Wilf Maiden announced a three-step polonaise. The boys who were having competition made their run from the door. Those who had booked followed more slowly. Rob came in from the lobby and went to Joan Armstrong. She stood up without saying a word and they entered the dance. Her hand was hot and dry. The swish of her taffeta dress, the movement of her back, its firm spinal hollow, hard stretching roll of muscle beneath his fingers, her curving heavy cheeks, damp forehead, glossy hair, all worked together, producing at last a memory of whispers and moist warm skin, hands, four hands, underneath forgotten clothes, rough, impatient; and the end ….
That was what he wanted tonight.
But he would have to be quick. They would change soon.
‘Would you like a drink later, Joan?’
She looked at him dully. Her lips were heavy and sullen. ‘Why don’t you try a new line for a change?’
‘Hey, what’s the matter? What’ve I done?’
Tears came into her eyes. ‘God, I get sick of the same old line.’
He tried to dance her to the inside circle, where there was no changing, but she pulled back, and, when the change came, went without a glance at him.
He danced with two more girls, not knowing who they were. Then he slipped out at a change. He saw Arthur and Beryl in the centre circle, saw Joan go in with the labourer. He turned, found someone in a green blazer and said: ‘Come on, let’s go and get a drink. Let’s do something, for Christ’s sake.’
They went outside and drove round to the factory.
When Rob came back half an hour later there was a new girl in the hall. She wore a blue party dress and she danced gracefully, her blonde pony-tail lightly brushing the nape of her neck. Watching from the door, he thought: Carol, Carol Duncan, she’s back in town. Why hadn’t Jimmy told him?
His first memory of Carol Duncan was as a tiny plump girl with a single pink-ribboned plait. He had kissed her in the shelter-shed as a dare. He could still remember the bitter taste of her cheek. She told a teacher and he had been strapped. After that he seemed to be always in trouble over her. He was stood up in front of assembly, called a ‘nasty-minded little boy’, because she complained he followed her home from school. And only a few months later he had gone into an empty room for a piece of chalk. She had been there alone, doing sums. He found the teacher’s strap. They hit each other on the hand—until he hit her too hard. She ran crying to the staff-room. He got six from the headmaster for that. Then, in Form Two, he had been school bell-ringer. Every time he came to the window where the rope hung he could see her in the Standard Four classroom. He skited. He rang the bell too hard and lost his job.
After that she had gone to a school in Auckland, a special school, where they taught the girls to be ladies. And when she passed him in the street on holidays she said: ‘Good afternoon, Rob,’ instead of: ‘Hallo.’
Then he had not seen her for a long time. He heard she had left the Auckland school and gone to another in Hawkes Bay, where the lady-making process was carried to its end. He always seemed to miss her in the street. He was always away when she was home. He passed her close only once. She was very pretty, and she looked cool and superior. She said nothing. He couldn’t convince himself that she hadn’t seen him.
Then she had gone to university for a year. Donny said girls from her school went there to find husbands.
And now she was here, dancing, smiling, still looking superior. Her eyes swept round past the door as she spun. Again he couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t seen him.
The dance ended and she sat down with some girls. There seemed to be no boy with her.
He went to the ticket-box and asked John Golding for some chewing-gum. He must get rid of the smell of beer.
Arthur came out. ‘See who’s here?’ But he wanted to talk about Beryl. He had booked the next dance and the supper waltz with her and was sure he could take her home.
‘Look, you won’t be taking ….’
‘No,’ said Rob, ‘I won’t be taking Joan. You don’t have to worry.’
‘Why don’t you try for Carol Duncan? She’s not with anybody.’
Rob went to the door, threw away his gum. ‘Watch me. Watch the technique.’ But he was nervous.
Wilf Maiden called: ‘Gentlemen, take your partners for a foxtrot.’
Rob rubbed his hands on his handkerchief, started across the floor. He stood in front of Carol Duncan, slightly bent. ‘May I have this dance, please?’ He was smiling humorously, waiting for her to recognise him.
