Outsiders

By Ross Graham

Elliot Porter is a young, ambitious newspaperman living in colonial New Zealand. When the death of a dear friend reveals long-held secrets, he sets out on a journey to discover the truth about his past.

Lana Hansen, a law school graduate relegated to a secretarial role by a male-dominated profession, has a life mapped out by her family’s social standing in the local community. Her future prohibits involvement with any man judged her inferior.

James Mackenzie comes to the colonies in search of a better life, but to his misfortune discovers greed, bigotry, and injustice have accompanied him to the new lands.

Three lives, three people marginalized, three outsiders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers USA
• Release date: Mar 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370131198

Ross Graham

Ross Graham resides in Sydney, Australia and was involved in theater for many years and spent time at the American Academy of Dramatic Art in Pasadena, California. His interest has always been writing and Outsiders is his first attempt at a full novel.

Book preview

Preface

James Mackenzie was an infamous, illiterate Scot accused of stealing 1,000 sheep from the Levels Station, in the 1800s.

He was convicted of theft and sentenced to five years hard labour at the notorious Lyttelton Gaol, often nicknamed ‘The Dirt and Darkness Club’.

His conviction was one of the greatest miscarriages of justice that the New Zealand’s justice system experienced. The story went on to develop a life of its own and become the legend it is today d.

Mackenzie symbolises the character and grit of the people living in this wild, beautiful and sometimes treacherous country, who relied on a ‘can do’ mentality and the ability to improvise with what was at hand.

He lived for the most part out in the open with his dog as his only companion. He crossed ice-cold raging rivers, successfully employing the aid of only a bullock and the dog, to safely deliver and sustain 1,000 sheep over some of the most treacherous torrents in the southern hemisphere, and lived to tell the tale. Those rivers are still as lethal today, and to cross them is a testimony of his skill and bravery when many, even these days, perish in attempting to do the same.

This is a story that reveals the humanity of a man with the same hopes, fears, joys and faults as all of us. He was an outsider and, like all outsiders, he was regarded by society as a threat. This is a story about outsiders like him.

Chapter 1

Dunedin, 1904

Looking out over Queens Park reminded him that springtime and the warmth of the sun were back. Most of the workers had gone for the day, the cleaner had just started and the typesetting was nearly complete, so, grabbing his jacket from the coat stand, John Eliot Porter left the office and skipped down the stairs onto Burlington Street.

The newly minted leaves on trees, with a ground array of fresh daffodils across the park, lifted his spirits. Out in the afternoon sunlight, he inhaled deeply as if to take in their fragrances. The air did not have the same familiar bite the long winter had imposed. There was a warmth to it.

He was hoping to see Lana Hansen again on the tram. He had noticed her a week earlier, and it disturbed him how much she had preoccupied his thoughts since—an unusual experience for him. Although he was not short of admirers, he gave little interest to most of them, but his pace quickened at the prospect of seeing this woman again.

A few days earlier, on a lunch break, in an attempt to try and find out who she was, he walked to the Octagon. An eight-sided street in the centre of town with a small reserve lined by leafy Plane Trees. He knew it well and sat on a bench, trying to appear casual to passers-by when he noticed her strolling into the new Law Chambers of Clarence Clifford, he’d assumed she was returning from her own break. She didn’t appear to have seen him, and a later, quick phone call to the office established her name as Lana Hansen.

At the tram stop on Princes Street and Moray Place, a queue waited for the southbound. It was going-home time for many workers, and the corner bustled with people, trams and carriages. The mood seemed lighter, with more colourful clothing and people actually smiling, as if the long chill of darker days and Antarctic blasts had finally lifted its veil. The No. 2, with its burgundy-red exterior and rich wood-grains, arrived already packed with commuters.

As he climbed on board, a voice called out from the driver’s seat. You’ll have to stand on the landing, lad. There’s not enough room inside. Old Beecroft, the tram inspector, a snarly old bunkle, always picked on Eliot whenever he saw him.

Eliot felt his face blush and others stared at him, but he complied with the request, standing perilously on the landing platform outside as the tram moved away.

They were less than a mile to High Street interchange when a large group alighted to take the No. 7 Cable Grip Car up to Mornington. As congestion eased, Eliot moved further into the carriage. With more space, he dropped his shoulders and breathed more easily, even though old Beecroft continued glaring at him in his rear-vision mirror. Eliot couldn’t understand the old man’s attitude. He turned to look behind him and spotted the girl standing nearby, slightly obscured and towered over by two men dressed in black suits, who appeared totally absorbed in each other’s conversation

She wore a simple black hat wound with a dark ribbon, her head turned away as she gazed out the window. Her olive complexion covered a fine jawline, and thick auburn hair, wisps of which escaped a delicate yellow ribbon tying it back, gently caressed the back of her neck. Loose strands of hair always seemed to make a woman look vulnerable.

She must have sensed someone was making a study of her, for she turned quite casually to stare back at him. Caught off guard, he felt awkward. She smiled directly at him while he tried to act nonchalant, but his embarrassment gave him away.

