At the Big Red Rooster Page 9

  ‘I told you. You could have still come up.’

  ‘Up that track? You’ve got to be joking. And no spare?’ A snort. ‘Cut it out, Jay.’

  ‘Well, then, where’s Sherryn?’

  ‘How in hell should I know? She was with you.’

  ‘She was with me all right. Poor little mite. Half frozen and you not coming for hours.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it took longer than I thought, didn’t it?’ Grunt. ‘Let’s get going, eh? It’s cold enough to freeze the…’

  ‘That’s enough. And I presume you don’t suggest leaving your daughter here?’

  ‘Where’s the old girl?’

  ‘What the… She was… Oh, Lesley, damn you, the one thing I was trying to avoid. She’s gone in. Dear God, you’re the limit. Why on earth did we come?’

  ‘It was you bloody brought up the idea.’

  ‘My idea? Rubbish. You said…’

  ‘Well, let’s get her out of there, find the kid and get going. You know I got a meeting.’

  ‘Well you just toddle up the hill, eh, and find your daughter because that’s where we last saw her. I’ll extricate Mother from her maudlin memories. I don’t know; I just don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve found her.’ A call from the verandah of the house.

  ‘Mummy, the man gave me a biscuit.’

  ‘Sherryn, how many times have I told you not to…’

  ‘It was his afternoon tea and he said it was all right for me to have one and the other man had some milk and he put a bit of tea in it and Grandma came and I…’

  ‘Well come on then. Quickly. There’s a good girl.’ No harm done. ‘Daddy’s late and has to get back home. Quickly.’ Softening, only in part for the sake of the child. ‘All right, Mother?’

  They came together. ‘Seen all you want to see?’ Lesley was brisk.

  ‘And the biscuit had chocolate on its botty and I licked it. Man said I could.’ Smug. Forbidden fruit.

  The old woman had stopped. ‘All I wanted to see, Lesley?’ A step nearer. ‘Lesley, I didn’t want to see it. Is that what you thought, Janie?’

  Clearing of the throat. ‘Well, come on then, dear. It’s very cold and we don’t want to get Grandma back late, do we? Into the car now. Quick!’

  Persistent. ‘But I didn’t want to see it. Did you really think I did?’

  ‘Well, Mother, we thought it would be nice. And we weren’t to know the afternoon would be so grey. And I didn’t really think the old place would be quite so gone. Sort of a last look, I thought. I… I thought you would like it.’

  ‘Janie, you are a funny girl. Now then, don’t get upset. You don’t change, do you?’ Small chuckle. ‘There now, don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘I’m not upset, Mother. Really I’m not.’

  ‘Come on, Mummy.’

  ‘And it was the old home. Cold, damp, whatever you like. It was the old place. Your home for all those years.’

  Another chuckle. ‘So you thought you’d bring me to say goodbye.’ Pause. A look back. ‘I never liked it. Daddy bought the section. All we could afford and lucky, at the time, to get that I suppose. And nearly a mile out. Daddy said we’d soon be eaten into the town. Those were his very words. Then we’d sell and make a profit. It never did turn out that way. Town went the other way. Forty years out along that dratted road. Just us, the cemetery, the rubbish dump and a few others like ourselves.’ Another look. ‘That road.’

  ‘I liked that road.’

  ‘You were never called upon to trundle much down it. The old house, eh? Cold old hole. Funny, though, Daddy liked it here. So did all of you. Quiet spot, he said. Planted all the trees and watched them grow. He was good at that. The hedge. Those buddleias. I managed to get a piece after all.’ She held a muddied cutting of the plant. ‘After a time we never thought much of moving. Cold place. Wind used to whistle right round that hill. Why, your Aunty Lil always said she never knew whether she’d come to our place or the cemetery. Never told Daddy that, though.’

  ‘You didn’t like it.’ Flat.

  ‘Come on, Jay.’ Impatient.

  ‘Be quiet, Lesley. Put Sherryn’s other jersey on her. It’s in my brown bag on the back seat. You never liked it? Ever?’

