1.
It was hot inside the Reefton District Hall, hotter than even the locals expected. For the past two years the local Board of Trustees had been discussing options to install central cooling, or possibly a couple of large extractor fans. For a range of reasons, both budgetary and inter-personal, talks had stalled, leaving the summer heat free to reach in and smother the occupants of the hall. Jack and Claire stepped through the front doors and moved towards a couple of free seats towards the rear, nodding to their neighbours as they moved through the crowd. Claire lowered herself gently to the seat with a bit of help from Jack; her knees had been giving her a bit of grief lately. On stage sat the three candidates for the Regional District Council elections, set to be held in a fortnight. Their moderator, Reefton School Principal Mrs. Marion James, leaned into the lectern and surveyed the sea of deeply tanned forearms emerging from aertex shirts in shades of light blue and green.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Regional Council debate for 2016.” Mrs. James fanned herself with a sheaf of papers as she spoke. “This is an opportunity for candidates to outline their vision for Buller and the greater West Coast for the next Council term, and for you to put your questions to candidates directly.”
She looked over to the candidates, each staring up at her expectantly. To Jack they looked a bit like school kids waiting to audition for the end of year production. In a lot of ways, Jack thought to himself, this wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Each candidate will be given ten minutes to make a statement, followed by a question and answer session open to all candidates. We will not take questions before each candidate has had their full ten minutes. To begin, we’ll hear from incumbent Mr. Leroy Shaw, National.”
Mrs. James took a seat next to the candidates, and Shaw took a place at the lectern. A three-term councilor, Shaw had defended himself with relative ease over the last two elections. Jack knew Shaw well; the two of them had overlapped by a few years at the local primary school, and the two had spent years carting hay together each summer. Stout, dense-browed and with large, fleshy hands, Shaw kept his speech tightly focused on the Council’s achievements over the last nine years, mostly on the stockyard expansion partnership he had brokered with Western Meats in 2009. He spoke for around eight minutes and rounded off his speech before Mrs. James had cause to pick up the timer’s bell. Shaw took his seat to hearty applause from the audience; he was one of them, a sheep farmer with local credibility and a station that had been in his family for as long as anyone could remember.
“Thank you Mr. Shaw.” Mrs. James looked down at her sheaf of paper. “We’ll now hear from Mr. Tom Parker, Labour.”
Parker was also a local, albeit one without Shaw’s strong ties to the land. His family had brought into a smaller grazing block back in the early 1990s right after the wool subsidy reforms. Most of the locals, Jack and Claire included, still associated Tom Parker with his father’s opportunistic haggling over the block, previously owned by a much-loved local family. Many considered the rumoured purchase price to have been ungenerous, even stingy, but the reforms had hit many of the locals hard, and the previous owners had to take what they could get at the time. Parker had his work cut out for him, and he knew it. He stuck to safe territory with his speech, acknowledging the gains that had been made for locals over recent years, but posing the question of whether this was enough; didn’t they deserve a representative with a long-term vision for the West Coast, someone who could help bring the West Coast into the future? Mid-speech he looked down at his notes and found he had lost track of his points. He smoothed his tie against his shirt and brought himself back to his key points on roading spend for the Western corridor and on bolstering tourism efforts. Eventually the bell rang for time, and Parker took his seat to light applause.
No one knew quite what to expect from Kim Ross. Jack had seen her in town a few times, and she was known to shack up with one of the local stock agents, a guy a few years younger than her. She hadn’t been in Reefton long, and had moved down from Wellington a few years back. Jack and Claire had been surprised to see her listed as an independent candidate.
