Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  ‘What do you think?’ he prompted. ‘Shall we give it a try?’

  ‘I’m unable to pay you any extra,’ she said.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘And you’re prepared for my husband to be … difficult?’

  Particular. Difficult. Euphemisms for what, Kerry wondered? Selfish, tyrannical, faking old bastard?

  That amused look again. And before he could answer, Meredith said, ‘I am aware of the prevailing opinion about my husband’s condition.’

  No comment seemed wise. And a mental note to do better keeping his thoughts off his face.

  ‘But no one knows him as I do,’ Meredith went on. ‘And if we are, in your words, to give this a try, then I will need to impart some of that knowledge to you.’

  Ok …

  ‘My question then becomes — are you a man of discretion? And by that, I mean not only one who can keep confidences, but also one who can judge how best to act. Are you such a man?’

  By asking that question, Meredith Barton had just given him the benefit of the doubt. Now, it was up to him to confirm or deny.

  ‘I can’t promise to be a pure and absolute success,’ he told her. ‘But I can swear to do my utmost to reward your trust.’

  Cool? She was Narnia’s White Queen!

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  Kerry braced for the ‘However …’

  But all Meredith said was, ‘Come with me. I have something to show you.’

  Kerry followed, and hoped it wasn’t a sign of weak character that he really did not want it to be a body.

  Meredith led him to the wooden outbuilding behind the garage, and next to the shed in which Mr Phipps stored mysterious substances. His tools he kept at home, and brought with him each time in a green canvas bag. In the shed, Kerry had glimpsed metal containers with rusted screw-tops and jars filled with a brown liquid that could be animal, vegetable, mineral or a category new to science. Kerry assumed Mr Phipps used it on the garden, as insect control or plant food, but would advise anyone who smoked not to stand too close to the open shed door.

  The adjacent building was the width of a triple garage, and you entered at the far end through double doors fastened with a large bolt and padlock. The padlock was hanging open. Meredith removed it and, with some effort, though she did not ask for help, slid back the bolt. A string hung down in the doorway. A tug and the place was illuminated.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Kerry.

  He was Gulliver, in the portal to a tiny world. Around two sides of the room ran a wide raised platform, and on it, snow-capped mountains soared, tiny waterfalls ran down to streams and then to a river that flowed past forests, through farm meadows dotted with stock and crops, and wound on around villages, with greens, cottages and churches. Kerry spotted a fairground complete with Ferris wheel, a windmill, a lighthouse on a cliff, barges on the river and, of course, railway signals, water stops and stations.

  ‘How does it compare to your father’s?’ Meredith said.

  ‘His would fit in that small corner there,’ said Kerry. He moved in for a closer inspection. ‘But in terms of the quality of workmanship and over-arching technical and aesthetic principles, I’d say my father and Mr Barton would nod to each other in mutual acknowledgement.’

  He stood up. ‘That is, if it is Mr Barton’s work?’

  ‘It is,’ said Meredith. ‘Yes, it is very much his.’

  ‘Does it still go?’

  ‘It does. Every month, Mr Phipps checks the connections, keeps the tracks and trains free of dust.’

  It was all Kerry could do not to jump up and down, begging her to switch it on.

  ‘But, as you can see,’ she added, ‘it is still only part-finished.’

  He had been so bedazzled by his first impression that he’d not seen, until now, that half the raised platform along the shed’s rear wall was empty.

  ‘What was he going to put there?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Meredith replied. ‘But he always drew plans before he started work; he was quite meticulous about it. I don’t know, myself, if any exist.’

  Kerry understood. He was not to go fossicking in private drawers or cupboards, but if he did manage to connect with Jonty, the whereabouts of any such plans was a topic that could be raised.

  ‘My husband began building this over twenty-five years ago,’ said Meredith. ‘He gained enormous pleasure from it. It suited his careful nature, his attention to detail. And when the girls were small, he would let them build their own train set — a simple wooden one — on the floor, and they would make trees from iceblock sticks, and rivers from cellophane, bring in their plastic farm animals, their Matchbox cars …’

  ‘Not into dolls, were they?’

