Isle of Tears (10 page)

Niel, who was several heads shorter than his opponent, lunged
at him and, placing his hands on a surprised Tai’s shoulders, used them to propel himself upwards whereupon he smashed his forehead into Tai’s nose.

Tai staggered backwards, his hands clamped over his face, and sat down hard. Isla grabbed Niel by his collar and wrenched him away, ripping his shirt in the process.

‘Stop that, ye wee shite!’ she hissed at him. ‘That’s enough!’

Tai gingerly took his hands away from his face, as if afraid that his nose might come away, too, and inspected the mess of blood in his palms. ‘You are getting better at fighting,’ he remarked. ‘Did Harapeta teach you that?’

The fight shocked out of him by what he had done, and mesmerized by the thick stream of blood flowing over Tai’s upper lip, Niel replied in an unsteady voice, ‘Ma da did.’ He sat down himself, and put his head between his legs.

‘Well, I hope you’re proud o’ yesel’, Niel,’ Isla admonished in disgust.

Tai shook his head, then grimaced as pain flared in his nose. ‘Leave him. I was happy to fight. It is expected.’

Isla frowned, not sure what he meant.

Nasally, Tai explained, ‘I wish to court you. Niel is your nearest male relative. He objected, so we had to fight.’

‘And I beat ye,’ Niel said, although he didn’t sound particularly pleased with himself.

‘You did,’ Tai agreed, dabbing carefully at his nose with his sleeve.

‘Apologize, Niel,’ Isla demanded.

‘Sorry.’

‘Properly.’

‘I cannae, Isla,’ Niel said. ‘It were only what Da would have done.’ He turned to Tai. ‘Isla’s only fourteen, aye? She’s too young tae be…whatever ye said it wis.’

‘But she is not too young for me to want to be with her, is she?’ Tai replied rationally. ‘I can wait until she is ready.’

Deeply embarrassed by the way she was being so intimately discussed, and as though she wasn’t even present, Isla opened her mouth to speak.

But Niel beat her to it. Wearily, he muttered, ‘Aye, I suppose.’ Then added, ‘But I’m warning ye, she might look like a wee doll wi’ that hair and those bonny eyes, but she can be awfu’ crabbit when the mood takes her. Ye’ll be sorry.’

T
he following morning Isla awoke to the unpleasant sensation of rain dripping onto her face through the ponga branches they’d used for shelter. Crawling out from beneath them, she saw that the dawn was grey, the sky promising rain for a few hours yet.

Still angry at both Tai and Niel for treating her like a chattel, she refused to speak to either of them for several hours. When she finally did, it was only to say that her boot had fallen apart completely. Refusing Niel’s offer to lend her his, she took hers off and stuffed them into her peke in case they could be mended, and plodded on with bare, cold feet.

By midday, Tai remarked that they were nearing the outskirts of New Plymouth, which Isla had already surmised as they’d passed a growing number of farmhouses, all apparently deserted. They’d encountered no one else all day, friend or foe, but they
had been avoiding established tracks since they’d started out that morning.

Cresting the ridge of a low hill an hour later, they stood and surveyed the town of New Plymouth below them, and the slate grey ocean beyond it. Much of the vegetation had been cleared from in and around the town some years earlier, and the streets could be clearly seen laid out in a tidy grid. Looming over the township, on the flattened summit of a hill, stood what Isla knew to be the Marsland Hill Barracks, a collection of sturdy corrugated-iron buildings surrounded by a formidable stockade and home to detachments of the 58th and 65th Regiments.

She squinted until she could make out Devon Street, the town’s main thoroughfare and business district, which she knew from previous visits. ‘The main street looks busy,’ she remarked.

‘It should,’ Tai replied. ‘There are said to be four thousand people in the town now, and almost as many soldiers.’ He eased his peke off his shoulder. ‘When do you expect to be finished with your business?’

‘I cannae say. It depends on how long it takes tae speak wi’ the bank manager. Maybe this afternoon, maybe no’ ’til tomorrow.’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘Cannae say that, either. We’ll find somewhere.’

‘I will wait for you. For as long as it takes.’

‘Here?’

‘No, it is too open here. But if you come back to this place, I will see you.’ Tai smiled then, a private smile just for her, and tentatively touched her arm. ‘Do not worry, Isla, I will wait for you.’

Twice, they were stopped by soldiers as they walked along the road leading into the township; and twice Isla had to tell the tale she and Niel had agreed upon—that their parents had been brutally murdered and now they were seeking protection from the Maori. The tears in her eyes, however, were genuine.

The first thing that struck them as they entered the town proper was the stink: the air was heavy with the all-pervading odour of shite.

Niel held his hand over his nose. ‘The drains must be overflowing. ’

Isla wasn’t surprised: there were people everywhere, civilians and soldiers alike. The wide street they were traversing was potholed and muddy from the rain that morning, and wagon wheels and the hooves of horses and other livestock had churned the mud into a sticky, malodorous mess. There were a few verandahs fronting the shops on Devon Street, but beyond the boardwalks beneath them the paths were as mucky as the road. Brougham Street, rising gently at a right angle to Devon Street, was no better. Women were picking their way tentatively across the mud, their skirts held high; and men’s boots were caked with it.

