Jarulan by the River

by Lily Woodhouse

Just as she was about to step out of the shadows the thin, penetrating wail of a baby sounded from elsewhere in the house, and a moment or two later Evie appeared in the doorway, her face swollen, her hands rolled at her sides into fists. At first she didn’t notice Rufina watching from the shadows, and she seemed reluctant to go to her crying baby. While she stood there a wet stain spread over the breast of her cotton frock, a sight so bestial and redolent of all the tragedy of her betrayal that Rufina cried out — and then Evie was upon her, scratching and biting, stinking of milk. Rufina barely fought back, lifting her arms only to her husband who was shouting with fury at her attacker, pulling Evie away. An expression of revulsion rent his face and Rufina felt herself offer up a prayer, despite her previous resolve to put herself apart from him — Oh please, God, let him never look at me like that.

  Then Evie was running — not towards her crying baby, as you would expect, but along the corridor, across the entrance hall and out into the bright day, and Matthew was enfolding his wife in his arms, and Rufina knew he was praying just as fervently as she had done a moment before, but for her surdity or, failing that, the greater plea for her forgiveness.

  PART II

  1.

  Auckland, 1916

  IT HAD BEEN RAINING FOR WEEKS, LATE AUTUMN, THE UPPER North Island lashed with storms. The roads, sparse and poor as they were in 1916, were deep in mud and choked by boulders washed down from the hills. From Rotorua, Hohepa and the others travelled east, a day’s walk to the coast, which involved perilous crossings of swollen rivers and a spectacular landslide which had to be navigated and so added another four miles at least to their journey. In the coastal village of Maketu they borrowed a schooner to sail north, a tub patched together from various ancient crafts and barely seaworthy, but the greatest girl there ever was. For the next three weeks the Maori Queen — her name inherited from a nineteenth-century coaster, along with some of her parts — gave them many adventures at sea and just as many landfalls, some which did not at all owe their occurrence to the poor weather but more a heartfelt desire to dally with friends and relatives along the coast.

  The omnibus had been landed and left in its wooden crate on Queen Street Wharf. When a storm came over the Waitakere Ranges and scooped into the harbour like a giant spoon, waves broke high enough to come over the wharf and over the crate, breaking and surging, penetrating the gaps between the planks. The morning after, some passing larrikins, curious about what the long tall box could conceal, had prised away the wood at one corner, a gap progressively enlarged over the following weeks by other curious lads, and also by a decommissioned sailor fallen on hard times who availed himself of several timbers for his fire.

  Rain pooled in the driver’s footwell, made ponds in the upstairs canvas seat covers and soaked into the seams of the leather upholstery. The brass rims of the headlamps lost their lustre. A fat wharf rat came with some of his cohort for a sniff around what could amount to luxury two-storey accommodation, and planned on moving in the very next day.

  *

  On the evening the lads finally limped into port, a low grey cap of clouds sealed the sky from horizon to horizon. Flashes of the sunset showed in the west as gentle glimmers, like half-hearted lightning, on torn sails, leaning mast and yardarm slumped. The crew of the Maori Queen were ill-provisioned and miserable with hunger while they tacked head-to-head with the persisting westerly and anchored at Mechanics Bay, an area the brothers knew well, either by experience or reputation, since it was where everybody stayed when they came to Auckland.

  After a long and festive night at the Maori hostel in the company of many friends, old and new, they walked an early morning low tide along the mudflats to the Queen Street Wharf. Along the way they were astonished by some of the changes since Hohepa’s last visit a few years before: the new land stolen from the sea along the Quay, the wooden houses built along the ridges, many of them grand. There was the occasional midden where those same Parnell denizens had dumped their rubbish, broken crocks and bottles, old rags, tin cans, human filth, logs and stone, and they had to be careful where they stepped. It was an indication of how crowded the town had become — and they agreed that none of them would stay there any longer than they had to. The ships, though — the ships! They saw some beauties — an old sharp-prowed iron-hulled wool trader cleaving through the Waitemata, her sails gloriously full in the cold westerly that was pushing her out to the Gulf, flying her away, sending her out to the Pacific, perhaps all the way to America. Who could blame them all for wishing for a moment that they were aboard, heading away, rather than embarking, as they were, on a tourist enterprise?