“What the people of Reefton need,” Ms. Ross gripped the lectern with both hands and leaned in to the microphone, “is to lead the charge in environmental stewardship and the sustainable use of our precious natural resources.” A few snorts could be heard from around the room. Some of the locals looked sideways at each other, eyebrows raised. She took a breath and gripped the lectern ever tighter. “For too long we have used this land, exploited it, and now, well, it is letting us know it is fed up.” She raised an accusatory finger into the air. “The land has a memory! It remembers all we have done to it. And believe me, it will remember the clogging of the waterways with cow shit and phosphates, it will remember the topsoil choking the Buller River, and it damn bloody well will remember Petrotech!”
At the mention of Petrotech, the mining company that had set up drilling substations off the coast two years ago, the crowd began to get restless. The rigs employed around 90 locals, 120 during peak production, and though many shared concerns about the environmental impacts of the drilling, they couldn’t afford to agree completely with Ross. Mrs. James, reading the crowd mood, rang the bell for time early and returned to take her spot at the lectern. Ross reluctantly released her grip on the lectern and moved back to her seat.
“Thank you, Ms. Ross.” She looked over to the three candidates. “And thank you, Mr. Shaw and Mr. Parker. We’ll now take some questions from the audience. Tim…where’s Tim? Ah, there you are. Young Tim will be walking around with a microphone. If you have a question, please raise your hand and he’ll fetch it to you.”
A dozen hands popped up from around the Hall. The microphone was passed to a portly man in a red shirt in the back row. He removed his hat before speaking.
“I have a question for Mr. Shaw. Leroy, what do you think about the proposal to form a wider West Coast-Canterbury council? Do you think this merger could be a goer?”
Shaw stood and took the microphone from Mrs. James.
“Hi there, Rick. Look mate, in a lot of ways I can see where the calls for consolidation are coming from. Fewer administration costs, easier to deal with central Government. But what concerns me,” he took a step forward on the stage, “is the idea that we might have some jokers from out of town trying to make our decisions. Or even worse, a joined-up council could choose to just ignore us completely. And that is absolutely not on. That’s why I remain opposed to a merger. Let the people of Reefton speak for the people of Reefton.”
Shaw resumed his seat to strong applause from the crowd. The microphone was passed up to a broad-shouldered woman in a striped rugby jersey.
“Gudday Leroy. Listen, any plans to retire? I heard something about maybe you might retire soon.” Shaw took the microphone from Mrs. James and spoke from his seat.
“Not as far as I know, Sheryl.” He drew a few laughs from the crowd. “Long as my ticker keeps me in action I’ll be here for the long haul. You can go ahead and tell that to anyone you like.”
A hand shot up in the second row. Tim made his way to the front and handed over the microphone. A guy in his mid-40s stood up, one of the farm managers on a larger station out near the coast.
“I have a question for Parker.” He cleared his throat. “I heard you on the radio the other day talking about water rights. You mentioned you might be in support of Māori having a seat at the table with the council on water. An unelected seat. This is something a lot of us are concerned about. We’ve already been through all that foreshore and seabed crap. I think many of us would like to know for certain where you stand on this.”
Parker had spent the last few weeks trying to limit the damage caused by the interview. His discussion with the presenter had started off great, and they had moved on from roading and infrastructure to water allocation. From there the presenter had shifted things on to a recent decision in the Environment Court compelling the Canterbury District Council to form a water rights body with local iwi representatives. The presenter, Michael Laws, had pushed Parker gradually and imperceptibly towards a position in support of iwi representation on water issues. When Parker had attempted a statement about the need to recognise the importance of the issue to all people of the West Coast, including Māori, the presenter had drawn him on the point and asked him point blank if that should be taken as support for dedicated iwi representation on the issue. Parker had tried to tread carefully between his party line and local sentiment, but had come off as sounding like he couldn’t make his mind up. It had been a minor disaster, and he and his campaign manager had spent the next few weeks trying to shift the focus back to his roading spend proposal. Jack had heard the interview while mustering the back blocks, and didn’t know what to make of it. Parker stood to take the microphone.
