Читать книгу Sole Survivor - Derek Hansen - Страница 12

Seven

Little Barrier passed away beneath the port wing, but Rosie hardly gave it a second glance. She was too busy concentrating on the pilot’s description of her new, antisocial neighbors.

“They’re a funny pair,” said Captain Ladd. “Particularly Red. You can be sitting talking to him and suddenly get the feeling that you’re talking to yourself.”

“Bit rude.”

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just that his mind goes off on leave without notice. You can see it in his eyes. One minute he’s home, next he’s off somewhere. Heard he got a hard time from the Japs during the war.”

“What’s he like, I mean physically?”

“Red? Mid-forties, wiry as a whippet, quite good-looking, according to the girls in the office. Red hair, beard, regular features, and eyes that make them want to drop their knickers—so they say, anyway.” He laughed. “They’ve all had a go at chatting him up and got nowhere. He just gives them his thousand-yard stare.”

“His what?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Think I know what you mean. He sounds promising, anyway.”

“More promising if you were a dog.”

“What?”

Captain Ladd told Rosie about Archie.

“What about the other bloke you mentioned?”

“Angus? Mid-sixties, retired, ex-police inspector. Remember a police spokesman on television with a James Robertson Justice accent?”

“Vaguely. Big, bristly, gray eyebrows that seemed to have a mind of their own?”

“That’s him. Always looked like he’d just stepped in a cow pat and his eyebrows want to get away from the smell. If he ever smiled, nobody I know was there to see it.”

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

“Like I told you, Rosie, it’s hardly a fun neighborhood. Tell you what, we’re ahead of schedule. If you like I’ll give you a sneak preview. Might change your mind.” Captain Ladd banked left away from Fitzroy and dipped the nose toward Motairehe ridge. Rosie stared through the Lexan, eager for the first glimpse of her new home.

“Oh, Christ,” she muttered as she saw the wilderness beneath her. In her first flush of optimism after reading Red’s letter, she’d imagined there’d be rolling green pastures dotted with Persil white sheep and goats, with the odd Jersey cow thrown in for fresh milk. Instead she saw three drab-looking bachs in tiny clearings that the surrounding bush threatened to engulf at any moment. If this was her Garden of Eden it was high time they sent in the gardeners. She thought back to the old man whose legacy had brought her. If an old man could make a go of it, so could she. It was an argument she’d often mounted to harden her resolve, but from the front seat of the Grumman Widgeon she began to question her conviction. How on earth can anyone live down there, she wondered?

“Not much here, is there?” Captain Ladd interrupted her thoughts. “I think that’s Red’s place just below us, old Bernie’s place is over there on the next ridge, and ex-Inspector McLeod’s place … down there. See it?”

Rosie saw it all right. The amphibian glided down the slopes and leveled out barely one hundred feet over the water. She caught her first glimpse of Wreck Bay’s three sandy beaches and their ancient pohutukawa sentinels. This was better. Captain Ladd began a slow, banking climb for the return pass.

“All three moorings have boats on them, so you’ll have a bit of a wait at Fitzroy.”

“Odd. I told Red what time I was arriving.”

“I did warn you not to expect them to roll out the red carpet.”

“Look! Someone’s waving.” Rosie returned the wave. Down below them, Angus cursed louder and shook his fist even harder. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

The pilot looked at her and bit his lip. Years of looking at the world from an eagle’s point of view had taught him how to interpret what he saw. Never in his wildest dreams would he have interpreted Angus’s raised fist as a wave. He rolled his eyes. She’d learn.

“Look. There! By my place.”

Captain Ladd was a bit taken aback by the unexpected use of the possessive and peered out of his side window. A man, a dog and half a dozen chooks were standing in front of Bernie’s bach, looking up at them.

“Hell’s bells, does he normally dress so formally?”

The pilot laughed. “Apparently.” Both man and dog stood motionless as the plane passed overhead and left them behind.

“Well, you could say he wore a lovely smile. And at least I know he’s a genuine redhead.”

