by Derek Hansen
As she washed and cleaned her teeth she considered the problem of emptying her chamber pot. What would Bernie have done, she wondered? She went outside and stood in the shelter of the veranda looking for a solution. Rain water tumbled in a torrent where the guttering returned towards the downpipe fixed to the wall of the house. Clearly the downpipe was blocked with leaves and probably had been for some time. Blocked gutters seemed destined to haunt her wherever she went. She looked at the torrent and saw it had gouged a gully in the soil below and run off into the bush. She tipped the contents of the potty into the gully and let the rain wash it away. Problem solved. Bernie would have been proud of her.
The episode brought home how much her life would have to change if she were to make a go of it. Everything was different. Even a simple visit to the loo was an expedition, a trip to the grocers an adventure currently beyond her capabilities. All along she’d imagined there would be some kind of a track through to Fitzroy. She’d pictured herself tramping through the bush, a cross between Heidi and an Outward Bounder, a rousing song on her lips and a rucksack filled with groceries on her back. The sun had always shone in her imaginings. Perhaps there was a track, but it seemed unlikely. From the moment she’d arrived in Fitzroy, the talk had been of a boat picking her up. If ensuring there was food to eat presented such a challenge, how would she manage with everything else? It was one thing to change light bulbs, re-wire plugs, change washers in taps and fix handles to cupboards, but she suspected the sort of attention the bach needed was work for tradesmen. She’d been many things, but never that.
She found the old Pye radio sitting on a watermarked veneer cabinet as she continued her inspection, and wondered what else had slipped her notice during Red’s tour. The cabinet was stuffed with old papers and magazines, but she could see the rusted chrome fittings which had once supported glass shelves and mirrors at a time when it had been a cocktail cabinet, and probably a very nice one. She switched on the radio and discovered it was tuned to the national station, 1YA. News, weather and corny music, yet probably good company for an old man. Even though the signal came through laced with static from the storm, it was also welcome company for a young city woman unaccustomed to solitude. The stack of papers bothered her. Why hadn’t Red thrown them out? She was about to dismiss it as oversight when the penny dropped. At Wreck Bay, paper was precious.
She looked for matches, found a box with three in it on the shelf above the cooker, turned on the camping gas cooktop and made herself a cup of Nescafé. That was another thing. Col had given her milk powder, but there was a jug of milk already made up in the fridge. That man Red again. She couldn’t help thinking about him as she sipped her coffee, not just as his neighbour but as a psychologist and an eminent psychiatrist’s daughter. She’d seen his elsewhere look before. That dead fish look of being in one place but living in another. As a social worker she’d counselled returned soldiers suffering from battle fatigue, shell shock or poor moral fibre, the diagnosis depending on the sympathies of the diagnostician. She started wondering if she could do anything to help him.
She decided to make breakfast and worry about Red and everything else later, but first she had to check out her supplies. So far, Col hadn’t missed a trick. She’d needed a torch and found one, wanted coffee and found a jar. She was curious as to what other treasures were in store for her. She found blocks of butter and packets of Chesdale cheese. Chesdale cheese, for Christ’s sake, the curse of every school kid’s lunchbox. Cans of peas, sweet corn and baked beans. Exactly what a man would pack. Four rolls of toilet paper, packets of fly-paper, and a soggy parcel wrapped in white butcher’s paper. Whatever was in it had thawed. Lamb chops. A dozen of them. She wished she’d had the brains to sort through the box before going to bed. There was dinner for the next three nights, which was about as long as she figured the thawed meat would last. She found tea, flour, salt, sugar and rice. Rice? Did she look like the kind who made rice puddings? Vinegar, cornflour, hand soap, washing powder, tomato soup, tomato soup, tomato soup. Every tin of soup the same. Soy sauce. What the hell did she need soy sauce for? Honey, raisins, sultanas, dried apricots, prunes. Tins of ham, corned beef and one of spam. Baker’s yeast! With a recipe for baking bread on the packet. Yes! A bottle of tomato sauce. Spare batteries. A potato peeler and can opener. But no vegetables. Ah! But she had a vegetable garden. She had no idea that Col had been influenced by Red’s requirements.
