Читать книгу Sole Survivor - Derek Hansen - Страница 13

Eight

Only one person at Wreck Bay greeted the new day with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t Angus. He rose early and made porridge to ward off the cold. He hadn’t slept well because he was worried about the woman, and he wasn’t ready to start writing because he was worried about Red. Change was in the air, and he was consumed by a feeling of unease. The thing that concerned him most was that he didn’t trust Red to stick to their agreement. Some people were just born to do good works, and it was a condition he knew to be incurable. But it could be managed if one was diligent enough. Aye, he thought, and when it came to diligence there were few better than he. He’d almost had to take a gun to stop Red from leaving too early to collect the woman from Fitzroy. He’d forced Red to see that it made sense to pick her up when it was cold, dark and wet. To let her know right from the start that life on the Barrier didn’t come any harder than at Wreck Bay. The sooner she was forced to face the truth, he’d argued, the sooner she’d be gone. Red had acquiesced but was plainly unhappy about it. The man was soft, no doubt about it, and that was cause for worry.

Angus poured himself a cup of tea, wandered out onto his veranda and automatically looked over the bay. The madman was already up and cleaning his boat. The fool was obsessive! He looked up at the sky to see what sort of day would be forthcoming. Clouds and more clouds tumbled down the hillside, big and puffy, roiling and boiling, charcoal hued and swollen with rain. He almost cackled with glee. When he concentrated he could hear the roar of the wind in the treetops high up on the ridge. It was going to pour down, nothing surer, and provide precisely the sort of welcome he wanted for the city woman. Soaking wet and no hot water. He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he contemplated her discomfort. Shut indoors with no television and no telephone. And no food other than what she’d brought, unless … unless the madman gave her some fish. The thought caused his brow to furrow. Damn the man! That was exactly the sort of fool thing the man would do. He looked up once more at the sky to see if he’d have time to get down to the beach and back before it rained. It was time for words, no doubt about it.

In every respect, Red’s day had begun as any other except for one thing—he couldn’t keep the woman out of his mind. She’d interrupted his sleep and intruded into his consciousness. She’d kept him company over breakfast. Accompanied him on his rounds of garden and chookhouse. The only time he’d escaped from her was during the discipline of his exercises, when he’d emptied his mind and looked inward as he had been taught, calming himself, strengthening his body and keeping the many parts of his fractured mind together. But when he’d finished, she was there waiting patiently for him. He’d resented that. She disturbed and unsettled him, made him feel guilty for having to do things that went against his instincts. The woman did not belong. She had no right to come where she was clearly not wanted. He set off for the beach the instant he’d brought his calendar up to date.

The stench of her vomit as he cleaned out his boat didn’t upset him. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of vomit and human feces while helping out in the camp hospital, helping the men dying of cholera and dysentery, washing fouled sheets and Jap-happies, the loincloths the men wore after their trousers had rotted away. He’d looked after men dying from injuries inflicted by swinging boots and rifle butts. He’d scraped tropical ulcers and putrefying sores. He’d lanced boils. Vomit didn’t upset him, but it was unhygienic, and hygiene was important to survival. He couldn’t help wondering if Angus’s embargo on help extended to the woman’s toilet. Perhaps he should help Rosie sink a new hole. Whenever newcomers arrived at the camps, those already there always helped dig new latrines.

“You! You out there!”

Red looked up from his work. Angus was waving to him from the beach, lean and angular in khaki shirt and baggy, knee-length khaki shorts.

“What do you want?”

“Come ashore. We need to have words.”

“I’m nearly finished.” Red continued cleaning the boat in his usual methodical way. He thought about topping up his fuel tank but hadn’t used enough on the run back from Fitzroy to justify it. He rinsed his brush over the side and put it away. He picked up a bucket filled with fresh water and a clean cloth and began to wipe all the interior surfaces so salt wouldn’t build up.

“C’mon, man, I haven’t got all day!”

Red wiped down the console and his seat. He wiped down all the metal around his controls. Things rotted in saltwater and salt air as quickly as they rotted in the jungle, unless they were properly cared for. He tossed the dregs over the side, stowed the bucket and went forward to the bow locker where he kept his storm cover.

