A short story for - and of - Waitangi weekend
It was a kick in the guts. One of the local Māoris who had chainsawed through his farm fences was in the room next to his wife. He’d waited five hours and June still wasn’t back from surgery. Jeremy sucked in a breath and walked past the doorway. There was Matthew alright, propped up by pillows, sticking out like the great brown hope and looking as though butter wouldn’t melt. Worse than that was the sight of Jeremy’s older brother, Bruce, perched right beside the bed, rosary beads in hand, who immediately unfolded his spindly legs and leaped off the chair.
“Is that you, Jerry?” called Bruce, craning his head into the corridor.
They were of similar build and features: blue eyes, bony wrists and freckled head, though Bruce had grown crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and mouth, holding him firmly in a place of belonging that Jeremy had never known. A place that June had found here, too.
She would be back soon, groggy from the second mastectomy within a year, trying to put on a brave face, tubes draining fluid from under her arm. Jeremy had time to glance down the corridor before Bruce grasped his elbow and ushered him into Matthew’s bright room.
“I came to see our June,” said Bruce. “But I found dear Matiu!”
The name brought a sour taste to Jeremy’s tongue even at the same time his lower back locked against his brother’s palm. He’d heard about the new trend in the Bay. Replacing colonial ‘tags’. God forbid that the moniker of a Saint had become an affront to New Zealand Māori! Jeremy believed in his father’s mantra: one language, one law, one rule for all.
“Come in for a minute,” Bruce urged. “He hasn’t been well.”
“I’m kei te pai.” Matthew called out, his voice deep and smooth. “Tēnā koe, Jerry. Long time no see.”
Jeremy nodded and reached into his trouser pocket where he fingered an old key. Matthew’s full head of hair was pure white. At the side of his ear sat an oxygen mask, off kilter, held by a jumble of thin elastic bands that dangled down to his exposed shoulder. The gaping gown showed lighter speckled skin that contrasted with his darker arms.
“Been away?” Jeremy asked, trying to draw Matthew’s attention away from his pocket.
“Nope. Been dying from arse cancer.”
Jesus, thought Jeremy. Why had he asked that? Perhaps he should ask something about Matthew’s new found position as Chair of the local tribe? Jeremy adjusted his belt and caressed the key again. Matthew hadn’t always held that title. He’d been no more than a tinpot shearer ten years ago when Jeremy had padlocked the gate to the beach track, shutting out the Māoris for good.
A decade had passed, but he’d never forgotten the season. It was almost July. June had been wearing her peacock gumboots and was busy raking up rotten camellia blooms that littered the perimeter of the house lawn. She’d found knitted coats for the orphan lambs and had set up a large pen. The previous night had brought a king tide that swept down the coast and threw sea lettuce and bull kelp right up to the sand dunes, as well as spitting up piles of shellfish. Matthew had gathered his people and driven to the track before sunrise.
They had travelled in a convoy, heading onto the beach to stuff sacks with pāua that glistened black and puckering in the morning gloom. Matthew never asked or apologised for taking liberties on Jeremy’s farm. The next day, the padlock Jeremy had used was the best of the best. A boron alloyed-steel shackle. Six pin tumbler cylinder. Thick and unbreakable as his mother’s Bible.
Being at the hospital in Matthew’s room felt like a betrayal. Jeremy’s boots shifted uneasily on the carpet. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder in case somebody who knew him was spying. He didn’t want to be the talk at Thursday night tennis. June’s room stood empty still. He picked at a brittle nail, impatient to see her.
“How’s the …uh, marae getting on?”
“Kei te pai. Almost done now we’re through Covid. How’s the farm?”
“Good. Lambing at the moment.”
“We’ve started lambing, too. How’s Council or should I ask?”
Jeremy sniffed. “Major upgrades in town,” he said.
“No water supply for the village yet?”
“Not yet.” The conversation struck grit.
“I brought Matiu a wonderful tonic,” said Bruce. He nodded eagerly at Matthew who sucked up the green liquid through a straw.
"That’s it,” Bruce encouraged. “Keep up the fluids, my man.”
