Owen Marshall Selected Stories (12 page)

M
r Thorpe came off sixteen hundred hectares of hill country when he finally retired, and his wife found a town house for them in Papanui. Town house is a euphemism for a free-standing retirement flat, and retirement flat is a euphemism for things best left so disguised.

Mr Thorpe made no complaint to his wife when he first saw the place of his captivity. She had accepted a firmament of natural things for forty years, and he had promised her the choice of their retirement. Yet as the removal men brought those possessions which would fit into the new home, Mr Thorpe stood helplessly by, like an old, gaunt camel in a small enclosure. Merely by moving his head from side to side he could encompass the whole of his domain and, being long-sighted by nature and habit, he found it hard to hold the immediate prospect of their section in focus.

It wasn't that Mr Thorpe had come to the city determined to die. He didn't give up without a struggle. He was a farmer and a war veteran. He went to church on Sundays with his wife, and listened to the vicar explaining the envelope donation system. He joined the bowling club, and learned which side had the bias. But he could not escape a sense of loss and futility even amid the clink of the bowls, and he grew weary of being bullied by the swollen-chested women at afternoon tea time.

Mrs Thorpe developed the habit of sending her husband out to wait for the post. It stopped him from blocking doorways, and filling up the small room of their town house. He would stand at the letter-
box, resting his eyes by looking into the distance, and when the postman came he would start to speak. But the postman always said hello and goodbye before Mr Thorpe could get anything out. There might be a letter from their daughter in Levin, a coloured sheet of specials from the supermarket, or something from the
Readers' Digest
which he had been especially selected to receive. It wasn't the same as being able to have a decent talk with the postman though.

The town house imposed indignities on Mr Thorpe: its mean conception was the antithesis of what he had known. To eat his meals he must sit at what appeared to be a formica ironing board with chrome supports. It was called a dining bar. After a meal Mr Thorpe would stand up and walk three paces to the window to see the traffic pass, and three paces back again. He would look at the knives in their wall holders, and wonder at his shrunken world. He had to bathe in a plastic water-hole beneath the shower. His arthritis prevented him from washing his feet while standing, and he had to crouch in the water-hole on his buttocks, with his knees like two more bald heads alongside his own. He thought of the full-length metal and enamel bath on the farm. Sometimes he went even further back, to the broad pools of the Waipounae River in which he swam as a young man. The bunched cutty grass to avoid, the willows reaching over, the shingle beneath. The turn and cast of the water in the small rapids was like the movement of a woman's shoulder, and the smell of mint was there, crushed along the side channels as he walked.

In the town house even the lavatory lacked anything more than visual privacy. It was next to the living room: in such a house everything, in fact, is next to the living room. Mrs Thorpe's bridge friends could hear the paper parting on its perforations, and reluctantly number the deposits. Mrs Thorpe would talk more loudly to provide distraction, and her husband would sit within the resounding hardboard, and twist his face in humiliation at the wall.

The hand-basin was plastic, shaped like half a walnut shell, and too shallow to hold the water he needed. The windows had narrow
aluminium frames which warped in his hand when he tried to open them. The front step was called a patio by the agent, and the wall beside it was sprayed with coloured pebbles and glue.

The section provided little comfort for Mr Thorpe. The fences separating his ground from his neighbours' were so vestigial that he found it difficult not to intrude. One evening as he stood in the sun, like a camel whose wounded expression is above it all, he was abused by McAlister next door for being a nosy old fool. Mr Thorpe was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, and thinking of his farm, when he became aware that he was facing the McAlisters as they sunbathed on a rug. Mrs McAlister had a big stomach, and legs trailing away from it like two pieces of string. ‘Muttonheaded old fool,' McAlister said, after swearing at Mr Thorpe over the fence. Mr Thorpe turned away in shame, for he was sensitive concerning privacy. ‘Oiy. Go away you nosy old fool,' shouted McAlister.

