Carnival Sky

by Owen Marshall

  Sheff is disillusioned with journalism and, with plans to travel overseas, chucks in his job. But first he goes south to Alexandra, where his father is dying. He becomes caught up with his family in the agonising inertia of waiting for approaching death. Slowly he comes to terms with suppressed issues of loss, love, resentment and commitment, and acknowledges he must reach out for new relationships. Sheff’s gradual transformation — sometimes darkly humorous, sometimes disconcerting — is handled with insight and subtlety and is totally convincing.

  Beautifully written, brilliantly observed and ultimately optimistic, this novel powerfully captures the phase in our lives when little seems to happen while things are changing all the same.

  ‘New Zealand’s best prose writer’

  — Vincent O’Sullivan

  For Jackie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Author’S Note

  Other Titles By Owen Marshall

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘PREGNANT LLAMA DISEMBOWELLED.’ There it was as the front-page headline, and a stark photograph of the animal’s severed hindquarters strung up, shaggy hair hanging unnaturally, in a cluttered garage. ‘Suburban Satanic Rites’ read the caption.

  ‘Je–sus Christ,’ muttered Sheff. There was no one else to hear, but it was a release nevertheless. He was leaning on the breakfast bar, and he lifted his face and grimaced, not at the heavens he invoked, but the yellowed ceiling with the fly spots grouped near the light fitting. For a few seconds he felt a pulse of anger that jarred him with its intensity, and then he gave a laugh that was part incomprehension, part derision, part cynical acceptance that what you least wish is so often what you receive. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Hadn’t he sorted it the morning before? In the deputy editor’s office. Wayne Henderson lifted his glasses when Sheff came in and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘You’re not thinking of going with the llama?’ Sheff had said. ‘Donna says you’ve got all enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘She’s done a good piece there.’ In a familiar mannerism, Wayne picked at the dry skin of his lower lip.

  ‘So she has. Of course she has. She’s a good journo, but the llama’s not a lead for a metropolitan newspaper, for Christ’s sake. Nick’s follow-up on land sales to foreign buyers – that’s what needs to be out there. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ but Wayne folded his arms, as was his habit when in debate and wishing to appear considered and open to reason. His gaze moved to the window, below which the mall car park swarmed and jostled.

  ‘And timely, given the select committee hearing,’ said Sheff.

  ‘Sure, timely enough. It’s just that the llama has that human-interest pull, and they’ve nailed the guy almost right off. Turns out he’s a Rocky Horror exhibit: tattoos, rings, dreadlocks – the lot. Gang connections for sure, Donna reckons. Plenty of quirky stuff could come out in a follow-up to the court case. Then there’s the Satanic practices.’

  ‘That’s crap. Just some neighbour dazzled by attention, and speculating out loud. The guy wanted barbie meat and didn’t care where, or how, he got it.’

  ‘You’re probably right, but readers pick up on it, don’t they?’ Wayne countered. ‘The whole rustling and slaughtering thing is so Wild West, and it’s easier to follow and more interesting than the growth of overseas ownership. Who gives a rat’s arse apart from us?’

  ‘So we make them sit up and pay attention. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Anyway, it’ll be an alpaca,’ said Sheff, just to carry on the dispute. ‘People can’t tell the difference.’

  ‘No, she checked it out. Definitely a llama.’ Neither of them was sure of the distinction, but it provided a subsidiary bone of contention.

  In the car park a large delivery truck blocked a red hatchback from backing out, and the driver, bald spot accentuated by the third-floor perspective, stood arguing with the truckie, who was trying to stall him while a forklift operator unloaded a couple of pallets. The tribulation of others, even total strangers, offers entertainment. Sheff and Wayne let their conversation lapse for a moment, and watched, each with smiles of which they were unaware: Sheff’s pulled wryly to one side, the deputy editor’s oddly open-mouthed. When both truck and car had moved, the journalists resumed their debate without any reference to the distraction.

  ‘It’s all dumbing down,’ said Sheff. ‘Poodles lost in sewers, club-footed ballet dancers, kiss-and-tell revelations, solo mum lottery winners, vegetables shaped like the Holy Virgin, some howling rocker getting married in Zanzibar. All transient, tabloid crap of no use in people’s lives. Jesus Christ.’

  ‘It’s what people want to read, though, and the first duty of a paper is to stay in business.’ Wayne acted as devil’s advocate more from habit than conviction. He and Sheff had much the same debate several times a month.

  ‘Yes, and they want to eat McDonald’s every night, shag the neighbour and live off the State all their lives, but why should we encourage them? “Pregnant llama disembowelled” – for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Wayne was slightly taken aback by Sheff’s vehemence. ‘Don’t get in a lather. I have to run it past Chris later anyway. If you’re so hot about it, then come in and have your say.’

  ‘No need, I hope. You both know what I think.’

  Sheff had gone out into the reporters’ room, paused at the deputy chief reporter’s desk. ‘I think I’ve successfully further disembowelled the llama.’

