by Susan Tarr
Malcolm listened to nearby attendants discussing Bazza. His new persona appeared to be viewed with more concern than his depression and failed suicide attempt. One attendant said Bazza was rambling in his speech, unmanageable and in danger of doing some harm to himself or others. Clearly he was outside the bounds of normal behaviour. He was scheduled for The Treatment.
Malcolm studied Bazza when next he saw him and was saddened by the change in the man. Bazza was now docile. Fed daily by tube, he also accepted spoonfuls of mash. The remains of the man were discharged into his wife’s care – fully recovered.
The next time Bazza attempted suicide he was successful.
Sometimes when his memories returned they were plain sad. Malcolm climbed Mount Charlotte again to explain this to Julie, to tell her about Bazza and how he died. And like each other time he talked to his memory of her, the shuddering in his chest set up again.
CHAPTER 20
Martha and the Whales
“You’ll have to be quicker if you want to see the whales, so get a move on, man.”
Malcolm tugged at his stubborn tight boots.
“Don’t you want to see the whales, Malcolm?”
“Yes, I do want to see the whales.”
“Then get your wits about you!”
News of the stranding buzzed through his ward. A nurse from Warrington had seen them as she left for work – a dark pod cast like wet slugs on the beach. But it was Keith and Martha who held them up because Keith lost his teeth and would not budge without them. They were eventually found on top of the radio.
Martha was in the lavatory.
Clambering onto the bus she gave the driver a telling-off for tooting, saying in her Southland drawl, “I wasn’t finished. If I wet myself it’s all your fault.”
“Get to your seat now, girlie.” He laughed lightly. “Hurry along, there.”
“You men are all the same. Never any consideration.” Crying quietly now.
They were off. A bus full of inmates – or patients as they were called now – going to watch the whales die. Around the winding dusty road above the ocean to the car park by the white beach, not to the waters behind the pine trees where they played football and where the sea crept in and out, nor across the grey flats of Blueskin Bay where the whalers came ashore many years ago.
The whales came ashore on their own, onto the white sands.
An attendant yelled, “Keith, you get down now!”
Keith was walking up and down on top of a whale, muttering unintelligibly.
“Who do you think will pull you out if you go through? It won’t be me, you stupid blighter.”
When Keith got to the tip of the tail the second time, he stepped off onto the sand, not because he had been told to but because he’d reached the end of the whale’s body.
“That’s cruel,” Martha yelped. She was given to tears, and now others had followed Keith’s lead to clamber over the dying whales.
“They’re still alive,” she wailed louder, before suddenly clutching at her crotch. Too late. A pool of yellow piss formed at her bare feet to soak into the sand.
Malcolm limped on to examine one magnificent bull set apart from the others. It feebly waved a fin. He walked the full length of his chosen whale, but on the sand. He bent down to look into its tiny eye, seeing the life slowly fade from it. He moved on so he could pat its flipper before coming back to speak to the eye.
“It won’t be long now, whale. You’ll be all right. Say hello to Mummy and Julie for me. And Ned The Accountant, and Bazza. Say hello to God too.”
When Keith stumbled onto the tail of that whale, Malcolm shoved him backward onto the sand. Keith, flat on his back, spitting red from his bitten tongue, roared. Malcolm heaved him up onto his feet, brushed the sand from his trousers and jersey. Keith made for the whale’s fin. Malcolm aimed him toward another whale.
They weren’t the only ones watching the whales die. A group of locals had arranged themselves into teams. Countless times they attempted to refloat the calves, only to find them beached again to be near the mothers calling them back. Working against the tide, the teams carried gallons of seawater in tin pails to wet the still-living whales, and dug deep trenches between the sea and the whales to refloat them.
Back in the bus Martha sat on a towel. She let rip with her take on cruelty. Blood pooled under Keith’s chin, soaking his jersey. Malcolm had not harmed his whale nor climbed on it. He had talked to it.