“Listen, I’m glad you asked,” he paused and looked out across the room. In the kitchen out back he could see a couple of ladies spreading cream and jam onto date scones. He could hear the distant tinkle of the tea trolley being wheeled to the rear of the hall. “As I said in my interview, I believe all the people of the West Coast and Southland, Māori and non-Māori, deserve a say in the management of water. I consider it a priority for those making decisions on water to consult with all interested parties to make sure water is used in a responsible way.” He thought back to the points he’d agreed with his manager. “But above all else, I want to stress that this is a decision for locals to make. That is why I support a Council-led referendum on the issue.”
The crowd became restless once again. Groans could be heard from the rear of the hall. The farm manager lifted the microphone to reply.
“Okay, but if we were to hold this referendum, which, by the way, would soak up a hell of a lot of our rates dollars, which way would you vote, you personally? Iwi seat or no iwi seat?”
A hush came over the crowd. Parker felt eyes on him.
“I…that depends.” He crossed his arms in front of him. The groaning from the crowd returned, louder still. “It depends on…developments at a national and regional level. Look,” he cleared his throat and steadied himself, “this is a complex issue. It is important that we have input on water rights from all stakeholders, and that we look at the very real gains that have been made through the Land and Water Forum. If we took a referendum and people decided in favour of dedicated iwi representation, well then, I’d support that.”
Many people were now vigorously shaking their heads at him. Some were cursing aloud. Jack stood up and signaled to Tim for the microphone, his silver dog whistle bouncing against his chest. He brought the microphone to his face.
“This is just bloody PC gone mad!”
There was a moment of silence before the crowd responded. Jack had given them something they could grab easily, tightly; these were words familiar to all of them. All around him, people began shouting pieces of this statement. To Parker up on stage, the individuals in the crowd around Jack all seemed to be moving and speaking in unison, like the tendrils of a creeper or the tentacles of an octopus moving through dark water. “Mad!” “Bloody PC!” “Wishy-washy prick!” “Get fucked!” Others had begun to stand and point toward the stage. Parker gripped the microphone in front of him. He thought back to his talking points written specifically on this issue, so much neutral language, folded neatly in his jacket pocket, draped over his chair behind him. No point in reaching for it now; that would truly be the end. He looked over the top of the crowd to the rear of the hall. Through the serving window to the kitchen he could see one of the ladies spread a doily against the bench and arrange a row of tea mugs with sure hands, seemingly oblivious to what was happening in the hall. How easy it would be to just leave, step off the stage and find his car. He could be home in twenty minutes. Mrs. James walked over and took the microphone.
“Alright, everyone. That’s enough.” She spoke with a clear voice over the top of the crowd. “That’s quite enough now.”
The noise began to subside. Jack took his seat again.
“We’ll break for tea and scones and resume in fifteen minutes. If you’ll make your way to the rear of the hall.” Mrs. James placed the microphone back in its stand at the lectern.
Parker sat looking down at the stage. Leroy Shaw took to his feet and stepped down into the crowd, the locals clapping him on the shoulder as he moved toward the refreshments. Kim Ross looked sideways at Parker, a wry smile edging over her face. Parker clasped his hands together, rubbing his palm with the thumb of his other hand. It was over.
2.
Jack’s dog whistle swung softly across his chest as he drove, a silver pendulum sweeping the hair sticking out of the sunburnt V of his open shirt. The cab of the truck had filled with gravel dust, as it always did on the home stretch. He shifted down a gear ahead of the bend in the road and looked over to his wife through the floating motes. Claire stared straight ahead through the windscreen. He moved his hand to grasp hers; she smiled and looked over to him. Jack looked back to the road.
“PC gone mad.”
“I know, honey.” Claire squeezed his hand.
“Just bloody. This.”
“It’s ok. We’ll be home soon.”
“Gone.”
The sun hung low against the hills, casting its brilliant light into the long grass as they drove. They approached the farmhouse and slowed to a stop.
“I’ll check the roast.” Claire stepped out of the truck.
