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    Beyond the Bay
    Beyond the Bay
    Beyond the Bay
    Ebook296 pages4 hours

    Beyond the Bay

    By Rebecca Burns

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    About this ebook

    “The night before Esther’s ship was due to dock, her sister dreamed of her.”


    Auckland at the turn of the century. A city on the cusp of change. Isobel, a settler of ten years, waits for her sister to cross the ocean to join her. Separated by distance, disappointments and secrets, the women reunite in a land where the rules of home do not apply. Women push for the vote and the land offers opportunity and a future for those brave enough to take it. But some secrets run too deep, some changes too shocking to embrace. Against this backdrop of uncertainty and promise, Isobel and Esther have to determine what – and who – means most.


    In this novel, Rebecca Burns returns to the colonial New Zealand explored in her short story collection, The Settling Earth. Beyond the Bay is a novel of hope, redemption, and the unbreakable bond of family.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOdyssey Books
    Release dateSep 19, 2018
    ISBN9781925652512
    Beyond the Bay

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      Book preview

      Beyond the Bay - Rebecca Burns

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      Esther

      Eyes open. Sunshine on an oddly decorated wall, covered completely with print, tiny print—could that be? Esther’s eyes felt sticky and she blinked, wondering if sleep had muddled her vision. It happened occasionally, on the boat; the ever-present swing and sway of water sometimes turned her mind into a warm puddle and she could not read on her narrow bunk.

      But the bed upon which she now lay was solid and still. Lumpy, true, but the coverlet was warm. She felt as though she had slept properly for the first time in months and awoke, wonderfully, without the first sensation being a need to dry retch into a porcelain bowl.

      And yet, and yet … Esther curled up in the bed and pulled her knees to her chest, as far as they would go. She had barely slept on the boat the night before. Landfall was tantalisingly close, too close for rest. Now, on her makeshift bed, tears slipped into the corner of her eyes, leaking down her face onto the scratchy pillowcase. It had really happened. She had made the crossing, after everything. She was in New Zealand and he was thousands of miles away. She wondered if he’d forgotten her already.

      Maybe she’d slept some more for, when Esther opened her eyes again, the yellow square of light streaming through the window had moved. Immediately, sitting up, she knew she was alone. She remembered exactly where she was.

      She pulled back the curtain and swung her legs round, gritting her teeth as her feet touched the floor and blood surged under her skin. Cramp, again. Esther spent a moment wriggling her toes, working it out. Sometimes the cramp would disappear for a few days, but it would always come back, a knife under her toenails.

      She got up and stepped further into the room. The teacups and plates from earlier were stacked neatly on a sideboard—she could see nowhere to wash them. What do they do for water? Esther thought, confused. Surely they had heard of taps and sinks in the colonies?

      As if in answer there was a splash of water outside and a woman’s high-pitched, giggling hoot. A child laughed. Esther moved to the window and saw a pump at the centre of a small courtyard. Women stood around, bowls of dishes in hand, some with a rag, waiting for their turn to rinse out. Esther craned her neck, trying to spot her sister.

      She didn’t like this cottage. The aversion was sudden but sure. She didn’t like the way Isobel and Brendan’s bed was pushed against the far wall, leaving only a thin strip of space between bed and window. She didn’t like the lack of corner tables, or photographs, or vases. The room was stripped back and pared.

      But most of all, Esther did not like the bizarre wallpaper—if it could even be called that. Slices of newspaper could hardly be considered wallpaper. There were layers of them, stuck to the walls. Some were peeling away, others were torn. Esther started to read a piece, only for the story—about export prices—to be broken up by a piece about a tea party at a provincial house, somewhere south. The wallpaper produced a jangling, fragmentary effect; political news jostled for space with fashion pieces. Passenger lists were interspersed with tales of Maori skirmishes, dating from several years before. The wallpaper seemed to press down on Esther, a sedimentary layering of New Zealand that she did not like.

      She suddenly marched across the room—it only took a few steps—to her bed where she sat down and pulled on her boots. She was going to go outside and find Isobel, and sort out with her (accepting no protestations on her sister’s part) how, exactly, they were going to live.

      Yet when Esther reached the courtyard, her determination left her. It evaporated in the damp of the day, and in the baleful stare of women who waited to wash their crockery and who now turned to look at this handsomely dressed newcomer in their midst.