After that Mr Thorpe unconsciously exaggerated his stoop when he was in his section, to reduce the amount of his body which would appear above the fences, and he would keep his eyes down modestly as he mowed the apron lawn, or tipped his rubbish into the bag.

He tried walking in the street, but it was too busy. The diesel trucks doused him with black fumes, and most of the children used the footpath to ride bikes on. The pedestrian lights beckoned him with Cross Now, then changed to Don't Cross whenever he began.

Mr Thorpe took to sleeping in the garage. In the corner was a heavy couch that had been brought in from the farm, but wouldn't fit in the house. It was opposite the bench on which he'd heaped his tools and pots of dried-up paint. At first he maintained a pretence of occupation between bouts of sleep, by sorting screws, nails, tap washers and hose fittings into margarine pottles. As his despair deepened he would go directly to the couch, and stretch out with his head on the old, embroidered cushion. It was one place in which he didn't have to stoop. He had an army blanket with a stripe, for he had begun to feel the chill which is of years, not weather. There
he would lie in the back of the garage; free from the traffic, the McAlisters, and the confines of his own town house. He had always been able to sleep well, and in retirement he slept even better. He was granted the release of sleep.

Mr Thorpe would lie asleep with his mouth open, and his breath would whine and flutter because of the relaxed membranes of his mouth and throat. His face had weathered into a set configuration, but it was younger somehow when he slept. His wife played bridge in the living room with her friends, or watched programmes of glossy intrigue. Mr Thorpe lay in the garage, and revisited all the places from which he had drawn his strength. Age is a conjuror, and it played the trick of turning upside down his memory, so that all he had first known was exact and fresh again, and all the things most recent were husks and faded obscurity. Mr Thorpe talked with his father again, soldiered again, courted again; yet when he was awake he forgot the name of the vicar with whom he shook hands every Sunday, and was perplexed when asked for the number of his own town house. Waking up was the worst of all. Waking from the spaciousness and immediacy of past experience, to the walls of his small bedroom closing in, or the paint pots massing on the garage bench.

‘He sleeps all the time, just about,' Mrs Thorpe told the doctor, and Mr Thorpe gave a smile which was part apology for being able to sleep so well. ‘He must sleep for sixteen or seventeen hours of the twenty-four sometimes. He sleeps most of the day in the garage.'

‘Ah, he's got a hideaway then,' said the doctor. He used a jocular tone, perhaps because he was afraid of the response to any serious enquiry. Let sleeping dogs lie is a sound enough philosophy. ‘You need more sleep when you're older,' said the doctor. He'd forgotten that the last time Mrs Thorpe came on her own account, he'd told her that old people don't need as much sleep.

‘And he hasn't got the same energy anymore. Not the energy he once had. His interest in things has gone. Hasn't it, Rob?' Mr Thorpe
smiled again, and was about to say that he missed the farm life, when his wife and the doctor began to discuss the medication he should have.

He never did take any of the medicine, but after the visit to the doctor he tried briefly to interest himself in being awake, for his wife's sake. He sat in front of the television, but no matter how loud he had it, the words never seemed clear. There was a good deal of reverberation, and laughter from the set seemed to drown out the lines before he caught their meaning. He could never share the contestants' excitement over the origin of the term
deus ex machina
.

A dream began to recur. A dream about the town house in Papanui. In the dream he could feel himself growing larger and larger, until he burst from the garage and could easily stand right over the house, and those of his neighbours. And he would take the town house, all the pressed board, plastic and veneers, and crush it as easily as you crush the light moulded tray when all the peaches have been eaten. Then in his dream he would start walking away from the city towards the farmland. He always liked that best in his dream. He was so tall that with each stride he could feel the slipstream of the air about his head, and the hills came up larger with every step, like a succession of held frames.

He told his wife about the dream. She thought it amusing. She told him that he never could get the farm out of his head, could he. She said he should ask McAlister if he would like to go fishing.

