A Many Coated Man

by Owen Marshall

  ‘Pardon me for that. It’s the amount of rabbit food these hotels serve. We’ll all be like cart horses.’

  ‘Yes, Miles Kitson. Now there’s a man to watch.’

  ‘I’ll ring again. Have some sent up.’

  ‘It would be a well-earned rest for the old campaigner, that’s all. Christ, what a thing in Lyttelton. Ugly business.’

  ‘Pardon. It’s the fodder here, isn’t it.’

  ‘A small one then.’

  ‘Absolutely freakish luck. One day before the appointment and while working in the research library a book of Gaucho ballads fell on him from a great height. Broke his neck the poor bugger.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be down there anyway next week. Gives you a chance to think about it.

  The Regional Chairman is down and Cardew has thought about it. They understand each other sufficiently for Cardew to ask for the Beckley-Waite people to come on Thursday, when Kellie is in Invercargill.

  Slaven is supposed to be resting at home; not taking on too much until his face is fully healed and the small behavioural abberations have subsided. It’s wet when Dr Eugene rings from the airport and Cardew tells him the best way to the rural sub-divisions amongst which Slaven has his few hectares. Not a dreary, or unpopular, rain however, for the plains need every drop of it. The ground seems to puff up as it drinks of it and the lines of vines, ranks of fruit trees, squash plants, nut bushes and boysenberry have the colour of stem and leaf fresh again. The rain takes the traffic film from the road seal and it gathers in paisley whorls of green and violet on the puddles along the verge. The rain deepens the colours of the tiles on the homes on their private blocks and darkens the old tyres on the sides of the pony jumps in the front paddocks. The rain releases essences of growth which drift in the humid air.

  ‘There’s a doctor coming out to give you a check over,’ Cardew tells his father. They stand in Slaven’s study and look out on Kellie’s garden in its glistening variety.

  ‘What doctor?’

  ‘Marianne Dunne’s asked a specialist from the Beckley-Waite Institute in Wellington to have a talk with you seeing he’s in Christchurch for a few days.’

  Slaven has been working on an article for The Australasian in which he draws parallels between the electoral systems of the two neighbours. He thinks that much of CCP policy has relevance across the Tasman. He’s annoyed to find the doctor’s visit landed on him without consultation, or warning.

  ‘Mum’s been so busy she just forgot all about it I suppose.’

  ‘It’s not like her at all. I’m not even changed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think he’ll want you to take your clothes off.’ The rain is heavier so that the dripping is no longer audible. The rain can be heard striking the leaves outside and on the tiled path below the study window. There is only natural light in the study and in places on Slaven’s face the vestiges of bruising are the colour of clay. ‘Pretty much a formality I would think,’ says Cardew.

  Dr Eugene’s rented car turns in at the road gate. The wipers are on full and the car pitches a little on the long, uneven drive up to the house. Each time there is a spray of water from beneath the front wheels. The cloud is not dark: it is difficult to see where all the rain is coming from, but it is low and the skirts of it trail in the willows of the creek and make indistinct the architect-designed and gabled home on the block to the south. Cardew goes out to meet them.

  Dr Eugene is a very hairy, clean man who smells of soap and lotion. His chin and lower cheeks are gun-metal blue and only his palms startlingly free of growth. Whatever more is necessary will become evident, but for trivial curiosity there is the nature of his death in good time — smothered in the Totara Rest Home by an Alzheimer patient who mistook him for the adulterer in a daytime soap. Dr Bliss is his associate. A very tall man who threatens to topple forward when he walks and who shows his even, capped teeth often in affable smile. Slaven appreciates the teeth when he is introduced, for the work has been well done and with the latest bond polymer which gives a first rate finish, but is testing in the execution.

  Dr Eugene expresses a considerable admiration for Marianne Dunne and is particularly interested in any psychological changes and eccentricities since Slaven’s accident — the marching on the spot, syncopation episodes, sudden changes of colour intensity in vision and so on. Dr Bliss makes notes while Eugene and Slaven talk and the rain drums down on a receptive Canterbury. Dr Bliss takes the initiative only once, to say how impressed he was after listening to a tape of the Western Springs speeches. His senior colleague doesn’t encourage the topic and carries on with the professional gathering of symptoms. Cardew goes unnoticed upstairs to pack a case of his father’s things.

