Westpoint Tales
by Kiwi
Entangled Tales - 65 - Tony
He woke up groggily. His crash helmet had come off. What the hell was his sleeping bag doing away up in the air? And all a sort-of orange/yellow colour?
'Everything's that colour. Am I in hell? Did I die, or what? The flames of hell. No, they'd be red wouldn't they?'
He lifted his head up slowly and looked around into a face looking at him! An old face, deeply wrinkled and grey-haired. He felt a huge surge of fear. "It's him! The old bastard from the park! What am I doing back there?'
The old face smiled at him and said, "Hello, Lovey. About time you were waking up. Soon be time for me to go to bed again."
It was a woman, an old woman. He was safe. He flopped back on the pillow. A pillow?
It was like she could read his mind. "Don't look so worried, Lovey. I'm not going to eat you. Might have once, but I'm far too old for that now."
Tony looked at her, sitting there chortling at her own, weak, joke.
"You want some soup? Yes, of course you do. You could do with some meat on those bones of yours. We'll have a nice cup of tea and then you can tell me all about it. From the look of those old bruises all over you, you've got quite a story to tell."
Now he realised that he was lying on a mattress, on the floor, in front of an open fire place. He was covered by a couple of rough, old, woolen blankets and he was naked underneath them! He lifted the blankets and looked down, blushing furiously.
Again, she read his mind. "Nothing to be shy about, Boy. Nothing I haven't seen before."
"My. . .umm. . . my leg?"
"Your leg. Yes, that was a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. You must have stabbed yourself. What were you doing with a carving-knife in your pocket? I cleaned it up. It should be all right - don't think we'll have to amputate."
"Oh, good!"
Her name was Flossie Craig, seventy-six years old and single. "Not looking either, not any more. I've buried two husbands and I think that's enough."
This luxurious, two-room, wooden palace was her summertime home, up in the hills. She did have another one, a proper house, down in the metropolis, but she'd always preferred to be out here whenever she could.
This was where she'd always made her living anyway - trapping possums, shooting deer and the occasional wild pig. People said that there was gold in them thar hills, but she was buggered if she could find any.
Tony was instantly in love with this rough old character with a heart of gold.
As the days went on and she fussed around him, Tony slowly recovered from his wounds, both physical and mental. He didn't know how he'd ever gotten out of that ditch. It was so deep and he was such a mess! He was getting better, slowly, and they were both glad to have some company.
She taught him a lot - how to trap possums, to skin them and cook them. She even taught him to drive her old truck as they bounced along the back-country tracks, setting and clearing her lines of traps. When he was stronger, he kept them in firewood and helped in the vege garden.
She had no TV, no radio, not even any electricity out there, but he didn't miss them at all. They spent many pleasant evenings playing cards in the firelight, drinking tea, (she liked a shot of whisky in hers, "Gives it a kick", but Tony wasn't allowed any). They chatted away like old friends. What a grandmother she would have been1
She smoked like a train. "Bloody stupid, I know. But an old girl's got to have some pleasures."
It didn't sound like much pleasure as she hacked and coughed her way through the first couple of ciggies in the mornings. He was not tempted at all to join her in smoking.
Weeks passed and he was in no hurry to leave. He liked it there, fresh and clean and safely away from any bloody cities. Westpoint was hardly ever in his thoughts. Even Danny was just wistful memories now. Danny had his own life, didn't he? He didn't need Tony anymore, if he ever did.
Christmas came and went. They had a tree - well, a dead branch actually, though they had fun decorating it with whatever they could find. The possum's head on the top looked a bit gross though.
Tony had no gift to give her, so he sung, unaccompanied, all the old songs that he could think of. She kissed him under the mistletoe and told him that he was a "sweetheart."
Flossie's gift to him was a bit odd - a bottle of peroxide and blond hair dye. She thought he might like to change his look. All the kids were doing it, weren't they? They weren't, but he dyed his hair anyway, just to make her happy.
It was different. It didn't look too bad really. Made him look like a new person - Dennis the Menace or something.