Captain Ladd laughed. But he couldn’t help wondering what sort of happy elixir his passenger had taken. He’d seen no trace of a smile. No sooner had they recrossed the ridge than the amphibian began its descent into Port Fitzroy. Rosie settled back in her seat as the ripples beneath her took form and substance and became waves. The aircraft bounced once as Captain Ladd had predicted, slowed, then began a sweeping one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn back toward the wharf.

“Can’t run up on the beach here,” he said. “Just too muddy. You’ll have to wait for someone to come out and collect you.” The amphibian motored gently up to a vacant buoy, where the pilot tied off. “Well, what do you reckon?”

“Not what I expected. There’s no one here.”

“Oh, there are a few buildings dotted around. By Barrier standards this is pretty crowded. What did you think of Wreck Bay?”

Rosie laughed, but it was more a nervous laugh than good humored. “Well, it does make this place look crowded.”

“Think you’ll give it a go?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Any second thoughts, give me a call. If the conditions are right, I could probably put down in Wreck Bay and run up onto the beach. Up there you can begin to feel that the world’s forgotten all about you. But remember this. You’re just twenty-five minutes away from civilization. That’s all. One call and I’ll come and get you. You’ve got my number. Otherwise I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

“One more thing. Deep down both those blokes up there are good, decent men. Just might take you a while to find the good bits. They’re not used to strangers, and they’re certainly not used to having a lady around. But if you get into strife they won’t let you down. Things aren’t necessarily as they might appear.”

“They never are, Fred. Thanks for the warning. But has anybody warned them about me?”

Captain Ladd burst out laughing. His passenger had pluck. But nonetheless she was asking too much. If she got through her two-week trial run he thought she might last two months. Maybe three, because he could sense her stubbornness. He decided to give her three months before she called, but call she would. “Here’s your transport.”

Rosie looked at the tiny clinker dinghy being rowed out to meet them, bucking in the small but steep chop. Both she and her bags were about to get wet, but she guessed that was something she’d have to get used to. She wished she hadn’t bothered going to the hairdresser’s. She reached across and kissed the pilot on the cheek. “Thanks, Fred. And thanks for showing me my new home.”

“How’d you like the snapper?”

“Great, Col.”

“Glad you like it, because over here we eat snapper like people over there eat lamb chops.” Col gestured vaguely westward.

Rosie smiled. “Over there” was where she’d just come from. “Over here” was Great Barrier. “Up here” was Fitzroy. “The other side” was the east coast. Col had invited her into his home to have lunch and told her to put her things in the spare bedroom. Then, as gently as they could, he and his wife, Jean, had let her know that she might be needing it for a few days.

“Things don’t run to schedules up here,” Jean told her. “If anything, they’re worse over the other side. Tell ’em to be here Saturday, you probably won’t see ’em till Monday. They won’t come even if they intended to come before they were told to be here. They won’t come even if they’re low on fuel and supplies. There’s something about the Barrier makes people contrary, and those blokes on the other side are more contrary than most. Ask somebody to do something, they’ll go out of the way to do the opposite.”

Once she’d eaten lunch, Rosie decided to go for a walk along the road that followed the shoreline to the community center, a hut the army had left behind at the end of the war. She needed to escape from all the advice she was getting and absorb something of the Barrier for herself. She needed time to gather her thoughts. As she strolled down the corrugated, loose-gravel road, the first thing that struck her was the silence. She’d never heard it before. There were no vehicles, no planes overhead, no blaring radios, no people. She stopped and listened. By concentrating she could hear the wind in the trees high up on the ridge tops and, away to her right, the waves slapping against oyster-encrusted rocks. But nothing else. The sun beat down on her as if she had its whole and undivided attention. It felt eerie and oppressive. She’d just managed to convince herself that the silence was beautiful and restful when she was startled by a sudden rustling of dry leaves. A banded rail poked its head out of the thicket to take a look at the intruder, then boldly crossed the road in front of her. Rosie had never seen one before and tried to catch its attention.

