by Laura Elliot
Rebecca watches Alma deftly pile a platter with steaks and pass them to the sinewy, silver-haired man who looks after the grounds.
‘From what I’ve heard, they work hard for their success,’ she replies.
‘Just shows you,’ the truck driver nods sagely, ‘you never can tell. Cathy was a dead ringer for trouble when I first met her but a lot can happen in a few years.’
‘When did you meet Cathy?’ Rebecca asks. ‘I thought this is your first visit to New Zealand.’
‘Not here. In Dublin.’
‘You knew her in Dublin.’
‘Picked her up on the quays and took her over on the ferry, so I did. God knows she was a lost child, if ever I saw one. Thank God I had the wit to get Alma on side.’
‘You…you took her on the ferry.’ Rebecca steps back from him and lays her plate on a table. ‘I suppose it never dawned on you that Cathy should have been brought back to her family?’
‘Deed it did. What’s your name again?’
‘Rebecca.’ Her voice shakes with anger.
‘There was no talking to the child, Rebecca. She’d have been off again in the blink of an eye. God knows what could’ve happened to her then. The best I could do under the circumstances was put a few bob in her pocket and get her on a train to London. I rang Alma and asked her to meet the train, see what she could do for the kid. Cathy is the daughter she never had, that’s what she told me once.’
Rebecca glances beyond him to the red-haired woman with the cropped boyish hairstyle, her long thin neck decorated with a jade choker. A memory flickers but disappears before she can grasp it. The truck driver is still talking. She forces herself to concentrate.
‘Quackery, most of it, herbs and potions. I’m not into the stuff myself–prefer the old jab of a needle any day–but they worked like dray horses before they came here.’
This time, recognition is instant. Alma’s hair was long then, tossed as tumbleweed, and her bright hard eyes stared Rebecca straight in her face, ignoring her distress, her desperation to find Cathy. Where had Cathy been hiding? Probably in some cubbyhole at the back of the shop, hidden among the incense and aromatic oils, listening to every word they exchanged.
Rebecca leaves her plate on a nearby table and excuses herself. Ignoring Lauren, who calls after her, she walks swiftly into a grove of trees. Her light sandals are unsuitable for the muscular roots that push upwards through carpets of pine needles. She carries on regardless. A signpost signalling ‘Glow-worm Grotto’ points towards a dense bower of shrubbery. Needless to say, there have to be glow-worms in this garden of contemplation. She moves deeper into the forest. Drooping strands of mistletoe pull at her hair, insects crawl across her face. She finds a wooden bench set among the trees, and brushes leaves from the seat before collapsing into it.
Tomorrow morning she will leave Havenswalk. She will text Tim Dawson and tell him she has changed her mind about the wedding. His disappointment, if any, will be momentary. He is not seeking a long-distance romance and will soon forget their brief encounter. She will spend the rest of the week exploring the inlets at the tip of the island. Cape Farewell seems like an appropriate destination.
Something rustles nearby, a night creature intent on survival. She wonders how Teabag is surviving without her probably utterly unaware of her absence. If Rebecca wants someone to pine after her, she should keep a dog. Next year she will develop a sanctuary for homeless dogs, the abandoned Christmas presents and tough little mutts no one wants. She has to think about the future. The present is unendurable. So, also, is the past.
Dead leaves rustle. Footsteps approach. She tenses when her name is called.
‘A young lad told me I’d find you here.’ Tim Dawson pushes aside the tangled branches and peers through the gloom. ‘Why are you hiding in the bushes while everyone else is having a bun fight?’
‘You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.’
‘Didn’t you get my text?’
‘No. My battery went down when I was in Nelson. It’s still charging.’
He sits beside her and slides his arm across the back of the bench. ‘If you’d read my text you’d know I’d an assignment cancelled at the last minute. I decided to hit the gas before I got another call. You haven’t answered my question. Why the hidy-hole?’
‘Is it a crime to occasionally want to be alone?’
‘Not the last time I checked. But that’s not the reason you’re here. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘It’s personal, Tim. I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘I figured from the beginning that this was more than a family reunion.’
