Dinner at Rose's

by Danielle Hawkins

  ‘Right,’ Andy bawled into my left ear. ‘Where are the cows?’

  I had been enjoying a little glow of satisfaction at my own competence. It vanished abruptly. ‘No idea.’ The prospect of searching for them over ninety acres of wet hill in the howling darkness was not particularly attractive. ‘I’ll ring Kim.’

  ‘She won’t know.’

  ‘But Matt might be awake by now.’ I looked at my watch – it was just before five.

  We had to turn the generator off to hear the phone, which meant we were plunged back into darkness lit by one failing torch battery.

  ‘Josie?’ said Kim.

  I pressed the phone hard to one ear and blocked the other in an attempt to hear over the rain. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s waking up,’ she said. ‘He’s going to be okay.’

  ‘Could you ask him where the cows are?’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, clearly surprised at this prosaic question.

  ‘Are you milking?’

  ‘We will if we can find the cows,’ I said. ‘Andy and Wade are helping.’

  There was a long pause, broken by incoherent voices on the other end of the line, then Kim asked, ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘Nope. Not a word.’

  ‘They’re in the Long Swamp – you know, up the hill from the shed and take the race that goes round to the left.’

  ‘I know the one. Thank you.’

  ‘And the dry cows are in the second hay barn paddock.’

  ‘Which hay barn is the second?’ I asked.

  ‘The old wooden one with the big hedge just behind it,’ said Kim. ‘And Matt says you’ll have to drench them with causmag, and they get two squirts, and you use – how much was it again? Yes, okay, Matt. They get half a bag, and then fill the drum on the drenching unit with water up to two-thirds full. Settle down, you loser! Sorry, Josie, not you. He’s being a nob.’

  Well, that was reassuring. You don’t call people nobs or losers unless you’re confident they’re going to make a full recovery.

  ‘Tell him we promise not to milk any antibiotic cows into the vat,’ I said. ‘And – and tell him I love him.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Kim cheerfully, and hung up.

  Wade clasped his hands girlishly together. ‘Tell him I wuv him,’ he repeated in a quavering squeak. ‘Aww. Here, give me that torch and I’ll go get the bike.’

  IT WAS ALMOST nine when I drove back up Aunty Rose’s driveway and climbed wearily out of my car. The dogs stood at the doors of their runs, complaining in a body at this departure from their standard morning routine, and Percy came bustling out of the woodshed to meet me.

  I let the three dogs out, patted Percy and walked slowly up the path. It was still raining, although the wind had dropped, and the place looked indescribably sodden and dreary. About half the roof was missing, and a loose sheet of rusting corrugated iron slapped half-heartedly against the timber underneath.

  I took off Aunty Rose’s wet oilskin and hung it on a nail by the front door. It had long since given up the struggle to keep the rain out and my poor maltreated onesie was soaked from shoulder to knee. As soon as I opened the door Spud passed me like a medium-sized black and tan lightning streak, two hours overdue for his morning pee.

  I padded gingerly across the kitchen floor, bundled the filthy onesie into the washing machine and wrapped myself in a towel from the adjacent cupboard before continuing up the hall. Aunty Rose’s room was cold and dark and silent – of course it was, but it felt unexpected and wrong. I pulled back the heavy velvet curtains to let in what little light there was outside and turned to look at the still face on the pillow.

  I had never seen a dead person before. Well, not before the small hours of this morning. Novels had led me to expect an expression of unearthly peace on the face of the deceased, and perhaps the sort of smile that suggests the beholding of a beautiful vision. But Aunty Rose just looked exhausted. Her skin was waxy and her mouth sagged a little, and if I hadn’t seen her in the last three months I would have been hard pressed to recognise her. I made a fierce abrupt resolution to do as she had asked and not remember her like this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her softly. Her death was a tragedy, and yet for the last few hours it had been just another drama, something that piled still more tasks onto the towering heap of things I had to do before even thinking of getting to see Matt.

