THE ROAD, THE PINE AND THE GLADE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 13, Issue 318, 27 July 1945, Page 24

THE ROAD, THE PINE

AND THE GLADE

A SHORT STORY Written for "The Listener"

by

BARBARA

DENT

rabbit burrow, the two of them-and the dog. It was on the hillside, and it was late afternoon with the sun slipping down and the shadows creeping up over the grass, like the tide creeping in up the sands. Soon there would be a soft, bluey autumn haze over the swamp where the lazy smoke from the peat fires met the cool evening air and flattened out peacefully in swathes. The Kupete hills were blue and soft, and Chummie’s yaps rose clear and shrill, like sharp splinters, undisturbed, into the stillness. Chummie paused and looked up, tail and stern wagging, pink tongue lolling, ears cocked, earth daubed on his muzzle and on his black whiskers where he had been tearing at the burrow with his teeth. "Scitchem, Chummie!" said Ray. "Good dog, good. boy." The last excited yap and scurry of claws brought him to the end of the burrow. A sniff, and he was pulled away quickly before he had a real chance to see if that soft place of grey fur and’ straw really hid a rabbit. Arthur lay on his stomach by the burrow and explored with his hand. "There’s nothing there," he said, pulling out a handful of the furry bed. "There, Chummie," he said, and leapt on the eager spaniel, pushing his muzzle into the fur. The dog sniffed and blew and sat down bright-eyed to watch. "J’m glad there aren’t any," said Ray. "T used to think it was fun when Chummie dug them out, but now I think it’s cruel. Even if he doesn’t get them, I don’t-suppose the mother’d ever come back to the babies after we’d handled them." "No, I don’t suppose she would," said Arthur. "They don’t generally after they smell humans. Birds don’t either." He patted Chummie. "You were 9 good dog anyway." He picked up his |.22. "Shall we go on round the gully and see if there are any more out before we go back? It’s just about the right time now." "Do you want to much?" asked Ray. "No," he said. He looked at her. "I don’t want to much. I only thought perhaps you wanted to." "No, I don’t like shooting much now either. They cry sometimes. When they cry it’s like a baby screaming, It’s awful-I don’t like it. And if they only TT were digging out the

get wounded and you can’t find them, they might be in pain for hours. I can’t bear to think of that. I don’t know how I ever enjoyed it so much." ‘ "No, it is pretty rotten," said Arthur. "It’s ‘not too good when they scream. I don’t like it then either, but girls always notice that sort of thing more than boys, don’t they?" "Arthur, how old are you?" "T’ll be 17 in May." "I’m 16 in April, I’m only a year behind you. You’re small though, aren’t you?" "I can’t help it. I didn’t ask to be, you know. I-" "Oh Arthur, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just meant-well, you are smallbut I like you small. And I like your hands." Arthur looked at her, shining cheeked where the sun had caught her, gleaming haired. He caught his breath. "T like you too," he said. "Gee, you’ve got corker eyes. I like your eyes-and your hair’s so soft and shiny and black." There was a small, breathless silence. She could feel her heart jerking in her ‘throat. Arthur’s eyes were looking into hers. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. She was afraid, although she didn’t know why. "Let’s go," she said. "We'll go up the Road, and see if there are any blackberries left, and then round the hay paddock home." * * * HUMMIE had gone. They could hear his yaps from the swamp, and see him now and then leaping logs and holes as he chased out rabbits and pursued them. The hills were still dry and yellow. There had not been any proper rains yet to bring on the autumn growth. Thistledown clung to the grass stalks. A quail called monotonously, koo-aw-aw, koo-aw-aw, from the manuka. There was a shadow now on this side of the gully. They followed round the track the cows had made and up the other side. They were silent till they reached the fence. The Road was a fenced-off strip of land which had never been made into a proper road. There was a rutty track along it. Manuka, bracken and blackberries bordered it, a plantation of wattles and pines backed it, and there was a batch of hives in among the pines. They didn’t seem to Belong to anyone. There was no farmhouse near, and Ray had never seen anyone tending them or (continued on next page) si,

