Listen to a reading of this piece by Kathleen:
The clouds are black and thunderous like the atmosphere between us. I’m standing on the side of a road and my best friend has just slapped me across my face.
‘What the hell?’ I shout, rubbing my cheek.
‘You’re hysterical. Calm down,’ Pauline says in her low, serious voice.
Focusing on my breathing, my thumping heart starts to slow.
‘I’m not getting back in that car,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a maniac.’
I look around. We’re on a narrow country road in the South Island of New Zealand. Fields surround us in shades of green from lime to pine. Sheep are sheltering from the pelting rain, huddled together by hedges and under trees.
Several weeks earlier Pauline and I had been in a car crash. We had been picking apples for a season. The morning after our leaving party, we were returning some items we had borrowed using the truck from the orchard. We rounded a bend too fast, a back wheel hit the verge, and the truck veered out of control. When I saw Pauline hanging upside down from her seatbelt as the truck rolled and rolled I thought, we’re too young to die. The truck eventually slowed to a stop, the right way up. It was deathly quiet. I thought we needed to evacuate before the car exploded, like in a film. A couple from a farmhouse nearby came running to us. They were shocked when we clambered out of the truck with just cuts and scrapes as we shook broken glass off ourselves. They had brought tools with them, expecting to cut bodies out. A few minutes earlier, I almost didn’t put my seatbelt on. I had a pile of bedding, bowls and other items on my lap, and it was a bit awkward to buckle in. A voice in my head or perhaps a guardian angel had made me put the stuff down, click in the seatbelt, and gather everything up again. The roof of the truck was crumpled, the roll bar intact.
Just before the slap, I had a panic attack in the car and insisted the driver let me out. We are hitchhiking and the driver is an English computer programmer who wants to ‘do New Zealand’ in ten days. Both Islands.
‘We can’t stay here’ Pauline says.
I look at the deserted road we are standing on as the rain lashes down.
‘Can we get out at the next village?’ I ask as my tears dry up.
I climb into the back seat and the driver takes off, careening down the slippery wet road. I focus on the floor of the car as the greyness outside whips past the window.
He lets us out at the next village, ‘St. Arnaud.’
‘Tell your mate, she needs to sort herself out,’ the driver says to Pauline. ‘Nothing wrong with my driving.’ A screech of tyres and he’s gone leaving the smell of burnt rubber hanging in the air.
In front of us is a pretty alpine village on the edge of a lake but the huge mountains of St Arnaud feel menacing. We go into a cafe to buy a hot drink to warm up. After some investigation we realise there is no accommodation in St Arnaud that we can avail of. No buses passing through either. The light is fading, and it’s still raining. With dread I realise that we need to keep hitchhiking.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to Pauline.
Pauline tells me it’s OK. Our moods slightly buoyed with caffeine we haul up our rucksacks. We walk to the outskirts of the village. To amuse ourselves while trying to hitch a lift, we sometimes use Jedi mind tricks on passing cars. ‘We will give these girls a lift, we will give these girls a lift,’ we chant hopefully. Sometimes it works. But today there are no cars. Sitting down on our bags, we wait.
After an hour a battered Land Rover approaches. Jumping up I stick my thumb out. The Land Rover slows to a stop. I open the passenger door. Inside there’s a little old man wearing a checked shirt. His small stature and thick glasses remind me of Ronnie Corbett, albeit dressed as a farmer.
‘Where are you heading?’ I ask him. We always ask potential hitches where they are going first. If we don’t like the look of them, we say ‘no thanks, we’re not going there.’ It’s very Irish that we don’t want to offend potential murderers.
‘I’m going home,’ he says with a smile. ‘My tractor is stuck in a river. If you girls want to help and cook dinner, you can stay the night?’
‘Really?’ I say. He nods his head. I look at Pauline and I can tell by her expression that we are thinking the same thing. We could easily take him if there was any funny business. We climb into the Land Rover. I am grateful to be away from the side of a dark road and the lashing rain.
Alec is the farmer’s name. He chats a little bit and is amused that we were trying to get a lift in the near dark, on a deserted road. I explain to him what we’ve been up to during our year in New Zealand, kiwi fruit picking, mandarin picking, apple picking. I show Alec my hands calloused and cut from all the manual labour, as well as the crash, but I don’t mention that.
‘Ha, Kiwi fruits,’ Alec says laughing. ‘We’ve so many here we feed them to horses, but don’t tell anyone, we get good money selling them to the Poms.’
The road starts narrow, and as we ascend, it curls and turns becoming even rougher as we bounce around the old jeep. Tall pines stand on the side of the road like sentries. We pass what looks like an abandoned quarry. I’m wondering if I learnt nothing from Scooby Doo regarding unusual old men and disused quarries. My ears pop as the jeep climbs further up the mountains. Alec isn’t chatting anymore. It smells like mildew and the only noise is from metal of the jeep rattling and clanging. My earlier confidence about Pauline and I being able to overpower Alec is fading. It’s based on Alec being unarmed. What if he has a gun? What if there are axe murderers where we are going? Where are we going? I’d hate to survive a car crash then end up murdered by a Ronnie Corbett lookalike.
