Sole Survivor

DEREK HANSEN

Copyright

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Derek Hansen 1997

Derek Hansen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006512684

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008228453

Version: 2017-01-03

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Book One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Book Two

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifleen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Book Three

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Book Four

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Postscript

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

BOOK ONE

One

Red O’Hara woke at first light convinced that he should be dead and ashamed that he wasn’t. There was nothing unusual about this. Every day began the same way. He pushed aside his mosquito net and glanced quickly around the bare wooden slat walls of his bedroom. He needed to confirm that he was safe in his bedroom and not back in hell. He rose and walked to the window to begin another day of discipline and routine, to realize the objective the doctors had insisted he set himself.

“Progress will only come through setting objectives and achieving them,” they’d said smugly, cleverly transferring the blame for their own lack of progress onto him. One day Red had surprised them by obliging. He wrote a single word in large childish letters and taped the sheet of paper to the wall above his bed.

“Survive,” was all it said.

His doctors had encouraged him to write more but in the end had to make do with what they’d got. They didn’t think survival was much of an objective, but to Red it had seemed like an insurmountable mountain. They thought survival was the means to an end. Red thought it was the means of avoiding one.

The window had no curtains. The bush and isolation guaranteed Red’s privacy. Barely two hundred people lived on the whole of Great Barrier Island, and only three were sufficiently antisocial to live on the northern end in the wilds around Wreck Bay. Both his neighbors kept their distance.

The sun was still well short of the horizon as Red slipped into his routine. Exercise, breakfast, housework, shower. Only then could he face up to the other duties his survival demanded. He allowed himself a few moments of deep breathing to calm his mind before easing slowly into his stretches. Anyone watching would have been thoroughly perplexed. His movements were fluid and graceful, but almost impossibly slow and stylized. The early light revealed a body without an ounce of fat on it. But if his ribs were clearly defined so were his muscles, and what they lacked in mass they more than made up for in tone. Red lived a hard, spartan life and it showed.

He finished his exercises yet still made no move to dress. His skin was tanned, leathery and desensitized from years of exposure to sun and the elements. Red was forty-four years old with the body of a younger man and the skin of one years older. The sun had bleached his Celtic red hair and beard so that they turned gingery at the tips. He wore both long but never untidily. Regulations had been unequivocal about that. His eyes were his most remarkable feature, and not just because they were unnaturally bright. The whites dazzled like retouched teeth on toothpaste posters, and the irises had the green hue of a troubled sea. They were the eyes of a great seducer, though Red showed not the slightest inclination to use them that way. Only rarely did anyone feel their intensity.

Breakfast was fish rice, and that rarely varied either. Red’s kitchen typified the man. Everything was in its place and spotless. His pots and pans hung on meat hooks from a rail above his wood-fueled castiron stove. The old Shacklock with its water cistern had been freshly scrubbed, and the green and cream enamel gleamed. He used it nine months of the year to cook his meals, heat his water and warm his home, a cottage little bigger than a holiday bach. He never used the Shacklock in summer, when it sat cold and idle. Instead, he lit both rings on his propane stove, put on the kettle for a cup of tea and a pot for his rice. He opened the door of his fridge, grabbed a jug of powdered milk, a bowl of fish stock in which to boil his rice, and a small steamed snapper. He closed the door quickly to keep in the cold. Once the rice was on, he broke the steamed snapper into small pieces, laid it in a bamboo steamer and placed it over the simmering rice to warm through. Archie sat on his rug beside the cold stove and whined in anticipation. There was a strong chance that no one else in the whole of New Zealand sat down to a breakfast remotely like this.

While the rice cooked, Red had another ritual to perform. He opened his screen door and walked along the veranda to the end railing, where the hill sloped abruptly away to the sea and not even his grandfather kauri tree came between him and the rising sun. Sunrise still disturbed him even though he knew he had nothing to fear. Not anymore. No Kimigayo anthem, no standing on parade, no forced labor, no beatings. Once the sun burst free from the sea he returned to the kitchen. Another day, another challenge had begun.

He divided the rice meticulously between two bowls, shared the flesh of the snapper equally, but laid the fish head on Archie’s portion. Red liked sucking out the eyes and the cheeks, but so did Archie, and it was the border collie’s turn. Red was never anything but scrupulously fair.

“Good to the grain,” his mates in the camp used to say, even though the rice they shared was often green or rotting. They liked it when Red served, and there were never any arguments or fights when he did. Red and Archie always had breakfast on the veranda except when rain or high winds made it too uncomfortable. Red ate at a table he’d fashioned from timbers salvaged from the old mine battery at Oreville, while Archie had his bowl on a square of linoleum. Fish was a delicacy neither of them tired of, though the overriding sentiment that governed Red’s appreciation was gratitude. He was grateful that there was something filling and life sustaining to put in his bowl. Anyone who’d ever been forced to go without would understand.

After breakfast came the clean-up. The dishes had to be scrubbed immediately, along with pots, pans, countertops, sink and little square of linoleum. Cleanliness meant hygiene, and hygiene was another key to survival. After the dishes, Red stripped his bed and folded the blankets and sheets according to regulations, and set them in a neat stack at the foot of his bed. He completed the housekeeping by chasing a broom around the floors and then a mop around the kitchen area. He did this every day.

His shower followed. In summer he used a watering can suspended from a beam that ran between his shack and the laundry and was fed from a hose that ran from his water tank. The water was cold and bracing even in midsummer. Red wasted neither time nor water in washing his body and hair. He scrubbed himself vigorously with Sunlight soap, which the makers had intended for laundry use. It was cheap, lasted and did the job.

Once he’d showered he released his chooks—his five hens and rooster—from the chookhouse, threw them rice and scraps he’d deliberately saved from dinner and breakfast, and gathered their eggs in exchange. He checked his vegetable garden next. There were no locks on his doors or windows, yet his garden was securely fenced in with heavy chain mesh, which was also sunk into the ground so that no animal could burrow beneath it. A heavy bolt held the gate closed, and an equally heavy lock secured the bolt. Pieces of cloth and milk-bottle tops fluttered from strings that crosshatched the plot to keep birds off. Red opened the gate and worked his way between the lines of vegetables, searching for weeds and snails. Neither stood a chance of escaping detection.

Red’s final task was to attend to his wall calendar. Keeping track of the days was important because it had always been important. It was important in Burma, where they’d made their own calendars, each a log of survival, charting the time between the present and home and family, and promising one day a reunion. Keeping a calendar up to date was proof of survival and a declaration of defiance. The twenty-fifth day of February 1966 was consigned to history with the stroke of a pencil. Through rigid routine, discipline and the sameness of his days, Red achieved his objective. He survived. He believed he had defied the predictions of his doctors and had his life back under control. Red lived a simple life of self-delusion.

Red had risen from his bed knowing he had two jobs to do that day. He kicked away the wedge that held the laundry door slightly ajar, so that a breeze could flow through, and entered the cool, dark room. He had a favor to ask and he hated asking for favors. He also had a sick man to see, something else that impinged on his day. But he’d learned about obligations in Burma, and obligations to the sick were sacrosanct. Two bush safes, light timber frames encased in fine mesh, hung from a rafter. In one were eight smoked snapper, all around six or seven pounds. In the other were row upon row of sprats and piper, split up the middle, salted and sun dried. The fish weren’t only for himself but to give. Years on the railway had taught him the value of the gift. You could never doubt the stamp of a man who willingly gave his food to others. Red helped himself to two smoked snapper and set off along the pathway to the Scotsman’s bach, Archie trotting along at his heels. It was barely seven-thirty but Red knew Angus McLeod would be up and about. He also knew he wouldn’t be welcome. And neither would Archie.

Two hundred yards down the trail, Red left the path and threaded his way through the ferns, tea trees and pungas to the big old grandfather kauri. He liked to touch the giant trunk, to feel its age and let it know that it was safe. No one would ever take this tree, survivor of centuries and of ruthless logging. Archie waited and watched. There was nothing odd about what his master and mate was doing. It was something else he did every day.

Red made his way farther and farther down the slope before branching off to the right where the trail forked. Up in the canopy he could hear fantails and tiny goldfinches and, occasionally, catch glimpses of them. The pathway turned crimson as it wound around a clump of pohutukawas that had found shelter and shed their blossoms beneath the ridge of Bernie’s Head. They’d been doing this for six or seven hundred years before Bernie had thought to share his name. Red walked on uphill until he came to the clearing and paused. The old Scot was cantankerous at best and loathed visitors.

“Hello, Angus!” Red called, and waited, keeping the Scot’s vegetable garden between himself and the house. He looked along the lines of vegetables and had to fight back the urge to pluck out the young weeds he saw growing there. There shouldn’t be weeds. And there should be a proper fence, not just a sagging run of chicken wire. Red had tried to fix both one morning when he’d called by to drop off some fresh snapper, and had copped an earful for his trouble. Still, it wasn’t right and it troubled him. He’d seen men beaten senseless for less.

“It’s you. What is it you want this time?”

“I’m going round to Fitzroy.”

“I see. Wait there. I’ll get my list.”

As the old Scot turned back into his shack, a bundle of fur barreled down the steps and bounded over toward Red. Archie whined with excitement.

“Stay, Archie,” said Red. “Hello, Bonnie. Say hello to Archie.” Bonnie purred like an outboard motor and rubbed herself up against Red’s legs. What cat wouldn’t love a man with such a fishy air about him? Bonnie purred and rolled and also rubbed up against Archie, who bent his nose down to greet the cat Maori-fashion. Both cat and dog were black and white, as if neither owner could afford color. Bonnie responded without fear. They’d met before, and Archie had a fishy aura about him as well.

“I don’t encourage that. I’ll not have Bonnie bringing in fleas.”

Red glanced up into the humorless face on the veranda above.

“All we’re bringing is smoked snapper.”

“Don’t you be smart, now! If you’re intending one of those fish for me then I thank you for it.” The Scot stepped down from the veranda and skirted around the vegetable plot. “Here is my shopping list.”

“Here’s your fish.” Red took a deep breath. This was the part he hated. “I need to borrow some diesel.”

The old Scot glowered but had little option. Besides, the madman was saving him a trip. Even so, Red had to learn not to use him as a convenience. “This is not the first time. Can you not monitor your levels more closely?”

“I had to rescue birds.”

“Aye, well.” Angus had also rescued birds from Japanese longlines and moderated his tone. “Mind you replace it, now.”

“I will.”

“In full, mind.”

“Yeah.”

“See you do. And for God’s sake, man …”

“… make yourself decent.” Red finished the sentence for him. “Heel.”

Red turned and Archie followed so abruptly that Bonnie, who had been rubbing herself against the dog’s front legs at an angle of roughly thirty-five degrees, toppled onto her side and rolled down the slope after them. Bonnie was like a football covered in fur, kept fat by the old Scot not so much from affection but to deter her from catching the native birds. Bonnie, birds and children in general—though rarely in the specific—were the only creatures on earth the old Scot cared a damn about.

Red retraced his steps by the pohutukawas and their carpet of decaying red needles, and began to climb back up the trail to where it split below the grandfather kauri and the gray soil gave way to yellowish clay. He’d made the trip up to Bernie’s every day for the past month and sometimes twice a day. The old man needed help. Red always brought Bernie food, cleaned and cooked. Lately he’d had to bed-wash him, but Red was no stranger to that. Bernie was always affable and grateful, but he was just filling in time before he died. Red had seen that happen before, in Burma.

He walked up to the shack’s front door and shooed the chooks off the veranda. He knocked loudly on the frame. The groan from within noted his arrival. An empty sherry jug lay on its side on the kitchen counter, keeping company with the previous night’s soiled dishes. Red opened the door of the old kerosene fridge. The shelves were spotless because Red had cleaned them the day before, and empty except for a quarter pound of Anchor butter, a jar of homemade plum jam and a jug of milk. Red took out the milk and butter and set them on the kitchen table alongside the smoked fish. He wandered into the bedroom. The room stank, bitter and vinegary. He opened the window.

“You okay?”

Bernie groaned and tried to sit up. He wheezed as he tried to draw breath. Phlegm caught in his throat, and he doubled over the side of the bed, head down, helpless in a fit of coughing. Red held him and beat firmly on the back of his ribs until Bernie finally coughed up a dense gob of mucus onto the floor. Bernie’s face had turned crimson, and his forehead was bathed in sweat. He shivered. There were pinkish bubbles in among the mucus. Red pulled the blankets back over the old man and laid his head back on the pillow.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry, mate.”

