The Party Line (5 page)

‘He doesn’t know I’ve got it,’ Gabrielle said. ‘He put most of Mum’s stuff in the rubbish after she died. Or else he gave it to the Sallies. This was in the Sallies’ box, I took it out when he wasn’t watching.’

‘Neat.’

‘Yeah … so that’s why I have to keep it hidden in the box. It’ll be fine if you want to take it away for a while.’

Nickie looked at herself again. With the neat scarf, and the perfect make-up, and the dangerous perfume, she looked beautiful. The hand of this beautiful person went over her mouth.

‘I can’t believe it, Gabrielle. I think I’m going to cry. Do you really mean it, that I can borrow it?’ Nickie shook her head and watched the fluttering turquoise tail feathers swinging against her shoulders.

‘As long as you like. You’ll take better care of it than me.’

He was terrified of sleeping. Between memory and reality was a membrane and Bridie pressed against it all the time. At night, she pressed with her voice, a murmur that ebbed and flowed. Her little hands, those gentle fingers, had found a weak spot in the flimsy veil — she had clawed and prodded and made a tear that could rip wide open at any time.

He sat up late at night, by the lounge window. The cool night breeze blew in, flicking the curtain against his face. He switched the television off and listened to the nocturnal noises. Beasts, massive and tiny, moving through grass. A hedgehog snuffling somewhere close. Miles away, on the highway, trucks rumbled their way north. It was impossible to hear them during the day but late at night even the gear changes were clear.

The moonlight made a monochrome photo of the endless paddocks, the silhouettes of cows sleeping and standing at the same time. Ian stared out across them for a long time. He fell asleep upright, too, in the chair, and woke as dawn filtered the darkness to grey. It was usually too close to milking time to go back to sleep.

One night, the murmuring was interrupted by a hum. It drilled his slumber, gradually drawing him to wakefulness.

He stumbled to find a warm jacket in the darkness and went outside. The noise was coming from the barn, across the paddocks. Ian shook his head, forcing himself awake. It was the sound of a truck. He searched the black horizon and saw flickering lights fading.

There was nothing in the shed worth stealing. Ian went to bed and hoped for sleep.

He remembered the night’s strangeness the next morning, when he got up to milk. Everything was in order at the shed; he wondered if he’d imagined it all. But when he swung open the barn doors, there were four new towering stacks of sweet, dry hay before him.

Later that morning, after he returned from milking, Gabrielle came out of her bedroom in her pyjamas, unsteady in half-sleep.

‘I dreamed about her again, Ian,’ she said, smiling.

‘Me, too,’ he replied. He turned away from her.

‘I’ve been telling Nickie at school how she sends us both the same dreams. She thought it was really neat. She’s so happy, isn’t she? Mum, I mean.’

‘She is.’

‘She told me last night that it never rains up there during the day. Just at night. It rains every night so everything grows properly. But the days don’t get ruined. Heaven days are just non-stop sunshine.’

‘Imagine it, Gabrielle. Isn’t it just something?’ His back to her, always. ‘And did she say to you how it’s usually good rain, a nice heavy downpour so it sinks deep into the ground and lasts? That’s what she said to me.’

‘No,’ said Gabrielle, wide awake, spoon and bowl clattering on the bench. ‘She never told me that. But probably she was going to and I woke up too soon.’

Gabrielle would, sometime soon, catch him out. Instead of rushing to share her dream first, she would drift into the kitchen and, in a sleepy way, ask him what he’d dreamed about the night before.

He might bluff about the weather in Heaven, but Ian couldn’t deny the press of spring, now less than a month away. The cows in the herd were swollen in calf, barely able to drag themselves forward through the muddy pastures to meet the tractor at feeding-out time. Remembering the chilling remark about rotten hay causing abortions, Ian constantly put his hand against the tight bellies, searching for the squirm of life within.

The donor of the new hay remained a mystery. It was obviously not Jack, and Ian sensed it wouldn’t be wise to tell him about it. Jack and Ian went to the cattle sale in Paeroa most weeks — never to buy, but to see what prices other farmers’ stock were fetching. On the Wednesday following the arrival of the bales, Ian had slipped in beside Eugene Walker at the stockyard rails.

