by Susan Napier
'I'm going down to bring out a few drinks and snacks,' Clare said, getting up after a few more abortive attempts at conversation. 'Would you like to come and help me?'
'It's your job, not mine. I'm not a waitress,' Tamara sneered, and Clare had to leave before she made the crushing retort that was on the tip of her tongue. Tamara was obviously a very unhappy girl, intent on taking it out on everyone else.
When Tim and his idol came back on deck, Clare endeavoured to manoeuvre Deverenko into the chair by his daughter, and got Tim to take a few snacks and a couple of cold cans of beer to Miles and Doug on the upper deck—but her efforts were in vain. Tim was not to be separated for any length of time from the new sun on his horizon, basking openly in the warmth of his interest. Clare found herself becoming as tense and quiet as Tamara. Couldn't Deverenko see how much he was alienating his daughter? Why couldn't he make the effort to include her more in his conversation? No wonder she felt left out. Clare was feeling left out, too, a very unusual occurrence with Tim. Usually it was Clare to whom he turned for approval; today it was Deverenko.
After creaming lazily around the perimeter of the lake for a couple of hours, Miles anchored off a small bay and Clare set out the sumptuous lunch that Grace had prepared. There were oysters and smoked marlin and trout, lamb and cashew-nut terrine, lobster salad and a variety of imaginative sandwiches that would appeal to young palates, although Clare noticed without much surprise that Tamara ate the adult fare. At least her problems didn't include anorexia, for, although her painful thinness was accentuated by the unflattering simplicity of the red dress, Tamara's appetite seemed healthily casual. For dessert there was an ultra-rich kiwi-fruit cheesecake and plenty of fresh fruit and several kinds of New Zealand cheese served with plain water crackers.
They ate on the deck, the food shaded by a blue-and-white striped awning, watching the ducks, crested grebes and dabchicks ripple the glassy surface of the lake. Used to Doug's ever-present camera, Clare didn't take any notice of the photographs he was taking until Deverenko held up a hand.
'If you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't include Tamara and me.' His voice was pleasant, but with enough of an edge for Doug to lower his camera immediately.
'These aren't for publication, just a few personal shots.' After an awkward pause, he added, 'You're welcome to see the pictures. In fact, I'll give you the prints and the negs when I've developed them—I have a temporary dark-room rigged up in my chalet.'
'Thanks, I'd like to have them,' Deverenko said, turning to Miles as they both leaned on the rail. 'Is the launch just for cruising, or can you fish this lake?'
'The fishing season closed at the end of June, otherwise I'd bring you out,' Miles told him. 'There's good trout fishing here, I could guarantee you a Rainbow of a couple of kilos at least. You come back between October and June and I'll show you. We generally use sinking lines to twenty or so metres; the waters around here are pretty deep.'
'I might take you up on that.'
'I thought you didn't like fishing,' frowned Tim. It always disconcerted him to find that his precious books had misled him.
'If I fish, I eat what I catch,' Deverenko told him. 'But I don't get the opportunity very often, and I certainly wouldn't do it as a sport.'
'Most sport fishing is on a tag and release basis,' said Miles, prompting a mild argument on the subject of wildlife management. By the time it wound up, Clare had cleared the lunch debris away, and Miles proposed continuing to the north end of the lake.
'How about taking a turn at the wheel, sport?' Miles asked Tim.
'Not today, thanks, Uncle Miles,' said Tim politely.
'You usually pester the life out of Miles to let you have a go,' Clare protested, looking helplessly at her son.
'Next time, maybe,' he temporised, for all the world like an adult placating an awkward child, and Clare rolled her eyes while Miles laughed and clapped Deverenko on the back.
'You seem to have acquired a shadow, old man.'
Deverenko smiled, and a few minutes later he and Tim were down on the fishing platform at the stern. From the deck, she could see Tim's hands gesturing as he talked.
'What on earth do they find to talk about all the time? Tim's never been a chatterer, but now he doesn't seem to be able to stop.'
Her murmur was supposed to be for Doug, but Tamara answered.
