Page 58 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“Yes, I’m glad you picked up on that. She actually seemed upset at the thought of losing them.”

“I suppose if her family has a long history, things like the paintings and letters become much more personal to you. It would be like, when I’m older, finding letters my mum wrote after she died—the last thing I would want would be to have strangers pawing through them, as Isabel put it.”

I nod slowly. “I forget sometimes that artifacts have such personal connections.”

Hallie glances at me. I look at her and see a touch of color in her cheeks, and she gives me a shy smile. I’m about to ask why when I realize I’ve dropped my arm, and I’m now holding her hand. I did it automatically, without thinking.

“Sorry,” I say. I give her hand a light squeeze and release it.

She just smiles and looks at the hydrangea bushes growing by the side of the path.

“Fraser!”

I turn as someone calls my name and smile as I realize it’s Wiremu from the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group. “Kia ora,” I say.

I give him a hongi, pressing my nose solemnly to his, and then we shake hands. Some Maori men do give women a hongi, but Wiremu chooses to give Hallie a kiss on the cheek.

“I didn’t know you were coming to the ball,” I say.

“I knew Sebastian well,” he says. “He was a member of the group.”

“I didn’t realize that!”

“Yes, he had a lifelong passion for local history and archaeology. Look, there are a few people here who are interested in meeting you, if you’re up for it.”

“Of course.”

Hallie and I follow him across the lawn, and we spend the next half an hour being introduced to various people. Some are members of the group who we didn’t get a chance to talk to last night. Others are prominent people in the community who obviously have an interest in the local culture and history—a couple of politician friends of Sebastian’s, some members of the Rotary Club, the organizer of a local history group, and therangatiraor leaders of the Tauranga Moana—which means the seas of Tauranga—a group of differentiwior tribes: Waitaha-a-Hei, Ngati Ranginui, Ngai Te Rangi, and Ngati Pukenga.

Hallie stays by my side as we circulate, and it occurs to me what a cool companion she is in this situation. She’s beautiful, elegant, and sophisticated, respectful to everyone, and also a great conversationalist, making everyone feel at ease, asking appropriate questions, and impressing me and everyone else with her knowledge as she joins in any historical or cultural discussions.

The two of us work well together, bouncing off each other, teasing each other a little to make people laugh. By the time the quartet stops playing and a gong sounds from the veranda for everyone to take their seats, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.

But of course this is, first and foremost, a memorial service, and the mood becomes a little more somber as people move to the tables and begin seating themselves.

Wiremu suggests we sit with him, and so we join him at his table, where he’s sitting with his wife, his daughter and her girlfriend, both of whom are history graduates, and the president of the Rotary Club in the area and his partner.

A microphone on a stand has been set up on the veranda, and Isabel steps up to it and greets everyone, first in faultless Maori.

“Tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou katoa. Nau mai, haere mai ki tenei hui motuhake e whakanui ana i to matou papa aroha, a Sebastian Williams. Ko tona aroha, ko tona koha, me tona whakapono ki a tatou katoa, kua rongo matou i ana mahi. No reira, e te whanau, e te hunga manuhiri, me whakanuia ia i tenei po. Tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou katoa.”

I can understand it as I speak Te Reo Maori, but she repeats it all in English for those who don’t. “Greetings, greetings, greetings to you all. Welcome to this special gathering to honor our beloved father, Sebastian Williams. His love, his generosity, and his belief in us all have left a lasting impact. So, family and guests, let us celebrate him this evening. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Everyone claps politely, and she gives a brief smile, then retires to sit on a chair behind her, as Adam rises and takes the stand.

“I’d like to begin with a brief summary of my father’s life and accomplishments,” he says.

He talks for about fifteen minutes, telling us about Sebastian’s political achievements, his passion for New Zealand history and archaeology, and a little about his personal life. He interjects enough jokes to stop the mood from becoming too mournful, while being respectful enough to his father’s memory, and he’s obviously comfortable with speaking in public and interesting to listen to, but I find my attention drawn to Isabel. Even though it feels as if I’m intruding, I can’t help but watch her as she listens to her brother’s speech. She’s trying hard to remain impassive, but her emotions play across her face like the clouds across the summer sky. When Adam finally talks about Sebastian’s personal life, and how much he loved his children and grandchildren, Isabel breaks a little and fights against tears, lifting a hand to cover her trembling bottom lip. A guy who ispresumably her husband leans across and offers her his pocket square, and she takes it and dabs beneath her eyes.

I feel a stab of guilt. She clearly loved her father, and it suggests once again that her motivation for wanting to keep the letters is personal rather than financial. I still don’t agree with her decision, as the letters are ultimately of historical importance and deserve to be in a museum where they can be treated properly and accessible for everyone, but I do now understand her reluctance.

I glance at Hallie, who’s watching Adam as he talks with open affection about his father. Is she thinking about her dad? Earlier today, after I returned to my room following our conversation at the beach, I tried to find any mention of Hallie’s father and his crime on Google, but was unsuccessful. That surprised me, as I would have thought that if he’d murdered someone it would have been mentioned in some news outlet, but even a search of Dunedin newspapers hadn’t revealed anything.

It makes me think about my own father, a man of God, whose only fault—if you can call it that—is being a tad prideful and superior where his own faith is concerned. He is a good man, though, who is struggling to understand and adapt to the challenges life has thrown at him, including his sister’s suicide, his daughter’s assault, his wife’s illness, and the reappearance of Linc, the young man he thought of as a son who—as he saw it—betrayed him by kissing his precious daughter. Through it all, his faith has remained strong.

Having a father like that has been difficult, as he has always set his expectations extremely high, and it’s been a struggle to live up to them. Joel gave up years ago and follows his own path, but I’ve always attempted to be the man my father hoped I’d be. Now, though, I wonder how different my own life would have been if he’d been not a preacher with the intention of dedicating his life to helping young people, but instead a man who’d takenanother’s life. Hallie said, “He killed someone,” but that doesn’t necessarily mean he murdered someone; it could have been manslaughter. Maybe he was a drunk driver or something. How would that affect his children as they grew up? I’ve always tried to model myself on my father—to be strong, capable, honorable, and forgiving. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been if he hadn’t been the man he is.

It must have had a lasting impact on her, and perhaps goes some way to explaining why she stayed with Ian so long. Loneliness might have played a part, as would just the general lack of a father figure. It doesn’t look as if she’s ever known the true love of a dad for his baby girl, or the genuine adoration of a man for the woman of his dreams.

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