“For heaven’s sake, man! Can you not do that later?”

Red could see that Angus was getting agitated. He couldn’t understand his impatience. Neither of them was going anywhere. There was work to be done and an order for doing it in. He fastened the cover off at the stern cleats, checked to make sure that all of the clips were secure and dived into the water.

Angus watched the madman swim toward him, Archie dog-paddling by his side, and looked around to see where Red had left his clothes. Unless the madman had buried them, he hadn’t brought any.

“Have you got nothing to make yourself decent?”

Red shook the water out of his hair and cocked his head to each side to release the drops trapped in his ears. “You said we needed to talk.”

“Aye. How did it go, then? Picking up the woman.”

“She was seasick all the way from Fitzroy.”

“Good, good. Was she frightened at all?”

“Angus, you would have been frightened.”

“Good, good!” There was genuine glee in the Scot’s voice, and he’d come as close to a smile as Red had ever seen.

“So? What next? I trust you just left her standing on the beach.” There was something indecent in the delight Angus was taking in Rosie’s suffering, and it disgusted Red.

“I took her up to Bernie’s.”

“You didn’t carry her bags?”

“Some of the way, yes.”

“Then you’re a bloody fool, man!”

“She’d collapsed on the track, Angus. She could hardly put one foot in front of the other. She’d spent the best part of the previous two hours puking.”

“Collapsed, had she? Very good. You probably did the best thing. You didn’t stay there?”

“Not for long. Started her generator, showed her how to switch it off and where the lavatory was.”

“I assume Bernie had left the place in a mess?”

“No. When I looked after Bernie, I looked after his place as well.”

“Pity. How did she seem? Disappointed?”

“No, just tired and sick. She seems to have lots of spirit.”

“Lots of spirit, eh? Well, we’ll see about that. If anywhere can knock that out of her it’s here. Provided you don’t go soft on me. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.”

“Now tell me, you didn’t make any arrangements to see her today?”

“I said I’d show her how to work the stove.”

“Heaven’s sake, man! We have an agreement! Are you already hell-bent on becoming her slave? Has she sunk her claws into your soft, daft hide already?”

“No!” The anger that had been building all morning began to seethe and foment.

“Now don’t you take that tone with me. I’ll not put up with it. I thought we had an agreement. You’ve gone soft already, haven’t you, you gormless fool?”

“No, I told you!”

“You have, man. Already she’s got you running after her. ‘Start my generator. Light my stove.’ Next she’ll have you digging her garden and sinking a new toilet. Help her now and you’ll help her forever. I’m telling you, man. Do this! Do that! Fetch this! Mend that! There’ll be no letup. There’ll be no peace for either of us.”

“All I said was I’d show her how to work the stove!”

“You’ll not do any such thing!”

“I gave my word!”

“Then un-give it. Don’t you see?” Angus sensed he’d pushed Red far enough and softened his voice. He didn’t want to be the cause of one of Red’s turns. “Any minute it’s going to rain cats and dogs. Let her sit up there all alone, no television, no telephone, no heat and nowhere to go. She won’t last long. Every time she wants a pee she’ll have to go outside and get a soaking. She’ll have no hot shower and no hot bath. No city woman is going to put up with that for long.”

Red could see that Angus was right. He forced himself to breathe deeply, felt the ebb of his anger and frustrations.

“Okay. I’ll do it your way.”

“There’ll be no taking her fish, either. Not fresh, not smoked. You’ll give her nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Then it’s agreed.” The Scot turned abruptly and strode back up the beach toward the track.

Red turned around to look for Archie. He could hear the first rain squall battering the leaves on the trees high up on the ridges. It wouldn’t be long before it reached them. At least it would wash the salt out of his hair and off his body. He spotted Archie farther down the beach, about thirty yards out from shore. His tail was wagging furiously as he dog-paddled after small mullet. Red smiled. If there were no seagulls to chase, Archie chased fish. If he ever caught one it would be because the fish had collapsed laughing. Red shaped his lips to whistle him in but thought better of it. Archie was enjoying himself and not hurting anyone. Red wished he could say the same for himself.