By the bed was a roll of toilet paper, which Bernie tore up and used to spit into during the night when the coughing took hold. Red took some to mop up Bernie’s latest contribution. He went out to the back door, where he’d left the mop and pail the day before, half filled the bucket with water and Janola disinfectant and returned. He collected the sodden lumps of toilet paper, took them out and threw them into the kitchen waste bin, knowing he’d have to put a match to them later. Then he mopped down the bedroom floor. He couldn’t help himself. Infections bred and spread in filth, and he couldn’t allow it. The Aussies had known that and wasted no time getting organized, but the British soldiers had learned the hard way. Maybe it was the heat that got to them, or maybe they just hadn’t understood. They’d died of dysentery, diphtheria, cholera, malaria, typhoid, gangrene and septicemia, but Red suspected they’d died as much from ignorance. They’d died where the Aussies had survived, died in greater numbers at any rate.

“How about a cuppa?” Bernie had propped himself up on his elbows and was shuffling his pillows around behind him as a back rest. “Man could die of thirst around here.”

Red nodded. He never knew with Bernie how much was real and how much was put on for his benefit. He knew that Bernie had lived for years on a disability pension because of a back injury suffered on a building site in Auckland that prevented him from engaging in any further manual labor, the only type of work he was qualified to do. But when Red had first come to the Barrier, he’d seen the old reprobate haul his timber half-cabin boat up onto the beach single-handed, and chop through manuka scrub as well as any Maori work gang. He’d also put in a vegetable plot, carted buckets of topsoil over the hills from the floodplains, planted rose bushes and fruit trees. Rumor had it that there was nothing wrong with his back, either, when he’d gone down to Thames to visit one of his old girlfriends. But, in truth, Bernie looked as bad as Red had ever seen him and possibly even worse. The pink bubbles were not a good sign.

“Want some poached smoked snapper?”

“Nuh.”

“You’re going to eat it anyway.” This was a conversation they had every day, and it always ended the same. Red took the mop and pail and put them outside the back door. He scrubbed his hands, as thoroughly as any doctor preparing for surgery, before putting the fish on to heat through and making tea.

“You gunna let your mate in?”

“Okay. Archie …”

The dog needed no second invitation and galloped into the bedroom. By the time Red had poured the tea and stirred in Bernie’s two spoonfuls of sugar, the fish was ready. He flipped it onto a plate and took it in to the old man.

“Don’t give any to Archie.” Red went back out to the kitchen for the two cups of tea. Archie was licking his lips when Red returned.

Bernie ate without speaking but certainly not in silence. He’d lived alone so long virtually all of the social graces had slipped away. He chewed with his mouth open, smacked his lips and frequently stuck a finger in his maw to guide his food toward the few remaining teeth that were still operational. He also had the habit of scratching himself whenever parts needed scratching, in company or otherwise. Not surprisingly, he never thought Red’s nakedness worthy of mention. Bernie wasn’t too fussed about clothes himself. He’d eaten half of the fish before his cough started up again. Red took his plate.

“Drink some tea.”

The old man grabbed the cup and gulped a couple of mouthfuls. He handed the cup back to Red and sank back onto his pillows. He’d begun to sweat again.

“Mate, I’m knackered.”

“You’ll be all right.”

“Nuh … not this time. Had enough anyway.”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“Yeah, but I mean it.”

For once Red was inclined to believe him. Bernie did look knackered. “You’ll feel better after a wash.”

“You can give me a wash, but I won’t feel no better.”

“We’ll see. Give you a shave, too.”

“No! Sit, mate. Got something I want to tell you.”

Red sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“Wrote a letter last night. Yeah, knew that would surprise you. You still going round to Fitzroy?”

Red nodded.

“Yeah, well, I want you to witness the letter and take it with you. It’s there on the tallboy.”

Red reached over, picked it up and read it. It was Bernie’s will. The writing was hesitant and spidery, and the lines curved away to the right. For all that, it was clearly legible.

“Dear Rosie, I’m dying,” it said, “and I thought I’d leave my bach and things to you. The bach isn’t much, just two bedrooms, living room, kitchen and bathroom, but it’s been a good home to me. It’s yours if you want it. Forget about it if you don’t, ’cause it isn’t worth much. Garden’s got some nice roses, though. Thanks for being my friend. Hope you grew up good-looking. Yours sincerely, Bernard Arbuthnot.” Rosie’s name and Green Lane Hospital were written at the top of the sheet of paper. Red stared at the letter, unable to come to terms with the contents.

“Met her when I had TB and a bit of an alcohol problem. Her dad treated me for the booze. What a bugger he was, but she was nice. He wouldn’t know a cop was up him till he blew his whistle. She came with him sometimes, a bit of a tomboy. She used to sneak me in a bottle of beer. They never could work out where I got it from. What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re leaving your place to a woman?”

“Yeah. She was a good girl, that one. Real cheeky.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah!” Bernie cackled. “Thought that would get ya! Oh, she was a beauty, hair as black as any Maori’s, and wicked black eyes. Always up to mischief. Stole fags for me, too. One day I suggested to her that an occasional nip of scotch wouldn’t go astray, so she started filling up an old cordial bottle for me. Trouble was, she knew that if she filled the whole bottle with scotch her father would realize someone was nicking it, so she had this idea. She filled it with a drop from every bottle they had. Mate, I’d never had a cocktail like it. Had everything in it! Bloody Pimm’s and chartreuse, bloody crème de menthe, and that bloody eggnog stuff. Had whisky, rum, gin, vodka and I don’t know what. The only way I could drink it was in my coffee. They took it off me before I was halfway through. My singing gave me away.” He burst out laughing, stopped when he started to choke.

“You reckon this will find her?”

“Who knows? If it does, it does. Long time. I told her, though, told her every time she came in that I’d remember her in my will.”

“Reckon she’ll come?”

“If she does, she does.”

“Wish you hadn’t done that, Bernie.”

“Aw, ya never know. Ya might thank me one day, a pretty woman and a good-looking bloke like you.” He started laughing again. “Never know, do ya?”

“I’ll get your things from the bathroom.”

“Not yet.” Bernie coughed and gestured to Red to sit down. “Something else. I want to be cremated.”

“Why?”

“I want you to toss my ashes into the ocean, out past Aiguilles Island where I used to fish. Used to dive there a bit, too. My secret possie, my secret spot. On the rise where the shells are.”

“What shells? Paper nautilus?”

“Nuh. Army shells.” The old man was cut off by another bout of coughing. Red handed him the toilet paper just in time. “Where they dumped the old munitions after the war.” Bernie’s face had gone from wax to scarlet beneath a sickly sheen of sweat. All the talking was taking its toll. “Christ! I just might decide to kick the bucket today. Nobody’s supposed to know about dumping the shells, but they used to take me out with them when they wanted to do a spot of fishing on the sly.” He began to laugh, but his laughter quickly turned to a rattling cough that snapped his breath. Red rolled him over and stuffed some more toilet paper in his hand. Bernie coughed and hawked and sank back exhausted on his bed. The smell of his sweat rose bitter and pungent. That was what had stunk the room out. Still, Red had smelled worse, a lot worse.

“Tell me later.”

“Might not be a later.” Bernie slowly drew in deep breaths until his breathing was back to normal. Red noticed tears in Bernie’s eyes, but that could just have been from the effort of talking. “I’ll give you the markers. Line ’em up and you’re right over the rise.”

“I didn’t know there was a rise.”

“Neither did the army. It’s like a small island that never quite made it to the surface. I got them to drop the shells on it because I thought I might go back later and salvage some for scrap. Now listen carefully.”

Red listened until Bernie had finished.

“Now you can give me a wash, if it makes you happy. And Red, when you go to Fitzroy, do you think you could leave Archie here?”

A normal man might have welcomed the prospect of an attractive young woman coming to share his lonely neck of the woods, but all Red could see was disruption to his daily life. Women didn’t belong. They didn’t belong in the camps and they didn’t belong at Wreck Bay. His day had begun like any other, yet suddenly Bernie had pulled the rug from under him. His whole world hung in the balance. Bernie’s letter threatened change, the thing Red feared most. Change brought risk, the risk that he’d no longer be able to cope. The Japanese fishermen threatened change, challenged his existence by stealing his fish and by destroying the ocean bottom so no fish would ever return. He could fight them but he couldn’t fight Bernie’s letter. There was nothing he could do about it, nothing at all. He was powerless and bound by duty. He could not deny a dying man the right to leave his few possessions to whomever he chose. The wishes of a dying man were also sacrosanct.

Red couldn’t get Bernie’s letter out of his mind. He thought about it constantly as he stopped off at his shack to grab a pair of shorts and a sweater, and made his way down to the beach. He thought about it as he fitted his forty-four-gallon drum onto the jib arm at the end of the jetty and loaded it onto his boat. He worked hard to stop himself thinking, but still the thoughts persisted. What would a woman do at Wreck Bay?

The double-prowed lifeboat was immaculate, its clinker hull kept brilliantly white. According to hearsay, it had once swung from davits on the ocean liner Oronsay, though some claimed it was from the Orsova. Somehow it had ended up in the hands of the whaling company, and Red had taken it over when the station closed down. It had been fitted out with a Cummins diesel that was more powerful than need be and something of a glutton for fuel. But Red could squeeze economy out of it, never feeding it more revs than the hull or conditions could use. Diesel was expensive.

Each resident of Wreck Bay kept a drum at the jetty and another at their house. They drew diesel off into four-gallon tins for the long haul up the hill to fuel their generators, and used hoses and gravity to refuel their boats. Red filled a four-gallon jerry can from the Scotsman’s drum and funneled the contents into his fuel tank. He repeated the process twice to be on the safe side, then filled his emergency can. That was sixteen gallons he owed, and a debt he’d pay in full. Red was good to the grain in all his dealings. He checked to see that his freshwater tank was full and his life jacket where it should be, and cast off. It was strange motoring out of the bay without Archie standing up on the bow, telling the gulls where they were headed. It didn’t feel right. It was not how things were done.

Red was always cautious before putting to sea because there was little chance of hailing another vessel if he got into difficulties. Although Great Barrier Island was only fifty-five miles by sea from Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city and main port, it might just as well have been five hundred and fifty. Only twenty-five miles long north to south and ten miles at its widest, there was little reason for anyone to visit or live there once the logging had finished, the mines had petered out and the whaling station had closed. There were few roads and few guest houses to encourage visitors. The locals either worked farms or caught fish and crayfish for a living. Nobody got rich.

Red was fortunate that the land around Wreck Bay on the northeast coast was too rugged and too poor for commercial cultivation and had proved too inaccessible for the loggers. The forbidding cliffs that lined the coast did not encourage visitors, either. As a result the entire northern end was left to the seagulls, terns and gannets. Only Wreck Bay provided shelter, and the three bachs were well sited to avoid the worst of the storms. It was possible to live there if you were sufficiently bloody-minded.

Red motored due north toward Aiguilles Island off the northern tip. With the tide almost full and the seas slight, he decided to take the narrow channel south of the island. Normally, even on a moderate swell, the surf pounded in on Aiguilles Island and Needles Point like heavy artillery, which was fair warning for all to give it a wide berth. He slipped through the channel and increased speed, swept around past Miners Head and across the mouth of Katherine Bay. Seagulls and gannets began diving on a school of kahawai. Even though a catch was guaranteed, Red was far too preoccupied to throw out a lure. Leaving Archie behind had unsettled him, but even worse was the prospect of a woman coming to live at Wreck Bay. It had taken him long enough to adjust to the Scotsman’s arrival.

His keen eyes picked out the dorsals of two mako sharks, circling around the periphery of the feeding school. He knew what the predators were waiting for and it wasn’t for kahawai. They were just a sideshow. The sharks were patrolling, waiting for the massive schools of migrating snapper, part of a never-changing cycle. Red had the utmost respect for never-changing cycles. He glanced up to the bow compartment where he’d stowed Bernie’s letter, carefully protected inside his oilskins. Red also had the utmost respect for letters. He’d seen dying men survive because of them. He found it hard to reconcile the fact that letters, which could do so much good, could also do so much harm. He tried to imagine what would happen if the woman came. But why would any woman, perhaps even a beautiful one, want to come to Wreck Bay? Red didn’t know much about women, but he knew enough about Wreck Bay to know that it held nothing for them. Even the hardy Barrier women couldn’t imagine why anybody—male or female—would want to live there. If they couldn’t handle it, how could a city woman? The letter worried Red all the way from Wreck Bay to the Port Fitzroy wharf.

