Winterwood

Special thanks to the Mushroom Group NZ and Martin Phillipps for permission to use written content from ‘Doldrums’ (1984) and ‘Pink Frost’ (1984) by the Chills, both songs composed by Martin Phillipps

Grateful acknowledgement is made to Kathryn Tait for permission to use lyrics from ‘McKenzie Song’ (1973) by Kathryn Tait

Cover design: Killercovers

For Terry, RIP

Beer is rugby, and rugby is beer

ROB

Author’s note

When I sat down to write this book I didn’t know for whom it was intended – it was just something I had to write. This is not only my story but also that of my family and friends who shared the common gratitude and grief in the things to come. The memories of those dark and wintry days are trapped forever in my mind, always there, haunting me, memories coming in and out of a fog. Maybe I had to write this to find peace within myself.

Martin – the narrator

When I get drunk and find myself in a semi-conscious state, passed out on the sidewalk, someone else might say, ‘That’s life,’ but I would reply, ‘No, that’s just going out on the town.’ When my girlfriend leaves me for another man, someone would say, ‘That’s life,’ but I would tell him, ‘No way, she just broke my heart.’ And when I find myself being dragged into an alleyway and beaten, someone would say, ‘That’s life,’ and I would say, ‘Like hell, that’s just somebody taking his troubles out on me.’ But when you put all these events together, and that someone would still say, ‘That’s life,’ I would pause and think a minute, and have to agree – yeah, maybe so.

Part One

Chapter One

The beginning of winter is a time of change, the fallen leaves of autumn being swept away by sudden rain and chill. Winter is also a time of death. Many plants and animals had already died, and more would do so during the colder, wetter days to come.

It was at this time of year that it all began.

Otago Province lies at the edge of the world: a land assailed by bitter cold, it had been hit by the recent economic recession, mass unemployment and migrations to the more populated areas to the north. Its undulating hills, craggy mountains, half-deserted towns and bankrupt farms lay bare for the bitter season to swallow and spit out. Dunedin, the main city of the province, sits facing the Pacific Ocean, on the site of an old whaling station, and next to a natural harbour beset by the Antarctic water flow.

On the first Friday of May 1986, an hour before dusk, all retail outlets, factories and offices closed for the weekend, and for a moment the city lay dormant. Then, as if a light had been switched on, it sprang to life. Bars and restaurants opened, street lights and neon signs flashed, and a steady stream of traffic wound into town – party-goers ready to revel after a hard working week.

The Dunedin Railway Station, stony white and grey, stood in the centre of town along Anzac Avenue, near the Exchange. Its Flemish Renaissance façade, worn down since its completion during the gold rush eighty-odd years before, posed city planners the prospect of redevelopment if they ever felt the need to drag the city into modern times.

George Tulloch, flabby-faced with red swollen eyes and an even redder nose, loafed on a bench near the platform, his scarecrow hat pulled over his eyes as if it were the right time to sleep, wishing he had more whiskey, even though he had already finished a bottle that day. He raised his thick eyebrows when he heard the clatter of wheels on the rail. Nearby, the congregation on the platform turned towards the 5:05 PM train in the distance. A high-pitched whistle sounded as the train pulled to a stop. George uncurled his legs as the passengers trickled out of the carriages, and in no time he noticed his three sons emerge.

Michael, at twenty-four the oldest, stepped onto the platform, his chest puffed out like a peacock, his face a stony grimace, standing five-foot-nine but thinking himself much taller. Michael had graduated from the University of Otago the previous year with a post-graduate economics degree – the greatest achievement of his life, his ticket away from the farm – and that made him feel special, more important, made every seat he took at the pub a seat for royalty, the degree some kind of magic filling a deep hole inside. He always felt it, that hole in him, deeper, more painful than a bullet wound, and he struggled with it every moment of his life.

Michael observed Sunday as the Holy Day, attended mass accordingly, and always carried a small silver crucifix in his pocket, thinking of all people who had no belief as ‘ignorant’. But he never talked about his belief nor wore his crucifix around his neck, because that would show him up as a ‘minority’ and, in Michael’s world, minorities were subject to ridicule – himself, of course, a leader of the hecklers.

