by Judith White
In the end, Hannah was the person who knew her mother and her history more intimately than anyone else alive on the planet. And this knowledge was selective, limited to her own bias. Her perception of her mother was relegated to her own increasingly questionable memory.
And so, even now, a whole lifetime of even the residue of her mother’s being was eroding. The occasional memento or photo could be seen as markers, but without reference they would become meaningless. Soon she’d be nothing. Her biography, her personal information and data stuffed into the side-packs on a horse whose rump had been slapped, sending it careening through a desert until it was out of sight. Even the dust that marked the disappearance would settle.
Her grandchildren, Maggie’s children, now in London, still had the opportunity to carry her genes forward. Otherwise, only her paintings, her vision captured in colour, would exist of her.
As Simon had mentioned not so long ago, there had been over three billion years of life on Earth.
About two hundred thousand years of modern man in the form of Homo sapiens.
The duration of any one particular human from their birth to death would not even qualify as a dot on a time-line. A mysterious bursting into tears one afternoon was as significant as a sparrow’s tweet.
LOSING CONTROL
In the beginning she would know.
For example, a day’s tally could be: one dandelion leaf, one worm, a small beetle and some hand-rearing mash. She was impressed the first time he finished the first full leaf, albeit broken into pieces. Gradually more things were added to his diet while they were foraging.
And now, today, she’d thrown him twelve to fifteen large snails. He waddled after them, a clown in sheep’s clothing. Just whoomph down the hatch, the large lump of each snail sliding along his neck, like an elevator descending a high-rise building. He wolfed up his pellets and mash. Not to mention whatever he found as he wandered behind her, and all the leaves he munched along the way. And there it was, a few hours later, the evidence, the mush of it all dolloped behind him.
THE HAUGHTINESS OF DIGNITY
She had a whole day out of the house. A work meeting, other chores, then taking a wheelchair-bound friend of her mother, visiting from Hawke’s Bay, to the aquarium at Kelly Tarlton’s, where they dawdled past tanks of fish, sharks, crayfish, penguins.
When she finally arrived home, Hannah decided not to go down to the bottom of the garden to say hello to the duck. It would mean that she’d be engaged with him for the rest of the evening or, if not, giving him false hope before having to leave again to cook and write a report about the meeting. The thought of his slap slap slapping around her feet as she tried to cook dinner, leaving his little plops of the day’s feeding on the floor, and his panicking squeaks whenever she disappeared around the island in the kitchen, was too much. She would be forever having to clean up after him. So she left him in his hutch while she prepared dinner for Simon and herself.
She thought she might make up for it by allowing the duckling on her knee as they ate, but when it came to it she couldn’t be bothered. Even though Simon might not voice his displeasure, he would let it be known. And the crows had managed to find their way in again and were sitting around the place, shifting from one leg to the other. She was only just aware of them, but they were there. Deadlines lurking.
Finally, just before dark, she went down to the hutch, where the duck cheeped urgently as he sensed the vibration of her footsteps approaching. He’d tucked himself way back into the covered area. He had no food but plenty of water. She slipped her hand under his belly and lifted him out. He paddled uselessly mid-air until she adjusted his position to give his feet a landing on her hand. She went to the secret store she’d discovered amongst the agapanthus and pulled a few snails from the wall. He was starving.
Where’ve you been? he growled. All afternoon.
She told him about her visit to Kelly Tarlton’s, where she’d seen the grey downy penguins packed between their parents’ legs, as if the stuffing was falling out of them. She described the older penguins whose feathers were moulting and how they held themselves with such haughty dignity as their sleek sheen erupted into feathery ruffle, and how they too looked like soft toys that the moths had found their way into. She talked about some of the penguins lying on the snow with their flippers held out as if they were waiting for the next wave to take them back to Antarctica. And how she had watched through the glass wall of the tank as the penguins torpedoed backwards and forwards through the water.
