by Gee, Maurice
‘Fluke,’ Rex said. ‘Anyway, it was out.’
They walked off the court. Ellie went to the drinks table and poured herself a glass of ginger ale. Her left shoulder turned hollow when the man in the leather jacket joined her from that side. She ignored him while he poured himself a drink.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘That joker’s a cheat.’
‘I knew as soon as I hit it it was in.’
Strangely, like a picture in an IQ test, he changed from a man into a boy. He had a sick face and a crabby mouth. ‘You sweat a lot for a girl,’ he said.
‘It’s hot,’ Ellie said. ‘Anyway, who are you? Where’s your motorbike?’
‘Do I look like I’ve got one?’
‘You look like a milkbar cowboy,’ she said.
‘It’s better than pansy white pants.’
‘Do you mean Rex?’
‘All of them. You too.’
‘You don’t know what colour my pants are.’
She should never have said that, but he’d made her, by suddenly sneering after helping her win.
His face made another change, older again, experienced, and she found herself thinking that he’d been some place she’d never been.
‘What are you doing here? You’re not playing tennis,’ she said.
‘I could if I wanted to.’
‘Are the Primes your friends?’
He made a couple of laughing sounds, chipped off something hard in his chest. ‘That’s my mother’ – Mrs Prime. ‘And my old man’ – Mr Prime. ‘Angela’s my sister.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘She’s never told you, eh? They’re ashamed of me.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask me, ask them.’ He drank some lemonade. ‘If you want my advice, you’re a bit too floppy to play tennis.’
‘What do you mean?’ – although she knew.
‘Girls should stop when they get too big.’
‘Ha ha,’ she said, furious.
‘Just trying to help. Hey, I’m glad you beat my sister.’
He put down his glass and limped away. Limped away. His hip seemed to do all the lifting, and his foot slapped down as flat as a dinner plate. He went around to the back of the court; sat on a stone seat in the shrubbery; lit a cigarette. Ellie wanted to follow. She wanted to sit with him. Ask why he limped. Share his cigarette. Say things that weren’t part of a game.
She went into the house and washed her face, which glowed like a heater. She wished she could be as cool as Mrs Prime. Switch off my face, she thought, wondering if it would leave her all bendy necked and snobbish and cold. She saw how her mother would be in a house like this – a mixture of delighted and afraid. She would love the bathroom, though, as clean and white as the Primes who washed in it – except Hollis, if that’s his name: he doesn’t look clean, Ellie thought.
She went back to the lounge, walking like a thief. There weren’t even any smells – though she had got a whiff of tobacco breath from Hollis and something sumpy from his jacket. She wondered if he had hurt his leg on a motorbike; and the thought of abrasions made her cross her arms on her chest. Floppy, she thought. She hoped that whatever he had done it had hurt. ‘Hollis’ too. That was a stuck-up name, worse than Angela.
The light in the room faded as a cloud crossed the sun. The colours went out of the pictures on the wall. They were ones she’d seen in the art room at school, framed reproductions: the irises by the Dutchman, Van Gogh, and the French one by the river on a Sunday afternoon with the people and the water and the trees all done with dots. That was clever, and she wanted the sun to come out and light it up again, because somehow that day was this and the artist could just as well be here. She thought she would try painting a picture with dots: the tennis court, the wicker chairs, the women in their hats.
Mr Prime was standing outside the french doors, unaware of her. He looked brown-bearish, unclean, and she saw that this family was broken in two parts. Hollis saying ‘my old man’ instead of ‘my father’ showed that they were on the same side. She saw the players on the court over Mr Prime’s shoulder, and the non-playing girls and boys lounging in a group. Mrs Prime and her friends conversed in their chairs, with Mrs Prime’s lovely hands stretching and folding like seagull wings. Mr Prime made a sound in his throat: a creaking thud, a closing door. ‘Well, dumb ox, you married her.’ He gave a little laugh, half a sob. ‘Whoa,’ he said, or was it ‘Woe’?
