Loving Ways

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘I think she was in the army. At Waiouru. A corporal.’

  ‘Christine?’

  ‘I think it’s her. It’s twenty years.’

  ‘She passes for thirty-five round here.’

  Evan brought the beer back and sat down.

  ‘Christine’s a corporal,’ May said.

  ‘She’s a sergeant-major. She’s a bloody field marshall,’ Evan said.

  ‘She recognises you, Alan. See the way she’s looking everywhere else? Don’t say anything, it wouldn’t be fair.’

  George Otway came in, wearing a plaster on his forehead. He got himself a drink and joined their table. May introduced him to Alan.

  ‘We don’t see you here often, George. Are you eating?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I ate an apple walking up the beach.’

  ‘You came on the beach? Is it bad times again?’

  ‘A little bit of argy-bargy.’ He touched the plaster on his head. ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘It’s swollen pretty badly under that.’

  George shrugged and turned to Alan. ‘I didn’t know May had any brothers,’ he said.

  May watched them find each other out. She was pleased that Alan and Evan would get on, and surprised at it: East End boy turned potter, and soldier turned office manager. The gap was huge – but some direct way with experience was involved and a basic seriousness. George Otway should fit in; but never had with Evan, and now, it seemed, would not with Alan either. Liking was mysterious, friendship too. The chances of her liking Alan had been so reduced that their sitting here like this could be seen as a miracle. She was so sure of it that she was able to break into the conversation and turn away from Alan, even though he was not enjoying the Snapper Inn. She talked with George, who described Daphne’s latest assault. It was, she thought, less serious than the last. It sounded tired. George thought so too, and worried that Daphne was sinking under, getting remote. ‘I’ve got to find a way to save her, May.’

  It’s almost comic, May thought, except there’s death in it. There was something unhealthy, too, in their agony. It seemed too snug and too contrived. Why couldn’t they just go off in different directions?

  ‘You’ll sort it out,’ she said, not believing it.

  ‘Not much time left,’ George said.

  Evan stood up. ‘Junior. Junior. Over here,’ he called.

  ‘Leave him, Evan,’ May said, looking at Junior Mott, who had somehow got into the room.

  ‘If he sits down I’m leaving. No offence, May, but he never washes,’ George said.

  ‘He won’t sit down.’

  ‘Look at the cats. They should keep that dog out of here.’

  ‘They will. They’ll make him tie it up in the yard.’ She watched Evan cross the room and talk with Junior: a short thick man, bald and bearded, and a six-foot one like a scrawny tree, bending down, but not in friendship or with any wish to hear. Bending with a spitting hatred, close. It stopped her seeing them as a comedy team. ‘I don’t know why Evan keeps on trying.’

  ‘That’s the fellow who was smoking marijuana,’ Alan said. He half rose. ‘That dog will bite Evan if he doesn’t watch out.’

  ‘No it won’t. He’s all right.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Junior Mott. He and Evan were friends once. He thinks he taught Evan how to pot, but really Evan taught himself. Now he hates him because of me, because we shacked up and left him out. And we make money too. That’s the cardinal sin.’ She tried to lighten it. ‘He’s just a sad old hippy out of the sixties. Evan keeps on trying to prop him up.’

  Junior Mott spun away from Evan and walked out. His arm came back inside, opening the door for his dog. May went to the counter for the tray of fish stew and carried it to the table.

  ‘Did you tell him he was colour blind?’ Evan said.

  ‘I asked him if he was.’

  ‘Well, he is. He thinks I told you.’

  ‘I only guessed it. How could he make all those cacky pots otherwise?’

  ‘May, May, give him a chance. He was okay once.’

  ‘He won’t give me a chance. Domestic dispute, Alan. It’s our only one.’ Then she smiled at Evan, feeling sorry for him. ‘I don’t hate Junior, Junior hates me.’

  ‘He hates us too,’ George Otway said. ‘Our house lets the neighbourhood down. It’s too neat,’ he explained to Alan.

  ‘Let’s have some food,’ May said, putting out the stew. She sat down and laid her hand on Evan’s, and was overcome by her love for him; played her fingertips on his knuckles, a tune. You’re the cream in my coffee – stupid words but she wanted to say them. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about him.’ Alan watched them. He sees how much I love Evan, she thought, and wondered if he could see how much Evan loved her.