She looked at the sorry assortment and wondered how she was going to survive the two week trial before she went back to Auckland to collect her things – or not – whatever the case may be. She helped herself to one of the eggs Red had stacked in a line across one of her kitchen shelves and fried it on the gas cooker. Ray Conniff’s chorus and orchestra were displaced by Eddie Calvert’s golden trumpet playing ‘Oh My Papa’. ‘A Mother as Lovely as You’ followed. She’d caught the Sunday morning request session. If they played ‘You Will Never Grow Old’ she resolved to throw the frying pan at the radio. A girl could only stand so much. She would have made toast but first she had to make bread. To make bread she had to fire up the Shacklock, which brought her back to Red. Would he come or wouldn’t he? That was the question.
She switched off. The news came on the radio but already it seemed irrelevant. Whether New Zealand sent troops to Vietnam or not had little bearing on events at Wreck Bay. She switched off when ‘Brass Band Parade’ began. Silence was infinitely better than that. She made another cup of coffee and stared at her dirty plate. She figured she had two options. Hang around hoping Red would come or start doing things for herself. The seeping cold left her no option. She decided to light a fire in the Shacklock and see what happened. See if she got hot water. If not, why not? She’d roll some dough and make bread so long as she didn’t have to leave the dough standing for half the day. She went and examined the packet of yeast. Leave standing for a couple of hours. No problem. It would take that long to get the oven up to the right temperature. And at least she’d have a chance to warm up. Fire on, bread baked, what next? Garden. Vegetables for dinner, whatever went well with lamb chops. Then what? The boat. Obviously one of the boats on the mooring went with the house and was hers. Which one? Whichever one was least looked after. Her day stretched ahead like a never-ending adventure.
The boat was a major priority because it was her lifeline, her communication with the outside world, and her shopping trolley. It might also help her catch the odd fish and take her away on picnics. She made up her mind to wander down to the beach if and when the rain stopped, and learn how to start the motor and steer. But first she had to do something about the Shacklock. Inactivity had made her cold despite the hot coffee and heavy pullover she wore. She started to put Jean’s foul-weather gear back on and reeled back at the smell. The up side was that the rain would wash off her vomit.
She knew Bernie would have had a stack of dry wood somewhere, but where? By the back door or under the veranda? Because the back door was on the high side, she realised there’d be nothing to store wood under and headed straight for the veranda. The rain seemed to have been saving its strength for her to set foot outside, and crackled like machine-gun fire on her water-proofs. She peered into the gloom beneath the house and saw stacks of wood neatly split and sawn to length with kindling alongside. It all seemed so very easy until she picked up the first piece of wood and a large black spider shot across her hand. She screamed. The spider was heading up her sleeve to what it foolishly imagined was safety when Rosie banged her arm against a foundation post in fright. It was the spider’s misfortune to run between Rosie’s arm and post at the precise moment of impact. Rosie looked at her wrist to make sure the spider had gone, saw it fixed there immobile as if feasting on her blood, and screamed once more. She danced backwards out into the rain, shaking her wrist, screaming, panicking, wondering at what point she was going to die. The rain washed the spider off.
She stood shaking, a quivering wet mess, and tried to collect her wits. The spider didn’t loo
k anywhere near as big dead as it had alive. But, big or otherwise, she didn’t want a repeat performance. From then on, she whacked every piece of wood she picked up against the stack of firewood, not once, but half a dozen times. Satisfied that any self-respecting spider would have got the heck out of there, she’d pick up another piece. And another. And another. She filled her arms with as much wood as she could carry, and staggered back up the steps and inside. She unloaded it into the box the supplies had occupied and took off Jean’s coat and hat.
