Mac fingered the pendant she wore always, but kept tucked inside her top, private. It was a piece of greenstone, pounamu, given to Jacko by a Māori friend from whose land it came. Jacko had taught himself how to stone-carve, had made a simple love-heart, polished it so it shone like a mermaid’s tail, and given it to Mac on their first wedding anniversary. Since then, it had been yanked by grabbing babies, left once on the beach (found, never taken off again) and re-threaded five times. It was hard, but it felt soft. If she lost it, she’d be bereft.
The waiting room’s sole patient, Agatha Robotham, gave a small, polite cough, and Mac shot daggers at her, which she instantly regretted. Fortunately, Agatha was bent over her needlepoint. A cushion cover, she’d explained, in a William Morris pattern that looked to Mac like boiled seaweed. Everyone knew Agatha loved everything Victorian, and could occasionally be seen around town in a leg o’mutton-sleeved basque with double bust darts, a five-gored skirt and a feather-trimmed Alpine felt hat. What only a few knew was that in between embroidering domestic accoutrements, Agatha created steel-boned corsets out of lace, satin and raw silk, and sold them over the internet to dominatrices and burlesque dancers worldwide. For a pretty penny, Mac might add.
The email icon started to bounce. Two new messages. One from a Bronagh Macfarlane — who? Oh, right, the chatty bloke’s mother. And the other from Harry, her and Jacko’s son, currently on a cattle ranch in Ontario. Mac opened that one first.
Ontario, wrote Harry, was already colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. He had seen moose, black bear and grey wolf, and was thinking about applying for a job in a wolf sanctuary. Or maybe he’d come home and do a proper search for those moose rumoured to still be living in the hills. He ended by telling her not to worry, his dad was like an old farm tractor — simple mechanics, strong enough to push over trees, took anything you threw at it and kept going.
Ah, the robust confidence of the young — you had to love it, despite it being of no earthly practical use. And it was only right. Lessons from Greek myths notwithstanding, what son wants to see his dad as fallible, mortal? Mac wrote a reply, wished him good luck with the wolves. Ended with ‘love, Mum’. She wouldn’t bother him again with her concerns.
On to Mrs Macfarlane. Whose email was short and breezy — she was a nurse, after all. She included a link to a site that advertised international placements. ‘A lot of applicants will be rubbish,’ Bronagh warned. ‘Google-translated English, dubious qualifications. But if you’re willing to sift, give it a go.’
A foreign doctor. Now there was an idea. Intriguing and, let’s face it, amusing. Mac could gain hours of entertainment watching Gabriel’s Bay folk react to a Dr Wei, Babatunde or Zubizaretta. She could be female, too. Even better.
Two weeks had passed since Mac had covertly advertised the position. She’d received one application, from a city GP who wanted a quieter pace of life. He said he was sixty-two and keen for an early retirement. Mac wished him an early death for wasting her time.
What was wrong with people? The salary was — pretty good. The location — OK, the location had some accessibility issues, but when you got here, you were by the sea, close to all kinds of Nature, in fact. Where were the medically trained Greenies, the alternative lifestylers, the Coast-to-Coasters? Doctors were all about wellness these days, removing stress, getting back to the land and community. Surely this was the perfect place to achieve all that and more?
Oh, hell. Who was she kidding?
Doc Love’s door opened. He’d been with Shania Birtwell, a fifteen-year-old dropout who was seven months pregnant, which didn’t stop her smoking and drinking and shagging a bloke who had the instincts of a rodent but half the mental capacity. The baby would almost certainly have fetal alcohol syndrome. As would the others that would inevitably come later. Mac knew Shania and her feral boyfriend were about as likely to practise birth control as they were to take up ikebana.
Shania waddled out without paying. Mac didn’t bother to call after her.
Doc Love appeared, as usual, unperturbed. He cared, but he knew the limits of his powers. He’d do his duty by Shania, offer sensible, simple advice, spell out the consequences of her actions in his non-judgemental manner. But he could not force her to change, and he would not try. What happened next was over to her.