At the next stop on Eglington Road, more passengers alighted, leaving two seats next to Eliot empty. Lana glanced at the seats, and he signalled for her to take one, which she did. Once seated, she looked up at him and patted the empty one next to her.

Thank you, mouthed Eliot.

Thank you, said Lana.

There was hesitant silence.

My name’s Eliot. I’ve seen you on the tram before. He touched his ear nervously.

Possibly. She smiled politely. Silence stretched for a good moment. I’ve seen you go into the Otago Daily offices.

The comment filled him with a warm glow, You must work in town then?

Yes. I sometimes go to Queens Park for lunch and I’ve seen you go in and out of the building a couple of times, that’s all. She blushed.

Aha! Spying on me. He chuckled.

No. She smiled broadly. It’s actually a nice place for lunch. I go there whenever I have time.

Her blush faded and, up close, without staring, he could see she wore little or no make-up. Maybe a slight fragrance of jasmine emanated from her, but he couldn’t be sure. She was still smiling.

The bell on the tram rang, breaking the moment. They’d arrived at Caversham Corner, Eliot’s stop. Had the ride really been so fast when every other day it dragged?

Just then, he wanted the tram never to stop but to keep going forever. For a moment, he considered staying on, but decided against it.

Well, he said, this is my stop. It was nice to have met you, eventually. I hope I see you again, sometime.

Thank you again for the seat. A brief smile curled her lips.

Eliot floated the last few blocks to home, smiling about the encounter, and reached the weatherboard house at 42 East Street, Caversham. Painted white, it was offset with a Victorian trim in a modest barn-red around a bull-nose veranda. The garden, always immaculate and the best in the street, was at its prime this time of the year. Dutch Master daffodils lined the pathway like miniature yellow centurions in an endless line, saluting as he made his way up to the front door.

Is there anyone home? Where are you? he called as he entered the dwelling then, holding his breath, stopped for a moment to wait for a response.

We’re in the kitchen, love. His mother’s voice floated down the hallway.

Frank and Jean Porter sat at the kitchen table, both with serious faces, and he quickly sensed something was wrong.

His father, Frank, was a short, solid build man, with black, closely cropped hair and short back and sides that accentuated the elongation of his face and made his ears stick out. He had thick arms and powerful hands he put to work as a carpenter. A superb craftsman with wood, he specialised in intricate jobs—dovetails and ornate pieces of furniture—but at the same time he was able to build a house as good as the best of them. He sat nervously.

Hi…ah…is something wrong or did I step on something before I came in?

Ignoring his question, his mother asked, Hi love, how was your day? There was a formal tone in her voice.

Oh, it was…uh…fine, I guess. Is there something? he said, moving to stand at the table.

There was a momentary pause as Jean glanced at Frank, and then she spoke. We have something to tell you. We received some terrible news today. Why don’t you sit down, love? She motioned to the chair at the end of the table and Eliot sat.

She leant back, her lips pursed, a frown creasing her forehead. Eliot, for some time we have wanted to discuss something with you, but it’s never seemed appropriate. Today, sadly, we received a telegram which has forced the issue.

She moved again in her chair and paused for a moment before she continued, When you were a baby you were adopted by us—not formally, but Frank and I were charged with looking after you.

Eliot sat bolt upright, not flinching a muscle, unsure of what he was about to hear next.

"As you know, I grew up in rural Southland with a girl I’d met when we were very young. She became my best friend for life. That girl, Annie, was your mother. I never told you because I thought, at the time, it seemed unimportant when you were growing up. After your birth, there were severe complications. Your mother lost a lot of blood and, as a result, the poor dear soul—my closest friend and your mother—died two days after you were born. Your dad was also a dear friend of ours. Frank lived in the same area as him. You know him well; Bill Currie from next door.

"Bill is your biological father. I have to tell you, your mother and father so looked forward to your arrival. They moved in next door after Bill came back to Dunedin with his work in the army but, when your mum died, it changed everything. He was a broken man. He could not find it in himself to remarry and felt he owed it to you and your mum not to do so. Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way he was. He did try to care for you, but he also needed to work to pay for food and lodgings. As Annie was my best friend, it was the least I could do to look after you while he went to work.

When Frank and I moved to Dunedin, I wanted to be close to your mum—that was one of the reasons we came to Dunedin—and we rented this house next to Bill and Annie. After your mother died, and I had been looking after you for a bit, we came to think of you as our own. Eventually, Bill decided it was in everyone’s interests that you become our son. As much as he loved you, he could not work and look after you at the same time. Besides, he was a hopeless cook.

A wry smile appeared over Frank’s face as Eliot and he glanced at one another.

"I would have done it for Annie and Bill anyway, because we were very close. Having you around was as if Annie was still with me, but Bill insisted he pay me for the food and everything like that.

We wanted to have children ourselves, but we couldn’t, and we became so attached to you it was a natural consequence you became our son. Later on, Bill did not want to upset you by telling you, at least, not until you were older, so he spent as much time with you as he could. Do you remember all those weekends when the two of you would go to St Clair beach?

Eliot remembered how he would sometimes hang around over at Bills place. How they would talk and play cricket in the backyard. He wondered where the old bat and wickets were now.

