Call of the Kiwi (11 page)

Your half granduncle who loves you more than anything,

Jack

William scanned the lines with furrowed brow.

“You were right to seize this letter, Miss Arrowstone,” he remarked. “The relationship between my daughter and this man was always somewhat unhealthy. Throw the letter away.”

Gloria was alone. Completely alone.

Paradise Lost

C
ANTERBURY
P
LAINS
, C
AMBRIDGE
, A
UCKLAND
, C
APE
R
EINGA
, A
MERICA
, A
USTRALIA
,
AND
G
REYMOUTH

1914–1915

1

A
t the risk of sounding like old Gerald Warden, something’s not right.”

James McKenzie shuffled through the former rose garden of Kiward Station heavily supported by his cane and leaning lightly on his wife’s arm. Recently every movement had become a torment, his joints were stiffer than ever, and his rheum reminded him of countless nights spent under an open sky. He only left the house when he felt it was necessary, such as the return of the flocks and their shepherds out of the mountains. Though the management of the farm had long been in Jack’s hands, the old foreman would not be denied a look at the well-fed ewes and lambs.

James McKenzie glanced at Charlotte’s still slender form.

“Five years of marriage and the girl is still as thin as a blade of grass. Something isn’t right there.”

Gwyneira nodded. Though the subject came up often between them, neither of them wanted to bring it up directly with Jack or Charlotte.

“It’s not for lack of effort,” Gwyneira joked. “They still can hardly keep their hands off each other. It’s unlikely that stops in the bedroom. But don’t you think she’s too thin, James? She’s pretty as a picture, of course, but a little lean. Or am I imagining things? And those constant headaches.”

Charlotte had suffered migraines for as long as she could remember. Even in the first few years of marriage, she had spent a week in her apartments with the windows shaded only to reemerge pale and haggard. Neither the Haldon doctor’s powders nor the Maori midwife’s herbs had helped. Gwyneira had noticed that they’d begun to occur more frequently.

“She’s probably worried. She’s always wanted children,” James said. “What does Rongo say? Didn’t you send her there again?”

Gwyneira shrugged. “I can only tell you what Dr. Barlow says. Charlotte told me that in his opinion everything was fine. I could hardly ask Rongo about Charlotte’s health. But they’re together a great deal for her research on Maori myths. If something were seriously wrong, Rongo would notice.”

James nodded. “If I’m not mistaken,” he then said, “it’s time for me to go see Rongo Rongo myself. This rheumatism’s killing me. But I can’t ride to O’Keefe Station. Do you think Rongo would condescend to a house visit?” he smiled.

“During which you can carefully and inconspicuously sound her out about Charlotte’s most intimate secrets?” Gwyneira teased him. “But do, I’m equally curious. Just make sure she won’t tell Charlotte. And afterward I’ll insist you take every bitter drop she prescribes.”

Rongo Rongo paid a house call. The last few rains had worsened James’s rheumatism to the point where he could hardly pull himself out of bed even just to reach his easy chair at the bay window.

“That is time, Mr. McKenzie, she rots our bones,” sighed Rongo. In the tradition of her family’s women, she practiced and taught healing. “I can ease the pain a bit, but the rheumatism can no longer be cured. More than anything, keep yourself warm and do not resist your weakness. It does not help to force your bones. That only makes it worse. Here,” she said, handing him a packet of herbs. “Have them steep this in the kitchen tonight. Tomorrow Kiri will strain it, and you’ll drink everything in one gulp. No matter how bitter it is. Ask Kiri. She takes the same thing, and she’s much more active than you.”

Kiri had been the cook at Kiward Station for decades and staunchly refused to leave her position to someone younger.

“Kiri is a child compared to me!” James insisted. “At her age I didn’t even know what joint pain was.”

Rongo smiled. “The gods touch this one now, that one later,” she said with a touch of sadness. “Be happy you have been granted a long life, and many descendants.”

“While we’re on the subject,” James began, switching to Maori. “How do things look for Charlotte? Will she have many descendants?”

James smiled almost a little conspiratorially, but Rongo Rongo remained serious.

“Mr. McKenzie,
wahine
Charlotte’s curse is not childlessness,” she said softly. “My grandmother advised me in cases like hers to carry out an exorcism, and I did.”

“With Charlotte’s consent?” James asked astonished.

Rongo nodded. “Yes, although she didn’t take it seriously. She just wanted to know what such a session was like.”

“It didn’t do much good, did it?” James said. He had heard of many successful conjuring rituals, but they were only helpful if the person in question believed in their effect.

“Mr. McKenzie, it’s not important whether Charlotte believes in the spirits. It’s the spirits that must fear the power of the
tohunga
.”

“And?” James asked. “Were these spirits sufficiently scared?”

Rongo frowned unhappily. “I’m not very powerful,” she admitted. “And they are powerful spirits. I advised Charlotte to seek the advice of a
pakeha-tohunga
in Christchurch. Dr. Barlow in Haldon doesn’t have any more power than I.”

