by Derek Hansen
Western medicine had failed him and he’d turned to the east for salvation. His generosity had been repaid many times over as the t’ai-chi and ch’i kung helped him where drugs, psychotherapy and electro-convulsive therapy had only hastened his descent into madness. His teacher had made no attempt to understand or treat him, but had simply taught him the ancient ways of balancing the opposing forces of yin and yang and of controlling mind and body. The unpredictable, irrational, explosive outbursts of temper and tears had begun to ease. He’d found peace within himself, albeit fragile and in need of supplement. That supplement was work.
After breakfast he’d scrubbed floors and benchtops and washed windows. He’d searched his vegetable patch for weeds and snails. He’d washed his sheets and spare clothing, wrung them vigorously and hung them out to dry. Then he’d begun a desperate search for work. After he’d showered, he set off with two four gallon tins to fetch diesel up from the jetty, pausing briefly on the way to renew acquaintances with the kauri tree and feel its resilience. He’d checked his boat while he was at the beach, but it was spotless, started first time, and he knew without looking that the engine needed neither oil nor water. It was still early as he’d climbed back up the hill. He’d searched for more work but found little heart for what there was. He’d emptied the latrine bucket the day before and there was neither need nor room for more firewood. He thought about cutting back more scrub, cleaning the leaves out of his guttering, splashing on more creosote. Many jobs beckoned but none appealed. The trip around to Fitzroy seemed to offer the diversion he was seeking but Angus had put a quick end to that.
He decided to take his binoculars and radio and climb Tataweka Hill. Perhaps there’d be a foreign trawler on the horizon to give him a reason to call the Lieutenant Commander. He packed food and water for himself and Archie. He called his dog to heel as he hoisted his pack over his shoulders. It felt satisfyingly heavy with the radio, batteries, binoculars and his lunch. But its weight triggered memories, more reminders of the skeletal battalions clawing their way up to the One-oh-five, through mud and driving rain, carrying their worldly possessions until sheer exhaustion forced them to abandon precious items one by one. A thin but treasured blanket, saturated and leaden. A book, sodden but no less invaluable. Chess pieces, lovingly carved from scavenged material and irreplaceable. Red strode off up the trail he’d hewn almost in panic, feet pounding into the hard grey earth, trying with each step to leave the memories behind. Tataweka was a stiff climb and a hot one in the lee of the westerlies with no protection from the morning sun, but it needed to be Mt Everest.
He heard the putt-putt of Angus’ diesel and paused to watch it nose out of the bay. He saw that Rosie was with him. Red pulled the binoculars out of his backpack to make sure. Why was Angus taking Rosie to Fitzroy? Why had he dressed up for the occasion? He watched until the little boat was lost behind a headland and turned his binoculars seawards to the dark sawtooth of the horizon. Not too bad, he thought to himself, but still bumpy. He wondered whether Rosie would be as sick in the Scotsman’s boat as she’d been in his. He looked again at the horizon. Probably not. He heaved his pack back onto his shoulders and continued his forced march up the hill until effort at last displaced old memories.
Once on the peak he began a systematic sweep northwards to the Mokohinau Islands before swinging eastwards in sectors down to Arid Island, where he could see no further. The binoculars told him nothing that his naked eyes hadn’t already ascertained. There was no traffic out to sea. No trawlers, no cargo ships, no pleasure craft. He turned westwards and scanned the Gulf. Two local trawlers were working in tandem south of Little Barrier, using the power of both vessels to drag a net which was large by their standards, but still no more than a third the size of those routinely deployed by the Japanese. The two boats battled the westerly wind, their inefficiency a crude form of conservation. As he watched, Red felt an impending sense of loss. Soon the Japanese longliners would head back north from the winter grounds, plundering the snapper heavy with roe as they migrated to spawn in the Gulf. The stupidity of the Japanese infuriated him. Didn’t they know what happened to farmers who sold all their seed and kept none to sow?
