East Wind - takahē

The east wind is blowing the day Meg finds out she is pregnant. She leaves the remains of the pregnancy kit strewn across the floor of the public toilet, strides out across the carpark and follows the gorse-choked path to the ocean. Standing on the dune, wind and sand whipping her face, she stares out at the angry sea. The waves throw themselves at the dunes, driven up by the high tide and wind. Sand is gouged out in chunks and swallowed by the rolling surf. Pushing her hands into her stomach, Meg allows the tears to fall. The wind grabs them from her cold cheeks, and they join with the salt of the crashing waves. She waits for the wind to scour her face dry and then, clenching her hands into fists, she turns back towards Collingwood.

‘Another one, Meg. There’s a good girl.’

‘Nah, nah, I was first. Wait your turn you ol’ alchie.’

‘Now wait just a minute, mate. Who do you think you are?’

Meg slaps two pints between the red-faced men, beer spilling over the sides. ‘None of that rubbish you two, or I’ll have Gary throw you out. Remember last Friday?’

‘Too right, yes, too right. Good on ya, Meg.’

The two drunkards lurch back to their respective tables, waving apologetic hands and grinning. Their mates laugh and poke them in their sides and then return to loud discussions about sheep, rugby, and the failures of the Labour government.

Meg wipes the bar with a soggy cloth and pours herself another Sprite. She catches her reflection in the mirror behind the bar: the circles under her eyes, her pale cheeks. Pushing her long hair to the side, she can still see the bruises on the side of her neck. Circles of blue and purple, hateful reminders of greedy fingertips. Her stomach turns, and she runs to the toilet, retching until her sides ache.

It is very late when Meg finally finishes tidying the pub for the night. Gary is snoring in the corner, and she shakes him awake before she leaves. ‘Don’t forget to lock up,’ she says, swinging her old school bag over her shoulder.

Gary grunts, and waves her away. Meg opens the pub door and pauses before stepping out into the dark. Her body tense, ready to run. The walk home is long; the road dark and unlit. Reaching into her bag she searches for the handle of the hunting knife, hoping that the smooth wood and sharp blade will offer some comfort. But then she sees her dad’s old ute in the carpark, lights on, engine running, and she allows her shoulders to relax as she walks towards it.

As she nears, her dad reaches a long arm across the seats and opens her door. ‘Long night, girl. Looks like you’ve earned a sleep-in.’

Meg nods, dropping her bag on the seat next to his crutch. They ride home in silence, and she leans her head back on the worn seat, eyes closed. Surrounded by the familiar scent of her dad’s truck, his aftershave combined with the earthy tang of baleage and cow manure, she can feel her heart beat slow and steady.

Their home is a ten-minute drive inland from Collingwood, an old wooden three-bedroom on the edge of a big dairy farm. Meg’s family has lived there as long as she can remember. Her dad the farm manager, her mum the local GP. Her dad’s parents just down the road, retired in a small bach by the beach. When her parents were busy with late night calvings or medical conferences, she would spend the nights with her grandparents in their spare room, tucked in the top bunk, her little brother sleeping deeply below. But then the accident happened, and the steady ebb and flow of her family life was lost in hospital corridors, whispers behind doors, and late-night shouting matches.

Her grandparents now live in a retirement home in Nelson, and her mum and brother are in Auckland, far away from the flooded rivers, slippery gravel roads, and the rain-soaked memories that pulled their family apart. The farm owners felt sorry for her dad and, even though he couldn’t do much work on the farm anymore with his crutch and ruined leg, they were allowed to stay in the house for minimal rent. Meg and her dad never talked about the accident, but Meg does remember that was the first night she noticed the east wind. It had rattled the windowpanes of her room, waking her up before the police arrived.