She looked up and her cool blue eyes warmed only slightly—he was almost surprised into telling her his name. But she said: ‘Rob Andrews. How lovely to see you again.’ She smiled a little then, and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, though. I’ve already got this one.’
Somebody—a Railway boy—was at Rob’s shoulder. She walked on to the floor with him, slipped into his arms, and danced away.
Rob stood for a moment, thinking: You bitch, you stuck-up bitch. Soon he turned and went back to the door. He told himself he didn’t like her anyway. She was just a snob. And too bloody smarmy. How lovely to see you again. What was that supposed to mean? Why couldn’t she talk like everyone else? Like Joan Armstrong? You knew where you stood with Joan.
But Joan, when he managed to find her, looked sweaty and sullen in the arms of her labourer, and Carol, led lightly, spun round her twice, her blue dress moving in iridescent ripples.
When Arthur came by Rob touched his sleeve. Arthur stepped out of the dance. ‘What’s the trouble?’ He sounded impatient.
‘I’m going up to Norton.’
Arthur looked quickly at Beryl. He left her a few steps and said softly: ‘Why can’t you make up your mind? And you don’t have to say that in front of Beryl.’
‘I’ll get back in time. You can still take her home.’
Arthur looked at his watch. ‘Half past eleven, no later. And take it easy, will you? Don’t get boozed. Remember, it’s my car you’re driving.’ He went back into the dance.
Rob turned and went outside. This time he didn’t take anyone with him.
(1962)
Barry Crump, from Hang On a Minute Mate
Nice bloke that judge, eh, Jack me boy, said Sam as they drove away from the police station after collecting all their gear. Jack still felt nervous.
What are we going to do, Sam? We’ve got hardly any petrol left and no way of getting any. And I’m getting hungry.
Do you want some petrol? asked Sam. Why didn’t you say so? Watch this!
At the next service station Sam swung the Ford in by the pumps and stopped.
Fill the old girl up, will you mate, he said to the attendant who came out of the office. We’ve got a long way to go tonight. And you’d better check the oil, water and tyres for us too.
Righto mate, said the attendant. How many will she hold?
About fourteen and a pint of thirty ought to do her. She’s a thirsty old bitch. Send us broke before she’s finished.
The attendant laughed, and filled their tank.
Jack was horrified.
Thirteen and a half, said the attendant, screwing the cap on their tank.
Charge us for fourteen gallons and have a beer on us, said Sam expansively.
Two pound six and a penny, said the attendant, closing the bonnet. Sam dug in his hip pocket.
Hell’s bloody teeth! he cried disgustedly. I’ve only got that fifty quidder on me. Got any notes, Bill?
No, I haven’t, said Jack, watching the attendant’s face.
Don’t s’pose you could manage to cash a fifty for us, mate? asked Sam hopelessly.
Not a show, mate. Banked this afternoon.
That’s just lovely, that is. And we’ve got to go right through to Hastings tonight.
I could ring the boss. He might have the cash at home, said the attendant.
Tell you what, said Sam, brightening. Get the boss on the blower and let me talk to him.
The attendant took them into the office and dialled a number. Sam took
the receiver.
What’s this bloke’s name? he asked.
Scott. Charlie Scott.
Hullo, hullo. Charlie Scott? said Sam to the phone.
Sam Cash here, Charlie. We’re down at your garage. Bit of a balls-up down here. Got two quid’s worth of gas off the bloke here and then found I only had a fifty quid cheque on me.—No, we tried that. Too late.—Well, I thought of leaving the cheque here with you but we probably won’t be back this way for months.—Hastings.—Dan Porter. Know him?—Should be. He’s got one of the biggest sheep-stations in the North Island.—Could you do that for us?—That’s pretty decent of you, mate. I’ll leave my address with the bloke here and you can post it on to me any time.—That’s all right. We’ve got plenty of cash once we get to Hastings.—Okay. I’ll put him on. Sorry to have caused the inconvenience. Won’t forget it.—Right. Hooray.
