Checkerboard Hill

By Jade Kake

Checkerboard HilI is a story of belonging, dislocation, misunderstandings, identity and fractured relationships.
When a family member dies in Australia, Ria flies from New Zealand and returns to the family and home in Australia she suddenly left decades before as a teenager. Waiting for her return are her husband and son in New Zealand. Neither family has met the other, and Ria has always kept her Māori, Australian, New Zealand identities and lives separate. But the family tensions, unfinished arguments, connections to places and meeting of former friends, lead Ria to revisit her memories and reflect on the social and cultural tensions and racism she experienced, and the decisions she made. The novel confronts the complexities of families, secrets and trauma and the way these play out across generations. It also explores the ways in which Māori cultural traditions and tikanga are transmuted
and transformed across the Tasman, across time and space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huia Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781775507994

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ria’s feet hit the ground with a soft steady thud. Her white trainers flick up crumbs of sandy soil. She runs without music, listening, listening to her breathing, the rasp of air pumping in and out as she tries to sync it with the rhythm of her muted feet. The dark scent of rotting leaf litter is everywhere. Her nostrils flare, pulling in the air. She passes under the canopy. The narrow path is in dappled shade. The pattern of light is similar to what she’s been trying to reproduce on canvas: a tremor of perpetual movement, a fragile temporality. Her eyes settle on a spray of clematis, white flowers bursting on a thin vine as it winds up the limbs of a young māhoe tree. She studies the splotchy pattern of the bark as she jogs past and makes a mental note to try it out in the studio. A litter of kawakawa lines the track. The leaves have been eaten away, leaving negative space.

She ducks underneath a branch without slowing. In her mind, she’s still in the studio. She works over the canvas, puzzling it out. The consistency of the paint isn’t right; it’s too viscous. Or the colour is wrong. What she wants is for the image in her mind to be made real. A neat transference. She only loves the messy bits after the work is done. Her calves start to ache as she jogs up steps of rough-cut timber and compacted earth. Her face is flushed. Her breathing intensifies as she gets higher. The fresh air pushes through her body, flushing out the paint and earth. She grits her teeth as she pushes forward and zigzags up the steep incline. A tūī calls out. The low murmur of waves rumbles in the distance, beneath the muffled sounds of the forest.

At the top of the steps, she skids to a halt. Drenched in a pool of light where the canopy opens to the sky, a wooden barrier has been erected across the path. Closed for maintenance. She pictures the track that skirts the cliff edge and plunges down to the beach, a path she’s jogged along countless times, her feet wearing deep grooves into the sand. She rolls her eyes. She glances around and darts through the gap between the sign and the bush. She breaks into a jog, then a run, and now she’s sprinting. She pushes hard as she busts through the break in the trees. Strands of native grasses whip her bare legs as she closes the final twenty metres to the top. A cloud of tiny seeds sticks to her legs. She’s exhilarated. She lets out a whoop as she reaches the summit.

The small bones in her back make a satisfying crackle as she flops down onto the hard ground. Her heart hammers, and her lungs feel stiff and full. The air feels good against her skin. Her mouth breaks open as a loud, blissful sigh escapes her. A small, hard tree root juts into her back and she squirms, trying to get comfortable. She peers up at the shifting sky. The clouds have an almost tactile quality, stretched out and brittle like candy floss, and she wonders how she can reproduce it with paint. Her skills as a painter have been honed through close observation of what is. She can’t look at things any more without perceiving a vast, vibrating field of infinitely varying colours that shudder and glisten and shimmer in the light. The light is the constant, the infinite variety of forms and textures drawn together by the consistent, unifying effects of the light. She yawns. It’s a lazy thought, barely formed, and she lets it drift away. Little bubbles pop and wriggle on the surface of her eyes. Then nothing. Her mind is bleached clean, clear and bright.

The sea crashes below, and the hum of bees fills the air. The sun sears, and as she closes her eyes against it, she’s enveloped in a warm yellow. The smell of salt and something else, faintly sweet and unidentifiable, meanders on the breeze. Cool air skims her face and her throat feels dry. She sits upright and gropes for her metal water bottle where it lies abandoned beside her. She unscrews the cap and gulps back water. It’s cool and slightly metallic. Droplets escape the edges and spill onto her shirt. She frowns and runs her thumb absently over the wet patch as it sinks into the light synthetic material and dissipates.

