Settlers' Creek, page 15
A late-model SUV was pulling up outside the house, a red Nissan twin-cab with a flat-bed. In the fading light, Box didn’t recognise the man who got out until he was at the gate. It was Tipene. He came up the concrete path and stopped at the bottom of the steps.
‘Can I have a chat?’
‘Sure.’
Tipene came up onto the veranda and they shook hands. They both surveyed the dry lawn and the street and the paint-chipped houses.
‘Do you want a cigarette?’ asked Box.
‘Cheers, no. I gave up years ago.’
‘Yeah, so did I.’
Tipene smiled. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘Crap.’
Tipene twisted his face into a fleeting expression of sympathy. ‘Right, stupid question.’
Box puffed on his cigarette and turned his head to blow the smoke away. Christ, it wouldn’t hurt to be civil to the bloke. After all, he was making an effort. ‘Liz says you’re in tourism.’
‘Pacific Encounter, up at Kaipuna. We take people out to see the dolphins. There’s also a fishing charter part of the business. When we first started up I used to drive the boats, but now I’m in management.’
‘Stay with any job long enough and you end up behind a desk.’
‘These days I wouldn’t know a dolphin if I tripped over one.’
Box had to admit that there was an easiness about Tipene that he liked. He spoke like a man with little to prove. Box had met enough people to know how rare that was. For the second time that day he found himself stealing glances at Tipene’s face, looking for traces of Mark, fascinated despite himself.
‘How’s the tourism business these days?’ Box asked.
‘It’s definitely died off compared to what it was two years ago. Numbers are down. It’s the whole international recession. People overseas are putting off holidays, sitting on the money they’ve got. But we haven’t had to lay anyone off yet, so things aren’t as bad as the bloody media would have you think. Lizzy says you’re a builder?’
Lizzy. Nobody called her Lizzy. Only her mum, before the mad old chook died. ‘Yeah. The bottom’s fallen right out of it, though. It’ll pick up again but right now there’s hardly any new houses going up.’
Box thought about telling Tipene the whole sorry saga of Saxton Construction. It was tempting to talk up what a success he’d been before pure bad timing had sucker-punched him and cut him off at the knees. But even as he thought about it Box knew how it would sound. He would come across as either boasting or whingeing — probably both. Box looked out over the patchy yellow lawn and the veranda with paint coming off the rail in flakes. He wished that Tipene had been talking to him a couple of years ago, out on the deck of the old house, with views up the coast and out over the city The fact was that Box was embarrassed by all this: the chocked-up cars on the neighbours’ lawn; the graffiti scrawled over the concrete-block fence; the deep grunting bark of the permanently chained-up German shepherd further down the road. In the fading light all of it seemed grey and squalid. Even in daylight it was pretty depressing.
Box and Tipene talked for a while, mostly about the economic downturn, and then, for the first time, Tipene looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Lizzy says that you’ve got an idea where you want Mark to be buried?’
‘He’s being buried at Regent’s Bay. It’s over on the peninsula.’
Tipene nodded. He paused and seemed to be thinking. ‘I’ve got something I’d like to put to you, if you’re willing to listen.’
‘There’s no harm in listening.’
‘We think that Mark should be buried at Kaipuna.’
Box had been standing with one foot up on the lower rail of the balustrade. He took his foot off and straightened up. ‘Why?’
‘We think it’s important that he be buried with his ancestors at the local urupa — the cemetery close to our marae.’
Box was already shaking his head. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s not going to happen. Mark’s going to be buried at the church in Regent’s Bay.’
‘Can we at least discuss it?’
‘I am discussing it, but frankly I can’t see what there is to talk about.’
‘Why being buried at Kaipuna is important to us, for a start.’
‘Who’s us?’
‘His whanau.’
‘Mark’s family is me and Liz and his sister.’
‘I’m not arguing that, but you have to accept that Mark was also Maori, tangata whenua. Through me, he was part of a hapu and an iwi — a tribe.’
‘I know what iwi means. Look, Mark hadn’t seen you or any of your family since he was two years old. He didn’t speak Maori.’
‘That doesn’t really matter.’
‘No, hang on, let me finish.’
‘Okay, go ahead.’
‘He didn’t speak any Maori and he didn’t do anything Maori. I think he went to a marae once, when he was about twelve, on a school trip. His only comment was that he didn’t like sleeping on the floor. So how exactly was Mark Maori?’
‘Through his ancestry. Mark can trace his ancestors back to the first canoes to come to these islands. He has a spiritual connection to Kaipuna. That’s why he should be buried there.’
‘I don’t understand how anyone can have a profound connection to somewhere he’s never even been.’
‘That’s because you’re looking at things in a Pakeha way.’
‘That’s pretty condescending.’
‘But it’s true. He was born at the Kaipuna hospital. His placenta is buried near the marae.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, this is the end of this conversation. His name was Mark Saxton and Liz and I raised him right from when he was a little kid. It’s our decision where he’s buried. That’s not a Pakeha way of seeing things, that’s just right.’
