by Derek Hansen
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Mickey sat in the lobster boat and watched the Shoto Maru ease around the headland into Tryphena Harbour. He’d ordered the amphibian back to Auckland the moment it had dropped them off. Shimojo’s request for an aircraft to fly his injured seamen to hospital had taken on the form of a demand, but Mickey had refused. Instead he instructed the trawler to make for Tryphena, where he’d meet it with a doctor and translator. Mickey derived a grim satisfaction from his obstinacy. The tables had turned. Once Shimojo had frustrated him with a long, slow crawl into Auckland Harbour; now it was payback time. Mickey had no doubt that Shimojo was not the least concerned for the welfare of his injured crewmen but for the lost fishing time. Mickey intended to make sure he lost as much of it as possible.
‘Christ, look at their lifeboat,’ the young doctor said contemptuously.
Mickey followed his gaze, saw the splintered timbers and the side scored with black paint from the trawler’s hull, noticed the bent davits. Whatever the lifeboat had been carrying must have weighed many tons more than the designers had allowed for, and Mickey reckoned he knew what the load was. Snapper. Clearly Shimojo was hedging his bets and using his lifeboat as a longline dory. He couldn’t begin to imagine what drove a man to be so contemptuous of the safety of his crew.
The lobster fisherman brought his boat parallel to the Shoto Maru and stood off while its crane lowered a platform for his passengers. Mickey looked at the swaying cradle and wondered if they were in for the same sort of ride that had banged up the lifeboat. But the crane operator was a professional and as skilled as any Mickey had seen. Once aboard the trawler, he sent the doctor and interpreter below to the ship’s infirmary, ignored the hands that grabbed his arm and tried to guide him elsewhere, and strode purposefully up to the bows. He leaned over the rail, looked down towards the waterline and found the confirmation he was after. The port bow was scored and streaked with white paint from Red’s boat. Hardly evidence to convict but justification for harsh words. He swung around suddenly and looked up at the bridge. Shimojo was too slow moving from his line of sight. Mickey pointed his finger at him and over the railings, leaving Shimojo in no doubt as to what was on his mind. Let the captain sweat, he decided, let him worry about what evidence they had on him. Grim faced, Mickey allowed himself to be escorted below to the infirmary.
The doctor greeted him sourly. ‘What did you expect me to do here, Lieutenant Commander?’
Mickey knew he was in trouble the instant the doctor called him by rank.
‘The old bloke’s okay but the other two should be in hospital now! Particularly this one. He’s a bloody mess. He mightn’t make it. You should’ve let the amphibian take them.’
‘If only I had the foresight to match your hindsight.’
‘Don’t give me that, Mickey. Anyone else but Shimojo and you would have bust a gut to help. Aren’t you letting it all get a bit personal?’
‘Just do your job.’ Mickey slumped down in a chair. Truth had an undeniable ring to it. But why should he show more concern for these crewmen than their captain had? It was a spurious argument and Mickey knew it. He held no grudge against the men, who were only carrying out their orders, and they held no grudge against him, yet one of them could well pay with his life.
‘Did you get anything out of the others?’
‘Like what?’
Mickey ignored the tone in the junior officer’s voice. The doctor was under stress, trying to stabilise his patient and monitor his vital signs. ‘Did they say anything about how the accident occurred?’
‘Not a word. It was all the interpreter could do to get them to tell him their names.’
‘I’ll have a word with the captain when you’ve finished with the interpreter. Tell him he can find me up on deck.’
Mickey wandered up onto the stern deck and stared broodingly into the dark, tossing waters swirling past the hull as the trawler made full speed to port. All he had to fire at Shimojo were accusations and a threat, which he might not be able to carry out. He felt helpless and frustrated. He’d left Gloria behind to beg and plead for permission to have the old minesweeper, Kotaku, made ready for sea so that it could escort the Shoto Maru out beyond the twelve mile limit, and maybe even sit there a while to frustrate Shimojo. Would Phil listen for once, put the split peas he liked to call his balls on the line with the Commodore and pull off this modest miracle? Mickey smiled ruefully. Phil Scriven was many things, but hardly the stuff of miracles.
