Books
Waimate
by Dave Armstrong
This is the winning story in the fiction category of the 2008 Royal Society of New Zealand Manhire Prize for Creative Science Writing. The theme for the competition – in which the Listener, the society and Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters were partners – was evolution.
At Waimate there are three large houses, where the missionary gentlemen, Messrs. Williams, Davies, and Clarke, reside; and near them are the huts of the native labourers … I cannot attempt to describe all I saw; there were large gardens, with every fruit and vegetable which England produces; and many belonging to a warmer clime.
Charles Darwin, Voyage of the Beagle, December 1835
They were only schoolteachers – and not very well-paid ones. Dad was never made head of the school’s science department because he was “too bolshie” and Mum could only teach part-time because she had to be there when I arrived home from primary school. But despite their modest incomes, they insisted we had a full three-week camping holiday every year.
The holiday in the Far North was idyllic. Granted, it took three hot horrible carsick days to get there in our smelly Hillman Minx, with me and my two older brothers crammed into the back seat in bumper-to-bumper traffic along dusty gravel roads.
But then we arrived at the beach. It wasn’t a barren stretch of windswept west coast iron-sand beach so loved by my parents because there was not another human being for miles around. It was an expansive east coast Northland beach with warm water and huge waves. And best of all, there were other kids there. We pitched our mildewed canvas tent in a real camping ground, not a DoC site, that had hot showers and a shop that sold ice creams. It was perfect.
Despite the presence of sun, white sand, ice creams, and other holidaymakers, Mum and Dad seemed to like it too. While we body-surfed in the gigantic waves, they sat in their togs under the massive pohutukawa trees by the water in their little director’s chairs (deckchairs were an extravagance and wouldn’t fit on the roof-rack of the Hillman Minx) and read their books. I hoped Dad wouldn’t sunbathe nude like he did at home. Mum read Old Northland and Dad read Voyage of the Beagle. We slipped into a happy routine of swimming all day then playing hide-and-seek with our new friends at night.
Until one day, when it was slightly overcast. As we scoffed our breakfast we loudly planned the day’s activities.
“You’re not going swimming this morning,” said Dad sternly, “because we’re getting in the car.”
We all groaned – me the loudest. “Not more driving?”
“We’re going to Waimate North. It’s only 50 miles away.”
We groaned again. We didn’t know where Waimate North was but it sounded inland.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” said Mum, always the optimist. “We can visit the Waimate Mission House.”
I looked for an ally. “You hate mission houses, Dad. You hate anything to do with the church.”
Dad was strangely silent, but Mum was adamant. “Don’t complain. We’re going to see the mission house. You’re descended from the man who built it.”
“I thought we were descended from the apes,” quipped Will. Only Jason laughed – and Dad a bit.
Mum ignored the interruption. “Your great-great-great-grandfather, George Clarke, built it. It’s the second-oldest house in New Zealand.” It was weird that Mum knew so much about Waimate given that it was Dad who was George Clarke’s descendant.
I didn’t want to give up my Northland beach for even a day. “Why do we have to find out about some stupid relative? He was probably a bastard like all the other ones, eh Dad?” Dad delighted in telling us about his reactionary ancestors, but he seemed uncharacteristically charitable about this one.
“I don’t think George Clarke was too bad.” He picked up his copy of Voyage of the Beagle. “Charles Darwin met him and was most impressed.”
“Is he the writer?”
Dad gave me a withering stare. “No, you dopey bugger, Charles Darwin is only the most famous biologist in the world.”
Both my brothers sniggered. At their school, only dummies studied biology. A-stream students like them had to study physics and chemistry.
“Come on,” said Dad. “Hop in the car. We’re off to Waimate.”
At length we reached Waimate. My older brothers raced over to the graveyard.
“Can we have lunch on Great-Great-Great-Grandad’s grave?” asked Will.
“No we can’t,” replied Mum, “and don’t jump up and down on it.”
“Why not,” yelled Jason, “he can’t feel it.”
“It’s disrespectful.”
“But you’re an atheist, Mum; we’re all atheists.”
“Will – stop that jumping immediately or you’ll be spending the afternoon in the car. And Jason, don’t encourage him.”
“Listen to your mother,” growled Dad. “And for God’s sake, don’t do anything stupid around the Maori graves – they’ll go bloody crazy if they catch you.”
I should think a more warlike race of inhabitants could not be found in any part of the world than the New Zealanders. “Come on shore and we will kill and eat you all.” Their warlike spirit is evident in many of their customs, and even in their smallest actions.
“So what’s so great about Charles Darwin?” I asked.
Dad was appalled at my ignorance. “Ever heard of evolution, dumb-dumb? Darwin theorised that species evolved from other species in a process called Natural Selection. At the time, even scientists believed different species were created specially and individually by God.”
“So he was an atheist?”
Mum laughed.
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