Turbulence

by Maggie Rainey-Smith

  Popular wisdom would have it that men’s relationships with their mothers were crucial to understanding their relationships with their wives. Adam thought about his mother, the intimacy of their initial relationship. When his dad had remarried, his wicked (later bearable) stepmother had handed him his Plunket book. The first year of his life had been recorded in detail by his mum and a Plunket nurse.

  Mother attempting to breastfeed.

  Mother and baby bonding well.

  Mother’s milk dried up.

  It was impossible to dwell on your parents in the act of procreation, and equally difficult to dwell on suckling your mother’s breast. Ness had spoken recently about an American poet called Robert Hass who, according to Ness, had decoded and simplified an abstract literary theory along these lines:

  ‘We are born and then spend the rest of our lives looking for the nipple, saying wah, wah, wah.’

  This appealed to Adam. It seemed to sum up his progress to date (nipple) and of late (wah, wah, wah).

  His first sense of the wonder at breasts was a story his dad used to tell about a woman in a tearoom in Levin. She had dropped her nipple into the sugar bowl and then fed her baby. Adam was seven years old when he first heard this. It had astounded and delighted him to think of the breast being so flexible, and so sweet. He’d imagined sugar on a nipple. He’d wondered if the woman had lifted the sugar bowl up to the nipple, or if she had leaned over, or if the breast had fallen into the sugar. None of these thoughts was in the least erotic, then or now. Instead the story conjured up for him a sense of wonder, detached curiosity.

  Unlike Adam, whose mother fed him at four-hourly intervals (according to the Plunket book); Michael was a demand-fed baby. The prevailing wisdom of La Leche League (Adam called it the Tit Club) was that babies would self-regulate, and if they didn’t need food, they needed comfort. Michael seemed to be comforted night and day for almost two years. At first Adam marvelled at this spectacle. Encouraged Judy.

  ‘Look, he’s growing, and it’s all you.’

  And it was. He knew. But all of Judy meant less and less for Adam. And of course he couldn’t begrudge his own son. Could he? He thought of the boy who’d slipped off the wharf. He castigated himself whenever he resented Michael’s claim on Judy’s breasts.

  It was more than her breasts that Michael monopolised. He took something else and neither Adam nor Judy noticed. Her love was all-consuming, just as her love for Adam had been: she knew no half measure. And he was proud of her. No post-natal depression. No complaints. But the intensity took something from them all the same. Like a tap dripping; the sort of leak you told yourself you’d get around to fixing (find a washer, find a plumber) …

  Then, of course, he began neglecting Judy, and the more he neglected her, the more she attended to Michael. They both knew by then what was happening (oh, not about Louise), the circular argument of cause and effect. But when you were so close to something, it was impossible to extricate yourself. Who would call a halt?

  Judy’s sister, sensing something, offered to have Michael for a weekend. Instead of taking off for a weekend of romance, they both found excuses. Adam suddenly had a big offshore order to complete and Judy thought Michael was sickening for something. Both of them hoping the other would back down (he now realised), but neither of them willing to be the one.

  Looking back, there were a million ways he could have mended his marriage. But looking back wouldn’t bring back Michael.

  ‘Adam, I have a solution for you.’

  Martin was conciliatory. He had even helped the temp and Ajax to clear the kitchen of foam. Ajax, full of pride at the accuracy of his aim (the toaster); the temp, amazed at his range (the walls and ceiling); and Martin, grateful for the containment (not just of the fire).

  ‘A solution, Martin.’

  ‘You’re going to like this.’

  Martin didn’t sound convinced. He sounded hopeful.

  ‘Fire away.’

  Whoops, perhaps fire wasn’t quite the right word.

  ‘Shall I shut the door?’

  Adam’s broom cupboard was small with the door open. The door shut would have necessitated a proximity to Martin that he preferred to avoid.

  ‘Production room. See you in five.’

