by Derek Hansen
The sixth day dawned dry but cold and no more full of promise than those preceding it. Angus sat at his typewriter more in hope than belief that anything worthwhile would happen. Hamish awaited resurrection on a half-filled sheet of paper and Angus was acutely aware of his obligation to the boy. He backtracked half a dozen pages, re-reading them to see if he could pick up the mood and flow. Under pressure the human mind is capable of extraordinary leaps of logic, and Angus was about to become a beneficiary. Somewhere along the way an idea began to form which had nothing to do with the story he was reading. He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape, eyes unseeing, stunned by the force of the idea.
Rosie took advantage of the break in the weather to do a wash. Her Bendix gurgled contentedly in the laundry and her clothesline waited to be dressed. After five days cooped up indoors she was desperate to get out. There was nothing like a bit of a blow to bring the fish on the bite, and she’d acquired a taste for the pink pigfish that had moved in on the reefs by the pinnacles. She was pegging the first load to the line when Angus called out to her.
‘Rosie, may I speak with you?’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘It’s a yes, Angus. Come up by all means. Has someone died?’
Angus squirmed with embarrassment. He wore freshly pressed shirt and trousers, jacket and shoes. His hair was slicked down and his beard newly shaven. He’d brought more roses. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Don’t mock me, Rosie.’
‘I’m sorry. We’ll have to sit out here because the varnish on the table is still wet. It’s the weather.’
‘Aye.’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, if it’s no trouble.’
Rosie took the roses inside with her and shifted the kettle over the hotplate. She glanced cautiously back outside. Angus looked ludicrous and made her feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t the Angus she’d come to know and loathe; in fact, he reminded her of a beaten puppy trying to insinuate its way back into its owner’s affection after a really smelly indiscretion. He wanted something and she dreaded to think what. She looked at the slicked hair and slid unwillingly towards a sickening conclusion. But if he’d come to put the hard word on her, why hadn’t he picked a more appropriate time? Mid-morning had never struck her as particularly conducive to romance. The kettle whistled the start of play. She made the tea and took the tray outside. If he started in on small talk she decided to be rude. He hadn’t tarted himself up to talk about the weather.
‘Thank you, Rosie.’ Angus shifted uncomfortably on the wooden seat. Cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘Rosie,’ he began, ‘you know I write books, so I expect nothing that I am about to say will come as a surprise.’ He looked away from her as if unwilling to meet her eyes. ‘I want a son, Rosie. All my life I’ve wanted a son to raise and instruct on the ways of the world. Are you with me?’
Rosie was and for once she was lost for a reply. She’d been propositioned many times before but never so bluntly. She waited aghast, expecting at any moment to be asked to take him into her bed and become his baby factory. Why else was he all dressed up? ‘Go on,’ she said weakly.
‘That’s where I thought you could be of service.’
Be of service! Rosie gritted her teeth.
‘I know I got off to a bad start and things between us haven’t been perhaps as they should have been. It could be different, you know. Things aren’t always as they might appear. You follow?’
‘Angus, you’re stalling.’
‘Rosie, you’re not making it any easier for me.’
‘You’ve never made it any easier for me!’
‘Well, what the devil did you expect, woman!’ Angus looked away and bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I apologise for that. I can’t help it. I’ve no way with women.’ He squirmed with embarrassment. Rosie let the silence hang. Hanging seemed an appropriate sentiment.
‘I’ve never wanted to marry, you understand. Besides, I’m not sure any woman would want to have me. But I’ve always wanted a child. I came here to get away from women like you, Rosie. Women who . . . who are . . . accommodating . . . but don’t necessarily wish to be tied down to any man.’
He looked up to see her reaction. It took all of Rosie’s self-control for there to be none. She decided to contain her rage until the man had said his piece. Then she planned to accommodate him with a right cross.
‘Oh, I’ve had women friends,’ he continued, ‘but none who would agree to give me a child. I was laughed at and scorned, and at times I even resorted to offering money. I suffered humiliation after humiliation until finally I’d had enough. I escaped, I came here. Then you had to come on the scene.’
