Stamping Ground
Published by Colin Rock at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Colin Rock
1
Philip wanted Zane's cat.
"What for?"
"Hey? Just for an experim...just to feed and stuff. What's wrong with that?"
Zane looked him in the eye. It was a very shifty eye, and since when had Philip liked cats?
"No way."
"Aw come on! My aunts won't let me have a cat. I only want it for a couple of hours!"
"You're not going to experiment on my cat."
Henare spat on the ball and rubbed it savagely against his leg.
"C'mon you guys...are we going to play or have you just come to annoy us, Philip?"
Philip ignored him and grabbed Zane by the arm. "It's not an experiment anyway."
"Evan already told me."
"He promised me!"
Zane grinned. "Hah hah, caught you out!"
He removed Philip's chubby fingers from his arm and strode back to the crease. Henare was eyeing him with a look of extreme cunning, the sort of cunning that only a devious spin bowler with a corrugated brain could display. He stabbed his bat onto the concrete a couple of times and looked around to find the best place to smash a six. Do your worst mate, I'm ready for you.
They were playing in the small carpark between Rosie's old junk emporium and the new antique shop which, until recently, had been a small bakery. The carpark was too small even without the red BMW parked selfishly in the middle, and of course they'd never even bother playing there if guys like Philip were prepared to do some fielding for once in their life.
Henare was just preparing to bowl when Philip wandered fatly back and got in the way. "Hey I just had an idea you guys!"
"Geezes Philip!" Zane leapt forward and poked him with the bat.
"Get out of it!
"You get out of it, Philip," said Henare. "I was just going to bowl a googly then, now you put me off my rhythm."
"Yeah yeah, I believe you. Look, old Rosie's got a cat hasn't she? What do you reckon? I reckon she might lend it to me." He saw Zane's shaking head. "Well I don't care...I might just go and grab it!"
Henare stiffened. His mother was a lawyer and you didn't even joke about that sort of thing in his house.
"Well you're out of luck," said Zane, "you can't take Rosie's cat because it's dead. My sister buried it last week."
Philip snorted. "That's just typical! I bet she ran over it on her stupid motor scooter...she ran into me once!"
"That's because you're always getting in everyone's way," accused Henare, "Susy wouldn't do it deliberately, you know."
Zane wasn't so sure. In New Zealand you could get a driving licence at 15 and somehow, incredibly, his elder sister had actually passed the test. It was the first part of her plan to rule the world. Henare was a good mate, but had a terrible blind spot as far as Susy was concerned. Zane was always doing his best to try and keep her evil influence at bay. Of course it was easier said than done.
"Yoohoo!"
He sighed mightily and turned to see Susy striding majestically towards them. She suddenly stopped and took off her helmet to allow her long blonde hair to flow in the breeze, helping it a bit with several violent tosses.
"What do you want, Susy?"
"I don't want you, little brother, you are superfluous to my requirements. And I can see you hiding pathetically behind the car, Philip." She pointed to her scooter, which was parked in front of Rosie's shop. "I require Henare."
"We're playing cricket!"
"Don't be silly you horrible boy, no-one plays cricket...they endure it. Now come along, both of you will do. My motor scooter is refusing to move. Hurry up, Susan is waiting."
"Fat chance!" yelled Zane. He turned to Henare. "Don't listen to her, she just wants us to push start her stupid bike." He stomped over to the crease and took his guard again. "Okay, send her down!"
Unbelievable! Henare was trotting after Susy like a pet dog. Zane shook his head sorrowfully. He could never understand how she could twist a guy like that round her little finger. He saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. See? Even Philip was smart enough to make a break for it when Susy was around.
Hitting the car was out. So was the street. A straight shot back over the bowler's head to bounce off the wall was six, but luckily there weren't many of those. The new antique shop owners would be outside like a shot moaning and threatening and generally causing a nuisance. Rosie never minded. It was her wall they used as a backstop, and because Zane was bowling slightly faster than the speed of light the ball was thudding against it with monotonous regularity.
"It's no good bowling fast if you're not straight."
"I am straight, you just can't see it. I only missed by a quarter of a millimetre that time."
"Rubbish."
Zane sighed. He wasn't having a good day. They'd had to push Susy's stupid motor scooter for about a kilometre before she remembered she hadn't turned on the fuel tap, and by the time they'd got back he'd been so exhausted that Henare had bowled him first ball. Now he was having trouble getting Henare out. He sighed again.
"This is ridiculous. You'd think we could find someone to be wicketkeeper. Why is Philip such a lazy sod?" He cunningly pretended to be examining an interesting dog turd then took three quick strides and hurled the ball at maximum ferocity. Henare swung wildly, connected, then they both watched with horror as it flew towards the antique's shop second floor window. There was a long long moment as it seemed to hang in midair, then a sudden glorious thump as it miraculously hit the frame and rebounded harmlessly into the car. They both sighed with relief.
The shop door flew open and the two owners charged out.
"You boys are not allowed to play here. Look, there's about six parks around here...where do you live?"
It was the bald one talking. They were almost identical, apart from the hair. Both had trim moustaches and were of medium height. Both were aged about thirty and were neither fat nor thin. One of them was wearing a poncey looking gold necklace, but then so was the other. Zane couldn't help thinking that they looked like cloned androids. He suddenly giggled.
"It's not funny." The bald one looked at his friend. "Was I being funny, Gary? Was I trying to amuse our young friends?"
"No you weren't; you definitely were not."
Gary looked at Henare. "And I would appreciate it if you stopped lolling all over our car. It is not a sofa."
"Sorry," said Zane. He was trying to distract them because Henare was hiding the dent. "Rosie always lets us play here, she doesn't mind. That's why we bowl against her wall."
"We hardly ever hit your wall," said Henare.
"I hit it more than him," said Zane.
"No you don't."
"I got three sixes, you only got two."
"That last one was a six!"
The bald guy stepped up to Henare and took his arm. "Out right now. Go on, both of you get! And don't come back either of you."
"Okay," said Zane, "don't get agitated. We're going."
"Are you boys all right out here?"
