South

"She's just, er, well, perfect!"
He fumbled these words to his sister, his mouth left slightly agape
before his lips joined to form a smile down to his niece. She was
wrapped in a white cotton blanket and was happily gurgling whilst her
large dark blue eyes gazed fondly at her newly-met uncle.
"Do you love your Uncle Michael, Anna?"
The bay cooed affirmatively and smiled, dimples deepening on the soft
skin.
Here she was, the niece whose birth he had heard of ten days after the
event, on the other end of a transatlantic telephone line and here he
was, the prodigal uncle back from the world, back within the sight of
his beloved South Downs. The strange thing was that he was not quite
sure why he was back, could not recall any of the journey home and he
could not figure out the age of the infant, but he forgot this in the
euphoric rush of this first meeting with his sister's baby. He held her
closer, cautious that he might break the fragile bundle, and felt the
soft breeze of the infant's breath on his face.
Just then, the baby growled in a harsh baritone. "You took your time,
you bastard!"
Shocked, he looked up, his sister was gone, but a sound from above
distracted him. The light fitting was starting to jerk violently from
side to side, the mirror started to rattle frantically and the walls
started to pound as if God's fist was trying to punch them through. A
deep rumble grew until it was so loud that it engulfed the
senses.
"Oh God! It's an earthquake!"
He remembered his drill, scanning the room for the doorway or a table,
but there was none. The spasmodic leaping of the floorboards brought
him to his knees as he tried to keep the baby safe. Mother Earth, who
had cradled him for so long was punishing her wicked son and resigned
to this, he encased the innocent with his guilty torso and limbs. Dust
rained from the ceiling until chunks of plaster started to crash upon
the floor. Following each pounding of the walls came a voice, the voice
of God calling him to judgement?
"Michael! Michael! Don't forget you're going to Eastbourne this
morning!"
It was a woman's voice with a Swiss accent. About to be killed by his
own bedroom ceiling, he felt he could end the debate: God is Swiss, God
is a woman and everybody goes to Eastbourne when they die. But it was
too late for that now; he held the child tighter and braced himself for
death. He waited for the quick recap of his life, the expected gold
clock when retiring from this mortal coil. "I'm sorry Anna?!"
No flashback, just a huge weight which made everything go black.

"Michael, aren't you avake yet?"
He opened his eyes to see Vereena standing at the foot of his bed,
indifferent to his nightmare and clearly annoyed at having knocked on
the door for so long with no reply. "Come on! Hands of cocks, hands on
your socks! Marilyn wants that lift to Eastbourne now, it's her
father's birthday you know!"
"It's 'Hands off cocks! Hands on socks!' actually and I'll be down in a
bit!" he defiantly groaned and propped his head up on the pillow to
appear more awake.
"I've made you a coffee for ven you come down, OK Mike?"
"Yeah, cheers Vreni!"
"No vorries mate!"
Vereena left, shutting the door of his room behind her.

He had to get up, but his bed was like a womb and he was unwilling to
be born to the day. But he had to, he kicked back the uterine quilt and
swung his legs around before standing up and moving towards the
curtains.
The word "birthday" had reminded him of his nightmare.
"It's bloody well today isn't it!" was his condemnatory thought. "I'd
better give Jane a ring this evening. That'll be OK!" was his
consolatory thought. This did nothing to repel the guilt he was
starting to feel for the forgotten birthday of an unseen niece.
He whipped back the curtains to reveal his true location. The sun was
heading north over the bay, slightly obscured by the tall box buildings
of downtown Wellington. Directly ahead was Mount Victoria with the
small white wooden houses scattered up its side. A reassuring sight, he
was not in the land of his nightmare, England, the land of trouble
cloud crowded skies and uniformly grey lives, but in Aotearoa, " The
Land of The Long White Cloud". Well that was the name that the Maoris
called it. Not true on that day though, a deep blue sky and sunshine
swept radiated optimism. It would be a pleasant drive to Eastbourne,
not the Eastbourne of the old country, not the reddish brown town
viewed from Beachy Head where The Downs cascade into the sea. No, it
was not the place where felt life would end, it was the town to which
you caught the ferry across or drove around the sunlit bay from here
where life was really beginning.
It was hard to imagine that it was only one hundred and fifty years
since the first white settlers had arrived at "Te-Whanga-Nui-a-Tara" on
the "Aurora" and supposedly bought the land from the Maoris.

