by Laura Elliot
‘Get back into line, you braying hoons.’ Tim Dawson’s roar startles the team into a temporary stillness. ‘You’re not on the bloody rugby pitch now.’ He takes the tray from Rebecca and carries it back to the counter. Ignoring her protests, he insists on replacing the order, adding an espresso and a meat pie for himself.
‘Where are you sitting?’ he asks.
She gestures towards her sisters and follows him to the table.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for a reply he pulls out a chair. ‘I need some civilised company after those little hoons. I’ve been following them with my camera all day. The sooner I see their bloody arses disappearing into the bus the better.’
‘Hoons?’ asks Rebecca.
Tim grins. ‘Yobs to everyone except their mothers.’
‘They appear to have quietened down a bit,’ says Julie, whose hearing, Rebecca suspects, has been permanently impaired by prolonged exposure to her sons’ music.
‘A temporary aberration, I assure you.’ He lifts Rebecca’s hand, checks her fingers. ‘No damage done. You’ll survive to tell the tale.’
The book she bought in the souvenir shop catches his attention. He points towards the creature on the cover.
‘Hochstetter’s.’
‘Sorry?’ She glances down at the bulbous eye sockets and alarmingly long toes.
‘That’s a Hochstetter’s frog. Check the caption inside.’
Rebecca does as she is instructed. ‘You’re right. How did you guess?’
‘I know my frogs, Rebecca. I’ve photographed enough of them in my day, including this little blighter.’
‘I thought you were gainfully employed photographing hoons,’ says Lauren.
‘Hoons put bread on my table. My real interest is photographing endangered species.’
‘What an extraordinary coincidence.’ Rebecca, turning the pages, admires the clarity of the photographs. She sees his name among the credits. ‘Did you do all the photography for this book?’
‘It was a collaboration between a group of us.’
‘You’ll have to autograph it for Rebecca,’ says Lauren. ‘She has this amazing sanctuary. Tell him about the horses you rescue.’
‘I’m sure Tim’s not remotely interested—’ Rebecca aims a kick at Lauren’s ankle.
‘She occasionally attempts to rescue elephants,’ says Julie.
‘Give over, Julie.’ Her sister’s ability to carry a joke beyond its sell-by date is well known, and Julie has sung the chorus of ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on at least three occasions since they left Bangkok. As she delivers a blow-by-blow account of the elephant encounter, his laughter is contagious and Rebecca finds herself laughing with him.
‘How long are you staying in Christchurch?’ He cuts into his meat pie and chews vigorously, flicks crumbs from his beard.
‘Only tonight,’ she replies.
‘I’ll be happy to give you all a whistle-stop tour of the city. We could have a meal together, take in some music.’
‘Thanks for the offer, Tim.’ She smiles apologetically but firmly across the table. ‘We’re heading off first thing tomorrow to Lake Tekapo.’
‘We don’t have to,’ says Julie. ‘I wouldn’t mind another night in Christchurch.’
‘Neither would I,’ says Lauren.
Her sisters steadfastly return her gaze. Miss Havisham, they are thinking. With her dusty veil and moribund memories.
‘I’m afraid the answer is still no.’ Rebecca smiles and holds out her hand in farewell. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim.’
‘A mutual pleasure, Rebecca.’ He produces his notebook again and tears out a page. ‘I can’t promise you an elephant but you’ll have to visit some of our sanctuaries while you’re here.’ He sketches a rough map and hands it to her. ‘If you’re passing through Twizel it’s worth stopping to see the black stilt. I’ve written down directions. While I have my pen out I might as well sign this as well.’ He picks up the book and writes on the flyleaf, ‘Welcome to the South Island, Rebecca. Enjoy your trip. Tim Dawson’.
‘Safe travelling.’ He shakes their hands. ‘Don’t forget to check your email along the route, Rebecca.’
‘What do you think of him?’ Julie asks when he leaves the café.
‘Apart from using his beard as a bird table, I didn’t form an opinion either way. You’ll have to stop trying to fob me off on every man we meet, Julie. It’s getting ridiculous.’
‘Didn’t you like him?’
‘Just because we share a common interest in Hochstetter’s frogs doesn’t make us soul mates.’
