Long Acre

By Kate Stirling

Long Acre is part of another KATE STIRLING HISTORICAL TRILOGY, set in New Zealand from 1946, depicting the impact of the war years on the characters in post-war New Zealand. Again reveling in the spectacular scenery of rivers, volcanoes, snow-clad mountains. Richly endowed with abundant oceans and endless skies, New Zealand is a small country with an enviable link to scientific and geological thought and activity, plus a reputation for coming through with the goods, over and over, of knowing how to live life to the full.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Stirling
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780473324308

Kate Stirling

I enjoy writing, also helping seniors to learn to manage their computers. Other fav occupations are gardening, reading, painting, (pics not houses), and travel. Also I enjoy my little dog, Hobie. He is such a good companion when I am writing. Have now got all three books of the Kaipara Trilogy printed plus on Smashwords ebooks. If you love New Zealand you will enjoy discovering more about its clean green image and these books will help you do that. My bio Lucie was available from November 2012, several childrens books and another trilogy on the way.

Book preview

LONG ACRE

KATE STIRLING

© KATE STIRLING

2ND Edition 2017

ISBN 978-0-473-38434-0

Published by

ELLESMERE PUBLISHING NZ

New Plymouth

New Zealand

Photographs and Art Work by

TIM STONNELL

1

The wind whistled through the dark she-oaks as the small funeral procession wound its way to the chapel but no-one noticed or cared. Everyone who mattered was there. An older man, tall, strong looking and uncomfortable in a dark suit, his two adult sons and one teenaged daughter plus a few locals formed the party. The daughter stood apart while her father carried his new-born baby daughter.

The baby moved, restless, and her father absently rubbed her back as he stared at the open grave. Rose, his darling Rose, gone for ever. All his dreams and hopes for their future shattered and in his arms, the cause of all the grief.

He forced himself to look at the little face, almost hidden by the shawl as it was.

Well, little one, you better be worth it. A high price to pay.

At home after the funeral he held out the child to his daughter, but Arial refused to take her. She stood, feet firmly apart as she shook her head, dark eyes clouded.

Dada, I can’t have her. I’ve done my bit with the boys and now I have only a little time before I go to Training College. I don’t want to spend the next five or ten years of my life looking after her. She’s yours, you do it.

But she needs a warm breast to cuddle into.

You have just as many as I have and I think they are bigger.

Dada scowled as she laughed and walked away. He wasn’t fat and he wasn’t woman!

Wait. He called after her. Give her three months. Just three months. I’ll look after her at nights and through the day when you have to be away. Three months? Please?

Arial shrugged as she left the room, calling over her shoulder.

Okay. Three months; not a minute more though.

Dada nodded his shaggy head and pulled the shawl down to expose the little red face.

You hear that then? Three months and then you’re stuck with me. Make the most of it, little one.

The baby yawned widely as if this was not her problem.

2

They named the new baby Velia, the name her mother had chosen though she soon became Bubba and for three months Arial cared for the child by day, her study books always at her elbow and the cradle by her side as she worked. At night she carried the cradle into Dada’s room and tucked Bubba in. Dada looked after her as he had promised, though the child seldom woke during the night. At the end of three months Arial left to go to training college and Dada was on his own with Bubba.

Every fine day, Dada put her in a pikau (sling) on his back and continued working in the vegetable garden as usual. Then when she was too heavy for the pikau, he slung a large, unused meat safe between two trees for her to lie in. She never knew a time when she couldn’t hear the sound of the wind in the trees. The river bustled along at times, surged madly at others. Through it all, she began to recognise its sounds, its chuckles and its sighs.

She loved the river. Dada re-directed a small, free running stream to irrigate his market garden and using the run off he built a shallow pool above the river’s edge where she could play safely.

Each day he took her, naked and squirming to bathe her in the warm summer water. He lay back with her clinging onto his hair, sinking under and allowing her face to submerge so she remained comfortable with water on her face. She quickly learned to keep her air in while the water crept up her face and into her ears, bringing memories from before her birth, when all she felt was fluid. Then they would suddenly emerge with a great shout, splashing glittering droplets and commence their daily bath before plodding back to normality.