‘We don’t see it that way.’
‘Mark’s being buried at Regent’s Bay.’ The injustice of what he was hearing was making Box angry. ‘Come on — fuck. He wouldn’t have recognised you or any of your relatives if he’d passed you in the street. He’s being buried where his family wants, his real family. The people who raised him, the people he loved.’
Tipene was shaking his head. ‘I can see there’s no point in talking to you about this anymore.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘We’d like to call a meeting. Everyone will get a chance to say their piece and then at the end we can decide on what to do.’
‘No, no meeting. There’s no point. I’m not going to change my mind.’
Tipene searched Box’s face. ‘No. You’re not.’ He turned and went back down the steps. Box watched as he got into his SUV and drove away without once looking back.
PART III
Fourteen
Box drove his ute over the long bridge that crossed the Kaipuna River. Below him, the river had shrunk down to two thin braids running through expanses of dry shingle. The wheels clattered rhythmically over the joins in the bridge. On the far side of the river he turned off the highway towards the coast and five minutes later was driving through Kaipuna itself. It was a fishing town spread thinly around the edge of a broad crescent bay. The beach was nothing but ocean-rolled stones, grey and smooth as eggshells. On the other side of the road were the houses.
Box drove slowly past a street sign streaked with seagull shit. Like almost every other place that had a road following the waterfront, this one was called Marine Parade. At the east end of the bay was a long wharf. Half a dozen fishing boats were tied up to orange buoys. Box passed a cluster of hangar-shaped buildings, standing behind wire fences. He guessed that was where fish and crayfish were processed straight off the boats.
Box hadn’t been to Kaipuna in something like twenty years. He remembered the town as nothing much more than a fish and chip shop, a dairy, a petrol station and a couple of pubs. It had been the type of town where nothing much happened, and it happened a lot. He could see already that there were a lot more motels and motor parks than he remembered. And a large youth hostel. Further up the road there were several restaurants and at least half a dozen cafés, and a big information centre with a tourist bus just pulling up into the car park, where another bus was already parked, engine still running. Asian tourists were filing out of it like ants out of a busy nest. Pottery and art shops. A place selling only paua shell souvenirs. Rental cars and Maui campervans were parked up and down the road. People sat in the sunshine at tables outside cafés.
Box pulled into the petrol station. He’d driven up from the city in one non-stop leg and his body was stiff. He waited until the handle of the pump automatically clicked off, then went inside. A young guy wearing a blue petrol company uniform was standing behind the counter, long blond hair poking out from the bottom of a green and black beanie.
‘Just the petrol.’
‘That’s eighty-two.’
Box handed over his credit card. ‘Is there something special on in town?’
‘How do ya mean?’
‘There seems to be a lot of people around.’
‘Nah, this is pretty normal. You should see it around Christmas, it’s nuts.’
‘I’m here for a couple of days. What is there to do?’
The kid shrugged as he ran the card through the machine, lifting his shoulders so that they touched the ends of his hair. ‘The information centre’s just down the road.’
‘Sure. But what would you recommend?’
He blinked at Box. ‘Dunno really. You could probably go out and see the dolphins. Most people do that one.’
‘Is that Pacific Encounter?’
‘Yeah. If you don’t mind getting wet you can swim with the dolphins. Or the seals. With the seals you don’t have to go out in a boat.’
‘Isn’t it a bit cold for swimming?’
‘They give you a good wetsuit. Want your receipt?’
Box took the paper and his card from the young man’s hand. ‘Thanks for your advice.’
‘Okay.’
‘One more thing. Do you know Tipene Pitama? I think he lives around here.’
‘No. Sorry, dude. I’m not a local. I’ve only been here a couple of months.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Northland.’
‘What’s the attraction? Why come down here?’
‘The surfing. Up the coast it’s primo.’
Box did a u-turn that took him into the car park outside the information centre. Just inside the door was a display of brightly coloured brochures and flyers. He found one that had the name Pacific Encounter on the cover, above a photograph of a dolphin leaping high out of the water.
Box turned the brochure over and read the back. According to the blurb, Pacific Encounter was owned and operated by an outfit called Mana Group. He looked through more brochures and found out that Mana Group also owned the Glow Worm Cave tours, plus the backpacker hostel. They probably ran other stuff as well that he just hadn’t found yet.
There certainly wasn’t a shortage of things to do in Kaipuna. Box picked up flyers about mountain bike rentals and dirt and quad bikes. There was a small aquarium down by the wharf. Several fishing charters guaranteed that you’d land a catch. There were also river tours through a network of limestone caves that seemed to involve wetsuits and inflatable car inner-tubes.
A Maori woman who’d been sitting behind the information desk stood up and came over to him. She wore a black merino polo-neck under a dark grey jacket. A large circular greenstone pendant hung around her neck.
‘Kia ora.’
‘Hello.’
‘Can I help you with anything?’ Big smile.
‘Yeah, I’m looking for something interesting to do.’
