Briefly, he lays a hand on my arm. ‘That was routine,’ he says. ‘This, I’m afraid, is not.’
Eleven
That spring at Patupaiarehe, we were gypsies. The container with all our possessions was somewhere on the high seas, rocking and rusting, becalmed in the doldrums or tossed in the roaring forties. Through September and October we had no clutter. No stuff. It was liberating. We were settlers, blazing with pioneering spirit.
We fell madly in love with our house at the head of the valley. A couple of men came and rewired while others laid terracotta tiles on the kitchen floor. Within a day we’d stopped locking the front door when we went out; within two we’d given up bothering to shut it. The place felt so secure, so storybook, far up a pitted track and nestled into the motherly bosom of the forest. There were no evils, lurking. I was sure that if the twins ever wandered off, the only person to offer them a lift would be some taciturn farmer in enormous gumboots (Kiwi for wellingtons), sheepdogs tail-wagging on the flatbed of his truck. He’d haul them in and bring them home.
Sacha often stayed up until midnight to have Facebook conversations with English friends and complained—justifiably—about the slowness of our internet connection. She seemed to be coping, though; she thrashed us both at tennis, got her learner driver licence and quickly became adept on the quad bike. The one thing she wouldn’t do was play her flute. It lay untouched in its case.
Once we’d repainted the shabbiest rooms, Kit asked Sacha if she’d help him with a mural for the boys. His thinking was that it would be good for her to have a project, and he was right. The pair of them were closeted for days, yelling convivially over the racket from Sacha’s favourite radio station. They finally unveiled their masterpiece: an African savannah, teeming with animals. None looked hungry. Even the leopard contentedly dozed in a tree.
‘These are mine.’ Sacha closed the cupboard doors to reveal a flock of vivid flamingos standing in a lake. ‘Aren’t they cool?’
‘They are cool.’
‘Obviously Kit helped,’ she admitted. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’
Kit was cleaning brushes. ‘No, the fabulous flamingos are down to you. What next, Sacha? Your room?’
She politely refused. ‘I’m too old now,’ she said, with a touch of sadness.
‘Nobody’s too old,’ said Kit.
Instead, he whitewashed his conservatory-studio and hung yards of gauzy curtain to diffuse the brilliant Hawke’s Bay light. Pamela showed him a wonderful art-supply shop and he threw himself into sketching, experimenting, practising. I guiltily searched the place more than once but found no hoard of bottles, full or empty. Finally he began a series of small landscapes in acrylic.
The studio was a sanctuary, with its mellow light and smell of tomato plants and paint. I used to spend my evenings peacefully lolling in a deckchair, intrigued by the confidence with which Kit mixed the subtlest colours and gave them life. I loved to watch his eyes, narrowed and intense, seeing things that I never could. It was as though those brushstrokes were a language; it was Kit’s mother tongue, and at last he was allowed to speak it. I began to understand what Gerry Kerr had been talking about.
Now we had a base, Dad insisted on sending Muffin. We drove the five hours to Auckland to liberate our old friend from her crate—safe, well and crazy with joy at the sound of our voices—and brought her back in triumph to Patupaiarehe. She seemed to know she was home, taking a ladylike snuffle around the garden before plumping with a contented sigh into her basket in the kitchen. There she lay, groaning and wheezing with love, the treacle-black buttons of her nose and eyes half submerged in blanket and hair.
‘I’ve even missed her smell,’ said Sacha, brushing the shaggy coat. I knew what she meant. Now Muffin was in residence, the kitchen felt right.
Nostalgia is dangerous stuff, of course. Time blurs and distorts the past. When I look back on those first days I remember a holiday: sunshine and space, translucent air and silver-threaded sea; gangs of lambs playing King of the Castle on a rock. When real holidays end, you go home. You open your mail, phone your friends, maybe look through your photos and dream of owning a bar in Crete; but the next day you’re back at work and showing off your tan. For us there was no going home. In October, the Christmas school term began.
On her first morning Sacha appeared downstairs in her hideous tartan uniform, fretting that she was having a bad hair day. She made brave, buoyant conversation in the car but her heart wasn’t in it and her nails had been bitten. I was feeling slightly sick myself, as I’d arranged to meet my new manager after dropping her off. When we pulled up at the school gates the pavement was an ants’ nest, swarming with adolescents—not one of whom we knew.
