After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  On their last night as preschoolers, we went for tea in Jane’s café. There, I got chatting to a school mother, one of those chinless types who talk in little-girl voices. She had disturbing news. Michelle Martin had developed complications and was out of action for the rest of the pregnancy. Her replacement had hurriedly been shoehorned into the job.

  ‘Mr Taulafo,’ said the mother.

  ‘Oh dear. What’s he like?’ I was in a froth of anxiety.

  ‘The kids love him. He’s brilliant with them.’ She leaned forward with her hand covering her mouth. ‘I want to eat him,’ she whispered, and giggled.

  Charlie, who’d been listening with a quivering lower lip, reached for his blanket. ‘I like Mrs Martin.’

  Brings out the worst in you, sending your children to school. One day you’re wishing they’d grow up and sod off and leave you in peace; the next you’re sniffling pathetically as you pack their spare underpants. Tiny Y-fronts, in case of accidents.

  ‘It’s at Hinemoana’s hill. Hee-nay-mo-ah-na,’ I coached them neurotically, as they bolted their breakfast on the first school day of their lives. They’d been up since six, opened all their presents and eaten the chocolate buttons off their birthday cake.

  ‘Ringy Moaner,’ said Charlie, his fair curls stuck out at zany angles.

  ‘Thingy Mamma,’ added Finn, ramming a Sugar Puff up his nose. He giggled, inhaled sharply and got a piece of processed wheat stuck two inches up his nasal passage. I had to fish it out with tweezers.

  Now that school was finally upon them, they seemed not the slightest bit awed by the solemnity of the occasion; not even Charlie. They ducked my hairbrush as though it was a cat-o’-nine-tails and strutted importantly out of the house in their blue school shirts and grey shorts. While Kit and I searched for shoes they hopped merrily into their booster seats, backpacks bulging with Superman lunchboxes.

  ‘So this is it,’ said Kit, strolling out to the car with me. ‘Our babies are schoolboys, Martha.’

  ‘Where did the last five years go?’ I asked sadly.

  ‘Passed in a flash.’ He looked into the car, where the boys were serenading themselves with a tuneless chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to Us’. ‘But they’ve not been wasted, that’s for sure.’

  As I parked behind the dunes, the entire school—about thirty children— seemed to be playing rugby. Not one of them wore shoes. A couple of vagabonds were hoisting the New Zealand flag up a pole. The next time I looked, my sons were gone. They’d joined a blue-shirted mob of desperate characters, all trying to tackle one spindly little fellow who was making a run for it. He went down hard under the swarm, and mine were somewhere deep in the dog pile. Then the ball came shooting out from beneath a mound of wriggling bodies, and the game was off again.

  Feeling abandoned, I made my way to the new entrants’ classroom, a technicolour haven with miniature chairs and tables. I hoped to meet the new teacher. A powerful male form dwarfed the furniture, balancing on a chair as he hung paintings along a string.

  I stared. ‘Ira?’

  He looked round, his face lighting up. ‘G’day, Martha!’ His hair was tied back and he was wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves that more or less covered the artwork on his biceps.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ I said. ‘What brings you here? I was looking for Mr Taulafo.’

  ‘Yup.’ He jumped down from the chair. ‘That’s me.’

  It took a good five seconds for this information to sink in. ‘You . . .? But you never said!’

  He shrugged. ‘Conversation never got around to it.’

  Thinking back, I realised I’d never tried to find out much about Ira. I had been happy to like him as the brawny removal man who rode like a cowboy, was a magnet to small boys and told magical, mystical stories. I felt ashamed.

  ‘You might have mentioned it to the twins, though,’ I scolded. ‘They would have been so excited.’

  ‘Didn’t know myself. I’ve been doing casual work like the house moving and relief teaching around the district while I looked for something permanent. Only had the interview for this job two weeks ago. I was waiting to hear if I’d got it. Then last week Michelle Martin went to the doctor for a pre-natal and he took one look at her blood pressure and slapped her on bed rest. So I got a call: “You’ve got the job, bro, can you start tomorrow?” I’ve been chasing my tail ever since, no lesson plans organised or anything. And with all the chaos it was only this morning I got told I had two new entrants coming—I was pretty happy when I found out who they were!’

