by Laura Elliot
‘I beg to differ.’ Unnoticed, the manager enters. ‘I said ten minutes. It’s now fifteen. If you’re not off this site in five I’m calling the police and reporting you for causing a disturbance and smoking dope on my premises.’
‘Dope!’ Rebecca stares at her sisters, her eyes resting longest on Julie. ‘We’ll be out of here in five minutes.’ She turns to the manager. ‘I’m sorry they caused so much trouble.’
‘Five minutes or I take immediate action.’
After the manager departs, she places her head in her hands. ‘Smoking dope! I can’t believe this—’
‘I shared a joint with Kenny, that’s all.’ Julie’s defiance is straight from her Maximum Volume days. ‘You’d swear we were sniffing coke, the fuss he’s making.’
‘We need to ring Steve and get him—’
‘Steve’s got nothing to do with this.’ Impatiently, Rebecca interrupts Lauren. ‘This mess needs to be cleared by you and Julie.’
Lauren lifts a spoon, taps it against the table. She seems unaware that the sound is growing faster and faster until Julie leans over and snatches it from her.
‘Why is everyone so allergic to a little luxury?’ she demands. ‘Think warm baths. Room service, hairdressers. A big double bed instead of a coffin. That’s what it’s like up there.’ She jerks her hand upwards. ‘Sleeping in a fucking coffin.’
‘So what do you want?’ demands Rebecca. ‘A big double bed like the one you didn’t sleep in when we were in Bangkok?’
The silence that follows rasps the atmosphere. ‘I’m not a fool, Lauren.’ Rebecca’s voice cuts across any pretence. ‘Nor am I blind to what goes on in your so-called marriage.’
‘Rebecca, if you want to lecture anyone about the hallowed state of matrimony, look in the mirror and start talking to yourself.’
‘How dare you bring my marriage into this conversation?’
‘You don’t appear to have any problems throwing mine in my face. In case it’s escaped your attention, what I do with my life has nothing whatsoever to do with you.’
‘I agree. What you do behind your husband’s back is absolutely no concern of mine. But when you ask me to accept his charity, it does become a matter of some significance.’
Lauren’s face remains impassive. Even her eyelids seem suspended in midair. ‘You’re such a sanctimonious bitch, Rebecca Lambert.’
‘And you’re a married woman who’s deceiving—’
‘Cut it out, you two,’ Julie warns. ‘We have to leave here or the manager—’
‘Ahem…Do I duck or is it safe to enter?’ Kenny answers his own question by entering the camper. ‘The lads aren’t in a fit state to drive anywhere. I asked my cos, Akona, to pick us up. Follow the ute and park the camper in the garden.’
‘An ute! What the hell is he talking about?’ Rebecca demands after he leaves.
‘I think it’s a pick-up truck,’ says Julie. ‘We’d better get ready to leave.’
Rebecca shakes off her assistance. She disconnects the electricity and water. A short while later a pick-up truck appears. Some of the bikers wheel their bikes up the ramp. The rest will be collected on the second run. Kenny gets into the passenger seat and slaps the driver’s shoulder. The driver, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, leans from the window and gestures at Rebecca to follow. Without exchanging a word with her sisters, she drives from the slumbering holiday park.
Chapter Forty-seven
Evicted from a motor home park. What a joke. What a story to tell over the dinner table. Julie will dine out on it for years to come. The hazard lights on the pick-up truck in front flash warningly as the driver turns sharply down a side road and plunges through a tunnel of trees. Ferns loom large and ominously from the edge of the road. According to Tim, the Maoris used to plant them as signposts for their people. In which direction are they leading them tonight? Mysterious Disappearance of Lambert Sisters Remains Unsolved. Yes, it will make an interesting headline, nothing more. Rebecca is too tired and hungry to care.
Julie cleared the fridge of food when she made her seafood platter. A hardened chunk of cheese and a withered pear were all she left for Rebecca to eat. Tears of self-pity sting her eyes. Furiously, she brushes them aside. The driver takes another turn, a narrower road this time, little more than a track. The trees are dense, the trunks congested with vines. Parasitical vines, clinging and tenacious like her sisters. Branches whip the camper. Swathes of bush have been ravaged by summer fires. The silvery ash flares the darkness, reminds her of banshees’ tresses sweeping the sky.