“Bloody good brew,” said Matthew. “Making me go mimi already.”
“Whaea says you must drink it every two hours,” said Bruce, his eyes bright and crinkled. “To feel the true benefit of the kawa kawa.”
Jeremy had seen that green drink before - on his kitchen bench - just after June was diagnosed with the dreaded Bay disease, cancer of the breast. She’d come home with a bottle of the mossy muck, sneaking it into the house. He’d never said a word.
Jeremy was about to excuse himself and leave, when a flat-chested nurse strode into the room. Both Matthew and Bruce sat up as if the head nun had returned, but the nurse took no notice of Bruce and headed straight for the bed. Already, the energy in the room had sparked and Matthew’s lips were now pressed tight. Jeremy leaned back on the doorframe and crossed his arms.
“Well, well,” the nurse began. “Thank goodness only two visitors today. Yesterday we almost had to call noise control!”
She yanked at the wires on Matthew’s arm and chest and lifted up a thick tube which hung down beside the bed. It disappeared into a bag brim-full of urine.
“We can leave, Matiu, if you’d like?” said Bruce.
“No, no,” said the nurse. “No need for that. I just have to empty this lot.” She held up the urine bag like a side-show prize. “Like a horse, this one. Gawd, that drink looks worse than what’s in his bag. I hope it's not a woowoo concoction? Hmm, Matthew?” The nurse winked conspiratorially at Jeremy. “Eh, Councillor Von Durston?” she said with another eye flick. Jeremy nodded, surprised and elated that the nurse knew his name.
“It’s actually called rongoa,” said Bruce. “It’s completely organic and non-harmful. In fact, the kawa kawa healing powers are well documented.”
Bruce seemed upset which made Jeremy’s mood brighter. He was now enjoying himself. The worm had turned. This nurse knew her place, as well as everyone else’s in the room.
“Rongo?” she asked, incredulous. “Do you believe in that sort of Māori … I mean native potions?”
“Can you please come back later?” Matthew said quietly, rubbing his forehead.
“I have to take your bloods …” the nurse began.
“Please go,” repeated Matthew, his voice stronger.
“Now don’t be aggressive.”
“He’s not being aggressive, at all!” said Bruce.
“I won’t be spoken to like that,” she said.
Matthew took a deep breath. “Could you please come back when these gentlemen leave? That’s not too much to ask? Is it? Ka pai?”
The nurse marched out and Jeremy took the opportunity to step beside her, his hand at her needle thin waist. In the corridor, he could feel the stiffness in her back and smell the dryness of her skin.
“Don’t mind them,” he said.
“It’s typical. Every time there’s trouble on the ward, it’s one of them.” She nodded back into the room. “They just can’t help it.”
She left to find out why June wasn’t back yet. Her room was quiet and smelled sickly. The window showed a view of the hospital garden and a large plot of regal bushes in bloom. They reminded Jeremy of June. The threat of death made people do crazy things. Insane. Over the past year, it made his camellia planting wife rip out all the bushes around the house - bar one - and replace them with natives: berries and trees, ferns and bushes. Jeremy went with it. What else could he do? She might be dying. The predictable happened as well. June asked him to unlock the gate.
“Why do you care?” he’d argued. “You know what they did.”
“What?” June had said, her tiny hands trembling. “What did they do? Huh? A couple of their men cut down a wire fence? Matthew called you a wanker? Really? And you haven’t done anything to them over the years?” June’s eyes narrowed. “What about that huge parcel of land that just happened to become available to buy through Council? That was Mabel’s family land! Why do you have to carry hate and greed that rots your life? That rots mine! I’ve made friends here! They used to be your friends, too.”
“Those people were never friends! Our family has a place, and they have theirs. They get it, why can’t you? The gate stays. I’ve moved the ewes in, anyway.”
“When did you become so God-like? And for Christ’s sake, stop carrying around that horrid key. Did you think I’d steal it and unlock your precious gate? I just want peace, Jerry. Peace.”
He paced up and down the hospital hallway, deliberately keeping away from Matthew’s doorway, until a new kind-eyed nurse headed his way. June still wasn’t back. The nurse’s lips were pale and set.
