Where Cuckoos Call (11 page)

Cyclone Alex was born from a simple thunder-storm somewhere south of Nauru. It rapidly grew into a tropical cyclone, and when it hit the islands of Vanuatu it was rated as category four out of the maximum of five. Much of the island group was devastated. It narrowly missed New Caledonia before heading south towards New Zealand.

The news was full of it. Why was one coming our way so early in the season? Why wasn’t it weakening as it reached colder waters? Again we had the meteorologists talking about La Niña, global warming, blah, blah, blah. And again, nobody seemed to know for sure.

I didn’t want explanations; I just wanted it to go somewhere else. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out that at its current rate it would hit us on the day that Tiny-M’s eggs were due to hatch.

As it moved towards us it veered to the east, giving me hope. Then it veered back again. ‘This is most unusual,’ said the weather men with smiles on their faces as if they were enjoying it all. They made me mad. Didn’t they care about the damage it could cause? Didn’t they care that two messed-up birds were about to make ornithological history?

In the hours before it was due to hit, Peg and I went to Treetops. I sat staring out the window. Already the wind was up and the waves were thundering in: they were almost washing up onto the spit, and it was still hours to the centre of the storm. I had to do something. I just couldn’t let it happen. There had to be something I could do.

Maybe I could shift the nest. Yet I knew that wouldn’t work—T-Boy would simply abandon it. Maybe I could use the tractor and pile sand around to keep the water out. That
had possibilities. Then I had my brainwave—the rocks. I could use Wiltshire’s rocks. They were brought here to build a breakwater, so that’s what I would do. I would build a breakwater on the sand.

I rushed off to the tractor shed. Halfway there, I looked around for Peg. She wasn’t with me. In my excitement I had forgotten to say ‘come’. She would still be sitting at the base of the puriri tree waiting for an instruction. I thought of going back for her, but the first drops of rain reminded me how close the storm was. I would bring her back later.

My hopes died when I saw the tractor shed. The roof had shifted some more, and was now lying on the front of the tractor. There was no way I could get it out without help. I was standing there looking at the damage when Dad came along carrying the mail. ‘What are you looking at that for?’ he asked in an aggressive way—the bacteria were back in control.

‘I want to get the tractor out.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to shift some of those rocks.’

‘What do you want to do that for?’ he snapped. ‘They’re all right where they are.’

‘I want to try and save the phalarope nest.’

He opened his mouth to say something, and then slowly closed it. I could see that the mention of the phalaropes had awakened thoughts from the past. After a while, he held up the mail and said, ‘I’ll take these to the house and tell your mother. Then I’ll be back.’

By the time he returned, I had removed the crushed exhaust pipe and was seeing if the tractor would still start. It burst into life with a roar.

‘Turn it off!’ Dad yelled. I did. He surveyed the damage. ‘The best thing will be to raise the loader so it lifts the roof. Then we might be able to back it out.’

I got into the seat, restarted it, and fiddled with the levers. I always got them confused and I pushed instead of pulling. Dad flew into a rage. ‘Get out of there!’ he screamed, pulling at my arm. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’

I got down from the seat and Dad climbed in. He pulled on the hydraulic lever and slowly the bucket came up, lifting the roof with it. ‘Get out of it!’ he yelled. ‘It’ll all come down when I back out.’

He was right. As the main part of the tractor cleared the shed, the roof crashed down, bringing the walls with it, leaving a heap of broken timber and twisted iron. It would never be any use again.

Then he insisted that we take off the calf pen. I couldn’t see why and was worried that we were wasting valuable time, but there was no arguing with him.

Five minutes later, we were ready to go. Dad pointed to the axle beside him and I climbed up, holding onto the rollbar and the back of the seat. We hadn’t done this for years. This was the way we always used to do things, Dad driving and me alongside. But this was not the cheerful father I remembered: this was an angry, sick man. His breathing was strained and his face was pink. I began to worry about him.

Shifting those rocks was a big job. It would have been difficult at any time. With the rain and wind and lightning, it was almost impossible. The state of the tractor didn’t help. Without the exhaust pipe, the poisonous fumes came out of the engine and straight into our faces. The noise was deafening.

