Call of the Kiwi (24 page)

Caleb never fulfilled his duty again, but Florence now took pains not to cause him affront. She blushed deeply when she revealed she was pregnant a few weeks later.

“Naturally, I don’t know i
f . . .
”

Caleb nodded, long since sober and still ashamed. “You wanted an heir. Whether I have one matters little to me.”

Though Caleb and Florence were initially unsure about little Ben’s parentage, it soon became obvious. Ben not only resembled Caleb physically, but in personality as well. He had the same brooding character as his father, as well as his inquisitive spirit. Ben could read at the age of four and could hardly be pulled away from his father’s books. Pursuing an early interest in languages, he buried himself in Caleb’s dictionaries and soaked up the Maori his father spoke to him like a sponge.

By the age of seven, he was bored to death in Greymouth’s primary school, and Florence agreed with her husband’s wishes to send Ben to England. Caleb hoped for the highest possible intellectual advancement of his son, Florence for his normalization. The quiet, sensitive boy—who had mastered complicated arithmetic but could be easily swindled by his little brothers in a candy store—struck her as odd. Sam, her second born, who fortunately resembled her much more than the young foreman who had sired him, struck her as markedly more normal. He got in fights like a real boy, and instead of establishing comparisons between Maori and other Polynesian languages, he tried instead to rip the legs off wetas. The third born, Jake, also took more after Florence, although she recognized clear resemblances between herself and his father, a bookkeeper. The foreman was let go and the bookkeeper was promoted to a higher position at a different coal mine in the region as soon as the pregnancies were a sure thing. Only then would she admit to Caleb that she was once again in a family way. He had recognized every child as his own without comment.

Caleb smiled at the thought of his only flesh-and-blood son. He could not fault him for a relationship with Lilian Lambert. On the contrary, he had never felt so relieved. Yes, perhaps the wrong girl had won Ben’s heart. But Caleb had not passed on his own unfortunate preference. His son would not have to struggle against desires for which the world would condemn him.

While their parents fought and grumbled, Lilian and Ben wandered hand in hand through the fern forest by the river. Wanting to be reminded of their walk along the riverbank in England, they fought their way up embankments and through half-rotted underwood. Lilian’s eyes lit up when Ben chivalrously helped her over uneven terrain. When there were no obstacles to overcome, they enthusiastically made plans for the future. Ben was not unhappy about his return to New Zealand, as the universities in Dunedin, Wellington, and Auckland offered considerably better research possibilities in the field of linguistics that interested him.

“In principle every Polynesian island had its own language, even if they were related. But that’s the opportunity—if one compares Maori to the other languages, the region of origin of New Zealand’s first settlers could be located.”

Though she hardly spoke a word of Maori, Lilian hung off his every word. Until then, she had couldn’t have cared less where the fabled land of Hawaiki lay. But when Ben spoke of it, that was a different story.

Lilian told him of her stay at Kiward Station where, despite the recent tragedies, she had once again been very happy. She wanted to live on a farm someday, have many animals around her, and plenty of children.

Ben too hung off her every word, though he did not care much for cats or dogs and rode horses only reluctantly. He liked cars considerably more. As for babies, he found their noise rather aggravating. But when Lilian raved about family life, that, too, was a different story.

Later, Lilian wrote a long letter to a friend in England describing how much she and Ben had in common, and Ben raved in a new poem about the meeting of soul mates.

3

G
wyneira McKenzie changed for dinner, glad to accept the help of one of her Maori maids. Until recently she had hardly felt her age, but after the events of the previous weeks, she often felt too exhausted to put on her corset or exchange her day dress for a proper evening gown. She continued with the ritual, though she did not really know why since she had found it a burdensome and impractical tradition even as a young woman. She would only be sharing the table with her miserable, monosyllabic son whose despair cut her to the heart. She too was mourning; she missed James with every fiber of her being. They had hardly been separated for even a day. But she had seen the loss of James coming. Charlotte was different. Jack had expected a long life with her. They had wanted children, made plans. Gwyneira could very well understand why Jack was inconsolable.

With a sigh she allowed Wai to wrap a black shawl around her shoulders. Since James’s death Gwyneira had dressed in mourning—another custom she held up despite thinking it was nonsense. She did not need to demonstrate her sorrow. Jack did not care; he had been dressing normally since the end of the burials himself.

“May I go now, Mrs. McKenzie? Kiri wants me to help in the kitchen.” Wai did not have to ask, but she was new in the house and a bit shy.

Gwyneira nodded and pulled herself together to give her an encouraging smile.

“Of course, Wai. Thank you. And when you go home tonight, take a few potatoes to plant for Rongo. Her sleeping tea helped me greatly.”

The girl nodded and left.

