someones coming after me
??? whaaa
im freaking
u better go home
cant
why cant
ripped off my family
where r u
theyre coming for me fk
where r u!!!!!!!!!!
theyre coming
have you got your fone
yea
fn yr mum
think I wl die
fn ur mum plz !!!!!!!!
Sacha is offline.
‘Dear Lord,’ I breathe.
‘As you can imagine, Ivan didn’t like the sound of it. He tried ringing your place. No answer. So he got in his car and drove straight around to me—he’d been before, with Sacha. I didn’t like the sound of it either. I am aware that teenagers can be a little hysterical, but all the same . . . So I called you. No answer. Why don’t you have an answer machine?’
‘Never got round to it after we moved here. Kit reckons if it’s important the person will call back.’
‘Hmm. Well, I found Capeview’s website and rang them, to be told that you were on leave. They wouldn’t give me your mobile number. Actually, they weren’t helpful at all.’
‘Hang on. This would have been when?’
‘About midnight on Sunday in the UK, so . . . um, Monday lunchtime here.’
Monday. I was driving around Napier on my own, searching.
Dad looks sheepish. ‘Call me a busybody but I couldn’t just do nothing! Anyway, I was bored, felt like an escapade. I’ve been looking for an excuse to come and see you. So I packed a bag, nipped down to Heathrow and grabbed the first flight I could. Via Kuala Lumpur. By crikey—it’s a long way, isn’t it?’
‘Dad, you’re crazy.’
‘I know. By the time I’d got myself out of Auckland airport, it was too late to ring you people. I was feeling pretty good; had this idea I might surprise you. So I hired a car and drove to Napier—actually, that was gruelling. It took hours longer than I’d thought from the map. My car’s a hairdryer on wheels, needed cardiac massage to get across the hills, but there were no hotels open so I just kept going. I phoned your place when I reached Napier. About six.’
‘Six? You must have just missed me.’
‘I had,’ he agrees. ‘A girl answered. The friend.’
‘Bianka?’
‘That’s the one. Nice girl. I asked straightaway if Sacha was all right, and she said yes, she’s asleep upstairs. So I felt like a silly old fool! Then she told me about Finn. So—’ he spreads his arms—‘here I am.’
I shake my head in admiration. ‘You’ve been travelling for two days! You must feel like death.’
‘Not too bad. I slept on the flights, and I’ve been taking some remedies.’
I hand back the bit of paper. ‘She took his advice,’ I say. ‘She phoned me.’
‘You see? Gnomes have their uses, after all.’ Dad shoves the paper back in his bag and clasps my hands in his. ‘Now. What on earth is all this about?’
I tell him everything. Well. Actually, no. Not quite everything. On the subject of Sacha’s addiction, stealing and paranoia, I’m completely candid. It takes a lot to rattle my dad, but he’s rattled.
Yet when it comes to a starry night on a balcony, I tell my kind, wise father a pack of lies. I’m all too good at it by now.
He sits for a long time with his hand on Finn’s chest. Then he says something quite extraordinary. ‘I know who Sacha’s father is, of course.’
‘You don’t.’ I’m sure of it. He can’t possibly know—couldn’t have known, all these years, and kept the secret. ‘You certainly don’t.’
‘You had to balance the needs of an unborn person—Sacha—against that of others. At the time I’m sure it seemed the honourable course to take.’
I gape at him, feeling the telltale flush spread up my neck.
‘I’ve pondered on it many times over the years,’ he says. ‘I’ve watched that little curly-haired delight of yours grow up into someone very special, and I’ve thought how proud he would be. Sometimes I’ve thought he has a right to know.’
‘I’d rather not discuss this,’ I say stiffly.
‘But of course it’s become more and more impossible—so many people’s happiness at stake. Six people, since Theo was born.’
‘I said I’d rather not—’
‘It was a choice of evils. An unenviable choice. In the end, you chose to leave Sacha permanently fatherless. So she lost out. Have you lost out too, Martha, or did you prefer having that treasure all to yourself?’
I lean forward to stroke Finn’s arm. Shame burns my face.
