by Derek Hansen
Confident that she wasn’t about to kill herself, she gently eased herself across the ridge then, with her head uppermost and belly flat to the corrugated-iron sheets, inched slowly down the slope. The roof had looked high from the ground, but somewhere along the way the height appeared to have doubled. She felt the first intimations that she might have made a terrible mistake. But her resolve held firm, and she had the consolation of knowing that once she reached the guttering, she could put a hand or leg on the veranda roof to steady herself. When she reached the edge of the corrugated iron, she twisted onto her back and began to inch forward on her bottom. The paint was old and flaking in places, but at least its worn and oxidised surface afforded some grip. She sighed with relief when her feet finally touched the roof of the veranda below. She wriggled into a secure position and sat up to examine the guttering. It had sprung loose from its supports and bent backwards. But she quickly saw that if the two supports could be bent back into shape and the guttering refitted, it would do temporarily, provided she could also refit the downpipe.
The downpipe was in a sorrier state, with rust holes the size of a penny, but Rosie believed water preferred to fall vertically rather than sideways. Provided she could drag the pipe backwards so that it ran pretty much straight up and down, she thought she could live with that as well, at least for the time being. The more she looked the more confident she felt. She didn’t need a drill, screws or nails to do the repairs, just a good length of wire. There were two old nail holes where the corrugated iron sheet overhung the eaves, which she could use to support both guttering and downpipe. The two holes couldn’t have been better placed if she’d made them herself. Things were definitely looking up. She began to feel it was her lucky day.
Bonnie crouched in the corner of the sofa staring at Angus eating his breakfast and wondered why things had changed. When she’d gone to wake Angus, he’d thrown her off the bed. When she’d done her usual trick of weaving in and out of his legs while he prepared her breakfast, he’d yelled at her and pushed her away with his foot. He hadn’t talked to her, hadn’t played with her, and was doing a very good job of ignoring her. Cats don’t like that, and Bonnie didn’t like it one bit.
Angus poured more salt on his porridge and tried to resolve the issue that had kept him tossing and turning all night. He still didn’t know what to do about the woman. Had he been given one last chance? Or was he better off sticking to his original plan in the hope that she’d pack up and leave? His porridge had the consistency of glue, the way he liked it, so that it would stick to his ribs. But he had to be careful it didn’t drip and stick to his shirt. Angus had decided to take his boat around to Fitzroy for fuel and supplies and, for some reason, had put on his best shirt for the occasion.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Rosie was precisely the woman he’d been looking for. She was the kind that liked men, and didn’t appear to be particularly discerning about who she gave her favours to, not if Red was any example. She had strong hips, ideal for carrying his child. She was also intelligent, he had to concede that, but he wondered if she had any other gifts to endow on his offspring. He wished he knew her better but decided in the end it wouldn’t matter. He expected his own stock to prevail in his son. He sighed and shook his head. It was too easy to get carried away by hopes and dreams and ignore the hurdles. There was a lot of ground to cover first; he had to befriend her and, more importantly, she had to befriend him and, ultimately, become indebted to him. She needed help and he would provide it, and along the way weasel into her affection until the debt had grown to equal the one service he required of her.
He realised he’d have to tread carefully because any overt change in his attitude could put her on guard. He also had Red to consider and their agreement. If Red saw him helping her, he would interpret that as a green light to run after her and attend to her every whim. That would spoil everything. Rosie wouldn’t need him and that would be an end to his scheme. Another bitter defeat. More humiliation. He scraped the remains of his porridge off the bottom of the bowl and sat staring out through the window. The wind had died and the rain had eased, but there was no telling how long the lull would last. He knew he should leave early for Fitzroy and take advantage of the conditions while they lasted, but he couldn’t drag himself up off his chair. For all his planning, scheming and wishful thinking, he still wasn’t certain which path to follow.
Angus found Red sitting on his veranda repairing the net he used to catch bait fish. It was the sort of job Angus also liked doing because it reminded him of the herring fishermen back in his home on the Minch. It was a skill he’d learned as a boy, and he looked critically at Red’s handiwork as they exchanged greetings, making sure the repairs to the mesh were regular and uniform in size.
‘I’m going around to Fitzroy,’ he said. ‘Do you have your list ready?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Red rose immediately.
‘I’m not in such a hurry that you can’t finish that repair first.’
‘Would you like to take over?’
‘Aye, I would. Have you been to see the woman since the crayfish?’
‘Rosie? No cause.’
‘Ah, that’s for the best.’
‘I’ll get my list.’
Angus looked around nervously and impatiently. There was no closeness between Rosie and the madman, which augured well. But he was still uncertain about pressing ahead with his plan. He wove the line through the torn mesh, fingers relishing the skill.
‘You going to get Rosie’s?’ Red was standing in front of him with his grocery list.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘She needs fuel.’
‘Well, if I must I suppose I must.’ He shrugged his shoulders in resignation, not just for Red’s benefit but in acceptance. ‘I’ll be away then.’
When he reached the fork to Rosie’s he paused briefly before taking the plunge. He picked up his step. Fortune never favoured the faint-hearted, nor women the weak. Angus had generated a sense of purpose to mask his real intent as he broke into the clearing in front of Rosie’s bach. He looked up automatically. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Dear God!’
