A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  Janeen laughs. ‘Come on, let’s see your running gear.’ After a brief recovery mission in the laundry basket, I hand her two damp limp scraps of fabric.

  ‘Hrmph,’ says Janeen. She’s clearly unimpressed. She turns the crop inside out and shows me the stitching inside. ‘It’s this seam here under your arms. The orange piping is too bulky. It doesn’t allow for your arms to travel past your body without rubbing.’

  ‘I’ll have to put some Vaseline on my arms next time. That’s supposed to stop chafing. It works on nappy rash.’

  ‘But Mel, you only ran five kilometres. Even if you completely baste yourself in Vaseline it’s not going to prevent chafing over a longer run if you’re wearing shoddy clothes like this. Think ahead to the marathon. You could be ripped to shreds by the end of it.’ I hold my elbows away from my body to avoid unnecessary contact and resist the urge to take Janeen up on her ‘only five kilometres’ understatement. I accept I’m going to be walking around looking like electricity pylon for a couple of days.

  ‘Poor Mel. You do know this is a form of workplace abuse, don’t you?’

  ‘Abuse?’

  ‘You do have rights now, you know. The Health and Safety Act is meant to prevent employee injuries during the course of their work.’ Janeen has been spending quite a lot of time with Nandor lately. I notice her speech has started to take on his revolutionary-without-a-cause style.

  ‘It didn’t happen in the office, Janeen. I don’t think underarm nappy rash incurred off the premises counts.’

  ‘Oh bollocks! You represent Sportzgirl, so they’re responsible for your safety which means providing appropriate equipment and clothing. What if you got blood poisoning?’

  ‘But these are the clothes Sportzgirl retails! They employ me to help sell them.’

  ‘All the more reason to speak up. This stuff is crap.’

  I can feel an upscale rant developing so I head her off at the pass.

  ‘Yes, but I need this, Janeen. I don’t want to rock the boat. I’ll lose my job. And the apartment. Vaseline will work fine. And maybe my skin will harden up.’ Unexpectedly, I feel the tears well up in my eyes. I’m completely shattered and my underarms feel like they’ve been sandpapered. Janeen sees my distress and her face softens. She puts her arms around me and gives me a cheery hug, squeezing my arms to my sides.

  ‘Oow.’ I sniffle.

  ‘Oops, sorry. It’s your call, but really you shouldn’t have to put up with it. Hang on a sec. Do you get to bring the clothes home the night before the running challenges?’

  ‘I did for this one. Annalise says it’s best if I turn up already dressed in case she or Martine get held up in traffic. Imagine Winston paying for this reality series to promote Sportzgirl and then not seeing the gear on television. What a disaster that’d be. Heads would roll.’

  ‘I’m not promising anything, but I think I can make the garments more comfortable for your next event. If you get them to me the night before I could redo the seams, taking out some of the bulk, discretely, so no-one can tell they’ve been altered, and maybe I could make the shelf bra part more robust so you get better support. I can’t do much about the coverage and the dragon lady isn’t going to be impressed if I change the cut, but I could help you avoid chafing.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want people thinking I’m a soft touch or anything.’

  I feel the tears well up again. I’m tired to the core, that’s why I’m feeling so emotional. But Janeen’s offer is so kind. So like her. Which is why I love her so much.

  ‘You got any ice cream?’ she says. You see? Perfect communion of sister souls. There’s a fresh tub in the freezer, purchased after my recent meat pie melt-down. ‘Because I’ve got a few minutes before I said I’d be at Nandor's.’

  Janeen dollops large peaks of cappuccino crème into two bowls and we sit side by side on my sofa eating spoonfuls of ice-cream as if they were lollipops.

  ‘At least, you did some exercise today. This ice cream is going to sit on my hips for a lifetime,’ she moans. She spoons up another creamy nub.

  ‘But you bought your gym bag…’ I say, pointing my spoon at her overnight bag, ‘…so maybe you and Nandor are planning on some sort of workout?’

  Janeen shrieks with mock indignation. ‘Mel!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Weeell. Yes!’ She makes a pubescent squeal, one I haven’t heard for ages, and blushes a shade to match her hair.

  ‘So things are going well?’

  ‘Things are going so well, I might even let him meet Caro. Not yet. But soon.’

  ‘That serious.’

