Fathers
FATHERS
A novel
By David J. Daniel
CHAPTER ONE
I
guess you could say I was lost.
Not only had I lost my way in life, I was lost on this dusty, pot- holed road that seemingly went on forever and ever, with no apparent purpose, and no end to it all. Only God knew where I was, as I hadn’t a clue.
Not so far back I had seen a sign on the side of the road that said, ‘Welcome to Tepetepe.’ Within thirty seconds of passing that sign I saw another that said, ‘Thanks for visiting Tepetepe.’ All that Tepetepe revealed to me was a boarded up building that might’ve been a dairy once, and a skinny black dog scratching at some fleas. Someone must’ve owned the dog - it had a collar - but there was no sign of human life anywhere. As I drove on I tried to ignore, but failed miserably, the somewhat depressing and monotonous scenery of a million scraggly sheep, grazing on gorse infested brown paddocks that were held together by a network of falling down fences. After an hour of sheep watching and trying to tune in a car radio to non-existent channels, I came across another sign that said ‘anea. ateway to Rura New ealand.’ I suspected that it had once said ‘Wanea. Gateway to Rural New Zealand’ but the sign was painted so long ago, that the letters had faded in the harsh coastal environment. And in the case of the ‘G’ in ‘Gateway’; shot to pieces by frustrated hunters, who may have always missed their moving targets and therefore decided to have a go at something easier, like a faded letter on an eroded sign.
But on seeing that sign came a sense of relief. I had arrived. Wanea was the home of my father.
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After passing the sign I expected to see houses or other indications of human habitation but I saw nothing except a hundred blonde bums, as I rounded a corner and almost collided with them. I was stuck in the middle of a rural traffic jam. A flock of shorn sheep had blocked the road outside a dilapidated shearing shed, which stood off to the side and looked to me as if it may fall down at any moment; such was the lean on the walls and the rust on the roof. Sheep engulfed my car and were bleating at each other, complaining loudly, not at all impressed with their rough haircuts. Tufts of wool stood as testament to the shearer’s skill, or lack of it, as did the myriad of nicks and cuts - caused by careless hands holding sharp shears - that oozed blood and attracted the flies to their skinny bodies. I sat there for about twenty minutes, in what felt like the hottest day of the year, twisting my head this way and that, looking for the farmer or anyone else for that matter. I was getting impatient now, really pissed off in fact, as I had been travelling day and night and had somewhere to be.
The sun streamed through the car’s windows and I had the air conditioning on full blast. Even though it was late March, it was a real stinker of a day; literally. The smells of the country, like sheep shit and road kill and dust the animals were kicking up off the gravel came through the vehicle’s vents and made me gag. I coughed and grimaced with disgust and thought about what had brought me all the way here; why I had spent the last two days and nights on the road to get to a place I had never visited before, and wasn’t sure whether I should be visiting. My father had moved to this isolated spot after mum died and due to my apathy and his stubbornness we hadn’t seen each other since the funeral.
And that was ten years ago.
Mum died after a short fight with cancer and I guess when she went the chain was broken in our small family, as she was the link between my father and me. We’d sort of kept in touch, with the odd phone call on birthdays and the like, and Dad usually sent a card at Christmas, but apart from that, we didn’t communicate. Had nothing in common it seemed, now that Mum had gone. About a week before I set out, I tried phoning him but got a disconnected signal on the line. I sent him a letter instead. Not content with waiting forever for a reply, I decided to visit, unannounced, as it may turn out. I mean we’d been so hopeless at keeping in touch that I doubted if anyone would know to contact me if something terrible were to happen to my father. For all I know he could be dead now. He could’ve kicked the bucket, as well as Mum, and I wouldn’t have been told about it. And that could be the end of our little family and my last hope gone of ever really knowing my Dad...
But more than likely there’s a fault with the telephone line – hell, it’s a wonder they have phones out here at all - and he’ll have my letter and be expecting me. Overjoyed to see me, no doubt...?
I said earlier that I had lost my way in life and there are a number of reasons why. First and foremost is that my wife Carole had left me, or should I say she didn’t leave me, I left her. Not that it was my choice. She kicked me out of our home. Not being able to have kids was one of the main reasons for the marriage failing, I think. In desperation we tried everything but nothing worked. We tried to adopt for a while but we were not getting any younger and the waiting went on and on. Unable to conceive a child was due to me having a low sperm count, and even the sperm I did have didn’t work properly. They swam backwards or something, the doctors said. They couldn’t figure it out and put it down to a freak of nature. Said we only had a five per cent chance of Carole ever becoming pregnant. We were considering in- vitro fertilisation when I cocked it all up.
I had an affair with my receptionist at work.
Not really an affair, more like a couple of naughty liaisons after work. Why? I don’t know. It was dumb really. The relationship was already on the rocks but this caused an overhanging boulder to fall on it and completely flatten it. Smashed it to smithereens in fact. This was the final straw, an excuse to call it quits I suppose, and my wife did, when she found out from a friend of a friend of the receptionist.
And then I lost my job.
