Chapter 3

“It is unacceptable to the free countries of the world to be held to ransom by groups of criminals and murderers. It is our responsibility to fight against agents of chaos who seek to spread evil in the world. For these reasons I have this evening reluctantly authorised the deployment of ground troops to Saudi Arabia. We will act to restore stability and the rule of law in this troubled country.”

It was now two weeks since the first reports of violence in Saudi Arabia had begun and it was a week since the Refinery bombing. The price of oil had reached one hundred and fifty dollars a barrel – nearly triple the price of two weeks ago. We were told that 1979 was the last time we had seen a percentage rise this large. I observed that there were a few people around the shop that silently nodded their heads at this intelligence.

It had not been a good two weeks for the world’s share-markets either. The losses had been significant – nearly a quarter of the value of the Dow Jones industrial average had been wiped out almost immediately after the refinery bombings, and most of the world’s indices had followed suit. But there had been a pause in the carnage over the last few days. It was as though you could hear people watching, biding their time in an anxious wait to see what the world’s only super-power was going to do.

The stories of Navy Seal teams infiltrating eastern Saudi Arabia had quickly ceased. It was unclear whether they had had any success, and you got the feeling that we were not getting the whole picture.

I had seen an interview with a British academic talking about likely reaction among Muslims to US troops stomping around in the birthplace of Islam. He seemed predictably perturbed. He suggested that it was probably diplomatically “unwise”. I can remember the looks on the faces of the people in the shop that day. I think even the most irreligious heathen among us appreciated the enormity of such a course of action.

That’s why, in spite of petrol at $2.50 a litre, the prospect of restricted driving and a gnawing fear in all our bellies, some of the people standing in the shop on that afternoon audibly groaned at the President’s words.

But one man let out a distinct “yes!” He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs that Susan provided for her customers. He looked around at the sound of exasperation. I had seen him in the shop over the last couple of weeks. He was a commercial fisherman and dressed accordingly - grizzled old jeans and a holey woollen jumper. He was probably about 40 years old but didn’t look as battered as some of the old salts you saw on the local fleet. He was watching the President very attentively and the look of annoyance that he cast about the room was unmistakable.

After the speech was over and the newsroom analysis had begun people started filtering out of the shop, taking with them their milk and bread, their cigarettes and their chocolates. But the fisherman stayed at his seat. I watched, more interested in him than the talking heads on the TV. Eventually he got up and came over towards the counter. He saw me, now studiously watching the TV, and moved towards me.

“That’s a bit more like it, eh? The Yanks had to do something. ‘Bout bloody time. Those Saudis needed a good kick in the arse.” He scratched his belly through one of the holes in his jumper. I continued to look lost in thought, searching for a suitably innocuous reply.

“A kick in the arse is what they’ll get all right.” I said as matter-of-factly as I could manage.

“People might not like the Yanks but times like this they sit back and wait for them to pull us out of the fire. It’s a bit fucked, eh?”

“An unasked for favour is still a favour.” I said sententiously. Was I sitting back? Maybe, but was I waiting for the US to pull me out of the fire? That I wasn’t sure about. He was right. There was something morally dishonest about both chiding American intervention and bemoaning oil shortages. But, I thought, how would he feel if America sent troops to seize dairy farms in the Waikato if milk production came to a halt? Or hijacked his boat if crayfish weren’t forthcoming?

He stood beside me for a minute, watching the TV, then he waved to Susan and left.

“Catcha later, mate.” He said to me as he exited the shop.

“Yeah, seeya.” I said, looking quickly round.

I went up to the counter. I had come in to buy my usual litre of milk.

“I’m sorry love, it’s $3.00 dollars now.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” I said as I fished the coins out of my pocket.

“Did you agree with Neville about the Americans?” Susan asked.

“Neville? Oh, right. I suppose I don’t strictly agree with him. He’s right that a lot of people take the American military for granted. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are invading another country.”

Susan looked at me like she wanted me to go on. I get that look quite a bit. It comes from trying to answer questions that don’t have a yes or no answer by saying both yes and no.

“I don’t see how we can do nothing. It’s just a shame that so much oil should be in such a terrible country.” She said.