She gazes across the sea. The sun hovers somewhere above the horizon, and she takes a guess at the time—6.30 p.m., maybe? She doesn’t wear a watch, and her phone is in the car. She prefers to be unshackled from time here. Still, she pictures Ari and James. Ari sits on the couch and watches wrestling videos on YouTube. The sound is up too high. James sits at the table with his laptop open. A frothing glass of beer sits on a coaster next to him. He takes a sip and lets out a satisfied sigh. There’s froth on his upper lip, and he licks it off. His eyes dart back and forth across the screen.

‘You okay, tama?’ he calls out.

Ari turns and nods.

‘Turn the TV down a bit, okay?’

Ari nods again.

The image disperses with the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below. The sunlight glints and sparkles on the crests. Each highlight is a sun in miniature. A few boats sit on the horizon, and they pass in and out of focus like an optical illusion. Another thought drifts into her mind, shadowy and formless, and she brushes it away with a slight shiver. It feels intrusive. It always seems to find her here. She presses her eyelids shut and wills herself to think of nothing: only the rhythm of the tide, the rhythm of her breathing, the cacophony of bird calls. She focuses on her breathing and wills her mind to remain empty, formless.

The sun sinks towards the sea. Her euphoria fades as blackness seeps into the sky. The ocean has turned choppy, dark and ominous. Fear creeps in at the edges, and something else, hollow and slippery. Her stomach gives a small growl, and for the first time she remembers that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. She rises unsteadily, her legs stiff. She licks her lips and tastes salt. Her cooling skin is mottled with dried sweat, and she wriggles her body and tries to shake off the heavy feeling in her limbs. Slowly, her body grinds into motion and she descends in a sluggish jog that slips into a smoother gait.

When Ria reaches the carpark, she sees that her black SUV is the last one left in the lot. She pauses at the driver’s side door and gazes towards the horizon. Sea mist rises from the sand in the dim, slate light of dusk. Sweat gathers on her brow, and she rubs it away impatiently. She unscrews her water bottle and takes a swig. She swills the now lukewarm water around in her mouth and empties it, then swallows with a slight grimace. She puts her water bottle down beside the front tyre and stretches. Her muscles feel rubbery. She presses forward and pulses, shifting her weight onto her bent right leg and feeling the strain in her left calf. She pushes onto her toes and springs forward, sprinting through the dunes and out onto the sand. She closes her eyes, her face damp with sea mist and sweat. Chalky sand squeaks beneath her feet. She strips off her singlet and her shorts, then kicks off her shoes and discards them like sea litter. She bristles as the water skims her toes, the shock of the cold prising her eyes open. She recoils at it then lurches forward. She wades through the shallows and throws herself into the inky waves.

The water prickles her like thousands of needles. Beneath the waves, it pounds and churns around her ears, and everything is dark and cool. There’s no room for thoughts, only the harsh immediacy of the water. She gasps as she re-emerges into the crisp air of early evening, her head rising and bobbing above the waves. She feels the tug of the current and lets herself be dragged for a few moments, until she feels the edge of fear, razor thin and sharp like a knife. What if she just let go? She waits a moment longer before cutting against the rip and wading back towards shore. Her arms slice through the water in clear, firm arcs and drive her forward. She hauls herself out. Rivulets run from her shoulders as she sloshes into shore. At the line where the sea sheers away from the land, the tide drags over her feet. She wriggles her toes and buries them in the sand. She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. The smell of salt rises from her skin. She pads back towards the parking lot. The hard wet sand softens and gives way beneath her bare feet. She shakes her hair, heavy drops spinning onto the sand.

A handful of dry sand puffs out as she picks up her shorts and flicks them. She pauses and gazes out at the horizon. The colour is dazzling, making her gasp. She steps a leg through her shorts and then looks up again. The colour is shifting. The dying embers of the sun explode in a riot of colour, splashing against the bottoms of slender stratus clouds—salmon pink blends into sunset orange blends into soft lilac. She steps into the other leg of her shorts and pulls them up. They cling to her damp skin. She ties a loose bow in the draw-string as her eyes skate over the dunes. The breeze has left ripples at the dune’s edges, the sunset casting a warm crimson glow onto the blue-black sand. How are such extremes of the colour spectrum existing side by side without obvious contrast? Maybe it’s the yellow in the spindly grass that peeks through the sand that makes the blue seem so vivid. What is this sand, anyway, she wonders? She falls to her knees and grabs a handful, then splays her fingers beneath her nose. Translucent whites, pale silvers, oxide blacks. No, she corrects herself, it’s blue: so blue it’s almost black as it bleeds into the white. A memory hits her: blistering heat, bare skin scorched. It’s iron ore threaded through black sand! Her mind reels at the revelation, the possibilities for reproduction on canvas. She tilts her hand and the sand shifts again, evading easy definition. She feels a sigh escape her lips. It would be near impossible to try to capture this texture from memory. Maybe there’s a Ziploc bag inside the glove box? After a quick mental calculation, she shakes her head, sighs again and lets the sand slip through her fingers. She looks back to the sky, but it’s no longer there. The sunset has already begun to fade.

