Shaky Beginnings

Introduce Maggie

Maggie woke early; as she often did when she was at Papa Ahu.  It had been a still and hot moonlit night and this morning was just as breezeless promising more of the same. She whipped the faded mohair knee rug off the end of her bed and tucked it under her arm.  It was more for comfort than for warmth, being soft and old with the memories of over forty years attached to its fine fibres.  She made her way to the side porch, overlooking the manager’s cottage through to the river beyond, and settled in Granny Amy’s wooden rocker on the front porch.

The sun was just starting to rise, heralding the trill of birdsong, a lone musician, incrementally followed by others in differing timbres - their song rising in crescendo.

She closed her eyes.  Bliss!  It was so peaceful.  Her life as a mother and café owner often held tranquillity at arms length and could at any time deteriorate into a melee of requests, commitments and deadlines.  Even so, she felt blessed for where she was ‘at’ in her life and the constants; her devoted family and friends including Rick her remarkable ex-husband, Keela, her best friend who happened to be her Aunt by marriage, her two children Amy and Jack and her ninety-two-year-old Grandfather ‘Pop’ Harry - a jewel among men. In addition to this was Papa Ahu - her family home, owned by her family since it was annexed as a separate property in 1874.

Papa Ahu had been in her thoughts a lot recently.  Not just for its prominent place in her life, but for the silent role it played.  She thought about how people talk about ‘spiritual places’, usually including adages on the healing powers of the land and lay lines; Keela being a prime example. However, Papa Ahu was not any of these, it permeated something she could not explain - only by the way it felt within her with increasing force as she got older.   If it was ever lost it would create void that would be irreplaceable. 

Papa Ahu either drew people in or strangely appeared to repel them.  Her favourite place was what she had always affectionately called the ‘Dell’.  It took half an hour to walk there and was located beside a stream - one of the many small streams that latticed the land but the only one that you could actually walk through or swim in without a climb.  The Dell looked like a small crater, but was covered in a thick carpet layer of grass and littered sparingly with large round flat rocks.  Interestingly, the grass always looked like it had been flattened symmetrically by a whirl-wind and although it was not fenced, the only animals Maggie had ever seen inside it were wild Fallow Deer.  Maggie had loved to take her friends there, very few of whom felt particularly comfortable and had wanted to leave as soon as they could.  Her family, including Keela, were the only other people that felt its specialness.  Granny Amy, with her unique brand of Irish imagination and avid storytelling ability, would tell her it was where the pixies would go to feel safe. Perhaps I will go for a walk later today, she thought.

A slight stirring breeze licked her skin, tinged with the prevailing smells of dampness, earth, vegetation and farm animals.  Papa Ahu was a notoriously still place, protected from most prevailing winds, making the breeze’s refreshing quality an unexpected gift.

 

 No sooner had it come, then it was gone and in its place an eerie silence.  Even though it was cloyingly warm, she took a corner of the rug and tucked it under her chin. A shiver ran up the back of her neck.

     The birds were silent.  How strange!

     The air suddenly felt compressed and thinking about it afterwards, even the trees appeared like they were bracing themselves.

     She could just make out a barely audible rumbling, like a faraway jet, but unlike a jet it seemed to become very gradually integrated into her surroundings. 

     Her fingers and toes tingled.  The feeling of impending trouble mingled with the increasing rumble combined to render her incapable of anything but shallow breathing.

     One of the dogs howled.  It was a high pitched haunting sound that was quickly joined by the others.

     As the rumbling increased it rapidly dawned on her that this was an earthquake.  A significant one at that!

     She plunged out of the rocker and ripped open the protective fly screen door with force, not wanting to take any chances that it may stick like it was prone to.  She literally flew through the narrow larder to land unceremoniously under the giant kauri kitchen table that had been in her family over one hundred years.  In that brief moment she remembered Granny Amy saying ‘if there’s an earthquake take cover under Great Granddad Oscar’s table.’

     The rumbling intensified.  She felt a sensation similar to have been spun about and left to correct herself.  She vigorously rubbed her face to pull herself together.  The great house creaked and the movement of a large object emitted a scraping groan in its path.

