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Fiction
Poetry
One Wonders on reading many of the contributions to Experiment, if the student body is as purposeless and decadent a bunch of neurotics as some student writers make it seem. The rape, violence, vomit, and vituperation, if it exists in such concentration, is undoubtedly exciting at first observation and startling to read, but has the effect of shutting the mind with a shudder rather than awakening it to an evil—if this was the intention of those writers. It seems doubtful, too, in this day and age, that those who suddenly find creation "all crap", are happy to die, in their disillusion, of consumption. Ennui or suicide would seem more convincing.
The foregoing characteristics are not typical of this selection because the technical presentation of such attitudes was not, generally speaking, of a sufficient standard to print. There were exceptions to this in contributions which, although well written, through too explicit a statement of difficult subject-matter, had to be rejected. It will be interesting to see if the feminine section of the fiction writers will in future move out of the vomit and vituperation or sentimental love story ruts and produce something crisper in style, more finished in technique, and possibly less slight in content.
Poetry contributions were many and various in subject and treatment. Here a word could perhaps be said to the masculine section of the poets: possibly you could write better poetry if you were cynical or biting, rather than sentimental over your disappointed loves. More decision about the feelings aroused may assist compression of thought.
These comments are only part of a general editorial impression. The volume of material submitted was gratifying and made exciting reading. The quality, however, especially in the short story line, meant that only a small amount of the material reached publication. Rejected authors are requested not to fling their compositions into a drawer with a curse, but try again—rewrite or try another subject. Like many another exercise, practice, combined with experience and a close observation of the life around you, will be invaluable.
We wish to thank Professor A Slice of Rye and Albert Wendt's The Exile—there was no third placing; and Professor
There were no placings in the competition for a cover design.
We would also like to thank the firm of W. D. &
Literary Society Officers, 1962
President:
Secretary:
Treasurer:
Committee:
This publication was printed with the aid of a grant from the Victoria University of Wellington Students' Association.
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When Mr Kramer opened the letter he was more surprised at his own reactions than the contents. On previous occasions he had idly wondered precisely what these reactions would be and how they would affect him emotionally and physically; and now that the occasion had arisen, instead of recoiling before the impact of what it contained, he experienced a sudden surge of satisfaction, almost encroaching on the borders of pleasure, that seemed to detach his mind completely from the barriers of reason and to whirl it far above his innermost thoughts. His sense of privilege at having been dealt this wound by fate's sword exceeded momentarily any anxieties, though in his immediate self-analysis, a habit which often was of far more harm than practical use, he isolated yet again his masochistical strain that was revelling in the situation, in direct conflict to his sense of duty.
Mr Kramer gazed out of his study window at the processions of overcoated citizens moving slowly beyond his house until, at the end of the street, they merged into one black body just as the distant lamp-posts became a solitary stake. He did not pity their anonymity; rather, he knew that this was the last line of defence for an army that had been socially routed, and was necessarily a factor which must be respected at all times. He was slightly amused that at a time like this the outside world should interest him, for his normal relationship was that of acquaintance rather than friend. This was not a fault, for whereas a friend can readily perceive weaknesses in one's armour, an acquaintance is aware only of the strengths.
Though he could not hear her, for Mr Kramer was slightly deaf in one ear, he knew that at this moment his wife was preparing the afternoon snack. There would be a pot of tea shrouded in that
He picked up the letter and reread it, then studied the paper it was written on. He fingered it thoughtfully and replaced it on the desk. Standing up again, he walked determinedly to the opposite end of his study where he was confronted with a heavily-framed photograph of himself at a Public Relations Office presentation. Each time he looked at the photograph, the tingle of pride that moment had brought him was reproduced. He could remember every detail of the occasion and now, as many times before, he mentally tallied these features. The suit he was wearing had only recently been tailored from the finest Italian cloth a business acquaintance in the clothing trade had acquired for him; the neatly pressed seams, the striped silk tie, and the carefully trimmed moustache all contributed to the impression he had intended to give and which had indubitably succeeded—that of a man with distinction. Mr Kramer liked that word, distinction. He rolled it on his tongue. It was one of those words that sounded exactly what they meant, a word in the category of success and achievement. He recalled the clammy sweat of the Mayor's hand as the latter grasped his beneath a flood of press cameras, and the cocktail party afterward where he met other dignitaries and their wives. Mr Kramer gave a contented sigh. That was the measure of a man's greatness; the people one knows and the ability to be able to mix with and be accepted by them at such functions as these. And to be the guest of honour was indeed no mean feat. Still, there was no need for him to be modest; he knew that he was fully deserving of the honours accorded him. He had been a loyal servant to his firm for several years, and so it was quite natural for a man with so many
Mr Kramer now felt a trifle annoyed at the letter before him, as though it had no right to have been sent. Not only did it violate his own individual right to be free from such worries, it had assaulted the dignity of all men such as he. There are certain snares throughout life that all men can fall victim to, but it was certainly not justice that every man must be penalized for succumbing to the lures that conceal these traps. For the average man, reflected Mr Kramer, for example, any one of those overcoats filing past the study window, the price to be paid is not unduly harsh, and the fact that the event has occurred will do little harm and mean nothing to the parties concerned. But for a man of his status to be involved was most unfair. He was a man of responsibility, not only to himself but to an important industry, for there were few men, if any, who were capable of carrying out his duties. Although he owned a reasonable amount of shares in the business, Mr Kramer knew that his own personal financial interests were not the cause of his concern—it was the other people who would be involved. He had a fond, almost fatherly, love for each employee, disregarding what department they were in and what grading they had attained. There were times, he admitted, when it was necessary for him to exercise his authority, but he could tell by the polite greetings he received from the clerks and typists every morning that the office workers admired and respected him.
He leaned backwards in his double-cushioned chair. Realizing he could not afford to let these people down, he decided that something had to be done. Reaching into the top drawer, he withdrew his private cheque book and a fountain pen. When he had filled out the form, an action in which Mr Kramer was extremely well skilled, having taken great care since his youth to present his cheques as neatly written as possible, he relaxed once again into the security of the chair. Not that he was feeling excessively unsettled—on the contrary, after lighting one of his favourite cigars, the tenseness of his body subsided, leaving the similar peace of
From the kitchen, the kettle whistled urgently and in a few minutes his wife would enter the study. She would tiptoe in so as not to disturb him, for she knew how important the calm of the study was to her husband's career; she was fully aware of the difficult decisions he had to make. It was more than a sanctuary from the children, it was an office away from work. She would place the tray gently on his desk and then retreat as quietly as she had arrived, only speaking if she were spoken to.
Mr Kramer patiently awaited her entrance . His thoughts drifted back to the early years of their married life and of how happy she had been. He recollected that he had probably been happy, too, but, just as he had not been certain regarding that matter then, so also now, he was uncertain that he was in love. It was love of a sort, he supposed, for he couldn't really do without her. She had still retained much of the youthful appearance that made her such an attractive child-bride, and this had been a tremendous advantage for him on social occasions. Perhaps she would never realize how important she was to him, wondered Mr Kramer as the associated affection welled up inside his chest. And she had fulfilled her functions as a woman, providing him with two intelligent sons who were now of school age. But, although she had performed her household and maternal duties with great care and success, Mr Kramer had known that in some way he didn't really deserve her. The fault lay not in him as a person, but in the type of life his vocation moulded for him. The continual travel, the nights away from home, and the endless round of cocktail parties with the clients, all joined together in a conspiracy aimed at destroying the home life which he valued so highly. In order that he might ward off the ensuing blows if he allowed this plot to develop into an all-out attack, Mr Kramer pulled off a neat counter-offensive. There was not the slightest suggestion of guilt involved, however, for he was fully aware, as were his colleagues who found themselves in similar positions, that, unless he introduced some form of stabilizing influence into his business life, all that he had laboriously constructed for his wife and himself over the years could crumble into the darkest ashes of failure and despair in a matter of hours.