The curtains Bernie had hung over his bedroom window so that he could sleep late worked just as well for Rosie. She slept until the rain squall began its frenetic tattoo on her iron roof. She opened her eyes and looked around her. The room was not unlike many of the bachs she’d weekended in, practical, even comfortable, but in no way cosy. There was a tired-looking tallboy and an empty wardrobe with its door half open. The linoleum on the floor was worn, and there was a tattered wool rug that might once have been cream-colored, covering what she suspected was a hole. But there was no doubting the place was clean. Hospital clean.

It didn’t bother her that she was lying in the bed Bernie had died in, because she’d been brought up around hospitals. When somebody died you changed the sheets, not the bed. What did worry her was that she desperately needed a pee. She got up, unzipped her bags and rifled through them to find something warm to put on. She shivered in the cold and pulled her jeans and sweater on as fast as she could in preparation for the mad dash to the outhouse. The pounding on her roof swelled to a continuous roar. Thunder crackled and threatened to split her roof apart. She thought of the wet run up to the smelly toilet and considered squatting over the washbasin in the bathroom instead. According to a salesman she knew who stayed in country pubs, the old trick of peeing in the washbasin was an institution. You could do whatever you liked in them, he’d maintained, so long as you never actually washed in them. She dismissed the idea. This was her new home, not a country pub. And if she was going to make a go of things, the sooner she started doing things properly, the better.

She reached under the bed to find her shoes, and her hand touched something cold and smooth. And round. She pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed and looked at it with an overwhelming sense of relief. Of course the old bastard would have had a pot. Sick and probably lazy, there was no way the old codger would have crawled out of a warm bed on a cold, wet night to go up the hill for a pee. Down came the jeans. She couldn’t help smiling. Excitement mixed with relief and she felt like a kid again. And it wasn’t just the novelty of squatting over a potty, she was excited about her new life and the prospects of a new beginning. She looked for her tissues. Where had she seen them and were they in reach? She blessed Bernie’s weakness and then realized she was thanking the wrong person. Red could have cleared out the pot along with Bernie’s effects, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d scrubbed it as he’d scrubbed everything else, and popped it back under the bed where he knew she’d find it. He amazed her. Both Captain Ladd and Col had been right about him. He was a decent bloke and he did have a heart of gold. It wasn’t buried very deep, either, just hidden away behind a veneer of stupidity.

As she washed and cleaned her teeth she considered the problem of emptying her chamber pot. What would Bernie have done, she wondered? She went outside and stood in the shelter of the veranda, looking for a solution. Rainwater tumbled in a torrent where the gutters returned toward the downspout fixed to the wall of the house. Clearly the downspout was blocked with leaves and probably had been for some time. Blocked gutters seemed destined to haunt her wherever she went. She looked at the torrent and saw it had gouged a gully in the soil below and run off into the bush. She tipped the contents of the potty into the gully and let the rain wash it away. Problem solved. Bernie would have been proud of her.

The episode brought home how much her life would have to change if she was to make a go of it. Everything was different. Even a simple visit to the loo was an expedition, a trip to the grocer’s an adventure currently beyond her capabilities. All along she’d imagined there would be some kind of a track through to Fitzroy. She’d pictured herself tramping through the bush, a cross between Heidi and an Outward Bounder, a rousing song on her lips and a rucksack filled with groceries on her back. The sun had shone in all her imaginings. Perhaps there was a track, but it seemed unlikely. From the moment she’d arrived in Fitzroy, the talk had been of a boat picking her up. If ensuring there was food to eat presented such a challenge, how would she manage with everything else? It was one thing to change lightbulbs, rewire plugs, change washers in taps and fix handles to cupboards, but she suspected the sort of attention the bach needed was work for tradesmen. She’d been many things, but never that.

She found the old Pye radio sitting on a water-stained veneer cabinet as she continued her inspection, and wondered what else had slipped her notice during Red’s tour. The cabinet was stuffed with old papers and magazines, but she could see the corroded chrome fittings that had once supported glass shelves and mirrors at a time when it had been a cocktail cabinet and probably a very nice one. She switched on the radio and discovered it was tuned to the national station, 1YA. News, weather and corny music, yet probably good company for an old man. Even though the signal came through laced with static from the storm, it was also welcome company for a young city woman unaccustomed to solitude. The stack of papers bothered her. Why hadn’t Red thrown them out? She was about to dismiss it as oversight when the penny dropped. At Wreck Bay, paper was precious.

