Settling the score

Anne Moir

‘Alan’s on the phone,’ Carl’s mother called from the hall.

‘At this hour? Bunch of gossipy girls,’ Carl’s father yelled from the back porch. ‘Get rid of him, Jean. Come on, Carl.’ He forced his feet into cracked leather boots and stamped across the dry grass by the washing line. Chickens squawked and scattered; the dogs, chained to the fence, fell silent.

From the kitchen table, Carl watched his father stomp over gravel towards the barn ready to hurl himself and his sons into another hard day. He gulped his tea, choked at this glimpse of his own future, the farmer he would become: stocky, fair haired, rough skinned. Tough. Hard-working. Angry. He stood up, stuffed a mouthful of toast, glanced at his mother’s pink face, her tight smile.

‘His school cert results,’ she said. ‘Alan wants to tell you. And hear yours.’

Carl last heard from his school mate Alan at Christmas: a card and the photo of his family, all smiles on the porch of their house on the south coast. Two storey brick, view to Stewart Island.

Dad was halfway to the barn, he wouldn’t wait.

‘Tell him mine haven’t arrived, I’ll ring him when they do.’ Carl dropped his plate in the sink. ‘If I’m allowed.’ His father hated toll calls, the expense. He rushed out, grim-faced, avoided his mother’s eyes. Tears formed in his own, he bit his lip hard to staunch them. Never let him see. A red rag, tears.

He grabbed his boots and ran in socks to the barn. Five weeks without rain, the backyard and home paddocks arid yellow, grass prickly. Last night they’d loaded the truck with fencing gear, today they head a mile up the valley. Posts, wire, pulley, shovels. Already Carl’s arms and back ached, he’d barely slept. Dad wanted to finish today. Carl knew the job was too big, however hard they worked.

William, Carl’s young brother, would bring lunch, work with them this afternoon. He’d been up since six, hammer in hand at the sheep yards, where Samson the bull, angry with a flighty puppy, had knocked down gates. ‘You let him get loose. You pay the price.’ Dad’s favourite phrase.

The axle groaned over potholes, fencing gear rattled and thumped. On the tray of the truck, Gray, the black and white collie, barked. At the yards, Carl waved to William who raised his hammer in response.

‘No time to waste.’ Dad stared ahead to the next gate, shoved Carl to open it.

Six weeks at home. Summer holidays. Alan would be swimming at Riverton, goldmining in the old diggings at Longwood, swinging in a hammock with a book while Carl and William worked twelve hours a day.

In a fortnight his friend would return to school in Dunedin to hostel life. William would leave too, another year weekly boarding in Gore. Carl’s summer holidays were over for good. Mondays to Fridays, Dad and Carl together. For ever. His mother was hardly an ally, even though she kept the home running, even though she fed him, washed his clothes. Couldn’t count on her, yet she was all the support he had.

Carl back at work, Dad had plans for the farm: to lease adjoining land, buy more stock, plant more crops, set up electric fencing. Not that their Dad worked any less than the boys, but William was fourteen, not yet above five foot, still to fill out in his chest, his shoulder muscles.

‘Will you stay, Carl?’ William whispered in the night. The third time he’d asked in the past two weeks. ‘Please stay.’ Before Carl could reply that he had little choice, he heard a gentle snore. The question tormented him till he too fell asleep.

‘Let them take a break on Christmas Day,’ their mother had begged.

‘They can sleep in till nine, then we’re off to Mass,’ Peter said. He went grudgingly, for his wife’s sake, and when Carl fell asleep during the sermon, poked him so hard he bruised his arm.

Over the years his mother had retreated. If only she’d would talk with him, just once agree with him, Carl could bear his father’s silence, orders, expectations, bear the dearth of conversation, the silent vigils of mealtimes punctuated by gruff demands, outbursts of rage if William joked, if Carl laughed.

Carl longed, wept, for the clatter of the hostel dining room, the jokes and pranks of the dormitory, the camaraderie of the rugby field and the after-match post-mortems.

‘Keep an eye out for fires,’ his father grunted. ‘This weather. Stupid holidaymakers. No sense.’

Code for ‘I hate visitors to the valley,’ ‘Other people are a danger,’ ‘I now hold you responsible.’

The rural mail delivery van raised dust behind the truck, the driver tooted to pass. He’d be carrying Carl’s School Cert results. Deliveries started at the top of the valley and worked back towards their place.

‘Could we…?’ he stopped.

‘What? He’s got all day.’ Dad swerved in gravel, chose not to pull over where the road widened. Their turn-off was a mile yet.

‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Nothing.’ Dust caught Carl’s throat, he coughed. He’d wait until tonight.

The river to the left was shallow in the near drought. Carl stared, bit his swollen lip again, remembered the flood three years ago, when he and his cousin, Helen, panned for gold at his special place up the valley. The stormy night, Uncle Joe’s timely arrival when his daughter nearly drowned. Carl had saved her. Later, his plea for his uncle’s intervention so he could leave the farm, go to school in Dunedin. Three years ago almost to the day.

Homesickness gripped him, rekindled like a coal stored overnight in the grate; he longed for York Place, the peace of his aunt and uncle’s warm villa; the cloudy blue sky over Dunedin harbour; to be with his mates as they entered the sixth form; for all they would learn in English and History as they prepared for University Entrance; the rugby games they would play; for Helen, his cousin, and her attempts – so far unsuccessful – to drag him into the peace movement, the protest marches.

