Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  ‘How does one snap a bronze?’

  ‘Oksana locked herself in the hall cupboard once; there’s no door handle on the inside, which I did warn her about. She punched her way out. With her bare fists.’

  ‘She told me she was descended from Genghis Khan,’ said Kerry. ‘A direct line, it seems.’

  He trucked the kettle to the sink. Oksana’s visits generally required a restorative, and it was too early in the day for straight Scotch. Meredith had already sat down in a chair. If she’d been a less genteel lady, he guessed, and more like, say, his mother, she would have let out a whoosh of air and an earthy expression of relief.

  ‘How did she end up in Gabriel’s Bay?’ He placed the tea things on the table. ‘Shall I pour?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Meredith. ‘And as to Oksana, I have not asked and she has not divulged. There are two persistent rumours. One is that she was a concierge on a Russian merchant vessel, jumped ship and was granted refugee status — her first job was at the Bay’s now-defunct fish-processing plant. The other is that she was a mail-order bride, and the man she lives with is her husband.’

  ‘And the man she lives with is—?’

  ‘A recluse. His surname is, I believe, Torvaldsen. As to his first, and how he came to the area, no one knows.’

  ‘A mysterious recluse,’ said Kerry. ‘Intriguing.’ He sipped his tea. ‘They never caught Lord Lucan, did they?’

  Meredith raised a faint smile. ‘Torvaldsen is in his sixties, according to those few who have glimpsed him. If he were alive, Lord Lucan would be well into his eighties.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Kerry. ‘Could be just the ticket to bring the visitors flocking. “Roll up, roll up! See the nanny-murdering, noose-evading former British peer! BYO rotten fruit!”’

  ‘Are we in need of flocks of visitors?’

  ‘Well, feel free to strike me for impertinence — though not too hard — but Gabriel’s Bay isn’t exactly awash with tourist dollars. Or dollars of any kind, for that matter.’

  ‘Not unexpected. It’s a very small town.’

  ‘Used to be bigger, though?’

  Meredith hesitated, as if she were about to unlock a door that might swing open to reveal not one skeleton but a whole grinning row.

  ‘The nineteen-eighties were a difficult decade for us,’ she said. ‘Farming subsidies were lifted. Government businesses — post, telephone, railways, banks — were privatised. The fish factory, cheese factory and the tobacco packing plant closed down. By the mid-nineties, the area had lost, at a rough estimate, twelve hundred jobs. For a town with a population of only five thousand at its height, the impact was — substantial.’

  ‘And no more employers came to fill the gaps?’

  ‘Some, yes. But no large ones, and few that offer more than seasonal or part-time work, or that pay above minimum wage. Most jobs are now either in Hampton or further out still. Hence the reduction of the Gabriel’s Bay population by at least a third, and many of those remaining are elderly, or unemployable.’ A wry smile. ‘And some of us who fit into both those categories. Soon, we may be all that’s left.’

  Outside the kitchen window, Kerry heard the snip of hedge shears. Mr Phipps, the gardener, a man who spoke less than Jonty Barton but who kept Woodhall’s garden looking fresh and blooming despite using tools that Noah would have called old-fashioned even while measuring up in cubits.

  ‘I must tell him I intend to pot the hanging baskets,’ said Meredith. ‘I didn’t bother last year, but I feel I’d now like to see some colour on the verandah.’

  ‘Do you need me to stop by the nursery?’

  Gabriel’s Bay didn’t have a garden centre — Kerry had quite a list now of what the town didn’t have — but a group had formed a sort of plant collective, selling seedlings beneath the awning of the Legion of Frontiersmen’s headquarters, empty since the death in 1992 of its last patriot and adventurer, former sapper Gordon C. Micklethwaite.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Meredith. ‘I’m not sure yet what I want.’

  Her way of saying she’d like to potter amongst plants. Kerry had assumed responsibility for most of the errands, and was glad to see that Meredith had taken the opportunity to make time — even if only half an hour — for herself. He liked his employer, liked being at Woodhall. He hoped she would keep him on.