Between caring for his little daughter and working in his market garden across the road Dada kept himself busy so there

was little time to grieve during the day. Nights were different though, long and lonely and he often found himself standing in the gloomy living room, looking at the photos of long ago.

There was a wedding photo of his parents. Dafydd Williams and his wife Aldyth had travelled from half a world away to make a new, better life for their three children during the early 1900s. Dafydd was a miner, valuable and always needed to find and produce good quality coal for the nation’s energy needs. There was a general outcry when he announced his decision to move away to the other end of the earth. Even Aldyth resisted at first though she knew she would follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary.

He came to this new land with a large number of other miners who also knew their game well. His strength showed in his almost legendary ability to spur his men to the most productive activity and he was in demand at most mines

Dafydd had been fascinated by the quicksilver Aldyth, her laughter teasing and delighting him at the same time. She sang well, enjoyed music and made sure she had the latest news from the other side of the world. With several brothers and sisters, she was writing and receiving letters all the time. It took a long time for letters to arrive and much of the news was out of date before she received it.

To the boy David, known to all as Dada, it seemed that every day another slim envelope with the words Par Avion and its distinctive emblem fluttered into their mail box. His mother would scan them repeatedly as if she felt she might have overlooked something. She received so many letters that his father suggested she get her own postal service. Aldyth replied she would rather have a pigeon, as was used to take messages from Great Barrier to Auckland. Now Dada could understand better, he knew she had been terribly homesick.

Later Dafydd died in an accident in the very mine he had come all that way to work. Aldyth became shy and quiet, crying herself to sleep at nights though she managed to keep going until the boys were older.

Another early photo, taken when their boys were very young showed Dada in a stiff, older brotherly pose with his younger brothers, Michael and a very young Llyn. As they grew older Dada and Michael got on well together. Michael became shy and quiet, preferring to fish quietly on his own, rather than run with the other lads his age. He and Dada decided to invest in land that adjoined the home stretch. Dada was the gardener and Michael was sure he could learn when he got the chance.

Meantime Llyn, after suffering a severe attack of a childhood illness, enjoyed his school years, his sense of humour and quick repartee making him popular and in demand. He preferred dancing and music to sport, and his many pranks were usually forgiven when he turned on the charm. His brothers saw him as lightweight, even immature.

While they were out working Llyn seemed to be taking life much less seriously and he was well into a career in photography when the world went to war in the late 30s. He proved to be colour blind and suffered severe allergies so was man-powered into managing a less important mine for the duration.

Dada allowed his gaze to wander to his own wedding picture. Rose, the girl he adored, laughing up at him, her dark hair covered by its filmy veil and her dark eyes lit up. She had reached up to plant a kiss on his chin, flowers forgotten and dangling from one hand. Beside her Michael, his best man, tried to keep his balance as she leaned back into him. Behind her in the shadows stood Llyn, tall and skinny, almost hovering over her.

The next photo showed Dada’s regiment as they boarded the ship in 1942. With no family or ties Michael went earlier. He later died in the mud and cold of the war on the other side of the world. When Dada’s turn came he left his wife and young family in the care of Llyn.

Dada found himself in Italy where he became a prisoner of war, spending most of his time re-building bridges and railways lines that the allied air strikes had damaged in the previous evening’s raids. Despite the realisation that he was in better hands than many others who were captured, life was hard and the work was exhausting. Red Cross parcels and the occasional letter from home kept him going.

All he could focus on during this time was a small picture of Rose, Arial and his boys clustered round him as he prepared to leave them. Creased and fading, it kept him busy, planning what he would do when he returned after the war ended. It had all seemed so simple, such a good solution to a poor interlude though his return at the end of the war became a time of betrayal and grief.

It seemed that, by the time he came home again, they had all grown up, the boys tall and sturdy, and Arial a younger version of Rose. As if the world had gone on without him and now he had to start all over again. Still, the memories crowded in on him, painful and desperate

He swung out of the room, treading heavily along the narrow hall to the warm room at the other end. He had given his word that he would care for this surprise scrap of life that had taken his Rose from him and one day when the time came, he would let the family know the legacy their mother had left them. He went to bed, imagining that Rose was there with him, her gentle touch soothing him until he could relax.