They all looked around. The elderly lady waddled towards them and rested her hand on Zane's shoulder. She was puffing a bit, even though she'd only come out of the shop next door. Probably because she was old, but being excessively fat didn't help either.
"They told us to clear off, Rosie," said Zane. "We were just playing cricket."
The two men looked at each other. Henare shook himself free and picked up the cricket ball.
"We weren't disturbing you were we, Rosie?" continued Zane.
"These guys said we were. It's not their carpark, is it?" He felt pretty secure now. Rosie had owned her shop for about a thousand years. Everyone knew her. She sold all sorts of strange things, mostly junk. Old flags, jewellery, pots and ornaments and second hand clothes. Rosie was an institution; her shop was an institution. These two guys were fly-by-nighters. Show 'em who's boss, Rosie!
She shook her head. "I'm sorry boys," she said. "David and Gary have bought all this. They own the lease, you see." Her mouth tightened and she cast a savage look up at the two men. "That's right isn't it? You now own the lease for the carpark and my shop. Twenty three years I've been here and you think you're going to make me leave! Well I've got news for you!"
Zane looked at her. He'd never seen Rosie angry before. Yet this was even worse...she was fighting back anger and tears and something else, something deep in her eyes that looked very close to panic.
The bald headed man took a step forward. Zane and Henare had been forgotten now. "Rosie. Hey Rosie."
"Don't you Rosie me, David."
"We're just trying to establish a business, Rosie. Look," he winked at his friend, "look, we're not selling you up. We can't do that. If you buy up the lease there's no problem. We're reasonable men, Rosie."
Gary smiled at him. "David is so right...we are reasonable men." He stepped towards the old lady. "I'm sure you'll have no problem raising the money, Rosie. Business is good. At least, we're doing all right aren't we, David?"
*
Pizza for dinner, but with olives. Only Susy and his mother liked olives, so the obvious, simple solution would be to make half the pizza without olives. Zane and his father could chomp away happily without having to pick out the horrible things. No, it was too simple and too obvious.
"You must learn to cultivate your palate, little brother."
"Why? Dad doesn't."
"Father is old and has no taste buds left."
Her father looked up from his plate. "Eh?"
Everyone ignored him.
Zane had arrived home hoping for peace and quiet, but no such luck. Susy had made him listen to her ideas for her latest venture: street theatre. Its time had come. People were so boring...because they were so bored. And of course they needed stimulation. There was such an obvious lack of creativity in society these days. Zombies everywhere! Plod plod plod through their tedious little lives. There they are...Mr and Mrs Kiwi. Hello, what's this? Street theatre? Let's stay and watch, Mabel. Oh, all right, Trevor. Goodness, doesn't that street theatre make you think. Such spectacle, such dynamism. Something's happening in our heads. Creak, rattle, bumpetty bump. Oh Mabel, my brain is starting to work again! Oh Trevor, let's do something with our lives instead of walking like zombies and bumping into lamp posts! Okay, Mabel, that's a good idea.
A new age is dawning. Hooray for Susan's street theatre!
"That's an utter load of rubbish, Susy."
"Silly boy. That was a metaphor...or something like that. On Tuesday I am taking my troupe to Aotea square. We shall entertain and inform."
"What troupe? I'm not going."
"Of course not, you have no talent. Unless you want to be a krill. You could dress up as a krill and your fat friend Philip could be the whale. Save the krill, now that's a good plot." She paused, then shook her head in dismissal. "No. Anyway, I think I've soaked up all the talent from this family. Father is always bumping into lamp posts, it's been the bane of my life."
"It's stupid. Everyone will just boo and vomit with disgust."
"Rubbish. Hundreds of my friends are queuing up to audition, although none of them are up to my standard, of course."
"Of course".
"And you may invite that unusual boy who plays the trombone."
"Who?"
"The boy with the silly green uniform and unfortunate body shape."
"Steven Frate? Nerdus logicus? You gotta be joking."
"He is an excellent musician. What a sensitive young man."
"No he's not."
"Perhaps not. But I was comparing him to you and everyone is sensitive compared to you."
That's when Zane's mother had spoiled his brilliant retort by calling them in for olives.
It was Zane's turn to load the dishwasher, because it wasn't his birthday. 364 times a year he had to do this. Even more in a leap year. It was particularly evil having to do it during the school holidays. Didn't they realize the stress he was under at school? Holidays were designed to help a guy replenish his batteries. It was a very cruel world out there.
His mother was going out again to one of her meetings. "Now I don't mind you staying up late, Zane, but don't just sit around watching TV with your father. Do something constructive, like read an improving book."
"That's what I was going to do."
His father squeaked with indignation. "I'm working on my stamps tonight! I won't be watching television."
Zane and his mother exchanged a look. That meant the kitchen table was tied up for the night. No doors or windows to be opened without an enormous production of "watch out for my stamps! They'll blow everywhere! Some of these are very valuable!"
Zane's mother smiled. "There you are, Zane. You can help your father with his stamps, it's about time you developed a hobby."
"You gotta be joking."
The phone rang and he snatched it up.
"Yeah?"
"Hey Zane?"
"What?"
"You know your cat...?"
"No, Philip!"
"I was just asking."
"Evan said you were going to shoot it into space or something."
"What a load of rubbish! It's a balloon. See, I'm using helium... which is lighter than air..."
"I know that!"
"...and will carry an object of a certain weight...say a cat...hey are you sure? It'll be good for it...it could catch a bird up there..."
"Shove one of your aunts in it."
Philip sighed. "I would, but there isn't enough helium in the universe."
Zane hung up and stood aside to let Susy through. She was carrying two of her hats and they were monsters. One was decorated with artificial fruit and the other had a stuffed possum in pride of place. She'd bought it from Rosie. From Rosie!
"Hey Susy! Rosie's getting booted out!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know Rosie...where you buy your stupid hat decorations from."
"How dare you! Where is the soap?"
"Seriously. Me and Henare were talking to her and these two guys started hassling us. Then Rosie started crying, nearly."
"Why? What did you do to her? Horrible children."
"Not us! Those two guys. David and Gary. David's bald. You should sell him one of your hats. Hey watchit! Anyway they've bought the shops, both of them, and the parking space. Selfish sods."