“Here chook-chook-chook!” she said, and immediately felt foolish. She was a city girl, and that was the only way she knew to attract a bird’s attention. She looked quickly around to make sure nobody had heard her. Farther on, the road dipped down toward what appeared to be an iron sand beach. She jumped again as a ruckus broke out in a pohutukawa tree on her left, and a black bird chased away two mynahs that had strayed onto its territory. Rosie held her breath. A tui! She’d never been so close to a tui before, and the bird seemed to know it. It strutted up and down on a branch right above her head, displaying its arrogant puff of white throat feathers, and rocking from leg to leg so that the feathers she’d taken to be black occasionally flashed deep blue and emerald. After a few minutes the tui became bored and flew up to a higher branch where it was no more than a dark silhouette against the sky. Rosie exhaled deeply. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. So this was Great Barrier. The view from the plane didn’t do it justice. It changed once you could smell the bush, hear the birds and taste the sharp, mineral freshness in the air. Her spirits lifted again, now that she’d begun to take in her surroundings, and lifted once more when she noticed the clay bank on the high side of the road. She realized she’d seen clay earlier. From the plane. Yes! A great bank of it as the amphibian had skimmed across Wreck Bay, and it was right by the beach with the jetty and moorings. At least one part of her speculations was accurate. Where there was plenty of clay, there was the potential to make pottery.

She strolled down to the iron sand beach, where she found an old bleached tree trunk to sit upon. She looked out toward Selwyn Island, where the last yachts of summer clustered in its lee. Her earlier apprehension had vanished and had been replaced by cautious optimism. She no longer minded that Red wasn’t there to meet her. She’d get her own back on the bastard one way or another. She’d teach him not to keep a lady waiting. Not this lady, at any rate. But optimism founded on finding clay and sighting two native birds no farther from her than she was used to seeing common sparrows was, to say the least, premature. Her introduction to Great Barrier Island was far from over, and it would be some time before she’d start teaching Red any lessons. He had a few lessons to teach her, and they’d not be ones she’d enjoy.

The sun had dipped behind Selwyn Island by the time Rosie returned to the Last Gasp. She’d kept an eye on the bay but had seen no boats come in. Col was waiting for her and called her into his shop. He showed her a box of supplies.

“I hope you don’t think I’m presumptuous,” he said, “but I’m blowed if I know what old Bernie was living on those last few months. All he got from me were jugs of sherry and occasional tins of stew or soup. I know this is just a look-see and you’re only planning on staying a couple of weeks, but I reckon you’ll need everything I’ve put in here. You better take this gas cylinder and four-gallon tin of diesel, too, in case your generator’s dry. Bill’s on top. Cash or check. Reckon your checks would be all right.”

“If you believe that you’d believe anything.” Rosie smiled as a look of uncertainty flickered across Col’s face. She pulled her checkbook out of her handbag, looked at the bill and began writing.

“Your neighbors have post office savings accounts with me. I just draw what they spend. They top it up when need be.”

“Sounds a good system.”

“We’ve taken the liberty of making you up a bed. If Red was coming today he’d have come by now. The trip around the top’s no fun at night, particularly when there’s a bit of a wind. Missus is making up a stew. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Only if you let me pay you something.”

“Thought you said your checks were no good? Nah. You’re a customer. We like to show a bit of hospitality toward new customers. Particularly if they look like being regulars.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Ahh … the boys are all right deep down. Got hearts of gold. You just have to prospect pretty deep.”

“In that case, couldn’t I have just borrowed some diesel instead of carting that tin in with me?”

“They’re not borrowing sort of people. Like I say, hearts of gold but you’ve got to dig deep.”

“So there’s no point asking for a cup of sugar, either?”

“You’ve got it. I gather they share their surplus. You know, if one catches more fish than he needs, or grows too many tomatoes. Sometimes Red brings us lovely fresh smoked snapper, but I’d never think of asking him for any.”

Rosie looked at the bulging box of supplies. Alone but not alone. Isn’t that the way she wanted it?

Col and his wife, Jean, were mystified how anybody could make a living talking about toilet cleaners. Rosie laughed along with them. Her hosts hadn’t pried exactly, but their questions made it clear they wanted to know more about her, if only to figure out why on earth she’d even consider living at Wreck Bay.

“How do you get to be a market researcher?” asked Col.

“If you’re anything like me, you get there the long way,” said Rosie. “My family expected me to be a doctor, and for years I was one. Even worked as a psychologist and social worker. But, in all honesty, medicine’s not my calling.” She laughed. “I don’t actually know what my calling is. I’ve been a teacher, medical reporter, librarian, waitress and picked apricots down in Otago. I even went back to university and got an arts degree.”