Julie, obviously still stoned, switches on an iPod and clicks her fingers to an inaudible melody. Lauren appears to be asleep. Her sprained ankle looks remarkably slim and the frozen peas are mulching into a watery mess under the passenger seat.
Rebecca brakes in front of a one-storey house with a wooden veranda. The wheels crunch on gravel, judder over a pothole. The pick-up driver dismounts and directs her to the side of the building.
‘Any idea where we are?’ Lauren opens her eyes after Rebecca has parked.
‘Could be on the lip of a volcano, for all I care,’ she retorts.
Julie rummages in a press and removes a gas lantern. ‘We obviously can’t expect laid-on facilities.’ She lights the lantern and places it on the table, stretches her arms above her head. ‘That’s enough excitement for one night.’
‘Time for this whore’s beauty sleep.’ Lauren prepares to climb into her bunk.
‘I never called you a whore.’ Every time Rebecca moves, she feels as if her skin is under attack from burrowing, sharp-clawed insects. She has no desire to argue any further with her sister. All she wants is sleep. The heat is unendurable. She flings open the door and steps outside. If she does not escape she will shatter the windows with a scream.
She hears laughter coming from the house, the sound of a guitar striking up. The bikers, having unloaded their bikes from the truck, are still determined to party.
‘You settled in OK?’ The driver leans on the veranda rail and calls out to her. ‘Take water from my house if you need it.’ To Rebecca’s surprise, the voice, although deep and gruff, belongs to a woman.
She walks towards the driver, who straightens and holds out her hand. Under the porch light her face is visible: brown leathery skin and a frizz of white hair under the wide-brimmed hat.
‘You’re welcome to my house.’ Her grip is welcoming. ‘My name is Akona.’
‘I’m Rebecca.’ She tries not to stare at the startling tattoo fanning across the woman’s chin. The intricacy of the design fascinates her. She remembers Cathy’s tattoo, the raven’s head needled on her shoulder, and the row that followed. ‘I’m sorry we caused you so much trouble.’
‘Not at all. Kenny’s friends are my friends.’
They listen to Edge–it has to be Edge–singing ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’.
Rebecca smiles, nods towards the open window. ‘You have a house full of them tonight.’
‘A house full of bold boys.’ Akona’s cheeks are a network of wrinkles but her dark eyes flash with energy. ‘I live alone so a little company now and again is nice, no matter what shape it comes in.’
‘Have you always lived here?’
‘I’m from the North Island. Rotorua. I bought this land when I retired from teaching. Now I fish and farm a little. And you? What brings you to New Zealand?’
Rebecca grips the veranda rail. Humming black insects float before her eyes. She is aware that the ground is rising to meet her but she can do nothing except sink into the moist, spinning darkness.
‘Sunstroke,’ says Akona, when Rebecca opens her eyes. ‘Dehydration.’
‘I’m fine…it’s nothing.’ Rebecca licks her lips and tries to struggle upright. Her legs have turned to jelly. It is easier to close her eyes again. She shivers as Akona’s cool hands touch her forehead.
‘Come with me to my house.’ Her voice sounds far away. ‘We need to treat your sunburn immediately. When
did you last drink water?’
‘Earlier…I forget.’ Rebecca sways as she is helped to her feet.
Akona holds her in a firm grip and guides her across the veranda. She opens the door of the room where the bikers are singing and calls for silence. To Rebecca’s astonishment, this order is instantly obeyed. Once a teacher always a teacher, she thinks as she slowly walks with Akona to the end of a long hall.
They enter a wide, airy room. A throw, embroidered with ethnic symbols, not unlike the moko markings on Akona’s chin, covers a bed. Akona folds it back and gestures at Rebecca to lie down. The sheets are cold against her skin. She shivers at the contrast and moans through dry lips. The scent of lavender rises from the pillows. The smell grows stronger when Akona returns to the room with a jar of cream and gently massages it into Rebecca’s skin. She works along Rebecca’s shoulder blades, the back of her neck, her touch light and soothing.
