by Gee, Maurice
‘Aren’t you a homosexual yourself?’ Eric said.
‘Good heavens, no. I just enjoy male company. I’m enjoying myself now.’
‘It’s your own business, of course. But it seems hypocritical pretending Ollie Joll disgusted you. That’s what bothers me, not what you are.’
‘What I am?’
‘You can fill in the name. I’m curious that money means more to you, that’s all.’
‘Do you think we’re a club? We’re all blood brothers?’ Moody said. His sudden fury startled me.
‘I think you’d betray anyone,’ Eric replied. ‘But I would have supposed some fellow feeling with Joll. Both of you having to pretend.’
Moody stared. He might explode. Then he mashed out his cigarette. ‘Ha. Very clever. You can’t get me one way, so you’ll try another. Playing on my sympathy for Joll. Well I’ve got none. He was a toad. I’ve put him exactly where he belongs.’
‘Tell me about James Tinling then,’ Eric said.
‘I have fellow feeling with him.’
‘If you mean he’s a homosexual too, we know that. I’m more interested in your money arrangements.’
‘I have no money arrangements with Mr Tinling. I’ve met him once or twice. He’s a friendly man. We agree about politics. ‘ Moody began to enjoy himself. ‘As for him being a homosexual, as you call it, isn’t that slanderous? I think he could take you to court. He would, if I told him, brothers-in-law or not.’
‘He wanted to get Joll out of the way, didn’t he? So he hired you to compromise him — knowing from his little man, Ferrabee, that you know how to set up things like that. It’s a nasty story, Owen, and your part is one of the worst, but let’s agree that getting shot pays you back. We’re not after you, we’re gunning for James. I think you’ve confirmed all we need to know.’
‘Dogshit, Professor. I’ve said nothing.’ Moody smiled with false ease. He was wound up. He wanted to be himself. ‘But you know, as a writer, the only one here —’ he flashed a smile of contempt at me: more than contempt, ‘salt scorn’, the poet says — ‘I’m interested in this story you’re making up. It seems like a good one. So please carry on.’
‘James got in touch with you through Ferrabee. You worked out a plan to trap Joll — get him to make sexual overtures to you, so you could play the virtuous young citizen and expose him. Or threaten to. Get him out of the way so James could stand in the Melling seat. Your part is banal, although I’ve no doubt you enjoyed yourself, pulling down a better man than you. That’s what attracted you. And the money, of course.’
‘Listen,’ Moody cried, but Eric went on: ‘You’re a dull chappie, Owen. Both sorts of greed are in plentiful supply. James Tinling is the dangerous one. He just pointed you like a gun.’
‘You think so? I can wreck him if I want to, as easy as Joll. I can bust him in pieces —’ he snapped his fingers — ‘like that. You think you’re going to punish me somehow. But if you make a single move against me I’ll bring him down. If you think Joll made a loud noise, wait till you hear that one. I’ve got stuff written down. I’ve done the whole story and put it where it’s safe, so he can’t send Ferrabee round.’
‘So you’re blackmailing James?’
‘I could blackmail him for more than Joll. But I won’t be greedy. I won’t need the Honourable James Tinling soon. Just enough to get me started over there. And why not? You think I haven’t done my share of chipping weeds and slashing gorse? I’ve worn the skin off my hands stacking bricks, ever done that? And adding up stuff in a ledger — how much money someone else is raking in, the crooks. For four pounds two and six a week. I’ve finished with it.’
‘How much for perjuring yourself?’ I said.
‘Ah, you’re shocked, little Sam. Are you shocked, Professor? There’s ways of looking at life you’ve never dreamed of. Perfectly good ones too. So play your little games. Morality and justice, isn’t it? How dull.’
‘We’ll put all three of you in prison,’ I said.
‘No you won’t. You won’t get Joll out either. There’s no proof anywhere. It’s all in your head.’
Eric smiled and stood up. ‘Yes, quite right. We just thought we’d have a look at you.’
‘Was it worth it?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Nothing much. Don’t go after compliments, Owen. There’s dozens of clever little tykes like you. Are you ready, Sam?’