Over time, he collected Martha’s disjointed stories until he had a fairly cohesive mental picture book. The family once lived on a farm down south, where she cooked her husband meals, when she was not tormented by constantly pissing her pants, when she was a hard-working mother and farmer’s wife.
But what she and her husband possessed they always seemed to lose and in any of their new enterprises they failed. Her husband managed to keep himself out of jail, but gave himself up freely to all such sins and weaknesses – drink, wife and child abuse, gambling – as human beings can indulge in without breaking the law. Martha said Ross was not such a bad feller. There were many worse than him. He was likeable, even talented in his own way. Only he’d not got the knack of living properly. That’s what Martha told Malcolm. He listened closely.
“We ran sheep,” she said. “Ross alternated his farming and working at the freezing works, so I’d be busy milking, calving and lambing. I dug the veggie garden, cooked meals for shearing gangs, crutched and docked lambs too. Then before he came home at night I’d have the kiddies in bed…”
Whenever Martha got to this part she would whisper as if she were right back there.
“He’s coming. He’ll get angry and beat them.”
Drawn into her fear, Malcolm lowered his head to better hear.
She talked of how she might drop a plate and collect a cropper for her efforts but dare not cry out. If she did the kiddies would cry and they’d be for it. So she’d finish the dishes even if they weren’t washed properly. Shove them in any cupboard. Haul out the spuds while Ross sat boozing.
“He was a right bugger,” she said.
He’d deserted from the army and gone into hiding in Central Otago, getting work on different farms. When the army pay stopped she had no money for food, existing on scraps she’d normally feed to the pigs. Before he came home from anywhere Ross stopped at the local – he always had coins in his pocket. By six o’clock closing time he’d loaded himself with a few jugs. He’d be right cantankerous.
Malcolm was intrigued with how others lived outside The Building. He knew Martha had five kiddies, and the eldest, Ronald, was fifteen.
“Ronald would distract them with all kinds of shenanigans. He’d stand on his head and make funny faces, anything to make them laugh,” Martha said. “I was scared I’d spill Ross’ dinner because then he’d smash my face in it.”
She ran her tongue over her empty gums. When she spoke, her voice was low. “Bloody mongrel. He’d scrape his plate outside for the dogs. Wouldn’t share his scraps with us. He’d kick me out in the rain or snow too. Better than being around him. He’d drag a bunch of Frenchies from his pocket…”
Martha said the last time Ross had bashed Timmy, he’d broken the boy’s arm. Abruptly she burst into tears.
“Timmy was only six. My kiddies lived in fear.”
He looked into her swollen red eyes. He reached his hand to pat her arm. He considered her size; she was no match for a strong farming man.
“He’d do me on the floor.” Her face softened and the red colour faded. “Next morning he’d say our love would overcome his dark moods. He was just a red-blooded Southland bloke. And after a hard day’s work… Well, you know, the kiddies whining and all.”
It seemed to him that Martha needed to believe Ross, what with no money and seven mouths to feed.
“True, he loved us fair enough. He rough-housed with us, was all.”
She’d coached the kiddies to go to their room when their dad came home, not to come out whatever th
ey heard.
“He tied my hands, burned me with cigarettes. For sure, I cried as he did me over the table. He got his orgasm.”
This was the part Malcolm got a kick out of. He’d turn his head slightly to watch the others. At the word orgasm a few who’d pretended to nod off woke up, and some of the more genteel patients left the room. He stifled his mirth as someone snickered.
“I was pregnant again, see, so I planned to leave. I had to keep this one safer than I’d kept the others. Whenever he started on me, I’d imagine me curled up in my womb saving my baby from his beatings. If I were to die, they’d probably all die with me.”
He let Martha tell her story often. He wanted her to get well so he listened. He knew about fear. He recalled his various fears about getting The Treatment, being in the men’s lockup with the murderers, The Leucotomy and the beating by the bully attendant who said he was on The List. Though Dr Burt said this was not true, he wondered if The Leucotomy would hurt more than The Treatment, and if anyone would know that answer after they’d had it.