  Steamers, barques and schooners lined up at rest, some of the bigger ships listing with the full tide. A floating crane had been hoisted to the dry up on the new concrete wharf that replaced the old warped planks of Queen Street Wharf. The square-rigger Vindication roosted on Calliope Dock, a castle and six masts, and was as old at least as the oldest parts of the Maori Queen. She would have sailed the seven seas, many times around the globe, and Hohepa wasn’t the only one keen to go aboard for a look around. The wharf and tees were jammed with passengers for McGregor’s Steamship, another for the Coastal company; ships were loading and unloading and, in addition, a grand liner sat sweet at anchor further out in the channel.

  But where was the prize, the B-type omnibus with seats for sixteen inside and eighteen up top, brought all the way from London and paid for with money made from the sale of tribal land? It took time for the brothers to get through the crowds and past the many distractions — and then only to realise that they had gone too far and would have to turn back.

  No wonder they’d missed it — it was hidden away in a crate of raw pine, swiftly constructed. A watersider sheltering from the rain in the doorway of the nearest shed gave them a claw hammer, but as soon as they had peeled away her shell, or what remained of it — it was as if she had tried to hatch herself — an argument ensued. Why hadn’t Hohepa done what he was supposed to do, and that was to organise someone to get the omnibus off the wharf and into the dry sooner? It would be the first of many quarrels that concerned her, that damned bloody 1912 bus that had once driven the streets of London and had a mind of her own.

  It was difficult to imagine the vehicle before the deluge and to gauge the damage. There was some wear and tear on the leather seats and rips in the sodden wet-weather covers upstairs. While he was upstairs, Hohepa had pushed on the sagging canvas and sent the pooled water over the sides, sending it gushing over the brothers watching him from below, and everyone laughed — including the tall, thin rich white man in expensive clothes, leaning up against a bollard and smoking a cigarette, who had watched them so avidly as they pulled the battered crate apart and argued that he knew something they didn’t.

  Some of the water from the omnibus roof had collected in the man’s hat. He shook it off and introduced himself as Eddie Fenchurch.

  ‘Where are you from?’ they asked, and in reply he pointed at the liner Niagara bobbing in the channel and smiled, showing an even row of small teeth, yellow from smoking. He offered around his American cigarettes and they smoked companionably for a while, all standing around the bus and remarking now and again on some new feature — the tread of the running board seamed like plantain, the word GAS engraved into a pedal below the steering wheel, the rods the driver would manipulate for speed and braking. They imagined the many tourists that would be driven around in it to look at the buried village and the steaming pools at Whakarewarewa, the vistas of lake and mountain.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Eddie asked them, and when he was told, he looked blank because how would he know anything about this country, having only just stepped off a ship? They explained, pointing south, telling him the name of their village, their mountain, their lake and hot pools, but he knew nothing about anyone or anything. His eyes kept wandering back to the B-type and his hand strayed once or twice to her long shiny nose, patting and soothing.

  ‘Not much wrong with
this,’ he said, their saviour. He opened the omnibus’s mouth, closed it again, unscrewed the petrol cap and sniffed.

  ‘Dead empty — all evaporated, I assume.’

  Yesterday’s glimmers of sunlight had likewise evaporated and the rain began to fall again, sparse heavy drops plinking and spreading on the smooth paint, streaking the few parts of the wooden frame that were still dry.

  ‘We need to get it under cover,’ Eddie said, and it wasn’t long before he had organised to do exactly that with the help of a group of stevedores. As many as could lay their hands along the flanks pushed the omnibus along into the gloom of the nearest wharf shed, lit for the grey afternoon by a row of kerosene lamps slung high in the roof. Eddie opened the bonnet again and muttered something about a worm drive and a chain gearbox, and requested various tools which were fetched for him while the upholstery gently steamed and one of the brothers gave the headlights a polish with his coat tail and discovered to general relief that the rim was restored, more or less, to its previous lustre.

