by Gee, Maurice
‘It’s the pill working. Go back to sleep.’
‘No.’
‘It won’t happen again. You’ll sleep now. Do you want me to hold your hand a while?’
‘What did I say?’
‘Help, help.’
Sailor drowning. Throw me a line. Who’s laughing. Is that me.
‘Is Alan home?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s eighteen minutes to three.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Go to sleep.’
Don’t want my hand held, not by this. Pushes like she’s getting me berthed. Hawser arms. Close eyes she’ll go away. Thinks she’s hard, hard as nails. Spit tacks. Spitting tacks. David will get her. They’ve got small bones like fish. When he gets her, crackle, snap. Could have been all right. Half of him was Judith, half was soft. He’ll break her though, where she runs. I’m not looking after, no place here. She thinks I’ll, from my own … David Balfour on that island, didn’t even know the tide went out. Eating shellfish, chasing gulls, thought he was stuck and all the time … Mummy’s boy, in the kitchen, giving him brown bits from the roast and hot scones. Put a stop to that. Apple stick from the prunings, not as good as willow, use my belt. Screamed as if I was hitting her. Sat down with him on the floor, held him by the head. Couldn’t believe … I don’t want a pansy for a son.
Arms as soft as. Softer than that Fay. Judy she wanted to be called. I married Judith I said. Fay screaming too, You promised me. I promised nothing. I said if. She couldn’t even keep the dunny clean. I get them mixed. Judith. Fay. Sacks of flour both of them. But soft where you put your hand. Silk it is. Fay opened up, the other closed. Should have known, from her mouth, turkey’s bum. You can light them up, they surprise you, not her. You knew what getting married meant, I said. Drowned woman would be better. Sick is no good to a man, damaged goods. I’m off colour Robert. Outside she was good enough, fat when she was dying, inside, won’t think, watery core.
‘How are you, old feller?’
‘No good.’
‘Hurting?’
‘Just tired.’
‘Is she looking after you okay?’
‘I sleep all the time.’
‘Sleep’s good for you.’
‘Who says?’
‘I say. Nice?’
‘I don’t like people touching my face.’
Fingers rough. She works too hard. Women doing men’s jobs, hard. Hair up in a scarf. Where’d she get. No hair like that in the Macphersons. Fay had black. May black. Ringworms in her hair with the cat all over, screech like a block and tackle, biting herself. Good shot, that boy, broke her hips. Cats. I never had time. Dogs. No time. Tied to the mangroves, teeth all showing, when the tide, what a way …
‘What is it?’
‘Thinking all the time.’
‘You were dreaming.’
‘It’s the same. Can’t stop my mind … What I want to do … stay awake.’
‘I’ll pull the curtains back some more. We’re out of the Galas, Robert, into the reds. You can watch.’
‘What are they like?’
‘It’s the export pick. It’s the best I’ve seen.’
‘That’s why you’re grinning?’
Teeth like a broken cup, poor little bitch. No wonder there’s no boyfriends hanging round. Bounce them off, she’d bounce. Show them her teeth, run a mile. No fat Macphersons, who’s she. Walks in, I’m your, how am I to know. Anyone. May would put her up to it. Split the proceeds, live in clover, think I’m dumb. Alan, did Alan, I never asked. Did he ask. How can you ask. Mother was a slut, a whore, climbing all over. Where’d she learn. With her mouth. Dozens of men. I would have had her back though when I got that Judith …
‘I’m going now. We’ve got some pretty dumb pickers this year. You should see what they pick.’
I never ate an apple. Never all my life ate an apple. Sour like wine. Liked peaches, nectarines. Drown in apples. Too many. Slice them, quarter, look inside. Chewed, spat them out. Like those fairies tasting wine, make you puke. Wouldn’t have known an apple if I saw one in ’47. Get as far from Auckland as I can, from that Pom. Southampton like it’s on the right hand of God. It’s not as if it’s even the Clyde. Never saw the Clyde. I never was in Scotland and nor was my father. Macphersons everywhere, all over the world. Heather Macpherson. I don’t know her father’s name. Here on my orchard she was got, in the grass, I saw them go, she looked back and pulled him by the hand and they sank like water and no one there when I ran, he was gone, I got the gun, would have, by God, I would have shot, with my daughter, must have waited for her down in Ruby Bay when she, fat lip, I slapped, playing slut on my place, If you go you never come back, leave that money, you don’t take anything from here … Is that what I, down the drive, was it May going, was it Fay?