He decided to let Shimojo stew a little before he confronted him. He had no grounds to impound the trawler or delay its departure, but Shimojo wasn’t to know that. Let him fear the worst. His thoughts returned to the sick seamen below. He dreaded the prospect of any of them dying, knowing a measure of the blame would rest squarely with him. They were still five hours from port. The amphibian could have had them there in twenty minutes. What the hell were a few fish when lives were at stake?
‘Buggeration!’ he said softly but vehemently. He decided to have his conversation with Shimojo then and there. Bugger tactics! Bugger courtesy! The three seamen below weren’t the only ones with their heads split open; there was Red to consider as well. He went back to the infirmary, grabbed the interpreter and strode purposefully to the bridge. He just hoped like hell there’d be some activity around the Kotaku when they passed Devonport.
BOOK
IV
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Another day. Red woke at dawn as he always did, and for the first time in weeks eased himself out of bed to begin his exercises. He tip-toed quietly so that he wouldn’t wake Rosie. Despite the bed rest and Rosie’s tender care, his body was still stiff and sore. The headaches had gone, along with most of the swelling, but he still had broken ribs and deep bruising to contend with. He was not healing as quickly as he expected, and believed his body needed the stimulation of his exercises. He crept slowly out onto Rosie’s veranda and turned eastwards to face the spot on the ocean where he thought the sun would appear. He tentatively set his feet in their familiar positions and bent his knees. He raised his arms slowly, carefully, waiting for the pain to hit him as the weight of his arms transferred to his battered ribs. It didn’t keep him waiting long. He dropped his arms back to his sides and relaxed, eyes half closed. Something cold and wet nuzzled his hand. Automatically he ruffled Archie’s ears and neck.
He concentrated on his breathing, drawing in slow deep breaths that reached right down inside his body, then exhaling at a similar pace. Muscles that had tensed to support others that had been injured slowly eased their grip. His shoulders slumped and his arms hung as loosely as rope. The muscles in his lower back began to relax. Hamstrings which had contracted through inactivity began to stretch tentatively. His anger and hatred dissolved. For the first time in weeks Red was no longer aware of his body. He let the calming effect of his deep breathing infuse every cell of his body, let them absorb oxygen from his newly enriched blood. He was almost ready to begin. Patiently he emptied his mind and slowly raised his arms. This time there was no pain or, if there was, it failed to register. He flowed into his warm-up exercises just as the first rays of the sun touched his naked body.
An audience of tuis and kakas looked on curiously as they waited patiently for Rosie to bring them pieces of bread dipped in water and honey. A couple of chooks warbled softly, hinting of freshly laid eggs. Archie kept a watchful eye on them all, daring them to squawk. The only human eyes to catch Red’s solitary performance were Rosie’s. She’d guessed where he’d gone and followed him out onto the veranda. She watched in awe, marvelling at his balance and poise and the fluidity of his movements, all this from a man who the previous night had not been able to pull a cork from a bottle of wine.
Red exercised for twenty minutes then sat cross-legged on the veranda deck, motionless, concentrating on the feel of each breath as it reached deeper and deeper into his body, healing and regenerating. He surfaced slowly, taking time to gath
er his wits. The sun’s warmth came as a revelation, even though it had been beating down on him solidly. The tuis and kakas saw him stir and decided it was time to remind him of his other duties. He looked slowly around at a world freshened by overnight showers and as sweet as the first morning in Eden.
‘Tea?’
He smiled and raised a hand to take hers. His ribs protested immediately. His ch’i kung and t’ai chi ch’uan could speed up the healing process but not work miracles. Without the protective shield of meditation his ribs were still spiteful. Rosie placed the mug of tea alongside him.
‘Could you do me a favour, Red?’
He smiled in reply, not yet ready to talk.
‘No fish this morning, please. How about toast and honey or toast and Vegemite? Eggs if you must but, please, no fish.’
‘Toast will be fine.’ He had an overwhelming desire to smile. He could feel his body respond to his mood and imagined he could feel the healing within accelerate. He knew he had to let other things rest for a while until he was stronger. He had to put aside his anger and forget about the Japanese. He dragged himself to his feet and placed his steaming mug of tea on the table.
