Joy Cowley - The Bakehouse

Books are created by a family.
The family for this book are a wordsmith, her patient and supportive husband, wise editor Patti Gauch, designers Keely and Luke, and the great team at Gecko Press Julia, Jane and Matariki.
Joy

A tall skinny boy was snooping around the grounds of the retirement village. Bert watched from his window on the upper floor as the kid investigated names and numbers on the white-painted doors. One of that gang, he thought, louts with spray cans thinking the elderly are an easy target. Need a good boot up the backside, the lot of them. This one was checking the place in broad daylight, as bold as brass. Berts hands shook, and there was a tightness in his chest that gripped his breath. It was true an old cop never retired. All those years on the Force had rewired his brain for action. His instinct was to go down there, two steps at a time, and scare the living daylights out of the little ratbag. But his legs were useless after the long walk from the church and, anyway, the outbreak of graffiti in the village wasnt his responsibility. He kept telling himself that. Where was the highly paid security guard who was supposed to be patrolling the place?

Bert poured boiling water on top of the tea bag, splashing over the edge of the cup because he had one eye on the window. The kid was still there, and for a second he raised his head so that Bert stared full into his face. He reminded Bert of someone, although his skin was darker, someone he knew way back when? Hells teeth! It wasnt only his eyesight that was shot. What had happened to his famous photographic memory? These days he would forget his own name if it wasnt in a metal frame on his door. Getting old was no picnic.

The kid had one of those crazy haircuts, shaved up the sides and sprouting on top like a roosters comb, and he wore long trousers, some kind of school blazer. Berts breathing got easier. Yeah. His mistake. Boy looked too respectable to be one of the graffiti mob. Probably belonged to that Tongan lady on the ground floor, still in her sixties and permanently in a wheelchair. Gangrene. Had to whack off both legs, she told him. Terrible thing, diabetes.

Now the boy was looking left and right as though he was trying to cross a street at rush hour. He was lost, that was about the size of it, standing awkwardly, the maple trees behind him, a bed of red flowers to the right. None of the upper-floor windows opened, or Bert could have called down some directions, but it was okay, the boy had worked out a solution. He turned left and pulled open the door of the Office, where Mrs Bridewell would be tapping a computer with fat fingers.

Bert flicked the tea bag out of the cup with the end of a ball-point pen, put the pen back in his pocket, and slowly carried the cup to the table beside his TV. Afternoons, he usually turned on the sports channel, but the funeral had exhausted him and he needed quiet. The silence in his unit was warm, smelling of disinfectant and last nights fish-and-chip wrappers. There were a couple of black-and-white photos near the TV, one of him and Shirley on their wedding day, and another taken when he was eleven years old, Dads box Brownie camera, most likely: three siblings with a row of grins, Meg, Bert and Betty. He shook his head at the hopelessness of it all. Poor old Betty. She was good-looking then, quite smashing, could have been a film star given the right opportunities. Now theyd be shovelling dirt on top of her, burying a lifetime of bitterness. What a waste! It was too late to think about what-could-have-been. Anyway, the choices were hers and shed ignored them.

He supposed he should have got a ride to her graveside service; but he didnt want to go there. At eighty-four, hed seen enough of cemeteries. The church had been bad enough, all those people she couldnt stand, saying what a great friend shed been. Hed half expected the coffin lid to fly up on a mouthful of opinion. It would take him a while to get used to the fact that Betty was now silent.

Arnie had come. Berts son had flown all the way from Whangarei for his Aunty Bettys funeral, although Bert didnt know why. Arnie and Betty had never been close. He supposed it was because Arnie liked doing the right thing, saying the right thing, a trait that his father had once found irritating. Shirley had doted on their son, and Arnie had done well enough as a high school teacher and then principal. Hed married Marama, a good-looking woman from the north, and theyd had four children, three boys and a girl, all with impossibly long Maori names. Shirley, as Irish as they came, dived right into the te reo language stuff, but Bert never got his tongue around it. English was hard enough.

The tea was too hot. He remembered how his father used to tip tea into the saucer and blow on it to cool it. Cups didnt have saucers these days, but mugs were all right. Where was he? Oh yeah, Arnie and Maramas kids. Theyd all gone to university, something unheard of in his day

The knock on the door made him jump. Itd be Stacey the nurse, checking he was all right. He licked his top lip and called, Everything shipshape, Stacey love.

The knock came again, this time longer. Not Stacey.

Who is it? He didnt get out of the chair. Both of his neighbours had dementia, and Donald in unit 207 had complained that someone was pumping poisonous gas through the patterns on the wallpaper. Berts voice got some of its old authority. Im busy!

The quiet that followed was not the silence of absence but the silence of someone holding a breath. One, two, three, four, and another knock, this time barely audible and a soft voice. E Koro nui! Ko Erueti au.

What?

Its your moko Erueti.

It was Arnies kid. His grandson! What was he doing here?

Bert tried to get out of the chair, but his legs were too weak. Come in! Its not locked.

The door opened slowly and the tall thin boy kicked off his shoes. Crikey! No wonder hed looked familiar. The height was Arnies and the eyes were Maramas. Close up, Bert could see the college jacket with badges and the thick hair standing up straight as broom bristles. There was more black hair, chicken fluff, on his upper lip.

Bert struggled to get out of his chair, and fell back. He held out his hand. You came to the funeral with your dad.

The boy smiled, and when he shook hands Bert felt bony strength. I came with my koro. Your son Arnie is my grandfather. I am Aromaungas eldest child.

Of course. He was far too young to be one of Arnies brood. His great-grandson, then. You came from Whangarei?

He nodded.

Bert pointed to the window. You were down there. I watched you! Didnt see you at the church, though.

The boy nodded again. There were a lot of people at the funeral and you went very soon. I missed talking to you. Koro suggested I come here before our plane goes this afternoon. Do you mind?

He did mind. He was tired, but it was nice the boy wanted to see him. Of course not. Arnie didnt come here with you? Your grandfather?

No. The boy looked apologetic. Hes with the others.

Well, go on then, sit down. So, you must be his oldest. Sorry. My forgettery is better than my memory. Whats your name again?

Erueti. The boy pulled a chair out from the table and folded his long body into it. Its a transliteration of Edward, the family name. Im fourteen.

Maori for Edward? I didnt know that! Bert slapped his thigh. My old man was Richard Edward. I was christened Bertram Edward and your grandfather is Arnold Edward. How do you spell it?