The Boy In the Olive Grove

by Fleur Beale

  It didn’t work as a distraction. Neither Iris’s story nor olive grove boy would be silenced. Okay, then. The only thing to do, other than pour it all out to Iris’s shrink, was to face it, to deal with it as simply a problem to be analysed.

  For the moment, I put Iris’s story to one side, tacitly accepting that somehow we must have shared a past existence together. If that was the case, then logically I had to accept that the boy was some past memory as well. If so, then he ought to be somebody I already knew. But I didn’t recognise him — there was no sense of familiarity, not like there’d been with Iris. He couldn’t therefore be Nick, who would have been top of my list. I drifted off into a daydream where olive grove boy did turn into Nick. He had a girlfriend who was me and we lived happily ever after.

  Dreams — such useless, dangerous things. Much better to stay in the present where OG boy was a mystery and Nick was with Lulu.

  I reviewed the other men in my life, checking for possible matches with OG boy. I felt no connection with Dad’s factory employees. My two past boyfriends — not a flicker of recognition there either. If one of them was OG boy, then he hadn’t fared well over the centuries. Brothers of my school friends? Again, nothing.

  If the past-life theory was right, then the boy in the olive grove ought to be somebody I’d known since I was ten, when I first saw him. That pretty much excluded everyone except Nick — but why, then, hadn’t I recognised him?

  I gave up and went to bed, drifting between waking and sleeping till I was jerked into full consciousness. ‘Oh my god!’ I sat up, clutching my head, my heart, my sanity. What if that boy was Hadleigh? I loved him. He loved me, usually anyway.

  I groaned, got out of bed and turned on the light. It was going to be one of those nights when I had to read myself to sleep. Jane Eyre was my go-to book on such occasions.

  Chapter Nine

  A TEXT FROM EDDY woke me at 7.43 a.m. Sorry didn’t get back to you ystdy. C u at factory @ 10? It took a moment to focus on reality. Jane and her troubles still wove around in my head, mixed with an image of Rochester, who now had the face of the boy among the olive trees.

  I texted him back. OK. Thanx.

  I checked the tablet while Mum was in the bathroom, but there was still nothing from Hadleigh. Lots of messages of concern from every girl in my class, though. Dad doing okay, I posted. Iris determined he’ll live even if she has to force feed him with healthy food. Don’t laugh, but I’m kinda running the outfit while he’s recovering. If you know anybody who needs bespoke, quality furniture plse tell me!!!

  I emailed Clodagh, Maddy and Charlotte with a more detailed account of the dramas of my current life, except for the past-life element of the story. Who was the boy, anyway? Nick, Hadleigh, or somebody I hadn’t met?

  It was a strange relief to get angry at Mum. She didn’t speak to me and I felt the ice. This was a hostile silence, no doubt about this one. I tried to make conversation, but she didn’t acknowledge any remark, even by a look. It had been more satisfying talking to the gladioli.

  I took my tea out into a blue and shining day to let the sun warm me. It was perfect weather for tennis. I could understand her frustration, about that anyway — normally I’d have been thrilled to play competition matches. I might even meet kids from the school I’d be going to next year too. Oh well, no use dreaming of what might have been.

  I dealt to the dishes, made my bed and left my room immaculate.

  ‘See you, Mum. I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late.’

  No reply.

  Hey ho, on we go. Living with her next year was shaping up to be a challenging exercise in navigating the shoals of her moods.

  Eddy was already waiting when I arrived ten minutes early. Damn. I’d been hoping for time to switch from puzzled and horrible daughter to pumped factory boss.

  He looked as if he was busting out of his skin with excitement as he waved a folder under my nose. ‘Designs, Bess! For the furniture we should be making.’

  I unlocked the squeaky door and headed for the tearoom. ‘Whose designs? We can’t pinch somebody else’s, I wouldn’t think.’

  ‘They’re mine. I’ve been drawing them for a couple of years. Have a look.’ He thrust the folder at me and flicked it open even before I’d sat down. ‘Your dad liked them, but he’d only use the cabinet designs, bookcases and bedroom furniture.’

