Mary Ann, put the kettle on!’
The woman nodded gravely and pushed the girl before her into the room. Behind them now appeared a very old woman with a tattooed chin and wrinkled cheeks. Water poured from them and over their bare muddy feet. The tiny room was crammed with people.
‘Back children, and let them come to the fire! Never mind the wet—we must get some warmth into you,’ said Mrs Phipps.
The children pressed back to the wall, and Mary Ann pushed the kettle and the soup pan over the blaze, and hurried to the bedroom. The old woman began to speak rapidly in Maori. Mrs Phipps took her hands and drew her to the hearth; the hands were numb and stiff. Shyly the little girl came to the warmth.
‘Boys!’ commanded Mrs Phipps. ‘All to bed! There’s work to be done here. Archie, take Emma, please.’
‘Story! I want the story!’
‘No, Emma.’
‘I’ll tell you the story in your bed,’ whispered Archie as he took her in his arms. At the bedroom entrance they had to dodge Mary Ann who was almost hidden behind an armful of blankets.
The young mother lifted down the pikau. Yes, there was a baby, a sad little thing who barely moved and had not enough strength to cry.
‘Mumma,’ whispered Jim, ‘is the baby dead?’
‘No, but it’s very ill, I think. You must go to bed; we’ll be very busy making it better.’
The boys had to run around the house to their own bedroom entrance, and a gust from the door sent a shiver through the room. Already Mary Ann had begun work on the girl, stripping off her clothes and rubbing her dry. The old woman, with a few quiet words, loosened her own cloak and let the heat from the fire draw the steam away; she moved her arms gently and rhythmically to restore the circulation. The young mother sat without moving, quite exhausted.
‘Let me take the baby,’ said Mrs Phipps kindly. ‘You must get yourself dry.’
‘He’s very sick,’ said the mother.
The baby’s hands and feet were icy but his forehead burned in a hot flush under the brown skin. Mrs Phipps held him to the fire, rubbing him gently, as she had often done with a weakling calf. By this time the little girl had a warm blanket wrapped round her naked body and was sipping her bowl of hot broth. Mary Ann set the teapot to brew and helped the young mother to change. Only when she had taken her cup of strong, sweet tea did she have strength enough to speak.
‘My husband is away at Akaroa,’ said the mother at last.‘The water washes the houses at Rapaki—our house, many others, full of water. We come here.’
‘You did right to come,’ Mrs Phipps assured her. ‘I have been through Rapaki, but I do not know your names.’
‘This is Mrs Tau, my husband’s grandmother.’ The old woman looked up and nodded at the mention of her own name.
‘You are Mrs Tau, too?’
‘I am Mrs Tau; I am Miria. The girl, Eita—Esther. The boy, Wiremu—very sick.’
‘Wiremu? That’s William, isn’t it? We also have a William! You have milk for the baby, have you?’
‘He will not drink. He will die.’
Her voice was without hope and so was the tone of the Maori words that came rapidly from Mrs Tau. Those old eyes had seen many sorrows. Before the white settlement, the warparties of the great chief Te Rauparaha had come from the north and killed many of their kinsmen. There had even been a long feud within their own Ngai Tahu tribe. Measles and influenza, brought by the Pakeha, had taken many Maori lives. Was it likely that this little one could be saved?
Miria repeated a little of this in English, but Mrs Phipps would have no such talk.
‘Where there’s life, there’s hope. You have milk?’
‘Yes, I have milk.’
‘Then I shall make him wake now, and cry, and when he cries you must force him to swallow. Perhaps he will only swallow a drop. Never mind that: you must make him.’
She slapped the baby hard until his lips parted in a loud wail, then pressed him into Miria’s arms. Miria looked quite
The woman nodded gravely and pushed the girl before her into the room. Behind them now appeared a very old woman with a tattooed chin and wrinkled cheeks. Water poured from them and over their bare muddy feet. The tiny room was crammed with people.
‘Back children, and let them come to the fire! Never mind the wet—we must get some warmth into you,’ said Mrs Phipps.
The children pressed back to the wall, and Mary Ann pushed the kettle and the soup pan over the blaze, and hurried to the bedroom. The old woman began to speak rapidly in Maori. Mrs Phipps took her hands and drew her to the hearth; the hands were numb and stiff. Shyly the little girl came to the warmth.
‘Boys!’ commanded Mrs Phipps. ‘All to bed! There’s work to be done here. Archie, take Emma, please.’
‘Story! I want the story!’
‘No, Emma.’
‘I’ll tell you the story in your bed,’ whispered Archie as he took her in his arms. At the bedroom entrance they had to dodge Mary Ann who was almost hidden behind an armful of blankets.
The young mother lifted down the pikau. Yes, there was a baby, a sad little thing who barely moved and had not enough strength to cry.
‘Mumma,’ whispered Jim, ‘is the baby dead?’
‘No, but it’s very ill, I think. You must go to bed; we’ll be very busy making it better.’
The boys had to run around the house to their own bedroom entrance, and a gust from the door sent a shiver through the room. Already Mary Ann had begun work on the girl, stripping off her clothes and rubbing her dry. The old woman, with a few quiet words, loosened her own cloak and let the heat from the fire draw the steam away; she moved her arms gently and rhythmically to restore the circulation. The young mother sat without moving, quite exhausted.
‘Let me take the baby,’ said Mrs Phipps kindly. ‘You must get yourself dry.’
‘He’s very sick,’ said the mother.
The baby’s hands and feet were icy but his forehead burned in a hot flush under the brown skin. Mrs Phipps held him to the fire, rubbing him gently, as she had often done with a weakling calf. By this time the little girl had a warm blanket wrapped round her naked body and was sipping her bowl of hot broth. Mary Ann set the teapot to brew and helped the young mother to change. Only when she had taken her cup of strong, sweet tea did she have strength enough to speak.
‘My husband is away at Akaroa,’ said the mother at last.‘The water washes the houses at Rapaki—our house, many others, full of water. We come here.’
‘You did right to come,’ Mrs Phipps assured her. ‘I have been through Rapaki, but I do not know your names.’
‘This is Mrs Tau, my husband’s grandmother.’ The old woman looked up and nodded at the mention of her own name.
‘You are Mrs Tau, too?’
‘I am Mrs Tau; I am Miria. The girl, Eita—Esther. The boy, Wiremu—very sick.’
‘Wiremu? That’s William, isn’t it? We also have a William! You have milk for the baby, have you?’
‘He will not drink. He will die.’
Her voice was without hope and so was the tone of the Maori words that came rapidly from Mrs Tau. Those old eyes had seen many sorrows. Before the white settlement, the warparties of the great chief Te Rauparaha had come from the north and killed many of their kinsmen. There had even been a long feud within their own Ngai Tahu tribe. Measles and influenza, brought by the Pakeha, had taken many Maori lives. Was it likely that this little one could be saved?
Miria repeated a little of this in English, but Mrs Phipps would have no such talk.
‘Where there’s life, there’s hope. You have milk?’
‘Yes, I have milk.’
‘Then I shall make him wake now, and cry, and when he cries you must force him to swallow. Perhaps he will only swallow a drop. Never mind that: you must make him.’
She slapped the baby hard until his lips parted in a loud wail, then pressed him into Miria’s arms. Miria looked quite
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