  ‘So you’ve finished your training?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Did a couple of years’ teaching in Auckland, but I always wanted to end up back in the Bay. Can’t believe I landed this job! I sat in this same classroom when I was a kid, used to daydream and look out at old Hinemoana.’

  He strode across to the whiteboard and began to print in clear, slightly sloped handwriting: Morena, tamariki. Good morning, children. Today is Thursday—Taite.

  ‘So,’ he said, deftly outlining a sketch of SpongeBob SquarePants. ‘Boys all ready for the big day?’

  ‘They are! I’m not.’

  He gave SpongeBob a speech bubble, writing inside it: KIA ORA TO FINN AND CHARLIE McNAMARA!

  ‘They’re going to have a riot,’ he declared cheerfully, and I didn’t doubt him for a second.

  It was awfully quiet in the people carrier on the way home. No story tape was playing. No one was squabbling, or singing, or asking random questions. There were two empty booster seats where my merry men ought to have been. Buccaneer Bob sat in one, looking forlorn. Blue Blanket lay crumpled in the other. I leaned into the back, reached for Bob and snuggled him under my chin. I was still cradling that pirate as I wandered into the childless house.

  Soon it was my turn: my first day at Capeview. I was determined to arrive early, to be calm and collected. Which, presumably, is why I was running late.

  Kit had crept down to his studio at an unseemly hour. Actually, he hadn’t crept. He’d crashed around on what he clearly thought were his tiptoes, banging things and sneezing in that annoyingly noisy way men do. At eight o’clock, though, Finn was still curled under his duvet, doing an imitation of a sloth on Mogadon; Charlie was eating Rice Crispies one grain at a time, picking them up between thumb and forefinger with infuriating delicacy. I made a half-hearted attack on the washing-up from last night, in a futile bid to leave things looking as though I was a real mother.

  ‘Get a move on, Charlie,’ I begged, as I struggled to find lids for their lunchboxes. ‘I’ve still got to have a shower. What d’you want in your sandwich? Peanut butter?’

  He looked as though I’d offered him road kill. ‘Peanut butter is’scusting.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you liked it. Um . . . ham?’

  ‘Yeuch.’

  ‘Tuna?’

  He was making gagging noises when Kit appeared in the kitchen carrying a bug-eyed, bed-haired Finn. ‘You’ll have peanut butter, young Mr McNamara, and like it,’ he growled in his pirate voice, and Charlie giggled.

  I glanced at the clock, cursed, and raced upstairs. Where does the time go to when you’re late? I was in and out of the shower in five minutes and pulling on some clothes—after a brief moment of despair, I found one last pair of clean knickers under the wardrobe. My tights got stuck on my legs and then I smudged mascara down one cheekbone. Still, it felt novel to walk downstairs in proper grown-up work clothes. Kit had taken charge of the boys and was shoving minuscule pairs of swimming trunks into their bags.

  ‘I need a memory stick for the school computer,’ said Sacha. She’d chosen to go in to do an ICT course, though Year Eleven had finished formal school for the year. ‘Can I have twenty-five dollars? They sell them in the office.’

  ‘Okay.’ I began to riffle through the nest of old receipts in my wallet. ‘Bugger. I’ve run out of cash . . . no, I can’t have. I got two hundred out of a machine the other day.’ I tipped everything onto the table. ‘Bloody hell, where did I
spend it all? I think I’m going mad!’

  ‘You’ll have bought lattes in every café in Hawke’s Bay,’ said Kit soothingly. He fished in his wallet and gave Sacha thirty. ‘I’m Stay-at-Home Sid so I never spend any dosh. You can blow the change in the canteen.’

  ‘Thanks, Kit.’ Sacha folded the notes and stashed them in her pocket.

  ‘Mr Taulafo took us onto the beach,’ said Finn. ‘We played ball tag.’

  I was searching distractedly under a pile of school newsletters. I was sure I hadn’t spent all that money. We needed to watch our budget.

  ‘That’s Ira,’ explained Finn. ‘But at school we call him Mr Taulafo. He tells stories after lunch.’

  ‘He’s got a gorgeous girlfriend,’ said Sacha. ‘She coaches the Kapa Haka group at school. Seriously cool—she can sit on her hair. I spotted her and Ira at the cinema.’

