Landings Read online

  We all kept an eye on her. Charlie Chee was good that way. He was on the move as much as her. Up and down with his baskets of vegetables bobbing at each end of his pole; you often saw them walking together, our Bridie a few steps behind, munching on one of his carrots.

  Charlie Chee was what I call an upriver man. There are those spend their lives fighting the current, clawing on upriver to make a better life or more money or a bit of fame for themselves. Charlie Chee worked every daylight hour and some of the night; in his gardens and then selling what he grew. But a good man, Charlie Chee, for all that some might rail against the Chows. Mr Hatrick, now — there’s a true upriver type, with his fleet of riverboats and his finger in every other business pie on river and down Wanganui way. Mr Hatrick would fight upriver to his last drop of blood.

  Then there are downriver folk like me and Bridie, who have maybe let go on life; we drift with the current willy-nilly, the slower the better. It is a good and a sweet way to be. Time to think. Time to keep your eye on one thing — a pigeon growing fat on ripe berries like. A river Maori mending his eel-trap. A brown trout, waiting still as a stone against the current in the sunlit water. Watch it start to finish. Some call it lazy. I call it sweet.

  Sometimes I wonder about our Bridie back when she were Bridget McPhee. Did she run about and chatter? Were she quick and sharp then, or did the accident only change her nature a small degree? It’s a funny old mystery, the inside of your head. There’s me myself. What kind of lad were I back in England before the deporting? I can remember no shred of that life. No shred. The years of hell wiped the lot. Maybe I were a true upriver lad that got turned into what I am now by Captain Price and those other damned henchmen of Satan back on Norfolk.

  Not much sense wondering when you won’t find no answer.

  Bridie now. Charlie Chee and me knew most what happened. Not all. Back then, after the accident, the constable come upriver on his horse asking all manner of questions, words like hammers, pencil poised. I said naught. The sight of the law clamps my jaw like unto iron. No word can pass even if my life hangs on it. I reckon Charlie would have kept mum too. None knew her whole tale — how could we? But her accident affected more folk than she ever knew, poor soul.

  Wanganui to Pipiriki: 55 miles, 42 rapids

  The wonderful waterway of the Wanganui is one of the outstanding glories of the many scenic delights of this Dominion. Scenes of surpassing splendour are viewed in unending variety down its reaches and are long cherished by all who, in pursuit of peace and pleasure of Nature’s inspiring allure and majestic grandeur, have spent a vacation in the heart of its charm.

  Advertisement, New Zealand Free Lance Annual, early 1900s

  DOWN AT HATRICK’S wharf daylight is just breaking, black smoke billowing from the Waimarie’s tall funnel and the engineer signalling up to the captain on top deck that steam is up. But on land Mr Angus McPhee is still arguing. His finger stabs at the loading manager as if he would drill holes in that poor hassled man.

  ‘I need both horses and the cart,’ says McPhee. He is not shouting but his voice, high-pitched nasal, cuts through the general morning hubbub to add to Scotty Dwyer’s headache.

  ‘See for yourself, sir. We have twenty head of sheep aboard, forty passengers and a full load of goods, much of it yours. You did not advise the horses and cart.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did not, sir, not to me.’

  The engineer gives a blast on the steam whistle, which stirs the sheep into a frenzy of baa-baa-ing and stamping while pretty Bridget McPhee claps her hands over her ears and screams in competition.

  ‘Papa, Papa! Come aboard! You’ll be left behind!’

  Still McPhee will not board, but stands by his horses on the wharf.

  Scotty Dwyer has already given in over the cart, which is stowed on the foredeck with the sheep, but he cannot manage the horses. In the end he has to run across the road to fetch Mr Hatrick himself.

  That notable entrepreneur is sitting in his spacious office cutting a deal with a coal merchant. He is not pleased at Scotty Dwyer’s interruption.

  ‘Mr Dwyer, I am discussing an important business contract. Can you not deal with the matter?’

  The Westport coal merchant watches with interest. He takes a breath as if about to join in, thinks better of it, stands and fidgets with his time-piece.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hatrick,’ says the flustered Dwyer, ‘but Mr McPhee insists he was promised transport for his horses. I never did, sir, and we can’t.’