I would hold a rock in place with a plank of wood while Dad eased the bucket under it. We could only fit one at a time. Then we would drive along the beach with the rock in the air, the bucket swaying wildly in the growing wind. That rock would be dumped and we would head back for the next.

We built the wall above the high-tide mark where the sea was
beginning to spill into the hollows of the spit. The important thing was to break the waves so that they wouldn’t crash over onto the nesting area.

One by one we shifted the rocks. Twice, Dad collapsed over the steering wheel. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked after the first time. ‘Do you want to stop?’

He looked up at me. ‘Are you giving up?’ he sneered. ‘Don’t you even have the guts to finish a job once you’ve started it?’ I held my tongue and picked up the plank ready for the next rock. The second time it happened, I just waited until he was ready to go again.

There was no stopping him. We didn’t need to shift them all, but he insisted. By then I was really frightened. The waves were smashing into the tractor as we moved along the beach. I was worried that we might tip over. Every minute or so the whole place would be lit by jagged flashes of lightning, followed a moment later by the thud and rumble of thunder.

Night-time came and still we kept going, using the lights of the tractor to see. The rain was bucketing down in huge drops that pounded the body without stop. There seemed no end to it.

Four to go, four to go, four to go…I chanted to myself as we drove back down the beach.

Three to go, three to go, three to go…

Two to go, two to go…

With one to go, Dad backed the tractor away from the wall just as he had thirty-one times before. He leaned forward to change gear, when suddenly he stopped.

‘What’s that noise?’ he yelled.

I listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything except the noise of the tractor and the roar of the storm. Then another sound came through; the sound of motorbikes. Instantly, I could feel the blood thumping in my head, my stomach churned and my
gut ached. There were no more days left—the bikers were back.

Straight away they began to circle the tractor, first in large circles, and then slowly getting closer.

‘Get out of here!’ Dad yelled, though I doubt they could hear.

After a while they stopped and turned their bikes towards us. ‘Now is the time, Bird Boy!’ screamed Red Honda.

‘Yeah! It’s payback time,’ added Blue.

‘Get out of here, you thugs!’ Dad yelled again. I glanced up at him. He looked terrible: his face was bright red and distorted with anger.

‘Wha’ you gunna to do abou’ it, Grandad?’ yelled Yamaha. Then he almost fell off his bike, and I realised he was drunk. I’m sure they all were. You had to be drunk—or mad—to be out in a storm like that.

In reply, Dad lowered the bucket, slammed the tractor into gear and charged at the bikes. They might have been drunk, but they still knew danger when it was coming at them. They revved the bikes and skidded out of the way in a spray of sand.

The next few minutes were madness. Dad was spinning the steering wheel back and forth trying to hit the bikers, who were back to their circling routine. Round and round they went, with the bucket on the tractor taking wild swings at them.

Then one of them was hit. It was Blue Honda. He’d come in closer to give us the fingers, but his reflexes weren’t good and the bucket touched the back of the bike. He managed to stay on for some distance before the bike swerved down the beach and skidded from under him. Dad spun the wheel, punched the throttle onto full, and aimed straight at him.

‘No, Dad!’ I yelled. But he just kept on going. I grabbed the wheel and tried to pull it to one side. He pushed me away. Now
he was standing and screaming, like a warrior heading into battle. Again I tried to change direction, throwing my whole weight into it. He fought back with the strength of a madman. We were going to drive right over Blue.

Then he let out a piercing cry that shook his whole body. His feet slipped and his body slumped into the gap in front of the seat. His arms fell through the steering wheel, locking it in place. For a moment his head swung around before dropping back with a thump onto the seat.

The tractor was out of control now, headed at Blue. What could I do to stop it? Dad’s body blocked me from getting at the pedals, the wheel wouldn’t turn, and the throttle was jammed. What could I do? The ignition—that was it. I squeezed my arm past his body, feeling for the key. It seemed to take ages before I felt the right shape. At first I tried to turn it the wrong way. Finally, when I got it right, the key turned and came out of the socket. The ignition was off.