  George Otway finished his beer and left, refusing a ride. The Snapper Inn grew noisier as the tables filled. Alan would not, could not, enjoy himself. A guitarist with an amplifier started performing from the stage by the servery. Someone trod on a cat and a woman changed her baby’s nappy on the floor by the fireplace.

  ‘Had enough, Alan?’ May shouted. He signalled that he could not hear. ‘Come on,’ she said to Evan, ‘let’s get him home.’ In the car she said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s not usually so loud.’

  ‘The food was good,’ he said.

  ‘But you’d rather have a candlelight supper?’

  ‘I like a place where you can talk.’

  ‘Me too,’ Evan said. ‘It’s always best to eat at home. You can be in control.’

  She patted his thigh, and let her hand rest there. In bed, when he was sleeping, she remembered Alan’s washing and padded out through the house and put it in the machine. Back in bed she heard, distantly, the beating and spinning. She would send Alan back to the orchard as clean as when he had arrived; which, she thought, was pretty clean. There was, perhaps, too much soap and water in his life, for which – she grinned into the dark – she might be held responsible. And there were areas fenced off – no trespassers. But that was better, she thought, than slopping all over the place; letting it all hang out, as they used to say. He asked for nothing, but offered to pay what he owed. I like him, I like him, she thought, her mind sliding but returning to that – from girl slinking in the trees, and boy with his bucket and rags, and boat on green water and man with locked knees – I like him. I’ve got a brother now, isn’t that nice? She heard faint beeps as the machine finished its work; and she slept …

  Woke with the sun streaming in, left Evan sleeping, put Alan’s shirt and socks and underpants in the drier, made tea and took it to them in the bedrooms. She ironed the shirt – never ironed underwear – got the last bit of dampness out. A quality shirt, as far as she could tell. He would buy the best, and treat his possessions well, make them last. There would be both snobbery and morality in that. She laughed, inclined more to judge him in the morning.

  ‘Room service,’ she said. ‘Would you like more tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’ He was naked in bed, which made him uneasy. Probably, she thought, a bit tumescent in there. She hoped he was, it made him less perfect; and she wanted to go back and see if Evan was that way too.

  ‘I usually go for a run before breakfast,’ Alan said. ‘But if it’s all right with you I’ll go for a row in your dinghy.’

  ‘Help yourself. You know where it is.’

  Evan was in the shower. She made porridge for him and they were eating when Alan strode back underneath the windows.

  ‘Someone’s had a go at your dinghy,’ he cried.

  ‘What have they done?’

  ‘Chopped holes in it with an axe.’

  She rose from the table.

  ‘No, May, wait here,’ Evan said.

  ‘I want to see.’

  They went down the drive, along the road, through the rushes. The dinghy was lying bottom up on the mud, still tied to the waratah. There had been no method in the chopping. The cuts went every way and three blows, crosswise, had sever
ed the spine.

  Rage first, then grief, made May cry out.

  ‘Easy, May,’ Evan said.

  ‘You know who this is?’ She wiped her cheeks, and said to Alan, ‘This is our resident madman.’

  ‘You can’t tell,’ Evan said.

  ‘Who else would it be? I’m calling the police.’

  ‘No, May. Let’s not have any trouble.’

  ‘What do you call this if it’s not trouble? Oh, my boat.’ The cuts made her shrink and tremble.

  ‘The tide’s been in. There’s no footprints,’ Alan said. He put his fingers under the dinghy and flipped it over. The edges of the holes curled up like skin.

  ‘Look what he’s done to it,’ May wept.

  Evan put his arms around her. ‘Come on. Let’s go home. Leave it, Alan, just leave it there.’

  ‘He’s had a go at the oars too.’

  ‘Leave them.’

  They went back to the house. May sat in the bedroom, on the bed, and listened to the men at breakfast, talking quietly: about her, probably, when they should be talking about Junior Mott, getting him certified and locked up. I won’t let that crazy spoil it for me, she thought. I’ve got Evan and we’ve got this place and no one’s spoiling it for me. It seemed even more important now that Alan had come into her life. But oh, she thought, my boat, my boat.

