Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘It’s OK, it’s perfectly safe. Follow me.’

  They swim to the far side and Tori guides her to a long, submerged stone ledge where they can sit comfortably, their heads supported by an edging of smooth logs.

  ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She watches his body glide back through the candlelit water. As he walks out, small streams of water glow as they trickle down his firm strong buttocks. He wades back, triumphantly holding aloft a bottle and two plastic long-stemmed glasses.

  As the warm water from the earth’s core cradles their bodies, their mouths are cooled by the crispness of the white wine. Presently he puts both the glasses on the side of the pool and reaches for her. Frances leans her head back into the water until her breasts are floating, her erect nipples breaking the surface. He slides beneath her and runs his fingers down and down between her legs. He feels the soft velvet slipperiness of her and gently strokes her. As she moans, he rubs her harder until she cries out and a ripple of pleasure shudders through her body.

  She rolls over onto him. Their tongues explore each other’s mouths and she guides him into her. Their bodies move together, slowly at first, then more quickly and harder, riding a wave of ecstasy.

  He stays inside her for a long time. ‘I love you,’ he whispers in her ear at last.

  ‘And I love you,’ she whispers back, gently kissing his neck. ‘Now that I’ve found you, I never want to lose you. I don’t want to be like that poor princess, singing a weepy love song about losing her lover.’

  He squeezes her tightly. ‘There’s no risk of that. There have been too many broken hearts. I’ll always be here for you.’

  They half sit, half lie together on the ledge, a tangle of limbs, enveloped by the warm waters like twins in the amniotic sac of their mother’s womb.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  They’ve blossomed just in time for Christmas,’ says Tori as he and Frances drive south from Taupo towards Taumarunui.

  The red flowers of the pohutukawa trees dotted along the road cry out for attention among the muted grey-green foliage of the gnarled branches that host them. The blue waters of the lake lap onto stony beaches, propelled by little gusts of wind and the wakes of small fishing boats.

  ‘Water looks good,’ Frances remarks.

  ‘We’re lucky. All the mud and silt has disappeared. Fishing’s almost back to normal, although it’s a bit early to tell how much of the hatchery was damaged upriver. Could have been a lot worse.’

  The road is full of traffic with thousands of cars heading north and south for Christmas. Long, winding lines of cars towing caravans and boats, packed with restless children bound for beach holidays and family reunions, slow the journey.

  ‘Do you think Beverley will be able to go through with this?’ Tori asks.

  ‘I think so. We’ve talked about it a lot—for months now. I told her we’d be there by early evening. We don’t want to have to rush.’

  ‘No rush? You’re starting to sound relaxed, a bit like me.’ Tori laughs.

  When they turn off the main road at Turangi and drive west, the traffic thins and Tori accelerates. Out of the ski season, few people are heading up the mountains, though after the eruption business had plummeted anyway. The three volcanoes rise dramatically before them, traces of late snow dusting their peaks, which glow a deep pink in the setting sun. The trails of the lahars and ash falls on Ruapehu have been swallowed by the mountain, fading into rocky ravines.

  The traffic increases again when they take the turn-off north to Taumarunui. The thick summer foliage of the trees glistens in the last of an amber sunset as they pull into town.

  ‘Just need to pick something up from the florist,’ Frances says, indicating the way ahead. ‘They said they’d be open late tonight.’

  ‘Not more of those red roses?’ he asks with a grin.

  She moves closer to him and nuzzles into his neck, scattering it with kisses.

  Customers buying last-minute flowers for Christmas cram the tiny shop. Bouquets still awaiting delivery to the fortunate ones whose families and loved ones have remembered them are squashed next to a line of aluminium buckets crammed with brilliantly coloured roses, carnations, lilies and gerberas.

  Flushed and weary from a dawn start, the young florist, who has increased the number of earrings in each lobe to five, recognises Frances and disappears behind a curtain.

  ‘Here it is, the only wreath on order today,’ she says, returning with a large white box she passes over the counter. ‘See if you like it.’

  Nestled inside is a circle of flowers, the blood-red wispy flowers of the pohutukawa tree entwined with delicate, impossibly white bunches of baby roses.

  ‘It’s beautiful. Just right. Thank you.’

  ‘There’s a card there for you to write on.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll need that.’

  As they stop outside the house Frances glimpses a lace curtain in the front room pulled back and dropped again. Beverley walks outside, looking tired but happy to see them.

  Dressed to travel in neatly pressed navy-blue trousers topped with a Liberty print blouse, she fiddles with a brooch securing it at her neck—a delicate gold circle, decorated with a pair of blue enamel lovebirds. She tells them it was an engagement gift, her only memento from her long-lost fiancé. ‘It’s been packed away for years. I thought today was as good a day as any to give it an airing.’

  As the two women embrace, Tori stands and waits to be introduced, shuffling a little shyly.

  Frances turns to him, pulling him towards them. ‘This is Tori. He’ll drive us to the station.’