  ‘Mel, I like him. He’s feisty and fresh and so…outside-the-square. He’s full of surprises, too. He has two little boys, Mel. Absolutely adorable little boys. He’s shown me photos. Jake and Oliver are their names. They live in the South Island with their mother and it kills Nandor that they live so far away. I can just see the pain in his eyes when he talks about them, Mel, he misses those boys so much. I mean, what parent wouldn’t? I feel lonely when Caro goes off on an afternoon play-date. I can hardly imagine how agonising it’d be to be separated from her for long periods of time. And Nandor’s boys are so young. Nandor hasn’t seen Jake for nearly 18 months now, and he’s only 6. That’s a long time in a little boy’s life. Nandor worries the little bloke won’t remember him at all. It’s got to be heart-breaking.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any visitation?’

  ‘I think he could. Possibly school holidays. But he doesn’t ask. From what I can tell the split with the boys’ mother was extremely acrimonious. No, worse than that, it was vicious.’ I raise my eyebrows.

  Janeen nods. ‘Nandor says it’s his own fault, and although he’s a different man now and would never, never do it again, he fully understands why his ex won’t allow him visitation. You see, he had a few drinks and then ran his car into a power pole while little Jake was in the back! The car was a total right-off. Nandor says it’s a miracle he didn’t kill his son, and as it was the boy had a broken pelvis.’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Isn’t it? Jake is fine now, but when Nandor told me I sobbed. It’s so sad. Nandor and his ex broke up over the accident. She couldn’t forgive him. Nandor says he wasn’t much better himself, says he was paralytic with guilt and remorse. Their whole relationship unravelled, he said. And they’d been together for eight years.’ Janeen stops talking for a second to scoop the last of her ice cream out of the bowl.

  ‘Then the two brothers of Nandor’s ex blamed him so much for Jake’s injuries and their sister’s hurt, that they waited for him after work and beat him up. Broke two of his ribs, bloodied him up and tore his ear lobe half off.’

  ‘No! They can’t do that! That’s assault!’ I exclaim, thinking two broken ribs and a torn earlobe has got to be way, way sorer than two underarm grazes. ‘Did the police press charges?’

  ‘Nandor didn’t report it to the police.’

  ‘What? But why?’

  ‘He said he deserved it, for what he did to Jake. Said he would’ve done the same. And besides, these were his brothers-in-law. He didn’t want to put Jake and Olly’s uncles in prison. He’s an honourable person, Mel.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘But the worst of it was he couldn’t have had them prosecuted even if he wanted to. Those brothers-in-law forced half a bottle of Johnny Walker down his throat while he was injured and too weak to protest. Nobody would have believed a word he said.’

  ‘That’s evil.’

  ‘I know. That’s when Nandor knew it was time to get out. He moved up to the North Island with the money from his split, put a deposit on some land. Planning to get back to simpler things. Start over. And that’s when he met me.’

  As I savour my last spoonful of cappucino crème, my friend and I watch the final blaze of afternoon sun explode in pink and gold, Nandor’s misfortune already losing its power, the pair of us bathed in fresh hope and happiness.

&nbs
p; 28

  Janeen and I met on our first day at Hamilton Girls’ High, an all-girl boarding school where I’d been bundled off by Cushla and Marcus, who were newly married and already sick of the sight of me. I came across Janeen hanging by her school tunic on a coat hook in the Hepburn third floor corridor. Back then she was a chubby kid with persimmon red hair and a shock of lively freckles, the kind of freckles which make you feel happy to see them, which remind you of summer holidays at the beach, silly pranks and stories read by camp torchlight. At the time though, those freckles were dull and streaked with tears. I climbed up on the wooden bench seat, helped her wriggle out of her tunic, and stood guard while she redressed hastily and explained to me in sentences punctuated with sniffy hiccups how she’d been dangling there all third period after being hoisted up by three fairly beefy seniors. One of those girls was the daughter of the Chairman of the School Board, a fact the bully made certain to mention so Janeen would know there could be no justice. It wouldn’t have been so bad except three groups of students and a teacher had completely ignored her as she dallied there, suspended and helpless in the hallway, and as a result she had missed maths and now she was going to be behind on the first day. I shared my maths notes with her (not that they were much help) and after that we became kindred spirits like Anne Shirley and Diana Barry in the Green Gables stories.

