Hoki waited by the telephone. Six o’clock came and went. In her mind’s eye, she saw the ferry breasting the sea, leaving Picton. She could hear the boom of Bella’s shotgun and the squealing cries of the gulls.
Six-thirty. Still no call. I should have gone, Hoki told herself. I shouldn’t have left the responsibility to Skylark and Arnie.
Seven o’clock. Seven-thirty. Hoki feared the worst. She had always had the gift of matakite, the second sight, seeing into the future. Perhaps what she had seen last night wasn’t a dream at all. Perhaps the police had already been called to investigate a ute, smashed on rocks pounded by the sea. They were already pulling out the bodies of a girl and a boy. Above the scene, Kawanatanga was watching. He turned to Hoki, laughing at her, and she put her hands up to her ears to close him out.
The telephone rang just after eight. For a moment Hoki was too frightened to pick it up, just in case it was the police to tell her the bad news. Just in case it was a doctor at a hospital to say Skylark and Arnie were in critical condition.
“Mother Ship, are you there, Mother Ship? Do you copy? Over.”
Hoki gave a cry of relief. “We copy, Arnie. Thank God you’re alive. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. How’s Skylark?”
“She’s okay. Do you want to speak to her?”
Hoki was so cross that Arnie could be so casual. “In a moment. So, you got out of Tuapa without being seen? How was the trip to Picton? Any problems?”
“No,” Arnie answered. “Sweet as. We hit some roadworks on the way, just before Kaikoura, and that slowed us down and —”
“Yes, I know,” Hoki said, “you’ve missed the ferry.”
“Missed the ferry?” Arnie sounded puzzled. “I thought we would too. But even when the time went past six Skylark insisted we press on. Nag nag nag.”
“Good on her!”
“And guess what, Auntie? The ferry had been delayed. Bad weather apparently. We just made it on time. We’re the last vehicle on board. The ferry’s leaving right now.”
“Now?”
At the other end of the telephone, Hoki heard the blast of the ship’s horn, so loud it set up a ringing in her ears. Skylark and Arnie must have been standing right next to it.
“Hoki? Are you there, Hoki? We’re on our way,” Skylark said.
Then Arnie was back on the line.
“Affirmative, Mother Ship. We have ignition.”
Chapter Eight
“Come on, Arnie,” Skylark yelled.
Once the wagon had been parked, Skylark raced to the ferry’s upper deck. Arnie hung back.
“What’s the problem?” Skylark asked.
Arnie was looking ahead at the sea. While the ferry was sheltered within Queen Charlotte Sound there was no problem. Out in the open water, the storm was waiting like a giant fist. “I should have realised,” he groaned, “that if the boat was delayed for so long conditions out there must be bad. That storm is really going to hammer the shit out of me.”
Sure enough, once the ferry entered Cook Strait the weather slammed it from all sides. It dipped and heaved; Arnie’s face turned an interesting shade of green, and he was promptly as sick as a dog. Other passengers were leaning over the rails or hastening below decks for help.
“I think I’ll join them,” Arnie said to Skylark. “Maybe they’ve got a nurse who can give me something.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Skylark asked, concerned.
“No,” Arnie scowled as he made his way below. “I’d prefer pro-fession-al help, thanks.”
“See if I care,” Skylark called after him. Besides, she couldn’t see what the problem was. She had always revelled in stormy weather, wild wind and sea, and was both amused and mystified to find herself almost alone on the upper deck. Only she and an old man tanked to the gills with gin had not fled the elements. The ship dipped, the spray flew up and Skylark and the old man stood at the railing, at ease out here in the open. Out here she was free, she could be herself, and she had space to think clearly about all that had happened to her and Cora. The cold wind and spray from the sea sharpened her understanding of what was important and what wasn’t.
“I love you, Mum!” Skylark shouted.
She had always squarely confronted her challenges. No matter what lay before her, she would face the future head on.
Quarter of an hour later the weather turned really nasty. The old man saluted and left, and Skylark was in good humour when she decided it was time to check on Arnie.
“Some hero you turned out to be,” she said when she found him, collapsed and ill on a lower deck with other hapless seafarers.
“Do me a favour,” Arnie moaned. “Next time you’re on deck can you fall overboard?”
“Hear, hear,” said another passenger.
“Would you like something from the dining room?” Skylark asked sweetly. “A triple cheese burger perhaps?” She turned to the room at large. “Anybody like a burger with the works followed by an ice cream sundae?”
There was a chorus of moans. Arnie looked at her wanly. “I’d ask you to have mercy, but I know you wouldn’t know how to.”
“Didn’t you know?” Skylark asked. “I’m hard-hearted, and I like myself this way.” Even as she said it, Skylark knew it wasn’t true. It was simply that she had learnt the art of the caustic rejoinder. Growing up in a society that favoured pretty over plain, and compliant over stroppy, she had honed her skills with the fast put-down; it was the only way to get people to back up, and back off, before they could get a chance to put her down. The big voice and big attitude just seemed to grow with it.
As Arnie’s seasickness worsened, however, Skylark’s belligerence lessened and she began to feel sorry for him. He might be a pint-sized no-brain jock in overalls, but you should be kind to dumb animals, she mediated with herself. Arnie was half lying back, but he looked uncomfortable. His brow was drenched with sweat, his hair was slicked down with perspiration, and he was breathing in an awful way. When the ferry made a sudden heave and Arnie moaned and joined the rush for the toilets, Skylark took a deep breath and made a decision:
“I will not play at nurse, nor will I be mother, but —”
While their owners were in the toilets, Skylark swiped some of the vacated pillows and made up Arnie a better resting pallet. She ignored the yelps of protests as the previous owners returned — after all, in a situation like this, it was the survival of the fittest — and when Arnie came back she accepted his moan of gratitude as thanks enough. Even so, he almost ruined it.
“How much are you charging me?” he asked.
“Nothing. But I’m driving when we get to Wellington.”
“Oh no you won’t,” Arnie said. “It’s my wagon, and it’s like your jersey. Anybody else who touches it gets wasted.”
Throughout the rest of the crossing Skylark got Arnie to sit up rather than lie down. She held a bowl to his mouth whenever he got sick, and rinsed it out in the loo. She wiped his face with a wet cloth. She urged him to drink water to prevent him from becoming dehydrated. She even made a trip to the dining room to get him some clear soup and, although he protested, held his head up and spooned it into him. But she left the best of her ministrations till last. When, thirty minutes out from Wellington, Arnie asked, “How much longer?” she said, “Only an hour to go.” The result was that when the ferry reached the calmer water of Wellington Heads, the earlier arrival made Arnie’s face clear with a joyous sense of relief. He smiled his thanks, and Skylark was surprised to see that one of his eyes was green, the other was brown. They gave his face an odd, appealing look.