Heartland (25 page)

Roe McAneny's ultimatum

Roe feels the age of her bones in every creaking step as she makes her way from bedroom to parlour. The snow, falling so thickly outside, is not, in her opinion, any kind of blessing. Her sisters are cavorting outside and have let the fire go down. She turns on the electric heater and sits at the big oak desk, a McAneny heirloom crammed with old papers, obsolete wills, dried pens and blunt pencils, title deeds and a few share certificates. A history here, she thinks, if anyone had the energy to sort it all. It might be a year, two years, since she has sat here. Delia looks after the accounts now that her own hands write so crabbily.

For several minutes she sits, breathing heavily, trying to recall what it was that brought her here. What task. Then remembers. That old photograph of the McAneny house in Auckland. It should be framed and hung. A reminder. Slowly she pulls out the heap of old photographs and begins to sort them. Her back
hurts, her hip twinges, both hands dislike the fiddly work of picking up and discarding. Roe purses her lips and continues. After five minutes more, she groans out loud and gives up, flinging the yellowing and faded pieces of card back among the general mess.

An envelope, dislodged by her angry activity, falls out of the pigeonhole. Roe reaches for it, notes the lack of address and opens it. She reads. Puts down the letter and gazes outside at the falling curtain of snow. Picks up the letter again. The deep purple flush on her cheeks betrays her agitation. Is it anger? Fear, perhaps, or both? Slowly she tears the paper into small pieces, lets them fall into the bin at her feet. She sits then, looking down at her veined old hands. They are blue with cold. ‘This must be put right,' she pronounces to the empty room, righteous anger rising in her like a cold flame. She coughs a little, gathers her breath and rises.

‘Miss Roe asks you to take tea with her,' says Aureole, brushing snow from her woollen coat. She stands in Donny's kitchen, her cheeks glowing with the excitement of the walk through the snow, the beauty of it.

‘Shall we all come?' Tracey is still in awe of Roe, after the way she dealt with her parents.

Aureole explains that Donny is the only one summoned and that the children are rather too boisterous for Roe. ‘The cold weather makes her grumpy,' she says, giggling at her own
boldness. ‘Nothing seems to please her these days.'

Donny shrugs into his warm coat, pats down his unruly mop of hair. He looks anxiously at Aureole. ‘Will I do? Is she angry with me?'

‘No, no, no, nothing like that, I'm sure. You look splendid, nephew. A private family matter, she said.' Aureole lays a confidential hand on Donny's coat. ‘Perhaps a new will? Perhaps she will endow some family treasure upon you! She may be feeling her mortality. Yet again. Roe has altered her will five times since we have been here, without divulging the contents.' Aureole frowns. ‘She considers that all our possessions are hers, which is not right. Just as well the house itself is Delia's. Being as she is the Goodyear. Well.' Aureole pauses, having lost the thread.

‘Well, off you go,' says Tracey, ‘and mind your manners, Donny.'

The two women and the children watch as Donny trudges over the back yard and through to the McAneny place. The snow has thinned to a few random flakes. Donny seems to be the only dark thing in the landscape as he plods along, lifting his boots over the ankle-deep drifts. The two wood-bins — an old water tank cut in half and laid so that the openings face the setting sun — each wear a smart white cap; so do the vegetable beds. The cabbage tree on the corner sports white nests among its spiky leaves.

As Donny reaches the back porch, Aureole turns to Tracey with a bright smile. ‘Well now, shall we have tea here then?'

Tracey nods, embarrassed that she didn't think of it, but Aureole is off on another tack. ‘He's a dear, dear boy.'

Tracey's not sure who is meant: Manny or his father. She nods again, pours hot water into the big old teapot. ‘Sorry we haven't got any biscuits. Would you like a lolly?'

‘Oh, what fun, a lolly!' Aureole skips around the kitchen with the children — like a child herself, thinks Tracey — then settles beside them on the sofa, discussing colours and flavours and finally choosing a red jellybean.

They drink their tea. ‘Our nephew is so lucky to have you,' says Aureole, bouncing little Sky on her knee. ‘I don't know what would have become of him.'

‘Why?' Tracey is both pleased and, on Donny's behalf, defensive.

‘On his own. With Manny. He just wouldn't have managed. He's not as sharp as you, dear.'

Tracey frowns. ‘He's good enough. Better than me at heaps of things. Leave him alone!'

Aureole's hands fly to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I've upset you! Delia is always saying I should think before I speak.' She appeals to the children. ‘Dear oh dear, what shall I do?'

Sky bursts into tears in sympathy. Manny uses the fuss to sneak another lolly. Tracey mutters to herself. Two kids are more than enough without this grown-up one. She knows that Donny would find a way of sweet-talking the situation into good humour, but she hasn't the knack.

Come back soon, Donny, she prays, I need saving here.

Donny sits in his stockinged feet in the chilly front parlour. Delia has lit a fire, but it has yet to make any inroad on the cold air. Roe has taken the chair near the fire, but even she looks cold. Why not the kitchen, Donny wonders, which is cosy with the heat from the wood-burner? This room, with its dark furniture and heavy curtains, is intimidating.

