The Jovian Legacy (26 page)

Nancy
put her hand on her husband’s arm to calm him down.
“He
will
come out of it, Ben love. He has to. He’ll probably come
round in another hour or so,” she reassured, feeling a sense of
relief by her own words.

“I
hope you’re right,” Megan said.

“I’m
sure of it dear,” Nancy replied with a smile.

I
wish I had her confidence,
Megan
thought, unconvinced.

J
ack
walks around to the back of the washhouse with the axe over his
shoulder, trying to look confident. He knows those grey eyes are
watching him through the kitchen window.

Cranky
old Bat! She’d be right at home in the A&P show wood
chopping competition,
he thought
uncharitably
.

He
props the hunk of wood on its end on the chopping block and takes his
first swing.

“Concentrate,”
he says to himself as the axe comes down with such force that it
slices clean through the piece of wood. Jack is surprised to find it
easier than he’d thought, and before long fills up the
wheelbarrow. With his chest puffed out he pushes the loaded
wheelbarrow up to the kitchen entrance to show off his efforts,
grinning at his grandmother with great pride. Margaret Dunlop glares
back at him. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence Jack’s
grin starts to wane and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on
end at the sheer sight of her.

“I
take my hat off to my grandfather,” he says between gritted
teeth.

“What’s
that?” the old lady barks, giving Jack a start.

“Uh,
I’ll take my boots off here” he answers, stepping out of
his boots quickly and placing them neatly up against the wall.

“Humph!
You can put some wood over by the oven, ready for the cooking,”
she orders, “and then you can scrub up for your next job.”
Jack does a quick Herr Hitler salute while she has her back turned.

“There’s
the churn, let’s see what the Mainlander can do now,” his
grandmother sniggers.

Okay,
okay I get it. She wants blood. I’ll give her as good as she
gives,
he thinks, determined to
win.

He
struts over to the butter churn like he is going into battle, and
stands over it at an absolute loss. After a minute of standing there
looking like an idiot he hears that raspy voice again.

“What’s
the matter, boy? You look like you’ve never seen a butter
churn before!” she accuses. “Where have you been?”

Something
inside him snaps. He swings around on the ball of his foot, looks at
his grandmother square in the face and states recklessly, “Well,
actually, I
have
seen one, once, in a museum. Everyone
couldn’t believe that you had to make your own butter in the
dark ages. We thought it must’ve been a pretty boring life,
and you know what, we were right! And you know what else? I’m
actually your grandson, Benjamin’s son. I live in the
twenty-first century where we have electricity, computers, mobile
phones, and planes that travel so fast you can be in another country
in a couple of hours. Everything is at the push of a button. In
fact, that’s the reason why I’m here. I was playing with
my computer and I requested a journey - all I did was enter a date
and a time. But somehow I got stuck here. Now all I want to do is
go back home.”

Jack
gives her a sharp ‘take-that’ look and sits down. He
then points at the butter churn and adds, “And I ain’t
churning any of your friggin’ butter! I’ll post you some
Fernleaf
when I get back home.”

The
look on his grandmother’s face changes from shock to
bewilderment to laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. She throws her
head back and holds her quivering belly, hooting at the top of her
voice. It is a loud, raucous laugh, not one that you’d expect
to hear from a woman at all.

The
rest of the family rushes in to see what all the fuss is about. They
are especially surprised, as they haven’t heard their mother
laugh like that for years. The younger children have never heard her
laugh at all.

“Arthur!
Your relative must have hit his head with the backend of the axe.
He thinks he’s Benjamin’s son!” she shrieks, trying
to contain herself.

Arthur
gazes suspiciously at their new houseguest and once again begins to
move towards the big black telephone fixed on the wall. Jack knows
he’s got himself in a pickle again and has to think fast.

“Well,
I did it, I actually did it!” he quickly shouts at his
grandfather. “I made a bet with myself, Sir, that I could make
your wife laugh. She looked like she needed a good laugh.”

For
a few moments Arthur doesn’t know what to think. He looks at
his hysterical wife then stares again at Jack, finally replying, “Oh!
I see. Yes…quite. Er, thank you, Jack.”

“You’re
welcome,” Jack chirps.
Phew,
that was close!

Mrs
Dunlop senior composes herself and, with Jack putting her in a good
mood, she announces to her children that they can have a special
treat.

“You
can all have a Topsy each from the general store,” she states
reverently. The children cry with glee, jumping up and down and
dancing around excitedly.

Man,
you’d think they’d been promised a trip to Disneyland,
Jack thinks.

“And
perhaps Jack would like to accompany you up there,” she says
glowering at him. “He’ll be getting out of making the
butter if he does.”

“Okay,
yeah, sure,” Jack agrees.

“Evil
witch,” he says under his breath, wondering how far he’s
going to have to walk for a friggin’ iceblock.

Marjorie
leads the way to the general store and Jack’s suspicions prove
correct. They had walked for at least an hour along a dusty gravel
road before he catches sight of an old building in the distance. He
looks at the money which his grandmother had placed in his hand. One
Shilling.

Ten
cents
.

“I’ll
be very surprised if we’ll be able to buy one iceblock with
that, let alone six,” he says to Marjorie. She ignores him.
Benjamin is getting one too, but isn’t with them. Jack then
wonders how he is going to take an iceblock all the way back for
Benjamin without it melting to liquid.

When
they finally reach the store Jack sits down on the wooden steps for a
breather. The others sprint up the steps with all the energy in the
world. One of the boys, Eddie, tugs at his coat, eager to get him
inside. Jack forces himself up and enters the shop. He’s
never been inside an old-fashioned general store before. Along with
two large chest freezers full of frozen goods, there are bridles and
saddles for sale. Blackballs, aniseed wheels and other boiled
lollies in jars line the counter. Several pairs of gumboots hang
high along one wall, fastened to the wall with string. The store
smells of leather and rubber. Jack surveys the store, amazed, while
the children have already stacked up their Topsys on the counter.