‘Agatha, please do come in.’
And off trotted grey-bunned, bespectacled Mrs Robotham, corsetier to stiletto-toed mistresses and titillating dancers across the globe.
Four-thirty. Agatha was that day’s last patient. Once she’d shut up the surgery, Mac had intended to go home, eat the dinner Jacko always left for her, pour a large glass of pinot and watch whatever mindless pabulum was on television. With luck, Project Runway.
However, it was no ordinary Thursday. It was the night the Progressive Association met. Mac was still of the view that they’d be more handbrake than help with finding a replacement for Doc Love, but the imp inside her was rubbing its hands. How much fun to lob the foreign-doctor grenade into their comfortable laps and watch them blow steam and shriek like boiled kettles.
Tim Gunn could survive without her additional commentary. At seven o’clock, she’d be at the Gabriel’s Bay community hall, in the front row of the world’s most uncomfortable seats. Smiling. Ready.
‘Were these designed as instruments of penance?’
To Mac’s surprise, Mrs Macfarlane’s little boy, Kerry, had sat down right next to her in the hall. She was less surprised when, after a minute, he began shifting about on the folding wooden chair.
‘Possibly,’ said Mac. ‘The folk who built the hall were Methodists.’
Kerry craned to inspect his chair and hers more closely.
‘I can see how it works,’ he said. ‘The seat is a fraction too short, so the edge digs into mid-thigh, and then the back slopes a fraction too much, so you can’t rest your full weight on it for fear of tipping over, so you have to sit upright, thus ensuring your mid-thigh area presses all its weight onto the edge. Really, it’s genius.’
‘Why are you here?’ said Mac.
‘Curiosity,’ said Kerry. ‘And you?’
‘Stirring,’ said Mac.
‘For a cause? Or just for fun?’
‘Shh. Committee’s assembling. Feast your eyes. Or shut them in horror. Up to you.’
Eight people walked up onto the stage, and took their seats at the long table. Mac could describe the arrangement without looking. In the middle: Bernard Weston, chair for the last too many years. On either side: his favourite acolytes, Nicholas Sharp and Elaine ‘I beg your pardon’ Pardew. Next to Nicholas — Derek Beale (‘Bealer the Squealer’), Maureen Ropable (real name, Roper) and Tinker ‘Wanders off’ Wadsworth; and next to Elaine — Geoffrey Naylor (‘Prince Joffrey’) and Wendy Bevin, who insisted on taking the minutes, despite not knowing shorthand or being able to write fast enough to keep up.
Bernard cleared his throat, and made a meal of finding the right page in his leather-bound jotter, smoothing it down, and then removing his Parker pen from the jotter’s special loop and holding it up so that everyone could see that it was (a) gold and (b) activated by a twisting motion vastly superior to the click of those plastic disposables.
‘Get on with it, you pompous twat,’ Mac muttered. ‘You’re not opening Parliament.’
Besides Mac and Kerry, there were four people in the hall, including Patricia Weston, who must surely only come to these meetings out of some misplaced sense of matrimonial duty. Mac liked Patricia, despite her choice of spouse. She was what everyone called ‘a good sort’, which was true but also a compliment along the lines of ‘lovely personality’ or ‘kind eyes’ — the type you give to women who are large and frumpy. Patricia Weston’s wardrobe consisted entirely of A-line skirts, buttoned blouses and sensible shoes, plus she wore flesh coloured pantyhose all year round, and, Mac adjudged, a panty girdle. Her hair was set in neat grey curls à la Her Majesty, and on formal occasions, she brought out her string of pearls
. Mac had long since stopped caring about the aging process — Oil of Olay could shove its seven signs up its arse — but she was surprised every time she recalled that Patricia was only ten years older than her, a mere sixty-three. The Queen Mother had looked younger at 101, though all that gin might have had a preserving effect.
Patricia caught Mac looking at her and smiled. Mac smiled back, while resenting the fact she now felt like a terrible, mean-minded person. If Patricia didn’t care how old she looked, then no one else should give a tinker’s cuss.