The store at Port Fitzroy was aptly named the Last Gasp. It was opened originally as a holiday canteen to service the summer yachties. The owner, Col Chadwick, maintained he called it the Last Gasp, not just because of its remoteness, but because of the objections and obstructions of the other residents who were opposed to change of any kind as a matter of principle, particularly since they hadn’t thought of opening a store themselves. Once opened, the store instantly became indispensable to the point that the locals would have fought to prevent it closing. Col gave up his crayfishing to become full-time shopkeeper. The Last Gasp sold everything Red needed—except alcohol, because the shop wasn’t licensed. Col ordered in Bernie’s jugs of sweet sherry anyway, on a nod-and-a-wink basis.

Red waited outside the store until Col had time to attend to him. The locals thought that was just another of Red’s eccentricities. They still recalled the time he’d come ashore without remembering to put his pants on. But the fact was Red got claustrophobic in the little store with its crowded shelves. If anyone else came in while he was there he found it unbearable. The locals also still talked about the time he’d had one of his turns in the store. He waited outside until two visitors, guests of Fitzroy House, had left.

“G’day Red.”

Red shook hands with Col Chadwick and handed over his two shopping lists. “And two jugs.”

“How is the old bloke?”

“Not good. He wants this letter to go off to Auckland.”

Col raised an eyebrow. Bernie had written a letter? “Okay. Anything else?”

“Need a hand with the diesel.”

“No problem. I’ll just fill your orders and walk down with you.” Col trotted off with the orders. He glanced down at the envelope. Rosie Trethewey, Daughter of the Professor, Green Lane Hospital, Auckland. The handwriting was Red’s. “Jeez,” said Col to himself. “Helluva address.”

Red fretted for Archie. It was hard to stand around without a dog. It wasn’t right. They were a team, and splitting up only weakened them both. But the sick man needed company and that was all there was to it. Archie—his Aussie mate in Burma—would have stayed, he was certain of that. Archie had never let anyone down, never refused anyone. Red decided to walk on ahead to his boat and unload the empty drum. The simple mechanics of the job brought the woman back into his mind. How would she get by handling drums of fuel? How would she handle a boat and rounding Aiguilles in a blow? Old Bernie had done the wrong thing by them, no doubt about that. He hoped fervently Bernie had also done the wrong thing by the woman and she’d be smart enough to realize.

Red’s boat was an oddity on the Barrier, where all boats, with the exception of the visiting yachts, were working boats of one kind or another and bore the scars of their trade. A wise man never had a picnic downwind from a beached fishing boat. Red used his thumbnail to scratch off seagull droppings. Wherever there were seagulls there was no place for idle hands. He hated idleness in the same way he abhorred dirt and untidiness. There was always something that needed attending to. He’d seen blokes stop working one day and be dead the next. The two went together.

“I’m amazed you even let your boat get wet.” Red looked up to see Col on the wharf above him, a carton of supplies under each arm. “Reckon I could eat my bloody dinner off it. I’ll have to go back for the sherry.”

They manhandled a fresh drum of diesel over to the edge of the wharf, secured it, swung out the jib arm and lowered the drum gingerly onto the deck. Red jumped aboard and untied the ropes.

“You seen the Jap longliner yet?”

Red looked up sharply at Col. “Tuna? I freed some birds.”

“Nah. Snapper. I’ve been getting reports of a Jap longliner sending its dories in to within one or two miles of the shore, night after bloody night, all the way up from Mount Maunganui. He’s following the bloody snapper, ripping out millions of the buggers. He’s been working the Coromandel Peninsula for the last week. They reckon he was off Whitianga a couple of nights ago. He’s not like the others. This bloke doesn’t use lights. Bastard’s ripping out the fish. Just wondered if he’d made it up as far as you.”

“Tell the fisheries?”

“Reckon. Rang the fisheries but they already knew about it. Apparently the navy’s been informed.”

“They doing anything?”

“Dunno. They sent a Sunderland flying boat down around Great Mercury Island. Didn’t come up with nothing.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Col smiled. He knew Red would, too, and it would serve the Japs right. He was still chuckling as he made his way back up to the store to fetch the two jugs of sherry. Red might not be able to do anything about the snapper the Japs had already stolen, but he’d give them something to think about if they tried to steal fish from his patch. Col tried to put himself in the place of the Japanese fishermen in their dories when a raging, naked Red descended upon them. What on earth would they think?

Two

It was pitch dark when Shimojo Seiichi, the skipper of the Aiko Maru, gave the order to lower the dories. He hadn’t come six thousand miles to pull up six miles short of his objective. The nor’easter had freshened, and the helmsman battled to keep head-on to the sea. The crew was grateful for the rehearsals their captain made them do blindfolded every month, for they worked without lights. The sliver of moon had been and gone, and the stars might as well have been hidden behind clouds for all the light they gave. The four dories edged slowly away from the unlit Aiko Maru in a staggered line astern. The skipper watched until they were swallowed up in the darkness. He couldn’t help feeling apprehensive about fishing so close to New Zealand’s major naval base, and home of the Sunderland flying boats. If the navy got wind of their presence and dispatched a Sunderland, it would be upon them within twenty minutes. Then there’d be nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. But the potential rewards justified the risk. They were right on the navy’s doorstep and about to steal the rice from their mouths. That would be something to boast about later, in the bars around the docks at Kitakyushu.

The wind whipped the tops off waves and showered the crouching dory crews with spray, stinging eyes and leaving a bitter salt taste on lips and tongues. But it was the lot of all fishermen to taste the sea. Almost to a man, the crews came from fishing families. Their fathers had tasted the sea, and their fathers before them, though none had ever ventured far from their little fishing villages and rarely out of sight of land. Now they were living their fathers’ dreams six thousand miles from home, catching more fish in one voyage than their forebears had caught in their entire lifetimes.

Their course took them west of Aiguilles Island where they could fish in the relatively calm waters of the lee. They didn’t use spotlights this near to shore, in case they alerted unfriendly eyes to their presence. Instead they slowed so that any change in wind or sea would be more apparent. Once they felt the softening of the sea and wind, they slowed even further, and moved in closer as quietly as the dories’ twin outboards would permit. The greater darkness of Great Barrier Island loomed up in front of them. Once they were within half a mile of shore, and two to three miles west of Aiguilles Island, they took up position and began fishing in their prearranged staggered pattern. By the light of hooded lamps, they released the end buoys. As the buoys drifted away into the darkness behind them, they counted off the knots in the line until they’d released one hundred yards. Then, creeping slowly forward so as not to foul the props, they attached the weights that would hold the fishing lines to the sea bottom. The crew of each dory began to bait and lower the one-and-a-half-mile lines of double-barbed hooks, each set eighteen inches from the next. They worked with practiced hands and enthusiasm. Half a mile from Aiguilles Island they lowered the last of the baited hooks, the lead weight and head buoy. One after another the dories turned westward to return to their start position to lay the second of their four lines two hundred meters out to seaward from their first. Away to the east, the new day was yet to dawn.

At first light they began to retrieve their lines. They caught the end buoys with their boat hooks, turned and wound the lines twice around the winch drums. The lines tightened as the winch took up the strain. The men looked at each other, smiling, shouted to the other crews. The lines sang from weights far greater than those they’d lowered a few hours earlier. “Tairyo!” they shouted. Good catch!

They stared into the depths of the water, straining to catch the first glimpse of color. It was there, flashing pink and silver and sometimes gold in the pale light. The lead weights came up over the side and were expertly detached. The first snapper came aboard to be unhooked and thrown into fish boxes before they were aware they were even out of the water. Fewer than half of the hooks came up empty and less than ten percent with by-catch. Fish after fish piled on top of each other, spilling over the fish boxes.

“Tairyo! Tairyo!” the crews shouted, as they hauled in the snapper that justified the risk they’d taken, that ensured their end-of-trip bonuses, that brought profit and esteem to the company, that brought glory to them all. The crews worked as fast as they could and needed no urging. The fish flashing red in the water flashed gold in their pockets. Still the fish came up, some over twenty pounds, most over six. Tairyo! Tairyo! Lengths of line where mako sharks had stripped both fish and hooks provided the crews’ only rest. The superstitious fishermen saw this loss as a good sign. The spirits of the water would approve of them sharing their catch.

The sun broke free of the ocean as they neared the heads of their second longlines. Eager hands tossed more ice over their haul and made room for the fish from their third lines. So many fish! The gods had smiled upon them. Some of the younger fishermen laughed at the superstitions and devotions to the old gods. But the gods had not let them down and they only had to look at the overflowing fish boxes to know who had the last laugh.

As the crew of the lead dory began to retrieve the head buoy of their third line and work their way back to the end buoy, the sun edged above Aiguilles Island, bathing them in its brightness and impressing urgency upon them. Their line sang with the weight, crackling around the winch drum. They stared intently into the depths, looking for the first flash of color, the blaze of red that would confirm that this catch was as good as the last. Perhaps it was the grinding of the winches or their concentration on the catch they were steadily hauling up from the sea bottom, but they were slow to hear the speeding motor. When the sound registered, they turned as one toward the source. But the morning sun blinded them. They covered their eyes with their hands to peep through the slits between their fingers. Then they saw it, their nightmare, and cries burst from their lips. There was a bow wave dead abeam, coming out of the sun on course to ram them and cut them in half. But that was not what chilled their blood. It was their fathers’ and grandfathers’ fears and superstitions come alive before their eyes. It was the drawings shown by other fishermen whose terror they now shared. The local kami had turned on them for their theft, and a Red Devil riding a boat of pure white foam was upon them, hair ablaze, breathing fire from its nose, its whole body fringed by the flames of damnation, seeking vengeance.

The helmsman screamed in warning. His crew, who had many times fled both plane and patrol boat, did not hesitate. No sooner had a knife flashed when the dory’s twin props bit into the ocean, throwing the bow high, scattering fish and ice across the deck, and almost hurling one man overboard. The other dories saw the lead dory cut and run and did likewise. They rose instantly onto the plane despite their heavy loads and raced across the water. The helmsman risked a glance astern and saw that the Red Devil had fallen behind. Nevertheless he held the throttle wide open, determined not to slacken off until they’d reached the sanctuary of the mother ship. Then he would have to face up to the loss of fish and lines. Then he would have to justify his actions to his captain.

The skipper of the Aiko Maru saw his dory crews cut and run and sounded the alarm. The longliner was waiting just beyond the six-mile limit. He scanned the radar but could pick up nothing that would indicate a patrol boat or Sunderland. None of the lookouts had spotted anything, nor had the representatives ashore radioed in to say that the patrol boat at Devonport had slipped out during the night. Yet the skipper knew his crews would not run without good reason.

The number four and number three boat had cleared the six-mile limit when he heard a lookout call down on the intercom. He raced to the window and looked astern. He strained his eyes to see it, then spotted it, low and hugging the coast, using the land mass of Great Barrier to hide from his radar. Where were the number one and two boats? Half a mile astern and closing rapidly. They were safe. Just. Shimojo Seiichi breathed a sigh of relief that the last working day of their tour of duty would not end in disgrace, but he was curious. How had his dory crews known about the Sunderland?

Three

Red throttled back as the more powerful dories left him in their wake, hands shaking from rage and helplessness. “Bastards!” he screamed. “Bloody bastards!” His boat was no match for the Japs’ outboard motor-powered dories and he knew it. Even at half throttle their motors could leave him floundering in their wake. His fists clenched in frustration and his shoulders shook. He tried to pull back from his anger because he feared the consequences. But he was too late. Already his chest was tightening, his throat contracting. His breath came in sobs and he could feel the panic coming on again. He began to battle for breath, to fight the panic rising inside him. Cold sweat prickled his body, his hands turned clammy and the shaking intensified. Blood pounded in his temples and roared in his ears.

“Bastards …” he cried desperately, but there was nothing he could do. It had happened often enough before and he knew there was nothing he could do. His vision blurred and he was back on the railway with his mate Archie, and the Big Bash Artist and imminent death. He could feel the heat and heavy, water-laden air. Taste his fear and helplessness, too weak to cry out, too weak to stand. His hand went up to Archie. For help? For comfort? Reaching, reaching, for his mate and protector before the bullet’s hot passage ended his life. Archie could not save him this time, nothing could. He saw the little man with the long rifle and prayed that he would pull the trigger and end his suffering. Pull! Pull now! But it always ended the same way, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

He knew the moment would pass and begged God to let it pass quickly. But it would never pass completely. The shadow would remain, never entirely out of his mind, never far away, always poised to haunt and claim him whenever it chose. His burden, his guilt, his nemesis. A thunderous roar filled his ears, and the air around him pulsed and beat down on him in waves. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed. Archie was barking. Barking. Barking. Cautiously he opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. He cowered down as the monster passed directly overhead. It took him a few moments to comprehend, to clear his mind and realize the enormity of the thing he had done.

“Nooooo … !”