Even though it’s cold, I’m sweating. Alec slows the jeep down and it rumbles to a stop in a clearing in the forest. In front there’s a stone cottage with a tin roof. A wooden bench is by the front door beside a huddle of plant pots.
‘Here we are,’ Alec announces. I get out of the car. The wind rolling in the trees sounds like the sea and I feel my shoulders relax. We follow Alec into the cottage, carrying our rucksacks. The front door opens straight into a living room that smells of campfire, the wooden ceiling has been painted white. There’s a worn leather couch and a comfortable looking armchair beside an open fireplace and a pine dresser holds a collection of crockery and framed photographs. Alec opens a door to a room with two small single beds.
‘This is you.’
Pauline and I go inside. The beds have faded patchwork quilts, and the room is so homely I’m on the verge of tears. There are what look like homemade pine wardrobes, the doors of which look like breadboards. Thankfully, no sign of any axe murderers.
There’s a clatter from the kitchen and Alec calls us. In the kitchen, tins and jars are lined up neatly on an open shelf and frying pans hang from nails in the wall. A red and white tea towel is folded neatly on the cooker. Alec pulls out a saucepan from a low shelf.
‘Thought we could have spuds and veggies for tea’ he says.
‘Sounds good’ I say.
‘Let’s check the tractor first.’
Pauline and I are still wearing our raingear, and we follow Alec out the back door and down a winding path. The sound of wind in the trees gives way to a rush of water, we can hear the river before we see it. In front of us in the river is the tractor, marooned. I look at Pauline relieved that there is an actual tractor. Although now we have the problem of getting it out. It is half in the river and half on a bank of shale, water speeding past it.
‘Think it’s the ball bearings’ Alec says. I’m not much of a mechanic although I can see Pauline is evaluating the situation with her practical eyes.
‘The light will be gone soon,’ says Alec. ‘Why don’t you get tea on, and I’ll see what I can do?’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, we’ll probably have to come back in the morning.’
Even though it’s still raining the woody scent and fresh air is welcome as Pauline and I walk up the path to the cottage, large ferns brushing our legs as we pass.
After changing into dry clothes I peel and chop potatoes, carrots, broccoli and parsnip that Alec left out. Pauline gets the fire going with twigs and crumpled newspaper. I feel uneasy in someone’s home when they are not there. It’s the feeling I used to get as a teenager, that silent possessions are watching you with judging eyes. I put the potatoes into a saucepan to boil and leave the vegetables for later. I go stand beside the fireplace.
‘This is mad,’ Pauline says.
‘I know, cooking dinner for a random man… again.’ We both laugh.
This is not the first time in New Zealand that a man unknown to us has given us a lift then invited us to stay over and cook dinner. Six months earlier, Pauline and I had a few weeks to wait before the fruit picking season and with little money we hitchhiked around the North Island. On one occasion a man in his late thirties with two young boys picked us up. Jed was his name, and we got on great. The weather was warm, and he told us he was doing some work in his garden.
‘Can you cook dinner and keep an eye on the boys till my wife gets home, then I can finish outside?’
‘She won’t mind?’ I asked.
‘Cheri will be thrilled to meet you,’ Jed replied.
Thrilled is not the first word I would have thought of, had I arrived home from a conference to find two female backpackers cooking in my kitchen while my handsome husband built a fence in the garden, topless. We didn’t do any babysitting as the boys orbited their Dad in the garden, probably wary of two strangers their Dad had picked up on the side of the road. Pauline and I watched from the kitchen window as Cheri’s car drove in. It was a black cab that had been painted purple. We could see Jed and Cheri embrace but we couldn’t hear the exchange. I eyed the large kitchen knife I’d left on the countertop.
‘Is this where we are killed in a jealous rage?’ I said to Pauline, laughing hysterically.
There was no denying that Jed was indeed very handsome. My fears were unfounded though. Cheri had bleached blonde spiky hair and was cool and fun. After the boys had gone to bed, we sat in their living room chatting and drinking wine. Jed and Cheri had travelled in Europe before they had the boys, and we exchanged stories until I could no longer keep my eyes open. The next day Cheri gave us a lift to a good hitch-hiking spot. Cheri had asked us to stay another day, but I live by the motto my Dad instilled in me before he passed away; ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’ Onwards we went.
Water from the saucepan hisses onto the hob and the aroma of boiling potatoes reminds me of my Mum’s kitchen. I turn down the heat and add the carrots and parsnip. Alec comes in the back door to the kitchen carrying a torch and puts down the toolbox with a heavy thud. It’s only then that I notice that it’s dark outside, my reflection is blurry in the kitchen window as condensation trickles down the pane.