Ellie crept back to the bathroom. She released her ponytail and retied it. That’s terrible, she thought. Her own father had felt no pain like that. She thought of him as happy, although he was dead: happy then, when he was alive, not happy now. She could not imagine an after-life for him and had no picture of a person she might meet, even though her mother had photos showing what he looked like. Overweight, which was where her plumpness came from. Her colouring was his too, less pretty than her mother’s. ‘Damn you, Dad,’ she said; then, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it.’ The apology failed to work as it usually did, because she was disturbed about the Primes. ‘Poor Angela,’ she whispered.
When she looked out the door again, Mr Prime was washing his car by the garage. She walked across the lawn to her bike and took her handkerchief from her cardigan draped on the bar.
‘What sort of car is it?’ she said.
‘A Mercedes.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘It’s a way of getting from one place to the other,’ Mr Prime said, echoing his wife.
‘Is that your boat?’ she said, peering into the garage.
‘Yes. Surprise. I don’t get to sail her much any more.’
‘Whose wheelchair is that?’
‘My son’s. It used to be. He hasn’t needed it for years. Ellie. Is that your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t waste your time with me. Go and talk to the boys.’
‘OK,’ she said and turned away. She thought he was a feeble sort of man and that he should limp like his son; and she wondered what the wheelchair had been for, what injury.
Hollis was still on the seat at the back of the court with his arms spread out and his head pillowed in a shrub. He had his legs splayed in a way that would surely offend his mother. Ellie went along the near end of the court and around the back, through the rock garden, aware of Mrs Prime watching. I’m breaking rules again, she thought, but anyway I’m being myself.
‘Shift your arm, I want to sit down.’
‘Be my guest.’
It was like the movies: good lines, nice and snappy. She felt sharp in her mind.
‘How old are you?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Ellie Crowther. That’s my name.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m fourteen. Nearly fifteen. And if you say jailbait I’ll slug you.’
He grinned at her. It made him crooked and dangerous: crooked teeth.
‘I’m not kidding,’ she said. ‘I punched a boy at school once and made him cry.’
‘There’s no boys at Willowbank.’
‘When I was at Hutt Valley High. Do you go there?’
‘Do I look like a schoolkid?’
‘What do you do then?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘I suppose you think it’s fun being rude? What sort of name is Hollis anyway?’ It was not a question but a hit. She thought she should leave it there and walk away.
But instead of getting angry Hollis sighed and closed his eyes.
‘I find a good seat and some dumb sheila parks herself.’
‘I’m not a sheila and I’m not dumb. What’s wrong with your foot?’
‘Jesus,’ he said.
‘Are you crippled or something?’
Ellie saw she’d gone too far. He was older than she’d thought and looked as if he might answer in a language she did not know. But it was his tone that was utterly strange: ‘Go away.’
Drops of rain struck her arms and face. Rain made a wall a
t the garden end. The tennis boys were grabbing chairs as the ladies fled. It was as though Ellie had done it, turned the day around with her stupid questions. The girls ran, white as chickens, for the house.
‘You’d better put your bike in the garage,’ Hollis Prime said.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I’ll stay here. It’s my bath.’
‘You’re mad,’ she cried.
She ran through the rain and saved her bike. Mr Prime was sheltering in the garage.
‘He won’t come in. He’s just sitting there.’
Mr Prime put his head out into the rain. ‘Yes, well, he’s best just left alone.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Do you mean down here’ – he tapped his leg – ‘or in his head?’
‘It’s my fault. I asked him was he crippled.’
‘It’s a reasonable question. In fact, he is. He’s had polio.’ He looked outside again. ‘My son knows how to get attention.’
Ellie stepped into the rain for a moment, watching Hollis through the wire-netting. He had unbuttoned his shirt and thrown back his head and was washing his face with his hands. His leather jacket had blackened and taken a beetle sheen. He opened his mouth and drank the rain.
The girls in the french doors swayed like lilies. ‘Hollis, come inside,’ Angela screamed. He spread his arms along the back of the seat. She slammed the door and jerked the drapes across.