"Tell your sister all, but be calm and lucid."
"That's it. They're going to boot her out because she's old and fat."
"Well, we shall see about that." She glared at him as if he was a particularly loathsome slug. "You, of course, will be helping."
2
Henare had woken up early, which was easy to do on non-school days. He drifted fairly aimlessly, just cruising on his bike, enjoying the peace and quiet of Western Springs Park. Eventually he crossed Meola road and found himself at the bottom of Evan's street, overlooking the exposed mudflats at the mouth of Motions Creek. That's where he saw the old man.
Actually he heard him first. The old bloke was standing knee deep in the mud trying to shove a wooden trestle under the canted hull of a very ancient and decrepit yacht. It was obvious that he was having a bit of trouble because he was using most of energy to curse the tide, the wind, the mud, and for some obscure reason, the government. He saw Henare watching and suddenly made a piteous groan and clutched at his heart. Henare immediately dropped his bike and waded over to help.
The old man made a miraculous recovery. "Hah, good lad. We gotta ram this so and so under the hull see? Ram her in, boy!"
The outgoing tide plucked at their feet and Henare could sense the boat bumping onto the soft mud. He heaved mightily and the old man shoved the trestle further under and cackled in triumph. "We got her, boy! Well done! Now, all we got to do is scrape this crap off the hull...you up for that, boy?"
Henare hesitated. The old man eyed him craftily then suddenly coughed and clasped his hand to his chest. "The old boomer ain't what it was, lad."
Henare felt guilty. "Yeah okay, I can help for a bit."
The old man nodded as if that was the only possible option anyway. "You sure, son? Can't give you nothing."
"I don't mind."
"You don't, eh? Good on you, boy. Me old back's not what it was. You know how to scrape a boat, do you? Eh? Up and down, no...up and down. Sideways is no good. If you do it sideways you cut the hull...see?"
It was turning out to be a grey, clammy morning. Henare stood up to his ankles in sticky mud and felt the sweat running down his back. He didn't mind. Sometimes you felt good just doing something monotonous and letting your mind wander all over. The grey sky seemed to trap the heat. Motions Creek was thick with ugliness; a dirty sludge of water most times but at low tide, like now, exposed mangrove roots heaved a stench into the cloying air. He looked up and shook sweat from his eyes. To his left, the craggy outline of Meola Reef clawed deep into the harbour.
The old man was a bit weird. Henare estimated his age at about a hundred, give or take thirty years. He had a deeply lined face, but that didn't mean much on a sailor. The wind and the sun and the salt sea air tanned skin like leather. His beard was bushy and streaked with white, except for the green nicotine stains under his lower lip. His eyes were the most fascinating feature, thought Henare. Pale grey, almost soft, but with a curious quality to them; almost as if they were looking right through you, continually seeking some distant horizon.
"You're a big lad, son. Maori blood, eh? Ngatiwhatua? Ngatiawa? Eh? Where are your folks from?"
"My mum was born here in Auckland. So was I. My dad was born in Russell."
"Kororareka. Nice place. That makes you Ngapuhi."
"Yes, but I can't speak Maori. My dad's learning it a bit."
The old man grinned knowingly. "You'll learn it one day, son. Now what do you think of the old 'Te Pu'? Been sailing the Gulf for eighty odd years. Eighty odd years eh, what do you think of that?"
"Wow."
The old man coughed harshly, then turned and spat. "Always spit to leeward, boy."
Henare nodded. The old man eyed him suspiciously then suddenly thumped the hull with his fist. "That's your real kauri, son, none of this plastic rubbish for old Jack."
"It looks very solid."
"Yair. Yair she's pretty solid."
"What does the name mean?"
The old man shook his head. "Have you never heard of the Musket wars boy? You Ngapuhi got 'em first...came down the island like a plague. Early 1800's...not long ago, son. Muskets, yair, they were the big thing back then. Te pu, they called it. 'The gun'." He rolled himself a sloppy cigarillo and coughed happily. "Nothing better eh boy? The sea, the sky." He spat into the mud. "Yair, the wind in your face and a roll of baccy. You don't smoke do you?"
"No."
"Good. Supply's running a bit low. Bloody disgrace!"
"Pardon?"
"The cost of tobacco. I grows me own, you know, over on Rangi. Me father planted it."
"Rangitoto Island? Did your father live there, too?"
"Sure did, son. And Great Grandma. Told you about her."
"I don't think you did."
"No? Remember the "Corinth"...East India trader, barque, 200 ton...?"
"Not really."
"1845, son. Eh, remember? Ngapuhi attacked Kororareka...that's your mob, son. Hone Heke. What did he do eh? Chopped down the bloody flagstaff and started a war! Ngapuhi eh? They won it, too, the cunning devils. Won the war but lost the peace!"
Henare felt embarrassed. Captain Jack seemed to think he was a Maori warrior or something. He wanted to tell him that history wasn't his best subject, mainly because it was so useless, but he knew the old guy would be really disappointed if he did.
"Yair, the old "Corinth". Muskets! She was taking a cargo of muskets up to the Bay of Islands...who for, eh son? For Hone Heke, that's who!"
"Is that why he won?"
"Heh? No, course not. She was wrecked on the bar! The Ngapuhi already had enough guns. They had better guns than the Troops! But Great Grandma didn't know that."
"No."
"How could she, eh?"
"I don't know."
"Course you don't, son." Old Jack stepped back to admire Henare's handiwork and pointed out a bit he'd missed. He suddenly flung his arms wide in a dramatic gesture. "She stood there that night...the wind shrieking with fury and the sea thundering like a fandaringo from hell...she braced herself against the wrath of the storm and waved her lantern high! She was trying to warn them off, son!"
"Yes."
Old Jack turned burning eyes on Henare. He put a gnarled finger to his lips and leaned close. Henare could smell the strong tobacco aroma and felt his eyes drawn to the horribly stained teeth. The old man lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Though some say she was calling them to their doom."
"Gee."
"Did they perish?"
"I don't know."
