The Affair

by Bunty Avieson

  ‘Shiny doors,’ commented Nina.

  ‘Glad you like them. I cleaned them myself, just in case you dropped by,’ replied Leo.

  As she followed him across the threshold she was aware of the merest twinge of guilt. It was an intellectual awareness, without emotion, and for a fraction of a second she hesitated. Then Leo took her hand, gently squeezing it. Desire was instant. It obliterated all thought. She felt it rising inside her. Unstoppable.

  Later as they lay together he propped himself up on one arm to watch her face. He studied her closely, singling out each feature, analysing it, then moving on. Nina responded to his intense scrutiny. She arched one eyebrow, pouted, narrowed her eyes, then opened them wide with surprise. Leo was transfixed.

  ‘Who are you, my lovely?’ he said softly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘My name is Ni –’ Nina was sorry as soon as she opened her mouth, stopping herself in mid sentence. She felt so relaxed, lying beside him with their legs entwined, she had responded without thinking. But this wasn’t part of the game.

  Leo thought he understood. He watched her face close over. He wanted her back. ‘Knee, now that’s a nice name,’ he responded lightly.

  Nina smiled. ‘You can call me Miss Knee,’ she said formally. ‘It goes better with Count Mauro, don’t you think?’

  ‘Miss Knee it is.’

  Nina’s tension eased and she looked up into Leo’s eyes. He traced the line along her cheekbone.

  ‘And was Miss Knee also Miss Canada?’

  Nina laughed. ‘Actually no, though I nearly won the Miss Eyebrow title when I was thirteen. If it hadn’t been for nasty little Judy Jenkins, I would have won.’

  ‘Miss Eyebrow? Am I to believe this nasty Judy Jenkins was considered to have nicer eyebrows than my Miss Knee?’

  Nina giggled. ‘No, no, no. Eyebrow is the name of the town I grew up in.’

  Leo rolled his eyes. ‘Of course it is. Miss Knee from Eyebrow.’

  ‘No, truly.’ Nina sat up. Sharing her past with this man was part of the game. It reminded her of who she was away from the Wildes. It was what she missed.

  ‘I promise you. I grew up in a town called Eyebrow. It is in Saskatchewan and there is an eye-shaped lake, called Eye Lake. Above that is a row of huge poplar trees that have been there for at least a hundred years. They say that’s the eyelashes. The hills around it are the eyebrow and that’s where the town is. My parents still live there.’

  Leo grinned with delight. ‘Stop it, you are making that up.’

  Nina knew how it sounded but persevered. ‘I’m not. It’s true. I promise you. You need a pretty detailed map of Canada to see it but it is there. It’s a small town. They say if you blink you’ll miss it.’

  Leo winced at the pun. ‘That’s pretty tragic.’

  ‘Oh, we have lots of tragic puns. You want to know where it is? Not far from Elbow.’ Nina laughed at the look on Leo’s face. ‘It’s true. There is a town called Elbow not so far from Eyebrow, which is not so far from Moose Jaw.’

  Leo shook his head.

  ‘And to think people laugh at some Australian names.’

  ‘Like what? Go on, give me your best shot. What strange names do towns have in Australia?’

  Leo thought for a moment. ‘Book Book, Willi Willi, Emu Bottom Plains, Spiders Web, Struck Oil.’

  It was Nina’s turn to look disbelieving. ‘Go on, what else?’

  ‘My all time favourite, Pakenham Upper.’

  ‘Pakenham Upper?’ repeated Nina.

  ‘Yep. That’s a town in Victoria. I’ve never been there but I have driven past the turn-off. There is a sign, bold as day, that says Pakenham Upper.’

  ‘And people live there?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Nina shook her head. ‘You Australians are mad. Moose Jaw suddenly sounds perfectly reasonable. And Eyebrow positively refined.’

  Leo traced his finger along her brow. ‘What’s it like growing up in a country town so small that if you blink you miss it?’

