by Jenni Ogden
I grinned as I spied Sam. The old chap was still meeting the boat with his battered van. There were always a few passengers who needed to get somewhere on the rugged island but hadn’t taken into account the paucity of public transport. Sam had seemed pretty old when I was in my twenties, so he must be in his late seventies by now.
Well, here goes. How hard can this be?
“Holy Moly, if it isn’t young Georgia,” Sam said, flicking his head. “Haven’t seen you around for a bit. Thought you’d deserted us for good. You still a brain doctor?”
“Yes, we live in England, but I’m back for a short break.” I clambered into the van.
“You wouldn’t have made much money doing your fancy doctoring on the Barrier. We’re all as healthy as rabbits.” Sam skillfully turned the van around in the small space as I pulled fast my seat belt. “And breed as fast as rabbits too,” he added, as three small kids raced in front of the van, followed by their bare-footed mother, an infant swaddled to her chest with a tie-dyed shawl. “Unless you have some good cures for hangovers? You might find some work here then.”
I laughed. “’Fraid not.”
“Never mind. It’s good to know you’ve done so well. I know your old man is chuffed about what you’ve achieved. Not bad for the kid of a fisherman from the Barrier, eh?”
“Well, I had a go at fishing but never caught anything. Being a doctor is easier.” I looked at the road winding ahead. “Living here when I was a little kid was pretty special, but I suppose going to school in Auckland was good for me too—gave me more opportunities. I’ve been lucky. And I certainly couldn’t have done it without Mum and Dad’s support.”
“That’s for sure. But you’ve made them proud and good on you. Will they be over to keep you company? What about your own family?”
“No, I’m here by myself. My parents and my brother and his family are in Auckland, and Adam and our two kids are in London. But we’ll all be coming over in January.”
The road meandered along the curves of the shore and through the small settlement of Tryphena, strung out along a necklace of bays. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. And not too many people about. I guess you’re hoping for a bumper crop of tourists after Christmas?”
“Yep. Gotta make a living somehow, ’specially with the cops and their fancy drug squad from Auckland snooping about with their helicopters and ripping up all the marijuana crops.” Sam glanced over at me and winked. “Not that I’d have a bar of that, but it’s a bit of extra cash for some of the younger ones.”
“Dad tells me the local population is decreasing.”
“Yes, it’s about 800 now and most with no jobs.” Sam chortled. “Still, better to be jobless and on the bones of yer bum here than in the big city, eh? At least when it’s sunny.”
Chugging up and over the bush-covered backbone of the long island, I held my breath as we reached the highest point before the descent to the east coast. And there it was, laid out before me—endless surf beaches separated by rocky headlands—next stop, Chile. Coasting down past an idyllic beach where land prices were now affordable only by the well heeled, we stopped in Claris, where, in the solitary shop, I purchased a few supplies to supplement the food stashed in my suitcase. Over a bridge spanning the clear amber of a stream as it wandered through the swamp, jagged silhouettes of hills hazy in the distance, and around a headland to a smaller, curved surf beach. A lone surfer swooped effortlessly towards the shore, diving off before he hit sand and then powering out to the back again.
At last we pulled up beside a farm gate marking a rough track that wound its way across a paddock before disappearing into the dunes. Sam jumped out of the van. “No decent road over to your place yet—not good enough for my old bomb anyway. I’d give you a hand with your stuff, but there’s fishing to do before nightfall. Can you manage?”
“No problem.” Paying Sam his thirty dollars and waving as the van turned and rattled back down the road, I pushed open the gate, the old wood warm on my hands. Wandering along the track, hauling my suitcase along behind me, I lifted my face to the sun and breathed in the salt-infused air, perfumed with grass and cow dung. Comic long-legged pukekos grazing on the paddock scattered, squawking, as I approached. I could hear the soft booming of the surf muffled by the sand dunes, and skylarks singing high in the blue before dropping to earth.
The going became harder as I left the track and took a shortcut straight up the dunes. Puffing slightly as I breached the top, I gazed across the soft folds of white sand, their pale green grasses shivering in the sea breeze. As I watched each wave break on the beach below, the roaring of the surf separated into a regular sequence of crashes. Sinking to the sand I absorbed the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of the most glorious place on earth.
After a while I reluctantly got up and almost ran down the next dune, my suitcase bumping along behind me. And there was the house basking in a grass hollow, its back to an enormous pohutukawa tree. I went over to the garage and peered through the filthy window. The Landrover was still there, and still covered in mud. I scrabbled for the house key under one of the old pottery crocks jumbled by the garage door. My fingers quickly located it—its hiding place hadn’t been changed in my lifetime. Even if I’d forgotten where it was, almost anyone on the island could have enlightened me.
The house was little changed on the outside, although the solar panels and enormous solar water cylinder on the roof were new—well, new to me. Dad had warned me that the house had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the modern world with 12-volt power, hot and cold running taps, and even a shower, all courtesy of the solar paraphernalia on the roof. Mum had even got her wish—a gas stove to supplement the time-intensive wood stove.
