by Derek Hansen
Scriven sighed and leaned back in his captain’s chair which his wife had bought at an auction and given to him as a Christmas present. Only decent Christmas present he’d ever had from her. He speculated on which was likely to cause him the most aggravation. The press release with its implied incompetence? Or the apprehension of the Shoto Maru? He just hoped there weren’t any delicate trade negotiations in progress to bring the politicians down upon them.
‘Third Officer Wainscott! Battle stations! Get these orders to the Cormorant and Shearwater back to Staff Officer Operations. Stay there until he signs them and then take them personally over to Signals.’
‘Sir!’
‘I have a feeling the Shoto Maru is going to drive on south towards the Barrier. See if you can get a call through to that weirdo over at Wreck Bay. It’s a long shot, but leave a message anyway. Finally, see if you can get Lieutenant Moffat of the Shearwater to drop by for a chat.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘One more thing, my extremely capable Third Officer. If you’re going to complain about my conduct, make your complaint official. I’d rather be kicked out of the service than endure another of fearless Phil’s friendly chats. Okay?’ He looked up at her sharply and saw her sudden embarrassment.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Round up some volunteers to help us man the phones.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘And organise us some food. See if you can get the cafe across the road to keep their kitchen open and send us over a dozen or so hamburgers around midnight. Tell them it’s their patriotic duty.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Now hop it.’
‘Sir!’
Mickey watched her go. He’d never seen her looking so vibrant. She glowed with excitement. Soon the word would go around and the whole base would buzz. Gloria would have no trouble finding volunteers; she’d probably have to beat them off. Mickey was feeling pretty excited himself, partly at the prospect of action but also partly because of Phil Scriven’s advice. Perhaps Gloria did need a good boffing. Well, if she didn’t, he did. There were parts of him that hadn’t stood at attention for too long.
He shifted his focus back to the Shoto Maru, placed an eraser on the chart to represent the trawler and two glider clips further out to sea to represent the patrol boats, and tried to think through all the possibilities. His spirits sank. There was simply too much water and too few resources. All he could do was set a trap and hope that the trawler had the extraordinary misfortune of sailing into it. He didn’t need to look out the window to know that the rain still hadn’t let up. The met report had the bank of clouds stretching all the way back across the Tasman to Australia. What chance would his informal army of coast watchers have as the trawler moved south? Dear God! He ran his fingers wearily through his hair. All he needed was one sighting, one little old lady with a flask of coffee, good eyesight and the desire to become a national hero so they’d know where the trawler was and where it was heading. Then he could unleash the patrol boats with at least a modicum of confidence. Circumstances were hardly in their favour, but Mickey had been in the Navy long enough to know they were as good as they ever got.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Rosie awoke early. Her bedroom was still dark but enough light showed around the edges of her new curtains to indicate that dawn had occurred somewhere beyond the endless canopy of clouds. She curled deeper into her blankets, dreading the moment when she’d have to get up and leave her warm bed for the cold and damp of morning. It was the kind of seeping cold that bypassed flesh and skin and went straight for the bones, the kind that only activity could ward off. What on earth was there to get up for, she wondered? There was no place she had to be and no one to tell her what to do. Not so very long ago, this had been her idea of heaven. But the grey days were endless and changeless, the rain ceaseless, and the monotony of a nine-to-five job seemed infinitely more appealing in comparison. At least she met people, heard happy voices other than the blather on the radio. Apart from routine chores, hours spent trying to achieve what a trip to the corner store could accomplish in five minutes, her only work was the work she made for herself. Still, this was the life she’d chosen. She wished she’d trialled it longer before she’d shipped over all her worldly possessions. She was on the verge of feeling sorry for herself when she realised the trap she was falling into. She couldn’t blame her father for her predicament, or her flatmates, Red, Angus or the weather. Wreck Bay was her choice. Her decision. Her rude, raised finger to a world that had failed her.
‘Love thy neighbour,’ said the Bible but ‘Copy them’ seemed more appropriate. They had what it took to survive at Wreck Bay and had learned the method. Rise early, exercise, start the day positively, do what had to be done to survive. They lived life the way it was meant to be – simple, uncomplicated and elemental.
