Page 5

Mitch

I lean on the railing as the ferry approaches Port Evermore, watching the pou whenua—the large, carved wooden post that stands on the quay—grow as we near until it towers over the boat. Its Māori name is carved on the top—Motupōhutukawa—the island of pōhutukawa, and its name is fitting given the number of pōhutukawa trees that line the grassy bank above the beach, full of red blossoms now it’s nearly Christmas.

Lifting my backpack onto my shoulder, I wait as the attendant lowers the ramp to let the cars off, then head down the gangplank and step onto dry land.

It’s been a year since my last visit. Part of me feels like I’m coming home. I was born here, went to school here, and if things had been different, I’d never have left.

But they are, and I did. And now I don’t know how I feel about being back.

Slowly, I walk along the waterfront. The super yachts moored to one side and the luxury villas in the hills overlooking the town are an indication of how rich the population has become over the past twenty years. Otherwise, not much seems to have changed. Fishing boats are beginning to make their way home with the day’s catch. Seagulls swoop down the strip of beach, waiting for the kids playing on the sand to drop food. Tourists are taking photos of the pou whenua and eating ice creams beneath the trees.

As I turn onto Cutter Street, I can see that the Black Anchor Tavern is heaving, and there’s a queue at the gelato shop. The small supermarket is busy, and so’s the Salt & Sage gift shop. A new café has opened on Anchorage Lane called The Chandlery Coffee House, which sounds a bit pompous, as if it thinks it’s in Wellington, but all its tables are filled, so it must be doing well.

Baskets hang out the front of every shop, filled with flowers that tumble out of the sides. Christmas decorations dangle from the bottom of each of them, glittering in the evening sun.

I stop outside the bakery and admire the pastries in the window. My stomach rumbles. I had a burger at Auckland airport, but that was over an hour ago, and I’m hungry again. Still, I’ll wait and see whether Emma’s still making her famous cinnamon scrolls at The Lantern Café before I buy anything else.

I’m procrastinating, and I know it. I can’t put the moment off forever. I walk toward the corner of the street where it meets Harpoon Lane and glance at the bronze statue of Captain Cook that stands in the middle of the roundabout. He has a tinsel wreath around his neck, which makes me smile. Then I pause and look across the road at the two-storey weatherboard building that stretches almost the length of the street.

Someone’s given the boards a new coat of cream paint, but otherwise it still looks the same, with its wide verandas, tall sash windows, and dark green shutters. In the centre, an original stained-glass fanlight declares its roots as the Evermore Maritime Exchange—1868. Christmas decorations hang outside all three shops, and the windows feature paper snowflakes and fairy lights.

It used to house the old shipping office, the customs office, and the Harbour Master’s office. Now, to the left, old photographs of the town fill the windows of the Maritime Museum, and the late-afternoon sun bounces off the huge whaling harpoon out the front, which is polished to a high shine.

To the right, the Lantern Café still emits the gorgeous aromas of coffee and cinnamon scrolls. The ship’s lantern hanging outside that gives it its name swings gently in the sea breeze. But I only have eyes for the carved wooden sign over the middle shop. Evermore Books, est. 1971.

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard.

I cross the street, take a deep breath, and push open the big green door.

The brass bell over the door rings, the same way it has for as long as I can remember. I pause in the doorway, letting my eyesight adjust to the dark atmosphere. It smells of polish, old buildings, and books—the smell of my childhood. I don’t think anything here has changed since Grandad opened the shop fifty-five years ago.

He was always very particular about the kind of bookshop he wanted Evermore Books to be, and that’s never changed. Popular fiction is relegated to a few rows of shelving to one side. Instead, the solid kauri wood shelves are filled with literary fiction and classics, New Zealand history, biographies, and gardening and cookbooks. One bookcase has second-hand books, most of which look old and tatty.

Despite this, there are plenty of tourists here, browsing, so I guess that’s why the woman behind the desk doesn’t immediately look up when I enter.

Vix Winter—or Vix Richards, as she is now—looks different from the last time I saw her over a year ago. Since I’ve known her, she’s always worn her dark-blonde hair in a short bob, but to my surprise it now hangs past her shoulders in soft waves.

She comes around the desk to add a couple of books to the display on the central table, revealing that she’s wearing a long boho-style russet-coloured skirt and a pretty cream top with a V-neck. As I watch, she knocks a pile of books with her elbow, sends a couple tumbling to the floor, and drops to pick them up with a silent curse. It makes me smile. Some things don’t change.

Half of me had expected to find her pregnant again; after all, her daughter is nearly five. But she’s lost weight, and there are dark shadows under her eyes. I frown, and my gut twists as I remember what happened the last time I was here. I hope he hasn’t been mistreating her. I’d never forgive myself if that was the case.

I inhale, then exhale steadily, letting my emotions settle.

“Mitch!” A squeal from a little girl to my right makes me look around, and I smile as Millie leaps up from the beanbag where she was reading and runs across the shop into my arms.

“Millie, Molly, Mandy,” I say, lifting her up. She immediately clamps her arms and legs around me like a limpet, and I laugh and hug her, saying, “Aw, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too!” She plants a big wet kiss on my cheek, then tightens her arms around my neck.

Over her shoulder, I watch as Vix looks over and sees me. Her face lights up, and her lips curve into a big smile as she crosses the room.

I turn my attention back to Millie and lower her down. “Wow, look at you! You’ve grown so much. What are you now, twelve? Thirteen?”

She giggles. “I’m four. But I’ll be five in January.”

“Oh, so you’ll be going to school, right? I heard that all the teachers have been given riot gear.”

She pokes her tongue out at me, and I chuckle and ruffle her curly hair. Then I smile at Vix as she approaches.