I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales

by Lawrence Patchett

  Then he stepped off and walked round the coach to the doors. It was his custom to open them for his passengers; he did not like people to descend from the coach unassisted. But this time he did not swing the doors open immediately. Instead he stood by the coach with the doors ajar, his eyes on the dust at his feet. A deep fatigue was draining through him. He was more than road-weary, but he stood a moment more, until he knew he would be all right. Then he worked his face into a cheery expression, and pulled the doors wide open. He faced his passengers with an agreeable grin, and felt their eyes search his face, then rove out beyond him.

  ‘Tokomairiro, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Forty minutes only, please.’

  THE SNACK MACHINE

  We were headed for the park, me and Lucien. His mum was out for the morning and I was in charge again, for four hours this time. We were on track—he was breakfasted and dressed, ready for kicks, and I had the bag packed. We were set.

  But now Lucien pulled out his mouthguard and eyed my bag.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  Whatever it was, he would never answer a direct question like that.

  I unzipped the bag. ‘Here’s your money pouch. It’s all there. Kei te pai?’

  He nodded, then faced the door again and waited. Each week after kicks we went to the gym that bordered the park so Lucien could buy a snack. There was a snack-machine there; he used the pocket money he’d been given by his mum. It was serious, a tradition we’d set up—Lucien entrusted with his Mum’s cash, me entrusted with him.

  Now I eased the bag over my shoulders and tried not to wince—I’d had a bad back for some time, but it was getting better, and generally I tried to hide it from Lucien. This time he didn’t seem to notice anyway. Out on the street he crunched along in his football boots. It was high summer, he didn’t need boots, but he didn’t need a mouthguard either. That was Lucien. Each week he got fully kitted out in his league gear—boots, headgear, Bears shirt—for a simple kickabout down the park. He was only seven. I could remember that kind of obsession, although cricket had been my thing when I was a kid.

  The intersection came up and he waited for me.

  ‘Ka pai,’ I said. ‘Safety first, eh?’

  He nodded and looked for traffic.

  We crossed and walked on in silence. The park was two blocks from our house, but sometimes it could seem quite a distance.

  I gestured at the footpath ahead of us. ‘Kei te haere tāua ki te Paka Pea,’ I said, giving extra emphasis to Paka Pea to show that I meant it to be funny. I wasn’t sure it equated to ‘Bear Park’, as I meant it to, but Lucien didn’t seem to notice or consider it necessary to respond. Instead he watched his football boots, absorbed in their movements on the footpath.

  ‘A great day for kicks,’ I said. ‘You might even be better in bare feet, mate. You could get blisters in boots. The ground’s hard at this time of year.’

  He looked up at me with his headgear framing his serious face, then at his boots. No comment.

  ‘Ah well,’ I said. ‘He ātaahua tēnei rā!’

  A bit more walking, no traffic, the silence pressing down. Lucien’s mother assured me that the boy liked me; he was just reserved, still getting to know me. And I knew that he didn’t think much of my reo, even though it was for his sake that I was learning—mostly for his sake. It was something about me that he tolerated, at best.

  We made the carpark, then the park itself. I handed him the ball and lifted the chain fence so he could scramble under. Slowly with the ball in his arms he walked out into the park, his boots not sinking into the hard turf. As for me I laid the bag carefully, then ran onto the open grass, briefly elated in the sunshine and space, my back and shoulders much better than last time.

  Then I turned to see Lucien standing about five paces into the field with the ball held rigid in front of him. He was lining up his first kick. Solemnly he stared at the ball, gauged and re-gauged it. I couldn’t watch. So much concentration; I felt the tension of it in my own back.

  ‘Kia kaha, mate!’ I shouted. ‘Boot it!’

  For another aching moment the ball was poised in front of him, too high up, too far out. Then he threw it up high and lurched out with his leg. It was an inelegant karate chop, rather than a fluid kick, but it was a connection at least, and the ball came a fair way towards me, far enough to celebrate.

  ‘Awesome!’ I said. ‘He toa koe!’