  ‘Neither of them. Lego, trains, cars, Meccano. I think the closest they ever had to anything “girly” was Fuzzy Felt.’

  ‘When I was four, I had a teddy bear I named Mabel,’ said Kerry. ‘Until another child laughed at me and I re-christened it Ron.’

  Meredith wasn’t listening. She was lost in another time, when this room was filled with activity, when her husband and daughters worked away on their creations side by side, productively, happily.

  ‘The girls spent less time in here, of course, as they grew up,’ said Meredith. ‘But even after she’d left home, Nicola always kept an eye out for items that might suit. She had creative flair, could see the potential in objects, see what they might become with a bit of paint, a few additions and alterations. That continued shared interest made for a strong bond between her and her father …’

  When she turned back to face him, Kerry could see her discomfort.

  ‘I gather that the other day you spoke to my youngest, Sophie?’

  So she had called back.

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Meredith twisted the ring she wore on her middle finger, a diamond and sapphire job that looked old and valuable, and may have been her engagement ring, as on that finger was only a plain gold hoop. Had she lost weight, and not bothered to get the ring re-sized?

  Kerry had a sudden, unwelcome vision of a solitaire diamond that he’d once placed on another finger. Ages ago now, miles away. Which meant no reduction in the shame whatsoever.

  ‘Sophie lives as an artist, in Whanganui,’ said Meredith. ‘Until recently with a boyfriend, from whom she has now separated. The reason for her call was a request for money to use as a deposit on another flat. I did not give it to her.’

  This day was certainly turning into one of true confessions. Kerry felt torn between wanting to know more, and wanting to avoid seeing dignified Meredith rip open her chest and offer him her still-beating heart. Her question earlier — was he a man she could trust? Was he a man who could equably absorb another’s hopes and fears and respond with compassion, wisdom? Or was he the same glib surface-slider who deflected real emotions with a joke, bounced them up into the ether where they burst, quickly, harmlessly, like party balloons?

  ‘How old is Sophie?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty-one.’

  Older than he’d expected. Old enough to be independent. Kerry’s parents hadn’t exactly sold his bed when he started university, but they’d made their expectations clear. They couldn’t afford his fees, so he must take a loan and, ideally, a part-time job. He could stay at home until he found a flat, but find a flat he would. Kerry accepted this at the time as he accepted most other influences on his life — without question. He couldn’t truthfully say that it had steered him down a wrong path, but it was a path he’d followed blindly nonetheless.

  That said, he’d never rung home asking for money. Forgiveness, yes, but not hard cash. He had some pride.

  ‘It’s a difficult balance,’ said Meredith. ‘Loyalty and love versus principles. Difficult to decide whether, indeed, balance is required. Or whether one should put love first, no matter what.’

  ‘You can’t hug a principle,’ said Kerry.

  ‘No,’ Meredith agreed. ‘But you can’t
hug a tyrant, either. That’s not the kind of relationship they desire.’

  Who was the tyrant? Daughter or husband … ?

  But show-and-tell time was over. Meredith’s face closed up, cooled smooth.

  ‘If you wish to continue working here,’ she said, ‘then the job is yours. Your first reading session will be tomorrow — may as well throw you in.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Kerry began, resisting again the urge to drop to his knees. ‘I’m really very—’

  ‘My husband tolerates only one author,’ she went on. ‘And that is Nietzsche. We are currently halfway through Twilight of the Idols. You’ll find it in the library.’

  Under ‘N’, which also stood for, at a wild guess, ‘No fun’. Though, to be fair, all Kerry knew of Nietzsche was that he’d sported a moustache like a sorghum broom. That and some saying about looking into the abyss.

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Barton to expect you tomorrow afternoon at one-thirty. I’ve been reading to him for an hour,’ said Meredith. ‘You may set your own schedule.’

  As she walked towards the shed door, expecting him to follow, Kerry took a last look at the perfect miniature world created by Jonty Barton (with a bit of help from one daughter, at least). He must ask if he could take photos of it to send to his father. Who knows, it might encourage his parents to hit up a loan shark for money to come over. Not that his mother would be quite so thrilled about the contents of an even bigger shed, but she could always tour the Hampton wineries by bicycle.

