There was progress of a sort, at the beginning of the new century, as the country entered a period of prosperity, with the recovery of commodity prices for primary produce on the international market. The Seddon government embarked on a grand programme of public works, begun by the Vogel administration: road construction, and the long held ambition of building a railway line from Auckland to Wellington was finally realised. The government managed to purchase 700,000 acres of land from Ngāti Maniapoto and open up the King Country for the main trunk railway line. The Public Works Land Act empowered the Government to take Māori land as required for roads and railways, with payment of compensation, payment which often never materialised.
The first passengers to make the 423-mile journey from Wellington to Auckland were a party of politicians. The Parliament Special arrived in Auckland to greet the US Navy ‘Great White Fleet’ docked in the Waitematā Harbour. The American visitors were feted with a civic welcome by the New Zealand government, who knew nothing of the real purpose which brought the six state-of-the-art battleships to the port of Auckland. The United States, fearing a war with Britain and her ally Japan, were on a reconnaissance mission in preparation for an invasion of New Zealand and Australia to establish strategic Pacific naval bases.
Land values in the interior of the North Island soared, industry flourished, and more settlers poured in. The King Country was no longer cut off from the rest of the country, a development much appreciated by those wishing to travel to and from the hitherto isolated region. Rāwiri made the journey more often, with Maraea, and with Kelly, on occasion, and Ᾱwhina could visit her whānau in Auckland by just getting on the train at Te Kuiti. She would not have made the journey otherwise, at her age. She still tended her garden and split firewood but she had no desire to be tossed about in a coach over rough roads.
Ᾱwhina sat on a bench at the Te Kuiti station, a kuia, wearing a black headscarf, holding an ornately carved walking stick and a bag at her feet, waiting for the northbound train. The chuffing, hissing, great beast of the locomotive arrived and she made her way to a seat in the first carriage. She sat gazing out the window at the ‘waste land’ as the train passed through the Rohe Pōtae and on into the Waikato, through Kihikihi, Te Awamutu and Hamilton, past back yards of houses and shops. The train slowed to a stop at Frankton Junction, alongside the cast iron posts holding up the veranda of the wooden station building, where passengers disembarked and boarded, and went for refreshments. Ᾱwhina decided to treat herself to a cup of tea and a scone but she was jostled in the crush of the crowd, clamouring for their food and drink, and she decided to wait until she got to Auckland. So many people. So many white faces.
From the platform where she waited, Ᾱwhina watched as workers with steel hooks grappled bales of wool off a dray and stacked the huge hessian cubes into a wagon. When a bell summoned passengers to board, she settled back into her seat and continued the journey out of Hamilton, over the Waikato River, and as the train rumbled past Taupiri it rattled the bones of the dead buried beneath the maunga. Through Ngāruawahia, over the rail bridge, on to Huntly, and the towns that brought to mind the battles of the invasion of Waikato: Rangiriri and Meremere.
Alongside the tracks at the Auckland Railway Station, at the bottom of Queen Street, were long buildings housing station facilities, various shops and rows of advertising billboards: Sunlight Soap, Pearson’s Carbolic Sandsoap, Standard Tea, South British Insurance, Kemps Merchant Tailor, Burberry Coats, Dexter and Crozier Motor Engineers, Royal Enfield Bicycles, Dunlop Tyres, Motor Cars. Motor cars? Yes, there were motor cars on the street, and trams, not horse-drawn trams but electric trams with overhead wires. From out of the throngs of travellers and loiterers at the station, a voice called out, “Kia ora Māmā!” Rāwiri waiting to pick up his mother. He gave her a hug and relieved her of her bag. “How was your trip, Māmā?”
“Fine,” she said. “The railway is an impressive feat of engineering, but for me, it’s also a sad journey through the raupatu.”
“I can understand,” Rāwiri commiserated. “As for the engineering, you must take the train south to Wellington some time, over the viaducts, over the gorges, through the tunnels. It’s really quite a marvel.”
“A journey for another time, perhaps.”
They stopped at home for a rest and refreshments and family time. Then Rāwiri took Ᾱwhina on a tour of the Dilworth estates: the nearby gardens, the stables and the new Dilworth School for Boys in the grounds of the old homestead. Rāwiri knew that gardening, horses and education were all dear to his mother’s heart. And the tractor. A new Ivel tractor had just been imported and brought to the farm. Anyone would be interested in that. It was the way of the future for farming.