‘Can’t the birds wait?’
‘They’ve been waiting all morning, Rosie.’
All morning? Rosie looked at her watch. Two coughs and a sparrow’s fart past six. But she knew better than to try to deflect Red from anything he’d set his mind on. He hadn’t been a bad patient at all. He’d just wanted to sit up two days before he was capable of doing so, and had entertained similar ambitions about standing and walking. On each occasion when he’d become insistent she’d simply withheld his painkillers. It was amazing how quickly he’d seen the light. She watched him carefully as he came back outside with a bowl of honeyed bread. His legs were no longer as sure of themselves and he seemed glad to sit down. Pretty much as he’d been the day before. It puzzled her how he could do his exercises.
‘Come on, then.’ Red placed pieces of bread along the rail and on the table. The birds swooped down immediately and had enough confidence not to fly off with their prize. ‘Two more days,’ he whispered, ‘and they’ll be eating out of my hand.’
‘Figures,’ said Rosie dryly. ‘That’s how long it took me.’
Red pretended not to hear but the lines around his eyes creased.
‘After breakfast you can help me find a site for a proper claypit. Today’s going to be a big day for pottery.’
‘It’s not hard to work out, Rosie. Do you want to carry clay uphill to your wheel or downhill?’
‘You know, Red, sometimes I think I liked you more when you didn’t have so much to say.’
‘Do you want to dig straight down or carve into an embankment?’
‘Are you being deliberately annoying?’
‘Just past the lemon tree would be a good place to start.’
‘Thank you. I had no idea you were such an expert.’
‘There’s no shortage of experts, Rosie.’ The levity drained from his voice. ‘Just ask anyone who worked on the railway. I’ll go make breakfast.’
‘Better make another pot of tea while you’re at it. Here comes Baden-Powell.’
The old Scot appeared at the head of the track in his khaki shirt, shorts and navy beanie. The straps from the radio and binoculars criss-crossed his chest. With Red out of action, Angus had taken to his observation duties with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Every morning on sun-up, he climbed the heights of Tataweka Hill and scoured the seas for the enemy before reporting his sightings to whichever sleepy radio operator was on duty. He repeated the process every evening, making use of the last light of the day. He only ever wore his khakis. Rosie thought they made him look more ridiculous than military but wasn’t prepared to spoil things by saying so.
‘Anything suspicious?’ asked Rosie.
‘The summer sailors are keeping the Japs at bay during daylight hours. If they come they’ll have to come at night. I’m thinking of perhaps setting up camp on the hill for a few nights.’
‘Good idea. Now come on up and join us. We’re about to have breakfast.’
‘Just a cup of tea thanks, Rosie. I’ve a way to climb and no stomach for rice this early in the day.’
‘It’s okay.’ Red shifted his chair around to make room. ‘Neither has Rosie. It’s strictly toast, honey and Vegemite this morning.’
‘Toast is it, now?’ Angus’ eyebrows shot up and he looked hopefully at Rosie. She ignored him and marched off into the kitchen. He eased the radio off his shoulder and lowered it to the floor. He propped the binoculars against it and sighed as he settled awkwardly into the chair next to Red’s.
‘How’s Bonnie?’
‘Oh, fine. Caught a rat, you know. At last she found one that was fatter and slower than she is. How’s Archie?’
‘Never changes. He’ll be happy once he gets his breakfast, even if Rosie doesn’t want to warm it.’
‘Why’s that, do you think?’
‘She’s not keen on the smell.’
‘Oh, aye.’
They sat staring into the bush and out to sea, each pursuing his own thoughts.
‘I think you’re doing the right thing,’ said Red unexpectedly.
‘And what might that be?’
‘Staying overnight on Tataweka. He’ll be back, you know. Before Christmas is my bet. Before more holidaymakers come. Shimojo’s been here before. He knows what happens.’
‘You think so?’
‘Know so.’
