The Party Line

by Sue Orr

Ian felt the anger swell inside him, grow like a war drum in time to the hiss-suck rhythm of the milking machine.

  ‘No.’ He said it out loud. ‘Shame on you, Bridie. You’re not here … I’m not throwing Gabrielle to the dogs. Shame on you.’

  A cow, startled at the outburst, kicked backwards close to Ian’s head. He moved away just in time.

  That night he dreamed. He was a pallbearer. There were four of them, all farmers from the district. He was at the back, on the left. The coffin sat on his right shoulder. His grip was firm. He stumbled, lost hold of the box. It tilted sharply. From the floor where he lay, he watched the coffin fall towards him. Just in time, the hands of the man in front of him spread wide, catching the coffin, righting it.

  The men waited while he picked himself up, dusted himself down. It was important to dust himself down. He could not proceed unless he looked the part. Unless he looked like the other three men.

  Down the aisle, outside — not into rain, but into bright, warm sunshine. Ian remembered. It wasn’t Jack Gilbert in the box. This coffin was pink and small and light. Inside it was Gabrielle.

  It was mid-morning on a school day and Ian was folding the clothes he’d taken off the line. Gabrielle’s school uniform was still damp. He hung it over the back of a chair in front of the heater.

  He remembered where the dress had come from. Joy Walker had bought it for Gabrielle, that’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? Just a few days ago, but so much had happened since — and he hadn’t thanked Joy for it. Or paid her.

  Ian picked up the telephone and tried to recall the Walkers’ number. He’d never rung it himself, but surely he must know it, having overheard Gabrielle ring and ask for it nearly every day since they’d arrived. Now that he needed to recite it, his mind was blank.

  He dialled one long ring and waited for the operator.

  ‘Number please.’

  ‘I need the Walkers’ number … Joy. And Eugene.’

  Elsie Shanks chuckled. ‘Hard to believe you don’t know that one. Six two C.’

  Ian laughed too. ‘I know. But Gabrielle’s at school.’

  ‘I guess she probably is.’

  Ian found that odd.

  ‘Putting you through.’

  He didn’t hear the operator’s click after Joy answered. But you didn’t always hear it. Sometimes it was so soft you missed it completely.

  ‘Joy, it’s Ian Baxter.’

  ‘Oh … hello. Hello Ian. Is everything alright?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I’m ringing to say thanks for sorting out Gabrielle’s uniform. And sorry for taking so long to get the money to you. What with everything …’

  ‘Heavens, don’t worry about that. No problem. How’s she doing? At high school, I mean … Is she enjoying it? Good teachers?’

  Ian blushed as he realised he couldn’t answer any of these questions.

  ‘She’s very happy. Happiest she’s ever been.’ This much he could say with certainty.

  ‘It’s nice for her to be settled.’

  ‘It makes all the difference.’

  ‘Well … look, I’ll just go and find that receipt, the one for her uniform. Hang on, will you Ian?’

  Ian scuffed the toe of his shoe. He could hear rustling down the line, the muffled click of a purse being opened, then snapped shut.

  ‘Are you there, Ian?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘It was $35, all up. Blouses too. I got her big sizes, they should last her through ’til Sixth Form, when they change the uniform.’

  ‘Thanks very much for that, Joy. I’ll send the money over with Gabrielle after school. It was good of you.’

  ‘Ian … sorry … I didn’t mean to assume anything. When I said about Sixth Form. With Jack gone now, I mean. I suppose everything’s up in the air?’

  Months earlier, even weeks, Ian would have been on his guard, suspicious at such prying.

  ‘Might not be, Joy. Audrey wants me to buy the farm off her.’ As the words came out, Ian’s heart skipped. It was a warm feeling, he thought it might be pride. ‘It would be the best thing I could do. For Gabrielle.’

  He heard a slight gasp down the line.

  ‘I’m not sure I can get the money together, though.’

  ‘I reckon if Audrey wants to sell it to you, things will sort themselves out, somehow.’

  ‘I hope so, I really do.’