In the dream Mr Thorpe never reached the hills; he never actually reached where he was walking to so forcefully. But he seemed to be coming closer time by time. As he drew nearer, he thought it was the country that he knew. The hills looked like the upper Waipounae, and he thought that he would soon be able to hear the cry of the stilts, or the sound of the stones in the river during the thaw, or the flat, self-sufficient whistle made by the southerly across the bluffs at the top of the valley.

T
he city glinted behind the harbour, and high above the level of the water. The harbour woolstores were low, and beyond them the men walking back along the wharves could have seen the street lights, and the neons green and red, and the cars in lines towards the city. But the men going back to work in the evening didn't turn to look; the car horns far-off and shouts of young people were not important to them. The noise and the lights from the city only made the wharves seem darker, and were distanced by the blackness of the sea; diminished by blue stars in the winter sky.

There was only one ship working a late call, and in ones and twos the men came from the bridge over the railway or the carpark, towards it. They had their hands in their pockets, and their shoulders were hunched against the still air. As they went out along the wharf there was water not rock fill beneath the heavy timbers, and the footsteps were louder and began to echo.

Colin came from the walk-bridge by himself. He wore a tartan jacket zipped to the throat, and a woollen cap. Like the others he had his chin down against the cold, his hands in his pockets. He had his hook over his shoulder, and the wooden handle lay on his chest. He walked steadily, his steps beginning to echo as he went further out. He walked as if he would have been content to keep right on walking, past the meat boat with the late call and on towards the sea and the small, blue stars of the winter sky. He may have done it, may just have done it, but he was overtaken.

‘There's no friggin' rush,' Paul said. ‘The work will always be there.'

‘Hi,' said Colin.

‘One thing. It can't be any bloody colder in the wagon or the hold than it is outside.'

‘You're right.' They walked closer to the boat. The strung loading lights didn't have the suffusing glow of a summer night, but were crimped, white icicles. ‘At least you had a hot meal. Living close enough,' said Colin.

‘Shit,' said Paul. He gave the laugh hard cases give against themselves when they know they've done it again. ‘Never went home, did I?' he said. ‘Stayed and boozed at the Cook. I forgot to ring home even. Jesus Christ.'

‘Yeah,' said Colin. ‘Well.'

The union men were the aristocracy of the shift; anyone else was just a seagull, no matter how regular. The wharfies kept jobs like tally-clerk and winchman to themselves. As of right they took the break before the end of a shift, so they could leave early. Mac looked at Colin. ‘You, shithead,' he said. ‘You and your mate into the bloody wagon.' Colin looked past the cold loading lights and said nothing. He climbed into the wagon and put his gloves on. Paul and he arranged the chute in the middle of the wagon which was already cleared. ‘Start those bastards coming,' said Mac from below. Colin and Paul began taking carcasses and slipping them down the chute to the all-weather loader. They worked on opposite sides, each gradually retreating into his end of the wagon. The carcasses were hard and hollow; the belly flaps like plywood to Colin's gloved hands. Each carcass was half-thrown, half-guided onto the chute, where it glissaded down to the loader. Paul wasn't able to keep to a rhythm of delivery with Colin.

‘Jesus Christ,' said Paul. He swayed a bit as if the wagon were in motion on the rails. ‘I'm sorry but I'm pissed a bit you see. I'm pissed a bit on an empty stomach. I only had a few lousy chips.'

‘Hey, you useless shitheads!' cried Mac. ‘What do you think you're at in there? Send them down evenly. You just about smashed my hand between them. These shitheads. These seagulls.'

‘It's this bloody chute, Mac,' said Paul. He winked at Colin and mouthed an obscenity from the depth of the wagon. He tried to concentrate on his work.

A rhythm of work was an advantage in the wagon. It kept up body heat. Colin breathed shallowly so that the air didn't reach deep into his lungs. Each breath was white for a moment before his face. On the wagon walls frost dewlaps had built up like fungus lying in undulating lines which were revealed as the layers of meat were removed. Delicate, pure frost forms, and sometimes as Colin bent to take the hard flesh of a lamb he saw the finest points of light, winter stars in the ice palaces along the wagon walls.

