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"Bother, I've forgotten your aktavite," Margaret was saying. Aktavite! Whycouldn't she let him be? "But I've brought you a surprise, darling. Look.' Onhis plate was a slice of orange cake instead of the usual dry biscuit. The dearkind girl. His jaw trembled greedily. He wished she would go away so thathe could take out his teeth to eat it.Something held her, however. "You didn't manage your shave this morning,father," she pursued him. "Listen darling, I have a wonderful plan. Why dontI shave you each morning after breakfast?"Paterson's eyes bulged. Let a woman shave him! "I - I - I -" He began tocough.Margaret made a little rush at him. "Dear, now I've tired you keeping youout of bed. Lean on my shoulder ."Bed! His bellow came out as a whisper. "What about that .""Of course, father, rightaway—but are you sure you can .""Aktavite!""Yes, father." In the doorway she turned triumphantly. "I told you the tastewould grow on you!"A bus drummed along the street, or in his head. They were forever pushinghim, Margaret and that doctor. Bed! He dropped his lip. The pillows sat likea tombstone, the green blankets, with the sheet turned down like a nudgeto get in, were as thick and springing as new grass, as—Paterson jerked forward—asKlepl's river flats! The rye grew kneedeep, the clover bloomed. Butwhere were the cattle? He stuggled to his feet. He knew: in his grandsonTimothy's bedroom, in a box called "Farms et". Painfully the old man set oft'on his second long walk that morning. It was a crying shame the way youngKlepl understocked those flats of his. Paterson was forever telling him so.Time and again he'd put off whatever he was supposed to be doing, plantingthose bloody poplars in a new washaway, or burying a couple of milkers thathad died of bracken poisoning or swallowing stones, in order to stroll overto his neighbour's for a yarn, cornering the boy wdth his advice until youngKlepl was forced to take his foot out of the mounting stirrup and listen."Never mind what anyone else tells you. Will, you're the boss now. Those flatsshould be carrying twice the stock you've got." "Yes but it says here "and Klepl would quote some newfangled nonsense from Farm and Home orThe Weekly Times. This stubborn streak in the younger man maddened Paterson:"Now if 7 was running those river flats " But Klepl would twitchhis long hands, sHding his eyes like tea in a saucer. "Ar, she'll be right, shellbe right." That she made Paterson's heart pound his ribs in rage as with fingersthickened like artichokes he grasped what he could of Tim's farmset. Anyonecould see it was Mary Klepl who ran the place. What else, when the womanspent her life beside him, riding every inch of the property, going to auctions,planting out seedlings as fast as he turned the garden beds, prodding Patersonabout that saffron on their boundary fence? She'd have been a prettygirl, dressed up and silenced, if it had ever struck her to seek Kate Paterson'sadvice on women's fashions. Of course, it was Will Klepl who did theactual talking: "I'll come over and give you a hand with those thistles, Pat.Thursday suit you?" Pinned down, Paterson would agree with bad gracejfancying he felt her influence in the background, like a bloody conscience .. . . "What are you doing hanging about instead of getting on with it* I'd22WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967

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