  The rain was sporadic — perfect for filling the troughs without saturating the ground too quickly and turning it to mud. Ian worked harder than ever. He sowed crops and mended more fences and watched as the milk production soared.

  The land spoke to him often now. He remembered the day he discovered the peat fire, when he had lain down on the ground and felt the heat rising from its core. So much had happened after that, but Ian understood the essence of what the Earth was trying to tell him. Look after me. I’ll look after you.

  Now this — the possibility of owning this land. The notion would have brought on panic only a year earlier. But now it simmered constantly just below the surface of his consciousness, like the promise of Christmas in a child.

  Bridie no longer shadow-danced with him, day in, day out. He could summon her at will, but on his own terms. It was enough, most of the time, to know that was possible. He didn’t dream about her either. He didn’t dream at all. This suited him. At night, physically exhausted, he crawled early into bed with a book and let the cooling autumn air take him into uninterrupted slumber.

  Joy Walker

  It was a simple manoeuvre, letting go of her guilt over Neville’s death. Like the shrugging off of a heavy hand on tired shoulders. All those years, waiting for absolution. It had come with Jack Gilbert’s passing. Although she knew there was no rationale connecting the two events, she was grateful for the easing.

  Joy did not know what Ian Baxter had whispered to the priest at Jack’s funeral. Perhaps he had spat the word suicide into the ear of the clergyman. Perhaps not. Joy was no longer convinced about the value of knowing and not knowing something.

  And so she did not feel an obligation to tell Eugene about her telephone conversation with Ian Baxter, about the hope in Ian’s voice as he confided Audrey’s wish to sell him the farm. She, too, had heard the sharp intake of breath as he spoke — Ian had probably assumed it was her. He was not to know that Joy had received his news with a smile, that the gasp belonged to an unknown eavesdropper.

  If it was Elsie Shanks, Ian’s plans would already be relayed around the district. But it might — just might — have been Audrey herself listening in. Joy hoped with all her heart that that was the case. In the meantime, she could see no reason to share Ian’s private conversation, with Eugene or anyone else.

  It was a fragile time. Joy wanted a good thing, the good right thing, to happen.

  April brought ceaseless rain and a fierce rush of pasture. Mushrooms sprouted from refreshed soil, and Joy set off on frequent expeditions to gather them.

  In spite of her vigour, she sensed the presence of migraines somewhere just beyond her consciousness. The air pressure had plummeted on the barometer at the back door. She knew where the energy had gone; the black dog had been gorging on it. But she also knew the menace was hollow. She would not give in to it.

  One Wednesday, Eugene came home from the cattle sale and, instead of coming inside for lunch, sat in his truck. Joy watched from the kitchen window as he lit a cigarette and flicked ash out his window. Was he watching her? She couldn’t tell.

  She felt his presence behind her as she bent to put dinner in the oven.

  ‘Bit of news,’ he said. ‘Audrey’s selling the farm.’

  Joy didn’t turn around.

  ‘To Ian Baxter. So they were saying at the sale.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said.

  The fridge door opened and shut. Joy felt the blast of oven warmth at her front, and the chilled air of the refrigerator at her back.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ The glug of milk as he swallowed straight from the bottle
.

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not so long ago … last week, maybe?’

  The fridge door clicked shut.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Joy?’

  Joy turned, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. Eugene was staring at her as though he had lost something; couldn’t quite remember where he had put it down.

  ‘No reason. Just slipped my mind, I suppose.’

  She held his stare. Had she never done this before? She believed not. He chewed at his bottom lip, then pulled out his cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He lit one, and she waited for him to hand it to her, but he kept it for himself.

  The rugby club meeting was not marked on the big calendar behind the kitchen door. Joy flicked through the pages April May June wondering, out loud, whether he’d penned it on the wrong month.

  ‘It’s an extra one. To sort out the juniors.’ Eugene had showered and shaved and was pulling on a clean shirt. His good jersey was slung over the back of a chair. He grabbed it on his way out of the house.