  I gave up on my search. ‘You’re not jealous?’

  She gaped at me in contemptuous incredulity; it’s a look teenagers reserve for their parents’ most ill-informed remarks. ‘Euw! Mum, I don’t hit on teachers. Can I drive to the bus stop?’

  ‘Car key, car keys,’ I chanted anxiously.

  ‘They’re in the ignition,’ said Kit. ‘Chill, old girl.’ Humming a waltz, he slid his hand onto my back and danced me to the door. ‘Remember in England we used to lock the doors and set an alarm whenever we went out? Like rats in a cage, we were.’

  He was right, I thought, as we spun our way across the yard. We were wrapped in a cocoon of peace and isolation. Kit kissed me, wished me luck and stood saluting as my chauffeur drove me away.

  Once on our way, Sacha glanced at me. ‘How’re you feeling, Mum?’

  ‘Very glad to be earning some money at last.’

  ‘Butterflies?’

  ‘Millions of’em . . . Did you have breakfast?’

  ‘An apple,’ she said happily. ‘My self-control is legendary.’

  ‘Sacha, you don’t need to diet so much.’

  ‘OMG! There’s the bus.’ She wrenched at the handbrake, and was gone. Five minutes later my phone sang its text song. Those butterflies were going crazy. I could almost see my stomach rippling.

  I pulled over. Sacha’s name was on the screen.

  Luv ya mum. Gd lk. Knk m ded :) xxxxx

  Mercifully, Lillian Thompson was on leave. Keith was expecting me though, and showed me into my cell. Someone had scribbled appointments in the diary.

  ‘Where’s all the junk?’ I asked, looking around.

  His chins wobbled. ‘In Lillian’s cupboard. She’s going to have a fit when she opens the door and it all falls out. How are your children getting on?’

  ‘The boys have started school.’

  ‘Happy so far?’

  ‘Happy as prehistoric man on a woolly mammoth hunt. Their teacher’s a friend of ours. He’s got dreadlocks down to his waist, and he’s the best storyteller I’ve ever heard. It seems at this school they have pet days, rock pool days, wacky hair days . . .’

  ‘Any actual learning days?’

  ‘Nah, don’t think they have those. But the boys don’t care, and neither do I.’

  The next eight hours were a kaleidoscope of images and personalities. I was straight into the deep end with a thirty-year-old airline pilot. Gareth’s life had been a roaring success until the moment when his motorbike met a power pole. The broken limbs had healed; the brain injury shattered his life forever. He needed us to teach him how to brush his hair, how to tie his laces, how to get through his day. One side of his face drooped. He had lousy short-term memory, poor concentration, no patience. He roamed the corridors of Capeview like an angry wolf, and he wished he’d died. He wished it bitterly, openly and justifiably. His wife was thin and twitching. She didn’t bring their children to visit him.

  From there on I didn’t stop. I had two visits to assess work environments in Napier and a staff meeting at which I finally got to meet Jenna, the other OT. She was about my age with micro hair and little oblong glasses. She’d emigrated from Zimbabwe five years earlier with her husband, her mother and two children.

  ‘How are you finding New Zealand?’ she asked.

  I glanced at Keith, who was listening with amusement. ‘It’s . . . well, what a dream lifestyle. But I can’t pretend we’re never homesick. Everyone is so very far away. How about you? Do you ever wish you’d stayed home?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you must miss your country?’

  ‘We don’t allow ourselves to look back.’

  ‘How sensible,’ I said half-heartedly.

  ‘Back in Zimbabwe, three men broke into our home. They held us up at gunpoint while they robbed us. As they were on their way out, one of them put his gun to my head’—she pressed two fingers to her temple— ‘and pulled the trigger. I actually heard the click. I thought my children were going to watch me die.’

  I stared at her, aghast. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was so, so lucky. The gun misfired. He hit me with the barrel of it instead. Knocked me out. We left a month later. New Zealand took us in— thank God—and this is where we have made our lives. For us, there is no going back.’

  Eighteen

  The temperature rose as Christmas approached. Pesky mosquitoes droned through the night, pausing only to suck our blood. I soon invested in nets. We watched our hills fade from lush emerald to a parched expanse of dust, leached of colour. It was hard to believe that the sheep got any nutrition at all.