The
shopkeeper rings each one up on the old cash register. “That’ll
be eight pence altogether thank you, young lass,” he says to
Marjorie. Jack places the lone shilling on the counter, almost
embarrassed at such a meagre amount. The shopkeeper glances up at
Jack and asks Marjorie who her new friend is.

“Oh
excuse me, this is Jack. He’s our cousin from the South
Island. Jack, this is Mr Lewis,” she introduces, remembering
her manners.

The
shopkeeper tips his fedora hat to Jack. “How do you do?”

“Good
thanks,” Jack responds, amused at Mr Lewis’s
old-fashioned gesture.

“You’re
a long way from home, aren’t you?” he says.

“I
sure am,” Jack answers.
If
only he knew.

“Here’s
your change,” Mr Lewis states, handing Jack four pence. Jack
gazes at the threepence and penny in his hand.

I
even get change,
he marvels.
Man, I could make a killing here, if only I could take stuff back
with me.

He
pockets the change and wanders over to the equestrian gear.
“How
much is the saddle?” Jack casually asks, running his hand over
the smooth seat.

“Ah!
That’s a Western style Visalia saddle. Top quality. Very
dear I’m afraid,” Mr Lewis says apologetically.

Jack
stares at him to elaborate. The shopkeeper, realising Jack really
does want to know, ducks below the counter and pulls out his
inventory journal. Everything is written in such beautiful
handwriting, like calligraphy, Jack observes. Mr Lewis places his
John-Lennon-style glasses on the end of his nose and peers at the
pricelist.

“Let
me see… aah, yes, it’s twelve pounds,” he states.
Jack does a mental conversion, remembering that it was 1967 before
New Zealand changed to decimal currency.

About
twenty-five dollars. Holy cow!

He
feels in his trouser pocket and pulls out his wallet, revealing his
Egyptian pounds. He glances at Mr Lewis who looks astounded to see
Jack’s money.

“Is
there a bank around here that does money exchange?” Jack
queries.

“Yes,
I believe there is. You will need to travel nor’west for about
an hour. You could perhaps catch the milk run. It goes through at
six o’clock every morning. What…er…sort of money
do you have if you don’t mind my asking?” Mr Lewis
enquires. Jack hands him a ten pound note.

Mr
Lewis looks at it through his glasses with great concentration.
“I’ve never seen money like that before. Where on earth
did it come from?”

“Hmm,”
Jack says to himself, wondering how to explain this one. “Well,
I’m a collector. I sent away for it months ago and only
received it in the mail recently. I brought it up to show my
relatives. I’m also an avid stamp collector,” he says,
trying to change the subject.

“Oh,
I see,” Mr Lewis utters, smiling. “I’m afraid I
don’t keep up with anything like that. That’s what
happens when you live in an isolated rural community for too long,”
he laughs, snorting as he does so.

Jack
laughs with him. “Yes, I guess so.”

He
decides to go into town the next day, determining that he’ll
exchange all his money into normal pounds while he is there.

That’s
if I’m still here,
he
thinks, hoping he won’t be.

Jack and the others start making their
way back along the gravel road with Benjamin’s Topsy wrapped up
in newspaper.

The
following morning he
is
still there, so he climbs out of bed and gets ready to catch the milk
run.

As
soon as it comes into view he laughs.
“What
an old jalopy!” He watches the old Bedford pickup truck draw
up with a tray half-full of cream cans. It stops outside a
cattle-stop a little further up the road, the entrance to a
neighbouring dairy farm. Two men jump out of the cab and expertly
hoist large, heavy cream cans onto the tray of the truck.

Jack
catches up with them and asks if he can catch a lift into town. The
driver of the truck agrees, but points out that he will have to do
the rounds with them first and that they won’t get into town
until nine o’clock.

“Well,
I’ve got all day and it’s better than churning butter
that’s for sure!” he laughs. The men look at him,
deadpan.

Unfortunately
for Jack he has to sit at the back amongst the cans, on a little
benchseat. It isn’t exactly Kiwi Cabs quality but he reckons
he can handle it. In fact, he thinks the crisp morning air is quite
energising while taking in all the lovely country smells along the
way: freshly cut grass ready for haymaking, the sweet scent of
jasmine and honeysuckle, and hedges of miniature magnolia. Jack
halts his deep inhalations while they pass by a piggery. Everything
reminds him of growing up on his parents’ farm. This farm.
After they have picked up the last batch of cans, the driver tells
him that they have to make a drop-off at the school. As soon as they
round the bend Jack recognises his old primary school. The two men
leap out, and from compartments along the underside of the tray they
pull out crates of half-pint bottles of milk, heaving them onto a
milk stand shaded by a small slated roof.

Jack
looks across the small schoolyard and sees children in single file,
being led by a serious looking teacher, making their way towards
them. They are told to fetch their milk and sit down and drink it
before they are allowed to play. The teacher hands out straws while
each child takes a bottle from the crate and dutifully sits down to
drink. Some children look like they are enjoying their milk while
others are grizzling about having to drink it because it is either
too warm or too creamy. Jack notices one cheeky little character tip
some out into the long grass while the teacher isn’t looking.

As
the milk truck carries on its way to finish its deliveries, Jack
watches as the seated children disappear into the distance, still
drinking from their straws. He thinks it a good idea to provide
school children with milk and wonders why they aren’t still
doing it in schools in the twenty-first century.