by Derek Hansen
She’d almost reached the fork to her house when she saw Red and Archie coming down the trail towards them. He stepped aside to let her pass.
‘Thanks for showing me how to use the Shacklock.’ She paused when she was directly alongside him.
‘I see you managed.’
‘No thanks to you.’
‘I was busy, Rosie.’
‘I’m sure you were. It’s all go around here.’
‘Nice fish.’
‘Why don’t you come around for dinner one night?’
Red paused, uncertain how to deal with the invitation. He couldn’t accept because it would clearly breach his agreement with the Scotsman. He didn’t want to be rude, so he said the only thing he could think of. ‘Thank you.’
‘I was talking to Archie,’ said Rosie.
Red winced. He felt no anger or need to respond. The Aussies in Burma had employed the same mocking humour, and he’d learned that the best way to handle it was to laugh along. He watched her walk away up the hill, struggling under the load of the diesel, strangely pleased that she’d worked out how to carry it. The romusha – the Asian labourers the Japanese pressed into work gangs – carried bags filled with rocks the same way, with the canvas strap across their foreheads. He walked on down the trail, his mind reaching across time and distance to Burma, and the endless lines of weary men no better than beasts of burden slowly snaking up the hill. He stopped, stunned, as soon as he set foot on the beach. There in front of him was a naked Angus wading out of the water with his clothes held head high. Wash day at Aungganaung Camp.
‘What are you staring at, man?’
Red dragged his mind back to the present. ‘What happened?’
‘I ordered the harridan off my boat and she had the effrontery to slap my face. I’ve a mind to charge her with assault.’
Red guessed the scenario. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘at least we’ve learned something.’
‘And what might that be, Mr Clever Dick?’
‘Rosie now knows which boat is hers and you don’t have to worry about me giving her fish. She can catch her own.’
‘We’ll see about that! The battle’s just begun. I’ll not have that woman here, I’m telling you.’
Red left the naked Scotsman fuming on the beach. He swam out to his boat and hauled himself up over the gunwale. The tide was dropping and soon the tuatuas would be easy pickings in the shallows of Whangapoua Beach. He cast off and motored out of the bay. Red had a passion for the big clam-like shellfish, steamed over fish rice mixed through with finely chopped chillies and shallots. The Straits Malays and Japanese guards had taught him how to cook in the camp kitchens back in Singapore, and had beaten competence into him. The tuatua were plentiful, and needed to be, because it was impossible for him to keep whistling as he gathered them. As many went into his mouth as went into his bucket.
Once again he found himself thinking about the woman. She’d burst into their lives with the subtlety of an exploding shell, and in the course of a single day had upset the order of things. She’d brought Angus to his door, an event so rare as to be almost unthinkable, and had turned the old Scot incandescent with rage. He’d passed her on the trail when he was unaccustomed to sharing the path with anyone or anything except Archie and occasionally Bernie. It was abundantly clear that there’d be no escaping her if she chose to stay, yet the prospect failed to alarm him to the extent that he had expected it would. But concerns still nagged. She’d troubled his sleep and intruded unbidden and unwelcome into his thoughts. She created tension, and tension was an old and implacable enemy waiting to swallow him up the instant he weakened. He had to acknowledge the fact. Nevertheless, he began to wonder if he could adjust to her as he had adjusted to the arrival of the Scot, always provided she kept her distance. It was early days, but he was tempted to give her a chance.
‘Well, Archie, what do you make of her?’
Archie looked up into his master’s face and wagged his tail furiously.
Rosie lay back in her bath hardly daring to breath. The water was scaldingly hot and her every little movement seemed to make it hotter. She let waves of bliss and contentment wash over her. She was under no illusions about the difficulties that lay ahead, the repairs she’d have to make and the task of moving her things over from Auckland. How, she wondered, would she ever get her Bendix Gyramatic up the hill? And her potter’s wheel? She’d also need her Hoover Constellation vacuum cleaner if she brought her kilim rugs, and there was no way she was going to leave them behind. Neither would she part with her queen-size bed. It would occupy most of her bedroom but, she reasoned, that was what bedrooms were for. She let her mind wander over her decorating options as the hot water and bath salts soothed her tired muscles and made a woman once more of the pioneer. She was halfway through contemplating the removal of the laminex bench tops and the re-sanding of the kauri beneath, when she heard a knock at her door.