  ‘You’re my hero,’ Raewyn had called after him, without her eyes leaving the screen.

  Yet there it was as the front-page lead. The editor had supported Wayne, and promoted oddity over significance. It was the first time in many months that Sheff had failed to persuade Wayne and Chris about such matters. Perhaps that was an omen. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

  On his way to the office, Sheff worked on his sense of justifiable grievance, agreeing with himself on every salient point he made. Once there he went immediately to the editor to have a bitch. Chris was wearing a gold and blue tie, and his best suit jacket was on the hanger behind the door. He looked up from refilling a large stapler, smiled, then concentrated again on the task.

  ‘Something on?’ enquired Sheff. Chris rarely dressed formally at work.

  ‘Oh, it’s the kids’ hospital fund-raising thing at ten. As we’re a sponsor I’d better be there.’

  ‘I won’t hold you up. I’m not at all happy about the llama, though.’ And Sheff paraded his view much as he had to Wayne the morning before. The editor heard him out patiently, though flipping the tongue end of his banded tie between thumb a
nd forefinger, or passing a hand over sparse fair hair so lacking in texture that it seemed painted on his pale scalp.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said afterwards, with defusing and inclusive calmness. ‘The thing is that in the end what the readers want is what we have to give them, otherwise we go under. That’s the brutal truth, and I’ve been given the message pretty clearly. It’s no use getting all po-faced about it. We hold the line where we can, but let’s not kid ourselves. We’re seen as elitist farts. Do you realise that? You and I, we’re reactionaries now, not purists.’

  ‘What, because we stick up for hard news?’

  ‘For thinking we’re here to inform and educate, rather than entertain and advertise.’

  ‘You’re winding me up,’ said Sheff. He was about to give further argument when Chris stood up, and went to the door for his jacket.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s this hospital thing, and we’re meeting at the mayor’s office beforehand. I’d better show willing. Which reminds me,’ he said, although no connection was apparent, ‘how’s your father getting on?’

  ‘No good, but he’s at home and happier there.’

  ‘I might even get my photo in the paper handing over the cheque,’ said Chris wryly. ‘Anyway, look, we’re running the foreign land sales as the lead tomorrow. Okay? Nick and you have done a great job on it.’

  ‘If there isn’t a New Zealand granny on a hijacked tourist bus in Uzbekistan.’

  ‘The granny every time,’ said the editor, deadpan, and went out leaving Sheff somewhat disarmed.

  It was always that way between Chris and Sheff. The editor was only a few years older, and they worked well together, but Chris was more adept at compromise, more political, more suited to business leadership because he understood expediency.

  Sheff followed Chris out, still with fostered annoyance to express, but increased collegiality. ‘Well, I just hope people realise I was against it,’ he said to the editor’s back.

  ‘Send round a tweet,’ Chris said without turning.

  Sheff went on to his own office, and Raewyn looked up as he passed her desk. ‘Llamas one, Sheff nil,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Better luck next time.’ Her opinion on the headline was the same as his, but surely it wasn’t a bad thing for him to get knocked back occasionally: salutary even, both as chief reporter and a male.

  Sheff noticed that her dark, glossy hair was cut shorter, but said nothing, for she didn’t encourage remarks concerning her appearance during the working day. His mood wasn’t improved by the realisation that beneath her banter was a degree of satisfaction that he hadn’t got his way.

  ‘Oh, and you’ve got food or something on your shirt,’ she said. It was marmalade, partly congealed and with a small whorl of rind resembling a tadpole.

  HE HAD A DREAM OF HIS FATHER’S death. A doctor in a green gown came out wearily, murmured a mixture of explanation and condolence, wandered down the corridor with crepe soles squeaking on the polished lino. When Sheff went in, his father was lying at ease on the operating table. He was whole, serene and in the prime of life, as Sheff best remembered him. He wore only blue boxer shorts, and his thick hair was wet, but combed. He looked as if he had showered and been about to dress for the office, when instead he decided to lie down and rest. Sheff regarded him with as much pleasure as grief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER THE LLAMA, Sheff began to think seriously of resigning. Not pique: he’d been in journalism for twenty years, and accepted that you won some, and lost some. What was it in The Big Lebowski? Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you. He took the editor’s decision personally only in the sense that it showed again how far his own opinion diverged from the popular appetite – and the paper’s policy, driven by corporate expectations with which Chris had to comply.

  Sheff was impatient with what he did, with what was required of him, with the diminishing reach and resources of newspapers. He no longer felt the sense of challenge and social usefulness that had compensated for the mediocre pay, the hours, the increasing suspicion of the media, the responsibility for the dwindling professionalism of others. He got pissed-off very easily, that was the truth of it. He had seen it sometimes in his colleagues – a malaise that shut down drive and enterprise, and left them with an increasingly corrosive cynicism.