‘There’s one more thing.’ I faced Moody, who lounged in his chair, riding Eric’s insult, keeping it down. ‘You can go away, and stay away, and good riddance too, but you’re not taking Taylor Barr with you.’
‘Who says I’m not?’ Moody smiled as if I’d offered the compliment Eric denied. ‘It’ll break his heart. He’s set on it.’
‘You can get on your ship. We’ll let you do that —’
‘You will?’
‘We know what you’ve turned him into, Moody.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘But you’re not going to corrupt him any more. You go, he stays. If not, I’ll tell him all about you and Joll.’
‘Ah.’ Moody took his time. He lit another cigarette. ‘What you’re overlooking, Sam, is that he knows already.’ He grinned at me. ‘And it thrills him. He thinks I’m evil. Taylor’s got a very naughty streak. And Sam —’ how the fellow acted, picking a tobacco thread off his tongue — ‘if you do the slightest thing to upset him, I’ll pay a little visit on his Ma and Pa. I think they’re still in blissful ignorance, aren’t they?’
‘If you do that …’ I had nothing to threaten him with.
He waited, smiled, said, ‘What?’
‘He’s too young. He should stay here.’
‘But it’s like Noel Coward says, “I’m wild about the boy.” ’
‘Come on, Sam,’ Eric said. He led me to the door.
‘Oh, Professor, if you don’t mind some advice,’ Moody said. ‘Lifebuoy soap for that BO.’
‘Ha!’ Eric said.
‘No, you’re supposed to say, “Thanks, Owen, you’re a brick.” ’
Eric dismissed him by turning away. But out in the street he said, almost complacently, ‘I’ve always been a heavy sweater.’
We drove along the road by the harbour and north through Petone to Lower Hutt. Charlie was in town for her lesson with Frank Siers — although, as Eric said, it would make more sense for her to be teaching him.
The trees on James’s front lawn were weighted with leaves, yet had the upward springing of the season. The flower beds shimmered with bees.
‘What do we do if Ferrabee’s home?’
‘Ignore him. James won’t let him in while we’re talking.’
I was not so sure. Ferrabee’s self-conceit was shallower than Moody’s and more likely to spring out. He might force his way into the room; would bite and tear if he felt himself in danger.
We drew up by the garage. It was empty. Eric walked back and tried the front door. He peered through the letter slot, then rang the bell, a tinkling thing screwed to the wall. It made me think of Violet’s handbell by her bed. Now that she was dead, the house seemed hers as much as James’s.
We went around to the back of the house and found him dozing on the chaise longue. A handkerchief folded lengthwise covered his eyes. Eric plucked it off and dropped it on his chest.
‘Wake up, James.’
His eyelids opened with a snap but he remained unseeing for a moment, with an old man’s bewilderment. I had never seen James so naked. It made me ashamed, and I said, ‘It’s Sam and Eric. We want to talk to you, James.’
‘Sam. Eric. Good heavens.’ He sat up. The movement made him dizzy. ‘I must — what is it? Is something wrong?’
‘We’ll only keep you a minute,’ Eric said.
‘This is — I take exception. Ferrabee!’ he called.
‘He’s gone to his girl. There’s only us.’
‘Yes. All right. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. What is it you want?’ He m
ade a bony thrusting of his lower face, a movement used to put himself in charge. Eric grinned.
‘Sit and listen, James. And get that lawyer’s look off your face, we’ve seen it too much. We’re going to tell you a story about Owen Moody and Oliver Joll.’
I did not like Eric’s tone. I wanted something judicious — judicial too — and James reduced by more than bullying.
He made a shiver at the names, then contracted in some way, armed himself with his practised cold authority. ‘I don’t have time for claptrap. And I won’t be trespassed on.’
He began to stand, but Eric put his hand on his shoulder and held him down.
‘Sit still, James. We won’t be long. There’s just a few things we want you to understand. Then you can go back to sleep.’
‘Eric,’ I began.
‘Keep quiet, Sam.’ I did not understand his animosity. It seemed more intimate, determinate, than moral.
‘This is an assault. Putting your hand on me is assault,’ James said.
‘That’s right. You can have me arrested. But I’ll have quite a story to tell.’