'They're talking about music, of course.' Her rough-edged voice was sullen with resentment. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and Clare noticed the way her thin arms were wrapped across her chest.
'Are you cold? There's an extra sweater in the forward cabin if you want one.'
'No, thanks.' I don't need anyone's help, her tone said, and Clare and Doug exchanged glances of silent understanding.
'I'm getting pretty chilly myself,' said Doug. 'I'll go below and get my jacket. I'll bring the sweater back for you, Tamara. We can't have a fellow guest, and a young lady at that, risking a chill. You don't want to be laid low with flu when you're on holiday…'
It was the right touch, referring to her as a fellow guest, and a lady. Tamara gave him a graciously condescending smile, and he saluted her with a grin in return.
Clare returned her thoughtful glances to the two backs on the fishing platform, ignoring the silent girl at her side until Tamara was driven to say.
'Your kid is pretty pushy, isn't he?'
'Not usually, no. He's very shy as a rule,' said Clare slowly. 'I've never seen him cling like that to anyone else.' She frowned. That sounded like sour grapes. Was she jealous? Did she want Tim to cling only to her?
'I told you. It's music. All musicians are the same.'
'Are you? Do you play an instrument?'
'Should I?' Tamara countered, her eyes shiny with dislike, and Clare realised she had made another mistake.
'I don't either,' she tried to redeem herself. 'It's funny, I love music, I love dancing to music, but I never had the slightest urge to learn to play it. Until now, until I realised that I couldn't help Tim with his music problems because I didn't understand them! In every other way he needs me, but not when he has his violin in his hand. I suppose I'm afraid of it, in a way, afraid of his talent because it's not something I can share in… ever, except second-hand. Sometimes I feel it's like a wall between us…' She suddenly realised who she was talking to and turned her head and grimaced. 'I suppose you're going to accuse me of being a neurotic mother, as your father has.'
'Dad said that?'
'Well, not those exact words, but that's what he thinks.' She glared down at the figure in the pale windbreaker.
'You…you really don't like him, do you?' Tamara realised incredulously.
Clare's mouth curved wryly. Although Tamara had attempted to put her off her father, it had obviously never occurred to her that anyone could not be impressed by him, awed by him as she was. 'Should I? Your father waltzes into our lives and calmly assures that he can turn them upside-down without so much as a by your leave, as if everything is subservient to his talent and will. Well, I'm not, and no amount of pressure from your father or Tim is going to convince me that his needs are going to be best served by shipping him off to a boarding-school. Tim worships your father, but he doesn't realise that the kind of attention being lavished on him now is only a means to an end. Once Tim's at the school, how often will he see your father?'
'More than I saw him at my school,' said Tamara.
'Is that why you left? Because you missed him?'
'I didn't leave, I was asked to leave,' Tamara confirmed Clare's suspicion with a dull defiance. 'They said I was too disruptive. I ran away three times.'
'Where did you go?' Clare was aghast at the idea.
'To friends. Once I got as far as Rome, on my way to America where Dad was performing,' she said with pride.
'By yourself!' It was pointless to hide her shock.
'Sure by myself. I can look after myself. I can look after Dad, too, if he'd let me. He needs someone with him on tour. He gets wound up
, you know. Mum used to be great at smoothing things out for him. Now he only has Efrem, and Efrem likes to panic.'
'Efrem?'
'Daddy's manager. He manages some of the top musicians in the world. He's OK, I guess, but he's very American, you know? He fusses and likes rowing… he calls it being full of temperament. He drives Daddy mad sometimes.'
'Then why does he employ him?'
Tamara looked shocked. 'Because he's the best, of course. You don't employ Efrem…he invites you to work with him. And he's been with Daddy since he first started the concert circuit.. They'll never get divorced!'
'You make me feel very plain and ordinary and ignorant,' said Clare ruefully, 'and I can do without another Deverenko who makes me feel inferior.'