  Linked by their affection for Frances, Beverley and Tori simply smile at one another.

  ‘Perhaps a little something before we go?’ Beverley asks, not waiting for a reply as she walks inside.

  The table is set for a Christmas Eve tea: fine-china plates, silver cutlery and three small stemmed crystal glasses sit atop a starched white cloth.

  ‘Sherry?’ Beverley is already filling the glasses with the sweet golden liquid from a decanter. As they toast one another, she returns to her kitchen, re-emerging with a plate of sandwiches and another of rich dark fruitcake. ‘The ham’s freshly cut and the bread baked today. Hope you like hot mustard. And have some cake. I baked it myself. It’s been soaking in brandy for two months.’

  As the old lady passes the plate towards them, Frances can see her hand quivering.

  ‘Are you feeling OK? About the journey, I mean.’

  Beverley throws her a smile. ‘Yes and no. I wouldn’t be doing this without you, Frances. You know that. But you’ve become like a daughter to me and I trust your instincts on this.’

  ‘Time to go,’ Tori says, awkwardly stacking the pile of delicate plates. ‘Don’t want to miss the train.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  As they drive towards Taihape, Frances glances anxiously at Beverley in the back seat. Although this drive will take a mere two hours, it has taken her more than fifty years to summon the courage to return to the town where she will board the train and complete the journey.

  Half an hour before the overnight Northerner is due, the station platform is already busy with passengers arriving. The three of them sit together on a long wooden bench, not talking, just waiting. As the minutes pass slowly, more people gather at the station. Then the train—clean, modern and utilitarian—pulls in.

  ‘Not the same as those wonderful old steam trains,’ Beverley says, her eyes misty with memories. While bleary-eyed passengers jump off the train to grab a hurried drink and late-night snack, Frances hands the white box to Beverley.

  She glances inside and her eyes meet Frances’.

  ‘I’ve written on the card. I hope you approve.’

  Beverley flicks over the tiny cardboard card embossed with a silver edging:

  TO DAVID AND VALERIE—RELEASE YOUR SPIRITS AND REST IN PEACE.

  YOU ARE FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.

  OUR LOVE—BEVERLEY AND
FRANCES

  ‘You know what to do. We’ll be waiting for you. Be brave,’ Frances says, hugging her friend. Beverley nods and walks tentatively to the train. Glancing over her shoulder she tells them she’ll take a taxi home at the end of her trip.

  ‘I intend to finish this journey alone. Thank you so much, Frances. Bless you.’ She climbs into the brightly lit carriage, locates her well-upholstered seat facing forwards, to Tangiwai, and sits there comfortably. She feels oddly elated, surprised by an unaccustomed lightness of being. Frances walks over to the edge of the platform and places her hand against the window. Beverley puts her hand up to meet it and they smile their secrets at each other.

  Tori is waiting in the car, no sign of impatience on his face. It is Frances who reminds him of the need to hurry. ‘We have to beat the train to Tangiwai. Let’s get going.’

  Just as it was all those decades ago, the night is clear and fine. In the main street, stragglers from Christmas parties are meandering from restaurants to pubs. Some have dropped loved ones at the station to take the same train, never doubting they will be delivered safely to their destinations.

  They are quickly devoured in darkness as they leave the lights of town and drive along the winding road towards Waiouru. As they pass through the small town, both of them think of Bill, who so loved his life in the army and the challenge of knocking callow youths into military shape.

  The traffic has dwindled. Most travellers have stopped for the night, seeking refuge in motley roadside motels. Still Tori and Frances drive on and on through the darkness, their headlights illuminating ghostly trees and unidentifiable shapes along the roadway.

  They spot the sign marking the township of Tangiwai.

  ‘Just a little bit further, Tori, and we’re there. You’ll have to slow down soon and take a right turn. It’s easy to miss.’

  Frances leans forward in her seat, and he can see her clenched knuckles reflected in the windscreen.

  ‘Take it easy.’ Tori reassures her by reaching out to touch her hand. ‘It will be all right. You’ve waited a long time for this.’

  ‘Here! Turn now.’

  The tyres crunch on the gravel as they arrive in the deserted car park where a full moon illuminates the memorial.

  ‘Look, Tori, look at the mountain.’

  Before them, Ruapehu rises majestically, a dark silhouette with its snowy cap barely visible.

  ‘Poor Sam,’ Frances says. ‘He was stupid to get involved with Carmody but I think he really believed in what he was doing.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t wish him any harm. But we’ve all learnt that the mountain isn’t selective about its victims. Let’s head down to the river,’ Tori says. ‘The train will be here in five or so minutes.’

  They edge their way down the uneven track towards the bank, Tori shining his torch ahead of them.

  ‘Wait, wait for me,’ Frances says. He reaches back into the darkness, finding her hand and holding it tightly.

  They can hear the rushing of the water before they see the river. In the darkness it sounds so much louder.