3

As she began to crawl, Velia spent most of her time in a large crate he adapted for her, putting mesh screens instead of windows and a large pillow for her to sleep on during the day. He placed it between two trees near his gardens and there she could sleep peacefully, dreaming to the sound of the breezes as they wafted through. At times when she was restless, Dada would take her down to the water where the water’s steady movement soothed her discomfort.

It was a large river, flowing from a deep lake Taupo, that formed from a massive volcanic explosion thousands of years before. Now that lake was surrounded by several snow clad mountains. These provided the river’s powerful source and its great status in legend and in history as possibly the largest volcanic explosion the world had ever known. In places the waters were an icy, snow fed blue, pouring through a narrow chasm and plunging down the canyon it had carved.

Miles further downstream the river reached the ocean, its silt laden volume battling against the huge rollers that had travelled thousands of miles without obstruction and ran aground on the shore. The colour spread wide and far out, from the air showing a half circle of swirling brown water against the deeper green of the ocean.

Despite, or perhaps because of the changes, it provided a home for many varieties of native fish and even more exotics such as rainbow trout. Over the centuries the river changed its course, scouring great tracts of land that became marshes with birds that enjoyed the shallow waters.

Out of this somewhat restricted area it became the river

Velia knew, sometimes placid, smooth flowing and warm, the limpid water sparkling like stars and sometimes, in just minutes, becoming a roaring, destructive entity. Small islands formed from floating debris and broken willows soon put down new shoots and anchored the islands. Thousands of birds roosted in these trees, safe from predators.

Dada’s land skirted the river, narrow as it neared the road bridge. Further upstream it widened into farmland where Dada had his market gardens. A rough metal road divided the land and made easy access for the machinery needed for the crops they grew for the markets.

Tree covered hills, not high enough to collect snow, formed a natural barrier between the ocean and the lower, arable river land. Several streams flowed down from this higher land and one of these divided the bigger garden. It rushed down through the bush that flanked the mountains, giving plentiful supplies of water and nutrients to the trees, many of which were old enough to have legends about them. Every twist and turn formed small rapids where the water chuckled and whispered.

It was in this stream that Velia believed her friends lived. She would play in the small side pool where the stream met the river, the distant voices a constant background to her play.

As she grew older she began to recognise signs of changes, first in the weather and wind patterns. When the days were long and sunny, the voices chuckled, making her long to wander the banks in search of the people she believed were always just round a bend, always out of sight. Dada’s restrictions meant that she must remain close by where he could see her as he worked.

Until she started school, she spent most sunny days playing in the shallow water of the side pool, her eyes on the ripples out on the river that indicated something below. Sometimes she would plunge into the pool, trying to see whatever had made that dimple, hoping for a slender eel or a fat brown trout, his lips pouting as if he smelled something unpleasant.

She would laugh and try to get the family dog, Toto, to swim out there. Toto was too wise or just plain lazy and wouldn’t get off his comfy knoll of soft grass. Often she used a piece of stick to make imaginary writing in the silt at her feet and played happily until it was time to go indoors again. On weekends and in the evenings Arial taught Velia her numbers and letters, and the child was soon able to write actual words in the sand. By the time she was five and started school she could read well and enjoyed books.

Their home on the river was simple enough; a sturdy old house, it had only basic aids to normal living but it had stood the test of time well. Like many such unused strips along roads or railway lines, the land was known as the long acre. Later it became simply Long Acre, a good name for such a long narrow strip.

There were many such buildings along this side of the river. Any paint they may have had was long gone; leaving the timbers silver grey and the iron rooftops, a source of noise when it rained or the sun was too hot, showed more rust than anything. Trees crowded close, forming a leafy frame against the river and a haven for the birds that flocked there in the evenings.

Dada’s large home garden flanked the house, bordered by a wire fence and rough grass on one side, by fruit trees and chickens on the other. The back of the house was on poles, well above the flood level of the river that wound its way through rich land to the coast. Across the road his larger, market garden flourished, keeping him busy most days.

Their home had changed little over the years. The front door, flanked by two rooms, faced the dusty metal road. The rooms were dark and bitingly cold in the winter mornings or sweltering in the late summer afternoons. Dada’s room had become too full of painful memories for him since his wife died and he moved out, sleeping in the large room at the back of the house. Velia often crept into that front room, aware of the gap in her life, despite having never known her mother.

