by Paula Boock
Then I realised that it was Benny who was crying and I said, ‘Stop crying, Benny, you’ve been crying all day.’ And he kept saying, ‘They were trying to get me all night. They didn’t have the right phone number. They’d been trying to get me all night.’
Suddenly, my ears popped. At the same time some things became clear again. I was on a plane. The plane was full of people. Old people, coloured people, Asian people, young people. I could see them all and I could see the harrassed face of the air hostess as she muttered, ‘Shush, shuddup, shush,’ to an ugly-looking little kid. I could see all the colours again and from the window I looked down on the tiny play farms and roads and the sea lapping the land. I looked at Benny.
‘It’s all right, Benny,’ I said. ‘It’ll be all right soon. Try to rest.’ I stroked his forehead and his eyes closed. He sat, taking slow breaths and then turned to me and smiled gently.
‘Thanks.’
I pulled my book out of my bag, as though everything was normal. The Last of the Wine. I flipped to the last few pages. There was something I had to read.
His body had not stiffened yet, but his skin was growing cold. He lay already as one of the unnumbered dead. Always, from my first remembrance, whether he rode, or walked, or ran, or stood talking in the street, as far as I could see him I knew him apart from all other men; nor was it possible, in the darkest night, to mistake another’s hand for his… When they had gone, I lifted his hand, and saw how they had bruised it, pulling off the ring for me. Then I wept.
When I had read it the first time, sitting in Bob’s bathroom, I had thought of Mum, and how I had felt. Now, I thought of Wai and I wept again, silently this time, so as not to disturb Benny. There is something morbid about me that I always force myself to face the worst. I wish I didn’t have such a vivid imagination. I thought of Wai’s body; smashed, bloody, broken, dead. And I remembered once imagining her face disintegrating into an old woman’s and how I had cried then too, and she had put her cap on my head and said, ‘I know how you feel. I always do.’ And finally I realised that if there were words that went with that flash of red at Reinga, those were they. ‘I know how you feel. I always do.’
The tears were flowing down my face and I knew I had to stop, that Wai was still too close to begin the remembering. I wiped my face and glanced back at the page, remembering Mum instead, an easier memory, and for some reason, Helen. Helen. She had loved Mum as I loved Wai.
I looked at Benny and realised that all I felt for him, I had felt for Wai – even how she looked and how it felt to touch her. There was no difference, except that it was easier to have a boyfriend than a girlfriend.
Helen had loved my mother. Of course she had. And they had been lovers. Of course they had. In fact, I’d known it for a long time, but I was too much of a prude to believe it. Now, when I thought about it, I found it didn’t worry me at all. Actually, it was quite racy of them for those days. ‘She had style, your mother,’ Bob had said. She sure did.
We were coming into Dunedin airport. I put away the book and took out my dark sunglasses. The next few days were going to be hell. But when they were over, I decided, I was going to write a long letter to Helen.
* * *
The first person I saw was Uncle Rapata, Wai’s uncle. He came over and wrapped me in his enormous arms, rocking me gently. I had to work hard not to start crying again. Then I saw Davy and Stef flying through the door. ‘Late as usual,’ I said. I had to say something, it was so good to see them. They both hugged me hard and said lots of things I don’t remember and my throat was aching from the effort not to bawl. Uncle Rapata and Benny had their arms around each other. Benny’s eyes were squeezed shut, but he was nodding as Rapata talked to him quietly in Maori.
Davy went to get my pack and then Stef was talking to Rapata. Benny pulled me aside.
‘I’m sorry Mel. I didn’t think to talk on the plane. I’m going to be swallowed up by family now, but you’re family too. They’ll want you amongst us.’ I nodded. He bent down and kissed me lightly. ‘Ring me, Mel. We have much to talk about.’ He was talking like his grandfather – Wai did it too, after she’d been speaking in Maori.
‘Okay,’ I answered.
And they were gone. I was holding together well, I thought. The tangi would bring it all out, but that was as it should be. As we drove back to town, Stef asked me about my trip. I told her enough for now.
‘We were worried, you know? Not stoopid worry, but good worry. Your dumb brother here, he luffs you, although he’s too Noo Seeland to say. I luff you too, but you know that.’
‘Yes, I do. I’m sorry, Stef. I thought –’
‘Now don’t apologise. I hate apology.’ She leaned her arm over the back of her seat and narrowed her eyes. ‘You can look after yourself, I think, most of the time.’
‘Where are Zoe and Leo?’ I asked.
‘With a friend. We wanted to haf you to ourselves,’ answered Stef.
Then Davy began, in his careful, heavy way.
‘Mel, I know this is a very sad time for you right now, and we’re very sad about it too, and I’m certainly not going to try to push anything on you at the moment…but I do want to ask you to think about returning to school. We heard most of what happened, and actually we’re very proud of why you did what you did,’ (I saw Stef put her hand over her mouth and look out the window, to stifle a smile), ‘although how you went about it was pretty bloody stupid. Anyway, you might be pleased to know that you got quite good marks in most of your exams and I’ve spoken to the school and they’d be happy – well, willing – to have you back for the seventh form. You’ve got all holidays to think about it. At the moment we can leave it at that.’
