Of Pies And Other Stuff
by Vivienne Bailey
Ted takes the corner slow, accelerating hard as the curve straightens. Ahead of him the black tar seal glistens in the summer sun, like ponds of oozing treacle. A ghostly haze simmers over the newly laid bitumen. Felton Matthews finished the stretch only last week.
He nearly doesn’t see the girl, the wheat-coloured tussock merging, curling around her khaki-coloured shorts in the heat-driven breeze. Her purple backpack, sparkling with drifts of glitter, dwarfs her slender frame. It’s the only colour in the dun-shaded wasteland.
Lifting his foot, slowing, he flicks the automatic window switch to ‘down.’
“Wanna lift?” His voice is gruff from lack of sleep, his throat dry from too many beers the previous night. Didn’t usually do that when he was on the road the next day but the missus has been giving him grief. Ever since she’d found that kid’s earring – a glittery thing, down by the front seat, on the floor, wedged beside the mat. Strange thing was, he’d never noticed. Maybe Amy (was that her name?) had flicked it with the seat belt. She’d been always clicking it on and off, twirling it around. Had driven him crazy and he’d dropped her off as soon as he could. She’d been hitching her way to a cousins wedding in Napier. He reckons it was just as well he’d stopped for her. With a top like that, well, you pretty much saw all the way to her navel, someone else might not have been so considerate.
But yeah, that’s when the nagging started. He reckons Marlene is trying to turn him into someone else. Geez, they’ve been married 25 years’, didn’t she know by now he didn’t want to take on the sales manager role, didn’t need that kind of pressure, here or anywhere, especially not Oz, with their bloody snakes and goddammed fires.
The girl’s answer comes back, high-pitched, hard and brittle, like Madonna on a bad day.
“Yeah – where’re you going?” The voice reminds him of Tilly, his daughter. Hard on the outside, soft like marshmallow on the inside, ripe for any dick to take advantage of.
“Down to Wellington, be stopping at Waiouru for gas though,” he says, looking down at the fuel gauge – should make it to BP, maybe a pie as well.
He is feeling hungry now, the effects of last night wearing off.
She nods, swinging the pack off her thin shoulders and walking toward the car. Ted opens the boot, finds a space amongst the piles of shiny-new car parts, brightly-coloured waxes and fluorescent auto shampoos.
Her eyes when she looks up at Ted are blue, an icy colour lined with iridescent-black, fringed with spiders of thick mascara. A raw-looking tattoo curls fern-like behind her ear, and unfurls down the bare white neck. It finishes half-way across her shoulder, nestled under the singlet straps.
Must be a new ‘tat,’ he reckons – Tilly’s last one looked like that, Indian ink blue for a few weeks, then lighter, and soft around the edges.
The girl pulls the seatbelt across the pink singlet and clicks. She reaches into the pocket of the khaki shorts and pulls out a battered cell-phone. As Ted moves out onto the highway, behind the red Mack, geez, it’s going – the girl is texting, her thumb barely moving across the blinking pad. Bloody waste of time, he thinks, no reception till we hit Waiouru.
He asks the girl where she’s from. She frowns, little lines grooving the pale forehead, and her eyes narrow into cat slits.
“Why you wanna know?” she replies. He shrugs. It’s going to be a long ride to Waiouru. Later, when they’re pulling up, corkscrewing out of The Three Sisters, she answers.
“Me and my sister were born in Auckland but we moved to Palmy when I was five, when Mum got a new boyfriend. After a bit he lost his job – we moved back to Papatoetoe. My sister lived with us, and Rick, her boyfriend. She’d had Aaron by then, I think.” She pauses. “I liked Palmy, wish we could’ve stayed.”
Sammy – “I hate Samantha” – raises her arms and ties and reties the long ponytail looping it around and under. She does this a lot. Then she reaches into the pocket of the khaki-coloured shorts again – brings out a packet of cigarettes, and turns to look at him.
