Sole Survivor. Derek Hansen

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