‘Good luck, doll,’ I said, with a tug of her ponytail. ‘There’s a best friend here, waiting for you.’
‘Good luck to you too, Mum. Let’s both kick ass.’ She kissed Ivan’s locket before sliding it under her shirt, and gave me a weak smile. Then she swung out of the car, wending her way through the crowd. I watched the lonely figure, remembering a self-assured celebrity who was mobbed as she left her school in England. We must have been mad, I thought. How can a lifestyle replace family and friends? Work is work, and school is school, however pretty the views. At that moment, if I could have turned back time and kept the whole family safe in Bedfordshire, I would.
Twenty minutes later I was grinding up a hill towards what had once been a tuberculosis hospital. The last set of buildings had an aquamarine sign: CAPEVIEW LODGE, Residential and Community Rehabilitation. Below, in smaller letters, I read nelson health care services. I wasn’t contracted to begin work until December, but my new manager had issued a summons. I was also keen to have a look at the place.
I parked, slapped on lipstick and presented myself to the bustling gorgon at the reception desk. It was ten minutes before a figure crept from behind a pot plant, proffering a lifeless hand.
‘Lillian Thompson,’ she murmured. My manager was getting on a bit, but cherry-red sugar cubes dangled from her ears and her hair was an implausible shade of ochre. I followed her into a worryingly tidy office, and we sat down.
‘How are you finding New Zealand?’ she asked, woodenly. It was a stock question; I’d answered it many times already. A trick question, too, I’d found. Ambivalence was not appreciated.
‘Loving it,’ I gushed, beaming. ‘What a fantastic place to bring up kids.’ She nodded without pleasure or interest. I’d passed the first test. Had I failed to express unconditional love, I’d have been written off as a whingeing Pom who was never asked to come and could always go home if I didn’t like it.
All I learned from Lillian Thompson is that there are managers with limp handshakes and chips on their shoulders in both hemispheres. I spent the next half hour trying to work out what, exactly, she disliked about me. After an awkward silence I realised she’d just asked something, but I hadn’t caught it because I was mesmerised by those appalling earrings.
‘Te Reo,’ she repeated, with exaggerated clarity.
‘Yep.’ I’d expected this. ‘Maori language. Fascinating! I’ve been mugging up.’
‘This is not just a language thing; it’s bicultural awareness. You need to do a paper that covers customary concepts, values and the Treaty of Waitangi.’
‘Nobody mentioned this in the interview.’
‘They certainly should have. You can do the paper largely by correspondence.’
‘Okay. Sign me up.’
‘Remind me.’ Her pen ran across the pages of her desk diary. ‘Your start date is . . .?’
‘The fifth of December.’
‘Can’t you begin earlier?’
‘No,’ I said firmly, crossing my arms. ‘Sorry, but I did make this clear in my interview. I start once my boys turn five and go to school.’
Her lips thinned. ‘I shall be on leave. As you know, Nelson is a private health care provider. Capeview is our flagship facility . . .’
I glanced at the clock. Alread
y ten fifteen. I imagined Sacha alone in the common room: snubbed, shunned, pretending to read the notices. I longed to be with her.
At last, Lillian rose and preceded me into the corridor. ‘The other OT is out this morning, as are several of the team, because much of our input is in the clients’ home or work environments. We’ll have to create a space for you. Your position has been empty for so long that your office has become—’
‘A rubbish dump,’ growled a male voice, and a face appeared from a door to our left. It was smooth and folded, like melting cheese.
‘Keith Emmerson. Clinical psychologist,’ whispered Lillian, somehow making it sound as though she was introducing the local flasher, complete with dirty mackintosh.
Keith advanced with an extended hand. He’d be fifty or so, and there wasn’t a lot of hair left. I counted at least three chins. In fact, it was impossible to say where chins ended and neck began. He sported a red tie with yellow teddy bears, and a stomach that cantilevered dangerously over his belt. It was all a joyous contrast to Lillian’s insipid resentment.
‘How are you finding New Zealand?’
