by Laura Elliot
‘No problem.’ He checks the lock, then removes some wire and a flat screwdriver from his pannier. His movements are precise and confident as he works on the lock. The bikers, fascinated by his speed and delicacy, gather around to watch and support his efforts. They clap him on his back and cheer when the door finally clicks open.
Rebecca enters the camper and glances through the back window. Her sisters make pleading gestures at her to send the bikers on their way. Their unrepentant shoulders are still heaving.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ Rebecca stands on the steps and loudly addresses the bikers.
‘A beer wouldn’t go amiss,’ says Dave.
‘With pleasure.’ They crowd into the camper. Rebecca opens the fridge and hands out cans. They belong to a biker club in Wellington, burly men heading into middle age on their Harley-Davidsons, and having fun along the way.
‘Coffee, anyone?’ She switches on the kettle, opens a packet of biscuits.
They leave an hour later. By then she is able to distinguish one from the other: Dave, Andy, Kenny, Ollie and Edge, the latter a dedicated U2 fan with the name Edgar on his birth cert.
When they finally disappear over the horizon, Julie and Lauren emerge from their hiding place.
‘Don’t ever ask for forgiveness,’ warns Lauren. ‘Even on your deathbed.’
‘They’ve eaten all the biscuits,’ Julie wails.
‘Guess you’ll have to bake some more.’ Rebecca returns the tasselled bra to its rightful place and drives contentedly towards Wanaka.
Chapter Forty-two
Wanaka
Julie adds nectarines and kiwi fruit to a salad, sprinkles parmesan cheese over pasta. She removes a tray of bluefish with a herb and mustard crust from the oven, slides in the almond tart she will serve for dessert.
Paul rings as she is about to serve the meal. Rain is falling in Dublin and there are problems in the office. As if to emphasis his business, a printer, lively as a foot-tapping chorus line, clatters in the background. He sounds so fed up that Julie has a momentary urge to take the next flight home. She decides not to tell him about the day’s activities: an exhilarating powerboat trip on Lake Wanaka and a leisurely tour through a winery.
‘Did you pick up the email I sent?’ he asks.
‘Not yet. Why?’
He tries without success to sound calm. ‘You promised to check every day.’
‘I do. Almost. What’s the problem?’ Her sympathy ebbs with every word they exchange.
A second phone rings but remains unanswered as he launches into the latest catastrophe to occur since Julie left home.
‘Gavin’s having some difficulty accessing your data—’
‘Gavin?’
‘Gavin O’Neill. He’s giving us a hand until you come back. He started yesterday but he’s says there’s a glitch—’
‘There shouldn’t be any glitches if he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Afraid that’s not the case. He’s trying to sort out the spreadsheets…it’s chaotic—’
‘Is he being paid to create chaos?’
‘Not funny, Julie.’
‘Just answer yes or no.’
‘He’s a graduate with a degree in business studies. I can hardly expect him to work for nothing.’
‘Of course not. A labourer is worthy of his hire, especially when he has a degree.’ She can just imagine this Gavin, with his white teeth and insufferable forehead bulging with knowledge. ‘Tell him to check his email in ten minutes. I’ll explain to him exactly how my system works. And stop giving me grief. I’m supposed to be on holiday.’
‘Lucky for some.’
‘You go abroad all the time,’ she retorts. ‘You were in Germany twice last year.’ Lately, Julie noticed, they have started emphasising their words like bullet points.
‘How can you possibly consider my attendance at a computer trade fair to be a pleasure trip?’ His indignation quivers down the line.
She clicks out of the call and flings her phone into the centre of the table.
‘He’s insecure without you,’ says Lauren.
‘He’s not insecure, he’s resentful,’ Julie snaps. ‘And he’s paying some creepy graduate for all the work I do for nothing.’
‘You’ve both made financial sacrifices—’
‘Nothing,’ Julie repeats. ‘That’s all I get for slaving night and day. A husband who takes me for granted and who only cared about how he was going to manage when I told him I was going away.’
‘Oh, come on, Julie, as husbands go, he’s not the worst in the world.’ Rebecca sounds as if she is consoling one of her sick donkeys.
