I wiped the water out of my eyes. My natural instinct when the rain started had been to seek shelter. These children, they had seized it as an opportunity to have fun.
When was the last time I had any fun?
Done anything crazy?
Was I still even capable of having fun?
It was a dare, so I threw everything inside, lifting my dress over my head and throwing it inside too, (don’t worry, I know for a fact the neighbours on one side lived in the city and only came down every other weekend and the other neighbour was blocked from view by a trellis on the side of the deck) and you know what I did? I danced naked in the rain. Well, naked apart from my bra and knickers that is. Self consciously at first but then I decided I didn’t care if I looked stupid because no one could see me and I just went for it. The kids couldn’t see unless they too felt the inkling to spy through the fence posts, and even if they did I wasn’t wearing anything more risqué than a woman wearing a bikini. The neighbours on the other side were a corporate couple who lived in Auckland and barely used their beach house, working long hours instead just to cover the mortgage.
I moved my hips in a way I hoped was rhythmic and waved my arms, singing along to the song inside my head, one of those free-spirited bouncy Katy Perry ones about true love and teenagers and skinny jeans, or something like that. I turned circles and skipped like I had when I was a child and I let the water run down my body.
It probably only lasted for ten or fifteen minutes before the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The clouds drifted on down to the next beach, the sun squatted fat and high in the sky, shining down determinedly as if to protest its innocence that it had never left at all.
I lay down on the bank where the grass meets the sand and the driftwood collects in bundles at high tide, and let the sun evaporate the water from my skin. With my eyes closed I opened my other senses. I could smell the bark of the nearby Manuka tree. In summer the breeze would disturb its tiny white flowers and the petals would float to the ground like a blanket of confetti. When we were younger Tania and I would pretend we were at a wedding and take turns being the bride; a handful of baby blue Hydrangeas our bouquet, a veil fashioned from fluffy toi-toi.
I could feel scratchy grass against my back; not entirely unpleasant.
Opening my mouth I could taste the salt in the air.
I don’t want to call it a cleansing, but that’s what it was. A cleansing of my body, mind, spirit and soul.
And I normally hate talking spiritual crap like that.
--------
I didn’t even know anything was wrong with the baby. I blithely went about my every day business, assuming that everything in my body was doing everything it was supposed to. After all, I am a woman, it’s what our bodies are designed to do isn’t it?
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant, apart from Adam. It was my secret, a focus.
I know now but wouldn’t admit to it then that I was hoping when he saw me, radiant with his baby, Adam would want me back. I made up scenarios for how it would happen, (bump in to each other in the supermarket, his new girlfriend looking hideous and ugly beside glowing, gorgeous me) I really believed it would happen like that. So I smiled smugly when people asked me how I was coping with the break up, telling them I was “ok thanks”, and enjoying their puzzled expressions. Wasn’t she supposed to be heartbroken? You could actually see them thinking it.
I was beyond excited the week leading up to my 12 week scan. I couldn’t wait to see the little person inside me for the first time, and post the grainy black and white picture of it as my profile picture on Facebook like others I had seen. I knew from the magazines what to expect, what the baby should look like; all alien like with big head and little arms, so when the pictures came up on the screen and I didn’t see it I knew straight away something was terribly wrong. And then they told me that from measuring its size my baby had died three weeks previously and every fantasy I had went poof! in a flash of smoke and I was left cold and dazed and going through the motions of treatment for miscarriage but even that my body couldn’t get right, because it refused to let the baby go naturally so I had to suffer the indignity of a nurse wearing lubricated gloves pushing pills up my vagina and watching the baby fall out 7 hours later in a gush of blood that just wouldn’t stop gushing. Surgery, blood transfusions, needles shoved into my hands and arms. My Gran rubbing my back while I cried and cried and cried, always crying.
How is a person supposed to get past something like that?
It was a question I tortured myself with at night when I didn’t sleep, during the day when I didn’t eat. I took sick leave from my job and I never went back.
How do people comfort you when they don’t know what the problem is?
I had no words for it. When people asked me how I was I didn’t say, “Oh crap, actually, thanks. I just lost my baby and about a million tons of blood. My entire reproductive system feels like it’s been grabbed and shaken and squeezed and twisted and then stomped on but, other than that, I’m doing alright! All things considered.” It wasn’t what they wanted to hear, so I couldn’t expect them to understand or offer comfort when I couldn’t even tell them what was wrong.
I called Adam and told him and he was genuinely sad and sympathetic. He came and saw me and we hugged and the feel of him made me want to cry with the memories but he had so obviously moved on that I had to accept it, or at least start to. Now here I was, months later, dancing in rain and letting the water wash my body and my memories clean. I relegated Adam to the past and the baby to a place in my heart.
I was far from healed, but maybe I wasn’t quite as broken.
CHARLIE
Yes!
Pearl came into the shop today. Half an hour before closing, just pushed through the door and walked up to the counter, as clear and as real as could be, just as I’d imagined it oh, a thousand times.