New Year's Eve, they had a special celebration meal. Flossie tried to make a haggis by stuffing some deer guts. It tasted horrible, but it was fun to do. They saw in the New Year, sitting out on the porch in the moonlight. Their one candle didn't even flicker in the still night air.
It was a really pleasant evening, except that Flossie got a bit pissed and went to sleep. He wondered what Danny was doing. He hoped that he was happy.
A few days later, on the 5th of January, Flossie was a bit strange all day. When they went out to clear the lines of possum traps, they didn't just bring the possums back, the traps came too - all loaded on the back of the old truck. She wouldn't say why, and when they got home, Flossie had him stack the traps away in the little lean-to shed out the back while she skinned the possums alone.
The next day was her birthday - her 77th would you believe! They had another celebratory meal, but afterwards, Flossie went off for a walk by herself, down by the creek. Tony was in bed before she came back. He knew something was up but didn't have a clue what was going on and Flossie wasn't saying.
Next morning, after she'd finished coughing, Tony's comfortable new world collapsed when Flossie dropped a bombshell on him.
"You can pack your bags now, Lovey. It's time to go."
He was dumbfounded and tears welled up as he stammered. "To - go? But - Flossie - what have I done?"
"I'm sorry, Sweetheart. Didn't mean to upset you. I'm just not very good at this am I? I've been putting it off for days, but now it's time. We've both got to go. I've had my last Christmas, my last birthday, up here where I've spent my happiest days.
These last weeks have been very pleasant, thanks to you. You've been more help to me than you'll ever know, and I thank you for that. But I've kept you here for far too long now."
"You've helped me more, Flossie. Thanks for everything. But, why can't we stay here?"
"It's been fun, but now we've got to go. You're a sweet young boy; you can't waste your life sitting out here in the hills. Go and find your friends in that Westpoint place. See if you can't fix things up with this Danny that you're always pining over. Go and get a life, Boy!
Me? I've got to go to town now. I've got to go and die. It's been a great old life, but now it's over. I've got the big C, Lovey - cancer. I'm riddled with it."
"Flossie, that's terrible. I'm sorry, really sorry. I don't have to go anywhere, I'll come with you. We'll both go to town and I'll look after you like you did for me."
"You bloody will not! I'm not having you fussing over me. You can go, Boy. Go and live your life. I've had my turn. I'll be going into a nursing home anyway. You can go home to Westpoint."
He tried his best to talk her out of it, but she would not be swayed. Eventually, he came around. He'd be sad to leave Flossie, but - Westpoint! He had to try. He had to see if he had a life there.
They packed up, loaded the truck and left the little cabin to drive to town. Both felt like crying as they drove away, but neither of them did. Tony drove the truck all the way.
They arrived in the town - Flossie always referred to it as "the metropolis", but it was only a small town really. They filled the truck with petrol and oil at the service station on the way in. It used a lot of oil. Then they took Flossie's things into her small town-house.
She threw Tony's gear back into the truck. He was down to just the backpack and one sleeping bag now.
"Here. Take the keys, take the truck and go."
"But, Flossie. I can't take your truck."
"Of course you can, Sweetheart. I've got no money, if I did I'd give you the lot, but you can take the truck. It's only an old bomb and I've got no more use for it anyway. There should be enough petrol to get you all the way to Wellington. Just keep an eye on the water in the radiator - it goes through a lot of that."
"You had this all planned out, didn't you?"
"I did - weeks ago. Take the truck, Tony. Drive it as far as it will go, and then get out and walk. Go home, Lovey. Get out west, where you belong."
"You don't miss much, do you?"
"Not a thing, Lovey. Not a thing. Give that Danny a kiss for me."
"Flossie!!" He flushed bright red. "But I can't anyway. I can't drive, I haven't got a license."
"Of course you can drive. I haven't got a license either - never have had one. The truck's not registered or warranted either, so if you see any cops coming - head for the hills. Just park it on the side of the road and walk away when you've finished with it. No point in taking it on the ferry - the fare would be more than it's worth."