  She went to the bathroom and showered. Evan came in while she was towelling herself.

  ‘All right, love?’

  ‘I’m all right. He’s mad, you know.’

  ‘I know. I’ll go and have a talk with him. Prison’s not the thing, May. He’d go mad in there.’

  I thought we agreed that he was mad already, she wanted to say; but let him hold her for a moment and kiss her. ‘You be careful if you see him,’ she said.

  ‘I will. Junior won’t hurt me.’

  When she went into the kitchen only Alan was there. ‘There’s some coffee in the pot,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Evan’s wrapping my picture.’

  ‘Do you still want it?’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s a great picture, May.’

  ‘Did he make you pay?’

  ‘I gave him a cheque. I wouldn’t take it for nothing, so don’t offer. You can buy another dinghy with it.’

  ‘I might do that.’

  Later on, at the car, he kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him.

  ‘Come again before you go home,’ she said.

  He drove away with the painting laid flat in the boot.

  She climbed to the water tank and watched his car cross the causeway and turn out of sight through the cutting.

  Interlude

  ROBERT MACPHERSON

  Never liked Dad, never liked it. Wanted Mister but she laughed at me. You’re not playing captain in my house, Bob Macpherson. You’ll be wanting him to salute you next.

  Little woman, shrimp, I used to say. Big chin, never let her chin put me off. Like the counter on the J. C. Rumbold, told her once. Did she laugh? She could laugh, whoop, whoop, like a scuttleboat siren when I took my trousers off and the door blew open, there in my underpants, all those picnic women, lady women, looking in, like some bird in the swamp she was. Not about her chin though, almost cried, thought she’d cry. Started with the waterworks that time I smacked the boy. But she was sick then. Sick women.

  Judith, number two, off colour she called it. She was the crier. Things she thought I didn’t do for her. Didn’t hold the door open, let her go through. Forgot in the hotel, only once, standing there outside the door, waits for me to walk back, I’m not starting that way, no fear, tears on her face, snail tracks. Wash your face, I said, you look repulsive. Licked them once, Noeline’s, saltwater toffee. Bloody mad.

  Too much crying. Women cry. Never laugh. Only Noeline. Laughed at me. Fist I had, opened it in time, she went across the room, got tangled in the chair, sat in the corner, legs all skew, bleeding mouth. Didn’t mean it, blood. Like a baby, picked her up, Just a small one, Noly, only a tap, flapping like a kingfish she was, locked the door, the boy in there, made me mad in there. I said, Open, open, and she, Go on, I dare you, break it down. Wanted me to, I think she wanted … Fat lip in the morning. Wouldn’t let me touch her seven days.

  Week away after that, salvaging the Florence E, too long, they didn’t like it, but couldn’t get the anchors fixed and the set was tricky, got a veer, did they want me aground as well, and still she wouldn’t, two weeks, still she wouldn’t, I had to … apologising is a woman’s game.

  Noeline. Noly. Shortens nice. Don’t call me Bob. Okay, Roberto. Roberto Mac. Listen you, I said, but she laughed. Captain Roberto Mac puts a woman on her back. Things she’d say. Cunt and stuff. I never heard … even with … but only then, only when we … A woman is pure or else there’s no place we can go.

  Arrgh, sore bum. Why can’t she. I need oil. Can’t be any fun for her, old man’s bum. Skin sliding, feel it slide. Dead bum. Gangrene of the bum. That would be something to die of. Or, God, of your family, holding your hand. I could still squeeze, I crack bones, that army man, colonel with his troops, I thought he’d have a moustache or is that RAF? Soft hands, office work, he should be fighting wars, that’s what they’re for, killing people, saving the nation, empire and the king, queen, is it king or queen. That one, George the sixth, wanted to squeeze, hear his little bones crack. English. God save the boy, bonny prince, that’s what I’d say. And that Elizabeth Regina, she’s a tug. Never smiles. Never laughs. Noeline, God she laughs, lying on top. Towline, she called it. Pull your towline in I’m casting off.

  Never had. Told me she never. How many men before. I’ll kill … Only one, one, he was just a boy. Liar. You’re a bloody liar. Liar, I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘None of your business. I was talking to my wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you. It’s time for your pill.’