I was made redundant due to budget cutbacks, not that that was any great loss. I hated the job. I was a Financial Advisor, dealing with people’s money. Mainly rich oldies, investing in shonky finance companies or the share market, as they tried to make even more cash, so they could re- invest, and so on and so on, not actually enjoying life in their old age but constantly worrying about how much money they’re going to win or lose. Boring stuff it was, but it paid the bills. And I just kept on doing it day after day, the same old thing, until, bang, suddenly it’s all taken away and you step back, take a breather and ask yourself, what the hell is this life thing all about, anyway?
I certainly didn’t have the answers – didn’t know anyone who did – but I wanted to find them. I needed to find them.
I was forty years old at the time and probably half way through my life. I couldn’t have children, my marriage was all but over, I had lost my job and I had no foreseeable future in front of me. According to the experts in the women’s magazines I was smack bang in the middle of a mid life crisis. And believe me it certainly felt like it! I had lost everything. Didn’t know what to do from here and felt like I was in a state of limbo. I was drifting. Did my occupation define me? Did my marriage? My wife? How successful I was, did that define me? I didn’t have a clue.
So I was on the road, living out of cans and suitcases, trying to get to grips with my past and understand who I was, and where I’d come from. I was attempting to figure out my life, see what I needed to do to make it right. To get it back on track. To get a purpose. Then I thought; a visit to my father to catch up, build some bridges perhaps, and see if he had any solutions.
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I checked my cell phone. No signal. No coverage. And I threw it on the seat in disgust. Finally a couple of scrawny dogs turned up and started rounding up the sheep, barking and nipping at the hind legs. The farmer arrived on a motorbike and immediately started swearing at his dogs, calling them unfla
ttering names and referring to their breeding. This seemed to do the trick and the dogs moved the sheep quickly off the road and into a nearby paddock. I gave the farmer a wave as I started to move and he acknowledged by lifting one finger off the handle bar and scowling at me.
Welcome to Wanea, Keith Delaney.
CHAPTER TWO
T
he sea came into view, glistening like liquid silver in the sunlight as I came to the crest of the road from the valley below. A brace of California quail, splendid in bluish grey feathers, but also comical with their little head crests that looked like antennas, scuttled across in front of the car, then took flight and disappeared into the pine forest that bordered the road. At other times I would appreciate seeing this sort of thing but the wildlife didn’t interest me now. I’d been driving for too long, had had enough of the journey and was even considering giving up on trying to see my father. It had been half an hour since I’d seen the eroded Wanea sign and I hadn’t seen another soul since the grumpy farmer. I hadn’t seen a house or a vehicle and had come to the conclusion that maybe I had missed something, like a turnoff or side road, which may have lead to my father’s place. I was nearly going to turn back. I mean, I didn’t even know if I would recognise his property as all I had was a rural number and little else. The last town I had passed through was two hours back and I was thinking, that’s it, time to stop and head for there. Get a room at the hotel or something; I didn’t want to spend another night in the car. I skidded to a stop and was about to do a U-Turn when I saw a quad bike rapidly approaching me. In clouds of dust and smoke it came on, appearing for all the world like it was on fire. I pulled to the side of the road and stepped out of my car and waved the bike down to stop, which it did, very suddenly, kicking up gravel and dirt and a cloud of dust which covered me from head to toe. This set me off on a coughing and sneezing fit and as I was blowing my nose and wiping the crap from my face and eyes, the rider - some Maori bloke he was - said, “Kia Ora Bro!”
I waved the dust away and spluttered, “Thanks for stopping, mate. I was hoping you could tell me where Jack Delaney’s place is?”
The man was sitting atop a decrepit looking quad bike. The motor was still running but missing every now and then. It would increase in revs on its own accord, before it died down and then roared into life again. A cloud of smoke from the exhaust enveloped us and I had to step to one side, so the breeze didn’t take the fumes directly into my face. The bike had bits of fencing wire and baling twine wrapped around various parts and appeared to hold it all together. A cage of some sort was tied on the back with the twine, and in it fish heads and guts and bones were attracting a swarm of blowflies. The man himself looked to have a permanent grin on his weather-beaten face. He was anywhere between forty and seventy years old, with a belly that flopped over the petrol tank of the bike. His top two teeth were missing and the remaining teeth were the same colour as his brown skin. As he was completely bald on top, his hair hung long on one side of his head, ready for the comb over. He was wearing an old cut down ‘Swandri ‘jacket that was sleeveless and had faded to orange, from the original red colour, and his shorts looked like the ‘Stubby’ variety that was in style, only for a very short time, back in the ‘70’s, and they rode unfashionably high on the leg. On his feet was a pair of gumboots and I could see his big toe poking through a hole in the top of the rubber.
He swept his hair over his bald spot and from his ‘Swandri’ pocket produced a sun faded, now grey ‘All Blacks’ cap which he pulled on his head. The man reached into his pocket again and pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. After searching all over his body for some time, he pulled out a Zippo lighter from some crevice and attempted, unsuccessfully, to light his smoke. He held it to his ear, gave it a shake, then said, “Shit out of gas. Got a light bro?”
“Ah, sorry don’t smoke,” I said. “I got the cigarette lighter in the car though.”
