Come to Grief

by Wendy M Wilson

  “Tommy.”

  They pulled away from the ship, the crew manning the oars. George Lawrence sat in the prow, directing them. He appeared to understand the way the ocean moved. For an hour they stayed in place, the crew red-faced and cursing. Then, suddenly, they reached the dip at the edge of the breakers and were forced to reverse to avoid overturning.

  Lawrence yelled to the rowers. “Watch for a smooth. It’s best to go in through one of those. I’ll let you know when I see one.”

  The lifeboat swung around so that Frank and the boy faced towards the ship. He clung to the side, the boy holding his arm, and watched as the Tararua was pounded by heavy waves sweeping around the reef from the south. The captain had moved to the fore deck with a group of women and children; men had climbed the rigging, looking like flies on a monstrous web, waiting for a spider.

  On the aft deck, which was higher above the water than the fore deck, a couple appeared, pushing against the wind. He watched, horrified, as they climbed up on the rail, kissed each, held hands, and leapt into the water. He couldn’t be certain from this distance, but he thought it was the purser. Good swimmers might pull off a swim to safety after jumping fifteen feet onto brick-hard water, but this looked like a deliberate suicide.

  Mette and Sarah Jane intruded into his thoughts, but he pushed them away. He was going to survive, for their sake.

  He put his arm around Tommy and held on to him. The boy reminded him of his own adopted son, Joey; small, thin, eager to please, and hopeless when there was trouble.

  “If you feel the boat tipping, grab my belt and don’t let go.”

  He turned from the boy in time to see a dark shape slide by. He couldn’t tell what it was: dolphin, seal, sea lion, a shark, possibly. But something large and ominous.

  “Are there sharks in these waters?” he asked Lawrence.

  “Great whites, for the most part,” said Lawrence. “But they won’t bother you unless you’re bleeding. They go for blood. Although sometimes they mistake anyone in dark clothes for a seal. But they head for warmer waters when it gets this cold.” He leaned over the gunnel and stared down into the water. “Did you see something?”

  Frank was wearing a light blue shirt and buff-coloured trousers, but it didn’t make him any more confident he wouldn’t be attacked. “I thought I saw a shark. But I can’t be sure.”

  “This is the time they feed,” said one of the sailors. He had passed his oar to another crew member and was rubbing his hands to warm them, sweating heavily in the cold, damp air. “At dawn or in the evening. But they aren’t often around these parts at this time of year. Now Sydney Harbour’s a different kettle of fish. I once saw a shark take off a man’s leg in a single bite, like it was a carrot…”

  He stopped, clutching on the the side of the boat as it rose up on one end and thumped back down. “Whoa…what was that? Hold tight. Here we go.”

  “Make for the smooth,” yelled Lawrence as the boat tilted over.

  As he fell, Frank grabbed the brass polisher’s hand. “Stay with me.”

  He was still holding the boy’s hand as he surfaced five yards from the upturned boat, but something felt wrong. The boy was close, looking at Frank with wide eyes, his face pale.

  Frank pulled him closer and said, “Are you all right?”

  He shook his head. “Something bit me…”

  He kicked off his boots and raised the boy as best he could to the surface of the icy water. He could see a bite mark on his thigh, with blood starting to ooze from it.

  “Christ…listen, I’m going to get you on shore and find a doctor. Hang on.”

  He lay on his back, the boy on top of him, and kicked hard. He couldn’t see the breakers this way, but he could move faster and had a better chance of making it to the beach.

  In a fountain of water, a massive greyish brown shape rose from the water and splashed down in front of him. He jerked Tommy away from the beast, but it came at them, jaws open. Tucking the boy under one arm, he hit the shark’s nose with all his strength. Dead eyes stared at him as he worked to scare it away, hitting it again and again. Finally, the shark slid back below the surface. Frank flipped on his back again and strained to kick as hard as he could. He was dammed if he was going to let this boy die.

  But the shark had a different idea. He came up from below and thrust against Frank’s back. He turned over and pounded at the nose again, looking into the emotionless eyes. “Leave him alone, you bastard.”

  The shark dived again, and this time did not come up. The boy had closed his eyes now; his teeth were chattering, and his whole body was convulsed with the shakes.

  Frank resumed his kicking. He couldn’t see where he was in the ocean. He could be swimming out to sea for all he knew. But, unexpectedly, a gap opened between the breakers and they slipped through: George Lawrence’s smooth. He kept on his back and was flung through the gap in the waves, both arms wrapped around the boy’s narrow chest.

  He felt rocks beneath his feet and pushed himself upright, only to be pulled back down by the undertow. As he struggled to his feet again, the boy slipped from his grasp.

  He stood there, braced against the undertow, feeling the sand and stones melt beneath his feet, looking for the brass polisher. The breakers came at him relentlessly, trying to throw him down and drag him out to sea. But he saw nothing.

  “Sergeant Hardy, Sergeant Hardy. Give me your hand.”

  George Lawrence had steadied himself in the surf and was holding out his hand to Frank. He took it, and together they made it to the beach. Young Tommy was gone. He wanted to dive in and look for the boy, but had little strength remaining. It would be futile.