The duck turned his head away from her, and she finally noticed that he was curiously silent.
Something wrong? she asked.
No, he squeaked.
Is something upsetting you?
I’m practising haughty dignity, he replied archly.
What do you mean?
You wander down as if nothing is amiss after ignoring me all day and I discover that you’ve been out admiring other birds and you expect me to be impressed.
Chapter 6
THROUGH THE HOLE AND BACK AGAIN
Hannah and the duckling were sitting on the steps at the bottom of the deck soaking in weak sunshine while Hannah had a break from her work. Suddenly there was an eruption of leaves in the hedge nearby. First a shaggy blond head, then a tangled mess of ponytail, and two pink smiling faces forced branches apart, and there they were. Eric’s grandchildren. She hadn’t seen them for six months.
Eric lived next door. They’d lived in the area for so long, and yet Eric was the only person they really knew. There used to be an easy camaraderie with him, but for months now he had just grunted at them, and then only if he had to. It was awkward living next door to someone who clearly harboured animosity towards them. About two months before her mother died, he’d pulled away. He wouldn’t answer the door when she knocked, even though she knew he was inside. He made sure he wasn’t out in the garden when she was, or, if he was already there, would saunter back inside. The questioning note she poked under his doormat was returned to her letterbox with Return to Sender scrawled on the folded paper. Whatever the rift was about, Hannah did not know, but she suspected Simon might have had words with him about her spending too much time over there, helping with new curtains in his fading sitting room. He’d been long divorced, but his daughter, Sheila, would often visit, sometimes leaving him to babysit her two children who were used to having easy access through the hedge with their grandfather.
We came to see you, said Max triumphantly. He was clutching a red plastic car.
Hello, my little monsters, she said. Look how you’ve grown!
She picked leaves out of Max’s hair. It doesn’t take long, she thought. For hedges to grow over, for memories to disappear, for friendships to fade to nothing.
Yes, we did, said Rosemary. We comed, and I had an ice-cream.
Where’s your grandfather? said Hannah.
He’s over there, said Max, pointing back through the fence.
Does he know you’re here?
But the children spied the duckling nestled on her lap, and moved in close.
Rosemary already had her chubby fingers around his neck, and the duck was wriggling furiously. He was not used to anything other than reverent handling. Hannah unclasped the tiny boa constrictors and told her to be gentle. Max demonstrated how it was done, by patting the outer edges of the duck’s down, as if testing a hedgehog.
Does Poppa know you’re here?
He went to sleep. Can I hold the chicken?
No, I want to.
I said it first.
Just a minute. Tell me, Max. Just wait a minute and tell me. When did Poppa go to sleep?
Before. Before when we came to see you.
Hannah stood up and went to the hole in the hedge, hoisting aside branches to peer through to the lawn next door. Eric was sitting in a plastic garden chair, and indeed he was asleep, his chin buried in the chest hair frothing through his shirt. She darted to the cage and dumped the duck, ignoring his tantru
m against the netting as she sprinted back to the hedge.
Come on, back we go, she said to the children, and they all crawled, bumping against each other through the opening that used to be an easy thoroughfare between the two houses. They stood up and she took their sticky hands, kissing first one and then the other. She had missed them.
Ssssh, she said, taking the children on exaggerated tiptoe over the grass to Eric. He looked unkempt, his hair lank and tousled, a few days’ growth of grey bristle over his soft chin. He was wearing the brushed-cotton blue shirt that she — they — had given him for Christmas a couple of years ago, rolled up past his paint-splattered elbows. What could have destroyed the camaraderie that they’d had together, the jocular discussions over a glass of wine or two, the friendship?
Hannah’s got a chicken, announced Rosemary. Eric snorted loudly. His eyes shot open. He blinked, then registered that she was there. She held her ground, even though her heart was pounding. Why was her heart pounding? He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
What? What’s going on? he growled.
Eric, she said.
