Tufty  — A short story by Des Molloy

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“Hello!  Excuse me … are you Mr Robinson?”

A stocky figure in patched outdoor working clothes turned from what he was intently looking at in the long grass abutting the front hedge of a well-cared-for property and looked up.

“I’m your new tenant, Deborah Stone, the locum doctor covering Kylie Baxter for the next year.  I just thought that I should introduce myself.  I moved in last week after the interns went back to Dunedin for their finals. Oh … and by the way, please don’t call me Debbie!”

The tall, slender, scrubs-clad figure had put off this meeting for a week, due to the hospital staff gossip or furphy as the one resident Aussie warned —“Tufty is possibly not as scary as the trainee interns portray, but don’t expect normal grown-ups’ interactions.  They always make out that he is almost non-verbal and just nods at them, or occasionally grunts.  They depict him as almost Neanderthal because of the lack of discourse and because he is very hairy.  The last temp locum stayed in the house for three months and never heard his voice, not once.”

Deborah reached out her hand in the way of a traditional Kiwi greeting.  The swarthy, mature figure before her got up from his knees and stood square-on to her.  Deborah could see where the nickname originated from.  His greying hair had a decided quiff and from his ears and nostrils dark hair was clearly and prominently evident … sprouting robustly into the fresh air.  He had a monobrow and even from two metres Deborah could see a significant amount of hair on the outside of his nose.  A white, bush-like clump of chest foliage was appearing to be trying to escape the neck of his plaid cotton shirt.  The shaveable area of his face was an almost blue stubble.

“Probably shaved twice since lunch time” thought Deborah facetiously as she bravely and briefly touched his hairy paw, which was hesitantly offered in response to her own greeting.  He nodded and started to turn away.

“What were you looking for over by the hedge?  Maybe I can help.”

After a ten second pause, Tom Robinson, to give him his correct name, replied “Skinks!” and resumed his move back to the hedge.

“And geckos?”

Again there was a pause.

“Geckos are nocturnal.  If I was looking for geckos I would have said so, and I would have been delusionally disappointed if I thought I would find any at this time of day.  Whereas I have spotted an intact juvenile skink near the letterbox.”

“Can I see it?”

Tufty sighed audibly before responding “My mother always said ‘Can for ability, may for permission!’  I am not the one to be giving you permission to look at what nature presents for all those who want to look, and I have noted from your mobility that you can see.”

Chastened but resolute, Deborah stood her ground until he nodded, indicating with his eyes that she should follow him.  Together they quietly and stealthily moved across to the proximity of the last location that the skink had been seen.

“There!  On the dull brown rock.  He’s sunning himself.  See how his tail is all smooth which shows it hasn’t yet been torn off by a cat or a stoat and grown back.  He is a Native Skink, not a Plague Skink, and not old enough to tell the sex.  When they are fully mature, the female is a bit wider in the lower body.”

“And how is this one different from a gecko?”

“Completely different.  Geckos are climbers and have rough, scaly skins, wide heads with big, bulging eyes that can see at night.”

Deborah sensed as she walked back towards the house that she’d probably engaged more with Tufty than most of her predecessors.  She felt that she’d cracked open the door just a little and chuckled at his parting words “You may as well call me Tufty … I know the others all do.”

The opportunity to have a year’s appointment at this provincial hospital had come at the right time in her life.  Her two children were both enjoying their early adult years adventuring around the world, and the ‘feckless bastard’ of a husband was gone, she knew not where to, nor cared a jot.  That the role came with accommodation was the icing on the cake, a chance to ‘grin and bank it’.  She knew that strictly speaking it wasn’t a hospital house but the arrangement with Tufty’s family to provide visiting staff a place to stay, went back more than 50 years.  It was so convenient as the property adjoined the hospital grounds, necessitating an one minute commute by foot. Tufty lived in a small cottage in the next paddock and looked after both properties.