Bloody hell, she wondered, was this how life would always be? Did every simple thing have to turn into a drama? She thought she’d make a pot of tea and sit down while she recovered her breath and her confidence. But no! She looked grimly at the Shacklock. First things first, and the next cup of tea or coffee would be brewed on the hot plate. Henceforth, she decided, the camping gas cooker was out of bounds except for emergencies. She stuffed paper and kindling into the Shacklock’s firebox, unscrewed the vent as far as it could go, reached for the matches and stared dumb-struck at the last remaining stick. She realised the vital omission from Col’s supplies. She fought back a wave of despair as she realised she’d have to go begging to Red for something as basic as matches. Red? Hang on. A man who’d left a potty under the bed would also make sure there were matches. She began opening cupboards and drawers. Bingo! There in the drawer next to the stove, not just a box of matches but almost an entire packet. She could have kissed him. She struck a match and held the flame to the paper, then laughed out loud when she saw how much her hand still shook.
‘Oh, Norma,’ she said. ‘If only you could see me now.’
Angus had decided that the day was good only for writing. That, as far as he was concerned, was also the best kind of day. He had a steaming mug of tea by his side, a head bursting with words and ideas, Bonnie curled up on his lap doing her motor-mower impressions, and Red nailed to a promise. The story of the boy who fought the fearsome griffin and saved the village was Angus’ fourth book. Only the second and third had been published. The publishers had returned his first manuscript with regret, but not without complimenting him on his ability and the freshness of his style. They’d loved the character of Hamish, but found the first half of the story too dark and depressing. Bleak was the word they used to describe it. What had stunned Angus was that they thought the story of the boy who grew up in grinding poverty in a mud and stone crofter’s hut was fiction.
Once Hamish sailed away in an abandoned dinghy to the Summer Isles, the young lad sprouted wings on his heels. This was the Hamish the publishers loved and they encouraged Angus to concentrate future books on his adventures. They now regarded him as one of their foremost children’s authors and paid him advances. Angus’ happiness knew no bounds. Hamish, his courageous, young hero, was making a name for himself and attracting a following both in New Zealand and the United Kingdom. All he had to do was keep the dark side out of his books. But he kept the frightening and gory bits because he suspected his young audience liked those parts best of all. He mixed the blood and guts with humour, and laced his stories with morality and principles. Hamish was a lad any parent would be proud to call his own, and Angus was very proud.
He worked all morning, his typewriter competing with the drumming of the rain on his roof. The words came easily and the story flowed. Sometimes the boy seemed to take on a life all his own and surprised him with his courage and intelligence. They were magic moments, when his brain thought and his hands typed, and he just went along for the ride. He filled page after page until he felt he’d filled enough for the morning. He’d done well, and there was no point in wearing himself out. It took him a moment or two to realise that the rain had stopped. He pulled the kettle across the top of the Stanley, put it on the hottest plate, and strolled out onto the veranda. The wind had dropped and the misty clouds were slowly dragging themselves free from the tree tops. The air had the earthy freshness that he savoured. When he closed his eyes he could believe he was in Scotland. The sound of rain water running off in little gullies reminded him of the myriad little streams that ran down off Mt Conneville after every storm, carving a pathway through the peat. He inhaled deeply and stretched his back and arms. Bonnie threaded through his legs, butting and rubbing. He gazed up towards the lower ridges, wondering how the woman was coping. Badly, he hoped. He was slow to recognise the wisp of smoke wafting blue among the mist, but once he did he knew instantly his worst fears had been realised.
‘The bloody fool!’ he shouted out loud, causing Bonnie to leap away in fright. The madman had done it! He’d lit the woman’s fire. He clenched his fists in anger, and damned Red for the soft fool he was.