‘She’ll have to wait in the river till morning,’ Alec sighs.
A black cat appears from the shadows and rubs against my legs. I’m not sure how cats know that I am allergic to them, but they seem to seek me out.
‘That’s Smurf,’ Alec says and picks her up. They nuzzle into each other, and I stifle a sneeze.
On the small kitchen table there is a transistor radio beside salt and pepper mills and a half-completed crossword. There are two chairs at the table, so I pull up a wicker stool. One chair has a cushion tied on it, this must be where Alec sits. We eat steaming potatoes and vegetables lathered with butter and salt. Alec picks up a clear container marked with days of the week, he opens Tuesday and swallows a handful of pills with a glug of milk.
After we’ve cleared the dinner plates, we have ice-cream and peaches for dessert. Alec has jars of fruit that he conserves, and homemade jams lined up on shelves. He tells us that he grows his own vegetables too. I think if he didn’t live on a remote mountain, he could sell his produce like an artisan shop.
We are relaxing in the living room drinking Lion Brown beer in front of a crackling fire. The beer tastes sweet and malty, and I feel content. Alec has showed us his old magazines from Auckland. I can feel the pioneering spirit looking at the black and white photos. We have also been shown his coin collection. He reminds me of my little sister bringing out her favourite toys to show visitors. Alec is telling us about a trip to Scotland, watching salmon leap, visiting whiskey distilleries when he suddenly remembers something.
‘Have a look at that visitors book,’ he points at the dresser where a maroon book is on top of a bundle of papers. I get the book and flick through it. It’s full of messages in different handwriting and various coloured pens dating back decades.
‘See if you can find Mark.’
I have to turn back several yellowed pages before I find the entry.
‘He was a murderer,’ Alec declares.
‘What?’ Pauline and I say in unison.
Alec stares into the fire. ‘I didn’t know ‘till after of course.’ He continues, ‘I’d found him on one of the trails, often hikers get lost up here in the summer. He sat right where you are.’ Alec points at the armchair I am sitting in. I suddenly feel cold.
‘Did anything happen?’ I am now worried for what might have happened to Alec in the past.
‘No. He was quiet but pleasant. We had peaches and ice-cream for dessert that night too plus a few whiskeys. He went on his way the next morning.’
‘How did you find out he was…a murderer?’ I ask.
‘The police arrived soon after. They had been tracking him across the Saint Arnaud mountain range. He’d killed his wife and children.’ We are all silent as the flames crackle and dance.
‘Where was I,’ says Alec, ‘Oh yes the Tullybardine distillery.’ He takes a sip of beer. I want to ask Alec more, but it seems there is nothing else to be said.
It’s six thirty in the morning. I can hear Alec moving about the house and I go into the kitchen.
‘How did you sleep?’ Alec asks.
‘Like a log.’ My panic attack seems like weeks ago. We have bacon and eggs for breakfast. Alec gives me a funny look when I slide a fried egg onto Pauline’s plate with a hole where the yolk was.
‘I don’t like the slimy white bits.’ I say. After getting dressed we pull on oilskins over our jeans and thermal tops which, delightfully, dried overnight in front of the fire. The forest is welcoming in the daylight, the trees providing some cover from the rain until we reach the river. We help Alec get the wheel back on the tractor after he changes the ball bearings.
‘Right girls, put the boards there.’ Alec climbs into the tractor and Pauline and I place wooden planks under the front wheels. High up in the cab Alec looks like a teenager. On the third go the wheels successfully cross the planks and the tractor is out of the river. Alec parks it on a path that runs along the riverbank and climbs down from the tractor a huge smile on his face.
‘Don’t know what I would have done without you two,’ he says.
‘Likewise,’ I say hugging him. He smells of Old Spice, which reminds me of my Dad.
Before Alec drives us back down the mountain, we write a message in his visitor book and sign our names. Alec drops us at the side of the road that runs from St. Arnaud to Murchisson. A long cloud runs along the mountain range like a scarf and the peaks are snow-capped. It’s the opposite side of St. Arnaud to where he picked us up.
‘You’ll get more traffic here,’ he says.
I’m sad saying goodbye even though I’ve just met Alec, and I have an ache in my heart that comes with travelling and meeting people you will never see again. We wave at Alec and walk to a green verge. My rucksack feels lighter on my back.
Kathleen Macadam is a writer from County Wicklow. She graduated with 1st Class Honours from the MA in Creative Writing in DCU this year and is the May 2024 winner of New Irish Writing in the Irish Independent. She has been published in the 2024 From The Well Anthology and her flash fiction came second place in the Allingham Flash Fiction Competition 2023. In addition to writing short stories, Kathleen has written two screenplays and is writing a novel set in New Zealand, which was inspired by her time travelling there.
Such a lovely piece. Congratulations, Kathleen. x
❤️ this piece. Well done Kathleen! X