I agreed with her and took my leave. It was a very windy day outside, but fairly dry. I paused on the road to look out at the swell. It looked like it might be tolerable on the headland.

As I walked up the drive of Jeanette’s place it occurred to me that I had no idea what I thought we should do about the Saudis. I didn’t think it was right that another country should decide unilaterally to sort out their problems, but their problems were fast becoming our problems. Which is what I had just said to Susan, I reminded myself. But then I stopped in the middle of the drive and asked aloud, “Why are they our problems.” Because everything in our lives has to do with oil, I silently answered. We can’t travel long distances without it, we can’t import or export things without it, and so on. I know that already, I mentally chided myself. It felt like I was going around in circles. We need oil – we don’t have enough oil – but we need oil – but we don’t have enough. There must be some way out of the loop. Somehow we must be able to break down the ‘we need oil’ part of the cycle. It’s funny that we hadn’t really heard any one talking about that side of things, I thought as I got my fishing gear together. I had seen a guy on the TV talking about how the high prices for oil would make new technologies and techniques viable. But he was just some economist. I hadn’t seen very many business owners saying “Now that oil is in scarce supply I can get on with that R&D I’d been putting off.” The government had also been pretty quiet about what we were going to do, other than conserving fuel. Maybe, like Neville, they were hoping the Yanks would sort it all out. Fat chance I thought as I walked out of the caravan, gear in hand, wrapped up against the nippy wind.

I went to a spot that had done well for me during southerlies in the past. It was near the tip of the headland, on a shelf that was uncovered at low tide.

I stood out there getting more and more frustrated by the wind and the lack of fish. I had had a few bites but it wasn’t happening for me. I was deep in contemplation about the futility of it all when a wave swirled up around me. It surged up around my knees. I tried to take a step back onto a higher rock, but as I did so I slipped and twisted my ankle badly, falling heavily on my side. I yelled out in pain and lay on the wet rocks clutching my leg.

There was no one in earshot and only a distant walker in view. I would have to walk back by myself. It had been a pretty execrable morning, and now I would have to hobble all the way along the headland.

It took me about 45 excruciating minutes to get home. Jeanette saw me come up the drive and came out the back door.

“Oh, what have you done to yourself!?”

“Twisted my ankle.”

“Come inside. You need some ice. Here - sit here.” She showed me to the rattan chair in her sun-room then beetled off to get me some ice. I was still wet so I took my jacket and jersey off.

“Here you go.” She saw me struggling with my wet jersey.

“You’re quite wet aren’t you. You’d better have a shower first. Go and hop in- ” she caught my eye and I smiled “get in the shower and I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

When I got out she had a selection of my tawdry old clothes. I got dressed and regained my spot on the rattan chair, ice on ankle and by now a cup of tea in my hand. Jeanette asked me about how it had happened.

“Letting my mind wander.” I said.

“Where were you?”

“On the northern side, near the tip of the headland. A wave just caught me unawares.”

I sipped at my tea. I was glad that I had escaped with a simple sprained ankle. Fishermen had been washed off the rocks to their death in the past.

“Are you comfortable there? Would you like something to read?”

“Thanks Jeanette, I’m very comfortable. Actually, there is a book by my bed in the caravan.” She went out the back door, towards the caravan.

I could scarcely have asked for more in a landlady. We felt a sense of mutual protectiveness, and I felt like spending time with her was returning some of my courtesy. She seemed to invite good nature and politeness. She returned with my book, The Thirty Nine Steps.

“John Buchan. I think I remember that name. What’s it about?”

“It’s kind of a spy thriller. But it’s got its tongue in its cheek. Quite funny actually.”

“You read a lot, don’t you?”

“I try.”

“I used to read a lot more, but my eyes became too weak. I should really get new glasses.”

I finished off my tea. Despite the fact that I wouldn’t normally think anything of it, I started to wonder if there was something Jeanette wanted to ask me, or whether something was bothering her. She seemed to look at me in an anxious way that wasn’t quite normal. Also, she would usually busy herself with something during the day, be it knitting or a crossword, baking or gardening.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking Jeanette, but is everything all right? You seem…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence politely.

She sensed my unease and a look of anxiety passed across her face.