  ‘Poof, the sulphur is really heavy tonight,’ she complains.

  The chemical vapours surround them, mingling with a dampness already rising in the night air.

  It sounds eerie and distant at first, the rumbling echo of the train heading towards the Tangiwai bridge. Seconds pass and the noise rises. They see a beam piercing the darkness as the headlights of the train disturb the night. Then the sound softens.

  ‘It’s slowing down, Tori, just as we hoped.’

  The locomotive almost comes to a stop as it approaches the bridge above them. Tori points the torch upwards, flashing it on and off three times. A tiny light in the second carriage of the train responds—once, twice, three times.

  The window by the light is open. As the train drives onto the bridge they see a hand waving the torch out of the window. Then, in a single throw, the wreath is tossed in the air and starts to fall, down, down, down, until it hits the quickly moving current beneath the bridge.

  At first they can’t see it. Then Tori finds it with his torch. The twisted Christmas-red and winter-white circle of flowers shimmers as it floats. Momentarily, it stops, caught in a submerged tangle of fallen branches. Then, as if it has taken on its own life, the wreath pushes through into the silvery liquid darkness. Effortlessly, it catches the flow and floats past Tori and Frances. The train has vanished, safely heading north, taking Beverley and a full load of passengers to the end of their journey.

  Frances can hardly breathe. Her skin is tingling and her knees are shaking. She clings to Tori as the flowers float around a bend in the river and disappear.

  He puts his arm around her and holds her close, kissing her damp cheek. ‘Your sister’s wairua, her soul, it’s free, Frances. You’ve finally let her go.’

  Frances feels as though a piece of her very soul is unravelling. ‘Valerie!’ she sobs. Tori grips her more tightly until he feels her surrender to his strength.

  Although the land around the weeping waters continues to cool as the midnight hour approaches, a warm joyful flow courses through her body like a thread of red mercury. She smiles at Tori. ‘My sister is safe now, but I know a part of her will always stay with me. You’ve taught me that. Thank you.’

  Frances delves into her pocket until she feels the golden bracelet. She caresses it and, for the first time, smiles inwardly as she touches the soft links and tiny heart.

  Tori reaches for her and she goes to him willingly. Arm in arm they turn back towards the mountain. In the night, it soars above them, seeming to melt into the black sky.

  ‘Te ha o taku maunga, ko taku manawa,’ he whispers to her. ‘That means, the breath of the mountain is in my heart. And you are there with it.’

  They see it at the same time—a white curling cloud of steam rising from the summit, lit by the moon—and their hearts quicken as if picking up the beat of the earth.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge and thank the many people who helped and inspired me with the research and writing of Weeping Waters.

  Anne Lennox and Bruce Jensen who shared their true-life experiences at Tangiwai; Timi Te Heuheu and Martin Wikaira from Ngati Tuwharetoa; members of Ngati Rangi; Paul Green and Harry Keys from the New Zealand Department of Conservation; Steve Sherburn, New Zealand Institute of Geological and Nuclear Sciences; Tom Northcroft and Roly Buck; Christine Cole Catley; Stephen Stratford; Carol Jorgensen.

  My daughter, Eva Westfield, who accompanied me on research trips including to the Crater Lake at the top of Mount Ruapehu.

  The National Library of New Zealand for its great resources and the Coroners Court in Wellington for allowing me to examine all the postmortems from Tangiwai.

  Katherine and Neil Owen, Mark, Paul and Christine Nicholson, Peter and Stephen Westfield, Linda Tizard, Denise Eriksen, Aniela Kos, Anthea Bulloch, Jane Dillon, Gay Murrell, Anne Jones, Gillian Thomas, Adrian Collette, Susan Patterson, David Hancock, Bronwen Reid, Nina Burridge, Diana Deeley, John Cameron and other colleagues at the ABC in Sydney, and Scott Roberts, who all helped in a myriad of ways.

  The great team at HarperCollins, in particular Lorain Day, Shona Martyn and Anna Rogers.

  Lastly, I wish to pay tribute to those who died at Tangiwai and to all the survivors and rescuers and their families whose lives were irrevocably changed. It wasn’t until I’d finished the book I discovered that a relative I hadn’t known of, my second cousin, Doris Workman, 41, was among the victims. Her body was never recovered.

  About the Author

  Anne Maria Nicholson lives in Sydney where she is a senior journalist with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. She was born in New Zealand and grew up in the area where this, her first book, is set. On completion of the book, she was amazed to discover she was related to one of the victims of the train disaster.

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  C
opyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published 2006

  This edition published in 2010

  HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1, Auckland

  Copyright © Anne Maria Nicholson 2006

  Anne Maria Nicholson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

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  National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Nicholson, Anne Maria.

  Weeping waters / Anne Maria Nicholson.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-86950-649-0 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 1- 86950-649-9 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978 0 7304 0138 4 (epub)

  I. Title.

  NZ823.3—dc 22

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