Gwyneira thought warmly of the Maori who made their home on Kiward Station. She was even grateful to Tonga, the chieftain and her former enemy, for he had helped her solve the seemingly impossible dilemma of where to bury James.

In the property’s family cemetery, Gerald Warden, the founder of Kiward Station, his wife, Barbara, and his son, Paul, lay buried side by side. Gwyneira had raised a memorial for Lucas Warden, her first husband. James, however, had not been a Warden, and everything in Gwyneira bristled against burying him next to them. Gerald Warden had pursued his former foreman as a rustler, and he would have been beside himself if he’d ever found out that James had fathered his first grandchild, Fleurette. To lay the two men next to each other in death was wrong, but she couldn’t summon the energy to designate a second burial ground.

Too numb to think, she reluctantly agreed to receive Tonga, who had come to pay his respects on behalf of the tribe. After expressing his condolences politely in impeccable English, he told her there was something important to discuss.

Probably another territorial claim, she had thought, or trouble with sheep trespassing on land the Maori considered
tapu
, holy and untouchable. But then the chief surprised her. “You know, Mrs. McKenzie,” he remarked, “that it is very important to my people to keep the spirits of family members close together and happy. An appropriate gravesite is important to us, and Mr. McKenzie knew that. Thus he met with our understanding when he came to our tribal elders with a special request. It concerned a
urupa
, a burial place for him, and later for you and your son.”

Gwyneira swallowed.

“If you agree, Mrs. McKenzie, we permit you the placement of a graveyard on the holy site you and Mr. McKenzie called the circle of stone warriors. Mr. McKenzie claimed it has a special meaning for you.”

Gwyneira had blushed deeply at that and came close to bursting into tears in the presence of the chieftain. The circle of stone warriors, a collection of rocks in the grassland that appeared to form a circle, had been their meeting place and love nest many years ago. Gwyneira was convinced that their daughter, Fleurette, had been conceived there.

Nevertheless she managed to thank Tonga in a dignified manner, and a few days later James was lain between the stones, in the presence of close family and the Maori tribe. Gwyneira thought that appropriate. James would have much preferred the
Maori’s mourning-
haka
to the chamber music group that played at Charlotte’s burial in Christchurch, where her parents had asked that she be buried.

Charlotte probably would have seen things the same way, but Jack was in no condition to organize anything. He left the funeral to the Greenwoods and was hardly responsive at the reception. He returned to Kiward Station immediately afterward and gave himself fully to his sorrow. Gwyneira and Jack’s friends among the shepherds tried to cheer him up or at least distract him, but even when he did what was asked of him, he was hardly there. If there were decisions to be made, Gwyneira made them together with the foreman. Jack only spoke when necessary; he hardly ate and spent most of his time brooding in the apartments he had shared with Charlotte. He declined to look through her things and give them away. Once Gwyneira found him on the bed, one of Charlotte’s dresses in his arms.

“It still smells like her,” he said, embarrassed.

Gwyneira withdrew without a word.

That evening Jack appeared at the dinner table in in a clean, light summer suit, instead of his usual work pants and shirt.

“Mother.” Jack positioned a chair for her. “I have something to discuss with you.”

“Can’t it wait until after dinner? I see you’ve dressed up tonight, and I’d enjoy spending some time with you. Have you sent the men with the last sheep on their way?”

It was November, and the sheep should already have been herded into the mountains. But Gwyneira had wanted to keep an eye on a few stragglers. Now a few shepherds were moving them into the foothills.

“Yes,” he said finally. “And in all honesty, Mother, I was seriously thinking of going with the sheep. I can’t take it. I tried, but I can’t. Everything here, every corner, every piece of furniture, every face, reminds me of Charlotte. And I can’t bear it. You said it yourself, I’m letting myself go.” Jack ran a hand nervously through his auburn hair. It was clearly difficult for him to continue speaking.

“I understand. But what do you want to do? I don’t think a hermit’s life in the mountains is the answer. Perhaps you could spend a few weeks with Fleurette and Ruben.”

“And help in their hardware store?” Jack asked with a crooked grin. “I don’t know if that’s where my strengths lie. And please don’t say Greymouth next. I like Lainie and Tim, but I’d be no better as a miner. And I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. I want to be helpful.” Jack bit his lip, then squared himself. “To get to the point, Mother, there’s no sense dragging it out. I’ve joined the ANZAC.”

“The what?”

Jack rubbed his forehead. This would be harder than he had expected.

“The ANZAC. The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.”

“The army? You can’t be serious, Jack. There’s a war on!”

“Precisely, Mother. They’ll send us to Europe. That’ll help me clear my head.”

Gwyneira glared at her son. “I should think so. When bullets are buzzing around your ears, it’ll be hard to think about Charlotte. Are you in your right mind, Jack? Do you want to get yourself killed? Do you even know why they’re fighting?”

