Fathers Read online

  I

  t was still raining when I woke the next morning. I looked at my watch and saw that I had slept late, the gloom of the morning light and the rhythm of the rain on the roof assisting my slumber. After showering I went through to the kitchen and discovered that Dad was not in the house. I looked out the kitchen window to see that the wind had abated, but the rain was falling steadily. A large branch from the macrocarpa had broken off and lay on the ground as evidence of last night’s wind ferocity. I made myself a cuppa and wandered through to the lounge. There was an old lounge suite, a bookcase full of paperbacks and history books, and a freestanding log burner stood in the corner of the room, loaded with firewood, ready to go should the winter come early. Numerous photos were tacked to the wall and perched on top of the bookcase. On the opposite side, a large stag’s head with a wide spread of antlers hung there, overseeing it all.

  Looking at the photos while I sipped my tea I could see pictures of the past. Mum and Dad in their late twenties standing on a beach somewhere. Dad standing on a deck of a boat surrounded by fish. A picture of Mum and me eating ice cream; the ice cream smeared all over my face and a milky grin showing through it. Another one of dad and a couple of army mates in fatigues and rifles slung over their backs. An old photo of Dad as a child standing between his mother and father; his father in an army uniform...

  I heard the sound of an engine and looked out the window to see Dad heading through the gate and into the garage on the quad bike. And what looked like a drowned rat stood on the carrier. Scrappy. I went through to the kitchen. “Put the jug on son.” said Dad as he came through the door.

  “Sure, where have you been?” I asked as I filled the jug.

  “Just went to check on the cows and give them some hay. There’s not much feed about and with all this rain they’ll appreciate something dry in their bellies.”

  “How long do you think this rain will last?”I asked

  “She’s set in for the rest of the day by the looks of it.”

  “So what happens around here on a day like today?”

  “Well we kick back and take it easy, that’s after you’ve done the housework. I’ll show you where the vacuum is!”

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  We were relaxing after the housework, reading novels and listening to the rain drum on the roof. The radio was on in the background; a commentator bemoaning the bad economic times and what everyone should be doing to stave off economic disaster. I took sip of my coffee and looked across at my father staring out the lounge window. “What’s on your mind Dad?” I asked.

  “Huh, oh nothing, just day dreaming.”

  Silence.

  I broke the silence. “I was looking at those photos earlier and saw one of you and your parents. I remember seeing other pictures of Nana but not many of granddad. What happened to him?”

  “My father died in the war, I was very young when that happened... I can’t really remember much about him to be honest.”

  “What? World War two?”

  “Yeah, in Cassino. That photo was taken just before he left to head overseas.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Heroically, or so say they said in the telegram. He was charging a German machine gun nest and got mowed down. You can’t take on a machine gun with a .303 rifle and hope to survive.”

  “Jeez, how did you and Nana cope with that? I mean, you must have been devasted. And didn’t you live on a farm at that time? What happened there? That would’ve been quite difficult I imagine with only you and nana left to run it.”

  “Yeah well it was, but the neighbours helped out and I believe we were coping all right. I dunno. Maybe we weren’t. Anyway that’s when my mother got this other bloke in. To help out supposedly. Right from the start I couldn’t stand the bastard. He was one of those people who you just take an instant dislike to. They immediately rub you up the wrong way.” He shook his head and looked down at the floor then continued. “He was not what he made out to be and caused us a lot of pain and trouble. A lot of pain and trouble.” He got up and went to the window. He watched rivulets of water trickle down the pane of glass as the rain continued to fall.

  I was getting excited now and wanted to know more. “What did he do Dad? Start from the beginning, this sounds interesting.”

  He turned and said, “Oh, you don’t want to hear about all that son, it was a long time ago and better left in the past.”

  “Says who? Jeez Dad this is exactly what I want to hear about. I mean like I said before I want to get to know you, we’ve got the time. C’mon tell me, I’m really interested.”