Rosie whipped aside her blankets and leaped to her feet, then tried to remember what she used to do in gym classes. Visions of jumping rows of school girls flooded her mind, hands clapping overhead, legs flying apart and together again, never in time and not always willingly. It seemed the perfect way to start. She jumped. But gone was the grace, the rhythm and timing. Instead she felt like a rheumatic spastic with a bladder problem. She reached for the potty under her bed. No! She grabbed her dressing gown, which she’d draped over the end of the bed to keep her feet warm during the night, and headed for the outhouse. She climbed into her gumboots at the door, picked up her umbrella and ran.
She sat shivering on the loo, refusing to accept that the cold was anything other than normal, part and parcel of her new life, neither encouraging nor discouraging and not worthy of notice. From habit she turned to flush the bowl, forgetting there was no bowl to flush, nothing beneath her for six feet and nothing that she ever wanted to know about beneath that. Her mind inevitably returned to the problem of re-siting. She’d make sure the new lavatory had a removable drum which she – or preferably some coerced neighbour – could haul up and dispose of into a distant pit. She again sensed the onset of frustration and the futility of what she was attempting to do. The wind snatched the outhouse door from her hand as she opened it and pulled it hard on the hinges. She was fortunate that they didn’t buckle. It took both hands to push the door closed with the wind driving the rain hard into her face and soaking her dressing gown. There was no point in opening her umbrella for the run back to the house.
She stripped off her sodden dressing gown and began to stoke up the Shacklock. How many times did she have to make the same mistake before she learned the lesson? Wear her raincoat to the toilet when it rained, not her dressing gown. It was such an obvious thing to do. She slumped under the weight of her own stupidity, cold, wet, and ill-equipped for the life she’d chosen. She heard a tearing noise behind her and spun around, listening, searching, seeking the cause. The wind gusted once more, and she heard the scrape and bang loud and clear enough to identify the source. The rusted guttering had given way and was dragging over the veranda roof. And something else. A glistening on the wall beneath and a dark spreading shadow. The rain had backed up under the iron and was running down the inside wall onto the old cabinet in which Bernie had stored his newspapers. At least now she knew how it had become watermarked. She raced to move her radio away and stood looking on helplessly at the spreading stain.
‘Norma!’ she shouted. ‘Norma!’ She needed help. She needed a little moral support, someone to take the reins for a day or two so she could take stock and give her new life some momentum. But it wasn’t Norma she needed, it was Red. If Red would give her just one day she could cope. That’s all she needed, a man for a day. She’d willingly trade the pleasures of the nights if only she could have a man for a day.
Rosie retreated to the one place where she could bring her crumbling dreams back together. She stripped off her nightie and climbed into the bath before it was even half full. She sat there, bottom half scalding and top half shivering, arms clasped tightly across her breast
s, hugging herself for warmth. The tide inched deeper with agonising slowness. Old pipes, low water pressure, hard washers. Too bad. She raised her knees and gradually eased her body beneath the surface. The water from the hot tap was beginning to lose its sting, but there’d be enough for a good long soak and a good long think. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t turned the generator on so that her bathroom was as dingy as the rest of the house. She closed her eyes. It was a fact that negative thoughts dissolved in hot water along with despair and self-pity. She lay back in womb-like serenity and let her blessings come to her, unforced and unhurried, to be remembered, cherished and counted. No family, no focus groups, no farting flatmates, no presiding over an empty life going nowhere.