“Hey” she said, and she smiled.
She actually smiled. At me!
“Hey!” I beamed back. Ha! She was here! I felt like doing a little jig. Could I be any more of a geek? Don’t answer that.
“Do you have any Marian Keyes books?” she asked.
Ok so she was here for a book rather than popping in specifically to see me but what the hell, I would take it.
“Sure” I said, “right this way”, and while I led her over to the fiction shelves I tried quickly to think of something cool to say, anything simply to prolong the conversation. “So...you, um, you like Marian Keyes then?”
Nice one. Smooth.
“What’s not to like? She’s funny, I always read her when I need a laugh”
“Yeah, my mum likes her for the same reason. She’s read them all at least twice.”
“Me too”
“Really?”
“Yep, I’ve read some of them more, especially the ones with this family, the Walsh sisters, they’re hilarious.”
“I’ve never understood reading a book more than once. You already know what’s going to happen. Where’s the surprise in that?”
“Life doesn’t always have to be a surprise. Sometimes you just need something you know is going to end well.” She looked serious for a second then seemed to shake it off, her smile returning. “Something you know will make you laugh” she smiled.
I wondered what sort of laugh she had. I went out with this girl once who had the loudest laugh, like a machine gun. The first time she did it we were at a bar and everyone turned around and stared at us. I thought she was joking at first, but not at all sure why she would do that because it sounded awful and I get nervous being the centre of attention, but after a few hours and a few more drinks and a whole lot of stares from other people, I realised it was her real laugh. That was our last date.
Call me shallow. And it’s not like I can afford to be picky.
I was betting Pearl had a beautiful melodic laugh.
“I bet I could make you laugh” I told her.
She gave me a look that sa
id she seriously doubted it. “Go on then”
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“Why?’
“To get to the other side”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that before”
“Wait, there’s more, why did the chewing gum cross the road...”
She sighed, “Why?”
“....because it was stuck to the chicken!”
“Man, that’s crap”
“I haven’t finished.....why did the turkey cross the road...?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me”
“...to prove it wasn’t a chicken!”
“Ok enough already”
“One more” I grinned at her, “It’s a good one I promise”
She raised her eyebrows, “fine, go on then”
“Why did the chicken cross the road...?”
“You did this one”
“No no, it’s different”
“I don’t think I can handle anymore”
“Last one...guess, why did the chicken cross the road...?”
“I have no idea”
“To prove to the possum it could be done!”
She laughed and I was right, it was a beautiful laugh, delicate, like her, but honest. It made me want to hear it again and again and again.
“Hey, I was wondering,” I said, “Do you want to go out for a drink sometime?”
PEARL
Ugh.
An interesting night. More fun than I’ve had in a while certainly, but that’s not exactly tough competition. I’m just drunk enough that the room is spinning which I hate and which every time it happens I swear I will never drink ever again. And I fully mean it, until the next time.
Charlie suggested we get a drink sometime and I thought, why not now? It’s not like I had anything to rush home for, and the baked bean toasted sandwiches were getting a bit boring night after night, I wouldn’t mind a nice restaurant meal. I do enjoy cooking, when it’s for someone else. When it’s just me I can’t be bothered.
“Give me 10 minutes” he said, and his excitement was obvious.
“Charlie,” I wanted to be honest right from the start, couldn’t let him get his hopes up, “please don’t think of this as like, a date, I’ve just come out of something pretty heavy and I’m not looking for anything right now. I probably won’t be for a long time”.
If he was disappointed he hid it well.
“Sure” he smiled, “friends it is”.
So how is it that I am not in my own bedroom?
CHARLIE
“Friends” she said.
“Sure” I told her, “I can do friends”.
I can also be patient.
When it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, as Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin sang once. Or maybe it was Shakespeare?
PEARL
While I waited for him to finish work I walked down to the main wharf on the estuary. Kids were fishing with hand lines, buckets beside them filled with little silver fish.
I remembered doing this with my cousins growing up. Summer afternoons, our bare feet dangling off the side, each with a custard square in a white paper bag, a treat from the local bakery paid for by Gran, who would sit on a nearby bench and watch us all carefully. None of us wanted to be the first to cave and eat theirs early, because eating yours first meant you then had to watch jealously while the others lingered over theirs on purpose later on.“Hmm yum” they would tease, licking the gooey custard off the inside of the paper. So we would try and time it to eat them all together.
We’d run proudly up to Gran every time we caught a fish, usually a sprat but if we were lucky a yellow eyed mullet or small John Dory. She would clap her hands gleefully and declare it the biggest fish she’d ever seen and then we’d go home and she’d carefully fillet it, no matter how small, then coat it in flour and fry it in butter and we would sit outside on the grass and eat it with our fingers and it would still taste of the sea. I don’t think to this day I’ve ever tasted anything as delicious.
Lost in the past I didn’t hear Charlie come up behind me until he was right there, so once again he gave me a fright and I screamed.