“Mad.” Jack shut the door of the truck and went to see the dogs. They barked with excitement at his approach. One by one he released the latches on their kennels. They each shot out like coiled springs, wriggling with unchecked animal glee to be free of their confines. Jack filled their bowls with fresh water from the hose and walked in to the dog tucker fridge in the workshop. The dogs ran around him in excited loops, the four figures lunging at each other, snapping gamely. These moments of play were always the high point of Jack’s day; sometimes he even thought to leave the dogs out to run around while he had his tea, but they still had lambs grazing lambs near the farmhouse, and no matter how well-trained the dogs were, anything could happen. He grabbed a handful of biscuits from the barrel and a mutton leg from the fridge, took a cleaver and chopped the leg into four roughly even pieces. The younger pups were fed first and locked back up; his two older dogs, Jazz and Sock, were led in last. He gave them both a good pat before they were fed. Sock was his favourite. She’d been with him so long, since Liam and Nicole were young kids. There were photos in the house of them playing with Sock as a pup, Nicole must’ve been about thirteen, Liam around nine. He gave her a long rub around the muzzle and closed her kennel. She stared back through the wire before bending to eat, gazing out at him through the milky rheum of her eyes. He strode back to the farmhouse and sat on the verandah to unlace his boots. From where he sat he could hear fragments of Claire’s phone conversation carry through the half-open door.
“The doctor… new medication, it’s doing alright for him, so far anyway. Better than before.” He pulled off his boots and set them on the steps. He looked out across the field glowing golden in the fading light. “It’s just this time of year, it’s always hard… Liam… been home in a long time, he’s… new place up around Nelson, a vineyard. We haven’t talked to him about it much yet, no. I… think we’ll need to…” Jack stood up and pushed the front door open. “Anyway, we’ll definitely see you and Dave this weekend, alright? Okay, I’ll tell him. Yep, thanks.” She placed the phone in its cradle as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Almost ready love. Trish says hi. Weather’s on.” Jack took his seat in the lounge and waited for Sherry, their cat, to appear and jump into his lap.
3.
Claire stepped out of the truck and made her way inside.
“I’ll check the roast.”
“Mad.”
She could see Jack’s mind was already on the dogs. She loved to see him like this. In many ways he was almost himself when he was with the dogs, and each day she waited for him to come inside again, wondering if this would be the day he would return to himself. If it happened soon enough they might not have to go through with it; they could call the lawyers and tell them to pull the sale. The phone was ringing when she came in to the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Claire?”
“Trish, hi.” Claire balanced the phone between shoulder and ear as she bent down to open the oven door. She’d had a bit more pain in her knees recently, and they creaked as she moved.
“You alright love?” Trish must’ve heard her exhale through the phone.
“I’m alright. My knees.” She poked the roast with a knife. It wanted another twenty minutes or so. “What’s going on with you?”
“Oh, you know. Dave’s out on his horse. Just about to get tea on. How was the panel?”
Claire closed the oven door. “About what you’d expect. No real contest for Leroy. That Ross woman is a bloody lunatic.”
“Brenda said she saw her out on the road by the Beetham’s last week pulling down Shaw’s billboards, the mad bitch. Anyway…” Trish took a pause on the line. They’d been friends for long enough for Claire to know exactly where the conversation was charted. She’d need to end the call now if she didn’t want to talk about the sale.
“How did Tom Parker do?”
“Seemed a bit out of his depth, to be honest. I don’t know how he got the nomination. Unless Shaw carks it sometime in the next few weeks I don’t think he’ll have a show.”
“Right.” Claire could hear birds in the background of the call. Trish must be sitting out on her deck looking out at the apple trees.
“Have you told Jack yet?”
Claire rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Not yet, no.” She looked around for a tea towel. “The timing needs to be right. He’s only just gotten used to the idea of selling at all. It could do real damage if he knows it’s the Parkers taking over.”