     Her heart lurched into her throat as she envisioned the house slipping into the canyon below.  Could this happen?  On television she’d seen newly formed rifts in the earth caused by earthquakes.  I suppose that technically it could she nervously reasoned.

     It felt like the earth had been shaking for minutes but it was probably only seconds.  Items could be seen and heard falling off shelves and smashing onto the polished wooden floors below. 

The cast iron fire poker beside the old cooking range bounced off its hook onto the floor and flicked her squarely on the ankle.

     ‘Oh!  S**t!  You bugger of a thing!’

     In addition to cracking her ankle it scraped skin in its trail, leaving her foot weeping blood.

‘Dear God, that hurts!’

     The shuddering finally felt like it was starting to subside, and the fight for survival was now overtaken by concern.

     What about my kids?  Jack is with his Dad.  Did they take cover? 

Pop.  Could his elevated homestead have slipped its poles?  Is he alright?  He may be lying under the roof, unable to move.  Aftershocks.  Are they not supposed to be nearly as bad as the original?  Why did I not listen when people talked about these things!

     The quake had stilled but Maggie remained shaking.  The pain in her ankle throbbed so badly that she let a tear escape.  She gingerly inched her way forward on her hands and knees, slowly twisting her head to look up as she did, painfully aware of the many heavy and potentially lethal ornaments and various objects, like the poker, on the walls and shelves that may be perilously close to falling.  Her ankle was one thing but her head another!

     She was now far enough into the middle of the kitchen floor not to worry about sustaining a head injury so stood and shakily made her way to the telephone alcove.  The moment she raised the receiver she realised it was dead.

     Damn!  She would have to walk to the cell phone spot on the roof of a small storage shed a twenty-minute climb from the house so she could contact her family.

     The dogs set off their howl again and, berating herself for not attempting to take at least some of the heavy objects off the shelves above she dove under the table to brace herself for the aftershock.

 

Objects that had remained on the shelves were quickly being relinquished.  The sweet sickly smell of peaches and plums mingled with the acidic aroma of pickles, reminded her briefly of newly turned compost.  This will be a fine mess to clean she thought with annoyance.

     ‘How bloody inconvenient!’ 

Her one consuming desire was to contact her family and was overwhelmingly frustrated that she was unable to do so.

As if the earth had heard, the shuddering came to a standstill.  Her heart was beating like a hallow drip.  An earthquake wasn’t like a flood or a landslide or any other natural disaster she could think of, it moved within and that was what frightened Maggie most. 

As if defying the end of the quake, three more half gallon jars fell, spewing their contents over the floor, rattling her nerves further.

    The jars on the top shelf were Granny Amy’s preserves and had remained there since her death ten years earlier.  Granny had suffered an aneurism. Her death was quick and totally unexpected and it had been immeasurably hard on the family.  She had been Harry’s wife, his soul mate and constant companion since 1937.  A forthright woman, she called a spade a spade or likewise an idiot ……………  Granny Amy’s displeasure was swift, focused and completely earned.  If you engendered it, you deserved the tirade that was to come.  She was dynamite in many ways; loving, respectful, very humorous and wholly loyal to her Irish lineage and Catholic faith.  The latter she rarely forced upon anyone but it was very definitely a part of who she was. 

     Maggie imagined Granny would have said ‘about time you got rid of those old jars full of mush.’  After ten years and an earthquake that’s clearly what they now were. 

Thinking of her grandmother calmed Maggie to the degree that she realized she was not helping herself by getting uptight and frustrated.  Any more of this and she would be dysfunctional.

     ‘OK, calm down Mags.’  Her voice echoed, sounding pathetic.  One earthquake. One aftershock.  This damn earth can’t keep shaking forever. 

‘First foot forward.’  The dogs are clearly agitated.  She ticked off on her fingers what would be her next steps.  Make my way outside.  Let the dogs off.  Take the four-wheeler up the hill.  The thought struck her that the motorbike may not be such a great idea. No I’ll walk - fast.  Right! 

