The Coral Route

PART 1

Chapter One

Waiheke Island, November 2018

Jean carried her breakfast tray of loose-leaf tea and a slice of toast with marmalade onto the veranda. The tray jangled and shook like the shell wind chimes she made with her granddaughter last summer. She heard the low whirring hum of the De Havilland Beaver before she saw it come into view, lowering itself into the bay like a giant dragonfly. The seaplane kissed the millpond water, like an expertly skimmed stone. As it came to a halt, the pops from the nine cylinders slowed like popcorn bursting erratically in a heavy-based saucepan.

These visits punctuated her day, like the rise and fall of the tides, and had kept her going this past year. Each morning, the plane’s arrival marked the passing of another night she had endured without her dear Piripi. That and the plastic solar powered hula girl her granddaughters had given her to remind her of her years working on the Islands. She kept her smile and shook her hips no matter the weather, even when Jean’s world had tumbled down around her. But now she had made it through 382 dawns and 764 low tides, and life was getting a little easier. It hadn’t been a long illness, it was relatively unexpected, but as everyone kept telling her, “he was eighty-nine years old, Jeanie, he lived a good long life”.

But to her, it wasn’t long enough.

At first, she tried to get through each day, each week, each month, and then a season at a time. Those previous sixty-two springs, summers, autumns and winters she had felt cocooned and protected like she had been enveloped in a warm safe blanket. But now she felt the bark stripped away, raw and exposed to the burning sun. Taking a bite from her piece of toast, Jean again looked out at the sea. The engine had turned off and a blanket of silence lay over the bay. The pilot jumped down, barefoot in ankle deep water, mooring the plane. She glanced down at her Patek Philippe watch, bought for her by Piripi on one of his many visits to far-flung airports when he was a pilot for Air New Zealand. It kept perfect time, and she noticed she should get on.

Jean had planned to write her Christmas cards this morning and had some time before she had to leave. She was meeting her friend for coffee and hoped it would be just the two of them, but Barbara, who wrote the community newsletter, often popped up out of nowhere like the voracious wild ginger that was spreading through her garden. Her irascible nature meant she could turn a lovely quiet morning into a dramatic, argumentative debate and, at her age, life was too short for confrontation. She got up and steadied herself against the glass table, as she felt a little light-headed. Carrying the tray back to the small kitchen, she washed the cup and saucer and plate and placed them on the drying rack.

As she walked into the living room shards of light hit the crystal whiskey decanter, a wedding present from TEAL, and the room burst into a kaleidoscope of rainbow stars or a “party of fairies” as her youngest granddaughter would say. Stepping towards her mother’s antique bureau, she carefully picked up the silver photo frame which held their wedding photo and lovingly brushed the light layer of dust that had fallen since yesterday. Returning her gaze were two attractive young people, with the world ahead of them, blissfully happy. She wore a beautiful, yet simple, white tea length dress, with capped sleeves, and nipped at the waist and Piripi looked dashing in his Air Force dress uniform.

Returning the silver frame, Jean opened the bureau and picked up the Christmas cards, a pen, and her well-worn address book. She pulled the chair closer and sat down, opening the packet of cards. Her daughter always told her to save the money on the postage and send one of those appalling animated e-cards, which required a mere email address and note for all. No, that wasn’t for her. Her cards were as individual as the addresses on the envelopes, each card touched by her, each letter carefully crafted and thoughtfully written.

Jean opened the address book at “A” and by the time she had reached “J” had already crossed off three names of friends who had passed on that year. She was nearing the halfway mark in the address book, where most of her friends gathered and inside her anxiety grew, like storm clouds on the horizon. She had thought about writing to an old friend, one she hadn’t contacted in over fifty-eight years, but couldn’t bring herself to think about that now. The carriage clock chimed a single note to mark half past the hour. Internally she sighed with relief; it was time to go. Checking herself in the mirror, she put on her sun hat and walked through the front door, the fly screen slamming behind her. To her daughter’s horror, she never locked the door when she popped out. Why would she? She lived on a small island and everyone knew everyone. The only thing clambering over her wall was the waterfall of nasturtiums that seemed to take over her garden.

The heat was strong for this time of year and she took a brief break as she walked up the steps to the road, those fifteen steps seemed to require more effort each year. She rested a while to smell the heady fragrance of a gardenia bush, redolent of her past life in the Islands, and waved at a few neighbours along the way and entered the Dolce Vita Coffee Shop.

Jean greeted the efficient barista as she worked the coffee machine like a conductor guiding a symphony. The noise of the coffee grinder, the double bang of the portafilter knocked clean of its grouts, and the potent smell of coffee was an assault on her senses. Not an unpleasant assault, it just came out of nowhere, like the unexpected embrace of a tumbling grandchild. She went to find their favourite seat outside. It was a little quieter there, although she could still hear the comforting coffee shop sounds and the old-fashioned music which she adored. Occasionally, they would play songs from the soundtrack of her courtship with Piripi, the dulcet tones of Mario Lanza and Mavis Rivers, and the melodic sounds of island life from Bill Sevesi, the master of the steel guitar and ukulele.