She looked for matches, found a box with three in it on the shelf above the Shacklock, turned on the propane camp stove and made herself a cup of Nescafé. That was another thing. Col had given her milk powder, but there was a jug of milk already made up in the fridge. That man Red again. She couldn’t help thinking about him as she sipped her coffee, not just as his neighbor but as a psychologist and an eminent psychiatrist’s daughter. She’d seen his elsewhere look before. That dead-fish look of being in one place but living in another. As a social worker she’d counseled returned soldiers suffering from battle fatigue, shell shock, or lack of moral fiber, the diagnosis depending on the sympathies of the diagnostician. She started wondering if she could do anything to help him.

She decided to make breakfast and worry about Red and everything else later, but first she had to check out her supplies. So far, Col hadn’t missed a trick. She’d needed a torch and found one, wanted coffee and found a jar. She was curious as to what other treasures were in store for her. She found blocks of butter and packets of Chesdale cheese. Chesdale cheese, for Christ’s sake, the curse of every schoolkid’s lunch box. Cans of peas, sweet corn and baked beans. Exactly what a man would pack. Four rolls of toilet paper, packets of flypaper and a soggy parcel wrapped in white butcher’s paper. Whatever was in it had thawed. Lamb chops. A dozen of them. She wished she’d had the brains to sort through the box before going to bed. There was dinner for the next three nights, which was about as long as she figured the thawed meat would last. She found tea, flour, salt, sugar and rice. Rice? Did she look like the kind who made rice puddings? Vinegar, cornstarch, hand soap, dish soap, tomato soup, tomato soup, tomato soup. Every tin of soup the same. Soy sauce. What the hell did she need soy sauce for? Honey, raisins, sultanas, dried apricots, prunes. Tins of ham, corned beef and one of Spam. Baker’s yeast! With a recipe for baking bread on the packet. Yes! A bottle of ketchup. Spare batteries. A potato peeler and can opener. But no vegetables other than the canned corn and peas. Ah! But she had a vegetable garden. She had no idea that Col had been influenced by Red’s requirements.

She looked at the sorry assortment and wondered how she was going to survive the two-week trial before she went back to Auckland to collect her things—or not—whatever the case might be. She helped herself to one of the eggs Red had stacked in a line across one of her kitchen shelves and fried it. Ray Conniff’s chorus and orchestra were displaced by Burt Clampert’s golden trumpet playing “Oh My Papa.” “A Mother as Lovely as You” followed. She’d caught the Sunday-morning request session. If they played “You Will Never Grow Old” she resolved to throw the frying pan at the radio. A girl could only stand so much. She would have made toast but first she had to make bread. To make bread she had to fire up the Shacklock, which brought her back to Red. Would he come or wouldn’t he? That was the question.

She grew tired of the radio and switched it off. Brass Band Parade had begun, and silence was infinitely better than that. She made another cup of coffee and stared at her dirty plate. She figured she had two options. Hang around hoping Red would come, or start doing things for herself. The seeping cold left her no option. She decided to light a fire in the Shacklock and see what happened. See if she got hot water. If not, why not? She’d roll some dough and make bread so long as she didn’t have to leave the dough standing for half the day. She went and examined the packet of yeast. Leave standing for a couple of hours. No problem. It would take that long to get the oven up to temperature. And at least she’d have a chance to warm up. Fire on, bread baked, what next? Garden. Vegetables for dinner, whatever went well with lamb chops. Then what? The boat. Obviously one of the boats on the mooring went with the house and was hers. Which one? Whichever one was least looked after. Her day stretched ahead like a never-ending adventure.

The boat was a major priority because it was her lifeline, her communication with the outside world and her shopping cart. It might also help her catch the odd fish and take her away on picnics. She made up her mind to wander down to the beach, if and when the rain stopped, and learn how to start the motor and steer. But first she had to do something about the Shacklock. Inactivity had made her cold despite the hot coffee and the heavy pullover she wore. She started to put Jean’s foul-weather gear back on and reeled back at the smell. The upside was that the rain would wash off some of her vomit.