  Five minutes to take a leak and reposition himself … arriving in the production room after Martin rather than holed up in his own office. He didn’t want Martin on the back foot specifically, but he preferred to be in charge of his own feet. He had the feeling that Martin’s idea of a solution (think harmonious mixture of molecules) might well turn out to be more like a Molotov cocktail.

  ‘Superannuation.’

  Martin looked terrifically pleased with himself.

  ‘Superannuation?’

  ‘Yes, superannuation is how we are going to solve our wage round.’

  Adam couldn’t see.

  ‘I’ve discussed a superannuation package with the team.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘You can purchase them off the shelf, ready-made, and instead of paying the guys more. They end up paying part of their wages into the scheme — it’s compulsory saving for them — and it costs you next to nothing. Actually, it’s a tax write-off.’

  ‘And what am I writing off, if it costs me nothing?’

  ‘Ah, well, of course, you have to contribute something. I mean just a small amount, to match their contribution — but it will be a whole lot cheaper than a wage round and it will assist us to attract a better calibre of staff: more qualified engineers — professional people, looking for a career.’

  Nice one, Martin. Save me thousands on a wage round and spend thousands on a superannuation package. And guess who gets to administer it? But Adam kept these thoughts to himself. He had to stop being so negative: needed instead to find enthusiasm for his protégé, give him some rope … encourage him.

  ‘Okay, Martin. You give me some comparative costs on schemes and I’ll consider your idea.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s all agreed. We took a vote. They love the idea.’

  A man after his own heart. Why wait around for the boss to make a decision, when you can make it yourself?

  Somehow, Adam wasn’t convinced there had been a vote. Mt Albert Bus Stop sent much of his income back to Samoa. His superannuation was his family. Adam didn’t think Mt Albert would want to take home less, even if it was in the interest of long-term savings. But there was always the consolation that if Martin eventually took over the factory then it would be him, not Adam, who ended up managing the superannuation scheme and the fallout from it.

  Martin’s factory would be full of graduate engineers all sitting around their computers, discussing strategies and process-improvement theories. He suspected they would have a first-class superannuation scheme; a state-of-the-art, computer-driven lathe; and plans to invade China. The only minor hiccup in all of this would be, who would get their hands dirty?

  He was being harsh, he knew. Negative, even. It was the grumpy-old-man syndrome you read about. His grandfather had been like that, cursing and grumbling his way into senility. In Adam’s view, there seemed to be two paths open to him. One was the way of his grandfather, cantankerous and caustic; the other was that of his dad, docile and domesticated — surely there was an in-between on offer?

  Did he envy Martin’s somewhat cavalier and casual approach to things?

  Perhaps. It was difficult to reinhabit the self he thought he had been at Martin’s age. Would he have worn such ridiculous ties himself? Well, he hadn’t worn ties back then. Managing a factory had been a handson sort of thing. And then there was the Paris affair: Martin was married. Adam couldn’t really throw stones on this one. But in his day there’d been a saying, ‘You don’t screw the crew.’ He couldn’t remember now in what context he’d heard it, but it had been there in his subconscious through most of his working life. A no-no. The fact that he had fallen so passionately into Louise’s life while still married to Judy had been because it was outside w
ork, outside his no-no rule. The rule hadn’t been invented about diving (which was in itself a kind of falling). Added to that, the reason both he and Louise had taken up diving: to escape their families (the reason most people take up new activities) … to meet new people … to try new things … what else was there?

  ‘I’ve done the sums, Adam, and your contribution is, if not a complete tax dodge, then at least a tax deduction. You’ve got to think about these men and their families. They don’t earn much as it is, and this has to be an incentive.’

  A bitter pill to swallow. Martin preaching on the plight of his Polynesian workforce. Martin, who planned to rid the workforce of unskilled labour, now championing their cause.

  Adam doubted it was genuine, but he couldn’t be certain. Ajax and Martin were getting on really well. Adam castigated himself for being cynical and allowed himself the smallest chink of pleasure that perhaps his influence was rubbing off. Perhaps (and here he hesitated), Martin really was beginning to understand the business.

  ‘And another thing; Ajax is keen to complete his trade qualifications. I’ve told him we will support his study — you know, time off etcetera, and possibly pay for his course.’