“You’re a doctor?” said Jean in awe.

“Was,” said Rosie. “I did have grand ideas of curing the sick, but do you know what a doctor’s surgery really is? It’s a complaints department. All people do all day is come in and complain.”

“All the same …” said Jean.

“Leave Rosie be,” said Col. “Her dinner’s getting cold.”

Rosie battled her way through a mountainous plate of stew and homegrown vegetables. She was trying to find a way to avoid the jelly-and-custard dessert, when someone knocked on the door.

“Now who the hair oil could that be?” said Col.

Rosie had a sinking feeling she knew. Her jelly shivered as Col walked off down the hall.

“Buggeration, Red!” said Col in amazement. “What are you doing here this time of night? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

Red wasn’t. In fact he had a very clear idea of what he was doing, even though he knew what he was doing wasn’t right. “If you’ll just pass me her things, I’ll put them in the boat.”

“Good evening, how are you?” Col waited for a response but his sarcasm was lost on his visitor. “Hang on a sec and I’ll come with you.”

“It’s okay, Col, I can manage.”

“The hell it’s okay! Come in and meet the lady.”

“Just pass me her stuff, Col.”

“Jesus, Red. Here, you take this.” Col shoved the box of supplies at Red. “Hang on. This tin of fuel, too. I’ll get her bags.”

Red put the box under his left arm and picked up the jerry can with his right hand. He turned and walked away without another word. Col caught him up at the wharf.

“Hell you playin’ at, Red?”

“She asked me to pick her up, I’m picking her up.”

“She’s a nice lady, Red. She doesn’t deserve this sort of treatment. She’ll be chucking her guts over the side before you clear Selwyn Island. What the hell’s got into you?”

“Earliest I could get here.”

“Bullshit! You could’ve waited till tomorrow. But no. I can see your game. I know what you’re up to. Get her sick, get her frightened, get her out of your life. Just so long as she doesn’t get a fair go.”

“Just pass the stuff down to me.”

“No! Damn you.” Col’s anger started to get the better of him. “You can just shove off. I’ll bring her around myself tomorrow, or I’ll get someone else to. You can shove off.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Hold it. What’s going on?”

Red looked up as he was about to cast off and saw Rosie for the first time. He couldn’t make out much detail in the gloom, but at least she wasn’t wearing a dress.

“Red, this is Rosie Trethewey.”

Red climbed back onto the jetty. He reluctantly held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Like hell.” Rosie walked right past him, ignoring his offered hand. She sensed his surprise. Well, what did he expect? That she’d just roll over like one of her brothers’ silly wives? “What’s up, Col? What’s this about you taking me around tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t send a dog out there on a night like this.” “Out there” apparently meant open water. “I was just suggesting to Red that he’s left his run too late, and that I’d find someone to take you around to Wreck Bay tomorrow.”

“I don’t know that we should do that, Col. Red’s taken the trouble to come and pick me up, so we should let him. As for sending a dog out there, well, if it’s good enough for Archie—I assume those eyes down there belong to Archie—then it’s okay by me.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Jean had wandered down to put in her twopence worth.

“Maybe. But this bloke here obviously wants to show me how hard life on the Barrier can be for a poor, defenseless woman. Let him have his moment of glory. Never know, I might surprise him.”

She already had, but Red couldn’t let on. He and Angus had their plan, such as it was, and they were determined to stick to it. He didn’t enjoy what he was doing but accepted the necessity.

“Jesus, Rosie, you’re as mad as he is.”

“I heard that was the qualification for living here. C’mon, Col, pass me something.” Rosie jumped nonchalantly down into the boat. Her legs were wobbly and her hands shook. But she was determined to show Red she could be just as stubborn and unyielding as he was.

“Leave it to Red and me. He knows where to put things to keep them dry. Relatively speaking, of course. Now, have you got any foul-weather gear?”

Rosie shook her head.