He watched the lumbering seaplane swoop low overhead, knowing how the aircrew would be cursing him. He smashed his fist into the helm console. The Japanese had won again and it was all his fault. He watched the big Sunderland turn in a slow arc and pass once more over the Japanese longliner. It banked toward him no more than two or three hundred feet above the water so that he could clearly see the cameras mounted in the forward dome where the nose guns would normally be. It was also close enough for him to see the gloved fist shaking at him from the copilot’s window.

He collapsed backward onto his seat in despair. They’d set a trap for the Japs, and he’d sprung it prematurely. Dear God! His hands still shook from the attack he’d had, and he still felt light-headed. Dear God! Would there ever come a time when he was not at war with Japan? He spotted a buoy floating off to starboard, seized upon it as his salvation. There was work to be done and he needed it. Work was his sanctuary. So long as he could work he could keep control. There’d be time for recriminations later.

Red began the task of hauling in the miles of abandoned longlines. Without a winch to help him, the work was slow and back-breaking. He knew the lines would be heavy with snapper because he’d planned to fish there himself. He threw the dead and near-drowned fish into his fish boxes and set free all those he found that were still in reasonable condition. He could afford to release the live fish because he knew the proportion of dead ones would increase the farther he worked out from shore. The snappers’ air sacs would rupture in the haul up from the deeper water. The dead fish from the first line half filled his boat despite the fact that he’d thrown forty to fifty percent back. The efficiency of the Japanese fed his bitterness.

It took him all morning to retrieve the remaining lines, setting free the few survivors and throwing the remainder overboard for the sharks and stingrays, the octopi, crabs and the crayfish. The second line had filled his boat, but Red wanted the remaining lines out of the water where they could do no more harm. The slaughter and waste appalled him.

He regretted the fact that he hadn’t brought ice with him, because now he had no option but to motor straight around to the fish processing plant at Okupu. He couldn’t allow the fish he’d kept to add to the waste, but he was also concerned about Bernie. It would be evening by the time he got back, and the old man would have been on his own all day. Red wondered briefly if the Scotsman had thought to take Bernie something, then dismissed the thought. There was a better chance of the sun rising in the west and the Japanese fishermen becoming conservationists. He fired up his diesel and set off to Okupu, fish piled high in his boxes, keeping cool under soaking-wet sugar sacks. The longlines were piled high in the bow. Nothing was wasted. He wished he’d left Archie behind again to keep Bernie company.

“That you off Aiguilles this morning?”

Red looked up into the smiling face of Jack Lampton and discovered the bad news had preceded him.

“Whole island’s talking about you.”

Red threw him his bow line. The low tide meant that Red would have to manhandle the fish boxes high over his head to lay them on the jetty. Given the weight of them and the fact that his back hadn’t yet forgiven him for his earlier exertions, he knew it would be no easy task.

“Navy wants a word with you, too.”

“Give us a hand with these boxes.”

“Hang on. I’ll get you a cray tank. Off-load them into the tank and we’ll haul them up with the winch.” The fish factory wasn’t really set up for fish but for crayfish—the delicious red crays they sent to the mainland whole, and the giant packhorse crays, which they tailed first. But Jack had the means to help the snapper fishermen and make a few pounds for himself in the process, so he did. He was a young man in his early thirties, married with two small kids, and determined to make a go of the factory, even though everyone said it would fold soon enough, which is what usually happened to business ventures on the Barrier. He looked at the load of fish as Red transferred them into the steel cray tank. “You’ve been busy.”

“Japs have been busier. There were four dories, Jack, four lines apiece, and they were using those double-barbed hooks. They hardly ever missed. Snapper won’t stand a chance if they keep this up.”

“Bastards.”

“I freed the live ones and took all the dead fish I could, but I had to throw ten times as many away. Kingfish, kahawai, gurnard, trumpeter, trevally and blue cod as well as snapper. Would’ve given you a yell, but by the time you got there the sea lice and crabs would’ve ruined them. It’s just not right!”

“Bloody waste,” said Jack. “But you did what you could, that’s the main thing.” He could hear the tension rising in Red’s voice and knew it was time to hose him down. “You did good, Red, letting the live ones go. I’ll get you another tank and chuck this lot in the freezer till I get some ice.”

The two men worked diligently for half an hour, until the boat was unloaded. Then Jack reminded Red of his obligation.

“Are you going to call the navy?”

“Suppose.”

“Just get Kate on the exchange. She knows the number and name of the bloke you have to talk to.”

Red walked into the half-partitioned corner of the corrugated iron factory shed that constituted the office. He lifted off the handset and cranked the handle. He waited anxiously. Only four lines connected Great Barrier Island with the mainland, and there was usually a queue. For once Kate answered almost straight away.

“Yes, Jack.”

“It’s Red.”

“Hello, Red, have you got any pants on?”

“No.”

“Oooohhhh …”

“I have to call the navy, Kate.”

“All right … keep your hair on.” He heard Kate giggling. “Stay there, Red. I’ll call you back.”

Red hung up and stood by the phone. The mess on Jack’s desk distracted him, and he couldn’t help himself. He gathered the scraps of paper into a pile and weighted them down by putting Jack’s pad over them. The dregs in Jack’s coffee cup had evaporated, leaving a caked crust. He reached over to the washbasin in the corner, rinsed the cup, filled it and left it to stand in the bottom of the basin. He straightened the calendar, and crossed off the last two days of February, which Jack had omitted to do. The phone rang.

“Red here.” Red could feel a tingling grow in the pit of his stomach and his neck muscles tighten.

“Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn.”

Lieutenant commander. Red could feel his throat begin to tighten. “You want to speak to me, sir?”

“No, I bloody well want to kick your arse! What the hell did you think you were doing? Do you know how many strings we had to pull to set up that ambush? Do you know what it costs to get a bloody Sunderland airborne?”

“Please don’t shout.” Red lined up Jack’s ruler parallel to his pad.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

The fist in Red’s stomach tightened. His hand trembled. There were too many memories beating on the door inside his brain. Screaming officers, screaming guards, and a body that couldn’t obey. His voice shrank to a whisper. “Don’t shout. You don’t have to shout.” Perhaps some of his desperation reached down the line to the naval officer, because his attitude changed.

“Sorry. My turn to apologize. I guess we’re on the same side, Red, but we’ve got to find some means of keeping out of each other’s way.”

Red waited for the officer to continue. He laid Jack’s ballpoint pen and his pencil neatly alongside the ruler.

“What I mean is, we’ve got to work together, pool information. You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any chance you could come over to Devonport?”

“No.” Red gathered up Jack’s wayward paper clips and returned them to their home in a little plastic bowl.

“What if I sent a boat for you?”

“No. I have a boat.”

“Don’t like cities?”

“No.” Red closed his eyes. “I don’t like cities.”

To say Red didn’t like cities was colossal understatement. He couldn’t stand the cars, the noise, the crowds, the milling and disorderliness. He’d had to leave Auckland when he’d become too frightened to go outside his own front door.

“Do you want me to come to you?” The officer worked hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice and only partially succeeded.

“You coming alone?”

“Alone, but with a crew. If you want, they can stay aboard the patrol boat while I come ashore.”

“Okay.” Red was beginning to feel more confident. “I took their lines.”

“I guess that’s something. I’m sorry for shouting. Don’t feel too bad about this morning. You weren’t to know. But look, if we can get something worked out together, we could really nail the bastards next time. You’re in the ideal position to help us. Have you got a number I can ring you on?”

“No. Call Col at Port Fitzroy and leave a message. He’ll know what to do. Good-bye, Lieutenant Commander.”

Red hung up too quickly, before the officer had a chance to respond. He stood silently in the gloom of the shed while he gradually calmed down. He’d fulfilled his obligation. His duty was done. If the lieutenant commander needed to find him he knew where to look. More than anything Red just wanted the whole thing to blow over. Like the hermit he was, he just wanted to crawl back into his shell.

Red motored home as fast as he could and copped a soaking in the process. He grabbed a spray jacket from the storage locker and huddled in close to the console and splash guard. Archie had crawled up under the bow deck, safe from the flying spray and wind. The wind was the problem, working on his wet skin and chilling him to the bone. He knew he had no need to run so fast, knew he was also wasting diesel, but he had things on his mind. Unwelcome things. When he wasn’t worrying about Bernie, either the woman or the lieutenant commander would sneak into his thoughts, and he couldn’t find sufficient distraction. There was no place for either of them at Wreck Bay. He turned the corner around Needles Point and felt the wind and sea swing behind him. The temperature jumped ten degrees immediately, and his entourage of seagulls, blown from their station astern, wheeled indignantly as they tried to regain formation. They knew about the fish. Red had kept one box of snapper, which Jack had generously iced for him, and left nearly fifteen hundred pounds of fish behind to be sent to the co-op. Enough to pay his bills for months.

The calmer water gave Red the chance to work. He began gutting and filleting his fish, splitting the big fish up the back and saving them for smoking. The gulls feasted raucously on the guts but he kept the heads and frames to make stock and fish soup. Nothing was wasted, ever. He killed the motor as he reached Wreck Bay, and let the boat’s momentum carry him up to his mooring. He knew that he should make Bernie his first priority, but there was still work to be done and a logical order for doing it. His boat needed cleaning and there was no way he could leave it while one speck of fish blood or guts remained to harden in the sun and stain the paint. He scrubbed the decks and gunwales till they were spotless, dried them with cloths, then fastened the storm cover into place. The sun had dropped behind the ridge by the time he began the steep climb up through the bush to Bernie’s. When he reached the pohutukawas he automatically took the left fork, which would take him by the Scotsman’s cabin. Angus was waiting for him, a grim, brooding presence framed in the doorway.

“I saw you come in. What is it you want?”

Red glanced up at the veranda, the demarcation line beyond which he’d never set foot, not in the Scotsman’s time anyway. “I’ve brought you some fish.”

“Aye, I thought as much. It’s why I never went fishing myself.” Angus took the fish and watched as his faithless Bonnie smooched up to Red. “Is there something I can give you in return, some gherkins, perhaps?”

“No. I have to get on up the hill to see Bernie.”

“How is he, the old man?”

“Why didn’t you go up and see?”

“Don’t you lecture me! He’s entitled to his privacy as I am to mine.”

“He needs help,” Red shouted back in a flash of anger. “And he’s entitled to that!” He wasted his breath. Angus had gone indoors and slammed the screen door shut behind him. Red turned and made his way back down to the pohutukawas. The muscles in his back had stiffened in the cold of the return journey and ached under the load of fish and the steepness of the climb. He felt bad about leaving the old bloke on his own and worse for not leaving Archie. But he couldn’t go without Archie’s company two days in a row. Red put the fish box down where the track forked to Bernie’s and left Archie to mind it. He took a couple of medium-sized snapper fillets with him up the trail to the shack. He called out as he approached, but there was no answer. He pushed open the screen door.

“Bernie?”

Red felt his way in the darkness, found the matches on the table and lit the hurricane lamp. One of the jugs of sherry was missing off the table, so the old man had obviously got up at some time. Red wandered into the bedroom and found Bernie lying on his bed, dead to the world, the half-empty jug alongside amid gobs of toilet paper. Red knew he’d get no sense out of the old man that night, and that there was no point in cooking him a meal. He reached down to pull a sheet and blanket over him so that he wouldn’t get a chill in the night. His hand brushed Bernie’s cheek. It felt cold, unnaturally cold. He held the lamp closer to the old man’s face. His eyes were half open but they’d long given up seeing. Bernie had died alone, and there was nothing Red could do about it.

Red took the lamp back out into the main room and sat down at the table. He’d failed a dying man. He put his head in his hands and let his tiredness and dismay wash over him. Archie had to see Bernie, too, so that he’d understand. Red went to the door and whistled. The dog sensed what was afoot the second he stepped into the shack. Instead of trotting in to see Bernie, he stole in, nose quivering. He sniffed along the length of Bernie’s arm to confirm his suspicions and retreated to the door, pausing to look reproachfully at Red.

Red forced himself to his feet. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility of caring for Bernie but the responsibility had found him anyway. He opened Bernie’s cupboards and grabbed as many preserving jars as he could find, relics from the time Bernie bottled the fruit from his plum, peach and nectarine trees. He opened the freezer compartment in the top of Bernie’s fridge. It was filled with trays of ice kept for icing his catch. Bernie had never entirely discounted the possibility of taking his boat to the rise one final time. Red took the trays out and shook the cubes onto the bench. He filled as many jars as he could with ice and sealed them. He carried the jars into the bedroom and distributed them evenly around Bernie’s body. He pulled the blankets up over him to trap in the cold air, found two more in the wardrobe and tossed them over the bed as well. He tidied up the floor around the bed, put the top on the half-empty jug and put it away in a kitchen cupboard. He pulled the curtains closed. Bernie had liked to sleep late and had curtains to block out the morning sun. The curtains would help keep the shack cool. Red began to feel better. He’d done his duty. The bach was tidy and Bernie was taken care of. He half-filled a tin with chicken pellets and went out to round up the chooks. There was nothing else he needed to do. Once the chooks were safely in the henhouse he could go home and slip back into his routine. At least until morning. He picked up the two pieces of snapper and turned down the hurricane lamp.