  He said, “Well, if you’re sure.” Then I could see that he was thinking about it, tossing up whether he should tell me after all. He said, “There may be some stuff in my past you won’t like, I know there’s some stuff back there that I don’t like, that’s for sure.”

  “Tell it dad, warts and all. I’m your son and I’d really like to know what it was like for you growing up in those times; what you had to go through. We’ve got all day, hell all week if that’s what it takes. Tell me everything but start from the beginning; you know from what you could remember as a kid”

  He came back to his chair and sat down again. He said “Yeah, yeah, alright. I told you I’m not one for telling stories but we’ll see how we go. Look it was a long time ago and I may not remember everything exactly how it happened.” He took in a deep breath then exhaled slowly and said “Funny how only the real good times or the real horrible times stay in your memory. Everything else is like a blur...” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Keith I’ll give this a go but you may have to use your imagination in parts, ‘cause it’ll be how I remember it, not necessarily how it actually happened, okay?”

  I sat forward in my chair. “Sure Dad, no problems. Let’s do this.”

  “Okay, but put another brew on while I gather my thoughts... And for Christ sake, let me know if I start to bore you, I don’t want you fallin’asleep! ”

  “Don’t worry Dad you won’t bore me.” I said as I jumped up and almost ran to the jug and filled it quickly from the tap. I was excited as I knew this was what I had wanted from the beginning. The chance to find out about Dad. To discover who he was and how he lived. I was like a little kid about to be read a bedtime story on Christmas Eve.

  Cup of tea in hand, Dad stared out the window searching his mind for the memories. He rubbed his chin, took a sip from his cup and said “Well let’s see now, where do I start? Um, well, I grew up in a place called Putumu...”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PUTUMU

  AUTUMN 1944

  T

  he Putumu River was slow moving, very deep in places and often murky, from the runoff of the land. The small village situated nearby was named after the river and consisted of a general store, school, church and hotel all of which were situated on the town’s main road. The streets that ran off this held the homes of the residents that served the farms and the nearby mill. The Putumu Mill provided the most employment and was the reason the town existed. It was also the reason that Putumu had its very own railway station, as the trains were the only means to transport logs and timber milled from here to around the country.

  The nearest city, Wakeford, was an hour and a half by rail and over two hours drive away by motor vehicle, if you were lucky enough to own one. And during the war years there were no cars owned by anyone in Putumu, except for the general store owner. During the time of war, the close community of Putumu came together to help each other out while their men were fighting overseas. It was not uncommon for women to do the jobs that were traditionally the men’s such as farming, sawmilling and logging. ‘Land girls’ were also brought in from the cities and assigned to the larger farms in the area to help out where needed. There were still a number of older men, boys and those with medical problems who were ineligible to fight, and they worked beside these women in the jobs that were co
nsidered vital to keep the war effort fuelled and the community prospering. Rationing was very much on and most products that were previously taken for granted were in short supply. Items such as meat, eggs, butter, sugar, tea, petrol and even clothing were hard to come by. Although most of the produce from the farms in the area went directly towards the war effort, a little like cream and meat were kept back illegally, for the family’s own use. After all they had made the ultimate sacrifice by supplying their men to the war: Their sons, husbands and fathers.

  The farm owned by Jack’s parents was over six miles from the village and consisted of approximately one hundred acres. It was mostly steep hill country that contained some productive river flats and a little native bush. On their farm they ran sheep on the hills and a few milking cows on the flats. Chooks and pigs were also farmed and having a large vegetable garden kept the family well fed from their own produce. As Jack’s father was fighting overseas, neighbours helped Jack and his mother on the farm when necessary. They helped with jobs such as shearing, lambing, docking and of course the milking of the cows. Because the neighbours had their own farms to attend to, maintenance on the Delaney farm fell behind somewhat, a problem that just couldn’t be overcome due to the shortage of labour. Their house was built entirely out of native timber which was taken from their own trees and milled on site, to create the weatherboards and framing. The three bed roomed home had a large open fireplace in the lounge and a ‘Champion’ coal range stove, with wetback, in the kitchen which was kept constantly going, winter and summer, to the heat water and cook their meals. Electricity had recently arrived in the community and all the lighting in the house was indeed, electric. The roof was painted the traditional ‘Steelite’ red which seemed to be the only colour available those days. The exterior walls were brightly whitewashed and the outbuildings such as a barn, shed and outhouse were painted the same as the house. It was a typical farm of the times. A challenging but idyllic lifestyle made even more challenging with the outbreak of war.

