‘Then call his mobile! Could you just try for one second not to be so fucking useless?’ After which stunningly unprofessional outburst I burst into tears, turned on my heel and stormed out of the building, slamming the door behind me.
Chapter 26
AT THE END of that evening’s meal Aunty Rose’s plate looked pretty much the same as it had at the beginning. It held a very modest serving of one chicken drumstick, three kumara chips and a tablespoon of peas – not the most exciting meal in the world, but considering the mental state of the cook this evening it could have been much worse. ‘Could you eat a little bit?’ I pleaded.
‘No,’ said Aunty Rose as she pushed her chair back. She lay down full-length on the chaise longue, mouth thinned with pain, and closed her eyes.
Hazel arrived as I dried the last of the dishes. ‘Good evening, girls,’ she trilled, putting her head around the kitchen door. ‘Rosie, darling, I’ve brought a book you might enjoy.’
Aunty Rose opened one eye. ‘I hope it’s a trashy novel,’ she muttered.
Hazel gave a little rippling laugh. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘It’s all about the macrobiotic diet – suggestions for natural healing.’
The eye closed again. ‘Thank you,’ said Rose dully.
The kettle shrieked and switched itself off, and I poured boiling water into an ancient rubber hot-water bottle with a crocheted cover. ‘It might help,’ I said, handing it to Aunty Rose.
‘I doubt it,’ she said, but she took it and tucked it into the small of her back.
‘Rosie,’ said Hazel reprovingly, ‘it’s very kind of Josie to try to help.’ Her words were greeted with silence and she continued, ‘People are kind, aren’t they? Myra Browne – dear Cilla’s mother – lent me the book. Her friend had a very rare form of skin cancer, and apparently the doctors had given her up for lost when she discovered this macrobiotic diet. And now she’s completely cancer-free.’
‘Hazel,’ said Aunty Rose tiredly, ‘I wish you’d stop this.’
‘At the very least it can’t possibly hurt.’
‘I very much doubt I’ll live any longer if I subsist on mung beans and tofu. Although it may well resign me to death.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Rosie!’
‘I have secondaries right through my lungs and a lump on my liver the size of a cricket ball that I can feel through the skin.’ I looked at her sharply; this was news to me. ‘My body is being taken over by this revolting disease. It’s like being chained to a rock below the high-tide mark and waiting for the water to come in. And surely by now you know my views on people who peddle useless cures to the terminally ill.’
‘Oh, Rosie,’ said her sister helplessly, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Don’t weep all over me,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘Not tonight; I don’t feel strong enough.’
I sneezed into a tissue – the side of the box had assured me it was aloe vera–impregnated and gentle on the skin, but it felt like sandpaper on my skinless nose – and Hazel said worriedly, ‘I don’t know if Josie should be here, with that cold. She might give it to you.’
‘I probably passed it on a week ago,’ I said. ‘Too late to do anything about it now.’
‘Just be careful with hygiene, won’t you, dear?’ Hazel told me. ‘Wash your hands carefully and try to cover your mouth rather than coughing over Rose.’
The response on the tip of my tongue was one I would no doubt regret, so I got up silently and went to have a shower.
‘Perhaps,’ Aunty Rose suggested as I left the room, ‘she could ring a little bell and shout “unclean, unclean” as she approaches.’
A head cold is not a very serious ailment, but mine had now reached that unhappy stage where you feel as if your eyeballs have been left out in the sun and your sinuses filled with concrete. I stood limply for some time under the miserable dribble of water that comes out of Aunty Rose’s shower, and then climbed into my onesie, took two Panadol tablets and went back down the hall. Hazel was still in the kitchen, mopping her eyes in a way that suggested she had indeed been weeping all over her sister.
‘For the love of God, Josephine, please take off that hideous thing!’ said Aunty Rose, eyeing me with distaste.
‘You’re just jealous of the – the awesomeness of the one-sie,’ I replied.
The onesie and I had been together for a week now. Cold feet in bed? Not when you have a onesie, my friend. Troubled by uncomfortable pyjama-leg ride-up? Hell, no! That onesie was the nicest thing to happen to me for months. The morning after our first glorious night together I sent the man who had brought it into my life a text from work: Onesie brilliant. So are you.