Mr Kramer knew all this, which is why he took a mistress. Drawing thoughtfully on his Club Royal, he visualized her flat as he remembered it from the last visit. In doing so, the differences avant-garde artists, so that the hanging of an impressionist print above his drawing-room fireplace some months earlier now appeared, in perspective, to have lost half of its original daring. He was aware that his cultural appreciation was, of course, possibly restricted by the nature of his work and his upbringing, but nevertheless a broader outlook encompases a wider circle of friends and, perchance, connections.
Mr Kramer folded the cheque in half; he was convinced he had done the right thing. He was a gentleman and therefore it would be wrong for him to abandon the girl completely in her time of misfortune. Also, he could not ignore the disturbing thought that clung in the back of his mind as an apple pip in the crevice of a canine tooth—the chance that word of this rather unfortunate happening should find its way, due to some irresponsible individual, to the ears of his superiors. And irresponsibility was something Mr Kramer could not tolerate. There were always the select few who, because of some lack in their own lives, had to compensate for this by interfering in others or attempting to play a part in a life for which they had neither the talent nor the knowledge. The cheque before him was ample proof that he was tackling the problem in the most satisfactory manner he was capable of; and he secretly knew that the fears of his decision being motivated by selfishness were certainly unjustified; indeed, it was to his credit that he had been able to face up to them so honestly—a lesser man would have tried to repress them.
For Mr Kramer was no novice to the thrusts of reality. He understood only too well that the instinctive are no substitute for the instructed parries. Here, experience is the master and the correct counter is to master experience. She, the girl, was ill equipped for the task and so it was a sense of protectiveness now that governed his attitude toward her. (He did not like using the
He smiled wryly as he analysed the subtle reversal of dominance throughout the affair. From the moment he met her at one of those informal executives' parties where it was customary for the secretaries to attend, he had tried to impress her with his forth-rightness and confidence. He had managed to carry this off fairly well during their first awkward tête à têtes at city coffee bars, but inexorably the initiative changed stools, as it were. He found himself planning his moves ahead as in an involved chess game, but when his moment of decision arrived, he would inevitably fail through either poor strategy or simple forgetfulness. The girl had been very understanding. She would correct the staggered course of his conversation and at the same time make him feel the credit was his. After a few weeks he accepted his subordinate role completely, and from then on an aura of unreality surrounded the two, and the evenings flitted past before he realized they had begun. At times, it was as though he were the leading character in a one-act play; his lines had been written beforehand and the interpretation of them was part of the entertainment. He would leave the flat with his mind semi-slumbering as it does when a person is awakening by degrees in the early morning, and what had taken place resembled a fantastic dream sequence, a series of beautiful but unconnected incidents.
Mr Kramer was about to slip farther back into the bottomless pit of pleasant memories when he of a sudden cursed inwardly and brushed his knee sharply with a flick of his left hand. The scorched hole in his trouser-leg exposed white flesh the size of a threepenny piece, but he was more annoyed at the interruption of his train of thought than the damage done.
To neutralize his anger, he stubbed out the remaining inch and a half of his cigar and poured a tumbler of iced water from the glass jug on his desk.
The telephone rang; the bell was harsh and demanding. Mr Kramer, in his state of nervous excitement, twitched involuntarily, upsetting the tumbler of iced water. He ignored the accusing grey stain which spread across the desk blotter.
Only urgent messages were permitted to be relayed through his private line on his day off, and so Mr Kramer lifted the receiver
"Kramer." He scraped off a strip of the sodden blotting-paper until a hard ball had lodged beneath his thumbnail. The person at the other end of the line was in no hurry to reply. He frowned as he pondered on the possibility of it being the girl; although the cheque would cover any of her difficulties, he would still prefer that the transaction remained from now on completely impersonal. In any case, she knew better than to ring him at his home.
"Mr Kramer? It's Fournier speaking . . ."
An accountant must have a fairly substantial reason for disturbing an executive on his day of rest if he values his position with the firm, which explained the marked hesitance in the voice.
"Yes, yes, Fournier, what is it?" He could not restrain the impatience that gripped him whenever he was dealing with Fournier, yet he admired the man's thoroughness. It is relatively easy to adopt a condescending attitude toward an inferior, but when the inferior has a deeper understanding of the particular problem, superiority is maintained at the risk of sudden loss of face.
"It's about your shares in the Bachman merger, sir. A bit of bad news, I'm afraid . . ."
Mr Kramer heard what Fournier had to say, then he replaced the receiver without speaking again. He poured himself another small glass of water and sipped at it mechanically. He was not unduly upset by the phone call, for he realized that a business man, as a gambler, must summarize the odds beforehand and prepare for a change in luck; while the gambler courts fortune, the business man instigates a mariage de convenance, and in the event of a reversal, the former is more concerned at his lack of skill in the courtship than in his losses, whereas the latter loses nothing emotionally and whether or not he wins or loses materially is of little importance, the wedding of wealth and one-up manship will take place regardless. The gambler can blame his cards, but the business man only himself.
Mr Kramer adjusted his tie and, for want of anything better to do, opened a cupboard door behind his desk where he kept a set of shoe-blacking and brushes. He selected the polishing brush and lightly stroked the dust off the toes of his shoes, an unnecessary action but a ritual to which he rigidly adhered whenever his mental processes were temporarily rendered impotent.
Mr Kramer was worried. He replaced the brush and took a set of files from a steel cabinet. As he did so, he experienced that not
A thousand men can admire a work of art, yet what artist can create jobs for a thousand men, reasoned Mr Kramer?
Standing up, as he always did when a decision had to be taken, Mr Kramer held his balance of accounts in one hand and his bank statement in the other. The cheque lay undisturbed on his desk. After two minutes of earnest concentration, he shook his head determinedly and replaced the accounts in a bottom drawer; a little later the bank statement followed them. At first the drawer would not shut correctly, but after some gentle manoeuvring he eased it into position, taking care that the assorted papers inside were not jammed. Mr Kramer mopped his brow. The afternoons were certainly more humid than they used to be.
Slowly, almost reverently, he tore the cheque into eight pieces; he watched them flutter down one after the other to come to rest on the wall-to-wall carpet.
Mr Kramer blinked his eyes in astonishment, scarcely believing that he had actually taken this drastic line of action. His sense of bewilderment was further increased by the realization that the carrying out of this decision had pleased him. Gradually, however, his elation gave way to a slight guilt. The clandestine evenings spent at the flat were still retained in the corridors of his mind; he could never lock them away. She had helped him in his search for his
And at that moment Mr Kramer was overwhelmed by the force that only sudden insight can wield; he stood as if in a trance though his hands were visibly shaking.
The girl was a bitch. That was it, she must be a bitch.
