by Ella West
Mum and Dad and Harry and Di have started back. Harry is leading us a different, quicker way. Obviously the dramatic entrance through the bush to the surprise is no longer needed. I run to catch up, hear conversations floating back through the rain. But it’s not just rain – thunder is starting to rumble around the hills.
Di looks up, her expression worried. ‘Just as well no one brought an umbrella,’ she laughs, and we all quicken the pace. Thunderstorms are not something to be ignored here, not with all the trees.
At the house we all step out of our gumboots in the carport, and take off our raincoats, shaking the water off them. Inside, lights are turned on, the electric jug filled and plastic biscuit containers brought out.
‘At least the power hasn’t gone out,’ Harry says. He takes a couple of logs, opens up the door of the woodburner, and feeds them in, sparks flying. Not that it’s cold. It’s just damp. The rain is loud on the roof, every few minutes the thunder a crescendo over the top of it.
‘That one was close,’ Mum says, frowning.
‘Have some shortbread.’ Di hands over a large container. ‘Teas or coffees? Do you want a Milo, Annie?’
‘Yes please.’
Everyone else is having coffee, the men with sugar, the women without, everyone has milk. The milk doesn’t come in a carton, or a plastic throwaway container from the supermarket. Instead Di takes a jug out of the fridge. This milk comes from their cows.
We’re sitting around their large kitchen table, which is in the centre of the room. The kitchen bench is along one wall, the fire on another, the TV with several couches circling it on the third. On the fourth wall is the door which leads to the rest of the house. Everything is crammed into the small space and everything is old, or cheap, or both. Dairy farming may make lots of money elsewhere in the country but here it doesn’t, Dad has told me. With the rain, the cows don’t milk as well, giving maybe half the production they would if they were in Canterbury. I asked him why the Browns farmed here and he said because this was where they lived and where Harry’s parents had lived, and his grandparents. They carved the farm out of the bush more than a hundred years ago. Their great-grandchildren will probably still be battling the rain and the bush in another hundred years. Nothing will change. It’s just the way it is.
The conversation slides from the storm outside to the milk price to what will happen if the coalmines close as biscuit containers are passed around and Di urges thirds upon us all. I don’t have too much trouble resisting her chocolate mint slice. Nor does Mum, even after her chocolate binge yesterday. The heat from the fire and the room’s wet fug is starting to make me sleepy, but talk of the explosion on our road and speculation about what has happened to Peter O’Shea wakes me up.
‘They’ve brought in police from over the hill, I hear,’ Harry is saying through a mouthful of ginger loaf. ‘Some bigshot detective from Christchurch. He’s staying out at the Cape, at Barney’s Lodge. Has a fancy horse or something, so can’t stay here in town.’ Harry has a large face and equally large hands. The slab of ginger loaf doesn’t have a chance. He could swallow it whole if he wanted to.
‘Probably thinks we still ride horses over here to get around instead of driving cars,’ Di adds.
‘You don’t really think Pete has done anything wrong?’ Mum asks.
‘Besides blowing up his house?’ Dad replies.
‘It was his house, he could do what he wanted with it.’
‘I don’t think anyone is allowed to blow up a house, whether they own it or not,’ Dad says. ‘Especially if it’s surrounded by police.’
‘If you mean do we think if Peter murdered this guy like they say he did, then the answer is no,’ Harry says carefully. ‘He hasn’t got it in him.’
‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly, that kid,’ Di says, draining her cup of coffee. ‘Anyone else want another hot drink? Annie?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Remember when his dog died last year?’ Harry says.
‘No, I didn’t know the dog was gone,’ Mum says.
‘About June it was. It was poorly, was off its tucker, was old. They didn’t have the money to take it to the vet, so Pete brought it round here. He couldn’t shoot it himself. Said he’d never killed anything. Didn’t want to start. He couldn’t even watch me do it. Then he took the body back home, probably buried it in the garden. I offered to bury it here, but no, he wanted to do it himself.’
‘Poor boy,’ Di says.
‘Whatever the cops want him for, they’ve got it wrong.’
The thunderstorm hasn’t stopped. Heading home, Dad has the car’s headlights on and the wipers going as fast as they can and it’s still not enough. At one point he just stops the car in the middle of the deserted, narrow road, unable to see, until it slackens off enough.
‘The way it’s going, we could have a flood,’ Mum says, almost having to yell above the noise to be heard. She’s peering up at the sky through the windscreen. Cocooned in the gloom of the back seat, I think about Barney’s Lodge. I’ve heard of it, but never been there. It’s in the bush somewhere, or by the beach at the Steeples, behind the Cape Pub. There are a lot of homestays, B&Bs, that sort of thing out there. So why didn’t I butt in and tell Harry it wasn’t the dad who had the horse, but his son? Why didn’t I tell them everything, say I had met him on the beach, that we’d ridden together, that we had talked? That it wasn’t a fancy horse, it was a quarter horse. A rodeo horse. Was it because Jack had kissed me?
