The boat was a major priority because it was her lifeline, her communication with the outside world and her shopping cart. It might also help her catch the odd fish and take her away on picnics. She made up her mind to wander down to the beach, if and when the rain stopped, and learn how to start the motor and steer. But first she had to do something about the Shacklock. Inactivity had made her cold despite the hot coffee and the heavy pullover she wore. She started to put Jean’s foul-weather gear back on and reeled back at the smell. The upside was that the rain would wash off some of her vomit.
She knew Bernie would’ve had a stack of dry wood somewhere, but where? By the back door or under the veranda. Because the back door was on the high side, she realized there’d be nothing to store wood under and headed straight for the veranda. The rain seemed to have been saving its strength for her to set foot outside and crackled like machine-gun fire on her waterproofs. She peered into the gloom beneath the house and saw stacks of wood neatly split and sawed to length and kindling alongside. It all seemed so very easy until she picked up the first piece of wood and a large black spider shot across her hand. She screamed. The spider was heading up her sleeve to what it foolishly imagined was safety when Rosie banged her arm against a foundation post in fright. It was the spider’s misfortune to run between arm and post at the precise moment of impact. Rosie looked at her wrist to make sure the spider had gone, saw it fixed there, immobile as if feasting on her blood, and screamed once more. She danced backward out into the rain, shaking her wrist, screaming, panicking, wondering at what point she was going to die. The rain washed the spider off.
She stood shaking, a quivering wet mess, and tried to collect her wits. The spider didn’t look anywhere near as big dead as it had alive. But big or otherwise, she didn’t want a repeat performance. From then on, she whacked every piece of wood she picked up against the stack of firewood. Not once, but half a dozen times. Satisfied that any self-respecting spider would have got the heck out of there, she picked up another piece. And another. And another. She filled her arms with as much wood as she could carry and staggered back up the steps and inside. She unloaded the wood into the box the supplies had occupied and took off Jean’s coat and hat.
Bloody hell, she wondered, was this how things would always be? Did every simple thing have to turn into a drama? She thought she’d make a pot of tea and sit down while she recovered her breath and her confidence. But no! She looked grimly at the Shacklock. First things first, and the next cup of tea or coffee would be brewed on the stove top. Henceforth, she decided, the propane camp stove was out of bounds except for emergencies. She stuffed paper and kindling into the Shacklock’s firebox, unscrewed the vent as far as it could go, reached for the matches and stared dumbstruck at the last remaining match. She realized the vital omission from Col’s supplies. She fought back a wave of despair as she realized she’d have to go begging to Red for something as basic as matches. Red? Hang on. A man who’d left a potty under the bed would also make sure there were matches. She began opening cupboards and drawers. Bingo! There in the drawer next to the stove, not just a box of matches but almost an entire packet. She could have kissed him. She struck a match and held the flame to the paper, laughed out loud when she saw how much her hand still shook.
“Oh, Norma,” she said. “If only you could see me now.”
Angus had decided the day was good only for writing. That, as far as he was concerned, was also the best kind of day. He had a steaming mug of tea by his side, a head bursting with words and ideas, Bonnie curled up on his lap, doing her power-mower impressions, and Red nailed to a promise. The story of the boy who fought the fearsome griffin and saved the village was Angus’s fourth book. Only the second and third had been published. The publishers had returned his first manuscript with regret, but not without complimenting him on his ability and the freshness of his style. They’d loved the character of Hamish, but found the first half of the story too dark and depressing. “Bleak” was the word they used to describe it. What had stunned Angus was that they thought the story of the boy who grew up in grinding poverty in a mud-and-stone crofter’s hut was fiction.
Once Hamish sailed away to the Summer Isles in an abandoned dinghy, the young lad sprouted wings on his heels. This was the Hamish the publishers loved, and they encouraged Angus to concentrate future books on his adventures. They now regarded him as one of their foremost children’s authors and paid him advances. Angus’s happiness knew no bounds. Hamish, his courageous young hero, was making a name for himself and attracting a following both in New Zealand and the United Kingdom. All he had to do was keep the dark side out of his books. Not the frightening and gory bits, because he suspected his young audience liked those bits best of all. He mixed the blood and guts with humor, and laced his stories with morality and principles. Hamish was a lad any parent would be proud to call his own, and Angus was very proud.
He worked all morning, his typewriter competing with the drumming of the rain on his roof. The words came easily and the story flowed. Sometimes the boy seemed to take on a life all his own and surprised Angus with his courage and intelligence. These were the times he liked best. When his brain thought and his hands typed and he just went along for the ride. He filled page after page until he felt he’d filled enough for the morning. He’d done well, and there was no point in wearing himself out. It took him a moment or two to realize that the rain had stopped. He pulled the kettle across the top of the Stanley, put it on the hottest burner and strolled out onto his veranda. The wind had dropped and the misty clouds were slowly dragging themselves free from the treetops. The air had the earthy freshness that he savored. When he closed his eyes he could believe he was in Scotland. The sound of rainwater running off in little gullies reminded him of the myriad little streams that ran down off Mount Conneville after every storm, carving a pathway through the peat. He inhaled deeply and stretched his back and arms. Bonnie threaded through his legs, butting and rubbing. He gazed up toward the lower ridges, wondering how the woman was coping. Badly, he hoped. He was slow to recognize the wisp of smoke wafting blue through the mist, but once he did he knew instantly his worst fears had been realized.
“The bloody fool!” he shouted out loud, causing Bonnie to leap away in fright. The madman had done it! He’d lit the woman’s fire. He clenched his fists in anger and damned Red for the soft fool he was.
Rain brought Red no respite. There were always things to do when there was the will to work. Red had both will and need. He sat on his veranda, patiently winding the Japanese longlines he’d recovered onto electrician’s spools salvaged from a building site in Okiwi. He could only admire the monofilament the Japanese used. It was both finer and stronger than other monofilaments, and he had already witnessed its effectiveness. As he wound, he snipped the hooks off and dropped them into tins. There were thousands, all of which he had to rinse in fresh water, dry and dip in diesel so that they wouldn’t rust. It was tedious work, but Red could not bear to throw anything away. In time everything had a use. He decided to leave the fourth line intact. He’d soaked newspaper and made little wads that he pinched over the barbs of each hook so they wouldn’t snag on each other. Red took pride in his thoroughness and worked head down without a break. There was merit in work, and it helped him forget his promise to Rosie. He only looked up when Archie leaped to his feet and barked. He blushed with shame. It had to be Rosie coming to see why he hadn’t lit her fire. Up on the railway, his promise had been his word when his word was all he had to give.
“You!” The contemptuous tone identified his caller. He breathed a sigh of relief as Angus emerged from the scrub.
“More words?”
“More words indeed, you bloody fool!”
“What have I done now?”
“Don’t you play smart with me!” Angus stood at the foot of the veranda stairs, bristling with anger, holding his gnarled manuka walking stick as if he intended to bend it over Red’s head. “Don’t you take me for a fool. I’ll not put up with that from the likes of you!”
“Angus,