‘Take your hand away.’
Eric released him. He pulled a wicker chair close and sat down facing James. ‘You don’t like touching, do you? Only boys.’
‘What? What do you say?’
‘Boys, James. Well, maybe young men. I don’t suppose Ferrabee’s too old.’
James made a panting noise, trying to speak. His cheeks, flushed from sleeping, turned a waxy yellow-white.
‘You’ve had a long time behind your mask,’ Eric said.
‘How dare …’ James managed to get out.
Eric patted him. ‘Rest easy, old boy. Sam and I are the only ones who know. And we’re going to leave you in there all by yourself.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You know very well. You’re an amazing fellow, James. Living your public life as an act of will. And making it work. I take my hat off to you. What’s it been like in the little room out the back?’
‘Will you leave now? Will you leave?’
‘In a minute. There’s just this business with Moody and Joll. Did you really have to do that to Ollie?’
‘I don’t know Moody. I scarcely knew Joll.’
‘Fifteen years’ hard labour he’s doing, James.’
‘He shot a man.’
‘What about the things that came before? You and Moody and Ferrabee setting it up? Coaxing Joll in like a pheasant into a cage. Have you still got his letter?’
‘I know nothing about letters. I’m calling the police.’
‘Don’t do that. If Ferrabee gets sight of a cop, he’ll squeal. I’ll bet on it. So will Moody, when the chips are down. Have you thought about jail, James? You’ll have a cell alongside Ollie Joll. They won’t make you crack rocks though. Old men sew mail bags.’
‘The pair of you disgust me,’ James said.
‘James,’ I began, wanting to reason with him, make him see, but he sent his usual flick of denial at me.
‘I haven’t spent my life scribbling lies in newspapers. Or —’ suddenly at Eric — ‘staring at the moon through a telescope. I’m a respected lawyer: ask my fellow lawyers what I am. I’ve lived a good life. And you two … With a man like Joll. He had language like a navvy. He was a pervert.’
‘Don’t you do the same sort of thing?’ Eric said.
‘I do not. I do not. I’ve lived out here forty years. I’ve lived like a monk.’
‘But you go over the wall, don’t you James, when you feel the urge?’
James raised his voice and cried, ‘Ferrabee!’
‘I told you, he’s gone to his girl,’ Eric said.
‘Leave him,’ I said. I did not know why I felt pity for James, yet there it was, making me say, ‘Just tell him what we came for. Then let’s go.’
‘If you spread this story about,’ James said.
‘We won’t. We’re just letting you know we know, that’s all. You and Moody working out how to get Joll to make his move. I’ll bet Moody gave him some come-ons, eh? Then telling him he’d have to resign. It’s a neat trick, James. But Moody getting shot wasn’t part of the plan. It must have given you a nasty turn. Well, now we’re leaving you to get on with your own hard labour. Fifteen years. Do you think you’ll last?’
Eric stood up.
‘You can’t run for Parliament. You’ll have to resign,’ I said.
He heard me for perhaps the first time in his life, and rose from the chaise longue to his full height. It was as if his stance would tell him what to say, but his mouth only opened and closed and nothing came out. His face took on a puzzled look. Then he drew himself in, and down, and was suddenly intimate. ‘Do you understand,’ he whispered, ‘what my life’s been like? Living with that woman and making my career in spite of her?’
‘Whatever it’s been like for you, it was worse for Violet. Come on, Sam.’
‘Every day I spent, she was like a slug crawling on my face, do you understand? I couldn’t get rid of her; she was always there. Sam, you knew her, you saw how she tried to ruin me. I would have been, if it wasn’t for her, you know what I would have been. Prime Minister. But she held me down. She crawled on me, I couldn’t get her off. Well, now she’s gone. And Joll is gone. I can be …’ He put his hand on my arm, making me recoil. ‘You mustn’t stand in my way.’
‘We’re not going to,’ Eric said. ‘Come on, Sam.’
‘But we can’t let him —’
‘Yes, we can.’ He pulled my arm. ‘I want to get out of here.’ He led me to the corner of the house.
