by Gee, Maurice
Ellie looked at him seriously. This was some new sort of man, a new sort of being. She wondered if she loved him still.
‘Oh, you’re complete, Neil. Don’t worry,’ she said.
Ellie attacked the slope at the back of the house with spade and saw and clippers and secateurs. She cut out stunted trees, lopped branches off others, tidied up flax bushes, opening the ground to the light. There were seedling kowhai trees in there. She might have her own band of tuis. She could make a bower halfway up and sit listening to them while she sketched the ponds and paths in the Botanical Gardens across the top of her sky-blue roof.
In the weekend she and Neil dragged the rubbish down the steps into a skip. John helped, hauling branches manfully. On Monday Ellie cleared the weeds in the vegetable garden and discovered an infestation of onionweed bulbs in the topsoil. She scraped it off and added it to the skip. ‘Sorry, Neil,’ she explained when he flung open his door, ‘it’s an emergency. If we don’t get rid of these things they’ll take us over.’ She dug the garden, fertilised and limed the clayey soil, planted seeds and seedlings, thanking Annie for her training at Good Life. Made a bin for compost. Cut the patch of rank grass passing for a lawn, first on her knees with clippers, then with an old hand mower she’d uncovered in the basement. If she had not come to live with Neil, weeds would have trapped him by his ankles one day. Overgrown him. Taken him down into the soil. Who would he have called for? Betty perhaps.
Ellie made a herb garden by the kitchen door. She planted flowers alongside the steps leading down to the road, then studied the near-impossible slope outside the blue door. Some sort of groundcover, she decided.
‘Ellie, you can’t work there while I’m writing,’ Neil complained.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ll do it in the weekends. You can help. This summer we’re getting the section right. And next summer the house gets painted, OK?’
She saw annoyance – or was it fright? – in his face, and expected him to say, I don’t need this; but instead he suffered the curious inner collapse she was getting used to, and said, ‘I guess I need someone to tell me what to do. I’d be lost otherwise.’
I should buy a whip and some leather boots, Ellie thought, and practise saying, Kneel, Higgs!
He was working nine hours a day. His typewriter never seemed to stop. ‘I can be your researcher,’ she offered.
‘No, it’s too hard …’
‘How, hard?’
‘Explaining what I want.’ But the next day he said, ‘Can you find out about the brain for me? You know, the part that’s called the reptile brain. I need the scientific terms.’
She went along to the library and wrote down the names of all the parts. She made a diagram, and then another, top view and cross-section.
‘Wow,’ he said, and grinned and kissed her.
‘Any time.’
‘Well, it just so happens I’ve got some more.’ Factory farming, mortgage law, neo-Nazi groups, artificial insemination (of animals not people), the shapes of the different sorts of pasta. Ellie enjoyed being used in this way. It seemed both familiar and dangerous. She was interested to know if some of the material she found might spoil his story, but he explained he threw away what he couldn’t use, and other things were simply for metaphors.
‘Oh,’ she said, not understanding. It made her want to paint – learn to paint – so that she might use things: find out ways to use them. She looked at Neil with a new respect. Whatever his faults, he was serious. He was prepared to face one way and make his life in that direction, turning his back on the rewards and comforts he might have found by taking another.
She tried to explain it to her mother, drinking tea in the Brooklyn house, while a northerly gale blasted down Ohiro Road and rattled the painting over the fireplace.
‘You’re making a religion out of this man,’ Mrs Brownlee said.
‘God no. He’s a kind of job. Getting to know him is a job. I’ve hardly started.’
Her mother had been tough and humorous once but had lost those defences – ways of attack, they had sometimes been – and often seemed close to tears. She was disappointed in Ellie and frightened that her other three would disappoint her too: would ‘go to the bad’ – an expression she used about Ellie more than once. She and George had left the Presbyterians and joined the Elim Church, where people spoke in tongues as far as Ellie could make out and baptised newcomers by holding them under in a bath. To Ellie it seemed outlandish and sad. She had trouble locating any remnant of her hostel mother, who had laughed and sung with the nurses and dosed them with ginger water and left them plates of broken biscuits for a treat and bullied them into doing their prep, then sat with her feet up by the heater, reading books on Tibet and Peru. Was she still there in this anxious woman sweeping cake crumbs into her hand with a little broom? It was worry not religion that had brought her to this state: worry about George, back at driving taxis although it exhausted him; and Andrew gone to Auckland (to escape, Ellie thought) and writing letters home that George suspected were full of lies about what he was doing and who he was seeing; and Heather sulky and rebellious and intense; and Derek, the youngest, lonely and strange; and money always short and the house needing repairs.
‘I’ll paint it for you,’ Ellie said. ‘If I can choose the paint.’
‘No, Ellie. You’ve got your own life. There’s John and Neil to worry about.’ ‘Neil’ was hard for her to say.
‘I don’t worry,’ Ellie said, getting ready to go. Her mother was being precautionary rather than generous. Her daughter who had borne an illegitimate child, who lived with a man she wasn’t married to, must not be allowed to come too close to the other children.
‘It would do Derek good to splash a bit of paint around,’ Ellie said.