“Yeah, ok, just open the window.” Ted gave up last year, but his body still craves nicotine.
“How much longer, do you reckon?” she asks, puffing blue spirals of smoke over the window. Her legs are splayed in front of her, the knees knobbly and child-like, but nut brown like his breakfast cuppa. She doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Rick’s a bastard.” Her voice is matter-of -fact and flat. “Always pestering and touching me. It started in the third form. Mum didn’t believe me, said I was trying to make trouble – but I wasn’t.”
Ted overtakes the red Mack on the passing lines. The driver flashes his lights, waves. Ted’s seen him on this haul before.
“He got worse after the second baby – got real intense – starting smacking me around as well. So yesterday I packed up, left a note for Mum, not that she’d care, and hitched to Turangi – got a ride most of the way. Stayed at the backpackers, used the money Grandma gave me last Christmas – before she got sick and died.”
Sammy closes her eyes, opens them quickly, then tosses the smoke out the window and looks at Ted. His Reeboks are slightly scuffed around the toes, the sweatshirt splatted with grease and beer stains, the cuffs grey and curled. The cap on his head is old school, a faded brown colour with a tattered logo. It looks like his dog might’ve got it. Clumpy bits of wiry, white hair stick up, smatter across the fabric. She misses her dog. Rick used to call him an old mutt. Sometimes he’d kick him and tell him to piss off. But Oscar had been there for her always, forever up for a hug. And his warm, soft neck had been a good place to bury her head during the bad times. Oscar had disappeared though. One day he was there, tail wagging, happy, then he was gone.
This fella’s got a kind face, she reckons, though he seems kinda old. Grandma would’ve liked him. She always said you can trust a man with blue eyes. Probably because she’d had blue eyes – squishy-soft blue eyes. Not like Sammy’s though, Grandma’s were as blue as the tiny-faced forget-me-nots in her back garden. Least that’s what she’d called them. Her and Grandma had worked in the garden together every summer holidays, weeding, planting out the little, fragile seedlings. Sammy likes watching things grow, especially flowers. Maybe she could go to poly in Wellington, learn about plants, how to make awesome gardens.
Ted is glad his Tilly didn’t have a Rick in her life. This girl’s sure had a rough time of it, poor kid.
There isn’t much of a queue at BP. The smell of raw petrol is strong in the hot, still air. When Sammy jumps out, “Gotta pee, Ted,” he sees the flash of a silver-bladed knife, jutting out of the khaki-coloured pocket.
Ted turns the ute to the other side of the highway, parking outside ‘Award Winning Pies.’ It’s busy, a steady stream of customers lining the formica counter.
“Get me a steak and cheese, Ted – please!” Winning, even flirtatious, the black lashes lowered, arms high on the ponytail, the pink singlet pulling tight.
Ted has enough coins. He won’t have to use Eftpos. Just as well, Marlene checks up on his spending, keeps a tight rein, notices everything, that woman. She’s got her eye on a new washing machine, says there’re good deals going with a matching dryer.
The two pies are hot against his skin. He’s feeling ravenous. Pulling his steak and kidney from the paper he takes a cautious mouthful, feeling the heat fill his mouth, the gravy trickling in moist drops down the greying black stubble.
The sunlight blinds his eyes as he steps outside. The first feelings of panic – geez, where is it? He turns, hears the sound of wheels screeching, an engine revving, hard, strong. Glimpses the ute, watches it swing out onto the highway, just missing the Fonterra milk tanker. The V6 motor, bought after hours, years of overtime, accelerates, overtaking a tourist-filled campervan. It speeds past Les Miller Motors, slowing slightly where the highway sign says ‘Taihape 30km’ and ‘Fatigue kills, have a break,’ then disappears behind a grove of yellowing poplars.
Ted squints and blinks, shading his travel-tired eyes. The pies fall to the ground, the paper floats, flashing ‘Award Winning Pies’ across the shop steps.