Back at the car, she fishes the key out of her pocket. She clicks the button and the car rumbles to life, a flash of warm yellow lighting up the interior. She climbs in, her body wet and slick like a seal. She kicks off her shoes, crusted with black sand, and throws them onto the floor of the passenger side. She opens the glove box and rifles through parking tickets, receipts and muesli bar wrappers until her fingers collide with the hard body of her phone. She presses the button and the lock screen flashes up. Three missed calls. She feels a flicker of annoyance, and her mood turns dark. Surely whatever it is can wait? She’s claustrophobic, like she’s in a small box and it’s getting smaller. She tosses her phone back into the centre console and starts the car. The stereo connects to the Bluetooth, and Tanerélle fills the cabin. The chords thrum through her chest and drown out the sea, her breathing, everything.

Pools of yellow light spill onto the sandy track, muted against the grey of dusk, deepening into the purple of night. The light is a hazy lilac-grey. The wash is like a diminishing waterfall, and the colour is broken and vibrating. It’s not static; nothing is. Like all colour it’s an illusion, a shimmering trick of the light. She imagines a thin wash of colour, paint derived from clay. She drives past the surf club and through the village. She passes the tiny houses embedded in the bank like lanterns as she winds up the hill and away from the ocean, towards the glow of the city. The moon rises overhead as she passes through the shadowy forest. She accelerates through the corners. She enjoys her car and how it smooths out the bends. Ria sings along, her voice a murmur beneath the ethereal sound of Tanerélle’s voice. She pushes her damp hair back. Her eyes gleam as she breathes out, heavy. She’s a person without a past, bleached clean like coral.

Ria pulls into the drive and parks next to James’s silver station wagon. She shuts down the engine, slips on her shoes and gathers her things as she climbs out of the car. The rotten steps sag beneath her. She stares at the door, clutching her keys.

From the back porch, she can see through to the kitchen. The light inside is warm. James stands at the bench, chopping something. A pot simmers. He turns towards the dining area, and she sees his face in profile. He says something. He smiles and laughs, showing his teeth. Ari leans over the bench. His loose curls spill over his face. He looks at James and giggles. His eyes sparkle, and dimples form. His smile is like Ria’s. It’s unfair, their casual ease with each other. She takes a deep breath as she twists the door handle.

James and Ari freeze like game animals. Their eyes pivot towards the door as it cracks open. James’s smile returns as he sees Ria, his face softening as he returns to the stove. She plasters on a bright smile as she steps into the light.

‘Māmā!’

Ari jumps off his stool and launches himself towards her, enveloping her in a warm hug. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his silky hair. Ari lingers and looks up at her through his dark lashes, his eyes shining and expectant. Ria kisses him on the cheek. James intercepts before Ari can start his endless chatter about his day—snippets he has saved up for her.

‘Ari, haere atu: shower time. Before kai. After dinner, I’ll read you a story.’

Ari disentangles himself. A pout forms on his small face as he marches down the hall towards the bathroom. Ria sets her things on the bench, and James pulls her into the kitchen for a quick hug. He frowns slightly at the touch of her cool face against his. She leans into him and inhales the cooking smells on his clothes.

‘Hey, love,’ James whispers. His breath is hot, and Ria feels something stir inside her. James pulls away and pours her a glass of red wine. He waggles his eyebrows as he passes it to her. Ari is singing in the shower. She takes a sip of her wine and tries to flatten the edges of her mouth as they creep up. Her eyes dart in the direction of the hall and return to James. He bites his lip and suppresses a smile too. She opens her mouth and a bleat of laughter escapes. She clamps her hand over her mouth. James’s eyes twinkle, and deep lines form at the edges.

The sound of the shower running falls silent.

‘Pāpā, homai tētahi tāora,’ Ari calls out.

James sighs as he walks down the hall.

Ria lifts the lid of the pot. It’s a curry of some kind; she’s not sure, but she recognises the bay leaves. She raises a second lid—steaming basmati rice. There’s a knob of ginger on top, and condensation pools on the inside of the lid. On the bench, the shape of a dish is discernible beneath a blue gingham tea towel. She pulls up the corner. Warm roti slathered with garlic. She spots other side dishes: a bowl of raita. Fresh coriander. The table is set, and there’s nothing left for Ria to do. She sits at the dining table, sips her wine and waits for James and Ari.

