THIRTEEN

Rose says, 'That's the river, George.' George is supremely indifferent. The rain last night has left the grass wet so she walks along the path at the top of the bank. George enjoys being moved along in the stroller, but does not enjoy stopping in the stroller. He doesn't care for views, is indifferent to the kingfisher on the wire or the ten big white geese who stare at them superciliously as they pass. Every time Rose stops to look at the river, or a bird, he waits for a moment and when the stroller doesn't move, gives a protesting cry. 'Look, George, a big bath,' Rose says, hoping to God no one can hear her. No one except a few-months-old child, that is.

Earlier, Rose had phoned Sibyl. Kitty answered. She sounded subdued. 'Sib's in the shower. We're off to the mall. Retail therapy she reckons. Then we're going somewhere for lunch.'

'It's all right,' Rose said, 'you can say Olga's. How's Sib?'

'Louise,' Kitty hesitated, and Rose knew exactly what she was going to say and that she didn't want to hear it, but she was going to have to. 'She rang Sib last night. She's really sick. They can't do chemo even, it's too late. So after lunch we're going to see her.' Kitty sounded close to tears. She changed the subject abruptly, as though she couldn't bear to say any more and said, almost truculently, 'Have you ever heard of memory boxes?'

'Yes,' Rose was surprised to hear her voice sounding so calm, 'in a book Sibyl and I both read. Before I Say Goodbye. Ruth Picardie.'

'Sib wants to do one. She says find her a trunk, a box is too small.'

'I've got a trunk,' Rose said, 'one of Ada's. You can have that, pick it up tomorrow. Give my love to Sib. And Louise.'

'Will do,' Kitty said.

Louise, thought Rose, Louise. Two of us, there's just me left. I wonder when it will happen to me. She felt an immense tiredness as she stared out the window still holding the telephone. I wish I hadn't rung, she thought, first Sib, now Louise, soon it'll be me.

Now she thinks how lucky she is to be able to see those white, white geese and the blue-green kingfisher. It's not just that given the mess industry and successive councils have made of the river mouth, it's a miracle even this little patch has survived, but that she's here right now, that George is here; that at this very moment the white geese are honking and the kingfisher is so intent on that shape in the water it doesn't even turn its head; that so far, she hasn't been given the bad news. Monday, she thinks, Monday, they'll tell me Monday.

The spit where the Waiwhetū Stream separates from the river is haven for all sorts of ducks, geese and swans that congregate here all year, whose colonies are hugely increased as May, the duck-shooting season, approaches, and then reduce again as the danger passes. It never ceases to amaze Rose how many varieties of duck and other birds might be seen here. She has even seen quail scuttling away. Out on the river she counts five pairs of geese. One lone goose is skulking a little way back from this main group. Every time it gets close to the others one of them turns and honks at it, and it falls back again. They don't want it now, although it was probably part of the group before its mate vanished.

'Aha, aha,' says George.

'Once upon a time,' Rose tells him, 'there were several tracks to the sea through the forest from the Akatarawa Range, but most were only used by bird hunters or by war parties. On their way was a big raupō-fringed lagoon which was the home of two man-eating taniwha. These two taniwha terrorised and ate anyone who came their way. So eventually the hunters stopped using the area and the warriors decided it was safer to make peace, which was all very nice for them, but the taniwha soon became very hungry without juicy humans to eat. So they began eating the shrubs and the bark of trees around the lagoon, and pretty soon the water was fringed not with healthy, vigorous raupō and giant kahikatea, but with grey, dead trunks and grey, dead places. The taniwha, who couldn't leave the water for too long or they would die, grew thinner and thinner as their food supplies dried up. Then along came some little boys exploring the lagoon. The little boys had been told not to go near the taniwha, but when did little boys take any notice of such commands? The two taniwha couldn't believe their eyes as this group of juicy morsels arrived on their doorstep. They crept up on the boys and lunged. But the little boys had seen them in the nick of time and jumped away, and the two taniwha crashed into each other. They charged and lunged and bit and ripped at each other with such force that the bank of the lagoon collapsed and its waters began gushing out all the way to the far-off sea in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, the Great Harbour of Tara.

The taniwha were appalled. With great cries they stopped fighting and charged after the water, tearing a deep channel in their wake. This channel soon filled up with water and was given the name Waiwhetū, because the water was so clear you could see stars in it.

When these two fierce taniwha finally reached the deeps of Te Whanganui-a-Tara these two, who had everyone who met them shaking in their skins with fear, now discovered what it was like to be really really frightened themselves. Te Whanganui-a-Tara had a big, fierce taniwha of its own. He made short work of the two interlopers and they disappeared inside his big fat stomach, never to be seen again. But the power of those two taniwha never quite left the Waiwhetū and when in 1839 the big river, called Heretaunga for at least one thousand years, was renamed Hutt (after the founding member, director and chairman of the New Zealand Company, Sir William Hutt), and the valley was given an Upper and Lower Hutt just like they did in England, and the creeks, islands, bays, headlands, straights, reefs, all were given new names by the new settlers, the channel forged by the two taniwha, with the waters flowing through it to the sea and back, remained Waiwhetū, Starry Waters. And sometimes on a very clear, still night, you can see the two once-fierce taniwha glide and play among the stars of the waters they loved, and that is why the waters will always be called Waiwhetū, the water of stars.'

George is asleep. Rose pushes the stroller back along the stop-bank path. There's a move on at the moment in Lower Hutt to change the name again. In fact, there's been debate since the 1940s. The proposers want to drop the word 'Lower' and have Hutt City as the main name. There have been letters in the Hutt News, both for and against. Some have been very eloquent about sticking to tradition and keeping the present name.

Now, thinks Rose, can't put it off any longer. Just open the damned thing Rose. She steers the stroller over the rutted grass and weeds and down towards the river. The water's very clear today, the mass of it seemingly quite still, waiting. She stares into it and thinks for the millionth time, I wonder how I could reproduce this in fabric? What colours? What fabric — silk?

Silvery satin? Grey shiny cotton? She pulls the envelope from her pocket and takes out the letter. It's quite short.

Dear Rose,

I write to apologise for being such a coward four years ago. I should have supported you and not allowed my anxiety about losing my job to take over. I also realise now, that I had other anxieties which I hadn't faced. It's been on my mind ever since. I have recently told Mr Gerrison that I feel a grave injustice was done and I've contacted John Nelson, chairman of the Board of Trustees, and told him the same. I am deeply sorry and ashamed of the hurt I caused and for being partly the cause of you leaving as you did. I am hopeful you will be generous and allow me to come and see you, briefly, to apologise in person.

Yours sincerely, Marcy.

Rose's hand shakes as she tears the letter into tiny pieces and throws them in the river. 'The cheek,' she says to the little white scraps as they float away towards the sea, 'the bloody cheek!' In the water there is a blackboard in a classroom. There is graffiti on it. Dirty dyke. Pervert. Lesbians are Filth.

She humps the stroller back over the grass and up the stony track. 'You'll be all right,' she hears her mother saying, 'you'll be all right. I was.'