Meg sleeps in late, woken only by her stomach churning. She swallows down bile and makes herself dry toast, ignoring the coffee her dad has left for her. Checking her phone while she eats, she scrolls through the drunken texts from her school friends, glancing at the photos sent throughout the night. Sloppy smiles, arms looped around necks, RTDs clasped tightly. There is only one photo that makes her pause. He is in the background, caught turning away from the camera, a slight smirk on his face, his hand raised to catch someone’s attention. Jono Lines, hair so blond it’s almost white. Long arms and legs now hard with muscle from his tough days working on the mussel boats. He left school at the same time she did, both of them sixteen. He told her that was a sign they were meant to be together, she just told him it was an unlucky coincidence. That was when she still felt brave enough to talk back.

Pushing her phone away, Meg stands to boil the jug. Weak tea with sugar seems to settle her stomach. Holding the warm mug tight in her hands, she wanders out onto the front porch. Her dad’s truck is still in the drive, but the quad bike is gone, so he must be out on the farm somewhere, perhaps trying to mend that broken fence he found in the north corner. She is just happy he is out and about. Those long months where his mind was more broken than his body are not that distant. The nights she hid his pain killers, kept herself awake with coffee and Red Bull, so afraid that he would disappear into his dark thoughts forever. She had quit school so that she could drive him to his appointments: the physical therapist, the surgeon, the counsellor, the acupuncturist. He had been so lost in his own mind that he hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t going to school.

A truck engine revs, and Meg flinches. The old macrocarpa tree blocks the view of the road and most of the drive so she can’t see the vehicle that is coming, she can only hear the motor—and it sounds familiar. She jumps up, runs into the house, slams the front door and turns the lock. She races around, latches windows, pulls curtains, hurries to the bathroom, bolts the door, climbs into the bath, hugs her knees to her chest, breathes hard. A fist bangs on the front door, she imagines the wood shaking under his hand. He calls her name, shouting at the window. He doesn’t sound drunk, which makes it almost worse. Meg holds her breath, body tense, waiting for the sound of cracking wood, the door forced open.

But then it’s her dad’s voice. ‘Whatcha up to, mate?’

‘Ah, you know, Ted. Just looking for Meg. Hoping to catch up. Been a while.’

She hears Jono laugh, imagines him running his hand through his hair like he does when he’s trying to impress someone.

‘Well, if she is here, she’s asleep. Late night at the pub, having a bit of a sleep-in. Probably best to text her later.’

Jono’s reply is hidden under the sound of his truck starting, tires crunching on the gravel.

Meg counts to a hundred and then slowly gets up. Her legs are shaking, and she braces herself against the side of the bath. She knows her dad is waiting for her, waiting for her to explain, but she is afraid she will vomit if she moves too fast. Slowly, slowly, she shuffles through the house.

Her dad is standing on the porch, staring down the drive when she unlocks the front door. He doesn’t say anything as he comes in, just briefly places a hand on her shoulder before limping into the kitchen. Meg follows him, knowing she owes him an explanation, not knowing where to start.

It takes many cups of tea and lots of tear-choked silences before Meg can explain what has happened over the past few months. How a casual drunken kiss at the pub one night turned into obsessive texts and then aggressive phone calls when she ignored him. That she had stopped going to parties with her friends in case he might be there. But that he had still managed to find her alone one evening after work and nothing she tried to do could stop him. Her dad listens and asks questions quietly, calmly. His white knuckled grip on his mug is the only sign of his rage.

‘So, one more time, Meg. What time will you be there?’

‘Six, Dad. Just before sunset. I’ll say it’s romantic. We can watch the sunset from the top of the falls.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Gets pretty dark in that gorge after sunset. Hard to look for anybody.’

Meg texts Jono that afternoon. She’s had a change of heart she says, realises they could be more similar than she thought. Jono arrives an hour later, smirk on his face, bottle of bourbon in his hand. He thinks going to Wentworth Falls is a great idea. Meg rolls her window down as they drive away, the east wind blowing hard across her face.

Hillary McDonald lives in the South Island of New Zealand with her family. She grew up in the Deep South of the USA. Hillary teaches secondary students outdoor skills. She loves spending her free time exploring the outdoors with her family, reading and writing. This is her first fiction publication.