Aunt Dimity Down Under

by Nancy Atherton

  I conked out before he finished putting my suitcase in the trunk and came to when he shook me firmly by the shoulder.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  At least, that’s what I thought he said. To my sleep-clogged ears, it sounded more like “Weah-heah.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I dragged myself, my shoulder bag, and my carry-on out of the car and allowed the tall blur to lead me into the brightly lit lobby of the Spencer on Byron Hotel, check me in, and board an elevator with me.

  “Who are you?” I asked stupidly, peering up at the tall blur.

  “Cameron Mackenzie,” he replied. “I’m an old friend of your husband’s.”

  “That’s right.” I nodded groggily. “Do you know what day it is? ”

  The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were suppressing a smile.

  “It’s Thursday,” he said.

  “Is it?” My attention wandered to the flashing floor numbers on the elevator’s control panel. “Are we in a skyscraper?”

  “A small one,” he said. “The Spencer has twenty-three floors.”

  “Will it fall over when the volcanoes erupt? ” I asked.

  “If the volcanoes erupt, everything will fall over,” he answered. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. The active volcanoes are—”

  “—farther south,” I finished for him. “How much farther?”

  “Far enough,” he said.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” I asked, as the elevator doors slid open.

  “Bill filled me in,” he said, steering me into the corridor. “We don’t have to discuss it now, though. You need some sleep.”

  “I do,” I agreed fervently.

  With Cameron’s help, my luggage and I made it to my suite. He deposited my suitcase on a luggage rack in the sitting room, then slipped something into my shoulder bag.

  “I’ve written my room number on the back of my card,” he said. “I’m three doors down. Give me a call after you’ve caught up with yourself.”

  “Okey-dokey,” I said.

  Cameron left and I crawled into bed, still clutching my carry-on bag.

  I passed the next two hours in blissful oblivion, then woke with a start, wondering where Bill was, why I’d gone to bed fully dressed, and if Cameron Mackenzie had been a figment of my imagination. After I’d unraveled those mysteries, I sat up in bed, reached for the telephone, and called Bill. I didn’t know what time it was in England and I didn’t care. I needed to hear my husband’s voice.

  “Did I wake you?” I asked when he answered.

  “No,” he replied, “but it wouldn’t matter if you had. For future reference, Lori, London is twelve hours behind Auckland. How was the trip?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said, stifling a yawn. “How are Ruth and Louise? ”

  “A little better,” Bill replied. “Nell said they perked up when she told them what you were doing. They requested porridge for breakfast, in addition to their usual tea and toast.”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “Cameron called to let me know you’d arrived,” Bill went on. “He said you seemed pretty jet-lagged.”

  “I think I drooled in his car,” I confessed guiltily.

  “He won’t mind,” Bill assured me. “I’ve asked him to look after you while you’re there, so if you need anything, ask him. Have you mapped out a plan for the day?”

  “After I hand the Pyms’ letter to Aubrey Pym, Junior, I intend to come back to the hotel and sleep until it’s time to fly home,” I said.

  “You’d better get going, then,” he advised. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Kiss the boys for me,” I said. “And tell William I miss him.”

  “I will,” Bill promised, and rang off.

  A wave of homesickness threatened to engulf me as I hung up the phone. I kept it at bay by opening my carry-on bag and peering down at a small, powder-pink flannel face. Reginald was used to traveling with me. He was my own personal cure for homesickness.

  “You have no idea how good it is to see you, Reg,” I said.

  I stroked his hand-sewn whiskers fondly and placed him on my bedside table, then withdrew the blue journal from the carry-on and opened it.

  “Dimity?” I said. “Weah-heah.”

  I leaned back against my pillows as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink scrolled gracefully across the page.

  I beg your pardon?

  “We’re here,” I said, reverting to my native tongue. “We’re in Auckland. It’s bigger than Upper Deeping.”

  I suspected that it might be. How do you feel, my dear?

