The Quilt Page 16

  “I can’t take credit for years of Sean’s work and his insistence on only buying the best quality ewes and replacements at the beginning. He put in the program to cull all poor producers, bad dams, flystrike and eliminate facial eczema ewes. I just followed his and Cliff’s example.”

  “You’re far too modest young man. Sue was just telling me about Jean and Sean’s plans.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Paul looked towards his father but Sean seemed to be studying his feet.

  “You know how those woman gossip. Now, how about a game of cards?”

  The first domino had been pushed.

  The warm, long afternoon had faded into a cool, still evening. Jean had retired into the lounge. She had been slightly on edge all evening and now sat behind a newspaper, not reading, but sipping on a sweet sherry and straining to hear the men’s conversation. Whoever cooked did not do the dishes. Tonight, she would have gladly cleaned up to be involved.

  “Italy!”

  Paul’s voice was raised and carried clearly through to where Jean sat.

  She eased herself up and walked through to where Paul stood, tea towel in his hand and jaw slack. His parents considered a day’s shopping trip to town a major adventure. Neither had really travelled outside the King Country and neither, as far as he was aware, had travelled in a plane.

  “We want to see some of the world before we get too much older. We are in good health at the moment but you never know what is around the corner.” Sean placed an arm around Jean’s shoulder.

  “We have been considering this for a while. You are more than capable of running the farm. We plan to spend six months in Europe. We thought if you are happy we would book flights and make travel arrangements around the middle of January. That way we have seen in the New Year here and the weather in Europe will be improving.”

  “You are happy to look after things here, aren’t you? If you have other plans there are a couple of alternatives including employing a manager.”

  “I have discounted university and haven’t thought much about my other options. Go and enjoy yourselves. You will be considered rebels locally. I know you wouldn’t be happy employing a stranger to run Twin Pines and I’m not doing much else.”

  Paul walked over and put his arm around his mother.

  “I am proud of you both.”

  Paul stood in the terminal and watched Jean and Sean Clarke disappear through the departure doors. He then turned and walked into the warm February sun. He didn’t stay to watch the plane take his parents on the first stage of their journey. He had a long drive back to Twin Pines and work waiting for him when he got there.

  The months leading up to their departure had been exhausting. Sean had insisted Paul carry a note pad and write instructions on every aspect of the day to day running of Twin Pines. His mother had insisted he carry a notebook and write instructions about preparing the meals she had packed into the freezer, the gardens she had pulled up and their emergency contact numbers and detailed travel itinery.

  Paul shook his head, turned up the radio and drove towards the motorway.

  Exactly fourteen days after they had landed at Heathrow International Airport Paul received his first postcard. Jean and Sean had never understood the concept of the computer age and so communication was limited to the occasional phone call or regular postcards.

  Paul purchased an album with the intention of presenting it to them when they were settled back at home. He placed the first postcard that showed London’s Big Ben carefully in the transparent slip.

  Initially, the cards arrived at least three times a week. They travelled through Cornwall and Devon, took a bus tour into the Cotswolds and sent postcards of chocolate box villages and desolate moors. His mother described the places they had visited and people they had met. His father initially added on each and every card a reminder of what needed to be done on Twin Pines, what needed to be ordered or who needed to be contacted.

  By the second month, his mother was light heartedly threatening to leave Sean in the in the Lakes District of the United Kingdom, and head to Italy by herself. By the time they had arrived in Rome, Paul found himself looking forward to their colourful updates and enjoying the light-hearted accounts of their experience.

  The traffic in Rome had horrified his mother to the extent that she had refused to use public transport or take tours. They had been forced to walk around the highlights and sent cards from Vatican City, the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps. Their journey took them by bus to Sorrento and onto the Amalfi Coast where they described colourful buildings that clung to the vertical cliffs. They sent postcards of Mt Vesuvius and Naples.