‘What the hell?’ she said, angrily. She couldn’t believe it! There was always someone or something to spoil her bath. When she was a girl, it was usually her brothers wanting to clean their teeth and brush up on their knowledge of anatomy. Then it was her flatmates with motives as transparent as her bathwater. Why did the whole world want to interrupt her one passion in life?
‘Who is it?’ she barked.
‘It’s Red. I’ve brought you some tuatuas.’ Angus hadn’t said anything about not giving Rosie tuatuas. ‘I’ll leave them in a bucket by your door.’
‘That’s very kind of you. What’s the big occasion?’
‘I’ve more than I need.’
‘Oh. Thanks anyway. I thought they might’ve been your way of saying sorry for not helping me with the Shacklock. You know, like flowers?’ She listened for a response but there was none. Red had already gone. All she could hear were the lonely sounds she was becoming accustomed to. The murmur of wind in the trees up on the ridge, the rattle of her downpipe, the scratch of tea-tree on windowpane, and every so often the soulful, mourning cry of the mopoke. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was really all the company she wanted for the rest of her life.
BOOK
II
CHAPTER
TEN
Another day. The woman had gone and Red lapsed back into his routine, grateful for its comfort and predictability. He’d begun to set aside stores against the winter days when his garden lay fallow and the seas were too rough to put out. His fear of hunger, of failing in his commitment to survive, always led him to overstock, yet on this occasion he even exceeded his usual caution. It never occurred to him to question why. He filled his freezer with fresh fish, smoked fish and tubs of oily fish stock. In the cool and dark of his shed, potatoes, kumara, onions and apples were piled high on vegetable racks. His kitchen cupboards groaned under the weight of preserves, cotton bags of sun-dried carrots, peas, beans and corn, and the inevitable bags of Thai rice. Red was a man who could survive on a handful of rice a day, yet he’d put aside enough food to see him through a long Russian winter. In truth, he’d set aside more than enough food for two.
Once he’d completed his morning duties, Red put his noon rations in his canvas shoulder bag, grabbed his slashing tools, and set off with Archie up the ridge towards Tataweka Hill to honour his commitment to the Lieutenant Commander. Rosie had come and gone and he no longer expected to see her again. But she had not yet gone entirely from his mind.
Angus was as happy as he’d ever been. Every day the woman failed to reappear hardened his conviction that they’d seen the last of her. A full month had passed since Red had taken her back to Fitzroy and there’d been no word from her since. He’d stopped panicking every time Red called by to give him surplus vegetables or fish, fearing he’d bring news of her return. But the madman had held the line and kept to the bargain they’d made. The fool was obsessed by the need to give yet it appeared the woman had not been a beneficiary. Angus took full credit for that. If Red had started running after her, giving her fish and fixing t
his and that, the creature would still be living up at Bernie’s. But the woman was gone, and so was the fear of old hopes rekindled. Doubtless she’d renewed her acquaintance with the soft life of Auckland and come to her senses. Angus was convinced she’d not trouble them again with her presence.
Life slipped back into a familiar routine and it was even possible to believe that the woman had never come. Once again, he could accept that the boy who’d saved his village from the fierce griffin would be the only son he’d ever have, and he was content with that. As content as he could ever be.
He was considering a change of pace for his next story, moving the setting from Britain to New Zealand. He had an idea which involved his young hero, Hamish, being the lone survivor of a shipwreck and washing ashore on an island not entirely unlike Great Barrier. He thought there might be two Maori tribes sharing the island, one friendly and the other warlike. Hamish would be the only pakeha and, through a series of adventures in which he would demonstrate the superiority of western civilisation and the virtue of a Christian upbringing, bring peace between the two tribes, end cannibalism, convert them to the faith, and have them unanimously appoint him as their sole ruler. Angus thought he knew a lot about Maoris, though there wasn’t a Maori in the country who’d agree with him.