  I turned the pages, trying to translate the lines into three-dimensional objects. That wasn’t my strong point, but I knew that if Dad liked them they’d be good. There were several styles of tables along with a variety of dining chairs, and ten variations of coffee and occasional tables. All the drawings seemed sleek, modern and timeless, so why hadn’t Dad used these as well?

  ‘Of course! No turned parts to any of them. No lathe work, no job for Bernie.’

  Eddy folded himself onto a chair, the excitement dying. ‘That’s the size of it. The boss won’t give him the heave-ho. To be fair, the old guy’s a damned good craftsman.’

  ‘Dad’s loyal to a fault.’ With the big fat exception of ditching Mum. ‘He’s letting the place fail rather than tell Bernie he’s not needed.’

  Eddy took a couple of seconds to absorb that. ‘D’you reckon you can save it?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t. Not me. But if every one of you guys works your butt off, and if we all pull together, we’ve maybe got a chance. A slimmish one.’

  ‘What about Bernie? He’ll be back the minute he discovers we’re still working.’

  Oh, the fun of a small town. ‘We’ll have to find work for him. Real work though. We can’t afford to let his needs dictate the designs we produce.’

  Eddy sat a good fifteen centimetres taller in his chair. ‘I hear you, boss. You can count me in.’

  That was a start. As I saw it, he was going to be the engine driving the others. ‘Did you come up with a price for those tables?’

  ‘Yeah. Looks like we should let them go for around $600. Bloody criminal.’

  I was almost scared to ask, but a businesswoman can’t be a wuss. ‘How much should they be?’

  ‘Handcrafted. Individually finished. American oak timber. Around three and a half thou.’ He didn’t need to spell out the loss.

  ‘We’ll put them on Trade Me with a $600 reserve.’

  Eddy laughed. ‘A woman of action. Anything else I can do?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to have to do the rounds. Try to get the buyers back. I’ll need something to show them. I wish we had some of your designs made and ready to go, though. What’s on the website? Anything there I can use to show what we can do?’

  ‘Yeah, but the trouble is most of the work we’ve done in the last few months is tables. Not many chairs. Only about one set to every dozen tables.’

  I tapped the folder. ‘Can you draw me up a few of these so that people can see what they’ll look like? It’s no good trying to show photos of tables with turned legs.’

  I suspected not many shops would commit to an order just from a plan, but what did I know?

  ‘Yes, no sweat. But …’ He stopped and got busy studying a knot in the wood of the tabletop.

  ‘Listen, Eddy. You can’t be scared to tell me things, so stop dithering. What I know about this business wouldn’t fill a size A bra cup.’ I grinned at him. ‘And in case you’re wondering — A cups are the smallest.’

  He gaped, gasped and laughed. ‘Thanks for that!’ He stopped again, but I folded my arms and glared at him. ‘Okay. Um … how old are you, Bess? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’

  Here it was again. Why couldn’t I have inherited at least some of Dad’s height? ‘I’m eighteen. Why?’

  Eddy had got over his hesitation and let me have it from both barrels. ‘You look like a kid. I don’t reckon you’ll get anybody to take you seriously. You’ll probably get a pat on the head and they’ll say what a good little girl you are to be wanting to help your daddy.’

  I winced, opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again. ‘D
o you know Beverly Maketawa?’

  ‘She’s the bank bod, isn’t she? Why?’

  ‘You said exactly what she told me. Only you were — shall we say, more forceful. Who would you suggest, then?’

  He stuck his thumb into his chest. ‘Me. I could do it. I know the prices, delivery times. I know the furniture. I can sell it.’

  He was confident, and there was no arguing that he’d be better than I could hope to be. ‘But don’t you want to do the hands-on bit? Actually make it rather than sell it?’

  ‘Of course I do. But think about it. We don’t want to be making a bunch more stuff we have to flog off for less than half price. Better to build our customer base.’ The nerve of him! He actually leaned across the table to pat my head, except I saw it coming and jerked out of range.

  ‘Okay. You’ve got a point.’ I aimed an index finger at his heart. ‘Don’t you ever, ever try treating me like a kid again. If I’m a kid, then I go away and play with my dolls and you lot will be out of a job.’

