Otahuhu
Sebastian Jones assured them it was safe, but Mary-Jane remained unconvinced.
‘Just a hop and a skip, and before you know it we’ll be in Auckland,’ he’d said in that hoppy, skippy, happy way of his.
From the first day they met, something about Sebastian reminded James of Abel. Sebastian had been staying with his uncle, Father Buchanan, when James and Mary-Jane were interviewed before the wedding. It felt more like an interrogation – questions about James’s family, his faith. Like he was a nobody trying to prove himself. The cook was on leave, so Sebastian dipped in and out of the parlour spilling tea, infuriating his uncle, which made Sebastian even more clumsy. Mary-Jane took control of the teapot and Sebastian went outside to play with the dog, continuing to irritate his uncle with noise. The meeting ended early, and James felt he owed Sebastian something for that.
‘What do you make of it?’ Mary-Jane turned to Sally, Sebastian’s wife of two days.
Sally sucked the side of her bottom lip into her mouth and bit gently. The boat wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large either. There was enough room for the luggage and four passengers, but it was still a rowboat.
‘What about my dress?’ Sally said.
‘Silly Sally.’ Sebastian came over and took her hands. ‘There’s a blanket you can sit on.’ He pouted and dropped his chin with a well-practised lost-puppy look. Sally giggled.
James turned away and spat. He pulled out his knife and flicked it open, grateful for the distraction. The newlyweds’ cooing was unsettling. Made James feel as though he was privy to the intimacy of their bedroom. He didn’t understand it. Sebastian’s uncle, Father Buchanan, was a buttoned-up kind of man, trusted with the secrets of the district. Yet Sebastian had none of his discretion.
While Sebastian reassured Sally, James ran his knife along the top of one of the jetty’s wooden piles, cutting nice neat strips into the dense wood, shifting bird cack dried to powder. He looked across to Mary-Jane and she rolled her eyes. He smiled, assuming she was annoyed at them, not him. The pocket-knife rolled from his fingers into the thickness of his palm – a dagger grasp. He thrust it into the top of the pile and released. The knife stood upright like a fence post. In a shock of recognition, he remembered the Witch, the mast, the whipping, and he swiped the knife free. Mary-Jane watched, but missed the panic. She wasn’t a superstitious woman, and he was thankful for that.
‘What if it rains?’ she said. ‘There’s a mist settling.’
‘It’ll lift, you’ll see. Trust me,’ Sebastian said, without taking his eyes off Sally.
James contemplated turning back, but it was too late for that. And it wasn’t that far to Auckland; men rowed there all the time, though not usually with their women. He thought of Abel and his barefoot bush-girl following him everywhere.
‘Natives do it,’ he said. ‘Row everywhere on them canoes.’
‘We’re not Maoris,’ Mary-Jane said, and turned to walk back up the jetty.
James ran and grabbed the handle of her luggage.
‘We have money for the carriage,’ she whispered.
‘We need it for Auckland. Look, Sally’s in. And there’s an oilskin if we need it.’
‘Silly Sally,’ Mary-Jane said, and frowned at the boat.
‘Won’t be long, be there soon enough.’ James winked at her. ‘You know how good and strong I am, even at the rowing.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Tide’s moving,’ Sebastian called.
‘Best be getting on. Don’t want to get stuck in the mud with the tide out.’ James hoped he’d pushed his own reservations far enough down so she couldn’t detect them.
Mary-Jane flared a look of warning and yanked her bag from James’s hand. It could have gone either way, but she strode towards the boat and sat beside Sally. James tucked her bag under the seat and squeezed her arm. She shrugged him away. It was no surprise; she hated displays of affection.
‘Tally ho,’ Sebastian called, waving at the little crowd on the shore. Sally lifted a handkerchief to her face, though there was no sign of tears. Mary-Jane raised her hand, but her wave was brief, her fingers curling into her palm as though she’d just realised she was leaving her family behind. Young John ran alongside as they started off, then stopped, his smile deflating as they pulled away.
It had been good, all of them, like a family working together, though the mother’s morals were somewhat lapsed, and James wondered about the father, how he’d managed to keep them all in line. Young John was so proud the night he brought his father’s medal out, but anything that reminded James of the army caused agitation. Poor John. James felt bad thinking back on it, how he’d turned away when the lad tried to show him the palm leaves and swords. How the lid of the box snapped shut behind his turned back, how it snapped shut still on his conscience.