He thanked her, hugged her, and drove away - facing directly into the afternoon sunshine, which made it hard to see with the tears in his eyes.
He drove on until late at night. He could hardly keep his eyes open anymore, so it was time to stop. He found another rest area and drove in there, closed the windows, locked the doors, scrambled into his sleeping bag and curled up on the bench-seat.
This was the way to travel! Even though it was old, noisy and smelly, the truck was ten times better than the little motor-bike. Faster too, and it had a roof, and a bedroom - sort-of.
He should've brought a pillow from the cabin. Flossie wouldn't be needing them anymore. Poor old thing.
He still had most of the money. He hadn't spent a cent in all the time he was at Flossie's. Maybe he should've given her some? No. She wouldn't take it.
He'd had a lot of help from people along the way ever since his bastard father had thrown him out. There was Flossie, of course, she'd helped him most of all. But there was Alex too, and the Gibsons, though they didn't know it. (Probably did by now though). There was Cody too, at the Welfare Home, and there was the Sallie Army guy in Auckland. And, he slept.
He drove a while the next day, eating the sandwiches that Flossie had packed for him, but when he came to another rest area, (What a great invention they were!), he pulled in and parked there.
The roads were getting too busy for a country boy in a little old truck, so he parked up there for the day. He filled up his bottle, and the truck, with water from the inevitable creek. These places always seemed to have a creek nearby. That was probably why they put them there in the first place.
The water might not be good for the radiator, but, whatever - not far to go now.
He got into his sleeping bag and lay there, trying to sleep, until the sun had gone down. Then, he drove on through the night. He stopped once for food - fish and chips and an OJ. Choice! Then he carried on.
In the wee small hours, he was approaching Wellington. Even at this time of the night, the roads were busy, but the traffic flowed evenly. He pulled in to the carpark at a small, suburban railway station and slept there for a few hours.
Tony was woken in the morning, by the noisy commuter traffic. He took his gear and left the truck - unlocked and with the keys in the ignition - and he went over and got on a commuter train into the city.
The train, frustratingly, went straight past the ferry terminal and into the main station. He bought a coke there, ('Keeps you going.'), and walked back along the waterfront to the ferries. He bought a one-way ticket, (didn't cost too much), and after a long, boring wait, finally got to go on board the ferry.
It sailed at 10am. ('Three hours. We'll be there by 1 o'clock. I could be in Westpoint tonight.') He'd been on the ferry once before - with Them. Everything seemed much smaller now.
Once they'd left the city behind and headed out into Cook Strait, he followed the crowds and went and had a proper meal in the cafeteria - a roast meal. It was bloody expensive, but - whatever.
Later, he went and sat outside, in the sunshine, and the wind, watching the seagulls hovering as the ferry slowly made its way through the Sounds. Pretty cool, with the slowly changing views, but it got a bit boring after a while.
It was a relief to arrive in Picton. Had it really only been three hours? He shuffled along in the crowd, went off the boat and down into the terminal.
There was a line-up of buses outside the front doors, but he couldn't see one for Westpoint, so he went back in and asked at the information counter. There was no bus to Westpoint. There was only one a day and it had met the early ferry hours ago.
So - he'd have to hitch-hike then. 'Bugger waiting until tomorrow. Don't know if I've got enough money left anyway.'
Pack on his back, sleeping bag under one arm, he walked up the hill out of the town until a car stopped and picked him up. 'Cool. That was easy.'
It was an elderly couple, going to Kaikoura for their "32nd honeymoon." They seemed quite sweet and he gladly accepted a lift with them that far. He really should have turned off at Blenheim for the shortest route, but he could go on down towards Christchurch and turnoff to the Lewis Pass Road at Waipara, or something.
They kindly drove through Kaikoura to drop him off at the southern edge of the town, and then turned and drove back . 'What nice old peeps.'
He stood there, carefully separated from other hitch-hikers, for several hours until - at last! - a car stopped and offered him a ride.
