. ‘But is it urgent? Could you come back tomorrow? I’m late for work.’
‘No, it can’t wait.’
At this point a bubble car went past on the street, a local politician canvassing through a megaphone for election votes. Still with her eyes on me, Maud cocked an ear to listen to the amplified voice. The candidate was female, and for a moment I thought I saw a wistfulness pass over the ghost’s face—a yearning hope or regret. Then the car was gone and the voice faded off, and she shook her head and advanced on me again with her finger held out.
‘You will talk with me, Mr Hunt. Because you’ve made the application, haven’t you.’
I winced and looked away.
‘Time to talk turkey, Mr Hunt.’
‘Today isn’t the best day,’ I said. ‘I have to clerk a council meeting. I really can’t be late.’
‘I know you’ve applied,’ she said. ‘You can’t hide it. You’re obliged to talk to me. I’ve come quite some distance.’
‘I appreciate that, but I’m catching a train.’
‘Get off your bike.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ll dub you—get off your bike.’ With an impatient gesture, she shooed me from the handlebars and straddled the bike.
‘Sit back,’ she said. ‘Quick now. Hold onto my back.’
I eased onto the seat, put my hands on her jacket, and tried not to recoil. The ancient cloth was dotted with moth-holes, and in places tiny spiderwebs laced across the stitch. Now that I was so close to her, I caught the strong scent of aniseed.
‘Don’t be gentle,’ she said. ‘I cycle fast. Hold tight.’
She pushed off then, and we whizzed down the lane and onto Matai Road. She was indeed a good cyclist, and we were soon among the Paraparaumu shops. She didn’t look to left or right, wasn’t taken by the lights of Harvey Norman or the noise of Dick Smith. Instead she pressed on to the underpass and up to the bike lockers. While I locked up the bike, she surveyed the station, wiping a dew of sweat from her temples and fanning air at her armpits. She was heavily dressed for November, in a well-tailored but heavy skirt, plus a blouse and jacket. She was forty-plus, and attractive—I’d always thought that from the photos, and now it was true in the flesh. But the heat from the cycling sent her peculiar fragrance out from her body in a cloud, and it was strangely intoxicating. It made me want to get close. As if catching the thought, she turned with a strange gloating look, and I glanced away.
We’d missed my intended train but if the next was on time I would only be half an hour late, cutting down my time for set-up before the meeting, but not disastrously. I paced the platform until the train came in, then took the window seat, the ghost sitting right beside me. The first scenery went past, and I swallowed against a pent-up flood of fear and excitement. Maud Pember Reeves was sitting beside me. Her ghost, at least. It was a thrill. But in a way it wasn’t unexpected. Part of me had been waiting for this. She was the star of my website Fabian Life, which in the past year had completely taken off. Somehow my mix of Fabian trivia and games, retro-cool posturing, and the odd dash of heavyweight history to back it all up, had captured a stray offshoot of
the steampunk community and other hipster nostalgics who trawled the internet. It had been giddying, the past year and a half. The blog alone had followers from all over—Adelaide, Chicago, York. And now Maud was sitting beside me, my all-time Fabian favourite. Maybe I could interview her. What a great post that would make.
The ghost interrupted these thoughts. ‘So you’ve applied now,’ she said. ‘The blog and tweets and God knows what weren’t enough. The games. The fairground ride you’ve made of our whole movement—of the best minds of our lot.’
‘Have you read all of the blog?’ I said. ‘Have you read my essays?’
‘I forced myself through it, yes.’
‘Well, with respect, the games are a gateway—’
‘That’s your claim, certainly,’ she said. ‘That’s how you justify it. The fairground leads to the library, and to the lecture hall. Yes, I know you say that.’
‘I’ve never posted that.’
‘But you’ve said it to your girlfriend,’ she said. ‘She’s heard it several times—your whole family has, I notice, in the car and at the dinner table. You’re quite the lecturer, Mr Hunt.’
I shrank back.