‘Loving it.’ I took his hand.
‘And how’s your family settling in?’
‘Um, absolutely. Never looked back. What a great place to bring up kids.’
He didn’t let go of my hand. In fact, I felt the pressure increase. ‘Crap,’ he pronounced. ‘You’ve airdropped—what, three children?—way out of their comfort zone. You’ve left everything and everyone that matters to you. You’ve suffered a massive bereavement—and you expect me to believe you’ve never looked back? Come on!’
With a grimace of relief, I capitulated. ‘Okay. I’ve got homesickness like toothache, comes in waves. My daughter’s really struggled. This morning when I dropped her at school I wished we’d never come. But we’re still here.’
‘Better.’ He released my fingers.
Lillian was shifting restlessly. ‘Well, Keith. I’ll leave Martha in your capable hands.’
The facilities were impressive and my guide generous with his time. He was clearly popular. People stopped to chat, and I discovered that he himself had four daughters.
‘Luckily we’ve got a male guinea pig,’ he said, leading me past the swimming pool. ‘I can always go and have some blokes’ bonding time with him. I gather you’ve a special interest in head injury?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Great. Just what we’re needing.’ He held a door open for me as we stepped outside. ‘Our sensory garden! I’m proud of this, because it’s my baby.’
The garden was an inspiration. Covering perhaps a quarter of an acre and criss-crossed with looping paths, it was a wonderland of scented plants, of texture and colour. Water bubbled calmly out of clay pots; bamboo tubes hung in trees, tolling and clicking gently. Keith and I paused for a moment on a wooden bench, inhaling the scent of rosemary. Far across a periwinkle bay stretched the pale cliffs of Cape Kidnappers.
‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Kidnappers looks different every day,’ said Keith, following my gaze. ‘Sometimes you could almost reach out and touch it. You might know the story? No? It’s named after an attempt by Maori to kidnap a servant from Captain Cook’s ship, the Endeavour. Nowadays you can ride a tractor along the beach and visit the gannet colony at the end. Your kids’ll have a ball.’
At lunchtime he walked me to my car. ‘Your predecessor claimed to love it here,’ he said seriously. ‘She was English too. Came out with a husband and baby. Guess how long she lasted?’
‘I don’t think I’m going to like the answer to that question.’
‘You’re not.’ He leaned hefty forearms on the open door. ‘Six weeks, from landing to take-off.’
‘Six weeks!’
‘Turned their container around in Napier port. It never got off the dock.’
‘Blimey. What did you do to her, Keith?’
He rubbed his chins. ‘They were homesick. It was too big a change, and it wasn’t necessary. They weren’t running from anything, or to anything.’
‘Neither are we,’ I said, as he shut my door.
Perhaps I needn’t have worried. Sacha’s first week at school was a roaring success. She hit it off with a girl called Tabby, liked the teachers and found the bus journey useful for getting her homework done. Her class, Year Eleven, were in the run-up to their equivalent of GCSEs, and as Sacha had already passed hers she could take things easy. We spent the first weekend smartening up the smoko hut, ready for when our furniture arrived.
‘A load of us are going to sleep in here after their exams are finished,’ she said as we whitewashed the walls together.
‘Both sexes?’
‘Well, der.’
‘Boys sleep in the house,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, der.
’ She laid an innocent hand on her heart. ‘Mum! Don’t you trust me?’
One afternoon after school, she went into Napier with Tabby and some sidekicks. They wanted to show her the shopping scene. It worked out well, because Kit and the Colberts were in town too, and brought her home. They’d been visiting a gallery in Napier; the manager had looked at Kit’s small landscapes and promptly agreed to exhibit them.
Jean and Pamela stayed for a celebratory drink—‘Here’s to your glittering success, Kit’—and persuaded Sacha to parade her new outfits. They were bright, flimsy little slip-like dresses, and ballooning miniskirts.
‘I hope the weather improves soon,’ said Jean dryly. ‘Or you will most certainly die of cold.’
Pamela asked about the new friends. When Sacha mentioned Tabby, she nodded calmly. ‘Tabby Mills? Ah, yes. I know her grandmother. Very sporty family.’
