Free Heartland by Jenny Pattrick

above, eating our sandwiches, looking for signs of life. Suddenly the whole scheme seemed crazy. Smiley and I were all for walking away, but Bert, who had a bit more gumption to him, started off down the path, so we had to follow.
    â€˜Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened and there was this smart lady in her dark coat and hat, handbag over her arm, obviously on her way out. Grim faced she was, not at all pleased to see the three of us.
    â€˜â€œWhat’s this?” she said. And waited.
    â€˜Bert gives me a nudge, but I couldn’t get a word out. I was only a lad, Donny — sixteen maybe — and was ready to run all the way back to Manawa. But Bert doffs his hat and asks is she a McAneny.
    â€˜â€œMiss McAneny, yes, and who might you be?”
    â€˜â€œMy friend here,” says Bert, giving her his charming smile, “is a McAneny too and son of your brother, Munroe, and is wanting to resume relations with his aunts and uncles” — or some such palaver. Bert had a smooth way of talking when he put his mind to it.’
    Manny winked and doffed an imaginary hat, which made Donny nearly choke with laughter. ‘Go on, go on!’ he shouted, slapping his knee.
    â€˜Well, Donny boy, that put the cat among the pigeons! The lady took hold of the door knob and pulled it shut behind her with a bang you could hear down the street. That slam showed, plainer than any words, that the ancestral home was not going to welcome us any day soon. Then she faced us with such a fury in her eyes that even Bert backed off a step or two. I don’t remember the words, Donny, but those black eyes were on me while she spoke. Something about my dad being dead to the McAneny name and to never, ever come near again.
    â€˜So much for that crusade. I lost any interest in those McAnenys. My dad was better off without them. Back home we travelled, feeling like fools. Or Smiley and I did. Bert stayed in town. We heard later a strange thing. That bosky Bert could never give up on a project. He must of gone back, ’cause he married a McAneny. Not the one slammed the door on us but another. Maybe it was just for a dare, or revenge, we never heard, ’cause he never came back to tell us. Next thing he was gone to the war and got killed.’
    Manny sucked his remaining teeth and cackled. ‘So the moral of that tale, lad, is steer clear of crusades and fierce ladies, especially if they be McAnenys.’

Di Masefield’s crusade to clean up Manawa
    Di Masefield is on the warpath. She guns her big Range Rover down the stretch between Ohakune and Raetihi, windscreen wipers bashing back and forth, sheets of water spraying like wings either side of her car. It takes more than a cloud-burst to slow down Di Masefield. Today there are two issues in her sights — Manawa’s sewage and Donny’s baby, both infuriating, both in need of a word to the authorities in Raetihi.
    Di Masefield is a vociferous member of the Ohakune District Council. Manawa, alas, comes under the jurisdiction of the Waimarino County Council, an outdated body, in Di’s opinion, especially as she holds no sway over it. Manawa, in Di’s opinion, belongs with Ohakune, where she can influencewhat happens in the sleepy little settlement: bring it into the twentieth century, develop Manawa as a satellite town for Ohakune. The skiers who will soon make Ohakune rich need quality chalets. Di owns several half-acre sections in Manawa and is ready to build.
    Sewage is the problem.
    Di roars down the wide main road, splashes to a halt in front of the old Bank of New Zealand building which now houses the County Council office, and stomps inside, her knee-length leather boots leaving muddy footprints on the carpet.
    â€˜Cindy,’ she says, dropping her wet mac on a chair and leaning over the desk, ‘I want a word with Andrew.’
    â€˜He’s out.’
    â€˜His car’s parked in