CHAPTER 9

Vic

Even though Bronagh Macfarlane was only fourteen years older than he was, she reminded Vic of his mother. If pressed to say exactly why, he couldn’t have. His mother died when he was six, and his memories were few and disconnected — a remark here, a gesture there, stripes on a skirt, flour on hands. He had some photos but the whole person they showed did not match the snippets in his head. Had her hair been dark as in the snapshots, or grey? If she’d been that skinny why had her lap felt so soft? Were those her arms that had hugged him? The ones in his memory were pretty sinewy, the arms of someone who could lift a cast sheep or a hay bale, split logs for firewood. But his dad had not been one to hug or offer a lap to sit on.

Vic realised that since his mother’s death, the only embraces he’d received were from women he’d dated. Or married; Donna had been a hugger. When she moved in with Vic, she’d brought a teddy bear from her childhood, Mr Miffles, worn furless and with one wonky eye. Mr Miffles probably appreciated his lack of fur now that he was living in Coonamble. It could get to over forty degrees there in summer.

The best answer Vic could come up with was that Bronagh Macfarlane gave him the same sense of brisk reassurance that he remembered feeling in the presence of his mother. Bronagh spoke and moved quickly, and with purpose. Things got done and though you knew she was behind them, you seemed to have missed the actual moment of doing. Suddenly, there was food in his fridge — he vaguely remembered giving her a wad of cash, which would explain the notes and coins on the kitchen table, in an envelope marked ‘Change’. On the table there was also a pile of folded, clean laundry, with the socks in matching balled pairs, one of those arcane domestic skills that Vic admired but had no hope of mastering, like ironing the shoulders of shirts. Vic recalled explaining that his Swanndri shouldn’t be washed because it destroyed the wool’s natural protective coating. Judging by Bronagh’s expression, if he hadn’t gone out every morning wearing it, he suspected it, too, would now be folded on the table.

And a swag of broken things had been fixed. The TV got a whole three channels now, thanks to some magical adjusting of the aerial. The dud burner on the stove worked, and the fridge now shut properly. Everywhere, screws had been tightened, gaps sealed, leaks stopped and moving parts that had been stuck fast now slid like silk. Even the old ute ran better. You could turn the steering wheel almost forty-five degrees.

This wasn’t Bronagh’s work, but that of her husband, Douglas. Vic liked Douglas because he said very little. Mind you, he didn’t have much choice. Bronagh had decreed that they should both keep Vic company of an evening. On the upside, she and Douglas took turns cooking dinner. But the price for that was being asked questions by Bronagh. A lot of questions. With no prize for getting them all right. It was like that old show, The Money or the Bag, when the contestant chose the bag only to be told it contained a clothes peg. So much effort, only to have old whatsisname Toogood haw-haw in your face.

It was getting close to question time now. Dinner was over, and Douglas was clearing plates. Bronagh had roasted a leg of lamb that she’d retrieved from Vic’s freezer. Vic hoped it wasn’t past its use-by. Donna had refused to cook any meat from his farm. She said it felt like cannibalism, like eating family. Vic wasn’t sure how being personally acquainted with an animal made any difference — when in chop form, the original beast was hard to recognise —but she couldn’t be persuaded. Despite Donna’s professed love for the farming life, Vic couldn’t help harbouring a suspicion that her view pre-marriage had been a touch sentimental. Lambs cavorting in fields of daffodils, pigs scrubbed with buttermilk, calves on show day. Chickens that weren’t intent on pecking your eyes out, that sort of thing.

He’d mentioned Donna’s reluctance to use the frozen lamb to Bronagh, who’d made a ‘tch’ sound.

‘Never turn down free food,’ she said. ‘Though I’d have been happy to buy it — it’s so cheap here compared to home. You’d think they fed the gambolling buggers gold-plated grass.’

She and Douglas had an outing planned for tomorrow — a bicycle tour of the Hampton wineries.

