Eye for an Eye

by Bev Robitai

  ‘Hey, good-lookin’, she said brightly. ‘What ya got cooking?’

  ‘Pancakes and bacon. Would you like some?’

  ‘Seems an odd combination, but I’ll give it a go. Thanks mate.’

  She settled herself on a stool at the counter and watched him while he cooked.

  ‘You do that like a pro. Been fending for yourself for a while, have you?’

  ‘A few years,’ he said quietly, whisking up a fresh bowl of batter.

  ‘So what made you and the missus split up - if you don’t mind my asking?’

  He paused, considering his response.

  ‘Let’s just say “you get what you deserve”, OK?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It was my fault. We got married, I worked too hard, she felt neglected. She developed…other interests. We drifted apart, she moved out, end of marriage.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘No, not just like that! That’s the short, clean, public version of the story. And it’s all you get.’ He turned back to the stove but not before she’d seen a glimpse of the raw pain in his eyes.

  ‘Sorry Mike, I didn’t mean to touch a sore point. I’ll shut up, shall I?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘You could try, Robyn, but I can’t believe it would last for long. Here, come and eat your breakfast.’

  They tucked in companionably, and Robyn discovered the exquisite taste of bacon, pancakes and genuine maple syrup.

  ‘Wow, this is incredible! I’ve never tasted maple syrup like this before - where’s it from? The stuff we get in the supermarket doesn’t taste anything like this good.’

  ‘This is home-made syrup from a little town near where my folks live, about an hour north of the city. There’s an old guy called Henri Leveque who has been making it for years, following the old traditions - we used to go there as kids for taffy pulling and frozen syrup in early spring.’ His voice warmed as he remembered.

  ‘It beats the pants off the fake stuff, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It tastes better still when you’re out in the woods with snow all around, there’s a tangy scent of wood-smoke on the air, and you’re a ten-year-old kid with an appetite like a horse. They pour the hot syrup on the snow, it freezes hard, then you break it into bits and eat it.’

  His face softened with the memory. ‘I miss the country, sometimes.’

  ‘Well why don’t we go out there? How about today?’ She almost bounced in her seat with enthusiasm. Mike shook his head.

  ‘No, I’ve got work I should be doing. I got a whole lot of figures yesterday that need checking. I can’t just drop everything and take off.’

  ‘Mike,’ she said exasperatedly, ‘it’s the weekend. It’s time to relax and have some fun. You can’t work all the time, it’s not good for you.’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Work is all I have. It’s what I do. I enjoy it and I’m good at it. I don’t need anything else.’

  ‘Oh rubbish! You need balance in your life - something frivolous and light-hearted to give your mind a rest. What about fresh air and relaxation? When did you last run on the grass or swim in a river?’ She watched him thinking.

  ‘I suppose it’s been a while,’ he admitted finally. ‘OK, you win. You want a drive in the country? You got one.’

  She brightened immediately.

  ‘We can get out of the city? See grass and trees and animals? All right! That’s great. And you know an even better idea? We won’t even take our cell-phones.’

  ‘Done. However, before we rush off and leave our responsibilities behind, we’d better call in at the store and pick up some groceries. I’m not well equipped for visitors here, and you’re going to need something more than pancakes next week after working all day.’

  ‘Oh OK, no argument there. But I’ll pay my share, agreed?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  He gathered their plates and slid them into the dishwasher. ‘Right, if we’re going up country we should get moving. Don’t want to take too long in the supermarket.’

  ‘Ha, I’m the world’s fastest shopper, mate! In, up and down the aisles, out - done! No worries.’

  However, once they’d arrived at the supermarket and she’d reached the first aisle she paused, bewildered. Everything was strange.

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ asked Mike, wheeling the cart back towards her.

  ‘I don’t recognise anything! All the brands are new to me, the wrappers are different, and some of these products I’ve never even heard of! I mean, it’s all in English as well as French, but it’s so foreign! I don’t know where anything is.’