  Hot on the heels of this lowering reflection I remembered I had an appointment with Hannah Dixon’s left supraspinatus muscle right about now, and I hadn’t even rung to say I couldn’t make it. And that I needed to call Dr Milne, and the undertakers, and Mum, and the power board, and someone to come and do something about the roof, and we hadn’t got in today’s calves yet, and I was cold and filthy and dressed only in a small towel, and – Sorry,’ I repeated helplessly. Brushing the still cheek with a fingertip I left the room.

  Closing Aunty Rose’s bedroom door I went back down the hall, keeping my eyes resolutely away from the end toilet whose leak would surely have increased from dribble to torrent during the night. Then I had a small brainwave and turned back that way.

  The leak had indeed overflowed the big stock pot and the end toilet had become a lake. This was depressing, but at least I had a brimming stock pot full of clean water (albeit freezing cold) for washing in. I dipped an end of my towel into it and started scrubbing – it was no hot shower, but it did at least remove a fair number of green smears. Then I went along the hall to the Pink Room, cast a sorrowful eye over the heap of sodden plaster that had fallen from the ceiling onto the foot of my bed, and got dressed.

  I lifted the handset of the hall phone without much hope, but there was actually a dial tone and I sagged with relief; I had envisaged having to take my mobile halfway up the hill behind the house in the rain. Right, start at the beginning, Jo – you’re about twenty-five years too old to go back to bed and put your head under the covers – and call Amber.

  ‘HELLO?’ SAID AMBER. She was supposed to answer the phone with a sprightly ‘Waimanu Physiotherapy! Hello, this is Amber!’ but she almost never did.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jo,’ I said, and there was a clatter as she dropped the phone and bellowed, ‘Cheryl! Cheryl, it’s Jo!’

  There was a second clatter as the phone was retrieved. ‘Good morning,’ said my employer grimly.

  I winced. ‘Cher, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘How soon can you get here?’ she asked crisply.

  ‘I can’t.’

  There was an ominous pause before she asked, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Aunty Rose died in the night,’ I started.

  ‘Oh, Jo, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And Matt’s been in an accident, and he’s in Waikato being sewn up again, and the power’s off, and the roof’s come off the house.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cheryl. There was a wail behind her and she snapped, ‘Pick him up, Amber!’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I completely forgot to call.’

  ‘Damn it,’ she said tiredly. ‘I was going to yell at you, and now I can’t.’

  Poor Cheryl – it sucks to be bursting with righteous indignation and then denied your opportunity to vent it. Go ahead, if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. It’s just I’ve been up half the night with Max, and two people have already told me they would rather have seen you.’

  I HAD CALLED the medical centre and Copelands Funeral Services and was on hold to the power company (listening with very little pleasure to Aaron Neville, who my opinion should never have been allowed to sing anywhere but the privacy of his own shower) when Andy arrived back from taking Wade to work.

  ‘Jo?’ he called. Then he stuck his head round the hall door and grimaced in apology.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I’m on hold. Are you honestly okay taking the day off?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine. Do you want sugar in your coffee?’ He held up a paper cup with a lid.

  ‘Andy, I love you. Three, please.’


  ‘It’s not very warm anymore.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Thank you.’ It could have been brewed sometime last week and stored in a gumboot for all I cared.

  ‘Roof ’s pretty buggered,’ Andy remarked over Aaron Neville’s warbling, coming up the hall with the cup in one hand and a pie in a paper bag in the other. ‘Have you got a tarpaulin?’

  I drank about half the lukewarm coffee in one ecstatic gulp, and shook my head. ‘Not that I know of. Who would I ring to come and do something about it?’

  ‘A builder, I suppose. But I don’t know if anyone’ll come at such short notice.’

  ‘I thought I’d try crying,’ I said. Close observation of Hazel King had taught me never to underestimate the effect of judiciously applied tears.