Hiding somewhere. Where is, where. Dumping on me. Down the street, doorways, cars, I can follow the bus, pull her off. This is yours. Thinks she can dump her by-blows on me. Child with my, see her in the mirror, there’s nothing I can, mine and I, what can I do. Never had, not daughters, sons, girls can turn bad. In the grass with, white hair, rotten teeth, I knew. Ever since, in the car, soaked right through the leather. Ruined with piss. And walking in, half her life and no knock on the door. Well Dad, it’s May, I’ve come to see how you’re getting on. I thought it was Fay come home, blood went dropping out, years got lost, I thought you were your mother, I said, where’s she. Wouldn’t know, she said, wouldn’t care, last time I saw her she was leaving on the bus. This is Evan. Englishman. Always the English taking things. Is he your … Partner, she said, only partner, like you and Mum. Slapping my face with it, she knew.
I want to be back, I want to be there. With Noeline. I’ll build a house for you one day, I said. It’ll have a sunroom, in the sun. For you to lie. You can see the hills or the sea. What do you choose. Not the sea, she said, an orchard, Robert. You can pick an apple for me. Captain Roberto. Hold my hand. Don’t cry, she said.
I never cry. Men don’t cry. I’ll smash, I’ll smash anyone who. Blood in his mouth, in his ears, knew I’d hurt him bad, in his ears. Run. Shadows growing long and short, run along my shadow. Jump. Water, oil. Come up in the piles, cut my hands, mussels sharp as razors, out the other side, see them there, backs all, razor in his hand. Soft. Schveet. Water in my shoes. Easy. Don’t run. Walk a mile. Walk two. He’ll never. Geordie bastard, he said. Scouse louse, I said. Never had a country of your own.
Ship out. Shouldn’t leave your own country ever, never leave. Give me, give me. Where do I go. Mangrove creeks. Give me Noeline, see her dive, yellow water, swimming in the treetops, floating in, soles of her feet so white I can’t believe. Swim close, grab, she’s like a possum on my back. Do you have a woman, do they have you. Bar harbour girl. Opotiki girl. Never knew her then, when I, in on the tide, load the cattle, sling under, dripping shit and water when one goes off the wharf, moo, like a fish we’d caught. Baby then Noly you were, sleeping in a cot in the town, girl on the wharf, barefoot, thumb in her mouth, was that you, saw you then. Cow like a big fish saying moo, took your thumb out, pointed, see, was that … Same day I saw. Drowned woman. Lying on the mudflats. Sack. No. Man. No. Woman. Teeth all bare. Crabs. Eaten off. Leave her, police will. Not on my deck, over. Warm sick in the tide. Fillings there, black teeth. Crabs run for their holes.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘Leave them.’
‘There’s a strong draught, Robert.’
‘Leave.’
‘There’s people picking right here by the window.’
‘Let them look.’
‘You were dreaming again. Bad dreams?’
Hand on forehead. Cool. Woman. Don’t let me cry.
‘I’m scared of …’
‘What?’
‘Things getting in my mouth.’
‘Like what?’
‘Cockroaches.’
‘There’s no cockroaches here. We run a clean
house.’
‘I saw …’
‘What?’
‘Saw.’
‘There’s nothing here, Robert. You were having dreams. Alan’s home now if you’d like to see him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Dad. Having a bit of a bad time, eh?’
‘It’s the pills. They make me …’
‘What? Hallucinate a bit?’
‘I keep on remembering when I was on the scows.’
‘When was that? I never knew you were on scows.’
‘Before the tugs. My father owned a scow. Phyllis. We did the creeks. Bar harbours. From the Hokianga right round to Opotiki.’
‘What did you carry?’
‘Coal. Timber. Cattle. Sheep. Everything.’
‘The scows are gone now.’
‘Gone a long time. Gone before the war.’
‘Is that why you changed to tugs?’
‘Went on merchant ships. You never knew that. See the world. 1924. But I came home. Nearest I got to Scotland, Liverpool. I was …’
‘What?’
