by Derek Hansen
‘No!’ His shoulders shook. His whole body trembled from the upheavals within. ‘You don’t understand. No one understands. No one can understand!’
‘Understand what, Red? Understand what?’
‘Can’t you see? It was the best time of my life! It was the best time of my life!’
Archie leaped up from his place by the side of the Shacklock to join Red as he stumbled sobbing towards the door, overcome by the shame of his confession, by finally putting it into words and admitting the terrible truth. Rosie stood stunned then ran after him, grabbed him as he tried to wrench open the door.
‘Don’t you run from me, Red O’Hara! Don’t you run from me!’ She threw her arms around him and clung tightly to him. ‘Jesus Christ, look at the pair of us!’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Don’t you run from me, Red.’ She felt the tension seep out of his body. Archie slunk over to his place by the Shacklock and sat down, watching, worrying. ‘Forgive me, Red, you were right. I don’t understand. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
‘You don’t understand, Rosie. You can’t begin to understand.’
‘I can if you help me.’
‘No, Rosie! Leave it. Leave me be!’
‘Balls to you, Red O’Hara.’ Rosie pushed herself away and glowered at him through red-rimmed eyes. ‘We’re not quitting. Look at you. You say it’s hard to feel things any more. Hard to love, hard to hate, hard to feel! But how are you feeling now, Red, how are you feeling now? You look like someone who’s feeling things just fine. Something’s working. So hug me, you selfish bastard. I feel pain too, you know.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
It was Angus who spotted the lights from the tuna boat. Bonnie had woken him by leaping onto his bedroom windowsill and pawing at the glass as if trying to trap the bobbing lights in her paws. He watched as the boat slowly worked its way out to sea, laying parallel longlines at one mile intervals. He’d watched for an hour until he’d lost sight of the boat behind Bernie’s Head. He checked his watch.
He rose at dawn, fed Bonnie while he had his tea and toast, and set off to alert Red so that he could pass the information on to Mickey. When Archie failed to bark he began to suspect that Red had spent the night at Rosie’s working on the production of his grandchild, a suspicion confirmed when his calls went unanswered. Angus turned back towards Rosie’s, wishing the Lieutenant Commander was sharing her bed instead. Still, if it had to be Red, it had to be. Angus believed he could always take Red aside and impress upon him his unsuitability as a parent. Convince the man that it would be in the child’s best interests to hand over all fatherly duties to him. Anyone with a brain at all could see the wisdom in that. He paused at the clearing and called. He didn’t want to approach too close until he was sure he wouldn’t catch them in compromising circumstances. Red appeared on the veranda almost immediately. He was naked.
‘Put some clothes on. I need to talk.’
Red disappeared inside to put on his shorts while Angus sat at the veranda table and waited for him to reappear.
‘What do you need to talk about?’
‘Did you see the Japanese boat last night?’
‘No. Where?’ Red’s manner hardened instantly.
‘Laying lines out from Whangapoua Beach. It worked north past Bernie’s Head. It was five o’clock when I lost sight of it.’
‘Bastards! Angus, could you radio Mickey? I’m going after the lines.’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’
‘What’s up?’ Rosie emerged wearing her dressing gown. She held her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the morning sun.
‘Good morning, Rosie.’
‘Morning. What’s going on?’
‘Jap longliner. Angus spotted it last night. He’s going to advise the Navy. I’m going after their lines.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Sure,’ said Red.
‘No,’ said Angus.
The two men looked at each other. Finally Angus spoke.
‘A nor’-easter’s blowing. It’s the morning calm now, but it’ll build up before too long. If you’ve had your breakfast you’ll not be hanging on to it.’
‘He’s right, Rosie.’
‘Well if I’m sick, I’m sick. They’re also my fish they’re stealing.’
‘Aye, but a woman in your condition –’
‘What condition, Angus?’ Rosie’s eyes blazed.
‘Ahh . . . well . . .’ Angus gazed around hopelessly, looking for inspiration. ‘Your seasick condition. It’ll get awful rough out there.’