It seemed to Rāwiri that Ᾱwhina had aged since he had last seen her. She had lost weight and lost some of her usual vitality. She was getting on in years and she was coughing quite a lot and that was a concern.
“Are you all right Māmā?” he said. “Are you looking after yourself?”
“Yes, all right. Just got a cold.”
“Are you taking anything for the cough?”
“Some kumārahou tea for the sore throat and the hūpē.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you came to live with us here in Tamaki-makau-rau? With your mokopuna. Wiremu’s moved into his own place. We’ve got a room for you.”
But no, she was still reluctant to leave Te Kuiti. The Rohe Pōtae had become her home and she had become a kuia, a matriarch of her adopted whānau. “Who would be the kaikaranga on the marae?” she said.
“I’m sure they’ve got other kuia,” Rāwiri said. “My tamariki want to see their Nannie.”
“I can come and visit on the train and you can put them on the train and send them to me.”
“You think about it,” Rāwiri insisted. “We’re concerned about you.”
They had a quiet evening at home and a visit to the Kellys the next day. It was a happy reunion with the family, the children, now grown, and the Kelly grandchildren, Eliza’s boys. And Ᾱwhina met Eliza’s husband.
“From the King Country, eh,” Oliver said. “You must be relieved they’ve finally opened up the King Country, what with the railway, the roads, the telegraph, the shops.”
Opened up the King Country. How Ᾱwhina loathed that phrase. “Oh yes,” she said. “We’ve joined the civilised world.”
Only Oliver was unaware of Ᾱwhina’s sardonic tone.
Returning home from the Kellys’, Rāwiri said, “One more visit tomorrow, Māmā, before you go home.”
“Yes, I want to see Wiremu and his Pākehā wife and my nearly Pākehā mokopuna.”
*
Wiremu’s children were boisterous and unruly compared to Rāwiri’s, and needed a firmer hand of discipline, in Ᾱwhina’s opinion, at least. ‘Spirited’ was the word Rāwiri used and yes, they did need a bit of calming down at times, he agreed, especially when all the cousins got together, as they did this day. They were happy to be sent outside to play and leave the adults in peace and quiet.
After the usual pleasantries, the adults got into discussions about the government and land issues, which were never far from Ᾱwhina’s mind, all except Caroline, who had little interest in political matters, but could hold her own on sports. She and Wiremu had been following the All Blacks tour of Great Britain and Australia. The New Zealand team had won the test match series in both countries. They played the Northern Union rules of rugby league for the first time and won most of those games as well. However, sport didn’t rate much as current affairs with Wiremu and Caroline’s visitors. They talked about the King Country and the newly opened main trunk railway line, which was much in the news.
“So, Whaea, you’re interested in taking a train trip to Wellington,” Wiremu said.
“Rāwiri’s idea, not mine,” Ᾱwhina said.
“Good idea, though, Whaea,” Wiremu said. “I have to go to Wellington on business in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you come along for the ride? I’ll get you a first class ticket with company travel vouchers.”
*
And so it was that Ᾱwhina boarded the southbound train at Te Kuiti Station to join her nephew and her son travelling to Wellington, the Empire City. Maraea and Caroline stayed behind and assured their children there would be other opportunities for train trips. By way of consolation, it was a chance for the cousins to get together again. The sisters-in-law organised a day at the beach with loads of picnic food and an afternoon at Caroline’s tennis club. But the children mostly created their own entertainment without the help of doting adults.
The first part of the train journey from Te Kuiti was through familiar and unexceptional territory of the Rohe Pōtae, as far as Taumaranui. The travellers were not long seated in their first class carriage when Rāwiri asked Wiremu about his meeting: “So you’re going to meet with James Carroll, our Minister of Native Affairs.”
“Yes, our first Māori Minister of Native Affairs.”
Rāwiri repeated the name: “James Carroll. That’s not a Māori name.”
“His father’s Irish,” Wiremu said. “His mother’s Ngāti Kahungunu. He’s got a Māori name too: Timi Kara.”
“So he’s half Māori, half Irish,” Rāwiri said. “That’s a good pedigree.”
“It works for us,” Wiremu agreed.
Ᾱwhina smiled at Wiremu’s last remark, but all her attention was on the landscape as the mountains came into view. She stood up, the better to get a view out the window of the snow-capped volcanoes, and she said, “Ruapehu, Tongariro, Ngauruhoe. I haven’t seen the maunga since I was a child.”