  He adjusted his headgear and waited. With my left foot I chipped it back. On the bounce it went over his head and he ran after it, zigzag, still too inexperienced to anticipate the bounce. Then the procedure was repeated, Lucien’s face tight with concentration, his tongue-tip stuck out while he readied the kick. This time the ball struck the end of his boot and it hurt him—I could see it immediately, that snapping foot-shock you get when you don’t strike it right. Not that he would show it.

  I rushed him a thumbs up. ‘Good man!’

  With his sore foot held out to the side, he watched me, lopsided.

  After a few kicks I shortened the distance between us, because he never kicked as well once he’d hurt his foot, and because I could spiral-pass it back, which helped to ease my shoulders, whereas standing in anxious wait for his kicks tended to do the opposite.

  Now he was lining up a drop kick, arms clamping the ball way out in front. He stowed the ball and fished his mouthguard out. ‘Davy? Can I tackle you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Bring it.’

  He replaced the mouthguard and sent his kick up. On the bounce it came within easy reach and I curled round it, bracing for the hit. As he came closer I wailed in pretend panic.

  Just before impact Lucien laughed, ecstatic at my dramatics and the excitement of it, and as we mauled and growled and wrestled for the ball, I laughed too, relieved to have made a breakthrough. It was often this way with him, the rough and tumble achieving what other kinds of play couldn’t. We repeated the kick and tackle procedure, each maul more boisterous than the last, circling in the centre of the field in our loose rumble.

  Then he tackled me again and I fell down in exaggerated fashion, as if felled by a mighty hit, but this time on impact I hit the ground differently and shrieked for real. I’d hit the ground badly, twisted my neck, made it all worse. Pain gripped my whole back.

  Lucien was above me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Taihoa, mate. I’ll be up in a sec.’

  My back was frozen all the way up, the pain most acute right between my shoulder blades. Lying on the ground I saw another month of bad sleeps and chiropractor visits ahead, and for once I had a good swear about it.

  Lucien stiffened. He wasn’t allowed to use bad language himself.

  ‘Go back and have another kick, mate,’ I said. ‘It’s all right—go back. I’m just going to lie here for a minute.’

  ‘Kay.’

  I lay still a moment longer, then pushed up on my left arm, crying out at the spike of pain this sent into my shoulders.

  Ten metres away, Lucien watched as I stood, crookedly. ‘Have you hurt your back?’ he said.

  No shit, I wanted to say, and didn’t.

  I signalled him to send up another one, and when it came I caught the ball and lobbed it back to him, so he could do the running now. He tore away and giggled across the grass, the ball huge in his arms.

  ‘Rah!’ I said, in very slow and sore-backed pursuit. ‘Bears!’

  I’d shown him how to sidestep, and he used it on me now, nipping left just as I got there, chortling with excitement. I couldn’t keep it up.

  I pointed at the goalposts. ‘Place kicks?’

  Taking out his kicking tee I spun it towards him, then went to the goalposts, took my books out and lay with my feet propped on the bag. This had become a tradition too. Each week when my back got too sore I lay with my legs on my bag to form a sort of second crossbar. If Lucien kicked the ball over the real crossbar he got three points; over my legs was two points. He seldom got either—most
ly the ball squirted along the ground or struck my head or hands as I read my book—but it was a good custom. He enjoyed it.

  I settled crankily down and took out my reo practice-books. Turning through cartoons of kuri and ngeru, of smiling tamariki, I felt a momentary slump of enthusiasm. It took me so long to learn so little. And Lucien didn’t respond to it—and for some reason his mum had stopped using her own reo round the house. Perhaps my learning embarrassed her somehow, my eagerness making her wince for my sake. All the same I had a test coming, so I went through the cartoons again, pencilling in the crossword answers in the speech-bubbles. He aha tēnei? He kuri tēnā! He aha tērā? He whare tērā! I was getting through the exercises when I sensed Lucien coming. I twisted up to see him, and he stopped, suddenly abashed, still a few metres back.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘It’s all right. Just tell me what it is.’