"Did they perish I ask you? Of course they didn't! Great Grandma saved them all she did. Not a life lost! Could have had a medal."
Henare nodded, but could see from Jack's face that it wasn't enough. "She definitely should have, I think."
"You're right there, son. Should have had a medal. Like me. The V.C." He looked warily around then bent closer. "German raiders. We rammed 'em amidships!" He held his gnarled finger to his lips again. "Not a word, mind. Shush."
"I won't say anything."
Old Jack removed his cap and scratched his head. "'Course Rosie'll take another musket, I reckon. That'll see me right."
"Musket?"
"Eh? Now don't you say anything. That's between me and Rosie."
"I won't."
"Good lad. It's a secret eh? Now what have I got? I got the filter stone; I got the musket, 'cept me and Rosie sold that; I got the uniform. You haven't seen the uniform, boy, but Great Grandma used to wear it. June the 13th, on the point...attention! Uniform gleaming and musket...present...arms! Lest we forget. I could show it to you, son."
"The musket?"
"The uniform! British officer! It's all there somewhere, hidden on the Island."
"What is?" Henare was having trouble following the story.
"Are ye not listening? I've got the logbook. The old barque
‘Corinth’. It was a dark and stormy night...she's running afore the wind! She tries to sail the gap between Motutapu and Rangitoto...crunch! Rips her guts out...men flying everywhere. Cargo bursts into the sea. Aha! But not all of it! Great Grandma was there. Hauled 'em out of the water. Fixed up their broken bones. Kennedy's come over from Motutapu and take 'em in. Feed 'em and take 'em to Auckland. Hah!"
"Wow!"
"Heh heh. But you're not telling me that Great Grandma didn't stash away more than one old musket! She got a whole box full! And Harold, eh, what do you think, boy?"
"Harold?"
"Me great grandad! He never left the island, boy! She saved his life and he stayed put."
"Wow. So they got married."
"Yair. Yair, more or less." Old Jack suddenly reached out a gnarled hand and gripped Henare's shoulder. "So what d'you reckon lad? Did they stash away the loot? Eh? Eh?"
"Aw yeah! They would have grabbed tons of stuff!"
The old man giggled. "Tons and tons! And a whole box of valuable muskets! It's all there out there on Rangitoto Island!"
They stopped for a cup of tea, which the old man brewed up on a gas ring in the galley of the sloping boat. It was far too sweet. The old man had just poured sugar straight from the packet until the liquid slopped over the edge. Henare's mother never even let him have sugar in his tea, it was bad for the teeth, the complexion, and the brain. But he needed sugar now because he was already exhausted.
It wouldn't have mattered if they'd been making good progress, but they weren't. Old Jack didn't seem to be able to scrape and talk at the same time and there was no way he would ever stop talking. In a few more hours the incoming tide would make the work impossible. What they needed was extra help, like maybe the guys. He bet Zane would be a starter, and Evan. Of course Philip would find some fabulous excuse to avoid the possibility of raising a bead of sweat.
He told Jack that he was going to get help and don't worry because he wouldn't be long. See that junky house up on the cliff? That was Evan's place. And there's a phonebox along the road, I'll ring Zane and Philip. He was babbling on because he could tell by Jack's hangdog face that he didn't believe him.
"I'll only be half an hour, honest."
The old man gave a racking cough and beat his heart back into action. "No, no, you go off, son, old Jack will just keep sweating it out, hour after hour, scraping scraping scraping; never you mind me, boy."
*
Zane scraped. Henare scraped. Philip scraped. Even Evan gave it a go. Old Jack splashed around in the deepening water and pointed out bits that they were missing. Philip had already cut his knuckles on a barnacle and they shouldn't laugh because there are all sorts of diseases on old junk heaps like this, and they might be infectious, so you'd better watch out. He was already feeling dizzy and if he did get sick he'd cough germs all over them, because there was no way he was going to die without lots of other people dying as well.
"I like to see people with ambition," said Zane. "You'll probably be an axe murderer when you grow up."
Philip paused. He still owed two particular guys, two evil specimens of humanity, two pustulent scumbags...in other words Martin Bone and Spike...he still owed them for throwing his bike into the sea that time. They'd be lying in bed one night and the door would creak open. Creeeeak. Footsteps approaching. The flash of moonlight on the raised axe...chop! Chop chop chop!
"Not like that, boy!" Old Jack grabbed his wrist and shook the scraper loose. "You'll chew the timber up. Some of this timber is 150 years old! What do you think of that? Eh?"
Philip wrenched his wrist free. "Is that all? I thought it was about a million."
They stopped when the water rose above their ankles and took positions at each end of the support cradle. When the tide rose high enough to float the Te Pu, they'd have to haul the support out and stow it on deck.
Jack gave them a cup of sweet tea each while they were waiting. Evan thought he could see the flash of binoculars from up by his house and waved. His father would like that. Zane exchanged a look with Henare. Evan had a funny home life. He was sort of the bad boy of the district, because he was a bit light-fingered and stole everyone's fruit, then sold it up at St Lukes shopping centre. Zane reckoned that was hardly the crime of the century. Still, if you lived in a ramshackle house without a phone or a car, and you only had a black and white TV and your father was an old hippie, well it was bound to make you a bit different.
The water rose above their knees and the Te Pu jerked. Zane tugged at the support and felt it shift.
"Not yet, boy. Let her float by herself."
Philip snorted. "I'll be drowned by then."
"It's floating," said Henare. "Our end's free, Zane."
They gently pushed the hull away as it bumped, then bobbed free in the rising tide. Evan gave a mighty tug at his end and Philip slipped over. He wasn't happy about it.
"You tried to drown me! He tried to drown me! My aunts will kill me! Look at that, I'm soaking! Aw come on, you guys, that's not funny! I can't even swim!"
They climbed aboard and Old Jack wrapped a grey blanket around Philip. It stank of mildew and grease, but it was either that or freeze to death.
"I think I'd rather freeze."
"It's the middle of summer, dozy," said Zane.
Old Jack snorted. "When I was a lad we ran naked through the snow, and it didn't worry us, no sirree."
They all looked at him.