  ‘Drought,’ remarked Pamela, who’d dropped by to warn me about the voltage on a boundary fence; she was putting through a massive charge because she had bulls in the next field. On the back of her truck there was a dead sheep rolling around like a rug with ears, and three dogs chained to the cab.

  ‘Is it a problem?’ I asked, following her gaze across the desiccated landscape.

  ‘Well, it’s either drought or it’s floods. That’s farming for you; always something to gripe about.’

  It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and I’d had a frantic week. There was such a lot to learn: new faces, new hang-ups and a massive geographical area. At the same time, I was trying to get my head around the cultural nuances and keep up with assignments on my Maori paper. I’d been on autopilot in Bedfordshire, and suddenly I was back at the controls. It was exhilarating, but exhausting.

  I’d thrown off my kimono and dived into a sundress when I heard Pamela’s truck. My hair looked like a bird’s nest, a frizz of wet straw. Pamela, by contrast, had the air of someone for whom the day is half over. She seemed quite human this morning: almost smiley in an efficient, no-frills kind of way. She was wearing a peaked cap and smelled of lanolin and sheep.

  ‘Been crutching,’ she said, as we strolled around to the verandah.

  ‘Been what?’

  ‘Cutting the dags off the sheep’s backsides.’

  ‘Dags?’

  ‘Sheepshit.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We’d get flystrike, otherwise. Maggots. They eat the stock alive.’ And with this delicate observation she handed me an ice-cream punnet full of ginger crunch.

  ‘You know the way to my heart!’ I enthused. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Lovely.’ She followed me into the kitchen. Christmas carols were playing on the radio. ‘It’s pretty quiet around here.’

  ‘The boys have a schoolfriend over. They’re all glued to the telly, I’m afraid. Sacha’s staying in town.’

  ‘Again? She was there last weekend, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She has orchestra on a Friday—extra late at the moment, because of the Christmas concert—so it’s tempting to stop with one of her friends.’

  ‘You must be pleased! She’s settled in very well.’

  ‘You’ve got four boys, haven’t you?’ I was looking for our milk jug, because a plastic bottle was good enough for us but not for minor royalty like Pamela Colbert. I eventually found it at the back of the fridge, harbouring congealed gravy.

  ‘I have a
seven-year-old grandson, too,’ she said, puffing out her chest. I hadn’t expected Pamela to be an adoring grandmother. It seemed too mushy a role for one so no-nonsense.

  ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘The eldest, Jules, is in Perth.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Western Australia. He’s a geologist in the mines. He’s single—it’s not a life for a family. But we live in hope.’

  I was searching for another jug. Kit had inherited a silver one in the shape of a cow. ‘And the younger three?’

  ‘Michel is in Wellington. He does something in graphic design, and I have no idea what that is but I’m sure it’s very clever. He’s got a girlfriend called April.’

  ‘D’you like her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘April’s imagination is as limited as her chest is copious. But she’s got her feet firmly under the table, so I’d better get used to her.’

  Wretched jug wasn’t in the cupboard where it belonged. I stood on tiptoe in the pantry, checking the top shelf among the jam jars. ‘That’s two.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Philippe was our afterthought. He’s only seventeen.’

  ‘Really? I thought you and Jean were empty nesters. Let’s sit on the verandah,’ I added, coming out of the pantry and lifting the tray. ‘Sorry about the uncouth plastic bottle. Couldn’t find a jug. Chaos in this house.’

  I was startled when she laid a hand on my arm. ‘Martha, cut that out. You never, ever have to stand on ceremony for me. I think you imagine I’m some kind of domestic superwoman with polished dustbin lids. I’m not, believe me. I’m very flawed.’

  Touched, I led her outside and poured our coffee. ‘Your youngest, Philippe . . . he must still be at boarding school?’

  ‘Philippe chose to leave school. He’s working on a farm in Canterbury.’ Pamela’s mouth twisted. ‘That boy’s drifted. He isn’t happy in his own skin. His latest ambition is to cycle from the Caribbean coast to Tierra del Fuego.’

  ‘Good Lord! Through . . . my geography’s shocking, but that’s through places like Brazil. The Amazon. What do you think about it?’