Another day was drawing to a close, a day in which he’d had to confront Japanese poachers and the navy, a day in which Bernie had died and cleared the way for the woman to claim her inheritance. His world was changing, but at least he still survived.

Four

Rosie Trethewey was not happy. When she’d left for work that morning, summer had been in full cry. The sun had beaten down from a cloudless blue sky, and for once, though only briefly, she was glad the judge had taken away her driving license. But the walk up Shelley Beach Road to the bus stop had soon tested her antiperspirant and found it wanting. Her cotton dress had darkened beneath her arms and clung to her back. Then she’d cursed the judge and the smug policemen who’d picked on her and booked her for speeding. Even the judge had expressed surprise that her Volkswagen could go as fast as the police had claimed it had. But that was Rosie. She only had two speeds, flat out and stop.

The afternoon had brought clouds, low and threatening, and sent temperatures plummeting. She’d shivered in windowless offices while the air-conditioning thermostats struggled to figure out what was happening and failed. She’d spent the day talking to groups of women, trying to divine their innermost thoughts and attitudes toward toilet cleaners and bathroom disinfectants. Up until then Rosie had thought that skid marks were something immature men in fast cars left on roads. She’d learned differently and wished she hadn’t. But the job of a market researcher was to research markets, and there was a market for toilet cleaners, just as there was for most other things. She had no control over what products she was given to investigate. Nevertheless, it had been an unedifying day and was no way to spend a life.

“You’ll have to find something else to do,” Norma insisted whenever she moaned about it. Norma was her friend and meant well but, Christ on a motorbike, what was there left for her to do?

The rain had held off until the bus deposited her at the top of Shelley Beach Road, then the heavens had opened. Typical. The only certain thing about the weather in Auckland was that it would change. Rosie began to run but quickly realized the futility of it. She was going to get soaked no matter what she did. She walked head-on into the wind and driving rain as it howled in off the harbor. The thin cotton stuck fast to her body like a second layer of skin, defining her figure in intimate detail. Rosie didn’t care a damn. There was no one dumb enough to be out in the rain to see her, and even if there had been, she was in no mood to care. She was more concerned with the cold and her hates. Walking briskly helped fend off the chill from the wet and wind, but there was nothing she could do about her hates. She hated the judge who wouldn’t let her drive her car, and she hated the police. It was their fault she was cold and wet. She hated buses. She hated her job. She hated her flat. She hated her father, her ex-husband, stupid women who had nothing better to do than waffle on endlessly about toilet cleaners and skid marks as if they were making some worthwhile contribution to the sum total of human knowledge, and she hated dresses that rode up and bunched at the crotch.

“You waste too much energy on negative thoughts,” Norma kept telling her, but Norma was younger, better looking and had a boyfriend who was loaded. It was easy for Norma to give advice. Nature had given her everything except depth.

Her flatmate hadn’t closed their letterbox properly the day before, and all the mail was saturated. She cursed the office wally who told her to keep the windows of her VW open a half inch to let air circulate. Now rain circulated. Too bad. She stepped off the driveway onto the path that wound through the overgrown garden to the once-grand two-story home that had been converted to flats. Leaves tipped water over her as she brushed past unpruned bushes. The downspouts were blocked, causing the gutters to overflow and a sheet of water to cascade off the roof right in front of the steps leading to the front door. She groaned aloud. There was the whole front of the house, but of course the gutters had chosen to overflow by the front door. She’d complained to the landlord.

“Plumber’s coming to fix it next week,” she’d been told, but next week never arrived and neither did the plumber. She hated the landlord, cheap old bastard, and she hated the real estate agent who’d signed her up to a two-year lease. She opened the door to her flat and paused, wondering how to circumnavigate her beloved kelim rugs that lay scattered across the dark-stained timber floors. Then she thought of her flatmate, who’d simply barge in regardless, and gave up. She’d long given up protecting her things against flatmates and considered herself lucky if nothing was stolen when they moved out.

She closed the door behind her, switched on the light because the flat was gloomy even on a bright day, and began to strip off her wet clothes. She thought of leaving them in puddles on the floor as her flatmate would, but thought better of it. It was smarter to leave one big puddle to wipe up than half a dozen smaller ones. She slipped out of her clothes. Wet, cold and naked, she didn’t feel a bit beautiful, but she had the sort of figure that turned men on, particularly the one watching from the window of the house next door. She groaned at the indignity, gathered up her bundle of wet clothes and strode into the bathroom. She didn’t even bother giving her voyeuristic neighbor the finger as she normally did. It bothered her that the man never seemed to blink.

One good thing about the flat was that they never ran out of hot water, not even when her flatmate took his usual half-hour shower. She always flatted with men and still harbored the hope that one day she’d find one who was clever with his hands. In a practical way. But she was always the one who had to change washers on leaky taps, hang curtains and fix doorknobs. Yet the men were better than the women she’d shared flats with in her younger days, who spent forever putting on makeup and no time at all doing housework. She’d begun to relax and let the steaming bathwater do its soothing work when she noticed her towel missing. How many times had she warned her flatmate not to use her towel? But he had. Again. And once again he’d left her towel in his bedroom. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. Perhaps the bastard was working in partnership with the voyeur next door, because she’d have to run the gauntlet once more. Had she left the light on? Of course she had. She hated her flatmate. He had to go. Enough was enough. She lay back in the bath and tried to relax. Perhaps the bloke next door had finally gone blind through self-abuse. That was a thought that comforted her and brought a glimmer of a smile, but only briefly. There was no escaping the reality. She was thirty-four years old, trapped in a grubby bathroom in a grubby flat by a grubby little man next door. What, she wondered, was she doing with her life? The sound of a key turning in the lock on the front door dragged her away from her reveries. Her flatmate had come home.

“Hi!”

She heard him call out and drop his valise. She’d grown tired of telling him to put the bloody thing away, so now it lived just inside the front door. She heard a clump, a step, another clump. He was taking off his shoes. He’d be halfway across the kelims, probably dumping his shoes on her indigo blue Kazak, which he thought didn’t show the dirt.

“Where are you?”

“In the bath, you bastard, waiting for you to come home and replace the towel you nicked this morning.”

“Sorry. Just get out of these things.” She heard his belt buckle scrape on the polished floor. Trousers down. His bedroom-door handle rattled. Coat hung. “Shit!” Slipped taking off socks. It was all so familiar and predictable they might as well have been married instead of just flatmates. Rosie never slept with flatmates, because that created too many complications; she preferred to think of them as no more than rent-sharers. She heard him open her bedroom door, open a cupboard and close it.

“Here he comes,” she said softly, slipping as deeply into the bath as she could, wishing she’d been more liberal with water and soap. But it was the old story. Too little, too late, too bad.

“Here’s your towel. Got a dry one.”

“How very clever of you.” He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t discreetly opened the door a whisker and thrown the towel through the gap. No, he’d just marched straight in and stood ogling her.

“Anything else?”

“John, I am a woman. You are a man. I am naked and you are staring.”

“Sorry.” He made no move to go.

“John, leave me the towel. Put it on the rail. And then please go next door and punch Merv the Perv’s lights out. And when you’ve done that, ask him to do the same to you for the same reason.”

“Jesus, Rosie. Here’s your bloody towel. Don’t bother to say thanks.” He left and closed the door behind him. Rosie didn’t move. She knew better. The door pushed open again. “Want a cup of tea?” John looked vaguely disappointed.

“Yes, please. Now do be a good boy and piss off.”

“Did you get any milk?”

“Why would I get milk? There was plenty when I left this morning.”

“I used it on my cornflakes.”

“John, when you’re drinking your black tea, get the paper and look through the flats-to-let section.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Piss off. Out of my bathroom. Out of my flat. Out of my life. Take as long as you like, but if you’re not gone in one hour you’ll find all your stuff out on the street.”

“You can’t do that. It’s raining. Where will I go?”

“John, you’re still staring. Don’t stare at me. One, I can throw you and all the rubbish you flatteringly call your things out onto the street. You know I can. We know each other well, and you know I’ve done that before. Two, I don’t care if it’s raining. Three, I don’t care a damn where you go. Just go.” Fixing him with the look he’d come to fear, she sat up. He saw her breasts clearly, which is what he’d wanted to see all along, but more than that he saw she meant business. He went.

Rosie sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. John had gone by taxi, but not without argument, not without some of her things as yet undiscovered, and not without asking if he could borrow her car. She was alone again, and wondering if she should cry. The flat was cold and damp and there was no milk. Tomorrow she’d have to begin writing up the report based on the findings of the group discussions she’d conducted. What, she wondered, was the benchmark for removing skid marks, and did anyone really care? There was nothing to eat except limp vegetables, a can of baked beans that John had left behind because he’d put it in the wrong cupboard and a butterscotch-flavored Gregg’s instant pudding, which needed milk. Crying seemed the preferred option when she heard knuckles do a drumroll on her door.

“Come in, Norma, it’s not locked.”

“Hi,” said Norma brightly. “Guess what? You and me are going out to dinner. Loverboy’s had to fly down to Wellington on business. I stopped off at the Bistro and reserved a table.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Rosie. “John rang you to see if he could sleep the night at your place.”

“How’d you know?” Norma seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s good to see you, I need a friend and I’d love to go out to dinner with you because there’s nothing to eat here.”

Norma hung her raincoat on the back of the door and flopped down on a chair opposite Rosie. “What happened?”

“Nothing, everything, the usual, what the hell does it matter? In a funny way I’ll miss him. Sometimes I think I’m the most useless creature on earth, then I come home and John’s here and suddenly I feel reassured.”

“Negative thoughts,” said Norma.

“I’ve earned them,” said Rosie.

“There’s never any excuse for negative thoughts. You’re brainy, your whole illustrious family is brainy, and they’re all wonderfully successful.”

“Except me.”

“Except you. You don’t even try.” Norma stuck a Du Maurier in her mouth and lit it. She had the knack of talking while her cigarette sat glued to her bottom lip.

“What do you mean?” Rosie wasn’t protesting but complaining. She was due a good moan, and moans were only good if there was someone to hear them. “I tried. I still try. Trouble is all I ever wanted to be was a beatnik, make pottery and love everybody and throw pink rose petals in the air. Instead I became a doctor and went off to save the world. They sent me to India, which was full of sick people, but didn’t give me any medicines to save them. Instead of curing them, I joined them and had to be evacuated home. It’s all been downhill since then.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the car. We could drink it now and get another to drink over dinner. What’s this?” She spotted the sodden pile of letters and idly peeled them apart. Bills, more bills and a large envelope with Green Lane Hospital printed across the bottom. Norma raised her eyes questioningly. When she shook the envelope something slid around inside it.

“Probably notification from the VD clinic. That would just about be my luck.”

“Better open it and see,” said Norma.

“You get the wine, I’ll open the envelope. Probably need a drink by the time you get back.”

Norma grabbed the umbrella Rosie hadn’t bothered to take to work with her and dashed out. Rosie picked up the envelope from the hospital and weighed it in her hands speculatively. A fund-raising brochure? A letter from her father? No, he’d know better than to write to her. She could imagine what it would say. “Please find enclosed my written disapproval of the way you are conducting your life.” But perhaps for once the old boy might have got it right. She tore the envelope open and picked up the letter that fell out. She chuckled at the address. “Care of the Professor.” Well the professor had done the right thing and forwarded it on, or at least his receptionist had. She turned it over and looked at the return address, printed neatly on the back though somewhat blurred by rain. “Red O’Hara, Wreck Bay, Care of Col Chadwick, Port Fitzroy, Great Barrier Island.” Her first thought was that she’d won a holiday. She wondered if it was raining on the Barrier.

She pulled a knife out of the cutlery drawer and slipped it beneath the flap. Gingerly she opened the envelope, careful not to damage the contents. She spread the letter and will out on the table and read them.

“Who the hell is Bernie Arbuthnot?” she asked out loud. The name rang a bell, albeit distant. She thought back to when she was a child, accompanying her father on his weekend rounds. She vaguely recalled an old tubercular alcoholic who gave her sweets in exchange for stolen bottles of her father’s beer, and told her rude jokes. She couldn’t remember his name but guessed it was him. “Bernie, you old bastard,” she said.

