Shifting Currents

Joanna Orwin

A NOVEL

Published by Joanna Orwin

First published 2020

Copyright © Joanna Orwin 2020

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a

retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both

the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

ISBN 978-0-473-51924-7

Cover photo credits: Water image by Keith Camilleri on Unsplash, Tree image by Arın Turkay on Pexels

Edited by Gillian Tewsley

Designed by Smartwork Creative, www.smartworkcreative.co.nzPrinted by Choice Printing Inc, Taipei, Taiwan

In memory of the staunch women pioneers

of the Northern Wairoa, Kaipara

7

Auckland 1884

Hannah Noakes stared dry-eyed at her mother-in-law’s coffin, glad of the full veil that hid her lingering anger. Ostentatious, all that mahogany and brass under the

coffin’s covering of black crepe, and the six pallbearers had strug-gled with its weight. Arthur now came to sit beside her, encased in his rarely worn serge suit and stiff collar. She could smell the sweat of exertion coming off him, mingled with the camphor of mothballs. She held her husband’s hand, ignoring the damp heat that transferred through the fabric of their gloves.

As the minister began his introductory words, Hannah transferred her attention from Eliza’s coffin to the floral arrangements that flanked the carved choir stalls in front of her. They must have cost a fortune. White roses, carnations and lilies massed in two large urns, their cloying scent filled even this big church, already made airless by Auckland’s sum-mer heat. St Paul’s, the grandest church in the city, was packed with mourners. As for that cortege — half a dozen carriages as

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well as the hearse with its two matched black horses, black ostrich plumes and all. The people who had stopped out of respect to watch them pass by would have assumed this was the funeral of some important dignitary.

Such a conspicuous display was not her father-in-law’s style. Like his oldest son, Joseph Noakes was a simple plain man. Perhaps Eliza had left detailed instructions for her funeral — not that she could have anticipated death would take her so soon, or so abruptly. It was barely three weeks since she had accosted Hannah at her own mother’s funeral, the jet ornaments on her oversized hat jiggling and her sharp eyes agleam.

While the minister droned on, Hannah’s thoughts shifted from that unsettling encounter to her mother and her less dra-matic death. Lydia Boulcott had left this life in the manner in which she had lived it, not once complaining during the long months of pain. Hannah had never found her mother easy. A woman of few words, she had been intensely private. Hannah had hoped that approaching her last days might encourage Lydia to tell her about the father she had never known, yet whenever she tried raising the subject, her mother had imme-diately put up barriers.

Hannah’s visits usually slid into awkward silences, the time dragging until she could mutter an excuse and make her escape. Yet Eliza could sit by Lydia’s bedside and talk all day, scarce a breath drawn to interrupt the flow. Often Hannah arrived to hear her mother-in-law’s voice, interspersed with her uninhibited laughter. Lydia would be lying propped on her pillows, her gaunt face flushed, her eyes bright. Other times, Eliza stopped talking as soon as she heard Hannah’s footsteps, and she would be greeted by innocent gazes. Although she had been grateful for Eliza’s insistence that Lydia spend her

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last months in her big comfortable house, Hannah had found it hard not to resent their easy intimate companionship. They had not always been such friends.

At the interminable reception at the Noakes’s town house that followed Eliza’s funeral, Hannah’s brother appeared at her elbow. George had also been a pallbearer, since he had married one of Eliza’s daughters. They had always laughed about that, the two couples sharing mothers-in-law. ‘How are ye bearing up, lass?’

Hannah ignored his concern. ‘What do you know about my father?’

‘What sort o’ question is that?’ George was feigning innocence.

‘Don’t mess me about,’ she said, not hiding her impatience. ‘I worked out years ago I was illegitimate.’

Unable to hide his shock that she could mention such a stigma so bluntly, he stuttered, ‘Is this the time or place?’

Those were Eliza’s very words after Lydia’s funeral. Drawing Hannah aside, her voice reduced to a confiding mur-mur, that unsettling gleam in her eyes, Eliza had said, ‘Now that poor dear Lydia has left us, ‘tis time ye learned more about her past.’ She patted Hannah’s shoulder. ‘Not now, and not here. This ain’t the time or place.’

