Chapter 31 Harakeke （Flax） Growing by the Shore
harakeke (flax) growing by the shore
Resilient, woven into something strong.
Later, we’re eating the chicken.
Waste not, want not, Grandpa said.
Chairs have been dragged out from the barn, tables set up; salad, bread and butter, plates peppering chequered tablecloths.
The oldies are still snorting as they rip into their rotisserie chicken, and I groan down to my plate. Trent, beside me, is an amused hum.
“They got the order wrong. They were supposed to spit-roast a whole hog.”
His hand fishes under the tablecloth and finds my thigh. “I know, I know.”
“Your eyes are still laughing.”
He bites into a chicken leg, looking at me over it. “I’m really happy.”
A flush—another flush—creeps up my face, and when my phone buzzes I jump at the reprieve, slinking around the other side of the nīkau to answer Moana’s call.
“Whānau and friends beach picnic next weekend,” she says down the line. “I invited our class tamariki. Promised them ice cream for the awesome work.”
“It’s almost winter.”
“No one says no to ice cream. Anyway, it’s supposed to be unusually warm. And if not, we’ll take it up to the studio.”
“Sure, sure. You’re telling me all this ‘cause you want me to be in charge of the ice cream, right?”
“Oh would you?” Moana says innocently. “How wonderful.”
I peek through palm leaves at the table, wincing. “My track record with food is not great.”
“What was that?”
“Never mind. Nothing will go wrong next time. I won’t let it.”
Moana hisses down the line. “Sounds like a line from a play before some tragedy.”
I hiss. Touch wood! And quickly palm the nīkau trunk.
And then another wrinkle comes to light. “Um, do you know which tamariki will come?”
Moana hums shrewdly. “Why do I get the feeling you’re fishing about your pet favourite? No, Holly’s mum said she wouldn’t make it.”
I nod, breathing out the knot, and end the call.
Grandpa’s cane whips out with a gentle snap across my buttocks. “No need to hide. Our family forgives fast.”
“You’ve got chicken skin on your jaw.”
He combs it off. “See, very fast. My legs are achy from sitting. Walk with me.”
We start off slow. Too slow; John and Bev catch up, wanting to tag along, and whatever wisdom Grandpa wanted to impart gets shelved for another time. I let out a relieved exhale, but a knot still sits in my stomach.
I might not be cowering behind the nīkau, but . . .
I glance over my shoulder, but the barn and the picnic tables and Trent are out of sight.
“If you’re not laughing, you’re not doing it right,” Grandpa says, suddenly. A little left field.
John swears as he stumbles over some roots, and Bev steadies him.
Grandpa snortles.
A faint breeze ripples across the paddock, grass folding with it like a wave. Grandpa’s cane taps through it. “Best wake ever.”
Once everyone has schlepped off to bed, Trent and I slink to our room.
The double bed. The single.
The hesitation.
The air smells faintly of laundry powder and old wood; a draught sneaks under the sill. I fuss with my suitcase longer than necessary, rustling zips like I have a purpose, while the corner of my eye keeps watch for a signal.
Trent brushes his teeth; when he speaks, there’s mint on his breath. He doesn’t change; he keeps on his T-shirt and shorts, and hunkers beside the dresser, opening and closing drawers soft enough to make the floorboards complain.
Is he watching me for signals too? Is he waiting for a yes?
“Yes,” I blurt, exactly as he says,
“Don’t undress.”
My stomach drops; I actually step back. His hand catches my forearm—firm, warm—and then loosens. “I meant, not yet,” he says, voice low.
He pulls two torches from the middle drawer, presses one into my palm, and curls my fingers around the rubber grip. A twitch at his mouth. He guides my thumb to the switch; the beam flares, then dies.
He falls back on top of the double, not under the covers. I perch on the other half, staring at the torch like it might explain the rules.
“Let’s give them an hour,” he murmurs, clicking off the lamp; the room exhales to black.
His torch snaps on, a pale cone across our shins, dust bright in the beam.
“They’ll sneak out again?” I whisper.