'I didn't mean to,' offered Tamara, with a dark-eyed sincerity that was touching, considering her earlier hostility. Perhaps it was the realisation that Clare wasn't 'drooling' over her father that prompted the change. Whatever it was, Clare knew better than to trust it would last, but she would take advantage of it while it existed.
'Nor does your father, most of the time; it just comes naturally.'
Tamara laughed, and the difference in her appearance was quite startling, illuminating her features, rounding out the contours of her square, spare face. 'He is rather bossy, but everyone forgives him because he's special.'
'Everyone is special in their own way, Tamara, even those of us who seem destined to live under the shadow of greatness. I refuse to be intimidated. I can be bossy, too, you know.'
'You don't look very tough.'
'Toughness is on the inside. You look as if a puff of wind could blow you away, but you're a pretty tough cookie yourself.'
Tamara grinned, but Clare saw the flicker in her eyes. Tamara wasn't half as tough as she acted, and she knew it and it frightened her. Clare stood up. It was about time David Deverenko spent some time with his daughter, even if it meant that she, Clare, had to provide the diversion from her son.
The things she did for others!
CHAPTER FIVE
Clare switched off her blow-dryer and ran her fingers through her clean hair, fluffing out the blunt-cut ends so that it framed her face in a thick bob. She had showered and dusted herself with fragrant talc and put on her nightgown and warm, wine-red robe. Now she intended to relax for the rest of the evening with a good book to ease the restless tension of her day.
It was the fourth day of the Deverenkos' stay at Moonlight, and Clare had found it just as difficult as the previous three. Tim's reluctance to go to school was more marked than usual, although Clare had been unprincipled enough to use the bribe of violin lessons with David as she packed him off on the boat each morning in time to catch the school bus which picked him up from the Lake Romata stop on State Highway 86. Today it had been his regular lesson with Cheryl, and when Clare had taken the station wagon—the road was just passable by afternoon—into Rotorua for her 'jazzercise' session at the gym before she ferried Tim to and from his lesson, the Deverenkos had accompanied her. David had gone with Tim to his lesson, while Tamara went to the gym with Clare and watched her join the fifteen or so other women in their energetic dancing. Tamara, who had obviously regretted her confidences of the second day, had thawed slightly as Clare, sweaty from her exertions, had come off the floor.
'You must have to be awfully fit,' she said wistfully. 'We do—did—gym at school, but it was always boring and sport was compulsory. Ugh, I hated it!'
'I'm fit, but then I've always danced,' said Clare as they walked towards the changing-rooms. 'But we have new people joining all the time. They just do as much of the routine as they can manage. The important thing is to enjoy it. My working hours are pretty flexible, especially when our bookings are light, so I can come as often, or as little, as I want. Most women find twice a week is enough to keep in shape, especially when they've built up to the full hour session. Maybe you'd like to try it some time.'
Tamara instantly backed off. 'I've never done any dancing or anything. With all our travelling there was never any time for stuff like that…except music lessons, of course.'
And yet she said she didn't play an instrument. Tactfully Clare ignored the tail-end of her remark. 'You don't have to be an expert, the instructor demonstrates everything.' She dimpled mischievously. 'And you notice how I always stay at the back? That's so I can watch everyone else instead of them watching me.' She often wondered whether she would have been able to make a career out of ballet even if it hadn't been physically precluded, given her shyness in front of people, but she hadn't been tempted. Dancing in a gym with a group of friendly women was vastly different from doing it on stage. No, this way Clare had the best of both worlds: she could lose herself in the music and the physical enjoyment of dancing without drawing attention to herself.
'I don't have any of the gear, anyway,' said Tamara, eyeing Clare's slinky purple leotard and blue tights, the pink leg warmers and foreshortened T-shirt she wore.
'All you need is the leotard and tights, and you can hire those from the gym. Do you want to have a go next time, Tamara?'
She shrugged, as if afraid of expressing any eagerness. 'I don't know. Dad might want to do something else.'
'What about what you want to do, Tamara?' asked Clare quietly. 'Why don't you forget your father for once, and be responsible for your own enjoyment? It's not as if this is something your father can join in with. It's sexist, you know, but it is a women-only group.'
