Heartland (15 page)

Guardian angels

That year, when Sky and Manny were lively two-year-olds, was the time of — among other things — the Guardian Angel craze. Like the bending-forks-and-persuading-
old-watches
-to-tick-again craze a few years earlier. This time, a visiting self-styled expert on the occult toured the country speaking eloquently and persuasively about the presence of personal guardian angels who hovered close at hand, ready to bring succour if only we paid attention. Donny saw the interview on TV and instantly recognised a purple aura glimmering above the Virgin’s head. Tracey, on the other hand, declared that you had to look out for yourself and she wasn’t going to shift responsibility onto any dodgy guardian angel. ‘Anyway, mine would be green, not purple,’ she said. But later Donny saw a painting she’d done of Sky and Manny, each with a coloured halo: pale blue for Sky and purply-red for Manny.

Lovey, always different, always spooky, declared her guardian was a two-headed taniwha, black with green spots. Old Roe McAneny declared the craze to be a plot of the Pope’s and forbade any mention of guardian angels within the four
walls of
her
house. Aureole McAneny hugged her personal guardian’s thrilling violet aura to herself, and called the angel closer only when Miss Roe was asleep.

Guardian angels were sorely needed that year in Manawa on account of the film shoot. That calamity came later. But, early in the year, Bull and Vera’s shoe story was a pretty good sign that they existed. The shoe story gave them all hope.

It started with the appearance of someone in Bull Howie’s back garden. Someone or some
thing
was there, right down the bottom by the stream. Bull drew back the curtain just far enough. He tilted his head and squinted to get a better long-distance view. The shifting brownish blob could be Vera, in which case it was safe to go down. Or it could be a heifer from next door, which posed no problem either. The third possibility — a stranger — was the worry. Vera could tease him as much as she liked, it wasn’t going to change a thing. ‘Accept it, Vera,’ he’d said on several occasions, ‘I’m just like this. Dragging me screaming out the gate into the open won’t help matters.’

A suggestion that had both of them laughing. It would be like a lumpy round ball trying to shift a solid wall. A neat and tidy wall, mind you. Bull might be nervous of people these days, but no one could say he’d let himself go. Even his gardening shoes were polished to brilliance each night and his fingernails cleaned after the housework.

Bull cursed his eyesight. Definitely getting worse. But the alternative — a visit to the new optometrist in town — was too difficult. He tiptoed across the back porch and into the shed. The view from here was better. It looked pretty much like Vera. He opened the window and risked a shout.

‘Vera! Is that you?’

The lump straightened, raised an arm and bent back to the soil again. Vera. Bull’s world settled down comfortably. He stepped out of his house-slippers, laced up the shining gardening shoes and strode down the path.

‘Well, Vera, this is all very nice, doing my gardening for me, but I’m not quite incapacitated yet, you know. What’s all this about?’

‘I’m giving you my bloody tulips,’ muttered Vera without looking up. ‘The sulky dodos won’t flower up at my place. Last year, not even one bud.’

Bull wanted to stop her scrabbling in his neat beds, but recognised the black mood and held his peace. Flattery might help, he thought.

‘If they won’t flower with all the chicken manure and TLC you give them, they’re not going to do better here.’

Vera straightened up with a groan. ‘I thought the precious little darlings might prefer your poncey regimented rows. If you don’t want them, chuck them in the river, I don’t care.’

Dear oh dear, thought Bull, this is bad. A cup of tea is needed post haste.

‘Of course I want them,’ he said, ‘it’s very generous. Now leave the rest to me and come in for a cuppa.’

He steered Vera up the path, noticing that the limp
was worse, and in his courtly fashion stopped at the door to remove her boots. She usually liked that. He stroked the lovely new leather but frowned to see the gaping tongues. Vera had left her new boots unlaced. Hello, what’s this, he thought, but waited until she was settled with her tea and dipping a gingernut.

He swept a crumb or two from the table into his palm and popped them in the bin.

‘Now come on, Vera, this is not like you. What’s brought on this fit of the blues? Eh?’

Vera sighed. Today everything about her drooped, and Vera drooping was not a pretty sight. Often the forthright way she stumped through life disguised the general seediness of her clothes and hair. When her face came alive with a laugh or a bit of gossip, Bull could even surprise himself by finding her handsome. Almost. But not today. Sitting at his spotless kitchen table was a sad and grubby old lady.

She sighed again but said nothing. Bull took a deep breath and prepared to do battle. Dirt and depression brought out the best in him, especially if the problem was contained within the firmly fenced boundaries of his own section.

‘It’s not just the tulips, is it, Vera? You wouldn’t let a few bulbs get the better of you? Come on, spit it out, old girl.’

Vera frowned, eyes snapping. ‘Old girl yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re more one than I am, any day of the week.’

Bull laughed. This was more like it. ‘Battle lines drawn, is it?’ he said. ‘Scrum goes down at halfway? Silly old bag!’

But Vera wouldn’t rise to it. Her shoulders slumped again. She flapped an arm out the window at the cloudless sky.

‘Ah Bull, I can’t keep my pecker up. Doesn’t it get you down too?’

‘Doesn’t what in particular?’

‘Just every-bloody-thing. Nothing’s right anymore. The weather. Look at this! Summer only just started and we’re parched as if it’s autumn. No wonder the tulips won’t flower. Where’s their cold winter gone? Where are our nice crisp mountain mornings, eh? When did you last wake up fresh and frosty? What happened to the dew? My lettuces are wilted first thing in the morning and so am I. I can’t feel right without my seasons in place, Bull, and neither should you! To be honest, I don’t much feel the point in going on, with the weather screwed up like this. Anyone can see the world is running into the sun and we’re all headed for the furnace. I’m hot and uncomfortable. I itch all over, and my feet hurt. Oh!’ Vera almost screamed. ‘I could cut them both off!’