‘It can get awful rough around here, too. Red, you go and get the radio for Angus.’ She waited until Red had gone indoors before turning on the Scot. ‘Get one thing through your head. I am a doctor. I know how not to make babies. And at the moment that is my preferred option. Understand?’ Red reappeared with the radio before Angus had a chance to answer. ‘Red, you go on ahead. I’ll make a flask of tea and sandwiches and meet you on the beach.’
The sun was well clear of the top of Bernie’s Head as Red and Rosie motored out of the bay with Archie on the foredeck warning the gulls to keep clear. The wind was steady rather than strong, but had sufficient force to whip the spray up over the bow. Red steered due east on the assumption that the longliners would have worked nor’-east into the wind. Waves lined up in rows that stretched back to the horizon, steepled until their tops became too heavy, tumbled lazily forwards and foamed down the face.
‘Try to keep dry,’ Red counselled. ‘The wind’s mild enough but you’ll feel it if you get wet.’
Rosie snuggled up as close as she could behind him, tucked her head down and held on like a pillion passenger on a motorbike. The old lifeboat seemed made for the conditions, riding through the swells and pushing aside the chop. But the odd wave still caught them and sent a shudder through the planking. She learned to pick the waves that would fling a shower of spray over the bow, catch the wind and hurtle bullet-like towards her. Like riding a horse, she thought.
‘Oh Christ!’
She heard the anguish in Red’s voice and looked up.
‘Bastards! Bloody Jap bastards!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Rosie tried to see over his shoulder but saw nothing unusual.
‘The birds.’
She looked over to her right and saw shearwaters, petrels, terns and gannets wheeling and diving. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re diving on baits. The bastards have laid surface lines!’ His hands began to shake and his breath came in short, rapid gasps.
‘Red! What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’ The last thing she needed was Red to go AWOL on her four miles out to sea.
His eyes searched for the buoy that marked the head of the longline and the beginning of their long, sad, day’s work. Work! Yes, that was what he needed. Already he could see a line of desperate birds flapping on the surface, pointing like a finger towards the marker. It took him a moment or two to spot the buoy in the chop, then he steered to a point twenty feet to windward and slipped the engine out of gear so that the breeze would blow him back onto it.
‘Rosie, look through the tackle box for one of the big red spools and put it on this mount.’
She opened the hatch and had no trouble finding the right spool. Everything was in its own compartment, stored as neatly as silver cutlery in its box.
‘Grab hold of the line and start winding it onto the spool, but watch out for the hooks.’ Red grabbed the buoy and sliced through the weighted line that held the longline in position. Their rate of drift made him glad she’d come with him, but he had no doubt she’d regret her decision by day’s end. Rosie grabbed the line and began to wind. She wound as fast as she could, feet braced against the side of the boat, shoulders hunched over the spool. ‘Not too fast, not too fast! Don’t wear yourself out.’
‘Ha!’ Rosie smiled. Men never lost an opportunity to put a woman down. She couldn’t see how winding the longline spool could possibly wear her out. It wasn’t
as if she was battling its weight. Red stood hauling the line in hand over hand, leaving her to reel in the slack. Where was the effort in that? Birds wheeled and swooped over her head, shouting abuse at them for interrupting their breakfast. It wasn’t until she lifted her head from winding and saw Red reach over and pull up the first shearwater that she understood why he was upset.
‘Is it all right?’
‘Drowned.’ He wrenched the hook from the bird’s beak and tossed the lifeless body back into the water. ‘Keep the tension on the line. Okay? Now keep winding!’
A lot of the hooks were still baited as Rosie wound the line in. She tried to push the baits over the rim of the spool so that they couldn’t get in the way of the line. But there were too many and she ran out of room. ‘Red! What do I do now?’
‘Think you could feed the line into that fish box? Put it between your legs.’
