“Not a little old pebble.”
“Not a little old pebble,” agreed Dad.
“Incredible,” I said as I sat there quite stunned. “But you were so reluctant to tell me any of this. It was like you were ashamed of it or even scared of it. Why?”
He sighed. “I don’t know Keith. It’s never easy killing a man and he was the first but unfortunately not the last in my life. And what I saw with poor old Konosu, well...” And he never finished his sentence just looked out the window at the gathering storm clouds rolling in from the sea once more.
I said, “I think you believe you could’ve done better for Konosu. That’s what gets you, doesn’t it? What eats away at you. That, and the fact that you haven’t told anyone about it, apart from your mother. You’ve kept it all to yourself and felt somewhat ashamed about it. Would I be right in assuming that, Dad?”
He nodded his head. “Yeah, I s’pose if you want to analyse it all. Also I feel I let my mother down. She never really recovered after that last episode. Was in and out of hospital all her life after that. Mental institutions if you please.”
“Dad you were young. What, eleven, twelve maybe, and your blaming yourself for not looking after your mother and not saving Konosu? Hell, you saved your mother’s life. You treated Konosu like a human being. You helped him where he might have perished long before he met up with Doug. I’m proud of you Dad and you should be proud of yourself too.”
Dad reached across the table and grasped my hand. He squeezed it and said, “Cheers son.” He smiled then added, “Let’s have a beer. I feel the dust building up in my throat.”
“Sure Dad.” And I grabbed a couple of glasses and popped the top on a cold one. I poured as I asked, “So what happened after all that carry on. Did you rebuild and stay?”
“Nah that was it. Mum’d had enough. Me too, to be honest. We walked off the land. Mum sold it and we moved into town. Wakeford that is, not Putumu.” He sipped his beer and looked down at the glass as he added, “Never went back there. Putumu’s gone now I believe, well most of it anyway. As soon as they stopped logging they shut the sawmill down and the place just died. The trains had no reason to go there anymore so that was that.” A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away and glanced at me, hoping I hadn’t noticed. I pretended I never saw it and asked, “How did Nana die. I can’t remember her at all. Did I ever meet her?”
Dad took a deep breath and let it out. “No, she died just before you were born. From cancer. Lung cancer, so in a way Doug got her in the end. He started her on those damn cigarettes and she never stopped. She died a lonely woman. Never married again. Too damn scared of what sort man she might attract, I s’pose... And I can’t say I blame her.”
“Mmm. Yeah. That’s pretty sad.” Was all I could offer.
“Isn’t it just.” And he turned away from me but this time he didn’t care who saw him as the tears flowed down his face in torrents. And I went to him and I held him close. My Dad. My Father.
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And I finally left. I really needed to go now. Almost a week after I originally intended to as my father, once started on his life story couldn’t stop. He told me about his life after Putumu right up to when I came to visit. And I wasn’t disappointed. I was pleased I stayed that little bit longer. He’d had an amazing life, a life that I could never hope to have, nor could many others. And I left there with a new sense of direction and purpose in my life. I knew now what I hoped to achieve after many years of wandering aimlessly, wishing something would fall into my lap. I had lived with and learnt all about my father. I walked in his footsteps a while and shared his experiences. It made me look at life differently. It made me appreciate all the things money can’t buy like family and friends and fun and hard work and living for the day. And although money is a necessary evil and we can’t live without it, it made me think that it should not be our main motivator for getting up in the morning. We should not worship the mighty dollar and let it rule our lives like it does for so many of us. Like it did for me. Sometimes we need to stop and look at ourselves and ask are we really happy? Because that is what life is all about. Happiness. Nothing else matters. I think of the traumas and hardships my father and the people of that generation went through, and I think, how would have I survived all of that? Would I have taken it on the chin, stood up to adversity and then found pleasure in the little things in life whenever I could, or would I’ve just curled up into a ball and said that life is just too damn hard and please make it stop. I wonder. I hope that now, after this time with my father, that I am a better person for it. A stronger person. No longer self centred but one who cares about others as well as myself. One who can appreciate my life for what it is and accept what has been dished up to me. Be happy that I live in this beautiful country with its diverse cultures, the wonderful people, the freedom and all its fantastic opportunities it presents to us every day. Opportunities that we must grab with both hands and exploit for the goodness of our souls and others. To nourish ourselves. I had a plan for my life now and I would see it through. And if it didn’t work out exactly as I envisaged? Well so be it. At least I gave it a go. And that’s all that counts, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
And so, it was with some sadness that we shook hands at my car, and then finding that just a little too formal, hugged each other. The tears were welling up again, in both of us, as we let go and I sat in my car and closed the door. The window was down and I said, “Alright Dad I’ll see you later. Might be a couple or months or so, you know, depends on a few things.”