The truck slammed to a halt.

‘Get moving. We finish this today.’

Dad was already throwing posts from the truck. ‘Drop off the rest.’

Carl climbed into the dusty cab. No need to adjust the seat, he was the same height as his father now, both five eight. As strong too.

‘You look like a girl. That bloody school. I’ll toughen you up. Start with a haircut. I’ll do it myself.’ An outburst from Dad when Carl came home in mid-December. He kept his word. Carl’s hair was now short back and sides like all the men in the district.

The strain posts were in place by the time William arrived, heralded by dust and noise. The old motor bike, a little Ducati 100cc, was a legacy from Carl, who’d kept it running when a neighbour no longer wanted it.

Carl and his father downed tools, faces wet with sweat, shirts discarded. Dad’s skin was almost black from years of sun, Carl’s still prone to burn, but toughening up. No shade except in the lea of the truck. The dog underneath panted, not long back from a swim in the river.

‘You’re late,’ Dad glared at William.

’The bike wouldn’t start.’

‘Heap of shit.’ Dad threw his shovel towards the Ducati, which wobbled but stayed upright.

William placed the basket of food near his father, pulled off the cloth cover and the paper, careful to keep the dust of the road from the food. Corked bottles of cold water, cold tea for Dad. Scones and sandwiches.

They settled in the shade.

‘Still a lot to do,’ Carl said.

William’s glance showed he knew the consequence of an unfinished fence. ‘I haven’t worked with this new fencing.’

I’ll show you,’ Carl said.

Four o’clock. Dad hadn’t allowed a break for afternoon tea and the boys didn’t suggest it. Three hours heavy work in the hot sun and Carl stumbled with exhaustion. William worked fifty yards to his left. Carl saw him falter. Their father, fifty yards to Carl’s right, didn’t appear to notice. William struggled to tighten the wire on the strain posts and Carl left his post to help.

‘What the hell…’ their father yelled. He raced toward them, picked up a shovel on the way. When he reached his sons, both faced him, eyes wide, mouths open. Carl had seen pictures of war, hand to hand combat, Crete where his father had fought, where German paratroopers dropped from the sky on the Allied forces, on trapped ill-equipped Kiwis. He and William were the enemy.

‘Dad!’ he screamed to the raised shovel. ‘Stop!’ He ducked, pushed his father, the shovel spun away. William turned, tripped. Dad reached for him, hauled him to his feet, started to shake the boy. Carl shoved Dad to free his brother but his father’s grip was tight. Carl smashed his fist hard on his father’s left arm to break his grip. No use. Smashed again. Crack. Still Peter gripped William with his right hand. Carl bunched his fists, hesitated. His little brother’s face, wet, red, terrified. Crack. Fist into his father’s cheek. The dog barked and danced. Peter fell, rose, nose bleeding, arm broken. Carl’s hands were red with his father’s blood and his own.

‘Go!’ Carl ducked a punch, yelled at his brother. ‘Get out!’ William hesitated. ‘Go! I’ll fix him.’

Their father crouched on the ground, screamed with pain. Carl lashed out with his boot to smash his legs too. But held back, stood over his father. Both dusty sweaty red-eyed furious. The Ducati stuttered into life. The dog barked, frantic.

‘Shut up!’ Carl screamed at Gray. ‘Shut up!’

His father shut up too. The sun beat down on the scene, the scattered tools, the near complete fence, the whimpering dog. The breath of father and son sharp in the stillness.

‘Get me to the truck,’ his father gasped.

Carl walked around, grabbed him under the shoulder, naked skin slippery with sweat. ‘Get up, you can walk.’ He hauled him to the passenger door, changed his mind and dragged him to the back. ‘Up on the tray.’ With the dog. His father resisted. ‘Get up.’

The swelling bruise on his father’s face didn’t mask the fury in his eyes.

Carl didn’t try to avoid potholes, didn’t slow for corners. A long snake of dust stretched behind the truck, thick and still in the hot air. At the home paddock gate he slid to a halt in gravel. Two hundred yards away his mother stood on the veranda, her yellow frock bright, her arm raised to shelter her eyes from the sun’s glare.

William waited by his bike, shivered, mute.

Carl got out of the truck. ‘You drive him home. I’m leaving.’ He couldn’t look at his brother. ‘I’ll write to you.’

William sobbed. ‘Can’t I come?’

Carl shook his head, ruffled Gray’s furry head. He opened the gate for William, closed and hooked it shut, looked back at the farmhouse. His mother was in the front garden now, waving at them as though she awaited the return of a happy family. As though a pleasant summer evening lay ahead.

A shimmer of sweat clouded his vision. He walked away, didn’t look back. Fearful his father would order William to follow, he ran into the bush by the river where he knew the paths, the tracks. He shook from the terror of his father’s rage, from his fears for his brother, his mother.

High in the valley, a gold miners’ stone hut crumbled and leaked. He’d stayed there on hunting trips. No rain tonight. Far enough away, his father in no state to chase him. In the morning he’d cross the range, reach the road that ran from Central Otago to Dunedin. From there, a left turn to the unknown interior of Otago, a right turn to the city, to his family of the past three years. He’d decide tomorrow. How could he face pacifist Helen after beating his father? And why, having crushed him, did he feel the score wasn’t settled? That trouble was just beginning.