  ‘We have a saying. A little town is where, when you get the wrong telephone number, you can talk for fifteen minutes anyway. That’s kind of nice. Frustrating but nice. When I am at home there, somehow I am never in that much of a hurry that I can’t spare fifteen minutes for a chat.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic.’

  ‘Mmmmmm. Maybe. The highlight of the year is the lawnmower races at the Eyebrow Fair. That is unless you count climbing the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool Elevator. It gives you the best view of the town and the countryside for miles.’

  Leo leaned across and traced her brow with his nose. ‘Enough of the geography.’ He moved his lips down till they met hers.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tuesday, 12 February 1991

  Nina looked through the photos for the fourth time, slowly studying each one. There were a dozen different shots, all showing her mother and father going about their daily business. Dorothea Lambert in the garden, by the stove, standing next to her father on the front porch, another with her father by the gate. Jake Lambert appeared in only two, which didn’t surprise Nina. He would have been much harder to convince to pose. Nina was impressed Larry had managed to get any photographs of him at all.

  Jake Lambert stood by his wife, diffident and uncomfortable, smiling shyly at the camera. Nina laughed out loud. She would have liked to have been there to see how Larry managed it. ‘Come on, Dad, for Nina.’ She could hear him cajoling, begging, praising, trying every trick in the book. Larry was a charmer. It may take him some time but eventually he got his way. After two shots Nina could imagine her father throwing his hands in the air and heading off to his shed. He’d had enough. By then all the charm in the world wouldn’t have budged him.

  Dorothea stood proudly in her little garden, wearing a faded floral dress and a blue wool cardigan. No, thought Nina with affection, it was a frock. What her mother was wearing should definitely be called a frock. She had half-a-dozen of them, tight-waisted, with full skirts and large floral prints. Nina had never seen her wear trousers. She was stuck in a time warp, circa 1950. Dorothea was smiling shyly, her hand, caught in mid-air, reaching up to neaten a stray wisp that had escaped from her bun.

  They were such familiar images; their very ordinariness made them all the more precious.

  Larry had enclosed a letter with the photos. It was full of family news and ended by reminding Nina that they were all expecting her home for her birthday in May. Nina looked forward to that. How she missed them all. A trip home was just what she needed.

  When James came home she showed him the photos. He looked through them all while Nina read out the letter. ‘“All Shima’s puppies have gone and she is back to her old self, chasing the birds, terrorising the chickens and generally misbehaving …”’ Nina felt a pang. ‘She’s too old to still be behaving like a puppy,’ she said in an aside to James, then continued reading the letter aloud. ‘… “But you can see that for yourself in May. Mum is very excited about your birthday and I’m not allowed to say anything more about that so I won’t (except that I think our Dad the carpenter, ha, ha, is working on something very special for you. Should be a treat for you to take back on the plane …!). Anyway, Nina, we all miss you lots and look forward to seeing you soon. Love to James. Larry.”’

  Nina folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope.

  ‘I hate to think what Dad is making out in his shed,’ said Nina. ‘It will be some piece of furniture for us. It’s bound to be hideous. But, whatever it is, when you see it you have to look excited and say something suitable like “Just what we always needed”. Okay? Promise me that? No matter how dreadful it is you have to promise me you will love it.’ Nina was enthusiastic and bubbly. Her face was radiant. She looked at James. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t sharing her jovial mood at all. ‘What is it?’

  James sighed. He couldn’t lie to her. Not outright. He might be able to justify to himself keeping some things from her because he didn’t
want to upset her, but he couldn’t lie to her.

  ‘Oh, Nina. I’m sorry. I don’t think we can afford to go back to Canada in May.’

  He watched the smile fade and then her face harden. It took just a matter of seconds. The happiness, the sense of fun and playfulness that had been there ever since she had opened the letter, was wiped away in an instant. She looked angry.

  ‘May I remind you of a promise we made to my parents just eight months ago?’ she said slowly and clearly, enunciating each word. ‘Once a year, we said. Once a year we would go home.’