  ‘What’s the time, Davy?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’

  He looked across the park to the gym. ‘I’ll stop my kicks at twelve-fifty to get my snack.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Because if I leave it till one o’clock it might be too late.’

  ‘You can take longer if you want to,’ I said. ‘It won’t matter if we’re a few minutes late.’

  ‘But Mum said to get back at one-fifteen, cause we’re going to Dad’s after that.’

  ‘Good point,’ I said. ‘So at twelve-fifty I’ll stop you and we’ll go across to get your snack. Enjoy your kicks now, mate.’

  ‘Kay.’ He put his mouthguard back in and went back.

  I watched the first kick and shouted some encouragement because he got some air on it, and said he could come closer to the goalposts if he wanted, to which he shook his head. Then I went back to my workbooks, where two cartoon children were walking through a village. A motokā went past them; an awa passed under a bridge. I followed them all the way to the shops, and pencilled in their comments. I checked on Lucien and leaned back with eyes closed. He had given up the place kicks and was chipping the ball and running after it, absorbed in his own experiments. I left him to it, closed my eyes again and took a few minutes for myself. I thought of my girlfriend. She was in Porirua this morning, squeezing in two catch-ups with mates. A good break for her from Lucien. The sun was high now. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the heat, too sore to relax right away, but pleasantly lethargic.

  I woke with a start. Lucien was right above me. At that angle his face had a contorted look, and I flashed with the worst-case panic of step-parenting—a dog had bitten him, he was bleeding from some hidden wound; his appendix had burst and was flooding him with poison.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I said. ‘What is it, Lucien?’

  ‘What’s the time, Davy?’

  I shot a look at my watch. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Did you enjoy your place kicks?’

  I felt his eyes on me as I scrambled to shove books, kicking tee, drink bottle in the bag. We were late and he knew it. He marched straight out into the park, short legs walking fast, not toeing the ball ahead as he sometimes did. Stiff-backed, I lurched along behind in low-grade panic. We were only fifteen minutes late, at this point. It wouldn’t matter. His mum wouldn’t mind. But it was a long way across the park, and hot, and I was sweating by the time we made the small hill before the gym.

  In the foyer, no one was at the snack machine. Lucien went straight across to it. I tried not to watch as he stood on tiptoes to examine the snacks and feed his coins. I scanned the empty foyer, the few gymsters who were coming and going, red-faced from exercise. I wondered idly at the kupu for snack machine. Te mīhini kai, perhaps. I’d ask my girlfriend later. She had more reo than me. She had the background.

  Lucien was back.

  ‘Problem?’ I said. ‘Can’t you decide?’

  He didn’t want to say.

  ‘Come on, Lucien,’ I said. ‘We’re running a bit late; your mum—’

  ‘The machine took all my fifty centses and my dollar, and it won’t give me anything back.’

  I stood up. ‘Come and we’ll sort this out.’

  At the machine he showed me the button he’d pushed, the empty refund slot. His eyes were huge. ‘There’s nothing,’ he said.

  I took over then. I fished coins from my own pocket and slotted them, pushed the buttons and waited. Lucien was silent and small beside me, looking up. It didn’t work. I tried again with more coins and lost them too. Reaching down to the refund slot a stab of pain went between my shoulders, there were no coins, and I flared with a sudden immoderate rage.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ I said, slamming the refund button with my thumb. ‘Scheisse! Stupid ... fricking ... scheissing ... what? Pardon?’

  Lucien had mumbled something, but now that I’d whirled on him he shrank back and couldn’t repeat it.

  ‘Lucien—what?’ I said. ‘Come on, we haven’t got all day here.’

  ‘Don’t say Māori all the time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t talk Māori all the time. It’s annoying.’

  ‘That wasn’t even Māori. I said scheisse. That’s German. It’s not even—’ I breathed deep, closed my eyes. I was getting overheated; I’d hurt my thumb by jabbing the buttons, to go with my sore shoulders and back. ‘Never mind. It’s okay, Lucien. I’m going to fix this problem here. I’ll go get the lady. You stay here, all right?’