She slipped into pleasant reveries, imagining how idyllic life at Wreck Bay could be once she’d got organised. She pictured herself at her potter’s wheel, the wet clay glistening in the sun, surrounded by all manner of birds feeding on the veranda rail. It wasn’t such an impossible dream. She saw herself slipping into a regime of health and activity, rising with the sun, exercising, tending her vegetable garden, gathering flowers. She saw herself catching fish off the rocks or from her boat. She saw her little cottage, freshly painted and gleaming whitely amid the lush greens of ferns, pungas and tea-trees. She saw the manner and pattern of her survival. But she also saw the model she was imitating, the inspiration for her dreams. His red hair and beard, his dedication to survival and his lost boy ways. She saw his silhouette as he exercised at her window before the rising sun, felt his warmth as they snuggled together in bed, tasted again the fish rice breakfast. A smile spread across her face. He was weird, but there was sound method in his madness. Red would be her model, her inspiration and source of determination. But resolve needs more than an example to follow, it needs a focal point for the many obstacles it must overcome. Something to fight against. Something to cut the insurmountable down to manageable pieces and sharpen the edges of her determination. Something tangible and an easy target for her anger. Angus McLeod, she decided, would do nicely. Everybody should have someone to loathe and Angus had gone out of his way to apply for the role.
But both love and hatred need fuel to sustain them, and Rosie sensed that it would be some days before she set eyes on either of her neighbours again. They were solitary men and set in their ways, resenting each other’s presence as surely as they resented hers. Oh, Red would tolerate her, even be kind and generous towards her, so long as she was careful not to intrude too far upon his routine. They weren’t a community but three individuals with lives that occasionally trespassed on one another’s. It wouldn’t be easy to coerce Red into helping her, but it wasn’t impossible. He’d had a taste of what she had to give, and every man she’d ever slept with had come back eager for seconds. Red, she convinced herself, just needed more time. Until then, she just had to cope. What was it Col Chadwick had told her right at the very beginning? Don’t ask either man for favours but accept them when offered. She thought about that as her bathwater cooled. Col hadn’t said anything about building up a bank of favours or a sense of obligation. Surely a stream of unexpected, unasked-for favours might merit a favour in return?
Rosie dragged herself out of the bath, dried and began to exercise naked in front of the Shacklock. That seemed the approved method at Wreck Bay. Unused muscles stretched and strained in unfamiliar attitudes, yet Rosie found an intense sense of satisfaction and accomplishment in the ache of their awakening and in her rebuttal of the cold. She dressed and decided to bake bread after breakfast. To bake more than she needed so that she had surplus to give away. Jesus performed a miracle with a few loaves of bread. Perhaps she could, too. How many loaves would it take, she wondered, to replace rusted guttering?
Red was confused, and that fact alone was sufficient to concern him. Confusion affected the focus of his mind, and he’d already suffered enough from that. Survival lay in single-mindedness, in concentrating on the job at hand. Confusion led to distraction and distraction led to despair. Rosie was his problem. He liked her well enough but she tricked him into talking, and conversation only opened doors he’d closed long ago. Doors that were best left closed. She frightened him the way the psychiatrists had frightened him, stumbling and bumbling around inside his head, digging up things no human being should ever be made to remember, flippant in their reasoning, ignorant of their torture. What was the point? It only brought pain and changed nothing. Yet Rosie had a kindness and vulnerability while the doctors hid behind a cold, impenetrable wall, a wall of knowledge and training, fortified by the certainty of their rightness. But Red knew that ignorance was the cement that really held the bricks together. What they didn’t know and the help they couldn’t give far exceeded their capacity to heal. That was the real purpose of the wall – to conceal their ineffectiveness. Their arrogance was born of the fear that their patients would discover the unpalatable truth that, in the final analysis, all the doctors’ knowledge, training and experience amounted to nothing. Nothing! Rosie didn’t have a wall. She listened, felt and tried to help. A bit like Archie, but Archie had had an advantage. Archie had been there. He’d understood the suffering, the desperation to survive, the loneliness of dying and the purposelessness of death. Archie had understood the terrifying, shredding power of fear, the scream as sharp as the snapping of a twig at the very instant when reason parted company with the brain. Archie had understood the slide towards insanity, the gut-wrenching fear of beatings and the dread of being made the plaything of sadistic guards. How could a psychiatrist understand? How could anyone ever understand?