Only one cloud darkened his horizon. Red had begun to hack a path westwards along the ridge top towards the Tataweka trail, a trekkers’ track which ran from Whangapoua Beach over the headland and up to the peak of Tataweka Hill. The madman claimed he was doing it so that he could spy on Japanese trawlers. Angus had tried to dissuade him on the grounds that, if Red could get through to the trekkers’ track, trekkers could also get through to Wreck Bay. What privacy would they have then? But the man had refused to listen. He’d taken upon himself the notion that he needed to spy on Japanese trawlers, and refused to give an inch. Angus had damned Red for the fool he was and stormed off.
He wandered out onto his veranda and listened for the telltale sound of Red’s parang. The day had dawned still and lifeless, neither overcast nor clear, neither warm nor cool. If the early birds had bothered to rise they hadn’t felt the urge to announce the fact. Down in the bay the water contrived to make a perfect mirror image of the hills above. Gulls sat on the surface like a flotilla of decoy ducks. It seemed as though nature was conserving its energies for the winter storms ahead. Angus didn’t mind because the storms made his little haven seem all the more like Scotland. The winter storms reminded him of the Minch, the icy waters between his birthplace and the Summer Isles, life blood and, all too often, tomb of the men who fished for the herring, pollock and salmon-trout. As a boy, Angus had once complained of the cold when the icy wind came in off the sea, howling and whistling through the cracks and crevices in the stone walls of their croft, bringing a dusting of snow and making little icicles on his blanket. His father had scorned him for his softness and told him to thank the Lord that he wasn’t at sea.
In the garden below, Bonnie sniffed the remains of a feral cat which had come calling, and which had kept her inside until Angus had put a bullet into its head. Angus looked over the calm water and made his decision. The needs of the tomcat had been a sore reminder of his own. He had an urge as old as mankind itself. Ten miles down the east coast at Awana Bay there was a woman, a widow and fellow Scot, who ran a small farm. She had orange trees that locals claimed had been grown from the seeds of oranges thrown into the water when the Wairarapa went down off Miners Head. It had taken fifty years and a number of grafts for the trees to bear fruit, and since then there’d rarely been a time when the branches weren’t heavy with oranges. They made the finest marmalade Angus had ever tasted. There was also a proud oak tree on the property, brought to Great Barrier by an early settler who wanted a reminder of home. Just looking at the tree brought joy to Angus’ heart. In his mind, the oak was a proper tree, broad of spread and leaf, pale green and vibrant, so unlike the New Zealand natives. But the oak and the marmalade weren’t sufficient in themselves to induce Angus to make the long trip. There was the widow, Mrs Fiona Campbell from Aberdeen, whose husband had succumbed to cancer. She was the reason he went and stayed overnight. He counted his blessings as he bathed and dressed, left food and water for Bonnie and the door open so she could come and go. Rosie had gone and his publishers had accepted another manuscript. Angus was a happy man as he strolled down to his boat, with a happy time ahead of him.
Up on the ridge, Red heard the half-cabin cough into life and watched as it putt-putted out of the bay and out of sight around Bernie’s Head. He knew exactly where the Scot was headed and why. Both Angus and Fiona Campbell were as discreet as two people could be, and her farm was tucked away in a valley on its own, but Angus could not hide his boat, nor conceal his destination nor the duration of his stay. It didn’t take long for someone to put two and two together and pass the word on. Nobody minded that two lonely people occasionally took comfort in each other’s arms. On the contrary, it gave them something to talk about, and most speculation centred on whether the widow Campbell would one day get Angus to walk with her down the aisle. She was a warm and generous woman who enjoyed company and a good laugh. And she needed a man to help her run the farm. Everyone who knew her hoped she’d succeed. Everyone who knew Angus hoped for her sake she wouldn’t.