“Who’s a bastard?” said Norma as she shook out the umbrella at the door. “You haven’t got a dose, have you?”

“Norma, Green Lane Hospital doesn’t have a VD clinic. It has my father instead. Tell me, what do you know about Great Barrier Island?”

“Not much. You can see it away on the horizon on a clear day. Yachties go there, and that amphibian plane flies there. Why?”

Rosie told her.

“God Almighty! You wouldn’t even consider moving there, would you? I mean you’d be mad. No one lives there, well no one with any sense. There’s nothing there.”

“I don’t know,” said Rosie. She didn’t know much about Great Barrier Island, either, but the idea of owning a house and doing nothing but make pottery and grow roses suddenly appealed. Outside, the wind gusted, causing the rain to beat a violent tattoo on the window. She picked up the letter and reread it. Maybe it was a sign, or divine intervention, or simply a stroke of luck out of the blue. A new life beckoned, a better life, a simpler life where she wouldn’t hate everyone and everything around her. She could picture herself at her wheel, shaping the clay, a smile on her face and contentment oozing from every pore. She looked around her flat and thought of a future documenting skid-mark removers and house-training flatmates. Norma shoved a glass of claret into her hand.

“Rosie, I’m telling you, don’t even think of it. You’re not the type.”

“It couldn’t be any worse,” Rosie said softly, optimistically. She took a generous swallow of wine. Somewhere inside her the mischievous young girl who’d wanted to be a beatnik awoke from her slumber.

There was a time when Rosie would have simply walked out of her flat and her job and hopped on the Grumman Widgeon amphibian that flew people out to Great Barrier Island. But age and experience had curbed her impetuosity. The last thing she needed was another disappointment. So the following morning she bought a map of the Barrier and studied it. The first thing she noticed about Wreck Bay was that it appeared uninhabited, the second was that there were no roads that went anywhere near the place, and the third that it was surrounded on three sides by what appeared to be steep and rugged hills, all of which, according to the artist who drew up the map, were covered in dense bush and scrub. There were no trails in or out that she could see. Strangely, she didn’t find any of this the least bit off-putting. On the contrary, she found it intriguing. She knew someone did live there or, at least, had lived there. Bernie had lived there and grown roses. Among the bushes and birds. Gazing out across an ocean that stretched unbroken halfway across the world to Chile. Bernie had managed to live there. How old would he have been, she wondered? She’d thought he was old way back when she was a child. If an old man could live there, so could she. Rosie leaned back in her chair and sipped at her tea and tried to imagine what life at Wreck Bay would be like. No corner stores to run to for milk or bread. No supermarkets. No television or phones. No cars. No electricity. No doctors, apart from herself, and that didn’t count. No voyeuristic neighbors. No neighbors.

No neighbors?

Rosie felt the first tinge of doubt. Surely someone else would live there. She knew she couldn’t handle the loneliness of being all alone. Then she thought of the man who’d left his name on the back of the envelope, Red O’Hara, Wreck Bay. She almost cried with relief. She could be alone but not alone. She picked up the map of Great Barrier Island once more and gazed at the bite out of the northern end. She was staggered that somewhere so close to the bustling city of Auckland could be so remote. Wreck Bay made Easter Island seem like Club Med.

Norma thought Rosie had finally flipped when she applied for two weeks’ leave and booked a flight on Captain Fred Ladd’s amphibian.

“I’m off as soon as I’ve presented my findings on toilet cleaners,” she said.

“You’re mad,” said Norma. All she could do was wonder at the change that had come over her friend. She played her last card. “There are no blokes over there, none that you’d want to go to bed with at any rate, and you’re not cut out for celibacy.” Her cigarette bobbed indignantly.

“It’s only for two weeks,” said Rosie. Her face lit up and she burst out laughing. “I know it’ll be tough, Norma, but I think I’ll survive.”

Five

“Come in, come in.” Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn rosefrom behind a swamp-green metal desk that looked like it had been built from a Meccano set. His office walls shared the same bilious color, and the only relief came from a window overlooking the naval docks that was partially screened off by drab, apple-green venetian blinds, and a painting of the light cruiser Achilles engaged in battle with the German pocket battleship Graf Spee. He’d heard about Red and half expected him to walk in naked. If he had, Red would not have surprised him more.

He wore a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit jacket with wing lapels that might have been popular before the war, but had been studiously avoided by fashion ever since. It was at least two sizes too big but helped hide the frayed blue shirt beneath. His trousers were black and stopped well shy of his ankles. It didn’t help that his shoes were brown. Col had done his best and scratched around for clothes for Red to wear but had had to make do with what had been left behind by guests at the hotel. The lieutenant commander had seen Guy Fawkes effigies on bonfires that were better dressed.

“Sit down, sit down!” he said.

Red sat. If someone had shot his legs out from under him he couldn’t have sat down faster. He looked for somewhere to put the package containing the little urn that held the last mortal remains of Bernie Arbuthnot, finally choosing the corner of the lieutenant commander’s desk. He couldn’t help but notice that the blotter was square to the desk, ruler parallel alongside and pens neatly in a cup. He wrongly assumed that the lieutenant commander was responsible for the orderliness.

“That your friend?”

“Sorry.” Red grabbed the package off the desk and looked for somewhere else to put it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said the lieutenant commander quickly. “Leave it there, it’s okay.”

Red’s hands shook as he placed the urn of ashes back onto the desk. His responsibilities toward Bernie hadn’t ended with the old man’s death. Someone had had to farewell the old boy and nobody else had rushed to put their hand up. The Great Barrier Island community had chipped in for the cremation and to fly the three of them to Auckland on the amphibian. They’d been given a discount to make up for a shortfall in funds on the grounds that a dog didn’t really constitute a person as far as fares went, and Bernie could travel as cargo.

Red and Archie had sat in the little chapel until the coffin had descended. The experience had made Red think of the prayers they used to say over the graves of fallen comrades in Burma and the tears he’d shed over the mate for whom Archie had been named. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Nobody had warned him that the valley was so long and the shadow so deep.

“I appreciate the fact that you’ve come to see me.”

Red looked up, startled. He’d agreed to the arrangement so that the lieutenant commander wouldn’t send a patrol boat to Wreck Bay but wished fervently that he hadn’t.

“Should I offer condolences?”

“A cup of tea, please, sir. Some water for Archie.”

“No problem. Here, let me take your coat.”

If the man had released Red from stocks he could hardly have been more grateful. Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn smiled. It wasn’t every day people dropped in to his office dressed like pimps with a dog and a fresh urn of ashes. He hung Red’s coat on the back of his door and stuck his head into the corridor. “Gloria! Could you do me a tea, a coffee and a bowl of water please? Yeah. Bowl of water. Ta.” He turned and crouched down to let Archie sniff his hand. He ran his hand sharply up and down the dog’s spine. “Like that, do you?” Archie shuffled and made it plain that he did. The lieutenant commander concentrated on the dog and deliberately ignored his owner. Red was on the verge of hyperventilating, and the officer wanted to give him time to settle and relax. He found the spot above Archie’s tail that all dogs like having rubbed and stole a quick look at Red. The man looked like he was going to bolt out through the door at any moment. “Do you think we should have a beer for your mate later?”

“Sherry.”

“What?”

“He drank sherry.”

“Then we’ll have a sherry for him.” Mickey grimaced. “No. Perhaps not. Beer or nothing.”

Red forced a smile. He looked around the little office. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. At least it had a window so he could look outside if the walls started closing in. The lieutenant commander wasn’t as formidable as he’d feared, either, and showed no sign of shouting at him. He was a big bear of a man and seemingly ill at ease with his size. His limbs flopped haphazardly as if their owner only exercised occasional control. But their looseness also suggested that at one time the lieutenant commander might have been an athlete. They were near the same age, but while Red didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, the lieutenant commander had a few pounds too many and had the least military bearing of any officer Red had ever met. He hadn’t expected a lieutenant commander who got down on his hands and knees and patted dogs, and he found that reassuring.

“Red—you don’t mind me calling you Red?—would you please call me Mickey.” He gave Archie one last pat and stood. His uniform had crumpled into familiar folds. The crease in his trousers zigzagged as if unsure of the way to his shoes. “I’ve been called Mickey ever since I started school. My parents hated it, and I hate it. But when they named me Michael Finn, what the hell did they expect?”

Red snorted, an attempt to laugh by a man who had forgotten how. Mickey’s charm was beginning to bite and had a pleasantly familiar ring, like the laconic good humor of the Aussies. A young woman in naval uniform interrupted them with the tea, coffee and Archie’s bowl of water. She appeared very young to Red, almost too young to be in uniform. But then, they’d all been young once.

“Third Officer Gloria Wainscott, my ever-so-efficient assistant. Red O’Hara.”

Red rose awkwardly to his feet and held out his hand uncertainly. He wasn’t sure that shaking hands with women was the right protocol. Women made him uncomfortable and brought back memories.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Hara.” The young woman blushed, disconcerted. Red was staring at her. No, not at her. It was as if he was staring through her, past her to some distant spot only he could see. Gently but firmly she pulled her hand from his grip, and drew the only other free chair up toward the desk. The lieutenant commander gave her a quick glance and cut in.

“Red, is it okay if Gloria joins us? If you prefer …”

“No, it’s okay,” said Red, anxious to please and get the interview over. He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt, pulled at it until the top button gave.

“Right,” said Mickey. “Take your tie off before you choke. While we have our tea, just let me fill you in. Some of this you’ll know already but it won’t hurt to hear it again. Up until January this year our territorial waters extended only three miles from shore. That’s not a lot of water to protect unless you’ve only got four patrol boats to protect it, which is all we had. Despite the blurb our publicity department put out, we did a lousy job. So lousy that at the beginning of the year the government extended our territorial waters to twelve miles, on the theory that if we can’t catch poachers inside three miles, we can catch them inside twelve. When the navy pointed out that they’d actually increased the area of water we had to patrol by four hundred percent, they solved the problem by giving us two more patrol boats. Bit like sending school prefects out to control the mafia.”

“You’re still better off,” said Red quickly, unsure whether he was allowed to comment.

“True. Except that Japan refuses to recognize the twelve-mile zone and has appealed to the International Court of Justice. It’s just a delaying tactic, of course, because our people in Japan know that five prefectures there are about to follow our example and impose their own twelve-mile limits. In the meantime, the Japanese are grabbing all the fish they can and coming down heavy on our guys in trade negotiations. Japan is a major buyer of our wool, so their kanji kaisha—their champion negotiators—simply linked the needs of New Zealand sheep farmers with the needs of Japanese fishermen. The result? They run rings around our blokes, and our government agrees to license a limited number of longliners to fish as close as six miles from the coast. Give us twelve miles and our Sunderlands stand a chance. Give us six and the Japanese skippers laugh at us.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Red.

“I’ll get to that. How’s the tea?”

“Fine.”

“What the government fails to appreciate is that we’re up against the most sophisticated and aggressive fishing fleets in the world. Everybody’s heard about the cod wars off Iceland, but believe me that’s just a sideshow. We’ve got the Japs, and they’ve got the best fish finders in the world, the best techniques, the biggest nets, the longest lines, the most dedicated crews, and they’ve got radar that can find us, often before we can find them. Their dories are faster than anything we’ve got except the Sunderlands, and the flying boats can only photograph poachers but can’t catch them.

“We’ve also got the Russians, who tend to fish out deeper but are not averse to a bit of poaching, either. Their mother ships are equipped with electronic surveillance gear so they can do a bit of intelligence gathering on the side, which, of course, also means they can keep better tabs on us than we can on them. Then there are the Taiwanese, the Chileans and even our friends the Americans. At any time there can be as many as twenty to thirty foreign boats harvesting the waters around New Zealand. Against this armada we have six Fairmiles. Six pathetic Fairmiles.” Mickey Finn stopped talking and took a long sip of coffee. Red shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“What about the Sunderlands?” Red asked.

“Ahhhh … our ace in the hole. A dozen Sunderlands patrolling night and day and a government with balls, and our problem would sail peacefully over the horizon. At least beyond the twelve-mile limit. But we never have more than one Sunderland up at a time and we’re lucky to get that. They’re not ours, they belong to the air force, Number Five Squadron, so we have to rely on interservice cooperation. They’re not bad, the blokes out at Hobsonville, and the aircrew are as committed to nailing the Japs as we are. But it makes things difficult. For example, I can convince my superiors that an intercept is in order, but they in turn have to convince their opposites in the air force. And those blokes have heavies breathing down the phone at them, as well. The Aiguilles operation was ours. We’d planned to intercept that Jap bastard before he reached the Coromandel Peninsula. By the time I’d convinced our guys, and our guys had convinced their guys, and somebody from both services had put their gold braid on the line, two weeks had passed, and you know what happened then. The air force got egg on its face and flipped it neatly onto ours. Christ, you should’ve been here. The phones were on meltdown. Your unfortunate intervention is only going to make it harder for us to get a Sunderland next time.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s history. We have to accept that the current system doesn’t work, and we have to get a whole lot cleverer. It’s no good you or the fisheries ringing us with sightings of poachers, because by the time we do anything about them they’re long gone. They’re too fast and too smart. Our only chance of success lies in targeting the most incorrigible poachers, learning how they operate and then setting a trap for them. To do that, we need an informal network of dedicated observers to keep us informed. That’s where you come in.”

