The Golfer

-

 

As I scroll on Instagram, out of a sheer refusal to download TikTok and spend even more time on my phone, I look up a page of a young man posting videos of the shots he’s taking on the golf course. With every drive (see, I know about Sports), he raises his right foot to his tiptoes and we see the orange bottom of his shoe. I’m reminded of the first set of golf clubs ever purchased for him, when I was about 5 and he was 3, one Christmas morning. I can remember clearly, that blonde head of hair that eventually went dark like the rest of our family, a cute and squishy little face, holding the tiny plastic club and hitting the ping pong sized ball like he’d been put on this earth to do it.

Frankly, I never get tired of telling people about what a success he is. Golf, sure. Professional hockey player, tick. Professional cricketer? That too. Smart. Kind. Funny. Wity. All of that. A true pleasure to call a brother. Did I mention he finished his study as an anaesthetic technician and is now out there saving lives? Don’t worry, it wouldn’t have taken me long to bring it up. He would argue he doesn’t save lives. This insignificant detail doesn’t matter to me. I tell relative strangers about the time he noticed the child in the OR losing oxygen and raised the alarm before serious harm could come. He says someone would have noticed. I say yes, but you noticed first.

I realise it’s been too long since I returned to New Zealand to see the family. Like for many kiwis, the golden shores, opportunities and lifestyle of Australia called to me and I never really looked back. I decide to buy a plane ticket. The sporting gene completely missed me, but I can play caddy.

I book the week off work, leave on a Friday afternoon. People often ask me if I “pop back” to New Zealand much. The answer is rarely. The extended answer is, “I don’t like New Zealand that much”. The truthful extended answer is, “my childhood had a few rough patches, and the rough patches were rougher than most, so no, I prefer to stay in the life I made for myself, where I feel safe and comfortable”. I’m not inclined for drama. But facts are facts. The main person who was there for every patch: rough, smooth, and in the middle, is the golfer. In any case, when Dunedin is the place in question, there is no “popping” back. It’s an all day affair, between the international flight to Auckland or Christchurch, waiting around for the domestic flight to Dunedin, and finally making it there. The cows, sheep, and patchwork quilt of lush paddocks are always there, getting larger and larger, as the plane descends. It’s pleasant that some things never change. I’m sure they could string up Bessie and Daisy in Christmas lights and let them onto the airfield to land the planes. Bessie and Daisy being cows, of course.

After a restful nights sleep at my Dads place, under twelve tonne of blankets and a startling silence in the night air, followed by a classic Weetbix and Milk breakfast, the golfer comes to collect me. We head out to the golf course on the outskirts of our town, across the road from where the horses I used to ride were kept. I ask if there are golf carts. He says no. I say “fuck”. He says “You’ll be right”. I grumble. I wonder if I will get suddenly hot underneath the swathes of merino I packed for this trip, and realise I’d forgotten the golden rule of Dunedin dressing – layers. Summer means nothing, temperatures are irrelevant. But I always expect the cold.

I hit the ball twice, more out of politeness than enthusiasm. It rolls about 10 metres away. He tells me with no hint of sarcasm that that’s very good, better than he expected. Again, he was there for my childhood, where hand eye coordination didn’t come half as naturally to teenage me as door slamming or aggressive retorts. There are plenty of moments I wish I’d been a better sister. Overall though, I remind myself I did the best I could with what I had, and if my efforts looking out for him when I wasn’t slamming doors had any kind of role in the person he is today, I did well. I fancied myself his substitute mother for many years, a role for which I was too young and therefore ill equipped. But despite this, I hope I offered at the very least kindness, protection, maybe some guidance when it was needed. Some sense that “I’ll be here for you no matter what, you’re not alone”. That was the goal, anyway.

We finish our game, or his game, for which I was present, and head back to our Dads place. Dad has prepared a leg of lamb, courtesy of one of the eight sheep who gave their lives, giving farm to table a very literal meaning, plus a smorgasbord of sides and three desserts. It’s Dads way of saying “I’m glad to have everyone together again”. And while my passport is in easy reach in my handbag for my flight back home in a few days’ time, I am very pleased to find things just as I left them.

 

Popular posts from this blog

Into The Dust

-
  Kylie breathed a gentle sigh of relief. In the late afternoon sunshine, she lowered herself heavily into her khaki green camp chair, crossing one ankle over the other, comforted by the deep shade her caravan’s stretched awning provided. When she purchased the awning, those years ago, it had been a brilliant white. Now stained with flecks of amber, it wore the red dirt that had been kicked up from the road, cloaking her every possession, including within her nostrils and down the back of her throat. A shower would really be a treat this afternoon! Then, catching the thought before reality tumbled in, yes, but that would require 20 litres of water, and I’d need to be on the move again tomorrow to fill up. It would be a ‘bird bath’ again later, just her and her trusty red face washer trying to make as few sudden movements as possible in that cramped shower. It was quite a feat, keeping somewhat clean with both elbows glued to her sides, bending over to a slight hunchback posi...
Read more

Barbara and the Dog

-
“All’s quiet on the Western front,” Barbara whispers softly, as we take in the gentle coastal breeze drifting through the car, from her side to mine. The yachts in front of us bob gently, the only noises a gentle tapping of some metal piece on a mast somewhere, a seabird calling for its mates, and the occasional hum of a motorised dingy charging through the aquamarine landscape. “Look at him,” I say, pointing to the dingy. “He’s on a rocket to somewhere.” “Yes, he sure is.” Barbara smiles wistfully. She pauses, before adding “I used to sail”. I know this. I respond, “Did you?” I enjoy this story, each iteration as it comes. “Yes, it was such fun!” Barbara says. I turn to her, and notice her eyes are closed as she sinks into the memory. Her hair, possibly a blonde in years gone by, coils in grey waves about her face, her expression knitted into the joy of the thought, soft knots of skin focussed. “My husband grew up around boats.” I say conversationally, as I have for the ...
Read more

The Stranger

-
“Marge, put the kettle on will you?”, a kindly voice grunted from underneath the house. Attentively, Marge stood and strode over to the kitchen, enjoying the pleasant sensation of her plush new rug underneath her feet. This was a good purchase. He was a good man for all the little luxuries he’d given her over the past forty years. As Marge waited for the kettle to boil, the front doorbell rang. The tones of Greensleeves echoed throughout the spacious hallway, reverberating off the many picture frames, 1990’s style photos of little children peeking out from oval casings, next to more modern photos of grandchildren, captured on iPhones and printed cheaply online. The faces watched her as she strolled to the front door where through the glass pane, she could see a tiny, stout old man wearing a top hat, a very unusual choice for a hot summers’ day in Sydney. She paused at the door as the stranger gestured frantically for her to open it. As a flicker of suspicion ran across her shoulder bla...
Read more