Respect: by Des Molloy

‍
Brian smiled as he reflected on the ten years that he had shared the love and life of Bernadette … or Bernie as he, and most others knew her as.  They’d been good years, with a lot of companionable laughter and mutual enjoyment of the outdoors, often sharing the simple pleasures of walking and just sitting, contemplating the wonder of nature and their blessed life within it.  Well-matched, they enjoyed and shared so much, both mentally and physically.  He paused to chuckle at the remembrance of a single piece of minutiae, recalling their shared abhorrence for the inanities of strident TV advertising - never would they buy from Harvey Norman because of the lack of respect their screeching and cajoling engendered.  Yet he knew also, that for all their similarities, there were some nagging differences and these last reflections should be fair, avoiding focusing on the negative.

‍
For ten years he’d loved her seasonal vitality, all filmy thin tops and comfy low-slung shorts in summer, a dynamo of leaf clearing and wood gathering in the autumn … and a warm domestic goddess through the dark months.  For all the seasons she held his heart.  At times he just couldn’t believe his good fortune.  He especially loved the warmth of her body on winter’s nights, pushed hard against his, while nature raged outside.  It had to be said, that they were comfortable.  They were comfortable with each other and comfortable with life.  They had jobs, they had a loved smallholding out of Pohara, but mostly they had contentment.  Not overt, leap-up-and-down happiness that makes people grin from ear to ear, swooning and simpering.  No … what they had was the smug, gentle smile of contentment.  They loved their few acres and loved the towering hills beyond, marvelling too at the deep azure seas that ran off to the horizon.  

‍
Their relationship had never been formalised.  It didn’t need to be.  Bernie always proclaimed. “That’s for the less confident and the needy.”  He’d never been introduced as anything other than Brian … her rock.  She felt that any title conferred a degree of ownership that she wasn’t happy with.  They were a team, a partnership.  They looked good together, they were good together.

‍
So why was he sitting astride Silver, his 1973 Moto Guzzi Eldorado with his saddlebags packed?  Was he really about to turn his back on a life loved, leaving a shed full of shared toys, a future full of dreams and for what?  There’d been no fights, no fundamental cerebral divergence, not even any raised voices.  He knew she’d be astonished and disappointed.  He suspected that the sisterhood would revile him in full voice … he knew he’d be ‘that sneaky, gutless bastard’.  He could see no way to have the moral high ground.  There’d be no quiet admiration from the blokes in the pub or any of his old work-mates.  There was nothing admirable about running away … just leaving.  He wasn’t closing this part of life to move on to another.  He was abandoning it, leaving it happily floating – he was leaving this life and all it contained.
With an atypical graunch, he pressed the long rocker gear pedal into first and fed out the clutch.  The rear tyre slipped for a moment on the gravelled drive with a rasping chirp, and without drama, totally as one, they rumbled down the long driveway and off into a new life.

‍
For many smoking is a joy.  For Brian, it was an act of repugnance.  This was the one failing of Bernie’s that he could not accept … not any more.  For some, a pearl with a flaw is still something of wonder, something to treasure and revere.  He’d tried being conciliatory and she’d tried hard to kick the habit and even hide it.  The closest they’d ever come to arguing was over smoking when at the end of a moralistic rant about the evils of this addictive weed, he’d added the rider “… that smokers are uglier than normal people.”  Of course, this inflamed the moment and Bernie responded with a list of her smoking friends who were definitely not ugly.  Instead of letting it go, Brian couldn’t help himself.  

‍
“But they soon will be.  You have to admit that the people we see outside the office blocks of Wellington and Christchurch, huddling in doorways, are ugly, with their mean-looking faces, their pinched mouths like an old dog’s bum.”  Unfortunately, he never knew when to stop, when enough was enough … to let his points sink in.  “Even at the Mussel you have to make your way past fag-hags cluttering up the walkway to the bog.  Their camaraderie is so false … they’re all try-hards pretending it’s an opportunity to chat and mix … such fun!  All that ‘daarling, darling crap.  Can’t you see that it is just a coven of failures!”