  He wouldn’t look me in the face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘My back’s hurting me, but that’s not your fault. Sorry I swore. Just wait here, Lucien. We can fix this.’

  No response.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get the lady for us.’

  There was no one at the desk. I hit the bell and peered into the staff-only area, hit the bell again. At last a guy shambled out. I tried not to flare at his casual approach.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you out,’ I said. ‘Lucien here—his pocket money. The machine swallowed it and gave him nothing back.’

  The guy sighed and shook his head at the machine as if our complaint was not a new one. ‘Yeah, it’s poked—it’s been poked for ages.’

  ‘Could you fix it, please,’ I said, my voice tightening.

  He looked at my face, then ambled back towards the staffroom. ‘Back in a minute,’ he said.

  I went back to Lucien. ‘We’ll have it fixed in a sec.’

  ‘Kay,’ said Lucien. He was now absorbed in watching a game of basketball in the main gym, his eyes tracing the ball left and right.

  The guy came back with a special key. It was a T-shaped thing and it fitted into a slot under the bottom of the door. He swung the whole glass frontage away to expose the snacks. For a moment Lucien and I just stared at them, the snacks all lined up on their spiral displays, somehow smaller without the glass in front, their magic gone away.

  Lucien watched as the guy thumbed a button to empty the metal deposit box of its coins.

  ‘How much did you put in?’ he said.

  Lucien half-looked at me, then said, ‘Two dollars fifty. Please.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Good man, Luce.’

  The guy counted out Lucien’s coins, then swung the glass door shut. Lucien reached his coins in again, punched the buttons, waited. Again it didn’t work; again he looked at me, big-eyed.

  ‘Oh shittin’ hell,’ said the guy. ‘The machine’s poked.’

  ‘Maybe you could just hand Lucien’s chips to him?’ I said. ‘It might be easier. Sorry.’

  ‘God, don’t apologise, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s not your fault. The machine’s poked—it’s been poked for ages. I rang the service company, but they just—’

  ‘Could you just grab some chips for Lucien?’ I said. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, catching my tone properly this time. With his key he unlocked the front again and brought forth two bags for Lucien, shoving them right into Lucien’s hands. Surprised, the boy stared at this sudden solution.

  �
��Look at that!’ I said. ‘That’s nice, eh?’

  He nodded, too shy to say anything.

  ‘Lucien, was that what you wanted?’ I said. ‘Kei te pai?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Excellent—look, thanks so much,’ I said, to the guy. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he said, swinging the door shut.

  ‘No, you’ve got no idea,’ I said. ‘You’ve saved me an opera, here. This could have been a big tragedy, for us.’

  He laughed and something unpleasant passed between us as we both recognised my sudden disloyalty to Lucien. But the boy was watching the basketball again, fixated.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Thanks again.’ I took Lucien by the shoulder and guided him out.

  On the hill leading down to the sportsfield it was bright, and Lucien lifted up to me his new bags of chips. I was to keep them in my bag, he said.

  ‘Don’t you want to eat them now?’ I said. ‘You can if you want.’

  ‘I’ll save them,’ he said.

  Normally he ate them on the way back, but not today, apparently. Whatever. I stowed them and worked the bag over my shoulders, still very cramped.

  Lucien looked up. ‘Can we do kick and chase?’

  I looked across the park and sighed. In five minutes I’d be home and his mum would be back, and I’d get a break, an hour or two out the back with my bikes. A coffee maybe—and painkillers. I pictured the exact place of the painkillers in the kitchen cupboard, saw myself taking them from the shelf and cracking the seal. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I can’t chase today, though. I’ll kick and you chase.’

  He agreed to this. I sent out a contorted punt and he ran straight after it, then zigzagged, tracking it. Watching him go, I smiled. He was using up his energy, all right. He’d be knackered after this; he’d fall mute before a DVD or his books, and his mum would thank me for it. Then I remembered he was going to his dad’s, straight after, and we were late. Whatever. We wouldn’t be more than half an hour late, maybe 45 minutes. Besides, it was good to get him active. No one could complain about that.