I freed myself and looked back. James stood beyond the forest of roses — a stick of a man, dry and dead. All those years of deferring to him, of recoiling from the small hard stumps of feeling he exposed — rudimentary? vestigial? I could never tell — and being drawn back by his certainties; the weight of his life, all the gravity and fineness. What were they now? A page of newsprint crumpled up and thrown into a corner.
I turned away, not wanting him marked on me in any way, and followed Eric to the car.
‘I thought we were stopping him,’ I said.
‘He thinks he’s going to win the Melling seat. But Drake will beat him. Getting rid of Joll is all for nothing. What do you think James is left with then?’
We had no time to take it further, for Ferrabee’s car came through the gate and blocked our way. He jumped out and ran to Eric’s window.
‘What do you two want?’
‘Ask your boss,’ Eric said.
‘You’ve done something to him.’ He ran back to his car and turned off the ignition. ‘You’re not getting away from here.’ He went to the front door and let himself in. ‘Mr Tinling,’ he cried.
‘Now’s my chance to let his tyres down,’ Eric said.
‘No —’
‘Joking, Sam. It’s time for a bit of cross-country driving.’ He eased the car over the flowering border, drove it in a half circle on the lawn, scraping its roof on ngaio branches, crossed the border again behind Ferrabee’s car, gave a toot on his horn, and went out the gate.
‘Shouldn’t we get Charlie away from there?’
‘She wants to stay till after the election. Then she’s shifting into town.’ He drove through Petone. ‘Smile, Sam.’
‘It doesn’t seem enough.’
‘It is for James. Leave him alone, he’ll fall off the wall. I don’t know about the other two.’
So we left them on that day, having done all we could. Eric dropped me at my gate. I sat in the summer house with a glass of beer, considering our imperfect closure, our wrapping up of those things I’ve written about, less than one week before the election.
Chapter Thirteen
Taylor and Owen Moody sailed away on Tuesday 26 November. I was walking, solitary, in Barnard Street, when I saw the Ionic turn awkwardly from the wharf, then take on dignity as it steamed towards Point Jerningham. Soon the hills on either side sucked it in and only t
he wake remained, a silver scar. The dangerous one and his catamite were gone; they were erased, although for Freddie and Elsie there would be a bending to the north, to the child they imagined there. They would call his name but Taylor would not answer. Silence from London, but an inner crying in Wellington — until, perhaps, one day he crept home. Freddie would open his arms, in whatever state Taylor arrived.
The next morning Rose and I walked out to vote. There was a sabbatical calm in the streets, a hush and echo in our polling booth. The change we expected (I broke the habit of a lifetime, voting Labour) slept like some indifferent beast. I felt like stamping my shoe on the pavement: Wake up, wake up.
We spent the afternoon in our garden, weeding side by side with trowel and fork. Late in the afternoon I mowed the lawns, and the chatter of the blades put some urgency at last into election day. I felt a breaking out of excitement and a need, which I contained, to call over the fence to my neighbour: Any news?
By seven o’clock people were streaming past our gate. We waited until eight for Eric and May, hurried out when his car arrived, and walked in a quartet round to Lambton Quay, where the crowd was like a rugby test-match crowd flowing up the street, except that there were more women than a match would draw.
We side-stepped into Featherston Street, then to Victoria, but could find no better place than the back of the crowd. Ahead of us a field of hats, gleaming like clods of earth, stretched across the concourse of streets to the Dominion building, where the results board masked the first and second storeys. There were thirty thousand people gathered in the windless air, exhaling, breathing easily, only half awake, knowing change but not its onrushing yet, and its overturning of the squat governance we were used to.
We were too far back to read the board, but loudspeakers called progress reports. A moment came, only a quarter of an hour after we arrived, when it was known, not from posted or called results, but by a ripple of prescience in the crowd, followed by a vertiginous tipping. There was a lurch of sound, a bawl, a baying: Labour had won. It rolled like curled earth from a plough, turning the old parties out. After that upheaval and long shout only a happy murmuring remained, broken now and then by cheers as each new result boomed out. We heard Wellington as though it were the whole country: Wellington Central, then South and East and North (our electorate), Labour all. Only Wellington Suburbs stayed with the Nationalists.