The train climbed into the high country at Raurimu through a disorientating series of horseshoe turns and tunnels and a complete circle. While Ᾱwhina was still gazing at the mountains, the train approached the first of the promised engineering marvels: the viaduct towering over the Makatote River on long-legged steel trestle piers.
“So, what’s the meeting about?” Rāwiri asked.
“It’s mainly about the Land Settlement Act.”
Rāwiri frowned. “You know Carroll supports converting Māori land to individual titles so more land can be sold and leased.”
“Yes, but only sold and leased by public tender so Māori can get decent prices and get enough money to develop their own farms,” Wiremu said. “No more government pre-emption and no more secret deals at cheap prices. And no Māori selling all of their land.”
“That’ll mean more Māori land alienated,” Rāwiri said.
“But also more Māori land developed,” Wiremu said.
The train swept around the curving Hāpuawhenua Viaduct and stopped at Ohakune Station. With coal and water replenished, it continued into the hill country, through tunnels and across rivers, over the dizzying viaducts of Mangaweka and Makōhine.
“Carroll’s under a lot of pressure from all sides,” Wiremu said. “From settlers, and from both sides of the House. They all want cheap, freehold Māori land. And settlers don’t want Māori landlords.”
The countryside slid past the window beyond the dazed reflection of Ᾱwhina’s face. Rāwiri and Wiremu were watching the scenery and also exchanging glances that acknowledged their observation of Ᾱwhina.
“So what do you think, Māmā?” Rāwiri said.
“Beautiful countryside,” Ᾱwhina said. “And the engineering is impressive. And all the technology.”
“It’s the twentieth century, Whaea,” Wiremu said.
“Yes, it had to come,” Ᾱwhina said. “The Pākehā had to come, but they didn’t have to force us off our land. We could have had the civilisation without all the uncivilised behaviour.”
Ᾱwhina dozed on and off through the Wairarapa farmlands and woke up coughing.
“Still got that nasty cough, eh Māmā,” Rāwiri said.
“Nothing to worry about,” she said.
The train slowed as it reached Wellington and pulled into Thorndon Station, a conglomeration of industrial buildings, sheds and workshops. Wiremu had booked the new Hotel Windsor in Willis Street, a modern five-storey brick edifice with a large dome on top. The travellers were ushered into the foyer, from which a grand, double staircase ascended to the upper floors. But they took the lift to save Ᾱwhina climbing stairs. After some hesitation about stepping into the cage, she found it to be a safe and convenient conveyance. They settled into their rooms and Ᾱwhina, wearied from the journey, went to bed soon after dinner.
*
Next morning, Rāwiri and Ᾱwhina went on a tour by horse-drawn cab along Lambton Quay, after dropping Wiremu off at the Parliament – not the proper Parliament Buildings; they had been destroyed by fire, but Government House, which was serving as Government offices, while the new, grand Parliament Building was under construction.
Their cab driver was a knowledgeable, but uncouth, fellow, given to using coarse language. He pointed out sights of interest, like the enormous Government Buildings on Lambton Quay, “second biggest wooden building in the world”, he informed his passengers, “full a bloody bureaucrats”.
“It looks like concrete,” Rāwiri remarked.
“No, mate”, the driver said. “It’s solid kauri. Concrete was too expensive. But they designed it to look like an Italian stone palace. There is a proper stone building in this street – the new Public Truss – that flash looking building there wif the big dome on the top – anudder bloody dome.”
The driver then took his passengers to the cable car and declared, “You’ll have to take a ride in the Red Rattler, up the hill here, frough da tunnels, up to da Gardens. Get a view a da harbour.”
A steam engine pulled the juddering car up the hill and it justified its Rattler name. The tourists were rewarded with a stroll in the Botanical Gardens and a view over the city. Wellington, they discovered, was a compact city set between hills and sea, with many substantial houses perched on hillsides. Their driver fetched them back to the hotel when their sightseeing was done and Wiremu joined them there for dinner when he returned. After they’d ordered their meal, Rāwiri asked Wiremu about his meeting.
“The land issues are a bit messy but the meeting went well,” he said. “Carroll’s preparing the next bill, the Native Lands Bill, to safeguard Māori land rights, especially in the Rohe Pōtae. The Opposition are pushing for conversion of leasehold land to freehold, and compulsory acquisition of ‘surplus lands’. Settlers would get perpetual leases and tenants’ right to purchase leased land.”
“What’s Carroll’s bill proposing?” Rāwiri asked.