Glad u like it, he sent back.
‘I fail to understand why you feel this uncontrollable urge to make the least possible of yourself,’ Aunty Rose said.
‘I’m not going to start wearing it in public,’ I protested, and pulled the hood up defiantly.
Aunty Rose shut her eyes as if my appearance caused her actual pain. ‘Josephine,’ she said, ‘it is criminal to be blessed with naturally blonde hair and legs to your armpits, and then go and swathe yourself in that thing.’
I smiled at her, touched. ‘It’s warm and comfortable,’ I told her, ‘and I love it very much. So there.’
‘Oh, don’t be so wet,’ she snapped. ‘If Matthew gave you a potato sack you’d treasure the bloody thing. I’m going to bed – goodnight.’
She left one of those awful, pregnant silences behind her in the kitchen. At length I managed to unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and said, ‘Thank goodness you’re taking her to the pain clinic on Friday.’
‘Yes,’ said Hazel. ‘Yes, thank goodness.’ She was silent for a moment and then added carelessly, ‘I’m glad Matthew didn’t feel he had to come over tonight. He’s so devoted to Rosie and has such a strong sense of duty, but I know it’s a strain. It’s nice for him to have a chance to spend time with Cilla.’
‘JOSEPHINE?’ AUNTY ROSE called as I went down the hall towards bed later that evening. I continued past the door of the Pink Room to look round her door. She was propped on her pillows with The Sentimental Bloke and Persuasion beside her on the covers and a torrid bodice-ripper in her hands. Nice Marty Holden from the Book Exchange had been bringing romance novels by the boxful and she was getting through two a day, switching to Jane Austen when her brain needed decontaminating.
‘What’s that one about?’ I asked.
‘Beautiful orphan cheated out of inheritance and raped by wicked uncle,’ said Aunty Rose succinctly.
‘But rescued by disturbingly attractive stable hand who turns out to be laird of the neighbouring castle?’
‘No doubt,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just started it. I’m sorry – what I said was completely uncalled for.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘Hazel’s just been letting me down gently by telling me how much in love Matt and Cilla are.’
‘I expect you enjoyed that.’
‘Very much.’ I leant against the doorframe and said, That’s the first time you’ve ever been mean to me.’
‘I fear, Josephine, that it may not be the last.’
‘Bitterness and rage kicking in, huh?’
‘Indeed,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘Goodnight, sweet pea.’ And as I turned to go she began to laugh weakly.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘The ghastly thing’s got a tail. Please get it out of my sight.’
I looked back over my shoulder – she was quite right: the onesie did indeed have a little white bunny tail sewn onto the back. I don’t know how I’d overlooked it.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ I said, and closed the door softly behind me.
WHEN I GOT to work the next morning at ten to eight Amber’s red car was already there. Normally she drifts in at five past – this was not, I felt, a good sign. Perhaps she’d come in early to hand in her notice, and I was about to be sued for abuse in the workplace. I went up the hall somewhat apprehensively and found her swabbing
the front desk with a damp cloth, which was another first.
‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I vacuumed.’
I was bemused. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘And what did you do with Amber?’
This weak sally was greeted by a merry peal of laughter. ‘You’re so funny,’ she said.
I opened my mouth to apologise for shouting at her the previous evening, suddenly thought better of it and closed it again. This new Amber was a vast improvement on the old one; there was no telling how long the transformation would last, and it would be foolish to say anything that might shorten its duration. Amber paused in her cleaning to wipe her nose on the shoulder of her cardigan and I was unexpectedly relieved. She had not, after all, been replaced by a robot whose programming might at any time default to Massacre Mode.
The new and improved Amber lasted all through the morning. She inputted files and phoned tomorrow’s clients to remind them of their appointments and didn’t once remove her nail polish, and I wondered if I had perchance slipped through the fabric of my life into some parallel universe.