“He’ll have to find out sometime right? I mean, you’ve both got to sign the papers.”
“I know, Trish.” Claire looked through the kitchen window across the field. She could see a couple of magpies swoop and dive in the field, smudges of black against the skyline. The dogs had stopped barking; they must be eating. She thought ahead to what they’d need to do with them. Someone local would take the two pups for sure – Jack had put in a fair bit of time with them, and they were already working well. With Jazz and Sock, they’d have to look at other options.
“Sorry love. How’s Jack getting on with the new pills?”
“The doctor in town is trialing something new. Seems like it’s doing alright for him I think, so far anyway. Definitely helping him sleep better than before.” She could hear Jack step onto the verandah outside. She saw the two magpies turn and fly together into the shade of the trees.
“I’ve got to go. We’ll definitely see you and Dave this weekend, alright?”
4.
The dreams came strong that night, stronger than Jack had felt in months. The new pills had been working well; everything was kept submerged most of the time, but every once in a while something would shoot to the surface with clear, sharp edges, impossible to push down again.
It was always the same start to the dream: he sits in the seat of the four-wheeler, the bike humming underneath them as they climb the hill track out the back near the bush line. Nicole sits on his rear to the left, leaning into the middle for the corners, speaking close into his ear whenever she spots a ewe needing attention. Every year she would come back from the city in August for a week of lambing. She would say it recharged her, gave her energy to go back to the office and finish out the winter. Her red-amber hair, her Mum’s hair, sways behind her whenever she dismounts the bike to open a gate. Henry and the kids always come down with her, but they stay back at the farmhouse; these lambing trips belong to just the two of them. Since she left for university it’s been something they can count on, something to measure time against during the year.
Nicole leans forward to speak to him as they approach a tight corner on the climb. The gravel crunches beneath them over the whine of the bike. Her voice is so clear in his ear. Always the same words in the dream: “You know Dad, too much of this bloody talkback and you’ll be hanging confederate flags in the kitchen.” Jack throws his head back to laugh, reaches forward to the radio on the front of the bike and flicks the volume up, way up, Michael Laws’ voice shrouding them in its confident derision, bringing them warmly nearer the campfire: “You’re listening to Real Talk with Michael Laws. We’re here discussing about Roast Busters, this so-called scandal. What do you think? Is this a case of the serial sexual exploitation of young girls, as some have said, or is this just boys being boys? We’re taking callers, let’s see who’s on the line.” How could you possibly expect, being a reasonable individual, as I am, to disagree with the words I am saying? It never really mattered to Jack what was anyone was actually saying on the radio, it was about having company as he worked, and talkback somehow always came through more clearly than any other channel, even way out back near the bush block. Nicole shouts to him in mock exasperation: “Jesus Christ, what a miserable bastard!” Jack is thinking of his next words: him or Mr. Laws?
They approach the corner, perhaps a little faster than usual, Jack somehow accelerating more than he intends to. And then, low white shapes in the middle of the track. They register before he sees them fully; a mother with her new lamb, huddled in the gravel, the mother looking up in the direction of the threat. Jack jerks the handlebar sideways just enough to miss her, but Nicole isn’t ready for the change in direction and doesn’t have enough warning to move her body with the motion of the bike. They tip sharply left, and he sees the steep face of the hill beneath them, thinks to himself, get on top of her, get between her and the bike, between her and the empty space calling her down into it. He hears her yell out, something he can’t make out, either in real life or in the dream, something urgent and terrible. He lunges toward her side of the bike, tries to solve this problem with his body: always the solution for the man that he is, strong, big, able-handed, a presence shaping the world. It is his job to manipulate physical objects into maximum safety and convenience for Nicole, for Liam, for Claire. The bike twists over and in to her, blocking their view of each other, breaking his line of sight, then falls hard against her where she has come to rest on the hillside. The impact seems so brief, the bike seems to pop up again almost apologetically, as if on second thought it had decided after further consideration to leave her well enough alone.