Mary-Jane didn’t agree. Said her father was the drunk and it was her mother who kept them in line. She said the boys were just bold, and that was normal for lads. It wasn’t worth arguing. Mary-Jane always took her mother’s side. That’s why he knew they would have to get out, out of that cottage, out of Otahuhu. He had to stop the bickering. Once they were married they would set up their own home, he insisted, except that the odd jobs he managed to get around town weren’t enough to sustain their own home. Mary-Jane was quick to remind him of that.
It wasn’t until one night in the Star Hotel that James had found what he thought was a solution to the Cathleen problem. A man named Burton ran a team of night-soil men, and offered James a job. It meant moving to Auckland, but James accepted without even speaking to Mary-Jane.
The mist didn’t lift; it settled like a wet veil on the tops of trees along the sides of the inlet. Even the old mill looked like a miserable bride, with only the lowest part of its red double door still visible. James pulled even harder on the oars, the women tilting with every stroke, the boat cutting like scissors through the satin surface of the water. Seagulls squalled and scooped the air high above them.
Seagulls inland always meant rain; he knew that as a fact, but struggled to think who had told him.
‘Rain’s coming,’ he warned.
The two women huddled under the oilskin sheet as the downpour settled in.
James motioned for Sebastian to take over, and they switched places, trying not to rock the boat too much. James sat behind Sebastian and adjusted his hat and collar so the rain ran down the outside of his coat. His muscles twitched as they cooled, and his breath took a while to regulate after the pumping of oars.
Sally cocooned herself inside the oilskin. The trim of her bodice escaped at the top. It was made by the same hand that had made the lace for Mary-Jane’s wedding dress. Lace – it always reminded him of Aileen. Mary-Jane wouldn’t have liked Aileen – too happy for her – and he saw for the first time that Mary-Jane didn’t actually like any other women. None at all, except her mother, and maybe Abel’s bush-girl.
Any other woman would have put her arm around Sally, he was sure of it, for warmth, for comfort. But not Mary-Jane; she was stoic, with one arm holding the edge of the oilskin over her head, the other fisted blue in her skirt. She stared towards shore as though something could be seen through the mist and rain. Her face was stiff against the damp blackness of her hair. Her mouth was little more than a slit, a crack of resentment in her porcelain face, a judgement of the life he was trying to make for them. Why couldn’t she just damn well be happy? ‘Too slow.’ James slapped Sebastian’s shoulder.
Sebastian rowed harder, and James heard the wheeze rise up from his pigeon chest. James nudged him to swap places and groaned as he took the oars, but really it was a relief to be working; it helped to plug the fizz of frustration.
As he dug the oars deep, he felt how bumpy the sea had become. The push of the estuary against the incoming sea made the water hard as sand to move. James dug his heels into the bottom of the boat and gripped the oars harder, determined not to be made a fool of. It took a few hours, but he didn’t slow until they reached the water’s edge of Mission Bay. It was beautiful. The island of Rangitoto lay dormant in the harbour, a sleeping giant grown soft with creeping vegetation. Directly opposite, at the far end of a long beach, was their landing point. The rain had eased and the mist lifted. Sebastian pointed to the Anglican mission house nestled on a grassy knoll to the right of the beach. A quadrangle of black rock, a tall pitched roof and leadlight windows set into thick white frames.
‘Don’t worry, Sally,’ Sebastian said. ‘Uncle says there’ll be a grand Catholic church here soon enough. Look –’ he pointed to the other end of the beach – ‘there’s the spot. Ah yes, I can see it, she’s beautiful. Can you see it, Sally?’
‘There’s nothing there,’ Sally said.
‘There will be,’ he said, nodding to himself.
James jumped out as the boat nudged a mound in shallow water. His feet sank into pillows of tangerine-coloured shells as he tugged the boat up the beach. Sebastian climbed over the side and held his arms open to Sally.
‘Come on Sally, I’ve got you.’
Sally fussed about, tucking the blanket even tighter before she made for the side. Sebastian swooped her up before she could fall, nearly toppling backwards himself. James felt a pang of pleasure, a desire to see them both drenched from head to toe, baptised in the waters of Mission Bay.
But Sebastian found his balance before wobbling up the beach with his load. There was something funny about it, and James held down the laugh tickling his throat. He looked at Mary-Jane to see if she saw the humour in it too, but the paleness of her skin had caught a tinge of blue; she was too cold for laughter. Sally screeched when her boots sank in the sand, so Sebastian picked her up again and carried her all the way to the road before returning to hold the boat.
Mary-Jane’s cold hands were a shock when James finally got to take her in his arms. She slipped them under his jacket and ran her fingers along the hot ridges of his old scars. Her head sank into his shoulder, her nose a little block of ice on his neck but her breath reassuringly warm. James timed his breathing so he could draw her in as she exhaled, taste her breath.
