‘But he was so simple. No, not simple, simplistic. No fridge, no stove. I suppose he was eccentric. He was very shy. A little bit socially awkward. He was also the most trustworthy person, and so punctual! You could set your clock by him. He was so methodical. He would spend hours doing the dishes.
‘He had this ritual when he came to town. He had a track he’d stick to – meal at McDonald’s and then groceries at Countdown. You’d see him on the odd occasion but he wouldn’t stop; he’d just say hi, and keep going. He had a path and that was it.
‘He’d come here twice a year to get a haircut. It’d be down over his face. It really got away from him. He’d sit here, get his haircut, and then he’d be out of here like a scalded cat. It wasn’t him being rude; he was never like that. But that was Stan for you. He wouldn’t hang around. He was always in the background.
‘He didn’t leave much behind. He had only about two sets of clothes, and a suit in the wardrobe – I’m sure it was the suit he wore to our wedding 35 years ago. His possessions were in a suitcase that was at least 50 years old, and some in a box.’
Yes, she said, there were a few Christmas cards he’d kept in a leather zip-up bag. Shona found a card marked ‘From Nolan and Darlene Going and the kids’. A child’s hand had written, ‘Hope you never change ’cos you are special.’
‘When he died,’ Shona said, ‘Sid and Colleen – yes, the Goings – said, “We’ve organised the funeral.” It was a real sign of respect. I was blown away by how many people came. To see such a humble person loved by so many people. The funeral was at six on a beautiful evening in March.’ I imagined the golden light at the end of a summer’s day in Northland. And then Shona said, ‘Sid filled in the grave with a front-end loader.’
I’d visited the grave earlier that morning. A pair of eastern rosella parrots yelled in the trees. The stiff spring wind that blew all weekend continued to blunder its way around. This was the end of the Stan Stuart story but it was still only in outline; there was something else to it, something that really mattered.
Shona’s husband remarked on Stan’s visits to the house over the years. He said, ‘He adored you.’ Their son Matt remarked on the family snaps that Stan had kept in his suitcase. ‘They were all of Mum. All of them, from when she was a kid to when she was an adult.’
Shona remarked, ‘Stan looked after me when I was little.’ Like a playmate? No, not really, she said. More like someone who made sure she was all right, who protected her.
Stan, the old man who read cowboy stories (‘no fiction’) in a single bed in a shack, who rode out one day from the South Island to live in a valley at the top of the North Island; Stan, who followed his heart when he followed Shona. He wrote his own story with that one word on a piece of paper: SISTER. The ghost of Maromaku Valley had left behind a love story.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to the benevolence and generosity of the CLNZ Writer’s Award for making this book possible; to North & South editor Virginia Larson and former publisher Sally Duggan, who were the perfect employers; to Mary Varnham and Sarah Bennett at Awa Press, for their honesty and kindness, respectively; to Finlay Macdonald, for his intelligent advice and black humour; to Matt Vance at Antarctica New Zealand, for the passport to hell; to Southland Tourism, for the trip to beautiful Winton; to Martin Unwin, Caroline Harker and Beth McArthur, for permission to publish their stories from the Upper Clutha Arts Council Autumn Art School writing workshop in Wānaka; to Brian and Diane Miller, for the extract from Macandrew Bay: A history of a community on the Otago Peninsula; and to everyone who welcomed me into their homes and enriched my life during these travels, especially Lance Roberts (Hicks Bay), Heriata Porter, Nathan Rayner, and Jim Dennan (Ōhinemutu), Jean Smith (Te Aroha), Tanielu Pololua and Fesouaina Matalavea (Samoa), Ross Mitchell-Anyon (Wanganui), Des Thomas, Jeanette Thomas, and Bill Thomas (Mercer), Graeme Ingils (Winton), Ken Reeves (Mosgiel), Tracey Thomsen, Marcus Thomsen, and Kieran Grice (Tangimoana), Fred Nyberg (Notown), Harry Martin (Wainuiomata), and the ghost of Stan Stuart (Maromaku Valley). The deepest thanks are to Jane Ussher, who was there every step of the way, suffered for it, but never once wavered in her friendship.
Other books by Steve Braunias
How to Watch a Bird
‘Braunias’s wit and charm are put to work to explain in easy non-scientific ways why looking at the commonest birds can be such a pleasure’
The Dominion Post: Best Non-Fiction of 2007
Prize-winning journalist Steve Braunias is standing on the balcony of an inner-city apartment on a sultry summer evening when a black-backed gull flies so close he is instantaneously bowled over with happiness. ‘I thought: Birds, everywhere. I want to know more about them.’ This highly engaging book is the result – a personal journey into an amazing world. It’s also a New Zealand history, a geographical wandering, and an affectionate look at the tribe of people ensnared, captivated and entranced by birds.
‘Braunias has touchingly brought love and bird-watching together in a book that stalks sewage ponds and grey warblers with curiosity and affection, and ends with contentment, bliss and a baby born. A lovely book’
New Zealand Listener: Best Books of 2007
‘A small and perfectly formed jewel’
The Sunday Star-Times
‘Awa Press plus Braunias plus birds makes for a tantalising literary marriage’
New Zealand Life & Leisure
Smoking in Antarctica
‘This comedic book is the fourth by Kiwi writer and columnist Steve Braunias – and it’s without a doubt his best. … Cheeky, engaging and