Bugger, he thinks, what the fuck do I tell Marlene?
He nearly doesn’t see the girl, the wheat-coloured tussock merging, curling around her khaki-coloured shorts in the heat-driven breeze. Her purple backpack, sparkling with drifts of glitter, dwarfs her slender frame. It’s the only colour in the dun-shaded wasteland.
Lifting his foot, slowing, he flicks the automatic window switch to ‘down.’
“Wanna lift?” His voice is gruff from lack of sleep, his throat dry from too many beers the previous night. Didn’t usually do that when he was on the road the next day but the missus has been giving him grief. Ever since she’d found that kid’s earring – a glittery thing, down by the front seat, on the floor, wedged beside the mat. Strange thing was, he’d never noticed. Maybe Amy (was that her name?) had flicked it with the seat belt. She’d been always clicking it on and off, twirling it around. Had driven him crazy and he’d dropped her off as soon as he could. She’d been hitching her way to a cousins wedding in Napier. He reckons it was just as well he’d stopped for her. With a top like that, well, you pretty much saw all the way to her navel, someone else might not have been so considerate.
But yeah, that’s when the nagging started. He reckons Marlene is trying to turn him into someone else. Geez, they’ve been married 25 years’, didn’t she know by now he didn’t want to take on the sales manager role, didn’t need that kind of pressure, here or anywhere, especially not Oz, with their bloody snakes and goddammed fires.
The girl’s answer comes back, high-pitched, hard and brittle, like Madonna on a bad day.
“Yeah – where’re you going?” The voice reminds him of Tilly, his daughter. Hard on the outside, soft like marshmallow on the inside, ripe for any dick to take advantage of.
“Down to Wellington, be stopping at Waiouru for gas though,” he says, looking down at the fuel gauge – should make it to BP, maybe a pie as well.
He is feeling hungry now, the effects of last night wearing off.
She nods, swinging the pack off her thin shoulders and walking toward the car. Ted opens the boot, finds a space amongst the piles of shiny-new car parts, brightly-coloured waxes and fluorescent auto shampoos.
Her eyes when she looks up at Ted are blue, an icy colour lined with iridescent-black, fringed with spiders of thick mascara. A raw-looking tattoo curls fern-like behind her ear, and unfurls down the bare white neck. It finishes half-way across her shoulder, nestled under the singlet straps.
Must be a new ‘tat,’ he reckons – Tilly’s last one looked like that, Indian ink blue for a few weeks, then lighter, and soft around the edges.
The girl pulls the seatbelt across the pink singlet and clicks. She reaches into the pocket of the khaki shorts and pulls out a battered cell-phone. As Ted moves out onto the highway, behind the red Mack, geez, it’s going – the girl is texting, her thumb barely moving across the blinking pad. Bloody waste of time, he thinks, no reception till we hit Waiouru.
He asks the girl where she’s from. She frowns, little lines grooving the pale forehead, and her eyes narrow into cat slits.
“Why you wanna know?” she replies. He shrugs. It’s going to be a long ride to Waiouru. Later, when they’re pulling up, corkscrewing out of The Three Sisters, she answers.
“Me and my sister were born in Auckland but we moved to Palmy when I was five, when Mum got a new boyfriend. After a bit he lost his job – we moved back to Papatoetoe. My sister lived with us, and Rick, her boyfriend. She’d had Aaron by then, I think.” She pauses. “I liked Palmy, wish we could’ve stayed.”
Sammy – “I hate Samantha” – raises her arms and ties and reties the long ponytail looping it around and under. She does this a lot. Then she reaches into the pocket of the khaki-coloured shorts again – brings out a packet of cigarettes, and turns to look at him.
“Yeah, ok, just open the window.” Ted gave up last year, but his body still craves nicotine.
