The Cruel Peak

by Gil Hogg

  Although Tamaki Downs held much of the past, it was, for him, neutral ground.

  When Robyn arrived, he greeted her brightly with an impersonal kiss on each cheek. She threw her jacket casually over a chair and plumped down in an armchair. She was carefully coffeured and made up, perhaps a gesture to him, but the dryness of her tanned skin, her lacklustre hennaed hair, red eyes and the flabbiness around her middle, suggested a drunk who had tidied herself up. She smiled happily.

  “There you are, Tom, looking very youthful. And handsome. How are you?”

  He couldn’t respond honestly with the same generosity, and besides, Robyn’s statements were for effect rather than accuracy. The truth was that his hair was thinning and silverish and he had a lot of lines around the eyes, even if he still had his slim figure. He was, however, glad of the superficial crust of politeness which protected them both from deeper antagonisms.

  He mentioned the pedestrian facts of his journey and his pleasure at Petra’s forthcoming wedding. “Where is Petra?”

  “She’s in Christchurch, staying with girlfriends and shopping. She’ll be here tomorrow. You can meet her and Darren. She’s a lovely girl - and you don’t know her.”

  “Letters and visits help, but -”

  “All you know is that she’s an attractive, well-schooled girl, Tom. It’s a pity you’ve never been able to talk intimately with her, or help her with her problems over the years. You’ve missed a lot.”

  “I have written, but…”

  “Tom, you can’t expect a young girl in the twenty-first century to sit down like Jane Austen and pen letters in reply.”

  Why the hell not? he thought. “Emails, perhaps?” He held up the palms of his hands plaintively; it was no use trying to defend himself against his default as a parent. Robyn had condemned him long ago without hope of reprieve.

  He would be saying to Alison, ‘The cow gave me the usual verbal thrashing…’ And Alison would reply, with amusement, ‘Maybe you deserve it.’

  “And how is Alison? Still sharing your uxorious idyll?” Alison still rankled with Robyn.

  “She’s fine. She’s not coming to the wedding.”

  He and Alison had wrestled with how to deal with her invitation. He wanted her to come. She didn’t want to come. She couldn’t stand Robyn and didn’t see any point in pretence. Her negative reaction came from the confusion, fuelled by alchohol and sex, which had submerged their lives when they met. It was his wish, not hers, to have their relationship more widely understood and accepted by their New Zealand friends, but he gave in.

  “Quite right, Tom - Alison not coming.” Robyn said haughtily.

  “Why?” He shouldn’t have asked, but he was needled.

  “Because…” Robyn made a quirky movement of her lips, “she destroyed our marriage.”

  This was Robyn’s fantasy. As far as she was concerned, their breakup was simple, and summed up in less than half a dozen words. She was icily positive.

  The rows with Robyn in previous years were equivalent to a heavy bombardment on a war frontier; now, with that long in the past, a shell or two did little damage. He resisted the incitement. He had admittedly been a neglectful and adulterous husband, but she couldn’t see that she had been a neglectful and adulterous wife. Well, she would have to concede adultery if lightly pressed, but neglect, no. She would never admit neglect. Her husband was stolen by a scheming woman in her view. He thought her absurd attitude had made it easier for her wounded pride.

  He sidestepped. “Are you doing any stage work, Robyn?”

  “I’m doing more directing. I’ve got Oh! What a Lovely War at the Albion in Christchurch, first night on the 6th.”

  “You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

  She puffed up. She would be soaking up a bottle of sherry backstage during the performance, and probably having it off with the lighting engineer in one of the dressing rooms afterwards. But what amazed him about her, knowing her rather strange reasoning powers, was that out of the conflict and confusion of casting and rehearsals, she could turn a few pages of script into a living, breathing production. She could give the pages a real stage life. The critics said she was a good director and actor and he respected these mysterious skills.

  “I think I do a good job, Tom. But I could never get you interested in the footlights, could I? I couldn’t even persuade you to audition.”

