The Tally Stick by Carl Nixon

Author:Carl Nixon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: World Editions
Published: 2021-03-22T08:41:12+00:00

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SEVENTEEN

Winter, 1978

As soon as Maurice was well enough, Martha made a show of presenting him with a pair of crutches. Stamped on the wood in faded letters were the words Property of Greymouth Hospital.

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“Dunno,” said Martha. “They were just lying around in the back room. Someone must’ve broken their leg years ago. Lucky for you, eh?”

Maurice practised with the crutches, first in his room and then, as he became more confident, up and down the hallway, between the stacks of furniture. His ankle was still swollen and the skin patterned in yellow and blue. He avoided looking at it. After three days, he moved outside, where his place, swing, land, place, swing, land scattered the chickens and left rows of pockmarks in the yard. Martha sat on the veranda, knitting and watching his progress. She wore a thick jumper against the cold. When Maurice started to use only one crutch, she pronounced him capable of helping out around the place.

He was given warm clothes and gumboots and put to work pruning the low branches in the orchard. When that was finished, he weeded in the garden. Later, there were winter vegetables to plant. Because of his leg, he was awkward and slow. In a day, he got through less than half the work of his sister.

In the evenings he now sat at the table opposite Katherine. He seldom spoke unless asked a direct question. One night, he poked with a fork at the food on his plate.

“What type of fish is this?” he asked.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like it?” asked Martha.

“No, it’s nice,” said Katherine quickly. “I just don’t think we’ve had it before.”

“It’s tuna,” said Peters.

Katherine nodded. “Oh, we’ve had tuna. It comes in tins.”

Martha shook her head. “Nah, that’s different. Peters catches these in the river and smokes them. Tuna is a Māori word. It means eel.”

Maurice didn’t even have time to turn his head before he was throwing up onto the table. Twisting in his seat, he vomited again, this time onto the floor. Peters swore loudly. He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. Martha snatched up her plate. Katherine looked away from the mess and tried not to breathe. There was nothing to do except wait until Maurice reached the bottom of his stomach.

“Jesus, boy,” said Martha. “You should’ve said if you were feeling crook.”

Peters walked over and lifted the sash-window to let in fresh air.

“Don’t just sit there, ya moron. Get this mess cleaned up. We’re not your bloody servants.”

Maurice wiped his sleeve across the back of his mouth and glared.

“I’ll get some water,” said Katherine quickly.

Martha and Peters took their food to the kitchen, while Katherine and Maurice, who was pale and shaking, used old rags to wipe up the mess.

“I’m going to bed,” said Maurice, when they were done. He wouldn’t meet her eye. “Goodnight,” said Katherine.

He didn’t reply.

* * *

The next day was windy and overcast, and spots of rain flicked the grass. Peters turned up at the house just before noon, the dogs swirling around his feet.

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