‘You see?’ Jean’s eyebrows had leaped up high. ‘Everyone knows everyone around here. There’s no escape.’
Kit topped up the Colberts’ glasses, which were already half full. Then his own, which was empty. Then he caught my eye, and set the bottle down on the table with a dull thud.
It was a couple of days later that I found Sacha outside the school gates, surrounded by the St Trinians’ lacrosse team: svelte, chattering creatures all carrying mobile phones and not a smidgen of flab.
Sacha introduced about five of them as I levered myself out of the car, feeling unfit and untrendy. I didn’t get all the names—Tabby, Jade and, er, some others. The team chorused ‘Hi’ in cheery unison, showing orthodontist-perfect teeth. Tabby—clearly queen—was a real head-turner, with russet hair in an immaculate French plait and a waist you could have fitted through the eye of a needle. I’ll wager she had on the same tartan skirt she’d worn in Year Nine. It was probably knee-length then, but it was scarcely worth wearing now and revealed the concave thighs of a catwalk model. Her courtiers were variations on the same glamorous theme.
Tarts, whispered Mum, and for once I agreed with her. Gaggle of stick insects! They were confident, well-brought-up stick insects though, and made polite conversation until their buses arrived. Queen Tabby did big hugs with Sacha, and made her promise to be on Facebook that evening.
‘So,’ I began bouncily, as we headed out of town. ‘You’re settling in brilliantly.’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re still alive.’
‘Yep.’
‘Nice girls?’
‘Yep.’ Sigh. ‘Nice girls. Tabby does fashion modelling.’
‘Hmm. Too thin.’
‘You can’t be too thin. They’re having a sleepover this weekend. I don’t really want to go.’
‘Oh?’ I was puzzled by her lack of enthusiasm. ‘Sounds like fun. Did you find out about the orchestra?’
‘Mm-hm. I can start anytime.’
‘Flute lessons?’
‘For God’s sake! Yes, flute lessons.’
‘C’mon, doll, talk to me. You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp. What’s up?’
‘I’m fine.’ She didn’t look fine.
‘They all want to know you. That’s good, right?’
‘Only because I’m the new kid on the block.’ She picked at her hem, mouth quavering. ‘They know nothing about me. They’ve never been to England. They’re not interested in where I’ve come from or who I really am. I’ve never watched any of their soap operas, nor do I want to, nor do I care how the New Zealand netball team is doing or which boy Tabby is dating this week. I don’t play a sport and I’m never ever ever going to a gym. So where does that leave us?’
‘I know what you mean.’ The wind was gone from my sails. I thought of Lou, who’d shared my childhood. At that moment I missed her more than I could possibly have imagined.
‘They’re nice people, but they aren’t my people,’ said Sacha. ‘They’ll never be my people.’
‘Give them time. Get a little common history.’
She’d curled up in her seat like a small child, and I wondered what had rattled her. We were weaving through the hills when she finally told me. ‘Ivan’s going out with somebody.’
I pulled into a gateway as the sad story came tumbling out. My poor girl. She’d checked her emails at lunchtime—it was against the rules, but everyone did it.
‘He didn’t want me to find out from anyone else,’ she gulped. ‘And he was just in time because straight after his, three other people had messaged me on Facebook. I was using a computer in the library and I was just staring at the screen, feeling sick, and everyone was going, “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” I just couldn’t face them all feeling sorry for me so I ran down the playing field and just about screamed. I mean, we agreed we should both move on, and I’ve been gone three months now, but . . .’ She dissolved into sobs. ‘I want to go home. I want to see Grandpa.’
I turned out of the driveway and drove on, wishing I could fix this for her. I felt stricken. A thought was fluttering in my mind, enticing and mischievous: I was wondering whether it was possible to turn our container around in the port and send it home. Perhaps I could get my job back and stick up two fingers at ghastly Lillian. All the way to Patupaiarehe I dreamed, picturing the joyful scene as Dad and Louisa met us at Heathrow. Instead Kit met us by the car, almost dancing with suppressed delight. He had two pieces of news. The first was that the gallery had sold three of his paintings. Kit had to pay a hefty commission and the balance wouldn’t make us rich, but it was a spectacular start and they were asking for more.
After the Fall Page 10