He laughed disbelievingly at his own prolonged blindness to her cheapness, and he wondered how on earth he had managed to become involved with such an undesirable type of woman. Those furtive nights spent in her flat were only to satisfy her own selfish demands; he had been used wantonly by a woman who was utterly worthless. The pity was that there were so many women in the world of her type, cunningly contributing to the degeneracy of otherwise respectable citizens. He knew that if he delayed any longer, his home life and all it meant to him could quite conceivably have been completely disrupted by this wayward creature. Love for one's family, he philosophized, should be a man's primary concern, and he was thankful then that he had acted judiciously. He heaved a sigh of relief, for, although he had known all along that the motivation for his decision had been hidden in the recesses of his subconscious, it must be made known that with any man, these motivations are sometimes extremely hard to bring to the surface.
Mr Kramer was a much happier man. The blotter was now completely saturated in water, but he no longer cared. Putting on his overcoat and hat, he stepped lightly to the study door. He paused for a moment, for he knew he had forgotten something. A cigar, that was it. He lit a fresh Club Royal and opened the door, adjusting his silk tie before the mirror first.
"Where are you going, dear?" Mrs Kramer looked round in surprise from the stove, where she was busily salting a saucepan of potatoes.
"Oh," he said, "I thought I might take a short stroll before dinner."
"Perhaps," asked Mrs Kramer, "you'd like to take the two boys with you? They've been pestering me in the kitchen all day and, anyway, I don't think it's too wet outside."
He shook his head. "I'm a busy man, Norah. You know that."
"But I've got your afternoon tea all ready for you, see?" She pointed at the neatly laden table. "It's just how you like it."
Mr Kramer hesitated and then smiled gratefully at her. He reached across and carefully took a slice of rye bread with no butter but two slivers of specially matured cheese. He gulped it down hungrily.
"My pet," he said between mouthfuls, "you never forget my favourite snack."
When he had finished, he kissed her forehead affectionately, replaced his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and opened the door which led to the busy street outside. Stepping into the chill of the late afternoon, he shivered a little as he turned to wave to his wife who was standing at the top of the short flight of concrete steps. She watched as he walked briskly along the footpath, slowly mingling with the hurrying crowd until, finally, he disappeared into the anonymous throng of grey overcoats.
Spirit is: to live as though dead.
—Kierkegaard.
Late Friday Night, after the shoppers had disappeared like howling ghosts from the bowels of the city, leaving the streets to picturegoers searching for the technicolor dream, screwed up newspapers, harsh neon light, the stink of another frantic day, and to a giant of a man, huddled in an overcoat, drifting over the footpath like a distorted shadow.
As he had done all Friday nights, as far as he could remember, he had abandoned his plan to go to the pictures, donned his overcoat, and stepped on to the street, his feet leading him aimlessly through the metal corridors of shops and buildings. He didn't care whether he was going to enjoy his walk or not. There was simply an eternity of time to kill; a future of four hours that would surely tire his body, prepare it for a hollow sleep. He dipped a hand in his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, halted in front of a sign which read Repent Now For Tomorrow May Be The End Of The World, lit a match, coupled it to the end of the cigarette in his mouth, and sucked in the dry smoke, discarding the match as he continued down the moaning street. His hand scratched at his face which was wrinkled like the skin of an overripe mango. He remembered that he was half a century old. He shoved his hand back into his pocket. He had no destination, no real purpose for walking; just killing time, thinking about nothing; just pretending to be interested in the shop wares stacked in the windows like adolescent dreams.
He paused in front of a large window and peered in. Half-naked statues displayed an array of panties and corsets. His eyes ran from the eyes of the figures to their feet. Dead, he thought automatically, dead. The face of his wife erupted from the depths of his mind. But the image was dead, sexless like the figures in the window. He left it dead. It was better that way. When had he married her? He couldn't remember. He refused to remember. Her name? Blank. He had married her when she got pregnant. At the time he thought it was the right thing to do; right by his family and her family. It hadn't worked out. She had been obedient, doing everything that was expected of a wife. But it had been no good. She withdrew into herself, and in silence hated him, blamed him for everything that had gone wrong with their marriage. Maybe we tried too hard to succeed, he thought, abruptly banishing her from his mind. He turned, walked a few paces, and then suddenly remembered that he had a daughter. What had they called her?
Further on he stopped in front of a news stand, in front of a placard which read, "Samoan Stabs Youth in Knife Fight". Wonder who he is? he asked himself. Probably from the back, drinks too much, then gets violent. Inserting threepence into the slot, he picked up a paper and shuffled through it. He found the name of the boy, and jumped with fright. It was a boy who had lived next door to him in Samoa. He would go and visit the boy tomorrow. No. No, he wasn't going to get involved. He folded the paper and sheathed it into his pocket, walking away with a spark of guilt disrupting his apparent calm. He stopped and gazed about him; at the same grey buildings, the same neon-filled streets, the same road, and became his same composed self again. He shrugged his shoulders and guilt was gone, taking with it the memory of what he had read in the paper.
Through the light-pregnant maze he strolled, penetrating deeper and deeper into the caverns of his familiar world, feeling nothing. A man brushed past him, but he was just a shadow to the man as he looked up to find himself on the edge of a pedestrian crossing. He looked across. Another Samoan man stood at the bus stop. He wanted to turn back for he knew the man. The man called to him, so he turned and walked reluctantly over the crossing which united him to his past—the man on the other side.
"Where are you going, Lotu?" asked the other man, "haven't seen you for a long time."
"Hello," replied Lotu, trying to smile, "are you waiting for a bus?"
"Yes, been waiting for the last hour."
"Don't think there are any buses running at this time," he mumbled, noticing that the other man was dressed only in a red shirt, shorts, and a pair of sandals. "How's your family?"
"Oh, they're well. Wife keeps asking after you. She's still got some of your clothes." The man paused, sensing that Lotu was feeling uncomfortable. "Why don't you come and have dinner with us this Sunday?"
"Don't think I'll be able to. Got to go and visit some friends," he lied.
"Did you see in the paper? You know, about that Samoan who knifed that boy?" asked the man, trying to make conversation. "You know the boy, Taimi's son."
"Can't . . . can't recall," lied Lotu.
"Don't suppose you do. You've been here too long," sighed the man. "Where are you working now?" Lotu wished the man would let him go.
"At a factory; we make spades."
"Good pay?"
"Not bad."
"Why don't you come down and work at the wharves? I'm making a lot there. Do very little work."
"Might," mumbled Lotu, "don't think there'll be any more buses. Why don't you go by taxi?" Then he suddenly realized that the other man didn't have enough money. He took out some change, gave it to the man, muttered good-night, and hurried away. He scurried for shelter behind the corner of a building, where he closed his eyes, trying to bar the gates of memory. But he couldn't. Memories flooded his mind, destroying all the barriers he had erected to hide them from his conscious world. Memories which accused him, frightened him. He tried the usual cure, but the sameness around him did not help him. The dam was down, and the guilt of his past imprisoned him like an interrogator . . .
. . . A young man, in his early twenties, sat in the fale facing his wife, who sat humming a child in her arms to sleep. For a while he remained silent, softly gazing at the child, his girl child. Then he said, "Made up my mind. I'm going to New Zealand." The woman didn't say anything. She didn't seem to care. "They tell me you can make a lot of money there. Good education, too." He paused, withdrawing into his dream of the promised land to which he was soon going. "Here we make nothing. Spend all our time serving, Won't make anything that way. I'll work in New Zealand, make money, then send for you and Pua." He stopped. His wife remained silent. She didn't believe him. "You don't believe me?" She said nothing. But he knew. "Wait and see," he added, "wait and see." The child awoke, howled, rolled away from her mother's arms, and ran to her father.
