Sole Survivor

by Derek Hansen

  She cut herself off a thick slice, spread it generously with butter and a veneer of honey and wandered out onto the veranda. The air tasted like water from a mountain stream, a pleasure she’d discovered on a skiing holiday. The sun hadn’t broken through, but the clouds were lifting and sucking up wisps of mist from the trees and scrub. Fantails, white-eyes and goldfinches chirped and flitted in the tight weave of bushes, relishing the end of the wind and rain. The pungas seemed poised to stretch their monkey tails and the nikau palms glistened. The world glowed squeaky clean. The only thing missing was a hard-earned cuppa.

  She left her slice of bread on the veranda rail and wandered inside to put the kettle back over the hot plate. By the time she’d returned outside she’d been gone for less than a minute. She paused, puzzled. Her sandwich had disappeared. She went back indoors to see if she’d taken it inside with her. She hadn’t. She walked outside wondering if she was going mad.

  ‘Okay, Red,’ she said, as she seized on the obvious solution. ‘You win. Give me my lunch back.’ Silence. ‘Red! A joke’s a bloody joke! Even a childish joke!’ Silence. ‘I’ll make another sandwich for you.’ No answer. ‘Stuff you. You enjoy it. I’ll make myself another.’ She went back inside, buttered another slice and spread it with honey. She poured her tea, stepped onto the veranda and looked around. ‘If you want a cup of tea to go with my lunch, you can damn well pour your own.’ She put her new sandwich down on the rail to take a sip of tea and immediately discovered who’d come calling. It wasn’t Red, but a brazen pair of dusky green–brown parrots. ‘Bloody hell!’ she cried. Her tea splashed into her saucer as she grabbed her sandwich, narrowly beating the birds to it. ‘Thanks, Bernie,’ she said.

  The birds who’d kept Bernie company, and benefited from his handouts, waited patiently for the new Bernie to show similar generosity. She broke off a piece of bread and gently reached forward to put it down on the rail. One of the kakas fluttered onto her wrist and ripped the offering from her hand. The other turned its head on the side as if looking for its share.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Rosie, her heart thumping. ‘How about a bit of respect for a lady.’ She broke off another piece and this time held her hand still. The remaining bird flew onto her wrist, settled and calmly ate the bread out of her hand. ‘You cute thing.’ The bird looked up at her doubtfully. She began to chuckle. The kaka ignored her, finished its meal and took wing. She sat back on the veranda chair and sipped her tea. It felt like her whole body was smiling. The sun peeped through the clouds bathing the palms and bushes, trees and ferns in crystal light. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be really happy.

  She finished her tea and began an unhurried tour of inspection. There was no doubt that the half drum at the bottom of the lavatory pit needed raising and emptying or a new hole dug. This was one problem no amount of toilet cleaner could fix. She wondered how the precious ladies and their obsession with skid marks would cope, and smiled. They belonged in another world, one she hoped she’d left behind forever. She had no idea how to raise the drum or dispose of its contents, and concluded that the toilet was best moved to another location and the hole filled in. But that presented its own set of problems. Digging a new hole and re-siting the toilet was a formidable job, one that was way beyond her limited abilities. One way or another, she needed help.

  Her next stop was the laundry, a parched weatherboard shed with a rusting iron roof. Given that she had a generator, she hoped to find a washing machine inside. Nothing fancy, but one of the old round Whiteways with a wringer on top. Instead she found a concrete sink presided over by a single cold tap with a partially perished black rubber hose attached. The hose was just long enough to reach the copper boiler. Rosie groaned. Against the wall was a cut-down oar, which Bernie had obviously used as a paddle to stir his washing, and a scrubbing board. When she made a list of things she needed, her Bendix washing machine would sit at the top of it.