Ellie stepped back into the garage. Mr Prime had gone to his yacht and was running his hand along the curve of its bow. The rain on the iron roof rushed like a train.
Ellie dried her face with her handkerchief. Her racket was outside getting ruined, unless one of the girls had rescued it. She did not care; and did not care about Hollis Prime. He might have had polio, she thought, but he’s a mutt. He’s trying to make himself the most important thing. Sitting there was saying, Look at me.
I won’t, Ellie said.
Mr Prime was leaning on the yacht with his cheek on the hull. His eyes were closed. In the house people would be eating chicken sandwiches and fruit salad and cream. Ellie wanted to be there. She watched for a break in the rain, then saw Hollis Prime limping to the french doors. He opened them, took a handful of the flowered drapes and dried his face. He stepped inside and closed the door.
‘Hey,’ Ellie whispered, ‘I’m here.’
After a while the rain eased. She fetched her racket from the side of the court and rode home. Leaning her bike in the coal-shed, she thought she should put a smear of coal-dust on her forehead, the way Dolores sometimes did for penance, although with her it would be for anger and disappointment. Instead she slammed the door. Then she walked around to the milkbar by the Prince Edward and bought a meat pie and a candy bar. She ate them walking home so her mother would not know.
Mrs Crowther’s headache had not gone so Ellie offered to do her switchboard duty.
‘No, Mrs McDermott owes me one,’ her mother said. ‘What you can do, take a glass of ginger water along to Dolores. She’s got her pains.’
Ellie knocked at the door, even though it was her room as much as Dolores’. For three years she’d had to sleep on the fold-out sofa in her mother’s living room but with the newest intake had been allowed to share a bedroom with one of the nurses. Dolores was a fluke. Dolores was a marvellous piece of luck: so beautiful, so sulky, so extreme. Ellie loved to watch her, and smell her too, pick fragrances out of the air, name them, covet them, as Dolores got ready for a party or a dance. ‘It’s an education,’ Ellie said, when Dolores objected, which she did insincerely because she liked people noticing her.
‘Ginger water,’ Ellie whispered, creeping to the bed.
‘Put it on the table,’ Dolores said, equally soft, and with such an air of suffering Ellie felt she should applaud. Mrs Crowther, in her darkened room, waited out her headaches but Dolores played her cramps like a movie.
‘There’s some light between the curtains. It’s like a knife,’ she said.
Ellie shut it out. ‘Can I get you some aspros?’
‘They’re no good. Not for me.’
Ellie grinned, hoping her teeth did not gleam too brightly in the dark. ‘When did you come home?’
‘Twelve o’clock. In the rain.’
‘Yes,’ Ellie said, remembering Hollis Prime drying his face. He must have come into that room of pink and white girls like a dog shaking itself after a swim. Black dog, she thought, seeing his teeth. His hitching walk and slapped-down foot were out of step with everything she’d known, and she wondered how badly he hurt. Did polio hurt? And why had being crippled seemed romantic when what it really did was twist you round and torture you – and maybe even make your teeth grow crooked? Make you cruel and stupid, maybe?
‘Can you get me a cold flannel?’ Dolores whispered.
Ellie wet a cloth in the bathroom and brought it back. ‘Drink your ginger water,’ she said.
‘It’s no good. I don’t know where your mother gets the stuff.’
‘Her mother used it. It works for me.’
‘It might for kids.’ Dolores wiped her face and hands with the flannel. ‘My feet are burning, Ellie. Will you wipe them?’
‘Come off it.’
‘Please. It hurts when I bend.’
Ellie washed Dolores’ feet, roughly at first, then with enjoyment, feeling their bony shape and warmth. They made a pale gleam in the darkened room and were independent, cut off by a long distance from Dolores’ face. Feet, feet, Ellie thought. She’d never been aware of how interesting they were, what a life they led. She wiped between Dolores’ toes.
‘That’s enough.’
‘You’ve got some rough bits on your heels.’
