Just Good Friends (25 page)

“Because you’re a . . .” She stopped. Shrugged. “You know.”

“Go on. You can say it. I’m a
man.
Who can’t possibly
know anything about childcare.”

“There I go again, tripped up by my preconceptions,” she
admitted. “I never thought of babysitting with a guy, though. No, that’s not
true,” she corrected herself. “I thought of it once.” She started to laugh,
remembering.

“Oh, good. A bedtime story. Tell me,” he commanded.

“All right. But it doesn’t show me in a very good light, I’m
afraid. I was in high school. I used to babysit for this couple. Believe it or
not, I do know how to babysit. I just didn’t realize that little tiny babies
were so much harder. Anyway, they had a little girl. She was maybe two, and
they’d go out once she was in bed. So it was the easiest job ever. I never had
to do anything, just hang out there, read or whatever, till they came home. And
then one night, my boyfriend asked if he could come over.”

“And I know,” she continued, “that’s Rule Number One for
teenage babysitters. No boyfriends. But what can I say? I did it anyway. So he
came over, and we’re sitting on the couch. Not making out or anything. Just
talking. And all of a sudden, we see the headlights in the driveway.”

She put her hands over her face in chagrin and laughed. “The
one time—the
only
time—these people ever came home during the evening. And
it had to be that night. My boyfriend took off like a rabbit out the back door.
I could hear him crashing over the fence while the parents were coming in the
front door. I’m such a lousy liar, I know they could see it all over my face—in
case they missed all that noise. He must have fallen over a garbage can or something.
I was mortified. I felt like they’d caught me drinking all the liquor and
having sex.”

She sighed. “I can’t remember why it was that they came
back. Forgot something. Something like that. All I can tell you is, they never asked
me to babysit again.”

He laughed. “And that’s your life of crime, eh. I knew you
were a bad girl. Never realized you were that depraved.”

“It’s true,” she admitted. “I’ve always been ridiculously
straight and narrow. I’m an accountant, for heaven’s sake. I never even colored
outside the lines. Heck, I
drew
the lines. With a ruler. And now you
know why. The one time I was daring and tried being bad, fate lowered the boom
on me. I’m also the only person I’ve ever heard of to get
both
a ticket
for jaywalking, and for riding my bicycle at night without a light.”

“It’s true,” she insisted again at his hastily muffled shout
of laughter. “I’m a career criminal. I got caught every single time.”

“If Hannah and Drew had known that,” he agreed, “they would’ve
had second thoughts. Good thing you had somebody responsible along.”

“And this bub’s asleep,” he added, lifting the relaxed
little form carefully and getting up to put him back into his bassinet.

“Whew. This whole baby thing is a lot harder than I realized.
Having him.” Kate shuddered, remembering. “And then taking care of him.”

“Somehow, though, most people seem to survive it,” he
pointed out. “And even have more. Just takes some getting used to, I reckon.”

“I’d say, easy for you to say,” she told him. “But as you
seem to know a lot more about it than I do, I suspect it’d be wiser to keep my
mouth shut. And since we can’t pass the time by making out, according to the
Babysitting Rule Book, why don’t you tell me about your own shady past? Somehow
I’m guessing you have more lurid tales to tell than I do.”

 “Not as much as you may think. Because of the footy. But yeh,
I nicked a few lollies from the dairy as a kid. Drank too much, later. Hooned
around with my mates.”

“What does that mean?” she frowned. “Hooned? Doesn’t sound
good.”

“You don’t have that word? Just means, driving around too fast.
Your radio on too loud. Being a general pain in the neighborhood. Course, in my
neighborhood, someone was bound to tell my mum. Which was probably the point. Rebelling,
trying to be the bad boy and not everyone’s sweet baby,” he grimaced. “But when
I realized I could have a real career, I started getting a bit smarter. You
could say rugby kept me out of major trouble. Plus you’re tired, of course, by
the time you’re done training for the day.”

“That’s not a very interesting story, though,” she
complained.

