The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  It’s tough work, he said. You can see what a weak joker I am.

  I’ll give you a spell, Ken said, only keep hold of the boat.

  Well, Fred held the dinghy, and by the way he was breathing and the look of his face you’d have thought he was going to die. But Ken had other matters to think about, he was steadying himself and dipping his hands down more than a yard away, and Fred managed to pull himself together and shove off the dinghy and hop in. And if you’d been sitting in the stern as he pulled away you’d have seen that he had his eyes shut. Nor did he open them except when he took a look ahead to see where he was going, and with the cotton-wool in his ears it was difficult for him to hear.

  So for a long time he rowed like that against seas that were getting bigger and bigger, but about half-way back to the shore he took a spell. He changed over to the other side of the seat, so he didn’t have to sit facing the island, and he just sat there keeping the dinghy straight on. Then when he felt that he had collected all his strength he stood up and capsized the dinghy. It took a bit of doing but he did it.

  And after that, taking it easy, he started on his long swim for the shore.

  (1940)

  Frank Sargeson, ‘Sale Day’

  Victor poked his head in the kitchen door.

  Anybody home? he said.

  Elsie told him there wasn’t. She was putting some chops on to fry, but the fire wasn’t going any too good.

  Victor pulled his shirt off, and went to have a wash in the scullery sink. There’d been a fire through the fern that he’d been cutting and he was pretty black.

  It was sale day, and except for Victor the family had gone into town in the car. Before he’d gone the old man had sent Victor away up to the back of the farm to cut fern. He’d had to take his lunch which meant that Elsie had been left on her own all day. Usually there’d have been the cat for a bit of company. But it happened to be spring. And the cat was a tom.

  Out in the scullery Victor made a lot of noise puffing and blowing and slopping water about, then he came back wet and soapy, and groped for his towel. He went over to the stove to dry himself, and Elsie got out of his way. She didn’t look at Victor. She finished setting the table.

  After a bit Victor flung the towel at a peg and it stuck on. Good shot, he said. He stood there slapping himself on the chest. He was a rather fine-looking young chap and he had plenty of muscle. Elsie turned round and looked at him.

  You’ll get your death of cold, she said.

  Victor didn’t say anything.

  You ought to put your shirt on, Elsie said.

  I will in a mo.

  Your mother wouldn’t have you standing about like that.

  Mother doesn’t appreciate a man’s figure.

  Elsie looked at him.

  I like myself, I do, she said.

  The chops began to sizzle a bit so Elsie went over to look at them and Victor moved aside. Then the cat walked in. It looked pretty thin on it. It stood just inside the door and made a meow at Victor, but you couldn’t hear anything.

  Hello cat, Victor said.

  Silly, Elsie said, call him by his proper name.

  Victor stamped his foot at the cat and it crouched but it didn’t run.

  He stinks, he said. He’s randy.

  Puss, Puss, Elsie said.

  The stinking brute. Don’t encourage him.

  Pussy cat, Elsie said.

  I don’t like randy tom cats.

  Come on pussy cat, Elsie persisted, where’ve you been all day?

  You’d hate him if he was a she.

  Go on, Elsie said, I’m fond of animals.

  Elsie turned over the chops with a fork. They weren’t sizzling any too good, so she put the pan over the open fire.

  I don’t particularly like myself, Victor said. Any more than I like that cat.

  I’ll believe you if you put your shirt on.

  I thought you were fond of animals.

  Well, I am.

  Only randy tom cats.

  Elsie didn’t say anything.

  The cat was pruning its whiskers against the leg of the table. Its tail stuck up straight. Elsie went on talking to it and the cat said meow, but you couldn’t hear anything. It was so thin it looked silly.

  I hate the sight of it, Victor said. It’s randy.

  If I hadn’t had jobs in hotels I wouldn’t know what randy is.

  It’s just a word, Victor said. A bloody good one.