  Dr Bliss finds him there and says there is no doubt that Slaven would benefit from a residential period of treatment at Beckley-Waite and that he isn’t the best person at this time to make the decision for himself. Bliss has a form and Cardew signs it twice — once on behalf of the family to certify a fear for his father’s health and safety, once to confirm a list of symptoms and incidents.

  Cardew returns with Dr Bliss and is present when his father agrees to give a blood specimen to finish the examination. Slaven grips a red rubber plug from Bliss’s bag to bring up the vein on the flat of his right arm. The tourniquet hisses to inflation, but Slaven doesn’t see Bliss take a specimen, because Eugene obscures his view and draws attention to one of Kellie’s beloved drum lily clumps, sleekly beautiful in the rain. ‘Do you know,’ says Dr Eugene, ‘I would very much like to live here myself. Who isn’t drawn to privacy and a garden in which to enjoy it.’ Dr Bliss adroitly places the needle home and gives the injection. Almost immediately Slaven feels a relief from customary care, the welling up of a passive, but comforting ease and goodwill. ‘So welcome to the therapy of the Beckley-Waite, Dr Slaven,’ says Eugene.

  ‘Yes, how beautiful the lilies are,’ says Slaven. He is moved almost to tears. He can see Cardew waiting by his chair and for the first time in over a decade he has that bedrock love for his child, with the spoil of disappointment and contrary personality stripped away. He reaches out his arm with the small adhesive strip at the inner fold of his elbow and he takes his son’s hand. ‘Have I told you how much more I want to do for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How much closer we’ll become again. I’m determined on that.’

  ‘Why not,’ says Cardew.

  ‘Welcome back,’ says Slaven. Dr Eugene smiles to one side. Dr Bliss topples towards his bag as he packs up.

  The rain rebounds from the roof of the car as it returns down the long drive to the gate, the drops kicking back up from the surface in glints of fractured light. The water dashes from the wheels and Cardew sees the raspberry of the brake lights through the drapes of rain as Dr Bliss pauses at the gate before turning on to the road. The one-way glass makes it impossible to know if his father is looking back from the rear window. Cardew has an exhilarating sense of being on the threshold of something momentous. He enjoys being alone on the property, no one to gainsay him, no one to remind him of past failures, or demonstrate the deficiencies of his schemes. It’s almost as if he has come into his inheritance. He can see some of his father’s Romneys with their full fleeces parting along the back as the wool becomes heavy in the rain. The house waits empty, all his. ‘Bugger me,’ he says. ‘Easy as pie.’

  Cardew goes back into his father’s study and he swivels the desk chair so that he can see the phone screen and the rain at the same time. Kellie is available immediately, which surprises him. She is tired and the fine lines of her face show more clearly because of it.

  ‘We’ve had a really positive response again,’ she says. ‘Most people understand exactly what we’re on about.’

  ‘Something’s happened here. Dad’s had a bit of a turn. No worry, but the doctors think that he needs rest and observation.’

  ‘Oh, my god, what is it.’ Kellie’s head enlarges on the screen, as if by coming closer she could learn mor
e.

  ‘He’s okay. There’s no panic at all, but we thought that you should know right away. He needs a spell without any pressure; without people pestering him, always drawing from him. You said so yourself. He’s just dog tired and after the Lyttelton thing too.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We were lucky that Dr Eugene from Wellington happened to be in Christchurch. There’s a really top place up there, just like an ecclesiastical retreat, Dr Eugene said, a chance to leave the world behind and bounce back stronger for it.’

  ‘I’ll come straight back.’

  ‘There’s no need. Nothing to worry about at all, and I’ll ring Sarah at the Cambrian rooms so that she won’t hear it from anyone else. Don’t worry about anything. It’s an opportunity to check up on some of the symptoms that concerned Dunne and Garrity.’

  ‘When can I talk to him?’ The rain is methodical, restful. Cardew wishes the conversation over. He works at keeping his voice patient and cheerful.