He threw his head into his hands, rubbed his face vigorously and shook his head.
The kids came over to see me. You were asleep.
Hannah’s got a chicken, said Rosemary.
It’s a duck, said Hannah.
Well, that’s very good, said Eric. As if I didn’t know. Most likely the whole bloomin’ neighbourhood knows.
Eric, said Hannah.
Come on, kids, we need to go inside and have something to eat.
He didn’t look at her as he rounded the children into his care, and she felt their fingers slipping from hers, her hands empty again, as she turned, her eyes welling with tears, to crawl without dignity back through the hole in the hedge.
BEAUTIFUL MUSIC
There was more to Eric, if she were to be honest. Eric was a self-employed house painter. He was also a musician. In his younger days he had played the fiddle and the cello. For a few years he was even a member of a country music band, The Eketa Hoons, which toured in the summer, doing gigs in country halls.
Hannah had never had much to do with his wife, but by Eric’s account she couldn’t stand his music and had left him for the man who mowed the lawns at his daughter’s primary school.
There was something about music. If it be the food of love, play on. Play on, my lover. Simon had been in Uganda. She tried not to think about it. That Easter. She’d been hanging out the washing and he was digging in his garden. They often chatted over the hedge, which at that time was kept lower than it was now. It was a sunny day with a good breeze for drying clothes. She’d been grappling with a sheet. Eric had a gumboot balanced on the spade, his hands clutching the handle as they talked. His head shining through his hair. She’d mentioned casually, conversationally, that she’d like to hear his band one day.
Well . . . he’d said, looking fixedly at a bit of something he was scratching on the spade handle. Then he raised his eyes to hers. We’ve got a gig at a country music festival in the Coromandel tomorrow afternoon. Can’t promise you’ll like it, but, if you’re willing to take a punt, you can drive down with me in the morning. But, he shrugged, it’s probably late notice . . .
He flicked a flop of sandy hair behind his ear.
The Eketa Hoons consisted of four men. Singer and guitar, bass, fiddle and drums. All about fifty, all a bit weathered, all a bit sexy, dressed in black shirts and jeans. All constantly connected by seemingly mischievous glances, as if sharing some arcane joke. They all sang a bit. They knew how to have fun. That was it. She’d often heard Eric practising both his violin and his cello next door, but she’d never seen him play. His body lithe and alive, his bow sawing the fiddle so vigorously.
She’d positioned herself on a rug in the grass. There was something about the lilt of the music, so light, so uplifting that she wanted to get up and dance with the other picnickers bouncing uninhibitedly in their bare feet, their hair flinging, the sun glinting on smiling cheeks. The singer was gruff and seductive, the lyrics funny and romantic. Her heart was flying, fighting against the Lilliputian forces of shyness pinning her to the ground.
Afterwards Eric came and sat beside her on the rug.
That was great! she’d said and she’d astonished herself by flinging her arm around him, and kissing him briefly but enthusiastically on his perspiring cheek. The music had created a sense of intimacy.
Thanks, he’d muttered, lifting his cowboy hat as if to let out all the steam and energy of the music. He replaced the hat, fizzed open a can of cold beer from the chilly bin she had prepared, and drank, the afternoon light glowing on his tanned, closely shaved skin. His hat dropped off into the grass. His hair was pulled into a short pony tail. His nice sharp jawline just beginning to soften with age. She picked up his hat and handed it to him. It had an oily green feather poking from the hatband. Why was she remembering these small details? His delphinium blue eyes. Yes, delphinium blue. Or were they? Surely not. They certainly weren’t now. Did eyes fade with time? Or with circumstance?
Eleven years ago, this was, when Simon was in Uganda on a contract for three months.
They’d booked separate units in a motel for the night before the drive back the following day. They’d had fish and chips on the beach and a bottle of wine. They’d laughed like idiots. She hadn’t realised how funny he was, all those years of knowing him. Was he really so amusing? What had they talked about? Before she returned to her unit they had hugged goodnight. Then they kissed. They had melted together in a kiss. They were two ice-creams smashed together. She had pulled away. Aghast. Smirked at him self-consciously.
