The estate agent wasn’t too dismayed when I told him I would sell to Morgan Homes. The price was still way more than I’d imagined. I felt bad for our neighbour farmer, Ger McCarthy, who had put in a tiny bid in comparison, to use the land for cattle grazing, but I was able to negotiate for him to get the back field for a nominal sum, and he was grateful for that. Morgan Homes were relieved not to be responsible for it. The same stream that ran underneath my new cottage sprang up in that back field and Morgan Homes would have had to bury it in some way. It was useless to them, but of great benefit to Ger McCarthy.
Nadine was busy with the cottage. She sent me emails with colour schemes and tiles, kitchen units, bedroom sets, wardrobe fittings, floor coverings, three-piece suites, shutters and curtains, shelving units, doors and windows. Again, I was blinded by so much choice and, in the end, I asked her to choose everything. Their house was beautiful and I trusted her taste more than mine. I was finally on the move.
36
Peter, 1983
Rangi’s Auntie Georgia moved away into town. She couldn’t stay this far out without being able to drive. Rangi had done all the grocery shopping. He had often dropped her and collected her from her various jobs. Dad bought her shack and patch of land for a pittance. On her last day in the house, weeks after the discovery of Rangi’s body, I saw her go towards the side of the shed with an axe and, one by one, those hens fell silent. She left two plucked chickens on our porch, in gratitude to my dad for his help with the police and for taking the property off her hands, she said in a note.
Since moving to Rotorua, I had only been in the superette with Dad a handful of times, and to the library and bookshop more regularly. In the summertime, I could wear a baseball cap and long, oversized shirts with sleeves that came down over my hands to avoid touching people. I never wore shorts either. I told Dad that I was old enough to drive now, but he said he didn’t have the patience to teach me. I regretted not asking Rangi. I know he would have taught me.
A couple of weeks after Auntie Georgia moved, Dad suggested that we go to a local wildlife park close to Lake Rotorua. It was January 1983, still warm, and holiday season was in full swing. Dad said we should take advantage of it. Despite the tragedy, I was eager to get out again and to see people.
We drove up as far as the northern part of Lake Rotorua. A few families were camping by the lakeside. Dad didn’t seem that interested in going into the forest or exploring the wildlife. Like me, he was looking at the people. Eventually, we walked off towards a forest trail. A small, slim blonde girl was climbing a tree. Dad stopped to look. We stood for a while, impressed. She got to the top and then looked back down, troubled.
Dad called up to her, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t think I can get down. There’s a possum, right beside me. I’m afraid,’ she said. We could see the fat-bodied animal two yards from her face on the same branch, fast asleep.
I looked up at her once again, dismayed that there was nothing I could do to help her. The easiest thing would be to climb up and take her hand and lead her from branch to branch. Possums were harmless but they were a scourge. They could hiss and spit when disturbed and had very sharp claws. Rangi had said everyone hated them.
‘Why don’t you jump? I’ll catch you,’ said Dad.
‘I’m afraid,’ she repeated, tears in her voice.
‘Okay, we’ll have to leave you up there, then,’ said Dad and moved as if to walk away.
She began to sob.
‘Dad, we can’t leave her.’
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Where are your family?’ he called up to her.
‘They’re on the other side of the lake. Mum told me to get lost until six o’clock.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound fair. How about I come up and get you?’
Dad was surprisingly agile as he scaled the tree; a little unsure of his footing at times, but he reached her without any problems. He took her by the hand and led her from branch to branch, like I would have done if I could. The possum never woke up.
Eventually, she jumped a few feet to the ground, landing directly in front of me.
‘This is my son, Steve. What’s your name, petal?’ Dad asked her.
‘Lindy Weston. Hi, Steve.’ She was shy and her face was dirty with tears, which she wiped away with her forearm.
‘My name is Mr Armstrong, but you can call me James if you like.’
‘Hi, Lindy,’ I said.
‘Where you from?’ she asked.
‘From Dunedin originally but I lived in Ireland for years.’ This was our story.
Dad walked ahead while I chatted to Lindy. I was nervous, though I had no reason to be, not then.
‘My neighbour is from Ireland, don’t ask me where. She talks like you.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