  The rest of the washhouse was given over to a tangle of fishing lines, fishing rods covered in cobwebs, Alvey side-cast reels and tins of oily hooks. There were rotted flippers and a brass-ringed face mask that belonged in a museum. An array of sinkers sat on the horizontal braces of the timber frame, along with three fishing knives in leather scabbards. She withdrew one of the knives from its sheath and examined it. She expected it to be blunt and rusty but was instantly proved wrong. The blade gleamed blackly with its light coating of oil and appeared razor sharp. She could see where the edges had been worked on. Yes, Rosie thought to herself, if a man was going to look after anything, that’s probably what he’d look after. If only he’d put the effort into the toilet or painting the weatherboards.

  The garden was her next stop. Its soil was rock hard and the rains had carved channels between the lines of vegetables. It desperately needed fertilising and a good digging over. But the quantity and variety of vegetables delighted her. She picked off the few snails and lobbed them into the scrub and began plucking the weeds. Bernie had also loved his garden, and she thought she’d soon get it back in order. She noticed the absence of broccoli and mentally added it to her list. Rotting wind-fall tamarillos, peaches, plums and nectarines testified to the productivity of her fruit trees. She wished she’d come earlier when they were in season.

  She wandered over to the shed housing the generator. It was in similar condition to the washhouse. A coat of paint and it would scrub up well. Inside she found Bernie’s tools. All bore the blackish sheen of oil. Dusty step and extension ladders rested on the rafters. There were also six four-gallon tins of diesel, two of which were full and one half full. She remembered the jerry can she’d left on the beach and decided to make that her next job for the day.

  When she stood outside and looked critically at the bach, washhouse and shed, she realised that a lot of their apparent disrepair was cosmetic. The old man had obviously let things go as he’d become increasingly unwell or uninterested, but had done a reasonable job of maintenance up until then. There were rusting buckets and old cans leaning against the shed walls, and old tools that would never again perform their function: a pit saw from the kauri milling days, broken kerosene lamps, bullock yokes, a beautiful old weathered anchor largely made from wood and braced with iron, and what looked like a flensing knife salvaged from the ruins of the whaling station. All the anchor and knife needed were time and love to become showpieces. The same was true of the bach. In truth, it would never inspire poets, but a little care and a coat of paint would go a long way. Overall there were few grounds for dismay. All she had to do was make a list of the help she needed and give it to Col on her way back to Auckland to collect her belongings. She’d worked in business long enough to know how to solve problems. She made them someone else’s.

  Rosie was feeling very pleased with herself. Her slow-combustion Shacklock was now working as it was supposed to. Nice and slowly. She’d baked bread and it had turned out fine. She took all the credit for this, denying any to the author of the recipe she’d followed to the letter. And she had the pleasure of an evening soak in a hot bath to look forward to. She may have forgotten some basics like matches and a torch, but she’d remembered to pack other essentials such as her bath crystals, oils and talc, things men wouldn’t even think to bring. She smiled. Men looked after their toys, she looked after herself.

  She put her bathing costume on under her shorts and shirt, grabbed her beach towel and a lamb chop for bait. She chose the best of the fishing rods and the sturdiest of the fishing knives. The rod was already rigged with a two-hook trace and two ounce sinker. She felt like singing, adding her voice to the chorus of the birds around her, and couldn’t immediately put her finger on the reason for the sheer joy welling up inside her. It wasn’t just the feeling of being on holiday, it was something much more potent, something that seemed to originate in her soul. Then she realised. It was the feeling of being in control. Yes! Stuff Red and Angus McLeod. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need anybody. She could do without them just as she could do
without her flatmates, her brothers, their wives, her father, and the judge who took away the keys to her Volkswagen.

  She passed by the old pohutukawas absorbed in her thoughts until she burst into the clearing that fronted the beach. The brilliance of the sun on the sand and water dazzled her. She couldn’t help herself. She ran onto the sand whooping like a child on a Sunday outing. Why not? The beach was deserted but for her jerry can. She stripped off her shorts and shirt and ran down to the water’s edge. The water lapped around her ankles, cold but not yet forbidding. She stared at the two marine ply half-cabins and tried to guess which one was hers. Both were roughly the same size, painted white with faded storm covers caked in seagull droppings. There was no way of telling which one belonged to her and which belonged to Angus. One had a faded red hull, the other dark blue. She decided to check out the closest, the red one, to see if there was anything on it that might identify its owner.