She knew Bernie would’ve had a stack of dry wood somewhere, but where? By the back door or under the veranda. Because the back door was on the high side, she realized there’d be nothing to store wood under and headed straight for the veranda. The rain seemed to have been saving its strength for her to set foot outside and crackled like machine-gun fire on her waterproofs. She peered into the gloom beneath the house and saw stacks of wood neatly split and sawed to length and kindling alongside. It all seemed so very easy until she picked up the first piece of wood and a large black spider shot across her hand. She screamed. The spider was heading up her sleeve to what it foolishly imagined was safety when Rosie banged her arm against a foundation post in fright. It was the spider’s misfortune to run between arm and post at the precise moment of impact. Rosie looked at her wrist to make sure the spider had gone, saw it fixed there, immobile as if feasting on her blood, and screamed once more. She danced backward out into the rain, shaking her wrist, screaming, panicking, wondering at what point she was going to die. The rain washed the spider off.

She stood shaking, a quivering wet mess, and tried to collect her wits. The spider didn’t look anywhere near as big dead as it had alive. But big or otherwise, she didn’t want a repeat performance. From then on, she whacked every piece of wood she picked up against the stack of firewood. Not once, but half a dozen times. Satisfied that any self-respecting spider would have got the heck out of there, she picked up another piece. And another. And another. She filled her arms with as much wood as she could carry and staggered back up the steps and inside. She unloaded the wood into the box the supplies had occupied and took off Jean’s coat and hat.

Bloody hell, she wondered, was this how things would always be? Did every simple thing have to turn into a drama? She thought she’d make a pot of tea and sit down while she recovered her breath and her confidence. But no! She looked grimly at the Shacklock. First things first, and the next cup of tea or coffee would be brewed on the stove top. Henceforth, she decided, the propane camp stove was out of bounds except for emergencies. She stuffed paper and kindling into the Shacklock’s firebox, unscrewed the vent as far as it could go, reached for the matches and stared dumbstruck at the last remaining match. She realized the vital omission from Col’s supplies. She fought back a wave of despair as she realized she’d have to go begging to Red for something as basic as matches. Red? Hang on. A man who’d left a potty under the bed would also make sure there were matches. She began opening cupboards and drawers. Bingo! There in the drawer next to the stove, not just a box of matches but almost an entire packet. She could have kissed him. She struck a match and held the flame to the paper, laughed out loud when she saw how much her hand still shook.

“Oh, Norma,” she said. “If only you could see me now.”

Angus had decided the day was good only for writing. That, as far as he was concerned, was also the best kind of day. He had a steaming mug of tea by his side, a head bursting with words and ideas, Bonnie curled up on his lap, doing her power-mower impressions, and Red nailed to a promise. The story of the boy who fought the fearsome griffin and saved the village was Angus’s fourth book. Only the second and third had been published. The publishers had returned his first manuscript with regret, but not without complimenting him on his ability and the freshness of his style. They’d loved the character of Hamish, but found the first half of the story too dark and depressing. “Bleak” was the word they used to describe it. What had stunned Angus was that they thought the story of the boy who grew up in grinding poverty in a mud-and-stone crofter’s hut was fiction.

Once Hamish sailed away to the Summer Isles in an abandoned dinghy, the young lad sprouted wings on his heels. This was the Hamish the publishers loved, and they encouraged Angus to concentrate future books on his adventures. They now regarded him as one of their foremost children’s authors and paid him advances. Angus’s happiness knew no bounds. Hamish, his courageous young hero, was making a name for himself and attracting a following both in New Zealand and the United Kingdom. All he had to do was keep the dark side out of his books. Not the frightening and gory bits, because he suspected his young audience liked those bits best of all. He mixed the blood and guts with humor, and laced his stories with morality and principles. Hamish was a lad any parent would be proud to call his own, and Angus was very proud.