  The small island of Capri seemed to captivate his mother and held them spellbound for over a week. She talked about the frightening hairpin bends and steep narrow roads, the colourful seascape and mountain tram that took them to a point where the boats looked like small dots against the turquoise sea, of a blue grotto accessed by gondola through changing hues of vivid blue water, of tiny stalls selling delicious Limoncello and tiny restaurants preparing fresh local seafood and handmade pasta.

  They returned to Rome for a few days and Paul assumed it was to walk the attractions that were missed on their first visit. A postcard showing the Trevi Fountain arrived with a description of Jean tossing a coin into the water. They had visited the catacombs and eaten pizza beside the Tiber River.

  They travelled across to Monte Argentario, an area gaining popularity with both tourists and locals wanting to escape the city. From there they had ferried to the island of Giglio, before returning to the mainland and basing themselves in Porto Santo Stefano. Jean described exploring the neighbouring fishing village of Porto Ercole before driving the cliff edge road and stopping to eat plump, pink, local watermelons.

  They had stopped in the city of Siena before travelling through the hills of Tuscany to the tiny medieval walled town of San Gimignano. Jean described the rolling countryside and tiny towns tucked into their folds. She talked about gelato in every imaginable flavour and of fairy tale towers with terracotta coloured walls that were covered in bright red, pink and purple bougainvillea and huge pots spewing scarlet flowers on to the cobbled streets.

  Meanwhile, Twin Pines was suffering one of the hardest winters for decades. A series of storms created havoc throughout the central North Island stranding motorists, blanketing the pastures with snow and ice and toppling trees and power lines.

  With the winter chill gripping the farm, Paul moved Jess from the kennels into the warmth of the Shearers Quarters. The old dog was favouring her rear leg and showing increasing symptoms of early arthritis. She had always been a favourite, even as a puppy. The litter had been exceptional and Sean had retained a larger, more compact dog, named Rogue. Sadly both Rogue and Jess suffered injuries before they had reached their prime.

  He remembered them as young dogs; fast, agile and tireless controlling stock and staying close. Jess was small for her breed with sad, knowing eyes that looked like a window to an old soul.

  Sean and Paul had travelled the district competing successfully in Sheep Dog Trials for several years. But that had been ruined after a freak accident had claimed Rogues life. Paul still remembered the warm summer’s day Rogue had jumped from the back of the quad bike and misjudged the tyres. The dog had yelped and rolled coming to rest against an old tree. There was nothing they could do for him except end the poor creature’s misery. Sean had never bonded with another dog after Rogue.

  Six months after the accident Jess broke her cruciate ligament. The injury eventually healed but left her slightly unsound and Paul suspected this was the cause of her recent arthritis.

  Jess had gone on to whelp two litters. Three of the pick puppies were retained as working dogs on Twin Pines but Sean had refused to start another dog for himself to trial.

  Jess was no longer young. Her muzzle had a distinguished grey fleck that ran into white under her chin and formed a blanket on top of her paws. She was unable to ke
ep up with the younger dogs and recently she had been unable to finish the day’s work.

  Often Paul would put her on the bike if she started to fall too far behind. But, no matter what the conditions were and how strenuous the day was, she always came with them. To stay in the kennels would have been to admit she was getting close to retirement and neither of them was ready to accept that.

  Jess had settled at Paul’s feet. Her tail wagged lazily when he picked up the guitar. The snow had started to thaw but a crisp icy wind had been blowing in from the mountains all that week. Disruptions to the mail had delayed postcards and Paul had spent the evening arranging the pile into date order, before reading and placing them in the bulging album.

  Sean and Jean had travelled out of San Gimignano and onto the old wine route S222 that weaved through the Chianti wine growing area. They described rolling countryside and gentle slopes of green vines laden with plump, purple grapes. Their words painted pictures of narrow winding roads and quaint local restaurants serving bowls of fresh pasta and lashings of mellow olive oil good enough to drink from the spoon. They spoke of the vineyards that were all open for tastings and the oak rich red wine. Their travels had taken them off the main road and into villages not often frequented by tourists.