  He left off slapping himself and stroked his muscles instead. The chops were sizzling properly now, and Elsie gave them another turn over.

  D’you know, Elsie, Victor said, I nearly came home for lunch.

  Elsie didn’t say anything.

  Yes, I did, Victor went on.

  Elsie looked at the clock.

  It’s time they were home, she said.

  High time, Victor said.

  The cat came and rubbed itself against Elsie’s legs, and she bent over to stroke it.

  Don’t touch him, Victor said. The randy brute stinks.

  It’s only nature, Elsie said.

  You’re nature too, Elsie. So am I.

  Well, what about it?

  That’s what I say. What about it?

  Pussy cat, Elsie said.

  Nature’s bloody awful, Victor went on.

  Oh, go on. Put your shirt on.

  In a mo. I’ve got a sensitive nature, Elsie.

  Didn’t I say you liked yourself?

  You’re wrong Elsie. And I don’t like you kidding to randy tom cats.

  Elsie looked at him.

  I believe you’re cracked, she said, and she picked the cat up and nursed it.

  Living all your life on a farm you see too damn much of nature, Victor said. It’s no good if you’ve got a sensitive nature yourself.

  You want to take life as it comes.

  I bet that’s what you did. You’re engaged, aren’t you Elsie? Give us a proper look at the ring.

  No I won’t. You can see it good enough.

  Well, tell us about the lucky bloke.

  That’s my business.

  OK. Have it your own way.

  They stood there, and Victor went on stroking his muscles. Elsie stroked the cat and it started to purr.

  I jolly near did come home for lunch, Victor said.

  I wouldn’t have cared, Elsie said.

  That’s what you say.

  Well, you heard me.

  Say I had come home for lunch, Victor went on. The cat wasn’t home then.

  Elsie poked at the chops with her fork. They were doing now a bit too fast.

  I’ll hold the cat, Victor said, and he took it. He held it up by the legs with both hands and the cat hung down in a curve, but it didn’t leave off purring.

  Filthy brute, Victor said.

  They’re done, Elsie said, poking at the chops. I wish they were home.

  She lifted the pan a bit and you could see that the fire was hot underneath.

  You want to lift the pan right up, Victor said. They’re burning.

  Well, Elsie lifted the pan and Victor dumped the cat in the fire. Elsie just stood there, and Victor grabbed the pan and jammed it down on top of the cat.

  Then, not far away, you could hear the car, and Victor went over to put his shirt on.

  Look here, Elsie, he said, it’s a fortnight to next sale day. If I was in your shoes I’d look round for another job.

  (1940)

  Frank Sargeson, ‘The Making of a New Zealander’

  When I called at that farm they promised me a job for two months so I took it on, but it turned out to be tough going. The boss was all right, I didn’t mind him at all, and most days he’d just settle down by the fire and get busy with his crochet. It was real nice to see him looking happy and contented as he sat there with his ball of wool.

  But this story is not about a cocky who used to sit in front of the fire and do crochet. I’m not saying I haven’t got a story about him, but I’ll have to be getting ro
und to it another time.

  Yes, the boss was all right, it was his missis that was the trouble. Some people say, never work for a woman, women’ll never listen to reason. But that’s not my experience. Use your block and in no time you’ll be unlucky if you don’t have them eating out of your hand.

  But this time I was unlucky. This Mrs Crump was a real tough one. She and the boss ran a market garden besides the cows. She’d tie a flour-bag over her head, get into gumboots, and not counting the time she put in in the house, she’d do about twelve hours a day, and she had me doing the same. Not that I minded all that much. The best of working on the land is that you’re not always wishing it was time to knock off. Nor thinking of pay-day, either, particularly if there isn’t a pub handy. I’m not going to explain. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself and see.