  “I never wanted to strut the boards, you know that. I didn’t want to assume a different personality, work myself up into false rages.”

  “You’re timid.”

  She was right. The idea of departing from his self and turning into another self was disquieting. He couldn’t understand himself well enough, let alone pretend to be somebody else. Robyn’s ability to fragment her personality, while remaining more or less sane, had dazzled and delighted him at first. It was like loving different people at the same time. Which one would it be tonight? Then it began to confuse him. Did he want this person tonight? Then it began to alarm him mildly. Was she entirely sane? He didn’t deny her comment.

  “What about you, Tom? With an English wife, and two children born in England, will you ever come back?”

  “I’d like to, in some ways.” He spoke frankly.

  “Never mind. It’s your problem. You are Petra’s father and your presence now is appropriate, but there’s one thing I have to tell you. Petra has decided that she wants Stuart to give her away at the church. After all, he’s been like a father to her, and he knows her.”

  He gulped with surprise. “OK, that’s fine with me,” he said, but it wasn’t fine; it was a snub, perhaps a due snub in view of his paternal neglect. No, it was more than a snub. It was a calculated fucking insult! He could feel his cheeks getting hot and a prickle of sweat on his brow. He would rage to Alison on the telephone later that he had come twelve thousand miles to be treated like a visitor! And she would probably reply that it was rather rude, but if that was how Petra felt… ‘It’s how Robyn feels!’ he would shout.

  It was difficult now to talk to Robyn in any depth. When they met, each of them dragged a deadweight of shared experience quite differently viewed; two barges on different voyages, each grinding on the other as they passed. All the embarrassing arguments and insults of the past stained the many pleasures they had taken together. Every present word and gesture had to be filtered through this turbulent past and arrived upon the scene either devoid of warmth or slightly rancid.

  He couldn’t help regarding his attendance at Petra’s wedding as of some importance, but perhaps it was only of importance to him. Ernest’s jibe that he wanted to play at being a father came back to him. He guessed his presence was probably, if not immaterial, then of small concern to Petra. Money for the wedding and marriage, which may keep a bride close to her father, wasn’t an issue here. Robyn was well off, and although he was making a substantial contribution, it had all been arranged very discreetly by Robyn.

  He would be saying to Alison, ‘Robyn is more concerned about appearances - particularly the need to underline to her friends that Tom Stavely is still family, but on the outer fringe.’ ‘But that’s where you are, aren’t you?’ Alison would confirm. He wouldn’t use any strong words to Alison which would disclose the bile of his emotions.

  “Tia told me you aren’t staying here, Tom. But you must. There would have been plenty of room for Alison if she had chosen to come. The wedding’s here. I’m here. Everything’s here. God, everyone can camp here as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want. I’ll get my bags sent up.”

  When Alison elbowed him about being seduced into staying at Tamaki Downs, he would retort, ‘She doesn’t give a damn where I stay, provided it doesn’t embarrass the family. Robyn doesn’t want me to stay at the Royal. You remember it? Definitely downmarket for the father of the bride. Staying anywhere but the Downs when there are guests there would suggest a schism in the family. Divorce is one thing: bad blood is another.’

 
“Tom, what is this Mt Vogel business about Dad?”

  “You’ve heard the story from Stuart? It sounds to me like nonsense. He’s overwrought and he’s talked himself into it.”

  “Good. Yes, and I thought, what does it really matter after all this time? It would certainly be a disgrace for Dad, for the family name, but particularly for Stuart, wouldn’t it?”

  He didn’t comment. She fired up.

  “You haven’t changed, Tom. Always noncommittal. You’re a bloody lawyer alright. I can never get a straight story from you. Stuart’s so jumpy.”