She looked out at the turquoise and blue opaline water mixing like tile tessellations and felt a breath of warm air. Perhaps the breeze had come from the South Pacific islands, born on the whispers of ukulele and song with the scent of tiaré and frangipani heavy in the air. The breeze embraced her, and the dappled sunlight kissed her closed eyelids as she tilted her head towards the sun. Life indeed was sweet.

As she glanced up, she saw her dear friend walk through the door, clutching a newspaper. They greeted each other with smiles and hugs and a youthful excitement hung in the air as the two looked forward to catching up.

"How have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you for so long! How was your trip to see the grandchildren?"

"Oh Jeanie, you know, lovely but chaotic- nice to be home". She said, tapping her friend’s hand. "Did you order?"

"No, not yet. I was waiting for you. Two flat whites and an almond croissant to share?" A smile and twinkle in the eye from Irene meant Jean had read her friend’s mind.

"Do you think Barbara will come?" Jean said with a slightly concerned grimace. Irene reciprocated with a similar expression.

"Oh, I do hope not. I don’t fancy any drama today." She said with a smile.

Irene opened the newspaper, flicking through the news features. They liked to keep up with current affairs, but what they enjoyed most was the crossword at the back. Although neither were great wordsmiths, it helped them to collect some unusual words for their weekly scrabble evenings.

"Can you believe this?" Irene said. "This young girl from Sweden is going to speak at this big climate meeting in December. It is a good time for young people to be alive, hey Jeanie, everyone’s opinion matters these days. In our day, they expected you to keep quiet and look pretty."

"My sister would have done well to have been a young woman today, she was born before her time. She drove my mother to distraction during dinner parties with her opinions and commentary."

"And where did that get her?"

"Divorced" replied Jean.

They both laughed heartily, not noticing the force that was Barbara entering the coffee shop, a whirlwind of brightly coloured fabric and strong-smelling perfume.

"You’ll never believe what just happened!" She pulled up a chair. The two friends looked at each other with disappointed resignation. "I was practically run over by one of those sneaky Prius cars. I just couldn’t hear it!" She shook her head in disgust and tutted. "Honestly, I don’t know how they are legal. How can they be good for the environment if they run people over?!"

Jean looked at Irene. Their peaceful coffee was now over. They both knew that Barbara was about to launch into her most contentious soliloquy about the myth of Global Warming. Jean feared she could be a supporter of that snollygoster in the US, a new 16-point word she had just learned, which she was holding close to her chest for a night of scrabble.

Rarotonga, Cook Islands, November 2018

Marama strummed her mahogany and koa wood ukulele, welcoming visitors from flight NZ946 to Rarotonga. She gave them a welcoming smile as they emerged cautiously from their giant metal cocoon, like mesmerised butterflies, watching as they circled around the airport fans like it was sweet nectar. They looked on in awe, not quite believing a place like this existed; a handful of greenstone islands scattered in the middle of the South Pacific ocean.

She began playing “I Raro Ite Tumunu” followed by “Kua Iti Te Marama” a song her estranged husband would sing to her when they were courting. Accompanying her was the percussion of the “thud, thud, thud,” of the passport stamps, providing an official welcome to the Cook Islands. Marama played so naturally, it was like breathing. She was an expert player, yet she would direct any praise to her mother’s traditional Hawaiian ukulele and not her own skill.

For two years she had sat at this tropical pulpit serenading visitors with the mellifluous sounds of the Pacific islands, a far cry from her previous life working at Auckland City Hospital. She wore a turquoise blue dress with a tropical print of pink and red hibiscus and on her head an ‘ei katu made from tiaré maori, frangipani and bougainvillea; the essence of the land she was from. For too much of her life, she had worn a nurse’s uniform and now back home she fully embraced the laid-back approach of island life.

Marama had returned to look after her mother in her aging years. She mused she was the reverse of the tuna or longfin eel which travel the 5000km from New Zealand to the Pacific Islands to breed. She had done the opposite, leaving Rarotonga shortly after she married to give her un-born children the possibilities that island life could never afford. Now they were grown up and established, her son working for local government and her daughter in academia. Although she missed her children terribly, she was happy to be finally back home.

Even though she referred to Mama Mata as her mother, she was, in fact, her mother’s sister. Her own mother had died when she was four years of age and Mata had taken care of her and loved her like her own. To Mata, Marama was the daughter she never had, always fiercely protecting her like she was her own flesh and blood.