Struggling to restrain her anger at Eliza’s presumption, and hurt that her mother must have confided in her, Hannah had avoided any occasion where her mother-in-law could divulge what she knew. By the time her need to learn about her father overcame any sense that she should respect Lydia’s deter-mination to keep his identity hidden, it was too late. Before she could talk to Eliza, her mother-in-law had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Now, her arms folded tightly across her chest, Hannah said

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to George, ‘I can’t think of a better time or place.’‘We can’t talk here.’ George glanced around the crowded

parlour. When Hannah’s stare remained implacable, he sighed. ‘Verra well. Let’s go outside.’

As soon as they found a seat in the small garden, crim-son petals from Eliza’s favourite rose drifting around them, George reminded Hannah that he and his brother had been young lads when she was born. ‘I canna tell ye much. Nowt beyond us not having the same da. Couldn’t have. It were four year since his accident, four year since he died.’

‘You must’ve wondered.’ Hannah was far from convinced that George was telling the truth. ‘Didn’t Mother ever let any-thing slip?’

‘Ye well know what she were like. Never said owt if she could help it. Besides, we were far too young to question her.’ He shrugged. ‘I just accepted ye. Our bonnie wee sister.’

She should have known George would have nothing use-ful to tell her. Hannah’s eyes filled with tears that she brushed away with an impatient hand.

‘Since Ma never told ye, mebbe ye should accept that were what she wanted?’ George pulled her to her feet. ‘Let it lie, lass. ’Tis all such a long time ago.’

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Chapter 1

The morning of their departure was overcast, the sky swollen with rain. Lydia ignored the grey sea that tongued the mud at her feet, depositing blobs of spume

larded with filth tossed overboard from the ships anchored in Commercial Bay. She was staring aghast at the ridiculously small boat her new husband had hired to take them from Auckland to the head of the harbour.

When she failed to hide her dismay, Thomas Boulcott was dismissive. ‘Can’t argue with the price,’ he said, not meeting her eye. ‘Cheap enough at one pound.’

Lydia had already experienced his meanness with money. She had not expected an extravagant wedding, yet the occasion had been anything but celebratory. Her ex-employer opted for a brisk civil ceremony in front of a bored registrar, witnessed by two Irish layabouts enticed off Queen Street for the paltry price of a tankard of ale apiece. Afterwards, he had ushered her into the nearby tea rooms for a lukewarm cup of tea and an iced bun.

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Her misgivings about the size of the hired boat grew as her two lads, George and James, loaded their belongings. Where was the room for passengers? Watching anxiously as George carried five-year-old Hannah out to the boat, she could not help calling out, ‘Mind ye dinna drop her!’

‘No need to make such a fuss.’ Boulcott gave her an exas-perated look. ‘What’s the worst harm the child could come to? A wetting — nothing more.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia murmured, her head bent.When he did not respond, she risked a sideways glance

at him. He was holding himself rigidly erect at a careful dis-tance from her. While she herself was tall, she only came to Boulcott’s shoulder. All she could see past the jut of his neatly trimmed black beard was part of a furrowed brow and the corner of his thin colourless lip, downturned and set hard. He was scowling in Hannah’s direction. She said again, louder, ‘I am sorry. I assumed ye knew.’

Since that was an out-and-out lie, she crossed her fin-gers in the folds of her skirt and asked God’s forgiveness. When Boulcott had proposed, just three weeks before, he had not been aware that she had the encumbrance of a wee bairn as well as the two grown lads he could employ. On the days Lydia Phipps had worked as his housekeeper, her land-lady had looked after Hannah. Then she had died, and they were about to be evicted from the cottage they had shared. Relieved by Boulcott’s offer of a secure future, a desperate Lydia had risked not telling him about Hannah until after their marriage agreement had been settled. She had been a fool to think he would soon forgive her deception.

‘You should have told me.’ Neither his voice nor his stance softened.

Boulcott had no idea how much more Lydia had hidden

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from him. She suppressed her growing fear of how he might react if he ever discovered the truth about Hannah’s origins. It was too late for second thoughts. All she could do now was not vex him further. So she said nothing more, and held her breath until Hannah was safely perched on top of the tin trunk in the bow and packed around with bundles, her wee face alight with excitement.