Rosie tensed as she waited for the punchline, flexed and bunched her fists under the table. The old Scot had felt her anger before. She was amazed that he’d dare to stick his chin out so far again.
‘I couldn’t face another revival of my hopes and another disappointment. I’d made my compromise, you follow? I’ve invented a son of my own in my writing and there are times, Rosie, when Hamish is as real to me as any child of flesh and blood.’
Rosie unclenched her fists. His sales pitch had begun to sound dangerously like confession time. It was her turn to feel uncomfortable.
‘It was a compromise, you understand, but one I was prepared to accept and live with. When you went back after your first visit, I must confess I was glad to see the back of you. When you returned and announced you were staying, I realised I would have to live with the torment of your presence every single day for the rest of my life. Oh, I could run away, find another Wreck Bay in which to hide, but in my heart I know there is no hiding. Wherever I go there’ll always be another you, another Rosie, another reminder of what might have been.’
His pain reached out to her and touched her. She waited for the next revelation, bewildered and dumbfounded. Bewildered by his story. Dumbfounded by what she was sure he was going to ask of her.
‘I know you have lain with Red and the Lieutenant Commander.’
Lain with! Dear God! Next would come the begatting! It didn’t occur to her to ask how he’d found out about Mickey Finn. All that concerned her was the terrifying direction in which the conversation was heading.
‘So?’ she asked weakly.
‘So I have to ask, Rosie, though it’s not easy for me, as you well know. But I have to ask for my peace of mind, you follow?’ He gazed at her intently, his tension clearly evident in the play of his twitching eyebrows.
‘Ask what, Angus?’
‘Don’t tease me, Rosie!’
‘Ask what, Angus?’
She watched as he fought to recover his composure and salvage his dignity. He pumped himself up and straightened his back. If he’d been wearing a tie he would have tightened the knot. Anyone watching would have thought he was about to propose, but Rosie was certain it was an altogether different proposition he had in mind.
‘I have to ask,’ he said, ‘whether you’re prepared to consider having a child.’
Rosie stared at him blankly. The worst had happened, as she knew it would, but she still had no idea how to respond. Her choices appalled her. On one hand he’d invited her to shatter his hopes one last time, and on the other he was asking her to submit to becoming the incubator of his child. Neither option held any joy, but the latter was clearly beyond contemplation. Angus seemed to shrink while he waited for her response. What had it taken for him to ask the question? What would it take for her to respond?
‘Angus,’ she began tentatively, ‘you have totally misread me. You have no understanding of the person I am. Under any other circumstances I would be deeply offended.’
‘Rosie, I –’
‘I have some sympathy for you, Angus, and respect for your motives, if not your manner. But know this. I choose who I sleep with. Also, if I elect to have a child, it will be my child and, regardless of what else you think of
me, I am not the sort to give away my own flesh and blood!’
‘Rosie –’
‘Hear me out! So, Angus, in the unlikely event that we ever had a child, we would have to share it, and that implies some kind of common understanding, an agreement as to how the child would be raised.’
‘Rosie, you don’t –’
She gave him a look which would have silenced a jack-hammer. ‘Angus, we’d never agree to anything. We’d fight over every single thing. Would that be fair? A child deserves parents who are loving, not constantly at war. Your proposal is ludicrous!’
‘Rosie, for God’s sake, woman! Shut up and listen!’
‘No, you listen!’
‘Shut up, woman!’ The Scot leaped to his feet, his voice shaking not with rage but with anguish. ‘I’m not asking you to have my child.’
‘What?’ For the umpteenth time Rosie was dumbfounded. Dumbfounded and utterly confused.
‘I’m not asking you to have my child.’ His voice had softened away to a whisper and trembled with emotion. He slumped back into his chair. ‘I can be a foolish man, Rosie, but I am not a fool. I’m not so foolish that I would expect you to have my child. Oh, I admit the idea did cross my mind, but it had the good sense not to linger there.’ He smiled thinly and it was Rosie’s turn to feel acutely embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry, Angus. I misunderstood.’
