Royce, Royce, the People's Choice

by Peter Hawes

  There were new tears, and they were of a new kind. She battered them back down her tear ducts with blinks. But they were there. She shook her head and her hair waved like kelp. ‘I thought we were …’ She was looking down and her voice was hoarse. ‘Oh God, how can I have done this!’ she hissed suddenly, and lurched out of her chair for the door.

  ‘We could be!’ he called, rushing after her.

  She sort of immersed herself, more than she needed to, in the ceremony of getting on the bike, never looking at him at all. He dangled beside her on the footpath. She rode off. ‘We could be, Linda. It’s what I want most in all the world.’

  She whizzed over the road, nearly getting skittled, then down Wakefield Street. It wasn’t the way home, so God knows where she was going. He stood watching her, then realised they hadn’t paid.

  He took off, at 11.4 pace.

  ‘I LOVE HIM, I love him, I love him, murmured Mavis. He used to sit by me in Standard Three. He was my partner at the school ball, and when we did Black Nag he put his arm around me although he didn’t have to. None of the other boys put their arms around their partners in Black Nag, but he did. And then she arrived from England with her yellow ponytail and posh way of talking …’

  HE WENT IN through the back door, which was never locked. She wasn’t in the kitchen. He carried on up the passage to the lounge and there she was, lying on the couch with a blanket over her.

  ‘So. You’re back are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ The stupidest conversations he’d ever had were all with his mother.

  ‘Ah, so you’re back, then. I was just having a lie down.’

  ‘Yes. You are. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, I’m just depressed. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes. I actually got in last night, Mum, but I have to stay on the boat at nights. It’s part of the job.’

  ‘Part of the punishment.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘Penny Turton’s gone to Christchurch, they say. He’s still here, living in the house.’

  ‘Jeez, Mum, let’s give that one a rest, shall we? What have you been up to? Been out at all?’

  ‘I went up the street – oh – yesterday. So you’re back. How long for?’

  ‘We go out again tomorrow. I told you I have to stay on the boat, didn’t I? I won’t be staying here.’

  ‘So, you’ve been to sea. Was it calm?’

  ‘Yeah, so they tell me. Wouldn’t mind if it stayed that way all the time but it won’t, of course. Have to get used to the storms, I suppose.’

  ‘So you were out with Bob Dodds?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s good. Tough, but fair. Bit of a practical joker, actually.’

  ‘And Sticky Moody?’

  ‘Yeah, Sticky’s boat’s out of the water for a month or so, so he’s crewing with us until then.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sticky Moody. Did he say anything?’

  ‘About what, Mum?’

  ‘So he didn’t say anything then?’

  ‘Well, he said quite a bit, actually.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he? What about?’

  ‘Jeepers, Mum. About fishing, about the weather, about footie – he used to know Dad, evidently.’

  ‘So, what did he say about that?’

  ‘He just told me some stories. About how Dad sank the dredge. They used to work together.’

  ‘So, he told you that, did he? And what else did he tell you?’

  ‘That’s about all, really. Just general stuff, Mum. Nothing important or different, like.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t, didn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, it was like that, was it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

  SHE WAS SURE he’d nearly said something about it. You could tell when he was about to, and then changed his mind. You could see this hate come into his eyes. ‘I saw you. I saw you and him.’ He hadn’t said anything in the end. He’d stored it away again, for when it was really time and it would hurt her most. For fourteen years now he’d been doing that. Why do boys want to torture their own mother? If he’d said it, at least she could tell him they’d never done it again. But he didn’t.

  IT WAS LATE-NIGHT shopping and Royce had a mission. He went into Denver Donaldson’s sports shop. Old Dudleg was behind the counter, stooped over a brass swivel he was fixing and still singing that dumb ad song he always sang: ‘Brylcreem, aliddle dabble dooya …’ Royce walked up to him and was almost there when he remembered he’d still got no damn money.

  An idea occured to him.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Donaldson, has Bob Dodds got an account here?’