When it was Lydia’s turn to board the boat, she had to wade. She squelched through the mud and into the scum-laden water, her skirts indecorously bundled in a vain attempt to keep them clean and dry. Boulcott made no attempt to help her.

‘Here, missus, let me give ye a hand.’ Doyle, the boatman, was holding the bobbing boat steady, salt-stained duck trou-sers rolled to his knees, immodest chest hair curling in the open front of his shirt. When he leered suggestively at her, then was over-solicitous in helping her aboard, Lydia barely restrained herself from slapping his impertinent hand away from her buttocks.

Once Boulcott and her sons had also clambered aboard, then the boatman, the sea lipped ominously close to the gunwales. Without so much as a smile, Doyle handed her a battered billy and nodded at the water already sloshing over the gratings beneath her feet. ‘You’ll need to bail, missus.’

The agreed fare required George and James to man one set of oars and Boulcott to join Doyle on the other. After some initial awkwardness, they found their rhythm and settled to steady pulling. Lydia stared back at the thicket of masts where ships crowded the waterfront and the wooden build-ings that striped the hills beyond, watching them all merge into a patchwork of browns and greys. All too soon, even the spire of newly built St Paul’s, where she had foolishly dreamt

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of being wed, disappeared from view. There were no further signs of civilisation. They were alone on the upper harbour, dependent on this inadequate boat and its uncouth boatman.

With a strong headwind, they were forced to hug the shore. Despite their efforts, progress was slow. When they pulled into a beach at midday, Doyle said they were only halfway. He boiled a billy of tea — the bailer serving a dual purpose — then handed them stale bread thinly spread with plum jam; the ‘meal’ provided in the price Boulcott had bargained for their passage.

‘Tide’ll soon be on the turn.’ Almost before Lydia had time to choke down the last unappetising mouthful, the boatman was hastening them back on board.

Doyle had no need to spell out the greater difficulty once both wind and tide were against them. An hour of slack water helped, then the wind eased. Perhaps the better con-ditions and the narrowing inlet made them careless. After rounding the next headland, the boat hit cross-waves at the worst possible angle. It lurched onto its side. Water flooded over the gunwale. Quick to react, Doyle steered the swamped boat into nearby shallows. ‘Everyone out!’

While the men and her lads emptied the worst of the water, Lydia waited, wet to the skin. She clutched an equally soaked Hannah close to her breast. The poor bairn was gulping back tears, the scatter of freckles across her nose standing out against a face bleached with fright, so Lydia smoothed the strands of wet hair off her forehead then kissed her cheek. ‘Wheest now, lass. No need to greet so. We’ve come to no harm.’

Once they were again on their way, Lydia took back the billy and bailed automatically. Despite her calming words to Hannah, she was numbed by their narrow escape. It almost

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came as a surprise when they at last turned towards the shore. By then they had been on the water for six solid hours.

‘Here ye are then!’ With a flourish that suggested he might have had his own doubts about reaching their destination, Doyle added, ‘This is Riverhead!’

Lydia stumbled through ankle-deep water to the landing place, too stiff and weary to bother hitching up her satu-rated skirts. The place scarcely warranted a name. The only evidence of its purpose was a few tent sites cleared from the bush, a roughly constructed platform and a fenced enclosure she thought must be for tethering packhorses.

‘Where’s that wretched packman?’ Boulcott fished his fob watch out of his waistcoat pocket and glared at it. ‘We’re hours later than I told him to expect us.’

‘If it’s O’Reilly ye hired, he’ll no turn up till the morn-ing,’ Doyle said, then added with a knowing smirk, ‘For the amount you’re no doubt paying him, he won’t expect to be the one kept waiting.’

Having no answer to that, Boulcott grunted, then turned his attention to supervising the unloading of the boat. Lydia succeeded in getting a fire burning in a ring of stones set up by previous arrivals at the landing place. Hannah, stripped to her shift, was skipping from shore edge to fireplace, her dry-ing curls an exuberant halo framing her face. Lydia caught her eye and beckoned her closer. ‘Take care, lass. Dinna go get-ting in the menfolk’s way now.’