  “Not too bad,” I said. “My brain’s a little disjointed, but I think I can take a shower without drowning.”

  Did you read up on your destination during your flights?

  “I didn’t bring a guidebook with me, Dimity. I won’t be here long enough to need one.” I looked at Reginald and sighed wistfully. “I’d planned to get my hair cut this week, not circle the globe.”

  Do try to cheer up, Lori. I, for one, am delighted to be here. I’ve always wanted to visit New Zealand. I wish we could stay long enough to explore the North Island as well as the South Island, and everything in between. The Maori name for New Zealand is Aotearoa, or Land of the Long White Cloud. Such a poetic image. The correct pronunciation of Maori, by the way, is “Mow-ree,” with the accent on the first syllable.

  “Hold on,” I said, struggling to keep up. “Who are the Maori? ”

  The Maori are the modern-day descendants of New Zealand’s original, Polynesian settlers. Europeans didn’t come into the picture until 1642, when two Dutch ships sailed into Golden Bay. A Dutch cartographer christened their discovery New Zealand, after a Dutch province. It didn’t become an English colony until 1840.

  I gaped at the journal in astonishment. “When did you become an expert on New Zealand?

  I met quite a few Kiwis in London during the war. Did you know that New Zealanders are called Kiwis because of the kiwi, a flightless bird unique to New Zealand?

  “Everyone knows about kiwis,” I said dismissively. “Did you know”—I searched my mind for a handy factoid, to prove that I wasn’t a complete ignoramus—“that Auckland was named after Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India? ” I finished triumphantly.

  I did. The soldiers I met were very proud of their homeland. They made it sound as if it had everything one could want in a small country—long stretches of unspoiled coastline, snowcapped mountains, tropical jungles . . .

  “I’m afraid we won’t have much time for sightseeing,” I said firmly. “I plan to keep my promise to the Pyms, then catch the first flight back to England.”

  Of course. The ghost of a sigh seemed to pass through the room, as if Aunt Dimity were already regretting our swift departure. How do you intend to get to Aubrey Pym’s place of residence? It’s unwise to drive a rental car when one’s brain is disjointed.

  “I won’t have to drive,” I told her. “I have a chauffeur. His name is Cameron Mackenzie. He’s a Kiwi, but he went to school with Bill, back in the States. Bill asked him to keep an eye on me while I’m here.”

  Excellent. There’s nothing quite so useful as a native guide. It’s a pity you won’t be able to utilize his services to explore the country more fully, but I understand your desire to return to your family.

  “My family isn’t the only reason I want to go home.” I paused for a moment, then gave voice to a concern that had been troubling me. “What if I never see Ruth and Louise again, Dimity? What if they die while I’m here?”

  Try not to worry overmuch about losing Ruth and Louise, Lori.

  “Dr. Finisterre said—”

  Aunt Dimity’s handwriting sped across the page before I could complete the sentence.

  If you’ll recall correctly, Dr. Finisterre refused to say how much time the Pyms have left, and he was right to do so. Ruth and Louise have always been much sturdier than they seem. I believe that they will live as long as
they need to live, and they need to live long enough to see their family made whole again. In my humble and thoroughly nonmedical opinion, your search for Aubrey will be the very thing that tethers them to life. It is time, therefore, for you to stop fretting and start moving. Ruth and Louise are counting on you!

  A genuine smile curved my lips as the lines of royal-blue ink disappeared from the page. With a few well-chosen words, Aunt Dimity had laid to rest any lingering doubts I’d had about my unexpected journey.

  “Hang in there, Ruth and Louise,” I murmured, and returned the journal to my bag.

  I met Cameron Mackenzie in the lobby an hour later. A hot shower and a room-service breakfast had cleared the cobwebs from my mind, so I was able to see him clearly for the first time. I liked what I saw. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, gray eyes, and a mouth that seemed to curve readily into a smile. His weathered face suggested that he spent a lot of time in the great outdoors, but whether for work or for play it was too soon to tell. He was dressed casually, in khaki trousers and a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, but his clothes weren’t cheap. If he worked outdoors, I thought, it was by choice, not by necessity.

