Sole Survivor. Derek Hansen

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      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.

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