In the morning I sat up in a hurry. Had I dreamed Dad was back and okay? Phew. That was no dream. He was here, lying on his back with his mouth open. My dad, alive and gently snoring.
I got up when Mum, Natalie and Robert started walking over me. That night nine of us had slept in the lounge – my family, Natalie and her boys, Robert Chan and Matt. None of us had had a shower since yesterday morning and there wasn’t enough water to use for a bucket bath, but who cared? Dad was alive!
However, soon my mind turned to Shona. Why wasn’t she telling us she was okay? Had she lost her phone – dropped it in a sinkhole, or was the battery flat? Dallington mightn’t have power back on yet. I needed my friends. I sent yet another text: Shona, where are you? Please. Get in touch.
The day swung into busyness. The radio was going. The national anthem was playing, the final verse.
Tika rawa, pono pū;
Tōna noho, tāna tū;
Iwi nō Ihowā.
Kaua mōna whakamā;
Kia hau te ingoa;
Kia tū hei tauira;
Aotearoa
I started singing along – it was either that or cry. The boys – and Matt, to my gobsmacked astonishment – joined in. Then the announcer said, ‘Kia kaha, Christchurch,’ and that finished me off. I swiped at my tears and hugged the boys. ‘Kia kaha, Leo. Kia kaha, Henry.’ Be strong. We’d get through this, somehow.
It was Thursday – only two days since the world went crazy. We listened to the news as we got on with the day. Thousands of people were getting out of the city. The airport had reopened and there was chaos in the terminal. Shona could be there with her mum. Greer would probably stay to work with the Student Army.
I flicked a light off – and a lightbulb went on in my brain. If this quake was like September then there’d still be lots of places without power. ‘Hey, guys, we’re going to open our very own electricity phone-charging station. Who’s going to help me make some signs?’
We all got into it. Charge your phone! Boil a kettle! There’s power at 12 Ireland Street. Matt drew big hollow letters with a black marker, for Leo and Henry to colour in. ‘Sometimes you even have a reasonable idea.’
High praise.
We searched the house for a table, extension cord and multi-plug. Matt could man our charging station while the rest of us shovelled the street clean.
The kids helped tack our four signs up at nearby intersections where we couldn’t see any evidence of the power being on. I was wondering if we should go and look for our liquefaction workforce when Jendi and Paul’s mother turned up. ‘Lyla, how about I take the boys with me today? A few of us are having an activity day for the local kids. I’ve asked Natalie and she says it’s fine with her if you don’t mind.’
‘Thanks.’ I definitely didn’t mind. ‘It’ll be good for them to have interesting stuff to do.’
My workforce was down to three: me, Millie and Jessica. Except then the girls swung by to say they were going to help with the activity day. Fine. But I wasn’t going to do solo liquefaction.
I set up the table of power with Matt. We had the radio going. It was tough listening to the rising numbers of the dead. Better to focus on the help pouring in from all over the world.
We waited for people to come and use our electricity. I wondered how long it would be before Matt started in with the smart comments about how I should have known everybody round here had power.
Then a boy about his age swished through the liquefaction on his bike. ‘Three phones to charge. Okay?’
‘Sure, Xave. Help yourself. How’s things at yours?’
‘Can’t live there. Completely wrecked. We’ve been in the welfare centre at Cowles Stadium. It’s rank, man! Farting. Snoring.’ Xave pointed at the radio. ‘What’s the latest?’
Matt cleared his throat and did a major fail at being a radio announcer. ‘Goooood morning, Christchurch – and what a beautiful sunny morning it isn’t. Folks, you’ll be delighted to know we’ve had aftershocks overnight. How many, I hear you ask? Not one, not two – but would you believe it – twenty-three of the suckers between nine-thirty last night and six o’clock this morning. And that’s only counting the ones measuring from two point nine to four point one.’
Xave shrugged. ‘Felt every single one of ’em.’
Then he rode off with his three charged phones. ‘Mate of yours?’ I asked.
‘Does three of the same subjects as me at school. Bit of a rebel. Makes life interesting.’
Five minutes tootled on past, then a very shaken-looking guy walked up carrying his kettle. I took it to plug it in. It felt too light. ‘There’s hardly any water in here.’
‘It’s all I’ve got. I didn’t prepare for this.’ He rubbed his hands over his face.
‘We’ve still got some. I’ll make you a drink. What do you want?’
He wanted coffee. I made drinks for me and Matt too. Between the three of us, we finished up the last of a fruitcake. The guy perked up amazingly and nodded at the radio. ‘What’s the latest?’
Before Matt could report something scary like how there were now seventy-one bodies and they’d had to set up a morgue at Burnham Military Camp, I said, ‘Lots of sympathy from all round the world. The Pope, the Dalai Lama, President Obama, the Queen – messages from all of them.’
The man nodded. ‘That’s nice. You’d expect it, but it’s still nice.’ He picked up his kettle and wandered away.
Matt leant back in his chair and tapped a finger on the table. ‘Now listen up, young Lyla – you gotta understand I can read people. Better than you, probably. No way was I going to load bad news on Mr Unprepared.’