  Like me, Janeen’s an only child, the daughter of dairy farmers Margaret and Len Stratford from Te Awamutu. Margaret and Len are the coolest parents ever. Every opportunity I could I went home to the farm with Janeen on hostel home-leave weekends. Pleased to have company for Janeen, Margaret and Len always made me welcome, like I was a long-lost beloved daughter. I loved to wake up on Saturday morning in the spare bed in Janeen’s whitewashed room, sunlight forcing its way through the faded-pink curtains, to the smell of Margaret’s pancakes and bacon wafting down the hallway. After we’d mopped up the last drops of golden syrup on our plates with bits of pancake, Margaret would insist we girls help fill her tins with baking for the week. She was never grossed out like Cushla would be, if in the process, we ate half the cookie dough or if we happened to get flour all over the floor. She’d chuckle and send us out on some other little chore, and Janeen and I would dash into the yard brushing dough off our clothes, giggling and clucking ‘chooky, chooky, chooky’ after the hens. I loved the time we collected bucketfuls of sweet fat figs (Janeen climbed the ladder and I waited at the bottom with the basket), some for Margaret to make jam and some for us to eat, sticky pink juice dripping from our fingers and onto our clothes.

  ‘Never mind, it’ll wash,’ was all Margaret said.

  Once, Janeen and I decided to construct a medieval castle out of hay bales. We ferried bales out of the barn and dragged them into the paddock, piled them up into walls and moats and when it was finished we were so hot, the two of us climbed into a surplus water trough Len set up for us and soaked until the late in the afternoon. Len put the bales back in the barn. He didn’t seem to mind the extra work, joking at dinner that two young girls could be a baleful of trouble let loose on a farm.

  I loved those weekends so much I didn’t even mind helping sluice the shed after milking. When the last cow had trotted her way back to the paddock, Len would let us turn the radio up and Janeen and I would sing our favourite Wet Wet Wet song at the top of our voices while we sprayed the hoses. In the evenings Janeen and I did our homework sitting on the lounge floor rug with our books spread out over the coffee table while Len read the farming news and Margaret her romance novels. They’re great people, Margaret and Len.

  In our last year at school Janeen got pregnant. I know how it happened. I was her best friend, how could I not know? My dorm room buddy lost her virginity in the costume wardrobe (amongst the fifties style flouncy lace-trimmed petticoats) with the boy playing the leader of the Sharks in the Girls’ and Boys’ High joint production of Westside Story. After that she bunked off her Wednesday flute lessons, parking up with the Shark in his souped-up Honda at Hamilton’s man-made lake. His name was Kyle Porter and he was a skinny guy with a scattering of pimples on his forehead and a rebellious skull tattoo on his upper arm. As far as I could tell the whole appeal of Kyle was that skull tattoo.

  Anyway, Janeen was determined to keep the baby and Margaret and Len were marvellous once they got over their initial shock and disappointment. Practical and realistic, they annexed off a small package of the farm close to the Te Awamutu township, sold it to a developer and with the proceeds bought a modest three bedroom weatherboard house in Tauranga for Janeen and the new baby. Marg and Len live minutes away at Mount Maunganui now, selling the farm when Len reached retirement. But back then they were still in Te Awamutu so Margaret came to Tauranga twice a week to look after baby Caro while Janeen did part-time polytechnic courses in textiles and design. Being as peppy and upbeat as her freckles, Janeen didn’t let her situation get her down. Instead, she started her own felted hat business right out of the sun-porch of that little weatherboard house. These days she sells her exuberant brand of hats and bags on the web and at trendy craft markets, but in the early days she used to go out with Caro on her hip and sell them at school galas and church fairs. Although she loves the pure creative joy of designing and constructing something functional and fabulous, Janeen’s business hasn’t generated a fortune. A few years ago, I asked her if she had ever considered contacting Caro’s dad and getting him to help her out financially.

  ‘God knows you could do with the money, Janeen.’

  ‘And what if he wants something in return for his money? Like custody, for example? Or worse, what if he takes a look, sees a disabled kid and decides he doesn’t want custody? What if he looks at her and sees a broken child in a wheelchair instead of gorgeous, intelligent, fantastic Caro. I can’t do it to her, Mel.’

  ‘Does he know she exists?’