‘I just want to say, Eugene, thanks.’

‘For what?’

‘The hay you dropped off. It’s appreciated. And I understand, you know … why you had to do it that way …’

Eugene leaned away from Ian, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’

Ian nodded. Maybe he’d never understand the rituals around farming, around helping out a neighbour too proud and volatile to accept charity. At least he’d acknowledged the good deed.

Vivid green buds clung to the branches of bare trees. When he stood, shoeless, on the ground near the house, he felt a timid warmth in the soil beneath his feet. He imagined sensing actual movement there, too, just below the surface; tiny grass shoots unfurling, pulsing upwards, seeking light. It was strangely enervating and helped to keep Bridie at bay.

At first Jack had called in every morning to lay down the day’s tasks. But as the season neared its end, his visits became sporadic. The main task, they agreed, was fencing, and there was enough work there to keep a man busy for months.

No matter how the conversations began, they ended on the same note: Jack’s lament at the cost of farming. His demeanour teetered, always, between gruff camaraderie and a barely repressed anger at the world. The change was as sudden as a skid of black cloud across the face of the sun.

Ian saw how the sinews in Jack’s neck swelled and pumped the rage around his body. He tried to make sense of the man, tried to guess why Jack had hired him — hired anyone — when his hatred of his land was so obvious. Ian watched this mesmerising spectacle and reminded himself that the cost of hiring a sharemilker was expensive. The fact that Jack had hired one who knew very little about farming was not something Ian wanted to draw attention to.

He and Bridie had rented an old cottage on a farm in Silverdale years ago, after Bridie first got sick. They didn’t know it was cancer then.

They got the house cheap, in return for doing odd jobs for the
couple who owned it. He did milk the herd — a week at a time, now and again, while the farmer was away on holiday — but you couldn’t call that real farming. He had a job in Orewa, labouring at a wood yard. That’s where he learned to build a fence.

In those first few days after Bridie died, he spent every waking moment fighting the urge to get in the truck and drive away. It wasn’t just the grief, although that’s how everyone saw it. He wanted to get away from Gabrielle.

She was a living, miniature version of Bridie: her face, the way she tilted her chin and looked skywards before saying what she thought about things. It was possible to adore and despise the most precious person left in his life. Finding this out was terrifying and debilitating in equal measures.

One hellish morning he found himself sitting in the car, watching the sun come up. Gabrielle was still asleep inside. He couldn’t remember leaving the house. But he was dressed, and there were random items of his clothing and shoes spread across the back seat. Only his stuff. Nothing of Gabrielle’s. And the key was in the ignition. His hand shook as he took the key out.

Back inside, he searched frantically for the newspaper. He turned to the situations vacant at the back. There was an advertisement in the farming section for a twenty-nine per cent sharemilker job in Fenward. Where that was, he had no idea. There was a number, so he rang it.

‘Jack Gilbert,’ a man said.

‘I’m ringing about the sharemilking job,’ he said.

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Ian Baxter. I’m ringing from Silverdale.’

‘You’re farming up there?’

‘I’m on a farm, yes.’

‘What are you on?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What contract are you on now?’

Ian swallowed. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he lied.

‘Well that’s all I’m offering, you know.’

‘I saw that.’

Silence.

‘So why aren’t you looking for thirty-nine per cent?’ Jack Gilbert asked.

Ian waited, unsure of what to say.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. Sorry … I’d been hoping for thirty-nine per cent, but I’ve … I’ve left it a bit late. There’s not much around now.’

‘No, there’s not, is there?’

Both of them waited for the other to speak.

‘Why so late to look for something new?’

His voice was flat and cool. Ian knew what Jack Gilbert was thinking. That he’d applied for other jobs and been turned down. That he was desperate.

‘I’ve, um … my wife’s just died. Things haven’t … I’m thinking now we probably need a new start. My daughter and I.’

The silence was longer this time.

‘Have you got references?’

‘Yes. I can post them down to you … get them away tomorrow, if you like?’

‘You do that, Ian. Put your phone number on the back of the envelope. I’ll have a look at them and we can take it from there.’