‘It’s my own ointment,’ Akona says. ‘My grandmother gave me the recipe. It will work quickly to ease the burn. I’ll fetch some water. You must drink regularly and rehydrate.’
Rebecca sips slowly and forces herself to concentrate. ‘My sisters…can you tell them where I am?’ Her eyelids begin to droop. ‘We’re exploring the glaciers tomorrow and we’ve an early start.’ Another early start. How often has she uttered those words since the trip began?
‘Tomorrow you will stay away from the sun,’ says Akona. ‘And from the ice.’
‘But we have to move on. I’ve booked in advance. Our schedule is very tight. We can’t afford to lose a day.’ Rebecca’s voice, muffled by the pillows, lacks decisiveness. ‘We’re going to my sister’s wedding.’
‘The glaciers have been here since the ice age,’ says Akona. ‘They will still be here when the time is right for you to visit them. But tomorrow you must rest, not only in body but also in your spirit. The day after tomorrow you’ll be a different person and the distance won’t seem so long.’
‘Thank you.’ It feels deliriously wonderful to hand over all her control to a stranger.
‘This wedding? A joyous occasion, eh?’
Rebecca shakes her head. ‘We haven’t seen Cathy since she ran away over fifteen years ago.’
‘Many of my people go missing too.’ Akona sighs and wipes her hands on a muslin cloth. ‘It breaks the heart of a family. But now you have time to make peace with each other.’
‘Peace?’ Rebecca whispers. ‘Somehow, I don’t think so. I still don’t understand why I made the decision to come here.’
‘The reason will be clear to you before your journey is over. Now I will leave you to rest.’
Rebecca’s eyes close. She is sleeping by the time Akona leaves the room.
Chapter Forty-eight
Rebecca’s Journal – 2002
Lydia Mulvaney is dead. Cancer, corrosive, terminal. She was dead within a month of diagnosis. I visited her in the hospice. She wore a bandana with sequins and turned her ward into a studio. Her friends were there, the same lively bunch, but she sent them away when I arrived. She seemed genuinely glad to see me.
She had an album of old photographs, all of them dated, named. We sat together on top of the bedclothes and lost ourselves in the past, image after image reminding us that time is a stealthy thief. I saw Julie in a Superman cape and Cathy in her pram and Kenneth Mulvaney, her long-dead husband, playing basketball with his son, and Lauren winning medals for running and high jumps in the school sports. Funny, I’d forgotten her lithe ballerina strength. I asked about Kevin. He was on his way home from Australia where he’s been living for the last year. Burnout from Africa.
Lydia gave me a painting when I was leaving the hospice: a cluster of cottages clinging to the edge of a mountain, a rock standing like a sentinel above them. Open windows, and gaping doorway, the roofs collapsed under the weight of rain and wind. Hidden figures within the ruins but, perhaps, I’m imagining those mother ghosts who have never left the shadows.
She was dying but she was the one to offer me solace. There was pity in her eyes when we said goodbye.
So many people came to her funeral. I shook Kevin’s hand. We only had time to exchange a few words. He was such an intense teenager, always trying to pull aside the veil and demand answers from the underworld. I remembered his pallid face and the grim jet-black hair, but he is an open-faced man with untidy blond locks that would need sheep shears to control. Like his mother, he has a direct gaze and he looked me straight in the eye. He would never have betrayed Cathy. I guess I’ve always known that…so what then…what is the truth?
Jeremy rang from New York tonight. VisionFirst have landed an amazing account. I told him the line crackled so much I was unable to hear him.
Chapter Forty-nine
Havenswalk
Conor dismounts from his mountain bike and removes his helmet. Three hours on the road have left him sweaty and itchy. He wants a bath and a long cool drink. He climbs the stairs and passes his parents’ bedroom. The door is open. A dress lies on the floor, a crumpled pair of trousers beside it. He shies away from the mental picture it conveys, clothes abandoned where they fell. Difficult grappling with the thought of his mother and sex. Stupid to be jealous. Oedipus complex and all that rot. He confided in Lyle, who assured him it was not jealousy, at least not in that weird sense, but is based on the fact that the man his mother is about to marry has access to the history denied Conor and would still be denied him if it was not for the Coast to Coast Triathlon.