  “Kia ora,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

  “Excuse me?” I said blankly.

  “Kia ora,” he repeated. “It’s a Maori phrase. A literal translation would be: ‘I wish you good health,’ but people use it for all sorts of things nowadays: hello, good-bye, good luck, cheers, welcome. In this instance, it means: Welcome to New Zealand, Lori! I welcomed you at the airport, but I don’t think it registered.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, ducking my head sheepishly.

  “I’ve seen worse.” He pulled a shiny blue cell phone and a charger out of his pocket and handed them to me. “I meant to give these to you at the airport, but I forgot. You can use the phone to call England. My number’s already programmed into it.”

  “Thanks.” I slipped his gifts into my shoulder bag and smiled up at him. “For everything, I mean. It’s lucky for me that that you and my husband are such good friends.”

  “Bill’s the best,” said Cameron. “I’d walk through fire for him.”

  “I hope helping me will be less painful,” I said.

  “I’m sure it will,” he said, laughing. He motioned toward the lobby’s glass doors. “I had them bring the car around. If you’re ready, we can be on our way.”

  “Do you know where we’re going? ” I inquired.

  He nodded. “Bill gave me the address. It’s right here, in Takapuna. That’s why I booked our rooms in the Spencer.”

  “Takapuna?” I said, frowning. “I thought we were in Auckland.”

  “Not quite. Technically, we’re in a suburb of North Shore City.” Cameron raised his hand and pointed to his right. “Auckland’s over there, across Waitemata Harbor.”

  “Kia ora, Takapuna, Waitemata . . .” I sighed. “Just when I’m getting used to your accent, you ambush me with words I can hardly pronounce. I’m a stranger in a strange land, Cameron. I thought New Zealand would be more . . . English.”

  “New Zealand is many things,” he said. “I wish you could stay long enough to see all of it, but Bill told me you were in a hurry to get home.”

  “I am.” I patted the black leather document case in my shoulder bag. “But first I have to deliver a letter. Let’s go.”

  I put on my sunglasses as we stepped out of the lobby. The sun shone brightly in a flawless blue sky, and the air was soft, moist, and scented with salt and seaweed—a reminder of how close we were to the ocean. Across the street from the Spencer, a large but tasteful sign marked the entrance to the Takapuna Lawn Bowling Club. The sign seemed to combine the Englishness I’d expected with the touch of “otherness” I’d found.

  “What a lovely day,” I said, remembering the frigid monsoon that had drenched me in Upper Deeping.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Cameron cautioned. “It’s early spring in the Southern Hemisphere. The weather can—and will—change on a dime. Here we are,” he added, unlocking the doors of a spotless silver Ford Falcon. “It’s a rental. My own vehicle isn’t quite as clean.”

  As we took our respective places in the car, I noted that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side—just like in England. I opened the window to enjoy the balmy breezes while we waited for a group of chattering passengers to board a minivan parked directly in front of us. Undismayed by the delay, Cameron turned to reach for something in the backseat and, much to my surprise, presented me with a colorful cookie tin.

  “Anzac biscuits,” he said. “Baked by my wife, Donna. ‘Anzac’ stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Legend has it that the biscuits were invented during the First World War by women who wanted to send nutritious and durable treats to their men fighting overseas. It’s Donna’s way of welcoming foreign visitors.”

  “Your wife is very kind,” I said. “Please thank her for me. Do you have children?”

  “Two boys,” he replied. “They’re not twins, like Will and Rob, but they’re only a year apart. Braden is ten and Ben is eleven.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Near Wellington,” he replied. “I’d be more specific, but I don’t want your eyes to glaze over.”