‘He can be a real dote at times,’ agrees Lauren.
‘I’ve the most boring marriage in the world and I’m the most boring part of it,’ Julie cries.
Her sisters rush to reassure her. She is loving, kind, a great listener, sympathetic, the best cook, the nicest person they know. Nice! Boy bands in white suits are nice. So is jelly and ice cream. Julie sinks her face into her hands and chants, ‘Boring…boring…boring.’
In the internet café, she accesses the problem and solves it. She is about to sign out when she notices an email from Seb Morris.
Hi Julie,
Hope the hangover didn’t give you too much grief. Seeing you was a real blast from the past. Why don’t we meet up again when you stop off in Kaikoura? I can book a table for the four of us. But, personally, I’d prefer it if we could have a one-to-one about old times. Why not come to my place for a home-cooked meal and a catch-up on all the gossip? I’d love your opinion on my demo CD.
Let me know what suits.
Your auld pal,
Seb
On the next computer, a young Maori with tumbling black hair and a moko on his forehead races his fingers over the keyboard.
‘You OK, girl?’ He glances across at her.
‘The night is so warm.’ Julie flaps her hand before her face. ‘I’m not used to it.’
He nods, turns his attention back to his computer. The moko on his forehead, a fan-like swirl of delicate lines, is related to family. She read about it in Traversing New Zealand. A moko adorning the face refers to the genealogy of both parents, mother on right side, father on the left. She received a coat-of-arms as a wedding present from the Morans, a wooden plaque bearing both their names. It used to hang in the hall. Lambert/Chambers. She wonders where it is now. Probably in her attic, gathering dust.
Hi Seb,
A home-cooked meal sounds good. I’d be very interested in hearing your CD. My hangover was momentous but worth it. See you soon.
Julie
PS. Will I bring my mandolin?
A text arrives from Paul as she is returning to the table: ‘Received info. Tks 4 solving prob. Sorry for being such a grouch. Everything falling apart since u left. I miss u tons. C’t wait to have u home again. X’
Julie sighs and deletes it. Lauren lights citronella candles on the table outside. The night is warm and heavy, the mosquitoes gathering to bite.
Chapter Forty-three
Haast
For miles, they have not passed a car or a camper van that they can salute in recognition. The landscape is primeval, etched in solitude. Julie drives past forests of bent, windswept trees. The Tasman Sea, glimpsed occasionally between rocky outcrops, flails with a wild green energy that is both exhilarating and awesome to watch.
They locate a camper park outside Haast Village and prepare lunch. The sea roars beyond the sandy confines of the camper park. The sound is distant, melodic, restful. Julie relaxes in a deck chair and closes her eyes.
‘On your feet,’ says Rebecca as soon as they have finished eating. ‘It’s time to swim.’ She grabs towels from the camper and throws one over Julie’s upturned face. ‘I’ve sussed out the route. It’s only a short walk from here.’
‘Get lost!’ Julie throws the towel back at her. ‘Can’t we just spend one afternoon relaxing?’
Rebecca refuses to listen
. ‘Plenty of time to wind down when we reach Havenswalk. Shift your lazy butt. We can’t come to New Zealand and not swim in the Tasman Sea.’
‘Why?’ Julie demands. ‘We’ll have ample opportunity to get wet tomorrow on the river safari.’
‘That’s river wet,’ Rebecca explains. ‘This is sea wet.’
‘Oh, silly me not to have realised there is a difference.’ Julie grumbles as she gathers her sunglasses and sunscreen from the table.
Following a sign to the beach, they climb over a stile and continue along a grassy path lined with reeds on either side. Rebecca draws ahead, briskly swishing the reeds with a branch she has fashioned into a staff.
‘You’d think she was trying to break the world record for strenuous activities,’ grumbles Julie as Rebecca stops at a V junction to get her bearings, then veers to the left. She gestures at her sisters to follow and pushes onwards. The path narrows and the reeds, reaching to their waists, form an unbroken swathe before them. The turning tide carries the smell of seaweed. It mingles with the fetid scent of rotting vegetation that rises whenever their feet sink into the swampy undergrowth.