She ducked under the table’s bracing and stood up.  Feeling slightly light-headed, she took a deep breath to steady herself.  Reaching out to grip the doorway of the larder, she knew the sight inside would be ugly.  It did not disappoint. 

The floor was covered with broken, obliterated and weeping jars.  Some were from Granny Amy’s days; others were experimentations of her own.  Her business specialised in locally sourced preserves and she was always trialling inspirations as and when they arose.  This was the perfect place - the original preserver’s paradise - where she learnt her art from her Grandmother.

     Closing the larder door, she decided to exit the house by the laundry rather than the now glass and sugar infested larder.  She was on edge.  Every creak and groan of the old large wooden homestead caused her body an involuntary jolt in the expectation that it would once again need to be thrown under the table.  A painful jabbing in her ankle reminded her about the small injury she’d sustained. 

While in the laundry she discovered an old woollen sock and put it on to stem the flow of blood and to protect it from anything else scraping it.  

On her way outside she delved into her rucksack that hung on a hook beside the door to retrieve her mobile phone.  Making her way around the house she climbed the steps to where the gumboots were kept on the sheltered front porch.  The birds had started their chirping again. 

Oh ye of short memories! 

She looked upon her Granny’s rocker where she’d been sitting only about ten minutes earlier.  It looked like it had not been disturbed at all, apart from the throw-rug discarded by her in the rush.

     Should’a stayed where I was.

     Slipping on her boots, she made her way through the orchard and over the footbridge to the dog kennels.  The dogs were whimpering.

     ‘Poor babies.’  She slipped the bolts and they each escaped like sprung jacks in the boxes.

 

Maggie retraced her steps, now with a troop of highly-charged canines at her heals.  Her grandfather now lived on a lifestyle block closer to town, installing a series of managers on Papa Ahu since leaving.  The latest manager, Gavin, had resigned only a week ago.  Poor Gavin, his wife was not a backblocks girl and abhorred the isolation, the sometimes impassable roads and lack of facilities.  She gave her husband the ultimatum; ‘it’s either Papa Ahu or me’. 

Pop’s top priority at present was to hire a replacement and he had set the wheels in motion by contacting several rural employment agencies, but as yet no-one suitable had applied.  In the meantime, the dogs were looked after by Rick’s brother Leo, who now ran his family farm - the neighbouring property to Papa Ahu.  He was a good man and could always be relied on to fill the gap when needed.  Maggie did her bit by staying there as many weekends as she could, and helping Pop with the accounts. 

     With dogs in tow, Maggie made her way across the backyard and through the gate into the orchard.  The fruit from here was abundant, with a variety that fed many families.  It was February so the early plums had finished but Maggie’s favourite, the large almost cylindrical Black Doris were fruiting prolifically, as were the nectarines and Golden Queen peaches. 

The orchard ascended slightly to the rear of the house.  Beyond this was an old cellar built into the side of the hill.  It had collapsed in a particularly bad storm, bolstered by a river of water pouring off the hill when her mother, Janet, was a child.  This caused the massive oak door to jut forward with tones of earth behind it.  Pop built a rock wall that held the door in place.  She often wondered why her grandfather, a stickler for putting things right, just did not level it off.

Her Great Great Grandfather Charlie Stradbroke built the cellar over one hundred and thirty years earlier and Maggie, as a child, had fantasized that it held a stash of gold and treasure.  According to Pop, old Charlie was a bit of a dark horse.  It was said that the valley suited him and his wife Abicgale very well because they were hiding from something. 

    

Maggie’s main objective now was to reach the cell phone spot as soon as possible so she wasn’t particularly observant.  Nevertheless, she did notice a rift in the earth connecting to the door of the cellar, two meters above.  She made a mental note to take a closer look on her return.  The dogs were already sniffing around but Maggie growled at them to ‘heal’, just in case the earth moved further.  They slunk back to her side, chastened but still imbued with freedoms vitality.