We were close friends, Philip and I, when we were young; the sort of mates who go out drinking and cry on one another’s shoulders. One weekend Lou came to stay and I introduced them. She raved for days about his roguish smile, and he cornered me to talk about her lovely legs. It was a wild romance, and I wasn’t jealous; well, not very. That summer Lou booked a holiday in Ibiza with a couple of girlfriends. Philip didn’t want her to go, and they had a bust-up. She told him if he wasn’t going to trust her, he could take a hike. So he took a hike, then came round to moan about it to me. He was petulant and lost, which is a pretty irresistible combination. We downed a bottle of scrumpy cider and one thing led to another.
Of course, the two of them made it up on the phone. By the time Louisa flew home, Philip and I were stretched on a rack of guilt. We had a pact: there would be (a) no repetition—ever; and (b) no confession—ever, under any circumstances. The event was expunged from history. Poor Philip was so overcome with remorse that he bought a whopping antique ring and proposed to Louisa in the Gatwick arrivals hall, to the cheers of about three hundred people all holding up signs saying things like AQUILA TOURS and HERTZ. She was in heaven. The two of them toured their families, showing off the ring and booking the church. Even Mum approved of Philip. When Lou asked me to be her bridesmaid she thanked me—thanked me!—for bringing him into her life. She said she’d never been so happy.
One morning as I lay in bed looking up at a crack in the ceiling, it hit me. Don’t ask me how. I just knew, with a sick certainty, that I wasn’t alone. It took me a fortnight to take the test, and another month to decide what to do about it. I fibbed about the due date, invented a one-night stand and fronted up at Lou’s wedding in a maternity smock. I was my sister’s bridesmaid, and pregnant with the groom’s child. Not my most glorious moment.
Just once, very early on, Philip asked if the baby could possibly be his. I slapped his shoulder and told him not to be so bloody arrogant—how fertile did he think he was? I spun a complicated story about a tall chap called Simon who’d swung in and out of my life without leaving a forwarding address.
‘Well,’ said Philip, relieved. ‘You know Louisa and I love you. If there’s ever anything we can do . . .’
By the time my perfect daughter was born, people had stopped mentioning the father. He’d become a mythical creature. They wrote Unknown on the birth certificate. Sacha was mine. All mine.
‘I know you very well, Martha,’ says Dad. ‘I was in the maternity unit when Lou and Philip came to visit. Everyone else was fixated on the new baby, but I was watching you. And I admired you, because I knew you were doing it for your sister.’
‘I didn’t admire me.’
‘It also occurs to me that this might be one of the reasons you decided to emigrate. At any rate, a significant factor? Sacha was becoming more and more persistent. She’d started asking everyone, making wild guesses and stirring up old memories. I might not be the only person to have suspicions.’
‘Dad,’ I say faintly. ‘Is there anything you don’t know about me?’
‘Twelve thousand miles is a long way to run.’
I sigh, looking at Finn. ‘Not far enough.’
We’re in the cafeteria when Kura Pohatu finds us. The white tresses are swirled into a regal bun today. I’m pretty offhand, but she seems thick-skinned. Has to be, I imagine.
Whe
n I introduce her to Dad, the social worker looks genuinely delighted. ‘Will you stay in New Zealand for long, Mr Norris?’
‘That depends,’ he counters, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Martha’s told me all about your concerns. I think they’re misplaced, but I applaud you for doing your job so thoroughly.’
She sits graciously, and turns to me. ‘I hear Kit is home, Martha, and visited Finn last night.’
Her spies have told her, of course. Every nurse is an undercover agent. ‘Yes, he did. He’s planning to bring the other children in this morning.’
‘Okay. Well, I have to tell you where we go from here.’ She holds up two hands, palms towards me. ‘Please. I want you to remember that I’m not here to make life difficult for you.’
‘Go on.’ I’m in that swing boat again.
She looks at Dad. ‘The team has identified concerns and decided there should be further investigation. We need to be sure that Finn and the other children are not at risk of further harm.’
‘What a waste of public money,’ says Dad placidly.
‘I’m actually employed by CYF,’ continues Kura. ‘That’s Child, Youth and Family. I’m based at the hospital for half my working hours. Since I’ve already spent some time on this, I’ve been appointed lead social worker.’
