He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (30 page)

‘No fear, not me.’

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you two.
 
You get the chance to meet some young people your own age, have a bit of fun, even dance with some girls and the two of you are like a couple of wet fleeces.’

‘We’re happy as we are, aren’t we, Tone?’

‘And I’m extra busy with my school work at the moment.’

‘That’s precisely why you need to go.
 
Don’t forget what they say about all work and no play.’
 
Peg began walking away, calling over her shoulder, ‘Did I tell you I’m in charge of the buffet supper, so there’ll be a good few of my special pavs there.

‘I suppose we could go,’ Joe said, loud enough for Peg to hear.

‘Good.
 
Saturday at seven.
 
I’ve already got your tickets.’

That night, it happened again and it pushed the dance a long way from my thoughts.
 
Like before, it wasn’t a voice, not an audible one at any rate, and I wasn’t asleep. Along the hall, I could hear Peg’s’s rhythmic snoring, while outside everything was still.
 
It was like it had been at the Downstons when I’d been woken up with the same persistent tapping somewhere inside me.
 
I levered myself into a sitting position, accustoming my eyes to the darkness.
 
The feeling intensified, but there were no pictures or words to help me.
 
It was more of an imprint on my spirit.
 
I got out of bed and stood at the window looking down on what I was already beginning to think of as Joe’s garden.
 
Jack would say I was suffering from a touch of indigestion; too much of Peg’s ginger pudding.
 
But indigestion didn’t make you feel as if someone was shaking you at your deepest point.
 
Bad acid didn’t contribute to the impression someone was pleading for your attention.

‘What is it?’
 
I whispered, but I knew even as I spoke that my words were hanging static there in my room.
 
I continued to stare from the window as the first line of light appeared on the horizon.

The week before the community hall dance, Peg cooked herself into a frenzy.
 
If she hadn’t been able to listen to
Aunt Daisy
on the radio while she was doing it, she didn’t know what she would have done, she said.

On the actual night, I couldn’t imagine where everyone had come from; dozens of people jiggling and jostling each other on the dance floor.
 
The dancing wasn’t the kind they did in England, where men and women stood close together with their arms around each other, and which the Gang swore they’d never do.
 
At this dance, men were flinging women all over the place, even throwing them over their shoulders and turning them upside down.
 
All of it was done to a deafening drum beat and twanging guitars.

‘This is sissy compared to
The Travellers
.’
 
Joe wedged himself into a corner.

‘What d’you mean?’
 
I couldn’t see what was sissy about this sort of dancing.

‘There’s no beer,’ Joe complained.

‘Are you going to ask someone to dance?’
 
I shot a glance at a row of girls sitting with their hands clasped in their laps.
 
Their skirts were well above their knees, and their hair was piled high on top and stretched wide at the sides

‘Not on your nellie!
 
Real men don’t dance.’

I looked around at the crowded dance floor.
 
‘They do here.’

‘I’m going outside.
 
This racket’s driving me up the wall.
 
Can’t stand the crowd either,’ Joe grumbled.

I knew how he felt.
 
We hadn’t seen so many people all together since the day we arrived in Wellington.
 
Our isolation had changed us and we hadn’t realised it.

‘What’re you two doing skulking in the corner?’
 
Peg advanced towards us, licking her fingers free of cream.
 
‘You should be out there on that floor enjoying yourselves.’

‘We’re all right as we are, thanks.’

‘Of course you’re not.’
 
Peg wiped her hands on her apron.
 
‘Come with me.’
 
She yanked us from our chairs, put her palms into the small of our backs and before either of us could object further, she was shoving us to the edge of the dance floor.
 

‘Ann!
 
Merrin!’
 
She called to two girls still sitting, waiting and hopeful.
 
‘Come and teach these boys how to rock and roll.’

‘I’m off,’ Joe tried to free himself from Peg’s grip, but a girl a head taller than him was already leading him on to the dance floor.
 
‘I’m Ann,’ I heard her say, as Merrin took my hand and pulled me towards the crowd of dancers.

‘Haven’t you really done this before?’ Merrin made it sound as if I must have lived on a far off planet, or that I had been imprisoned somewhere.
 