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  In the early evening on the 15thof March 1944, Jack’s father, Arthur Phillip Delaney, was knocked to the ground as the second of two bullets to enter his body, cut through his spine and took out all movement to his legs. The first bullet to hit him had entered his chest and had carried on straight through his heart, exiting below his shoulder blade. Arthur was dead when the first bullet had hit, he just hadn’t realised it at the time. His adrenaline fuelled body just carried on running towards the German machine gun until the second bullet stopped him, literally, dead in his tracks. Jacks father laid in a rain soaked and decimated street of Monte Cassino as his mates and colleagues, his fellow soldiers, ran past or jumped over him into a battle that was not decided until over two months after he had died.

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  At the time that his father was killed, Jack who was ten years old, was milking the house cow. This was one of his many chores he had to do before school started in the morning. Others included feeding the chooks and pigs, collecting the eggs and chopping firewood and kindling for the coal range. He was a solid, strong boy, a little bigger than most his age with brown curly hair and freckles scattered over his face. His eyes were green like his mothers and his facial features could only be described as handsome with a well defined nose and a full mouth. He wore like a uniform, a brown shirt and green shorts, summer and winter.

  The sun was just entering the valley and the mists from the dewy ground rose and then dissipated in its brilliance. Jack ran inside with his pail of milk, quickly wiping his bare feet on the mat outside the door before he entered. Today was Friday and Friday meant eggs for breakfast and if lucky, a rasher of bacon on the side. This was accompanied by the warm milk, fresh from the house cow. There was no food shortage in Jacks home as their little farm always provided plenty for them.

  “Hurry with your breakfast or you’ll be late for school!” Said his mother. Jacks mother, Ellen, was a petite woman in her mid twenties with brown wavy hair tied in a bun. She had emerald eyes that sparkled and drew your attention to them immediately when first meeting her. Her skin was flawless with just a sprinkling of freckles across her feminine nose. She was pretty without being beautiful, until she smiled at you, then miraculously, her whole face lit up and her appearance changed before your eyes, from a pretty face to an absolutely stunning face. Most people that had witnessed her smile would do a double take, such was her beauty, and most men’s hearts melted with desire and longing, if she ever happened to glance their way. She was strong minded and a very capable woman who did the tasks of any man, often better, and without complaint. However her usual calm mild manner had been tested lately due to the circumstances she found herself in; running a farm and bringing up a child alone. And on occasion, she was known to ‘fly off the handle’ or become quite emotional when confronted with stressful situations. Today she was wearing her practical farm clothes, many times patched and repaired; a light shirt and trousers. Jack swallowed the last of his bread dipped in egg and washed it down with a glass of warm milk. “Bye Mum,” he mumbled as he walked out the door.

  “Bye dear and don’t talk with your mouth full,” she scolded. “And remember straight to school, no skiving off to go fishing or anything,” she added.

  “Course not mum, see ya!” He said, slamming the door on his way out. Jack rode his pony down the track from his home and met the road. He called his horse Rosy as she was a deep red colour. The only other colour on her body was a white blaze that ran down her face from the middle of her ears to the beginning of her nose. Jack loved Rosy as boys love their pets and he was always diligent when it came to feeding her and caring for her. She was a good natured, docile animal and when she was a foal she would follow him everywhere given the chance. One time she even followed him into the kitchen of his home, much to the annoyance of his mother, when he had left the gate open and the kitchen door ajar.