‘Is that good news or bad?’ asks Dad.
‘Good, I hope. I’ll be working with a colleague. He’ll talk again to the school, to the family doctor and maybe others. I’d like to meet the rest of the family. Finn obviously can’t speak for himself just yet.’
‘Just a minute.’ I stare incredulously as what she’s said sinks in. ‘You want to talk to Finn?’
‘If our initial screening doesn’t eliminate this as accidental, he may be interviewed. Don’t worry. It would be done very sensitively.’
‘That’s ludicrous, Kura! If he recovers—and I’d remind you that at the moment it’s if—he won’t remember a bloody thing.’ I’m confident on this point. People with severe head injuries have amnesia about their accident, in my experience. ‘Anyway, I’ve told you fifty times that he was asleep—he never woke up.’
‘These incidents are not generally isolated. Any interview with Finn wouldn’t focus only on the fall itself, but on the bigger picture. Look, I can see the idea distresses you. Shall we cross the bridge when we come to it?’
‘I wish you’d leave us alone.’ I reach for Dad’s hand. ‘There’s a tiny scrap of a boy up there, hanging onto life by a thread. All we can think about right now—’
An incoherent cry of joy rings across the cafeteria. Dad leaps to his feet and turns to face a slender young woman as she hurls herself between the tables, knocking over a chair. Before we can blink, Sacha has careered into him, flinging her arms around his neck. ‘Grandpa,’ she sobs. ‘Grandpa.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ says Dad. He encircles his granddaughter with both arms, almost lifting her off the ground. ‘My beautiful, beautiful girl. I’ve missed you too much.’
Kura slips tactfully away. When she returns ten minutes later, Kit and Charlie have joined us too. The very sight of her grandfather seems to revive Sacha. She can’t get close enough, sitting almost on top of him and butting her head into his shoulder.
Charlie is entrenched in his lap, clinging to his jersey like a baby koala bear. He keeps taking his grandfather’s head in his hands and turning it to face his own. ‘Talk to me, Grandpa,’ he whines. ‘Not them. Me.’
‘A much-loved grandparent,’ says Kura quietly.
*
We visit the intensive care unit in small groups. Sacha and Dad go up, followed by Kit, Charlie and me. We weren’t sure whether Charlie ought to see Finn in such a distressing state, but he begged so frantically that we gave in. I think I was hoping for a miracle, like in the films: Finn would hear Charlie’s voice and open those poor, bruised eyes, and say hello, and the doctor on duty would look astonished and say it’s a first in medical history, he’s out of danger, and we’d all sit on his bed and laugh during the closing credits.
The reality is pitiful. At first, Charlie tries to talk to his twin. Then he shouts and has to be shushed. Finally, desperate for some response, he offers to lend Finn his ultimate treasure—Blue Blanket. When even this sacrifice fails, he begins to roam angrily around the ward. We have to bring him away. He’s troubled for the rest of the day, alternating between violence and white-faced silence.
Then Kura speaks to Kit in a family room. He tells me later that she cross-examined him about our row. He informed her that it was a private matter and he bloody well wasn’t going to air his dirty laundry in her tumble dryer. All couples had their spats, he said, and we had plenty. Always had, always would. We were both strong characters and that made for a great partnership. If he had his time again, he’d marry me all over again.
She called the motel, whose manager bemusedly confirmed that at midnight on Monday, a Kit McNamara checked into a studio unit. Irish bloke—did she want his vehicle registration? Dark hair. Tired. Yes, it was documented. Yes, he was quite certain. How many Irishmen did she think came ringing his bell at midnight? What kind of an establishment did she think he was running there?’
‘Bugger,’ I moan, when Kit relays this conversation.
‘Bugger?’ He smiles tiredly. ‘The heat’s off. I’m in the clear.’
‘Now she’ll harry me instead. She’ll think I lost my temper because you stormed out on me. The woman’s like Sherlock bloody Holmes.’
‘Ah, don’t worry. You’ve nothing to hide.’
That’s what he thinks, whispers Mum.
Thirty-nine
For a week we float in limbo between hospital and home, between hope and terror.