  Joy waited until Nickie was settled in front of the television. She grabbed her coat from the cupboard and took the car keys from the bench. She told Nickie she was going to check on Audrey Gilbert, have a cup of tea. She wouldn’t be long.

  Joy thought, at first, that the cars might be parked on the other side of the rugby clubrooms. But as she passed the buildings, it was clear they were empty. Perhaps they were meeting at someone’s house, rather than the cold, draughty rooms? And really, did she care?

  She drove to the end of the road and turned left. Audrey, she hoped, would still be up. Not at the clothes line, but sitting in that stark kitchen, perhaps. Swatting flies or brewing tea. She slowed as she passed the Baxter cottage. Someone had made curtains for the bare windows. Joy wondered if it was Gabrielle. The curtains were pulled tight against the cold night.

  For a moment, she considered stopping, having a quick word with Ian Baxter. Asking how the farm purchase was coming along — suggesting that he not wait too long to finalise arrangements. Panic fluttered in her chest like a moth under a jar. She understood, now, the reason for her recent anxiety.

  Instead, she sped on. Tonight, she wanted to check on Audrey. She would visit Ian the next day.

  Joy blinked, stunned, as she slowed down. There were so many vehicles at the Gilbert house that some had to be parked on the side of the road. In the darkness, only reflector lights shone at first, but as she got closer she recognised many of the utes.

  Yes, they were all utes, or trucks. This was a gathering of men. Assuming none had picked up passengers, there were at least ten farmers paying a visit to Audrey Gilbert.

  Joy thought, at first, that Eugene’s truck wasn’t there. But she hadn’t looked hard enough. It was right up close to the house, next to the fence where the dogs were tethered. Eugene had been first to arrive. He was the leader of the pack.

  Nickie Walker

  Marcia. Nickie rolled the name round in her mouth and smiled at how it sounded like Marsha but was actually spelled the Italian way. Or Spanish. Marcia wasn’t sure whether her ancestors had come from Italy or Spain, but what amazed Nickie was that it wasn’t New Zealand.

  She lay on the floor of the lounge, homework spread wide around her. It was Sunday night and she wished she’d started it sooner. Started it properly, she meant, done the actual work. Rather than doodling Marcia and drawings of swimming pools with diving boards. Marcia was her new friend in her class at school. Her father was a bank manager and they had a swimming pool which Nickie had been invited to use practically any time she wanted. Marcia’s pool didn’t actually have a diving board, but Nickie and Marcia had talked about getting one with Marcia’s father and he’d smiled and said Why not?

  A friend with a swimming pool and a potential diving board. A friend who had not just disappeared off the face of the Earth without saying goodbye.

  The Baxters had left Fenward early, before the end of the season, due to personal circumstances. That’s what Eugene had told her, when she’d come back from staying with her cousin Heather for Easter.

  Nickie had stared at him, not believing what she’d heard. ‘When? When did they leave?’

  ‘In the weekend.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why? I thought they were going to buy the farm?’

  ‘That didn’t work out.’

  ‘Did Gabrielle come over? To say goodbye?’

  ‘She phoned while you were away.’

  ‘Well who’s going to look after the farm now?’

  Eugene had looked at Joy then, and Nickie followed his gaze. Joy’s jaw was set hard and she raised her eyebrows at Eugene.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Tell her. Tell her what you’ve done. You and your mates.’

  The way her mother spoke frightened Nickie. It wasn’t the words, though they were mean enough, but the way she said them. The way she said mates, as though her father was in a gang, like those Hells Angels.

  Eugene glared back at Joy. Nickie swallowed the lump that was growing in her throat. She whispered Stop it, please, but her mother seemed not to hear.

  ‘Your father will be looking after the Gilberts’ farm. He’s bought it. Him and his mates have gone in together and bought it off Audrey.’

