Before the story begins, here's a few things about Shorty's past...he used to be a government deer culler, a
top tally man, a crack shot, did fifteen seasons with the Forestry Service
mostly down Central Otago, and South Westland. Was married once but not for
long, she buggered off, yelling as she drove away in the old Humber 80 “you scrubbed up good that first date and
caught me off guard! Now look at you.”
Shorty stood on the front porch wearing only Y
Fronts and old holey socks waving her goodbye. He didn’t care, he knew how to darn holes
and make a good stew, so he just kept on doing what he like to do: hunting,
fishing, scratching his balls whenever he felt like it, and doing his
needlepoint. Yes. That’s right, with fingers as fat as Pops Heveldt’s pork sausages but with a delicate touch, he liked to
sit by the fire humming away to his scratchy Jim Reeve LPs and embroider his
tablecloths and doilies. That is, in between cleaning his rifle and dressing out a deer for the deep freeze.
He’s getting on in years now, but still likes to
get out into the hills every now and then…
****
Shortie Clefton, who isn’t
short at all, and quite large, sat precariously on a heap of cushions, a mismatched
ensemble, and a desperate attempt to salvage his favourite chair. Wires poked
through the frayed upholstery as Shorty bounced his ample body this way and
that pushing the 15-inch metal file between his heel and the shoe.
It worked damn fine as a
shoehorn and just as good cracking the ice off the chooks water bowl this time
of year. But this morning his foot wouldn’t do its business. It sat wedged like
an over baked loaf spilling out the tin. He soon got fed up with it all and sat
back wheezing, the file still in his hand.
After a bit his breathing
evened out and he took his mind of the shoe situation by thinking what to get
out the freezer for dinner… mince and
throw in some vegies.
Shorty slammed his foot into
the shoe. Ha…done!
Shorty looked at his rifle and old canvas
pack sitting by the front door. All ready for tomorrow morning. Now that
thought got him excited, off to the farm of a mate’s mate near Cromwell, and
getting picked up by old Tommy Blackbird or Blackturd as he was always called
when they hunted together. Hell I might get a decent deer for the
freezer, that would be me meat for winter.
With a renewed sense of
purpose Shorty heaved himself up off the chair and walked the five steps to the
fridge, got the mince out, took the three steps to the bench and dropped the
frozen block down with a bang. He took the eight steps back to the chair sat
down and poked the log he just poked earlier with the file. Days like this
stretched out endlessly and gave Shorty a sense of foreboding, made him a bit anxious.
He started to think of things to do…chook
house needs a clean - eggs weren’t collected yesterday. He decided he
needed to get busy with some odd jobs around the yard, a cup of tea would be a
good start, then bugger it he said to
himself I’m going outside.
He boiled the jug poured the water into his mug,chucked in a
tea bag, splashed in bit of milk and then poked round for the sinking
bag burning his fingers in the process, in protest he lodged the dripping
teabag with such velocity into the sink it slapped against the side discharging
a milky brown rivulet that made its way slowly into the plughole.
With the warm mug cupped in his
hands, he manoeuvred back into position on the chair, lowering his hulking
frame onto the mountain of cushions, and with a contented sigh he took a sip of
tea. Damn I didn't turn the radio on, he muttered to himself, He wanted to check the time.
Shorty leaned a little too far
to check the clock - that was now hidden behind the cupboard door opened to get the mug out - and found he couldn’t regain his balance. The arm of
the chair gave way, the chair tipped over, he fell out along with the cushions
and the hot tea spilt down his leg and into the shoe.
He lay on the floor holding the
empty mug in his hand.
The clock chimed the hour: 7.00am and
at precisely that moment there was a thud at the front door, the morning paper
had been delivered. He thought about yelling out but instantly rejected the
idea with the thought: damn old fool
don’t want anyone seeing me like this. He heard the front gate click shut.
Shorty crawled on all fours dragging
himself over to the dining table, he grabbed the edge with one hand then the
other and began the slow process of hauling himself up.
After what seemed a very long time he stood holding onto the table for dear life; wheezing and exclaiming out
loud that he needed a bloody cigarette or
his inhaler, or bloody both. He looked down at his feet. God damn it! He bellowed. The shoe had
come off.
He set the cushions back on
the chair, and managed to push the wooden arm into place making a mental note
to hammer the bastard in with a six-inch nail. He sat down and for the second
time that morning pushed the metal file between his heel and shoe. The back
seam split as the swollen foot fell into position.
Not to be outdone Shorty stood
up and tested the shoe, it wasn’t going anywhere, he pulled down his jersey,
lugged his woolly hat over his head and trundled off down the hallway to the back
door, he slipped on his swanny and with the file in his hand opened the door…
“…Better
go crack the bloody ice off the chooks water and find the hammer and nails.”
Authors Note: So the idea for this story all started with a visit to uncle Al's- one of Franks brothers. Al died in 2010. Well that chair in the photo was his and he'd sit there in front of a roaring pot belly fire. He had this bloody great big metal file and he used it as a shoe horn. So thats how this story came about.
Story and images Louise Maich © 2015