‘You’re very perceptive.’
‘In my job it pays off. I’ve been worried about you.’
A breeze stirs the leaves. Music from the terrace surges briefly before fading again. She is conscious of his nearness, his arm drawing her closer. His strength consoles her but is a superficial comfort that cannot change anything.
‘What do you want me to do, Tim? Pour out my soul?’
‘I thought you were a dedicated atheist? Where does your soul come into the equation?’
‘I visited the cathedral in Nelson today. After the temples, it seems rather unadorned.’
‘We don’t go in for too many frills here. We’re a simple people.’
‘Is there such a species? If there is, it’s probably endangered.’
‘Why are you changing the subject?’
Reluctantly, she laughs then slumps against him. ‘I made an appalling mistake coming here. I thought I could handle it but I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry, Tim. You’ve already been involved enough in my problems.’
‘Do you hear me complaining?’
‘If I talk about it, I’ll fall apart, I really will.’ Her voice cracks. ‘I’m leaving here first thing in the morning.’
‘That bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll go together.’
‘Tim, I’m heading home soon. The other side of the world, remember? Is it worth it?’
‘Why put a value on it? Let’s simply enjoy each other’s company.’
He is right. Afterwards no longer matters. She will walk into the dark with him, dance on the grave of Miss Havisham. Rip her cobwebby wedding veil and let it fly like spindrift through the air.
After the guests leave, driving home or going to their chalets, Conor helps to clear away the glasses and plates. Rebecca remains on the terrace. She sits there without talking or helping, like she is waiting for everyone to finish and leave her alone in the shadows. He notices leaves in her hair and is tempted to pluck them out. Better not touch. She wraps a man’s jumper around her shoulders. Tim Dawson was wearing it when he arrived. Earlier, Conor saw them emerging from the forest. The light is on in Tim’s chalet but she makes no attempt to join him or to return to her own place. He wonders if they saw the glow-worms. His father proposed to his mother in the grotto. What words did he use? Probably something like, ‘Can I buy you a ring that is brighter than all the glow-worms in the world?’
When Conor finishes his chores, he pulls over a chair and sits beside his aunt.
‘Can I spend some time with you at your sanctuary when I visit Ireland?’ he asks.
‘We’ll see,’ she replies.
He is taken aback by her abruptness. Julie says he can stay with her as long as he likes. Another boy, she jokes, will not endanger the structure of her house or increase the noise decibels that passed maximum volume a long time ago. She is his favourite aunt so far. He has hardly spoken to Lauren, and Rebecca puzzles him. He expected to like her best of all.
‘I saw you kayaking this morning.’ She interrupts his thoughts. ‘You’re good.’
‘I’m training for the Coast to Coast next year. Have you done any kayaking since you came here?’
‘Yes. On some of the lakes. It’s fun.’
‘We have a tandem kayak in the boathouse. Why don’t you and Tim come with me and Lyle tom
orrow?’
‘Thanks, Conor, but no. We’ve made other plans.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Abel Tasman Park, then travelling on to Cape Farewell.’
‘You should look out for the llamas. You’ll find them in the park. When are you coming back?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Something in her voice alerts him. ‘You will be here for their wedding?’
She bites her lip, then stops as if she is afraid she will cut it with her teeth. Her hesitancy adds to his alarm. Before she speaks, he knows what she is going to say. ‘You’re not coming back.’
‘I’m afraid that’s so.’ She leans forward and watches his mother pick up a parasol that had toppled over.
‘But why? I don’t understand.’ He doesn’t know whether to be amazed or angry. ‘Why come all the way from Ireland if you’d no intention of going to her wedding?’
‘Weddings are difficult for me, Conor. They remind me too much of my own wedding day.’
‘Wasn’t it a happy day?’
‘I was on Cloud Nine. But my husband is dead and your mother’s wedding will stir up too many memories.’
‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’
She cups his chin, runs her hand along his cheek. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a handsome lad?’
Her gaze is like a searchlight. He draws back, embarrassed by her scrutiny. ‘Not lately. But thanks for the compliment. Please come back for the wedding. She really wants you to be there.’