“Such a shame that he is so hirsute!  He’s probably got an all-over pelt like a polar bear, or the albino gorilla in Barcelona Zoo.”  Deborah had a strong aversion to hairy men, and just thinking of Tufty with some of his clothing removed, gave rise to an involuntary shudder of revulsion.  Of course, she’d nursed his ilk, and hoped that she’d come across as pleasant and professional at the time.  She wondered if he’d ever been with a woman … and the thought of postcoitus spooning against a back like a coir mat gave her the heeby-jeebys.  “I couldn’t do it, not even for a million bucks!”  She then laughed at this absurdity, wondering what her tipping point would be, and if there was one.

Three weeks later there was another interaction which enlightened her a little more.  She’d prepared a fish pie, a dish she liked and knew that she did well.  Her recipe and her Arcoroc baking dish produced an ideal amount for three servings with enough left over for one meal the following day … or whenever.  She’d invited a couple of nurses to share this with her, but shortly before meal time she’d got a call advising her that both of them had been caught out over the other side of ‘the hill’ with a car breakdown necessitating an overnight stay.

“Damn!” she muttered, looking out the window to see Tufty riding in on his bicycle and going into his cottage.  Ringing Janice on reception at the hospital in a moment of bravado, she asked for Tufty’s phone number.  “He hasn’t got one.  Says he doesn’t need one.  It is a bit of a pain in the arse for us sometimes as we have to write letters and deliver them to him, when we might just be wanting to ring him and tell him that our contractor wants to mow the verge or some such.”

Deborah took a few deep breaths and walked briskly across to his cottage, being greeted on the stoop by a surprised-looking Tufty.  “What do you want?”  She later felt that it might have appeared that she was almost begging him to come over for a meal, as he parried her invite with reasons not to come.  She’d told him that he didn’t need to shower, or to dress up … he was just to come over for something to eat and there would be enough to take home tomorrow’s lunch in a doggy bag … that she would supply.  She had wine and beer, with or without alcohol.  He need bring nothing.

“It’s more or less ready right now.  It won’t be a late night.  You can just scoff and go.”

“I’m not social.  I’m not a conversationalist ... I don’t like people much.  You’d be better putting the leftovers in the freezer.  Play some of your nice music and enjoy the solitude.”

“Look, put your boots back on and follow me across to the house!”  She said this in her firm doctor’s voice.  There was a hesitation and finally a taciturn “All right, but don’t expect me to know anything.”

In reality the invite was timely because Tufty’s supplies were almost out, and the following day was pension day and discount shopping at the supermarket.  He’d been reticent for several reasons.  He knew he was not socially adept, he couldn’t do the chitchat that seemed to be needed … he had no banter.  He also had an reasonably insignificant physical problem that had manifested itself in his more recent senior years.  An asthmatic, at this time of year he was prone to sneezing and when he sneezed he involuntarily, and usually noisily, passed wind.  This uncalled for farting also occurred when he had occasion to get up from a low seated position.  Due to the solitary nature of his lifestyle, his wind emissions concerned him not at all.  In fact he rather enjoyed a robust fart.  It was something he was good at.

The night was a subdued one, the meal itself done and dusted in under an hour.  Tufty declined sitting on the low sofa and he suffered no coughing fit.  Obviously a little shy and out of his element, Tufty had rebuffed enquiries around his back story.

“The past is behind us, you can’t change it.  It’s not for you to know mine or worry about it.  Only the present and the future can be influenced, and enjoyed.”

Deborah disagreed with this but said nothing.  Personally she enjoyed wallowing in memories of her past.  

“So what are you doing next to enjoy yourself?” she asked mischievously. From what she had heard at the hospital, there was something a little mysterious about Tufty.  Supposedly, he disappeared every couple of weeks for a day or two and no one knew where he went or what he did.

There was an awkward silence for longer than Deborah was comfortable with.  She was about to end it, when Tufty spoke.

“I like to see nature in action.  I like to look at flora and fauna and wonder at the magic of it all.  Tomorrow I am going into the Kahurangi to see how my Powelliphanta are getting on.  I have some that I try and see every three months or so.”

“Say the name again, and tell me what they are?  Are they mushrooms?”

“Powelliphanta are the giant carnivorous snails that only are found there.  They come in all sorts of colours.  They are as big as your hand … nearly the size of a Tui.  They live to be about 25 years-old and they lay eggs that look like birds’ ones … five times a year.  And if you didn’t know what they were, why did you guess?  You only had to wait for me to tell you.”

