Gorse

Jasmine?

“Good try, it’s gorse.”

David, and Michael, and Bronwyn, threw themselves down and rolled around in the long grass, laughing so hard the sheep skittered away, bleating to join the chorus.

“Not everyone gets to grow up in the country to know things like that”, Grandma said, the words long and drawn out so they seemed to roll out over the laughter, pushing it down to the grass, softer, slower, silence.

“What’s the name of the Spanish footballer who scored the winning goal last night in the world cup?”

David looked at Michael and Michael looked at Bronwyn. “Colin Meads?”

“Colin Meads, the All Black? Colin Meads who played against the Springboks in 1956 and bought a field of hay bales from your grandfather that summer? That one?”

She looked over at me, smiling.

“Juanito!” I yelled it just as the commentator would have, ‘Wha-Neat-OH!’.

“How do you know stuff like that”, Bronwyn asked, standing up and slapping at the knees of her corduroy pants?

“I read it in Grandad’s paper.”

“He’s clever, that’s how he knows.” Grandma was walking again, heading up the hill towards the tractor idling at the gate. “We all know different things; we can all teach each other different things.”

“I know what kind of sheep grandad has”, David called, running to catch up. “Romney!”

“That’s right.”

“I know what kind of tractor grandad has”. Michael said, looking up the hill. “Massey-Ferguson.”

“Spot on.”

“I know what sort of trees those are, along the fence”, Bronwyn was pointing up the hill. “Totara!”

“You know all the trees, well done.”

Grandma turned back to look for me, without breaking stride, and held out her hand. I ran the few paces between us, feeling how heavy my feet were in the big gumboots I borrowed from the boot room every visit. Grabbed her warm hand.

“There are lots of things here which are just the same as at your home. She raised her chin towards the tractor and I followed with my eyes. Butterflies were spinning, spiralling up and down, following the warm air which rose from the spindly exhaust pipe out along the long nose of the tractor.

“Those are Monarchs.”

“Yes, they are. Just like at your house, they like the swan plants your dad grows, don’t they?”

The others began to run past us, sprinting the last of the steep hill and throwing themselves up onto the transport tray grandad lowered half way to the ground behind those huge black tyres.

Grandma threw her arm forward and let go of my hand, “Go on, you don’t want to miss the boat!”

The four of us sat on the timber planks of the tray, feet swinging, as grandma walked up and joined us, holding the rail she pulled herself up and grandad revved the engine, and away we went.

We stood up all together, clung onto the rail looking forward over grandad’s head, the wind blowing Bronwyn’s long hair back.

“Wah-nah-toe?”

“Juanito!”