James was unsettled. Rongo Rongo had never before sent a patient to a Western doctor. She carried on a friendly rivalry with Dr. Barlow—sometimes one affected a speedy recovery, sometimes the other. Both had failed in Charlotte’s case. And the diagnoses “Childlessness is not her curse” and “You must simply keep trying as medically there’s no reason you can’t conceive” resembled each other in a disconcerting way.

“I’ve counted the days,” Charlotte said to her husband.

She had just brushed her hair, and Jack bent over her and breathed in the honey-blonde luxuriance, still surprised that so much beauty belonged to him.

“If we try today, I could conceive a baby.”

Jack kissed her hair and the back of her neck. “I’m open to any attempt,” he said and smiled. “But don’t fret about children. I only want, only need you.”

She knew he meant it. Jack had never left any doubt about how happy she made him.

“How do you even know how to count the days?” he asked.

“From Elaine,” she explained. “And a—” She giggled a little and blushed. “A prostitute explained it to her. Granted, that was more about how to avoid getting pregnant. But the principle is the same, you know, only reversed.”

“You talked to Elaine about our difficulties?” Jack asked, taken aback. “I thought what we do here only involved us?”

“You know Lainie. She’s rather forward. When she was here last time she asked me about it directly. Oh Jack, I want a baby so badly. Lainie’s boys are so sweet. And she had another letter from little Lilian.”

“She’s not so little anymore,” grumbled Jack. “Gloria is eighteen, so Lilian must be fourteen or fifteen.”

“She’s charming in any case. I can’t wait to meet her. In two years she’ll finish her schooling. And Gloria in just a year. How quickly children grow up.”

Jack nodded grimly. Even all these years later, he had not ceased to worry about Gloria—her short, vapid letters, her avoidance of his difficult questions, the limited information he could gather from the family about how she was really doing. Something was not right, but he could not get through to her. Though she was set to graduate the following summer, there was no talk of her return.

“After graduation I’ll be traveling through Northern Europe with my parents,” she had written in her last letter. She didn’t mention whether she was excited about that or would rather come home straightaway, whether she would miss school or was considering continuing her education. When she spent her vacations with her parents instead of at school—which had happened three times in the last five years—she did not write at all.

“You’ll be happy to see her come back, won’t you?” Charlotte asked. She had finished tending to her hair, and was sliding her silken morning dress off her shoulders. Underneath she wore a finely sewn chemise. Jack realized that she had gotten thinner.

“If you want to have children, you need to eat more first,” he said, changing the subject and wrapping his arms gently around his wife.

She laughed softly when he picked her up and laid her on the bed.

“You’re too tiny to carry a baby.”

Charlotte trembled lightly under his kisses, but then came back to Gloria. She did not like talking about her own figure; the Maori women teased her often enough that her husband soon would not like her anymore. Maori men preferred full-bodied women.

“But you may be disappointed,” she warned Jack. “The Gloria who comes back probably bears no resemblance to the little girl from back then. She’s no longer interested in dogs and horses. She’ll love books and music. You should already be practicing your most cultivated conversation.”

Jack’s reason told him the same thing whenever he read one of Gloria’s letters. But his heart would not believe it.

“She should tell Nimue that,” he replied with a glance at Gloria’s dog, which slept in the hall in front of their door. “And she’s the heiress of Kiward Station. She’ll have to take an interest in the farm, boarding school or no boarding school.”

“Will the dog even still recognize her?”

“Oh, Nimue will remember. As for Gloria, she can’t have become a different person. That just can’t be.”

Gloria tied her hair at the nape of her neck. It was still too thick to be tamed, but it was long now, and the other girls no longer teased her about her boyish hairstyle. It had been a long time since she cared what Gabrielle, Fiona, and the others said about her. Gloria had developed a sort of buffer around her and simply no longer allowed their taunts to hurt her. That went for the remarks of most of the teachers too, particularly the new music teacher, Miss Beaver. Miss Wedgewood had married Reverend Bleachum three years before and left the school. Miss Beaver was an ardent admirer of Kura-maro-tini Martyn and was eager to meet Gloria, expecting greatness—when that wasn’t forthcoming, she settled for details from each concert tour the girl had taken part in over the last few years. Gloria could not report much. She hated the vacations with her parents and the ensemble’s members treated her with nothing but contempt.

Kura’s interpretations of the
haka
had departed further and further from their traditional presentation; she suited them to Western standards and expected the Maori artists to do the same. The best among them, however, were unwilling to do that. Kura and William had therefore begun using half-
pakeha
performers. They were also closer to Western ideas of beauty, and that became the main criterion for their selection. Dance teachers and impresarios hired the novices and taught them what to do. Kura and William traveled with a sprawling cohort that filled five sleeping and salon cars. The private cars were simply hitched to the trains traveling throughout Europe.