"Look what you've done," his wife snapped. The child clembered into his arms. He embraced her. "Everything I do is wrong." She was jealous. "Go to your New Zealand. Pua and I are going to stay here."
"Quiet, woman," he commanded. She bowed her head and sulked. "I'll send for you, wait and see." Then, tickling his daughter, he laughed, "Eh, Pua, I'll send for you. Your father's going to be a millionaire. An educated millionaire." He felt good, alive, sure of himself . . .
Lotu cringed against the wall. It was a nightmare of guilt. His fists drummed against the concrete; the blood from his cut fingers staining the blaring whitness of the wall. He closed his eyes; the scene changed . . .
. . . The young man stepped boldly from the plane on to the soil of the promised land. A short, fat woman, his aunt, rushed forward and embraced him, their cheeks kissing as was the custom.
"It is good," he sighed, gazing in wonder at the world about him. He sat next to his aunt in the taxi—the golden chariot—that bore him like a conqueror through the soul of the new kingdom. He looked out, surveyed with glee the domain that he was going to rule, the life, he believed, he was going to lead and love. "It is good. It is good," he kept repeating to himself . . .
"Fool! Fool!" Lotu yelled, completely trapped in the maze of memory. "You young ignorant fool!"
. . . The young conqueror attended night school, and gradually mastered the language of those he hoped to conquer. After two years they gave him a certificate. Now you can work in an office, they told him. So he left night school—the institution which caters for young conquerors—and ventured forth armed for battle. He wanted money—money to bring his Queen and Heir to his kingdom. He drifted from office to office unable to get a job. The conqueror began to tire with his enemies closing in round him, forcing him to seek refuge in a factory where he spent a year mastering the art of making tins. Boredom and pride drove him out at night to seek allies. He soon found them in dance halls, billiard saloons, and parties. A group of young amazons and warriors assembled round him; a group of fragile butterflies which were attracted by his vitality and strength. Soon he thought it expedient to forget his wife and child. The white amazons were easy to lay, easy to conquer, and then forget. He grew bold and took his conquests to his room in his aunt's house. One night, his spinster aunt burst into his room to find, with horror, a chubby amazon astride her young hero. Out flew the conquered and, with her, the young conqueror. Another two years found him bored. The sparkle of the promised land had vanished. He drifed from factory to factory, losing interest in his allies, and pride in himself. One day a white man who had fought against the "yellow peril" called him a black bastard. The warrior did nothing. He was too tired to care. He aged quickly; his huge body fattened from neglect. A hot-blooded, middle-aged widow —
. . . The pain of memory ceased, subsiding like a storm. Lotu sighed in relief, and stood gazing at the gutter. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He wheeled abruptly, ready to defend himself. A negro sailor confronted him, flashing a smile of white teeth.
"'Cuse me, mister," said the negro, "'fraid I'm lost. Can you tell me where Queen's Wharf is?" The negro swayed from side to side, obviously drunk. Lotu's arm shot out and steadied him as he sarted to crumple to the footpath. "Thanks, mister," mumbled the negro, "'fraid I can't stand on ma own two feet." Lotu found himself chuckling as the negro laughed.
"I'll show you the way. You'll never find it alone." Lotu wound an arm round the sailor to hold him up as they headed for the wharf.
"Sorry to trouble you, mister," apologized the negro, "but this place is like a jigsaw puzzle. Bin here four days. Can't find ma way anywhere."
"It's all right," replied Lotu lightly, "I often lose my way. And I've been here nineteen years."
"You're not a kiwi?" the sailor asked, feeling safe with Lotu's arm supporting him.
"No, I'm not a kiwi," chuckled Lotu, "don't think so, anyway."
"Sorry for not introducin' maself. Name's Joe.
"Mine's Lotu," he confessed. It was the first time, for a long while, that his named seemed to mean something.
"Pleased to meet ya, sir," greeted the negro, patting Lotu's back. Lotu felt good. "Where are you from, Lot?"
"From . . . from Samoa," he replied. "I'm an exile, you might say." He had suddenly found the courage to admit it to himself.
"Where's that?" the negro asked.
"It's a dot in the South Pacific," laughed Lotu.
"I'm from da United States of America," the sailor said proudly. "Bes' goddamn country in da whole world. They, the whites Ah mean, treat us like dirt. But I don't care. I love ma country. Wouldn't swap it for anythin'."
Lotu felt his guilt bite deep. He knew where he had gone astray, where he had begun to die. They rounded the corner, crossed the intersection, and stopped before the gates of the wharf.
"Here we are," he said to the sailor. "Do you want me to help you to the ship?"
"No," smiled the negro, "think I can walk alone from here. Thanks for everything, mister. Would have spent a cold night out there if it weren't for you."
"Quite all right. Glad to help." Lotu turned to go.
"Wait!" the sailor grabbed his arm, stuffed some money into Lotu's pocket, turned, and vanished through the gates. Lotu stood for a while gazing into the darkness where the negro had disappeared; then he dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled five-dollar bill. Chuckling, he flattened it out, and as he danced across the road, he tore it into little pieces, tossed the pieces into the air, and laughed as they fluttered down upon him. He straightened his shoulders, and whistled as he marched home through a city bursting with newness, for he was new, alive again.
As he lay in bed, he saw the faces of his wife and child. They were alive, laughing, as if calling for him. He knew what he was going to do. He was fifty years old, but he didn't care. He sat up and gazed out of the window next to his bed. The darkness was lifting from the roofs of the buildings, the streets, and the sea. He smiled, shoved himself deeper under the blankets, and soon fell asleep with the Saturday dawn thawing away the dark east like hot water melting away ice.
I cut wet scrub for the fire and blew like hell to get it going. I boiled the last of the rice and made tea. Then I lay down with my head on the ground so that I could dodge beneath the puffs of smoke that gusted back every time the westerly whistled around my camp. I abandoned myself to the sort of ruminations you get from lonely old booze artists who keep clowning on about their failure and stupidity, until physical pains and senile pangs jerk them into belated confrontation with the moral issues they have been evading for so long. Usually they start to snivel and repent.
Old Douglas must have meditated like this many a lonely, wet night, until he died, neglected and fearful, in the bleak Hokitika Hospital. But what did he hear as he went?
Blackness behind the fire and a wind as cold as death. I went over my wretched little case history—my alcoholism—the collapse of my marriage—the failure of my civil service career—all made plain to me now. How typical of the Department that it should send me down to South Westland to get me out of the way, while it carried on an intrigue to reorganize my job and take away the fragment of administrative responsibility that still went with it— and, in the process, forget to send me any tucker.
Well, if I didn't bloody well get the air drop they'd promised, I'd go down the gorge and get on the wallop again, and to hell with the consequences.
I fell asleep in a corner of the big overhanging rock that
Appeal to the United Nations, said the Political Kea.
Get up a Deputation to the Minister, said the Organization Kea.
Take out a Writ of Mandamus, said the Legal Kea.
Write a Stiff Leader, said the Journalistic Kea.
Get up a Subcommittee and Report Back, said the Local Body Kea.
Purify your Hearts and Pray, said the Religious Kea.
Conduct a Poll of Ratepayers, said the Civic Kea.
Use our Aerial Superiority, said the Strategic Kea.
Compulsory Military Training, said the Middle-aged Kea.