I didn’t answer. Eventually, Stef said, ‘Hokay you great wet blanket, take the lady to her new abode.’
‘My what?’
‘Ahah.’ Davy lightened up. ‘We have a surprise for you. A return, or part-return, for you at least, to BLZ.’
‘Ahh, remember BLZ, Mel?’ said Stef, teasing Davy.
‘Vaguely.’
We pulled up outside our house in Phoenix Street. So much for the new abode. On the front doorstep there stood a large over-wrapped parcel.
‘Oh yes, this arrived yesterday with a note from Bob not to open it. Apparently it’s from you.’ Davy raised his eyebrows at me.
I frowned. ‘Oh, the sun dial!’ Then I remembered. ‘Yeah, it’s meant to be a Christmas present.’
‘Never mind. So’s yours. Better now than never, huh?’ Stef always gets sayings wrong. ‘I always wanted a sun dial. What a wonderful present, Mel. Thank you.’
Inside, I went to put my pack in my room, only it wasn’t there. It was a dining room again. I found Davy and Stef grinning at each other in the kitchen.
‘Okay, where’s my bed?’
‘Come,’ said Stef.
She took me to the big kitchen window. There it was in the back garden, its bright gold sides sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
‘A caravan!’ I was astounded. ‘A caravan!’
‘It’s great Mel, come and look,’ said Davy, taking me by the hand. ‘We’ve put most of your stuff in it but you can reorganise it and do what you like inside. Stef painted the outside.’
‘Who else?’ I laughed.
‘It’s all hooked up to the house electricity supply,’ Davy seemed to think he needed to explain, ‘so you’ve got everything you need, you could have a television if you buy one and tea and coffee making facilities –’
‘What?’
Stef was laughing too. ‘You sound like the carafan dealer. It’s got plugs, Mel.’ She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘A room of your own. Efery woman needs one. I might come to fisit rather a lot, hokay?’
‘Hokay.’
‘Here’s the key,’ said Davy.
I opened the door. It was bigger inside than it looked, and had three windows, the biggest one looking out over the river and trees. On my bed was a painting. I picked it up and froze. It was Wai’s –
the one she had been painting of me in art class the day everything began. I swung round to Davy and Stef.
‘Where did this come from?’
Stef answered. ‘From Wai. She brought it around the day hafter you left. She didn’t know you were gone.’ Stef paused, and said gently, ‘She’d come round to make up, I think.’
I looked at it. There was still the eggcup, but where the cameraman had spilt the paint, Wai had converted it into this mass of flowers and weird creatures coming out of my head. I was stunned. It was so beautiful, I stared and stared at it and my own eyes stared back. I shook my head. ‘Jesus Wai. It’s crazy.’
I turned back to the door but Davy and Stef were gone. I’d been looking at the painting a long time. Outside I heard the regular scrape and thump of someone digging. I took a deep, shaky breath and opened my door, still holding Wai’s painting. Davy had his shirt off in the last of the sun, and was digging a hole in the lawn for the sun dial.
‘Hey, Davy,’ I called to him. He looked up.
‘I think I’d like to go back to school.’
A grin broke across his face and he raised his spade in the air.
‘Victory!’ he cried.
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s Girls’ High, not Everest.’
The low sun slanted through the trees behind me and briefly caught the colours of the painting. For a moment I didn’t recognise the memory that leapt at the sight. But only for a moment. The bright red flower in the middle, I realised, was pohutukawa.
About the Author
PAULA BOOCK wrote Out Walked Mel when she was twenty-five. It won the AIM Best First Book Award and made her feel like a ‘real’ writer. So she wrote more novels, including Sasscat to Win (Esther Glen Medal) Home Run and Dare Truth or Promise (New Zealand Post Children’s Book of the Year). She has held the Writer’s Residency at the Dunedin College of Education (1994) and the Robert Burns Fellowship at the University of Otago (1999). Paula now lives in Wellington, New Zealand where she divides her time between writing books, writing for television and, well, living.
Copyright
The author acknowledges the use of two excerpts from
The Last of the Wine, Mary Renault, Longman Green, 1956.
The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Literature
Programme of the QEII Arts Council of New Zealand.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.
Paula Boock asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© Paula Boock
ISBN 978 0 95834 059 5
eISBN 978 1 77553 070 1
First published in 1991
by John McIndoe Limited
Reprinted 1992
Reprinted 1994
This edition published by Longacre Press, Dunedin, New Zealand 1996
and Hyland House, Australia 1997
Reprinted 1998
Reprinted 2001
Reprinted 2004
Reprinted 2007
Cover design by Christine Buess
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group, Australia
www.longacre.co.nz