  When she is rung, Sarah says she had a premonition. When she last talked to her father he had no aura at all and the tic was bad beneath his eye. Cardew looks away into the steady rain and the low, pale cloud which closes down a longer view. Next he will talk to the Wellington Chairman. Having paid the piper he now wishes to call the tune. Sarah says she’s surprised Cardew managed to persuade him to go in for a rest. ‘Where is the Beckley-Waite?’ She’s never heard of it she says, but the horoscope is for change.

  Slaven should have all the trauma of being taken into Babylon, an evening of loss and hatred and fear, but in fact the ease and goodwill do not rapidly wear off and are no less real to him for being chemically induced. As companion it’s not Bliss who most impresses him, or deputy-director Eugene, but the fellow passenger who remembers him from Tuamarina and who has been seconded to Montana to study the regenerative conservation of high country grasses. Vivien Castle. Dr Bliss is pleased that Vivien admires Slaven and shares an interest in the activity of the CCP. In the economy class also there are many who would like the opportunity to see and hear Slaven, but they make do with the small fame of having travelled on the same plane. Slaven talks for some time very freely about his own background and intentions, then is keen for Vivien to evoke Montana for them. She describes the high plains in both summer and winter, the small and mid-size towns with their distinctive culture, but most passionately the lonely, quiet places beyond Epsie and Sonnette in Powder River where she has done research for months at a time. The Montana air is the closest to our own South Island high country she says.

  Ms Castle leans across to see the alps from the window and so make comparison. Slaven enjoys the fragrance of her and reaches a hand to stroke her hair, but finds Bliss restraining him. The doctor knows what he is going through and encourages Vivien to become more technical in the discussion of her grasses. With Bliss between them, Slaven’s encouragement can be only verbal. He asks questions himself, then listens to Vivien and Bliss. If he turns to the window side he finds Eugene as observant as ever, though not entering the conversation. Eugene watches carefully the face of each person who speaks, as if to determine the psychological workings behind the sounds. Finally he leans to Slaven and says quietly, so as not to interupt Bliss and Castle, ‘How fortunate to live in old Montana.’

  ‘Why old Montana?’ asks Slaven, but the plane is coming in to land at Wellington. The runway extensions are like vast and empty piers under which the waves disappear.

  ‘I very much look forward to your campaign speeches in the run up to the elections,’ says Vivien Castle. Baby, baby come again and live with me upon the shore of Half Moon Bay.

  ‘Upon the shore of Half Moon Bay,’ repeats Dr Bliss, who can hold a tune. Slaven feels tears well up.

  Down from the sky. Slaven begins to feel both sick and tired, with tremors which flood his mouth with saliva. He can hardly bear the sight of the sleek fur on the backs of Dr Eugene’s hands. A car from the Beckley-Waite takes all three quietly away. Slaven can hear Eugene and Bliss talking of Vivien Castle. ‘Old Montana’s the place,’ he says. The others take no notice, except that Eugene tells Bliss that at one point he thought Slaven was going to saddle up their Ms Montana.

  ‘Anyway, he’s coming down with a bump,’ says Bliss.

  See ahead of them spatially, chronologically, epistolarilly — the Caretaker, though the arrival of yet another inmate is no immediate concern of his. The Caretaker is removing a branch from a sycamore tree which has been keeping the sun from the second storey window of the east wing secure day-room. See the women and men standing close to the large window to watch. In their affliction most have lost an awareness of themselves as possible objects of desire, even scrutiny. Posture, appearance and expression reflect the change. Their stomachs are allowed a natural slump beneath the dresses, or over the rough tuck of waistbands, their noses are ripe for picking, they watch the Caretaker with open-mouthed solemnity, or release sudden, secret smiles for no earthly reason. The Caretaker is working high up, on a plank he has locked between two ladders and his movements are both steady and cautious. It’s not an ideal day for the job, but he committed himself before that was apparent. The large branch is constrained by two strung ropes so that the Caretaker can ensure at least the approximate path of its fall. He wears goggles and the racing chain of the power-saw doesn’t disturb his smile. In a quiet spell, when the Caretaker is planning ahead and the women with their uneven hems are a frieze at the window, Ovens, the Beckley-Waite dentist, calls out as he passes about desecration and sparing a tree. He is a hard case. ‘Dont’ you worry,’ says the Caretaker. ‘I’m the bloody native here, not the tree.’ He and Ovens shout with laughter and some of the women at the window are startled into joining them.