She was partly right.

‘It’s easy.
 
All you have to do is flick me left or right, and that’s the way I’ll go.’

It wasn’t so simple.
 
To begin with, I was sure she’d swung left when I’d flicked her right, or right when I’d flicked her left.
 
We bumped into people, almost fell over, but once or twice Merrin managed the perfect twirl, laughing, breathless, her skirt billowing.

It’s shot taffeta … It’s for my bridesmaid’s dress.
 
See it changes colour … gorgeous isn’t it ... .and Lori’s going to buy me this headdress of silver leaves and silver shoes to go with it
.

Angela pirouetted in front of me as she had in our kitchen at Blountmere Street.
 
I stopped for a moment and swallowed, struggling with the overpowering sadness that had suddenly fallen on me.

‘Are you all right?
 
Do you want to stop?’
 
Merrin asked.

‘No, no, I’m all right.’ I said, but I knew then what I had to do.

The brave yet cowardly rollers mesmerized me as they attacked the sand then retreated.
 
Above me shags circled, while seals reclined fatly content on flinty outcrops.

At last I found a smooth rock to lean against and, balancing a book on my knees to rest on, I began to write once again to Paula.

This time, my letter was longer.
 
My life since leaving England at least needed some explanation.
 
Once I began, it kept coming.
 
It was like sitting on her back doorstep on Saturday afternoons.
 
I told her about my first letter to her and how Fergus had lost it; about Joe and our time at Downstons.
 
I confided to her my mind visits to Blountmere Street each morning.
 
I told her about Fergus and the way we used to read poetry together in the evenings in the men’s quarters; about my lessons at the township school.
 
I asked her where she went to school and if she had been attempting to reach me in my head, as we’d once said we would.
 
I’d often tried, I wrote, but it never worked.

Up and up it surged.
 
And still it kept gushing like oil from a deep well.
 
Where was Angela now?
 
Did Paula still keep in touch with her?
 
Was Ang all right?
 
Was she working?
 
Would she send Angela’s address and … and a photo?
 
Would they all send photos?
 
I would let them have one of me as soon as I could get it taken.
 
And Lori and Fred?
 
Did they still keep in touch?
 
How were they?
 
Had they said anything about why they weren’t there to meet me?

The waves grew more courageous, pummeling the rocks.
 
The seals, seeking revival, plopped into the white capped frenzy.

For the first time since beginning the letter, I hesitated.
 
Mum – how had she died?
 
Had she been in hospital?
 
She hadn’t been on her own, had she?
 
Did Paula happen to know if Mum had said anything – left any message for me before she passed on?

And then it was over.
 
The well was dry.
 
I addressed the envelope, sealed it, and walked back along the beach.
 
Purged.
 
Very light.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘A cracker of a bird, this one.’
 
Jack’s sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and sweat glistened on his arms as he carved the Christmas turkey.

Outside, a snowy-clothed table was fast becoming covered with bowls as Peg set yet another dish on the table, this one steaming with freshly picked peas, fragrant with mint.

‘I hope we’re going to have enough.’
 
Peg surveyed the table dubiously.

‘For pity’s sake, Mum, you could give everyone in New Zealand a feed with the amount you’ve got here.’ Susan Millard shifted the baby at her breast.
 
‘We’re going to be very well-fed indeed, aren’t we my possum?’
 
She spoke into the soft down on the baby’s head.

‘Never knew a Christmas when Mum didn’t cook for the nation.’
 
Neville Millard was a male version of his mother.

Peg looked down on the baby.
 
‘Your first Christmas, wee fella.
 
Another addition to our family.
 
It’s a pity Roger, Jenny and the kids couldn’t come, but that business of his keeps him busy, especially with his partner being away with his family and parents this Christmas.’

There was a general shuffling of chairs, while Peg ordered everyone to dig in.

Afterwards, we drank toasts to The Queen, Peg and her Christmas dinner, the new baby, to the success of the farm, absent family and friends, even to me and the exams I’d sat a few weeks earlier.
 

Then, drowsily full, we sprawled in deckchairs.
 
