The Jovian Legacy

by Lilla Nicholas-Holt

  The look on Ben Dunlop’s face turned from relief into anger. “Damn! What in God’s name has that boy done? He’s been warned by the researchers many times to stick to the rules of the program!”

  Nancy put her hand on her husband’s arm to calm him down. “He will come out of it, Ben love. He has to. He’ll probably come round in another hour or so,” she reassured, feeling a sense of relief by her own words.

  “I hope you’re right,” Megan said.

  “I’m sure of it dear,” Nancy replied with a smile.

  I wish I had her confidence, Megan thought, unconvinced.

  Jack walks around to the back of the washhouse with the axe over his shoulder, trying to look confident. He knows those grey eyes are watching him through the kitchen window.

  Cranky old Bat! She’d be right at home in the A&P show wood chopping competition, he thought uncharitably.

  He props the hunk of wood on its end on the chopping block and takes his first swing.

  “Concentrate,” he says to himself as the axe comes down with such force that it slices clean through the piece of wood. Jack is surprised to find it easier than he’d thought, and before long fills up the wheelbarrow. With his chest puffed out he pushes the loaded wheelbarrow up to the kitchen entrance to show off his efforts, grinning at his grandmother with great pride. Margaret Dunlop glares back at him. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence Jack’s grin starts to wane and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at the sheer sight of her.

  “I take my hat off to my grandfather,” he says between gritted teeth.

  “What’s that?” the old lady barks, giving Jack a start.

  “Uh, I’ll take my boots off here” he answers, stepping out of his boots quickly and placing them neatly up against the wall.

  “Humph! You can put some wood over by the oven, ready for the cooking,” she orders, “and then you can scrub up for your next job.” Jack does a quick Herr Hitler salute while she has her back turned.

  “There’s the churn, let’s see what the Mainlander can do now,” his grandmother sniggers.

  Okay, okay I get it. She wants blood. I’ll give her as good as she gives, he thinks, determined to win.

  He struts over to the butter churn like he is going into battle, and stands over it at an absolute loss. After a minute of standing there looking like an idiot he hears that raspy voice again.

  “What’s the matter, boy? You look like you’ve never seen a butter churn before!” she accuses. “Where have you been?”

  Something inside him snaps. He swings around on the ball of his foot, looks at his grandmother square in the face and states recklessly, “Well, actually, I have seen one, once, in a museum. Everyone couldn’t believe that you had to make your own butter in the dark ages. We thought it must’ve been a pretty boring life, and you know what, we were right! And you know what else? I’m actually your grandson, Benjamin’s son. I live in the twenty-first century where we have electricity, computers, mobile phones, and planes that travel so fast you can be in another country in a couple of hours. Everything is at the push of a button. In fact, that’s the reason why I’m here. I was playing with my computer and I requested a journey - all I did was enter a date and a time. But somehow I got stuck here. Now all I want to do is go back home.”

  Jack gives her a sharp ‘take-that’ look and sits down. He then points at the butter churn and adds, “And I ain’t churning any of your friggin’ butter! I’ll post you some Fernleaf when I get back home.”

  The look on his grandmother’s face changes from shock to bewilderment to laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. She throws her head back and holds her quivering belly, hooting at the top of her voice. It is a loud, raucous laugh, not one that you’d expect to hear from a woman at all.

  The rest of the family rushes in to see what all the fuss is about. They are especially surprised, as they haven’t heard their mother laugh like that for years. The younger children have never heard her laugh at all.

  “Arthur! Your relative must have hit his head with the backend of the axe. He thinks he’s Benjamin’s son!” she shrieks, trying to contain herself.

  Arthur gazes suspiciously at their new houseguest and once again begins to move towards the big black telephone fixed on the wall. Jack knows he’s got himself in a pickle again and has to think fast.

  “Well, I did it, I actually did it!” he quickly shouts at his grandfather. “I made a bet with myself, Sir, that I could make your wife laugh. She looked like she needed a good laugh.”

