by Gee, Maurice
‘That’s got rid of him. Shit, here’s people, where’s my clothes?’
May had been wearing a cotton scarf that day. She took it off and gave it to Freda to dry her hair.
‘He went berserk when they told him you weren’t going to die,’ she said to Alan.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Will you ever try to see him?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything I can do. All the same …’
‘Yes?’
‘I might.’
‘He’s like that because of Dad. Like you and me.’
He looked at her patiently, not smiling. ‘Not entirely.’ He made a grimace, still no smile. ‘Dad’s another matter. I can’t talk to him either.’
‘Not a very good start for a minister.’
‘No,’ Alan said.
‘There’s an arch. It doesn’t look possible, does it?’
Broken water made white splashes at the entrance. On the other side the horizon seemed lifted and the sky was featureless.
‘It looks as if it’s leading somewhere. Will you do a tile painting of this?’
‘I’ll try.’
They reached the southern headland and turned back. She saw his freckled forehead reddened by the wind.
‘You should have worn a hat.’
He said, ‘He looked at me and told me I was dead. It was like a command.’
‘Heather was marvellous,’ she said.
‘Yes. I had some sort of special sight. It wasn’t just because I had a bullet in me. I saw something in him – a thing. It was wet and grey and out of shape. I don’t know what the shape should be.’
I might understand that if I can paint it, May thought.
‘That’s why I’ll see him again. One day,’ Alan said.
‘All right,’ May said.
They walked up the beach. The arches closed. The oystercatchers flew off flat and low, and circled back and settled again. May and Alan climbed into the dunes and walked through the farm to their car and drove home.
The next day he flew to Auckland. She made sketches for a tile painting of the Archway Rocks.
