IT’S HIS LEGS SHE NOTICES FIRST, UNDER THOSE SHORT, SHORT SHORTS. BEYOND THE LEGS, STREAKED SKINS HANG STRETCHED ON THE WIRE FENCE ON THE BOUNDARY OF HIS PROPERTY. EASY ENOUGH TO FIND IN THE END. SHE DROVE INTO TOWN, STOPPED AT THE SHOP. ASKED FOR BILL. SECOND ON THE LEFT, FOLLOW THE ROAD FOR ABOUT FIVE K, OVER THE ONE- WAY BRIDGE AT THE CREEK. JUST THERE ON THE RIGHT. WEATHERBOARD LETTERBOX AT THE TOP OF THE DRIVE. YOU’LL KNOW YOU’VE GONE TOO FAR IF YOU GET TO THE FARM GATES.
A man’s place, for sure. Motorbike bits in the yard. A ten-litre paint pot full of empty beer bottles. Dog. Sprawled on the lawn. But first, and most imposing, that wall of skins.
It’s for the possums she’s come to see him, of course. They have them back in Canada, or at least they do if Opossums are the same, which she thinks they might be, except for the extra ‘o’. Her first Kiwi Possum experience had been on the way back to Auckland from Taupo. Ran one over and it really messed up the bumper. Thought she’d destroyed a native. Cried a bit, even. But the guy from AAAA Ezy Eco Autos didn’t mind at all. In fact, he laughed. In actual fact, he asked her for her phone number. Yeah. But nah. She headed down here, down South, the same day. It’s calmer this side of that sea.
So, you know how it goes. She met a guy on the ferry who knew a guy who knew this other guy who knew all about possums. Bill. He’d hunted back in the days when you got paid for it. Still finds a way to make it work, mind you. Sells the skins to whoever pays. Blanket people, purse people, sock people. The fluffy nipple warmer people take the scraps. Easy tourist takings and a really nice guy besides. Just the hunt itself that matters. Simple. Authentic. Everything she needs.
And here he is. And here she is, fresh from the cities and the planes and the ferries and the cities on the other side. Half conversations with strings of backpackers in shiny steel kitchens ringing in her head. Quieter here. Bill on his sofa. On the deck. With those legs. And a beer. And here they are.
We need your help
READ MORE
“You’ll be the Canada girl. Heard you were coming.”
“I hope I’m not imposing, Mr….” “Bill. People call me Bill.
“Bill. I just want to, you know, know. About the possums.”
His eyes laughed. “I get a lot of people. Keen for a hunt?”
“Sure. I mean, yes, if you’re keen to take me.” “Knock yerself out.”
He looks her up and down. Blue jeans, fleece top, crumpled quick-dry pink sports shirt. Two can play that game. Those shorts. An oversized checked thing. Looks scratchy. Gumboots. Buzzcut hair. Sort of cute. And his eyes, they’re honest.
Bill breaks the reverie.
“Tonight. Sunset. If you’re keen. Beer while you wait.”
It’s not a question. He twists the top off. She perches on the deck fence, legs not sure of the tipping point.
A swig of cold beer. Another.
Breathing spaces large enough to swallow in between.
Sandflies. Her first encounter. They don’t so much swarm as sneak. A couple on her knuckles. Slap. Flick. One on her hairline. Scratch. Thirteen thousand on the spaces between her jeans and her sneakers. She starts the sandfly tango.
“You’ll be wanting to tuck your socks into your trou. Sunset’s the worst. You’re alright after.”
“So how do you cope with them? In your shorts, I mean? I mean, not in your shorts… in your…you know.”
“Don’t worry me. I’m used to the buggers. Should be after this time.”
“How long’ve you been here, Bill?”
“Yeah. She’s been a good while. Been coming here since before you were born. Likely.”
“Really? I’m twenty-two!”
“It’s not for me to be asking a lady’s age…”
He looks straight ahead, flushed.
But he thinks her a lady. She can’t meet his eyes.
The rims of the beer bottles are brown, ridged, rutted.
Bill breaks the silence.
“Smoke?”
“No. Thanks, though.”
She watches him stuff, lick, roll, seal, light, inhale. The light runs away over the hills. No, what are they called? The tops. She counts skins on the fence. She loses count. Counts again. Thirty- four, thirty-six, thirty-seven. She listens. Birds. Bellbirds, maybe? Fantails? Doesn’t want to seem ignorant by asking.
Sidelines a look at Bill. In profile, his freckled nose is kind of Roman. His thighs. What a treat. Triple rippled. She shakes her head like outing water after a swim. Hello? You’re in the middle of nowhere with a random guy with short shorts and a gun. You think he’s cute but this too will pass and isn’t this exactly what you’re running from? Seriously.
Bill gets to his feet. The dog scruffs up sharpish. He knows.
“Spose we should be going then. Get in the back, Jack. Tuck ’em in.”