"Where was this, then?" asked Evan. "We don't have snow in Auckland."
"Eh? The Horn, son. Around the Horn. The waves crashing and tossing us like a pea in a bucket of soup. Spears of ice lashed through the rigging and tore our fingers to the bone. I was up in the mast as we rolled, up, then down down into the heaving green cauldron. ‘Cap'n!’ they cried. ‘Cap'n, we're lost, we're doomed!’ ‘Avast there ye craven mongrels!’ I roared. ‘Heave away, haul away, lash the wheel and man the pumps!’"
Philip sneezed.
"You don't believe me, son? Arrh, you youngsters. At your age I was fighting the enemy and harpooning whales. 'Thar she blows!' Yair...Captain Jack. Commanding officer." He staggered to his feet and saluted. "Captain Jack, Royal NZ Navy. VC. At your service".
Zane grinned. Evan was pulling a face behind Old Jack's back and even Henare was smiling. Philip snorted. "We didn't have sailing ships during the war! I bet you never sailed around the Horn either. What was the name of your ship? Go on."
"Eh? You wouldn't have heard of it, boy. It was...it was a secret armed raider." His watery eyes scanned the horizon and settled on a distant point, a point not too distant from Motutapu Island, noted Zane. "It was the Motutapu. Yair, the old Motu we called her. You won't find it in the history books of course."
Henare poked Philip in the ribs. "It was a spy ship wasn't it, Captain Jack?"
"Yair. A spy ship. That's right. Smart lad."
"Speaking of spy ships," said Evan, "here come the magnificent Sea Rangers."
They all turned to see a hideous yellow sailing boat come round the reef and tack towards them. Even from this distance Zane could see the bright green uniforms and the ridiculous pointed hats. The boat was an old seventeen foot navy cutter like the ones the Naval Cadets sailed from T.S. Achilles out of Okahu Bay. Of course the Navy would never paint one of their cutters that obscene colour.
The boat started to gybe then was suddenly taken aback. The main sheet blew out and the boom swung wildly across. Zane could see figures leaping about in panic and thought he recognized the distinctive pear shape of Steven Frate. He stood up to get a better look.
Yep, Fruity himself. He could almost hear him blowing his stupid whistle and screaming out orders. There was his beanpole father waving windmill arms. How could a guy who looked like a banana have a son who looked like a pear? There was a girl with them as well and hey, there was Martin Bone and dozy Spike. He grinned. Martin and Spike were reluctant Sea Rangers. Rumour had it that the cops had put the hard word on the parents and now the two guys had to dress up in funny uniforms and learn to be responsible citizens. Fancy having to obey Steven Frate's nerdy father for the whole summer.
He watched as the cutter slid smoothly up to the reef and grounded gently. The Sea Rangers hopped out and lined up on parade, Steven Frate at one end and the tall Spike at the other. He grinned even wider. Any guy with soul had a sacred duty to go over and gloat at them.
3
Zane was regretting his urge to gloat. Jack's feeble little dinghy had only been big enough for two people, especially when one of them was Philip. He heaved on the oars and managed to plough through another metre of pure mud, but that was as far as they were going to get. He looked back to the Te Pu, only forty metres away, and saw the lazy sods grinning at him. So did Philip. "What are you you guys laughing at? I don't mind getting my feet wet for a good cause!"
He scrambled out of the dinghy and sank to his thighs in mud. Immediately the dinghy bobbed free and Zane was able to get closer to the reef. He climbed out onto a rock and tied the painter to a mangrove tree. Philip had waded about one metre closer. "Hey wait for me, Zane!"
Zane picked his way over rocks and scrambled onto the grass bank which separated the farmland from the reef proper. It wasn't really a farm; the first few hundred metres of the original reef had once been used as a rubbish dump and now provided grazing grass for a dozen cows. A rough stone road looped up one side and down the other. There was a solitary picnic table for the few members of the public who strayed this far, but that was okay with Zane, it was only the reef that he considered should be off limits to everyone. Everyone else, that is.
The Sea Rangers were now shuffling their way back to the cutter dragging sacks of cans, bottles, jandals, deflated beachballs and chunks of rotten sponge. It always amazed Zane how much rubbish accumulated on the reef, mostly the product of storms and unthinking boaties. He was secretly pleased that the Sea Rangers were cleaning up, but that still wasn't going to stop him from stirring them a bit. They deserved all the scorn and mockery they could get.
The reef was slowly disappearing under the rising tide and the cutter tugged against its tethering rope. Zane could hear Philip gasping his way closer, but he kept his eyes on the reef. It always fascinated him to see it rise and sink like a living creature. He breathed deep. It was a great reef. You wouldn't expect to have something as decent as this in the middle of a major city. The experts reckoned it had been formed from a lava flow thousands of years ago, and if you looked back you could see the route it must have travelled: past the Zoo carpark; through Western Springs College; over the Keith Park memorial airfield; right through to where he was standing.
He watched as the mangrove roots sank below the surface. Hundreds of breathing tubes dipped, then disappeared. Down there, crawling over the submerged reef, were snails and worms, barnacles and crabs, oysters and mussels, and all the fish that swam in to get a decent feed. Then the birds would come and get their bit; herons, oyster catchers, pied stilts and shags.
Philip scrambled down the bank and picked his way over the partly submerged rocks. Martin Bone and Spike had their backs to him.
"Hey Bonehead! Guess what? You missed a bit, ha ha ha." Philip pointed to an empty cigarette packet. "You better pick it up or I'll tell on you!"
Martin Bone swung around and scowled. "What are you doing here, Fatso?" He suddenly grinned. "Hey Spike, I just found another bit of rubbish. Give us a hand to shove it in me bag."
Spike looked stupidly around then his face brightened. "Yeah I see it." He bent down to pick up the cigarette packet and Martin punched him on the arm. "Don't be stupid, you idiot." He pointed to Philip.
"That's the rubbish there."
"Aw yeah, good one! A big fat bit of rubbish."
Philip squealed. "Get away! What are you doing? Zane! Zane! Mister Frate! Help!"