Behind him Paul emerged, his shoulders sagging as if a heavy weight were upon him, his face pale, almost sickly, a mask of anxiety, resigned to a fate he couldn’t avoid. He had dark eyes that darted left and right, searching the crowd that milled on the platform, searching, as always, for an enemy of some form. At twenty, Paul was the youngest in the family, short and soft, slender, with a thin face and unkempt hair hanging over his eyes. He wore the same brown pullover his mother had knitted for his birthday three years before, from which by now many threads hung loose, and his faded trousers were even older, with a long tear in them as if a dog had tried to bite him. He would probably prefer to wear nothing. He carried a backpack, in which he stowed his toothbrush, shaving kit, soap, a book about gardening, a Walkman, family photos – all kinds of things, but never a comb – as though that backpack were an extension of himself and without it he was only half a man. There was a perpetual fear in his dark almond eyes, as if he always stood on the edge of a precipice, ready to jump.

Next, Martin stepped onto the platform, his twelve-string guitar strapped over his shoulder. His face wore a serious expression and his eyes were downcast. People always thought he had something to worry about, but he looked serious because he was a deep thinker and he was often in thought. He had a thickset body, ideal for a farmer, and he loved the outdoors: hunting and fishing. He enjoyed his work on the farm, the management and physical toil involved, but this eagerness masked his aspirations to one day leave the outback – like many other farmers in these bleak economic times – and become a musician. His first love was the arts, especially music: he always looked forward to seeing the latest production at the Town Hall, and often dreamed of one day auditioning for a musical there.

Look! There’s Dad, Paul said. His left eye began twitching when he got excited.

Martin’s heart slumped. Their father lay slouched over the bench, his elbows extended outwards as if he had just woken up in his bed. Martin frantically turned left and right, looking for some way to avoid him, but knowing he never could. He swore under his breath, cursing the old sod.

Martin was able to spot weaknesses in other people, but, of course, he overlooked all those of his own. And there were so many of them: they were ingrained in him, part of his nature, and, as he led his daily life, he wasn’t even aware of them. He had struggled at school, struggled on the sports field, struggled in the school yard, all those shortcomings of childhood breeding more deficiencies in adulthood, as if every one of his weaknesses were crammed inside a closet and all he had to do was open the door for them to come tumbling out.

He watched the ball, wanted desperately to take his eyes off it, falling like a burning meteor tumbling from the sky, his foot planted inside the touchline like a good left-winger. Although it was a cold, miserable day, he felt he was in the midst of flames. They were all hugging the touchline, inches from his face: the overgrown, hairy bully from the school yard; the jock who smelled the best and probably wore perfume, who always picked Martin last in his teams; the tall, bearded English teacher, a leftover from the sixties, who drove his Harley to school and had given Martin a D for his last essay; and Michael, his older brother – all expecting the worst, all watching him with intent eyes, unblinking. And the ball plunged down. He put his hands out like a cushion, expecting it, but saw from the corner of his eye the opposition bearing down on him like rampaging bulls loose in a stampede, and the ball went clean through his fingers.

"Disgusting."

"Shame on you."

"Just what I expected."

George approached them through the crowd. They hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and Martin knew the problems between his parents had worsened recently from a letter his sister, Julienne, had written and which he had read on the train.

Hi there,

Hope you enjoyed your time in Christchurch. Did you stay with Uncle Henry? Is he still wearing his silly toupee? Did you find a good psychiatrist for Paul? I bet you can’t wait to start work on the farm again. What’s Michael doing? Is he going to help you on the farm or is he looking for a job in marketing? Have you heard? Mum and Dad have separated again. Mum wouldn’t talk about it. Can you believe the Homosexual Reform Act is about to be passed? Imagine it – we’ll be the only country in the world about to legalize homosexual activity. That’s disgusting. The homos and lesbians should crawl back into the gutter where they belong, don’t you think? Have to go ‘coz I get up early every morning to milk the cows and do the feed while you guys are away.