Having already learnt to be wary of Boulcott’s temper, Hannah obeyed. Each time she passed him and her brothers, she gave them a wide berth, slowing to an exaggerated tiptoe. Lydia took care to hide her amusement. By the time the last of their possessions had been ferried ashore, the bailer-billy was singing, close to the boil, and she had unearthed a set of tin

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mugs and a canister of tea. Her husband gave her a brief nod of approval when she handed him his tea. They stood around the fire, nursing the hot mugs while their wet clothes began to steam in the heat of the leaping flames.

‘Thanks for the cuppa, missus.’ Doyle drained his mug with a noisy slurp, then set it down by the fireplace. Taking up the now-empty billy, he grinned at her. ‘Best be off if I’m to have an easy run down harbour. I’ll wish ye luck.’

The boat had dwindled to a small speck long before Boulcott, George and James had managed to pitch the tent, fumbling with the heavy folds of stiff wet canvas. Lydia watched it disappear from sight. Her initial relief at being safely ashore faded. Their journey had only just begun. Her menfolk had been contracted to cut kauri spars on the Wairoa River at the far end of the Kaipara Harbour. After tomorrow, they would be venturing into an unknown wilderness of water and forest, barely explored and sparsely inhabited.

It was already dusk, and the summer night came with almost tropical suddenness this far north. They retreated into the tent when swarms of mosquitoes descended on them. As the night wore on, Lydia was unable to find a comfortable position for long, a folded blanket inadequate cushioning between her hip bone and the rough ground. She was only too aware of Boulcott rolled in a blanket next to her, the lean length of him, his limbs ropy with muscle. She could smell his still-unfamiliar odour: tobacco, damp wool, cloves from his pomade and sour sweat.

It was the first time she had lain so close to him. After she produced Hannah just before the wedding, an outraged Boulcott had insisted they sleep in separate rooms until their removal to the Kaipara. Lydia had welcomed the delay of

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intimacy. As well as easing the transition from employer and housekeeper to husband and wife, it gave her time to make amends for her deception. Boulcott might be close to fifty, dour and somewhat lacking in humour, yet he was a good decent man; that much she knew from the year working for him. He was also a successful man; his small yet comfortable house on the outskirts of Auckland had been testament to that. This marriage provided the best possible future for her and Hannah, but she had also involved her sons.

Chalk and cheese, her two lads. Fifteen-year-old George was like his da, with his sandy, curly hair, round freckled face and affable disposition, and already broad-shouldered. Thirteen-year-old James, a throwback to some Pictish ances-tor, was slight, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with moods to match. He had immediately made it clear he was far from pleased with the agreement she had made with Boulcott. He had folded his arms and scowled at her. ‘He’s a skinflint. After nowt but cheap labour.’

‘Board and keep included, mind.’ George was less con-cerned. ‘Boulcott’s a grand sawyer. I asked around. We’ll learn useful skills.’

‘Mebbe I dinna want to be a sawyer.’ James glared at Lydia. ‘Did ye no’ think to ask before signing us up?’

‘Ye’d no’ find other work so easily. Nor would ye like fend-ing for yerself in Auckland.’ Lydia tried to face him down.

‘Mebbe I could find lodgings with me friends.’ During their early days in Auckland, James had spent hours with the local native children, learning to speak their language as fluently as his own. Ever since then, he had been a welcome guest in their encampments.

‘Expecting them to provide ye with lodgings goes far beyond friendship.’ Lydia was unmoved.

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James had remained defiant. He only grudgingly accepted he would be accompanying them to the Kaipara. Lydia knew her autocratic decision had widened the distance between them that had begun with Hannah’s birth. Their estrange-ment grieved her. James had none of his more forgiving brother’s tolerance of what could not be changed.

Lydia had scarcely slept when Boulcott roused them with the birds. His temper was short, and soon became shorter. Even after they had taken down the tent, there was still no sign of the packhorses hired from the other end of the portage.

