Dunger (14 page)

 

All that seems a long time ago, although it's less than three weeks. Yesterday Dad drove Grandpa into Blenheim to get some stitches removed. Today being hot as an oven, all Grandpa is wearing is his old khaki shorts and the plaster cast on his arm. He is showing off the scar on his chest.

“You're looking at a real bionic man!” he says to Grandma, his hand over his pacemaker. “You want to feel my electronics?”

“They should have done your brain while they were at it,” she says.

“No, I've got you for that,” he says. “Brain hot-wired to your mouth.” He turns to us. “You know something, kids? She even argues with herself.”

Outside, the chainsaw splutters and roars. Dad has fixed it and is using it to cut up Will's macrocarpa branch.

Will gives a backward nod towards Grandma and Grandpa. “Truce didn't last. They're fighting again.”

I shrug. “Oh, I don't know. I think people have to be very close to each other to have that kind of freedom.”

“What?” He looks as though he is tasting something bad. “Melissa, that's a screwed-up philosophy!” and then he goes out to help Dad with the wood.

He is such a child!

Today I am doing the washing, and am very pleased that Mum is not here to see Grandma's method of cleaning clothes. You throw everything in the bath, fill the bath with hot water and soap powder, then get in and tread on the clothes. That's it. You just keep on walking up and down, then let the soapy water out and run fresh water for rinsing. After the rinsing water goes down the plughole, you squeeze the clothes with more stamping. But get this! The next thing is to bring in the wheelbarrow, yes, the old garden wheelbarrow, right into the bathroom, and put a sheet of plastic in it. On top of the plastic you throw the wet washing, then you wheel it outside to the clothesline. Now, I know you're not going to believe this, but it's actually extremely easy, what Grandma calls beach laundry.

Mum would have a fit.

Our mother has explained to Mrs McKenzie that we're very grateful for the kind holiday offer, but we have to look after our grandparents. It was difficult to leave so many things unfinished – just one chord on the guitars, fishing rods not fixed, much more swimming to do, and learning to make different kinds of bread – and now, especially now, impossible to leave with the Hoffmeyers' seventeen-year-old son Conrad home from his summer shearing job, tanned skin, crinkly hair and a smile like melting golden syrup. Also, I've nearly mastered the art of snorkelling and clearing my mask. I mean, there's so much to do here!

Mum says she might come up next weekend. Then again, she might not. I tell her I'll put a vase of flowers in the outhouse just for her, but she just grunts and says she's busy at the shop.

Dad has taken three weeks' leave and he's having a ball, running around the bach, finding things he's forgotten, telling us about the scrapes he used to get into, like the time he and some friends made a raft and borrowed a man's outboard motor. It fell off into the sea and they put it back on the man's boat without saying anything. It was useless, Dad said, all seized up with salt. I'll bet Grandma and Grandpa didn't know that.

At home, Dad sometimes sings in the shower. Here, he sings a lot, all day. We all do. We have concerts at night with the guitars and Will and I are learning a whole lot of folk songs like “Shenandoah” and “Lonesome Traveller.” There are also songs that would make Mum's hair curl, like the one about the sailing ship.
The first mate's
name was Carter, and gad, was he a farter. When the wind wouldn't blow and the ship wouldn't go, they got Carter the farter to start her
. Will just loves singing that. And the graveyard song.
The worms crawl in, the
worms crawl out. They go in thin and they come out stout. Oo-oo! Oo-oo! Ah-ah! Ah-ah! How happy we will be!

I'm the one that's had three years of piano practice and Grandma says I have guitar hands, but you know, it is Will who is extremely fanatical about learning, and he's good, I mean he knows more chords than I do, and he's begging Grandpa to teach him flamenco, that Spanish music that sounds like planes taking off. My brother's such a strange child. The other day Dad mentioned the money in the trust for our education and he told Will maybe he could save up for an iPad. Will simply stared at him. I swear he'd entirely forgotten about the iPad and all that betrayal business he talked about.

I'm going to make ravioli next weekend. I don't think Mum will come, but Grandma will show me how to make it, little pasta purses full of ricotta cheese and herbs, and maybe we can invite Mr and Mrs Hoffmeyer and Conrad for dinner.

Oh, I forgot to mention that Will always sleeps in the top bunk now, which is good in case a mouse comes in at night. I usually go to bed late, but tonight he is still awake when I come into the room. He says, “Do you think Grandpa is going to die?”

“Everyone dies,” I say.

“You always give such pathetic answers!” His voice sounds muffled and I wonder if he's been crying.

“Grandpa is going to live for ages. Didn't you hear him say he can walk up stairs now without getting breathless? The only problem is his arm and that will soon be better.”

“I thought he was going to die.” The same muffled voice.

“Will, Dad says those two are as tough as old boots.”

He is quiet for a moment, then he says, “Lissy, do you want to go to Queenstown next year?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I'd rather come back here,” he says.

Actually, so would I, but I'd find it extremely difficult to explain that to my friends who think Queenstown is heaven with frills. “We'll talk about it in the morning,” I say. “Good night, poo-face.”

“Good night, slime-brain,” he says.

For a while I listen to his breathing, then I say, “You know, I'm sure we could talk Mum into coming, too.”

But the only sound is from the wind outside. Will is already asleep.

 

 

This edition first published in 2013 by Gecko Press
PO Box 9335, Marion Square, Wellington 6141, New Zealand
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Distributed in New Zealand by Random House NZ
Distributed in Australia by Scholastic Australia
Distributed in the United Kingdom by Bounce Sales & Marketing
Distributed in the United States by Lerner Publishing Group

© Joy Cowley 2013
© Gecko Press Ltd 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Gecko Press acknowledges the generous support of Creative New Zealand


Cover by Keely O'Shannessy, New Zealand
ISBN paperback: 978-1-877579-46-2
ISBN e-book (epub): 978-1-927271-19-3
ISBN e-book (mobi): 978-1-927271-20-9

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