I used my own finger to bash a drumbeat on the table – better than jabbing him with it, I guess. ‘You can read people? Yeah, right. For starters, you wouldn’t be doing the young Lyla thing, old Matt.’
Whatever he’d been going to slay me with next didn’t happen thanks to a car pulling up. The driver leapt out. Cool hair – it shone bright purple. She sprinted up the path, waving a bottle in one hand and a kettle in the other, while the other woman in the car unbuckled a crying baby from its car seat. ‘Please! Can we get this warm? She won’t drink it cold.’
The kettle boiled, the hot water warmed the bottle, and the baby wailed. I brought out chairs for the parents, but we didn’t try to talk. That kid was loud.
Finally! The milk was warm enough. The baby shut up and drank. The parents breathed out and smiled.
‘What’s the latest?’ Purple Hair asked.
‘You want to get out of Christchurch?’ Matt asked. ‘Air New Zealand’s putting on extra planes. Cheap flights.’ Fair question because they had Australian accents, so why not go back to the land of stable ground?
Purple Hair’s partner shook her head. ‘We’re staying. This is our city now.’
Uh oh – a roaring sound like a train coming. We all knew that noise only too well by now. I snatched the kettle of steaming water off the table and dumped it on the ground. All of us scrambled under the table. The earth rattled and shook. The baby kept drinking.
When the bottle was empty Purple Hair said we’d saved their lives and they hurried away. We watched their car zigzag away round the liquefaction. The radio reported the strength of the aftershock. It was a four point one.
Matt’s mate Xave came flying back a few minutes later, swerving to miss the gunge. He dropped his bike and sprinted up the path. ‘Hey, Matt! The Crusaders aren’t gonna play on Saturday! They should play. We were gunna smash the Hurricanes.’
Really? Mourning a game of rugby when so many people were dead? ‘You reckon they should just jump on a plane as if nothing’s happened?’ I yelled at him. ‘What about their families? They just might be needed at home right now.’ Idiot.
I waited for Matt to do a young Lyla effort, and when he did he was going to get a thumping.
But I nearly fell off my chair without the help of an aftershock when he said, ‘Lyla’s right, Xave. I’d call if off too if I was captain.’
Xave went away muttering. And I asked, ‘Are you captain of the first fifteen?’
He grinned. ‘I’m Year Eleven, Lyla. But in another two years – watch this space.’
‘You want to be an All Black?’ Typical rugby-head boy – of course he wanted to be an All Black.
He closed his eyes and didn’t reply. Yep, dreaming about leading his team of players into the stadiums of the world.
People turned up throughout the morning. Three lots charged their phones, two came to boil water and a woman arrived clutching a skirt that she wanted to iron. It seemed a pretty random thing to be worrying about right now, but I found the iron and the board and let her smooth the wrinkles away.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Matt said, ‘Seriously? Why the stress about wrinkles?’
I put on a teacher-y voice. ‘It’s a metaphor, Matthew. She can’t iron her life straight. The skirt is a replacement object.’
He leant an elbow on the table. ‘Let’s make a deal. I don’t young Lyla you. And you never again call me Matthew.’
‘Suits me.’ But why would the use of his full name get up his nose? Oh yeah, his mother always called him by the full two syllables. That would do it.
Another radio update stunned us both into silence. There’d been a language school in the CTV building – the one that had collapsed and was still burning. Asian students had been studying there and many of them were feared dead.
Matt whispered, ‘Eighty to a hundred fatalities. Those poor people.’
I couldn’t get even one word past the choking in my throat.
We kept listening. It was a terrible bulletin. There were more people feared dead in other buildings. The USAR teams were concentrating on ten buildings in the central city, though aftershocks kept rolling through and making the searching dangerous. Dogs were being used to find people under the rubble.
Was Shona buried under rubble? Is that why we couldn’t get hold of her?
I couldn’t bear it. I walked away, leaving Matt to look after the table. I needed to be busy and there was liquefaction to be shovelled up. Matt called out to me, but I ignored him. The liquefaction had dried to silt and dust that flew everywhere. I breathed it in as I shovelled, then breathed in more as clouds of dust volcanoed up when I tipped each load on the side of the street.
I filled the barrow eight times – and yes, I was counting. Anything to stop having to think about the city. Just as I was starting on the ninth load, what did I see Matt do? He got up and limped off, that’s what.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ I yelled.
‘Temper!’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you where I’m going – when you ask nicely.’
I jabbed the shovel back into the silt. He could disappear down a sinkhole for all I cared. And I was not crying. What Matt chose to do was his own business.
Then I heard thump, step, thump and there he was, standing right in my face. ‘There’s a water collection point at Phillipstown School. Want to come?’
I kept my leaking eyes on the ground. ‘Okay. But what about…’
‘I’m off to ask Dave and Myra to man the table. They probably need water too.’ He limped away without waiting for a reply.