“Jean, you better go get your spare set. And Rosie, you better put on another sweater as well. You might feel warm in here but you won’t out there. And if you feel like throwing up at any time, just throw up in the boat or down the back of Red’s neck. Don’t lean over the side or you might get thrown out. You don’t mind if she pukes her dinner up all over your lovely white boat, do you, Red?”

“I’ve brought a bucket.”

“He’s brought a bucket! How bloody considerate. I told you he was a gentleman. Now Rosie, sit on the motor housing directly behind Red. The windshield will give you some protection from the spray, and you won’t get thrown about so much.”

Rosie did as she was told. Already she was regretting her bravado. The wind was singing through the rigging of the boats on their moorings, sharp and discordant like a school orchestra tuning up. If the wind was like this in the sheltered harbor, what would it be like “out there”? A sudden shudder made her reach for the gunwale. All the talk about puking had already made her feel queasy. She remembered once helping crew a friend’s yacht from Auckland to the Bay of Islands and being violently seasick for all but the first hour of the journey. She remembered how she’d dropped to her knees and begged God to let her die. She wondered if it was too late to take Col up on his offer.

“Here’s Jean.”

Rosie looked up at the torch’s beam flickering down the road toward them. Oh well, she’d played her cards and couldn’t back out now. She shouldn’t have opened her big mouth, but she hated it when any man assumed weakness simply because she was a woman. She was beginning to hate this chauvinistic bastard when she remembered that hate also was something she was trying to get away from. She put on the heavy oilskin coat. It smelled of dead fish, and the sleeves were too long. She covered her head with the oilskin hat, pulling it down hard so that the wind couldn’t get beneath it, and tied the cord under her chin. Rosie was glad it was dark and nobody could see her. She thought she must look like one of the Three Stooges.

“Good luck!”

“Thanks.”

Col threw the painter down to Red. “Look after her, you bastard, or you’ll have me to reckon with.”

“See you,” said Red noncommittally and turned the bow into the channel. It might have been Rosie’s imagination, but the wind seemed to freshen immediately.

Col hadn’t been wrong. Red groaned as Rosie reached for the bucket as soon as they cleared the lee of Selwyn Island. She needn’t have bothered. The combination of wind and tossing sea made the bucket an impossible target. He began to have second thoughts himself. He’d expected the going to be rough, but nowhere near as rough as it was. The sea would test the fillings in their teeth until they’d rounded Miners Head, and still be uncomfortable until they’d cleared Aiguilles Island. At least they weren’t in any danger. His boat was more than a match for the seas, and his Cummins diesel was boringly reliable. He thought he ought to say something to reassure his passenger, then thought better of it. That would defeat the object of the exercise. Get her sick and get her frightened. Then leave her on her own. It sounded good in theory, but putting their plan into practice was something else. What he was doing just wasn’t right. It went against everything he’d learned in Burma. It was one thing to be unhelpful, something else to be deliberately cruel. Yet what he was doing was cruel and indefensible. He heard Rosie retch violently once more and gritted his teeth. It was wrong but it was necessary. Wrong but necessary! Acknowledging the necessity didn’t make him feel any better. He sensed Archie up under the bow deck, gazing back at him reproachfully, and felt doubly guilty. Guilty and disgusted with himself. At least he should have left Archie at home.

Once they’d rounded Aiguilles Island, Red began to feel more at ease. He stayed close in to the shore, out of the wind where the black surface of the water was barely ruffled, so that his passenger could recover. A quarter moon sat low on the horizon, touching the shore with a wan and watery light. Rosie had stopped throwing up, possibly, Red surmised, because there was nothing left to throw up. His boat was a mess, but he accepted that he only had himself to blame. He smiled grimly. That was another of Col’s predictions that had proved accurate. She’d thrown up her dinner, lunch, breakfast and the previous night’s dinner as well. But she hadn’t moaned or groaned or uttered a word of complaint. He respected her for that. He felt he should break the silence.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We’re just coming into Wreck Bay.”

“What? So soon?”

Red couldn’t help himself. He smiled. In the darkness with his back to her it was okay to smile. She’d never know.

“And wipe that smile off your face.”

Red stiffened.

“Don’t think you’re clever, mister. That was nothing. Until you’ve puked out on Pernod you don’t know what puking’s about.”