‘Thirty-six when I married your mother. She was – half.’
‘Eighteen?’
‘Strong woman. She could beat me. In a fight. She was no girl. Did you …’
‘What?’
‘See David?’
‘He wasn’t there.’
‘Did you …’
‘What, Dad?’
‘Find out about …’
‘Dad, May’s your daughter. You only have to look at her face.’
‘I knew … she was …’
Didn’t want her. Not a girl. Why couldn’t that Judith look after. Woman’s job. Put some shoes on her feet, I said. Give me some money then, she said. Twenty dollars. Sent a cheque. No more so don’t ask. Your daughter doesn’t live, she’s gone. Thirteen years and she never looked at me one time. Look at me, I said. Lift her up, hand under her chin, look at me. Robert you’re hurting her. Look at me. Am I your father. Take her away for God’s sake. Wipe her nose. Rags. Blood. She can’t come to me with that, ask at school, there’s women teachers for, I need to get out of this, I want to be … Orchard’s no good, apples no job for a man, I’ve got that girl, it’s her job, I want to, running down to leeward, to the light, and rounding to and taking in the sails, that’s for a man, up the rivers with the motor beating and Mr Macpherson there, hard hand, didn’t see it coming, into the coal. I said, You hit me one more time Mr Macpherson I’ll pick you up and throw you over the side. Settled it. Walked around me then, knew I could. His father too, Macpherson too, couldn’t understand, thought he was joking, voice like that, och, aye, like he’s cracking jokes all the time, only once, saw him once, Dunedin, and he’s dead, but tells me, aye, Stevenson, just a wee laddie when I saw him in Kirkcaldy, father was an engineer, Thomas Stevenson, inspecting the harbour, and this wee laddie, like a wind would blow him away, face like a knife-edge and eyes like a Mexican or a Pole. Aye but the spirit in him, standing in the storm. And gives me, he gives, There’s a Macpherson, that’s a tale to beat them all. I don’t read books, but Cluny Macpherson. Our name in a book.
Wasted it. Chose the wrong … cries all the time. He wants his mother. The older boy never cried, stood up, made a fist. You hit once more … Noeline’s son. I built, I said I’ll, one day, a sunroom, built this house. For … Housekeepers only. Need apply. There’s a sunroom, Noly, with the sun. Yellow curtains. Apples outside. Slices thin as paper. You’ve got to eat.
Could have been her daughter. Except. Teeth all wrong. Plain jane. I want to cry for her. No one sees. No one must. I’ll never cry. Never cried for Noeline. Never will. Held her hand. She said, They’ll give you the job ’cause you’re the best. She said. So how … Get out now. Do it. South. But I don’t, how do I. Don’t know what to do. They watch while I, laughing at. No one laughs, I’ll smash … Kill myself here forty years. Drowning. Apples. The tourist buses stop. Best, they say. No one else gets it, for that girl.
Open up the branches, face looks out, pretty girls. I don’t mind, nothing to see, curtains make the sun go red, you swim underwater, light in water, see her frogkick, yellow skin, lies on her side, pearls from her mouth, hair bouncing, water-bouncing, one kick, two, she goes up. I follow. Follow, follow. Follow Noeline. Hand on shoulder, hand on breast, she turns and swims. I follow.
Curtains. Soldier. Closing. Leaves me in the water, yellow tide, now I breathe. Got to have air. First thing you learn, suck in air and you never stop, they must get tired, never stop, heart never, beats away, making time, you can give it rests but you can’t stop, it’s like the sea. I feel, I know I’ve got, all your life you don’t know, you don’t care, but now I know, it’s like I’ve got it shored instead of tommed and it’s starting to lift, cargo shifts, we’re in trouble now, go down there you’re smashed to bits, she’ll roll, if there’s one thing it’s being trapped inside, thousands thousands of men have died that way and I can’t stand … Don’t think about, put unpleasant thoughts, think of Jesus, hand on my hair, my fingers in the cord of her apron as she stirs, don’t be under my feet child, never wrote to her, wrote from Sydney, Dear mother, your son, never got, he tore it up that bastard, tore, I walk off the Phyllis, it’s leaving home, so I’ll leave and he can, old bastard, hard old bastard, she had to with her Bible be with him, No Mum I don’t, not any more, how can anyone believe that stuff, it’s like I stick a knife in her she holds her heart, like fenders, rubber fenders, her front, she’s soft all round. Sink into her, Go to sleep, hand on my hair, Jesus loves you child …
‘Who’re you?’
