by Derek Hansen
‘Red? Hello?’
‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘First I have to find Angus.’ He turned away.
Rosie watched Red and Archie until they were swallowed by the scrub. She couldn’t help wondering whether Angus would show the same concern for Red if the situation were reversed. She doubted it. She doubted it very much. Sooner or later someone had to bring the cantankerous bastard around and remind him that he was still a member of the human race and that certain courtesies were expected. She figured she might as well make a start by taking him a pot of soup when she went to feed Bonnie. Sort of a peace offering. She went back inside as another gust of wind shook the house. The last place she wanted to be right then was out in an open boat. Maybe Angus felt the same way. Maybe he was waiting for the weather to ease. That’s what any sane person would do. But then, as she had to remind herself, sanity was one criterion that didn’t always apply on the Barrier.
Once he’d cleared the bay Red hugged the shoreline to shelter from the wind. A curtain of rain cut his visibility to two hundred yards whichever way he looked. Archie stood on his hind legs, front paws on the bow deck, trying to pierce the gloom, relieved to be outside and off his mat. A light swell rolled in lethargically to meet waves diminished in the lee and flattened by the weight of the rain. Red rounded Waikaro Point and cut in close along Whangapoua Beach, certain that Angus would follow a similar route northwards. The wind hit him broadside on, as he knew it would, once he passed in front of the flats. Windblown sand mixed with rain attacked him almost horizontally. Archie ducked down into his favourite spot below the fore deck. The marshlands that stretched behind the beach reached halfway across to Katherine Bay, enabling the winds to bear down and gather momentum before they reached the sea. Even so, Red reasoned that Angus would have stayed in close and clear of the heavy chop out wide.
He knew the weather wasn’t bad enough to deter Angus from returning. Had it been a nor’-easter, that would have been a different story. But Angus was canny with boats and read the sea and weather well. Something must have happened. Red turned his boat south-east and gained the protection of the southern headlands. Archie resumed his station as bow lookout, watching for the swirls that marked barely submerged rocks. Red moved in closer to the shore and away from the flukey gusts that occasionally whipped in over the cliff tops. He spotted a float bobbing in the water ahead. And another. And another. He cursed the fisherman who’d laid the crayfish traps, obviously a novice who couldn’t read the weather, or one of the Tryphena mob who just didn’t care. But whoever had laid the traps had been busy. There were dozens of them in Indian file, stretching down the coast, new ones bobbing into view as others slipped by. Red cursed again and moved further out to sea. He was tempted to stop, haul in the traps and set their occupants free, as he’d done many times before. No one had a right to set so many traps in such a small area. There was no way the crayfish could survive that sort of over-fishing. He slowed momentarily, remembered what he’d set out to do, and once more picked up speed. Bastards, he thought to himself, they were as bad as the Japs.
He passed inside Arid Island and prepared to meet the rough seas as he rounded the next headland for the run down towards Awana Bay and the widow’s farm. Ahead of him, a jagged line of rough water reached out from the point, forcing him wide to gain sea room. Spotting floats was hard enough in the calmer water and near impossible in the chop. Archie barked just as Red swung the helm. He turned to see where Archie was looking, in case the dog had spotted a float he’d missed. But the dog was staring inshore towards the point where the exposed water met the calmer water. Moreover, he was wagging his tail.
Red brought the bow back around towards shore and peered into the driving rain. He saw it, lost it, saw it again, a dark, faintly red shape barely discernible against the shadows of the cliffs.
‘Well done, Archie!’ Red knew instantly what had happened. Angus had motored in close to get the protection of the cliff and fouled his prop on crayfish floats. Red slowed so he could scour the water ahead of him. The last thing they needed were two immobilised boats.
‘Ahoy, Angus!’
The Scot’s head appeared above the roof of the half-cabin.
‘Aye, it’s you. Thought you’d come.’ He coiled a rope to throw to Red so that he could raft up. Red swung astern, steadied, threw his bumpers over the side to protect his paintwork, and tied off. The two boats rocked and bumped disconcertingly in the chop.
‘Been over to take a look?’