Red’s face flushed with embarrassment. There was something about her that reminded him of Yvonne. His mind drifted back to the Alexandra Hospital in Singapore when the Japanese came. He recalled the nurses standing up to the Japanese soldiers, defying them by shielding their patients, and having their faces slapped for their audacity. They never voluntarily took a backward step. He could sense that Rosie was from the same mold, somebody who wouldn’t take a backward step either. It hadn’t done the nurses any good. Ultimately, it wouldn’t do her any good. He slipped the gear shift to neutral and let the boat glide gently on its own momentum up onto the beach.

“Hop ashore and I’ll pass your things out.”

Rosie got slowly to her feet, praying that her legs could still support her. It had been a long time since she’d felt so sick and been so scared. But she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing. She walked gingerly along the length of the boat, transferring her weight from hand to hand along the gunwale. Her legs threatened to buckle under her. She knew that if she jumped down onto the beach she’d just fold up into a heap. She needed time to pull herself together. Up ahead, two eyes watched her every move.

“Hello again, Archie.” She pushed past Red and was gratified to hear the dog’s tail thump, thump, thump against the bow planks. “What sort of a man takes a dog out on a night like this?”

“Archie goes where I go.”

“Who’s talking to you?” She reached as far forward as she felt she could without toppling over and let Archie sniff her hand. “It’s a good thing dogs can’t talk, because I do believe he’d say things you wouldn’t like to hear.”

Red ignored her. What did she know about Archie? “Got a torch?”

“A torch?”

“So you can see where you’re going.”

“Right.” The moment of truth had come. She sat her bottom down on the bow deck and swung her legs over the side. She peered into the darkness to try to judge her height from the sand. A straight drop was out of the question. She twisted, put both hands firmly on the side of the boat and jumped. Her legs buckled as she hit the beach, but her hands held her upright. She straightened. “Give me the box of supplies. Col probably put a torch in there.”

“Probably?”

It was Rosie’s turn to flush with embarrassment. It simply hadn’t occurred to her to bring a torch. What had she expected? Street lighting where there were no streets?

“Let’s hope he probably put batteries in as well.”

Rosie took the box from him and carried it up the beach. She started to rummage through, wishing to hell she’d thought to go through the box when Col had given it to her. Any smart person would have. She heard one of her bags thud into the sand behind her and rushed to get it before an incoming wave beat her to it.

“Here’s another.”

She reached up and grabbed the second carryall.

“How are you going with the torch?”

“Give me a chance!” she snapped.

Give her a chance. Yes, Red thought, he should give her a chance. But what if he did and what if she stayed? Oh Christ! Old Bernie had a lot to answer for. Red waited until she’d dumped both bags by the box of supplies. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let up on her.

“Don’t forget the diesel.”

“Who could forget the diesel?”

Red reached for the jerry can, not daring to smile. “While you’re here, I’ve got something else for you.”

“What?”

“My clothes.”

Red peeled off his oilskins and handed them to her. Then his woolen sweater, shirt and trousers. He was determined to do things the way he always did, woman or no woman.

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Just keep them dry. Now let me push her out. C’mon, Archie.” Red jumped naked onto the sand, followed by Archie, and began to push his boat off the beach sternforemost.

“Where are you going?”

“To the mooring.”

“Oh.”

Red grimaced. There’d been a touch of anxiety in her voice when she’d thought he was leaving her all alone. It was enough that their plan worked without having to feel the hurt it caused. He started the motor and ran up to the buoy. The deck was slippery with vomit, and it seemed no part had been spared. His instinct was to clean up the mess immediately, but the trip had been hard enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her standing alone on the beach while he did. Reluctantly he let things be, knowing he’d have to beat the sun up in the morning and get back to his boat or it would stink to high heaven. He tied off the mooring rope, jumped over the side and swam ashore. When he reached the shallows he stood and waded the rest of the way. A torch beam caught his crotch and held it unwavering.

“Nice penis,” said the voice behind it.

“If you want me to help carry your things up the hill, would you mind not shining your torch in my eyes.”

“Strange place to have eyes.” Rosie turned the torch away so that it shone on her bags. She picked up Red’s trousers and held them out to him. “Your eye shades.”