But then, not telling people the truth seems to be what I’m doing a lot of these days. I made my school lunch in front of my dad and left it in Blue’s feed shed and didn’t say a word. And I got Blue to scuff out Pete’s footprints, right in front of Jack, and didn’t say anything then either. All those times I haven’t lied. I just haven’t told the truth about what I’ve been doing, what I know. Is that the same as lying?
Maybe the rain is beginning to get to me already.
Dad has started driving again – it hasn’t eased off, he’s just sick of waiting. We crawl along the gravel road that is starting to look more like a river. Lightning snakes across the sky for an instant, then the mountains roll with thunder seconds later.
‘I don’t think you should be taking Blue out this afternoon,’ Mum calls back to me. ‘He doesn’t like thunderstorms, does he?’
‘No.’
‘It’ll be over soon,’ Dad yells. ‘Never know, we might have a sunny afternoon.’
But by the time we get home the storm has gone out to sea and a fine mist has taken its place. I help Dad pull raincoats and gumboots from the boot of the car and listen again to Mum’s demands to not tell anyone about the logging helicopter. She cooks sausages for lunch, and eggs. Di had given her a carton of eggs from her chooks. They live in the hay barn and hang out by the dairy where the cows are milked. Halfway through lunch my phone vibrates in my pocket. Jack has texted one word: Beach? I text back: One hour.
‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks.
‘Someone from school. Homework,’ I reply.
‘That’s your afternoon organised.’
‘I can do it later. Might take Blue out first.’
‘Well, you know where I’ll be. Stripping wallpaper.’
The mist is still there as I saddle Blue. There’s hardly any point wearing a raincoat. This mist is the type that defies raincoats. But I wear one anyway, just in case the heavy rain returns.
Blue and I splash across Deadmans Creek, not getting any wetter than we already are. Deadmans is called Deadmans (no apostrophe required, apparently) for a reason. Back in the eighteen hundreds when people were looking for gold, the body of a prospector was found upstream from here in the creek. He had been murdered, his head bashed in. The young man’s friend was convicted of murder since he was found wearing his boots. The friend was hung in Nelson, although he said he didn’t do it. Back then they hung people for murder, even if there were no witnesses and no evidence except for a pair of boots. Still, brilliant name for a c
reek.
Jack is doing sharp turns with Tassie, but quickly falls in beside me and Blue in a slow canter.
‘Are we still looking for a body?’ he asks, taunting me with a smile.
‘Unless you’ve heard they’ve found one.’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Does your dad talk much about the investigation?’
‘Sometimes.’
We’ve slowed to a walk. ‘Meaning?’
‘Sometimes he talks about it, sometimes he doesn’t. So what did you do this morning? What do people do here when it rains all the time?’
‘Visited friends with my parents.’
‘Fun?’
‘It was okay.’ We ride in silence for a bit, then I finally find the courage to ask something I’ve been thinking about. ‘Are rodeos cruel?’
Jack meets my eyes, then looks away, suddenly grumpy.
‘It’s just that some people say they are,’ I add. ‘That they kill horses.’
‘Are you an animal rights campaigner? I didn’t think you would be.’
‘I’m not. I’ve just never been to a rodeo and that’s what everyone says.’
‘Horses do die, but so do the riders. Things happen. But then Blue could break a leg on this beach if he hit some soft sand, and he’d have to be put down. You could be thrown and break your back and have to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Or worse, you could be knocked unconscious with the tide coming in and you’d drown.’
‘Except you’re here and I would like to think you would rescue me before that happened.’
‘And if I wasn’t here?’
‘It all sounds a bit dramatic.’
‘But it’s all stuff that could happen, that has happened to people. Don’t get out of bed in the morning – then you’ll be fine.’
‘Can we get back to rodeos?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s not good for the animals, is it?’
‘The horse that did my shoulder in walked away just fine. People say that rodeos stress animals, that the gear we use makes them buck, that it’s not natural, but they don’t know what they’re talking about.’ He’s speaking with passion now. ‘Horses buck in a paddock all by themselves – they’re just having fun. You should see them in the arena. They get all fired up and buck you off, then prance around in front of everyone clapping and cheering, and then they go back into the pens quiet as anything. They know what’s expected of them and they do what they’ve been taught to do. If they didn’t like it, they’d be breaking pens and all sorts of things out the back. People don’t see that. They just think they’re watching this wild, untamed animal doing something it doesn’t want to do, but it’s all show. You should go to a rodeo one day. You’d like it.’
‘Could I enter in the barrel racing?’
‘If you’re any good.’ He sighs. ‘You want me to teach you, don’t you?’
‘You don’t want to?’
‘I’ve just been wondering when you would ask. It’s usually what most girls say in the first five minutes of meeting me.’
That makes me stop and think but Jack is already pulling Tassie up, getting off, waiting for me, holding out the reins. I don’t hesitate anymore and do the same. I try to check the stirrup length on Tassie’s saddle but the western set-up confuses me.
‘They should be okay,’ Jack says, seeing what I’m doing. ‘I think our legs are about the same length.’ I glance at him and realise that while I’ve been sizing Tassie up, he’s been doing the same to me.
