facetious voice she names the park, reminds the dead man, Joe (we have a name at last), what city this is, the country and hemisphere, and what time he is expected. ‘Just where the hell are you, Joe?’ According to the time on the dash he is ten minutes late.
Well, a few minutes later the traffic begins to move. Wemove Joe into the passenger side of the back seat. Along the way there are some funny looks from passing motorists. Joe doesn’t look too good. I’ve leant him against the door in the back, his head against the window. He’s not a good colour. He looks mildly angered by something, perhaps slow service in a restaurant, something of that order. Graham and me park our cars on the shoulder behind Frank’s van, then we cram back into Joe’s car and continue on into town.
Frank drives, mindful of the speed limit. We find the park. There’s the gated entrance the woman spoke of; we drive to the circular green at the end. There’s some sort of nativity play happening down in the dell. Kids with cardboard swords, in costume, a gold crown here and there. The parents are standing around in a semi-circle. The women are talking to each other behind their hands. One or two of the men are nearly falling over with boredom.
I’m last out of the car. I make sure I bang the door shut, and a woman—in a light summery cotton dress, a bob of dark hair—turns and looks in our direction, at first without much interest, perhaps just to see where the noise came from. But now we see the mystery catch in her face. She knows that car. She doesn’t know us, of course. The questions line up to be answered. Who are these strange men driving up to her daughter’s nativity play in Joe’s car? Who are we? Why are we here? And where is her husband? Where is Joe? This is the moment Frank steps away from the back window.
the waiting room
She watched television at odd times of the day then complained that she felt ‘caught out’ if I happened to pop home early. She slept late. We argued over silly things. I knew what was the matter. And she did, too. We were travelling north, that time, into bright clear skies. It was late January and a drought on the east coast of the island had split the hills open. The slightest breeze gave rise to a dust cloud, and where we pitched our tent you could smell the earth on the caked Manawatu riverbed. I thought the great outdoors might turn things around for her and, I suppose, us. We read and spent a lot of time walking the dry riverbed. I had walked ahead this particularafternoon, imagining divorce, a new life, a new woman perhaps, and a new house, street, suburb. Suddenly I remembered Kath. I turned around and found her crouched over, parting driftwood and dry reed, clearing the way either side of a massive claw-mark in the mud.
The next day scientists from the National Museum’s Natural History Unit cut out the block of mud with the footprint of
Dinornis robustus
. Television arrived and interviewed Kath on-site. The rest of the holiday was spent combing the riverbed for more footprints.
Home again, and Kath received an invitation from the Natural History Unit to inspect her
Dinornis
footprint. That night she brought home a book on moa. One of its more surprising photographic plates featured the great British anatomist Sir Richard Owen standing next to the skeleton of the towering bird he named
Dinornis novaezelandiae
(prodigious or surprising bird).
For a number of years a copy of this photograph—of the skeleton from Tiger Hill in Otago and the anatomist in his rumpled academic robe—has sat on the mantelpiece next to the photograph of Kath and me whitewater-rafting.
As far as a skeleton is able to, the moa impresses as a rather benign creature. I think it has to do with the kindly tilt of its head in contrast to Sir Richard’s grumpiness. Furthermore I suspect the photographer has asked Sir Richard to place his hand on the hip of the
Dinornis
. Probably it is the professor’s first
Well, a few minutes later the traffic begins to move. Wemove Joe into the passenger side of the back seat. Along the way there are some funny looks from passing motorists. Joe doesn’t look too good. I’ve leant him against the door in the back, his head against the window. He’s not a good colour. He looks mildly angered by something, perhaps slow service in a restaurant, something of that order. Graham and me park our cars on the shoulder behind Frank’s van, then we cram back into Joe’s car and continue on into town.
Frank drives, mindful of the speed limit. We find the park. There’s the gated entrance the woman spoke of; we drive to the circular green at the end. There’s some sort of nativity play happening down in the dell. Kids with cardboard swords, in costume, a gold crown here and there. The parents are standing around in a semi-circle. The women are talking to each other behind their hands. One or two of the men are nearly falling over with boredom.
I’m last out of the car. I make sure I bang the door shut, and a woman—in a light summery cotton dress, a bob of dark hair—turns and looks in our direction, at first without much interest, perhaps just to see where the noise came from. But now we see the mystery catch in her face. She knows that car. She doesn’t know us, of course. The questions line up to be answered. Who are these strange men driving up to her daughter’s nativity play in Joe’s car? Who are we? Why are we here? And where is her husband? Where is Joe? This is the moment Frank steps away from the back window.
the waiting room
She watched television at odd times of the day then complained that she felt ‘caught out’ if I happened to pop home early. She slept late. We argued over silly things. I knew what was the matter. And she did, too. We were travelling north, that time, into bright clear skies. It was late January and a drought on the east coast of the island had split the hills open. The slightest breeze gave rise to a dust cloud, and where we pitched our tent you could smell the earth on the caked Manawatu riverbed. I thought the great outdoors might turn things around for her and, I suppose, us. We read and spent a lot of time walking the dry riverbed. I had walked ahead this particularafternoon, imagining divorce, a new life, a new woman perhaps, and a new house, street, suburb. Suddenly I remembered Kath. I turned around and found her crouched over, parting driftwood and dry reed, clearing the way either side of a massive claw-mark in the mud.
The next day scientists from the National Museum’s Natural History Unit cut out the block of mud with the footprint of
Dinornis robustus
. Television arrived and interviewed Kath on-site. The rest of the holiday was spent combing the riverbed for more footprints.
Home again, and Kath received an invitation from the Natural History Unit to inspect her
Dinornis
footprint. That night she brought home a book on moa. One of its more surprising photographic plates featured the great British anatomist Sir Richard Owen standing next to the skeleton of the towering bird he named
Dinornis novaezelandiae
(prodigious or surprising bird).
For a number of years a copy of this photograph—of the skeleton from Tiger Hill in Otago and the anatomist in his rumpled academic robe—has sat on the mantelpiece next to the photograph of Kath and me whitewater-rafting.
As far as a skeleton is able to, the moa impresses as a rather benign creature. I think it has to do with the kindly tilt of its head in contrast to Sir Richard’s grumpiness. Furthermore I suspect the photographer has asked Sir Richard to place his hand on the hip of the
Dinornis
. Probably it is the professor’s first
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