I unlocked the back door and stepped into the simple rectangular room with the wood and gas stoves, kitchen sink, and cupboards at one end, and, at the other, the big open fireplace with old easy chairs pulled cozily around it. I sniffed. Still that musty smell of old wood smoke tinged with a tang of rat activity—hopefully in the ceiling and not in the house. Going over to the fireplace I examined the various assortment of peculiar junk on the massive mantelpiece—flotsam and jetsam found on the beach. There were some new finds but all the old treasures were still there.
A wooden table took up half of one long side of the room, with a sweep of floor-length, faded navy-blue curtains covering the wall of windows behind it. I slid the curtains back from the generous expanse of glass and the dim room lit up, the seascape stretching out before me. Opening wide the French doors, I stepped onto the broad wooden deck. The scented air filled me up as I took in the sweep of dunes stepping down to the wide crescent of white sand, the dark green and silver of the gnarled pohutukawas on the edge of the dunes, then all the blues of the sea and sky. How could I have forgotten how wonderful this place was?
I closed my eyes and breathed in slowly, in out, in out, before I dared look the other way. The Pa was still there, jutting out into the white-capped ocean. Though it seemed benign now, its flax-covered flanks shining, I knew that was a lie. The almost forgotten fortifications built by the Maori who lived there 600 years ago still held their violent memories. I shivered as a stray wisp of cold air whipped across the deck.
An urgent pressure in my bladder led me outside the house. Thank goodness Dad hadn’t succumbed to a flush toilet. Our ancient doorless long-drop facing out to sea had a million dollar view. And the house still had no telephone and no mobile coverage. Exactly what I needed; a few days of total isolation from the outside world.
The more I packed into my days the less time I had to think, so I snorkeled—clad in an old wetsuit that I could still squeeze into—fished off the beach, and kayaked around the coastal bays, setting a single crayfish pot in a spot that had once been lucky. In the evenings I indulged myself with lonely meals of barbecued crayfish, green-lipped mussels, and on one evening, an iridescent snapper caught from the kayak. After dark I picked through the old books and magazines that crowded the
bookshelves. When my head fell to my chest and my eyes closed, I stumbled to bed, sleeping deeply for a few hours but invariably waking before dawn, my thoughts churning and my grief raw again. Only with the return of the sun was I able to banish my sadness for a few welcome hours.
Not until the fourth day did I walk to the north end of the beach. I had to force myself to look up at the grassy track winding through tall flax to the highest point of the Pa—the track Danny would have taken on his last journey. I couldn’t see the sheer cliff on the far side where the Pa dropped into the sea, and my racing pulse told me I wasn’t ready to go there yet. Perhaps I would never be ready.
At seven o’clock every evening I telephoned Adam from the public phone box thirty minutes fast walk along the still unsealed road. It was eight in the morning in London and after my long days filling in time I was frantic to hear Adam's deep voice. But I couldn’t tell him about Dad and Fiona. I rehearsed the words I would use, but it didn’t help. They stayed in my head. Another secret.
The second week brought rain and I climbed the ladder to the low-ceilinged attic, brushing away the thick swaths of cobwebs and rat turds to find the box of stuff I’d stored there before Danny died. Hauling the box downstairs I put the envelope on top to one side and sorted through my old photo albums, my eyes watering from the dusts of time or from some emotion escaping through cracks in my depression. The albums chronicled years of happy holidays where Mum and Dad looked younger than I was now. I gazed for a long time at a photo taken on my first birthday and wondered how my parents could look so happy, so soon after Dad’s affair. Was it all an illusion, the happiness I remembered? The happiness I thought Adam and I had, our children had?
When at last I reached the bottom of the box I picked up the envelope and put it down again. Photos I’d put there so long ago, before I knew they would have been better destroyed. Realizing the rain had finally ceased, I went on a strenuous run. It was not until many hours later, another solitary meal over, that I found the courage to look at the photos. But their power to hurt had been diluted by the pictures I’d seen of Danny so recently; rather, his striking looks and the tragedy of his early death were simply confirmed yet again. Then I pulled Danny's LP record from my suitcase and spun it on the old record player. Lying on the couch in the dark, covered with the same throw I had wrapped around a shaking Danny on the last night I saw him alive, I listened to his husky voice. Deep within me the tears began and kept coming until I was filled with them. With no one to hear me and no one to worry about my mental state, I let go and wept and wailed until I was empty.
The next day I was exhausted but a little less depressed. That evening I phoned Adam slightly later than usual, knowing it would be 8.30am in London and Finbar and Lara would have left for school. I finally felt strong enough to tell him about Dad’s affair and Fiona’s ultimatum to Danny. Adam was shocked into silence, but he pulled himself together and told me firmly that it made no difference to anything all these years later. My dad was no worse than any other fellow who cheated on his wife. Just bloody unlucky.
I was relieved by his reaction, although I knew he’d be reeling inside. He didn’t want me to hang up, and tried to get me to talk about normal things, like how cold the sea was and what I was having for dinner. Then he did his best to cheer me up, chuckling as he described Finbar’s new venture—playing his guitar and singing old rock ’n roll songs with two of his friends. As I stood alone in the dark phone box listening to him, I could feel my heart swelling in my chest.