There was another pregnant pause.

“I’m here for another 11 months.  Will you take me there on one of your future visits?”

“I’d prefer not to.  I like going on my own, making the decisions about the where, when and for how long.”

“What about if every second Monday, the one before your pension day, I make a meal in the dish I used for the fish pie … which I could tell you liked.  I do a nice lasagne and a cottage pie, and a shepherd’s pie sometimes.  And like tonight, you’ll get a doggy bag to take home.  I’d just shadow you, saying nothing.”

“Look, I don’t think so.  I have enjoyed tonight and appreciate your interest.  I will think about it though.”

Two weeks later Deborah was across at Tufty’s cottage at 6.00 pm.  “Come on, I’ve got a lasagne in the oven.  I want to hear how your Powly things were, and what is your next enjoyable present adventure.”  She’d fortified herself with a couple of glasses of wine and had decided she wanted to be in on one of Tufty’s flora and fauna outings.  She felt that even though she was a city girl by breeding and background, intensely disliked hairy men and had absolutely nothing in common with Tufty … there was a growing fascination with what he got up to.  She was also finding small town New Zealand to be a bit dull and constricting.

“Well I am going in to The Cobb to watch some Kārearea.  That’s a bit of a giveaway that it’s not mushrooms or some mountain orchids.  Why would I want a townie tagging along though?  I might go along the Leslie-Karamea track a bit, and stay at one of the bivvys, probably Splugeons Rock Shelter.  I’m not calling you a pampered princess, but are you up for the outdoors like this?”

Deborah bristled and couldn’t help herself “You don’t know how hard it is to become a doctor from simple Papatoetoe folk.  This body has worked all hours, in all places to get where it is today.  Tell me where the Kārearea are, and I’ll be there before you, with the sandwiches made and the Thermos open.  OK … so you might have to tell me what they are, and how I will recognise them.”

Tufty smiled.  “They’re the NZ Falcon, Bird of the Year 2025.  They’re a raptor.  They look a bit like a slightly smaller hawk, but only catch their prey on-the-wing.  Kārearea don’t eat carrion from the road like hawks do.  It’s always aerial and usually spectacular.  They can dive at 200 km/h and catch birds bigger than themselves.  They breed on the ground and don’t bother with a nest.  They just find a suitable nook or cranny.  They’re pretty cool-looking and have orange tufty bits at the top of their legs.  They’re one of my favourites.  If you do come, you have to carry your bedding and food, and you’d have to promise that there would be no whinging when the going gets tough.  It is often wet and cold in The Cobb … usually misty.”

“When are we going?  I’ll arrange my shifts to suit.”

Tufty was not really surprised at Deborah’s resolute stance and confidence in her ability to hack it in the hills  He’d watched her morning runs with admiration.  She had a fluid running style with none of the stiff upper torso that older runners often exhibit.  She looked a polished athlete, and being that the runs were often more than an hour long, he presumed that she was as fit as she looked.  He was even getting to enjoy her innate stubbornness and willingness to challenge his blinkered stance on things.  He just wished that she wouldn’t prattle.

Deborah would later describe their time in the hills as epic.  It was memorably tough with unseasonably cold weather hitting them on the Friday night walk into Asbestos Hut.  The Saturday cleared and the climbs were pleasant although quite arduous.  The views were spectacular and although the alpine tarns were appealing, the temperatures precluded a dip.  Deborah noted that Tufty was sure footed and steady.  She was adjusting to his calm silence.  She knew that she had a habit of filling silences with chatter and it took just one rebuke for her to also embrace a mute stance.  The climax of the weekend came on Sunday mid-morning when they spotted a female Kārearea circling high above.  Suddenly it folded its wings and went into an almost vertical dive, quickly reaching a high speed.  Its prey was probably a sparrow given the size relationship that they could judge.  The last-minute flaring of it wings and tail feathers obscured the catch but presented a spectacular ending to the hunt.

“Sometimes they kill several birds, one after the other, and stash them away for eating later.  They can see eight times better than us and kill by dislocating the neck of the victim with their beak.  The female is bigger than the male which is unusual in nature.”