Rain brought Red no respite. There were always things to do when there was the will to work. Red had both will and need. He sat on his veranda, patiently winding the Japanese longlines he’d recovered onto electrician’s spools salvaged from a building site in Okiwi. He could only admire the monofilament the Japanese used. It was both finer and stronger than anything he could buy and he had already witnessed its effectiveness. As he wound, he snipped the hooks off and dropped them into tins. There were thousands, all of which he had to rinse in fresh water, dry and dip in diesel so that they wouldn’t rust. It was tedious work, but Red could not bear to throw anything away. In time everything had a use. He decided to leave the fourth line intact. He’d soaked newspaper and made little wads which he pinched over the barbs of each hook so they wouldn’t snag on each other. Red took pride in his thoroughness and worked head down without a break. There was merit in work and it helped him forget his promise to Rosie. He only looked up when Archie leaped to his feet and barked. He blushed with shame. It had to be Rosie coming to see why he hadn’t lit her fire. Up on the railway his promise had been his word when his word was all he had to give.
‘You!’ The contemptuous tone identified his caller. He breathed a sigh of relief as Angus emerged from the scrub.
‘More words?’
‘More words indeed, you bloody fool!’
‘What have I done now?’
‘Don’t you play smart with me!’ Angus stood at the foot of the veranda stairs bristling with anger, holding his gnarled manuka walking stick as if he intended to bend it over Red’s head. ‘Don’t you take me for a fool. I’ll not put up with that from the likes of you!’
‘Angus, there’s no need to shout.’
‘Let me be the judge of that! Admit it! You lit her bloody fire!’
‘She’s got her fire going?’
‘Don’t you play innocent with me!’
‘Angus, come up here.’
‘There’s no need for that. I don’t encourage familiarity.’
‘Come here.’
Angus glared at Red but saw that the madman would not be moved. ‘If I must, I suppose I must!’ Grudgingly, he slipped off his clay-choked gumboots and plastic mac, and climbed the few steps up onto the veranda. He looked around suspiciously.
‘What do you see, Angus?’
‘You know very well what I see!’
‘Good. Then you can see what I’ve been doing all morning since I came up from the bay.’
‘Aye . . .’ Angus looked at the miles of coiled lines and the cans of fish hooks. ‘Perhaps I was a wee bit hasty. But she has a fire burning! I’ve seen the smoke!’
‘Angus, anyone can light a fire. She was probably cold.’
‘You haven’t been there? Haven’t given her any of your snapper?’
‘I haven’t been anywhere except to the boat.’ Both men stared off into the bush in the direction of Bernie’s bach, neither knowing where the conversation might head next.
‘Ah well, I’m sorry for intruding. I apologise. I’ll be gone, then.’
‘I’m about to make some tea.’
‘I’ll not stay.’
‘Would you like a smoked snapper? I have surplus.’
‘Aye . . . if that’s the case, I’ll not let it go to waste. Both Bonnie and I are partial to the smoked fish, and
I admit a fondness for the kedgeree. Don’t go giving any away to that woman, mind!’
‘Angus, we’ve agreed.’
‘Aye aye, we’ve agreed!’
CHAPTER
NINE
The windows were steamed up and Rosie had stripped down to shorts and T-shirt. Both front and back doors were wide open yet sweat trickled from every pore. Through trial and error, she’d finally got the hang of the Shacklock. She’d burned almost all the firewood she’d brought in, an unsustainable rate of consumption, and in the process boiled the kettle, heated enough water for a hot bath and turned the bach into a sauna. The trouble was, the idea of a hot bath had been usurped by the need for a cold shower. But she’d mastered the beast, and learned how to control the rate of burn and the oven and hot plate temperatures. She’d also learned how to bake bread, not just one humble loaf but two, big, hearty, round country-style cobs. She thought of taking one around to Red as a thank you for picking her up and cleaning the shack, but thought better of it. If she’d understood Col correctly, rule one was look after yourself first and only share your surplus. She had no surplus. One half-loaf was for now, the rest she divided into quarters for freezing. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to bake any more bread until she returned for good.