  James remembered. He had promised Nina’s mother he would bring her home every year, rain, hail or shine. He had taken Dorothea’s hands in his as he said it, reassuring her that although he was a stranger who was taking her daughter to the other side of the world, she didn’t have to worry. He would look after her and bring her home regularly. He believed in families. Indeed his own family would make Nina very welcome. And when they had children it was important that they grew up knowing as much about Canada and their Canadian family as they could. Dorothea should relax. She would see almost as much of her daughter as if she were still living and studying in Vancouver. And when Nina wasn’t visiting she would be on the telephone, whenever she wanted. And James had meant every word. He had even known how he would pay for it all.

  No matter what other financial commitments came up, he vowed that from the moment he married Nina, those Lloyd’s cheques that came in each year would pay for whatever Nina needed to stay in touch with her family.

  Nina glared at her husband. Then she picked up Tiger and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. James had banned Tiger from their bedroom and Nina had happily agreed. Tonight she made it clear the dog was welcome but James was not.

  Nina sat on the bed with Tiger in her arms and cried. She wondered again if she had made a mistake. Maybe she had been hasty. She hated to admit her father might have been right. She thought of the money in her sock drawer. It wasn’t quite enough for a ticket to Vancouver. The flight prices were advertised every other day in the newspaper so she knew she was a few hundred short. But they were always return fares that were quoted. Nina wondered what a one-way ticket might cost. It was her last thought before she fell asleep.

  Wednesday, 13 February 1991

  Felix pushed a pile of recent newspaper cuttings across his desk to James, stories from Britain that had been faxed to him overnight.

  ‘Nightmare on Lime Street,’ screamed one tabloid headline.

  ‘Signing my name cost me years of my life,’ said a more conservative broadsheet.

  There were dozens of them, from the finance pages, news pages and feature sections of each of London’s ten daily newspapers.

  ‘Thirty-four names have committed suicide directly as a result of losing everything to Lloyd’s,’ Felix read aloud.

  He slid it across to James to continue reading.

  Bailiffs in Britain will start knocking on the doors of some of the grandest homes in the land, threatening to ruin families that in some cases have been wealthy for generations.

  If they refuse to pay, bailiffs have instructions to start putting stickers on valuable objects that they intend to seize and sell.

  Paintings, carpets, furniture – all will be up for grabs, with Lloyd’s hoping its debtors are sitting on some choice pieces that will easily help clear the debts. It could turn out to be a bonanza for auction houses and the antiques trade.

  ‘Can they do that?’ asked James in horror. ‘Come in and just take your belongings?’

  Felix nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  James had a vision of Tuckfield in his striped regimental tie and Lloyd’s cufflinks standing next to his pasty-faced sidekick on his father’s doorstep, holding a pen and clipboard. He could see his father’s shock turn to outrage as they started putting stickers on the furniture, his valuable collection of Grange reds, even the Jacob Leesing vine growing outside, his parents’ most prized possession. He pictured himself wearing just boxer shorts and socks, hurling those precious gold cufflinks after them as they got into their black funeral cars.

  He picked up another cutting, banishing the image from his mind.

  In Parliament conservative MPs accused Lloyd’s underwriters of protecting their own interests while dumping Australians into ‘victim’ syndicates.

  One analysis shows that twice as many Australian names were in high loss syndicates as British members. These allegations are supported by research by a group of loss-making members of Lloyd’s in Britain, called the Devonshire Action Group.

  Their survey shows Australian members of Lloyd’s syndicates were among the biggest losers.

  The analysis confirmed the widely held view that Lloyd’s is a club for London insiders, particularly in view of the finding that only 9 per cent of working syndicate members – the London insiders – were in loss.

  ‘The further away you were, the more likely you were to be dumped on one of the bad syndicates – and if you did not speak English you were ripe for the taking,’ one researcher said.

  ‘Felix, is that true? Were we dumped into bad syndicates?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lloyd’s denies it. Their agents deny it.’