‘Aye, but it’s way too rough for me.’ He turned his hands over so that Red could see the cuts and bruises on the back of them. ‘I used the bandages in the first-aid kit on my forehead.’ Red looked closely and saw a white strip peeking below Angus’ rain hat. ‘It’ll not stay still one second, the propeller.’
‘I’ll have a look.’
‘Aye. I’d be grateful if you would.’
Red stripped off, stowed his clothes in the forward compartment, grabbed his knife, face mask and snorkel from the box beneath his seat, and dived over. For once there were no complaints from Angus about his nakedness. Red used the rudder to steady himself and took a good look at the damage. The trap line was coiled tightly around the prop shaft and prop, and the cork float had become wedged between the prop and rudder. One way or another he had to get a free end he could work with to loosen the coils. He cut the trap free. With no weight tethering it, the stern leaped sharply on the chop and crashed back down on his head. He reeled back in pain, pushing himself away from the stern half-stunned, his goggles knocked down around his mouth. The Scot had allowed barnacles to grow on the hull and several of them had carved a path down Red’s forehead. The water in front of him clouded murky from his blood. He clawed his way to the surface, face stinging, head pounding. Another wave caught him and swept his naked body under the hull, where barnacles gouged and shredded the skin on his legs.
‘Good Lord, man, are you all right?’
‘Help me aboard.’
With Angus’ help Red dragged himself up onto the duckboard then onto the deck of the half-cabin. He collapsed and lay there, waiting for the throbbing in his skull to subside. The rain mixed with the blood oozing from the cuts and formed red puddles on the deck.
‘I did warn you.’
‘Yes, Angus, you warned me.’ Red caught his breath and thought through his next step. ‘I’m going to have to tow you to calmer waters before I dive again. If that doesn’t work I’ll tow you all the way back.’
He climbed aboard his boat and fixed Angus’ bow line to his stern cleats. He waited until Angus had up-anchored before engaging gear and motoring slowly into the lee. The throb of his diesel exacerbated the pounding in his head. He grimaced as he watched the half-cabin slew and pull to starboard, ever obedient to its jammed rudder. The trip back to Wreck Bay would take forever if he had to tow Angus all the way. Red shivered. It was colder in the rain than in the sea. He made for the shelter of a little rocky bay, no more than an indentation in the cliff face, and dropped anchor.
‘We’ll try here,’ he shouted. The saltwater stung as he dived overboard but there was nothing he could do but accept it. He was good at that. He’d lived with pain for months on end, the deep, penetrating pain of tropical ulcers and infections. His scratches were nothing in comparison. With his knife clamped firmly between his teeth and one hand braced on the rudder, he began to uncoil the rope around the prop. But it was slow going and, even in the lee, the half-cabin still bucked and rolled. He grabbed his knife and chipped away at the thick cork float until he could cut it free and push it clear. Chips of cork and blood clouded the water and obscured his vision. He surfaced, dived, surfaced, dived. The muscles in his arms began to cramp up in the cold. But he persevered and endured, until finally the rope pulled free. Angus helped him aboard.
‘How is it?’
‘Turn her over.’
The motor coughed, twice, three times and kicked into life. Red clambered back on board his own boat and cast off Angus�
� bow line. His shivering had intensified as the cold reached through to his bones. He waited until Angus had engaged gear and moved smoothly away before putting his clothes back on. Gusts swept the bay, driving the rain into him, soaking his shirt and shorts as he dressed. He knew his oilskin would act as a windbreak and hoped his body would heat the water trapped against his skin. His feet had turned white and arched with cramp. Archie came aft to see if he could help lick his wounds.
‘Heel, Archie. Lie down!’ The dog did as instructed, curled up around his master’s frozen feet, sharing his body heat just as they shared everything else.