‘I most certainly will not be paying the packman the full agreed sum.’ Boulcott ordered George and James to stack all their possessions on the makeshift platform at the back of the landing place. ‘Nothing for it but to set off.’ His lips compressed into the thin line that was already becoming familiar. ‘I’m told the portage takes all day. Nowhere to camp if we’re caught by nightfall.’

Daunted by the prospect of abandoning their belong-ings, Lydia asked, ‘Mebbe we could take a change o’ clothing with us?’

‘The going’ll be tough enough without carrying a load.’ Boulcott hardly spared her a glance. He turned away, mut-tering, ‘As it is, you’ll have your hands full, keeping that child on the move. I’ll not wait for her.’

After several hours of hard walking over steep hills on the rough pack track, steady rain set in. Before long, they were wet through yet again. To Lydia’s relief, Hannah plodded on, not uttering one word of complaint; the only sign that she was getting tired was the small hand gripping Lydia’s own. Keeping her voice low, Lydia tried singing one of the bairn’s

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favourite songs to distract her. Hannah joined in the chorus, her high childish voice sweet and true.

It was not long before Boulcott expressed annoyance. ‘You’d do far better to keep your energy for walking — the pair of you.’

Lydia squeezed Hannah’s hand, and said nothing. Reduced to silence, they trudged on. When they struck an open stretch of fern, kindly George swung the bairn up onto his shoulders. Hannah was now so tired that she slumped forward against his head, immediately asleep, her hands locked around his forehead, her curls mingling with his.

At midday, they stood in the shelter of a clump of dripping trees to eat the last of the mouldy bread and a piece of hard cheese. Boulcott did not let them linger long. ‘That child’s slowing us down, as I expected. We’ve still got eight or more miles to cover.’

‘She’s doing her best.’ Lydia took a deep breath, intending to say more, but her husband’s frown stopped her.

At least the land was flattening out, making the going less strenuous, though they were now wading in water, mud sucking greedily at their boots. When they at last came out onto the open bank of a wide river, Boulcott consulted the sketch map sent him by the contractors. He carefully refolded the scrap of paper, its pencil markings already smudged by dampness, and tucked it back in his waistcoat pocket. ‘We’ve reached the head of the Kaipara River. Another hour or so should see us there.’

The tidal river and its sodden surroundings were deso-late and dispiriting. The land was swampy: tea-tree, fern and flax interspersed with great stretches of bare mud. Every now and then Lydia spotted native villages on the other bank, yet no sign of people. At one point they were close enough

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to see that many of the huts were dilapidated, some of them recently burnt, and the place apparently abandoned. The moisture-laden air was tainted with the lingering acrid scent of smoke.

It was James who volunteered an explanation. ‘Flitted, hav-en’t they?’ His friends had mentioned an epidemic the year before. ‘Hundreds died hereabouts. Those villages will be tainted by tapu, so they won’t live there. Poor beggars, they see such sickness as the work of demons.’

‘Heathenish superstition!’ Boulcott snorted.Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw James open his

mouth to defend a people he had grown to respect, then change his mind. He seemed determined to avoid any unnec-essary conversation with Boulcott. She averted her gaze from the depressing sight of the abandoned huts. If hardy natives could not tolerate conditions here, what hope was there for new settlers such as them?

The sky was darkening when they at last came out at the end of the portage, a spit of muddy land where a stream met the Kaipara River. Lydia’s spirits sank even further. At first, the few brushwood huts seemed to be yet another deserted native settlement. Once they had crossed the stream on a nar-row and precarious trestle bridge, she spotted a couple of tents and several white men busy with boats on the edge of the river. A larger hut carried a roughly painted sign proclaiming it to be a boarding house. At least they would have the shelter of a roof for the night and a chance to dry their clothes.

The only woman around — a white woman to Lydia’s secret relief — proved to be the landlady. A tall skinny person with an enormous apron wrapped twice round a faded black dress and fastened in front, she took one look at them, then said, ‘You poor souls. I’ll show you to your rooms, then bring hot water.’

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‘Put the child in with my wife.’ Boulcott spoke without emphasis. ‘I’ll bed down with the lads while we’re staying with you.’

The landlady raised her eyebrows, then said, ‘As you wish, sir.’