'No, I suppose he couldn't, could he?' Tamara had seemed struck by the novelty of being able to do something her father couldn't. Clare could see her mind ticking over behind the ruffled brow. Nagging her father for attention had backfired; perhaps she might get her revenge by shutting him out! 'But I'm so scrawny.' She looked down at herself with dislike. 'I'll look horrible in those clinging things.'
'Better than having rolls of fat bulging all over the place,' said Clare briskly. 'We'll just make sure we get you a fattening colour in horizontal stripes, the sort of thing which makes me look like an elephant.'
Tamara had produced her rare giggle, and Clare had thought what a nice girl she could be when she forgot to shoulder her chip. What she really needed were a few interests of her own. For all her sophistication, in some ways Tamara was less mature than Tim. She had told Clare that she had turned thirteen a few months ago, had shown her the gold locket on a chain that her father had given her, and talked about the party that Deverenko had arranged for her, long distance, since he was in Japan at the time.
Four days ago Clare might have condemned David Deverenko for abandoning his daughter on her special day, but having seen them together she conceded that he was having every bit as difficult a time of it as Tamara. He undoubtedly loved his daughter, but her prickliness and her unpredictable moods had him at a loss. They spent all day together while Tim was at school and Clare was concentrating on shutting out her intrusive awareness of the new presence at Moonlight in her work, and yet still Tamara wanted more. That made Deverenko impatient with her, which in turn made Tamara sulk. It seemed a vicious circle with no break in sight. To fully satisfy Tamara's demands Deverenko would have to give up his career, sacrifice his love of creating great music for love of his daughter, and if be did that he would not be Deverenko any more. That he realised it was obvious in the dark concern with which be watched his daughter when she was being particularly morose. That Tamara didn't was also obvious. If she did, Clare thought she would probably be horrified at the very idea, and yet that was what she wanted, to be first in her father's life— before his music. There would be even more pain ahead for the girl if she continued the self-destructive round of confrontation and selfish demand. Pain for David, too, watching the slow alienation. Clare's heart ached for both of them.
'Mum? Are you ready to tuck me up?'
'Just coming, Tim.' Clare went into his room and began their night-time ritual of discussing their day and planning the next one.
'Miss Tyson let Mr Deverenko take my lesso
n today.'
'Did she?'
'Then he played us a sonata on her violin. Did you know that he didn't bring his own down with him?'
'No, I didn't.'
'I wanted to see it. Did you know it was famous? I looked it up in a book. It's a Guarneri, they're even rarer than Strads, you know. Of course he has a Stradivarius, too, and a Tononi. You'd think he'd have brought one down with him,' Tim's piping voice was much aggrieved. He frowned. 'Unless he's going to leave soon. He couldn't not practise for more than a week, could he, Mum? Not Deverenko!' The thought obviously appalled him. From the first time his chubby toddler's hands had laid on the violin, Tim had played every day. It was unthinkable to spend a day without practising. In all the books he read, it was the cardinal sin.
'He played today,' Clare pointed out.
'Not for very long. He practises at least four hours a day, longer than that, too, because of rests.'
'I'm sure he knows what he's doing,' placated Clare, wondering herself what it portended. She, too, found it difficult to think of David Deverenko without a violin within reach of his magic fingers. 'Perhaps his violins are too valuable to bring down here. No doubt the dampness and central heating wouldn't do them any good.'
'No, but you'd think he'd have brought an old one.'
'Why don't you ask him about it?' Clare said. Tim was like a terrier when on the track of a problem. 'How did your maths test go today at school?'
Tim decided it was time to snuggle down. He wriggled his small body down under the down cover and yawned impressively.
'Tim?' his mother said warningly, and he sighed, his brown eyes soulful, and so like Lee's that Clare weakened.
'It was boring, Mum. It was all stuff we've done already.'
'That's the idea of tests, Tim—to find out what you've learned. If Miss Tyson, or Mr Deverenko,' she added for good measure, 'didn't ask you to play the practice piece you've learned, how would you feel?'