  “I’ve more or less agreed with him that we’ll make a quick trip to the Vogel area and set the rumour to rest. Stuart’s got it mixed up with his - what shall we call it? - dislike of Ernest. I understand his feelings… I can remember keeping my head down, digging post holes while Stuart was being thrashed. I can also remember getting a clip or two across the ear myself from Ernest. A multimillionaire getting his kid to dig post holes like a peasant! But that’s all beside the point.”

  Robyn tightened her lips and leaned away at the unpleasant memory. “Dad’s nearly dead. Let him go peacefully. But Stuart… I mean, it’s inconceivable that Dad lied, surely? Inconceivable. I’m glad you seem so confident it’s untrue. A rumour like this could really hurt Stuart when you think about it. You wouldn’t realise it, but he’s quite a personality in this country with his television programmes and his newspaper work. As soon as there’s some kind of smear, influential people in the media start steering clear.”

  “And he has a name amongst mountaineers internationally.”

  “Do you care what happens to Stuart? I’ve always thought you were secretly envious of him.” She spoke with a mischief-making grin that was humourless.

  “It depends what you mean by envy, Robyn. Stuart is the man with everything. A handsome athlete, born into an old moneyed family, sent to the best school and university, intelligent, with the whole spectrum of possible careers open to him, utterly financially secure from the time he was in his playpen, and with a name that can open any door he chooses - banking, medicine, science, law, business. Seriously, Robyn, is there anybody who wouldn’t envy this god?”

  “I never thought of Stuart like that.” She was pleased.

  “No, well there’s another side. His father has abused him and beaten the confidence out of him, and he’s misguidedly erected his career, despite his own talents, on his father’s shoulders. Perhaps it’s perversely because of the abuse. It’s taken him nearly twenty years to find a compatible woman. He’s got a battle neurosis…”

  “No, no, no! I don’t recognise that Stuart! Dad didn’t do that. Dad isn’t like that. He wouldn’t hurt Stuart. Stuart was bad at times like any boy, so…”

  “Robyn, you know that’s not right. I’ve seen Ernest in action. Ernest, for some unaccountable reason, hates his son. Maybe Ernest hates himself. Anyway, he’s crushed Stuart. He’s not a nice man.”

  “Stuart’s not been crushed, he’s an expansive, confident -”

  “He appears to be.”

  He would probably put this exchange slightly differently to Alison: ‘She’s always sniping at me! But being envious of bloody Stuart! That’s what she accused me of! He’s always been a superior sod, but underneath this carapace he’s weak. He’s propped himself up on Ernest’s reputation. He’s parlayed his undistinguished skills as a writer, and his genuine competence as a climber, into a kind of celebrity. It’s a slick act, covered with the snotty superiority of a wealthy family name!’

  ‘Be fair,’ Alison would say, ‘Stuart is a very special friend of yours.’

  ‘I care for Stuart, but what I say is true,’ he would insist.

  Robyn said, “You always have such distorted viewpoints, Tom. Stuart isn’t broken and he has a fine career. And Dad isn’t what you say. And what about you? Are you so great?”

  “I have my own calling. I won’t dignify it too much by describing it as a career.”

  “I know you’re very clever at passing exams, Tom, but you’ve never really… done anything, have you, except of course fuck every woman within reach?”

  She eked these cruelly delicious words out, but it was mostly the forthcoming conversation with Alison which occupied his mind rather than a riposte: ‘This is what Robyn thinks of me. A nerdy nobody. Ernest is somebody. He has his own achievements. I’ll concede that. A swine, but somebody. But I won’t allow that Stuart is anybody. He’s just a wraith, balancing on Ernest’s shoulders. In the interests of calm, I never asked the bitch who she thought she was. She thinks she’s New Zealand’s answer to Stanislavsky!’ Alison would say that he was being unfair, and that Robyn was a considerable person. To cap this, he would quote Ernest’s recent comment: ‘Used to be’. But yes, he was being unfair to Robyn. It was her arrogant assumptions that heated him.

  Robyn was sitting back in the pause, pleased with the impact of her words; she was actor-director in this encounter.