Luv

Julienne

Paul rushed across to his father and shook his hand. How’s Mum? How’s Mum?

She’s fine. How was the trip?

An abrupt silence answered the question, as all three brothers frowned at the same time and Paul, in particular, lowered his head.

We’ll call Mum from here, Michael said.

I came to pick you up, George said. Do you want a ride back to the farm? You can see her there.

Martin could smell the whiskey, as strong as paint thinner. It was like a wall, and he stood back from it with a thickness in his throat. His father hadn’t shaved, his unkempt hair hung over his face, and his shirt was hanging out. His father’s eyes were like two dark caves hidden under heavy lashes and he grappled to focus, as if he hadn’t slept for two or three days.

Have you started drinking again? Martin said. You promised Mum you wouldn’t.

What kind of a bloody question is that?

Well – I can smell it.

George sensed Martin’s hostile stare, and he growled back, a hideous snarl, as if he had suddenly strapped on his battle armour, thinking he had been on many battlefields before and this was just one of them. Who do you think I am? A wild beast? Maybe the Devil?

Martin glared at his father, feeling the blood rising in him, the blood about to spill. His head trembled. His arms and legs were rigid, and he felt that blood boil and the air leave his throat.

Next to him, Michael remained stoic, pulling tight the muscles on his face. His eyes travelled from Martin to Paul, and then to George, as if he wanted to supervise everyone in sight. He stepped between Martin and his father. We want to spend the night in town, he said. See some friends.

That’s what I bloody expected. George shook his head. Someone puts out a helping hand and you fucking chop it off.

Michael ignored him. He knew there was no stopping him now.

Well, that’s what we had planned, Martin said.

Paul’s eyes were darting all over the place and he had begun to fidget. I – I wanna, wanna go back to the farm, see Mum – see Mum.

Okay, George said, the Ute’s outside.

Can you take our luggage back to the farm? Michael asked.

His father huffed, his cheeks purple-red. He turned abruptly and muttered some profanities, and they followed him outside the station.

The clouds had darkened by the time they walked onto Anzac Square. The streets had turned grey, almost black. Only a few taxis remained and they were parked in front of the clock tower. Martin looked across the park and saw the peripheral streets of the inner city – his city. The bars were glowing, beckoning him towards them as if he were a moth attracted to lights. He dumped his luggage, including his guitar, onto the back of the four-wheel drive and returned with Michael inside the station, not bothering to say goodbye.

By now the crowd had dispersed and the foyer, near empty, felt deserted and still. Fluorescent lights lit up the interior. If it weren’t the lobby of a train station it could well have been a museum. Friezes on the walls were linked together with chains and they sparkled with depictions of trains, bells and hammers; the lions on the bas-reliefs sprang to life. Michael sat on a wooden bench against the wall, staring at the black and white tiles on the floor.

Ring Terry, he said. Tell him we’ll see him in town.

Martin nodded. He found a public phone by the wall and fumbled some coins from out of his coat pocket. After he dialled, his friend’s voice crackled down the line.

Hi, Terry, it’s Martin ... How are you? ... We’re just back from Christchurch ... The Green Bar this evening ... Steve and Duncan, too? After work? ... Okay, see you there.

Martin hung up.

The Green Bar? Michael asked.

Yeah.

They walked out of the station, across Anzac Avenue, through the park and then up a narrow and quiet back street, and onwards swiftly towards Princess Street, where they found the Green Bar. They dodged the traffic as they crossed the road and entered.

Michael bought two pints and they sat down at a round table near the fireplace that lit up the dim interior. Leanne, as usual, sat at the piano, a cigarette dangling from her lips. When Martin had first begun coming to the bar, three years before, half the reason had been to watch her play the piano: enchanting in her velvet top and tight black jeans, her fingers moving with grace, her blonde hair cascading down her back. As Martin sipped his beer, she put the cigarette down and began to sing. Froth wet his lips and his mind drifted, losing himself in the softness of her voice. As Leanne sang, she raised her eyes and glanced briefly at him.