Andy came in at midday, the epitome of the rural young professional in his beige moleskin trousers and glossy chestnut leather boots, with his shirt collar standing up almost as crisply as the gelled spikes of his hair. You wouldn’t have wanted to snuggle up to that hairdo; you might have lost an eye.
‘Hi,’ breathed Amber, opening her eyes very wide and sucking on the end of a pen. Unfortunately this didn’t make her look alluring, but merely as if there was a very real risk that her eyes might fall out of her head. ‘Hello, Andy.’
‘Oh, hi, Amber,’ he replied, and then lifted his chin about five degrees in my direction. ‘Jo.’
‘G’day,’ I said.
‘I’ve got some pork for you in the freezer at home,’ he informed me.
‘You keep it,’ I said. ‘You’re the one who’s done all the work.’
‘I thought maybe you guys might like some chops and a couple of little roasts. I’ll bring it up after work, if you’re going to be around.’
‘About seven-thirty’s usually a good time,’ I suggested. ‘Matt and Kim come over after dinner most nights.’
‘Right,’ said Andy uncomfortably. ‘Look, Jo, could I have a word?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Amber, you must be due for a lunch break about now.’
Amber looked somewhat crushed, but she pushed back her chair and ferreted under the desk for her handbag. ‘Can I get you guys anything?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks,’ said Andy. He smiled at her fleetingly and she went pink. It occurred to me that we might well be on the verge of another outbreak of unrequited love, and that I’d better lay in some extra chocolate biscuits. Not Tim Tams, though; something less complicated to eat.
Amber pulled on a pink nylon coat with grubby faux fur around the sleeves, picked up her bag and let herself out into the wintry sunlight. We watched her drift up the street towards the Bake House, and Andy shuffled his feet and looked unhappy.
I waited for a little while, and when there were no signs of imminent speech said, ‘It’s lovely up the back of the Kings’ place, isn’t it?’
‘Mm.’
After another pause I tried again. ‘I hear you met Kim’s mother the other day.’
‘Mm,’ said Andy again, carefully examining the nails of his left hand. Evidently satisfied with their appearance he shoved the hand into his trouser pocket and began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth.
I laughed – I couldn’t help it – and he jumped like a startled rabbit. ‘Andy! I’ve got a client in ten minutes.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Um, Jo . . .’
There was another, even longer pause, and I sat down in Amber’s chair and rested my elbows on the desk and my chin in my hands. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ I remarked. ‘Just in your own time.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Andy crossly. ‘Look, if I ask the girl out are you going to think I’m a dirty old man and run me out of town?’
‘By “you” do you mean Matt?’
‘Mphmm.’
‘Well, he did send Kim off with you up the back of the farm, so I wouldn’t think so. And you’re employed and not in a rock band, so you’re already looking pretty good compared to the last one.’
‘I’m five years older than her,’ said Andy. ‘She’ll probably think I’m a dirty old man.’
Anything less like a dirty old man than Andy with his pink cheeks and sticking-up hair would have been hard to imagine. He looked about twelve. ‘That’d be why she wanted your phone number and bought you a stack of Picnic bars and offered to walk up a hill,’ I said. ‘And if you’d asked me I would have said Kim would rather put lemon juice on a paper cut than go walking through a patch of wet scrub.’
‘I don’t think her mother thought much of me,’ he said glumly.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘She thought you were probably casing the joint. Aunty Rose told her your family own about half of Hawkes Bay, but I’m not sure she believed it.’
‘Only seven thousand acres,’ Andy corrected.
‘Near enough.’ Way to go, Aunty Rose. ‘Are you fifth generation?’
He looked at me in a perplexed sort of way. ‘We moved there from Feilding when I was six. Does it matter?’
‘It’s just that I told Hazel you were fifth generation. That kind of thing impresses her.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I suppose. Right, I’d better go and do some work.’
‘Andy?’ I asked.
‘Mm?’
‘Be careful with Kim, won’t you? She’s having a pretty rough time at the moment.’
‘I know,’ he said.
Chapter 27
THE PHONE RANG, and I put down the bluntest vegetable knife in recorded history and crossed the kitchen to pick it up. ‘Hello, Jo speaking.’