‘Cold girl,’ he shuddered.
She said nothing, but shivered against him. She was light, small in his arms, and he was no big man. Her feistiness made her seem larger, something she’d inherited from her mother. Only when she was as limp as she was in his arms did he glimpse her fragility.
James reached the road and set Mary-Jane on the rock wall of the mission house. Then he stood and allowed an involuntary shiver to take over. Only it wasn’t from the cold; it was the weight of responsibility that clung to his back. He recognised the feeling; had almost forgotten, but there it was, that sense of confinement that he had felt as a young man carrying the burden of his father’s house.
Mary-Jane pulled her knees to her chest and let her head fall into her skirts. James closed his eyes and tried to push the resentment away, reminded himself that it belonged to another time, another place.
‘You’ve had that long enough.’ He seized the blanket from Sally and wrapped it around Mary-Jane’s shoulders.
Sebastian came up behind with some bags, and James looked back at the unmanned boat already lifting with the incoming tide. He ran to catch it before it floated out to sea, pulling it right up onto the beach with long, angry wrenches. By the time he reached the road again, a horse was trotting away with Sebastian and Sally aboard a buggy. Sebastian turned and waved, but Sally didn’t.
‘The carriage will be here soon,’ Mary-Jane half whispered.
James sat down on the rock wall and put his arm around her. This time she didn’t shrug him away.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from behind. A woman stood at the door of the mission house. ‘Won’t you come in?’ Her arm ushered them through.
James and Mary-Jane looked at each other.
‘Please, it’s miserable out here. Come and have a cup of tea. The carriage stops to pick up the mail before it heads to Auckland. You won’t miss it.’
James smiled at Mary-Jane.
‘They’re Anglican,’ she whispered.
‘Well, there ain’t no Catholic kindness about today now, is there?’
She nodded, and they picked themselves up off the wall. Just inside the door, Mary-Jane crossed herself. James put their bags to one side and did the same.
Once inside the carriage, Mary-Jane tucked herself into James’s side. He held her blanketed body all the way to Auckland, but his body heat was not enough and on arrival at the boarding house on Queen Street, she was so stiff that she walked with a limp.
Mrs Eagleton showed James and Mary-Jane up the stairs and waited by the door as they looked around the room in her boarding house. It was more comfortable and spacious than James had expected. He walked around the side of the bed where Mary-Jane sat – a big double bed just like the one her mother slept in. He waited for a glint of delight to show on her face, but when he lifted his eyebrows she turned towards the fireplace. They’d never had their own room. Until now, the two of them had shared a mattress in the loft back at Otahuhu, alongside three boys who bruised the air with farts.
‘That’s three bob a night, one week in advance, and sixpence each if you want supper,’ Mrs Eagleton said.
‘How much?’ James queried. It was much more than had been discussed when Burton offered him the job.
‘I’ve given you the best room on the top floor. The front ones face Queen Street. Noise all day and night out that side.’
‘You got cheaper rooms then?’
‘This one was kept for you special. Mr Burton booked it himself. Said you were on a honeymoon.’
‘Did he know how much?’
‘Nothing wrong with the price. Cheaper lodgings down the road, if you don’t mind your wife there mixing with the rowdies, and there’s plenty of them out there. Best to pay for respectable lodgings, Mr Stack, if you ask me.’
James pulled the curtain back from the window. It was too dark to see anything except the golden crescent that glowed in the door of the jacks a floor below. Horses shuffled in the neighbouring property. A honeymoon, James thought, people like us don’t have honeymoons.
Mary-Jane moved to the chair by the fireplace.
‘Haven’t got all day, Mr Stack. Will you be taking the room?’
James pulled money from the inside pocket of his jacket. He had enough for the week, including suppers, with a small amount left over. Mrs Eagleton checked the money, even though he counted it into her hands. A waterfall of coins tumbled into the pocket of her apron and she clasped it shut with a thick hand that dented the fat mound of her belly. She looked too coarse to be a landlady; more like a milkmaid with her cotton cap and apron, small blue eyes and mouth like a drawstring purse.
‘Beef stew and cobbler tonight, I’ll get my girl to bring it up,’ she said, releasing her lips, then gathering them together again tight, as if to keep anything else from falling out. ‘If there’s any apple and custard left I’ll send that up too. I can recommend the oysters at The Royal, if you like that kind of thing, but you won’t beat my steak and kidney pie on Thursday. Firewood’s out the back. You can help yourself.’
