Rangi’s Auntie Georgia moved away into town. She couldn’t stay this far out without being able to drive. Rangi had done all the grocery shopping. He had often dropped her and collected her from her various jobs. Dad bought her shack and patch of land for a pittance. On her last day in the house, weeks after the discovery of Rangi’s body, I saw her go towards the side of the shed with an axe and, one by one, those hens fell silent. She left two plucked chickens on our porch, in gratitude to my dad for his help with the police and for taking the property off her hands, she said in a note.
Since moving to Rotorua, I had only been in the superette with Dad a handful of times, and to the library and bookshop more regularly. In the summertime, I could wear a baseball cap and long, oversized shirts with sleeves that came down over my hands to avoid touching people. I never wore shorts either. I told Dad that I was old enough to drive now, but he said he didn’t have the patience to teach me. I regretted not asking Rangi. I know he would have taught me.
A couple of weeks after Auntie Georgia moved, Dad suggested that we go to a local wildlife park close to Lake Rotorua. It was January 1983, still warm, and holiday season was in full swing. Dad said we should take advantage of it. Despite the tragedy, I was eager to get out again and to see people.
We drove up as far as the northern part of Lake Rotorua. A few families were camping by the lakeside. Dad didn’t seem that interested in going into the forest or exploring the wildlife. Like me, he was looking at the people. Eventually, we walked off towards a forest trail. A small, slim blonde girl was climbing a tree. Dad stopped to look. We stood for a while, impressed. She got to the top and then looked back down, troubled.
Dad called up to her, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t think I can get down. There’s a possum, right beside me. I’m afraid,’ she said. We could see the fat-bodied animal two yards from her face on the same branch, fast asleep.
I looked up at her once again, dismayed that there was nothing I could do to help her. The easiest thing would be to climb up and take her hand and lead her from branch to branch. Possums were harmless but they were a scourge. They could hiss and spit when disturbed and had very sharp claws. Rangi had said everyone hated them.
‘Why don’t you jump? I’ll catch you,’ said Dad.
‘I’m afraid,’ she repeated, tears in her voice.
‘Okay, we’ll have to leave you up there, then,’ said Dad and moved as if to walk away.
She began to sob.
‘Dad, we can’t leave her.’
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Where are your family?’ he called up to her.
‘They’re on the other side of the lake. Mum told me to get lost until six o’clock.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound fair. How about I come up and get you?’
Dad was surprisingly agile as he scaled the tree; a little unsure of his footing at times, but he reached her without any problems. He took her by the hand and led her from branch to branch, like I would have done if I could. The possum never woke up.
Eventually, she jumped a few feet to the ground, landing directly in front of me.
‘This is my son, Steve. What’s your name, petal?’ Dad asked her.
‘Lindy Weston. Hi, Steve.’ She was shy and her face was dirty with tears, which she wiped away with her forearm.
‘My name is Mr Armstrong, but you can call me James if you like.’
‘Hi, Lindy,’ I said.
‘Where you from?’ she asked.
‘From Dunedin originally but I lived in Ireland for years.’ This was our story.
Dad walked ahead while I chatted to Lindy. I was nervous, though I had no reason to be, not then.
‘My neighbour is from Ireland, don’t ask me where. She talks like you.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Do you live around here now or are you on holiday?’
‘No, we’re not on holiday, we live in Rotorua.’
‘You don’t go to my school?’
‘No, I don’t go to any school. I’m homeschooled but I think I’m nearly finished. I’ve done all the schoolbooks up to Form Seven in every subject, but Dad lets me study what I want now.’
‘You study when you don’t have to?’
‘He sure does,’ said Dad, dropping back to join us. ‘He’s studying botany now and market gardening, aren’t you, son?’
‘Yes, I want to grow vegetables and sell them. The soil on our land is good.’
‘Probably because of the rain here,’ she said. ‘It rains all the time.’
‘It rains a lot in Ireland too,’ said Dad.
‘Have you got brothers and sisters? I got two brothers, they’re always fighting. They’re seventeen and eighteen.’
‘No, I’m an only child. What age are you?’ I asked.
‘Fourteen.’
‘Are you really?’ asked Dad, and I saw a shadow cross his face. ‘I thought you were younger.’
‘Nope, fourteen. What age are you?’ she asked me.
‘Fifteen,’ I said and she looked at me.
‘I like your hair. My mum doesn’t let my brothers grow their hair long.’
I felt myself blushing.
‘Poor Steve has a rare medical condition,’ Dad interrupted. ‘He can’t touch other humans, unless they’re blood relatives.’