“He held my hands on the coal range. I never lit it again,” she said with a gulp. “And Ronald wanted to kill him because he belted Gwennie, her just coming up four.”
The skin on her face stretched, making her hard-faced, and her eyes glinted. Perhaps she was mad after all. But he still liked her.
“Ross came in drunk. He pulled out the rest of my hair. So he roars for his beer, only I crush pills in it. He went to bed. When I poked him he didn’t move.”
Martha described how she’d taped her husband’s hands and legs together before piling blankets on top of him. She turned the electric blanket on high and the radio on loud. After banking the fire, she and her kiddies were out of there.
At this point she’d mop her moist eyes.
They found a row of beach cribs before Brighton, though they were locked for winter.
“Ronny wanted to break in but no kiddie of mine would do crime if I could help it. After the fifth crib we were dead beat. But it was my kiddies, see. I had to find somewhere for them. It wasn’t a palace; it was a miracle it still stood. It overlooked the Pacific Ocean and the weather had stripped the paint off and etched the windowpanes so they couldn’t be seen through. Ronny lit a fire to heat water for baths and we ate canned food from the larder. With vegies from the garden and scones from sacked flour, who could ask for more? Ronny hunted rabbits in the dunes. It was idyllic, our stolen home.”
Malcolm imagined Martha’s view, the sea with its bubbles of creamy foam gathered layer upon layer on the wet beach. And the kelp glistening and popping. The kiddies scooting the bubbles onto their feet, jumping on them. They collected chunks of kelp to boil up for dinner. And their father was never referred to again – except much later in the court.
“We lived in the stolen crib for months. Murder, they said, but my lawyer said How could anyone plan such a cruel death unless they were insane, Your Honour? I did it all right, Malcolm. The court people were all there but who among those could hurt us more? Who among those could touch our souls? Now Ronny’s got a fair chance. And the others are doing fine with my sister. I hadn’t noticed they got so skinny after the larder food was gone. Guess that’s because none of them complained. They wouldn’t though, would they?” she said. “They all come visit me.”
“That’s real nice of them.”
And she added softly, “I miscarried.”
So that was Martha’s story. Malcolm knew that within her sunken bosom she had a greatness of soul that enabled her to scorn her ongoing misery in the wake of the horrors of the past. He’d met her kiddies often. Each week without fail they came on the train to Seacliff Mental Hospital to visit their insane mother.
CHAPTER 21
Sports Day
The hospital sports grounds were beyond the brick building, Clifton House, which was occupied first in 1917 – a fact tucked safely away as part of Malcolm’s memory training. The grounds and the tennis courts had dried out after the wet winter and spring. Maintenance teams, when they weren’t patching up the decrepit buildings or plastering over cracks, helped mow and roll the corrugated surfaces ready for the new season’s Sports Day. Malcolm had had a good shot at using the heavy rolling machine. They also groomed the bowling strip and trimmed the edges. Trimming and pruning trees was something he enjoyed.
Joe, the young tattooed attendant he’d first met a few weeks back, climbed up the ladder to hack and saw broken branches while Malcolm gathered them into his wheelbarrow, trekking back and forth to the dump all day long. Joe eventually climbed down the ladder, leaned back on it and lit a cigarette. After a few drags, he stubbed it out and put it behind his ear.
“Right, mate. Let’s crack on, shall we?”
For those who could think, or at least feel, Sports Day was a time of great excitement. Mr Treweek, another attendant, usually organised the entire affair down to the cricket teams, the bowling and the running races. Whistles were blown at the start of each race and later the Medical Superintendent gave out the various prizes.
At last the big day arrived. The hospital staff and families from the village below all contributed in some way. There were banners and brightly painted signs, areas were neatly cordoned off, and soft drinks, club sandwiches and fruit-packed cakes were brought over from the kitchen. There was a loudhailer and a podium for the announcer to stand on.
The day was a real scorcher. Most of the patients wore sunhats tied beneath their chins, though some who didn’t know better spent their day huddled beneath a blanket. Busloads of patients from both Cherry Farm and Orokonui Hospital arrived to stand in tight little groups or rush about to meet an old mate they’d not seen in ages.