Angus digested this information for a while. ‘Seems to me there’s not a lot we can do about it if he decides to come back. Other than just keep watch and report what we see.’
‘We’re going to have to do a bit more than that, Angus.’
‘Now, don’t you go involving me in your schemes. The Lieutenant Commander has been quite specific about that. Shimojo’s shown how ruthless he can be and we’re under strict orders to stay clear.’
‘We can’t count on the Navy. Mickey’s been quite specific about that as well.’
‘Then we’ll just have to accept what happens. Maybe Mickey can station a boat nearby.’
‘Angus, we have to assume that no help will be forthcoming. It’s our territory. We have to protect it ourselves.’
‘There’s nothing we can do, man, other than inform the Navy. For God’s sake, use your brains! Hasn’t that good blood of mine brought you any sense at all?’
‘Angus, on your way back could you help Rosie dig out her claypit?’
‘Don’t tell me she thinks she’s going to dig a claypit. A woman in her delicate –’
‘Angus!’ Rosie shoved her head out through the door and cut him off mid-sentence.
‘What I mean is –’
‘Yes,’ glowered Rosie. ‘What do you mean, Angus?’
‘I just meant it’s not work for a woman. It’s too heavy. I thought we’d agreed to help you with the heavy work?’
‘Ah, so you’re offering to dig out a claypit for me? Is that it?’
‘Aye . . .’ Angus looked around uncomfortably, seeking an avenue of escape. He’d planned to radio the Navy then spend the day with Hamish, writing about the German submarine that tried to ram his dinghy. ‘I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly. He turned unhappily to Red. ‘This claypit, is it urgent?’
‘Yes, Angus, it is.’ Talk of the claypit had revived memories and given birth to an idea. ‘Will you do it?’
‘I have plans for the day. You know very well there’s no place for idle hands here. But I suppose there’s nothing that can’t wait.’
‘It’s either you or me, Angus, and right now I couldn’t dig potatoes.’
‘All right, I said I’d help! But will you not tell me why it’s so almighty urgent?’
‘A surprise, Angus. I’m planning a surprise for Shimojo. The more clay you bring down here, the bigger the surprise will be.’
‘What’s going on?’ Rosie placed a tray of tea and toast on the table.
‘Red is planning a wee surprise for Shimojo.’
‘Great!’ Rosie tipped a little milk into each cup. She’d got used to the taste of powdered milk and no longer gave it a thought. ‘Am I included in this?’
‘Very much so,’ said Red. He turned and looked over at Rosie’s potting wheel as if inspecting it for the first time.
‘Fourteen miles due north of Cape Runaway and still running away.’
‘Confirmed sighting?’
‘Positive, with pictures to prove it.’ Gloria smiled and waited for the compliment. It didn’t come. She’d left her hair down and worn a brighter shade of lipstick. Mickey looked her straight in the eye and didn’t notice a thing. ‘The Airforce scheduled an Orion training flight over the Bay of Plenty,’ she said, stalling to give him a second chance. ‘They picked up the Shoto Maru an hour ago.’ She swished her hair from side to side. Nothing. ‘Coffee?’
Mickey slumped down behind his desk and wondered why Gloria rolled her eyes as she left. Definitely has a bit of her old man in her, he thought grudgingly. She’d reached the stage where she seemed able to anticipate his every move and even his thoughts. It unsettled him. That sort of thing normally only happened between identical twins and couples who’d been married too long, and there were some thoughts he desperately wanted kept to himself. Even though they’d only been going out together for a couple of months, their relationship had acquired a stamp of inevitability about it. He would have already popped the question but for the possible complications with Rosie. Every day that passed with no news of any change in her condition brought with it a lessening of his dread. But no news wasn’t necessarily good news. The more he’d thought things over the more he’d come to appreciate Rosie’s true nature. If she’d decided to have a child and fallen pregnant, she was just as likely to regard the natural father as no more than a biological necessity, one long past his usefulness, and keep the news to herself until concealment became impossible. He knew Rosie wouldn’t give a damn if he chose to ignore her. But he couldn’t ignore his own flesh and blood. He couldn’t begin a life with Gloria withholding such a secret.