  ‘Just follow me then. Tell me what you want and I’ll try to find it for you.’

  ‘Oh you’re a wee prince! Thanks mate.’ She paused to think, using her mother’s trick of running through each meal of the day to figure out what she’d need. ‘OK, where’s the breakfast cereal? I’d better have something less fattening than pancakes and bacon or I’ll end up the size of a house. It would be a crying shame if I got too fat to wear those lovely dresses we bought, eh?’

  They located the cereals, and Robyn’s jaw dropped at the staggering range of products.

  ‘Jeez, look at this lot! ‘Snaggle-ohs’, ‘Ricie Puffs’, ‘Cherry Nut Clusters’, ‘Choconana Crunch’ - hell, all I wanted was a plain old packet of Weetbix!’

  Mike found some ‘Wheaty Biskits’ which she grudgingly accepted as the nearest she was going to get, and they moved on towards the dairy section. Robyn snorted at the specials poster, which advertised ‘Homo milk’ as the week’s bargain.

  ‘How do they harvest that then?’ she gurgled, while Mike pointedly ignored her and reached into the chiller for a couple of plastic bags of milk. ‘Be thankful you’re getting this and not ‘non-dairy creamer’ to put on your Wheaty Biskits, missy.’

  She pantomimed retching into the chiller, drawing frosty looks from nearby customers.

  ‘Where’s the Vegemite?’ she asked at the stand of spreads and jams. The assistant looked apprehensive.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You know, Vegemite for sandwiches? I’ll take Marmite instead if that’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘You may want to try the Deli counter, ma’am.’

  There she found a very small jar of Marmite with a very large price-tag.

  ‘What? That’s five times dearer than it should be! Bloody daylight robbery!’

  At the meat counter she exclaimed loudly at the prices, and made disparaging comments about the quality of the meat displayed.

  ‘We wouldn’t use that rubbish for dog tucker! Look at it! The butcher should be bloody well hung, because this meat certainly wasn’t!’

  Mike pulled her away and they completed their shopping in record time in his attempt to keep her out of trouble. Despite her protests he hustled her through the checkout to wait on the other side while he paid for the groceries, then marched her outside.

  ‘Stay here with the cart while I go and get the van,’ he told her sternly. ‘No talking to anyone.’

  She grinned unrepentantly. ‘Off you trot then. I’ll be good.’

  Once they had driven home and put their purchases away, they climbed back into Mike’s white van and headed east across the city, to Robyn’s confusion.

  ‘I thought we were going north to get to this place?’

  ‘First we have to get out of the city. It’s Saturday and it’s summer - three million people will be heading away for the weekend and the roads can get very busy. Wait till you see the Don Valley Parkway, it may well be nose-to-tail for two or three hours or more. They call it the Don Valley Parking lot.’ Mike ran his hand through his hair and turned up the aircon.

  ‘Doesn’t say much for the quality of life here, does it? Where I come from, there’s so little traffic in some parts of the country that drivers still wave to each other when they pass!’

  ‘You’re kidding! Even in the city?’

  ‘Well no, I don’t think Auckland
is like that any more, and probably not the other main centres either - but the country areas are still very friendly. You’ve probably seen the posters - “It’s clean and green and relaxed, and there’s always a smile even for strangers.” Oh, and “100% pure New Zealand.” See, I’ve been paying attention to the Tourism Board videos!’

  ‘It sounds like a nice place. Are you missing it while you’re here?’ He glanced across at her, eyebrows raised.

  She considered for a moment. ‘Yes, I am, but I’m also enjoying a taste of the city while I’ve got the chance. Usually we only see this sort of thing on TV and in the movies. It’s quite cool to be living here and experiencing life in the fast lane.’

  ‘Hold on to your hat, then, we’re about to go onto the 401.’

  ‘What’s the 401 - holy shit!’