When the last passenger had left she packed up her ukulele, the paua inlay glinting like sea opals in the sun, and placed it in the old faded canvas case. From her handbag, she pulled out a plastic supermarket bag from CITC and filled it with three complimentary “Escape” magazines to give to her family. Inside was an article and photo about the wedding business her niece had just launched. In the photo her mother looked beautiful and proud in her best floral print dress, wearing a crown of flowers on her head, defying her age of ninety-three. Leilani, her niece, smiled back at the camera, looking like a true island princess. She wore a tiaré flower tucked behind her ear, her dark wavy hair framing her smiling face and hazelnut eyes sparkling with hope and vitality. She had the beauty that had made Fletcher Christian and his men mutineer from the Bounty. Marama, however, wore every night shift on her lined face, her body tired and worn from lifting heavy beings and medical paraphernalia.

Ordinarily, the smell of tropical flowers would overpower visitors as the airport doors opened. The scent emanated from the skeins of ‘eis held in the hands of hotel proprietors, ready to be placed over the heads of island guests. Yet today, a lull between flights meant it was quiet beyond the doors and Marama walked out just in time for the anti-clockwise bus to take her home. As the driver saw her, he pulled the bus to a halt and the doors sighed open.

“Kia orāna Marama, finished for the day?”

“Ae Roger, heading back home to Mama.” Marama climbed the steps and scanned the bus. She walked to the back, where her friend Grace waved enthusiastically.

“Marama! Pe’ea ‘ua koe?”

“Well, and you? And the whānau?” Marama replied.

“All well, meitaki. I saw the article about Leilani, please congratulate her for me.”

“I’m so pleased I bumped into you. I found some old photos of the flying boats moored in Aitutaki. I thought they could be a wonderful addition to your exhibition.”

“I’d love to see them.” Grace replied, “I’m working tomorrow, can you come by then?

“Sure, I’ll come by around 10am?”

“Perfect.” Grace smiled, noticing the driver was slowing to a stop.

Marama got up from her seat “ka kite!” she said, grabbing the handrail to steady herself as the bus jerked to a stop. “Ka kite” she called again, this time to the rest of the passengers. She stepped onto the road, re-arranging her bags, waving with her free hand to the jaunty yellow and white bus as it rattled off in a huff of smoke. She looked up at the jagged teeth of Te Rua Manga, covered in a blanket of thick grey cloud, and she hurried to miss the imminent rain.

The day had been one of sun and rainbows; torrential downpours, followed by sunshine. The kind of day when the taro happily stomped their roots in fresh swampy land and the banana plants grew half a metre. But now Tāwhirimātea had stopped playing games and threatened a tropical storm.

Marama quickened her step as she approached Ara Metua, the ancient back road which had skirted the mountain edges for a thousand years. As she neared home she could hear the soporific ukulele music on the radio and warming sounds of Mama’s laughter emanating from the veranda. As Marama walked up the steps, she saw Mama Mata sitting in her favourite chair, with a wild gardenia in her hair, her smiling face smoothing away her years.

“Ah, there she is,” said Mama Mata. “Back from serenading the island visitors.”

Marama leant over and kissed her mother and smiled at her mother’s friend. “Kia orāna, Auntie. You look well.” She said cheerfully. “I have something to show you both, it’s the photo of us in the ‘Escape' magazine.” Mama Mata clapped her hands in excitement.

“Wonderful! Get yourself a drink and plate for some coconut cake and come and show us.”

Marama walked into the house. The wind swirled around her and the back door slammed shut. Palm trees bent low, the fronds almost sweeping the ground and the giant dried leaves of the Puka, the size of dinner plates, scuttled across the backyard like animals sheltering from a storm. In the distance, she heard a rumble of thunder and the lights flickered. She went to the old fridge, pocked with rust marks, and opened the door. She rested awhile to luxuriate in the air’s coolness before removing a jug of water and poured herself a glass. Immediately, the glass frosted over and she lifted it to her forehead and pressed it against her neck and chest to cool herself. A mosquito landed on her ankle and she swotted it away, fearing it had already had its feast. Walking over to the drawer of useful things, Marama took out the mosquito coils, carefully separating the intertwining concentric circles so they wouldn’t break. As the lights flickered again, she pulled out the candles as well, in case there was a power-cut. As she went to the cupboard to get herself a plate, the wind rattled the windowpanes and instantly rain lashed down on the corrugated roof.

As the storm raged outside, Marama’s home had become a haven for a cornucopia of bugs and insects seeking shelter. The chirping moko licked up mosquitos like ice-cream and Marama thanked them for each mosquito eaten was one less to bother her. “Kia mākona my friends- relish your heaven sent kai!” She left them to enjoy their manna from heaven and joined her mother and her friend on the veranda.

As Ranginui’s tears fell to nurture Papatūānuku, the light faded between them and they closed their embrace. Soon Te Marama would rise, accompanied by Ngā Whetū- keeping watch on the Islands Marama called home.