“If his bill is passed, we’ll retain the leasehold system, no compulsory acquisition, and any land sales will go through Māori Land Boards.”
“It’s a constant battle against the settlers’ greed for land,” Ᾱwhina sighed.
Ᾱwhina and Rāwiri chatted about their day’s sightseeing, over dinner, and Ᾱwhina said, “I never got to see Whanganui-a-Tara but now I’ve seen Wellington.”
It had been a long day and Ᾱwhina was a weary traveller. She went to bed early and Rāwiri and Wiremu stayed in the bar for a time and had a nightcap of whisky.
Wiremu talked about his day at more length. “Carroll said the Liberals are talking about reviewing the death penalty and flogging.”
“Flogging?”
“For homosexuality,” Wiremu said. “Buggery carries a life sentence, with flogging and hard labour. It’s barbaric.”
Rāwiri raised his glass and said, “Here’s to British justice.” He tossed back the whisky and said. “Time for bed. I’ll check on Māmā, first. I’m a bit concerned about her.”
“Me too,” Wiremu said. “She’s looking frail and that cough doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m trying to persuade her to move in with us,” Rāwiri said. “She needs looking after. I’m telling her she should be with her real family. You could mention it too. Help convince her.”
“Will do. See you in the morning.”
Rāwiri could hear Ᾱwhina coughing before he knocked on the door to her room and he found her sitting up in bed coughing into a handkerchief, which came away spotted with blood. There was a moment of silent consternation as they both stared at the bloodied handkerchief, before Rāwiri said, “Oh Māmā, have you coughed up blood before?”
“Kaore. No.” She was reverting to te reo.
“I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow.”
Ᾱwhina sullenly acquiesced and got back under the covers.
*
At Wellington Hospital, Ᾱwhina admitted to the examining doctor that she’d been having chest pains and night sweats. The doctor said he would admit her straight away and they would run some tests.
“No,” she said. “I can’t stay here.”
“We’re going back to Auckland tomorrow,” Rāwiri said. “I’ll take her to Auckland hospital.”
“All right,” the doctor agreed, “but get her admitted without delay and in the meantime, I’m prescribing laudanum and Chlorodyne, and bedrest today. Make sure the room is well ventilated with fresh air.”
The doctor suspected Ᾱwhina was suffering from tuberculosis, which was no surprise to Rāwiri. They returned to the hotel and Wiremu returned later in the day, having gone out early in the morning.
“How’s Whaea today?” Wiremu asked.
“Not good,” Rāwiri said. “I’m pretty sure it’s consumption. We’ve just come back from the hospital.”
They commiserated together about ‘dear old Whaea’ and Wiremu said, “Well, I guess she’ll be coming back to Auckland now.” He read the label on the bottle of medicine and said, “Opium and cannabis.”
*
They’d had to spend another day and night in Wellington in any case, to get the next train to Auckland, and they took a cab to the station in the morning. Rāwiri helped Ᾱwhina board the train and she slumped drowsily into her seat.
“This laudanum is making me sleepy,” she said. “If I’m asleep when we come to the maunga I want you to wake me up. I want to see them again.”
Rāwiri gazed blankly out the window as the countryside passed in reverse, and he roused Ᾱwhina when the mountains came into view.
“Ah, Ruapehu,” she said, looking out the window, and she recited a whakataukī:
Whāia e koe te iti kahurangi; ki te tuohu koe, me maunga teitei.
Rāwiri repeated it in English: “Seek the treasure that you value most dearly; do not be deterred by anything less than a lofty mountain.”
When they arrived in Auckland, Rāwiri took Ᾱwhina directly to the hospital in Grafton. More Italian Palace architecture. She was admitted and Rāwiri returned the next day with Maraea and the children. Ᾱwhina especially wanted to see her mokopuna. The doctor had done the tests and he confirmed the diagnosis of tuberculosis. He recommended that Ᾱwhina be transferred, either to Te Waikato Sanitorium in Cambridge or to the Costley Home in Greenlane.
“Let’s have you in the Costley Home, Māmā,” Rāwiri said, “so we can have you close to home.”
“I can recommend it,” the doctor agreed. “It has an open air TB ward, where patients get excellent care: fresh air, sunshine, exercise and nourishing food.”
“Why should I go to a costly home?” Ᾱwhina said.
“Ah,” said the doctor, “it’s not a costly home. It’s actually free. Mr Edward Costley is your benefactor.”