‘She won’t miss me, Conor. And you’ll have such a great time, you won’t even notice my absence.’
All the time they are talking, his mother moves fast around the terrace, arranging chairs and picking up paper serviettes, blowing out night-lights, sweeping litter and leaves into corners. When there is nothing left to do, she stands in front of his aunt without speaking, the two of them just staring each other out. The silence between them is thick enough to punch. Then his mother turns to him, as if she has only become aware of his presence, and says, ‘Off to bed, honey. Rebecca and I need to talk.’
He opens her bedroom door. The wicker basket is still under the bed. He pulls it out and removes another letter. The slanted childish handwriting has changed to a more legible scrawl. There is no doubt about the date. She wrote all the time to her dead mother. He quickly scans the page. Melancholia’s name seems to leap out at him until that is all he sees.
He hears his father returning from his nightly walk with Sandy. Conor shoves the basket back under the bed and takes the letter with him to his own room. ‘Dear Mum, Melancholia is truly amazing…’ Satanic influences and brainwashing music obviously existed then, just like Oliver’s father claims they exist today. This glimpse into her confused world explains so much. No wonder she and Rebecca pass each other as if there is a thorn bush between them.
‘How long was it going on?’ Rebecca asks. ‘Was it before or after my marriage? Or both? How many times? Give me facts and figures, Cathy. I can handle them. It’s better than suspicion, mind games. That’s what Jeremy played. Insidious mind games, and I was weak enough to believe him. We made vows to each other, promises. They meant nothing in the end. How could he…how could you…and now you have the nerve to bring me here to flaunt your son, to hold him like a mirror before me…’ Her voice breaks and Cathy quivers, as if the words have stung her flesh.
‘Jeremy wasn’t worthy of your love.’
Rebecca nods in agreement. ‘Obviously, he wasn’t worthy. But neither were you, and I loved you even more.’
The chain snaps when she pulls the locket from around her neck and forces it into Cathy’s hand. ‘Take it…take it! I’ve carried it around with me for too many years.’
Cathy opens it and sees her parents’ faces, her mother’s hair. She pictures Rebecca carefully removing the black shining strands from the brush and coiling them inside the heart. She clenches the locket and allows her sister to rage at her, assuage her grief.
How can she explain the gravitational lure of seduction and how, so easily, it can turn to rape? How does she know where truth and illusion begin and end? Was Jeremy guilty of doing what she had willed to happen? Her soft-focus fantasy, built around swooning eye contact, gentle hands, violins in the background, heathery moors. She carried no bruises, none that were visible. Rape can be brutal and unexpected, a fist in the dark, pursuing footsteps. It can be a quiet force that creeps insidiously across the flesh and makes it one. Was there a difference? The only music she heard in his car that night was the harsh sigh of the conqueror and the pinned breath of the conquered. In that instant, she lost everything she held dear and gained everything she holds dear.
‘You lied to your son. You and Kevin have shamefully deceived him. How could you?’
‘It wasn’t deliberate—’
‘I don’t want to know.’ Rebecca rises to her feet and stares down at her. ‘But I do know this: such deception will turn and flail you to the bone.’ Jeremy’s face hovers like a death mask between them. Rebecca covers her eyes, as if the sight is unbearable.
‘I’m leaving first thing in the morning,’ she says. ‘I’ll meet my sisters at the airport on the return flight.’
She turns and walks away without another word.
Cathy is still sitting on the terrace when Tim Dawson joins her. This burly man, who moves lightly for his bulk, cares for Rebecca.
‘Make her stay,’ Cathy pleads.
He shakes his head. ‘She doesn’t like complications. Are you part of those complications?’
‘I’m afraid I am.’
‘I figured as much. I’m sorry, Cathy.’
The terrace is deserted now. The lights are off in the chalets, except for one window, the Takahē, where Rebecca, like her sister, is keeping a vigil with the past.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Day Three
Rebecca finishes packing and sits back on her heels. Tim will be with her shortly. On the wall, the takahē stares stoically from its frame, no doubt reflecting on its rescue from extinction.