Above stony walls, ringed by the flat horizon,

Blood shaking your heart,

Waiting for the rain,

While the black clouds gather,

Memories of the dead, stored in your head.

The bar door opened. Terry stood silhouetted against the street lights. Medium height and broad-shouldered, Terry played loose forward for Fourth Grade, but he could play anywhere in the forwards, as long as he didn’t have to catch the ball. He waved at the Tulloch brothers before striding up to the bar, his long arms dangling by his side as if he never had any use for them. He had just finished work at the bakery and was thirsty for a beer. He took off his coat, his face handsome in the light of the bar. His face wore its habitual jovial expression: if at any moment he did not have a smile on his face, he soon would.

He was late because he had placed a bet on the trots. He gambled every weekend, always expecting to win. And if he didn’t win, well, he was alert to some other reward, some other prize that would give him fresh impetus. Terry had failed miserably at school, leaving the day he had turned fifteen, but he never dwelt on it. He seemed to forget quickly the adverse things that happened in his life, his life one big wheel of fortune.

Steve followed him inside, barrel-chested, almost wide as he was tall, and when he walked he wobbled. His head was round, set close to his shoulders, his nose broken from a recent rugby game. He had puffy cheeks, merry eyes and a bowl-shaped haircut. He was letting his hair grow long so that he could one day comb it back to hide his increasing bald spot. He was a truck driver, following in his father’s and uncle’s footsteps, and had accepted long ago he would be doing that for the rest of his life.

On weekends, he played tight-head in Terry’s team – the anchor of his team, probably the most important position on the field, because without an anchor his team was adrift. So he had to be the heaviest, biggest and strongest guy, and he was; but, like any half-decent prop forward, he knew that physical strength was only part of the game, that in the murky trenches of front-row warfare it was usually the top two inches that matted – and in winning that front-row battle he could prove to himself, and to others, that he was more than just a truck driver.

Soon Duncan entered. His friends called him ‘Square’ because everything about him was: his jaw, his head, his arms and shoulders, his neatly trimmed haircut – everything. He looked like a block of granite. With his build, he would have made a fine prop. He could play anywhere in the backline, but he preferred first-five so he could run the show. He had recently applied to the Officer Training School at the New Zealand Army Corps. His shoes were polished and the top button of his orange pastel shirt was done up with not a crease on it.

When Martin finished his beer, Leanne’s voice, accompanied by the deft touch of her fingers on the piano, enwrapped his mind again. He lowered his head, his eyes half closed, and dreamed he was far away from there.

You crouch, hunched in silence,

Thunder roars overhead,

Fire fills the sky while the lightning flashes,

The stone cracks beneath your feet,

Falling down, ‘round and ‘round,

‘Til you’re buried underground.

The five of them joined two tables and sat together, drinking. Steve’s massive paw lifted his beer and put it down again like a piston. One moment his face was serious, the next it was jovial, the jester in him released. He had hardly finished swallowing his beer before he spoke. Bloody oath! I’ve been waiting all day for this.

Well, the boys are back, Terry said, smiling at the Tulloch brothers. I’m looking forward to this winter. Good times ahead.

Martin grinned. Time to chill out before the action begins, he said.

Duncan raised his glass. And the action starts tomorrow night. Go the Cavaliers! His eyes narrowed as a grin spanned his square face. He was referring to the rebel New Zealand rugby team that was touring South Africa – the national All Blacks in all but name – who would be playing their first test that weekend. Our boys are ready. It’s time to kick some Bok arse!

Oh yeah! Martin raised his glass; he felt the music flow through him, mingling with the beer. Our boys will show ‘em who’s the best.

Bloody oath! Steve downed his beer in one gulp and slammed his glass on the table, some liquid running down his jaw and dripping onto the table.

The others cheered, except Michael, who was a bit subdued. He knew some of the Bok players from the bitter ’81 tour, and thought they were better than his friends gave them credit for.

Terry finished his beer and turned to Martin. They’ve made me captain of Fourth Grade, he said, his smile even wider than usual and his teeth glowing in the dim light.