  He crouched in the shallow water, exhausted and beaten.

  George Lawrence had energy to burn, jumping up and down, ready to take off again.

  “I was up on the rise,” he said. “And I saw a building about half a mile away. I think there are men there. I’m going to find someone who can get to the nearest telegraph station and send for help. Will you come with me?”

  Frank shook his head. He barely had enough strength left to stand. “I’ll stay here and look for the boy,” he said.

  George Lawrence gave him an odd look. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? I’ll come back and bring help. You rest for a bit. Don’t risk your life in the surf.”

  Frank thanked him and watched as he ran towards the rise. It was too late for help. The boy must have drowned, if the shark hadn’t got him. Feeling like it was his own son who’d been lost, he paced back and forth, staring at the water, hoping for some small sign of life, but seeing nothing.

  6

  The Tararua Comes to Grief

  She’d hoped never to see him again, but there he was, waiting for the train to Bluff, standing on the edge of the platform staring down the track, watching for the train to arrive: the red-haired American, holding his brown leather Gladstone bag that looked like the one Mette carried, the one that had caused all the trouble yesterday and which now weighed a ton. She was overwhelmed by a desire to shove him on the track, but instead, sat on a bench near the door to the ticket office and occupied herself with Sarah Jane.

  She had dragged the Gladstone bag down from Mrs. Bentley’s place, with her small bag over her shoulder and Sarah Jane tied securely on her back, and her arm was cramping from the weight.

  The bag weighed a ton because she had collected Professor Mann’s bloody manuscript last night, and it was the biggest pile of paper she’d ever seen, covered with tiny handwriting that looked like spiders had crawled across the page. To make matters worse, she had taken the abstract to read in bed and had fallen asleep after two pages. So dull! It was all about the ancient Greeks and Romans, and how myths from every country were exactly the same. She knew that. Anyone did. She had been amused to hear some of Frank’s scary childhood stories, and to discover how similar they were to stories her mother had frightened her with when she was a child in Denmark. Did someone really need to take a thousand pages t
o say that?

  She had gone to Frau Mann’s house the previous night, expecting to see a friendly woman with pink cheeks, soft grey hair and a full bosom, somewhat like her own mother. Instead, the door was opened by a thin-lipped woman with black hair pulled back into a tight bun, which lifted her eyebrows into an unnaturally surprised expression; she looked at Mette like she’d come to steal her chickens.

  When Mette told Frau Mann she had come for the manuscript, Frau Mann glared at her and disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar. Mette stood there feeling foolish until Frau Mann returned carrying an old flour sack. She thrust it at Mette and said, “What a load of nonsense. I’m glad someone actually wants it.” Then she slammed the door.

  The young salesman took the flour sack and carried it back to the boarding house for her; she returned to her room, where Sarah Jane was sleeping, held in place by the two bags and a pillow. Mette was disappointed. She had imagined Frau Mann would ask her in for a cup of tea, and regale her with amusing stories about the professor.

  When the train arrived, the conductor, an older man with a shock of white hair who reminded her of Father Christmas, helped her on board and found her a seat by the window. She cuddled Sarah Jane on her lap and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  “I’ll put your bag in the luggage compartment by the exit, my dear,” the conductor said. “Then you can forget about it until we arrive in Invercargill.”

  She opened her eyes, shading them against the sun. “When will that be?”

  He inspected his watch. “We arrive in Invercargill at five o’clock. After half an hour, we continue on to Bluff to arrive at half past five. Will someone be meeting you?”

  “My husband. He’s on the Tararua. It’s due to dock at noon.”

  “Excellent. You’re going to have a long day, my dear. I hope you brought some food with you. You’ll be able to buy refreshments at Balclutha and Wyndham, but as I said, I’ll bring you a cup of tea once we’re on the way.”

  She’d always been a little afraid of trains, fearful that they would come off the track, trapping her inside like a coffin, or that someone would open a window and she — or, these days, Sarah Jane — would be sucked out. But she was tired, and happy to be settled in one place for a few hours. The American was not in her carriage, thank heavens. She thought she saw him getting on the next one. If he’d been there, sitting close to her, it would have ruined her trip. Now she could look out at the beautiful scenery and enjoy herself. She looked forward to the conductor’s cup of tea. She hadn’t had time for breakfast as she had to spend time in her room feeding and dressing Sarah Jane, but Mrs. Bentley had given her a Scotch scone with a wedge of butter inside, which would be perfect with tea.

  The driver sounded the whistle, and a blast of hot steam billowed out the side of the engine. She watched the platform, expecting it to disappear slowly from view, but a man in light grey suit had arrived and was asking the station master something. The station master had the flag in one hand, ready to signal departure to the engineer, but he stopped while he listened to the man. After a few minutes he pointed to her carriage; was he pointing at her? Of course he was not. Why would he point at her.

  The train began to move, the pistons thumping. She felt the vibrations all through her body, and held on to the seat to make sure she didn’t fall off. The man in the light grey suit seemed to decide something. He turned and sprinted towards the train, jumped at the door, hung for a while on the step, and then pulled himself into the carriage. He took a seat not far from Mette and looked at his watch before glancing around. She caught his eye and looked away. He looked pleased with himself.