This Court will not Condone Violence, said the Judicial Kea.
Birch Them All, said the Deterrent Kea.
Consult the Treaty of Waitangi, said the Racial Kea.
More Discipline, said the Authoritarian Kea.
Better Public Relations, said the Advertising Kea.
F— 'em, said the Ordinary No-hoper Kea.
This is not getting us Anywhere, said the Chief Kea.
I woke to find thousands of birds mustered in the clearing on the edge of the bush round the big overhanging rock, arguing.
The Chief Kea perched on a piece of wood left over from my fire and glared round the ranks. The birds ruffled their feathers, screamed, and pecked at one another, rolled a few loose stones around on the ground, and scratched little heaps of dirt in the air.
"When I called this regional conference," he went on, "I had hopes that something constructive might emerge, but I have been disappointed. All I can suggest is that we continue in the hope that some enlightenment might come to us. Perhaps there might yet be an inspiration in the shadow of our historic shrine. Perhaps, if all else fails, the great Ruler of the Keas, the Controller of the Universe, might give us guidance . . . might grant us wisdom and courage with which to face these difficult days."
"Is that the best you can do, you moaning old dummy?" interrupted the Cynical Young Kea.
"Well, if you think you can do any better, you're welcome to try," replied the Chief Kea.
"Aw, balls," said the Cynical Young Kea. "I'm not arguing about your policy, it's just this old square shit about God I object to."
I couldn't miss a chance like that.
"I Am God!" I yelled at them from the back of the rock.
They all shrieked away behind tufts of snowgrass and turpentine.
"In the name of the Great
"I am the spirit of the Great Douglas," I replied as solemnly as I could.
The Chief had guts. He hopped into the shelter and started ripping questions into me like a Crown Prosecutor at a murder trial. It didn't take him long to find out who I really was and what was biting me. I asked him where he got his speech gimmick from. He told me his ancestors had picked it up by listening to old Douglas in the d.t.'s reciting classical and Old English poetry when he was laid up in camp.
"Let's hear a bit of it."
The Chief condescendingly screwed up his face as if he were about to recite a Government film script, and unloaded the first book of the Iliad. It was Greek all right, with a funny Scottish accent. Then he did the fight in the monster's cave from Beowulf in a rousing Northumberland dialect.
Next he gave me the Kea point of view. It was really an indignation meeting I'd been listening to. Too many Keas had gone out the monk or got crook through eating poisoned carrots and lethal handouts of raspberry jam, which the Government had been unloading in the valleys as part of a drive to exterminate deer and chamois. It had the survivors rattled.
"What you want to do is to fly up to Wellington in mass formation and drop a lot of shit on the head office bastards. Give them a taste of their own medicine and tell them they'll get worse if they don't leave you alone. Advance on the citadel's the caper— win glory in the fight or let death take you. You're not the only one around here who can quote Old English poetry. That's a piece of advice old Treader-of-the-Wasteland Douglas himself would have enjoyed giving you."
When we'd finished talking about tactics, the Chief gave me the score about my air drop. Some mug pilot had heaved it down the valley behind the wrong ridge and the Keas had been doing it over. I located the place and swagged up some of the tinned stuff they hadn't made much impression on. I got stuck into the best feed I'd had for a week. I sat back with my mouth full of tinned stew while the birds picked over some packets of biscuits and rummaged round the camp.
I'd discovered that some of the tins that were dropped con-contained 1080 poison. I was supposed to use it on the opossums if I came across any. I didn't want to hurt the Keas' feelings by telling
I felt pretty bad about it—so bad I had to open the bottle of rum which had come with the provisions. The Chief Kea and I knocked it back by the fire as we morbidly contemplated the dead and wondered where it would all end.
The floating ones came swaying and bobbing as the wind groaned through the gullies under the helmet of night. They threshed their wings and stabbed with beak and talon at the mocking moon. They tumbled and howled in the matagouri branches and pranced at their shadows glistening on the naked rocks. Each one wailed his own song of grief and hatred to the mountainous images of decay and fear who had enthroned themselves all around.
The Chief Kea and I staggered out from the bivouac.
"Have faith and follow!" he cried.
He spread his magnificent wings and glided gracefully from the headland. I followed. Yes, I became a bird and followed the fiery, flickering underplumage where it floated and darted into the air-tides of the gorge. Wing-to-wing we soared towards the peaks. We spiralled through the shadows under the creaking ice-cliffs and we shrieked with glee as we clambered into the morning sun on the silver summits. Inland through the ranges we roamed all that day, peering where the sun winked into the valleys, wheeling and coasting through the clouds that steamed above the snow fields. When we grew tired of swapping folklore, we exchanged quotations from Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, Rousseau, Whitman, Thoreau, Wordsworth, Lawrence . . .
That night I completed my initiation. I danced with the flock round the entrance to the bivouac. We feasted on the rest of the airdrop stores, and we slept till dawn, snuggled warmly in the dry tufts of snowgrass that waved in the clearing. I nuzzled my shiny new beak in the sweet, downy feathers of a plump young female Kea, a grand-daughter of the Chief, and I plunged my handsome head under her delicate wings as she gave herself passionately to me, again and again.
Up in Memo-land the Supervisor was yelling into the phone.
"Get that damned old fool Willis! I don't care where he is. Find him and bring him back here. It's him that's behind all those requisitions for extra food—enough to feed a regiment. What's he doing with the stuff? All this trouble we've been having down South. I'm certain he's at the back of it. Why wasn't I consulted before he went down there? Now he's missing and the papers have got hold of it. Eh? You sent him. To get him out of the way for a while? What the hell for? What? A good rest! What do you think you're running? An old men's home? Well, that's all right about that. I can't help it if Willis is an alcoholic. Let them damn well have him certified. We've carried him long enough in this department, haven't we? A mental hospital is the proper place for him. Do you know he's been spreading crazy yarns that the Department's been trying to victimize him by promoting other people on Grade II over his head. Ridiculous! Everybody knows how scrupulously fair I am about matters like that. Scrupulously fair. You've seen his last report, haven't you? Oh, neglect of duty, drink, and a lot of other complaints, too. Now the Minister's asking for a report. Nice lot of fools we're going to look if I tell him we've sent a man who's a certifiable lunatic out into the bush on his own and he's gone and got himself lost and perhaps killed for all we know. Imagine what a board of inquiry would say about it! You make sure the area's thoroughly searched and Willis is found—dead or alive—I don't care. But you find him, or it'll be the worse for you. I'm holding you personally responsible for this whole mix-up. Let me know as soon as you've got some news. And see you don't let anything out to the newspapers."
From where I was perched behind a downpipe just outside the Supervisor's window I could hear all this and I could see that there was a real panic on. Good. I climbed up to about 6,000 feet until I hit the right airstream, then I played spaceman for a while and headed back South, planning my revenge. Certifiable lunatic! Oh, the bastards were smooth. But how wrong I'd been about old Jonesy. Fancy him trying to save me by sending me down to South Westland. And I'd been blaming him for it, and accusing him of trying to get promotion over my head. It just showed you; you never knew who your real friends were sometimes.