Zane sighed. Philip was an idiot. Martin Bone was pretty big but Spike was a monster. Philip just never knew where to draw the line and it would almost serve him right to learn a lesson for once. He looked around for help and saw Steven Frate approaching at speed.
"Hey you guys, stop it at once!" Steven fumbled into his top pocket and withdrew a whistle. Zane and Martin Bone exchanged a rare look of shared understanding, then both flinched as a hideous shriek pierced the air. There was an answering response from further down the reef and they all swung around to see the praying mantis-like approach of Steven's father. A tall skinny girl followed in his wake.
"See? Now you're in trouble, Zane." Steven stood with his hands on hips and glared righteously.
"Me? I'm just here minding my own business."
"I bet. You're always causing trouble...and you, Philip."
Philip snorted and ripped himself free from Spike's headlock. "Bulldust!"
"You watch your language, Philip, there's a lady present."
"What?" Philip looked around and saw the girl about a hundred metres away. "What are you talking about?"
"You Sea Rangers don't own the reef you know," said Zane.
Steven raised his lecturing finger. "It's all very well to be a smartypants, Zane, but we're helping the community."
Zane raised a fist high. "Hurray for the Sea Rangers."
"Ha ha ha. One day you'll see the error of your ways. My father says ‘be it on your own head’ so there!"
"What? Are you going to give me a hat? A Sea Ranger hat! Wow! I always wanted one of those so I could have a pointy head too."
Mister Frate bounded up and laid a fatherly hand on Steven's shoulder. "You'd be better employed elsewhere, young Zane, we're racing against time here. Time and tide wait for no man. Those who can't help, only hinder." He ignored Zane's look of disbelief and clapped his hands loudly. "One last scout around for rubbish... Martin, there's a cigarette packet by your foot. Gloria, there's a rusty can to your left."
He stood back and beamed as the Sea Rangers poked and prodded in the widening pools of water. Zane suddenly noticed that his feet were wet and he started back towards the grass bank. Philip was still snorting against the injustice of life, in particular the fact that he was now being ignored. Zane found a decent sized shell and hurled it at him.
"Ow! Who did that? Was that you, Fruity?"
Steven Frate didn't hear him because he was too engrossed in showing the girl where all the best bits of rubbish were. Zane was struck by how much the guy walked like a goose. A pear-shaped goose. He couldn't help grinning to himself. It had to be true about Martin Bone and Spike. They wouldn't take orders from the Frate family unless the alternative was worse. The police must have put the fear of death into them. Mind you, so they should, those two guys were always hassling everyone, especially at school.
He felt more sorry for the girl. He vaguely remembered that she was supposed to be some sort of cousin up from the South Island; a very distant cousin seeing as she was good-looking in a brown eyed, brown haired sort of way while the Frates were all freckly white types. She probably came from a farm or something and spent most of her time down there milking cows and shearing sheep.
Zane suddenly realized he was staring a bit rudely. He shifted his gaze back to Steven and recoiled. What was wrong with him? Something was wrong with Steven! Eyes shouldn't bulge that far out of their sockets. A nose shouldn't be able to flare that much. A horrible thought struck him...aw no, it couldn't be. The girl. Girls. Not Steven? Impossible!
Steven Frate was in love!
*
Henare was taller, so he stood ankle deep and reached up. Evan gently lowered the table down.
"Watch the leg! Watch the leg!" Captain Jack's head loomed above Henare like a huge hairy moon. The table span, then bumped. Henare lunged up and gripped one leg, then two. "Got it! Let her go!"
He hugged the table to his chest and staggered to shore. He could hear Evan splashing to catch up, and further back he could hear Jack cursing and stomping in pursuit. His feet sank. Thick, glutinous mud. He pulled one foot free. Squelch. Then the other. The shore was thirty metres away, but it was like forever. His arms burned with pain. Sweat was running down his face. He could do it. Dig deep inside, he told himself. You're locking the scrum against the Aussie pack.
Evan took the other end and they scrambled onto the sand. Jack was still stumbling along, every now and again stopping to shake his fist at some injustice. Birds, mud, the government, the price of tobacco. He finally puffed ashore and sank down.
"Phoo. She's getting tougher, boys. I've got me own little pier at Rangi. Just jump off, I do. Tie her up, up the steps and home. What do you think, eh? Like to come visit some day?"
Evan was quick. "No thanks."
"I'd like to, very much." Henare knew his parents would never let him go, of course. If they even knew he was spending time with such a weird old bloke he'd be in trouble. Especially his mother. She had his life mapped out for him. It was like one of those old explorer maps, with illustrations of sea monsters and blank spaces. Don't go there, we don't know what's lying in wait. Don't get close to the sea monsters, they'll destroy you. He looked at Captain Jack, who was now puffing on an untidy cigarillo. He'd rate as a sea monster in his mother's eyes.
Jack coughed and spat. "Now this table here is an antique. Yup. How old do you think, eh? Give us a guess."
Evan grinned. He knew. Henare screwed up his face. "I'd say at least a hundred years old."
"You would? Heh heh heh." Jack was delighted. "You would eh? You'd pay good money for an antique like that eh?"
"If I was rich."
"Good boy. What about you, son?" Jack eyed Evan carefully.
"I'd give you about five bucks."
The captain laughed. Henare spluttered. "Aw c'mon Evan! That's an antique coffee table. You can tell it's old and valuable because it's a bit wonky and scratched."
"Yeah," said Evan, "and it's stained a lovely old tea colour."
"Yes that's right." Henare looked at the table, then back at the smiling faces. Tea colour?
Jack suddenly cackled, then coughed and spat. "Tea, boy! I dye it with tea leaves! I made this meself for Rosie. But don't you go telling, mind."
Henare was shocked. A fake antique? It was against the law, surely. His mother was a lawyer and if she ever found out...
"Don't look so fish-faced, son. The customer's think they're getting a bargain. They think they're ripping Rosie off. It's just business, lad."
4
Steven Frate was feeling strange. The cutter was locked away in the boatshed; the rubbish had all been transferred to shore; and his father was at this very moment fulfilling certain official obligations by dropping Martin Bone and Spike back to their homes. Gloria had hopped aboard her bicycle and pedalled off with an imperious wave, her long raven hair blowing free in the wind.
