Harlequin Rex (12 page)

Even
though
the
older
man
was
using
the
big,
iron-tipped
rammer
around
the
post,
and
the
muscles
of
his
shoulders
shook
with
the
impact,
David
couldn’t
hear
the
thuds.
His
father
wore
a
green
army
singlet,
shorts
and
steel-capped
boots.
And
oddly
studious
glasses
that
mitigated
all
other
appearances.
The
sweat
in
his
hair
made
it
more
noticeable
that
it
was
thinning
on
top.
Even
in
that
strong,
cooling
wind,
he
took
off
his
glasses
and
wiped
sweat
from
beneath
 
his
eyes.
‘Ah,’
he
said,
‘I’ll
be
glad
to
get
this
big
bugger
in.’

‘Give
us
a
go.
’

‘Good
on
you.’
His
father
sat
down
thankfully
in
the
grass,
and
blew
his
cheeks
out
in
the
wind.
His
boots
were
downhill,
and
he
rested
his
forearms
on
his
knees,
so
that
the
hands
hung
from
the
wrists.
His
fingers
remained
partly
set
in
the
grip
for
the
rammer.
‘This
fencing
lark’s
not
much
by
yourself.
’
He
must
have
cut
himself
with
wire
earlier
in
the
day,
for
there
was
blood
dried
black
on
the
back
of
his
left
hand,
and
a
red,
moist
centre.

David
wondered
what
his
father
thought
about
during
all
those
working
days
and
years
on
his
own.
Classical
Greece,
he
supposed,
and
Rome,
as
well
as
the
stuff
of
farming.
That
was
his
father’s
degree,
and
when
he’d
done
his
thesis
on
Sulla,
that
old
Felix,
and
spent
the
five
university
years
that
had
been
agreed
on
by
his
own
family,
then
he’d
come
back
to
the
farm,
as
if
it
had
been
the
most
natural
progression
in
the
world.
Maybe
it
was,
and
maybe
that
combination
of
historical
detachment
by
training
and
affinity
for
place
by
birth,
was
the
reason
that,
whatever
failings
he
showed,
malice
was
never
one
of
them.

‘I
reckon
I’m
going
to
go
overseas
for
a
while.
It
seems
a
good
time
to
have
a
look
around
before
settling
in
here
to
help
you.
’
David
hunkered
down
close
beside
his
father,
so
that
they
could
talk
despite
the
wind.
He
held
the
handle
of
the
rammer
loosely,
conscious
of
its
surface,
smooth
from
years
of
use.
‘
Will
you
be
okay
to
do
without
me
for
a
while?
A
year
maybe.
No
longer.
’

‘
Go
for
it,
’
said
his
father.
‘I
can
get
by
fine.
I
just
won’t
put
much
crop
in,
because
that’s
the
heavy
work.’

The
two
of
them
sat
close
in
the
short
grass
by
the
new
strainer
post,
and
the
wind
raced
up
and
down
the
slope,
plucking
at
the
words
passing
between
them
about
places
overseas
not
to
be
missed,
about
the
isolation
of
their
own
country,
about
opportunity
and
the
old
world.
David’s
father
talked
of
his
visits
to
the
village
of
Spaniakos
in
Crete,
and
 
the
family
who
at
great
risk
had
hidden
his
own
father
from
the
Germans
in
the
war.
He
urged
David
to
go
there
and
meet
them
again.

Such
symmetries
are
attractive,
but
actuality
takes
no
account
of
them.
David
never
reached
Crete.
There
came
instead
an
evening
in
Gattinara,
northern
Italy,
when
David
had
a
phone
call
from
his
mother
asking
him
to
come
back.
His
father
had
suffered
three
strokes
within
a
day.
It
was
afternoon
in
New
Zealand,
his
mother
said,
and
David
could
see
in
his
mind’s
eye
the
view
from
the
phone
table
by
the
large
window
—
her
summer
garden
immediately,
and
then
the
family
land
of
Beth
Car
sloping
to
the
hills.
Almost
he
could
catch
the
fragrance
of
white
roses
his
mother
would
have
in
the
heavy
blue
vase,
yet
his
actual
view
was
the
pale,
damaged
ceramic
tiles
patched
with
snow
and
the
cobbled
streets
of
the
old
quarter
beyond
the
hotel,
the
chunky
girl,
dark
and
sleek
as
a
dormouse,
who
watched
as
he
spoke
to
his
mother,
the
smell
of
shoes,
trivial
histories
and
wine
in
the
old
hotel.
The
loose
floor
tiles
clinked
like
silver
beneath
his
feet,
and
the
light
fitting
had
a
wizened
fabric
shade
like
an
apricot
corset.

‘You
know
what
he’s
like,’
his
mother
said.
‘He
won’t
ask
outright,
for
anything,
but
he
wants
to
see
you.’

‘Guai,
allora?
Sei
net
guai?’
the
girl
was
saying.

David
was
home
in
three
days.
He
was
amazed
how
quickly
his
father
had
lost
his
tan:
maybe
it
was
that
the
blood
had
gone
from
his
face.
He
sat
rather
awkwardly
on
a
wooden
garden
seat
facing
up
the
slope
of
the
farm,
just
as
David
had
imagined
it
in
Gattinara.
A
drought
summer,
as
most
of
them
were,
and
the
dry
grass
was
worn
back
from
the
ridges.
Only
the
lucerne
paddocks,
the
thistles
and
the
windbreaks
were
green,
and
the
willows
and
occasional
poplars
that
followed
the
course
of
the
creek.
His
father
was
quiet
but
calm:
dispassionate
concerning
the
cycle
of
growth
and
decay
so
apparent
to
him
both
in
classical
history
and
the
seasons
of
his
farm.
He
talked
of
the
arrangements
 
he
had
made
for
his
wife
and
David,
then
he
talked
as
calmly
of
what
he
wanted
for
himself.
And
he
rested
a
hand
on
David’s
arm
in
a
way
quite
natural
and
habitual,
despite
the
self-sufficiency
of
his
nature.

All
done
without
the
presence
of
his
wife,
of
course.

He
talked
slowly
and
with
little
inflection,
but
it
was
clear
enough.
‘The
thing
is,
I
don’t
want
to
linger
on
—
no
good
to
anyone,
least
of
all
myself.
And
you
get
to
that
time
when
you’re
too
sick
to
be
at
home,
and
so
you
have
to
pay
the
bloody
earth
to
stay
in
some
institution.
A
thousand
dollars
a
week
maybe,
so
that
money
that
should
be
for
your
mother
is
gobbled
up
and
for
no
reason.
The
professions
close
in
when
a
family’s
at
its
most
vulnerable,
and
rip
out
what
they
can.
You
understand
what
I
mean?
You
saw
where
your
grandmother
was
—
one
of
many
in
chairs
lining
the
wall
of
the
Eventide
Home’s
sunroom,
their
mouths
open,
but
speechless,
queuing
even
for
death.
’