I wheeled the barrow to the footpath, my mind wheeling too. What was with Matt Nagel, tormentor of any girl who crossed his path? He could have yelled right back at me, but instead he was actually kind. And thoughtful. And problem-solving. Plus, he’d given me time to get myself together.
It was lunchtime. I wasn’t really hungry, but Matt would be. I just wanted the comfort of warm food. There was so much sadness. So many unbearable pictures in my head.
I made us cheese toasties and ate mine before he reappeared with Dave and Myra, who brought with them a bag of chocolate biscuits. I ate three; Matt scoffed through five, and then the toastie. They’d turned the radio on before we were out of earshot.
Matt managed the walk by leaning most of his weight on his bike. I trundled the wheelbarrow. I tried to think of something to say. Thanks for being kind? Sorry I yelled? In the end I said, ‘Were Dave and Myra okay about manning the table?’
‘Thrilled to be doing something to help.’ End of conversation.
The school wasn’t far, but it took us ages to get there. Everywhere we looked there was damage and destruction. Fences lay higgledy-piggledy on the ground. Huge cracks zigzagged through walls. Whole sides of houses leant out at crazy angles. Silt was piled up at the roadsides where people had cleared liquefaction from around their houses. A cat cowered under a drunkenly leaning bush and hissed at us. The eerie thing was the few random houses that looked to be almost untouched even though both their neighbours could be totally wrecked.
There was a queue for water. I scanned the people, looking for anyone I knew. ‘Joanne!’ I threw my arms around her. ‘Are you okay?’ we both asked at the same time. Then we laughed and I said, ‘Have you heard anything about our school?’
‘Just that it’s badly damaged. I hope it’s not real bad. I so want to get back to normal.’ She swallowed hard. ‘It won’t be normal, though. Amanda’s family are moving to Australia. Willa’s in Dunedin, and so is Margie. They might come back, but I don’t think they will.’
‘It just sucks. Katie’s moved to Nelson. Has Amanda said anything about Shona? Has she seen her, do you know?’ They lived in the same street, so Amanda would know if anybody did.
But Joanne shook her head. ‘No. But she said so many houses are wrecked in her street. Jeez. I hope…’
Me too.
The queue moved slowly. Matt had found a couple of guys from his school. And all of us talked to strangers, swapping our stories.
We shuffled closer to the water tanker, and Joanne sighed. ‘I know it’s such a small thing when there’s so much awful stuff happening – but I’d kill for a shower. I’ve got liquefaction-dust hair. And I keep thinking I’ll run to the dairy. I need chocolate.’
The dairy was now a pile of rubble.
Finally it was our turn. We filled our containers and made the trek back home.
Myra and Dave had quite a crowd at the table when we got back. A guy with his arm in a sling and a huge bruise on his face was charging his phone. The other four didn’t have anything plugged in. Apparently they were hanging around for the company. It was another half-hour before they all toddled away.
Myra rubbed her hands together. ‘We have so enjoyed ourselves! And look – we’ve got a news summary for you.’
They’d written a list. I couldn’t bear to tell them I didn’t want to hear any more news, not today, not ever.
Dave read the list out. The first item was good news. An Australian Army field hospital would arrive tomorrow.
The next was a mixture of good and bad. Lyttelton was completely wrecked. The good part was that the HMNZS Canterbury had been docked in the harbour when the world went wild and the navy were feeding the people.
Another feel-good item came next. Peter Jackson and the crew making The Hobbit were offering to give practical help where they could. The actors and everyone else involved with the movie were shocked and saddened. They sent their thoughts and prayers.
A good but sad item: Auckland was expecting evacuees today off thirty-six flights. I hated that so many people had to leave my city, but at the same time I hoped Shona, Greer and their mum were among them.
‘Thanks,’ I said to Dave and Myra. ‘That was really kind of you.’
Matt didn’t argue when I left him in charge of the table while I helped them take water back to their house. Just as I was leaving them, Dave slapped his head. ‘Where are my brains? We found our old plug-in phone. What’s your number?’
We swapped numbers. Being able to call them whenever – that felt good.
I walked home slowly, slower as I approached my house. I didn’t want bad news. I couldn’t cope with bad news. I wouldn’t ask Matt what he’d heard while I was away. So what did I do the moment I sat down with him at the table? I asked the dumb question, is what I did. ‘Okay, what’s the not-so-good news?’
‘You sure?’ he asked.
‘No. But it’s worse not knowing.’
So he told me, quick, brief and sharp. Body bags were being carried from the CTV site. It wasn’t known yet how many people had been crushed under stone when the cathedral shattered. Three men had died in another church when it collapsed on them.
I turned the radio off and Matt didn’t protest. You could only take so much horrible news. I dreaded what tomorrow morning would bring. It would be two and a half days since the big quake. Surely nobody could still be alive in any of those broken buildings.
That night once the kids were soundly asleep Matt turned on the television just in time for us to see the Education Minister read out a list of badly damaged schools – and Avonside Girls’ High and Shirley Boys’ High were among them. My school and Matt’s. Crap. Absolute and utter crappy crap.
Life wasn’t looking like getting back to anything near normal anytime soon.