  She swam out with her knife, lamb chop and fishing rod held high, pulled herself up onto the duckboard and began to untie the storm covers. She straightened the flip clips and lifted the canvas so that she could climb into the boat. She saw a hollow cylinder screwed into the transom that seemed a likely place to stow her fishing rod, and did so. She peeled the rest of the storm cover back as far as the windshield and took a good look around. Two seats, storage pockets down the side, plenty of deck space and a roomy dry storage area up front. But no indication of who the owner might be. No kilts or sporrans hanging up to dry. No Celtic or Glasgow Rangers stickers. No evidence that a Scot had ever been near it. She decided to bait her line while she continued her investigations and let the fish hook themselves. She replaced the rod in the rod holder feeling very pleased with herself. There she was on her first full day, checking out her boat and fishing. Norma would never have believed it. She spotted a small striped towel draped over the instrument panel to protect it from the sun beaming in through the windscreen and recognised the pattern as similar to the ones Bernie had left behind. There was the identification she needed. She cast her eye around the boat once more, this time with an owner’s pride, unaware that three hundred feet above her, set back from the beach on the second ridge, ex-Inspector Angus McLeod was once more going ballistic.

  Rosie lay on the deck out of what little breeze there was, and let the autumn sun dry and warm her. Lying on her back, she could also keep an eye on the tip of her rod which, unfortunately for her, showed every sign of remaining equally as relaxed. She slipped her shoulder straps over her arms, rolled her costume down to her waist and, like a lizard, let the afternoon sun soak into her. She found it harder and harder to keep her eyes open.

  ‘You!’

  She sat bolt upright.

  ‘You, you ignorant woman!’

  She jumped to her feet. There, not twenty feet away, was a tiny rowboat.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing on my boat?’ Angus pulled hard on his oars and glanced over his shoulder to judge his direction and distance. He saw Rosie standing there, her mouth a perfect ‘O’, her hands up to her cheeks, and her two breasts staring him straight in the eye. ‘Dear God, woman! Make yourself decent.’ He turned his head back to face the shore. ‘You’re as bad as the madman.’

  Rosie pulled her top up as quickly as she could.

  ‘Here. Grab the painter and tie me off.’ Angus threw her a rope which she wrapped around and around the stern bollard. ‘That’s not how it’s done. Do you not know anything?’

  Rosie began to recover from her initial surprise, aided by the Scot’s belligerence. She hated his kind and resented the implication in his voice and manner that all women were useless and incompetent, except in their proper place, which was the kitchen, or flat on their back with their legs apart. She felt the familiar rush of anger she’d hoped to leave behind in Auckland. Her eyes blazed. She opened with all guns.

  ‘Listen, mister. One, don’t you ever speak to me like that again. Two, don’t you ever call me woman. Three, if I decide to tie your painter or whatever it is you call it off like this, I’ll tie it off like this. Don’t you presume to tell me how to do things on my boat. What are you doing?’

  Angus stowed his oars and climbed onto the duckboard. He stepped over the transom and into the boat. ‘Now you listen here, woman. I’ll address you any way I like. If you don’t like it you can leave. Two, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss how you do things on your boat but this is not your boat. It’s mine. And I’ll thank you to leave it immediately.’

  ‘Your boat?’

  ‘Aye. My boat.’

  ‘But it has one of Bernie’s towels over the instrument panel. There are others that match up at the house.’

  ‘And others that match at mine. Where do you think you are, woman? There are no department stores here. If you need towels you buy them from Fitzroy and this is the only pattern Col carries.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rosie thought of the cans of tomato soup and had no trouble following the logic.

  ‘If you wish I’ll row you ashore.’

  ‘Thanks. But I don’t accept rides from strangers.’ Just as she reached for the fishing rod to wind it in, it doubled over. ‘Ohhh . . . a fish!’ She tried to wind but the fish was stronger and whipped the handle of the reel painfully across her fingers.