‘I should warn you, it’s a bit late in the day. Most of the tours and activities leave in the morning. How long are you staying?’
‘Tomorrow would be okay. I might be interested in seeing the dolphins.’
‘I’d recommend it, for sure. At this time of year there are heaps. You’d have a good chance of seeing at least one big group if you went out tomorrow morning.’
‘Sounds good. I haven’t been here for years. Things have certainly changed.’
‘Yes. Tourism has made a big difference.’
Box nodded. ‘I see a lot of the businesses are run by Maori.’
‘That’s right. The local hapu have been very proactive. In fact, if you’re interested in the history of the tangata whenua there’s a tour of the old pa site in about half an hour.’
‘I’ll think about it. Are you local?’
‘On my mother’s side, but I was brought up in Napier.’
‘How long have you been living here?’
‘Almost five years.’
‘Then I guess you know Tipene Pitama?’
‘Sure.’ There was that two-hundred-watt smile again. ‘Tipene is one of the bosses over at Pacific Encounter.’
‘Really? I know him from years ago. I thought I might look him up while I was in town.’
Her smile suddenly vanished and she frowned. ‘He’s usually down at the office but he won’t be there today. He’ll be at the tangi up on the marae. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Tipene’s son died.’
Box struggled to keep his voice casual, forced his jaw to relax. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. How did it happen?’
‘I’m not sure. His son wasn’t living in town. I just heard that it was an accident. I think he lived with his mother somewhere down south.’
‘Not the best time to catch up with Tipene then. I’ll leave it for another day.’
She nodded. ‘That would probably be best.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
Box went to go, then turned back as if something had just occurred to him. ‘I might drop a card in Tipene’s letterbox, you know, giving my condolences. Can you tell me where to find his house?’
‘That’s a nice idea. I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I’ve got the address somewhere.’
She went back behind the counter. As she walked the big greenstone pendant pendulumed across the top of her chest. Box watched as she flicked through a blue plastic folder with the Pacific Encounter logo on the cover.
‘He’s up at the new subdivision. I’m just not sure about the number.’ She spoke without looking up. Her finger ran down a list. ‘Here it is, right — sixteen Plover Crescent.’
‘Sixteen. Plover.’
‘You have to drive out onto the highway and then head north up the coast for about ten minutes. The subdivision is called Seaview. It’s up on a hill. It’s signposted — you can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
A momentary look of doubt appeared on her wide face. ‘How did you say you know Tipene?’
‘Through rugby. Except he was Steve back then, plain old Steve Sullivan.’
She relaxed, nodded and smiled.
‘Thanks again for your help,’ said Box.
‘Remember if you want to book anything for tomorrow we’re open late tonight and from eight in the morning.’
‘I’ll definitely think about it.’
Out in the car park the autumn sun was warm on his face. A grounded flock of seagulls was jostling for space at the feet of an Asian family as a boy of about ten threw the birds potato chips. Box guessed the family were Japanese but he had no real idea. Japanese was just the tourist cliché, wasn’t it? They could just as well be Korean or Chinese. Personally, he couldn’t tell the difference just by looking at them. Their tour bus sat on an angle across the car park like a giant red Lego brick, the engine still running. The tour guide was speaking loudly, obviously trying to herd the coloured jackets and camera lenses into an orderly group.
Box walked through the middle of the seagulls and they scattered. Some took to the air briefly but most made bobbing runs out of his way. The boy said something in a language that Box didn’t understand and laughed. His high laughter mixed with the smell of the diesel fumes from the bus and the indignant squawking of the gulls.
Box’s stomach turned over and he thought that he might throw up.
‘What can I get you?’
For a moment he didn’t know what the woman was asking. And then his brain turned over. ‘A long black, thanks.’
‘Okay, dear.’
He had walked unthinking across the road — didn’t know if he’d even checked for cars — and through the door of the first café he’d come to, plonked himself down at the first table.
When his coffee came the waitress stood loitering by his table. She was about sixty, maybe the owner. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but are you okay?’
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘No. Sorry, I just thought I’d ask.’
‘Thanks.’ Box forced out a dopey smile.
She smiled back at him, obviously not convinced, returned to the counter. Box poured three sachets of sugar into the scorching black liquid and took a sip. The swirling hollow of nausea in his stomach was still there. He felt suddenly emptied out, cored and hollow.
To take his mind off the way he was feeling he watched the people walking by on the footpath. Apart from the package-tour Asians, the tourists were mostly young. Despite the sunshine they wore bright jackets against the autumn air and expensive walking shoes.
The locals were just as easy to spot. They dressed in jeans and T-shirts with sweatshirts or bush shirts over the top. The men from the fish-processing plant up at the wharf walked staunchly down the street in blue overalls and white gumboots. A good percentage of the locals were Maori — certainly a lot more brown faces here than you’d see in the city. Box counted a dozen in the time it took him to finish his coffee. None of the faces were familiar to him from the house. None of the men were ones who’d come to the funeral home that morning.