“Yeah, sweet,” he replied and got off his bike and into the front seat of my car. After lighting his smoke he remained sitting in my car and then said, “You Jack’s boy?”
I looked at him sitting there and wondered if he was about to steal my car. Warily, I answered his question with a question of my own. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Look like him, ’cept he’s uglier!” He replied with a chuckle. “What’s your handle anyway?”
I shook my head, “Sorry?”
“You know, your handle, your name?”
“Oh, Keith and yours?”
“Bill, Bill Hokianga”.
“Pleased to meet you Bill,” I said as I shook his hand. I asked, “So does Dad, I mean Jack, live far away from here?”
He pointed in the general direction. “Nah, just down the road, next house you come to.” He sniffed then spat before he said, “He expecting you?”
“No, not really. I sent him a letter last week, but I don’t know if he would’ve got it yet. Tried to ring him on the phone but it sounded disconnected.”
“Yeah, would do. Phone line came down in that storm we had.”
“Storm? I thought the weather’s been pretty good lately around here?”
“Yeah, well this was a couple of months back, I s’pose they’ll get to it soon.” He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nose before he said, “Don’t miss it though, only calls I get is from those people with foreign accents trying to sell me stuff!” He grinned.
With a smile I asked, “What’s with the cage on the back of your bike? The one with the fish heads in it?”
“Cray pot, man. Gonna get me some crays for dinner!” He said as he stepped out of my car and walked to his bike. He patted the cray pot like he was immensely proud of it. The flies scattered for an instant then quickly returned to their treasures.
I swatted a fly away from my face and said, “I like the sound of that; hopefully I’ll get to sample some while I’m here.”
“Sure you will. Ya Old Man will make sure of that.” He clapped me on the back and then said, “Anyway I’ve gotta get going, don’t wanna miss the tide eh! You call up to our place sometime while you’re here. Mum will cook us all a big feed, eh! Oh, and tell your old man to bring his home brew; the lager this time.” Before I could answer Bill flicked his cigarette away, jumped on his bike and roared off in cloud of smoke and dust and flies. I scratched my head and thought, Mum will cook us a feed? Surely he doesn’t still live with his mum?
CHAPTER THREE
M
y father’s house sat about a hundred metres off the road, fronted by two fenced paddocks with a driveway down the middle which was lined with large pohutukawas on either side. The branches from the opposite trees touched and formed a tunnel in which the driveway ran through. Chooks lay in small hollows on the drive and flapped their wings to cover themselves with dust; others scratched and pecked away on the grass verge. A large macrocarpa stood alone, like a craggy fortress, in one of the paddocks that contained half a dozen sheep or so, of various shades of white. They grazed on brown grass so short, that it looked like it’d been mown, yet the sheep were fat and healthy. The house was a three bed roomed cottage of the 50’s or 60’s era, with a bright blue tin roof and white painted weatherboards. A deck - added in recent times and surrounded by flowers and shrubs - completed the picture. To the rear of the house were a couple of outbuildings; an old barn with sagging walls made of rusty corrugated iron, and a more modern looking ply and batten garage, which housed an old grey ‘Landrover’ and a quad bike.
Getting out of my car I was greeted by a small black and white fox terrier, about the size of a hare, yapping at a distance of five metres or so from me. I approached the dog saying, ‘Good Boy.’ He took off around the back off the house only to appear behind me, to nip my heels. As I turned, the dog jumped back and ran around the house again and appeared in his original position, barking again and acting tough, like he was a Rottweiler or something. A large ginger cat that thought, enough was enough, appeared from th
e shade of a shrub and walked casually past the dog, swiping his rear end with its paw. The dog yelped and ran and sat behind my legs, quivering, obviously thinking I was the lesser of two evils. The cat, now satisfied that order had been restored, casually wandered off to another shady shrub and flopped down. I smiled at the performance and then I heard: “Got ya letter,” and looked up.
Dad was standing at the front door.
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Dad’s kitchen was one of those large farm house varieties with the dining table in the middle. The cupboards were painted duck shell green, a colour that seemed to be popular in the sixties. It had a large stainless steel bench top that ran under a window, which looked out onto the front paddocks and the sea beyond the road. The rest of the bench top was faded ‘Formica’, with a star or dandelion seed pattern floating through it. The stove was an old brown electric device that was probably bought as a matching set with the fridge back in the mid seventies, and in the corner was a pot belly stove, with pipes for a wet back, disappearing into a large cupboard adjacent to it; the hot water cylinder cupboard, presumably. The floors were polished native timber; rimu or matai maybe, and on the wall above the window were three china ducks, flying across orange and brown wallpaper. Apart from being outdated and a totally gross colour scheme, the kitchen was spotless and the only clutter to be seen was the two cups surrounding a boiling jug. “Tea or Coffee?” asked Dad.
“Yeah, um, tea thanks mate – ah, Dad.”
He stood and went to the bench as he said, “How long you staying?”
“Dunno, a week or two, if that’s all right?”
Making the tea he said, “Stay as long as you like; makes no difference to me.”
“Jeez Dad, you could show a little enthusiasm, I haven’t seen you for ten years.”