‘Why does he want you to check your emails?’ Lauren asks.
‘He took my photograph on the viewing deck. I’m a study in tranquillity.’
‘You don’t look very tranquil to me,’ says Julie.
‘It’s all about perception. So Tim believes.’
‘Then check this out,’ says Julie. ‘It’s time you started having fun again. You can’t mourn Jeremy for ever.’
‘I’m not…this has nothing to do with Jeremy.’
‘Then what was the big deal about having a meal with the mountainy man?’ demands Lauren.
‘It’s my life, Lauren,’ Rebecca replies. ‘Step off it, please.’
‘Touché.’ Lauren smiles, shrugs.
Julie casts a longing look at the adolescent boys. She blinks rapidly and follows her sisters from the café.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Lake Tekapo
On the turn of every corkscrew bend there is a gorge to admire, the fluted bowl of a valley sinking into the afternoon haze, a river tumbling over rocks. They reach Lake Tekapo in the late afternoon and spill from the camper, anxious to feel fresh air on their faces. A motorboat, trailing children in a water-raft, is the only fissure on the stained-glass surface.
Julie, a veteran of camping holidays, shows her sisters how to connect the utilities to the camper.
‘Better get used to it,’ she warns when Lauren breaks another nail. ‘Everyone has to pull their weight on a camping holiday.’
‘I’ve every intention of pulling my weight.’
‘I hope you still sound so enthusiastic when it’s your turn to visit the dump station.’
‘Which is…what?’
‘Emptying the toilet cassette.’ Julie tries not to sound too gleeful. ‘Don’t look like that. It’s a simple job. You’ll only have to do it when it’s your turn.’
‘But that’s Stone Age nonsense,’ Lauren shrieks when Julie explains the procedure to her. ‘I’m sorry, folks, I’ll do anything else you ask but there’s no way I’m doing that. I signed up for a holiday, not an apprenticeship in a septic tank.’
Rebecca ends the argument by rummaging in her rucksack for a swimsuit. She shoves a pair of goggles into her hair and slings a towel over her shoulders. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’
‘Way to go,’ yells Julie as Rebecca runs towards the lake and disappears down an embankment. ‘It’s glacier meltdown water,’ she explains to Lauren. ‘I read about it in Traversing New Zealand. Rebecca is actually going to swim in an ice cube but she’ll dive straight in, wait and see.’
Rebecca reappears and dives without hesitation into the water. She plunges underwater and reappears, her arm slicing like a scimitar through the turquoise shimmer.
‘Told you so.’ Julie returns to the camper and surveys the kitchen. It’s nothing more than a cooking galley and will strain her resources to the limit. In Geraldine, where they stopped to shop, her sisters had to lead her forcibly from the supermarket. Food, she believes, is the perfect antidote to life’s tensions. She works deftly in the narrow space, banishing blandness with cumin and ginger, adding flavour to the chicken with thyme and oregano, making a gravy from the juices. Rebecca’s vegetable paella is flavoured with saffron, garlic and paprika. Roast potatoes are crisp to the knife and mouth-watering when opened. They sit outside the camper to eat. Her sisters raise their glasses to their cordon bleu c
ook, who even managed to produce an apple crumble for dessert. The flame of a candle flutters in the night breeze, a solitary light in the gathering gloom.
‘Amazing to think you couldn’t boil a kettle when you married Paul,’ says Rebecca.
‘Needs must.’ Julie holds her hand over her glass and shakes her head when Lauren offers her a refill.
On the steps of a neighbouring camper, two little girls play with dolls and a tea set. When their mother calls them for bed, they beg for a few minutes’ more playtime. Above the twitter of their voices, as clear as the chimes of a bell, Julie hears her mother calling out the same words and receiving the same response. Suddenly, she is gripped by a sorrow so intense it forces her forward, her hands instinctively clutching her stomach. She straightens and reaches for her mandolin and begins to sing softly. The children draw nearer. Encouraged by her smile, they move into the ring of light and sit crossed-legged, their chins cupped in their hands, until their parents, smiling politely but not disturbing the singing, carry them off to bed.
‘Time for a nightcap.’ Rebecca pours brandy liqueur into glasses.