  The Pakeha’s facility with the engine was impressive. And when he rolled his sleeves up so was the quality of his shirt, the fine wool of his discarded jacket and the intricately tooled leather of his shoes. Early in the afternoon, when he suggested they adjourn to the Gladstone Coffee Palace — ‘My shout’ — there was a lilt in his voice different from that of the Pakehas who’d been here since last century.

  All together they crossed Quay Street to the Gladstone, the proud corner building with its turrets and twiddles and tall windows, where groups of Maori were turned away at the door, but mixed groups were allowed. The youngest brother put a worried arm around Hohepa — only one Pakeha and six Maori; it might not be enough, it might not be allowed.

  But the lady in the little lace cap let them sit down. She pointed to a big table in the window, where they were brought a giant silver pot of tea, plates of sandwiches, savouries, scones and cakes on tiered plates. While they ate, Eddie let them have his story.

  He had been to California, for the third time, a place of which he was fond, for the parties, music, food and women. Before that he was in Australia, where he was born and grew up on his father’s farm — a big farm of three thousand acres, more land than they ever heard of being in the possession of a single man. He told them he had come into a fortune, the details of which were hazy, and that his father had for all this time — three years at least — believed he was in New Zealand. And Eddie had come, eventually — here a distant look entered his eye — to make good his part of the bargain, the deal he had made.

  ‘With your father?’ asked Hohepa.

  ‘My mother. My dearest lost mummy.’

  And then he had fallen silent and shed a single tear that left a silvery track in his pale grimy cheek, and his new friends felt moved with pity and love. They watched the long white fingers move to wipe away the tear, saw the B-type-grazed knuckles and bruises from the unaccustomed work, the soft useless skin, and it was obvious that although he might know about motors it was a long time since he had done any real work. No one said anything until Eddie took a cigarette and lit it, before passing the tin around for everyone to join him, and they got fresh tea and another jug of milk.

  When it came time to pay the bill, Eddie turned out his pockets. He was a whole pound short and the manager looked down his nose at them all, as if it was their fault that Eddie’s pockets contained only crumbs of tobacco, a penknife, the stub of a pencil and a filthy handkerchief. There was also a narrow roll of soft felt and a small silver tool, which he said was a tuning hammer for pianos. In one jacket pocket was a scrap of paper with a recipe written on it for a rich pudding that involved cream, brandy and sugar. Between them they managed to find enough shillings and pence to cover the shortfall. Pakehas were usually very embarrassed over matters like this, but this one wasn’t, not at all. As they retraced their steps to the wharf shed to see how the motor was faring, Eddie’s wide straight grin was back in place and the spring bouncing in his step.

  When he bent his head over the machine he said, ‘Shame my brother Llew isn’t here. He knows everything there is to know about engines.’ He told them how his brother Llew had written a letter, just retrieved this very day Poste Restante from the Auckland Post Office, to say he was leaving on the Australian troop ship, heading for Europe. Perhaps because he was in the company of brothers and cousins he talked about his brother for a long time, leaning up against the front steel wheel, tools idle, stories about Llew’s gift for horses, his kindness to strangers, his physical superiority, his innovations on the farm, the father’s preference for that son over himself, and had to be encouraged to get back to work, to the tightening and loosening of bolts, the wiping of various parts with the filthy handkerchief.

  At dusk Eddie straightened up, hands gripping the small of his back and pronounced that by morning the engine would be dry enough to crank it to life.

  It was then that Hohepa had the idea that would change all their lives, Eddie Fenchurch’s the most.

  ‘Come home with us,’ he said. ‘We need someone to drive the ’bus for the tourists.’ He remembered the scrap of paper with the recipe. ‘And maybe help cooking food for them. In our tearooms.’

  2.