Lydia was too grateful for Boulcott’s decision to be embar-rassed. The small room she was to share with Hannah seemed clean enough, the earth floor recently swept. Even better, there was no sign of fleas. The landlady, apparently feeling sorry for her, provided a piece of precious soap with the hot water. Later, she fed them all a hearty stew washed down by as many mugs of strong black tea as they wanted. When Lydia left the parlour to retire for the night, her husband barely lifted his hand to acknowledge her hesitant goodnight.

At first light, Boulcott sent George and James, with the unapologetic O’Reilly, back to Riverhead to fetch their belongings. He himself was soon away, intent on bargain-ing for a promising rowboat he had spotted the night before while hunting down the packman. Lydia, left to her own devices, borrowed a pair of scissors from the landlady and hacked six inches of badly frayed, clay-stiffened cloth from the hem of her still-damp skirts. Deciding that practical-ity outweighed decorum, she did the same to her equally tattered petticoats since the men’s boots her husband had insisted she wear came well above her ankles. She was not expecting to encounter any fashion-conscious women where they were going.

The landlady watched her efforts with interest. ‘Now that’s what I call sensible. You’ll do fine, missus.’

She told Lydia there were a few settlers already camped on the Wairoa. ‘Sawyers like your husband, of course. They’re mostly contracted to the store at Mangawhare.’

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‘Mr Boulcott’s contracted to those gentlemen.’ Lydia knew she sounded stiff, even snobbish, but she was not yet used to her changed status. Having called her husband ‘sir’ for so long, she could not bring herself to call him Boulcott as most wives would. As for him, he had avoided addressing her by any name since their wedding vows.

Offended by her response, the landlady abandoned any attempt at friendliness. ‘You won’t be anywhere near the store. The timber’s twenty mile or more further upriver.’ As she turned away, she added with something approaching relish, ‘Only the mission and natives up there. You’ll be on your own.’

Lydia was glad the conversation had ended. She was not about to tell the woman that being on her own was exactly what she had been praying for.

Boulcott was in better temper when he returned. He had made a satisfactory deal for the rowboat, both larger and sturdier than the one that had brought them from Auckland. ‘In the long run, having our own boat will reduce costs. Besides, I prefer not to be dependent on others for transport.’

His good mood continued when George, James and the packman unexpectedly returned from Riverhead with their belongings that evening. They had made excellent time, accomplishing the thirty-mile return journey in not much over fourteen hours.

‘Better late than never, my good man. Now we won’t have to spend longer here than I’d planned.’ Despite his earlier declaration, Boulcott was pleased enough to pay O’Reilly the agreed price.

They were on their way by noon the next day, the waters of the slow-moving Kaipara River gleaming like polished pew-ter under clear skies and a benign sun. The river soon opened

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out into a wide harbour. Much larger than the one they had crossed from Auckland, it was almost an inland sea. Several miles away to their right, on the far side of the water, fold after fold of blue-green forested hills faded into the distance.

‘That’s untouched kauri forest.’ Boulcott jerked his head in that direction, not interrupting the rhythmic stroke of his oars. ‘A wealth of timber in those hills, there for the taking.’

Towards evening, they were nearing the harbour mouth when he directed them to steer for the shore. ‘I don’t want to risk crossing in the dark. We’ll camp here till the morning.’

Once ashore, they all scrambled up onto the crest of the sandhills, then pushed their way through low, wind-shorn tea-tree bushes until they had a view of the harbour mouth. Boulcott pointed out the distant headland that guarded its northern side. ‘I’m told the passage is at least five miles wide.’

Well out to sea, white-crested rolling waves were eating away at a great semi-circle of overlapping sandbanks that stretched right across the harbour mouth. Immediately below where they stood, several large blue-water channels wound their way through shoaling water into the deeper tracts of the harbour. Spray, flung high into the air, did nothing to obscure the pres-ence of three wrecks, chewed into hulks by a hungry sea.

‘Are them ships?’ Hannah tugged at Lydia’s skirts.To Lydia’s surprise, Boulcott deigned to answer the bairn.

‘Indeed. It’s only a couple of years since the last wrecking — a French ship, went down in 1851.’