‘That’s right, Mr Hunt,’ she said, smoothing something off her dress. ‘I’m omniscient, so watch out.’
I gulped and looked outside as some coastline went past, then tried to backtrack. ‘It’s very exciting to meet you. I have a great respect—’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, waving this off.
‘And I admire your achievements,’ I said. ‘All you did, all you wrote and campaigned on. And although I understand your reservations about the website, it’s not wrong of me to share that enthusiasm, that respect.’
‘Admire,’ she mocked. ‘Reservations.’
I coughed and looked away.
‘But you’ve gone beyond that, Mr Hunt,’ she said. ‘You’ve applied to have me hologrammed, haven’t you. You would have my image walking the streets of Wellington, day and night, for your own entertainment.’
‘Not my entertainment,’ I said. ‘I don’t live in Wellington. Besides, your hologram would inspire people.’
‘Have you enjoyed meeting the other holograms?’ she said. ‘Have they inspired you, those dumb and hovering shapes?’
I winced. It was true the holograms did not look happy yet.
Again she seemed to pounce on my thoughts, leapfrogging beyond them. ‘They just hover there, looking miserable and demented,’ she said. ‘How inspiring is it to meet Howard Morrison’s shivering ghost?’
‘But your hologram would be different,’ I said. ‘Yours would bring intellect, Fabian debate—’
‘How would it do that,’ she said, ‘when it can’t even speak?’
I tried to indicate that she might lower her voice—several passengers had perked up their ears at the hologram talk—but she batted my hand away.
‘Answer my question, Mr Hunt.’
‘They’re working on that function right now,’ I said. ‘By the time you—your hologram—is released, holograms will be able to speak monologues, as well, and answer questions. It’s quite incredible, when you think about it, a monologue that can stop for a chat.’
‘And which words will I speak?’ she said. ‘Who will select them? Some computer geek, some IT nerd who doesn’t know the first thing about us?’
‘How do you even know those terms?’ I said. ‘They weren’t even around when you lived.’
Again she smoothed this comment off her clothes, like one of the stray threads gnawed by moths. ‘I just told you that I’m omniscient. Try to keep up, Mr Hunt. And there are limits to my omniscience, but not many, so don’t bother trying to hide anything from me, because it won’t work.’
I eased away from her, pushed her hand off my leg. Even as she told me off, she had quite openly pressed her thigh against mine, and now as I moved she gave me another taunting stroke.
I flicked her hand away, and tried not to blush.
‘Something wrong, Mr Hunt?’
‘You’re certainly not what I expected,’ I said.
‘Oh, indeed?’ she said. ‘And why should I behave my best? You’re sabotaging my life.’
I chose not to respond to this. Instead I concentrated on trying to encourage back the centre-crease of each of my trouser legs. On a council salary, drycleaning was expensive and infrequent.
‘Back to my question,’ said Maud. ‘Who will make these monologues? Who will choose the words? Will it be you? Some clerk?’
‘With respect,’ I said, ‘I’m a qualified historian. I have honours in the subject.’
‘You’re still a clerk, Mr Hunt. And it was second-class honours, don’t forget.’
‘You snob!’ I said, laughing. ‘I knew it! I knew you’d be a snob, underneath all your democratic talk.’
‘Pah! You’ve applied to have me hologrammed, Mr Hunt, so don’t climb on your high horse. You’re exploiting me cruelly. And it’s all a big advertisement for your blog, in any case.’
‘Website,’ I said. ‘Not the blog. And that’s not true, anyway. The hologram would educate people about the Fabian movement. It would encourage them to look it up. They’d see the hologram and—’ Here I was on shaky ground, and I faltered. The truth was I’d long debated whether I could justify the application. There was space allocated on each hologram for one advertisement, and that advert would drag hundreds of people to my website—and, I told myself, to other sites and books about the Fabian movement.
Maud watched me drily while these thoughts ran through my head. ‘How would you feel about it, Mr Hunt?’ she said. ‘If someone commercialised your life?’
‘That’s a bit strong,’ I said.