“Mr Von Durston?”
“What’s happened?”
“There have been some minor complications and your wife is still in surgery. The surgeon is hoping for only another hour or two.”
“What complications?”
The nurse smoothed down the front of her white blouse. “I’ll let you know when she’ll be up.” With that she turned on her soft shoes and disappeared back down the hallway to the heavy double doors.
Was June in trouble? Jeremy’s throat constricted. A wave of heat rushed to his chest and he pushed into the nearest room, his hand shaking over his mouth.
“Hey, you okay?” said Matthew, sitting up amongst the wires. The muscles in Jeremy’s neck screamed.
“Jerr?” asked Bruce, his eyes wide.
“I’m fine,” Jeremy said coarsely. “I’m perfectly fine.” His chest heaved. What if June died? He blinked several times. Matthew’s face swum in front of him.
“You cut another track down to the beach?”
“Should we really talk about that particular topic…?” said Bruce.
“It’s fine Brucey,” said Matthew. He took another sip of juice. The large bags under his eyes hung purple with yellow tinges. “Āe, we have cut another track. Your locked gate is still where it’s been for ten years, Jerry. We’ve used the old paper road eh? Now, we can get down to the rocks to fish, but we still have to drive a fair distance for the cockles. But, it’s all good, mate.” Matthew slurped up the last of the drink. “We’ve moved on. Ka pai.” Matthew smiled. “And, I’m truly sorry that June’s going through all this. She’s always been good to us.”
The corner of Jeremy’s lips danced into a sneer and he drew in deep gasps of air. How dare he? How dare he mention June's name? Jeremy needed to bury his face into the smooth skin of her neck, to kiss her pale shoulders. To feel her arms around him. To breathe in the smell of her. To have her shout at him for leaving muddy trails through the house. To have her to argue with. To love with. This thing in the bed should die - not her. Not her! Why was this abomination living when she could be taken at any moment?
“You people …” His voice turned to a high groan and his hands crept up to half cover his ears. Bruce jumped up.
“It’s alright, mate,” said Matthew. “Did you know I lost Pipiri a few months ago? You knew her as Mabel. I get it. I get it when you fear losing the aroha in your life.”
Mabel? Dead? She’d been a secret friend of June’s. Her little red Mini parked in the driveway. Remnants of June’s favourite mussels and sweet onion in a bowl in the refrigerator.
“I’m sorry”, said Jeremy, thickly. He took a deep breath and felt for the key in his pocket. It was warm as though it pulsed in time with his blood, as though it wanted to be back out at the farm.
“Life’s short, bro,” said Matthew. He lay back in the raised bed and fiddled with the edge of a white sheet.
“I didn’t know she died,” whispered Jeremy.
Matthew’s face softened. “Your June is a real laugh,” he said. “They both thought it was so funny to finally have the same name… Mabel chose ‘Pipiri’ because it means ‘June’. They thought it was a hoot - same name but different. Silly eggs.”
“June?” Jeremy whispered again. “Pipiri?” He backed out into the hallway, ignoring Bruce’s compassionate stare and Matthew’s tired eyes. At the dark end of the corridor two nurses turned away when they saw Jeremy, their heads downcast.
Pipiri. June. Jeremy turned the names over and over on his tongue at the same time he turned the key over and over in his pocket. Why anyone thought they could blend two worlds was beyond him. This he’d tried to tell June again and again. And he would tell her again - if she made it back to her room and back to his arms. Life was not arbitrary. Here, the coils inside a padlock only turned a certain way. He dropped the key to the bottom of his deep pocket and grasped the ignition keys to the ute instead. There was a lambing beat to attend to. He wouldn’t wait. It was almost July.
Hawke's Bay writer Shelley Burne-Field is the author of "Pinching out dahlias", the most-read short story ever published in ReadingRoom.
Tomorrow in ReadingRoom: Melanie Kung on the artistry of New Zealand translator Geraldine Harcourt, whose translations of Japanese fiction achieved "an unfathomable kind of magic".