  Hatrick lowers his famous eyebrows. Turns to the merchant. ‘Mr Jericho, you will excuse me for a moment?’

  Jericho taps his stubby fingers on the counter to indicate that his time is precious, clears his throat, attempts to look put out. But no one seriously passes up a chance to do business with Mr Hatrick. Both men know this. The coal dealer decides to stay and watch the scene.

  Alexander Hatrick is a match for any man. Hatless, even on this cold early morning, in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, the big man strides across from his offices, where he has been at work since before dawn. His black moustache bristles around a glowing cigar; bushy black eyebrows are drawn low. He would carry twice the weight of Angus McPhee, who is tall but whippet-thin.

  Even the sheep seem to quieten when Hatrick’s voice booms out. ‘Mr McPhee, will you board, please. You are holding up my river service.’

  In the presence of this imposing man, who is known to run half of Wanganui and other interests abroad, McPhee becomes querulous rather than bullying. ‘My horses … I said to you I wanted them aboard …’

  ‘And I said to you that we had a full load and you should get your man to walk them up the river track.’

  ‘But I need to reach Raetihi tomorrow. I have business waiting there …’

  Hatrick clears his throat ominously. ‘And your business here in Wanganui is another matter, Mr McPhee. Rumour says that you have offered a high price for any logs floated down from upriver. Floated, Mr McPhee!’

  McPhee looks uncomfortable. ‘I have my business, you have yours.’

  ‘And the River Trust has its business. Floated logs are bound to damage our carefully, expensively prepared rapids, not to mention my fleet of riverboats. I will have you prosecuted, Mr McPhee, if my river captains set eyes on one single floated log.’

  ‘You have no right …’ McPhee’s words tail away. He knows that Hatrick has the ear of government and, as former Mayor of Wanganui, the city authorities in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Now,’ booms Hatrick, ‘ride your horses up yourself or step aboard. My service has a timetable, Mr McPhee. Tourists have travelled a distance to enjoy this service; whole communities are waiting for their mail and their goods and we are already ten minutes overdue.’

  Hatrick dodges around the waiting horses to shout up to the captain. ‘Order your men to cast off, Bill. If Mr McPhee is not aboard immediately, leave him behind.’

  Bill Henderson, standing relaxed on the top deck beside his big wooden wheel, removes the pipe, waves it amiably at his employer, then gives the nod to his deckhands. Ropes are cast off, the whistle screams again and slowly the two great side-paddles begin to turn.

  Not an auspicious beginning to McPhee’s new venture upriver. He is forced to scramble awkwardly aboard as the plank is being lifted. Douglas McPhee, watching from the lower deck, smiles to see his father bested, then turns away before the lack of loyalty is noticed. McPhee is still shouting instructions to the wharf hands, who clearly cannot hear above the clanking engine and the thrash of the side-paddles.

  Douglas is more interested in the boat than the fate of his father’s horses. He peers down through the open hatchway to where the engineer is swearing at the vagaries of his boiler and exhorting the stoker to keep the fire roaring. The sweating man heaves open the fire-box door, throws on another shovelful, bangs the door shut, all in one quick movement. He checks the pressure gauge and then hangs out of the hatch for a breath of cool air.

  O
ut into the river they swing, under full pressure. Douglas would like to touch the controls, to see how it all works, but is afraid to climb down uninvited. The two men are so sure of themselves, so quick. The stoker, a wiry little man with a soot-streaked face, grins up at him.

  ‘Eh lad, want to have a go then?’

  Douglas nods quickly, but the man is only joking.

  ‘Well then, there’s not many envy my job. Most want to be river captain. Or run the Houseboat.’

  Douglas shakes his head. ‘I like engines.’

  ‘Well, you won’t want to have anything to do with this pig. A Yarrow boiler she is, shipped out from the mother country. Ship her back any day of the week, I say. You fight her like a wild horse the length of the river. Pressure up, pressure lost; never know where you are with the bastard.’

  The engineer shouts something and Douglas’s new friend winks.

  ‘See? Pressure dropped already. I got to shovel two ton of this black stuff before we reach Pipiriki. Four shovels every ten minutes. Best be about it.’ He ducks back below.