He nods at her ankles. She tries. But there’s not much hope. Sneaker socks.
By the time she’s struggled the gap semi-closed, the truck’s already growling.
“BY THE TIME THEY TURN UP BILL’S DRIVE, THE BODIES IN THE BACK ARE STILL”
“Spotlight,” Bill dangles it. “You hold it. Sweep. Point. I’ll shoot.”
She climbs in the passenger side. Switches the light on. “Not now. Wait.”“Right. Sorry.”
And they’re off. Clattering. About a kilometre down the track, Bill switches off the headlights, turns to face her, takes her arm.
“Now, slowly.” he says. “The light. Look.”
She looks. Learns, makes arcing motions, stuttering at first, following the tip of his 202.
Dark, light, dark as they crunch off at a crawl. That and the glow of the tip of his smoke. A gleam in the bush to the right. Bill cocks his head, kills the engine.
“Hold it still now, Canada girl.”
She puts her other hand on the light, notices them both shaking.
CRACK.“You beauty,” said Bill. “One to us. Go on Jack.”
Jack holds the convulsing possum like a precious newborn.
“Good boy. Good boy.”
Bill chucks the body in the back of the Ute, wipes his bloody hands on an old tea towel. Starts the engine.
Sweep. Sweeeep. Slow, low.
“There, there.”
Another one. He cocks his head right. The same routine. Engine off. Silence. Concentration. Her hands shaking, his steely still. CRACK. But this time Bill misses.
“Bugger. One all. Let’s turn her around.” Bill pulled a u-ey in the track. Then stops.
“Give us some light over here.” He starts to roll another smoke.
Torchlight does something to a man. And what a. What if?
“What d’ya think then, Canada girl? What you expected?”
She finds herself brushing a stray hair that isn’t there behind her ear.
“I…yes. And no. I mean, it’s like, more meaningful, you know.”
“If you say so.”
A listener. But really. I mean, what must he think of her? Tourist tryhard? What would it, could she? I mean if you could get a decent coffee. If. They’d have such cute kids with his thighs and her
“OK. ‘s go. Wakey wakey, Canada girl. Sweep around here before we start.”
She swings the spotlight side to side. Hopes her technique is getting noticeably impressive.
“There. There. Steady.” CRACK.
“Yes! Two one.” Bill pops open another beer on the steering wheel. Hands it over and opens another. Watches Jack go for the body. This one clearly still alive. Writhing and banging on the back planks. She keeps it in the corner of her eye, can’t quite turn away. Hears her voice quavering.
“Is the skin… is it different, if they suffer?
“Only thing that makes a blind bit of difference is where you hit it. And getting the dog to be gentle. Trained him up for ducks. He’s a good ‘un, Jack.”
“Right. Like his trainer.”
Bill stares. This is it. The moment.
He keeps staring.
Not at her. Past her.
“There. Hold it still. See. The eyes. You want to take a shot?”
He leans across with the gun. Close enough to touch.
“No. No. That’s OK. You go for it.”
Three-one. A good score for the night.
By the time they turn up Bill’s drive, the bodies in the back are still. He lumps them onto the garage bench.
“Deal with them in the morning. Where you staying?”
“I … umm…well.”
“Bed down here if you like, Canada girl.”
She likes all right. Yes, she likes. Pretty sure he does as well, otherwise why ask, right? They have another few beers in front of the television. Terrible reception. That’ll have to change. Not that it is anything worth watching. It looks like Football but it’s something called League. She gets up, unsteady.
“The toilet?” “Outhouse. Or grass.”
She picks a spot just outside the square of window light. Pants down, squatting, she concentrates on peeing straight. Avoiding the hot trickle on the sides of her shoes.
Heading back in, she sees Bill, eyes closed on the sofa. This is the moment.
She bends down, kisses his head.His eyes open. Faces kissing widths apart.
Then his hands come up. Push her. Not hard. Firm enough.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I thought… I thought… We’ll I thought I thought that… but obviously… not.”
“Oh no. No. The missus wouldn’t like that.” “The missus?”
She looks around the room. Toaster with stale crumbs. Sticky cups. Seriously excellent espresso machine. Socks over the fireguard. No cushions. No fruitbowl. No teatowel, even.
“Yeah.” He follows her gaze. “She’s in Wellington.” “So… right. Great.”“Yeahnah.”“She’s not from round here then?”
“Met her on the internet. We’re used to a bit of distance.”
“I’m sorry, Bill. Sorry if I, I got it wrong.”
Boy, and how wrong. But at least they could be Friends, maybe. Seeing as he’s internet savvy. Who would’ve thought it?
“S’alright. No harm done. But you wanna be careful, Canada girl. I could’ve been anyone. Or at least someone not so nice. Happens all the time.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just so…” “She’ll be right. Beer?”
LIZ BRESLIN