Bull let a little silence develop.

Vera said, ‘Ah well, it’s age, I suppose. Golden years, my aching bloody feet!’

There was another silence. Bull could see that this was deep. For the moment at least, Vera had lost hope.

The feet are the key, thought Bull, we’ll get back to the feet a bit later. First a good argument’s needed to get the blood moving again.

‘Vera,’ he said in his firmest leadership voice, ‘we need to locate your guardian angel. You are in need of a first-class booster-shot from on high.’

‘Guardian angel,’ said Vera. ‘Oh yes? I might be down, Bull, but I’m not barmy.’

‘No, no, I’m serious. Listen, I saw it all on TV last night. This fellow, he helped you see your guardian angels. Told you how to call them closer in time of need.’

‘Oh, TV,’ said Vera. It was a flat dismissal. Nature programmes and the weather were all she would watch, and with the weather it was only so she could disagree with the forecaster.

Bull was not to be put off. ‘Well, I’m no pushover, as you know, but they convinced me.’ He was putting it on a bit, to gain her interest, but certainly it had made him think. Definitely there was something in it — or Them. Bull had been fascinated watching the man describe auras and glows and angels watching over. You couldn’t just write it off, the way this man put it. A guardian angel keeping watch at certain times could be a real comfort. Bull had imagined his aura — or was it the angel itself? — a creamy colour, like old lace. He had laughed at himself a little, of course, but liked the thought. At any rate the topic was sure to get earthy old Vera going.

‘It’s all tied up with colour,’ he said. ‘We all have a colour glowing round us that tells us what our nature is, and we all have guardian angels, several sometimes, and we can concentrate to bring them closer. This sceptic on TV had to admit he saw a glow.’

Vera snorted. ‘And you saw the glow too, I suppose?’

‘The cameras can’t pick up auras, Vera. It has to be sensed live.’

‘Bull Howie, how can you believe such nonsense? I’m surprised at you. It’s some showman trying to take money from gullible people. Like you.’

Bull tried not to let his delight show. He was surprised to see how much he needed Vera to be on top of things. Vera hopeless was somehow too awful to think about.

‘No, come on,’ he said, goading her, ‘just give it a go. You might be surprised.’ He stood up and walked to stand against the clean white surface of his kitchen door. On TV, the man had said it was important to position yourself against a light, uncluttered background.

Vera sighed and rolled her eyes. She was definitely being drawn in. If only to prove him wrong.

‘No, no, turn right this way,’ said Bull. ‘Just look at me and let your eyes go a little fuzzy — out of focus, sort of.’

Vera almost smiled. ‘My eyes are always out of focus, and yours are worse, as you well know.’

‘All the better! We’re perfect subjects. Now, just relax and look at me.’

‘There’s a stain on your shirt. You’ve spilt your breakfast.’

‘What! Where?’ Bull looked down in alarm. The shirt was spotless.

‘Ha! Got you, you old fusspot.’

‘Vera! This is a serious experiment. Go on, look at me and let your mind go blank.’

Silence in the kitchen. Outside a bellbird called.

‘Nothing,’ said Vera.

‘Wait. Give it time.’

Vera sat looking. Her face began to go blank again and Bull felt perhaps this particular activity might be a mistake. Then he saw a change. She frowned a little, watched with more intensity. Her eyes shifted away, then returned. She leaned
forward, squinting. Bull felt heat rising in his face, as if a light were shining on him. He wanted to move away but some force held him against the door.

‘Hang on,’ said Vera. ‘Is this some trick, Bull?’ She couldn’t take her eyes away.

‘What do you see, what do you see?’ whispered Bull.

‘My eyes have gone soft on me — from looking too hard, that’ll be it,’ she said, but kept looking. ‘You look rather splendid, Bull. Shining.’

‘What colour? What
colour
?’

Vera’s face showed a mixture of disbelief and awe. ‘A light sort of gold. Creamy gold, I suppose.’

‘Oh,’ said Bull, entranced, ‘the very one I wanted! I told you there was something in it, Vera.’

Vera stood up and broke the spell. ‘It’ll be the sun coming round, maybe.’ But no sun shone in the kitchen yet, they could both see that. ‘Well, my old eyes, then. Everything’s running downhill.’

Bull’s heart beat in his throat. A guardian angel! But Vera still needed rescue; this was no time to day-dream.

‘Now you, Vera. Come on, stand against the door!’

There was no doubt she wanted to be persuaded, grumbling about her feet, protesting she couldn’t stand for long, but pleased to be chivvied. Bull positioned her with a flourish and stood back. He breathed deeply and let his mind go blank.

Vera began to fidget. ‘I feel bloody silly, standing here. Shall I do a striptease or something?’

‘Vera!’

‘Well, hurry up then, my feet can’t stand it.’

Bull squinted, looked hard, turned half-on, squinted even more narrowly. All he saw was a blurred version of old Vera in a torn brown cardigan and stained drill trousers.

‘You can’t see anything, can you?’ she said, shifting her feet, disappointment in her voice.

‘Wait!’ cried Bull. ‘Wait! Yes, it’s coming. Stay still, Vera!’

Vera stood still as a mouse. On her cheeks two pink spots glowed. Her eyes fixed on Bull, who counted slowly to ten in his head before he spoke again.

‘It’s blue! A lovely sky blue. All around you, Vera. Think about your guardian angel, go on, quick!’