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He stops to have a mouthful of coffee, then continues. “The first thing I discovered which came as a shock to me was that his body was never recovered.”
That surprises me. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I realized then that when we had the tangi, there was no coffin, it was just a memorial service. I feel dumb now that I didn’t make the connection at the time, but I was only twelve, and nobody would talk to me about what had happened, so I just didn’t think about it.”
I think about that young lad, and how miserable and confused he must have been. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not the half of it,” he says. “The police report relied on the statement given by Dad’s brother, David, or Rawiri as he’s known.” It’s the Maori version of David. “I vaguely remembered him,” Henry continues. “He came to visit us in Christchurch a couple of times when I was younger, and I recall him being at the tangi, but Mum was upset and angry and refused to talk to him, and he left early, so I didn’t get to talk to him, and I haven’t seen him since. Anyway, I read that Dad was out fishing with Rawiri on the day he died.”
I’m genuinely shocked that his mother hasn’t told him the details of his father’s death. “He saw it happen?”
Henry nods. “Rawiri’s statement said the sea was choppy but not too bad, so they decided to go out, but about an hour into their trip, a storm blew up. They struggled to control the boat, and eventually Dad was swept overboard. Rawiri spent thirty minutes trying to find him, but Dad wasn’t wearing a life jacket, and he just disappeared. Eventually Rawiri returned to the mainland and called the police. The coastguard spent several days looking for him, but his body never turned up.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“There was an investigation, but it didn’t uncover anything suspicious. The coroner eventually ruled that the cause of Dad’s death was accidental drowning, and the case was closed. Anyway, Dad’s death certificate gave the place of his birth as Bluff.” It’s a town on the southernmost tip of the South Island. “I didn’t know he came from there, but I did some investigating and found out that although Dad’s parents had both passed away, Rawiri still lived there.”
He has another mouthful of coffee. “So, I decided I’d go and see him. I thought he might like to meet his nephew, and that maybe he’d be able to tell me a bit about him. I didn’t want to do it over the phone, so I flew down there and knocked on his door one morning.”
“That must have been a shock for him.”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “You have no idea. When he opened the door, his face was a picture, completely stunned. I explained quickly that I was his nephew and just wanted to talk. It was clear he didn’t want to. He tried to make all sorts of excuses. Normally I’d have backed off, but something made me persist, some sixth sense that told me it was strange that he didn’t want to speak to me. I thought he would’ve been thrilled to meet his brother’s son. But he looked terrified. It took me about half an hour to convince him to invite me in, but eventually he did, and we went into his living room. He sat there with his head in his hands, obviously upset. I tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. In the end, I asked why he’d looked so shocked when he opened the door, and he said I was the spitting image of my dad. I asked if he thought Dad had come back from the dead to haunt him.” He sips his coffee. “He said no. Because my dad wasn’t dead.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Yeah. You can imagine my reaction. He said the two of them had faked his death.”
I thought he was going to say the two men had had a fight, and Rawiri was somehow responsible for his dad’s death. I did not expect this.
“It all came pouring out,” Henry says. “He hadn’t told anyone for sixteen years, and I think once he started, he couldn’t stop. He said Dad called him one day and he was deeply depressed. It was after one of his drinking bouts, and he’d had a huge argument with Mum. He was unhappy, and he said he wanted out. Rawiri tried to convince him to just leave, but Dad told him if he did that he’d have to continue paying child maintenance, and he couldn’t afford it, and he was thinking of taking his own life. So they came up with a plan. They’d go out in their boat and fake Dad’s death, and then Dad would be free to start a new life without anything to hold him back.”
“That’s awful,” I whisper.
“Rawiri had had sixteen years to think about it,” he continues. “He was scoured hollow with grief and guilt. He said it was the only way he could think of to stop Dad killing himself, but when he went to the tangi, he saw what it had done to Mum and us kids, and he felt terrible. He said he’d thought about coming to tell us many times, but one reason he hadn’t was because he was still in touch with Dad.”
My jaw drops. “He’s still alive?”
“Oh, very much,” Henry says. “He lives in Tauranga.” It’s a city in the North Island. “With his second wife.” He sips his coffee, waiting for my reaction.
“Wait,” I say. “So… if your mum thought he was dead, it would mean they didn’t get a divorce?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh shit! So legally they’re still married to one another?”
“Yep.”
“So they’re both committing bigamy?”
“Yep.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah,” he says with feeling.
We sit in silence for a moment as that sinks in. Jesus, what a predicament.
There’s a knock at the door, and Henry says, “Breakfast, I think.”
