by Gee, Maurice
She heard Athol arrive home and she gave him five minutes before she rang.
‘Athol, I’m not sure if you’ve heard the thing that’s happened – ’
‘I have,’ he said.
‘I had a visit from Inspector Franklin – ’
‘I know all about it. And I’ve told you, Mum, it’s not my business. I’m not having anything to do with it any more.’
‘Athol – ’
‘I’m not even going to talk about it. So stop ringing me. Goodnight.’ He hung up.
And that, she thought, is how you step backwards out of life. Into your little mock-universe, about which you know everything. But it was spoiled for him; it had been invaded and he would find no safety there. One day he must come into the real world again. Athol, it will be different here by the time you come back. Ulla won’t be alive any more.
She ate with Olivia, then fed Ulla. She sat with them both, watching Inspector Wexford on TV. Corpses there too, though none wearing wedding rings on decomposed fingers.
‘And always the answer,’ Ulla said.
‘Yes.’
‘How well the British act, though. They never say it wrong.’
Later Gwen read to her. ‘What would you like?’
‘Aftonland. The first ones.’
‘You can say those by yourself.’
‘I like to hear your voice, Gwen. I like someone with me.’
Gwen read, and stopped. ‘These are too sad.’
‘No, go on. They are not sad.’
‘ “Some day you will be one of those who lived long ago.” Well, it’s a marvellous first line; and last line too. “Your peace shall be as unending as that of the sea.” ’
‘He doesn’t quite prove it,’ Ulla said. ‘But it is nice to think. Read the next.’
‘ “All is there, only I am no more,
all is still there, the fragrance of rain in the grass
as I remember it, and the sough of wind in the trees,
the flight of the clouds and the disquiet of the human heart.
Only my heart’s disquiet is no longer there.”
‘Now you say it in Swedish.’
And when Ulla had finished: ‘Oh, that’s good. I believe it in Swedish.’
‘That is because the last word is ‘längre’. You believe the sound of it.’
They talked, and read, and seemed to be saying things that carried an understanding … What was it? Just that they had met each other again? And need not speak, for there was nothing yet that they could put in so many words: This is what I must do, and you must do that?
‘Are you saying you forgive him now?’ Gwen asked, when they talked of Brent Rosser.
‘No,’ Ulla said. ‘How can I when he was so careless with my life? But there he is, and we can’t understand, and so we have to leave him in peace.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘For our sake, not his. We can’t let him say how we go on.’
‘But you’ve thought about him?’
‘Let’s not talk, Gwen. No more tonight. I think I can sleep now if I try.’
Gwen made her comfortable. ‘Ulla love, I want you to know that I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be your hands.’
‘Yes, I know. It will be hard. Hard for you.’
‘I don’t mind.’ She kissed Ulla on the mouth and went away. She sat on the back porch in the dark, with her fingers folded, and watched the moon, lopsided in the sky, and black clouds rolling up over the northern hills. A cold breeze, not unfriendly, blew about her cheeks and in her hair. She would know peace; a few months, or weeks perhaps, of peace, living with Olivia and Ulla. Then she would do as Ulla asked, and be the hands Ulla did not have. And whether she went on then, or stopped, did not matter. Prison perhaps? It did not matter. In giving herself to Ulla she took possession of her self, which she had been estranged from for so long. Estranged? She had never possessed it at all; had possessed only pieces – an interest here, a passion there, enthusiasm for a theory, a technique, some of which had led her to quietness for a while. Now, it seemed, she had her self; had interest, passion, quietness, all in one.
So, Gwen thought, I’ll sit here on my steps and be happy tonight. How lovely it is, surrounded by the darkness, surrounded by the wind: me, Gwen Peet, sitting here alone.
Several weeks later she said to Olivia, ‘Does that new licence of yours let you drive with a passenger?’
‘If it’s an adult.’
‘Can you take the afternoon off school and drive me somewhere then?’
Ulla had given Olivia her car. The girl drove with care, nervously, down Glenmore Street and Tinakori Road.
‘I still have to look down when I change gear.’
‘You’ll get the hang of it. Relax.’
‘Are we going to Wainuiomata because Brent Rosser lived there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not going in. I don’t want to talk to them.’
‘I don’t either. I just want to see.’
‘How do you know the address?’
‘I looked up Rosser in the phone book. It’s not a very common name.’
They went along the Hutt Road and over the hill.
‘It’s like a country town,’ Olivia said.
‘That’s what it is. It doesn’t really have much to do with Wellington.’ She had a street map open on her knee and directed Olivia left and right. ‘That one. Where the woman’s going in with the pushchair.’
‘Won’t she see us?’
‘There’s a notice on the gate, see? Broccoli. I think I’ll buy some.’
The woman had lifted her child out of the pushchair and was following him slowly up the path. Gwen opened the gate.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you sell broccoli?’