  But twelve hours a day, every day. I’ll admit I used to get tired. Mrs Crump would see I was done in and tell me to stop working, and that was just what I was waiting for her to do. But there’d be a look in her eye. She’d say that I wasn’t built for hard work, but she wasn’t surprised because she’d never met a man she couldn’t work to a standstill. Well, after she’d said that I’d just go on working, and if I was feeling cheeky I’d tell her I didn’t mind giving her a run for her money. And before those two months were up I was feeling cheeky pretty often. Once she got going about my wages and everything else she had to pay out. She couldn’t keep the wolf from the door, she said. Well then, I said, if you can’t you’ll just have to keep the door shut.

  Now I’m running on ahead so I’d better break off again, because this isn’t just a no-account story about how I began to get cheeky and put wisecracks across Mrs Crump. It’s not about Mrs Crump, she only comes into it. I’m not saying I haven’t got a story about her too, but it’s another one I’ll be getting round to another time.

  What I want to tell is about how I sat on a hillside one evening and talked with a man. That’s all, just a summer evening and a talk with a man on a hillside. Maybe there’s nothing in it and maybe there is.

  The man was one of two young Dallies who ran an orchard up at the back of Mrs Crump’s place. These two had come out from Dalmatia and put some money down on the land, not much, just enough to give them the chance to start working the land. They were still paying off and would be for a good many years. There was a shed where they could live, and to begin with they took it in turns to go out and work for the money they needed to live and buy trees.

  All that was some years before I turned up. The Dallies had worked hard, but it wasn’t all plain sailing. They had about twenty-five acres, but it sloped away from the sun. They’d planted pines for shelter, but your shelter has to make a lot of growth before it’s any use on land with a good slope to the south. And it was poor land, just an inch or two of dark soil on top of clay. You could tell it was poor from the tea-tree, which made no growth after it was a few feet high. Apples do best on land like that, so it was apple trees the Dallies had mainly gone in for.

  Of course Mrs Crump gossiped to me about all this. When I was there the Dallies weren’t keeping a cow, so she was letting them have milk at half the town price. She didn’t mind doing that much for them, she said, they worked so hard. And my last job each day was to take a billy up to the back fence. I’d collect an empty billy that’d be hanging on a hook, and I’d always consider going on and having a yarn with the Dallies. It wasn’t far across to their shed but it would be getting dark, I’d be feeling like my tea so I’d tell myself I’d go over another time.

  Then one evening the billy wasn’t on the hook and I went on over, but the door was shut and there was no one about. The dog went for me but he never had a show. He’d had distemper, he couldn’t move his hind legs and just had to pull himself along. I had a look round but there wasn’t much to see, just two flannels and a towel hanging on the line, and a few empty barrels splashed with bluestone. Close to the shed there were grape vines growing on wires, then the trees began. They were carrying a lot of fruit and looked fine and healthy, but just a bit too healthy, I thought. You could tell from the growth that the Dallies had put on a lot of fertiliser. For a while I waited about, kidding to the dog until he wagged his tail, then I went back.

  The next day one of the Dallies brought the billy over but I didn’t see him. When we were milking Mrs Crump told me. He was the one called Nick, and the evening before he’d had to take his mate into hospital. He’d had a spill off his bike and broken some ribs and his collar-bone. Mrs Crump thought perhaps there’d been some drinking, she said they made wine. Anyhow Nick was upset. If his mate died, he said, he would die too. He’d have nothing left, nothing. And how could he work and live there by himself when his mate was lying all broken up in the hospital? Every afternoon he would leave off working and ride into town to see his mate.

  There’s a pal for you, Mrs Crump said.

  Well, up at the fence the billy would always be on the hook, but if Nick was in town seeing his cobber I’d think it would be no use going over. Then one evening he was just coming across with the billy so I went over to meet him. We greeted each other, and I think we both felt a bit shy. He was small and dark, almost black, and his flannel and denims were pretty far gone the same as mine were. I gave him my tin and told him to roll a cigarette, and when he lit up he went cross-eyed. I noticed that, and I saw too that there was a sort of sadness on his face.

  I asked him how his cobber was, and he said he was good.