  ‘Ah, young Rudolph Valentino, is it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Ever touch my daughter, you young larrikin, and I’ll be after you with a bullwhip.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Donaldson. Don’t worry, I promise.’ What, touch spotty old Janice Donaldson? Ha! You gotta be joking. And she’d jump at the chance – so stick that in your pipe, old Dudleg Donaldson.

  ‘Yes, Bob has an account here. Do you want something for him? You’re working for him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, next time he gives you a boot up the backside, tell him to give you one from me as well. What does he want?’

  ‘Um – some hooks.’

  ‘Bob’s a trawler.’

  ‘Yeah, thought he might have a go at a mako.’

  ‘So, shark hooks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘… Yeah. What other sorts are there?’

  Denver Donaldson aimed his long red nose like a gunsight at Royce. ‘Non-suicide,’ he said witheringly. ‘How many? Not long-lining is he? That would cost hundreds. He’d have to come in himself if that’s the case.’

  ‘No. Just about – three, I’d say.’

  ‘Three? Extraordinary.’ Denver Donaldson gave a little whinny of amusement to himself. ‘Three. All right. Has he got line?’

  ‘No, he’ll need line. Strongest you’ve got.’

  ‘For leaders?’

  ‘… Yeah. Leaders.’

  ‘Hi Seas Quattro, 1.9 mill? Is that what he had in mind?’

  ‘Yeah, I think that’s what he said.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well, how much is usual?’

  ‘Oh, ten yards. How many leaders did he have in mind?’

  ‘Um – what’s a usual line?’

  ‘Five hundred yards.’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll have that, then.’

  ‘Of leader? Is he moving into mako fishing?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘Interesting. Very well, I’ll cut them for you. Did he want them crimped?’

  ‘No. No, he didn’t want them cut, either. Just as line.’

  ‘Five hundred yards of 350-pound line?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you sure? You can catch a mako on twenty-four pounds, you know. You can catch an elephant on fifty.’

  ‘No, I’m sure he wanted the other one. The first one you said.’

  ‘Very well. My lucky day.’ Denver ‘Dudleg’ Donaldson stalked down the back of his shop, bum waggling with an old war wound in his hip. He stopped by a sort of winch of cord, with a winder. He started hand-wheeling this thick red nylon stuff onto a smaller plastic drum.

  ‘I’ll be interested to talk to Bob next time I see him. Seems he’s found a mako slightly bigger than Jaws.’ And Denver Donaldson glared down his gunsight nose again – he sold guns too – before he went on, in this incredibly sorrowful voice: ‘I fear you have as much to learn about fishing, young Rowland, as you do about morality.’

  He cut the line with a guillotine, black-taped its end onto the new spool and put it in a plastic bag. He set off for the counter, way down the front of his long, narrow little shop. Royce followed, then was stopped by a vision.

  It was in the form of a dusty old painting, backed wi
th cardboard, of a naked woman. She was lying on her back in the sea, her golden hair washing around her and her arms back, holding a shipwrecked young fisherman. Royce was transfixed. It was Linda Harvey.

  ‘Um, Bob asked me to get a poster too, for the boat – cheer it up, you know? I thought that one might be nice.’

  Denver Donaldson limped back to stand beside him. They stared at the painting, set in an alcove between gaffs, nets and short, thick fibre-glass rods. Royce could sort of see the old guy turning to look at him as he said, ‘That is a piece of outrageous pornography.’

  ‘No!’ Royce was defensive and fierce on behalf of Linda Harvey. ‘No. It’s beautiful.’

  The old guy looked at him searchingly then said, ‘I’ll wrap up Bob’s shark fishing equipment,’ and carried on up to the counter.