  For a few moments Arthur doesn’t know what to think. He looks at his hysterical wife then stares again at Jack, finally replying, “Oh! I see. Yes…quite. Er, thank you, Jack.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jack chirps. Phew, that was close!

  Mrs Dunlop senior composes herself and, with Jack putting her in a good mood, she announces to her children that they can have a special treat.

  “You can all have a Topsy each from the general store,” she states reverently. The children cry with glee, jumping up and down and dancing around excitedly.

  Man, you’d think they’d been promised a trip to Disneyland, Jack thinks.

  “And perhaps Jack would like to accompany you up there,” she says glowering at him. “He’ll be getting out of making the butter if he does.”

  “Okay, yeah, sure,” Jack agrees.

  “Evil witch,” he says under his breath, wondering how far he’s going to have to walk for a friggin’ iceblock.

  Marjorie leads the way to the general store and Jack’s suspicions prove correct. They had walked for at least an hour along a dusty gravel road before he catches sight of an old building in the distance. He looks at the money which his grandmother had placed in his hand. One Shilling.

  Ten cents.

  “I’ll be very surprised if we’ll be able to buy one iceblock with that, let alone six,” he says to Marjorie. She ignores him. Benjamin is getting one too, but isn’t with them. Jack then wonders how he is going to take an iceblock all the way back for Benjamin without it melting to liquid.

  When they finally reach the store Jack sits down on the wooden steps for a breather. The others sprint up the steps with all the energy in the world. One of the boys, Eddie, tugs at his coat, eager to get him inside. Jack forces himself up and enters the shop. He’s never been inside an old-fashioned general store before. Along with two large chest freezers full of frozen goods, there are bridles and saddles for sale. Blackballs, aniseed wheels and other boiled lollies in jars line the counter. Several pairs of gumboots hang high along one wall, fastened to the wall with string. The store smells of leather and rubber. Jack surveys the store, amazed, while the children have already stacked up their Topsys on the counter.

  The shopkeeper rings each one up on the old cash register. “That’ll be eight pence altogether thank you, young lass,” he says to Marjorie. Jack places the lone shilling on the counter, almost embarrassed at such a meagre amount. The shopkeeper glances up at Jack and asks Marjorie who her new friend is.

  “Oh excuse me, this is Jack. He’s our cousin from the South Island. Jack, this is Mr Lewis,” she introduces, remembering her manners.

  The shopkeeper tips his fedora hat to Jack. “How do you do?”

  “Good thanks,” Jack responds, amused at Mr Lewis’s old-fashioned gesture.

  “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” he says.

  “I sure am,” Jack answers. If only he knew.

  “Here’s your change,” Mr Lewis states, handing Jack four pence. Jack gazes at the threepence and penny in his hand.

  I even get change, he marvels. Man, I could make a killing here, if only I could take stuff back with me.

  He pockets the change and wanders over to the equestrian gear. “How much is the saddle?” Jack casually asks, running his hand over the smooth seat.

  “Ah! That’s a Western style Visalia saddle. Top quality. Very dear I’m afraid,” Mr Lewis says apologetically.

  Jack s
tares at him to elaborate. The shopkeeper, realising Jack really does want to know, ducks below the counter and pulls out his inventory journal. Everything is written in such beautiful handwriting, like calligraphy, Jack observes. Mr Lewis places his John-Lennon-style glasses on the end of his nose and peers at the pricelist.

  “Let me see… aah, yes, it’s twelve pounds,” he states. Jack does a mental conversion, remembering that it was 1967 before New Zealand changed to decimal currency.

  About twenty-five dollars. Holy cow!

  He feels in his trouser pocket and pulls out his wallet, revealing his Egyptian pounds. He glances at Mr Lewis who looks astounded to see Jack’s money.

  “Is there a bank around here that does money exchange?” Jack queries.

  “Yes, I believe there is. You will need to travel nor’west for about an hour. You could perhaps catch the milk run. It goes through at six o’clock every morning. What…er…sort of money do you have if you don’t mind my asking?” Mr Lewis enquires. Jack hands him a ten pound note.