  Yet there were the stories he wanted to finish and didn’t trust others to complete, including an investigation into the billing practices of several city law firms. The experience of his own separation and then divorce was the motivation for that piece. Though he carried on with outward application, a part of him was increasingly distanced and dissatisfied: appalled by the thought of spending the future in the same way as he’d spent the past. The awareness was with him during the interviews he carried out, the discussions he had with fellow journalists, the time with friends, and especially when alone. In the midst of communal laughter, to which he contributed, or while standing solitary in a supermarket aisle, he knew nagging disappointment. He woke in the mornings in a mood of minor despondency, rather than expectation of worthwhile endeavour and consequent satisfaction. He sensed in himself a growing immunity to the happiness of others.

  The decision to toss in his job came during one of his Friday evening sessions with Nick, Raewyn, Lloyd and others from the paper. They were in their accustomed corner of the Ascot bar.

  Also usual was the relaxed, trivial end-of-week talk – minor frustrations and successes, the predictable airing of individual prejudices and humours they all recognised from long professional acquaintance. The easy laughter and half attention while the mind wandered. If some spool of an earlier week’s conversation were to be rerun in the present, no inconsistency would be noticed. Such reunion provides the shallow continuity of a theme song.

  ‘She used to be a top columnist, though, you have to admit.’ Nick was talking of a colleague who had gone to a women’s magazine. ‘She had an edge, Prue, and she kow-towed to no bastard. I admired that. The local government stuff she did was really thoughtful, and she wrote damn well: her copy was hardly ever touched by the subs.’

  ‘Yeah, but she ran out of gas,’ said Raewyn, ‘as they almost all do. The pressure of coming up with the goods week after bloody week. No one can keep it going indefinitely. The good oil gets used up, and so the hobby horses come out, the same little tricks, capers and gripes. Jesus, now she’s always talking about her family pets. How desperate is that?’

  ‘It still reads better than most of the crap columns.’

  ‘But it’s not what it was, and that’s the point,’ said Raewyn. ‘Look, I’m not bagging her so much as saying a weekly column is an absolute bloody killer. No one should be allowed to take it on for more than a two-year contract, max.’

  She was right, but rather than following the argument, Sheff was admiring her breasts. They weren’t especially on show, as she wore a high-necked green top. Raewyn was square-chinned and slightly overweight, but she did a good deal of gym work, played badminton and her figure wasn’t bad at all. He had attempted to explore it the year before after a mid-winter staff party, and been given some strict limits. ‘Only holds above the belt allowed,’ she’d said, as they stood in the corner of the yacht club balcony. It was the tone rather than the words that discouraged him: calm and friendly after his kisses, rather than breathless and aroused. They had gone to a couple of festival concerts together and a Roger Hall play, but the relationship didn’t advance much from what they had in the office – a slightly competitive respect for each other’s professional ability, and an easy familiarity.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Sheff?’ she said, after listing the trials of writing a column. He’d twice had that experience, and given up each time before he ran out of issues he cared about enough to give his pieces some bite.

  ‘It is for most people,’ he agreed. There were notable exceptions, but he wasn’t sufficiently engaged in the conversation to bother quoting them. />
  ‘At least you get a bloody by-line,’ said Nick. He put his empty glass in front of Sheff, and rang the top with his finger as a reminder it was time for a round.

  ‘Same?’ asked Sheff, looking at each in turn. No one refused.

  At the bar, waiting for service, Sheff felt that flat dissatisfaction: a sense of banal confinement. There he was, in predictable company and repetitious conversation, surreptitiously looking at the tits of a colleague who had no wish to be more than a friend. And in his job he was forced to witness the strengthening of the journalistic trends he most despised. ‘Moving time. Moving time,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the young barman. He had a small strip of manicured beard on the front of his chin, and a quality red and white striped shirt. The two didn’t go well together, giving him the appearance of a circus goat.

  ‘Sorry. Nothing.’

  ‘You want to watch it, mate, talking to yourself. Next you’ll have a lead, but no dog on the end of it.’

  Smart bastard, thought Sheff, but he just gave a smile and his order. It was time for a change though, and the idea soon became conviction. Instead of unsettling him, the decision, arriving naturally and with certainty, cheered him up considerably. He made the two trips to the corner with the drinks, and then interrupted the talk of camper vans to tell his story of interviewing a mayoral candidate. ‘As she went on about fiscal restraint,’ he concluded, ‘I could see through an angle of the french doors her husband pissing on a raised garden of herbs. I didn’t have any of the egg and parsley sandwiches after that.’ The others of the group laughed, and it didn’t occur to him that he’d broken in when Donna had been speaking. He took for granted that his seniority in the office would transfer to their time together beyond work.

  Sheff left before the others. Had he been still with them, Lloyd wouldn’t have remarked on how sour he’d become, and increasingly dogmatic, since the divorce, though the thought would have been the same. ‘Well, he’s had a rough spin, hasn’t he?’ said Donna generously.