G’night, she’d said, backing away like a fool, crashing into a large pot plant. She could feel the crunching of the plant beneath her. She started to laugh, her knees up, her feet waving mid-air, her bottom wedged in the pot. He grabbed her hand. Have a good trip? he’d said, pulling her out. Pulling her out like an unidentified creature rescued from mud. She didn’t recognise herself. The red geraniums were flattened. She tried in vain to pull them upright. Oh dear, she said, and she knew she couldn’t look at him again, so she turned, scuffling through her bag searching for the key to her unit. She turned around. He was standing there. Waiting. Her hands were shaking. The key, she said. There it was, in her pocket. She opened the door. He was still standing there. Passively. Under a perfectly contained bowl of light under the soffit. Little black flies dancing, so excitedly. She gave him a childlike wave, her fingers playing notes on the keyboard of the night. And closed the door. And all night she thought of him.
The next day Eric had organised to give the bass player a ride back home. Hannah insisted on sitting in the back seat. She’d dozed, listening to their banter, their boys’ chatter about music and musicians. Simon was much more serious, in general. Hannah and Eric were alone in the car for just ten minutes after Justin had been dropped off; Hannah back in the passenger seat, staring out the window. They were nervous, restrained, quiet. Back home, they stood on the footpath, their arms loaded with their overnight bags, and, in his case, his fiddle.
I had a lovely time, thank you, she said.
Yeah, me too, me too, he said nodding furiously. His hat fell onto the pavement. She bent, scooped her finger under the chinstrap he didn’t use, and pushed it under his arm. Then they split; he into his house, she into hers.
Their attraction to each other boiled for a couple of weeks, lurking under their skin, waiting to be released. Hannah would lie in bed listening to the sombre threads of his cello or the bright enticing notes of his fiddle, and she knew he was playing for her. And all the windows of their houses breathed shared air, gaping to be fed. She imagined them both leaning across the sills, their elongated wavering tongues straining to touch.
There was no way Hannah wanted to be unfaithful to Simon. No way. But one afternoon, a couple of weeks later, there’d been a storm, one of those crazy furious storms. A flying branch had smashed the window of their basemen
t. Rain was pelting into the laundry. She’d dragged a large piece of plywood from the basement and was trying to hammer it across the window, but the force of the wind was pulling the wood from her grasp. Then Eric was beside her. She held the plywood against the house as he hammered. They almost had to yell at each other to be heard above the gale. Thanks so much, she said and then they were drinking the water that fell from each other’s face, into their shared ravenous — yes, ravenous — mouths. His cold hand slipping under the collar of her raincoat, over the skin of her shoulder onto her back. They couldn’t deny it this time. He took her by the hand and led her through the shuddering hedge and up the path and into his house.
It had lasted a week. Well, eleven and a half days. It had stopped while it still had life. It had stopped because, if it hadn’t, it would never have ended. It had stopped because they didn’t want to hate each other. It had stopped because it had to stop because they would have consumed each other totally. It had stopped because his teenage daughter had arrived unexpectedly when Hannah was in bed with him in the early morning. Sheila just let herself in through the front door and they could hear her pounding towards them up the stairs. Hannah flung herself onto the carpet between the wall and the bed, lying under a tent of blanket. She didn’t move for the next hour, as Eric sat in his dressing gown with Sheila drinking coffee downstairs at the kitchen table, talking about boyfriend trouble. Hannah was forced to evaluate her life and her marriage and the choices she had to make. She was forty years old.
Six weeks later she discovered for certain that she was pregnant.
FOETAL POSITION
When the cramps and the bleeding started, she knew what was happening. There wasn’t enough room in this body for one more. Is that what it was? Not enough room in this marriage for an intruder?