Back in camp I trained contingents of Keas for guerrilla warfare. Picked squads began to terrorize the towns. We went to a lot of trouble with Wellington. Some of us did general ravaging in the main streets while picked teams carried out special operations. Kahaaa! Kaheee! Kahooo! We're Watching You, so that that body nervously shelved its plans to treble the fees again and build more rural universities at Featherston, Otaki, Upper Hutt, Naenae, and Makara. They drowned out even the sounds of the amplifiers in the classrooms as the professors droned their lessons into the well-drilled civil servants stacked inertly before them at early morning lectures like layers of grey, uniformly creased, institutional blankets.
The main body flew straight to the grounds of Parliament and settled in a threatening mass on the steps. They gazed like pensioners at a society wedding, on the red carpets, the officials gliding to and fro, and the fat Parliamentarians strolling in and out of Bellamys.
The Chief Kea and I directed operations from the top of the Bowen Street Memorial, then I did a metamorphosis and walked into the Minister's office.
The administrative clique were all there, talking about flamethrowers, fire hoses, more poison, increasing the bounty to £1 a beak, tying explosive charges on tree tops, laying bird lime, more committees of investigation, and sending some bludger to England to study the problem. The Supervisor just glared at me when I said I could fix the whole thing in five minutes.
I called in the Chief. He perched on the back of a chair while I explained that the birds wanted all poisoning to stop and Keas be put on the list of protected birds.
"Take that stinking creature out of here, Willis, and get back to your desk; I'll deal with you later," said the Supervisor.
"You'd better be careful," I told him, "this is the Chief Kea, and if you don't treat him right he'll get his outfit to pull this old heap round your ears like a Maori whare in the Napier earthquake. The winehalls will crumble all right, and the rulers lie dead too, if you're not careful. You haven't seen anything yet."
"Get out! Go, get out!" said the Supervisor, jabbing at the Chief with a heavy ebony ruler.
"Eeeeeehhyaaa! Who do you think you are!" screeched the Chief. He skipped across the room and settled on the open window sill.
"What did that bird say?" asked the Minister. "Have you been training them like parrots by any chance?"
"No, they've been training me."
"Don't tell them anything more," said the Chief. "I can see how it's going to be. I don't like any of this lot."
I looked around the room, at all the known faces, at the stack of files on the big table in the corner (some of them were ones I'd worked on myself), at the picture of the Pink Terraces just above the door, the cabinet alongside the desk where the Minister kept his personal supplies of whisky, the chair with the loose leg that people he didn't like were usually told to sit in, the worn patch on the carpet where he practised golf swings in the lunch hours, the big leather armchair with the cigarette burns on the arm where old Jonesy had fallen asleep during the party we held one election night . . . I could see that they would never understand, and I felt my loneliness coming back again.
"Come on," said the Chief.
"I can't."
"You are letting us down. You are breaking your promises."
"No I'm not. Give me a bit more time. Don't go without me!"
"It's no use."
"Don't go yet. Stay here and talk to them. Tell them the whole story. Help me to tell them."
But the Chief Kea was gone.
"Listen!" I shouted to the people in the room. "Get somebody up to the base camp at Douglas Rock! Don't argue about it—get cracking quick and lively. There's a drum full of bags of 1080 I've left there, and there's a plan for the birds to fly back here with them and drop them in the waterworks reservoir. It's true, I'm telling you. Get somebody up there as soon as you can."
I struggled to get to the window so that I could take off myself, but by this time the party of cops, who had rushed to the building as soon as the Minister's secretary phoned, were grabbing me. I was dragged back in a hammerlock, still trying to explain.
The duty attendant looks up from his turf guide and says he is picking
"Put him in M.I.5."
"Better watch this bastard," says the charge attendant. "He's a bird, eh! Hears voices!"
They open the heavy padded door and I scurry in. There is only a mattress on the floor to perch on. You can't tell whether it is day or night except by the patch of light from a small aperture with a wire grille across it, high in the back wall.
I keep flying up to that patch of light. But I only tear my beak against the wire mesh. I fall back exhausted and go to sleep.
When I awake, something is scratching at the window and staring in. It is the Cynical Young Kea.
"So you broke your promises."
"No, I didn't. Help me out."
"You ratted on your mates."
"No, no. Help me to get out."
"But you won't get another chance."
"I'll do anything to get out of here."
"You'll never get out."
"Help me. They think I'm mad."
"You are. That's why you're in that cage, man."
"Let me out! Help me! Somebody! Quick! Help! Help!"
The attendant comes in. "Shut up!" he says, and gives me a kick.
I wait till he's gone and then I yell up to the window: "All right, you bastard! All right then! I'll get out of here on my own. But you wait. I'll fix the lot of you when I do."
I try to reach that window again. But unfortunately I can't fly any more. And now there's never anybody there."
Gladys knew without drawing the curtains apart that the Ministry of Works truck was at the top of the hill. She had become accustomed to the 4.30 p.m. exhaust snarl, and as it gradually faded into the distance, she knew that the two men would already have started to walk down: one, straining a little because of an injured leg, the other with a lighter step, making conversation in a manner that makes it a compulsion to answer. Asking questions about the older man, drawing out the memories that were trivial in their context yet nevertheless important if only for the fact that there was a sympathetic listener and repressed thoughts were being put into words.
She took off her apron and hung it behind the kitchen door on a nail. The apron was faded and had hung there many times in the same position for the same lengths of time: overnight, lunch-times, and at four-thirty, when the truck arrived at the summit.
As she opened the kitchen door, the late afternoon breeze filtered through her auburn hair. The fingers of the wind reminded her of the exercise done in every primary school—massaging the scalp—moving the skin gently to and fro in carefully timed revolutions. Schooldays were a long way away, but small relics of the past like that stay embroidered in one's mind.
She watched the men approach the gate. Wally unlatched the bolt with the ease of a decade farming the northern valley. His hands, brown as the soil he had lived with for so long, forced the latch with a skill that showed respect for the solid iron bolt but a casualness that was almost abandon. Gladys smiled to herself, for this was one of the few times of the day that the old image of Wally became vivid; the Wally that drove his Model A truck like a devil to the Young Farmer hops back in the war years, the Wally who had teased her about the limegreen frock she had spilt tea on at the church social.
She had laughed with him then because she found it so easy to be gay in his company. And when the coarse stubbles of his chin had first brushed her cheek she had feigned annoyance to see what he would do.
The door opened and as Wally entered, Gladys's eyes automatically flickered to his cheeks and she noticed that the stubble this afternoon was not the sharp, nuggety scrub of youth but the greying, defeated bristles that harden with age yet appear softer because of their colour.
"Tea on, Glad?" asked Wally. He threw his battered hat on to the couch, leaving a fine spray of cement dust in a trail behind it.
"Ready in a sec, dear. You just sit down there and put your leg up. I know you've had a hard day."
She hurried to the stove and lit the pale gas flame beneath the kettle. It had already boiled and in two or three minutes the singing of the whistle would announce the second stage of a ritual that the arrival of the truck began. After the tea had been drunk, he would read the morning paper that came through on the milk truck, and then roll a cigarette outside on the veranda, watching the sun set behind the range of Kahikatea forest that stretched a full morning's drive northwards.
"Don, are you going to have a cup, too?" She reached for a third cup as she asked, not because she anticipated his reply but
He was nothing unusual as far as young men went. Just another labourer stuck for a place to board who had heard "Wally's missus turns on a good feed." But at times she could feel his young eyes on her and the feeling of embarrassment was often superseded by a soothing wellbeing. Sometimes, she was more frightened still when she found that he had not been looking at all, and that she had imagined everything. The exaggerations of her own mind became a problem all their own.