Julie lays her mandolin down and accepts the drink. Perhaps it is the close proximity of the children that causes their conversation to drift effortlessly towards childhood, half-remembered episodes finding shape in their collective memories. The back garden in Heron Cove, wild at the bottom and entered through an arch of forsythia that was always first to bloom in spring. Their mother gardened in the top half, growing loganberries, raspberries and blackcurrants, creating a bower where she could sit in the evening to catch the sun. But in the other half, dandelions and thistles grew tall, and the untamed bushes had tunnels running crookedly into hidden dens. In the labyrinth of bushes, Cathy and Kevin Mulvaney played hide-and-seek, and Rebecca kept her rabbit hutches and bird tables, the cats that came to breed and give birth in the long grass. Julie practised with her band in the garden shed and Lauren pirouetted on the flat roof. The crimson evenings in the Before time: the Before and After time. Like a knife through butter, their existence severed into two distinct periods that could, on a moment such as this, create an atmosphere taut with emotion and sink the flippant, carefree remarks of a few minutes earlier into a weighted space that no words can fill.
‘Where did the years go?’ Lauren breaks the silence.
‘We blinked,’ replies Rebecca.
‘I’m going to cry my way through this holiday.’ Julie holds her napkin to her face. Tears seep into the soft tissue.
‘Then I’m taking the next plane home,’ Rebecca warns.
They laugh with relief and rise from their seats. The cicadas fall silent. It is time to bring their first day on the road to a close.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘Such early risers. I hope it’s not contagious,’ Lauren moans from the depths of her bunk and raises her hands above her head. ‘Fuck. There goes another nail.’
‘Get your arse down here,’ Julie orders. ‘Breakfast is served.’
‘We’ve a busy day ahead of us.’ Rebecca carries coffee and a croissant to the table and opens a map. ‘Should we visit the black stilt hide before doing the trek or the other way around? What do you think, Julie?’
‘We should trek in the late afternoon when it’s cooler,’ advises Julie. ‘I’ll rustle up some leftovers from last night and make a picnic—’
‘What’s all this talk about a trek?’ Lauren demands. ‘I never agreed to go on any trek.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Rebecca spreads honey over her croissant and pours a second cup of coffee. ‘Check the itinerary. I pinned it next to the fridge. It says, “Three-hour trek.”’
‘Three hours?’ Lauren sounds as if she is being asked to walk slowly and bare-footed over burning stones.
‘Three hours is nothing,’ says Rebecca. ‘Some treks take four days to complete. You agreed last night we’d do the walk.’
Lauren seizes on the word ‘walk’ and shakes it like a terrier with a bird between its teeth. A walk could mean a trip to the nearest restaurant, bar or shopping centre. It certainly could not be defined as a three-hour ordeal over mountainous terrain swarming with mosquitoes and other undesirable wildlife best viewed behind glass cases in museums. She swings herself down from her bunk and disappears into the shower.
Ten minutes later the door of the shower cubicle opens, releasing a cloud of steam, and Lauren, swaddled in a white bathrobe. She hunkers down in front of a suitcase and rummages through her clothes. Unable to find what she needs, and flushed from the heat in the camper, she flings off her bathrobe and hauls a second suitcase out from under the table.
Julie averts her gaze from the small firm breasts, the childlike rosy-pink nipples. Size eight, she reckons, which is a ridiculous size for a woman of thirty-six.
‘This is crazy!’ Lauren bangs her elbow off the table leg and sits back on her heels, defeated. ‘There’s no space to find anything.’
‘Then I suggest you dump your luggage in the next charity shop we reach,’ suggests Rebecca. ‘From where I’m sitting, you seem to manage quite well without any clothes on.’
‘She’s right about your suitcases,’ complains Julie. ‘I’ve tripped over them twice already this morning. Look at my shins. They’re black and blue.’
Having found what she wanted, Lauren fastens a wisp of yellow lace across her breasts and wriggles into a pair of matching briefs. ‘What’s this about a brown sulk—’
‘Black stilt.’ Rebecca is struggling to remain calm.
‘Remember?’ says Julie. ‘Tim recommended it.’
‘Ah, Tim,’ says Lauren. ‘The mountainy man.’
‘If you mention his name one more time—’
‘OK…OK.’ Lauren finds a dress that pleases her and slips it over her head.
