The Party Line by Sue Orr Read Free Book Online Page B

absolute reliability and commitment. In the other he wrote how sorry I, Jeffrey Burnside, was to be losing Ian Baxter. I understand his need to move away from Silverdale, due to the sad passing of his wife, but I regret losing a fine employee. Please feel free to contact me for further information. I wish Ian all the best.
    Ian knew that this was wrong, all of it. That somewhere along the way there’d be a price to pay for the dishonesty. But the alternative — abandoning Gabrielle — made his actions feel honourable. More than honourable — essential, unavoidable, urgent. He posted both the references to Jack Gilbert.
    Four days later, Jack rang and offered him the job. He hadn’t rung or written to the referees, he said. They’d both forgotten to put their phone numbers down. Jack said he’d thought about writing to them, but time was moving on, and given the circumstances …
    Ian thanked Jack, offered to seek out the two phone numbers and ring him back with them. He held his breath, waiting for Jack’s response.
    ‘Don’t worry about it, Ian,’ he said.
     
    Ian loaded the fencing gear onto the tractor and headed for the back paddocks. Here the fences were in better condition, the paddocks underused compared to the ones next to the road. He guessed that Jack Gilbert couldn’t be bothered travelling further across the farm than he had to — that he preferred to rotate the stock in the front paddocks, close to his house. That’s why they were mud pools, and the grass back here was thick and plentiful.
    For the first time in weeks it wasn’t raining, but heavy grey clouds were banking up on the flat horizon. Ian watched as they dissolved into a murky wall of mist, far away still, but coming his way. To his back were the Kaimais — Mount Te Aroha, with its television tower, marking the highest point. He preferred to face the hills while he worked; they were less smothering, somehow, than the vast openness of the flat farmland.
    He was unravelling a roll of wire between new fence posts. The first spots of rain hit his coat hood in fat flicks.
    ‘Why don’t you have a dog, Ian?’
    Jack was leaning against the tractor, lighting a roll-your-own. He shielded the glowing match from the rain and held it close to the tip of the cigarette. He flicked the match into the wet grass and drew hard on the smoke.
    ‘Jesus, you gave me a fright.’ Ian looked around for Jack’s truck. It wasn’t there.
    ‘Sorry. Usually your dogs would bark. You’d hear me coming that way.’
    Ian nodded and turned back to the wire roll.
    ‘Which made me suddenly think — why is it that you don’t have a dog?’ said Jack.
    Ian put the wire down and walked towards the tractor. My dog died. My wife died and then my dog died too. Of grief. No.
    ‘I never had one, Jack. Not at the last place.’
    Jack held out the yellow tobacco pouch. Ian took it and rolled himself a cigarette. The rain made the paper soggy, difficult to handle. He persevered.
    ‘Whenever I needed a dog, I used the boss’s. He was an aggressive little bastard. Great with the stock, smart. But wouldn’t tolerate another dog nearby.’
    Jack handed him the matches.
    ‘What brings you out here? On foot?’ Ian asked. ‘Is something the matter?’
    ‘Everything’s fine. Just thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’
    ‘Fine … fine thanks. I’ll push on, if you don’t mind. Before it gets too wet.’
    ‘Never too wet for fencing, Ian. Never too wet for most farming work. Eh?’
    ‘That’s right, Jack.’
    Jack watched Ian return to the fence line.
    ‘You won’t want to bother doing five wires. Not down the back here,’ said Jack. ‘A waste of money. Paddocks down here don’t get used enough to make five wires worthwhile.’
    ‘The stock will get out, with only four. Don’t you reckon?’ Ian said.
    ‘As I said. The stock’s hardly ever down here.’
    ‘If I do five, we can put the stock in safely. Use these good paddocks, knowing they won’t