  A thought occurred to him.

  ‘Forgive me if this sounds impertinent,’ he said, ‘but what did you do while the rest of your family were building railways? Did you have a hobby?’

  Meredith paused, one hand on the doorframe. The sun behind lit her grey hair gold.

  ‘I suppose it would be irrational not to show you. Now that you’ve seen this.’

  Goodness. She seemed embarrassed!

  ‘However, I’d request you keep in mind,’ she added, as she shut the shed door, ‘that you once had a teddy bear named Mabel.’

  Chapter 13

  Sidney

  ‘Did you see inside the little books?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘I didn’t dare even ask to touch,’ said Kerry. ‘Each one has a tiny story, handwritten. And the carpets. All that miniature cross-stitching. Would have driven me blind. And bats.’

  Sidney watched Kerry shake his head, in disbelief, amazement. He was generally at a high pitch of enthusiasm, she’d come to realise, but this subject had geed him up to a whole new level of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He radiated the glee of a child who’s spotted the hiding place of the biggest Easter egg.

  ‘The last time my mind was this boggled,’ he said, ‘was when I learned that fire doesn’t cast a shadow. Oh, and when I read that I’d been eating chocolate digestives wrong side up all my life. Chocolate on top — who knew?’

  He sipped on a beer that was already empty, his mind still roaming the rooms of a tiny house. Behind the bar, Sidney polished another glass and set it on the shelf. She’d agreed to stand in again for Devon, who’d driven off that morning to a horse stud to assess a newly acquired colt that was proving harder than expected to manage. The owner had heard of Devon’s reputation, and had hired him for the whole weekend, all expenses paid. Sidney was pleased for him — thoroughbred studs were where the big money was in the horse world.

  ‘The house was made originally as a toy for the girls, did she tell you?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘She did,’ said Kerry. ‘But they preferred the model railway, and so Meredith took over. Evicted the lumbering doll family who could never stay upright, binned all their ugly plastic furniture and started again from scratch. Made all the furnishings, ornaments and carpets. Even handpainted the wallpaper.’ He shook his head again. ‘Astonishing.’

  ‘What’s astonishing?’

  Gene pulled out a stool, sat up beside Kerry at the bar.

  ‘Your ability to work approximately one hour a day and yet still run a profitable business,’ said Sidney.

  ‘The art of leadership is delegation,’ said Gene. ‘And training underlings to know exactly what you want.’

  Sidney handed him a beer.

  ‘QED,’ said Gene, smugly.

  ‘I have a list of horrible things I can do to your food,’ said Sidney. ‘A long one.’

  ‘You’re out of luck. I’m eating at home tonight. The girls are cooking.’ Gene winced. ‘They’ve discovered the Disney food blog. Apparently, we’re having Lady and the Tramp Spaghetti, followed by Matterhorn Macaroons.’

  ‘Sounds pretty good.’

  ‘They scrap over how many yoghurt-covered raisins they get in their cereal bowls,’ said Gene. ‘I’m not sure they’re ready for a sustained collaborative effort, but we’ll see. Anyway — here’s to hiding until it’s all over.’

  He and Kerry clinked beer bottles.

  ‘And what have you both been astonished by?’ Gene said again. ‘Remember, the town that gossips together—’

  ‘Is like every other town,’ said Sidney. ‘If you insist: Kerry saw Meredith’s doll’s house today.’

  ‘Oh, man,’ said Gene. ‘Did you see the little books? And the fruit bowl with those teensy grapes? And the freaking cutlery. Man, I have fingernail clippings bigger than those teaspoons.’

  Sidney saw Kerry’s eyes widen at Gene’s sudden animation.

  ‘Has everyone seen the doll’s house?’ he asked.

  ‘Before Jonty packed a sad,’ said Gene, ‘Meredith used to let people tour her house and garden. Once a year, as part of a fundraiser for some charity — children, or cancer, or maybe children with cancer.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kerry. ‘And was this event popular?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gene. ‘She’d get a couple of hundred people through, easy.’

  Sidney had been watching Kerry. ‘What are you scheming?’ she said to him. ‘You have a scheming look about you.’