  Mr Lewis looks at it through his glasses with great concentration. “I’ve never seen money like that before. Where on earth did it come from?”

  “Hmm,” Jack says to himself, wondering how to explain this one. “Well, I’m a collector. I sent away for it months ago and only received it in the mail recently. I brought it up to show my relatives. I’m also an avid stamp collector,” he says, trying to change the subject.

  “Oh, I see,” Mr Lewis utters, smiling. “I’m afraid I don’t keep up with anything like that. That’s what happens when you live in an isolated rural community for too long,” he laughs, snorting as he does so.

  Jack laughs with him. “Yes, I guess so.”

  He decides to go into town the next day, determining that he’ll exchange all his money into normal pounds while he is there.

  That’s if I’m still here, he thinks, hoping he won’t be.

  Jack and the others start making their way back along the gravel road with Benjamin’s Topsy wrapped up in newspaper.

  The following morning he is still there, so he climbs out of bed and gets ready to catch the milk run.

  As soon as it comes into view he laughs. “What an old jalopy!” He watches the old Bedford pickup truck draw up with a tray half-full of cream cans. It stops outside a cattle-stop a little further up the road, the entrance to a neighbouring dairy farm. Two men jump out of the cab and expertly hoist large, heavy cream cans onto the tray of the truck.

  Jack catches up with them and asks if he can catch a lift into town. The driver of the truck agrees, but points out that he will have to do the rounds with them first and that they won’t get into town until nine o’clock.

  “Well, I’ve got all day and it’s better than churning butter that’s for sure!” he laughs. The men look at him, deadpan.

  Unfortunately for Jack he has to sit at the back amongst the cans, on a little benchseat. It isn’t exactly Kiwi Cabs quality but he reckons he can handle it. In fact, he thinks the crisp morning air is quite energising while taking in all the lovely country smells along the way: freshly cut grass ready for haymaking, the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and hedges of miniature magnolia. Jack halts his deep inhalations while they pass by a piggery. Everything reminds him of growing up on his parents’ farm. This farm. After they have picked up the last batch of cans, the driver tells him that they have to make a drop-off at the school. As soon as they round the bend Jack recognises his old primary school. The two men leap out, and from compartments along the underside of the tray they pull out crates of half-pint bottles of milk, heaving them onto a milk stand shaded by a small slated roof.

  Jack looks across the small schoolyard and sees children in single file, being led by a serious looking teacher, making their way towards them. They are told to fetch their milk and sit down and drink it before they are allowed to play. The teacher hands out straws while each child takes a bottle from the crate and dutifully sits down to drink. Some children look like they are enjoying their milk while others are grizzling about having to drink it because it is either too warm or too creamy. Jack notices one cheeky little character tip some out into the long grass while the teacher isn’t looking.

  As the milk truck carries on its way to finish its deliveries, Jack watches as the seated children disappear into the distance, still drinking from their straws. He thinks it a good idea to provide school children with milk and wonders why they aren’t still doing it in schools in the twenty-first century.

  Hopefully Fonterra will come to the party, he muses.

  Finally, they come to a small town teaming with morning shoppers. Jack remembers the town with fondness, the same one that he and Nick had biked to. The bank in the centre of town stands out grandly as if overseeing other buildings dwarfed by its size, and that look like they are milling around it.

  After the young teller scrutinises Jack’s money he hastily excuses himself to fetch the manager. An uptight looking man in his forties emerges from a side office.

  “What can I do for you, Sir?” he asks stiffly.

  “I’d like to exchange some foreign currency please,” Jack replies, handing him the Egyptian pounds.

  The bank manager’s eyes pop out of his head. “My word, this is a great amount of money. I’m not sure if we can justify your needs, Sir,” he states, his demeanour softening yet still astonished.

  “Well, just as much as you can manage then,” Jack answers casually. The man gives him a cursory look, takes the money and starts counting it. With a few calculations in longhand, a telephone call to someone and a trip out the back, Jack is handed a hundred pounds in brand new five-pound notes.