“I’ll put them on when I’m dry. Leave the jerry can here and pick it up in the morning. There’s diesel up there. In the end, Bernie couldn’t be bothered running the generator. You carry the bags and I’ll carry the box of supplies.”

“Then lead on. Do you need my torch?”

“No. I know the way. C’mon Archie.” He set off up the track at his normal brisk pace.

Rosie followed, trying hard to keep up with the shape in front of her, the smaller of the bags and torch in one hand, the larger bag in the other. The track shone smooth and white in the torch’s beam, well worn and friendly. Then it began to steepen and crisscross with roots. She couldn’t keep up no matter how hard she pushed herself and fell farther and farther behind. She tried to picture the beach and her bach as she’d seen them from the amphibian. She gasped as her legs gave way and she stumbled. “Bastard!” she muttered. But curses didn’t make her stronger or the track less steep. She vomited, then lay down on the track unable to continue. She’d vomited up every last ounce of energy as well.

“Red! Wait!” she called weakly.

Red put down the box of supplies and turned back. “Stay, Archie.” At last she’d cracked. Now he could afford to show some kindness. Not too much, but enough to make him feel better about what he’d done. He found her sitting on the track with her back to him. Her shoulders slumped, her head in her hands. He thought she was weeping and was stricken with guilt. He’d seen men slumped that way before, their spirit broken and no longer able to drive their weary, wasted bodies. He’d been the same way himself.

“I’ll take your bags.”

“Thanks, Red. How much farther?”

She sounded tired, but her voice didn’t waver as it would have if she’d been crying.

“About halfway.”

Rosie closed her eyes. How would she possibly manage when she could hardly take another step?

“Need a hand up?”

“Mister, I need a crane, closely followed by a taxi. But no, I’ll manage.” She dragged herself to her feet. “How about slowing down a bit?”

Red grunted noncommittally. He slipped his arms through the handles of both bags, flipped them over his shoulders and set off back up the track, moving noticeably slower than before. He paused briefly to pick up the box of supplies and kept walking. He could hear her plodding along slowly behind him, stopped and waited for her. “This is where your track branches off. Not far to go now.” He listened for a reply, but Rosie was too weary to give one.

As they neared Bernie’s bach, Archie ran ahead to see if he could surprise a careless bush rat. Red heard him suddenly crash into the undergrowth, so at least he was on the trail of one. “Here we are.”

Rosie looked up wearily and saw the dark, looming shape of the bach and the welcoming glow of a lamp within.

“Didn’t think you’d want to arrive to a dark house.”

“Red, you surprise me. You really do.” Without thinking she reached forward and briefly put her hand on his arm to acknowledge his kindness. It was a nothing gesture, but it totally unnerved Red. That was something Yvonne used to do. It aroused memories he kept hidden in the dark, buried parts of his mind. The nights when the touch of her hand and the comfort of her nearness were his only medication. He remembered his gratitude and the love that grew from it. All gone. Wasted. Destroyed by the Japanese. Then the pain came and he felt himself hurtling headlong into a flashback. He jerked forward as if reacting to the starter’s gun. Work could drive her from his mind. Work could give him back his control. He took the veranda steps two at a time and pushed the door open, threw the box down on the table and the bags alongside it, then raced back out the door. Don’t think! Don’t think! Don’t think!

“I’ll start the generator.” Not a statement, nor a shout. More a plea.

Rosie didn’t move. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Her hand still reached out in front of her. She wondered what had suddenly got into the man. Perhaps she’d just hit him with a massive dose of static electricity. Maybe it was her vomit breath. Or maybe—just maybe—she was the first woman who’d ever touched him. Christ, don’t tell me, she thought. All this way and the bastard turns out to be queer. But weariness overcame speculation, and she dragged herself up the steps and into her new home. She slumped wearily into a chair and looked around her. It didn’t occur to her to turn up the brightness of the propane lamp. The place looked clean, though, which surprised her. Dying old men weren’t noted for their housekeeping. A generator coughed, and the bare bulb above her head flickered into life. She was wrong. The place wasn’t clean, it was spotless. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Even the gold and silver flecks in the tacky Formica countertops shone. Fresh flypapers hung from the ceiling. The screen door creaked open as Red returned.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Whatever devils had got into Red had gone back into hiding. He looked away, embarrassed.