“That’s what I miss most about you,” I whispered when he’d finished his story.
“What? What do you miss?” I could hear the love in his voice, his laughter gone.
“Hearing you laugh in the dark.”
I leaned back in the old rocking chair on the deck, a coffee by my side and a novel in my hand. The Barrier was at last working its magic. Danny’s decision to go along with his mother’s demands and reject me…what that said about his love for me… how I reacted… why he climbed the Pa… was I there?—those thoughts still haunted me. But mostly I was able to bring myself back from the brink of another bout of depression by using the cognitive behavior therapy strategies Sarah had taught me. Looking at myself in the mottled mirror above the sink I would repeat the trite phrase we had come up with to ‘reset’ my faulty thoughts: “If I can mend a brain, how hard can it be to heal the hole in my heart?” I still found such a simplistic strategy difficult to take too seriously, but at least it made me smile. I even tried the same strategies to help me with my struggle to forgive Dad.
I looked up in surprise, my musings shattered, as a motorbike skidded to a halt in a cloud of sand and the pillion passenger climbed down, pulling off her helmet and shaking free her curly hair.
“Nice spot you have here,” she yelled above the still puttering engine. She bounced up the steps and threw her arms around me, then burst into tears.
Wiping my own eyes, I finally extracted myself from her hug and held her at arms length. “I don’t believe this. What on earth are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome, I don’t think,” Lara said, her tears over. She grinned. “Here’s me come all this way and all you can do is stand there with your mouth wide open.”
The motorbike rider deposited her backpack on the steps. He raised a hand to me and winked at Lara. “Looks like you’ve found the right place. I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget about the band at Claris Club on Saturday night. If you need a ride, give me a call.” With that he got back on his bike and with a roar, was off in another cloud of sand.
“You certainly know how to arrive in style,” I said. “I suppose your father and Finbar are hiding around the next sand dune, about to spring out?” I almost expected this to happen.
“You wish. Afraid you only get little ole me.” Lara looked around and let out a whoop. “What an awesome place. How dare you keep it from us all these years.”
I reached over and touched my daughter’s cheek. “I know. I’d forgotten myself how very special it is. This is the first time I’ve been here since Danny’s accident. But I promise we’ll be coming here from now on.”
Lara disappeared inside and I heard her exclaiming at the view. I dragged in her pack and set the kettle on the gas hob while she explored the rest of the house. At last, when I’d managed to get her to sit down with a cup of tea beside her, I discovered why she was here.
“Dad thought we needed each other. He reckoned it would do me good to have a holiday in the sea air and that having to deal with me would cheer you up.”
“What about school?”
“I’ve done all that stuff from the first semester. I did it last year. It’s only the last few months I missed. The others in my class are doing those beginning of term tests. I passed them all a year ago. So the form mistress told me I may as well stay home and get even more betterer.” She grinned her old Lara grin, and my heart lifted.
“Seems to me your English could do with a refresher course.”
Lara smirked. “Nah. I’m good. And Finbar’s green with envy. I think he almost wishes he’d had a head injury too, so he could get off school.”
“I’m surprised your father would have a bar of it after your long relaxing holiday in New Orleans.” Lara's complexion was still rather pale.
“Ho, ho. You’re the problem. Dad’s worried sick about you. He sent me because he has a full-on teaching semester and he knows I’ll sort you out.” I could see Lara struggling to look unconcerned, but she didn’t quite manage it.
“He’s right. I already feel betterer. How on earth did you get a ride here on that motorbike?”
“I stuck my leg out and he picked me up.” Lara gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. “Just kidding. Dad put me on the plane and I got to Auckland at dawn yesterday morning, and Granddad and Grandma picked me up and I stayed with them last night. Then this morning I got that funky little plane over here. I was shitting myself when it landed on the grass. I thought we were m
aking a crash landing. Granddad had already phoned the woman in the airport office and asked her to organize a taxi to take me to your house. But she said a taxi would never get along the dune track and got her son to bring me on his motorbike. Cool, eh!”
“Very cool. That was nice of her and her son. Did you pay him?”
“I tried but he told me it was no prob, he was going this way anyway, and I could buy him a beer at the Claris Club on Saturday night.”
“He did, did he? And I suppose you told him you were only sixteen?”
“Don’t be tragic. As if.”
“That’s a long trip for a little girl to do all by herself.”
“Watch it, missus,” said Lara. “Any more lip from you and I’m gone.”
We spent the day walking on the beach and talking, and in the evening I made dinner while Lara jogged to the phone box to call her father. Later, when she’d disappeared for the night into the old bunkroom that had once been Andrew’s and mine, I poured myself a wine and relaxed by the fire. Then I opened the little box, wrapped in silver paper with lots of sticky tape and a less than perfect blue bow around it. Lara had presented it to me after dinner.
“A pressie from Dad. He made me promise not to open it, so all that sticky tape is not me trying to disguise a crime.”
“As if you would. Thank you sweetheart. Never have I had a present delivered to me by a maiden on a motor bike…”