  ‘Where’s Alan? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘To see David.’

  ‘What’s he want to see him for? He came to see me.’

  ‘He spent an hour with you this morning. Open.’

  ‘I’ve got a sore behind.’

  ‘I’ll shift you in a minute. Open please. Swallow.’

  ‘These things are not going to save my life.’

  ‘They’re not meant to, Robert. They’re meant to make things easier, that’s all.’

  ‘I like it better when that girl …’

  ‘I know. But she’s busy looking after your orchard. Now, you’d like some oil on your bottom? Don’t look so helpless, you can turn.’

  Why do they give me this one. A woman should be soft, a nurse. It’s like she’s stowing goods. Wool bale. In the old Phyllis, high tide through the mangroves, bang, bang, engine going slower than an engine’s got a right. Sails stowed. I liked the scows. Warm deck in the sun. Mud all sunk, ten feet under, green treetops like a cabbage garden to the shore. Best time. Bales on the jetty. Slack water, ease out on the ebb. The sun always shines. She’s got good hands. Putty it must be like, working it in, oil in the joints, that’s where I need, crank oil, vaseline like that whore in Sydney, made me come before I, wouldn’t pay so she called her pimp and I gave him ten bob, That’s more than it’s worth, try it on, I said, seeing if he’d pull a knife … Ah, that’s good. Slapping dough.

  Suffocate in this pillow. Wouldn’t give a damn any of them. That girl would. Old feller. Warms me. Nothing in it. Hot water bottle is all.

  Arms looped in a bight, hard as ropes. Turning o-o-ver. Pyjamas up, ties a bow, wrapping for Christmas.

  ‘This arm. Lift. I want to put some oil on your elbows.’

  Skin will come off. Like she’s sanding four by two, clumsy bitch, ow. Scraping paint. Tarring the deck, waiting for the tide to turn. It lies still or it’s pulling you, half an hour’s slack and then it’s moving. Never gets anywhere, in, out, senseless thing. You’re either beating it or it beats you. Shallow water is the worst, nothing to trust, drag your towline, watch ou
t for the override. Glad to be in harbour, they told me personally because she’d only, two weeks dead when I went out, I’m sorry Robert … English bastard, all the way from, what would he know. Job was mine. Never let them see how … Get out of my way you buggers, I’m leaving. Out the door, down the steps, straight up the wharf, don’t look back. I phoned that night. That’s the way: think it, do it. Settled. Signed. Don’t like the sea, always shifting, mindless, never gets anywhere. My job. It was. Captain Macpherson, harbour master. I promised you, Noeline …

  There are things you’ve got to do. Chafing gear. Doesn’t even know to get the chafing gear on. You’re fired. Get up the office and get your pay. Fired ‘em like that, one two. Belly out, bulging eyes. Have a go at me I’ll flatten you. Fuck your union. The strike was what they didn’t like, counted against me. Crew trouble, Robert. I never had crew trouble, what I had, bastards that didn’t know their job. Didn’t know a Sturmer from a Granny, but she could learn. Say it once she knows it. Petal fall. What’s petal fall. Thought it was some sort of disease. See her now, think it, do it. Down the road that Dutchman, you’re fired.

  Where’s she gone. She was here. Feel like a dead fish in the bilges. Watching the gut boat empty out. Gulls like maggots. Fish like maggots, eating. Big grey kingis follow it down. Years of rubbish after Noly. Not one thing has happened, rubbish dump. I hear gulls. Hate bloody scavengers, hate gulls. And people hanging on to me licking their chops. No one’s getting anything. Except that girl.

  No oil painting. She’s too fat for seventeen. Is it. Twenty-seven. Sack of wheat. Feel her innards shifting. But warm when she gets in. Keep your back to me old feller, that’s right. All one piece, all the way down, belly and breasts, lying in the mud, sun shining on you, warm water, tide coming in over the mud. I like the sky, clouds moving, I should have flown an aeroplane instead of the sea. Sea always rocking, it’s like your blood, flows in, flows out, little fish, crabs eat you, cold turns you numb. There’s no air …

  ‘Easy does it. You’re okay.’

  ‘I thought I was drowning.’