      Esther stood very still as children whooped and shrieked about her, curiosity and mistrust of the women crackling the air. One woman, a robust creature with a high waistband and a solid bosom, turned to a companion and spoke leisurely, in a loud voice that was English but had an oddly clipped accent.

      ‘Reckon this one got lost on the way to Queen Street?’

      Somebody shrieked with laughter. Two women to Esther’s left were crouched over an upturned table, hammer in hand, nails in their mouths. They looked at Esther and she at them; she had never seen women work in such a way, not even when her mother had no money. Back home, the mending of furniture had been men’s business, or work for the carpenter. Esther looked at the hammer, transfixed. She suddenly, very desperately, wanted to see the women work. She wanted to see how they set about repairing things, how they used their hands to make and build.

      The women fixing the table seemed perfectly at ease. One had a pencil stub stuck in her hair. She stood up. ‘You lost?’

      ‘I’m looking for my sister.’

      At Esther’s voice, a knowing look rippled between the women in the courtyard. A child, a boy of four playing with a wooden train in the dirt, looked up at Esther, mouth agape.

      ‘New chum!’ the boy yelped. He pointed at Esther and immediately a cacophony of children’s voices pealed out. ‘New chum! New chum!’ It was a game they obviously knew well.

      Esther smiled, the boy’s shout seeming to smooth out the tension in the courtyard. She thought of how children were so often overlooked, but who had a way of speaking to the heart of things. The boy was only shouting what all the women were thinking.

      Esther bent down, looking into the child’s open face. ‘Oh, I’m a new chum, all right. A special kind of new chum you’ve not seen before.’

      ‘What sort?’ the boy said breathlessly. His eyes were wide—this was not part of the game.

      Esther pulled her hands into the shape of a claw and waved them in front of the child. ‘I’m a new chum who likes to eat children! I’ve been on that boat for weeks, and I’m hungry!’

      The boy gasped, shoulders up, and for a second Esther thought she’d misjudged. But then, in that intuitive way of children, with the natural ability to make a game from anything, the boy squealed and jumped up.

      ‘Catch me!’ he said, laughing. He sprinted away, checking over his shoulder that Esther was chasing him.

      She did not, bashful again, wondering what the women would make of her. Some were nodding, all were smiling. The woman with the large bust patted her dress, the flat sound punctuating the moment. She pointed to an unoccupied wooden crate among a group of sitting women.

      ‘Take a seat. Who’s your sister?’

      * * *

      One of the women brought out a tray of cracked mugs of tea, an eclectic collection of chipped and colourful crockery. It was passed around the seated group. All had knitting or mending on their laps, which they set down to take a mug. The relaxed ease with which all helped themselves told Esther this was common practice.

      ‘We take it in turns,’ a woman to Esther’s left said quietly. ‘Sew, watch the children, drink. That’s what we do.’

      Children played in the dirt; chubby fists were slapped easily as muddy rattles neared mouths. Twin boys, fat and apple-cheeked, about the age of three, chased each other around a broken chair. Their mother, the high-chested woman who had first spoken to Esther when she ventured into the courtyard, ignored them, save for when one fell over and came running to her. She wiped his face with her skirts and sent him on his way with a hefty slap on his bottom.

      ‘I don’t raise whingeing children,’ she said comfortably. ‘You’ll find that here, Miss Esther. Our colonial children have this land in their bones—they’re never still. Mouths and all. Take some tea. Now, Bella is your sister?’

      ‘Isobel, yes.’ There it was, that name again. Bella. Esther took a mug of tea, fighting the urge to gulp it down. There had been a terrible accident with her box of stores on the boat—water had drenched her cabin during a storm, and while most of her possessions could be saved, her box of tea, dried fruits and biscuits was ruined. Sipping the tea now, she was reminded again just how much she had missed it. ‘I landed this morning and took a nap. She must have gone out for a walk.’

      ‘She’ll be up Queen Street, looking for mending,’ said a woman at the far end of the circle. ‘I told her this morning which houses were sending out.’

      ‘Isobel takes in mending?’ Esther tried to keep her voice level. The image of her sister sitting in a smart townhouse—the one she had described in her letters to their mother—floated further away. Isobel mended other women’s clothes for a living?

      ‘We all do,’ another woman spoke up and held up the shirt she was sewing. She had a large belly and returned her hands to her lap, cupping the rounded stomach. Esther glanced away, but not before taking in the swell of the woman’s feet and the shiny red veins on bare ankles. ‘Or else we’re faced with asking the Hospital Board for relief.’ She patted her stomach for

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