Rosie did as she was told. She pulled the slack line in arm over arm, picking the gaps between hooks, relieved at the change in action. It surprised her how quickly her arm had tired winding. She gave a small cheer as Red freed the first of the survivors and it flapped away to rest and recover from its wounds. But the dead birds far outnumbered the living. Most pathetic of all were the small terns, which had quickly succumbed. If Red had sympathy for them he never showed it. He ripped the hooks free and raced after the next, hoping each time that the bird was still alive. One by one he brought the birds in until the line stretched free ahead of them. Suddenly three black petrels dropped like missiles onto the baits, grabbing their free meal while they could. Rosie screamed at them, trying to scare them off but they took no notice. All three hooked up.
‘Hurry!’
Red was working as hard as he could, hands practised, mind blank to everything but the next trapped bird. But he couldn’t pull the line in faster than the boat drifted. Rosie almost cried out in frustration. The three petrels thrashed the water in desperation. She waved a free hand as other petrels swooped around their stricken comrades. Red hauled the first of the petrels aboard and released it. Rosie held the heavy line taut. The remaining two were clearly weakening. Red reached over and plucked the second bird out of the water. It was hooked through the wing and attacked Red’s hands viciously, clacking in pain and outrage. He ignored the pecks but the flapping made it difficult to release the hook. He grabbed his knife and cut the line by the hook’s eyelet and released the terrified bird. Its wing clipped Rosie across the face as it made good its escape. Red reached over and grabbed the third bird. It was almost dead from exhaustion. He unhooked it and handed it to Rosie.
‘Hold this. I’ll bring in the line. Black petrels normally feed on squid at night. Their bad luck the Japs used squid for bait.’
Rosie swapped jobs gratefully. Her back and arms had begun to ache from the endless repetition. She settled the frightened bird in her lap, fingers around its breast and wings, thumbs vertical up the back of its neck where its beak couldn’t reach. Excluding the kakas which Bernie had hand fed until they were as tame as any bird in a cage, the black petrel was the first wild bird Rosie had ever held. She found the experience intensely moving. She wanted to take it home, to mother it and nurse it back to health. She slowly and gently eased a finger free so that she could stroke its neck. The bird was beautiful. It wasn’t jet black all over as she’d first thought. Some of the feathers were edged with silver like fine filigree.
‘You beautiful little thing,’ she whispered soothingly.
The petrel sensed the lessening of her grip, whipped its head around and clamped its beak around her finger. Rosie yelped and instinctively let go. The petrel took flight instantly, swore at her a couple of times, then settled on the water at what it judged to be a safe distance. Rosie shook her finger and laughed ruefully. She turned to Red. ‘Not exactly grateful, are they?’
‘Why should they be? Birds didn’t invent hooks. Rosie, take over the line. We have to work faster.’ He engaged gear and motored along the length of the line while Rosie pulled it in. Her arms pumped and, though Red kept the weight off the line, they soon tired and felt as though they’d drop off.
‘Dear God! How much more is there?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you mean, you dunno?’
‘Could be five miles long, could be fifteen. Blokes from Tryphena have found Jap longlines as long as thirty miles. My guess is, this close in they’re likely to be short.’
‘This is short?’
‘Another couple of miles will probably see the end of it.’
Rosie’s jaw dropped at the daunting prospect. No wonder Red had told her to take it easy at the start. ‘Red? How many lines did Angus say there were?’
‘The boat made four runs.’
‘Bloody hell. Want to swap jobs? Swap back if we come across more birds?’
‘Sure. But do you want to catch your first fish on longline?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Feel the line.’
Rosie did and sure enough she could feel something pulling. She forgot her weariness in her eagerness to get to the source of the struggle. Red reached over the side and lifted an exhausted kingfish into the boat. He unhooked it and dropped it into a fish box.
‘Now take over the helm.’