  He didn’t look at all abashed, but he did have the grace to almost apologise. ‘Fair enough. I got a bit carried away. Excited, you know.’ He tossed the folder into the air. ‘I’m getting a chance at making these babies!’ Then he cocked his head on one side and asked, ‘Did you really play with dolls?’

  I got up from the table. ‘That, my fine friend, will for ever remain a mystery.’ Yes, I’d played with dolls. Hadleigh and I operated on them. Dad’s big fencing pliers were excellent for appendectomies and limb removal. Mum hadn’t been pleased.

  As we were leaving the factory, Eddy said, ‘I’ll go straight into Hamilton in the morning. Unless you want to see the drawings first?’

  ‘Email them to me. But how about a haircut before you hit the shops? And what’ll you wear?’

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, and I knew it was because they were twitching with the urge to pat my head.

  ‘Very wise of you,’ I said.

  He skipped for a couple of steps. ‘Can’t help it, boss. Haven’t been this pumped since — for ever! And don’t worry about me. I promise I’ll scrub up so fine you won’t know it’s me.’

  He floated off. I headed for home but detoured when I saw a girl on a bike with her tennis racket strapped to her back. I’d have loved to be out on a court, bashing a ball. I followed her to the courts, only to find them all busy, though I couldn’t tell if there was a club tournament on or not. Maybe I could pick up a game later if I went in after all and asked for Mum’s friend Marion Symes.

  I prepared myself for a Mum-type woman. Wrong. Marion was forty-ish, brisk but friendly.

  ‘Bess Grey? Oh yes, my mother told me your mum said you wanted to join the club.’

  Really? ‘I can’t play in a competition, though. I work odd hours.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. The teams are made up now anyway. Get changed and I’ll find somebody to give you a game.’

  I went home, changed into my tennis gear and left Mum a note: I’m at the tennis club. Might be able to play some games.

  That might please her enough to start another thaw.

  I ran from the house, slamming the door behind me. I shouldn’t have to creep around, watching every word I said. I shouldn’t have to keep searching for ways to appease her. Hadleigh never got hammered with her disapproval, no matter what he said or did. I jumped in his car, slammed that door too, and gunned the engine. Bloody families.

  Back at the club, I hung around for half an hour before Marion zoomed up. ‘Right you are, Bess. Meet Harriet. She’ll give you a game. I’ll umpire.’

  Harriet winked at me. ‘You’re being assessed. You’re new in town, aren’t you?’

  ‘Kind of. I’ve been at boarding school in Auckland since I was ten.’

  I could see her sizing me up, wondering if I was a snooty bitch. We took our places, began playing, and I slaughtered her. She was a good loser. ‘Holy hell, Bess. That’s one mean serve you’ve got.’ She pulled the tie from her hair. ‘Man, I thought I’d be walking all over you.’

  I grinned at her. ‘You copped a fair amount of misdirected rage. I’m not usually that ferocious.’

  We flopped down in the shade of the veranda for a drink, and watched Marion come over. ‘Impressive, Bess. I’ll let you know if we have a cancellation for any comp games. If you can come, good. We’ll be pleased to have you.’

  ‘I’m Year 12 at school,’ Harriet said. ‘Year 13 next year. You?’

  ‘Same, and in need of a new school.’

  ‘Something to do with the misdirected rage?’

  Did I want to confess all? Not really, but with Mum blabbing everything to her mates I might as well. ‘The rage is mother-related. I need a new school because I got myself chucked out of my old one.’ I could speak lightly of it, but I still hurt at all I was losing.

  ‘You slid down the banisters? Walked up the down staircase?’

  I sighed. ‘Nothing so wicked. I got drunk. Ended up in hospital. Nearly died.’

  ‘Jeez!’

  ‘Yeah. You could say that.’

  If Harriet wanted more grisly details she hid it well. ‘Go to school here. It’s okay. Good, in fact.’

  I pulled a face. ‘The downside, though, is that I’ll have to spend the whole year living with my mother.’ I stood up. ‘Speaking of which, I’d better go. Thanks for the game, Harriet.’

  ‘See you round, Bess.’

  As soon as I drove off, the problems of the business came back in my head, Nick and Hadleigh hovering at the edges. Olive grove boy showed up as well, just to add to the mix, but this time he flashed by too fast for me to see where he was or who he might be now. ‘Butt out! Leave me alone,’ I yelled, then realised the car window was down. By way of distraction I stopped to watch the croquet players on the green behind the tennis courts. Mum should take it up. I might suggest it. We could possibly even have a conversation about it. Worth a shot.