‘Anyway, this has nothing to do with Tim Dawson.’ Rebecca bends over her South Island map and calculates the time it will take to reach Twizel. ‘I’d already listed the visit on the itinerary. The black stilt is one of the world’s rarest wading birds. Twizel is where it’s being preserved from extinction.’
‘Bully for Twizel,’ says Lauren. ‘But you’re not seriously expecting me to crouch in a smelly bird hide. I could get bird flu.’ She switches on a hairdryer. Crumbs rise and scurry like insects across Rebecca’s plate.
‘Would you mind doing that somewhere else?’ Rebecca shouts.
‘Where would you suggest?’ Lauren shouts back. ‘On the fucking roof, for instance.’
‘Black stilts in their little nests agree,’ chants Julie.
‘Bird hides and trekking.’ Lauren wails above the hum of the hairdryer. ‘If you want to see the scenery that much, what’s wrong with taking a helicopter ride?’
‘We’re taking a helicopter when we visit the glaciers.’ Rebecca pulls the itinerary from the wall and stabs her finger at the various dates. ‘You can sit here and repair your nails for as long as you like but I’m going to visit this bird hide and I’m going trekking and that’s that.’
Julie wipes down the draining board and flaps tea towels. To think of the money she spent travelling so far when she could have stayed at home and listened to her sons squabbling. ‘Let’s have some Abba.’ She smiles brightly as she plugs in the CD player.
‘Not bloody Abba.’ Lauren switches off the hairdryer and empties the container of CDs over the table. ‘You used to hate them.’
‘They weren’t relevant to my life then.’
‘Relevant? How can “Bang-A-Boomerang” be relevant to anyone’s life?’
‘It’s actually “Money, Money, Money” that turns me on, closely followed by “Mamma Mia”.’
‘While appreciating their sociological significance, can I respectfully suggest you bin them and play U2 instead?’ Lauren throws the Abba compilation into the litter bin.
‘It’s too early for rock,’ says Rebecca. ‘What about Tom Waits?’
‘Not Tom Waits,’ wails Julie. ‘“Martha” always makes me cry.’
Reb
ecca presses her hands to her ears. ‘You’re driving me crazy, the pair of you. I’d forgotten what it was like living with two-legged animals.’
‘Bow wow wow.’ Lauren sticks out her tongue and pants.
Julie whinnies and gallops on the spot.
‘I can’t take any more of this.’ Rebecca runs from the camper and slams the door behind her.
‘We’re driving Becks crazy again.’ Julie watches her sister head towards the forest at the perimeter of the camper park and disappear between the pines.
‘Nothing changes.’ Lauren kneels and folds her clothes back into her suitcase. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to hack the outdoor life. Look at my nails.’ She holds out her hands. Three nails down, seven to go.
‘Stop going on about your nails! You’d swear your fingers had been amputated, the way you’re carrying on. Tell me about Niran Gordon.’ Julie has waited expectantly to hear the details of Lauren’s brief liaison but, so far, no information has been forthcoming.
‘I’ve already told you, I don’t want to discuss him.’ Lauren’s giddiness instantly disappears. Her aloof expression warns Julie off.
‘He’s different, isn’t he?’ Julie rescues Abba from the litter bin and tidies the CDs into a neat stack. ‘Moondance’ by Van Morrison looks like a choice that will please everyone. She places the CD into the stereo. ‘You can’t vanish this affair so easily.’
‘Julie, did you hear what I said? Drop the subject.’
‘Why? Just because it suits you? It didn’t bother you on those other occasions when you used me as your wailing wall.’
‘Are we going to have an argument?’
‘You don’t argue, Lauren. You just retreat.’
Julie stands at the camper door and gazes across the holiday park. Campers, similar to their own, are already departing and the sites are acquiring a dusty, deserted appearance. Her anger simmers. Dutiful Julie, always ready with the cup of tea and sympathy. She has never sought Lauren’s secrets. Often, she feels uneasy when family occasions draw them together and she sits across the dining table from Steve Moran. Can he be so oblivious of his wife’s infidelities–or does he accept them as the price he must pay to possess her? After all, he makes his money by investing in high-risk property.