The room was gloomy, the old brown roller blinds seldom pulled high enough to see out without stooping. For Velia they were perfect. As the dying afternoon sun streamed in she would curl up on her mother’s tidy bed and watch as the long sloping beams of golden light slipped across the surface of the dressing table to touch upon a white alabaster statuette.

For a brief moment or two, the light would be upon Diana, the huntress and the glistening crystals twinkled as the beams moved down her slender form. The goddess stood as if pausing in her flight, her hair flowing in some long forgotten wind and her gown slipping at the shoulder to expose one beautiful breast. At her feet were her dogs, straining at their leash as if they too were in hunting mode. Velia loved that little figurine, imagining it was of her mother and promising herself that she too would become a huntress. She too would be beautiful and graceful and her dogs would be strong and alert. She began to think of herself as Diana’s daughter.

She also learnt to avoid the blank, cold eyes that made her shudder. She promised herself that when she was older she would draw pupils in those blank spaces. Later, she couldn’t bring herself to damage such a lovely reminder of her mother. The eyes stayed blank.

Across the passageway there was a small sitting room, its blinds also low. A roomy old couch under the window and a few hard backed chairs along the back wall were almost the only furniture. A large aspidistra in a brass pot sat on a small table by one of the chairs. It did well in the gloom. For Velia, it was just a large, boring plant with no flowers or perfume.

Above it, along with the black framed certificates of Dada’s sporting prowess and the photos of his companions when they set off to the war, were the photographs of her three brothers and sister as children and one of herself as a baby. In the shadows at the back of the room were fading sepia coloured photographs of her grand-parents; serious, unsmiling and black framed to match. She knew their history but seldom went near the room.

Next along the narrow passageway were two small rooms, the boys’ room and the girls’ room, both now un-occupied. Neither room had curtains or blinds. In the girls’ room were two single beds, their faded coverlets tidy and dusty and in the corner, a free standing wardrobe, still bulging with out-grown clothing and much handled toys. An old calendar drooped on the back wall, its faded numbers crossed out to mark the passing days of some forgotten year. In the boy’s room, two sets of bunks, their wooden ladders shiny from constant use by bare feet, attested to the predominance of boys (and their many friends) in the family. This room sported a couple of drooping posters.

The passageway then opened into a very different space. Running the full width of the house, the kitchen was sunny, stifling in summer and cosy in winter. The large coal fire provided all the hot water for the house and seldom went out for long.

Below the window, there was a low bench for the sink, with shelving beneath hidden by faded floral curtains on stretchy wires. Initially, Arial had the job of removing them for washing then it became Velia’s task but it took all her strength to pull the stretchy wire back to the hooks at each end.

Beyond the table was Dada’s favourite chair. Deep and covered in faded checked fabric it allowed him to listen to the radio until he grew sleepy and then, turned on its swivel base to face the wall, became his bed where he slept comfortably and happily until morning.

This room and the newer, screened addition across the back of the house provided the main living areas. Overlooking the river, the addition provided a roomy deck for evening sitting, smoking and the occasional drink. A rusting metal bath tub hung on the wall, no longer needed since the new bath was installed. Dada ignored the bathroom during summer when the river was warm and safe though in winter he enjoyed a hot bath after his day’s work in the fields.

On the sunniest corner of the deck above, a glazed and screened corner became Velia’s personal space where she could dream away the nights, the sound of mosquitoes whining outside an added pleasure since they couldn’t get in. Here she could watch the stars moving slowly down the night sky or, awake early, she could watch as the beautiful Venus, icy and brilliant against the pale blue pre-dawn sky, faded as the sun rose above the departing golden edged night clouds.

From the time she could talk she mentioned things that others could not see and often told the family of events that were to come. As a tiny girl, she said ‘the people’ told her things though she didn’t know who or what they were.

However, as she grew older, Velia insisted that the river talked to her, warning her of things to come. She seemed different when she had spent time with her river.