  Joy put her arm around Nickie. ‘I know you’re upset. We’ll find out where they’ve gone, you can keep in touch with Gabrielle …’

  Nickie wanted to explain, wanted to say it out loud. That she was upset about them fighting, not about Gabrielle. She hadn’t had time to think about Gabrielle yet. That she didn’t actually think a lot about Gabrielle these days. But Eugene stood up, slammed his cup down on the table and stomped towards Joy. Nickie held her breath, held her gaze on his hands. They hung loosely at his side. His fists were clenched, the white of his knucklebones showing through his rough, scarred skin.

  Nickie was right back there, outside the Gilberts’ window.

  ‘Don’t hit her.’

  He rubbed his eyes and sat down again. The flicker of a smile passed Joy’s lips as Eugene stared at Nickie as though she was the stranger, the one who didn’t belong.

  Everyone except Nickie was watching Country Calendar, the most boring programme ever made. Who wanted to live their whole life on a farm, which was boring enough already, then have to watch more farmers doing boring farm stuff on TV? But her father liked it and said he only watched one bloody television programme a day, being the news, and if a man couldn’t watch the only other decent programme on offer then what was the world coming to?

  The boring music came on and her father said Shush even though no one was talking and her mother said No one’s saying a word, Eugene, which meant a situation was brewing.

  The subject for the programme that night turned out to be sharemilkers. The first of June wasn’t far away, the boring man said, and so this episode would look at New Zealand’s proud tradition of sharemilking and how it had allowed so many young men to achieve their dreams and become farmers.

  The programme started off talking about Gypsy Day, and it showed some photos of families on the move from one farm to another.

  Her father cleared his throat. Nickie thought Here we go but it turned out that’s all it was. She looked at the best doodle of Marcia and thought thank God bankers didn’t move on the first of June, too.

  ‘Can’t believe how quickly the year goes,’ said Joy.

  ‘Not quick enough,’ said Eugene.

  ‘Don’t start,’ said Joy.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can not say, Joy.’

  The square root of sixteen. Four.

  ‘He deserved a chance,’ said Joy.

  ‘Not in this district.’

  Six to the power of three.

  Nickie quietly got to her feet and slipped out the door. She brushed her teeth, then left the cold water running and tiptoed back into the hallway to listen at the lounge door.
/>   There was nothing to worry about tonight. Joy and Eugene weren’t fighting. They weren’t even talking. The only sound was the television, the boring man getting excited about herds and new beginnings.

  2014

  Sunlight shines through the long rectangular window directly above the altar. It flickers across the bowed mourners.

  Nicola scans weathered, sun-scarred heads. From the back pew, it’s hard to tell which person is Hans. Then she sees him. He’s in the front row, of course. He was always lean — Jack Sprattish to Josephine’s Rubenesque — but old age has shrunk him to a tiny version of himself. Nicola catches a side glimpse as he shuffles uncomfortably in a shiny blue threadbare suit. His eyes are red-rimmed, his dark eyebrows now grey but still owlish. He doesn’t look her way.

  Nicola wonders who else she’ll recognise. Not the priest, who is a young man of earnest piety. It’s possible she won’t know anybody at all. There were few enough familiar faces at her mother’s funeral, years earlier.

  The service progresses through its rituals, and Nicola thinks it might have been better, after all, to have sat in Hans’s line of sight. She wonders whether he’ll stand and speak about Josephine, whether he might glance up from the pulpit and see her.

  But Hans doesn’t speak. Instead, a slim, elderly woman gets up from the seat directly behind him and makes her way to the altar, to the pulpit. In her hands is a sheet of paper. Nicola knows, before the sparrow-like figure turns around, that it’s Audrey Gilbert.

  Audrey clears her throat. Nicola’s holding her breath, though she doesn’t know it until she starts to sway. Audrey looks up, with clear, bright eyes. She smiles that Hepburn smile as her gaze sweeps over Nicola. If she’s recognised her, she doesn’t show it.

  A sure, strong voice from the tiny woman.

  Audrey speaks about moving away from Fenward after the death of her husband. How, somehow, she ended up back there eventually. She hadn’t known Josephine so well in the early days, but the larger-than-life Dutch woman had welcomed her return as though Audrey was her best friend and had been absent on a day trip.