O glorious wind,
O glorious day,
Gloria, Gloria,
Why didn't you stay?
He'd asked his father if he could walk home.
"Are you all right, Steven?"
"I'm all right, Dad."
They'd exchanged a look of deep significance, and his father had reached out to adjust Steven's hat. "I just want to walk for a bit, Dad. It's a good opportunity to inspect the bird life on the mudflats."
"Ah." Mr Frate had felt his heart pump with pride. If only the other Sea Rangers were as committed as his son. Young Bone and Spike had been discovered throwing stones at the pied stilt! "Well mind you look both ways when crossing the road."
"I will, Dad."
Steven shivered. He had been dangerously close to telling a lie. What was happening to him? Is this what happened to Romeo under the balcony? O Gloria, Gloria, wherefore art thou, Gloria?
He was a rotten poet. All Gloria could see was his tough outer shell. If she knew what a sensitive guy he was inside she'd smile at him a lot more. Even once would be nice. Everybody knew that girls liked poetry. They were romantic creatures. His Dad had wooed his mum with romantic poetry. Under the full moon, in June. Noon. Poon. Spoon. Under the silver moon in June with my spoon, I croon a tune...quite soon.
It was hopeless.
Two bike riders flew by on the road above and he looked back to see Zane and Philip waving rudely at him. How childish. He shook his head. Those poor guys didn't know what they were missing. If they had joined the Sea Rangers they could have come on the camp. What an expedition that would be! They'd be sailing across to Motutapu Island...in their own boat! Then two nights sleeping in log cabins, and maybe a camp fire, and then superb nature walks amongst native bush and fauna. He hugged himself. And Gloria was coming too!
"Hello Steven."
"Heh? Henare. What are you doing?"
"Nothing much."
Steven narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing with that table? You haven't stolen it have you?"
"Of course not!"
"I'm going to ask your mother!"
Henare cursed to himself. He'd volunteered to wait beside the road with the table while Zane went and got his unsuspecting father to come and help. He wished he hadn't offered now, because it was getting late and his mother would want to know where he'd been and what had he been doing, and if he tried to explain she'd give him one of her long lectures. Basically he'd decided to skip all that by telling a small, insignificant lie. Now Steven would wreck even that possibility.
He decided to attack. "What are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be picking up rubbish on Meola reef?"
Steven sniffed. "We've already done that. Anyway we're not supposed to do anything...it's all voluntary. I only do it out of a sense of social responsibility."
"Is that why you're going to dob me in?"
"Eh?" Steven hadn't thought about it. "I suppose so."
"No wonder you don't have any friends."
"I do so. What about the Sea Rangers? We're all friends."
"What, Martin Bone and Spike? You must be joking."
"There's good in everybody. Everybody has a special talent."
He suddenly paused. Henare had a talent, too. The teacher had said so. He could write poetry!
"Henare...?"
"Yeah?"
Steven took a deep breath, then threw his arms wide.
"G is for girl, for that's what you are
L is for lovely, like a big shiny star
O is for orange which is better by far
than rotten old fruit which begins with an
R
I is for iris which you have in your eye, and
A is for all of the air in the sky."
Henare looked at him and licked his lips. Zane reckoned all the Frates were nutcases and it was best to steer well clear of them. Was Steven frothing at the mouth?
"Well? Was it any good?"
"What?"
"My poem! Was it a good poem? Was it romantic?"
Henare breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, very romantic. What was it again? 'O is for orange which is better by far, than rotten old fruit which begins with an R'. Is it Shakespeare?"
"Don't be stupid...it's me!"
My God, thought Henare. Steven Frate is in love!
*
Zane felt guilty putting the hard word on his father, especially since the poor bloke had been happily reading one of his stamp history books.
"Hey Dad, that look pretty interesting. The old Penny Black eh? Worth a few bob they reckon."
"Heh? Indeed it is. Why, a Penny Black in mint condition is worth hundreds of thousands, and even the Twopenny Grey is worth a substantial sum...."
"Hang on...leave the cat alone, Philip!"
"I was just weighing it, that's all. Anyway I'm going home."
Zane grabbed the cat and waited until Philip had left, then turned back to his father. "The old Twopenny Blue eh Dad? Have you got one?" He made a feeble pretence of looking enthusiastic.
"Twopenny Grey, Zane. We call it the 'Tuppenny Grey' at the philatelist club." He smiled sadly. "No-one has one of those, Zane, not in New Zealand. Oh they all laugh at me, but one day...."
"Yeah, you show 'em, Dad." He paused for a decent interval as his father drifted into a reverie of wishful thinking.
"Hey Dad, you wouldn't mind helping an old bloke carry a table up to Rosie's would you?"
"Heh?"
"Thanks Dad. Oh, by the way, we sort of need the car."
*
They parked in Rosie's carpark, next to the red BMW, and it wasn't a minute too soon for Zane. Old Jack had spruced himself up a bit but there was no getting around the fact that although the old man was bearable in the middle of a sea breeze, he was ripe company in the close confinement of a car. No wonder Henare had refused to come with them, thought Zane. He leapt out nimbly and opened the hatchback, sucking in great draughts of clean, odourless air. He and his father took a table end each while Jack staggered ahead of them to open the shop door.
"Turn it round, Dad! The other way. The other way!"
Simple rules of physics. An apple falls on your head. A ball bounces. A stone skips on water. The narrowest part of a table is easiest to get through a door. Zane was still muttering stuff like that when he struggled into the shop and set down his end. Two wild buffalos were wrestling to the death.
He blinked. No, it was Captain Jack and Rosie embracing each other. Well, he would make no comment. Live and let live was his motto. If only his father wasn't standing there like a pop-eyed twit.
"Dad," he hissed. "Dad."
"Eh? Amazing, Zane. Absolutely amazing!"
"Da-ad." Had the guy no tact? Rosie and Jack stepped back from each other and giggled. Childish giggles.
"You're looking as lovely as ever, Rosie."
"Oh get on with you, you old devil. Where have you been? You promised to come and see me a month ago."