‘Yeah, we do. Dollar-fifty a head.’
‘I’ll take two, I think. Is it nice?’
‘My old man grew it. Sure it’s nice.’
She was the woman who had lived in Athol’s house: Brent Rosser’s sister. Gwen had not expected to find her here. She had a birdy, beady face, pretty in a sharp-boned way: sharp enough to cut.
‘I’ll have to get it from around the back.’
‘Leave your little boy. I can watch him.’
‘He opens the catch. He’ll be out on the road before you know it.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
What would she say if I told her my name? Your brother crippled my daughter-in-law, I could say. But she felt that the woman would simply look at her child and find her answer there. The child had probably answered Brent Rosser’s death. A Maori child – or Islander perhaps. And out of wedlock, almost certainly. I could ask Inspector Franklin to give her my wedding ring. Legitimise him, wouldn’t that be nice?
She lifted the child away from the gate and stood him on the lawn. ‘There, run around there.’
The house was white, with green sills and a green door. A rowanberry tree grew on the lawn and borders of impatiens lined the path. Everything was clean and colourful. It was snobbish of her to be surprised.
The child took two handfuls of flowers. He looked at her, a challenge, and pulled them out.
‘Good boy. Does your mummy smack? I’ll bet she does.’
But the woman only made a face at him when she came back. She gave Gwen the broccoli heads, wrapped in newspaper like giant flowers.
‘Nice enough for you?’ said with an edge.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Three dollars.’
Gwen paid. ‘Your little boy is beautiful too.’
‘Yeah, he’s great. He’s really going places.’ She smiled with backward-sloping teeth, but looked more sunny than sharkish.
‘What is he, I can’t tell? Is he … ?’
‘Samoan.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Any objection?’
‘No, of course. It makes him look so – lovely.’ Look after him, she wanted to say. Don’t let him get like
Brent. ‘Goodbye. Thank you for these.’
‘Thank my old man.’
In the car, Olivia said, ‘Was that Brent Rosser’s sister?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘She looked all right. Is she the one you wanted to see?’
‘I didn’t want to see anyone in particular. I just wanted to know … ’ That people who had been in it, in the crippling, in the deaths, on the other side, were going on. The way Olivia was going on – although it wasn’t over for her yet.
‘We’ll stop in Petone and get some fish and chips.’
They ate them on the waterfront, sitting in the car, then walked to the end of Petone wharf.
‘See out there,’ Gwen said, ‘that little island just off Somes Island. They put a Chinaman on there once, in the early days. They thought he had leprosy so they just left him there.’
‘That’s cruel!’
‘They gave him food. They sent it across from Somes Island on a pulley. He lived in a hut there until he died.’
She looked past the islands to the harbour mouth. White waves were breaking on the rocks of Barretts Reef. Wellington was dangerous to get into – and dangerous once you were inside.
‘We’d better get home.’
Olivia made no move. She had her head down. Was she crying? ‘Mum can still joke, you know?’ she said.
‘Yes, she’s managed to keep her sense of humour.’
‘I was telling her about the new computers at school and she said, “My hardware’s gone. All I am is software now.”’
‘That’s very clever.’
Olivia peered down into the water. ‘Little fish.’
‘See them flash.’
‘She wants to die soon, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘Do you think it’s right? Has she got the right?’
‘I think she has.’
‘Has she got the right to ask someone to help her?’
‘Not you, Olivia. I’ve given her the right to ask me.’
‘Will it be like that man in Christchurch, helping his friend to die?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Lorraine won’t let you. She’s a Christian.’
‘Lorraine won’t know.’
‘See the fish again. Millions now. How will you do it? What stuff?’
‘We’re saving up. It mightn’t be for quite a while yet.’
‘Could she change her mind?’
‘She might. But I don’t think so. She wants to talk to you first. And Damon.’
‘I don’t want to go away. I want to be in the house.’
They walked back along the wharf. The winter sun sank towards the hills. Traffic ran in unbroken lines on the waterfront road.
‘Can you drive in all these cars?’ Gwen said.
‘Yes, I’ve got to learn.’
She waited, and saw a place and slipped into it. They drove back through town and up to Kelburn.
The city hummed around them and the early lights went on.
About the author
Maurice Gee is one of New Zealand’s best-known writers. He has won a number of literary awards, including the Wattie Award (twice), the Montana Award, and the New Zealand Fiction Award (three times). He has also won the New Zealand Children’s Book of the Year Award.
Maurice Gee’s other novels include the three books in the Plumb trilogy, Going West (winner of the Wattie award), Live Bodies (winner of the Montana Award) and his most recent Ellie and the Shadowman. He has also written a number of children’s novels, the most recent being The Fat Man, Orchard Street and Hostel Girl.
The author lives in Wellington with his wife Margareta and has two daughters and a son.