  Ouch, right in his pocket. And a definite undercut. Paying for family members to come to New Zealand (knowing they’d be grateful and some of them might work at the factory) was the extent of Adam’s enthusiasm for Ajax and Mt Albert. But paying to upskill them so they could leave and find another job …

  ‘Yes, of course, Martin. Great idea.’

  Why hadn’t he thought of it? Mainly because he’d preferred the role of the benevolent factory man, taking in unqualified staff and benefiting at the same time. Upstaged by an underling. He should have thought of it years earlier. He’d been happy to have talented (but unqualified) staff. He’d been proud of them, he’d shared all his own skills and knowledge with them … but had he really tried to stop them from getting ahead?

  ‘We’ll need more business to pay for all of this.’

  ‘I’ve already tripled the order from the new Indian restaurant — they’re opening in five other centres around the country. I meant to tell you, but you were out at lunchtime when they rang through.’

  Past his sell-by date … it crossed his mind. Maybe it was on his forehead and only others could read it. Etched into his epidermis, in magic ink, the words best before age forty-five. Instinctively, he reached up and rubbed his forehead, but all that he felt were the undulations of frustration that introspection created: wrinkles, actually.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adam had a new lease on life. Yup, he knew it, now he was even thinking in clichés. But it didn’t matter. He had a sense of rejuvenation brought on partly by Martin’s new initiatives (not to mention the increased orders), and the energy had infiltrated other aspects of his life. He was looking forward to the reunion. Bit by bit, he was edging towards reconciliation — putting his past and his future into perspective. According to Louise (via Ness), Frankie was coping much better with the George is your father saga. There was talk of a trip to Australia for both girls later in the year (initiated by Ness), and of spending time with George. Just what George thought about this, Adam didn’t know. But it had to be progress of sorts.

  ‘What about a weekend away, the four of us, at a bed-and-breakfast somewhere out of the city — celebrate your campaign success, the new orders at the factory … and just spend some time as a family, before the reunion?’

  He’d thought hard about this. Although he was looking forward to the reunion, he wasn’t sure how Louise felt. A weekend away for all of them, like a real family — without the shadow of Judy, George, Michael — for a change …

  Louise was at her laptop. The girls were in bed. His timing wasn’t that good, he knew, but with Louise, timing your timing wasn’t easy. She didn’t hear at first.

  ‘Mmm … reunion … looking forward to it. You mean before the reunion?’

  ‘Yes, I mean the four of us, a weekend away.’

  ‘That’s nice. Just give me a moment, Adam. I’ve got this proposal almost finished. What about a cup of tea, while I finish off here? Then I can concentrate … Make mine Earl Grey would you, and could you check the clothes drier? I’ve got a blouse in there and I don’t want it over-dried.’

  She peeked at him over her reading glasses, wrinkled her nose and for a moment appeared to weigh up the merits of her proposal versus Adam’s for a weekend away … then she turned back to her computer and sucked her bottom lip, concentrating, creating. The very look he loved, but right now he would have preferred it directed at him.

  ‘English Breakfast on its way and your blouse has shrunk.’

  Sarcasm was wasted on Louise. She didn’t even look up; her fingers were stabbing at the keyboard. Louise was a self-taught typist, a product of a private-school education when there had been a backlash against the idea of subservience and secretaries. Louise had completed a degree in arts and mathematics. Useful subjects to launch her into … well, as it turned out, public relations, but back then she had imagined something more substantial.

  ‘Adam, do you remember that woman at dinner the other night … the one you sat next to?’

  ‘The Queen of Air Points?’

  ‘She just happens to be the new comms manager for a government agency who want us to run their PR campaign … highly political. It seems you made a good impression the other night.’

  ‘Me, how?’

  He’d done his very best not to. What could he have done at dinner that would have impressed such a woman? He couldn’t even recall her face now, just the truss of tanned skin that passed for a cleavage.