Boss wants to talk to you, said Sam, handing the receiver to the attendant, who listened for a few minutes, saying: Yes—yes—okay, at intervals.
That’ll be all right mate, he said, hanging up. Must have caught Charlie in a good mood. I’ll just take your name and address. Got the cheque there? Sam gave him the cheque and a careful address in Hastings.
They left.
Are you sure we won’t get into trouble over this? asked Jack.
Not a show, replied Sam cheerfully. I gave them the address of some people who used to handle my mail when I was working up and down the coast. If the cheque bounces again we’ll say we’re terribly sorry and post them the cash.
Jack was very relieved at this and began to notice he was hungry again. They stopped at a store and bought a loaf of bread. Next stop was by a bridge, where they gathered a bundle of watercress. The third stop was up an old road that ran into a block of bush off the main road. Sam got out the shotgun.
Light a fire and get our billy boiling, Jack me boy, he said. I’ll see if I can dig up a bit of meat. He went into the bush and half an hour later Jack heard three spaced shots. Sam returned with a plucked, bony pigeon and two rabbits.
Got ’em on the other side of the bush. Should be a fairly decent stew in them. Cut up the watercress into the billy while I skin the bunnies, Jack me boy. We’ll eat tonight and think about a job tomorrow.
They ate their stew to the last burping scrape. Jack leaned back from the fire and wiped his greasy hands on the legs of his trousers.
Might as well camp here for the night, said Sam, looking at the sky.
It’ll be about as comfortable as a hole in your pants, said Jack happily, stealing one of Sam’s phrases.
No fear, said Sam. We’ve got our axe to cut wood for a fire and the cover for a roof in case it rains. We can take the seats out of the truck to sleep on.
You’re pretty good at working things out, Sam, Jack said admiringly.
Getting cheeky now you’ve got a full guts, eh? said Sam. Who’s going to cut the wood?
They sat with their backs comfortably against a log. The fire glowed warmly on the trees around them. A possum skarkled in the dark bush and Jack was thinking how he wouldn’t swap places with anyone in the world. Sam, puffing slowly on a very thin cigarette, suddenly said:
Thinking about, Jack?
Just us, said Jack.
There was another long peaceful silence. Thinking about, Sam?
Well, Jack me boy, I was thinking we’ll have to get some sort of idea what we’re going to do with ourselves. Reckon we ought to have something to aim at, like getting a bit of hoot together to buy a little farm or a place to live or something. The way we’ve been, just knocking around, working when and where we feel like it, is about the best way a man can live. He’s got time to be a man that way. But a young bloke like you should have something to work for besides just living.
Long as it’s not milking cows I don’t care what we do, said Jack.
What do you say to a little place up against the bush somewhere with a back paddock that needs the scrub clearing off it and fences that need fixing? Somewhere you can always go back to for a spell when you get tired of travelling.
With a dog tied up and horses in the horse paddock, put in Jack, his eyes shining in the firelight.
And a rifle and the shotgun on the kitchen wall.
And a mantelpiece for the cartridges.
And a woodstove and an open fire.
And snow in the winter to keep warm in.
And a sledge for firewood.
And no neighbours.
And chooks and ducks.
And sheep and a cow for fresh milk.
And deer and pigs in the bush.
And a tame wild pig to eat the scraps.
And a river with trout.
And possums to trap.
And boots and saddles and coats in the porch.
And an old truck under the trees to get bits off.
And a big leaky old shed to put things in and work in on wet days.
But how are we going to get money to live on? said Jack, suddenly returning to their camp by the road.
Well, a man could sell deerskins and possum tokens and posts and battens, and break in horses and breed dogs, and do odd jobs like fencing and bush work, and graze stock for cockies in the winter once you get the fences fixed up. There’s plenty of ways to make a few quid. Got to get the place first.
How much will it cost, Sam?
Hard to say. Might be able to lease a place for a few quid a year. Or get it for a few hundred quid down and then pay it off. Or you could buy it outright for a few thousand quid.