  They had just entered a broad highway that had six lanes full of traffic in each direction. Huge signs whizzed past overhead giving directions to places Robyn had never heard of. Large warnings about upcoming exits flashed by, while the rest of their surroundings retreated to a speeding blur beyond the roadside barriers. They moved to a middle lane, passing slower vehicles on their right while others zoomed past them on the left.

  ‘Crikey, it’s a whole lot different being in the middle of all this! TV doesn’t even begin to convey the experience. I thought the bus ride from the airport was mad, but this is insane!’ She clung onto the door handle with white knuckles. Mike grinned.

  ‘You should try it on a wet winter night in peak hour traffic. That’s when it gets really interesting, with the rain, water from other vehicles mixed with oil on your windshield, the threat of ice if it freezes - oh that can be a lot of fun.’

  She looked thoughtful.

  ‘I used to think that city people were soft and unadventurous, living sheltered lives in their fancy apartments. I guess I was wrong. This looks pretty challenging to me – oh! Jesus that was close!’ A big truck and trailer had just flashed past her window with a roar, rocking the van with its backdraft. Mike laughed.

  ‘What’s the matter, country girl? Not going to chicken out on me are you?’

  ‘Hah! Never! Do your worst, city boy, I can take it.’

  She braced herself against the side of the van and calmed her breathing. She looked over at Mike, noting that his jaw was clenched quite tightly with concentration, and his eyes were flicking from the road ahead to the rest of his surroundings. He glanced at her and smiled.

  ‘Enjoying your nice relaxing day in the countryside?’

  She let out a sardonic bark of laughter. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve seen some. This ain’t it yet.’

  A little while later they passed a large industrial plant off towards the lake, with fat round towers partly hidden behind low grassy mounds.

  ‘What’s that factory over there?’ asked Robyn.

  ‘That? That’s a nuclear power plant.’

  ‘What!’ She looked at him, aghast. ‘Seriously? It’s not, is it? You’re having me on.’

  He shook his head, puzzled. ‘No, it’s a power plant all right.’

  ‘They put a nuclear power plant so close to a major city? How could they even think of doing that?’ She reached down and closed off the van’s air vents, then looked round to make sure all the windows were closed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Mike.

  ‘I’m shutting out the air in case there’s windborne pollution. Those places are dangerous!’ Robyn’s voice was filled with horrified indignation.

  ‘I take it they don’t have nuclear plants where you come from?’ said Mike drily.

  ‘Damn right! No radioactive power plants, no nuclear-powered ships - New Zealand is a nuclear-free zone and proud of it, no matter how much the Americans want to bully us.’

  ‘Shame about the French testing right in your backyard an few years back then.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t get me started on that, I’ll bend your ear right off.’

  At last she realised that he was teasing her and smiled at him ruefully.

  ‘Sorry. It’s a subject I feel rather strongly about, OK? Don’t give me such a hard time! When you date a member of the Peace movement for five years, some of the attitudes rub off on you. Besides, it’s one of the few things our country has done that got noticed by the rest of the world, outside of Lord of the Rings.’

  They drove for another half hour along the 401 before turning off onto a smaller highway that headed north away from Lake Ontario. The countryside became much more attractive, and Robyn gazed around with delight.

  ‘Hey, this is really pretty! I love the rolling hills and all the trees, and those farms with the cute red barns are adorable. I guess they winter their stock indoors, do they, as it gets so cold here?’

  He nodded. ‘Mostly indoors, at least for the cows. Some horses can stay out in the snow, others are kept inside. It depends how suited they are to the tough conditions. Twenty-four below zero can be a bit too cold for some animals.’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘It’s just impossible to imagine what winter here must be like on a glorious summer day like this. The whole place must change so much.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a touch wistfully. ‘That’s what I miss most when I’m living in the city. Out here you see all the signs of the seasons - changing plants and trees, the way birds and animals behave – but in the city it just gets really cold, and dark much earlier at night. When it snows in town, sure, it’s pretty for about an hour then it all gets churned to brown slush. Not very attractive.’