‘Do you need a leg-up?’
Now he’s pushing it. It’s the standard joke – the only reason boys say that to girls at pony club is so they can get close to them. I roll my eyes at him, not that he seems to notice.
‘I think I’m fine.’
He steps back, a smile still on his face. He’s holding Blue loosely, one arm simply looped into the reins, his hands on his hips. Blue looks perfectly at ease. Tassie seems far from it.
I gather her reins by the saddle pommel, put my foot into the oversized western stirrup and haul myself up. As soon as my butt touches the saddle, Tassie does this pig jump with her back legs and I’m off, sitting in the sand.
By the time I figure out what has happened, Jack has grabbed Tassie and is laughing his head off. Blue doesn’t even look concerned.
I get up, trying to brush the wet sand off my pants.
‘You okay?’ Jack asks, still laughing.
‘Was that something you and she planned together?’
‘Not a lot of people ride Tassie. I should have been holding her, making sure she behaved. I’m sorry. It’s just that it was pretty funny to watch.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I am.’ He comes closer, pulling Tassie and Blue with him. ‘Tassie, that was very bad,’ he tells the horse, rubbing her nose, then he turns his attention back to me, laughter going from his eyes, replaced by something else.
Suddenly we’re corralled by the two horses, safe from anyone watching, if anyone is watching on this beach on this wet afternoon, and he leans forward. I’m up against Blue’s withers, my horse warm behind me, both sets of reins still in Jack’s hands and I feel Jack’s lips on my cheek, then finding my own, ready for him. Soft, hardly a touch, his mouth opening against mine. Then he pulls back, looking away, frowning into the rain.
‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ he says.
‘Because you have a girlfriend?’
‘Because tomorrow or in a couple of days or a week or a couple of weeks at the most, the investigation will be over and I’ll be gone.’
‘This is the West Coast,’ I tell him. ‘Anything can happen tomorrow. We take what we can get today.’
Jack looks at me, his eyes softening again. He bends down once more but this time his lips are on mine hard and urgent. I lean back against Blue, my head tilted upwards, and our mouths open and his hands are in my hair, holding my face. The rain runs down our faces and we’re drinking it in, each other in, and there’s the smell of wet horses and saddle leather and the sea and the wet bush and each other.
He’s probably done this a thousand times before, with Stella, with other girls, rodeo girls, so I let him teach me. Does he realise that this is my first time, apart from the nose bump the other day when we were both on our horses? Does he understand that he is showing me what to do, how to do it? If he does, there is no sign. When he breaks away from me he is breathing hard, head down, forehead against mine, wet hair against my wet hair, hands still against either side of my face. I can feel the calluses on his fingers and palms, from bridles, from horses. Jack is no boy from school. He’s a cowboy, a famous saddle bronc rider, and I’m just a girl on a West Coast beach in the rain riding a hack. Kissing a boy.
‘Annie,’ he says, then falters. We both just look at each other. He has no words to say any more than I do. What do I want to say? Kiss me again, make me feel like that again? Make this moment last forever? Stop time?
The horses are as still as we are. Maybe time has stopped.
‘I need to get Tassie dry, out of this rain,’ he says finally. ‘She’ll get cold.’ He passes Blue’s reins to me and then is on Tassie, already heading down the beach to where his vehicle and horse float are. He doesn’t look back.
Blue and I watch them go, the black horse with its western saddle, the rider in his dark jacket, his short hair slicked back by the water. We watch them until they disappear into the rain and then I jump on Blue and we slowly turn to wade back over Deadmans.
Blue whinnies. I know he’s complaining. Not much of a ride today, he’s saying.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I answer.
But there’s school tomorrow, not that I’m there long. I’m in the middle of maths, first period, when one of the office women arrives and tells me to come with her. I stuff my things into my bag and follow her out of the building, under the walkways which shel
ter us from the rain and to the school office where there is a policeman waiting, looking at the pictures on the wall. I don’t pay him much attention, thinking I’ve been summoned for something else (did I forget a dentist appointment?).
‘Annie, could you come with me, please,’ he says, turning towards me. I recognise him. He’s the one who stood guard outside our house after Pete blew up his house and the TV reporters kept bothering us. At least everyone is in class and not watching me getting put in the backseat of a police car for the five-minute ride across town to the station.
I want to ask him what’s going on because I’m thinking of everything bad from a car accident (Mum), a train accident (Dad – he’s on morning shifts now) to the police knowing somehow about me giving Pete my school lunch, but I’m too afraid to ask. He doesn’t say anything, not the whole way.
At the station the cop pushes door codes and I’m past the public waiting area into a corridor. He gestures me through an open door, and I’m expecting it to be an interview room with a one-way mirror just like in CSI or Criminal Minds or SVU, but instead it’s someone’s office. Files and paper are stacked on a desk next to a computer screen along with telephones and other stuff. A blue-and-green striped tie is hanging off a cupboard doorknob and piled on top of a filing cabinet are disposable coffee cups with the Denniston Dog Café logo on them. The café is across the road.