Deborah was surprised at the depth of his knowledge and appreciative of being there with him sharing it, recalling the warning from her predecessor that Tufty was a weird mute.

So it was that Deborah became Tufty’s wing man.  Her work colleagues shook their heads, and called them ‘The Odd Couple’.  They were usually interested in her outings and learnings though.  In the following months Deborah got to see a Yellow Pohutakawa and a flowering Rata, watched the Kororā come ashore for nesting, greeted the Godwits after their arrival from Siberia, identified Hard Beech and Black Beech and did get to see Tufty’s Powly things.  She also got to see a Whio and a Kākā on a weekend sortie into the Abel Tasman National Park.  The fortnightly meals continued, Tufty continuing to be a little aloof, conversationally only giving forth information in response to questions.  There were never yarns or homely anecdotes.  After ten months Deborah knew nothing about his background or past, deciding that he was just a one-way street … but not a bad street.  She’d noted though that he’d started scrubbing up for their repasts.

“So what’s next?”

“Well I have to admit that I’ve never seen a native bat, and supposedly they are possibly found on the other side of the Kahurangi up on the Thousand Acre Plateau at the top of the Matiri Valley beyond the Lake.  I was thinking of going in for four days to have a look.”

“And when were you going to tell me?  I’ll have to switch shifts to get the roster to work.”

It took a couple of weeks to sort out the details, time that Tufty spent in his usual haunts … the library and the local DOC office.  He was able to glean the knowledge that the New Zealand long-tailed bat was critically endangered and severely threatened by predators such as rats and stoats.  The population up on the Thousand Acre Plateau had been disturbed by the recent construction of a hydro scheme at the discharge point of Lake Matiri into the river of the same name.  Conservationists had fought the establishment of the project but the need for local electrical supply had won out.  It was not known where these elusive land mammals had relocated to.  Tufty was hopeful that maybe he’d be the one to come back to DOC with the new locale.

“Maybe we’ll find them … and be known henceforth as Batman and Deborah?”

“We’ll most likely spot them at dusk, which is when they are out hunting insects.  We have three nights only, so we’ll have to be quick getting around as far as we can.  To roam effectively we’d better split up.  We’ll only have about an hour each time to see them.  Old trees are their most common habitat.  If we get away straight after you finish, we should get to Lake Matiri Hut right on dusk.  Next day you stay around Poor Pete’s Hut and I’ll go up to the area of Larrikin Creek Hut.  I’ll come back once it gets dark.  We can both then cut across to McConchies Hut on our third day.  I’ll take a tent in case any of the huts are full.  Poor Pete’s is only a two-bedder.  Bring books because we’re not going far during the day.”

Everything seemed serendipitous.  The weather co-operated, their projected timing was spot on.  Nothing was seen around Lake Matiri Hut, nor at Poor Pete’s or Larrikin Creek but when they were circling out from McConchies, suddenly Deborah caught a flash of movement out the corner of her left eye.  

“Tufty!  Pay dirt!”

Tufty just caught her shout and immediately came across the tussock land between them as fast as the terrain allowed.  Nearing her, he wasn’t prepared for her open-armed leap at him, and they both fell to the ground laughing.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh!”

“Not usually much to laugh at.”

The following 30 minutes saw several sightings.  They were amazed at the speed of the bats, and saddened when the light faded beyond their capability to see.

“If only we were Geckos!”

It was a tired but euphoric pair of happy hunters who made their back down the Matiri River to the car.  Deborah wanted to excitedly chatter and relive their success, but held herself back and observed their normal protocol of not talking in the car. Coming on to the passing lane at the area known as Glenhope, Tufty took hold of the gear lever early, waiting for the speed to slow when the approaching hill would necessitate a change down to fourth.  Deborah reached across and gripped his bare forearm.

“We did it Tufty, we bloody did it!”  Her thoughts racing before her — ‘… and I’ve touched him without revulsion!’

She could have removed her hand … but didn’t.  It seemed quite nice, it was warm and possibly welcoming.  Tufty could have removed her hand, or asked her to do so … but didn’t.

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m not, I’ve extended my contract.  I think there are more things for you to show me”

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Powelliphanta and Kārearea