  Kerry had not been admitted again into Jonty’s room, which, quite frankly, suited him fine. But Sidney’s conviction that the man was a shameless faker niggled away, and among today’s errands was one he would omit mentioning to Meredith, namely a visit to Dr Love, to find out if he could proffer any advice.

  Another piece of information Kerry chose not to mention was that he’d answered the telephone yesterday morning, when Meredith was upstairs.

  ‘Who are you?’ the young-sounding woman on the other end had demanded.

  ‘Kerry Macfarlane, new all-round provider of help to Mrs Barton. And you?’

  ‘Help? What kind of help?’

  She would never get a job in customer service with that manner.

  ‘Preparing meals, running errands, light housework. Tasks of that ilk.’

  ‘Wiping my dad’s arse?’

  Her dad?

  ‘Not yet. But I won’t shirk if that’s required.’

  ‘Are you live-in?’

  ‘I have my own lamp. When your mother needs me, she simply gives it a rub.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Mum must have been fucking desperate if she picked you.’

  ‘May I take a message?’ said Kerry. ‘Your mother is busy with your father.’

  ‘Wanker.’

  ‘Is that the message?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Fuck it, I’ll call back,’ she’d said. And hung up in Kerry’s ear.

  Given the tenor of the conversation and the fact Meredith had not told him about a second, living daughter, it wasn’t much of a leap for Kerry to deduce relations were strained. Knowing her angry daughter was about to call might cause Meredith anxiety, so he decided not to forewarn her.

  It bothered him, though. Concealment of one piece of information might be reasonably overlooked. Two and the scales tipped towards untrustworthy. The new, improved Kerry Macfarlane was supposed to be sincere and scrupulously honest. Even old Kerry hadn’t been sneaky, only shallow.

  He hoped whoever judged would see he meant well by it.

  ‘I’ll wash these dishes,’ he told Meredith, as he gathered the tea things. ‘And then I’ll be off to town. Any last requests?’

  There were none. Kerry washed and dried the tea set — Royal Worcester, his mother would approve — and headed out to the Fielder. Mr Phipps was bent over the roses, inspecting, Kerry assumed, for insects. The gardener was in his usual uniform of steel-cap boots and thick socks, a ribbed jumper apparently knitted from old porridge and the shortest shorts Kerry had seen outside a Rihanna video.

  The best legs, too. Mr Phipps must be pushing seventy but he had the slender, toned legs of a young female ballet dancer, with skin that was tanned, unblemished and without discernible hair. Possibly because all the hair Mr Phipps possessed was concentrated in his ears and nose. From those two features, grey hair sprouted, as frilled and tightly whorled as ornamental kale. It should have been repulsive, but somehow it seemed natural, organic. Mr Phipps when at rest, for instance taking a cup of tea, blended into the garden setting like a moss-covered tree stump. It might explain why he didn’t talk, only nodded. He was some kind of vegetative deity.

  Kerry greeted him. ‘Mr Phipps.’

  A nod. And almost a smile! Well, it was spring. The season of snowdrops and hope and new beginnings. When he started the car, the radio began to play ZZ Top’s ‘La Grange’. No one could listen to that song and not feel perked up by several degrees.

  Finding a park in the exact location he needed, Kerry once more saw the upside of living in a small town. Easy parking. Free parking. Unlike London, where the city took a lien on your vital organs in return for allowing you to park o
utside your own house.

  Walking past the video store — who still owned a video player? — Kerry saw the female police officer standing in the alley next to a teenage boy with the figure of a marrow — bulbous head and body, no neck.

  ‘Bit of advice, Wade,’ she was saying. ‘If you want to tag a wall, don’t use your own name.’

  Kerry walked on. He’d decided to get his surreptitious errand over and done with first. Dr Love’s surgery was in a stand-alone bungalow painted white-stucco with blue trim. The waiting room was empty, and sported the kind of nineteen-seventies-style furniture pieces that hipsters snapped up as junk-shop bargains only to find they were still ugly when repainted and reupholstered. But it was as neat as a pin, and somehow homely, welcoming.