 

Regardless of a throbbing ankle bound with an old rough woollen sock that felt like it was scraping off more skin with every step, Maggie was making good progress.  She veered off the track and took a shortcut through a plateau, almost completely covered by a marsh.  Over the years she had learnt where the dry bits were so traversed it with ease, hopping from dry island to island. 

     The old shed now loomed up ahead of her but the shorter route meant she had to climb a small cliff-face at its end.  It was not particularly unsafe but Maggie’s coordination was not firing on all cylinders and this, mixed with the fear of aftershocks, meant the climb took several attempts.  She eventually pulled herself up and over the lip, using a vine.  At this point there was a wire fence to climb and four meters beyond stood the shed.  In it’s time it had been used to store agricultural sprays, possum traps and various implements needed in this area of the farm.  This was the point where the open grassland dropped sharply into a massive gully shrouded in bush.

 Maggie had grown up with the story of the wild pig nick-named ‘Moses’, allegedly observed several times in this area. Moses had evaded hunters fifty years earlier.  These memorable sightings over ten years, along with two badly injured dogs kept his legend alive.

     On reaching the old tin shed, patched over the years with whatever coloured corrugated iron was on hand, Maggie pulled a hand-made wooden ladder out of the long grass and falteringly climbed its ageing rungs to make her call.  She stood on the rusting roof and faced toward Wanganui and the nearest receiver, overlooking the climb she had just made and the homestead below.  Taking her mobile out of her pocket, she checked the coverage.  Two bars.  Could be worse.  It was enough to make contact but could be a problem.  She dialled Ricks number, making a very deliberated effort to get it right.  It was answered on the forth ring by her very out of breath ex husband Rick..

‘Maggie.’

     ‘Rick.  Is everyone OK?’  This was not the time for idle pleasantries. 

     An audible intake of breath could be heard. ‘Maggie.  Thank God!  We’re all good.  What about you?  Everyone is worried.’

     Maggie ignored his question.  ‘Jack, Amy, Pop, Keela, Sue " everyone.  Are they alright?’

     ‘Yes yes yes!  Everyone is good.  The café has suffered a few broken jars and Sue is sorting those, but all is good.  We are a bit shaken, that’s all.  Now for the second time’, he said with undisguised annoyance, ‘are you alright?’

     She let out a sigh of relief. 

‘I’m good boss. Got a bit of a crack on the ankle from a flying poker, but you know me, I’m a wimp.  If it was even a little bit more than just niggly I’d call the rescue helicopter.’ The last words cut out.

     ‘Your ankle.  Is it broken?’

‘No!, It’s just a scrape.  I suppose you’ve discovered that the phone is out, so I’ve had to climb to the shed.  Listen, can you ring Pop and tell him I’m OK and everything is looking alright here, although there’s one hell of a mess in the house.  I will stay another day to clean up.’

‘No.  I think you should come home.  They said on the news that it was a 6.3 on the Richter scale, centred near the valley and that there could very well be more aftershocks.’

     Maggie found his caring but somewhat sanctimonious attitude annoying and decided to end the conversation.

 ‘Sorry Rick can’t hear too well.’  She certainly was not going to leave the house in the state it was in and could not be bothered getting into an argument over it.

‘Give my love to the kids and Pop and tell them I’ll see them tomorrow afternoon.’

She clicked off.

     The relief caused her synapses to stop firing their highly charged electrical currents as she realized that as long as her family were safe, all was good in the world.  The throbbing in her ankle had miraculously disappeared and the massive job of cleaning the kitchen and Lord knows what else that lay ahead of her, dissolved into the blissful relief she now felt. She hadn't given her café another thought but now realised what a mess it may be.  Thank goodness for Sue, who had been her very good friend since primary school and without her the café would not have been so successful.  She was an energizer bunny and extremely loyal.

     She sat on that rusty roof, legs dangling over the edge and let the stress melt out of her.  She then realized, with a chuckle, what a sight she must be.  She still wore her nightgown " aqua sateen with bright pink watermelon pictures splashed over it - barely covering her thighs, thick woollen socks and oversized gumboots.