‘He’s too young,’ Mrs Brownlee said.
‘Nonsense. Thirteen. I’ll bring John next time. They should get to know each other.’
‘No, Ellie. George …’
‘George what?’
‘He doesn’t think you should come when Derek’s at home.’
‘Shit, he’s my brother.’
‘Half-brother. Don’t swear. And you’ve never shown any interest before.’
‘I used to take him out in his pushchair,’ Ellie said.
‘That was a long time ago. Ellie, please, you’ve got to understand we’re different now.’
‘Do you still want me to visit, Mum?’
‘Yes. Yes. I love you, Ellie. You’ll never understand how much.’
Ellie held her as she cried. She was almost crying herself. I could dong that fucking George, she thought. Yet, going home, she remembered how kind he had been to her as a girl. How do things get so ballsed up? she wondered. It chilled her when she remembered that her mother believed in hell and that Ellie was going there.
‘How can someone live with all that ugly stuff inside them? Especially when they believe in love?’ she said to Neil.
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘I am asking you. You’ve written a book about a Presbyterian minister.’
‘I only found out as much as I needed. I’m on something else.’
‘Chicken farming. Useless.’
‘That’s finished too. I think I’ve got a new novel. I’m pregnant, that’s me.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Ellie, cook some steak tonight. We’ll buy a bottle of wine.’
The working-class boy. Steak and wine was his idea of high living. Sure, she thought, why not? It would get the taste of her mother’s religion out of her mouth. As for her sadness and her love – Ellie knew she had to live with those.
One afternoon, driving home from Brooklyn, she passed Derek walking up the hill by the tennis centre. She stopped and opened the passenger window.
‘Hey, Derek.’
He bent and peered at her. ‘Hello.’
‘Jump in. I’ll drive you home.’
He opened the door. ‘Getting in a car with strangers, eh?’
‘I’m not a stranger, I’m your sister.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Ah.’
‘No one gets my jokes.’
‘OK. Ha ha. Why don’t you walk through Central Park? It’s shorter that way.’
Derek settled himself. He buckled his seat belt. ‘Guys in there hassle me. It’s better if I stay on the road.’
She was surprised to find him so direct, and realised that this was the first time they’d spoken alone.
‘Guys from school?’
‘Yeah. Fourth formers. They go in there and smoke.’
‘You ought to start a third form gang. Take them on.’
He looked at her flatly. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘I was joking too,’ she said, trying to excuse herself for being – what? Unreal. She made a U-turn and drove up the hill to the village.
‘This’ll do,’ he said.
‘How’s it going at school, anyhow?’
‘All right.’
‘Have you got some friends?’
He gave a small grin, humouring her. ‘Lots,’ he said.
He got out of the car.
‘Derek, do you know my address?’
‘No.’
She told him. ‘Come and see me, eh? Any time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Has your father told you not to?’
‘He hasn’t said anything. So long.’ He put his schoolbag on one shoulder and walked away.
Ellie was annoyed with herself – a meeting with her brother, so bare. Then she realised it had not been bare. He had made a joke. Had been both direct and indirect, and had told her that he was alone. She was left with a strong impression, from five minutes and a dozen words, of his curious mixture of honesty and tolerance; and a physical impression of bone inside his flesh, as though he might be weak and enduring at the same time. If he did not visit her, she would wait for him again on Brooklyn hill.
The next day she went into the yard to throw bread crusts to the birds and found him sitting on the bench under the window, with his eyes closed and the sun warming his face.
‘How long have you been here?’
He smiled at her. ‘I thought I’d wait until you finished lunch. Has he gone?’
‘Do you always move as quietly as that?’
‘When I want to. You said to come.’
‘I’m glad you did. Are you wagging school?’
He nodded. ‘I often do.’
‘Don’t they find out?’
‘They just think I’ve gone home sick. I get lots of flu and stuff. It helps.’
‘Does Mum know you do this?’
‘No. Can I sit here for a while?’
‘Sure. Help yourself.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Have you had your lunch?’
‘I ate my sandwiches. Maybe I could have a glass of milk?’
‘Aren’t you allergic to it?’
‘Not now. I’ll have water if you like.’
She made him Bournvita and brought it to him with a plate of biscuits, which he broke and threw to sparrows on the lawn.
‘They’re like school,’ he said.
‘Fighting in the playground?’
‘Shags are the best birds.’
Because they’re alone? Ellie wondered.
‘I like the way they sit on piles and dry their wings.’
‘Like black crosses,’ she said.
‘Yeah. I saw two seagulls chasing one. I go down on the wharves.’
‘Did it get away?’
‘It went underwater. That fooled them. Does your husband write books?’
‘He’s not my husband.’
‘I know. I was being polite.’ He grinned with crooked teeth – Hollis Prime teeth. He should have braces, Ellie thought.
‘He writes novels and TV scripts. Padget’s Casebook. Have you seen that?’
‘Dad doesn’t believe in TV.’
‘I meant at other people’s places.’
‘I don’t go there. Can I use the toilet?’