When Lydia woke at dawn, the air above the sandhills was dense with spray. Even from the comparative shelter of their campsite, she could hear the roar of the wind. An image of those wrecked ships — large ships — clear in her mind, she could not prevent her voice from quavering. ‘Surely we canna attempt a crossing?’

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‘No point deciding that before I check the passage.’ Boulcott gestured towards the sandhills that hid their view of the harbour mouth.

‘Watch Hannah for me, George.’ Concerned that her hus-band might be willing to downplay any risk, Lydia wanted to see the conditions for herself.

Once they had clambered to the top of the sandhills, the wind was so strong they had to hang onto the stunted tea-tree bushes to maintain their balance. She need not have worried. No one would risk a crossing. Their planned route across the harbour mouth was now a maelstrom. The incoming tide had been whipped into unruly grey peaks that obliterated all sign of the sandbanks they would need to avoid. Dark cloud boiled overhead. Rain squalls blotted out the shadowed hills on the far side of the harbour.

‘We’ll be stuck here all day — most likely another night.’ Boulcott’s peevishness had returned. ‘This is far from what I expected. Already our fifth day since leaving Auckland, and we’re not much beyond halfway.’

Thinking it best to keep Hannah out of his sight, Lydia took her to explore the cove where they were camped. While the bairn collected shells in her pinafore, she prised a billy full of good-sized mussels from the rocks to supple-ment their supplies. They had barely three days of camp provisions left — oatcakes and hard cheese, easy to prepare on the move, which should have lasted them but for this unwelcome delay.

On the edge of a terrace above the cove, Lydia spotted a partly collapsed, low fence of sticks. When she went to inves-tigate, she found an abandoned patch of native garden where pigs had been rooting. Despite their ravages, she was able to salvage a dozen or more scabby potatoes. Once she had

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gathered them up, with Hannah clutching one of the largest in each hand, they made their way back to the campsite.

Lydia showed her husband their findings. ‘I’ll rustle up a tattie and mussel stew for supper.’

Hannah shyly opened her hands and let the two potatoes drop at Boulcott’s feet. Lydia held her breath while the bairn gazed up at him, expecting praise. At last he bent to pick the potatoes up, managing a terse, ‘Well done.’

Just on slack water that evening, the wind and rain abated. Boulcott immediately ordered the lads to launch the boat. ‘We’d best be on our way.’

‘’Tis late to be crossing,’ said Lydia, looking at the cloud-veiled sun, already low in the sky.

‘You’ll allow me to be the judge of that.’ Her husband quashed any further protest. ‘If we lose this chance, we might be stuck here for days.’ His tone softened. ‘If we make haste, we can cross safely before dark. We’ll camp as soon as we reach the other side.’

They set off as the sun disappeared into the bank of cloud hiding the horizon. Crouched in the bow, Lydia held Hannah close, the bairn suitably subdued by the adults’ urgency. Shutting her mind to the turbulent scene she had witnessed earlier in the day, Lydia prayed silently to the Lord that they might be spared. The boat that had appeared to be commodi-ous and sturdy now seemed tiny and fragile as it yawed wildly across the cresting waves. Each time they struck cross-currents, its timbers vibrated beneath her. The cold slap of spray stung her face. She pulled her shawl over Hannah to keep her dry.

A long hour passed before the motion of the boat steadied. Lydia lifted her head. The northern promontory now loomed above them, its bulk dark against the fast-fading glimmer of the evening sky. Soon they were gliding into smooth water in

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its lee. Boulcott steered them ashore to make a landing just as the last of the light gave way to night.

Lydia produced the congealed mussel and tattie stew, and they took turns to eat straight from the billy. Her husband then lit himself a contented pipe, his temper much improved by their successful crossing. He became almost convivial, telling stories of other wrecks and the petitioning of the gov-ernment for a much-needed pilot, still not granted. ‘No matter. The worst of our own journey’s now over.’

Lydia risked a question. ‘I thought we were barely halfway?’‘That’s correct. We’ve several days yet of hard pulling

ahead.’ He sucked on his pipe before adding, ‘I don’t anticipate that causing us any further problems.’