  ‘Might work,’ he said doubtfully. ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  I hesitated. Lighting the fire? Sopping up one of the indoor lakes? Getting in today’s new calves? ‘Can you drive a tractor? Or is there anyone we can call to come in and take over the farm work at this time of year?’

  Aaron Neville’s wailing stopped abruptly. ‘Waimanu Energy, how can I help you?’ said the bored young man on the other end of the phone, and the dogs began to bark as another car came up the driveway.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s Jo Donnelly here – we’ve got no power up Puketutu Valley Road – sorry, hang on a second.’ I covered the receiver and hissed, ‘That’ll be the doctor. Could you show him in?’

  DR MILNE BENT for only the briefest of moments over Aunty Rose’s bed before straightening up again. ‘Rigor mortis,’ he said. ‘She died some time ago then.’

  ‘I found her after three,’ I said nervously. ‘I didn’t want to call you in the middle of the night, and – and then I – we – had to milk . . .’ I was horribly afraid he would detect some sort of foul play and that I would have to show him Aunty Rose’s note, which incidentally I had forgotten about and would have to fish from the depths of the washing machine. And I was by no means as convinced as Rose that he wouldn’t feel the need for a coroner’s inquest.

  ‘You had to milk?’ he repeated blankly.

  ‘Matt’s in hospital. He was in an accident last night.’

  ‘What sort of an accident?’

  ‘Someone ran into his bike on the driveway,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.’

  ‘My dear, it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. We’ll put the time of death as three am, and that will be close enough.’ He took a step away from the bedside and then paused. ‘Oh, and you’ll have some fairly serious opioids that we’d better not leave lying around the place. I’ll take them away with me.’

  I jumped like a startled rabbit, and hastily opened the drawer of the bedside table to hide it. ‘Everything’s in here – this box is empty . . .’ I balled it up with shaking hands as I spoke – it had only been prescribed at the beginning of the week and there should have been four days’ worth remaining. It occurred to me suddenly that Aunty Rose had swallowed more than four days’ worth of pills last night, and that to ensure a decent overdose she must have been saving them up for weeks instead of using them for pain relief.

  ‘That’s fine, Josie,’ Dr Milne said gently, relieving me of several little bottles. ‘She was a wonderful woman, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Mm,’ I agreed.

  ‘She told me more than once how much she appreciated having you here.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said shakily, ‘or I’ll weep all over you.’

  He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. ‘And why shouldn’t you?’

  I gulped. ‘T-too much to do.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Andy from the doorway. ‘I’ll go and feed out now, and then I’ll come back.’

  ‘Stay on the flat,’ I said worriedly. ‘It’s so wet.’

  ‘The problem with you,’ Andy told me, ‘is that you don’t believe anyone else can do anything.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The doctor and I followed him down the hall. ‘Nice boy,’ Dr Milne remarked, watching him cross the gravel.

  ‘Very,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like me to call the undertakers?’

  ‘I already have,’ I said. ‘They’re coming at eleven.’

  ‘Very good. Now, Tim Reynolds is the man you want for that roof. Tell him you need him today, and if he argues you let me know and I’ll sort him.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Pleasure, my dear.’ He reached out and tweaked the end of my nose as if I were a little girl again. ‘My goodness, you’re a carbon copy of your mother. I always thought she showed very poor taste in preferring your father to me.’

  Chapter 39

  IT WAS NEARLY four o’clock when I found a park high up in the Waikato Hospital parking building. According to Kim’s latest text message I needed ward twelve, general surgical, where Matt had been transferred from intensive care at lunchtime. This was encouraging news, and I was further encouraged by finding the right ward without getting lost even once.

  I paused at the desk, and a nurse in her forties with the look of a woman whose day was not going well glanced up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Matthew King.’

  ‘Right down the end.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, but she had already turned away and picked up the phone.

  I made my way down the corridor, dodging several abandoned wheelchairs, a cleaning trolley and a man in fluffy socks and a hospital gown who was pushing his drip pole in front of him as he shuffled along. The end room had four beds, all occupied, and a bank of big windows along the far wall. In the furthest bed, with his eyes closed and looking heartrendingly pale and battered, was Matt.

