difficulty. For the second time in two days, she speaks.
‘They were right to desert. Poor boys. And what about your father, Donny Mac? Our great-nephew? Where is he?’
Donny hangs his head. He doesn’t want to tell the story of coming here to Manawa with his parents when he was eleven. How his mother and father disappeared after only a week, leaving a note for Granddad which the old man never showed to him. The boy has not heard of them since.
‘He shot through,’ he mumbles. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Well then,’ says Delia, recognising, perhaps, the hurt.Another McAneny disowned, forgotten. ‘And now we have a baby in the family. Have you named him?’
‘Nightshade — Pansy — doesn’t want a name yet. She’s …’ Donny sighs. ‘I guess you hear her.’
Aureole’s hands flutter around her shoulders. She would like to hug the big solemn boy but doesn’t know how. ‘Oh dear. Dear, dear, dear. She’s very sad, isn’t she? The mother. Or is it angry? Can we help?’
Roe looks sharply at her younger sister. ‘Aureole, we are too old to help. We have no experience in such things. Be sensible, if you please.’
But Donny Mac seizes on the offer. ‘Maybe … maybe one day when I go to work, I could bring him over here? He cries and Pansy gets angry and then he cries more. All he wants is a feed. But she just gets mad at him. And I’m not there to stop it …’ His voice fades away. The women are too daunting. Especially the old one.
Roe will not look at him, is not ready to acknowledge the great-grandson of a deserter. ‘We cannot help,’ she says, her eyes fixed on a point above his head.
But here is Delia, speaking again. ‘Nonsense, Roe,’ she says. ‘Nonsense.’
A small cry escapes from Aureole; she’s thrilled and amazed at this subversive statement.
‘Great-great-nephew Donny McAneny,’ Delia continues, her rusty voice distant as an echo, but firm, ‘we will try to help the baby. Our old arms can surely hold a bottle, rock a child. Surely. For an hour or two. Bring him tomorrow and we will see.’
Granddad Manny Macâs Manawa
Donnyâs granddadâs first memory was of fire â great swirling flames tearing across a dark sky, the thick rolling smoke, and shouts and running feet. Donny loved his granddadâs stories, but this one always frightened him for the haunted look in his granddadâs eye when he spoke of that fire, the memory of it still burning, still a horror.
âI wouldnât of been five â maybe three or four, Donny. We lived close to the mill, see, where my dad worked. Just around the corner from here, near the railway. The whole mill went up â the shed, the stacks of timber, the trash. Then the bloody wind drove the fire down the row of workersâ houses â ours included â and on to the shops. That terror has stayed with me till this day â couldnât find Ma and Pa, couldnât breathe, screamsand shouts outside somewhere. And the explosions! Like a war it was, like guns going off. I found Ma and Pa in the kitchen. Pa huddled in a corner with his arms over his head, Ma tugging at him to get up. Jesus, I howled to see the two of them. It was the war, see, that done that to him â put that fear into his head. He could never stand loud bangs or even a bit of a barney between two men. Pa had to have a quiet life or he went kind of crazy.â
Donnyâs granddad sucked in his cheeks, then coughed, the rumble of it shaking his whole skinny body. âThat fire! You wouldnât want to know, boy.â
Manny Mac, Donnyâs beloved granddad, was born in Manawa in 1922 when the town was still a bustling, lively place â a town hall, post office, three general stores, several boarding houses, two drinking clubs, a school, a champion rugby club, not to mention hockey and even a jazz band. And in the general area eight mills logging the red totara and pale beech, the dark tough matai and the
‘They were right to desert. Poor boys. And what about your father, Donny Mac? Our great-nephew? Where is he?’
Donny hangs his head. He doesn’t want to tell the story of coming here to Manawa with his parents when he was eleven. How his mother and father disappeared after only a week, leaving a note for Granddad which the old man never showed to him. The boy has not heard of them since.
‘He shot through,’ he mumbles. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Well then,’ says Delia, recognising, perhaps, the hurt.Another McAneny disowned, forgotten. ‘And now we have a baby in the family. Have you named him?’
‘Nightshade — Pansy — doesn’t want a name yet. She’s …’ Donny sighs. ‘I guess you hear her.’
Aureole’s hands flutter around her shoulders. She would like to hug the big solemn boy but doesn’t know how. ‘Oh dear. Dear, dear, dear. She’s very sad, isn’t she? The mother. Or is it angry? Can we help?’
Roe looks sharply at her younger sister. ‘Aureole, we are too old to help. We have no experience in such things. Be sensible, if you please.’
But Donny Mac seizes on the offer. ‘Maybe … maybe one day when I go to work, I could bring him over here? He cries and Pansy gets angry and then he cries more. All he wants is a feed. But she just gets mad at him. And I’m not there to stop it …’ His voice fades away. The women are too daunting. Especially the old one.
Roe will not look at him, is not ready to acknowledge the great-grandson of a deserter. ‘We cannot help,’ she says, her eyes fixed on a point above his head.
But here is Delia, speaking again. ‘Nonsense, Roe,’ she says. ‘Nonsense.’
A small cry escapes from Aureole; she’s thrilled and amazed at this subversive statement.
‘Great-great-nephew Donny McAneny,’ Delia continues, her rusty voice distant as an echo, but firm, ‘we will try to help the baby. Our old arms can surely hold a bottle, rock a child. Surely. For an hour or two. Bring him tomorrow and we will see.’
Granddad Manny Macâs Manawa
Donnyâs granddadâs first memory was of fire â great swirling flames tearing across a dark sky, the thick rolling smoke, and shouts and running feet. Donny loved his granddadâs stories, but this one always frightened him for the haunted look in his granddadâs eye when he spoke of that fire, the memory of it still burning, still a horror.
âI wouldnât of been five â maybe three or four, Donny. We lived close to the mill, see, where my dad worked. Just around the corner from here, near the railway. The whole mill went up â the shed, the stacks of timber, the trash. Then the bloody wind drove the fire down the row of workersâ houses â ours included â and on to the shops. That terror has stayed with me till this day â couldnât find Ma and Pa, couldnât breathe, screamsand shouts outside somewhere. And the explosions! Like a war it was, like guns going off. I found Ma and Pa in the kitchen. Pa huddled in a corner with his arms over his head, Ma tugging at him to get up. Jesus, I howled to see the two of them. It was the war, see, that done that to him â put that fear into his head. He could never stand loud bangs or even a bit of a barney between two men. Pa had to have a quiet life or he went kind of crazy.â
Donnyâs granddad sucked in his cheeks, then coughed, the rumble of it shaking his whole skinny body. âThat fire! You wouldnât want to know, boy.â
Manny Mac, Donnyâs beloved granddad, was born in Manawa in 1922 when the town was still a bustling, lively place â a town hall, post office, three general stores, several boarding houses, two drinking clubs, a school, a champion rugby club, not to mention hockey and even a jazz band. And in the general area eight mills logging the red totara and pale beech, the dark tough matai and the
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