“All right. I’ll tell you something that’ll make you
happier,” he decided. “My closest call. When I was 20 or so, still at Uni, I was
out with friends, at the bars in Hamilton. And I had the car, which wasn’t
usual. I wasn’t intending to drink much, obviously. Ended up getting stonkered,
of course. Woke up the next morning hungover as hell, with no recollection of
how I’d got home. The car was there, no damage. The friends too. Scared me
shitless, though. Lucky not to’ve been brought in on a drink-driving charge. Or
had an accident, killed somebody. I was never that stupid again. Lucky for me,
because a sportsman in New Zealand lives under a microscope. As you may have
noticed.”

“I sure have. In the U.S., professional athletes are almost
expected to behave badly. That doesn’t seem to be the case here.”

“Nah. Doesn’t mean they don’t get on the turps sometimes,
make right wallies of themselves. But the public don’t like it. Don’t forget
it, either. Do something like that and they’ll still be talking about it years
later. There’ll be an article about your recent lack of form, and they’re bringing
up the old story again. As an example of your general lack of character. With
everyone and their aunt ready to comment, take their chance to sink the boot in
as well, thanks to the wonders of the Internet.”  

“Do you notice something about all this, though?” she asked.
“Here we are, two people who have pretty much followed the rules. And a lot of
that, whatever this says about us, is because we’ve always figured we’d be
caught if we didn’t, and pay the price. Well, in your case. In mine, obviously,
I
knew
I’d be caught. And yet some people can do
everything
wrong—break
so many laws, create so much havoc. And basically get away with it. What’s
wrong with this picture?”

“You’re talking about that Paul now.”

“Yeah. He did his best to ruin my life. And there was
nothing I could do about it. He walked away scot-free. I used to be nicer,
actually. You might’ve liked me better if you’d met me a year ago. Because now
I’m not nearly as interested in being polite if someone’s behaving badly. I’m
sticking up for myself from here on out. Not going to be a victim anymore, an
easy target like that.”

“Good on ya, far as I’m concerned. And who said I didn’t
like you?” he demanded. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m sitting on this couch
with you on my day off, babysitting for the Skipper. Why d’you think I’m doing
that? Believe me, I can think of loads more interesting ways to spend my time.
Some of which I’m counting on trying out with you later, by the way, so you’d
better be prepared.”

“But you’re always complaining about my temper. You can’t
tell me you like it when I’m walking out on you in restaurants, or yelling at
you for being a jerk.”

“Or jumping out of my car,” he reminded her. “Don’t forget
that. That was pretty surprising.
Like
might be the wrong word. I reckon
you’re interesting, though. Challenging. I was raised around Maori women,
remember? They don’t hesitate to speak their minds. You may have had occasion
to notice that recently.”

She laughed. “I confess I have. Very good point.”

“Courage is important to Maori, in women as well as men. The
courage to speak and to act. Not many shrinking violets amongst Maori women. In
fact, the most famous Maori love story is all about courage, a woman’s courage.”

“Tell me. I’ll bet it’s more uplifting than my babysitting
story. This might be almost as good as hearing another song.”

“It is a song, though. The song I sang you,
Pokarekare
Ana,
remember? The love song of Hinemoa and Tutanekai. It’s one reason you
hear that song everyplace, because the story’s so well known. If you really
want to hear it, I’ll tell it to you.”

“Hinemoa was the high-born daughter of a chief,” he began as
Kate settled in to listen. “She lived in a village on the shores of Lake
Rotorua. You’ve heard of Rotorua?”

She nodded. “Where all the hot springs are.”

“That’s it. A beautiful lake as well, with an island in the
middle of it called Mokoia. Four kilometers from Owhata, Hinemoa’s village. A
long way.”

“Almost two and a half miles,” she agreed. “Big lake.”

“Yeh. Well, Tutanekai lived in his own village, on that
island. The two of them met during ceremonial visits between their villages,
and they fell in love. But Hinemoa’s family wouldn’t agree to a marriage,
because Tutanekai’s birth wasn’t as good as hers. Course, that didn’t stop them
being in love. At night, Tutanekai would sit on his verandah and play his flute
for Hinemoa. The sound would carry across the water, and she’d know he was
playing for her, calling to her.”

“It carried two and a half miles?” she asked dubiously.

He glared at her. “It’s a love story. Just listen.”