‘Alright,’ Ian said. ‘What’s your address?’ He scribbled it down on a piece of paper.

‘Ian,’ said Jack. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We’ll see how we go,’ said Jack Gilbert, and hung up.

Ian wrote himself two references. In one of them, he spoke of his absolute reliability and commitment. In the other he wrote how sorry I, Jeffrey Burnside, was to be losing Ian Baxter.
I understand his need to move away from Silverdale, due to the sad passing of his wife, but I regret losing a fine employee. Please feel free to contact me for further information. I wish Ian all the best.

Ian knew that this was wrong, all of it. That somewhere along the way there’d be a price to pay for the dishonesty. But the alternative — abandoning Gabrielle — made his actions feel honourable. More than honourable — essential, unavoidable, urgent. He posted both the references to Jack Gilbert.

Four days later, Jack rang and offered him the job. He hadn’t rung or written to the referees, he said. They’d both forgotten to put their phone numbers down. Jack said he’d thought about writing to them, but time was moving on, and given the circumstances …

Ian thanked Jack, offered to seek out the two phone numbers and ring him back with them. He held his breath, waiting for Jack’s response.

‘Don’t worry about it, Ian,’ he said.

Ian loaded the fencing gear onto the tractor and headed for the back paddocks. Here the fences were in better condition, the paddocks underused compared to the ones next to the road. He guessed that Jack Gilbert couldn’t be bothered travelling further across the farm than he had to — that he preferred to rotate the stock in the front paddocks, close to his house. That’s why they were mud pools, and the grass back here was thick and plentiful.

For the first time in weeks it wasn’t raining, but heavy grey clouds were banking up on the flat horizon. Ian watched as they dissolved into a murky wall of mist, far away still, but coming his way. To his back were the Kaimais — Mount Te Aroha, with its television tower, marking the highest point. He preferred to face the hills while he worked; they were less smothering, somehow, than the vast openness of the flat farmland.

He was unravelling a roll of wire between new fence posts. The first spots of rain hit his coat hood in fat flicks.

‘Why don’t you have a dog, Ian?’

Jack was leaning against the tractor, lighting a roll-your-own. He shielded the glowing match from the rain and held it close to the tip of the cigarette. He flicked the match into the wet grass and drew hard on the smoke.

‘Jesus, you gave me a fright.’ Ian looked around for Jack’s truck. It wasn’t there.

‘Sorry. Usually your dogs would bark. You’d hear me coming that way.’

Ian nodded and turned back to the wire roll.

‘Which made me suddenly think — why is it that you don’t have a dog?’ said Jack.

Ian put the wire down and walked towards the tractor.
My dog died. My wife died and then my dog died too. Of grief.
No.

‘I never had one, Jack. Not at the last place.’

Jack held out the yellow tobacco pouch. Ian took it and rolled himself a cigarette. The rain made the paper soggy, difficult to handle. He persevered.

‘Whenever I needed a dog, I used the boss’s. He was an aggressive little bastard. Great with the stock, smart. But wouldn’t tolerate another dog nearby.’

Jack handed him the matches.

‘What brings you out here? On foot?’ Ian asked. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

‘Fine … fine thanks. I’ll push on, if you don’t mind. Before it gets too wet.’

‘Never too wet for fencing, Ian. Never too wet for most farming work. Eh?’

‘That’s right, Jack.’

Jack watched Ian return to the fence line.

‘You won’t want to bother doing five wires. Not down the back here,’ said Jack. ‘A waste of money. Paddocks down here don’t get used enough to make five wires worthwhile.’

‘The stock will get out, with only four. Don’t you reckon?’ Ian said.

‘As I said. The stock’s hardly ever down here.’

‘If I do five, we can put the stock in safely. Use these good paddocks, knowing they won’t wander. I don’t mind the extra legwork, bringing them up to the shed from here.’

‘Four wires, Ian. Happy to make it five, however, if it comes out of your wages.’

The herd grazed in the next paddock. Most of the cows had rushed over to the tractor when Ian had arrived, hopeful for hay. They’d hung around for a few minutes, then drifted away again when they saw the load was wiring and tools.