  The short, round-faced woman with masses of curly brown hair eyeing him from the reception desk looked distinctly unwelcoming. She also looked familiar. Kerry tried, but couldn’t place her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve taken a job up at Woodhall.’ He assumed this would no longer be news. ‘I’d like to talk to Doctor Love about Jonty Barton. I don’t want him to breach patient confidentiality or anything,’ he added. ‘I just need a steer on how best to manage the situation. Any tips or advice that might be of benefit.’

  ‘Of benefit to Jonty?’

  For a small woman with fluffy hair, she was surprisingly fierce.

  ‘Er, no,’ said Kerry. ‘To Mered— er, Mrs Barton. I mean, I am helping her with my job and all, but I feel — I don’t know, it’s just an instinct — there might be more ways I could be of use.’

  ‘You mean like secretly crushing antidepressants into his gruel?’ Was she joking?

  ‘Although, of course,’ she continued, ‘that would violate all kinds of ethics. And possibly laws.’

  If she was, she had a masterful poker face.

  ‘Which I could happily ignore if it weren’t for the extraordinary level of respect I have for my employer.’

  ‘That’s the end of that idea, then?’ said Kerry.

  ‘It is,’ she said. ‘More’s the pity. And I doubt Doctor Love has any better ones. If he had, he’d have put them in place by now.’

  ‘So I’m wasting my time?’

  She stared at him. It was like being critically assessed by an ancient powerful god that had assumed the form of a koala — confusing and terrifying in equal measure.

  ‘Why do you want to help Meredith?’

  ‘Because, er, I like her. I admire her. I—’

  ‘I’ll rephrase. What’s in it for you?’

  Kerry decided to fight back.

  ‘She’s leaving me thousands in her will. Many thousands. We haven’t nailed down the exact figure as yet.’

  Was that a smile?

  ‘I’ll tell Doctor Love you called in,’ she said, ‘and that you’re interested in what can be done to improve Mr Barton’s — condition. And you can pass on my regards to Mrs Barton and tell her that, without her sanity and clarity at meetings, the Progressive Association has regressed into a pack of fools who couldn’t find their arses with both hands. Couldn’t find an arse, full stop, if it were sitting on their face.’

  ‘The Progressive Association?’

  ‘Self-appointed guardians of the Bay’s future. Who have not a clue how to reverse our town’s decline. See my previous comment about finding arses.’

  ‘It is in decline, is it?’ said Kerry. ‘How badly?’

  ‘Are you a professional do-gooder?’

  Again, Kerry decided attack was the best form of defence. Show a woman like this an ounce of fear and her teeth would be in your throat before you could say ‘Shih Tzu’.

  ‘Card-carrying and internationally endorsed. Problem with that?’

  ‘You had a kick around with Sidney’s boys.’

  A feint to catch him off-guard. She was dangerously good.

  ‘Are you looking for a reason to arrest me?’

  The woman actually chuckled. Kerry relished the victory, but felt it safer to celebrate on the inside.

  ‘I’m Mac,’ she said. ‘Mac Reid. You’ve met my husband, Jacko.’

  That made so much sense.

  ‘Kerry Macfarlane.’

  ‘How long will you be staying here?’ said Mac.

  ‘Er, how long should I stay?’

  ‘Sidney’s boys love soccer.’

  ‘Football.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of the world says so.’

  ‘They could do with a coach.’

  ‘Happy to oblige,’ said Kerry. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Know anyone with a medical degree?’

  ‘Er, my mother’s a trained nurse.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Science teacher.’

  ‘Useless.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Kerry. ‘He’s quite the whiz with a sliding bevel.’ Mac folded her arms.

  ‘Does your mother have connections within the British medical profession?’

  ‘You mean — “connections”?’ Kerry mimed the inverted commas.

  ‘Is she in touch with doctors looking for jobs overseas?’

  ‘Would you like me to ask her?’

  Mac ripped the top sheet off a memo pad, scribbled on it.

  ‘My email,’ she said.

  Kerry put the note in his pocket.

  ‘Was there something else?’ said Mac. ‘Next appointment’s due.’

  Why not? Be courageous. Be direct. Be purposeful!

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me the identity of the very attractive young woman with blonde hair who rides a horse on the beach?’ said Kerry.

