‘Ah, he’s got a hideaway then,’ said the doctor. He used a jocular tone, perhaps because he was afraid of the response to any serious enquiry. Let sleeping dogs lie is a sound enough philosophy. ‘You need more sleep when you’re older,’ said the doctor. He’d forgotten that the last time Mrs Thorpe came on her own account, he’d told her that old people don’t need as much sleep.
‘And he hasn’t got the same energy anymore. Not the energy he once had. His interest in things has gone. Hasn’t it, Rob?’ Mr Thorpe smiled again, and was about to say that he missed the farm life, when his wife and the doctor began to discuss the medication he should have.
He never did take any of the medicine, but after the visit to the doctor he tried briefly to interest himself in being awake, for his wife’s sake. He sat in front of the television, but no matter how loud he had it, the words never seemed clear. There was a good deal of reverberation, and laughter from the set seemed to drown out the lines before he caught their meaning. He could never share the contestants’ excitement over the origin of the term deus ex machina.
A dream began to recur. A dream about the town house in Papanui. In the dream he could feel himself growing larger and larger, until he burst from the garage and could easily stand right over the house, and those of his neighbours. And he would take the town house, all the pressed board, plastic and veneers, and crush it as easily as you crush the light moulded tray when all the peaches have been eaten. Then in his dream he would start walking away from the city towards the farmland. He always liked that best in his dream. He was so tall that with each stride he could feel the slipstream of the air about his head, and the hills came up larger with every step, like a succession of held frames.
He told his wife about the dream. She thought it amusing. She told him that he never could get the farm out of his head, could he. She said he should ask McAlister if he would like to go fishing.
In the dream Mr Thorpe never reached the hills; he never actually reached where he was walking to so forcefully. But he seemed to be coming closer time by time. As he drew nearer, he thought it was the country that he knew. The hills looked like the upper Waipounae, and he thought that he would soon be able to hear the cry of the stilts, or the sound of the stones in the river during the thaw, or the flat, self-sufficient whistle made by the southerly across the bluffs at the top of the valley.
The Late Call
The city glinted behind the harbour, and high above the level of the water. The harbour woolstores were low, and beyond them the men walking back along the wharves could have seen the street lights, and the neons green and red, and the cars in lines towards the city. But the men going back to work in the evening didn’t turn to look; the car horns far-off and shouts of young people were not important to them. The noise and the lights from the city only made the wharves seem darker, and were distanced by the blackness of the sea; diminished by blue stars in the winter sky.
There was only one ship working a late call, and in ones and twos the men came from the bridge over the railway or the carpark, towards it. They had their hands in their pockets, and their shoulders were hunched against the still air. As they went out along the wharf there was water not rock fill beneath the heavy timbers, and the footsteps were louder and began to echo.
Colin came from the walk-bridge by himself. He wore a tartan jacket zipped to the throat, and a woollen cap. Like the others he had his chin down against the cold, his hands in his pockets. He had his hook over his shoulder, and the wooden handle lay on his chest. He walked steadily, his steps beginning to echo as he went further out. He walked as if he would have been content to keep right on walking, past the meat boat with the late call and on towards the sea and the small, blue stars of the winter sky. He may have done it, may just have done it, but he was overtaken.
‘There’s no friggin’ rush,’ Paul said. ‘The work will always be there.’
‘Hi,’ said Colin.
‘One thing. It can’t be any bloody colder in the wagon or the hold than it is outside.’
‘You’re right.’ They walked closer to the boat. The strung loading lights didn’t have the suffusing glow of a summer night, but were crimped, white icicles. ‘At least you had a hot meal. Living close enough,’ said Colin.
‘Shit,’ said Paul. He gave the laugh hard cases give against themselves when they know they’ve done it again. ‘Never went home, did I?’ he said. ‘Stayed and boozed at the Cook. I forgot to ring home even. Jesus Christ.’
‘Yeah,’ said Colin. ‘Well.’