  ‘I think just being a factory man did it, darling.’ (She was humouring him now, she never said darling except in jest.) ‘You know, standing out from the crowd. Some corporate girls like a bit of rough.’

  ‘How about this corporate gal?’

  He placed a cup of Earl Grey tea in front of Louise and waved her slightly damp blouse at her from a wire hanger. She dodged the damp blouse, thanked him for the tea, and carried on with her proposal. The weekend away seemed forgotten.

  He decided to take action. Went on the internet and found a rustic-looking cottage in a remote setting. It offered farm eggs … authenticity. He hesitated for half a second when asked to verify the booking with his credit card. What if Louise didn’t want to come? What if? But it was too late. He’d booked it.

  ‘But I can’t, Adam, not that weekend. It’s the wrap-up of the Why Not Wellington? campaign, and the start-up of our new campaign for your Queen of Air Points — you would go making a good impression. I can’t help it if you’re so successful and I get flooded with offers of work.’

  Louise was energised now. Working late on her laptop did wonders for her. He succumbed to a massage, listened to her unload her plans for the next campaign as she kneaded and tugged at him. He drifted in and out of alertness, listening to stakeholder management tactics (the back of his knee was particularly sensitive), political nous (she’d found the spot on his ankle), advocacy, advocacy, advocacy (now she was between his shoulder blades), target audience … he was awake now, she was chewing his ear — no, really: chewing his ear, lips tugging, teeth on his lobe, a bite, and they both knew what that meant. Public relations be damned … it was private relations that mattered.

  ‘Can I drive, can I drive?’

  Adam had placed his plan for the weekend at the breakfast table. Louise had convinced him that he should go away and take the girls. Bonding. While she stayed back to finalise one campaign and kick-start another.

  Being away for the reunion was going to be a juggling act (she said, as if she was doing him a favour by coming to the reunion). No, he needed the break; it would do him good. Unwavering enthusiasm for his idea, as long as she didn’t have to join him.

  Well, at least Frankie was keen.

  ‘I’ll drive, I’ll drive.’

  ‘I’ll come, only if I can have some peace to study.’
/>   Vanessa was like her mum in many respects. She needed her personal space.

  ‘How about you invite Caitlin?’

  Who’d said that? It was Louise. What was she thinking?

  ‘Wicked.’

  So that was that. He was having a pre-reunion weekend away, but not with Louise. Frankie was driving, Ness was bringing her study and Caitlin was coming too. Oh, he was a great father indeed. How did he manage this? He’d booked the weekend and now everyone was enthused about it except him. He’d be sharing a house with three teenage girls in the middle of nowhere. Mind you, he had to be fair: Ness was easy, Caitlin would keep Frankie amused and he might find time to just chill out, enjoy fatherhood.

  Caitlin was carsick. It wasn’t surprising. She’d eaten her way through a bag of sour-cream-and-chive potato chips, three creme eggs and a ham sandwich. They were on the going-up side of the hill and had to pull over on a tight corner so she could open the door and vomit into the tussock. Ness drove even faster around the corners once Caitlin had recovered. From the CD player, Fly My Pretties belted out ‘We Can Make a Life’. Caitlin groaned; it wasn’t clear if she felt sick again or was in rebellion at the choice of music.

  Adam censured Ness when she recklessly cut a corner (albeit with ample vision of oncoming hazards) — he threatened to take over driving if she didn’t slow down. Caitlin cheered up after that, her own humiliation alleviated by Ness’s. Frankie and Caitlin, backseat allies, chivvied Adam about being a grump. Right where it hurt. He made a determined effort to be cheerful and carefree and on the next corner shut his eyes, singing with Ness ‘We Can Make a Life’.

  They reached the summit. Now they all joined in, as if really truly right there and then, on a windy road to the Wairarapa, surrounded by windswept tussock, life was worth living.

  After a couple of false leads, they found their accommodation. It was down a long shingle driveway into fairly rough farmland, and at the back of an old (possibly once gracious) farmhouse. The cottage had a newly painted red roof, a stack of firewood on the veranda and a note pinned to the front door.