Jean continued speaking.

As you know, Bill worked in the army, building the fortifications along the coastline. A few months ago, he was sent to South Africa to fight with the British and Australians in the Second and Third Contingents to combat the Boers. His commander was British Major General Paget, and his battalion was posted to Rhenoster Kop in Northern Transvaal to defend the line there from a front-line attack by the Boers. For some time, they prevailed but, a few days ago, a surge by the enemy resulted in a terrible battle. I am sorry to tell you, Eliot, but your father was killed. Her face crumpled, as her glistening eyes spilled long-held tears to cascade down her face.

There was a long silence. Eliot said nothing as he stared at the woman he’d called Mum. A sharp, sickening stab in his stomach punctured his denial of what he had just heard. Bill Currie had been his closest friend, taking time to play footy on the green close to home. He’d been someone he could confide in growing up—a genuine friendship between two people of the sort that was rare for anyone. Their relationship became even more pronounced, now that he understood who this man really was.

Even if he had never known Bill was his father, the bond would have been as strong as before. And, when he thought of the man gone forever, the idea seemed foreign.

Jean seemed to be struggling, but she went on. I know this is a lot to take in, especially in one go. But well, we wanted you to know, love, because we love you, and so did Bill and Annie, and we all want the best for you. She took out a letter from the pocket of her apron she wore and held it in her hand. He left this for you. You can read it when you are ready. She placed it carefully on the kitchen table. It lay there unwrinkled from the apron. The name ‘John Eliot Porter’ was written across the paper in broad capitals.

He was a fine man, and a friend to us all, said Frank, his voice breaking into an awkward cough.

The finest, added Jean. We loved him very much, and I know you did too. Never in his wildest dreams, Eliot, did he think anything would happen to him, least of all in South Africa. I will miss him terribly, we all will. He was part of the family.

War is such a waste of life, and the consequences are devastating for everyone, said Frank. What the hell are New Zealanders and Australians doing there anyway? They have no earthly reason to be thousands of miles away, involved in war for the bloody British. It’s all about the gold and diamonds they’ve found, which is the only reason anyone’s there. Frank calmed down sighing. Also, we just got word a memorial has been arranged by the army on Sunday at Caversham Town Hall.

Jean was crying, as Eliot put his hand on her shoulder. She stood, but her hands were shaking as she reached for a chair to steady herself to him, but the shaking stayed.

I’ll make a cup of tea, love. I’m sure we could all do with one. As Frank rose and turned towards the stove, Eliot caught a glimpse of his ravaged face. Eliot, before he went to war, Bill left a suitcase of personal stuff. I put it in the spare room and will put it in your room later. He wanted you to have what’s in it so, when you get the time, you can go through it.

Eliot nodded as he got up and walked down to his room. In one day, he had received information to change his life forever.

He sat on the edge of his bed and slowly opened the letter to read the contents.

Dear Eliot,

No doubt you have heard the news, you are my son. I had suggested to Frank and Jean not to say anything unless something happened to me or until I returned. If you are reading this, then I do not need to state the obvious.

I would have explained it all to you when I returned, but if you only knew the torment I went through deciding what to do when your dear mother died. Jean and Frank were true friends, looking after you, which is a debt I can never repay them.

It was pretty tough after your mother died, as I had no choice but to work at my place of employ and put on a brave face each day, when inside I felt awful. I pray you never lose the love of your life, Eliot, if you are lucky enough to finally meet her.

But then, Jean and Frank came along and literally saved your life and mine. I was at a complete loss as to what to do before that. Forgive me Son, I did what I thought was best at the time.

My own parents back in Scotland are both dead. They had worked for years as crofters until they were thrown off the land. Elderly and unwell—landless and homeless for some time accelerated their decline in health—a decision to immigrate to New Zealand with me was hard for them to consider. They feared they would not survive the ordeal of the trip here. I sent money as best I could to help them, but it was a struggle and, the year before you were born, they both contracted typhus and died.

I have no brothers or sisters, and Annie’s mother died shortly after your dear mother passed away. She too was poorly from earlier illnesses, but I believe the death of her only child, your mother, only hastened her own calling.

Your grandfather, James Mackay, may still be living but, from all reports, he became a recluse and struggled to mix with people after his own wife died. We did not see one another after Annie died, because he lived down south and I was in Dunedin, working. There was no work available for me in the south. We drifted apart and moved on with our lives after his wife and daughter died.

If he is still alive, then, he is your only living blood; it might pay to visit him and find out. His last known address was in a small township in Southland; Jean and Frank should know that.

My dear boy, it’s a lot to take in and nothing would have given me more joy than to see you become the man I know you will be.

Look after yourself. The good book tells of a resurrection of us all sometime in the future, so I pray you and your mother and I will be together again one day.

Frank and Jean are your parents so respect them for they love you dearly, and you love them too. Try to refrain from doing anything in life you may regret.

Goodbye, my boy.

Love, Your father,

William Eliot Currie

Chapter 2

Eliot was amazed by the huge turnout at Caversham Town Hall. He had never appreciated the width of the circle of friends and associates his father had made over the years.