‘Help!’ said Rosie unnecessarily.
Rosie had slipped off her Everest and hung as helpless as a side of beef, midway between the veranda roof and the ground. There was no wall for her to brace her feet against so that she could haul herself back up. Nor did she have the strength to climb the rope. She’d been falling head first when the rope had pulled her up. The shock had winded her and left her dangling upside down, a livid welt around her hips. It had taken all her energy to pull herself upright. The rope had ridden up under her arms, dragging her shirt and sweater with it and leaving her midriff exposed beneath her overalls. Her shirt and sweater cushioned the chafing from the rope, but she could do nothing about the cold. At one point she’d considered trying to untie the knots but gave the idea away when she realised she would have landed on her veranda steps. She couldn’t see how two broken legs would improve her situation.
‘Dear God! Are you all right, woman?’
‘I’ll feel a whole lot better when you get me down.’ Angus had found her just when she’d thought she might be left hanging there for days. She could have kissed him.
‘Do you have a step ladder?’
‘Not one that’s big enough.’
‘Well I can’t help you myself.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rosie began to panic. Surely the old bastard wasn’t going to leave her there? That would be carrying a grudge too far.
‘I’ll have to fetch Red.’ Angus tried to think of something encouraging to say. ‘Just hang on.’
‘Please hurry!’ said Rosie. ‘Please!’ She gritted her teeth and hung on. Her arms and body ached more than she’d ever thought possible. The welt around her hips stung like she’d been branded. And she couldn’t help wondering at the ridiculous and pathetic spectacle she must have presented
to Angus. An impostor in overalls. The seconds dragged and the minutes marked their passage in pain. How long before she heard Archie’s bark? How long before Red rushed to her rescue? Tears began to well in her eyes and trickle down her cheek. That was okay. For once she felt entitled.
When Archie burst into the clearing she thought her ordeal was over, but it wasn’t, not quite. Red positioned his step ladder at the foot of the veranda steps, and then had to climb up onto the roof to manoeuvre her towards it before he could begin to lower her. He seemed to take forever. Angus stood as far up the step ladder as he dared, guiding her feet, then finally putting his arm around her waist and helping her down. Her legs buckled and refused to support her weight. She would have fallen if Angus hadn’t held her.
‘Are you all right, woman?’
‘Better than I was, thanks to you.’
‘Aye, thanks to me indeed.’ He stood there holding on to her, not knowing what to do next, wondering if this was the beginning of his plan. Here was a heaven-sent opportunity to break the ice, to be her hero, but the sudden intimacy unnerved him. Red climbed down from the roof and solved his dilemma.
‘You okay, Rosie?’ he said.
‘Had better days.’
Angus let Red take Rosie off him, lift her up gently and carry her indoors. He watched them go and wondered why he hadn’t thought to do that himself. He hopped from one foot to the other in frustration and self-recrimination. He decided to follow them inside.
‘My hero,’ he heard Rosie say. Watched as she blew Red a kiss. ‘How am I ever going to repay you?’ How was she ever going to repay him!
‘I played my part, too, you know,’ he said.
Rosie smiled at him. ‘Yes, you certainly did, Angus. I guess I owe you a kiss, too, a big one at that.’
‘Aye, you do.’
Red lowered Rosie gently onto the sofa, stacked cushions around her and went into the bedroom for a blanket.
‘I’d have been in serious trouble if you hadn’t come around.’
‘Aye.’ Angus looked down at his feet and back up at her. He had no talent for small talk, never had. ‘What made you do such a damn fool thing?’ He meant it kindly but it didn’t quite come out the way he intended.
Rosie bridled. ‘Someone had to fix the guttering, Angus, and there was a marked shortage of volunteers.’ She glanced up at Red as he tucked a blanket around her.
‘Aye. I’ll not deny that what you did took courage, but it was also foolhardy.’
‘Perhaps, but also necessary.’
‘Couldn’t you at least have waited until the roof was dry?’
‘Rainwater was flowing down the wall.’
‘Even so, you had no right going up there on your own.’
‘I had every right and no alternative!’ Rosie lost patience and snapped. She couldn’t be bothered with Angus’ criticism. She was too weary and too sore. ‘At least the downpipe’s connected and the guttering’s back in place.’
‘Aye, but you could have got yourself killed doing it.’
‘Okay, Angus, you saved my life. I’m grateful! God knows I’m grateful. You’re right, I’m a weak and foolish woman. There! I’ve said it! What more do you want?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘That’s exactly what you meant. You don’t want me here.’ Tears began to well in her eyes once more and this time there was no rain to disguise them. ‘I know that. You know that. Red knows that. Now leave me alone!’
Angus turned away confused, unable to grasp exactly where he’d gone wrong. Why did women have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t she see he meant well? He turned back to her for one last try.
‘I’m going to Fitzroy. I came around to see if you needed anything. Fuel perhaps?’
‘I wondered what brought you.’
‘I came for your list.’
‘Well, thanks but no thanks. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble on my behalf.’