A warm breeze blew across the homestead garden and ruffled the red pohutakawa flowers on the tree outside the backdoor of the homestead.

All around, eyes were closing.
 
Jack emitted a whistling sound and Peg began to snore.
 

‘Do you still see Ann Epsley?’
 
I asked Joe, as if I’d plucked the question from the breeze.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Did you buy her a Christmas present?’

‘Course not.’

‘But you like her, don’t you?’

‘She’s all right.’

‘She’s keen on you.
 
I can tell.’

‘Don’t talk wet.’
 
Joe closed his eyes as a sign the conversation was at a close, but I wouldn’t let the subject go.
 

‘So why do you keep seeing her?’

‘Her old man owns a business.’

‘And?’

‘He’s well off!’

‘So?’

‘Flippin’ heck, d’you want a picture painted?
 
You need to keep in with anyone who might be able to pull a few strings for you - someone you might be able to tap up for a bob or two.’

‘So you’re keeping things going with Ann because of her father?’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘What’s so terrible about it?
 
If you had any sense, you’d do the same.’
 
He lowered his voice.
 
‘Take the Millards.
 
You’d only have to tell them you needed a bit of cash to send to yer family in England, and they’d cough up, no questions asked.
 
Why don’t you?
 
It’d be a start for yer.
 
Get you set on your way to being well off.’

‘But that would be using people who trust you. It would be betraying them.’
 

‘Please yourself, but if you ask me, you’ve been listening to too many of that Rewi-bloke’s semons.
 

Peg roused herself from her chair.
 
“I’d better start getting tea ready.
 
The others’ll be here soon.’

‘Tea!
 
You can’t be serious!
 
We’ve already eaten enough grub for a year.’
 
Even Joe’s appetite appeared to have been satisfied.

‘It won’t do any good telling my good lady that,’ Jack spoke sleepily from the depths of his deck chair.
 
‘Though it’s amazing how you can always force down another fruit mince pie or brandy snap.’

Peg seemed to have invited most of the township for tea.

‘Have you given any more thought to what you want to do with your life, Tony?’
 
Barbara Jervlin bit into one of Peg’s shortbread specials.
 
I had difficulty directing my thoughts to my education after having eaten so much.
 
Anyway, my life was still a question I couldn’t find an answer for.

‘Surely you’ve given it some consideration,’ Miss Jervlin enquired.
 
‘After all, the results of your exams should be here soon.
 
I’d be surprised if you didn’t pass.
 
What are you going to do then?
 
Call a halt to your schooling?
 
I, for one, would be very disappointed if you did.
 
If you’re going to continue, what do you want to be?’

‘I wouldn’t mind being … a teacher.’
 
It was just something to say.
 
I had no idea what I wanted to be.
 
I didn’t know if I cared.
 
If I could find someone I’d known in my old life in England, it might have been different.
 
I wasn’t sure how or why.
 
I only knew instinctively that it would.
 

In that case, you’ll definitely need to return to school.’
 
Barbara Jervlin’s features softened.
 
‘I think you’d make an excellent teacher, Tony.’

The next time we went to the township, Joe spent longer in
The Travellers
than he usually did and hiccupped as I helped him back into the truck.
 
‘Oops a daisy!’
 
He was overcome by a fit of giggling.
 
He hit his head on the dashboard, then fell backwards into the front seat.

‘You’re drunk!’

‘Just a tinsy, winsy bit.
 
Shellibratin’ my good fortune.’

‘Where are Fergus and Murray?’

‘Gone.
 
Flown away like little birds.
 
Fly, fly, fly!’

‘So, why did you stay at
The Travellers
on your own?’

Characteristically, Joe tapped the side of his nose.
 
‘Had bushiness to do, my son, important bushiness.’

‘You’ve been money lending, haven’t you?’

‘And other important thinsh.’

‘I can’t believe you wasted your money on booze.
 
You’ve always said it’s a mug’s game.’

‘Just thish once, ‘cos I’m goin’ to be very rish, very rish.’

Back at the homestead, Jack and I hauled Joe out of the truck, as we used to drag Fergus from the Bedford after his trips to the township.

‘Silly young fool, but I suppose we’ve all done it.
 