But nothing happened to the tractor—it kept powering forward.

Blue was having trouble getting to his feet. He stopped and stared straight at me. Through the visor I could see his eyes shining with fear. Then the engine coughed once…and again. The tractor slowed. It was enough to give Blue some hope. He scrambled backwards with his eyes fixed on the bucket. After a final backfire, the motor stopped, and Blue was safe—the blade of the bucket millimetres from his face.

For a moment, everything seemed quiet. For the first time in many hours the raucous bark of the tractor had ceased.

Blue got to his feet and stood, staggering and staring. For a moment I thought he was hurt until I saw him laughing, and realised it was the alcohol. Eventually, he lifted the bike and managed to climb back on. He kicked it into life and roared off towards the other two. They faced us for a while, before turning
and weaving their way down the beach, into the darkness.

I turned to Dad and touched his face. It was cold and now drained of all colour. He lifted his head and turned towards me, stretching out an arm for support. His face twisted with pain. He stared at me with frightened eyes. ‘Help me, Ben,’ he cried. ‘Help me.’ Then he collapsed again.

My first thought was to somehow get myself into the driver’s seat and hold on to him while I drove. I soon realised that that would be impossible. For a brief moment, I even considered bundling him into the bucket and taking him home that way. If we’d still had the calf pen on the back it would have been easy.

Eventually, I realised that I had to get him off the tractor, and then off the beach. The best place would be Treetops, but I could never get him up there without his help.

Getting him off the tractor was easy. When I unthreaded his arms from the steering wheel he fell, landing with a thud on his side. Getting him off the beach was more difficult. He was about double my weight. I hooked my hands under his shoulders and hauled him along with his legs dragging in the sand and water. Every few metres I stopped to catch my breath.

It was during one of these pauses that I heard him groan. At least he was still alive. I pulled with renewed vigour and soon had him on the grass above the sand. Then it became much more difficult. I was beginning to despair that I might never get him to the tree when he said something. I looked and saw that his eyes were open.

‘Dad, can you hear me?’ There was a faint nod. ‘Can you get up so I can get you to Treetops?’

This time I did hear him. ‘I’ll try,’ he croaked.

Between us, we got him onto his feet. With me taking most of the weight, I soon had him at the base of the tree. That’s
when I saw Peg. She was curled into a tight ball in the lee of the trunk.

‘Oh, Peg,’ I cried, ‘I’m so sorry! I forgot all about you.’ She answered by lifting her head and wagging her tail a couple of times. ‘I’ll take you home soon,’ I said, and she gave me one of her little smiles.

Somehow Dad got up into Treetops: a combination of me shoving and him holding on. Once, he fell a couple of rungs before I got hold of him again. It was with relief that I gave a final heave and he plunged through the door onto the floor.

I pulled myself through into the darkness. Scrambling around, I found the torch that I always keep in a drawer. Its light showed Dad lying on his back, shivering violently. I had to get him warm. I ripped down my two old curtains but they felt pathetically thin. The only other thing was the carpet. His body was already on it, so I just picked up the edge and rolled the carpet around him with the top of his head poking out one end.

I checked his face to see that he could breathe easily. He must have sensed my presence, for he opened his eyes and whispered something.

‘What was that, Dad?’ I said, putting my ear to his mouth.

‘Don’t leave me, Ben. I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone.’

I touched his face. ‘I won’t, Dad. I’ll always be here. I promise.’ I sat on the floor beside him, thinking. There was nothing more I could do about shifting him. He would have to stay here. And getting help was out of the question. Nobody could come out in this weather. I would have to look after him as best I could. His fate was in my hands.

Then I remembered Mum. She would be out of her mind with worry. She would think that we’d drowned and all sorts of things. Somehow I had to get a message to her. It didn’t take long to come to a decision, though it was not one
that I liked. I ripped a page out of my record book and wrote a note:

Mum,

Dad and I are in Treetops. Dad collapsed but he’s comfortable now. I’m making sure he keeps warm.

Don’t come out into the storm, as it’s too dangerous.

We’ll sort out what has to be done in the morning.

See you then,

Ben