Since he was eleven years old, Conor and his mother have accompanied Lyle to the starting point on Kumara Beach. They have ferried his bike and kayak across the island and along each stage of the competition until the finish on Summer Beach. The sight of the competitors lining up and the roar from the spectators fuels Conor’s determination to take part as soon as he is old enough. Lyle always ends up somewhere in the middle but Conor’s ambition is to win.
Last year, his mother was too busy to take time off. Alma offered to do the driving and, after the competition, they stayed overnight in Christchurch with a woman who regularly visited Havenswalk to meditate and step off the treadmill of life. That was what she told Conor as she drove them to a beach party. Lyle came with them. His decision was made at the last moment because, earlier, he had said he was too exhausted. And that decision changed Conor’s life.
As the night wore on, the crowd gathered closer to the flames of a driftwood fire. A woman played guitar and Alma accompanied her on the spoons, rattling them off her knees, her arm, even off Conor’s head. The crowd laughed and applauded her. A group of Australians added to the music with a harmonica and bongos. People began to sing. Lyle put on his glasses and stared across the fire at a man sitting underneath an Australian flag. The flag, suspended between two poles, had been planted in the hard sand and the man, in frayed denim shorts and a black Guinness T-shirt, played the bongos with more enthusiasm than talent. After the singing ended, he grinned and bowed to the applause.
‘Dowser,’ said Lyle in a soft voice. ‘Dowser,’ he repeated, this time shouting the word across the flames.
The man heard. He stopped grinning and looked puzzled.
Lyle stood up and held out his arms. ‘Hey, Dowser,’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ the bongo player shouted and clenched his fist, flung his arms in the air. ‘If it isn’t the holy man himself.’
He seemed to leap across the flames and then he was beside them, him and Lyle bear-hugging and thumping each other on the back and shouting about coincidences and what the hell were they both doing in this neck of the woods?
When the excitement died down, Dowser sat beside them. The two men talked about Africa. They asked questions about old friends and each other’s lives since they had last met. Lyle introduced him and Conor moved closer to the stranger, who sounded uncannily like his mother. He could listen to his accent all night.
When the singing started again, Dowser fetched the bongos and handed them to Conor.
‘Want to try and rap a tune?’
‘No, thanks,’ Conor replied. ‘I’d murder them.’
‘Can’t be any worse than the punishment I’ve inflicted on them.’ Dowser lifted his beer and said, ‘Slainte mhath,’ which, Conor knew from his mother, meant ‘Good health’ in Irish.
‘You’ve settled in Cairns then?’ Lyle asked.
‘As much as I can settle anywhere,’ Dowser replied, and Lyle nodded, like he understood that kind of restlessness.
‘Are you from Ireland?’ Conor asked.
‘Born and bred.’
‘My mother is Irish. So is Alma.’
‘Are they now? And what county do they hail from?’
‘Dublin.’ He looked around for Alma but could not see her anywhere.
‘Dublin jackeens like myself,’ said Dowser.
‘Do you miss Ireland?’
‘What’s there to miss?’ Dowser shrugged and laughed. ‘Unless you want to grab a Celtic tiger by its tail.’
‘I’ve never been there. My mother lived in a place called Heron Cove.’
‘Where?’ Dowser sounded astonished.
‘Heron Cove. It’s beside an estuary—’
‘Yes…I know it well. What’s your mother’s name?’
‘Cathy.’
Dowser knocked over his stubby. The beer trickled down his leg and disappeared into the sand. He kept staring at Conor and then he said, ‘Cathy Lambert?’ although Conor had not mentioned her second name.
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
‘My God! Cathy. Yes…yes. I used to know her.’
‘I work for Cathy.’ Lyle sounded astonished. ‘Havenswalk is the longest place I’ve stayed since I left the priesthood.’
But Dowser did not seem to hear him. ‘Your mother and I go back a long way.’ He held Conor’s hand in a tight grip. ‘I never knew she had a son.’