“Man, “I said as I tried to catch my breath again, “that’s becoming a bit of a habit of yours”
He just grinned
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yep, I’m starving”
We walked across the village green, back up to town and he steered me towards the corner Hotel/Pub. I hadn’t been there for years. I vaguely remembered a dark dingy place, with red stained carpet and a room at the back filled with pokie machines but was pleasantly surprised to find that sometime in the last five years it had had a makeover. The walls were a nice antique cream and hung all around were photos of local landmarks and people taken over the last 100 years. I love looking at old photos, especially of people. It’s the mystery that surround them; who were they? What were they like? That couple, the man with the severe moustache and centre part and the woman with the bun and the dress buttoned up to her chin. Were they in love or was it more of an arrangement? Did she reach for him at night when she woke in the dark and needed comfort? I could spend hours in antique shops poring over old albums and wondering about the occupants. It saddened me that these were no longer in family possessions.
When we into the main dining area someone called out “Charlie” and he led me over to a table where a couple, around our age, and what seemed like a dozen children (because they kept running around and around the table and it was hard to keep track of them), were sitting. I recognised the girl from the Farmers Market, and felt relief that she was taken, and clearly not competition for Charlie’s affections. If she had been it was a competition in which I would have stood no chance. The girl was gorgeous, long black hair to her waist, beautiful clear chocolate skin, lips like Angelina Jolie. She made me feel washed out beside her and very, very plain.
“s’up” nodded the guy, in that way kiwi guys do, a raise of the eyebrows and lift of the chin.
“Hey bro” said Charlie.
“You here for a feed?”
“Maybe, thought we’d start with a drink and see what happens”
“Wanna join us?”
“Um,” Charlie was stuck for words, he obviously wanted to say we were on a date but I’d made it clear this wasn’t a date so he was screwed for how to say it. “Nah, it’s ok,” he settled for, “sweet for offering, but, nah.”
“You going to introduce your friend Charlie?” the girl said.
“Oh yeah, of course, sorry. Rangi, Cushla, this is Pearl, she’s staying in town for a little while”.
“What a beautiful name” smiled Cushla. She had an open face, friendly. You can tell with some people right away can’t you, whether you’re going to like them or not. Especially girls. Some girls, when you meet them, they give off a vibe, maybe in the way they look you up and down, or smile at you in a way that doesn’t include the eyes and is clearly fake. I always trust my first impression, and my impression of Cushla was that she was a genuinely nice person. Which cheered me, as it would be nice to maybe have a female friend in the area if I was going to stay here all winter.
“Thanks” I smiled back at her gratefully. Friendliness is underrated it really is. A little smile from someone, a kind word, can change your mood completely.
Charlie and I found our own table. We ordered food; a beef burger and fries for him, a seafood medley for me. I love seafood, well, most seafood. I can’t eat anything with tentacles or eyes, so whitebait fritters and baby octopuses are off the menu. But I love all fish and shellfish. My Gran makes the best paua fritters, famous and craved at neighbourhood barbeques. The thick black meat is minced up through an old metal hand mincer that she attaches to the bench like a vice. My cousins and I used to scrap over whose turn it was to help her, one to push the paua through the top and the other to hold the bowl underneath and pull the mince out the spout as Gran turned the handle. Being the youngest I seldom
won through legitimate means, relying instead on a few tears and a wobbly lip to get my way.
Tonight I’m served a huge platter; mussels, crayfish, salmon bites, calamari rings, battered fish, rock oysters, all with a lemon wedge and a handful of token coleslaw on the side; a couple of spoonfuls of red cabbage and some grated carrot, a splash of dressing.
We’ve never understood why they do that, Charlie and I agree, because no one ever eats it. I don’t trust that it’s not just recycled from the last diner who didn’t eat it and left it on their plate I tell him and he laughs and tells me that’s the exact same reason he never eats it either.
We also agree that generally the Battered fish and chip meal at any restaurant or pub is a rip off, because you pay twenty, thirty bucks for a couple of pieces of battered fish and a few soggy chips that if you just walked down the road to the local fish ‘n’ chip shop you could pay five for.
I wash my meal down with a glass of the house red, and then another, and maybe another couple after that. Charlie drinks beer by the handle.
We laugh, a lot. Turns out we have a similar sense of humour.
He tells more stupid chicken jokes and I tell him some corny vampire ones.
(Where did the vampire open his savings account? At the Blood bank. What does a baby Bat say before going to bed? Turn on the dark - I’m afraid of the light! Why doesn’t anyone like Count Dracula? He’s a pain in the neck)
He’s into the whole, ‘Twilight’ hype, I just don’t get it. I mean, Robert Pattinson is a good looking, I will admit, but I gave up halfway through the first book when I got sick of reading about every single little thing Bella did in her day – and then she brushed her teeth, and then she put her pyjamas on, and then she brushed her hair, and then she went to the toilet, and then she moisturised her pretty little pale hands – yawn.
Charlie and Pearl Page 4