‘Don’t be stubborn, woman! It’s the way things are done here.’ Angus closed his eyes. It was all slipping away, slipping inexorably away . . .
‘Angus is right, Rosie.’
‘Butt out, Red,’ cut in Rosie. ‘Who rang your bell? Stay out of this!’
‘I’ll be off then,’ said Angus stiffly. ‘I can see I’m not welcome.’
‘Get another drum of diesel,’ said Red. ‘And some chops.’
‘What the hell.’ Rosie thought of her diminished reserves of diesel and relented. ‘If this is the way things are done, who am I to argue? Get me a pen and paper, Red, and I’ll make my list.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf,’ said Angus.
Rosie laughed and looked at the dour old Scot in astonishment. ‘By Christ, Angus,’ she said, ‘that almost qualified as a joke.’
Angus made his way down to his boat congratulating himself on his wit. Things had got off to a poor start but he’d managed to save the day. She owed him for his part in rescuing her and for fetching her fuel and groceries. It was a fair beginning, a fair deposit on the favour he’d one day ask. He was halfway across Katherine Bay before he stopped congratulating himself and realised his tactical blunder. He’d left Rosie in the arms of his rival. He’d left her with Red to reap the rewards of her gratitude.
‘Damn woman!’ he screamed. It had all been for nothing. Nothing! All his hopes and his dreams. Gone. He was a foolish old man who should’ve known better. He cursed again. The gulls screeched in scorn and he had no doubt that their ridicule was aimed at him.
BOOK
III
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Rosie made her way back up to her bach after her morning jog along the beach. Red had waved to her from his boat and that was all the company she expected that day. She was acknowledged, accepted and largely ignored. The unseasonal warm weather had brought with it an injection of hope and confidence. The downpipe and guttering rattled in the wind but did their job. Her wall was slowly drying. The days were surprisingly mild and, though the temperatures plummeted overnight, her Shacklock kept the bach warm and cosy. She regretted her decision to spend the day scraping back and painting. It had taken all of a month but three sides of her home now glistened with a fresh coat of paint. The fourth, however, was a rude reminder that the job was not yet finished, and the reason she hadn’t gone fishing.
She’d used her injuries shamelessly to keep Red in attendance, and twice enticed him back into her bed. In the intimate hours of early morning she’d made him promise to help her get her boat going. Even then she sensed his reluctance but he stood by his word. He’d changed the oil and water and lent her a battery while hers had recharged. ‘A plodder’ was how he’d described her boat, and that suited Rosie perfectly. She wasn’t yet game enough to take it around to Port Fitzroy, but she was having a ball running it out to the close-in fishing reefs.
Her favourite spot was the pinnacles off Bernie’s Head where she went at sunset. The pinnacles were the remains of an island that had simply eroded away, leaving five vertical tombstones of rock to mark its passing. The terns, cormorants and gannets which jostled for room on the peaks were Rosie’s audience while she fished and her entertainment when they scrambled for her leftover bait and fish guts. She never came back without a good catch of snapper, trumpeter or tarakihi, and was rapidly becoming addicted to the sport. Her one disappointment was that Red still kept his distance.
Rosie had taken him into her bed but it was clear that it gave her no bargaining power. He never asked to stay the night; she asked him. They’d given each other company and affection and the measures were equal. There was no debt to call upon. The toilet sat resolutely immobile and every visit was punishment. Weeds grew between the lengths of new guttering that were still stacked on the ground.
‘Why won’t you help me do the things I can’t do?’ she’d asked him bluntly one morning as he made breakfast. He’d squirmed so much that Rosie wished she’d never asked.
‘Can’t, Rosie,’ he�
�d said finally. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Got other work, Rosie. Other work to do.’ The anguish in his voice had warned her to back off. Once again she’d glimpsed the symptoms her patients used to display. The fixation with routine. The inability to cope with more than one thing at a time. The unwillingness to change plans.
‘What other work?’ she’d asked.
‘Got to cut a track up to Tataweka.’ He’d turned away and stirred his fish rice.
‘Okay. And afterwards?’
‘Dunno! I dunno.’
Rosie had let the matter drop.
The unpainted side of the bach faced south-east where the hill fell away and left just a narrow strip for her to seat the ladder. On Red’s suggestion, she’d hunted through the generator shed and found the means by which Bernie had managed before her. It had come as a relief to realise that she didn’t have to re-invent the wheel every time a job needed doing. Bernie had managed, and the tools which had enabled him to manage were usually in the shed. She drove heavy wooden pegs into the ground about eight feet away from either side of the ladder and ran ropes from the pegs to a rung two-thirds of the way up to secure it. Wedges, another discovery, kept the ladder level and stable. She stepped back and admired her handiwork, enjoying her new skills and usefulness, but aware that the final quarter of the wall where the guttering hung suspended from wires would remain unpainted until she found a safe way to get to it or, better still, someone to do it for her. It was simply beyond her confidence and competence to perch on the very tip of her ladder or hang over the roof. Nevertheless, another day of achievement beckoned, after which she’d soak her tired muscles in a healing bath before sitting down to a healthy meal of steamed tarakihi and vegetables over rice à la Red O’Hara.