Of the other people in the hall, Mac recognised the crunchy organic bloke who’d bought the lifestyle block next to Meredith, a dreadlocked blonde woman from the plant co-operative, and Corinna Marshall, Casey’s older sister. Corinna also caught Mac looking at her, but instead of smiling, she winked. That boded well.
‘Good evening, everyone, and welcome.’ Bernard spoke loudly, as if the hall was full. ‘I call this meeting of the Gabriel’s Bay Progressive Association to order.’
Mac quelled an urge to heckle, and then a more serious urge to fall asleep as the minutes of the previous meeting were reviewed, with Wendy’s factual errors, omissions and solecisms noted in detail and corrected before acceptance was moved and seconded. The financial report was mercifully short, the association having few funds to transact, but no less dull.
Kerry, she observed, remained bright-eyed throughout.
‘You find this interesting?’ she said.
‘I once sat through a two-hour meeting where the main topic was whether or not we should reformat our Excel spreadsheets with pastel colour-coding.’
Bernard cleared his throat again, pointedly this time. Mac resisted giving him the finger. Bad behaviour was temporarily satisfying, but wouldn’t help her cause.
‘Now, to items of general business,’ said Bernard. ‘We have six on the agenda. The first of which being a noted increase in graffiti on signage, walls and sundry other surfaces. Elaine, this is your item. Would you care to elaborate?’
Elaine would and she did, at length. Seemed the form of vandalism known as tagging was experiencing a renaissance, and Elaine demanded more thorough and active police enforcement and much stricter penalties.
‘Bring back the stocks?’ whispered Kerry.
Mac shook her head. ‘No less than public flogging.’
‘I have written a letter on the association’s behalf to the Police Area Commander in Hampton,’ said Elaine. ‘I trust my colleagues have no objections?’
If they did, they wisely kept schtum. Otherwise, they’d be next under the lash.
‘Thank you, Elaine,’ said Bernard. ‘Item two …’
And as the committee got het up about household refuse in the town’s recycling bins, recidivist violators of bylaws regarding dogs, skateboarders (a general, free-flowing rant), and whether bicycles could safely be leaned up against shop windows, Mac stayed sane by playing Angry Birds on her phone, accompanied by Kerry’s occasional ‘Nice shot’.
‘Now to item six.’ Bernard paused and gave a little smile. ‘A point we have debated before, on many occasions, but to no conclusive end. However, this time, evidence has been found that would seem to strongly support a certain point of view.’
‘Better brace ourselves,’ said Kerry. ‘He’s working up to something big.’
‘Item six,’ said Bernard again, for those who had lost track or died. ‘The usage of the apostrophe in Gabriel’s Bay. Is it or is it not correct?’
‘Oh, for the love of God,’ said Mac.
A rustle and scrape behind. Mac turned to see Corinna Marshall on her feet. But she wasn’t leaving. She wanted to speak.
‘Yes?’ Bernard said, obviously wishing he could vaporise her.
‘Tēnā koutou.’ Corinna nodded to the committee, and to the others in the hall. ‘Tēnā koutou katoa. Apologies, I should wait until General Business, but I have two small children at home and need to get back. But I won’t take up too much of your time.’
In good lawyer fashion, she did not wait for any objections.
‘This is a courtesy,’ she said, ‘to let you all know a proposal has been submitted to the New Zealand Geographic Board to change the name of Gabriel’s Bay back to its original name of Onemanawa. The consultation process runs from now until the end of January, so there will be plenty of time to make submissions.’
Corinna bestowed a warm smile on the speechless committee, picked up her bag.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you get back to your apostrophe. E noho rā.’
Mac wanted very badly to whoop, but settled for grinning from ear to ear. Those Marshalls — she’d known them since they were toddlers, watched them grow into strong, independent women who took no shit from anyone.
Bernard — Mac had to give him credit — acted decisively. As the committee began to splutter and squawk, he raised his voice and shut them down.
‘In the light of that — revelation,’ he said, ‘we will defer discussion on item six until such time as we have more information.’