Red made his way down the track towards the shore, alien-looking in his rubber war-surplus frogman’s suit, his bare toes clawing into the slippery clay for purchase. The clay also reminded him of Rosie. She’d need some for her pottery and he speculated on the best source. It worried him that she kept intruding on his thoughts. He didn’t dare contemplate the implications of the night they’d spent together, he dutifully doing what was expected of him, what was required. But what did it mean? How many nights could they lie bound together before their lives would become inextricably entwined, and she a demanding, questioning, constant presence? He no longer objected to the fact that she’d come to Wreck Bay – he’d long got over that – but she had to keep her distance as Angus did. But Red wondered if it was in the nature of women to do so. He suspected it wasn’t. It worried him that things would change and he wouldn’t be prepared when they did.
He gathered up his crayfish pots from their storage place among the ferns behind the sand dune and carried them out onto the jetty. Archie loped along the beach, investigating patches of seaweed, sniffing, searching, looking for anything that might have changed since the day before. Red checked the zip on his wetsuit and stepped off the jetty into the water. The rain which had infiltrated beneath the rubber had not prepared him for the cold of the seawater. It snapped his breath and he shuddered. There were some men who pissed themselves before immersion so they wouldn’t feel the cold as much, but he wasn’t one of them. He struck out vigorously for his boat, generating body heat to warm the water trapped against his skin and provide the insulation he needed. He hauled himself aboard and whistled for Archie. He needn’t have. The dog was already racing back to the jetty.
Once he’d loaded his traps and Archie had taken his position on the bow, Red motored out of the bay, hugging the shore northwards towards Aiguilles Island. He needed to go to sea to absorb himself in the work of the crayfisherman, to study the run of the currents, the variation in tides, the pattern of the waves and where best to set his traps, all jobs that would leave him no time to think. The clouds hung low and the drizzle was unrelenting. Red knew where the rocks were but looked hard for them all the same, each sighting confirming his knowledge and seamanship. He liked to fish in close where the professionals from Leigh and the Whangaparoa Peninsula didn’t dare, particularly on days when everything was a uniform grey and the water as impenetrable to the eye as potato soup.
H
e found the gullies and gutters he was looking for and set his traps, judging the wash of the light swells, hands working quickly and knowingly. All too soon the job was done and he was no better off than he’d been before he’d set out. He needed work to occupy his mind and repel the intruder. He needed work to give him a rest from Rosie. He nudged back out to sea towards Aiguilles Island, a grey brooding presence upon a grey sea, weathered, worn and crumbling, home to gannets and headstone of Bernie’s last resting place. The bow swung north almost of its own volition, as if the boat had decided how Red should occupy his mind. Archie barked and was answered immediately by twin coughs, one hard on the heels of the other, from either side of the bow. Two smiling faces propelled by eight feet of muscle. Porpoises looking for a playmate, a bow wave to ride, an audience for their antics. Red smiled back. They’d leave him soon enough, once he’d cleared the lee of Aiguilles Island and caught the wind and chop. In the meantime he could enjoy their company.
But the waves surged lethargically, unable to muster the force needed to foam their peaks, and the porpoises held their station. The rain angled in steeper as the wind eased, gravity now its motivator, seeming for all the world as if it, too, were infected by the gloom and depression of the day. Red wondered if he’d be able to find his markers through the murk. He lined up with the tip of Aiguilles Island and held the compass bearing Bernie had given him. Archie raced from side to side keeping tabs on his companions, anxious whenever one disappeared from sight. Already the forbidding cliffs of Miners Head were all but lost, only the angry frothing at their feet hinting at their presence. Red motored on, relying on judgement and instinct to find his destination. His Cummins diesel changed pitch as he slowed to watch the swells. The porpoises adjusted their game to the pace of the boat, no longer riding the bow wave but swooping beneath the hull as if the whole point of their existence was to take Archie by surprise. Red cut the motor. He made his way forward and shackled up his reef anchor. He waited until the boat had glided to a halt before tossing the anchor overboard and paying out the line. If his instincts were correct, they’d hook up on Bernie’s rise; if not, his anchor would dangle uselessly in the void. He felt a bounce, a pull on the rope and paid out more line before tying off. The bow pulled sharply to port as the anchor bit. Red reached into the forward compartment for his fins and face mask.