Red leaned forward expectantly, his nervousness forgotten. Mickey found himself pinned by the most startlingly intense eyes he had ever seen. He forced himself to continue.

“You may have read recently that the navy was throwing additional resources behind solving the problem of poaching. I am those resources, or should I say, Gloria and I are those resources. We have been assigned to the fisheries protection squadron to gather intelligence and formulate strategies to counter incursions by foreign vessels. I have some control over the operations of our patrol boats, but in reality I can’t actually do anything without informing my superior, Staff Officer Operations, who in turn reports to Commodore Auckland. This particular Staff Officer Operations is a button polisher and social climber. Rumor has it that he’s never actually set foot aboard a boat. It’s also fair to say that nailing poachers is not the navy’s highest priority. Nor is it necessarily the government’s. There are plenty of people in power who don’t want us to catch the Japanese, fearing the effect incidents might have on our trade relations. They’re worried the Japanese might stop buying our beef or our wool. The government talks big but isn’t prepared to back its words. Yet despite this, we believe we can have some impact. With your help.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Gloria will draw some binoculars and a radio from stores. We want you to report every sighting you make of foreign fishing boats. What can you get out of your boat? Eight knots?”

“Twelve.”

“Do your best to get a solid identification, but call us anyway. If you don’t get the name, hopefully someone else will. You won’t be alone in this. We’re setting up a network of spotters up and down the coast.”

“What happens when you catch poachers?”

The lieutenant commander’s shoulders sagged. “You want to tell him, Gloria?”

“If we’re lucky enough to surprise a foreign vessel fishing in close, we still have a need to gather evidence so we can mount a successful prosecution. If we can get close enough to photograph a mother ship taking dories back on board, identify it and hopefully gather some of their longlines, we can put together a case. Similarly if we catch a trawler at work or hauling aboard nets filled with fish. Then we can make an arrest and use the fish they caught as evidence of poaching. Even so, we have to make the arrest within the twelve-mile limit or, in the case of the licensed longliners, the six-mile limit.”

“Once they’re in international waters there’s not a lot we can do,” cut in Mickey. “If we can’t get them into court we can’t fine them. Instead we send a complaint to their embassy and the vessel is usually withdrawn temporarily from New Zealand waters. I say temporarily advisedly, because give them a couple of months and they’re back again and up to their old tricks. By the way, do you know what the maximum fine is for a skipper of a boat caught poaching? Tell him, Gloria.”

“Fifty pounds, and twenty pounds per crewman. Technically, they can take out thousands of pounds’ worth of fish, all at the risk of a fifty-pound fine.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Red. He could feel his anger rise and fought to suppress it.

“Gets worse,” said Mickey. “The way the laws are written, the only thing our courts can get them on is fishing without a license in an unregistered boat. That’s the irony. They can invade our waters, and the only thing we can do is fine them for not having something they’re not allowed to have in the first place.”

“So why do you bother?” asked Mickey.

“It’s my job and someone has to do it. Look, the fines themselves mean nothing. It’s the time the boats and crews lose in port, waiting for the case to be heard. Meanwhile our fearless prime minister sends an official protest note to Japan, which usually results in the vessel being withdrawn back to Japan in disgrace. That costs the fishing companies a lot of money. That’s the big stick we wave.” Mickey leaned back in his chair and opened his arms expansively. “We don’t pay, the hours are long and the conditions lousy, but will you join our little band anyway? Be our eyes and ears?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

“Good man! So look and don’t touch from now on?”

“What if the dories are fishing in close?”

Mickey took a long look at Red and surrendered to the inevitable. “Check with me first. If there’s no operation planned I guess there’s no reason why you shouldn’t rip into them. But be careful. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. I guess if that bastard Shimojo Seiichi tries another crack in close it won’t hurt if you keep him on his toes.”

“Shimojo Seiichi?” The name came easily to Red’s lips, his accent near flawless. It had been so long ago yet still seemed like yesterday.

“He’s the skipper of the Aiko Maru, the longliner you frightened off.”

“Shimojo Seiichi,” Red repeated softly, committing the name of his enemy to memory. “When do I get the radio and binoculars?”

“Gloria?”

“Might take a while, sir. You’ve promised quite a few lately.”

“We’ll do our best.” Mickey stood. “Now how about that beer for your mate? I come off duty in five minutes.” He picked up the package on his desk and handed it back to Red. “Guess you’ll be lonely up there now.”

“Yeah,” said Red. “With any luck.”

Mickey Finn put Red and Archie on a tender that was taking officers’ wives across the harbor to the Admiralty Steps. Red carried two packages, the second one containing his jacket and tie, which Gloria had offered to wrap up in brown paper. She’d guessed correctly that Red would rather be cold than wear the dreadful jacket again. The flight back to Great Barrier wasn’t due to leave for another three hours, so Red decided to walk to Mechanics Bay, where the amphibian was based. He knew there was no point trying to find a taxi driver who was prepared to carry a dog. He tried to ignore the thunderous diesel trucks and their foul-smelling exhausts as they hauled cargoes on and off the wharves. He glanced up at the steel bows of the giant cargo ships. Everything was Something Maru. It hadn’t been so very long ago when every ship in port had boasted British registration. What had happened? How had everything gone so wrong? He turned his attention to Archie to calm him down. The dog was spooked by the trucks and forklifts whizzing around him, and pulled at the rope leash Red had made for the visit. They couldn’t get out of Auckland fast enough.

He thought about the lieutenant commander. He seemed a good man, the type that did well in Burma. It buoyed Red to know that others felt the same way about the Japanese fishing fleet as he did and wanted to do something about it. It gave him hope. The lieutenant commander’s young assistant troubled him, but he knew he’d get over it. Despite the fact that she had light brown hair and hazel eyes, she made him think of Yvonne, and he’d managed not to think of her for such a long time. She made him think of what he’d lost, what the Japanese had taken from him. He could never forgive. They were always one step ahead, always taking away, always destroying. His hands began to shake. Two Japanese sailors heading ashore walked out through the wharf gates ahead of him. He automatically checked his stride so that he wouldn’t walk in front of them and stopped.

“Konichi-wa,” he said, head bowed. “Good day.” Twenty-two years had passed but nothing had changed.

“Konichi-wa!” the sailors replied, surprised that someone spoke their tongue, and even more surprised that it was a quivering tramp with a dog. They laughed and walked on. Just past them a newspaper boy was selling an early edition of the Auckland Star. The headlines trumpeted the good news: Japanese wool buyers had pushed prices to a new high.

The flight back to Tryphena, at the southern end of Great Barrier, took thirty minutes, five minutes longer than scheduled, because Captain Ladd had spotted a whale and its calf and swooped low to show Red. They’d managed to get close enough to see the barnacles growing on the mother. There’d been a time when whales were a common sight, but the whaling station at Whangaparapara had put paid to that. The Japanese weren’t to blame for everything.

Red decided to call into Fitzroy on the way home to refill his tanks. He slipped through Man-of-War Passage on the south side of Selwyn Island with barely twenty meters of water either side. Both shores were fringed with giant pohutukawa trees, which had insinuated their way into every niche in the rocks and seemed to thrive in the barren ground. Once around Selwyn Island he found shelter from the prevailing winds, the southwesterlies, which were the bane of the island and the reason why Port Fitzroy was so popular with yachties. Up on the ridges, the surviving kauris and totaras shook their heads as if warning all sailors against taking to the sea. Red was glad he had his sweater, work trousers and parka. He was going to need them.

Col was waiting for him on the wharf and tied off his painter. Red handed back the borrowed jacket, trousers, tie and shoes and accepted two four-gallon tins of diesel in exchange, which Col had filled and ready.

“How’d it go?” asked Col.

“As Bernie wanted.”

“Think I’d rather be planted myself.”

“What difference does it make?”

“My way, the worms get a feed. Oh hell. I forgot. There’s a letter for you up at the shop. Help yourself. I’ll go fetch it.”

A letter. Red couldn’t remember when anybody had last sent him a letter. His spirits sank. There’d been a time when letters promised hope, life and an afterward. It hadn’t even mattered if the letter had been written to someone else. News from home had been proof that the rest of the world still existed, still cared. But letters had since come to mean something else, and he didn’t relish receiving them. Red had no reason to expect this letter to be any more welcome. Maybe some government department wanted to move him off his land. After all, there’d been talk of turning the north end of the island into a reserve. He sought diversion in work, but the fuel poured too slowly into his tank, and all that was required was patience. Why couldn’t the world leave him alone? Archie sensed his distress and nuzzled up close.

Col returned and handed him the letter. Red examined it cautiously and distastefully, as if it might explode. The envelope was white and his name and address typewritten. The name of a market research company was printed in orange on the back. He didn’t even know what a market research company was. It made no sense to him.

But it would soon enough.

Six

Angus McLeod was as happy as he’d ever been. He stirred and thought briefly about pulling his bedcovers up over his head to try to block out Bonnie’s insistent meowing. It was time for breakfast and both of them knew it. The first rays of the morning sun had pierced his window and lit upon his bed, warming and seductively indolent. He had no reason to rise other than his ingrained sense of discipline, but that was reason enough. Angus was one of those dour Scots to whom happiness always carried with it a suspicion of sin and was never acknowledged without due caution.

He followed Bonnie to the door of his refrigerator. The shiny new Kelvinator was one of two additions to a rather primitive kitchen. The other was a new Stanley woodstove imported from Ireland. Only the Kelvinator looked out of place, a proud and incongruous acknowledgment of progress alongside a chipped enamel sink with two brass taps, a kauri countertop, table and chairs.

“Here you go, you spoiled thing,” he said as he gave Bonnie a saucer of fish pieces. “Look at you now, fatter than butter, like a sheep with the bloat.” He slipped a couple of pieces of hakea into the Stanley’s firebox and opened the flue to boost the flame. With nothing to do but wait until the hob had heated sufficiently to boil water for his tea and fry his fish, he strolled out onto his veranda to greet the day. Like so many of his countrymen, Angus had left home with the solemn hope of re-creating it in some other part of the world. It wasn’t until he retired from the New Zealand police force five years earlier at the age of sixty that he finally realized his objective. He gazed over a landscape that was as wild, rugged and inhospitable as his birthplace on the slopes of Mount Conneville on Scotland’s far northwest coast. Of course his bach was a castle compared to the crofter’s hut that had been his home, with its thatched roof, cold stone walls and pounded-dirt floor. And the vegetation bore no resemblance other than that it clung to the poor soil in equal desperation. But he’d found heather upon the slopes, not the true heather of Scotland but a species he’d grown up calling ling. Still, it was heather enough for him to collect and dry and hang in bundles from the kitchen’s exposed beams. It helped make him feel at home.

Angus took advantage of the morning sun to eat his breakfast out on his veranda, where he could look down over the treetops to his boat moored in the bay below. Now that he was up, he was anxious to get to work. Angus had two secrets. The first was that he wrote children’s books. He did his best to conceal the fact because he didn’t think it was a fitting occupation for a retired police officer. It concerned him that others might interpret it as weakness or a softening on his part, and he couldn’t allow that. Nevertheless, his writing gave him great pleasure and satisfaction. If he’d had a chat with Rosie’s father, the psychiatrist would probably have concluded that Angus was compensating for the childhood he’d never had.

He noticed Red’s boat back was on its mooring when a wind shift brought it into view. So the madman had returned. A few years earlier he would have arrested him for indecent exposure or for causing a public nuisance and had him locked away in the Carrington Road mental institution. He didn’t doubt that Red meant well, but equally it was clear all was not as it should be inside his head. Insanity troubled Angus, it was something beyond his ken. He was just about to sit down at his typewriter and return to the story of the boy who tamed the fierce griffin and saved his village, when movement caught his eye. It was the madman and his dog, coming up the trail toward his house. He looked for Bonnie, thinking he could throw her inside before they arrived, but she had also spotted the visitors and run along the veranda rail to greet them. He felt a surge of anger build up as he waited for Red to appear through the tea-tree arch that marked the head of the trail.