  “That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, and hands some leftover Egyptian money back. Jack pockets his money and strolls out, knowing that the bank manager and everyone else in the bank are watching him go.

  He is going to have to hitch a ride back again to the old farmhouse. It doesn’t take long before he is picked up in an old Vanguard by a dark-featured elderly gentleman who looks, well, Egyptian. Or so Jack thinks.

  Jack introduces himself to the older man, who says his name is Ari Namet.

  How odd, he thinks, regarding him. He wants to know more about him.

  It turns out that Ari isn’t Egyptian, but not far off. He is Algerian. When he was fourteen, however, his family moved to Egypt to set up a furniture business. After some years they sensed political unrest and decided to move their family to a safe place, so migrated halfway across the world to New Zealand. Of course his parents are now gone and Ari has a family of his own, and with grandchildren who have a mixture of Algerian and Kiwi blood. He shows Jack photos of them. His dark-haired granddaughters are stunning.

  Ari continues to drive as Jack gawks at the photos.

  “So, where, may I ask, are you heading?” Ari quizzes, lighting up a cigarette while steering the wheel with his elbows.

  “Oh, up to Okakako Road, but please, don’t let me take you out of your way.”

  “Oh really, that’s quite all right. I’m actually heading there myself, to see Arthur Dunlop. He asked me to come by - wants to purchase a gift for his young son who is having a birthday,” Ari elaborates.

  “Really? Well, that’s where I’m staying at the moment. Of course, it’s Benjamin’s birthday soon,” Jack utters, remembering his father’s birthdate.

  “So, you are staying with the Dunlops? Ah, well, at least you won’t have to hitch another ride,” Ari smiles. Jack notices how yellow his teeth are.

  “So, what sort of things do you sell?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “I sell a wide range of gifts, from toys to furniture,” the wheeler dealer replies, gesturing towards the rear of the Vanguard. It is jam-packed with wooden toys and bric-a-brac.

  “Of course I cannot fit the large pieces of furniture in, I have a catalogue for those. Have a look if you like,” he says, handing Jack a thick cardboard-bound booklet.

  Jack gazes at the
small black and white images depicting beautiful pieces of furniture. Alongside the photos are the prices.

  Man these are so cheap, Jack considers. He could have a field day with his hundred pounds. Never mind the saddle.

  When they drive up to the house Jack thanks him for the ride and offers to help take the items inside.

  “Yes, thank you, I would appreciate that,” Mr Namet responds.

  Jack helps Ari place the toys on the kitchen table. Fortunately Benjamin is having his nap so isn’t in the way. Marjorie takes a liking to a brightly coloured bumblebee with a cord, and when she pulls it along the floor it makes a whirring, clicking sound. She thinks Ben will like it so Arthur puts it aside. Jack’s grandfather also picks out two wooden windmills, an abacus and a wooden truck. He thinks the rattles are a bit young for Benjamin now.

  Jack spots something in the catalogue that he takes a fancy to - a beautiful oak chest of drawers. The price is twenty pounds; a princely sum in those days. He buys it wondering how he is going to transport it back home.

  What the heck.

  After Ari had packed up his wares and left, Arthur asks Jack to join him in the other room.

  “I want you to see something else I purchased,” he quietly tells him, pulling an object out of a drawer and placing it on the sideboard.

  “I bought this for Benjamin as well, although I’m not going to give it to him yet. When he’s older I will. Mr Namet said it is called a lucky box or something,” Arthur states.

  Jack’s eyes grow wide. He is dumbstruck.

  “A Lucre Box,” he says in a stifled voice.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s a Lucre Box!” Jack replies rather loudly, a shiver running up his spine.

  “Oh, I see. You seem to know what it is. Mr Namet said it will bring him discovery,” he adds, snickering. “I just thought it would make a nice little box for his small toys. It’s very old apparently.”

  Jack’s heart is pounding. “Yes, totally.”

  Now I can go home! Fancy this happening! He inhales deeply, trying to calm himself, feeling so incredibly relieved.