He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

by Barbara Arnold

  ‘The Boss didn’t allow it.’

  Jack acted as if he hadn’t heard what Joe had just said and continued, ‘You can go turn and turn about. Tai’s a patient sort of bloke. He’ll show you the ropes.’

  The next afternoon, I sat on the hillock above the homestead. The sea was a deep band of cobalt on the horizon. Below me in the home paddock Joe was having his driving lesson. The truck hopped and the engine whined, then it stalled.

  All around, the land rolled green and gentle. It was as untroubled as the Millards themselves appeared to be. I took my wage packet and pulled out the notes. Two pounds. Added to it, there was everything I could eat and my own room, warm and without the vicious draughts of the men’s quarters. It would do for the time being.

  Joe restarted the engine. It bounded forward in a further series of hops, then with a sound of skidding tyres, leapt forward and careered into the paddock fence. Tai jumped out and stood wordlessly over the pile of wood, rubbing his forehead.

  ‘Blinkin heck,’ Joe’s voice floated upwards. ‘I’m never going to get the ‘ang of this.’

  Our trips to the township with Tai were short and uneventful. There was little to do and it was seven weeks before our trip coincided with a visit by Fergus and Murray.

  ‘Beggar me, if the two old codgers aren’t in The Travellers,’ Joe said, when he saw Downston’s truck parked outside the hotel. ‘It’ll be good to see them again.’ He sprinted to the hotel and pushed the door open so hard, I thought he might break one of the glass panels.

  Spying Fergus and Murray sitting in a corner, he ran towards them, laughing. He was more animated than I’d seen him since he’d left Downston’s. When he got to them, he pushed Murray’s hat forward, and aimed the same sort of fake punch Murray had at him when we had left. He stretched across and rubbed Fergus’ shoulder. ‘How ya goin’, mate? Missed the pair of us, have yer?’

  ‘To be sure we have,’ Fergus replied, but Murray, a glass in his hand, simply sat there grinning at Joe.

  ‘So come on and be telling us about life at the Millards,’ Fergus prompted, as we pulled out a couple of chairs and sat down.

  ‘Well, they’ve got an inside lav,’ I began.

  ‘I’m not keen on it, personally. The long drop was healthier.’ Joe continued.

  Murray took a lingering swig of bitter and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He sighed with contentment. ‘My word, the pair of you’ve filled out. Peg Millard feeding you well, is she?’

  ‘S’ppose. Personally, I preferred the boil-up.’ Joe had squeezed in next to Murray.

  ‘How can you say that? Peg’s food’s a million times better than the horrible stuff the Missus dished up.’ I pictured the lumps of meat coated in congealed fat.

  ‘I can say it, ‘cos that’s what I think. All right?’

  ‘For something you don’t like, you eat plenty of it.’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like Peg’s food, I just said …’

  ‘I’ve brought you these, Ginger,’ Murray interrupted, and placed a sack on the table. ‘We hoped we might see the two of you’s here. We thought you could take them to Peg Millard to see what she could do with them.’

  ‘Lemons! They’re my lemons!’ And the Boss didn’t nick any of them?’

  ‘No. He seemed to have forgotten about them.’

  ‘Blimey, who would have thought Joe Fisher would end up growing lemons?’

  Murray rested his arm on Joe’s shoulder. This time Joe didn’t shrug or pull away like he had when Jack Millard had done it.

  ‘You’ve got green thumbs, boy, beggar me but you have.’

  Through the haze, Murray caught the eye of a woman straddling young and middle age, and raised the dregs of his glass to her. She was still reasonably pretty. I couldn’t understand why she would want to work in a place that reeked of beer and cigarette smoke among men, who if they were sober when they arrived, didn’t stay that way for long. This was the sort of place the Old Man had swapped us for - Mum, Ang and me. He couldn’t have thought we were worth much.

  ‘So old Downston’s got no new orphan kids, then?’ Joe asked.

  ‘No, he must have decided he’d be best not drawing attention to himself for a bit,’ Murray replied. Joe let out a relieved breath. I knew it was because he didn’t want anyone else to share Murray’s attention.

  ‘What’s he say when you told him we’d upped and gone?’