‘I’ll make sandwiches from tonight’s leftovers,’ Bronagh said. ‘I’ll take the scrapings from the roasting pan, too — Douglas does love his bread and lard, bless his demented Scottish heart. Besides, fat soaks up alcohol and we don’t want to get thrown in the slammer for cycling under the influence, do we?’

This was not one of the questions Vic was expected to answer. Those were brewing like Douglas’ post-dinner pot of tea. The tea was so strong, Vic was convinced that when he’d surreptitiously chucked his down the sink, it had cleared the blocked drain. Tonight, he would pour his own, and fill the remaining half-a-mug with milk.

‘I’ll pack our waterproof ponchos, too,’ Bronagh continued. ‘Forecast is for a ten per cent chance of showers, which in England would translate to a ninety per cent chance of torrential rain.’

‘You’re not cycling to Hampton, though, are you?’ said Vic. ‘Not over the hill?’

‘Now, Vic, you’ve known us for three days. Granted, we may lean towards the barmpot side, but have we struck you as actually insane?’

He probably should know the answer to this. Fortunately, Bronagh had prepared her own.

‘I’m sure a heartier breed of folk, like the Dutch, for example, wouldn’t blink at pedalling that distance,’ she said. ‘But us being pale and soft, we’re hitching a ride. Our son will drop us at winery number one on his way to work, and we’ll bike from there. Or we’ll stay and drink until we fall over, whatever takes our fancy. At day’s end, Kerry will pick us up. Literally, possibly. I hope he’s practised his fireman’s lift.’

Douglas set down the tray between them. Mugs, spoons, a jug of milk and a big, metal pot containing a liquid that could drill a hole to the centre of the earth. Vic made sure he commandeered the milk jug first.

Then he braced himself: tea time was question time. Over the past few nights, Bronagh had started with his present situation and worked backwards. Evening one had featured his failed marriage, swiftly followed by his previous failed relationships. He’d done a lot of blushing and stammering, but Bronagh was relentless and also (which was harder to resist) kind and understanding. And Vic supposed it was good to get the worst over with early. As not a lot of note had happened outside of his so-called love life, they’d flown rapidly back through his thirties and twenties, and had come in to land on the bumpy field of adolescence.

Judging by her opening questions, Bronagh had a particular interest in this time. After Vic’s mother’s death, his father had taken his six-year-old son to Wellington. Vic had no idea why —his father never went on holiday. Maybe he had legal or business stuff to sort out, or maybe it was meant to be a treat for young Vic. All he remembered was going to the old museum and opening a drawer to find it full of beetles, including an enormous one, bigger than his hand, called a Goliath. Vic could not be enticed away, and so his father sat on a nearby bench and read the paper. Vic suspected that his adolescence was Bronagh’s beetle drawer.

‘You left school at fifteen?’ she was saying. ‘Why? You don’t strike me as a thicko.’

‘Had to,’ said Vic. ‘Dad got sick. Had to help with the farm.’

‘Sick with what?’

‘Lung cancer. Chain smoker.’

‘That’ll do it. How long did it take him to die?’

Vic was taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone, until he remembered that Bronagh was a nurse.

‘Three years. Give or take.’

‘So you were an orphan at eighteen?’

She already knew about his mother. Eagle eyes had spotted the photo album, noted none of Ella Halsworth and her son past a certain point.

‘A lot of responsibility for a young man,’ said Bronagh. ‘Did you ever consider selling the farm?’

Another question that took Vic aback. Or, rather, what startled him was that he’d never, not once, asked that question of himself. It had never occurred to him to do so.

‘Dad left it to me.’ He’d said those words many times before, but to his ears right now they sounded new, and uncertain, as if he was testing them for validity. ‘His dad left it to him. And so on, back to my great-great grandfather.’

Bronagh nodded. ‘Family,’ she said. ‘Heritage.’

‘Duty,’ added Douglas. ‘And pride.’

All of the above, Vic agreed. All sound, fine, even noble, reasons to stay. But when you boiled them down, the main reason he’d never considered giving up the farm was that he’d never imagined he had the choice.