‘Don’t, it tickles. Give me my ginger water now.’
‘Can I paint your toenails?’
‘No. Go away, Ellie. I want to rest.’
Ellie sat on her bed. ‘I met a boy today.’
‘I’m not interested in boys.’
‘What I think, though, is he’s not a boy. I think he must be about nineteen.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Dark. Good-looking. When he smiles.’ She almost said he looked like James Dean but it wasn’t true. She was startled to find that the crooked bits in Hollis’s face were the bits she liked. None of them would fit on an actor’s face. ‘He’s maybe twenty. I sat with him and we talked.’
‘Three cheers.’
‘He stayed out in the rain and got wet.’
‘What is he, a nutcase?’
‘It was –’ Ellie thought for a moment – ‘defiance. He wears a leather jacket. It got soaked.’ She was getting closer to his crippled leg, but would not mention it, not because it spoiled the picture but from a sudden loyalty.
‘Like I said, a loony,’ Dolores said.
‘No he’s not,’ Ellie answered calmly. ‘The trouble is …’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know how to see him again. How do you, Dollie? How do you make a man take you out?’
‘Your mother wouldn’t let you, with someone twenty.’
‘I could say he’s sixteen.’
‘He hasn’t asked you yet.’
‘No. I suppose he won’t.’
‘Someone twenty wants you-know-what.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Ellie said. ‘He might be –’
‘What?’
‘Above it.’
Dolores giggled. ‘Above the waist. I bet I know why he spotted you.’
‘Shut up, Dolores,’ Ellie said. ‘And wash your own feet.’ She went out and closed the door hard, but smiled as she went along to her mother’s rooms. It was true he’d noticed her for that. She hoped that not going inside for sandwiches and dessert had made him wonder where she was. Then she thought of his crippled leg and frowned. It seemed like more of her bad luck.
The rain started again and kept on softly through the afternoon. Ellie stayed in her mother’s living room and read a book, hoping that Angela w
ould phone to find out where she’d gone. She kept on remembering that Angela wasn’t really a friend, just her tennis partner, and that she didn’t like her much. She was boy-mad and talked all the time about new dresses she had bought. Ellie could not see that she had time to wear them all.
The dental nurses came thudding in from town and started their run on the bathroom. Mrs Crowther got up and went about sighing. She sent Ellie to the dairy for an Evening Post and sat drinking tea and making pencil circles around advertisements for houses she would never have enough money to buy. It made Ellie sad, then guilty after a while, as it always did. There might be enough money if Mrs Crowther didn’t have to pay Willowbank fees.
‘Dinner time, Mum.’
‘I’ll come a bit later. You go on.’
‘How’s your headache now?’
‘It’s getting better.’ She smiled at Ellie. ‘Thank you for looking after me.’
‘That’s all right. It’s good practice.’
‘What for?’
‘Life. Didn’t you say it’s a headache most of the time?’
‘Oh Ellie, I don’t mean all the things I say.’
Dolores was sitting on her bed yawning. ‘I went to sleep.’ She was rosy, swollen faced, and smelly with sweat and bad air. Her little golden cross on its chain had worked sideways out of her blouse. It made her lopsided and tarty, which was not what a cross should do.
‘You don’t mind if I air the room?’ Ellie said, pulling back the curtains and raising the window.
Dolores grabbed her towel. ‘Wait here till I wash. I’m coming to dinner.’
And I’ll bet you go to the dance, Ellie thought. So much for cramps.
The clatter of plates in the dining room made little flashing lights, sparks of electricity in the air, and if you tried to paint the scene you’d have to show conversation hanging over the tables, grey like plasticine but tinselly with bits of laughter too. How could that be done; and how could you show the smells of food, as well as the food itself and all the women eating? There was too much of everything.
Although she was allowed to sit with the matrons, Ellie followed Dolores to a table where two other dental nurses sat. They were Presbyterians and said grace, but switched to excited talk so fast when it was over that Ellie almost missed the change. She was careful with religious girls; she watched her language. Some of them even objected to damn.