“Her relatives suspected that the two of them were still in
love, even after they’d forbidden it, and they were afraid she would try to
make her way to him,” he went on. “So at night, they’d pull the waka—the
canoes—high up on the beach, to keep her from crossing the water. But one
night, as she heard the sound of Tutanekai’s flute across the water, Hinemoa couldn’t
wait any longer, and she came up with a plan. She tied gourds to her body to
help her float. Then she swam all the way to Mokoia, with the voice of the
flute guiding her. No wetsuits then, of course. You’d never have made it. She
was naked, and when she reached the island after hours of effort, she was
exhausted and cold, so she lowered herself into a hot pool at the water’s edge
to warm up. To hide and wait.”

“After a bit, she heard someone approaching. She made her
voice deep, so she sounded like a man. Called out and asked who was there. She
found it was Tutanekai’s servant, come to fill a calabash with water for his
master. From her hiding place, she grabbed the calabash from him when he dipped
it into the water, and smashed it on the rocks. The servant ran back to
Tutanekai and told him what had happened, but Tutanekai was so dispirited, he couldn’t
be bothered with the story, and brushed him off. But after the servant went
back to the spring with another calabash and the same thing happened, Tutanekai
decided he had to take action. He took his club and went down to find the man
who had insulted him so badly, and to kill him.”

“Of course,” Kate agreed. “Because obviously, the penalty
for breaking your calabash would be death.”

“Nah. The penalty for insulting a warrior like that would be
death,” he corrected her. “Anyway. As I was saying before you interrupted me, he
went down to the pool and called for the man to come out and fight. Reached
down into the water and grabbed an arm to pull him out. When he did, of course,
he saw it was Hinemoa. He wrapped her in his cloak and took her up to his
house. In the morning, his family found her there. And in the face of their
love and devotion—and because the deed was done, though they tend to leave that
out of the story—both families agreed to their marriage.”

“You can see Tutanekai’s flute for yourself, still, in the
Rotorua Museum,” he finished. “And the descendants of Hinemoa and Tutanekai
still live around Lake Rotorua today.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet,” Kate said. “But with a happy
ending. What a good story.”

“And a true story,” he pointed out. “Next time you hear
Pokarekare
Ana,
you’ll know what it means. That it’s the love song of Tutanekai,
calling to Hinemoa across the water. Telling her how much he loves her, asking
her to come to him.”

He sang the chorus softly.

“E hine e

Hoki mai ra

Ka mate ahau

I te aroha e.”

“It means, “Oh girl, return to me, else I will die of my
love for you.”

“So romantic,” she sighed.

He smiled. “Maori are nothing if not romantic. Loving,
talking, and fighting, those are our best skills. And women did some of the
fighting too, in the old days. Bet you didn’t know that. It wasn’t very long
ago, either. Only about 150 years. Sometimes I think it’s still in the genetic
memory.”

“Course, in spite of the fact that you’re dead fierce, and
courageous with it, you’d have been a miserable failure as a Maori,” he went on
musingly. “Too small and skinny. Not able to swim across any cold lakes. Not
even good eating.”

“Well,
that’s
disgusting. And I was told I wasn’t
supposed to make any cannibalism jokes. That it was a sensitive subject.”

“It’s not too nice,” he agreed seriously. “But it did
happen. No point trying to deny it. These days, New Zealand likes to embrace
the Maori traditions. Partly because it’s so good for tourism. But sometimes
that can mean whitewashing the past. It’s a warrior culture, and there are
loads of practices that went along with that, things that people would like to
forget now. Cannibalism. Slavery. You can’t just show off your moko and your
hei toki and pretend the rest of it didn’t exist.”

“In other words, OK for you to make that joke, but I’d
better steer clear,” she decided.

“Afraid you’re right.” He turned at the sound of Jack
beginning to cry. “And he’s off again. Why don’t you go warm the bottle this
time. I’ll check his nappy.”

“He can’t need to eat again, though,” Kate objected. “I
thought they ate every four hours. Something like that.”

He laughed as he bent to pick up the baby. “You really are
hopeless. They eat when they want to. And because he was little, he needs more
feeding up. Ask Hannah when she gets back. She’ll tell you she spends most of
the day feeding him, I’ll bet.”