April Fools! I ain’t stopping this thing.

Another month has passed and I owe you some words. I’ve had a busy month working on TV sets, lingering and walking in the background, pitching paid work and finding a lovely rhythm after such a disrupted beginning of the year.

I attended an excellent narrative poetry workshop at Shadbolt House in Titirangi with Anne Kennedy and I’ve included a poem I wrote there.

The short story was inspired by the novella Foster by Claire Keegan the GOAT (greatest of all time).

I’m working hard on my novel and have a few pieces coming out over the next few months. It’s all happening.

Cathy gripped the handle for a beat on her way out of the office. The door used to be red, but last year they’d painted it teal.

Only eight years of collecting cheques and this was her last one – not that she had anything to do with that.

In the carpark, diesel and something dead. The man Tony had described as her ‘younger model’ waved like he had a secret, got in his car and blinded her with his high beams.

In the red glow of his brake lights she hoped he saw her wave back.

Of the ten children Dominic was the third youngest and the quietest. He didn’t involve himself in the arguments of his siblings, nor did he eavesdrop on the arguments of his parents. So, when the day came that his father asked him, and only him, to accompany him on a ride into town, he’d thought it was because of his general easy nature. His father was a man of few words and often only filled a silence with a grunt or a whistly exhale. Dominic didn’t mind silences and seldom felt the need to fill them.

They drove past the Bueller’s farm and old Ms Pinky’s ramshackle lifestyle block. There was a dried spot of schmutz on Dominic’s corduroy pants and he scratched at it while being faintly aware that his father was talking about money and the farm and his siblings. Finnick, the eldest, was going to be moving out soon, one less mouth to feed and all that. Dominic had little to say to this and only nodded as his father continued. It was at that point that a ladybug landed on his window, and he watched to see how long it would hold on.

Dominic was ten and a half and didn’t care for much of what his parents said most of the time. If he could get away with it, he would smile and nod until they stopped speaking. His father paused and the ladybug disappeared.

‘What do you think about that, Dom?’ Across the gearbox his father looked nervously between him and the road.

The silence stretched on and his father coughed.

‘That sounds good,’ Dominic said.

His dad seemed to collapse in relief. ‘I’m glad,’ he nodded to himself. ‘I’m glad.’ He said again.

Though he felt he’d said the right thing, he knew somehow that something had broken. A natural order was being disturbed. He searched his dad’s profile for answers and found a lightness to his usually taut features.

‘Is that where we’re going?’ Dominic asked hoping it was the right question.

His dad cast a quick sidelong glance at him and bobbed his head. ‘Like I said, I think it would be easier if we got it all out of the way today. You’ll like them, they’re nice.’

Dominic waited for the reassuring pat on the leg.

‘Cool, just wanted to check.’ Dominic fixed his eyes on a smudge on the windshield and let the mini-Dominic in his head flick through everything he had on what his dad’s behaviour that day. Sidelong looks, off-hand comments, what he’d asked him to bring, how they’d left the house that morning. His siblings hadn’t hugged him. They’d had the usual toast for breakfast. His mum had largely ignored him as his younger siblings still needed assistance.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

His dad turned the radio on and they listened to the hosts debate the usefulness of air in a potato chip packet. The more space they give the chips, the less likely they are to break. Dominic and his dad drove through town, stopping at the pharmacy for Dom’s inhaler and at the bakery to get a loaf for that night’s dinner.

‘Who are we seeing again?’ Dominic asked when they drove further from home. They never went this way to go anywhere. Except the one time they went up north to pick up some special farm equipment.

‘Well,’ he paused to swallow. ‘I went to school with Hone and your mum met Sylvia at a fundraiser a few years ago. You’ll like them, they’re really nice.’ His dad had repeated the line from earlier.

‘Okay. After lunch can we race sticks on the river?’

His father gave him a curious look and adjusted in his seat. ‘Another time maybe.’

Of the ten children, Dominic was the third youngest and the quietest. He was the first to be rehomed.

On school holidays Hone and Sylvia sometimes took Dominic to visit the farm. Each time the driveway was more overgrown, the house less welcoming. The last time they went the gate’s planks came apart as Hone was pulling it open and they left without a backwards glance.

All but four of his siblings were given away, though Finnick got to move out of his own accord. As far as Dominic was aware there was never any formal kind of adoption process. His parents just found a willing couple and left the next best child on their doorstep.

Dominic took his time leaving Hone and Sylvia’s before university. On the day he left he couldn’t help but have toast and wear a pair of corduroy jeans. That way he knew that he’d be gone for a long time.