When Delia has brought the tea and poured it, Roe asks her to leave. ‘This is a private matter between me and Donald Munroe,' she says, dipping her biscuit into the tea and then sucking at it, her wrinkled old lips clamping on the soggy thing, then releasing for another softening dip.

Delia winks at Donny and backs out, mocking her sister's imperious manner.

Donny watches Roe's biscuit being devoured. Keeping an eye on her, he reaches out to take one himself, though it hasn't been offered. Roe nods, brushes crumbs from her cardigan, strokes the Bible which lies on the table beside her.

‘Shall I put on more coal?' says Donny hopefully. ‘It's burning brighter now.'

Roe nods. ‘You're a good boy, nephew. But …'

Donny carefully adds a lump or two and takes the opportunity to move his chair closer to the fire. His toes will now reach the warmth.

‘Pay attention, Donald Munroe McAneny,' says Roe fiercely. ‘You must listen.'

Donny nods, but his mind is full of the newspaper article, the strangeness of it all, the other old bodies lying there. Or was it just one?

Roe slaps the Bible, and Donny jumps. ‘Put your hand on
the family Bible,' she says, her beady eyes fixed on him, ‘and answer truthfully.'

Donny is fearful now. He shifts to the edge of his chair, reaches forward and places his hand gingerly. This is the first time he has touched Roe's most precious possession.

‘Did you kill that girl?'

‘What?' Donny looks around for reinforcements. The dark furniture is no help.

‘Pansy, Nightshade, whatever her name was. Keep your hand on the Lord's Bible!'

Donny roars. ‘No! No I didn't!'

‘Did you bury her body in the land opposite yours?'

Donny wants to leave, but her hand clamps down on his, holding it on the Bible.

‘The Lord will know if your answer is truthful. As will I. Did you bury her?'

‘Yes,' whispers Donny, shaking now, ‘I did.' He looks at his hand on the Bible and then up at her stony face. ‘I'm sorry, Aunty.'

Roe releases his hand; leans back in her chair. ‘Good. It is good to be truthful, nephew. Now. Listen to me very carefully.' She looks for a moment towards the window, to the pure and snowy world outside, and sighs. ‘It is not always easy to do the right thing,' she says.

Donny senses an opening, a chance to explain. ‘It wasn't! It wasn't easy at all. But we were afraid, Aunty. There were the babies. We were thinking of the babies. But it was the right thing in the end, eh? No harm done …' He has been speaking to the floor, his twisting hands between his knees, but now he
looks up at her with a hopeful smile. His voice fades away to silence. Roe is shaking her head slowly, her lips pursed, her own hand still resting firmly on the Bible.

‘No, nephew, it was not the right thing to bury a woman without letting the authorities know. That was unlawful and wrong.'

Donny goes to speak, but Roe holds up a warning hand. She speaks slowly as if explaining to a child. ‘The right thing, now, is to go to the police … at once … today. You must say you buried your son's mother and you must show the police where.'

Donny clutches at his jersey where his heart is pounding. ‘But they might—'

‘Put you in prison? Yes, they might, Donald Munroe, but if you give yourself up, that might stand in your favour. And know this for a fact: your conscience will be eased; you will feel at peace. You will have earned the Lord's forgiveness. And—' Roe takes breath, the better to drive the words home — ‘you will have done your duty. You will have restored your right to be a McAneny.'

Donny rises. His dismay and confusion would soften any heart other than the stern Presbyterian one possessed by Roe McAneny. ‘I can't,' he moans, ‘I have to tell Trace. She might—'

Roe creaks to her feet. ‘You must not drag Tracey into this. She will be needed to look after the children. You can do it, nephew.
You can!
Get your coat and boots. We will go together in my motor car. You will drive. I will be by your side when you confess to the police. Then we will see about explaining to Tracey and my sisters.'

Donny's feet are rooted. He wants to call for help. He
pants with the effort to bring out the right words, but only a whimper escapes.

Roe lays a softer hand on his sleeve. ‘It is hard, very hard, yes. If you cannot bring yourself to speak, it will fall to me to tell the truth. But better, far better, for it to come from your lips.' She stands as straight as her crooked backbone will allow, her eyes shining. ‘Trust me, Donald Munroe McAneny. This is the right thing to do.'

Gently, now that she knows the battle is won, she takes his arm and leads him out of the room.

The gathering of friends

Delia realises, too late, what is happening. Five minutes ago, puzzled by Donny’s agonised cry, and suspecting that Roe’s invitation had a deeper meaning than taking tea, she went to the old family desk. There she found the photographs in a messy heap and her letter gone. For too long she stared out at the snow, wondering what Roe would do, if it was she who had read the letter. Delia has never been one to think quickly. Or to make swift decisions. But when she hears the motor cough into life and sees the great black shape ease out of sight along the drive, she understands.

‘No! Oh no!’ she cries, looking around for Aureole, but the house is empty. She flies to the telephone. Mona Kingi is the only person she knows with a phone line.