‘Quiet, old feller. I’m just sitting here.’
‘Where’s everyone?’
‘Gone to bed.’
‘What time is it?’
‘After twelve. It’s tomorrow.’
‘The sun was shining. I can’t …’
‘What?’
‘I can’t be gone that long.’
‘You had a good sleep, that’s all. You slept like a baby.’
‘That’s too long.’
‘Don’t worry. Take it as it comes. What are you doing?’
‘I need to have a piss.’
‘We’re not taking you out there any more. We’re using a bottle.’
‘No …’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, old feller, it’s all the same to me. You know me.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Sit there. That’s right. Now just let it go.’
Never thought I’d. In a bottle. Woman helping me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. How did I. Lucky, what I am. Here she’s back, flushed it down. Round, she’s soft, she’s all … who is. I don’t know, that girl.
‘Shall I get in with you? A little while?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t shift. I’ll lie on the side. That nice?’
All of them. This one is the best. Noeline’s girl.
A Death
DAVID
He thought it might be a note from Freda and he read it by the door as soon as the light was on. Dear David, it said. Not her. His eyes went to the bottom. Alan (your brother). How’d he get here?
I called in to see you today but you weren’t home. I’m staying with Dad in Ruby Bay. I’ll phone you tonight and maybe we can meet tomorrow. I think we should talk. It’s been a long time. All the best. Alan (your brother).
He sat down at the table and read it again. A page torn from a notebook, an arty-farty handwriting they didn’t teach at school. He had no connection with it, could not see a brother who had grown into a man. David looked at his watch: five to twelve. If Alan had phoned the way he’d said he was shit out of luck. He pictured someone in a uniform dialling, a man at a desk, no one he knew. All the best. After thirty-five years, all the best. David laughed. You couldn’t beat the cheek some people had. Thought he’d walk in and say, How have you been? After being gone for thirty-five years.
But I want to see the bastard, I want to see him. He’s down here for the orchard, he’s aft
er the old man’s property, that’s what it is.
He read the note a third time, trying to make it say more. We should talk. Fucking oath we should, and get it worked out who gets what. He’s oldest so he reckons maybe he can have it all. David poured a drink. He tried to work out how to look after his interests. If Alan put the skids under May’s girl by himself it would leave him in control. The old man didn’t like his children, no doubt about that, but if he had a favourite it was Alan, you could tell by how often he said lieutenant-colonel, even though he made it sound like office boy.
David sat drinking, turning things over. The old man had to die soon, he was ninety-one. Alan had chosen a good time to show up. Maybe he would give the old bugger a nudge, tip him over one of those cliffs out there. David laughed, but he was agitated, he could not keep still, it was no joke. His share, if he could get it, would be … say it was worth a million and say he got a third, he had to get a third at the worst … $333,000, say $350,000. He could get Freda back: she would come for that much. Freda liked money.
‘Freda,’ he said. She returned to his mind differently from the time when he had been certain of her, when she was at the centre, fixed in place. Now she moved, she hurt him, and he could not see her face: it flashed on and off like a light. He struggled to hold her still, and he grew angry; said, ‘I’m not buying you, you bitch, you’ll come for nothing.’ He poured another whisky, draining the bottle, and when he had downed it opened a vodka warm from the cupboard. May had given it to Freda for Christmas, Polish muck. The first gulp took his breath away. Jet fuel, he thought, and he remembered drinking Bloody Marys with her in the Rat Trap Hotel before it was burned. They were driving home from Woods Inlet, where May had given Freda the plate that weighed a ton, with a fish on it like no fish that ever came out of the sea, and Evan Yates had turned green because he wanted money. The plate was a present for him and Freda getting married. He saw a spasm of alarm cross May’s face when they told her. He stopped at the Rat Trap because of it, although Freda wanted to keep going. She asked to drive when they came out because he’d had too many. They argued in the carpark and he got her by the arm and shoved her in the car: showing him up in front of people, it made him mad. Halfway up the hill she said, ‘Stop, Dave. I need a pee.’