  ‘Silly girl. Liked it? I told you. I never thought much about it, one way or the other. Accepted it, I suppose. We all have to, you know. The man with the red beard told me they don’t build this way nowadays. Built places to last, forty years ago.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I suppose…’ Had she really never liked it? Her own home for all those years some kind of prison?

  ‘Hasn’t lasted, though, has it? Not really.’

  ‘You spoke to him then?’

  ‘Yes. And he says no one wants the gate. Just part of what they were throwing out. I asked him about it. So, I said you’d like it. You would, wouldn’t you?’

  The Third Day

  THE FIRST AND SECOND DAYS were all right. Or so Joshua thought. They weren’t really too good but, looking back, they were better than that third day.

  Aunty Pili packed his lunch. Joshua didn’t like the lunches very much but Aunty Pili said this was what he had to have. It was what the palagi all had. He had to be the same. There was so much that was different, Joshua thought.

  ‘Talk English,’ said Aunty Pili. ‘You must talk English.’

  ‘I do,’ said Joshua. He thought of his name. Iosua, until he had come here.

  It was hard. At home, back in the village, his English had been the best. Because his English was good he was here in Wellington with Aunty Pili and Uncle Ropati.

  Joshua found out that English was a bit different here. It was quick. Quite different, somehow, in all funny little ways. ‘Pull up your socks and get down to work,’ said the teacher. Joshua could see no socks on the girl to whom the teacher spoke. Too quick. ‘Cool,’ said the kids all the time. ‘Cool.’ He understood that all right. He’d been cold ever since he left home.

  Joshua knew he looked different. It was funny. His clothes were the same as those worn by the others. Yet they weren’t. They were too neat. Aunty made sure of that. On the first and second days Joshua worked on them. He came home untidy and with his shirt undone and his shorts roughed up a bit. It was no good. By the next morning Aunty had brushed and pressed everything again. Everything had to be just right.

  On the third day the teacher saw Joshua by himself in the playground at playtime. The teacher talked to the class about making friends and making newcomers welcome. By the end of lunchtime Joshua had two friends.

  ‘Come on,’ said Shane. ‘You can play bullrush with us. It’s neat. We’re not allowed to play it but if no one breaks his flippin’ neck it’s okay. They look the other way!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Glen.

  Joshua thought Aunty would have a hard job getting his clothes right this time. And he knew now why he had looked different. By the end of lunchtime one arm of his shirt was torn, two buttons were missing and he’d lost a sock. He hoped the teacher didn’t ask him to pull them up.

  ‘Come home with us,’ said Shane after school. ‘You live down the end of our street.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Glen. ‘D’you see how he got old Frog Eyes down in bullrush?’

  ‘Doesn’t say much, though,’ said Shane. ‘Let’s go.’ They both spoke as if Joshua weren’t with them.

  Joshua packed away his shoes and the one sock. Even though it was cold his feet felt happier than they had for a long time. So did the rest of him. It was good to be walking with two friends rather than by himself. He felt more at home.

  ‘You thirsty?’ Shane looked at Joshua and winked at Glen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joshua. ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  ‘Let’s try old Rama’s dairy,’ said Glen.

  ‘No money,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Don’t need any,’ said Glen.

  The boys stood around outside the dairy. Joshua wondered why they waited so long. He wondered why they sort of hid to one side just outside the door.


  ‘He’s gone out the back. Now,’ said Shane. ‘Go on, Joshie, that fridge over there. Three Cokes. Get them quick and bring them out.’ He pointed to the drink cooler.

  ‘Get a move on,’ said Glen. ‘He won’t stay out the back all day.’

  ‘Money,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Go on,’ said Shane. ‘Don’t need no money.’

  Joshua looked at the other two and knew what they wanted him to do. He wanted to say no but didn’t know how. They were his friends. They had asked him to play.

  ‘Now,’ said Glen. ‘We’ll wait here.’ He pushed at Joshua.

  Joshua waited for a moment and then went into the shop. He could not see Mr Rama. He looked back over his shoulder and could not see Shane or Glen either. Quickly he took the three cans. One into his trouser pocket and one in each hand. He turned to go.

  ‘What you got there, eh?’ Mr Rama was in front of him, blocking the way.