  I smiled ruefully but pressed on. “What job am I tearing you away from? ”

  “I train horses,” said Cameron, confirming my hunch about the outdoorsy nature of his occupation. “And you’re not tearing me away from anything. According to my wife, I’m in dire need of a holiday.”

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my sons with me,” I said. “They’d want you to go back to work straightaway. They love horses.”

  “I know,” he said. “Bill has e-mailed quite a few pictures of Will and Rob on their ponies.”

  “He’s a proud papa,” I acknowledged. I looked down at the biscuit tin and shook my head. “I don’t know what to say, Cameron. Not every man would leave his wife, his children, and his job for the sake of an old friend.”

  “Nor would every woman. Looks as though we have something in common.” The minivan pulled away and he turned the key in the ignition. “All set?”

  “Drive on,” I said.

  Two minutes later we were cruising down the main drag of a bustling shopping district. Most of the shops were small and independently owned rather than links in multinational chains, and the sidewalks were crowded with people of all ages and races. There was so much to look at that I felt a small twinge of regret when the shops petered out and we entered a residential area.

  A left-hand turn took us onto a short street lined with a mixture of fairly impressive mansions and modest but well-tended homes. At the end of the street, I caught a glimpse of ocean framed by towering trees I didn’t recognize.

  “Pohutukawa trees,” said Cameron, following my gaze.

  “Pohutu—what?” I said.

  “Pohutukawas,” he said. “They’re covered in red blossoms at Christmastime. Very cheerful.”

  “Pohutukawa,” I repeated carefully, filing the word away for future reference. I planned to spring it on Aunt Dimity when the opportunity arose.

  Cameron slowed to a crawl, then parked before a two-story house that was modest but not well tended. The top story was clad in corrugated iron siding, the bottom in a pale yellow stucco striped with rust stains. The narrow balcony that ran across the front of the house was littered with cigarette butts and a few leggy plants, and a broken picnic table graced the balding front lawn. Two of the second-floor windows were open, but the windows on the first floor were tightly shut and covered with drapes.

  “This is it,” Cameron said.

  Weah-heah, I thought, and got out of the car.

  Seven

  Cameron accompanied me to the yellow house’s recessed front door and stood a few steps behind me as I pressed a finger to the doorbell. When a voice shouted down to us, we exchanged puzzled glances, then returned to
the front lawn, to peer up at the balcony.

  A woman gazed down at us through a haze of cigarette smoke. She was clad in a shocking pink T-shirt, cutoff denim shorts, and neon-green flip-flops. Her coarse black hair sprouted from the top of her head in a ponytail drawn so tautly against her scalp that she shouldn’t have been able to lower her overplucked eyebrows. Though she dressed like a teenager, her hair was liberally streaked with gray and her blunt-featured face was mottled with age spots. Her voice was deep, gravelly, and loud enough to be heard back at the Spencer.

  “What do you want?” she bellowed.

  “Good morning,” I called up to her. “I’m looking for Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior. I believe he lives here.”

  “Not anymore he doesn’t,” said the woman. “A. J. died two months ago.”

  “He’s . . . dead? ” I said, thunderstruck.

  “As a doornail.” The woman paused to exchange a few pleasantries with a man who’d stepped out of the house next door. The smile that wreathed her face while she spoke to him vanished abruptly when she returned her attention to me. “Who are you, anyway? ”

  “I’m . . . I’m a friend of the family’s,” I stammered, still shaken by the news of Aubrey’s death.

  “A friend of the family’s? ” She sucked on her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Didn’t know they had friends.”

  “They? ” Cameron said alertly. “Does another family member live here?”

  “Ed’s been sponging off of his dad for years,” she said with a contemptuous sneer. “Edmund Hillary Pym, named after our great national hero, the man who conquered Everest.” She laughed harshly. “The only mountain Ed Pym ever climbed was a mountain of stubbies.”

  “Stubbies?” I said to Cameron.

  “Beer bottles,” he explained.