The union men were the aristocracy of the shift; anyone else was just a seagull, no matter how regular. The wharfies kept jobs like tally-clerk and winchman to themselves. As of right they took the break before the end of a shift, so they could leave early. Mac looked at Colin. ‘You, shithead,’ he said. ‘You and your mate into the bloody wagon.’ Colin looked past the cold loading lights and said nothing. He climbed into the wagon and put his gloves on. Paul and he arranged the chute in the middle of the wagon which was already cleared. ‘Start those bastards coming,’ said Mac from below. Colin and Paul began taking carcasses and slipping them down the chute to the all-weather loader. They worked on opposite sides, each gradually retreating into his end of the wagon. The carcasses were hard and hollow; the belly flaps like plywood to Colin’s gloved hands. Each carcass was half-thrown, half-guided onto the chute, where it glissaded down to the loader. Paul wasn’t able to keep to a rhythm of delivery with Colin.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Paul. He swayed a bit as if the wagon were in motion on the rails. ‘I’m sorry but I’m pissed a bit you see. I’m pissed a bit on an empty stomach. I only had a few lousy chips.’
‘Hey, you useless shitheads!’ cried Mac. ‘What do you think you’re at in there? Send them down evenly. You just about smashed my hand between them. These shitheads. These seagulls.’
‘It’s this bloody chute, Mac,’ said Paul. He winked at Colin and mouthed an obscenity from the depth of the wagon. He tried to concentrate on his work.
A rhythm of work was an advantage in the wagon. It kept up body heat. Colin breathed shallowly so that the air didn’t reach deep into his lungs. Each breath was white for a moment before his face. On the wagon walls frost dewlaps had built up like fungus lying in undulating lines which were revealed as the layers of meat were removed. Delicate, pure frost forms, and sometimes as Colin bent to take the hard flesh of a lamb he saw the finest points of light, winter stars in the ice palaces along the wagon walls.
‘Okay, shithead,’ said Mac. ‘Have a turn on the loader. Jesus, I’ve seen bloody women toss better meat than you two,’ He came into the wagon, and coughed and spat onto the wagon wall.
‘Some of those women would be used to handling meat though,’ said Paul. It put Mac in a good humour.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re right, shagger,’ and laughed and spat again.
Feeding carcasses into the escalating loader was the easiest stint of all; not enough to keep Colin warm. He was glad of the distraction when he had to help Mac set up another chute in the wagon, to reach into the ends. They needed three men in the wagon then; the third at the junction of the chutes, turning the carcasses for the slide to the loader. Colin was the turner for Mac and his mate. The lambs seemed weightless in Mac’s hands. He wasn’t big, but he knew the balance point of things by practice, and the carcasses rose and flipped and turned and slid with grace and of their own volition, quite detached from Mac, who spat and swore and talked. And he slipped a lamb to a hand which appeared in the briefly open door on the other side of the wagon; a side hidden in deep shadow and desolate before the sea. No one made any comment. ‘Shitheads,’ said Mac loudly, and in a non-specific way, to emphasise his authority. Colin smiled down at Paul by the loader. Paul seemed to be brimming over with the beer he’d drunk instead of going home. His lips gleamed wetly, moisture shone in his eyes and seeped around his nose. ‘Any of you shitheads see something funny?’ said Mac.
‘Not rea
lly,’ said Colin.
‘Not really my arse. Not really my bloody arse. You shitheads.’
As he worked in the doorway Colin could see the loading lights reflected on the rails set in the wharf, and the breathing movement of the ship’s side. He heard without interest the noise of people and cars a long way off. A light winked at the end of the breakwater, and the small, night-frosted stars shone steadily back. From somewhere at the stern of the ship water ran constantly into the sea. The loader was new and quiet; its metal sides trembled and the white carcasses rose up to the deck out of sight.
Three ship girls came past during Colin’s break. They had warm coats, but short skirts. Mac stopped work to watch them. ‘Some lucky bastard rides tonight,’ he said. He called to them. ‘Hey girls, you don’t have to go any further than here! Come on over here!’
‘Right. Yes, Jesus,’ said Paul, He wiped his wet mouth. One girl stood boldly for a moment, enjoying the attention. She parted her coat and put her hands on her hips.
‘It takes hard cash,’ she said.
‘Hard. I’ll give you hard. Jesus,’ said Mac. Old Chevy Williams began chattering his broken teeth as he laughed, and Paul’s moist eyes enlarged. ‘Anything girl, anything,’ said Mac.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I know you wharfies. Your hands are too bloody cold.’ She laughed and followed her friends.
‘What do you think, shithead?’ said Mac to Colin.
‘It wasn’t a cold hand I had in mind.’