  Joshua jumped. He looked over his shoulder to where he hoped Shane, Glen and perhaps some money might be.

  ‘No use you look there,’ said Mr Rama. ‘No one there, eh. Now tell me what you got.’

  ‘Cans,’ said Joshua.

  ‘You pay for them?’

  ‘No money,’ said Joshua.

  ‘I know you got no money,’ said Mr Rama. ‘I watch you out of my little window with the mirror. I see those other two as well. They don’t know I see them but I do.’ He looked at Joshua. ‘You new, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Mrs Piko’s boy? That right?’

  ‘My aunty,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Well, let me tell you a thing or two…’ Mr Rama told Joshua quite a few things. About new countries and new friends. About friends who may not be friends. About keeping a clean nose. Joshua understood nearly all of what Mr Rama said. Except the bit about clean noses.

  ‘Now then,’ said Mr Rama. ‘You stack those boxes for me and put those milk crates out the front door. Maybe then you have a drink. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Joshua.

  ‘And better be thinking what you tell Mrs Piko about that shirt. Don’t think Mrs Piko be too happy about that shirt.’ Mr Rama smiled.

  Joshua smiled back at him.

  Tradesman’s Rates

  THAT THE WIT AND WISDOM of the rural rustic is somehow to be cherished, heeded and used as an absolute guide for successful living was belied by everything about old Tom.

  My association with him covered a couple of late summer months when, with one or two acquaintances, I’d decided to make a quick killing converting two old railway houses into something approximating a ski lodge. The mountain was ripe for development, so they said, and nest-eggs could be hatched at high altitude. The friends put up the cash and took off for green pastures; Auckland. I was left, with the help of old Tom, to do the converting. It was to be hoped, when the sawdust finally settled, that we’d get at least a hundred-percent return on our investment. A hundred-percent of nothing is nothing and, in the end I came nearest to making a profit. But that, and the fact that no snow came for one, two, three years, is another story.

  The local store sold me old Tom. ‘He did a great job on Elsie’s woodshed. Was her old chookhouse before that. Can make anything out of anything, can old Tom.’ High praise indeed. Would he work for me? Sure. Tom would work for anyone.

  ‘I’m no tradesman.’ Said Tom. ‘Never been a tradesman and don’t charge no tradesman’s rates.’ He peered hard at me. ‘Never have and never will. Not a tradesman, you know.’ A litany that was to thread the length of our relationship. ‘And you’ll have to be helping me. No hope of doing this lot meself.’

  Tom looked all of seventy-five. He wasn’t. He told me one day he was just over sixty and it was clean living kept him looking as good as he did. I lit another cigarette.

  ‘Don’t charge trademan’s rates.’ He said, whenever conversation lagged. Neither he did. In all conscience he couldn’t. It took him five times as long as any self-respecting tradesman to carry out the most elementary task.

  ‘I’m not a tradesman.’ He said, as we took down the kitchen cupboard it had taken him all day to install; upside down.

  ‘Got to keep me strength up.’ As we sat down to a fifth cup of tea. ‘Reach my age and a man’s got to pace himself. All in all it’s been a good life. Regular habits, that’s me secret. That and early to bed, early to rise. That’s me motto, that’s me secret.’

  True, he kept very regular habits. Half an hour for each break. A further half hour closeted in the outhouse; the replacement of which was to be phase three of our development. At the rates things progressed there was considerable doubt we’d ever finish the first.

  Three weeks into the job and something told me the dream of converting old railway cottages into something Swiss and alpine with the help of old Tom was a pipe-dream well beyond the realm of my reality. Decaying railway was rapidly turning into decrepit railway.

  ‘Hmmm. It’s coming on well.’ Said one of my partners on a flying visit of inspection. ‘Don’t forget that buyer we’ve got lined up for the end of next month. What’s that big gap for between the sink and the bench?’

  ‘Don’t charge tradesman’s rates.’ Said old Tom, balefully. ‘Not a tradesman, you know. Never have been. Not always been me line, you know. There’s things I could show you. Could tell you a few things if I chose.’