But Jack can see something has happened. To the dream Nicole, and now, he realises as he is shunted awake into the night, to the real Nicole. There are two halves to this dark equation, so safe kept each in their discrete place with pills and dog play, but the dream brings them together once again to rip his throat from his body and tear him into nothing.
The bike falls again down the hill, rolling again and again, now just a mass of metal, plastic, rubber, fuel, spinning down the hillside, pointless and insane. And then on one rotation, mid-air, an oddly complete sentence is issued from the somehow still functioning radio, Michael Laws speaking god-like through bike-matter before it descends again to make contact with the earth: “This is just bloody PC gone mad.” The words take firm root in Jack’s mind, like a door closing shut. He hears the rhythmic smash of the bike against the hill, bouncing higher each time until the sound of contact becomes a distant Morse pop. He gets to his feet and moves to where she lies against the hill. Nicole’s hair hangs over her shoulder, stuck to her neck. He turns her over. Her face is white, and her eyes stare upwards past him into the grey of the sky. He speaks to her then, again and again, listening for her breath. For a moment she seems to be with him, and then she is not. He brings her tight to him and kisses her cheek, her ear. When he opens his eyes his vision is obscured by something. He brings his hand to his face, and it comes away bloody. He feels his forehead, the fingertips of his hand registering an opening in the skin, a half-inch, maybe more. He notices he has left smears of red on her hair, on her face and ear. He brings her to him once more, calls her name, and then he is awake in his bed, Claire is speaking to him low and soft, telling him what is happening.
“Darling, you’re awake. You’re awake now.” She held him by the shoulders and ran her hands slowly over the back of his neck. “You’re at home, you’re in bed. It’s me.”
“This is...” His breathing came hard and raspy in his throat.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m here.” Claire leaned over and kissed his forehead, her lips pressing against the thick scar running across to his temple.
“This is…bloody PC.” He turned to Claire and collapsed into her, pushing his face into her neck. It always took time to bring his breathing under control. He used the techniques the doctor had taught him. He thought of Sock asleep in her kennel, her grey eyelids closed over milk-blue eyes, at rest. Jack and Claire lay in bed, listening to the long drone of the cicadas coming through the open window, marking time until morning.
5.
It was 9.30am when he woke. He hated to get up so late, but with the pills his old habits were impossible. He lay in bed for a moment and let the last residue of the dream work its way out of him and into the day. He found his robe and moved down the hall to the kitchen. Claire was on the phone.
“Liam, darling, you have to understand…listen, we don’t want to do it any more than you do.” Jack paused in the hall outside the kitchen. “This isn’t easy for us. But we can’t just pretend…it’s been two years now. And that’s enough. It’s too hard for the two of us, and…I know, I’m not saying it’s not hard for you as well, but you…Darling, I know, we’re not blaming you for moving up north, no one is saying that.”
Jack crouched down on his knees and stared into his clasped hands.
“Liam. This is happening. We’re heading in to see the lawyer on Thursday. It’s going through, they’ll move in around May sometime. You need to accept that. This is as hard for us as it is for you, and we need your help.”
The knuckles of his hands seemed sharper than before. Somehow the skin of Jack’s fingers seemed only a paper veneer covering sinew, bone, blood.
“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.” Claire cradled the phone and padded back to the sink. Jack came through the door and took his place at the table. Claire turned and brought the teapot over. She put bread in the toaster and took her seat on the corner next to him.
“That was Liam.” She rested her hands on the table and examined her palms. “He’ll be alright. He’s going to come down to help us out next month.”
“PC gone...”
“I think he’s getting used to the idea. He knows how much of a help this will be for Henry and the kids.”
“Mad, this.”
“I told him we’re going in next week to look over the papers.” She sighed and took his hand. “He’ll come around.”
Jack poured the tea with his free hand. They sat and waited for the toast to pop, listening to the magpies warble in the trees outside.