He worked all morning, his typewriter competing with the drumming of the rain on his roof. The words came easily and the story flowed. Sometimes the boy seemed to take on a life all his own and surprised Angus with his courage and intelligence. These were the times he liked best. When his brain thought and his hands typed and he just went along for the ride. He filled page after page until he felt he’d filled enough for the morning. He’d done well, and there was no point in wearing himself out. It took him a moment or two to realize that the rain had stopped. He pulled the kettle across the top of the Stanley, put it on the hottest burner and strolled out onto his veranda. The wind had dropped and the misty clouds were slowly dragging themselves free from the treetops. The air had the earthy freshness that he savored. When he closed his eyes he could believe he was in Scotland. The sound of rainwater running off in little gullies reminded him of the myriad little streams that ran down off Mount Conneville after every storm, carving a pathway through the peat. He inhaled deeply and stretched his back and arms. Bonnie threaded through his legs, butting and rubbing. He gazed up toward the lower ridges, wondering how the woman was coping. Badly, he hoped. He was slow to recognize the wisp of smoke wafting blue through the mist, but once he did he knew instantly his worst fears had been realized.

“The bloody fool!” he shouted out loud, causing Bonnie to leap away in fright. The madman had done it! He’d lit the woman’s fire. He clenched his fists in anger and damned Red for the soft fool he was.

Rain brought Red no respite. There were always things to do when there was the will to work. Red had both will and need. He sat on his veranda, patiently winding the Japanese longlines he’d recovered onto electrician’s spools salvaged from a building site in Okiwi. He could only admire the monofilament the Japanese used. It was both finer and stronger than other monofilaments, and he had already witnessed its effectiveness. As he wound, he snipped the hooks off and dropped them into tins. There were thousands, all of which he had to rinse in fresh water, dry and dip in diesel so that they wouldn’t rust. It was tedious work, but Red could not bear to throw anything away. In time everything had a use. He decided to leave the fourth line intact. He’d soaked newspaper and made little wads that he pinched over the barbs of each hook so they wouldn’t snag on each other. Red took pride in his thoroughness and worked head down without a break. There was merit in work, and it helped him forget his promise to Rosie. He only looked up when Archie leaped to his feet and barked. He blushed with shame. It had to be Rosie coming to see why he hadn’t lit her fire. Up on the railway, his promise had been his word when his word was all he had to give.

“You!” The contemptuous tone identified his caller. He breathed a sigh of relief as Angus emerged from the scrub.

“More words?”

“More words indeed, you bloody fool!”

“What have I done now?”

“Don’t you play smart with me!” Angus stood at the foot of the veranda stairs, bristling with anger, holding his gnarled manuka walking stick as if he intended to bend it over Red’s head. “Don’t you take me for a fool. I’ll not put up with that from the likes of you!”

“Angus, there’s no need to shout.”

“Let me be the judge of that! Admit it! You lit her bloody fire!”

“She’s got her fire going?”

“Don’t you play all innocent with me!”

“Angus, come up here.”

“There’s no need for that. I don’t encourage familiarity.”

“Come here.”

Angus glared at Red but saw that the madman would not be moved. “If I must, I suppose I must!” Grudgingly he slipped off his clay-choked gum boots and plastic mac and climbed the few steps up onto the veranda. He looked around suspiciously.

“What do you see, Angus?”

“You know very well what I see!”

“Good. Then you can see what I’ve been doing all morning since I came up from the bay.”

“Aye …” Angus looked at the miles of coiled lines and the cans of fishhooks. “Perhaps I was a wee bit hasty. But she has a fire burning! I’ve seen the smoke!”

“Angus, anyone can light a fire. She was probably cold.”

“You haven’t been there? Haven’t given her any of your snapper?”

“I haven’t been anywhere except to the boat.” Both men stared off into the bush in the direction of Bernie’s bach, neither knowing where the conversation might head next.

“Ah well, I’m sorry for intruding. I apologize. I’ll be gone, then.”

“I’m about to make some tea.”

“I’ll not stay.”

“Would you like a smoked snapper or two? I have surplus.”

“Aye … if that’s the case, I’ll not let them go to waste. Both Bonnie and I are partial to the smoked fish, and I admit a fondness for the kedgeree. Don’t go giving them away to that woman, mind!”

“Angus, we’ve agreed,”

“Aye, aye, we’ve agreed!”