‘Okay, shithead,' said Mac. ‘Have a turn on the loader. Jesus, I've seen bloody women toss better meat than you two,' He came into the wagon, and coughed and spat onto the wagon wall.

‘Some of those women would be used to handling meat though,' said Paul. It put Mac in a good humour.

‘Right,' he said. ‘You're right, shagger,' and laughed and spat again.

Feeding carcasses into the escalating loader was the easiest stint of all; not enough to keep Colin warm. He was glad of the distraction when he had to help Mac set up another chute in the wagon, to reach into the ends. They needed three men in the wagon then; the third at the junction of the chutes, turning the carcasses for the slide to the loader. Colin was the turner for Mac and his mate. The lambs seemed weightless in Mac's hands. He wasn't big, but he knew the balance point of things by practice, and the carcasses rose and flipped and turned and slid with grace and of their own volition, quite detached from Mac, who spat and swore and talked. And he slipped a lamb to a hand which appeared in the briefly open door on the other side of the wagon; a side
hidden in deep shadow and desolate before the sea. No one made any comment. ‘Shitheads,' said Mac loudly, and in a non-specific way, to emphasise his authority. Colin smiled down at Paul by the loader. Paul seemed to be brimming over with the beer he'd drunk instead of going home. His lips gleamed wetly, moisture shone in his eyes and seeped around his nose. ‘Any of you shitheads see something funny?' said Mac.

‘Not really,' said Colin.

‘Not really my arse. Not really my bloody arse. You shitheads.'

As he worked in the doorway Colin could see the loading lights reflected on the rails set in the wharf, and the breathing movement of the ship's side. He heard without interest the noise of people and cars a long way off. A light winked at the end of the breakwater, and the small, night-frosted stars shone steadily back. From somewhere at the stern of the ship water ran constantly into the sea. The loader was new and quiet; its metal sides trembled and the white carcasses rose up to the deck out of sight.

Three ship girls came past during Colin's break. They had warm coats, but short skirts. Mac stopped work to watch them. ‘Some lucky bastard rides tonight,' he said. He called to them. ‘Hey girls, you don't have to go any further than here! Come on over here!'

‘Right. Yes, Jesus,' said Paul, He wiped his wet mouth. One girl stood boldly for a moment, enjoying the attention. She parted her coat and put her hands on her hips.

‘It takes hard cash,' she said.

‘Hard. I'll give you hard. Jesus,' said Mac. Old Chevy Williams began chattering his broken teeth as he laughed, and Paul's moist eyes enlarged. ‘Anything girl, anything,' said Mac.

‘No,' she said. ‘I know you wharfies. Your hands are too bloody cold.' She laughed and followed her friends.

‘What do you think, shithead?' said Mac to Colin.

‘It wasn't a cold hand I had in mind.'

‘Too true. Not cold at all by Jesus, hah.' Mac was reluctant to
let the subject go. Old Chevy had started work again. His teeth no longer chattered.

‘A piece of arse,' he said nostalgically. ‘I liked a piece of arse.' The others began barracking his impotence.

To shunt off an empty wagon and replace it with a full one was an undertaking which taxed the resources of the railway system. The railway men said little in response to the cheerful abuse of the shift: mostly they looked away as they rode the brake levers of the wagons. During the delay Colin sat on a bollard at the edge of the lights, and smoked a cigarillo. Chevy came and scrounged one, as was a wharfie's prerogative. Hands in pockets, and jacket collars up as a protection from the cold air drifting in from the sea, they smoked. Old Chevy held his cigarillo in the centre of his lips like a chimpanzee, and coughed companionably from the side of his mouth. Colin raised his heels, and jiggled his legs. He could hear the seawater slopping amongst the piles: the heavy ropes to the ship alternately lifted and slackened as dark lines against the sky. ‘Can't be more than an hour to knocking off,' said Chevy. The cigarillo waggled in his mouth.