“Headwinds, my love. The tide was against me. Many times I set out and was beaten back by the cruel elements."
"Get away with you, you old fool, you can catch the ferry."
"What? And leave the Te Pu? She'd never forgive me."
"Amazing!" repeated Zane's father. He was wandering around the shop, sticking his nose into nooks and crannies and peering into dark corners. "Amazing. A cornucopia of delights!"
"I'm glad you like it, dear. I don't know what half the things are myself!" Rosie beamed proudly around. Old Jack suddenly coughed harshly and slumped onto an old oak chest.
"Are you all right, Captain Jack?" Zane gingerly approached and stood close. If it came to the crunch he was going to steel himself to pat the old guy on the back. "I'll be right, son. Just need a ciggy to clear the tubes."
"Not in my shop, Jack. You can go outside if you want to smoke your smelly tobacco." She looked at Zane's father, who was excitedly flicking through a dusty old album. "I don't mind ordinary cigarette smoke, but Jack's tobacco is something else entirely."
There was noise overhead, then a clatter of heavy boots thundering down a set of stairs. All eyes looked to the back of the room to where a floral curtain separated Rosie's living quarters from the shop. Susan entered with a stuffed fish.
"Goodness me, what a surprise. Father what do you think of this fish? Is it a shark?"
"Eh? Susy. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be...somewhere else?"
"I can't be in two places at once, Father. Hello little brother."
"What's the fish for?" Zane walked over and poked it.
"Do not poke my fish."
"I wasn't."
"Did you hear that everybody? He lied. He lies about everything. He is not to be trusted."
Rosie pulled the curtain back to reveal a small kitchen. "Can I get anyone a cup of tea? Jack?"
"Thanks Rosie." He was looking at Susy with some curiosity, noticed Zane. Probably because she was wearing the possum hat. Could he get away with introducing her as a distant cousin?
"Captain Jack, this is my mumble mumble."
Susy pointed a threatening finger. "Speak clearly boy. He means that I am his older, respected sister. He is of little consequence and should have been left on an exposed mountain top for the wolves to consume. However my parents rarely take my advice." She stepped closer to Jack and showed him the stuffed fish. "I take it that you are a salty sea dog and will identify this species of shark for me."
"Not a shark, young miss. Just a big snapper."
"Are you certain?"
"Yair, I'm certain."
"Well. I'm disappointed. Father, what is so interesting about that book?"
"It's marvellous, Susy. Look at this: it's a single face Victoria with the comma imperfection! Very exciting!"
Zane and Susy peered over his shoulder. A boring old stamp looked back at them. They exchanged a look.
"That's pretty good, Dad," said Zane. "Is it worth much?"
"Yes indeed. I'm missing this one. Pity it's not mint, but...yes, quite valuable."
Rosie bustled in and looked at Susy. Zane caught an undercurrent of excitement. Was this big bikkies? Were they talking millions of dollars?
"How much, Father?"
"Well, it's hard to say."
"Father."
"I'd say...this is just an estimate mind you...taken together...the whole album..." He turned a few pages and drifted into one of his reveries.
"Father...are the stamps worth twenty thousand dollars?"
Zane was flung back as Jack thundered across and plunged his head into the book. "Twenty thousand smackeroos? For a couple of stamps?"
"Oh much more," said Zane's father. "Why, some Penny Blacks are worth hundreds of thousands and even the Twopenny Grey is worth a substantial sum...."
Rosie clung to Susy and sagged. She put a hand to her chest and closed her eyes. "I could buy my lease out. Oh Susan."
"...the 'Tuppenny Grey' we call it in the club. I'm convinced there are more to be found, oh they all laugh at me but one day I...."
This was the real stuff! Zane elbowed Jack aside and double-checked the stamp. "So how much is it worth, Dad? The old Queen with the dent in her head?"
"Eh? I'd say hundreds. Of course the Tuppenny Grey is my personal favourite..."
They all looked at each other. Jack flung Zane aside and coughed harshly. "Hundreds of thousands, laddie?"
Zane's father chuckled. "No no. Hundreds of dollars. Quite valuable, indeed. I'd say you'd get four or five hundred dollars for the whole album." He turned and smiled openly. "I bet that's good news, Rosie."
5
Philip had temporarily given up on the idea of a cat. Perhaps it was all to the good; he wouldn't need to provide food or water, nor a restraining harness.
There was a good view from the top of Mt Eden. He'd pushed his bike all the way up and was now waiting for his heart to slow down from two million beats a second...and he was also waiting for the Japanese tourists to go. Lots of them had already taken pictures of him. They had a fantastic 360 degree view of Auckland at their feet, but for some reason they seemed to find him fascinating; anyone would think they'd never seen a scientist at work before.
He took the wicker basket off his head and attached it to the un-inflated balloon. Metallic silver...what a beauty! He double checked the batteries in the remote and extended the aerial. All systems go. A thousand metres of extra strength fishing line...a whole kilometre high! He looked surreptitiously around. This next bit was secret.
Fortunately the Japanese suddenly wheeled as one and climbed aboard their bus. A few cars were parked nearby and a jogger and his dog thundered past him. Yuk! Was that a dollop of sweat that had flicked into his mouth? Disgusting! He scrubbed hard with his fist and shuddered with revulsion. Joggers were a menace and should be banned.
He wheeled his bike along the path to the concrete communications hut and heaved it up onto the viewing deck. People would say "why don't you just tie the line to your bike?" or "why don't you just let the balloon go from ground level?" No one had actually said that, but if they did he had a good reply: "Because of scientific reasons, dozo!"
Obviously he wanted as much height as possible, so he'd climbed the biggest hill around. It was a volcano, too, like all the other hills of Auckland, and that would add a dramatic flavour when the experiment was reported in the international press.
And only an idiot would suggest tying the line directly to the bike. They didn't realize how powerful this balloon was going to be when fully inflated. He unstrapped the helium canister and fitted the nozzle. He was going to tie the line to the metal guard rail because there was no holding back on this...he was going to give it the full canister! It would probably generate an enormous lift powerful enough to carry his bike high over Auckland and maybe into the stratosphere.