‘Mona, for pity’s sake, can you stop our car? It’s heading your way!’ Delia beats her fist against her side as Mona asks questions. ‘No time!’ she shouts at last and drops the receiver,
leaving it swinging and banging as she heads for the back door. Too late she remembers the snow, but flounders on in her slippers across the back yard. ‘Tracey! Tracey!’ she calls as she stumbles. ‘Oh Tracey, quick!’

Mona Kingi, frowning at the strange request, glances out the window. The big black Austin Princess is slowly turning into their street, its tyres tracking down the white expanse of the road. In a moment it will have passed.

‘Lovey,’ she calls, ‘duck out and see if you can stop the car. Old Doomsday is on the warpath.’

But she can see Lovey will be too late. She rings Bull Howie. ‘Delia McAneny is desperate to stop their car. It’s heading your way. Donny driving. The old lady with him.’

‘Heading where?’

‘Delia said the police.’

The phone goes dead.

Mona looks out and sees Lovey stomping through the snow after the big car, her fists in the air, shouting. Donny is driving slowly, but she won’t catch it. Lovey keeps on, though, in her outsize gumboots, enjoying the chase. Mona tries to think what else to do. George is out somewhere, looking after stock. Then she realises, suddenly, that she has asked Bull to walk out into the snow on his crutches. A mad and dangerous request. She throws on her coat, steps into boots and heads down to Bull’s place.

Vera misses the excitement on Kingi Road. She’s heading down Smith, trudging through the snow with a basket of scones for Bull’s morning tea. The road is empty. Fitz’s hunting dogs are inside their kennels, his half dozen sheep sheltering under the hedge. At least it’s stopped snowing, though by the look of the cloud cover on the mountain it’s still bucketing down up there. There’ll be a bloody ski season after all. She plods on, cursing as the cold finds a chink at her neck and melting snow begins to seep into her boots.

The sight, when she turns into Matai, is another matter altogether. For a moment Vera thinks the film crew is back again. In the distance, the McAneny Austin is proceeding along Dreadnaught Road, Lovey Kingi in hopeless pursuit. Mona is by Bull’s gate, leaning over a prone figure who must surely be Bull. Vera breaks into a lumbering run. What in heaven’s name is Bull doing out in this, with his leg in its cast and unable to bear weight? By the time she reaches him, Mona has him upright, his crutches slipping this way and that but all his attention on the disappearing car.

‘Got to get you back inside,’ says Mona, levering Bull’s unwilling arm over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see what can be done about those two—’ jerking her head in the direction of Dreadnaught Road — ‘once we’ve got you shipshape again.’

Bull clings to his gate, looks at Vera in desperation. ‘We think old Doomsday’s persuaded Donny to go to the police!’

A roaring motorbike bears down on them, and all three look
back up the road. This is a frightening and unlikely apparition. Wobbling through the snow is the Virgin on Donny’s bike; bulking behind her on pillion is Delia McAneny, leaning forward, shouting advice into the girl’s ear. Vera jumps out of the way, but as the bike draws level to the little group Tracey manages to de-throttle the beast. Her face is intent. It seems she hardly notices the three bystanders.

‘Get off,’ she shouts, ‘get the fucking off! I can’t manage it with you as well.’

‘But I am needed,’ Delia protests. ‘My evidence—’

‘Get her off!’ pleads the Virgin, noticing now that help is at hand. ‘Quick, or I’ll be too late!’

Vera gives Mona a nod and the two of them step up to Delia, hold her firmly by an arm each, and heave as the Virgin throttles away. All three women land in the snow. The motorbike roars down Dreadnaught, weaving a little but gaining, perhaps, on the big black Princess.

‘Dear God,’ mutters Vera, ‘are we stuck here then?’ She knows she will find it difficult to rise; no doubt Delia the same. And Bull is still clinging to the gate, watching the retreating motorbike, unable to move forward or back.

‘Just as well the townies aren’t here to laugh,’ says Mona, who at least is able to stand. ‘Now let’s get you lot sorted. And where is George Kingi when you need him? Always somewhere else.’

Ten minutes later, they are all in Bull’s kitchen, various socks, slippers and scarves drying on the rack over the coal range.

Delia continues to protest. ‘I need to make a statement.
The blame should not be Donny’s. Let me at least phone the police …’ and so on.

‘Let us wait and see,’ says Mona sensibly. ‘Tracey may be able to stop them.’

‘But she can’t ride at all,’ says Bull, beating at his cast as if it is at fault. ‘Doesn’t like the beasts. She’ll come off.’

‘I was advising her.’ Delia pauses in her search for a telephone. ‘At least we got it going, though we didn’t have time for changing gears or stopping.’

The others look at her in some surprise. Delia smiles — her first since the fall. ‘I used to ride in my youth. Just as well Donny’s bike is ancient, I would have no idea how the modern ones perform.’

Mona inspects Bull’s leg, then makes tea. ‘Young Tracey may surprise us,’ she says. ‘Let’s see how
that
modern one performs, before we take further action.’