A knock on the door startles her. Alma Gowan stands outside.
‘We meet again.’ Rebecca crosses her arms and leans against the door frame. ‘You tell a good lie, Alma.’
Alma meets her gaze without flinching. ‘Will it make any difference if I apologise?’
‘None whatsoever.’ Rebecca is unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
‘Can I come inside for a moment?’ Alma glances back towards Havenswalk where the blinds on the windows are still drawn. ‘Cathy warned me not to interfere. I’d rather she didn’t see us talking.’
Reluctantly, Rebecca moves aside. ‘Say what you came to say, Alma, and keep it short. I’m leaving here within the next ten minutes.’
Alma’s gaze travels over the closed rucksack and Rebecca’s backpack. ‘I didn’t speak out once before and I’ve regretted it many times since then.’
‘If you think that makes me feel any better, you’re wrong.’ Rebecca drags her rucksack to the open doorway. No sign of movement from the Torea chalet where Tim slept last night. Alma sits down and links her fingers into a steeple. For an instant, Rebecca thinks she is going to pray.
‘You’re a determined woman, Rebecca. You and Cathy are cut from the same cloth.’
‘An interesting observation. But you’re forgetting something. I’m not the one who deceives.’
‘Except yourself, maybe.’
‘How dare you try to analyse me—’
‘That’s not why I’m here, Rebecca. There’s too much hurt about as it is. I don’t want to add to it by having a row with you.’
‘Then why are you delaying me?’
‘I came here to apologise. I’m heart sorry I lied that day. It wasn’t just for Cathy’s sake, but yours also. Sometimes we can make the wrong decision for the right reason.’
‘I’m sure that’s a profound statement but it makes absolutely no sense to me.’
‘More than anything e
lse, Cathy wanted you to have a happy marriage.’
‘And she believed a marriage based on such deceit could possibly succeed?’ Before Alma can reply, Rebecca holds up her hand. ‘Please don’t tell me ignorance is bliss.’
‘Cathy was only a child, Rebecca. She was out of her depth—’
‘I watched her.’ Rebecca’s self-control is slipping away. ‘Dressing up in those ridiculous clothes, always demanding his attention. Putting on her little-girl-lost act…laughing with him behind my back, thinking I couldn’t hear her…but I never…never—’
To her relief, she hears Tim’s voice. His tall frame fills the doorway. He hesitates when he sees Alma. ‘Am I disturbing something?’
‘Nothing important.’ Rebecca lifts her rucksack and hands it to him. ‘Sling it into the Jeep, Tim. Alma is leaving now.’
‘You’re making the wrong decision, Rebecca.’ The older woman stands. ‘I understand your anger but Cathy was an innocent victim—’
‘Was she, Alma? Look into her eyes next time you ask her that question.’ Rebecca pauses by the door. ‘Just as a matter of interest, do you actually have a daughter called Nadine or was that just another lie?’
‘Everybody has their story, Rebecca. I’ve said what I needed to say and now I’ll bid you goodbye.’ Without waiting for a reply Alma brushes past her and disappears around the side of the chalet. Tendrils of mist drift across the lawn. The rata trees are in full bloom, clots of red blossom hanging heavy on the branches. Rebecca does not look back as Tim drives from Havenswalk.
Ruthie approaches the veranda where Lauren and Steve are breakfasting. She lays a cafetière of fresh coffee, and croissants, warm from the oven, on the table. In the distance, the faint hum of an engine is heard. Julie, on Hannah’s motorbike, flashes into view, a dark shape in black leather before she disappears around the bend of the avenue. The blinds are open in Rebecca’s chalet but Lauren cannot see any movement within. Tim’s Jeep is missing. She begins to feel the first stirrings of uneasiness. Yesterday, Rebecca also disappeared for the day and offered no explanation. The engine grows louder. Julie is back in view. She parks the bike outside Havenswalk, slings the leather jacket over one shoulder and saunters towards the breakfast table. All she is missing, Lauren thinks, is a beard and ponytail.