He smiled. “Sure son, just when you can. And good luck with that too.”
“Cheers,” I said, as I started the motor. The cat casually wandered in front of the car and disappeared under the deck of the house, Scrappy who was at my father’s feet eyed her warily.
“By the way Dad, what’s the cat’s name?”
“The cat.”
“Yeah the cat. What’s its name?”
“I just told you. ‘The cat!’.”
I smiled and said, “Of course it is.” I put the car in gear and waved as I drove away, scattering the chooks that bathed in the dust on the driveway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
T
hey had finally repaired the telephone lines in Wanea as I got a call from Bill, a couple of months after leaving my father’s place. He told me that Scrappy had turned up at his home all distressed and worn out. They had seen my father drive past their property earlier in the day and had guessed he was on his way to try for a fish. Bill thought he knew where he would be and he was right. He found him sitting with his back against a rock, by the large horseshoe pool. The place where he had taken me fishing for the first time. The place where I had caught the Kahawai. His hat was down over his eyes and Bill said he thought he was just asleep at first. But of course he wasn’t. He had died from a heart attack, they said. Very sudden. Not much pain, I was told. And Bill was pretty cut up about it as he told me this, as was I of course, and we cried together over the phone and later at the funeral, when his body disappeared into the ground and a waiata tangi was sung in his honour.
Still on the phone, and in between the tears of grief, Bill also told me that when he found Dad he also noticed that his rod had a fish on it, and that it was almost bending in two with the strain. Dad had it jammed in a small hole in the rock that served as a natural rod holder and the rod was bucking back and forth with the struggling fish. He told me all of the line had played out and it was only the knot around the reel that held it there. Well, Bill just thought to hell with that - having just lost his best mate - and he took his knife out of his pocket and was going to cut the line free and let the damn fish go, hooks and all. But he stopped and thought, what would Jack want me to do? And he knew straight away. So he picked up that rod and he started to reel. And the damn thing fought back. Like a prize-fighter. The heavyweight division, he said. He played
that fish for close on an hour he reckons, giving a little, taking a little more, until both were exhausted. But Bill was stronger, and more determined, and he finally landed the monster. Thirty pound snapper, he reckoned. The one Dad was after for so long, probably. His nemesis. It even had a couple of old hooks still in it. Well Bill said something like ‘I was going to take it home, as it would’ve been a huge feed for me and mum’. Was nearly going to give it the old stab through the brain, the iki, when he thought again. And put it back. He took out Dad’s hook and the others, and holding it very carefully, went to the water’s edge and released the fish back to the sea. And watched it swim away.
And I knew, Dad would’ve liked that.
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My father was buried on the Hokianga farm. It was their family plot and I know he would’ve felt very privileged knowing that his friends, Bill and Hine, thought so much of him that they had insisted he laid alongside their revered ancestors. Dad had kept Mum’s ashes at his home and these were buried beside him in accordance with his wishes. At the funeral I met alot of Dads friends. I met the grumpy farmer, the one I waved to at the beginning of my story, and he wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was all me that day. Maybe I was the one with a bad attitude back then. And I met people I recognised from the stories my father had told... But one person in particular stood out. He was an old man. An odd looking person with a dishevelled appearance and strange facial features. I knew who he was straight away, before he introduced himself, such was the accurate description provided by my father. He walked up to me after the service and said, “Hi I’m Wex Woberts and I was lucky enough to know your father.”
I shook his hand and said, “And so was I.”
EPILOGUE
I
stood looking at the house. It hadn’t changed. Why would it? It had only been a couple of months since he had died. I walked up the steps and onto the deck and cupping my hands around my face, peered through the window into the kitchen. Everything was the same, it was spotlessly clean, an upside down cup on the bench next to the jug, the only thing out of place. I took a key out of my pocket and went to the front door. I turned around before sliding it in the lock and yelled, “Are you coming out or what?”
The answer came back, “I could use a little help here. It’s not that easy you know.”
I quickly ran back to the car and put out my arm. I helped with the extraction from the front seat as best I could. “Sorry about that I can be such a twit at times.”
“You’re forgiven,” was the reply.
“So what do you think?” I asked looking into those brown eyes. Seeing if they held a clue as to what the answer was going to be.
“I love it. I truly do.”
“And you think you could live here?”
“Yes, yes I could. After the baby is born,” said Carole, my wife.
I grinned from ear to ear as I slipped my arms around her ever expanding waist, and kissed her beautiful smile.
THE END
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