She suspected that Neil had been like Derek as a boy – lonely and intelligent and awkward. He had come from a similar puritan background, although his had been secular, and had suffered similar mental deprivations. She could not see him as so watchful and amused, or so sickly (colds and flu); but he had had Derek’s lankiness and knobbliness and skinny buttocks and pointed Adam’s apple (judging from photographs Ellie had seen), and had probably outgrown his strength in the same way. Neil had thickened later on; he had grown muscles and got his mind in order, up to a point – had created Neil Higgs. She wanted to imagine this boy reaching a similar place.
This boy? He’s my brother, she protested.
‘I like your house,’ he said when he came back.
‘What, all the books?’
‘Yeah. But I meant those ceilings and the fancy wood. You’ve got a good fireplace too. Our one has got fake logs. Did you know I’ve got your old bedroom? Where you painted the walls?’
‘I hope you like it.’
‘It’s still pretty bright but it’s got mould.’
‘Wash it. Soap and water. Or try Janola.’
‘Sure. I like that painting inside. Over the fireplace.’
‘That was done by a friend of mine. Fan Anerdi. Have you heard of her?’
‘I don’t know painters.’
‘She’s quite famous. What do you like about it?’
‘It’s got good colours. I don’t know what it’s meant to be, though.’
‘One end of a room. That’s her friend Audrey sitting by the window. The garden’s outside.’
‘It’s cool the way it’s all sort of broken up and everything’s flat.’
‘Fan paints that way.’
‘The basin looks as if it’s sliding off the table. She kind of does things that should be wrong. Mum said you paint.’
‘Not very much. I should do more.’
‘You paint good walls.’ He grinned at her. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Ten past two.’
‘Phys. ed. I reckon it’s better sitting here. Getting vitamin D.’
Ellie laughed, but he puzzled her: a lonely boy who was a chatterer, and chatter that somehow angled away, passing little windows and half-open doors. She said, ‘Do you go to church with Mum and George?’
‘It sounds funny you calling her Mum.’
‘Well, she is. And my son John is your nephew.’
‘Half-nephew. Mum says half. There’s probably a special word, though.’
‘I don’t think so. Neil’s got all the dictionaries.’
‘I’ll go in the library and look. We’ve only got the bible in our house.’
‘Does your father let you go to the library?’
‘He doesn’t know. I only go when I’m wagging school. Mostly I go down on the wharf.’
‘What about church?’
‘Sure, all the time.’
‘Do you believe in what they say?’
Derek looked at her sideways. He smiled at something private and turned away. ‘Did you know Mum and Dad pray for you?’
‘I thought they might. What do you do?’
‘I just sort of close my eyes and wonder who they’re talking to.’
‘You’re supposed to know.’
‘I know who I’d talk to if I talked.’
‘Who?’
‘The one who made all this. The world. That’s God.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘I am. Someone had to make it, didn’t they?’
‘Who made God?’
Derek smiled. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that one. You keep on going back forever. It’s pretty neat. But you’ve got to stop somewhere or else there’s no sense. And that’s where God is. I don’t believe he made us, though.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I don’t know how we started. It might have been when he wasn’t looking. Son of God. Jesus Christ. I don’t believe that.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Or maybe he just kind of started us off. Gave us a push and said Good luck. We haven’t had much.’
‘So what about sin and salvation and all that?’
‘I can see why they got invented. There’s some pretty nasty stuff.’
‘Nasty people.’
Derek pulled a face. ‘I like people, don’t you?’
She went inside for her pad, and drew him as he leaned against the wall – torn shirt, tumble-down socks, elongated face. He had black wiry hair – hiding, she supposed, a ridged scalp, George’s scalp – and large thin ears, Neil Higgs ears, one of them bent forward in a listening way. A plain boy with an interesting mind. She began to be angry with her mother and George for not encouraging him to use it; and let her aggression show on the page: boy and shadow boy and shadow boy, progressively more lumpy and belligerent.
‘Can I keep these?’
‘They’re no good.’
‘They’re not really like me, I know that. But you’re sort of drawing an idea. That woman in the painting inside – does she knit?’
‘Audrey? Why?’
‘There’s a couple of things like needles up in the corner, in the dark. And some unravelled stuff that looks like knitting. They’re not near where her hands should be.’
‘Fancy seeing that. Audrey knits to express herself. When she’s feeling cross, and other things. But paintings get spoiled by stuff coming from outside. That’s why Fan gave it to me. It’s no good.’
‘I like it, though.’
‘So do I. I like ideas’ – although she could see, as Fan had meant her to, how they damaged paintings when they were put in instead of finding their way out.
Derek fitted the drawings into his schoolbag. ‘I reckon you could be pretty good. I can’t draw.’
‘What are you good at?’
‘Nothing much. I like watching things. I’d better go. I’ve got to use the back streets so I don’t pass taxi ranks.’
‘Go through the gardens.’
‘Yeah, I might.’
‘Past the university, then down the back way to Aro Street and you’re nearly there.’
‘Do you talk the way you do because you went to a private school?’
Ellie laughed. ‘Does it upset you?’
‘It’s interesting.’ He put his bag on his shoulder and smiled at her. ‘People don’t upset me very much. Thanks for the Bournvita.’