‘Ahhh . . . away with you. It’s me. I apologise for my clumsiness. I didn’t make myself clear.’
‘Enlighten me, Angus.’
‘Well, if you were to have a child, and if you were not married, I was wondering if perhaps you could put the past behind you and allow me time with the child.’
‘Allow you time?’
‘Would it harm the boy to have more than one father?’
‘Go on.’
‘Rosie, all I’m asking is that if you were to have a child you’d allow me to read to him, sit him on my knee and tell him stories, take him fishing with me, perhaps teach him history and about nature . . .’
‘What you’re asking is to share his childhood.’
Angus hesitated, thought for a moment as if faced with a revelation. ‘Yes, Rosie, that’s what I’m asking.’
‘You wouldn’t try to change the way I’d choose to bring him up – assuming it’s a boy – nor interfere with the beliefs of his father, assuming he’s around?’
‘No, Rosie. I’d not interfere, I swear it.’
‘You understand the consequences if you did?’
‘Aye . . .’
Rosie stared at him, her mind still reeling from her initial misunderstanding. Gradually she gathered her wits and with them came inspiration.
‘I can’t speak for the father,’ she began, ‘whoever he may be. But in principle I have no objection to what you propose.’
‘Rosie –’
‘Except there is no place for a second father. One is generally considered adequate, two surplus to requirements.’ She watched his jaw sag, waited, then delivered her gift. ‘However, there is always room in a child’s life for a grandfather.’
‘Grandfather!’ His eyes lit up like the fairy lights on a Christmas tree. He grabbed the concept instantly, drew it to him and embraced it. ‘Grandfather!’ he repeated, savouring the sound of the word and all its implications. ‘Rosie, you’re a marvel!’
‘But not yet a mother. And on current levels of activity, not overly likely to become one.’
‘I’ll have a word with Red.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Rosie burst out laughing. ‘Angus, before we go any further there are some things you’ll have to get straight. I won’t put up with any sideline encouragement. I haven’t even decided if I want a child and I don’t want a cheer squad urging me on.’
‘Could I just say I’d prefer the father were the naval officer rather than the madman?’
‘No, you may not! That’s precisely what I mean. Angus, any further discussion is purely academic. If I ever decide to have a child I will choose the father.’
‘So you might have a child?’
‘I haven’t ruled out the possibility, as remote as it may be.’
‘Oh, Rosie, you’ve made me happier than you can ever imagine. I don’t deserve your kindness, I concede I’ve done nothing to earn it. But if I can’t be a father I rejoice at the prospect of being a grandfather. Perhaps I’m even more suited to the part. Aye! A grandfather!’ He picked up his cup of tea and sipped noisily. He reached for a shortbread, snapped it in two and pushed half in his mouth.
‘You can undo the top button of your shirt now, Angus. You look like a chicken with a rubber band around its neck.’
Angus laughed and did as she suggested. ‘There is one other small matter I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘And what is that?’ Rosie tried to sound pleasant and maintain the mood, but inwardly braced for the Scotsman’s next assault.
‘It’s about the workmen you’re thinking of bringing here. I’d really prefer you didn’t.’
‘You’ve left me no choice, Angus.’
‘Don’t bring them here, Rosie. I couldn’t tolerate that. I came here to get away from the crowds, not to invite them in. Surely you can accept that? I don’t want my privacy invaded.’
‘Tell me something new.’
‘We have been remiss in the past, I freely admit it, and you have every reason to punish us. All I can say is we want to make amends for earlier indiscretions. Please allow us to move your toilet. We’ll do it if you’ll just give us the chance.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Who would you rather have do the jobs you can’t? Strangers from the other side, or Red and me?’
‘Depends who’s cheapest.’
‘You’ll not find cheaper than free, woman. We’ll ask no consideration, only that you don’t abuse our services.’
‘I thought I’d bring my guys over next week,’ Rosie lied. ‘When can you start?’