  It was called The Fisherman and the Siren and was by a bloke called Knut Ekwell who’d lived from 1843 to 1912. The fisherman, in leather fisherman’s cap and dark blue smock, had a bit of a nebulous expression on his face and you got the idea the siren might be pulling him down more than holding him up. But she was amazing. Her hair became the water after a while, swirling around her in a whirlpool. She was pale and slim and amazingly what Linda Harvey must be like without … well, she was the dead spit of how Linda Harvey’d looked to his imagination in the bath, as he’d floated in the sea in his survival suit, so here was the confirmation. Lovely soft round breasts with small, pale nipples – but the thing that really turned her into Linda Harvey was her … you know. There it was, clear as day about two-thirds of the way down the painting, just held out of the sea. But not finished – in the way that Walt Disney didn’t finish his cartoon people that were nude. He didn’t put their bits in. Well, her … you know, was like that. It was smooth – no pubic hair – but there was another feature missing too. There was no way in, so to speak. It was exactly like Linda Harvey’s one was – symbolically speaking. No way in. It was the most amazing symbol of ‘Not yet’ that you could possibly get.

  ‘Would it be going on Bob’s account if I sold it to you?’ called Denver Donaldson, down the corridor-like shop.

  ‘… Yeah,’ said Royce, not moving his eyes from the painting.

  ‘A hundred dollars. All right?’

  ‘… Yeah.’ His eyes did not move, but by cripes they bulged. A hundred dollars!

  ‘Bring it up to the counter when you come,’ called Denver Donaldson.

  Royce took it off the wall. It left a bright oblong impression in the faded yellow paint.

  ‘I didn’t find it pornographic when I was your age either,’ said old Denver. ‘Why I should be charitable to a guttersnipe like you I don’t know, but you can have it. You obviously value it enough to risk the wrath of Bob Dodds, which shows some sort of primitive worthiness. Yes, you can have it – no need to add to the trouble you’ll be in when Bob gets the bill for the line. Now, will that be all?’

  Royce was staring back at the unslit fanny once more and the voice wafted to him on an ether of Brylcreem, from another time and another place. ‘Will that be all?’

  ‘Oh, and a dozen Durex,’ murmured Royce unthinkingly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  UNDER THE WHARF looked a dreadful place in daylight. Caverns of old grey wood, criss-crossing crucifixorial beams with dangling slime, murky green water, mossy ladders leading nowhere – must have been dozens of bodies pulled out of here over the years.

  ‘Pulled a million bodies out of here three year ago,’ said Bob Dodds as he threw off the hawser from the port-side pommel and set them free of the wharf. ‘Gurnard. Dooley told Morrie Empson to ditch two ton of gurnard cos they were only fetching three cents and he needed freezer space. Sneaks out in the dead of night and dumps them in here. But silly bugger does it on the in-coming tide. Coulda walked across this lagoon to the yacht club, next morning. Ha ha.’

  Bob was in a good mood. Old Nadine must’ve given him one with his afternoon tea. As per usual, Sticky had slunk aboard and gone straight to bed.

  Down the river they went with the tide, passing Captain Calmwater on his way to set his kahawai nets. Royce saluted him as they passed.

  ‘Ee hoop ye kept tha’ troublesome manhood o’ yours well furrled in yer troosers whilst ashore,’ called Captain Calmwater from his little open bridge. ‘If ye feel the need, geet Bob t’ save ye a skate. They git mair braw t’ longer yer at sea.’

  ‘What was that about?’ said Royce.

  ‘You’ll get to understand old George eventually. His Scottish accent gets heavier every year.’

  ‘But what was all that about skates?’

  ‘What sheep are to shepherds, they reckon skate are to fishermen.’

  Royce pondered then understood. ‘Christ, Bob, that’s … What does mair braw mean?’

  ‘Prettier.’ And he said no more about it, leaving Royce to mull over the fact that skates sure did have a big orifice.

  Then they both fell silent until they had been released from the brooding hold of the bar. It seemed to sit over the join of the river and sea in a turbulent plateau of angry water. There was driftwood flung up onto the end of the Tip Head, about twenty feet above the water. Royce didn’t let himself wonder how it’d got there.

