A Many Coated Man by Owen Marshall Read Free Book Online Page A

distance and its plain, the modest monument to what in less sensitive times had been termed the Massacre, its concrete almost friable with age, and behind both Slaven and himself the hills in a jumble mounting higher; gorse, scrub and regrowth at first, but then the dark, true bush. And a banner in white and blue — Praise The Lord. Miles gives a shiver of joy. ‘Perfect,’ he says again. There are a few more recent graves, low plaques in contrast to the memorials of a more religious age. He could rest in such a place.
    ‘What about the acoustics?’ asks Slaven. ‘You know, I’ve no idea how loud I should be for an outdoors group. I’ll go further back a bit and you tell me how it sounds.’ He walks up the hill another twenty or thirty metres. ‘Thank you all for making the effort to join with us today. How’s that for carry?’ Miles has the car door open; his head lies back on the rest, but he lifts one hand in a gesture which reassures Slaven that his voice is fine for carry.
    Two vehicles come up the track while Slaven tests his voice, one a truck so old that it still has two-way glass and Miles and Slaven can see the workman driving it. He has a green jersey with honest holes and he walks up to Slaven when the truck is parked. ‘How many do you think I should put out?’ he says.
    ‘Chairs?’
    ‘Yes. How many do you expect?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’ Slaven has taken no part in the practical arrangements.
    ‘There’s one hundred. The Rev Thomas says they’re for old people and so on. I’ll set them all out and we’ll know where we are. Les Croad’s the name.’
    During the introduction four people come from the car which followed Croad’s truck and stand at a sufficient distance to give the impression that they are outside the conversation, but in line for attention. Two men and two women. Slaven recognises only one, the entreaty man from the Civil Defence seminar. He smiles and endeavours to catch Slaven’s eye as Croad moves away to do his thingwith the chairs. ‘I’ve brought some business friends to hear you,’ says the entreaty man and he introduces them. Let’s see the second woman that Slaven shakes hands with, for she draws interest by kicking her feet to shake the water drops from her suede boots. Her face has the soft shine of a complexion nurtured with the very best of creams and she tutors in the textile arts, does good by stealth, yet can never forget the mischance which led her husband to land in the boiler funnel of Grudgling Alloys while free-falling over Rolleston. The quiet words she uses are overlaid by the noise of Croad swearing and using his boots to separate the chairs, yet from his distance Miles, who has not been introduced to either, imagines how a slap on her round and naked arse would ring across the cemetery. In the east the grey of the morning sky has a dull glow from the sun behind it and in the first breeze of the day the banner puffs its chest for a moment, then is still again. From their vantage point on the hill, all can see small groups of vehicles turning off onto the narrow road to the memorial. The entreaty man tells Slaven that they won’t intrude anymore, on impulse steps closer to clasp his arm.
    ‘Good luck. Good fortune for the message,’ he says urgently, before turning away with his eyes down once more. Slaven is flattered, but also disconcerted by the barely suppressed warmth, the heightened expectation, the distance they have come. What has he to give that merits such hope.
    The Rev Thackeray Thomas arrives with his two sons; such splendid fat cheeks. With Thomas are three elders of the Ngati Toa who have come to lift the tapu on the site before any Pakeha speak. Thackeray Thomas seems as fluent in Maori as the elders and given half a chance will no doubt lift the tapu himself. It is an irony bitterly evident to him that he speaks virtually no Welsh despite his lineage. A Thomas related to the great Meyricks and he speaks only the two New Zealand