  Robyn was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘Couldn’t you find a job that would let you live out here?’ she asked. ‘You sound as if you’d be much happier out of the city.’

  ‘Not likely, I’m afraid. Most rural areas are generally quite depressed. Factories have been closing down, industries have moved to where their costs are lower, and there’s not much cash around. No, for what I’m doing, the city is the place to be.’

  ‘I can’t imagine living somewhere I didn’t like just for the work.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘Doesn’t it make your soul feel trapped?’

  He shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. As long as I can pay the rent and afford to eat, I can live just about anywhere.’

  Robyn pulled a face at the thought. ‘I guess if you went home now and again to recharge your batteries it might be survivable,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘I cope, OK? Quit picking on me.’

  ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to give you a hard time, I’m just trying to understand a different life-style, that’s all.’

  They declared a truce and drove on, with Robyn exclaiming in delight at some of the place names they saw on signposts.

  ‘Lake Scugog? Bobcaygeon? Where do they get these neat names?’

  ‘Not sure. Indian words, probably, or maybe a corruption of old French.’

  ‘Is this the Kawartha Lakes area? Colwyn said he uses a cottage somewhere round here.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet he does. Most Toronto businessmen want the status symbol of a summer bolthole in the country to escape to now and again.’

  ‘Oh.’ She saw another sign. ‘What do the bait stores sell?’

  ‘Bait for fishing, of course.’ He looked sideways at her and she rolled her eyes.

  ‘What I meant was, what do people use for bait round here?’

  ‘Oh, frogs, dew worms, that kind of thing.’

  ‘What are doo worms?’

  ‘Big worms that come out at night when the dew falls - you sneak up with a torch and catch them if you’re quick enough. If you’re not, you buy ‘em at the bait shop.’

  She looked at him doubtfully but he appeared to be quite serious.

  ‘And what kind of fish do you catch?’

  ‘If you’re lucky, pike or muskies. Usually bass or sunfish. It’s more for entertainment than for eating.’

  ‘Are there any regulations about the tackle you use?’

  ‘Why, are you planning on going fishing?’

&nbs
p; ‘I might,’ she said defensively. ‘I like fishing. At least at home we can eat what we catch. There’s nothing like a good feed of blue cod straight from the sea, cooked over a fire on the beach with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of salt. We’ve got great fisheries, and there are really strict rules for the sizes you can take so that places aren’t fished out.’

  ‘We’ve got rules too - and if you get caught breaking them you lose all your tackle and pay a fine.’

  ‘Oh we do way better than that. If you’re caught with undersized fish or shellfish you lose anything you used for the trip - tackle, boat, car - all of it is seized by the government.’

  ‘Pretty harsh.’

  ‘It works though. Areas that were almost fished out a few years ago are well stocked now.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s good. OK, here’s our turn-off. Not far to go from here.’

  He swung off the main highway at a small town called Marmora, and headed northwest through more farmland. Now and again they crossed over small rivers, making Robyn’s fingers itch to get out her camera to record the graceful trees and sparkling waters. Occasionally they passed lakes half hidden in the woods, with spectacular rocky outcrops reflected in them.

  The road wound on.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ chanted Robyn.

  ‘Nearly. About five more minutes.’

  He turned onto a side road which was almost closed over with trees and had a fine patch of grass along the middle between the tyre tracks. The light was a cool green, and when Robyn opened her window the insistent sound of insects penetrated above the noise of the van’s engine. They bumped along slowly on the uneven surface, finally pulling over at a green-tinged wooden gate.

  Robyn sprang out to open it at Mike’s request, pulling it across a layer of rich brown leaf mould until he had room to drive through. The track curved between the trees, and as they followed it Robyn saw a house emerge from the leafy background, so well camouflaged that it was only visible from a few yards away. Weathered shingled walls and roof matched the dappled shade patterns from the trees, and it wasn’t until a figure in a red plaid shirt stood up from a wicker chair on the veranda that she realised what she was looking at.

  Mike sprang up the steps and greeted the man warmly.