  Mac’s eyebrows rose, and she began to laugh. It wasn’t the gosh-how-funny-aren’t-you-a-stitch kind of laugh. It was the mocking, belittling kind. And it went on and on.

  Kerry left, dragging his dignity behind him by one leg. Someone had keyed the door of the Fielder. Etched their name. Wade.

  Kerry lifted the vacuum cleaner from the boot. On the way to the electricians, because he knew he’d never win a fight with Mac Reid, he fantasised instead about beating marrow-boy to a pulpy ooze.

  Chapter 9

  Sidney

  Kerry’s blush extended from his collarbone to his hairline, Sidney observed with amusement. Even the backs of his hands had gone pink. And he was shifting around on the Boat Shed bar stool like someone was poking him from below.

  To be fair, few people kept their composure when they first met Devon. It wasn’t every day you saw someone that good-looking — like a milk-coffee-tinted Rossetti portrait, tall and graceful, classical features and that extraordinary curtain of thick blond hair. The genetic dice had rolled only once to create Devon — the rest of his extended family were thickset and cheerfully plain. Two of his older sisters formed the front row of the Hampton women’s rugby team. In the family’s regular gatherings, Devon stood out like a swan surrounded by starlings. To their credit, the family didn’t value beauty over character and never treated him any differently, which had allowed Devon to grow up gloriously uncaring about his looks. He couldn’t help but be aware of their effect, but other people’s reactions were their problem, not his.

  When he was sixteen, Devon had been offered a modelling contract by a New York agency, who’d seen a photo of him and his horse, Tiu, on Instagram. The money had reportedly been significant, but Devon had turned it down without hesitating. ‘Too much time away from family,’ was his reason. ‘Too much time indoors.’ He worked evenings Thursday to Saturday at the Boat Shed, and weekdays at a horse rescue centre and training stables south of Hampton, where he was building a reputation for getting results with animals ruled too mad or wild to save from the knacker’s yard. In between, he was studying for a degree. Sidney would be happy if her boys grew up with half Devon’s work ethic.

  ‘I, er, I saw you riding your horse on the beach the other day,’ said Kerry. ‘Beautiful creature.’

  Kerry’s voice sounded a little high
and strangled. Sidney knew he’d have to get over his awkwardness pronto. Devon refused to have anything to do with people who went weird around him.

  ‘You a horseman?’

  Devon put a beer down in front of him. Kerry took four large swallows in quick succession.

  ‘My mother’s family used to train racehorses.’ Kerry sounded more like himself now. ‘In Northern Ireland. Won several derbies, I gather. But that was early last century, before we lost all our money. I’m named after my ancestor, who was known in Gaelic as Kerry na Kopple, or Kerry of the Horses. Which all might suggest I’m leading up to answering your question with a resounding “yes” but, sadly, the truth is I’ve never been on a horse in my life.’

  ‘Never too late,’ said Devon. ‘I could start you on Tiu. He’s fast but he’s safe.’

  ‘What does “Tiu” mean, Dev?’ said Sidney.

  ‘A few things, depending on where you’re from. If you’re Ngāi Tahu, it’s north wind.’

  ‘Blow bonnie breeze my lover to me,’ said Kerry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Old song. About hopeless love.’

  Jacko stepped in from the kitchen. Devon was tall, but with Jacko behind him, the pair looked like the largest and smallest in a set of Russian dolls.

  ‘You eating?’ Jacko said to Kerry.

  ‘Yes, please. What am I having?’

  ‘Pāua fritters.’

  ‘As in — “I got the power”?’

  ‘As in abalone,’ said Sidney. ‘It’s a shellfish. Tastes amazing if you know how to cook it. Like burned rubber if you don’t.’

  ‘Yes or no?’ said Jacko, impatient.

  ‘I’m game,’ said Kerry. ‘Bring on the power.’

  He told Sidney, ‘I ate a fertilised duck embryo in the Philippines. Boiled in its own shell.’

  ‘Ergh,’ she said. ‘Was that as disgusting as it sounds?’

  ‘If it sounds more disgusting than re-eating your own vomit, then yes.’