Sacha crashes after visiting Finn, curled tight and grey and dried-out in her room, like a dead spider. Ira and Tama return to their ordinary lives but kindling is magically chopped, the stove stoked, the lamb and the dog fed and cared for. Our phone rings all day—parents from the school, neighbours, all wanting to help; our kitchen groans with baking and casseroles, with get-well cards for Finn and toys for Charlie, many left by people I barely know.
Lillian, inevitably, makes a four-course banquet out of my absence from work. She reminds me that I’ve only just taken some leave. I remind her that my son is in the intensive care unit. She launches into a rant, but I accidentally cut her off in mid-sentence. Whoops. Must have pressed the button by mistake.
Keith calls five minutes later and forbids me to show so much as a toe at Capeview before Finn is safely on the road to recovery. Yes, of course they’ll manage. Tsk tsk, do I think I’m indispensable? The next afternoon I arrive home from the hospital to find a vast bouquet of flowers on our doorstep, along with a card signed by everyone at work. Lillian’s name is written in very small, repressed letters; but then she is a very small, repressed woman.
As I carry the flowers into the house, Dad holds out the phone. ‘Your big sister for you.’
Dropping my burden in the sink, I take the receiver and muffle it against my chest. ‘How’s Sacha been?’ I whisper to Dad.
‘Poor lass seems to be in pain. I gave her some St John’s wort.’ Dad waggles his fingers, sketching a goodbye. ‘I’m off to the hospital.’
I wave, then lift the phone to my ear. ‘Louisa, for goodness’ sake go back to bed! It must be five in the morning up there.’
‘I’m coming over.’ Lou’s voice is brimming with emotion. ‘I can be with you by the weekend.’
I smile down the line. ‘I love you! But no, you can’t. How will your children manage, poor motherless creatures?’
‘Philip’s found a nanny agency.’
‘Thank you. And thanks to Philip, too. But Dad’s here. Come another time, when we aren’t in such chaos and can really show you around. You’re going to fall in love with this place. You might even decide to stay!’
There’s a fag-inhaling pause. ‘But you’ll be coming home, now this has happened.’
‘Um . . . Actually, we are
n’t thinking that far ahead. At the moment we’re just taking one day at a time.’
She sounds mystified. ‘You need to come home.’
I look at the Capeview flowers in the sink, the cards and muffins and meals left for us. I look out into our garden, down our valley. I can smell the spring pasture. It occurs to me that we are already home. But I don’t say so.
When Pamela and Jean return from their holiday, it takes half an hour for them to hear the news and arrive at the kitchen door. My heart lifts. ‘Come in, come in! You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ I enthuse, flinging the door wide. ‘They’re all at the hospital. Just Charlie and me holding the fort.’ I don’t mention Sacha.
Pamela embraces me wordlessly. My friend seems distressed, her mouth set and her clothes less ordered than usual.
‘How is he?’ asks Jean, who is clutching a frozen lasagne.
‘We’re so lucky. They saved his life.’ I’ve embarked on my story when Charlie potters into the room, looking vacant and pressing Blue Blanket to one ear. The Colberts greet him with cries of affection. I thought he’d be pleased to see them, but he just holds his hands up to me like a weary toddler. I sit him on my lap at the table, while he regards the visitors with possum eyes.
I rub his back. ‘Charlie’s less than half a man without his twin. He wakes up every night and cries for him.’
‘Indeed. They’re a double act,’ murmurs Jean.
Without a word, Charlie pokes his foot into Jean’s comfortable stomach. When the Frenchman tickles his toes, he giggles silently behind his thumb. Pamela reaches out and strokes his silky curls as I tell the tale for the hundredth time: how Finn was walking in his sleep; how he suddenly climbed onto the balcony and toppled over. I have told and retold it so often that it has become reality—I can actually see it all quite clearly, happening in exactly the way I describe. It has become a part of our family history. It has become true.
Charlie takes out his thumb. ‘Finn went in an’elicopter.’
‘We’ll have to go and see him, won’t we?’ says Pamela. ‘When he’s a bit better.’
‘I think he might be dead,’ says Charlie. ‘I talked to him and he didn’t wake up.’
After the Fall Page 34