Visitors came from miles around: Dunback, Pleasant Point, and Palmerston – home to the mutton pies. Children raced about while adults sat on their car’s running board with tablecloths spread on the ground before them. Cordial, hot corned beef and hotter tomatoes. Lettuce leaves wilting on crockery plates. A thermos of milky sugary tea. Baskets covered with damp tea towels. Malcolm sniffed the air around them, trying to guess if they contained bacon and egg or mince pies. He dawdled among the visiting cars, so he could sniff the various flavours, name each one.
Although he didn’t participate in any event, he waited at the finishing line to see if Davey McPherson won his heat. Davey was a fast runner. Everyone cheered, yelled or screamed for the sheer hell of it. Malcolm bellowed as loud as he could, happy to express his support for his mate. Attending were doctors, Matron and the sisters, nurses and attendants, all the maintenance staff, kitchen, laundry, sewing room workers and others he couldn’t bring to mind. Like the farmers.
There was the fat lady from the sewing room whom he had long ago decided had some odd mental problem of her own. Her head jerked to the right far more than was necessary in a uniformed staff member.
Father Teague stood some distance away. Malcolm waved to him and he waved back.
Wheelchairs and red vinyl-covered dayroom chairs lined the racetrack.
A few patients were absent because they were in lock-down, alone but secured.
Malcolm cheered as loud as he could, “Davey! Come on, Davey! You can do it!” He tried a wolf whistle.
But Davey fell down.
First he’d staggered a lot, running in the wrong direction, before ploughing heavily into the ground, his arm pinned beneath him, feet still kicking erratically, trying to win his race. While some attendants tore off in Davey’s direction, Mr Treweek announced through the loudhailer, “That’s it, then. We have the winner of the men’s race. Eric Coombs!”
A bellow of congratulations beat in waves upon Malcolm’s ears as he pushed closer to the loudhailer. Pulling at the trouser cuffs of the attendant, Mr Treweek, who was atop some box arrangement, he said, “Davey hasn’t finished his race yet.”
“What’s that, Malcolm? Oh, of course, you’re right.” After a lot more whistle blowing, Mr Treweek said, “Hang on a minute.” Phee phee-ee. “Wait where yo
u are. Nobody is to move. Davey has yet to finish his race. Davey has yet to finish his race.”
Everyone waited; they understood. Davey hadn’t finished his race. Two attendants had him upright though clearly dazed. His eyes rolled lazily in their sockets while blood ran freely from his mouth. As Davey and the two attendants stumbled and lurched across the finishing line the cheers that went up from all patients, staff and visitors alike was deafening. “Da-vey! Da-vey! Da-vey!”
Malcolm ambled off to the bowling green. He’d always been interested in bowling but was too clumsy for it, what with his height and boot and all – it was difficult enough weeding on his knees. The one time he’d given bowls a go, he’d fallen head-over-kite before releasing his ball. Now, standing quite still alongside the bowling teams, observing the neatness and precision of them, no one shoving or jostling, all intent on perfect bowls, he looked up to see Mr Treweek approaching. Malcolm lowered his face and scuffed his boot lightly on the manicured green grass.
“Good on you, man.” Mr Treweek patted him on the shoulder. “Good team spirit.” Then he was off to organise the cricket teams.
Everyone knew about Davey McPherson’s fits. He often complained of blurry vision and headaches, talking slurred. He’d find an attendant or nurse and they’d whisk him away to have his fit in private. Sometimes they didn’t make it in time and there he was, lying on the floor or in the middle of the road, kicking his feet wildly, arching his head back, eyes rolling, slobbering red froth.
One time he bit clear through his tongue and there was blood all over the show. The staff whisked him away smartly. And the doctor did a jolly fine job sewing Davey’s tongue back on. It healed all right, only with a big pink bobble on the end of it. And Davey talked as though he had a mouthful of scone.
