Chapter 4
It took Henry nearly a week to write the letter, and by the time it was posted he was mentally exhausted. Admitting to his brother that he needed help and thanking him for the money was a bitter pill to swallow, but Henry’s concern for his family was more pressing than his pride. He informed his younger brother that he now had a £87.30d share in the property and when the farm started to pay, Henry would repay the money with interest. And though it galled him, he asked for a further loan to restock the farm. The one small concession was that stock prices were at a record low so the sum Henry asked for was not great. Times were different back then, and Henry didn’t mention the contents of his letter to Rebecca nor did she ask.
Relieved his letter writing was over, Henry made a new handle for his axe, sharpened his saw and continued his assault on the forest. He was working under the bush canopy near the Waimihi stream when some massive thunderheads blew into the valley. Oblivious to the approaching storm, he was laying into an ancient totara when the lightning started. He ignored it at first, but as the storm intensified and hail started raining down sticks and leaves, he resigned himself to finding shelter to ride out the storm. The old whare that Les had lived in was only a few hundred yards away, so he made a beeline for it. It took a lot to frighten Henry, but when a bolt of lightning hissed and sizzled through the bush canopy, blasting the crown of an old rata into wooden shrapnel, he ran. By the time he reached the whare, he was drenched, and his body stung from the pounding the hail had dealt to him. Not bothering to use the latch, he kicked in the door and burst into the ponga sanctuary. It was dark inside and while he caught his breath, his eyes to adjusted to the gloom. The first things he saw were Les’ Bible and exercise book on the packing crate table. He felt a sudden sense of foreboding and turned his gaze to the manuka bed. Under an old Hessian wool bale he could see the outline of a body. Henry froze, not wanting to confirm the accusation of his conscience. With deliberate slowness he approached the bed, “Is that you, Les?” he asked, hoping and nearly praying for a reply.Almost imperceptibly, the form under the blanket moved, and a small, weak voice stammered “Y-y-y-yes, h-h-h-how are y-yo, H-Henry?”
“I’m well, but what about you? I thought you’d gone.”
“S-s-s-s-sorry, I-I-I h-h-h-had now-w-where t-t-to….”
“No,” said Henry, “I didn’t mean that – I just didn’t know – I just thought – oh hang – what’s wrong with you, man, are you sick?”
Les shook his head. “N-n-n-no j-j-ust a-a-a b-b-bit h-h-ungry.”
Henry looked around the confines of the tiny hut, there was not a skerrick of food to be seen.”
“As soon as this storm blows over, you come with me, and Rebecca will cook you a good feed.”
Les smiled weakly. “I c-c-c-can’t g-get u-u-up.”
“Here, I’ll give you a hand.”
