Second Chances (17 page)
‘Hi, Mum! This is Bianka.’
Her companion might have walked straight off the set of a 1930s Hollywood extravaganza, with dark blonde waves in her hair and elegantly arched eyebrows. She got to her feet, smiling with sad, cupid’s-bow lips. I noticed blackberry-coloured lipstick.
‘We all love Sacha.’ It was a low voice, oddly adult. ‘Thank you for bringing her to us.’
Sacha nudged her in happy embarrassment. I was asking about the party when a woman approached from across the road; a redhead, wearing a rather chic linen sundress and straw hat.
‘Hello!’ she called, as she came closer. ‘You’ll be Martha? I’m Anita Varga.’
I took the proffered hand. Anita’s arm was pale and freckled. She was probably in her forties, as tall and fragile as a champagne flute. Creases radiated from the outer corners of her eyes.
‘Thank you for having Sacha to stay,’ I murmured, as though my daughter was three years old.
‘I hope we’ll see lots more of her. The girls have had a ball—sorry, I’m afraid they didn’t get much sleep.’
We chatted for several minutes. Pleasantries. Anita’s hair had a nylon sheen, and I forbade myself to stare. In the end she mentioned that she was about to begin more chemotherapy.
‘You’re doing well,’ I said, and meant it.
‘I
am
well. Today.’ Her smile never faltered. ‘I’m still here. Which of us can ask for more?’
‘Amazing woman,’ I marvelled, as Sacha and I wandered along Napier’s side streets.
‘She totally crashed last night. Didn’t even get to the party.’
‘Oh, dear . . . How was it, then?’
‘Awesome.’
Awesome?
That sounded markedly antipodean. We found a pavement café where families of fat little sparrows hopped on and off the tables, stealing crumbs. I was desperate for espresso, Sacha chose a milkshake and carrot cake, and we sat under tall palms in the sunshine. A young busker was playing his recorder nearby, and Sacha gave him a dollar. She was wearing a silk scarf around her head, with the rich coffee and gold patterning of a giraffe. It echoed her warm colouring.
‘C’mon,’ I prompted. ‘Tell me about last night.’
‘Just awesome. Bianka’s cousins have a farm by the Tukituki River. They’d made an
epic
bonfire! There were lanterns in the trees, and a whole pig on a spit. We danced all night, had leftover pork for breakfast. Never bothered going to bed.’
‘You must be shattered.’
‘Nah! I feel great.’
The youngest, fluffiest sparrow in the flock hopped onto her plate and made off with a crumb of carrot cake.
I rapped the table. ‘Tell me more! Give me the low-down. Did you meet anyone new?’
‘Loads of people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Mum, you could get a job with the Spanish Inquisition. What you’re really asking is, were there any hot guys?’
‘Hot . . .?’ I let my jaw drop in innocent indignation. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’
‘Yes it was. And yes, there were actually. In fact, Bianka’s brother is a total sizzler.
Whew!
’ She fanned herself with a hand.
‘What’s he called?’
‘Jani. He’s a student down at Massey University, been coming up at weekends because of Anita being ill. Hang on, ’scuse me.’
A bizarre hum was sounding from the pocket of her jeans. She pulled the vibrating phone out of her pocket, scanned it, and smirked while pressing buttons at manic speed.
‘Bianka? Tabby?’ I asked, surreptitiously squinting at the screen.
‘Nunya.’
‘Nunya who?’
‘None of yer business.’
She was still chirping like a budgerigar at the start of our drive— I couldn’t get a word in edgeways—but a night’s dancing took its toll and she suddenly fell asleep, her batteries flat. She opened bleary eyes once we’d pulled up.
Kit had taken the boys grass sledging that morning, but as soon as I returned he dashed off to his studio, rubbing his hands. I began to unpack the shopping, feeling sorry for myself. Sacha was slumped groggily across the kitchen table; Finn pinched Blue Blanket, which made Charlie caterwaul. I’d have loved to moan about parenthood with Lou, but she wouldn’t appreciate a call at three in the morning.
I was at my lowest ebb when Ira rumbled up the drive on a motorbike. His uncle Tama had killed a sheep, he said, and sent over a roast for us. I felt my spirits lift at the sight of his easygoing smile, though Finn and Charlie immediately dragged their hero off for a game of soccer on the front lawn. Sacha draped herself down the verandah steps, looking about as energetic as a wet dishcloth, so Ira appointed her referee. Once the twins had scored three goals in a row I offered him a beer. He accepted gratefully, throwing himself into the swing seat with grass stains on his jeans and mud on one cheek.