  ‘Very little.’ Fergus’ face was already becoming flushed. Two more foaming jugs sat in front of him waiting to be downed. ‘To be sure, we reminded him of a thing or two … We told him if it wasn’t for us … Well, as I said, he didn’t do too much arguing.’

  ‘It’s true. If it wasn’t for the pair of you, I don’t know where we would have been, d’you, Tone?’

  I drew a shape on the table with my finger. What was I supposed to do - kiss their backsides?

  ‘And who’s doing the jobs we did?’ Joe asked.

  ‘We are, and the sooner we get off the place, the better,’ Murray grumbled. ‘Not a pig or a chook bloke, me. If one lot’s not rolling in the mud, the others are pecking at it. Give me my sheep and dogs any day. It’s a sheep cockie I am, and a sheep cockie I’ll stay.’

  ‘Now you know what it was like for us,’ I said. The three of them irritated me like gravel under my skin. Abruptly, I stood and said to Fergus, ‘I’m off to Old Man Witchery’s. After that, I’ll be in the library if you want to come.’

  ‘Once I’ve finished these jugs I’ll be there in a leprechaun’s leap.’

  I rose from the table without even saying goodbye to Murray. The door slammed behind me.

  I crossed the road to Witchery’s. This time, I knew exactly where to look for the trousers I wanted to buy, while Old Man Witchery pigeon-toed his way down the aisles, telling me the latest gossip from the township: Harriet Allsop, her with the glass eye, had up and married a commercial traveller from the North Island, which Witchery swore made both her eyes sparkle. Alan Garitty had chopped the top of his finger off while he was tailing. Grannie had sewed it back on again, her being a seamstress as well as a bloody good cook who could give Peg Millard a run for her money. The weather was in for a warm-up, Old Witchery would bet all Grannie’s lamingtons on it. On he went, while I said yes and no in what I thought were the right places.

  At Downston’s, all I’d wanted was to get out of my mission clothes, but now I was getting paid, I was loathe to spend any of my wages. If I saved everything I could, in a year I might have as much as a hundred quid. I’d be able to do a lot with that. Joe was right. Having some cash behind you gave you freedom.

  But Peg had already made me buy new shoes, and more underwear. A few weeks ago, she’d pestered me into getting a couple of new shirts. Now it was trousers. She threatened she wouldn’t feed me if I didn’t get them, although I couldn’t see Peg not feeding anyone.

  ‘I don’t know how those people could let you go around like ragamuffins. Disgraceful!’ she’d said, making loud disapproving sounds.

  After rummaging through only two boxes, I found the trousers I was looking for. I measured them against me and was surprised at their length. I’d thought they’d be too long. At least I was growing upwards, Peg said, although I was sure she’d be more satisfied if, at the same time, it had been outwards. I declined Old Witchery’s offer to try them on in Grannie Witchery’s kitchen. ‘You don’t have anything Grannie hasn’t seen plenty of afore,’ Old Witchery chuckled. I counted the money into his hand and fled before he could cross the counter and manhandle me towards Grannie.

  Outside the shop, I slowed my pace and made my way to the Community Hall, where the library was crammed into a room at the back. After thumbing through a few books, I placed them back on the shelves. It didn’t seem as if Fergus would be coming. I wasn’t surprised. By now he would be well on his way to becoming legless, and Joe and Murray would in all likelihood be talking about the gee gees. Joe still studied form at night, while Peg shook her head. ‘F
ifteen and already gambling. You’re on a downward spiral,’ she forecast, but she laughed just the same.

  I liked the evenings when we all sat together. It soothed away some of my pain.

  I left the library and began walking towards the sound of the sea. I could already taste the salt on my lips. Even though it was winter, the sun was warm on my face. In a couple of hours, the air would cool again. Back at the homestead, Peg would be making soup for our evening meal, thick and meaty; roasting a leg of mutton perhaps; baking an apple pie.