‘If my Irish family hadn’t been a load of feckless, drunken wastrels,’ said Bronagh. ‘I’d be living high on the hog in a mansion, surrounded by thoroughbreds and faithful retainers. Douglas is Scots through and through, right back to the tattooed Picts. Though the sandy hair is likely courtesy of a pillaging Viking.’

‘The Macfarlane clan is at this time without a head,’ said Douglas. ‘We are officially armigerous.’

‘Good thing we bought that cream to rub on your cycle shorts, then,’ said Bronagh. ‘What do you have planned for tomorrow, Vic?’

To be frank, Vic would rather answer more questions about his adolescence, including ones pertaining to his sexual awakening. He was not looking forward to tomorrow, but it had to be done. The Council had told him that he could face prosecution if he didn’t act. Vic felt they should do their own dirty work, but apparently, according to the official records, he owned the land, so it was his problem. Of course, it was. He could hear the snap of latex as the Goddess of Fortune donned another glove.

But Bronagh might worry if he told her the truth. Or worse, might want to help.

‘I’ve got a bit of a clean-up job down by the river,’ he said. ‘Dead trees and what-not.’

‘A farmer’s work is never done,’ said Bronagh. ‘Well, as we’ll be up early tomorrow, why don’t we come over for breakfast? I’ll whip up some eggs, and Douglas can brew us all a nice, fortifying pot of tea.’

They called themselves the Wood Sprites. Vic wasn’t sure when they’d first appeared. Eight months ago, maybe? It seemed like the camp went up in no time, and now there were ten or twelve living on the riverbank, more men than women, in huts they’d built from sticks, rope and old tarps. Workmanship was better than Vic would have expected. They’d be dry enough inside, but bloody freezing, surely, over these past winter months. He’d thought about lending them his possum skin rugs. Donna had hated the rugs because you could still (kind of) see the shape of the dead possums, so he’d removed them from the house and boxed them up in the shed. But the Wood Sprites had blankets, sleeping bags, woollen rugs of their own. They also had a communal fire pit, vegetable garden and food store. They weren’t in need.

When he realised they meant to stay more than a few weeks, Vic had introduced himself. At first, they’d eyed him askance — big man in a Swanndri, carrying a rifle, accompanied by dogs. But once reassured he was harmless, they invited him to sit, offered him tea made from some kind of greenery, which he politely refused. When he’d asked them why they wanted to live like this, they’d laughed.

‘Why would you want to live any other way?’ said a young bloke with dusty dreadlocks, whose name, apparently, was Rua. ‘In peace with the birds, trees, river.’

‘There’s a housing crisis, in case you haven’t heard.’ This from an older man, Darius, cheeks pink with veins, and a big, grey beard, like a hobo Father Christmas. ‘People like us, we’re shut out and no one gives a shit. This is our way of fighting back — if society doesn’t want us, then fuck ’em, we’ll build our own.’

This got appreciative murmurs from a couple of others, but the majority responded with tolerant smiles, shaken heads. Vic figured the Wood Sprites fell into two types. Most were pro-nature, living off grid, in their idea of heaven. A few, like Darius, were here to raise two fingers to the establishment. They were all concerned about Vic’s intentions, but he’d assured them he had no issue with their presence. After all, no one owned the riverbank, did they?

Cue sound of Selwyn Toogood haw-hawing. It’s the booby prize for you, Vic — seems you do own the riverbank! And now you have to serve a trespass notice, on people who’re just trying to live a peaceful life, who are no burden on anyone. They don’t even use soap when they wash in the river, because they care about the water. Because they want to tread softly on the earth.

As he hiked down to the camp, dogs at his heels, Vic tried to work out what he’d say. Maybe he could just give them a warning, leave it to the Council to enforce any eviction? He was one man — how was he supposed to shift a dozen people? Point his rifle at them and yell ‘Scram!’?