Rosie dragged herself to her feet. Every muscle in her back groaned. She took the wheel in her hands and fixed her eyes on a spot fifty yards away parallel to the longline. She noticed Red had taken up all the slack and eased the throttle forward. He settled into a rhythm, standing upright, feet wide apart. She had never imagined anyone could retrieve line so quickly. His body swayed with the sea but his action never faltered. He was like a machine, a well-oiled, well-programmed machine. But, of course, it wasn’t just work for Red but therapy. Rosie began to wonder if she’d get any further if she questioned him while he was working. No one else had tried it. The more she thought about it the more optimistic she became.
‘Red, what was all that about before?’
‘What was what about?’
‘When you first spotted the birds. I thought I was going to lose you again.’
‘I get angry, Rosie.’
‘And what else?’
‘You know.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I find it hard to reconcile your reaction with your comment last night.’
‘Don’t start, Rosie, not now. Not out here.’
‘Why not? It’s the perfect time. We’re going to be working out here all day, Red. I bet nobody has ever talked to you about the Japanese while you were working. I bet nobody’s ever asked you about the camp at the One-oh-five.’
‘Leave it, Rosie!’
‘Just talk to me, Red. There’s no bullshit out here. Just you and me and a bunch of birds. I know why your years as a prisoner of war were the worst in your life – how about you tell me why they were the best?’
‘Rosie . . . for God’s sake!’
‘Keep pulling that line in. You don’t have to look at me to talk to me. Keep working. There’s work to be done. There are three more lines. More birds to save. Now, what was so bloody good about the camps?’
Red kept the line coming in, hand over hand, oblivious to everything except the job he had to do. And Rosie’s question. He thought back to Burma, to the skeletons in rags who’d helped him survive and whom he, in turn, had helped survive. To Archie and Steve, Bluey, Dougie, Hacker, Dustie and Stubbie, and all the men who’d shared the horror and the daily fight for survival. Names and faces scrolled through his mind, unchanged, unaged. Would they feel the same, he wondered? Would the other survivors feel as he did? Red envied his comrades in the camps, the Aussies who shook his hand and punched his arm as they climbed aboard the trucks and began their journey back to their homes in Australia. He envied them because they had each other to talk to, to reach out to, to remember together, to forget together and get drunk together. But he had no one. He’d only been their guest, a misplaced New Zealander temporarily hitched to the Aussies for lack of an alter
native, adopted by Archie and Steve so that he wouldn’t be alone. But he was alone now, had been alone from the instant he’d set foot back in New Zealand. The friendship, the mateship, the glue that bound them together body and soul, all beyond his reach. He’d never believed anyone could feel so alone. There was no one to talk to, no one to share with, no one to understand. No mates. No other survivors.
‘Fish coming up.’
He unhooked a string of kahawai and threw them in a fish box to keep for bait and fish cakes. They’d tried to make fish cakes in Burma. One of the boys had managed to buy half a dozen small fish from a villager and they’d mashed them up to make fish cakes so that everyone in their group could share. They’d used up three valuable duck eggs and dipped into their hoard of rice flour. A Dutch prisoner had given them some dried chillies and they’d scavenged some native herbs. The patties had broken apart in the pan and the fish had been hard to find but nobody had complained. They’d been a luxury, a prize, a treasure and, more than that, an act of defiance towards their captors. They’d refused to starve and proclaimed their defiance with each precious mouthful. They’d survived another day and would survive the next. And the next! Red could remember the taste as clearly as the faces of his mates, as clearly as their voices, as distinctively as the rattle of the bamboo slats they slept on, each man playing his own peculiar, percussive tune as he turned in his sleep. He wondered if his old comrades remembered the fish cakes as vividly as he did. He wondered if it was possible to forget.
‘Buoy ahead.’
Red looked up automatically and saw it bobbing in the waves. He reached the last of the hooks and took a wrap on the line. ‘Put her in neutral,’ he called.
Rosie slipped the boat out of gear and let it glide towards the buoy. Red used the line to hold the boat on course, grabbed his knife and cut the buoy free of its weights.
‘Look for birds, Rosie.’
Rosie handed over the helm and scanned the horizon back in the direction they’d come. She hoped to see nothing but there was no mistaking the whirling, plunging swarm of black dots.