It was a grumpy old guy, traveling on his own. He could only take him a few miles down the road, he was going home, to Oaro. Take it or leave it.
Tony took it - at least it was progress. It was only a few k's and not even half an hour and the guy lectured him all the way. Didn't he know the dangers that a young boy on his own could get into?
'Oh, I know all right, Pops. But I'm not telling you that.'
It was a relief when he dropped him off and the car disappeared away up a farm driveway. He shouldered his pack again and walked on down to Oaro. This must be it - the sign said it was. But, where was the town?
There were no shops, no hotels, just a few little cottages spread widely apart. There was a tiny little box of an unattended railway station, the railway line, the highway, and then the rocky beach and, that's all folks! This was no town. Quite nice though, if you like the quiet life.
He stood on the side of the road, hoping for a ride before it got too late. 'Good progress today. I'm not going to make it there today, but good progress anyway. I could walk to Westpoint from here. Maybe. Might take a week, but I could walk there. Wish I had the truck, or the little bike even.'
Cars just kept going past and it was getting late. It was going to rain again - of course! If he got a ride now, it would be dark, and wet, before he got anywhere. The chances of a ride straight to Westpoint were about zilch - it wasn't even a direct route from there.
"I wonder how many of the other cars off the ferry were going to Westpoint? They'll be there by now. Ah well, mustn't grumble."
This would be far enough for one day, so he went over to check out the railway station before it got too dark. It was just a small wooden building, a roof and three walls. The open front faced the railway line. There was a wooden floor and a wooden bench-seat inside.
The station was much the same size and shape as the bus shelter in Auckland. ('Shudders'.) Not as much traffic though and, "If anyone comes in here tonight, they're dead - I've got my knife this time!"
He then went for a wander down the railway line, by the beach, to check out the bridge down there. It was no use at all. No shelter anywhere. There were a lot more cottages up there - holiday homes by the look of them. There was a party going on in one of them. (More shudders). So, he went back to the railway station.
He got into the sleeping bag and lay on the seat, backpack for a pillow and the knife safely between the back of the seat and the wall.. He then passed a long, uncomfortable and uneventful night. He didn't expect to get any sleep, but he did get some, between trains - "Noisy bloody things!'
In the morning, before the sun rose, he was back standing by the road, when he saw, out in the bay beyond the beach, a dolphin. It was rising right up out of the water in graceful arcs, trails of sparkling water following it back into the sea. It was a magic moment and he was sorry when it ended. The dolphin stopped its leaping and moved away.
A car came and went. And another. And another. It seemed like he'd been standing there all day, but it was only 10am when a car finally stopped for him. It was quite crowded, 3 guys and 2 girls, students or suchlike. But, they were happy to squeeze him in. Should he?
"Ah, whatever. A ride's a ride."
He threw his gear into the boot and got into the back seat. They sped off down the road, a bit too fast really, but he wasn't about to complain. It didn't seem to be worrying anyone else and he wasn't that worried.
They were all drinking steadily, even that early in the day, but the driver wasn't having much. So, that was all right. Wasn't it?
He got a bit of a fright when the guy next to him squeezed his thigh and growled at him. But the girl told him to behave himself and leave the kid alone. So that was all right too. It started to rain again, of course.
The driver shot straight past the turn-off to the West Coast highway. When they all yelled at him, he stopped, and then reversed back all the way to drop Tony off at the intersection.
He said thanks and got out, but, before he even got to the boot, the car took off again and disappeared down the highway taking his pack and sleeping bag with them. Shit!
Was that deliberate? Or did he just forget? It didn't look like they were coming back anyway.
He crossed over the road and stood there in the pouring rain. There was no shelter anywhere and nothing but his anorak to keep him, (partly), dry. He pulled the hood up, but it didn't help much.
He stood there, miserably waiting, but, after twenty minutes, they obviously weren't coming back.
Cars kept going past, nobody was stopping. 'Can't say that I blame them. Who'd want a cold wet body getting in their warm, dry car?'