  I expect I would have clung to his hand and sobbed – which, let’s face it, is more than anyone should have to put up with on top of liver lacerations and broken ribs – if I could have only got near him. But Hazel was in a chair at his right hand and a small piteous Cilla in a chair at his left, while a third woman, whom I didn’t recognise, arranged a bunch of orange gerberas on a table at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Josie!’ said Kim from the hallway behind me. She put a cardboard tray of disposable coffee cups down on the seat of a handy wheelchair and threw her arms around me.

  I hugged her back tightly. ‘Hey, Kimlet.’

  ‘You’ve had a horrible day,’ she said into my shoulder.

  ‘So have you,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But hey,’ I said. ‘Matt’s alive.’

  Kim sighed and detached herself. ‘True. And I suppose we’d probably have missed him a little bit.’

  ‘We’d better not tell him that; he’ll get all uppity.’ And we smiled shakily at one another.

  ‘It’s awful,’ said Kim suddenly. ‘I keep forgetting about Aunty Rose.’

  ‘I reckon she understands,’ I said. My confidence in the whole notion of life after death is a trifle wobbly – ‘Because I really want it to be true’ seems such a weak argument for the existence of heaven – but the idea of Aunty Rose being gone entirely was frankly ridiculous. ‘She’d be disgusted if we just collapsed in a heap instead of getting on with things.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Kim, her gaze wandering thoughtfully towards her mother. She turned and picked up her tray of coffee again. ‘Come on.’

  She led the way across the room and plonked the tray on the wheeled table at the foot of the bed, digging in her jeans pocket for coins. ‘Two dollars forty,’ she said, handing it to the unknown woman.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Daylight robbery, isn’t it? Just like in an airport.’ She looked past Kim to me. ‘And this must be Josie.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said. Matt opened his eyes with an effort and found mine over the end of his bed. ‘Hey, Matt.’ Because you just can’t say, ‘My darling, I love you more than anyone has ever loved anybody in all the histories of all the worlds, and when I thought you were gone I wanted to die too’ in front of an audience. Actually, I don’t think anyon
e related to my father can say it at all.

  ‘Hey, Jose,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m Myra Browne,’ said the woman. ‘Cilla’s mother.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you.’ It wasn’t, but ‘What the hell are you and your miserable daughter doing here?’ is another of the things you just can’t say.

  Hazel looked up, her face crumpling like a child’s. ‘Oh, Josie,’ she wailed, and held out her arms. This was surprising, but I gathered her up obediently and patted her small trembling form. ‘He so nearly d-didn’t pull through. My baby boy – and R-Rosie has p-passed . . .’

  ‘In her sleep,’ I said soothingly. ‘It was very peaceful.’

  ‘Have a coffee, Hazel,’ said Myra Browne. ‘You’ll feel better for it. Was it cinnamon or chocolate on your cappuccino?’

  Hazel sighed and released me, sinking back into her chair at Matt’s elbow and neatly cutting off access. ‘Cinnamon,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Cilla?’ Her mother held out a cup. ‘Come on, love, drink up while it’s hot.’

  Cilla took a long shuddering breath and shook back her smooth pale hair. Her eyes were red and her face puffy with crying, and she had a long graze across one cheek. And yet she still looked like a little porcelain doll. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘He knows that, love!’ said her mother heartily. ‘Matthew knows it was an accident.’

  Matt grunted painfully in the affirmative. Cilla hid her face again and I felt a twinge of pity – which was unexpected, since the girl was responsible for damaging my very favourite person. But imagine the remorse at having landed someone in intensive care combined with the writhing shame of providing the district with such a delicious snippet of gossip: Jilted Ex-Girlfriend Flattens Local Farmer! Let she who has never paid that late-night, ill-reasoned visit to the boy who dumped her cast the first stone. Or something to that effect.