Sole Survivor. Derek Hansen
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encourage familiarity.”
“Come here.”
Angus glared at Red but saw that the madman would not be moved. “If I must, I suppose I must!” Grudgingly he slipped off his clay-choked gum boots and plastic mac and climbed the few steps up onto the veranda. He looked around suspiciously.
“What do you see, Angus?”
“You know very well what I see!”
“Good. Then you can see what I’ve been doing all morning since I came up from the bay.”
“Aye …” Angus looked at the miles of coiled lines and the cans of fishhooks. “Perhaps I was a wee bit hasty. But she has a fire burning! I’ve seen the smoke!”
“Angus, anyone can light a fire. She was probably cold.”
“You haven’t been there? Haven’t given her any of your snapper?”
“I haven’t been anywhere except to the boat.” Both men stared off into the bush in the direction of Bernie’s bach, neither knowing where the conversation might head next.
“Ah well, I’m sorry for intruding. I apologize. I’ll be gone, then.”
“I’m about to make some tea.”
“I’ll not stay.”
“Would you like a smoked snapper or two? I have surplus.”
“Aye … if that’s the case, I’ll not let them go to waste. Both Bonnie and I are partial to the smoked fish, and I admit a fondness for the kedgeree. Don’t go giving them away to that woman, mind!”
“Angus, we’ve agreed,”
“Aye, aye, we’ve agreed!”
The windows were steamed up, and Rosie had stripped down to shorts and T-shirt. Both front and back door were wide open, yet sweat trickled from every pore. Through trial and error, she’d finally got the hang of the Shacklock. She’d burned almost all the firewood she’d brought in, an unsustainable rate of consumption, and in the process boiled the kettle, heated enough water for a hot bath and turned the bach into a sauna. The trouble was, the idea of a hot bath had been usurped by the need for a cold shower. But she’d mastered the beast and learned how to control the rate of burn and the oven and the stove-top temperatures. She’d also learned how to bake bread, not just one humble loaf but two, big, hearty, round country-style cobs. She thought of taking one around to Red as a thank-you for picking her up and cleaning up the shack but thought better of it. If she’d understood Col correctly, rule one was look after yourself first and only share your surplus. She had no surplus. Half of one loaf was for now, the rest she divided into quarters for freezing. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to bake any more bread until she returned for good.
She cut herself off a thick slice, spread it generously with butter and a veneer of honey and wandered out onto the veranda. The air tasted like water from a mountain stream, a pleasure she’d discovered on a skiing holiday. The sun hadn’t broken through, but the clouds were lifting and sucking up wisps of mist from the trees and scrub. Fantails, white-eyes and goldfinches chirped and flitted in the tight weave of bushes, relishing the end of the wind and rain. The punga palms seemed poised to stretch their monkey tails, and the nikau palms glistened. The world glowed squeaky clean. The only thing missing was a hard-earned cuppa.
She left her slice of bread on the veranda rail, and wandered inside to put the kettle back over the heat. By the time she wandered back outside she’d been gone for less than a minute. She paused, puzzled. Her bread had disappeared. She went back indoors to see if she’d taken it inside with her. She hadn’t. She wandered back outside, wondering if she was going mad.
“Okay, Red,” she said, as she seized on the obvious solution. “You win. Give me my lunch back.” Silence. “Red! A joke’s a bloody joke! Even a childish joke!” Silence. “I’ll fix another slice for you.” No answer. “Stuff you. You enjoy it. I’ll make myself another.” She went back inside, buttered another slice and spread it with honey. She poured her tea, wandered back outside and looked around. “If you want a cup of tea to go with my lunch, you can damn well pour your own.” She put her new slice of bread down on the rail to take a sip of tea and immediately discovered who’d come calling. It wasn’t Red, but a brazen pair of dusky green-brown parrots. “Bloody hell!” she cried. Her tea splashed into her saucer as she grabbed her bread, narrowly beating the birds. “Thanks, Bernie,” she said.
The birds, who’d kept Bernie company and benefited from his handouts, waited patiently for the new Bernie to show similar generosity. She broke off a piece of bread and gently reached forward to put it down on the rail. One of the kakas fluttered onto her wrist and ripped the offering from her fingers. The other turned its head to the side as if looking for its share.
“Bloody hell,” said Rosie, her heart thumping. “How about a bit of respect for a lady?” She broke off another piece and this time held still. The remaining bird flew onto her wrist, settled and calmly ate the bread out of her hand. “You cute thing.” The bird looked up at her doubtfully. She began to chuckle. The kaka ignored her, finished its meal and took wing. She sat back on the veranda chair and sipped her tea. It felt like her whole body was smiling. The sun peeped through the clouds, bathing the palms and bushes, trees and ferns in crystal light. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be really happy.
She finished her tea and began an unhurried tour of inspection. There was no doubt that the half drum at the bottom of the lavatory pit needed raising and emptying or a new hole dug. This was one problem no amount of toilet cleaner could fix. She wondered how the precious ladies with their obsession with skid marks would cope, and smiled. They belonged in another world, one she hoped she’d left behind forever. She had no idea how to raise the drum or dispose of its contents and concluded that the toilet was best moved to another location and the hole filled in. But that raised its own set of problems. Digging a new hole and resiting the toilet was a formidable job, one that was way beyond her limited abilities. One way or another, she had to get help.
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