Bonnie took an immediate liking to Rosie. The cat followed her as she took an uninvited tour of Angus’ cabin. At some stage someone had splashed mustard yellow on cupboard doors, which gave the place a look of disrepair that was entirely undeserved. His fridge made hers look like an old-fashioned ice-cooler, and his Stanley wood stove was a perfect example of tradition colliding head on with technology, rustic looking but oozing efficiency. She tested his sofa and approved. Likewise his bed, though it was a little firmer than she was accustomed to. His table and chairs were sturdy and functional but not entirely without a rough charm. She smiled at the clumps of dried heather dangling from the kitchen beams. But what intrigued her were the desk, typewriter and stack of typed pages. She picked them up and began to read. She read until the gathering gloom strained her eyes, and Bonnie padded her lap, impatient for her dinner. Rosie was absorbed by what she read, intrigued that the dour old Scot was the unlikely author. Momentarily, she considered starting up his generator but thought better of it. Instead, she put the manuscript back where she’d found it, and wrote a short note saying that Bonnie had been fed and that the soup was for his dinner. As a final gesture of goodwill, she started a fire in the Stanley so that the bach would be warm and welcoming when he finally returned and he’d have hot water for a shower.
She closed the door, locking Bonnie in with her bowl of fish pieces, and set off back down the trail. When she reached the fork where the track split, she hesitated. There was no reason for her to ignore the path leading up to her home, but she did, and took the other, which dipped down to the beach.
Angus watched Red overtake him and followed in his wake. He envied the way the old lifeboat carved effortlessly through the swells and crushed the chop, wishing he’d been in it when he’d fouled the trap line. His half-cabin wasn’t a bad boat but, unlike Red’s, it sat on top of the water and was skittish in a blow. He’d been tempted when Mrs Campbell encouraged him to stay on until the weather had cleared, but he didn’t want her getting designs on him. They had a comfortable arrangement which was best left as it was. He wondered if Bonnie had been fed. Surely Red would have fed her before he left. The man was mad and he was soft, but no one could accuse him of being thoughtless.
He rounded Bernie’s Point into Wreck Bay, unaware that his day which had begun so badly was destined to end the same way. The solitary figure on the beach was obscured by rain and poor light, and occasionally Red’s boat came between them. The truth was, he was of no mind to see anyone or anything other than the Bronlund and Anderson dinghy he’d left bobbing on his mooring. He held his course as Red reduced his revs and veered off to port to tie up. Angus eased the throttle back and disengaged gear. Even sore, weary and cold, he couldn’t resist the conceit of gliding up to his mooring without power, and having his half-cabin slow to a halt just as it reached the buoy. He tied off, feeling a weariness that only a hot meal and a good night’s sleep could dispel, worked his way to the stern clipping his storm cover into place, climbed over the transom and into his dinghy. He stroked towards shore, his back to the beach, his mind dulled by cold and fatigue. The moment his dinghy bumped sand, he swung his feet over the side, his wet socks and gumboots combining with his tiredness to make them feel cast in lead. He paused for breath with his boots in the water and his bottom on the seat, gathering the strength to haul himself up.
‘Need a hand?’
Angus spun around, barely comprehending. ‘You!’
‘Yes. Aren’t you going to welcome me back?’
‘You!’ His brain grappled with the enormity of the disaster.
‘Yes, Angus. It’s me. And yes, I’m back to stay.’
Angus dragged himself to his feet and turned his back on her. ‘Red! Red! That infernal woman’s come back!’
‘He can’t hear you and, besides, he knows. He helped carry my things up the hill.’
‘I’ll bet he did! I’ll bet he did! The gormless fool! Well, don’t think you can involve me in any of your schemes. I’ll not be pandering to the likes of you, let me tell you that! You don’t belong here. Go away back to your cars and your televisions.’
‘Christ! What have you done to your hands?’
‘None of your business, woman, now out of my way!’ Angus lifted the bow of his dinghy and began to drag it up the beach to the dunes.
‘One thing before you go, you cantankerous old fraud. I’ve fed Bonnie and left you some soup.’
‘You’ve not been in my house?’
‘Yes. That’s if you live in the same place as your cat.’
‘You’ve been snooping! You’ve been snooping around my house!’ Angus’ fists were clenched in anger as if he was setting himself to strike her. ‘I’ll not have you snooping around my house. I’ll not have you on my property!’