  ‘It’s my face,’ he said. ‘It has a naturally inquisitive cast.’

  His smile was meant to charm. Sidney was annoyed to find that it did. She busied herself polishing glasses she’d already polished. It was five o’clock. The Boat Shed had just opened and Jacko had popped back to his house to fetch some fresh parsley. No problem — the diners wouldn’t start to trickle in for another half-hour, so, as always, she spent this time ensuring everything was spotless. Jacko hated even a hint of mess, had once bawled out Devon for not removing a dead fly from a high shelf. When Devon pointed out that no one but Jacko would have been able to see it, Jacko said that didn’t matter. What mattered was being arsed enough to ensure every aspect was perfect, even if the only judge was you. That’s how you slept straight at night. Knowing you’d done all you could.

  ‘Er, did the visitors also see the model railway?’ Kerry asked.

  Gene snorted. ‘Jonty let the hoi polloi near his precious tracks? Hell, no.’

  ‘Have either of you seen it?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Gene. ‘Rumours only.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Sidney. ‘But I know Mr Phipps thinks it’s amazing.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Kerry. ‘Did he spell it out in semaphore?’

  A stomping up the back steps announced Jacko’s return.

  ‘Jacko!’ called Gene. ‘You seen Jonty Barton’s model railway?’

  Jacko ducked under the kitchen doorframe. In front of his chest, he held a bunch of parsley, like a bouquet. Silently, Sidney dared Gene to make a comparison with bridesmaids.

  ‘Nup,’ said Jacko. ‘But Doc Love reckons it’s better than his war-game dioramas.’

  ‘Game? You mean — toy soldiers?’ said Kerry.

  ‘And tanks,’ said Jacko. ‘He’s got dioramas of the Second Battle of El Alamein, the Battle of Prokhorovka — Russkis versus Jerries — and Operation Goodwood.’

  ‘You sound very informed,’ said Kerry.

  Jacko cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders.

  ‘Might have been up
to have a little play.’

  ‘A play?’ said Gene.

  ‘Yeah, you know,’ said Jacko. ‘You roll the dice, make your move.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ Gene held up a hand. ‘Are you saying your manoeuvres are dictated by chance, not by how the battle actually went?’

  ‘How it works.’

  ‘So — you can alter the course of history? Like a time lord?’

  ‘It’s a game, you berk,’ said Jacko.

  ‘Yes, I think damage to the fabric of the universe is minimal.’ Kerry leaned forward. ‘Are you and Doctor Love the only ones in on this?’ he asked Jacko.

  ‘Nah, there’s a bit of a crew. Old Phippsy’s a regular. Agatha Robotham. Tinker Wadsworth. Chester from the video store and Peg, his fiancée. Few others.’

  Gene stared at him. ‘You never asked me.’

  ‘’Cause you’re a sceptical git and a fucking joker!’ said Jacko. ‘You gotta take it seriously or it’s no fun.’

  ‘I’m surprised you let girls play,’ said Sidney.

  ‘Bloody brutal,’ said Jacko. ‘That Aggie Robotham’d bayonet you without blinking.’ He glanced down, seemed surprised to see the parsley. ‘Enough yakking,’ he said. ‘Some of us have to work.’ And he ducked back into the kitchen.

  Kerry was nodding, with a faint smile, as if a theory he’d long held had finally been proven.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘am I right in thinking that if Gabriel’s Bay had always been a tourist destination, then the impact of losing its major employers might not have been so dramatic?’

  Sidney and Gene exchanged a glance.

  ‘Economics isn’t my field of expertise,’ said Gene, ‘but I’d say that would depend on whether tourism could expand to fill the gap. The town would have to be committed to doing more than before. Few extra postcards won’t create new jobs.’

  ‘Other towns have built up their tourism,’ said Sidney. ‘Kaikōura, with the whales. Ōāmaru, with the Victorian heritage. Hampton’s made a huge effort to capitalise on its wine and food producers.’

  ‘True,’ Gene nodded. ‘You get smaller businesses lined up around a theme, like crafts or food, and then you have a bigger proposition than they could provide individually. Place gets known as — I don’t know — Macramé Town or whatever.’