  At the entrance to the Institute the car stops long enough for the window to be lowered so that the deputy-director can be recognised, then carries on to the admissions suite. There is nothing auspicious, or impressive, concerned with Slaven’s arrival. The rain which in Canterbury was welcome and steady, is here just another blustery drizzle which stains the stonework and plasters litter to the ground.

  ‘I know you’re not feeling great,’ Dr Eugene tells Slaven. ‘We want to make you comfortable as soon as possible, but if you don’t mind we’ll just get you registered and make a quick admission check as the procedures lay down. Our Director’s known as a stickler for the rules.’

  Dr Eugene has his own key and lets them in to the admissions area which is well lit, but deserted. Slaven is becoming confused and angry as the induced goodwill wears off. He isn’t sure of his surroundings, his companions, even his immediate past. Who uses these computer monitors during working hours? Who looks from the glassed offices? Who walks the strip of moss green carpet with the wood tiles polished on each side?

  ‘If you’ll just come into one of the interview rooms, Dr Slaven, we’ll get through it all as soon as posssible. Then I’m sure there will be a meal for you,’ and Eugene ushers Slaven in and pauses in the doorway to thank Bliss for his help and tell him that he needn’t stay.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ says toppling Dr Bliss. ‘I’ll tell whoever is on duty in the wing that you’re here. I trust the rest will be beneficial.’ He shows his excellent teeth in a final affable smile and is gone.

  ‘We don’t need to do a lot,’ says Eugene. ‘Most of the questions I’ve already put to you, but there are a few things, rudimentary physical tests mainly and response notes that need to be covered on admission. Procedures snowball for everything these days, don’t you find. In dentistry I mean.’

  Slaven begins shuffling his feet, then marching on the spot; the spot being beside a walking frame which has been left in the interview room to save anyone fetching it from stores. Dr Eugene carries on taking Slaven’s blood pressure and asking questions — has Slaven ever suffered from a communicable disease for example and has any member of his family committed suicide.

  ‘Discipline is a form of pride.’

  ‘Check.’
<
br />   ‘Eventually the body betrays the mind.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Never rat on a mate.’

  ‘Check.’

  With one part of his mind, Slaven is able to view the scene quite clearly, see himself marching nowhere in a room unknown to him and before a man who is a stranger. He feels great pity for himself, but as he would feel it for another. An embracing Russian pity for the plight of all as one.

  There are one and a half trees in the quadrangle outside Slaven’s window. One and a half are all that he can see even with his face pressed to the security pane and so he hesitates to assume more, whatever logic and experience on the outside might lead him to expect. They are kowhai trees, not particularly thick in the trunk, or very tall, but a roosting place for sparrows in the evenings. The last dull, yellow blossoms litter the cobbles like heaped corpses of bees. The sparrows come careering in over the west wing and jostle for perches in the top kowhai branches which are almost bare as a result. The birds are slow to settle and move from one tree to the other, or swoop out of sight to a different place altogether. They make a great chorus of sharp, high cries which go on into the dusk. The conviviality of the birds makes Slaven more aware of his isolation, the long night which is coming, the next day when he will wake to find the sparrows gone without chance of flight himself.

  The ceiling is lined with baffle squares, to cut down noise and conserve heat. Each one has a myriad of holes like a chinese checkers board, yet he has done all the calculations many times of course as he lies on his bed. Thirty holes on each side, but those in each corner are counted twice in that reckoning and he spent a good deal of time initially deciding how that would affect his sums. And the dimensions of his room aren’t determined by the ceiling squares and so there are thirteen hole part-baffle boards along the window side of the ceiling and a six hole sequence at one end above his bed. And there is one individual square, just one, which has one row of dots less than all the others which are complete. Slaven thinks perhaps that’s where the microphone is.