“What is it you want this time?” he snapped. “Can you not leave me alone for five minutes?” His eyebrows bristled and his face flushed with indignation.

“We need to talk,” said Red.

“We need do no such thing! Away with you, now. Stop pestering me!”

“Angus, we need to talk.” Red had learned to be patient with the belligerent old Scot, but controlling his temper had not come easy. There’d been a time when his temper had cost him his freedom, when he’d exploded for no reason and could do nothing to control it.

“If it’s about the old man, I’ve nothing more to add.”

“How can you add to nothing?” Red’s hands began to shake.

“Don’t you play smart with me! I contributed to his funeral.”

“You should have contributed to his life.” Red felt his patience slip and his anger flare. He didn’t want to talk about Bernie, but now that Angus had raised the subject there were things that had to be said. Responsibilities that had to be faced. “You had a duty to attend his funeral.”

“I don’t attend funerals.”

“He was your comrade.”

“He was no comrade of mine. He was my neighbor; an acquaintance and distant at that!”

“No!” Red began to shout back, his voice growing shrill. “He was your neighbor and your comrade. He would have stood by you if you’d needed help. Bernie would never have turned his back on you like you did on him. You had an obligation.”

“I have obligations to no man. I did not want him as my friend. I did not want him as my neighbor. I don’t want you as my neighbor and I certainly don’t want you as my friend.” Years as police spokesman had taught Angus how to use words to maximum effect, and his precise Highland accent turned them into bullets. He watched them strike home with satisfaction.

“Like it or not, we’re neighbors, and neighbors carry obligations.” Red stuck doggedly to the beliefs that had been shaped in Burma and had enabled men to survive.

“I don’t want neighbors. Can’t you get that through your thick skull? I don’t need you. Now, would you kindly get off my land and take that mangy animal with you.”

Red took a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn’t leave without raising the matter he’d come to discuss. Angus glowered at him, and he glowered back. Finally Red turned away. He looked at Archie and Bonnie, one purring and the other wagging his tail. How could natural enemies like a cat and dog get along so well while their respective masters were at each other’s throats? “I didn’t come here to discuss Bernie,” he said softly. “I came to tell you about the woman he left his bach to.”

“What!” Angus nearly tripped off his veranda.

“Bernie wrote a will and left his bach to a woman.”

“To a woman!” Angus could hardly conceive of a greater blasphemy. “How do you know about this will?”

“He asked me to witness it.”

“Then you’re a bloody fool, man! A bloody fool!”

“What would you have had me do, Angus? Deny a dying man? Lose his letter overboard? Is that what you would have had me do?”

“Don’t you mock me!” Angus wrung his hands in frustration. “Bonnie, get inside!” Bonnie took no notice. “A woman, you say? Here? At Wreck Bay? Was the old man mad?”

“She sent me a letter. She wants me to pick her up from Fitzroy next Saturday.”

“You’re not going!”

“No choice!”

“Of course you’ve choice, man! Have you lost your senses altogether?”

“Angus, if I don’t fetch her she’ll just pay someone else to bring her. The question isn’t whether I pick her up, it’s what do we do when she gets here.”

“Dear God, a woman here at Wreck Bay!” A thought occurred and gave cause for hope. “She’s not young, this woman? Perhaps she’s one of Bernie’s old flames?”

“From what Bernie told me I’d say she’d be in her mid-thirties.”

“Oh dear God … Married, perhaps, is she?”

“She’s coming alone.”

“Dear God in heaven.”

“Angus, think about it. There’s nothing here for her. We’ve got to stick together and make sure she understands that.”

“Aye, we’d better talk. You’d better come up here. I suppose I should offer you a drop of tea. Make sure your dog stays down there, mind.”

“Archie goes where I go.”

“Ah, suit yourself!” The dog was the least of his worries. Angus walked slowly back into his kitchen to put another hakea stick on the flames and the kettle back on the hob. “Dear God, a woman here! A young woman, at that!” He’d found paradise and peace, a hiding place from the dream that he’d finally accepted could never be. But it seemed the dream had sought him out once more and brought with it all the pain of despair and abandoned hopes that he thought he’d left behind forever. His brain struggled to comprehend the scale of the disaster. He couldn’t allow it to happen. They couldn’t allow it to happen. Whatever it took, they couldn’t allow the woman to come to Wreck Bay.

The two men sat together on the veranda, uncomfortable with their closeness, plotting and concocting schemes neither man was capable of executing. They discussed wrecking Bernie’s bach, but neither man was a vandal. They thought of draining his water tank, but abandoned that idea for the same reason. They thought of laying baits to encourage the native rats to move into the bach, but they didn’t like the idea of encouraging the kiore, either. They decided they could do nothing but allow the isolation and deprivations of Wreck Bay to speak for themselves, confident that they would not so much speak as shriek. Let her face the prospect of hauling four-gallon tins of diesel all the way up the hill from the beach. Let her face the prospect of carrying bucketfuls of soil for her garden over the hills from Whangapoua. Let her face the prospect of taking a boat single-handed around Aiguilles Island in hostile weather to fetch supplies. Let her learn the vagaries of cooking on the decrepit Shacklock Orion slow-combustion stove. Let her suffer the deprivations of life without shops, cinemas, bright lights or a friendly voice. Let her fend for herself. Wreck Bay was wildly beautiful but promised a hard life to anyone who chose to occupy its shores. The two men resolved not to make it easier for her.

They parted not as friends but as reluctant allies, each committed from self-interest to a common cause. Red took the track down to the beach to prepare his boat and set off with Archie for the rise beyond Aiguilles Island to honor his dead mate’s wishes. Angus had declined Red’s invitation to join him and help in the scattering of Bernie’s ashes. Instead he sat unmoving, head in hands, trying to find the strength to confront and dismiss his fears. If any prayers had passed his lips they would’ve been reserved for his own salvation, not Bernie’s.

Angus was not one to admit failure, yet he had failed to accomplish the one thing he believed made sense of his existence. He’d never wanted riches, fame, possessions, nor particularly a wife. He’d learned to expect nothing and to be given less. But it had never seemed an unreasonable expectation to one day have a boy child in his image. A son to indulge as he had never been indulged, to love as he had never been loved, to shape and mold and make beneficiary of his experiences and wisdoms. A son who would love and look up to him. If marriage had been the price, he would have paid it stoically, but there would never have been the slightest doubt as to whom the boy belonged. The boy would have been his, and he felt the lad’s absence from his life as keenly as a blade. This was Angus’s second secret.

Angus had come to terms with his disappointment, and the woman threatened his acceptance. Her presence would remind him of his failure and, worse, perhaps rekindle his hopes. He could not allow it, not allow it! Waves of anguish washed over him so bitterly that he groaned in despair, startling Bonnie, who’d settled on his lap. He looked up at the dense wild bush surrounding him, his home by choice and hiding place from necessity. What would happen when he could no longer hide?

Seven

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

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

“Bit rude.”

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

“What’s he like, I mean physically?”

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

“His what?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

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

“More promising if you were a dog.”

“What?”

Captain Ladd told Rosie about Archie.

“What about the other bloke you mentioned?”

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

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

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

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look. There! By my place.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think you’ll give it a go?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

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

“Thanks, Fred.”

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

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

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

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

“How’d you like the snapper?”

“Great, Col.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds a good system.”

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

“Only if you let me pay you something.”

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

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a doctor?” said Jean in awe.

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

“All the same …” said Jean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay, Col, I can manage.”

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

“Just pass me her stuff, Col.”

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

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

“Hell you playin’ at, Red?”

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

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

“Earliest I could get here.”

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

“Just pass the stuff down to me.”

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

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Hold it. What’s going on?”

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

“Red, this is Rosie Trethewey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosie shook her head.

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

“I’ve brought a bucket.”

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

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

“Here’s Jean.”

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

“Good luck!”

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We’re just coming into Wreck Bay.”

“What? So soon?”

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

“And wipe that smile off your face.”

Red stiffened.

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

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

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

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

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

“Archie goes where I go.”

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

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

“A torch?”

“So you can see where you’re going.”

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

“Probably?”

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

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

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

“Here’s another.”

She reached up and grabbed the second carryall.

“How are you going with the torch?”

“Give me a chance!” she snapped.

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

“Don’t forget the diesel.”

“Who could forget the diesel?”

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

“What?”

“My clothes.”

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

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

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

“Where are you going?”

“To the mooring.”

“Oh.”

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

“Nice penis,” said the voice behind it.

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

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

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

“Then lead on. Do you need my torch?”

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

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

“Red! Wait!” she called weakly.

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

“I’ll take your bags.”

“Thanks, Red. How much farther?”

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

“About halfway.”

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

“Need a hand up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looks like you’ve been busy.”

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

“The flowers are a nice touch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Red, before you go.”

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

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

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!”

Nine

The windows were steamed up, and Rosie had stripped down to shorts and T-shirt. Both front and back door were wide open, yet sweat trickled from every pore. Through trial and error, she’d finally got the hang of the Shacklock. She’d burned almost all the firewood she’d brought in, an unsustainable rate of consumption, and in the process boiled the kettle, heated enough water for a hot bath and turned the bach into a sauna. The trouble was, the idea of a hot bath had been usurped by the need for a cold shower. But she’d mastered the beast and learned how to control the rate of burn and the oven and the stove-top temperatures. She’d also learned how to bake bread, not just one humble loaf but two, big, hearty, round country-style cobs. She thought of taking one around to Red as a thank-you for picking her up and cleaning up the shack but thought better of it. If she’d understood Col correctly, rule one was look after yourself first and only share your surplus. She had no surplus. Half of one loaf was for now, the rest she divided into quarters for freezing. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to bake any more bread until she returned for good.

She cut herself off a thick slice, spread it generously with butter and a veneer of honey and wandered out onto the veranda. The air tasted like water from a mountain stream, a pleasure she’d discovered on a skiing holiday. The sun hadn’t broken through, but the clouds were lifting and sucking up wisps of mist from the trees and scrub. Fantails, white-eyes and goldfinches chirped and flitted in the tight weave of bushes, relishing the end of the wind and rain. The punga palms seemed poised to stretch their monkey tails, and the nikau palms glistened. The world glowed squeaky clean. The only thing missing was a hard-earned cuppa.

She left her slice of bread on the veranda rail, and wandered inside to put the kettle back over the heat. By the time she wandered back outside she’d been gone for less than a minute. She paused, puzzled. Her bread had disappeared. She went back indoors to see if she’d taken it inside with her. She hadn’t. She wandered back outside, wondering if she was going mad.

“Okay, Red,” she said, as she seized on the obvious solution. “You win. Give me my lunch back.” Silence. “Red! A joke’s a bloody joke! Even a childish joke!” Silence. “I’ll fix another slice for you.” No answer. “Stuff you. You enjoy it. I’ll make myself another.” She went back inside, buttered another slice and spread it with honey. She poured her tea, wandered back outside and looked around. “If you want a cup of tea to go with my lunch, you can damn well pour your own.” She put her new slice of bread down on the rail to take a sip of tea and immediately discovered who’d come calling. It wasn’t Red, but a brazen pair of dusky green-brown parrots. “Bloody hell!” she cried. Her tea splashed into her saucer as she grabbed her bread, narrowly beating the birds. “Thanks, Bernie,” she said.

The birds, who’d kept Bernie company and benefited from his handouts, waited patiently for the new Bernie to show similar generosity. She broke off a piece of bread and gently reached forward to put it down on the rail. One of the kakas fluttered onto her wrist and ripped the offering from her fingers. The other turned its head to the side as if looking for its share.

“Bloody hell,” said Rosie, her heart thumping. “How about a bit of respect for a lady?” She broke off another piece and this time held still. The remaining bird flew onto her wrist, settled and calmly ate the bread out of her hand. “You cute thing.” The bird looked up at her doubtfully. She began to chuckle. The kaka ignored her, finished its meal and took wing. She sat back on the veranda chair and sipped her tea. It felt like her whole body was smiling. The sun peeped through the clouds, bathing the palms and bushes, trees and ferns in crystal light. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be really happy.

She finished her tea and began an unhurried tour of inspection. There was no doubt that the half drum at the bottom of the lavatory pit needed raising and emptying or a new hole dug. This was one problem no amount of toilet cleaner could fix. She wondered how the precious ladies with their obsession with skid marks would cope, and smiled. They belonged in another world, one she hoped she’d left behind forever. She had no idea how to raise the drum or dispose of its contents and concluded that the toilet was best moved to another location and the hole filled in. But that raised its own set of problems. Digging a new hole and resiting the toilet was a formidable job, one that was way beyond her limited abilities. One way or another, she had to get help.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.