Free Settlers' Creek by Carl Nixon Page A

with her cheek against his chest, then kissed him gently on the lips.
    ‘Let’s get going. There’s a lot to organise.’
    Box gave a wavering crooked smile. ‘Right behind you, boss.’

    Box marvelled at Liz’s strength, always had. That was what had attracted him to her right from the start. Lizmay have been five foot nothing with the body of a ballet dancer but at her centre was a rod of reinforced steel.
    They’d met for the first time at a barbecue in Nelson, at the ramshackle home of a mate Box had been in the army with before he did his building apprenticeship. The guy’s name was Tom but everyone called him Thumb. Funny joke — the first two hundred times you heard it. Not that a guy with a name like Box was in a position to be critical.
    Liz had been flatting with a couple of other girls in the house next door to Thumb’s place, and Thumb had invited them all over. Most of the street was there. It was a sunny day in early February and you could practically feel the hole in the ozone as the sunlight splashed down onto your skin. Everyone was outside on the deck or standing around on the lawn where grapefruit trees were dotted around, huge and shiny leaved and covered in improbably large and thick-skinned fruit. There was no wind. The smoke from the barbecue hung in the air, full of fatty marinated smells. There were kids running everywhere, bouncing on the trampoline, washing backwards and forwards in shrill colourful waves over the lawn and in and out of the house.
    Box was standing by the barbecue talking to Thumb who was on sausage duty. Thumb had built the barbie himself. It was brick with a real wood fire. The fat from the sausages and the steaks on the black hotplate spat and crackled so that Box stayed back a couple of steps, clutching a cold bottle. The heat rippled the air. As he chatted with Thumb, Box kept noticing this woman. She had long dark hair that was pulled back from her face, black jeans and jandals and a white singlet top. She was slim but not skinny — there were muscles he could see clearly along the backs of herarms. He later found out that she’d been earning money berry picking over the summer. Brown as a berry herself. He remembered thinking that she had a real presence. There was nothing tentative or artificial about her.
    It was clear to Box that she was with the little Maori kid. She wasn’t all over him like some of the mums were with their kids; in fact she didn’t say much to him at all. But she knew where he was, what he was up to. She tracked him with her eyes; even when she was standing, talking with a beer in her hand, she was aware of the boy, she was listening for his sounds, glancing around every now and then for a glimpse of the straight dark hair. Box watched her just keeping track. Which was quite a skill because the kid was like a Muppet on speed — on and off the tramp, tearing around the lawn behind the older boys, balancing on the rail of the deck, scampering in and out of the house. There was a big grin permanently stamped on his brown face.
    Only when the boy made a game of lobbing grapefruit onto the roof of the garage did the woman go over and have a word. Trying not to make it obvious that he was staring, Box watched her crouch down, both hands on the boy’s narrow shoulders. She said a few well-chosen words. She took the grapefruit out of his hand and then pointed back towards the trampoline. And he was off again, not fazed, a force of nature.
    She looked up and caught Box watching. She smiled and Box felt awkward, like a peeping Tom in the torchlight. He half smiled back and looked away.
    Box hadn’t even thought about talking to her, was just interested, that was all. And then there she was standing next to him in the kitchen. They were both getting another beerfrom Thumb’s fridge. Even when they were alone in the small space he probably wouldn’t have said more to her than gidday. She was the one who started talking, slipping into conversation