  The telephone ringing startled Jess from the deep slumber of an old dog.

  “Paul, it’s your father. We are in Florence and I have just seen a report that there is some nasty weather coming in. It must be serious if they are mentioning it on the news here.”

  “We moved all of the stock on to high ground earlier today. We will be fine.”

  “You need to be vigilant if it is as bad as they are predicting. They are saying there could be 200 millimetres of rain in the next twenty four hours.”

  Paul continued to put the postcards into order. Sean continued.

  “Now that isn’t the only thing I’m ringing about. We are considering staying a little longer than first planned. How are you situated? We are planning to be home for Christmas, of course.”

  “We are fine here, stay as long as you want.”

  The next morning the clouds hung like lead in the sky. There was an ominous still and the air was dense and foreboding. Paul had given the staff the day off, there was little more they could do except hope the stock losses would be low.

  By the middle of the day torrential rain had limited visibility to only a few feet, it ran in horizontal lines whipped up by cyclone force winds. Part of the corrugated iron roof of the kennel complex had peeled off and was thrown like paper across the yards. The driveway was littered with branches and the leaves stripped from the trees by the relentless winds. With a crackle the power went out plunging the room into a darkness which was illuminated in short bursts by forks of lightning.

  Jess jumped up scrambling to gain footing on the slippery floor.

  The lanky figure of David, Twin Pines most senior worker, appeared in the doorway. He was holding a torch and the light sent a ghostly glow over his serious face.

  “I tried to ring but your phone lines are down. Have you heard about Cliff Kean from next door?”

  “No, I haven’t seen the old boy for years. What has he done now?”

  “He decided he would go and move stock to higher ground this morning. You would think with the warnings out he would have done it well before the storm. Anyway, he hasn’t been seen since and with the thaw and flooding predicted from the storm, Dorothy Kean has called him in as missing.”

  “He isn’t stupid, he would know to stay away from the rivers and waterways.”

  Paul was already pulling on his boots and wet weather gear as he spoke.

  “I know the land as well as anyone, so we had better go and see if we can help.”

  A small sober crowd huddled outside the Kean’s house. Dorothy Kean stood to one side wringing her hands; her face was stained and tense. The local policeman had taken over the roll as search coordinator and approached Paul guiding him away from the anxious woman.

  “The stupid old fool has gone out the back to move bulls. His wife seems to think he was going to ford the river somewhere near your boundary. You may have a better idea of where to start than anyone else.”

  “Is he in a vehicle or on a bike?”

  “On a quad. He has plenty of warm, weatherproof clothing on. But he must be pushing seventy years of age, so if he’s gone down he won’t last long in this weather.”

  Paul glanced up at the mass of undulating black clouds.

  “There are about ten people ready to help. If we break them into parties of two can you get an orderly search set up?”

  “There will be no tracks left visible in this rain. But even if he has not gone towards the boundary fence directly, perhaps veered off to check his ewes, I think five groups should be enough to cover the logical tracks and road ways he might have used.”

  David and Paul followed the slippery mud tracks left by flocks of sheep. They ran along the top of a ridge with steep sidling’s falling away to either side. Rivers of water flowed down the paddocks, joining together and forming an angry turbulent torrent in the gully below. They dropped down onto a rough roadway that had been used as vehicular access when this part of the Kean farm had been owned by the Clarke’s. Pot holes filled with brown water and streams ran in lacework across the roads surface. Felled tree’s hampered their progress and the men stopped to clear a pathway.

  The mobile was only just audible above the noise of the wind whipping through the bush.

  “They have found the bike, Paul. Can you head down towards the river where it flows into Twin Pines?”

  Under normal conditions they would have reached the other searchers within five minutes, but tonight it took a full twenty minutes.