Red made a mental note to drop by and keep Bonnie company so that she wouldn’t fret, and began to chop away once more at his path. The track didn’t need to be anything fancy, just negotiable in the dark. He had an axe, bush saw and a parang, but worked mainly with the parang. That was another legacy of Burma. He’d never even seen a parang until they’d sent him up to work on the railway, and now he couldn’t imagine ever being without one. He kept it razor sharp, and in his hand it was lethal. He always slashed diagonally, going with the grain, never across it, so that he didn’t rob the blade of its edge. The romusha had taught him that, too.
He wore his digger’s hat, shorts and a football jersey for protection from the scrub, but the greatest luxury were his work boots. Like most of the men on the railway he’d suffered from ‘happy feet’, and had taken meticulous care of his feet ever since, drying them carefully and disinfecting every cut and scratch. He’d seen men beaten senseless for failing to haul their day’s quota of fill simply because their feet had let them down. The guards had made them carry extra the following day or face another beating. It was a prospect that had brought hard men to tears. Red had been one of them, but Archie had helped him out. He’d always been able to rely on Archie.
He found his thoughts trespassing into dangerous territory and increased his work rate. His parang flashed in the weak autumn light. Work kept the nightmares at bay. Work stopped him thinking. The constant westerlies even on the lower ridges had deformed and twisted the manuka and kanuka so that their heads leaned away to the lee, exposing their trunks and inviting execution. Red slashed relentlessly, hacking, chopping, clearing away, till his mind emptied and his shirt clung wetly to his body.
‘Yasume, Archie,’ he called. Rest time. He eased his parang into its scabbard, which he’d fashioned out of two slats of wood bound tightly together with string. He dropped down below the lip of the ridge and found a rock to sit on which was sheltered from the wind and gave him a view over the ocean and the entrance to the bay. He opened his water bottle, poured a half inch into the plastic bowl he’d brought for the dog, and took a long pull himself. He reached into his canvas work bag for the two buckwheat pancakes, both of which wore a thin Vegemite varnish. He gave one to Archie and ate the other. His eyes swept the horizon for any sign of foreign fishing boats but saw nothing. Even if he had, there was nothing he could do about it until the Navy sent him his radio.
Red had managed to drive Burma from his mind, but he couldn’t deny Rosie. She was never far away, waiting patiently for him to rest and drop his guard. Then she’d seize her chance. He knew there was no point in thinking about her. She’d come and gone and that was all there was to it. Yet she’d made an i
mpression on him. She’d done well in surviving her fortnight at Wreck Bay, despite receiving next to no help from him and none at all from Angus. She’d cleared away the rubbish around Bernie’s shack, dragged it to a little tip out of sight and mind. She’d dug over her garden. Found some creosote and coated the outhouse and generator shed. She’d felled dead trees and sawn them up for firewood. In fact, when he’d checked the shack after she’d gone, he’d discovered that she’d replaced all the firewood she’d used. She’d caught fish to feed herself and hadn’t once come begging or borrowing. But what had both frightened and impressed him was the fact that she’d made plans. Plans to fix the old shack up. Plans to make pottery. Plans to live at Wreck Bay where no woman in her right mind would consider living. Red was forced to concede that Rosie was the type who would have done well in Burma. As long as she kept to herself, she could have done okay at Wreck Bay. But she’d gone and that was that.
When Rosie had told Red her plans on the run back around to Fitzroy, he’d believed everything she’d said. He’d believed her when she said she was coming back. She’d even named a date, one that had passed two weeks earlier. But in the end she didn’t have what it took. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed, not so much for himself but for her. He shook his head to clear her from his thoughts. It was time to resume the battle with the scrub. At least her change of heart had made the Scotsman a happy man. Archie barked as he rose to his feet.
‘What’s up? Found a rabbit?’
But Archie wasn’t sniffing the ground or pointing at any suspicious shapes in the underbrush. He was gazing straight out to sea. He barked again. Red turned, puzzled. He gazed out towards the horizon, scanned left then right. Nothing. He looked down at Archie who was still gazing out to sea. No. Not out to sea. Lower. Down at the bay. Red glanced down but he was too late. All he could see was a broad wake rippling and expanding on the water beneath him. Whatever had made it had passed by out of sight behind the lower ridge. A boat, a large one at that, had crept down the coast hugging the shoreline and sneaked into the bay.