‘English lads,’ he gasped. ‘You’ll be strikers for the All Whites, both of you.’
The boys grabbed a leg each and tried to haul him onto the floor, but they couldn’t shift his massive frame a single inch. He gamely let them manhandle him for a few minutes, then leaned forward and held them both by their noses.
‘Give me ten minutes to chat,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll have another game before I go, eh?’
Once the boys had set off for their sandpit, I handed Ira his beer. ‘So you’re born and bred here in Torutaniwha?’
‘Born, anyway.’ He took a swig. ‘My mum left Hawke’s Bay when I was a kid. Took my brother and me up to Auckland. I’ve just come back.’
‘Oh.’ I had a feeling this might be a sore subject. ‘So you went to the primary school down on the beach?’
‘Yep. Until I was twelve. Then she took me away. But I’ve been coming down in the summer holidays to help Uncle Tama when the trekking gets busy.’
‘And now you’re back permanently?’
‘Hope so. This is home for me. Mum’s grandfather, old Duncan Pardoe, emigrated here from Scotland in 1910. Then he fought in the First World War and was helped to buy the land . . . there was this government scheme to resettle returned servicemen. Glengarry’s a thousand-acre block, about four hundred hectares.’
‘That’s a big farm, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm . . . not really. Sounds like a lot, but it wasn’t productive back then. There’s some pretty steep hills and gullies and it was all covered in scrub. The Pardoe block was originally part of Patupaiarehe Station, but a lot of that got taken off the absentee landlords and broken up. My great-grandfather cleared Glengarry single-handedly. Took him the rest of his life.’
‘So Tama is farming land that was cleared by his grandfather?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘Hey.’ Sacha stirred. ‘Did you find out about those fairies?’
‘Fairies? . . . Oh, yes! I asked my nana.’ Ira grinned. ‘She’s eighty-five, used to ride a horse to school when she was small. She told me the whole story. Ooh, yes. It seems the patupaiarehe were up to their tricks around here!’
Sacha perked up. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Well.’ The young man leaned forward and slipped into storytelling mode; big hands up, speaking in his formal, florid way. It was mesmerising. ‘There was an ancient pa near here—a fortified village. The forest came right down to the edge of it. A beautiful young woman lived there. Her name was Hinemoana, and she became the wife of a powerful man. They were very happy. One evening when the mist was swirling in the valley, Hinemoana went out to fetch water from the river. At the same time a group of patupaiarehe crept down from the hills to hunt for eels in the pools. Well, she didn’t see them, but as she turned away from the river a gust of wind parted the mist. The moonlight shone full on her face, and they saw
her
all right. She was so young and lovely that one of their hunters decided he would have her for his own.’
‘Typical man,’ I muttered.
‘The next night he snuck down and waited for her to come. When she stooped to fill her calabash, he played his putorino. My nana told me the music made the darkness tremble with its beauty. She said it was like clear water, and it cast a terrible spell. Hinemoana dropped her calabash, and her steps took her towards the sound. The patupaiarehe lured her deeper and deeper into the forest until he took hold of her. Then he carried her through the dripping leaves of the trees to his whare—his hut—wreathed in cloud on the mountain summit. My nana didn’t go into the details of what happened there, but all night long Hinemoana lay shaking with fear while the eerie songs of his people drifted through the doorway. At dawn, the patupaiarehe returned her to her own village. When her husband asked where she had been, she told him the whole truth. He held her in his arms, and they wept together.’
‘Nice of him,’ remarked Sacha, looking dubious. ‘Trusting.’
‘They tried to be happy and forget, but Hinemoana was still under that spell. Every time the patupaiarehe played his putorino, she
had
to answer the call. This happened again, and again, until the girl found she was pregnant. She knew that this child was that of the nanakia—the cunning one—and she knew then that she would never be free. So she fell into despair. One night she looked out and saw that the mist was crawling along the ground, and she feared that soon she would hear the call of the putorino. So, while her husband slept, she made her way down to the sea. Some fishermen saw a young woman weeping bitterly in the starlight. As they watched, she walked into the water with her black hair flowing to her waist. Then she submerged herself and was never seen again.
‘You know that long hill at the southern end of the beach—just a little way down from the school?’
‘Yes, I know the one,’ I said. ‘It’s got cliffs with hundreds of birds nesting in them.’