  In two days he will be here, he said. You could see he was excited about it and his face didn’t look so sad. In two weeks, he said, it will be just as if it never happened.

  That’s great, I said, and we sat down and smoked.

  How’s the dog? I said.

  He is getting better too, Nick said.

  He whistled, and the dog pulled himself over to us by his front paws and put his chin on Nick’s leg, and somehow with the dog there it was easier to talk.

  I asked Nick about his trees and he said they were all right, but there were too many diseases.

  Too much quick manure, I said.

  He said yes, but what could they do? It would take a long time to make the soil deep and sweet like it was in the part of Dalmatia he came from. Out here everybody wanted money quick, so they put on the manure. It was money, money, all the time. But he and his mate never had any. Everything they got they had to pay out, and if the black-spot got among the apples they had to pay out more than they got. Then one of them had to go out and try for a job.

  It’s the manure that gives you the black-spot, I said.

  Sometimes I think it is God, Nick said.

  Well, maybe you’re right, I said, but what about the grapes?

  Oh, Nick said, they grow, yes. But they are not sweet. To make wine we must put in sugar. In Dalmatia it is not done. Never.

  Yes, I said, but you don’t go back to Dalmatia.

  Oh no, he said, now I am a New Zealander.

  No, I said, but your children will be.

  I have no children and I will never marry, Nick said.

  No? I said, then your cobber will.

  He will never marry either, Nick said.

  Why? I said, there are plenty of Dalmatian girls out here. I bet you could get New Zealand girls too.

  But Nick only said no no no no no.

  If you were in Dalmatia I bet you’d be married, I said.

  But I am not in Dalmatia, Nick said, now I am a New Zealander. In New Zealand everybody says they cannot afford to get married.

  Yes, I said, that’s what they say. But it’s all wrong.

  Yes, Nick said, it is all wrong. Because it is all wrong I am a Communist.

  Good, I said. Well, I thought, spoil a good peasant and you might as well go the whole hog.

  I bet you don’t tell Mrs Crump you’re a Communist, I said.

  Oh no, Nick said, she would never be a Communist.

  No fear, I said.

  I will tell you about Mrs Crump, Nick
said. She should go to Dalmatia. In Dalmatia our women wear bags on their heads just like her, and she would be happy there.

  Yes, I said, I believe you’re right. But Nick, I said, I thought you’d be a Catholic.

  No, Nick said. It is all lies. In Dalmatia they say that Christ was born when there was snow on the ground in Palestine. But now I have read in a book there is no snow in Palestine. So now I know that they tell lies.

  So you’re a Communist instead, I said.

  Yes, I am a Communist, Nick said. But what is the good of that? I am born too soon, eh? What do you think?

  Maybe, I said.

  You too, Nick said. You think that you and me are born too soon? What do you think?

  He said it over and over, and I couldn’t look him in the face. It had too much of that sadness …. I mightn’t have put it the way Nick had, I mightn’t have said I was born too soon, but Nick knew what he was talking about. Nick and I were sitting on the hillside and Nick was saying he was a New Zealander, but he knew he wasn’t a New Zealander. And he knew he wasn’t a Dalmatian any more.

  He knew he wasn’t anything any more.

  Listen, Nick said, do you drink wine?

  Yes, I said.

  Then to-morrow night you come up here and we will drink wine, Nick said.

  Yes, I said, that’s OK with me.

  There is only to-morrow night, Nick said, then my mate will be here. We will drink a lot of wine, I have plenty and we will get very, very drunk. Oh, heaps drunk.

  Yes, I said. Sure thing.

  To-morrow night, he said.

  He got up and I got up, he just waved his hand at me and walked off. He picked the dog up under his arm and walked off, and I just stood there and watched him go.

  But it turned out I never went up to Nick’s place. When I was having my tea that evening Mrs Crump told me about how a woman she knew had worked too hard and dropped dead with heart failure. But there’s nothing wrong with my heart, she said.