  Then they were over the bar. Big waves surged past them from Cape Foulwind, steered by the easterly set towards the beach at Granity. Off the port bow the smoke from the Cement Works stacks hung like atomic explosions. He watched the smoke for several minutes and it never moved. Beyond it, the stained cliffs of the cape looked made of old plywood.

  Out beyond them again were the black peaks of The Steeples, big fingers of rock rearing up out of the sea. He’d seen a cartoon once (in a Playboy he’d pinched from Parkhouse’s bookshop). In it was an artist’s easel, facing these two big black pointy rocks out at sea. On the easel was a painting of three big black pointy rocks …

  Jeepers! Look at that! Whitebait – everywhere! Yards of it … acres of it!

  ‘Cripes, Bob, why don’t you bring a net out, like Billy Mosley’s father does?’

  ‘Because I don’t like jelly,’ said Bob, not even bothering to look at it.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You see any seabirds having a go at it?’

  The sky and the sea were birdless. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s because they know it’s useless trying; beaks go right through them. At this time of their life whitebait are just ghosts – no substance. It’s only when they get into the rivers – fresh water – they harden up. Good defence, when you think about it. Put that lot out there into a bucket and you’d have a jelly with a million eyes floating in it.’

  There was a mountain behind Mount Rochfort. He’d not known that. In fact, from out here, the skyline behind Westport was nothing like it was from the town. For the whole of his life he’d been wrong about what his home district looked like.

  Something disturbed him about that. There was always something missing in things, no matter how well you knew them.

  ‘Had a chat with your little girlfriend, did you?’

  ‘Linda Harvey? Yeah. Thanks for that, Bob.’

  ‘I rang some of your mates. Every one of them said she’d probably be in a convent right now if Protestants had ’em.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s pretty pure, all right.’

  ‘Well, you make sure she stays that way.’

  ‘Oh, she does that herself, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Yeah, so your mates said; only reason I agreed.’

  They fell silent, staring out to sea.

  Royce saw the swirl around the siren, saw the water thicken and become her hair, and there she was in the middle of it, reaching out to the shipwrecked fisherman – who of course was him. He could see her face a bit better now and he suddenly realised she wasn’t only Linda Harvey – she was also Katherine Ross. Linda and the siren were the dead spit of the girl who played the daughter in The Graduate. It was uncannily spooky. His fate was following the story of the movie, as seen in the painting. There’d been
Mrs Robinson – who was Penny Turton in this version – then there’d been a major calamity. A moral shipwreck. And now there was her daughter – holding him up or dragging him down. Which?

  Bob’s voice boomed into his awareness. ‘It’s a good way to live, actually,’ it was saying.

  ‘Sorry? What is, Bob?’

  ‘For a fisherman. A pure life.’

  ‘Jeez, Bob, you’re not a Christian are you?’

  ‘I’m a good Catholic, son: that’s nearly the same thing. No, I mean it’s a good way to organise your life. Look at the rich fishermen round the place – Flag, Jackie Mosley – what do they do when they tie up? Go home to the wife, go to bed early, get up next morning and go back to sea. A sort of Christian life – with the religion taken out, like. And what do the broke fishermen do? Tie up, head to the pub, get paralytic, head down Cobden Street, get home to the wife at daybreak, say they’ve just got in, miss two tides in their sleep and still wake up with a hangover.’

  ‘What’s down Cobden Street?’

  ‘Molly Pollock’s place.’

  HE’D LEARNT THAT there are times at sea when there’s just fuck-all to do. It was no use pretending that there was – that this or that had to be done. It didn’t. Nothing had to be done. At all. You were in a sort of local doldrum.

  You sort of got the hang-dog feeling of having been caught out in the middle of making a living, and that even God was lookin’ down thinking, ‘Shit, fishing isn’t perfect: there are big holes in the life of a fisherman at sea, where there’s nothing to do.’

  And so He’d sent down a miracle to patch it up – and that miracle was Bob not minding when you sat down with a good book, to read. And, even more miraculous, when Bob himself took out a Field & Stream or Sports Illustrated, and plunked down against the bulwark for a read.