“They’re already heading to the barn. Shh—listen.”
We hold our breath. There it is: the whisper-giggle of conspirators in slippers, the faint thud of a cane against carpet.
“Séance?” I say.
“Or other sordid shenanigans.”
“We could let them have their fun.”
“Getting caught is half the fun.” A smile in his voice. “Tradition.”
“I hope we’re like this when we’re old,” I say, too flippant.
He swallows—audible in the dark. “Mm.”
A giddy shiver skates my spine. “Tell me more of their stories.”
He does, and the hour slips quick. Then jackets, shoes, torch beams grazing the hall photos as we sneak out.
At the barn doors, Trent snaps a couple of glow sticks, green leaking to life. A finger to his lips: Give them a moment.
From inside: “Someone’s coming.” “Lights!”
We rush in, torch light swinging.
The air smells of hay and spilled whiskey. Dust motes float through our beams as the scene freezes—old tractor, stacks of hay, a table and chairs and shielded faces.
“Play dead!” John screeches.
And with quite the dramatic flair, they all fold over the table, Grandpa quickly tucking a flask out of sight.
Trent calls out. “Caught in the act.” He finds the light switch and a few flickering bulbs light up the table and a dirty old bottle they’ve obviously been . . . spinning.
I tut and Bev quickly lets go of it.
John grabs and spins defiantly. And the neck of the bottle whirls and whirls and slows to a stop on Grandpa. “Ugh. That one doesn’t count.”
Grandpa leans over to him, demanding the kiss. And John lurches to his feet, pleading Bev to help him out here. When she folds her arms, smirking, he growls. “Right. Bedtime. We’ve been caught, fair and square.”
He even helps me confiscate the bottle, by tucking it under my arm. “We’re off. We’ll be good now.”
Trent walks them back. Their laughter trails over the paddock as I grip the bottle by the neck and—
It’s caked in a fine layer of mud, sealed with wax at the top.
They must have plucked this up from the garden.
I don’t think much more of it at that moment.
I set it beside the haystack and straighten the other mess they’ve left behind: chippie packets, pudding containers, a deck of cards.
The barn settles back into its creaks and quiet.
Until the door creaks open, light swaying, dust drifting through the air. Followed by Trent, blankets slung over one arm and a hopeful quirk to his eyebrow.
I snicker. “How cliché.”
“You want to be like them when you’re old . . .” he doesn’t finish, just drags me there.
“A romp in the hay.”
He dimples. “It’s our hayday.”
The hay rustles as he pulls me close. His satisfied sigh finds my neck.
The barn breathes around us, slow, content, full of dawn sounds. A sparrow shifts in the rafters; timber sighs around us.
At some point, Trent’s hands find me again, more asleep than awake. Then his body follows, a blanketing weight that shifts, sinking into all my gaps. We come awake together on gasps, and somewhere nearby, the spinning bottle tips over with a low clink.
It rolls a little, then settles in a stretch of morning light. The wax seal glows. I should notice it now. But I’m too busy matching my breath to Trent’s.
And then it’s forgotten as we stumble from the barn into the brightness of mid-morning, still laughing, hay clinging to our hair.
The air smells sweet with the faint tang of dew, and the sky is a startling blue, wide and welcoming.
We cross the paddock Grandpa walked me through yesterday, our boots dampening the grass, and make it halfway to the hill before Trent groans and sinks into a sunny patch of long blades.
I laugh and flop lengthwise beside him. “Just give me a few minutes. Then the hill.”
We lie on our backs, smiling, breath mingling, the sun a warm weight on our faces.
“Everything is upside down,” Trent murmurs, pointing. “The sea’s in the sky.”
The moment he says it, I see it: the clouds have shifted into waves, the wind shaping them into tides. A white fish swims across the blue, chased by its mother. A spiral of vapour curls like a shell.
For a heartbeat, it feels enchanted, like the world has turned inside out. Beautiful.
Trent finds my hand in the grass. Our fingers link, braided like harakeke strands.
The world holds its breath. So calm, so peaceful.
We’re even stupid enough to fall asleep.