  The thought reminded me I hadn’t eaten the lunch Peg had made for me. The package was still in the inside pocket of my jacket. I perched myself on a churchyard wall, pulled out the package and unwrapped the paper. The sandwiches were fat with cheese and Peg’s homemade chutney. In a smaller packet were two ginger gems, oozing cream. Mrs Dibble might have known about ginger gems and pavlovas, but I’m sure Mum wouldn’t have had any idea. Who cared if she couldn’t cook like Peg Millard! She had never had Peg Millard’s money for one thing, nor a husband to call her his good lady. She had been the best mother she could be. I squared my shoulders and blinked to refocus the fading picture of her in my mind.

  I manoeuvred myself on the wall and turned to look behind me at the church. It was made of wood with an arch-shaped entrance. Surrounding it was a small graveyard. The ground around the gravestones was still white with frost.

  I slid from the wall and for no reason wandered into the church. I remembered Mum’s church as being like a cathedral. It was made of stone and had a pointed roof covered with all sorts of carvings, which I could still picture clearly. Perhaps it was because I had spent so long staring up at them every Sunday, while the Reverend Roberts droned the sermon. I supposed Mum’s funeral had taken place there. How many pews had been filled? Not many. Not one whole row. There would have been the Dibbles – Mrs Dibble and Paula, at any rate - and a couple of neighbours. I imagined Ang standing there alone and defiant. The Old Man wouldn’t have turned up. He probably didn’t know even now that Mum was dead. The Reverend Roberts would have given another one of his sermons, and they would have sung Onward Christian Soldiers, Mum’s favourite.

  I ambled round, reading various memorials. On a side wall was a brass plaque with the names of the blokes from the township who had died in the First World War. It was a long list for a small township. Next to it was a headstone that read, To Elija Pullston and his dear wife, Eliza – gone to their eternal rest.

  On the opposite wall, an embroidered banner spelt out Mother’s Union. To the right of the altar, a board announced Hymns. I climbed up into the wooden pulpit, not as high as the one in Mum’s church - only three steps - and turned a few pages of the large black Bible resting on it. What had happened to the Bible Fred and Lori had given me when I was christened? I turned to the altar with a wooden cross in the middle. Even with the light falling on it from the window behind, I thought it looked sort of sad and alone.

  I descended the pulpit steps and sat for a while just looking at the cross. Then I felt under the pew with my feet for one of the cushion things they had at Mum’s church. There was one there and I pushed it out. It was embroidered with flowers. I expected The Mothers had made it. I’d seen Mum kneel to pray, although Ang and I had stayed glued to our pew.

  Despite the church’s simplicity, the window behind the altar was of stained glass in vivid colours, showing men with beards and wearing long robes. Some seemed to be flying, while others had their arms outstretched. They all had bright yellow circles above their heads. The window reminded me of the pieces of coloured glass Paula used to collect from the bombsite. She kept them in a wooden box and called them her jewels.

  In the middle of the window, a man stood with his arms outstretched and underneath were written the words, Jesus said, I will never leave you nor forsake you. Even though my memories of Blountmere Street were becoming a bit muddy, I could still see the look on Mum’s face when she talked about Jesus. She’d said He wouldn’t leave you nor forsake you. But He had, hadn’t He? Where was Jesus when they’d taken Ang and me away? Where had He been when they’d sent me to New Zealand? Why had He taken Mum when we needed her the most?

  I lowered my gaze to the cross on the altar and tried to recall the hymns we used to sing about it. I remembered the Reverend Roberts saying Jesus had died on the cross because he loved everyone individually. Mum had said the same but Ang had argued it was a load of codswallop. She would have said, if God loved us, he had a pretty funny way of showing it. But somewhere in the valleys of my mind, I heard him saying the cross brought hope as well. A bit of hope and some help thrown in for luck wouldn’t come amiss. Only God, if there was one, could know about the hole in the middle of me. Not just a space, a whopping bombsite crater I’d given up on ever filling. And what could Jesus do about that? Could He do the same for me as He had for Mum? I supposed I could give God a chance. If it didn’t work, I hadn’t lost anything. After all, if God didn’t exist, He wouldn’t know I’d prayed. If He did exist, and had decided I wasn’t one of the people at the top of His list, what had changed? I hesitated, clasped my hands together and squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to recall all the wrong things I’d ever done so that I could say I was sorry. Would God really care? I started on Our Father, but got stuck halfway through. Then, opening my eyes, I looked up at the man in the window. ‘All right, I’ll give you one last chance,’ I called up to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As soon as I could drive, Jack asked me whether I’d mind driving Peg to church every now and then. I noticed he didn’t mention Joe taking his turn with the driving. Perhaps it was because he treasured Peg’s life too much.