She looks at the photos lining the walls. Ari as a newborn, his tiny scrunched-up face and Ria’s pale, tired one. Ari at age four. His school photo from the previous year. Ari with his nana, James’s mum. Ria and James on their wedding day. James’s big, raucous family at their reunion three years ago. James and Ari at the beach: Ari holding the fish he caught with his pāpā, smiling, his small chest puffed out. There’s a photo of Ria with her mum and sister, wedged behind a photo of Ari. It’s small and out of focus. Ria is young: it was taken before James, before Ari. There’s Ria at her marae. She’s alone, standing beneath the tomokanga. She hasn’t been back since. Something hard and tight pinches inside.

The photographs are punctuated with taonga. The carved taiaha James received for his twenty-first birthday. A kete woven by James’s sister. A heru that belonged to James’s grandmother. A prized piece of pounamu gifted to Ari by James’s whānau. A piece of whalebone—half-carved, unfinished, inherited from her koro—is Ria’s sole contribution, and the taonga feels lonely, out of place. A painting of an abstract landscape hangs above the mantelpiece. The brushstrokes are naïve, and the colour is flat, lacking in depth. The hue is turgid, too similar in both the light and the shadow. Ria feels faintly embarrassed by it. A flicker of a memory dislodges and rises to the surface: the grit of silty clay between her fingers, ripples of light cutting through warm, murky water.

Ari and James burst into the room, into life, and she’s jolted out of her memories. James methodically shifts the pots from the stove to the table. Ari takes his usual place opposite Ria and beside James. As they sit to eat, James nudges Ari.

‘Go on, tama. Like you learnt at kura.’

Ari looks small and serious as he recites the karakia. ‘Nau mai e ngā hua …’

Ria looks down and follows along in a gentle murmur, feeling grateful as she says ‘Tāiki e’ at the end of the prayer.

‘Ka pai, tama,’ says James as he reaches over to pull off the lids.

James serves Ari first, then Ria and then himself, filling their plates with rice and curry. Ria and Ari take turns sprinkling and spooning toppings over the kai. Ria loads her fork and looks at James. He feels her watching him and looks up, the dark pools of his eyes boring into hers. She looks away. What does he see there? What dim shapes rise to the surface? He stares at her for a moment too long. She squirms, and he looks away.

After dinner, she showers, scrubbing the salt away. James has set out a clean towel, and she wraps herself in it, feeling the soft fuzz against her bare skin. She drops the towel and steps into her worn cotton pyjama pants. She pulls an old T-shirt over her head. She slides her fingers down her hair and squeezes out the remaining droplets of water. She lets the water drip onto the worn timber floor. The damp strands graze her shoulders. She flosses and brushes her teeth.

When she enters the bedroom, she sees that James has turned down the cover on her side of the bed. She climbs in. The sheets smell fresh and clean. She sinks her head into the soft down pillow and rolls onto her side. She can hear James reading to Ari in the next room. She chuckles as he puts on different voices for each of the characters in Ari’s story. A squeal of laughter rings out.

The story ends. She hears the patter of footsteps and a tap on the door. The door opens and Ari’s small face peers through the gap. Ria beckons him with a smile, and he tumbles through the door like a puppy. She opens the duvet and Ari buries himself under the covers. She presses his warm, small body against hers and breathes in his scent. She closes her eyes, teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep, and falls into a warm slumber.

When she wakes up, Ari is gone, and the room is dark. James snores gently. The clock displays a blur of bright red numbers in the darkness. 3.11 a.m. She gets out of bed, slipping out of the door that they keep half-open in case Ari has nightmares. She peeks into Ari’s room. She can just make out the shape of his body: he’s sleeping curled up with his arms wrapped around himself. Moonlight floods the kitchen, and she notices the dishes have been washed and cleared away, and everything is clean and clear and perfect.

Sunlight streams through the blinds. Ria feels groggy and doesn’t know where she is. Someone raps on the door, and she sinks back in relief at the familiar sound. It’s James. He carries two mugs of coffee. He pushes the door shut and waits for the click. He sets one of the mugs on the bedside table, then swivels and hands the other one to Ria as he wedges a pillow behind her. She leans back and takes a sip of the coffee. It tastes great, and she moans with pleasure. She sets her mug down and brushes James’s lips with hers.

‘Mōrena, ātaahua,’ James says, biting his lip.

‘Morning.’ She pulls him towards her and slips her tongue between his teeth. He slides his hands underneath her shirt and grazes her nipples, before moving his hands around her back. She’s hot with anticipation, waiting for James to tug her shirt over her head, when the alarm blares into the moment.

‘Shit,’ James