  ‘But do you think they did?’ insisted James.

  Felix was a conservative man. He liked to deal with numbers, tangibles. He seldom operated on gut instinct. It had been so many years since he had heeded any such inner voices that they had long ago fallen silent. When faced with a choice between a conspiracy theory or basic human fallibility, he would always veer towards human error. But this didn’t smell right. The problems with asbestosis had been known for a long time. How did so many foreigners – and not just Australians but also Americans, New Zealanders and South Africans – end up in the hardest hit syndicates while the British names continued to make money? Mere coincidence? He thought the conspirators might just have it right this time.

  ‘Yeah, I’d have to say I’m suspicious.’

  To James it was the final humiliation. The final spit in the face. The establishment he had been so proud to join had sold him a pup, played him for a sucker. James felt angry. It was a burning ball of irritation in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be fraud … or insider trading … or something?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but it would be a tough one to prove.’

  Felix opened the financial section of that morning’s newspaper. He scanned the lead story on the front page and about halfway down started reading aloud.

  According to Melbourne businessman and yachtie Ian Robertson, to be a ‘name’ meant you should be able to put your hands on readily available cash to pay for the immediate underwriting losses. ‘The people who are hurting now, are those who can’t,’ he said yesterday.

  Robertson said that Australian ‘names’ who claimed they were deliberately placed in loss-making syndicates were wrong.

  ‘That’s just sour grapes,’ he said. ‘Insurance is a very, very risky game.

  ‘If you get into the wrong syndicate, it’s just like backing the wrong horse. You lose. Just like a punter. But it’s sour grapes to say you were deliberately put into one.’

  People who joined in, say, 1988 are horrendously behind the eight ball.

  ‘And mostly they were farmers who, because their cash flow was starting to hurt, thought a way to get out was to put their farm up as collateral for Lloyd’s membership. Now, they have no cash to pay for Lloyd’s losses and so they’re being forced to sell their farms.’

  James thought of Mark’s school friend William Nichols, the red-haired boy with the long legs who could outswim anyone and who had lost his family’s sheep farm. James wondered how he had broken the news to the rest of his family. Sorry, guys, I lost Dad’s farm.

  At least Nichols didn’t have to tell his father. He was already dead. As it was, this news probably would kill James’s own father. How would it be to live with that on his conscience? Imagine his poor mother. Or, Frederi
ck would kill James. That was a possibility.

  James wondered who he could turn to for help. Who would know the best way to present such news? A psychiatrist? There might be a technique for this sort of thing. The best words and tone to use. A policeman? They had to break tragic news to people all the time. Sorry, sir, your daughter jumped under a speeding train. What about Nina? That was what marriage was supposed to be all about, for better or worse. He pictured the scene. Nina, darling, I’ve lost Dad’s vineyard. How do you think I should tell him? James imagined Nina’s face dawning with the realisation that she had married the world’s biggest loser. He didn’t think he could bear that.

  He looked at his friend, bent over a newspaper story. He had a red marker in his hand and was judiciously underlining sections he thought were relevant.

  ‘Felix?’

  His friend looked up.

  ‘How do I explain this to my father? What do I say?’

  For just a moment Felix stopped thinking of the numbers. He had known the Wilde family since he and James had started senior school together. He had spent holidays at the vineyard. He had taken part in his share of Sunday night family dinners. And on more than a few occasions he had borne the wrath of Frederick. When they were just fifteen and Frederick discovered an empty bottle of a prized museum wine in his cellar, he had dragged the two boys out of bed and made them walk the three kilometres to Broke in the full summer sun to buy him fresh tobacco. Felix had never suffered so much from a hangover before or since.

  He knew how hard Frederick and Patty had worked to build up their business and how much they loved it, every millimetre of it. He knew better than anybody what James was facing. He sought to find the words.

  ‘I don’t know, mate,’ he said softly. ‘I am so sorry.’

  Saturday, 16 February 1991