Can’t see us ever getting thousands of quid, said Jack soberly. And paying it off doesn’t sound as if we’ll have much freedom to do what we want, does it?
Yeah, that’s the trouble with that idea, agreed Sam, flicking a cigarette butt into the fire and standing up. Still, you never know your luck, Jack me boy. And it’s something to keep your eyes open for. Anyway, you can sleep on it. Probably won’t be able to recognise the place in the morning.
The morning was a cold, wet haze of drizzling rain. Their little farm was a thousand miles away. Tyres sizzled on the wet road and the windscreen wiper whined like a waterpump. Jack was surprised to notice how far away and unimportant his father’s farm was now. He hardly ever thought about it these days. He rubbed a film of mist off the window and looked out to see if there was any bush and rivers.
At Hastings, three days later, they called in to see if there was any mail at Sam’s friend’s place. A money order for fortyseven pounds thirteen and a penny was there for them.
That cheque must have gone through after all, said Sam in surprise. Dan Porter must have sold a bale of dags or something.
Don’t let’s argue about it, said Jack happily. That eel soup of yours we had yesterday didn’t do my appetite as much damage as I thought. I’m starving.
Jack was so hungry he didn’t even notice the waitress until she brought them cups of tea.
How’s that little lot, Sam? he asked, poking a grimy thumb towards the girl’s disappearing figure.
Hard to catch as a new-calved heifer and harder to get rid of than a wind-broken gelding, snorted Sam. Get a man into more trouble than a wool-chasing dog. Spend all your dough, keep you in a steady job so you have to crawl to the boss, and bust you up with all your mates. Lever promises out of you that you can’t keep and then call you a liar. Next thing they get you so you can’t think and before you know where you are, you’re married and nagged and worried, and only half a man and wondering why the hell why! No, Jack me boy, the woman caper is a crook one!
Jack was surprised at the bitterness in Sam’s words. He’d never heard him speak about anything so earnestly before. They paid their bill in silence and left the restaurant. Jack kept his eyes well clear of the waitress as she counted the change into his hand and rolled back towards the kitchen.
You don’t go the women much, Sam? asked Jack, as they climbed into the truck and turned into the north road.
No Jack, the way women are fixed you have t
o give them more than you can possibly get out of it. After a while it gets to be more than it’s worth. But you’re stuck with them by that time and it’s too late.
But what if you fall in love with them, Sam?
That’s a damn sight worse than anything. All this singing and books and screeching and bellering about what a marvellous thing love is, is just a lot of tripe, Jack. I’ve been as much in love as a man can get and believe me, there’s nothing so miserable and upsetting and lousy in the whole world. Can’t work properly, can’t think about anything except what the woman’s up to when you’re not with her, and when you are with her you’re miserable because you can’t stay there. You spend months wandering around like a blind horse, looking for something you’re not going to get anyway. Then you think you’ve got it, and your head goes round like a fan-belt, and by the time it stops you’re married. You start to think you’re happy then, but it doesn’t take long to wake up.
I once loved a woman so much I stayed round the town she lived in for four months. Took her out a few times and one day I tells her I love her and want to get married. She ups and screams with laughter in my face.
I climbed aboard the old bomb and drove off feeling like every rib in my carcase had been busted in three places. I wandered around for months, wondering what to do about it, but there’s no cure except time. And a long time it takes, too. You think it’s never going to end. It probably never really does.
Once a woman gets you she hangs on like a rata. There’s kids and telephones and boots off before you come into the house and you’ve had it! You’ve got as close as you can get but it’s not close enough. And you can’t go back and have another go at it because you’re too busy telling lies to keep yourself out of trouble to even remember what being a man is like.
No, Jack me boy, she’s a grim business. I only wish you could learn from what happened to me, but you’ll have to see it for yourself or it won’t be real.
But you don’t have to marry them, said Jack uncertainly.
If they want y’, they’ll get y’. Don’t worry about that lot. They’ve got all the gear to do it with, answered Sam definitely.
But all marriages aren’t like that, are they, Sam?
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 71