Pedro

 Pedro

It seems like you could never relax around Bob Whitelaw. Every few days that winter, you’d see him in the distance floating in the mist, riding the boundary between our place and his, checking his ewes. A tall, thin figure, shrouded in oil- skin, he perched on his horse like a vulture, the wings of his coat flapping wetly against his arms as he moved. The frayed beak of his cap angled down over his eyes as he hunched against the drizzle . And sometimes you wouldn’t be able to see him. You just heard the guttural commands and tuneless, exasperated whistles  flying across the valley as he worked his dogs and the sound of it would hit you in the chest like a knife and make you feel scared and a bit sick. Even down the phone when he rang my father that morning, I could feel it. The whining menace in his voice seemed to pour out of the phone and flood the whole kitchen. I remember how quiet my father was after he’d hung up, avoiding my mother’s eyes and  her anxious questions.

“Why should we stand for it?“. Her voice was defiant, but her restless hands as she paced around the kitchen distractedly looking for her tobacco pouch  made her look frightened and unconvincing.

‘“Just because he’s got a fancy stud farm and more money than the rest of the district put together”… She scanned the back lawn anxiously as she patted the pockets if her apron for matches.

‘’ You know what the locals say… You find a stray dog in your sheep, you’re entitled to shoot it…“ His eyes slipped in my direction “ He says he counted seven dead lambs“

Suddenly I knew. “Who’s dog?” My voice squeaked… I tried to yell it again, but my heart was banging painfully and my chest tightened up  choking me. They were talking about Pedro. They couldn’t be. He was my best friend. We did everything together on the farm. He knew all the best places for rabbits ..and stoats  and eels. After  the cows were in, we built huts down in the bracken by the creek. After school , before it was time to bring the cows in we could lie in the long grass  of the  hay paddock watching the skylarks as they beat their wings furiously into the wind singing continually and apparently never discouraged by making no forward progress, and never getting puffed. Then with no warning the singing just suddenly stopped and they would dive vertically down into the paddock and if you watched where they landed really carefully, you could hunt for the nest, feeling around under the thistles and overgrown clumps of grass . Pedro usually found them first.He would wait for me and never disturb anything. When I rolled down the hill by the pumpshed , he got to the bottom first and when I sat up feeling sick and dizzy he’d be there, his soft black grinning face and sloppy pink tongue spinning in front of me.

‘A man’s best friend, that’s what Johnny Davis had called him yesterday when I had biked up to the store with him to get some stuff for mum and Pedro had run the whole way at my side picking his way along the grass bank next to the road. he never hesitated or showed the slightest interest in the sheep in the roadside paddocks. I knew he couldn’t have been one of the dogs killing the lambs. it had to be someone else’s . And we could keep him chained up during the night and between milkings.

I  ran outside and down to the dog kennel. I could hear the white Land Rover winding down from the road, its engine revving with self_importance and pulled up  by our house.

Pedro was lying in the door of his kennel. He set up panting expectantly and I crawled in beside him, sobbing. It was dark and warm and I buried my face in the long hair on his neck and held him as I cried.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I know you didn’t chase the sheep. I know you don’t chase sheep Pedro. It’s okay. Dad won’t let him shoot you. He won’t…””  The dog whined softly, yawned and started to pant again, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth

Through the door of the kennel, I could see my father and Bob Whitelaw standing together on the lawn. My father stared at the ground, his shoulders stoopēd and his face lined and pale. He looked old. He was not saying anything and the other man was talking fast, shifting his feet restlessly and gesturing occasionally with the rifle in his hand. Pedro  twitched at the sound of my father‘s summoning whistle and he jumped to his feet eagerly and ran up the hill.

I stayed there in the kennel for  a long time after that watching the ants as  they picked over one of Pedro‘s old cannon bones. I remember thinking if I stayed there until it was dark then Pedro would come back. I thought I heard him coming once, but when I looked up, it was only my father stomping down the paddock in his gumboots, shovel in hand. He stopped when I looked up but didn’t say anything , . His eyes looked red and swollen.

I knew for sure then there was no use waiting for Pedro. All that stuff my mother had said and told me about the war couldn’t have been true. My father couldn’t save anybody. He was a coward. He was a coward, and I hated him.

Years later, I came to understand the truth about my father. He was something even less well understood and much less appreciated in rural New Zealand in the 50s. He was an English gentleman, an officer and a gentleman.