Her heavy tread marked each step downstairs; the sweat of her hand squealed on the banister. Then silence. It had been a long day and James allowed the pause, the space of a quick hug, then shook it off and went for the wood.
The wood was good and dry, but without kindling he struggled to get the fire started. The knock at the door came too soon. A girl placed a tray on the side table, then came over to the fireplace and took a bunch of twigs from a chest that sat to the side. James hadn’t thought to look inside the chest; the room still felt like someone else’s. He sat back as the girl removed the wood he’d placed in the grate and replaced it with twigs and twisted paper. Her face shone in the young flames, but she said nothing. James handed her lumps of split wood, wishing she was already gone, but she waited until the fire was well lit. Before she left, she took the bowls and bread from the tray and positioned them on the table.
‘There’s a pot of tea and bread at eight,’ she addressed Mary-Jane.
‘Thank you,’ Mary-Jane said. It was the first he’d heard from her since Mission Bay.
James pushed Mary-Jane’s chair right in front of the fire. Her bootlaces were tight and wet, and it took some stiff-fingered dedication to pry them loose. A honeymoon, James thought again.
‘What the bloody hell?’ James peeled Mary-Jane’s sodden stockings from her red, icy feet. Drops of water fell onto the hearth.
Mary-Jane held one of her boots up for James to see. ‘They’re holed right through.’
The leather was worn through in layers, like rings around an island on a naval map – only the island was missing. James had no idea: she’d said nothing about the state of her boots before they’d left Otahuhu.
‘Get them fixed first pay.’
‘I don’t want them fixed.’ She threw the boot across the room. A shock of noise bounced off the wall and echoed on the ceiling. ‘I want a new pair.’
James didn’t reply. New boots were expensive and he knew Mary-Jane would see the sense in fixing her old ones in the morning light. She was a frugal woman, resourceful, and he admired her for it. He laid the blame for her outburst on the word honeymoon, a word swollen with expectation.
With bellies full of beef cobbler, James and Mary-Jane relaxed in front of the fire, her on the chair, him on the floor. The scars on James’s back tingled in the thaw and the desire to scratch irritated him. He hated the way they demanded attention. He rubbed Mary-Jane’s feet to distract himself, smooth and firm at first, then friskier as the urge to itch his back grated. Mary-Jane jerked her feet away. He looked up, expecting the same smouldering discontent she’d shown over the boots, but she wasn’t angry. The slit of her mouth had stretched, and her fine, straight teeth escaped to reveal her pleasure. The beauty she bound so tight inside her was loose, and she was – she was beautiful when she smiled like that.
‘Stop it!’ James tried to catch her feet again, but they darted under her skirt. His hand slid between the folds of fabric and found them tucked up like scared animals. He pulled at them, but they kicked to and fro, then they sprang forwards, hitting him hard on the chest, pushing him backwards.
Mary-Jane laughed. There was nothing like it, firelight dancing on her happy face. James couldn’t help laughing too.
‘Undress me,’ she demanded, standing above him. ‘Undress your queen.’
Piece by piece James removed her layers and draped them around the room to dry. Her bloomers dropped without his aid, and he knelt to pull them from under her feet. Her goose-fleshed body stood proud before him, until an uncontrollable shiver made her cross her arms tightly over her breasts. Her loosened hair bounced in dark waves down her back as she ran for the bed, buttocks dimpling side to side, until she disappeared under bedcovers.
James snatched the blanket from the chair and threw it on the bed. He leaned over and pulled the covers from her face and kissed her softly, making her reach out for more. She grabbed his cheeks and held him close so their mouths enveloped each other. He pulled back and her fingernails scratched, tracks of burn on each side of his face.
‘Tell me you love me,’ she said.
‘You know it,’ he replied.
Had he ever actually said it? He leaned in to kiss her again, and his face jerked to the side from a surprise strike. The sting of it was nothing, but he hadn’t seen it coming. The look in her eyes had shifted. No longer vulnerable, she was his queen again, demanding submission. He wasn’t about to give her that.
He threw back the bedcovers, making her squirm in the cold. His jacket collapsed on the floor and he peeled his shirt over his head. She reached for the covers, but he kept them from her. She curled into a ball as he kicked off his boots and dropped his trousers.
Cold air bit at his flesh, but he tightened himself, determined not to show any weakness. He jumped onto the bed and stood tall at the end, still keeping the blankets from her. Then he took hold of two corners of the bedcovers and lifted them to make a cape around his shoulders. Mary-Jane unfurled as he lowered himself, their bodies sinking into one another.