Vic wasn’t a frequent visitor to the camp. Though the Sprites were now friendly enough — even Darius would grunt a greeting — he still felt like he was the outsider. To them, he was part of a world that was set in its ways, old-fashioned in attitude and behaviour. A world that had strict rules for belonging, and punished or banished those who diverged from the accepted norm.

Vic had always known what was expected of him, and had done his best to comply. He farmed like his father had, and his father before him. He supported the national game, his drink of choice was beer, his pastime hunting, he was one of the lads at the local rugby club. He respected the land, and took pride in his animals. He worked hard. He had calluses on his hands.

All that should mean some kind of reward, right? Money, comfort, family, status — that’s what they always said was due to those who played by the rules, gutsed it out, gave it a hundred-and-ten per cent.

Yet here were the Wood Sprites, owning bugger all, living simply, communally, content. And here was he — on paper a landowner, a man of means, but worried, worn out, cash poor, alone. It had gone wrong for him, and Vic wasn’t sure how or when.

Maybe the concept of Karma had something in it? Maybe Vic was paying for past sins — not even his, but his father’s and forefathers’, like in the Bible? Or was it asking for more trouble to conflate two different religions like that?

He could smell the fire from the camp. And bread — they baked it in a cast iron Dutch oven, covered in hot embers, like the old bushmen used to. So far, so familiar, but as Vic approached, he sensed a change. Instead of mellow, the atmosphere felt prickly.

‘Stay,’ he told the dogs. Normally, being gentle and obedient, they were welcome in camp. But they were big animals, huntaway-ridgeback crosses. To those who hadn’t met them, they could give the wrong impression.

He found the Wood Sprites sitting in a circle around the fire pit. He knew them all now, by face, if not by name, and so it was easy to spot the two newcomers. A bloke in his late twenties, olive-skinned but Vic wouldn’t hazard a guess to nationality, dreadlocks pulled up in a fat ponytail, one silver hoop in his ear, like a pirate. Wearing a homespun jersey with holes in it, canvas pants, combat boots. His companion had long, blonde hair, and for one moment, Vic mistook her for the kid who worked at Jacko Reid’s place, the one who looked like — well, like this girl. Beautiful. Disconcerting.

The new bloke spotted Vic. He was at the head of the circle, as if he’d been appointed — or appointed himself — leader. When his gaze moved towards Vic, everyone else’s did, too.

‘Nau mai, brother,’ he said. His accent, surprisingly, was English. ‘Your ears must be burning.’

Vic decided to stay at a distance, even though it forced him to speak up. ‘Why’s that?’

‘News is you’re here to kick us out. Kick us off your riverbank, Brother Farmer.’

How the heck had they heard? And who was this bloke? He spoke politely, but Vic wasn’t fooled. In fact, he’d bet fifty bucks the bloke had a knife in his belt, or, more likely, side of his boot.

The Sprites, whom he’d promised to leave alone, were all staring at him. Vic read some anger in their faces, but mostly sadness, and fear. The blonde girl’s mouth was curled in disgust. The dark bloke was amused. Waiting for Vic’s response. Enjoying watching Vic dangle, helpless, on his hook.

What should he say? He couldn’t truthfully give them much comfort. The Council had decreed.

‘Your structures are unsound,’ Vic said. ‘They break health and safety laws. They have to come down.’

‘Will you destroy our homes, Brother Farmer?’ The bloke’s voice was soft, the challenge in his words implicit.

‘I don’t want to,’ said Vic. ‘But the powers that be say I’ve got no choice.’

‘A difficult position to be in.’ Didn’t sound like he meant the Wood Sprites.

‘I can give you a month.’ Vic hoped he hadn’t just made another promise he couldn’t keep.

‘Then what?’

The bloke knew full well Vic had no idea. And suddenly, Vic was angry. The world and its dog thought it could boss him about, beat him down, walk all over him, laughing. Haw, haw, haw.

He lifted the rifle, aimed it square at the bloke’s head.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘you get off my bloody land.’