‘I can hear the sea,’ Rebecca shouts back. ‘It’s just beyond this ridge.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Julie replies. ‘We’re supposed to be heading to a public beach. No one with children would choose this route.’
‘It’ll open out in a minute.’ Rebecca refuses to stop. ‘Trust me.’
All traces of the path have now disappeared. Lauren and Julie stumble over fallen branches, grab on to each other to keep their balance.
‘You’re bringing us through a jungle,’ Julie shrieks. ‘Who do you think you are? Captain Bloody Cook?’
‘No need for sarcasm.’ Rebecca waits until they catch up with her. ‘We’re almost there.’ She moves confidently through the spiky bush. The dull roar of the sea is audible now. Something wriggles underfoot. Julie screams and clings to Lauren.
‘Are you all right?’ Lauren steadies her. ‘You look like you want to strangle Rebecca.’
‘I would, if I could keep up with her. Why won’t she listen? We’re lost in a fucking jungle and she makes it look like a stroll in the park. Bitch. Why does she always have to be in control?’
Her temper rises as she slides on the slimy trunk of a fallen tree, trips over tangling vines. ‘She forced me to marry Paul. All that shit about disgracing Mum and Dad’s memory. They would have wanted me to be happy but all she cared about was her bloody reputation.’
‘Whoa! Hold it right there, Julie.’ Lauren sounds shocked by her outburst. ‘No one forced you to marry Paul. You loved him, remember?’
‘But I was just starting my life.’
‘We’re almost there,’ Rebecca shouts triumphantly. ‘Keep going, you slackers.’
‘Remember Seb?’ Julie ducks to avoid the spikes of a gigantic yucca.
‘Yes.’ Lauren lifts an eyebrow.
‘He’s been emailing me.’
‘Dare I ask what he wants?’
‘He suggested meeting up when we reach Kaikoura.’
‘Good idea. We’ll be ready for some fresh company…that’s if we haven’t murdered each other by then.’
‘Actually, it’s more along the lines of a one-to-one meet-up.’
I see.’
Julie shrugs. ‘He wants to talk about old times.’
‘A likely story.’
The colour deepens in Julie’s face. ‘Don’t start moralising, Lauren. You’re on swampy enough ground as it is.’
Without replying, Lauren quickens her pace.
‘I’ve reached the sea.’ Rebecca’s triumphant shout prevents the conversation taking a dangerous turn. When they catch up with her she is standing on a stretch of whey-coloured sand cluttered with moss-green seaweed and chunky driftwood. ‘There, I told you we were on the right track!’
‘This is not the beach.’ Julie runs towards a scattering of gulls wheeling above the breakers and sinks to her knees. ‘Why can’t you admit you’re wrong for once in your life?’
‘Maybe it’s not the proper beach, but it’s magnificent.’ Rebecca drops her backpack on the sand and pulls off her T-shirt, kicks off her trainers, stamps out of her shorts. Her muscular body glistens with sweat. ‘This is exactly what we need to cool off.’
‘You’re not going to swim in those waves.’ Lauren points towards the breakers as they crash ashore, hazing the air with spray and spume.
‘Of course I am. Why do you think we came here?’
‘We didn’t come here,’ Julie screams. ‘You dragged us here.’
‘Oh, get over it, Julie! We have this fantastic beach to ourselves and all you can do is moan.’
‘I assure you, Rebecca, moaning is safer than strangulation.’
Rebecca laughs and flings out her arms, spins in a circle, kicking sand. ‘We might even see some penguins while we’re here. Tim says they nest among the rocks. Come on, Lauren. Get your knickers off. Last one into the water is a chicken’s neck.’
‘You must be off your head if you expect me to swim in those waves.’
‘Why not?’ Rebecca gives a whoop and runs towards the sea.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to follow her.’ Lauren’s voice rises as Julie fastens the catch on her bikini.
‘I feel like doing battle.’
‘Just don’t expect me to mount a rescue operation if you get into difficulties.’ Lauren sits down on one of the stranded logs. ‘I’m washing my hands of both of you.’