  ‘Can’t say I’m much of a church-goer myself,’ Jack confessed, ‘but my good lady seems to get something from it. Tai used to go with her, but Uncle Rewi, being his real uncle, used to pick on him a bit too often in his sermons. Poor young Tai, shy bloke that he is, didn’t handle it too well. Mind you he has to go every so often, or Uncle Rewi comes out here and preaches his whole sermon all over again in case Tai gets backslidden. Anyways, Old Witchery tells me you pop into the church from time to time when you’re in the township.’

  I couldn’t very well say no to Jack. He was what Mum would have called “the salt of the earth”, and who could refuse Peg anything when she cooked the way she did? I’d done a deal or two with the Almighty, as well, when I crept in and out of the church, hoping not to be noticed. I should have known not much got past Old Witchery. Although my visits somehow seemed to steady me inside, it still didn’t mean I wanted to attend a proper church service any more than I had when Mum asked me to go with her.

  ‘Yeah, that should be all right,’ I tried not to sound too enthusiastic in case it encouraged Jack to ask me to take Peg every week. Christmas, Easter and the odd time in between would be quite enough.

  “And the mountains and the hills will break forth in singing,” Uncle Rewi read from the big black Bible resting on the pulpit. “And the trees of the field will clap their hands.” His voice grew louder, building to a crescendo until he burst into song: “Praise my soul the King of heaven.” He climbed down the three steps from the pulpit, his rich voice making the tiny church shake.

  “Glorious in his faithfulness.” The final note swelled and went on and on.

  Peg dabbed at her eyes and whispered, ‘Beautiful’.

  Peg had told me that nobody was sure how Uncle Rewi came to preach at the church every Sunday. She didn’t think he was ordained. All she knew was that when it became too much for the circuit preacher, Uncle Rewi stepped in and he’d been there ever since.

  ‘Everyday the Good Lord plunges his hand into His bag of good things and flings them from the portals of heaven to the earth for us to enjoy. Good eh!’ Uncle Rewi begun his sermon, strutting round the church, addressing members of the congregation individually, asking them, “Good eh?”

  Just when his sermon seemed as if it would last for a week, maybe even a month, he burst into wh
at Peg whispered was a Maori song called a waiata. Someone Peg called Auntie Aroha harmonized from the front pew.

  ‘Amen! Amen! Amen!’

  On the way from the homested, Peg had also told me that Uncle Rewi had been known to preach another full-blown sermon after his amens, which didn’t exactly make me feel excited about going. She didn’t say that his closing prayer would last round about five minutes. Perhaps she thought I’d turn the truck round and drive straight back to the homestead if she did.

  At last, Uncle Rewi and Auntie Aroha sung their final waiata. It was over.

  ‘Inspiring,’ Peg breathed. To my own surprise, I agreed with her.

  Outside the church, Peg drew her fur stole around her. The fox’s head rested on her breasts as she made her exchanges with various members of the congregation.

  ‘G’day. How’re ya going? Marvellous sermon.’

  ‘Too right, mate.’

  ‘G’day. Keeping well?’

  ‘A box of birds! Bloody good sermon, eh?’

  ‘G’day. She’s a good one today and no mistake.’

  ‘One straight out the box.’

  ‘You work for the Millards, don’t you?’

  I found myself facing a woman who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. She stretched her hand towards me, instantly reminding me of Fred’s handshakes, and especially of the time he first rented our front room in Blountmere Street.

  ‘Barbara Jervlin. Teacher at the school here, for my sins,’ she added. Her smile couldn’t disguise the firmness of her jaw or the directness of her gaze.

  ‘I’m Tony Addington from … ’ My voice petered away. I wasn’t certain where I was from.

  ‘Peg tells me you’re an avid reader.’

  ‘I like books, yes.’

  ‘She says you read a lot of poetry.’

  ‘I used to read it with Fergus at Downston’s.’