Part of growing up,’ Jack said.

Peg wrinkled her nose, but Joe only murmured a soft whimper as she began stripping his clothes from him outside the back door. ‘I won’t have him reeking the place out,’ she grumbled.

For the next few days, Joe was unusually quiet.
 
When he wasn’t working, he was skulking in his bedroom.
 
To Peg’s chagrin, he skipped breakfast twice.
 
It was the worst nutritional sin a person could commit, according to Peg.
 
‘Sheepish’, she said.
 
He was acting very “sheepish”.

It was several days before I got a chance to speak to Joe.
 
In all the time we’d been together, I’d never known him to withdraw but Joe had changed since we’d left Downston’s.
 
A year or so ago, he’d never have said what he had about using the Millards.
 
I didn’t know if Joe had detected it, but I knew that somehow our relationship had become fractured.
 
I didn’t share Joe’s desire to be wealthy.
 
I probably never would.
 
My dreams were rooted in my past, while his rested very much in the future.
 
The crack was bound to widen.
 
There was nothing else for it to do.

‘You don’t have to feel bad about getting drunk,’ I said, sidling closer for fear he might walk away.

 
‘Why should I feel bad about it?’
 
He leant on a fence, gazing at the homestead paddock.

‘You’ve been a bit quiet lately.
 
I thought …’

‘It’s not got nothing to do with getting drunk.’
 
Joe brushed his sleeve across his face and to my dismay I realised he’d been crying.

‘What’s the matter?
 
Have
I
done anything to give you the pip?’

‘I ain’t got the pip with you.
 
Never have and never will.’
 
He made a sobbing sound.
 
‘If you must know, I’m leaving the Millards.’

‘Why?’
 

‘Ann’s old man’s opening up a farm machinery place.
 
He’s offered me a job.’

‘And you’re going to take it?’

‘I’d be a mug not to.
 
Could be the manager in a year, own it myself in a couple.’

‘What’s the matter then?’

‘It’s us, that’s what’s the matter.
 
We’ve always been together, you and me.
 
I can’t hardly remember a time when we haven’t.
 
It’s bad enough having separate rooms, but at least we’re next door to each other.
 
I managed to get through not having Murray around ‘cos you were here.
 
Now, I … ’

‘You’ll be right.’
 
I didn’t know if either of us would be “right”.
 
I didn’t feel anything.
 
I had no idea how it would be for us.
 
I patted Joe’s shoulder in an awkward way and Joe sniffed up the mucous that had been frothing from his nostrils, but I couldn’t forget what he’d said about using the Millards.

On the morning Joe left, Peg hugged him several times and cried, all the time reciting a list of what he should do to keep himself healthy.
 
Jack shook his hand.
 
He said he’d been a damn good worker, and wished him luck. It reminded me of the day Fred and Lori left Blountmere Street.

We stopped a few miles from the township, and ate the slices of bacon and egg pie Peg had packed for us.
 
Joe took his time over it, wanting to defer his departure, I suspected.
 
I ate mine a lot quicker.
 
For me, the sooner we got it over, the better.

‘We’ll be able to meet in the township once a week,’ I said, although I didn’t want to spend too much of my day off in
The Travellers
.

‘Too right, we will.’

‘Have a drink at
The Travellers
, take a bit of a stroll along the beach.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It won’t be much different from now.’

‘Hardly any difference at all.’

‘We just won’t be living at the same place.’

Ann smiled coyly when we arrived at the Epsley’s place, while her mother sat knitting on the white picketed verandah.

‘I haven’t got much, only my … only the one case.’ Joe placed his orphanage suitcase between his feet.
 
These days, it probably held a lot more money than it had when he’d left Downstons.

‘That’s it, then.
 
Keep your pecker up.’
 
He slapped me on the back and picked up his case.

‘Come on, Joseph,’ Ann threaded her arm through Joe’s and led him away.
 
‘Mummy’s got afternoon tea ready.
 
She’s using her best bone china tea set.’

On the
 
day I heard I had passed all my examination subjects, and eight months and two days after I’d posted my letter to Paula, the letter was returned, marked, “Gone Away”.