Julie shrieks as a wave washes over her, the sound almost indistinguishable from the cry of gulls.
Unable to sit still, Lauren pulls on her bikini and follows.
Hand in hand they emerge from the foam and tumble like rag dolls towards the gleaming sand.
Chapter Forty-four
Jackson Bay
Today, as they struggled to find the beach, Lauren recognised the giddy excitement in Julie’s eyes when she mentioned Seb Morris. She wanted to fold a protective cloak around her sister’s marriage but Julie had ignored her words of warning. Look to the mote in your own eye, she had snapped, and Lauren had no answer. She turns in her narrow bunk and tries to sleep. Tomorrow they will embark on a river safari, then head for the glaciers.
They have travelled hundreds of miles across an ever-changing terrain. Days have blurred, places have faded from memory. Rebecca’s itinerary is dog-eared and ringed with coffee stains. The most distant memory of all is Bangkok. Her phone is silent, her text messages unread.
She has seen the road sign for Jackson Bay. Niran Gordon’s map carries the imprint of her hand. Straightforward directions that she must ignore. It is miles off their route, a finger jutting towards the sea, a road leading nowhere.
The morning mist wreathes the mountain slopes, and strange windswept trees, their branches coiled tight as broccoli, flit in and out of the milky haze. Occasionally, through the bush, Lauren catches a glimpse of the high-kicking surf collapsing over the sand. The scenery grows more isolated. She drives past occasional homesteads, red roofs visible beyond wooden fences. Sheep graze in rugged pastures and a road construction crew wave as she passes.
‘I’m not going on the river safari.’ She made her announcement at breakfast, calmly facing down her sisters’ questions, their suspicions, their disapproval. ‘I need some time on my own. I’ll drop you off at the embarkation point and collect you when it’s over.’
Before reaching Jackson Bay, she slows and checks the map. An X marks a turn-off point. She indicates right onto a narrow road that soon peters out into a sandy trail. She keep driving, following dusty tyre tracks until a screen of trees blocks her passage. A patch of gravel serves as a car park. She parks the camper and walks between the trees, emerging from the gloom into a clearing. A few planks nailed roughly together form a bridge over a river. His home is little more than a shack, wooden walls and a corrugated iron roof. Fishing tackle and the battered remains of a propeller lie outside. A mountain bike is propped a
gainst the wall.
She knocks but receives no reply, knocks harder, then moves along a narrow veranda towards the back. His home is as she imagined: windows without curtains, no frills or bric-a-brac, some paintings on the walls, and a long veranda to catch the evening light. Wooden floors and easy chairs are visible in a spacious living area. A piano, its lid upraised, stands in the centre of the room, sheet music in place. She peers into a kitchen, which is furnished with an old-fashioned dresser, a long wooden table with sturdy matching chairs. Breakfast dishes rest on a zinc draining board. Life has been stripped to its essentials and the owner is not at home.
The back door opens easily. She hesitates, then steps over the threshold. Heedless of the cautionary voice ordering her to leave, she enters his living room. She touches the piano, his laptop, riffles through sheets of scribbled notations. Some musical symbols are recognisable from childhood piano lessons–crotchets and quavers, treble clefs; the language almost forgotten, as are the sounds of the scales she once practised daily, determined to conquer stiff fingers and play as skilfully as her mother.
Two framed photographs stand on a shelf. The first one is familiar. It fluttered to her feet and she picked it up, their fingers touching for the first time. Lauren stares at the violinist, her ornate ceremonial costume. Haloed in a spotlight, she stands in the centre of a stage, her bow raised, the violin tucked under her chin. The orchestra, grouped behind her, form a dark collage of indistinguishable shapes that focus attention back to her radiating presence. Such vitality in her expression, her blackbird swing of hair and sharply defined profile, her slender hands raising her bow.
A second photograph shows the same woman in a white T-shirt and jeans, standing with Niran on the veranda of a straw-roofed bungalow. Their arms are around each other, faces close together. His nose is perfect, nothing to suggest the break that distorts its high, slender bridge.