‘No, that’s precisely what it is,’ she said. ‘You’re exploiting everything I did—everything I suffered, too, I’ll bet—both inside the family, and out.’
‘Oh, and how about those housewives you wrote about,’ I said. ‘Housewife X and Mother Z? You were happy to share their lives. You blabbed about all their poverty and sickness, to all your rich readers and mates. You were happy to share that.’
‘That was very different, Mr Hunt,’ she said. ‘That was for their own good.’
‘Ha! Spoken like a true snob.’
Now she pointed a fierce finger at me, her face sharp. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that. You will live to regret it.’
‘Well, give me a break, then,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing anything illegal. Christ, I’m a clerk, Mrs Reeves. I take minutes. That’s the only job I could get—and I’m lucky to have it, of course—but I’ve got an honours degree. If I didn’t blog in my spare time I’d go demented. And the website might lead to something. I might better myself—and there’s a Fabian phrase for you, if ever I heard one.’
She sneered.
‘Yeah, laugh it up,’ I said, ‘but I’m a clerk on the make, Mrs Reeves. I’m a Fabian’s wet dream, for Christ’s sake. I’m bettering myself, and you don’t like it.’
‘Fabian’s wet dream,’ she said. ‘What a disgusting expression.’
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I’m just putting my education to use. I’m allowed to do that. Surely I’m allowed more in my life than wage-work for the council and grocery-shopping for my stepkid. I’m allowed another life. You’ve got no right to deny me that.’
She shook her head, recrossed her legs. ‘This is all very self-righteous, Mr Hunt. Sadly it has nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes it does,’ I said. ‘God, I didn’t expect you to be like this.’
‘Oh, and what did you expect?’ Suddenly she was up against me, her fingers on my cheek. ‘Did you expect this? This is the “close encounter” your website promises, right? This is bringing the Fabians close?’
I made to push her off, then realised she’d never actually touched me. In fact she’d projected her voice and touch, somehow, whispering up against me without moving at all. I shivered. ‘Don’t be so gross. It’s not like that.’
‘Tickle the Fabian,’ s
he said, quoting one of my website’s games. ‘Dress up George Bernard.’
‘You’re misrepresenting it,’ I said, growing hot. Two passengers in the adjacent seats were openly watching us.
Again I reared back as the ghost poked her finger in my face. ‘Withdraw the application, Mr Hunt. Withdraw it.’
‘Look, try to understand,’ I said. ‘To cancel the hologram now would cost me two thousand dollars, and more in a Creative New Zealand grant. You’re asking me to waste all that.’
In a flash she was in the centre of the carriage, standing by the emergency brake. Her hand closed round the red lever and she braced to push up. ‘Withdraw your application, Mr Hunt,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’
I gulped. Everyone was watching now.
‘But it will renew your Fabian message,’ I said. ‘We need your message now. Everybody’s poorer—well, most people are poorer. We need to hear about your message.’
‘Withdraw.’
‘Don’t let her push that,’ said a man, getting up from his seat. ‘Get down, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Stay where you are,’ said Maud. ‘He wants to make a hologram of me. That man wants me to walk the waterfront with all those others—those sportsmen, that Richard Pearse.’
‘Oh, I hate those holograms,’ said a woman. ‘It’s disgusting. We all have to suffer someone else’s fantasy life.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ I said. ‘The technology’s under development. It’s getting better with each release.’
‘Well it’s a bloody desecration at the moment,’ said the woman. ‘I never wanted to meet Peter Blake like that.’
‘Yes, but in her case,’ I said, pointing. ‘In Maud’s case—
‘In my case?’ said Maud.
I stammered as she curled and uncurled her hand round the brake.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
We were climbing between Paekākāriki and Pukerua Bay now, and a sudden view of the Tasman opened out on the right, and the ghost turned to gaze out there, entranced. ‘Oh, that’s pretty isn’t it?’ she said. A strange smile ran over her face as she said it, and I saw how capricious she might be, how casually destructive.
I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales Page 8
