It’s a perplexing question: What do you do as a red-blooded Australian when faced with a crying, naked mate? It’s not something I’d come up against in football changing rooms, even after crushing defeats and excruciating pain. I’d spent more intense time with this particular mate than with a whole football team, and was coming to a grudging admiration for him, but the alternatives for what I could do were limited. If he’d been wearing clothes I might have patted him bracingly on the shoulder, but his nakedness made even this a difficult proposition. So, I threw questions at him instead.
‘Douglass, what happened? How long were you in the Valley? Did you see Janice? Is she ok? What about my dad? What’s happened?’ I had my hands up ready to shake him by the shoulders when he continued crying, then conditioning took over and I let my hands fall to my sides, rocking uncertainly towards and away from Douglass. ‘Put some bloody clothes on, you tosser.’ I threw at him as a last attempt at sympathy.
I think the last great whoop of tears may have contained the hint of a rueful laugh. ‘You’re a legend you know, McKenzie.’ he offered as thanks for my compassion. It would do in the circumstances.
I picked up the boxers he was ignoring. With a couple of residual hiccups he took them from me, and dragged them on. By the time he was dressed, he had composed himself. ‘Ok, McKenzie, you’ll need passports and money. I need to get back as quickly as possible. The rest is up to you. I’ll tell you about your dad while we organise things.’ He left the shed, touching the anvil lightly on the way out. I did the same.
That morning when I got up, I never thought I would find myself at the end of the day at Christchurch Airport. The drive to Melbourne Airport had been rushed, but I made it there with minutes to spare. I had a three hour wait in Sydney, during which I made the necessary arrangements for my arrival in New Zealand. It was 10pm for me but midnight for the one person still at a car-rental counter, when I came through customs. I was travelling light with only a sheep skin jacket and a small backpack which contained three Australian passports, two sets of winter clothes, two wallets, a toothbrush, a razor and a spare pair of boxers. I picked up the rental car waiting for me, and drove to a small town called Ashburton before tiredness overtook me. I pulled over, reclined the chair and slept.
Douglass’ instructions to me had been plain: ‘Get to Lake Tekapo as quickly as you can.’ So that’s what I did, leaving the sleepy town before the sun had risen.. It was an easy drive. I had been this way once when I was a lot younger. Once I turned off to Geraldine, and the sun started to send its promise of light over the hills behind me, I could only keep going by promising myself that I would be back this way once/if the whole thing panned out.
At six o’clock I drove into the Holiday Park on the rocky shore of Lake Tekapo and roused the manager from sleep. She complimented me on the speed with which I had travelled from Christchurch to Tekapo. I think she may have been being ironic. She asked me to, yawn, please go easy on the tap water because the lake was only at 61% capacity.
‘No worries.’ I said. ‘I’m an Australian.’ This did not endear me to her.
I was happy to get settled into the tourist flat. This involved throwing the keys on the bench, making a drink and locating the towels and blankets. I had a top class view of the lake from the kitchen. Or would have in a few minutes when the sun rose fully. That’s where I headed, draping the towels around my neck as I got back into my car for the short drive to the church.
The Church of the Good Shepherd was being used for a wedding practice. The minister was fiddling with the sound system at the back of the chapel-sized church, when I put my head curiously around the thick wooden door. But I hardly saw him. The view above the table at the front of the church was incredible. The first light of sunrise started to silhouette the mountains against a backdrop of white shading into neon orange. Plain glass in the windows above the altar with a small plain cross on the inside, was a sensible choice. I met the minister’s eye silently, then withdrew.
Pachelbel’s canon playing over the church’s sound system travelled with me as I walked around the church to look out over the lake. The water was as smooth as silk. Nothing disturbed the surface in the stillness of the dawn. I walked towards the statue overlooking the water. Then I waited.
The farmer left the room as the woman at last fell silent. The only sound now was the feeble cry of a newborn baby. Rhodes walked out of the house away from the complications of birth and death. The outside was no better though with the sound of healthy strong lambs bleating for their mothers. He was startled when the man sitting under the front roof spoke. ‘How is she, George?’ As he spoke, he continued to fondle the ears of the border collie whose head rested on his knee. ‘Mossman. I didn’t expect you. She won’t see you, you know.’ ‘I just want to know how she is.’ ‘Go home. I said I’d look after her when we were married. Janice may be your sister, but she’s my wife. I’ll look after her.’ For all his bravery, it was clear that the farmer spoke to bolster his own spirits. Mossman, gently lifted the dog’s head from his knee as he stood and brought out a small green stone from his pocket. ‘I’ve a way of making her well, George. Her and your daughter. This stone’ll take her to a place where she’ll get better. McKenzie and me’ve found a place where…’ ‘McKenzie! I told you to have nothing to do with the man. The blackguard stole my sheep.’ At the sound of his voice, the dog stopped looking at Mossman’s hand and stood ready for action. ‘Just give it a go, George. It’s worth a try. I took my Bessie there after my grandson was born. She’s never been better. Just give it a go.’ A woman bustled through from inside. ‘She’s askin’ for you, sir. You’d better come.’ George looked one last time at the simple green stone in his hand, then pocketed it. With an off-hand nod to his brother-in-law, he returned to his wife.
Waimate, New Zealand, April 1855
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