  School was an hour away by horseback at a walk, not that this concerned Jack today, because he wasn’t going. In fact he never went on any Friday. It had become such a regular occurrence that his teacher, Miss McFierce, assumed that Jack was needed on the farm on Fridays and never thought to question it. Jack was, in fact, as his mother had jokingly warned against, off skiving and was going to meet up with his best mate Wiremu, or Mu for short, to go eeling at ‘Devil’s Elbow’, a large pool situated at a right angle bend in the Putumu River, half a mile from his home.

  Jack could see smoke rising through the trees as he followed the track through the bush to the river. Wiremu must already be there and got a fire going, he thought to himself. The sun still had not reached this far into the river valley and even though it was March and had been a warm summer, the surrounding hills and bush kept the cold dampness of the night trapped until at least mid morning, where the sun finally lit up its darkest corners.

  “Hi Wiremu,” said Jack. “How long you been here for?”

  Wiremu was a tall, wiry Maori boy with rather bulgy eyes, a more European nose than Polynesian and a large grinning mouth. He wore old grey shorts and a blue collared shirt with the sleeves cut off. He answered “Ten minutes maybe. I got this fire going just before you arrived.”

  Jack slid from his horse. “Where’d you get those matches from Mu?”

  “Nowhere, just found them that’s all.”

  “Pinched ‘em more like it. From the store I bet!”

  “Nah, not from the store, I got ‘em from home, found ‘em in the shed. Bit damp but I got it in the end, and at least we have a fire eh? We can have a ‘cook up’ later!”

  “Your mum’d string you up if she found you with those, string me up too I reckon,” said Jack as he poked at the fire with a stick.

  “You heard from your Dad?” Wiremu said to change the subject. “My Dad’s in Italy at the moment. Mum saw it in ‘The Weekly News’. It showed a picture
of the Maori Battalion, some of them anyway. Didn’t see my dad though.”

  Adding more wood to the fire Jack said, “I think my Dad’s there as well. Hey, they’re probably camping with each other, shooting the Jerries like they used to shoot the deer and pigs over here, eh?”

  “Oh yeah, I bet they woulda got the most ‘cause they could shoot real good. They never missed eh!”

  A Kereru laden down with a gut full of Tawa berries swooped into the valley and crashed into the foliage of a tree above the two boys. They both looked up at the pigeon. Wiremu said “Bet ya can’t hit that with ya slingshot Jack, have a go, they’re good tucker eh. We have them all the time at home.”

  “Bet ya I can, bet ya a pound I can!”

  “You got no money Jack, so how you goin’to pay me when you lose eh? How ‘bout you give me that sling shot if you miss and I’ll give you my pocket knife if you hit.”

  “Yeah, but how many shots do I get, I need three, three shots and the bets on!”

  “Alright three shots then, you can’t miss with three, that pigeon’s too full of berries and too fat to even move! He’ll prob’ly just sit there the whole time.”

  Jack selected three small round pebbles from the river bank and walked closer to the tree in which the pigeon roosted. The bird took no notice as it preened its feathers. The slingshot was made from a stout ‘Y’ shaped manuka branch. From the tops of the ‘Y’ strips of rubber were tied. The rubber from each side of the branch was connected in the middle by a small piece of leather in which the stone was placed. His father had made it for him and Jack always carried it wherever he went. Without fail. Not only the slingshot but carefully selected stones were always in his pocket just in case he didn’t have access to any. But today his precious stash was untouched as Jack loaded his weapon with one of the pebbles from the riverbank and took a deep breath. He placed one foot in front of the other, and then raised the slingshot. He breathed in and out, in and out, several times then held his breath. He poked out his tongue, pulled back the rubbers as far as he could and held it steady. He closed one eye, aimed and, and...Wiremu farted, loud and proud so that it echoed through the valley and was ‘Probably heard in Germany,’ they both later reckoned. Jack started giggling, the pebbles were dropped and the pigeon flew off. Wiremu fell on the ground in fits of laughter. “What ya do that for? Giggled Jack.