  ‘Don’t you go bringing that thing on board my boat! I’ve just cleaned it.’

  Rosie rested the heel of her hand against the reel as she’d seen her brothers do on family fishing trips, and gradually applied pressure. The reel slowed and stopped.

  ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘Drop dead.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’

  ‘Why not, you old fraud? That’s how you talk to me. Now belt up for a second.’ Rosie smiled inwardly at the shock on the old Scot’s face. Obviously he wasn’t used to people standing up to him. Another paper-thin bully. She pumped and wound, pumped and wound. Fortunately the fish’s first run had tired it and it began to wallow from side to side. As soon as it broke the surface, Rosie dipped the tip of the rod and lifted it aboard. A good size snapper, at least a two-mealer. She wanted to scream with excitement. She’d caught fish before but this was the first one she’d caught all by herself. She decided she had to be matter of fact, as if she caught fish all the time; she grabbed the towel off the instrument panel and wrapped it around the wriggling snapper to protect her hands from its fins.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, woman? Who gave you permission to use my towel?’

  ‘What’s your problem? I hear you have half a dozen more like it at home.’

  Again Angus was struck speechless. Rosie wrestled with the fish, not knowing quite what to do. There’d always been someone to take the hook out for her. The snapper held its mouth wide open so she could see the hook stuck deep in its throat. She grabbed hold of the hook’s shaft and wrenched. The fish snapped its jaws shut.

  ‘Arghhh . . .’ She cried out in pain as its teeth closed around her fingers. She dropped the fish. Blood splattered onto the deck and up the sides.

  ‘Look at the mess you’re making!’

  ‘Shut up and pass me my knife.’ She cut the line and tried to remember what her brothers did next to stop them wriggling. She recalled seeing a piece of wood in one of the side pockets, pointed at one end with a dowel peg through the middle, and thick and solid at the other. Just the thing, she figured, to stun fish. She reached into the side pocket, withdrew the stick and belted the snapper over the head. She surprised herself with the strength of the blow. Angus’ handmade gob-stick broke in two.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosie helplessly. ‘I didn’t know what else to use.’

  ‘Go! Get off my boat before you destroy anything else! Dear God, look at the mess you’ve made, you ignorant woman.’

  Rosie’s right hand was free and she used it to slap the Scot’s face. One of her boyfriends had been a boxer and had shown her how to set her feet and put her shoulder into the blow. It h
ad the effect of knocking Angus flying into the side of the boat, very nearly toppling him overboard. ‘I warned you, you old bastard, don’t call me woman.’ She threw her rod and the fish still wrapped in the towel into the dinghy, stepped over the transom and untied the painter. ‘Enjoy your swim. Might remind you how to treat a lady.’

  Angus rubbed the side of his face which had already flamed angry red and wondered what in the hell he’d run into. He dragged himself upright and watched her row his dinghy ashore. Her slap, he noticed drily, was a good deal more accomplished than her rowing. She pulled the boat up onto the sand, turned her back on him and walked away. He watched her go. Aye, he thought, the madman had warned him that she had spirit. Well, he’d soon fix that. He’d make it his business to. ‘Arrgh!’ The discarded chop bone cut into his bare left foot. He hopped onto his right leg and rued not having taken the time to grab his gumboots from the veranda. ‘You infernal woman!’ he bellowed, but not so loud that she might hear. There was blood on his foot and it wasn’t hers or the fish’s.

  Rosie lifted up the jerry can and was momentarily staggered by its weight. How could she possible carry it all the way up the hill? She saw her towel and an idea slowly dawned on her. She’d shifted flats often enough to have seen how removalists went about their business. She knotted the two ends of her towel together to make a loop, stood the jerry can in the middle of the towel at one end of the loop, squatted down on her haunches, then slipped the other end over her head. She folded the towel over so that it made a pad against her forehead. With both hands reaching behind her, she steadied the jerry can against her back and stood up. Easy. She bent forward to make sure her load was secure, and picked up her fishing rod, her snapper and her clothes and began the journey back up the hill.