He turned his binoculars on the usual Gulf traffic to practise focussing and identification. He briefly held on a Greek liner which had barely cleared Rangitoto Channel on its long journey back to Europe. Even through the haze of distance he could make out the blue cross on the funnels and quickly identified it as the Ellinis. It had passed by two months earlier while he’d been fishing off Aiguilles Island, crammed with eager young faces heading for a working holiday in England. He’d waved and been rewarded with a forest of waving arms and a friendly blast from the ship’s horn. He recalled the loneliness he’d felt as a young man turned soldier on his way to war, clinging to the rail as he watched the land that was his home and everything he knew slip away behind him. He’d had a lump in his throat then, and when a mellow Polynesian voice had begun singing ‘Now Is the Hour’, the thought had occurred that he might be saying goodbye forever. Silence had descended over the throng of soldiers until the young Maori had finished. It had been a while before anyone had trusted himself to speak, aware that not all of them would be coming home, and those who did might be vastly different from those who’d left. Red had come back different. The man had returned but the boy had been lost forever in the jungles of Burma.
He picked up movement beneath him. It was Angus’ boat pounding across the entrance to Katherine Bay. He trained the glasses on it and saw Rosie sitting side-saddle on the transom. Probably fishing. That was something else that amazed him. Rosie had taken to fishing like Archie to his breakfast. She couldn’t get enough of it, but at least she released the fish she didn’t need. He whistled for Archie, who’d gone off to investigate the whereabouts of the rabbit that had just left a pile of warm pellets on the trail, and ducked down below the lookout to shelter from the wind. He cut a thick slice of bread, carved off some pieces of cheese and tomato and folded the slice over. He wondered why Rosie had gone around to Fitzroy instead of just giving Angus a list. Why had the old Scot taken her when he’d sworn never to lift a finger to help? Why was he dressed up? Nothing made sense.
Red began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Rosie troubled him but he could sense she was becoming part of his life, an adjustment to his routine. Her little bach was a credit to her and he liked going there. Liked it when she asked him to stay the night. Liked listening to her, liked it less when she listened to him. But he didn’t like the idea of Rosie and Angus becoming friends and wasn’t sure why. Where would that leave him? What did becoming friends entail? Would she take Angus into her bed like she’d taken him? The thought troubled him so much that he was hardly aware that Archie had answered his call, and was patiently waiting for his drink.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, and filled the dog’s bowl. Although he limited Archie to two meals a day with only water in between, he decided to give him the rind off the cheese as well. He made himself another sandwich and took a long pull from the canteen. Even damp from the tea towel, the bread was hard to swallow. He broke off a piece for Archie. ‘Eat up, mate, then back to work.’ The Japanese had been very specific about that. No work, no food, and it didn’t matter how sick a man was. It was left to his comrades to share what little they had, little gifts of half-cooked, half-rotten rice and a share in whatever meat and vegetables they’d been able to scrounge or buy from the local Burmese. Archie had scrounged for duck eggs and fed them to him when he’d gone down with the dog’s disease. The shakes had been so bad he couldn’t even hold on to his dixie.
‘No work, no mishi,’ the camp commander had decreed. ‘Speedo! Speedo! All mens must work! Sick must starve until die or go back to work.’
Each spoonful to a sick man deprived his exhausted comrades and made their burden that much more intolerable. But they gave willingly, the bond of mateship broken only by death. Who was his mate now besides Archie? Was Rosie? He wanted to share with
her as they’d shared in the camps, help her as they’d helped each other, laugh as they’d laughed. But it was hard, so very, very hard to get that feeling back. The passion, the intensity, the total reliance upon each other. Beatings, starvation, disease and death were the hammers and anvils that had forged their mateship. He wanted desperately to get the feeling back. The bad times, the good times and the times they’d done nothing but wait. The camps had taken all he had to give, and repatriation had taken his reason to give. He was alone, isolated, the only New Zealand soldier to work on the railway. The sole survivor.