"How's the leg, Wally?" said Don, taking a chair beside the table.
The older man didn't reply but turned to the racing page in the sports edition, folding each page carefully in its turn.
"Seems like Gay Merino's the nag to watch this week," said Wally.
"Horses don't interest me any more. 'Sides, I got a conviction, they won't let me on the course," replied Don.
"You been up to some trouble lad, 'fore you came up here?" Wally lowered the paper and screwed the corners of his eyes in the same fashion as he used to when following the huntaway as it raced into the evening sun.
"Drinkin' under age, that was part of the story. The barman didn't like me 'cause I was singing dirty limericks on top of the bar—he rang the johns and they stuck me in the cool room for the night."
A slight colouring tinted the older man's cheeks as he recalled the tinder and flint personalities of his own youth.
"Had a bit of a shindy meself once, overseas it was. You know how it is when you're in a different country—you don't like no-one and no-one likes you. Someone takes a swing at your mate so you plant him to sort of keep the old honour flyin'. You know what I mean, son."
Don nodded. He warmed to the older man who understood what went on in a young fellow's mind when a brawl involving friends began.
"People reckon you young jokers fight just for the hell of it. Well, they're wrong. Any man who likes fighting's a mug."
"Get a kick out of it sometimes, Wal," said Don, "Makes you
Gladys poured a cup of tea for Don and placed it on the table beside him.' He smiled his thanks and helped himself to two teaspoons of sugar.
"I wish you men would talk about something better than fighting," she said. She paused for a second to see whether Don had anything to add, but when he turned to listen to Wally she moved back to the stove where she had placed her own cup.
"That's another thing," said Wally, letting the newspaper fall to the floor. "I was thinking the other day about these here teddyboy jokers—the ones with the long hair."
"Stick 'em in the army—best place for 'em," said Don. He sipped his tea but it scalded his lips and he made a show of mock anguish in Gladys's direction.
"When I was in the army we were all the same age as you blokes now. We didn't have any cars to tear round in but we had jeeps, and boy did we give them a thrashing. And we had a few prangs, some of them real beauts. I reckon we were just as bad, probably worse than you blokes today. If we'd had the cars we would have done the same crook things in them."
Don sipped his tea again. He had never given the matter much thought, but perhaps the old man had something there. What the hell, it didn't make any difference either way. The pay was good out at the job, that was all there was worth doing any head work about.
They sat in silence while the weather report and then the news came over, both read by familiar voices, both voices that had become part of their lives.
"You get to thinkin' you know these jokers like a mate at work," said Wally after the news had finished.
Gladys and Don remained silent—Gladys because the over-bright voice of the announcer clashed with the drab picture the dinner dishes presented and Don because he was wondering about the picture theatre in the town that night.
"Think I'll hit the sack for a while," said Wally, stretching his arms and moving slowly to the door. "Can't put much strain on the old peg these days. By the Way Glad, a few of the boys are droppin' round later on to have a yak."
He walked across the room, limping slightly to one side. Gladys was annoyed, but she wasn't quite sure why. She took a cigarette from a packet buried in her knitting-bag.
"You don't usually smoke," Don said. "Bad habit."
She concentrated on directing the smoke in a clearly defined channel across the space separating them.
"Why do only smoke when Wal's gone to bed?" asked Don.
"I smoke when I feel like it," replied Gladys. She felt her cheeks reddening beneath the amused scorn in his eyes.
"You wouldn't say that if he were in the room," she said.
"I was only asking—no need to fly off you handle."
Gladys collected the unwashed cups and saucers and turned on the hot tap above the sink.
"I'll give you a hand if you like." Don stood up and took a tea-towel from the rack.
"There's no need to—I can manage."
She shook a handful of soap powder into the sink, watching Don's reflection in the window that faced out on the back yard. As his face merged with the wood pile, she breathed gently on the glass and spread the grey haze in a small circle so that she could avoid his stare. Why on earth doesn't he sit down, or read the paper, or do something else? His standing behind her made her unsure of her handling and she started as she dropped a plate to the bottom of the sink.
Don stepped closer to her. She slowed the scrubbing motion of her hands which had repeated the same action at the same sink every day since she and Wally had moved into the house.
"Something's burning—I can smell it," said Don.
Gladys turned, drying her hands on her apron.
"Is there? Where?"
He put back his head and laughed.
"Over there. On the bench."
Gladys knew she should have expressed her anger there and then for his trickery, but somehow she could not arouse the anger that at any other time might have set of a chain reaction of abuse. Instead, she felt humble and a trifle reassured that there was someone who had bothered to draw
She lifted the smouldering skeleton of her cigarette off the bench, rubbing the black stain where it had burned into the grain.
"I like watching you smoke, Gladys," he said. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name since he had boarded with them, and she could tell that this novelty was as much a surprise to him as it was to her.
"It makes you look like a young sheila. 'Cept you don't smoke it right. Tip the end up, then it won't make your fingers go brown."
He spoke the short sentences not in any sense with a clipped accent but with a forcefulness that was unusual in a boy of his age. I suppose he's only twenty, thought Gladys, but then it was hard to tell with some of the men that worked with the Ministry. Working on the roads could age a lad in six months, and the drinking parties in the camps at night did not help this. She could not imagine Don drinking heavily, though she knew that he had been seen drunk in town some Saturday afternoons.
"I'm going to the flicks tonight," he said casually. "Should be good, there's a war film on—plenty of shooting and all that."
She drew nervously on the cigarette and thought of the dishes behind, not because they urgently needed washing but because it was wrong to be talking like this.
"I reckon they're beaut—the old man used to say he shot ten Japs in one day—pretty good, wasn't it?" Don's question had become almost a plea, the plea of a child who needs to be reassured that the passage light will be left on when the family has gone to bed.
"He didn't look too brave when Mum sued him for maintenance, though," he laughed. "You should have seen his face, like a frightened rabbit it was."
Don sat on the couch, leaning back on the cushion.
"No, he wasn't no hero, that's one thing for certain."
Gladys moved awkwardly to the couch and hesitated while Don shifted to make room for her. As she sat, she tried to keep her legs tucked beneath her; it was several years since she had been able to cross them with pride as Wally's mates twitched with embarrassment. That used to annoy him, but now she doubted whether he even remembered. Strange that she should, yet a woman was more conscious of those minor pastimes.
"Got two tickets," said Don. As he spoke, his hand jerked, spilling some of the tea on his trouser leg. He laughed carelessly, draining the tea that had flowed into the saucer.
"I always have been clumsy."
Gladys was about to reach for the tea-towel but a sudden involuntary flinch distracted her. She knew what it was, yet at the same time she could not explain how it was. The feeling of having been in the same situation before occurs at the most unexpected moments, striking a person with the jarring force that a newsreel flashback can effect.
She took the towel and noticed that the compulsion to dry Don's knee had her in a grip more powerful than she had realized was possible.
"Stop dithering. Here, give it to me." Don's voice had raised, with a hint of annoyance. She handed him the towel and took her seat beside him again.
"Cup was too full, couldn't be helped." His voice did not sound as young then, the element of irritability usually confined to the old striking a sharper note.
"It's unusual for Wally to have cobbers visiting on a Friday night," she said, for want of anything better to say.
"Probably just wants a chat—he hasn't said much all day," replied Don. "Took time off this morning to see the quack, but he hasn't said nothing to the boys."