‘Too true. Not cold at all by Jesus, hah.’ Mac was reluctant to let the subject go. Old Chevy had started work again. His teeth no longer chattered.
‘A piece of arse,’ he said nostalgically. ‘I liked a piece of arse.’ The others began barracking his impotence.
To shunt off an empty wagon and replace it with a full one was an undertaking which taxed the resources of the railway system. The railway men said little in response to the cheerful abuse of the shift: mostly they looked away as they rode the brake levers of the wagons. During the delay Colin sat on a bollard at the edge of the lights, and smoked a cigarillo. Chevy came and scrounged one, as was a wharfie’s prerogative. Hands in pockets, and jacket collars up as a protection from the cold air drifting in from the sea, they smoked. Old Chevy held his cigarillo in the centre of his lips like a chimpanzee, and coughed companionably from the side of his mouth. Colin raised his heels, and jiggled his legs. He could hear the seawater slopping amongst the piles: the heavy ropes to the ship alternately lifted and slackened as dark lines against the sky. ‘Can’t be more than an hour to knocking off,’ said Chevy. The cigarillo waggled in his mouth.
‘How long have you been working on the wharves, Chevy?’ Old Chevy worked his chin up and down on the question.
‘We used to put them aboard a sling-load at a time. You needed skills to work here at one time.’ He walked quietly away to forestall any further questions. He coughed a bit to lessen the abruptness of his departure.
‘Hey, shitheads. Stop pulling yourselves and let’s get these bastards loaded,’ said Mac. The new wagon was ready. He pointed to Colin. ‘You and your mate for the bloody wagon again, and keep it even flow this time.’ The opened wagon revealed a wall of frozen lamb in muslin shrouds. Getting the first few dozen out to clear a platform was the worst job. Paul fumbled with the top row, and a carcass slid past his arms and struck him on the side of the head as it fell. The other men laughed and swore.
‘Jesus,’ said Paul. There was blood on his ear. A graze hurts in the cold.
‘Useless bastard,’ said Mac. With a neat movement he trapped the bouncing carcass under one boot. ‘Have you been on the piss, you useless bastard?’
‘Hardly any for Christ’s sake,’ said Paul. ‘It’s the way it’s stacked here. It’s all to hell at the top here Mac, honest.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mac. ‘So you say.’
It was better once space had been cleared for a trestle. Paul tried to keep a regular flow down the chute, alternating with Colin. With alcoholic seriousness he copied Colin’s rhythm. The bright blood was like a stud on his ear lobe.
Colin didn’t mind loading meat. The repetition became timeless, and closed him off from what was happening to other people. Each lamb was as the last; each row diminishing then seemingly complete again. The sound of the carcasses on the chute, his boots on the wagon floor, his breath in the frozen air. The intricate frost patterns as he bent into the wagon; and when he turned again a glimpse of the loading lights streaked against the sky.
The break before the end of shift was taken as of right by Mac and his mate. Old Chevy was the only wharfie left to finish with the seagulls. As he went, Mac called to Colin: ‘Close up the wagon, shithead, when it’s finished. Then you’re done. Don’t let your pissed mate go playing silly buggers either.’ The four who were left cleaned the wagon out well before nine. Chevy watched the doors being closed and the chutes stacked. He called up something to those on deck, and then coughed as a farewell before disappearing into the darkness. Colin and Paul walked to the buildings at the entry to the wharf, and turned off and climbed the walk-bridge over the railway line. Colin put his wet leather gloves in the top pocket of his jacket. The cold air from the sea moved quietly into the city beside them; drawn from the darkened fusion of ocean and sky across the harbour and up into the lights, the streets, and the people.
‘There’s work for several days,’ said Paul. ‘You’re all right. Mac likes you, but I probably won’t get back on come Monday because I got pissed.’
‘They’ll want ten or twelve gangs on Monday for those overseas ships,’ said Colin.
‘But there’ll be four times that number wanting work. And I didn’t go home at tea.’ Paul twisted his face up at the thought of the consequences. ‘Jesus, I’m going to cop it there.’ Colin had nothing to say. Paul laughed the laugh he used when he had decided again to do the thing he’d regret. ‘Let’s go to the Cook before closing,’ he said. ‘Jesus, might as well now. Have a bloody feed and warm up and that. Sink a few and warm up.’