He remembered his own discovery of the place on a dull rainy morning in
November. Despite the promise of spring, it had remained cold and the
night bus had made its way down Highway One, past sodden green
mountains to the left and the flat sea waters of the rocky Kapiti
coastline to the right. He had had a head cold and had managed to sleep
a bit, but had felt awful, compounded by the chill early hour and
rain-soaked scenery.
Having passed through many towns with what had seemed to have been
unpronounceable Maori names beginning with "P", at seven o'clock in the
morning, he had reached his goal: the large red-bricked station where
he had alighted from the bus to the sound of a fellow passenger
expressing concern:
"Y'look a but crook mate, y'shud git to bid, eh!"
He had trudged to the telephone and searched through his bag for the
guide book in slow fatigued movements. He had prized the book from its
wedged resting place and turned to Wellington accommodation. There had
been a list of about seven hostels to choose from, at the top of which
had been "Hartcombe". Ten dollars for one night and a city centre
location had been all the sales pitch required to persuade this already
desperate customer for a roof over his head in the windy city of
Wellington. A brief telephone conversation and a taxi ride later, he
had arrived at what was now home but at the time seemed to be a
suitable shelter from the incessant rain and biting wind.

The weather had created such a different atmosphere then. It had all
been so pessimistic compared to today's sunshine. He looked down at the
intensely bright white stone steps leading up to the front of Hartcombe
from the steep street. He could still remember his laboured legs and
swimming head as he had sniffed his way up them, bracing himself
against the whipping wind and the stinging strings of rain, that first
time.
He had reached his hand out blindly against the white wooden frame of
the glass front door which had given welcomingly as he had pressed
against it and entered a world of comparative silence. The first thing
that had struck him as he had stumbled into the brown carpeted foyer
was the familiar atmosphere of an English seaside hotel, just like the
ones visited every summer with his family. The rain-dashed window panes
had probably aided this along with the cold warmth of an unfamiliar
home. No one had been about, understandable at a quarter past seven,
only a fat ginger cat which had glanced up at him from its chair,
jumped down and waddled off as if to announce his arrival.
"Hi, you must be Michael, eh!"
He remembered how those words had torn him back from the English
Riviera to the bottom of the world. The young blonde female speaker had
been standing in the office doorway. She had introduced herself as Lee,
the daughter of the owners, Grant and Marilyn. She was looking after
the place whilst the Swiss manageress, Vereena was on holiday.
In the same romantic spirit of discovery of the European traveller
meeting the natives, he had exchanged duty free cigarettes as she had
dried his clothes and plied him with enough coffee for him to stay
awake. Then had come the unexpected job offer as driver for the hostel.
The job which he had learned involved waiting at the station or ferry
terminal until the boat, train or bus hatched out potential customers,
fledgling visitors to Wellington ready to be pounced upon by the
predatory touts for seven hungry hostels. Lee had never mentioned odd
jobs like today's which made him feel like a glorified taxi service.
Still, it was a funny thought, here he was, two months later, on a
glorious January midsummer day, having to drive her mother around the
bay.