She looked down at her ragged dress and filthy bare feet. ‘I need some new claes. I cannae go intae the bank looking like this. They’ll think I’m a pauper.’

‘Have ye any money?’ Niel asked, knowing she hadn’t.

‘No. I’ll have tae find some other way.’

‘Ye mean steal them?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s a sin, Isla.’

‘Aye, I ken.’

‘What would Da say, if he ken ye were stealing?’

‘“Thank ye for going tae the bank aboot ma land,” probably.’

Niel looked doubtful. ‘It says in the Bible, “Thou shalt not steal”.’

Isla shrugged. ‘Dinnae worry. I’ll no’ go tae Hell.’

Niel couldn’t respond to that. ‘Will ye try a shop?’

Isla shook her head. ‘A washing line.’

It took them only twenty minutes to find a suitable property. They walked up Brougham Street towards Marsland Hill until they came to a house with a washing line in its back yard. On it hung a range of children’s and adults’ clothing, and a selection of undergarments.

Isla and Niel opened the gate and approached the front door. Isla knocked sharply. When there was no response she did it again, waited for a minute, then cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

‘Good afternoon!’ she called. ‘Is there a body in the hoose?’

But there was no indication that anyone was home.

Isla told Niel to keep watch outside, then went through the main room and out the back door into the yard. She casually felt the garments to see if they were dry, which they weren’t quite, then helped herself to a skirt and a blouse, a dress for Jean, breeks for Jamie and a shirt each for him and Niel, then went back into the house. Her heart thumping wildly at her own cheek, she hoped
that anyone who might have observed her would assume she was staying in the house. She quickly changed into the skirt and blouse and, stuffing everything else into her peke, strolled back down to Devon Street with Niel, praying that God would forgive her for what she had done. And that they wouldn’t encounter the clothing’s original owners.

But she felt even worse about what they did next. In a general store, its shelves looking very depleted, she spotted a pair of boys’ work boots approximately her size. Telling Niel to wait a few minutes then grab them and run out of the shop, she moved towards the rear of the store, near the counter, and pretended to examine a selection of buttons. When Niel, his face pasty white, snatched the boots and raced for the door, the shopkeeper darted out from behind the counter and pounded through the shop after him.

Outside, Isla found him gripping Niel by the back of his shirt, which had ripped even further, and demanding the return of the boots. Niel was belligerently standing his ground, but his eyes were round with fear.

‘Excuse me, Mister,’ Isla said breathlessly, ‘but that’s ma brother. I’m verra sorry, but he’s been doin’ that since oor parents were kilt. Dinnae worry, I can pay.’ She opened her hand and offered the man a half-sovereign.

The shopkeeper looked from the money to Isla, and back to the money again.

‘Killed, you say?’

‘Aye, by Maori raiders. Just this last week.’

The man sighed and relinquished his grip on Niel’s shirt. ‘I’d
normally be calling for the constabulary, I would, but seeing as what you’ve just told me…’ He took the half-sovereign and slipped it into the pocket of his apron. ‘I’ll keep the change for compensation, mind.’

‘Yes, sir, thank ye, sir,’ Isla said, and dragged Niel off up the street before the shopkeeper could change his mind.

In a nearby alleyway, she wiped her feet on a patch of ragged grass then slipped on the boots, tying the laces snugly as they were slightly too large for her.

‘Where’d ye get the money?’ Niel asked, perplexed.

‘I stole it oot the till when the man wis chasing ye oot the shop.’

‘I dinnae like this, Isla.’

‘Neither do I, but we’ve no’ a lot o’ choice, have we?’

With some of the remaining money they treated themselves to a pasty each from the bakery, although Niel complained that there was more onion and breading in his than meat, and several hot cups of tea.

Feeling better for the food, Isla led the way back to the post office in Brougham Street where she knew the New Plymouth Savings Bank was housed.

Inside, she approached the counter and asked to speak to the bank manager.

The clerk, a morose young man with a straggly, drooping moustache, asked why.

‘Because I want tae see him,’ Isla replied patiently.

‘May I ask what your business is?’

‘It’s aboot ma father’s land. And his loan wi’ this bank.’

‘Your father’s name is…
?’

‘Donal McKinnon. Of Braeburn.’

The clerk eyed her suspiciously, then told her to wait while he ascertained whether the manager was able to see her.

‘I’m sorry but Mr Heath is not available,’ he said when he returned. ‘But he said he may be free at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, if you care to come back then.’

Deflated, Isla nevertheless said that she would, and thanked him for his help.

‘Now what?’ Niel said outside.

‘We’ll have tae find somewhere tae sleep, I suppose.’