Oh. Martin looked at him. You?

Sure.

Whose bright idea was that?

I don’t know … I’ve just hung around the club the longest.

Well, congrats. Martin slapped his friend on the shoulder. You’ll make a bloody good captain. I know you will.

Terry took out his cigarettes. Want one?

No, thanks, Martin said, his voice firm. I’ve quit.

Duncan wiped beer from his mouth and leaned towards Michael. How was your holiday in Christchurch? he asked.

Well, you know, not too bad. We checked out a couple of bars, visited some relatives.

Duncan rubbed his jaw. Christchurch? Funny place for a holiday.

Michael smiled wanly and picked up his glass, pretending to ignore him.

What are your plans now? Duncan said.

Back to work on the farm.

You’re not looking to do something with your degree?

Soon, Michael said. We built a new dugout last season, so there are some ducks to shoot first.

Duncan smiled. Great!

Steve cleared his throat. Okay, drinking games. Let’s start a round: half pints, Down the Hatch.

What’s the game? Terry asked.

That’s it. No rules. Down the Hatch.

They poured the liquid down their throats and in a few seconds slammed their empty vessels on the table. Steve glared at the group as froth dribbled down his jaw, wanting to growl like a lion. He had to be the first to slam his glass down, no question about that.

Duncan, with misty eyes, searched the group, looking for the weakest link. His gaze fell on Martin. You buy the next round, he said.

Martin returned with a tray of half pints and they started the game again, drowning themselves in froth and liquid.

Soon Leanne took a break from singing and Duncan and Steve put their arms around each other as they sang – the perfect duo – stealing the show. Terry looked on and laughed. Sometimes Terry liked to sing and sometimes he didn’t, but when he did, like now, his whole heart was in it:

WE’VE GOT MIKE BREWER IN OUR TEAM,

WE’VE GOT MIKEBREWER IN OUR TEAM,

WE’VE GOT THE BEST TEAM IN THE WORLD.

The second round was quicker than the first. Steve, having taken a breather, realized he was a round behind and needed to rid himself of the shame. He picked up his half pint and sank it in a single gulp. He burped loudly, proudly, and beat his hands on his thighs.

Michael sat, his face stern, taking gentleman sips.

Hey, Michael, are you singing? Steve looked at him.

Nah. Michael frowned.

Typical bloody Catholic. Do you have to repress every bloody emotion? Steve slapped Michael on the shoulder. It was a joke only Steve understood, because he was Catholic too. The slap jolted Michael out of his reverie and he relented, joining in the song:

WE’VE GOT DEAN KENNY IN OUR TEAM,

WE’VE GOT DEAN KENNY IN OUR TEAM,

WE’VE GOT THE BEST TEAM IN THE WORLD.

Terry returned with another tray of half pints. He bumped into a table and one of the half pints went flying, showering Martin with beer. Bloody hell, Martin frowned, I hope you didn’t spill mine.

Terry settled opposite Michael. This winter is going to be a long one, he said.

Michael nodded. He was drinking his beer faster now, and after each swirl he was swaying his head more and more, each swirl filling up that hole inside, each swirl making him happier and happier. Well, let’s make the most of it, starting … starting with tonight. Michael forced his words, let out a quiet burp, and a bit of dribble ran down his chin. This winter might bloody well kill me.

Terry grinned, a vague acknowledgement, and gulped his beer.

The singing subsided and Leanne made her way back to the piano, passing out singing sheets, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. One sheet fell in a puddle of beer in front of Martin. He picked it up. Steve and Duncan grabbed a sheet each, happy and drunk, and their eyes lit up.

Number 17, Duncan said. Have you got that? – Number 17.

Leanne looked at him and smiled. She had all the patrons in the palm of her tiny, delicate hand.

Martin put his glass back on the table, then jumped as patrons around him cheered. Leanne was back in front of the piano, weaving her magic again.

You should have bought your guitar along, Terry shouted.

Martin raised his glass and smiled.

Voices erupted around him. Those caught in the fervour grabbed each other by