‘How long have you been working on the wharves, Chevy?' Old Chevy worked his chin up and down on the question.

‘We used to put them aboard a sling-load at a time. You needed skills to work here at one time.' He walked quietly away to forestall any further questions. He coughed a bit to lessen the abruptness of his departure.

‘Hey, shitheads. Stop pulling yourselves and let's get these bastards loaded,' said Mac. The new wagon was ready. He pointed to Colin. ‘You and your mate for the bloody wagon again, and keep it even flow this time.' The opened wagon revealed a wall of frozen lamb in muslin shrouds. Getting the first few dozen out to clear a platform was the worst job. Paul fumbled with the top row, and a carcass slid past his arms and struck him on the side of the head as it fell. The other men laughed and swore.

‘Jesus,' said Paul. There was blood on his ear. A graze hurts in the cold.

‘Useless bastard,' said Mac. With a neat movement he trapped the bouncing carcass under one boot. ‘Have you been on the piss, you useless bastard?'

‘Hardly any for Christ's sake,' said Paul. ‘It's the way it's stacked here. It's all to hell at the top here Mac, honest.'

‘Yeah,' said Mac. ‘So you say.'

It was better once space had been cleared for a trestle. Paul tried to keep a regular flow down the chute, alternating with Colin. With alcoholic seriousness he copied Colin's rhythm. The bright blood was like a stud on his ear lobe.

Colin didn't mind loading meat. The repetition became timeless, and closed him off from what was happening to other people. Each lamb was as the last; each row diminishing then seemingly complete again. The sound of the carcasses on the chute, his boots on the wagon floor, his breath in the frozen air. The intricate frost patterns as he bent into the wagon; and when he turned again a glimpse of the loading lights streaked against the sky.

The break before the end of shift was taken as of right by Mac and his mate. Old Chevy was the only wharfie left to finish with the seagulls. As he went, Mac called to Colin: ‘Close up the wagon, shithead, when it's finished. Then you're done. Don't let your pissed mate go playing silly buggers either.' The four who were left cleaned the wagon out well before nine. Chevy watched the doors being closed and the chutes stacked. He called up something to those on deck, and then coughed as a farewell before disappearing into the darkness. Colin and Paul walked to the buildings at the entry to the wharf, and turned off and climbed the walk-bridge over the railway line. Colin put his wet leather gloves in the top pocket of his jacket. The cold air from the sea moved quietly into the city beside them; drawn from the darkened fusion of ocean and sky across the harbour and up into the lights, the streets, and the people.

‘There's work for several days,' said Paul. ‘You're all right. Mac likes you, but I probably won't get back on come Monday because I got pissed.'

‘They'll want ten or twelve gangs on Monday for those overseas ships,' said Colin.

‘But there'll be four times that number wanting work. And I didn't go home at tea.' Paul twisted his face up at the thought of the consequences. ‘Jesus, I'm going to cop it there.' Colin had nothing to say. Paul laughed the laugh he used when he had decided again to do the thing he'd regret. ‘Let's go to the Cook before closing,' he said. ‘Jesus, might as well now. Have a bloody feed and warm up and that. Sink a few and warm up.'

‘I've got to get back,' said Colin. They walked one more block, coming into the shops at the north end of the city.

‘See you Monday then,' said Paul, ‘Jesus it's cold.' He turned in towards the noise and lights: unmistakably a working man amongst the people dressed for the Friday. His boots gave him a rocking motion as he walked. He was thinking of the Cook. Already he had forgotten Colin, as he had forgotten his wife. Experience had taught him to put the past and the future out of his mind.

Colin cut across the inner city. People jostled and giggled; the cars flowed past, motorbikes accelerated amongst them. The windows shone out, giving an illusion of warmth. There was a sense of expectancy which he couldn't share. Like a late arrival at a party he felt distanced from the mood. He took with him through the streets the impersonality of the harbour; the habits of an environment with no obvious seduction; the memory of the frost and carcasses, men who were not friends, and of the blue, needle points of the stars in a winter sky.