They wandered around the town for several hours. The streets were crowded with people milling aimlessly, as though they had no place to go. And perhaps they haven’t, Isla thought, as some appeared to be settling down for the night, their belongings piled next to them, beneath the scanty shelter of shop verandahs. Many of the men were armed, and everyone seemed exhausted and ill at ease.

When Niel complained that he was hungry again, they went back to the bakery but it had closed, so they tried their luck at a dining room on Devon Street. It was packed, with a queue extending out of the door and on to the street. Isla and Niel stood in it for almost an hour, only to eventually be told by a middleaged woman wearing a grubby apron and a harassed expression
that they couldn’t eat there unless they were in the company of an adult.

‘That’s no’ fair,’ Niel grumbled. ‘We’re starving.’

‘Are you refugees?’ the woman asked.

‘Aye.’

‘Well, go and get your mother or father, then. I can’t let you in here by yourselves.’

‘We cannae, they’re deid,’ Niel said flatly.

‘Oh Lord.’ The woman thought for a moment. ‘Go around to the door at the back, ask for Albert and tell him Molly sent you for a free supper each. You can eat it outside. That’s the best I can do.’

‘Thank ye,’ Isla said warmly. ‘Thank ye verra much.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, love: it’s only mutton stew—and tough mutton at that. Having a hell of a job getting provisions, we are.’

There was another queue at the back of the building, only this one was considerably shorter and consisted only of children.

A round man with a weathered, fleshy face stuck his head around the door and said, ‘Oh Lord, not another lot. Did Molly send you?’

‘Aye,’ Isla replied. ‘She said tae ask for Albert.’

The man nodded resignedly and retreated, reappearing a minute later with tin plates he handed to the two undernourished-looking little boys at the head of the queue. But before he did, he sneezed mightily, stew almost slopping off the plates as he awkwardly wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘And bring them plates back, eh?’ he said with a loud sniff.

Concerned, Isla asked, ‘Where’s your mam?’ as the boys scurried past.

‘In t’Red House,’ one mumbled, his mouth already full.

Niel made a face. ‘Where?’

‘The hotel on Gover Street,’ Isla said. ‘Poor wee laddies.’

They thanked Albert profusely for the stew when it arrived, and returned to the verandah at the front of the building to sit and eat it. The mutton was tough, but tasty, hot and filling.

The queue into the dining room showed no sign of getting shorter. Every time a handful of people went inside, more joined the other end. And as they waited, they gossiped, which was how Isla and Niel came to hear that a run on the bank had begun yesterday because everyone feared New Plymouth would shortly be attacked; that the town’s doctors were worked off their feet because so many people were falling ill; and that Colonel Gold was unhappy with the raucous behaviour of his troops in the town, and that he was fed up with playing cat-and-mouse with the Maori rebels.

Niel, who had insisted he wasn’t going to spy for the Ngati Pono, looked guilelessly up from his plate and asked, ‘Is it true that the captain from the
Niger
and the soldiers stormed the pa at Waireka and kilt a hundred and fifty o’ the rebels?’

‘Yes,’ replied a man wearing moleskin trousers and a patched coat.

‘No,’ the man next to him said at the same time.

They looked at each other. ‘It was in the papers,’ the first man insisted.

‘I was there, and it’s not true,’ the second man countered adamantly. ‘The bloody pa was nigh on empty!’

Isla and Niel exchanged a surreptitious glance, but said nothing.

By ten o’clock, the doors to the dining room had closed and the town had quietened, those with a bed settling into it and those without sleeping where they could. Isla and Niel found a spot in an alleyway behind a stack of barrels and cuddled together, their blankets wrapped around them.

Neither slept well, despite their fatigue, and at five o’clock the next morning it had started to rain again, lightly but persistently. When the bakery opened they bought a loaf of bread for breakfast, standing in a long queue for that as well, and wandered around the town until it was time to go to the bank.

At ten o’clock exactly, her hair combed and neatly plaited and her face washed with rainwater, Isla approached the counter and reminded the clerk from yesterday that she was here for her appointment.

When he beckoned, she followed him into a tiny waiting room where he left her, her belly fluttering with nerves. Some minutes later, a door opened and Mr Heath, the bank manager, appeared. He wore a crumpled three-piece suit of quality brown tweed, with a gold watch and chain across the waistcoat, a tie and a stiff collar that dug into his neck, and polished boots. He also sported greying side whiskers, had dark shadows beneath his eyes, and looked vaguely surprised to see Isla.

‘Good morning, young lady. I thought I had an appointment with Donal McKinnon?’

Isla cleared her throat nervously. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Heath, ma da cannae be here today. I’ve come in his stead.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, you’d better come in then.’ Mr Heath indicated his office. ‘I’ve only a few minutes, mind. I’m a very busy man at the moment.’

Suspecting that he was humouring her, she followed him in and at his invitation sat carefully in a leather chair, wincing inwardly as air leaked noisily from the cushion. Her feet barely touched the floor, but even so she noticed that Mr Heath’s chair behind his gleaming desk was noticeably higher than the one in which she was sitting. She felt like a child at infant school.