  MUM WASN’T INTERESTED in croquet. ‘Whatever gave you that idea, Bess? Really, you should know me better than to imagine I’d waste my time hitting a ball through hoops.’

  Well, at least she was talking. I tried tennis next. ‘Marion Symes was great. She watched me play and she’ll let me know if somebody pulls out of a comp match.’ Deep breath. ‘Thanks for talking to her.’ Marion’s mother, apparently, but I wouldn’t mention that.

  ‘You might put in the effort to be in a team, after all those expensive lessons I paid for.’

  I gave it one more attempt. ‘I appreciate the tennis lessons. I appreciate the school I went to, and please don’t say any more about how I’ve thrown that away. I’m not trying to upset you, but I have to try to help Dad. He’s still my father even though you don’t want to have anything to do with him.’

  She raised cool eyebrows. ‘I’m not upset. Forgive me for trying to ensure you make the most of your life.’

  I watched her glide away back out to her garden. We inhabited separate universes. They collided but they would never merge.

  I drove to the hospital. Iris was sitting with Dad, laughing. The humour left his face the moment he caught sight of me.

  ‘Good to see you, love. We need to talk business.’

  Iris opened her mouth, but I put a hand on her arm and she shut it again.

  ‘We don’t need to, Dad. I’ve had a meeting with Beverly and she brought me up to speed.’

  Iris gave me a narrow look, but Dad didn’t appear to notice anything unusual about a banker rolling out in the weekend to talk to an eighteen-year-old.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dad. ‘Good. Now all we need is a plan.’ He stirred in the bed, and got busy looking old and worn and tired all over again.

  ‘It’s all under control. And don’t worry about Bernie. I won’t sack him. I promise.’ I picked up his hand, holding it in both of mine. ‘Dad, I don’t know if we’ll be able to turn the factory round, but I promise you I’ll do all I can to save it. On one condition.’

  Iris tensed up again. Dad hovered between
hopeful and tired. ‘And that would be?’

  ‘You’ve got to let me make the decisions. Just till you’re well again. You’ve got to trust me. I know that’ll be hard. I’ll make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I’ll try my hardest, and the only reason I’m doing this is to save your stupid life, so if you’re going to worry anyway then the deal’s off.’ I sniffed and wiped my eyes. Bloody parents.

  He narrowed his eyes at me this time. ‘Hmmm. Fair enough. Fair enough. Iris, love — what do you think?’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘I think she’s a chip off the old block. And I’m warning you, Charlie: If I see you worrying despite Bess working her fingers to the bone, I’m going to tell on you.’

  ‘You women!’ Dad said, settling back and ceasing to look old and tired.

  Chapter Ten

  THAT NIGHT, I retreated to my room. Mum wasn’t talking to me, and her disapproval filled the air. It scared me to realise just how much I’d relied on Hadleigh to reassure me that I wasn’t the awful person she made me out to be. If only he’d contact me — it mightn’t change our mother, but I’d feel much less alone. All I could do was keep on sending the messages.

  Getting on like a house on fire(!) with Iris. Can do with warmth, you wouldn’t believe the toxic sludge around here.

  I stopped, wondering whether to tell him the full Iris story. What the hell — the mood I was in, I might as well go for broke.

  Re yr ideas re the reason for my binge — Iris has got a theory that blasts yours out of cyberspace. Nuff to say it involves her and me in a past life. Apparently I was a mean, nasty bastard who burnt wives when he got tired of them. Hads, I wouldn’t believe it for a second except that she told me what I’d seen in my head before I said even half a word about it. Freaky, bro.

  Btw, dad’s done a deal with the bank to keep the factory going till Xmas. Prob means they’ll have to sell the house to pay the money back. Hasn’t told Iris but I’m going to. You are well out of it, Hads. You’d have chains on your soul by now. So don’t come home till things have got sorted or gone belly-up. I’d quite like to hear from you though. Nah, scrub that — I’m desperate to hear from you. Sorry again for you know what. Love you.