  She had met many policemen in the last three years, and thought she recognized one when she saw one. She was sure this man was at least an inspector, and he was following someone. She hoped very much that he was following the American with red hair and whiskers, who had criminal written all over him.

  The day dragged on and the never-ending sounds and movement of the train lulled her into a half sleep. They stopped at Balclutha for refreshments, and Mette decided to buy herself more tea and a sandwich from the refreshment stand at the end of the platform. She left Sarah Jane with a large, comfortable Maori woman who had been smiling at her in a friendly way, jumped off the train, and hurried to the refreshment stand, nervous the whole time that the train would leave without her, taking Sarah Jane off to who knew where.

  As she ordered her sandwich — thinly-sliced tongue, her favourite — the man she suspected was a policeman appeared beside her and asked for a Scotch egg and a bottle of ginger ale.

  He nodded at Mette. “About time we stopped for refreshments, isn’t it?”

  She smiled at him, wondering why he was speaking to her. Men seldom spoke to women who were alone.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  She thought it was none of his business, but told him anyway. He was a nondescript fellow, with his light suit, brown hair and pale blue eyes. The kind of man who would blend into a crowd, which, she supposed, was his job, really. The constabulary had come a long way from the days when they dressed in blanket kilts and galloped through the bush in groups, carbines resting on saddles, ready to shoot at anything that moved. He looked more like a bank teller or a law clerk, but the way he constantly checked his surroundings confirmed for her the suspicion that he was a policeman.

  There was no sign of the red-haired American on the platform, although she thought she saw him in the carriage next to hers, his hand resting on the sill of the open window, puffing cigarette smoke. She was glad she’d persuaded Frank to give up smoking. He’d stopped drinking as well, more or less, but decided an occasional glass of beer wouldn’t hurt him. He said the beer relaxed him, which she knew meant it stopped him worrying about everything.

  When she returned to the carriage, Sarah Jane had fallen asleep on the Maori woman’s comfortable breasts, so Mette sat beside her and left the baby where she was. She had purchased a slice of tea cake for the woman, who took it without disturbing Sarah Jane.

  “Ataahua,” she said, smiling down at Sarah Jane, whose face was pressed against her breast, her lips working as she dreamed about feeding. Mette understood a few Maori words, but not that one. She assumed it was something pleasant and smiled back. She’d discovered over the years that a smile got you a long way.

  The sandwich and tea, and the soft arm of the Maori woman, soon put Mette to sleep as well.

  She awoke when the Maori woman shook her. “Mahue,” she said. “Wyndham.”

  She was obviously getting off at Wyndham.

  She took Sarah Jane and followed the Maori woman to the exit, hoping to get a breath of fresh air while the train was at the station. The departing passengers were milling around, finding their bags, and greeting friends and family. The engineer had climbed from the engine and was inspecting something on the side.

  A man came out of the waiting room and yelled to the engineer, who called back, “Any casualties?”

  For a minute she could not believe what she was hearing.

  “What did he say?” she asked the policeman, who was standing behind her in the aisle.

  “Something about the Tararua,” he said. “The steamer. I think he said it’s come to grief.”

  “Come to…what does that mean?”

  “Sunk, I think. Off Fortrose.”

  She stared at him in horror. “Sunk? The Tararua? That’s not possible; Frank…I have to get off the train…”

  She pushed past him back to her seat and picked up her small bag from the floor where she had left it. She returned to the baggage room near the exit and looked for her Gladstone bag. Of course there were two bags that looked the same, which made her angry again, but the first one she picked up was heavy, so she knew it was hers. Loaded down with the two bags and Sarah Jane, she hurried to the exit again.

  The policeman was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. “Here, pass me your bag and I’ll help you down.”

  She obeye
d numbly.

  “Please, how can I find out more about the ship…the Tararua. I need…my husband is…”

  She was unable to continue. Her throat had closed up with terror and her neck was aching.

  Taking her arm he escorted her over to the station master’s office. She couldn’t believe how calm he was. “This lady needs to know about the Tararua. Her husband is on board.”

  The station master patted her on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, my dear. The ship ran aground on a reef near Toi Toi Bay early this morning. Everyone’s safe. A sailor swam ashore and someone brought him here to the telegraph station. The morning operator sent off a telegram to Bluff and I just heard that the Hawea has gone to help. The Kaikanui is on its way as well and will take all the passengers back to Dunedin.”

  Relief flooded over her, but she was not completely reassured.

  “Are you sure no one was hurt?”

  “The telegraph office is across the road. You could ask him if he’s heard anything more.”

  She left her bag on the station and hurried over to the telegraph office, the policeman still with her. She was grateful, now, that he was here, and seemed to have forgotten about the person he’d been following. She didn’t think she could cope with this alone.

  The telegraph operator was listening to a chattering machine, writing down a message that had just come in. Before she could ask him anything, he turned, his face pale.

  “Fearful loss of life,” he said. “Over one hundred drowned. It’s the worst disaster the country has ever seen.”

  Mette heard no more. She felt the policeman catch her and Sarah Jane as her legs gave way, and everything faded to darkness.