(continued from previous page) gathering honey, but the bees flew to and fro in steady lines from the paddocks to the hives and back again, and their humming mingled with the sighing of the winds in the pines, the creaking. of boughs, the rustle of grasses. Crickets and grasshoppers chirped and trilled on the Road, thrushes’ sang, rabbits sat in the feathery grass on the edges of the track, nibbled, brushed their whiskers with busy paws, listened with ears alert, and hopped, bob-tail-flick, into the bushes. The Road was a lovely place. No one scarcely ever visited it, cattle never used it. It was a blind alley along the top of the hills, ending in a ditch in the swamp. It was undisturbed and secret. It was Ray’s place. : When first they came to the farm, Ray, exploring, had found the Road on the back boundary. She had sought out a particular pine tree by the fence to be her very own-a young, pointed pine, with evenly spaced branches and not too high a reach from the ground, a pine that, except for a difficult space near the top, where you had to stretch up and cling to two boughs while you wriggled your legs and behind up the trunk, was fairly easy to climb. Ray would perch right near the top where the branches came out, reddy brown, goose-fleshed, pliant, in even spokes round the trunk, where the wind swayed the tree like a mast of a ship, where bees hummed past, and softly sharp needles brushed your face and arms and legs, where you could see the Lake through the plantation, and all the farm behind you. That was the Pine Tree. And in the plantation was the wattle. It was a real hiding place, a real retreat. You had to force through the bracken six to eight feet high, and carefully hide the track you had made behind you. You had to clamber through the fence, and pick the blackberry climbers from your hair. Then you were in the Glade, with pines all around, a soft, deep carpet of brown needles, tall, exotic, scarlet-topped toadstools under the pines, and. the wattle in the middle. In the spring the wattle tossed gold-trich, buttery gold-and the tiny whiteyes flicked to and fro, sipping honey, and seeming no bigger than a shilling. No one could possibly find the Glade. Anyone chancing along the Road might see you up the Pine-but no one could know about the Glade. You couldn’t see the Glade from the track, and the plantation fell away in a steep, wild slope on the other side. This was the retreat of retreats, the place to come to when you were too miserable or lonely to feel you could bear it any longer, or when you Were so happy, or so at peace, it was just bursting your heart with beauty. The Road was the holy place. * * % ARTHUR helped her through the fence, and they sat in the yellow, feathered grasses near the entrance to the Glade. Arthur knew Ray’s places. She had shown him the other time he had been out. But they didn’t feel like climbing the pine this evening, nor like the solitude of the Glade. So they just sat by the track and were silent. The sun was very low now, and the road was nearly all in shadow, except where long strips of sunlight cut through the trees, It was in one of these that

they sat. The grasshoppers clicked gently as they jumped away into the blackberries. It was very still. Arthur sat close to Ray. Her heart shivered and jumped. His was thudding against her side through his thin shirt. Feeling united them, potent and silent, yet seeming to thunder. Each knew, as clearly as if told aloud, the tumult in the other. Arthur’s arm came round her shoulders, and his fingers gripped her tightly. As she turned her face towards him their eyes met, brown to brown, and held, hypnotised. Then he bent his head, his lips softly pressing on her closed ones. She felt his hard thin little Ore press against her side, and the fluttering of his heart. Then it was over. And it would never be again, because after the first time, no matter how sweet it was, it could never be quite as wonderful, because for each of them, it was the first love, and the first kiss. ue * * HEY sat there quietly, hand in hand. while the sunlight came more softly and goldly and the shadows longer and cooler. Then they wandered slowly back to the farmhouse, round the bottom of the hill paddocks, by the swamp, on the shadowed eastern side of the farm. The trance and magic still held them, the beauty and the wonder of it. Oh God, sang their hearts, how lovely it all is, how lovely, lovely, lovely. "Tl see you to-morrow at school," said Arthur at the gate. "Gee, Ray, you're corker. I don’t like any other girl but you. I mean that, Ray. I’ve never felt like this about a girl before." "Oh Arthur-" e * * NSIDE, her mother clattered impatiently in the kitchen. She eyed her child suspiciously as she came in, flushed and eager and rapt. "Where’ve you been all this time? Where’s Arthur?" "He’s gone home." _ "Why didn’t he come and say goodbye and thank you? He’s got no manners. Your father and I both say that. Why can’t you pick a nicer boy for a friend? And where’ve you been all this ‘time out in the paddocks? Eh? What’ve you been up to?" "We haven’t been up to anything. We've been shooting." "Well, it’s too late for you to be out, just the two of you away out there like that. I don’t like it. I don’t know what you want to stay out like that for. Set the table now. The men’ll be in soon." Sullenly the child put out the plates, forks, spoons, dishes. She longed to clatter them about, to slam the cupboard door-but she daren’t. Hate surged in her and beat and beat to be free, while she tried to stifle it. The bright bird that had been in her heart sank dead. Dread of the suspicion, and humiliation at the -horrible, unknown things suggested in her mother’s tone and questions wrecked her joy, and crushed her spirit. She felt she had done a shameful thing, that they would all scorn her if they knew. That it was terrible, terrible, and she must never never let anyone know. * ix: dit WUE Sassen Lier: tsk ap it again.