“The colonies have promised the motherland their unconditional support,” Jack said, playing with his napkin.

“Politicians always talk nonsense.”

Her son had ripped Gwyneira out of her sorrowful lethargy. She sat upright and argued with flashing eyes. “You have no idea what this war is about, but you want to take off to shoot total strangers who never did anything to you. Why not just jump off a cliff like Charlotte?”

“It’s not about suicide,” Jack said in agony. “It’s about, abou
t . . .
”

“It’s about putting God to the test, isn’t it?” Gwyneira stood up and went to the whiskey cabinet. She had lost her appetite and needed something stronger than table wine. “That’s it, Jack, isn’t it? You’ll see how far you can go before the devil takes you. But that’s nonsense, and you know it!”

“I’m sorry, but you won’t change my mind. Besides, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve already enlisted.”

Gwyneira filled her glass and turned back to her son, her eyes filled with despair.

“And what about me? You’re leaving me all alone, Jack.”

Jack sighed. He had thought about his mother, pushing his decision off again and again to avoid causing her pain. Jack hoped that Gloria would be sent home soon, thus giving Gwyneira a new occupation and will to live. He did not feel capable of raising his mother’s spirits. He wanted to go away; it did not matter where.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” He wanted to hug her but could not bring himself to stand up and put his arms around her. “But it won’t last long anyway. They say the war will be over in a few weeks, and then I can maybe look around Europe for a bit. We’re off to Australia first anyway. The fleet is casting off from Sydney. Thirty-six ships, Mother. The largest convoy that has ever crossed the Indian Ocean.”

Gwyneira drained her whiskey. She did not care about this great convoy, or about this war in Europe. She only felt her world falling apart.

Roly O’Brien helped Tim dress for a formal dinner that was to take place that evening with the local mine operators and representatives of the New Zealand Railway Corporation. After dinner, the men would withdraw to discuss the changes demanded by the war—above all, the increase in the quotas and possible mutual transportation arrangements. The mines all had been expanded, and more train cars and special trains were needed to transport the coal to the international ports on the East Coast. Tim smiled at the thought of the railroad representatives’ confused reaction when Florence Biller not only joined the men but did all the talking.

Since the incident with Lilian and Ben, the Lamberts’ and Billers’ relationship had markedly worsened. Florence seemed to hold Tim personally accountable for the fact that Ben continued to write poems instead of taking a serious interest in the mine. Tim wondered if Florence would bring her son with her—perhaps in place of her husband. The Lamberts had decided to leave Lilian at home, and she had been fuming all day.

Roly O’Brien was unusually quiet, and his reticence finally caught Tim’s attention.

“What’s wrong, Roly?”

“Well, Mr. Lambert, I wonder, do you think you could do without me for a few weeks?”

Now that he’d come out with it, Roly looked at Tim hopefully. He had just helped Tim into his vest and was holding the jacket ready. Tim put it on before answering.

“Are you planning a vacation, Roly? Not a bad idea; you haven’t had more than a day off since you started working for me. But why so suddenly? And where are you going? A honeymoon perhaps?”

Roly turned beet red. “No, no, I still haven’t asked Mary, I mean, I, well, the other boys say before you marry, you ought to have seen something of the world.”

Tim frowned. “What boys? Bobby and Greg in the mine? What grand bit of the world do they plan on seeing before they meet Birdie or Carrie at the altar?”

“Bobby and Greg are joining the army,” Roly replied, brushing some lint from Tim’s jacket. “Shall I shave you first, Mr. Lambert? You’ve sprouted a little stubble since this morning.”

Tim looked at Roly in alarm. “The boys signed up for the ANZAC? Don’t tell me you plan to do the same, Roly.”

Roly nodded. “I did. Mom says it was too rushed, but the boys wouldn’t leave me alone. In any case, I signed.” He lowered his eyes.

Tim fell back on his chair. “Roly, for heaven’s sake. But we can delay that. If I go to the recruitment office and make it crystal clear to them that I can’t run the mine without your hel
p . . .
”

“You’d do that for me?” Roly looked touched.

Tim sighed. He hated the thought of confronting soldiers and admitting weakness. “Of course. And for your mother. The Lambert Mine took her husband. So I owe it to her to take the best possible care of her son.”

“And if I, if I don’t want you to? To take it back, I mean?”

Tim sighed again. “Now have a seat, Roly, we need to discuss this.”

“But Mr. Lambert, your dinner. Mrs. Lambert will be waiting.”

Tim shook his head and pointed to the other chair in the room. “My wife won’t starve, and dinner can start without us. But shipping off to war, how did you even come up with such a stupid idea? Did any German or Austrian or Hungarian or whomever else you’re supposed to go shoot ever do anything to you?”