The accident had happened six months ago when Wally had been mustering the western range; after the horse had thrown him, Doctor East had said what with the shrapnel wounds and then the leg broken, he would be lucky if he ever worked again in his life. In fact, he was fortunate they found him at all, after lying helpless for a day and a half. He had managed to get a light job working for the Ministry but the farm had gradually fallen apart through neglect, as a stranded dinghy on a sand-bar slowly and inevitably sinks below the water.
Gladys took the paper and pretended to be studying the women's page. As she skipped over first the engagement announcements and then the recipes, her mind toyed with the possibility of going to the pictures with Don. After all, every one in town knew that he was living with the Newtons, and any gossip tidal wave would soon expend itself on the beaten rock of public opinion. Besides, she hadn't had a night out for months, especially since Wal's leg had been playing up.
She tilted her head sideways to read the headline in the top left-hand corner of the page; from the corner of her eye she could see Don counting the pound notes in his wallet, as bank clerks did, flicking their corners loudly; and as Wal had done when he was courting her, to create an impression. But then, money had been worth more during the depression and even being able to have money to count was unusual.
Don shifted uncomfortably and caught her eye for a second, then looked away. Gladys knew he was about to speak, but would he have the nerve, she wondered. She hoped he would, even though she didn't have an answer prepared. And there was still Wal. He had said mates were coming round to visit him, so she wouldn't be able to wait until he had gone to sleep. She could ask him, but he would know immediately.
She stroked the folded apron with her fingertips and wondered whether she would wear the frock if she were to go to town with the younger man. Why on earth should he care for her when there were so many tight-skirted girls waiting every Friday night in the back stalls for the farm boys to sit beside them? They could be heard, moving furtively like mice in a darkened room, necking till five minutes before the end of the film when they would tiptoe out so that the older people in the audience could not recognize them.
Gladys smiled bitterly. Those young tarts were as cheap as the street sluts of Christchurch in the black protection of the theatre, but once outside they would walk with the arrogant pride of the well-to-do which they would never be. It wasn't fair that her own generation had to put up with so much, make their own entertainment, and then be forced to witness the vulgar abandon of post-war youth.
"Mrs Newton, would you like . . . Wal . . . d'you think Wal would mind if you came with me?" asked Don.
Gladys did not answer immediately, but remembered the shy approach of the first boy that had stared at the toes of his shoes when he asked her out to that Bible Class dance. Some say a girl cherishes the memory of her first lover, but what they omit is that the image recurs right through to middle age and can be reconjured by a line or two of simple speech or the awkward smile of a wandering youth. And the only weapons to fight it are the solitary walks through the household; here, inspecting a rose garden that has been tended through the most difficult years; there, a sandpit where the children played before they grew up and left for the cities.
"I really don't know what Wal would say, Don."
The kettle simmered in a subdued roar.
"But would you like to come?" he said. "There'll still be plenty of good seats left."
The limegreen frock was at the bottom of the trunk next to the dressing table in the bedroom, and, if examined closely, the stain where Wally had spilt the tea was still faintly visible. It was the only frock in which she could look young again, a frock that should have been worn more often.
"No, I must catch up with my mending."
"Ask Wally, see what he says," said Don, running a comb through his hair, deftly flicking each tuft into place after dipping the comb into a cup of water. Gladys watched the water trickle
"All right Don, I'll see what he says. But I shouldn't have any late night, you know."
She hurried from the room and talked quietly with Wally for several minutes before coming back into the kitchen.
"We can go," she said. "I'll go and put my limegreen frock on—Wal says you can start up the Ford." Gladys felt the words falling from her mouth monotonously, but then, what else was there to say?
While Don put on a white shirt and tie, she changed into the frock. She could hear his clumsy movements as he searched through the drawers for a clean pair of socks, and when there was a long pause of silence punctuated by heavy breathing, she knew that he was either combing his hair again or earnestly removing the pimples from his chin.
The frock was difficult to put on and did not slip over her trunk quite so easily as it had on the last occasion it had been worn. She took a pair of nail scissors from a dresser drawer and snipped two of the darts free; Wally turned over in bed at the sound and took the agricultural newsletter from in front of his face.
"What you wearin' that old rag for, Glad?" he said.
She noticed that under the reading lamp the lines of his forehead were more prominent, like the marks the children used to carve across the hardened, dry surface of the sandpit with an old kitchen fork.
"Mrs East and Mrs Hodgkins all wear frocks when they go to the pictures, Wal."
He grunted.
"Leave the porch light on," he said. "Can't have you trippin' on the doorstep and breakin' your neck when you comes in."
She brushed her cheeks lightly with a powder puff and removed the last specks of dust that were clinging to her skin. She heard Don shut the back door and start up the car, revving the engine quickly at first and then letting it idle as he adjusted the choke and the advance-retard of the spark.
Don sounded the horn, but she stood on the doorstep, peering into the night across the tangled paddocks of gorse and broom. A procession of lights was moving closer along the rutted track towards the house; there were about ten cars, she guessed, bumper to bumper and jerking crazily as the wheels struck the small rocks that lined the track from the gate to the rotting cowshed.
The flashing headlamps sprayed the fields with light and glowed like the eyes of a restless herd of cattle when a hurricane lamp is carried among them. Gladys remained in the doorway until the last car had pulled into the yard before clambering into the Ford beside Don.
"We'll be late, Mrs Newton," he said. "Reckon it's about time we went off."
Gladys made no reply but watched the men enter the house, one by one. There was
"What do you think they're going to do?" She spoke her thoughts aloud, and it was as if they had been spoken by a third person in the cab.
"Don, tell me."
The boy shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat and fumbled for a cigarette. He did not speak, but stared straight out into the night as though he had suddenly observed something that had arrested his gaze.
They sat without talking while the engine idled slowly, until, after a few dying gasps, it stopped altogether, wheezing the last grey clouds of exhaust fumes into the night.
The boy told her then.
Slowly, at first, as if it were a competition result, and then quickening, before he could change his mind about telling her. As he neared the end, the sentences became abrupt and almost inaudible.
And when he had finished he wished that he hadn't told her; he swore at himself beneath his breath, calmly and methodically.
Gladys opened the truck door and stepped outside on to the damp grass, the wet blades licking hungrily at her ankles as she moved toward the house.
Within a month, the doctor had said. The leg has to come off within a month. She repeated the words to herself, as though their meaning could be changed with a different stress. Then she tried to think about it without using words. Was it possible, she wondered, meaning without words?
Perhaps, thought Gladys, it were best that Wally should be alone to tell the Easts, the Saunders, the Hodgkins and everyone else, and yes even the milkies and the kids, that the Newtons were finished farming the Northern Valley for good and for ever.
Perhaps he would even tell them that the missus is going into town tonight with the young fellow, the good-looking one from the city who can talk to a bloke at work and make him laugh, yet dream by himself on the trip home and you know he could be sad.
Gladys passed along the passageway and could see through the living-room doorway that Wally and the men were sitting around the fire in a tightly-knit group. The first bottle had been opened, but she knew they wouldn't want her there; that was how it had been planned. She tiptoed past to the bedroom and undressed, neatly folding the limegreen frock before tucking it to the bottom of the trunk, and covering it with a sheet of newspaper to keep the moths away.
The whine of the Ford as it struggled to the top of the hill and headed for town could be heard quite clearly in the night, as clearly as if it were the four-thirty truck from the Ministry of Works bringing the men home.
And it was like the end of an afternoon, and the beginning of another.