  ‘I told him I was pregnant. He said to get an abortion. Offered me money. I told him to fuck off. I didn’t want his money then and I don’t want it now. He never bothered to contact me again. I don’t know. Maybe he knows about her, maybe he doesn’t.’

  ‘I heard Kyle is still in Hamilton working for a pest control company.’ Having had minimal contact with my own father, I’d kept track of my goddaughter’s in case she ever showed an interest in knowing him.

  ‘Kyle!’

  ‘Kyle Porter. Caro’s dad.’

  ‘Kyle isn’t her father.’

  ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘I think I’d know, Mel.’

  ‘So, if it isn’t Kyle..?’

  ‘Daniel Simpkin.’

  ‘You’re kidding? Daniel Simpkin, the basketball player?’ Hunky Daniel was from the boys’ school across the river. Lanky, with clear skin and a shock of floppy blonde hair, he was as popular among our teenage peers as supermarket brand raspberry lip-gloss. No wonder Caro is as cute as a button.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me? All this time you let me think it was dorky Kyle.’

  ‘It’s wasn’t my finest moment, sleeping with Daniel. I don’t know what I was thinking, behaving like a little slapper. Stringing two of them along.’

  ‘Come on, Janeen. That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘I was still hanging out with Kyle.’

  I give her a gentle punch on the arm. ‘And Daniel Simpkin!’

  ‘It was only one time and it wasn’t even that great,’ Janeen says. ‘All the girls were in love with Daniel. I couldn’t believe it when he said I wasn’t like other girls. Ha! Only a stupid teenager would fall for that old cliché! Mind you, I wasn’t the only one. Do you remember Shirley Barber?’

  ‘No waist? Played tennis?’

  ‘That’s her. He got her pregnant a few months before me. She had an abortion. He probably thought I’d do the same.’

  ‘What a scumbag!’ I splutter. Dorky Kyle doesn’t look so bad after all.

  ‘Yeah, Daniel was useless, but he was a scared 18-year-old kid.’

  ‘You faced up to it!’ I protest.

>   ‘But he didn’t have my mum and dad, did he? Or a best friend.’ She nudges me gently. ‘And his parents were over the top ambitious, Mel. They were spending a heap of money getting him into sports development squads and travelling him around the world for coaching. He’s playing NBL in the United States now.’

  ‘Really?’ I didn’t know because in the years since high school I’d been keeping tabs on Kyle, thinking he was Caro’s father.

  ‘It’s funny though. Daniel can’t seem to make up his mind which team to play for. I think he’s playing for Miami, his third transfer in as many years. I guess he has commitment problems.’ We laugh at the irony of that statement.

  ‘Still I suppose he’s doing all right for himself.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have Caro, does he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, he’s totally impoverished.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  29

  The gun goes off, starting the Rotorua Run Festival and the second event in the Racing Feat reality series. Around me, the crowd comes slowly to life, like an over-laden bus pulling out into traffic, and snakes its way to the left on the first of two circuits of the Blue Lake in Rotorua’s Whakarewarewa forest (known locally as ‘the Redwoods’ because Whakarewarewa is somewhat of a mouthful for tourists.)

  I feel great this morning. I’m as prepared as I can be for this ten kilometre run. Since the last event, I’ve stuck to Olaf’s Guaranteed-Sure-to-Win programme to a T. I’ve run the nine kilometre circuit from Jack’s place three times! Knowing I can run the loop has given me a turbo-boost of confidence. I’m extremely proud of myself. Not so long ago I was a couch potato, but now I can run for a whole hour, a whole hour, without stopping. That’s an entire dishwasher cycle! And Olaf has taught me lots of useful technical information about running, too. Words like interval training, tempo workout and isometric exercise. Who would’ve thought flexion is a kind of muscle movement and nothing to do with rolling credit mortgages? I’ve been careful not to get complacent though, because as Olaf reminds me, the other contestants will have a handle on me now, seeing as I won the first race, and they’ll be training hard to peg me back. That’s one of the reasons I’ve put in a conservative time estimate for today’s course. Olaf says a slow time prediction is sensible since trail running is not as straightforward as road running. He says trails are convoluted, involving steps, roots, boggy bits, overhanging trees, poor lighting, gravel, and stuff of that nature. Also, the Racing Feat competitors are not the only runners out here on the course, so Olaf has warned me to expect some pesky bottlenecks.