“How much longer, do you reckon?” she asks, puffing blue spirals of smoke over the window. Her legs are splayed in front of her, the knees knobbly and child-like, but nut brown like his breakfast cuppa. She doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Rick’s a bastard.” Her voice is matter-of -fact and flat. “Always pestering and touching me. It started in the third form. Mum didn’t believe me, said I was trying to make trouble – but I wasn’t.”
Ted overtakes the red Mack on the passing lines. The driver flashes his lights, waves. Ted’s seen him on this haul before.
“He got worse after the second baby – got real intense – starting smacking me around as well. So yesterday I packed up, left a note for Mum, not that she’d care, and hitched to Turangi – got a ride most of the way. Stayed at the backpackers, used the money Grandma gave me last Christmas – before she got sick and died.”
Sammy closes her eyes, opens them quickly, then tosses the smoke out the window and looks at Ted. His Reeboks are slightly scuffed around the toes, the sweatshirt splatted with grease and beer stains, the cuffs grey and curled. The cap on his head is old school, a faded brown colour with a tattered logo. It looks like his dog might’ve got it. Clumpy bits of wiry, white hair stick up, smatter across the fabric. She misses her dog. Rick used to call him an old mutt. Sometimes he’d kick him and tell him to piss off. But Oscar had been there for her always, forever up for a hug. And his warm, soft neck had been a good place to bury her head during the bad times. Oscar had disappeared though. One day he was there, tail wagging, happy, then he was gone.
This fella’s got a kind face, she reckons, though he seems kinda old. Grandma would’ve liked him. She always said you can trust a man with blue eyes. Probably because she’d had blue eyes – squishy-soft blue eyes. Not like Sammy’s though, Grandma’s were as blue as the tiny-faced forget-me-nots in her back garden. Least that’s what she’d called them. Her and Grandma had worked in the garden together every summer holidays, weeding, planting out the little, fragile seedlings. Sammy likes watching things grow, especially flowers. Maybe she could go to poly in Wellington, learn about plants, how to make awesome gardens.
Ted is glad his Tilly didn’t have a Rick in her life. This girl’s sure had a rough time of it, poor kid.
There isn’t much of a queue at BP. The smell of raw petrol is strong in the hot, still air. When Sammy jumps out, “Gotta pee, Ted,” he sees the flash of a silver-bladed knife, jutting out of the khaki-coloured pocket.
Ted turns the ute to the other side of the highway, parking outside ‘Award Winning Pies.’ It’s busy, a steady stream of customers lining the formica counter.
“Get me a steak and cheese, Ted – please!” Winning, even flirtatious, the black lashes lowered, arms high on the ponytail, the pink singlet pulling tight.
Ted has enough coins. He won’t have to use Eftpos. Just as well, Marlene checks up on his spending, keeps a tight rein, notices everything, that woman. She’s got her eye on a new washing machine, says there’re good deals going with a matching dryer.
The two pies are hot against his skin. He’s feeling ravenous. Pulling his steak and kidney from the paper he takes a cautious mouthful, feeling the heat fill his mouth, the gravy trickling in moist drops down the greying black stubble.
The sunlight blinds his eyes as he steps outside. The first feelings of panic – geez, where is it? He turns, hears the sound of wheels screeching, an engine revving, hard, strong. Glimpses the ute, watches it swing out onto the highway, just missing the Fonterra milk tanker. The V6 motor, bought after hours, years of overtime, accelerates, overtaking a tourist-filled campervan. It speeds past Les Miller Motors, slowing slightly where the highway sign says ‘Taihape 30km’ and ‘Fatigue kills, have a break,’ then disappears behind a grove of yellowing poplars.
Ted squints and blinks, shading his travel-tired eyes. The pies fall to the ground, the paper floats, flashing ‘Award Winning Pies’ across the shop steps.
Bugger, he thinks, what the fuck do I tell Marlene?
Copyright and licensing notice
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
(CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Vivienne Bailey.
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Vivienne Bailey.
This page published 18th September 2017