  When he wasn’t being a tradesman, but still charging the same rates, I endured a sonorous monologue of old Tom’s views on a broad spectrum of affairs; protesters, immigration from just about anywhere and most particularly from the Pacific basin, women’s rights or, more properly, the correct absence of them, unions, unemployment, the decent and respectable use of nuclear weaponry. Old Tom was well to the right of Mrs Thatcher. By the time he had despatched everyone back from where they came, the country was little more than an Eden populated by old Tom and a handful of Friends of South Africa.

  Tom’s career beyond the immediate vicinity of the mountain had been short-lived. No matter at all that it had been fleeting. The experience continued to serve as his basic frame of reference for every event since. His World War II service had lasted a fortnight. Two weeks of basic training before being shipped back home. His feet had proved so flat as to be virtually convex. This one foray into the wider world had been his last. No matter. It was enough to qualify him to pontificate on every ill and chill of national life. ‘Never felt the need to go there again. What’d I do in them places?’ Ruminatively. ‘But I could show you a thing or two…’ He’d promise.

  One day he did.

  ‘Got something out in me truck… Thought it might interest the likes of you.’ He said, and kept me waiting until he’d finished planing the wrong edge of a piece of wood and I had made him his third cup of tea for the morning.

  He tossed an old paper bag onto the table and its contents fell out among the dirty cups, cigarette-butted jam-jar lids and half-empty biscuit packets. ‘What d’you make of these then?’

  In, out and over the debris on the table spread quite a sight. A collection of stylised, posed photographs. Studies of a young man with the sepia tint of age, a pale brown patina. Studies of a near-naked Adonis. Twenty or thirty of them.

  My lack of response disconcerted him and he said, testily, ‘Well, what about it, then? They’re me, you know.’ A slightly aggressive edge to his voice.

  I looked at Tom and I looked at the photographs.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I said.

  ‘They’re me.’ Said Tom.

  A professionalism marked the work. The youth, golden-headed, gleaming, shone centrally in each. Heavy poses against a variety of mock-up backdrops. At once innocent and yet, insistently, curiously erotic. ‘Who took them?’ I looked at them and then back to the old man. I felt for him in a way I’d not felt before.

  ‘They’re all me.’ He said. ‘They paid for them. Paid me, you know. Took others too, but these were all they gave for me to keep.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

>   ‘Two old girls. Well, they wasn’t that old, I suppose, not then. Seemed old, though. I was seventeen in them days. Long time ago now.’

  ‘A couple of women?’ I must have sounded surprised.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Tom. ‘Women can take photos too, you know. Came from Auckland, they did. Lived over at the lake during the summers. Had a house over there. Big place it was. Not there now. Got burned down back in the forties sometime. Big place all right.’ He seemed flustered, slightly agitated, and said, ‘Wasted enough time. Better get on with me work.’ Something that had never worried him before.

  A week went by and no amount of prompting on my part could get any more from him on what I sensed was a bigger story. I began to wonder if I had imagined the interlude. I’d look at him; bent-backed, heavy-knuckled, clumsy, the flesh of face and body sagging away, albeit imperceptibly, from the framework. Grey, and not only the hair but through and through… No trace of what might have been.

  It was a couple of weeks later as we hammered a few fake shutters around windows. ‘They saw me cutting down a tree, you know. Stripped to me waist I was. Stopped the car and sent the showfewer to get me.’ He stood back, remembering. The shutter listed a little to one side and he hammered it securely into its new position.

  ‘What’d they say?’ Just an easy prompting and as if the conversation had not had an interim.

  Tom looked at me as if I were completely ignorant. ‘Asked about taking me photo, that’s all. That’s how it started.’

  The daughters of an Auckland beef baron. Summer at the lake. Dilettante. Winters away, like swallows, in warmer climes. The funny thing was, I could see them from how he told it. Vivid, bird-like creatures. Not described by old Tom as such but there, somehow, in the picture he conjured… Dark, carmined lips and shingelled hair.

  ‘Pound a time they paid. Fortune in them days you might know. Took turns having their photo took with me, too. One with me and the other taking the photo. Always took turns.’

  ‘Doing what?’ I asked.

  A suspicion of the question. ‘Just having our photos took. Never gave me copies of all of them though.’