‘I’ve got to get back,’ said Colin. They walked one more block, coming into the shops at the north end of the city.
‘See you Monday then,’ said Paul, ‘Jesus it’s cold.’ He turned in towards the noise and lights: unmistakably a working man amongst the people dressed for the Friday. His boots gave him a rocking motion as he walked. He was thinking of the Cook. Already he had forgotten Colin, as he had forgotten his wife. Experience had taught him to put the past and the future out of his mind.
Colin cut across the inner city. People jostled and giggled; the cars flowed past, motorbikes accelerated amongst them. The windows shone out, giving an illusion of warmth. There was a sense of expectancy which he couldn’t share. Like a late arrival at a party he felt distanced from the mood. He took with him through the streets the impersonality of the harbour; the habits of an environment with no obvious seduction; the memory of the frost and carcasses, men who were not friends, and of the blue, needle points of the stars in a winter sky.
Kenneth’s Friend
At the north side, towards the point, the shore was rocky. When the tide was going out I liked to search the ponds for butterfish and flat crabs like cardboard cut-outs, sea snails with plates instead of heads, and flowing anemones in pink and mauve. Once Kenneth let a rock fall on my hand there on purpose, after I told him I didn’t want to spend the morning making papier-mâché figures. He said it was an accident, of course, but I knew he meant it. The rock had a hundred edges of old accretions, and cut like glass. I sat and waited for the sun to stop the cuts bleeding. I thought about Kenneth and me, and how I came to be there at all.
I had good friends when I lived in Palmerston North, friends that experience had shown the value of, but when we shifted to Blenheim I didn’t have time to make friends before the holidays. I liked Robby Macdonald best. He and I became close later, but Kenneth seemed to attach himself to me in those first weeks. Perhaps he felt it gave him at least a temporary distinct
ion to be seen with the new boy. He came home with me often after school, and lent me Crimson Comet magazines. At Christmas-time he invited me to go with his family to their holiday home in Queen Charlotte Sound. His father was a lawyer and mayor of the town. My mother was pleased I’d been invited, and for sixteen days too. She gave me a crash course on table manners and guest etiquette. I had a ten-shilling note in an envelope, so that I could buy something for Kenneth’s parents before I left.
The house had a full veranda along the front, facing out towards the bay. We used to have meals there and, standing out like violin music from among the talk of the Kinlethlys and their guests, I could hear the native birds in the bush, and the waves on the beach. It was a millionaire’s setting in any country but ours, though Mr Kinlethly was a lawyer and mayor of the town admittedly. Glowworms too: there were glow-worms under the cool bank of the stream. At night I crept out to see them, hanging my head over the bank, and with my arms in the creek to hold me up. The earth in the bush was soft and fibrous: I could plunge my hands into it without stubbing the fingers. The sand of the small bay was cream where it was dry, and yellow closer to the water. There was no driftwood, but sometimes after rough weather there would be corpses of bull kelp covered with flies, and filigree patterns of more fragile seaweed pressed in the sand.
What Kenneth wanted, I found out, wasn’t a friend, but someone to boss about. A sort of young brother, without the inconvenience of his sharing any parental affection. With no natural authority at school, Kenneth made the most of his position at the bay. Each night before we went to bed, Kenneth enjoyed the privilege of choosing his bunk and so underlined his superiority. He might bounce on the top bunk for a while, then say that he’d chosen the bottom one; he might wait until I’d put my pyjamas on one of them, then he’d toss my pyjamas off and say he’d decided to sleep there himself. He liked to play cards and Monopoly for hours on end, or work on his shell collection. Whenever we had a disagreement as to what we should do, Kenneth would say that I could go home if I didn’t like it. I think in a way that’s what Kenneth wanted — for me to say that I wanted to go home, that I couldn’t stick it out. He didn’t understand how much the bay offered me, despite its ownership. Kenneth’s parents didn’t know we disliked each other. We carried on our unequal struggle within the framework of their expectations. We slept together, and set off in the mornings to play together. We didn’t kick each other at the table, or sulk to disclose our feud. His parents were always there, however, as a final recourse: the reason I had to come to heel and follow him back to the house when he saw fit, or help him catalogue his shells in the evening instead of watching the glow-worms.
Owen Marshall Selected Stories Page 12