"SHIT!"
Remembering why he was up, he turned from the sunlit backdrop to his
thoughts and hurriedly gathered up a bundle of clothes from the
chaotically ordered pile on the floor. He left his room and marched
into the first floor hallway towards the bathroom. He washed himself,
pausing afterwards to watch the water spiral the other way from the
sink. It was a source of fascination and another confirmation that
England was far away, along with the sun's light creeping in the
opposite direction around the room from the northern sky and at night,
the Moon and Orion being the other way up. Having witnessed a miracle
of the earth's rotation, he dressed and hurried down the nylon carpeted
stairs, trainers gripped in hand to suggest haste. As he turned through
the door in to the office he saw Marilyn standing akimbo. Vereena was
sitting behind the desk trying to look busy as Fingal, Hartcombe's
resident ginger cat, lay napping, unbothered by the owner's presence.
Matthias, another Hartcombe employee, sat by the table where a cup of
coffee patiently awaited Michael's lips. Michael started to try and
pacify the akimboed, "I'm sorry Marilyn but I?" As he reached out a
reassuring hand of peace, a flash of static electricity leapt from his
finger into his employer's forearm.
"Ow!"
The cat started, rolling and falling from his chair before landing on
his feet and running for safety. Michael recoiled, anticipating a scene
worse than the end of his dream. Shaking her electrified arm, Marilyn
surprised him,
"It's OK Mike. Frenny seys the late firry was delayed last night but
you and Mett meneged to git heaps of beckpeckers inyway!" He looked
across at Vereena who was nodding smugly with a smile that told of
future favours to be expected having subdued an impatient Marilyn, and
Matthias who was clearly restraining a laugh.
"Drink ye coffee first and thin we'll go, Mike!"
Having downed his coffee amidst an uncharacteristically quiet office,
although the presence of the boss might have had a lot to do with it,
he donned his trainers, leapt up and lifted the van keys from the rack
on the wall.
"Right ready!"
"Is it OK if I come?" enquired Matthias, poised to spring from a
sitting to a standing position.
"Yeah, sure Mett!" replied Marilyn amiably

The Englishman, the German and their New Zealander employer bade adieu
to the Swiss and made their way through to the back of the building,
taking care in the kitchen not spoil the good work of Yin-Ti, the
Vietnamese, who was crouched, wiping the floor. It was somehow typical
to both Michael and Matthias that in a business which employed pretty
well all of the staff illegally, that the European illegals were
chauffeuring whilst the Vietnamese cleaned the floors and toilets.
Michael always said hello to her and she always replied in the same
way, that morning being no exception, a nod, a smile and a friendly
grunt between discoloured teeth, as if she were too modest to attempt
to say hello in his language.

As they started their journey through the brilliance of the day,
Michael and Matthias braced themselves for the usual business banter
from the boss, of needing more "backpackers" and the possibility of the
hostel closing down if it was not full every day. They had both figured
out that what was usually proclaimed by Marilyn or her husband, Grant
was vast exaggeration to "motivate" the workforce, by putting them in
fear of their very jobs. They were in for an unusual message; it seemed
that the previous night's ferry had insured a full house and
consequently their skills of persuasion in four languages would not be
needed. They reacted in a typically restrained manner, keen to give the
impression that touting was their second nature and that a day without
it would not really be a day-off at all.
"Thanks, Marilyn!"

By the time the business brief was over, they had already left the
confines of the city, the streets of which were in deep shadows of the
high-rises either side. They had still managed to create shadows even
thought the sun itself was approaching its northern noon summit. He was
not sure whether it was his familiarity with the city, but he could
sense every downtown pavement brace itself for the grey suit invasion
of government workers at lunchtime. The road out of the city around the
bay was a joyous assortment of sights, the normally empty wind battered
beaches were populated by pallid bathers of both water and sun
varieties with pink zinc cream noses and a thick layer of factor 27 sun
cream on their cancer prone skin - Such was the respect for the power
of the sun's rays there and the despair at the plight of their ozone
protector. He noticed a "Danger! Penguins Crossing!" sign and revelled
further in his new land. Marilyn soon spoilt this.
"So've y'bin un touch with y'folks recently?"
"Uh yeah, it's my niece's birthday today!"
"Dud y'sind her a prizzie and a card?"
"Yes I did!" he lied.
Suddenly the van had ceased to be the viewing deck from which he
discovered more of his new home, but a prison in which sat his
conscience in the form of Marilyn reminding him of the old home that he
had abandoned. Eastbourne and Marilyn's father's house could not come
quick enough.