“The flowers are a nice touch.”

“Thought I’d better check the place out before you arrived. Make sure the water was all right and the generator worked.” Red felt guilty about the work he’d done around the house and was beginning to regret the fact that he’d done it. Angus would never have agreed to it and would be furious if he ever found out. But Archie would’ve approved. Whenever they heard more prisoners were moving up to the camp, they always did their best to prepare huts for them, dug latrines and organized whatever food they could. Invariably, the new troops arrived hungry, exhausted and in no shape for work. It wouldn’t have been right to leave them to fend for themselves. Survival depended on helping each other.

“I appreciate what you’ve done, Red.” Rosie looked down at the tabletop, weighing up what next to say. The contradictions in the man staggered her. He’d made it clear she wasn’t welcome, then laid out the welcome mat, having vacuumed and fluffed it up first. The absurdity of sitting there having a normal conversation with a stark bollocky, naked man who was a virtual stranger added to her confusion. Nothing made sense. “I think if I’d walked into a mess here tonight I wouldn’t have bothered to unpack my bags.” She looked up quickly to catch Red’s reaction, but he’d already turned away from her.

“Kettle’s on,” he said, and began to put on his clothes.

Rosie took a good look at Red while they drank their tea. Fred Ladd had been right on a number of scores. He was certainly wiry, pleasant to look at and totally devoid of small talk. But there was no sign of the thousand-yard stare or anything that would make her want to drop her knickers. Even in the dull light she could see his eyes had a brightness, but they were as lifeless as a dead fish’s. He stared silently into his tea like a fortune-teller into her crystal ball. She guessed he was trying to come to terms with whatever had spooked him.

“Well, are you going to show me around?”

“Sorry!” Red shot up like a startled bird.

“No hurry, take your time.” Rosie laughed to ease the tension, but her gesture was ignored. He took her on a tour of the house, slowly reverting to the cold and distant person who’d picked her up from Fitzroy. Red had remembered the game plan. He introduced her to the kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and bathroom. She smiled when she saw the way the blankets were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Only soldiers and nurses folded blankets that way. The bed sagged slightly in the middle but looked comfortable enough. At that point, she would have given anything just to curl up in its hollow, but there were things she needed to know. He introduced her to the outside lavatory, which operated on the big-drop principle. It was enclosed in weatherboard for privacy, and for ventilation, the bottom and top two planks were omitted on three sides and the door cut to match. Red had dropped a couple of buckets of soil down the toilet to try and smother the odors, but had met with only limited success.

“Needs a new hole dug,” said Red. “That’ll take some digging.” He flashed her torch around the vegetable garden. “Needs weeding and new topsoil,” he volunteered. “Ages since Bernie did a trip down to the flats for more soil. Needs fencing and a secure gate. Henhouse could do with a clean. You’ve got half a dozen chooks, but they don’t all lay.” He led her back inside. “The whole place needs fixing and painting,” he said, “particularly the gutters.” Rosie realized Red was about to provide a whole catalogue of things that needed doing, all of which were calculated to discourage her.

“All it needs is love, Red,” she said. “And all I need right now is sleep. I need to wash and clean my teeth and rinse my mouth out. My breath could melt asphalt. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow and show me how the stove works.”

Red hesitated. The temperamental old stove was one of the cornerstones of their plan. “Do one thing for her and we’ll be running after her for the rest of our lives,” the old Scot had said. “There’ll be precious little peace then.” In his heart, Red knew that Angus was right and that their plan was sound. But old Shacklocks could be tricky to operate. They’d agreed to drop her in at the deep end, but just how deep did it need to be? Surely just having to rely on an old woodstove for cooking, heating and hot water would be enough to discourage any woman accustomed to limitless electricity. Surely it couldn’t do any harm to show her how it worked. But he wouldn’t cut firewood for her. He’d draw the line there.

“I’ll come around sometime tomorrow,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Red, before you go.”

“What?” What else did she want? Surely she wasn’t going to start making demands on him already.

“Thank you,” she said. And reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.