  He didn’t care enough to hit back. “No, I haven’t done anything in the sense you mean.”

  Robyn was disappointed. She wanted to joust. After a moment, she took her bloodshot eyes off him, and with a sour simper, banged her small bejewelled fist on the arm of the chair.

  “What a mistake we made, Tom!”

  At lunch the next day, Tia said to him, “Why don’t we walk down to the old houses?”

  “Yes, you go with Tia, Tom. I’ve got a bit of work to do in the study,” Stuart said.

  He tried not to show reluctance at this proposal, because although he had been thinking of going, he wanted to be alone. Yet it was difficult to resist Tia’s pleasure in the invitation, and so he agreed.

  It was a few minutes’ walk. The lane ran down to a gully where the old house had huddled in the lee of a hill, and out of sight of the Downs homestead. The surrounding pines were stunted and twisted by the wind. Nothing much of the house structure was left now; the wooden foundation posts were almost obscured in long grass; a brick chimney with a blackened fireplace stood alone; sheets of rusting iron scattered the ground, and to one side was a holed water tank and a lavatory bowl lying on its side. Beyond were the ruins of more than half a dozen shacks and bunkhouses formerly occupied by other station hands. He had an image of his father, his mother and himself at differing times, squatting over the ceramic bowl.

  “It was a rickety old dump when we lived in it.” He kicked through the grass. “Peeling paint, warped timber and a leaky roof.”

  “You lived here with your mother and father?” Tia said, surveying the ruin.

  “My old man was the manager here - at least that’s what he was called, although I guess Ernest never actually stopped managing any property or person in his power. I was ‘Bill Stavely’s boy’, always available to help out. And my mother lived here after my father died on Mt Vogel, until she died.”

  “That was nice…”

  “An act of kindness by the generous Ashtons, you think? Sometime I’ll tell you the story.”

  “Stuart talks about you as though you are some kind of legal big shot…”

  “Well, I’m not. When I leave my job in London, my name will be forgotten in my office in a month, perhaps in a week.”

  She assented with an uncertain movement of her head. “All these ruins are scheduled to be cleared next year. This little page of history.”

  “What are you putting in its place?”

  “Nothing. We don’t need more outbuildings…”

  “A very dog-eared page of history… New Zealand was a place where people reinvented themselves, Tia. Maybe Stuart told you about Joe Ashton in the 1870s. Not by any means an uncommon story. Somebody has to win. He came from Glasgow poverty via the goldfields of Australia and the West Coast and parlayed his stake into this, hundreds of thousands of acres.”

  “Yes, Stuart told me. Joseph Ashton was a Pakeha land-grabber,” she said, contemptuously.

  “There’s lots of stories around here about him still. A cruel and domineering
man by all accounts. Hardly literate, but deadly cunning. Plucked a woman from a bar in Springvale, fathered children and founded a dynasty. The genes must have been accidentally right. Joe would have had little choice of women. Springvale wasn’t much more than a saloon, stables and a trading store at the time.”

  “It’s also a story of sweated labour, tricky land deals, bribery and undue political influence, from what Stuart tells me.”

  “Right. And it will all end in the hands of a Maori princess.”

  She smiled thoughtfully. “It means nothing to me. I hope you can believe it. I’m not a princess. I’m Ngai Tahu. These great spaces don’t belong to individuals, they belong to all of us. But what about your father?”

  “He didn’t have any steel in him like the Ashtons. A make-do man from nowhere. He was of Scots extraction too, I believe, but he had no past or relatives that I ever heard of. Not one. He appeared over the hill, met and married my mother. She was an emigrant from Norfolk - a hotel maid. I don’t know anything definite about her past either. She’d never talk about the past. I was fourteen when Bill Stavely died in 1972. Much of what I know about him is hearsay. He was clever at rebuilding internal combustion engines and a bullying foreman. I never knew him as a fatherly figure, only as a morose and violent drunk.”