He closed and up-ended his leather-bound jotter, tapped it firmly on the table. ‘I hereby bring this meeting to a close.’
‘Were you in on that?’
Mac only just heard Kerry above the hubbub erupting at the top table.
‘Nope. News to me.’
‘Are you piqued that she stole your stirring thunder?’
Mac sat back, defying the folding chair to tip, and watched the body language of affront and accusation — jabbing fingers, huffing cheeks, protruding neck veins.
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I think that’s more than enough fun for one evening.’
Chapter 12
Kerry
Meredith hadn’t mentioned it again, but Kerry knew that didn’t mean she’d forgotten. And if the answer was bad news, better not to delay discovery. Though, it had to be said, putting it off did have its attractions …
No, no, no. Bravery, integrity were the watchwords. Stiffen the sinews. Gird the loins.
‘Mrs Barton?’
Meredith was replacing a book on the shelves of the library-cum-study, a room that had been, she said, Jonty’s favourite. It was certainly the manliest in the house, its décor reminiscent of a Victorian gentleman’s club with high-backed leather chairs, dark wood panelling, stuffed game birds in glass domes and a lingering whiff of cigar smoke and misogyny.
‘Yes, Kerry?’
She had been upstairs reading to her husband, and sounded polite but weary. In other words, entirely as usual.
‘Er, on Monday, it will have been two weeks,’ he began. ‘My trial period will have come to an end and I thought we should discuss — well …’
Her expression became marginally more weary, though it was hard to tell in the gloom.
‘What are your thoughts on the matter?’ she said.
‘Mine?’ said Kerry, surprised.
‘How have you found this past fortnight?’
An urge to keep the job at all costs vied with his previous pledge to integrity. If there was a seam of sentiment beneath that cool exterior, now was the time to mine it shamelessly.
‘I’ve very much enjoyed living here,’ he said. ‘I enjoy the flexibility and autonomy you have given me. I don’t find any of the tasks dull or onerous. And I’m, er, becoming very fond of Gabriel’s Bay. I’m making some friends, and also I’ve—’
Anxiety stalled him. To say he’d already set up as a children’s football coach sounded presumptuous, as if he’d taken for granted that his trial period would be a success. Plus, he’d not told Sidney about the trial, nor that he might not be able to stick around if Meredith let him go. He liked Sidney, would like to get to know her better. And from what he had gleaned of her character, he was sure she wouldn’t allow dissemblers a second chance.
But he should have known that while Meredith chose to remain mostly within her house, it did not mean she was out of the loop. Oksana brought a weekly bulletin — heavily seasoned with the paprika
of judgement — and there was the telephone, of course. Given proper thought, it was obvious she’d know exactly what he was up to.
Even so, he felt somewhat pinned to the spot when Meredith said, ‘I gather you acquitted yourself well coaching the children. Sidney was full of praise.’
How to open up the wound of ambivalence …
‘That’s, er, very generous of her,’ he said.
‘She doesn’t praise lightly.’
… and rub the salt well in.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
And Meredith hadn’t answered his initial question. Oh well. Now that he was already stinging, he may as well seize that nettle.
‘Mrs Barton, have you made a decision? About whether or not I can stay on?’
Curse it, she seemed hesitant. His brain scrambled. What could he say, what could he offer that might convince her?
Glancing hastily around the library for inspiration …
Yes! That was it! Maybe. No …
Yes! Or at least — why not?
‘I’d be willing for you to expand my job description,’ he said.
Now she was the one taken by surprise.
‘Expand? How?’
‘I, er, could take over some of your care duties with your husband? Take him his lunch. Read to him. Perhaps a couple of days a week?’
Hesitant, still. But wavering … ?
‘I’m not sure that would work. My husband is very … particular.’
‘If it doesn’t, then I’ll cease forthwith. We’ll go back to the way we were. No problem.’
Now, that was a new look she gave him. Knowing, almost amused, as if they both now shared a secret. Or was she merely entertained by his transparent desperation?
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