‍
This brought a coldness between them, and later the final gnawing realisation that he couldn’t help her and could no longer endure it.  He wryly smiled as he made his way past Harwoods lookout, knowing that he had chosen his destination because of Bernie’s contempt towards it, hoping it would be like a talisman.  Ironically, this opinionated vehemence towards things and places that she’d not yet experienced was something he found appealing and amusing.  She’d not been to Hawera but labelled it as “Ronald Hugh Morrison country, flat and inland.  Full of inbreds and provincial hicks.”

‍
And so it was that Brian’s new life unfolded as a welder in Taranaki on pipelines and tank farms.  Soon he had a rented cottage out near Kaponga and he wasn’t unhappy.   He bought a harmonica to help while away the lonely hours, surprising himself at his almost instant bonding with his ‘harpooner’ which, like the song, he kept in an old red bandana.  He rode Silver with the local classic motorcycle club, exploring the region.  He got to the Bridge to Nowhere and the Bridge to Somewhere, as well as many rides up the ‘forgotten highway’ to Whangamomona and beyond.  Hawera wasn’t really the oppressive backwater that Bernie had portrayed.  He even made a few good friends.  In particular, he enjoyed the company of an old shepherd who also had a cottage near Brian.

‍
Swampy was the local pub philosopher and he was the only one to coax Brian’s story from him.  They shared many a yarn over a quiet beer.  “Life’s a journey son.  It’s like riding around the world on your motorbike.  Some of it will be wonderful, but some will be cold and wet.  There’ll be wondrous mountain swervery, and alpine roads, tropical rainforests, but also desolate deserts.  You’re just in a barren place at present.  You won’t always be … besides, you can’t get through life without treading in dog shit at least once. You just clean it off and try to be more careful”

‍
Brian suspected that for all his perceived wisdoms, Swampy hadn’t really been far at all, either in life or in love, but he had a sensitivity beneath the rugged appearance, that Brian identified with and enjoyed.  Four seasons went by and Brian got to love the relentless presence of Mt Taranaki.  He was becoming a ‘naki’ boy.  He liked their rugby team.  They weren’t the Mako and it wasn’t Golden Bay, his bed was cold and lonely, but life was ok.  He marked it a B-.  

‍
One night Swampy was a little more maudlin than usual and looked Brian in the eye and said.  “You know this journey?  You’re allowed to go back to places you’ve liked, just as there are no rules saying how far you have to go.  You can stop when you like.  You can reverse, you can go slow, or you can race on endlessly … but there is only one journey.  It ain't a practice, son!”

‍
And so it was that 14 months after leaving, Brian rode up the long driveway again.  He’d timed his arrival so he could be there when Bernie came home from work.  It all looked so familiar and comforting.  He laughed at her crazy chooks who rushed out at the sound of Silver throttling down to a halt.  He was almost lightheaded with the moment as he eased open the door to the big shed.

‍
What greeted him took his breath away.  He knew the word to describe what he saw.  Carnage … absolute bloody carnage!  His treasured fleet of motorcycles had been savagely beaten.  Every headlight and every petrol tank was dented beyond description, the seats were slashed, engine cases fractured.  Their beloved Morini 3.5, so delicate and pretty, so Italian, was now a mangled wreck.  The trusty old BSA Empire Star was almost broken in half.  There was evidence of pure vitriol and anger all through the shed.  He could see that the angle grinder had been put to prodigious evil use and the big sledge-hammer lay against the smashed alloy cases of the fabulous old JAP engine he’d been building for the AJS sidecar outfit.

‍
With tears rolling down his unshaven face Brian staggered from the dim shed and blurted “But this was the happy ending!”  He could now see the familiar little red Mazda turning off the main road, and knew he wasn’t yet man enough to stay.  He remounted and gently followed around the circular drive behind the house as Bernie swept into the carport.  She saw nothing, heard nothing …

‍

‍

‍

Some images to go with the story

‍