He started walking; hoping to, at least, find somewhere to shelter out of the cold rain. He didn't even have his knife now, why hadn't he hung on to that? The rain stopped, temporarily, but there was still no shelter. He kept walking.
Eventually, he came to a bridge - an old concrete bridge similar to the one he'd hidden beneath on his first night out from home - his ex-home, that is. He stopped and checked underneath it. There was shelter there. It was all big rocks, but they were dry.
He'd hang about there. If he got a ride, that'd be sweet, but if he didn't, there was somewhere he could sit if he needed to. It was cold! And he was nowhere near the mountains yet.
Cars kept going past. "C'mon People - be nice!"
A bus came along. The sign on the front said that it was going to Westpoint! He leapt up and down, waving frantically. At first he thought that it wasn't going to stop, but it did. "Yes!"
He ran up and bounded in the open door. He didn't have enough money for the fare to Westpoint, and she wasn't going to give him credit. Didn't want his watch, or his jacket, or his shoes. He did have enough to get to Springs Junction.
It was warm and dry in the bus and Springs Junction was about halfway there, so he paid to go that far. All the way there he was hoping that the sour-faced old bag would take pity on him. The bus was going to Westpoint anyway, what would it hurt?
But she didn't. She was running a business here, and she put him off, at the side of the road, in the rain, in Springs Junction. He watched her drive away.
"Should've just refused to get off the bus. What could she do?"
There was shelter, at the Tearooms over to the side of the road, so he went over there to stand under their verandah. It was bloody cold now - this was up in the mountains. They were past the worst of them, but still amongst them.
The road sign said 130kms to Westpoint. "Not far, in a car. Why doesn't somebody stop? Please!"
Cars went past. A milk tanker thundered past, water spraying out from its many wheels.
"This is Springs Junction, where Jeremy Carver was killed - Billy's cousin. It must have happened right out there."
He found the last of his money and went inside for something to eat. There was just enough to buy one small pie. He had a drink of rainwater from the over-flowing down-pipe outside.
Time dragged on slowly. The sign was mocking him with its, "Westpoint 130km." He could walk that far.
At, say, 5 kilometers per hour, that would take him 26 hours - a day and a bit. In the rain, and the cold, that would kill him for sure. He needed a ride. Somebody? Anybody!
A 4WD pulled in to the tearooms and two big red-neck, rough-arse types got out. Both were about mid-twenties. Tony didn't like the way they were looking at him, but then, one grinned and said, "Hey Kid. Shitty weather isn't it. Where're you going then?"
"To Westpoint - I hope."
"Oh. Good luck with that then. We'd take you, but we're going the other way. Maybe you'll still be here when we're coming back."
"Sometime this week, I hope," Tony sighed. They just laughed and went inside. They bought some food and drove away again, waving.
Hours later, the lights went off inside and the young girl working in there came out and locked the doors. "Home at last." She smiled at him. "What a dismal day. Hardly any customers and no rides for you either. Here, take these." She held out two paper bags.
"What's this?" Tony asked, warily.
"Nothing much. Just some left-over sandwiches. Someone's got to eat them or they'll go out in the trash. You look like you could do with them more than me."
"Great! Thanks!" He grabbed the bags and began hungrily devouring the sandwiches.
"Whoah. Not so fast - you'll give yourself a guts-ache. I'm outta here - got a hot date you know. Good luck with a ride.
Tony watched her drive away, back towards Christchurch, with a "toot, toot." He smiled and waved and ate his sandwiches. Back to left-overs again, but, great!
It got dark. The rain never stopped and neither did any cars. He paced up and down, blowing on his hands and slapping himself, trying to get warm. He started singing, quietly.
"Just a little boy, standing in the rain,
The gentle rain that falls for years. (That got a wistful smile).
And the grass is gone, the - something - disappears,
And rain keeps falling, like helpless tears,
And what have they done to the rain?"
"I wish they'd do something to the frigging rain - like stop it already!"
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