With nothing better to do, but needing to be active, he swung the radio onto his back and climbed up to the lookout. He wasn’t scheduled to call, nor did he have anything to report and, even as he began to transmit his call sign, had no idea what he was going to say. His signal was picked up immediately by Devonport and, to his surprise, he was asked to stand by for a return transmission. Apparently the Lieutenant Commander had left a standing instruction to be informed if he radioed in. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Hello, Red? Mickey here. I don’t know whether Rosie has picked up my letter yet but I’m coming by the day after tomorrow. Routine patrol and I’ve hitched a ride. The Navy still hasn’t forgiven me for letting Shimojo Seiichi get the better of me. They’re happy to have me out of the place. You got that? Over.’
Red acknowledged.
‘One more thing, Red, talking of Shimojo Seiichi. Time to get on our toes. I don’t know whether I told you but the Airforce is switching over from Sunderlands to Orions. Some of their blokes just did a familiarisation flight in an Orion down the east coast to Wellington, and guess who crossed their path heading north? Only our old friend Shimojo and the Shoto Maru. My guess is that he’ll start working the Bay of Plenty then head north with the snapper. That would be the logical thing to do. But knowing Shimojo he might run wide out of sight and out of mind then do a night run straight through Colville. Whatever, it’s getting close to action stations. So keep your eyes peeled. I’ll talk to you more the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, let Rosie know my movements. Okay? Over.’
Red stared at the radio, hurt and bewildered. Why was the Lieutenant Commander sending messages to Rosie and not him? Why did she need to know Mickey’s movements? She wasn’t the one reporting on trawlers. He grabbed his backpack and set off down the hill, wondering what he’d done wrong until another possibility occurred to him. Maybe the Lieutenant Commander was her friend as well.
Rosie staggered up the hill under the weight of her supplies. She had a bag over both shoulders, one filled with six bottles of wine courtesy of the Last Gasp’s newly acquired liquor licence, and held a large carton crammed full of groceries in her arms. She’d considered dividing the load and leaving both bags on the beach for a second trip, but had decided instead to put her faith in her newfound muscle tone and fitness. It had been a mistake and she was paying for it. Her arms and back ached so badly she’d twice had to stop to re-adjust the position of her loads. Red-faced and dripping sweat, she staggered into the clearing at the foot of her section and dumped her bags and the box onto the ground. She collapsed alongside them with a heartfelt groan and rolled lifelessly onto her back.
‘Rosie! Are you all right?’
Red? What was Red doing at her place, she wondered? A wet nose touched her cheek, a wet tongue washed it. Archie.
‘Rosie?’
She heard his feet pounding across the grass towards her. She thought it was nice to come home tired and find someone who cared.
‘Relax, Red. I’m not dying.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Sure. Carry me to my castle and pour me into a bath. Be generous with the bath salts and bubbles.’
‘Rosie . . . ?’
‘Be a sweetie and just carry my bags and the box.’ She dragged herself up to a sitting position and watched Red effortlessly pick up the heavy box and bags. Then it struck her. Red was naked but for his shorts, and his body was streaked with mud and sweat. ‘Red, what are you doing here?’
‘Fencing.’ He walked away from her towards the veranda.
She looked around and saw the partly built fence enclosing her garden, turning it into a high security prison for wayward vegetables. Why? The question should not have been what he was doing, but why he was doing it. She’d known Red long enough already to realise he only answered questions in the most literal way. She hauled herself wearily to her feet, ruffled Archie’s ears and followed Red up to the veranda. He stood at the doorway waiting for her, too muddy to enter. She’d left the place clean, but now it was spotless. Swept, mopped, scrubbed, shined. Red’s trademark. She fought to suppress her sudden anger, then her indignation that Red didn’t think she kept her home clean enough.
‘I’m not Bernie, Red. You don’t have to clean the house for me.’
‘Sorry, Rosie.’
‘That’s okay, Red. You meant well. But don’t do it again.’
‘Sorry.’ Red stood at her door like a scolded schoolboy.
‘Now, why were you fencing my garden?’