The rain and wind she tolerated, if only because she had no choice. On foggy, windless days when the tree tops looked like islands floating above the misty white air, they were magical, a glimpse of another, mysterious world. Sound carried well on the still air and seemingly mystical music flowed from across the river with the sound of laughing voices, almost out of earshot. She could never find the people who were making the lovely sounds.

The mists never lasted long, lifting as the sunlight warmed the air, often leaving a long gap between the earth and the floating moisture. Here she sometimes saw animals that seemed to float through the gap and vanish without a sound as the damp laden air swirled past. Although she had never seen a human being in there she was sure she would one day.

As time went by she began to recognise colours that surrounded people like a glowing cloud of mist, a good warning of the different moods of others though she ignored them as much as possible. They had always been there and for a long time she thought everyone could see the colours.

She also realised that Arial did not like her to talk about them. To Arial they were all imagination, something one tolerated in small children and then ignored. That way, she could avoid the uncomfortable feeling that this child was different. Dada encouraged Velia’s imagination, telling her tales of long ago, of how the ancestors used their powers to achieve amazing things. Her favourite seemed to relate to her river world.

She often heard other voices and music, floating across the river from the houses on the other side where the large sub-division was. Here the homes were modern, with large windows and terraced grounds right down to the river’s edge; the gardens with their fashionable shrubs and trees were for show rather than life supporting.

Most of the river willows had vanished on that side, leaving a wide expanse of the flood plains smoothed and re-arranged according to the surveyors’ plans; the whole area vulnerable to the next good flood.

To the locals, the newcomers were an intrusion, their incessant activities destroying the peace and calm of the district. The constant use of their noisy motor boats made fishing difficult and white baiting almost impossible. Far more irritating for Dada and Velia was the brilliant orange glare of the late afternoon sun on those huge windows. The light almost blinded them for a short time as the sun set each evening.

As the river widened again there were marshes along its banks. Downstream, a tiny fishing village perched on the edge of one of these marshes, the small community singing and laughing the days away as they followed the lifestyle of their ancestors. It became a popular spot for surfers, fishermen and boaties of all types. They were a mixed lot. A few were long-time residents and tales of the peaceful, unhurried existence drew others, all eager to share in the pleasure of such a place.

Further downstream the river met the sea. During the land wars, Port Waikato had been an important place. Now it was a peaceful village and a popular fishing spot and many people had cottages there. The bar that blocked the river exit was dangerous, with numerous boats marooned or up ended as they tried to cross when the weather wasn’t good. Fishing was good though fraught with danger for those who didn’t know their river well enough.

4

Velia knew all about the port. Some weekends in the summers Dada arranged to stay in a cottage built by Dada’s cousin who lived there with his son, Leon, for a time. The two children got along well, each in their own little world, and Leon showed her the little pools where the tiny fish darted about. Dada would have liked to live there too, but it was far from the markets and the soil too sandy so it remained a holiday place for them. Eventually Leon’s father moved up river too, building a home across the road from Dada’s place but leasing the land to Dada for his gardens.

Often, after a day in the sunshine and water, Velia lay on her bed, listening as the waves reached the shore.

The noise frightens me, Dada. It’s so noisy and it never stops moving. The river is much quieter.

It’s a good noise. So alive, so huge with the wind and the sun and everything push it around. In and out, in and out.

Did the river make the sea, then?

No. The river adds to the sea though.

Tell me about it, Dada.

Well, everyone has different versions. I guess I can tell you mine. Okay?

Okay.

The river used to be different.

Velia stared at her father, her eyes dark and curious.

"How do you know that, Dada?’’

Dada smiled, secretively.

Oh the ancestors told me all about it. They will tell you too if you ask.

Velia frowned. Why hadn’t her voices told her all this?

What else, Dada. What else did they tell you?

‘They said that this river was different, that one day, long ago, a huge mountain erupted and there was so much pumice that everything was buried."

Pumice?

Stuff from inside the mountains. Very light, like foam but it sets real hard. Killed all the plants.

No broad beans, then?

No broad beans. Probably no puha (thistle) either. Everything would have died.

Even the people who lived there?

Some maybe but not all the people or there would be no-one to tell the story, would there?

Even the fish?

Dada paused, stroked her tousled hair as he said,

"I think the fish would have swum away, out to sea.

"Was