  Bay of Plenty, 1936

  THE MARAE, BEING IN AN EXQUISITE LOCATION MUCH LIKE THE more famous Ohinemutu — which from some angles appeared to float between two lakes, Rotorua and Rotoiti — was not often compared to it except for its geographical similarities. The two lesser lakes that this marae stood between were little more than ponds teeming with sandflies, easily swum across and able to spread like spilt milk over the land after rain, testing their boundaries, running through the grass of the paddocks. Built for the most part on sodden ground, Eddie’s marae was neither as old as the other, nor as prestigious, nor as successful in various tourism endeavours, and never before had it received such a guest as this one — at least as far as Eddie was concerned — in all the years he’d lived here.

  The other more famous marae had welcomed various luminary Maori scholars and politicians from tribes all over the country, government ministers, including on several occasions the Prime Minister, and twice the Prince of Wales and his substantial retinue, all of whom were fed and entertained like kings. The only lofty Pakeha visitors to Eddie’s marae were various interfering delegations from the Health and Education departments, much resented. Eddie had felt always a degree of separation, and had hung in the background as much as he could, except for when he was called upon to help with the entertainment.

  This visitor was unfed and laughed least. His daughter had brought her along the road and up to the whare kai, having found her hovering nervously outside the marae, surrounded by curious dogs, her gaze averted from the staring eyes and carved genitalia on the tall red gates. The child knew better than to interrupt her father’s piano playing and had whispered to the lady to stand quietly in the dining room and not say a word. Eddie carried on for another five minutes or so, enjoying their attention, humming to himself, cigarette at the corner of his mouth and the half-emptied hipflask — it was eleven o’clock in the morning — hidden in his pocket, while he played the new Cole Porter song ‘All Through the Night’, sent to him by a friend in California. Tonight he would play it with the band, let them hear it a couple of times this afternoon. They loved the new American songs as much as he did. Eddie, who had played and sung his way around the world until the money ran out, thought he had never heard anything like the band he was part of here, the effortless close harmonies, the easy reaching finger patterns on guitars, the weaving melodies of the horns. He’d died and gone to heaven. Who would have thought it? He wouldn’t’ve bothered with all those other countries if he’d known this one was just next door.

  The Scotch put its customary short-lived shine on his playing — he was sipping it slowly, making it last, more for economical reasons than for his health, and hadn’t Hohepa started to voice his disapproval more often? Since Eddie loved Hohepa mor
e than anybody else in the world, even his wife, he wanted to please him. It seemed sometimes that Hohepa would never forgive him for driving the bus into the lake, and why should he?

  ‘Better at driving a piano, aren’t you, mate?’ he’d said, after the accident. He’d relieved him of all duties, mechanical and otherwise.

  This morning, enjoying his unexpected audience — the well-dressed woman he’d only glimpsed out of the corner of his eye — Eddie found himself singing properly, letting the fag fall from his mouth to the sawdust floor and his heart fill with love and loneliness. It was a difficult melody, a descending chromatic scale and an octave leap, but so new and delicious that Eddie couldn’t wait for the band to arrive and get started. As his voice swelled and fell he was aware of a snuffling, a shedding of moist tears, and a slow rhythmic shuffle in the sawdust, as if the listener was dancing a little in a restrained manner, as if she didn’t want to but somehow found herself dancing anyway. Eddie had seen that happen before, to the posh wives of visiting officials. Once they had got over whatever aspect of the place that made them squeamish and anxious — the lack of toilets, the number of dogs, the hupe flowing unrestrained from some of the children’s noses — they were sometimes seduced by a rhythmic song, Maori or American.

  He reached the end, played the final liquid chord and turned to look at his solitary audience: an attractive woman, fair-skinned, tears flowing, and when she spoke — ‘You are so like him!’ — it was with a German accent. He stared at her, and she at him, and then he was up from his chair and standing to take her hands in his.

  Rufina. Here. Only just remembered from the long-lost photograph Nan had sent, a copy of a portrait made in Lismore just before the marriage. The wide-spaced eyes as grey as they were in the monochrome picture, the knife-edge of the nose, the blade-like cheekbones. When he first saw her image all those years ago he had half-envied the old man — she was a beauty — but he had also felt afraid for him, a fear that had very quickly turned to a satisfying sense of revenge. She was so much younger than his mother — dear, mad Min — but with a stern old-world naivety in her face.