‘It needed fencing. Gardens have to be fenced, Rosie.’
Rosie listened patiently. ‘That’s not the answer, Red. The question is, why were you working on my garden and not your garden? Do you think I can’t fence my own garden myself?’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘That’s all? You did it because you thought I’d be pleased?’
‘I’ve fastened your potting wheel to the veranda deck, too.’
‘Anything else I should know?’
‘I emptied your latrine bucket.’
‘Did you now?’
Red’s shoulders sagged and his head dropped. ‘I need to work, Rosie, you know that.’ Red was squirming with embarrassment at his admission. Archie’s ears had flattened and his tail lay still.
Rosie closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. She cursed herself for being so slow and insensitive. Red needed to work; his self-administered therapy demanded it. She opened her eyes to find Red watching her, his expression a combination of guilt and anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, Red. I know you have to work and I’m grateful that you chose to expend so much energy on my behalf. Thank you. Particularly for bolting down my potting wheel.’
‘That’s okay, Rosie.’ His face had brightened. If he’d had a tail he would have wagged it.
‘Tell me something. Why didn’t you bring your need to work around sooner when my guttering was broken? Why didn’t you come and help me relocate the outhouse?’
Red’s face flushed. ‘I had to cut the trail, Rosie.’
‘Couldn’t the trail have waited a couple of days? I had rain pouring down my wall.’
Red’s face creased in frustration and he turned away from her. ‘I had to cut the trail!’
‘Hey, Red! It’s no big deal. I was just curious, that’s all.’ She decided her shirt needed a wash anyway and threw her arms around him. His body was as rigid as a corpse. ‘Anyway, Angus has offered his and your services next week to relocate my lav. So no problem.’
‘You don’t understand, Rosie.’
‘Then help me understand.’
‘It’s not always a question of choice, Rosie. I had to cut the trail.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I think I’d better go.’ He pulled himself free of her arms.
‘Yeah, you go. Go home and shower while I take a bath. Then come back for dinner. I’ve bought us a leg of lamb which I’m going to roast with potatoes and kumara and all the trimmings. I need a rest from fish. I’ve asked Angus to come as well.’
‘Angus?’
‘Yes, Angus. You remember him? A Scotsman, tall, bushy eyebrows and knobbly knees. Fetchingly rude.’
Red looked down at his feet.
‘What’s the matter, now?’
‘Why did he offer to dig a new pit for your lavatory?’
‘Because he didn’t want me bringing work men in from Katherine Bay or Fitzroy. He doesn’t want
strangers tip-toeing through his turnips.’
‘Are you going to ask him to stay?’
‘Stay?’
‘The night?’
‘No! No way!’
‘Can I stay, then?’
Rosie rocked back on her heels in surprise. Nothing had happened for months and then the floodgates had opened. He was asking if he could sleep with her. From both a personal and professional point of view the breakthrough was staggering. It took a moment for her to digest what had happened, then a slow comprehending smile slowly spread across her face. She reached up and kissed him again. ‘Just you try to get away. Now go.’
‘Okay, Rosie.’ Red turned, propped and spun back to face her. ‘Oh, one other thing. I spoke to the Lieutenant Commander on the radio. He asked me to tell you that he’s coming over the day after tomorrow.’
‘Mickey’s coming?’
‘Yeah. Why did he send the message to you, Rosie?’
Rosie did her best to look innocent. She shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe he thinks I’m the only one who’d make him feel welcome. Now hop it.’ She watched Red head off down to the track and went inside to begin unpacking, her mind whirling. Incredible as it seemed, Red was showing every sign of being jealous. She laughed. About bloody time he showed some feeling! She wandered into her bathroom to begin running her bath. She opened the cupboard for her bath salts and was confronted by her cap and tube of jelly sitting on the shelf right in front of her eyes. She stared at them, aware of their significance and the consequences of the decision that faced her. If she was going to make Angus a grandfather, the next three days were the perfect time to begin trying. The grandfather had put his hand up, but had the mother?