They dropped off their employer, arranging her later collection and
turned for home. Matthias got out a packet of tobacco and two papers to
roll two cigarettes, one for himself and one for Michael whose hands
were too busy with steering the escape route from Marilyn.
"What a glorious day! Do you fancy a small trip to Mount Vic, my pommie
friend?"
"Well they don't need us and they won't need the van for a while, so I
don't see why the damn hell not! 'Gute Idee!'"
Matthias passed the rolled relaxer to Michael who put it to his lips,
lit it and seemed to draw on it pensively. The German instinctively
noticed this but thought better of enquiring after his friend's
thoughts. He felt that it would be better to wait until they appeared
better organized. In any case, Mount Victoria would be the place to go
for Michael to sort out his clearly troubled mind. From its lookout on
a mountain on a peninsular which jutted out into the middle of the bay
everything could be seen and everything seemed right. Life below could
be seen to be continuing but you did not have to participate in
it.
Michael spoke.
"What a day!"
"Is that good? Or bad?"
"Well it was a bit of a crap start. I had this nightmare. I was back in
England."
"Yes, that would be a nightmare indeed!"
"But that wasn't all. I saw my niece. She called me a bastard for
having been away for so long. Then I died in an earthquake! I realised
afterwards that I've forgotten her birthday."
"Very dramatic for only a forgotten birthday of a niece who won't miss
you!"
"But the family?"
"Yeah sure your family will be annoyed but you're not telling me that
their whole lives will stop because you forgot a family birthday. That
they are all shut away indoors doing nothing until you return. They
have their lives and you have yours!"
Taken aback by such a frank statement of the obvious, Michael was
forced to see a largely self-indulgent quality to his guilt and the
true nature of his fear. He was not really worried that he was
forgetting them, but that they would forget him.
"Come on, how can you worry on a day like today! We have the sun, the
van, the bay, Mount Vic and most importantly, the time to enjoy it
all!"
Putting on his best Kiwi accent, Michael proclaimed "Yeh, shill be
roight mate!"
They had reached the winding narrow streets up the mountain, the view
of the city was becoming larger and more comprehensive!

At the top of Mount Victoria a breeze was blowing, it always did there.
Climbing over the iron railing surrounding the tarmac lookout, they
went to sit upon the grass bank which appeared to be fanned by giant
hands as the breeze blew waves across its green face. From this point
onwards neither was aware of the other. It was so serene, the bright
sun illuminated the rugged green mountains beyond the reach of the
city's houses. From here on the highest point of the small peninsula,
the shape of the massive extinct volcano could be still clearly made
out, the violent origins of the place where Michael had found the most
peace on his travels. He looked towards the Hutt Valley where the Fault
Line could be seen making its way north, sleeping now, but ready to
destroy everything man-made if it so wished. He turned towards
Hartcombe, a small grey dot amongst the cluster of Spanish style houses
on the hillside. If he climbed to the top of those mountains he could
see the South Island. Why did he love it all so? Was it because it
reminded him of his origins? He thought about the Downs. As a child
they had been a source of fascination, not in themselves but in the
fact that from them he could see the sea, beyond which was another
land, beyond that another. He had had this conversation with many
travellers, it had been a common motivation. Had it been the same for
James Cook? Had it been the same for Abel Tasman? Had it been the same
for Tara as he had canoed his way into this turquoise sea bay and named
it as his? He was starting to feel the pull again. He was happy here,
maybe happier than he had ever been in his life. He was certainly in
the right place at the right time and that was now, but how long would
"now" last? Saying goodbye was a hardship which got easier with the
more that he travelled and he knew he would inevitably have to do it
again soon.
The warm northwesterly breeze picked up and changed direction to a
chill breeze from the south. This wind blew directly from a continent
of penguins and giant icebergs which he had not seen. There was still
so much of the world to see. The urge to move on grew even stronger. He
saw the ferry wind around his mountain before disappearing behind those
mountains on the way to Picton on the South Island. A small plane took
off from the airport to the east, before banking round to head for
Nelson. He longed to be on it. He thought of his family and wondered.
How many more hills to climb? How many more seas to cross? If he
crossed enough, one day, the hills in the distance would undoubtedly be
his beloved South Downs.