Rosie reddened beneath her rain hat. ‘I’ve been in your house to feed Bonnie and leave soup. That’s all. I’m not a snoop. What do you have that could possibly interest me?’
‘Away with you! You couldn’t help yourself. No woman could. And I’ll know the truth the instant I walk inside.’
‘Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?’
‘We’ll see about that!’ Angus flipped his dinghy over hull up, and stormed off up the track.
‘Enjoy your soup,’ she called after him and tried desperately to recall if she’d straightened the cover on the bed and the cushions on the sofa. She was pretty sure she’d put the manuscript down in the exact spot she’d found it, but wasn’t prepared to bet money on it. Ah . . . so what, she thought. How could she ruin a friendship when there was none? She turned her attention to Red, straining to see him through the rain and gloom. He appeared to be fixing his storm cover into place.
‘Hang on!’ she shouted. She flipped Angus’ dinghy back onto its keel, dragged it down to the water, hopped in and rowed out. Red tied off the storm cover and sat with Archie on the stern.
‘Thanks, Rosie.’ He lowered his stiff body gingerly into the boat. Archie followed. ‘Couldn’t swim.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Cold.’
‘Never mind, angel pie, I’ve got just the thing for you. How would you like a bowl of soup served to you in a hot bath?’ She gazed into the shadows beneath his ridiculous yellow hat expecting some kind of acknowledgement, but he gave no response at all. She stopped rowing. Moody silences were one thing, but this was plainly ridiculous. ‘Is that a yes or a no, Red?’
‘I’m cold, Rosie,’ he said. ‘So cold.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Rosie gazed in horror at the angry weals and scrapes on Red’s forehead. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to cause them and Red wasn’t up to talking. She started to strip him and discovered that, in places, his shirt was stuck to his body. The dark brown stains explained why. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’
Blood from the scrapes on his chest and stomach had oozed into the wet fabric and dried there, gluing his shirt to his skin. Rosie took him by the hand and led him into the bathroom. She began to run water for his bath.
‘There are two ways of doing this. You can soak your shirt off in the bath or you can let me try to sponge it off.’
Red had begun to shiver violently and rock on his feet, so she made the decision for him and dipped her sponge into the hot bath water. She held it over each of the trouble spots and, as gently as she could, pulled his shirt away from his skin. She
didn’t know whether she was hurting him or not for he gave no sign. He felt cold to the touch and his wounds stood out livid against his numbed skin.
‘Now drop them.’
Red took off his shorts, revealing a similar array of scratches and gouges on his shaking thighs.
‘Saints on rollerskates,’ Rosie muttered to herself. She lifted his penis up in the cup of her hand and inspected it. Red flinched.
‘Relax. I’m just making sure the important bits are still in working order.’ She breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Now hop in the bath, hero. I’ll go towel down your mate and heat your soup.’
‘Thanks, Rosie.’ Barely a murmur but Rosie heard and smiled.
Red lay in the bath as it slowly filled. His frozen flesh tingled agonisingly, and his scratches and scrapes shrieked as the water slowly deepened. He raised his knees to get as much of his body under water as he could. Bit by bit the heat worked through muscle and sinew and seeped into his bones. He stopped shaking. He’d forgotten what a pleasure a hot bath could be and savoured the rediscovery. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. It seized on his weariness and took him in directions he normally resisted. He’d met Yvonne in a bath, the angel in white who’d bathed and cared for him in Alexandra Hospital. His body had been worse for wear then, too. Ribs broken and skull fractured, injuries that had kept him away from the Western Desert where his pals had gone on to fight the Germans, and caused him to be left behind in Singapore to greet the Japanese. For once, he allowed the warm water to seduce him into opening long closed doors. He could see her face, hear her voice, feel her gentle touch as she bathed him. See the white tiles with the bottle-green hospital insignia in their centre, and hear the whump-whump-whump of the ceiling fan. The water hadn’t been hot but tepid, not cold but cooler than the sweaty air in the ward. Red wasn’t the first soldier to fall in love with his nurse, but that was yet to come. He recalled her kindness and her confidence, his awkwardness and shyness, a boy barely twenty, naked and vulnerable before a beautiful girl no older than himself.