  Douglas wanders to the other side of the boat, keeping clear of his father and his noisy sisters. The river is wide and lazy here and grassy paddocks line the bank, though they say there will be rapids and dark bush later. They pass a Maori encampment — dozens of canoes pulled up on the bank in front of an array of low tents and brush huts, the dogs going crazy at the racketing boat. Aft, the big side-paddles churn, round and round, flaying the water into foam, driving the loaded steamer up against the current. Douglas crouches and leans down. He can touch the water as it slides past, muddy and smooth.

  This steamer is slender like a trout, built to slide through narrow channels and bucking rapids. Her length and shallow draft are custom designed for this river, which doubters had said could never be negotiated but which John Stewart of the River Trust insisted could. Douglas strokes the paintwork, feels the vibrations under his fingers and is happy.

  Suddenly his father is at his side, a hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder. Douglas can’t control his nervous jerk.

  ‘I see you had words with the stoker,’ says McPhee, watching his son sharply.

  ‘Aye, Father.’

  ‘Was he asking nosy questions?’

  ‘No, Father.’ Douglas glances up quickly then down again. ‘What sort of nosy?’

  ‘About logs, maybe? Floating logs, if you get my meaning.’ McPhee’s fingers bite more deeply into Douglas’s shoulder.

  ‘No Father. I don’t know your meaning.’ Douglas feels the panic rising. Something will be expected of him and he will fail.

  ‘You were at the mill last week when I spoke with Morrow. You were listening — I saw you.’

  ‘Morrow.’ Douglas tries hard to remember. ‘Morrow.’ There was a tall stranger at the mill last week. Was that Morrow? ‘Ah. I think I remember …’

  His father makes a sound like a rusty hinge. ‘Ech … I need take no mind. Your head’s a fug and remembers no skerrik. Well then, lad, keep mouth tight if there’s questions about logs and floatings. Understand? Just report to me. Can you remember that at least?’ The fingers dig again.

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Douglas has no idea what his father means. He’s desperate to get away.

  The steam whistle whoops just above their heads. Douglas is pleased to feel even his father jump. They move apart to watch as the Waimarie eases up to a landing and quickly offloads several passengers, two sheets of corrugated iron, a couple of dogs and a quantity of food supplies. Greetings and farewells are shouted back and forth. The captain and deckhands join in the banter. Douglas understands none of it. He is not allowed to play with natives. The laughter and the warmth of it all draw him, though. He would like to join in.

  Belching black smoke, chuffing and clanking, the riverboat heads into the current again. The next landing is already in sight. By now they have passed the furthest Douglas has been upriver — the settlement at Upokognaro — and the first of the forty-five rapids is yet to come. This is an adventure! His sister Bridget careers past, screaming, followed by his little brother and sister. Douglas ducks out of the way. Up on the top deck he edges closer to the captain and stands there quietly, feet apart like the captain. His hands twitch. In his mind he also controls a mighty steering wheel.

  IN THE LADIES’ saloon Mrs Evangeline McPhee sits back against the lovely purple velvet cushioning and tries to ignore her nausea. This faint bucking movement already unsettles her stomach, yet here the river is smooth. They say there is worse to come. At least the family are only going by boat as far as Pipiriki. Travel of any sort is a trial to Mrs McPhee but water travel is by far the worst. She can hear Bridget screaming again, and Gertie, bossy and angry, shouting at her to stop. Two other women in the saloon are chatting happily, exclaiming at the sights, taking tea when it is offered, but Evangeline remains silent, eyes closed, one arm holding little Jonty tightly to her. Her son is happy to sit quiet at her side, solemnly regarding the new sights from the safety of his mother’s skirts. Jonty is a good boy, not wild like his brother and sister; not at all like the wilful older three, whose mother died nine years ago and who have run rings around their stepmother ever since. Angus is constantly urging her to exercise more influence on the older three, but Evangeline, with three of her own and now a new household to establish in a wild, unknown part of the country, has no energy to spare. She would like to argue back to her husband: they are your children not mine, she would like to say, discipline them yourself. Usually, though, she simply turns away, or closes her eyes.

  Outside Bridget screams again. The ladies in the saloon wince and glance towards Evangeline. Such rowdy behaviour! Most unbecoming in a grown young lady. Clearly they expect the mother to take some action. Evangeline McPhee closes her eyes again. Little Jonty hears her faint moan and pats his mother’s hand. She hugs him closer.