  The normally slow running and crystal clear stream now raged, forming rapids and tossing foam into the foliage. Cliff’s quad had been parked on the bank; it was cool to the touch and appeared undamaged.

  The other volunteers had joined them and the group stood in an anxious group, numb with cold.

  “Obviously if he has gone into the water we need to start the search downstream.”

  The words were only just spoken when the youngest searcher stumbled up to them. His face was ashen and the normally tough defiant stare of a teenager had slipped into a mask of horror.

  “He’s down there. He has been washed up in a tree on the bank.”

  The youth leaned forward and vomited on to the sodden earth.

  David and Paul huddled around the pot belly. It belched warmth on to their chilled bodies. Neither man had spoken since returning to the Shearers Quarters.

  “Dorothy knew didn’t she, Cliff’s wife, she knew?”

  “Yes, I guess she did. Doesn’t seem fair at their age.”

  “Are you going to tell your folks? Sean and Cliff were pretty close at one stage. From memory he helped your father change Twin Pines from dry stock to sheep and wool.”

  “He did. But dragging them home from Europe isn’t going to bring Cliff back.”

  Paul had stared into the eyes of death when they removed Cliff’s body from the raging torrent and gnarled branches. He cradled a tumbler full of brandy.

  “I will go over to Kean farm in the morning and see what needs to be done. We will send staff over there to help.”

  A postcard arrived from Florence. Jean had written it a few days after their telephone call to New Zealand. Sean had been dragged through galleries complaining bitterly and both had lost money to pick pockets.

  They had stopped to photograph and look at the Leaning Tower of Pisa before continuing to the seaside town of Portofino. Jean wrote about a short ferry trip to an isolated bay where a tiny café accessed by narrow, slippery, concrete stairs had served large garlic covered prawns. The water was the colour of sapphires and tepid warm.

  Two cards arrived showing colourful houses clinging to the side of steep cliffs on the Italian Riviera. They had spent a week walking the five villages that formed the famous Cinque Te
rre. They talked about the characters they had met and the families that occupied the hillside houses perched on the side of the cliff.

  Slowly the days lengthened at Twin Pines. There was still a chill in the air but the weak sun seemed to be winning its battle to fight off winter’s ice. The lambing percentages were disappointing throughout the area. The harsh storms had taken their toll on both the stock and the people that farmed in the high country.

  As soon as the fields had dried enough to support play, rrugby started for the season. Even Jess seemed to be moving easier without the cold and damp of winter.

  Relatives and the community rallied to assist Dorothy Kean after the death of her husband. Visibly, she appeared to have shrunk in stature, resembling nothing more than a shell wrapped in folds of thin wrinkled skin.

  Paul organized help with the stock and maintenance while she wrestled with the inevitable decision to place the farm on the market. Before the for sale signs were placed at the entrance of the Kean’s farm, Paul, the staff of Twin Pines and an impressive group of volunteers from the local community, converged to prepare the property for sale.

  The once picture perfect farm had fallen into disrepair over the years as the aged Cliff had struggled to cope and stubbornly refused to employ labour or ask for help.

  Jean and Sean had driven towards Lake Garda taking the winding road around the water’s edge before finding a small hotel in the historical town of Sirmione. Their postcard showed a thirteenth century castle, surrounded by a narrow moat that appeared to be home to numerous swans and ducks. They had continued on to Verona a few days later and stopped to visit the famous balcony and statue of Romeo and Juliet.

  The ringing of the telephone woke Paul from a deep sleep. He glanced at the illuminated face sitting next to his bed.

  “You sound tired.”

  “Its three o’clock in the morning, Dad, what do you expect?”

  “Sorry, I keep forgetting about the time difference. Your mother has just posted another card from Venice. We are staying here for three more days then catching a train to Innsbruck. She wants to take the cable car into the mountains and see the golden roof. We are booked to fly out of Frankfurt in a week. Are you awake?”