“It’s nothing really.” Which was a sure sign that it was very definitely something. I looked at her. She dropped her eyes and seemed, all of a sudden, very much younger than previously, like a solicitous mother, rather than a retired widow.

“Do you know Neville Albury?” She asked after a pause.

“Is he that fisherman? I met a guy today – well not really met, but spoke to – a guy Susan called Neville. Why?”

“So you didn’t know him before?”

“No, I had seen him around, but I don’t know him.”

“He was here asking about you earlier. Did you talk about the Middle east with him?”

“I suppose you could say that. Why? What was he asking?

“Well, it was all very confusing. He knew your name. He asked if you were around and then when you would be back. When I asked why he said that he wanted to talk to you about the Middle East. I told him that I would tell you, partly just to get him off the doorstep.”

“I only said half a dozen words to him this morning, in the shop, and now he’s coming to look for me as if our souls connected. Who is he anyway?”

Jeanette sighed. She sat back in her chair and pulled her cardigan tight about herself.

“Neville grew up on one of the farms north of Tinui. He worked as a shepherd when he was younger and then helped run a mob of sheep with his brother on some of their father’s land. I knew him through my late husband’s stock agency. He was often out here with his brother, back when we only came out here for the holidays, before we built the house. They came out here diving for crayfish and fishing. His brother, James, was always very generous and would give us some of their catch now and then. But Neville was a more prickly type. He worshipped his brother and the two were seldom out of each other’s company.

“Then about ten years ago they were hunting in the Tararuas when a terrible accident occurred. Neville shot James in the back while tracking a deer down a gully. James bled to death before Neville could get him out. He maintained that it was an accident but the rumours had it that there was an argument not long before the hunting trip.

“The police didn’t press charges. Neville was left James’ half of the stock and farm equipment, but he no longer had the heart for farming. He sold up and brought a boat from one of the locals. He’s been fishing out here ever since, but it hasn’t improved his disposition. He’s never short of a word about the quota system and bureaucratic interference. He’s an unfortunate character really, but he does himself no favours. When I see him now it strikes me that he seems to be going a little bit mad. I hope not, but he seems more and more withdrawn.”

I took all this in.

“Well, I’ve got nothing against the guy, but it was obvious that he went against the grain this morning. I tried not to encourage him, but he must have thought I was on his side.”

“What was he saying?”

“The TV had the President announcing war in Saudi Arabia, and most of the people in the shop were unimpressed, except Neville. Then afterwards he was trying to talk to me about the hypocrisy of hating the Americans but waiting for them to sort things out. I said very little, but I suppose I can see how he might have taken it as agreement.” As I said this I looked closely to see how Jeanette reacted. I had seen precious little of her since the trouble in Saudi Arabia had begun and we hadn’t talked about it yet. She remained inscrutably passive.

“That sounds like Neville all right.” She paused. “I get sick of hearing about the terrible things in the Middle East. I don’t see why we can’t live and let live.”

Here was my chance.

“Have you been following the news?”

“I listen now and then on the radio. It goes from bad to worse, but I don’t see how we can expect to help, or stop it… Paul, you know I’m not religious, but I sometimes think that god has abandoned us. I don’t mean our god specifically, or the Muslim god, or anything like that. It just seems like there is a never-ending cycle of violence and evil in the world. It makes me sad to think of mothers sending their sons to such a terrible place, and I just wish that people didn’t feel we had to.”

I was taken aback by Jeanette’s candour. She had spoken so calmly, and I had had no idea that she might have felt that strongly. It was as if, until now, she had been talking over her shoulder and then had suddenly turned to face me.

Just then there was a knock at the door. By craning my neck I could see out the window. It was Neville. Jeanette saw him and groaned.

She went to the door and I could hear the conversation.

“Hello Neville.”

“Is he back yet?”

“He is but he’s in no condition…” The rest was muffled by Jeanette stepping out onto the front step. I lay on the rattan chair in her sun room and wondered how long I would be laid up for.

Jeanette closed the door and came back.

“Do you want another cup of tea then?”

“No thanks Jeanette, I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Thanks for that.” I nodded in the direction of the front door.

“Don’t mention it.” She said, a little hurriedly. We exchanged a quick glance. She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. I picked up my book from the ground and riffled through to find my place.