  FROM THE TOP deck Bridget can see the curling white water of the first rapid up ahead.

  ‘Oh look!’ she shrieks. ‘Surely we’ll drown!’ She seizes the arm of a perfect stranger in her excitement.

  Her father reaches a long arm to disentangle her from the embarrassed tourist. ‘Behave yourself, Bridget. I have my eye on you.’

  Bridget smiles sweetly and slips out of his grasp. She knows she is her father’s favourite, the prettiest; that he will let her behave as she pleases, while Gertie and Douglas seem to incur his displeasure whenever they are in sight.

  The steamer shifts and bucks as it enters the rapid. Bridget screams again, clutching her cheeks, enjoying every thrilling moment.

  Gertie gives her a painful dig in the ribs. ‘Stupid! Everyone’s watching you. Don’t be such a baby.’

  Bridget pokes out her tongue and runs upstairs to stand by the captain. ‘Oh, it looks so dangerous!’ she cries. ‘Will we get through?’

  Captain Henderson smiles and nods. ‘Auohina. She’s an easy rapid.’

  ‘The rapid has a name?’

  The captain looks sideways at her, laughing, ‘Every one is named. All two hundred and thirty-nine. They all have their personalities, too. And their moods — just like people.’ He swings the great wheel and the pounding boat heads directly into the roughest part. Bridget wants to ask why he doesn’t choose the calmer water near the bank, but nervously holds her tongue. Below them, on the lower deck, the Maori deckhands take up their long poles and calmly walk forward.

  Bridget screams again, shrill with excitement as the Waimarie bucks and slews in the rough water. The men plant their poles deep, brace their feet wide and thrust to add their weight to the straining engine. For a moment the Waimarie seems to stand still, then she inches forward. The deckhands lift the poles and thrust again. The rhythm of it and the strength of the men excite Bridget. She wants to hold on to the captain, to feel the strength of his arm as he pulls at the wheel. For a moment she dares to touch his hand and he turns to smile at her. Oh! She can feel the blood rise to her cheeks.

  Steadily the boat mounts the rapid. Once there
is a terrible clanking as a stone rattles through the flanges of the paddlewheel. Bridget gasps in alarm but the captain seems unconcerned. Then they are through and into calm water. Bill Henderson nods over to Bridget.

  ‘Forty-three more to go and then we’re home for the night.’

  Bridget gives a little shriek. ‘Forty-three! How can we ever manage?’

  ‘No need to be afraid, Miss. The river’s up. When it’s low the rapids are tricky. We won’t be hitting bottom this trip.’ He frowns. ‘Or any damn foresters’ logs, please God.’ He calls for half speed as another landing appears, with a man waiting. The boat drifts towards the bank and the man leaps aboard. They are back in mid-stream without ever tying up.

  Gertie’s head appears around the corner. ‘Leave the captain alone, for heaven’s sake, Bridget. He has better things to do than answer your silly questions.’

  Bridget looks quickly at the captain to see if this might be true. He is looking ahead steadily. Perhaps he didn’t hear. Perhaps she is being a nuisance. Gertie always makes her feel unsure. Then they plough into the next rapid and both girls are flung against the rail. Gertie herself shrieks and Bridget laughs at her. She takes the captain’s arm, though the rail would be a firmer stay. Bill Henderson grins at her but disengages his arm gently.

  ‘I need my eye on the rapid, not a pretty girl,’ he says. ‘Off you run.’

  But he says it in such an amiable way Bridget is only pleased.

  LATER THE SUN sinks behind the crowding hills and the bush darkens. Bridget jumps as the steam whistle announces the marvel they have all been watching for. There on the riverbank ahead is a great mansion, the fabulous Pipiriki House, renowned worldwide as a tourist destination non pareil. Its two storeys are studded with rows of brightly lit windows. A splendid verandah stretches all along the upper level; below it an equally fine balcony, prouder than any city hotel, parted by a flight of steps flanked by potted ferns. Ornate posts topped by urns stand proud at the gate. On the upper balcony women are gathered to watch the approach, while down at the crowded jetty a horse and cart wait, along with several men.