‘Hello, love,’ said my mother. ‘How are things today?’
‘Awful,’ I said flatly.
‘Oh.’
I retreated to the chaise longue and curled up at one end, hugging my knees. ‘She won’t eat, Mum. I think she’s trying to starve herself to death.’
‘Oh, sweetie.’
‘She didn’t eat anything yesterday, and the day before she only had half a little pot of yoghurt when Matt stood over her and made her eat it. She snaps at us and then cries and apologises – and that’s a million times worse. Mum, can you come up for a bit? I know it’s a lousy time of year, but it might not be much longer and – and I’m not managing very well.’
‘I was planning to come for a few days next month,’ said Mum slowly. ‘I don’t like to leave your father when the goats are still kidding, but I’m sure he can cope if he has to.’
‘Sooner would be better. Mum, I’m sorry . . .’
‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Take deep breaths. I’ll talk to your father and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been leaving work early when I can, and the others all drop in every day, but it would be such a relief if you were here too.’
‘Isn’t Hazel helping?’
‘She prefers just having hysterics,’ I said. ‘You’d think Aunty Rose was only dying to spite her.’
‘We can’t be doing with that,’ my mother declared. I expect Boadicea said something very much the same, in similarly ringing tones, when discussing the Roman occupation of Britain a couple of thousand years ago. ‘Now, is Rose awake, love?’
‘I’ll go and look.’ I got to my feet and went down the hall to peep through her bedroom door. She was lying back with her eyes closed, but she opened one at my approach. I covered the speaker of the phone and mouthed, ‘Mum?’
Aunty Rose nodded and held out her hand for the phone.
‘Here she is,’ I said into the receiver. ‘Love to Dad.’ And feeling somewhat invigorated after talking to Edith Donnelly, Woman of Action, I went down the hall and dug through the kitchen drawers for a sharpening stone with which to deal with that useless knife.
&n
bsp; IT WAS NEARLY dark when I turned into Aunty Rose’s driveway at half past five the following evening. The lights were on in the cowshed across the road, and little angry spats of rain hurled themselves at the windscreen. I dodged the pothole halfway up, swerving towards the orchard fence (in wet weather you had to take Aunty Rose’s driveway like a rally driver), and the headlights caught a small pale body lying between two plum trees.
If I’d stopped there I’d have had to let the car run back to the bottom of the hill before tackling it again, so I continued up the drive and parked on the gravel sweep outside the kitchen. Then I zipped my polar fleece vest right up under my chin, got out into the wet dusk and unwillingly went back down to investigate. Only three dogs appeared from under the house to accompany me – Spud had decided, after a taste of indoor life, that exposure to the elements really wasn’t his cup of tea.
I climbed the orchard fence, catching my jeans on the barbed wire and ripping a little triangular hole through both the denim and the tender skin of my inner thigh. A brand-new lamb lay stretched on its side under the Red Doris plum tree. I bent and prodded its little eye, but it didn’t blink. A nicer person would have mused sorrowfully on the futility of being born only to slip straight out of life again, but I was just relieved not to have to add lamb-rearing to my list of jobs for this evening.
Presumably the lamb belonged to Mildred, although its paternity was a mystery – Edwin lacked the necessary equipment. I stood up and peered through the gathering dusk, and at the far end of the orchard saw two sheep-sized glimmers of white. ‘Sit,’ I ordered without any real hope of being obeyed, and began to slither down the hill.
As I got close the sheep exchanged a wild-eyed look and made a run for it, one to either side of me. They showed an impressive turn of speed considering they were both as wide as they were high, but the fleeting glimpse I got of Mildred’s rear end revealed two little hooves and a nose. ‘Bugger you, Mildred,’ I said, and went after her.
Normally, if you want to catch a sheep, you head it towards a fence somewhere to cut off at least one possible direction of escape. Then you slink closer, feinting to left and right until you’re a few metres away, and make a wild tackle. I’m not a bad sheep-tackler but Mildred, the miserable slapper, refused to be headed. She thundered from one end of the orchard to the other, weaving around trees with the grace and agility of a gazelle while I stumbled behind.
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