Although the wind and rain returned the next morning, they made good progress through the northern reaches of the harbour, in the lee of the coastal sandhills. By midday they had entered the narrowing stretch of water shown on the contractors’ map as the start of the Wairoa River. At last, where a major tributary came in on their left, there was the store at Mangawhare, a scatter of low wooden buildings set on land cleared of fern, flax and tea-tree. A full forty miles from the harbour mouth, it was the first sign of anything approaching civilisation since they had left Auckland six long days ago.

Lydia would have welcomed a chance to stay at Manga-whare, take a few days to recover from their journey, but the contractors insisted they continue upriver the very next day so they could begin their work. After breakfast, Boulcott supervised her selection of what would be several months’ provisions — flour, dried peas, rice, tea, oatmeal, ship’s bis-cuits, butter, a little sugar and a haunch of bacon — purchased on credit and barely enough to get by.

27

‘I’ll not be in debt any longer than necessary,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to make do.’

Left to pack the small pile of goods into a tea chest pro-vided by the contractors (cost extra), Lydia was patiently enduring Hannah’s effort at helping when she heard someone come into the store behind her, with a swish of skirts and a light tread on the uneven boards. As she straightened and turned to offer a polite greeting, her words faltered.

Even in the dust-laden dimness of the store, she imme-diately recognised the new arrival. That mass of still-bright chestnut hair piled high, the small-framed figure shown off by the fashionable cut of her dress, the pert face. Eliza Noakes. Despite the dull light, Lydia could see the glint of eager curiosity in her eyes. Hoping she herself had altered beyond recognition in the ten years since they had both first settled briefly in Nelson, far to the south, Lydia managed the stilted greeting she would offer a stranger.

Her heart began to thud as Eliza came closer and looked intently at her. ‘Ye must be Mrs Boulcott. Don’t I know ye?’

‘Not that I’m aware, missus,’ Lydia replied, keeping her face blank. ‘I’ve yet to have the courtesy o’ yer name.’

‘Eliza Noakes. Everyone knows me hereabouts. Joseph and me have been here nigh on a year — time to make a solid start. He won a major spar contract nearby.’ She looked even more closely at Lydia. ‘I could swear I know ye from somewhere. I never forget a face.’

‘Mine has nowt to distinguish it,’ said Lydia, crossing her fingers once more in the folds of her skirts. ‘’Twould be easy enough to mistake it for another.’

‘Happen ye’re right, Mrs Boulcott.’ Eliza shrugged. ‘I understand yer husband will be taking up a small contract?’

‘Aye, that’s so.’ Relieved that the woman now seemed

28

content to score points, Lydia gestured at the half-packed chest of goods. ‘We’re leaving on the incoming tide, so ye must excuse me.’

She was not safe yet. Eliza had turned her attention to Hannah. ‘And this is yer wee mite?’ She examined the fair freckled skin and the mop of sandy curls that were so like George’s — and his father’s — then frowned. ‘Where is it ye’re from?’

‘Auckland,’ said Lydia, hoping that neither of her lads would make an untimely appearance to further prompt Eliza’s memory. ‘Me husband intends farming here once the timber’s cut out and the government releases land bought from the natives.’

‘Oh aye?’ Eliza let an unimpressed pause grow, then looked pointedly at Lydia’s mud-encrusted, clumsily shortened skirts and her heavy boots. ‘I can see the journey has wearied ye, and ye’ve yet a ways to go. Happen I’ll let ye get on.’

When Lydia said nothing, she added, ‘Next time ye come down for stores, ye must call in for tea. We’re nobbut a mile upriver from here. Ye can’t miss our jetty.’

‘That’s verra kind,’ said Lydia. Visiting Eliza Noakes was the last thing she would be doing. She turned back to her goods, her heart still thudding alarmingly, her mouth dry. For a moment longer, she sensed the other woman examining her again, before she gave up and talked animatedly to the con-tractors. It was, Lydia thought, intended to demonstrate her equality with men who in reality were her husband’s employ-ers, just as they were Boulcott’s. It was not only Eliza Noakes’s appearance that was unchanged. She was still giving herself airs above her station.