Owen Marshall Selected Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

drag of the engine was sufficient to slow him. As he dropped lower, the small spurs of the peninsula rose up around him and the vertigo of the top road passed. The abstract totality of the ocean was hidden, and on the stony beach below Witham’s he could hear real waves, and see the swirling kelp beds at the point.
    Unlike most of the farmhouses of the peninsula, Witham’s was not weatherboard and red iron roof. It was a comparatively modern house made of small aggregate blocks, tinted unpleasant shades of blue and pink, it had a netting fence all round to keep out the stock, but there was no garden apart from residual ornamental firs, burnt on the seaward side by the salt winds. Farther away were the sheds,yards, and trucking ramp, all on such a slope that Tinsley had the impression that one good kick would send the lot on to the beach below.
    Tinsley couldn’t find an area flat enough to take the stand of the heavy motorbike, and so he leant it on the timber supports of the shearing shed. George Witham was fixing the fence at the creek above the beach. Tinsley made his way towards him over the sloping ground contoured with sheep tracks. The grass was a prosperous green, but Tinsley knew it was a sham. The peninsula country lacked necessary trace elements, leached by continual dampness. George had a post each side of the small creek, and was hanging a baton on netting between them. When the creek flooded, the baton and netting would swing back with the current and allow rubbish to pass underneath instead of building up on the fence and tearing it out. George was attaching the baton with staples and green baling twine when Tinsley arrived.
    â€˜No fog today, George.’
    â€˜Fog or bloody wind. We only have the two alternatives here. Today it’s wind.’ George put some more staples in his mouth, and lifted one foot out of the creek mud before the boot went under. He wore old, pin-stripe suit trousers and a sports coat with the pocket torn away. His face was weathered but not careworn, the lines of youth simply more deeply etched, and his hair stuck innocently up from the crown of his head as a schoolboy’s does, though he was fifty-odd. He was one of Tinsley’s original clients and Tinsley knew his nature.
    â€˜I hear Godsall next door has sold up. Couldn’t make a go of it,’ said Tinsley. George’s lined face lightened. Misfortune was his only form of humour. ‘Left most of his money with the stock firm, they say. Didn’t come out of it with much.’ George nodded, and actually smiled, showing wet galvanised staples in the spaces where teeth were missing. ‘Have you seen the new chap yet? I thought I might call on him later.’
    George cupped his hand and emptied his mouth of staples. ‘Selwyn Hamilton,’ he said. ‘Comes from mid-Canterbury way. Doesn’t look a farmer’s arsehole to me.’ George smiled again, drew the other boot from the mud and sought firmer ground.
    â€˜Th is fire of yours, George, I’d better take a look at it. The sooner the paper work’s done, the sooner we can pay out.’
    â€˜The east side of the hay shed. I’ve left it just as it was when we put it out. I’d say the best part of a hundred bales. You have a look for yourself, and then go up to the house. The wife’s out but my niece is staying with us, a Southland girl, she’ll make us a cup of tea.’ As George turned back to the fence he noticed a fishing-boat setting cray-pots off the point. The small boat seemed to be having difficulty with its engine. ‘Might be in trouble,’ said George, brightening, but as they watched the engine caught, and the boat moved out again. The crewman leant on the cabin, smoking. George put staples in his mouth once more, and Tinsley walked back over the sloping paddock to the yards.
    He inspected the charring in the shed and agreed with George’s estimate. In his book he wrote some