‘Well, have a look next time. If you use your imagination, it looks like a woman lying on her side. You can see the shape of her body, and her face. The rocks are long hair, swirling into the sea. That’s Hinemoana’s hill. I knew the name, but I’d forgotten the story.’
After a brief silence, Sacha sniffed. ‘I wonder if she fancied the fairy guy. You know, just a little bit.’
Ira burst into laughter. ‘Only a woman could think of that! Well, perhaps she did. Anyway, I guess those European settlers heard the same story, and that’s the name they gave their station.’
I was still pondering on his tale when the twins reappeared, bouncing their soccer ball. Finn yanked at Ira’s arm. ‘Time’s up,’ he announced, in a robot voice. ‘You have five seconds to take your place. Five, four, um . . . three . . .’
‘Playing, Sacha?’ asked Charlie hopefully, laying adoring fingers on his sister’s forearm.
Sacha hauled herself up. ‘Nah. It’s freezing. I’m going in. Sorry to be unsociable, Ira. I’ve been partying all night.’
‘No stamina,’ chuckled our visitor, with a good-natured click of the tongue. ‘Right, bros. Who’s in goal?’
By suppertime Sacha was monosyllabic, her cheek propped on one hand and her elbow on the table, listlessly prodding Tama’s roast around her plate. The boys were squabbling merrily but she ignored them as though they were unsavoury strangers at the next table in a restaurant.
Elbows off the table
, hissed Mum.
Manners maketh man.
‘Elbows off the table,’ I parroted. Sacha regarded me expressionlessly, then slid her arm off the table and plonked her forehead down beside her plate.
‘Sacha,’ I warned. ‘Manners maketh man.’
‘Yeah!’ Finn began to chant in a piercing soprano while drawing a face on his plate with tomato ketchup. ‘Manners—maketh—man!’
‘Oh, God,’ moaned Sacha. ‘Get a life.’
‘I think
you’d
better get some sleep,’ said Kit. ‘And don’t talk to your mum like that. She doesn’t deserve it.’
I laid my hand on her cheek. ‘Feeling ill? Have you got a fever?’
‘No. I’m just totally shagged. Goodnight.’ And without further discussion, she stumbled out of the room and up the stairs.
‘Teenagers,’ said Kit, contentedly shovelling her untouched meal onto his own plate. ‘They’re not right in the head.’
Kit was a man possessed, captivated by the shifting colours and moods of the land. He spent much of November tramping through the bush and along the coast. He visited farms and vineyards and saleyards then rushed to capture their blend of harshness and romance on canvas. Even when he went to watch the children riding he came home with pages of vibrant sketches. Once—and I’m not proud of this—I caught myself wondering whether I didn’t prefer the drunk, glowering, depressed Kit to this sober workaholic. That other man needed me desperately. I wasn’t sure the new one did.
‘Why bother with all this reconnoitring?’ I asked one evening, as we were washing up. ‘You can see, right? You can paint what you see. Right? Well. Voilà!’
Kit tutted affably at my superficiality. He’d spent the day in a shearing shed and reeked of farmyard. ‘It’s the spirit of the thing you’re after.’
‘Really, though?’ I wasn’t impressed. ‘Your little landscapes seem popular, and you can knock those up in a matter of days. Why not just get on with it?’
‘Because that wouldn’t be honest.’
‘Don’t you go all arty and pseudo-intellectual on me, Kit McNamara.
Honest?
What kind of bollocks is that? You made and lost a fortune in advertising—what the hell do you care about honesty? Does a picture, or does it not, look nice hanging on the wall?’
‘Shame on you!’ He swiped his tea towel at my behind. ‘I spent six hours in that shearing shed. It was crazy in there! Bleating, barking, a radio on at full blast, whirring machinery and
bang
go the doors as they drag the sheep through. One of these guys cut a sheep, blood everywhere, and a woman stitched it up with baler twine.’
‘Ouch!’
‘The point is this: I will paint that scene completely differently now that I know what it smells and sounds and even
tastes
like.’
‘Kit, seriously.’ I put my arms round his waist, imprisoning him, looking up into his face. ‘I start work on the fifth of December. That’s only a fortnight away. I need you on board to take care of the boys.’
‘I know that. I shall be a dedicated house-husband. Anyway, they’ll have started at school.’
I pointed out that the school day is a short one, and was warming to my theme when the phone rang.