‘I’ll speak to Red.’ The Scot sighed and helped himself to another cup of tea. He didn’t relish the interruption to his writing, but sacrifices had to be made. ‘We’ll start next week, since that’s convenient with you.’
‘I need the lavatory moved and a new pit dug with a triangle and beam I can slot in over the top to winch the drum up. And I need help to rebuild the chook house. Searching for the eggs every morning is becoming rather tedious.’
‘Aye,’ said Angus heavily. ‘And if there’s anything else, speak up now. We’ll need to know what we’re letting ourselves in for.’
‘I’ll make a list.’ Rosie smiled sweetly. Why not? She had an overland route to Katherine Bay and Fitzroy, and now she had a labour force on hand to help her. She had everything she needed to survive and could turn to her potting, her fishing and her garden, and to living the kind of life she’d fantasized about. She’d secured her foothold in paradise and, in the glow of her victory, didn’t immediately dismiss the Scotsman’s fond hopes out of hand. The odd thing was, for the first time in her life she could picture herself with a child and not see it as a squealing, puking, nappy-filling gaoler.
‘There is one more matter,’ said Angus. ‘I’m taking the boat around to Fitzroy. Is there something I can get you?’
‘No, but there are some things I could get for myself.’
Angus grimaced. He’d given the woman an inch and she’d taken a yard, much as he’d feared she would. When had it ever been different? ‘Be on the beach in half an hour,’ he said sourly.
Jean and Col Chadwick greeted Rosie like a long-lost daughter and immediately invited the two of them to stay for lunch. Rosie’s instant acceptance caused Angus to bridle, though he knew better than to protest. There was no mail for Angus or Red and none expected, but Rosie had a letter from Mickey waiting for her, and a large manila envelope from her father. She decided to leave both unopened until she’d returned to Wreck Bay. She’d had enough surprises for one day.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
When Angus had arrived wrapped like a Christmas toffee, with a bunch of roses and a request for his shopping list, Red’s plans for the day collapsed. He looked around in desperation for something that would drain him physically and dull his mind so that the nightmares, still fresh and lurking on the edge of his consciousness, would fade and seep away in the sweat of toil.
Red had battled through a bad night, one of the worst, and it had caught him by surprise. Over the years at Wreck Bay the nightmares had diminished in both severity and frequency. He’d even begun to entertain the possibility that one day he might be free of them. He could find no reason for the sudden attack other than the disruption to his routine. He’d spent the dark hours in a twilight world, reliving the forced march up the railway from the Forty-seven mile camp to the One-oh-five, raggle-taggle remnants of an army, weakened from over-work, sickness, malnutrition and infections that ate away at their bodies like rust in soft steel. He’d tossed and turned, bathing himself in sweat and drenching his sheets in the process, reliving what he had tried so hard to forget. They’d willed their legs onward, one step after another, knowing that to fall was to give in, and that to give in was to die. Yet no matter how hard they’d pushed themselves, the camp at Aungganaung had remained as far away and unattainable as it had at the commencement of their journey. He’d relived the despair, the tears of frustration and exhaustion, with death never more than one faltering step away.
Dawn had come as a merciful release, and he’d risen trembling and weak to begin his exercises. Years of practice brought him the calm he needed. He’d slipped into the long, thin, even breaths of diaphragm breathing, and the gentle rhythmic exercises of ch’i kung; separating clouds by wheeling arms, rowing the boat in the centre of the lake, scooping the sea while looking at the sky. He repeated the exercises until a meditational calm had soothed and stilled his mind, and he could feel energy radiating outwards to his extremities, relaxing and reinvigorating his muscles. He varied his movements to those of t’ai-chi ch’uan – the Grand Ultimate Fist – the slow, balletic martial arts movements that he’d first seen practised from his hospital window in Singapore. Years later, a Chinese medical student in Auckland had explained the meaning and reason behind the strange behaviour he’d witnessed, and introduced him to a teacher. Red had presented the teacher with a gift of money in a red envelope as tradition demanded and the medical student had advised. He hadn’t skimped on the gift, because the little red envelope had also carried inside it his last hopes.